By DARREN HANDSCHUH
Don't know what to buy for the person who has everything?
Fear not, there is no shortage of 'interesting' and 'unique' gifts out there.
In other words, there is some seriously bizarre stuff that would make the ideal Christmas gift ñ particularly for someone who is half a sandwich short of a picnic basket.
An Internet search for gifts will take you from the mundane and boring to the weird and the what the hell is that?
There are odd gifts that still have a practical tone to them.
Take the electronic smell sniffer for example.
Parents can hold this gizmo near their baby's bottom and it will detect any odor Junior is emitting and let the operator of the contraption know when Scooter needs to be changed.
When my children were in diapers I had a similar device, but this one was more environmentally friendly as it did not need batteries that would eventually end up in the land fill.
It was called my nose. Not only is it organic, but it is free and it worked great, just as it has since the beginning of time.
Mr. and Mrs. Neanderthal would simply pick up baby and the handy-dandy, built-in nose device would automatically detect when Neanderthal Junior needed a new fur diaper.
But that is not even close to the strangest stuff out there.
How about earrings? Most ladies appreciate a nice pair of earrings, right?
Tired of buying the Missus the same old diamond and gold ear danglers year after year? Well how about a nice pair of squirrel-feet earrings.
Yup, you read it right. Some sick puppy out there is marketing a set of earrings made with furry little squirrel feet. Thousands of years of humans walking this earth this is as far as some people have advanced.
There are cat and dog Buddha statues, but of course the atheists out there will still say there is no Dog.
Don't want to stir up a religious debate during a holiday that celebrates the birth of Christ? No problem, there are many other gifts out there that will stir up all sorts of other things - like divorce proceedings should hubby decide to get them for the Missus.
One such item is a lovely USP desk vacuum cleaner, designed to get to those hard-to-reach spaces around the computer. Put the mini-vac in her stocking and give her a real vacuum under the tree and you will generate Christmas memories that will last for years to come.
Your divorce lawyer will also get a kick out of it (not to mention a big paycheque.)
Just for fun, how about a two-metre tall upside down Christmas tree. It could be a pretty good gag gift actually, because after a few adult beverages, an upside down tree could present some very interesting reactions.
Still not what you were looking for? Don't worry, there are plenty of options left in Santa's sack of goodies.
How about a handlebar mustache corkscrew wine opener? All I can say about this one is why? I'll let you know if I ever come up with an answer.
Not into facial hair utensils? How about a Hilary Clinton nut cracker? The most powerful woman in the free world has been turned into a nut-crushing device and I think I will leave that one alone. Too many comments and way too many ways to get in trouble.
Moving on. For the animal lover in your home, how about a book on cat butts?
Once again, you read correctly. Someone has taken the time to photograph and catalogue cat butts and put them all in a book so you can tell what kind of feline is walking away from you.
Once again the question why comes to mind and once again, I have no answer, but I do hope I have provided at lease a few ideas for that hard-to-buy for person in your life.
At the very least, these gifts will give you something to talk about and they beat the heck out of another pair of socks.
Merry Christmas.
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Pay me to play dead
By DARREN HANDSSCHUH
Out of the blue one day, a buddy of mine said, “I have never seen a bird die of natural causes.”
I stopped dead in my tracks and thought about this for a moment and realized, neither had I.
Now every time I watch a bird fly past, I wait for it to clutch its chest, flip over and fall to the ground.
Other birds would rush to its side and try to do beak-to-beak resuscitation, but alas, it was natural causes that killed their fine feathered friend.
Perhaps low-fat worms could have made a difference, who knows.
I did see a bird get hit by a five-ton truck on the highway once. The bird flew in front of the truck box and went splat in an explosion of feathers. Not a natural death, but about as close as I have come.
Maybe the bird died of a heart attack when he saw the truck coming at him.
To this day I often think of my friend’s musing when ever I see a bird of any sort.
However, it was my mother-in-law who asked a question that haunts me the most.
We were watching a movie that had a brief scene of a guy who was killed in some manner or other.
The actor’s entire role was to lay on a gurney and look dead. Not too challenging a performance.
My mother-in-law said, “I wonder how much he got paid for that?”
Again I stopped and thought about this question, and now every single time I see some one playing a dead person I wonder how much they got paid.
I thought the bird thing was driving me crazy. Every time I watch CSI guess what I think?
That’s right, “How much did the dead guy get paid to be a dead guy?”
By now I am sure you have figured out I have waaaaay to much time on my hands and not nearly enough to think about, but still, I wonder what is the going rate to just lie there and not move?
Not a lot of range is required and just about anyone can do it.
“So what is my motivation?”
“Your motivation? You’re dead. Your motivation is to be dead.”
“Should I make a strange face when I’m dead? How about a look of anguish?”
“You’re dead. All we need is a look of being dead.”
“Hmmm, so you want me to look dead then?”
True, it is an acting job, but it would hardly jump off the pages of a resume.
“So tell me, what role did you play on CSI?”
“Well, do you remember the dead guy with the look of anguish on his face - that was me.”
“And how much did you get paid for that?”
I did a story on a company doing a commercial for a soft drink and they paid their extras $200 a day, even if they never set foot in front of the camera.
That’s pretty good money for doing nothing, almost like a management position with the government, only the manager slot involves more pay for less work.
So a dead guy would warrant at least that much, maybe more.
That’s pretty good money for just laying there doing nothing. With those qualifications, being appointed to the Senate is quite possible.
But the dead guy would probably make the politicians look bad because by comparison, he would be too motivated and active. The bar would be set too high.
“Mr. Speaker we have word that someone in the Senate is actually trying to accomplish something and we want it to stop immediately. Who is making us look bad you ask? That dead guy over there. Talk about an over achiever. He attends every single meeting. Pretty soon we will all be expected to attend meetings and that will seriously cut into our get-paid-while-doing-nothing time.”
I wonder how much a senator gets paid.
Out of the blue one day, a buddy of mine said, “I have never seen a bird die of natural causes.”
I stopped dead in my tracks and thought about this for a moment and realized, neither had I.
Now every time I watch a bird fly past, I wait for it to clutch its chest, flip over and fall to the ground.
Other birds would rush to its side and try to do beak-to-beak resuscitation, but alas, it was natural causes that killed their fine feathered friend.
Perhaps low-fat worms could have made a difference, who knows.
I did see a bird get hit by a five-ton truck on the highway once. The bird flew in front of the truck box and went splat in an explosion of feathers. Not a natural death, but about as close as I have come.
Maybe the bird died of a heart attack when he saw the truck coming at him.
To this day I often think of my friend’s musing when ever I see a bird of any sort.
However, it was my mother-in-law who asked a question that haunts me the most.
We were watching a movie that had a brief scene of a guy who was killed in some manner or other.
The actor’s entire role was to lay on a gurney and look dead. Not too challenging a performance.
My mother-in-law said, “I wonder how much he got paid for that?”
Again I stopped and thought about this question, and now every single time I see some one playing a dead person I wonder how much they got paid.
I thought the bird thing was driving me crazy. Every time I watch CSI guess what I think?
That’s right, “How much did the dead guy get paid to be a dead guy?”
By now I am sure you have figured out I have waaaaay to much time on my hands and not nearly enough to think about, but still, I wonder what is the going rate to just lie there and not move?
Not a lot of range is required and just about anyone can do it.
“So what is my motivation?”
“Your motivation? You’re dead. Your motivation is to be dead.”
“Should I make a strange face when I’m dead? How about a look of anguish?”
“You’re dead. All we need is a look of being dead.”
“Hmmm, so you want me to look dead then?”
True, it is an acting job, but it would hardly jump off the pages of a resume.
“So tell me, what role did you play on CSI?”
“Well, do you remember the dead guy with the look of anguish on his face - that was me.”
“And how much did you get paid for that?”
I did a story on a company doing a commercial for a soft drink and they paid their extras $200 a day, even if they never set foot in front of the camera.
That’s pretty good money for doing nothing, almost like a management position with the government, only the manager slot involves more pay for less work.
So a dead guy would warrant at least that much, maybe more.
That’s pretty good money for just laying there doing nothing. With those qualifications, being appointed to the Senate is quite possible.
But the dead guy would probably make the politicians look bad because by comparison, he would be too motivated and active. The bar would be set too high.
“Mr. Speaker we have word that someone in the Senate is actually trying to accomplish something and we want it to stop immediately. Who is making us look bad you ask? That dead guy over there. Talk about an over achiever. He attends every single meeting. Pretty soon we will all be expected to attend meetings and that will seriously cut into our get-paid-while-doing-nothing time.”
I wonder how much a senator gets paid.
Monday, November 29, 2010
Me use English good
I probably shouldn’t admit this, having my own column and everything,
but I am hardly a master of the English language.
But I am sure many of you have figured that out already.
I readily admit there is a lot about my mother tongue I do not know.
In high school, English was a piece of cake, and if I had actually attended more than one or two classes a week, who knows what kind of grades I could have hauled in?
As it was, I got middle-of-the-pack grades even though I literally attended only half the classes. When test time came around, I would just walk in, do what I had to do, and walk out.
That would drive one buddy of mine crazier than a fat guy at a salad bar.
Shawn was a very smart guy and a whiz with computers, math, physics, chemistry and other topics I stayed well away from during my teen years. But when it came to English, he was like Mother Teresa in a bikini contest.
He just did not get it. He would study and take extra classes and would still get pretty much the same mark I would after I spent study hall watching Monty Python and the Holy Grail.
For some reason, our library had a copy of that goofy piece of British cinema, and it just happened to be my favourite of all the Python presentations.
So, instead of studying and driving hard for that A, a buddy and I would hide in the audio-visual room and watch The Grail, as it came to be known.
Meanwhile, Shawn was cracking the books, burning the midnight oil, working his butt off, digging deep, trying hard and all sorts of over-used cliches, while I was chortling at the antics of the goofs from the U.K.
I would then bang out whatever assignment I was supposed to be working on, hand it in and get a C-plus. Not spectacular, I admit, but at the time it was all good.
To this day, I could not tell you what a dangling participle is. I think I read somewhere it was the name of a 1970s-era porn star, or something like that anyway.
But, despite my lack of knowledge when it comes to those pesky technical terms, I always managed to bang out a decent sentence. And if I put enough sentences together, I would get a story.
My favourite part of English class by far was creative writing.
This happened on occasion, and basically it meant the teacher did not feel like
doing any real work that day, so we were told to just sit there and write whatever we wanted.
The teacher would kick back and relax with what I often suspected was a “special” coffee, if you know what I mean.
He would also tell us to write something or spend some time quietly reading while he stepped out for a minute.
The odd thing was, he always seemed a lot happier when he got back and was doused in aftershave.
You can draw your own conclusions as to how he spent his little break.
Not all my teachers were this way, but for some reason this English instructor seemed more a product of the 1960s than most.
I often wonder what kind of grades I would have achieved had I actually done, um, what’s it called? You know, that thing you do after school? Oh yeah, homework, that’s it.
I did more homework in two years of college than all those years of high school put together. Fortunately, the stupidity of youth is a passing phase – for most people anyway.
I did manage to graduate, and I even made the principal’s list one semester. But it was not exactly for having great grades.
but I am hardly a master of the English language.
But I am sure many of you have figured that out already.
I readily admit there is a lot about my mother tongue I do not know.
In high school, English was a piece of cake, and if I had actually attended more than one or two classes a week, who knows what kind of grades I could have hauled in?
As it was, I got middle-of-the-pack grades even though I literally attended only half the classes. When test time came around, I would just walk in, do what I had to do, and walk out.
That would drive one buddy of mine crazier than a fat guy at a salad bar.
Shawn was a very smart guy and a whiz with computers, math, physics, chemistry and other topics I stayed well away from during my teen years. But when it came to English, he was like Mother Teresa in a bikini contest.
He just did not get it. He would study and take extra classes and would still get pretty much the same mark I would after I spent study hall watching Monty Python and the Holy Grail.
For some reason, our library had a copy of that goofy piece of British cinema, and it just happened to be my favourite of all the Python presentations.
So, instead of studying and driving hard for that A, a buddy and I would hide in the audio-visual room and watch The Grail, as it came to be known.
Meanwhile, Shawn was cracking the books, burning the midnight oil, working his butt off, digging deep, trying hard and all sorts of over-used cliches, while I was chortling at the antics of the goofs from the U.K.
I would then bang out whatever assignment I was supposed to be working on, hand it in and get a C-plus. Not spectacular, I admit, but at the time it was all good.
To this day, I could not tell you what a dangling participle is. I think I read somewhere it was the name of a 1970s-era porn star, or something like that anyway.
But, despite my lack of knowledge when it comes to those pesky technical terms, I always managed to bang out a decent sentence. And if I put enough sentences together, I would get a story.
My favourite part of English class by far was creative writing.
This happened on occasion, and basically it meant the teacher did not feel like
doing any real work that day, so we were told to just sit there and write whatever we wanted.
The teacher would kick back and relax with what I often suspected was a “special” coffee, if you know what I mean.
He would also tell us to write something or spend some time quietly reading while he stepped out for a minute.
The odd thing was, he always seemed a lot happier when he got back and was doused in aftershave.
You can draw your own conclusions as to how he spent his little break.
Not all my teachers were this way, but for some reason this English instructor seemed more a product of the 1960s than most.
I often wonder what kind of grades I would have achieved had I actually done, um, what’s it called? You know, that thing you do after school? Oh yeah, homework, that’s it.
I did more homework in two years of college than all those years of high school put together. Fortunately, the stupidity of youth is a passing phase – for most people anyway.
I did manage to graduate, and I even made the principal’s list one semester. But it was not exactly for having great grades.
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Getting squished at squash
By DARREN HANDSCHUH
It would be comical if it wasn't so painful.
It started when a good friend of mine asked if I would like to go play squash sometime.
Having never played the game before in my life and not being too bright, I said "sure, why not."
As the day of the sports adventure neared, I was assaulted by a nasty cold and was forced to cancel - perhaps a warning that a day of squash would turn into a day of "that really, really hurts."
But paying no heed to the divine cautioning, we decided to reschedule the little competition.
We had the squash court thingy booked, my buddy, Bruce, had two rackets, I borrowed some of those stylish squash eye protectors and was ready to hit that stupid little blue ball around for 45 minutes or so.
The first game went well, and I even managed to score a point - one single point. But for my first time ever playing squash, that is not too bad.
Sure my buddy had already amassed eight points, but that one little point was enough to stave off defeat - until his next service and then it was game over.
I scored a whopping two points in the next game and could feel my squash prowess blossoming.
By the time we started the last game, I was a mad man possessed by the spirit of some long-dead famous squash player type guy.
I was zooming all over the court with lightning speed. OK, maybe zooming is a little to much. How about sprinting. Still too much. OK, how about lumbering as fast as I could in an effort to hit that stupid little blue ball. Much better.
But I was starting to get the hang of it. I played lots of tennis when I was a kid and then lots of raquetball as a teen, so the basic principles were the same - hit the stupid little ball.
The problem is, as I get older gravity seems to increase, slowing me down and making running a lot harder than it should ever be.
In the last game, Bruce and I were locked in a battle of monumental proportions, and much to everyones surprise, I actually managed to pull ahead by a single point.
That's when things went a tad wonky. You see, I am in the middle of my F years and while life may begin at 40, it does not begin without a closet full of painkillers, ointments and vitamin supplements.
Bruce is in his early 50s and is in great shape (for an "old guy" anyway.)
We both have several nagging injuries from our youth - who doesn't - and we were both afflicted with those injures in rapid succession.
I began the parade of pain when a bone spur started acting up in my heel. Can you say ouch? But having dealt with the boo-boo on many occasions I decided to push on and continue the contest.
Minutes later, on what would turn out to be the last play of the game, Bruce lunged for the stupid little ball, let out a weird groaning/wailing/grunting sound and hit the ground.
He lay there for a bit, making a funny noise and I thought he was simply goofing around as he often does.
But when he did not get up and began moaning about his back, I realized something was amiss so I hobbled over and found he really needed some help.
Eventually a staffer helped me to basically carry my friend to my van where I laid him in the back and drove him home.
It was quite a sight. I could barely walk and Bruce could not even stand on his own. The joys of getting older are plenty.
I got Bruce home safe and sound, and as he was using a pair of crutches to haul himself across the room he looked over his shoulder and said with all seriousness, "So, uh, same time next week."
Let me think about it and I will get back to you because it will take me at least a week to heal.
It would be comical if it wasn't so painful.
It started when a good friend of mine asked if I would like to go play squash sometime.
Having never played the game before in my life and not being too bright, I said "sure, why not."
As the day of the sports adventure neared, I was assaulted by a nasty cold and was forced to cancel - perhaps a warning that a day of squash would turn into a day of "that really, really hurts."
But paying no heed to the divine cautioning, we decided to reschedule the little competition.
We had the squash court thingy booked, my buddy, Bruce, had two rackets, I borrowed some of those stylish squash eye protectors and was ready to hit that stupid little blue ball around for 45 minutes or so.
The first game went well, and I even managed to score a point - one single point. But for my first time ever playing squash, that is not too bad.
Sure my buddy had already amassed eight points, but that one little point was enough to stave off defeat - until his next service and then it was game over.
I scored a whopping two points in the next game and could feel my squash prowess blossoming.
By the time we started the last game, I was a mad man possessed by the spirit of some long-dead famous squash player type guy.
I was zooming all over the court with lightning speed. OK, maybe zooming is a little to much. How about sprinting. Still too much. OK, how about lumbering as fast as I could in an effort to hit that stupid little blue ball. Much better.
But I was starting to get the hang of it. I played lots of tennis when I was a kid and then lots of raquetball as a teen, so the basic principles were the same - hit the stupid little ball.
The problem is, as I get older gravity seems to increase, slowing me down and making running a lot harder than it should ever be.
In the last game, Bruce and I were locked in a battle of monumental proportions, and much to everyones surprise, I actually managed to pull ahead by a single point.
That's when things went a tad wonky. You see, I am in the middle of my F years and while life may begin at 40, it does not begin without a closet full of painkillers, ointments and vitamin supplements.
Bruce is in his early 50s and is in great shape (for an "old guy" anyway.)
We both have several nagging injuries from our youth - who doesn't - and we were both afflicted with those injures in rapid succession.
I began the parade of pain when a bone spur started acting up in my heel. Can you say ouch? But having dealt with the boo-boo on many occasions I decided to push on and continue the contest.
Minutes later, on what would turn out to be the last play of the game, Bruce lunged for the stupid little ball, let out a weird groaning/wailing/grunting sound and hit the ground.
He lay there for a bit, making a funny noise and I thought he was simply goofing around as he often does.
But when he did not get up and began moaning about his back, I realized something was amiss so I hobbled over and found he really needed some help.
Eventually a staffer helped me to basically carry my friend to my van where I laid him in the back and drove him home.
It was quite a sight. I could barely walk and Bruce could not even stand on his own. The joys of getting older are plenty.
I got Bruce home safe and sound, and as he was using a pair of crutches to haul himself across the room he looked over his shoulder and said with all seriousness, "So, uh, same time next week."
Let me think about it and I will get back to you because it will take me at least a week to heal.
Friday, November 12, 2010
Drunks is dumb
By DARREN HANDSCHUH
It was one of the lousiest jobs I have ever had, and I quickly realized it was not something I wanted to do for long.
But as a young man with bills to pay and no other way to pay them, I took a job working at a 24-hour convenience store.
Convenience stores are little supermarkets where you conveniently pay twice as much for a jug of milk as a real supermarket.
They are also a popular place for drunks to stop by for a snack after a hard night of drinking at the local alcohol establishment.
If police want to catch a lot of drunk drivers, they should set up outside of the parking lot after the bars close and they would get more drunks off the road than there are Elvis impersonators in Vegas.
Of course, I had the thrill of interacting with said booze hounds, which always made for an interesting shift.
When I first started at the store, we were instructed on how to do our job and what to do in case of problems.
"If you are being robbed, do not resist," said the manager.
"No, duuuh," was the only thing I could think of.
If someone came in demanding money, I doubt I would jump over the counter and try to take him down to save this massive corporation a few bucks.
Mind you they were paying me a whopping $4.50 an hour, but still, it was not quite enough to risk my life over.
The manager, who at more than 50 years of age still had a job that required he wear a name tag, went on about how to handle other situations, but they were just as obvious as the don't-tackle-the-bad-guy advice.
I worked a lot of night shifts at the store and saw lot of strange things, most of them involving those drunk people doing drunk things.
One particular night stands out.
It was around 3 a.m. and the bar rush crowd had already stumbled through the store, arms laden with items masquerading as food.
It would seem drunk people really don't care what they eat. As long as the plastic wrapping declares there is some sort of food product inside, they will buy it.
Anyway, I was alone in the store when a guy I knew walked in. And by walk, I mean he bounced off the outside window and a garbage bin before reaching the door, the operation of which baffled him.
Three times he pulled on the handle only to have the door hit his foot, bounce back and close. Eventually he mastered the mechanism and came into the store with half a case of adult beverages.
I asked him to leave the wobbly pops at the door, which he did without complaint. He then selected about a dozen bags of chips, several chocolate bars and a bottle of pop as his post party snack.
He brought the items to the till, rummaged through his pockets for cash and then promptly laid down in front of the counter and went to sleep.
That was a first for me actually.
I had seen scuffles, a girl freaking out on acid, more drunks than a family reunion and I even had a guy walk into the store wearing nothing but a very short, denim skirt, but someone going nighty-night in the middle of the aisle was a new one.
I tried to shake him awake, but he would have none of that. Then I put a sale sticker on him hoping someone would want a plump, drunk guy, but had no takers.
Eventually I called the constabulary and they poured him into the back of a police cruiser and took him home.
It was mighty nice of the officer to do that I thought, instead of taking him to the tank.
That shift gave me a rather odd story to tell, and a few free wobbly pops which I put in the cooler until my shift was over.
It was one of the lousiest jobs I have ever had, and I quickly realized it was not something I wanted to do for long.
But as a young man with bills to pay and no other way to pay them, I took a job working at a 24-hour convenience store.
Convenience stores are little supermarkets where you conveniently pay twice as much for a jug of milk as a real supermarket.
They are also a popular place for drunks to stop by for a snack after a hard night of drinking at the local alcohol establishment.
If police want to catch a lot of drunk drivers, they should set up outside of the parking lot after the bars close and they would get more drunks off the road than there are Elvis impersonators in Vegas.
Of course, I had the thrill of interacting with said booze hounds, which always made for an interesting shift.
When I first started at the store, we were instructed on how to do our job and what to do in case of problems.
"If you are being robbed, do not resist," said the manager.
"No, duuuh," was the only thing I could think of.
If someone came in demanding money, I doubt I would jump over the counter and try to take him down to save this massive corporation a few bucks.
Mind you they were paying me a whopping $4.50 an hour, but still, it was not quite enough to risk my life over.
The manager, who at more than 50 years of age still had a job that required he wear a name tag, went on about how to handle other situations, but they were just as obvious as the don't-tackle-the-bad-guy advice.
I worked a lot of night shifts at the store and saw lot of strange things, most of them involving those drunk people doing drunk things.
One particular night stands out.
It was around 3 a.m. and the bar rush crowd had already stumbled through the store, arms laden with items masquerading as food.
It would seem drunk people really don't care what they eat. As long as the plastic wrapping declares there is some sort of food product inside, they will buy it.
Anyway, I was alone in the store when a guy I knew walked in. And by walk, I mean he bounced off the outside window and a garbage bin before reaching the door, the operation of which baffled him.
Three times he pulled on the handle only to have the door hit his foot, bounce back and close. Eventually he mastered the mechanism and came into the store with half a case of adult beverages.
I asked him to leave the wobbly pops at the door, which he did without complaint. He then selected about a dozen bags of chips, several chocolate bars and a bottle of pop as his post party snack.
He brought the items to the till, rummaged through his pockets for cash and then promptly laid down in front of the counter and went to sleep.
That was a first for me actually.
I had seen scuffles, a girl freaking out on acid, more drunks than a family reunion and I even had a guy walk into the store wearing nothing but a very short, denim skirt, but someone going nighty-night in the middle of the aisle was a new one.
I tried to shake him awake, but he would have none of that. Then I put a sale sticker on him hoping someone would want a plump, drunk guy, but had no takers.
Eventually I called the constabulary and they poured him into the back of a police cruiser and took him home.
It was mighty nice of the officer to do that I thought, instead of taking him to the tank.
That shift gave me a rather odd story to tell, and a few free wobbly pops which I put in the cooler until my shift was over.
Monday, November 1, 2010
Kids these days
By DARREN HANDSCHUH
It can't be because I am getting older.
People are just doing things at a much younger age than they used to.
At least, that is the lie I am telling myself.
I had the thrill of going to the dentist the other day for a fun and exciting root canal - two words which conjure up images of drills, big ass needles and more drills - only to have someone younger than my car do the job.
When the dentist first walked in, for a moment I thought it was Take Your Kid to Work Day and I patiently waited for his mom or dad to walk in and tell him to stop playing with the shiny tools.
This guy did not look old enough to vote, let alone perform a medical procedure on my teeth.
Once he began talking about what he was going to do and how it was going of be done, I started to feel a little more at ease. He seemed to know what he was doing.
Mind you, people said the same thing about George W. Bush his first few years in office and we all know how that turned out.
But as Dr. Whizkid began to do his stuff I relaxed a little - if that is possible when you have signed up for a root canal. It's kind of like trying to eat soup on a roller coaster - it just isn't going to happen.
I did find it rather strange that instead of pens in his shirt pocket he had crayons, but I let it slide.
When I left the dentist's office I half expected to see a Mattel Big Wheel sitting in one of the parking spots where his BMW will be - once he is old enough to drive that is.
I kid of course. He turned out to be a really good dentist (even though his mom still had to help him across the street).
He was as good as any dentist I have seen, he was just very young, or perhaps it was I who was getting old?
Nah, he was young, that's it.
He must have been some sort of kid genius or something. Perhaps he finished elementary school while he was still in the womb, then graduated high school a week after he was potty trained and graduated from dentist school a few years after that, turning his fascination with small drills and teeth into a career.
I know I am getting older, everyone is, but how can someone who looks barely old enough to wear big boy underwear be a full fledged dentist?
He had a dental school diploma and everything. I was going to stick with the child-prodigy theory, but as I started looking around, I realized Dr. Whizkid is the norm, rather than the exception.
Take the police example. I can remember when cops were much older. I recently went through a road block and was asked, "Have you had anything to drink tonight, sir?"
His voice cracked twice during that short sentence.
I almost wanted to say, "Oooh, aren't you cute in your little uniform" before reaching through the window and pinching his cheek. I didn't, because I may be dumb, but I am not that dumb.
I had not been drinking, but I was still a little nervous because under the new laws if you even drive past a liquor store or a pub you are at risk for some sort of punishment.
Stores are also hiring children nowadays as well. Where are the child-slavery laws? Shouldn't these tykes should be at home playing with dolls or Hot Wheels, instead of in the work force?
If these kids get any younger, instead of a lunch break they will have to have nap time.
Which would be odd because I am no where near being a youngster and I could sure go for nap time each afternoon. I tried to convince the boss such a perk would boost performance, but he did not buy it.
Perhaps if I had a really young boss I could bribe him with candy or something.
It can't be because I am getting older.
People are just doing things at a much younger age than they used to.
At least, that is the lie I am telling myself.
I had the thrill of going to the dentist the other day for a fun and exciting root canal - two words which conjure up images of drills, big ass needles and more drills - only to have someone younger than my car do the job.
When the dentist first walked in, for a moment I thought it was Take Your Kid to Work Day and I patiently waited for his mom or dad to walk in and tell him to stop playing with the shiny tools.
This guy did not look old enough to vote, let alone perform a medical procedure on my teeth.
Once he began talking about what he was going to do and how it was going of be done, I started to feel a little more at ease. He seemed to know what he was doing.
Mind you, people said the same thing about George W. Bush his first few years in office and we all know how that turned out.
But as Dr. Whizkid began to do his stuff I relaxed a little - if that is possible when you have signed up for a root canal. It's kind of like trying to eat soup on a roller coaster - it just isn't going to happen.
I did find it rather strange that instead of pens in his shirt pocket he had crayons, but I let it slide.
When I left the dentist's office I half expected to see a Mattel Big Wheel sitting in one of the parking spots where his BMW will be - once he is old enough to drive that is.
I kid of course. He turned out to be a really good dentist (even though his mom still had to help him across the street).
He was as good as any dentist I have seen, he was just very young, or perhaps it was I who was getting old?
Nah, he was young, that's it.
He must have been some sort of kid genius or something. Perhaps he finished elementary school while he was still in the womb, then graduated high school a week after he was potty trained and graduated from dentist school a few years after that, turning his fascination with small drills and teeth into a career.
I know I am getting older, everyone is, but how can someone who looks barely old enough to wear big boy underwear be a full fledged dentist?
He had a dental school diploma and everything. I was going to stick with the child-prodigy theory, but as I started looking around, I realized Dr. Whizkid is the norm, rather than the exception.
Take the police example. I can remember when cops were much older. I recently went through a road block and was asked, "Have you had anything to drink tonight, sir?"
His voice cracked twice during that short sentence.
I almost wanted to say, "Oooh, aren't you cute in your little uniform" before reaching through the window and pinching his cheek. I didn't, because I may be dumb, but I am not that dumb.
I had not been drinking, but I was still a little nervous because under the new laws if you even drive past a liquor store or a pub you are at risk for some sort of punishment.
Stores are also hiring children nowadays as well. Where are the child-slavery laws? Shouldn't these tykes should be at home playing with dolls or Hot Wheels, instead of in the work force?
If these kids get any younger, instead of a lunch break they will have to have nap time.
Which would be odd because I am no where near being a youngster and I could sure go for nap time each afternoon. I tried to convince the boss such a perk would boost performance, but he did not buy it.
Perhaps if I had a really young boss I could bribe him with candy or something.
Friday, October 22, 2010
Crossing the room is cool
By DARREN HANDSCHUH
I will always remember it as one of the greatest moments in my personal hockey history.
It was not a Stanley Cup and I didn’t score the championship-winning goal with one second left on the clock.
No, it was nothing quite so glorious.
It was a minor thing that I would guess no one else even noticed happened.
It was the day I got to cross the room.
I was 16 years old and had been playing the greatest game ever created by God for about four years.
I was always a first- or second-line player, and being a defenseman I was always on special teams. I would like to say it was because of my amazing skill, but it was more likely attributed to a lack of defensemen in the league.
I was never one of the elite, until that fateful day.
In the hierarchy of the dressing room, the really good players sat on one side of the room, the middle-of-the-road players (that’s me) sat in another area while the bottom feeders sat in a sort of dressing room purgatory where they could quietly chat among themselves.
They were usually kept separate from the better players so their suckiness didn’t rub off and cause a super-jock to become an on-ice weenie.
It was not a planned separation, but one that occurs naturally in the wild.
Have you ever watched a nature special and seen that one lone lion sitting a few feet from the others? Well, that is the third-string lion. That is the lion that is called upon when all the other lions are too tired to play another shift and chase down a gazelle, or a tourist or whatever.
The lion was not told to go there, but knew that was where it belonged. It’s the same thing in the dressing room.
Anyway, it was about half-way through the season and I was heading to my designated spot on the mediocre side of the room when the best player on the team summoned me.
I mean this guy was it. He was the top scorer on the team, in the top five of the league, team captain, and all around swell guy.
“Hey, Darren, why don’t you sit over here?”
He said this from the super-jock side of the room and motioned to an empty space on the long, wood bench. I had fantasized about sitting on that bench and sometimes, if I was the first one on the change room, I would actually sit there for a second before scampering to the so-so player section.
But here I was, me, a lowly D-man who averaged only a handful of goals a year being called to sit with the best our team had to offer.
Needless to say I accepted the invite. I grabbed my gear and headed to the ‘good’ side while the rest of the players watched.
The mediocre players swelled with pride as they watched one of their own take the next step in the hierarchy of hockey.
The bottom feeders did what they always did – found a shiny object to keep themselves amused.
“Hah, so long losers. I’ll be seeing you from the top of the mountain.”
I didn’t actually say that of course. Instead I sat down, looked around and the world seemed a much better place.
I also remember that game because it was in the second period when my hockey days nearly came to an end.
This was before they had automatic icing whistles and I was racing a guy to the puck when a little tug by his stick 20 feet from the boards threw me off balance and I went into the boards knees first.
I remember hitting the boards and then watching as the play headed the other way. I tried to get up but for some reason my legs just wouldn’t work.
I remember laying on the ice thinking, “That’s odd. They were working when I got here.”
The coach came running out and some of the players gathered around and helped me to my feet.
As is tradition, everyone started to cheer when I got up.
It doesn’t matter what shape the player is in, the fans will cheer when he is taken off the ice. If he is in a stretcher they cheer as he is wheeled away.
The player could be hauled off in two separate bags and people would still cheer.
Fans would be yelling, “Way to get decapitated. Good effort.”
Meanwhile the coach is screaming, “Walk it off, walk it off. OK, Johnson you’re in.”
And that is exactly what my coach told me to do - walk it off. Being young and not too bright, I was never one to buy into the whole ‘give your self time to heal’ thing.
I finished the game and then went dirt biking that afternoon.
C’mon, I was 16 and indestructible. My knees were a little stiff the next day, but not sore enough to cause any concerns.
Of course, now at middle age, if a stiff wind hits my knees I hobble like Quasimodo for the rest of the day.
Walk it off? How about I sit it off in front of the TV or something, that is more my pace.
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