I remember the first day we met.
I was only four years old, but the memory is as clear as any I can recall.
"Hi, I'm Darren."
"Hi, I'm Greg. Do you want to play?"
"OK."
And that was it. From such simple begins a friendship was launched that continues today.
When I first met Greg, his family was moving into their new home. We lived out in the sticks, a rural area a that was a kind of its own little community. It took 20 minutes or so to drive in to town, and when you are a little kid that is a long time so we felt like we were way out in the boonies.
Greg's family moved in a couple years after mine, and when I met him he was smashing a humungous anthill with big rocks while his parents and whoever moved furniture into their home.
Smashing the anthill looked like fun so I figured I would get in on the action and that is how we spent our afternoon ñ dive bombing red ants with rocks.
For the next decade we were pretty much inseparable. We had fun together and we got into trouble together.
Like the time we nearly set an entire mountain on fire. It was a hot summer day and being kids and not too bright, we were having a good ol' time lighting small piles of grass on fire and then stomping the out.
We thought this was great fun, but each time we lit a small fire we would let it burn a little longer before putting it out. What we did not factor in was the wind and the tinder-dry conditions, because on what would turn out to be the last fire we did not put it out fast enough and kind of set a big patch of tumbleweeds ablaze.
Oops.
We ran to his house where his dad, who ironically was a fire fighter, grabbed a hose and he and some neighbours put out the blaze before it did any real damage.
To say we were in trouble was an understatement.
We also spent countless hours riding our peddle bikes, climbing mountains and running through the woods.
At around 15 years old, we drifted apart. Our interests took us in different directions, and it was a few years before we would run in to each other again.
And when we did see each other it was like no time had passed ñ that is how true friendship works.
All of those memories of our childhood and the re-establishing of our relationship in my early 20s have been dominating my thoughts as of late.
You see, earlier this month I received a call from Greg's wife saying doctors had found a brain tumor.
I have not not seen Greg very much over the past few years. Life, work, kids and a variety of obligations got in the way.
But as he faces this most dire challenge, I am rallying to my friend's side. I wish I had spent more time with him over the past few years, but I always said I would see him another day, today was just too busy.
I do not know what the prognosis is for Greg. He will be having surgery and undergoing whatever medical procedures he needs.
I do not know what the future holds, but I know the past has taught me to value the important things. When you are so busy living life, you miss out on what life is all about.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Beware the bugs
I saw it coming about 100 metres away.
At first, it was a black speck off in the distance, but as I cruised down the highway at the legally posted speed limit on my motorcycle, the black dot got bigger and bigger until it looked like an eagle wearing a bug costume.
It was Jurassic bug.
This sucker was huge. I could literally see it coming. There was little I could do to avoid it as it was flying right down the middle of the road. I had only a few seconds between spotting it and hitting it, or it hitting me.
This thing was of such bulk I actually felt it hit my shoulder with a thud/splat combination.
I felt kind of bad because I am sure I had just killed the last of an ancient, 10-billion year old line of bugs that used to buzz T-Rex and his friends.
Somehow this thing had survived in some sort of stasis and awoke just seconds before flying into my riding jacket at 90 kilometres an hour (the posted speed limit.)
When I got to work I was mildly repulsed at the bug guts-black jacket motif I had created.
But when you ride, interactions of the bug variety are impossible to avoid.
A buddy of mine took a junebug to the visor once at about 160 k.p.h. and the impact actually damaged the clear plastic screen bolted to his cranium protector.
It snapped his head back and nearly knocked him off his bike, but it also gave him a great story to tell about flying critters and bikes without windjammers.
Another bug incident happened to a different friend who was riding down a lonely road late at night.
He was ahead of me and as he came around a tight corner and under a street light, he rode into a solid mass of white moths.
He gritted his teeth and plowed through. Problem was, when he gritted his teeth he must have opened his lips a little bit because he immediately pulled over and scraped several of the winged beasts from his pearly whites.
I had a full-face helmet on so I just sat back, watched and had good chuckle as he pulled bug guts from his gums.
It is reasons like this I cannot understand how anyone can ride a motorcycle without some sort of face shield. Be it a big windscreen, a full-faced helmet or something.
Years ago when I used to have a life, a few of us would get together once in a while and go screaming down to the Coast for a couple of days of fun and frivolity.
Often we would pop into a bike shop in Washington State where – at the time anyway – riders did not have to wear a helmet.
I can remember crossing the border, strapping the helmet to the back of the bike and thinking, “Is this ever going to be cool, ripping down the road, the wind in your face, feeling free.”
I had thoughts alright, but they were more along the lines of, “Does this ever suck. The wind is plastering my face and all the dirt, grit and bugs are sandblasting my pretty features.”
OK pretty is waaaay too much of a stretch, but if anyone wanted to get rid of wrinkles, just go for a high-speed ride without a helmet and all the crap in the air would blast those wrinkles away.
Of course, if you crash without a helmet, wrinkles would be the least of your worries.
Even if you survive cracking your cranium, there is a good chance you will be getting crayons for Christmas for the rest of your life.
I think I rode for about five minutes without a helmet before pulling over and putting that wonderful piece of cloth, foam and fibreglass back on.
I did learn one thing – you do have to be tough to ride without a helmet – you might not be too bright, but you have to be tough.
I kept looking at the ground and thinking the only thing between my skull and the pavement was a thin layer of hair and for me it was a very thin layer of hair.
I also thought about that junebug my friend encountered and realized riding without a helmet is not that cool after all.
In less time than it takes to boil and egg, I accepted I was a wimp and wanted my helmet back. I missed the protection if offered and felt naked without it and nobody wants to see me naked – trust me on this one.
At first, it was a black speck off in the distance, but as I cruised down the highway at the legally posted speed limit on my motorcycle, the black dot got bigger and bigger until it looked like an eagle wearing a bug costume.
It was Jurassic bug.
This sucker was huge. I could literally see it coming. There was little I could do to avoid it as it was flying right down the middle of the road. I had only a few seconds between spotting it and hitting it, or it hitting me.
This thing was of such bulk I actually felt it hit my shoulder with a thud/splat combination.
I felt kind of bad because I am sure I had just killed the last of an ancient, 10-billion year old line of bugs that used to buzz T-Rex and his friends.
Somehow this thing had survived in some sort of stasis and awoke just seconds before flying into my riding jacket at 90 kilometres an hour (the posted speed limit.)
When I got to work I was mildly repulsed at the bug guts-black jacket motif I had created.
But when you ride, interactions of the bug variety are impossible to avoid.
A buddy of mine took a junebug to the visor once at about 160 k.p.h. and the impact actually damaged the clear plastic screen bolted to his cranium protector.
It snapped his head back and nearly knocked him off his bike, but it also gave him a great story to tell about flying critters and bikes without windjammers.
Another bug incident happened to a different friend who was riding down a lonely road late at night.
He was ahead of me and as he came around a tight corner and under a street light, he rode into a solid mass of white moths.
He gritted his teeth and plowed through. Problem was, when he gritted his teeth he must have opened his lips a little bit because he immediately pulled over and scraped several of the winged beasts from his pearly whites.
I had a full-face helmet on so I just sat back, watched and had good chuckle as he pulled bug guts from his gums.
It is reasons like this I cannot understand how anyone can ride a motorcycle without some sort of face shield. Be it a big windscreen, a full-faced helmet or something.
Years ago when I used to have a life, a few of us would get together once in a while and go screaming down to the Coast for a couple of days of fun and frivolity.
Often we would pop into a bike shop in Washington State where – at the time anyway – riders did not have to wear a helmet.
I can remember crossing the border, strapping the helmet to the back of the bike and thinking, “Is this ever going to be cool, ripping down the road, the wind in your face, feeling free.”
I had thoughts alright, but they were more along the lines of, “Does this ever suck. The wind is plastering my face and all the dirt, grit and bugs are sandblasting my pretty features.”
OK pretty is waaaay too much of a stretch, but if anyone wanted to get rid of wrinkles, just go for a high-speed ride without a helmet and all the crap in the air would blast those wrinkles away.
Of course, if you crash without a helmet, wrinkles would be the least of your worries.
Even if you survive cracking your cranium, there is a good chance you will be getting crayons for Christmas for the rest of your life.
I think I rode for about five minutes without a helmet before pulling over and putting that wonderful piece of cloth, foam and fibreglass back on.
I did learn one thing – you do have to be tough to ride without a helmet – you might not be too bright, but you have to be tough.
I kept looking at the ground and thinking the only thing between my skull and the pavement was a thin layer of hair and for me it was a very thin layer of hair.
I also thought about that junebug my friend encountered and realized riding without a helmet is not that cool after all.
In less time than it takes to boil and egg, I accepted I was a wimp and wanted my helmet back. I missed the protection if offered and felt naked without it and nobody wants to see me naked – trust me on this one.
Have a heart (that works properly)
There are some days in your life that stand out more than others.
The birth of my children are days I will never forget.
Thereís also my wedding day and my wifeís birthday. Mind you those last two are more self preservation than anything else because if I forget those, Iíll be sleeping in the garage.
A day of personal significance is Oct. 20, 2003. Thatís the day I got to see the inner workings of the emergency room from a patientís point of view.
I have had atrial fibrillation my entire life and normally it has not been a problem, but on this day it was. I like to call it A-Fib, kind of like J-Lo or A-Rod.
I also call it the flippity-flop, because thatís what it feels like your heart is doing in your chest ñ flopping around. In reality, the atrium is beating at a different rate than the ventricle, causing a very weird sensation.
Millions of people have it, and considering it is a heart murmur it is not too hazardous and will not likely lead to a heart attack.
Worst case scenario is the blood pools in your heart and form clots which can enter your brain and cause a stroke ñ which doesnít sound like a whole lot of fun now that I think about it.
Fortunately, there are medications to keep the flippity-flop under control.
Anyway, I woke up Oct. 20 with my heart jumping around my chest like one of those cartoon characters when they see a pretty girl.
I waited for it to settle down, which it usually did, but on this day it refused to go away, so I got to go on an all-expense paid trip to the emergency room.
Itís not the first time I have been to the ER, but it was the first time I went there for myself. On recent visits, it was my young daughter who needed medical attention for her asthma.
Of course, an asthma attack can't happen during the day. It has to happen at 2 a.m.
During one family visit to the ER, police escorted a man into the ward wearing a torn shirt-handcuff ensemble, complete with tattoos and bad attitude.
I am not sure what he was doing there, but I heard someone mention an accident and I thought if he got into an MVA while he was DUI he is SOL.
There were drunk people in there, or people on drugs or someone who had been in a fight ñ all in all it was an interesting crowd.
When I went in for my heart, it was in the morning and I was surrounded by the geriatric crowd, so it was much quieter.
Nurses hooked me up to a variety of machines to see what my heart was doing only to come to the conclusion I was in full AF. No duh.
They gave me a couple types of medicines, but nothing worked so the doctor said they were going to have to zap me. I am sure he used a much more professional doctor-type phrase, but you get the idea.
The nurse said they were going to put me under and she injected some sort of knock-out medicine in my arm.
I can remember looking at her as she asked how I was doing.
"I'm feeling pretty groovy," was the last thing I remember saying before waking up 15 minutes later.
My heart felt normal and I felt good.
ìWe hit you with 100 jules at first, but that didnít work so we had to hit you with 200,î said the doctor who looked younger than my dog.
My first thought was, why didnít you just hit me with 200 in the first place, but I am not a doctor and I am sure he knew what he was doing.
Or he just wanted to play with some of the cool machines he had lying about and he thought it looked neat when I got zapped.
"Watch how his leg sticks straight up every time I push the red button. Cool. Sure, you can try it. Hey guys, címere you gotta check this out."
Either way I left feeling much better than when I showed up.
The birth of my children are days I will never forget.
Thereís also my wedding day and my wifeís birthday. Mind you those last two are more self preservation than anything else because if I forget those, Iíll be sleeping in the garage.
A day of personal significance is Oct. 20, 2003. Thatís the day I got to see the inner workings of the emergency room from a patientís point of view.
I have had atrial fibrillation my entire life and normally it has not been a problem, but on this day it was. I like to call it A-Fib, kind of like J-Lo or A-Rod.
I also call it the flippity-flop, because thatís what it feels like your heart is doing in your chest ñ flopping around. In reality, the atrium is beating at a different rate than the ventricle, causing a very weird sensation.
Millions of people have it, and considering it is a heart murmur it is not too hazardous and will not likely lead to a heart attack.
Worst case scenario is the blood pools in your heart and form clots which can enter your brain and cause a stroke ñ which doesnít sound like a whole lot of fun now that I think about it.
Fortunately, there are medications to keep the flippity-flop under control.
Anyway, I woke up Oct. 20 with my heart jumping around my chest like one of those cartoon characters when they see a pretty girl.
I waited for it to settle down, which it usually did, but on this day it refused to go away, so I got to go on an all-expense paid trip to the emergency room.
Itís not the first time I have been to the ER, but it was the first time I went there for myself. On recent visits, it was my young daughter who needed medical attention for her asthma.
Of course, an asthma attack can't happen during the day. It has to happen at 2 a.m.
During one family visit to the ER, police escorted a man into the ward wearing a torn shirt-handcuff ensemble, complete with tattoos and bad attitude.
I am not sure what he was doing there, but I heard someone mention an accident and I thought if he got into an MVA while he was DUI he is SOL.
There were drunk people in there, or people on drugs or someone who had been in a fight ñ all in all it was an interesting crowd.
When I went in for my heart, it was in the morning and I was surrounded by the geriatric crowd, so it was much quieter.
Nurses hooked me up to a variety of machines to see what my heart was doing only to come to the conclusion I was in full AF. No duh.
They gave me a couple types of medicines, but nothing worked so the doctor said they were going to have to zap me. I am sure he used a much more professional doctor-type phrase, but you get the idea.
The nurse said they were going to put me under and she injected some sort of knock-out medicine in my arm.
I can remember looking at her as she asked how I was doing.
"I'm feeling pretty groovy," was the last thing I remember saying before waking up 15 minutes later.
My heart felt normal and I felt good.
ìWe hit you with 100 jules at first, but that didnít work so we had to hit you with 200,î said the doctor who looked younger than my dog.
My first thought was, why didnít you just hit me with 200 in the first place, but I am not a doctor and I am sure he knew what he was doing.
Or he just wanted to play with some of the cool machines he had lying about and he thought it looked neat when I got zapped.
"Watch how his leg sticks straight up every time I push the red button. Cool. Sure, you can try it. Hey guys, címere you gotta check this out."
Either way I left feeling much better than when I showed up.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Flippin' granny
By DARREN HANDSCHUH
It was one of those things that is so odd it's funny.
I was driving down the street a while back when a little old lady in a silver car pulled out in front of me and I had to slam on the brakes to avoid some up-close-and-personal interaction with granny.
I managed to slow down and swerve to the point where the collision was avoided. You could say I was a little annoyed at the almost accident, until I noticed it was a kindly, little old lady behind the wheel.
That changed my attitude rather quickly because who could possibly be mad at Granny. And besides, stuff happens and no one is perfect and I was sure she simply did not see me. No biggie.
I gave Granny a couple of little toots on the horn just to let her know I was there and we almost got to exchange phone numbers and insurance information.
This sweet, kindly, granny-looking little old lady, peered into her rearview mirror and proceeded to flip me the bird.
I must admit, that was probably the last thing I expected a little old lady to do. Granny is not supposed to do that. Shouldn't you be at home baking cookies for the grandchildren, or knitting something instead of making an obscene gesture? Especially when you consider it was Grandma Dynamite who was at fault in the first place.
And this was not a quick flip of the driving finger, this was a prolonged hey-butthead-behind-me-I-got-your-granny-greeting-right-here kind of gesture.
It took a couple of seconds before I fully realized what was going on. At first, I thought she was waving to say sorry for almost causing our insurance rates to go up, but most people use all five fingers to do that.
I stared for the duration of the salute and sure enough Granny was giving me the what for with a certain finger reserved for non-verbal communication of the unpleasant kind.
So I did what any other driver would do, I got in close, hit her car from behind and spun her into the on-coming lane where she was creamed by a dump truck.
I'm kidding of course. It was a cement truck.
In reality, all I could do was look on in a mild state of shock at what I was witnessing.
I pulled up beside the car to make sure it really was a granny and not a teen wearing an old people costume, but sure enough, this was a full-fledged grandma-type driver.
I tell you, seniors are getting harder and harder to raise these days.
Once the initial surprise wore off, I had to chuckle at granny for not taking any crap from one of those young whippersnappers.
Now, I have never snapped a whipper in my life, but according to Hostile Hilda in the Honda, I was just some punk kid with an attitude. A punk kid who, at the time, was in his mid 30s.
What is the protocol in that situation? I couldn't give her the finger in return. Flipping Granny the bird would be too strange and just seemed plain wrong.
Two wrongs do not make a right, no matter how good that second wrong feels.
Eventually, Granny went her way and I went mine, both with stories to tell.
Hers was of some jerk in a little red car who was harassing her with his horn.
Mine was of a member of the blue hair crowd who gave me hope that when I become a senior, I won't have to take any guff from some punk on the street.
You go granny.
It was one of those things that is so odd it's funny.
I was driving down the street a while back when a little old lady in a silver car pulled out in front of me and I had to slam on the brakes to avoid some up-close-and-personal interaction with granny.
I managed to slow down and swerve to the point where the collision was avoided. You could say I was a little annoyed at the almost accident, until I noticed it was a kindly, little old lady behind the wheel.
That changed my attitude rather quickly because who could possibly be mad at Granny. And besides, stuff happens and no one is perfect and I was sure she simply did not see me. No biggie.
I gave Granny a couple of little toots on the horn just to let her know I was there and we almost got to exchange phone numbers and insurance information.
This sweet, kindly, granny-looking little old lady, peered into her rearview mirror and proceeded to flip me the bird.
I must admit, that was probably the last thing I expected a little old lady to do. Granny is not supposed to do that. Shouldn't you be at home baking cookies for the grandchildren, or knitting something instead of making an obscene gesture? Especially when you consider it was Grandma Dynamite who was at fault in the first place.
And this was not a quick flip of the driving finger, this was a prolonged hey-butthead-behind-me-I-got-your-granny-greeting-right-here kind of gesture.
It took a couple of seconds before I fully realized what was going on. At first, I thought she was waving to say sorry for almost causing our insurance rates to go up, but most people use all five fingers to do that.
I stared for the duration of the salute and sure enough Granny was giving me the what for with a certain finger reserved for non-verbal communication of the unpleasant kind.
So I did what any other driver would do, I got in close, hit her car from behind and spun her into the on-coming lane where she was creamed by a dump truck.
I'm kidding of course. It was a cement truck.
In reality, all I could do was look on in a mild state of shock at what I was witnessing.
I pulled up beside the car to make sure it really was a granny and not a teen wearing an old people costume, but sure enough, this was a full-fledged grandma-type driver.
I tell you, seniors are getting harder and harder to raise these days.
Once the initial surprise wore off, I had to chuckle at granny for not taking any crap from one of those young whippersnappers.
Now, I have never snapped a whipper in my life, but according to Hostile Hilda in the Honda, I was just some punk kid with an attitude. A punk kid who, at the time, was in his mid 30s.
What is the protocol in that situation? I couldn't give her the finger in return. Flipping Granny the bird would be too strange and just seemed plain wrong.
Two wrongs do not make a right, no matter how good that second wrong feels.
Eventually, Granny went her way and I went mine, both with stories to tell.
Hers was of some jerk in a little red car who was harassing her with his horn.
Mine was of a member of the blue hair crowd who gave me hope that when I become a senior, I won't have to take any guff from some punk on the street.
You go granny.
Monday, April 18, 2011
Too many teens
By DARREN HANDSCHUH
What's one more? Or two? Or even five?
A lot of noise and stress that's what.
The ever-increasing number refers to the extra kids that invaded my home for spring break.
Two of the scalawags used to live here, moved to The Coast last fall and came back for a visit. No point in just stopping by over night, so these fine young lads stayed for a week.
A whole freaking week. I mean, oh joy and blessings, a whole week.
And because those two stayed, three other friends of my son decided they had best hang around as well, so they too were in my basement for a whole week. A whole freaking week. I mean oh joy...
In case you lost count that is at least six teenage boys staying at my humble abode for the first week of spring break, and only one of them is mine.
Thank God for work. It is nice to come to the office and shed the stress of being at home. It is also so much quieter at my work desk. Mind you a heavy metal concert would likely be quieter than my home is.
They are good boys every one of them. They are not into drugs or booze or any debauchery worth mentioning, but teenage boys are loud. When you get that many together ñ one evening I had eight of them in the basement because a couple more popped in to say hi ñ they are going to be loud. It is as simple as that.
Making all that noise must burn up a lot of energy because they eat more than the Moldavian navy.
Dinosaurs did not eat as much as this crew. I bet that's what really happened to the dinosaurs. It wasn't a meteorite or any other natural cataclysm that eradicated the humongous beasts from the earth.
Nope, it was a herd of Neanderthal teens in a feeding frenzy.
And all those dino bones the scientists keep finding were where their Neanderthal moms told them to clean their plates.
But back to the chaos that is my home. Why, you may be asking, have I opened my doors to such an invasion?
Simple: the boys are having a great time, the ones who moved away are thrilled to be back in town for a whole (freaking) week, and besides, my wife made me.
That last one carried a lot of weight.
OK, I'll admit it is kind of cool to have them all at my home and I enjoy the energy they brought into our lives (my wife made me say that).
But like I said, they are good kids, or they are good at not getting caught. Either way, at the end of the day it is pretty much the same thing. As long as the police do not show up at my door, it's all good.
My oldest boy was smart and he bailed for the week. He called in a few favours from friends to stay at their house and when that ran out, it was Grandma to the rescue with a hot supper and a spare bed.
Smart kid.
But for those of us who cannot run and hide, we must face the hungry hoard of hooligans head on ñ usually with a food offering in hand.
Was it stressful having all those hyper, loud, active teenage boys ripping around my house for a whole freaking week? You better believe it.
Was it worth the expense, the loss of so many farm animals who gave their lives upon my barbecue so we might live and the lack of sleep just to provide these kids with some good memories they will talk about for years to come? You better believe it.
What's one more? Or two? Or even five?
A lot of noise and stress that's what.
The ever-increasing number refers to the extra kids that invaded my home for spring break.
Two of the scalawags used to live here, moved to The Coast last fall and came back for a visit. No point in just stopping by over night, so these fine young lads stayed for a week.
A whole freaking week. I mean, oh joy and blessings, a whole week.
And because those two stayed, three other friends of my son decided they had best hang around as well, so they too were in my basement for a whole week. A whole freaking week. I mean oh joy...
In case you lost count that is at least six teenage boys staying at my humble abode for the first week of spring break, and only one of them is mine.
Thank God for work. It is nice to come to the office and shed the stress of being at home. It is also so much quieter at my work desk. Mind you a heavy metal concert would likely be quieter than my home is.
They are good boys every one of them. They are not into drugs or booze or any debauchery worth mentioning, but teenage boys are loud. When you get that many together ñ one evening I had eight of them in the basement because a couple more popped in to say hi ñ they are going to be loud. It is as simple as that.
Making all that noise must burn up a lot of energy because they eat more than the Moldavian navy.
Dinosaurs did not eat as much as this crew. I bet that's what really happened to the dinosaurs. It wasn't a meteorite or any other natural cataclysm that eradicated the humongous beasts from the earth.
Nope, it was a herd of Neanderthal teens in a feeding frenzy.
And all those dino bones the scientists keep finding were where their Neanderthal moms told them to clean their plates.
But back to the chaos that is my home. Why, you may be asking, have I opened my doors to such an invasion?
Simple: the boys are having a great time, the ones who moved away are thrilled to be back in town for a whole (freaking) week, and besides, my wife made me.
That last one carried a lot of weight.
OK, I'll admit it is kind of cool to have them all at my home and I enjoy the energy they brought into our lives (my wife made me say that).
But like I said, they are good kids, or they are good at not getting caught. Either way, at the end of the day it is pretty much the same thing. As long as the police do not show up at my door, it's all good.
My oldest boy was smart and he bailed for the week. He called in a few favours from friends to stay at their house and when that ran out, it was Grandma to the rescue with a hot supper and a spare bed.
Smart kid.
But for those of us who cannot run and hide, we must face the hungry hoard of hooligans head on ñ usually with a food offering in hand.
Was it stressful having all those hyper, loud, active teenage boys ripping around my house for a whole freaking week? You better believe it.
Was it worth the expense, the loss of so many farm animals who gave their lives upon my barbecue so we might live and the lack of sleep just to provide these kids with some good memories they will talk about for years to come? You better believe it.
Don't be a bozo
By DARREN HANDSCHUH
The world would be a much better place if it wasn't for all the people in it.
The more I think about that statement, the more it makes sense.
There are many good people in the world, but there are also some real bozos.
Now, faithful readers of my column would expect me to throw in some sort of shot at our elected officials at this point, but I am not going to do that this time, because all you have to do is read the news and the bozos are identified on their own.
Anyway, getting back to the regular bozos among us, there are plenty to choose from so I am going to take a moment and vent my frustration at a choice few.
This first bozo knows full well who he or she is and they know full well what they have done. Bozo No. 1 is whoever drains the last drop of coffee from the office coffee maker and does not make another batch.
It really is not that complicated and I am sure even someone with an IQ slightly less than a turnip can figure out how to do it.
Here is a quick, step-by-step breakdown of making coffee: add filter, put coffee in filter, add water, close lid and push 'on' button.
Now sit back and rejoice at the fact that by taking those extra 28 seconds out of your life you have earned your way off the bozo list.
It will also dramatically decrease the bad things your co-workers are saying about you ñ well, when it comes to draining the black elixir anyway.
Bozo of the day No. 2 is the guy (or gal) who pulls out in front of you at the last moment, causing you to hit the brakes to avoid a vehicular interaction incident.
That in itself is annoying (not to mention dangerous), but then said bozo will drive 10 km/h below the speed limit.
Why would you do that? You cut me off like you are in a hurry to get somewhere, then act like you are part of a funeral precession until to get to your destination. I don't get it.
It is amazing how often this happens and even more amazing how many times it happens when there are no other cars behind me, and Mr. Go-slo can do just that to his (or her) heart's content.
The next bozo is one of the most annoying and one I am sure most people have encountered. This bozo is not going to the dogs, but he (or she) is in charge of them.
Bozo No. 3 is the meathead who does not clean up after Fido drops a little parting gift while being taken for a stroll.
There are these little devices called plastic bags that serve all sorts of useful purposes, including picking up your dog's droppings.
I do not need to be walking down a trail, or even a sidewalk and skid through a big (or even a little) pile of doggy doo-doo.
C'mon, take the extra 10 seconds out of your day and clean up after your pet.
ìWell it is kinda gross to pick that up.î Kind of gross to pick it up, not nearly as gross as stepping in it and tracking doggy ploppings all over the place. That stuff gets stuck in the treads of shoes and you have to get a stick to clean it out and...well you know how it goes. Now that's gross.
Big dog, small dog, fat, skinny, smart, dumb ñ I don't care ñ if you mutt drops a doggy land mine, it is your job to defuse the situation.
So if you know anyone in any of these categories, let them know they are a bozo ñ especially the doggy doo-doo person.
There, that takes care of my rant for this week. Now if you will excuse me I have to go, but I will be sure to watch for someone drinking coffee who pulls out in front of me while taking their dog somewhere for a walk ñ without a baggy of course.
The world would be a much better place if it wasn't for all the people in it.
The more I think about that statement, the more it makes sense.
There are many good people in the world, but there are also some real bozos.
Now, faithful readers of my column would expect me to throw in some sort of shot at our elected officials at this point, but I am not going to do that this time, because all you have to do is read the news and the bozos are identified on their own.
Anyway, getting back to the regular bozos among us, there are plenty to choose from so I am going to take a moment and vent my frustration at a choice few.
This first bozo knows full well who he or she is and they know full well what they have done. Bozo No. 1 is whoever drains the last drop of coffee from the office coffee maker and does not make another batch.
It really is not that complicated and I am sure even someone with an IQ slightly less than a turnip can figure out how to do it.
Here is a quick, step-by-step breakdown of making coffee: add filter, put coffee in filter, add water, close lid and push 'on' button.
Now sit back and rejoice at the fact that by taking those extra 28 seconds out of your life you have earned your way off the bozo list.
It will also dramatically decrease the bad things your co-workers are saying about you ñ well, when it comes to draining the black elixir anyway.
Bozo of the day No. 2 is the guy (or gal) who pulls out in front of you at the last moment, causing you to hit the brakes to avoid a vehicular interaction incident.
That in itself is annoying (not to mention dangerous), but then said bozo will drive 10 km/h below the speed limit.
Why would you do that? You cut me off like you are in a hurry to get somewhere, then act like you are part of a funeral precession until to get to your destination. I don't get it.
It is amazing how often this happens and even more amazing how many times it happens when there are no other cars behind me, and Mr. Go-slo can do just that to his (or her) heart's content.
The next bozo is one of the most annoying and one I am sure most people have encountered. This bozo is not going to the dogs, but he (or she) is in charge of them.
Bozo No. 3 is the meathead who does not clean up after Fido drops a little parting gift while being taken for a stroll.
There are these little devices called plastic bags that serve all sorts of useful purposes, including picking up your dog's droppings.
I do not need to be walking down a trail, or even a sidewalk and skid through a big (or even a little) pile of doggy doo-doo.
C'mon, take the extra 10 seconds out of your day and clean up after your pet.
ìWell it is kinda gross to pick that up.î Kind of gross to pick it up, not nearly as gross as stepping in it and tracking doggy ploppings all over the place. That stuff gets stuck in the treads of shoes and you have to get a stick to clean it out and...well you know how it goes. Now that's gross.
Big dog, small dog, fat, skinny, smart, dumb ñ I don't care ñ if you mutt drops a doggy land mine, it is your job to defuse the situation.
So if you know anyone in any of these categories, let them know they are a bozo ñ especially the doggy doo-doo person.
There, that takes care of my rant for this week. Now if you will excuse me I have to go, but I will be sure to watch for someone drinking coffee who pulls out in front of me while taking their dog somewhere for a walk ñ without a baggy of course.
Friday, March 25, 2011
Heeeelp, I'm in my 40s
The other day I was looking in the mirror and I had to ask myself, "What the hell happened to you?"
One day I was this young, vibrant, good looking stud - well, I was young anyway - and the next I was this balding guy with wrinkles and gray hair in his goatee.
The hair on my head is evacuating at an alarming rate.
The rapidly receding hairline, the pot belly and the grey hairs can mean only one thing ñ it is time to stop looking in the mirror.
It's funny how you come full circle, though. When I was a toddler, I was bald with a pot belly, but if I run around the house in just a diaper now, everyone freaks out. Go figure.
The calendar is also my enemy because it is a daily reminder that I am a full-blown, middle-aged guy, and I have the angst about how the first 40-something years of my life went to prove it.
I have talked with my wife about the fun a mid-life crisis will bring, but I am still debating exactly what action I should take to get the most out of the getting-old crisis that is materializing on the horizon.
Having an affair is completely out of the question, no matter what crisis I am going through. When I said, ìI do,î I did and that's all there is to it.
So, what other mid-life meltdowns do I have left available to me?
I could get a sports car, but with one kid entering college next year any money for a fancy car will likely be spent on educating Junior. Which is money well spent because if I don't, he could very likely be on my couch when he is 40 and starting a mid-life dilemma of his own.
So some short-term college pain is for my own long-term gain. However, it does mean I will have to scrub the sports car plan ñ forever ñ as there are two more spawn after the oldest one who will want to go on to post-secondary education, which means I will be cashing in bottles to pay for tuition for the next 10 years or so.
OK, so I will not be having an affair and the only sports car I will ever own will be from the Hot Wheels collection.
I already have a motorcycle so I can not even get one of those in an attempt to feel young. I have had motorcycles off and on since I was 13, so they have always been part of my life ñ young and old.
I have heard of several of my mid-life brethren who have gone out and bought a motorbike that was way too big and powerful for them ñ especially when you consider many had never had one before.
This led to their mid-life crisis being converted to a medical crisis due to some form of untimely dismount from their metal steed. In other words, they crashed the stupid thing because they had no idea what they were doing.
Well, at least all that road rash took their mind off getting old.
So, no affair, no sports car and I already have a bike. Hmmm, I am sensing my mid-life options are dwindling. There is always a complete nervous break down I suppose, but that sounds like a lot of work and at my age, I need my rest.
No affair, no sports car, no motorcycle option and a mental breakdown is more hassle than it's worth.
I guess I will have to sit back and see what happens.
However, if anyone has any suggestions I am all ears, but you will have to speak up because at my age, the hearing is not a good as it once was.
One day I was this young, vibrant, good looking stud - well, I was young anyway - and the next I was this balding guy with wrinkles and gray hair in his goatee.
The hair on my head is evacuating at an alarming rate.
The rapidly receding hairline, the pot belly and the grey hairs can mean only one thing ñ it is time to stop looking in the mirror.
It's funny how you come full circle, though. When I was a toddler, I was bald with a pot belly, but if I run around the house in just a diaper now, everyone freaks out. Go figure.
The calendar is also my enemy because it is a daily reminder that I am a full-blown, middle-aged guy, and I have the angst about how the first 40-something years of my life went to prove it.
I have talked with my wife about the fun a mid-life crisis will bring, but I am still debating exactly what action I should take to get the most out of the getting-old crisis that is materializing on the horizon.
Having an affair is completely out of the question, no matter what crisis I am going through. When I said, ìI do,î I did and that's all there is to it.
So, what other mid-life meltdowns do I have left available to me?
I could get a sports car, but with one kid entering college next year any money for a fancy car will likely be spent on educating Junior. Which is money well spent because if I don't, he could very likely be on my couch when he is 40 and starting a mid-life dilemma of his own.
So some short-term college pain is for my own long-term gain. However, it does mean I will have to scrub the sports car plan ñ forever ñ as there are two more spawn after the oldest one who will want to go on to post-secondary education, which means I will be cashing in bottles to pay for tuition for the next 10 years or so.
OK, so I will not be having an affair and the only sports car I will ever own will be from the Hot Wheels collection.
I already have a motorcycle so I can not even get one of those in an attempt to feel young. I have had motorcycles off and on since I was 13, so they have always been part of my life ñ young and old.
I have heard of several of my mid-life brethren who have gone out and bought a motorbike that was way too big and powerful for them ñ especially when you consider many had never had one before.
This led to their mid-life crisis being converted to a medical crisis due to some form of untimely dismount from their metal steed. In other words, they crashed the stupid thing because they had no idea what they were doing.
Well, at least all that road rash took their mind off getting old.
So, no affair, no sports car and I already have a bike. Hmmm, I am sensing my mid-life options are dwindling. There is always a complete nervous break down I suppose, but that sounds like a lot of work and at my age, I need my rest.
No affair, no sports car, no motorcycle option and a mental breakdown is more hassle than it's worth.
I guess I will have to sit back and see what happens.
However, if anyone has any suggestions I am all ears, but you will have to speak up because at my age, the hearing is not a good as it once was.
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