BY DARREN HANDSCHUH
Perhaps there are some things you should not be able to simply walk in to.
The colon is the first thing that comes to mind.
Sorry for that visual, but there is an exhibit in Toronto featuring a huge walk-in colon (I am not kidding). The stroll-a-colon is part of a campaign for prostate cancer awareness, which is something I wholeheartedly support, but I am just a little shy on the whole whale-sized colon thing.
It is an attention-grabbing gimmick no doubt, but it is also kinda weird.
Haven't these people heard of information kiosks, or display boards or anything but a massive colon large enough for people to wander around while chatting about the latest in colon-related activities.
“Hey Phil have you gone in to have you prostate checked.”“Not yet, I am looking around for a doctor with really small hands.”
The display is called the Giant Colon Exhibit.
I will give them an A for imagination when it comes to the actual display as it does certainly catch your eye – I mean where else have you heard of a colon the size of a city bus?
However, I do have to give them a C-minus when it comes to naming said exhibit.
Not the most creative name I have ever heard, mind you it is also the first time I have ever heard of a gigantic colon being the centre of attention.
Perhaps a catch phrase or something could liven things up a bit.
“Come for the colon, stay for the pizza.”
“We will leave no place untouched in the battle against colon cancer – literally. No, really, we mean it.” That one may not be catchy, but it's true.
Maybe organizers could hand out those little travel-size bottles of Preparation H to each entrant.
Souveniers of the event would be another matter. I am not sure how the T-shirt sales would go over.
“My parents walked into giant colon and all I got was this lousy T-shirt” might work, but who would want to wear it?
I have not been able to confirm this yet, but I heard from a reliable source there is a giant finger on wheels in the next room.
The organizers are trying to keep that part a secret because of the big finale which I refuse to go into more details about.
I do not know how enthusiastically I would walk into a giant colon, but I have strolled through a giant nostril.
It was at a science centre where the display was on bodily parts and fluids. While there were no colons or associated body bits, there was a huge nose you could walk in to see all the things there is to see in a nose.
It is a rather odd to feel like a giant booger, but when in nose...
Kids in particular enjoyed walking around the big nostril and the booger jokes were flying faster than kickbacks during the Mulroney administration.
The nose thing was not only quite interesting, but hearing someone say, “Eeeewww, grrrooosssss” every 10 seconds was worth the price of admission on its own.
Oddly, it was mostly girls who were grossed out by the nasal expedition. Apparently, a nasal cavity large enough to hide a '72 Buick in is not enough to gross out pre-teen boys.
Along with the thrill of walking through a nasal passage that would make the Jolly Green Giant's honker look petite, were all sorts of details about the nose, such as how my snot the average nose generates over a typical life time.
I do not remember the exact amount, but I have a rough idea because after having three kids I have had to clean up several gallons of the goo, so over a lifetime the numbers must be astronomical.
All we need now is for some scientific braniac to figure out how to run a car on snot and the world's energy problems would be solved.
People would be lining up to purchase the Booger-mobile, and if you have a cold – bonus – free gas for a week to 10 days.
Friday, March 12, 2010
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Who's clucking idea was this
It's either an interesting idea or a clucking stupid plan.A while back, the fearless leaders of Vernon and Kelowna requested staff look into a backyard chicken bylaw.I recently spoke to intrepid city council reporter Ron Seymour, who said not much is hatching when it comes to the fowl bylaw, but the fact that there was even a need to look into it in the first place seemed rather odd.I did not know the Okanagan urban chicken population was so large it needed a bylaw, but they are working on one so the situation must be fowl indeed.The bylaw would allow people living within city limits to have chickens in their backyard on a permanent basis without breaking the rules.Apparently, some people already have the feathered friends fluttering around freely on their city-encased range, so instead of telling them they were not allowed, the city is looking into making it legal.If it goes through, any Farmer Brown wannabe can have a few birds without running afoul of the law (pun intended).My grandparents used to have several chickens on the little rural farm they retired to. They also had two roosters. One was a regular ol' rooster who spent his time doing rooster things, but the other was the meanest, nastiest piece of feathered terror God has ever put on this earth.Even the eagles would not mess with this mean little clucker.The stupid beast would attack pretty much anyone, or anything, that went into the chicken coop. Grandma used to carry a broom when she went in to collect the eggs to keep the critter at bay. They put up with the antics of the reddish rooster until it attacked one of their grandchildren - me. I was about five years old and when I went into the coop, the danged monster attacked me and laid a pecking on me I remember to this day.That was enough for grandpa, he was done with the dumb cluck. Let's just say we had chicken for supper that night.In your face bird brain.That left one rooster and he did his best to maintain the rooster code of making as much noise as possible very early in the morning.The sun would be rising into the heavens, small birds would be chirping and all of a sudden there was this horrid sound, kind of like a schizophrenic bagpipe player. And Foghorn Leghorn of the family homestead did not just crow once, noooo, that would be too easy.This feathered freak would make noise until even the dead were showing up, asking the stupid bird be shut up.So what happens if the urban Okanagan farmer gets a rooster so he can have more little chickens to sell to other urban farmers and the rooster does what a rooster does and keeps half the 'hood awake?I have never seen a chicken murder on CSI, but I guess there is a first time for everything.If there is such a thing as rooster rage I am sure it will happen.Mind you, accidents happen and as tragic as it would be, roosters have been known to trip and fall on axes in the past. Hey, I'm just saying stuff happens.And what happens if people get tired of the birds and just let them loose. The next thing you know there are thousands of chickens setting up house all over the place.Remember the bunny brouhaha that embroiled the city for so long?The bunny huggers will have to become hen huggers and lobby to save the birds by sending them to a farm or something where they can live out their lives in the setting they were meant to be in.Or, the city collect the wayward cluckers themselves and have one helluva barbecue.It will be interesting to see what, if anything, becomes of the bylaw.
Friday, February 26, 2010
Excuses, excuses, excuses
By DARREN HANDSCHUH
“OK, dad, don’t get mad.”
There has never been a conversation in the history of parenthood that went well after that opening line from a child.
I have had that line dropped in front of me a few times over the years, and the conversation always went downhill from that point.
Those five words are often followed by an explanation of why I should not get mad.
“We were just sliding down the stairs in that big cardboard box and we accidentally went through the wall at the bottom of the stairs. It’s not that bad. Really. See, it’s only a small hole.”
A small hole? A St. Bernard could do a back flip through that hole.
That is a true story by the way.
It was partly my fault, because I saw what they were doing and thought, “That looks like fun. Go for it, dudes.”
For half a second I even thought of joining them, but then decided recovering from a back injury was not the best way to spend the weekend.
They did go for it and I got another chance to practice my drywall skills. I did not get angry at their impromptu renovations of our home seeing as how I endorsed the activity, besides that wall needed a square metre replaced, puttied, primed and painted anyway.
Now had my wife seen their home-made roller coaster I am pretty sure she would have put a stop to it.
When I saw what they were doing, I suggested they bend the top of the box over their feet so it won't get caught on the carpet and they could go faster.
It worked too, they went so fast they put a hole in the wall.
Another line where nothing good has ever followed: “Uh, dad, do you have an extra set of car keys on you.”
That one has happened a couple of times and usually after a conversation where Junior asks for the keys to get something out of the van.
“Don't worry, I will bring them right back. Yes, I'll lock the door. No, I won't lose your keys between here and the van and back.”
Junior then goes off while mumbling something about how annoying worry wart dads can be.
The return trip had a lot less mumbling in it as Junior tried to conjure up an extra set of keys and weigh his options before getting to the worry wart.
The situation was, he opened the door, put the keys on the seat, got what he was looking for and locked the doors.
Well, at least he did not lose the keys. We knew where they were – safely locked inside the van.
Sometimes disaster strikes with out the youngsters even realizing it. The other day, Junior was going downstairs, but walking down all of the stairs was way to complex, so he decided to introduce his own way of going from up to down.
He decided to jump. No big deal, he and his siblings have been jumping from the bottom couple of steps for years.
Only this time Junior, who is a teen and built more or less like a miniature Ahnold, decided to jump from the very top, that is 12 stairs worth of free fall before he reached the first landing.
He landed with a boom and carried on like it was nothing, which at the time it was. However, a hour later I went downstairs and something just did not feel right.
Upon closer inspection I discovered the landing, which is about a metre square, was now four inches lower in one corner, the corner Junior landed on. The bottom three steps were also loose.
So now we get to share a father-son moment where we team up to repair the house and where Junior promises never to do that again.
“OK, dad, don’t get mad.”
There has never been a conversation in the history of parenthood that went well after that opening line from a child.
I have had that line dropped in front of me a few times over the years, and the conversation always went downhill from that point.
Those five words are often followed by an explanation of why I should not get mad.
“We were just sliding down the stairs in that big cardboard box and we accidentally went through the wall at the bottom of the stairs. It’s not that bad. Really. See, it’s only a small hole.”
A small hole? A St. Bernard could do a back flip through that hole.
That is a true story by the way.
It was partly my fault, because I saw what they were doing and thought, “That looks like fun. Go for it, dudes.”
For half a second I even thought of joining them, but then decided recovering from a back injury was not the best way to spend the weekend.
They did go for it and I got another chance to practice my drywall skills. I did not get angry at their impromptu renovations of our home seeing as how I endorsed the activity, besides that wall needed a square metre replaced, puttied, primed and painted anyway.
Now had my wife seen their home-made roller coaster I am pretty sure she would have put a stop to it.
When I saw what they were doing, I suggested they bend the top of the box over their feet so it won't get caught on the carpet and they could go faster.
It worked too, they went so fast they put a hole in the wall.
Another line where nothing good has ever followed: “Uh, dad, do you have an extra set of car keys on you.”
That one has happened a couple of times and usually after a conversation where Junior asks for the keys to get something out of the van.
“Don't worry, I will bring them right back. Yes, I'll lock the door. No, I won't lose your keys between here and the van and back.”
Junior then goes off while mumbling something about how annoying worry wart dads can be.
The return trip had a lot less mumbling in it as Junior tried to conjure up an extra set of keys and weigh his options before getting to the worry wart.
The situation was, he opened the door, put the keys on the seat, got what he was looking for and locked the doors.
Well, at least he did not lose the keys. We knew where they were – safely locked inside the van.
Sometimes disaster strikes with out the youngsters even realizing it. The other day, Junior was going downstairs, but walking down all of the stairs was way to complex, so he decided to introduce his own way of going from up to down.
He decided to jump. No big deal, he and his siblings have been jumping from the bottom couple of steps for years.
Only this time Junior, who is a teen and built more or less like a miniature Ahnold, decided to jump from the very top, that is 12 stairs worth of free fall before he reached the first landing.
He landed with a boom and carried on like it was nothing, which at the time it was. However, a hour later I went downstairs and something just did not feel right.
Upon closer inspection I discovered the landing, which is about a metre square, was now four inches lower in one corner, the corner Junior landed on. The bottom three steps were also loose.
So now we get to share a father-son moment where we team up to repair the house and where Junior promises never to do that again.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
The furry reaper
By DARREN HANDSCHUH
There was a story a while back about a cat that could predict when someone was going to pass to the great beyond.
The cat was a resident of a nursing home and would cuddle next to someone during their last hours on this earth.
It was also the most feared animal that ever walked the planet.
How would you like to be taking a little snooze and look down to see the furball of death cuddled up next to you? That alone would probably induce a fatal heart attack leading to the kitty prophecy coming true.
It would seem Oscar the cat, a.k.a. The Furry Grim Reaper, made 50 correct calls over the span of five years.
Dr. David Dosa was so amazed with the cat, he wrote a book about Oscar.
I think the book is called 'Keep that damn cat away from me,' or something like that anyway.
According to the news report, 'The feline's bizarre talent astounds Dosa, but he finds Oscar's real worth in his fierce insistence on being present when others turn away from life's most uncomfortable topic: death.'
"People actually were taking great comfort in this idea, that this animal was there and might be there when their loved ones eventually pass," Dosa said. "He was there when they couldn't be."
That sounds pretty good actually, unless of course you are a cat hater, then it is probably not the best way to say farewell to these earthly shackles.
It also might not be the best plan for people who are allergic to cats either, but it is still a pretty amazing ability.
So how does Oscar do it?
Beats the hell outta me.
The good doctor doesn't know why either. All he can says is Oscar does it with amazing accuracy. He suspects Oscar might be able to smell the dying cells or something, but cannot prove how Oscar does what he does.
Somehow the cat just knows when someone is about to go on the final journey and is so accurate, staff notify family members when they see Oscar cuddle down with someone.
Dosa said most people are too sick to even know the cat is there, but still, laying in bed and looking up to see the gray and white tabby walk in your room...Well let's just say you might want to cancel your dinner plans.
Dosa said they placed Oscar in the bed of a patient who was gravely ill, but the feline took off and refused to stay.
Upon seeing the commotion the patient sat up and blurted, “Get away from me, I was just napping. Doesn't anyone around here know how to take a pulse?”
OK, I made that part up, but according to Dosa the patient rallied for a few days before passing, and yes, Oscar did return to be with the person for their last few hours on this earth.
While the residents and their families may be enjoying the efforts of Oscar the death-predicting cat, there is one resident who does not: the dog, because every chance Oscar gets, he sneaks in and curls up beside the hound when he is sleeping.
The dog is not dying or anything, Oscar just likes to freak him out.
A cat with the gift of prophecy and a sick sense of humour, just what the world needed.
OK, I made that part up as well, but the part about the feline predicting someones passing is based on actual events and an actual cat.
Oscar lives in the United States where he is watched closely by doctors and residents alike – some with interest others with nervous anticipation.
I wonder if just before Oscar passes, a resident will curl up next to him.
There was a story a while back about a cat that could predict when someone was going to pass to the great beyond.
The cat was a resident of a nursing home and would cuddle next to someone during their last hours on this earth.
It was also the most feared animal that ever walked the planet.
How would you like to be taking a little snooze and look down to see the furball of death cuddled up next to you? That alone would probably induce a fatal heart attack leading to the kitty prophecy coming true.
It would seem Oscar the cat, a.k.a. The Furry Grim Reaper, made 50 correct calls over the span of five years.
Dr. David Dosa was so amazed with the cat, he wrote a book about Oscar.
I think the book is called 'Keep that damn cat away from me,' or something like that anyway.
According to the news report, 'The feline's bizarre talent astounds Dosa, but he finds Oscar's real worth in his fierce insistence on being present when others turn away from life's most uncomfortable topic: death.'
"People actually were taking great comfort in this idea, that this animal was there and might be there when their loved ones eventually pass," Dosa said. "He was there when they couldn't be."
That sounds pretty good actually, unless of course you are a cat hater, then it is probably not the best way to say farewell to these earthly shackles.
It also might not be the best plan for people who are allergic to cats either, but it is still a pretty amazing ability.
So how does Oscar do it?
Beats the hell outta me.
The good doctor doesn't know why either. All he can says is Oscar does it with amazing accuracy. He suspects Oscar might be able to smell the dying cells or something, but cannot prove how Oscar does what he does.
Somehow the cat just knows when someone is about to go on the final journey and is so accurate, staff notify family members when they see Oscar cuddle down with someone.
Dosa said most people are too sick to even know the cat is there, but still, laying in bed and looking up to see the gray and white tabby walk in your room...Well let's just say you might want to cancel your dinner plans.
Dosa said they placed Oscar in the bed of a patient who was gravely ill, but the feline took off and refused to stay.
Upon seeing the commotion the patient sat up and blurted, “Get away from me, I was just napping. Doesn't anyone around here know how to take a pulse?”
OK, I made that part up, but according to Dosa the patient rallied for a few days before passing, and yes, Oscar did return to be with the person for their last few hours on this earth.
While the residents and their families may be enjoying the efforts of Oscar the death-predicting cat, there is one resident who does not: the dog, because every chance Oscar gets, he sneaks in and curls up beside the hound when he is sleeping.
The dog is not dying or anything, Oscar just likes to freak him out.
A cat with the gift of prophecy and a sick sense of humour, just what the world needed.
OK, I made that part up as well, but the part about the feline predicting someones passing is based on actual events and an actual cat.
Oscar lives in the United States where he is watched closely by doctors and residents alike – some with interest others with nervous anticipation.
I wonder if just before Oscar passes, a resident will curl up next to him.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
It's luge time
By DARREN HANDSCHUH
The Olympics are the height of athletic achievement, and this year the best in the world will be right here in good old British Columbia to compete in a variety of events that take place on various forms of frozen water.
Most Olympic events have historical and traditional aspects to them and while some of them are newer, they are still popular enough to make it to the global competition.
However, in both the summer and winter events there are a couple of odd ducks floating around I do not understand.
The summer competitions make sense, except for one – the pommel horse, which is the strangest event in the Olympics and a sport I have mentioned in the past. Big, strong men swinging around by their arms on top of a “horse” is an odd sport indeed and I often wonder how someone decides they want to dedicate their lives to such an obscure event.
Javelin, pole vault and discus throw are also some out-of-the-norm sports, but at least I can sort of see the historical connection, such as the javelin being bred out of throwing spears for hunting or warfare.
That's an easy one.
The pole vault could have been used by soldiers to breach a wall and overthrow the evil king. The discus could be used as a weapon I suppose, a cumbersome, inaccurate, short-distance weapon, but still there is some historical merit to it, maybe.
But the pommel horse is just plain weird and I don't get it.
When it comes to the Winter Games, hockey is king (and queen considering how kick ass our women's hockey team is) so there is no need to explain any sort of value to the event. It is simply the greatest game ever and deserves to be in the Olympics. Is football in the Olympics no? Is baseball? Well, yes, but I find it so boring I can't watch for more than two minutes before my brain goes numb so I won't count it.
One of the somewhat stranger winter competitions is the luge. When I was a kid we called it sledding, so I suppose that is where it's historic sporting value comes from. Kids have always raced each other down the hill and the luge is an extension of that to the tenth degree. Besides, it takes a set to go ripping down an icy tube at 100-plus km/h, but what baffles me is the two-man luge.
Not even once as a kid did I say to my buddy, “Hey man, why don't I lay on my back on this sled and you can lay on top of me and will go down the hill real fast. Then when we are done, we can pick out curtains together.”
How did the two-man luge come to be? If you know, please tell me because I don't get it.
I also noticed there is not a two-woman luge for some reason, and unlike the women's ski jumping debate, I have not heard of any ladies complaining they want to lay on top of each other wearing spandex unitards while blasting down a the tube of doom at a gazillion miles an hour.
The other popular sliding sport is the bobsleigh. They are simply a kid's sled on steroids and the more people you pack into one, the faster you go.
It is like loading up a toboggan, except in the case of the toboggan you always made sure the fat kid sat at the front where he could benefit everyone in a number of ways. He can block the snow from blasting those in back and he can be used as an air bag of sorts in the event of a rapid deceleration of the snow craft due to contact with an immovable object.
He should also be in front so he does not squish everyone should the rapid deceleration result in the accordion effect, which is where four people are forced to fit in a space typically large enough for two.
You not only have fun, but you learn about planning ahead and physics all at the same time.
The Olympics are the height of athletic achievement, and this year the best in the world will be right here in good old British Columbia to compete in a variety of events that take place on various forms of frozen water.
Most Olympic events have historical and traditional aspects to them and while some of them are newer, they are still popular enough to make it to the global competition.
However, in both the summer and winter events there are a couple of odd ducks floating around I do not understand.
The summer competitions make sense, except for one – the pommel horse, which is the strangest event in the Olympics and a sport I have mentioned in the past. Big, strong men swinging around by their arms on top of a “horse” is an odd sport indeed and I often wonder how someone decides they want to dedicate their lives to such an obscure event.
Javelin, pole vault and discus throw are also some out-of-the-norm sports, but at least I can sort of see the historical connection, such as the javelin being bred out of throwing spears for hunting or warfare.
That's an easy one.
The pole vault could have been used by soldiers to breach a wall and overthrow the evil king. The discus could be used as a weapon I suppose, a cumbersome, inaccurate, short-distance weapon, but still there is some historical merit to it, maybe.
But the pommel horse is just plain weird and I don't get it.
When it comes to the Winter Games, hockey is king (and queen considering how kick ass our women's hockey team is) so there is no need to explain any sort of value to the event. It is simply the greatest game ever and deserves to be in the Olympics. Is football in the Olympics no? Is baseball? Well, yes, but I find it so boring I can't watch for more than two minutes before my brain goes numb so I won't count it.
One of the somewhat stranger winter competitions is the luge. When I was a kid we called it sledding, so I suppose that is where it's historic sporting value comes from. Kids have always raced each other down the hill and the luge is an extension of that to the tenth degree. Besides, it takes a set to go ripping down an icy tube at 100-plus km/h, but what baffles me is the two-man luge.
Not even once as a kid did I say to my buddy, “Hey man, why don't I lay on my back on this sled and you can lay on top of me and will go down the hill real fast. Then when we are done, we can pick out curtains together.”
How did the two-man luge come to be? If you know, please tell me because I don't get it.
I also noticed there is not a two-woman luge for some reason, and unlike the women's ski jumping debate, I have not heard of any ladies complaining they want to lay on top of each other wearing spandex unitards while blasting down a the tube of doom at a gazillion miles an hour.
The other popular sliding sport is the bobsleigh. They are simply a kid's sled on steroids and the more people you pack into one, the faster you go.
It is like loading up a toboggan, except in the case of the toboggan you always made sure the fat kid sat at the front where he could benefit everyone in a number of ways. He can block the snow from blasting those in back and he can be used as an air bag of sorts in the event of a rapid deceleration of the snow craft due to contact with an immovable object.
He should also be in front so he does not squish everyone should the rapid deceleration result in the accordion effect, which is where four people are forced to fit in a space typically large enough for two.
You not only have fun, but you learn about planning ahead and physics all at the same time.
Friday, January 29, 2010
Game on
BY DARREN HANDSCHUH
“OK, dad it's simple. All you have to do is hit the A button, while holding down the R2 button and moving the left joystick up and the right joystick to the left while pressing the B button. See, piece of cake.”
Yeah, real simple. He explained the move to me a couple of times, but my techno-challenged, middle-aged brain just could not grasp the concept of moving the good guy up and over the wall while shooting a bad guy hiding behind a tree.
I tried several times, but each time the good guy ended up getting stuck while the bad guy unloaded enough ammo at me to kill a herd of wild water buffalo.
Gandhi would have had an easier time bench pressing Volkswagen Beetle than I did trying to clear that level.
I had video games when I was Junior's age, but they weren't quite as complicated as the hyper-gig adventures of today.
When I was his age, Pacman was all the rage.
You remember him - chubby little yellow guy with a big head, no arms or legs and a serious eating disorder.
Everyone was playing Pacman.
Pac would run around the maze gobbling up all the little dots before munching on one of those big flashing dots that turned those ghost things into edible treats that Pac would chow down on for points. To make the game more challenging, the higher the level, the faster the bad guys would move. Ooooooh.
But the man in yellow was just the beginning. Soon the local arcade was crammed full of machines like Defender, Robotron, Asteroids and other games that made a series of stupid noises that passed for sound effects.
Ms. Pacman made the scene and, as games got a little more complex, Donkey Kong arrived. This game required the player to not only move up, down, back and forth, but you had to jump over and climb things things as well. Very challenging stuff.
But it wasn't until Super Mario Bros hit the block that gaming went mainstream. That little Italian with the big nose and moustache could be found pretty much every where as Mario Mania swept the land.
Those games were so physically large, it took two people just to move them. Now, you can get about a dozen of them in a wristwatch.
But, way back then, it was cutting edge stuff and with each new game we were amazing at how stunning the graphics were, or how intense the game play was. Oh, to be young again.
Today, youths have to multi-task and think to a much more complicated degree. They have some very complex electronics to handle, many of which have more technological capabilities and raw power than the Apollo space crafts.
But teens of today handle the electronic goodies with such ease and familiarity it makes a somewhat balding guy like myself look like a Pacman throwback, which I suppose I am.
Pacman was some pretty basic stuff: you had a single controller and you used to move the little guy up-down-left-right. Doesn't get much more basic than that.
Now, even a “simple” modern game requires three hands and a degree in advanced computing just to sign in.
I can watch Junior burn through a game while listening to music on his iPod and talking to someone on the laptop - all at the same time.
I can barely clear a level on its simplest setting if I give it all of my concentration.
But, that is pretty much how my dad reacted to Pacman, so I wonder what kind of gizmos my grandchildren will be playing with.
Whatever they are, I am pretty sure I am already too old for it.
“OK, dad it's simple. All you have to do is hit the A button, while holding down the R2 button and moving the left joystick up and the right joystick to the left while pressing the B button. See, piece of cake.”
Yeah, real simple. He explained the move to me a couple of times, but my techno-challenged, middle-aged brain just could not grasp the concept of moving the good guy up and over the wall while shooting a bad guy hiding behind a tree.
I tried several times, but each time the good guy ended up getting stuck while the bad guy unloaded enough ammo at me to kill a herd of wild water buffalo.
Gandhi would have had an easier time bench pressing Volkswagen Beetle than I did trying to clear that level.
I had video games when I was Junior's age, but they weren't quite as complicated as the hyper-gig adventures of today.
When I was his age, Pacman was all the rage.
You remember him - chubby little yellow guy with a big head, no arms or legs and a serious eating disorder.
Everyone was playing Pacman.
Pac would run around the maze gobbling up all the little dots before munching on one of those big flashing dots that turned those ghost things into edible treats that Pac would chow down on for points. To make the game more challenging, the higher the level, the faster the bad guys would move. Ooooooh.
But the man in yellow was just the beginning. Soon the local arcade was crammed full of machines like Defender, Robotron, Asteroids and other games that made a series of stupid noises that passed for sound effects.
Ms. Pacman made the scene and, as games got a little more complex, Donkey Kong arrived. This game required the player to not only move up, down, back and forth, but you had to jump over and climb things things as well. Very challenging stuff.
But it wasn't until Super Mario Bros hit the block that gaming went mainstream. That little Italian with the big nose and moustache could be found pretty much every where as Mario Mania swept the land.
Those games were so physically large, it took two people just to move them. Now, you can get about a dozen of them in a wristwatch.
But, way back then, it was cutting edge stuff and with each new game we were amazing at how stunning the graphics were, or how intense the game play was. Oh, to be young again.
Today, youths have to multi-task and think to a much more complicated degree. They have some very complex electronics to handle, many of which have more technological capabilities and raw power than the Apollo space crafts.
But teens of today handle the electronic goodies with such ease and familiarity it makes a somewhat balding guy like myself look like a Pacman throwback, which I suppose I am.
Pacman was some pretty basic stuff: you had a single controller and you used to move the little guy up-down-left-right. Doesn't get much more basic than that.
Now, even a “simple” modern game requires three hands and a degree in advanced computing just to sign in.
I can watch Junior burn through a game while listening to music on his iPod and talking to someone on the laptop - all at the same time.
I can barely clear a level on its simplest setting if I give it all of my concentration.
But, that is pretty much how my dad reacted to Pacman, so I wonder what kind of gizmos my grandchildren will be playing with.
Whatever they are, I am pretty sure I am already too old for it.
Friday, January 22, 2010
Maybe flabby aint so bad
By DARREN HANDSCHUH
A co-worker, who shall remain nameless, approached my desk the other day and leaned towards me to make a friendly comment about another co-worker - not in a malicious way, but as more of an observance than anything else.
Co-worker No. 1 said it is good co-worker No. 2 is going to the gym and he did so while patting his flat stomach as an indication No. 2 needed to work on that particular area of his physique.
No. 1 then looked at my somewhat enhanced mid section and jokingly asked if I would be signing up for the gym any time soon.
Naturally, I jumped up and stabbed him in the throat with a pen. I mean, who wouldn't?
OK, I did not actually stab him, because I knew he was right. I have gotten rather soft in the middle and the lower areas and the arms, chest, shoulders...oh hell, just pick a body part.
I wonder if it is possible to have a flabby liver.
Anyway, the fact is I exercise at least five days a week, so I poked my belly and found underneath the outer layer of flab were rock-hard muscles.
OK, maybe not rock hard, but hard. OK, more like hard-ish. OK, I know there has to be muscles under there somewhere or I would not be able move.
The state of my girth is not a news flash to me, but thanks No. 1 for pointing it out. It is always good to know your co-workers care enough about your well being to point out something that could lead to me being at risk of health problems.
What he didn't realize is it also put him at risk of getting stabbed in the throat with a pen, that is assuming I could have moved my flabby arms fast enough to actually achieve the act of vengeance.
My doctor told me I need to lose 30 pounds – so I took immediate action and got a new doctor.
Thirty pounds is twice as much as my dog weighs and he is an entire creature.
At first I thought, “No problem, I will just wear lighter clothes” that should be good for a couple of pounds. Perhaps more cotton...
But even if you are planning to wear crepe paper, clothes really won't make a difference.
A different tact was taken when I found really baggy clothes made me look thinner. I was still the same weight, but I looked a little better. Well, not really, but I was able to fool myself for a little while anyway.
Seeing as how the baggy-clothes-method-of-looking-thin was not paying off, I bought a treadmill and I actually use it on a regular basis.
I have also taken up hiking in area hills with the dog at least once a week. I have not lost any weight, but the hound is sure looking buff. Mind you, he runs 10 kilometres for every 50 metres I walk.
Despite a couple of years of this fitness regime, not much has changed.
I still look like I am pregnant with twins as my belly bulge has remained fairly constant.
I know it is going to take more than exercise to get trim, it will mean tackling my addiction. You see, I am an addict, a candy addict. I just can't leave the goodies alone.
I know those sugar-laden temptresses are to blame for the bulging belly, but I just can't stop myself.
I have had a sweet tooth my entire life (and it is the only tooth that has never had a cavity) so at 40 something, I am finding it a challenge to no longer indulge in the tasty treats.
When I was younger, I could eat as much as I wanted of whatever I wanted anytime I wanted. Now, just walking past a cookie adds a pound to my protruding paunch.
They have patches to help people quit smoking, I wonder if you can get one to help you stop eating junk food. If not, there should be.
A co-worker, who shall remain nameless, approached my desk the other day and leaned towards me to make a friendly comment about another co-worker - not in a malicious way, but as more of an observance than anything else.
Co-worker No. 1 said it is good co-worker No. 2 is going to the gym and he did so while patting his flat stomach as an indication No. 2 needed to work on that particular area of his physique.
No. 1 then looked at my somewhat enhanced mid section and jokingly asked if I would be signing up for the gym any time soon.
Naturally, I jumped up and stabbed him in the throat with a pen. I mean, who wouldn't?
OK, I did not actually stab him, because I knew he was right. I have gotten rather soft in the middle and the lower areas and the arms, chest, shoulders...oh hell, just pick a body part.
I wonder if it is possible to have a flabby liver.
Anyway, the fact is I exercise at least five days a week, so I poked my belly and found underneath the outer layer of flab were rock-hard muscles.
OK, maybe not rock hard, but hard. OK, more like hard-ish. OK, I know there has to be muscles under there somewhere or I would not be able move.
The state of my girth is not a news flash to me, but thanks No. 1 for pointing it out. It is always good to know your co-workers care enough about your well being to point out something that could lead to me being at risk of health problems.
What he didn't realize is it also put him at risk of getting stabbed in the throat with a pen, that is assuming I could have moved my flabby arms fast enough to actually achieve the act of vengeance.
My doctor told me I need to lose 30 pounds – so I took immediate action and got a new doctor.
Thirty pounds is twice as much as my dog weighs and he is an entire creature.
At first I thought, “No problem, I will just wear lighter clothes” that should be good for a couple of pounds. Perhaps more cotton...
But even if you are planning to wear crepe paper, clothes really won't make a difference.
A different tact was taken when I found really baggy clothes made me look thinner. I was still the same weight, but I looked a little better. Well, not really, but I was able to fool myself for a little while anyway.
Seeing as how the baggy-clothes-method-of-looking-thin was not paying off, I bought a treadmill and I actually use it on a regular basis.
I have also taken up hiking in area hills with the dog at least once a week. I have not lost any weight, but the hound is sure looking buff. Mind you, he runs 10 kilometres for every 50 metres I walk.
Despite a couple of years of this fitness regime, not much has changed.
I still look like I am pregnant with twins as my belly bulge has remained fairly constant.
I know it is going to take more than exercise to get trim, it will mean tackling my addiction. You see, I am an addict, a candy addict. I just can't leave the goodies alone.
I know those sugar-laden temptresses are to blame for the bulging belly, but I just can't stop myself.
I have had a sweet tooth my entire life (and it is the only tooth that has never had a cavity) so at 40 something, I am finding it a challenge to no longer indulge in the tasty treats.
When I was younger, I could eat as much as I wanted of whatever I wanted anytime I wanted. Now, just walking past a cookie adds a pound to my protruding paunch.
They have patches to help people quit smoking, I wonder if you can get one to help you stop eating junk food. If not, there should be.
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