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.
HELLOOOO NEWMAN: Laughter is your sixth sense
Wednesday, 11 June 2014
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
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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
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This is my young man winter in all his glory.
What a piece of work is Newman. How noble in training, how infinite in loyalty. The beauty of the world! The paragon of animals!
I can take Shakespeare and change it, can't I?
I've read a lot of self help books in my time.
But in these pictures I see everything I need to see to know how to live well.
Helloooo Newman: It's not all scientifical
Helloooo Newman: It's not all scientifical: I'm uncomfortable with the idea that science will one day explain everything. I don't really want it to. But I have no real fear a...
It's not all scientifical
I'm uncomfortable with the idea that science will one day explain everything. I don't really want it to.
But I have no real fear around this because I don't think it ever will, despite what Stephen Hawking says. I know he's smarter than me, but I think he's wrong on the idea that science will answer everything and negate the "need" for a creator.
What a profoundly arrogant statement, it seems to me. A little too God-like for my tastes. Perhaps it takes a God-wanna-be to prove once and for all that God doesn't exist.
It's interesting that professed atheists, all the rage these days, are really just as close-minded, arrogant and obnoxious as your average baptist preacher.
I say this as a person who is no big fan of organized religion. The religious "story" is so rife with contradictions, it bleeds any credibility it could possibly hope for.
My favourite contradiction is that God is omnipotent and omnipresent, yet seems to possess all the nasty characteristics of petty human behaviour: jealousy, greed, low self esteem, anger issues, cult mentality, narcissism, homophobia, misogyny…the list goes on.
But as George Carlin famously said, he looooves you.
I meander once again. I can think of a long list of phenomena science will never explain.
Here is a partial list:
• The bra net: Some readers may not know what this is. When women wash their bras, they feel a need to put it in a net, similar to a fish trawling net, but much smaller. I don't think we'll ever understand why. They don't look or taste like lobsters. I think it has something to do with those little clips, the very clips men eagerly try to work just before sex. It is these clips that ALWAYS get hooked on the net and take hours to detach. The few times I've forgotten to net the bras, they have never hooked on anything, appear completely fine, have saved me laundry loads of time, and are just as comfortable to wear.
• The mattress sheet: This is the sheet that goes directly over the mattress. You're suppose to fold these things, so I'm told. Why? And how? Is far as I can tell, if I put the sheet in a blender and removed it, the result would match folding it according to current methodology. To fold correctly, please contact packaging company, or Stephen Hawking.
• Finding the car hood latch: I've spent many hours trying to find the latch for the front hood on our Nissan Versa. Usually in the winter, during a polar vortex, the new term for cold air. Nissan, it seems, tries to differentiate itself by doing the opposite of Honda and putting simple things in just the perfectly wrong place. They had thousands of test dummies try to find the latch and as soon as all of them failed in the task, they released the car to the world. We now have a Honda.
This is an interactive post. Perhaps you can think of things science, and the great Stephen Hawking, will never explain.
But I have no real fear around this because I don't think it ever will, despite what Stephen Hawking says. I know he's smarter than me, but I think he's wrong on the idea that science will answer everything and negate the "need" for a creator.
What a profoundly arrogant statement, it seems to me. A little too God-like for my tastes. Perhaps it takes a God-wanna-be to prove once and for all that God doesn't exist.
It's interesting that professed atheists, all the rage these days, are really just as close-minded, arrogant and obnoxious as your average baptist preacher.
I say this as a person who is no big fan of organized religion. The religious "story" is so rife with contradictions, it bleeds any credibility it could possibly hope for.
My favourite contradiction is that God is omnipotent and omnipresent, yet seems to possess all the nasty characteristics of petty human behaviour: jealousy, greed, low self esteem, anger issues, cult mentality, narcissism, homophobia, misogyny…the list goes on.
But as George Carlin famously said, he looooves you.
I meander once again. I can think of a long list of phenomena science will never explain.
Here is a partial list:
• The bra net: Some readers may not know what this is. When women wash their bras, they feel a need to put it in a net, similar to a fish trawling net, but much smaller. I don't think we'll ever understand why. They don't look or taste like lobsters. I think it has something to do with those little clips, the very clips men eagerly try to work just before sex. It is these clips that ALWAYS get hooked on the net and take hours to detach. The few times I've forgotten to net the bras, they have never hooked on anything, appear completely fine, have saved me laundry loads of time, and are just as comfortable to wear.
• The mattress sheet: This is the sheet that goes directly over the mattress. You're suppose to fold these things, so I'm told. Why? And how? Is far as I can tell, if I put the sheet in a blender and removed it, the result would match folding it according to current methodology. To fold correctly, please contact packaging company, or Stephen Hawking.
• Finding the car hood latch: I've spent many hours trying to find the latch for the front hood on our Nissan Versa. Usually in the winter, during a polar vortex, the new term for cold air. Nissan, it seems, tries to differentiate itself by doing the opposite of Honda and putting simple things in just the perfectly wrong place. They had thousands of test dummies try to find the latch and as soon as all of them failed in the task, they released the car to the world. We now have a Honda.
This is an interactive post. Perhaps you can think of things science, and the great Stephen Hawking, will never explain.
Friday, 17 January 2014
Helloooo Newman: In the Mood
Helloooo Newman: In the Mood: The thing I love about Newman is that he doesn't get cranky about the things that normally enrage humans. Take sleeping, for instance....
In the Mood
What I love about Newman is that he doesn't get cranky about the things that normally enrage humans.
Take sleeping, for instance. Some nights when I wake up and can't fall back asleep, I go to Newman, who is sleeping quietly on our bed somewhere among the blanket folds, and I gently pet him. It's a really nice bonding moment because he's very calm and peaceful and loves the gentle stroking motion.
I admit it's hard to find him sometimes because he's the same colour as our comforter. But when I do, he has no problem with the fact that I just woke him up from a deep sleep and probably a fun dream about carrying a dead squirrel in his mouth.
If Newman were at all human, I would expect him to say, "Hey buddy, I'm sleepin' here. I almost had the damn squirrel in my mouth, do you get it? Go pet the doll in your closet".
What do you think would happen if I tried this on my wife? I'd probably get the alarm clock implanted into the side of my face and a time stamp on my cheek of 2:38 a.m.
I would react the same way, of course. Probably even worse because I often take a while to fall asleep. My wife, on average, takes about 3 seconds to achieve a state of "slumberness".
If a passenger plane crashed outside our window, or a global thermonuclear war had just started, you could up that time to, maybe, 10-12 seconds. Meanwhile, I'm still pleading with the sleep Gods to pay me a visit.
Then there's food. Newman eats his food in about 3.2 seconds, but if I get a chance to take it away from him, he just patiently waits for me to return it. No growling, no mean looks or harsh words.
If I'm in the middle of my dinner and someone takes it away from me, they immediately graduate to the top of my death list honour roll, no degree required.
Another game I like to play with Newman is bending down and pretending I want to eat some of his food. Newman just stares at me like I'm crazy and, again, waits patiently until I've had my fill. What I really want to do as I get close to his food is puke, but he doesn't know that.
One thing I can't stand is sharing food. "Oh, that looks good, can I try a bit"? Sure, but I'm gonna mash it up so it can flow down the feeding tube you'll need if you don't back away.
This is what I love about Newman. He's always in the mood.
Take sleeping, for instance. Some nights when I wake up and can't fall back asleep, I go to Newman, who is sleeping quietly on our bed somewhere among the blanket folds, and I gently pet him. It's a really nice bonding moment because he's very calm and peaceful and loves the gentle stroking motion.
I admit it's hard to find him sometimes because he's the same colour as our comforter. But when I do, he has no problem with the fact that I just woke him up from a deep sleep and probably a fun dream about carrying a dead squirrel in his mouth.
If Newman were at all human, I would expect him to say, "Hey buddy, I'm sleepin' here. I almost had the damn squirrel in my mouth, do you get it? Go pet the doll in your closet".
What do you think would happen if I tried this on my wife? I'd probably get the alarm clock implanted into the side of my face and a time stamp on my cheek of 2:38 a.m.
I would react the same way, of course. Probably even worse because I often take a while to fall asleep. My wife, on average, takes about 3 seconds to achieve a state of "slumberness".
If a passenger plane crashed outside our window, or a global thermonuclear war had just started, you could up that time to, maybe, 10-12 seconds. Meanwhile, I'm still pleading with the sleep Gods to pay me a visit.
Then there's food. Newman eats his food in about 3.2 seconds, but if I get a chance to take it away from him, he just patiently waits for me to return it. No growling, no mean looks or harsh words.
If I'm in the middle of my dinner and someone takes it away from me, they immediately graduate to the top of my death list honour roll, no degree required.
Another game I like to play with Newman is bending down and pretending I want to eat some of his food. Newman just stares at me like I'm crazy and, again, waits patiently until I've had my fill. What I really want to do as I get close to his food is puke, but he doesn't know that.
One thing I can't stand is sharing food. "Oh, that looks good, can I try a bit"? Sure, but I'm gonna mash it up so it can flow down the feeding tube you'll need if you don't back away.
This is what I love about Newman. He's always in the mood.
Wednesday, 15 January 2014
Helloooo Newman: Sorry, Wrong Planet
Helloooo Newman: Sorry, Wrong Planet: Did you hear about the plane that landed at the wrong airport? Sounds like a joke, doesn't it? Nope. A few days ago a passenger plan...
Sorry, Wrong Planet
Did you hear about the plane that landed at the wrong airport?
Sounds like a joke, doesn't it? Nope.
A few days ago a passenger plane landed at the wrong airport. The runway at this airport was less than half the proper length. Consequently, the plane almost ran off the short runway into a valley.
Fun, eh?
You would think GPS 101 is every pilot's speciality. Or maybe the pilots were relying too much on the GPS technology.
Either way, they got it wrong. And that got me thinking.
Thinking about aliens. I've always wondered that if aliens really do exist, why do they come to earth?
The closest planet to us (outside of our solar system) is trillions upon trillions upon trillions of kilometres away. It takes incredibly advanced technology, huge amounts of time and very patient aliens to travel anywhere of import in this universe.
If there's one truth about our universe, it's that the size is larger than you can really imagine.
For example, you probably think our solar system ends at Pluto. Not even close. That is only a fraction of its size. You would have to travel many more billions upon billions of kilometres to get to the Oort cloud, the true end. It would take us 37,000 years using current technology to reach the end.
In short, it's no easy task to go visiting other planets. You probably want a good reason to go, like you have going to Acton.
And they pick Earth to visit? The earth with Rob Ford, Kim Jong Un and the Ice Capades? The planet that spent $400 million dollars in 2013 on Duck Dynasty merchandise?
Then it all made sense to me. These visiting aliens have landed at the wrong airport, so to speak. Taking a page from those "wayward" pilot's manual, they accidentally landed on earth when they meant to visit a much more distinguished and intelligent planet.
It must be. There's no earthly reason aliens would visit earth.
This is why UFOs travel so fast. Suffering from embarrassment, the aliens quickly realize their mistake and high tail it out of here.
I wonder if these aliens get in trouble for making such a dreadful error. Are they put on paid leave, like the pilots have been? Can you really call it paid leave when you're 5 light years away from home?
I wonder if the aliens bring passengers. Maybe to repopulate the planet. Imagine travelling trillions of kilometres eating space ship food and timing your washroom visits with the food cart, only to arrive at the astral-equivalent of Middelfart, Denmark (yes, a real place).
With such advanced technology, how could a mistake like this be made? It probably comes down to alien nature. This means the captain was banging the stewardess…sorry…flight attendant. In spaceflight terms, his needle was in the wrong compass.
The cockpit conversation might have gone something like this: "I expressly told you, Beeplob, to make a left at Uranus, but no, you go right down the anus, through the colon to the bowel called Earth. Bulbous heads will roll".
On the other hand, I can kind of understand the alien's tough position. The airport that the pilots landed at was 7 miles from the proper airport. Not that far, really.
Imagine trying to pick the correct planet from many that are millions or billions of miles apart. Mistakes have gotta happen often.
But no one ever concedes that aliens might get it wrong.
Isn't it nice to know even advanced civilizations make mistakes?
Sounds like a joke, doesn't it? Nope.
A few days ago a passenger plane landed at the wrong airport. The runway at this airport was less than half the proper length. Consequently, the plane almost ran off the short runway into a valley.
Fun, eh?
You would think GPS 101 is every pilot's speciality. Or maybe the pilots were relying too much on the GPS technology.
Either way, they got it wrong. And that got me thinking.
Thinking about aliens. I've always wondered that if aliens really do exist, why do they come to earth?
The closest planet to us (outside of our solar system) is trillions upon trillions upon trillions of kilometres away. It takes incredibly advanced technology, huge amounts of time and very patient aliens to travel anywhere of import in this universe.
If there's one truth about our universe, it's that the size is larger than you can really imagine.
For example, you probably think our solar system ends at Pluto. Not even close. That is only a fraction of its size. You would have to travel many more billions upon billions of kilometres to get to the Oort cloud, the true end. It would take us 37,000 years using current technology to reach the end.
In short, it's no easy task to go visiting other planets. You probably want a good reason to go, like you have going to Acton.
And they pick Earth to visit? The earth with Rob Ford, Kim Jong Un and the Ice Capades? The planet that spent $400 million dollars in 2013 on Duck Dynasty merchandise?
Then it all made sense to me. These visiting aliens have landed at the wrong airport, so to speak. Taking a page from those "wayward" pilot's manual, they accidentally landed on earth when they meant to visit a much more distinguished and intelligent planet.
It must be. There's no earthly reason aliens would visit earth.
This is why UFOs travel so fast. Suffering from embarrassment, the aliens quickly realize their mistake and high tail it out of here.
I wonder if these aliens get in trouble for making such a dreadful error. Are they put on paid leave, like the pilots have been? Can you really call it paid leave when you're 5 light years away from home?
I wonder if the aliens bring passengers. Maybe to repopulate the planet. Imagine travelling trillions of kilometres eating space ship food and timing your washroom visits with the food cart, only to arrive at the astral-equivalent of Middelfart, Denmark (yes, a real place).
With such advanced technology, how could a mistake like this be made? It probably comes down to alien nature. This means the captain was banging the stewardess…sorry…flight attendant. In spaceflight terms, his needle was in the wrong compass.
The cockpit conversation might have gone something like this: "I expressly told you, Beeplob, to make a left at Uranus, but no, you go right down the anus, through the colon to the bowel called Earth. Bulbous heads will roll".
On the other hand, I can kind of understand the alien's tough position. The airport that the pilots landed at was 7 miles from the proper airport. Not that far, really.
Imagine trying to pick the correct planet from many that are millions or billions of miles apart. Mistakes have gotta happen often.
But no one ever concedes that aliens might get it wrong.
Isn't it nice to know even advanced civilizations make mistakes?
Sunday, 12 January 2014
Helloooo Newman: No, I've never been in a war zone…
Helloooo Newman: No, I've never been in a war zone…: …but I do have a brain and some imagination. All that, along with a smidgen of historical knowledge, tells me the Toronto ice storm really...
No, I've never been in a war zone…
…but I do have a brain and some imagination.
All that, along with a smidgen of historical knowledge, tells me the Toronto ice storm really didn't resemble a war zone at all, as many media outlets portrayed it.
In the Town Crier headline the words "war zone" are part of a direct quote from one of the many war-torn residents of Leaside.
The guy who chose these ominous words went on to say, "I came out to get some food and coffee…and literally could not drive out of our neighbourhood…so I…set out on foot".
Presumably, this man is now what we call (in war talk) a foot soldier. Skilfully using his feet to get to the fresh bread store, antibiotic-free probiotic meat store and the bank, where he keeps his military pay.
My God, man, did you make it safely to the Starbucks? Were they able to heat the soy milk in your latte so as to make biscotti-dipping more pleasant?
I trust, hard-done-by resident, you avoided all the mass graves, unexploded shells and death squads roaming the tree-lined streets that is so common after a big storm.
Granted, many of these lovely tress lost branches - big ones. One detail that popped out for me when I watched a documentary on the German invasion of Russia was how many nice trees were lost amidst the 20 million dead people and razed buildings.
No people left to replant trees. Shame.
I'm sure the first thing the Iraqi's were miffed about when George "Mission Accomplished" Bush sent actual exploding missiles flying was losing cable t.v. and Internet. So, naturally, we Torontonians know what that's like. I think the average person can easily mistake a falling branch for a 2,000 pound shell that eviscerates your Starbucks and everyone in it. Sorry, the biscotti was over-cooked today.
I'd be comfortable with words like "eerie", "gloomy", "bizarre", "spooky", and "annoying" to describe the storm of the century.
Anything about war never really occurred to me. But these days everything is a war - obesity, drugs, racism, sexism…and now the weather has declared war on Leaside.
The good thing about real wars is that the army is already there to clean up, even though they are cleaning up dead bodies and flattened cities.
In Toronto we have to debate whether we want the army to come in and then we have to ask Mr. Harper nicely. And the Canadian army, as we all know, is far more skilled at picking up branches than any tree company or, let's say, you and me are.
I'm glad I don't have to suffer through the war ravages of having to pick up branches and put them in a neat pile.
When, oh when, will we negotiate peace with the weather?
All that, along with a smidgen of historical knowledge, tells me the Toronto ice storm really didn't resemble a war zone at all, as many media outlets portrayed it.
In the Town Crier headline the words "war zone" are part of a direct quote from one of the many war-torn residents of Leaside.
The guy who chose these ominous words went on to say, "I came out to get some food and coffee…and literally could not drive out of our neighbourhood…so I…set out on foot".
Presumably, this man is now what we call (in war talk) a foot soldier. Skilfully using his feet to get to the fresh bread store, antibiotic-free probiotic meat store and the bank, where he keeps his military pay.
My God, man, did you make it safely to the Starbucks? Were they able to heat the soy milk in your latte so as to make biscotti-dipping more pleasant?
I trust, hard-done-by resident, you avoided all the mass graves, unexploded shells and death squads roaming the tree-lined streets that is so common after a big storm.
Granted, many of these lovely tress lost branches - big ones. One detail that popped out for me when I watched a documentary on the German invasion of Russia was how many nice trees were lost amidst the 20 million dead people and razed buildings.
No people left to replant trees. Shame.
I'm sure the first thing the Iraqi's were miffed about when George "Mission Accomplished" Bush sent actual exploding missiles flying was losing cable t.v. and Internet. So, naturally, we Torontonians know what that's like. I think the average person can easily mistake a falling branch for a 2,000 pound shell that eviscerates your Starbucks and everyone in it. Sorry, the biscotti was over-cooked today.
I'd be comfortable with words like "eerie", "gloomy", "bizarre", "spooky", and "annoying" to describe the storm of the century.
Anything about war never really occurred to me. But these days everything is a war - obesity, drugs, racism, sexism…and now the weather has declared war on Leaside.
The good thing about real wars is that the army is already there to clean up, even though they are cleaning up dead bodies and flattened cities.
In Toronto we have to debate whether we want the army to come in and then we have to ask Mr. Harper nicely. And the Canadian army, as we all know, is far more skilled at picking up branches than any tree company or, let's say, you and me are.
I'm glad I don't have to suffer through the war ravages of having to pick up branches and put them in a neat pile.
When, oh when, will we negotiate peace with the weather?
Friday, 3 January 2014
Helloooo Newman: Frozen Yoga
Helloooo Newman: Frozen Yoga: Does everyone on the planet do yoga now? Everyone but me? Seems like it. Even Newman who, obviously, has mastered the downward dog. Let...
Frozen Yoga
Does everyone on the planet do yoga now? Everyone but me?
Seems like it. Even Newman who, obviously, has mastered the downward dog. Let's make that the downward puppy, since he still chews nails, kleenex, anything he can find, really.
I suppose on a day like today, at minus 20 and a wind chill that brings it down to a testicle-crunching minus 300, hot yoga would be a good choice. There must be many people in North America clamouring for hot yoga right now.
Well, I don't want to do hot yoga. Why? Precisely because everyone is doing it. If a particular activity attracts everyone, it necessarily repels me.
So I need an alternative.
Consider this, as well. What of summer? And global warming? Things are getting hotter, aren't they? Will hot yoga still be in demand 100 years from now?
I propose frozen yoga. I've already tried it and it works.
And it's hip, because no one does it…yet.
I don't quite have the proper facilities worked out yet, so I held my first class in a meat freezer at Canada Packers.
It's based on a very simple equation – calories in, calories out. This way you are exactly the same person at the end of the class as you were when you started. Because you don't need to change. You are perfect in the eyes of the Lord.
My personal favourite of the poses is the downward facing hog. You slope down to the floor and awaiting you is a pound of cooked bacon to be consumed. Easy to arrange because you're in a meat freezer.
But not always easy to accomplish. Many students could not finish the bacon. Okay, it was their first time.
Another great one is the extended side ribs angle pose. I have to rework this one because it caused a few injuries. Several careless students slipped on some errant bbq sauce.
I think the most difficult pose was the chicken legs up the wall. The wall became very slippery with grease and difficult to climb. Knew I should have trimmed some of the chicken skin off.
Afterwards I took the class out for frozen yogurt. I'm not sure why. I think because one class member yelled out, "I love frozen yoga", but I heard "frozen yogurt".
Seems like it. Even Newman who, obviously, has mastered the downward dog. Let's make that the downward puppy, since he still chews nails, kleenex, anything he can find, really.
I suppose on a day like today, at minus 20 and a wind chill that brings it down to a testicle-crunching minus 300, hot yoga would be a good choice. There must be many people in North America clamouring for hot yoga right now.
Well, I don't want to do hot yoga. Why? Precisely because everyone is doing it. If a particular activity attracts everyone, it necessarily repels me.
So I need an alternative.
Consider this, as well. What of summer? And global warming? Things are getting hotter, aren't they? Will hot yoga still be in demand 100 years from now?
I propose frozen yoga. I've already tried it and it works.
And it's hip, because no one does it…yet.
I don't quite have the proper facilities worked out yet, so I held my first class in a meat freezer at Canada Packers.
It's based on a very simple equation – calories in, calories out. This way you are exactly the same person at the end of the class as you were when you started. Because you don't need to change. You are perfect in the eyes of the Lord.
My personal favourite of the poses is the downward facing hog. You slope down to the floor and awaiting you is a pound of cooked bacon to be consumed. Easy to arrange because you're in a meat freezer.
But not always easy to accomplish. Many students could not finish the bacon. Okay, it was their first time.
Another great one is the extended side ribs angle pose. I have to rework this one because it caused a few injuries. Several careless students slipped on some errant bbq sauce.
I think the most difficult pose was the chicken legs up the wall. The wall became very slippery with grease and difficult to climb. Knew I should have trimmed some of the chicken skin off.
Afterwards I took the class out for frozen yogurt. I'm not sure why. I think because one class member yelled out, "I love frozen yoga", but I heard "frozen yogurt".
Tuesday, 31 December 2013
Helloooo Newman: Apologies to the Fifty Percent
Helloooo Newman: Apologies to the Fifty Percent: Just as I dotted the last pixel on my previous article, I realized my peewee/ice destruction game cannot be enjoyed by 50% of the population...
Apologies to the Fifty Percent
Just as I dotted the last pixel on my previous article, I realized my peewee/ice destruction game cannot be enjoyed by 50% of the population.
I apologize to the fifty percent who are female. I try to be all-inclusive on this blog.
Please don't cancel your free subscription.
This is not Dog Dynasty on A&E! If bestiality beats your drum, then all the best to you.
But worry not, women. They are working wonders with them 3-D printers and perhaps some day you can enjoy a working attachment and play destroy the urinal world.
I could certainly use a bit more 3 for my D (insert Groucho Marx voiceover).
I'll end there.
I apologize to the fifty percent who are female. I try to be all-inclusive on this blog.
Please don't cancel your free subscription.
This is not Dog Dynasty on A&E! If bestiality beats your drum, then all the best to you.
But worry not, women. They are working wonders with them 3-D printers and perhaps some day you can enjoy a working attachment and play destroy the urinal world.
I could certainly use a bit more 3 for my D (insert Groucho Marx voiceover).
I'll end there.
Helloooo Newman: Intelligent Life Once Lived Here
Helloooo Newman: Intelligent Life Once Lived Here: Whenever I read articles discussing the intelligence of the human race, I notice that writers always default to grand and epic examples of h...
Intelligent Life Once Lived Here
Whenever I read articles discussing the intelligence of the human race, I notice that writers always default to grand and epic examples of how stupid we seem to be.
The human race developed nuclear weapons that can destroy the planet and everyone on it. Stupid!
We developed a strategy called MAD (Mutual Assured Destruction) to ensure we don't destroy ourselves with these weapons. Nuke me and I'll nuke you - na na boo boo. Childish!
We rape the earth of her resources on a daily basis to live a good life, knowing it won't last. In the process we are turning this blue marble in the cosmos into a rather large microwave oven. Insane!
To me, the signs of our insanity are found in much smaller game.
I'm talking, of course, about cable companies. I have one particular company in mind, but I'd prefer not to name it (what the hell – Rogers).
A few weeks back Rogers suddenly, and without warning, vaporized my email account. It just stopped working. The bits and bytes of my account were crushed into bits and bytes and not even useful as party mix. And so my life followed along with it.
I am not a techno-insane wanna be, but I NEED MY EMAIL (emphasis mine!). I am so attached to my, well, attachments. I was hyper about my hyper text.
In terms more redolent of philosophy, I Link, Therefore I Am.
I was angry. Did I mention that already?
I was angry and felt powerless. Case in point. Last night I was at a bar drinking. I went to the urinal to rid my body of some water. Too late for the alcohol. It was fully absorbed into my brain.
Poured into the urinal were these preformed ice cubes. I love when bars do that. I suddenly found myself playing this sick game. The ice was Rogers Headquarters. My pee was slowly and methodically destroying this Headquarters. I would pick a spot, focus my weapon and watch the structure collapse helplessly.
The feeling of power was incredible. Oooo hahahaha. I guess people more in control of their sanity might imagine the ice was the polar cap and the world's fate was, um, in their hands (literally).
I stuck with the cable theme and destroyed the icy infrastructure completely.
Did I get sidetracked? At first, Rogers told me it was regular maintenance on my account. I guess that's okay. I didn't know my email account was an SUV, but I went along with it. Who the hell am I to skip an email oil change?
Then day 4 came along and Rogers realized they couldn't keep using the same bogus excuse.
Their next excuse was a real winner. They had none. The excuse closet was empty. No reason, no timeline for fixing, no responsibility taken, no signs of intelligent life.
This continued for 10 days. Needless to say, I had moved on to gmail. I was proud that I could let go like that and continue with a normal life. No therapy required.
I think my favourite conversation with one of the Rogers' pinheads centred around whose fault all this was. Rogers sells me the Internet, and along with it offers Rogers email. But, the pinhead cogently explained to me, Rogers doesn't support the email if it "breaks".
When they sell it, it's called Rogers email. When it breaks, it's someone else's email company (Yahoo, in this case).
Yahoo, I thought. Human insanity in all its mundane machinations.
Worry not about nuclear war. Focus on the melting ice.
The human race developed nuclear weapons that can destroy the planet and everyone on it. Stupid!
We developed a strategy called MAD (Mutual Assured Destruction) to ensure we don't destroy ourselves with these weapons. Nuke me and I'll nuke you - na na boo boo. Childish!
We rape the earth of her resources on a daily basis to live a good life, knowing it won't last. In the process we are turning this blue marble in the cosmos into a rather large microwave oven. Insane!
To me, the signs of our insanity are found in much smaller game.
I'm talking, of course, about cable companies. I have one particular company in mind, but I'd prefer not to name it (what the hell – Rogers).
A few weeks back Rogers suddenly, and without warning, vaporized my email account. It just stopped working. The bits and bytes of my account were crushed into bits and bytes and not even useful as party mix. And so my life followed along with it.
I am not a techno-insane wanna be, but I NEED MY EMAIL (emphasis mine!). I am so attached to my, well, attachments. I was hyper about my hyper text.
In terms more redolent of philosophy, I Link, Therefore I Am.
I was angry. Did I mention that already?
I was angry and felt powerless. Case in point. Last night I was at a bar drinking. I went to the urinal to rid my body of some water. Too late for the alcohol. It was fully absorbed into my brain.
Poured into the urinal were these preformed ice cubes. I love when bars do that. I suddenly found myself playing this sick game. The ice was Rogers Headquarters. My pee was slowly and methodically destroying this Headquarters. I would pick a spot, focus my weapon and watch the structure collapse helplessly.
The feeling of power was incredible. Oooo hahahaha. I guess people more in control of their sanity might imagine the ice was the polar cap and the world's fate was, um, in their hands (literally).
I stuck with the cable theme and destroyed the icy infrastructure completely.
Did I get sidetracked? At first, Rogers told me it was regular maintenance on my account. I guess that's okay. I didn't know my email account was an SUV, but I went along with it. Who the hell am I to skip an email oil change?
Then day 4 came along and Rogers realized they couldn't keep using the same bogus excuse.
Their next excuse was a real winner. They had none. The excuse closet was empty. No reason, no timeline for fixing, no responsibility taken, no signs of intelligent life.
This continued for 10 days. Needless to say, I had moved on to gmail. I was proud that I could let go like that and continue with a normal life. No therapy required.
I think my favourite conversation with one of the Rogers' pinheads centred around whose fault all this was. Rogers sells me the Internet, and along with it offers Rogers email. But, the pinhead cogently explained to me, Rogers doesn't support the email if it "breaks".
When they sell it, it's called Rogers email. When it breaks, it's someone else's email company (Yahoo, in this case).
Yahoo, I thought. Human insanity in all its mundane machinations.
Worry not about nuclear war. Focus on the melting ice.
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