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

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

'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

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

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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?

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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.

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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

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

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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.

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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'.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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!!!

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

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.