Ian....Get A Grip!

We haven't heard much talk about Nemo since his frozen fillet was found in my freezer back in mid-September when I returned from les Îles de la Madeleine. Nemo had been cryogenically preserved by my west coast Godfatherly friends Sean and Lisa. There was no real mystery as to Nemo's demise (a mob hit is a mob hit), but there was a lingering question as to his still missing eye.

Mystery solved.

I searched casually for Nemo's eye when I returned from my windsurfing vacation. I half expected it to come pouring out of my cereal or my coffee grinds, or to show up magically in a dessert. All very mainstream debuts. All of my searching was fruitless, not that I was looking for fruit. I did find a golden delicious apple in the crisper which I heartily enjoyed though. I forgot that I put it there in June. June, 2012.

My friends Lisa and Sean are delightfully devious. Bad apples who are deliciously golden on the outside but rotten to the core inside, but in a good way (see golden delicious 2012). Playful, and then some. They are basically scoundrels with good hearts, and equally life-pumping imaginations. At one point, in the body of an e-mail message, Lisa dropped what I thought was a hint as to the whereabouts of the missing eyeball. Here's what she said in a e-mail sent on September 30:

Oh and about plugging the hole with real Nemo's eye, uuuhhhm no we can't. Because, YOU've got the eye my friend. Well actually, apparently you don't totally have a grip on it. Or maybe you do kind of. My advice? Oh forget it."

Clearly Lisa was dropping a hint. The key word, I thought, was 'grip'. Somehow Nemo's eye was being gripped by something. Lisa's cryptic message had good grip on my imagination and my fragile sense of sleuthworthiness. I pondered her words. What do I own that grips things or people? Certainly not my blog, though if you're still reading at this point (which clearly you are) then I may wield some mildly gripping influence, at least on my readership of three. 

I scoured my house for 'things that gripped': garlic press, tongs, Scotch tape, underwear (ewww). I came up one eye short of a Cyclops, or two is short of iris. Nothing. Nada. Zilch and zippo. I checked the boathouse where I keep an award winning collection of pliers. Again, zero. Nuthin'. Ruthin'. I gave up.

October 24 was a day to remember, for more than one reason. It happened to be the best windsurfing day I'd ever had on Grand Lake. After windsurfing Crazy Dave and Blain dropped by my place for wine and cheese. And you thought they were beer guzzling Doritos eaters. Beer guzzling? Yes. Doritos? I don't think so. Crazy Dave has a fondness for Covered Bridge potato chips, though I've never seen him eat more than a single large bag himself. I digress.

Blain had never been to my place before. Just before he left I showed him the boathouse (man cave), a mandatory stop on all tours. As I was showing Blain around, I heard Dave say very innocently "hey, is that Nemo's eye?"

You could have heard a pin drop at that point. Wedged firmly into the grip of my vise was Nemo's eyeball. Mystery solved! It is with a sad heart that I acknowledge that I was outsmarted by Sean and Lisa. I must have walked by that vise a dozen times since mid-September. Third eye blind, as they say. 

For the moment the score stands at Lisa/Sean: 1, Ian:0. That will change. 

The End Is Near

I really shouldn't have used such a doomsday title for today's blog but it's a fact that my rock wall building days are coming to an end. There are two reasons for this sad event:

1) the pending sale of my car/wheelbarrow/dump truck (they're one in the same)

2) lack of walls needed to be built.

Addressing point #2, I have to acknowledge that I can't keep building rock walls on my property. At some point I have to say 'enough is enough'.

Enough is enough. It kills me to say that, but it's true. I don't want my place to look like it's encircled by the great wall of China (made in China, btw). I don't want my place to look like the Romans invaded either (secretly I have great respect for Uncle Hadrian). My roamin' neighbour has invaded on numerous occasions, but she only has rocks in her head (if that!).

With regard to my car/wheelbarrow/dump truck, I'm not interested in licensing/insuring/maintaining two cars, so one them has got to go. It's either the dump truck or the windmobile, and nothing trumps the windmobile. The order of my priorities will always be:

1) family
2) windsurfing
3) rock wall building
4) whining (see #2)
5) blog (see #4).

Today's image shows the start of the last rock wall that I'm building for the calendar year of 2014. Since this picture I've add a couple more layers, but the light was yucky so I'm sticking with this autumnal image of salvation through rock. The end truly is near, and it saddens me. Rock wall building has been the best 'therapy' for me in years. I'll leave it to you to decide whether I'm talking physical or mental.

Blues Skies, White Clouds, And What Women See

Everything about the Washademoak Lake and Cambridge-Narrows is horizontal, with the exception of me and the trees (the trees and I...a...n). The lake is wide and narrow. The land is wide and narrow. The bridge is wide and narrow. Every now and again it pays to take a vertical look at the landscape.

It would have been easy to overlook yesterday's clouds had I not craned my ample neck to the heavens. Looking back down there was a gently darkened reflection on the water. How could I not admire the scenery?

Maritimers are famous gawkers. If you're walking down a sidewalk in Toronto (or any city bigger than Halifax) and someone bumps into you, there can be only one of two reasons:

1) texter!

2) a Maritimer looking up at 'all them tall buildings' and not watching where he is walking. I say 'he' because I don't think women tend to gawk at buildings like men, though I could be proven wrong.

So, do women gawk at tall buildings like men? My hunch is to say 'no'. Do women ogle cars and trucks at street level the way men do? I don't think so.

Jeez.....if true, what do women look at then? Is there anyone out there stupid enough to tackle this question? Clearly this is a question addressed to men. Anyone intelligent enough to answer the question correctly? Ladies?

Who Drinks Cognac, Anyway?

Recently, while on an Air Canada flight, I decided to bury my nose in their enRoute magazine. I was warned not to make eye contact with any of Air Canada's employees, so I decided a good peruse of their in-fight magazine would keep me out of trouble.

Of all that I read, the article on cognac was the most interesting. Cognac, like Red Bull and Sunny D, is one of those drinks that I see in store displays frequently but never see at the checkout. So who drinks it? No one I know drinks cognac, and for that matter, what exactly is cognac?

First of all, Cognac is a town in (where else?) France. Cognac, the drink, is named after the town and, like Champagne, is made in a certain region of France following very strict guidelines. Cognac is located in western France at about mid-latitude. Cognac, the beverage, is brandy that has been made during a double distillation process from a very specific set of grape varieties.

I won't bore you with the details of the article. The take-away for me was that cognac is expensive and snooty people drink it. If you regularly drink it then congratulations....you're snooty. I don't really state this as fact because I'm quite convinced that I know nothing except what is being written at this very moment (this very sentence, more precisely). I say that snooty people drink it because of the way that it is described, plus cognac drinkers are known snail eaters. Strike two. So, how is it described? Here's what I read in enRoute....

"Making cognac requires so much patience," Christophe says, walking me through the premises. "Some say it's about controlling time, but it's also a celebration of time." He climbs a ladder up to the top of an immense foudre full of cognac and hands me a glass. The young eau-de-vie smells overwhelmingly alcoholic, with a tongue numbing attack. Then, leading me deeper into the chai, he dips a glass wine thief into an old, dust-coated barrel and offers me a taste of 30-year-old cognac. It still has a hint of the burn that locals call l'agressif, but that quickly dissipates as a kaleidoscope of flavours plays over my tongue. I taste dates braised in molten caramel with roasted hazelnuts mixed in, followed by hints of jasmine and beeswax, all rolling out on a dark chocolate finish.

You see why I said 'snooty'? When was the last time you experienced dates braised in molten caramel? Here comes the pitch. A swing and a miss for cognac. Strike three, you're out.

Note: if you'd like to learn more about cognac, book a one-way flight with Air Canada during October and read the article yourself. You could also take the money that you would spend on your Air Canada flight and perhaps have enough to buy a 750ml bottle of Remy Martin XO Excellence Cognac...$174.99. 

Q Is For Curious

I'm on record for saying that I'd 'fight to the death to save the CBC'. The only arms I'd ever use in this battle would be the ones connected to the hands that would write the letters. It would be a war of words, and we all know that words are made of letters. Letters like the one between P and R.

Last  night before going to bed I read on-line, ironically on CBC.ca, that Jian Ghomeshi was fired by CBC. Anyone can be fired, even the supremely talented. I was disheartened to read the headline, but curious to know what led to such an event. After reading the article I was even more confused. It sounded like Mr.Ghomeshi was fired for the possible repercussions from bedroom 'antics', though that's not much more that my clouded gleaning.

The plot thickened....

Moments later I read that Mr.Ghomeshi is suing CBC for $50 million. Breach of confidence and bad faith will be contested.

I gave up television about 9 years ago because I found it too depressing. Now it feels like the heart of CBC Radio has been ripped from its chest. I'd sigh, if I had a heart with enough strength to rise up and allow me to exhale a long and slow breath. I expended my last scream against my computer last week. Si.....

I hope for Mr.Ghomeshi's sake that he is innocent of the things for which he has been fired. Or, better yet, that the reason for his firing is ultimately proven to be none of his employer's business and that life will return to what's left of normal at the CBC. It's all very depressing to me but, rest assured, we have not heard the last of this.

For the record, I view the CBC as continuing education for all Canadians who are intelligent enough to realize it. Sadly, I do not count Stephen Harper among the enlightened but, in his defence, he probably has no idea how great CBC was, or is. He is a busy man and not involved in this current fiasco, Wright?

I have a great deal of free time and I often tune in to CBC not knowing what I'm going to hear. I've heard life altering stories on CBC that have appeared out of the higher blue ether. I've had my mind massaged, and sometimes even changed by what I've heard. I feel like I'm successfully attempting to complete a never ending Master's degree at CBC....in every subject.

But for today and perhaps beyond, one of my, no, one of our classes has been dismissed, maybe even wrongfully(?). Sigh....

The Mysterious World Of Fashion

Okay, so you've got your pretty boy clothes on, you smell good, your hair is perfection, and then you strike a killer pose....

Now what?

Seriously....now what?

When I saw this ad in EnRoute magazine I laughed out loud. Actually, I didn't laugh out loud because you're not legally allowed to laugh on any domestic Air Canada flights. The Air Marshall will 'take you down', and if he's not on board then an angry flight attendant will slap you to pieces (and not serve you a drink), just sayin'.

I really want to know what a person does now that they've attained absolute perfection in pose. Does this model stay motionless until someone of the fairer sex comes along and carries him home? And based on this picture, which is the fairer sex anyway? Or does our beautiful man stay in this pose just for a couple of minutes, then get undressed and redressed into his pyjama pants, pour himself a bowl of Cheerios and turn on Coronation Street (i.e. get a real life)?

Can anyone tell me what the next move of this man is going to be?

I Can't Get No (windsurfing) Satisfaction....Usually.

Here's an excerpt from an e-mail I sent to Wendy yesterday after my windsurf....

Wendy,

Brace yourself......

I had a spectacularly great day of windsurfing on Grand Lake today. The best in years! I was there from 10:15 a.m. until 3:30 p.m. and the wind never failed. Planing 98% of the time. Dave was out with me and Blain joined us for the afternoon.


Wendy, in fairness to her, has put up with my whining about windsurfing for over 20 years. She deserves a positive report once a decade, at least. Things rarely go as planned with windsurfing. Forecasts rarely materialize. Gear breaks. Wind dies. Back hurts. I whine.

Yesterday was the rarest of days when one talks about windsurfing in southern New Brunswick. It was.....perfect! Sure, it could have been a bit warmer, but it was warm enough. I can die now (my hands feel like they already have).

You Are Being Stalked By A Google Monster

I received an e-mail from a friend of mine the other day. He's a young guy from Nova Scotia who's working out west in the tar sands at the moment. To protect his identity I'll only refer to him as Colin.

Colin has had the opportunity to work on a mobile crane as of late and he's finding that far more interesting (and safer) than working as a roughneck at oil rig sites. He's considering going to crane operator school next September and making a career of it. I replied back to him, via e-mail, that I thought any training in 'the trades' was a good idea.

Now, here's where things get interesting. On the same day that Colin's e-mail came in and my reply went out, a small banner ad appeared above my e-mail inbox. The ad (today's image) said: Crane & Hoist Training (it also gave a web site and some other details). This happens to me all the time, and I suspect it happens to you too. It's the 'same day' speed which left me somewhat bothered. I might as well have had a Google employee (we'll call him Will Look-Ins to protect his identity) sitting on the couch with me. Imagine having a guy named Will reading all your private e-mails!

On the upside, if there was a Google employee called Will who read my e-mails then he'd be under-employed. It's not a full-time job. Perhaps I could get him to clean the bathroom, or rake the yard. Maybe I could teach him to play ping pong or windsurf. Wait! I know what to do with Will...

I'll enroll him in Crane Operator school. He can then lift himself off my couch and drop his sorry ass into the lake. Sheesh.

Just know that if you send e-mails where you write about male bird and lollipops then you might get an embarrassing banner ad extolling the virtues of being a  ____________. Well, I'm not going to type that word, but I suspect Google will be using that word in a banner ad targeting me in the next few minutes (just as soon as I post this blog).

Don't say that I didn't warn you. There's a Google Monster on your couch, inside your computer, in the walls of your house. And if you have a painting on the wall with eyes, it's watching you! Even the word gOOgle has a pair of eyes watching you.

P.S. I'm not actually suffering from paranoia (yet), but if I was then there'd be a Google banner ad which would appear just in time to save me from myself.

Some Good News Regarding Windsurfing In New Brunswick

Yesterday was one of those days that could have gone horribly wrong for a New Brunswick windsurfer. The wind forecast looked promising, and that's often a recipe for disaster. Originally it was supposed to blow from the northeast at 40-60, though the Fredericton forecast was downgraded to 30 km/h. One can still have fun at 30 km/h...if it happens. The Saint John forecast held at 40-60, so Grand Lake had the potential to be great. The temperature was slated to reach a searing high of nine degrees and that's bordering on problematic for my tender folk guitarist hands. Did I mention rain? Torrential rains were forecast as well. To cap it all off I couldn't interest anyone in going windsurfing with me (in fairness to Crazy Dave Cuthbertson, he was working).

In consultation with myself I made the executive decision to windsurf on Grand Lake. At this time of year Grand Lake is warmer than the Washademoak, and there was no point driving to Saint John to windsurf with myself. Grand Lake is at its best on a nor'easter.

I arrived at Robertson's Point and found that one thing which had eluded me all year....wind. Wind! I 'assessed the situation' as expert athletes often do, and decided to rig my 5.2 and attach it to my 106 litre board. I hit the water and never looked back (you're more likely to wipe out when you look backwards). I windsurfed for about an hour and a half. I was planing 100% of the time, there were nice jumpable waves and my hands never got too cold. The water was a comfortable temperature in my snug 5/3 wetsuit, and it didn't start raining until I got off the water. Bonus.

Amazingly, this was the only good day of windsurfing that I've enjoyed this October. It would be nice if I could have included an image of me windsurfing but as a solo sailor I had to leave the camera in the car. I did manage to film a short video after the fact. As a crackerjack meteorologist, I just couldn't resist.

Frustration

There was a time when families would get together and play board games. The father would be hopeless at the game (too busy thinking about work). The mother would provide snacks (and a memorably leveraged and wholly unsustainable hairdo), and the kids would do a lot of screaming (because that's what kids did before Ritalin was invented, though strangely enough the mother was on Valium). This was the 1950s. It was a kinder, gentler time.

Nowadays we huddle around our sturdy plastic iPhones in isolation. The board game is all but dead, replaced by smartish phones and touch-screen devices. Gone is Frustration. Well, not really.....

Computers bring to my life a new form of frustration. For example: I recently purchased a new laptop computer because no one would play board games with me (not actually true, Wendy is always eager to play Cribbage). My old laptop was so slow that it would have lost a downhill race with a one legged snail, so it needed to be replaced. The old computer came with movie editing software called Windows Live Movie Maker. In case you ever have the misfortune to use this software, don't. Using this oft-swear software on my old laptop, video files kept becoming corrupted (akin to father spilling his gin and tonic on the Frustration board) and I was not able to publish my film (typically after doing 85% of the editing). With a corrupted file I couldn't even try again. I would often become apoplectic. Not a good way to start or end the day.

My new laptop also came with Windows Live Movie Maker pre-installed so I thought to myself 'this will never do'. I decided to purchase some new video editing software. My research suggested that I purchase Adobe Premiere Elements 12.0, which I did for $129. Adobe is the maker of Photoshop, which I love, so their video editing software should be equally excellent.

Rocky start....

I loaded the software and then took a video file from my garbage-worthy Pentax W90 camera and imported it into my computer. Then (drum roll please) I imported the video file in Adobe Premiere.

The message read: "This file type is not supported."

So, my new computer with its new video editing software can't use the videos that I shoot with my video camera. For those of you who know me well, you'll know that I'm 50% in stitches at the absurdity of my situation, and 50% ready to see if my new computer has touch screen capabilities.

Thank god I'm also 50% Scottish. I'm actually too cheap to put my fist through my computer screen, so I'll have to keep it. Now, sadly, I'll have to buy a new video camera. When will the parade of upgrading useless old equipment ever end? It won't. This is how we grow the economy, by making anything older than three years redundant.

So, who wants to play Frustration with me (as I sit alone, huddled around my sturdy plastic laptop)?

Mootha Is Back (and so is the Big Boy)

When you go somewhere, anywhere, there's always the fear that things won't be the same upon your return. While I was in Toronto for 11 days, me Mootha spent some time in the DECH as a result of dehydration. The dehydration was on account of a bladder infection as well as a salivary gland infection. She was sleeping most of the time, and not eating or drinking sufficient quantities to stay healthy. IV to the rescue. IV was intravenous liquids, by the way, not Ian Varty. It was more like DV to the rescue....Doug Varty. Doug saw that she was in trouble and he got the ball rolling to get her the help she needed.

I arrived home from Toronto yesterday at suppertime. I assumed that I'd find Mom asleep if I went to the nursing home at 6 p.m. but, in fact, she was wide awake. I decided to deliver a little gift to her from Julian which you'll see on the video. Her reaction was classic.

Are things the same as when I left? I'm not sure but I am happy to see that Mootha is still playful. She chatted and made the odd joke, many funny faces, until bedtime at 7:30 p.m. She wasn't an evening owl when I left 11 days ago. On most days she's fast asleep by 6 p.m., so indeed things have changed.

Random Acts Of Kindness

A strange twist of events happened yesterday. Wendy and I were planning on having two friends over for supper but they had to cancel around 1 p.m. because one of them was feeling ill. Usually this only happens after they sample my cooking! All the food was in place and we would have been swamped with the quantity, so Wendy had the luminous idea to invite two other friends over. To protect their identity, I'll refer to our two new invitees as Meara and Patrick.

Meara (not her real name) went on a hiking adventure in Scotland this past August with her mother and a friend of her mom's. It was one of those treks where you hike all day and then spend the night in an inn. Along the way you drink beer and talk to sheep. I suspect that there was also plenty of talk about Scottish independence in the pubs, perhaps even with the sheep in the moors.

Meara (not her real name) very kindly purchased a tin of Walker's shortbread as a gift for Julian and me. This created a dilemma. I'm flying back to New Brunswick today, so do I leave the shortbread for Julian or take it for myself?

I might typically leave it for Julian but when I saw the image on the tin, I knew it had to go back to New Brunswick with me. Why, you ask? It's because that tin of cookies MUST make it back to my mom's room at Pine Grove. My mom is, after all, the Queen, and if they're going to use her likeness on their shortbread tin then she needs to know about it. She also needs to sample the product to give it the Queen's seal of approval. Oh, and there's one more reason that she should receive this gift from Meara (not her real name) via me....

Yesterday was Mom's 87th birthday!

Julian, forgive me for 'stealing' the shortbread and taking it back to Queen Mootha, but I'm pretty sure that you'd do the same. While on the subject of Mootha, a big 'shout out' to auntie Joan for stopping by the nursing home to visit my Mom on her 87th birthday.

To Meara (okay, okay, it is her real name) and auntie Joan: two random acts of kindness that make the world a better place for all of us. Thank you!

At Least There's Sanity Indoors...More Or Less

What Has Elizabeth Renzetti written this week!?

There are some seriously strange people in Toronto. Some are clearly suffering from severe mental illness and have little or no idea what they're doing. Others are more mildly deranged, and then there are those who simply read the Globe and Mail (they're the 'normal' ones).

Fortunately for me, there is sanity within the walls of our condo. I'm not sure if Wendy can say the same, but I hope so (she has to live with me). The minute you step outside, however, it's game on with the rest of the world.

Late last week I saw a homeless person, on the King Street sidewalk at 10 a.m., with his pants and underwear to his knees. He was peeing...right on the sidewalk. I can't say that I blame him. It's almost impossible to find a public washroom in Toronto that doesn't come attached to a $25 entrée. I've been taken to my bladder's limit in this town before, but I've never washed the concrete....yet. Not to be uncaring, but I feel secure in saying that I saw a bum on the sidewalk on that day. Lord, strike me down in 3...2....1....NOW!

Damn it! I'm still here (maybe I've already been condemned to hell...haha).

On Friday I was walking along Bloor Street when I saw a woman was talking to the air. She muttered something aloud and then shifted gears and started talking about cats. She was alone. Yesterday Wendy and I were walking along Bloor Street and some guy muttered some sage advice to us. He said something along the lines of 'if you go to the right side, the left side will be unbalanced'. He was living proof of a balance disorder as I don't think he was a kindly kinesiologist.

There are a lot of people 'in trouble' in this city. Many of them are harmless. It would be easy to get lost in the cracks of the sidewalk of Toronto. It would be easy to drown in them too.

Okay, So I Just Won The Lottery....Will I Keep The Ford Focus Wagon?

I have not won the lottery but if I did, what would I drive? Likely a Volvo wagon though I'm still concerned with fuel efficiency, so I might struggle with even a much beloved XC70 Volvo. Maybe I'd buy one like Kersey's as they're quite nice and more practical. If fuel efficiency, the condition of our roads, and money were no object, then I've always thought a McLaren would be nice. Until yesterday, I had never seen one in my fleeting 51 year experience on the little blue dot.

I was walking through the University of Toronto's campus yesterday when I spotted something so exotic that it stopped me in my sneakers. It was the car that you see in today's image, a McLaren 650S. It's worth noting that this car was not parked anywhere near the Edward Johnson Faculty of Music building. My guess is that it was being driven by a student, not a prof. It was parked in front of a squarish white Asian food truck, making it look all that much more desirable.

I have a rule of thumb not to ever show myself drooling over a sports car, that's the domain of teenage boys. Seriously, watch them when a Ferrari or Lamborghini drives by...their heads swivel like owls. I tried very discretely to take this image, lurking in the shadows of a maple tree. I don't like the idea of padding the egos of those who drive these creations because they are horrendously Earth unfriendly and, quite honestly, useless for city driving. That said, they are gorgeous examples of design and function. Here's a few stats about this car:

- introduced to North America at the New York Auto Show in April 2014
- retail price in Canada...$287 000
- 0-60 mph in 2.9 seconds
- top speed 207 mph
- rock carrying capabilities, about 20 carats

If you're interested in a drive through the countryside of Bordeaux in a McLaren 650S, click the following link..... https://www.youtube.com/watch?list=UUiWQ5eQPkw2BX2L4jeHKEVQ&v=k3a5bgub4xQ

Hogtoberfest 2014

It's October and we live in Toronto.

Toronto is also known as Hogtown.

Therefore we must celebrate Hogtoberfest!

I was walking along Harbord Street in Toronto the other day when I noticed a white van parked along the street. Because I'm quite nosey, I looked inside the van. On the dash was a box of posters with an amusing look to them....a pig dressed up in Octoberfest garb. Because I have a very small and simple brain, I found this greatly amusing.

The side of the white van had some sort of beer company writing on it, and at the back two men were toiling away at something beer related. I walked past the van and then I stopped dead in my tracks. 'I want one of those posters', my little brain thought to itself, so my even littler legs took my little brain back and we asked for one.

The beer dudes kindly gave us one and we were on our way. In this blog I have modified the poster to make it look as though we we're hosting a Hogtoberfest at our condo. Rest assured, we're not, but the poster is pinned to our fridge and will remain there for the remainder of Hogtober (though Wendy will likely take it down the minute I leave town!).

It's no secret that I'm not a fan of cities but I've got to admit that the posters are, at times, quite humourous/uplifting/confounding/creative. There's no shortage of them in Toronto and you'll surely be seeing more of them in my blog. Until then, enjoy Hogtoberfest! Soo eee.

A Streetcar Named Where The Hell Did That Come From?

I've seen Maseratis, Ferraris, Porsches and Ford Focus wagons since being in Toronto but it was this streetcar that really turned my head.

What the...? When did they...? Where can I....?

I was walking down Spadina Avenue yesterday when one of these new streetcars approached me. I was kind of freaked out at first because it was so futuristic looking (at least compared to the ubiquitous TTC red rockets). Moments later I was passed by another one on College Street and I managed to have a better look inside through the windows. Swank!

From a distance the inside looked very comfortable and laid out more like a luxury train. I doubt that'll be the case once I actually get inside, because looks can be deceiving. I'm going to make it my life's work to get on one of these streetcars, and because life can be short I'm going to try to do it today. I'm going to wear Depends just in case because I'm pretty sure I'll be overly excited. This is the best thing that's happened to me, in a light rail sense, since we expanded Julian's Thomas The Tank Engine set.

That was 'some time' ago.

If you desperately want to learn more about Toronto's new streetcars, then follow this link to the TTC's web site: https://www.ttc.ca/About_the_TTC/Projects/New_Vehicles/New_Streetcars/index.jsp

I read a bit about the new streetcars and I no longer need Depends. Too late.

Temporary F______ Workers!

If you look at today's first image you might think 'okay, it's a building, no big deal....unless there's a naked person in one of the building's windows'. Settle down, big boy, there isn't a naked person in any of the windows as far as I know. This is a picture of the building in which Wendy and I used to rent a condo. We now live right across from it and we have a bird's eye view of it. You can see some of the downtown Toronto buildings in the background.

Yesterday I spotted something of interest happening at the building across from us. If you look at the second image you'll see that a window washer was hard at work on the 19th storey. This is my definition of a temporary foreign worker. Temporary, for sure. Foreign? Well, it's a foreign place to be working as far as I'm concerned. Worker? Definitely. Anyone who does this for a living is a worker. I wouldn't trade professions with them anyday (plus they probably couldn't handle trading the vertical lifestyle for the horizontal lifestyle which is synonymous with leisure).

Could you see yourself sitting on a swing-sized platform, dangling 200 feet above ground? Even worse, could you see yourself washing windows for a living? That reminds me, I need to clean the windows of our condo. Fortunately we have a balcony so I don't have to risk anything other than Windex in my eyes.

Hi ho, hi ho.......

The Bruce Trail With Bruce (How Apropos)

The trail is well marked.

Thanksgiving Monday was dark and overcast but the showers had stopped so we decided to go for a walk. Bruce and Patti's house sits at the base of the Niagara Escarpment making it the perfect location for launching ourselves onto the Bruce Trail. The Bruce Trail is a footpath that follows the escarpment from Niagara to Tobermory.

Did you know that the Niagara Escarpment is responsible for Niagara Falls? Yhhhhhhup, it's true (I think). Did you know the Bruce Trail was named after our friend Bruce? Nhhhhope, not true.

Amelia, Patti, Bruce.

The rock formations are very escarpish.

Bruce on Bruce.

Lush.

Simply gorgeous.

The leaves are turning here, but not as advanced as N.B.

Bentley Hone, the golden doodle, got into the burdocks!

Hard to believe we're in Hamilton, ON...right in the city!

The view from the top of the escarpment. Too bad it wasn't a clear day as we would have been able to see Toronto.

Hamilton

Here we have Julian and me sitting in the auxiliary living room (family room) of our friends Bruce and Patti Hone's excellent new house in Hamilton (ON).

Later in the evening I was given a tour of Julian's excellent new home in Hamilton. Everyone in Hamilton lives in luxury. Who knew?

Uncle Leslie

As I wander around Toronto, I don't see much humour so I make my own. I laugh at petty things that others might not find funny. I laugh silently for the most part, though often my inner chuckle is met by an outer grimace or smirk. Sometimes even a smile.

Yesterday, Wendy, Julian and I noticed a street sign which someone had 'modified'. I doubt very much that the City of Toronto's Public Works department sanctioned street signs that featured (Uncle) Leslie Nielsen's mug on it. In fact, the person who did this would likely have been charged with mischief had they been caught. Ironically, by defacing the sign they made it more powerful. It got noticed instead of being completely ignored. For this reason, and this reason alone, I decided not to mug anyone or commit a felony.

There isn't a lot of humour at street level in Toronto. People are serious. They have a lot on their minds (i.e. can I afford a house, latte or macchiato, what would I do if there was a storm and Holt Renfrew was shut down for a couple of days?). I'm feeling kind of sombre myself having expressed such heady thoughts. In reality, it's not that bad.

Two days ago I hopped on a city bus. I didn't have a TTC token, only a pocket full of jangling coins. I asked the driver how much the bus cost. His reply..."about seven hundred and fifty thousand." There is hope for this town.

Toronto: At War (contre moi)

All the leaves are brown and the sky is gray.

I've been for a walk on a winter's day.

I'd be safe and warm if I was in L.A.;

California dreamin' on such a winter's day.

Okay, so I'm not in California, I'm in Toronto. The leaves are green, and so is the grass (see image, feel irony). The leaves are green, red and orange. The sky is blue. I've been for a walk on an autumn's day and I feel safe and warm in T.O., but.....

Gawd(!), what a rude awakening this city has been for my virgin country sensibilities. A month ago I was walking the endless beaches of les Iles de la Madeleine, sand squeaking beneath my feet, ocean lapping at the ever shifting shore. Two days ago I was knee deep in topsoil in Cambridge-Narrows, my muscles alive and flexing. My gardens growing. Fast forward to Toronto....

The entire street named after Wellesley, the one that I most often traverse, is a battle zone. There's construction happening for much of its length, assaulting my senses. Then you've got traffic and sirens and dog and dawdling people and buses and traffic lights and helicopters and airplanes and streetcars and garbage and beggars and texters and aaaaaaaaggggggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhh!

It really is a shock to the system. My system. Yesterday I walked around town with purpose (shopping for a new laptop) and lack of purpose (putting in time). It's a strange, hollow feeling that I get from both purpose and lack thereof. The feeling is much the same. Why am I here? Is this my life? Am I wasting my own human resource, so fragile and fleeting?

I'll probably ask these questions for a few days until I settle into some sort of truce with this city. Truce is the word, for sure. It's a compromise for both sides. There is no victory for me in Toronto.

Planet Toronto

I've arrived in Toronto completely unprepared to write a blog, just like every other morning except that I'm in a different city without an image to post. I'm wholly unprepared. 

"Holy, he's unprepared."

I've been unprepared many times in the past. It's during these times of inspirational or situational starvation that I resort to that age old remedy....I steal. Today's blog video is one that I saw about a year ago. It's a time-lapse video called 'Planet Toronto'. It's the best that this city has ever looked. The cinematography is highly creative and, quite frankly, stunning. Clearly it was done with an astounding amount of patience and creative difficulty. The results were worth the effort.

You've seen the Rob Ford 'movies' of the past....now take a look at Toronto the good.

A Rocky Relationship For this Fundy Mentalist

If I was married to Environment Canada (or their wind forecasts), then my marriage would be on the rocks. Env.Canada are divorced from reality. Separated from the (less than) blustery facts. Forecasting wind inaccurately is monkey business, and there must be an office full of suit wearing , isobar reading chimps somewhere. Men shouldn't marry monkeys.

I have loaded all of my windsurfing gear into my Windmobile and driven to Saint John four times this year. Three of the forecasts called for winds of 30-50 km/h. One forecast beckoned me with promises of winds of 40-60 km/h. Of those four very promising wind forecasts, only the 40-60 delivered. So, three times I drove to Saint John for a 30-50 forecast, including yesterday (Bay of Fundy), and three times I GOT SKUNKED! My batting average is .250 in Saint John. In what other sport could you have such poor results? The only one I can think of is salmon fishing.

I. Must. Be. An. Idiot.

And not the Village variety. A real one!

When Environment Canada gives you lemons, you sell them. Then you buy a baseball bat and try to improve your average.

I've been so utterly disappointed with this year's wind (and forecasts) that I wasn't even angry yesterday. I've actually come to expect that the wind will not happen, even when forecast. I'm at the point now where I laugh at my windless blue days.

Next stop....the Bay of broken dreams. All aboard!

Hear ye, hear ye....let it be known that 2014 was the worst windsurfing season ever in my 25 years of windsurfing.The worst...by far. July was the only good month this year. The spring winds didn't happen. August was totally cancelled, and the fall has fallen flat. But, there is much to be happy about....

Rocks! And cruise ships full of people from Iowa buying over-priced maple syrup in the port of Saint John. I should have been posting images of massive windsurfing jumps and a rabid sea, frothing and white. Instead, the rocks of Saints Rest Beach and a boat full of people smart enough to not be in this place anymore (albeit with over-priced maple syrup)....

I think this ship was the Glutton Of The Seas, but I'm not 100% sure.

Barnacles have more fun than New Brunswick windsurfers.

The Bay of Fundy's colourful and inviting coast.

Saint John: full of strange rocks and people.

I thought this rock looked very Lawren Harris.

The Secret Lives of Busy Leisurologists

The Secret Lives Of Busy Leisurologists. Are you laughing at the absurdity of today's blog title? Did you spot what might be the greatest oxymoron of all time? Busy Leisurologists. That's better than jumbo shrimp, pretty ugly, and honest Mulroney.

Well, watch today's video and your preconceived notions about the about sofa loafing Leisurologists will be dashed on the rocks.

The Rock Walls - October 2014

Many of the rock walls that I've recently built have not been seen by Wendy or Julian, so I've filmed a 6 minute video which features a tour of the walls and property. This is not a National Geographic quality video. There has been no editing, no sound effects, no sound track. It is merely a record of a moment in time. Blink and it is gone. Blink and there will be another rock wall!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K3GwpDAZ4gQ&feature=youtu.be

Shall We Play Bridge?

When I was a boy my parents used to go out to 'play bridge' occasionally. I think that may have been a code word for 'drink and eat appetizers with the neighbours', or maybe it just meant 'get away from the kids'. Mostly get away from Doug and Alex, I suppose, because I was an angel back then. Not surprisingly, I still am.

I can't actually remember my parents playing bridge at our house, though I do have some vague memories of appetizers and weird people in the living room. (Oh, wait, that was one of Alex's parties.) Yet, I never saw a deck of cards. The bottom line is that playing bridge seemed mysterious. I never witnessed my parents practicing bridge either. They just went out and did it. I think the Daily Gleaner was in cahoots with them because they published some bridge information that was coded.I never did break the code, nor did my grubby -faced, sandbox amigos.

Currently I have another bridge mystery on my hands. Two weeks ago a road crew came and inspected the Cambridge-Narrows bridge. They lowered some mucky-mucks with hard hats over the side of the bridge for an inspection. The next day they blocked off one lane of the bridge. I expected that they'd start work immediately. So far nothing has happened.

It quickly became the talk of the Village. What are they doing? After two weeks....nothing. We have to wait at either end of the bridge for the light to turn green so we can proceed across the bridge. Why? We do not know. No one knows, not even the Mayor (and he knows everything about the Gubbamen).

I was at a birthday party last evening for a local 49 year old  (J-Y.P.)Talk of the bridge came up during the conversation. According to one knowledgeable person (S.C.) at the party, the inspection of the bridge turned up a large hole in one of the main carrying beams. The hole looked to be the size of a basketball hoop, or bigger, based on my interpretation of the hand gesture that accompanied the spoken description. Apparently the inspector debated whether or not to close the entire bridge. Thankfully just one lane was closed, but for how long?

The pictures you see on today's blog were taken on the bridge last evening before I drove to the birthday party. The sky was beautifully intoxicating, but would I have given myself the green light to walk on the dangerous side of the bridge and take those pictures had I known about the condition of the bridge? The party was on the other side of the bridge and I did drive across the bridge to get home afterwards, so I'm not overly concerned for my safety, I guess. Also, I have jumped off it successfully once before so I could do it again....if I had to. Also again, if I'm going through the bridge it'll likely be in my Focus wagon with a half ton of rocks in back!

Splish-splash, I'm a takin' a bath.

 I'll be curious to see when our bridge is fixed. The old Jemseg bridge has been down to one lane for over a year with no apparent work being done. Let's hope we fare better in Cambridge-Narrows. On the upside I'm thinking of selling muffins and Telegraph Journals to the motorists waiting in line to get across the bridge. They're queued up right at the end of my driveway. This is the business opportunity for which I've been waiting 22 years. God has finally thrown me a bone.

Sue Who?

When I go to the grocery store to buy my coffee, I don't buy it based on where it is grown, or whether it's a dark roast or medium,  or whether it's ground or whole bean. I do not have a discerning palette when it comes to coffee. I have only three criteria when making a purchase:

1) it's on sale
2) it's not Tim Horton's.

I recently bought some whole bean President's Choice coffee. It really wakes me up in the morning, but that's only because my coffee grinder sounds like a pinata full of Skittles being beaten by rattle wielding toddlers. It's....umm...noisy. I have no idea if my coffee grinder gives me a coarse ground or a fine ground. It gives me coffee so that's all I care.

I bought two bags of coffee. One is from Colombia. I don't know much about Columbia other than they're noted for their coffee and their cocaine (not mixed together). I've only ever known two people from Colombia. A man called Juan Valdez who made his fortune as a coffee magnate and then expanded his empire to include ocean-going oil tankers. He was eventually bought out by Exxon and things up north turned south after that. The other Colombian with whom I'm acquainted is Olga Cruz. I'm quite convinced that she's descended from the Chibcha 'Indians' and that she would have become a high priestess had the Europeans not come over and ruined everything (soccer, Christianity, pay-per-view television, small pox, etc.).

My other bag of coffee was called Sumatran. I know nothing about Sumatra, but this brings me to criterion three (you thought I made a mistake earlier, didn't you?):

3) it better be packaged in a pretty colour that suits the aesthetic of both my mind and my cupboard.

As you can see from today's image, the coffee was bagged in the family colour...orange. I'd buy wasabi coated egg salad energy balls if they were packaged in more eye pleasing wrapping.

So, I know nothing about Sumatra so let's do a little research. I'd like to introduce you to Wikipedia in case you've never heard of it....

Sumatra (Indonesian: Sumatera) is an island in western Indonesia and part of the Sunda Islands. It is the largest island that is entirely in Indonesia (two larger islands, Borneo and New Guinea, are shared between Indonesia and other countries) and the sixth largest island in the world at 480,847.74 km² (including adjacent islands such as the Riau Islands and Bangga Belitung Islands), with a current population of over 50 million (54 million administratively, as Riau Islandsand Bangka–Belitung Islands are included). Its biggest city is Medan which has over 4,300,000 people in its metropolitan area. *Note: all this Sumatra stuff is courtesy of Wikipedia.

Medan? A city of 4.3 million. Bigger than Toronto, yet I've never heard of it. Gawd, I live in a bubble. In my own defence, they don't have an NFL or NHL franchise in Medan, so why do I even need to know about it?

So, have you noticed that I like to begin sentences with the word 'so'? It usually precedes a profound statement.  I digress. So, my Sumatran coffee tastes different from my Colombian coffee. Profound, I know! Please don't ask me to explain the difference. They cost the same so there's basically no difference other than the pretty orange bag and the taste. Given that Sumatra is roughly 87% Muslim, I doubt that my coffee beans were harvested by men like Juan Valdez. More likely they were picked by Muhammed Abdul Muhammed...or his wife and kids. This just proves that I still know little or nothing about Sumatra.

My coffee is now cold, in emulation of my blog.

Computers Will Save Humans Countless Hours Of Time

I'm having computer troubles today to the point where I've already wasted half my morning. For the moment I give up, though I'll probably bash my head against my diminutive little devil box later. I need to settle down. Maybe I should go lift some rocks.

Does this constitute a blog, or the negation of today's blog?

You decide.

How do you feel about your computer? Do you love it? Hate it? Or do you have a love/hate relationship with it? I can tell you that I hate my little computer. Sadly it's too heavy to be a frisbee, but light enough so as not to make a good anchor. I'll find a good use for it soon. Soon. Soon.

(insert evil laugh here).

Wall Smart

My passion for rock wall building is showing no signs of abating, though I think I'm nearing my property's capacity for hosting rock walls. It'll be sad when the last rock is placed. I imagine the ghost of Pete Berton will be crying on my shoulder, and I on his. He was a mess when he finished writing The Last Spike, you know.

Seriously, what the hell am I going to do when there are no more rocks to be gathered and placed. What does the hunter/gatherer do when there is nothing left to hunt or gather? He starves!

Why not take up knitting? You seem to have a fondness of toques. Make your own, you daft fool.

Hmmm...knitting. My Mom was an excellent knitter. Maybe I should follow in her footsteps? Gawd, what am I thinking?? I need some physical work (like rock wall building), not something to do while watching Another World.

Mmmm...Rachel. Mmmm...Iris Carrington. Mmmm...Ada McGowan. 

Ewwww...Ada McGowan!

It's 'Fun' To Stay At The Y.M.C.A......Errr, I Mean P.G.

In my youth I used to rock the world as the rhythm guitarist for a band called The Village Idiots. After a long and celebrated career I decided I couldn't keep up with the drug culture of my fellow band-mates (he once saw Julian take Advil), so I decided to go it alone as a solo act. Things didn't pan out ('pan' being the operative theme of most critical reviews) for me internationally, nationally or even provincially, but I'm still performing locally to enthusiastic audiences. When you watch this video, take note of how I captivate and win over the crowd with my affable style (well, he has a nice personality, at least), innate non-musicality and lyrical shape-shifting.

A Note To Wendy

Dear Wendy,

I bought a car yesterday. How was your day?

Love,

Ian