The Leisurologist

The Leisurologist Finally Retires

2010-02-24T08:25:00.003-04:00

After 309 consecutive daily postings, and a smattering of after thoughts, this blog is officially done.

D.O.N.E. There will be no more postings.

The blog has been very generous to me. It has helped me to feel creative...a feeling that I crave. About fifteen years ago, when I used to paint, I was always saying that a day without feeling creative felt like a day wasted. Perhaps a bit harsh, but there was truth to my words. I wasn't kidding myself.

Writing a blog has given me creative license day after day, but it has also shackled me to the computer almost every morning. I don't particularly enjoy sitting in front of the computer as it feels very artificial to me. I don't think that I've evolved to live that life, so I'm happy to step back and let the sun illuminate my face, rather than the eerie blue light of the monitor.

The crater of creativity left by the absence of the blog is now being filled with the sound of music. Perhaps I'm being generous by calling my guitar strumming and picking 'music', but that's the direction in which I'm heading. I took up the guitar just over a year ago and I'm starting to take it seriously. I'm a slow learner but I'm committed.

Or should be.

Yes, my alter ego is still with me. Every time I screw up on the guitar, he's there to put me in my place.

You know, Ian, that Eagles song that you're working on sounds much better when you turn the amp down. It sounds okay when you set the volume at two, but even better at zero.

Now, I am going to take great pleasure in turning my alter ego down to zero, at least in print...

I'm outta here, and I'm taking him with me.

But...

No buts. We're toast. Ta ta for now. And thank you, the readers, for reading and commenting. It's been greatly appreciated and inspirational.

That's it?

Well, not exactly. I'll be back with another asinine project. It's what I do...just you wait.

The Moose Whisperer

2010-02-17T08:30:00.003-04:00

"Hey Bullwinkle, what weighs more, a pound of bricks or a pound of feathers?"

"Umm, a pound of bricks, of course."

Moose are so stupid, but only when it comes to measurement. Drop a human, Ben Mulroney and a moose off in a windswept wilderness swamp in January, and place your bets. Let's call it Survivor: Canada. I'm betting that the human will die in the barrens. So will Ben Mulroney, but only from a lack of exposure to hair care products and attention.

Bullwinkle, on the other hoof, will walk back to civilization, be showered with accolades, collect his million dollars, and then be struck by a semi while enjoying a celebratory lick of salt from the four lane. Moose don't do so well in public.

In Canada we have road signs that say 'Moose, next 17 kilometres', or something to that effect. In Maine, the signs read 'Moose, next 10 miles'. In Vermont, they do things differently. They are precise, which surprises me because the state is populated with deadheads, tree huggers and sap suckers. Instead of 'Moose, next 1 mile', they suggest that moose may be a problem for the next 5500 feet.

When I read a sign that says 'Moose, next 17 miles', I see it as a blanket statement to watch out for furry fridges on stilts that want to get to the back seat of my car through the windshield. When I see a sign that says 'Moose, next 5500 feet', I spend my time watching the odometer, not the road, trying to identify the exact spot where I no longer need to worry about moose. I expect to see a river or a cliff or a Ben and Jerry's factory, instead I just see more trees and a slight grade leading out of a valley.

I haven't longed for a job for a long time, but if I ever apply for one then I know what it's going to be. I want to be the person, who works for the state of Vermont's Department of Highways, who measures the territorial breadth of wandering moose.

What a job. What a career! I'd give up leisurology for that.

The Long Winded Varty

2010-02-14T22:13:00.004-04:00

A friend recently loaned me a book that she thought I would like. She was right, and very thoughtful to have made the loan. The book was called The Long Winded Lady, and was written by a woman called Maeve Brennan.

Maeve Brennan wrote a column from 1954 to 1981 for The New Yorker magazine. Her column was called "Talk Of The Town" and, in my experience, was a showcase for one woman's ground floor, ordinary observations. But...

Her observations were extraordinarily ordinary.

I decided to write a column in the style of Maeve Brennan. It felt easy, to be honest, but it's far easier to emulate than originate. I tip my hat to Maeve Brennan. It took me one hour to hand write my column, and one hour to edit it. It's lengthy at 1649 words, perhaps even long winded. To that I aspire. Without further ado, here it is:

One sign lives on the beige awning which shadows the windows of the building in which I now find myself seated. Its dark letters say Reid’s United Books. Another sign has been professionally pasted to each and every window. It says Reads: Newsstand – Magazines – Café. Puzzling, but not inexplicable.

My de-caf coffee finds refuge on a small, black-topped round table that sits to the left of my wingless wingback chair. Before I really settle in I make eye contact with a woman who looks like my son’s former piano teacher. There is that awkward moment, when I’m thrown by the newfound colour of her hair, and I worry that I have made gestures towards a stranger. No, it is her and we make polite small talk across the buzzing café.

I wonder if those within earshot make it their business to listen to our chit-chat. Do they really care that my son has made forays into the obvious world of teen guitar strumming? I’m sure that some of them are listening, because I’d be listening if I were them. No one is here for the coffee.

But maybe they’re not like me. Maybe their lives are so full, so self-involved, that they hear or see nothing outside f themselves. One clean shaven man, who clearly must shave every morning or face the prospects of a grizzled thirty something face, is wearing headphones. I try to imagine to what he might be listening that could possibly be more engaging than my utterings or the music being piped through the café’s sound system. I look for speakers, but see only honey mustard coloured acoustic ceiling tiles, behind which the speakers must live.

I don’t know really know what an acoustic ceiling tile is, but those overhead sound good to my hungry ears. Two women, fifteen feet away, compete with the stereo speakers. One looks tired. Her face is a map of her life. The skin below her eyes sags in dark crescents. Her skin is unsmooth and ruddy, as though she had had been left out in the wind. There is no wind today.

Her friend appears to be the type of woman who lives a comfortably plump existence. She is not fat, just comfortable in her clothes and skin. When she leaves the café to drive to her suburban home on the hill, I have no doubt she will drive away in a Toyota Camry. It will be beige. To my surprise she speaks of her landlord. She looks far too comfortable in her spruce green cardigan and coffee cream knit top to be someone who writes rent cheques. I’m surprised. Her car could be a Corolla, I suppose, but I doubt it.

Everyone in the café is needy, and that need extends far beyond the cup that holds their coffee. I, myself, need stimuli. Most people in the café sit along the perimeter, like tree top vultures encompassing the carcass of humanity. Comfy chairs line the perimeter of the room. The walls, like the acoustic ceiling tiles, are a matching honey-mustard. The middle of the café is populated with dark chestnut brown hardwood chairs, many of them occupied. These solid, unwelcoming chairs say ‘drink up and go’. They are largely ignored.

“Hey June, how’s your day so far?” asks a Castro capped man who appears to be hiding behind his platinum laptop. He’s speaking to his cell phone, which sits on the window ledge to his right. Overhead the sound of ‘Funky Town’ gives his call a funky backbeat in this unfunky town.
I struggle with people who make it their business to broadcast their business to those who don’t care to listen. Fortunately, I do care, at least on this mild February day. Things are not always so blissful.

“Hey, how are you?” I whirl around in the soup aisle of an imaginary grocery store where I’ve been before, ready to forego my quest for a sodium free broth in exchange for a friendly exchange. I’m feeling great, though troubled by the presence of MSG in the soup. I’m just about to exclaim ‘great’ to a friendly and familiar face when my jaw snaps shut and my tongue falls limp. An unfamiliar face speaks into a phone. I turn in embarrassment and fumble with the consommé. “I’m fine”, I mutter to myself.

The Castro capped man thanks AJ for helping with some looming crisis in the Truro office. AJ could be Andrew James or Alexander John. I like initial names, like K.C.Irving. They add mystery where often none exists, and besides, does the world really need another Alex or Andy? Of course AJ could be a woman, but what are the odds?

A lot of magazines spend a month or two in Reid’s/Reads. Time magazine has a rather striking cover, featuring the Man Of War. Initially, from across the room, I thought it said Man Of The Year, which was ironic because I didn’t recognize the dramatic face on the cover. The homme de guerre looked like the aged offspring of Conrad Black and a bulldog, and by that I’m not referring to Lady Black of Crossharbour. This man had bite.

Newsweek was less dramatic, offering only, in a disappointingly small font, that Antidepressants Don’t Work. In itself, a simultaneously uplifting and depressing thought. Coffee, anyone?
I realize as I’m writing this that my body is listing severely to port, while my neck is craned hard to starboard. I’m scribbling furiously. What must the coffee klatch be thinking of this intruder? And that’s just the point. I am here as much to notice, as to be noticed. I am the zipper that won’t close.

Castro cap is now looking for Gerard. Castro cap, I learn, has a name. It is Ed. I know this because Ed says “Ed here” while exofacing with Gerard. Ed runs his empire out of a coffee shop in Canada’s most innocuously conservative city, Fredericton. Even white bred Ottawa bows down.

Ed thinks that he might be able to swing by the Truro office during the week of the 22nd, as he’s got a seminar coming up with CBCL, an engineering firm in Halifax. Ed must give seminars to engineers, when not taking fashion tips from nearly dead Communists.

The woman with crescent eyes wears nice looking running sneakers, as though she might need to flee at any moment. Her black soled sneakers are accented by white and silver uppers, with sky blue stripes peeling off like rays of bent light. Her elevated foot, hanging from the knee draped across her other leg, bounces nervously for five seconds,and then stops abruptly. Again, it bounces for five seconds and stops. The pattern repeats.

Ed is now making plans to sell Gerard some septic piping or, at least, offer some pricing. I’m glad I’m not Ed. He grabs his long dead coffee and walks past me. He talks as he walks. Gerard is no doubt listening religiously while rolling a pencil around in his fingers. I’m glad I’m not Gerard.

Ed, in his dark coat, is now outside of Read’s, walking westerly along the sidewalk. His mouth and legs move competitively, though not quickly. He holds his phone in front of his body at chest level as though his entire chi, his life force, is being reflected or channelled back into his iPhone. I imagine that Ed is wholly unaware of the sidewalk passing under his feet: the cracks, the undulations, the stains, the stories. He doesn’t see the flags trying to wave from the bland beige brick facade across the street. Four of his five senses are on hold while his ears make the call.

Ed seems very happy with his lot in life, and then disappears off to a septic seminar, or perhaps to recharge his batteries.

There’s a couple sitting little more than an arm’s length away from me. They seem to be having an intimate conversation, the type long since abandoned by the married. His voice is low and bassy, which seems to fit his extra-large leather coat draped inside-out across his chair back. The lining is looking upward, admiring the acoustic ceiling tile, while the logo and XL tag spill down the backside, staring back at me. I try to identify the brand of his coat but I am unsuccessful. There’s a large, stylized and swooshy O, followed by four or five very small white letters. They mean nothing to me.

His hair is a similar dark colour to the chair in which he sits. His jacket and liner are black like the table top that houses his elbows and coffee. His companion sits across from him in a narrow corridor of focus. They should be somewhere else, but this is Friday at 10: 00 a.m. in Fredericton, and early check-ins are discouraged.

I take my plaid jacket off and let it slide between my back and the comfy chair in which I’ve taken up residence. No one will see the embarrassing label in my coat. The label was surgically removed by either the manufacturer or the discount retailer where it was purchased. My coat cost ten dollars and was purchased from a discount retailer.

I care, but I don’t. I’m just happy not to be giving sewer pipe seminars like Ed.

I’ve been in this identity challenged café or over an hour. At least half of the people still here were here when I arrived. It’s a lifestyle. It’s a life. My coffee, largely ignored, is down to its last cold sip. It’s time to go.

The man with the extra-large leather coat gets up just before me. The coat really is too big for his frame. Perhaps he bought it on sale, but I think he would have been happier with a large. Of course, he might favour wearing sweaters underneath. It’s quite warm today for a February day.

The Leisurologist: An Unofficial Portrait

2010-02-13T06:39:00.005-04:00

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This image pretty much sums up the life of the leisurologist: lonely and bored. Everyone that I know is having 'fun' at work with their colleagues. My profession, I'll tell you, is sheer hell. I don't think, quite honestly, that most of you could handle it.
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It takes a special person to be a leisurologist.
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Define special, Ian.
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I'm not sure that I can. It's in the jeans.

The Subway Is Ugly, Right?

2010-02-10T07:22:00.004-04:00

Cities don't do much for me and I've never tried to hide that fact. I'm willing to admit that my recent visit to Montreal was very pleasant. Montreal, unlike Toronto, still feels exotic to me. Perhaps it's the way Montreal women dress, perhaps it's the colourful subway. Probablement le deux.

Here's a few images from my adventures in subterranean Montreal.

The White Mountains

2010-02-09T10:28:00.004-04:00

I had the pleasure of visiting what was, until 1996, the windiest place on earth. It was Mount Washington in New Hampshire. Mount Washington held that blustery distinction until readings were taken from the backside of Ken Appleby's jeans. Though still sub-sonic, some blasts, known as toots in scientific terms, were clocked at 462 mph. That's exactly double those recorded on Mount Washington!

At 6288 feet, Mount Washington is the third highest state peak in the eastern United States. It is located in the White Mountains National Park, and is part of the Presidential Range of mountains. The Presidential Range is home to peaks with such names as Washington, Madison, Adams and Eisenhower. There is no Mount Clinton, though consideration has been given by many.

Has the Leisurologist Died?

2010-02-04T22:20:00.002-04:00

The Leisurologist has not died, but the blog is on life support. My goal of writing the blog for 365 consecutive days died two weekends ago while traveling through New England without a computer. My passion for travel and snowboarding was the ultimate reason for the blog's demise, but shouldn't that be the way of the leisurologist?

So I was unable to keep the blog alive on consecutive days. I managed 309 posts in a row...not bad, but now what? Indeed, what to do? What to do?

I've love writing. I love photography. I love creativity. I crave inspiration.

I'm going to decide the blog's ultimate fate when I return home.

Currently I'm sitting in the gorgeous drawing room of a Montreal home listening to Bizet being played on a $90 000 Steinway grand, tickled by one of Canada's finest players. It's the piano being tickled, but I'm tickled to be listening.

Oh yes, I'm sipping some sort of wine/brandy mix...very nice. I'll be tasting Scotch shortly, I'm told. The leisurologist is alive and well, only my writing is suffering. Don't cry for me Argentina, Minto or Jemseg...I'm doing just fine.

Have I Created A Monster? We'll See...

2010-01-22T08:04:00.004-04:00

Do you remember a snow storm a few years back when the City of Toronto had to enlist the Canadian army for help? Drastic measures.

That was ten years and one week ago. I'm about to embark on a visit to Toronto and, once again, it's time for drastic measures. My routing to Toronto will not be long-haul trucker efficient. There will be few tire tracks made on the Trans-Canada highway as I'm going to drive through New England. This means no truck stops, no hot hamburger sandwiches.

Thank you!

That was my colon speaking. There will be no shopping for Freightliner belt buckles or monstrous trucker buckles of any type. You know the ones, they're huge. They're ugly. They're shiny. They can be found on sale at most Canadian truck stops, right next to the mud flap aisle.

Given that I'm driving through the You Ess of Eh, I won't have to worry about my Tim Horton's fatwa, unless Tim has invaded New England. I saw a Tim Horton's in New York City, so anything is possible.

Umm, Ian, you said something about drastic measures?

Right. I'm going to be unable to post blogs while in New England. Between snowboarding, driving, and not having a laptop, it will be virtually impossible for me to post anything, so the blog will have to be cancelled for a couple of days.

You're joking, right?

Sort of. It's true that I won't be able to post anything, but perhaps this opens the door for a guest blogger to step in and fill my size twelve shoes.

Wow! It would take quite a man to fill your shoes, or a woman from the Amazon. That's sarcasm, by the way.

I've offered the job to my son.

But he's only a kid. He's seventeen. What's he going to write about? Video games, cars, and girls? Will he give us tips on how to win at Wii golf? Will he tell us why, with computers, we never need to go outdoors again? Perhaps he'll tell us about why Burger King is better than McDonald's. He'll write about skate shoes, won't he? Will he write like a textpert?

U no it, 4 sho.

I haven't got a clue what he'll write about, but I suspect that you'll be surprised. You might just read it and think it a shame the boy hadn't been involved in home schooling. There's a lot that he could teach his stupid old father.

Now you're talking like me! Maybe you could be a witty writer someday.

So, with any luck, Saturday and Sunday's blog will be guest written by 'the kid'. I've given him carte blanche to write about whatever he wants. He knows what carte blanche means, too. He's some smart.

Do you know what carte blanche means? It means that you've given him a blank, signed cheque and he's to fill in the amount.

Oh shit! Are you serious?

Yup. It can also mean, from Wikipedia, the following:

Full Powers, a term in international law referring to the authority of a person to sign a treaty or convention on behalf of a sovereign state.

That's what I meant. I see writing The Leisurologist blog to be equal to signing a treaty or convention on behalf of a sovereign state (me).

Right up there with the penning of the Magna Carta.

Magna Carta?? I don't know what that means. I don't speak French anyway. Hey...isn't that the company that Belinda Stronach's daddy owns?

First of all, Belinda Stronach's father owns a company called Magna International. Secondly, it's Latin, you dolt!

The Bag (pipe) Squeezing Price Of Fun

2010-01-21T09:17:00.005-04:00

'I'll nae be payin' that!', said my little voice in a Scottish brogue thicker than rib rappelling porridge.

When it comes to issues of expense, my little voice always speaks like Angus MacTightwad and, quite frankly, this makes me happy. Very happy. My little voice is the voice of reason, it tells me when I'm about to do something stupid involving money. It always speaks in a bold, no frills, sans-serif Arial font. Very Scottish. Very Presbyterian.

What about me? That's what I do!

No, you're my sarcastic alter ego. You put me down and cause me to doubt myself in all things not involving money. You cause me to question my entire existence. You make me insecure. You make me apprehensive. You turn me into some limp, vaguely human form comprised of oatmeal innards with a cream of wheat personality. You also speak in an Italic font, indicative of the mental Mafioso.

Oh good! I like that. So tell me why the little voice is talking to you right now, or you'll get whacked?

I'm about to pay $75 U.S. to snowboard for one day at Sunday River (ME). I half expect to hand the money over to some balaclava wearing Robin Hoodie who insists on being paid in cash. I'll probably buy lunch at the resort's restaurant. Scones and tea: $14.95, no doubt. Jam for scones, $4.95. Butter? $2.95. Water: free (it's in the water closet).

Hey, what's the big deal? Your tax dollars pay a colo-rectal surgeon $250 an hour to stick a roto...well, never mind. So why whine about $75 for a day of glorious mountain snowboarding?

I think we all have a sense for the value of an activity. I don't like opera enough to fork over two hundred clams for a decent seat at the Met. Fortunately, Wendy gets me tickets for free (cue the bagpipes and watch Ian dance his happy, Scottish I-just-beat-the-system dance). I once sat in the General Director's private box. 'Garcon, une autre fraise-chocolat, s'il vous plait'.

Did you know that, in Scottish country dancing, protocol dictates that you have a new partner for every dance? Better yet, it's traditional for the lassies to ask the blokes. Finally, I might get to dance...if you could consider two splayed and bickering hooves, moving in opposite directions, to be dancing.

Getting back on track, let's talk about another Scottish past-time: golf. I like golf but I don't love it. I certainly don't $75 love it, thus I've never paid more than $30 for a round of golf. Even at $30, my sporran grumbled for a fortnight afterwards.

I once paid $30 for my son and I to bowl a few strings. I don't $30 love bowling. I don't $3 like bowling. I don't know how to make the 'cent' sign, but let's just say that I less-than-a-loony like bowling. When you have size 12 feet and you slap on a pair of tumor toed bowling shoes, it's hard to feel good about one's self.

I like snowboarding a lot, but I don't $75 like it, but that's what I'm going to pay for a day on the slopes at Sunday River. I don't begrudge the money grubbing, Escalade driving shareholders of the corporation that owns Sunday River, but there is a certain sadness in knowing that I'd have to sell my chesterfield (that's a couch, kids) and my meat locker in order to take my family skiing for a day.

Baseball is no different. It's like treating your wife and kids to a ball game at Yankee Stadium; if you walk out of there with any change from a six-hundred dollar bill, then you're doing well. Oh...what? The kids want a hot dog, better get out the Mastercard.

Life is expensive. And fun is getting ridiculously expensive. The day may come when I have to get a job so I can afford to have fun, but if I have a job, then there's not much time to have fun. It's the classic leisurologist trap. I suppose the secret to a happy existence is to find a job that is challenging, rewarding and fun. Or not have a job and snowboard somewhere other than Sunday River at 75 bucks a pop.

I have a year long pass at Poley Mountain in Sussex for $250. That puts thing in perspective. Sunday River, one day: $75 U.S.. Poley Mountain, one hundred days: $250. When I snowboard at Poley, I can hear the bagpipes echoing through the valley.

I'm not sure what will be going through my head when I snowboard at Sunday River, but I have an idea.

A (Small) Mountain Of Inspiration

2010-01-20T08:53:00.003-04:00

Once in a while I wake up and think that I have nothing on my brain worth writing about, but I write anyway.

Haven't you done that 306 days in a row, except for the two days when guest bloggers, Wendy Nielsen and Jean Gaudet, gave us something worthwhile to read?

There are times when I've got something that I want to write about, but I have no time to do it. This morning is a combination of the two. I'm a bear of little brain, and unlike the Rolling Stones, ti-iiiiiii-eee-ime isn't on my side, this morning.

My job as Senior Leisurologist demands that I go snowboarding. I have a reputation to uphold, after all. Ten centimetres of fresh snow is trying to fall, wooing me away from the keyboard. It would be rude to ignore it, so off I go...

Mass Consumption

2010-01-19T08:01:00.003-04:00

When I was little, mass meant 'my ass', i.e. Mom, I fell skateboarding, mass hurts. When I was fourteen I took note of a show on television called 'Mass For Shut-ins'. The title always had me perplexed, until a few years later while attending a Roman Catholic church service with a friend. I didn't enjoy it, mostly because sitting on the pews made mass hurt.

In high school, mass became a concept for Physics class, taught to me by my diminutive, marathon running teacher, Mr.Simmons. That was a long time ago, but if I remember correctly a body's mass also determines the degree to which it generates or is affected by a gravitational field. If a first body of mass M is placed at a distance r from a second body of mass m, the first body experiences an attractive force F given by F = GMm/R2 where G is the universal constant of gravitation, equal to 6.67×10−11 kg−1 m3 s−2.

Physics was always such a breeze for me.

Not.

Mr.Simmons was married to Mrs.Simmons, that's how things worked when I was a boy, usually, unless you were Richard Simmons (I always wondered if he was gay). Mrs.Simmons was my grade eight teacher who awarded me the Best Actor trophy for my class (fortunately little, runny-nosed Bradley Pitt was sick during drama week).

I can just imagine the conversations that Mr. and Mrs.Simmons had over dinner:

Mr.Simmons: I've got one student in my top level Physics class who I think has a learning disability. Either that, or he's really stupid. His name is Varty, Ian Varty.

Mrs.Simmons: Ian Varty! He was a student in my grade eight class. I remember that he was a brilliant comic actor. He's probably just pretending to be dumb...he's just acting.

Mr.Simmons: Well, in that case, he is a very talented actor.

I probably learned more about Physics in grade seven, admiring/contemplating Ms.Spinney's magnificently upturned banana boobs. They defied gravity:

Gravity: You can't do that.

Ms.Spinney's Left Boob: Not only can we do that, we are doing that!

Ms.Spinney's Right Boob: In your face, Gravity. You can't stop us.

Ms.Spinney's Left Boob: Hey Righty, look at me, I'm counting ceiling tiles. What are you doing?

Ms.Spinney's Right Boob: Oh, not much, just a little astronomy.

Today, in the new millennium, I think of mass in terms of consumerism. I saw an image in the post Boxing Day Fredericton newspaper which captured two hundred bargain crazy junkies lining up outside to get into Future Shop for the post Christmas deals (note: quantities limited to two per store, no rain cheques, see you soon....suckas). I wouldn't line up to get a 96" plasma HD/AWOL/ADHD/KFC/SOL tv for $99. I wouldn't line up for anything retail, besides if I wanted a 96" plasma tv I could probably find one by accident at Costco.

Costco is quite the place. I walked into Costco looking to buy a pack of double AA batteries and I walked out with a 96" plasma tv, a foosball table and some jeans that I don't really like because they make mass look big, but they were on sale and who was I to resist a bargain? There is a tendency toward mass over consumption at Costco, and that's why I don't have a membership.

It's too bad that I don't have a membership, because a friend of mine wanted me to bring some King Cole tea to Toronto when I visit. I could have surprised her with a really big box of it. Just my luck...Costco has the lifetime supply cartons on sale this week. Inside each crate is two hundred and forty pillow-sized tea bags! It's almost incomprehensible.

M'ead hurts just thinking about it.

Pat Robertson: Wash Your Mouth Out, Then Shut It...Please

2010-01-18T08:15:00.005-04:00

Pat Robertson is a well known and influential southern Baptist mouthpiece. Based on what I know of him, I'd like to suggest that he's also an asshole. There is a small possibility that he's old and delusional, and for that he could be excused, but his track record shows that age likely isn't a factor.

Haiti, the country and the people, has been hurting for a long time. The recent earthquake was just another kick to Haiti's crotch, but by whom? If you listened to what Pat Robertson said on national television, then you might believe that Haiti was simply being smited for its 'pact with the devil'.

In my opinion, Haiti was unlucky enough to be located over a fault line in the earth's crust. I doubt that other earthquake ravaged places had 'pacts with the devil', places like China, Iran and California. What about tsunamis or hurricanes. Did Katrina wash New Orleans clean? What about tornadoes that seem to have an appetite for the bible belt? How does Pat explain when people, who send greenbacks to his Christian corporations, get their trailers and torsoes ripped apart by tornadoes. Maybe those unfortunates made a 'pact with the devil' themselves...the devil they know. The devil they watch on tv.

What a ludicrous statement that Pat Robertson made. Ludicrous and hurtful. I have to be careful not to slip into Pat's snake skin loafers.

We all say things occasionally that we don't mean, sadly some of them get uttered on national television. No one is perfect...I'm living proof. So are you. The test of any man or woman's mettle is what they do once they've made a mistake.

Pat Robertson has a chance to make amends. Now is the time. He should recant his statement and apologize to the people of Haiti. It's unlikely since he really believes what he says to be true. His god works a bit differently from the god of others, it would appear.

Perhaps Pat doesn't really believe what he's saying. Perhaps he's just appealing to the charitable red necks of society who approve of their loving god smiting the poor, the different, the non-democratic, the less than Christian. Maybe that's the business model that works for his corporations. Regardless, I find his words to be despicable, even devilish.

At least Jerry Falwell (1933-2007), another flamboyant tele-vandal-ists, had the good sense to attack the Teletubbies, and not a country that was on the ground bleeding. Jack Van Impe, the talking bible, concentrates his hate on the evil European Union, among others.

Gawd, what a strange world we live in. It's little wonder that I don't watch television, go to church or take my Teletubby dolls out in public.

Gee! Oh!! Graphic!!!

2010-01-17T11:07:00.003-04:00

Last week I exhibited an image of myself that generated some discussion.

Was that the black & white image you sent to Playgirl? You know, the one with the Ski-Doo, the rope and the snowboard.

Shush! What happens in Jemseg stays in Jemseg! And no, that's not the one. I'm referring to the self portrait that went along with my blog entitled 'We're All Brilliant Women'. That was the blog about that Halifax Broad who writes with profane self deprecating eloquence.

Oh yes, I remember that one. So what about it?

Well, my son saw my self portrait and asked me if it was inspired by the portrait that National Geographic photographer, Steve McCurry, took more than two decades ago of the Afghan girl. That picture, and the story of the remarkable reunion of photographer and subject, can be found on National Geographic's web site, or follow the link I just provided. I'll admit that some of my links are frivolous...this one is not.

I agree. It's quite a story and offers some insight into life in war torn Afghanistan as well.

Arched Villains

2010-01-16T09:54:00.003-04:00

The only thing better than one is two, right?

This holds true for friends, dollars, eyes and testicles, but not for Big Macs.

Four all beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions on a couple of sesame seed buns.

That's what I was singing when I went into a McDonald's one day back in the mid nineteen seventies. I stepped up to the counter and proudly ordered two Big Macs, both for myself. I was a big boy, and I wanted to prove it by lining my stomach with a man meal. I paid for my burgers, wrapped my grubby paws around the blood red plastic tray, and found a table. I sat down, scanned the room for threats beyond my tray, Grimaced at the decor, then concentrated at the task at hand.

My first bite, as always, was the best. Each subsequent bite was less warmly greeted, but the final bite, of Big Mac number one, felt triumphant. One down, one to go. Big Mac number one was like hiking to Everest base camp. It was a bit of work, but absolutely doable. Big Mac number two was like climbing the summit.

Left foot. Chew down. Right foot. Chew up. Repeat.

The last few bites of Le Mac Grand Deuxième were like climbing over the Hillary Step and making that do or die dash to the peak. Statistically speaking, one in ten, who summit Everest, dies. I'm not sure about the death rate among teenagers who eat two Big Macs. I left the restaurant and promptly Ralph Malphed my lunch all over eastern Canada. My stomach had been hamburgled; its contents stolen away from me.

It took me about five years before I could eat a Big Mac again. In hindsight, those were the best five years of my life. I didn't boycott McDonald's at the time, because what happened was my fault, not theirs, but I am currently considering a fatwa against McDonald's for other reasons.

Before I go any further, I just want to clarify my association with McDonald's. Since becoming a part-time coffee drinker, about two years ago, I've been struggling to find a decent coffee. My fatwa against Tim and his low brow roll-up-the-rimmers has made it difficult to find coffee in Canada, so I turned to the golden arches. McDonald's coffee is acceptable (head hung in shame). McDonald's food is not. Under no circumstances will my tongue ever see a Big Mac dancing upon it...or anything else they serve at McDonald's. I'd rather lick road salt off a highway like a knee bent moose in the dark than choke down a sodden McBurger.

Yeesh. I feel like hurling just thinking about it.

So why the possibility of a fatwa against McDonald's, Ian?

It's to punish them for my last three visits, as follows:

1) My Christmastime visit: Wendy and I enjoyed a pleasant evening with a very sociable friend in late December. As we were leaving Fredericton, I had the novel idea to grab a coffee at Ronald's drive through.

Don't you mean 'drive-thru'?

U know what I meant. Anyway, I pulled up to the speaker and said "I'd like a large coffee, puleez." The (no doubt) pimple-faced voice told me that he couldn't sell me anything. Keep in mind that these words were spoken to me by a McDonald's employee at 9:50 p.m., on a Friday night. I continued the dialogue with the zit box, asking for some clarification. I was told that they were 'transferring over the system', whatever that meant, and they couldn't sell me anything at all for at least ten minutes. I offered to give him the exact change for a coffee which he could ring in later. Professor Whitehead said 'no can do'. He held all the cards, the little bastard. Instead of being high-fived for my ingenuity, coffee in hand, I was Oxy-fived and squeezed out of the drive through.

'Drive-thru', you dim wit. I tolda ya once...

I drove off in a huff, unable to beat the system, or outsmart a blemished boy.

2) This past Thursday night, after indoor wall climbing at Base Gagetown, I decided that a coffee was in order. I needed petrol for my car (I get gas from beans), and there just happened to be a Micky Dees attached to the petrol station. I stepped up to the counter and innocently ordered a large coffee.

Zoinks....the girl couldn't find any large coffee cups. She spoke to the manager who suggested looking 'out back'. Based on the time she took, 'out back' meant through (thru) the back door of the building, across the parking lot, across a football field, across another football field, then into the storage room. My heart rate climbed. Anxiety will do that to a leisurologist.

She finally returned with the crushing news that they were out of large cups. I thru (not bad!) myself upon the floor, writhing and moaning. She offered to put a large quantity of coffee into two small cups, but I've never been a two-fisted drinker.

Hopefully no one from your days at Agricultural College is reading your colourful recollection of your less than sober past.

I declined the two small cups, remembering that two isn't always better than one. I said I'll just have a medium coffee. She poured me a medium coffee, then offered me a refund, but she'd have to find the manager to process the refund first. I don't know where the manager was, and neither did she, apparently. I suspect that the manager was having a toke out behind a pallet full of large coffee cups.

I walked into McDonald's cleanshaven, and by now I looked like I was ready to join ZZ Top. All I wanted was a gee dee coffee, not to spend my middle years in a fast food/slow coffee joint. I finally gave up, even though the manager had been sourced, suggesting that my refund be given to a charity. It amounted to twenty cents plus applicable taxes...pretty generous for a half Scotsman. I left in a half huff.

3) Last night I was returning from an evening of snowboarding at Crabbe Mountain. A coffee seemed like a nice way to cap off the evening and keep me warm and awake for the drive home to the Narrows. I rolled into Freddy Beach at 10 p.m. and considered my options. I could go to Sweetwater's for a dance, a coffee and a brawl with horny army bucks, or I could go to McDonald's. I chose McDonald's.

I was with a friend at the time, so we decided to go into the restaurant (that's unusually generous, Ian, calling it a restaurant) and sit down with our coffee. We walked in and found the place to be quite busy, at least judging by the line-up leading to the one and only cashier, who looked to be too young to even consider sprouting pimples. I looked at the cattle lined up in front of me, then I looked at my watch. It was 10:00 p.m. precisely.

To my left was McDonald's feeble attempt to create some McCafe 'ambiance' (again, very generous use of the language). There was a gas fireplace, not ablaze, and four funky red chairs set into an intimate square. Between each pairing of chaise rouges, was a table. Both tables were piled high with McDonald's wrappers, packaging and gnarled fries.

It took a good ten minutes to finally make it to the front line, my progress impeded by customers clutching gift certificates and two-for-one coupons. The newbie at the cash needed to call in back-ups to process anything other than cash or debit. He seemed to have trouble finding the manager, who undoubtedly was toking behind the KFC next door.

I ordered a large coffee, and as luck would have it, they had plenty of large coffee cups. Unfortunately, they had no coffee. Till boy wasn't quite adequately trained to take money and make coffee, so another McChild arrived after a couple of minutes and started a fresh pot.

My friend ordered a McCafe mocha, which took as long to make as my coffee because they were out of milk. I dreamt up a fantasy scene where the stoned manager was 'out back' milking KFC chickens in a mad attempt to get Dave his mocha. People who were in the line behind me were carrying their trays full of grease and sugar past me as I waited for my coffee. It was maddening. I should have just ordered two Big macs, vomited, and left satisfied.

I decided not to 'enjoy' my coffee in the 'fast food' restaurant. From the time I entered the building to the time I left, twenty-two minutes of my life had expired. I could have used that time more productively, perhaps watching a TiVo tweaked commercial-less re-run of HeeHaw, or writing a novel, or licking salt off the highway.

As I exited McDonald's I glanced at the four red chairs and the tables between them. The wrappers and rubbish were still piled high, after twenty-two festering minutes.

McDonald's is dead.

I left in a Beaufort Scale 12 huff (Very widespread damage to vegetation. Some windows may break; mobile homes and poorly constructed sheds and barns are damaged. Debris may be hurled about.)

Sounds like a fatwa is in the offing, Ian?

No, I'm feeling atypically generous. I'm not quite ready to be through with them just yet.

You mean 'thru'?

U no it.

Yes, But Do The Olympics Recognize It?

2010-01-15T09:43:00.002-04:00

Ping pong not wild enough for ya?

I recently had a Facebook dialogue with a friend, and it involved the sport of poor man's tennis, aka ping pong. Here's our conversation (edited):

She: <in a post to her FB friends at large> my legs are finally recovering from the crazy game of ping pong! Who would have thought ping pong would have crippled me for 3 days!!!!!

The Leisurologist: I'd kick your ass at ping pong! <Ian always taunts his friends, especially at sports in which he feels a sense of relative superiority. Sports like ping pong and Scrabble.>

She: I'm sure you would! My ass sucks at ping pong, especially extreme ping pong!

The Leisurologist: What's extreme ping pong? Isn't ping pong extreme enough on its own? Extreme ping pong must involve beer...or brownies. Likely both.

She: lol...beer! well regular old ping pong wasn't enough fun so we played "run around the ping pong table"...4 people rotate around the table trying to keep the ball in play. Surprising VERY hard to get over 10 hits. Our record is 41 but that was after 3 hours of trying and probably 900 attempts!

So! There's a new sport that I've never played. Extreme ping pong. I searched 'extreme ping pong' on youtube but only came up with images of Chinese men standing what looked like fifty feet apart, smashing a ping pong ball back and forth. It was extreme all right, but hardly social. Or remotely attainable.

I like ping pong but, in the same manner that skiing became more fun when one one ski was lost (now called snowboarding), I like the idea of tweaking the game. I hope to try extreme ping pong some day, as members of the tribe of Varty are always up for a new challenge. And if it involves beer, you know me, I'm all over it. I just can't get enough beer in me.

What?!?! You drank like seven beer last year, and didn't touch the brownies.

I was once part of a group that invented a new sport based loosely on ping pong. In the early 1970s, in my Fredericton basement, we invented a game called gnip gnop (`gah nip `gah nop). It involved hitting the ping pong ball back and forth in the air so that it never touched the ground. The game died off in the 80s and 90s, but was resurrected two years ago by my son Julian and me. Our record is over two hundred consecutive hits. Can you top that?

Why did you call it 'gnip gnop', Ian?

Because 'elbat sinnet' sounded too serious, and a bit too Middle Eastern.

You got a problem with the Middle East, mister?

Yup. Getting back to ping pong,...I'm feeling rather generous. I'm willing to offer a bottle of Motts Landing Chantilly Blush wine to the first person who can beat me at ping pong. There is only one restriction to this offer:

I must be playing with Excalibur.

Excalibur is my beloved forty year old ping pong paddle that is held together by spit, sweat and, more than anything else, electrical tape. The grip is gone, hence the electrical tape. The rubberized surface has long since worn off, making spins all but impossible. You'll not see me whirling the ball back at you, you'll just hear the sound of thunder when the hollow white orb gets spanked by Excalibur. When you play ping pong against me, it's a hard knock life. For you. And...

You.

Will.

Get.

Spanked.

So.......any challengers?

Note: to my athletic friend Aimée...just because you're good at tennis, don't think that for one second that you can apply your talent (or geniosity??) to a smaller court with a teeny, tiny net. It's a different game, sister.

Paddling The Blue Canoe In Winter

2010-01-14T06:41:00.002-04:00

Yesterday there were three strange men in my car. They weren't strange in the sense that I didn't know them, as I knew all three of them very well. In fact, I knew one of them, the driver, as well as I've ever known anyone. One man sat in the passenger seat, one in the back seat behind the passenger, and the other one was the driver...me.

During our drive I heard the backseat passenger mention the word 'depression' and I pounced on it like a pet tiger. I'm always on the hunt for new blog topics, and depression seems to be rampant these days, so why not ask a few questions.

One of my passengers claimed that he typically became depressed around the end of February when he had become sick and tired of winter. He said that this year it was coming on early. His 'cure' for seasonal depression was to keep busy and/or travel somewhere warm.

My other passenger claimed to get depressed every December when the daylight was at its lowest. He has yet to discover a remedy, so he just suffers through December until the days supposedly get longer on the twenty-first. It's more of a symbolic victory on the equinox as it's still miserably dark out, even before the afternoon soaps are done. It isn't until mid January that we notice that it's light outside at 5 p.m.. It's a small victory, but a victory nevertheless.

Typically I'm bummed out in November and December. Most of my beloved summer pursuits come to a screeching halt in November. The autumn leaves lay brown beneath my feet. The bare branches above echo the feeling in my heart...stripped. The cold and the dark come early and last far too long. This year I escaped the blues/blahs by making a concerted effort to keep busy, travel, be productive, and creative. It also didn't hurt that November's weather was unusually glorious. Weather, it would seem, is the root of many of our feelings of discontent.

This autumn/winter I made a conscious effort to keep busy with challenging projects that cover new ground, and it seems to have worked. This late autumn was the best I've had in recent memory. My memory sucks, but who cares? I feel happy.

I asked another friend about his feelings on depression. He said that he keeps too busy to get depressed. I wouldn't suggest that keeping busy is the cure for depression or the blues, but it worked for him and it works for me, at least in my limited non-clinical study.

Do you ever feel depressed? I think most people get a taste for it at some point in their lives. I don't know much about depression as I'm more of an armchair philosopher than a chaise lounge psychologist (though, come to think of it, I do own a chaise). I think for some people it would be good to be busier than they might normally choose. By that I mean busy in a creative or physical way...I'm not talking about bringing files home from work. That doesn't sound like therapy.

I'm learning how to play the guitar. It fills a void that needs filling. I've also invested my time and energies in some home projects that are creative. Do I know what I'm doing? Hmmm....just barely, and that's what makes life exciting. If I knew how to do all this stuff then I'd likely be bored and depressed.

Funnily enough, even the blog is therapeutic. I start every morning with a blank page, and sometimes a blank stare, then I begin to craft something that's never been done before. It's cheaper than coffee and it doesn't stain my teeth. Like Martha says, it's a good thing.

What might you do to paddle your blue canoe to a more interesting place? Give it some thought.

We're All Brilliant Women

2010-01-13T09:08:00.005-04:00

A friend (who are these people?) sent me an intriguing e-mail two sleeps ago. The message told me, in no uncertain terms, that "if u haven't discovered this blog...then you're really missing out." My friend makes her living as a child psychologist, so I take her advice both personally and professionally.

There was one other piece of information in her brief missive that left me perplexed. Here's what she wrote:

"Be sure to share this with all the brilliant women in your lives."

I wasn't offended that she considered me to be one of the "brilliant women" in her life. I wasn't surprised either, because I once tried to have her include me in a girls' weekend in New York. She and her umpteen sisters were planning a weekend in New York City, and I was going to be there at the same time visiting my wife, so I thought that I could be a 'sister'. Sadly, they went at the wrong time of the month for me, after I had left NYC (a coincidence?), so I never got to do what girls do. I'm not sure what that is, but I suspect that it involves drinks with umbrellas, shopping, and some joyful Broadway productions involving dancers.

I wasn't sad that the girls' weekend never happened. I just stayed at home, comforting myself by stuffing Easy-Bake Oven cookies into my face and watching Oprah and her big fat billionaire ass.

Speaking of big fat asses, the blog that my friend sent me now appears on the sidebar of my blog. It's called HalifaxBroad and it's highly entertaining. I don't know much about the author, other than she appears to be clinging to a career in advertising, she has a son who she calls 'the little bastard', and she apparently has an ass upon which you could land a helicopter. We're not talking about a small chopper bum. Her ass sounds like the kind of place where Sea Kings hope to crash.

Of course, we all know that most writers exaggerate. The best of the best, like Bill Bryson, embellish a bit. Writers of blogs are the worst by far. They're often outright liars, mainly because they have no one (i.e. publisher, editor, friends) to hold them accountable. I never fully understood how writing worked when I was a body double for actor John Holmes, but now that I have a blog myself I'm more than aware of how the truth is spun like a tipsy dreidel.

The writer of the HalifaxBroad blog has quite a twisted sense of humour which greatly appeals to my braided mind. It's a little disconcerting that she uses so much profanity in her writing, but I guess I can forgive her for that, the fucking bitch.

If you're offended my my comment, then you haven't read her blog yet. Now get cracking!

A Fine Crisp Evening

2010-01-12T09:11:00.002-04:00

Well, it's not St.Barth's or Bora Bora, but Cambridge-Narrows has it's own charm, even at minus ten degrees in the taunt of night. I always enjoy those last thirty minutes before the western sky reels its inky sheets in for the night. Last evening's light had me inspired enough to leave my warm bread home (and half glass of Mott's Landing rosé) to take my camera to the frozen, crackling shore. I was not disappointed.

Earlier in the day, yesterday, a lone deer made a nervous trek across the lake ice. The ice is plenty thick, so no fear there, it's just that deer hooves, like stilettos, are ill equipped for ice. This is why you rarely see hookers or cud chewing ruminants playing ice hockey. It's worth noting that the Halifax hockey team are called the Mooseheads, not the moose hooves, for a reason.

Today I may do the same (go on the ice), though I hope to be moved by the wind. This may be the day for the year's first kite ski. The forecast is for a generous high of minus nine degrees with a thirty kilometre wind from the northwest...that gives a wind chill of minus twenty-five degrees. Where on earth would I rather be?

St.Barth's, Bora Bora...sure, but the Canadian winter is quite glorious if you embrace it before it embraces you.

Jeers For Skiers

2010-01-11T08:22:00.004-04:00

This morning's blog was inspired by one of my biggest fans, literally. Towering above me at 6' 5", and tipping the beleaguered scales at a Jaredesque 255 pounds, it's one of my big brothers. I have two big brothers; the one who I just mentioned, and the even bigger one!

I feel like a malnourished Viking when I'm in the presence of my two battleship brothers. As the baby of the family, it's little wonder that my growth was stunted. By the time my brothers picked the carcass clean, there wasn't much left for 'the baby'. As an adult, my stats are a paltry 6'3"of height and a meagre 190 lbs of mass (mostly gut). I'm not big enough for the NBA or NFL. I couldn't cut it in the WNBA or even on a Brazilian women's beach volleyball team (though I've offered to coach!). It hasn't been easy for me, living life as a dwarf in the shadow of giants.

When I was little I didn't get much respect from my brothers. As they were six and eight years older than me, they saw me as nothing more than a nuisance. I was the tag in their shirt that rubbed them the wrong way. I was the buzzing gnat trying to feed off them; too small to be seen, but annoying nevertheless. I made a good foot rest, not much more.

I never got much respect from them until I turned sixteen and got my FAC (Firearms Acquisition Certificate). It's amazing how a twenty gauge shotgun will get you respect. Of course I'm kidding. I still wasn't respected, even as I tried to be a marauding Viking. I knew I should have bought a battle axe instead of the rifle. The first time I went deer hunting, by myself, and returned with a deer on the car, my brother laughed and nicknamed the deer 'Bambi'. To this day I still feel sick that I shot a deer, and I can still see my smirking brother standing there shaking his head.

I'll never be as big as my big brothers, but fortunately I'm more intelligent than they are, so I can get my revenge through other channels. My little big brother, he of 255 pounds, as opposed to the one who tips the scales in the threes, is now an avid reader of my blog. I can think of no better payback than to waste ten minutes of his day. Even better, he's now offering me feedback on the blog. The blog has truly become a family affair.

I received an e-mail from him this morning. It was in reference to my 'Ah, Look At All The Lonely People' blog. Here's what he wrote:

"I asked Dad at supper if he worried that your isolation would make you go crazy. Your blog answered the question. For the record, Dad thought you would remain sane indefinitely."

My father is the voice of reason in our family. He's a true Englishman. I think the Viking blood came from my mother's side. As a Scottish woman, there can be no doubt that the Viking longboats entered the harbour of her ancestors, so to speak.

The Vikings have given society many things; Ikea, Volvo, Saab and Abba. You can see the appeal? Well, three out of four ain't bad. I'm not so sure that the Vikings were musical. To prove my point, I'll share a song that my brother has rewritten for me. I think that he's looking for another scintillating youtube performance. I may or may not record it, though the somewhat familiar lyrics are appealing. Here's what he wrote, to be sung to the tune of Mad World by Tears For Fears:

All around me un-familiar faces
Worn out places, worn out faces
Bright and early for their daily races
Going nowhere, going nowhere
And their beers are filling up their glasses
No recession, no recession
Ride my Burton till I drown my sorrow
Snow tomorrow! Snow tomorrow!

And I find it kind of funny
I find it kind of sad
The dreams in which I'm boarding
Are the best I've ever had
I find it hard to tell you
'Cos I find it hard to take
When people ski in circles
It's a very, very Sad World

I'm just waiting for the place I feel good
Poley Mountain, Poley Mountain
Makes me feel the way that every dude would
Cold and cranky, cold and cranky
Went to Sussex and was very nervous
No one knew me, no one knew me
Hello ski-school tell me what's my lesson
Goofy footing, goofy footing

And I find it kind of funny
I find it kind of sad
The dreams in which I'm boarding
Are the best I've ever had
I find it hard to tell you
'Cos I find it hard to take
When people ski in circles
It's a very, very Sad World.

Ah, Look At All The Lonely People

2010-01-10T09:05:00.003-04:00

Eleanor Rigby picks up the rice in the church where a wedding has been. Lives in a dream.

I'm pretty sure that I know how Eleanor feels, except that it's unlikely you'd find me in a church. It's even more unlikely that you'd find me picking up rice in a church where a wedding has been. There have been times when I've gone to church and felt my time would have been better spent picking rice up off the floor, or shoveling the parking lot outside. At least it would have been more productive than listening to another painful and poorly constructed sermon.

I used to go to church in Toronto. Not because I liked it, but because it was part of my wife's life. I went to be social, though I utterly detested the hour long service. I did enjoy the coffee hour afterwards, particularly because there was someone in the congregation with whom I could relate. He combined business and fun in a rather healthy fashion. Sadly he died in a private plane crash while flying to the southern U.S. with some golfing buddies.

Father McKenzie, writing the words of a sermon that no one will hear. No one comes near. Look at him working, darning his socks in the night when there's nobody there. What does he care?

I can relate to Father McKenzie as much as I relate to Eleanor.

Ian Varty, writing the words of a blog that no one will hear. No one comes near. Look at him working, strumming his guitar in the night when there's nobody there. What does he care?

Indeed, what does he care? Sometimes I wonder.

Yesterday I did something that I never do...I went snowboarding at Poley Mountain on the weekend. The weekend was created for everyone on this planet who works M-F, 9-5. It is the two days a week when they get to act like retirees or leisurologists. I decided to go to Poley because I felt like being social. What the hell, it was worth a try. I decided that I would suffer through the long line-ups for the opportunity of hanging out with friends who I don't normally see.

The capacious upper parking lot at Poley had cars sardined neatly to the point of overflowing. Minivans lined the muddy and rutted road that led up from the main road. It made getting up the hill difficult, while cars trying to leave barely squeaked past. The lower parking lot below the main road, one that I normally never give a second thought, was also jam packed. This was a dream day for the owners of the ski hill. For me? Well, we'd see.

Poley Mountain is an unimpressive hill that has been made impressive by whoever owns and manages the place. Surrounded by the rollings hills of Sussex and countless dairy farms, they've managed to milk a mountain out of a mole hill. The hill was predominantly populated by families and teens, and one leisurologist. I was told that there were fifteen hundred people there on Saturday, most of whom seemed to be standing in the chairlift line in front of me.

I spent three hours snowboarding at Poley and, amazingly, I didn't know a single person there. Not one. What irony that I should go to Poley to be social on the busiest day of the year, and not recognize anyone. There wasn't even anyone from my village of six hundred and forty people. What the ____ do people in Cambridge-Narrows do? Oh wait, I know. They drink beer, drive their four wheelers, hunt, and watch hockey. Strike one, two, three, four....I'm out. What the hell am I doing here?

No man is an island.

I felt like an island. I often feel like an island. This is not to say that I'm unhappy, but I often amble along my shores without companionship. Fortunately I've been blessed with an infinite ability to amuse myself. Sometimes I think that I do better alone, but it really isn't the case.

Had I met up with friends at Poley I would have bombed the hill in some sort weenie waggling show of testosterone. Instead I often took the beginner hills and practiced riding switch (wrong foot forward). I loved it and I made a lot of progress. That wouldn't have happened had I been social.

So what would a perfect life look like? I suppose I would have gone to Poley, met up with some friends who would say 'hey Ian, let's practice riding switch'. I would have died and gone to heaven. Then I would have left them, gone to the church and swept up rice. This is my life.

Something unbelievably ironic happened during the writing of this morning's blog. At the midpoint of my writing, the phone rang. It was one of my best friends in the world. This friend had called last night but was unable to reach me as I was at the ski hill with all my other friends. When I picked up the phone the first thing I heard, even before a hello, was 'You must have quite a social life'. I laughed out loud, chatted for a while, hung up and continued darning my socks.

Surfing And The Bottomless Walker

2010-01-09T08:33:00.004-04:00

Typically I like to use the weekend blog to write about Cambridge-Narrows folks who do inane things, not unlike the Darwin Awards except nobody dies. Getting a picture to go along with the story is not always possible, so I decided to post a delicious image of Lawrencetown Beach in Nova Scotia.

So...what's been happening in Cambridge-Narrows of note? A new modular home was erected on the other side of the lake. This new house reminds me of my snowboarding tricks. I'm currently working on doing 180s with my snowboard, spinning the board half way around in the air. When this house was put on the foundation, the contractor decided that the porch should face the back field and the road.

Apparently, that wasn't the way the owner saw things. They kind of liked the idea of the porch overlooking the water, since this house was situated on a pricey piece of waterfront property. Stop the presses! Bring back the crane!! The house components had to be removed and turned 180 degrees. I doubt that was in the budget.

In other breaking news, a local man was getting himself prepared for a cold winter's day walk. His toque, jacket and mitts were all in place. He announced to his wife that he was going out for a walk. She was quite pleased that he was getting some exercise, though she wondered if he was going to put pants on before he stepped outside. Oopsie.

I plan to live in Cambridge-Narrows for a long time, but if the locals start parading down the road without their pants on, then I may have to consider changing my postal code, instead of writing about their dress code.

This is by no means a busy week for Cambridge-Narrows in terms of questionable behaviour; in fact it's quite slow here. Neither of the village idiots did anything of note. I did manage to bruise my nose while playing the guitar, but that was done out of province so it doesn't count, at least not to enhance my village idiot status.

Arty? Yes! Vain? Hmmm.

2010-01-08T09:49:00.002-04:00

An associate of mine, who happens to be a linguistic scholar, recently pointed out a fun web site where you can input your name, or any words for that matter, and it will generate anagrams. I type in 'Ian Varty' and it throws back 'Arty Vain'.

The web site where all of this becomes possible is called Anagram Genius (www.anagramgenius.com). It's quite fun. I typed in one friend's name and it rearranged the letters into 'a resonant hen'. I don't think Renate Hanson will like this, but it should make her laugh. Jean Gaudet, who was once a guest blogger for theleisurologist.blogspot becomes 'a neat judge'. He reads my blog regularly and comments often, making him truly a neat judge.

Robert Milton, my arch nemesis who ruined Air Canada, becomes 'brittle moron'. You can see why I like this web site! I have a friend called Sonia Carpenter. She's the winemaker at Motts Landing Vineyard. Her name becomes 'praise on nectar'. Appropriate for a talented winemaker!

Some names don't deliver much in anagrammatical terms, but others are astounding; take the following examples which I lifted from anagramgenius.com's web site:

"George Bush" gives "He bugs Gore", "Madonna Louise Ciccone" gives "Occasional nude income" and "William Shakespeare", "I am a weakish speller"??!

I fed 'leisurologist' into the anagram generator and it made me into 'religious lots'. Like I said, it doesn't always reflect reality, right Renate?

Going Ape Shit For Surfing

2010-01-07T08:03:00.006-04:00

You've heard the expression 'I don't know what I'm doing half of the time'? Well, that's how I feel, except twice as often. I don't feel that way about my life, but I do about my new camera's HD video function. I'm pretty sure that the techies at Nikon didn't understand it either because they really glossed over it in the owner's manual.

Lack of knowledge has never stopped me from trying anything. I've proven that 294 days in a row, thanks to this blessed blog. Last Monday I was at the Lawrencetown point filming the waves and the surfers. I could watch the ocean forever...there's just something primal about waves. It makes me think that maybe my ancestors dragged themselves out of the primordial soup and onto the beach, but when you look at the length of my arms, you know there was a monkey hanging from my family tree.

Ian, was your great great grandmother called Lucy by any chance?

Yes, as a matter of fact, and she lived in Africa. She was only three feet, eight inches tall. I got my height from my great great grandfather's side of the family.

Was your grandfather called Charlton? As in Heston.

Well, it's true that Charlton Heston lived during a time of the great simian uprisings. He starred in the original Planet Of The Apes movie. If you want to see the final three minutes of that movie, then click here. There are two things worth noting in this clip:

1) Charlton and the chimps were hanging around what looked like a decent surf break, thus strengthening my argument that surfing has been with us for a long been.

2) Charlton (the now deceased former champion of the NRA) didn't have a gun with him at the time, but the chimps did. It could be argued that guns are safe with monkeys, but not humans.

Jeez, Ian, I thought you were going to show me a surfing video? Now I half expect you to squat down and groom me for ticks!

Sorry. My mind tends to wander barefoot along the beach way too often. Here's a twenty-two second clip from Lawrencetown (N.S.) taken on Monday morning. It's not what you'd called epic cinematography, but I'm still learning to make the video function of my camera work properly. Sometimes I'm delighted with the results, but most of the time my lack of technical knowledge drives me bananas. If nothing else, my short film will leave the salty taste of winter surfing in your mouth, and make you ponder evolution.

The Fairness of Vanity

2010-01-06T19:42:00.002-04:00

Recently I had the opportunity to flip through a copy of a magazine called 'Vanity Fair' (an anagram of 'If Ian Varty'...for those special few into anagrams). It was the November 2009 issue. I know, I know...old news. The magazine added enormously to my limited knowledge regarding the life and times of glamorous and amorous celebrities. This morning's kiss and tell was all about Penelope Cruz.

Honestly, I couldn't give a Spanish rat's keister about Penelope Cruz, but as someone who appreciates good writing and photography, I plowed through the article (her brother and father are both called Eduardo, in case that ever comes up on Jeopardy!). The writing was very fine, really. The photography was superb, though Pennie's make-up was over the top. Ms.Cruz is a pretty girl, if you're into porcelain skinned Spanish gals with black licorice locks puffed poodliciously. Penelope, beautiful as she is, looked like something that one would pull out of granny's china cabinet...she looked unbelievably fragile and glossy, like she would break if taking a snowball to the face.

I read the article from start to finish. Why? I don't know. It is the mysterious way of the leisurologist and can't be explained in intelligible terms, other than to say that, if I ever meet Ms.Cruz, I can ask of the Eduardos.

There were other articles about celebrities in the thick and generous magazine, but I didn't give them much consideration. I saw an ad for Louis Vuitton which featured Sean Connery as the pitchman. This was a bit disturbing. One minute handsome Sean, as James B., is snuggling with Pussy Galore, the next he's trying to sell me over-priced baggage. Oh well, we are supposedly in a recession, and Sean hasn't been on the A-list since the Red October was scuttled.

The Red October wasn't scuttled, Ian. It was sold to the Canadian Navy by the British Navy, and shipped/dragged off to Halifax. Surely you remember the brouhaha when the Red October accidentally torpedoed Theodore Tugboat just off McNab's Island? Do your homework, man.

I did find something in Vanity Fair that really appealed to me. Caricatures! The caricatures were of actors, actresses and famous people in general. I recognized about half of them. I didn't feel badly that the caricature of author Joan Didion wasn't immediately recognizable. I wouldn't have known Maeve Binchy either, had she been caricatured. So many authors are faceless.

The caricatures were, in my opinion, expertly done. You can judge for yourself by clicking here.

I was left feeling inspired to try my own caricatures, ala Risko, Vanity Fair's caricaturist. I haven't got time to do one tonight, but you can expect to see one in the coming days. I may do myself, or perhaps attempt a celebrity. Or maybe one of the Eduardos.

Heady Thoughts On Toilet Etiquette

2010-01-05T10:18:00.002-04:00

The transport truck, or at least seventeen of its eighteen wheels lashed my windshield with what could only be described as a gigantic brown slushy. I cursed the fat-arsed driver, and then pawed the controls which would make my wipers beat more frantically. Driving to Halifax in a snowstorm is one of the many winter pleasures I endure as a Canadian. The very thought of sliding under the wheels of a Tim Horton's transport truck and dying on the highway leaves me feeling surprisingly empty. If this is my fate, as a Canadian who drives in the winter, I, at least, hope it's not a Tim's truck. How ironic would that be?

You might think that driving on the highway is my greatest fear while winter traveling, but it's only in second place. My first fear is public toilets, particularly at gas stations where truckers stop. When you see a big, burly man go into a washroom ahead of you, lock the door, and then not come out for five minutes, then you know you're in deep doo-doo (sometimes literally). This happened to me back in October.

Trucker Ted unlocked the washroom door and exited. His face was red and mottled. His hands were not wet, indicating a disregard for his own hygiene and, more importantly, mine. He fumbled with his inordinately enormous Freightliner belt buckle, which supported his inordinately large gut and lengthy, hot hamburger intestines. At this point I was desperate to use the facilities, so I took a deep breath and went in, but only after generously allowing my wife and son to go before me. Even when I went in, there was something lingering in the stale air.

Gawd I hate public washrooms.

On my most recent trip, to Halifax, I needed a bathroom break and a few groceries, so I decided to stop at the Superstore on the outskirts of town. Superstore bathrooms, as a rule, don't set the bar very high for cleanliness, but at least they're not frequented by truckers. The door was open so in I went. I looked down at the toilet, then went back outside the door to scan the parking lot for Peterbilts. No eighteen wheelers...that came as a surprise. I went back in and looked at the toilet again, in disbelief. What I saw was not the work of a suburban grocery shopping soccer mom. It was definitely the work of a man. Likely a burly man with a meaty beltbuckle.

I know a lot about a lot of things, but gastroenterology is not one of them, yet I was pretty sure that I knew what the culprit looked like. I don't want to go into details about what I saw, but let's just say the the visitor before me didn't agree with his last meal. It looked as though he had a grudge against the toilet, as though it had done something to him and it was time for payback. The toilet looked like it had been Ziebarted by a disgruntled Hershey's addict. It was the Halifax explosion all over again. Fortunately the damage was contained to the walls of the inner bowl. I went about my business, though clearly feeling quite nauseated. I really had to go, otherwise I would have motored off to the nearest truck stop and taken my chances.

Now, this is where the real dilemma kicked in. What if someone was waiting for the bathroom when I departed? The toilet was still plastered from the guy before me, even after I flushed, but when the next person enters they're going to think that I'm the dirty pig who made the mess. I didn't want to be anyone's scapegoat, or stool pigeon. It then struck me that this was the perfect opportunity to use 'the male defense'. Sorry ladies, this one is just for the guys.

When I was done I lifted the toilet seat to the up position, as if to indicate that I had just gone in for an innocent pee. I washed my hands, then used the paper towel to twist the bathroom door handle open. I tossed the paper into the garbage, smirked at the person waiting to get in, and then walked away with diplomatic impunity.

Surfing In January...In Nova Scotia

2010-01-04T13:04:00.002-04:00

A lot of people are into UFC (ultimate fighting). None of these so called 'tough guys' were surfing today at Lawrencetown. Two girls and four guys braved two degree air temperatures, a four degree ocean, and ten mph winds, to go surfing.

I wasn't one of the six surfing (do you think I'm crazy?). I photographed them and admired their commitment to the sport. I also shivered and lost feeling in my hands (I just want you to know how I suffer for my art, too).

I've Conquered Rock...Now What?

2010-01-03T07:42:00.004-04:00

If you saw my blog yesterday, you'll know that my rock n' roll 'career' is well underway, but why stop there? Pavarotti sang a few pop ditties, so why the hell shouldn't I tackle opera?

Think about this for a second; my wife has been giving operatic voice lessons to many of Canada's up and coming young operatic professionals. Many of those lessons have been given in our sunroom, where Wendy teaches. Don't think for one minute that I've been in the back part of the house (the east wing) vacuuming and cleaning the toilet. No, I've been listening in on the lessons. Eavesdropping. I've been absorbing every note, every line, every aria. It's been like opmosis.

I've been laying dormant for seventeen years, waiting for this moment. My moment. My Susan Boyle moment in the sun.

Umm, Ian, I think you mean in the fog. And you might also mention that Susan Boyle can actually sing. Other than that, I can see the resemblance, particularly the physical similarities. I think it's the eyebrows, but it could be the midriff too.

My world debut as an opera singer has been recorded and uploaded to youtube. Am I a baritone? Or a tenor? Or a soprano? Or worse....a counter tenor? You decide. Click here to watch my debut.

That's (not) Entertainment!

2010-01-02T12:33:00.002-04:00

I've enlisted my son to help me make the worst rock video ever. I think we've succeeded admirably.

There can be no doubt. No...wait a minute! William Hung's was worse.

A little background; Julian and I are progressing on the guitar quite nicely. Well, Julian is. I've decided to be the band's singer until I can get my guitar playing up to speed.

Can you sing, Ian?

No, but that's not going to stop me. Julian and I are both fans of an English band called The Jam. They've got a great song called That's Entertainment. It's doable for the two of us, because Julian can play the guitar part, and my dad's British, so that qualifies us to perform the song.

Perhaps you should watch The Jam's version of That's Entertainment before you watch our version, which we've entitled That's Not Entertainment!.

The Only Leisurologist In The Village

2010-01-01T09:00:00.006-04:00

I ended 2009 with some bad visual puns, and I apologize for trying to be funny. Let's start 2010 on the right foot, getting back to a more meaningful writer/reader relationship.

A lot of people make New Year's resolutions, and I'm certainly one of them. It's an optimistic thing to do which fills my life full of hope and false promise. So here goes...

Hear ye! Hear ye! My New Year's resolution is to not make New Year's resolutions.

It's 9:07 a.m. on January 1, and already I've failed in my resolution. You'd think this would make me pessimistic but nothing could be farther from the truth (not even the hint of Mulroney innocence). It's good to get stupid resolutions out of the way...now I can concentrate on having fun, which is the very reason for the leisurologist's existence.

Let's start the New Year by retelling a joke from last year. It's one of my favourites and it's absolutely appropriate to tell it on a day when some of you are contemplating making resolutions. Here goes...

The joke concerns twin boys of five or six. Worried that the boys had developed extreme personalities - one was a total pessimist, the other a total optimist - their parents took them to a psychiatrist (we'll call him Dr.Varty). It was a very windy summer's day outside, and the parents were glad to be inside Dr.Varty's office, away from the howling gale. First Dr.Varty treated the pessimist.

Trying to brighten his outlook, Dr.Varty took him to a room piled to the ceiling with brand-new toys. But instead of yelping with delight, the little boy burst into tears. 'What's the matter?' Dr.Varty asked, baffled. 'Don't you want to play with any of the toys?' 'Yes,' the little boy bawled, 'but if I did I'd only break them.

Next Dr.Varty treated the optimist. Trying to dampen his outlook, Dr.Varty took him to a room piled to the ceiling with horse manure. But instead of wrinkling his nose in disgust, the optimist emitted just the yelp of delight Dr.Varty had been hoping to hear from his brother, the pessimist. Then he clambered to the top of the pile, dropped to his knees, and began gleefully digging out scoop after scoop with his bare hands. 'What do you think you're doing?' Dr.Varty asked, just as baffled by the optimist as he had been by the pessimist. 'With all this manure,' the little boy replied, beaming, 'there must be a pony in here somewhere!'

This story/joke involves optimists and pessimists. I consider myself to be neither...I'm a realist. As a realist, I've got to tell you that this story could never happen, for a number of reasons assuming that I, the leisurologist, am the psychiatrist:

1) being a psychiatrist implies a lengthy commitment to study, which is beyond my attention span these days (as a self proclaimed amateur psychiatrist I've diagnosed myself with AAADD...advanced adult attention deficit disorder).

Hey, I just saw a bird fly past my window. I'm going to put my boots on and go see what it was.

Ian, you've got to finish the blog first. Stay focused.

Sorry.

2) having a job would negate my status as the only leisurologist in the village of Cambridge-Narrows (like Daffyd Thomas except without the gayness or the smashing outfits).

3) do you really think I'd be in the office if it was windy outside??!!??!!

4) I would never have a pony in my office...I don't like horses, even when they're marinated properly.

There goes another bird past my window. Yippee! I think it's an eagle!!

I think we've lost him. See you tomorrow.

Ending A Good Year Poorly

2009-12-31T07:59:00.005-04:00

Don't worry, next year I'll be funny!

Ian, honey, if you're not funny after forty-six years, it ain't gonna happen.

We'll see. Thanks for reading my blog in 2009. There's only 77 posts in 2010 before the blog is done forever!

Ian (and me, his alter ego...aka the voice of enlightenment and reason, with just a dash of sarcasm)

The Wisdom Of Cocktail Napkins

2009-12-30T08:32:00.005-04:00

Lately I seem to be obsessed with cocktail napkins. They're enough to drive me to drink, though I'm far more interested in the inky wisdom on the napkin than the murky clarity that comes from alcohol.

My fascination bubbled to the surface again, on Friday, December 18, at a friend's place in Halifax. He served drinks on cocktail napkins graced with a traditional Christmas image. Underneath the image was a quote by W.C.Fields, as follows:

"A Merry Christmas to all my friends...except two."

I can't explain why, but I loved that quote. I still do. Perhaps it hit close to home, almost literally. Take a look at my nice/naughty list above. The 'nice' list is not even close to being complete, but the 'naughty' list is absolutely filled up.

Last evening I was at a friend's place in Fredericton and she also had humorous cocktail napkins. Here's what hers looked like...

Why do these cocktail napkins appeal to me so much? I think that I like the idea of the oppressed housewife having a mind of her own, and a wicked one at that! I don't relate to the oppression. I am, after all, a retired house husband/leisurologist who wears no apron (or matching thong).

I have a habit of always cheering for the underdog. She feels the need to break away from her subservience, and she uses baked indifference and acerbic wit to achieve that end. To her, I raise my glass (and admire the cocktail napkin underneath).

Little Pink Houses For You And Me

2009-12-29T09:06:00.002-04:00

If you close your eyes when you drive by the 2400 square foot shanties, then you'll never know that poor, undesirable people live in Austin, Texas.

I read something yesterday that was quite troubling. It was a true story of an on-going battle between an Austin (TX) based, non-profit business school and some of its residential neighbours. The business school sits on a generous 21 acre parcel of land in the gently rolling, scrubby hills of Austin's outskirts. Some of the neighbours apparently don't appreciate the business school. There has been "hostility, antagonism, harassment and vandalism" directed toward the business school and its founder.

In September 2008 I took a two day workshop at the business school, which goes by the name of Wizard Academy. The workshop was entitled Accelerated Branding. It probably wasn't the best workshop for me to take, but I was captivated by the business school and the manner in which ideas were shared. I'd happily go back. I marvelled at the dry and bushy landscape...so foreign to my own verdant lakeside forest. I also noted the size of the mansions in the Wizard Academy neighbourhood. They were huge and unapologetic.

Oddly enough, there was something in what I read that troubled me even more than the on-going disagreement over land use. I'm pretty used to turf skirmishes, because I live next to a Cambridge-Narrows warlord. Nothing surprises me anymore, in that regard. The global citizen in me was perturbed by what I read, because it spoke of a society where core values had gone awry. Here's what my eyes saw, as written by the founder of the business school...

"We built Denny House - a caretaker’s house with an observation balcony - so that the property might be monitored. Neighborhood restrictions – as with all the lots on that side of Crystal Hills Drive – required us to build no less than 2,800 square feet. Although this was much larger and more expensive than we would have preferred, we built an elegant home to help protect the property values of our neighbors."

I was surprised to learn, however, that you can't build a home on Crystal Springs Drive in Austin that is less than 2800 square feet. That's appalling, embarrassing and downright earth unfriendly.

Of course the undercurrent to that building covenant is that only rich, or well to do people, live there. The business school built the caretaker a 2800 square foot home, though it was wholly unnecessary, as pointed out.

No wonder the world is tanking, because this is the way a small minority of powerful people think. Some members of this minority are likely involved in politics, making decisions about zoning and resource allocation.

It's not just America, folks...I'm sure this happens in the great white north as well. I can understand that people want to live in a place of beauty, architectural or otherwise, but when it comes to houses, big isn't always beautiful. And it sure as hell makes no sense for two, three or four people to live in a 5000 square foot house. Or a 4000 square foot house. Or even a 3000 square foot house. The McMansion is an embarrassment to society.

The owners of these monstrosities would just say that I'm envious because I can't afford one. To them I say 'we can't afford them...we, as society'. There's a relatively new house where my wife grew up that reputedly has seven bathrooms. Unless the Brady Bunch all has to pee, or worse, at the same time, then I can't see the point of wasting resources unnecessarily. I can barely clean one bathroom in my house, if I had seven then I wouldn't have time to write this blog (and that would be a travesty).

John Mellencamp wrote a song about life in America where everyone had a little pink house. It's a nice song. It wouldn't be the same had he been writing about starter castles or Hummer homes. I'll bet most little pink houses are under 2800 square feet. I'll bet that most are under 1500 square feet. There should be a little pink house out there for you and me, even in Austin, Texas.

Oh but ain't that America, for you and me
Ain't that America, somethin' to see baby
Ain't that America, home of the free
Little pink houses for you and me.

The Father Of The Year Award Goes To....

2009-12-28T07:36:00.005-04:00

I'm trying to convince my son to dye his hair black. A lot of rock stars have jet black hair, not that I've ever seen a black jet before. Come to think of it, most jets are white. Damn this language!

My son has no interest in dying his hair black, blond, red or blue. Undeterred by his lack of enthusiasm for my brilliant plan, I decided to create a Photoshop likeness of how I see 'the transformation'. It's today's image.

My plan for him is to dye his hair, wear shades much of the time, a headband, smoke, wear shirts with skeletons on them, get a tattoo or three, wear ripped jeans (how naughty!) and grow a half beard (the best that any Varty could do). I wouldn't be upset if he skipped classes to play his guitar, or if he said 'bye-bye' to his full scholarship at university and took the show on the road, playing arenas in all the big cities: the AC Centre in Toronto, the Staples Centre in L.A, and the Père Camille Léger Arena in Cap-Pelé.

How cool would that be? Sadly, it looks like my son is more interested in pursuing his academic studies than a life as a rock n' roller. Oh well, a father can still dream, right?

This makes me wonder where I went wrong. Was I not a good role model to my son? Did my singing and strutting around the house like Mick Jagger not leave some sort of impression on the boy?

Ian, you were more of a roll model. Cinnamon roll, that is.

Role models...now there's a dicey term. I was in a store called Digital World two weeks ago when I heard a commotion at the entrance. A man, probably in his late twenties said something, rather loudly, that rhymes with 'mucking ditch'. He was addressing his better half (?) who was trying to escape the store, if not more. He remained in the store with what was presumably their three year old son. I watched him in the store. He looked angry. I left the store just before he did, but I made a point to sit in my car and watch for fireworks when he left. He practically dragged the three year old to the waiting minivan.

His bottled blond partner was in the driver's seat, so to speak, but I doubt she ever really was. The bad dad lifted his little son up with the affection that one would show a sack of potatoes, then plunked him into his car seat. I watched carefully as mad dad grumbled with the blond. It was painful to watch such an unhappy family. That little kid will be damaged goods before he ever gets to kindergarten. I can't imagine what he's already seen in his short little life.

I would like to have done something nice for this unfortunate family, but intervention would have met with confrontation. There was nothing that a stranger could do to help. Perhaps I could have bought them some clothing: a snow suit for the three year old, a winter parka for the woman, and some shoes for the dad. Cement shoes. What a jerk and a coward he was. He won't be giving me a run for the money at the Father Of The Year Awards, even if I jokingly encourage my son to follow in Keith Richards' footsteps. Did I mention that sad dad was a jerk and a coward? Ah yes, I did.

You forgot to call him an asshole.

That he was. A lot of people are unhappy but it really pisses me off when the kids are the ones who suffer. No kid deserves a father like that. It's funny (not really) that you need a license to go fishing, but you can become a father overnight, more or less.

I'm not suggesting that we start a Canadian Penis Registry program, though the need for one could be argued. Like the Canadian Firearms Registry program, it would identify dangerous weapons. I'd suggest the father that I witnessed in Fredericton could be the first name on the list. He could be the poster boy for the movement.

In many ways, the penis is far more damaging than any gun. It's giving us deadbeat dads as well as overpopulation. Overpopulation may lead to more deaths than an army of guns could deliver. One of my all-time favorite sculptures sits outside of the United Nations building in New York City. You can see it by clicking here.

Perhaps we should have a similar statue in Canada, outside the Canadian Penis Registry building when it's built, which it surely will be. ACOA has already approved the funding. Of course the statue won't be of a gun. It will be of a knotty dad.

Wat Te Ell Appened Ere?

2009-12-27T07:51:00.004-04:00

Whendy likes to read the Globe & Mail so whe often whander along to Jemseg to buy it. Of course they sell more than just newspapers in Jemseg, they also have whreaths available. I whonder whhat else whe might find if whe whent shopping there. Perhaps a whelcome mat on the floor.

Oh, it must be nice to be perfect, Ian?

I'd be the first to admit that I make a lot of spelling mistakes, but I make a valiant effort to avoid them. I like to proof reed my righting once oar sum thyme twice. I use www.dictionary.com as a reference when I can't spell a word. I also use the spell checker on Blogger. You might be amazed at how often I make spelling mistakes, even with the help of the latest technology.

I wouldn't be amazed, because I know you're a wheenie.

I'm sympathetic toward anyone of another language who tries to learn Hinglish. What a botched and butchered batch of bumbled, dastardly bastardly letters we've brought together to call our own.

There, there Ian. Or is it they're, they're Ian? Or their, their Ian?

English is a mess. Why does wreath start with a double you? That's just plain knuts. No wonder the French want to keep their language! Can you blame them? French is full of sexiness. A house, la maison, is feminine. A big house, le château, is masculine. Okay, French is messed up too, but it's undeniably sexy.

While we're on the topic of French and English, how come French people can't say the letter 'h' in English when they need, yet can say it when they don't...i.e. I played ockey on the hice.

Ian, are you trying to anger the French?

No, I love all languages. They're part of our global culture and I embrace them all with open harms. When the guy from Dell computers, headquartered in New Delhi, calls me Mr.Warty, I don't recoil or try to correct him because his first language doesn't pronounce the vee sound. When the guy from Capital One Mastercard asks to speak to Mr.Warty, I say "Mr.Warty speaking", then try to give him the slip as quickly as possible.

I actually like being called Mr.Warty. Besides, what else could he call me?

I have a list of thirty seven put-downs he could use...want to hear them?

You'd better shut up, or you'll suffer my whreath, wrath. Or, as the British say, roth. Ah, the English language....isn't it grond? In keeping with today's theme of botching the language, I present you this, a scene from my favourite Christmas movie.

Happy hoe ho!

Christmas Q & A...With Some T & A, And The F-Bomb

2009-12-26T08:31:00.004-04:00

"Mama...someone said the f-word."

These words, uttered at a family party on Christmas eve, came out of the mouth of my five year old nephew. They were spoken during a Nielsen family Christmas carol sing-along. I doubt very much that anyone in Wendy's family dropped the f-bomb. The only person there who would even think about doing that is me, and I assure you, it wasn't me. Most of my swearing is done under my breath, sometimes cleverly hidden under a smirk, but rarely on Christmas eve. The vast majority of my swearing is reserved for Christmas morning, when the 'presents' are opened.

There's no doubt that my nephew misheard whatever song was being sung at the time. I've been racking my brain to think what song we/they were all singing. The best that I can come up with is '__ck the halls with boughs of holly, f_ la la la la'.

Kids say the darndest things. I half expect that Art Linkletter and Bill Cosby were somewhere in the room, likely behind the drapes, naked, filming us. Kids make Christmas fun. Art and Bill creep me out.

I have two nieces who I saw on Christmas Day. They don't swear unless their dad teaches them modified lyrics to otherwise wholesome songs. They, particularly the younger one, are obsessed with potty humour and body parts. The younger one made some gingerbread men for Christmas. Actually, the one that was proudly shared with the gathered family wasn't a gingerbread man at all. Clearly it was a gingerbread woman because the careful placement of two pink jelly tots left nothing to the imagination. If Pamela Anderson was a cookie...

My younger niece also put on a impressive dancing display, with a backbeat provided by Lady Gaga and her latest single Bad Romance. The dancing was quite 'mature' for an eight year old, stylized after Dame Gaga's video, but hilarious nonetheless. Normally I'd provide a link to the Gaga gal's video, but we here at theleisurologist.blogspot.com do have certain standards to uphold, so no link will be provided. I want one place on earth to be a Gaga free zone, so it's going to be my blog. I'll never mention her again.

My eighty-two year old mother was given a tiara for Christmas. You can see her image above. She was also given a sash with the words 'The Queen' emblazoned across the front. My mom does a mean impersonation of Queen Elizabeth, so we wanted to give her 'the look' to go along with the sound. She plays the Queen well, occasionally lashing out at Charles and Camilla for their lack of collective fondness displayed toward the corgis.

I wonder what Christmas is like at Buckingham Palace? Do you think Charles sleeps over at his parents' house like I do at mine? Do you think that Camilla cooks pancakes for everyone on Christmas morning? Or do you think that Charles bakes muffins for the other royals in his Easy-Bake oven. I'll just bet he's got one. Damn him! I'll bet the entire royal family just goes gaga when Charles enters the parlour with a basket full of steaming Easy-Bake muffins.

Now that's my idea of a perfect Christmas morning, I swear.

2009-12-25T09:43:00.002-04:00

It's 9:44 a.m., Christmas morning, and I'm just now hearing the pitter-patter of little feet. Actually Julian's feet are size twelve and he (clearly) isn't too ramped up about Christmas gift opening....not like the days when he was six and unable to sleep beyond 5 a.m. (of course I was up at 4 a.m., shaking gifts and wondering if (finally!) someone got me an Easy-Bake oven).

There are no boxes under this year's Christmas tree that are big enough to be an Easy-Bake oven, but I'm not depressed. There's always next year!!

The Christmas Card: Creation Or Evolution?

2009-12-24T11:10:00.003-04:00

Every year I create a Christmas card to send to friends and family. It feels like a more personal way to say Merry Christmas, when I can't say it in person.

You mean because you're too cheap to pay for a long distance phone call.

Not true. If you were in Antarctica, I would call you.

Call me what?

I'd call you on the telephone. In fact, I'm going to suggest that you go there right now so I can prove that I'm not scared to make long distance telephone calls. I'd offer to help pack your bags, but they're already packed. You seem to carry a lot of baggage around with you and I'm not sure there's room for any more.

Ha ha. Point made. Ian: one, Alter Ego: zero. You win.

I really enjoy creating the cards. That's why I do it...for the joy of creating. You might say that I'm a creationist.

I like creating cards so much that I decided to create a 'Christmas in July' card, but it never got sent. The NRA threatened to sue me, because they, too, were thinking of marketing a similar card. The law suit was settled in the Oromocto courthouse in early September, too late to use the card this year. I won the case, but I took a bullet in the leg for my troubles. I'm not sure, but I thought I saw Charlton Heston's widow on the six floor of the Oromocto School Book Depository building.

I started creating the cards in 2002, but sadly my first two cards have gone missing from my archives. In 2002 we dressed up like the Osbournes. Me with a leopard skin shirt and Wendy having her ass plumped up by a pillow. There were other props, including Julian. Our 2003 card had us masquerading as body builders (not much Photoshop magic needed for me!).

I was able to find our cards from 2004 to 2008. You'll see them below and you can click on them if you wish to see them in a larger format. It's fun to see how the cards have evolved over the years. And they have. You might say that I'm an evolutionist.

Merry Christmas. Happy Holy Days. Happy Hanukkah. Rockin' Ramadan. Joyeux Noel. Seasons Greetings, or if you play Scrabble against me, Season's Beatings.

Whatever your religion, colour, beliefs, persuasion, etc...blah, blah, blah...enjoy your time with family and friends.

Pussy Problems

2009-12-23T07:43:00.002-04:00

We're all familiar with the term 'lap dog', aren't we? We've all seen fluffy lap dogs driving Mercedes Benzi (one Mercedes Benz, two Mercedes Benzi, to clarify) or big black Cadillac Escalades. Sure, it's dangerous when a nine pound Lhasa Apso has greater access to the steering wheel than the dog's owner (who just happens to have hair that matches Fluffy's). Rich people can get away with stuff like this, so get over it.

I don't have a lap dog. I prefer to drive myself wherever I need to go. I do, however, have a lap cat. She's not mine. She, Sam, belongs to an errant friend whose house I'm currently visiting. Sam is rather amorous, and thinks that it's her god given right, likely bestowed by some Egyptian cat god, to sit on my lap while I'm at the computer.

Sometimes Sam sits on my lap. Sometimes Sam sits on my laptop. In any event, it's not easy cranking out a blog with fifteen pounds of fur and fangs between my thoughts and the keyboard.

Take a look at Sam in this picture. She's a lovely cat, but she has that look that says 'you wanna piece of me'? I don't dare move her, she's purring so happily. For a while Sam was sitting on my hands. I didn't think that I'd be able to finish typing this blog, but then I had a bright idea...and it worked for a while, but now my toes are now starting to cramp as they're not used to typing, so I'm going to cut my losses and stop here.

You can't silence me, your alter ego. We all know that my thoughts appear in the blog not through normal channels. My thoughts are never typed, they are just willed to appear. Look ma, no hands! No feet either! I could write a short novel here today, Ian, since your hands are tied. I'm loving this feeling of power.

Hey, what are you doing, Ian? Stop kicking at the cord with your feet! Stop it now!! No! No! Don't pull out the plu

The Fender Bender

2009-12-22T07:50:00.003-04:00

It was December 15, 2008 when I bought my first electric guitar...just over a year ago. It was made by Yamaha, who also made made my first motorbike which I acquired at the ripe young age of fourteen. Weird, huh? I mean, Honda doesn't make cellos. Kawasaki doesn't make dinner forks, so why does Yamaha make dirt bikes and guitars?

It quickly became evident, upon acquiring the guitar, that I would never be the rock star in my family. Had I been born into the Partridge Family, instead of the Vartys, I would have been the little one in the dress shaking the tambourine.

What was her name again?

It was Tracy. She was the baby of the family, like me, and also the one with the least amount of talent.

Was she really that untalented?

Honestly, I don't know. She was the youngest, so perhaps she simply didn't have time to develop her musical skills.

Are you suggesting, given enough time, that she may have excelled musically and moved from the lowly tambourine up to the more challenging triangle?

The triangle and tambourine are both stepchildren in the troubled family called the Percussions. With two separate parts, the triangle is a very complicated instrument, so don't make fun of it. I own one.

I've seen you play it and, trust me, it looks very difficult. So, getting back to the six string, how's it going with the guitar?

I struggle with the guitar. I am making progress on the acoustic, but it's slow. When Julian left for university, I gave him the electric Yamaha, so I've witnessed no personal progress as a Bon Jovian disciple. I'm mostly folked up by the acoustic.

Julian bought a brand new Rickenbacker 330/6 about a month ago. Wendy and I helped him with the purchase (Merry Christmas, junior). The beauty of helping him acquire the coveted Ric was that I inherited the electric Yamaha. I've been playing it a bit, but not doing it any justice.

Julian is now home for the holidays. He picked up the Yamaha last night and within twenty minutes cranked out some classic Rolling Stones tunes. The electric Yamaha behaves much like a Fender Stratocaster, the guitar of choice for role models like the palm tree plagued Keith Richards, and many others. It would be a shorter list to name who hasn't played a Fender. Fenders are legendary. If someone was stoned on stage, chances are that a Fender wasn't far away.

The Fender, or the Yamaha for that matter, is a very different instrument from the Rickenbacker. It gives a completely different sound colour. Guitars, like cars, I've discovered, are not all the same. For example, I've carried a washer and a dryer in the back of my Ford Focus wagon...try and do that in a Porsche Carrera! The Porsche, on the other hand, sounds like a tiger when it accelerates. My car sounds like Tracy on the tambourine.

I took a lot of pleasure from listening to Julian play the Yamaha last night. I'm thinking that he should take the Yamaha back to Dal when he leaves on the third. He'll get a lot of satisfaction from it, and this makes me very happy. I am worried, however, that the Yamaha will make him behave like Keith Richards. The Rickenbacker is too expensive to use as a fan club. Or he could be more gentle, like the other Keith Richards, who spoke reassuringly to his fans after falling out of a coconut tree in Fiji.

Isn't rock n' roll great? If you're not convinced that rock n'roll is the greatest, then watch this.

Wicked tambourine playing, eh? Who needs the guitar? Julian, take it. I've got bigger plans.

The Edge Of Madness

2009-12-21T15:06:00.009-04:00

Sometimes I wish that my photography was a bit, hmmm....what's the word....edgier. I'd like to be a bit more experimental. I was watching a U2 dvd (Live From Boston) at a friend's place a few days ago when I decided that I wanted a concert souvenir. If I had been in Boston when the concert was originally filmed then I might have bought a t-shirt or something Bonoesque (like cool yellow sunglasses), but since I was sitting on a sofa in Dartmouth, I had few options.

My camera! I could always photograph the concert!!

Ian, are you mad? You were watching a dvd on the giant Samsung. You could watch it over and over and over again if you wished. Why, in the name of Rod's name (Stewart) would you photograph the television? After yesterday's blog I thought there was some hope for you, but now I'm not so sure.

Like I said, I wanted to give my photography a bit of an edge.

You mean a bit of The Edge?

That too! I like the results of my little experiment. I hope that you, too, will like them.

100% P.O.P....If 'P' Stands For Death

2009-12-20T08:20:00.003-04:00

Much of my last two days was spent in the company of a man whose life forecast was no longer measured in years. In fact, his life was not measured in months, weeks, or even days. His life, after seventy-five years of living, was now measured in hours. He was dying.

I walked into his hospital room around 4 p.m. on Friday afternoon. A television, mounted high on the wall, was tuned to The Weather Network. The television was there for the dying man, though his eyes and ears were likely not paying much attention to the long range forecast which was being aired. You might think it an odd choice of programming for a man living from minute to minute but, if you knew the facts, which you soon will, you might find yourself smiling.

My focus shifted from the television to the man on the bed who I hadn't seen in a few years. His now thin frame was bent at the knees and covered with a blanket. His chest, draped in a johnny shirt, was lifted slightly upward. His chin protruded awkwardly beyond his chest, in the direction of the sky. His skin clung to his chin, following the isobaric contours of the bone underneath. His mouth, agape, exhaled a rattled, gurgling breath which made me feel very uneasy.

I am one of those rare people who has managed to live into his forties without knowing anything about death. It has escaped me, and I have escaped it. On Friday I looked at the face of death and it troubled me at first, but then I started thinking not of death, but of life. My wife's uncle was surrounded by his wife, his kids and his family. His tribe. The room was not socked in with foggy grief, rather it was beaming with sunshine, warmth and love. The stories that were told of his life were like shafts of light, unfettered by the brooding clouds of death. It all seemed fitting for a man who spent his professional career as a meteorologist.

I belong to a tribe known as 'the windsurfers'. We spend, on a yearly average, three or four days a month enjoying the fleeting bounty of the meteorologists' forecast: wind, sun, rain, warmth, cold...often all in the same day. Of those three of four days, perhaps only one is blessed with an accurate wind forecast. Typically we spend thirty days a month cursing the meteorologists, even in February with its twenty-eight days. Many windsurfers spend their afternoons plotting the deaths of the Environment Canada staff while waiting for the wind to arrive, which it often fails to do. No windsurfer has ever successfully managed to kill a meteorologist...all threats being figurative. It's not easy to kill a meteorologist, and my wife's uncle is living proof.

About twenty-five years ago he was diagnosed with Parkinson's disease. He was not alone at the time, as many other individuals in the Halifax region were plagued with the same forecast. Of those people who had the Parkinson's prognosis, only Wendy's uncle Barrie was still living yesterday. He was the Energizer bunny in terms of Parkinson's patients.

Parkinson's disease is not pretty. It robs its keepers of their motor skills, but not of their ability to love or appreciate those who love them. I was reminded of this as I watched Pat sitting by Barrie's side. This is what made Barrie's pending death more of a celebration than a commiseration.

Barrie's wife Pat met him just after he was diagnosed. It would have been easy for the weak to walk away at that point. It would have been easy for the strong to walk away. Many would have walked, but not Pat. She spent a quarter of a century, much of her life, loving Barrie. As I sat in Barrie's hospital room, this was blissfully evident. She stroked his hand as he lay there. It was the most natural thing in the world, like the coming and going of the tides.

We all told stories that somehow involved Barrie, or his colourful family. We shared many laughs together and the discomfort of watching someone die was replaced by the knowledge that it was all worthwhile. Some people live their lives alone, never knowing love. Some people spend their lives with others, never knowing love. Some people, like uncle Barrie, cursed with Parkinson's, lived a life full of love. It hasn't been easy for Barrie, or Pat, but it was real.

As I left the hospital yesterday, I exhaled my last breath of stuffy hospital air and took in a deep breath of the cold Atlantic air. I felt good about death, all things considered. I felt good about life and I felt like honoring it in a very simple, yet profoundly personal way.

I drove my car to a place called Cow Bay where I watched the relentless ocean pulse back and forth. I watched three brave surfers laughing in the face of the forecast. The meteorologists were calling for minus eight degrees, though it was actually minus nine. It's not easy to deter the passionate and strong. The surfers, like Barrie, were proof of that.

Back Off Ed Hillary!

2009-12-19T07:50:00.002-04:00

This sign makes me laugh every time that my luxury, kiwi green station wagon rolls me past it. Just as the last few syllables of 'see you later New Brunswick' are rolling off my tongue, as I cross the border into New Scotland, I'm greeted by this disingenuous shot across Pooh Bear's bow. It's also a slight to Sir Edmund, the bee keeping hill climber.

I went to Agricultural College in Nova Scotia, so I've got a pretty good idea why the sign was erected by the Nova Scotia Department of Agriculture. No doubt some bees have been 'sleeping around' and have caught some sort of horrible transmittable disease, such as C1B1 (Swine Fly Flu). No one wants slut bees or diseased drones to 'get busy' with the queen, thus endangering the future of society as we know it. Nevertheless, this sign and it's placement seem comical.

If you look at the tire tracks on the other side of this sign, you can see well worn u-turn grooves in the pavement where bee carrying New Brunswickers have been enlightened, and rushed back with their hives to the safety of Aulac. They then released their bees with strict instructions not to follow them back into Nova Scotia.

The history of importing diseased bees can be traced back to the Acadian expulsion when the New Brunswick Acadians fled to Nova Scotia. One of the Acadian women accidentally brought a diseased bee, from Fort Beausejour to Amherst, in her hat. This one bee decimated the natural population of bees, thus causing a crop failure through lack of pollination (with ensuing famine). It also led to the expression 'she's got a bee in her bonnet', indicative of a troubling situation.

You made that up, right?

Absolutely. Pure, unadulterated bullshit.

I would like to know if, during the many years that the sign has been present, if anyone has ever backtracked with their bees. What do you think?

I doubt the sign is very effective. They might as well paint it over with something more meaningful, like 'Rita's Tea Room...342km'. Just a thought. Or maybe a catchy government slogan...

Bee...not in this place.

Backtracking With Winter Tires

2009-12-18T07:49:00.002-04:00

Some mornings I'm blessed with the luxury of time. This morning is not one of those mornings so I'm regurgitating some images from earlier in the month. At least I'm showing some images that didn't make it into the blog before. They're all images of the first snow of the new winter.

If you're frustrated by the small size of the slideshow, then you can see larger images by clicking here. They do look better when they're larger, like many things (i.e. smiles).

Last Night I Was Stoned...I Think

2009-12-17T09:36:00.009-04:00

Take a good look at the image above, then start reading (please).
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The Blair Witch Project. Friday The 13th. Halloween. Bride of Chucky...all horror films. None of them watched by me. I'm simply not into horror films, and why would I be?

I've been bumped off my flight, while flying with a child, by Air Canada. I've squeezed a freshly baked Tim Horton's apple fritter and watched the artery clogging oil pour out of it. I once owned and drove an Oldsmobile. I've voted Mulroney*.

I know a thing or two about horror.

Yesterday was a day of rock n' roll for me. I was working at a project in my boathouse. My radio, completely cranked, was tuned to a Saint John classic rock station. Given my druthers, I'd tune it into an alternative rock station but, here in good old New Brunswick, I'm only given the choice of classic rock, teeny pop, or country slop. Classic rock is the lesser of the three evils, so my choice was made. I could listen to CBC, I suppose, but I find that CBC doesn't go well with power tools. Heavy metal needs heavy metal.

Things were going swimmingly until C98 (alternatively called 'Big John' by the DJs, or 'Ready John' by me) played a Def Leppard song. I went into convulsions and dragged my twisted wreck of a body to the radio (ears bleeding). I clawed at the dial until I found a Fredericton spastic rock station (105.3..the Fox). It was just slightly worse than the Saint John station, proven by the fact that a Bob and Doug MacKenzie spoken word song was played not fifteen minutes after I made the switch. I canned the Fox and dialled back to Ready John.

I had three projects on the go during this musical fiasco. My first project involved drilling a hole into a granite boulder. I was making slow progress when, all of a sudden, the boulder broke in half. I don't know much about drilling rocks, so the result didn't surprise me. I was hoping to use small, beach worn granite boulders as door knobs for my nearly completed cabinet which I built. Alas, it was not meant to be.

Project two involved putting a coat of varnish on the cabinet while concurrently trying to do some weight training (project three) in my boathouse (alternatively known as 'the man cave'). The fumes from the varnish were quite strong and at one point I began to hallucinate. While sitting at my weight bench, trying to curl some dumbbells, I happened to glance over at my windsurfer, which was sitting on a wall mounted rack. I began to fixate on the Chinook base plate (see image above) which facilitates the joining of the mast to the board. It looked scarily familiar, but I wasn't sure why at first.

Take a look at the image above, again, right now. Don't read on. Does the image remind you of a fictional character from a movie, or was I simply stoned from the varnish fumes?

It hit me like a rack of lamb when I finally realized that I knew exactly why the base plate looked so familiar. The room fell silent. It looked like that crazy person from the Silence Of The Lambs; a movie which, by the way, I've never watched. What was her name? The girl in the goalie mask. Annabelle Lector?

I think you've got your horror films mixed up, Ian. Perhaps you should watch them, then you would be qualified to write about them intelligently. It was actually Lecter, not Lector. Ell. Eee! See. Tea. Eee! Arrr! And it was Hannibal, not Annabelle. The bad person was a character played by Anthony Hopkins, not Jodie Foster.

And for the record, the goalie mask was from the horror movie Friday The Thirteenth. It also made a brief appearance in the soft horror film National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation (one that we have watched together and enjoyed).

Everyone probably thinks that I'm crazy at this point, so let me state my case with a visual aid.

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Pretty cool, eh? You must see the similarities, right? It wasn't just the varnish controlling my thoughts, was it?
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Oh yes, one other thing...
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* I've never, ever, voted for Mulroney. That would be scary.
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Rumblings Of The PhArts

2009-12-16T09:25:00.005-04:00

The Cambridge-Narrows Photographic Arts Club (PhArts), of which I'm a card carrying member, had a meeting last week. At that meeting, our most esteemed President stepped down from his duties after a successful seven year reign.

So why did he step down?

He cited personal reasons. Apparently the role of PhArts Club President was starting to feel like work, and this guy had an aversion to work.

What was the lazy bastard's name?

Oh, as if you don't know!

Of course I know, I was just setting you up for a fall! Shall I tell them who the President was?

Sure, go ahead. Like I can stop you...

It was Ian Varty.

Yes, it's true. I resigned after seven years as President of the PhArts. I found that I was starting to spend too much time overseeing club logistics. My paper shuffling and organizational planning sessions were beginning to take upwards of two hours per month, and that was unacceptable. It was cutting into my leisure time, so I knew that I had to take drastic measures...so I retired.

I've been retired for five days now, and I've got to tell you, I'm loving it. They warned me that I'd feel lost without work, but I seem to be adjusting just fine. One of my first retirement projects was to create a blog for the PhArts club. It will be a venue for the six PhArts members to show the public some of our pictures. As the blog is in its infancy right now, there's only three images to be seen, but it will grow over time.

If you'd like to see what the PhArts are shooting, then feel free to visit our blog at http://www.thepharts.blogspot.com/. You'll also see a link to the PhArts blog on the sidebar of theleisurologist.blogspot.

Now that I'm officially retired, I hope to spend more time with friends and family. I want to socialize more often. I want to do things that I couldn't do before (because of the unhealthy amount of time that I was putting into the PhArts Club). If you'd like to socialize with me, or spend some time doing something with me, please let me know. I'm as free as an eagle.

The eagle in your image doesn't look particularly free. It's got a snare caught on its toe. I thought that you said that you were "free as an eagle."

Well, I'm not one hundred percent free. No man is.

Why not?

Garbage day.

Huh?

Every Tuesday morning I have to lug the week's garbage up to the end of my driveway by eight o'clock in the morning. It's hellishly hard work.

Why don't you hire someone to do it for you?

I tried, but failed miserably.

What did Wendy say when she learned that you tried to hire someone to take the garbage out on Tuesday mornings?

She thanked me for offering her the job first, then she put some thumb tacks in a bowl of oatmeal and asked me if I was ready for breakfast.

Eight Ch Too Oh!

2009-12-15T06:43:00.002-04:00

A frozen waterfall along Glebe Road, just outside the quaint seaside town of St.Andrews (N.B.), was recently discovered by yours truly. I, along with a friend, stopped for a half hour, happily photographing the motionless water. Standing before it, in small 'a' awe, I was reminded of how important water is in my life. I don't like water...I love it.

I prefer water to run freely as it does in the three seasons not called winter, but frozen water takes on its own charm. In the wilds, ice can take on the quality of molten glass, bending light with delicious consequences. It rivals any sculpture created by the hand of humans. My middle image reminds me of Haida art.

I have been known to partake in the occasional use of domestic ice. My rum and Coke is much happier swimming with a few square bergs. I've curled and skated on domestic ice, but I much prefer skating on wild, free range ice, such as can be found when the mighty Washademoak freezes. My lake is trying to freeze at the moment, going through a number of freeze and thaw exercises. Soon it will be frozen solid.

One of the most pleasant, yet haunting, aspects of living next to the lake is the singing. No, I'm not talking about Wendy and the numerous opera singers who frequent our lakeside studio. I'm talking about the lake singing. During the frigid nights of winter, the lake sings loudly. I'm not sure if it's caused by the changing tides under the ice, or simply the shifting ice, but sing it does. It's hard to describe the sound, though it sounds very much like the song of the whale. I'll try and record it this winter and put a sound bite on the blog.

It's just one of the many joys of my Canadian winter.

Do you love winter, Ian?

Well, let's just say that I wouldn't say no to a one way ticket to St.Barths.

There aren't any waterfalls there, frozen or liquid.

I'd wash my sorrow away with an icy rum n' Coke. Or two.

Getting Schooled At Home

2009-12-14T06:23:00.005-04:00

The government issued, rather formal looking, sign which lived on the outside wall of the building, said 'Tough School'. I laughed out loud because, as a former supply teacher at the Cambridge-Narrows School, I knew a tough school when I saw one. Or, at least, I thought that I did.

The irony in this situation, and I'm not sure that it's actually irony (Alanis Morissette and I suffer from this confusion...and we both blame our public school teachers...isn't that ironic?), is that the school may or may have not been tough, but it happened to be in a Scottish town called Tough. It's pronounced 'tewk' or something like that. Spit should fly out of your mouth when you attempt its pronunciation.

Ach, yer bum's oot the windae, Ian.

Thanks for that, now I have to clean my glasses. And the window glass, apparently. The Tough school may or may not be all that tough. Some schools in North America have metal detectors at the door...now that's tough. I always insisted that Julian leave his Ak-47 at home, before heading off for his morning classes.

At the Cambridge-Narrows school, I never worried that a student would bring a piece of scrap metal to school. I was more worried about fire...with just cause. I had three fires in my classroom in two years of part-time supply teaching. And, no, I wasn't teaching chemistry at the time, in case there was any doubt.

Okay, kids, today Mr.Varty is going to teach you how to build a bomb. We need a volunteer...how about you, Johnny? The rest of you kids, stand back, I think this could get messy.

The fires that I had in my classroom were not caused by me. They were caused by dumb little shits who thought that it would be fun to start a blaze in a building full of children. This happened three times! I got into the habit of wearing non-flammable clothes to school.

Ian, were some of the other teachers, and by that I mean the ones of the opposite gender, turned on by your Teflon teaching togs?

I won't be answering that, but if I did, I'd have to say 'yes'. Teaching is a tough (tuff) job, and I have a lot of respect for teachers. I, like most people with their grade twelve diplomas, have seen a lot of teachers over the years. In elementary school (1-6), I would have had one teacher per year. Junior high (7-9) and high school (10-12) probably saw me being taught by five teachers per year. That means that I've been taught by approximately thirty-six university trained experts in their field.

Not all public school teachers are shining lights, some are dead wood, but the vast majority of teachers are wonderful and they bring a lot of their personal experiences to the classroom. It's a healthy environment for learning, but not everyone is enamoured of the public school system. It's not uncommon for wealthy families to send their kids to private schools. Private schools do everything that public schools do, plus they provide cardigans and ties for the boys, and mini-skirts for the girls. They charge $15 000 per year for their fashion advice.

Some people don't like the public school system for other reasons and they decide to home school their children. Some kids, for whatever reasons, don't seem to fair well in the public school system. They may have learning disabilities, or social disorders, or whatever. Often these kids are better off being in a home school environment.

It seems that many kids are home schooled because their parents have rather unconventional religious beliefs and they don't want their kids being exposed to outside influence. Or they don't agree with the curriculum.

Are you talking about the public school system's failure to acknowledge the validity of a Flintstonian world where man and brontosaurus co-existed, Ian?

Yeah, pretty much.

Some people view home schooling as a soft form of child abuse. I see their point, but I'm not sure that the facts support the claim. I don't know much about this. I do know that I'm a highly intelligent, well educated person with a broad platform upon which I've piled many pallets of life lessons. Having said this, there's no way that I could possibly offer my son the breadth of knowledge or expertise that his previous thirty-six teachers offered.

Could I have offered him a learning environment at home that was better suited to learning? Perhaps, as there are many distractions at school, but I see the distractions as the attractions. This is real life. This is the life that most people will have to deal with as adults. The workplace is not much different than school. There will be personalities that will be challenging, and many that will be enlightening. The learning never stops, that's for sure.

My father is a brilliant man...a scholar in my eyes, but I'm awfully glad that he didn't home school me. Had I been home schooled I never would have seen Sandra Clark puke up alphabet soup in grade one. I never would have seen Bobby Cusack get the paddle in grade one. I never would have learned to appreciate the bounty of the Easy-Bake Oven. I never would have had the hots for Jane in grade two. I never would have got the strap myself in grade four, or a black eye in grade six. I never would have marveled at Ms.Spinney's banana boobs, or watched my classmate, Mary Ann Fletcher, put a shoe lace in the grade seven home-ec class casserole which was fed to the teachers. I never would have won the best actor award in grade eight, or had the opportunity to be the class clown in Granny McGer's grade eleven math class. I never would have been kicked out of phys-ed class in grade twelve for my stubborn refusal to square dance properly.

Have I made a good argument for home schooling? Absolutely not. Isn't that ironic?

Magdalen Islands 2009: Slideshow

2009-12-13T08:10:00.002-04:00

An Apple A Day...But From Where?

2009-12-12T12:16:00.007-04:00

"You should watch this movie," said Steve to me. As co-owner of Pomodori, Rothesay's Italian style wood-fired pizza restaurant, Steve's advice is taken seriously, especially when it concerns food. The movie of note, Food Inc., was definitely of interest to me.

I arrived home an hour later to find the following message in my e-mail inbox...

This will speak to the already converted, but you may want to rent: http://www.foodincmovie.com/

It's right up your alley!

This message was from another fine foodie friend. The same morsel of advice, arriving within 90 minutes of each other...looks like we've reached the tipping point!

I have yet to rent the movie, mostly because our local general store owner prefers to rent movies that feature violence or soft porn, sometimes together! Alas, it's not easy being me.

I couldn't sleep this morning, so I announced to my wife, at 5:45 a.m., that I was going into Fredericton for a visit to the city's farmers' market. and off I went into the brisk darkness of the morn. It was windy and minus ten, but a crescent moon and a starry sky made me feel alive.

I scoured the market for local goods, as much as possible, but also slutted around the vendors who sold items from afar. My Cotswald cheese, for example, did not get its start in the Maritimes. Once in a while I'll go off the wagon and buy non-local cheese, but not too often.

I bought some apple cider from David Coburn. I've known David for at least half of my life, let's say twenty-three years. David runs the family farm in Keswick Ridge. I'm relatively certain that the Coburn family has been doing this for a long time. David started selling apples and eggs at the market forty years ago, when he was nine.

David Coburn is a farmer. He always has been. Hopefully he always will be, but there is no guarantee. He wants to be a farmer, that's for sure. He currently manages ten acres of apples for cider production, as well as raising thousands of chickens for their eggs. Sounds impressive, until you hear David speak of the good old days.

His family used to have one hundred acres of apples, now it's down to ten. The market, with cheap imports, has dictated that local growers must surrender to economic forces. It's sad that it happens to farmers, because they're going to be our best friends in the future. And we're going to need them to be local.

David shared a startling statistic with me....there used to be five hundred acres of apples under production on Keswick Ridge. That number is now down to seventy acres, and fifty of those acres are for sale.

Imagine a future where there were no local apple growers. Imagine a future where oil shortages made transporting apples across the country unprofitable. Where are you going to find your apples? I bought some apple cider from David because:

a) it's delicious,

b) I want him to be there. Next week. Next year.

Do you know where your apples are coming from? Do you support local farmers? Do you have any clue where any of your food comes from? I do. Steve at Pomodori does. David Coburn does, but what about you?

Here's an image of David Coburn...in his element...at the Boyce Farmers' Market...forty years and counting.

A Quick Thought On Legacy Building

2009-12-11T08:41:00.004-04:00

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Hadrian had a wall built. Napoleon had an empire worth fighting for (as did Alexander T.G., Genghis K., and Earle B.). The Donald has tall buildings and cologne adorned with his surname. Bob is about to get a room at UNB named after him. Everybody was/is happy.

All men. All with great big giant egos.

Me? I'm a tall man with a small ego. I prefer to make footprints in the sand, knowing full well that they'll be washed away with the next tide. Somehow, the thought of leaving no trace is appealing.

When I die, I don't want a tombstone or anything that says I was here. I want my ashes scattered to the four winds high atop Cadillac Mountain (or maybe Dorr Mountain) on Mount Desert Island in Maine. I want to live among the pink granite boulders and the stunted spruce, lichens and blueberries.

I'd also like a little to be saved for Les Iles de la Madeleine, because it's a special place of which I'd like to be a part. I'd love to live with the sand.

I think it sounds a bit morbid. Hey, I just thought of something...when you go, I go. You'd better start looking after yourself. Umm, I mean us.

Don't worry, I'm going to be around for a long time. There are a lot of waves yet to catch. I want to live to see an Environment Canada wind forecast that's correct. Yesterday's forecast was for winds SW 40-70. I went to Saint John and found hurricane force winds blowing in from the west at 15 km/h.

You sound both sarcastic and bitter.

I am. It was incredible how they misread the wind, but not unexpected. Alas, there are no epic windsurfing photographs to share this morning. Only footprints in the sand and snow. They make me think, however, and thinking is good.

Do you want to build a legacy or blow in the wind? Do you want to leave lingering memories or lasting monuments? Do you want to help others, or help yourself. These are things worth pondering.

I hate to do this because it's not in my nature, but I agree with you.

I Usta Know A Game Called Hockey

2009-12-10T08:20:00.004-04:00

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I was playing poker last night when one of the card sharks issued the following challenge:

Name five players from any NHL team.

Do you see those images of me above? They were taken in the 1970s. During this decade I could have named all the players on my favourite team. I could have told you their middle names, along with the type of car they drove and their license plate numbers. I could have told you their blood types. I could have named most of the players on the opposing teams too.

Like many kids growing up in Canada, I was hockey crazy. I worshipped at the shrine called Hockey Night In Canada. Church, for me, was broadcast on CBC every Saturday night. We had pizza and pop communion during the intermissions. It was a great time to be a sports fan. It was a great time to be a chubby child (which I was).

So, Ian, could you name five players from one team?

Rather than list off five players from one team, I decided to list all of the NHL players that I knew. Here's how the list looked:

Sidney Crosby. End of list.

What! You call yourself a Canadian?!?!

Amazingly I could name more members of Ralph Gushue's 2006 Olympic Gold medal curling team than I could NHL players.

Ian, it's Brad Gushue, not Ralph.

Right, right.

So, who else can you name from Brad's curling team? I need at least one more name to prove your infinite curling knowledge.

Umm...I think the other guy's name was Ron Howard.

Ian, you are such a dolt. Ron Howard is a child actor turned bald director. The curler was named Russ Howard, not Ron. Know any other gold medal curlers?

Was there one called Saku Koivu?

No, he's a hockey player. Plays for the Anaheim Ducks.

Cool...so I know two NHL hockey players! Oh!! I just thought of one more. Pasta Head.

Pasta Head?

Yeah, I used to play a video game, called NHL 2004, with my son, and the commentator always spoke of a player called Pasta Head. I remember him saying "it was Pasta Head". I think he was Italian and he seemed to play for almost every team. He must have been traded a lot.

They were actually talking about the puck, you moron! It was passed ahead.

Oh.

2009: Twelve Images

2009-12-09T11:04:00.004-04:00

I could have waited until December 31 to exhibit my images of 2009, but as blogmeister/god, I do as I please. So here they are! Remember that you can click on any image to see a larger version.

Profanic Organic

2009-12-08T09:09:00.002-04:00

I went up to the counter, plunked down my four items. The cashier said "that'll be twenny-three dollas." Then the silent screaming started.

"What are you doing, you moron," the voice yelled at me. The voice was so high pitched that only I could hear it, not unlike a dog whistle. It was emanating from my pants, so that ruled out my alter ego.

The cashier stood patiently, waiting for her twenty three bucks, blissfully unaware of the battle raging before her very eyes. I reached into my back pocket and grabbed my wallet. It bit me. Not a little nip; it opened it's jaws and clamped down on my hand. I winced. My wallet let out a garbled shriek, "No, it's too much money. Don't do this to me." It's voice was muffled by a mouthful of fingers.

I had to do it. I was standing at the checkout and I didn't want to make a fool of myself, though I already had. I wrestled my wallet open and took out a twenty dollar bill, one loony and one toony. There, it was over. My wallet sighed.

I had just paid twenty three dollars for two tubs of yogurt, a dozen eggs and a pound of butter. All of it was organic and, apparently, it costs a lot of money to make organic eggs, butter and yogurt. You may have noticed that I didn't spell yogurt with an 'h' . Had I done so, the 'h' would have stood for 'holy f___ this _h__ is expensive'!

I bought all of my organic items at the health food store in Fredericton. I didn't look at the price of anything, I simply grabbed what I wanted, then proceeded to pay for it. I discovered, upon returning home, that I paid eight dollars for a pound of butter and five dollars for a dozen eggs (they were small eggs, by the way). The yogurt was five clams a tub.

Now, had I gone to the Stooperstore, I would have paid three-fifty per tub of yogurt, three dollars for a dozen eggs and four buckeroos for a pound of butter (roughly). That's fourteen shekels according to my abacus. You do the math. Okay, I'll do it for you. I paid and extra nine doll hairs just to buy organic items.

You might think that I'm anti-organic, by the tone of this blog posting. Nothing could be farther from the truth. I want to eat organically. Why would I want to ingest bovine growth hormones, chicken antibiotics, pesticides and herbicides? I don't want to eat a steak for supper, only to wake up the next morning with hooves and an udder.

I want to eat food that is as close to natural as is humanly possible. I love organic food. I want my chickens to run free, peck at the ground, hang out, have a social life, chat. I want my cows to roam in the meadows instead of laying in a pile of their own poo. I want my yogurt to have real culture.

But...

I don't want to pay eight dollars for a pound of frickin' butter! The other day I put a little pat of butter in the frying pan. My wallet, from the other room, yelled out "that's three dollars worth, you know." My wallet was right. Now I'm treating my pound of butter like it was gold. I no longer dip my lobster in butter. I now dip my butter in lobster. The world has gone mad!

Sadly I've decided that I can't justify eight bucks for butter, or five for eggs. It's a shame that organic goods are so expensive because I want to eat them, but I'm not prepared to spend that much. I hope that my health doesn't suffer in the long run.

Speaking of running, I'd better put my hooves in motion and get on with my day. I'll just swing by the barn on my way.

Got milk, Ian?

Speaking Words Of Wisdom, Let It...Snow

2009-12-07T07:29:00.005-04:00

I was euphoric yesterday morning! This is abnormal for me, because typically I'm just wildly excited to find myself alive and awake.

What made me euphoric? Snow! Lots of it. Beautiful, white fluffy snow. Without any wind it was clinging to the pine, oak, maple, poplar,

Umm, don't you mean popple, Ian?

Sorry. People in New Brunswick don't know what a poplar tree is...they only know about popple trees. So, yes, popple. I've also got ash, beech and spruce trees on my property, and they all looked magnificent with a generous vanilla snow frosting. I was inspired to take my camera out for a two and a half hour snowfari.

The Lower Cambridge Road, my snowfari route, had not been plowed and, for the most part, there were two little tire channels cut through the snow that my intrepid Ford Focus wagon followed. There was virtually no traffic, so I just stopped my car in the middle of the road and took pictures wherever, whenever, I felt like it. It was empowering. It was as though I was in the middle of one of those Christmas globes that you shake up to create a winter landscape.

The funny thing about my euphoria is that by the time April rolls around, I'll be doing a little dance to get rid of the g.d. snow. I'll do a rain dance or a sun dance, whatever it takes to get rid of the snow and bring home spring.

You don't actually dance, do you Ian?

No. It's more of a mental dance than a shoe slappin', toe tappin' Bunny Briggs kind of dance. I have, however, managed to control the weather through concentrated thought. It's just one of my many talents.

I see. Why don't you just lay down on the sofa here and tell me all about your secret world where you're able to control global atmospheric disturbances. I'll just be taking notes while you talk.

You don't actually believe that you control the weather, do you? Isn't that Cindy Day's job?

No, I don't really control the weather, I simply control how I react to it. Cloudy days are good for certain things, like close-up photography. Rainy days are a good excuse to stay indoors and read a book, or put the rubber boots on and make mini Hoover dams in the run-off.

I suppose if you controlled the weather then it would be windy every day of the week. You'd be in windsurfing heaven. Do you think you'll ever control the wind?

Of course I do!

And how might you control the wind? What's you secret weapon?

Duh! Didn't you read my blog yesterday?

Are you kidding? Your blog is so f__ing inane that I wouldn't waste my time reading it.

Well, if you did then you'd know that the secret to muffling the wind is to lay off the dried apricots. You want a hurricane? Eat a pound of them.

Why are we talking about flatulence? Aren't we supposed to be celebrating the first snow of the year?

You're right. Here's one more image from yesterday morning. This is what sparked my euphoria when I first got up....my colourful world was black & white all of a sudden, and I loved it!

Go To Hellvis!

2009-12-06T08:01:00.004-04:00

You might think that I'm back on the religious kick this morning, full of fire and brimstone.

Ian, do you even know what brimstone is?

Not a clue.

Shall I look it up for you in Wikipedia?

Yeah, that'd be great.

Brimstone is the ancient name attributed to sulfur.

This is kind of freaky, but when I eat dried apricots, they give me bad gas that's quite sulphuric. You can set your watch to it, like Old Faithful. You could sell tickets to tourists, it's that reliable.

Have you applied for an ACOA grant, so you can build a viewing platform and an interpretive centre?

No, but I've thought about it. There is a connection between dried apricots and brimstone, in case you're wondering why I brought up apricots when trying to initiate a discussion about hell. I wondered, for years, why dried apricots were so noxious, then one day I read the ingredients. I always assumed that the ingredient list would be very short, like this...ingredients: apricots. It turned out that the apricots had one other (insidious) ingredient: sulphur dioxide.

Sulphur dioxide is produced naturally in volcanoes, and unnaturally in Delaware by companies like Dupont. Sulphur dioxide seems like an odd thing to add to an apricot, but it prevents the dried fruit from becoming rotten, so I guess that it makes sense. I pay a price by ingesting the sulphides, as does everyone within ten metres of me. Sulphur dioxide is also used to make wine, though I don't experience any side effects from generous imbibing, other than an overwhelming desire to table dance in the buff.

If I was marketing apricots, I wouldn't call them Sunkist or Sun-Maid or Casa de Fruta, I'd call them Brimstone Bites or something to that effect. Then I'd sit back and count my money, while sales skyrocketed.

Ian, you don't really think that Brimstone Bites, a healthy snack, would be a best seller, do you?

Go to hell!

Hell? I heard that you were there yesterday...is this true?

Yes, it's true, but I was only there for about four and a half minutes.

Did the radio station play a Def Leppard song?

Yup. I hate that band. I just can't abide their music. It's the demise of rock n' roll as far as I'm concerned. I actually walked up to the radio and changed stations for that one song, which had the title 'Pour Some Sugar On Me'. I'm not providing a link to that song because it's awful. Here's a few lines, though, just so you get a sense for my unbridled loathing...

You got the peaches, I got the cream
Sweet to taste, saccharine

'Cos I'm hot, say what, sticky sweet
From my head, my head, to my feet

Somebody get me a bucket...I'm going to hurl. This is the kind of music that I imagine plays in hell, likely on an 8-track.

This got me thinking, yesterday. I decided to make a list of the three musical groups/artists that would play on an endless loop in hell. Here's my list:

1) Def Leppard
2) Aaron Neville
3) Celine Dion

Def Leppard makes rock seem like chalk (soft and weak). Aaron Neville is this big, muscly guy who looks like he should be driving a bad ass Harley, then he opens his mouth and I'm looking around for Tweety Bird sucking on a brown paper bag full of helium. Celine Dion is a poser. Yes, she's got a voice and a half, but she comes across as a fraud when I see her (it's a visual).

It was incredibly easy for me to pick my top three, though difficult not to include Neil Sedaka. Or jazz. Any jazz. All jazz. Who would be on your top three hellishly awful acts? Drop me an e-mail and let me know, or leave a comment on the blog.

The World's Most Dangerous Sport

2009-12-05T07:28:00.003-04:00

It was December the third and I probably should have been building a snowman on my front lawn. This is Canada after all, or it used to be. There was no snow because it was plus twelve degrees. It was also raining and windy. Hmmm, sounds like a good day to windsurf on the Bay of Fundy!

When I mention to people that I windsurf in December, they all give me the same look. It's a reassuring look...one that says 'yes, you are the Village Idiot...and no tears will be shed when you remove yourself from the gene pool'.

Windsurfing in the Bay of Fundy, in December, sounds gnarly, but you know what? (insert drum roll here)...it isn't. The water is surprisingly warm, and if you're wearing the proper wetsuit, then it's actually very comfortable. When it's twelve degrees outside, it's not all that colder than this past July. So what's the big deal? Where's the danger?

I'll tell you where the danger lurks, it's in the parking lot of the Lancaster Mall in Saint John. I pulled into the Lancaster Mall to grab a coffee before windsurfing in the bay. I was stuck behind a car that was driven by someone suffering from indecision. At every parking lot junction, they pondered their options, much like one might ponder running from a bear or pretending to be dead. Was it 'run from a grizzly' or 'play dead' for a grizzly? I can never remember, that's why I windsurf on the Bay of Fundy. In any event, the driver ahead of me had a hard time deciding what to do.

As I was exiting the mall parking lot, another car pulled in front of me. This one was driven by a one-eyed seeing eye dog who apparently didn't notice my kiwi green station wagon with windsurfing gear piled high on the roof. What's a guy got to do to get noticed? I swear I'm going to paint my car hot pink with a great big giant lime green Gazoo likeness on the side. I'll do it when Wendy is away in January.

I was almost t-boned by a dark Pontiac Firebird on the way out. Damn you Michael Knight and your talking car. I spent a grand total of two minutes driving in the Lancaster Mall parking lot, yet I felt my life was in jeopardy three times. Windsurfing in the Bay of Fundy would be a welcome relief from the world's most dangerous sport...road rallying on seniors' day at the Lancaster Mall.

Now, don't misunderstand me, I'm not dissing seniors' driving.

Okay, I am.

The Firebird, at least, was not driven by a senior. It was driven by a young dirtball. All Firebirds are driven by young dirtballs. Funny how that works. It's as though it was prearranged, like a secret handshake among members of the Loyal Order Of Water Buffaloes. It's also amazing, almost unthinkable, that the Firebird was once considered a 'hot' car. Now I laugh every time I see one, except when they try to skewer me.

So I left the dangerous Lancaster Mall, which isn't really a mall, and went to the Bay. The Bay was uneventful, all things considered. The only real danger, and it's not really a danger, happened when I tried to take my wetsuit off. It always happens. At one point during the transaction, I was half naked and my legs were still pinned by the clingy wetsuit. I tried to cover my 'parts' with a towel, but it was rather windy. It's a great spectator's sport, like baseball with an extra orb. It would have been a great time to rob me, though you couldn't have stolen my dignity because, at that very moment, I had none.

It actually got worse. Once the wetsuit was off, I tried my best to dry myself off with the moistened towel. It's almost impossible to get 'things' dry in this environment. When I tried to put my underwear on, my skin was still damp from the ocean water. Certain 'things' like to stick to the first piece of cloth that they touch, so if you don't get all your ducks in a row, then it can be quite unpleasant.

These certain body parts behave much like ducklings. You've all heard stories of ducklings being hatched in the presence of a human, then thinking the human was their mother. That's what it's like when you put a salt bathed body into underwear. The 'ducklings' stick to the first thing they see or, in this case, touch. Even if it's a leg hole!

The Lancaster Mall was dangerous. Driving across Saint John's harbour bridge while trying to make 'adjustments' to my salt water wedgie was dangerous. Windsurfing in the Bay of Fundy in December was a piece of cake.

And The Winner Is...

2009-12-04T07:58:00.004-04:00

Yesterday I issued a challenge to the readers of my blog: submit a story, win a bottle of Te Ata Po, the award winning New Zealand wine with a New Brunswick finish. As you might imagine, I was inundated with thousands of entries.

Ouch! Your nose just about poked my eye out, Ian. Or should I call you Pinocchio?

Okay, so there wasn't thousands of entries....there was less than a hundred.

Ahem!

Okay, okay, there was between one and ten.

Tisk, tisk!

Okay, so there was only one entry. The winner's name is Jean Gaudet from Sutton, Quebec. Sutton is located in Quebec's Eastern Townships, so close to the Vermont border that you can almost smell Ben & Jerry's underwear (if the wind is blowing from the south). I've never been to Sutton but I understand it to be an rural enclave for Montréalers who need to escape la village du grand O. I'm referring to the Olympic Stadium, and not Oprah, in case there was any doubt.

The winner, Jean Gaudet, is a lot like me. He's artistic, athletic, resourceful and good looking.

Ian, I'll grant you three out of four. Remember, I consider you to be Rex Murphy's twin, separated at birth.

I'll settle for three out of four. Jean is also spectacularly bilingual as well, lucky canard. He's also a windsurfer. He builds and renovates homes, including his summer place in Les Iles de la Madeleine. He paints (portraits, landscapes, still lifes, etc.). He has size thirteen feet and lives next to a pond. That's about all I know about Monsieur Gaudet. You can read his guest blog below which will enlighten you regarding life in the Eastern Townships....

Today in Sutton les Bains, winter is on the back burner again. It looks like all of fall is concentrated in one day. No more leaves in trees (except for the everlasting beech rust leaves), tons of precipitation in liquid form, cats that come in smelling like mud, and clouds zippin’ by like they’re going somewhere. Go figure …

I’ve rarely seen my pond overflow this much in the fall. Spring is another story with all the mountain snow melting. But today is ridiculous. The spillway is so loud, I will dream of Îles-de-la-Madeleine wave surfing all night. I pity the poor little salamanders trying to hold on to their flat stone in that tidal current.

But…

I know this is just a prequel to the first snowstorm of the season. Can’t wait to put my new snowboard on that immaculate white blanket and carve the hell out of the mountain. Proof that winter is at the door, is that there was 43cm of fresh powpow on top of the mountain last Saturday. All liquefied by now I’m sure.

Oh by the way … comin’ back from Montréal last Monday night, I saw a huge meteorite come down in a field somewhere over there, maybe further but who cares? It was a show I’ll remember for a while (‘till Mr. Alzheimer knocks at the door). Turquoise blue tail and all, as big as … let’s say a football at the 100 yard line (is there such a distance in football? I wouldn’t know). It lasted but one or two seconds, just short enough for my wife who was snoozing on the passenger seat to miss it.

Abada abada, that’s all folks

There you go Mr. Varty, Te Ata Po time?

Jean Gaudet from Sutton, Québec.

It sounds to me like Jean Gaudet is almost a leisurologist. He certainly thinks and writes like one. No mention of work! Jean is also a talented photographer and lateral thinker. Yes, those are bath tubs in the attractive image that he submitted. That would explain the image's title, Sutton Les Bains.

If you'd like to view some of Jean's paintings, then click on this link: http://jeangaudet.blogspot.com/.

Jean, I'll deliver your bottle of Te Ata Po in person when I pass through Sutton this winter. My diminutive size 12 feet, that normally live next to a lake, are looking forward to snowboarding in the mighty Alps of the Eastern Townships.

You Don't Know What Te Ata Po Means!

2009-12-03T08:14:00.004-04:00

Te Ata Po, in Maori, means 'first light'. In Canadian English, or Quebecois Hinglish, 'first light' is what they suggest you do to a barbeque before tossing on a steak.

Mmmm, Te Ata Po and red meat.

Te Ata Po is the name given to an award winning New Zealand wine with a New Brunswick finish. It's a project by Cambridge-Narrows based winemaker Sonia Carpenter, she of Motts Landing Vineyard (M'LV) fame. She's been making a name for herself with her New Brunswick vintages at M'LV, but now the story has spread beyond our borders. In fact, this story takes us half way around the world...to New Zealand.

Typically I like to tell the stories, but this story has already been written up by someone who knows a lot more about wine than I do (no, it isn't Julian, for once). His name is Craig Pinhey and he gives voice to wine in our province, and beyond. He recently wrote about Te Ata Po and also directed his attention to another wine with a New Brunswick connection. If you're interested in learning more about what's being uncorked in New Brunswick, then click here to read Craig's article.

I could stop here and simply promote a wonderful wine with a great story, but there's more to this story. There is a direct connection between Te Ata Po and the publisher of The Leisurologist. I, Mr. Ian Varty, designed the label for this award winning wine. What does this mean?

It means that not only am I an internationally renowned writer (someone in the United States once read my blog and enjoyed it), but I'm now the Chief Executive Officer of a global graphic design business. Beyond that I recently cut a hole in my kitchen wall, on purpose, and I didn't frig things up, so I'm feeling pretty chuffed with myself.

So what's next, Mr. Big Shot?

My short term goal is to write the blog for 365 days in a row. Today's blog will be my 259th in a row, unless you count the one guest blog that my wife wrote. I'd like to have a few more guest blogs written before the 365 days are up.

Would you like to write a guest blog? If you write it, I'll publish it. To sweeten the deal, I'll give a free bottle of Te Ata Po to the first person who submits a publishable guest blog to me.

First write, then 'first light'.

The Father, Son And Who?

2009-12-02T07:12:00.002-04:00

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Yesterday's blog posting sparked a family discussion about religion. Involved in the negotiations were the father, the son, and the wholly entertained wife. It quickly became evident that I knew little or nothing about Christianity compared to my wife and son.

Let's face it, I paid little or no attention to religion as a child. And though I'm fascinated by it, I rarely spend any time as an adult digging into the marrow of religion. Nothing ever seems to be resolved so ADD man quickly loses interest. Christianity is not all that different than the game of jai alai. I know it exists, but I don't have a clear understanding the history or the rules, or why it exists in the first place. I only know that it isn't my cup of coffee (fair trade, dark roast, high test cream and raw plantation sugar).

Our religious discussion led to some reminiscing. We were remembering how Wendy always used to read the Christmas story to Julian over the holidays (when he was little). This is the Christmas story that involves the middle eastern characters, and not anything to do with a Red Ryder BB gun, or Tim Allen, or the Grinch. Some time after Wendy had read the story to young Julian, possibly a few days or weeks, Julian asked the following question:

"Was Jesus a Nielsen or a Varty?"

I don't remember Wendy's (likely) more responsible answer, I only remember mine:

"Probably a Nielsen."

My family wasn't what you'd call religious, and Wendy's family had a long standing involvement with the United Church, so my answer made sense, at least to me. J.C. Nielsen...why not? Everyone needs a last name, right?

What about Bono? And Prince Charles and Liz, Attila (would you like sugar with your coffee, Hun?), Aristotle, Cher, Dubya, Eminem, Geronimo, King Kamehameha...

Ian, I think it was Roger Kamehameha.

Little voice...why don't you shut the ____ up unless you have something valuable to add to the conversation?

Isn't that like the Bodum calling the kettle black? I heard your conversation on religion with Wendy and Julian last night, and you are an idiot. There can be no doubt. You're always shooting your mouth off about stuff you know nothing about. You're like Don Cherry, except less informed, though I'll credit you with a less 'flamboyant' wardrobe.

Okay, so I was a little confused that the father, the son and the holy ghost are all the same creature/person/entity. Religion is confusing. I now understand that Jesus is the son of god, but is also god in human form. The holy ghost is some sort of spirit that is also god. The holy trinity is really one, in the same way that a Swiss Army knife is a multi-faceted tool, but at the end of the day, it's still a knife.

Wouldn't it be easier for we agnostics (and them there atheists) if god would just send us a signal, rather than all this mumbo-jumbo? I'd like to see writing in the sky, or perhaps an Environment Canada wind forecast that is accurate. That would be a sign.

I suppose you'd also like to see Brian Mulroney smited?

No, I'm sure that he watches eTalk nightly...that's punishment enough.

Family Affairs With Religious Undercurrents

2009-12-01T07:45:00.004-04:00

It is said that you should never discuss religion or politics, so today, we will discuss religion. I'll try to be politically correct about it, though it's not in my nature.

I have, in my extended family, one member who is a fundamentalist baptist. His views on religion are very different from mine. This is an understatement. If you care to know, I am an agnostic. I've left the door just slightly ajar, because I'm intelligent enough to know that I don't know everything.

I'd be the first to admit that there could be a god, though I doubt it. There's not a bone in my body that believes that there is. If nothing else, I would question the attributes that humankind has bestowed upon that god. Or gods. Merciful? Smiteful?

Others say that there is a god. Or gods. The jury is out on this one, and will be out for the foreseeable future, I suspect. It won't be resolved in my blog, any more than the existence of the tooth fairy, unicorns, sasquatch, non-stick frying pan coatings that lasts, or the integrity of Brian Mulroney will be.

Ian, you came dangerously close to discussing politics by attempting to diss the honorable Mr. B.M.

No, that wasn't politics, that was personal. I'm still having trouble dealing with the envelope full of cash that B.M. didn't declare as income for five years or so.

So, let's hear more about the verboten topic of religion. Put some meat on the bones of this story, Ian.

Okay. About ten years ago, at Christmas, this certain family member tried to put the fear of god into my son (also known as 'saving him'). Rather than put Jesus into his life, the effect was more of scaring the bejeezus out of him. He didn't actually scare my son, but he did put a dark cloud over the Christmas holidays. Fundamentalists are sometimes so passionate that they forget to respect the beliefs, and privacy, of others.

I was quite furious at the time, though I said nothing. I respect the right of others to practice their religion, though I'd prefer if they kept it to themselves. If nothing else, they shouldn't plant insidious ideas into the heads of children who are not old enough to properly deal with the rather large concepts. Julian, at the time, dealt with it rather well, better than me, I'd say.

When my son was little he went to church with his mother. As far as I was concerned, he could choose whether he wanted a life with or without religion. It was his choice to make, and I didn't meddle. I knew where I stood personally, and I got there on my own. I thank my parents for their gift to me of self-determination. I wanted Julian to have the same opportunity.

Our fundamentalist family member laid low for a long time, though the baptist fires began burning brightly last week. Here's a transcript of the discussion that erupted on Facebook. As these posts were made on Facebook, in the public domain, I'm quite happy to share them with you....

Family Member:
Hey, I know what the right girl goes crazy for, check this out and you'll know too! http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dDR3xCaXiXc&feature=relatedThere's also one on how to identify the right girl by the same fellow (who just happens to also be a former football player) (who's dad played NFL I think): http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-6uNj7lauhA Wish someone gave me these to listen to when I was 18.
November 24 at 9:42pm

Julian Varty :
Hi Family Member. Interesting guy. He makes some good points about how manhood has become more so based on materialism rather than on moral character. I don't believe that this is true across the board, in fact I bet the majority of women do want a man of high character, but the fact that wealth, status, or physical prowess can be the major deciding factor is pretty disturbing. He's also bang-on about the importance of family and having a strong partnership. Family, especially close family (i.e. parents, partner, children), is the rock that steadies us.

While I very strongly disagree with a lot of what Dr. Baucham has to say, he provides a different perspective that strengthens my belief that men (and women) should ultimately be judged by their moral character and commitment rather than material worth. I guess where Dr. Baucham and I see differently is what morality is. He clearly sees a literal interpretation of the Bible as being the best and only way to living a moral life. I have some major issues with this idea; always have and always will.
November 24 at 11:33pm

Family Member: Glad you got a chance to check it out, no doubt there are lots of demands for your time in your assignments. Interesting that you used the term "rock" to describe the steadiness of the family as "Rock" is actually one of the names given to Jesus in the scriptures. Certainly the family is high on importance, being the first institution laid out by ... See Morethe Creator even before the Church or government, etc., however, Jesus said, "He that loves father or mother more than me is not worthy of me: and he that loves son or daughter more than me is not worthy of me." If Jesus is not number one in your life Julian, you will perish when you are called to stand before God.

But I guess maybe it comes down to, is the Bible true? It sounds like you've determined to always have issue with it. I'm curious, what evidence or proof have you come across that has so convinced you at 17years old that you "always have and always will" reject it or is it just that you don't like what it says?
November 27 at 12:26pm

Julian Varty:
Well, there is no doubt that I take issue with some of what the Bible says, especially the central tenant of Christianity that one can only be saved through belief that Jesus is the son of God who died on the cross for our sins. This, unless I'm misunderstanding, means that people who were raised in other faiths with no exposure or inadequate exposure to the gospel will be sent to Hell. So, as I write this, every dead Jew, Muslim, Hindu, Shinto, Buddhist, Agnostic, and Atheist is supposedly being punished by God for their lack of faith. Regardless of whether they were brave soldiers who sacrificed themselves in war, or humanitarians like Gandhi, they are all suffering in Hell away from the light of God for the simple reason that they did not recognize, for perfectly legitimate reasons, Jesus as the son of God.

I take issue with other elements of scripture: original sin, sexual conformity, gender inequality, and "an eye for an eye" are some good examples. But, the Biblical concept of salvation trumps them all in absurdity. No loving God would ever devise that kind of a cruel trap for rational people, ignorant people, or people of other faiths.

But, this means nothing if the Bible is true. We could be living under the tyrannical, evil God of the Bible. I haven't seen any evidence of this. One argument put forth by Christians is that the world is so complex that it could only have been made by an intelligent creator. The theory of evolution, supported by the vast majority of scientists, only explains how life got to be the way it is, not how it all started. This is a good argument vs. atheism, however if one says that everything must have a beginning, then God must also have had a beginning. So, by stating that God is the only way the universe could have been created, it fails to explain the origin of God. If we consider the beginning of the universe as a singularity, it can be viewed as either having a creator or not. Either option is possible.

This by no means disproved the existence of God, it only offers an alternative. There does not have to be a God to have the universe. Science cannot fully explain the origin of the universe, it likely won't ever be able to explain it, but what we do know about our planet and the universe is incompatible with a literal interpretation of the Bible. Sure, there are many Christian scientists, as there are scientists of other faiths, but most of them accept the theory of evolution and oppose the Young Earth ideology. I'm well aware that you have plenty of reading material put together by creation scientists with arguments against current mainstream science. But, there are always scientific contrarians. There are legitimate scientists who believe smoking is not bad for people, that climate change does not exist, that there is no evidence for evolution, and that the Earth is only 6000 years old and that humans coexisted with dinosaurs. This does not mean that these people are wrong, anything is possible, but there is a good reason why they are a very small minority.

When it comes to Christianity itself, I'm not an expert on the history. I'm confident that there must be accounts out there about Jesus' crucifixion and resurrection that support the Bible, and that there are accounts which do dispute this. If this is so, who are we to believe? In order to be a successful Christian apologetic (someone who can prove the Christian doctrine is true using reason rather than faith), you'd have to have an understanding of history and science that rationally contradicts everything scientists understand about the origins of life and the universe and know more about the history of Israel from 5000 BC to 0 AD than any other ancient scholar. I don't have time to do this is my lifetime, I have real problems to solve. So, I accept human reasoning about the origins of our world and use human reasoning to determine right and wrong.

And, if God really cared about me, really loved me, why would He not reveal himself to me and spare me from damnation? I could die at any time, so could many people I care about without God revealing Himself to us before we pass on. If I believed this, I simply couldn't function I would be so devastated. If I did indeed convert to Christianity, perhaps I would be spared from Hell, but my life would be a living Hell knowing that God would be torturing my fellow man while I accepted empty eternal reward in Heaven.
November 27 at 4:42pm

At the top of my blog, under the title The Leisurologist, it says 'musings, fluff, pixel dust'. I'm not sure where this post belongs. It's a little heavier than normal, but religion is a fascinating topic and worth discussing.

I'm not a fan of fundamentalism in any of its many permutations; Christian or otherwise. I see the current 'born again baptist' fad as anything but inclusive, even though the membership drive is in fifth gear. It reminds me of Costco, where you only get the benefits if you become a member. It seems to me that the born again movement is based on a wildly imaginative interpretation of the biblical line 'ye must be born again'. Any time that man or woman interprets something, anything, that's either written or spoken, it's fraught with peril.

If someone says to you "no, those jeans don't make you look fat," it either means that you are fat and the jeans don't make you look fat, or you're not fat and the jeans don't make you look fat. It could also mean that you are fat, and nothing could hide that fact, so a little white lie is being told for the sake of friendship. This phrase is typically uttered by friends, family and liars. A lot can be read into it.

Tales From Lake Wall Be Gone

2009-11-30T07:52:00.005-04:00

I'm going to court today in Oromocto and I would happily plead guilty if anyone asked me to take the stand. Fortunately the judge will not be addressing me directly as I'm going to be watching the proceedings as an interested third party only.

I am guilty of caring, and not shy to speak out. I care about the lake with whom I have a common law relationship. Strictly speaking, I'm not married to the lake, but I am in so many ways. I live in Cambridge-Narrows because of the lake, period. If someone harms the lake, then it's my job to ensure that the law is upheld. I want my rights protected. I want my lake to thrive because, without it, I have no home, or sense of place.

Within the last two years an incredibly beautiful new home was built on a property which borders my lake. I have a fondness for residential architecture and this new house meets my ideals for aesthetic splendour. Sure, the house is bit big to be considered responsible in these times of pending resource shortages, but that's likely just the result of one man's ego. It happens everywhere in the world, every day, so it's nothing shocking. My point is that I love the house and it's a pleasure to see it. There is one problem, however.

The problem is not with the house, it's with the landscraping. As you can see in the upper image, a massive retaining wall was built into the lake. Strictly speaking, the wall was built on land that the homeowner does not own. The Province, that means you and me, owns the land between the water and the high water mark,if my interpretation of the law is correct. This area, which merges the land to the water, is known as the riparian zone, and it's crucial that it be left unscathed.

Sadly, in the case of this property, the riparian zone was completely, utterly, unquestionably raped. Yes, raped.

Strong words.

Occasionally the Department of Environment and/or the Department of Fisheries and Oceans gives out permits to land owners for water course alterations, or tweaks to the shoreline. Apparently, this was not the case for this property. The second of the two images shows that the owner, after the fact, removed the lower of the two large retaining walls. By the letter of the law, the upper retaining wall is still in violation of the law, or at least that's my understanding. That's a totally different court case, to be heard at a later date.

The damage to the shoreline has been done, but it's important that the law be interpreted so this doesn't happen again. It will take years for this shore to rebuild and become the filter that it once was. The shoreline, and subsequently the lake, can't sustain heavy equipment tampering with its integrity.

It's the contractor, who scraped the shoreline and built the wall in defiance of our laws, who will be appearing in court today. I'm going because I'm also guilty of being curious. I want to see how our justice system works. I have faith that it will.

You'll hear the ruling, when it is made. Unfortunately there won't be pictures because cameras aren't allowed in the courtroom, but I have another ingenious plan...stay tuned.

Only In New Brunswick?

2009-11-29T18:15:00.003-04:00

I'm tempted to say 'only in New Brunswick', but I suspect they have 'meat bingo' in parts of Newfoundland and Cape Breton as well.

The Synergy Of Half Wits

2009-11-28T08:43:00.003-04:00

.
Every town in Canada has a village idiot. Ottawa has Stephen Harper. Fredericton has Shawn Graham. Cambridge-Narrows has Ken Appleby....and Ian Varty.

Ian, how is it that a small village like Cambridge-Narrows, population 635, is 'blessed' with two village idiots, when Ottawa, seemingly, has but one?

I don't know how it came to be, but it's the kind of thing that should put this village on the map. As the two village idiots, Ken and I make a great team. There's synergy. Together we are stronger.

Is this sort of like the whole Wonder Twin power thing?

No, they were freakish shape shifters. Ken and I don't change shapes, we remain as blobs throughout our acts of heroism.

Are you two like the Olsen twins, then?

You mean like media darlings? No, we fly under the radar (but not for long!). The Olsen twins profit from their devious deeds. Ken and I work for free (well, I do). We make this village a better place to live, out of the goodness of our hearts. We are not paid for our benevolence (well, I'm not). I should point out that Ken and I are not really like twins, at least not physically. We're both just incredibly good looking. We were born that way, kind of like Brad Pitt and Rex Murphy, respectively.

So what do the village idiots do?

Mostly we talk about the problems that our village faces. I tend to worry about the abundance of small pebbles along the roadside. They make skateboarding dangerous.

What are you going to do about that?

I'm considering a ban on pulling motor vehicles off the road. The trouble begins when cars pull over onto the gravel and then they come back on the roadway, dragging pebbles with them. I'm looking at putting up some signs which encourage people not to pull over or stop.

Sounds like a great idea. It should solidify our reputation as the drive-thru province. So what's Ken's 'project'?

Ken has a few projects. Mostly he's trying to clean up the village.

Cool. What projects allow you to combine your powerful intelligence?

Funny that you should ask that. We hatched a plan last week that will change this village forever. It's a little too early to divulge the details, let's just say that we're going to clip the wings of some 'high rollers' in the village. Our plan involves a gun! We know exactly how to do it, we're just working out a few minor details.

Sounds like you're taking the law into your own hands, Ian?

I'd prefer if you'd stop calling me by my first name, and show me some respect.

What would you prefer? Nabob? Sultan?

You should call me by my new title...Deputy Varty.

Does this mean that I should be calling Ken 'Sheriff Appleby'?

Yes, and the reason will become clear in a week or two. That's all I can say for now. Look for the full story in a future blog.

The Olympics In Fredericton

2009-11-27T07:50:00.005-04:00

My wife is an opera singer. No matter how you define what she and her colleagues do, it's absolutely critical that you mention that they sing unaided; by that, I mean they do not use abbreviated Michaels. Yes, they've trained their voices to project without the use of mikes, so when the call came in for Wendy to sing at the Olympic torch ceremony in Fredericton, with a mike, she cautiously agreed.

Asking an opera singer to perform with a mike is like passing Pablo a box of crayons and saying 'create a masterpiece'. Picasso did dabble in crayons but he produced nothing more impressive than what my nieces are capable of drawing on any given day. For $42 000, you can have a piece of paper with Picasso's original signature on it. To me that seems like a waste of money. I'd much rather use the $42 000 to book a hotel room in Whistler for the weekend during the Olympics. Parking would be extra.

I have a funny relationship with the Olympics. I love the idea of physical excellence, though the pressure of performing in front of a billion people must be excruciating. I tip my Olympic toque to those who can rise to the challenge. I'd be the bunny in the headlights still stuck in the blocks long after the starting pistol had fired. I believe that it's called performance anxiety.

I have a problem with some of the Olympic sports, particularly those that are not available to the public at large. Alpine ski racing, for example, it something that the average person can attempt to do. It's quite natural to ski down a hill. Things start to get a little more complicated when sports like the biathlon are introduced. The biathlon combines cross country skiing and shooting. I tried my own version of it once, snowboarding down Poley Mountain while shooting at things. It didn't go over well, and I must say, the food in jail isn't as bad as you might think.

Some Olympic sports make perfect sense, take the luge for example. Every northern hemisphere kid has taken a toboggan down a hill. It's incredibly natural. Doing it at one hundred kilometres per hour in sexy, lump hugging outfits is a bit of a stretch, but only just a bit. In college many students stole cafeteria trays and slid down campus hills. This sport was known as 'Beaver boarding', because when I was in college it was Beaver Foods that had the contract to boil potatoes for the students.

Another Olympic winter sport, similar to luge, is called 'skeleton'. It's a relatively new sport which I believe was included to appeal to the segment of our population that actually enjoys watching the Jackass movies. Don't tell anyone, but I watched two of them and was mildly entertained.

The winter Olympics, if you look at the list of events, isn't all that outrageous. Some people whine about events like figure skating, saying that ice dancing should not be an Olympic sport because is based on artistic interpretation, rather than sheer athleticism. To those people I say strap on a pair of skates and try and lift your wife above your head. You'll be happy to watch Olympic figure skating from your hospital bed. You'll be thankful to be alive.

So, Ian, have you ever lifted Wendy above your head while wearing skates?

No, but only because I don't own skates. If someone would drop off a pair (size 12), then I'd be happy to give it a try. I'm not sure how Wendy feels about this.

I do know how Wendy felt about singing the commissioned Olympic torch song at the ceremony this past Wednesday evening...she was delighted. It could have been quite a challenge to sing with a mike and a choir outdoors, but she rose to the occasion. And what an occasion it was! It was like a rock concert: giant stage, explosive lighting, and the coveted Jumbotron. It was very professionally organized, and there was a trained sound crew there to keep 'the diva' happy. For the record, Wendy was once given the title 'anti diva' during a CBC interview from New York City. I've always liked that term. I'd like to be anti something.

You know, I am anti one summer Olympic sport. It's called the race walk and I think it's preposterous. If there's one sport that's got to go, it's the race walk. It's just so unnatural. Even when I have to pee really badly, I don't walk like that. Let's all band together, and get it banned. Perhaps half-pipe skateboarding could be allowed in it's place. Look what half-pipe snowboarding has done for the winter Olympics...it's brought it into the twenty-first century.

It's not long until the winter Olympics happen in Vancouver. The torch is on the move across the country. Perhaps it will even see some snow along the way. The reception the torch received in Fredericton was warm enough to melt snow, though we had none. If you'd like to see what the event looked like through my video camera, then I've got two links for you. The first is of the arrival of the flame, the second is a clip of Wendy and choir singing. I'm a better photographer than cinematographer...that will become obvious. My short films won't be medal winners, but the people of Fredericton certainly gave a gold medal welcome to the Olympic torch.

Racial Slurs, Literally

2009-11-26T11:33:00.004-04:00

He muttered something at me as he walked past, but I couldn't understand a word he said. He fired a few more slack jawed unpleasantries across my bow, but I still couldn't decipher his words. His tone...now that I could clearly understand. It wasn't warm and fuzzy. He then stood by his car and kept muttering. This time I could tell he was inviting me over for a fight.

I stood there for a moment, looking at him in disbelief. I have no problem with well placed aggression. No problem at all, but this kid was way out of line. So what was I going to do about it?

Here's how this little incident developed. I was enjoying a nice meal with my wife and five friends at a great restaurant in Cole Harbour. One couple left a little early so when we finally wiped the crumbs of dessert from the corners of our mouths and left en masse, there were just five of us. Two guys, three girls. Much of our conversation over dessert involved skateboarding, so when we got outside I cracked open the trunk of my car to display my current collection of boards.

My friends are no shrinking violets so of course the boards came out and we skated around the 10 p.m. parking lot. As it was Sunday evening, the place was relatively quiet. Next door to the restaurant was a Needs convenience store, no doubt open long after the restaurant closed. A clean white sedan pulled into the parking lot, with four young adults pouring out onto the pavement. They homed their way into the store, toward the objects of their desire. We continued to skateboard around the parking lot.

Upon returning to the car, the driver side passenger decided to begin a dialogue with me.

'Yo..muth...fok...c'mere...fokka'.

I looked him up and down. He was wearing a tasteful white jacket, puffy, as though filled with goose down. His jeans were trendy and sagged enough in the ass to allow ample room for his genitals, my genitals, his father's genitals, and a Fisher-Price play set. You know the pants I'm talking about, the one's where the crotch ends at the knee caps. I happen to love the style, though have yet to buy a pair for myself. This kid, probably about twenty years old, was well dressed. He didn't look like he came from the other side of the tracks.

My very simple reply to him was "what?" I thought he might have wanted to try my skateboard, which I would have been happy to accommodate. Share the stoke...always!

It quickly became obvious that he didn't want to be my friend. This pissed me off and I went from happy Ian to Neanderthal Ian. All men have it in them, I suspect. My brain went into lock down mode and I began to assess the situation in very basic terms. Four of them, one of me. Not good odds. Even with my male friend, a solid guy, it was still two to one. We weren't 'packing' anything more dangerous than skateboards, which everyone knows are only dangerous to the users.

Cole Harbour has a history of racial tension. It's been documented for a long time. Life isn't one continuous Sidney Crosby Stanley Cup parade down Portland Street where everyone hugs and makes up. I know that people don't always get along, but picking fights for no good reason makes me feel like, well, fighting. This is what really pisses me off, because it makes no sense. We should know better, after all that we've been through together.

"History will have to record that the greatest tragedy of this period of social transition was not the strident clamor of the bad people, but the appalling silence of the good people." Martin Luther King, Jr.

Perhaps it's time to speak up?

I am not a racist. I've never been one, and I don't appreciate being singled out because I'm white. I was born white, you were born black. What's the big deal? From where I stand, I think that we all came from the same place. I choose to believe that we have evolved over the millenia, and that we probably all started off in Africa together, a long time ago. My people lost their dark pigmentation by heading to northern 'hoods. We're just products of our environment, which was made painfully obvious in Cole Harbour.

There have been atrocities carried out on your people (my people, too, since we are all in this together). It's unthinkable that one race tried to enslave the other. I can hardly believe that it happened just a few generations ago, or that we're all still suffering from the actions of our ancestors. I'm embarrassed for what humans have done, but I'd like to think that we can move forward. Anger is a wasted emotion. The Vikings came to Scotland and raped and pillaged my people, but I've managed to overcome any lingering hatred. I've even sung along to Abba, and sat comfortably in a chair called POÄNG.

Even if you choose to believe in the Christian concept of a god creating us in his image, we're still coming from the same place. We are equal as far as I'm concerned. Again, it's a shame that we've made a mess of it, but let's move forward without jabs.

It a very risky proposal to pick a fight with someone you don't know. Like you, I'm both physically and mentally capable of a an incredible amount of evil, but I make a conscious choice not to go there. It's a place for losers, not one, but two.

Next time I'm in Cole Harbour, you should try my skateboard.

Darwin On Varty

2009-11-25T05:34:00.002-04:00

Yesterday, while skateboarding across the bridge next to my home, I had an epiphany. I came to the inconclusive conclusion that I might be more highly evolved than the average man. I mentioned this to my wife, who was transporting herself across the bridge more traditionally; on foot, enjoying the safety of the sidewalk.

It also occurred to me, during my epiphany, that I may actually be the poster boy for regressive evolution. I was born in nineteen sixty-three and was fortunate enough to have a picture perfect childhood. I survived the complex yet pimplistic teen years rather well, went to university, got married, found a job, had a child. I was evolutionarily normal until the age of twenty-nine, when I managed to take one of life's more pleasant you-turns. At age thirty-less-one, I became a leisurologist; a time when I should have been foraging for nuts and berries (i.e. working).

You could have called me a stay-at-home-dad, house-husband, mr.mom...whatever. I wouldn't have been offended, or tried to scratch your eyes out, or sprayed you with green apple scented Lysol. In my mind, I had retired from the rat race, therefore I was a leisurologist.

I've been a leisurologist for seventeen years which, if you do the math, should make me forty-six.

Does the average forty-six year old, who goes for a Tuesday afternoon walk with his wife, take a skateboard along? Of course not. For that matter, the average forty-six year old doesn't go for a Tuesday afternoon walk with his wife. Who wants to be average, anyway? Average is boring. Average means you work from nine to five, have meat and potatoes at five thirty, watch the evening news from six until seven (damn you, Steve Murphy, with your smug little smile!!). Then you watch game shows, reality tv and/or CSI Minto from seven until ten, with the odd break to play on the internet or read. You go to bed between ten and eleven. Welcome to your life. Lights out.

I hate routine. Hate it!

Ian, are you familiar with the book Tuesdays With Morrie?

I've never read it, but of course I've heard of it.

Well, I think Wendy should write a book about her life with you. She could call it Tuesdays With Moron.

You'll notice that I'm not putting up any argument to that suggestion. As I was skateboarding across the bridge, I wondered what conversations people might have when they saw me. Probably no one gives me a second thought, other than me, but please allow me to indulge in my own little fantasies of self importance. A car approached me on the bridge. Inside the car were two old women, and this is how I imagined their conversation unfolded:

Granny 1: Watch out for that stupid skateboarder up ahead.

Granny 2: Yeah, stupid kid. I'm surprised that his mom lets him skateboard on the bridge.

Granny 1: He's a pretty tall kid. Skinny too. He's probably on drugs.

Granny 2: Definitely on drugs. Shouldn't he be in school right now?

Granny 1: Must have got kicked out for drugs. All skateboarders are on drugs.

Granny 2: Even Tony Eagle.

Granny 1: You mean Tony Hawk?

Granny 2: Oh yeah, Tony Hawk.

Granny 1: That kid on the bridge looks like Tony Hawk.

Granny 2: You know what, he doesn't look like a kid. I think it's a man.

Granny 1: Not a chance. The woman on the bridge looks like that opera singer, and that must be her retarded son with her.

Granny 2: Nope, her son's not retarded, he's quite smart. I heard he went off to university with a big scholarship.

Granny 1: Then who's that with her on the skateboard?

Granny 2: Must be her retarded husband. I heard that he hasn't worked in seventeen years.

Granny 1: The lazy bastard. There's no way I'd let my husband do that. He's not going to be happy at my expense.

"He's not going to be happy at my expense." Hmmm....that's something worth pondering.

Getting back to my theory of regressive evolution...I think that when I turned twenty-nine, the years started going backwards. Seventeen years later that makes me feel (and act) like I'm twelve, hence the skateboard.

When I got to the other side of the bridge I happened to run into the other Village Idiot. We started talking about how we feel about ourselves (shocking...two 'would be' men talking about their feelings...ladies: it does happen, you just never get to witness it). I explained my theory of regressive evolution to him. As he lit up a cigarette, a very popular thing to do among teenagers, he told me that he felt like he was eighteen.

The two Village Idiots: combined age....thirty. Combined IQ...off the chart. The only question is: in what direction? I have my answer. What's yours?

Coffee And Baked Greats, Anyone?

2009-11-24T08:17:00.006-04:00

A friend of mine is a partner in a firm that helps companies to develop their brands. He helps business owners embed their stories in the mind of the marketplace, because great stories matter. Most businesses have stories but rarely are they told properly, if at all.

Two If By Sea, a new café in Dartmouth, has a great story which they tell on their web site. Click on the 'Je Ne Sais Quoi' tab for a bite of enlightenment. You don't have to read their story, but you must try their coffee and croissants. You must. You must. You must. If you go to Two If By Sea and aren't impressed, then I'll run the full length of Ochterloney Street wearing nothing but flip flops and a smile.

No, I won't be running through Dartmouth naked, because you will love Two If By Sea. Not much in life is certain, but this is. I can only think of a handful of businesses to which I would give such an unconditional endorsement. I can think of scores of businesses that have let me down personally, as well as let down the community in which they aspired to do business. Perhaps an example is necessary.

My same friend, he who helps companies develop their brands, once told me the story of trying to eat in one of my village's two dining establishments. He and his wife went to the restaurant for a Saturday morning breakfast, simply looking to have someone else cater to their gastronomic desires. The place was very busy and the service was unacceptably slow, perhaps because there wasn't a sufficient supply of staff. Sometimes this happens for various reasons, and we have to be generous and accept it. Sometimes not. The two restaurant owners were there, but rather than helping out their beleaguered employees, the well-to-do owners sat on the veranda of the restaurant, smoking and chatting with their buddies.

What message was sent to my friend, the branding expert?

The message was that the owners didn't really care about their customers; plain and simple. Their story was about themselves, and didn't include any commitment on their part to creating a satisfying experience for the customer.

That true tale was based on just one person's experience, but stories are told and retold until they become part of pop culture. When the public at large is voicing stories about your business, you'd better hope that they read like a romance. As a business owner you do have some control over the stories, but only when you pay attention to detail. Once the stories are out there, they are truly out there, and there's not much you can do. I've told this story of the uncaring owners more than a few times. Someone else, upon hearing this story, related their own story about this same restaurant. Here it is:

The restaurant in question once had dreams of putting a network of docks into the lake, located immediately behind their property. Docks would accommodate water weary boaters who might like to get out of their stinkpots and take a break on the high side. A dock would allow them to patronize the restaurant. Sadly, the dock system was ill conceived and never fully embraced by the community (it's a long story). At the end of the season, a local contractor was hired to remove the docks from the lake, which he did. He, a hard working and honest man, was never paid by the restaurant owners. Meanwhile they continued to toddle around the village in their Mercedes, as though all was well with the world.

How do you think this went over in a village of 640 people? This business alienated the customers, and alienated the community. Do you think they're still in business? Of course not. Deep pockets and shallow morals don't buy customer loyalty.

It's unlikely that I would ever suggest, to the owners of Two If By Sea, that they contact my friend or his company for some branding advice; only because there's no need. So far as I can see, they're doing everything properly. They have a great story that they're telling, one that endears them to me, the customer. They've put their business in a perfect location. They're friendly and affable, and they make their customers feel loved and appreciated. Their line of baked greats is embarrassingly decadent. Mr.Starbuck, if you're reading this, you'd better get in your jet and head east to experience something truly remarkable, then go back to Seattle and fix your franchise's lacklustre baking program.

The gang at Two If By Sea are not trying to be everything for everyone, like Tim's or Starbucks. Instead they've decided to concentrate on doing a few things right. More than just 'right', they're doing things spectacularly well. They've only been in business for a few short weeks. Already they're having queues of people lining up, spilling out onto the sidewalk, for their Saturday morning croissants and coffee. They have an almond croissant that brings tears to my tongue...it's a thing of culinary beauty. Absolute perfection. Their customers are telling their story for them, much as I'm doing now. As a business owner there's seldom more that you could ask for, beyond having legions of raving fans telling your story. I'm one, and I've helped to create others.

Why do I do it? Because I want good people to succeed. I also want to be able to have an almond croissant every time I visit Dartmouth.

I stopped by Two If By Sea on Saturday afternoon and was delightfully devastated. They were sold out of everything except coffee and chocolate chip cookies. Good for them. It made me happy, though my croissant craving went unaddressed. I needed to develop a strategy for future pilgrimages. I noted that they were closed on Sundays and reopened at seven eh em every Monday morning.

Needless to say I arrived at Two If By Sea on Monday morning at seven eh em because I wasn't prepared to start my week without their pastries. I purchased two almond croissants, two plain croissants (rest assured, they're anything but plain), one pain chocolat, one perfectly undercooked and over-sized chocolate chip cookie, and one salmon/dill/cream cheese croissant. I shared everything with friends/family, though I could have just as easily driven off into the sunrise on my own, never to be seen again.

Well, of course I'd be seen again, most likely at 66 Ochterloney Street, Dartmouth.

Sam I Am

2009-11-23T19:22:00.004-04:00

Any guesses what's going on in this montage?

If Oprah Has A Book Club, Then...

2009-11-22T07:22:00.003-04:00

this image has been shamelessly pilfered from the internet

I drove from Cambridge-Narrows to Dartmouth, where I'm staying, to have dinner in Halifax with a friend from Montreal who borrowed a book of mine to read last summer while in St.Andrews. Welcome to the global village, Eastern Canadian style. The book I loaned him was called 'Don't Get Too Comfortable', written by David Rakoff; a Canadian boy who now calls New York City home.

David Rakoff lives in New York City, eh? Strike one.

Everyone has a weakness, and Rakoff's is a love for big city life. Thankfully, the city acts like Warfarin for his poisoned pen. He is my favourite writer in terms of writing style (don't worry, Bill Bryson, you're still my favourite writer overall). David Rakoff could write about anything...anything...and make it worth reading. He could find gold in a pile of sh...avings. He destroyed Barbara Bush in the opening few pages of Don't Get Too Comfortable, and he did it with just cause. What he wrote about Karl Lagerfeld was, in my mind, legendary.

He's been compared to author David Sedaris. Though I see the similarities, he's more like Sedaris on steroids. Apparently they're friends. I'd love to be a fly on the wall for their conversations, though not a fruit fly.

I first heard of this book from my friend Lisa. She's a Toronto girl who I originally met in Saint John, where she lived for five years or so, but now lives in Victoria after a brief stint in Kelowna. I met she and her Vancouver boyfriend in Les Iles de la Madeleine this past summer. She used to live in New York City, before Saint John.

Lisa once lived in New York City, eh? Strike two.

Lisa is brilliant. No strikes against her, not even when considering her time in the Big Apple's core. There's no doubt that life in New York City fueled her appreciation of Saint John and its amazing cast of characters. If Lisa chose to write, then I believe that she could be every bit as good as Sedaris or Rakoff. Lisa, it would appear, would rather wrap fourteen year old soccer boys' knees with athletic tape. To each their own. I respect her immensely. An e-mail from Lisa is better than a Christmas gift, by far.

Needless to say, I appreciate literary vultures who strip life clean to the bone; writers like Bryson, Rakoff, Currer and Sedaris. The friend who returned my copy of Don't Get To Comfortable gave me a little gift...a copy of Rakoff's other book, called Fraud. Somehow I hadn't been aware of Fraud, written in 2001, even though it pre-dated Don't Get Too Comfortable by four years. I'm looking forward to reading it and I'll undoubtedly make reference to it in a future blog.

I'm not sure if Don't Get Too Comfortable ever made it onto Oprah's book club. I hope not because I feel like it's something that I would only want to share with a few select friends, not the world. Have you got a favourite book? Are you brave enough to share that book with the readers of this blog? Feel free to leave a comment...here's how to do that:

step one: click on 'comments'

step two: type in your comment

step three: in the drop down menu, choose 'anonymous'

step four: follow the instructions regarding typing in the scrambled security word.

step five: Voila! You've just spoken to all of my readership and, trust me, they both really appreciate your comments.

Guitar String Theory

2009-11-21T06:44:00.004-04:00

Seeing someone with immense talent can be either daunting or inspirational. Last evening I was watching a friend play the guitar. I had heard that he was 'good'; in fact, he was phenomenal. About 10% of my soul spent the evening rummaging around for a Bic lighter so I could torch my guitar. The remaining 90% of me was thinking 'ho-lee-she-it', I want to be just like him'.

I was inspired, no question, but then I started to wonder if I have the raw talent to play like he did. The jury is deliberating, and will be for some time. Like you, I have a brain and ten fingers, unless you happen to be Ken Appleby, in which case we only have the ten fingers in common. My ten fingers should work together in harmony like the players on a soccer team.

For the record, the finger that is most valuable to me, the one I give to people in traffic, would be Diego Maradona. The corresponding finger on my left hand, sometimes used for double barrel salutes, would be David Beckham (or Becks, as Posh and I call him). The rest of my fingers would be FIFA players who I couldn't name, or the entire cast of Eight Is Enough, or the Brady bunch sans Alice.

Sadly my fingers don't work like a team or a perfect family; instead they act like ten pro wrestlers in a fight-to-the-death cage match. They try different moves, contortions and death grips until they find individual success. They break collapsible chairs on each other's heads. Have you ever noticed in pro wrestling how there always seems to be a collapsible chair just outside of the ring? Weird. A lot of strange things happen in wrestling, like how the referee always seems to have his back turned to the evil wrestler who pulls brass knuckles out of his ass. Getting punched in the mouth with brass knuckles isn't nearly as bad as the after taste.

Is it just me, or do you wonder if wrestling may possibly be fake??

That's like blasphemy, Ian. If I had a collapsible chair, or even a bar stool (preferably metal), I'd break it over your head.

There was no question that Sean Driscoll's talent was real. His fingers played my guitar, and a friend's guitar, beautifully. It was incredible to watch.

My fingers rarely work together in harmony. If they do, it doesn't last for long. Basically, each finger tries to screw/sabotage the other. While one is working smoothly, the others are searching for collapsible chairs. This is also how I type, though I've found that one finger from each hand can peacefully coexist. Having said that, I've been typing for thirty years and I still type like the child that Mavis Beacon gave up for adoption.

Maybe I need to adopt some better guitar playing habits. Maybe I should take some lessons and learn the basics before I frustrate myself by not being able to play like Mark Knopfler. Mark Knopfler was the lead man in the British band Dire Straits. He wrote the song 'Sultans of Swing'. I'd like to be a Sultan of Swing, though I'd settle for Nabob of Rock.

All Rise For Judge Mental

2009-11-20T07:22:00.006-04:00

There's lumber everywhere. Stacks of raw spruce logs are piled triple overhead. They'll be debarked, cut, twobyfoured, planed, and then put into the kiln for drying. I'm not sure about the order of the events, because I know nothing about the lumber business. Remember, I'm a leisurologist first, and a Nabob second. Sultan third? I'm no lumber baron, that's for sure.

You sound like Bones from Star Trek, Ian. Remember "Dammit Jim, I'm a doctor, not a stationary engineer"?

I can't say that I remember Dr.McCoy using the 'stationary engineer' defence, but I get your point. I know who I am, and what I'm not.

If you met the guy pictured above in his work place, which just happens to be the kiln room in a large saw mill, you'd probably judge him a certain way. You'd look at his steel toed boots, grubby workman's clothing, grease stained hands, and worker bee hard hat. You'd imagine him idling in the line-up at Tim Horton's after his twelve hour shift which ended at 7 a.m.. You just know his coffee would have a double barrel of cream shot into it, and two bricks of sugar. Of course he'd order a donut, or six. He'd have a fluorescent orange hunter's cap somewhere in his truck. There would be ammunition in the glove box. As he drove home, in the early morning light, he'd be dreaming of a fourteen point buck leaping into his freezer. His house would be home to at least one satellite dish. He'd also have a battery of rifles in the house, perhaps even one next to the bed.

What about beer in the fridge?

Duh! Of course there would be beer. He'd have one to wash the coffee flavour out of his mouth. Then he'd pinch his wife on the bum as she went off to work at the diner, then he'd pass out in bed.

But wait! He's none of that. He's probably the only blue collar worker in New Brunswick who skateboards, windsurfs, appreciates great coffee, writes poetry, reads voraciously, listens to punk rock and has no tattoos (that any of us are aware). He's probably the only white collar worker with these skills as well! He doesn't drive a pick-up truck, complain about the gubberment, or pinch his wife in the bum (only because he's not married).

They broke the mold with Dave. This is one guy whom you should never try to stereotype, put into a box, or judge.

Judge not, lest ye be judged.

That quote came from a book I once saw in the nightstand of a hotel room. I was fumbling around for a phone book so I could order a pizza, instead I got some advice on judgement. I forget the name of the book, but I believe the author's last name was Gideon, or something like that.

Of course we're always judging people, and people are judging us; it's human nature, so the quote is kind of useless. We have courts, and lawyers, and trials, and judges. We judge things every day. Justice is based on judgement. They even start with the same two letters, jay and you, as does jujubes and my son Julian . We should judge, and we should be judged. It's just a matter of getting all of the facts in order before we start making those judgements.

I judge people at the supermarket all the time. When I see a fat person loading up the conveyor belt with SuperFries, TastyTaters, ice cream and Pepsi, I think they're pretty stupid. Or they hate themselves. Or they aren't too optimistic for the future. Maybe they just don't like food that's green, or maybe they simply can't afford to eat properly. I'm curious enough that I'd like to know, yet polite enough that I keep my thoughts and questions to myself, at least until I write the blog.

Now would be an opportune time to judge Ian.

Wouldn't it be great if you could just walk up to people and ask them who they are, what they believe in, why they do the things they do? I might try this sometime while in the Tim Horton's line-up, assuming that I'd give myself a reprieve from my self imposed Tim Horton's fatwa. It's for research purposes, you understand. I'd tap the person in front of me on the shoulder. He'd be a big, rugged bear of a man. I'd ask him to tell me something about himself that might surprise me. He'd say to me that I'd probably never have guessed that he gets violent when approached by nosey, smart ass strangers.

Unfortunately it's often difficult to ask people questions about themselves for fear that they feel they're being judged. That's why we judge from afar, without the facts. It's natural and it keeps us alive. Case closed.

Sometimes 'Mr.' Just Isn't Enough

2009-11-19T07:37:00.005-04:00

When I was a boy...

Oh, here we go again, more reminiscing. Let me just find a comfy pillow and fluff up my duvet.

When I was a boy, a doctor was a medical professional. He or she was legally qualified to stick me with needles; making me healthy, in essence, by hurting me. I had a reverential attitude toward the enigmatic doctors. Fear will do that to a child. When I saw 'Dr.' in front of a name, that meant that someone had done a lot of hard work and they had become an expert in their field. I felt that I should just shut up, listen and nod my head. For the most part, I was in awe.

My father was known as Dr.Varty, having his PhD in entomology. I'm sure, as a child, I didn't understand what entomology meant, or that he wasn't a medical doctor. I probably just thought that he did medical procedures on june bugs, budworm and butterflies.

'Code blue, we've got a dragonfly that's not breathing! Looks like blunt chest trauma...a hit and run by an Escalade. Someone call Dr.Varty, quickly.'

When I meet someone for the first time and they're introduced as Dr. Soandso, my initial thought is 'I wonder if they're a medical professional or an academic' (assuming the two are mutually exclusive, as in Dr.Hughson's case). Of course this thought doesn't go through my head when I meet a doctor on the golf course; my thoughts are replaced by 'orthopaedics or radiology'?

I wish that I could call myself Dr.Varty. I used to be Dr.Varty during the dark ages (late 1980s) when I was gainfully employed at Tilley Endurables in Toronto. I once received a letter, at work, addressed to Dr.Ian Varty. We all had a good chuckle, and I was called Dr.Varty by my colleagues for some time. My residency at Tilley Endurables lasted for only one year, but what an impact that year had on my life. Oddly enough, a decade after I left Tilleys, the receptionist was still referring to me as Dr.Varty. I guess I made an impression, particularly in the audiology department (more on this later).

Titles are really interesting, at least to people who live in Cambridge-Narrows, write blogs and have limited social contact with the outside world. It would be pretty cool to have earned the title of doctor, though I can think of a few titles that I'd rather have.

There is some appeal to being called 'King', though associations with Elvis and MJ muddy that marriage. It sounds pretty impressive if you're known as Prince. Prince Ianardo sounds better than Dr.Ianardo. Michael Jackson, the former King of Pop, named both his sons, Prince Michael, more or less. I wonder what Queen Latifah thinks of all this? Royalty, ultimately, is overrated; besides, I look terrible in a crown.

Are you referring to your surprise 40th birthday bash that we held at Burger king, Ian?

I'd rather not talk about that...the hurt has yet to subside.

You're talking about the paper cut on your ear, no doubt? Darned close to being regicide! Who'd have thought a paper crown could be so deadly? You should have sued Burger King and brought that business down. If nothing else, you might have won a whopper of a settlement.

Successful business people have some of the craziest titles attached to their names. Once you become a billionaire, you've got it made. You can be a potato magnate (Wallace McCain), media mogul (Sir Max Achin', aka Lord Beaverbreath), lumber baron (K.C.Irving), or an all-knowing business tycoon (dennis h. hails). You can be so toxically omnipresent that you don't need a title, other than 'The' plus your first name, i.e. Donald. Oprah doesn't bother with such formality.

Do any of the aforementioned names come as a surprise? Are any foreign to you? How about dennis h. hails, all in lower caps. You've never heard of him, right? They say that it's not nice to speak ill of the dead, so I'll temper my comments. When I worked at Tilley Endurables in 1989, Alex Tilley inherited a business partner by the name of dennis h. hails. Their legendary partnership, a ship which ultimately sank, could easily be the basis for an opera or miniseries.

dennis h. hails was, hmmm, how to phrase this tactfully....

Be careful, Ian!

dennis h. hails was quite a 'story' teller, not unlike Hap Shaughnessy from the Red Green show. Some of his stories were quite marvelous, like the time that he was drafted by the Toronto Maple Leafs, before the draft existed. Some tales didn't always add up, others were just outright preposterous. dennis was quite a character, wearing a massive pinky ring which contained some sort of gem.

I believe it was the Star of India, Ian.

No, I think it was a diamond and not a sapphire.

It must have been the Hope diamond.

Yes, likely. dennis h. hails told one of my co-workers that the ring had been given to him by a Sultan!

Incredible. It almost makes you want to burn your underwear, do three cartwheels and then shovel out the earwax with an excavator, but that's what he said!

Once, during a lunchtime break at Tilleys, I went to the mall to purchase some now forgotten item, possibly a noose. While there, I happened to see a parabolic ear, which I couldn't resist. I returned to work and proceeded to eavesdrop on my boss's conversations, much to the delight of my chortling co-workers. This went on for months. I, Dr.Varty, headed up the audiology department at Tilleys. I couldn't really hear much with the twenty dollar device, but it made me a rock star within the office.

Magnate, mogul, tycoon, baron, the Donald, Oprah, VIP, big cat, big cheese, big cheese, big fish, big gun, big gun, big man on campus, big wheel, big wheel, bigwig, bigwig, Blair Cummings, dignitary, fat cat, head honcho, heavy-hitter, heavy-hitter, heavyweight, high man on the totem pole, high-muck-a-muck, important person, influential person, leisurologist, nabob, notable, personage, rock star.

None of these titles can come close to Sultan. If I had to choose one for myself, other than Sultan, I'd probably take Nabob. I'd be happy to be called either Nabob or Sultan. Sadly, I only have a self-bestowed honorary doctorate in Leisure Studies with which to doctor my name. It has lead to some confusion, as you might imagine....

To the family who brought in the dragonfly: my dad and I managed to stabilize its breathing and we expect a full recovery. I didn't really do much. I just monitored the pulse, from twenty feet away.

It All Starts With An Acorn

2009-11-18T07:20:00.003-04:00

Before you read this blog, I want give you a small quiz: name as many chainsaw manufacturers as you possibly can, not including Sears (Crapsman) or Canadian Tire (Mastercrap). Take a minute to see how many you can remember. While you're doing that, I'll just ramble on...

I'm fortunate enough to have a lot of mature trees on my property.

Ian, I see that your wife and son are not currently at home. This means that without the trees, there's nothing mature around your house at all.

The voice of my alter ego, which appears in italics, cuts like a Husqvarna, McCulloch, Stihl, Poulan, or Homelite. I just gave myself the challenge too. I could only think of five, not including the stores that outsource their private label power tools. My powers of recall are not all that impressive. How were yours?

Oh, I don't know about that, Ian. I'd say you did well for someone who rarely handles anything more dangerous than a butter knife. Oh, and by the way, your wife and I hid your Swiss Army knife. We just don't feel that you're ready for it yet.

I was doing some home renos yesterday. I managed to cut a window into my inside kitchen wall. I barely avoided cutting an electrical wire with my Skilsaw (the company, after reading my blog, will likely change their name).

Perhaps just to Kilsaw?

Yes, that's more like it. Anyway, my reno project is coming along rather well. This morning I'm off to Home Depot; Mecca, for real men like me. I need to buy some lumber for my project. Sure, I could cut down one of the many oak trees in my yard, and mill my own lumber, but do you really think it's a good idea for me to cut down an eighty foot tree with a Swiss Army knife, assuming that I could find mine.

My Morning Commute

2009-11-17T07:07:00.003-04:00

There have been a number of times in my life when a commute was necessary. Sometimes the commute was soul sucking, at other times it was life enhancing. Rarely was it anything in between.

Growing up in Fredericton was a joke in terms of commuting. You could get anywhere in the city in a few minutes. My father used to walk to work, or cross country ski in the winter. He even borrowed my moped once in a while and commuted to work in the late 1970s. The beauty of the moped was that I never had to worry about my dad breaking anything, least of all the sound barrier. With a top speed of 50 km/h going downhill with a tail wind, my West German built Hercules moped wasn't dangerous. It was comical in many ways, but it got a million miles per gallon so it was clearly ahead of its time.

I moved to Toronto in 1987 and that's when I discovered the real meaning of the word commute. Living in the Beaches area of T.O., I had to take a street car, bus, and subway to get to my classes at the University of Toronto. It took forty-five minutes and it was hell.

When I finally washed my hands of UofT and got a job, I used to bike to work. It also took forty-five minutes but it was glorious. Toronto has a number of well developed paved bike paths which meander through the burbs. I would frequently see Asian men practicing Tai Chi in the early morning. Often there was mist or fog along the trail, which made the Tai Chi statues look that much more mystical. When I finally got to work at Tilley Endurables (the Tilley Hat people), I was wide awake and my soul felt full, as did my stomach. There's nothing like biking through a cloud of flies to get your morning protein. Someday I will write about my time at Tilleys...it was incredible, often unbelievable (working with a brilliantly mad entrepreneur who inherited a business partner who had 'honesty' issues...pure gold).

After I shut the door on Tilleys I took a job with North South Yacht Charters as their marketing manager. I also bought a car, if you'd be kind enough to call a Mercury Topaz a car. It was,, faster than my moped...barely. It would do 50 km/h on the flats without a tail wind. It seemed that no matter where I lived in Toronto, North South's office was located in the diagonally opposed corner of the city. I've survived the DVP, 427, QEW and the 401. I consider myself to be invincible after those commutes. They were awful. I can't tell you the number of times I felt road rage.

Actually, I can...it was about six times per day (three for the morning commute, three for the afternoon). It's a wonder I didn't implode. Most of my rage was directed toward young Asian adolescents, the sons of more refined Tai Chi fathers and grandfathers. They drove their pimped out Honda CRX cars like visually impaired jet pilots with a hatred for the safety of others. I'm sure they were quite pleasant when they weren't red-lining it.

Eventually I escaped Toronto and moved to a land where the pace was more gentle; rural New Brunswick. I took a twelve year hiatus from commuting until it was decided that my son would be better served by going to school in Oromocto. One problem: there was no school bus to Oromocto. For four years I drove him to school in the morning and picked him up after school. Two hundred kilometres per day, five days a week. I had no regrets during this time, except that quite often I would see breathtaking landscapes that I didn't have time to photograph.

The St.John River valley, particularly during the mist covered mornings of September when cold air met warm water, was often spectacular. Those days are forever etched into my mind. It was also a time to enjoy the company of my son, who was fortunate enough to be enrolled in French immersion in Oromocto. We often tried to speak French to each other. Julian, quite fluent, spoke about whatever he wanted. I spoke about the things that my vocabulary allowed.

J'aime les chevaux. I actually can't stand horses, but I knew how to say that I liked them, so I did. I would also say things like 'quelle heures est-il?', even though there was a clock in the car and I knew exactly what time it was (time for me to stop talking like a bébé and start learning French).

Yesterday morning I drove to Saint John at 6 a.m., along with a surprising number of other cars. I can assume that we were all commuting to the office, my office being the Bay of Fundy. I had a 'board' meeting to attend. I was lucky enough to have the luxury, and it truly is a luxury, of stopping along the way to photograph the scenery without worrying about punching a time clock. For that I am grateful. Mornings are such a beautiful time, especially when you have time to stop and enjoy the traffic.

Who Plays With Leisurologists?

2009-11-16T21:24:00.004-04:00

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There were five grown men windsurfing on the Bay of Fundy today in the middle of the afternoon. This was not the weekend...it was a Monday. Don't these people have jobs?! One of the five was the leisurologist, but who were the others and how are they able to live the life of leisure? Here's the lowdown:

One is retired (Doug). One is underemployed (Frank). One is a shift worker (Dave). One has a job but chose to ignore it (Hollywood).

These are my friends. These are the people with whom I frolic, if you can consider windsurfing in the North Atlantic in mid-November frolicking. It was quite pleasant, surprisingly. The Bay of Fundy water is now much warmer than the lake water in front of my leisure palace. As long as the air temperature is above six degrees or so, then we're good to go, except Dave who also windsurfs in snow storms. You'd be amazed by the warmth of a wetsuit.

Today's image is of Dave Cuthbertson, shown executing a perfect jibe, while a freighter waits in the background to unload its contents; likely something to make the Irvings richer, or perhaps it's full of trinkets for the Dollar Store. Oh well, it makes a pretty backdrop.

Are You Goofy?

2009-11-15T08:16:00.002-04:00

She looked at the skateboard but didn't quite know what to make of it, so she jumped on blindly and off she went without a care in the world. What else would you expect from the Village Idiot's wife?

There are only two types of people in the world, so far as I can tell; those who skateboard, and those who don't. I skateboard and I have since I was twelve, though I took a Rip Van Winklian break from it for over twenty years while I pursued other more pressing passions (mortgage, work, diaper changing, etc.). But I'm back now, with a vengeance.

Skateboarding is nothing more than an extension of all the other board sports that are favoured by leisurologists the world over; snowboarding, wakeboarding, surfing, windsurfing, ironing. Within the world of skateboarding there are two disciplines; longboarding and shortboarding.

Shortboarding is for young kids with malleable bones and no fear. A shortboard was made for doing tricks like ollies. Take note that the professor in this video starts his lesson with the ubiquitous street greeting 'yo, what's up', then goes on to tell you that you have to have 'pop like a rabbit'. If you'd like to watch this video in English, let me know and I'll look for a translation. Peace out.

Shortboards are the preferred weapon in skate parks, like the new one in Saint John (if you're not into skateboarding, you can just hum along to the video's delightful soundtrack!). Needless to say, I own a longboard. Longboards are for cruising. They give a more surfy feel on the street, which suits me just fine. They're also good for bombing hills, to which I'm allergic (road rash). Longboards, by definition, are long and much more user friendly. Quite often people who have never skateboarded before look at the longboard and want to give it a go. I look at them and say "are you goofy?"

It's a great opening line, better than 'yo, what's up?' My goofy question is actually a very serious one. It's a question that could mean the difference between a two month hospital stay in a body cast and, say, having a fun time learning to skateboard. I'm not dissing the body cast option, we all secretly desire sponge baths, but this isn't about suckling on the teats of Medicare; it's about skateboarding.

When you hop on a skateboard you either have your left foot at the front of the board, or your right foot. There are no other options unless you're a three-legged Russian immigrant from Chernobyl. Assuming that you have two legs and your left foot is forward, then you're considered to have a regular stance. If your right foot is forward, then you're consider to be goofy. Sorry, I didn't make up the language. These terms apply to all board sports, so if you're goofy in one, you're goofy in all. I'm a regular guy, but you probably guessed that from my writing style.

Most people, who have never skateboarded before, have no idea if they're goofy or not. I use two methods to discover footedness, though there are others. The first is to ask someone what leg they would use to kick a soccer ball. This identifies their power leg, which is the leg that goes at the back of the skateboard. So if you like to kick a soccer ball with your right leg, then you'll be riding regular stance. If you prefer to kick a soccer ball with your left leg (you freak!), then you're goofy.

I know another test to ascertain which stance is correct. You first ask the person if they're goofy, then you give them a hard shove backwards. Sure, it's a bit aggressive, but just watch how they respond. If they brace themselves with their right leg as they're careening backwards, then they're regular. If they brace themselves with their left leg, and then attack you, then they're goofy, but so are you for shoving them. I'd suggest using the soccer ball question to determine their orientation.

I skateboarded over to the Cambridge-Narrows post office the other day. As I was leaving the post office, our fill-in Village Clerk drove into the parking lot. She admired the skateboard. I said, "want to try it." She said sure and hopped on without any thought of whether she was regular or goofy. As it turned out, she was regular. Her husband, the Village Idiot, is definitely goofy, though I've never seen him skateboard before.

I Beat Kikkoman

2009-11-14T08:29:00.003-04:00

Not a bad Cambridge-Narrows sunset for Friday the thirteenth, eh?

You don't get sunsets like this when you live in Toronto, but I can't run out for a bite of sushi after the sun goes down. Life is about balance and trade-offs. I've traded sushi for sunsets, without regret.

Anyone want to buy a used pair of chopsticks and a half bottle of Kikkoman? You might be surprised what the Kikko Man can do for you, so put your ketchup away and follow the Kikkoman link for a little Japanese treat.

Also, take note that I've added a 'Reaction' poll at the bottom of my blog postings. I'll be curious to see how you rate this posting. Funny? Beautiful? Twisted? I think it's a little of each!

Winnie The Pooh's Gay Tryst

2009-11-13T07:30:00.002-04:00

Long before blogs were on my radar, I used to craft rollicking good tales to a different audience every single night. I told these stories to my young son at bedtime, and he ate them up. They were known as 'make up' stories, and not because of my ongoing sponsorship deal with Revlon.

Ian, I thought you were more of a MAC cosmetics guy?

Some of my stories took on lives of their own, none more so than the one I wove about Pooh and Piglet's secret love child. We'll get to that in a moment.

Have you ever noticed that cartoon characters seem to be visually androgynous? Finding bumps on either Bugs Bunny or Porky Pig's smooth facade is like finding humility in Brian Mulroney's character (I'm not swayed by your crocodile tears, cryin' Bri). All television cartoon characters wear their 'parts' internally, though it's obvious that many of them are meant to be male. Go ahead, try to convince me that Porky Pig isn't a guy. I mean abedeebedeebedeebe, of course he's a guy.

Piglet, from the Winnie-The-Pooh series, was built much like Porky, but there was something about Piglet that made me think that there was estrogen flowing through her bacon. Yup, I just assumed that Piglet was a girl. This was quite convenient, because one of my stories told the saga of Pooh and Piglet having a child. The child was named Poohlet.

My son had small rubber Pooh/Piglet/Tigger/Eyeore figures with whom he used to play. They were such a huge part of his early childhood that we've kept them in case we ever have grandchildren. When Poohlet was born into the hundred acre wood klatch, there was a request to 'make him real'. Now, this was the mid 1990s, long before I owned a rubber factory in southeast Asia, so I had to be creative. I took a paper likeness of Pooh, and a paper likeness of Piglet, then Edward Scissorhanded them into one paper cutout character. Voila! Poohlet.

Poohlet had the head of one of his parents, and the body of the other. He wasn't what you'd call 'physically attractive', but he was hamsome. Poohlet became an instant hit with my son. Through my nightly tales, Poohlet took on a personality all his own. Everything was going just swimmingly until one day, while reading a real Pooh story, we discovered that Piglet was actually a boy.

Oh shit! (muttered silently)

My son asked me me how it was possible that Winnie-the-Pooh (clearly male) and Piglet (now also male) could have a child.

"Umm, Wendy, could you come here for a moment? Julian has a question." Then I would make my escape and mow the lawn, EXCEPT, Wendy was away at the time so I couldn't sidestep my son's innocent, yet dastardly complex, question.

I never relished the idea of explaining the birds and the bees to my son, mostly because, in the mid 1990s, I had yet to figure them out myself. I found myself trying to explain how two male characters could have a baby. I was trying to explain this to a pre-schooler. He was very advanced for his age, but probably not ready for all the details. Explaining the delicate details of Winnie-the-Pooh's gay tryst was akin to paddling a leaky canoe upstream in a river of fudge...not easy.

I decided not to delve into the 'ins and outs' of the gay lifestyle because I knew little of the birds and the birds. I decided to take the more conservative approach. I told him that Pooh and Piglet were just friends; room-mates, if you will. I told my son that Pooh and Piglet adopted Poohlet. I added that they were both single, but always wanted to be parents, and that seemed to satisfy his curiosity.

Thank gawd!

Yes, you really dodged a bullet there, Ian.

I probably had a six or seven year reprieve before any more talk of sexuality reared its ugly head, then one day it happened. My wife was discussing something of a feminine nature and our son was listening. Back in those days, the boy's hearing was so acute that he could hear a Crunchie bar being unwrapped five kilometres away. Julian decided to add his two cents worth to the conversation. His words, forever immortalized in the Varty/Nielsen annals, were:

"Mom, I know a lot about a lot of things, and gynecology is just one of them."

Wendy shot him 'the look', before proceeding to put him in his place. "No. You. Don't," she said in no uncertain terms. I was apoplectically speechless during the short, but intense, dialogue. Julian didn't contest Wendy's raw comeback, though I sensed that he truly felt that he knew plenty about the female anatomy. Secretly, I blame it on those back issues of National Geographic that I had laying around the house.

To this day I don't know what prompted him to say something so outrageous, but I guess it just runs in the family; after all, I know a lot about a lot of things too, though gynecology most certainly isn't one of them.

Holding Dougie's Hand

2009-11-12T07:59:00.007-04:00

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Growing up in a suburban Fredericton neighbourhood in the 1970s was....

Stop there for a moment! You're saying that you grew up in the 1970s?

Ummm, yeah. I did.

The 70s were all about recovering from the hangover of the 1960s. Women put their burnt bras back on. The Beatles had their wings clipped (Paul ran off with them). The seventies were about disco, Donny and Marie, and the birth of The Price Is Right. Soft rock got a toe hold in popular culture. Hall and Oates, those lion haired man eaters, were embraced by listeners. The seventies were about bad fashion; flared jeans that were often beige or orange. Animal print shirts were a staple of the day. Thongs came into vogue....and you were a part of all that!?

Yes, and I'm not proud to say that I once owned, and wore, a pair of wide leg cords. They were beige, of course. That was a great history of the seventies, though you forgot to mention that Ben Mulroney was born in 1976.

Sorry, just an oversight. The birth of Ben be praised.

Yes, Ben be praised. I'm not saying that I was proud of the 1970s, I'm just saying that I grew up in the 1970s in a suburban neighbourhood. I was about to make the point that my neighbourhood was filled with brothers. The Slipps had six boys, no girls. The Allabys had six boys, no girls. The Vartys, my parents, had three boys. The place was crawling with brothers. We were always playing road hockey, baseball and ice hockey. We had bicycles and motorbikes and G.I.Joes. We were boy's boys.

There were very few girls in the court where I lived. The family next door had four girls but none of them had a decent slap shot so we all butt (not a typo) ignored them. As a child I knew nothing about the mysterious lives of sisters. To this day I'm still fascinated by the dynamic between sisters.

To illustrate my point I've chosen an image of two sisters (above). One lives in Nova Scotia; the other in Upper Canada. The Upper Canadian sister, who I'll refer to under the identity shielding pseudonym of Renatus, lives in Stratford, Ontario. Stratford bills itself as Canada's 'premier arts town'. Sorry Minto (N.B.), you're number two.

Who's number three?

I knew you'd ask that so I did some research. Turns out that it's Toronto.

Never heard of the place.

You go past it when you drive from Dartmouth to Stratford.

Really? I'll have to keep an eye out for it next time.

You do that. Okay, back to my sermon. I was at Lawrencetown Beach with 'the sisters' and we were enjoying a walk along the grassy knoll that flanks the beach. I was running around with my camera, trying to capture to mood of the evening, when all of a sudden I saw something shocking. The sisters were walking hand in hand!

Sisters may have done that where I grew up, but if they did, I was unaware of it. I can tell you in no uncertain terms that brothers didn't, at least not the brothers who shared my surname.

It was nice to watch the sisters holding hands and walking. I felt a tad envious that I would never experience the joy of walking hand in hand with my siblings. For those of you who don't know my brother Doug, he's 6'5" inches tall and weighs about 250 pounds; no lightweight. He's not the hand holding type, or is he?

I love experiments, so I sent my brother the following e-mail:

Doug,

I was hanging out with two sisters in Dartmouth this past weekend. We went to Lawrencetown for a walk along the beach. At one point the two sisters were walking together and holding hands. It was nice to see siblings who are so close.

I'm going to write about it for my blog today. As an experiment, I think that we should try holding hands and walking along the Queen Street sidewalk in Fredericton.

Any thoughts?

Ian

His reply:

Sure, but only if we wear leopard skin thongs and cowboy boots.

He then sent another e-mail, as I hadn't replied suitably to his comment:

You are dodging the issue of thongs and cowboy boots. Are we on?

You can see that he's all about the fashion statement, and not so interested in holding my hand. He, too, was a child of the seventies, though an older child.

I'm going shopping for a leopard skin thong and a cowboy boots this afternoon. I'm pretty sure that my brother won't have to do any shopping...sounds like he's good to go.

So, yes, Doug, we're on! Name the time and place and I'll meet you there.

You're actually going to do this, Ian?

Of course I am.

Amen brother.

Best We Remember

2009-11-11T08:41:00.004-04:00

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The doors to the liquor store slide open automatically and I bring an unseasonably warm November breeze in with me. My head is filled with less-than-deep-dish thoughts, such as 'what wine goes with a McCain pizza'.

To my left, by the entrance, is a slightly stooped gentleman who, nevertheless, stands tall. He wears an impressive array of war medals on his tired old chest. The ribbons, attached above the medals, speak like voices of fire on many different levels. Next to him, on the table, is a tray of blood red poppies.

I think that I know why he stands there, but I wonder what he has seen. Does he either need or want to tell me his story? Or has he already? Perhaps just being there, by choice, is the story.

My shallow thoughts of wine never have to crawl on their belly under a barbed wire fence with gunfire overhead. There is no mud on my boots, knees or forehead. I am not numb with cold. I opt for six Stella Artois; a Belgian beer, because fine wine does not go with frozen mozzarella. Stella Artois: made where fields of poppies blow between the rows.

I could have just as easily been drinking Becks, had Adolph been more concerned with military brawn, and less with Eva. My name might not have been Ian, but rather Karlheinz, Gerhardt or Johannes. I might be driving a Mercedes Benz, rather than an 'aw shucks' Ford. I might be filling it with gas from the Berlin Irving. You just never know how things might have turned out, and that's just one more reason to wear a poppy.

The poppy is symbolic. Iconic.

I forgot to wear mine to the liquor store and I felt badly about that. The veteran at the table probably saw me, poppyless, walk past him. He may have thought that I didn't care. When I was younger I didn't seem to care, but about a decade ago I woke up. I don't know if it was a result of seeing the National War Memorial in Ottawa, or just being a father to a son who might be one day handed a gun and told to kill the enemy, or die trying.

I get a lump in my throat when I see these old veterans. I wish there were no war veterans, but I fear there always will be. So let's be respective.

I took my windsurfer down to the water's edge this morning as the sun came up. We savoured a few quiet moments of freedom together. There was no wind in Cambridge-Narrows on this crisp and beautiful November 11 morning.

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

— Lt.-Col. John McCrae (1872 - 1918)

Getting Schooled at Dartmouth

2009-11-10T07:53:00.007-04:00

I used to be under the impression that Dartmouth was full of shadowy characters and Halifax was where the golden children lived, but lately I've gotten to know Dartmouth much better and my harbour hopping head is being drawn to the eastern shore. Amazingly, there's more to Dartmouth than just the MicMac Mall and the Trailer Park Idiots.

Yesterday I was introduced to one of Dartmouth's legendary walking/biking paths. It was called the Lake Charles trail, part of Shubie Park. Shubie Park is a small, yet impressive part of the much larger Shubenacadie Canal waterway, about which I was being schooled.

It was a spectacular day for a field trip. A brilliant blue blanket overhead was punctuated by the occasional wispy loon feather cloud. It was warm and windless...a perfect Indian summer day, though the calendar said November 9. November is the time of year when long underwear starts to become appealing again, though its luster never really fades for some of us. It had snowed just three days prior, so this was an afternoon to be bewitched by the weather.

As we passed through the wooded trail the odd leaf would fall, though the vast majority had already gravitated to the chaotic tapestry of the forest floor. On our right was Lake Charles; clean, clear, with a fringe of jagged glacial fragments. It was one of those days that made you think 'city life isn't so bad...I could do this'.

Later in the day, after the sun went down, I drove past one of Dartmouth's finer restaurants. It went by the curious name of Hooters. Then I drove past a sign that offered 'pole dancing' lessons. Hmmm.

Could I live in Dartmouth?

All I can say is "this place is wicked!"

My reaction is open to interpretation. Some restrictions apply. See Ian for details.

Leisurologists: Wanted

2009-11-09T10:55:00.002-04:00

Do you remember those ads by the makers of the people's car: Volkswagon? Neither do I, but I do remember the catch or tag line: Drivers Wanted. I like their thinking; simple, and straight to the point. I bought a Ford. Money Saved.

I do share something with the volks at Volkswagon; I want something simple. I want leisurologists. I'm tired of my Tigger-like existence where 'I'm the only one'. I need some people to play with; hence Leisurologists Wanted.

It's easy to find weekend warriors. Everyone is a leisurologist on the weekends; except pastors, reverends, ministers and professional football players (and those who feed off them), but who wants to congregate around 'those types'. Sorry Greg Geldart. Sorry John Madden.

This past weekend I've been in the company of some weekend warriors. They have real jobs. One is an emergency room doctor (middle image) who skateboards. Kind of ironic, in a way, given that many medical specialists owe their livelihood to skateboard injuries. A skateboard has never actually hurt anyone, but pavement sure has. So has guy wires (aptly named if you watch this clip).

Another warrior who I played with this past weekend (bottom image) owns an Irish pub called Jamieson's. Jamieson's is located in Cole Harbour, a place famous for some young hockey player (I think it's Gordie Howe but I'm not sure). Jamieson's, if you happen to be in Dartmouth/Cole Harbour, is well worth a visit. The lamb in phyllo pastry is divine!

I was also in the company of father and son weekend warriors. The father is an oceanographer with a PhD from MIT (how cool is that?!). He is so close to being a leisurologist it's not funny, but he still has a pesky job. Too bad, because he's got all the right stuff to work in my industry. His son is a mechanical engineer and too talented to leave his career. He also has a mortgage which sort of makes leisurology a non-starter. Nevertheless, we did get out for a weekend windsurf together.

My world stops when Monday rolls around. Thank god for garbage day, it gives me focus, at least on Tuesday mornings. I feel like the Maytag repairman. We do the same amount of work, but he gets a cheque. The bastard.

I was hoping that the current recession would turn into a depression, but it seems that isn't going to happen. It would have given me a lot of playmates, though without jobs we probably would have just been huddling around burning barrels together, warming our hands and talking about the good old days of fool employment.

I Was Found Guilty At The Hearing

2009-11-08T08:44:00.002-04:00

The Hippie Hideout in Sackville (N.B.) has become part of my Cambridge-Narrows to Halifax commute. It's hard to believe that I once issued a fatwa against them. It just goes to prove that forgiveness is part of my vocabulary, though Mr.Horton shouldn't look for it anytime soon.

The Hippie Hideout has a real name; the Bridge Street cafe. I prefer Hippie Hideout (HH), because that's what it is. I've never seen a bridge on Bridge Street, so there. I was unaware that the HH had a farmer's market within the cafe every Saturday, but I was delighted to find it. It's not really farmers that exhibit their wares, given that the woman who I bought my Indian lunch from was wearing a sari. Try driving a tractor in a sari...I did. It was a disaster.

I stepped up to my sari wearing friend, looked at her offerings and pointed to what I wanted. I had no idea what I was ordering, but it looked and smelled great. She scooped a couple of MLOs (meatball looking objects) into a styrofoam container, then she put an oversized spoon into a container of rice, looked at me and said "penis okay?"

I paused, as I often do in situations like this. My immediate thought was to reply 'he's fine, sleeping at the moment', but I held back. There was quite a commotion in the HH; lots of chattering granolas. A two piece band was playing in the front of the cafe. I could barely hear myself think, let alone come up with a reply to her question. I wondered if perhaps I had misheard her. I leaned down to get closer. She was not a tall woman and I sometimes have trouble hearing short people in noisy rooms. She had a thick Indian accent and was very soft spoken. The lag in my response prompted her to repeat herself.

"Peanuts okay?"

I looked into the rice container and identified some peanuts. I thought they were june bugs, so you can imagine my relief.

"Yes, peanuts okay," I replied.

Twitter: For The Birds

2009-11-07T07:30:00.003-04:00

In the 60s, 70s, 80s, and 1990s twittering and tweeting were sounds made by birds and annoying people. Today, they still are. There's just fewer birds and more annoying people...many of them involved in politics.

I spent a half hour last evening looking at Tweets from various business/political types. Rick Miles, our provincial Minister of the Environment, posted the following Tweets:

"I love chocolate."

"off to see the Mazzuca gang for coffee!"

"caucus meetings in the great city of Miramichi (and i'm not wearing a tie!)"

Wow, Rick, you didn't wear a tie! You're quite the bad boy. Did you drive your tricycle right up to the door of the meeting, or did they offer valet parking? To be fair, our dear Minister did have some Tweets about work. I'll also take this opportunity to praise him for his brazen disrespect for the ubiquitous neck noose.

It does make me wonder to whom he's Tweeting. If it's to the people of New Brunswick, he's not building much confidence. Remember, he's the chocolate loving, coffee drinking man who ensures that our lakes and rivers don't produce three headed fish. Since Tweets are out there for all the public to see, like my blog, you'd better be careful what you say, Rick. I'm not worried about what I say because I'm an unelected unofficial. You don't have that luxury.

Shawn Graham, New Brunswick's Premier, makes me nervous. At least his Tweets are informative and he appears to keep his tie (and gym shorts) on at meetings.

Jody Carr, Conservative MLA for Oromocto is all business. His Tweets, like Shawn Graham's, are all work related and relevant. This builds confidence, which has never been lacking in the case of Jody Carr.

I read a few Tweets from a not-to-be-named New Brunswick dentist who uses Twitter as jet fuel for his ego. It makes for interesting reading, but his sweet and sappy self glorification makes my teeth hurt. You could say it's good for business, but I don't think so.

Rick Mercer's name and likeness appeared on one Twitterer's list of people being followed, so I felt compelled to check it out. Rick Mercer has it made as a political commentator. He can say what he wants without fear. He can talk politics. He can be funny. He can be frivolous....and we love him for it. He's perhaps the greatest politician this country has ever had, Elsie Wayne not withstanding. He is the voice of reason in Canada's political landscape, and based on what I've seen, we need him.

Rick Mercer even addressed the pending sale of NB Power to Hydro Quebec on his hit television show, the Rick Mercer Report. Click here to see what he had to say.

I don't have a Twitter voice because Twitter is based on the fundamental question 'What Are You Doing?' Twitter expects this question to be answered using 140 characters or less. It takes me on average 700 words, that's about 3500 characters, to tell you that I don't know what I'm doing. This is why I blog.

A Kernel Of An Idea

2009-11-06T13:02:00.003-04:00

I can't tell you where my blog ideas come from, except that a lot of thin air is involved. Most of the time I'm blind-sided by them. They're under rocks. In my underwear. In your underwear.

I never would have guessed you were a thong wearer!

In strange places. I rarely go looking for them...they seem to find me. Like flies to sh....aving cream.

Yesterday I was in the office of a family friend. We were having what could be considered a normal conversation, when all of a sudden she blindsided me:

"Elsie Wayne insists on being called Colonel."

I said "pardon.'

"Yup, she insists on being called Colonel." With pursed lips and a nod of her head, she confirmed that I had just heard something truly outrageous, so I put my folding Motomaster ear wax shovel back into my pocket. I considered jumping out of her second story office window, but there was a roof just three feet below. Thwarted. I thought about Canada's mighty military, led to the front by a charging Colonel Wayne. Oh, how I suffered during that fantasy.

Elsie Wayne, for those of you who don't know, is the former mayor of Saint John, New Brunswick. She was the city's first female mayor, we think. She left the mayor's couch in 1993 to become an MP in a very conservatively represented political party called the Regressive Conservatives. At the time she was one of only two Conservative MPs elected in the entire country, which led to jokes that her husband was sleeping with half the caucus.

Elsie Wayne is a character, in much the same manner that Don Cherry is. I'm still trying to ascertain if they're identical twins or not. I say they are...and it's not just their respective wardrobes that have me thinking this way. It has more to do with their 'open mouth and fire' linguistic license. Like Mr.Cherry and army boots, she's one tough piece of weathered leather.

After the initial shock of my friend's comment, I drifted back to lucidity. Elsie Wayne is not a colonel (!), I thought to myself. At least, she was no more a colonel than Harland Sanders; he of KFC notoriety. Colonel Sanders was about as much a real colonel as I am a respected employee. In fact, Harland was given the honorary title of Kentucky Colonel by the state of Kentucky. You should read about Colonel Sanders...it's a great story. Did you know that he lived in Mississauga, Ontario? I thought not.

Like Harland, Elsie Wayne spent some time in Ontario. She set up shop in Ottawa while serving her sentence as an MP. She even did a stint as interim leader of the Progressive Conservative Party, hosting lavish parties for the entire caucus.

Waiter, I'll have a table for two please.

Ha! Those were dark times for the PC party, still scraping moss off their shoulders after living in the shadow of Mulroney's chin, and ego. Dark times indeed, but Elsie toiled for her constituents, at least the straight ones, and did some great work. She did a lot for Canadian veterans and for that work she was recently honoured. She was named the first female Lt. Colonel of the 722 Communication Squadron of New Brunswick.

I still don't think that gives her the right to expect to be called Colonel. If she was a real one, then they probably would have placed her higher up in one of the other 721 Communication Squadrons in New Brunswick. Nevertheless, a high honour for a deserving spokesperson for many Canadian veterans.

For that, I salute Colonel Wayne.

The Rake's Progress

2009-11-05T07:51:00.002-04:00

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There's an opera called The Rake's Progress, about a man who gets lured away to the big city. Away from the innocence of the countryside. He leads a debaucherous life in the city and dies in an insane asylum.

My blog is short this morning because this rake (noun - a dissolute or profligate person, esp. a man who is licentious; roué) is busy doing some paid work (writing). I've been lured away to work for a big city client. I've forsaken my leaf rake for the intoxicating taste of money. I've turned my back on leisure, at least for two days, and I fully expect to pay for my debaucherous sins, likely in an insane asylum. Ha! They'll never take me to Jemseg!

I would ask that none of you report my transgressions to the Royal Order of Leisurologists; the society that I founded in 1992 which has an impressive membership of one.

Trust me, work itself is enough of a punishment.

October's Muse

2009-11-04T06:45:00.002-04:00

The blueberry fields of Stewarton are starting to fade, now that November is upon us....gone is my October muse (oh woe is me).

Why We Hate The Pownings

2009-11-03T07:11:00.004-04:00

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There's no way that Peter Powning was born of blood, guts and bone like the rest of us. He was surely forged deep below the earth's mantle from organic ingredients which came together to create a man stronger than steel. He is a super man of the art world, and that's just one of the reasons why we hate him.
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Last week I was in the riverside city of Freddy Beach. My wife, the artist, suggested that we visit a gallery that hemmed the commercial York Street landscape with a subtle sign that whispered Ingrid Mueller Art + Concepts. Somewhere, somehow my wife had heard that a new exhibition of Peter Powning's work was on display and we must see it. We bought time by feeding one hundred cents into the hungry parking meter in front of the gallery, and in we went.
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My first impression of Powning's work, from an arm's length, was, surprisingly, not visual. It was aural. It was the clang of the industrial age meeting the new age of enlightenment. It was stone gloves reaching to the past and pulling it to the present, and beyond. It was the sound of a roaring forge, hammered copper, brutalized bronze and submissive glass. For all the deafening clatter that went into Powning's body of work, there was an incredible calm that came out of it.
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Upon closer inspection, this time visual, I discovered an incredible sense of harmony in his work. Strange bedfellows, like books and streams, became one, as though they were always meant to be. Incredible vision on Powning's part...a curious and delicious mind. I'm not sure that any of this kind of talent can be taught, or bought. I'd like to suggest that it was there when he broke through the crust and joined we mortals.
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There was a pensive peacefulness to the exhibit, and I felt awash in inspiration. I was, in a multitude of certain terms, in awe of this man's artistry. I felt happy to live in Peter Powning's world for a few brief minutes, before returning to my own, a better man.
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Peter Powning has enlightened me personally, and darkened my doorstep figuratively. About fifteen years ago a letter was written to the editor of the Telegraph Journal. It was a thoughtful letter penned by Powning himself. In it he poetically, yet firmly, bemoaned the scourge of dusk-to-dawn lights. He said something of the effect that they robbed the countryside of the night. He was right.
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His letter appeared about a year after my wife and I moved to Cambridge-Narrows. In our yard was a dusk-to-dawn light that bathed our home in an eerie pumpkin juice cast. We were blind until we read Powning's words. The next day the light was gone and we discovered that we could see more, not less. Powning be praised, blessed is the night.
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Yesterday my wife and I were back in Fredericton, having coffee with someone who understands the arts and knows how to express her feelings. I told her that she had to go see Powning's new body of work. Her reply:
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"I hate Peter Powning." She didn't stop there. "I hate his wife, too", she added.
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There was a pause. A smile. Then an explanation for words so lovingly harsh.
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"He's too perfect. He's too talented."
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I thought about this for a few seconds and then chimed in, "I hate him too!"
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Invidiousness, or more simply stated, envy. All three of us were collectively staggered by the vision of this one artist who lives in the backwoods of New Brunswick. We wanted to be Peter Powning, if just for one day. Peter's wife Beth, no slouch herself, is a talented author, brilliant photographer and undoubtedly fifty-three other things that I don't know about. I suspect she's the kind of woman who could turn spruce needles into strawberry jam. There's a certain irony in that comment, because Peter Powning was described in a recent article as an alchemist. Apparently it sprints in the family.
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So, we don't hate the Pownings. We love them, though my friend took one parting shot at Peter by decrying "he even looks good in a beret!"
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How many men do you know who are infinitely talented and look good in a beret? Seriously, how many do you know? This guy is one of a kind, like his work. You can see it at Ingrid Mueller's gallery in Fredericton, but only until November 7.