It’s time for a change in federal politics.
This country needs a fresh voice, a new tomato, a political choirboy.
Canadian voters are the political equivalent of teenage girls in the tampon commercial that begins: Mom, sometimes I don’t feel … fresh.”
Well consider the Greasy Beaver Party your proverbial freshness.
In short, I plan to put my name forward as a candidate in the Carleton-Mississippi Mills riding for the next federal election.
Why the name Greasy Beaver?
Well, the beaver has long been a proud symbol for Canada.
And the word grease has political connotations. It’s also one of my favourite movies of all time: “This party is autocratic, it’s acrobatic, it’s fanatic, why this party’s greased lightnin’!
In essence, grease is the word.
It all started one afternoon at the office, when I stole my colleague’s Club Soda.
“You should be a politician,” he said in a deadpan yet pained voice.
“Yeah,” I thought.
I quickly phoned Elections Canada.
After speaking to an answering machine – “If you are an unemployed machinist, please press 1, if you are an unemployed monkey press 2, if you are … BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! … You pressed XYFX. … I do not know what that means.” – One hour of phone gymnastics later, I finally spoke to a human being.
Anyone can run in a federal election the Elections Canada representative – all you need to do is give the government $1,000, which is returned to you at the end of the election, and appoint an auditor and designated agent.
After quickly naming my editors as my auditor and designated agent – for which they will receive a crunchy donut – I printed off the nomination forms (you need 100 signatures on a form to be submitted before the end of December) and quickly toured my office.
“Do I have to use my name?” asked one nominator/co-worker.
“Do I have to use a Kanata address?” said another.
“What’s your platform,” pretty much all of them asked.
“Yes, yes and what’s a platform,” were my answers.
I wanted people’s vote – but this whole think-a-platform-through thing sounded kind of tough. But I digress.
I sat down and stared at my ceiling, played Solitaire on the computer for 10 minutes and then hummed a song by Bananarama, “It’s a blue, blue winter …”, as I composed the Greasy Beaver’s election platform with a lot of help from party organizers within my office.
First off: the slogan.
You’ve heard of a chicken in every pot?
Well, we promise a pot in every chicken. The Greasy Beavers strongly support the legalization and forced feeding of marijuana to chickens.
Greasy Beavers are strongly against the law of gravity.
If elected, we will repeal this law along with Murphy’s Law, the Law of the Jungle and if possible Jude Law.
Our platform?
Oak. A solid foundation for any campaign.
Here are some of the issues as we see them:
Debt financing: We owe billions upon billions of dollars in national debt. My cousin Vinnie won $1,000 at the casinos recently during a five-day Las Vegas holiday. I propose sending the minister of finance to Vegas to play the roulette table. He’ll put down $100 billion on red – that will take a sizeable bite out of the national debt.
Crime: The problem with crime is cost – it takes a lot of money to hire police officers and pay lawyers, judges and jailers. People talk about legalizing marijuana – Why? Because it costs too much to police marijuana users. Well, let’s extend that argument to all crime. If nothing is illegal, we won’t have to spend so much on the justice system.
Political corruption: The problem with political corruption is not the stealing of hundreds of millions of dollars. Since the hallowed days of Sir John A. Macdonald, Canadian politicians have taken bribes and stolen money from the public purse. It’s one of the perks of the job. When people scream bloody murder about unfortunate misunderstandings such as Adscam, they’re not angry about the money – they just wish their government had been honest enough to say, “Hey, no offense intended, but we’re taking you’re money and we really don’t have any plans to give it back. But, hey, we think you Canadians are special people.’ I propose to steal your money. But I will have the courtesy to tell you about it ahead of time. Incidents of political graft and pork barreling will be known as uh oh spaghettios.
Child care: The problem with child care is the children. They move quickly and are difficult to track. Why not build child care centres consisting of one big room filled with balls. Parents on the way to work can drop their child into the ball room. Or, they can actually put them in big plastic balls. That way, the kids get to roll around and have fun and at the end of the work-day parents can just roll their child home. Rollin’ rollin’ rollin’, keep those kiddies rollin’, CHILD CARE! Pick em’ up roll em’ out, ride em’ out. CHILD CARE!
Gun Control: A gun for everyone. We will not regulate the sale or possession of plastic dart guns. It is a fundamental right of every Canadian to own a plastic dart gun or water gun as long as that water is not sold to another country.
Education: Why do we want an education – to apply for a job and make money. Keeping in mind the Canadian government’s current job strategy, I propose to teach our youth basic math and reading skills suitable for their probable future workplace: Upon graduation, students should be able to calculate the cost of supersizing a Big Mac meal deal and be able to properly enunciate: “Would you like fries with that?”
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Monday, April 28, 2008
Chillin’ with the J-man somewhere between Eagleson and oblivion
I still believe in the Easter bunny.
The same way I still believe in Santa Claus and the Great Pumpkin – they are all pleasant creatures of varying degrees of fuzziness who bring me stuff.
Not lately though.
I thought about calling this column: What ever happened to the true meaning of Easter?, alternately titled Where the frick is my Easter chocolate?
Then I remembered that other symbol of Easter – hidden beneath a chocolate and nougat veneer of commercialism, courtesy of fudge factories planet wide.
Jesus Christ.
Keep in mind, my family is strictly Roman Catholic – you know the drill: Fridays are for fish and on Sunday’s your butt better be nailed to the church bench.
As a child, I used to dance in the pews and laugh and laugh – at least until my mom shut me up – and watch the big people stand in line to eat Jesus.
“Body of Christ,” said the priest. “Amen.”
Then the priest would drink Jesus’ blood – which kinda freaked me out. As he drank I’d look real hard for fangs pointing out from his lips.
Okay, I watched too many Dracula films as a kid.
And I remember the Bible stories about Jesus – they were a pleasant and uplifting history along the lines of Jesus multiplies the bread and fish; Jesus rescues lady from stoning, Jesus raises Lazarus; ‘He’s a nice man/God’ I thought at the time.
Meanwhile, Christmas was just freakin’ wonderful – with stories about the baby Jesus, the sheep in the nativity scene all a-bahing and the cattle lowing, the three wise men, shepherds tending their sheep and angels thrown into the mix – their eyes all big ‘n watery like the kids on the Welch’s grape juice commercials.
You know, it was just really nice.
But Easter threw me for a complete fruit loop – torture, betrayal spears in the side, whips, nails driven through hands and feet: the crucifixion and suffering of Christ.
I remember listening to the story, and waiting for the cliffhanger scene – you know, where the hero swings from the tree tops to rescue Jesus from the Romans.
“You Jesus. Me Tarzan.”
Or maybe – if you’ve seen the Mad-TV skit – God would send a modified terminator from the future to rescue Jesus.
He’d burst in on the last supper, lift his shotgun and blow away Judas.
Jesus being the good guy he is would heal Judas and the Terminator would kill him again.
“Stop killing Judas!” Jesus would say.
Over time, I would learn that according to Christian belief the suffering of Christ earned mankind a chance at paradise or heaven – a forgiveness of Original Sin (the whole Adam, Eve and one juicy Macintosh scene – at least I like to think of it as Macintosh.)
But I also like to think of the human side of Jesus.
There is nothing more human than a good sense of humour and fun.
And from all that I’ve heard, Jesus had a pretty good one – and I’m certain that given a chance he wouldn’t object to a nice two-fisted solid chocolate bunny.
I’m not saying Jesus would sign a contract with Hershey to push chocolate Easter treats on the faithful – just that he would appreciate some of the earthly pleasures of Easter that bring laughter to our children.
Simple human pleasures cannot compare with the promise of paradise – but they are pleasant nonetheless.
Keep in mind, Easter is a spring Christian holiday.
And with the warm weather – oh sweet man child – wouldn’t it be wonderful to motor through the local DQ in a fully-loaded (whatever that means) pink open-top Cadillac, fuzzy dice waggling in the wind – showin’ sevens, driver’s side of course – a few honies in the back all-a-giggles, shimmyin’ to the sound of the Beach Boys Good Vibrations, and Jesus riding shotgun, decked out in pinstripe baggies, sandals, a white T-shirt, black sunglasses slid down halfway over his nose so you could see his eyes when he winked at you.
Oh the summer sun, Good Vibrations shaking the front speakers, the feel of the warm wind blowin’ your hair in waves, as you zoom down an empty stretch of March Road – with Jesus as your co-pilot.
The signs, they’d say we were approaching the end of the road.
Jesus, he’d sink further into the shag seating, lean over as his sunglasses slid further down his nose and say, ‘Ain’t no end of the road Mensch. We gonna break us another road.’
And turns out he’d be right – just as he always turned out to be right – but that’d be okay because Jesus never rubbed stuff in.
Could there be anything better?
My point being, on Easter we not only honour the crucifixion, the passion and the memory of Jesus Christ – he is a living God, a perfect God, and therefore a God with a pretty good sense of humour – I’ve always imagined him as a slightly more spritely version of George Burns (from the Oh God films) with a friendly dash of Jack Nicholson thrown in. Church learnin’ tells us church is the proper forum to honour him in.
I kinda’ like the church of thought that says we honour him best in everyday life.
(Please note no Christians were harmed in the writing of this blog and no offense was intended towards anyone, religious or otherwise.)
The same way I still believe in Santa Claus and the Great Pumpkin – they are all pleasant creatures of varying degrees of fuzziness who bring me stuff.
Not lately though.
I thought about calling this column: What ever happened to the true meaning of Easter?, alternately titled Where the frick is my Easter chocolate?
Then I remembered that other symbol of Easter – hidden beneath a chocolate and nougat veneer of commercialism, courtesy of fudge factories planet wide.
Jesus Christ.
Keep in mind, my family is strictly Roman Catholic – you know the drill: Fridays are for fish and on Sunday’s your butt better be nailed to the church bench.
As a child, I used to dance in the pews and laugh and laugh – at least until my mom shut me up – and watch the big people stand in line to eat Jesus.
“Body of Christ,” said the priest. “Amen.”
Then the priest would drink Jesus’ blood – which kinda freaked me out. As he drank I’d look real hard for fangs pointing out from his lips.
Okay, I watched too many Dracula films as a kid.
And I remember the Bible stories about Jesus – they were a pleasant and uplifting history along the lines of Jesus multiplies the bread and fish; Jesus rescues lady from stoning, Jesus raises Lazarus; ‘He’s a nice man/God’ I thought at the time.
Meanwhile, Christmas was just freakin’ wonderful – with stories about the baby Jesus, the sheep in the nativity scene all a-bahing and the cattle lowing, the three wise men, shepherds tending their sheep and angels thrown into the mix – their eyes all big ‘n watery like the kids on the Welch’s grape juice commercials.
You know, it was just really nice.
But Easter threw me for a complete fruit loop – torture, betrayal spears in the side, whips, nails driven through hands and feet: the crucifixion and suffering of Christ.
I remember listening to the story, and waiting for the cliffhanger scene – you know, where the hero swings from the tree tops to rescue Jesus from the Romans.
“You Jesus. Me Tarzan.”
Or maybe – if you’ve seen the Mad-TV skit – God would send a modified terminator from the future to rescue Jesus.
He’d burst in on the last supper, lift his shotgun and blow away Judas.
Jesus being the good guy he is would heal Judas and the Terminator would kill him again.
“Stop killing Judas!” Jesus would say.
Over time, I would learn that according to Christian belief the suffering of Christ earned mankind a chance at paradise or heaven – a forgiveness of Original Sin (the whole Adam, Eve and one juicy Macintosh scene – at least I like to think of it as Macintosh.)
But I also like to think of the human side of Jesus.
There is nothing more human than a good sense of humour and fun.
And from all that I’ve heard, Jesus had a pretty good one – and I’m certain that given a chance he wouldn’t object to a nice two-fisted solid chocolate bunny.
I’m not saying Jesus would sign a contract with Hershey to push chocolate Easter treats on the faithful – just that he would appreciate some of the earthly pleasures of Easter that bring laughter to our children.
Simple human pleasures cannot compare with the promise of paradise – but they are pleasant nonetheless.
Keep in mind, Easter is a spring Christian holiday.
And with the warm weather – oh sweet man child – wouldn’t it be wonderful to motor through the local DQ in a fully-loaded (whatever that means) pink open-top Cadillac, fuzzy dice waggling in the wind – showin’ sevens, driver’s side of course – a few honies in the back all-a-giggles, shimmyin’ to the sound of the Beach Boys Good Vibrations, and Jesus riding shotgun, decked out in pinstripe baggies, sandals, a white T-shirt, black sunglasses slid down halfway over his nose so you could see his eyes when he winked at you.
Oh the summer sun, Good Vibrations shaking the front speakers, the feel of the warm wind blowin’ your hair in waves, as you zoom down an empty stretch of March Road – with Jesus as your co-pilot.
The signs, they’d say we were approaching the end of the road.
Jesus, he’d sink further into the shag seating, lean over as his sunglasses slid further down his nose and say, ‘Ain’t no end of the road Mensch. We gonna break us another road.’
And turns out he’d be right – just as he always turned out to be right – but that’d be okay because Jesus never rubbed stuff in.
Could there be anything better?
My point being, on Easter we not only honour the crucifixion, the passion and the memory of Jesus Christ – he is a living God, a perfect God, and therefore a God with a pretty good sense of humour – I’ve always imagined him as a slightly more spritely version of George Burns (from the Oh God films) with a friendly dash of Jack Nicholson thrown in. Church learnin’ tells us church is the proper forum to honour him in.
I kinda’ like the church of thought that says we honour him best in everyday life.
(Please note no Christians were harmed in the writing of this blog and no offense was intended towards anyone, religious or otherwise.)
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Dreams of la Mancha
I've been drifting few the last couple of months like a modern-day Don Quixote, tilting at proverbial windmills -- an experience most of us have probably shared.
All I'm missing is my faithful Sancho and, of course, an oblivious Dulcinea.
My windmills happen to be slightly gossamer -- ethical compromise.
We all have beliefs and codes that we at least try to live by.
It's sad to see others violate what we view as morally wrong, for the sake of expediency.
For instance, a newspaper stands by its readers, (this dead metaphor goes out to all my fans in Cornwall) and its reporters and does not allow outside influences (such as politicians) to dictate who covers a story and how it is covered -- that would be unethical.
That knowledge should be ingrained in a reporter's or editor's bones.
We stand by our newspaper.
We stand by our reporter.
We stand by our story.
It would be so easy for editors to give into the requests of special interest groups for the sake of expediency, for the sake of getting the story.
I argue that we should uphold our ethical beliefs and rebuff these requests -- get the story another way -- because (to use another dead metaphor to amuse my Cornwall fans) compromising our ethics is a long and slippery slope.
We don't need to compromise our ethics to get a story.
The easy course of action is not necessarily the right course of action.
I've been drifting few the last couple of months like a modern-day Don Quixote, tilting at proverbial windmills -- an experience most of us have probably shared.
All I'm missing is my faithful Sancho and, of course, an oblivious Dulcinea.
My windmills happen to be slightly gossamer -- ethical compromise.
We all have beliefs and codes that we at least try to live by.
It's sad to see others violate what we view as morally wrong, for the sake of expediency.
For instance, a newspaper stands by its readers, (this dead metaphor goes out to all my fans in Cornwall) and its reporters and does not allow outside influences (such as politicians) to dictate who covers a story and how it is covered -- that would be unethical.
That knowledge should be ingrained in a reporter's or editor's bones.
We stand by our newspaper.
We stand by our reporter.
We stand by our story.
It would be so easy for editors to give into the requests of special interest groups for the sake of expediency, for the sake of getting the story.
I argue that we should uphold our ethical beliefs and rebuff these requests -- get the story another way -- because (to use another dead metaphor to amuse my Cornwall fans) compromising our ethics is a long and slippery slope.
We don't need to compromise our ethics to get a story.
The easy course of action is not necessarily the right course of action.
Thursday, April 10, 2008
Malaise
Something's rotten in the province of Ontario.
Smells like Sens spirit.
The Pittsburgh Penguins played an awful first game of the opening round of the 2008 NHL playoffs, yet somehow managed to win 4-0 over the brittle Ottawa Senators.
Pathetic -- which pretty much describes how they have played since thromping the Detroit Red Wings in January.
A malaise has settled over the team like a dark cloud -- the Sens have played poorly since early January -- One goaltending controversy and coaching change later and still no one knows how to put Humpty Dumpty back together again.
The locker room is divided.
The emperor has no clothes.
Jason Spezza and Dany Heatley look lost on the ice.
Senators fans must prepare themselves for smug comments from Leafs, Flames and Habs fans who insist the Sens can't win because they don't have heart.
Well, they also are missing three pretty good players -- maybe four if you include Volchenkov -- Alfredsson, Fisher and Kelly.
Injuries are no excuse they insist.
Even the Sens biggest fan in Cornwall is starting to lose faith.
Say it ain't so Alfie.
But even if we had Alfie, Fisher and Kelly back, there's still that little matter of the malaise.
Perhaps Ottawa needs to reorganize its roster at the end of this year -- i.e. give a few players their walking papers.
Non-hockey stuff
I've started a fruit of the week club at my office -- my mangos were rebuffed by two of my co-workers.
"We like strawberries and cantaloupes!" they said.
Live and learn.
My foot is starting to heal and I'm now driving my car.
Oh yeah.
I said I'm driving my car.
Oh yeah.
My co-workers -- let's call them Habsman and low-talker -- are ga-ga in love with the television show Lost.
It's all Greek to me. When I pointed out that the premise of the show sounds like it is loosely based on Gilligan's Island (marooned on an island, crazy escape plots, "the others" -- hello! could it be any more obvious) Habsman and low-talker were definitely not amused.
They also didn't like my suggestion for a possible spin-off for Lost: Found.
Get it? Found.
Smells like Sens spirit.
The Pittsburgh Penguins played an awful first game of the opening round of the 2008 NHL playoffs, yet somehow managed to win 4-0 over the brittle Ottawa Senators.
Pathetic -- which pretty much describes how they have played since thromping the Detroit Red Wings in January.
A malaise has settled over the team like a dark cloud -- the Sens have played poorly since early January -- One goaltending controversy and coaching change later and still no one knows how to put Humpty Dumpty back together again.
The locker room is divided.
The emperor has no clothes.
Jason Spezza and Dany Heatley look lost on the ice.
Senators fans must prepare themselves for smug comments from Leafs, Flames and Habs fans who insist the Sens can't win because they don't have heart.
Well, they also are missing three pretty good players -- maybe four if you include Volchenkov -- Alfredsson, Fisher and Kelly.
Injuries are no excuse they insist.
Even the Sens biggest fan in Cornwall is starting to lose faith.
Say it ain't so Alfie.
But even if we had Alfie, Fisher and Kelly back, there's still that little matter of the malaise.
Perhaps Ottawa needs to reorganize its roster at the end of this year -- i.e. give a few players their walking papers.
Non-hockey stuff
I've started a fruit of the week club at my office -- my mangos were rebuffed by two of my co-workers.
"We like strawberries and cantaloupes!" they said.
Live and learn.
My foot is starting to heal and I'm now driving my car.
Oh yeah.
I said I'm driving my car.
Oh yeah.
My co-workers -- let's call them Habsman and low-talker -- are ga-ga in love with the television show Lost.
It's all Greek to me. When I pointed out that the premise of the show sounds like it is loosely based on Gilligan's Island (marooned on an island, crazy escape plots, "the others" -- hello! could it be any more obvious) Habsman and low-talker were definitely not amused.
They also didn't like my suggestion for a possible spin-off for Lost: Found.
Get it? Found.
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
. . . They're back!
The 2007-08 NHL playoffs begin tonight.
First some predictions:
Penguins in 7 (it hurt to type that)
Rangers in 6
Capitals in 6
Habs in 6
Ducks in 5
Wild in 7
Sharks in 6
Red Wings in 5
It's painful to predict a Penguins win, especially after they tanked the last game of the season for a first round match-up with Ottawa.
Disgraceful.
But, Ottawa's captain is injured, and linch-pins Mike Fisher and Chris Kelly are both nursing wounded limbs. Pittsburgh's mental make up won't bring them the Cup, but it will allow them to win against a decimated Ottawa squad.
Unless . . . (cue Rocky music) a miracle happens and Dany Heatley and Jason Spezza play like Mario Lemieux and Wayne Gretzky.
And the rest of the team turn into the Broad Street bullies, and pound the weak-spirited (but talented) Penguins.
If only.
I predict San Jose and Montreal in the Cup Final (also leaning towards New York Rangers and Anaheim final, but you can only make one prediction.)
I also predict that certain people from Cornwall will pick Ottawa to win the Cup no matter how many injuries they have.
Our office recently held our office pool and I chose: Brooks Laich, Wash., Ryan Carter, Ana., definitely two dark horses, together with an injured? Corey Perry.
Well, I guess if you're taking the plunge better to jump in with both feet at the same time.
I also managed to snag Joe Thornton, S.J., Brian Campbell, S.J., Milan Michalek, S.J. and Patrick Marleau, S.J. as well as Sykora and Malone from Pittsburgh and Semin and Federov from Washington -- I think they will advance to the second round, courtesy of a hot goalie, hot team and a scorching Ovechkin.
I haven't updated my blog for a while, and for that I must hang my head in shame.
There.
Shame's over.
And oh yes . . .
In case I didn't mention it,
I'm back baby.
First some predictions:
Penguins in 7 (it hurt to type that)
Rangers in 6
Capitals in 6
Habs in 6
Ducks in 5
Wild in 7
Sharks in 6
Red Wings in 5
It's painful to predict a Penguins win, especially after they tanked the last game of the season for a first round match-up with Ottawa.
Disgraceful.
But, Ottawa's captain is injured, and linch-pins Mike Fisher and Chris Kelly are both nursing wounded limbs. Pittsburgh's mental make up won't bring them the Cup, but it will allow them to win against a decimated Ottawa squad.
Unless . . . (cue Rocky music) a miracle happens and Dany Heatley and Jason Spezza play like Mario Lemieux and Wayne Gretzky.
And the rest of the team turn into the Broad Street bullies, and pound the weak-spirited (but talented) Penguins.
If only.
I predict San Jose and Montreal in the Cup Final (also leaning towards New York Rangers and Anaheim final, but you can only make one prediction.)
I also predict that certain people from Cornwall will pick Ottawa to win the Cup no matter how many injuries they have.
Our office recently held our office pool and I chose: Brooks Laich, Wash., Ryan Carter, Ana., definitely two dark horses, together with an injured? Corey Perry.
Well, I guess if you're taking the plunge better to jump in with both feet at the same time.
I also managed to snag Joe Thornton, S.J., Brian Campbell, S.J., Milan Michalek, S.J. and Patrick Marleau, S.J. as well as Sykora and Malone from Pittsburgh and Semin and Federov from Washington -- I think they will advance to the second round, courtesy of a hot goalie, hot team and a scorching Ovechkin.
I haven't updated my blog for a while, and for that I must hang my head in shame.
There.
Shame's over.
And oh yes . . .
In case I didn't mention it,
I'm back baby.
Friday, March 14, 2008
Island of sanity
No man is an island, entire of itself.
Every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main says English metaphysical poet John Donne.
"Any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind." (Meditation XVII, Devotions upon Emergent Occasions)
Donne is pushing the idea that we are all vitally interlinked, members of Planet Man (or Planet Woman) -- call it Planet People -- that the death of others diminshes our lives.
But, no man is an island?
Well, Mr. Donne, you haven't visited my office.
Some of my co-workers would definitely fit into the category of autonomous land masses, complete and entire in themselves -- i.e. they are nuts Johnny.
Completely nuts and entirely wacky unto themselves.
I offer as evidence: Don (names have been changed to protect the identies of the strange), a journalist who works at a desk near mine.
Don recently came back from a trip to Peru, but he did not return alone -- he brought along a little friend, a wooden figurine of a cat, whom he calls The Cat.
Don, who drinks copious amounts of coffee, arranges his mugs and Tim Hortons cups into towers on his desk, and places The Cat on top.
At different times of the day, Don swivels the cat on its perch and announces, "The Cat is looking at you." (Note: as I type this his cat is staring at me.)
Sometimes I swear that cat is moving closer and closer to my desk.
Exhibit B: Shirl, a newly-hired co-worker who is definitely an island unto herself.
Shirl sits quietly at her desk typing her stories every day -- you wouldn't know she was there except for the occasional crinkling sounds from her desk indicating it is time for yet another granola snack.
Shirl is a variation of what is known in Seinfeld terms as a low-talker.
The low-talker speaks at an inaudible volume -- Shirl, on the other hand, starts off a sentence at a normal volume and then trails off to a pitch only a dog could hear.
Shirl: "I have discovered the meaning of life, it's so simple . . ." VOICE TRAILS OFF.
Me: What?
Shirl: I said mumble mumble mumble.
Me: What?
Shirl: mumble mumble mumble
Exhibit C: Mack the IT guy.
Mack visits our office from time to time, occasionally accompanied by a fake parrot on his shoulder-- he fits into the Don category of co-workers.
The parrot often offers helpful advice to fix IT problems and root out computer viruses.
Finally, there is the grandaddy of oddities, Evelyn, our office's head honcho.
Evelyn encourages his workers with the stick and carrot approach.
If you write a good story, he puts a happy face sticker ont the printed-out article (you know, the kind of stickers used by your teacher in Grade 2 on spelling tests).
A bad story means a visit from Mo, his electronic chimpanzee -- Mo can be loud and abusive at times. Shirl and Rapunzel, our sales manager, have both sworn a vendetta against the manic monkey (Mo not Evelyn) from time to time.
Then again, perhaps Mr. Donne is right.
Taken as a whole, Shirl, Don and Evelyn form a pattern for my office, a pattern of interlinked occasional insanities.
Maybe there's a Shirl, a Don and an Evelyn in every office (but somehow I don't think so), and their loss would diminish our unique communities.
I like to think of myself as an Island of Sanity, a term coined by that other great metaphysical thinker, Lowell Green.
But then again, this particular Island of Sanity is surrounded by a collection of odd-looking islands.
But somehow it all works.
Every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main says English metaphysical poet John Donne.
"Any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind." (Meditation XVII, Devotions upon Emergent Occasions)
Donne is pushing the idea that we are all vitally interlinked, members of Planet Man (or Planet Woman) -- call it Planet People -- that the death of others diminshes our lives.
But, no man is an island?
Well, Mr. Donne, you haven't visited my office.
Some of my co-workers would definitely fit into the category of autonomous land masses, complete and entire in themselves -- i.e. they are nuts Johnny.
Completely nuts and entirely wacky unto themselves.
I offer as evidence: Don (names have been changed to protect the identies of the strange), a journalist who works at a desk near mine.
Don recently came back from a trip to Peru, but he did not return alone -- he brought along a little friend, a wooden figurine of a cat, whom he calls The Cat.
Don, who drinks copious amounts of coffee, arranges his mugs and Tim Hortons cups into towers on his desk, and places The Cat on top.
At different times of the day, Don swivels the cat on its perch and announces, "The Cat is looking at you." (Note: as I type this his cat is staring at me.)
Sometimes I swear that cat is moving closer and closer to my desk.
Exhibit B: Shirl, a newly-hired co-worker who is definitely an island unto herself.
Shirl sits quietly at her desk typing her stories every day -- you wouldn't know she was there except for the occasional crinkling sounds from her desk indicating it is time for yet another granola snack.
Shirl is a variation of what is known in Seinfeld terms as a low-talker.
The low-talker speaks at an inaudible volume -- Shirl, on the other hand, starts off a sentence at a normal volume and then trails off to a pitch only a dog could hear.
Shirl: "I have discovered the meaning of life, it's so simple . . ." VOICE TRAILS OFF.
Me: What?
Shirl: I said mumble mumble mumble.
Me: What?
Shirl: mumble mumble mumble
Exhibit C: Mack the IT guy.
Mack visits our office from time to time, occasionally accompanied by a fake parrot on his shoulder-- he fits into the Don category of co-workers.
The parrot often offers helpful advice to fix IT problems and root out computer viruses.
Finally, there is the grandaddy of oddities, Evelyn, our office's head honcho.
Evelyn encourages his workers with the stick and carrot approach.
If you write a good story, he puts a happy face sticker ont the printed-out article (you know, the kind of stickers used by your teacher in Grade 2 on spelling tests).
A bad story means a visit from Mo, his electronic chimpanzee -- Mo can be loud and abusive at times. Shirl and Rapunzel, our sales manager, have both sworn a vendetta against the manic monkey (Mo not Evelyn) from time to time.
Then again, perhaps Mr. Donne is right.
Taken as a whole, Shirl, Don and Evelyn form a pattern for my office, a pattern of interlinked occasional insanities.
Maybe there's a Shirl, a Don and an Evelyn in every office (but somehow I don't think so), and their loss would diminish our unique communities.
I like to think of myself as an Island of Sanity, a term coined by that other great metaphysical thinker, Lowell Green.
But then again, this particular Island of Sanity is surrounded by a collection of odd-looking islands.
But somehow it all works.
Thursday, February 21, 2008
Foot falls and hockey
I've always been curious about wait times at the Queensway Carleton Hospital.
Intrepid reporter that I am, I decided to investigate, kick loose some dirt on Ottawa's west end hospital, and in doing so get a leg up on my blog-writing competition.
But how to penetrate the veil of secrecy?
Clearly this called for an inside job.
I needed an injury, and I needed one quick.
Relying on my boss's renowned temper and his love of soccer, I insulted his favourite team in the English Premier League.
"Chelsea is a girl's name," I told him.
He looked up from the doughnut he was munching.
"What?"
"I said, 'Chelsea is a girl's name.'"
"So?"
"The Chelsea Soccer Football Club is named after a girl. Chelsea."
"OK."
Not working. Time for a new tactic.
"I like Arsenal's chances this year," I said.
One broken foot and an ambulance ride later, I was sitting in the waiting room of the Queensway Carleton, surrounded by a motley collection of men, women and children of all ages, all either groaning, or clutching various body parts or both.
Like a casting call for a circus freak movie or Night of the Living Dead part whatever.
The room was quiet except for minimal chatter and the sound of some middle age guy slurping his Tim Horton's coffee, farting and snorting. Did I mention he sat across from me.
The nursing staff at emergency were clearly overwhelmed with the Family Day traffic of sickies.
"We're way behind," said the nurse who took my health card information. "You won't see a doctor for at least another hour."
Wonderful.
One hour later, a mechanical voice read my name over the emergency room PA system.
I went to the registry station, where a nurse gave my foot a cursory examination.
"That must hurt," she said.
"Why, yes. Yes it does," I replied, with a courageous yet devil may care grin on my face.
"What happened?"
"I said Arsenal had a good shot in the playoffs this year."
"Oh. Well then."
I was sent to the cubicle section. And I waited.
The doctor looked at my foot and directed me to the X-Ray room.
Where I waited.
To make a long story short, I spent a little over four hours from start to diagnosis, in the hospital merry go round -- this isn't a shot at the staff, they did a great job processing a huge number of people with what looked like inadequate staff.
My experience was not unusual one member of the hospital staff told me -- wait times at emergency are usually long.
Hockey talk:
Intriguing possible trade:
Emery for Khabibulin
#2 pick (2008 draft), Zubov, Meszaros for Foote and Peca
What about a package deal with Chicago that brought both Khabibulin and Havlat.
Bryan Murray and John Paddock have both said all season long that the Sens need to get bigger, a little more bangers to go with the mash, hopefully a power forward and some players with Stanley Cup experience.
Murray has also said that he's not looking at upgrading his goaltending.
But goaltending wins Cups -- and right now Emery and Gerber don't fit the bill.
Is Mr. Bulin the answer?
Hossa would be a nice addition, but I don't believe Ottawa can afford the price.
The Sens need to upgrade on size and grit if they want to compete with Anaheim, who will likely emerge from the west conference, in the Stanley Cup playoffs.
Power forward, reliable goaltender, help on defence and two balanced scoring lines could equal a visit from Lord Stanley.
Intrepid reporter that I am, I decided to investigate, kick loose some dirt on Ottawa's west end hospital, and in doing so get a leg up on my blog-writing competition.
But how to penetrate the veil of secrecy?
Clearly this called for an inside job.
I needed an injury, and I needed one quick.
Relying on my boss's renowned temper and his love of soccer, I insulted his favourite team in the English Premier League.
"Chelsea is a girl's name," I told him.
He looked up from the doughnut he was munching.
"What?"
"I said, 'Chelsea is a girl's name.'"
"So?"
"The Chelsea Soccer Football Club is named after a girl. Chelsea."
"OK."
Not working. Time for a new tactic.
"I like Arsenal's chances this year," I said.
One broken foot and an ambulance ride later, I was sitting in the waiting room of the Queensway Carleton, surrounded by a motley collection of men, women and children of all ages, all either groaning, or clutching various body parts or both.
Like a casting call for a circus freak movie or Night of the Living Dead part whatever.
The room was quiet except for minimal chatter and the sound of some middle age guy slurping his Tim Horton's coffee, farting and snorting. Did I mention he sat across from me.
The nursing staff at emergency were clearly overwhelmed with the Family Day traffic of sickies.
"We're way behind," said the nurse who took my health card information. "You won't see a doctor for at least another hour."
Wonderful.
One hour later, a mechanical voice read my name over the emergency room PA system.
I went to the registry station, where a nurse gave my foot a cursory examination.
"That must hurt," she said.
"Why, yes. Yes it does," I replied, with a courageous yet devil may care grin on my face.
"What happened?"
"I said Arsenal had a good shot in the playoffs this year."
"Oh. Well then."
I was sent to the cubicle section. And I waited.
The doctor looked at my foot and directed me to the X-Ray room.
Where I waited.
To make a long story short, I spent a little over four hours from start to diagnosis, in the hospital merry go round -- this isn't a shot at the staff, they did a great job processing a huge number of people with what looked like inadequate staff.
My experience was not unusual one member of the hospital staff told me -- wait times at emergency are usually long.
Hockey talk:
Intriguing possible trade:
Emery for Khabibulin
#2 pick (2008 draft), Zubov, Meszaros for Foote and Peca
What about a package deal with Chicago that brought both Khabibulin and Havlat.
Bryan Murray and John Paddock have both said all season long that the Sens need to get bigger, a little more bangers to go with the mash, hopefully a power forward and some players with Stanley Cup experience.
Murray has also said that he's not looking at upgrading his goaltending.
But goaltending wins Cups -- and right now Emery and Gerber don't fit the bill.
Is Mr. Bulin the answer?
Hossa would be a nice addition, but I don't believe Ottawa can afford the price.
The Sens need to upgrade on size and grit if they want to compete with Anaheim, who will likely emerge from the west conference, in the Stanley Cup playoffs.
Power forward, reliable goaltender, help on defence and two balanced scoring lines could equal a visit from Lord Stanley.
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