Dec 21, 2021
I was thinking today about something that really bugs me: Hulk Hogan. As far back as my memory goes, the Hulk has been the biggest blowhard going. Loud, annoying and obnoxious. But when he retired from wrestling, we were finally spared his “Look at me, I’m the greatest!!” act.
(Side note: You were never the greatest, Hulk. That honour went to Cassius Clay. And even though he, too, was also a blowhard when he declared, “I am the greatest!”, at least with him, you knew it was true).
And then along came his reality TV show which, thank God, never appeared on any of the channels I get, so it caused me only collateral suffering. For the most part, I could ignore him, accidental channel surfing into a Hollywood gossip ‘news’ program or American Gladiators notwithstanding.
But now this thing with his son in jail for damn near killing his friend in an illegal street racing accident, it’s just too much for the rational human mind to comprehend. For those of you fortunate enough to have avoided all the hoopla thus far, here’s a quick recap:
Hulk Hogan’s son, Nick, was driving a car recklessly and at high speeds in Florida last August, wrapped the car around a tree, his friend John (also in the car) was seriously injured and will likely spend the rest of his life in a nursing home, Nick is a minor but was tried as an adult on multiple charges and sent to jail for eight months (did I mention all the beer minor Nick bought just prior to the accident?), he is placed in solitary confinement because he is a minor, then phones mommy and daddy to complain about jail and encourage Daddy Hulk to work out a reality TV deal for him once he gets out of jail, but tapes of that phone call are released by the sheriff, so Nick is now suing the sheriff, while his Mommy thinks his application for early release from jail (after two whole weeks!) in favour of house arrest won’t help him to curb his wild ways, Oh yeah, did I mention his Mommy has filed for divorce from Daddy Hulk, allegedly to split the family assets and protect them from the civil suit brought by John’s parents (remember John, the former friend and now living vegetable?), while Hulk is having to endure a tirade of insults from his estranged wife about being a bad husband and horrible father.
Did you get all that? Are you wondering about how these people managed to get headline status in every news organization this side of Jupiter or are you looking back to where I wrote that Nick got eight months jail time for ruining someone else’s life? Yeah, both sides of that particular coin are pretty horrid to contemplate.
And indeed, I was going to contemplate this mystery of how our society has became so shallow and self-serving, as perceived through the exploratory lens of people like the Hogan Family, when I opened the front door and there it was: a beautiful summer day. Warm sun, cool breeze, green trees. Birds singing, kids laughing, grass growing.
The Hogans and their cloak of misery fell away like dried mud from the side of a newly washed car. Why spend all that time reflecting on personalities that have all the appeal of mouldy, roach-covered bologna when I could sit on the porch and watch real people go by?
And that’s where we really go wrong. We give these people a soapbox, and then, when it’s not tall enough for them to reach out to everybody, we mount a satellite dish on the soapbox so that others may also watch the roaches devour the bologna. (Uh, did I mention that the roaches are celebrities and the bologna could be, like, our souls? Oh, ok, my bad. Metaphor is not really my strong suit some days).
So, on days like these we should simply turn off the TV, avoid the internet, sit on that damn soapbox and enjoy the day. Nothing is more important than a life well lived. And living it through the eyes and actions of people like the Hogans will only leave us bitter and empty.
Dec 21, 2021
arts culture amidst an ocean of western culture. Balerinas and lyrical dancers surrounded by cowboys, rodeo queens and pick-up trucks. Well, I find that I am also living on another kind of island, although one which is diametrically opposed to the cultural island. In this case, the island is bereft of what those people in the surrounding ocean take for granted.
I’ll give you a hint as to what it is. What is the first thing that pops into your mind when you read the following sentence?
In a few hours, Switzerland plays Czechoslovakia.
If you are like most people in North America, your response is probably, “Say what?” If, however, you live in any other country in the world, your response would most certainly be, “Yes! About time, too!”
I’m referring to the thing many people will devote their lives to for the next 22 days. The one thing that will unite disparate people from countries all over the globe. The one thing that transcends nationality, language, culture, religion, economic status, skin color or age.
Yes indeed, I’m talking about soccer. Today is the opening day of Euro2008, the European soccer championships.
OK, for those of you who haven’t closed your browser in disgust or quickly jumped to another web site, let me tell you why North America is an island. It’s because Canada and the U.S.A. together form the only region on the planet where soccer is not king. In every other country, principality, autonomous region or island nation on this planet of ours, soccer is what people do.
The national consciousness of some countries may not live and die with the fortunes of its soccer teams the way it does in places like Brazil, England, Italy, Korea, Nigeria and Japan. But there are very few places in this world where you can’t (quite literally) walk into the middle of an empty field, pull a soccer ball from your bag and immediately be surrounded with people all set to pick teams and begin a game.
For some reason Canada and the US of A just do not fit into that mold. Even in the years after the US hosted the World Cup back in 1994, there wasn’t much of a surge of interest in soccer in North America.
And that is just strange. It’s not as if there isn’t a national program in either country. In the most recent world rankings compiled by FIFA (the governing body of international soccer), the U.S.A. is in 21st place while Canada is in 60th. And our kids do play soccer; in fact, there are more kids playing soccer in North America than are playing Little League baseball.
Some day I’ll get into this question in greater detail, but the openng whistle is about to get the game started. Even better, in a future blog I’ll throw out my ideas as to why soccer is a better sport than the Big 3 sports in North America: baseball, basketball and football. Somehow I think there will be or or two readers who will disagree with me.
Dec 21, 2021
Each year, with Christmas on the horizon, millions of people will venture forth to pick the family Christmas tree. And most of them will have no idea what they are doing.
On the whole they are rather fine people. But they share a common affliction: the inability to think clearly when the calendar turns to December. So to those of you who feel faint and nauseous at the thought of what is to come, I offer this simple guide to picking a truly perfect Christmas tree.
The first consideration has to be your companions in this quest. Who are they and what kind of damage are they capable of?
Beware the middle-aged office worker who, with tree cutting permit in hand, charges off in the family station wagon, the back of which is full of axes and saws. He will discover that these implements are just as dull as they were last year and just as incapable of cutting a tree. The saw will skip off the bark and shred his new suede gloves. The axe will actually cut that bark, but go no deeper. The only real effect the axe will have is on its user, who will spend the next several days in bed suffering from intense lower back pain.
The very clumsy lumberjacks will return home via the hospital, astonished by the sheer number of stitches.
The most dangerous of these men is doubtless the one who, tired of the physical exertion of years past, will haul out his chainsaw, remove the price tag and fire it up. You must run from these men; they are the principal reason why there are so many surgeons in this country.
Another tree-hunting companion to avoid is the matron in the faux-fur leopard skin coat, who hunts for trees in the urban environment. She will either dismiss an entire lot of trees before you have even parked the car or spend all morning walking around the same small lot. Your arms will tire from shifting the trees, holding them upright or turning them around, hour after agonizing hour. Her demands to bang the trunk repeatedly on the ground to check for dry needles will screech in your ears. These tree hunting expeditions can last several days and cover entire cities. This woman is looking not so much for a tree as she is for the Holy Grail.
The last companions to avoid are your wife and children. They are never happy, no matter which tree you choose. It will either be too tall, too short, too flat, or the wrong shade of green. The needles will be too pointy or too blunt, the trunk too skinny or covered in sticky sap. Frustration will build and, by the end of the day you will return home empty-handed and hating each other.
Each Christmas tree lot is different and you must be aware of the tricks of the trade. Avoid those lots which are poorly lit. The trees are hidden in the gloom for a very good reason: they are squat ugly and useful only as wood chips in gardens. If the owner of the lot is a young man dressed in greasy overalls who keeps glancing at his watch, you will no doubt be able to find a good bargain. However, the next day you will also find that your tree is completely naked and that the tree lot has mysteriously vanished.
If the entrance to the lot is staffed by fetching young elves in red-and-white miniskirts who offer you a choice of wines, stop and consider this: does your credit card have a limit?
Once having chosen an affordable and trustworthy lot, you must approach each tree carefully, with a keen eye and a sharp measure of cynicism. Remember that trees are like women; they are none of them created equal. Some are good, some are not, and a very few are truly fine. Your goal is to find one which combines graceful form with a noble presence, all without costing you a bundle.
Make sure that the tree is relatively fresh, with its needles firmly attached to even the tiniest branch. There is nothing more disheartening than to awaken one morning and find that the cat cannot extract itself from under the pile of newly fallen needles.
And try to find a tree that has only one bad section, which can be turned to the wall and thus, hidden from sight. Let your visitors believe you have a perfect tree. Christmas is nothing if not a season for subtle deceptions.
Now that you understand what is involved in finding a Christmas tree, choosing the perfect one is an easy matter. Go to the nearest tree lot and go alone. Spend no more than fifteen minutes and pick the third tree that catches your eye. Then return home, and place it carefully but firmly into the tree stand. Ignore the protests from your wife and children about the lack of proper procedures and settle yourself into a comfortable chair.
Within an hour, your family will have covered the tree with so many blinking lights, tacky baubles and shiny tinsel that it will be difficult to tell if they are decorating a tree or a floor lamp.
Then you can relax. The worst part of Christmas is now over.
Dec 21, 2021
All of the sudden I am awake, staring at the ceiling. A garbled voice off in the distance yells something about “only fifteen days left”. I look at my smartphone and the numbers read 9:18. Slept in again. No wonder I feel so good.
What the heck. I hop out of bed, slip into some clothes, and fly down the stairs. As usual, everyone is crowded into the kitchen. Mom is puzzling over another mostly empty crossword and Suzie is complaining about her horoscope. Dad is slouched across two chairs, clinging to a cup of coffee and staring very intently at nothing. His skin is grey and damp. Geez, he looks bad. But nobody seems to notice. Least of all Michael, who is buried in the sports pages, tallying up yet another night of losing wagers.
The cigarette smoke is a thick fog hanging over the room. And, of course, the coffee pot is empty; no one has bothered to refill it. Then it hits me: last night was the company Christmas Party; the annual “Get Drunk and Grope the Secretary” bash. The old man is hungover. Way over.
Hey, that’s right, I forgot. It’s the Christmas season. That’s what the radio was blaring about. Only fifteen days left to achieve redemption by selling your soul to buy presents for people you really don’t care about.
While running the water for coffee I ask if anyone wants to go Christmas shopping. Hey, I say, they’re supposed to have wandering carollers at the mall and a brass band is gonna play music at noon in the food court. Whaddya say?
They all mumble incoherently and resume reading their papers. Everyone except Dad. His head is now on the table and his coffee is dripping onto the floor. Nobody notices.
The dog comes into the kitchen and points towards the living room. I look in that direction and notice, for the first time, the Christmas tree. Hey, I say, how come you guys put up the tree without telling me? More mumbling.
I wander over to see the decorations. The tinsel looks nice but half the lights are burnt out. And there are only seven hanging ornaments. And the tree is leaning to one side, like a sinking ship. Then I figure maybe the window side is prettier, to impress the neighbours. When I look I find that all of the branches have been cut off. Hey, I say, what gives? What happened to the tree?
Michael looks up from where he is putting unlit cigarettes into Dad’s ears. “Stop whining,” he says, “we had to trim that side to leave space for all the catalogues. Besides, there were hardly any branches there anyway.”
The dog raises its leg to the lowest branch, and glances up as if to say, “Hey, don’t look at me. They’re your family”.
Mom puts aside her crossword and declares that this year we can’t afford a turkey with all the trimmings. Instead, she is going to sculpt a turkey-shape out of canned ham and serve it with a nice green salad. Suzie jumps up and cries, “You can’t do that. My new boyfriend will be coming over with his two friends, the ones who are in drug rehab, it’s all been decided and I can’t un-invite them now”.
Dad’s head rises off the table, cigarettes sticking out from his nostrils. He solemnly declares, “This is the winter of our discontent. And here are my credit cards to prove it.” We all rush forward to grab for the coveted cards.
At that moment footsteps clomp on the porch, followed by a tiny clink as the mail slot rises. Everybody stops and looks anxiously at the front door, holding our breath. Then, with a sickening roar, catalogues start to vomit through the mail slot, spewing all over the floor. The torrent becomes an avalanche as flyers from Walmart and Best Buy stream into the living room. The bright colours of Ikea and Toys-Are-Us eddy and swirl into corners as the cascade of paper flows across the room.
As the torrent fades to a trickle, Mom and Suzie and Michael dance across the kitchen, arms waving in the air. They are singing a happy song, like Old World peasants after a bountiful harvest. They leap onto the pile of catalogues, squealing in delight. Even Dad manages to crawl over and roll onto the mound, rubbing his body all over the colourful flyers.
A different noise catches my ear and draws me towards the front window. I wade past the others to where I can see our run-down, life-sized nativity scene in the front yard. There is a commotion beside the fake barn-yard; the three wise men are arguing over who gets to hold the frankincense this year. One of them wallops the other in the head with the bag of myrrh. A bench clearing brawl ensues, with Santa taking on Joseph and the Little Drummer Boy threatening Mary with his drumsticks. All of the manger animals stampede onto the street.
Then I woke up.
I must have laid there for a good ten minutes, staring wildly at the ceiling. I was afraid to move. Hell, I was afraid to breathe. Slowly, I sat up and looked cautiously around. Everything seemed OK. I almost wet my pyjamas when the radio suddenly burst into life. But it was playing a quiet, choral version of Silent Night, which did wonders to restore my ragged mind.
The scent of warm cinnamon and butter drifted past my nose. I eased out of bed and slid quietly down the stairs, afraid of what I might find. But I saw that the kitchen was sunny and bustling with happy voices. A beautifully decorated tree glowed with light in the corner of the living room.
My mother saw me and placed a large mug of coffee in my hands just as Suzie pulled a huge pan of cinnamon buns out of the oven. My father was opening a bottle of Irish Cream whisky, a traditional treat with morning coffee.
The next hour was pure delight, as food was savoured and plans were made. Suzie and Michael asked me to go carolling with them to a neighbor’s house. Mom said I could help her and Dad with some Christmas baking. I felt so lucky to have such a great family.
As the dishes were being cleared, Michael put on a new CD. A favourite old Christmas carol sang its first notes, soft and easy. The music gained volume and power, building to a rousing chorus. Then it started to shriek and screech. It became louder and louder, until the screaming was everywhere. My ears were vibrating as the noise shredded the air. When it pierced the very centre of my brain I clamped hands over my ears and started to scream.
And then I woke up.
I lay there for a good ten minutes, staring at the ceiling, confused. The shrieking noise persisted. Off to one side, a garbled voice was yelling something about “only fifteen days left.”
Slowly, I sat up and looked cautiously around. Nothing seemed right, it was all a little odd. The smell of old cigarettes was nauseating.
Then I heard my mom’s voice, grating at my father. “Well, just what the hell did you expect, Frank, drinking all that gin?” This was followed by Suzie’s whining about how this year better be good since last years’ Christmas gifts really sucked the big one. Michael yelled at the dog, told it to get away from the tree.
Suddenly, it struck me. I was horrified. I lifted my arm and started to pinch it, easy at first, then madly, as hard as I could. Tried the other arm. No good, it wasn’t working. Damn.
I fell back on the pillow and stared at the ceiling. Damn. Here we go again; another Christmas in paradise.
Dec 21, 2021
I love buffets. I love standing before that great, long trough of food, knowing that the choices before me are mine to make and that I will go away a happy man.
But I have one small problem: I just do not know what to do with those tiny ears of miniature corn. Those little yellow things found in every buffet the world over. And always in the same position; about halfway down the salad bar. They seem out of place, like an overflowing raft of vegetable refugees riding on a sea of crushed ice.
I am never sure if they are meant to be eaten or are considered purely decorative, like those hardened gourds in formal place settings. Since buffet connoisseurs usually have a token few on their plate I figure they must be edible. But have you ever tried to eat one?
First off, they sag. Held up by one end they droop depressingly downwards, as if they don’t have the energy to care anymore. And that sickly yellow color. Patients suffering from malarial fever have better color in their cheeks than this.
Trying to hold onto them is almost impossible. Grab it with one hand and you risk squirting it onto your neighbor’s lap. Using two hands looks more than a little foolish.
I once tried cutting off the pointed tip and impaling each blunt end onto a fork. But a woman seated across the room said that when I held the contraption up to my mouth, it appeared as if there were antennae sticking out of my ears.
And once you have a handle on them, how are they supposed to be eaten? Do you go round and round, or end to end? This is probably a moot point since humans did not evolve the correct dental pattern to eat such things. Rodents and mice are well ahead of the human race on this one.
But let’s say your teeth are especially nimble and you manage to extract a few microscopic kernels, and the tiny cob is now sitting all alone in the middle of your plate. What do you do with it? Slide it under a napkin? Hide it in a nearby planter? A child once told me that even the cobs are edible but that cannot possibly be true. Besides, they have the consistency of week-old lettuce.
Maybe they should be regarded in the same way as caviar: a fine delicacy which, despite its snob appeal, is somewhat repulsive if you think about it too much. If these corns are a delicacy, should I be impressed? What if the Queen came to visit: should I offer her both the Russian beluga caviar and the miniature corns, or skip the caviar?
Concerns like these have a nasty habit of ruining an appetite. So, like any good man I have found that the solution to these questions is to simply disregard them. You put on the blinders, glide right past the entire salad bar and head for heart of the buffet.
At this point I usually spot the mountain of deep fried prawns and become, once again, a happy man. Even if the jumbo prawns are in reality, just miniature lobsters.
Dec 21, 2021
There is an uncomfortable trend occurring in the field of environmental science these days; it’s the tendency of university researchers and scientific organizations to use volunteer field researchers to help collect data for their research projects.
Now you may wonder why this trend would be important to anybody outside of academia, but the rise in the use of amateur “citizen scientists” has a definite downside for everyone.
First off, I must be clear on one point: the work of citizen scientists does indeed have a place within the scientific community. There are many worthwhile projects that would not be done or would be unable to generate enough good information were it not for the efforts of a dedicated network of citizen scientists.
An example of this is Project FeederWatch, which is run by Cornell University in Ithaca, New York. These citizen scientists record which bird species are coming to their bird feeders during the winter. By combining the observations of thousands of feeder watchers across North America, scientists have been able to describe the state of bird populations across the continent with much greater accuracy than would be possible if only the much smaller number of professional wildlife biologists were allowed to work on the project.
So why is the use of volunteer field assistants on scientific projects a problem for anyone? Because these folks are now taking the place of those people who have traditionally filled the positions of field assistants and junior researchers on scientific studies. The result is far fewer opportunities for the scientists of tomorrow to gain on-the-job training today.
And with the wave of retirements in the ranks of senior scientists expected to swell as more and more Baby Boomers reach 65, the ranks of well trained and experienced junior scientists is thin indeed.
And why should this interest you? Because, these are the scientists who are responsible for monitoring the water you drink, conserving the parks you visit on vacation, and protecting the environment you live in.
Until the past decade or so, money to fund basic biological and environmental research was viewed as a low priority expense. Whenever the national economy has started to weaken, the biology jobs start to disappear. And quickly. Usually, the scientists are the first sector of the civil service which is trimmed.
Even in today’s world where environmental science is often on the front page of newspapers (eg. climate change, depletion of fish stocks, chemical pollution) well-paying biology positions are hard to come by. There is little public desire for real biology research; government departments look after the legal aspects of “protecting” the environment and consultants fill in the holes not covered by government. That leaves biological research largely in the hands of academia, which is funded through grants and other forms of government hand-outs, funding which is cut back when the economy is not doing very well.
Besides the problem of monetary cut-backs, another problem in environmental science is the nature of the field itself; it is a very cool field to be working in. What other professional endeavor can combine the allure of remote and wild places, the charisma of working with exotic animals, and the glamour that comes from a job whose best recruiting tool is the National Geographic TV special?
If you are at a dinner party and everyone compares professions, which do you think is going to generate the most interest from the others around the table: the lawyer who is a partner at a major firm, the heart surgeon, the businessman with his private jet or the guy off in the corner who just came back from doing polar bear surveys in the arctic?
Sure, there is a lot of work in biology which doesn’t fit the National Geographic mold but a lot of it does. The result is that biology oozes romance.
A few years ago I applied for two jobs: one as a soil surveyor and the other as a wildlife biologist working with migratory birds. The soil survey job had a handful of people apply; the bird biologist job was inundated with hundreds of applicants. Soil is not sexy; birds are.
So there is a real desire for people to work in the field of biology and environmental science, even as a volunteer. I know of one university professor who works with Earth Watch, an organization which matches field researchers with ordinary people who want to volunteer to work on a research project.
As the Earth Watch web site states, “As a volunteer, you might choose to band penguins in South Africa or tag endangered sea turtles on Pacific beaches. You might measure snowpack density on the front lines of climate change or map water supplies in drought-stricken northern Kenya.”
Who wouldn’t read that and think to themselves, “Here’s a way I can star in my own private National Geographic Special”?
Until society as a whole realizes that biology is a profession on the same level as the legal and medical professions, biology will get neither the financing nor the respect it truly deserves. There is nothing wrong with having enthusiastic and dedicated volunteers help with the never-ending task of answering the many questions about how our world actually works. But if we want to find concrete answers to the myriad of biological and environmental problems which are besetting our planet, we need more professional biologists and fewer dinner-party volunteers.
