HELLOOOO NEWMAN: Laughter is your sixth sense
Thursday, 27 February 2014
Helloooo Newman: Is That Dog Porn?
Helloooo Newman: Is That Dog Porn?: I carelessly left some laundry on the floor. I didn't really notice it there. Newman did. I found him quietly lying on the floor and...
Is That Dog Porn?
I carelessly left some laundry on the floor. I didn't really notice it there.
Newman did.
I found him quietly lying on that floor and looking very satisfied.
Not surprising. He grabbed a pair of nylons (not mine), wrapped his rawhide bone in them and was happily licking and chewing away.
Nylons with a bone it them. That's my Newman.
Guess I don't always realize what an influence I am on his behaviour.
Newman did.
I found him quietly lying on that floor and looking very satisfied.
Not surprising. He grabbed a pair of nylons (not mine), wrapped his rawhide bone in them and was happily licking and chewing away.
Nylons with a bone it them. That's my Newman.
Guess I don't always realize what an influence I am on his behaviour.
Wednesday, 26 February 2014
Helloooo Newman: It's Good to be Smarter than Newman
Helloooo Newman: It's Good to be Smarter than Newman: Overall, Newman is a fairly well-adjusted canine. Of course, the environment he is being raised in will change that, but for now he's ...
It's Good to be Smarter than Newman
Overall, Newman is a fairly well-adjusted canine.
Of course, the environment he is being raised in will change that, but for now he's doing pretty well.
He's free of annoying habits, save for one.
In the morning, while I'm desperately filling my body with caffeine and Newman is waiting for his play time on the driveway, he will fetch some toilet paper or kleenex from the bathroom garbage (or anything chewable, really), and slowly munch it to pieces on the rug.
He is very careful to make sure he covers as much of the rug as possible.
Ha. Clever dog – but I am smarter.
To prevent Newman from doing this, I have a strategy.
I take kleenex from the garbage myself. I chew it in my mouth. I spread it all over the rug.
Presto, chango behaviour. He looks at the kleenex and figures he's already done his duty.
Pretty smart human, eh?
What a dumb dog!
Of course, the environment he is being raised in will change that, but for now he's doing pretty well.
He's free of annoying habits, save for one.
In the morning, while I'm desperately filling my body with caffeine and Newman is waiting for his play time on the driveway, he will fetch some toilet paper or kleenex from the bathroom garbage (or anything chewable, really), and slowly munch it to pieces on the rug.
He is very careful to make sure he covers as much of the rug as possible.
Ha. Clever dog – but I am smarter.
To prevent Newman from doing this, I have a strategy.
I take kleenex from the garbage myself. I chew it in my mouth. I spread it all over the rug.
Presto, chango behaviour. He looks at the kleenex and figures he's already done his duty.
Pretty smart human, eh?
What a dumb dog!
Friday, 14 February 2014
Helloooo Newman: Stare-Way to Hell
Helloooo Newman: Stare-Way to Hell: What is the most powerful weapon in the arsenal of the modern, domesticated dog? You might say the teeth. Dog's teeth can be very effi...
Stare-Way to Hell
What is the most powerful weapon in the arsenal of the modern, domesticated dog?
You might say the teeth. Dog's teeth can be very efficient weapons when used properly. The average dog can bite down on your flesh at a pressure of two thousand pounds per square inch. Prepare for great pain.
But the smart dog will not use this weapon against his owner. The dog knows he's screwed if he does this. Having his balls cut off will be the least of his worries.
I believe I've made it clear to Newman that if he ever full-on bit me out of anger I would promptly grab some pliers and remove his teeth one-by-one without anaesthetic. Just to make it fun, I would keep asking, "Is it safe?", borrowing from a classic scene in the movie The Marathon Man.
This goes for biting other people as well. Unless, of course, if I've instructed him that a particular person needs a good biting.
The claws are another handy weapon. Two things about this. I don't think dogs realize they can use their claws as a weapon. Cats certainly do. But Newman has never thought, I'm pissed right now and I'm gonna claw the shit out of something.
Newman never really uses his claws, except for the odd time when he seems to think that someone has buried a prime rib roast in the backyard and he digs a hole large enough to hold our car.
Secondly, as with the teeth, if Newman intentionally scratched me, he would get the last "peticure" he will ever need.
So what is Newman's most powerful weapon?
The Stare. That penetrating, unforgiving, soul-destroying STARE. My Stare-Way to Hell.
If I am slightly late in giving Newman his daily walk, he will do one thing and one thing only – stare at me. And stare. And stare. And stare. Has the sun burned out yet? Well, he will still be staring. Is the universe at maximum entropy? Newman is still staring.
The stare – so menacing precisely because it is so benign. Almost passive.
If only he would stare and make faces at me, or show some incisors once in a while. Perhaps flip me the paw. Then I could get mad at him.
I can't get mad at him for simply staring. I could scream "stop staring at me" directly in his ear with a bull horn and he would keep staring, wondering if this is the moment we are going for a walk.
No, the stare doesn't chew my flesh. It tears at my willpower. It destroys any sense of independence that I have as a person. Well, I guess marriage does that too.
The worst occurs when he stares at me with the ball resting in his mouth. He will hold onto that ball until all the saliva drains out of his mouth and onto the floor.
Imagine you're being interrogated by the most vile nazi general in Germany. Doesn't even approach the power of Newman's stare.
Cute face. Evil stare. A deadly combination.
You might say the teeth. Dog's teeth can be very efficient weapons when used properly. The average dog can bite down on your flesh at a pressure of two thousand pounds per square inch. Prepare for great pain.
But the smart dog will not use this weapon against his owner. The dog knows he's screwed if he does this. Having his balls cut off will be the least of his worries.
I believe I've made it clear to Newman that if he ever full-on bit me out of anger I would promptly grab some pliers and remove his teeth one-by-one without anaesthetic. Just to make it fun, I would keep asking, "Is it safe?", borrowing from a classic scene in the movie The Marathon Man.
This goes for biting other people as well. Unless, of course, if I've instructed him that a particular person needs a good biting.
The claws are another handy weapon. Two things about this. I don't think dogs realize they can use their claws as a weapon. Cats certainly do. But Newman has never thought, I'm pissed right now and I'm gonna claw the shit out of something.
Newman never really uses his claws, except for the odd time when he seems to think that someone has buried a prime rib roast in the backyard and he digs a hole large enough to hold our car.
Secondly, as with the teeth, if Newman intentionally scratched me, he would get the last "peticure" he will ever need.
So what is Newman's most powerful weapon?
The Stare. That penetrating, unforgiving, soul-destroying STARE. My Stare-Way to Hell.
If I am slightly late in giving Newman his daily walk, he will do one thing and one thing only – stare at me. And stare. And stare. And stare. Has the sun burned out yet? Well, he will still be staring. Is the universe at maximum entropy? Newman is still staring.
The stare – so menacing precisely because it is so benign. Almost passive.
If only he would stare and make faces at me, or show some incisors once in a while. Perhaps flip me the paw. Then I could get mad at him.
I can't get mad at him for simply staring. I could scream "stop staring at me" directly in his ear with a bull horn and he would keep staring, wondering if this is the moment we are going for a walk.
No, the stare doesn't chew my flesh. It tears at my willpower. It destroys any sense of independence that I have as a person. Well, I guess marriage does that too.
The worst occurs when he stares at me with the ball resting in his mouth. He will hold onto that ball until all the saliva drains out of his mouth and onto the floor.
Imagine you're being interrogated by the most vile nazi general in Germany. Doesn't even approach the power of Newman's stare.
Cute face. Evil stare. A deadly combination.
Tuesday, 4 February 2014
Helloooo Newman: What Constitutes a Healthy Marriage?
Helloooo Newman: What Constitutes a Healthy Marriage?: Men and women have been asking this question since before marriage was an institution. I have been married for countless years (meaning I&...
What Constitutes a Healthy Marriage?
Men and women have been asking this question since before marriage was an institution.
I have been married for countless years (meaning I've lost count) and so, naturally, I'm an expert on the topic.
I also have no idea what the answer is.
Perhaps the problem lies in the terms we use. The use of the word "healthy" in this context presents some problems.
The word "healthy" is great to use for things like blood pressure, or erectile dysfunction.
We assign numbers to blood pressure - 120 over 80 - and that unequivocally constitutes healthy blood pressure. Higher numbers mean higher blood pressure. The numbers are what they are.
Erectile dysfunction is even easier to diagnose, and you don't have to be an expert to figure it out.
You log onto assofmine.com, wait a couple of seconds and check for two conditions: hard or soft.
Keep in mind I'm not an expert on erectile dysfunction. Only recently, through the extensive research I do for this blog, did I find out that you can get porn on the internet.
If only a healthy marriage were this easy to diagnose. But the situation isn't completely hopeless.
Perhaps one way to tell if you have a healthy marriage is by the kinds of day-to-day issues you have to struggle with.
Are they earth-shattering problems that will tear the family apart? Or are they on the more mundane side of life?
Here's an example. Yesterday my wife challenged me with this question: "Did you change the ring tone on your iPhone? Or the text notification sound?"
I immediately felt like Newman, having done something wrong with not a clue as to what is was.
My ears dropped. "Not that I remember", I said in a profoundly weak, verging on guilty, voice.
"Well", she explained, "you have to change your ring tone because it's the same as mine and I'm running around the house answering your messages".
Does this remind you of Pavlov's dog, like it did for me? We all run around at the ping sound on our phones.
When I first set up my iPhone I happened to be eating onion rings from The Burger Shack. Now every time I hear the ping, I crave onion rings. This is not good. I will not be getting into that two piece bathing suite in July.
The good news is that dealing with issues like my iPhone ping is really quite easy.
That's what makes it a wonderful marriage. Well, at least until my wife reads this blog.
I have been married for countless years (meaning I've lost count) and so, naturally, I'm an expert on the topic.
I also have no idea what the answer is.
Perhaps the problem lies in the terms we use. The use of the word "healthy" in this context presents some problems.
The word "healthy" is great to use for things like blood pressure, or erectile dysfunction.
We assign numbers to blood pressure - 120 over 80 - and that unequivocally constitutes healthy blood pressure. Higher numbers mean higher blood pressure. The numbers are what they are.
Erectile dysfunction is even easier to diagnose, and you don't have to be an expert to figure it out.
You log onto assofmine.com, wait a couple of seconds and check for two conditions: hard or soft.
Keep in mind I'm not an expert on erectile dysfunction. Only recently, through the extensive research I do for this blog, did I find out that you can get porn on the internet.
If only a healthy marriage were this easy to diagnose. But the situation isn't completely hopeless.
Perhaps one way to tell if you have a healthy marriage is by the kinds of day-to-day issues you have to struggle with.
Are they earth-shattering problems that will tear the family apart? Or are they on the more mundane side of life?
Here's an example. Yesterday my wife challenged me with this question: "Did you change the ring tone on your iPhone? Or the text notification sound?"
I immediately felt like Newman, having done something wrong with not a clue as to what is was.
My ears dropped. "Not that I remember", I said in a profoundly weak, verging on guilty, voice.
"Well", she explained, "you have to change your ring tone because it's the same as mine and I'm running around the house answering your messages".
Does this remind you of Pavlov's dog, like it did for me? We all run around at the ping sound on our phones.
When I first set up my iPhone I happened to be eating onion rings from The Burger Shack. Now every time I hear the ping, I crave onion rings. This is not good. I will not be getting into that two piece bathing suite in July.
The good news is that dealing with issues like my iPhone ping is really quite easy.
That's what makes it a wonderful marriage. Well, at least until my wife reads this blog.
Friday, 31 January 2014
Helloooo Newman: The Art of Self-Expression
Helloooo Newman: The Art of Self-Expression: I'm a huge supporter of self-expression. I guess that's not an earth-shattering statement, living in Canada. It's kinda like s...
The Art of Self-Expression
I'm a huge supporter of self-expression.
I guess that's not an earth-shattering statement, living in Canada. It's kinda like saying I'm a huge supporter of eating food to survive.
We have to keep in mind, though, that self-expression is dangerous in certain parts of the world.
In Russia, if you're in a rock band and you offend the great leader, you end up in jail.
It's remarkable that a man with the physique of Putin, who controls enough nuclear weapons to melt this blue marble we live on, finds a women's rock band dangerous.
Big nuclear arsenal, tiny you-know-what.
Anywho, I'm getting too serious here. This is about Newman's visit to the vet.
We went today and the doctor offered to clip Newman's nails. Sure, I said. Better you than me.
As they brought Newman out of the clipping room (he also got two needles), there was a terrible smell.
The vet explained to me that Newman got nervous and, as she put it exactly, "expressed his anal glands".
Next time use your words, I said to Newman. I was so embarrassed.
Then I realized something. Who am I to be embarrassed?
The guys weekend at the cottage is always comprised of three things: beer, meat, and anal expression.
Just wanted to "clear the air" about that, Newman.
I guess that's not an earth-shattering statement, living in Canada. It's kinda like saying I'm a huge supporter of eating food to survive.
We have to keep in mind, though, that self-expression is dangerous in certain parts of the world.
In Russia, if you're in a rock band and you offend the great leader, you end up in jail.
It's remarkable that a man with the physique of Putin, who controls enough nuclear weapons to melt this blue marble we live on, finds a women's rock band dangerous.
Big nuclear arsenal, tiny you-know-what.
Anywho, I'm getting too serious here. This is about Newman's visit to the vet.
We went today and the doctor offered to clip Newman's nails. Sure, I said. Better you than me.
As they brought Newman out of the clipping room (he also got two needles), there was a terrible smell.
The vet explained to me that Newman got nervous and, as she put it exactly, "expressed his anal glands".
Next time use your words, I said to Newman. I was so embarrassed.
Then I realized something. Who am I to be embarrassed?
The guys weekend at the cottage is always comprised of three things: beer, meat, and anal expression.
Just wanted to "clear the air" about that, Newman.
Helloooo Newman: Weary of O'Leary
Helloooo Newman: Weary of O'Leary: Kevin O'Leary, in all his stupefying glory. I'll be leaving Canada now. http://www.upworthy.com/this-guy-needs-a-clue-a-member-of-...
Weary of O'Leary
Kevin O'Leary, in all his stupefying glory. I'll be leaving Canada now.
http://www.upworthy.com/this-guy-needs-a-clue-a-member-of-the-1-declares-it-great-that-35-billion-are-in-poverty?c=upw1
I think the pause at 24 seconds is my favourite.
http://www.upworthy.com/this-guy-needs-a-clue-a-member-of-the-1-declares-it-great-that-35-billion-are-in-poverty?c=upw1
I think the pause at 24 seconds is my favourite.
Helloooo Newman: Losing My Figure
Helloooo Newman: Losing My Figure: I've made an important step forward in my emotional and psychological development. I know, many of you may be surprised this kind of t...
Losing My Figure
I've made an important step forward in my emotional and psychological development.
I know, many of you may be surprised this kind of thing goes on at all with me.
I actually work at this everyday, but don't always realize it.
Okay, let's not exaggerate this effort on my part. It happens mostly by accident and without my awareness.
I use to soak up self help books like the warm sun in Cancun. Now I find people like Dr. Phil abhorrent and Wayne Dyer, while he seems like a truly nice guy, I find quite nauseating.
He's always smiling and positive and planning to make himself happier and his life better. And he's always wearing this really thick, hand-knit sweater that looks so comfy. I just want to slap him is all I want to do.
Get real, buddy. People that smile like that all the time are on drugs or trying to take money from you.
Anywho, I digress.
I've decided I am going to give up trying to figure other people out.
It's not really a decision, I guess. I'm just tired of doing it. Whenever people would behave in a way that puzzles me, especially when I've met them for the first time, I would spend inordinate amounts of time trying to figure out why they are that way. Fun, eh?
Now I employ a new psychological technique called, "Who Gives a Shit". It's far healthier.
In 1990 I went to Mexico with a friend and we became chummy with a couple from North Dakota. They were young, newly married and childless. The guy was a woofer. That translates into roofer, but he had a strange accent or speech impediment which made it sound like he was a professional speaker part.
One night at about 11:30 p.m., I was heading back to the bar after unloading some all-inclusive beer in the bathroom. As I approached the bar I saw my woofer friend with his shirt off. He was applying some kind of cream to his upper body.
Hmmm, a bit strange, I thought. I'm not one to remove my clothing and apply cream to myself where people eat and drink, but hey, we are on vacation and all the vacationers were high on all-inclusive drinks. And the sun, which was clearly down by this point, does dry one's skin out.
As I got closer and had a chance to examine the cream, I learned it was sunscreen.
"On your way to Australia?", I jokingly asked. "No, I get nervous on islands", he answered.
"Why are you putting sunscreen on now?", my enquiring mind wanted to know.
"Because I burn very easily", he explained. It was true. He was as white as freshly fallen snow during a polar vortex.
"But aren't you suppose to reapply it every 8 hours?", I asked.
"Oh ya", he said. "I'll put some more on in the morning".
I spent the week, and much time after that, trying to figure this guy out. What a waste of time and energy.
I kept wondering what it was about me that made him behave and think that way.
But I know better now. The number of influencing factors that go into determining a person's behaviour at any one time probably totals about 700 trillion, over a lifetime.
I probably covered 10-20 factors, and not one of those factors had anything to do with me.
Plus, people have a right to be who they are. They've had to live their life, not me.
Another big one for me is when people I am having a conversation with don't offer very much back, especially at parties.
I remember talking with this one couple at a party and every time I asked the guy a question, he would look at his wife for an answer.
That's really unnerving. Is he mute, or has he been castrated by his wife? What is it I'm doing or not doing that is discouraging this guy from taking his vocal chords for a run.
Well, I've given all that up. Now when people do this kind of thing around me I completely accept it and start mirroring what they are doing.
So in Mexico I really should have said "cool", and started applying sunscreen to myself.
To the non-talker, I probably should have employed the McGurk Effect (from my last blog, see here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G-lN8vWm3m0). Bah, bah, bah, fah, fah…
It seems I'm maturing with age. Go figure!
I know, many of you may be surprised this kind of thing goes on at all with me.
I actually work at this everyday, but don't always realize it.
Okay, let's not exaggerate this effort on my part. It happens mostly by accident and without my awareness.
I use to soak up self help books like the warm sun in Cancun. Now I find people like Dr. Phil abhorrent and Wayne Dyer, while he seems like a truly nice guy, I find quite nauseating.
He's always smiling and positive and planning to make himself happier and his life better. And he's always wearing this really thick, hand-knit sweater that looks so comfy. I just want to slap him is all I want to do.
Get real, buddy. People that smile like that all the time are on drugs or trying to take money from you.
Anywho, I digress.
I've decided I am going to give up trying to figure other people out.
It's not really a decision, I guess. I'm just tired of doing it. Whenever people would behave in a way that puzzles me, especially when I've met them for the first time, I would spend inordinate amounts of time trying to figure out why they are that way. Fun, eh?
Now I employ a new psychological technique called, "Who Gives a Shit". It's far healthier.
In 1990 I went to Mexico with a friend and we became chummy with a couple from North Dakota. They were young, newly married and childless. The guy was a woofer. That translates into roofer, but he had a strange accent or speech impediment which made it sound like he was a professional speaker part.
One night at about 11:30 p.m., I was heading back to the bar after unloading some all-inclusive beer in the bathroom. As I approached the bar I saw my woofer friend with his shirt off. He was applying some kind of cream to his upper body.
Hmmm, a bit strange, I thought. I'm not one to remove my clothing and apply cream to myself where people eat and drink, but hey, we are on vacation and all the vacationers were high on all-inclusive drinks. And the sun, which was clearly down by this point, does dry one's skin out.
As I got closer and had a chance to examine the cream, I learned it was sunscreen.
"On your way to Australia?", I jokingly asked. "No, I get nervous on islands", he answered.
"Why are you putting sunscreen on now?", my enquiring mind wanted to know.
"Because I burn very easily", he explained. It was true. He was as white as freshly fallen snow during a polar vortex.
"But aren't you suppose to reapply it every 8 hours?", I asked.
"Oh ya", he said. "I'll put some more on in the morning".
I spent the week, and much time after that, trying to figure this guy out. What a waste of time and energy.
I kept wondering what it was about me that made him behave and think that way.
But I know better now. The number of influencing factors that go into determining a person's behaviour at any one time probably totals about 700 trillion, over a lifetime.
I probably covered 10-20 factors, and not one of those factors had anything to do with me.
Plus, people have a right to be who they are. They've had to live their life, not me.
Another big one for me is when people I am having a conversation with don't offer very much back, especially at parties.
I remember talking with this one couple at a party and every time I asked the guy a question, he would look at his wife for an answer.
That's really unnerving. Is he mute, or has he been castrated by his wife? What is it I'm doing or not doing that is discouraging this guy from taking his vocal chords for a run.
Well, I've given all that up. Now when people do this kind of thing around me I completely accept it and start mirroring what they are doing.
So in Mexico I really should have said "cool", and started applying sunscreen to myself.
To the non-talker, I probably should have employed the McGurk Effect (from my last blog, see here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G-lN8vWm3m0). Bah, bah, bah, fah, fah…
It seems I'm maturing with age. Go figure!
Wednesday, 29 January 2014
Helloooo Newman: The Amazing Mr. McGurk
Helloooo Newman: The Amazing Mr. McGurk: Who or what is a McGurk? Is it the new, 10,000 calorie McDonalds sandwich? Unfortunately, no. It is actually what's know as the McGu...
The Amazing Mr. McGurk
Who or what is a McGurk? Is it the new, 10,000 calorie McDonalds sandwich?
Unfortunately, no.
It is actually what's known as the McGurk Effect, and boy is it neat.
If you have the searing intellect I do, you may already know of this effect if you watched TVO the other night.
Oh alright, "searing" might be too strong a word. I admit my intellect is brought down a few notches because I watch Locked Up Abroad, a show about people imprisoned in foreign countries under horrible conditions.
You can't completely blame me for this bad habit. I thought the show was called Locked Up WITH A Broad, and I was hoping to be the next contestant. I would be quitehappy, satisfied, joyful, ebullient being locked up with Jennifer Lawrence and Amy Adams in a Turkish prison and only one cot.
Yes, I also watch Border Crossing from time to time. I whole Hardiedly call myself an Einstein compared to some of the people on this show.
On yesterday's show an American women wanted to visit a park in Canada and decided to bring a fully loaded hand gun that she packed with her babies's diapers. And she wasn't at all trying to hide the gun. She declared it to Customs.
No blame here either. She bought the gun as a two-for-one special with the diapers. Mothers showing that kind of love gets my tears going.
Anywho, the McGurk Effect is quite astounding and I guarantee you will enjoy watching the youtube link below. It's only 3 minutes and 25 seconds long.
The amazing thing about this effect is that there is no earthly way to avoid it. You can watch it over and over or learn as much about the effect as you want, but you can't stop your brain from causing the effect. It is a result of being human.
Enjoy: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G-lN8vWm3m0
Remarkable, isn't it. As I watched the clip, it occurred to me that there is one occupation that employs this effect every day.
That's right. Politicians.
They can move their mouth and lips in any manner but the same bullshit sound comes out.
Now we have a name for that!
Mr. McGurk goes to Washington, and Ottawa, and Paris, and…
Unfortunately, no.
It is actually what's known as the McGurk Effect, and boy is it neat.
If you have the searing intellect I do, you may already know of this effect if you watched TVO the other night.
Oh alright, "searing" might be too strong a word. I admit my intellect is brought down a few notches because I watch Locked Up Abroad, a show about people imprisoned in foreign countries under horrible conditions.
You can't completely blame me for this bad habit. I thought the show was called Locked Up WITH A Broad, and I was hoping to be the next contestant. I would be quite
Yes, I also watch Border Crossing from time to time. I whole Hardiedly call myself an Einstein compared to some of the people on this show.
On yesterday's show an American women wanted to visit a park in Canada and decided to bring a fully loaded hand gun that she packed with her babies's diapers. And she wasn't at all trying to hide the gun. She declared it to Customs.
No blame here either. She bought the gun as a two-for-one special with the diapers. Mothers showing that kind of love gets my tears going.
Anywho, the McGurk Effect is quite astounding and I guarantee you will enjoy watching the youtube link below. It's only 3 minutes and 25 seconds long.
The amazing thing about this effect is that there is no earthly way to avoid it. You can watch it over and over or learn as much about the effect as you want, but you can't stop your brain from causing the effect. It is a result of being human.
Enjoy: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G-lN8vWm3m0
Remarkable, isn't it. As I watched the clip, it occurred to me that there is one occupation that employs this effect every day.
That's right. Politicians.
They can move their mouth and lips in any manner but the same bullshit sound comes out.
Now we have a name for that!
Mr. McGurk goes to Washington, and Ottawa, and Paris, and…
Monday, 27 January 2014
Helloooo Newman: Stop Making Sense
Helloooo Newman: Stop Making Sense: I think this particular article could become a regular series. It's about everyday things in the world that seem perfectly fine at fir...
Stop Making Sense
I think this particular article could become a regular series.
It's about everyday things in the world that seem perfectly fine at first. Somewhere in the back of your mind, though, you realize there is something very wrong with a particular thing, but you can't articulate it at first.
Then whamo, it hits you. This happened to me on the subway recently.
It's a sign that appears everywhere on the subway. It advertises a suicide hotline. I've looked at it a million times, partly because there is often little else to do on the subway, and I also feel like I should join other people in their vacant staring.
I know, I could play iphone games to stay busy. I just find staring at tiny moving graphics for an hour quite tiring and annoying.
Don't worry, I have no plans on using the suicide hotline. Occasionally I'll try suicide wings, but that's as far as I go.
But I've always suspected something very basic was wrong with the sign. Then I realized how astounding it is that someone was paid a lot of money to design this sign.
In very large letters, it tells you to call the suicide hotline. That's a good start. Often people in a desperate situation need access to help quickly.
The next largest things are 3 graphics - a phone icon, two hands beside each other, and another that I really couldn't identify. Not without careful study, anyway.
I figure people who need this sign probably don't have the mindset to study graphics carefully, or really care about them at all. I could be wrong.
The hands graphic is peculiar too. Maybe the hands are about to shake each other. Call for a good handshake. Or a helping hand. I guess that makes sense. Or maybe you'll get a good hand job if you respond to this sign. I'm not sure. And that's me, calm, together and having loads of time to study the sign.
Guess what the next largest thing is on the sign… Have you guessed yet?
You might say, um, oh gee, maybe an incredibly easy telephone number to remember. You might even think that telephone number should be one of the largest items on the sign. Large enough so that if you're zipping by on a train you might be able to see and memorize the number. You know, because people in a desperate state might not be in the mood to study a sign for a while.
Nope. The next largest item is a box with the logos of the companies paying for the hotline. They really pop out at you. That's really sweet of the corporate sponsors, one of which is the TTC itself.
Before you jump on the track, please note which companies are helping people around here, okay?
The smallest type on the sign (and it's small) shares with us inconvenient details, like the number to call and the fact that every platform has a free phone link to a crisis centre.
Mundane details like this are a nuisance to corporations trying to be good citizens. On the other hand, if you're trying to stay alive, well, who knows, you might want this information in your face. Just a guess.
So if you quickly look at this sign, you are left with the words CRISIS HOTLINE, some neat clipart, and logos. If you want any more information, well, have a seat and start reading the fine print.
One time I received a brochure in the mail encouraging me to buy tickets for the Rogers Cup tennis. The two largest items on the brochure were awesome and well placed photos of tennis players in action, and the number to call for tickets. Hire that designer, I say.
I'm sure the person who suggested the big headline, FREE CRISIS PHONE HERE, was fired. So was the numskull who wanted the crisis hotline, which the sign tells you to contact, nice and bold and large.
The guy in charge of logos? He got a promotion.
It's about everyday things in the world that seem perfectly fine at first. Somewhere in the back of your mind, though, you realize there is something very wrong with a particular thing, but you can't articulate it at first.
Then whamo, it hits you. This happened to me on the subway recently.
It's a sign that appears everywhere on the subway. It advertises a suicide hotline. I've looked at it a million times, partly because there is often little else to do on the subway, and I also feel like I should join other people in their vacant staring.
I know, I could play iphone games to stay busy. I just find staring at tiny moving graphics for an hour quite tiring and annoying.
Don't worry, I have no plans on using the suicide hotline. Occasionally I'll try suicide wings, but that's as far as I go.
But I've always suspected something very basic was wrong with the sign. Then I realized how astounding it is that someone was paid a lot of money to design this sign.
In very large letters, it tells you to call the suicide hotline. That's a good start. Often people in a desperate situation need access to help quickly.
The next largest things are 3 graphics - a phone icon, two hands beside each other, and another that I really couldn't identify. Not without careful study, anyway.
I figure people who need this sign probably don't have the mindset to study graphics carefully, or really care about them at all. I could be wrong.
The hands graphic is peculiar too. Maybe the hands are about to shake each other. Call for a good handshake. Or a helping hand. I guess that makes sense. Or maybe you'll get a good hand job if you respond to this sign. I'm not sure. And that's me, calm, together and having loads of time to study the sign.
Guess what the next largest thing is on the sign… Have you guessed yet?
You might say, um, oh gee, maybe an incredibly easy telephone number to remember. You might even think that telephone number should be one of the largest items on the sign. Large enough so that if you're zipping by on a train you might be able to see and memorize the number. You know, because people in a desperate state might not be in the mood to study a sign for a while.
Nope. The next largest item is a box with the logos of the companies paying for the hotline. They really pop out at you. That's really sweet of the corporate sponsors, one of which is the TTC itself.
Before you jump on the track, please note which companies are helping people around here, okay?
The smallest type on the sign (and it's small) shares with us inconvenient details, like the number to call and the fact that every platform has a free phone link to a crisis centre.
Mundane details like this are a nuisance to corporations trying to be good citizens. On the other hand, if you're trying to stay alive, well, who knows, you might want this information in your face. Just a guess.
So if you quickly look at this sign, you are left with the words CRISIS HOTLINE, some neat clipart, and logos. If you want any more information, well, have a seat and start reading the fine print.
One time I received a brochure in the mail encouraging me to buy tickets for the Rogers Cup tennis. The two largest items on the brochure were awesome and well placed photos of tennis players in action, and the number to call for tickets. Hire that designer, I say.
I'm sure the person who suggested the big headline, FREE CRISIS PHONE HERE, was fired. So was the numskull who wanted the crisis hotline, which the sign tells you to contact, nice and bold and large.
The guy in charge of logos? He got a promotion.
Monday, 20 January 2014
Helloooo Newman: Young Man Winter
Helloooo Newman: Young Man Winter: This is my young man winter in all his glory. What a piece of work is Newman. How noble in training, how infinite in loyalty. Th...
Young Man Winter
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This is my young man winter in all his glory.
What a piece of work is Newman. How noble in training, how infinite in loyalty. The beauty of the world! The paragon of animals!
I can take Shakespeare and change it, can't I?
I've read a lot of self help books in my time.
But in these pictures I see everything I need to see to know how to live well.
Helloooo Newman: It's not all scientifical
Helloooo Newman: It's not all scientifical: I'm uncomfortable with the idea that science will one day explain everything. I don't really want it to. But I have no real fear a...
It's not all scientifical
I'm uncomfortable with the idea that science will one day explain everything. I don't really want it to.
But I have no real fear around this because I don't think it ever will, despite what Stephen Hawking says. I know he's smarter than me, but I think he's wrong on the idea that science will answer everything and negate the "need" for a creator.
What a profoundly arrogant statement, it seems to me. A little too God-like for my tastes. Perhaps it takes a God-wanna-be to prove once and for all that God doesn't exist.
It's interesting that professed atheists, all the rage these days, are really just as close-minded, arrogant and obnoxious as your average baptist preacher.
I say this as a person who is no big fan of organized religion. The religious "story" is so rife with contradictions, it bleeds any credibility it could possibly hope for.
My favourite contradiction is that God is omnipotent and omnipresent, yet seems to possess all the nasty characteristics of petty human behaviour: jealousy, greed, low self esteem, anger issues, cult mentality, narcissism, homophobia, misogyny…the list goes on.
But as George Carlin famously said, he looooves you.
I meander once again. I can think of a long list of phenomena science will never explain.
Here is a partial list:
• The bra net: Some readers may not know what this is. When women wash their bras, they feel a need to put it in a net, similar to a fish trawling net, but much smaller. I don't think we'll ever understand why. They don't look or taste like lobsters. I think it has something to do with those little clips, the very clips men eagerly try to work just before sex. It is these clips that ALWAYS get hooked on the net and take hours to detach. The few times I've forgotten to net the bras, they have never hooked on anything, appear completely fine, have saved me laundry loads of time, and are just as comfortable to wear.
• The mattress sheet: This is the sheet that goes directly over the mattress. You're suppose to fold these things, so I'm told. Why? And how? Is far as I can tell, if I put the sheet in a blender and removed it, the result would match folding it according to current methodology. To fold correctly, please contact packaging company, or Stephen Hawking.
• Finding the car hood latch: I've spent many hours trying to find the latch for the front hood on our Nissan Versa. Usually in the winter, during a polar vortex, the new term for cold air. Nissan, it seems, tries to differentiate itself by doing the opposite of Honda and putting simple things in just the perfectly wrong place. They had thousands of test dummies try to find the latch and as soon as all of them failed in the task, they released the car to the world. We now have a Honda.
This is an interactive post. Perhaps you can think of things science, and the great Stephen Hawking, will never explain.
But I have no real fear around this because I don't think it ever will, despite what Stephen Hawking says. I know he's smarter than me, but I think he's wrong on the idea that science will answer everything and negate the "need" for a creator.
What a profoundly arrogant statement, it seems to me. A little too God-like for my tastes. Perhaps it takes a God-wanna-be to prove once and for all that God doesn't exist.
It's interesting that professed atheists, all the rage these days, are really just as close-minded, arrogant and obnoxious as your average baptist preacher.
I say this as a person who is no big fan of organized religion. The religious "story" is so rife with contradictions, it bleeds any credibility it could possibly hope for.
My favourite contradiction is that God is omnipotent and omnipresent, yet seems to possess all the nasty characteristics of petty human behaviour: jealousy, greed, low self esteem, anger issues, cult mentality, narcissism, homophobia, misogyny…the list goes on.
But as George Carlin famously said, he looooves you.
I meander once again. I can think of a long list of phenomena science will never explain.
Here is a partial list:
• The bra net: Some readers may not know what this is. When women wash their bras, they feel a need to put it in a net, similar to a fish trawling net, but much smaller. I don't think we'll ever understand why. They don't look or taste like lobsters. I think it has something to do with those little clips, the very clips men eagerly try to work just before sex. It is these clips that ALWAYS get hooked on the net and take hours to detach. The few times I've forgotten to net the bras, they have never hooked on anything, appear completely fine, have saved me laundry loads of time, and are just as comfortable to wear.
• The mattress sheet: This is the sheet that goes directly over the mattress. You're suppose to fold these things, so I'm told. Why? And how? Is far as I can tell, if I put the sheet in a blender and removed it, the result would match folding it according to current methodology. To fold correctly, please contact packaging company, or Stephen Hawking.
• Finding the car hood latch: I've spent many hours trying to find the latch for the front hood on our Nissan Versa. Usually in the winter, during a polar vortex, the new term for cold air. Nissan, it seems, tries to differentiate itself by doing the opposite of Honda and putting simple things in just the perfectly wrong place. They had thousands of test dummies try to find the latch and as soon as all of them failed in the task, they released the car to the world. We now have a Honda.
This is an interactive post. Perhaps you can think of things science, and the great Stephen Hawking, will never explain.
Friday, 17 January 2014
Helloooo Newman: In the Mood
Helloooo Newman: In the Mood: The thing I love about Newman is that he doesn't get cranky about the things that normally enrage humans. Take sleeping, for instance....
In the Mood
What I love about Newman is that he doesn't get cranky about the things that normally enrage humans.
Take sleeping, for instance. Some nights when I wake up and can't fall back asleep, I go to Newman, who is sleeping quietly on our bed somewhere among the blanket folds, and I gently pet him. It's a really nice bonding moment because he's very calm and peaceful and loves the gentle stroking motion.
I admit it's hard to find him sometimes because he's the same colour as our comforter. But when I do, he has no problem with the fact that I just woke him up from a deep sleep and probably a fun dream about carrying a dead squirrel in his mouth.
If Newman were at all human, I would expect him to say, "Hey buddy, I'm sleepin' here. I almost had the damn squirrel in my mouth, do you get it? Go pet the doll in your closet".
What do you think would happen if I tried this on my wife? I'd probably get the alarm clock implanted into the side of my face and a time stamp on my cheek of 2:38 a.m.
I would react the same way, of course. Probably even worse because I often take a while to fall asleep. My wife, on average, takes about 3 seconds to achieve a state of "slumberness".
If a passenger plane crashed outside our window, or a global thermonuclear war had just started, you could up that time to, maybe, 10-12 seconds. Meanwhile, I'm still pleading with the sleep Gods to pay me a visit.
Then there's food. Newman eats his food in about 3.2 seconds, but if I get a chance to take it away from him, he just patiently waits for me to return it. No growling, no mean looks or harsh words.
If I'm in the middle of my dinner and someone takes it away from me, they immediately graduate to the top of my death list honour roll, no degree required.
Another game I like to play with Newman is bending down and pretending I want to eat some of his food. Newman just stares at me like I'm crazy and, again, waits patiently until I've had my fill. What I really want to do as I get close to his food is puke, but he doesn't know that.
One thing I can't stand is sharing food. "Oh, that looks good, can I try a bit"? Sure, but I'm gonna mash it up so it can flow down the feeding tube you'll need if you don't back away.
This is what I love about Newman. He's always in the mood.
Take sleeping, for instance. Some nights when I wake up and can't fall back asleep, I go to Newman, who is sleeping quietly on our bed somewhere among the blanket folds, and I gently pet him. It's a really nice bonding moment because he's very calm and peaceful and loves the gentle stroking motion.
I admit it's hard to find him sometimes because he's the same colour as our comforter. But when I do, he has no problem with the fact that I just woke him up from a deep sleep and probably a fun dream about carrying a dead squirrel in his mouth.
If Newman were at all human, I would expect him to say, "Hey buddy, I'm sleepin' here. I almost had the damn squirrel in my mouth, do you get it? Go pet the doll in your closet".
What do you think would happen if I tried this on my wife? I'd probably get the alarm clock implanted into the side of my face and a time stamp on my cheek of 2:38 a.m.
I would react the same way, of course. Probably even worse because I often take a while to fall asleep. My wife, on average, takes about 3 seconds to achieve a state of "slumberness".
If a passenger plane crashed outside our window, or a global thermonuclear war had just started, you could up that time to, maybe, 10-12 seconds. Meanwhile, I'm still pleading with the sleep Gods to pay me a visit.
Then there's food. Newman eats his food in about 3.2 seconds, but if I get a chance to take it away from him, he just patiently waits for me to return it. No growling, no mean looks or harsh words.
If I'm in the middle of my dinner and someone takes it away from me, they immediately graduate to the top of my death list honour roll, no degree required.
Another game I like to play with Newman is bending down and pretending I want to eat some of his food. Newman just stares at me like I'm crazy and, again, waits patiently until I've had my fill. What I really want to do as I get close to his food is puke, but he doesn't know that.
One thing I can't stand is sharing food. "Oh, that looks good, can I try a bit"? Sure, but I'm gonna mash it up so it can flow down the feeding tube you'll need if you don't back away.
This is what I love about Newman. He's always in the mood.
Wednesday, 15 January 2014
Helloooo Newman: Sorry, Wrong Planet
Helloooo Newman: Sorry, Wrong Planet: Did you hear about the plane that landed at the wrong airport? Sounds like a joke, doesn't it? Nope. A few days ago a passenger plan...
Sorry, Wrong Planet
Did you hear about the plane that landed at the wrong airport?
Sounds like a joke, doesn't it? Nope.
A few days ago a passenger plane landed at the wrong airport. The runway at this airport was less than half the proper length. Consequently, the plane almost ran off the short runway into a valley.
Fun, eh?
You would think GPS 101 is every pilot's speciality. Or maybe the pilots were relying too much on the GPS technology.
Either way, they got it wrong. And that got me thinking.
Thinking about aliens. I've always wondered that if aliens really do exist, why do they come to earth?
The closest planet to us (outside of our solar system) is trillions upon trillions upon trillions of kilometres away. It takes incredibly advanced technology, huge amounts of time and very patient aliens to travel anywhere of import in this universe.
If there's one truth about our universe, it's that the size is larger than you can really imagine.
For example, you probably think our solar system ends at Pluto. Not even close. That is only a fraction of its size. You would have to travel many more billions upon billions of kilometres to get to the Oort cloud, the true end. It would take us 37,000 years using current technology to reach the end.
In short, it's no easy task to go visiting other planets. You probably want a good reason to go, like you have going to Acton.
And they pick Earth to visit? The earth with Rob Ford, Kim Jong Un and the Ice Capades? The planet that spent $400 million dollars in 2013 on Duck Dynasty merchandise?
Then it all made sense to me. These visiting aliens have landed at the wrong airport, so to speak. Taking a page from those "wayward" pilot's manual, they accidentally landed on earth when they meant to visit a much more distinguished and intelligent planet.
It must be. There's no earthly reason aliens would visit earth.
This is why UFOs travel so fast. Suffering from embarrassment, the aliens quickly realize their mistake and high tail it out of here.
I wonder if these aliens get in trouble for making such a dreadful error. Are they put on paid leave, like the pilots have been? Can you really call it paid leave when you're 5 light years away from home?
I wonder if the aliens bring passengers. Maybe to repopulate the planet. Imagine travelling trillions of kilometres eating space ship food and timing your washroom visits with the food cart, only to arrive at the astral-equivalent of Middelfart, Denmark (yes, a real place).
With such advanced technology, how could a mistake like this be made? It probably comes down to alien nature. This means the captain was banging the stewardess…sorry…flight attendant. In spaceflight terms, his needle was in the wrong compass.
The cockpit conversation might have gone something like this: "I expressly told you, Beeplob, to make a left at Uranus, but no, you go right down the anus, through the colon to the bowel called Earth. Bulbous heads will roll".
On the other hand, I can kind of understand the alien's tough position. The airport that the pilots landed at was 7 miles from the proper airport. Not that far, really.
Imagine trying to pick the correct planet from many that are millions or billions of miles apart. Mistakes have gotta happen often.
But no one ever concedes that aliens might get it wrong.
Isn't it nice to know even advanced civilizations make mistakes?
Sounds like a joke, doesn't it? Nope.
A few days ago a passenger plane landed at the wrong airport. The runway at this airport was less than half the proper length. Consequently, the plane almost ran off the short runway into a valley.
Fun, eh?
You would think GPS 101 is every pilot's speciality. Or maybe the pilots were relying too much on the GPS technology.
Either way, they got it wrong. And that got me thinking.
Thinking about aliens. I've always wondered that if aliens really do exist, why do they come to earth?
The closest planet to us (outside of our solar system) is trillions upon trillions upon trillions of kilometres away. It takes incredibly advanced technology, huge amounts of time and very patient aliens to travel anywhere of import in this universe.
If there's one truth about our universe, it's that the size is larger than you can really imagine.
For example, you probably think our solar system ends at Pluto. Not even close. That is only a fraction of its size. You would have to travel many more billions upon billions of kilometres to get to the Oort cloud, the true end. It would take us 37,000 years using current technology to reach the end.
In short, it's no easy task to go visiting other planets. You probably want a good reason to go, like you have going to Acton.
And they pick Earth to visit? The earth with Rob Ford, Kim Jong Un and the Ice Capades? The planet that spent $400 million dollars in 2013 on Duck Dynasty merchandise?
Then it all made sense to me. These visiting aliens have landed at the wrong airport, so to speak. Taking a page from those "wayward" pilot's manual, they accidentally landed on earth when they meant to visit a much more distinguished and intelligent planet.
It must be. There's no earthly reason aliens would visit earth.
This is why UFOs travel so fast. Suffering from embarrassment, the aliens quickly realize their mistake and high tail it out of here.
I wonder if these aliens get in trouble for making such a dreadful error. Are they put on paid leave, like the pilots have been? Can you really call it paid leave when you're 5 light years away from home?
I wonder if the aliens bring passengers. Maybe to repopulate the planet. Imagine travelling trillions of kilometres eating space ship food and timing your washroom visits with the food cart, only to arrive at the astral-equivalent of Middelfart, Denmark (yes, a real place).
With such advanced technology, how could a mistake like this be made? It probably comes down to alien nature. This means the captain was banging the stewardess…sorry…flight attendant. In spaceflight terms, his needle was in the wrong compass.
The cockpit conversation might have gone something like this: "I expressly told you, Beeplob, to make a left at Uranus, but no, you go right down the anus, through the colon to the bowel called Earth. Bulbous heads will roll".
On the other hand, I can kind of understand the alien's tough position. The airport that the pilots landed at was 7 miles from the proper airport. Not that far, really.
Imagine trying to pick the correct planet from many that are millions or billions of miles apart. Mistakes have gotta happen often.
But no one ever concedes that aliens might get it wrong.
Isn't it nice to know even advanced civilizations make mistakes?
Sunday, 12 January 2014
Helloooo Newman: No, I've never been in a war zone…
Helloooo Newman: No, I've never been in a war zone…: …but I do have a brain and some imagination. All that, along with a smidgen of historical knowledge, tells me the Toronto ice storm really...
No, I've never been in a war zone…
…but I do have a brain and some imagination.
All that, along with a smidgen of historical knowledge, tells me the Toronto ice storm really didn't resemble a war zone at all, as many media outlets portrayed it.
In the Town Crier headline the words "war zone" are part of a direct quote from one of the many war-torn residents of Leaside.
The guy who chose these ominous words went on to say, "I came out to get some food and coffee…and literally could not drive out of our neighbourhood…so I…set out on foot".
Presumably, this man is now what we call (in war talk) a foot soldier. Skilfully using his feet to get to the fresh bread store, antibiotic-free probiotic meat store and the bank, where he keeps his military pay.
My God, man, did you make it safely to the Starbucks? Were they able to heat the soy milk in your latte so as to make biscotti-dipping more pleasant?
I trust, hard-done-by resident, you avoided all the mass graves, unexploded shells and death squads roaming the tree-lined streets that is so common after a big storm.
Granted, many of these lovely tress lost branches - big ones. One detail that popped out for me when I watched a documentary on the German invasion of Russia was how many nice trees were lost amidst the 20 million dead people and razed buildings.
No people left to replant trees. Shame.
I'm sure the first thing the Iraqi's were miffed about when George "Mission Accomplished" Bush sent actual exploding missiles flying was losing cable t.v. and Internet. So, naturally, we Torontonians know what that's like. I think the average person can easily mistake a falling branch for a 2,000 pound shell that eviscerates your Starbucks and everyone in it. Sorry, the biscotti was over-cooked today.
I'd be comfortable with words like "eerie", "gloomy", "bizarre", "spooky", and "annoying" to describe the storm of the century.
Anything about war never really occurred to me. But these days everything is a war - obesity, drugs, racism, sexism…and now the weather has declared war on Leaside.
The good thing about real wars is that the army is already there to clean up, even though they are cleaning up dead bodies and flattened cities.
In Toronto we have to debate whether we want the army to come in and then we have to ask Mr. Harper nicely. And the Canadian army, as we all know, is far more skilled at picking up branches than any tree company or, let's say, you and me are.
I'm glad I don't have to suffer through the war ravages of having to pick up branches and put them in a neat pile.
When, oh when, will we negotiate peace with the weather?
All that, along with a smidgen of historical knowledge, tells me the Toronto ice storm really didn't resemble a war zone at all, as many media outlets portrayed it.
In the Town Crier headline the words "war zone" are part of a direct quote from one of the many war-torn residents of Leaside.
The guy who chose these ominous words went on to say, "I came out to get some food and coffee…and literally could not drive out of our neighbourhood…so I…set out on foot".
Presumably, this man is now what we call (in war talk) a foot soldier. Skilfully using his feet to get to the fresh bread store, antibiotic-free probiotic meat store and the bank, where he keeps his military pay.
My God, man, did you make it safely to the Starbucks? Were they able to heat the soy milk in your latte so as to make biscotti-dipping more pleasant?
I trust, hard-done-by resident, you avoided all the mass graves, unexploded shells and death squads roaming the tree-lined streets that is so common after a big storm.
Granted, many of these lovely tress lost branches - big ones. One detail that popped out for me when I watched a documentary on the German invasion of Russia was how many nice trees were lost amidst the 20 million dead people and razed buildings.
No people left to replant trees. Shame.
I'm sure the first thing the Iraqi's were miffed about when George "Mission Accomplished" Bush sent actual exploding missiles flying was losing cable t.v. and Internet. So, naturally, we Torontonians know what that's like. I think the average person can easily mistake a falling branch for a 2,000 pound shell that eviscerates your Starbucks and everyone in it. Sorry, the biscotti was over-cooked today.
I'd be comfortable with words like "eerie", "gloomy", "bizarre", "spooky", and "annoying" to describe the storm of the century.
Anything about war never really occurred to me. But these days everything is a war - obesity, drugs, racism, sexism…and now the weather has declared war on Leaside.
The good thing about real wars is that the army is already there to clean up, even though they are cleaning up dead bodies and flattened cities.
In Toronto we have to debate whether we want the army to come in and then we have to ask Mr. Harper nicely. And the Canadian army, as we all know, is far more skilled at picking up branches than any tree company or, let's say, you and me are.
I'm glad I don't have to suffer through the war ravages of having to pick up branches and put them in a neat pile.
When, oh when, will we negotiate peace with the weather?
Friday, 3 January 2014
Helloooo Newman: Frozen Yoga
Helloooo Newman: Frozen Yoga: Does everyone on the planet do yoga now? Everyone but me? Seems like it. Even Newman who, obviously, has mastered the downward dog. Let...
Frozen Yoga
Does everyone on the planet do yoga now? Everyone but me?
Seems like it. Even Newman who, obviously, has mastered the downward dog. Let's make that the downward puppy, since he still chews nails, kleenex, anything he can find, really.
I suppose on a day like today, at minus 20 and a wind chill that brings it down to a testicle-crunching minus 300, hot yoga would be a good choice. There must be many people in North America clamouring for hot yoga right now.
Well, I don't want to do hot yoga. Why? Precisely because everyone is doing it. If a particular activity attracts everyone, it necessarily repels me.
So I need an alternative.
Consider this, as well. What of summer? And global warming? Things are getting hotter, aren't they? Will hot yoga still be in demand 100 years from now?
I propose frozen yoga. I've already tried it and it works.
And it's hip, because no one does it…yet.
I don't quite have the proper facilities worked out yet, so I held my first class in a meat freezer at Canada Packers.
It's based on a very simple equation – calories in, calories out. This way you are exactly the same person at the end of the class as you were when you started. Because you don't need to change. You are perfect in the eyes of the Lord.
My personal favourite of the poses is the downward facing hog. You slope down to the floor and awaiting you is a pound of cooked bacon to be consumed. Easy to arrange because you're in a meat freezer.
But not always easy to accomplish. Many students could not finish the bacon. Okay, it was their first time.
Another great one is the extended side ribs angle pose. I have to rework this one because it caused a few injuries. Several careless students slipped on some errant bbq sauce.
I think the most difficult pose was the chicken legs up the wall. The wall became very slippery with grease and difficult to climb. Knew I should have trimmed some of the chicken skin off.
Afterwards I took the class out for frozen yogurt. I'm not sure why. I think because one class member yelled out, "I love frozen yoga", but I heard "frozen yogurt".
Seems like it. Even Newman who, obviously, has mastered the downward dog. Let's make that the downward puppy, since he still chews nails, kleenex, anything he can find, really.
I suppose on a day like today, at minus 20 and a wind chill that brings it down to a testicle-crunching minus 300, hot yoga would be a good choice. There must be many people in North America clamouring for hot yoga right now.
Well, I don't want to do hot yoga. Why? Precisely because everyone is doing it. If a particular activity attracts everyone, it necessarily repels me.
So I need an alternative.
Consider this, as well. What of summer? And global warming? Things are getting hotter, aren't they? Will hot yoga still be in demand 100 years from now?
I propose frozen yoga. I've already tried it and it works.
And it's hip, because no one does it…yet.
I don't quite have the proper facilities worked out yet, so I held my first class in a meat freezer at Canada Packers.
It's based on a very simple equation – calories in, calories out. This way you are exactly the same person at the end of the class as you were when you started. Because you don't need to change. You are perfect in the eyes of the Lord.
My personal favourite of the poses is the downward facing hog. You slope down to the floor and awaiting you is a pound of cooked bacon to be consumed. Easy to arrange because you're in a meat freezer.
But not always easy to accomplish. Many students could not finish the bacon. Okay, it was their first time.
Another great one is the extended side ribs angle pose. I have to rework this one because it caused a few injuries. Several careless students slipped on some errant bbq sauce.
I think the most difficult pose was the chicken legs up the wall. The wall became very slippery with grease and difficult to climb. Knew I should have trimmed some of the chicken skin off.
Afterwards I took the class out for frozen yogurt. I'm not sure why. I think because one class member yelled out, "I love frozen yoga", but I heard "frozen yogurt".
Tuesday, 31 December 2013
Helloooo Newman: Apologies to the Fifty Percent
Helloooo Newman: Apologies to the Fifty Percent: Just as I dotted the last pixel on my previous article, I realized my peewee/ice destruction game cannot be enjoyed by 50% of the population...
Apologies to the Fifty Percent
Just as I dotted the last pixel on my previous article, I realized my peewee/ice destruction game cannot be enjoyed by 50% of the population.
I apologize to the fifty percent who are female. I try to be all-inclusive on this blog.
Please don't cancel your free subscription.
This is not Dog Dynasty on A&E! If bestiality beats your drum, then all the best to you.
But worry not, women. They are working wonders with them 3-D printers and perhaps some day you can enjoy a working attachment and play destroy the urinal world.
I could certainly use a bit more 3 for my D (insert Groucho Marx voiceover).
I'll end there.
I apologize to the fifty percent who are female. I try to be all-inclusive on this blog.
Please don't cancel your free subscription.
This is not Dog Dynasty on A&E! If bestiality beats your drum, then all the best to you.
But worry not, women. They are working wonders with them 3-D printers and perhaps some day you can enjoy a working attachment and play destroy the urinal world.
I could certainly use a bit more 3 for my D (insert Groucho Marx voiceover).
I'll end there.
Helloooo Newman: Intelligent Life Once Lived Here
Helloooo Newman: Intelligent Life Once Lived Here: Whenever I read articles discussing the intelligence of the human race, I notice that writers always default to grand and epic examples of h...
Intelligent Life Once Lived Here
Whenever I read articles discussing the intelligence of the human race, I notice that writers always default to grand and epic examples of how stupid we seem to be.
The human race developed nuclear weapons that can destroy the planet and everyone on it. Stupid!
We developed a strategy called MAD (Mutual Assured Destruction) to ensure we don't destroy ourselves with these weapons. Nuke me and I'll nuke you - na na boo boo. Childish!
We rape the earth of her resources on a daily basis to live a good life, knowing it won't last. In the process we are turning this blue marble in the cosmos into a rather large microwave oven. Insane!
To me, the signs of our insanity are found in much smaller game.
I'm talking, of course, about cable companies. I have one particular company in mind, but I'd prefer not to name it (what the hell – Rogers).
A few weeks back Rogers suddenly, and without warning, vaporized my email account. It just stopped working. The bits and bytes of my account were crushed into bits and bytes and not even useful as party mix. And so my life followed along with it.
I am not a techno-insane wanna be, but I NEED MY EMAIL (emphasis mine!). I am so attached to my, well, attachments. I was hyper about my hyper text.
In terms more redolent of philosophy, I Link, Therefore I Am.
I was angry. Did I mention that already?
I was angry and felt powerless. Case in point. Last night I was at a bar drinking. I went to the urinal to rid my body of some water. Too late for the alcohol. It was fully absorbed into my brain.
Poured into the urinal were these preformed ice cubes. I love when bars do that. I suddenly found myself playing this sick game. The ice was Rogers Headquarters. My pee was slowly and methodically destroying this Headquarters. I would pick a spot, focus my weapon and watch the structure collapse helplessly.
The feeling of power was incredible. Oooo hahahaha. I guess people more in control of their sanity might imagine the ice was the polar cap and the world's fate was, um, in their hands (literally).
I stuck with the cable theme and destroyed the icy infrastructure completely.
Did I get sidetracked? At first, Rogers told me it was regular maintenance on my account. I guess that's okay. I didn't know my email account was an SUV, but I went along with it. Who the hell am I to skip an email oil change?
Then day 4 came along and Rogers realized they couldn't keep using the same bogus excuse.
Their next excuse was a real winner. They had none. The excuse closet was empty. No reason, no timeline for fixing, no responsibility taken, no signs of intelligent life.
This continued for 10 days. Needless to say, I had moved on to gmail. I was proud that I could let go like that and continue with a normal life. No therapy required.
I think my favourite conversation with one of the Rogers' pinheads centred around whose fault all this was. Rogers sells me the Internet, and along with it offers Rogers email. But, the pinhead cogently explained to me, Rogers doesn't support the email if it "breaks".
When they sell it, it's called Rogers email. When it breaks, it's someone else's email company (Yahoo, in this case).
Yahoo, I thought. Human insanity in all its mundane machinations.
Worry not about nuclear war. Focus on the melting ice.
The human race developed nuclear weapons that can destroy the planet and everyone on it. Stupid!
We developed a strategy called MAD (Mutual Assured Destruction) to ensure we don't destroy ourselves with these weapons. Nuke me and I'll nuke you - na na boo boo. Childish!
We rape the earth of her resources on a daily basis to live a good life, knowing it won't last. In the process we are turning this blue marble in the cosmos into a rather large microwave oven. Insane!
To me, the signs of our insanity are found in much smaller game.
I'm talking, of course, about cable companies. I have one particular company in mind, but I'd prefer not to name it (what the hell – Rogers).
A few weeks back Rogers suddenly, and without warning, vaporized my email account. It just stopped working. The bits and bytes of my account were crushed into bits and bytes and not even useful as party mix. And so my life followed along with it.
I am not a techno-insane wanna be, but I NEED MY EMAIL (emphasis mine!). I am so attached to my, well, attachments. I was hyper about my hyper text.
In terms more redolent of philosophy, I Link, Therefore I Am.
I was angry. Did I mention that already?
I was angry and felt powerless. Case in point. Last night I was at a bar drinking. I went to the urinal to rid my body of some water. Too late for the alcohol. It was fully absorbed into my brain.
Poured into the urinal were these preformed ice cubes. I love when bars do that. I suddenly found myself playing this sick game. The ice was Rogers Headquarters. My pee was slowly and methodically destroying this Headquarters. I would pick a spot, focus my weapon and watch the structure collapse helplessly.
The feeling of power was incredible. Oooo hahahaha. I guess people more in control of their sanity might imagine the ice was the polar cap and the world's fate was, um, in their hands (literally).
I stuck with the cable theme and destroyed the icy infrastructure completely.
Did I get sidetracked? At first, Rogers told me it was regular maintenance on my account. I guess that's okay. I didn't know my email account was an SUV, but I went along with it. Who the hell am I to skip an email oil change?
Then day 4 came along and Rogers realized they couldn't keep using the same bogus excuse.
Their next excuse was a real winner. They had none. The excuse closet was empty. No reason, no timeline for fixing, no responsibility taken, no signs of intelligent life.
This continued for 10 days. Needless to say, I had moved on to gmail. I was proud that I could let go like that and continue with a normal life. No therapy required.
I think my favourite conversation with one of the Rogers' pinheads centred around whose fault all this was. Rogers sells me the Internet, and along with it offers Rogers email. But, the pinhead cogently explained to me, Rogers doesn't support the email if it "breaks".
When they sell it, it's called Rogers email. When it breaks, it's someone else's email company (Yahoo, in this case).
Yahoo, I thought. Human insanity in all its mundane machinations.
Worry not about nuclear war. Focus on the melting ice.
Monday, 18 November 2013
Helloooo Newman: Am I Upworthy?
Helloooo Newman: Am I Upworthy?: Have you ever watched videos on upworthy.com? You might want to try. Some fascinating stuff here. I watched one video where this guy in ...
Am I Upworthy?
Have you ever watched videos on upworthy.com?
You might want to try. Some fascinating stuff here.
I watched one video where this guy in a car would keep going round and round a drive-thru restaurant and pay for the people behind him, who were, of course, complete strangers and not expecting a free meal.
Cool. Very nice of him. It's some kind of fast food burger joint, so I guess he's contributing to and encouraging obesity, heart disease, high blood pressure, heart attacks, diabetes etc.
But still, real nice of him.
This video gave me a great idea. I think it might be unique in its strategy and brilliance.
I'm going to find out who and where this nice guy is.
Then, when my daughter needs $5,000 braces, I will take her at the same time this nice guy takes his kid to the orthodontist. I will get in line behind him and hope to hell he pays for ME.
When this nice guy takes his kid to register at Harvard, I will be there behind him in the line with my daughter.
The Mercedes lot? That too.
Christmas, birthdays, wedding, all of it. I will stock this guy until he's broke.
Yes, upworthy.com is very useful to check out.
You might want to try. Some fascinating stuff here.
I watched one video where this guy in a car would keep going round and round a drive-thru restaurant and pay for the people behind him, who were, of course, complete strangers and not expecting a free meal.
Cool. Very nice of him. It's some kind of fast food burger joint, so I guess he's contributing to and encouraging obesity, heart disease, high blood pressure, heart attacks, diabetes etc.
But still, real nice of him.
This video gave me a great idea. I think it might be unique in its strategy and brilliance.
I'm going to find out who and where this nice guy is.
Then, when my daughter needs $5,000 braces, I will take her at the same time this nice guy takes his kid to the orthodontist. I will get in line behind him and hope to hell he pays for ME.
When this nice guy takes his kid to register at Harvard, I will be there behind him in the line with my daughter.
The Mercedes lot? That too.
Christmas, birthdays, wedding, all of it. I will stock this guy until he's broke.
Yes, upworthy.com is very useful to check out.
Saturday, 16 November 2013
Helloooo Newman: Avoid Pregnancy During Christmas
Helloooo Newman: Avoid Pregnancy During Christmas: It is, as my daughter often says, a true fact that I've never been pregnant. But I fully support pregnancy. The reason? Sure, because ...
Avoid Pregnancy During Christmas
It is, as my daughter often says, a true fact that I've never been pregnant.
But I fully support pregnancy. The reason? Sure, because babies are all cute and stuff.
My central reason, given my age, is that I need more people to grow up and work so they can pay for my pension with their money, produced from their toil.
So please, don't accuse me of being anti-pregnancy.
I do, though, think pregnant people should not be allowed to go in stores approaching Christmas time, or should avoid being pregnant at this juncture.
I was shopping yesterday and stores have a nasty habit of putting extra items in the walkways so that the space becomes very narrow.
I felt like a piece of plaque travelling through a narrowing artery, angry and on my way to damage the heart or the central nervous system.
I was squeezing my way down one walkway when I spotted a pregnant lady that I certainly hope had her doctor on speed dial, because she made Rob Ford look like Twiggy.
I apologize to pregnant ladies for the comparison, but I feel the description needed an extreme example. And keep in mind that, unlike some Torontonians, I would never repeat this comparison at a media scrum that is viewed by the entire planet. It's only for you lucky readers.
So I had no choice. I had to turn around and add about a kilometre to my trip through the store.
I had to spy down each walkway for pregnancies or corpulence.
It's a funny concept to create a hallway for walking and then put obstacles all along it.
Suddenly, I bump into a rack of Shamwows. That creepy guy on the commercial is staring right at me.
Of course I'll buy one. I totally forgot I needed it until my foot got caught under the display.
In reality, all those extra kilometres just made me tired. And when I'm tired I hate shopping.
Wait a sec, when I have lots of energy I also hate shopping.
Maybe it's just that I hate shopping.
Never mind.
But I fully support pregnancy. The reason? Sure, because babies are all cute and stuff.
My central reason, given my age, is that I need more people to grow up and work so they can pay for my pension with their money, produced from their toil.
So please, don't accuse me of being anti-pregnancy.
I do, though, think pregnant people should not be allowed to go in stores approaching Christmas time, or should avoid being pregnant at this juncture.
I was shopping yesterday and stores have a nasty habit of putting extra items in the walkways so that the space becomes very narrow.
I felt like a piece of plaque travelling through a narrowing artery, angry and on my way to damage the heart or the central nervous system.
I was squeezing my way down one walkway when I spotted a pregnant lady that I certainly hope had her doctor on speed dial, because she made Rob Ford look like Twiggy.
I apologize to pregnant ladies for the comparison, but I feel the description needed an extreme example. And keep in mind that, unlike some Torontonians, I would never repeat this comparison at a media scrum that is viewed by the entire planet. It's only for you lucky readers.
So I had no choice. I had to turn around and add about a kilometre to my trip through the store.
I had to spy down each walkway for pregnancies or corpulence.
It's a funny concept to create a hallway for walking and then put obstacles all along it.
Suddenly, I bump into a rack of Shamwows. That creepy guy on the commercial is staring right at me.
Of course I'll buy one. I totally forgot I needed it until my foot got caught under the display.
In reality, all those extra kilometres just made me tired. And when I'm tired I hate shopping.
Wait a sec, when I have lots of energy I also hate shopping.
Maybe it's just that I hate shopping.
Never mind.
Friday, 8 November 2013
Helloooo Newman: Rock Star Wanted
Helloooo Newman: Rock Star Wanted: I can't decide which is worse, contracting leprosy or looking for a job. Both have symptoms that are very hard to treat. Leprosy gives...
Rock Star Wanted
I can't decide which is worse, contracting leprosy or looking for a job.
Both have symptoms that are very hard to treat. Leprosy gives you disfiguring skin sores and bumps. Job hunting has symptoms such as fatigue, loss of self esteem, rejection, anger, futility, boredom, frustration, bewilderment, confusion, alcoholism, loss of appetite, resume envy, misanthropy, an urge to party with Rob Ford, phone fatigue, Google search fatigue…
This is a partial list of symptoms.
Looking for a job is a lot like speed dating. As you go through various interviews, you're meeting people you've never met before with the possibility of spending an awful lot of time with them.
And there's the possibility of screwing. Screwing around or getting screwed over.
A lot of the questions asked of you are the same too. Just make sure you change the answers where appropriate.
What do you like to do on your day off?
"I enjoy long walks in the park" could be changed to "I enjoy long hours toiling my butt away with brain-cremating work while you are off making little replicas of you and your blonde spouse in the back of your Escalade, parked in your semi-circular Post Road driveway".
I wonder who writes job descriptions. From the ads I've read, I would guess Bob and Doug McKenzie. In their basement.
I often see the request for a ROCK STAR. Excuse me, a what? Do I need to play an instrument at work? Should I come dressed as the latest incarnation of Miley Cyrus?
Gee, I'm not sure my tongue is long enough. Sorry, I don't do talentless skank.
One curious attribute a company demanded was to be "approachable". What am I, a tiger shark?
Did you interview the previous employee over an intercom?
One of my faves is "must be able to handle constructive criticism and rejection well". Yes, I have dated before. And I'm currently married. Requirement met!
Then there's the old 'be all that you can be': "Must be able to work on a team as well as independently". Must also be smart enough to do the job and dumb enough to stay.
I think this is my favourite job description:
Administrative Assistant/ Graphic Designer
The ideal candidate will have a mid to senior level graphic design background with an interest in administration.
Role and Responsibilities – Answering and directing phone inquiries, and, while you're at it:
Develop and administer content for multi-language website in HTML, FLASH, PHP, etc; translate into Spanish, German, Chinese, Japanese, etc.
What? Would I like to take a break from using my expensive Graphic Design and Translating degrees to answer your phones and type your letters? Golly gee, can I?
This is the job I would like to have:
Manager, Green Coffee at Smuckers
That's it? One particular bag of coffee only? I'm there.
I got an email from a headhunter, asking "I wonder if I can get IN FRONT of you for a few minutes to discuss blah, blah, blah". In front of me? I prefer if you get behind me so you can kiss my ass.
Why can't I just be a guy who shows up on time and does his work properly?
Both have symptoms that are very hard to treat. Leprosy gives you disfiguring skin sores and bumps. Job hunting has symptoms such as fatigue, loss of self esteem, rejection, anger, futility, boredom, frustration, bewilderment, confusion, alcoholism, loss of appetite, resume envy, misanthropy, an urge to party with Rob Ford, phone fatigue, Google search fatigue…
This is a partial list of symptoms.
Looking for a job is a lot like speed dating. As you go through various interviews, you're meeting people you've never met before with the possibility of spending an awful lot of time with them.
And there's the possibility of screwing. Screwing around or getting screwed over.
A lot of the questions asked of you are the same too. Just make sure you change the answers where appropriate.
What do you like to do on your day off?
"I enjoy long walks in the park" could be changed to "I enjoy long hours toiling my butt away with brain-cremating work while you are off making little replicas of you and your blonde spouse in the back of your Escalade, parked in your semi-circular Post Road driveway".
I wonder who writes job descriptions. From the ads I've read, I would guess Bob and Doug McKenzie. In their basement.
I often see the request for a ROCK STAR. Excuse me, a what? Do I need to play an instrument at work? Should I come dressed as the latest incarnation of Miley Cyrus?
Gee, I'm not sure my tongue is long enough. Sorry, I don't do talentless skank.
One curious attribute a company demanded was to be "approachable". What am I, a tiger shark?
Did you interview the previous employee over an intercom?
One of my faves is "must be able to handle constructive criticism and rejection well". Yes, I have dated before. And I'm currently married. Requirement met!
Then there's the old 'be all that you can be': "Must be able to work on a team as well as independently". Must also be smart enough to do the job and dumb enough to stay.
I think this is my favourite job description:
Administrative Assistant/ Graphic Designer
The ideal candidate will have a mid to senior level graphic design background with an interest in administration.
Role and Responsibilities – Answering and directing phone inquiries, and, while you're at it:
Develop and administer content for multi-language website in HTML, FLASH, PHP, etc; translate into Spanish, German, Chinese, Japanese, etc.
What? Would I like to take a break from using my expensive Graphic Design and Translating degrees to answer your phones and type your letters? Golly gee, can I?
This is the job I would like to have:
Manager, Green Coffee at Smuckers
That's it? One particular bag of coffee only? I'm there.
I got an email from a headhunter, asking "I wonder if I can get IN FRONT of you for a few minutes to discuss blah, blah, blah". In front of me? I prefer if you get behind me so you can kiss my ass.
Why can't I just be a guy who shows up on time and does his work properly?
Thursday, 7 November 2013
Helloooo Newman: Congratulations Kids for Making it This Far
Helloooo Newman: Congratulations Kids for Making it This Far: Children are the future. That's what they say. Of course, nothing exists in the future. Things only exist now. But let's not fuss....
Congratulations Kids for Making it This Far
Children are the future. That's what they say.
Of course, nothing exists in the future. Things only exist now. But let's not fuss.
When children are first born, we value them over and above everything. They are delicate, fragile and need to be taken care of.
So now you can't smoke in the delivery room, as my mom did when I was born. Is that whooping cough or smoker's cough? They didn't know.
When children are about 1-2, we drown them in educational paraphernalia like flash cards, The Teletubbies and Baby Einstein.
Einstein had a hugenormous imagination, but I doubt he ever thought one-year-old children would be watching videos of him and his famous equation, E=MC2.
This equation is quite beautiful. Almost as beautiful as our precious children. If you don't know already, the equation states that the amount of energy in an object is equal to its mass multiplied by the speed of light squared.
I remember the first time my daughter learned this equation because it coincided with the first time she decided to convert all of the energy in her body into a diarrhea poop on the floor. And just when we got her out of diapers.
As for the Teletubbies, well, I think Charles Manson, Paul Bernardo and Jeffrey Dahmer were all raised ingesting these creepy creatures.
As they get older, our children learn to transport themselves via bike. But when they first get on a bike, reaching speeds of maybe .0025 kph, having training wheels and us holding them, we still make very sure to secure their heads with helmets and knees/elbows with pads.
Obviously, we value these children very much. We will go to any length to protect them. Aliens watching us would conclude that the sole function of parents is to swath their children in comfort and safety.
But then, it seems, we take a break from caring.
From the age of about 5 to 18, what do we do? We pile them by the thousands into school buses. And not a safety piece of equipment in sight.
Seat belts? Grab a kid's hair and hope they have strong follicles.
Do you remember those school bus seats? I believe maxi-pads are nicer to sit on.
The rest is hard, bone-crushing metal. Travelling upwards of 100 kph. Will E=MC2 help them just before they slam into that tree?
When that bus does hit the tree, your precious children might as well be pennies freed from your jean pockets in the dryer. Loud and painful.
Probably more like kleenex. You know how it gets spread apart, torn up and bundled into little hard balls of so much flesh.
It's like we're saying, "Okay, children, we've taken you this far, and now it's up to you. You've been pretty damn comfortable up to now. What, you thought it would last forever?".
When they turn 18, we say, "Whew. Congratulations, kids. You've proved yourselves worthy adults. And now you get your safety equipment back. That's right, comfy seats, rear cameras, steel-belted tires, front airbags, side airbags, top airbags and please hand over airbags of money for all this".
Good luck, kids.
Of course, nothing exists in the future. Things only exist now. But let's not fuss.
When children are first born, we value them over and above everything. They are delicate, fragile and need to be taken care of.
So now you can't smoke in the delivery room, as my mom did when I was born. Is that whooping cough or smoker's cough? They didn't know.
When children are about 1-2, we drown them in educational paraphernalia like flash cards, The Teletubbies and Baby Einstein.
Einstein had a hugenormous imagination, but I doubt he ever thought one-year-old children would be watching videos of him and his famous equation, E=MC2.
This equation is quite beautiful. Almost as beautiful as our precious children. If you don't know already, the equation states that the amount of energy in an object is equal to its mass multiplied by the speed of light squared.
I remember the first time my daughter learned this equation because it coincided with the first time she decided to convert all of the energy in her body into a diarrhea poop on the floor. And just when we got her out of diapers.
As for the Teletubbies, well, I think Charles Manson, Paul Bernardo and Jeffrey Dahmer were all raised ingesting these creepy creatures.
As they get older, our children learn to transport themselves via bike. But when they first get on a bike, reaching speeds of maybe .0025 kph, having training wheels and us holding them, we still make very sure to secure their heads with helmets and knees/elbows with pads.
Obviously, we value these children very much. We will go to any length to protect them. Aliens watching us would conclude that the sole function of parents is to swath their children in comfort and safety.
But then, it seems, we take a break from caring.
From the age of about 5 to 18, what do we do? We pile them by the thousands into school buses. And not a safety piece of equipment in sight.
Seat belts? Grab a kid's hair and hope they have strong follicles.
Do you remember those school bus seats? I believe maxi-pads are nicer to sit on.
The rest is hard, bone-crushing metal. Travelling upwards of 100 kph. Will E=MC2 help them just before they slam into that tree?
When that bus does hit the tree, your precious children might as well be pennies freed from your jean pockets in the dryer. Loud and painful.
Probably more like kleenex. You know how it gets spread apart, torn up and bundled into little hard balls of so much flesh.
It's like we're saying, "Okay, children, we've taken you this far, and now it's up to you. You've been pretty damn comfortable up to now. What, you thought it would last forever?".
When they turn 18, we say, "Whew. Congratulations, kids. You've proved yourselves worthy adults. And now you get your safety equipment back. That's right, comfy seats, rear cameras, steel-belted tires, front airbags, side airbags, top airbags and please hand over airbags of money for all this".
Good luck, kids.
Helloooo Newman: Inventions that need inventing
Helloooo Newman: Inventions that need inventing: Someone needs to invent the ibrella right now. When it rains I keep wiping tiny water drops off my iphone and accidentally swipe web pages...
Inventions that need inventing
Someone needs to invent the ibrella right now.
When it rains I keep wiping tiny water drops off my iphone screen and accidentally swipe web pages.
Yesterday, without my realizing, I bought 3 grand pianos, two skirts, a pair of high heels and a dvd called Jason and his ArgoNUTS.
I already have the damn dvd.
When it rains I keep wiping tiny water drops off my iphone screen and accidentally swipe web pages.
Yesterday, without my realizing, I bought 3 grand pianos, two skirts, a pair of high heels and a dvd called Jason and his ArgoNUTS.
I already have the damn dvd.
Tuesday, 5 November 2013
Helloooo Newman: Who Wins the Race?
Helloooo Newman: Who Wins the Race?: Some of you may have noticed that when I use the term "human race", I actually write human's race. I borrowed this clever li...
Who Wins the Race?
Some of you may have noticed that I substitute the term "human race" with "human's race" in my articles.
I borrowed this clever line from a song. The only good song this band ever produced. The song is "I Melt With You" by Modern English.
As a matter of interest, this song first appeared in the movie Valley Girl in 1983, featuring a very young Nicolas Cage.
I prefer "human's race" because, except in remote places near the New Guinea rainforest, this life really is our race. For everything. A great job, high status, the smoothest beer, the wine with the best finish, the largest house, the most secure ego, skirts, the plumpest chicken wings, the lowest fat diet, time etc. We're all chasing something.
No doubt about it. And the more you convince yourself you aren't chasing anything, well, you know the rest.
One thing I really don't understand about the human's race is the worry over one's reputation when you are dead. The legacy.
Newsflash: you are not there to perceive or receive the accolades you are hoping for.
It's a bit like being told you will have a threesome with Charlize Theron and Amy Adams (something I aspire to, with or without their cooperation) but don't worry because you won't feel a thing under the general anaesthetic we will give you.
You're not really there to enjoy it, right? I suppose, on a technicality, you could brag at parties that you did engage in a threesome with Theron/Adams. That's something for sure.
But too bad, so sad, you didn't "really" have a threesome with them.
That is why I worry only about my reputation now. And so when Lou the piano student (from 2 articles ago) called me a poop, well, that really stung.
So I, just like Rob Ford, will try desperately to repair my reputation NOW. Hopefully I am a little better at it.
As for the human's race, we all finish at the same point. Either first or last, depending on how you look at it.
I borrowed this clever line from a song. The only good song this band ever produced. The song is "I Melt With You" by Modern English.
As a matter of interest, this song first appeared in the movie Valley Girl in 1983, featuring a very young Nicolas Cage.
I prefer "human's race" because, except in remote places near the New Guinea rainforest, this life really is our race. For everything. A great job, high status, the smoothest beer, the wine with the best finish, the largest house, the most secure ego, skirts, the plumpest chicken wings, the lowest fat diet, time etc. We're all chasing something.
No doubt about it. And the more you convince yourself you aren't chasing anything, well, you know the rest.
One thing I really don't understand about the human's race is the worry over one's reputation when you are dead. The legacy.
Newsflash: you are not there to perceive or receive the accolades you are hoping for.
It's a bit like being told you will have a threesome with Charlize Theron and Amy Adams (something I aspire to, with or without their cooperation) but don't worry because you won't feel a thing under the general anaesthetic we will give you.
You're not really there to enjoy it, right? I suppose, on a technicality, you could brag at parties that you did engage in a threesome with Theron/Adams. That's something for sure.
But too bad, so sad, you didn't "really" have a threesome with them.
That is why I worry only about my reputation now. And so when Lou the piano student (from 2 articles ago) called me a poop, well, that really stung.
So I, just like Rob Ford, will try desperately to repair my reputation NOW. Hopefully I am a little better at it.
As for the human's race, we all finish at the same point. Either first or last, depending on how you look at it.
Helloooo Newman: Cyber Baby
Helloooo Newman: Cyber Baby: I think my biggest fear for the human's race these days is that Miley Cyrus and Justin Bieber will procreate together. I know my fears...
Cyber Baby
I think my biggest fear for the human's race these days is that Miley Cyrus and Justin Bieber will procreate together.
I know my fears should be around warmth spreading across the globe, but have you ever thought of what the songs of Cyrus, Bieber, and then their "Cy-ber" baby blanketing the planet would do to the human intellect?
The prospect is chilling.
I read in a wonderful book called A Short History of Nearly Everything (by Bill Bryson) that, according to scientists, 50% of all the genes we carry around in us seem to have no purpose whatsoever. They exist just to reproduce themselves.
In the case of Cyrus, Bieber and Cyber baby, that means 150% of them have no function at all except to reproduce their music. The other 150% (they each get 100%, which is generous) is spread equally amongst them as such: 50% for looks, 50% for brain power, 50% for talent. That means about 16.75% of each of them is talent. My math must be wrong because that seems so high.
The awful truth we Canadians must come to terms with is that Miley Cyrus's current and highly original hit "Wrecking Ball" was written by a Canadian. I think this is kept secret to protect innocent Canadians and to hide the fact that the skank didn't write her own hit song, which really isn't her song.
I saw recently that Bieber was hit in the head with a water bottle in Brazil. He kept the private audience waiting for three hours. I would say he's lucky to be alive. Still, I'm into kindness these days so I have to admit that the water bottle thing is mean. Having said that, if I were at a Bieber brouhaha, which I would only attend if I were in a coffin or urn and taken there without my awareness, I think the urge to whack him with something would probably overcome me.
I am a huge fan of Youtube. I think it is the best resource around for spreading useful information about all kinds of endeavours, including music. And it's free.
I would be fully supportive of ending Youtube as a resource if it meant Cyber baby won't be able to spread his or her music.
Yes, the dark ages are looking more and more attractive.
I know my fears should be around warmth spreading across the globe, but have you ever thought of what the songs of Cyrus, Bieber, and then their "Cy-ber" baby blanketing the planet would do to the human intellect?
The prospect is chilling.
I read in a wonderful book called A Short History of Nearly Everything (by Bill Bryson) that, according to scientists, 50% of all the genes we carry around in us seem to have no purpose whatsoever. They exist just to reproduce themselves.
In the case of Cyrus, Bieber and Cyber baby, that means 150% of them have no function at all except to reproduce their music. The other 150% (they each get 100%, which is generous) is spread equally amongst them as such: 50% for looks, 50% for brain power, 50% for talent. That means about 16.75% of each of them is talent. My math must be wrong because that seems so high.
The awful truth we Canadians must come to terms with is that Miley Cyrus's current and highly original hit "Wrecking Ball" was written by a Canadian. I think this is kept secret to protect innocent Canadians and to hide the fact that the skank didn't write her own hit song, which really isn't her song.
I saw recently that Bieber was hit in the head with a water bottle in Brazil. He kept the private audience waiting for three hours. I would say he's lucky to be alive. Still, I'm into kindness these days so I have to admit that the water bottle thing is mean. Having said that, if I were at a Bieber brouhaha, which I would only attend if I were in a coffin or urn and taken there without my awareness, I think the urge to whack him with something would probably overcome me.
I am a huge fan of Youtube. I think it is the best resource around for spreading useful information about all kinds of endeavours, including music. And it's free.
I would be fully supportive of ending Youtube as a resource if it meant Cyber baby won't be able to spread his or her music.
Yes, the dark ages are looking more and more attractive.
Helloooo Newman: Do Children Gossip?
Helloooo Newman: Do Children Gossip?: They certainly do. And even about me, it's true. Yesterday I had the pleasure of hearing some gossip from a 6-year-old. One hundred ...
Do Children Gossip?
They certainly do.
And even about me, it's true.
Yesterday I had the pleasure of hearing some gossip from a 6-year-old. One hundred percent, Canada grade A gossip. And it was about little ol' me.
I was teaching Gus (not his real name), a 6-year-old, piano when he asked me if I taught his friend, Lou (not his real name).
It's true, I did teach Lou. If you've read this blog before you may have run into Lou. Lou is the charming student who wrote in his notebook, "I hat piano" and presented it to me. Lou meant "I hate piano" but didn't have the literary skills to get that across.
Anywho, a few weeks ago Lou's mom let me go (fired seems like such a harsh word to use) because, she said, Lou is not good at the piano (very true) and he is too busy learning how to spell. This is just one of many other career-oriented activities Lou is involved in.
I said to Gus, "Yes, I did teach Lou".
Gus responds, "Oh ya, and his mom fired you".
Yes Gus, and thanks for the encouraging words.
Gus continues…"Lou thought you were poop. And he told me you are always texting on your phone. But I don't mind if you text".
Thank you for your understanding, Gus. Obviously Gus had used the word poop many times before. He said it as casually as he would have told me a button was missing from my shirt.
Gus had another tidbit for me. "Lou is still taking piano with a new teacher. A girl".
Well gee, Gus, I guess the mom lied to me to get rid of me.
She could have just sent me a note saying, "I hat your teaching."
And even about me, it's true.
Yesterday I had the pleasure of hearing some gossip from a 6-year-old. One hundred percent, Canada grade A gossip. And it was about little ol' me.
I was teaching Gus (not his real name), a 6-year-old, piano when he asked me if I taught his friend, Lou (not his real name).
It's true, I did teach Lou. If you've read this blog before you may have run into Lou. Lou is the charming student who wrote in his notebook, "I hat piano" and presented it to me. Lou meant "I hate piano" but didn't have the literary skills to get that across.
Anywho, a few weeks ago Lou's mom let me go (fired seems like such a harsh word to use) because, she said, Lou is not good at the piano (very true) and he is too busy learning how to spell. This is just one of many other career-oriented activities Lou is involved in.
I said to Gus, "Yes, I did teach Lou".
Gus responds, "Oh ya, and his mom fired you".
Yes Gus, and thanks for the encouraging words.
Gus continues…"Lou thought you were poop. And he told me you are always texting on your phone. But I don't mind if you text".
Thank you for your understanding, Gus. Obviously Gus had used the word poop many times before. He said it as casually as he would have told me a button was missing from my shirt.
Gus had another tidbit for me. "Lou is still taking piano with a new teacher. A girl".
Well gee, Gus, I guess the mom lied to me to get rid of me.
She could have just sent me a note saying, "I hat your teaching."
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