HELLOOOO NEWMAN: Laughter is your sixth sense
Friday, 26 September 2014
Helloooo Newman: You're that guy from…
Helloooo Newman: You're that guy from…: Newman, and the blog that we started together, has changed my life. I can't count the number of people who stop me on the street and s...
You're that guy from…
Newman, and the blog that we started together, has changed my life.
I can't count the number of people who stop me on the street and croon, "Hey Newman, love your blog."
I don't have the heart to tell them my name isn't Newman.
Wonderful people yelling out of car windows, down from the concrete shells of burgeoning condos rising up to the diminishing ozone layer, the doorman at Holt's.
Sometimes they approach me in crowds of one or two. It's all, like, a dream.
I was at a Belly Buster submarine shop last week and they gave me the best seat in the house, even though it was extremely crowded. It coincided very nicely with the fact that I had to pee during my fine meal.
I get a lot of fan email too, although much of it asks me if I want to achieve a better sex life through a larger penis. Not sure what that has to do with my blog, but at least they enjoy the stories.
Many of these people, who have wonderful taste in reading, ask me, "Newman, how do you come up with your hilarious ideas?"
I tell them the truth. I don't come up with the ideas, Jesus does. I'd like to think they come directly from God herself, but I don't get enough hits for her to even be bothered. She sends her underling – directly into my brain.
The idea starts rather like a tumor. I get headaches, my nose starts to bleed. I clean the blood off the keyboard.
As the great idea grows it crowds out the rest of my brain and I lose all motor control, except the ability to type. I relent. The idea is in charge now. Soon there will be extremely funny, gripping articles.
The secret is ignoring these symptoms. Soon enough it metastasises into a very, very funny blog.
The idea takes over me, much like ISIS gobbling up prime Middle Eastern real estate. Luckily, I don't lose my head over things.
I could very easily lose my head over this fame. But I'm just like you, a regular guy, only with heaps of talent.
I admit my head swells a lot when I'm writing, but that's just the tumor idea expanding in my skull. It is NOT my ego.
One time, upon seeing the initial symptoms of my burgeoning great ideas, my wife called an ambulance. I refused to go. Plus my head was so large I couldn't fit in the back.
Also, OHIP doesn't cover brain swelling due to genius.
I've achieved such notoriety that the rumour I heard yesterday is, in fact, true.
Anson Williams, of Happy Days fame, is directing an updated version of Annie Hall, starring Jessica Biel and Zac Efron.
Do you recall that scene where Woody is in line for a movie and gets into an argument with the guy behind him? Woody cleverly calls upon Marshall McLuhan for an enlightened opinion.
Well, I'll be the new "Marshall McLuhan" in the new, improved Annie Hall.
Please, when you see me on the street, don't be afraid to come up and say hi. And if my head starts to grow, please stand back. There's funny writin' to do.
I can't count the number of people who stop me on the street and croon, "Hey Newman, love your blog."
I don't have the heart to tell them my name isn't Newman.
Wonderful people yelling out of car windows, down from the concrete shells of burgeoning condos rising up to the diminishing ozone layer, the doorman at Holt's.
Sometimes they approach me in crowds of one or two. It's all, like, a dream.
I was at a Belly Buster submarine shop last week and they gave me the best seat in the house, even though it was extremely crowded. It coincided very nicely with the fact that I had to pee during my fine meal.
I get a lot of fan email too, although much of it asks me if I want to achieve a better sex life through a larger penis. Not sure what that has to do with my blog, but at least they enjoy the stories.
Many of these people, who have wonderful taste in reading, ask me, "Newman, how do you come up with your hilarious ideas?"
I tell them the truth. I don't come up with the ideas, Jesus does. I'd like to think they come directly from God herself, but I don't get enough hits for her to even be bothered. She sends her underling – directly into my brain.
The idea starts rather like a tumor. I get headaches, my nose starts to bleed. I clean the blood off the keyboard.
As the great idea grows it crowds out the rest of my brain and I lose all motor control, except the ability to type. I relent. The idea is in charge now. Soon there will be extremely funny, gripping articles.
The secret is ignoring these symptoms. Soon enough it metastasises into a very, very funny blog.
The idea takes over me, much like ISIS gobbling up prime Middle Eastern real estate. Luckily, I don't lose my head over things.
I could very easily lose my head over this fame. But I'm just like you, a regular guy, only with heaps of talent.
I admit my head swells a lot when I'm writing, but that's just the tumor idea expanding in my skull. It is NOT my ego.
One time, upon seeing the initial symptoms of my burgeoning great ideas, my wife called an ambulance. I refused to go. Plus my head was so large I couldn't fit in the back.
Also, OHIP doesn't cover brain swelling due to genius.
I've achieved such notoriety that the rumour I heard yesterday is, in fact, true.
Anson Williams, of Happy Days fame, is directing an updated version of Annie Hall, starring Jessica Biel and Zac Efron.
Do you recall that scene where Woody is in line for a movie and gets into an argument with the guy behind him? Woody cleverly calls upon Marshall McLuhan for an enlightened opinion.
Well, I'll be the new "Marshall McLuhan" in the new, improved Annie Hall.
Please, when you see me on the street, don't be afraid to come up and say hi. And if my head starts to grow, please stand back. There's funny writin' to do.
Thursday, 25 September 2014
Helloooo Newman: Weapons of Mass Distraction
Helloooo Newman: Weapons of Mass Distraction: I believe I'm starting to understand what life is all about. It's a series of distractions. Your life, every second of it, is a lo...
Weapons of Mass Distraction
I believe I'm starting to understand what life is all about. It's a series of distractions.
Your life, every second of it, is a long (hopefully) jumble of distractions to keep your attention off the result – death, decomposition, nonexistence.
God's real objective is two things – He gets off on creating things and destroying things. Life is just what happens in between His two favourite activities.
When God first created life, He realized, "Guess I better keep these creatures busy until I'm ready to stamp them out of existence." Thus He created distractions like Ebola, sex, t.v., Rob Ford. His weapons of mass distraction.
And then there's my weapon of mass distraction – peanut butter. (From God to peanut butter - that's reader's whiplash)
There really doesn't exist a more astounding substance.
Oh sure, there's some good competition. Silly putty. I remember longingly gazing at Farah Fawcett's smudged face as I lifted the impression from my sister's celeb mag, scurried to my bedroom and locked the door.
Dynamite is a boy's dream, especially when it was packaged in a child's favourite "toy" during the seventies – lady fingers. Tiny fire crackers you could fit in the smallest of spaces. As the inventor must have wondered, "Why is it so hard for kids to blow things up? Let me take care of that."
And blow things up I did. With my best friend I led the assault on my neighbour's rock garden, striking over 70% of the rare and beautiful flora with precision explosions. Were we the early inspiration for Al Qaeda and ISIS?
As I got a bit older, other substances become more important – spermicidal gels, alcohol. Currently my second favourite substance is the memory foam that makes up my mattress.
But alas, peanut butter still holds first place. It staves off hunger far more effectively than beer ever will.
(What does this have to do with Newman?)
Well, Newman adores peanut butter too. Far more than Poodletang. So much so that I use it as a weapon of distraction against him, without him even realizing it. What a dummy.
On days when Newman wakes up and stalks me until I throw a ball for him, as in every day since we've had him, I have to find ways to avoid him. Previously I would lock myself in the dryer and turn it on. Newman is afraid of the dryer.
(You need a new strategy, buddy)
Peanut butter is the new strategy.
I generously apply peanut butter to his little rubber bone toy. He goes ape shit over it! Spends a good part of the morning tonguing it to death.
The toy is so full of minuscule nooks and crannies I'm certain there is peanut butter from 9 months ago drying into something resembling concrete.
I still don't understand how Newman can down a litre of peanut butter and still bark coherently. When I eat peanut butter by itself, I might as well have inserted a no-pest fly strip in my mouth. Things get very sticky.
If I just finish a dollop of peanut butter and then the phone rings, I answer it sounding like I have a life-threatening cold and went overboard on the dextromethorphan. Sir, you need to go right to the hospital if someone cut your tongue out, exclaims the person on the other end. (That's sick)
To my rescue is jam, which serves as a kind of WD40 for my mouth.
Anyway, peanut butter keeps Newman distracted, which keeps me happy and looking for distractions myself. The internet now replaces my silly putty.
Your life, every second of it, is a long (hopefully) jumble of distractions to keep your attention off the result – death, decomposition, nonexistence.
God's real objective is two things – He gets off on creating things and destroying things. Life is just what happens in between His two favourite activities.
When God first created life, He realized, "Guess I better keep these creatures busy until I'm ready to stamp them out of existence." Thus He created distractions like Ebola, sex, t.v., Rob Ford. His weapons of mass distraction.
And then there's my weapon of mass distraction – peanut butter. (From God to peanut butter - that's reader's whiplash)
There really doesn't exist a more astounding substance.
Oh sure, there's some good competition. Silly putty. I remember longingly gazing at Farah Fawcett's smudged face as I lifted the impression from my sister's celeb mag, scurried to my bedroom and locked the door.
Dynamite is a boy's dream, especially when it was packaged in a child's favourite "toy" during the seventies – lady fingers. Tiny fire crackers you could fit in the smallest of spaces. As the inventor must have wondered, "Why is it so hard for kids to blow things up? Let me take care of that."
And blow things up I did. With my best friend I led the assault on my neighbour's rock garden, striking over 70% of the rare and beautiful flora with precision explosions. Were we the early inspiration for Al Qaeda and ISIS?
As I got a bit older, other substances become more important – spermicidal gels, alcohol. Currently my second favourite substance is the memory foam that makes up my mattress.
But alas, peanut butter still holds first place. It staves off hunger far more effectively than beer ever will.
(What does this have to do with Newman?)
Well, Newman adores peanut butter too. Far more than Poodletang. So much so that I use it as a weapon of distraction against him, without him even realizing it. What a dummy.
On days when Newman wakes up and stalks me until I throw a ball for him, as in every day since we've had him, I have to find ways to avoid him. Previously I would lock myself in the dryer and turn it on. Newman is afraid of the dryer.
(You need a new strategy, buddy)
Peanut butter is the new strategy.
I generously apply peanut butter to his little rubber bone toy. He goes ape shit over it! Spends a good part of the morning tonguing it to death.
The toy is so full of minuscule nooks and crannies I'm certain there is peanut butter from 9 months ago drying into something resembling concrete.
I still don't understand how Newman can down a litre of peanut butter and still bark coherently. When I eat peanut butter by itself, I might as well have inserted a no-pest fly strip in my mouth. Things get very sticky.
If I just finish a dollop of peanut butter and then the phone rings, I answer it sounding like I have a life-threatening cold and went overboard on the dextromethorphan. Sir, you need to go right to the hospital if someone cut your tongue out, exclaims the person on the other end. (That's sick)
To my rescue is jam, which serves as a kind of WD40 for my mouth.
Anyway, peanut butter keeps Newman distracted, which keeps me happy and looking for distractions myself. The internet now replaces my silly putty.
Saturday, 13 September 2014
Helloooo Newman: Chew or Chase
Helloooo Newman: Chew or Chase: I've learned with Newman that you have to categorize his toys. To him they're all alike and they all serve the same purpose. Just li...
Chew or Chase
I've learned with Newman that you have to categorize his toys. To him they're all alike and they all serve the same purpose. Just like when I'm drunk – any beer will do, they all taste the same by then, they all serve the greater good of keeping me in good humour.
Two important categories for Newman's toys are chew toys and chase toys. The names are pretty much self-explanatory.
I found out the hard and embarrassing way that a chase toy should not become a chew toy.
Newman loves tennis balls. This is not unique among the canine population. This summer I tortured him by chaining him to the front of the t.v. to watch Wimbledon tennis and laughed at his several million failed attempts at getting the ball.
There is great danger in letting the tennis ball, clearly a chase toy, become a chew toy.
Let me explain. I was walking with Newman along our busy street when he began to assume the position known as Hold Up, I Gotta Crap.
I waited patiently with the retrieval bag around my hand.
Hmmm. It was taking longer than usual. Still waiting. Alright, now I gotta check things out.
I glanced at the magical poop hole and there it was. A little piece of brown dangling from the "area".
It kinda looked like Newman was giving birth to a brown sea monkey who was still attached to its umbilical cord.
From a different angle it looked like a fortune cookie – you will meet a Great Dane who loves walks in the park.
I surmised that Newman had been chewing the tennis ball for weeks and the fur built up in his bowels. Several pieces of fur got together and acted as an umbilical cord for this poor sea monkey, holding it just outside Newman's body and not letting go.
A baby sea monkey, hanging by a thread. My dignity, hanging be a thread.
I am tough. I did what I had to do. I reached over and tugged at the sea monkey, feeling like a brilliant doctor delivering a joyful mother her baby.
The umbilical cord did what umbilical cords do, I guess. It stretched and stretched…and then snapped.
I felt proud. I hope the driver who was beside me on the street stuck in traffic felt the same way. He had a front row seat to the show.
Newman is doing well after the procedure. Can't say the same thing for the sea monkey.
Two important categories for Newman's toys are chew toys and chase toys. The names are pretty much self-explanatory.
I found out the hard and embarrassing way that a chase toy should not become a chew toy.
Newman loves tennis balls. This is not unique among the canine population. This summer I tortured him by chaining him to the front of the t.v. to watch Wimbledon tennis and laughed at his several million failed attempts at getting the ball.
There is great danger in letting the tennis ball, clearly a chase toy, become a chew toy.
Let me explain. I was walking with Newman along our busy street when he began to assume the position known as Hold Up, I Gotta Crap.
I waited patiently with the retrieval bag around my hand.
Hmmm. It was taking longer than usual. Still waiting. Alright, now I gotta check things out.
I glanced at the magical poop hole and there it was. A little piece of brown dangling from the "area".
It kinda looked like Newman was giving birth to a brown sea monkey who was still attached to its umbilical cord.
From a different angle it looked like a fortune cookie – you will meet a Great Dane who loves walks in the park.
I surmised that Newman had been chewing the tennis ball for weeks and the fur built up in his bowels. Several pieces of fur got together and acted as an umbilical cord for this poor sea monkey, holding it just outside Newman's body and not letting go.
A baby sea monkey, hanging by a thread. My dignity, hanging be a thread.
I am tough. I did what I had to do. I reached over and tugged at the sea monkey, feeling like a brilliant doctor delivering a joyful mother her baby.
The umbilical cord did what umbilical cords do, I guess. It stretched and stretched…and then snapped.
I felt proud. I hope the driver who was beside me on the street stuck in traffic felt the same way. He had a front row seat to the show.
Newman is doing well after the procedure. Can't say the same thing for the sea monkey.
Thursday, 11 September 2014
Helloooo Newman: Stop Bed Bugging Me
Helloooo Newman: Stop Bed Bugging Me: In my world the most valuable real estate I own is… My mattress. Sure, a condo overlooking Central Park would be delightful. A beach hou...
Stop Bed Bugging Me
In my world the most valuable real estate I own is…
My mattress.
Sure, a condo overlooking Central Park would be delightful. A beach house in Hawaii would be delicious.
After all, House Hunters International is one of my favourite programs, even though I always pick the house no one wants.
But in the end, wherever I lay my ass, that's my home.
Over the last few weeks I've fought a nightly battle for mattress space with Newman.
It wasn't suppose to be this way. I fully expected to vie for millimetres of cozy mattress comfort with my wife. I have a solid military plan to combat this. I can't go into details, for security reasons, but it involves special forces: pizza, wings, chili dogs, beer, and what my body does with those foods.
Newman is an entirely different enemy. This IS asymmetrical warfare at its most challenging.
Newman begins his bedtime with my daughter, pretty much because my daughter forces him there. My daughter can be quite commanding when she needs to be. I still think she has a bright future water-boarding ISIS members.
Newman keeps a watchful eye on my daughter, snaps a paw in front of her eyes to ensure she's asleep, and darts over to my bed. Onto the mattress he melts. Usually I am on my side with my knees bent, as if sitting in a chair, and Newman moulds his bendy little body into the space around my legs.
At first it's a graceful kind of sleeping "dance". Like Astaire and Rogers taking a nap. Give it two hours and it turns to Jekyll and Hyde. Or perhaps like a half-played Jenga game – one brick away from the 9/11 of entertainment.
Newman lays his 35 pound carcass onto my legs. Is this how Jimmy Hoffa went? Weighted down into the ocean, never to be seen again. I cling to the hope that Jimmy is still alive, changed his last name to Dean and sells faux sausages in supermarkets across North America.
I try to lift my legs against this hideous weight. My stomach muscles say no! After several hours of sleeping perpendicular to the mattress, well, it hurts.
Then I try a classic war strategy – the pincer move. I squeeeeze with both legs. Newman farts and gets even more comfortable.
Newman is the Trojan dog. Cute on the outside, a monstrous consumer of real estate on the inside.
It becomes an episode of Greatest Tank Battles.
Morning arrives. Newman – "Yo, Paul. Buddy. You look tired." Not a hint of irony in these words.
Cue caffeine drip.
Night comes again. I'm in Groundhog Day, or rather, Night. Everything repeats. Grounddog Night if you like.
Next morning. Cue Sonny and Cher.
My mattress.
Sure, a condo overlooking Central Park would be delightful. A beach house in Hawaii would be delicious.
After all, House Hunters International is one of my favourite programs, even though I always pick the house no one wants.
But in the end, wherever I lay my ass, that's my home.
Over the last few weeks I've fought a nightly battle for mattress space with Newman.
It wasn't suppose to be this way. I fully expected to vie for millimetres of cozy mattress comfort with my wife. I have a solid military plan to combat this. I can't go into details, for security reasons, but it involves special forces: pizza, wings, chili dogs, beer, and what my body does with those foods.
Newman is an entirely different enemy. This IS asymmetrical warfare at its most challenging.
Newman begins his bedtime with my daughter, pretty much because my daughter forces him there. My daughter can be quite commanding when she needs to be. I still think she has a bright future water-boarding ISIS members.
Newman keeps a watchful eye on my daughter, snaps a paw in front of her eyes to ensure she's asleep, and darts over to my bed. Onto the mattress he melts. Usually I am on my side with my knees bent, as if sitting in a chair, and Newman moulds his bendy little body into the space around my legs.
At first it's a graceful kind of sleeping "dance". Like Astaire and Rogers taking a nap. Give it two hours and it turns to Jekyll and Hyde. Or perhaps like a half-played Jenga game – one brick away from the 9/11 of entertainment.
Newman lays his 35 pound carcass onto my legs. Is this how Jimmy Hoffa went? Weighted down into the ocean, never to be seen again. I cling to the hope that Jimmy is still alive, changed his last name to Dean and sells faux sausages in supermarkets across North America.
I try to lift my legs against this hideous weight. My stomach muscles say no! After several hours of sleeping perpendicular to the mattress, well, it hurts.
Then I try a classic war strategy – the pincer move. I squeeeeze with both legs. Newman farts and gets even more comfortable.
Newman is the Trojan dog. Cute on the outside, a monstrous consumer of real estate on the inside.
It becomes an episode of Greatest Tank Battles.
Morning arrives. Newman – "Yo, Paul. Buddy. You look tired." Not a hint of irony in these words.
Cue caffeine drip.
Night comes again. I'm in Groundhog Day, or rather, Night. Everything repeats. Grounddog Night if you like.
Next morning. Cue Sonny and Cher.
Thursday, 28 August 2014
Helloooo Newman: How to Raise the Perfect Wife
Helloooo Newman: How to Raise the Perfect Wife: I heard the Dog Whisperer is into a new line of work - how to raise your wife properly. Okay, he's not. But he should be. I see from...
How to Raise the Perfect Wife
I heard the Dog Whisperer is into a new line of work - how to raise your wife properly.
Okay, he's not. But he should be.
I get from reading his book How to Raise the Perfect Dog all kinds of excellent marriage advice.
In Chapter 4, called "Puppy Comes Home", General Cesar deals with the all-important issue of preventing separation anxiety.
The human equivalent Chapter Title would be "When My Marriage Begins." The advice is worth a gander, ladies.
Cesar discusses a dog named Angel, who had the hardest time when her owner would stay out late, leaving Angel to her own devices. Those devices included whining out of every window in the house, barking at pictures of her owner, scratching the screen and occasionally loading the family Uzi and intently studying "Uzi Does It" courses on Youtube.
The owner made the typical human mistake when he got home – he went to Angel and started to coo, and woowoo, and dopey doh, and "it's okay, good girl."
Bad human. By reacting kindly, the owner is just reinforcing Angel's use of the Uzi. I don't mind if my 9-year-old daughter uses an Uzi, but my dog? Never!
General Cesar says you must be calm and assertive, communicating to the dog, "I don't agree with your behaviour. I want you to relax."
I employ this sage advice in my marriage.
It's 3 a.m., there's a pile of vomit in the backyard and I am just about to enter the bedroom. My wife is upset, was probably screaming from every window but, on the bright side, does not hold an Uzi.
Now, you tell me. Am I suppose to reward this behaviour with an apology? "It's okay honey woney, I'm home now, I'm sorry, good girl."
I think not. So I be calm, assertive and drunk. Very quickly, of course, because I soon fall asleep.
"I don't agree with your behaviour, honey. I want you to relax." Zzzzzzzzzzzz…
Angel, and my wife, don't understand that this treatment is ultimately good for them.
That's okay. I am very patient with my wife.
Okay, he's not. But he should be.
I get from reading his book How to Raise the Perfect Dog all kinds of excellent marriage advice.
In Chapter 4, called "Puppy Comes Home", General Cesar deals with the all-important issue of preventing separation anxiety.
The human equivalent Chapter Title would be "When My Marriage Begins." The advice is worth a gander, ladies.
Cesar discusses a dog named Angel, who had the hardest time when her owner would stay out late, leaving Angel to her own devices. Those devices included whining out of every window in the house, barking at pictures of her owner, scratching the screen and occasionally loading the family Uzi and intently studying "Uzi Does It" courses on Youtube.
The owner made the typical human mistake when he got home – he went to Angel and started to coo, and woowoo, and dopey doh, and "it's okay, good girl."
Bad human. By reacting kindly, the owner is just reinforcing Angel's use of the Uzi. I don't mind if my 9-year-old daughter uses an Uzi, but my dog? Never!
General Cesar says you must be calm and assertive, communicating to the dog, "I don't agree with your behaviour. I want you to relax."
I employ this sage advice in my marriage.
It's 3 a.m., there's a pile of vomit in the backyard and I am just about to enter the bedroom. My wife is upset, was probably screaming from every window but, on the bright side, does not hold an Uzi.
Now, you tell me. Am I suppose to reward this behaviour with an apology? "It's okay honey woney, I'm home now, I'm sorry, good girl."
I think not. So I be calm, assertive and drunk. Very quickly, of course, because I soon fall asleep.
"I don't agree with your behaviour, honey. I want you to relax." Zzzzzzzzzzzz…
Angel, and my wife, don't understand that this treatment is ultimately good for them.
That's okay. I am very patient with my wife.
Wednesday, 27 August 2014
Helloooo Newman: What Colour is Newman's Parachute?
Helloooo Newman: What Colour is Newman's Parachute?: Newman woke up this morning and told me in broken English that he no longer desires to be the family pet. He's tired of placating us, ...
Monday, 25 August 2014
Helloooo Newman: What Colour is Newman's Parachute?
Helloooo Newman: What Colour is Newman's Parachute?: Newman woke up this morning and told me in broken English that he no longer desires to be the family pet. He's tired of placating us, ...
What Colour is Newman's Parachute?
Newman told me this morning in broken English that he no longer desires to be the family pet.
He's tired of placating us, performing silly tricks and he has no privacy to bring home dog dates.
He wants to get a job. Eventually he sees himself getting a place of his own, preferably near the water because there are lots of off-leash parks there and plenty of, as he calls it, poodle-tang.
Newman is part poodle.
I said "fair enough." "I'll miss you, but I'm really proud of you."
So now I had to help Newman pick a career.
Proctologist popped into my head. This shouldn't be surprising. Newman has been sticking his nose in other people's butts since day one.
I suggested "Assman" on his dog tag. For marketing purposes.
Gynecologist is another possibility. He is well versed in the exploration of genitalia.
There are lots of benefits to Newman choosing this area. Women need only stand there while Newman performs his exam. No undignified lying on a cold metal table and inserting feet into medical stirrups.
The exam can also be performed at one's leisure at dinner parties or during Sunday brunch.
Newman went as far as to take the OB/GYN exam. That was a toughie, as I had to talk him through the entire process.
"No Newman, this is a person, she's not your bitch."
"I see that you brought your ball but you can't bury it in the hole. Not in this context, Newman."
"Yes, I realize you're the only one in the room that's fixed." "I know it's unfair, but we can't fix her. Not now, anyway."
"Newman, we went over this." "It's at these delicate times you cannot get an erection. Just think of Phyllis Diller."
"Newman, stop licking that." "I expressly told you…"
He failed the exam.
He could be a drug-sniffing dog at the airport but how boring is that? I suggested air traffic controller.
When I introduced Newman to the air traffic controller screen he kept trying to bite the little moving dots. No Newman. These are planes with people on them. Gentle, boy.
Since Newman has the pack animal instinct, he wanted to group all the planes together in a cozy bundle and land them all at once. The pilot monitoring the flight simulator test had never seen so many virtual deaths.
We both agreed that Newman was too rambunctious to be a seeing eye dog for the blind, unless people enjoy being dragged along the concrete at 10 kph.
Newman suggested being a hearing ear dog for the deaf. I was proud of him for quickly realizing the drawbacks of this as a career. When Newman hears a strange sound he barks frantically for 20 minutes, growls for 3 minutes and huffs and snorts for 30 seconds. Then back to sleep. Neither of us could figure out how this would help a deaf person.
I guess for now Newman's wisest career choice is to be my best friend.
He's tired of placating us, performing silly tricks and he has no privacy to bring home dog dates.
He wants to get a job. Eventually he sees himself getting a place of his own, preferably near the water because there are lots of off-leash parks there and plenty of, as he calls it, poodle-tang.
Newman is part poodle.
I said "fair enough." "I'll miss you, but I'm really proud of you."
So now I had to help Newman pick a career.
Proctologist popped into my head. This shouldn't be surprising. Newman has been sticking his nose in other people's butts since day one.
I suggested "Assman" on his dog tag. For marketing purposes.
Gynecologist is another possibility. He is well versed in the exploration of genitalia.
There are lots of benefits to Newman choosing this area. Women need only stand there while Newman performs his exam. No undignified lying on a cold metal table and inserting feet into medical stirrups.
The exam can also be performed at one's leisure at dinner parties or during Sunday brunch.
Newman went as far as to take the OB/GYN exam. That was a toughie, as I had to talk him through the entire process.
"No Newman, this is a person, she's not your bitch."
"I see that you brought your ball but you can't bury it in the hole. Not in this context, Newman."
"Yes, I realize you're the only one in the room that's fixed." "I know it's unfair, but we can't fix her. Not now, anyway."
"Newman, we went over this." "It's at these delicate times you cannot get an erection. Just think of Phyllis Diller."
"Newman, stop licking that." "I expressly told you…"
He failed the exam.
He could be a drug-sniffing dog at the airport but how boring is that? I suggested air traffic controller.
When I introduced Newman to the air traffic controller screen he kept trying to bite the little moving dots. No Newman. These are planes with people on them. Gentle, boy.
Since Newman has the pack animal instinct, he wanted to group all the planes together in a cozy bundle and land them all at once. The pilot monitoring the flight simulator test had never seen so many virtual deaths.
We both agreed that Newman was too rambunctious to be a seeing eye dog for the blind, unless people enjoy being dragged along the concrete at 10 kph.
Newman suggested being a hearing ear dog for the deaf. I was proud of him for quickly realizing the drawbacks of this as a career. When Newman hears a strange sound he barks frantically for 20 minutes, growls for 3 minutes and huffs and snorts for 30 seconds. Then back to sleep. Neither of us could figure out how this would help a deaf person.
I guess for now Newman's wisest career choice is to be my best friend.
Wednesday, 11 June 2014
Helloooo Newman: If the Porsche Fits…
Helloooo Newman: If the Porsche Fits…: Nuggets. That's what I call them. Little things occurring in this nutty world that keep me laughing. I found this nugget at my mecha...
If the Porsche Fits…
Nuggets. That's what I call them.
Little things occurring in this nutty world that keep me laughing.
I found this nugget at my mechanic's shop. Yes, I have a mechanic.
Rather, he has me. In debt. For a lot of money.
I was waiting patiently in my grease shop for about 3.5 hours when I thought, okay, it's time for me to rotate the hemispheres of my brain before I hurl myself in front of a street car in boredom.
This well-dressed man walks in carrying a pair of very nice shoes in his hands. Swaddling them, actually. Like a new-born.
Do these shoes require an oil change? Will he have the soles rotated?
Don't laugh. The well-dressed man proudly states that these $450 shoes are made by Porsche.
More questions pop into my rotated hemispheres. Is this why he came to an auto body shop instead of a shoemaker? How fast do they go?
Turns out there is some kind of screw or nail sticking out of the bottom of one car, um shoe, and it is affecting his back. He said at least 36 times that the shoe was hurting his back. Soon enough I wanted to hurt his back as well.
He thought maybe the mechanic had the right kind of screw or some other car-fixing device to help his shoe run more smoothly.
The mechanic took it into the shop and tried. I wonder if he had to put it on one of those car lifters so they could get a good look underneath?
The mechanic said no go and suggested the gentleman take it to a shoemaker.
This is why I chose my mechanic. He has all the honest answers. He will not take your shoes into the shop, find all kinds of things wrong with them, and then charge you glorious amounts of money to walk out.
As the man with the $450 Porsche shoes drove away, the mechanic told me that the actual car this customer was driving was 20 years old and worth about $500.
Little things occurring in this nutty world that keep me laughing.
I found this nugget at my mechanic's shop. Yes, I have a mechanic.
Rather, he has me. In debt. For a lot of money.
I was waiting patiently in my grease shop for about 3.5 hours when I thought, okay, it's time for me to rotate the hemispheres of my brain before I hurl myself in front of a street car in boredom.
This well-dressed man walks in carrying a pair of very nice shoes in his hands. Swaddling them, actually. Like a new-born.
Do these shoes require an oil change? Will he have the soles rotated?
Don't laugh. The well-dressed man proudly states that these $450 shoes are made by Porsche.
More questions pop into my rotated hemispheres. Is this why he came to an auto body shop instead of a shoemaker? How fast do they go?
Turns out there is some kind of screw or nail sticking out of the bottom of one car, um shoe, and it is affecting his back. He said at least 36 times that the shoe was hurting his back. Soon enough I wanted to hurt his back as well.
He thought maybe the mechanic had the right kind of screw or some other car-fixing device to help his shoe run more smoothly.
The mechanic took it into the shop and tried. I wonder if he had to put it on one of those car lifters so they could get a good look underneath?
The mechanic said no go and suggested the gentleman take it to a shoemaker.
This is why I chose my mechanic. He has all the honest answers. He will not take your shoes into the shop, find all kinds of things wrong with them, and then charge you glorious amounts of money to walk out.
As the man with the $450 Porsche shoes drove away, the mechanic told me that the actual car this customer was driving was 20 years old and worth about $500.
Wednesday, 4 June 2014
Will I go to Sandals?
I realize my last story might cause some confusion, especially with the Big Guy. I certainly don't want that.
Just because I don't step into a church and listen to some pedophile tell me how to be a good person doesn't mean I am an atheist.
Religion and God really have nothing to do with each other. If I were God and saw you getting up early Sunday morning to go to a stuffy, hot building and then brunch, I would say you are a fool. Your first mistake was getting up early on Sunday. Then you paid way too much for those eggs with the dash of parsley on them. Come on. Think! How much are eggs at home?
I suppose I am an agnostic, but only because God is too. I mean when it comes to Him believing in me. Sometimes He does, sometimes He doesn't. He's not really sure. At least it feels that way.
Will I go from playing piano at a nursery school to rock stardom or not? Please make up your mind. I'm waiting.
More and more, the question of a creator is a quantum mechanical one.
And that makes sense. He's there until you need a lottery win. Then He's not. He's a He, then He's a She. He's in the building. God has now left the building.
God will not be pinned down by anyone!
And life is one big quantum mechanical equation. When I'm gone, I'll become part of that grand minus sign.
Just because I don't step into a church and listen to some pedophile tell me how to be a good person doesn't mean I am an atheist.
Religion and God really have nothing to do with each other. If I were God and saw you getting up early Sunday morning to go to a stuffy, hot building and then brunch, I would say you are a fool. Your first mistake was getting up early on Sunday. Then you paid way too much for those eggs with the dash of parsley on them. Come on. Think! How much are eggs at home?
I suppose I am an agnostic, but only because God is too. I mean when it comes to Him believing in me. Sometimes He does, sometimes He doesn't. He's not really sure. At least it feels that way.
Will I go from playing piano at a nursery school to rock stardom or not? Please make up your mind. I'm waiting.
More and more, the question of a creator is a quantum mechanical one.
And that makes sense. He's there until you need a lottery win. Then He's not. He's a He, then He's a She. He's in the building. God has now left the building.
God will not be pinned down by anyone!
And life is one big quantum mechanical equation. When I'm gone, I'll become part of that grand minus sign.
Helloooo Newman: Stairway to Sandals
Helloooo Newman: Stairway to Sandals: I am not a person hip with organized religion. And that's a surprise, I guess. As a kid, I went to church every Sunday and I went to C...
Stairway to Sandals
I am not a person hip with organized religion.
And that's a surprise, I guess. As a kid, I went to church every Sunday and I went to Catholic school until grade three. This is prime time to inculcate people.
But even as a kid, I always had a sense that organized religion is, how would you say…bullshit.
This does not, of course, impact in any way on the possibility of a Creator. How the Creator can stomach Catholicism is anybody's guess.
Forget about all the silly details that Catholicism covers. Just look at the huge contradictions in the "story" it tells.
God created everything and is all powerful, yet feels insecure when humans, and only humans it seems, don't bow to Him.
God certainly doesn't mind that Newman won't bow to him. Newman has peed on many church lawns. That's outright disrespect if you ask me.
He didn't just create humans that always bow to him because?…He was looking for a challenge, or was bored. Perhaps boredom is the mother of invention.
The only purpose I can see for organized religion is that it helps you to become more organized. Being organized is good. In this sense, organized religion is on a par with organized crime and organized labour.
One thing I've never understood is how the afterlife is sold. The way the afterlife is portrayed by religion, it's easily up there with the most luxurious Sandals resort. And as far as I can tell, there is no money in heaven. There are probably no lineups at the buffet as well.
Heaven is Sandals on crack.
• visits to Hell are included and among the most popular day trips, except for people from Scarborough, who've spent enough time there as it is.
• Germans and Americans do go to Heaven, but behave more like regular humans compared to when they were… human.
• that blonde in the poster really is there.
If the afterlife will be so good to us, what are we waiting for?
Now there's a question for the Big Guy.
And that's a surprise, I guess. As a kid, I went to church every Sunday and I went to Catholic school until grade three. This is prime time to inculcate people.
But even as a kid, I always had a sense that organized religion is, how would you say…bullshit.
This does not, of course, impact in any way on the possibility of a Creator. How the Creator can stomach Catholicism is anybody's guess.
Forget about all the silly details that Catholicism covers. Just look at the huge contradictions in the "story" it tells.
God created everything and is all powerful, yet feels insecure when humans, and only humans it seems, don't bow to Him.
God certainly doesn't mind that Newman won't bow to him. Newman has peed on many church lawns. That's outright disrespect if you ask me.
He didn't just create humans that always bow to him because?…He was looking for a challenge, or was bored. Perhaps boredom is the mother of invention.
The only purpose I can see for organized religion is that it helps you to become more organized. Being organized is good. In this sense, organized religion is on a par with organized crime and organized labour.
One thing I've never understood is how the afterlife is sold. The way the afterlife is portrayed by religion, it's easily up there with the most luxurious Sandals resort. And as far as I can tell, there is no money in heaven. There are probably no lineups at the buffet as well.
Heaven is Sandals on crack.
• visits to Hell are included and among the most popular day trips, except for people from Scarborough, who've spent enough time there as it is.
• Germans and Americans do go to Heaven, but behave more like regular humans compared to when they were… human.
• that blonde in the poster really is there.
If the afterlife will be so good to us, what are we waiting for?
Now there's a question for the Big Guy.
Thursday, 24 April 2014
Helloooo Newman: Newman's Nuances
Helloooo Newman: Newman's Nuances: What does it all mean? What am I doing here? Not just in the larger philosophical sense. What am I doing here in this spot when I coul...
Newman's Nuances
.JPG)
What does it all mean?
What am I doing here? Not just in the larger philosophical sense. What am I doing here in this spot when I could be rooting around in the garbage for rib bones?
All this reflecting on life…I get it from my owner. He doesn't realize that if you reflect too much you eventually fall in love with your reflection.
Then you have to destroy the thing you love to really understand it. I don't really understand that statement. It was scrawled on the wall of the kennel I was born in.
What will I do with my life? I was thinking of something that could really advance the human condition, since humans take care of me. Perhaps a major in gender studies, with a thesis on transgenders in the workplace.
I can totally relate to those transgenders, having your privates messed with and all.
Maybe that won't be enough. So many big problems ahead. Global warming. When will humans get their shit together? I have my shit together – in the backyard – in neat little piles.
It's a big thing if my shit doesn't freeze anymore. So much easier to eat that way. Have you tried feces for dinner during a heat wave? Not pretty.
I feel pulled in so many directions. Sitting pretty here with the wind all in my face. I should be waxing poetic. But what I really long for is to lick my groin right NOW.
Do you think Aristotle ever licked his groin?
God, I hope prime rib is on the menu again for guys weekend at the cottage.
Thursday, 17 April 2014
Helloooo Newman: Decisions, Decisions
Helloooo Newman: Decisions, Decisions: When Newman gets up every morning, he has some important decisions to make. Some of those decisions require him to check his watch periodi...
Decisions, Decisions
When Newman gets up every morning, he has some important decisions to make.
Some of those decisions require him to check his watch periodically.
"Oh my, where has the time gone? Have to bug Paul about breakfast now. Think I'll go with my normal routine, grab some toilet paper from the basket and chew on it til it's a toxic blob from the pulp and paper mill. Combined with my saliva and left on the floor for a period, it makes an awesome mess when it dries. Drives him nuts."
He's right, it does. Toilet paper trailing from his ass, like he's back from a wedding or a prom.
Then it's breakfast time. As soon as I put the food down, Meryl Streep shows up and exclaims, "the dingo ate my baby".
His ravenous appetite has yet to be eclipsed by honey booboo visiting a chick-fil-a.
I knew we should have named him Dyson. The way he sucks that food up, I mean.
One thing Newman is unable to do is hold a tennis ball in his mouth and solve complex problems at the same time. When I present him with a difficult question, like "where is mommy?" or "do you think those chicken bones you just ate will tear the lining in your stomach?", he promptly drops the ball and considers his answer. He can't walk and chew gum, so to speak.
Much the same as me when my wife gets home and asks me what I did all day. I put my beer down and think very carefully.
Come play time and things get really dicey. Spattered on the driveway are Newman's toys: 7 balls and two frisbees. The balls are of different colours, some squeak, some are split in half and roll no more.
God knows how he chooses which ball to play with on any given day, but once he does he's married to it. Kind of like how I imagine a polygamist chooses a wife on any given day. Smells one, licks her, picks one and discards the rest like so much refuse.
You could throw all the tennis balls Serena Williams could fit in her bra and he would ignore every one of them
Let's call him a ball-ygamist.
My enjoyment comes from throwing the frisbee. Any residual anger I have from the previous day, or from my life in general, is worked off laughing while I watch Newman try to pick up the frisbee, a flat object completely flush with the driveway. Drives him nuts.
I might as well paint a frisbee on the driveway and reward him for picking it up.
"Looks so, like, real, doesn't it dude?"
One couldn't have more fun water boarding Rob Ford to have him explain how he'll stop the gravy train, but start the new subway trains.
Can you imagine how much water it would take to create the sensation of drowning in this guy? His belly is one huge reservoir, waiting to be filled. Maybe we should send him to California, where two things are always burning: brush fires and venereal disease.
I saw the man's belly in person a couple of weeks ago. The Ice Capades could tour in that belly for the next decade.
A friend of mine actually saw him in a bathing suit. At first he thought, is this guy about to bear children? Then he realized those stretch marks matched up with the longitude/latitude lines on his Google earth map.
Oh, is that mean of me? I can't decide.
Some of those decisions require him to check his watch periodically.
"Oh my, where has the time gone? Have to bug Paul about breakfast now. Think I'll go with my normal routine, grab some toilet paper from the basket and chew on it til it's a toxic blob from the pulp and paper mill. Combined with my saliva and left on the floor for a period, it makes an awesome mess when it dries. Drives him nuts."
He's right, it does. Toilet paper trailing from his ass, like he's back from a wedding or a prom.
Then it's breakfast time. As soon as I put the food down, Meryl Streep shows up and exclaims, "the dingo ate my baby".
His ravenous appetite has yet to be eclipsed by honey booboo visiting a chick-fil-a.
I knew we should have named him Dyson. The way he sucks that food up, I mean.
One thing Newman is unable to do is hold a tennis ball in his mouth and solve complex problems at the same time. When I present him with a difficult question, like "where is mommy?" or "do you think those chicken bones you just ate will tear the lining in your stomach?", he promptly drops the ball and considers his answer. He can't walk and chew gum, so to speak.
Much the same as me when my wife gets home and asks me what I did all day. I put my beer down and think very carefully.
Come play time and things get really dicey. Spattered on the driveway are Newman's toys: 7 balls and two frisbees. The balls are of different colours, some squeak, some are split in half and roll no more.
God knows how he chooses which ball to play with on any given day, but once he does he's married to it. Kind of like how I imagine a polygamist chooses a wife on any given day. Smells one, licks her, picks one and discards the rest like so much refuse.
You could throw all the tennis balls Serena Williams could fit in her bra and he would ignore every one of them
Let's call him a ball-ygamist.
My enjoyment comes from throwing the frisbee. Any residual anger I have from the previous day, or from my life in general, is worked off laughing while I watch Newman try to pick up the frisbee, a flat object completely flush with the driveway. Drives him nuts.
I might as well paint a frisbee on the driveway and reward him for picking it up.
"Looks so, like, real, doesn't it dude?"
One couldn't have more fun water boarding Rob Ford to have him explain how he'll stop the gravy train, but start the new subway trains.
Can you imagine how much water it would take to create the sensation of drowning in this guy? His belly is one huge reservoir, waiting to be filled. Maybe we should send him to California, where two things are always burning: brush fires and venereal disease.
I saw the man's belly in person a couple of weeks ago. The Ice Capades could tour in that belly for the next decade.
A friend of mine actually saw him in a bathing suit. At first he thought, is this guy about to bear children? Then he realized those stretch marks matched up with the longitude/latitude lines on his Google earth map.
Oh, is that mean of me? I can't decide.
Friday, 4 April 2014
Helloooo Newman: The Lady and the Ladder
Helloooo Newman: The Lady and the Ladder: So I was walking along my street one day. And there 100 yards in front of me was this big yellow ladder. The top was propped up against th...
The Lady and the Ladder
So I was walking along my street one day.
And there 100 yards in front of me was this big yellow ladder. The top was propped up against the hydro wires and the bottom was tucked comfortably into the side of a huge rock garden.
I wasn't too worried. There was plenty of room to walk under the ladder. One could have had a dinner party under the ladder, there was so much room.
The lady walking the other way was quite worried. So worried, in fact, that instead of opting for the leisurely stroll under that big yellow ladder, she put on her rock climbing boots and ventured the other way, about 10 feet up the rock garden - and almost fell.
Was she studying for her rock climbing exam? I thought, no.
Was she avoiding the horrific consequences of walking UNDER a ladder? A fair conclusion.
I suddenly felt very sorry for the human race, myself included, since I am in some ways a member of that race.
We are so fragile. So afraid. So dependent on what we think.
Think - of all the things we walk under every day: trees, bridges, clouds, umbrellas, hydro wires, planes, ceilings, birds, cars (the subway), mistletoe, your bosses' heel, pressure…
And people assign such danger to a ladder?
I find asking a lot of questions helps to fight irrational fears.
Which do you think is more dangerous? Climbing a 30 foot ladder or walking under it? I would pick the former, not the latter, in regards to the ladder, I mean.
What about the ladder factory where they make the ladders? At what point in the production process does a ladder become a "ladder" and is bestowed with the power to bring misfortune on human beings? Does it have to have all its rungs on it before it targets individuals who dare to venture underneath?
Is a ladder with only three rungs patiently planning to ruin people's lives when it becomes full-fledged?
Do the ladder builders ever have to be under the ladder when it becomes a "ladder"? Do ladder builders have increased misfortune compared to the population of non-waking-under-ladders people?
What if a ladder rung breaks? Does it still have magical powers?
And there 100 yards in front of me was this big yellow ladder. The top was propped up against the hydro wires and the bottom was tucked comfortably into the side of a huge rock garden.
I wasn't too worried. There was plenty of room to walk under the ladder. One could have had a dinner party under the ladder, there was so much room.
The lady walking the other way was quite worried. So worried, in fact, that instead of opting for the leisurely stroll under that big yellow ladder, she put on her rock climbing boots and ventured the other way, about 10 feet up the rock garden - and almost fell.
Was she studying for her rock climbing exam? I thought, no.
Was she avoiding the horrific consequences of walking UNDER a ladder? A fair conclusion.
I suddenly felt very sorry for the human race, myself included, since I am in some ways a member of that race.
We are so fragile. So afraid. So dependent on what we think.
Think - of all the things we walk under every day: trees, bridges, clouds, umbrellas, hydro wires, planes, ceilings, birds, cars (the subway), mistletoe, your bosses' heel, pressure…
And people assign such danger to a ladder?
I find asking a lot of questions helps to fight irrational fears.
Which do you think is more dangerous? Climbing a 30 foot ladder or walking under it? I would pick the former, not the latter, in regards to the ladder, I mean.
What about the ladder factory where they make the ladders? At what point in the production process does a ladder become a "ladder" and is bestowed with the power to bring misfortune on human beings? Does it have to have all its rungs on it before it targets individuals who dare to venture underneath?
Is a ladder with only three rungs patiently planning to ruin people's lives when it becomes full-fledged?
Do the ladder builders ever have to be under the ladder when it becomes a "ladder"? Do ladder builders have increased misfortune compared to the population of non-waking-under-ladders people?
What if a ladder rung breaks? Does it still have magical powers?
I have seen people, myself included, who carry ladders over their head because it's sometimes easier to manoeuvre around. Does that constitute being "under a ladder", with the prerequisite bad luck to ensue?
What about those wooden ladders you see in kid's playgrounds? I'm sure more than one kid has run underneath these ladders. Will YOUR kid have bad luck if he/she finds themselves under ladder?
And there are symbolic ladders, like the corporate ladder. When I first starting working at a company, I didn't feel like I was at the bottom rung of the corporate ladder. I felt like I was underneath the corporate ladder. By the way I was treated. But I managed to get up a few rungs anyway.
See what I mean? It becomes absurd.
I am not ridiculing the rock climbing garden lady. We all have fears, rational and irrational.
Why do I vacuum the house? Why do I mow the lawn? Fear of my wife! Rational or irrational?
It's just kinda hard to imagine a species with so many small fears actually going out and conquering the universe. But we have to, if we believe the U.N. and the planet will soon fall apart.
Forget the ladder. Shit happens.
Wednesday, 19 March 2014
Helloooo Newman: I got to say cawk at work
Helloooo Newman: I got to say cawk at work: I love my job at the nursery school. Sure, I play Down by the Bay so many times that soon you'll find my bloated and decomposing body ...
I got to say cawk at work
I love my job at the nursery school.
Sure, I play Down by the Bay so many times that soon you'll find my bloated and decomposing body on the shore of that bay.
But it has some precious moments.
This week we sing Spring songs. Nothing puts Spring in your step better than songs about robins.
Teacher asks students, "what does a robin say?"
Student, naturally, answers, "caw, caw…k". Repeat two times. Wrong bird, but brilliant comedy.
Piano player tells other teachers all about it.
I got to say cawk at school today.
Sure, I play Down by the Bay so many times that soon you'll find my bloated and decomposing body on the shore of that bay.
But it has some precious moments.
This week we sing Spring songs. Nothing puts Spring in your step better than songs about robins.
Teacher asks students, "what does a robin say?"
Student, naturally, answers, "caw, caw…k". Repeat two times. Wrong bird, but brilliant comedy.
Piano player tells other teachers all about it.
I got to say cawk at school today.
Helloooo Newman: Those were the nanoseconds
Helloooo Newman: Those were the nanoseconds: One of the great things I love about science is that they are discovering new and interesting things all the time. Our picture of the univer...
Those were the nanoseconds
One of the great things I love about science is that they are discovering new and interesting things all the time. Our picture of the universe is getting more complicated and interesting every day.
Unlike religion, of course. Religions never discover anything new. They aren't even looking. There will always be 72 virgins awaiting you and the temperature of Hell never changes, even factoring in global warming.
This is how things were, are, and will be forever so shut up and follow the rules.
Oh sure, they discover a pedophile priest or two, but there's nothing revolutionary or surprising about that.
A very recent discovery about the universe has me quite depressed. Scientists have found evidence of the so-called "inflationary period".
The discovery is pretty difficult to understand. All I really get about it is that scientists found gravitational waves that confirm the "inflation" theory. What is a gravitational wave? I have no idea, but I know I feel them around my waist and hips.
The inflation period is easy to understand (although impossible to conceive actually happening) and is also quite depressing.
The inflation theory states that at some time just after the big bang the universe expanded about a trillion, trillion, trillion, trillion times its tiny size in about a nanosecond.
That's right, it's kind of like having breakfast at a Denny's. Expansion occurs very quickly.
And we're talking about an extremely short period of time. Between 10-35 seconds and 10-24 seconds. That is fast, indeed. Trillionths of a second fast. There's only about one activity I can do that quickly. And even that is slowing down.
Depressing, isn't it? This means that just before 10-35 seconds, let's say 10-36 seconds, everything in the universe was cheaper. Much cheaper.
I remember those nanoseconds fondly. You could fill up your car for 0.00000000000000001 cents. And that's premium gas!
Macintosh computers were about the price of a slap in the face and they actually paid you enormous sums to "buy" a PC.
Back then the U.S. had free health care and no Republicans to argue that we can't afford health care because it's too expensive sending people to their death in the Middle East. Imagine, no John Boner (or is that Boehner?). I bet you John Lennon can imagine that.
The entire universe was one big, tiny Costco. I would have stocked up on everything if I knew prices were going way up four trillionths of a second later.
A little notice next time, please.
Ah yes, those were the nanoseconds.
Unlike religion, of course. Religions never discover anything new. They aren't even looking. There will always be 72 virgins awaiting you and the temperature of Hell never changes, even factoring in global warming.
This is how things were, are, and will be forever so shut up and follow the rules.
Oh sure, they discover a pedophile priest or two, but there's nothing revolutionary or surprising about that.
A very recent discovery about the universe has me quite depressed. Scientists have found evidence of the so-called "inflationary period".
The discovery is pretty difficult to understand. All I really get about it is that scientists found gravitational waves that confirm the "inflation" theory. What is a gravitational wave? I have no idea, but I know I feel them around my waist and hips.
The inflation period is easy to understand (although impossible to conceive actually happening) and is also quite depressing.
The inflation theory states that at some time just after the big bang the universe expanded about a trillion, trillion, trillion, trillion times its tiny size in about a nanosecond.
That's right, it's kind of like having breakfast at a Denny's. Expansion occurs very quickly.
And we're talking about an extremely short period of time. Between 10-35 seconds and 10-24 seconds. That is fast, indeed. Trillionths of a second fast. There's only about one activity I can do that quickly. And even that is slowing down.
Depressing, isn't it? This means that just before 10-35 seconds, let's say 10-36 seconds, everything in the universe was cheaper. Much cheaper.
I remember those nanoseconds fondly. You could fill up your car for 0.00000000000000001 cents. And that's premium gas!
Macintosh computers were about the price of a slap in the face and they actually paid you enormous sums to "buy" a PC.
Back then the U.S. had free health care and no Republicans to argue that we can't afford health care because it's too expensive sending people to their death in the Middle East. Imagine, no John Boner (or is that Boehner?). I bet you John Lennon can imagine that.
The entire universe was one big, tiny Costco. I would have stocked up on everything if I knew prices were going way up four trillionths of a second later.
A little notice next time, please.
Ah yes, those were the nanoseconds.
Monday, 3 March 2014
Helloooo Newman: And the Oscar goes to…jail?
Helloooo Newman: And the Oscar goes to…jail?: I was really confused Sunday night. I heard that the Oscars were on and I got really excited. I brewed some popcorn and beer, put on my pu...
And the Oscar goes to…jail?
I was really confused Sunday night.
I heard that the Oscars were on and I got really excited. I brewed some popcorn and beer, put on my puppy slippers and formed my body into the sofa for an exciting night of frightening entertainment.
I was completely enthralled by the blood-curdling screams and the tragedy of it all.
The forensics really enticed me.
I wonder if he's acting or telling the truth? I can't decide.
I know I've had to go to the washroom at night and I've never dreamed anything like that could happen. Granted, we don't have a handy gun in our night table.
The next day everyone was talking about this woman named Lupita Nyong'o. What a great speech she gave.
Lu-who?
Then it hit me. I watched the wrong Oscars. I saw Oscar Pistorius on trial for mistaking his hot girlfriend for a burglar.
Looking at her, I thought, ya, that's exactly what a burglar would look like if she broke into my house.
My mistake for missing the "important" Oscar. But you know, I enjoyed it more than any Academy Awards show I've ever seen.
No speeches, no gowns, no egos, no makeup, no one thanking "life" for their great fortune, and "you like me, right now you like me."
Just blood, tragedy, mystery.
Loved it!
I heard that the Oscars were on and I got really excited. I brewed some popcorn and beer, put on my puppy slippers and formed my body into the sofa for an exciting night of frightening entertainment.
I was completely enthralled by the blood-curdling screams and the tragedy of it all.
The forensics really enticed me.
I wonder if he's acting or telling the truth? I can't decide.
I know I've had to go to the washroom at night and I've never dreamed anything like that could happen. Granted, we don't have a handy gun in our night table.
The next day everyone was talking about this woman named Lupita Nyong'o. What a great speech she gave.
Lu-who?
Then it hit me. I watched the wrong Oscars. I saw Oscar Pistorius on trial for mistaking his hot girlfriend for a burglar.
Looking at her, I thought, ya, that's exactly what a burglar would look like if she broke into my house.
My mistake for missing the "important" Oscar. But you know, I enjoyed it more than any Academy Awards show I've ever seen.
No speeches, no gowns, no egos, no makeup, no one thanking "life" for their great fortune, and "you like me, right now you like me."
Just blood, tragedy, mystery.
Loved it!
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
.JPG)
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)