Truths and Half Truths

Friday Morning, 2:29

It's late, late, late. Sleep is being that naughty child, drawing nearer ... nearer ... nearer ... close enough that my fingertips brush it ... then skipping away, giggling, ever just out of reach. I've given up. I'll just go about my business, pretend to ignore it. Soon enough it'll get tired of the game and come to me on its own.

Eine Kleine Operamusik

Thanks to Cranky Chick, I checked out this site. It's a group called "Amici Forever", which is being billed as the "world's first opera band".

Most people are a bit surprised when I say I'm a huge opera fan. Well, they're not surprised at the "huge" part. But - and I'll concede this - I don't give off an "opera fan" vibe. There you go - things ( and people) are not always as they appear. I love opera and I love what these kids are doing.

"Amici Forever" might offend purists, in the sense that it's closer to "popera". But they're an incredible group of virtuosi. Each voice is distinctive and strong and their harmonies are ... well, breathtaking. Swear to God, they brought tears to my eyes. In a good way.

If you don't like opera, that's fine, don't bother checking it out, then coming back and saying "Eh, that sucked, have you heard the latest from Nickelback?" But if you're an opera fan, and not a snob about it - or if you have broad tastes that you think might stretch to opera if it were a bit more accessible ... give this group a solid listen. Maybe start with "Prayer In The Night" or their operatic version of "Unchained Melody".

Lovely.

Grumpy Old Fart

I was in the drugstore the other day, browsing through the Foot Care section because ... well, because I’m at an age where all of a sudden, foot care seems interesting. Suddenly, I became aware of a clot of teenaged boys making trouble in Aisle Two.

This is an aisle with which I have become uncomfortably familiar in the past few years. It holds the, uh, “feminine stuff”, and I have a wife and two grown daughters living at home, so I spend more time in that aisle than men are technically supposed to. I'm never quite at home there, but I've learned to suck it up and have some faith the sales clerks won't think anything I purchase by way of paper products is for my own use.

I knew right away these teenaged boys were up to no good. And sure enough, there they were, making all sorts of teenaged boy jokes, which I must tell you have not become less disgusting in the years since my friends and I used to make them. The clerks stood around helplessly as these yabbering chimps disturbed the whole store. Clearly, what the situation called for was a grumpy old fart.

You don’t see too many grumpy old farts any more. And as a result, kids are running wild in public. It’s the Law of the Jungle. Without predators, a species that was once under control will overrun its territory and end up in Aisle Two, making crude comments about wings and personal freshness. Well, okay, technically the part about personal freshness is more an unwritten law of the jungle, but you get the idea.

Nowadays, kids are treated with respect and politeness, with consideration for their feelings and a recognition of their inherent worth as human beings. Feh. I’m not so sure we’re getting a better world out of the deal. I think by times they need to encounter a miserable old fart, just to show them their place.

When I was growing up, I was always running afoul of grumpy old farts. There was a store near our school with the most magnificent collection of penny candy in creation (yes, kids, back in the mists of time, penny candy cost just that. Or less.). Behind the counter lurked the meanest old fart in the world. We would go in after school and start picking through the open box displays of jujubes, licorice pipes, SweetTarts, Popeye brand candy cigarettes, and ni- ... er, TIGER babies (if you come from that time, you know what we used to call them. I'm not happy about that, and have brought up my kids to see it as horrible, but that was life in Canada in that unenlightened age. Hey, for God's sake, they were selling us candy cigarettes!).

Anyway, you didn’t want to pick through the candy too much, or old Mr. Roussen would start barking from behind the counter: “Hey, you kids ... get your grubby little muckers off that candy. You touch it, you bought it! And put those Batman comics down. This ain’t a library! And you, fat kid! Turn your pockets out!”

Same thing at the movie theatre. Nowadays, the kids just talk through the whole movie. If we tried that, the grumpy old fart who owned the movie house would come storming down the aisle with the little flashlight and shine it in everybody’s face. “You! Yeah, you, the fat kid with the turned out pockets ... yer outta here. Let’s go!” There was no argument, no appeal. You just went. You were a kid. He was a grumpy old fart. He had you covered like paper covered rock. And nature was in balance.

Well, when I ran across these boys in the drugstore, acting like a bunch of ill-mannered yahoos, I felt like I had to do something. So - just for that moment - I became a grumpy old fart.

“Hey, you kids! You wanna laugh and joke around, take it outside. This is a drug store, for God’s sake. Put that down, unless you plan on buying it for yourself! They're not real wings, ya know. Now, move it!”

You know what? They shut up and left. All they needed was someone to read them the riot act. The other customers were grateful, and so were the clerks. They called me “sir” when I went through the checkout. It was kind of neat.

I think this weekend I’m gonna get me a flashlight and go to the movies. “You! You with the green hair, with the cell phone you didn't have the courtesy to turn off! Let’s go, let’s go!”

Hmmm ... this grumpy old fart business might be fun.

A Little Knowledge

Earlier this week, I stumbled on a site that let you play "20 Questions" - you thought of the name of a dictator or a sit-com character, and it was uncannily able to guess who you were thinking of. Fun.

Well, what's not fun is finding out there's some sort of implanted program that changes your home page and forces pop-ups all over your computer which - with no hint of irony - ask you if you want to buy a program preventing arseholes from implanting spybots that change your home page and force pop-ups all over your computer.

Which is what happened. So now the post (and link) are deleted. I hope I did not perpetuate anything, and I sincerely wish the very worst I can imagine on the people who implanted these programs. Amoral scum.

WOW! Try THIS!

WOW! I don't know if this will work, but it's worth a try: How about not flooding the e-mail inbox of every single acquaintance you have with amazing offers that would make even the most gullible fan of professional wrestling say "Are you kidding me? Someone believed that?"

No, really. My cousin, Earl Mudpucker, is a lawyer, and he says that if you try this - something so simple as NOT clicking "forward" - then you stand a better than even chance that your friends will actually NOT block future e-mails from you!

Tonight, once again, some person I know forwarded me that moronic e-mail from "A real attorney" who says that Microsoft is testing a beta e-mail program and will give you $245 for every e-mail you forward. Or something like that. I mean, my eyes glazed over with the words "Bill Gates will give you ..."

Bill Gates is not giving you, me, or anybody any money. Seriously. Think about it. He is the richest man ever in the history of the world. Can you even imagine being in the boardroom at Microsoft, and they're about to wind up the meeting, and Bill Gates says "Anybody have anything else they want to talk about?" And you proudly stick your hand up and say "I have a wacky idea, but it just might work. Let's give BILLIONS of dollars away!"

"What, give billions of dollars away ... to just .. anybody?" says Bill, clearly baffled.

"No!" you shout, triumphantly. "That's the beauty of my plan. We'll only give billions of dollars away to people who FORWARD E-MAILS!"

"BRILLIANT!" shouts Bill Gates, as he secretly reaches under the desk and pushes the button that summons Security. "We'll get right on that!"

Jaysus, people. There are several hundred million people on the goddamn internet. As rich as he is, Bill Gates can't even afford to take them all out to the movies on cheap night, let alone give each of them thousands of dollars. And that's WITHOUT popcorn. Even if it IS a "write-off".

While we're at it, that kid in England or Ireland or Australia who is dying and wants to be in the Guinness Book of Records for receiving the most e-mails? He's dead. Yep, he croaked last year. Sad, really. He was making a recovery, but then someone came in with sacks and sacks of e-mails and dumped them on his bed and the life was crushed from his body. And now he resides in that special corner of hell reserved for people who forward idiot hoax e-mails to all their friends.

No, the teddy bear virus is not going to eat your computer. No, Bill Gates is not going to give you money. If it's on the internet and it sounds to good to be true, here's a little rule of thumb: "IT FRIGGING IS TOO GOOD TO BE TRUE!!!"

OK, that's my little rant for the night. Please, go back to waiting for your cheque from Bill Gates. Hold your breath. Get someone to put duct tape over your mouth and nose. It will save poor lil Bill several thousands of dollars. And the gene pool will be that much less muddy.

I'm Fired

OK, so you people know everything. At least, it always seems like you do. So, here's a question:

I have two whattyacallem air-tight woodstoves in my old farmhouse. Sometimes they pitch out some great heat. And sometimes, they just sputter and smoulder and I spend all night shuffling back and forth, moving logs around, trying to get the flames to build. I leave them alone (usually right after I hear "Do you have to be so anal? Leave the goddamn fire alone and it'll go on its own!") ... and come back to find them barely glowing and in need of rescue. Forget going to bed and hoping to wake up to a warm hearth - things are stone cold by morning.

I have ample supply of well-seasoned, dry firewood. And I can get the fires started just fine, thank you. But what suggestions do you smarty-pantses have for getting that optimum blaze, that warm, cozy fire that lasts for hours without having to be tinkered with?

I assume the size of my logs (oh, please, come back when you graduate from third grade) is important. And the placement. And the air flow. But damned if I've stumbled on the formula.

So, OK ... impress the hell outta me. Be my fire-Yoda.

Why? Why????

Started my day off with a trip to Canadian Tire to buy a blowtorch to thaw a frozen pipe. Came home, got the water running, and went out to find one of the three vehicles had turned into a 2000 lb. paperweight, and both girls insisting that they absolutely, positively, not even a shred of doubt about it needed a car today. So I'm just screwing up my courage to go out and do the jumper cable thing.

Remind me again ... why do we live in a place where you have to chip the dog off the fire hydrant and weather forecasts include information about how quickly exposed skin will freeze?

Maybe the cold has frozen my brain ... but I honestly can't remember.

Blizzard Day

Today, on this tiny island, we're having what's being called (by Environment Canada and the media) a "blizzard".

Now, I know they have a standard definition of a "blizzard" ... the wind, snow accumulation, and temperatures all have to reach certain levels. But is it me, or have those levels dropped in the past few years? Seems to me, we're having "blizzards" that are a lot like what we used to call "crappy days".

(I know I run the risk of sounding like an old fart here: "Blizzard? Why, you kids today know nothin' about blizzards. Now, February ought-four. That was a blizzard." So be it. As I learned when I got together with a bunch of bloggers the other night ... I am friggin' old. Now hush and get me my slippers.)

I'm originally from Winnipeg, and the standard by which Winnipeggers judge blizzards was set on March 4, 1966. That was a Friday - blizzards always happened on a Friday. It was like God was saying "OK, you get the day off school, but you'll pay for it with a weekend of shovelling."

The wind howled. The temperatures plummetted. The snow fell - tons and tons and tons of it. During the height of the storm, my Dad got on his Air Force survival suit and walked out into the front yard. By then, the snow was hip deep on him - chest deep on me, I'd guess - and the wind kept blowing him over. He would have to cover his mouth and nose to breathe, the air was so cold and the wind so ... well, literally breath-taking.

When he got back in, we all settled down to play cards and "Clue" and "Monopoly", make puzzles and do all those "blizzard day things". Mom made hot chocolate with marshmallows on top, Dad poked at the fireplace, getting the blaze just right, Norman Rockwell came by to do our family portrait. Blizzards were a gift - a day when we huddled inside, safe from the elements, and drank deeply of family.

The day after a blizzard? A different kind of gift.

Dad woke us up bright and early. The sky was clear, cloudless - an incredibly crisp blue, and the sun turned the snow into a billion diamonds. I suppose it was gorgeous, but there was no luxury of wallowing in the beauty of it all. There were three shovels - one each for my Dad, my brother, and me. And mountains of snow to move.

And I do mean mountains. Some were just snow, others contained cars - it became an archeological dig, carefully uncovering artifacts like my Dad's 1964 Dodge station wagon. We knew where he'd left it, and if you looked closely you could see the tip of the radio aerial jutting out of the lump in the driveway. It took us the better part of the morning to excavate around it, careful not to chip the paint with our shovels. The rest of the driveway took all afternoon. On Sunday we did all the sidewalks around the house.

I was twelve years old (do the math if it amuses you) and this was my first experience working shoulder to shoulder with "the men". We'd nod to the other men in the neighbourhood, out shovelling their drives and sidewalks. Now and again Dad would stop and lean on his shovel and talk to the guy who lived beside us, and my brother and I would stop and lean on our shovels and take our own breather. And when Dad would start to wind up his conversation ("Well, better get back to it ..."), my brother would skim a bit of snow off the top of a drift and flip it into my face. And we'd get back to it.

A few years ago, Mom made all the kids photo albums - splitting her albums up and giving us all a few pieces of long ago. One of the pictures in my album is simply titled "March 4/66". For a Winnipegger, that's enough of a caption.

In the picture, we're about halfway through uncovering the car. My brother is on top of the pile, carefully shovelling snow off the roof. I'm digging around the wheel wells. And my Dad is leaning on his shovel, watching us. You can't see his face in the picture, but I bet I know his expression.

So ... the folks at Environment Canada can call this a blizzard if they want. And truly, it's not fit for man nor beast. It's a storm. Dirty weather. A crappy day.

But to me, it's not a blizzard.

A Fab Fruit Cup for Breakfast

OK, try this in a fruit cup ...

Layer of sliced banana (half the cup)
Thin layer of brown sugar/cinnamon mixed to taste
Layer of sliced peaches (other half of the cup)

Microwave until hot and the juices run together - experiment with times - you don't want the fruit to go mushy.

Then:

Mix cream cheese, cream, and a little icing sugar in a bowl ... what you're looking for is a very smooth topping with the consistency of whipped cream.

Glop it on the fruit.

Back away as the people you have blessed with this amazing dish rush to worship you.

You're welcome.

Just ... Thinkin'

A week or so ago, I was listening to the news when there was a brief interview with a man from the Fraser Institute. As always, the Fraser Institute was described as a "Conservative think tank". And as always, this description got me ... well, thinking.

I don't know much about the Fraser Institute, or for that matter the Rand Corporation, which is an American think tank. They don't seem to produce much of anything - I mean, you can't buy Fraser Institute peanut butter or Rand jockey shorts or anything. From what I can see, all that comes out of these think tanks are ... well, thoughts. So what you have are people who are paid to go in, sit at a desk, and think.

I want this job.

I wonder how you get a job at a think tank? You never see ads in the help wanted section under "Thinkers". "Wanted: deep thinker. Must have own tools. Nobody in baseball cap need apply."

How would you be paid? I guess it would be salary. Or maybe piece work. At the end of the day, you could turn in a list of everything you thought about and the foreman - or would that be foreheadman? - would calculate what you earned. It would be a real bummer to find out the guy in the office next to you got paid more for the same amount of work, just because he had a higher IQ.

Do people who work in a think tank punch in at the beginning of the day? I used to alway think about the day ahead when I was driving in to work in the morning. If someone at the Fraser Institute thinks before they get to work, do they get overtime?

I wonder what it's like wandering the halls at the Fraser Institute? It must be very quiet. It would have to be, or you couldn't hear yourself ... well, you know. I bet it's an open office area. You could walk around and peek over those little cloth covered dividers and see all these people sitting at their desks with really constipated looks on their faces, just ... thinking away to beat the band.

Or maybe not. I have a friend who has mastered the art of goofing off. She'll pick up some random memo on her desk, walk briskly from one end of the building to the other, with a look on her face like a flight attendant on the way to tell the captain the right engine is in flames. Then she'll retrace her steps, sit back down and throw the memo back onto the pile. She says she can kill up to a half hour this way. Everybody thinks she's really busy.

It would be much easier to goof off if you worked in a place where all you had to do was think. I mean, who would know? I guess if you had a long term problem, it might come up at performance appraisal time: "I'm sorry, Jenkins, but you just haven't been thinking hard enough." But on any given day, there would be no way of knowing who was earning their dough.

I don't have the solution to any of these problems, but it's not for lack of trying. I've been thinking about them a lot on my spare time, for free. My dream is that one day I'll be just thinking away when I'll get spotted by a scout for the Fraser Institute who will sign me to a big contract.

Ah, who am I kidding? I'm not the think tank type. After an hour or so of heavy thinking, my brain starts to hurt.

Or maybe my baseball cap is too tight. There. That's better.