Snowboarding 101: Don't Signal Right If You Hope To Go Straight

Video/photo analysis.

Coaches of professional athletes use it to analyze technique. Police use it to monitor the activities of miscreants (Leisurologists, Senators, Mayors, British pastelists, etc.). You can learn a lot by watching others on video/film. You can learn even more when you watch yourself.

Observation #1: when looking at my face, I see fear. I had hoped to see the look of a seasoned veteran snowboarder, highly focused, spotting his landing with laser-like precision. Instead I see the desperate gaze of the Captain of the Titanic, looking hopelessly for a lifeboat full of weaklings (i.e. jazz musicians) so he can hurl one overboard and save his own skin.

Observation #2: what's with the right arm up in the air? I look like a rule-following six year old who hopes to turn right on his shiny new one-speed bicycle. We all know that when you take your hand off the handlebars, disaster ensues.

The alternate caption for this image....all in favour of landing, please raise your right arm. There is a look of 'oath swearing' in this image too. Most of my snowboarding sessions involve swearing at some point, usually after a botched landing, though sometimes just for the pure pleasure of it (gosh darn it!). You, my readership of three, will be happy to know that I descended back to Earth safely. I took no right turns. I took no wrong turns. I didn't 'pull a Wendy' and go over the handlebars....and that's why today's blog is not nearly as interesting as yesterday's.

Fly Like A Ptarmigan, Wendy

I've heard stories about partridge and/or ptarmigans flying into snowbanks on purpose. The idea is that they bury themselves in snow which serves as an insulator against the bitter cold of the Canadian north. I'm not sure what Wendy's intentions were, but the results were nothing short of hilarious.

Jason's Argo? Not!

There was a time in my naive youth when I thought I wanted a big sailboat, perhaps even a Hinckley. Hinckleys are made in Maine and they have one of the best reputations on planet Earth. You can pick up a used one for about $300-$400 000 U.S.

Okay....so there's no Hinckley in my future. Honestly, it's a good thing. Maintaining a Hinckley in the condition (bristol!) that it deserves would cost another $20 000 per year. Let's face it, it's a rich man's sport. This is why I windsurf: fast, portable, inexpensive.

Next topic: snowmobiles. When I was about ten years old I desperately wanted a snowmobile. Our neighbours, the Slipps, had a blue one and I was green with envy. I used to sit in my parents' living room with my chin resting on the back of their sofa, peering out of the frosty lower panes of our picture window at the joyous Slipps and their magical snow machine. Life wan't much better for me in the summer either, because the Slipps had mini-bikes. Now that I think of it, my youth must have been hell.

I got over my insatiable appetite for snowmobiles at some point in my youth, likely when I whined enough to get a motorbike of my own. I also took up skiing which gave me some winter solace, and a way to injure myself at lesser expense.

A couple of days ago Wendy's cousin Jason sent me a video depicting the good life in Newfoundland. In the video he was sitting on a smelly, noisy snowmobile....enjoying the great outdoors. There was abundant snow in the scrubby, black spruce forest, and a trail had been made through the muskeg for all to enjoy. Jason's snowmobile is capable of going so fast that it would peel the fear of your face, though he was just chugging along in the video.

I felt compelled to make my own video, swapping 130 horsepower for 1 jackass power. I suspect that Jason and I have equal amounts of winter fun, we simply find it in different ways.

No News Is Good News

And the headline read 'Woman Risks Her Own Safety To Rescue Dog From Septic Tank'. I could stop right there, but no.

Years ago I stopped reading the Telegraph Journal. As of yesterday, I wasn't sure why. As of this morning, I think I know why.

I decided to buy the Telegraph Journal this morning along with my beloved Wendy's beloved Globe & Mail.

Before I get to the damning part of this blog, let me say that I enjoyed reading this morning's Telegraph Journal. It was chock full of exciting news about the Kartrashians, Smiley Virus, and Jeezer Bieber. Oh, yes, there was news about the spawn of Thicke Alan too. It was all a vacuous bubble-head could want, and more. Much more, but that's not the bad schtuff.

There's a section in the Telegraph Journal that is devoted to all-things-in-the-north-of-the province. It's a great idea because it makes the paper truly the paper for the entire province. So...what did I learn about my provincial neighbours to the north? Well, I learned that a woman risked her own safety to rescue a dog from a septic system. I was floored by such captivating journalism. It made me wonder if there was a Pulitzer Prize for Journalism just waiting to be claimed. There is.

The million dollar question, and this is where things become confusing, is into which category does this article fall (or at least plunge)? Here are a few of the front-runners:

- breaking news reporting
- local reporting
- public service
- specialized reporting
- spot news reporting.

I'm torn. I think this article best fits into either 'specialized reporting' or 'spot news reporting'. A strong argument could be made for specialized reporting. This piece has been so fine tuned as to only appeal to the dog owner, the septic tank owner, a few neighbours and family members, local sewage specialists, ambulance chasing lawyers, and dog breeders (especially Shih Tzus). On the other hand, there's spot news reporting. See Spot sink. Swim, Spot, swim.

The Golden Age of Electricity And/Or Things That Ale Me

When Wendy, Julian and I arrived home last evening at 10:30 p.m. we found our house to be in the dark. Yup, we survived three days of freezing rain without losing power, then once the weather turned gorgeous..WHAM! No power.

Wendy went to bed with cold feet. Julian hunkered down in his bed. I actually enjoyed the power outage (finally some 'adventure' in my life). This morning, Wendy and Julian couldn't wait to get out of Dodge. I decided to ride out the storm, except there was no storm, just no power.

After the non-campers scampered to Fredericton, I decided to walk to the local country store on a fact finding mission. I found out very little about the power outage. The store had power, so what did they care? I bought a Sussex Ginger Ale only because I felt compelled to buy something since I entered the store on ulterior motives.

The power came back on around noon, some 22 hours after it had gone off (according to my sources). There were widespread power outages across New Brunswick during and after the freezing rain storms. All people were talking about socially was the weather and the loss of electricity. Here are some interesting (and shocking) facts that I discovered as a result of our collective electrical woes:

- the CEO of NB Power earns up to $324 999 per year.
- there are roughly 630 employees at NB Power who earn $100 000 per year or more.
- electricity first came to Saint John in 1880.
- 54 000 New Brunswickers were without power at the peak of this week's freezing rain storm.
- a small bottle of Sussex Golden Ginger Ale cost me $2.60 at our general store.

Jeeeeeeeee-suzzzzzzzz! Can you believe they charge $2.60 for a small bottle (591ml) of pop? I felt like a total tool for buying it. On the upside, I probably saved enough money by having my power out for 22 hours that I could pay for the pop.

Fact: a 591ml bottle of pop is approximately 13% of an Imperial gallon. This means that paying $2.60 for a bottle of pop is equal to paying $20 per gallon. For ginger ale!! My extensive research tells me that a bottle of pop like this costs the manufacturer about 25 cents to make and that includes the cost of the plastic bottle.

If there's one thing I've learned during this ice storm, it's that I can't afford to drink over-priced sugar water. Golden ginger ale or golden fleece? Really, I ask you, because I think I was fleeced royally.

Winter Scene Seen

I'm feeling lazy (mostly bloated like a dead whale) so I'm just putting up a picture. This is the well worn road from our house to the local liquor store!

Putting The 'Ma' Back In Christmas

I'll answer your two questions so you don't have to feel uncomfortable asking them:

1) No, my Mom did not have a stroke. She was just reacting comically to being kissed on the cheek by both Julian and me. I thought she took it well (most women would simply faint).

2) No, I'm not black but I'm starting to think I may be mixed race. My skin hasn't seen the sun since mid-October and look at me...I'm beige! Strictly speaking, I am mixed race. I'm Anglo-Scot-Canadian.

Jolly good, auch aye, eh? Hallelujah. Holy shit. Pass the donuts.

Speaking of donuts, thank goodness Christmas is close to being over. I feel like the over-stuffed sack of monkey sh__ that Clark Griswold ranted about in the movie Christmas Vacation. I really do feel awful. I've had a sore stomach for 24 hours and there's not sight of it ending anytime soon. I blame two distinct groups for my gastro predicament:

1) everyone else.
2) me.

It's a global issue, pretty much. The excess at Christmastime is so colossal that it's borderline criminal. The world, or at least my world, wastes so many resources for Christmas that it leaves me feeling that we're collectively insane. Everywhere I turn there's sugar, and more sugar. And I'm a sugar whore. I simply can't say 'no' when a tantalizing shortbread is in close proximity of my snout.

Bet you can't eat just one.

Shut up, Messier! That's a bet I'd never take because....I. Would. Lose.

I think it's high time that we stop all of this insane Christmas nonsense. Let's skip the unnecessary presents. Let's skip the over-the-top consumption of food that will pad us all under-the-bottom. We neither need it nor want it. And you know what? There's not a hope in hell of any of this changing. Why, you ask? Because humans behave like morons when gathered in groups. I don't need to back up my statement, but I'll throw out a few examples of moronic groups to make my point. In no particular order: rugby teams, the Senate, North Korea, middle school students, to name but a few.

So, Ian, what are you going to do about it?

Is that you, Messier?

No, it's your alter ego speaking again. I didn't authorize Messier to use italics when he spoke earlier. These hockey players, all of them, are ruffians. They think they can do what they want, on the ice and off. Anyways, so what are you going to do about it...all this Christmas excess?

I'm going to eat a lavish Christmas breakfast of coconut waffles, Swedish tea ring, chocolates and candies. Two hours later I'm having Christmas dinner at noon with my Mom. I suspect it will be a delicious turkey dinner. Later in the day I'm going to my brother's place for Christmas supper. I suspect it will be a delicious turkey dinner.

Eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we shall die.

It could happen, and it would be a shame.

2013 Nielsen/Varty Christmas Video

Here's the link to this year's Christmas video. Thanks to Julian's thoughtful and judicious editing, we hit a home run this year.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8o6Y3bFuy6A&feature=youtu.be

I fear that we won't be able to top it next year. We'll be lucky if we come anywhere close to this video. Like a saloon at Everest Base Camp, the bar has been set pretty high.

Christmas A to Z. Easy as 1, 2, 3.

It's shaping up to be A merry Christmas, though that is to B seen. You C, things often go from D lightful to E gad.

What the F___?

G, we don't use language like around here! H who! H who!!

Bless you.Getting a cold, Ian ?

I don't think so. Hey look, a blue J.

O. K....I see what you doing now with the alphabet. Why the L are you wasting your readers' time with frivolity?

The wasting of resources is a Christmas tradition. Other Christmas traditions include eating way to much chocolate, like M&Ms. N joyable, but bad for you.

Like O my god, it totally is!

And too much drinking. Speaking of which, I gotta P, but first I'll put on the radio. It's time for Q. I just love Jian Ghomeshi.

You're going to put on the radio, R you? Care for a coffee or an S presso?

T, thank U.

I don't enV you at all, you know.

That's because I'm so fat from eating Christmas cooking. I think I'm W on the bathroom scales. Let's take a look.

You should always weigh yourself without any clothes, you know.

X pose myself??

Y not? Just do it! It's as eZ as 1, 2, 3.

Not 4 me. It's as if 5 got a phobia of nudity (my own).

I had a 6 sense of that. Too bad you weren't graced with a body like mine, it 7 sent.

I used to have a good physique when I was in my teens, but I 8 too much food and now I'm a pear shaped fifty year old.

Yah, das is right. You look like Colonel Klink (and have his personality), but you have Sergeant Schultz's body, don't you think?

9.

Night-time Cambridge-Narrows (Bewitching)

It's a tradition in New Brunswick to decorate our houses with thousands of colourful, energy-sucking light bulbs at Christmas-time . It's our way of brightening up a dreary time of year. It also helps to keep NB Power out of bankruptcy.

Historically red and green were the colours of Christmas, but people these days seem to use every colour of the rainbow except orange. I, trying desperately to be different but refusing to get a tattoo, put up a fiery orange-lit wreath.

Why break with tradition, Ian?

The fact is that I had a string of orange light bulbs that were given to me as a Halloween gift, and I was too cheap to buy Christmas lights when I already had a string of lights (albeit orange lights).

Who gives Halloween gifts that aren't candy? Better yet, who puts up lights at Halloween?

Don't ask, though it may have been a failed NB Power initiative. The bottom line is that the orange wreath looks magnificent and casts a beautiful light on the yard at night. Our neighbour even commented on how nice it looked.

I thought your neighbour hated you?

This was our good neighbour that made the comment, not the broom pilot.

Fortune Cookies And Universal Truths

In my world, I know of only five universal truths. I suppose you're interested to know what they are, so  here they are in no particular order:

1) the employees at Environment Canada are banana eating, bum sniffing monkeys and they forecast wind by spinning a wheel. No kidding.

2) Jesus, if he, in fact, ever  lived, was not a porcelain skinned, mink-haired stud muffin as portrayed in Christian propaganda and art. 

3) Chocolate is good for you, end of story.

4) Women make better leaders and the world would be a better place if we had more of them. Note: there are a few minor technical exceptions to this rule, see Margaret Thatcher (nee Doubtfire).

5) Fortune cookies never lie.

I've found these five tenets to be true for all of my adult, semi-conscious life. Last evening, one of the five pillars of my life crashed to the ground and was shattered. Wendy, Julian, Dad and I went to a pan-Asian restaurant in Fredericton last evening. The service was great. The food was excellent, BUT......

The fortune cookie lied.

I'm not sure if you can read what my fortune says or not. It says 'something unusual will happen at work next week'.

Work? What's that?? I'm a leisurologist. I'm a stay-at-home Dad who doesn't stay at home (not withstanding that mini-me is almost 22 years old and infinitely more responsible than I am...and it's been that way for nearly 22 years). Also, I live in Cambridge-Narrows where nothing unusual has ever happened, at least not since the Mayor of the Village erected a statue of a bare-assed pig to greet visitors.

Again, because this is earth-shaking news, the fortune cookie lied. I'll never believe another one again which is unfortunate because they usually told me how responsible I was...and I believed them. This isn't enough to make me forego Asian restaurants in the future. Oh, no, but now I know that you can't believe everything you read. This will come as a shock to the readers of my gospel-like blog.

Myles Smiles

Wendy makes no secret that she's a huge fan of David Myles. Do you know who David Myles is? If not, you're about to.....

Let's start with some facts:

1) David Myles is a singer/song-writer originally from Fredericton, New Brunswick.

2) David Myles is extremely talented.

3) David Myles is a nice guy, even though he won a Juno for a rap song (the biggest selling rap song in Canadian history!).

4) David Myles doesn't do bling (some exclusions apply. See glasses and tie.)

5) David Myles has a Political Science degree from Mount Allison University.

6) David Myles looks a bit like Buddy Holly. Take a look below. I'm not making this up, even though that's what I normally do.

Julian Varty, not one to pass up a chance at musical merriment and/or the mayhem of  makeshift mimicry, walked out of his bedroom announcing that he was one of Wendy's favourite artists. Of course it was a no brainer...he was David Myles! He was thoughtful enough to pose with Wendy for a promo pic.

Now....here's David Myles fact #7 which may come as a bit of a shocker to all of Wendy's operatic cronies...

7) Wendy has worked with David Myles on vocal technique.

This means that Wendy has not only worked with some of Canada's best operatic singers, but now she's expanded to rap!! Now, in fairness to David Myles, he is not a rapper per say. He's a folk singer with sweet soda sensibilities. With regard to the Juno, he collaborated with another Canadian musician, rapper Classified, and together they went triple platinum with their song Inner Ninja.

So, now you know a bit more about Mister David Myles. If you'd like to hear his Juno Award winning 'rap' song, the click here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NGhyL8zg3_I

Guess Who's Back Home?

It's we three, with U2.

Pizza Parlour Pigout

Yesterday I went to look at a used guitar in Moncton. I'd prefer to purchase a used guitar because I perceive them to be a better value for 'me money'. Yesterday was a disappointment though. The guitar I looked at was gorgeous. Everything about it was perfect...except the crack/dent on the bottom of the rosewood body. Dang. That's two near perfect guitars I've seen that have been damaged. It's worth noting that in both cases the seller did not admit upfront to there being any damage, even when asked (the rascally buaireadairs).

The lesson: buyer beware. Words to live by.

After our disappointing guitar adventure, we felt the need to find some food. Wendy had a hankering for pizza, so we scoured Moncton for a pizza joint that didn't look disjointed. We never actually stopped the car until we got to Riverview (Moncton's Dartmouth). We found a pizza joint in Riverview that had large letters on the window proudly advertising 'pizza by the slice'. We weren't looking for a sit down pizza experience, we simply wanted a slice to eat on the road.

We pulled into the parking lot and jumped out of the car, both eager and hungry. I think we were in the parlour of pizza for all of ten seconds. I walked in, walked up to the circular pizza slice incubator, but then I couldn't differentiate between the pizza slices and the boxes that housed them. Seriously, the slices were uniformly thin, overly brown and wholly unappetizing. Yeesh. That may have been the fastest visit I ever paid to any restaurant. Wendy and I spun on a dime like synchronized skaters. All that was missing was skates, fruity outfits and muscles. And no one pelted us with applause or teddy bears as we left.

On the road again. Next stop: Pizza Delightless. Our fates were sealed, but particularly mine, by the Pizza Delightless sign that announced 'all-you-can-eat-buffet-$9.99'. Originally I wanted one slice of pizza that I could eat in my car. What I ended up with was eleven slices of pizza in a sit down restaurant. Yes, I am a moron. Yes, I am a glutton. No, I will never go back to Pizza Delightless again. That's right, Hon.

The waitress asked us 'do you'se want menus?' She called me Hon, or Hun. She even called Wendy 'Hon'. No one calls Wendy 'Hon'. We should have spun on a dime right then and there. We didn't. We ordered the buffet. Buff, eh? Hardly.

Does the date Saturday, December 21 hold any significance for you? For me, it the day when my colon, hopefully, will summon the energy to expel my eleven (yes, 11) slices of pizza. Until then I'll just live with the massive head-to-toe yeast infection that I know must be eating away at both my gastro-intestinal integrity and my sanity.

Scottish sensibilities direct me to be thrifty. So here's a question/problem: I wanted to spend $3 for a slice of pizza, instead I spent $9.99, does this make me unScottish?

On the surface, the answer is a resounding 'Yes!', but let's look at the math in more detail. I could have paid $3 for one miserable slice, instead I paid 90.8 cents per mediocre slice but I had to eat 11 slices to get the price down to something so 'thrifty' ($9.99/11).

Let's let my readers judge me. Am I Scottish for loading up on 11 slices and getting my per slice costs down? Or am I an idiot for paying $9.99 and eating like a shameless Shetland Phony? Seriously, what do you'se think?

Merry Something...And Don't Overlook The P.S.

Every year, Wendy, Julian and I create a Christmas card that is entertaining (we hope). We put a lot of thought into the card, and countless hours into the production and editing. There are years when the idea for the card comes easily, and there are years when it's agonizing. Believe it or not, sometimes it's even stressful, but isn't Christmas all about stress anyway?

Of course it is. Financial stress. Logical stress. Illogical stress. Marital stress. Multi-generational relationship stress. Gastro-intestinal stress. And then there's the stress of fearing for another apron, and/or lying to your children.

Christmas is wretched (wink, wink).

Despite all this stress, the highlight of my Christmas is probably the production of our annual Nielsen/Varty Christmas card or video. Most people send out exceedingly boring Christmas cards that say little more than 'yo, I'm still alive, and P.S. happy Ho Ho'. Some people send a page which highlights their past year. I like these notes because they're informative and efficient, plus I can never hear too much about little Matthew's diarrhea.

Every once in a blue moon a Christmas card arrives that's deliciously off the grid. Today's image is a card that Wendy received from one of her voice students. I've got to say that I absolutely love it. It's non-traditional in its imagery and its message. It's quirky, fun and more than anything else, irreverent.

I love irreverence. I wish there was more of it mixed into our drinks. Indeed, less eggnog, more rum and irreverence I say, wot wot.

A Shining Example

I've been doing the cryptic crossword in the Saturday Globe & Mail for quite a few years now. I don't know who to thank for this: Teeter Piefenbach of Razer Pfimpson, not that there's much difference (if any) between the two!

Recently, like last week, Wendy started doing the cryptic crossword with me. We did the puzzle together while driving home to New Brunswick from Toronto, and now I dare say that Wendy is hooked. In fact, she couldn't wait to attack this week's puzzle.

The Mathematics Of Snow Business

It's the first legitimate snowstorm of the 2013-2014 winter season. Environment Canada has forecast 30 centimetres of the white stuff, but I have my own way of calculating the severity of the weather. I use this formula:

Take the Environment Canada forecast (BS), divide by two (2), then decrease result (BS/2) by 10% (IDV) and that should give you the actual accumulation (SNOW).

BS/2 = BS2 * (1-IDV) = SNOW

Let's plug in the figures and see what we get.....30cm/2 = 15cm *(1-0.1) = 13.5cm. So, in reality we're going to get 13.5cm of snow, not 30 as forecast.

My method also works for Environment Canada's wind forecasts , though the formula is somewhat different, as follows: BS - BS = actual wind. Let's say that Environment Canada forecasts 70 km/h of wind, then using that number we can calculate the actual wind: 70km/h - 70 km/h = 0. No wind. This model never fails for wind. With snow it's accurate 4 times out of 5 when recommended by dentists who are + or - 3% useful, 19 times out of 20.

Owl Prowl And Tales Afoul

A few days ago Wendy and I spotted a snowy owl between the Jemseg Bridge and the Saint John River bridge. A week prior to that I had read an article stating that snowy owls were showing up in New Brunswick in record numbers. They would most like be spotted in areas that resembled tundra. Our owl was stationed twenty-five feet above the frozen marshy area known as the Grand Lake meadows.

Birdwatchers, no doubt, are going out of their minds. Snowy owls are relatively rare in New Brunswick, and spectacularly beautiful. I've only ever seen one other and that was twenty years ago, yet my recollection is pronounced.

So why would so many Hedwigs leave Hogwarts North to visit New Brunswick? It's likely on account of lemming populations being low. Maybe the lemmings went on a pilgrimage of their own (i.e. they took a short walk off a long cliff). In any event, we are the benefactors of this feathery, head spinnin' Christmas present. Lucky us.

When you see a snowy owl up close, you'll know it was a gift. They are truly one-of-a-kind in their appearance. Nothing else comes close. Do you want to see one? Good luck. They've been seen everywhere between Dalhousie and Grand Manan, but are tending to be seen in greater numbers along the eastern shores (i.e. Shediac).

Note: today's image must be credited to local ornithologist and wildlife photographer Wendy Nielsen.

Okay, I shouldn't do this, but I must elaborate on Wendy's innate ornithological abilities (Wendy, don't hate me for this). Here's the transcript of an actual bird watching discussion that once took place between us:

Wendy: what's that black bird with the red wings?

Ian: It's a red-winged blackbird.

I kid you not. That story is now comfortably placed near the top of our collective Varty/Nielsen ornithological lore archive (right up there with Julian faking out his grandparents with a bogus hawk sighting).

....And that rustling sound you hear underground is neither an Arctic lemming nor a Grand Lake swamp rat, it's John James Audubon turning in his grave.

Long Jian Varty

I left most of my 'good' clothes in Toronto so I've been a bit challenged when it comes to 'dressing up' in New Brunswick. I've decided that I can't dress up, so I'm not going to try. I'm going to dress down. Way down.

Looks like you've succeeded, Ian.

And then some! I refuse to play the game of fashion. I'm all about practicality and function. I don't wear a tie, because a tie won't keep me warm in the meat locker we call New Brunswick. I'm fffffreezing here, and I'm not going to take it. I'm going to wear whatever keeps me warm...and if I look like a retard, so be it (Sobey it!).

Using the word 'retard' is no longer politically correct, Ian.

Ask me if I care. For god's sake, look how I dress! Do you think political correctness is on my radar? I'm not collecting any P.C. points this week.

You placed your hand in front of your n_ts, that's P.C.

That's not politically correct, it's critically to protect.

On behalf of your readership (all three of us), I thank you for your discretion.

PinocchiArt

In Toronto I had stock-piled a number of photographs that would feed the blog, but here I sit in pixel-less Ste.Anne's Point (Plage Freddy B) with nary an image. It's -17 degrees outside which is enough to keep me from taking my camera outdoors.

What to do, what to do??

Aha! Apparently my lap top has a built in camera which I've never used for self portraits. Add a dash of Photoshop et voila! In this selfish portrait I notice that my schnoz is my most prominent feature. Sigh.

Craigslist Meltdown

I have a confession to make....

I'm a Kijiji ho. I'm forever trolling Kijiji in hope of finding the perfect guitar, windsurfing-mobile, piece of furniture, etc. When Kijiji fails me, I turn to Craigslist.

Craigslist is to Kijiji as the typewriter is to the computer. It's older, less flashy, not so many bells and whistles, eminently swear-worthy, but it still delivers the goods.

Over the centuries I've found some pretty hilarious typos in Kijiji and Craigslist, but these on-line classified ads are simply following in the footsteps of the great Daily Gleaner. The Daily Gleaner, Fredericton's official newspaper for almost 6000 years, has played host to some of the greatest doozies of all time. My favourite: 6, 8 and 10 foot lengths of eavesdropping for sale.

I kid you not. I saw this ad in the Daily Gleaner about ten years ago, and like a bad case of tinnitus, I just can't seem to get it out of my head. Kijiji and Craigslist give the Daily Gleaner a run for her money, at times. The most recent contender, found on Craigslist, was this: autistic guitar for sale.

I saw it on Craigslist Toronto about two weeks ago. I went back to Craigslist this morning to find the ad but it was gone. Either someone corrected the mistake or the guitar was sold. I suspect the guitar was sold either to an acoustic guitar player or an eclectic guitar collector.

Book Smarts

Although I'm now resting my derriere in Nouveau Brunswick, I still have a few things to say about Toronto. Today's topic: generosity, execution, book smarts and, surprisingly, racism.

Last Saturday morning, Wendy and I made our way up to the Christie Pits area of Bloor Street. The Christie Pits were once sand pits that were excavated to make this or that...out of sand...I suppose. Now they are an area of ball diamonds, grassy slopes and parkland. It wasn't always so tranquil (from Wikipedia):

On August 16, 1933, Christie Pits was the scene of a six-hour riot, mostly between the Anglo-Canadian Pit Gang (also called the Swastika-Club) and the a group of young men and boys, who were mostly Jewish with some Italians and Ukrainians, who were not a gang, but sometimes were incorrectly referred to as the Spadina Avenue Gang.^[5] One of the baseball diamonds was being used for a series of softball games between two local amateur teams, one of which predominantly consisted of Jewish players. Two nights earlier, at the first game of the series, there had been a display of a swastika and police were warned that there could be trouble at the second game. Those warnings were ignored, and after the second game, a blanket with a large swastika painted on it was displayed by members of the Pit Gang. The Jewish youths at the game responded to the display, supporters of both sides poured in from the surrounding streets and a riot ensued.^[6] The Toronto Daily Star captured the event the next day,

"While groups of Jewish and Gentile youths wielded fists and clubs in a series of violent scraps for possession of a white flag bearing a swastika symbol at Willowvale Park last night, a crowd of more than 10,000 citizens, excited by cries of ‘Heil Hitler’ became suddenly a disorderly mob and surged wildly about the park and surrounding streets, trying to gain a view of the actual combatants, which soon developed in violence and intensity of racial feeling into one of the worst free-for-alls ever seen in the city. Scores were injured, many requiring medical and hospital attention…. Heads were opened, eyes blackened and bodies thumped and battered as literally dozens of persons, young or old, many of them non-combatant spectators, were injured more or less seriously by a variety of ugly weapons in the hands of wild-eyed and irresponsible young hoodlums, both Jewish and Gentile".

That pretty covers the racism portion of my blog, wot wot? Let's lighten things up and talk about execution, generosity and book smarts. As I mentioned, Wendy and I made our way up Grace Street from Harbord to Bloor. Along the way we were stopped dead in our tracks by what appeared to be a mailbox, but it wasn't a mailbox. It was Toronto's smallest outdoor lending library!

On the front 'lawn' of this particular house was a cottage-shaped box with a glass door and a shingled roof.  It was thoughtfully made (execution), full of books (smart) and there for the neighbours to enjoy (generous).  The happily cursive sign on the outside said 'hello neighbours...borrow, read, return'.

Life is full of 'feel good' moments, and this was definitely one of them. What could you do in your life to make your neighbourhood a better place to live? Even a small gesture can have a big impact. This little library was, in many ways, bigger than the Metropolitan Toronto Library on Yonge Street.

This Ain't Kansas, Dorothy.

And this ain't Toronto, Wendy.

No, we're not in Toronto. We're in the Narrows of Nouveau Brunswick. There's the lightest of snow falling outside, almost like icing sugar. Inside the temperature is rising, thanks to our pellet stove.

It's good to be home.

The Verve View: South By Southeast

Here's the view from our commodious 17th floor balcony. The view is not quite as riveting as the view of the skyline, but it's interesting nonetheless. The mid-ground buildings are lower which affords us a better view (a better view of less interesting buildings, I might add).

When Wendy works at the COC, she takes the road in the centre of this image (Homewood Avenue), walks south through Allan Gardens, then continues south and then a bit to the east. Pleasant walk through some dodgy neighbourhoods, about 25 minutes.

Niagara Falls, on a clear day, can be seen...sort of. What you see (not in this image, though) is the mist rising from the falls, creating a small cloud overhead. We can see the buildings that surround the falls. There's one that looks like a space needle. Somewhere down below, at street level, are scores of Elvis impersonators, trinket shops, casinos, tourists, people like the Beers, and likely a Ripley's Believe It Or Not museum.

St.Catherines is mostly visible in the evening and at night. It shows up as a concentration of lights along the far shore of Lake Ontario. All in all, the view is very pleasing and mostly unobstructed. Over time we'll lose more and more of the lake view as more condos are built. Damn condos, and those who dwell in them, scourge of the Earth.

Nespresso: All That Glitters Is Gold

I've have done the thinkably unthinkable, I've gone to the new Nespresso café in Yorkville. Twice!! Forgive me, Scottish Mother, for I have muckily sinned...almost.

Fair Yorkville...ye of breast augmentation, fashion yetis, and a seemingly endless parade of daddy's BMWs. Yorkville...where pedicured toes, that smell of twisted peppermint, walk on cashmere infused sidewalks. Yorkville dysons dumb money. Hear that sucking sound? Yup, that's your money....whirled and gone!

Spending money in Yorkville is like having a Boeing 727 for a private jet. You either have to be extremely rich, extremely stupid, or Donald Trump (see points 1 and 2). Of course this isn't true (but it is!). Let me make my point by discussing my two recent trips to the Nespresso café; a coffee shop inspired by Cornelius (the *D-FOP) Vanderbilt's parlour and bigger than the Beaverbrook Art Gallery, I think.

* D-FOP: dog-faced old prick (reference: Bill Bryson, The Lost Continent)

Before you think me stupid, let me just say that both visits included the redemption of a free drink voucher that Wendy and I were given, on the street, about three weeks prior.

Visit one: sometimes when you see something for the first time, you're unable to absorb the details. This was the case for my first visit. I ordered a $7 latte macchiato (I think that's a gay Italian mob coffee, in the witness protection program, trying to look like a French parfait). I surveyed the scene superficially, drank my CLB (coffee-like bevvie), and departed hoping no one would see me.

I felt like I had just scratched the surface, but enough to grow a scab. I had to return for more redemption.

Visit two: this time I came prepared. I was smugly relaxed, observant, but anticipating incredulity. I walked through the double glass doors (I actually opened them, then walked through). I was greeted by Greeter #1. She did her best to appear upscale and concerned for my well being. Greeter #2 wished me well as I made my way to the expansive café bar where Barista #1 did, what else, greeted me. For my first visit I ordered one of the most expensive coffees. This time I ordered the least expensive coffee, an Americano, on purpose. I wanted to know if their bare bone coffee was worthy of my palatal patronage.

Rather than sitting down on the abundant and trendy leather settees and chairs, I decided to walk around the café to see what they were hawking. Though I'm still not certain what they're selling, it looked to me like they've taken our efficient Tassimo/Keurig concept of coffee in a capsule, put some cosmetics on it, then sold it back to us. They sell the delightful capsules (now available in designer colours, and in limited-time-only designer prints...yippee!) and the Nespresso machines here, I think. I swear that I don't know exactly what they do there...it's not obviously retail, therefore I suspect a subterfuge (see 'sucking sound').

Oh, yes, Greeter #3 smothered me with affection as I perused the various hardware being sold(?) that allows mucky mucks to brew their own Nespresso at home, or in their private 727s. I sat down on a lovely leather couch. Oh, my apologies, it wasn't a couch...it was a settee. Couches are for potatoes and other low-flying New Brunswick vegetables. Stop the turnip truck...I want back on!

Barista #2 delivered my Americano after a fashionably long wait (think Tim Horton's Monday morning drive-thru wait in a military town). Did I get a coffee? Yes, and then some. Here's a tally of what it took to get me a coffee: three greeters, two baristas, one coffee cup with Americano, one pot of hot water, one pitcher of cream, one glass of water (with lemon!), one spoon, one stick of sugar, one napkin, one chocolate.

All of this so I could have a coffee that was no better than a Keurig. I felt like a criminal. 

Mr.Varty, we find you guilty of crimes against humanity. For your abuse of natural resources and utter lack of respect for anything that really matters, you will be sentenced to twenty years of wearing cashmere and enjoying the indecency of valet parking.

Kill me now.

Give Me Your Breast Offer

I'm not sure what my problem is, but when I saw this advertisement on the streets of Yorkville my first reaction was not 'nice t_ts'. It wasn't even 'auch, the pooer lass tarned harself into a Heelann coo', but it definitely had a Scottish bent to it.

In fact, my first reaction was '$6000 to make your boobs bigger, you've got to be out of your melon-picking mind'. I meant that literally. Why would anyone pay $6000 to have their boobs 'augmented' (and for that matter, why call it 'augmented' and not the more apt 'double-doubled'?).

Boob super-sizing can only be justified* in three ways:

1) to enhance the perceived lack of self-esteem or inadequacy of 'the victim'.
2) to increase the perceived attractiveness of 'the victim' to the opposite sex.
3) putting $6000 in your pocket, if you're the mountebank who's selling this service, because it costs a lot of money to drive a Porsche.

*Note: I am wholly unqualified to speak on this topic with authority**, though I'm pretty sure I'm right.

**Note: this is true for all of my blogs.

I can think of real benefits from augmentation. For example, no one will ask you to do push-ups anymore because your arms will no longer reach the floor when laying face down. You'll also be very popular as a human umbrella/bus shelter during rain storms, etc. Let's face it though, if your self-esteem is tied up in your boobs then you might better spend your money on a therapist. Or, if the kind of man you're trying to attract at the bars prefers the Himalayas to the Appalachians, or the Appalachians to the Prairies for that matter, then perhaps you should avoid social climbers. There's always a higher mountain somewhere else, as a Matterhorn of fact.

Maybe you're just plain dumb, or perhaps you're a genius and you simply don't care for string theory, global poverty or climate change. Maybe you just want big boobs, end of story. You know you can't run with those things, eh? In Darwin's survival of the fittest, the saber tooth tigers eat the cumbersome big-boobed girls. You're battling genetics when you augment, you know. Just sayin'.

Another point worthy of noting, when you see 'them' on Cumberland Avenue, you know they're fake because they look fake! And if the boobs are fake, chances are that their host unit is pretty shallow too. So, and I direct this to the men who comprise 66% of my readership, if you're shopping for a petri-dish princess, look no further than Yorkville. Everything there is fake, false and veneered. That's why it's a bellwether for the collapse of a logical society, and a gold mine for those who write about its demise.

One parting thought....when I was shopping for a new sofa for our condo, I fell in love with a tan leather sofa that was both plump and firm, yet pleasing to the eye. It was beautifully constructed using a blend of raw, natural fabrics with some man-made adornments. It was far more alluring than all the others that I saw. It was $6000.

Our Toronto Goatscape

I thought it only fair to include an example of a goatscape. It also happens to be the view from our new condo.

Most buildings that I've noted are well known. I've included the Shangri-la Hotel only to put the new opera house in context as it sits on the other side of the (streetcar) tracks from Shangri-la, so to speak.

The Radio City condos have been noted because they were in the running for a while as a potential crib for the missus and me. Ultimately we preferred the Verve condo, and this view is one of the reasons why. If we were to turn our collective heads to the left, my faithful readership of three, we would see the eastern third of Toronto Island, Lake Ontario, and the mist rising from Niagara Falls in the background.

Oh, yes, I should mention that somewhere in this image is a goat. Like Waldo, see if you can find him.

Ossum Ossington

I like to categorize my photographs as it makes them easier to angle down the road. I should mention that I have an ocean of over one hundred thousand images into which I regularly jig.

In the grand scheme of things I have three categories for my images: landscapes, portraits, and things you'll never see in Oromocto. The landscape images are broken down into three categories: countryscapes, cityscapes and goatscapes (cities or towns which unfairly receive the brunt of criticism and loathing...i.e. Toronto, Oromocto. Note: these images must also contain a non-portraitized goat in the image).

My portrait category contains people that are clearly the focus of the image, and ideally in focus. Today's image contains an image of a person, in focus, but not necessarily the focus. Clearly it's an image taken in the city (Toronto's Ossington bus/subway station), but I wouldn't categorize this as one of my cityscape images. It is, somewhat obviously, an image that belongs in my third category of 'things you'll never see in Oromocto'.

Oromocto is a town of cavalier military personnel driving Chevrolet Cavaliers (the unofficial car of Oromocto men). Cavalier (definition): a courtly gentleman, especially one acting as a lady's escort. In my image, the woman is walking alone, therefore it is incomprehensible that she might be in cavalier Oromocto. There would most certainly be a courtly or portly gentleman escorting her. Doubtless both, as men outnumber women in Oromocto by a ratio of 542:1.

And then there's the mural. Oromocto is a town more or less devoid of art, unless you consider the architecture of the Oromocto Mall as art. Oromocto has no murals of which I can remember. It has little or no sculpture (that isn't used as military target practice). I don't even think it has any graffiti! I wish someone would prove me wrong, but I think of Oromocto as a more-or-less artless town. Picasso once checked into the Oromocto Hotel for a week-long vacation but left after one day in a fury.

A Plymouth Fury, Ian??

Gawd no! He left in a Cavalier. Like, duh...

Canadian and American Graffiti/Murals, Lear Jets, Anarchy and Luggage (from the random thoughts series)

I've hatched a plan, and let's hope I'm a good egg! All over Toronto I've been seeing graffiti/murals and I love them. I've decided that I want to include graffiti into our new condo, but not directly on the walls. My plan is to put some art on canvas, then hang it.

Originally I thought about buying graffiti-based art but it's not easy to find. I did find some that I liked but it had a New York City slant to it, and IDV don't like NYC.

I've decided to create my own. Yes...I'm going back into the painting business! I've got a rough idea of what I'm going to do, but I won't sell out and spill the beans just yet. I need to think it through just a bit more. It won't be quite as wild as the image that I posted today. This mural was found on the front of Lee's Palace, a nightclub at Bloor and Bathurst Streets. It's a breath of fresh air to walk past such a colourful facade. You'd never see anything like this in tony Yorkville. No, I think the mucky mucks associate graffiti, and to a lesser extent murals, with anarchy, plus it would clash with their Louis Vuitton luggage.

This single piece of Vuitton luggage sells for $4450. It's called the Cotteville 45. Cotteville, a town in central France, is the sister city to Cootieville, Mississippi, just two towns west of Bugtussle. The mucky mucks don't need to know that, plus I made it up.

No one in their right mind would entrust their Vuitton luggage to the tender and loving hands of Air Canada, which means that you can only own such luggage if you drive a fur-lined Bentley or if your Daddy (sugar or otherwise) owns a Gulfstream jet.

I started wondering if anyone had ever commissioned a graffiti artist to paint their private jet. All I could find was an article where a 2.3 million dollar Lear Jet was spray painted by some L.A. based hoodlums. The estimated cost of repair: $100 000. You could buy a seven piece luggage set for that kind of cheddar!

Can you see the clash of two worlds in this picture? Street level anarchy versus high-flying privilege. The two don't mix very well. Given that I intend to incorporate graffiti into my condo, it's a statement that I straddle the two worlds. Living on the 17th floor of a very nice 39 storey condo, I'm neither high-flying nor at street level. If I had to choose only one world, I know where I'd choose....

Hint: pass me my spray can.

Do you know where you'd choose?

T.G.I.D....Thank Gawd It's December

It's a well known fact that I'm not a fan of Christmas, at least not the commercial Christmas. That might lead you to believe that I'm deeply religious and that I'd like to put 'Christ back in Christmas'. Not so. Remind me again, for whom was he shopping?

To: God
From: Jesus
Message: I hope you like these new slippers I bought you, Daddy.

So why T.G.I.D. then, Ian?

I'm simply elated that.......wait! What's that noise?? Listen. Keep listening....listen still....

Whirrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr, bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

All across Toronto, and hopefully the rest of Canada, you can hear the whirring and buzzing sounds of electric razors removing the gawd-awful moustaches that men, and a few chicks, have subjected us to during the month of Movember. In the early hours of December 1, people are getting up and shaving off their dirt squirrels. I couldn't be happier.

I've spent the better part of mauve November seeing men who look more-or-less ridiculous, über dandy, or frighteningly reminiscent of the 1970s Pittsburgh Steelers.

Need I say more?

At this point I'd like to skip Christmas altogether and find this handsome man a dentist. Yikes! Great picture, though.

Back to Movember for a whisker of a moment, I'd like to commend all those who grew crumb catchers for this fundraiser. My good friend David K raised $5000. The men of the COC raised a few thousand as well. All in all, I'm sure millions were raised (sounds like we're campaigning successfully against male impotency, eh?).

Have you noticed that I've been avoiding the word 'prostate'? I'm always terrified that I'm going to accidentally say 'prostrate'. A lot of people make this mistake. Being perspicacious, my readers are unlikely to make this error again, if ever.

So, in closing, I say 'good-bye' to Movember, and 'hello' to December and Christmas. Christmas? Yes, Christmas! Christmas is that joyous season when we give gifts that are unnecessary and we receive gifts that are unwanted....

Oh, wow(!), you shouldn't have (emphasis on 'shouldn't'). I don't currently own a chartreuse apron. This will look awesome in my collection!!

Perhaps December isn't all that different from Movember after all? One way or the other, we're all fuskered!