Archive for the ‘Life’ Category

The Normal Kid

Posted: September 19, 2010 in humour, Life
Tags: , ,
18

Peter was a little odd to look at.

For one thing, he was in a wheelchair.

For another thing, he was all twisted up in it.  And when he spoke, he did so slowly because his mouth and neck were all twisted too.  And he spat a lot when he was talking, too.

To this day, I don’t know what he had.  Whether it was cerebral palsy or whatever.  That was probably what it was.  But at any rate, he was initially very difficult to look at.  People (read: me) felt uncomfortable because of his jerky movements and odd way of speaking.

I don’t know how he broke the barrier of social ostracization in our high school, but he did it.  A few of us, me included, started talking with him more.  Maybe it was because he knew exactly what he looked like, and didn’t care.  Maybe because he was so willing to speak up during class.  Ask and answer questions.  I don’t know.  A few of us became friends with him, but not because we were special or anything.

We found that, after you got past the spastic movements and the wheelchair, ultimately what you had was an older teenage boy, who was mischievous and funny.  The guy was really no different from many of us.  We found a basis for friendship.

Peter loved telling dirty jokes.   As a bona-fide died-in-the-wool long-haired plaid-wearing tight-assed Christian, I found them offensive.  Or tried to anyway.  God knows I tried.  God probably smirked when he saw me biting my lip and then finally laughing out loud.   You could tell when Peter was going to tell one of them.  There’d be a twinkle in his eyes and he grinned hard, as he took a deep breath.  And we’d sit there with him, waiting expectantly.  Me, with a slight furrow to my brow, and my other two friends, just grinning.

One day we sat in the hall way, Peter in his wheelchair and us on the window sill, just outside of the teacher’s lounge.  Peter launched into one of his long-winded jokes.  It took him a lot longer to tell a joke than any of us, because of his condition.  I’m convinced that the length of the joke time extended the hilarity of it.   To this day I can’t recall what the joke was.  Only that, as soon as he told the punch line, the door to the teacher’s lounge suddenly burst open, and the vice principal walked out, glaring.

We were shocked.  We didn’t know if he heard it or not.  (Peter was pretty loud).  But then, as we stared at each other, Peter just burst into gales of laughter.

The vice principal frowned at us all in confusion, and we started laughing too.   We couldn’t help it. nor could we stop.   The VP just shook his head and walked away, while we stayed there, laughing it up.

Peter, like us, loved the girls in our school too.  Especially Maria.   Maria was this cute little button-nosed beauty with shoulder-length dirty blonde hair who smiled an awful lot.  She was gentle too, and not at all stuck up or snobby.   We were all out of her league and we knew it (well, our growing but still limited self-esteem told us that at the time anyway).   Oh, and she wore short skirts too.   That helped.

One day, we were joking around with her, and then we decided to start chasing her.  She let out a high-pitched squeal of laughter and started running down the hall.  My buddy Willis pushed Peter’s wheelchair, while Peter assisted by pushing the mobility handle on the chair, giving it an extra horsepower or two.  Larry and I ran alongside.  Willis looked at me, and winked.  Then he let go of the wheelchair.  And as Maria continued to run, we saw Peter still pushing the wheelchair mobility handle, moving the thing by himself, with a maniacal look of glee on his face.  We stood there and watched, just laughing.  Peter was busted.

I think when teachers saw Peter in his wheelchair, they felt sorry for him.  And I think he milked it for all his worth.  As did we.  We were often late for class.

“Sorry Miss Gannon – but we were helping Peter get to class”.

Miss Gannon would sigh and nod her head.  I don’t think we fooled her.  Mostly because we were too stupid not to realize that she saw us grinning to each other.

I don’t think Peter ever spoke of his condition with us.  He may have explained what it was one time.  I forget.  I think it just wasn’t that big a deal to him.  And it wasn’t for us either.  Eventually we stopped noticing the looks of the other students.  It just didn’t matter.

In my Christian zeal, I may have tried to convert Peter at one time or another.  I’m pretty sure that attempt died an ignominious death.  Back then I probably thought he was just too full of lust.

Which, really, was true.  The guy had a lust for life.  Big Time.

At the end of the day though – he was just a normal kid.

A Beautiful Man

Posted: September 13, 2010 in Life
Tags: , , , ,
31

Twice last week, I panicked.  In both instances, it was iPad-centric.

The first time I was at work, on my way to wash some dishes from my lunch.   As I walked toward the kitchen, thoughts whirling, I momentarily lost track of where I left my iPad (it was sitting locked up at my desk).  I turned around and began sprinting back to my desk, only to have that reclusive memory come to the fore, while I skidded to a stop.  A woman sitting at her desk, looked up at me and laughed.  I grinned, face red.

The second time was this past Saturday.  I had rented a car to drive about two and half hours away to a beautiful Ojibway native reserve to attend the funeral of a distant family friend.  Before leaving, I debated leaving the iPad at home.   But, I had no idea where this place was, and figured it would be good to bring the iPad for its GPS ability.

On getting to the church, I placed the iPad beneath the passenger seat.   If someone came by (and let’s face it, for thieves, cars at a funeral service become optimum targets), then at least they wouldn’t immediately see anything worth their while to steal.

After the service, my brother-in-law and I walked together beneath the warm sunlight toward the cemetery. As we passed the spot where I parked I looked over and saw an empty parking spot.  I gaped in disbelief.  “Where the fuck is my car?”

Jim (not his real name) said “what?”

“My car.  I parked it right here.  Oh dear God no.  No way.”

He said “are you sure you parked it here?  There’s another lot—”

“No.  NO!  I parked it right here.  RIGHT HERE”  I could feel my heart racing.

I took out the key fob and activated the lock, hoping to hear a horn beep.   I pressed the button like crazy, but the only sounds were birds chirping.

We turned around and began walking back to the church.  My mind was already churning with everything I would need to do. Had to start by remotely wiping the iPad of all data.  Thank God I had purchased insurance.  I would only be out the deductible, which was $300.00.  I could get a ride home with one of my relatives and—-

Then we saw the other parking lot.  It was identical to the one we had just left.  In every way.

I looked at Jim.  He grinned and shook his head.  We began to fast-walk to the end of the other lot, with me holding my key fob out, pressing the button like mad.

Eventually we heard it:  a faint far-off but hopeful “beep!”

Jim stopped, getting ready to head back to the cemetery.  But I wasn’t quite convinced yet, so I kept walking toward the now incessantly beeping little car.   “Wolf.  It’s there.  You can hear it.”

“I know.  I just have to check something.”   I had to check that this was my car and not someone else’s.  I also had to check to make sure my imagination wasn’t running wild again.

It was there.  Right where I’d left it.

In the meantime, the rest of the congregation had paraded down to the cemetery, getting ready to bury a beloved man.  And here I was, panicking over an iPad.

Priorities.

*********************************

Fred was the husband of my mother’s best friend.

I first met him as a child.  In the midst of the horror that was our continually upset household; when the Beast would roar and rage at everyone; where we stepped carefully around him, wary of setting him off; where we lived in fear almost all of the time; where we reacted to the continue pressure by the use of humour; where we lived for the weeks – because the weekends promised hell; Fred (Freddie as his friends called him) would visit with his wife.

At those times, the Beast somehow managed to control himself.  His conversation toned down to the occasional grunt.  He acknowledged these visitors while us children gathered around them in relief.

Freddie face would light up in a smile, at everyone, including us kids.  His soft voice promised acceptance and care.  And he was an amazing storyteller.  Toward the end of his life, he wrote a book of his stories, which was eventually published.   They read one of his stories at his funeral, involving the raid of local police and the RCMP at his apartment early in his marriage.  They thought he was involved with a moonshine gig, and they tore his apartment apart looking for the elusive booze.   Turns out they got their intelligence wrong.  But not before they terrorized his household, as well as that of his landlord.   Freddie said that they came storming into his apartment, and into his room, stomping on the floorboards looking for hollow spots.  Then they upended his mattress, causing him to fall out the other side, where he hit his head against the wall.  “It was then that I woke up” he said.

The congregation laughed at this.

That was Freddie.  He found humour in everything.   As we eventually learned to do, as well.

He was such an amazing gentle man.  He was one of those quiet unassuming people who you could overlook, if you weren’t careful.

To us, he was a God-send.   I remember often wishing that he had been my father, instead of the Beast.

He was 84 years old, and he lived a full life.  And he was well-loved, as was evidenced by the standing-room only attendance at his funeral.

I truly wish I had kept in better touch with him over the years.

You know something?  I think his influence was the one factor that proved to me that you didn’t have to be a bellowing monster, to be a man.

He was beautiful.

I think he would have laughed at the iPad story, too.

No, Because

Posted: September 6, 2010 in Life
Tags: , , , ,
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“Dude, we’re going to go visit Aunt Mabel.  You know she’s pretty old and won’t be around much longer.  Want to join us?”

Now, maybe you don’t particularly care for Aunt Mabel.  Maybe that prominent moustache that pricks you every time she kisses your cheek creeps you out.  Or maybe the mediciney smell that permeates her home nauseates you.

Or maybe you have other plans.  Things you’d rather do than visit Aunt Mabel.  Like clean up your work room.  Or pick nits off of your dog.  Or just stare at the wall for a while.

There could be a whole host of reasons you don’t want to join the gang who are visiting her.  And maybe none of those reasons are socially acceptable.

So how do you say “no” without coming off looking like you’re a knob?

There’s a website called “Art of Manliness”.  (http://artofmanliness.com)  And no, I haven’t bookmarked it.  I got there from a Facebook link.  I think.    It seems likely that anyone who actually needs to go to a site with that name already has issues that no website could ever cure.

Anyway, they’ve tried to answer the “how to say ‘no'” question.  (If you’re curious, the link is here. )

“Nice guys” they opine, “tend to say ‘yes’ to everyone and everything because they want to be liked.”   (So far, so good.  Yes, that’s probably true)

“In saying ‘yes’ they end up stretching themselves too thin, and can’t possible meet all of their obligations.”  (Nodding)

“They need to stop and reassess, get some backbone and start saying ‘no’ sometimes.”  (Emphatic nod)

“They need to say ‘no’ by giving non-personal non-threatening reasons for why they can’t fulfill others’ wishes”  (ZZZZZZZP!   What?)

NO!!  NO! NO!  NO! NO! NO!

NO!

“You know — like ‘I can’t babysit your dog because, um, it’s family night that night'”

(At this point I’m wondering who wrote this crap)

Here’s what I wrote in response:

“Whenever I sense that the next word I’m going to say after ‘no’ is ‘because’, I end up biting my tongue. ‘Because’ implies that I should have otherwise said ‘yes’. Like it’s a moral imperative.

It’s not.

It’s my right to say ‘no’ and it’s my right to keep my reasons to myself. And people will think what they want to think of me — that’s their right too. The ones I know and love will appreciate that I’m being honest.”

Going back to the hypothetical at the top of this post.

“You guys have a good time with Aunt Mabel.  I’m not going.”

“Well, why aren’t you joining us?”  (Intentional or perhaps unconscious application of guilt.)

“I don’t want to.”  (Rejection of guilt.  Absolutely NO excuses or reasons offered.)

“OK”

Ultimately, instead of trying to answer the question “how do I say ‘no’ without looking like a knob” you have to say “I’m going to say ‘no’.  I may look like a knob to someone but ultimately I don’t give a rat’s ass.”

There will be reactions to your “no” for sure.   Ultimately, you care about those reactions or you don’t.  People who know you will cut you some slack.

People who have preconceived notions of what everyone should do at all times will not.  They will judge you as “inconsiderate” or even think of you as an asshole.   That’s their choice.   Sooner or later, that opinion will come out, and you’ll have gained some valuable advice on the quality of your friendship with them.

I can’t see it as anything other than a win-win.

The Demise of the Western Empire – Twittered Away to Nothing

Posted: September 2, 2010 in humor, Life
Tags: , , , , , , ,
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When Twitter first made an appearance, I thought:  “big deal.  You can only write 140 characters.  It is even possible to say anything meaningful in such a short space?”

Apparently, given the popularity of this social networking tool – it is.  Having such a tiny space in which to share stuff has provoked a lot of creativity.   I’ve subscribed to a lot of humor writers, both professional and hobbyist, and when there’s not enough time to read a chapter in a book, I’ll flip over to Twitter to read the latest stuff. 

The latest craze on Twitter:  people who have portrayed themselves as TV show characters, all interacting with each other.  Notably, the series “Mad Men” and “True Blood”.   So satisfying to see that they’ve actually managed to stay true to their characters too.   “Mad Men” of course is a little more grown up than “True Blood” but both shows are entertaining.  And this open character interaction on Twitter makes it seem as though another episode is playing, right before your eyes.

The best part is that you as a regular Tweeter (Twitterer?) can interact with them, sometimes with unexpected results.

The irony of characters from the early 1960’s using 2008-2010 technology to talk with each other doesn’t escape anyone either.  Still, they manage to stay true, and it’s as if they’re actually talking with each other over the phone, and not via the computer.

Take this one exchange, between myself and one of the Mad Men characters, named Rebecca Pryce (played by that gorgeous  actress Embeth Davidtz):

Rebecca_Pryce:  “Oh, sometimes I loathe dining all by myself. But I shan’t indulge on self-pity.”
– via Twitter for BlackBerry®

(Noticing that she had posted it from her Blackberry, I thought it would be neat to note it, without noting it.  By pretending she was talking about the fruit, not the messaging device)

Wolfshades:  “@Rebecca_Pryce I love how you say ‘shan’t’.  Noticed the ‘Blackberry’ thing too.  Aren’t they delicious?”

Rebecca_Pryce: “@wolfshades God, yes. And terribly practical to boot! With this handheld thingy I can be connected anywhere! Even the tube! It’s fabulous!”

——————-

And so just like any good improv sketch, she turned something I intended into something completely different.  A grown man saying that any kind of electronic device was “delicious” …..well you know how it goes.  Don Draper would have surmised that I was “light in the loafers”, probably.

Still, it was hard not to laugh.   

There is one character on Mad Men who is just as funny on the show as her fan-created character is on Twitter (or vice versa).  She’s a crusty old broad, Miss Blankenship – known as MissB_SCDP on Twitter –  who is very set in her ways.  Although she works for Don Draper, it’s hard to tell who’s the alpha in that relationship.   I’m frankly at a loss to describe her.  She seems to defy explanation.  She’s abrupt, completely oblivious to subtle nuances (I don’t even think she knows the meaning of the word “subtle”) and is likely to blurt out your worst secret to the entire staff.  Innocently, of course (or is it?).

You can lose yourself for hours, visiting all of these tweets.   Twitter turned out to be much more entertaining than I thought it could ever be.  It helps too that you can put in web page links to your posts – thereby cheating the 140 character rule.

And then there’s Facebook.  And its necessary companions:  Failblog (http://failblog.org) and Failbooking (http://failbooking.com).  The latter contains posts that were made on Facebook that probably should have been set to “private” – or better yet, not posted at all.  Failblog contains photos that portray life failures.  Today, I posted a couple of these to my Facebook account:

Now I ask you:  is this the work of a zealous but incompetent store owner?  Or is the final act of a desperately bitter clerk, on the last day of his job?

And then there’s this one.   I looked at it at first in horror.   Then I realized what the intent was, and couldn’t help thinking about how absolutely stunning a failure it was.   For those who care: it’s a dental aid, designed to assist children in understanding how their teeth work, and what it takes to keep them healthy.

I’d like to congratulate any child who would not run away, screaming its fool head off after seeing this one.

(P.S. Credit where credit is due:  both pics are hosted at http://failblog.com – as you no doubt guessed from the caption in the bottom left corner of each pic.  You should read some of the reactions there too)

Both sites are listed in my “Funny” blogroll list to the right.   Be warned: they can suck away all of your spare time if you aren’t careful.

Panic in Paradise

Posted: August 31, 2010 in Life
Tags: , , ,
21

After sauntering into work and hunkering down in the cube farm that I call “life at the office”, I fired up my email and cherry-picked what I thought would be the more urgent emails to read first.

Including this one (paraphrased):

“I know you meant the best here, but someone dropped the ball and that device should have been sent to a different department, not back to the vendor.  And now we are behind for about a month because of it.  Maybe our two groups should meet to talk about best practices?”

I sat back.

Read it again.

Sat back again.

I didn’t need to see my neck to know that it was glowing a subtle shade of red.  I could feel it.

Ever have one of those times when you’re so angry you don’t know what to do?   When you know that if you say anything it’ll be wrong, mostly because there is *so* much you want to say, all of it equally important, that it will get lost by the time you utter the words?  Where you know that the nothing would frustrate you more – not even the slight to which you intend to respond – than not saying exactly what you mean to say?

That’s the time when it’s best just to hang back, and let that little piece of heaven that the guy left for you in the offensive email just percolate a bit longer.  Let it steep in your gut, until there’s a sense that you want, need to expel it.

Some will read that quote up there and not understand the offence that was given.  That’s understood.   In today’s world, the political man will not out-and-out call you a dumb fucker.  Not like Don Draper would anyway.

He’ll find a way to say it with subtlety and style.  He’ll say it in such a way that you and he both know he said it, but the words he has chosen won’t allow you to grab hold of it.  You in effect have no visible proof that he said anything even remotely offensive.

That’s what this was.  What’s more, he cc’ed the rest of the world on it too.  He didn’t want just me to know I was a dumb fucker – he wanted everyone else to know it too.

One of the guys who works for me saw it, and he knew exactly what it meant, and he called me.

“You know – I went back to his original email.  What he said wasn’t fair, and it wasn’t right.”

“Yeah, I know.” I replied. “I was going to respond to his email but it probably would have been a mistake.  I need to cool down a bit first, at least, before replying.  Nothing worse than inarticulate rage.”

“I agree.  Anyway I just wanted you to know what I thought.”

“Thanks – I appreciate it.”

***************

The day went on, and I forgot about it.  Or thought I did.  There was other work to do.  And besides, sometimes when someone sends an idiotic note to you in anger, the best thing you can do, the thing that will drive them around the bend, is to fail to respond.

My brother used an even better method:  when someone sent him a hateful email, he replied back but didn’t say anything.  It looked as if he wrote it, erased it, *MEANT* to write something but forgot, and just hit “send”.

The person replied back, wondering what he meant to say, and he again replied with an empty response.

He did this several times, while his correspondent became livid with rage.

I loved it.   There’s a reason I admire my little bro.

Eventually the end of the day came, and it was time to leave.  I took a last trip to the washroom (bringing my iPad with me, because you can’t leave that thing just lying around anywhere).

Then I came back, packed up my stuff, and started to walk to the elevator.

Then I realized that my subconsciousness had been working all day on a reply to him.  I wasn’t aware until it all came together.

So I rushed back to my desk and started to write it out.  It felt good.  It was subtle but the message was quite clear:  “you need to get your head out of your ass, buddy.”

And as I sat there, trying to find the perfect way to end the email, a thought dawned on me:  I couldn’t remember bringing the iPad back from the washroom.

I jumped out of my chair and ran all the way down the hall to the washroom.  As soon as I opened the door, I knew it was too late.  The floor had been washed.   That meant the cleaner had been in.  And sure enough – my iPad wasn’t there.

I saw another cleaner (one who empties the garbage, but doesn’t wash any floors) and I asked her if she had seen him.   She could hardly speak a word of English.  I don’t know what she said but I raised my voice a little and spoke slower (why do people always do that?  They’re not deaf, and English is still English no matter hooooowwww slllloooooowww youuuuuu  gooooooo).

She shrugged and pointed up.

“Oh – he’s washing the upstairs washroom floor?”

She nodded, still pointing.

I wasted no time.  Instead of waiting for the elevator, I ran up a flight of stairs.  Breathlessly, I opened the bathroom door.   The floor was dry.  He hadn’t been there yet.  Which meant he was still on his way.   There was time.

There was also another washroom on the same floor but at the other end of the building.

I ran.

Sweat trickling down my shirt, I slammed open the bathroom door.  The floor was dry.  He hadn’t made it to this floor yet.   Maybe he was on the original floor but at the opposite end of the building from the original washroom I’d been in.

I barreled down the steps and, got to the washroom and…..there he was.

He smiled at me, in a completely unEnglish-speaking way.  (I knew it, as soon as I looked at him).

I gasped and wheezed, trying to get my breath back.  “Did you clean the other washroom?”

He looked at me, puzzled.

“Other washroom?  Clean”  (Dear God, did he know ANY English words?)

“Oh jes!”  He nodded, grinning.

“Did you see my iPad?”

He cocked his head sideways and just stared at me.  He seemed interested.

“iPad.   You know – iPad?”

The puzzled look remained.

Suddenly I had a thought.  I reached into my pocket and pulled out my iPhone.  “it looks like this – only four times bigger”

Puzzled look.  Then, he shook his head “no”.

I gave up and walked back to my desk.  I’d already decided to remotely wipe the now-stolen iPad clean of all files.  (Yes, there’s an app for that, and it exists on my iPhone)

I sat at my desk and looked over at the bag I was carrying when I had first decided to go home.

There it was.  The iPad was in the bag the whole time.  I had panicked for nothing.

It’s a focus problem, you see.  In that, I don’t appear to have it.

September 21 is the date I’ll get the final evaluation; the date they’ll tell me whether I have ADD or am just plain scatter-brained.

But at least I still had my iPad.

Suddenly, that offensive note didn’t seem like such a big deal.  If I had sent that note and gotten emotional catharsis out of it but lost the iPad, it would have sucked badly.

I shut the computer off and went home.

Entitlement R Us

Posted: August 29, 2010 in Life, politics
Tags: , , , ,
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I often wonder if one of the reasons the western world will collapse soon is because we’re all a bunch of whiny bitches?

Every where you go, you read about someone complaining about this politician or that one, as if even the President or Prime Minister has the power to actually *do* anything of significance to affect our lives.  Other than f**k things up I mean.

Let’s face it – we’ve become a pair of nations (the U.S. and Canada – don’t even get me started on Europe!) who prefer to blame our troubles on the other guy, instead of ourselves.  We prefer whining to problem-solving.

We sure aren’t our ancient honoured relatives, that’s for sure.  The ones we joke about; the ones who told us about how they used to walk five miles to school during blinding blizzards.  Up hill.  Both ways.

The truth of their state of mind isn’t far off from that though.  They took pride in their accomplishment, and in their hard work and sweat, and they took special pride in the fact that they didn’t look for handouts from anyone.

How far we’ve come, huh?  Now we collectively have our hand out to everyone, and especially the government.  We’ve become entitled nations.  It’s our RIGHT to be affluent.   It’s our right not to have our feelings hurt, too.  About anything.

If John Wayne were alive today, he’d bitch-slap some sense into the lot of us.  I’m sure of it.

So, politicians, in fear for their survival, scramble to cater to our sense of entitlement. The economy is broken?  Well we’d better borrow as much money from China as we can to shore it up.  And oh by the way, WHY exactly is the economy broken?  Well, Virginia, it’s like this:   we as a government didn’t want people not to be able to afford homes, so we just said “listen – you want a home, you got it. Don’t worry about saving up for an adequate down payment; we’ve got you covered.  in fact, we’ll make it a law.  There.  Feel better?”  Then, reality put it’s foot in the door, and this careful entitled house of cards (to mix a metaphor almost to death) came tumbling down.

I’ve been around long enough to have observed a fundamental truth about government.  The best government is the one that sits still and does close to nothing.  They don’t make major changes or try to stir the pot.  They instead just maintain systems as they are.  They are unimaginative and mostly boring.  Such is the state of Canadian politics right now by virtue of the fact that there’s a minority government in place;  the governing party can’t do too much without the consent of at least one of the other two opposition parties.

That’s a good thing.  It keeps everyone honest but most importantly, it keeps them stagnant.

Governments by and large don’t like to sit still.  They worry that the citizens are going to complain that they’re not getting their (entitled) money’s worth.  Trust me, they are.  I would be more glad to pay my taxes if government would just sit down, shut the fuck up, and do nothing.

404 Error

Posted: August 27, 2010 in Life, writing
Tags: , , , , , , , , , , ,
17

Google Mail has this thing now.  If you write an email complaining about your boss, only you end up sending it to him, instead of to your buddy (let’s pretty they’re both named Tristan), you’ve got 30 seconds in which to claw it back.   It’s pretty cool.  If you’re quick enough that is.  (I’m not).  And the best thing is that he would never need to know you sent it.

WordPress allows you to do the same thing, with blogs.  Say you’re totally pissed off and you just have to write about it.  So you do.   And then, after having posted it, you decide that in complaining publicly you’ve just broken your own cardinal rule, which is that you’re not allowed to whine.  Well then, you can just go back and either put the blog back in “draft” mode until you can think of a better way to handle it, or you can just delete it.

It’s pretty cool, really.

Except…..well the moment you publish the damned thing, an email goes out to all of your subscribers, gleefully announcing that the whiny bitch blog is up, and they should come read it.

Only they click on the link, only to get a 404 error.  (That’s the error that says “oops.  You probably spelt the URL wrong.  At any rate you’ve come to the wrong place.  Now go away.”)

This is what happened last night.

I wrote a blog called “When Is It OK To Say It’s ‘Hammertime?'”.   Then, after reading it again, I discovered it had no redeeming value.  So I took it down.  I mean, the subject of that regrettable blog still has me pissed off, but I’ll deal with it.

This is a rare experience.   Usually, if I’m unsure about a blog, I’ll post it to the draft folder and no one gets notified that it’s there, or pending.  I rarely claw back blogs like that.

Which is to say “I’m sorry”.  I know that many of you got notified about a new blog, and you came here expecting to read something entertaining, only to run into the 404 wall.

It probably won’t happen again.

Wide Awake Wolf

Posted: August 25, 2010 in Life, writing
Tags: , , ,
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insomnia.jpg

Here it is, 4:36 a.m. and I can’t sleep.  What better time to try and write a blog, huh?  (Yes, I know the clock in the picture says 1:22.  I can live with it, and frankly, it was the only clock picture I could find.)

It’s that time of the morning when nothing is on TV and you can’t decide whether you’re disgruntled, or want to thank God, because you know if a good movie was on, you’d plunk yourself right down and watch it.  And then when it was done, you’d realize that DAMN – you’re really sleepy now.  Only…it’s time to get up.

I love sleeping.  I truly appreciate waking up and realizing that, despite how tired I feel, I’ve actually spent eight hours looking at my eyelids.

I think when you’re younger, you can plop down and sleep just about anywhere.  Doesn’t matter if it’s a cot, or the floor or the back seat of a car.

Later on though — *everything* freaking you keeps you awake.  So you shop carefully for a bed.  But not just any bed — it’s gotta be the best one.  Maybe it has to have numbers for sleep settings.  Maybe it has to be adjustable.  With a remote control.

And then there’s the pillow to think about.  Hypoallergenic?  Don’t know if that matters.  Should you visit a chiropractor and get his or her advice?  You know they sell pillows at their offices too, right?   And what about feathers? Down?  What’s going to work?   And how much do you spend?  Is any price too high for a good night’s sleep?

And you watch the news and your radar goes into overdrive the minute you hear the hated phrase “bed bug”.  Apparently New York City and Chicago and Detroit are the worst places for bed bugs right about now.  As is the south end of Toronto, below Bloor St.   So you make up your mind you’re NOT going to visit or live in any of these places.   (Detroit?  No biggy — there were never any plans to go there anyway.  But New York??  Damn that’s disappointing).  And so you educate yourself as well on what to look for when you’re scouting out a new place to live.  And you take away some advice as well about what to do when checking into a hotel.  You learn that you should unpack *nothing* until you’ve checked out the bed, lifted the sheets up.

And with all of this on your mind, you’re supposed to get back to sleep?  Ha!

But you try anyway.

You lie down.  Get yourself nice and comfy, with the pillow just *so* beneath your neck and head.

And then you try a trick:  you pretend like there’s someone in the room that you don’t want to talk to.  You know they want to talk, but you want them to think you’re asleep. So you breathe heavily, as if you’re asleep already.  Nine times out of ten, this pretend sleep results in real sleep.   It’s the tenth time out of ten — today in fact — when it doesn’t work.

So you try another trick.  You imagine you’re getting on a steep escalator going down, down, down with no end in sight.  Sometimes this works too.

But not today.

Today, you just lie there. And  your mind starts talking to you.

“What about that project at work.  Do you think Jill will be in today?  What will you say to her to get her to agree on your point of view regarding Windows 7?”

“Shaddup”

“OK”

“So what about that girl you like?  Are you going to call her today?  Maybe you should call her.  Maybe you shouldn’t wait another day.”

“Look it’s 4:49 in the friggin morning!  Even if I decide to call her, I’m not going to friggin call her now!  Now SHADDUP”

“OK”

“Hey, I’m hungry.  Want to eat?”

“Shit”

So then, despite all advice you’ve been given, about looking at anything too bright when you’re trying to sleep, you get up, turn the computer on, and start surfing the net.

And then you remember that you bought a cool new Mac application to let you blog without having to go to the web.  So you hunt around for it (because you’ve forgotten the name of it) and then you find it:  MarsEdit.  And you fire it up.

And then you write a blog.  Like this one.

If you have any home remedies for curing insomnia, I’m all ears.  Eyes.

Whatever.

Secure Mail

Posted: August 24, 2010 in Life
Tags: , , ,
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Let’s imagine for a moment that you ordered a cat online.  Ok, we know no one ever would do that.  You need the in-person cuddly experience with various cats before you can choose one, or have one choose you.  Whatever.  But for the sake of argument, let’s pretend that you feel confident enough to order one on the net.

(Note to all men who reading this:  shaddup)

(And no, you can’t take my Man Card away.  Besides, it’s locked up where you can’t get to it.)

So you go home and you wait and you wait.

Eventually you run out of patience and so you phone the store.

“Hi.  I was told my cat would be delivered today.”

“And who are you sir?”

“I’m wolfshades.  All one word.  No last name.   Like Bono.”

“Oh right.  Yes.  Well, let’s see – I delivered the cat myself at….um….oh right.  About 2:30 this afternoon.”

“You did?”

“Yes sir.”

“But….how could you have delivered him?  There was no one here to take delivery.”

“Oh I just left him at your door.”

By this point you’re starting to feel steam curling out of your ears.

“There wasn’t any container there.  I don’t know why you did that.  Someone probably stole him.”

“Oh there was no container.”

“WHAT??”

“I just put him down at your door, patted his head, and left for the next delivery.”

*silence*

“I guess maybe he wandered off….”

“YA THINK??”

**********************

Sounds pretty stupid, right?

About two weeks ago, I ordered something off of the net.  It was a product, not an animal.  Still though, it cost a fair bit of change.   And it was shipped by regular mail.

I don’t know if you live in White Bread, Ontario, where everyone leaves their screen doors unlocked at night, and where you can leave your wallet on top of the car and it’ll be there the next morning.  But I live in  Toronto – where everyone who rides a bicycle has had their’s stolen at least once.

Specifically, I live in a high-rise apartment.  You don’t leave *anything* of value around where people can see it and take off with it.  You just don’t.

My expectation, when receiving a package in the mail is this:  if it doesn’t fit in my mailbox, the post lady will leave a note inviting me to pick it up at the local post office.   That’s how it’s been done in the past, and I don’t mind taking a few minutes out of my day to go get it.  It’s in a secure location, so I have no worries.

There have been a few times though when she’s left a package belonging to me on display in the mail room.  I think there has been at least one time when she’s done this, and I never got it – I didn’t know at the time that she had done so, and hadn’t put two and two together until she did it again.   I complained to Canada Post, and they wanted all kinds of information:  the time of day it was delivered, and whether there were any special markings on it.  Through it all, I sensed a blasé attitude:  a kind of “oh well” take on it all.

There’s a reason companies like UPS and Purolater are making money, and it’s the same reason that Canada Post is losing:  the former companies actually care about the delivery and security of customers’ products.  If they can’t deliver it directly to you, they will take it back to their warehouse.  They will NOT frigging leave it at your door step or in your driveway.  Only crazily stupid people do that.    They appear to practice the Golden Rule.

I wonder if the Post Lady who delivers to my building ever considers what she would think if someone left something of value of hers outside her door, where anyone can pick it up?  I’ll bet she wouldn’t be pleased.  Not at all.

Don’t know what it’s like with the U.S. Postal Service.  Maybe you can shed some light on that.

At any rate, I’m sending in yet another complaint to Canada Post and this time I’ll include the URL for this blog.   I’ll let you know if anything comes of it.

P.S. I also, on occasion, send out items of value to others.  In the past I’ve used Canada Post but if this isn’t resolved to my satisfaction, I will give up on Canada Post and use courier services from here on in.

Pimpmobile Friday

Posted: August 20, 2010 in humor, humour, Life, writing
Tags: , , , , ,
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Hey gang!

I couldn’t look myself in the mirror if I didn’t do my due diligence to the blogging community by forgetting to point out some great writers here.  (I’m not sure if that last sentence had enough negatives in it.  Hopefully you know what I mean. ) 

Anyway – most of you know each other and most of you will see your blogs sitting right there to the right, in the Blogroll section   ===>  

You’re there because I enjoy reading you, and because I don’t like having to hunt around for bookmarks in my multiple browsers. 

You’re also there because you are more than worthy of my admiration, and because I really want others to read you as well.  You should feel good about yourself, now. 

Can I get an A——MEN!

Having said that, there are at least three new additions to my blog-trophy collections.

First, there’s the AcidWoods blog, written by my friend from MySpace, who is known as Art Carcass (*1).  He creates some wonderful photography blogs, and provides some thought-provoking and well, just generally provocative blogs.   Lucky for us, we get to see some of the world around us, through his highly artistic vision.  Frankly, I think we’re the better for it.

Go, Pop. Go! is a blog written by a father.  Anyone who has been a father (or a child of one) can appreciate his humorous(*2)  take on life.

The Whatever Factor is a blog written by someone who is known as “izziedarling”.  (I’d love to name my next baby that, should I be so lucky as to warrant the temporary or permanent use of a wife.   Can you imagine?  “Meet my daughter, izziedarling”  “What?”  “izziedarling”  “Why are you calling me ‘darling’?  We hardly know each other.  I’m Mr. Cooper to you, jackass”)   ANYWAY….her writing is personable and compelling.  She draws you in.  Check out her blog about a couple of doggie playthings.  That’s the one that hooked me.

The Idiot Speaketh , written by a guy who calls himself the Idiot, but is also known as “redriverpak” (someday when I know him better and can ask him this without abrogating some sort of unwritten more, thus condemning me to a social hell of my own making (God help us all), I’m going to ask him what that name means) has some hilarious blogs up, mostly about his family life.  He is no stranger to exaggeration, and thereby manages to pull the mundane into the ridiculous.   I’m all about the ridiculous, firmly believing (against most medical analysis) that it probably keeps those of us who live on the edge from going completely insane.  Unless “insane with laughter” is a problem for anyone.

Finally, I just added Old and in the Way to the blogroll today.   Like redriverpak (you know, the more I write that name, the more I like it.  It fairly flows off of the fingers.  I stare at my navel too much.  I’m also into non sequiturs.  I’m on a horse), this guy – named Sank (and I guess he got there without first saying “hey there’s a hole in my ship, do you think I should worry?” or “hey, the water level’s pretty deep here.  Maybe we should start bailing?” – but went right straight to “sank”) talks about family life, through the lens of a *very* twisted father.  Read his blog today about his adventures with toilets, if you don’t believe me.

There.  I’ve done my duty for today.

Now I get to go to bloggers’ heaven.

(Do they drink wine there?  Do they have iPads?  I have to have my iPad.  It won’t be heaven without it.)

(Um, have I blasphemed already?  And it’s not even Sunday yet)

—————————————————————————————————————

(*1 – some names aren’t real.  Even if I know the real names, I won’t publish them.  It’s not for me to do so.  Also, it’s not my job.  I like saying “it’s not my job”, because it’s far easier than volunteering to do something.  I hate volunteering. I also hate work.  Work sucks.  Work is for Other People.  People Who – unlike me – actually care.  So there, Alphonsus.  Your name is safe with me.)

(Shit)

(*2 – Yeah, I know you’re not used to seeing “humorous” spelt that way.  You’re probably also not used to seeing the past tense of “spell” spelt as “spelt”  [Gee, wasn’t that last sentence fun?].  Anyway, get used to it.  We use the Queen’s English around here.  We love the Queen.  We love her very much.  So much we’d very much like to spank her.  Spank, Queenie, spank.  Good girl)

What would you say to your 16-year old self and why

Posted: August 19, 2010 in Life
Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,
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After receiving a prompt in an email message today, I’ve elected to respond here in this blog. Please feel free to do the same.

In fact, I kind of insist on it.

Don’t make me whip out a can of thousand-yard googily stare on you.

So…what would you say to your 16-year old self?

Well, here are some things I’d say to myself at 16:

———————————-

“Son, that 28-year old married babe isn’t interested in your chaste Christian friendship. Turn the lights on, boy! She’s got something else in mind. (Maybe her feeding you Southern Comfort late at night while she giggled and laughed at your jokes while making coy suggestions should have been your first clue.)”

———————————-

“Dude – ride the bike, or walk and enjoy the scenery. You can’t do both. If you try, you’ll end up having an accident when you ogle that girl. Trust me, the embarrassment is worse than the pain.”

———————————-

“Um – look. I know your hormones are racing and you really want to have the babes pay attention to you, but I gotta tell you: checkered pants are not the way to go. You look like a fooking dork. Gnome sayin’?”

———————————-

“See a doctor about your inability to pay attention. This is treatable.”

———————————-

“That girl you saw at that Christian crusade? The one you complimented? You know the one I mean. You said her dress looked pretty. Yeah. That one. Lose her phone number.”

———————————-

“You’re right to be concerned about being an alcoholic, because your dad is. I can tell you that you’re not, though. Just be aware of your intake at all times and you’ll be fine. If you ever feel you need it – then stop.”

———————————-

“Look, I know it’s a chintzy job at a library and it doesn’t pay all that well. Still – pretend that 10% of your pay doesn’t exist. Put it in a saving’s account. Make a habit of it.”

———————————-

“There are all kinds of people who want you to think exactly the way they do. There’s peer pressure, and there’s dad pressure and there’s pulpit pressure. Don’t give into any of it. Think for yourself. Trust nothing they say until it can be tested so that you know it’s true for yourself.”

———————————-

“You know how you fart around every morning and end up leaving so late that you have to run to school? Well ….the late thing? Not good. The running thing? Awesome. Keep it up and make a habit of it.”

———————————-

“Remember when the math teacher was making corny jokes, so you folded up a paper airplane and you launched it at him such that it flew perfectly right at him and parted his hair? Remember how his face turned red and he laughed with the rest of the class? That was awesome. Do more stuff like that.”

———————————-

“Don’t be so quick on wanting to settle down with one girl. Date as many girls as you can – just so that you can get an idea of what works and what doesn’t. You can’t know this until you’re out there.”

———————————-

“Also – make a promise to yourself that you won’t get married until you’re at least twenty-five, ok?”

———————————-

Finally – and this important son, so pay attention here – make sure you write down three things:

1) Microsoft 2) Apple 3) Google

Even though that last thing sounds ridiculous, it’s going to be important someday. Watch the news, and when their stock goes live, open up that piggy bank and spend like a drunken sailor – buy up as much of all three stocks as you can. Especially Apple, because at the beginning it’s going to be cheap. Very cheap. But by the time you get older, it’s going to get extremely expensive, and you’ll do well.

Trust me.

———————————-

YOUR TURN

Wolf vs. the Universe

Posted: August 18, 2010 in Life
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For once, the sun didn’t have to peek through haze before hitting the skin.  For once, you could walk an extended distance without your shirt clinging to your back, like so much Saran Wrap. ©

For once, it was a joy to walk to work, and you didn’t need to have a backup shirt sweat-free and ready to go once you got there.

Not that there was ever any complaint.  I know enough not to jinx the summer by complaining about it.  And it irks me to no end when others do.  Are they completely daft?  Have they forgotten the ugly and decidedly unsexy experience it is to have to brace yourself against the cold wind as you work to avoid frostbite on your way to the corner store?

I sure as hell haven’t.  Let me tell you.

I, for one, am grateful to our sun-god overlord and will fully embrace the heat and the sweat and the head-swimming nausea that accosts us during the melting-asphault miasma that we call summer.  I will not ever complain, and I will train my thousand-yard stare on those who do.

Still, it was pretty enjoyable to walk to work without all the humidity.

After walking into the artistic foyer with the ceilings that vault off into space, I took the usual path to the escalators.  The ones that lead to the elevators, which in turn drop their passengers at their designated floors, with a cheery robot female voice that informs you that you’re “going up – DING”.  As if there was any other option, when you start from the ground floor.

This time, it was just me on the elevator.  I pressed the button for the seventh floor, and as always, it lit up in red immediately.

I let go of the button, and it turned off right away.

I pressed it again, and it lit up.  I let go and it turned off.

In the meantime, the elevator door shut.

So I pressed the “Open Door” button.

Nothing.

I pressed it again – thereby exhibiting the fact that I am indeed insane.  You know how that works, right?  If you keep repeating an action hoping for a different response, you’re supposed to be insane.  Of course I only repeated it once, so maybe I’m only half-mad.

Then, my insides turned to jelly.  I wasn’t sure why, until I hesitated, and listened.  There it was.  No sound.   Up until that point, there was always a background sound.  You get used to this white noise and you are largely unaware of it.  Until it’s not there anymore.

What I heard was the sound of the systems that support the elevator – including air conditioning, I think – shutting down.

I pressed the “Open Door” button a few more times – thereby removing all doubt about my sanity.   Although panic serves as a good excuse, doesn’t it?

I pressed the telephone button.  The one that’s supposed to allow you to call someone in case of an emergency.   No response.  No ringing sound, no “hello, may I help you?”.

Nothing.

I thought then about yelling and banging on the door, but wasn’t sure anyone would hear me.

“Well doesn’t this just suck” I said out loud to myself.

“Yeah, it kind of does” I answered.

“Who are you talking to?” I asked.

“Who wants to know?” I answered back, with a slight sneer.

“Shut up”

“No.  YOU shut up”

And then I saw it.

Another button not yet pressed.  This one actually had the word “help” on it.    Go figure.

I pressed it.

“This is security.  How can I help you?”

“I’m stuck on the elevator and none of the buttons work.  I can’t open the door.”

“Give me a couple of minutes.  I’ll get it open for you.”

Thank God.  I don’t know what I was worried about, really.   I was on the ground floor, and, as another security guard mentioned afterwards, if the elevator fell, it would only have gone two feet.  Kind of like splashing around and panicking in a pool that’s only two feet deep.  “Stand up, fool”

Still, the idea of being in an enclosed space that you can’t get out of hits you on a visceral level.  You panic, probably because you’re programmed to.  It represents a loss of control.  You’re entirely at the mercy of technology.   Not unlike that time when you had too much to eat and were lounging in your lazy boy chair, and there was that awful Jerry Springer show playing on TV, and your remote wasn’t working because the battery was dead, and you were too lazy to get out of the chair and change it manually.

Well, maybe it’s not like that.

The elevator bumped up and down a bit, and there was the sound of various systems starting up.  Finally the door opened and I escaped.

I told a few people about it, and they looked at me like I was nuts.
“How long were you in the elevator?”

“Must have been fifteen minutes.”  (But now that I think about it, it was probably no more than five)

“And you were scared.”

“No.  I was concerned.”
(Yeah.  It means the same thing.  I had a girlfriend once who was never ever angry, even when I forgot to pick her up after work.  “I’m NOT angry.  I”m frustrated”)

(She was angry)

(We split up)

(That got her angry too.  Go figure.)

Was the universe done with me?

Not quite.

Got home last night.  Got out of my clothes, and hung them.  Went for a shower.

Came back to the bedroom and, um, well, wouldn’t you know it?

The closet doors – both of them – were fused shut.  I know this because I tried to open one, and broke the handle off.  And then I tried to open the other.  And broke the handle on that one too.

Traipsed out to the kitchen to find a hammer in one of the kitchen drawers.  (What?  I keep some of my tools in the kitchen drawers.  Don’t all bachelors do this?)

Came back and tried to pry the doors open from the bottom.  Heard a big “scrrruuunch”, as the prongs of the hammer tore away at the wood at the bottom of the door, but do you think that sucker would open?  Not a budge.  Not even a hint of a budge.

Lots of squeaking and grinding though.   Like mice on steroids.

Had to call the super this morning (after digging through the hamper to find some truly heinous and smelly clothes to wear.  Didn’t want to answer the door naked.  All that awkardness would be annoying).  He got the doors open.  “Don’t shut them though” he warned. “Not until winter.”

I nodded and thanked him.

The good news is that I’ve stopped talking to myself out loud.

Now I’m sending myself emails.

Drunk Ride Home

Posted: August 8, 2010 in Life
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The well-dressed awesome-looking drunk (me) piled into the taxi cab.  It was either that or spend a half hour walking to a bus stop and perhaps waiting another 30 minutes for a bus that would take him to his home.  And that trip would be another 45 minutes.

It was all about time.

It took a little bit of time to get the seatbelt fastened.  Damn, those things are hard to manoeuvre.   Probably easier when you’re sober.  But… SHHH….let’s keep that it to ourselves, shall we?  By the way – I love you.   No, seriously.  I do.   Always did.

(Never been an angry drunk, like dear old dad.  I’m a happy loving drunk.)

(In your face, dad!   Oh, I know you don’t care, ’cause you’re dead but still…….IN YOUR FACE!!)

Seatbelt finally fastened, I opened my iPad to try reading a few more chapters of my book.  So hard to read when the damned words keep moving around…….

“So….that woman next to us is drunk”

“Huh?”

“The woman.  Drunk.  She drunk.  And she looking for someone to be with her.”

That got my interest.  I looked over at her.  Hmmm.  Very nice looking, too.

“Really?”

“Yah”

“Maybe you should slow down. I could invite her in.”

We were both in fast moving vehicles.  Evidently, logic takes a holiday when the wolf gets plastered.

The taxi sped up, leaving the lonely girl way behind us.  I shrugged and tried to get back to my book.

“therearesomanydrunkdriversyouneverknowwhosdrunk”

“What?”

“Drunk drivers.”

“Uh huh”

“Too many of them.”

“Well” I started.  “I never driver —”  I stopped and deliberately slowed down.  “I never drive drunk.  In fact,” I added “I never drive if I have even one drink.”

God I  was so proud.

“Good.  Oh look……they’re fighting”

The non sequitur totally threw me.

“What?”

“Look.  They’re fighting.”

I looked.  There were two guys and a girl standing together on the corner.  They all had smiles.  Maybe I was drunker than I thought.  Didn’t see any heat there.

“Um..”

But he had moved on.

“Oh shit.  Did they catch me?”

“What?”

“The police.”

I looked at the window and saw two cop cars sitting in an intersection.  They didn’t appear to show any interest in the taxi’s excessive speed.

“So whaddya got there?”

I looked down, realizing finally that he was referring to my iPad.

“It’s an iPad.”

“A Sony?”

“What?”

“Is it a Sony?”

I stared at him, puzzled, and through bleary eyes.  “No, it’s an iPad”

“Oh’

So hard to follow the conversation when you’re three sheets to the wind.  Worse when the guy you’re talking with can’t list English as his first language. Or his second or third.

“Yeah” I finally replied.

“I like that.  May I see it?”

I was too….um….flexible to refuse him.  “Sure.  Here you go” and with that, I handed my dearest precious treasure to him.

He looked at it briefly, and handed it back.

“I need to get one of these.”

I nodded.  Worried that if I nodded even one more time, I’d fall asleep and it would take an army to wake me up.

“How much it cost?”

“What?”

“The iPad.  What cost?”

“$1000.00”

“Oh”

“You know what I pay for insurance?”   Oh good.  Another non sequitur.

“What?”

“My cab.  Insurance.”

“Oh.  No.  A lot I bet.”

“A lot I bet”

“$6000.00”

“Gotta cover that liability, huh?’

“What?”

“Liability.  In case of lawsuits from passengers.”

“Yah.  Right.”

We drove on in silence for a while.  And then we came to my corner.

“Where you want to go?”

“Well there’s a bank machine over there.  Why don’t we go there; I’ll get some money out and then I’ll pay you and you’ll be good to go.”

“Ok”

And that’s what we did.

I paid him.  He drove off.  And I stumbled my way across the four-lane road and into my apartment building.

I stared blearily at the iMac screen.   Went to Facebook and wrote something stupid on someone’s wall, and then moved over here to write this.

Come the morning, I expect to be hangover-free.  That’s what happened the last time.  And now, since it took me an hour to finish this (in between the ad hoc naps), it was finally time to go to bed.  So I wrote this blog, and then I signed off and crashed.

Messages

Posted: August 5, 2010 in Life
19

Here’s where I open it up to you.   But first:

**********************************************

*flip*

“JER-RY!

JER-RY!

JER-RY!”

‘Thank you ladies and gentlemen.  Today’s show is about a mom who’s dating someone, and later finds out he’s her daughter’s boyfriend”

*flip*

“Oh my God!  That’s right, girls!  I’m representin’ y’all!  My name’s Sugar, and I just made out with both of my girlfriends.  We did it for $50 but now we’re in love!!”

*flip*

“Ladies – now you too can have long luxurious hair.  Just snort more cocaine.  Come on.  We all do it – so you should too”

*looks at TV guide – realizes it’s Mad TV*

*flip*

“Hey Mom.  Thanks for ordering this awesome pizza for us!”

“I didn’t order it, Jimmy.  It’s Delectable Pizza – from the store!”

“It is?  Awesome!  You’re the BEST MOM EVER”

*turns TV off*

***************************************************

I don’t know.  Seems like there’s an awful lot of crap on TV.  And you will never (well, hardly ever) hear of a guy following the antics of someone on Survivor or Big Brother and making a decision to be “just like him*.    We won’t ever make out with other guys for $50.00 either.

Admittedly, my observation isn’t empirical.  Maybe there are some who would but by the standards of my small group of buddies, hangers-on and ne’er-do-wells – the answer is an emphatic “NO!”  (Such a question would usually be followed up with a homophobic comment, casting doubt about the questioner’s sexuality.)

We don’t judge our clothing styles by what we see on TV.  About the only peer-based fashion impulse amongst guys – that I’m aware of – is the requirement to wear jeans.  In fact, the only other fashion-pressure we experience occurs when women tell us what works and what doesn’t.   And you girls are so subtle about it sometimes too.

“You know what really makes me smile?    When a man wears a long-sleeved shirt and rolls it up to his elbows”

Honest to God, ladies – we’d have never even thought about that, had you not mentioned it.   I mean, who in their right mind buys a long-sleeved shirt anyway, when they really want their arms to have unrestricted access.  Why bother with long sleeves?  Just get a short-sleeve shirt and be done with it.

But no – we have high hopes for you, and so we’ll go to the bother of getting that shirt and contort ourselves appropriately until you nod your heads in approval.

The other day I bought a pair of sunglasses.  I put them on and walked over to a girl in my office.   “Whaddya think?”

She frowned.   “No.  Not working.”

There was nothing wrong with them.  But she had an innate sense about things, and her response was unequivocal. There was no hesitation.

She called one of her friends over.   “Suzy” (not her real name) “come here and take a look at this.”

At “this”.   Not “Wolf”.  “This”

Suzy came over, took a look and started laughing.  Her critique was a bit more startling and even less unambiguous.

I took the sunglasses back.

Sorry – I’m drifting away a little bit from the topic at hand.

People (mostly women) complain about what they see on TV and worry about “the message it brings to young girls”

Messages like: “if you make out with other girls, you’ll be cool and boys will like you”

Or: you can be the best woman of all if you find a way to put great food on the table.

Or: you need to be as openly sexual as possible if you want to succeed in the world.

This is where you come in.

To what extent does TV have an effect on women in general?  Do you think it affects men as well?

Men:  do you worry about what the women in your life see on TV?

Should TV producers and story writers be more responsible in what they portray, and in particular – how they portray women?  (You can feel free to define what “more responsible” means)

I’ll share my thoughts on all of this in the comments.

(“HEY!  WOMAN!  WHERE’S MY PIZZA???”)

Beyond Tolerance

Posted: August 3, 2010 in Life
Tags:
13

The woman dressed in black frowned, reached down and grabbed the sandal off the man’s foot.  He looked at her, a question mark in his eyes.

She gathered up all the spit she could; reached down deep in her throat for more, and then, after pulling her head back, she shot forward and hocked a loogie at him.  Right in the face.

Wiping the spittle off, he glared at her.  “Why?”

“You damned well know why!  You’re supposed to marry me, you idiot.”

“But…but….my brother’s not even cold in the ground.  You’re his wife.  I don’t want to marry you.  I’m…I’m…in love with someone else.” 

“Doesn’t matter, does it?”

One of the elders shuffled in his black gown.  “According to the law, she’s right.”

And she was.

**********************************************************************

A fellow blogger named JustMe posted a comment on an excellent blog written by Carmen.   In it, he quoted a Bible verse that supports the above scenario.  It’s the passage in Deuteronomy 25:5-10.

It made me laugh.  Of course, no fundamentalist Christian church would ever suggest anything like this is necessary today, even though it’s in the Bible.  Yet, many have no problems pointing out other Old Testament rules and laws to support, in some cases, outright bigoted viewpoints.    I won’t go into it all – but would suggest you go over and have a read of Carmen’s blog.  It’s enlightening – particularly the clip from West Wing that she included.

On my walk to work this morning, I couldn’t help thinking about the whole thing.     Probably the best place to get an idea of what God’s mindset might be on all the things we struggle with, is to read what Jesus had to say, and consider the context in which he said it.

I don’t think anyone will disagree that He had a big problem with religious types.   He was the Jewish religion’s troll back then.  While he respected the synagogue, and the traditions, he did not tolerate the two-faced nature of so many who called themselves leaders back then.

They constantly challenged him, mostly about the Law. 

“Look” he said.  “Park your mouths for a minute, all right?  The entire law – the ENTIRE thing – is wrapped up into two laws.  Love God and love your neighbour.”   He said that was the point of everything.  Forget the little rules, and the nit-picky stuff.  Just concentrate on those two things.

Can you imagine the objections?  “But what about those fucking faggots?  What about divorced people?  What about thieves?  What about the fucking government who wants all of my money?  Look there’s a tax collector now.”

“Yes, and I’ve invited him to follow me.  You have a problem with that?”

Oh, and if you don’t think those guys swore, you haven’t been around fishermen very much.   If you wanted to learn how to swear, you went down to the docks and you hung around there for a while.  That was an education and a half.

These weren’t gentle religious people, his followers – not at all.  These were loud, drinking, boisterous men who would have been glad to punch you in the face if you dissed them.  Witness Peter grabbing a sword and cutting off a man’s ear.

Unfortunately the writers of the Gospels didn’t pay too much attention to the rabble who followed him – their focus was what Jesus said and did.  This man was a breath of fresh air to them.  He did and said things they had never thought of, before.    He made God real to them.

Of course, you can bet they didn’t like bullshit, and when something wasn’t clear, they were quick to challenge it.  “Ok Jesus – I’m supposed to love my neighbour.  But who is my neighbour?  Surely you just mean the Jews, right?”

Jesus told them a parable about a filthy disgusting Samaritan.  A non-Jew.  Someone they would normally not spend two seconds thinking about.  Bottom line:  your neighbour is the guy next to you, who you can best love by responding to his obvious need.

“You don’t mean the faggots, right?”

“Everyone”

“But not Republicans”

“Everyone.”

“Uh, but not atheists.”

“What part of ‘everyone’ do you not get?”

And he didn’t mean love them in a patronizing way, the way so many well-meaning Christian do.  He meant, as a fellow traveller on the earth.   I think he meant that we need to recognize that all mankind reflects the image of God.    That we’re pretty much on a level playing field, in God’s eyes.  There is a bit of His DNA in all of us.   And we probably should recognize that.

“Well ok.  I can love most of them.  But not the radical Christians OK?  I can stomach almost everyone except them.”

“What do you think?”

Hello Hello

Posted: July 29, 2010 in Life
20

The first thing you see when you enter the place is wood.  Lots of wood:  the floors, the pillars, the wood panelling on the walls.   And you notice that around each pillar is a little ledge where you can place your drinks.  Or elbows.  Pretty handy if you’ve had too much to drink and holding your head up becomes a bit of a challenge.

I handed my ticket to the guy at the entrance and asked about the seating.   Don’t laugh.  The ticket indicated a seat number, so I wondered where mine was.

He looked at me, puzzled.  “Well, there is seating up on the balcony but …you’ll have to go up there right away if you want to score one.”

I went up, and found a bunch of cushions, some of which were pushed up against the wall.  After grabbing a glass of wine, I plunked myself down on one of them and waited for the band to hit the stage.

The main attraction was a group called “Cat Empire”.   It has nothing to do with cats.  I have no idea why they chose that particular name.  Maybe because it’s distinctive; hard to forget.

I had seen these guys on one of our early morning TV news and variety shows in Toronto.  They were outstanding:  they had a beat that wouldn’t quit, and the band played a variety of instruments, and there was just so much joy you couldn’t sit still while watching them.   It had been a long time since I’d seen a band that good.  After watching the show, I purchased as many of their albums as I could and downloaded them to my iPhone.

So when I heard they were playing at the Phoenix in Toronto, I jumped at the chance to buy a ticket.

Sitting there, in the dark at the back of the balcony with my wine in my hand, I wondered at the lack of enthusiasm and atmosphere in the place.   There was music playing over the speaker system but it was nothing special.  I even recognized a few of the songs from years ago.

Finally, over the sound of the music came the sound of a live guitar.  The guitarist strummed the strings from the bottom to top – and that seemed to catch everyone by surprise.  The dull murmuring stopped as everyone waited to hear them start up.

I didn’t recognize a single one of their songs.

Plus, there were only three musicians on stage:  a guitarist/singer, a bass player and a drummer.

I thought to myself:  “what the hell is this?  Are they ripping us off?”

The more they played, the less enthused I was about staying there.  None of the songs were catchy; I figured maybe it was because the main singer wasn’t there to lead them.   Maybe he was sick.  Maybe they signed a contract with the place and were just giving the minimum requirement.

I went downstairs to see them from a closer vantage point.  The crowd was mostly quiet between songs – although there was some polite clapping at the end of each one.   I grabbed another glass of wine and wandered over to one of the posts.  My elbows needed a rest.  Seemed like a good idea anyway.

The more that gosh-awful band played, the more disappointed and disgruntled I got.  I looked at the clock and realized that if I left the place right then, I’d have a chance to hit the gym and get a workout in before it closed for the night.

As I turned that thought over in my head, the band played their lost song.   I looked at the clock again.  They had played for exactly forty-five minutes.   I nodded to myself.  They had fulfilled their contract, and we were totally ripped off.  I downed the rest of my drink and put the glass down, and got ready to leave.

Only…..

It didn’t look like anyone else was leaving.

I frowned and wondered what the heck was going on.

And then it hit me.

We had been listening to the warmup band.

I grinned at my stupidity.   Evidently, I need to get out more.

Of *course* there was a warm up band.  The fact that no one was the least bit warmed up meant nothing.  They were there, they had a job to do, and they had done it.

I smiled and shook my head, and went back to the bar for another glass of wine (and a bottle of water).

Cat Empire took the stage.

Oh.  My. God.

As much as I enjoyed them when they played on Breakfast Television, they were *miles* better in person.   I couldn’t believe how great they were.

The whole place shook as everyone jumped up and down and danced to their sometimes reggae, sometimes rock, sometimes tango beat.  Everyone was grinning and the band themselves were rocking out like there was no tomorrow.    The pianist did a solo.  The trumpets blared out their top notes.  The singers did the same.  The drummer did a solo.  The singer got on the bongo drums and the music played on and on……. There was no let-up, and no intermission.

We all stayed on the floor and danced like there was no tomorrow.   There was no thought of going back to the bar for drinks or for sitting down.  You don’t pause when a dynamic party of this intensity is under way.  You simply can’t.  You stay where you are; you sing with the music and you move your feet and your ass to the rhythm.

I wondered how strong the floor was; you could feel the timbers straining beneath your feet.

There was a beautiful blonde girl dancing next to me.  We shared thoughts between the songs.   Really, there wasn’t even a notion for romance though – the music and the joy of the band was just too great, and neither of us wanted to miss a single note.  We just stayed there and danced and sang and enjoyed the tremendous music together.   It was just too much.  (Of course, I’m not entirely stupid:  I did ask her for her number after the concert, and she gave it to me.  So there’s that).

I walked a long way after getting out of the concert hall, with my earphones on, listening to more of Cat Empire.

It’s been a while since I was on such a natural high.

If they ever come to your town, I highly recommend you go see them.  I promise you won’t be disappointed.

P.S. I tried to embed one of their songs called “Hello Hello” but they’ve disabled it.  If you look on Youtube you’ll see it there.  Have a listen.  It’s worth it.

Update:  there’s even a better review, complete with pics, which you can find here:  Cat Empire Review

Cleared for Takeoff

Posted: July 26, 2010 in Life
31

After coming out of a two-week stupefaction which was instigated by an unexpected and highly unwelcome summer cold, you’ll understand that it took quite a while to get the engine running again.  And it didn’t happen before the motor coughed its guts out.   The idea of “living life” took a backseat to daytime TV (which, by the way, I don’t recommend. )

I remember just sitting there with the apple core in one hand and the TV remote in the other.  I was in my wife-beater t-shirt, hair all on end, with a runny nose, staring out of one pulsing “pink-eye” inflamed eyeball at the TV set, as the Fresh Prince joked with his unsmiling uncle about something-or-0ther.   I thought maybe I should change the channel or just shut it off.  Maybe I should put the now-brown apple core in the garbage.  Instead, I sat there, mouth half-open (otherwise I would have suffocated from the nasal impediment), and the apple core just dangled there, not quite leaving my lax fingers, while I endured the crappy laugh-track-enhanced comedy.  For a full twenty minutes.

The whole two weeks was a write-off.  I spent the time sleeping.  Or waking up in a panic, as my pillow suddenly got threatened by an end run from my nose.   I bought food and didn’t eat it.   The lazy-boy chair endured countless hours accommodating my zombie ass.  I’m telling you – I was freaking miserable.

I hadn’t been sick like this for…what was it?  Three years.  At least.  And the only thing I could think was “man, I really need a woman to take care of me right now.” 

That’s right. I said it.  

Eventually though – thank God – you come out of it.   Eventually you can taste stuff again.  Smell it.   The chirping of birds no longer annoys you.  You sort of like it.   The sun is no longer a hammer to your eyeballs.  Instead it’s pleasant.  Inviting.  And warm.

The night before the day I was to go back to work, there was one last nightmare.   I was back working in a factory, doing excruciatingly dull labour.  The bright glare of the unforgiving factory lights shone down on the bare metal of the car skeletons as they screeched their way slowly down the line.  Bright welding sparks burnt your retinas, throwing everything into a momentary carbon of reality: black was white, and vice versa, for only a moment.  The pounding of hammers thrummed in your ears, in counterpoint to the unending anxious wail of hydraulic lifts.   A cloud of dirt smudged the air, making it difficult though not impossible to find your way to wherever it was your were going.    

Frowning, I told my boss I was getting ready to throw up (I wasn’t) and that I had a bad headache (I didn’t).   I just wanted out of there.  Now.  And eventually, he agreed to let me go home.  It was basically a flash-back to so many days and nights in a car factory from years ago.  Everything was the same, and it was all serving to create a mental pain that was equal to the physical illness just recently endured. 

Upon waking, there was this sense of ambiguity:  thankfulness that it was all just a dream and I didn’t really work there anymore – and a painful awareness that I needed to be thankful for the relatively great job that I have now.  It was one of those “you know you should be thankful, right?” moments.   Where you know what’s right, but there’s a part of you that says “yabbut….”   Yes, this is a great job.  Yes, I don’t have to punch a clock.  Yes, I get to use my mind.  Yes…yes….yes…..

Still.   Peter Pan was insistent:  the nine-to-five deal is for other people.  Not us.  We need to fly out of here.  Create, sing, dance, write…..live.

Last night, another dream clipped my consciousness.   It was another one of those flying dreams.   Where you have to get somewhere and the only way to do it is hold your breath, hold out your arms, wait for a slight breeze and…… lift off of the ground.   You know you can do it, too.  In the dream reality, you’ve done it many times before.  But it’s been a long time since you last dreamt this, so you know you’re out of practice.  (I suppose that’s it, too – you realize, in the middle of your dream, that you’ve dreamt this before.  Kind of odd, having that awareness in the middle of a dream).    So you try and you keep trying and eventually…your body rises and you find yourself awkwardly steering yourself in the right direction.

Before you know it, you’re skimming rooftops and meandering wherever your thoughts take you.   It’s invigorating, breathtaking, magical.

Upon waking, you understand the message of it, too.   In your religious days, you remember hearing the pastor quote a verse “all things are possible”.   The dream, and the morning sun proves the point: you only need to have the will.   

And this morning, this sunny Monday morning, you know it’s true. 

And your thoughts catch the air…..

Fickle Butterflies

Posted: June 28, 2010 in ADHD, Life
Tags: , , ,
20

“My thoughts are like butterflies”, he said.  “They’re beautiful.  But they fly away.”

It was a lament offered up a little boy, and quoted in the book “Delivered from Distraction”.

I nodded furiously.

Kind of stupid isn’t it?  Nodding at something you read in a book.  Sort of like clapping at the end of a movie, when you know none of the production folk or actors are there to appreciate it.

All of my life I’ve heard about ADD and the favourite companion topic: Ritalin.  Usually, Ritalin is said with a slight hesitation, or in some circles, a gasp.  It was the go-to drug for every unruly child (or so the legend goes).  It became the excuse drug, the alternative to discipline as an answer to bad behaviour.

ADD has been relegated to the annals of mental illness.  A disorder if you will.  Something We Don’t Talk About.

Not surprising, then, given its history, that some people get annoyed by the topic.

I was aware of this ambience around ADD all my life.  Aware but disinterested, really.  I couldn’t have cared less.  I know my sisters were on Ritalin for a while, but didn’t know why.  I knew they didn’t exhibit bad behaviour.  Being a kid myself at the time, I just didn’t pay attention. (Did you know that ADD only affects about 4% of the population, on average?  Not quite the catch-all most people have assumed over the years).

I was not an unruly kid either.  I mean, well I was at first, before hitting kindergarten.  I ran away a lot.  Not because I was angry at Mom.  It was because, like most little boys, I was curious.  Probably a little more curious than most, because I wasn’t really running AWAY so much as running TO – whatever it was that caught my eye.  One of the earliest memories was of riding my tricycle down the street and into a construction zone.  I remember my Mom being so very angry (read: worried), and I recall getting a spanking out of that deal.  The first of many, actually.

They say that ADD is the comedian/actor’s disorder.  There’s a reason for that.  The same condition that provides a lack of concentration in so many of us actually promotes creativity.  It’s not that we can’t focus, it’s that we focus only on bright spots.  For many of us (me included) it’s actually a plus, in so many ways.  A lot of ADD folk don’t like the idea of taking any kind of meds for it, because they’re worried they won’t get those bright ideas anymore.  Rick Green, who is a producer and comedian and an actor – said that the meds actually don’t stifle his creativity at all.  It allows him to corral those same ideas and follow them to completion.

Another myth:  people who have ADD can never focus.  In fact, the opposite is true.  We either lose focus easily, or we hyperfocus, to the exclusion of all else.  We can be so heavily focused on something that we won’t notice that there’s a fire in the house.  I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been late for an appointment, or forgot something really important, mostly because I was hyperfocused on something.

There’s another aspect of ADD that you may find to be of interest (and we’ll make this the last one for this blog).

Over the years, both here and on MySpace, I’ve spoken about my various forays into activities that turned out to be suspiciously addictive.

The other day, when I sold my doctor on the idea of buying an iPad (mentioned in the last blog), I asked for a refill of a narcotic prescription to alleviate migraines.

She said (as she tends to say every time this prescription is refilled):  “when’s the last time I gave you this?  Don’t want you getting addicted to them again.”   

Every time she says this, it irritates me.   She makes it sound like I could so easily become addicted and need to go into rehab or something.   So, this time I addressed it.

“Doctor, I wonder if we could spend a few minutes talking about addictions and ADD?”

She leaned back, and peered at me over her glasses.  “Sure.”

“Years ago, I developed a dependency on this medication….”

She interrupted with “yes you did.”

I continued.  “But I weaned myself off of it, gradually.”  I wanted her to know that back then, that *I* took control of the addictive behaviour and did something about it.  That the change in behaviour wasn’t forced on me; it was something I chose to do, on my own.

“I then got into drinking wine, actually quite a bit.  So much that it scared me, so I stopped drinking it at all for quite a while, just to make sure I wasn’t an alcoholic.”

She gave me her rapt attention, and I could tell she was actually listening.

“I got into pot, with the same results, and with the same concerns, and took myself off of it, just to make sure I didn’t actually need it.   And I’ve done the same with fatty foods and chocolate.”

“So” I said “I’m aware that people with ADD have a tendency towards addictions and addictive behaviour….”

“That’s right” she said.  “And it’s good that you’re able to recognize it and do something about it.”

I nodded, satisfied that I’d made my point, and so we sat there, silent for a while.

“Doc I really don’t know what I’m asking, here.”  In truth, I wasn’t asking anything. I just wanted her to acknowledge that I’m fully aware of all the dangers of narcotic medicines and am therefore armed against abusing them.

She said “maybe you’re wondering about the science of it all?”

I nodded.

“Well, people with ADD are lacking stimulation, so they tend to self-medicate where possible.  That’s what that’s all about.”

She was silent for a moment.  “In fact,” she said “for all the talk about alcoholism and drug addictions being an illness, I don’t buy it at all.  If it was truly an illness, you wouldn’t be able to control yourself.”

I agreed with her.  “Yes, even when I was heavily into wine, I can tell you that I wouldn’t have sat in front of my boss with a bottle in my hand.   So there has to be some measure of control.”

She nodded, and we finished the appointment.

The bottom line is that addictive behaviour, while not in itself indicative of ADD, it is one of the many factors.  In fact, when a person displays any of the individual factors, it doesn’t necessarily mean that person has ADD.   It’s the combination of those factors in overwhelming numbers that may indicate it.

And it’s not always a bad thing.  In fact, with a bit of control (read: cognitive therapy and meds), ADD can be the best thing in the world.  I certainly see it that way and am looking forward to exercising some of my creative ideas to completion.

I mean – I really like the shiny butterflies, and would rather see them stick around a little longer than they typically do.

Wolf Sales

Posted: June 25, 2010 in Life
Tags: , ,
23

For once, the office was quiet.  Me and my iPad came in and found a seat among the multitude of empty chairs.

The doctor, who was standing by the reception desk looking through medical charts, glanced at me over her glasses and smiled.  I smiled back.

I like her. 

But then, I have a predisposition of goodwill to people who smile at me.

A few minutes later she finished with the file and then motioned me in.  I closed my iPad and followed her into her small office.

The first thing I did was show her my latest toy, like some 10-year old boy, at show-and-tell.  “Check this out, doc!”

And with that, I opened up the iPad and started showing her some of the cool applications.  Like the weather application that shows videos of weather, depending upon the city that you choose. 

I don’t mean videos of news reporters, giving weather reports.  No, these are videos taken of clouds, at cloud-level as the plane races through them.  Or overhead straight-down videos of rain hitting the ground.  Or amazing videos of a full moon, as it gazes over a field, while the wind ruffles the grass.

Most people humour me when I give this demonstration.  I know this (remember my last blog?  I read people, right?  How could you forget so quickly?  Geeze, people.) and I show them the device anyway.  Their patient reactions don’t matter.  I love this thing.  My iPad and I are coming up on our third week anniversary.  I may have to buy something for it, in appreciation.  Or just send it an email.  Maybe a poem. 

Oh my iPad
How ever much  I love thee.
Playing with you always and for too long
Even when I have to pee

(Yeah.  I’ll work on it.)

The doctor didn’t humour me though.  I saw a spark of true appreciation in her eyes.

“Can I use it?”

I beamed.  “Sure!  Go ahead.”  And with that, I turned it completely to her and watched as she smiled and began playing with it.

She tried out different applications, all the time asking me questions.  “How much did you pay?  Are you keeping your iPhone data plan?  Can I use this for my recipes?  I love to cook.”

This appointment had turned a direction that was much more interesting than I had anticipated.

“Well doc, they start out at around $500.  This one has the most storage and has internet access so I paid about $1000.00.  How many songs do you have?”

She looked at me thoughtfully.   “Not many.  Only a couple of hundred.  I don’t do the music thing that much.  I’ll probably only use it in the kitchen.   Wait – do I need a data plan or can I just use it on wi-fi?”

“Well you probably won’t need one with large storage, and yes you can get one that just has wi-fi.”

“Hmmm” she said.  “We don’t have wi-fi in the office but we will have internet soon.”

I could see the wheels turning, as we both sat there in silence.

Her eyes focused back and she looked at me.    Then she smiled again.   “I’m going to treat myself to one of these.”

I couldn’t help grinning back.  “You won’t be sorry.  I promise.”

“And I think I’ll get the large one.”   Her eyes fairly glowed.  “You know – I can get one of my friends to fill it with all of his songs.  He has a massive collection.”

Her excitement was infectious.

My first bona fide convert.   As Barney Stinson would say:  “This is awe…….(wait for it)…..SOME!”

Her normally serious face dimpled in actual pleasure.  It was great to see.

“Now, what did you want to see me about?”

I told her, while thinking the whole time that…..

I’m pretty sure Apple owes me some money now.

Hot E-Book

Posted: June 21, 2010 in humor, Life
Tags: ,
10

Sitting near the back of the bus, I had a clear view of the girl, as she sat at the front.  Her face was as busy as it gets, as she thought through various possibilities, reactions, memories and events.  It was hard not to smile.  She was doing what I do – her mind was processing at a mile a minute and the results were clear on her face, as she frowned, smiled slightly, turned her eyebrows into questions.

It was disappointing to see her get off of the bus early.  I would have loved to have had a chance to chat with her.

The ability to read people is both a blessing and a curse.

The curse involves knowing all the possible responses to a suggestion or idea ahead of time, and knowing that you have to incorporate all that knowledge to mitigate those responses.  It’s trying, and tiresome.  Once you read someone, you can’t unread them.  It doesn’t work that way.

You have an idea for a project, but it’s going to cost money.   The people you have to sell this to are your colleagues.  People you’ve read over the last few months.  So you know going into it that Alex won’t commit unless he knows every last little detail.  He is uncomfortable with surprises, and is the one person in the group who is least risk-tolerant.

Jamie will enthusiastically endorse your idea, until someone else disagrees, and then she’ll back down and reconsider.  She just wants to be loved, validated.  She’s protective of her self-esteem that way.

Eric will reserve judgement until upper management has spoken, and then he’ll go for whatever they think.  If they approve, then he’ll approve and he’ll step in, willing to lend a hand to make it a success.  If they don’t approve, he’ll provide a white paper, outlining the pros and cons – while making sure the latter outweigh the former – and then conclude it was a great idea, but not to be.  Eric is upwardly mobile.  His agenda isn’t yours.  It’s not even his bosses’ agenda.  He only knows one word: up.

Pamela is there to work.  And anything that can make the job easier or more fun is something she’ll get on board with.  She has no room for boring people, or people who will bog down the process.  She and Alex are passive-aggressive mortal enemies.  She’s also your best supporter.

So you have to form your idea carefully, making sure there’s something in there that will cater to all personalities.  You believe in your idea, so you’re willing to spend the effort.  You don’t have all the details but you bow to Jim’s need by offering to set up a working group to iron out the nitty-gritty stuff.   You ignore Jamie for the moment.  You make sure your idea has enough buzzwords to satisfy management (thereby satisfying Eric) and you bring Pamela onside as a co-sponsor.  And you do this in a short meeting so that she won’t lose interest too quickly.

It’s a tough deal, but fun once you understand it.

The blessing is that you get an instinct for what will resonate with people in real life (in the blogging world, not so much).   You know what that girl you’re into really likes, and you find inventive ways to show her your appreciation.   And then she rewards you in a brilliant way. 

It’s an ability, this being able to read people, that you know can be misused.  It can be used to manipulate, and you’re so completely aware of this that you take steps to be as transparent and as sincere as you can be.  After all, you have to look at yourself in the mirror every day.

Sometimes, the gift can make you a little crazy.

Like the other day, when I read an email response from someone on Craigslist who wanted to buy my e-reader.  We had dickered back and forth, finally agreeing on a price.  In one of her emails, she had said “but I can buy it quickly, and take it off of your hands” – a ploy she used to ask me to lower the price.  Or so I thought.

Once we agreed, she replied back “Ok I shall ask a friend of mine to meet you at a coffee shop.  He’ll be wearing an old black cap”.

“Shall”

No one in Canada uses “shall” unless they’re old-school British patriots.   So I made the (correct) assumption that for this person, English was not her first language.

I replied back.  “Ok done deal.  What’s your friend’s first name?”   I really didn’t want to go with “hey you”.   And I understand the valid paranoia of the internet, which is why I didn’t ask for his last name.

Her response:  “oh you won’t miss him.”

I shrugged.  She was paranoid.

Later that day at the coffee shop, an Asian gentleman walked up to me, tentatively, and said “e-book?”

I started to rise from my seat.  “Yes.  I have it here.”

He said “ok I’ll get the money” and with that he scurried off to another section of the coffee shop.

Then he brought out the cash and quickly laid it all out on the table, instead of into my hand.   I started to explain about the attachments, and the website you could go to, to download the software for it, but his nervousness grew.  I could tell in reading him that he wasn’t interested in any of the details.  He just wanted the transaction over and done with.

“It works, yes?”

I nodded.  “It works.”

He nodded, grabbed the e-book reader and scurried away again.

This behaviour puzzled me until later that night, when I finally had my “A-HA!” moment.

He wasn’t being anti-social, and neither was his girlfriend.

They thought they were dealing with a black-market guy; a guy who sold stuff from off the back of his truck; stuff that had fallen off of *other* trucks.  He thought the e-book I was selling him was “hot”.

If I wasn’t working for The Family, then maybe I was a narc, and that’s why I wanted the guy’s first name.  Start there, and work out exactly who I was dealing with.

I laughed.

It was entertaining, if nothing else. 

And in the end, it didn’t matter.  He got what he wanted, as did I.

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