asimplefellow

I have a confession to make.

I did nothing today.

Well that is not quite true. I did do some things. I showered. I emptied the dishwasher. I ate. I watched TV. I actually went outside and turned on the water sprinkler.

But did I meet the Facebook criteria of doing something? Did I build a deck, or bake a cake or wash my car? Nope, nope, and nope. So technically, I did nothing because I have nothing to brag about.

Maybe that should be something to brag about.

But it was not easy.  The idleness came with a price tag. A nice dose of self-shame. Crazy! Why do I feel guilty about doing nothing? Why do I feel I need to busy – like the ant instead of the grasshopper? Does busy ever end?  I mean, there is always the sense of satisfaction in doing things, but it is never like I get any closer to getting everything done.  Every time I finish something, there is always another thing surfacing…it is like the Three-Headed Hydra:  my list gets longer as each completed task seems to spawn two more!

And I tell you, being busy takes effort. There is always something to fill the time –  something to tighten  because it’s loose, to glue because its broken, clean because it is dirty, polish because its dull, cut because its long, empty because its full, fill because it’s empty…the list can go on forever and ever.

All of us that have come out of the long winter hibernation know that the brief period between “snow thaw” and “mosquito season gets busy.  (I think it is called spring – a time where Canadians don shorts and flip-flops at a balmy 6*C.)  You know the to-do list…thatching and weeding and fertilising and planting and mowing and gutter-cleaning, organising, vetting, discarding, washing, cleaning, assembling etcetera. And no one wants to be the home-owner who brings down the neighbourhood property values with the huge dandelion farm, or the lawn that looks like a grade school baseball diamond.   So I will admit that there has been a tiny degree of panic and stress because I needed to get a few things done or yard will continue to look trashy, the garage will stay chaotic, or the summer clothes reamin buried under boxes and boxes. There is so  much that should be, or really “could be”, done.

But let’s park the whole spring-thing aside. The spring clean and renewal will happen eventually – hopefully before Labour Day…

I have to ask, “Why is ‘being busy’ my default setting?”  Why am I embarrassed to do absolutely nothing productive? And when did I forget how to relax idly? Even calming things, like running or biking, seem to have become agenda items.  Why do I plan my “down time” and not just let whatever is going to happen, just happen?  And it seems like I am not alone – check out all the Facebook statuses – full of accomplishments and activities and running around and getting things done.  Rarely do I see the status, “I did sweet FA this weekend, and I am good with that!”

I remember being a kid, bouncing from activity to activity carelessly.  One minute it was staring at the clouds, the next examining the anthill, then a game of hide-and-go-seek, then my paper route, then a game of street hockey or soccer or touch football,  and then homework and a bit of TV, and then bed, all the while looking forward to the next day full of who-knew-what!

And today, things have changed now that I am almost half a century old (ouch!). Let me think about it…oh yeah, responsibility, reliability, dependability, accountability.  All those translating to timings and deadlines and tasks and task reminders and “to do” lists. It means not letting down the side and not being the point of failure, the choke point. or the weakest link. It means checking and rechecking and confirming and rescheduling and prioritising and eventually, completing.

And what if it that has been a part of your life for 30-odd years? What if paying attention to detail and ensuring the equipment is ready for its next use, that the car is full of fuel before the big trip, or the clothes are laid out the night before to save time, is part of your being?  What if your whole life has been an exercise in finding time and maximising concurrent activity and minimising effort expended?

I guess it means that it is hard to relax.

Not impossible, but hard. It takes a few days to get into vacation mode.  It means accepting that things might not get done.  That the lawn will be weedy for one more week and that I will have to dig through the Rubbermaid totes in the garage for my favourite pair of cargo shorts.

So today, I took my first step at doing nothing. I was able to sit around and take control of the big screen and eat leftovers and basically chill. It was great. It wasn’t completely blissful – I did have the inevitable pangs of guilt: yes, I thought about the lawn (rationalising that the seeding I did last week was too fragile to be mowed); I shuddered at the winter disorganisation as I tossed the empty pop cans into the garage recycling bins. But I fought through the shame and managed to find my way back to the man-cave and Lucky Slevin. I made my peace…

And to quote the sage Dr Seuss, once you make that peace, “Oh, the places you’ll go! There is fun to be done!” So let the fun begin.

And as for those other things, I’ll get them done later.  When there is nothing good on TV, or the internet ends.  

Later,

ASF

Hello!  It has been a long while since I have written. Life got busy. New responsibilities at work, great summer-like weather, the National Hockey league Playoffs (Go Leafs!). If you have survived the bleak Canadian winter, you get it.  Sitting in front of a computer has not been priority number one (unless it was Facebook or Twitter or StumbleUpon!)

And now it is mid-May.  Green grass springing, flowers blooming, leaves budding. And with May comes  Mothers’ Day.

Yes, it’s Mother’s Day – North American style! Not the soft namby-pamby Mothering Sunday they celebrate in the land of tea and crumpets and binge drinking.  Here, in the civilised world of 110v-60Hz it is all about cards and flowers and brunches and stuff.  Gifts and poems and offerings. A sort of husband &child  “confession”- cum- “recanting” for a year’s worth of taking Mom for granted.

Meet Jane Jetson…

Sunday will see Moms of all sizes and shapes and colours and creeds being celebrated by their progeny and

C’mon get happy!

significant others.  Moms like Jane Jetson or Betty Rubble or Wilma Flintstone; or Morticia Adams and Lily Munster; or like June Cleaver, or Claire Huxtable; or Carol Brady and Shirley Patridge, Peg Bundy or Roseanne Connor. All types of examples and stereotypes of Moms out there.

And then there is my most favourite mom of all – my Mom!  Now I know that almost everyone will say that their Mom is the best. And they are probably right…but since it is my blog and my story – mine wins!

My mom, born in India, emigrated to England as a teen in the 50s.  Laughing in her cute mom-type giggles, she has told us stories of her first winter in London and her first snowfall – running around outside with a box to catch the “sugar” that was falling from the sky. She was a grocery

1960s…before motherhood!

clerk in the family business and I think I used to watch her work – counting out shillings and bobs and half-guineas as she easily made change for the crazy 240 pence Pound Sterling. She married my Father at a young age in 1963 – in one of those arranged marriages that we all think are medieval because they never work and restrict freedom of choice.  Foolish us!  Mom and Dad have been married for 50 years…I didn’t even make it to half that.

I remember leaving the UK when I was little. My mother got all of us dressed in our best – suits, overcoats, dresses – all 1971 chic, as she bundled a 6 year-old, a 4 year-old and 3 year-old into an airplane for the Trans-Atlantic trip to join my father in Toronto. She left everything that made her feel safe – her friends, her town, her home, and her family – to make a new life in a place she only knew through postcards. Though I am sure she dreaded it, she shared the same adventure and optimism that generations and generations of immigrants showed as they left their homes to make a go of it in Canada.  This could only be good for her family.

Moving to Canada was not all easy …occasionally she tells us about moving into our downtown Toronto duplex at Coxwell and Danforth.  A

The Mann tradition of the Birthday Hat…2011

house that did not have a stick of furniture, save a few stacking stools and an old coffee table, and then the very next day promptly walking several kilometers to buy  dishes and cutlery at Kresge’s.  And then she marched Dad to Eaton’s Downtown to buy beds and a couch. You see,  Dad had been a bachelor for almost 3 years – all he needed was a can of soup, a can opener, a saucepan and a spoon. If you are a guy, you know what I mean – who needs a plate or a table when you have a kitchen sink?  Eventually we splurged and bought a 13” black & white TV and some chairs – followed by drapes and a kitchen table and a few pictures. She took that bachelor pad and made it into a family home.

And when money was tight, she joined the work force. I remember her first job at Kensington Market. She worked as a clerk in a butcher shop…I call it her “chicken plucking days”. Mom never plucked a chicken but she giggles along with our inside joke. Every time we would come to collect her, she always brought us a little treat from the House of 1000 Cheeses – our favorite place to look at wheels of  Wensleydale and Stilton and Gruyère , all the while giggling while we held our noses.

With some gentle nudging from my Dad, she eventually finished her GED, graduating from High School, while she worked and took care of the kids. And then she applied at Sears to be a data processor for their catalogue department – a job she was woefully under qualified for – but won anyway. For the next 15 years, she did that job, eventually ending a 35 year career with Sears as an assistant buyer for the Bed and Bath Department.

Man, did she sacrifice a lot in that first Sears job!  Because we were young and she had a house to manage, she worked nights for a decade and half with a punishing schedule…she would come home from work at 7 am, make our breakfast and send us off to school, then sleep for 3 hours until noon. The she made our tomato soup and cheese sandwiches and hot chai, while we watched the Flintstones before heading back to school. Her afternoons were full of housekeeping and ironing and laundry and cooking dinner and watching Another World – the trials and tribulation of Rachel and Mack Corrie – until we came home from school. And then after supper, she would catch a 3 hour nap before heading to work at 1030 pm. Only six hours of broken sleep a day, five days a week, 52 weeks a year, for 15 years.  I think I am tough, but she was tougher!

And the Mom stories from our youth…

Like our very first Christmas tree – which we cut down ourselves.  Mom, like us, thought we were simply going to a local lot to pick one up. Nope.  Dad figured out after  few stops that going to a Tree farm could save a few bucks! So Mom trudged uncomplainingly for a kilometer or so, through two feet of snow – in her pumps –  because she knew it was important to us. By the way, it was a great Christmas Tree.

I remember back in April 1972, when Mom dropped me off at High Park to do the “Walk for the Animals” walkathon in support of the planned Metro Toronto Zoo. Suddenly it dawned on her that I would be all alone on the walk as we could not find any of my friends. So as we pondered what to do, and as she looked at my eager face, she decided to join me on the 13 mile trek though totally unprepared. And I remember stopping at a Chinese grocery after a few kilometres, so Mom could buy a pair of flip-flops because her strappy shoes were giving her blisters.  That was one of my best days with Mom ever.

And I remember Mom the Adventurer, tumbling down an embankment at Niagara Falls and badly spraining her ankle – again because we had to park in the free spaces instead of paying to park for a spot closer to the Falls.  I am sure she suffered all day – through the Falls, and the Maid of the Mist, and the Marine Land & Game Farm – because she did not want to ruin our fun. When we returned to Toronto 12 hours later, she went to Emergency and got it x-rayed.  She hobbled for a few weeks after that

I also remember the time she couldn’t find the second package of discounted Scheider’s sandwich meat after one of our weekly treks to Knob Hill Farms. Dismayed that maybe we had lost it, she ventured out on our icy and rickety back porch on the way to check the trunk of our red 1972 Ford Maverick Coupe. Unfortunately she slipped on the icy steps – perhaps due to my poor shovelling skills –  I recall her casual calls for Dad’ s help – all the while her flashlight shooting up into the snowy night sky like a searchlight at a Hollywood opening.  Happily, upon finding that $1.99 package of lunchtime joy, she was fine.

I have remembered Mothers’ Day on occasion…

All the things she did for us. She fed us, bathed us, clothed us. She tucked us in, she comforted us and she occasionally scolded us. And mostly I remember how she played with us. Mom was  sporty – playing soccer or tag or baseball or spud, or king’s corner.  And her competitive streak at Monopoly or Life or Carom Board was scary! It was all fantastic.

Whatever she did, Mom found  gave it her all. And I remembered how much she cared…and the sadness I felt as I walked up the aircraft stairs as I made my first foray away from home in 1983 to join the Army. I remember how we were all so brave…her to let me go, and me to go away. 30 years later, I know that I am still her child – and I will be forever, no matter how old I get.

And it is only when I was older, dealing with two growing kids, that I realised how much effort it takes to give the support she has always given me, and the sacrifices she made to take care of her family. Even as I went through many  challenges and issues – as a kid and as a grown-up –  she has been someone to lean on. Knowing, to quote The Gambler, “… when to hold’em and when to fold’em.”  Mom has always been there, and I know that she will continue to be there.

Three Generations…2010 (just missing my Sister 😦 )

I love my Mom. She makes me happy and she makes me feel safe. And it is ludicrous to think that I can repay all she has done for me in one day. But, I will try to do that. And I will try to be as good a person and she is – which will be difficult. After all, she is a mother – they are all just so good at it!

To my Mom – and all the moms out there…Happy Mothers’ Day. You all rock!

Later,

ASF

Gadzooks…are they back for real?

Forgive me as I meander…I’ll get there in the end.  Enjoy the ride.

I am a man. Therefore, I do not like shopping.  Simply put, I shop like a man. I want, I research, I go, I buy, I leave, I enjoy.  The joy is in the capture and use, not the hunt. So, like many of my ilk, shopping is not a major pre-occupation.

But, while I may not wish to shop – occasionally I don’t mind gawking.

Just recently, I had a great weekend in Toronto and – as everyone knows – Toronto is the hub of the Canadian Universe; good ol’ Tee-Oh feels as if it is closer to New York and Paris than Winnipeg or Saskatoon.  As a result, the shops are usually full of the latest and greatest wares.  So it was with this in mind that I walked through the Eaton Centre and down Queen St West, fully bedazzled by what the New Fashionistas think is à la mode and hip.

I’ll get back to that in a moment…

Now I have already blogged about my unfortunate fashions worn on the merciless runways of the downtown Toronto public school…plaid “floods” and buttoned up shirts covered by a sweater vest. That was the height of Honest Ed’s haute couture.  But as time marched on, and I wrested control of my fashion dollar from my parents, all my hard earned cash was spent on Adidas sweatshirts and Levis – the staples of my wardrobe until I joined the Army.

Bargains for the fashionable!

But upon entering the Service, the culture and tradition of the pre-millenium Army laid waste to my faithful dungaree (cue Last Post now…).  In the eyes and esprit of the The Old Guard, any denim – Levis, Lee or Wrangler – was the Devil’s Cloth. Upstanding young men with good morals and high standing did not wear denim unless they wished to bring down the Institution like a house of cards.  And so, my faithful Strauss’s went into Rubbermaid hibernation. Dockers – pleated of course –  became my new fashion staple and they went well with the dependable, safe and ultra-conservative golf shirt. (Interestingly, Dockers were our small scale rebellion against The Man, as they were still made by Levis Strauss and Co.)  My sartorial efforts all aligned with Officer Mess chic.  Khaki plants and chambray blue was the after-hours “uniform”…forget those heretical pinks and oranges…they were much too flashy for the staid and stuffy Mess!

And as the months and years went on,  I watched the fashion world morph and shift. But as the world outside the gates of the Army Base evolved, the military suffered fashion inertia due to the slow-paced materiel acquisition process. So in the 1980s, during the height of the Payolas and the Talking Heads and Adam Ant, we “poor” Army blokes wore ties that had the girth of aircraft carriers, while our contemporaries wore skinny leather ties with piano keys on them. During Post-rugby match beer ups, we sported bell-bottom grey flannel trousers with crested blue blazers while the opposing XV donned fashionable pleated pants or “Hammertimes” with Club Monaco sweatshirts!  Big glasses were vogue and shoulder pads were in. The other team all looked like they came out of Miami Vice; we looked like short-haired Donny Osmonds in a suit.

And predictably, not much changed in the 90s. The majority of Teenage Spirit wore Cobain-esque greasy bangs and red & black plaid flannel shirts – acting all tragically hip; it was a time when torn jeans and high top runners ruled. And still we, the “Boys from the Institute”, went about in our Officer Mess Casual Dress, unencumbered by the ritual of shopping for clothes – unencumbered by the fashion police…avoiding the rat race of keeping up with GQ and Esquire. It was quite liberating, actually. The Service gave us an excuse to be fashion-imbeciles!

But times changed.  The Army eventualluy got hip! We even received skinny ties and straight-legged trousers with pleats.  Unfortunately though, this was in the  2000s and everyone had reverted back to wide ties and flares!

As for me…in the intervening years, I developed made my own style, favoring denim and french cuffs and the occasionally daring flash of lavender or pink in my socks or trousers or pocket square.  I am not a fashion maven, but I suppose I have taken what I believe is a little 60s and 70s and 90s (but definitley not much 80s).

I have come to the conclusion that there is only a limited range of styles that the stylists recycle …just like the rash of movie remakes of our 70s and 80s favorites.  Creativity is limited and so things just come back over and over…

Some is good…for example I was too young for the first Mini-skirt invasion…I was only 5.  But I did enjoy its renaissance when I was older.  And I think that some of the 60s and 70s resurgence, the Mad Men suits, the tie-dye, the Adidas Gazelles, the broad tie, and Ray Ban Aviators are all pretty happeningl, too.  It was a return to a retro-cool time: Sean Connery as 007, martinis, cuff links, pocket squares and handkerchiefs…

And I wish it would stay like that  – cool.  And this is where I revert back to the subject line – sadly it hasn’t stayed cool. Some is bad…

Just this past weekend, while window shopping in the Centre of the Universe, I noticed that I was becoming slightly perplexed and anxious. There were shoulder pads and off the shoulder  t-shirts that sported slognas that were the 2013 incarnation of  “Frankie says…”. The predomonant colour is now NEON – green and orange and yellow – shaded and hues that looked more at home on a highway construction site than a storefront. And dotted amongst them there were all sorts of pastels and patterns and canvas shoes and cotton blazers…

The 80s are back…and it won’t be long until headbands are back and leg warmers cover Lululemon gear.   Soon modern-day Olivia Newton Johns or Madonnas or Don Johnsons will be parading through the streets reminding us of all those things that were not so cool…Cliff Huxtable sweaters, acid- or stone-washed jeans, mullets, fingerless gloves, stirrup pants and eyeglasses that covered your whole face…Yikes.

I am a tad afraid of what the Voguists will reintroduce next…and I am more than a little dismayed that the fashion graveyard lasts for only 30 years.  Thankfully the Army did not allowed me to go all Flock of Seagulls the first time around. And happily, I am far too old and un-hip to be expected to do it this time around (though the Hammertime pants would be handy at the all-you-can-eat Chinese buffet).

Optimistically, once we make it through this New Wave, I will be 80+ years old the next time the 1980s fashion rolls around. I think I’ll be safe then too, unless they come up with something pastel and funky in incontinence pants…

Gag me with a spoon,

Later,

ASF

Copyright Paul Laud

In the wake of the Steubenville rape case, all I can say is that the whole episode makes me angry, and sad.

I often marvel at how the United States idolises its athletes -at all levels: professional, semi-professional, university, high school, junior high….

I am amazed that High School football or basketball or baseball, à la Friday Night Lights, can draw crowds of tens of thousands of screaming fans who will push and glamorize high school jocks. These teams, and their players, will directly affect the pride and honour felt by their home town. Their success becomes a local status symbol – perhaps compensating for the sad little Rust Belt existence.

The athletes are big fish in small ponds, enjoying majestic privilege; they seem to operate above the law.

Big fish that seem to forget the basic tenets of human decency.

I am outraged that these young MEN did not realise that what they did was wrong. I am even more outraged that no one who participated, witnessed, discovered or heard about the event did anything to deal with it. I am absolutely disgusted that those in power might have even covered it up. That they threw up weak smoke screens to blame the victim, to mitigate the actions, or to excuse the guilty.

When did jocks and those who coach and manage them so completely, rule everything so completely?

And how, in the name of all things decent, did they ever believe that a fellow human being could be violated and degraded so completely? It isThe Accused all over again. It is Sandusky and Penn State all over again.

How could such a mentality take seed, and grow? Excuse my language, but, how could anyone – the two people, their team mates, the football team, their parents, their mentors, their coaches, their school, their friends, their supporters – fuck this up so badly? It is cowardly and misaligned.

Thousands of fans cheering for small town athletes – jocks who will likely spend the rest of their lives trying to recapture their four years of glory – are to blame. The cheering throngs only elevate these young men to mythical proportions.

And it is wrong. They are not gods; they are poorly formed shells of men.

And those who are responsible for the education and formation of these young men must remind them always that they are humans. And as humans, they must be taught that nothing is more important than human decency. Not even football.

Steubenville seems to have forgotten that.

For more on the topic and human decency, have a look at the following blog from The Belle Jar:

I Am Not Your Wife, Sister or Daughter. I Am A Person. | The Belle Jar.

Rage Against the Minivan: Let’s bring the holidays down a notch.

I agree! But then I can be a bit of a holiday curmudgeon…

Need more bubble wrap….

I recently read an article in the Globe and Mail by Stephen Quinn.

http://www.theglobeandmail.com/news/british-columbia/kids-navigating-vancouver-need-to-know-who-the-bogeyman-is-these-days/article9563550/

In his blog, he recounts the adventures of his two lads as they try to make their way home via public transport from downtown Vancouver – with minimal help from  dad. The short piece has its funny bits – sometimes  “funny ha-ha”, but sometimes more  “funny-peculiar” –  like how the two boys were slightly perplexed and seemingly naïve to the perils around them. Well according to the author anyway; his lads seemed confused about the perils as assessed by a worldly man standing 5’11” . The world is probably a lot rosier when you are well protected boys standing only 4 foot plus…

The article took me back in time. No worries, I never  “abandoned” my kids downtown with only bus fare, phone money and a Hot Rod pepperoni stick each. But rather, I remember being a kid in Toronto at a time when parental overwatch was minimal.

Oh the things we did! Before grade six, I remember walking to soccer tournaments during the summer holidays, leaving the house at 7.30 am, walking what seemed a hundred miles to Riverdale Park at Broadview. Funnily enough, I “Google-Mapped” it a little while ago (I think that is a verb); surprisingly, it was really a simple walk through the side streets of the Danforth, across Greenwood then Pape and finally to Broadview – but each walk had Stand By Me proportions. A simpler time, each day Mom would pack me a ham sandwich, an apple and a can of RC cola – and if I was really lucky, a two-pack of Dad’s Brand oatmeal cookies.  That and a hug on the way out the door was all the motherly attention I needed. Heaven!  And at Riverdale Park,  I played soccer all day – no worries of sunscreen, no bottles of water, no sun hat – and ran around crazily all day. I would get home about 10 hours later – dirty, banged up and really happy –  just in time to hear my Dad’s favorite greeting as he walked in the door from work, “…’Jinder, what’s for eating?”

Streetcars on Queen Street c 1970

Downtown Toronto 1975…I have no clue who is in the middle of the road….

I also remember as the oldest child of three – and at the ripe old age of 12 years – leading my brother and sister (aged 10 and 8), right into the heart of Gotham, to Dundas and Yonge. We would see Black Beauty or the Shaggy D.A. or Star Wars at the Old Imperial Six theatre. It was great! And how many times did we jump on the subway or the bus or the streetcar to head to Ontario Place or the Ex’, or Maple Leaf

The Imperial Six….

Gardens or the Royal Ontario Museum, or the Planetarium, or the Science Centre (which even today is not a TTC-friendly destination…)? A kids’ adventure…

And where were my parents during all this?  At home or at work – who knows?  I didn’t care; I had a dime for a phone call – there were lots of phone booths around.  Who needed a smart phone or a GPS or a child tracker? Not us…

I remember those days – we all reminisce about sitting untethered in the back of the station wagon, people smoking everywhere, when biking or skating without a helmet was okay. Parenting today is so different; so many things that we do and things that we buy to keep them safe. Comparatively, we lived a relative Darwinian existence.

Make sure they’re safe and sound…. http://webecoist.momtastic.com/2012/08/14/8-over-the-top-products-for-overprotective-parents/

I remember being doing things on my own: buying stuff, and making change and generally being aware of things when they just did not feel right. I remember looking both ways and crossing with the green, and reading a map and asking for directions from complete strangers. I never felt threatened nor scared.

But I can’t ever remember letting my kids do that. Why not? Is it because I felt that the world was not a safe place, that the risks were too high? Probably.  And by not letting them, did I do really do them a favour?

Everyone knows that parenting has changed. Even the big corporations. I mean, look at the Chevy car ad…the parents fawning  over their poor lad Tonito!  Okay, what is that all about? That kid is gonna be scarred and look to Mommy and Daddy for everything. He will never learn the life lesson of forgetting your indoor shoes in the winter, or why idiot strings on mittens aren’t such a bad idea or the thrill of swimming to the far side of the pool without water wings and with that slightly terrifying panic of “I’m gonna drown…” – of realising that yes, yes he can do it on his own without mom or dad holding him up – or back.

Tonito, the Forever Scarred… See the vid at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-IZDzlZXNG4

So why are we so different from our parents? I know – the world has changed… rapists and molesters, murderers and abusers, drug pushers and pimps and slave traders all abound in droves now. But sadly, statistically speaking – and counter intuitively – our kids are probably in more peril being with those in positions of trust than with complete strangers. But still,  I had the same fears as all parents, and I had to fight the urge to be over-protective. Hopefully I kept it in check to some degree – the scar on my daughter’s forehead is testimony to that.

But I am sure that, like all of my generation, I have imparted some of my anxieties and tics to my children. It’ll be interesting to see what their parenting style is like!

I think about what my parents did, or really, didn’t do. They never drove me anywhere unless they were going there too – I walked, rode my bike or took public transit. They rarely gave me money – I delivered papers, had summer jobs or did chores for money.  Don’t get me wrong.  I never wanted for anything. I had clean clothes (not necessarily the most fashionable). I had good food…though it took me until my 20s to realise that curry was something special. I had birthdays and presents and video games – Pong and Intellivision –  and the ever-present music.

But somewhere between my growing up and becoming a parent, I began to think that was not enough for my kids. I did not want my children to want for anything, or to get hurt or to be sad or tired or hungry or anxious. But in retrospect, I could have done better.  I now believe that independence and challenges are the very best teachers; a fishing pole instead of a fish.   As I look around, I am not sure that coddling or bubble-wrapping kids is working. Failure and rejection and disapproval are pretty good teachers, too.

I am who I am because Mom and Dad let me explore and experience and take risks and the occasional scolding.

Yes, my kids are confident and happy (I think). And they are independent: one living on her own and having spent a good chunk of last summer backpacking through Europe with friends, and the other just about to head off to residence and uni. Not bad, and even though they still do love Dad’s taxi and the occasional help from  Dad’s bank account, who wouldn’t!

But, thinking back, I wish I had released the reins a bit more. Think of all the other places they could have gone and the adventures they could have had.  And you know what, I am sure that if you giv’em a little age appropriate latitude as they grow, they will probably find out where the real bogeymen are all by themselves…

Later,

ASF

It has taken me a bit to think about the recent kafuffle over the Sportscentre show on TSN last Tuesday (19 February 2013) (thanks for the edit AP).  If you aren’t aware, the show was hosted by Gurdeep Ahluwalia and Nabil Karim. A couple of homeys from Toronto.

Now in the ethnic mosaic that is Toronto, running into people named Gurdeep or Sanjay, or Xul Li, or Dieter or Jorge or Ahmad or Olympia or Ndongo or any number of fantastic names found across the globe, is pretty high. It is the beauty of our country, the mosaic versus the melting pot.

Two Canadian of Indo-ancestry hosting our national sports desk…we have made the big time. I hope it will soon become a non-issue like two women hosting the show, or a Canadian of Chinese ancestry as the news anchor on the National…can’t wait for other “firsts” to become non-issues too! There were a lot of positive comments about the “breaking story”, but…

You would think that after over a century and a half of immigration, we would come to realise that our diversity makes us strong and makes us better.  Well, you’d hope.  And most of us do. But evidently not. Take a peek…

Reading those tweets, I had a throwback to my youth, growing up around Danforth and Greenwood Avenues in Toronto in the early 70s.  At that time the “Asian Wave” was hitting Toronto. (Mind you the first “Asian wave” hit British Columbia in the 19^th century during the Canadian National railway construction – flow interrupted by the Continuous Journey Regulation of 1908 that effectively managed any immigration from China, Japan and India until officially struck from the books in 1947!)

When I was young, the tormentors were the more established Greek and Italian kids, whose families had arrived a decade or two earlier. Historically I guess they had their initiation back then too, probably at the hands of the Scots, the Irish and the English!

Looking back, the taunts and events were comical in some regards. I remember one of my many fights involving a remarkably dense duo of eleven year-olds (I was 10), spray-painting a wall in the alley way we called Craven Avenue. Their message, a deeply imaginative “Packie Go Home!”.  I, a stereotypical Indian kid – good at spelling and math – could not take the insult and stupidity in silence. Indignantly I thought, at least if you are going to insult us, get it right…it’s P-A-K-I as in Pakistan.  Not P-A-C-K-I-E for packing something!! (BTW wiktionary defines  “packie” as a package store in Massachusetts) .  I proceeded to correct their spelling in a rather

at least they spelled it right…

excited and agitated way, following with my own taunt of,  “What, are you ignorant or somethin’?”  I think the question was rhetorical, but I didn’t really know what that meant in Grade 4. Anyway, the beating ensued, and I wish I could say I won – but I didn’t. I was just a nerdy Indian kid who went home crying and bleeding.  No worries, it wasn’t something a samosa and a glass of chai while watching an episode of Batman couldn’t fix!

Why were they like that? I remember my Dad teaching us to show respect to everyone. Colour, shape, abilities or disabilities meant nothing – we are all human and deserve common respect. I also remember my Dad telling me to turn the other cheek – not a bad use of a Christian adage by a Sikh chappie. But I also remember my Dad, as a young father – younger than I am now – chasing some asshole teenagers who had insulted his family in the park with racial taunts. I can only imagine how unfair he felt it was. He was just a fellow looking to set up a better life, in a better place, for his family. What did colour have to do with it?  He was working hard, he contributed to society, he paid taxes, he liked hockey and maple syrup; he wore a toque and shovelled the snow from his driveway like all other Canadians. He drank Red Cap and Black Label. Why was he any less of a Canadian, with any less of a right to be there, simply because he had more melanin or came from another culture?

Why don’t they just fit in and adapt to our culture?

Holy shit are you kidding me?  How much more can Gurdeep and Nabil fit in than hosting Sportscentre and talking about jams and flushes and biscuits and all that other jargon the sports guys throw about.

Now I can be a joker at times and I like to crack what I think are the occasional witticisms.And yes,  I have from time to time made an off-colour joke that has gone deep into “non-politically correct” territory – always followed by an immediate apology. So I get it  – once in a while we get it wrong. And no matter how educated and enlightened we are, we always have baggage. Maybe we are intolerant of the ridiculously liberal, the hard right, the deeply religious, the creationist, the evolutionists, the gun lobby, the oil people, the granolas…or whatever cause or ideology that causes us angst.  And I am sure we have had a not so kind thought to ourselves – but I am sure that we had our say using our “inner voice” only.

But I can’t understand these guys – the 2013 equivalent of my Grade 4 spray-painting buddies. What were they you thinking?   Twitter?  Yeah, that won’t go viral. And once you have put yourself out there, I don’t care what you say or what you think – you are forever known as The Racist.  Apologise if you want – you ain’t getting that spray paint off the wall.

So, whether it was a joke or not, the words were tweeted; the sentiment was expressed for millions to see. Their close-mindedness about what makes a Canadian, and what being a Canadian is all about, was evidently clear. These will be the same kind of guys who complain that the immigrants are stealing their jobs, the janitorial ones or taxi ones or fast food – you know, the ones that they are just lining up to apply for (not) – or that the immigrants smell like ethnic food…I have heard it all  before.

“Why don’t they just go home?”…followed by “just kidding”.

I am hoping that we have moved on from 1970s Toronto. But you know what, in the end it doesn’t matter. Because, when all is said and done, the immigrants will suck it up and carry on. They have done it for a century or a half,  whether they were British or French or ex-Black Slaves or Ukrainians or Slavs or Scandinavians or Australians or Asians or Arabs or Africans or South Americans or Central Americans…and on and on and on.

And perhaps they will, like I did, enjoy a wry bit of irony later. My Dad told me he ran into one of my childhood tormentors a couple of years ago – life as a late night parking attendant was suiting him fine. Maybe he should have learned how to spell…

Later,

ASF

I agree…I am happy upright. Share the pain…

Reclining airplane seats are a terrible idea and should be banned. – Slate Magazine.

The not so Triumphant…

Unless you live in a Buddhist monastery, you probably couldn’t help seeing or hearing about the Cruise Ship TRIUMPH, and its slow limp back into harbour – a 2013 SS Minnow on a three-hour tour. The ship left port on 7 February – for what was supposed to be a four-day trip. And then the trip evidently turned to shit…

The ship lost all power after a generator fire wiped out its electrical system leaving it powerless. And though I still don’t understand how the toilets were affected by the electrical system (unless it has to do with water pressure) the ship became a cess pool.

That does bite. I understand that it would be most, most unpleasant. But I hardly think it is the end of the world.  I mean, add a couple thousand watts of hard rock and a few pyrotechnics and it would be an outdoor concert in any field. Heck, about 44 years ago kids would have slid on their bellies in the stuff.

I admit that I would be torqued if I had dropped a couple of grand on the Turd Boat…and that I had to camp out on the Poop Deck. I might look for a return on investment – like my money back, some compensation and a deal on the next cruise. Oh, wait.  That is what Carnival is offering. However, in the typical “sue-and-I can get-rich for-no-effort-whatsoever” reality that is the American Dream, the lawsuits are starting:

Cassie Terry, 25, of Brazoria County, Texas, filed a lawsuit today [15 February] in Miami federal court, calling the disabled Triumph cruise ship “a floating hell.” “Plaintiff was forced to endure unbearable and horrendous odors on the filthy and disabled vessel, and wade through human feces in order to reach food lines where the wait was counted in hours, only to receive rations of spoiled food,” according to the lawsuit… “Plaintiff was forced to subsist for days in a floating toilet, a floating Petri dish, a floating hell.” (http://abcnews.go.com/Travel/carnival-cruise-ship-hit-lawsuit-floating-hell/story?id=18509079)

Give me a break.

Disconcerting? Revolting? Traumatic? Sure. Life threatening? Seriously…

The  angst has been unreal; the words that were thrown about did a disservice to those across the globe who are really suffering. Ask the poor souls who are trying to survive in Syria, Darfur, Sudan, Ethiopia, Yemen or Baluchistan for their thoughts on lining up two hours for food.  I wonder if they are considering lawsuits against their parents, or governments, or the arms industry. Too bad Jim “The Hammer” Shapiro wasn’t practicing law in the Third World – he’d get them a settlement.

Dadaab Refugee Camp Kenya

How did this small problem – compared to the countless of real tragedies involving hundreds and thousand of people – gain such prominence?

Simply.  The media did it.

The national media, from the good old CBC to CNN covered “the Disaster” – the ill-fated voyage of the QE Poo. CNN even devoted hours to it.  Especially near the end. Photogenic anchors with no journalist skill kept asking stupid and leading questions in the hunt for a story – disgruntled people to spew venom about the trip. All it got were gentle kudos from its interviewees about the crew and how hard they tried their best to keep people out of the “dumps” – perhaps it was the crew’s heightened sense of “doodie” (okay…sorry, enough of the scatological puns). And bravely, CNN tele-linked passengers with their loved ones at home – give me a break! They were on a cruise ship, safe if not sound…not in a radical compound with hoods over their heads fearing for their lives. Their families weren’t really expecting to hear from them anyway and who wanted to listen to those private phone calls anyway?

Seriously?…

The major story became the shared red bio-hazard bags…shared as in “do-you-have-a-spare-bag?” vice shared as in “…can-I-poop-in-your-bag?” whch was the CNN angle.  Even the potential voice of doom and suffering –  Dr Sanjay Gupta, CNN’s medical guru –  was hard pressed to come up with a shocking by line, admitting “that it was unlikely the passengers would experience widespread illness, despite deplorable conditions”. The eyewitness testimonials and the good doctor’s prognosis did not jive with the dramatic “Sheisse-Sturm” theme musik CNN was playing before the constant footage of the ship under tow. ”

And CNN and FOX and MNBC and CBC Newsworld and CTV News One were not any better.

Once upon a time I used to look at all these stations with awe using them to understand what was happening in the world. To follow major breaking news stories. CNN was a news leader at one point, just like Ted Turner wanted it to be. It’s coverage of world stories – German Unification, Gulf War I, 9/11, the Tsunami, the Japanese’s Earthquake, the Arab Spring are just a few events in a long list.

But somewhere over the 33 years since it started, it has changed.  Aside from the global game changers, which are easy to cover

Breaking News….

because they are global game changers, the all-news stations suffer. We aren’t interested. Unless something remarkable happens, they have nothing to do.  But bills have to be paid and advertisers want viewers. So the newsies have changed the way the biz’ is done. No longer a news reporter, the media has now become the newsmaker.  Small stories become big stories. And the incessant, repetitious reporting sensationalizes the trivial.  The constant loops of the same news cycle has them scrambling for new angles to report the same details. No longer is the aim for detailed investigative journalism that provides all the facts in a well presented package; the goal is to present the biggest bang in the shortest time.  And to keep it reporting it over and over until the next thing comes along.

And do they care if it is true?

Evidently not. Otherwise why would they broadcast hours of numbing repeat footage and useless interviews with so-called experts and dubious eye-witnesses.  And like watching a train wreck, we cannot help but stare.

Bad things are happening all over the world, and there are events and places that we should be staring at.  But we don’t.   The Fifth Estate made a disabled cruise ship into a major news story. And it will continue to do so. I can’t wait for the coverage of the litigation as Ms. Terry looks for compensation for her ordeal. Hope her filth encrusted, shrunken shoes fit so she can prove she was a victim.

It’ll make for riveting and entertaining TV. It should be on right after the Oscar Pistorious trial…

The white-out…aka The Squall

We were supposed to drive to Ottawa today, to have a nice reunion dinner with friends.  But as you are all aware, Eastern Canada – including sweet little Kingston – enjoyed a full dump from Old Man Winter’s icy bowels.  We had a nice deposit of 30 cm of snow over the past 24 hours. That pretty much choked our road network like an Occupy Wall Streeter hit with pepper spray.  The plows and sanders did an admirable job – most of the main arteries were passable – but I was required to bring out my best Swedish Snow Rally Driver skills as my little VW Golf churned through the piles of white stuff on our little side street. The Little-Car-That-Could did well.  But at the risk of being immodest, knowing how to drive in the snow helps too.

f**nuts, rhymes with duck-butts

It is obvious that not everyone in our stretch of the woods does. Now I won’t call the drivers that are on the road the same lovely pet name  used by The City of Vaughan…which I believe rhymes with “duck-butts”…but over the past two weekends I have noticed that many people drive like morons when facing snow. It was just last week that we were caught in a surprise squall 20 km west of Kingston (and that last 20 km took 45 minutes to travel!), and this week I took a brief spin on the 401 to see if a drive to Ottawa was worth it. From what I saw, it wasn’t.

All I can say is that some people have no right to call themselves Canadian, or drivers for that matter, based on their skills, their etiquette, or their common sense.

What is going through their brains? I do not know if they have some sort of invisible force field, or Star Trekkian deflector shield.  How do they develop the audacity and boldness to drive like that? Do they have some sense of invincibility, of immortality, because they are driving shiny SUVs? Or are they  exempted from the laws of physics.

Doubt it.

I just think they are duck-butts.

Unless there is a dying person involved, I can think of no circumstances that create such urgency that rushing quickly to any place is more important than staying alive. They must have some logic or rationale, because driving the way they do creates life or death situations.

It is stunning.

how the heck….

To be honest, they piss me off. In the end, I do not care if their vehicles end up in the ditch or kissed against a guard rail.  Again, I wish I was a perfect human being, but I am not. I have to admit that I enjoy that wee bit of schadenfreude when the driver who sped past you ends up in the snow bank (uninjured of course). Or gets a speeding ticket. You know the one that I mean. That guy with the halogen headlights on high beam that cause those retinal burns; the one that violently splashes icky yucky salty slush across your windshield (leaving you vision-less as your windshield wipers fought valiantly and frantically to restore sight), or creates that snow rooster tail that obscures the road. We have all met him.  Truthfully, once you know all is alright and no one is injured, who amongst us hasn’t smirked to ourselves, “How’s that Porsche Cayenne working for you now, Ducky?”

And honestly, I could care less if they are waylaid. But you know what? These same morons are the ones that create the accidents. Lane hopping, tailgating, quick braking, they create confusion and mayhem, that inevitably ended up creating collision chain reactions.

By relying solely on their daytime running lights  they are invisible…duh…half the battle in not getting hit is taking action to be seen. Don’t people know that most rear vehicle lights are not on during the day? Turn-the-lights-on in bad lighting conditions!

And as the Classic Rock radio guy commented today…”What the hell, people?” There is a foot of snow on the ground. It is not August. You can’t go roaring around at 80 km per hour, and then expect to stop in 10 metres. You-are-going-to-slide!

Regardless of the energy you try to impart on your brakes – à la Fred Flintstone – the equation for momentum, P=Mass x Velocity, means that your car will keep moving when you are screaming for it to stop. Force=Mass x Acceleration, will decide how much of the car in front of you will be destroyed as you plough into it. The physics is easy…either you start driving around on a roller skate with no mass, or you slow the “duck” down.

And use your brain. To see snow physics in action – your hysterics will be twinged with incredulity, and at some stage in the video, just plain pity for their errors and consequences – check out the Utah drivers at this link… Snow Turns Utah Drivers Into Morons Too (Editorial Amendment – this video is a little more scary… http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3RK0x20SJVY )

Still from the Utah Drivers…

That is in town. What about those highway drivers?

Their lack of snow plow etiquette is staggering . Yes they go slow. But they make the road safe. Let them do their job; follow them and take the cleared, sanded road. Why do people drag race them? The plow  will win the ensuing collision. An empty snow plow weighs 60,000 lbs and is armed with a 12 foot steel wing plow that can push tons and tons of snow. The average car weighs 4,000 lbs. I betcha it’ll just toss that car aside like an Emo kid brushing aside their bangs.

The Plows will always win!

And, I also heard someone say that it took over 6 hours to get from Kingston to Brockville  – a distance of 83km. (I admit, it was second-hand, from the radio announcer who knows a guy who knew a guy who had a Timmy’s coffee with that couple who apparently took 6 hours).  They were waylaid by the accidents, the snow ploughs, the closed-off sections, and the

Near Montreal…

white-outs…I can believe it. They must be living in a cave where there is no internet, or TV, or radio. Do you not have the Weather Channel so you can check the conditions when you drive? Oh yeah, the roads are bad, but man, I just need to get there …or my car can handle it…or I have snow tires…or I could do it. Maybe you can, but what about your fellow travellers?

People are so optimistic about car travel. We’ll get there.

Jeez…when do you give up and get a hotel room, grab a case of beer and hunker down eating a pizza watching Pay-per-view?  Or dig into your Facebook contacts list and refresh that acquaintance with your Grade Six BFF who lives in Gananoque?

And I would love to know how many of them have an emergency kit in their car. Oh right, their car coat and Esso ball cap will keep them warm in sub-zero temps. (If you need a steer on what to pack in your car for those unavoidable winter trips, check out Winsconsin’s link here…How to Make a Winter Car Survival Kit

I know friends who safely made the drive down from Ottawa today. At one point I was fairly confident in my ability to navigate the 401 and 416 to Ottawa. But as we moved down Highway 401 from our house to the West end of town (12 kilometres) to do some errands, both m y wife and I Iooked at the nasty and brutal end results of two spinouts and one multi-car collision. The vehicles were The Invincibles– pick-ups, SUVs and mini-vans. And I know that they are all safe and sturdy vehicles that if driven with care can get you anywhere.  Great vehicles really that should not crash with proper care. The only variable was the duck-butts who were driving them.

Multi-car accident north of Toronto.

And that, in the end, the thought of sharing the slippery roads with people like that was enough to make me stay at home.  So we stayed home, all stress-free, and dug out the movies (and watched the Leafs pot 6 goals against the Canadiens – sorry I couldn’t resist).

It’s winter. If you have to drive, drive safe. If you don’t have to drive, crack a bottle and enjoy being warm and cozy – and safe.

Later,
ASF