The Ralphie...'Oh, Everyone Was Like That'.

We never really know what people think of us, we only know what we think of them. Julian, for example, impresses me.

Is it the guitar playing and his amazing sense of rhythm?

Yes, but that's not where I'm headed.

Was it his football accomplishments even though he wasn't what you'd call a 'physical kid' at the beginning?

Yes, but that's not where I'm headed.

Is it his strategic academic 'mission' that he not only announced in advance, but delivered?

Yes, but that's not where I'm headed.

Is it his devotion to Mootha, making her life far more meaningful, rich (though not in a monetary sense) and plain old fun?

Yes, but that's not where I'm headed.

Well, what is it then? Jeez, stop making me look bad (dumb) by making him look good! This blog is supposed to be about me, not him, the clever, talented and compassionate little bastard.

It's his fashion sense. At Christmastime Julian portrayed the character Ralphie in our parody of the movie 'A Christmas Story'. Julian wore a hat that resembled the one that Ralphie wore in the movie, but was far from being a copy. I'm not sure what you call the style that Julian adopted/adapted, though I hear them called aviator's hats or bomber's hats. Since Christmastime and the release of our brilliant short film, the popularity of the bomber hats has exploded. They're everywhere in Toronto. Men wear them.Women wear them. Even little kids wear them. I'm very proud that Julian is a fashion leader...he's following in the footsteps of his Uncle Erik. Well, not quite.

I suppose he'll be wearing $700 jeans next and dissing his Winners-clad discount daddy?

Not at all. Julian bought his Ralphiesque hat at Frenchy's in Oromocto for something like $3. The hats in today's image were being sold for $180 in Toronto's tony distillery district where I once had a Kevin O'Leary sighting. If O'Leary can afford to shop there, I can't. I've never once seen the Grimace Of Greed in Winners.

I think a percentage of Julian's generation, if there is such a thing, is discovering the economics of buying used or discounted clothing. They're more prepared to be judged by what's on the inside than what's on the outside. We live in a shearling world and I commend Julian on not being sheepish in any sense.

So, he's like the wolf?

The wolf? No, that's O'Leary (or One Percent Kev as he ought to be called). Julian might actually be the sheep farmer...time will tell. All I know is that he isn't a sheep.

High praise.

Indeed. He's not dunkin'......his donut in everybody else's cup of Tim Horton's coffee. I think the highest compliment that I can pay to him is to say that I don't ever see him paying a princely price for a sweater vest.

Nope. Definitely not his style. He'll never sell out. 

He's 22 years old today and has a pretty good sense of who he is and what he stands for. That's the real focus of today's blog. Well done, Julian. To you, I doff my chapeau...

Le Père (part deux)

Something Something, God Bless

What used to be Maple Leaf Gardens, the built-in-1931 temple where hockey fans initially went to cheer (until 1967), then went to curb their enthusiasm  (1968-1999), is now home to a lesser skating rink, a liquor store, some Ryerson University athletic facilities, a Joe Fresh store and a Loblaw's. I affectionately refer to this particular Loblaw's as Tingley's for no good reason other than 'because I can and because I want to'. This Toronto Tingley's, for the most part, is a rip-off. It's a lovely looking store, the staff are friendly and they sometimes play opera in either the fruit or vegetable departments. They know their audience! The price of the food, however, tends not to be music to my ears. Two avocados: $5. A one pound bag of PC frozen shrimp: $16.99. Not Scot (unless you're the seller).

Forgetting about the wallet gouging pricing for now, let's take a look at one aspect of Tingley's that is truly unique....the dude outside the door. I would estimate that half of my entries and exits to Tingley's involve passing by a guy who says the same thing over and over, like me when I was 14. "Mom, can I have some money?" He, too, is looking for money but he's neither begging nor chubby.

You know how if you repeat the same words or phrase over and over and over, after a while the words just seem to blend into one another? Try it for yourself. Choose a short sentence, and repeat it ten times. Eventually, at least for me, it becomes sing-songy. This is the case for the Tingley's dude. Even after filming him I still don't know what the hell he's saying, but at least I have an idea what he's doing now.

In the past I would hear him chiming his words and I was always greatly amused by his ability to 'stick to the script'. He is relentless, though not aggressive, and never changing. In essence he's offering a somewhat local 'good news' newspaper in exchange for a donation. The money, as I was told, is to help the homeless and less fortunate.

I have a rule in Toronto....never give a beggar money. It's not that they don't need help (often in the broadest sense), it's just that I don't tend to believe that the money will go to buying food. There are food banks/soup kitchens after all. My suspicious mind tells me that the money will likely go to alcohol, drugs, cigarettes, and/or Tim Horton's coffee. By giving them money, I would be abusing them (especially if they go to Tim's). I'm not against buying them food, because it feels good to help out a fellow human, and at least you know you're doing them some short term good.

I suspect the Tingley's dude is likely affiliated with a church, though I didn't take one of his papers so I don't know. For the record, Wendy says there isn't a church affiliation. Regardless, I gave him all the change in my pocket, about $6, and I expect to go to heaven for my actions. April 10 is my departure date. There is some irony that I should enhance my heavenly departure at Maple Leaf Gardens, because Leafs fans have only found hell there. It is the site of wide spread (though not shrimp dip) misery, whether talking hockey, crustaceans or avocados. What the 'world' (synonymous for Toronto) needs is some good news, and who better to deliver it?

Elvis!

On April 2, 1957 Elvis Presley gave a concert in Maple Leaf Gardens. One of very few delivered outside the good old U.S.of A. With Elvis dead, the Maple Leafs not winning a cup since 1967 followed by a move out of the Gardens in 1999, and those pesky over-priced avocados, the corner of Carlton/Church needs some good news. Who better to deliver it?

The Tingley's dude!

Don't Dress Like A Dingo's Breakfast

Distraught mother: A dingo ate my baby.

Toronto 911 dispatch: Calm down. I'll need some more information. What was your child wearing at the time?

Distraught mother: she was wearing a white top, white skirt and leggings. Over top was a fur vest with matching fur ankle warmers.

Toronto 911 dispatch: A fur vest? Is this a hoax? You're not calling from Yorkville, are you?

Distraught Mother: Of course!

Toronto 911 Dispatch: Can you describe the vest?

Distraught mother: Yes. It looks like a cross between a dead wallaby and a plate full of intestines.

Toronto 911 Dispatch: where did you buy this vest?

Distraught mother: at a children's store on Avenue Road, just north of Bloor.

Toronto 911 Dispatch: So you dress your child up like a dingo's favourite food, and now you're claiming that she's been eaten by a dingo?

Distraught mother: Yes, that's correct.

Toronto 911 Dispatch: I'm curious, how much did this vest cost?

Distraught mother: It was very expensive. Too expensive to mention. You knowwww....I have a lot of money.

Toronto 911 Dispatch: I'll send an officer over immediately. Clearly a crime has been committed.

Distraught mother: Oh! Never mind. My daughter just came home. She's alright. Apparently the nanny took her out shopping for a head.

Toronto 911 Dispatch:  She's lost her head, eh? It must run in the family. Outside of Yorkville, in the real world, your child wouldn't stand a chance dressed like this. She'd be mocked and ridiculed, if not eaten by sidewalk shit-hounds. How dare you dress a child so stupidly?!

Toronto Parking: Rule #1

If you live in Toronto and manage to find a parking spot on the street, then you never want to give that space up. If you give it up, then it will be lost forever.

This brings me, not surprisingly, to Rule #1 of Toronto parking: once you've found the perfect parking spot, don't ever move your vehicle. It's the only rule of parking, so don't go looking for Rule #2.

This begs the question: why own a vehicle?

There can be a number of reasons. Here's a few that come to mind:

1) Prestige. Most people want to impress their friends by parking their vehicle in front of their home. The owner of the truck in today's image is likely no different. Justifiably, his truck is a raving beauty with its jazzy racing stripes and natty white cap. Older, for sure, but still quite attractive, not unlike the models in the Grey Power ads.

2) Outrun the four horsemen of the apocalypse. When the horse-mounted harbingers of doom arrive, do you really think you can outrun them on the TTC? And don't bother asking the driver for a transfer....next stop: hell (in lieu of hell, drop me at Dundas Square). In summary, you need a readily available ride with more than four horsepower (this is why I didn't bother bringing the Focus wagon to Toronto). You might want something with big tires and a modified cow catcher because not only do you have to outrun four horsemen, but you'll also need to toast a lamb along the way. Keep some rosemary, sea salt and tin foil in the glove compartment as you'll still want to eat well while on the lamb.

3) If you don't park in front of your million dollar tenement, someone else will. And you just never know what you might get....

I actually like this car but I understand that it wouldn't suit everyone's aesthetic and it might actually cause a collective mental anguish if parked in Rosedale.

I'm sure Rosedale, the hill of forests and the path bridled have by-laws to prevent this sort of atrocity. In Kensington Market it's to be expected.

You might be amazed by the number of vehicles that I see in Toronto that appear to be 'snowed in' or parked permanently on the streets. Perhaps this is why parking for those in search of it, is such a challenge/nightmare in this city.

Here's a fact that might put parking into perspective: The City of Toronto issued 2,761,802 parking tickets in 2012, worth about $94 million dollars in revenue, down 2.5 per cent from a year earlier (CBC). If you find a spot that's legal, you keep it. In Toronto, owning a vehicle is not about driving...it's about parking. Find, or be fined. I'm glad, almost euphoric, that I don't have a car in Toronto.

Famous....By Accident

An on-going theme for my time in Toronto is a lack of adrenaline rushes. In the old days when I was in my forties, I used to 'get my ya-yas out' by snowboarding or kiteskiing. I feel that, fundamentally, I need some sort of periodic thrill to feel alive. Getting an extra 40% off on Bay Days just doesn't seem to do it for me.

Yesterday, a big discovery, of sorts. Wendy and I went for a walk in Cabbagetown. The area we explored was east of Parliament Street  and north of Carlton. It was,quite honestly, the nicest neighbourhood I've seen in Toronto, so far. The houses were predominantly brick with architecturally significant adornments. Beyond the structural, people seemed to make an effort to make their properties eye-friendly. You could say the same for Rosedale but the sheer size of the massive Rosedale mansions gives them the nasty appearance (and associated connotations) of excessiveness (greed). So, three cheers for Cabbagetown, where you can still find a house for a million dollars!

On the far side of Cabbagetown was a sliding hill that led down into the Don Valley. Yes, the same valley that is home to the Don River and the Don Valley Parkway. The sliding hill is long with a generous grade, enough that you would approach terminal velocity by the bottom. It was the perfect place to find an opportunity for an adrenaline rush.

For Wendy.

Let's face it, in our family Wendy is the undisputed champion of the toboggan, especially if there's a jump! The reason that we were in Cabbagetown yesterday was to enjoy a brunch with an septet of C.O.C. Ensemble members. Haji, Claire, Aviva, Danielle, Michael (pianist), Clarence, Charlotte and two other singing Mikes plus a bonus semi-drunk mole (baritone) from UWO. While we were brunching, the closing ceremonies of the Sochi Olympics were on the large screen television. Some of the Olympic talk at our table led to talk of Wendy's Olympic calibre toboggan jump on Youtube. Fate smiled on our little party because the restaurant's television was wired to the internet. Andrew Haji, tenor extraordinaire and computer savvy techie, got us hooked up. I loaded Youtube and typed in:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KtndxGowmKg

Needless to say, it was the link to Wendy's hooo-leeee-sheeee-ittttttt moment in the sun, and air. All but one of the young singers had seen the video before, but they all roared uproariously (how else?) when seeing it again. For all Wendy's success as a soprano and a voice teacher, I do fear that she will become more famous for her gold medal worthy performance in the extreme sports arena. It may already be too late.

Anyone who is a landed immigrant in Toronto, please put your hands up.

Are you suggesting that Wendy and I are landed immigrants now that we're living in Toronto and I've professed an attraction to the town of cabbage?

Gawd no, I'm suggesting that Wendy puts her hands up when she lands.

You've seen the video?

At least seventeen times. It reminds me of that wipe-out they used to show at the beginning of ABC's Wide World Of Sports, perhaps the best wipe-out of all time. Here's a link to it:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jKEDD1i4oGk

This is pure gold too, no question. Until I find a way to elevate my own heart rate, I'll do it vicariously by watching Wendy Nielsen and Vinko Bogataj videos.

Dishonesty In Advertising: Budget Rent-A-Car

I needed to rent a car for one day so I popped in to Budget rent-a-car on Front Street in Toronto. I said "what's the cost of the cheapest car I can rent for the following Saturday?"

The salesperson's answer: "$33."

I was impressed with the low rate. I said "Auch aye, laddie, I'll tack it." The price pleased my Scottish sensibilities.

"With tax it will be $48", he added. I took the car because at $48 it still seemed like a reasonable price, but I wondered what country or business allows or can justify a 45.6% tax. Hungary has one of the higher sales taxes in the world, and it's only 27%. How in God's name could $33 escalate to $48 on taxes? I was chewing on that thought as I left Budget's office, but would wait until I picked up the car to discover their dubious accounting practices.

Saturday finally came and I picked up the car, a white Kia Forte. The car was spotless...like new. The staff at Budget were friendly, professional and delightfully chatty. I liked the car. I liked the service, BUT.....

Let's just take a look at the breakdown of the rental cost:

Car:........................................$33.00
Ontario Environmental Fee..........0.15
Energy Recovery Fee..................0.98
*Parking Surcharge...................$7.00
Vehicle License Fee..................$1.35

Subtotal:.................................$42.48
HST (13%)..............................$5.52

Total:......................................$48.00

Interesting, isn't it? Especially the parking surcharge. Almost comically the 'parking surcharge' charge had an asterisk next to it, which presumably meant there'd be a footnote to explain it. I couldn't be the only one who exhibited bewilderment. At the bottom of the page I found the corresponding asterisk with the explanation:  $7.00 parking surcharge. Thanks, that was helpful.

This is an interesting study in business 'style' and/or ethics, and it hearkens back to the days when Air Canada was at it's most loathsome. Do you remember when Air Canada would announce 'fly to Toronto one-way for $99'? Of course they would only sell you a two-way ticket and the final cost (with 'taxes') came in at about $400. If I remember correctly, a one-way ticket cost $600. No shit. Air Canada became the punchline to their own joke. Nobody believed a word they said. To their credit, and it takes a lot for me to praise Air Canada, they've changed their pricing so the price you see is the price you pay (including taxes!).

Here's the troubling part for my budget: Budget delivered an excellent product, on time, in a friendly manner, yet I feel badly about the company because I feel their pricing was *DISHONEST. If I had been told the car was $42.48 plus tax, or $48 including taxes, I would have been charmed. I have no problem paying $48 for a rental car, it's very reasonable, but a $33 rental car that becomes $48 is not magically delicious, or even remotely palatable.

I think the underlying problem is that I feel like they're treating me like a fool, yet I don't feel like a fool for renting a car for $48. I think Budget has some work to do.

*DISHONEST

The Gap

When Julian's teeth first came in, we noticed a healthy gap between his two front teeth...an orthodontist's dream! As he matured into the teen years and got his adult teeth, the gap remained. We decided to bite the bullet and have some dental work done.

Over the years we spent $15 000 to close the gap, enlisting the services of Fredericton's most self-inflated orthodontist as well as a prosthodontist who looks vaguely like David Bowie.

That's pretty freaky.

Both our dental specialists live in over-sized mini-mansions. One of them owned a jet for a while. I like to think that we paid for the champagne served in the cockpit. Make no mistakes, I'm delighted that Julian's teeth were 'fixed' and I have no regrets. I'm pretty sure Julian is happy with his teeth too. He should be, but I often wonder what might have happened had we not closed the gap. How would his life have been different?

Would he have gone into modeling?

Might he have become an Olympic athlete, winning medals in both the summer and winter Olympics? And would he have been fast on ice...going forward, that is?

Maybe a pro football career followed by a stint as a television celebrity? And look at Kelly....'lovely'.

Or perhaps a career as a musician?

Yes, Julian could have been like Elton John if only we had left the gap intact, but clearly we made an effort not to keep him as, or 'turn' him into, Elton John. I don't think Julian particularly likes Elton's music anyway, so it's a good thing. He's more into the music of Jerome Kern and Irving Berlin. This comment should have him spinning, but still not turned.

Mamma Mia! What a bizarre and cryptic blog this morning. 

Adrenaline...On The Horizon

I think I should have been an eagle-eyed, pink-rumped hawk because last week I spotted something rustling in the trees and on the ground 4.5 kilometres from my condo. Seriously, I was looking out my condo window and I sensed an odd movement in the mid-ground. It was tiny and foreign, like a Norway rat.

The foreground view from The Verve is full of movement. There are two schools near my condo and there are often screaming children in the playground. It reminds me of my days of substitute teaching, without the upside of the paycheque. Actually, it's nice to hear the little bastards having fun: throwing snow, teasing the fat kids, torturing the hapless subbies (me), etc.

Of course there's always vehicular movement. I'm forever seeing firetrucks and ambulances on the move, and there's a steady stream of cars coursing along Wellesley Street. There's always someone beeping their bleeding horn, but I only give them the finger in my mind. I don't actually rush to my balcony and give them the double barrels, though it's tempting. People in this city use their horns like weapons, as though trained by disgruntled New York City cabbies. I make it my job to police them because a just a little this side of crazy.

So what did I see moving in the midground? A kiter! A snow-kiter!

As a windsurfer, the kiteboarder is my sworn enemy. It is my oceanic obligation to hate them. They are full of attitude and a danger to themselves, and me. They also tend to wear boardshorts over wetsuits. Why? We may never know, but it's not unlike wearing a dress over pants. Not good.

In Toronto these kiteboarders (there's more than one) are the closest thing I have to a cousin so I was excited to see them. Based on my distant observations, it looks as though they've found a frozen inlet of Lake Ontario upon which to play. Cherry Beach or Ashbridge's Bay, methinks. Lake Ontario itself is wide open. Given that they're snow kiting on ice, I see them as less of a threat to me. On the open ocean, they are vermin.

There's an abundance of wind here in Toronto so I see them zipping across the ice at least five days a week, likely Monday to Friday because kiteboarders are not good employees, and not intelligent enough to be entrepreneurs or mannequins. They are our adventure-seeking society's bottom feeders and, as much as I am in dire need of an adrenaline rush, I will never be one of them. Rats!

Actually I'd love to be one of them but the thought of buying a new long-line kite, then schlepping skis/boots/kite to a semi-safe venue 4.5 kilometres away, without a car, seems like too much for me. I'm looking for an adrenaline rush, not exercise for gawd's sake. I get exercise in a gym.

BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEPPPPPP.

What's that? A car horn?? Gotta go...I'm needed at street level (dut dutta da!)

Thou Shall Not Encourage Paris Sites

The walk from our condo to Wendy's office takes about twenty minutes and it's often brutal. Here are some of the many inconveniences/dangers/annoyances we face during our walk: dog shit, texters, ice, salt, sirens, slush, cars, beggars, snow, bikes, bears, beligerants, run of the mill crazy people, pigeons, puddles, poodles and potentially provocative posters (see 'bears').

If you lumped all of these together then you still wouldn't have something as offensive as the Paris-Hilton-Came-To-My-Store picture that appears in the window of a framing/photo store on Wellesley Street.

The inscription on the photo reads "To Photo Dude...Thanks for everything, love the pics. Love always. Paris Hilton. xoxo."

Apart from the fact that she doesn't even know the poor sap's name, there are a lot of references to love in the dedication. Makes me wonder is she paid by cash, or some other means.

Makes me wonder why the owner of this store would put this picture in his window. Why? Why! Why!!

It's because there are people on our beautiful pathetic planet who will see this as an endorsement of Photo Dude's talent. I mean, wow, if his photo developing is good enough for a badly behaved, c-list starlet (spell check won't accept 'harlet' before 11 a.m.), then he must be really good. You know for a fact that Paris Hilton sees the world more clearly than the rest of us. You know, while in Toronto, she scoured the city, from fair Scarborough to Mississfrigginsauga to find celebrity-worthy photo developing. There is absolutely no chance that this photo developing store just happened to be around the corner from her Comfort Inn suite. None whatsoever.

Why am I so repulsed (and amused) by this window display? Because it highlights the pitiful human craving for idolatry.

You shall have no other gods before me.

Is that you, God?

No, it's me, you're alter ego. I just turned off the italics and used a larger font to trick you. It's my way of saying that we should not worship Paris Hilton before god. I used Commandment #2 from the bible to make my point.

It says no other gods 'before me', but what about after?

Good question. The bible didn't address that. It's not often all that clear on things.

It's pretty clear about dealing with the neighbour's wife and his livestock, eh?

Oh yeah. Commandment ten: "You shall not covet your neighbor's house; you shall not covet your neighbor's wife, or his male servant, or his female servant, or his ox, or his donkey, or anything that is your neighbor's."

It's not likely that I'll covet my neighbour's wife! At least not in Cambridge-Narrows!! His wife is his donkey!!! Wait a minute...did it say that I shouldn't covet my neighbour's 'male servant'? Who the hell has a male servant these days?

Oprah has Dr.Phil, and Earle has Ken, but those are the only two that come to mind. Even Paris Hilton, with all of her family wealth from their family business of bedding people, doesn't have a man servant. If she did then he would have done her bidding at the photo store. He would have been the one to 'get the pics', there would be no celebratory 'look-at-me-with-a-celebrity' photo and I'd be short one blog.

So blame Paris Hilton for today's blog. Is that what you're saying, Ian?

No, blame humans. Our obsession is rampant. Last week Wendy and I dined at a Greek restaurant on the Danforth. The walls of the restaurant were adorned with images of the owners mugging it up with celebrities/politicians, most of whom I didn't recognize. That said, a black & white of über celeb Bob Rae was watching me while I ate. Or was it Pete Carroll (coach of the Seattle Seahawks)? The resemblance is uncanny.

Have you ever been in a restaurant or business that featured pictures of 'famous' people on the wall? Of course you have. The real question is 'did it affect or influence your decision to enter the store or make a purchase'? In the case of the photo store on Wellesley Street, it's enough to keep me away (see fatwa). If the best that this business can do is to self-validate by using a misguided celebrity endorsement, then how does that build my confidence in their work?

Celebrity endorsements are worthless to people like me. I'm unaffected by the allure of celebrity...completely immune to it. In fact, I'm repulsed by it, unless the celebrity is really knowledgeable...and cool! Did I mention the 'Canadian Tire know-it-all' lives in my building? That is just so amazing! It makes me vicariously cool. I'll try to get a picture of myself with him...maybe he'll even write a personal note on the photo.

"To Stalker Dude...maybe now you'll leave me alone. Hate you. Mr.Mastercraft. xoxo. P.S. Hi to Julian."

The Rust Rumped Raptor

You might look at a bald eagle and think 'it's not bald'. If you turn the pages of history back far enough, you'll find that the word 'bald' means white. The white headed eagle eventually became the bald eagle.

The red-tailed hawk's label is a tad more obvious, though methinks it's a bit more orange or rust than red.

This picture captures two things which have been elusive this winter: close encounters with red-tailed hawks....and blue skies.

This image was taken from my 17th floor balcony. The hawk was spiraling in ascending circles just above my level. Glorious. It's interesting to note that when I look at all of my images of the hawk, it almost always keeps its head level to the ground, even when carving hard turns. This is no stunt pilot or joy rider....it's a killing machine looking for its next meal.

Master Chef, Mister Chef, or Missus Chef?

Am I the only one who wonders if the one in the middle is a man or a woman??

Life is difficult for those of us who:

a) don't watch television

b) live in a 'gender diverse' community

c) have too much time on our hands.

It's true that I don't watch television. I haven't for about nine years now. I don't even own a television in Toronto. For entertainment I go for a walk with my eyes and ears open. All the characters are out there on Toronto's sidewalks; the Kramers, the Newmans, the Mad Men, the Danny Bonaducci, the Chris and Stevens, even Regis and Kathy Lee!

You know that Regis and Kathy Lee both retired, eh, Ian?

 Seriously? That's news to me. Did this happen within the last week or so?

Almost everyone I know watches television, so I feel rather uneducated when they begin to talk about their favourite programs. For example, I don't know if Breaking Bad is good. I don't know when Six Feet Under is over. I don't know if House Of Cards is destined to fall in the ratings, or whether Survivor survives. I know little or nothing, and I don't know if the middle chef is a man or a woman.

If you look at the picture accompanying today's blog through my eyes you'll see (from left to right): an angry psychologist, an angry lesbian, and an angry data programmer who styles himself after Data from Star Trek: The Next Generation. None of them look like chefs to me. I think the show may be a hoax. As a network, CTV is a hoax so I may be onto something. It's time for me and my team of researchers to do some investigative reporting.

Here are my conclusive results based on seconds, if not minutes, of exhaustive research....

Good lord....it's not an original Canadian television program! This is a shocker. I thought it was original programming dreamed up by the CTV brain-trust (they did, after all, bring us The New Littlest Hobo in 1979 though it too was a rip-off of someone else's earlier concept). The original Littlest Hobo was born out of a 1958 movie which then became a 1963 television series which was syndicated around the world. Who knew? I suppose this explains why there's never been a Hinterland: Who's Who segment done on London (the German Shepherd). Not as much of a Canadian icon as I had originally thought.

Isn't this blog about MasterChef, Varty?

Apparently MasterChef originated in the United Kingdom (1990) and it's part of a global franchise with spin-offs in forty different countries. There seems to be a growing trend for British television to colonize the global airwaves. They're going to foist their tyranny on us one way or the other, and we're all going to Downton Abbey to pray for new episodes. Well, not me or JNV.

So there's a MasterChef Bangladesh and a MasterChef Elarab (Saudi Arabia). I wonder out loud if the contestants in Saudi Arabia are men or women. In Canada I wonder if the judges are men or women (at least the one in the middle).

Okay, so who is the one in the middle? Enquiring minds, and blog hostages, want to know.

It's a boy! His name is Alvin Leung. Here's what CTV's web site said about our man:

With his trademark blue-streaked hair, cross earrings, and revolutionary approach to the culinary art, chef Alvin Leung is the enfant terrible of Hong Kong's dining scene. Born in London, England, Leung grew up in Scarborough, Ont. 

The enfant terrible of Hong Kong's dining scene? Come on? How does one become the 'enfant terrible' of a dining scene, or anything for that matter? Ludicrous. Television is fantasy...you can't believe what you see or hear. The internet is fiction....you can't believe what you read. I prove that daily.

No you don't.

You just proved it for me.

Knee Deep In Care Bear Territory

There is an explanation in life for everything, with two exceptions:

1) the purpose of this van beyond transporting the litigious Care Bears to and from court.

2) the hip-hopeless trend of wearing one's pants around the knees.

I simply can't explain either.  I suppose I can't really explain the popularity of country music either, though I don't consider it to involve much thinking. In the case of the van and the pants down Piglet, it's clear a lot of thought went

into the planning. But why?

P.S. if you're wondering why the Care Bears would need to go to court, then I suppose that I'd better tell you that the Care Bears sued the Message Bears in December of 1983. New York City judge, Leonard B. Sand, concluded that the Message Bears lacked the "heart-shaped 'toushee tags'" used to identify the Care Bears, and the Care Bears case was thrown out.

A fascinating legal precident, but ultimately costly, time consuming and pointless, not unlike this morning's blog. You'd better, metaphorically speaking, pull up your pants, Ian, or you'll lose your readership and expose your lack of.............umm......'talent'.

Acting Educated

This sign appeared on the security fence around the perimeter of a French school in Toronto's dodgy Moss Park neighbourhood. Wendy and I walked past it on the way to work yesterday. I found it both amusing and a tad troubling.

I can imagine nefarious (English) types being discouraged by this sign. When I say nefarious types, I mean hawkers, horkers, anyone involved with Capital One credit cards, telemarketers, televangelists, Teletubbies, the people who create the attack ads for the Conservative Party of Canada, and finally the Conservative Party 'brain trust' who order the ads in the first place.

To address the last group mentioned, I say 'what a bunch of assholes'. I mean that...WHAT A BUNCH OF ASSHOLES. Their marijuana ad starts with the sound of school bells ringing and young children playing, then a doe-voiced mom expresses her concern with Justin Trudeau's plan to make marijuana legal and available (just like alcohol and tobacco) to recreational users. She's concerned about Trudeau's plan to make marijuana easier for her children to get. The mom in the ad sounds really lame. In fact, I think she might be high herself because she sounds unnaturally mellow for someone who's worried her toddlers might be smoking doobies with the leader of the Liberal party! In reality she sounds like a childless actress who does voice-overs for panty liner ads. She can take her 'wings' and ascend to the Harposphere for all I care.

The ad is revolting, misleading, unkind, and unCanadian. It's also what we've come to expect from the Harpuppets. It's a good thing Stephen Harper is from Texas or, as a real Canadian, I'd be mightily upset with him. I might be tempted to butt end him with my lacrosse stick, or short pour the Duffy cream in his double-double.

If you haven't heard the ad, then you can hear it by following this link: http://blogs.canoe.ca/davidakin/politics/conservative-radio-attack-ads-target-justin-trudeau/
Note: it's the second sound file (CPC Radio Attack ad - Marijuana).

What's mostly troubling is the dishonesty of this ad. It sounds as though it was personally written by a prorogued Parliamentarian who thinks it's okay to sip $16 orange juice while floating on a raft the size of Pamela Wallin's travel budget in a $2 million fake lake. It's fantastical. Remind me again, who's on dope? Ultimately the ad says more about Stephen Harper than Justin Trudeau. In fact, the Liberal Party should run this same ad for their own benefit because, to my ears, it's an attack ad against those who Harp.

Entry Upon This School Site For Any Purpose Inconsistent With The Education Act Is Prohibited.

No doubt Harper and the doe-voiced mother worry that the Education Act will be amended to allow for doobie sales in school cafeterias.

Ummm, I'd like a hot dog, a bowl of jello, two cookies with sprinkles and a big, fat reefer.

I fully understand what the Conservatives are doing....it's called subterfuge. It's failing to address real issues by creating fake or misleading diversions to achieve one's goals. It's neglecting your own shortcomings by highlighting the perceived shortcomings of others. It's called winning at any cost. It's bullying. It's a symptom of a sick society. It's a lesson I wouldn't want taught in our schools.

Ted Hailed Rocks On Valentine's Day

Yesterday, Valentine's Day, two red-tailed hawks floated gracefully in front of my condo, sailing towards heaven in a clockwise courtship.

How do you know they weren't lesbian hawks, Ian?

Good point. We once had lesbian ducks in Cambridge-Narrows. Anything is possible. In any case that doesn't rule out love on Valentine's Day.

I happened to be in Tingley's (Loblaw's) last evening around 7pm. It seemed busier than one would expect for a Friday night, that also happened to be Valentine's Day. Shouldn't people be in bed together, or in bars alone? Did I mention there was a full moon last evening too? There was an embarrassing long line-up at the flower department counter. People, mostly bad bad bad men, were desperately vying for the opportunity to buy their loved ones bouquets before the calendar screamed February 15. God forbid.

I shook my head at the man-made ordeal we call Valentine's Day. As I exited Tingley's I walked past the artisanal baked goods and cupcake counter. The display was half filled with pinkish cupcakes, titillatingly top heavy with icing like something from a Dolly Madison wet dream...or a Dolly Parton bustier. Milling around the counter were a half dozen latter day ain'ts, except they are....or they hope they will be. If lucky, there will be a trail of cupcake crumbs leading to their collective bedrooms. if not, they'll be drinking alone at Hooters with the other has beens or weren'ts...or writing a blog. It's a funny world we live in.

I, being proud and defiant, refused to join the fray. There was no way I was going to buy Wendy flowers or cupcakes on February 14. I don't want to be society's sugary pawn. Though  Hallmark might tell me to jump, I don't ever intend to ask 'how high'. The ritual and/or the price is always too high, yet below me.

So you didn't get your lovely wife anything, you selfish (yet logical and principled) bastard??

Oh, jeez, of course I did.

So you 'bought in'?

Not exactly. Yesterday was simply a day when I happened to buy Wendy better-than-normal chocolate. Today I'll go back to buying her regular chocolate.

Did Wendy express her love to you by doing something exceedingly nice on Valentine's Day?

Yes, she gave me the greatest gift of all.  The one that every tartan-blooded Scottish man dreams of....she paid for the chocolate!

A Walk In The 'Woods'

The only thing more miserable than a boring three minute video is a boring six minute video. I decided to Chipmunk this video by speeding it up by a factor of two, thus cutting the misery in half. The video is for the benefit of any nonagenarians who might happen to be viewing this blog (you know who you are) since a trip to Toronto is not in the immediate offing. As for the rest of you, don't waste your time watching this video. Just visit and you can experience the glory of the Toronto wilderness, in winter, in real time.

This video chronicles the last six minutes of the 20 minute walk from our condo to Wendy's office. The video starts at the base of Queen's Park and terminates at the office of Professor Nielsen. Queen's Park is the closest I ever get to an outdoor experience in Toronto. Three real time minutes of trees and grass (or snow)...yippee! Like Bill Bryson's novel 'A Walk In The Woods', his account of hiking the Appalachian Trail, I encountered no bears but was well aware that they were likely in the vicinity.

Dit 'Fromage'

Is it just me, or does the kid in the Say Cheese logo look like he's throwing up?

Rabid Man Walking Designer Dogs?

What do you do for a living? That question is often asked of me. I've addressed it in this blog before and I'll likely revisit it frequently because I still don't have a dog damn answer.

In Cambridge-Narrows I like to say that I'm the personal gardener-slash-pool boy to an eccentric older woman. In Toronto, I am as undefined as a block of tofu. I take on the flavour of what's around me. Keep this comment in mind as you read on.

Wendy and I had friends over a few nights ago and the topic of my time in Toronto generated some discussion. In short, I hardly know what to do with myself in Toronto, so that's what garnered this suggestion....

"Why not become a dog walker?"

I'm still not sure if my friends were serious or not, but I think they were because they are dog owners/lovers. Also, one of them said they'd like to be a dog walker in their retirement. Perhaps I'm a prissy, but every time I see a dog owner putting their hand into a plastic bag, crouching down and picking up Kujo's steaming coils, I feel like throwing up. Serious, I could hurl like a summer Olympian.

This leads me to (yet another) one of my Olympic proportioned proclamations:

I will never, in this lifetime or during my time in Hell, pick up anything that comes out of a dog's doak.

By Hell, Ian, do you mean the real Hell or are you speaking of Toronto metaphorically?

I mean anywhere, anytime. Toronto or Minto, makes no difference. I like dogs but I draw the line at turd herding. I will never own a dog that isn't 'free range', so now imagine me walking eight dogs, owned by strangers, in the loathsome city, all of them penned up in their condos just waiting for a chance to evacuate their mile long bowels. It makes one wonder if Alpo is a contraction of All Poo.

To add insult to injury, most dogs in my colourful building, were I to walk them, are dressed better than me! The other day Wendy and I met Toby in our elevator. Toby is one of those little yappers that is so small you wonder how it could have room for a heart and lungs, yet still house a 5280 feet of intestine. Toby was wearing a sleeveless red vest (with logo!), likely filled with goose down, and cute orange booties. I could never get away with wearing red and orange together, but Toby pulled it off admirably.

There is a certain irony that we've bred dogs that can't seem to hack the winter. When I say "we've bred dogs" I don't mean personally, though a guy in Moncton tried to recently, or so the headlines said. Remember, these creatures are evolved from wolves, hyenas and baby-eating dingos. If we didn't feed them regularly with Alpo, they'd kill us in an instant and feed off our carcasses for weeks. Yet, yet(!) they can't go outside without designer coats! Come on, folks, this is getting absurd. They have fur, or they did until Joe Namath showed up at the Super Bowl in that coat.

If you're ever feeling down and need a chuckle, imagine me tethered to eight tiny Shelties, stopping only to pick up their glistening gut waste. Nothing, I repeat, nothing could be more absurd. That said, it could be a way to ingratiate myself with my new neighbour, the Canadian Tire guy. I'll bet he's got a dog that needs walking.......and a hands-free MotoMaster shit shovel.

Problem solved!

Obsessive Repulsive? Not At All!

Over the years Julian and I have fixated on some pretty interesting characters and/or things. In the early days we had a fascination of N.B.Tel's feature creatures. Next on the list was the Hostess Munchies, followed closely by the A&W Root Bear. The giant potato at Karl Harvey's farm used to send Julian into spasms of excitement.

Sensing a theme? It's true, over-sized mascots/creatures were of particular interest. Eventually his (our!) childhood fascination of grotesque mascots waned, though not to say we've let go completely. My condo is home to a small Root Bear and a plastic Spiderman Rhino. Let us join in worship.

As Julian became a teenager he began to shift his attention to NFL football which also features over-sized, grotesque characters. Somewhere during his teens (and my on-going adolescence) we became intrigued by Canadian Tire's advertising spokesperson. Remember him? The bearded know-it-all who was able to draw a MotoMaster Teflon Flex Grip wiper blade out of his back pocket just at the moment when some hapless driveway warrior needed one. As if not enough, in the next ad he was using his MotoMaster Pavement Perfector pressure washer to clean your driveway and/or wet your wife's t-shirt. Sometimes he was peeking over your fence to see if you had a MotoMaster Backyard Beast barbeque and/or spy on your wife. If not, he made you look bad, with his perfectly grilled steaks, until you bought one. These ads ran for eight years and had a profound impact on Canadians. They became, quite honestly, iconic, and that's when Canadian Tire dropped them.

One of my 'research associates' found this report on-line: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gn170jK6O4s. It's riveting stuff (MotoMaster Riveters, aisle 3) that made the national news....everywhere.

This Youtube link chronicles the rise and fall of the Canadian Tire guy. The media made it sound like the ad campaign was a failure. I disagree. I think it may have been the most successful Canadian advertising foray ever. It has/had the power to displace Hinterland Who's Who as my all-time favourite.

Now, Julian and I are not particularly interested in power tools.  I have a bench saw, mitre saw, cross-cut saw, grinder, drill, sander and Dremel. Though I may be one power tool shy of being a lesbian, take note that none of my tools are MotoMaster. Julian has an electric shaver, also not MotoMaster. We were not fascinated by the Canadian Tire products, per say. We were amazed by how much the Canadian Tire guy reminded us of three people who we knew.

Let's break this down for a moment. The Canadian Tire guy was a tall, bearded know-it-all who was obsessed with gadgets. To protect the identity of our three friends/acquaintances, I won't mention their names in this blog, but the resemblance, one way or the other, is uncanny. I'm purposely not mentioning the name of the actor who played the Canadian Tire guy, in writing, to protect his privacy. Why, you might ask?

Because he lives in my building!

Yup, it's true. Last week I was in our condo's gym and I spotted a guy who looked like the Canadian Tire guy. Because of my 'obsession' I decided that it was a case of wanting something so badly that my imagination made it happen. I think it's known as being delusional. On Sunday I was in the gym again and in walked the same guy. I had a better look at him this time and I was 50% sure that it was him. Fifty percent is a horrible number because you're just as likely to make an ass of yourself talking to a look alike as you are to sighting a Canadian icon. I once spoke to a Steven Peacock look alike in the Regent Mall parking lot.

Not wanting to embarrass myself I grabbed my MotoMaster Earth Crusher shovel and did some further digging, as did my trusty research associate. We found the name of the actor who was used in Canadian Tire's advertising program. Upon exiting my building yesterday I scrolled through the list of tenants in our building's directory, and guess what? His name was on the list.

So.......I live in the same condo as Canada's Most Irritating Man. How cool is that? In fairness to the actor, he's not really Canada's most irritating man....not even close. Ben Mulroney is by far Canada's most irritating man. No one comes close to Ben, except perhaps his father. Bieber is well on his way to becoming Canada's most irritating adolescent wanker. Perhaps he's already arrived (??) and I will forever be Canada's Dick Clark (oldest teenager).

So, what to do now that I know that I live in the same building as the Canadian Tire guy? Good question. I'm not going to talk to him about the ads as he's probably sick of any further attention. He may be rather smug about the ads, who knows? In all likelihood, that ad campaign paid for his condo in cash, or more precisely, in Canadian Tire dollars. I think I'll just leave him alone, allowing him to bask silently in his celebrity. It's a shame, really, because my gas-powered lawn mower hasn't been working properly and no one has been able to give me sage advice.

My Cement Shoes Are Stilettos

Not part of a real conversation, but it could be....

Wendy (to Ian): I don't expect you to love Toronto, but do you think you'll ever like it?

Ian: when pigs fly....or cement trucks are pink!

Alter Ego (in the voice of the Great Gazoo): take a look to your left, dumb-dumb.

Ian: Doh!

Nine Teas

I'd like to give a big welcome to Darjeeling, orange pekoe, chamomile, mint, Chai, Rooibos, Assam, Oolong, and Boeing 747 (Earl Grey??).

The nine teas have arrived.....for my Dad. Welcome. Congratulations. How does it feel?

Today is my Father's 90th birthday. Born in England in 1924...long time ago in a far away place. He made it through childhood without his older brother using him in some sort of twisted science experiment (let's poison little Billy with some rancid Yorkshire pudding and then check the toxicology levels of his blood). He survived World War 2 and came out with a global view of the world, no tattoos, a love of accents (except his own), and the exact opposite feeling to those with are plagued by PTSD.

He clambered beyond his working class mates and made it not only through university, but he earned a PhD. Impressive.

The best thing my Father ever did was marry my Mother. Of course, this is purely selfish on my part. Equally selfish, I'm thankful that they moved to Canader and learned to drop their arrrrs except when speaking French or tossing nurses. Merrrrrrrrrrrci.

What's he saying?

Who, me or my Dad? My Dad is saying 'thank you', and so am I.

Is it a big deal to be 90? Statistically, yes! Only about one percent of the population makes it to the age of 90. Roughly three quarters of those who do are women (this is good news for Sewell assuming he'd go for a 90 year old, and not a younger nurse, in a 'pinch'). Of those who arrive at 90, the vast majority drag along a list of ailments with them.

My Father is 90. He's not a woman, though not everyone is convinced of this ("just one question...are you a man or a woman? Where's me Mootha?"). He's in excellent physical shape and the only bags he carries are full of healthy groceries. He shovels his driveway. Mows his lawn. Tends to his garden. Most importantly he visits his wife every day at her nursing home, exhibiting a level of love, caring, and compassion that keeps him in yet another elite 1% group.

Is your old man one of those 1% mucky mucks? Is he a role model/godfather figure to scumbags like Kevin O'Leary? Did he make his fortune off sub-prime mortgages? Does he drive a mercedes and not a shabby of Ford Focus? Did I live in a tent in front of Fredericton's city hall for two month to protest your Father's lifestyle?

Absolutely not. He's part of the 99% most of the time. It's only his age and attitude that makes him part of Club 1%.

He must have some faults, for Choristoneura's sake? No one can be that perfect!

Oh, for sure. He spent his working life slaughtering helpless little spruce budworm by the billions.

Aha! Genocide!! Has he been tried at the Hague for crimes against humanity?

My Father's only crimes against humanity are the occasional groaner puns. I remember once when I was feeling down....my Dad told me ten puns to cheer me up, but no pun in ten did.

The apple doesn't fall far from the tree.

That's the nicest thing you've said to me since I started this blog. Thank you. I mean merci.....merrrrrrrci.

The Fast And The Furry Among Us

Do you remember Alvin and the Chipmunks? They're those lovable furry varmints that took the world by storm, and held it captive for over 50 years and counting. Believe it or not, the Chipmunks and their high pitched voices were unleashed on the world back in 1958. What's more unbelievable is that Alvin and the Chipmunks have won five Grammy Awards over the years.

Do you remember the Bee Gees? They're those lovable furry varmints that took the world by storm and held it captive during the disco era. Believe it or not, the Bee Gees and their high pitched voices were unleashed on the world in 1958 too. Unlike the Chipmunks, they've won nine Grammy Awards over the years. Also, unlike Alvin and the Chipmunks, they made no effort to hide their nuts.

Now I'm no big fan of the Bee Gees' music or wardrobe, but isn't it a bit depressing to think that Alvin and the Chipmunks have won five Grammy Awards? Taylor Swift has won seven. Rush has won none. <sigh>

The point of today's blog is not to gripe about Grammy Awards, but to bring to the attention of my dwindling readership the importance of speed. The Chipmunks voices were a human voice played on high speed, nothing more. And this gets you a Grammy Award...sheesh.

Perhaps I should win an Oscar for my winter sledding adventure short films that I 'unleashed on the world' at Christmastime? Charlie Chaplin got there long before me, visually. The Chipmunks, acoustically, had me beat by decades. The fact of the matter is that we're greatly entertained by anything played faster than normal.

As I wandered down the avenues of Toronto last week, under a pall of misery, I wondered what a fire truck would sound like on high speed, hence today's video. Then I had my 'hoooooeeelllllllleeeeeee sssshhhhheeeeeee-aaaattttttt' moment and wondered how it would sound slowed down. Not quite as impressive as Wendy's 'over the handlebars' slo-mo moment of fame, but still interesting.

Every single day I hear the screaming sounds of fire truck sirens racing past me. It's quite deafening at times. I often see people covering their ears to dull the sonic assault. I guess this is what reminded me of Alvin and the Chipmunks (same reaction). I wanted to know if the sound was more tolerable at high speed, or, at the very least, cute. It isn't, but at least it's over more quickly. I apply this logic to the Chipmunks.

Well, I've sucked enough helium out of the balloon for this blog. Ta ta.

March Of The Mucky Mucks

A few years ago I spent a month in Vancouver. Our rental condo overlooked the asphalt that most West Vancouverites had to take to access the glistening towers of downtown Vancouver. As I peered below, I was struck by two things:
1) almost every car I saw was a luxury car.
2) not a single Ford Focus wagon.

It's common knowledge that West Vancouver is an expensive place to live. It is one of Canada's preeminent mucky muck enclaves. If you can afford to live there, then you can afford to drive something more worthy than a 3-series BMW. I did see a number of 3-Series BMWs, mind you. I suppose the maids and mechanics need cars too!

I've had a similar experience here in Toronto. Every morning Wendy and I cross two mucky muck feeder streets. Jarvis Street allows those who call Rosedale and the Bridle Path home to get to their downtown offices. It's the first street we cross every morning, and it's a parade of wealth without fail. This morning's image depicts a typical Jarvis Street as taken from the view of a pigeon (me). If only I was a pigeon (shit hawk).....target practice from above!

The other muck-worthy feeder-fodder road is Avenue Road. Wendy and I cross it just before we get to her UofT office. Avenue Road takes the muckers from tony Forest Hills and Lawrence Park to their towers of capitalism. Like Jarvis Street, it provides an endless parade of BMWs, Jaguars, Audis, Range Rovers, Mercedes Benz, and obscenely large SUVs.

Crossing these streets makes me nervous. I sense that the drivers on these streets feel entitlement. I'm richer than you, boot boy, so get out of my way! Maybe they can smell that I keep a Ford Focus wagon back in the New Brunswick backwoods? I don't know how they'd know as I tend to mind my own business as I cross their intersection wearing tatty Levi's, a five year old non-black/non-Canada Goose jacket and a low budget toque. Perhaps it's the blade of timothy protruding from my scowling, suspicious mug that sells me out?

Between the two parades of conspicuous consumption I pass by Yonge Street's beggars, bozos, buffoons, belligerents and the bewildered (likely Scientologists)....all on foot. I am, I suppose, one of them, but not all of them. I feel privileged to know the city at its gritty ground level. I am a keen observer of my own version of reality, without the luxury of Rosedale-coloured glasses. I wouldn't ever trade my dash across Jarvis Street for the walnut dash of their Jaguars. Walnut dash....hmmm....is it just a veneer?

That's a good question...is it a veneer? If you stripped away the fancy cars, obscenely large houses, ties and heels of the mucky mucks, what would be left? Would it be you and me?

The TTC Streetcar Puddle Channel

We've all seen the fireplace channel on cable television, right? A crackling fire appears on your television set and gives you the feeling of warmth on a winter's day. Cool. There's also the aquarium channel with tropical fish swimming across your screen. You're getting schooled by these fish, and you know it, but you can't stop watching. Strangely brilliant ideas, and wildly popular.

Yesterday I was on a Toronto streetcar watching a puddle of water glide back and forth on the corduroy floor. I was transfixed. Tearing my eyes away from the floor for a moment, I noticed that others were greatly entertained by watching the salty meltwater glide back and forth like waves on a beach. This gave me an idea....

The TTC Streetcar Puddle Channel!

I'm sitting by the phone, waiting for offers to roll in.

Waiting.....waiting......waiting.......

Bird Flew

One of last winter's highlights in Toronto was watching the red-tailed hawks fly in front of our rental condo. It drove me to distraction, but I enjoyed it. Often, while playing the guitar, I'd run to grab my camera. My photography blossomed while my guitar gently wept.

Sadly, our new condo doesn't offer the same photographic opportunities with regard to hawk spotting. I still see the hawks, but instead of daily, usually multiple times, it's now two or three sightings per week. The hawks have not left Toronto, it's just that my sight lines are different. I no longer have an urban 'bowl' (an expanse of lower buildings surrounded by tall buildings). My opportunities are limited to catching the hawks flying through the canyon created by our new condo building and our old condo building. It's a different game and I need to be fast on the draw.

The difficulty in hawk spotting is amplified by the fact that the hawks are usually back lit by the mid day sun, thus lessening my ability to see them in direct light. If you're ever reincarnated as a raptor, then I'd suggest you plan your pigeon attacks from a back lit angle of attack. They'll never see you coming. I wonder if fighter pilots use the same tactic?

Though I see fewer red-tailed hawks, I do have the pleasure of seeing Lake Ontario, the Toronto skyline and Niagara Falls in the distance. It's a nice view, for sure. And though there are fewer hawks, I can always see a flock of cranes.

So I Says To Wendy, I Says....

Our condo decor is ninety-five percent complete and it's looking very satisfying, but it's missing something.....

So I says to Wendy, I says "Wendy, we needs a demonic bald baby head mounted on a mirrored ball for the living room." And Wendy says, she says "I was thinkin' the exact same thing, but there's no way that yer gonna find one in Toronna." I says to Wendy "I know it's a long shot, but I have to look." So off to trendy Yorkville I went.

I trolled the streets of Yorkville. I found children's sweaters made from cashmere. I found women's shoes made from Brazilian rock cavy. I found floor mats seemingly made from stray house cat fur, but not a single demonic bald baby head mounted on a mirrored ball. Frustrated, I went back to the condo and had a nip of Wendy's moonshine.

So I says to Wendy, I says "I think yer right, we ain't never goin' to find a demonic bald baby head on a mirrored ball in Tranna." Wendy said, she says "you might as well be trying to find a purple possum in a potato field." She was right, of course. She always is about these things.

Yesterday morning I was at my weekly banjo lesson (okay, so it was ukulele). When it was over I decided to wander east along Queen Street East. I walked over the free-flowing Don River, even spotting a couple of ducks, then across the Don Valley parkway, abuzz with cars. I power-strode past the dawdling bums who find solace among their own outside Jilly's, a down and out Queen and Broadview strip club featuring 'exotic' dancers (likely from Whitby, Ajax or the greater Chipman/Minto metropolitan area). Wait a minute....a strip club on Broadview?? Isn't it ironic, don't you think?

I wandered into Leslieville...a neighbourhood on the upswing. It was once a home to light industry and the film business, but the times they are a changing. Leslieville consumes a few blocks of Queen East with at least one trendy cheese store, numerous antique dealers, plentiful cafés and restaurants, decor stores, bakeries and even a Starbucks! A Starbucks...imagine. Leslieville, you've arrived! Now, open the floodgates and let in the Yuppies.

No one uses the term Yuppies anymore, Ian? Get out of the 1980s, man, and take that pre-Yuppy eye patch off. Jeez.

I still talk about Yuppies, though apparently the Yuppy is dead according to my extensive research. FYI: the eye patch is now off.

And now we return to our story....

So I says to myself "self, this is the kind of neighbourhood where I might just find a demonic bald baby head on a mirrored ball", and there it was in an antique store window!

So I bought it and brought it home to Wendy, feeling like a triumphant hunter/gatherer. Wendy said, she said "well I'll be danged, you found one!" I said "not one, but three, but I only bought the one in the middle."

It's now in our living room. It's so beautiful and it adds so much character to our condo, but as much as we love it, we feel that to keep it for thirty-seven years before Julian inherits it is just too selfish. So, with Julian's birthday coming up on February 28, we're going to surprise him with it. Please, don't anyone tell him.

So Wendy says, she says "what about the capybara underpants you bought him in Yorkville? I thought that was gonna be the special gift this year." But I says to Wendy, I says "I tried them on and I liked them so much that he's not gettin' them right away. He'll get 'em when the will is read, that's the only way."

Did you really see and buy the demonic bald baby head on a mirrored ball, Ian?

I'm not telling. And for the record, I did see a floor mat in Yorkville that looked like Sylvester, Garfield and/or Felix lost their shirt in a high stakes poker game. Thankfully they've got eight lives left. The demonic bald baby head clearly has at least two lives. Now, if I could just find one for myself.

A demonic bald baby head or a life?

Oh, I've got one.

Church Of Scientology...Now Under Renovation

Well it's about time!

I don't have much time to spend researching the Church Of Scientology because I have other more important tasks to perform, like reading People magazine, or flossing. I did take thirty seconds to 'discover'  that Scientologists believe that evolution exists but it is being controlled or directed by a higher force. I can only assume they're referring to God, Oprah or Peaches Honeyblossom Geldof.

Okay, so Oprah is not a Scientologist. She is, in fact, a religion unto herself. Look at the legions of devout worshippers. Jesus watches the O Network, I'm told.

And what of Peaches Honeyblossom Geldof, Ian?

Okay, I'll confess that I Googled a list of former Scientologists and Peaches H.B. Geldof made the cut. No surprise that she's the daughter of Sir Bob. What kind of a boom town rodent would call his daughter Peaches?

Perhaps Apple was already taken? <smirking>

The curious thing about sweet little Peaches is that she and her husband (lead singer of a band called S.C.U.M.) called their daughter Phaedra Bloom Forever.

What's a Phaedra? Can it be surgically removed without scarring??

Initially Phaedra was a character in Greek mythology suffering from the usual Greek maladies: devalued currency, high inflation, overabundance of eyebrow. Phaedra, in later life, became a film, opera, ballet, plant, butterfly and an album title for the band Tangerine Dream.

A fruitful exposé, Ian!

Oh my darling....if you only knew. So, getting back to Scientology, take a look at this next image....

The Church of Scientology isn't actually being renovated, it's the building that's getting a face lift (like my readership of three...we lost one....didn't see that coming). The contractors will 'pretty' it up and make Yonge Street a better looking place to be accosted by beggars, thwarted by zombie text-walkers, and violated by the religiously insane. Mrs.Dress-up got off lightly (not really, R.I.P.).

I'm sure the renovation will see new windows installed, and a twinkling coat of paint will add star power. The facade will be intoxicatingly beautiful, like Tom Cruise's chiseled chin and any of his ex-wive's arses.

That's all well and good, but they really should have a good look at the foundation of the church, don't you think?

A classic understatement from the voice of reason.

Excalibur On Four Wheels....Found!

I turned the corner where Toronto's Queen Street West meets Shaw Street, and there she was!

Excalibur!

The Rhino Mobile!!

The oft dreamed about but never found UWM (ultimate windsurfing mobile)!!!

Today's image depicts the end of my search for the ultimate windsurfing mobile, for she has been found.

This Land Rover, with one small exception, meets all the criteria that I have imagined. It has a unique look, at least on the roads well west of the Serengeti. I could sleep in it if I chose. It could amply accommodate all my windsurfing gear. It's not going to get stuck. And....it has kick-ass good looks and a touch of natty Marlin Perkins to boot! If I owned her I'd put a small rhino on the hood as an ornament, then I'd be done.

What about the one small exception, Ian?

Ah, yes.....gas mileage. This most awesomos rhinoceros probably gets five miles per gallon going downhill. My moral compass tells me that Kyoto says 'no-to' vehicles like this. I can't let my wild desires steer me astray. I must, for now, stay Focused. <sigh>

Listen To My Lottery Whinings!

Still life with dying aspirations.

Everyone has pet peeves, even Gandhi (he wasn't a big fan of laundry detergents that claimed to get his 'whites white', but didn't). He also become impatient when people mis-spelled his name. Sorry, Mahatma....at least you didn't have to live in a world where lottery tickets were sold in 'convenience' stores.

The term 'convenience store' has become an oxymoron to me, and here's why...

Lately I've been noticing something and it's driving me to distraction, and now to blog. In a nut shell, or do I mean 'nut's hell', I've become a convenience store hostage.

Who's holding you hostage, Ian? Is it the Taliban, al Qaeda, Apu, the Ontario Lottery and Gaming Corporation, or people who think spending a dollar to win back sixty-five cents makes sense?

Good question, alter ego. I'm not sure if I'm pissed off at the government for sharking us, the depraved lunatics who buy lottery tickets (note: Ian has bought them before and will likely sin again), or the convenience stores who are anything but convenient. I'm confused and in the early stages of my Tasmanian spin of rage. I don't know where to direct my anger except into this blog.

It's too bad that Wendy wouldn't allow you to hang the 75 pound punching bag in the condo, eh? It would have been good for moments like this. I kind of liked the idea myself, and it's rare that we agree on anything.

So.....this morning I got up and thought 'wouldn't it be nice to go downstairs to the convenience store and get Wendy her Saturday morning Globe & Mail'. I can be a nice guy, if I have to, I guess. While Wendy was still in bed, I slipped my sockless feet into my boots and I slinked/slunk/slanked quietly out of the condo. I descended from my 17th story aerie to terra firma.  I went through two security doors to the great outdoors and then around the corner to our local 'convenience' store. I entered the store to find it vacant with the exception of one other customer and two employees.

'This is nothin', I think to myself as I grab two two-litre Lacteeze milk cartons and a Globe & Mail. The guy in front of me arrived by bicycle to the 'convenience' store at 7 a.m. on a winter's morning. He had reams of lottery tickets that he was trying to cash in. I waited patiently for the first minute, as we are all entitled to our minute of convenience. After two minutes if became apparent that the cashier didn't know how to deal with the lottery tickets. He was scanning (tickets) and scratching (head) for all he was worth.

At this point I started getting antsy. The milk no longer felt like milk. It was getting heavier and heavier. Clerk #1 was out of his league so he called in clerk #2. The two of them tried frantically to return bike boy's winnings (or losings). Bike boy kept nervously going to the store's door to check that no one stole his bike while he earned his pay. As an aside, I hope he uses his winnings to buy a bike lock, or a life. It's so sad to watch the desperately disheveled collect their pay. It would have been equally sad to have watched my face rainbow from white to rose to scarlet to burgundy to eggplant.

After four or five minutes of standing in line, holding now-leaden bricks of milk and two cords of newspaper, I lost it (albeit silently). I finally waved the white flag. My white flag was a pristine white (Tide!), though next to my jagged eggplant noggin we looked like the flag of Qatar. I put the milk back in the cooler and the Globe back on the counter, then I walked out of the store empty handed....and pissed off.

This is not the first time this has happened. Once, while at a 'convenience' store in Jemseg, I waited five minutes to pay for my gas while someone parlayed their tiny paper scrolls into cash. If they had been buying Children's Tylenol for their wounded toddler then I would have been patient, but somehow waiting for someone to 'check their numbers' causes my blood to boil. Unlike this morning's debacle, I couldn't put my gas back in the ground and take my business elsewhere, as I will do today.

Have you ever been inconvenienced by lottery louts (note: I don't actually blame individuals, for they are weak and stupid)? Is this becoming an epidemic? I think it might be. And what are the odds of things getting better? If I knew the odds, and thought about them seriously, I'd start buying lottery tickets because I'd likely be more successful than trying to change the system.

And finally, for your enlightenment, a few stats from CBC regarding lottery odds....

Pay $2 and your odds of becoming a millionaire are approximately 1 in 14 million.

Your odds are even worse for winning Lotto Max. For $5, you're buying a one in 28,633,528 chance at winning at least $15 million.

Those odds are so long that you are more likely to:

• Be killed in a terrorist attack while travelling <in Qatar??> (1 in 650,000).
• Die — during an average lifetime — of flesh-eating disease (1 in one million).
• Be killed by lightning (1 in 56,439).

You are three times more likely to be killed in a traffic accident driving 16 kilometres to buy your ticket than winning the jackpot.

In 2002, you were about 10 times more likely to die after being bitten by a poisonous snake or lizard than to win a Lotto 6/49 jackpot. Odds for the snakebite death are one in 1,241,661, according to the U.S. National Safety Council.

And all I wanted was my wife's morning paper. Sigh.