Helloooo Newman: Captain's Blog

Helloooo Newman: Captain's Blog: I wonder why the various captain's of the Enterprise in Star Trek didn't have a blog. The technology was certainly there. They alw...

Captain's Blog

I wonder why the various captains of the Enterprise in Star Trek didn't have a blog.

The technology was certainly there. They always found time to keep an old fashion log. And they had way more to write about than I do. For example…

…I've never saved an alien civilization. I once helped a hummingbird that flew into our window and got stunned. Obviously his shields weren't up. As he lay there gasping for air, I gave an impassioned speech about the progress of bird civilization and the bright future ahead, as Kirk would do. The hummingbird was wondering why I was talking to myself and not getting him some water. I went to the replicator and said, "water, cold" and gave it to the bird. At first it gave me Earl Grey tea and I said, "no, no, no" and swore at it. It worked. But there was no final scene with the hummingbird thanking me and waving goodbye as I whisked away at warp speed. It pooped and left.

…I've also never slept with a female alien, as Kirk and Picard so often did. One topic Star Trek avoided was STDs. That's just negligent. We have lonely men in the space station right now and they have no idea of the danger they face. Did it ever occur to anyone that back when the Vulcans were uncivilized and rampant with emotion, they developed the pointy ears from an STD? The ears used to get pointy only when the Vulcans got excited. But they fooled around so often that the ears stayed that way. That should scare every man.

It's curious that the only captain who didn't sleep with alien life forms was a female - Captain Janeway of the starship Voyager. She was good looking enough for sure. She was also quite smart and well read. That might have intimidated the male aliens. Plus she was very busy ensuring the male crew members didn't develop pointy ears like the Vulcan's (wink, wink).

What really prevented Janeway from getting it on in space was competition from Seven of Nine, the human-turned Borg-turned human crew member. When standing abreast with Seven of Nine, Janeway looked like a piece of drywall in a uniform. Put another way, one could easily confuse Seven of Nine's chest with a solar system the ship should be orbiting.

So, this is how I think Captain Kirk's blog might have sounded:

Captain's Blog, star date 3.1415…blah blah blah (rounded off to the nearest decimal point):
Woke up with a smashing headache and a strange jellyfish-like creature with flowing blonde hair clinging to my manly man chest. A cigarette hung out of its limp mouth. Apparently we had a great time last night and now it is dead. Died from pleasure, like so many others.

I guess that's why the crew keeps calling me Kirk Diggler. It's from some old movie but I don't get it.

Walked to my computer. Damn internet is down again. Nothing on cable, as usual. Thankfully, I could get movies on my iCommunicator. But the roaming charges, oh man. It gets so tedious during those times between saving civilizations. But it gives me time to work on my next civilization-saving speech. And my all important acting classes. I'm-tired-of-talking-like-this-all-the-time.

Checked my phaser. Out of phaser ammo again. Ammo is so hard to get these days. Last week someone sauntered into the cafeteria and vaporized 24 people with an automatic phaser. Apparently he was demoted to cleaning toilet sewage that was leaking into the warp engines. Now they want to have background checks before you buy a phaser. Especially for illegal aliens. Out of my cold, dead Captain's hand, I say. Phasers don't vaporize. Lowly sewage cleaners do.

Oh, and now the ship has elected a mayor to run the day-to-day stuff. His name is Rob Ford the 123rd. You can just see it written all over the alien's faces. Why hasn't the human race progressed further than this?

Apparently he wants to build a bunch of new turbo lifts to parts of the ship no one visits. And someone caught him snorting dilithium crystals in the cargo bay. After that, thankfully, he accidentally beamed himself into space and now, apparently because he's so large, his body has taken up orbit around the planet as a third moon. His brother is stepping in as mayor.

Anyway, things aren't so bad. Had an awesome breakfast at a new restaurant started by Apple Computer. Amazing this company is still around. I should take my next alien whore there. It's called iHop.

Real easy, too. Once you have the app, they download a pile of pancakes directly to your stomach. No annoying chewing.

The future rocks, doesn't it?

Helloooo Newman: Rare shark found in bathroom

Helloooo Newman: Rare shark found in bathroom

Rare shark found in bathroom

Royal Infantigue?

Helloooo Newman: Royal Infantigue?: Do you suffer from Royal Infantigue? Are you ready to induce a coma so you can miss all the press about an omnipotent and omniprese...

Royal Infantigue?

Do you suffer from Royal Infantigue? Are you ready to induce a coma so you can miss all the press about an omnipotent and omnipresent royal baby?

I made a list of things that I found much more useful to do.

• watch the International Hooters Swimsuit Pageant on t.v.

• cut your toenails, mix up the clippings in a bag, and then try and match them with the right nail, like a puzzle

• watch Dog the Bounty Hunter, whose face inspires everyone to never have another baby ever again

• break into someone's house and do their laundry, fold it nicely and leave a bill

• sit in a sensory deprivation chamber and pipe in Don Pardo's voice on a loop saying, "it's Saturday Night Live"

• cover the roof of your mouth with peanut butter and try and say "Irish wristwatch" really quickly ten times

• call a friend and tell them you have a grand prize winning lottery ticket, they accidentally grabbed it when they were visiting and could they please find it so you can split it with them

• look at Newman's baby pictures

Have fun.

Helloooo Newman: National Enquirer Exclusive

Helloooo Newman: National Enquirer Exclusive: Ladies and gentlemen. We have obtained exclusive, never before seen photos of Newman, the celebrity dog from the Helloooo Newman bl...

National Enquirer Exclusive

Ladies and gentlemen. We have obtained exclusive, never before seen photos of Newman, the celebrity dog from the Helloooo Newman blog.

These behind-the-scenes photos show Newman preparing for another gruelling day of stardom. Isn't it just amazing the work that goes on to make Newman the professional he is?

Don't be shocked if you don't recognize him. He really needs his makeup and hair, just like Katy Perry does.

We hid a tiny camera on a millipede in this washroom and captured these exclusive photos of Newman at his celebrity spa. Having celebrity friends like Snoop Dogg and Dog the Bounty Hunter, Newman has to look his best at all times, except in the shower.

We approached Newman with these photos and asked him to comment.

Newman: "Ever since this blog has started my life has been hell. Bath after bath after bath so I can look all cute for the blah blah blog. But where are the royalties and the red carpets? The female poodles throwing themselves at my paws? The $1,000 rawhides?

Last week I caught a photographer hiding in a poodle's bum. He snapped just as I was going for the big sniff. I felt violated. I don't want to think how the poodle felt.

Stardom is tough. Dog eat dog. I think you people should know that. Next time you're out and about, hug a celebrity dog".


PS: Pictures provided by our roving reporter, Madeline.

Helloooo Newman: Is there a plan for you?

Helloooo Newman: Is there a plan for you?: I can't decide if the universe has a plan and if I'm included in that plan. Some events really convince me something deeper is goi...

Is there a plan for you?

I can't decide if the universe has a plan and if I'm included in that plan.

Certain events convince me something deeper is going on. Years ago I was travelling through Europe. I lost my plane ticket at a hostel. I can't remember the city - I think it was Saltzburg or Frieburg, pretty sure it wasn't Hamburg, although I wish it had been bacon cheddar cheeseburg, my favourite European city.

Weeks went by, I replaced the ticket and forgot about it. Then one day I was in a lineup at the hostel in Luxembourg and began chatting with two guys behind me. Luxembourg is an absolutely beautiful city. The hostel is located in a gorge of lush greenery. This is where I bought my inter-rail pass so I could travel around Europe being treated like livestock for real cheap.

As I said, I began talking to these two guys. I had already tried talking to all the girls in the line with no luck. I definitely found it strange that every single girl in the line told me they were an undercover agent for Interpol and couldn't talk to me because it distracted them from apprehending a world renowned criminal by the name of Uri Loser. Strange name, indeed.

Back to the guys. I introduced myself and one of the guys says, "Paul Hardie? That name sounds so familiar…hmmm…did you lose a plane ticket a while back?" Turns out these two guys found my plane ticket. They tried to sell it for face value. Um, I'd like you to meet Uri Loser, guys.

It took me a few days to get over this "coincidence". Think of the population of Europe, people moving about every second, millions of small decisions being made, trains on time, early and late and a billion other things. How could this conceivably happen without a plan? The bigger question is where was this plan last week when I picked my lottery numbers? Or that day I was walking out of a bar and accidentally tripped this big greek guy. He looked so strong I was sure he was going to punch me in the soul. He settled on my eye.

Events like this make me think there's a guy in the sky, my guy, who's watching out for me. He's the man with the plan.

Why not reveal some of the plan to me? Or at least we could go over it once and I could jot down some major points. Then I would have known that mixing coke and scotch would make me vomit like a dying hippo. I would not have studied psychology, only to figure out that I'd rather remove old septic tanks from cottages than listen to other people complain about their meaningless lives. I keep myself busy enough doing that.

I think everyone should get a peak at THEIR plan. Maybe just a short synopsis in a pdf would do. I know, that's some 6.5 billions pdfs, but He must have secretaries. Could that many terabites crash the whole universe? Maybe the universe could do with a restart anyway.

Even if there is a plan, or plans, I have a few concerns with the whole notion anyway. Lots of things in this world with a good plan turn out horribly. The leaning tower of Pisa, for instance. Charles and Di's marriage. How about everyone traveling on the Hindenburg?

Why do plans differ so radically? Compare Pee-wee Herman, who went from t.v. star for kids to masturbating in theatres, and John Holmes, the porn star who went from masturbating in theatres to international movie star.

The universe as it is just doesn't make sense to me. If God is the architect, did He spill coffee on the blueprints? Why did He start at such a large scale? Why not build a small scale version of the universe and see how it works? What kind of AutoCAD program did He use? It took 40 architects just to build the CN tower. I think Mike Holmes, not the porn star but the reno guy, should have had a once over before he started the big bang.

If God is a teacher, where is He now? Does He have that many sick days stored up that He doesn't have to show?

If God is a politician, when is He up for re-election? What are the choices? How can He possibly win without appearing on CNN?

If God is the World leader, what does that mean for the G8? Are there 7 other Gods He must negotiate with? Are they all as sexy, muscular and heroic as Vladimir Putin?

If God is a healer, what ailments are covered under His plan? Can He cancel it for pre-existing conditions? Didn't He create those conditions?

Maybe God is like that guy on the t.v. show Cake Boss. If the universe is a very large cake, I want more icing. Or at least give me a corner piece. Make it a money cake. At any rate, why invent us while the cake is still baking? Finish the cake, put it on a nice tray and then bring us in. I know, I was never promised a rose on my cake.

So I'm still looking for my plan? Maybe another trip to Europe is warranted. I hope it's not on the floor of some theatre.

Helloooo Newman: Stink Bomb

Helloooo Newman: Stink Bomb: When I was younger, and I would like to stress here that I was much younger, I got into a conversation with a friend about the Vietnam war. ...

Dogs of War

When I was younger, and I would like to stress here that I was much younger, I got into a conversation with a friend about the Vietnam war. I suggested to my friend that instead of dropping regular bombs that explode, we should drop bombs of dog poo or bombs that explode and disperse really bad dog fart smells.

He told me that it wouldn't be effective because humans quickly adapt to vile smells and then the smells are no longer offensive. I wasn't so sure.

Well, last night I had the unique opportunity to test this hypothesis. I couldn't believe my luck.

First, a few words in support of dropping poo/fart (PF) bombs instead of regular exploding bombs. The most obvious advantage of PF bombs is that no one gets blown to pieces. Another day where no one is exploded is probably a good day. Sure, one's olfactory factory would shut down and you would probably never be able to enjoy food again since it would be associated with these bombs. But you could just cook with a lot more herbs. Or just eat the herbs straight.

I think the war would end much more quickly with PF bombs. When people's limbs are detached by regular bombs, it tends to create fear and resentment among the population. I can see the reason for that. On the other hand, if people are subjected to a really horrible smell all day, I would imagine they would get really grumpy and demand fresher air. The politicians would have to end the war to improve the air quality. With regular bombs, people are scared or dead. With PF bombs people are angry and are alive to demand change.

Incidentally, in a war using PF bombs, I suggest you buy stock in Febreze.

My arguments are based on the premise that my friend was wrong and your olfactory factory will not eventually sit by and put up with horrible smells. Then came the test.

Last night I drove up to the cottage alone with Newman (no other humans). I am having a guys weekend and I came up early to enjoy a day to myself. It's not often I get the cottage to myself and I was looking forward to the three activities I really enjoy - meditating, napping and sleeping. In that order. And sometimes all at once.

On the way up, Newman had to relieve himself. He couldn't sense my eagerness to get to the cottage quickly (I guess he couldn't read the 145 kph I was doing) and I reluctantly stopped. He pooed by a beautiful and fresh smelling farmer's field. There was a pleasant breeze and the faint aroma of cream of wheat.

But time was a ticking and I wanted to get back to the 145 kph. I threw Newman in the back seat and the bag of poo in the very back luggage compartment thingy. No, I didn't leave the poo on the grass in the middle of nowhere. I wanted someone else to be able to enjoy that cream of wheat.

As I drove closer and closer to the speed of light, I noticed a rather pungent smell. My good ol-factory was under assault. The poo bag, the PF, was working brilliantly. As vomit began to gather in my stomach and respond to this attack, I remembered I neglected to tie the bag completely shut. I was right about PF bombs. There was no way I was going to ignore this smell.

But I couldn't stop driving. I wanted to get to the cottage like a gamete to an egg, like salmon up a stream, like the Brat Pack to a bar.

So I focussed on the driving. Good thing because at one point a doe a deer leapt across the highway and if I hit her at my high speed I would be permanently sheathed in deer skin.

Then suddenly I noticed that I didn't notice something. The PF bomb. It had dissipated considerably. I wouldn't say it was pleasant, but I also thought, ya, I could put up with this if it meant winning a war. My good ol-factory was running smoothly despite the smell. My vomit had retreated.

The PF bomb didn't work after all. My friend was right all along. Back to war as usual.

Is God Dyslexic?

Is He? The more and more I think about it, this would explain a lot about our lot in life.

Right from the get go, He got things backwards. It started with the big bang. This means everything is spreading apart. Today it will take you slightly longer than it did yesterday to get to work.

Does this make sense? Why not start with everything huge and spread apart and have it slowly come together? It makes commuting far easier over time. By the time we decide to build a new subway we won't need one.

It also brings everyone in the universe closer together. Right now things are so far apart we can only talk with our galactic neighbours every once in a while through the odd ufo sighting and abduction. These aliens could end abductions tomorrow if they were closer and the trip was easier and cheaper.

Suddenly all our problems would seem smaller because everything really is getting smaller. The size of the U.S. debt would shrink from 10 septajagillywillion dollars to something a little larger than Sarah Palin's brain. That's very small and quite manageable.

Things are just getting too large in this world. In Vegas the term "city block" means a block the size of New York or Chicago. That's pretty hard to walk when you've been drinking cheap beer 24/7. Imagine Sarah Palin with a normal sized ego. That would happen in this universe. You could read a shrinking A Tale of Two Cities in a few minutes and explain the themes at parties. Because the universe is getting smaller, there won't be room for the famous opening line, "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times". This would contract to, "Things sucked, but not totally".

I suppose women would be disappointed in this universe. Certain important objects would be getting smaller and smaller. But they could do what I did when I was single. Put a mirror on their ceiling with the words "objects are larger than they appear" printed on it.

My wife has created this kind of a universe for herself. In our universe right now we all know that cause precedes effect. Swing hammer (cause) and the nail goes in the wood (effect). My wife has reversed cause and effect so now she gets mad at me before I do something wrong. This saves her time and allows her to get mad when it easily fits her schedule as opposed to waiting for me to actually do something wrong. Smart lady!

With cause and effect reversed, you could sit down for a meal and already be full. Then you could go through the menu and select the things you ate that made you full. Um, I had the watercress salad with the boiled chicken and parsnip puree. I did not have the deep fried, bacon wrapped meatloaf with a side of poutine smothered in rendered animal fat. Instant weight loss.

Yes, lots of things are backwards in the universe. Like the word Dog. More later on what the universe would look like if a Dog were in charge.

Helloooo Newman: You had me at coffee

Helloooo Newman: You had me at coffee: I discovered a while ago what gets me out of bed in the morning. Coffee. Just coffee. I'm not talking about what motivates me to face ...

You had me at coffee

I discovered a while ago what gets me out of bed in the morning. Coffee. Just coffee.

I'm not talking about what motivates me to face the world, achieve things, build my career, and learn The Pussy Willow song on the piano. Rather, coffee is the immediate motivating factor that actually prompts my body to peel itself off the mattress, trounce downstairs and get my metabolism going.

The second I awake, the very moment I come out of REM sleep, even before I have to accept that the hot lady in my dream will not be marrying me, the first neuron to fire is a caffeine neuron.

If not for coffee, I can't see why any of us get out of bed.

Actually, it's caffeine. Coffee is just a nice delivery vehicle. Like Charlize Theron's body. It's a beautiful delivery vehicle for her mind, which is really why I coat my bathroom walls with her posters.

I'd be perfectly fine drinking Red Bull in the morning but it just doesn't fit into the white, middle class, 50 year old male thing to do. Red Bull is actually better than coffee in that it has 250% of the daily recommended B12. Once I drank two Red Bulls and half an hour later took a nap. When my body wants to nap, it naps. Even with enough B12 to power all the football, basketball and hockey teams in the world for several lifetimes, my body decides when it's had enough and nothin' gonna change dat.

My need for coffee reminds me of that Snickers commercial, the one where Joe Pesci bites into a Snickers and turns back into the real person. I'm not me without my coffee. I'm Mandy Manson, Charles Manson's little known, slightly less violent brother.

I can feel the life, the drive, the hutzpah flow into me as I drink my first coffee. It's too bad most of this drive ends up in the toilet bowl by the end of the morning. Otherwise I know I would achieve great things. Well, I'm kinda sure, anyway.

I remember once my sister poured this brownish liquid into my coffee cup. I drank it and then asked, "When are we having coffee?" I like it strong. She likes me to be quiet.

I don't understand the fuss about the health effects of caffeine. Scientists say the universe is made of energy, and coffee gives me energy, so its gotta be good. In fact, I think the C in E=MC2, the famous equation by Einstein, stands for coffee. The universe is really an extremely large cup of coffee, way larger than the trenta size (31 oz.) at Starbucks. It all started from a coffee bean so tiny and concentrated with caffeine that if you lived then, you would be up all night. It exploded and developed into individual coffee galaxies, similar to those Tassimo packets. Human civilization is the coffee stain around the edge of the cup. 

Speaking of creation, is coffee mentioned in the Bible? It should be. I wonder how many coffees Moses had before parting the red sea? You can't tell me he did that without some kind of stimulant. 

What about in the garden of Eden. Why an apple? Wouldn't a delicious hot cup of coffee be much more stimulating? Then we'd hear, "Hey Eve, drink this nice, sweet, creamy coffee latte" instead of "have I got a nice, sour granny smith for you." Presto, they gain the knowledge that there's a Starbucks down the path. That's the only reason I can think of for them to leave Paradise.

We can assume, then, that God had an awfully large amount of coffee before creating the universe. Judging from the results, I have a few questions. Where, exactly, did He get His coffee? Did He go to Coffee Time? The place I go to for my deck stain? That's why we have the phrase, "Too much coffee, God?"

One sure sign that God had too much lousy coffee is that the universe is full of entropy. The law of entropy states that overall, the amount of disorganization in the universe is always increasing. Wait a minute, what? He creates a universe that's impossible for us to clean up? Hasn't He made things difficult enough as it is? Try doing your own taxes in a universe like that. It means cleaning my garage is a complete waste of time. Yet He created my wife, who insists that the garage be ready for catalogue pictures.

Maybe He should have spent more than 6 days creating everything. It takes me 9 days to assemble a simple IKEA desk. Maybe He used one of those cheap, annoying allen keys to tighten everything, kept dropping it and then said, "Good enough, I'm sure it's suppose to rock back and forth anyway."

I checked on Amazon. There are some 12,000 books about getting organized. He could have read one on the 7th day. He could have enjoyed a nice, smooth coffee while He read.

Maybe, just maybe, He napped during Creation. And so far there hasn't been a nice enough coffee to get Him to peel himself off the mattress, trounce downstairs and fix the universe.

Helloooo Newman: Elevatorage

Helloooo Newman: Elevatorage: I am not a person full of rage. That's not my default setting, anyway. When I do get mad, at least it's not over trivial things. If ...

Elevatorage

I am not a person full of rage. That's not my default setting, anyway. When I do get mad, at least it's not over trivial things. If my mashed potatoes touch anything else on the plate I become apoplectic. Make my coffee weak in the morning and I'll take the coffee maker, grind it into a fine powder with my bare hands and sprinkle into a stronger coffee that I made by flying to Brazil, taking some coffee farmers hostage, trading them for coffee plants, grinding the plants in the plane engines as I fly back, adding a bit of water and drinking it through the eye sockets from the hollowed out skull of an ex-Starbucks professional.

Otherwise I'm fairly calm.

But there is one activity that really flings me into a rage - waiting for an elevator. I think I developed this when I lived at 88 Erskine Avenue in Toronto. This is a building with 29,000 floors and 4 lame elevators that barely haul your butt into the sky. I was on the 15,000th floor (might have been the 15th floor) and for a time I actually walked up to my apartment to avoid my waiting rage. I use the word apartment very loosely. Archeological site is probably more accurate. Coroners office in the sky. Petrie dish with a balcony. Abattoir on Erskine.

Yesterday I was waiting for an elevator at a friends apartment. After about 30 seconds of this, all those rageful memories came flooding back. Then I realized I'm only on the fourth floor. It didn't matter. Two minutes go by. I started tearing the walls of the building apart with my mind. Then I looked for the common signs that the elevator was near. The door shakes from the breeze of the passing elevator car. My hopes were up, but I'm still up on the fourth floor. I stared at the lit up button for what seemed like the age of the universe. Will it go out, signaling the arrival of relief? Five minutes on…

At this stage one reaches what I call the elevator investment stage. I could end this now and take the stairs, but I've invested valuable time and I want some return on that. Otherwise I've wasted my time waiting. So let's waste more time, so that I don't feel like I've wasted the time that's already wasted. I've never really understood the analogy of investing time, as if you're investing money. When I invest money, I hope to get more money back. When I invest time, I never get more time back. I can't put that time aside and use it later for an emergency, like finishing my taxes on time. Time is more like a battery. You carry a certain amount around with you and it wears out too quickly. Unless it's an Energizer battery. Unfortunately, you can't recharge your time battery, unless you believe in reincarnation. If you believe in that, you also believe you will win the lottery. But you're more likely to be killed by a falling battery than winning the lottery. Sorry.

It's going on 6 minutes now. I turn around. There it is, glittering in the otherwise dull light of the hallway. Something to occupy my time in a productive way. A mirror. I'm sure they put it there for the very purpose of relieving rage. I stare at my face and my mind wanders. I try and convince myself I look like Ryan Gosling. A simple hair fix is required. Failure. I try and convince myself I look like George Clooney. Failure. Brad Pitt. Failure. Danny Devito. Closer. That guy on the Oliver Jewellery commercials (money for gold). Success. I quickly make a mental note of places where I need to remove hair from my body, an important process as you age - ears, nose, lips…Do you ever notice people, like on the subway, who fix their hair. They move a few hairs around as if they are making some kind of major transformation to their look. There we go, now I can be out in public. Um, no. You look the same as it ever was.

Suddenly, I hear voices. They are coming from the hollow chamber of the elevator shaft and sound like angels coming to gently usher me to heaven, which in this case is DOWN, not up. The voices continue but that annoying elevator light doesn't go out. It's at that moment I realize what's happening. These angels are moving into the building and they are holding the ONE available elevator to move their crappy furniture. I want to tear the wings off these angels and watch them writhe in pain. I want to scissor-kick these angels to hell.

I settle for walking down 4 flights of stairs. Another investment gone bad.

Helloooo Newman: Visiting Hannah, Montana

Helloooo Newman: Visiting Hannah, Montana: I wish Hannah Montana would stop singing. This would be my objective if I won a huge lottery. I would double her yearly salary and pay her t...

Visiting Hannah, Montana

I wish Hannah Montana would stop singing. This would be my objective if I won a huge lottery. I would double her yearly salary and pay her to be a mime artist. She could move to Vegas and do very well. Or maybe a full time spokesperson for Laryngitis Anonymous.

I'll certainly never visit Hannah, Montana again. Everyone there just yells into microphones. And when people grow up there, they have to dress like sluts so the world knows they aren't daddy's little girl anymore. It's such a clever debutante kind of thing. And the mayor of Hannah, Montana - Billy Ray Cyrus - doesn't seem to mind how his constituents behave. As long as they keep paying those huge taxes.

Toto, I hope we're not in Hannah, Montana anymore.

I realize the possibility that only readers with kids might know who Hannah Montana is. For those who have never been to Hannah, Montana, can I have your brain?

Helloooo Newman: What a Wonderful World

Helloooo Newman: What a Wonderful World: We live in a beautiful, wonderous and awe-inspiring world. But let's face it, we also live in a cruel, horrific and nutty world. How d...

What a Wonderful World

We live in a beautiful, wonderous and awe-inspiring world. But let's face it, we also live in a cruel, horrific and nutty world.

How do we deal with this dichotomy? We have dogs join our pack. I think dogs are the healthiest choice in this regard. Definitely vodka is not a good choice. From what my hazy memory tells me, anyway. Nor is escapist t.v. shows like So you Think you can Dance?, which was originally called So you Think you can Think? A good book or movie works, but they don't wake you up with a lick in the face and you can't tease them by, say, putting peanut butter on a part of their body they can't reach.

Dogs have a powerful influence on just about everyone. I bet you Jeffrey Dahmer, the sadistic cannibal killer, would not have eaten his dog, if he had one. I know, he still would have enjoyed pan fried human pancreas, but maybe more exposure to a dog, with the Dog Whisperer's help, would have eventually steered him towards calves liver, and then on to the healthier choices like subs from Belly Buster, an actual food place downtown. This "restaurant" is almost right beside an excellent and expensive Italian place called La Fenice. Been there several times. How did the La Fenice people react when they got the news from the restaurant doctor that a tumour, by the medical name of Belly Buster, was growing on their turf? Did they get a second opinion? "They are doing wonderful things for tumours these days", said the restaurant doctor reassuringly. The doctor goes on…"belly tumours often cause loss of appetite, so we can only hope that a few Belly Buster subs will have this effect on all the bellies that consume them. That way, we starve the tumour. Failing that, we slowly cut it out with your kitchen knives." Belly Busters really stands out on the street. So when people ask for directions to La Fenice, I think the La Fenice people have no choice but so say, "we're just west of Belly Busters. What's that, sir? Do Belly Busters participate in summerlicious?" The La Fenice people disconnect their phone.

What about Son of Sam, the New York gun killer? He was really bad. He shot people with a revolver called a 44 caliber Bulldog. How disgusting to besmirch the name of the honourable bulldog, even if these dogs look like they've been injured in a record press. Cute they are! I once saw a Pug and a Bulldog come face-to-face. They were both shocked, and with good reason. My God, I look like that? How much would that cosmetic surgery be?

Son of Sam claimed he took orders from a demon that possessed the neighbours dog. I told you dogs have a powerful influence. Of course this wasn't the dogs fault. It was that nasty demon. I wonder if the demon was there when the dog got fixed? A couple of extra snips and that might have taught him a lesson. Otherwise we would have had Max von Sydow reenact his priest role in The Exorcist, tie the dog to a bed and watch out for green vomit. Linda Blair would do those creepy sounds and talk about the horrible things the priest's mom does in Hell.

I don't think Charlie Manson would have hurt his dog. He may have carved a swastika in his forehead, but that could be cute if done properly. The annoying thing would be having to constantly trim the hair so people can see the swastika and know you are a completely psychotic, and proud, dog owner.

So I think dogs can help so many more people than the blind or the sick or the old. They help smooth out those crazy dichotomies in life. What dogs can't do is pass bylaws prohibiting Belly Buster tumours.

Helloooo Newman: Parallel Universe

Helloooo Newman: Parallel Universe: Physicists (string theorists to be precise) now posit that the universe has many dimensions and that possibly there are an infinite number o...

Parallel Universe

Physicists (string theorists to be precise) now posit that the universe has many dimensions and that possibly there are an infinite number of other universes. This excites me on many levels.

It means in one of those universes Charlize Theron IS returning my messages and does want to share an elephant with me on an African safari. In at least one of those universes I never have to play Shake Your Sillies Out on the piano. Or maybe just a couple of times instead of four thousand times. In one of those dimensions I am NOT growing more hair in my ears than on my head. Never lose hope because there is always a universe where things are working out very nicely. However, finding that particular universe is slightly easier than finding any particular item in my wife's purse. And if you live in Toronto, public transit does not go to that universe. And if it did, it would be extremely crowded.

I am amazed how my relationship with Newman parallels my relationship with my wife. Especially in the anger department, which is a very large and successful department. Let's call it an Anger department store, it's so big.

When I get mad at Newman there is now a glint of hope that he understands something is not right. If I were to put what Newman was thinking into words, it would be something like, "Hey man, I get it. You're mad. You really don't have to yell any louder. I'm a dog and I have excellent hearing. Save your voice for the shower, Mr. rock star. I have no idea what you're mad at. I don't speak that nonsense of yours. But I'm sorry, okay? I'm reallllly sorry. See my ears? They're drooping, okay? Were your two most valuable assets ripped out by a doctor? I live with that every day. I pray you know that pain. Now throw the damn ball".

This is exactly where I am with my wife. I know I'm in trouble and I can move my ears down just like Newman. The next step, for Newman and I, is figuring out what the particular issue is. Until then, we just keep chasing the ball.

There is one hitch, though. It's really hard for me to remain mad at Newman because he's so damn cute. It would be so much easier if he had some grotesque flesh eating disease that consumed his face and he went around saying, "I am not a man. I am an animal. I am a dog".

No such luck. His is the face that launches a thousand tennis balls. I wish my wife felt the same way about me.

Helloooo Newman: Happy Canada Day?

Helloooo Newman: Happy Canada Day?: I've been told to wear this silly thing around my neck and wish you Happy Canada Day. But I really want to smell that cute poodle over...

Happy Canada Day?

I've been told to wear this silly thing around my neck and wish you Happy Canada Day. But I really want to smell that cute poodle over there. What? Did she just look at me? Oh, I feel so silly. I get this from my dad, who thinks every cute "poodle" he sees is staring at him and confusing him with some guy named Ryan Gosling. Sounds like the name of an arctic bird to me. Looooozer. I just wish they'd cut my flippin' hair so that poodle can see my gorgeous eyes. My best feature. Well, ever since that guy in the mask with the large knife came at me and removed what little bragging rights I have. These owners of mine are such maroons. Today I dropped a huge one in the car. Hee hee, I coulda held it no problem. Don't tell them. They'll be Febrezing their car for the next month. Try going shopping again without me, you smarty-pant human. Suuuure, you are the superior race, picking up my poop and saving it in some green container. Meanwhile you throw away tons of perfectly good food. And when you vomit you don't even have the courtesy to eat it again. Perfectly good food!

This humans race is going nowhere fast. Dogs rule. What the heck is a Canada? Happy Dog Day.

Helloooo Newman: Opposite Day

Helloooo Newman: Opposite Day: Opposite Day At my daughter's school they have something called opposite day. This entails bratty kids doing the opposite of what they...

Opposite Day

Opposite Day

At my daughter's school they have something called opposite day. This entails bratty kids doing the opposite of what they would normally do. An example would be students wearing their shirts inside out, staying inside instead of going out for recess, doing the afternoon's activities in the morning, etc. Other opposites they don't normally engage in would be paying attention, respecting the teacher, eating your own lunch instead of trading it on the black market for skittles and gatorade.

Opposite day is an entirely silly concept, as far as my daughter is concerned anyway.

Why is this entirely silly? Because when she's home it's always opposite day. Flush the toilet, daughter. It goes unflushed. Changes colours. Pick up only three of the many thousands of items that are strewn all over your bedroom floor. They lie there. She has more separate items on her floor then all the grains of sand on all the beaches in the world. But the view sucks. There is no nice breeze and that certainly isn't the smell of the fresh ocean spray. Please do not talk to us like we are fellow rap artists shootin' the breeze. She quotes lines from Family Channel as easily as I do from Talladega Nights or Predator. Mine are funny, hers are rude.

One sort of standing rule we have in the house is…don't burn it down. It's a useful rule if you want somewhere to sleep for the night. Yet when I left the house for 5 minutes one time, the opposite of that rule was almost realized. She and a friend decided they wanted to cook this really yummy macaroni that goes in the microwave. Mmmm, I love nuked food. You would think that the microwave, as far as devices go in the house (iron, furnace, stove, matches, knives, dental floss) isn't too dangerous. Punch a few buttons, cook, and there is no flame. One key ingredient went missing in the microwave - water. I'm not Jamie Oliver but I do know you cook pasta in water. It took 3 minute for the container to melt and burst into flames. This is when they decided to introduce water to the mix, only they had to do it as firewomen putting out a fire. They cleaned it up and then did what any 11-year olds would do who gave incidents like this any thought. They tried it again. What happened next was the most shocking thing of all. They got the same result. That's opposite day at my house.

Somehow, Newman found out about opposite day and now he wants to participate. Last night I dragged myself out of bed at 2:00 a.m. for some aspirin to stifle a beer-driven headache. I probably also got dehydrated tossing and turning as I napped during the day. I try to make these night time jaunts very quick so I can get back to my dream and find out if that young woman really wants me in that way, or if she's just my family doctor putting a rubber glove on. Newman is sitting at the doorway. I was very clear. It was plain English. "Come here, Newman". It's not Shakespeare but it says what it means. Well, it was opposite night for Newman. He passes Go, skips jail, collects $200 and moves directly to lying down in the doorway. My next moves were entirely controlled by my headache. It took over my brain, moved my leg behind Newman, and kicked him into the bedroom. My headache felt better. Newman looked at me as if I was spoiling the fun because I didn't want to play opposite night in the middle of the night.

Then he took opposite day a few steps too far. Alright, a few thousand miles too far. We left Newman in the car to do a bit of craft shopping. Normally when left alone in the car, Newman will bark a few times, let you know he's not happy, then take a break and lie down to lick his groin. This time he was as upset as Donald Trump would be if you locked him in a room and piped in over and over on speakers, "Barak Obama was born in Hawaii". Then he broke the cardinal car rule - no crap in the car. There it was, a steaming pile on the seat and mixing in with the seat belt mechanism. He might as well have put poop in the microwave along with my daughter's pasta.

Now we only play opposite opposite day at our house. And in the car. It could also be called please behave day. But that's no fun.

Helloooo Newman: Bonding. James Bonding. I am happy to report there...

Helloooo Newman: Bonding. James Bonding.
I am happy to report there...: Bonding. James Bonding. I am happy to report there are some important signs that Newman and I are achieving a deeper bond. The kind of bo...

Bonding. James Bonding.

I am happy to report there are some important signs that Newman and I are achieving a deeper bond. The kind of bond I had with my previous dog and Seinfeld character, Cosmo.

When I'm at the cottage I try to put as little stress on the septic as I can. So, naturally, I pee outside on one of the 1,200 trees we have on the property. It's like having 1,200 urinals all to myself. If a male guest happens to be using a tree, I always pick the tree furthest away from him, as per the rules of males using urinals. I also alternate trees so that one doesn't feel picked on or left out.

Last weekend something very exciting happened. Newman came out with me and peed at the exact same time as I did. Just like Cosmo would do. I was so touched. Brought to tears. This kind of deep bonding really gives me goose bumples.

He picked the tree right beside me. I know, you're confused. I just stated the urinal location rules for males. You must pick the urinal (tree) furthest away. This rule does not apply to dogs or to fixed human males. No fixed humans have been to the cottage (not that there's anything wrong with fixed males). By fixed, I mean physically fixed only. Most male humans that have visited the cottage have been emotionally fixed. If they haven't been then they've been single their entire life.

The other sign occurred when I hadn't seen Newman for a while. Let's say I'm taking one of my countless naps during the day and I close the door so dog and daughter won't bother me. I've probably run out of Red Bull that day, the consumption of which can reduce my nap schedule significantly. I call them micro-naps. I've always wanted to run a micro brewery, but I should probably start a micro nap store. Or I could be out shopping at Holt's for a $1,200 pair of jeans with no knees. Takes me hours.

Up until now Newman would be very excited when he saw me and would jump up and down. Good enough. Makes me feel special. And let's face it, my wife never does that. But a key physical sign was missing - the drooping ears. This is crucial in a dog's reaction to a person. I look for this sign just as I looked for certain signs when I use to roam singles bars. Is the woman playing with her hair while talking to me? Is she actually talking to me? If she is, why is she 300 feet away? More important here, though, is the absence of signs. She's not spitting on me. She's not claiming that her dad is a navy seal and is looking for recruits just like me. She's not claiming to have open soars on her back and wondering if I've ever had them and did I date while they spread.

If you are a stranger to the dog, drooping ears can mean he/she is about to remove your scrotum with his incisors.

But for his/her owner, drooping ears has a completely different meaning. It means deep, deep love. Seriously, it does. Ask God, aka The Dog Whisperer. The look in Newman's face when he sees me and his ears droop has all the emotions expressed in the poem How Do I Love Thee? by Browning.

How do I love thee? Let me count my toys.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My tongue can reach, when feeling for chicken bones in the green bin

Newman now completes me.

Helloooo Newman: Weather or Not As I've mentioned before, the first...

Helloooo Newman: Weather or Not
As I've mentioned before, the first...: Weather or Not As I've mentioned before, the first thing to teach dogs is not obedience. It's about the weather. What it is and w...

Weather or Not

As I've mentioned before, the first thing to teach dogs is not obedience. It's about the weather. What it is and what it means to us humans.

It can be minus 35 or plus 35 and for Newman there is no difference. As far as I can tell he would probably prefer to go for a walk during a nuclear holocaust when there is lots to smell. So today it doesn't matter that my skin is sagging from the heat, there are two distinct, round wet spots under my arms, my hair looks like Tiny Tim's did and my pores are letting out this awful scream. In total I look like the momma from Throw Momma from the Train. Actually, save your strength, I'll throw myself off the train. For Newman it's business as usual. That sucks!

Weather is important in human affairs. That's why we devote an entire t.v. network to it. It's not enough to be told it will be sunny today. Sunny? How can I plan around that? Please tell me how sun spots, black holes and butterfly wings contribute to the weather.

Although I must confess I've been trying to get away from it as a topic of conversation. Especially when I first meet someone. Last winter I did some skiing and rather surprisingly became a chatty Kathy of sorts on the chairlift. I know, it shocked me too. No vodka, no red bull, just me and my Kathy voice. But I would purposely avoid the weather as a speaking topic, unless I ran into the person a few times. It's just such a cliche topic to open with. So it was fun trying to figure out what to say as an opener. I think my favourite was, "Have you ever had the shingles? Are they contagious? Should I be skiing?" I actually have had the shingles. They are about as pleasant as shingling someone's roof when it's plus 35.

Another good one…I would pretend my cell vibrated and would answer it. I would continue the deceit…it was a parent calling and Billy hasn't been practicing for his piano lesson. I would tell the parent the best thing to do is staple Billy's fingers to the piano and leave him there until he presses a note down. Wash the puncture wounds after 15 minutes and apply ointment. I'll be there regular time.

Once I know someone well I will talk a lot about the weather. Okay, I'll obsesses about it. I wish I could talk to Newman about the weather. I wish bad weather annoyed him as much as it annoys me.

I wish I could ride a chairlift today so I can tease some more humans. What would your opener be?

Helloooo Newman: Don't think…Feeeeel Bruce Lee, my hero in the 70s,...

Helloooo Newman: Don't think…Feeeeel
Bruce Lee, my hero in the 70s,...: Don't think…Feeeeel Bruce Lee, my hero in the 70s, had a great philosophical line. I think it came inbetween the line "I'll ...

Don't think…Feeeeel

Don't think…Feeeeel

Bruce Lee, my hero in the 70s, had a great philosophical line. I think it came inbetween the line "I'll chop your head in two" and him squealing like a stuck pig as he roundhouse kicked Chuck Norris.

When Bruce was teaching celebrities the martial arts, he would say "Don't think, feeeeel". Very simple idea but often very useful. I especially like the feeeeel. I think to express emotions accurately the word feel needs a few extra e's in it. We should whole heartedly feeeeel our emotions.

We don't want to follow this mantra all the time, of course. When I was a kid and put my tongue on a cold piece of metal, and then tore off shards of tongue, a little more thinking would have done nicely. Boy did I feeeeel pain.

This brings us to the age old question of whether dogs experience feelings or emotions. My short answer is, yes. My long answer is, yes.

To people who think only we wonderful humans are anointed with emotions, I say give yourself a roundhouse kick in the head.

Go ahead and tell me Newman feeeeels nothing when I get home and he comes to life like a muscle car zooming down Yonge Street. And what would that whimpering be when I leave for even 2 minutes?

I think the confusion comes down to language. We have it, Newman doesn't. But, as a Taoist might say, language is not the real world, it's only a description of it. The word "chair" is not the essence of a chair, it's just a name. (Feel free to smoke something strong at this point)

Let's see. I know. Labeling an emotion is not the emotion itself. Describing it with language is not the experience of the emotion. Put another way, I think you'd agree that a person who had no language could still feel emotion. If anything, language complicates and obfuscates emotions.

And language is a sign of what? Thinking. Thinking is obviously very useful but it also tends to separate us from our actual experience of being alive. If I say I feel sad, that is not the emotion. The emotion is inside me and ultimately beyond verbal description. Of course I'll try to describe it in a language, but the words are always an imperfect description of what is happening.

Oh, just remembered another way to say it. The map is not the terrain. When you look at a map, it is an approximation or representation of the actual terrain. So language is like the map. Emotion is the terrain.

Just because Newman can't verbalize doesn't mean he is not feeling. I would say his emotional experience is purer than ours in that it is not "contaminated", or modulated, with language.

Newman doesn't think about it. He feeeeels it. And we humans should do this more often. We don't always have to think and verbalize everything. Sometimes we can just experience it.

Good advice, I think.

Helloooo Newman: Dog or Dingo? It's fascinating how many different ...

Helloooo Newman: Dog or Dingo?
It's fascinating how many different ...: Dog or Dingo? It's fascinating how many different reactions I get to Newman (and me) when I walk him. Some people look at Newman an...

Dog or Dingo?

It's fascinating how many different reactions I get to Newman (and me) when I walk him.

Some people look at Newman and they don't see a 25 pound cutest-puppy-in-the-world chewing on a stick as he walks, they see the dingo that ate the baby. It's especially annoying when kids exhibit this fear with their lame parents around. The parents only enable the kid's fear. "Careful Billy, I was bitten in the nut sack when I was a kid and there's no telling this little puppy won't aim for the same region". What is this, African Lion Safari?

You ever notice how parents project their own fears onto their kids? What I'd like to do to people like this is bite them myself. Then Newman would pull me back and say, "Whoa, boy". Then hopefully they'll develop a life long fear of people, or maybe just people who play the piano, or people who work on a MAC, or people named Paul. Whatever it is, it will surely be irrational.

At least I can identify my irrational fears and then point out to my daughter that she doesn't necessarily have to model them. Like the time I saw a dock spider near our cottage. I kind of have a cold war mentality when it comes to these huge and ugly spiders. Go ahead and Google dock spider, you'll understand.

I'm the U.S. and the spider is Russia. If it gets too close, like, for instance, Cuba, I go on alert, ready to launch my missile, which is a can of raid. I only allow these spiders on our dock, which is a good 100 feet away. This spider, the size of a sewer lid, came near the cottage so I spent the day hunting him. Normally they are hard to catch because they move fast and every time I get near one I cry and run away like a little girl. Eventually I summoned the courage to corner him and had to go nuclear. Then the balance of terror was restored.

Some people smile at Newman, say hi, and completely ignore me at the other end of the leash. That really hurts. When I was single, women treated me like this at bars across Toronto, as well as in Europe, New York, Chicago, Mexico, and even Windsor. What does it take to get some attention? Can you not at least look at me or ask me some questions about my cute puppy? Hey lady, I'd like a little credit for picking the cutest puppy in the world, ya know.

At least these people respond. Some people walk right by, look straight ahead and don't even see the cuteness in front of them, and certainly don't notice Newman. I'm convinced these people have zombie roles in The Walking Dead. Obviously they take their work home with them.

By far the worst kind of person to run into is the evil-doer dog owner. These are people who have dogs but have learned none of the lessons animals can teach us about being healthy, emotionally in-touch humans. One time Newman caught a glimpse of a dog on the sidewalk and chased after him. Newman was 6 months old at the time so lots of things were new to him. As he playfully approached the dog, the lady owner turned around and hissed at him like some kind of damaged hyena. The thing that really startled me was she looked like a hyena, or maybe the dingo that ate the baby. This lady's aura would have caused any dog's gonads to tie their sack up and leave town. I could have saved on neutering Newman. She would make an excellent living fanning across the city and spaying/neutering animals with her personality. Her dog looked perplexed and I think maybe his eyes contained a hint of "please save me from this witch".

I'm not so egotistical that I would say dogs were put on this earth to make us better people. Certainly some people, like Joan Rivers, were put on this earth to annoy us. But I think we can become much more humane humans if we let dogs show us how.

I have yet to introduce Newman to Meryl Streep, who played the hysterical mom in the dingo movie A Cry in the Dark. Hopefully she doesn't take her work home with her.

PS: A Cry in the Dark is based on a true story. A court recently ruled that, in fact, it was a dingo that took the baby and the mom had nothing to do with it. The dingo's name was NOT Newman.

Helloooo Newman: Lend me your selective ears I wish I had the kind...

Helloooo Newman: Lend me your selective ears

I wish I had the kind...: Lend me your selective ears I wish I had the kind of selective hearing Newman has. I am male and married so I have, of course, developed...

Lend me your selective ears

I wish I had the kind of selective hearing Newman has.

I am male and married so I have, of course, developed a form of selective hearing that is quite handy. Actually, my survival depends on it. Have you heard of the "plastic" brain? That is the term scientists use now to denote that our brains are changeable, no matter how old we are. We can "rewire" them. Well, if I paid attention to the billion conflicting messages coming at me all the time, this plastic brain of mine would melt quicker than the wicked witch of the west. I asked the contractor-to-the-Gods Mike Holmes to rewire me but still some melting has occurred. This failure did not appear on his show. Figures.

So my selective hearing is crucial and is a great time saver too. When my wife gets home and asks how my day was, what I hear is, "Why does our lawn look like a Kansas wheat field, why is there toast and peanut butter underneath the bed sheet and when are you gonna grow up?" So I get to these things right away. Don't tell her, but the first two aren't really that hard to deal with. The third is a bitc…kinda hard.

Each day I'm never quite sure what the 3 tasks are that are firmly imbedded in the words "how was your day." That keeps my brain nimble and me out of the garage. So with selective hearing and a finely tuned married brain I keep myself in pretty good shape.

But I want Newman's selective hearing. Or I should say, some of his selective hearing. Some of his adaptive hearing is of no use to me. For example, if he hears a squeak somewhere in the room, he is all over it. After many months of attacking him with my hair trimmer he has learned that this sound means danger, or a bad haircut. I think he even knows the particular painful scream I let out when I get the vet bill. This selective hearing does me no good.

But he is a master at tuning out some sounds that I desperately wish I could ignore. The other day a Justin Bieber song came on the radio. I studied Newman carefully. Not a twitch. No convulsing or chest pains. No doggie vomit. No trembling or expelling or imploding - no lions and tigers and bears. I'd say he wasn't even aware that Justin Bieber was burning the wires of my radio like the acid blood from the Alien creature.

It was a sight to behold. He displayed none of the symptoms I experience when Bieber belches with his band. Newman has developed a selective hearing I can only imagine having.

Please help me to develop this kind of hearing. Please Newman, lend me your selective ears.


P.S. See if you can spot the 3 references to The Wizard of Oz.

Helloooo Newman: Constitutional Law The great thing about blogging ...

Helloooo Newman: Constitutional Law
The great thing about blogging ...: Constitutional Law The great thing about blogging is that I can do it while I'm sick at home. Today I am sick. And I know whose fau...

Helloooo Newman: A little learning is a dangerous thing Everyone th...

Helloooo Newman: A little learning is a dangerous thing
Everyone th...: A little learning is a dangerous thing Everyone thinks it's nice to have a smart dog. People always say cats are smarter and it would...

A little learning is a dangerous thing

Everyone thinks it's nice to have a smart dog. People always say cats are smarter and it would be nice if dogs were that smart too.

Let me quickly deal with the "cats are smarter" mantra. I presume people think cats are smarter because they resist all the silly "tricks" humans try to get dogs to do. Like chasing a ball. Ask a cat to chase a ball and the cat will "think" about it, and then might decide do it, or might lie under the sofa. The cat is smart because he can "decide" whether or not to participate in an activity that doesn't really benefit him much. He is not a prisoner to his base instincts. Because of this behaviour, people see cats as having an attitude, and you can't have an attitude without some kind of intelligence.

Well, bollocks! Let's apply this cat behaviour to humans and see if we would label it smart. When people have an attitude, especially children, we don't call them smart, we call them smart assess. Let's say we humans are participating in some activity that we really don't enjoy but must do because someone has asked us to (similar to asking a cat to chase a ball). What do we always say? Cheer up. Take a positive attitude and life will be more rewarding. We don't say, "There's Billy under the boardroom table again refusing to help with the monthly reports. I tell ya, that guy is getting smarter and smarter every day. I only wish I were that smart so I could lie on the rug, learn nothing and get fired". So it's not that Billy is too smart to work, it's that he'll be a welfare bum soon. The cat won't get the ball so, ergo, cats are welfare bums. Cats are very cute and I adore them. But bums they are.

This is why dogs and cats don't always get along. Dogs work for their room and board whereas cats might take the job, might not. You'll often see packs of dogs passing cats and yelling, "Get a job, ya bum. Chase a ball for cat's sake".

One more thing. Cats love to chase those laser lights. These devices shine a tiny, focussed light on the wall. Cats will do this all day. But think about it (cats don't). They are chasing a light that is physically unattainable. Slightly less unattainable than me becoming a Rhodes Scholar. Dogs at least get a slimy, gross, chewed up ball out of the deal.

Anywho, it is not good having a smart dog. That little extra knowledge they have can be very frustrating. When we visit people at the cottage and leave Newman behind, we have developed a brilliant system of coaxing him into the cottage with a cookie. He obviously doesn't want to be left behind (dogs are pack animals before anything else) so we use the cookie to entice him in. Well, now this smart dog has figured out our system so whenever we go in the cottage and hold a cookie in front of him, he darts in the opposite direction. Sure, that's cute and smart, but it's also highly annoying.

Now we have to up the ante to get him inside. We pulled out the peanut butter. I love my peanut butter and I don't love sharing it. Sure enough, it worked. But for how long? Soon we'll need a t-bone steak, some foie gras, candles, maybe a female poodle and some flavoured oils. Where will it end?

So I'm against dogs that have done a little too much learnin'. I don't want them dumb as a stump, like our guinea pig. She's awfully cute but has a brain the size of a kernel of corn at best. When you move the vacuum near her, which could end her life instantly and in a horrible fashion, she moves towards it, not away. She's got a bit of learnin' to do.

No, I want my dog just smart enough to take a job and be happy with it.

* My Title is from a poem by Alexander Pope.

Helloooo Newman: My Favourite Organ I would like to discuss my favo...

Helloooo Newman: My Favourite Organ
I would like to discuss my favo...: My Favourite Organ I would like to discuss my favourite organ. Oh, please people…the brain… the BRAIN. It makes sense that the brain is...

My Favourite Organ

I would like to discuss my favourite organ. Oh, please people…the brain… the BRAIN.

It makes sense that the brain is my favourite organ. It's my brain making that very decision. My brain thought of this sentence. In fact, this isn't Paul, it's his brain, um, me. So I'm my favourite organ. But you can continue to refer to as me as Paul, this aging vehicle that hopes to benefit from Toronto's upcoming Transportation taxes.

Did you ever stop to realize that when we humans study the brain, it's really the brain studying itself? It's doing all the work. This realization astounded me. We humans tend to separate ourselves from our brains. We're not our brains, we are these entities or personalities moving around in space. I am Paul, whatever that is. We separate ourselves from the world, too. So many people are concerned about how we humans are upsetting the plan of the universe. We take "x" action and that upsets the natural course of things. What if we and everything we do are part of the natural course? How can we not be? How can we answer this question? My brain, sorry, "I", hurt.

I know it's scary to think we are part of the plan. That means Snooki and the show Toddlers and Tiaras must be part of the plan too. Having these things in the world doesn't mean there's no plan. It just means the plan sucks fuel lines.

And I realize I'm ignoring the elephant in the room. The soul. We all do things that are good for the "soul". But come on, it's the brain telling "us" that the soul feels good now that we've had a latte enema, ingested pro-biotics, anti-biotics, and bought the new robotics. The brain could be lying to us, you know. To deflect responsibility from itself. Or ourselves.

No, it's all the brain. If it's not then why is the brain about 2% of the body's weight but consumes 20% of the body's energy to keep running. How big is the soul? How much energy does it use? Good luck with that one. You might as was well try to understand a hydro bill. A pole charge?

That brings a question to mind. What powers energy? Does it power itself? If so, then wouldn't it use itself up? Not according to the First Law of Thermodynamics. Energy can neither be created nor destroyed. It can only be transferred, like into a can of Red Bull. Does God power energy? What powers God? Maybe He too can neither be created nor destroyed. But energy needs to be powered, so who powers Him? Maybe God is energy. But if God is energy why don't churches supply energy? What would you rather have from God, a special apple or free power? Oh well.

I can tell it's all the brain because of the lengths people are going to nowadays to "improve" it. The latest trend I read about is do-it-yourself brain stimulation. It's not reading, or learning the piano, or having an interesting conversation. That's so prehuman. It is zapping the brain's cortex with a mild electric shock. Obviously the key word here is mild. It's just mild enough so that you don't end up drooling spit and riding the Queen streetcar carrying a ploughshare and threatening to annex the annex.

There is something to this. I saw a special on PBS about a man that was struck by lightning. After being struck, and with no prior musical knowledge or interest at all, he suddenly developed an urge to listen to piano music. He would sneak into his neighbour's backyard to listen to them play. Then he taught himself to play. Soon after he was composing and playing in public. That is incredible. What a transformation.

I also heard of another man that was struck by lightning, but he went a different route. He developed the urge (skill?) to masturbate on park benches. He couldn't resist. That's a problem. How do you know which skill you'll end up with if you zap your brain? What if you get a combo of the two skills? That would be audience-limiting.

But the real problem with this method is that if it's so easy, then everyone will be doing it. And if everyone does it then we're all the same again. No special advantage. We'll all be smarter and able to get things done faster but we'll just find other perplexing things to do and think about. Then we'll feel like we're in the same place we started.

Will we be happier? I'm not so sure. My feeling is that connecting to things outside of ourselves is more satisfying than obsessing about our own neuron connections. I could be wrong. It depends who you ask - my brain or my soul.

Helloooo Newman: Driven Where does the drive to do something come ...

Helloooo Newman: Driven

Where does the drive to do something come ...: Driven Where does the drive to do something come from? I suspect people, or dogs, who are really driven don't give that question much ...

Driven

Where does the drive to do something come from? I suspect people, or dogs, who are really driven don't give that question much thought. They're too busy driving.

I noticed in the last few weeks Newman is completely driven to do one activity - roll in the grass. I take him to Hodgson school to run around in the field and he loves it. But it's almost like he knows he has a limited time there so the first thing he does, for 15 minutes or so, is furiously roll in the grass. I throw a ball, he makes a lame effort to catch it, then back to the rolling. He really needs to roll.

The amazing thing about a drive like this is its purity. It's pure because it's just there and it happens. It's not about want, or aspiring to something, or choosing from a list of activities. It's a complete NEED to do one thing. Even though I have my drivers licence, I have no idea where a drive like this comes from. I just know you have to be alive to have it.

I also think there is no difference between the core drive of Newman to roll in the grass and, say, Michelangelo to paint the Sistine Chapel. There's no question in my mind that Mich (to his friends) was overcome with an inexplicable drive to complete that great work, no matter how hard it became. I know it seems like a stretch, but in its essence I think the drive to roll and paint are the same.

What differs, of course, is the content and results of the drive. When Newman rolls in the grass, let's face it, it doesn't contribute much to the world, cute as it is. When Mich paints the Sistine Chapel, it gives the world a beautiful room utterly packed with noisy, smelly tourists, and if you have to pee while you're in there, you'll probably do what Newman would do in that situation. When I was in the chapel I knew exactly how a fig newton feels 24/7, sandwiched in his package waiting patiently to be purchased and freed. I'd much rather be a Joe Louis, all alone in my own bachelor packaging, great view of the other shelves, and cream filling too.

Dog drives don't vary nearly as much as human drives. It's astounding the number of different human drives and how they express themselves. George Carlin once used the dichotomy of napalm and silly putty to illustrate how mankind can be so harmful and yet benign at the same time.

To expand on that dichotomy, consider the drives of Albert Schweitzer and, for example, Jeffrey Dahmer, the cannibalistic killer. Al was driven to improve the human condition whereas Jeffrey ignored the condition and ate the human. There's a bit of a contrast there, I think. And, not surprising to some, I am much more curious about Dahmer's drive.

Jeffie (to his victims) was the serial killer in the 80s who lured, drugged, raped, killed, dismembered, stored and ate his victims. What a long day for one person.

I certainly can't relate to the actual drive. My friends and family will be glad to read that. I once ate at McDonalds in Moscow and it was unreservedly vile. If an appendix tastes anything like that, I'm out. What is it about communist cows? I guess there weren't any good recipes in The Communist Manifesto.

I'm interested in the day-to-day Dahmer. What recipe books did he have? How did he handle the mundane challenges of storing food? Did he like the economy of tupperware or was he a ziplock bag kind of guy? Let's say, for example, he had a slow day luring dinner, he gets home and he finds he's not that hungry. He can really only eat one spleen that night, with a small leek salad and a kidney juice reduction. Did he freeze all the spleens together in one bag? When I do that with chicken the results are disastrous. Little shards of chicken everywhere and puncture holes in the skin between my thumb and index finger.

Maybe he used the Baby Bullet. That's the product advertised on t.v. with which you can mix your own internal organs, but usually baby food, and stick in the freezer. It has a dial on it to tell you the day and month you froze that organ, or baby food. I presume even pancreas puree can get freezer burn.

Anywho, I'm not much closer to penetrating the core of people and dogs that are driven. But it's clear that the consequences of what drives you can differ greatly. Schweitzer is celebrated, Dahmer was beaten to death in prison. Drive carefully.

Helloooo Newman: Dog Like Me I was thinking of dressing up like a d...

Helloooo Newman: Dog Like Me
I was thinking of dressing up like a d...: Dog Like Me I was thinking of dressing up like a dog to see how people would really treat me if I were a dog. Like the book Black Like Me...

Dog Like Me

I was thinking of dressing up like a dog to see how people would really treat me if I were a dog. Like the book Black Like Me, published in 1961, about a caucasian reporter who made himself look black to see how he would be treated. I do not, of course, intend to compare my silly blog with this serious work of nonfiction. My blog is worth the paper it's written on.

I quickly nixed the idea. Many reasons. The outfit would be constraining and hot. I'm not fixed. There aren't too many parts of my body I can lick. I don't really want to go around smelling butts or poo to make the illusion real.

For a time I thought I'd dress up like God, instead of Dog, and see how people treat me. Then I realized this has been tried already by Donald Trump.

But I now have an appreciation for some of the things Newman lives with everyday. In many posts I have arrogantly made fun of him for being afraid of the vacuum, pylons, snowmen, Revenue Canada. All but the last one are completely irrational fears.

So I think, as I'm sure all of you do to, that I am superior because a vacuum doesn't scare me, even when I don't know how to use one.

Well, I am wrong. Today, in my shower, I was greeted by a millipede. She was resting quietly, having just looked for a mate I suppose, until I rudely threw open the shower curtain. She responded in a completely rational manner. She ran for her life.

I, however, responded like a weak, cowardly, or ineffectual person, which is the dictionary definition of wuss. I reacted with such fear that my heart punched a small hole in my chest, squeezed out and booked time at the Kind Edward hotel spa to settle down.

Why am I afraid? She has no teeth, she's much smaller than me, and I don't think she's looking for money because I fathered children with her. In fact, she is kind of beautiful. When she scurries away for her life, her legs move in this undulating kind of way. Most things in nature that undulate are beautiful, save for people like Howard Stern or Getty Lee.

A website I checked said the SAFEST way to get rid of these undulating creatures is to step on them or vacuum them up. I can't vacuum her because then Newman acts like a wuss. Then you have wussi, I suppose. I was going to rent time on a CIA satellite, track her movements, build a life-like model of her home, practice dropping down on her in complete stealth, and then I guess break several hundred of her legs so she can't get away. But I chose the safe way. Whew!

Why are we humans so afraid of these things? Still thinking…

Helloooo Newman: Queue Fun You know where I have lots of fun? Linin...

Helloooo Newman: Queue Fun
You know where I have lots of fun? Linin...: Queue Fun You know where I have lots of fun? Lining up at the grocery store. The fun is all in my head, of course. Many fun things are al...

Queue Fun

You know where I have lots of fun? Lining up at the grocery store. The fun is all in my head, of course. Many fun things are all in my head. That's a little concerning, I admit.

I always try to figure out what the person in front of me is like. Their personality, values, political leanings, how they think. And you can glean a lot more information than you would think. That is if you pay attention to mundane things like this and are willing to stereotype, jump to conclusions, stretch credulity, walk a fine line between truth and fiction and completely get the person wrong. The great thing is I never know if I'm right or wrong. Who cares? I'm not their shrink.

One day I had this lady in front of me. She was buying a pound of fatty bacon and hidden underneath it was a container of hydroponic lettuce. It wasn't until she moved the items to pay for them that I saw the glaring food dichotomy. My mind went crazy.

She was super thin skinny boney and was wearing kind of raggy type clothes. Obviously she was a tree-hugging health nut who didn't have a job and usually ate birch bark sandwiches.

But then why these two items? And such polar food opposites? It wasn't just ordinary lettuce. She went out of her way to pay more for lettuce grown in water. Is this kind of lettuce healthier than normal lettuce? Doesn't lettuce grown in soil also get water? Questions for another day, I guess.

The bacon wasn't even salt reduced. It was the normal fatty, artery-destroying kind. What kind of a mind would consume such completely opposite foods? What's the rationale? Let me guess. She was making yin yang salad?

After much careful thought for about 3 seconds, I decided that she came in from her home in the forest to attend a dinner in the big city. It was with her parents, who she needed money from. She wanted to make a healthy salad but knew she had to include a city-type food that would appeal to her obese dad.

I bet you she was also hoping the really clean, healthy salad would counter balance the death-laden bacon. But is this how the body really works? Picture this…

We are now in the stomach with Chompsky, the General Manager of food intake. "Okay, everybody, we have some…yes, some bacon coming in. Tumus, get on the blower to cholesterol and let them know some bacon is on its way". "Chompsky", Tumus said, "we email all those notices now". "Whatever, just let them know. Wait a minute, hold that email. I think we have…yes, I think it's…yup, salad coming down. If I have to guess I'd say hydroponic. Hold off on cholesterol, let's contact the brain and recalculate. Let's see - 8 oz of hydroponic salad and 3 oz of bacon. The brain says to subtract her age, add her weight and divide by her I.Q. Okay, now we take the square root of her waist size plus…wait a sec, cue the eyes, what kind of car does she drive? What? No car? She lives in the woods? Oh good Lord, we have to recalculate everything now".

I've never heard this going on in my stomach. I guess we all fool ourselves sometimes. Tonight I ate 10 extra yellow beans to counter the beer and brownie I am eating. See, even I eat contradictions. Maybe the whole universe is based on contradictions. Life/death, good/evil, Boss suits/socks with sandals. I guess those contradictions keeps life interesting. Come to think of it, have you ever met anyone without contradictions? They are probably boring.

N.B. The above story actually did happen. I don't make these fascinating stories up out of thin cyberspace. Nothing but 100% Canada AAA truth on this site. No additives, cereals or bull poop of any kind.

Working in That Happy Place

Most of us lead desperate, miserable lives working for the man. And let's not forget, the woman too (you fought for it, ladies).

But there are some jobs where it is impossible not to be happy. Here are two of those jobs.

PetSmart:
I've never seen a single depressed worker at PetSmart. In fact, they are almost always smiling, even at a steaming pile of poo. And no one, worker or customer, has ever been mean or curt to me at PetSmart.

This is true for anyone who works around animals, I think. My vet is the happiest guy I have ever met. Always chatting and smiling, even after removing animal genitalia. Imagine how happy he'll be when it's time for The Long Island Medium to contact him (not anytime soon, I hope). Of course, his fees are also something for him to be very excited about. The fixing of Newman is not just painful for him, you know.

Back to PetSmart. Can you imagine this conversation ever taking place? "Oh man, Jerry, what a crappy day today. This incredibly cute puppy licked me on the face and snuggled in my chin, got me all wet. Then he peed on the floor and everyone was laughing and smiling. Even my boss. Then I had to break it to a few customers that we were fresh out of the truck sized cookies, Polo dog t-shirts, the giraffe costume for dogs, the smurf rhinestone bows for poodles, and we only had the jumper for puppies in puke yellow. Those rude customers just smiled, thanked me and said they'd be back another time. I just can't go back there, Jerry (tears)". Won't happen!

Cobs Bread: There is something about the smell of freshly baked bread that puts everyone in a good mood. Again, everyone who works at this store is smiling. This olfactory heaven sure beats regular factory work. It can't be the money they are making. These are little kids working there, and they ain't getting much dough, so to speak. I understand why all the blonde, sculpted and tanned mom customers are happy. There's lots of room in their Escalade to stuff children, expensive kids furniture from Scholar's Choice, a latte that takes two minutes to order, and a loaf or two. I once saw a blonde woman there who was pregnant - she looked like a snake that had just eaten a bowling ball - thin, thin, thin, thin, bulge, thin thin, thin. Must be feeding the fetus croutons. No body fat to chew on, that's for sure.

Smell is the oldest and one of the most important senses that humans have. That's too bad, because I'm the one that gets all the dog poop from the backyard. Lately I've been inserting bread pieces from Cobs in my nose while I scour the backyard for dog feces. I'm sure as I continue this habit I'll remember to remove them when I go to meetings.

Try cleaning dog poop from the backyard at the end of winter. It's like an excavation site. Oh, this poop froze on January 11th, that why it's lower in the ice than this poop, which froze on Feb. 10th. It froze first. It's very educational and fun. Global warming will ruin all this fun.

I think I'll follow this up with places where people should be very happy, but aren't always. The LCBO (under worked and over paid), the Post Office (very under worked and very over paid) and any store that sells adult sex toys (very under paid but very over sexed).

Helloooo Newman: Constitutional Law The great thing about blogging ...

Helloooo Newman: Constitutional Law
The great thing about blogging ...: Constitutional Law The great thing about blogging is that I can do it while I'm sick at home. Today I am sick. And I know who's...