Trying To Get Ahead In New Brunswick

I woke up this morning and turned on CBC radio. I like to start my day enlightened. There was the obligatory story about a murder trial or two but what really caught my attention was a news story about New Brunswick's dismal financial outlook.

A public policy analyst from Moncton has stated that New Brunswick is headed toward financial insolvency.

You mean there's a possible rupt in our bank?

Yup....a rupt! When you look at our current financial predicament, the path we're on right now (today!), and the future demographics of our province, we're....

toast.

We currently owe a sh_tload of money and we're getting further in debt every year. Our politicians got us into this situation and they seem unable to get us out of it. It's worth mentioning that we elected them and then we sat silently on the sidelines, so if we fall from grace then it will be from the height of our own high horses. I hate horses.

You could argue that the Alward government is trying to get us out of a looming financial crisis by selling our soul to the fracking devils. Why does this feel like a desperate measure, akin to gambling? It has an 'all or nothing' feel to it. It makes me uncomfortable. Ditto for the recent change to our forest conservation policy which may unlock the green belt to the Irving empire's skidders. Desperate measures by desperate people, and highly questionable.

If you're listening, Shawn Graham, which you aren't, you're equally culpable. Again, so are we, the voters. Now, I'm no expert in economic matters but

You put that disclaimer in so Julian won't skewer you, didn't you?

Yes. As I was about to say, I'm no expert in economic matters but it seems to me that you get into financial trouble when expenses exceed revenues. New Brunswick has been in this situation since the last surplus in 2007. Seven years of continuous debt escalation. Imagine if Wendy and I ran a deficit in our household for the past seven years. I'd have an ulcer the size of Pamela Wallin's travel budget!

So what do we do, collectively, as a province? We endure pain to save ourselves, I'd say. We raise taxes while continuing to be cost conscious and responsible with the taxpayer's money. Let's start with the HST. Maybe it should be raised. We have to do something....and fast. Let's repeal the property tax breaks to business that the Alward government recently implemented. Let's look at other tax avenues upon which we can drive the turnip truck we're all in.

Be...in this place.

Yes. Sadly 'this place' is the back of the turnip truck.

The problem: human beings look out for number one first, then they worry about the well-being of others. Remember when you're flying on Air Canada and the cabin pressure drops, you put the oxygen mask over your own face first, then over your child's face. Remember how the Captain always goes down with the ship? Tell that to the families of the South Korean high school students. It's a fact: we look out for ourselves first. Politicians, though working for us, are often preoccupied with their ability to get re-elected. They avoid making tough (and responsible) decisions, often choosing the easy route which will make them appear to be a 'friend' of the voting public. They are anything but. They make grandiose promises when they shouldn't (or can't) and they avoid making decisions when they should (and could).

Even the word 'politician' has become tainted. We no longer see politicians as people who are doing their best for our collective best, but as individuals playing a game in which we are but pawns. Politicians hide from the toughest of issues, then squeeze their butt cheeks every four years at election time, hoping they won't get flushed out. Sometimes they get flushed out, sometimes they get re-elected (often a battle between the lesser of evils). Politicians are doing one job (running the government) but they're playing a game at the same time (trying to get re-elected). It's a flawed system and we all know it.

Now, I (think I) know there are some truly conscientious politicians out there, but they are low in number and unable to convince their parties to make tough choices. I wonder what Blaine Higgs, New Brunswick's Finance Minister, would do if he didn't have to please his caucus colleagues but instead did what he thought was right for the people of New Brunswick. I suspect it would be quite different from what he's doing at the moment.

Cormorants, Beagles, Foxes and Mr. Appropriation

Black bird singing in the dead of night? Not exactly. More like black bird crapping fish guts all day. This, my ornithologically challenged readers, is a cormorant. Behold!

Years ago I had a cormorant that liked to sit on the sailboat that I had moored in front of my house. It didn't sing, but it did spill its guts daily. What a mess! I was forever trying to chase it away. One time I rowed out and physically pushed it off the sailboat with an oar! The boat smelled like the out-take pipe at a fish factory. Just offal.

Canada's new fleet of search and rescue helicopters were given the name Cormorant. They are not black, ugly, or submersible (cormorants are divers). They don't eat fish....so why call them cormorants?

Humans have an odd habit of giving animal names to man-made objects or entities. Sometimes it works. The Ford Mustang conjures up images of running freely through the countryside, like the wild unbridled horse itself. The Mercury Cougar? The Mercury Cougar doesn't work so well. The Cougar was named long before the word was misappropriated to mean a 40-something female divorcee dressed in leopard print clothes who trolls the taverns at 1 a.m.looking for drunken boy-toys to drag bag home to Devon. Even with the original meaning of cougar (mountain lion), the name simply doesn't work.

The most egregious misappropriation of an animal name, in my opinion, is the name of a Fredericton radio station. 105.3 FM is known as 'the Fox'. The Fox. The Fox?? A fox is clever, so that should end the comparison immediately, but why stop there? From the internet: "Foxes also imprint droppings with glands located between their legs, and leave markers with glands between their toes. To humans all of these scents combine to form a distinctive skunk-like or musky fox smell".  105.3 has an equally pungent playlist that emanates from a seemingly similar nether region. It gets better....

Fredericton has another radio station, 95.7 FM. Guess what they call their station? The Wolf (cue the howling). To their credit, they may have used this name in jest, trying to outfox The Fox. Mission accomplished.

Ah...the evolution of the English language. Charles Darwin's ship was named the H.M.S. Beagle. Now that was an aptly named ship. The Beagle was a curious boat, always sniffing around the world for things to discover. It would appear that the Beagle, or more accurately Darwin himself, pissed on a lot of people's feet. I suppose Darwin' ship could have been called H.M.S. Monkey Business and that would have worked too.

Can you think of any animal names that have been used where they shouldn't? There must be hundreds of examples.

I think the car named Jaguar is a good example. Originally they were sporty and stealthy like the ferocious feline. Now they just carry around bloated aristocrats and puffed up orthodontists. The mystique is gone.

Good one! Mercury once made a car called the Mercury Mystique. It rolled off the tongue nicely, but there was no mystique to the car. There were no Mystiques in driveways or garages either. Going back to the Cormorant helicopter for a moment, I can think of another helicopter that should have been named after an animal. Canada's venerable (??) fleet of Sea King helicopters should have been named Osprey. Typically they hover in the air, then plunge into the water.

You have a deadly sense of humour, Ian. Here's a question for you....if you had to name a radio station after an animal, what would you call it?

That's easy. I'd call it 102.3, the Neddy Hole.

Holy! With a name like that, what would the station be like?

Just like all the others in New Brunswick.

Or like a cormorant on a sailboat.

Exactly.

Garbage Predation

It's Monday morning, that glorious day of the week when you go outside at 7:45 a.m. in three degree temperatures (and wind and rain) to put the festering, week old garbage at the end of the driveway. Nice way to start the week!

Toronto has got Cambridge-Narrows beat all to pieces in this department. In my Toronto condo, I take fresh, lavender scented, day old garbage down the hallway on the 17th floor to a garbage disposal chute. If I choose to wear my bunny slippers while doing so, I can. I don't even have to wear a coat because it's all indoors. There is nothing to fear when taking out the Toronto trash. Well,  I suppose there's always the threat of a bear attack.

In Cambridge-Narrows we have no obvious bear population. We have raccoon, squirrels, fox, and the much feared Canadian Air Force....the crows! All of them waiting to attack my garbage. Crows are known to be particularly intelligent. The fact that they're sitting on branches at the end of my driveway every Monday morning is a pretty good sign that they're intelligent. The fact that they eat garbage makes them no different than most consumers I see lined up at Tingley's. Two days ago, in the grocery line-up, I saw a dumpy person buying a bag of chips, two litres of pop, some chip dip and a club pack of gum. I suppose the gum was to mask the wretched breath one would get after eating chips purported to be flavoured with sour cream and onion. Think about it....sour cream and onion....in your mouth. Kiss, kiss. Yeesh! And gawd only knows what toxins were in the chip dip!!

Garbage is today's theme, obviously. You may have noticed something unusual in my trashy picture today. Yes, you guessed it, I use a Casperescent cloaking device to fool the would be predators. The bed sheet over the garbage fools the crows into thinking that I'm simply throwing out some old linens. Crows are smart, but they're not Jean Gaudet smart. It would take a special predator to surmise the would be prize under the bed sheet; one that could sense the electrical signals pulsing forth from my pungent, week old trash. Thankfully, I didn't see the ferocious (and stealthy) garbage shark this morning!

Iconic Images From The Battlefront

We're all familiar with the iconic image of the soldiers raising the flag at Iwo Jima. We can all conjure up an image of the Hindenburg in flames. That was yesterday for me.

I arrived at Pine Grove to find my parents outside by the maintenance shed. Impressive, I thought. We had a day that was sunny and windless so Dad had the bright idea to take Mom out for some fresh air. There were still substantial snow banks in the yard and it was only April after all, but it felt warmish. Dad had Mom bundled up in a fashionable (??) collection of blankets and shawls.

Mom seemed very happy to be outside, and Dad always likes to be outdoors. I took this picture of Dad, sitting on the snow blower which was attached to the tractor, as he played the harmonica for Mom. To me it was an iconic moment. I happened to have my ukulele with me so I joined in. Mom was clearly amused as she laughed out loud and attempted to move her arms to the music. She was, like the Hindenburg, on fire! Dad and I, the troops of Pine Grove, were attempting to raise the (musical) standard at the nursing home (a la Iwo Jima).

Did you raise the musical standard?

That's a question that we can't answer. There are some very talented musicians who routinely perform at Pine Grove. Those performers have been honing their skills for their entire lives. Dad started the harmonica just two years ago, at age 88. I started the ukulele three years ago at the tender old age of 47. We're both making music, though not often together as our egos are as big as that garden tractor (plus harmonica and ukulele...c'mon). We are solo artists at heart, I think. All I know is that our solo audience of one was most appreciative, and that's all that mattered.

Double Duck Dating In The Hinterland

It's a great feeling to wake up in the morning, look out the window and have no idea what living creatures you'll see. Every morning I see something different, at least during springtime in Cambridge-Narrows. In Toronto it was just bears, bears, bears. Yawn.

Yesterday morning two pairs of ring-necked ducks paddled past my shore. They seemed to be paddling with purpose and not lollygagging. I suspect they were off to see a movie, or perhaps going to a restaurant. You know, those things that couples do on a double date.

In all likelihood they were just passing through on their way to Newfoundland, the Gaspé or north of the St.Lawrence. The ring-necked duck goes about as far north as southern Labrador in its quest for a suitable nesting site.

Wow, Ian, you could work for Hinterland Who's Who!

Well, I do live in the hinterland.

What exactly does the word 'hinterland' mean? What's a 'hinter', for that matter?

From Wikipedia: The hinterland is the land or district behind a coast or the shoreline of a river. Specifically, by the doctrine of the hinterland, the word is applied to the inland region lying behind a port, claimed by the state that owns the coast. 

I consider Saint John to be my port, therefore I live in the hinterland. There's more...

The term hinterland was from German, where it means literally "the land behind" (a city, a port, or similar),cognate with the English hind land.

Hind land...I like that. It makes me think of the Oromocto Mall for some reason.

Butt, of course! 

There's one last use of the word hinterland of which I wasn't aware. I think I may add it to my lexicon. Take a look at this (again, from Wikipedia):

A further sense in which the term is commonly applied, especially of British politicians, is in talking about an individual's depth and breadth of knowledge of other matters (or lack thereof), specifically of cultural, academic, artistic, literary and scientific pursuits. For instance, one could say, "X has a vast hinterland", or "Y has no hinterland". The spread of this usage is usually credited to Denis Healey (British Defence Secretary 1964-1970 and Chancellor of the Exchequer 1974-1979) and his wife Edna Healey, initially in the context of the supposed lack of hinterland of former Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher.

Now I'm practically drooling at the thought of using the word hinterland in some sort of clever context. I simply need to find someone who's lacking in depth. Don't worry...by the end of the day I'll have found my victims. I think I already know who they are because they are 'disgracefully' ignorant.

Is that a hint? Are you a hinter?

I am definitely a hinter, although that may be too obvious. Typically I like to be more Fraser Simpsonian, or cryptic. For example:

Fearless neighbour and stunned others (5,3,3)

Brilliant!

Crocus. Crrrrrrrrocus. What's He Saying?

Goose. Geese? Right.

Moose. Meese? Wrong. Mooses? Wrong.

Crocus. Cro.........??

If you're like me, you've spent the better part of your adult life wondering how to pluralize the word crocus. One crocus, two crocus? Two crocuses? Two croci?

Well, a least Spell Check knows that croci is wrong, but what's the correct way to turn one crocus into two cro....pretty flowers? Let's take a look, once and for all. We'll make an appeal to that entity that we can't see, but guides our lives everyday... the one 'all knowing' entity that we worship.

God?

Of course not, you idiot. I'm talking about the internet. I'll look it up in an on-line dictionary.

Well prick me with some cacti, apparently you can use crocus, crocuses or croci! They're all correct. There....mystery solved. Enjoy your new found freedom, unshackled from your relentless pursuit of linguistic perfection.

P.S. Spell Check be damned.

From The Pages of Poplar Science

 Looks like those pesky rodents are at it again...and I couldn't be happier! I'll tell you why in a moment. First of all, let me just state that the eastern flank of my property line is home to a fence. The fence is roughly 150 feet long and separates my property from that of my neighbours. To protect their identity I will only refer to them as 'the Brewskis'.

The Brewskis are rather territorial. The fence was erected to keep the Vartys out, or perhaps the Brewskis in. I'm really not sure why the fence was put up, but I am happy to announce that I love the fence and it's made my life much more pleasurable (what you can't see, can't hurt you!). Best of all, I didn't pay a cent for it!

Sadly, the fence hasn't cured all of my neighbours 'issues'. Madame Brewski has a habit of 'crossing the line' and 'rearranging' things on my property. It's happened a few times. Sometimes she just comes to the property line and tosses her organic waste over into my yard. Sometimes she just hurls insults. Sometimes she's well onto my property. She needs help. So do I.

Imagine my delight when I discovered that a busy beaver has been building a dam between my property and the Brewskis. The dam appears to be just on my side of the property line and it goes from the end of the fence right down to the water's edge. When I first noticed the dam, it was constructed of felled branches and logs. Later, it would appear, the beaver has fortified the dam with leaves and mud. It looks quite impenetrable. I suspect that the Brewskis will be delighted with the handiwork of the beaver since they appreciate territorialism.

This new dam will keep Madame Brewski on her own property and not on my land. It would be difficult to cross on foot, although she could always 'sweep' across in the air (see Nimbus 2000). I see this new barrier as a good thing because it will promote good relations. Thank you to the industrious beaver!

Well, that's it for today's blog. Miserable day here today; heavy rain turning to snow later in the day, they say. Yeesh. I think I'll take the day off and spend it in the lodge.

Make Money At Home!

We've all done this before....you check all the pockets of the items you place in the washing machine thoroughly. You set the washing machine on the proper temperature, then you press start. An hour later you return, grab the tangled mess and heave it in the dryer. Again, you press start and return in another hour of so.

When you take the items out of the dryer you have that 'oh shit' moment. You discover that somehow a Kleenex, or money, or some foreign object made it into the wash (and dryer). I even washed my passport once!

In the case of money (i.e. pocket change), we often discover it in the washer before it even gets to the dryer. I've always admired the look of a freshly washed caribou, bluenose or beaver. Last week I washed some clothes and when I was done there was a loony sitting on the rubber lip of the washing machine (see image). I was delighted to find a dollar. If you saw my income tax return this year, then you'd know that a dollar is a big deal to me! I was slightly disappointed that somehow I did not catch this dollar before it went went into the washing machine. I swear, Wendy, I did check the pockets.

A few days later I washed the sheets from my bed and another loony appeared in the washing machine, in the exact same place! Now, I can understand how a loony could go undetected in one of my pant pockets, especially since I own a couple of pairs of cargo pockets (too many g-d pockets), but how could a loony appear from bed sheets? I'm baffled.

I'm going to conduct an experiment today by washing all of my underwear....both pairs! If a loony appears then I'm going to freak. For all I know, I may just be the owner of the mythic Maytag that lays the golden loony! If this is the case, then I would ask my readership of two and a half not to mention this blog to Revenue Canada. I can't afford to have them know that I'm laundering money successfully. To entice you not to 'rat me out', I'll let you come to my place and wash my laundry for me. Of course, in return you'll get to keep the loony. Deal?

Flood Watch In The Narrows

This is how the flood waters look this morning. I think the flooding has peaked for the moment, though we've got rain coming on Wednesday and Thursday. It could get worse yet, perhaps to the point where it wouldn't be practical to wear blue suede shoes in the neighbourhood!

Stayin' Alive

If I'm not mistaken, two out of three of the Bee Gees are dead. Based on my limited knowledge of the afterlife (never been there), the only way to rouse the dead is to greatly offend them. I think Julian and I may have done that, though I assure you that our video was meant to be a 'tribute'. If we haven't roused the sleeping Gibb brothers, then perhaps Barry will see this video and we'll go on tour together as the Three Jeez!

Loonatic Fringe

The loons have returned to the lake. This is the time of year when birds pair up and start a family. We have three loons here in today's picture, this may mean that someone's going home alone. I guess it could also be three male loons looking for some action, or three females trying to avoid the male 'action' loons.

I really don't know who or what comprises this fringe of loons. I do know that it was a pretty sight to see.

Flood Boy Week

I think everyone has a singer or two that they really can't stand. I, and this should come as no surprise, can think of three: Celine Dion, Aaron Neville and, you guessed it, Celine Dion again.

The interesting thing about my observation is that I couldn't name a single one of their songs, let alone recite any lyrics. I simply don't like their sound and/or stage presence. Now if I was asked to name a song that had annoying lyrics, I could only name one....

Farm Girl Strong by Gord Bamford. And it's a doozy. Take a gawk at these lyrics and try to think about William Shakespeare as you read:

Her Grandma was a dust bowl born and bred beauty.

Her Mama was a boneified Oklahoma cutie.

Her Daddy drove a tractor his whole life long, it runs in her blood.

She's farm girl strong.

She hits the ground runnin' before the dawn cracks,

Pulls up her ponytail through her baseball cap.

Zips up her coveralls, slips her work boots on.

It runs in her blood, she's farm girl strong.

[Chorus:]

But when the workdays done, shell get dressed up.

Head into town in her pickup truck.

Her jeans are tight and her legs are long, man shes a looker.

She's farm girl strong.

She cooks a mean batch of buttermilk biscuits,

If something breaks down she knows how to fix it.

She likes an ice cold beer and a three cord song.

It runs in her blood, shes farm girl strong.

[Chorus x2]

Farm girl strong

(man she's a looker)

Farm girl strong

(man she's a looker)

It really turns me on

(man she's a looker)

She's farm girl strong

(man she's a looker)

(man she's a looker)

In reading the lyrics, apart from the urge to vomit my buttermilk biscuits, I'm struck by how little I have in common with the strong farm girl. Let's compare:

Farm Girl                                              Leisurologist/Flaneur

had a dust bowl granny                            wet weather British granny

had a boneified Oklahoma cutie mama        bonafide Scottish cutie Mootha (and could spell bonafide)

her daddy drove a tractor                         dad walked to worked or drove a Wankel powered Mazda

sleeps in her work boots                          takes socks off before bed

has a ponytail                                          Kojak

wears coveralls                                       wears cargo pants

occasionally gets dressed up                     despises fancy clothes

drives a pick-up truck                              Ford Focus Wagon

jeans are tight                                          wears baggy ass jeans

legs are long                                           legs are long*

she's a looker                                         see 'Kojak'

cooks buttermilk biscuits                         had two donuts with breakfast

knows how to fix stuff                            knows a good mechanic

likes an ice cold beer                               is apparently allergic or intolerant to alcohol

she likes a three cord song                      can play a four chord song (and spells 'chord' with an 'h')

lives on farm, is a girl, is strong               weak, male, cottage-country dweller

You really have nothing in common with this song, Ian. What's any of this got to do with today's picture anyway?

Did you not notice the asterisk? Legs are long! The farm girls legs are long, and so are mine!!

True, but I don't think the connotation is the same. She's a long-legged, manure wading machine! She can wade through the pig slop with her long, thin, luscious legs in order to feed the oinkers. Very practical. You? You just complain a lot about not being able to find pants with legs that are long enough. You're always whining about wearing 'flood pants'.

Precisely! Today's image shows the level of the lake during this year's spring freshet. I took that image this morning from my sun-room. The lake is at least two and a half feet lower than it was in 2008, though it's still going higher. I love the flood! It's one of my favourite times of the year....I can wear my flood pants with relative impunity. I'm fashionable and prepared for what nature has to throw at me.

Perhaps, but can you bake buttermilk biscuits?

No. <sigh>

Feathered Distraction And The Rake's Progress

 Yesterday was one of these days about which people in condos can only dream. It was a clear, bright day with temperatures well below zero in the morning but edging towards double digits as the sun warmed the landscapes. The cheery rays gave a dappling effect to the lawn and forest floor as light was filtered through the resident pine and soon-to-be umbrous oak.

Glorious.

I arose happily, breakfasted, then waited as my sole intention for the day was to rake clear the flower beds from their prison of oak leaves, twigs and various other debris ('fitever' Priscilla threw over the fence...haha!). The raking started just before noon.

It wasn't long before I spotted, peripherally, a large bird flying over the edge of my lake shore. An osprey! The osprey seemed fixated with something in the lake, undoubtedly a fish. The osprey circled and then started its descent but not at a traditional angle. Osprey typically take a perpendicular, 90 degree angle of attack and plunge into the water, but this osprey was swooping down to the water's surface like an eagle looking to snatch and fly. Why, you ask?

As overnight temperatures had been -10 degrees, there was a slight 'skiff' of ice on the surface of the lake. The osprey couldn't break the icy surface with its talons and its lunch went unclaimed. I think it must have been a dead fish trapped in the ice because, over the course of the afternoon, I noticed the osprey returned three times to claim its meal. No luck. The 'skim' of ice never let up for the entire day.

Today I'll be raking another 'swath' of the property. I'm pretty sure what I'll find on the ground. Underneath the debris, new shoots of green are already starting to emerge. I had my first crocus flowering yesterday. In the sky, who knows what airborne distractions will take me away from my raking? The skies aren't exactly black with migrating birds but there always seems to be something flitting or soaring. It's a nice time of year to celebrate the resurrection of life.

In a note unrelated to my last sentence....Happy Good Friday! It is Friday, right? I really have no idea now that I'm back in the boonies. It is definitely good. That much I know.

The Dowdy Mrs.Hoodie

Quite frankly, I don't know what he sees in her. She's dressed like an old bag, all in brown. And what about that hairdo??!!??

Ah, the hooded mergansers have returned. Yet another sure sign of spring as they are often among the first waterbirds to grace the surface of the mighty Washademoak Lake.

The male hoodie (right) is all decked out in his finest travel attire. Impressive top hat, crisp white linen shirt, black tie and tails, and fashionably provocative cinnamon/taupe coloured pants.

I can see what she sees in him, but what does he see in her? I hope she has a good personality!

Blue Ice Floes At Sunset

I set the camera up at 8 a.m.yesterday,hoping to catch the movement of ice in the lake. As (bad) luck would have it, there wasn't much action until sunset. When you watch this short film, savour the final few seconds as they're the only ones of interest.

Ian Spielbum

The Ides Of April: Toronto Version

Let's pick on Toronto, shall we? Everyone there drives around in expensive luxury SUVs. They wear Lululemon yoga pants when they troll the aisles of Whole Foods looking for artisanal olive oil. And so what if you can see their bums? They're perfectly shaped, albeit by plastic surgeons in Yorkville.

To give you an idea as to the level of perfection that is Toronto, yesterday's forecast high was for twenty degrees. It managed to hit twenty-two. Take that(!), rest of Canada.

Well, we can all take solace knowing that today in Toronto it's minus one. There is freezing rain and freezing ice pellets. A bitter northwest wind is like icing on the angel cake. The Leafs didn't make the playoffs and their players can't go out on the golf course today. Rob Ford is Mayor.

Rejoice, rejoice, rejoice greatly (rest of Canada). For all that you have endured this winter and spring, take some comfort in knowing that you are not Toronto today. Celebrate life as you slip your fat asses into your expandable Pennington's slacks. Have a serving of Super Fries for breakfast, and if you've already done that, help yourself to another plateful of New Brunswick's golden fried tubers and load 'em up with Costco ketchup (now available in 45 gallon barrels!). Stay in bed and watch Dr.Phil, even though he comes on late in the afternoon and only addresses the types of problems found in cities like Toronto (cheatin', wife beaten', over eatin', fleecin', treason, sneezin', and displeasin' things in general).

Rejoice (again), this one day a year when life in the rest of Canada is better than in Toronto.

Don't Believe Everything You See And Hear

Did someone send you this image a year or two ago?



I remember a friend sending it to me a while back. I laughed out loud when I saw it. It screamed Photoshop yet it was being sent around as though it really happened. People are so gullible.

Speaking of gullible, I think a lot of people have a false impression of what it's like to be a certified Leisurologist. They think the Leisurologist is a man of culture: wine taster extraordinaire, poetry writer/reader, fashionista. No, that's a flaneur. There are regular flaneurs, and then there are dandy flaneurs, like this...



This in not me. I am not a dandy flaneur. I'm not even a flaneur, really, it's just that in Toronto there's so little adventure for me that involves danger or elevated heart rates that I resemble a flaneur in my approach to city life (though not in my approach to fashion).

In Cambridge-Narrows everything is different. I am a true Leisurologist. Just take a look at this morning's image....

So you took the garbage out...big deal. The whole world knows that Monday is garbage day in Cambridge-Narrows. How does this make you a world renowned Leisurologist?

This picture doesn't, but what happened leading up to it does.

More details, please.

Everyone takes the garbage out except Klever O'Leary and Toe-nailed Drump. What separates the Leisurologist and everyone else is the manner in which the garbage disposal is executed. I decided this morning that I would celebrate the ritual of taking the garbage to the end of my driveway. But how to celebrate it....

By making a movie!

I recently purchased a device known as a Dolly Kit Skater for D-SLR. Translating into English for those of you who speak hinglish as a sick hound lang gwidge, it's a mobile roller-skate-like device to which you can attach a camera and make forward or reverse movement.

Okay, lousy explanation. Here's a picture of the g-d thing....



I thought that I'd make a movie to show the Leisurologist lifestyle. The lifestyle is not the action of taking the garbage out, rather it's the action of making a movie about taking the garbage out. It's a celebration of the mundane. That is what a life of leisure has given me....an appreciation of the ridiculous (and also the odd windsurfing adventure).

So where's the movie, Steven Spielbum?

Well, I set everything up almost perfectly. The camera was mounted on the Skate Dolly. I tied a piece of fishing line to the dolly and held the other end in my hand in order to tow it as I walked up the driveway. This was to be an 'action' film. I pressed start on my camera to get the movie going and then I walked up the driveway, garbage bag in hand, dolly and camera following and filming my every step. The camera fell over once and swiveled backwards once. I made adjustments and comments, thinking it would make for hilarious cinema. When I finally deposited the garbage at the end of the driveway I had some witty repartee with the camera, then went to turn the video off....

Shit! It's at that point I noticed that I hadn't put the camera on video mode, but rather it had been set to take one single underwater image. Sigh. My movie got two thumbs down, mostly because it wasn't a movie.

Then what?

I had a decision to make. Do I walk the garbage back down the driveway an re-film my blockbuster movie? I decided that if my neighbour was watching me walk my garbage up the driveway while towing a small roller-skate with a camera attached, then she would think that I'm very odd. If I did it twice then she'd think I was completely insane.

Ultimately I decided not to re-film my garbage adventure. I settled for a still shot of me posing next to the garbage bag. This morning's adventure was a good lesson for me. I am still not a professional Leisurologist...there is room for improvement. Though my actions may be leisure-like, there must be proof positive that I am really what I claim to be. That said, things could have been more unbelievable...

Taffy

Could there be a better image to signal the arrival of spring? To me, maple taffy on snow is as iconic as it gets.

Weekend Mourning and Saddle Addle

I can think of three things that I don't want to hear when I wake up in the early morning hours:

1) someone shouting 'fire, fire'.

2) Deputy Doug saying 'Mystery vocalist number one'.

3) Oscar Pistorius wanting to play hide & seek.

I woke up early, at 6-something, but I didn't have a clue what time it was because I've yet to acclimatize to New Brunswick's morning light. I think I may have even forgotten where I was because I rolled over and turned the radio on thinking I'd get the CBC news. The first words I heard were 'mystery vocalist number one'.

"Shit!" I said out loud, then my brain focused on the cutting reality that I was at home in the Maritimes and it was the weekend. I had completely forgotten about Can The Shrew's Weekend Mourning show. Of all the things I missed when living in Toronto, Weekend Mourning (not a typo, btw) was not one of them.

Now, you might think 'what's today's picture have to do with waking up on a Saturday morning'? I see today's image, which was taken yesterday afternoon, as a pictorial metaphor for an 'icy reception'. I was hoping to start my day with some worldly news, instead I got an impossible contest hosted by both ends of a horse named Duke. Of course I'm just angry because in five years of 'accidentally' listening to Weekend Mourning I've yet to correctly guess a single mystery vocalist. I always answer 'Ron Hynes' to every vocalist even if I know it's a woman. Every now and then I'll change my answer to 'Rita MacNeil', but that's when the mystery vocalist turns out to be Ron Hynes. Sigh.

Well, I've survived one bout of Weekend Mourning. There can be little doubt that I'm officially 'back in the saddle' now.

The Homecoming

I've been gone almost three months and this is what I found upon my return. Not bad. I was expecting worse, given the outrageous amount of snow New Brunswick received this winter (10 feet). In contrast to today's image of my place, my dad's property looks as though a glacier had formed. I half expect snow to be there in August. My place was far less snowy. Infinitely less snow. Parts of my lawn, particularly under the mighty pines, are bare.

The lake is still frozen solidly, though there is a small patch of open water under the bridge. It's going to take a long time before it feels like spring here. I'll be curious to see what sort of a flood we have this year. It could be a big 'un!

My Toronto Skyline: 14 hours In 30 Seconds

There must be some irony in the fact that I suffered through Toronto's coldest winter in 25 years, yet, on the day I'm returning to New Brunswick, it's forecast to hit 16 degrees and be gloriously sunny. Ah Toronto, how you toy with me.

Maybe this shift in the weather is a sign that there is a localized god: malevolent and vengeful. Generally hateful of outdoor enthusiasts, and specifically of windsurfers like me. Did I mentioned that five out of seven days in Toronto this winter had enough wind to blow the chinny-chin-chin off Mulroney Sr.? What a waste!

You mean the wind or Mulroney Sr.?

I'll not touch that one with a ten foot chin! I think the localized malevolent god also hates Toronto hockey fans, but so does everyone else so that's not such a big deal. Of course the Maple Leafs didn't make the playoffs this year. Yawn.

Yesterday was also a glorious weather day in Toronto, practically t-shirt worthy. I set my camera up on the condo balcony and shot a time-lapse movie to capture the rapture. The film begins at 8 a.m. and finishes at 10 p.m. I probably won't see this scene again until November, but I'll learn to deal with it.

Heroic Toes

A few years ago a good friend of ours, let's call him Homme
Libre to protect his identity, told a story about a student giving him the most wonderful foot massage. I don't tend to remember things like this, except that the foot fondler described Homme Libre's toes as 'heroic'.

Heroic toes. Now that's a memorable descriptor.

During our Sunday walk, Wendy and I stumbled past a podiatrist's office. Outside of the office was a small billboard (see image). Seeing those heroic toes resting upon a field of daffodils was almost too much for us. It reminded us of you-know-who.

Sadly, you-know-who's field of daffodils is probably still buried under two to three feet of snow. I know for a fact that this will make him miserable since he is not a fan of winter, but I feel no sorrow for him as he just spent two months in the sun. During those same two months, Wendy and I suffered through winter in Iqaluit. Oops, I meant to say Toronto.

I think Toronto will see daffodils before anywhere in New Brunswick will. The snow is 99% gone here, and little green shoots are sprouting up in gardens. Ironically, or moronically, I'm about to go back in time, seasonally speaking. My meek toes return to New Brunswick tomorrow. It's going to be a shock to the system, but I'm ready for some shock therapy.

Mini-Mootha Marching Marathon - Don Valley Edition

This past Sunday was the nicest day we've experienced since I arrived on January 16. It was a true spring day: birds sang, the sun shone, and Torontonians put down their pistols for a day. It was like a climactic truce with the bitch we call winter.

Ahhh....it's good to be alive!

Wendy and I agreed that a walk somewhere was in order, so we departed from our Vervacious condo and headed east along Wellesley Street until we butted heads with Parliament Street (Cabbagetown). North on Parliament Street took us up to Bloor Street, where we cranked a right and headed east again.

We discovered the Rosedale School For The Arts which was teetering on the edge of the Don Valley. We then walked across a long bridge which traverses the Don Valley. Underneath the upper deck of the bridge we could feel/hear the rumblings of the Bloor Line subway. At ground level below us, the Don River made its way south to Lake Ontario, bikers enjoyed a paved path and cars whisked along the north-south corridor of the Don Valley Parkway.

As we reached the other side of the valley, Bloor Street became the Danforth, part of which is home to Toronto's noted Greek community. We, however, took an immediate right after crossing the valley and we headed south along Broadview Avenue. This long street became the eastern flank of the Don Valley from the Danforth down to the lake. With the Don Valley in the fore to mid-ground, this area offered sweeping panoramas of the Toronto skyline to the west.

We noticed a sign which offer us a map to the Don Valley as well as some historical background. It made for interesting reading, but what stuck in my mind was that bears (bears!) once roamed the valley. Cougars too!

Hopefully you can read the text if you enlarge the image to your left. If not, then you only need to know that bears are no longer a threat in this neighbourhood.

Though there was no mention of it on the sign, in all likelihood some wee mannie arrived in Toronto a few hundred years ago and said 'auch aye, it's a bonnie great glen', then welled up, played the bag pipes, shot a pheasant, grumbled about this and that, then started hatching plans to make money...or find someone with some! Oh, he may also have named the river after the River Don which runs through Aberdeenshire. It makes sense.

There are efforts underway to return the Don River Valley to something more historically accurate. I applaud these efforts, though having a six lane freeway running through the glen more or less precludes anything truly pastoral. It would be nice to see ducks swimming in the Don River, and not sneakers, beer cans and plastic bags.

Wendy and I carried on down Broadview, past a satellite Chinatown at Gerrard Street, to our favourite coffee shop which was tucked away on a side street in the neighbourhood of Broadview and Queen Street East. We enjoyed libations and sweeties. I was hoping for a buttery-rowie but had to settle for a coconut macaroon. I washed it down with a cappuccino. It's hard to find good Scottish food in this town. Wendy had tea and a muffin, though she briefly considered a scone (Scottish!).

We then headed west across the Don Valley on Queen Street, back to Parliament Street where we turned right and went north. We meandered our way through a slightly Muslim block, then back to Cabbagetown. One final push west got us to our neighbourhood, known as St.James Town. In total, 7.2 km. Strictly speaking, we're not in St.James Town, we're just a little too west (and gay) to be considered part of it.  We're part of 'The Village' which is fitting since I'm a Village Idiot. St.Jamestown, just to the east of our condo, is an interesting place. It's either an urban planners dream, or nightmare. Not sure. Here's just a tidbit of info:

St. James Town is the largest high-rise community in Canada. It has been identified as one of 13 economically deprived neighborhoods within the city. It consists of 19 high-rise buildings (14 to 32 stories). These massive residential towers were built in the 1960s. Officially, approximately 17,000 people live in the neighbourhood's 19 apartment towers and 4 low rise buildings; but the number is thought by residents to be 25,000, making it Canada's most densely populated community, and one of the most densely populated neighbourhoods anywhere in North America.

St. James Town was originally designed to house young "swinging single" middle class residents, but the apartments lacked appeal; many prospective tenants instead moved to suburban houses in the developing areas of Scarborough, Etobicoke and North York. The area quickly became much poorer. Four buildings were later built by the province to provide public housing. Today, the towers are mostly home to newly arrived immigrant families.

In 2006 a census of the neighbourhood show that, after English, the most common languages spoken were:

1. Tagalog - 8.1%
2. Tamil - 5.5%
3. Unspecified Chinese - 2.5%
4. Mandarin - 2.5%
5. Korean - 1.9%
6. Spanish - 1.8%
7. Russian - 1.8%
8. Serbian - 1.4%
9. Bengali - 1.4%
10. Urdu - 1.4%

What? 1.4% Urdu but no Doric?!? Immigration certainly is different than it was two hundred years ago, isn't it? It makes for interesting neighbourhoods and great cultural experiences. The selection of food experiences, even within our short walk, was wonderful unless you had a hankering for a buttery rowie, in which case you're royally fuskered.

Birds Of A Feather....

 I have no fears of any living creatures in Toronto.

What about bears, Ian?

Let me start again. I fear only one thing in Toronto....bears. Beyond that I am fearless in terms of my fellow humans. I do, however, fear that I will become a Torontonian, always looking down on others.

Umm, like you live on the 17th floor of a condo. Of course you'll look down on others. This is natural behaviour when you're 'above the crowd'. Besides, you see some interesting people on the street when you have a bird's eye view. So what have you got for us to look at today?

Yesterday was a glorious day in Toronto. Plus 12, sunny, very little wind. It seemed like everyone in Toronto crawled out from under a their respective rocks and went for a walk. It was a colourful parade. I even saw a heterosexual couple in our neighbourhood!

Who is this...joker?

I'm not sure how to characterize the style of the man pictured to our left, other than to politely say 'different'. I'll tell you what I think when I see his get up/costume. I think Keebler Elves. Now, don't get me wrong, I don't think he looks like one of the cherubic Keebler brothers himself. Oh, no. Imagine if the Keebler Elves had to deal with a villainous character who was always lurking behind toadstools, trying to break into to the factory to steal cookies. There can be no question that this dude fits the bill. Rarely have I ever seen someone who looks more like a leprechaun, although he could also be a pimp's stunt double. Confusing....

Do you remember when Dad was in the hospital having his gall bladder removed and we would take Mom to visit him. Riddled with the confusion of Alzheimer's, Mom would lean over Dad's hospital bed and ask genuinely "are you a man or a woman?"

It seemed pretty strange at the time that Mom couldn't tell whether Dad was a man or a woman. It wasn't Mom's eyesight that was the issue. It wasn't Dad's looks. It was simply Alzheimer's playing tricks on the brain. It's an odd disease that can bend reality into shapes that the rest of us struggle to see.

What is reality, anyway? Is reality what we see, or what we think we see?

In retrospect, the 'are you a man or a woman?' incidents were quite 'entertaining'. I'm not sure Dad, being the co-victim of the inquisition, chuckles as much as I do. It's not a question one often gets asked, or gets to ask, although from time to time....

So, are you a goose or a gander?

These two feathered friends touched down in the Jarvis Collegiate playing field about three days ago. A sure sign of spring? Yes!

I'm assuming it was a goose (female) and a gander (male) as it's that time of year. At street level I'm now seeing male sparrows singing their hearts out to their betrothed. They're flying into little cracks in brick buildings and around eavestroughing, no doubt building nests. I saw a red-tailed hawk carrying a nest-worthy stick in its talons the other day. Male pigeons are puffing up their chests and strutting their stuff for the hens.

Everyone in this town is 'showing their finest plummage' and I, the ultimate flâneur/minimalist, use only one quill to document their activities.

A dandy job you've done, Ian!

My Life As Dogg Snoop

 Living in our Toronto condo has been a great success. I love the view, the building itself (especially the gym) and our neighbours appear to be friendly. The management and staff of the condo are very professional and likable. Getting back to the residents for a moment, I have made a few observations. Hey, I'm a flâneur, it's what I do! Here goes:

- there are virtually no children living in the building.

- there seem to be a lot of well dressed men in the building who go everywhere together...brothers??

- there are a lot of dog owners in the building.

- generally, the dogs are better dressed and groomed than I am.

I've been fixating on the dogs all winter. It seemed like every day I'd get on the elevator with a dog and a dog owner. Talking about their dog was a good way to break the ice with the dog owner. I announced to Wendy, sometime back in the depths of winter, that I was going to start collecting and recording the names of the condo hounds, then detail my finding in a future blog. The future is now.

I was curious to know what names people would give to their dogs. When I was a boy all dogs were given names like Fido, Spike, Kujo, Maggie and Muggins. Also, when I was a boy, dogs had fur and didn't need to be dressed in goose down or the fur of another animal. Take a look at the dog pictured to the left. It's got a fur collared coat on! Is this not akin to a sheep eating cow brains, or pig eating a hot dog, or a bear posing 'seductively' on a bear skin rug?

Can't we have one blog without the mention of bears? You know I'm terrified of them!

Sorry. I'll bear that in mind for future blogs. So, returning to the hound list, here are the names that I (we) managed to acquire: Toby, Chester, Apple, Pippin, Abigail, Molly, Cam and Edan. Gathering the names became quite comical as it quickly turned into a competition between Wendy and me to see who could discover the dog's name before the elevator booted us out at the 17th or ground floor. Typically we would get in the elevator, spot the dog, give each other the evil eye, and then the game began. Wendy is naturally more talented at generating chit chat with strangers but I reached into the depths of my soul, took out my stone heart and used it to crack a portal in the protective shell around me. I'd say we tied as investigative reporters/competitors.

The names we gathered were satisfactorily amusing and original. Most names fit the dogs rather well. Chester, the English bulldog was the most aptly named in a traditional sense. Apple seemed like a fitting name for a chihuahua, or the darling child of Über celebs.

What really got me going was the lengths to which people would dress their dogs.

Fashionable booties, lest Apple should tread in other dogs' doodies. 

Cable knit sweaters. Goose down vests. Lap dogs. <insert howls of laughter at the absurdity of it all> Dog store owners must be lap dancing their way to the bank with the profits made off the backs of fashionably hot designer dogs. Hot dogs, indeed. Admittedly, it was a cold winter, but putting a naturally furry beast in a fur or feathered or sheepish coat? C'mon. I think dog owners have good intentions, but they've deluded themselves into thinking that they're the parents of bare skinned, helpless babies.

When the apocalypse happens, the humans will die off. We deserve it for what we've done to our pets. The planet will be over-run with cockroaches, dogs and perhaps Ben Mulroney (his greasy hair and Teflon exoskeleton will protect him from the fallout). There will be no one to put booties on the dogs. No one to knit cable sweater for them. No one to put their legs through arm holes, or their arms through leg holes(??). They'll be just fine without us, perhaps even better off. They won't have to deal with the psychological humiliation of being dressed like yuppie puppies. They will run like proud wolves once again, no longer looking like leashed dingo dung in sheep's finery.

Flirting With Fate...The Rascals!

I've had a few close calls as a pedestrian here in Toronto. People in cars seem to be in a rush to get somewhere, and sometimes they cut corners. I've nearly had my toes crushed and/or my knee caps removed.

Cars hit bicyclists. It happens, regularly. I've seen two since I got here....imagine how many must be happening across the city over the course of a year.

It must be equally dangerous for motorcyclists, if not more so.

I wouldn't fault the two people in today's picture for driving motorized wheelchairs (Rascals) on the street. Being physically handicapped in this city must be a nightmare. My worry, of course, is that the odds of them being hit, at some point, are pretty high. I wouldn't dare do it. It simply isn't safe to be on the Toronto streets at anytime in anything less than a tank. But what can you do? You've got to move. You've got to live, even if it might stop you from doing so.

Even in my limited life experience I know:

- someone who killed a pedestrian (Toronto).
- someone who died after being hit by a car while driving on the street in a Rascal (F'ton).
- a bicyclist who has been hit by a car...three times (Toronto).

I'll bet if I asked people to share stories about close calls, nearly everyone would have a tale to tell.

Are you nervous yet? All I can say to my fellow pedestrians is 'look both ways before crossing...and keep looking while you're crossing'. You are never safe in Toronto. Or Fredericton. Or anywhere.

The Flâneur Takes His Camera For A Stroll

I had some time on my hands yesterday (see definition of 'flâneur') so I decided to take my camera on a walkabout. Before I even left my condo I snapped the first picture you see. A worker was on the roof of 15 Maitland Place, the condo building where we rented a place for the past two years, and with the Scotiabank Tower in the background it made for a dramatic scene. 

I then left the relative safety and comfort of my condo and went out onto the street. I had set my goal for the day to get a photograph of a red-tailed hawk. I had seen them earlier patrolling Allan Gardens, looking for a Happy Meal (pigeon McNuggets).

I walked down Homewood Avenue, my condo's home street, in a southerly direction. I first crossed Wellesley Street, making my way to Carlton Street where  I jay-walked. Now I was in Allan Gardens, a multi acre city 'oasis'. Here's what Wikipedia says about the park: 

The trees in the park represent the northern tip of the Carolinian forest with species such as black cherry, American beech, red oak, sugar maple and sassafras. Most are over one hundred years old and a 2008 inventory showed 309 trees in the park.The park is home to three varieties of squirrel, the gray, the black, and, unique to this park, the red tailed black squirrel. The park is also home to the city's largest flock of pigeons, a roving peregrine falcon and a statue of Robert Burns.

It's also home to a dog playground

and I took the opportunity to photograph the giant green dog sculpture, slightly obscured by the giant blue dog sculpture. I kept my eyes to the sky but didn't spot a single red-tailed hawk while I was there. I decided to amble in the direction of downtown Toronto.

I wandered across Gerrard Street, past two panhandlers outside of the Harvey's restaurant. One was 'working' the cars at the intersection, looking for spare change. The other guy was working the sidewalk. I wasn't asked for change as I walked briskly past with my $2400 camera on my shoulder. Everyone knows professional photographers are poor and amateur photographers are rich. I must have fooled him!

I made my way to the Yonge Street sidewalk and took the image you see. The sidewalk was busy, for sure, but the compression effect of my 300mm lens exaggerated the effect rather effectively, I'd say. The scene was basically people dressed in black walking past sex shops. Same old, same old. Oh, how I tire of this town.

After circling around Aura, the new 78 storey condo tower, I decided to head home as my hands were getting chilled in the +3 degree weather. Holding a cold metal camera/lens exacerbates the sense of cold. I could have popped into a strip club to 'warm my digits' but that's not my style. My style, as you now know, is to stroll around, observe, philosophize, and write.

I watched for red-tailed hawks as I walked along the fringe of Allan Gardens but, again, nothing.

Don't you mean 'ruthin', Ian? You have to work more Moothaisms into your blog!

Indeed I do. "There was no ruthin." Just as I was approaching my building I saw something of interest overhead. I assumed it was a red-tailed hawk with lunch. Even better.....it was a peregrine falcon with lunch!  Squab!! In its talons was a pigeon that I assumed it nabbed in the Sherbourne/Wellesely neighbourhood, just to the east of my condo. The falcon was flying a very direct and purposeful path, headed west-southwest towards Bay Street. I watched it until it went out of sight. Of course I felt badly for the pigeon, but I suspect 'death-by-peregrine' was swift.

Seeing the peregrine falcon and the pigeon was the highlight of my day. I did go to the opera in the evening, making a Herculean ninety minute effort to stay engaged during the first act. There was some world class warbling, no question, but sadly I identified more with the pigeon than the songbirds.