By DARREN HANDSCHUH
I am sure there are hazards associated with the job, but do mall security guards really need to wear bullet-proof vests?
I was strolling through a local mall recently when a SWAT wannabe walked by with his Kevlar-covered chest puffed out in a you-better-not-mess-with-me strut.
He did look pretty fearsome I must admit, and once I was done chuckling at the show of machismo, I was actually almost close to being intimidated.
I’m all about the safety, ask anyone, but I just thought the body armor was a little over the top. Or maybe the black vest was fine, but the swagger of the little man wearing it was the over-the-top part.
Either way, something was over the top and, for me anyway, kind of humorous.
I mean it was a mall, not some drug-addled, inner-city ghetto where he had to take down crack dealers on a regular basis. Not all security guards wear the vests, but I have seen a few mall guards donning the black body armor.
I can understand why there is a need for security, and to be honest with you, it is not a job I would want because who wants to deal with obnoxious and ignorant shoppers all day? I guess there is the possibility of being stabbed and in that case the vest would come in handy.
I hope it would anyway. If the thing can stop a bullet, I assume it can stop a knife. So I guess there is some justification for wearing a bullet-proof vest, but the sniper helmet, balaclava and jump boots were definitely too much.
I saw some security guards working the downtown core, and for those guys I could appreciate the vests because of their clientele, but having been to the mall many times in my life I have never viewed it as a hotbed of danger.
The downtown security guards need a certain attitude, a certain aura to do their job. They need an aura of, “Mess with me and you will be wearing your butt as a hat.”
The ones I saw were also quite big and strong and somewhat scary looking, but that is kind of an occupational requirement for those guys.
I talked to one and he said it was not unheard of to get into a “scuffle” on a regular basis.
Not to diminish the dangers the mall guards face, I have just never felt my safety was marginalized while walking past the food court.
“Hit the ground, a small child is running down the hall.”
“Everybody scramble, a group of teens are talking loudly and laughing.”
I did feel some concern the last time I was in a mall in the United States. I half expected a crazed gunman to come in and start shooting people at random because the store did not have his favourite type of cheese doodles.
At 6’4” tall, I would make an easy target.
“I hate tall, bald guys. I was frightened by a tall bald guy once when I was a kid.”
POW-POW-POW.
I wished I was wearing a bullet-proof vest, and bullet-proof underwear (with optional diaper attachment because if someone starts shooting…), and a bullet-proof helmet and gloves and neck protector and – well, basically just wrap me in Kevlar like a mummy and point in the direction of the tool store.
The most frightened I have ever been in a mall in Canada was when it was just my wife and myself and I noticed a sign at a ladies clothing store boasting “Everything 50 per cent off.”
Eeeek, nooooooo.
I had to think and act fast. At first I tried to walk between her and the sign hoping she would not see, but felt that tactic left too much to chance, so I tried distracting her.
“Hey look over there. Doesn’t that guy resemble Brad Pitt?”
My cleverness turned out to be my demise as she checked out the Brad Pitt look-a-like, reflected in the window where Billy McStudbagel was walking past was the 50 per cent off sign.
Of course in the window it was “ffo tnec rep 05” but she quickly reversed the numbers and letters and spun on her heels like a military drill sergeant and headed straight to the store.
It was like an invisible force was drawing her.
I began to protest, but upon hearing my words of disharmony, a security guard, dressed from head to toe in medieval battle armor, intervened and asked me if everything was alright.
Everything was fine, and besides who could argue with someone dressed like King Arthur (with a bullet-proof vest of course.)
shoenews@shaw.ca
Friday, March 13, 2009
Monday, March 9, 2009
Getting there
By DARREN HANDSCHUH
It is the Mecca of family fun and widely agreed upon to be the ‘happiest place on earth.’
I speak about Disneyland, of course.
It is a pilgrimage that has been made by countless millions of families over the years - a journey to the land of merriment, fun and really expensive food.
Where else could you spend $11.50 in American cash for a hot dog and a pop? That’s around $200 Canadian I believe.
When we walked through the front gates, I could almost see Mickey sitting in one of the towers wringing his hands with joy as two more teenaged boys entered the grounds.
“Dad, I’m hungry.”
“I know son, it’s been at least 20 minutes since you last ate. Hang on a second, we just have to refinance our home and I will buy some more food.”
But the price of dining at Disney was to be expected, it’s just the way it is at any tourist destination.
Anyway, before we could spend a king’s ransom on a pauper’s meal, we had to get there and that in itself was a bit of an adventure.
Upon boarding the propeller-driven plane for the short jump to Seattle, I quickly learned the ceiling of the plane was only six-feet tall, I am four inches taller than that, so after bonking my head more than once, I developed a Quasimodo kind of walk to get up and down the narrow aisle way.
Upon reaching my spacious seating area I was quite appreciative of the short flying time as I squished into my assigned spot. Having to use the facilities mid-flight, I quickly learned the bathroom on said plane was just slightly larger than a hamster cage.
But before we knew it, we were landing in Seattle, where we would hop on a jet and head to sunny California – that is once we cleared the 357 security check points required to enter the U.S.A.
There was the typical checking of our passports and our luggage, carry on items and, of course, our shoes.
People have to take their shoes off for inspection before boarding a plane because of that nut job who tried to take out a flight with a pair of loaded loafers a few years back.
By stuffing his footwear with explosives he became known as ‘The Shoe Bomber.’ I am just grateful he was not known as the ‘Suppository Bomber,’ or taking flight would take on a whole new meaning.
Entering the U.S. would become a very personal experience, a little too personal actually.
Even though I was doing nothing wrong, I still felt a kind of nervous, especially after entering the immigration area of the Seattle airport and the first thing I see is a border guard snapping on a pair of rubber gloves.
I began to wonder just how thorough the search would be and if he would send me flowers when it was over.
The border guard we had was actually quite friendly and even joked around with us a little bit.
But despite being completely void of any wrong doing, I still felt somewhat intimidated. Maybe it is because everyone with a uniform on had a gun strapped to their hip. That is just not something you see in Canada.
After scanning our passports through a passport-checking machine, the guard compared our faces to the passport pictures, determined we were not a threat to national security and let us in.
The return to our homeland a week later was much more relaxed. There were two customs guys sitting in their booths, where as in Seattle there were about 3,000, and in Canada nobody had a gun.
A quick check of the passport was followed by a friendly welcome home without a rubber glove in sight.
shoenews@shaw.ca
It is the Mecca of family fun and widely agreed upon to be the ‘happiest place on earth.’
I speak about Disneyland, of course.
It is a pilgrimage that has been made by countless millions of families over the years - a journey to the land of merriment, fun and really expensive food.
Where else could you spend $11.50 in American cash for a hot dog and a pop? That’s around $200 Canadian I believe.
When we walked through the front gates, I could almost see Mickey sitting in one of the towers wringing his hands with joy as two more teenaged boys entered the grounds.
“Dad, I’m hungry.”
“I know son, it’s been at least 20 minutes since you last ate. Hang on a second, we just have to refinance our home and I will buy some more food.”
But the price of dining at Disney was to be expected, it’s just the way it is at any tourist destination.
Anyway, before we could spend a king’s ransom on a pauper’s meal, we had to get there and that in itself was a bit of an adventure.
Upon boarding the propeller-driven plane for the short jump to Seattle, I quickly learned the ceiling of the plane was only six-feet tall, I am four inches taller than that, so after bonking my head more than once, I developed a Quasimodo kind of walk to get up and down the narrow aisle way.
Upon reaching my spacious seating area I was quite appreciative of the short flying time as I squished into my assigned spot. Having to use the facilities mid-flight, I quickly learned the bathroom on said plane was just slightly larger than a hamster cage.
But before we knew it, we were landing in Seattle, where we would hop on a jet and head to sunny California – that is once we cleared the 357 security check points required to enter the U.S.A.
There was the typical checking of our passports and our luggage, carry on items and, of course, our shoes.
People have to take their shoes off for inspection before boarding a plane because of that nut job who tried to take out a flight with a pair of loaded loafers a few years back.
By stuffing his footwear with explosives he became known as ‘The Shoe Bomber.’ I am just grateful he was not known as the ‘Suppository Bomber,’ or taking flight would take on a whole new meaning.
Entering the U.S. would become a very personal experience, a little too personal actually.
Even though I was doing nothing wrong, I still felt a kind of nervous, especially after entering the immigration area of the Seattle airport and the first thing I see is a border guard snapping on a pair of rubber gloves.
I began to wonder just how thorough the search would be and if he would send me flowers when it was over.
The border guard we had was actually quite friendly and even joked around with us a little bit.
But despite being completely void of any wrong doing, I still felt somewhat intimidated. Maybe it is because everyone with a uniform on had a gun strapped to their hip. That is just not something you see in Canada.
After scanning our passports through a passport-checking machine, the guard compared our faces to the passport pictures, determined we were not a threat to national security and let us in.
The return to our homeland a week later was much more relaxed. There were two customs guys sitting in their booths, where as in Seattle there were about 3,000, and in Canada nobody had a gun.
A quick check of the passport was followed by a friendly welcome home without a rubber glove in sight.
shoenews@shaw.ca
Happy in Disneyland
By DARREN HANDSCHUH
One of things I remember most about my childhood excursion to the Happiest Place on Earth was the agonizingly long drive.
My dad hated to fly, so we all piled into a big blue van and spent the next several days cruising on the highways of the U.S. as we made our way to Disneyland.
To say my dad gets a little stressed in big city traffic is to say Moses went on a little camping trip.
But once we got there, dad relaxed and we did all of the tourist type things you are supposed to do and in general built memories that endure to this day.
When it was time to take the role of the dad leading his clan to the Magic Kingdom, I took a slightly different approach.
I am not a huge fan of flying. OK, who am I kidding, flying used to scare me stupid and the first time I went on a commercial jet I nearly had a heart attack every time the winged beast would hit a little turbulence.
But any concerns I had about spending a few hours in the air were far outweighed by the dread I had about spending three days driving there, and three days driving back, with a van load of kids.
We decided to let a travel agent make all the arrangements and in a matter of days return flights for five were made, as were accommodations, bus vouchers, multi-day passes to Disneyland and California Adventure parks, a day trip to Universal Studios and a pirate-themed dinner theatre.
Flight time from Kelowna to Orange County took around three hours. A short layover in Seattle added a couple of hours to the journey, but beat days of motoring by a long shot.
We chose to go the Magic Kingdom in mid-February because it is the off season, it is still warmer than the Okanagan in winter and we hoped the crowds would be lighter so we could avoid spending our vacation waiting in line.
Upon arriving I briefly questioned our strategy.
Catching a weather report our first evening in the hotel what we heard was “…the worst winter storm of the year will hit the area at around midnight…heavy rains…high winds…enjoy Disneyland suckers…”
We woke up to exactly what was predicted, but we were Canadians and we were not going to let a little weather stop us from having fun, so we grabbed our gear and off to the bus we went.
The Anaheim Regional Transit system offers reasonable rates with an adult ticket costing $4, and a child was a buck, which allowed us to ride all day and the Disneyland bus stopped at our hotel every 20 minutes.
The rain poured for several hours forcing us to buy authentic Disneyland raingear, for a premium price of course.
Initially, we thought the monsoon would detract from the experience, but we soon learned Californians are allergic to rain and going to Disneyland in precipitation makes them break out in a rash, so we pretty much had the place to our selves.
There were other people braving the weather of course, and I noticed many of them bore the Maple Leaf.
Most of the rides were indoors, or underground to be exact, and we got on them about as fast as we could wind our way through the turnstiles.
Our remaining days in Disney were sunny and beautiful, but the crowds were still light.
The Magic Kingdom is not immune from the current economic woes, and attendance has dropped 32 per cent. That is bad news for the bottom line, but good news for those waiting in line.
Fast passes are available for most rides. This is where your park entry ticket is scanned and a pass is given to go on a ride at a certain time. You won’t have to wait in line, but you can only have one fast pass at a time.
The big thing in the Magic Kingdom right now is 4-D shows. This is where 3-D is supplemented by physical attributes such as in the Bug’s Life show where as a termite ‘spits’ at the crowd, little drops of water hit you in the face. The chairs vibrate when ‘bugs’ walk under them and all sorts of little forms of interaction make for a humerous experience.
Then there were the rides. All of them were fun – some of them were fun in a throw-up-on-your-shoes sort of way, but they were fun none the less.
Between Disneyland Park and California Adventure there are rides for every taste. The California portion of the amusement park features adrenaline-pumping rides with lots of twists, turns, drops and G-forces, while the Disney area presents more relaxed and amusing rides.
The granddaddy of all Disney roller coasters was California Screamin’ where you were hurled at break neck speed up and down and doing all sorts of things typically reserved for air force fighter pilots.
The smaller roller coasters were still fun and they did not leave your spleen in your chest cavity.
There are the traditional rides that have been part of the Magic Kingdom since the beginning, and there are the newer rides that incorporate the latest in video and digital technology.
When I went to Disneyland as a 12 year old, I remember running around Tom Sawyer’s Island. It was memorable to watch my own children run around the same area having the same fun.
New memories were built with rides like the Tower of Terror – an elevator drop – and Indiana Jones that are as much a story as they are a ride. The detailed sets are amazing and add greatly to the experience.
Wherever you go there is something to look at, listen to or take part in. Street performers keep you entertained as you walk from attraction to attraction and the ever-popular Disney characters were in abundance.
Of course, every 10 metres is a souvenier stand, and as should be expected at such touristy destinations, the items are not at bargain-basement prices.
For a family of five, we found on-site food to be one of the biggest expenses. A hot dog for $7, or a cheeseburger for $8 were commonplace and that did not include a drink. Once you leave the grounds and cross the road to where there are a bevy of restaurants and hotels, prices are somewhat better.
When booking a hotel, look for one that includes a free breakfast. Ours had a well-stocked hot breakfast – including eggs, fruit, waffles and cereals – that saved us a considerable amount of money each morning.
We used cash, traveller’s cheques or credit cards for most purchases. I tried using my Canadian debit card a couple of times outside of Disney, but both times it was rejected. The cash machines in Disney happily accepted the Canuck bank cards and spit out as much cash as I could afford.
Credit cards are universal, but beware of less-than-spectacular exchange rates when the bill comes in.
One of the most important items to bring is comfortable footwear. The Disneyland train runs around the perimeter of the entire park, stopping at four main locations, but be prepared for a lot of walking.
A small bottle of hand sanitizer is also a good idea as thousands of people have touched the same rails, controllers or door handles you are about to.
Was Disneyland cheap? No. Was it worth it? Absolutely.
The value of a lifetime of family memories was well worth the expense of providing them.
shoenews@shaw.ca
One of things I remember most about my childhood excursion to the Happiest Place on Earth was the agonizingly long drive.
My dad hated to fly, so we all piled into a big blue van and spent the next several days cruising on the highways of the U.S. as we made our way to Disneyland.
To say my dad gets a little stressed in big city traffic is to say Moses went on a little camping trip.
But once we got there, dad relaxed and we did all of the tourist type things you are supposed to do and in general built memories that endure to this day.
When it was time to take the role of the dad leading his clan to the Magic Kingdom, I took a slightly different approach.
I am not a huge fan of flying. OK, who am I kidding, flying used to scare me stupid and the first time I went on a commercial jet I nearly had a heart attack every time the winged beast would hit a little turbulence.
But any concerns I had about spending a few hours in the air were far outweighed by the dread I had about spending three days driving there, and three days driving back, with a van load of kids.
We decided to let a travel agent make all the arrangements and in a matter of days return flights for five were made, as were accommodations, bus vouchers, multi-day passes to Disneyland and California Adventure parks, a day trip to Universal Studios and a pirate-themed dinner theatre.
Flight time from Kelowna to Orange County took around three hours. A short layover in Seattle added a couple of hours to the journey, but beat days of motoring by a long shot.
We chose to go the Magic Kingdom in mid-February because it is the off season, it is still warmer than the Okanagan in winter and we hoped the crowds would be lighter so we could avoid spending our vacation waiting in line.
Upon arriving I briefly questioned our strategy.
Catching a weather report our first evening in the hotel what we heard was “…the worst winter storm of the year will hit the area at around midnight…heavy rains…high winds…enjoy Disneyland suckers…”
We woke up to exactly what was predicted, but we were Canadians and we were not going to let a little weather stop us from having fun, so we grabbed our gear and off to the bus we went.
The Anaheim Regional Transit system offers reasonable rates with an adult ticket costing $4, and a child was a buck, which allowed us to ride all day and the Disneyland bus stopped at our hotel every 20 minutes.
The rain poured for several hours forcing us to buy authentic Disneyland raingear, for a premium price of course.
Initially, we thought the monsoon would detract from the experience, but we soon learned Californians are allergic to rain and going to Disneyland in precipitation makes them break out in a rash, so we pretty much had the place to our selves.
There were other people braving the weather of course, and I noticed many of them bore the Maple Leaf.
Most of the rides were indoors, or underground to be exact, and we got on them about as fast as we could wind our way through the turnstiles.
Our remaining days in Disney were sunny and beautiful, but the crowds were still light.
The Magic Kingdom is not immune from the current economic woes, and attendance has dropped 32 per cent. That is bad news for the bottom line, but good news for those waiting in line.
Fast passes are available for most rides. This is where your park entry ticket is scanned and a pass is given to go on a ride at a certain time. You won’t have to wait in line, but you can only have one fast pass at a time.
The big thing in the Magic Kingdom right now is 4-D shows. This is where 3-D is supplemented by physical attributes such as in the Bug’s Life show where as a termite ‘spits’ at the crowd, little drops of water hit you in the face. The chairs vibrate when ‘bugs’ walk under them and all sorts of little forms of interaction make for a humerous experience.
Then there were the rides. All of them were fun – some of them were fun in a throw-up-on-your-shoes sort of way, but they were fun none the less.
Between Disneyland Park and California Adventure there are rides for every taste. The California portion of the amusement park features adrenaline-pumping rides with lots of twists, turns, drops and G-forces, while the Disney area presents more relaxed and amusing rides.
The granddaddy of all Disney roller coasters was California Screamin’ where you were hurled at break neck speed up and down and doing all sorts of things typically reserved for air force fighter pilots.
The smaller roller coasters were still fun and they did not leave your spleen in your chest cavity.
There are the traditional rides that have been part of the Magic Kingdom since the beginning, and there are the newer rides that incorporate the latest in video and digital technology.
When I went to Disneyland as a 12 year old, I remember running around Tom Sawyer’s Island. It was memorable to watch my own children run around the same area having the same fun.
New memories were built with rides like the Tower of Terror – an elevator drop – and Indiana Jones that are as much a story as they are a ride. The detailed sets are amazing and add greatly to the experience.
Wherever you go there is something to look at, listen to or take part in. Street performers keep you entertained as you walk from attraction to attraction and the ever-popular Disney characters were in abundance.
Of course, every 10 metres is a souvenier stand, and as should be expected at such touristy destinations, the items are not at bargain-basement prices.
For a family of five, we found on-site food to be one of the biggest expenses. A hot dog for $7, or a cheeseburger for $8 were commonplace and that did not include a drink. Once you leave the grounds and cross the road to where there are a bevy of restaurants and hotels, prices are somewhat better.
When booking a hotel, look for one that includes a free breakfast. Ours had a well-stocked hot breakfast – including eggs, fruit, waffles and cereals – that saved us a considerable amount of money each morning.
We used cash, traveller’s cheques or credit cards for most purchases. I tried using my Canadian debit card a couple of times outside of Disney, but both times it was rejected. The cash machines in Disney happily accepted the Canuck bank cards and spit out as much cash as I could afford.
Credit cards are universal, but beware of less-than-spectacular exchange rates when the bill comes in.
One of the most important items to bring is comfortable footwear. The Disneyland train runs around the perimeter of the entire park, stopping at four main locations, but be prepared for a lot of walking.
A small bottle of hand sanitizer is also a good idea as thousands of people have touched the same rails, controllers or door handles you are about to.
Was Disneyland cheap? No. Was it worth it? Absolutely.
The value of a lifetime of family memories was well worth the expense of providing them.
shoenews@shaw.ca
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Now that is scary
BY DARREN HANDSCHUH
We all saw its shadow before we saw it.
“It” was a humungous rock spider that was walking out of the campfire. That’s right, I said walking out of the campfire.
It was the colour of granite with a big round body, huge fangs and a bad attitude.
It literally cast a shadow from the fire and was calmly walking within inches of the hot embers.
A friend of mine took a stick and poked the multi-legged terror and it reached up with one of its front legs grabbed the stick and slammed my friend to the ground.
OK, maybe it wasn’t that bad, but you could see it actually pushing the stick down a little bit.
My buddy was stunned at the strength of this thing and I felt a shiver go up my spine that lasted for the next 17 minutes.
I had visions of this Godzilla of the spider realm hiding in my sleeping bag or attacking me from below as I used the outdoor loo.
Any such interaction with the arachnid (especially the loo part) would cause me to squeal like a small, frightened school girl moments before I passed out.
Spider - one, big strong man - zero.
As we examined the spider he, or she, or whatever it was, took up a defensive pose and would push the stick every time it came near him.
I suggested we nuke the spider so it would never frighten small children or big adults again.
“Hey, why don’t you put on those leather work gloves, pick the spider up and throw it in the fire?” I suggested to my friend with the stick.
“Why don’t you?” was his response.
“Are you out of your mind? Look at that thing. I’m not going anywhere near it. Why do you think I suggested you do it?”
Four fully grown adults stood trembling in fear over a spider that probably weighed less than my fingernails, but no one was going near it – no matter what.
OK, plan A was a bust.
Plan B involved death from above and a bombing run using a five-pound stone was decided upon as the best way to rid the world of the grey terror that was holding us at bay.
I threw the rock and it kind of hit the spider on his side. He then seemed to bounce off the rock and the last we saw he was shooting across the hot embers to the other side of the fire.
No carcass was found so we assumed he had survived the assassination attempt which sent more chills up my spine (kind of like right now actually.)
This freaked all of us out as none of us are overly fond of spiders or any other type of insect for that matter.
I had more visions. This time it was of a wounded monster spider hiding in the woods, plotting its revenge, waiting for the perfect moment to attack.
Perhaps it would limp its way up the tree behind me, climb out on a limb and then drop onto my hair-challenged head.
“Eeeek,” does not even come close to what my reaction would be.
Maybe it would die a slow death, but survive long enough to pass on a message of vengeance to its 20,000 offspring.
That would be just my luck to have a small army of ticked off arachnids hunting me and my kin down to fulfill some sort of insect vendetta.
There were only so many rocks I could throw.
Fearing retribution, I conducted a more thorough search of the area around the campfire, but no sign of my new nemesis could be found.
Sure we all hatched the murder scheme, but it would be my scent on the rock. I don’t know if spiders can smell, but I do not want to take the risk.
We tried to relax around the fire and laugh off the incident, but deep down every one of us was keeping a close eye out for any sign of the spider of terror.
We have been back to that spot since that fateful night and have yet to be carried off into the woods by avenging insects, so our fears of a sci-fi like rebellion by an arachnid army are unfounded.My fear of spiders however, remains as strong as it ever has – perhaps even more.
shoenews@shaw.ca
We all saw its shadow before we saw it.
“It” was a humungous rock spider that was walking out of the campfire. That’s right, I said walking out of the campfire.
It was the colour of granite with a big round body, huge fangs and a bad attitude.
It literally cast a shadow from the fire and was calmly walking within inches of the hot embers.
A friend of mine took a stick and poked the multi-legged terror and it reached up with one of its front legs grabbed the stick and slammed my friend to the ground.
OK, maybe it wasn’t that bad, but you could see it actually pushing the stick down a little bit.
My buddy was stunned at the strength of this thing and I felt a shiver go up my spine that lasted for the next 17 minutes.
I had visions of this Godzilla of the spider realm hiding in my sleeping bag or attacking me from below as I used the outdoor loo.
Any such interaction with the arachnid (especially the loo part) would cause me to squeal like a small, frightened school girl moments before I passed out.
Spider - one, big strong man - zero.
As we examined the spider he, or she, or whatever it was, took up a defensive pose and would push the stick every time it came near him.
I suggested we nuke the spider so it would never frighten small children or big adults again.
“Hey, why don’t you put on those leather work gloves, pick the spider up and throw it in the fire?” I suggested to my friend with the stick.
“Why don’t you?” was his response.
“Are you out of your mind? Look at that thing. I’m not going anywhere near it. Why do you think I suggested you do it?”
Four fully grown adults stood trembling in fear over a spider that probably weighed less than my fingernails, but no one was going near it – no matter what.
OK, plan A was a bust.
Plan B involved death from above and a bombing run using a five-pound stone was decided upon as the best way to rid the world of the grey terror that was holding us at bay.
I threw the rock and it kind of hit the spider on his side. He then seemed to bounce off the rock and the last we saw he was shooting across the hot embers to the other side of the fire.
No carcass was found so we assumed he had survived the assassination attempt which sent more chills up my spine (kind of like right now actually.)
This freaked all of us out as none of us are overly fond of spiders or any other type of insect for that matter.
I had more visions. This time it was of a wounded monster spider hiding in the woods, plotting its revenge, waiting for the perfect moment to attack.
Perhaps it would limp its way up the tree behind me, climb out on a limb and then drop onto my hair-challenged head.
“Eeeek,” does not even come close to what my reaction would be.
Maybe it would die a slow death, but survive long enough to pass on a message of vengeance to its 20,000 offspring.
That would be just my luck to have a small army of ticked off arachnids hunting me and my kin down to fulfill some sort of insect vendetta.
There were only so many rocks I could throw.
Fearing retribution, I conducted a more thorough search of the area around the campfire, but no sign of my new nemesis could be found.
Sure we all hatched the murder scheme, but it would be my scent on the rock. I don’t know if spiders can smell, but I do not want to take the risk.
We tried to relax around the fire and laugh off the incident, but deep down every one of us was keeping a close eye out for any sign of the spider of terror.
We have been back to that spot since that fateful night and have yet to be carried off into the woods by avenging insects, so our fears of a sci-fi like rebellion by an arachnid army are unfounded.My fear of spiders however, remains as strong as it ever has – perhaps even more.
shoenews@shaw.ca
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Hockey, it's a funny ol' game
By DARREN HANDSCHUH
It’s not uncommon to have special guests at hockey games to make presentations or whatever it is they do.
It’s usually a dignitary of some sort, a special athlete or a celebrity and once I saw a drunk naked guy run across the ice making a (very) small presentation of his own.
While attending a game a few years back, I watched as Big Tom of Survivor fame walked to centre ice for the ceremonial face off.
Having never seen a hockey game in his life (which by Canadian standards is like never having eaten bread before), the big man flipped the puck into the air between the two team captains.
Everyone cheered and he waved to the crowd as he left the ice. He admitted in a later interview he was somewhat baffled by the game, but found it fast paced and interesting.
It is obvious Big Tom was not a Canadian.
In Canada, babies are born with hockey bred into them and before anyone knows it Junior is crawling around the house going, “Goo-goo, gaa-gaa. Pass it to the point. C’mon guys, get some traffic in front of the net. Goo-goo, gaa-gaa.”
Now, I am not a rabid hockey fan who would eat sautéed rat intestine for play off tickets, (OK, maybe if it were the Canucks) but I do like the game, as does most of the country.
I doubt if there is a community in the entire nation that does not have an ice surface of some sort – a frozen pond, arena, a pool someone forgot to drain, whatever.
There are super fans out there who would not miss a game if their leg was cut off. They would casually sew it back on during the first-period intermission so as not to miss any of the action.
Super fans also know every detail there is to know about the players on their favourite team and could probably challenge the player’s mom to a game of who knows more.
There are many customs and rituals to the game, both for the fans and the players.
I overheard one fan say everything was going to be fine because she had her lucky penny, pen and sock. Not socks, but sock - singular. I guess the other sock was evil and helped the opposing team.
But I am glad she did have all that gear, because if she didn’t, the team would have to rely on skill and determination to win. Viva la lucky foot covering.
Throwing a hat on the ice when a player scores three goals (it’s called a hat trick in case Big Tom is reading) is a popular action for hockey fans who didn’t mind spending the rest of the game with hat hair.
Some traditions are team specific as well, such as in Detroit where they throw an octopus on the ice.
How did this unique tradition start? I have no idea. Of course, the octopus probably doesn’t enjoy it and I am sure the Coalition of Octopus Lovers of America protest each time it happens.
Some traditions seem to be getting lost however.
I can remember taking in games years ago and the people in the arena (section H to be exact) were the loudest I have ever heard.
When an opposing player got a penalty, hundreds of people would yell, “You out. You out.”
With that many people yelling at the same time it sounded like “Ooog-Ugg, Ooog-Ugg.”
I did not know what ‘Ooog-Ugg’ was supposed to mean, but I cheered along merrily, just being happy to be out of the house.
Learning it was actually ‘You out’ made much more sense. But you don’t hear ‘You out’ or even ‘Ooog-Ugg’ at all anymore.
The age-old tradition of yelling at the referee is alive and well and sometimes people pursue their chastising of the zebras with a little too much gusto as headlines will attest to.
Then there are the play off traditions. The most common one is nobody shaves for the duration.
When I played minor hockey we wanted to be like the pros and follow tradition, but because most of us were barely able to grow peach fuzz, the shaving thing didn’t work so we had to come up with our own traditions.
One year, someone suggested we don’t wash our undershirts until the play offs were over. Being the braniacs that we were, we thought that was a great idea.
After the first game, the sweaty T-shirt worn under the shoulder pads was stuffed into the duffle bag until the next game. By game two it still wasn’t too bad, at least not compared to what it was going to be like because as luck would have it we kept on winning and before we knew it we were in the finals.
That’s about 15 games without washing the shirts. My dog kept trying to roll on my hockey bag. It was a special feeling to put that wet, clammy shirt on before a game.
However, it turned out to be an advantage during the games because we smelled so bad none of the other players would come near us.
We won the play offs, but had to drive a stake through the centre the offending shirts because they had become their own life form.
Hockey - what a great game.
shoenews@shaw.ca
It’s not uncommon to have special guests at hockey games to make presentations or whatever it is they do.
It’s usually a dignitary of some sort, a special athlete or a celebrity and once I saw a drunk naked guy run across the ice making a (very) small presentation of his own.
While attending a game a few years back, I watched as Big Tom of Survivor fame walked to centre ice for the ceremonial face off.
Having never seen a hockey game in his life (which by Canadian standards is like never having eaten bread before), the big man flipped the puck into the air between the two team captains.
Everyone cheered and he waved to the crowd as he left the ice. He admitted in a later interview he was somewhat baffled by the game, but found it fast paced and interesting.
It is obvious Big Tom was not a Canadian.
In Canada, babies are born with hockey bred into them and before anyone knows it Junior is crawling around the house going, “Goo-goo, gaa-gaa. Pass it to the point. C’mon guys, get some traffic in front of the net. Goo-goo, gaa-gaa.”
Now, I am not a rabid hockey fan who would eat sautéed rat intestine for play off tickets, (OK, maybe if it were the Canucks) but I do like the game, as does most of the country.
I doubt if there is a community in the entire nation that does not have an ice surface of some sort – a frozen pond, arena, a pool someone forgot to drain, whatever.
There are super fans out there who would not miss a game if their leg was cut off. They would casually sew it back on during the first-period intermission so as not to miss any of the action.
Super fans also know every detail there is to know about the players on their favourite team and could probably challenge the player’s mom to a game of who knows more.
There are many customs and rituals to the game, both for the fans and the players.
I overheard one fan say everything was going to be fine because she had her lucky penny, pen and sock. Not socks, but sock - singular. I guess the other sock was evil and helped the opposing team.
But I am glad she did have all that gear, because if she didn’t, the team would have to rely on skill and determination to win. Viva la lucky foot covering.
Throwing a hat on the ice when a player scores three goals (it’s called a hat trick in case Big Tom is reading) is a popular action for hockey fans who didn’t mind spending the rest of the game with hat hair.
Some traditions are team specific as well, such as in Detroit where they throw an octopus on the ice.
How did this unique tradition start? I have no idea. Of course, the octopus probably doesn’t enjoy it and I am sure the Coalition of Octopus Lovers of America protest each time it happens.
Some traditions seem to be getting lost however.
I can remember taking in games years ago and the people in the arena (section H to be exact) were the loudest I have ever heard.
When an opposing player got a penalty, hundreds of people would yell, “You out. You out.”
With that many people yelling at the same time it sounded like “Ooog-Ugg, Ooog-Ugg.”
I did not know what ‘Ooog-Ugg’ was supposed to mean, but I cheered along merrily, just being happy to be out of the house.
Learning it was actually ‘You out’ made much more sense. But you don’t hear ‘You out’ or even ‘Ooog-Ugg’ at all anymore.
The age-old tradition of yelling at the referee is alive and well and sometimes people pursue their chastising of the zebras with a little too much gusto as headlines will attest to.
Then there are the play off traditions. The most common one is nobody shaves for the duration.
When I played minor hockey we wanted to be like the pros and follow tradition, but because most of us were barely able to grow peach fuzz, the shaving thing didn’t work so we had to come up with our own traditions.
One year, someone suggested we don’t wash our undershirts until the play offs were over. Being the braniacs that we were, we thought that was a great idea.
After the first game, the sweaty T-shirt worn under the shoulder pads was stuffed into the duffle bag until the next game. By game two it still wasn’t too bad, at least not compared to what it was going to be like because as luck would have it we kept on winning and before we knew it we were in the finals.
That’s about 15 games without washing the shirts. My dog kept trying to roll on my hockey bag. It was a special feeling to put that wet, clammy shirt on before a game.
However, it turned out to be an advantage during the games because we smelled so bad none of the other players would come near us.
We won the play offs, but had to drive a stake through the centre the offending shirts because they had become their own life form.
Hockey - what a great game.
shoenews@shaw.ca
Monday, March 2, 2009
Want mucus with that?
By DARREN HANDSCHUH
So I saw this promotion for some sort of cleansing diet and one of the selling features was a claim to be mucus free.
Hmmm, I am no dietary genius, but I would assume anything mucus free is better than anything loaded with mucus.
If that diet is claiming to be mucus free, does that mean there is a diet out there that boasts its mucus content?
“Try the green gelatin diet aid, now with extra mucus. For those tough cases, try the new elephant mucus, all the way from Africa.”
I doubt it will be a big seller, but it could help people lose weight because after eating all that mucus who could possibly hold down any real food.
Even saying the word mucus is unpleasant and I seriously doubt the inventor of the mucus-laden diet had both oars in the water, or even in the boat, or even knew what an oar was.
How would you like to be the person who has to market this plan? It would be easier to sell a time share in Baghdad.
Last year, my wife went on a cleansing diet (a completely mucus free diet) that lasted a gruelling 21 days and was supposed to free the body of all toxins and bad stuff.
From what I could see, all it did was free the body from any real food.
My wife is an amazing person, but she can get a little grumpy when she is hungry, so I was somewhat nervous to hear about her foray into the realm of dieting.
She was actually in good spirits throughout and only tried to attack me with a claw hammer once. It was my own fault, actually. I made the mistake of being on the same continent she was.
I am kidding of course. She maintained a pleasant demeanor for the entire time of torture, which is a testimony to just how strong of a person she is.
If I went that long without any real food, all the cats in the neighbourhood would mysteriously disappear.
“No Mrs. Jones, I haven’t seen Fluffy. What am I eating? Um, chicken, that’s right, it’s chicken. It’s not Fluffy or anything.”
At first she had to cut out certain food groups, like dairy products, which wasn’t too bad because she doesn’t drink milk or anything so she survived the first couple of days with relative ease. (It was easy for me anyway, because all I had to do was sit back and watch.)
A few more days later she had to cut out meat. This one really hurt because my entire family is a clan of carnivores who jump on hamburgers like a pack of jackals on a three-legged Chihuahua.
Then, she could only eat fruit and veggies. She slowly had to give up more and more food groups until all she was allowed to do was suck nutrition out of the air like a plant.
Once the peak of the cleansing diet was reached, she could start to reintroduce food groups to her menu until she was back to chowing down with the rest of her clan.
I feared for any cattle within striking range the day she was allowed to eat beef again. Let’s just say dead animal was on the menu that night.
I have to admit I was very impressed that she endured for the entire three weeks. A good friend of ours agreed to go on the diet the same day and she lasted about six hours, which is still two hours longer than I would have made it.
My wife said she felt better after the diet and that I should try it.
I had a better plan.
“How about I just tell you how great you did and we both rejoice in your success over a pizza loaded with mechanically separated meat products?”
I never did attempt the diet.
In fact, I have never been on a diet in my life.
When I was a teen, I was as skinny as a rail and used to take all sorts of protein supplements in an effort to gain weight.
It was kind of like the anti-diet I suppose. Anything that might help me pack on a few pounds was fair game, but for several years I barely gained a pound.
I could literally eat as much of anything I wanted and not gain an ounce.
It was when I turned 35 that this dietary disaster came back to bite me on the, well you know.
It was like I woke up one day and, phooomp – I had an ever expanding portable food storage facility attached to my waist.
While I am hardly tubby, or built like an American – watch the news and see how many obese Yankees you can spot, it’s fun for the whole family – I could stand to lose a few pounds.
The battle of bulge is being waged and so far the bulge is holding its own.
While I have not jumped head first into a full-blown diet, I’ve got to admit I am trying to be a little more careful with what I eat.
But no matter what is on the dinner plate, I can guarantee it is all 100 per cent mucus free.
shoenews@shaw.ca
So I saw this promotion for some sort of cleansing diet and one of the selling features was a claim to be mucus free.
Hmmm, I am no dietary genius, but I would assume anything mucus free is better than anything loaded with mucus.
If that diet is claiming to be mucus free, does that mean there is a diet out there that boasts its mucus content?
“Try the green gelatin diet aid, now with extra mucus. For those tough cases, try the new elephant mucus, all the way from Africa.”
I doubt it will be a big seller, but it could help people lose weight because after eating all that mucus who could possibly hold down any real food.
Even saying the word mucus is unpleasant and I seriously doubt the inventor of the mucus-laden diet had both oars in the water, or even in the boat, or even knew what an oar was.
How would you like to be the person who has to market this plan? It would be easier to sell a time share in Baghdad.
Last year, my wife went on a cleansing diet (a completely mucus free diet) that lasted a gruelling 21 days and was supposed to free the body of all toxins and bad stuff.
From what I could see, all it did was free the body from any real food.
My wife is an amazing person, but she can get a little grumpy when she is hungry, so I was somewhat nervous to hear about her foray into the realm of dieting.
She was actually in good spirits throughout and only tried to attack me with a claw hammer once. It was my own fault, actually. I made the mistake of being on the same continent she was.
I am kidding of course. She maintained a pleasant demeanor for the entire time of torture, which is a testimony to just how strong of a person she is.
If I went that long without any real food, all the cats in the neighbourhood would mysteriously disappear.
“No Mrs. Jones, I haven’t seen Fluffy. What am I eating? Um, chicken, that’s right, it’s chicken. It’s not Fluffy or anything.”
At first she had to cut out certain food groups, like dairy products, which wasn’t too bad because she doesn’t drink milk or anything so she survived the first couple of days with relative ease. (It was easy for me anyway, because all I had to do was sit back and watch.)
A few more days later she had to cut out meat. This one really hurt because my entire family is a clan of carnivores who jump on hamburgers like a pack of jackals on a three-legged Chihuahua.
Then, she could only eat fruit and veggies. She slowly had to give up more and more food groups until all she was allowed to do was suck nutrition out of the air like a plant.
Once the peak of the cleansing diet was reached, she could start to reintroduce food groups to her menu until she was back to chowing down with the rest of her clan.
I feared for any cattle within striking range the day she was allowed to eat beef again. Let’s just say dead animal was on the menu that night.
I have to admit I was very impressed that she endured for the entire three weeks. A good friend of ours agreed to go on the diet the same day and she lasted about six hours, which is still two hours longer than I would have made it.
My wife said she felt better after the diet and that I should try it.
I had a better plan.
“How about I just tell you how great you did and we both rejoice in your success over a pizza loaded with mechanically separated meat products?”
I never did attempt the diet.
In fact, I have never been on a diet in my life.
When I was a teen, I was as skinny as a rail and used to take all sorts of protein supplements in an effort to gain weight.
It was kind of like the anti-diet I suppose. Anything that might help me pack on a few pounds was fair game, but for several years I barely gained a pound.
I could literally eat as much of anything I wanted and not gain an ounce.
It was when I turned 35 that this dietary disaster came back to bite me on the, well you know.
It was like I woke up one day and, phooomp – I had an ever expanding portable food storage facility attached to my waist.
While I am hardly tubby, or built like an American – watch the news and see how many obese Yankees you can spot, it’s fun for the whole family – I could stand to lose a few pounds.
The battle of bulge is being waged and so far the bulge is holding its own.
While I have not jumped head first into a full-blown diet, I’ve got to admit I am trying to be a little more careful with what I eat.
But no matter what is on the dinner plate, I can guarantee it is all 100 per cent mucus free.
shoenews@shaw.ca
Computers are evil
By DARREN HANDSCHUH
The more I use them, the more I am convinced computers have been placed on this earth to drive me crazy. I suspect I am not alone in my assessment of the ‘marvels’ of science.
Many movies have been made about computers running rampant and destroying humanity. I say we are almost there.
The electronic beasts have effectively taken over the world and are in control of everything from traffic lights to international banking.
They were supposed to make life easier, but as my home computer proved this week that’s like saying alcohol makes people smarter.
My computer had been acting up for some time and the other day it gave the electronic version of a death gurgle and shut down.
My computer at work is in good shape, but it still drives me crazy. As I was typing that very sentence I accidentally hit a combination of keys and this red line and information bubble suddenly appeared in the middle of the column telling me what I had just deleted.
Thanks, but I know what I just deleted because I was the one who deleted it.
Then there is the perennial problem of the electronic terror crashing without warning. One minute you are merrily working away, your fingers happily caressing the mouse and then - BAM – you are left staring at an error message.
I think I know why quirky little things happen when using the infernal machines: computers are evil.
More than once I have wished I could bring a computer to life just so I could have the pleasure of killing it.
“Hi, I’m your computer. I have just come to life.”
“Really, that’s great.”
Ka-boom.
“Reboot that.”
Acting as a buffer between feeble-minded computer users – I’m not mentioning any names here - and the technologically bloated machines are the tech experts, who are sometimes referred to as geeks.
I, of course, would never call them that and have a deep and heart-felt respect for their astounding ability to communicate with said machine, and to correct whatever digital crisis the device may be enduring.
I really mean that. I am not just saying it because there’s a chance the company tech will read this and take offence to being called a geek.
Because if he were to take offence to the comment (which I am not making) the next time I go scampering to him for help, he might just stick his fingers in his ears and go, “La-la-la-la-la” until I went away.
Or worse, he might put his hands over his eyes and say, “Where’d the tech go? Where is he? He’s all gone.”
When it comes to fixing computers I am lost after re-booting, which is the first thing I do no matter the problem.
Smoke and flames could be pouring from the hard drive and my first course of action would be to reboot. If rebooting doesn’t work, I might try hitting it on the side like the Fonz would have done. I would like to add that never works on computers or anything else for that matter.
I would then think bad thoughts about the computer, wish it were alive and I had a gun and then go running to our most beloved in-house computer tech who is not unlike a knight in shinning armor waiting to battle the evil, glitch-breathing dragon that has dared attack one of his flock.
Techs are busy people, and one time I explained the problem, but he was too busy to tend to the matter immediately, so he rattled off some possible solution and asked if I knew how to do it.
I said I didn’t have to know how to do it. That’s what he was for.
He corrected the problem in about four seconds.
“The least you could do was make it look difficult so I could salvage some shred of self worth. Maybe spend a whole minute fixing it or something, I mean, c’mon will ya. Every body is watching.”
The only computer course I have taken in my life was in high school and, at the risk of aging myself, they weren’t really computers as much as electronic type writers with monitors. True computers with hard drives and all those other fancy gizmos were not available to our school yet.
I can remember some of the computer geeks, um, I mean, future computer experts getting all excited about the new-fangled device. They would scurry about the hallways with floppy discs, salivating at the opportunity of spending more time with their electronic mistress.
I didn’t learn a lot about computers during the course. Part of the reason may be because it was the first year it was offered and some of the smarter students were showing the teacher how to do things.
By the time the school year was over, the ‘computers’ we were learning on were outdated by several computer generations and the knowledge we learned was only good for reminiscing about the good ol’ days when men were men and computers were just another gadget.
Maybe I’ll just sit back and wait for this whole computer “fad” to end.
I have a feeling it’s going to be a long wait.
shoenews@shaw.ca
The more I use them, the more I am convinced computers have been placed on this earth to drive me crazy. I suspect I am not alone in my assessment of the ‘marvels’ of science.
Many movies have been made about computers running rampant and destroying humanity. I say we are almost there.
The electronic beasts have effectively taken over the world and are in control of everything from traffic lights to international banking.
They were supposed to make life easier, but as my home computer proved this week that’s like saying alcohol makes people smarter.
My computer had been acting up for some time and the other day it gave the electronic version of a death gurgle and shut down.
My computer at work is in good shape, but it still drives me crazy. As I was typing that very sentence I accidentally hit a combination of keys and this red line and information bubble suddenly appeared in the middle of the column telling me what I had just deleted.
Thanks, but I know what I just deleted because I was the one who deleted it.
Then there is the perennial problem of the electronic terror crashing without warning. One minute you are merrily working away, your fingers happily caressing the mouse and then - BAM – you are left staring at an error message.
I think I know why quirky little things happen when using the infernal machines: computers are evil.
More than once I have wished I could bring a computer to life just so I could have the pleasure of killing it.
“Hi, I’m your computer. I have just come to life.”
“Really, that’s great.”
Ka-boom.
“Reboot that.”
Acting as a buffer between feeble-minded computer users – I’m not mentioning any names here - and the technologically bloated machines are the tech experts, who are sometimes referred to as geeks.
I, of course, would never call them that and have a deep and heart-felt respect for their astounding ability to communicate with said machine, and to correct whatever digital crisis the device may be enduring.
I really mean that. I am not just saying it because there’s a chance the company tech will read this and take offence to being called a geek.
Because if he were to take offence to the comment (which I am not making) the next time I go scampering to him for help, he might just stick his fingers in his ears and go, “La-la-la-la-la” until I went away.
Or worse, he might put his hands over his eyes and say, “Where’d the tech go? Where is he? He’s all gone.”
When it comes to fixing computers I am lost after re-booting, which is the first thing I do no matter the problem.
Smoke and flames could be pouring from the hard drive and my first course of action would be to reboot. If rebooting doesn’t work, I might try hitting it on the side like the Fonz would have done. I would like to add that never works on computers or anything else for that matter.
I would then think bad thoughts about the computer, wish it were alive and I had a gun and then go running to our most beloved in-house computer tech who is not unlike a knight in shinning armor waiting to battle the evil, glitch-breathing dragon that has dared attack one of his flock.
Techs are busy people, and one time I explained the problem, but he was too busy to tend to the matter immediately, so he rattled off some possible solution and asked if I knew how to do it.
I said I didn’t have to know how to do it. That’s what he was for.
He corrected the problem in about four seconds.
“The least you could do was make it look difficult so I could salvage some shred of self worth. Maybe spend a whole minute fixing it or something, I mean, c’mon will ya. Every body is watching.”
The only computer course I have taken in my life was in high school and, at the risk of aging myself, they weren’t really computers as much as electronic type writers with monitors. True computers with hard drives and all those other fancy gizmos were not available to our school yet.
I can remember some of the computer geeks, um, I mean, future computer experts getting all excited about the new-fangled device. They would scurry about the hallways with floppy discs, salivating at the opportunity of spending more time with their electronic mistress.
I didn’t learn a lot about computers during the course. Part of the reason may be because it was the first year it was offered and some of the smarter students were showing the teacher how to do things.
By the time the school year was over, the ‘computers’ we were learning on were outdated by several computer generations and the knowledge we learned was only good for reminiscing about the good ol’ days when men were men and computers were just another gadget.
Maybe I’ll just sit back and wait for this whole computer “fad” to end.
I have a feeling it’s going to be a long wait.
shoenews@shaw.ca
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