Too hot to handle

By DARREN HANDSCHUH

Springtime is my favourite time of year. 

The snow is a memory and the weather is warm, but not yet so hot as to cause people to spontaneously burst into flames.

I have to admit, I have never actually seen that happen, but if someone went up in a puff of smoke around mid-summer, it would not surprise me one bit.

In fact, I am amazed it has not happened already.

ì9-1-1, what's your emergency?î

ìMy friend just burst into flame while jogging.î

ìWell, it serves him right for jogging in July. Not even dogs are dumb enough to run in this weather. Have a nice day.î

As far as I am concerned there is never a need for the temperature to rise above 30 C. Anything more than that is just Mother Nature showing off.

But as we all know, there will be days this summer when 30 will be a welcome cool down from the merciless heat that can be summertime in the Okanagan.

I was born and raised in the B.C. Interior, so I am no stranger to hot weather. When I was a young lad the hotter it was, the more I liked it.

It could not be too hot. Now, however, as Father Time continues to slap me around, the heat is not nearly as enjoyable.

In fact, there are times when it can make me a little on the cranky side.

I read somewhere, or someone told me, or I overheard, the older you get, the harder it is for your body to tolerate the heat.

I can believe that. I find it especially true for my head. I am being blessed with the joys of hair loss. When I was a kid, I had a forehead, just like everyone else, but as the torturous grip of mid-life continues to choke the youth from my body, my hair line has receded to the point where I now have about a seven-head. I assume all of my hair will evacuate the premises entirely, leaving me with a 10-head and that little ring of hair around the back of my head that I will shave off and go au natural on top.

So how is being follicularly challenged impacted by the sun? Each summer I know how much hair I lost over the winter because that section of pasty white skin burns faster than the rest of my pasty white skin, thus giving indication of how much hair I no longer have.

I do still have hair, but it is now growing out of my ears.

The summer heat and blazing sun also helps to point out the tourists among us.

They are the folk from the frozen wilds of Alberta or Manitoba or where ever else the sun shines for only three weeks out of the year.

Tourists stand out from locals because they often travel in a pack ñ either of the family variety of the tour-bus type. True, local families often travel in packs as well, but somehow touristas stand out from the locals. Probably because they are glowing red from spending too much time in the Okanagan sun. 

It is like they have never heard of a sunburn and have no idea there is a way to prevent it.

For many tourists, the blast furnace is a novelty, an experience they do not generally get in Saskatchewan where summer starts somewhere around the second week of August and ends the third week. 

This year was a cool, somewhat rainy spring and early summer, but it looks like the big bright thing in the sky finally decided to show up. It was only a matter of time before that stifling heat broke through the clouds like a fat aunt hitting the buffet table at a family reunion.

According to the weather guys ñ who are just slightly more accurate than that stupid groundhog ñ things are going to be heating up the next few days. 

Considering this is the Okanagan, they may just get this prediction right.

Enough reality already

By DARREN HANDSCHUH

Where will it all end?

What eccentricity, oddity or just plain ol' weirdness will become the next reality TV show?

It seems there is a never-ending line of people who want the whole world to know of their ìlittle problems.î

The reality craze, which is obviously here to stay, started with Survivor, a show I have yet to actually watch. I have heard lots about it, but after watching about 20 minutes of it several years ago, I decided to vote myself off the island and I have never gone back.

But from that one-hour piece of 'reality' programming (like everyone looks like those bikini-clad, muscle-bound contestants) came thousands of hours of reality TV shows, and every day more are added.

There are shows on little people, very obese people, messy people, people with substance-abuse issues, and there are shows about people who simply do not know when to say enough is enough and have 200 children or so.

I do not watch a lot of TV, and I know of these shows mostly through osmosis. My wife enjoys the shows about obese people, and the latest reality craze, people who hoard.

We also watched a documentary about people in the Appalachian Mountains of Arkansas. Just the word Arkansas is enough to conjure up images of hill billies marrying their cousins, and the documentary was not too far off.

It would seem the mountain folk have a fondness for Mountain Dew ñ a heavily sugared and caffeine-laden drink they even put in baby bottles. The dentist said he has seen two year olds with cavities from drinking Mountain Dew.

My daughter likes the little people shows ñ of which there is a new one every hour ñ and shows about families with lots of kids ñ in which a new one is being born every hour.

There are also more obese people shows than you can shake a box of jelly donuts at.

It is only a matter of time before all of these reality shows come together into one big mix of strangeness.

I can see it now, a show about an obese little person with 15 kids who all drink Mountain Dew while hoarding everything they can get their hands on.

Of course, at least nine members of the family will have some sort of addiction issue, while the others will try to get on American Idol or So You Think You Can Dance.

It is as close to the perfect reality show as you can get. It has something for everyone.

Perhaps our freaky family can be dropped onto an island or something and they get to vote each other off, except in this case it would be a good thing so they can go home to their Mountain Dew, inbred dogs and cluttered homes.

Perhaps throw a couple of has been movie stars in there, can you say Lindsay Lohan, just to make things a little more lively.

It's kind of a stupid idea inside a stupid idea. In case you haven't guessed, I am not a huge fan of reality TV.

A lot of it should be called ìMy life is worse than yours and I am going on TV to prove it.î
But therein lies the lure of reality TV. Had a bad day at work, house is a little messy, just can't seem to shed those last few pounds, well turn on the tube and keep searching because you are pretty much guaranteed to find someone in a much worse situation than you are in.

After a while you may start to feel better about your own life. Perhaps reality TV does have a higher purpose on this rock in space ñ to make us feel better about our lives by showing us how crappy other people's lives are.

Not a great idea at all

By DARREN HANDSCHUH

Have you ever done something that seemed like a good idea at the time and then turned out to be a less-than-stellar plan?

Dumb question, I know.

Everyone, at some point in time, has done some bonehead move that in retrospect seemed too stupid to be plausible.

Look at 89 per cent of the decisions made by our national politicians ñ boneheads to the core.

I have noticed most cranial cramping occurs when the maker of the decision is of the younger set. Especially those in their teens and even into their early 20s, brain power and common sense is often over powered by  a sense of, ìC'mon, what could go wrong?î

What could go wrong? You could nearly set half the province on fire that's what.

Now before people start getting their knickers in a knot, we did not intentionally set the mountain on fire, it was just a miscue by some fireworks we had in our possession.

A buddy had a rocket-type firework that shot eight brightly coloured balls of fire high into the sky.

He had been hanging on to it for months and that warm August night seemed like the perfect time to send the pretty lights skyward in celebration of the fact we had fireworks. Other than that there was no real reason for the display.

Anyway, we picked a spot on top of a mountain and tied the festive pyrotechnics to a dead stump and stood back.

Before I continue, I would just like to say we were young enough to attempt the stunt, but old enough to have known better and the possibility of something going wrong did flutter through our little brains, but was quickly pushed aside by the desire to have some fun.

I looked at my buddy and for a brief moment was gripped with a dash of practical sense.

ìUh, dude, what if one of the flaming balls hits the ground.î
ìDon't worry about it. It will shoot 100 feet into the air. See, it says so right on the package.î

ìDuuuh,OK, I can't argue with that.î

A match was lit and placed at the fuse of the rocket. It sparked as it burned as if to announce festive merriment was on the way.

We watched the fuse sparkle as it entered the rocket and that's when things went a tad wrong. No, one of the fiery balls of colour did not ignite the tinder dry brush around us ñ we should have been so lucky.

When the fuse ignited the rocket it did not send eight colourful balls of flame skyward, instead it just exploded where it sat, sending eight colourful balls of flame in eight different directions.

If we had a brain between us we would have had some water handy ñ if we had a brain. We did have bottled liquid, but it was not water. 

After a fraction of a second of total and complete utter panic we took action and ran around like mad men stomping out the little colourful balls of flame.

It took a few minutes, but we got the flames out, all the while I was reminding my friend about my cautionary tale with a creative use of verbs and nouns (none of which are suitable for print.) We spent quite a while making sure every single ember was stomped into oblivion.

We then sat back, had a good laugh and vowed to never do something so stupid again ñ until the next time we were struck by a bright idea that is.

All hail The Tape

By DARREN HANDSCHUH

It is by far one of the greatest inventions ever created by the human race.

The automobile: handy, but hard on the environment.

The computer: a vital part of modern life but a real pain in the...

Those may be fine inventions that have helped human kind, but sitting very close to the top of the list is The Tape.

Men already know what tape I am talking about. There could be only one sticky item of which I speak and that is duct tape.

I can hear men throughout the Valley grunting their approval for the multi-talented creation that men, real men I might add, have embraced throughout the world.

I love The Tape.

I do not know how the world survived without it. Had they had a whole bunch of The Tape on Titanic, well, let's just say the movie would had to have a much different ending.

Instead of what's his name sinking to a frozen death, he would run around like a man possessed, taping up the hull saving the ship and the fair maiden.

What else on this planet other than The Tape could have pulled off such heroics. Nothing, that's what.

Your arm got cut off in an industrial accident? No problem, just grab The Tape, a few well-placed strips and it's as good as new.

The Tape also comes in a variety of colours, greatly increasing its applications to everything from fixing clothing (yes, I did close a rip in an old jacket  with The Tape one time) to holding the international space station together.

Is there no end to the marvels of the shiny wonder.

But even though there are more uses for The Tape than there are corrupt politicians, my wife still mocks one of man's greatest achievements.

I know, I don't understand it either. She just does not see the value of this invaluable aid to humanity.

Despite witnessing first-hand the prowess of The Tape, still she mocks.

Without The Tape, a return trip from Saskatoon would have been a disaster. It was in the spring and we had a van load of six people and enough luggage to trek across the Andes and back crammed into every nook and cranny the silver Mazda had.

I even put on a roof-top carrier because the teenage girl we were bringing back from Toon Town had as much luggage as the rest of us combined. She had a make-up box that was just slightly smaller than a pool table. Why she needed that much face goop is beyond me.

Anyway, we were heading down the No. 1 with a blistering wind crossing the road. The air was moving at approximately 3,000 km/h and the dust was so thick in spots it was a near, um, brown out I guess you would call it.

A big rig passed in the other direction and nearly ripped the lid off of the car top carrier. I remember looking in the rearview mirror and seeing all these bags of stuff bouncing down the road. It did not fully register those were our bags until I spotted one of my daughter's dollys in a green dress skip across the asphalt.

I laid on the breaks, pulled over and ran back to collect everything. We did not lose anything, but we still had hundreds of kilometres to drive with a car top carrier that had seen better times.

What to do, what to do? I only had to think for a few seconds before the answer became clear.

The Tape.

I grabbed a role of the silver-coloured saviour and wrapped it around the front of the carrier, thus sealing it from blowing open, thus saving the trip and the world, thus once again proving it is an invaluable addition to the human race.

Viva la Tape.

That was many years ago. The Missus still mocks, but for at least a few hours on that fateful day, The Tape rule supreme and even the little woman had to admit The Tape was a darned fine invention.

By DARREN HANDSCHUH

It's time for another addition of boneheads in the news.

No, it's not a round up of what is happening with our elected officials, but boneheads of the commoner variety.

Let's start with a bad guy in Oakland, Cali., who barricaded himself in his house prompting a lengthy standoff with members of the law enforcement community.

Nothing strange about that you say, well read on.

According to a news report, after firing 10 canisters of tear gas into the home, police discovered the man was standing next them shouting, ìPlease come out and give yourself up.î 

The man was arrested, but police ended up locking themselves in the holding cell while the man stood in the lobby.

The bozos in this next one are obvious.

A news agency reported ìAT&T fired president John Walter after nine months, saying he lacked intellectual leadership. He received a $26 million severance package. Perhaps it's not Walter who's lacking intelligence.î 

Perhaps? Wally is the smartest man in the room. I will be sending a resume to AT&T shortly and I would just like to let the executives know I will settle for a mere $10 million buy out. There, you have not even hired me and I have already saved you $16 million.

An Illinois man, pretending to have a gun, kidnapped a motorist and forced the driver to take him to two ATM machines where he withdrew money from his own account.

The man then forced the money onto the driver before demanding he be taken to the police station where he made a full statement. OK, that last bit is not true, but with someone this dumb it is almost believable.

Perhaps that bad-guy bozo is related to this next criminal mastermind.

Police in Los Angeles had good luck with a robbery suspect who just couldn't control himself during a lineup. When detectives asked each man in the lineup to repeat the words: ìGive me all your money or I 'll shoot,î the man shouted, ìThat's not what I said.î

That story does not even need a punchline.

Closer to home, a woman in Vancouver was charged with assault for stabbing another woman in the ear with a potato peeler.

There is nothing a'peeling' about being stabbed in the ear, but you have to admit the choice of weapons was rather odd.

The stabbee received minor wounds and did not even have to go to the hospital, while the stabber was sent to jail and sentenced to peel potatoes for the next six months.

She was not done with her violent ways and her anger flared up once again resulting in her stabbing an ear of corn 18 times.

This last bozo is on what is supposed to be the good side of the law.

In the United States a big, strong police officer type Tasered a 72-year-old lady. I kid you not.

What, was she coming at him with a pair of knitting needles?

ìStay back Smokey, or I will knit one and pearl two your ass.î

Seriously, unless she pulled a 9 mm handgun from her girdle, is there really a need to hit her with a gazzillion volts of electricity.

I admit I do not know all the fine details of the incident, but from what I read Granny was copping an attitude and the defender of the peace decided to take her down.

The Texas officer pulled Granny over for speeding and a ìdiscussionî ensued. 

In his defence the officer did warn the little old lady five times he would Taser her if she did not calm down, which he then did, much to her surprise. 

I'm sorry, but I just do not see a 72-year-old woman as a threat to my personal safety, unless she has that loaded girdle we were talking about.

My mother-in-law is 72 and I could take her down by hitting her in the shoulder with a dry sponge.

How safe are the good people of Texas if one of their finest can't even handle a member of the Blue Hair Club without using a Taser?

It does not exactly warrant a sense of confidence.

Bad guys will be wearing T-shirts, 'If you think I'm dangerous, you should see my Nana.'

Just call me...

By DARREN HANDSCHUH

What's in a name?

That question has been pondered for ages and it would seem what is in a name is whatever the other person hears.

I am the first to admit I am terrible at remembering names. There are people I have known on a casual basis for years, and for the life of me I cannot remember their names.

Having worked in newspaper for almost two decades, (ouch, when I put it like that it sounds painful) I have met a lot of people.

The problem is, I am often the only reporter they met that day so odds are they will remember who I am.

More than once I have had conversations with people and I have no idea who they are, but they seem to know me so we banter back and forth for a few minutes before we go our separate ways.

ìWho was that?î my wife would ask.

ìBeats the hell out of me,î was often the reply.

But if you throw out a few vague and general questions, you can engage the person on a somewhat personal level. Often, during the course of the chat, I will recall where I know the person from. I might not remember their name ñ actually odds are greatly in favour of not remembering their name ñ but at least I know where I have seen them before.

So I have no problem if people do not remember my name, because I understand all too well the brain can only hold so much information and individual names just don't seem to have their own files and therefore are not embedded in the gray matter.

It is when I tell someone my name and they get it wrong two seconds later that I don't get.

I know my last name can be a bit of a challenge and I have seen some impressive attempts at spelling it.

There have been numerous variations of my last name, but the worst attempt at spelling it I have ever come across was at a take out restaurant where the waitress wrote Pansch on the box.

Like I said, it can be a rather tricky name, but people also have trouble mastering my first name.

ìHi, I'm Darren.î

Simple, right. Easy name, easy to spell, pretty basic stuff.

ìHello Derek nice to meet you.î

ìNo, actually my name is Darren.î

ìOh, I am sorry Darrell.î

While talking to a receptionist on the phone recently I even spelled out my first name while leaving a message.

ìYes, that is D-A-R-R-E-N.î

ìOK, thank you very much Ed, I will give him the message.î

I have no idea how she came up with Ed, but that is who the person I was trying to get in touch with asked for when he called back.

ìI am looking for someone named Ed, but for some bizarre reason he spells his name D-A-R-R-E-N. Weird. Must be Gaelic or something.î

For several years now one of my neighbours has been calling me Dan, but it is really not his fault.

I was working on my car one day and was wearing a second-hand pair of coveralls that had the name tag 'Dan' so he assumed that was me.

Dan, Darren, close enough.

Believe me I have been called a lot worse than Dan. Besides, what is the protocol for something like that. For about four years he has been calling me Dan. I didn't correct him at first, because I thought maybe he was saying my name, but was just not very good at it.

When he went on vacation he asked if I could collect the mail etc. My neighbour left a note that read, ìDan, thanks for...î

The really strange part is before they left I gave him a business card with my name and contact information on it.

So guess what he called me when he got back? You guessed it ñ Dan.

He was probably wondering why I would give him someone else's business card. Oh well, what can ya do? 

This is Dan or Darell or Tyrell or something like that anyway saying have a good day.

Who's the real dummy?

By DARREN HANDSCHUH

I was walking the dog the other day and came to the conclusion he is not the brightest penny in the purse, because every time I take him for a walk he almost hangs himself he pulls on the leash so hard.
I am sure many dog people out there are mumbling something about how to train the beast so he does not do that, and it is on my 'to do' list, right above teaching the cat to use the toilet.
Pretty much every time I take him out, the mutt cranks up his 17 pounds of raw animal power and does his best to drag me down the street.
Murphy the Wonder Hound pulls so hard he begins to choke himself. He will gack and sputter and make this nasty hacking noise, but he will not stop pulling ñ that is until he finds a pile of doggy doo-doo which he simply must investigate.
Watching the dog form of inspection once again makes me glad to be a human. How much fun could it be to put your face millimetres away from a big pile of doo-doo and breath heavily through your nose? For us human types I doubt it would be any fun at all, but dogs seem to enjoy it and Murph the Surf really loves it and does not miss an opportunity to enjoy such an event.
I have often contemplated what he is thinking while investigating a pile o' crap (which is yet another indicator as to how sad and pathetic my life really is.)
ìI wonder if I know this guy. It kind of smells like a lab, no, wait, it might be a shepherd. Hmmm, Alpo, good choice of dog food.î
He will then tire of inspecting the subject and move on, once again pulling so hard he coughs like a life-long smoker trying to climb a set of stairs.
While watching him pull on the leash and make all sorts of weird noises, I wonder just how smart does he have to be to realize it is his own actions that are causing him pain.
I had the exact same thought while paintballing the other day.
Paintball is a game where you run through the woods with air-powered markers (aka guns) and hunt your friends for sport and enjoyment.
I was stealthily hiding my 250-pound frame behind a few trees, waiting for the enemy horde to appear only to be struck down in a hail of little yellow and blue balls when I heard the pop of a paintball marker behind me, followed by the splat of a paintball as it hit the tree beside me.
Not a good thing.
I knew my sworn enemy ñ which is whoever happened to be on the opposing team that day ñ had flanked me and I was about to have a close encounter of the painful kind.
And I was right.
Before I could react, there were a few more splats against the tree followed by the most painful hit I have ever experienced in three seasons of shoot 'em up.
My valiant and noble adversary had managed to hit me in the back of the head, right where the neck and skull join.
Can you say ìThat friggin' hurt?î I could, but because there are several words I no longer say aloud, I had to keep my thoughts from becoming spoken, which was easier said than done.
When the ball hit I saw a lovely collection of spots and stars. I briefly dropped to one knee before retreating to the re-spawning area where I took a couple of seconds to gather my thoughts (and to wait for the stars to go away) before rejoining the battle.
During that time, I remember thinking about my dog who was so dumb he pulls on his leash to the point of causing himself pain.
ìYou dumb dog, all you have to do is not pull so hard and it won't hurt.î
With the replacing of a handful of words, that sentence can be applied to yours truly.
ìYou dumb ass, all you have to do is stop playing paintball and you won't get hurt.î
I then began to wonder who the dumb beast really was. At least Murphy didn't have to pay money to do something that hurts.