Snow Shoveling In Canada

Sounding Statues, Retired Speedos, and, Oh No!, Reruns

2012-01-19T11:54:00.000-05:00

My wife and I have started packing for our 10-day Caribbean cruise. I have two medium size suitcases ready for all my needs. My wife will use the largest suitcase in the house as her carry-on. Beyond that she has decided that she may need to rent a 26-foot U-Haul truck.

Among my paltry requirements are three swimming trunks. Two of these are the baggy jams-style variety that I swore I would never wear. Even so, I will be packing my “007“ shorts, as I like to call them (after the one Sean Connery wore in Goldfinger). Unfortunately, I’ve had to retire my Speedo.

Back in Antler River, we had a house with a swimming pool and a hot tub. There isn’t room for any such extravagance in Minikin. Anyway, I used to always wear a Speedo in the pool or tub (if I wore anything at all). I have worn those baggy swim trunks in a hot tub. When the jets are on you get a bubble in your shorts that is so big it lifts your ass off the seat! Then you must push down on this gigantic mound of air and out it comes, “BALOOOP” as it breaks to the surface. Others who might be in the tub give you an annoyed look.

You explain, “It was just some air in my shorts.”
“Yeah, "air".That’s what we thought it was”, they complain.

Beans beans are good, say reports
Beans beans put "air" in your shorts
The more you "air", the better you feel
So eat beans at every meal.

As I was saying, I always wore a Speedo in our swimming pool. The first summer that we were able to enjoy our new home, we decided to see how deep the pool was. I volunteered to be the measuring stick, and so I submerged, clad in only a speedo and swim goggles, to the bottom of the pool. While standing in the deepest part, with my hand raised as high as I could get it, I couldn’t touch the surface of the water. I needed something else to extend my reach. We decided to try it again with the leaf skimmer (minus the pole). That did the trick as the skimmer broke the surface by a couple of inches. So now we just needed to measure this length.

As I stood on the surface, dripping wet, in my speedo, and with my goggles still on, I held the leaf skimmer up high and struck a Statue of Liberty-like pose. My wife now had the task of measuring me from toe to skimmer. She got to her knees with a tape measure. Just at that precise moment, the hydro meter-reader walked through the back yard gate. Unfazed, he just said hello, read the meter, and left.

It’s likely that he sees all kinds of things on his job. For all I know I may have been the third or fourth speedo-wearing, begoggled, Statue-of-Liberty-posing, leaf-skimmer-bearing, wife-on-her-knees-measuring man he had seen so far that day.

Incidentally, I believe that France initially used the Statue of Liberty as a sounding instrument to determine water depth in the Mediterranean. Once it became outdated for use in such measurements, it was given to the United States as a gift. The Americans decided to use it as a statue.

A sounding device for very deep swimming pools

My days of donning a Speedo are done. So are my days of wondering how deep a swimming pool is. The other travelers on our cruise ship can thus relax.

I really am looking forward to this cruise. We’ve never been on one before and by all accounts we should enjoy it — especially the food.

Not that I am any kind of connoisseur. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been gobbling down dinner or lunch when I suddenly look over at my wife who’s picking away at her food.

“What’s the matter?” I’ll ask.
“Don’t you think it tastes and smells kind of funny?” she says.

At this point I’m usually halfway through the meal and am stuck with the dilemma of finishing it and risking a stomach ailment, or just cutting my losses and throwing the rest of it in the garbage (I usually just finish it).

Our dog ate very much like me. She would woof down her food so fast that she couldn't have tasted it. Quite often she’d choke on it.

I remember one instance when an insurance agent called our house around dinner time. I’d already started eating and so had our dog Jessie. Jessie was really going at it as my wife answered the phone (which was in the kitchen directly over the dog’s dinner bowl).

As the insurance agent was asking my wife if I was available, Jessie was making a god-awful racket with her meal; “CHOMP CHOMP... SMACK CHOKE CHOMP... HACK HOCK... CHOMP SNARF.... COUGH... SMACK SNORF... CHOKE HORK HOCK.... CAAWWWW... CHOMP CHOMP CHOMP... HACK...”

“I’m sorry”, says my wife to the insurance agent, “He can’t come to the phone right now. He’s eating his dinner.”

I think the fellow hung up in horror. I had to set up an appointment with him sometime, but I didn’t think I was going to get him to agree to a dinner meeting.

And speaking of insurance, I think it would be a prudential choice for me to check my wife’s reactions to the food on the cruise before I dig in.

-----

The writing, editing, and research team here at Snow Shoveling In Canada will be away for the next 4 to 5 weeks for some much needed time off to recreate. And since we won't have an opportunity to compose any new legendary blog posts until after the vacation, we urge you to peruse once again these SSIC tours de force (or is it tour de forces? tour des force? whatever):

If you're interested in healthy food choices (and who isn't?), you might enjoy this post about the benefits of fruit in your diet.

Perhaps you're hoping to be a reporter for National Geographic. Then you might want to have a look at this post about a land mass peculiarity.

Oh, so you're a sports enthusiast! Read this post to learn about the latest college football bowl games.

Are you into travel? This post will help you get the most out of your next vacation to a warmer climate.

Here is a post for those who love the world of advertising and self-promotion.

Finally, for the science fiction fans there is this post about the potential dangers of a far too technologically advanced society.

Hopefully we'll have something new and fresh for you on our return (not that we've ever had anything new and fresh before. But we can always hope).

Supreme Leaders and Sagacious Sonneteers

2012-01-12T16:46:00.000-05:00

”I have bad news about the supreme leader”
“Kim Jong-il?”
“Worse. Kim Jong dead.”

- Overheard on a train near Pyongyang December 17, 2011

Here are some excerpts from a news item I recently read about the late dictator of North Korea. I’ve interjected a few comments that should help clarify things.

“At around 17:30 on December 19, 2011, hundreds of magpies appeared from nowhere and hovered over a statue of President Kim Il Sung on Changdok School campus in Mangyongdae District, clattering as if they were telling him the sad news,” state news agency KCNA reported on Monday.

Personally I’ve never been able to hear a discernable difference between good-news magpie clattering and sad-news magpie clattering. I think in this case it could have been called either way. One thing is sure, those birds better not had done what birds usually do when they hover over a statue.

KCNA reported last week that a family of bears who usually hibernate through the fierce Korean winter had been seen lamenting Kim Jong-il’s death.

“The bears, believed to be a mother and cubs, were staying on the road, crying woefully,” it said.

It’s likely these bears were roused out of their hibernation to put on a show for the North Korean propagandists and that’s why they were in such a state of woe. The crying was real, the reason was an altogether different matter.

Mythmaking for Kim Jong-un, believed to be in his late 20s, has already started. He is portrayed as the spitting image of his grandfather and has been dubbed the “genius of geniuses” in military affairs despite having no known military experience.

There’s no denying that this is the look of a genius.

By the way, is the expression spitting image or spit and image. I personally favor the latter, especially when describing these supreme leaders. But then again, I wouldn’t say they live up to any sort of image, so we’ll just leave it at spit.

Kim, who died in December aged 69 years after 17 years running the world’s most reclusive state, was reputed to be able to control the weather, as well as to have scored a miraculous 38 under par round of golf.

Controlling the weather I might believe, but shooting a 38 under par??? The magpies and bears may have been crying, but I’m sure there’s at least one Tiger who is laughing at that claim.

OK. Let’s get back down to earth. I mentioned in my last post that I joined Twitter, partially due to the fact that I have so much time on my hands. Well, I have more time than I thought. I also joined LiveJournal.

One feature I enjoy about LiveJournal is their “Writer’s Block” question of the day. Why they chose this name is anyone’s guess. It’s likely 99.9999 percent of the members of LiveJournal have no business calling themselves writers — including yours truly.

Case in point, the members were recently asked to “write a poem or share one that you like”.

Obviously you don’t have to be much of a writer to just reproduce someone else’s poetry. Most of the members chose to do just that.

This was my submission:

Here is a poem for my journal
Of things winter-like and hibernal.
I’ll start off with snow,
Then of flowers that grow.
Hmmm. The end is more spring-like and vernal.

Uh, yeah. Not my best work. But it was original and — since my ID on the site is snow_shoveler — snow suitable (ha ha. get it? snow suitable... suit... you know... snowsuit... forget it).

However, not all submissions to the daily question are total wastes of time. One clever fellow proffered this:

Hell? Really? It wouldn't be a "writer's block" if we could just pull some poetry out of our *****, would it?

It is extraordinary that we should find a work of such magnitude in this day and age, and on a site like LiveJournal no less!

Another wizardly wordsmith gave us the following:

Die in a fire you ******* ******

The asterisks are mine since this is a family blog. Regardless, how this astute fellow ever came up with this poem is beyond belief.

So let me conclude by saying that although world politics may be in disarray, the world of arts and literature is apparently in good hands. You can easily see that the aforementioned poems are works of real geniuses.

Sorry Kim Jong-un.

Introducing @snow_shoveler

2012-01-08T10:27:00.000-05:00

What wild, wacky, warm, winter weather we've witnessed!

This must be the January thaw. But aside from the storm that I wrote about in my last post, we haven't had much to thaw out from.

The welcomest sight that I ever saw
Is a December snow, with a January thaw.
The most welcome thing that I've ever seen
Is a Christmas that's white, and a New Year that's green.

Therefore, I'm still unable to chronicle any of my shoveling exploits thus far. However, I will carry on with my blog, writing about whatever comes to mind.

You know, many people have asked me, "What does it take to be a contributing writer for Snow Shoveling In Canada?"

The answer is simple: You must have the "ability" to write epic "poetry". As well, you must have an unusual sense of the usual. In addition, you must be able to spell words like ~~rhinocerous~~, ~~rhinoseros~~, ~~rinho~~, ~~rhinho~~, ~~hippopatomus~~, hippo. Finally, you must be a male fifty-something resident of Minikin Ontario with too much time on his hands.

Because of the dearth of snow on the earth, I've had time to set up a Twitter account. Of course, tweeting is easier than blogging as I've related before. That's not to say that tweeting isn't tricky. You have such a short space in which to express yourself that you often run out of room and end up with posts like these:

Yesterday I heard the funniest joke of all time. A guy walks into a bar with a meerkat on a leash and a bandicoot on his shoulder. He says "

Perhaps I haven't got the hang of this tweeting just yet. Let's try this again. A guy walks into a bar with a meerkat on a leash and a bandi

For those who are looking for prosperity and wealth beyond your wildest imagination, here is a secret that you need to know. First, you must

I've discovered the meaning of life!!! Incredible!!!! It's so obvious, so easy. Listen up world, and be enlightened. The meaning of life is

You get the picture.

Heed this advice:

If you have a craving to tweet,
Remember — keep words short and sweet.
Just write about stuff
That is trivial fluff
And you’ll join the Twitter elite.

So I'll leave you with this final tweet: When you find yourself down in the dumps and are in desperate need of a smile to brighten your day, remember these wise and wonderful words,

Holy Flying Boobies!

2012-01-05T22:34:00.000-05:00

The daybreak air was clinquant with ice crystals. On this most brumal of mornings, I could hear the frozen surface crepitate underfoot as I traversed the hiemal landscape.

I’ve been to Dictionary.com a lot these days.

Well, we have snow now! Lots of it. Streamers have been raging off Lake Huron threatening to pound poor little Minikin into white oblivion. The most recent storm was not unlike the blizzard that Good King Wenceslas and his sidekick Paige faced. You know, the one in the song that was so fierce it blew the feathers off birds:

Paige and Monarch forth they went,
forth they went together,
Through the rude wind’s wild lament,
And the bittern feathers.

I received a book for Christmas which is all about birds and bird feeders. It’s quite fascinating. For instance, did you know that the scientific name for a downy woodpecker is picoides pubescens? The picoides part means woodpecker-like while the pubescens means downy. Another bird of this genus, the grumpy old gray-haired woodpecker is known scientifically as picoides adultus.

Our bird feeders however have made for a miniature avian battleground. I haven’t seen this much fighting and pecking since Canadian Parliament was in session. And I’ve been busy filling up the damn feeder every second day to feed our famished feathered friends. Not only that, I've had to trudge through mounds of snow to please the little peckers.

Meanwhile fearless Minikinites like myself have been shoveling their little tushies off to keep driveways, walkways, and bird feeding arenas cleared. And if I don’t take it easy, I’ll have a hiemal hernia to deal with.

But like the droplets of icy lace that incessantly flutter down from the lowering skies, crazy news continues to descend upon us.

A recent item from nearby Woodstock tells the story about a wholesome 13-year-old boy who was sent home from his Catholic school for wearing a bracelet that says he adores gazongas. Actually, the bracelet says, “ I ♥ boobies”.

The bracelets are a promo for breast cancer awareness from the Keep A Breast organization.

I know when I was 13 years old, I was very much like this young shaver. I never gave a thought about female anatomy. All I was concerned with were social issues.

I remember I once wanted to wear a t-shirt to school in support of The Heart and Stroke Foundation. The shirt was emblazoned with an image of a large heart and the slogan "I have a big heart on!" But that was back in the '60s, so my idea was a little ahead of its time. The time is apparently ripe for it now. Are you listening out there you downy pubescent purveyors of charity and benevolence?

And now it is time for me to sign off; to fly away like the tufted titmice, or the red-breasted mergansers, or even — yes dear readers — the boobies.

You Can't Fool A Minikinite

2011-12-20T15:58:00.001-05:00

Gracious me! It looks like we’re going to have a green Christmas.

A lot of people in this part of the country are praying for snow so that we’ll have the traditional White Christmas. I say, if you want a White Christmas, then see the movie. I, for one, welcome the relatively novel sight of bare lawns on Christmas day. We’ll get plenty of the white stuff before winter is over, believe you me. And all those people who are whining for snow now will be griping in mid-January, “whatever happened to global warming?”

Oh little town of Minikin,
Your roads are bare and dry.
The snow’s not deep.
“Son-of-a-(bleep)”,
Snow-blower salesmen cry.

Yet in thy dark clouds cometh
The ever-blasting snow.
So never fear,
When winter’s here
We’ll see those blowers go.

Since there is nothing new to relate on the snow-shoveling front, I thought I might send out a little caveat to my readers if they should ever try to sell anything on-line.

I recently attempted to sell my car through a couple of advertising sources on the internet. Unfortunately, the only responses I’ve had thus far are from people looking for me to virtually give it to them (as a Christmas present, I suppose). Otherwise, I’ve just received emails and phone calls from scam artists. One guy sent me the following email. The bracketed interjections are mine:

...my dad will like something like this, so for his birthday i am surprising him by buying this. (If I went through with this transaction, your dad wouldn’t be the only one getting a surprise)

I would have loved to come for the inspection myself but i am mostly away, am an engineer and i work offshore most of the time, needless to say, i wont be able to come myself. (I’m guessing that you are not a grammatical engineer. Since you work offshore, I'll assume that you're an oil-rig-double-dealing-flimflam-bunko-sham engineer)

However I have a private courier agent that will represent me and come for the pick up after the payment has been made, they will handle issue of my details, transferring the name of ownership and signing of all paperwork will be done by the courier agent. (Yeah, that sounds legit. Most used car deals for vehicles under $5,000 are usually handled this way. Alternatively, an Envoy Extraordinary or Minister Plenipotentiary can be hired to complete this type of sale).

As for the payment, i can only pay via the safest and secure way to pay online i.e PayPal here, as i do not have access to my bank account online, but i have it attached to my paypal account hence my insistence on using pay pal to pay. If you don't have a paypal account, you can easily set up one at www.paypal.com and sign up its very easy. (Actually, my good man, can you set it up for me? I’d be more than happy to give you my credit card information.)

I would have loved to talk to you on phone but i work mainly offshore and our satellite server has been down due to the bad weather which restrict our calls, please get back to me!! i appreciate your time. Thanks (Why do those damn offshore satellite servers never work in bad weather during an email scam?)

We may be just small town folk here, but we're not rubes. We're perspicacious, wary, intelligent, and well-spoken. There's an old saying in Minikin — I know it's in Antler River, probably in Minikin — that says, "Fool me once.... shame on... shame on you.... " you can't fool a Minikinite, I mean Minikiner, uh Minikinian, that is to say a resident of Minikin.

Oh little on-line scam artist
How dumb do you think we are?
Get a real job,
You crooked slob
And buy my (bleepin') car.

Happy Holidays to everyone!

From Bach To Bieber To Bieberbach — More From The SSIC Answer Man

2011-12-12T17:21:00.001-05:00

An inquiring reader wrote to us and asked this inquisitive inquiry:

Is it true that Justin Bieber is the acme of thousands of years of musical evolution?

We consulted with Wikipedia for an answer to this excellent question. Their article on music begins by telling us that “music is an art form whose medium is sound and silence.”

In Justin’s case, the emphasis would be more happily applied to the silence part of the formula.

So, to answer your question, no he is not the acme of musical evolution. That momentous moment of moments should happen around the year 2473 when music will be an “art” form whose medium will be organic sound and electronically enhanced silence. However, there is no denying we’ve come a long way since the days of Johann Sebastian Bach, or even Ludwig Bieberbach.

There once was a pop star named Bieber
who some critics have called “Justin Dweeber".
But the fans, how they rave.
Bach must roll in his grave
and in disbelief cry, “Ach du lieber!”

By the way, Mr. Beiber was born in Antler River. That’s right! — the former headquarters of Snow Shoveling In Canada. I get all a-tingle with excitement whenever I consider that. Sort of the same excitement I derive from putting on cheap aftershave.

Which brings us to our next question from a very questioning questioner:

Who coined the phrase, "the pen is mightier than the sword"?

Those words were uttered by Edward Bullwer-Lytton, former CEO of the Bic corporation (which was simply known as the Pen among ball-point insiders). Bic of course was long known as the leader in quality writing implements, so it was logical that they would decide to produce items for scraping off facial hair.

Soon, Bic was outselling a former giant on the market, Wilkinson Sword (which was simply known as the Sword among shaving insiders). One day, on learning that his brand was outselling Wilkinson, Mr. Bullwer-Lytton expressed his now famous remark.

Another seeker of wisdom and truth asked us:

Where can I find a throat lozenge with attitude?

The makers of Fisherman’s Friend lozenges claim that their product provides "relief with attitude". That’s just the ingredient you should look for when you have a bad cold. Who cares if it has a cought suppresent, or something for nasal relief or chest congestion? You need attitude. In fact, I think every product on the market and every being on this planet should have lots and lots of attitude. This blog is sorely lacking in that quality. So look for us to be more IN YOUR FACE in future posts.

By the way, why do they call their product Fisherman’s Friend? If anything, you would think that any product that allows fishermen to have their olfactory senses enhanced would be condsidered decidedly unfriendly.

In fact, someone should market a clothespin for fishermen to put on their noses while they work and call it Fisherman’s Buddy.

And while we're at it, someone could promote a set of ear plugs to wear whenever you’re in the vicinity of a Justin Bieber performance and call it Music Lover’s Friend.

Football, Cruises, and Painting Europe

2011-12-02T16:00:00.001-05:00

The Holiday Season has officially started. Sure we’ve seen stores decked out with Christmas displays since Labor Day, but the season really kicked off with the U.S. Thanksgiving (ha ha. get it? kicked off... Thanksgiving... you know... football... forget it).

I like to think of that holiday as Canada’s second Thanksgiving. We don’t get the day off from work, but we do get to call in sick and sit around the house watching the Macy’s parade and a couple of football games.

I’ve enjoyed the Macy's parade in the past, but now it seems to showcase a lot of pop stars that I've never heard of, and, as it turns out, I'm glad that I hadn’t. One "artist" this year did seem somewhat familiar. I think her name was Mary J. Bilge. We heard Ms. Bilge pump out a "song" and then move on her merry way past Herald Square. From there, we had to endure a few more “musicians” before we could get on to the real Thanksgiving treat, football.

I’ve been watching NFL football since I was a kid (and, by the way, here in Canada and the U.S. the game where they kick around a ball for half a day and somehow manage to not score a single point even though they’re aiming at a goal the size of New Brunswick, is called soccer). When I was a youngster my dad and I used to be impressed by the size of the players back then. “Those defensive linemen combined weigh over half a ton”, he’d say, duly impressed. No one would be impressed by that these days. Today’s average women’s tennis player must tip the scales about as much as yesterday’s defensive tackle.

The modern day defensive line makes the ones in my day look like four guys from our high school chess team. And the typical NFL offensive line weighs about the same as your average apartment building.

Soon enough (but not soon enough for my wife) the football season will be over. Then it will be time for the missus and I to depart on our very first cruise!

We might have to re-mortgage the house to pay for this voyage. Part of the cost is the many day trips we have planned at all the various stops along the way. I’m wondering though whether or not we should just stay on the ship and explore it from top to bottom. This ship makes the Titanic look like Scuffy The Tugboat.

But just exploring the ship could get kind of boring, Here’s an idea: instead of having excursions at the ports of call, you could have adventures right on the ship. For example, you could zipline from the bridge right into the upper deck swimming pool. The crew could lower a few lifeboats full of snorkeling and scuba enthusiasts into the shark-infested waters, miles from any port. Or you could bungee jump from the aft funnel. For the real adventurous, you could try your hand at Acapulco-cliff-style diving off the top deck into the turquoise waters of the Caribbean.

Maybe we’ll see these things someday, but for now we’ve already booked our excursions. By the way, do we have to keep our passports with us at all times? What the heck am I supposed to do with it while I’m zipping along a steel cable 100 feet above an Antiguan forest canopy? Or where do I put it when I’m snorkelling in Barbados with those sea turtles? Am I supposed to secure it in some water-tight part of my anatomy?

Passports are a necessity these days. In Canada, you need to have your passport renewed every five years at a cost of $85 (I think). In addition, you need to have your application endorsed by a guarantor. At one time the guarantor needed to be a lawyer, doctor, veterinarian, school principle, CPA, pharmacist, or some other reliable professional. I’m not sure how they decided which professions were worthy of such responsibility. My CPA is a dirty rotten thieving sneak, while my bookie is a real upstanding guy.

Remember, when applying for a passport you will need:

- Completed forms
- Personal information
- Proof of citizenship
- Proof of identity
- Fees
- Photos
- Guarantor
- A note from your mommy

Personally, I’d like to see passports that are valid for only six months and cost $1000. In addition, you would need a reference from all of the previously mentioned professionals. This would discourage people from traveling outside of Canada during the winter months. Then they would stay here and do some damn snow shoveling. I can’t do it all myself!!!!

If we enjoy our Caribbean trip, maybe we’ll book our next cruise to the Mediterranean and see Europe.

I think I’d like to see Europe. I’ve never been there. But it seems to me that Europe needs a paint job. I can see from many movies and television shows that several countries on that continent have never bothered to maintain or upgrade any of their buildings — peeling paint, plaster falling off here and there, bricks crumbling or missing. Maybe that’s supposed to be part of the charm and ambience of the place, but to us here in Canada where we need our shelters to be in tip-top shape, one can’t help but get the urge to call in Mike Holmes.

I most recently observed scenes of this state of disrepair while watching the movie The Reader. If you haven’t seen it, the film is about a young man who has a relationship with a woman about 20 years his senior. She’s illiterate, so he reads books to her. In exchange for the readings, he gets a nice bath — a real nice bath.

If the characters in this movie are representative of Europeans in general, then I would guess they’re a pretty clean people. It’s just their buildings that need some sprucing up.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to watch some football. There must be a football game on somewhere, right?

Printed Nazis Occupy Minikin!

2011-11-25T15:28:00.000-05:00

Attack of the Killer Printers

It seems that the problem of world hunger will soon be a thing of the past. The rising technologies of in-vitro meat and 3D printers are blazing the trail to ensure that every person on earth will have the need for a drawer full of Tums.

The test tube meat should make for an interesting culinary experience. Just imagine going to a fine five-star restaurant and catching a glimpse of the kitchen as the waiter bangs through the swinging door. Instead of pots, pans, and cooking utensils, you see a myriad of beakers, Bunsen burners, petri dishes, and pipettes. Of course the lab techs would still be wearing the traditional chef hats.

Then there's the gastronomical promise from 3D printers. As long as the raw materials are available, these printers can actually reproduce an edible cake! I’m assuming you just throw some flour, cocoa, sugar, a couple of raw eggs and a few chopped walnuts into some sort of print cartridge. Don’t throw out your color ink cartridge yet; you may want to use it to add a little color to the icing. Then you copy and paste a picture of a delicious looking cake morsel to your desktop, select print, and voila! an output worthy of what’s sure to become your default print device.

Copy and paste this photo and then use it to print out a tasty slice of devil's food cake.

Note: You must use a cake-producing printer. Regular printers will just print out tasteless paper crap.

These 3D printers can also print working tools. One shudders to think the future might be should these printers become coupled to super computers. They may someday be able to reproduce themselves. Given the proper raw materials, they may even be able to print out a race of hostile beings. They might try to take over the world! This would make for a great horror film: Attack of the Killer Printers. Too bad Ed Wood isn't sill alive to realize this.

The military will undoubtedly want to take advantage of this new technology. In fact, Canon could probably land a lucrative military contract to produce printers which make actual cannons.

Occupy Minikin

There have been a great deal of news items these days regarding protesters occupying parks in various cities. Recently, someone captured a video of a police officer pepper-spraying a group of peaceful protesters square in the face. What was remarkable about the incident was the matter-of-fact blasé manner in which the cop assaulted this group — as if he were the Orkin man using a can of pesticide to rid the garden of a few pesky aphids. Considering the fact that this was all caught on video and that it has garnered so much negative attention, this nonchalant nincompoop should consider himself lucky if he's not submitting a job resume to Orkin in the near future.

I personally haven’t eye-witnessed any instances of the occupy movement. It’s likely that our hamlet of Minikin is just too small. Besides we’ve no park to hold the protest in. But a couple of our residents could occupy the nearby Mini mini-putt and send a message to the fat cats that run that goofy golf course that we won’t stand for their economic policies. That mini-putt must rake in hundreds of dollars each season by gouging the wallets of the vacationing youngsters that descend upon our area during spring and summer.

And we're not worried about setting up tents for inclement weather. We can just throw a tarp over the windmill, or castle, or the frame that supports the swingy thing that always hits my ball.

A little civil disobedience in Minikin is sure to have enormous impact on Wall Street.

Jawohl Mine Heir

...one born in my house is mine heir.
- Genesis 15:3

Here is a news item from QMI about a delightful little family:

"A New Jersey white supremacist couple, who have already had three kids seized from them by authorities, lost custody of their newborn son 17 hours after he was born.

Heath and Deborah Campbell gained notoriety for giving their children Nazi-inspired names - Adolf Hitler Campbell, JoyceLynn Aryan Nation Campbell and Honszlynn Hinler Jeannie Campbell."

Aren't those lovely names? The report goes on to say:

"Authorities said that move was done because of past violence in the family, who lived in a home decorated with swastikas."

Doesn't that sound like a charming home? And finally:

"Both parents, according to court documents, have unspecified psychological and physical problems, have denied being neo-Nazis."

I’m not sure about that last line. If you give your kids names like Adolf Hitler and JoyceLynn Aryan Nation, then I think your psychological problems are pretty specific. And they deny being neo-Nazis???!!! I guess they want to be thought of as classic old-time Nazis.

Can't you just picture Heath, Deboarah, Adolf Hitler, JoyceLynn Aryan Nation, and Honszlynn Hinler all sitting around the piano in the parlor after Sunday dinner singing

♪ ...gimme that ol' time fascism
it's good enough for me...

... it was good enough for Hitler
it’s good enough for me...♫

The news article also stated that the Campbells had previously gained notoriety when a store refused to decorate a birthday cake with the name Adolf Hitler on it.

Let’s just hope that if these people ever get their hands on those high-tech-produce-anything printers, they’ll just be content with creating a Hitler birthday cake and not a Hitler birthday.

And let's pray that we don't see a future where printer-produced Nazis occupy Minikin.

Shoveling The Postulation

2011-11-21T17:01:00.001-05:00

Forgive me, but it seems that I’ve incorrectly used the phrase “begging the question” in the past. For example, if I listened to what passes for music these days, I would have said that it begs the question, “why do we have ears?”

However, a little investigation reveals that I’ve been using the wrong phraseology. I should have been saying “raises the question".

From a Wikipedia article on begging the question:

Begging or assuming the point at issue consists (to take the expression in its widest sense) [of] failing to demonstrate the required proposition. But there are several other ways in which this may happen; for example, if the argument has not taken syllogistic form at all, he may argue from premises which are less known or equally unknown, or he may establish the antecedent by means of its consequents; for demonstration proceeds from what is more certain and is prior. Now begging the question is none of these. [...] If, however, the relation of B to C is such that they are identical, or that they are clearly convertible, or that one applies to the other, then he is begging the point at issue.... [B]egging the question is proving what is not self-evident by means of itself...either because predicates which are identical belong to the same subject, or because the same predicate belongs to subjects which are identical.

Which raises the question, “HUH?”

Dictionary.com defines the idiom as to assume the truth of the very point raised in a question.

That may be true, but, the examples used by many to to illustrate what begging the question is are statements, such as; “He is ugly because he’s unattractive” or “Lying is wrong, because we ought always to tell the truth”. Those in the supposed know will claim that those statements beg the question. Period.

Someone from another web site had this to say on the subject:

The phrase BEG THE QUESTION dates back to Aristotle and means to make the logical mistake of assuming the very thing that is to be proved (or in Latin ‘petitio principii,’ to beg the main point, assume without proof). Since 1990, however, it has sometimes been used to mean avoiding a straight answer. And an even more recent usage is ‘to raise the question.’ Since its meaning is now ambiguous it’s probably best to avoid it altogether and if one means ‘raise the question,’ just say so.

I think we should heed the advice in the quote above and just avoid the phrase altogether. Apparently, no one can figure out what it really means. It sounds as if Aristotle or whoever, just chose an arbitrary verb to describe a grammatical action. We could easily say that a sentence like, “Snow is cold because it is frozen precipitation” shovels the postulation.

So the next time you find yourself in a conversation and someone expresses some gobbledygook like,“Circular reasoning is different from the informal logical fallacy “begging the question", as it is fallacious due to a flawed logical structure and not the individual falsity of an unstated hidden co-premise as begging the question is” just look at them with pity and exclaim in the most patronizing tone you can muster, “That shovels the postulation. In fact, it shovels more than just postulation". You’ll undoubtedly make quite an impression.

On another grammatical note, one morning earlier this month, I was on the web site Dictionary.com where I saw the word of the day was keif — meaning drowsiness or dreamlike intoxication.

However, the pronunciation guide on the site had spelled it phonetically as keyf. Now I had correctly assumed it was pronounced to rhyme with leaf, or beef, or Donovan's Reef. But ey could sound like a long a, as in whey, or hey, or Susan Dey.

For some reason, I needed to know right away at 7AM how this word was pronounced. So I powered on my computer speakers and turned the thumbwheel down to adjust the volume to its lowest setting. At least I thought I had turned it that way. Apparently I had cranked the volume to the max. I leaned in close to place my delicate ear next to the speaker. I clicked on the sound symbol to hear the pronunciation from the demure female voice of Dictionary.com. An ear-splitting stentor blasted at me,

“KEEF”

I was expecting my wife to storm into the room and whack me over the head with the keyboard. Actually, she’s very sweet. She just calmly walked over to where I was sitting and disconnected the speakers from the computer. She then grabbed the car keys, proceeded outside to the driveway, and ran over the speakers with our SUV. Not that it mattered much. I think they were pretty well blown at that point. My ears, that is.

Now I can "listen" to today's "music" in ignorant bliss. Which shovels the postulation... well, never mind.

Goodbye Antler River – Hello Minikin Ontario

2011-11-15T16:58:00.003-05:00

Greetings dear reader. I hopeyou weren’t literally holding your breath in anticipation of my next blogentry. But perhaps with bated breath you now see that a new post has finallyarrived.

Notethat I didn’t write “baited breath”. I’m sure that everyone whoreads my blog has breath that smells mighty alluring, but the correct phraseis bated breath. I think.

Sally, having swallowed cheese,

Directs down holes the scented breeze,

Enticing thus with baited breath

Nice mice to an untimely death.

- CruelClever Cat by Geoffrey Taylor

Bythe way, this is the first post from our new headquarters in Minikin Ontario.

“Neverheard of the damn place”, you say. Well, you’re not alone. This place issmall — it’s tiny, miniscule, microscopic, Lilliputian; I daresay it’s almost non-existent.

It's too small to be called a town or even a village. Hamlet sounds right. Thatword evokes an image of a small place just big enough to house a few hamsters.

Minikinis so small that the sign welcoming you here says “Thank you. Come again!” onits other side.

Minikinis so small that the largest industry is Johnny and Suzie’s lemonade stand. Themain source for news and information here is… well, you’re reading it.

Andit’s not easy to find. To paraphrase my brother’s directions for getting here: Youhead north off the main highway onto Concession 3B until you reach East HorseManure Road. Head west on East Horse Manure Road until you reach the secondcornfield. Turn right midway down the cornfield and go about nine rows down.Turn left and ramble through a couple of acres until you get to a farmhouse.Walk up to the farmhouse, knock on the door, and ask the occupant, “Where thehell is Minikin?”

Mybrother likes to exaggerate. You only have to go down about six corn rows.

Speakingof horse manure, there was an article in today's Antler River Free Press aboutthe theft of a manure hose. This is a special hose that is used to spreadliquid manure. It is reported that the stolen hose was "valued" atbetween $15,000 and $20,000!!! Now that's one expensive fluid crap conduit!

The best part of the Free Press article is this last line, "The was coupled together in 200-metre sections. Thefirst was black and the rest were orange."

Do not you just love when yousee writing like that that's real good? The proofreaders and editors is doinggood job.

I'm not sure what difference it makes what color the hose was. Perhaps foridentification? My guess is that the police would be better off using theirnoses rather than their eyes when trying to locate the pilfered putrid pooppumper.

But let's get back to Minikin. One nice thing about this hamlet is that it islocated on the shores of Lake Huron. Although my wife and I don’t have a lakeview, we do often have a nice panorama of our neighbor swilling beer whilesitting in a lawn chair next to a pickup truck in his driveway. However if youpress the right side of your face hard against our side window and look to thefar left, you can get a small glimpse of some water.

Andwe have a beach! Personally, I'm a cold weather kind of guy. However, not everymonth can be a snow shoveling one, so I do have to spend some time each year sweatingit out in the midday sun. Lured with the ~~bate~~ ~~bait~~ enticementof the cool water, I do take frequent swims in the world's largestfreshwater lake.

I actually went for a dip in the lake this November. And that water was COLD —colder than a snow-shoveler's implement. Due to that feat of lunacy, I'vequickly gained a reputation as the wild man of Minikin. Even a hamlet has tohave at least one wild man.

Even so, I'm not crazy enoughto steal a manure hose.

Peddling My Wears

2011-02-28T14:00:00.008-05:00

The Boat, Fishing, and Leisure show recently wrapped up in our fair city of Antler River. I just love these shows filled with various exhibitors who are trying to get you to buy their products. Of course, they charge admission. I mean, it's only right that we should pay to watch someone peddle their own wares. It's like how people pay good money to wear an article of clothing that is boldly emblazoned with a corporate logo.

Business people aren't stupid. They know that the public will do the advertising for them. The boat show charges $10 a head. Even those who have little or no income are expected to hand over some jack. Seniors and children can fork out $8 and $5 respectively. Children under 6 are not charged admission since they cannot grasp the concept of free enterprise. They think the world and everyone in it should cater to them. They're all in for a rude awakening once they've lived a year past their fifth birthday.

An interesting item that was pitched at this year's show was the Firebuoy. This is a floating lightweight aluminum fire pit! You can have a barbecue or campfire right on the water! I don't know about you, but every single time I'm boating, or canoeing, or swimming, or even sitting in a hot tub, I think. "Gee-whiz. Why can't I have a barbecue or a campfire right here, right now?"

Everybody sing: "Smoke on the water... "

Incidentally, do they pronounce it Fire-boo-ee or Fire-boy? Personally, I like the pronunciation that rhymes with gooey. When someone pronounces it "boo-ee", then I'm certain as to what they're referring to. But if someone says there's a buoy out in the water (and pronounces it "boy"), then I'm likely to start running around looking for a life-boo-ee to throw to the boy who might not be very boo-ee-ant.

But back to the subject of advertising. I can see that publicity, promotion, and plugging is what my blog needs. I must get out there and beat the drum for my interests.

The Oscars were televised last night. If I'd had the foresight, business acumen, moxie, and moolah, then I might have flown out there and tried to convince one of the attendees to stroll down the red carpet with an official item of Snow Shoveling In Canada Evening Wear ®.

As well — being the author of such a noteworthy blog — I could probably have obtained a press pass and interviewed a few of the celebrities. I've heard some of those interviews. The hard-hitting attack style of questioning demonstrated by Mike Wallace is not required.You just need a microphone and the right amount of smarm.

Maybe next year. Oh buoy, I can hardly wait!

Ah-Choo! Gemütlichkeit!

2011-02-26T10:28:00.011-05:00

Winter is a great season to get together for a dinner, a party, a soirée, or some other social diversion. There are Super Bowl parties, Valentine’s parties, Oscar parties, and St. Patrick’s Day parties. But there’s no need for an excuse. A nice warm fete with friends, food, drink and perhaps some agreeable music seems to always be in order during this frosty interlude.

There is a German word for those fuzzy snuggly moments that one experiences in these distinct winter social gatherings: Gemütlichkeit.

A Wikipedia article describes the word as meaning more than just comfy and cozy. It states, in part, “... rather than merely describing a place that is compact, well-heated and nicely furnished (a cozy room, a cozy flat), Gemütlichkeit connotes the notion of belonging, social acceptance, cheerfulness, the absence of anything hectic and the opportunity to spend quality time”.

One drawback however, to this social warmth is the danger of contracting the dread acute viral rhinopharyngitis. This affliction seems more frequent this time of year, but it is not because of any exposure to the frigid elements. Rather, it’s due to contact with infected people who think nothing of sneezing or coughing in your face during one of the aforementioned shindigs.

But we can be pro-active and take steps to reduce susceptibility to this illness:

• Drink fluids (especially orange juice)
• Get plenty of exercise (squeezing oranges to get some juice is highly recommended)
• Wash hands frequently (with orange juice, if possible)
• Use saline sprays (or orange juice) to irrigate nasal passages

Remember these tips the next time you have a get-together, like your upcoming annual World Figure Skating Championship party.

This year’s event will take place in Tokyo at Yogi’s Gym, and the competition will be fierce. These competitors are incredible athletes; displaying agility, strength, poise, skill, and impressive butt muscles. Just try to imagine the pressures that these skaters face.

Picture this: here you are, after years of dedication and practice, ready to compete in the most important event in your life. Not only do you have to perform at a top-notch level, but you have to look your absolute best as well. Hairstylists, make-up artists, and fashion designers are consulted in order to make you look as if you stepped off of the front page of Glamour.

You gracefully glide onto the ice to appreciative applause. Some schmaltzy version of "Lara's theme" blares through the loudspeakers as your routine begins. You look magnificent. Then you get ready to perform your first spinning leap (perhaps a triple sow cow, a quadruple axle, or a quintuple klutz). The crowd is hushed in breathless anticipation. You leap ten feet into the air, looking like Baryshnikov or Bessmertnova on blades; spinning like a dervish. You land — and fall; ignominiously sliding on your ass for the entire length of the ice in front of the thousands present and millions of viewers worldwide.

I can think of no other sporting event where there is such incongruity between what you want to portray and what you end up looking like. The only scenario that could possibly come close would be in an equestrian dressage event attended by royalty and the upper crust. If one of the participants were to land face first into a sloppy mixture of mud and manure, then that might equal the mortification of the skater’s gluteal glissade.

It would be nice if no one fell this year, but I believe the average number of keester-to-ice landings during these championships is about 197; so it is likely there will be many sore cabooses during that week.

Ah-Choo! And sore noses. Ah-Choo! Gesundheit. Ah-Choo! Goodnight and gemütlichkeit.

Second Annual SSIC Poetry Contest

2011-02-07T15:44:00.006-05:00

It's back by popular demand! We at Snow Shoveling in Canada are proud to announce the winners of the Second Annual SSIC Poetry Contest.

Entries this year were judged on creativity, rhythm, intonation, and the amount of palm grease supplied to the judges.

First we'd like to reprint a couple of limericks that were entered. These are usually not considered pure "poetry" by most balladry buffs, but we thought these were the best submissions of that ilk.

SHOVELING ADVICE

When shoveling in snow cold and brisk
Beware of the dangers and risk.
Remember this please:
"Keep back straight, bend the knees"
Or you'll find that you've slipped a disc.

A LOTHARIO IN ONTARIO

There once was a man from Ontario

Who wanted to be a Lothario,

But his problems were such

That he couldn't rise much

With regards to his ol' ding-dong-derry-o.

That's enough of those.

We don't want you champing at the bit any longer for the good stuff, so here are this year's winners:

FIRST PRIZE:

MAN OR LEMUR?

Late last night while fast asleep,

a strange dream dreamt this dreamer —

A tiny basal primate was I,

from toe to head to femur.

Living 'neath a canopy

with vines that hang like streamers,

then slumber broke and I awoke —

a man, and not a lemur.

SECOND PRIZE (we've decided not to make a joke about a poet lariat here):

THE DUSTY COWBOY

After hitting the trail
where I rode hill and dale,
I retire to the tub
to get a good scrub.

What method’s a must
to wash off this dust?
The cleansing solution
is in this ablution.

THIRD PRIZE:

THE DOCTOR IS IN(SANE)

Frankenstein, Frankenstein

Created a monster six-foot-nine,
Of tremendous strength and abnormal brain;
Doctor and creature — both insane.

HONORABLE(?) MENTION (from the same "poet" who submitted the above entry):

THAT LAGOON CREATURE

If you should go swimming in the Black Lagoon,

Make sure you are armed with a good harpoon.

Or you may find that you'll need a surgeon

If you bump into this half-man, half-sturgeon.

There you have it. The best of the submissions. Ugh. If we don't receive anything better next year, then this may very well be the last annual SSIC poetry contest.

Whatever happened to great poetry? You know, the kind written by all those Lords; like Lord Byron, Lord Tennyson, and Lord Athol Layton.

The Wrestling Interviewer by Lord Athol Layton

In the wrestling ring I can be quite a brute.
When I interview I'm genteel and astute.

Between those ropes I can maim and I can bruise
But when I talk I can charm and I can schmooze.

So best keep in mind if I should chat with you;
Do not misbehave or that choice you may rue.

Act orderly or l will have to make you stop
With my signature patented judo chop.

Well alright; maybe Lord Layton wasn't the best of your lordly poets. But I'll bet no one ever addressed him by any of his names other than "Lord" or "Mr. Layton"!

I remember one of my favorite poems was by Lord Tennyson. I think it was an ode to a bank robber. I believe it was called The Illegal. Let's see if I can recall how it goes:

He grasps the bag with crooked hands;
Close to the cash that he demands,
Wronged by the lawful world he stands.

The silent bank alarm now calls;
A SWAT team waits outside the walls,
And like all criminals he falls.

Or something like that.

In closing, I'd like to quote the poet Percy Shelley (who was not a Lord but a Bysshe) who said, "Poetry is the record of the best and happiest moments of the happiest and best minds."

Keep in mind that happiest and best are used in the very loosest sense with regards to the poetry presented here.

A Canadian Snow Shoveler in Cancún's Airport

2011-02-03T13:20:00.006-05:00

My wife and I just recently returned from a vacation in Mexico, only to be greeted by a major blizzard that swept across the eastern portion of the U.S. and into Southern Ontario. The news on the radio said that we missed the brunt of the storm and received only 10 centimeters of the expected 30.

Well, if you grabbed a ruler and measured in some arbitrary spot on the driveway, you might come up with a measurement of 10 centimeters. The drifts were more like half a meter; and HEAVY. Holy mackerel, that stuff felt as if I were shoveling lead pellets.

One of my favorite parts of a vacation is that tradition known as "the packing of the luggage". My wife — like all wives — gets to use the largest suitcase. It's amazing how much stuff she can cram into that thing, and yet she somehow manages to keep it under the allowable weight limit by just a few micrograms. I swear all women must take a course — Suitcase Cramming 101. Her carry-on bag alone contains enough goods to fill a small department store. If she were to pack my needs for a vacation, she'd be able to fit it all into a clutch purse.

The first delightful moment of our trip took place upon our arrival at Toronto's Pearson International Airport at 3am. We were advised that our flight would be delayed by twelve hours. This brought much glee to our hearts since we could think of no better way to start our vacation than by spending the day in Toronto in -20C weather. And our airline was great about what they perceived to be an inconvenience to us. They booked rooms for all of the out-of-town passengers at a nearby hotel and gave us a voucher for one meal (and that was only right; for who needs more than one meal over a twelve hour period?)

A bit of a problem arose however when the woman at the airline check-in wrote on the hotel vouchers that we were to stay at the Quality Holiday Best Westin, or something like that. A mob of us scrambled down to where the hotel shuttles were and harassed every driver until we found one that was willing to take us all to a Best Western. After a nice eight minute sleep and one meal, we were quite refreshed and raring to get back to the airport.

Airport security is, of course, a highlight of any travel destination. Scanners, pat-downs, metal detectors, the third degree — it's all good. After sufficient probing, prodding, pestering and poking we were allowed to board our plane.

The flight was great fun also, what with all the commotion in the cramped aisle next to my seat — people brushing their butts against my shoulder while I'm trying to do a crossword or eat my gourmet airline food.

Once that four hours of pure joy ended, it was on to phase two of the pleasurable airport experience — immigration. One thing I didn't expect though was to have our luggage scanned by Mexican security as we were coming off the aircraft. But, when you think of it, this makes perfect sense. One of the passengers could be a MacGyver-like character who could have fashioned some sort of weapon out of items gleaned from the plane: plastic cutlery, magazines, left-over cole slaw and a couple of barf bags. However, I can't think of a reason why anyone would want to bring a weapon to an all-inclusive resort on the Mayan Riviera, unless it was used to ward off some of those pushy timeshare sales people.

We then spent a week in the sun at our resort, but the winds were so heavy that pelicans were being blown all over the palm-tree-lined Mexican sky. Otherwise the stay was uneventful, unless you count the incident where our beach towels were stolen. Of course it was my pleasure to pay $30 per towel for this person's much needed yen for thievery. And if I may, I'd like to now publicly thank him or her for their thoughtful act (you know who you are, you unscrupulous sleazeball).

The mirth continued on our return to Cancún airport for our journey home. Security singled us out to have our carry-on luggage rummaged through. This was understandable as my wife and I look like your typically boring, mid-fifties, middle-class, terrorist touristas. The agent showed us his badge before mistreating our belongings. This was done lest we took him for an airport washroom attendant with a fetish for fondling baggage.

We agreed to have him take a look but he wanted us to open the bags. I believe this is the same policy that is used if you happen to find yourself being strip searched and having the exit area of your anatomy examined — it's up to you to open your cheeks.

The flight home was the usual delight, but it was Canadian customs that really brightened my day. We had no problem with the stern young man who gave us a card verifying that we were OK to go-ahead. But for some reason we had to show this card at several checkpoints beyond him. Perhaps all these people were doing the exact same job, but each person we subsequently encountered had more job experience than the last. The first guy was probably a first day or first week trainee.

Anyway, we made it home safe and sound after a relaxing two hour drive down the peaceful Highway 401. But you know, in retrospect, air travel to foreign countries is a mite tiresome. Perhaps next year our winter getaway will be a land journey to Moose Factory.

Southern Ontario Is A Gigantic Elephant!

2011-01-18T15:02:00.009-05:00

I can just imagine the reaction of anyone who might stumble across this blog: "What in tarnation do these damn posts have to do with snow shoveling — and what the hail does it have to do with Canada?!!!"

I must admit, I have strayed off the titular subject matter just a tad since I started this blog. But rest assured you snow shoveling fans, that it has snowed a great deal here in this part of Canada so far this year, and I've done my fair share of shoveling.

Although Antler River lies almost midway between Windsor (which is across the river from Detroit) and Toronto, we get much more snow than any of those cities. That's because we lie in a region known as the snow belt. You can see where Antler River is located on the map below.

I have the map oriented in such a way that north is pointing east. This is to show you that Southern Ontario is an elephant! Windsor is at the trunk. Toronto and its suburbs (Scarborough, North York, Richmond Hill, Etobicoke, etc.) are located on one of the back legs. Antler River is located at about the base of the neck, or where you would imagine the elephant's ear might hang down to.

Personally, I think our geographic elephant is far superior to Italy's geographic boot. And although Italy is known for manufacturing fine footwear, I don't know of anyone who would want to purchase or wear a boot that looks like that.

But back to the subject of winter precipitation. The snow belt that we lie in is due to lake effect snow (or squalls) blowing in off Lake Huron. The squalls are usually heaviest in December when the lake waters are still relatively warm. We've really had some doozies this year.

Although Antler River receives a lot of snow, we don't hold a frosted candle to Owen Sound in that department. That city is the snowiest in all of Ontario. You can see that Owen Sound is located... ahem.... its position is at the... uhh... well... let's just say that it sits at an undesirable part of the elephant's anatomy. It gets lake effect snow from both Lake Huron and Georgian Bay.

From the musical Owen Sound! —

The snow is as high as an elephant's rump,
For this town sits where you might expect a good dump...

Still, the fact remains that Antler River does get a lot of snow. My wife and I on a trip to Mexico a few years back ran into another couple from Canada, and I commented to the husband that it was nice to get away from the snow for awhile.

"Where are you from?" he grumbled.
"Antler River", I gleefully responded.
His short retort was a scornful snort, "Hmpfh, Antler River."
"Why, good sir? Where are you from?" I amiably inquired.
He was snide, and replied with ironic pride that he was from Winnipeg.
Urbane and sane, I refrained disdain and explained, "Antler River gets much more snow than Winnipeg, my good fellow."

And we do. Almost twice as much. But unlike chilly "Winterpeg", the snow here melts frequently, and so it appears as if we have less.

Yet we have more. But not right now. It melted again today. Still we get more. But they might have more right now. But we will get more. And so will they. Theirs will stay. Ours won't.

But we do get more. Believe me.

Introducing the Canshovel.Blogspot.com Bowl

2011-01-10T10:53:00.000-05:00

Christmas dinner was more than two weeks ago, but we still have some leftovers in the refrigerator. As I mentioned in a previous post, I "volunteered" to do the cooking this year.

I did have a little trouble however with the gravy. For the life of me, I couldn't get it to thicken up. At first, it had the consistency of very thin water. After adding what seemed like a cornfield of cornstarch, it thickened up to the viscosity of consommé. Undaunted, I added more and more cornstarch until it had at least a modicum of resemblance to gravy. I didn't realize that it would continue thickening on its own from pan to gravy boat to dinner table.

By the way, would you find a gravy boat in the galley of a navy boat? Just curious.

Anyway, after I finally sat down to dinner, I asked my niece to pass the gravy. "It's kinda thick", she said. After attempting to pour it on my mashed potatoes, I then asked her to pass me the ice cream scooper. I'm saving the leftover gravy until the spring. Then I'll use it to patch up any potholes in our driveway.

Dinner is just one of the highlights of the holiday season. For me, the college bowl games are always a treat at this time of year. Unfortunately, I live in Canada where ice hockey reigns supreme. Many Canadians are probably not aware that other sports even exist.

Popular beliefs notwithstanding, not all Canadians are fans of ice hockey. For example, on my list of favorite sports you'll find it somewhere below seniors snooker and celebrity curling, and just ahead of celebrity seniors hurling.

Hockey's World Junior Championship tournament takes place during the holidays, and so fans of the game get what they want. What they don't want is for Canada to lose. That happened this year as the Russians took the crown. There were so many long faces around afterward that I felt as if I was smack dab in the middle of a Modigliani exhibit. I was half expecting Stephen Harper to declare a day of mourning after the loss.

One consequence of all the televised hockey was that a great many of the bowl games were not shown here. I missed the Gator Bowl, the Orange Bowl, and the Sugar Bowl. I even missed the Beef O'Brady's Bowl!

Can you imagine how honored the teams must have felt to play in the Beef O'Brady's Bowl? The trend these days is to name the bowl games after the company sponsoring it. There are even some games named after dot-com companies — like the Insight.com and the GoDaddy.com bowls. There are so many college bowl games that I'm considering starting a new one next year called the Canshovel.Blogspot.com Bowl. Of course, that game will be played in the snow.

So next year, I might just park myself in front of the TV, grab a boat of gravy, pour it on my bowl of Beef O'Brady's, and watch the Canshovel.Blogspot.com Bowl. If it's televised.

I'll Take My Fruit In A Bowl Of Smoking Bishop

2011-01-06T16:45:00.003-05:00

Another Holiday Season has come and gone. New Year's Day I had a severe case of the fuzzies and woozies brought about by the previous night's revelry where — as Bob Cratchit would say — "I was making rather merry". However, the mind-altering liquids that I was quaffing had a little more smoke than the smoking bishop enjoyed by Cratchit and Scrooge.

Fruit is well represented in a bowl of smoking bishop — oranges, grapefruit, and fermented grapes.

Winter pretty well marks the end of the fruit eating season for me. Not that I eat much fruit anyway. I've always felt that they — along with vegetables — are the most overrated of your basic food groups. Let's face it; they're either too ripe, not ripe enough, have too many seeds and pits, are too sour, are too sweet, are too bland, or they're just plain yucky (like papaya).

I'd like to eat more fruits and vegetables and cut down on my intake of meat, I really would. I once even made a miserable attempt at becoming a vegan. I subsisted mainly on bread and water. But after a week or so, I felt that I was getting a little fuzzier and woozier every day. My wife (upon realizing that this was not the result of a New Year's Eve-like aftermath) insisted that I return to the world of carnivores.

I am aware that fruits and vegetable are essential to good health, so I do try to incorporate them into my digestive routine. A couple of times a week I'll partake in a glass of vegetable cocktail and maybe a dill pickle to go along with a grilled cheese sandwich. The cocktail takes care of several veggies. Could the dill that's used to flavor the pickle be considered a vegetable? How about the vinegar? I'm sure it's made from some fruit or vegetable (or by-product thereof) that's been fermented.

Apple cider is one way that I get all my monthly fruit requirements. I'll savor a glass now and then while it's in season. But, like apples, good cider becomes harder to find as winter progresses. Don't get me wrong; I'm no great fan of apples either.

I remember a day trip a few years back when my wife and I happened upon an apple orchard that had a roadside store. They had an impressive variety of apples and apple products. My intention was to buy some apple butter and be done with my pomaceous fruit needs for the year. The proprietor of the place had an enthusiasm for apples that would have made Johnny Appleseed proud. He could discern the subtle differences in each variety like a wine connoisseur. However, unlike the verbose wine aficionados, this guy used the same adjectives to describe each variety and just scrambled his descriptive order.

McIntosh: Sweet, yet crunchy and tart.
Empire: Tart, yet sweet and crunchy.
Idared: Crunchy, yet tart and sweet.
Spartan: Scrunchy, yet art and tweet.

Personally, I would never describe an apple as art, nor would I think it anything worth tweeting about. I think our apple expert was a little put off when we hightailed it out of there with our only purchase — the apple butter.

Another reason I dislike fruit is the fact that some of them have a very, very, very short shelf life. Bananas are the most blatant representative of this fact. I swear that I have on occasion bought five extremely green bananas, and by the next day they were lying there looking like an old brown baseball glove.

In order to really enjoy bananas, they must be eaten at a very precise moment. You must stare at them from the moment they are bought. Sometime overnight you will notice that they have become ready for consumption. You'd better like bananas however, because if you don't eat the whole bunch, the rest become ingredients for banana bread. I'm sick of banana bread.

I do admit that I like cherries and watermelon, but these are only enjoyed in the spring and summer. Until then, I have a container of prunes in the fridge. That's enough fruit to last me for me for the next four or five months.

The Best of SSIC: In Other Words, Reruns

2010-12-28T23:01:00.004-05:00

It's time for the Holidays. It's also time for television show echoes. You know — reruns.

Television execs feel that it's their right to re-broadcast the same lousy crap that they crammed down our throats at the beginning of the TV season.

We here at Snow Shoveling In Canada have taken the position that this is a legitimate and time-honored practice that serves a purpose — namely, a way of saying "I don't have time for anything original to give you right now, so chew on this regurgitated tripe for the time being".

So with that in mind, we urge you know to have a second look at these SSIC classics:

If sports is your thing, you might enjoy this post summarizing the 2010 Winter Olympic Games.

If you're into fashion, you might want to have a look at this post that takes a look at different beard styles.

For those who like "music", take a look at this post about the history of rap and hip hop.

Budding scientists may learn something from this post about a chewing gum experiment.

Finally, the refined among you may gather a little culture in the form of poetry from this post.

See you in the New Year for some new blog entries (they're actually just rehashed posts but cleverly disguised to look like something new. Hey, everyone does it!)

Cross Country Elbow Dislocating

2010-12-23T11:50:00.009-05:00

My wife and I just recently enjoyed a cross country skiing excursion at our cottage just outside the hamlet of Minikin, Ontario. Much snow had fallen, and an enchanting wintry landscape gave us the promise of unsurpassed skiing ecstasy.

However, some dimwit had plowed the roads, and done a good job of it too. This is cottage country after all, and the roads are traditionally covered with enough snow to suffice for this particular sport. But gravelly patches and ice greeted us here and there.

On one particularly steep downhill lane, my wife saw what she thought was a nice powdery slope. Intrepid and eager, she swooshed off downhill. To her surprise and dismay, she found out about midway that the road was covered with a particularly nasty and unfriendly coating of ice. Standing and looking at her from the top of this small mountain, I saw this blur on skis quickly disappearing and shouting, “ %$#^*! It’s ice! AAAUUUGGGG!!!!” She fell with a barely audible “whump”. She lay there motionless in the snow in her green coat, looking like an abandoned evergreen that had fallen from the roof rack of a car on its way to become the Christmas centerpiece of someone’s home.

It took me a while to comprehend what had happened. At first I almost yelled out, “C’mon move! I wanna try it!” But after about three minutes, I realized that something might be terribly wrong. So I took off my skis and navigated my way down to my snow-crusted heap of a spouse.

It should be noted that I am known as a very perceptive man — a man of acumen, intuition, and insight. This was demonstrated now, as I looked down at the crumpled mass of humanity and asked, “Are you OK?”
“Nnnaarggh”, she articulated. “I think I broke something.”
Fearing the worst, I checked her skis but found to my delight that they were as good as new.
“I think I broke my arm or elbow", she elaborated. Luckily, I had remained silent about my concern over the skis.

With some cautious effort, I was able to take off her skis, stand her up, and escort her back to our cottage. It was a 20 minute drive to the nearest hospital. My wife howled and shrieked with pain for the entire journey. I considered rolling down her window to utilize her wailing as a siren. When we got to the emergency department, I immediately went to reception and had them admit me to check for ear damage. Once it was determined that I was OK, they had a look at my wife. The doctor took x-rays and discovered that she had a dislocated elbow.

The procedure then began to put my better half back together again. She was sedated first with morphine, and an anti-nauseant. Then they administered something from a syringe that almost put her completely into La La Land. I was asked if I wanted to stay and watch them contort my wife's arm back in place. "It would be my pleasure", I replied.

Although my wife was quite dazed and dopey, she managed to moan out, "AAAARRRRrrrrrrrrrrrnnnnnhh......zzzzzzzzzz....." Her head then lolled to one side as the cast was applied to her arm. Thankfully, she remembers nothing of the procedure.

The cast is now off, but my wife's arm is equipped with a bionic-like contraption that makes her look rather menacing. So, I've decided not to complain about helping her out and doing all the household chores.

Guess who's cooking Christmas dinner.

If Guilty, We'll Make An Archetype Of Them

2010-12-20T17:29:00.000-05:00

It’s official! Snow Shoveling In Canada is an international sensation!

We here at SSIC were doing a little blog maintenance work recently when we noticed (for the first time) a feature on this host site which allows bloggers to get a glimpse of how their work is doing viewer-wise. For instance, you can check how many views your blog has had in the past day, week, month, etc. Also, this nifty tool allows you to see how your blog was discovered (what search methods were used), and which countries your readers are from.

We had naively assumed that only Canadians and snow-susceptible Americans were our audience. Not so. South Korea, China, Netherlands, Spain, Russia, Brazil, Japan, Germany, and India are listed as some of the countries that have been delighted and enlightened by this most important and indispensable source of information, news, and entertainment. We’ve gone viral! (not really, but allow us to get just a little excited. OK?)

We’ve been getting noticed on other web sites as well. On a recent Google search for “snow shoveling in Canada”, we came across a site that specializes in landscaping products (including snow shovels). This is not the first time we’ve seen our blog listed on other sites. For example, a web site specializing in gum had our post about chewing gum included on their pages.

This should bring up an important caveat to all you bloggers out there. Be careful about certain key words you use. For example, if you use the phrase “penis size” in a post, you may find your good wholesome work listed on some site that advertises or advocates the usage of dubious pills, lascivious lotions, or dangerous stretching exercises. Uh, oh. Now we’ve done it.

Anyway, this landscaping company had listed on their site an excerpt from our post Word Twist and the Masters Trontmeuna. However, they did not print our words verbatim. What they printed (and I’m not making this up) was their own interpretation. Let’s go through it together:

What we said: The game is called Word Twist.
What they said we said: The trick is called head-agreement.

What we said: The objective of this game is to unscramble the letters you are given and to make up as many words as you can think of in a two-minute period.
What they said we said: The bias of this work is to decipher the letters you are given and until toady, as many words as you can more than one to two months of half-span.
SSIC Response: Their "translation" of our words is a complete fabrication. We are very particular about the facts we cite. We’ve double checked and a two-minute period is not equal to one to two months of half-span. Even if you are using the metric system, everyone knows that two minutes is four and one-quarter months of a full span (or one-half toady span).

What we said: For example, you may be given the letters b t c x a z q. From these of course you can make the words bat, cat, and tax.
What they said we said: For archetype, you can confirm the b t c x a z q letters. From the road, you can fill up the words bat, cat, and taxes.
SSIC Response: You cannot come up the word taxes or any other word for that matter unless you've been provided with all the letters necessary to spell that word. For archetype, you cannot spell the word bats if you haven’t been given an s. And it matters not if it’s done from the road or any other course.

What we said: If you’re very clever, you get bonus points for using all of the letters given to reveal a word.
What they said we said: If you are very clever, you get points by using the free for all letters included enjoy a brief conversation.
SSIC Response: We would never ever utter those words. Free-for-all letters (or wildcard characters as they are sometimes known) are not allowed in Word Twist. Having said that, we would like you to now enjoy a brief conversation.

What we said: I can’t think of a word that uses all the letters b, t, c, x, a, z, and q, but this is the dilemma I face virtually every time I play the stupid game.
What they said we said: I can not invent a head which uses all the letters b, t, c, x, z, and q, but this is the fix I look in every way I act exceeded the constraint audacity simple.
SSIC Response: I wish the people behind this web site could constrain their simple audacity. It is true that I cannot invent a head. That’s already been invented (and most heads are quite capable of using all the letters listed).

Their excerpt ignores the next three paragraphs, then goes on to interpret our description of the Masters golf tournament.

What we said: However, dollars mean nothing to the Masters champion.
What they said we said: However, there is poor dollar to defend the Masters
SSIC Response: They may have somehow thought that we said that Creflo A. Dollar was a champion of the Masters. We did not. And he is not. Neither is he poor.

What we said: No, the best thing about the Masters is you get to win a green jacket. Not at any other place or at any other time is it considered an honor to adorn a spinach-colored blazer, but this is the ultimate prize in this unparalleled athletic endeavor.
What they said we said: No, the feeling is unsurpassed in the Masters is sure to win a green jacket. Not at all other searches or any other body is considered an honor to decorate a blazer the color of spinach, but the fundamental unresolved in the Peerless athletics.
SSIC Response: We cannot argue with this. They figured out exactly what we were communicating here.

Finally, at blurb’s end, they say that we said, “The conqueror himself outside to keep the painting for one year....” In fact, we said, “The winner apparently gets to keep the coat for a year.” Although a coat of paint is not a painting or work of art, — no matter how well it’s been applied — it appears that this is what they thought we were talking about when we were referring to the Masters green jacket. Joseph's coat of many colors would really confuse them, and likely generate a translation of "the Sistine Chapel".

There it is — a discombobulated misconstruction and misrepresentation of our perspicacious discourse. We may have to consult our lawyers on this matter to see if this is a case of a willful, unmitigated, wrongful, malicious, fraudulent, libelous, transgressive, plagiaristic malefaction.

Let’s see them translate that.

Winter Chickens and Festivus

2010-12-16T10:21:00.008-05:00

Snow shoveling is who I am. It’s my identity. It’s what I live for.

Not really. But I don’t mind shoveling. At the very least, it gives me something to blog about.

I recently made a few Facebook friends chuckle when I posted the following on my FB page:

♫ Oh, the weather outside is crappy
And I'm anything but happy
You know where those clouds can go
*%&$#@ snow, *%&$#@ snow, *%&$#@ snow. ♪

You could say that London has a lot of snow right now. The city is quickly becoming the world's largest igloo.

This is insane! I truly have nowhere to put the snow. The banks around the driveway and walkways are so high that our property is beginning to look like a walled city. I’m going to have to start building some snow turrets so I can see the rest of the neighborhood.

And it’s still coming down! If I hear “Let it Snow” or “Winter Wonderland” on the radio one more time, there’s going to be one less audio appliance around this household this holiday season.

Sheesh! I can’t wait for autumn to end!

But in all seriousness, I’ve never seen this much snow in Antler River at this time of year. And I’m no spring chicken. In fact, I’m a legitimate winter chicken.

Winter chickens, winter chickens,
Pecking in the snow.
Clucking through unlucky beaks,
“Where did that damn seed go?”

I think I might try that winter chicken recipe this year and have it instead of the standard turkey Christmas dinner. But I am hosting a rather large gathering, so I might have to cook it in a cauldron similar in size to the one the witches in Macbeth used.

Single, single, moil and mingle;
This mess tastes like that stuff on a shingle .

As I alluded to in my Facebook post, winter has not technically arrived. That doesn’t happen until the 21st. The first day of winter is known as the winter solstice. It is the shortest day of the year. Compare this to the summer solstice, which — as everyone knows — is the tallest day of the year.

Ancient savage pagan heathen barbarians used to celebrate the solstice. They noticed that the sun had been getting progressively lower in the sky and more feeble each day since the tallest day of the year. Then, after the shortest day of the year, they noticed that the days started getting taller again. People were ecstatic that the sun didn't just fizzle out and die in a snow drift. It never occurred to them that the sun did the same routine every year. These were ignorant brutes who apparently needed help from aliens to build Stonehenge.

A Wikipedia article on the celebrations surrounding the winter solstice says in part, “Starvation was common in winter between January and April, also known as the famine months..." and "The majority of wine and beer made during the year was finally fermented and ready for drinking at this time.” I imagine the food wasn't missed all that much.

So whether your choice of celebration is Christmas, Burning of the Clocks, Festival of Lights, Festivus, Hanukkah, HumanLight, Kwanzaa, Saturnalia, or Pongal; it's my wish that everyone enjoys the season. Rejoice in your own fashion (I mean party in your own way. I wasn't suggesting that you whoop it up over your clothes).

Oh, and a Happy Winter Chicken Day to all!

Flashlight Up The Butt? So What?

2010-12-14T08:21:00.010-05:00

A busy travel season is approaching, and warm Christmassy smiles will soon be wiped from the faces of countless travelers as they go through airport security on their way to holiday destinations.

Security surrounding air travel has increased on an exponential level equivalent to some of those graphs that Al Gore brandished in his documentary An Inconvenient Truth (which could be a good alternate title for this blog post). But way back when I was a youngster, airport security consisted of a semi-retiree asking “How are you?” as you made your way to the terminal gate. Really suspicious looking people may have been asked to present their boarding passes before they got on the plane.

But that was then. We live in the real world now. Fun and games are over kiddies. Long waits, long lines, grumpy faces, serious attitudes, scanners, and pat downs are the order of the day.

These new rules however are creating mobs of whiny protesters who obviously don't realize that these measures are for their own good. People say they don't want their clothes virtually stripped off by scanners nor do they wish to have anyone cop a feel of them as they exit the metal detectors.

A security man (though a fair sort)
Used to pat people down at the airport
Till the day he got slapped
'Cause he misjudged and tapped
Where the skin is less tan and the hair short.

I realize that the images from those airport scanners are a form of erotica the like of which we've never seen before. Who wouldn’t get turned on by looking at those? I don’t know how the agent viewing them can keep from salivating all over himself. But that’s his problem, right?

As far as the pat downs go, I think I'd rather be the pattee than the patter. There are a LOT of people I'd prefer not to feel up. Besides, we can think of these hands-on episodes as a free massage! Have you seen the prices for a therapeutic massage these days? Just think of the airport as a mini spa. You get to take a few clothes and jewelry off. You take off those tight sweaty shoes. You get a little massage. Then you relax and have a seat in the sauna-like terminal while you read a magazine and wait for your flight. Ahhhh…..

I really think everyone should be required to fly naked. Nudists would have no problem with this, but the puritanical among us might complain. I remember I was once on a flight that had a squad of NFL cheerleaders on it, and... well... what was I saying? Oh... yeah. Come on people! For the sake of security. Let's get with the program and implement this ASAP!

Another splendid idea is that everyone be required to swallow a pill-sized camera that quickly makes the voyage down the entire length of your alimentary canal — from entrance to exit; from stem to stern; from embark to disembark; from high to low; from hello to… well, you get the idea. However, this could take some time. It could create lines of humanity that would make the queues for Space Mountain or the opening of the latest Harry Potter movie look like the lineup outside a bar in Utah on Christmas Day.

Shall we please not gripe about the pat-downs and x-rays and interrogation. After all, it’s in the name of safety. Which would you prefer; getting a light feel from a security agent, or the considerably harder touch of a terrorist bomb?

Even if security measures were to become more severe in the near future, how could anyone possibly complain? Seriously, which would you prefer; being blown to smithereens, or stripping down to your birthday suit and being asked to bend over and touch your toes while a stranger shines a high-powered flashlight beam up your nether regions?

This should be an easy choice.

It Happened On A Feast Of Stephen

2010-12-12T12:29:00.007-05:00

Greetings dear loyal reader. Once again snow shoveling season is upon us. A squall from Lake Huron hit Antler River last Sunday and did not let up until Wednesday. With the eagerness of the proverbial Canadian beaver, I grabbed my trusty shovel and headed out on seven separate occasions to clear away the accumulated flakes.

When all was said and done, we had about 100 cm of snow (for those of you who are not used to the metric system, this translates to roughly 47 ounces or 1.78 pounds per square inch). But you should have seen this winter wonderland! The snow was lying round about; deep, and crisp, and even.

For some reason, I’m reminded of that old Holiday song about a good king. You know — the one that begins, “Good King’s wench is lost. Look out...” That’s not really how it goes, but that could be a common Mondegreen.

Of course the good king in the familiar song is none other than His Royal Majesty King Wenceslas.

Here is the story of an incident that took place one winter evening which might give you some idea of the character of this "good" king.

Note: There are disturbing overtones of cannibalism in this legend — eating flesh, and a feast of Stephen. This story may not be suitable for small children and fussy eaters.

It seems that one night when the moon shone bright (though there was frost on the gruel), King Wenceslas took a break from his cold porridge and happened to espy a poor fellow in the snow gathering fuel. It’s not clear if he was drilling for oil, mining coal, or collecting some wood. Suffice it to say, he needed to ignite something combustible in order to heat his humble abode.

The king was likely upset that some filthy commoner was out there scuzzying up his lovely blanket of virgin snow. So he yelled to his faithful sidekick Paige, “Hither Paige, and stand by me!”

Paige quickly hurried to the side of her regent. He demanded that she tell him who in blazes was “yonder peasant” (the king always liked to use degrading terms for those he felt were below his station in life, which would include everybody). She informed him that the man lived a good league hence (about 1.879 kilometers per cubic hour for those used to the metric system), and that he lived right against the forest fence, underneath the mountain (presumably in a cave). Why a fence would extend into a mountain cave or tunnel is anyone’s guess, but it’s possible that this fence cordoned off the property of a saintly neighbour by the name of Agnes Fountain.

After getting the facts from Paige, the king demanded, “Bring me flesh, and bring me wine. Bring me pine logs hither. We shall bear them.”
“Whither?”
“Thither.”
So Paige and monarch forth they went togither to bear thither a feast of wine, flesh, and tasty pine logs.

En route to yonder wretched oaf, Paige complains that she is having a heart failure and can go on no longer. The icy king responds with a curt “Mark my footsteps! Tread thou in them!” This, he alleged, would make her blood “freeze less coldly”. Well I’m no physicist, but frozen is frozen. If your blood freezes, it matters little if it freezes 10 or 100 times less (that’s 6.89 or 73.47 times for those of you not used to the metric system).

Besides, Paige was a diminutive thing. The king was a large fellow with a stride like Yao Ming. His footprints were well in excess of five cubits apart (for those of you used to the metric system, well, you figure it out. I’ve never know what the heck a cubit was). In order to tread in that dinted snow, Paige must have looked like a little lord a-leaping.

Now all this about the king’s cold attitude and whether or not anyone engaged in cannibalism is definitely subject to interpretation. However, the fact that the king didn’t invite the peasant into his warm castle for a nice holiday meal is not.

It’s not as if yonder clodhopper was a long ways off. Paige could clearly identify him without visual aid, so he was probably within shouting distance. The king could have bellowed through the crispy moonlit night, “Hey, yonder dirtbag! Come hither for a bowl of frosty gruel and a nice warm plate of Stephen.”

There you have it. I hope this puts you in the holiday spirit. May your Christmas be merry, your New Year happy, and your oatmeal frost free.

The Clown Look!

2010-05-03T15:16:00.002-04:00

I watched the Kentucky Derby this past weekend. The horse I picked to win actually won! That always happens when I don’t place a bet.

One thing that NBC focused on during their coverage was the fashionistas at this year’s race. Some woman was fawning over the “celebrities” there, as if she were Joan Rivers and the people she was interviewing were Oscar nominees strolling down the red carpet. I was kind of hoping to see one of the women wearing those floppy hats and thousand-dollar dresses step right into a road apple.

I’ve never cared for the fashion industry’s ideas of how the masses should look. I always have to laugh when I see a model walking down a runway wearing the expression and dress of a dour mannequin that has just crashed through a paper-mâché chicken coop.

But I shouldn’t talk. My idea of looking chic is when I find a tee-shirt to wear that doesn’t have an old ketchup stain on it. Even so, compared to most of the younger generation, my everyday attire makes me look like Fred Astaire on his way to a soirée with Eleanor Powell.

Now I’ve been around a few years, and I’ve seen fashions come and go. But I can’t believe the way that most young people dress has been the style for several years now (dare I say decades?). These ridiculous styles have far outworn their welcome.

Take shorts, for example. They’re not too damn short. For the most part, shorts these days cover the knees! In my day, we called these “clam-diggers”, or “culottes” for cryin’ out loud. I would never wear these to the beach. It must take at least two days for them to dry off! I refuse to wear something like that on a hot summer day. But — due to the taboos that society today has placed on such attire — I can’t wear a “Speedo”, which is a much more practical and comfortable form of beachwear.

Fortunately, I’ve been able to find shorts that hang down no further than mid-thigh. If it ever gets to the point where I can’t find anything other than those damn knee-level shorts to wear, then I swear; I’m goin’ in the water starkers.

And, if you will, allow me another rant (via another rap “song” I’ve composed) regarding jeans that are worn with the waistband below the butt cheeks.

Some beatbox rhythm, if you please:

oom pah pah, oom pah pah

With crotch to my knees,
I feel a breeze.
So you can stare
at my underwear.

‘Cause I’m a hip-hop
urban fop.
Gonna dance
in my “poopy pants”.

Listen up, fashion industry! Here’s what I propose for the latest trend: The Clown Look!

Imagine — hair flying off in all directions and dyed in unusual colors; wildly vivid makeup; shirts untucked and unkempt; big, gaudy shoes; baggy pants and… hold on a sec… what the heck am I saying? That is the style of the day.

The Golden Age of Used Books

2010-04-22T11:31:00.005-04:00

This is the Dark Age of television. Each night, my wife and I like to relax for an hour or two in front of the boob tube to just take it easy and unwind after a hectic, stressful day. And each night we find ourselves going to bed at 8 o’clock, reading our books, and nodding off by 9.

That’s only a bit of an exaggeration. But the fact remains that there is virtually nothing on that is worth any ocular effort whatsoever. However, if you like reality TV, then this would be your Golden Age of television — Survivor, American Idol, Dancing with the “Stars”, The Biggest Loser, etc.

Now I’ve watched a little of these shows, and I have found them entertaining — for about 10 minutes. They wear out there welcome PDQ. What they need is a little pizzazz and originality to bring excitement and viewers to their shows. For example, Survivor is always set in a tropical place like Seychelles, Aruba, Fiji, or Hedonism II. I suggest they spice things up by trying a locale like Baffin Island or Ellesmere Island.

Imagine a group of exhibitionistic, 15-minute-fame-seeking misfits matching strength and “wits” on Canada’s frozen tundra while battling frostbite, polar bears, and slippery glaciers. I would eagerly tune in to see that.

American Idol would benefit from allowing contestants of all ages. No-talent 50-somethings like myself could croak out a few discordant notes for your audio/visual pleasure. Like the other rejects on the show, it would be my pleasure to humiliate myself for the sake of quality "entertainment".

Dancing with the “Stars” should have some actual stars on the show. I mean really, who wants to see some washed-up B-movie actors or obscure retired Cricket players dancing the Charleston and the Twist? Instead, how about Jack Nicholson doing the Fox Trot? Or Meryl Streep doing the Can-Can? Or LeBron James doing a Pas de deux with D'Brickashaw Ferguson? Or Bill Clinton doing the Tango? (he’d be pretty good at it, I would assume).

The amazing thing about TV these days is the fact that there are a plethora of channels and yet a dearth of worthwhile programming. I swear, when I was growing up, we had only 5 or 6 channels to choose from, and yet there always seemed to be some decent shows to watch. Hell, even Bozo the Clown and Lunch with Soupy Sales were better than 99% of the programs out there today.

Today — in addition to the major networks and cable channels — we have special interest choices like the Golf Channel, the Fishing Channel, Gypsy News Network, Crokinole TV and the Weasel Channel. I’ve seen some people with satellite TV service that have what seems like a thousand channels to choose from. But what difference does it make when you find that 250 of them are showing Two and a Half Men?

I think I’ll continue shopping at my friendly neighborhood used book store.

The Secret to Overall Well-Being and General Health

2010-04-14T15:16:00.011-04:00

Since my retirement, I’ve spent a good deal of time being "active" by either visiting Facebook, or writing in my blog. Blog — that sounds like a combination of bloated sluggard, or a bump-on-a-log blob; and it pretty well sums up my general fitness level these days.

I’ve never been a very athletic person. Sure I played sports in school. As I noted in an earlier post, I was a pretty fast runner, so I was on a few track and field teams. I played a little soccer as well. I looked good when I would kick the ball ahead and outrun my opponent to it. Once I got near the scoring area however, I couldn’t score if I aimed dead center of the goal with no goalie to deal with. My “passes” looked more like I was trying to give someone on the sidelines a souvenir soccer ball.

One of my shining soccer moments was during a game where I was asked to be the goaltender. Apparently our team was in desperate need of a slob or blob or blog to stand between the goal posts and get in the way of any shots that were sent directly at him. It worked too! I made a great “save” when one of the opposing players — the guy with the biggest legs on the team — boomed a high-velocity cannon-shot that made a beeline for my throat.

The ball ricocheted off my Adam’s apple. Tears immediately welled up in my eyes. I saw stars. I couldn’t breath. My legs went wobbly. But I had prevented a goal. My teammates went wild. “Way to go”, “What a play”, “Way to take one for the team”, “Nice throat save”, etc.

I responded to their accolades with, “Ack… gnh… ahhh… mmmph… gaaaa… awk… gak…” It wasn’t very eloquent, but I was trying to say that I was pleased to be instrumental in earning a victory for our team.

I haven’t been a member of any sports team for years. To stay in shape for the better part of my adult life, I’ve just shoveled snow and done a random variety of exercises.

I was a pretty skinny kid. I used to see those ads in the comic books for the Charles Atlas Dynamic Tension system for gaining he-man bulk. I was always afraid that I was going to be the guy who got sand kicked in his face. I actually sent away for one of those systems as advertised in the comics. It wasn’t the Charles Atlas one though. I can’t remember the name of it, but it was similar to Dynamic Tension. It was Tense Dynamo or Tensile Dynamite, or Dinaric Tonsils, or something like that.

To my mild disappointment, the “system” I paid good money for was just a series of calisthenics; pushups, sit-ups, knee-bends, etc. But I persevered with the exercises for several weeks, for I had this image of the behemoth I should become. I envisioned myself as a modern day Maciste (ma-CHEE-stay). My dad, whenever he was outside with his shirt off, would puff out his chest, flex his muscles, and call himself Camiste (cha-MEE-stay). My brothers and I always cracked up at this.

Eventually I gained .00025 micrograms of extra rippling muscle through the Demonic Tinsel (or whatever it was called) system.

To this day I still use calisthenics and isometrics in my erratic exercise regimen. Here is a rundown of the methods I use to keep myself in tip-top shape:

Calisthenics and Isometrics
These are the lazy man’s forms of exercise. They both do an OK job of keeping your muscles toned and they perform the extra task of fooling yourself into believing you did a real workout.

The Bullworker

Another system I bought through the comics. This was a pretty sound investment however, since I still have this device. I bought it in the 70’s and it’s still as good as new — which may give you an idea as to how much it’s been put to use. Still, it is excellent for muscle tone and the belief that you've done a "workout" like I previously mentioned.

Tai Chi
I do the Yang style of Tai Chi. Here is another low impact, easy, relaxing, and unchallenging way to fool yourself that you are the very image of bodily vigor. Besides, it’s so much fun to do moves with names like “carry tiger to mountain”, “grasp bird’s tail”, and “fair lady works shuttles” (I’m not making that up).

Momentum 620 Elliptical Exerciser

Now here’s a high-tech new-age gadget that’s sure to improve overall aerobic capacity, strength, cardiovascular health, mental acuity, and skeletal conditioning. Since its purchase it’s been used religiously — which means I use it about as often as I go to church. Even so, it does provide a great workout when used, although it’s about as much fun as pulling weeds.

Pulling Weeds — Gardening
Some people swear by this as a means of staying healthy. I swear at it as a necessary evil of domestic life. I mean, I have to do it, and I suppose I get some physical benefits from it. But all in all, I’d rather watch TV and drink beer.

Watching TV and Drinking Beer
Before you judge me too harshly, be aware that taking it easy is about the best thing you can do for your overall well-being. The hours I’ve spent watching TV and drinking beer outnumber my exercise hours by a factor of about 15 to 1; yet I’m in relatively good physical condition. To what else can I attribute this?

Word Twist and the Masters Trontmeuna

2010-04-07T15:29:00.006-04:00

I’ve recently joined Facebook. This social networking website is great for getting in touch with family and friends you haven’t seen since the disco era.

I haven’t a great deal of people listed as friends. For the life of me I can’t think of anyone else to add beyond the three dozen or so individuals who now grace my list. This has made me realize that I’ve spent far too much time in front of my computer screen. I have more virtual friends than actual friends.

But I devote most of my time on Facebook playing a game that has become the most addictive thing since breathing.

The game is called Word Twist. The objective of this game is to unscramble the letters you are given and to make up as many words as you can think of in a two-minute period. For example, you may be given the letters b t c x a z q. From these of course you can make the words bat, cat, and tax. If you’re very clever, you get bonus points for using all of the letters given to reveal a word. I can’t think of a word that uses all the letters b, t, c, x, a, z, and q, but this is the dilemma I face virtually every time I play the stupid game.

For the most part, I’m pretty good at coming up with the words that use three letters. I’ve been able to think of a few choice four-letter words when playing the game as well.

But tomorrow I won’t be glued to the computer screen. Instead, I’ll be glued to the television screen as I sit down to enjoy golf’s greatest tournament, the Masters.

Each year this is the only golf event that I make sure to watch. What a joy to see these men getting paid a small fortune to stroll about some idyllic gardens while hacking away at a tiny ball with their baffing spoons, mashies, and niblicks.

However, dollars mean nothing to the Masters champion. No, the best thing about the Masters is you get to win a green jacket. Not at any other place or at any other time is it considered an honor to adorn a spinach-colored blazer, but this is the ultimate prize in this unparalleled athletic endeavor. The winner apparently gets to keep the coat for a year. Somehow I’m thinking it’s not worn beyond that one moment when it’s awarded.

Here's a challenge for you, dear readers. Unscramble the following letters to come up with the name of the player everyone will be watching this year: t i g r e w o o s d

Did you get it? That may be as much of a challenge as will face Tiger Woods when he tries for his fifth green jacket. I hope he wins it.

It’s a good thing the winners don’t keep the jackets. Tiger’s wardrobe would be as beastly as his nickname.

Texas Text Asses

2010-03-30T15:41:00.012-04:00

The Texas Board of “Education” has been in the news recently. In a 10 to 5 vote, the board has decided to introduce new ultra-conservative history textbooks to the state's schools. Sweeping changes to recorded history will undoubtedly help produce an entire generation of misguided and misinformed Texans.

Among the changes will be to promote conservative heroes like Ronald Reagan and Newt Gingrich. On the other hand, the new books will see a reduced scope for Latino history and culture, so historic figures like César Chávez will likely go unmentioned. Another change is to no longer include Thomas Jefferson among the individuals who influenced the nation’s intellectual origins.

This I can understand since everyone knows that Jefferson was just an ordinary Joe who had no influence whatsoever on American history. Who cares if he was a philosopher, horticulturist, architect, archaeologist, paleontologist, inventor, founder of a University, third U.S. president, and primary author of the Declaration of Independence? Just because someone thought he was deserving of having his image carved into the face of a mountain doesn't mean the rest of us should accord the man any praise.

However, the rest of this type of revisionism is complete and total Texas Longhorn Bullcrap! As long as there are websites like Snow Shoveling In Canada around, you can be sure that the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth will be available. We are your lantern in the darkness of nescience, illiteracy and general goofy dumbness.

American history is rife with important historical individuals and colorful characters — people like Eli Whitney, an inventor and moonshiner who made gin out of cotton (yech!). Canada as well has had its share of important innovators and inventors like... well... I can't think of anyone right now, but we've been known to be quite productive when we weren't slugging back a few ounces of Eli Whitney's Olde Tyme Cotton Gin ®.

Canada can however crow about Sir Sandford Fleming; kind of a Canadian Benjamin Franklin. Americans of course had their own Benjamin Franklin in one Benjamin Franklin.

But Texas, bloated with bluster and braggadocio, boasts the biggest names.

Therefore, I’d like to present some little-known “facts” regarding some famous Texans.

Stephen F. Austin
Austin was a bionic man and an impresario who organized many concerts and operas just north of the Mexican border in the early 1800’s. For some reason, his efforts in this regard were enough for him to be credited with the title “The Father of Texas”. The capital city of Texas and the Austin Motor Company are named after him.

Sam Houston
Houston was a statesman and soldier who really had it in for a Mexican named Santa. He participated in several tiffs with Santa and the Mexican army, including the battle of the Alamo. This skirmish was notable for its participants which included Jim “Big Blade” Bowie and Davey Crockett (or maybe it was Daniel Boone. Well, it was one of those Fess Parker-like frontiersman).

Jett Rink
Mr. Rink was a good-for-nothing ranch hand who inherited a worthless piece of Texas scrubland from a woman by the name of Luz Benedict. Determined to get something from this hardscrabble real estate, Jett doggedly drilled holes into the dirt until one day when he finally struck oil. His land yielded more “Texas Tea” than he could have imagined. Rink eventually became the most famous, wealthy, and admired man the state has ever produced.

Jordan 'Bick' Benedict Jr.
Another industrial giant.

Lyndon B. Johnson
A true Texan, Johnson was the 36th President of the United States. He is perhaps most famous for his incredible demonstrations of strength where he would pick up an entire beagle by the ears.

So there you have it. All you ever wanted to know (I’m sure) about the Lone Star (out of four) State.

And just to get it out of my system, here are some links about Thomas Jefferson, Darwinism, and César Chávez. Take that Texas Board of Ed!!!

A note to you Texas tykes out there: feel free to use this blog as a source to further your knowledge about Texas and the world in general.

It certainly won’t hurt anymore than your proposed new texts.

Monday Thursday in April or March

2010-03-29T08:31:00.003-04:00

“In your Easter bonnet.”
“Oh, yeah? Well, the same to you Mac!”

Easter is coming soon — I think. No one really knows when Easter will take place each year since it is a moveable feast and its date is supposedly set by some mind-dizzying formula that was named after an ancient Latin data processing machine. To illustrate how confusing this all is, the third day before Easter has been called Monday Thursday.

All that really matters is that this is the time of year that pretty well marks the end of the snow shoveling season in Southern Ontario. It is also the weekend of chocolate bunnies, multi-colored hard-boiled eggs, and hot cross buns.

Hot cross buns! Hot cross buns!
One a penny two a penny - hot cross buns
If you have no daughters, give them to your sons
One a penny two a penny - hot cross buns

Luckily, I never had any sisters.

An event that allegedly takes place on Easter is the Easter Parade. But in all my years I’ve never witnessed a parade in our fair city on Easter. Nor have I come across any parades while flipping through the television channels on that particular day; although, someone did make a movie about this annual March/April march.

From a Wikipedia article about the Easter Parade:

“An old Irish adage stated "For Christmas, food and drink; for Easter, new clothes," and a 15th-century proverb from Poor Robin's Almanack states that if on Easter Sunday some part of one's outfit is not new, one will not enjoy good luck during the year.

At Easter let your clothes be new,

Or else be sure you will it rue.”

At Easter let your clothes be new, Or else be sure you will it rue??? What kind of a terrible, strained rhyme is that? I'm sure someone could come up with a better verse than that. I'll have a crack at it (ha ha. get it? crack... eggs... you know... Easter eggs... forget it). Let's see if I can make an improvement:

At Easter time new clothes you get,
Or you damn sure will it regret.

That's much better.

I recall as a kid in school we sang:

On the Avenue, Fifth Avenue,
The photographers will snap us
And you'll find that you're in the rotogravure.

When it came to that last word, we may just as well have been asked to sing pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis. It was hilarious the way we stumbled over it. There may have even been a few curses uttered in lieu of the word, but the teacher never noticed. To this day I still don’t know what rotogravure means.

But I am thinking of starting the Easter Parade tradition here in Antler River. My wife and I will dress up in our Easter best, put a decorative collar on our pooch, and take a walk around the cul-de-sac. I can just see us strolling elegantly about the neighborhood. I'll be a veritable fashion plate in my new jacket, snazzy pants, spiffy hat, shiny shoes, and doggy poop bag.

Oh, I could write a sonnet about your Easter bonnet…

But I won't. I'll just wish you a Happy Easter; whenever that is.

An Ex-Spearmint

2010-03-26T14:06:00.000-04:00

Experiment:

To resolve the question, Does your chewing gum lose its flavor on the bedpost overnight? (i.e., does spearmint become ex-spearmint after an eight-hour period)

Observation/Research

Gum: Wrigley’s Excel White Spearmint (a brave, courageous, and bold flavor)
Bedpost: 114 cm (45 in) high wooden headboard post with a top knob diameter of 7.5 cm (3 in)
Room temperature: 20 degrees C (68 F).
Wind speed: Negligible
Catalytic agents: Initial mastication with salivary juicification, followed by eight hours of stationary incubation in bedroom air with ambient microbials.

Hypothesis

A par-chewed piece of gum — precisely placed on bedroom furniture — undergoes a chemical reaction (and, as a result, loses its flavor) while the consumer saws logs in the Land of Nod.

Prediction

On awakening and then popping the cold, tacky, icky lump of gum into the mouth, the scientist will experience a bland and tasteless chew akin to that found in most store-bought frozen pizzas.

Experimentation — Procedure and Results

After having brushed his teeth (to remove any unwanted reagents), the scientist proceeded to gnaw on two pieces of the sugarless gum for one minute at a rate of two chews per second. With still plenty of flavor left in the wad, it was placed on the exact top center of the bedpost. The tester then kissed his wife goodnight and went sleepy bye.

After a restless night — due to all the questions and worries regarding the ramifications of this momentous study — the researcher rose and had a good chaw of the rubbery treat. He found to his amazement that there was a great deal of tasty enjoyment to be had. So, chewing happily, downstairs he went and had some fresh-brewed coffee. The clash of two wildly divergent flavors caused the subject of this experiment to be spat out in disgust.

Conclusion

Chewing gum keeps its flavor while left on a bedpost at least for an overnight stretch (ha ha. get it? stretch... you know... gum... forget it).

Also, gum and coffee should never be enjoyed together.

Chewing Gum — Chewing Chewing Gum

2010-03-25T09:11:00.010-04:00

I love chewing gum. What I mean to say is, I love chewing gum and I love chewing chewing gum. Bubble gum is OK but it tends to be a little too sweet and my temples get sore after gnawing away at it for a while.

Gum is available in a staggering variety of flavors, from your standard spearmint to piña colada. I wouldn’t be surprised if there were a roast chicken variety.

One flavor I've never seen though is chocolate. It’s apparently available, but I’ve never had any and it's not sold in any stores here. I wonder why this isn’t a favorite gum choice. I’d sure give it the ol' chew chew cha boogie.

Cinnamon is a popular gum flavor. Dentyne and Big Red are a couple of examples. Big Red brand was first advertised as a strong, bold, powerful gum suitable for only the manliest and rugged of men, like cowboys. The first time I saw their commercial, I thought it was the Marlboro man trying a Nicorette-like therapy to quit smoking. I believe their slogan was “Kick some ass with Big Red.”

The makers of Big Red soon found that sweaty, manure-crusted cowpunchers don’t lend themselves well to the marketing of a tasty confection. So, they went in an entirely different direction and pitched it as a gum for sweethearts. Thus was born the "Kiss a little longer" campaign.

The only problem with this was the fact that the gum was still awfully strong, as illustrated by the "Big Red Wrapper" trick.

From a Wikipedia article:

“It is known that the cinnamon from the gum leaks into the wrappers. The wrappers can burn skin. The 'trick' is for one to lick the inside of the wrapper, and stick it onto his or her face. It will cause a painful burning sensation.”

If they had originally shown the cowboys in their commercials doing that, then maybe it would have been a hit — at least among thrill seekers, sadists, and the kind of guys who think it's fun to wax the hair from their chest and armpits.

While we're ruminating on gum, I've always wondered about the answer to that age-old question "Does your chewing gum lose its flavor on the bedpost overnight?" I never attempted this experiment as a kid because my mother would surely have forbidden it. But now that I'm a full-grown mature adult, I can do whatever the hell I like. So, in that spirit, I will go ahead with this important research and update you on the results when they become available. I wonder if I can get a government grant for this.

I miss some of the old brands of my youth like Beemans and Beech-Nut Fruit Stripe gum (I actually don’t remember what Fruit Stripe tasted like, but I sure do remember the TV ad).

One of my favorite chewing gums back then was Black Jack. This was a licorice-flavored gum that was great for placing strategically in your mouth to make it look as if you had teeth missing.

Of course there have always been the ubiquitous Wrigley brands with their squeaky-clean ads, full of wholesome words and images. Who could forget the Doublemint commercial with the two hot blonde twins walking toward a couple of identical guys while the song plays "A double pleasure’s waiting for you… " or the Juicy Fruit jingle with its immortal words "Take a sniff, pull it out, the taste is gonna move you when you pop it in your mouth…"

Today I tend to buy the sugarless gums that claim to whiten teeth. With all the coffee I drink, I want to do what I can to combat any enamel staining going on. But I don’t necessarily want to chase that great coffee flavor away with some intense icy-cool mint — spear, winter, pepper, or otherwise.

Come to think of it, for people in a hurry, a coffee-flavored gum with all the caffeine included would be a great way to start the day. I think I’m onto something here. I must remember to call Wrigley.

Chew 'em up, Big Red!

2010-03-23T12:12:00.007-04:00

MARCH MADNESS IS IN THE AIR!!!!

This past week I spent hours in front of the television watching the NCAA men’s basketball championship tournament.

The usual teams are there: Kentucky, Duke, Syracuse, and Michigan State. Kansas made a surprising early exit. But I’m rooting for the “Sleeping Beauty teams” like Northern Iowa, Xavier, St. Mary's, and Cornell.

Cornell is playing amazing basketball. This team is from the Ivy League, which rises just above the Bush League. On Sunday, the Cornell Big Red demolished the Wisconsin Weasels 157-34 (it was actually closer than that, but not by much). After the game, the Big Red boosters (the Cornell fans, not the chewing gum aficionados) were heard singing the school “fight” song:

Give my regards to Davy,
Remember me to Tee Fee Crane.
Tell all the pikers on the Hill
That I'll be back again.
Tell them just how I busted
Lapping up the high highball.
We'll all have drinks at Theodore Zinck's
When I get back next fall!

I’m not making that up. Sung to the tune of “Give my regards to Broadway”, it is the actual fight song for Cornell.

But c’mon; Davey and Tee Fee? Drinking highballs at Theodore Zinck’s? Hardly words that would inspire a fighting spirit. Perhaps if the last line were “Then we’ll have a barroom brawl”, then that might do it.

I’ve never been in a barroom brawl or a basketball tournament, but I have been known to play a little roundball from time to time. Years ago, my notoriety as a hoopster was enough to earn myself a pretty nifty nickname. In fact, whenever I shot the ball, you would hear onlookers chant it in unison, “air ball… air ball… air ball…”

I also could do a 360 double-pump between-the-legs behind-the-back windmill tomahawk in-your-face slamma-jamma dunk on my own basketball net. I must admit that the “360 double-pump between-the-legs behind-the-back windmill tomahawk in-your-face” part of the maneuver was done standing on the ground, but at least I did it. Sort of.

So, if you’re wondering what I’ll be doing this weekend, I’ll be at home sitting in front of the television with a beer and enjoying the tournament.

On second thought, maybe I’ll have some drinks at Zinck’s and watch it on the big screen TV with Tee Fee.

Lindsays, Tweets, and Samuel's Peeps

2010-03-12T10:22:00.024-05:00

I consider myself a blogger, not a writer.

Blogging is like entry-level writing. Microblogging is like entry-level blogging.

Those who post boiled-down messages from the popular social networking site Twitter are said to be “tweeting”. Tweets are the most well known form of microblogging.

But for those who think microblogging and tweeting are recent phenomena, think again.

Of course there’s nothing new about making a long story short, but even centuries ago enterprising individuals sought to make the world a better place by saving time and expense on bothersome words. “Brevity is the soul of wit”, said Shakespeare (which is ironic because if ever oh ever a windbag there was, this wordy windbag was one).

The first known “microblogger” was Samuel Pepys. His name pronunciation is revealed in the following limerick:

It is said that one Samuel Pepys
Had the best diary by bounds and leaps
He penned of a plague
In a style far from vague
His account of it gave me the creeps

Unlike other chatterboxes of his time, like Dubhaltach MacFhirbhisigh, Pepys preferred to write about the day’s events in a diary. This was quite revolutionary for his time. I remember I had a diary when I was a child. I don’t believe it contained enough pages to handle a story as big as the Great Plague or the Great Fire of London. This is what made Pepys such an innovator. He told accounts of the day's events in concise snippets, which were then known as “peeps”.

By the way, MacFhirbhisigh (and you thought I made that up!) — after seeing how succinct Pepys’ writing was — is credited with coining the expression, “Jeepers, creepers! Where’d you get those peeps, sir?”

Whether we’re talking brevity or peeping or tweeting or microblogging or blurbing or…

Ah, never mind. I’ve said too much on this already.

Let’s turn our attention now to a recent news item about that multi-faceted star of publicity stunts; Lindsay Lohan.

Here are excerpts from an article in the Toronto Star (the bracketed question marks are mine):

The 23-year-old actress (???) has launched a $100 million (U.S.) lawsuit against discount brokerage eTrade, according to the New York Post.

“They're using her name as a parody of her life. Why didn't they use the name Susan? This is a subliminal message. Everybody's talking about it (???) and saying it's Lindsay Lohan,” Stephanie Ovadia, Lohan’s lawyer, told the Post.

Ovadia suggested that Lohan has elevated (???) ‘Lindsay’ to the same sort of one-off recognition status as ‘Madonna’ or ‘Cher’.

Lohan’s lawyer should realize that eTrade didn’t use the name Susan because it would surely invite legal trouble from a bunch of Susans. They should instead have used a fabricated name like Dubhaltach.

As yet, there have been no complaints reported from Lindsay Wagner, Lindsay Davenport, Lindsay Crouse, Lindsey Buckingham, Lindsey Vonn, Lindsey Hunter, Lindsey Jacobellis, Lindsay Ontario, or Mark Lindsay.

We should all take a lesson from this and be wary of the names and words we use. Be brief. Use peeps. Send tweets. Read Pepys. Never, ever utter the name Lindsay.

And woe betide anyone who, without express written consent, should use the names G. Thomas or G. or Snow Shoveling or Snow.

First Annual SSIC Poetry Contest

2010-03-11T08:45:00.007-05:00

We at Snow Shoveling in Canada are proud to announce the winners of the First Annual SSIC Poetry Contest.

Submissions were judged on originality, style, poetic structure, and order in which they were pulled from the hat.

And so, without further ado, here are the winners:

FIRST PRIZE:

MID-DAY CRICKET

Do you dare attract a mate, O mid-day cricket,
Calling all alone from your light-dappled thicket?
Chirp, chirp, chirping ‘neath a hazy, August sun;
You’ll find more competition when this long day is done.

SECOND PRIZE:

ODE TO THE BLACK JACK

Spank me when I’m born and toast me when I die,

Breakfast in the morn and a snort when evening’s nigh.
I’ll eat KD for lunch, and drink JD for dinner,
All’s fine on the outer, when Jack Daniel’s warms the inner.

THIRD PRIZE (this entrant could have claimed top prize, but they tried to sneak in four poems masquerading as one. As such, the entry was penalized, which may have cost this contestant incalculable fame and fortune):

GRAND LEGENDS OF THE OLD WEST

General George Armstrong Custer

Oh, that bastard cuss Custer
just couldn’t cut the mustard.
And thus the dastard bit dust.
His last stand was a mass bust.

---

Wyatt Earp

What is a man?

Consider Wyatt Earp; why he wasn’t worth a burp
when it comes to the measure of a man.

Real men are good and kind; they show love; are more refined
than those thugs such as Wyatt and his clan.

---

Wild Bill Hickok

You cannot say it’s fact that he enjoyed to kill,
but many men were slain by the guns of Wild Bill.

Yet, just desserts are served when brutes like Hickok fall
at the hands of punks like the vengeful Jack McCall.

---

Billy the Kid and Jesse James

When compiling a list like this
of such legends, I’d be remiss
if I did not mention the names
Billy the Kid and Jesse James.

Were they heroes, like Robin Hood;
misunderstood, and mainly good?
Ruthless killers is what they were;
Filthy dog and a loathsome cur.

Have you ever read such "poetry"? Words like these are rarely seen or heard nowadays. Whenever I pore over such lyrical versification as this, I'm reminded of Robert Frost (a favorite of snow shovelers everywhere), or that great poet of the environmental movement, John "Green Wit" Leafier. Other poets also come to mind such as William Butler Keats and John Manservant Yeats.

Oh, no one beats Yeats and Keats

For words so sublime and rich.

But of those greats, Keats and Yeats,

I'm never sure which is which.

The poem above received an honorable mention in our contest.

While we're on the subject of mentioning, I'd like to mention one of my favorite poets, Emily Dickinson. A biography of her on Famous Poets and Poems reads in part, "Dickinson assembled many of her poems in packets of 'fascicles' which she bound herself with needle and thread." It's a wonder those fascicles didn't make her poetry collection a sopping mess.

Two other poets I should call attention to are e.e. cummings and T.S. Eliot. Mr. cummings is probably best known as the poet who had a defective shift key on his typewriter. Mr. Eliot is famous for writing poems for which the musical Rats was based. The most famous song from this play was that ballad to a cuddly little sewer rodent, Ben.

You may be interested in knowing that I've done a little dabbling in poetry myself. But my poems are more likely to begin with words like, "There once was a gal from Grants Pass..."

Email me if you want to know how the rest of it goes.

Hair, You Go Again

2010-03-09T11:02:00.004-05:00

A wise and hairy Dane once said:

To beard, or not to beard: that is the question:
Whether 'tis easier on the face to suffer
The stings and cuts of tonsorial torture,
Or to take a break and accept that sea of stubble,
And by not opposing, grow a beard.

People spend a lot of time and attention on hair. Women will also spend countless dollars on styling their hair. Men, on the other hand, spend very little money (by comparison anyway) on hairstyling. The reason is that most of us men tend to gradually lose what precious little hair we have covering our craniums.

Facial hair is another matter. Men can do all sorts of things with facial hair that women can't. We can shave it off to look as smooth as women or we can demonstrate our superior macho masculinity by growing a beard. Once a significant amount of facial hair has been amassed, it can be trimmed into all manner of styles.

One popular style of beard is know as the Van Rijn, named after the hirsute Dutch painter Rembrandt Hairmengroom van Rijn. Alternatively, this style has been called the Van Dyke or the Van Heflin.

Another beard, the goatee, is much like the Van Rijn/Van Dyke/Van Heflin but without the mustache part. This is a great style for men who want to look like that famous old west desperado, Billy the Goat.

The full beard can be worn at various lengths; from the ultra-short (like most actors and male models these days — who look like they're on the fifth day of a five-day razorless vacation) to the super-long (for the classic Rasputin appearance or that dashing, through-the-snow look of Santa-Claus).

While in my twenties and thirties, I sported a beard most of the time. As I got older however, my facial hair grew grayer and grayer until it got to the point where it was completely white. Thus, vanity kept me clean shaven for many years. But about a year and a half ago, I decided to grow a beard once more. Since it was so white, I figured it would look better if I kept it short — very short.

Unfortunately, this also made my beard very picky. Whenever I gave my wife a smooch, she felt as if she were kissing a pin cushion. I was about as cuddly as a scotch pine.

Furthermore, when I started growing the beard I envisioned that I would look like this:

Instead, I ended up looking more like this:

So I shaved it off.

Now I look something like this:

Makes me look younger, don't you think?

Spider-Man, Batman, Gar-Gar and Sniff

2010-03-08T11:36:00.005-05:00

When I was a kid, like most kids, I loved reading comic books; particularly those about superheroes.

The Marvel comics were my favorites. I mostly enjoyed Spider-Man, Thor, The Fantastic Four, Iron Man, and Captain America. I didn’t care as much for the D.C. comics although I did like Batman and the Flash.

One of my least favorite superheroes had to be the Green Lantern. This rather pedestrian hero's distinction was the fact that he dressed in green and had a lantern and a ring. Whoop-dee-do!

Besides, his name made no sense. He was the man holding the lantern, not the lantern itself. They should have called him the "Green Guardian" or the "Man in Green with a Lantern and a Ring". If you saw someone with a crimson pail, you wouldn’t call him the "Red Bucket" (Although that would make for an interesting superhero. He might have some magic elixir or putrid slime in his bucket that he could dispense to evildoers).

From the mediocre we now go to the ridiculous: Superman. This guy really bugged me (although I wouldn’t say that to his face). It wasn’t enough that he was stronger than anyone. No. Superman could do anything. He could even turn back time! His powers made all the other superheroes obsolete. What a showoff! I wouldn't be surprised if he could dance better than Fred Astaire, or theorize better than Albert Einstein, or cook better than Julia Child.

I remember Superdude once had a foot race with my favorite superhero, The Flash. This hasty hero was my favorite because I used to be a pretty fleet little runner myself, in my youth. The reason I was fast was due to the fact that I was quite skinny; my legs had very little weight to bear and I encountered no wind resistance when I ran (it was kind of like having my own superpower).

Anyway, Superjerk and my man, the Flash, face off in this titanic race of speedy champions. I figure it’s a foregone conclusion that the Scarlet Speedster would win. After all, velocity was his forte, his only claim to fame, and his reason for living. If someone were as fast or faster than he, then he would have to hang his head in shame and no longer call himself a superhero.

So how does the race end? It’s a stinkin' tie!!! My favorite superhero has become redundant. I hate Superman.

I remember my father telling me and my brothers about a character called Plastic Man. He described him as this elasticized contortionist who could bend into various shapes and stretch to unbelievable lengths. Us boys, being the comic book connoisseurs that we were, explained to him that he was thinking of Mr. Fantastic from the Fantastic Four.

Dad, however, insisted there was such a character as Plastic Man. We kids chuckled about this on many occasions, thinking our father was either joking with us or losing his mind; until one day when he came home with a copy of Plastic Man.

Figuring we had to believe him now, he then proceeded to tell us about another lesser-known superhero by the name of Gar-Gar.

Gar-Gar had the uncanny ability to assume the form of any gas on the periodic table of elements. If necessary, he could fatally poison the bad guys or at least make them queasy by morphing himself into a foul odor.

He had a sidekick by the name of Sniff. Sniff had tremendous lung capacity and was immune to toxic gases and rancid smells. Thus, he was able to sniff up Gar-Gar whenever trouble arose.

Ol’ Dad had to be putting us on for sure this time. We weren’t going to fall for that one.

But all that's in the past. Now I'm a man. I've matured. I can see that the real heroes are the ones who make a difference in our lives: spouses, parents, family members, true friends, and reality TV stars.

Oh, and if someone should come across any issues of The Adventures of Gar-Gar and Sniff, let me know. I’d be interested in purchasing a copy.

Ides Say It’s a Busy Month

2010-03-05T11:01:00.024-05:00

Soothsayer
Caesar!

Caesar
What?

Soothsayer
Beware the Ides of March.

Caesar
What sayest thou, soothsayer?

Soothsayer
Beware the Fifteenth of March.

Caesar
Oh.

And so begins Act 1 Scene II of Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar.

Shakespeare’s play is based on a true story. You may remember from your history books the conversation that allegedly took place between Brutus and one of the Senators who planned to murder Caesar:

“When is this assassination supposed to take place?” asked Brutus.
“The Ides of March,” replied the conspirator.
“The I's of March? What, like the Ist, IInd, and IIIrd of March?”
“No, you dimwit. The Ides of March.”
“Ides? I have no idea what that is. Get it? Ide-ea. But seriously, what is it?”
“The fifteenth.”
“Then why didn’t you just say “fifteenth”?”
“I wanted it to seem ominous.”
“I see. Yes, we certainly don’t want our identities revealed.”
“Ominous, lamebrain, not anonymous.”
“Oh. OK, the Ides. But what time exactly?”
“At two, Brute.”

or something like that.

I generally think of March as a miserable month (I’m sure Caesar didn’t like it much either). Usually the weather is horrid, but this year it looks like the snow shoveling season may already be over with.

I’ve never seen a March begin like this one. It’s been as balmy as a summer night in Iqaluit. The forecast calls for sunshine and plus temperatures right up until next week. The walkways and driveway are as bare and dry as a parched nudist.

However, there are many other things besides shoveling to keep me occupied this month.

First off, the Academy Awards are on Sunday.

The front runners for Best Picture are Avatar and The Hurt Locker. If either of these win, it will be the worst choice for best film since, well, last year. But this would rank right up there with Braveheart and Forrest Gump as the worst best picture ever.

Personally, I’d like to see Up, Up in the Air win. This is a live action/animated film starring George Clooney and some cartoon codger. The music is by Jimmy Webb. The 5th Dimension (sometimes known as the 1/3rd Ides Dimension) perform the title song.

Another thing to look forward to this month is the NCAA Men's Division I Basketball Championship (a.k.a. March Madness). The first game is on the day after the Ides. This tournament gives me the opportunity each year to do my best bump-on-a-log-with-a-beer imitation. I don’t think my wife cares for it.

Two days after the Ides we have St. Patrick’s Day. St. Patrick was the patron saint of Ireland. He is known as the guy who — with the help of the Ides Piper — drove all the snakes and rats from Ireland. Everybody sing, “When Irish Ides are smiling…”

Incidentally, the Ides Piper was also the nickname given to a member of that gang that attacked Caesar. He’s the one that used a lead pipe rather than a knife.

It’s a busy, busy month indeed. Throw into the mix the beginning of Daylides Savings Time, the first day of spring, March break, Palm Sunday, and Passover, and it’s a wonder anyone ever has time to do any shoveling in March.

And I'm sorry about the nudist link trick.

“Sing”, “Sing” a “Song”

2010-03-03T08:34:00.017-05:00

It seems as though rap and hip hop are here to stay. However, this style of “music” isn’t new. Oh, no. It’s been around for a long, long time.

Much credit for its popularity today must be given to “artists” such as Iced Tea, M&Ms, The Notoriously Big Guy, and Charlie Brown’s dog Snoopy.

But you have to look no further than the 1960’s to find some fine examples of early rap.

One of the greatest “singers” of our time, Lorne Greene, released his hit “song” Ringo in 1964. Ringo tells the tale of a ruthless gunman who spread terror but was ultimately shot to smithereens after demonstrating a spark of good. This "song" would eventually become number one on the charts, replacing The Shangri-Las' ode to Frank Sinatra: Leader of the Pack.

Prior to that, in 1961, Jimmy Dean (the country sausage guy, not the rebel without a cause) recorded the hit Big Bad John. In this “song”, Mr. Dean “sings” about a sizable fellow who works in a mine. I won’t go into what happens to John, lest I just end up reproducing the lyrics here (which would essentially be the "song"). Let’s just say that I always felt sorry for that big misunderstood galoot.

One of the earliest instances of the rap style in popular music was demonstrated by Rosie the waitress from the Bounty paper towel commercials. Actually, it was the actress who played Rosie; Nancy Walker. She performed Milkman, Keep Those Bottles Quiet in the 1944 film Broadway Rhythm. This is not a pure rap “song”. I could not find a link to Ms. Walker’s version, but if you get a chance to hear it you'll notice that partway through the number she goes from singing to “singing”.

Yet we must go back much further in time to find the man who would have to be considered the founding father of rap “music”.

That distinction belongs to Antoninus, one of the thugs from the Spartacus gang. Remember him?

When the Romans captured Spartacus and his men, they threatened to kill them all unless someone would betray their leader. Spartacus — in a heroic effort to spare his men — stood up to reveal himself, but Antoninus beat him to the punch. He jumped to his sandaled feet and yelled out, “I’m Spartacus.”
This set off a chain reaction. Another guy stood up and shouted, “I’m Spartacus.”
And another, “I’m Spartacus.”
Another, “I’m Spartacus.”
And so on.

The Romans were very frustrated by this, because now instead of one pesky Spartacus, they found that they had to deal with a whole slew of Spartaci.

Legend has it that this event spawned an entire generation of scofflaws. Whenever a centurion confronted a non-Roman for some infraction — say a speeding chariot — the inevitable happened:
“Name?”
“Spartacus.”
“All right wise guy. Thirty days in the dungeon.”

But back to Antoninus. If you’ve seen the movie Spartacus, you’ll recall the scene where Antoninus tells his beloved leader that he is a “singer” of “songs”. The men then encourage him to perform. “Sing us a song," they say.
“Yes, sing us a song, Antoninus.”
“Sing, sing a song, you singer.”

And so he “sings”:

When the blazing wind hangs low in the western sky
when the sun flies away to the mountain
when the “song” of the crow scares the locusts from the fields
and maidens sleep in the sea foam
at last at twilight time...

or something like that.

But even back then rap “artists” had their critics; as demonstrated at the end of the scene when Spartacus rolls his eyes and sarcastically remarks, “Nice “song”.”

Some might argue that Antoninus was ahead of his time. However, it must be noted that even Cro-Magnon man had the ability to create “songs” by banging two rocks together and uttering monosyllabic monotone gibberish.

Music isn’t what I’d call a progressive art form.

SSIC Movie Review: The Hurt Locker

2010-03-02T08:51:00.008-05:00

This is a movie about bombs. Lots of bombs. Desert bombs.

The End.

That's pretty much it. Oh sure, a few other things happened. You wanna hear about 'em? OK. I'll provide you with a little more, oh faithful reader.

I’m still not sure what the title The Hurt Locker refers to. It’s not about well-secured first aid kits, nor is it about gymnasium facilities for actors William, John, or even Mary Beth.

This celluloid endeavor was directed by Kathryn Bigelow; the deft hand behind such legendary screen classics as Point Break and Blue Steel. It stars Jeremy Renner as Staff Sergeant William James, an expert at diffusing bombs. Joining him on the Explosivity Disposaling Unit are Sergeant JT Sanborn (Anthony Mackie), and Owen Eldrige (Brian Geraghty).

Renner has been nominated for an Academy Award for his performance. I’m not sure why this is. The supporting performances — most notably Mackie’s — were, in my opinion, superior. All Renner did was act “cool”. Oh, so “cool”. Desert "cool". But if looking “cool” is the only criterion used for award recognition, then David Caruso should be nominated for a Nobel Prize.

The film centers mostly on the antics of Sergeant James. James loves dismantling things that can blow you into a zillion pieces. He’d rather do that than live a peaceful life in a nice home with his beautiful wife. We’re shown some of his domestic life, but the movie doesn’t show the good stuff. No. Instead we see him cleaning out the eavestrough of his house.

Now I’ve cleaned out a few roof gutters in my time, but the one depicted here has to be the gunkiest gutter in the history of home maintenance. And he’s cleaning it out with his bare hand!!! C’mon, use a scoop, or a trowel, or a toy shovel, a stick, a shoe, anything. I’d rather diffuse bombs in Iraq than have to clean out that gutter in that fashion.

Another scene worth mentioning shows the guys — after getting a little snockered — engaging in an activity where good judgment and mental acuity would be a distinct disadvantage. The “game” involves taking turns hitting each other as hard as possible in the stomach. My wife, while watching this powerful and touching scene, turned to me and asked, “Why do men do those kind of things?”

You know, we men just have to chuckle when women ask us such questions. It was obvious to me, but I patiently explained it to her that this was a gesture of endearment. Women hug. Men try to smash the bejabers out of each other. It’s their way of saying, “You’re OK in my book.” And nothing says it better than a ruptured spleen.

A word of warning here to those prone to seasickness: the camerawork in this film is of that hand-held style that so many directors are wont to use these days. I suppose they feel it gives their movies that gritty, realistic, documentary look — which is ironic, since documentary filmmakers rarely use the technique anymore. Besides, if it’s supposed to look realistic, then why don’t I see the real world that way through my eyes? Although if I did, I’d be making an appointment — and pronto — with an ophthalmologist or a brain surgeon.

If you have a tough time watching this film due to that camera style, then avoid The Bourne Ultimatum at all costs. You would not survive. Its visuals are worse than any bone-jarring experience you could imagine.

I once took a ride on a gigantically tall roller coaster. Its peak disappeared into the clouds. It was called the Red Ripper, or the Brown Streak, or the Green Puker — something like that. Anyway, all I know is that I was smiling after that ride. I wasn’t smiling after The Bourne Ultimatum.

In closing, I should say that even though I had some reservations about renting the DVD of The Hurt Locker, I was able to take something positive from it — a lesson.

The lesson learned is, pay attention to your reservations.

2010 Olympic Rap-Up

2010-03-01T09:26:00.014-05:00

The 2010 Winter Olympics have come and gone, and what a great time it was.

Therefore, in honor of the games, I’ve decided to compose a rap song. I don’t know how to represent a beatbox rhythm in print, so we’ll have to go with oom pah pah.

oom pah pah, oom pah pah

To all the disapprovers
Who tried to diss Vancouver’s
Olympic Winter games
Go hang your heads in shame

oom pah pah, oom pah pah

‘Cause it’s a success story
A source of golden glory
For a bunch of Canadians
And even some Scandanavians

oom pah pah, oom pah pah

Second verse, same as the first… *

* That last line belongs to those hip hop pioneers and enfants terrible of pop music, Herman’s Hermits.

There were quite a few interesting stories at these games — some happy, some sad. And there were a lot of great Olympians who shone as bright as diamonds in the snow.

For me, none shone brighter than Petra Majdič of Slovenia. This incredible cross-country skier found herself off-course in a training run of the Ladies’ Sprint Classic. She tumbled into a deep ditch and landed on some rocks. She suffered four or five broken ribs and a collapsed lung. Amazingly, she subsequently raced in the quarterfinals, semifinals, and finals; earning a bronze medal for her efforts. She actually had to be given assistance to step up onto the podium to receive her award.

I remember I once missed an entire day of work after stubbing my toe in the dark on my way to the bathroom the previous night.

Another great Olympic moment was when the German long-track speed skaters squeaked out a win over the U.S. in the team pursuit semifinal. Anni Friesinger-Posterior languished behind her teammates on the final lap and fell before crossing the finish line. She did eventually cross it however; sliding on her belly while doing a strange breastroke-on-ice maneuver.

I’m not sure, but the U.S. team may have had reason to protest this. If anyone were to do a speed-skating motion while competing in the breastroke at the summer games, then they would undoubtedly be disqualified.

But perhaps my favorite Olympian was Kwame Nkrumah-Acheampong.

Nkrumah-Acheampong (pronounced Kwah-Mee), a skier from Ghana known as the "Snow Leopard" was the 102nd and final skier to compete in the men’s slalom. He finished the race ( which is more than 48 other guys can claim) and found himself 53rd among the 54 men who completed the course. Who, you may ask, had a slower time?

Albania's Erjon Tola, known as the “Snow Tortoise” finished 46.15 seconds off the lead time. He actually climbed back up the course to pass through a gate that he had missed.

Come to think of it, this could be the beginning of a new and exciting sport in future Olympics. I propose a slalom where the gates are hidden. After you get to the bottom, you’re told which ones you’ve missed and then you have to scramble back up the mountain to correct your mistakes.

But Kwame’s run down the slopes was fun to watch. After seeing him successfully navigate his way through the first couple of gates, I figured I had time to go upstairs to make myself a sandwich — bologna, with mustard, and maybe some mayo. Toasted? No. Lettuce? Sure, why not. A cup of coffee would go nice with that. Here’s some leftover from breakfast. Just warm it up a couple of minutes in the microwave. Great. A little cream and sugar. Back downstairs to watch the rest of Kwame’s run.

OK. He just has a couple of more gates to get through. And he’s made it! Congratulations, Kwame.

I really shouldn’t make fun of these two skiers. Admittedly, had I’d been given the chance to go down that course — and assuming I went cautiously enough not to miss any gates — I might have made it down in time to catch the closing ceremonies.

All in all I’d say these games were an unqualified success. After this year’s Olympic experience, you may wonder if I will tune into the 2014 Winter Games in Sochi, Russia.

You bet your sweet skeleton I will.

Pitching is Easier than Shoveling

2010-02-26T10:22:00.020-05:00

McDonald’s theme song "Bada ba ba ba im lovin it" is on Facebook

Really! I’m not kidding.

I wonder who else is on Facebook? Subway’s jingle “Five, five dollar, five dollar footlong” could be there. Or maybe Meow Mix’s “Meow, meow, meow, meow, meow, meow, meow, meow, meow, meow, meow, meow, meow, meow, meow, meow” song is on Facebook. Perhaps “The grizzly bears from the Charmin commercials with toilet paper pieces stuck to their bums” are on Facebook.

People often ask me, “Do you make a lot of money writing for Snow Shoveling In Canada?” Oddly enough, — considering what a bright beacon of information, critical thinking, and current events this site is — I am not paid for my efforts here.

It seems, however, that I’ve missed my calling. If I really wanted to make some easy money, then I would have become an ad man — yes, you heard me right, an ad man.

Look at the commercials on television. It must be easy to sell ads to these corporate executives. They’ll buy anything!

Imagine going to a meeting with the board of directors of some large food manufacturer, and pitching your idea of a big animated four-fingered hand. “This” you say, “is what you need to sell your hamburger enhancement product.”

With bold confidence, you show them an image of this brilliant character; seemingly born of enormous creative capacity and years of mental toil.

“His palm, you’ll notice, contains his face. His thumb is his right hand,” you announce with pride.
“What are the other three fingers?” they ask.
“His hair, of course.”
“What about legs? He has no legs.”
“Oh, he can move about pretty well. He can even drive a car, albeit badly.”
“Great! We’ll buy it,” they exclaim.

Or, you could have pitched the Geico Gecko.
“Our company name is Geico, not Gecko.”
“Yes, but it sounds like Gecko."
“Great! We’ll buy it.”
Good thing the company name wasn’t Cackroach. That would have been a tougher sell.

On the McDonald’s Canada web site, someone has posted this comment: “Why I Love McDonald's: Best jingle in history – Ba-Da-Ba-Ba-Ba.”

Yes, it certainly is ingenious. The composer of this jingle must be a richly talented musician indeed. It's also quite evident that his skill as a lyricist rivals W. S. Gilbert. But I like to imagine that I’d had the chance to pitch my ad and accompanying jingle just after this clever fellow.

“What do you have for us?” they would have asked.
“How’s this? Bada-Ba-Ba-Bee-Ba I’m sure lovin’ it.”
“Incredible! I never thought anyone would top that last guy. You’re hired.”

As simple as that.

Bells on Bobsleighs Ring

2010-02-25T12:17:00.010-05:00

I think tobogganing as a competitive sport would be great. Wouldn’t it be fun to see a team of 5 or 6 guys careering down a mountainside on a suped-up Olympic-caliber toboggan?

I was watching some more Winter Olympics yesterday, and they were talking about some fellow who is the director or something of the International Bobsleigh and Tobogganing Federation. Well, I’ve never seen tobogganing in the Olympics, nor have I seen it as a sport in any World Cup events.

So I thought that our crack team of investigators at Snow Shoveling in Canada had better check this out.

First, we googled “bobsleigh and tobogganing”. First hit was www.fibt.com. However, the website description is FIBT the international home of Bobsleigh and Skeleton sports. No mention of tobogganing.

Further investigation on their site revealed this corporate information: "The Fédération Internationale de Bobsleigh et de Tobogganing (FIBT) is the religiously and politically neutral international non-governmental organisation administering the sports of Bobsleigh [including Bob-on-the-Road] and Skeleton." Skeleton, not tobogganing. Shouldn't they be the FIBS?

But, wait a minute. BOB-ON-THE-ROAD??? What the heck is that? More investigation required I’m afraid.

Googling “bob-on-the-road” revealed a book titled Goodnight Jim Bob: On the Road with "Carter the Unstoppable Sex Machine". That doesn’t sound like what we’re looking for. Another result was lyrics for Dylan, Bob - On the Road Again. Another strike.

So we searched “bob-on-the-road” together with “bobsleigh” and found a blurb on a site that says in part “…the international practice of “bob on the road” is authorized, to encourage countries which do not possess bob tracks.”

Ah, there it is. So the countries that do not have bobsled tracks just take their 2 and 4 man sleds to the streets! Further investigation of this would perhaps reveal what kind of street racing you might see in Iceland. I don’t know what the winter driving conditions are like in other countries, but I sure wouldn’t want to commute to work on anything resembling a bobsled track (unless I did so on a sled).

Now you may have noticed that I’ve used two different words here: bobsleigh and bobsled. Personally, I like the latter. Bobsledding is the sport. Bobsleigh sounds more like something used in a fun, leisurely activity. Listen to a number of Christmas songs and they all say sleigh instead of sled. Sled wouldn’t work. Lyrics would have to change.

“…they know that Santa is well-fed. He’s loaded lots of toys and goodies on his sled…” That’s no good.

“Dashing through the snow, in a one-horse open sled, o’er the fields we go, laughing ‘til we’re dead”. Neither sled nor dead should be used in a Christmas song. Incidentally, this song also contains the lyrics "Bells on bobsleighs ring...".

Besides, don’t you think bobsled somehow sounds faster than bobsleigh?

2010 Medal update!!!!

U.S. - 28
Canada - 15

Many indignant Canucks will say to this “Oh, yeah! Well you Americans have ten times the population we do.”

More investigation is required by the SSIC team to see how countries with populations 10 times smaller than Canada are doing at these games.

Moldova, Liberia, Panama, Lithuania, Uruguay, Mauritania, and the Republic of Congo all have zero medals. A goose egg! Someone might argue that many of these aren’t cold weather places and so one shouldn’t be surprised. But what about Lapland, Antarctica, Baffin Island, Siberia, and even the once mighty U.S.S.R.? You don’t see any of them listed in the medal standings.

So there!

Hotter Than LaFlamme Olympique

2010-02-24T13:28:00.008-05:00

I’ve got Olympic Fever! I can’t turn the TV off. I’m going to watch some more Winter Olympic coverage on CTV with hosts Lisa LaFlamme and James Duthie.

Here are some events to watch on today’s Olympic schedule (times are Yukon Gold Standard, but this is B.C. It happens when it happens. Relax, Dude!):

10:00 - Snowboarding – Men’s Hashpipe
11:20 - Nordic Combined - Individual NH/10 km CC - 10 km (cancelled due to no-one really knowing what it is)
12:30 - Cross Country Skiing – Ladies' 50K Sprint Quarterfinals
13:00 - Curling - Men's Round Robin Session 7 Subsection 4
13:20 - Alpine Skiing – Ladies’ Uphill
14:38 - Monathlon – Ladies’ Unifinal
15:30 - Alpine Skiing – Men’s Super Duper Colossal G
16:15 - Long Track Ice Dancing – Compulsories
17:00 - Bobsed – 12-man Finals
17:30 - Short Track Figure Skating – Pairs' 500 m Heats
19:30 - Freestyle Skiing – Men’s Flying Leap Semifinals
21:00 - Ice Punching – Canada vs U.S.A.
22:30 - Snowball Fight – Croatia vs Japan
24:00 - Party ‘til Dawn

SSIC's Answer Man

2010-02-23T14:50:00.010-05:00

Here is an actual question from Answers.com:

Q. Are there any words starting with p that deal with the revolutionary war?

The editors here at Snow Shoveling in Canada have done a little research and can provide this answer:

A. Oddly enough, there has never been a single word starting with p that has been used in any description, account, story (fact or fiction), or historical document that has dealt with the American Revolutionary War. The olitical differences between the revolutionaries (George Washington, Aul Revere and other atriots among that group) and the arliament of Great Britain (including its Rime Minister) brought about this colossal conflict. From Massachusetts to New York to Hiladelphia and everywhere between, you will find nothing starting with a p.

I know it’s hard to believe. I thought everybody knew that there were no p words dealing with the Revolutionary War. But there you have it.

Here are some more interesting questions that require some expert answering expertise:

Q. How do you spell rinocerus rhinoseros rhinosoros rihnocerous oh, the hell with it.

A. I believe the word you’re looking for is rhinosaurus; a great lizard of the sebaceous period. This fearsome giant is the ancestor to our modern day horned hippoplatypus.

Q. Is Mike Tyson a hero?

A. In a 1997 boxing match, Mike Tyson bit off part of Evander Holyfield's ear and spat it out onto the canvas. In 2010, Evander Holyfield, during an argument with his wife, said she needed to 'start putting God first'. The argument had something to do with payments made (or not made) to their church. The former heavyweight champion reacted by hitting his wife in the face. Had these two events happened in reverse chronological order, then Mr. Tyson might very well be considered a hero.

Q. Who stole the kishka?

A. Since a Wikipedia article describes kishka in part as “a blood sausage made with pig's blood and buckwheat or barley, with pig's intestines used as a casing…” then I have no idea who in their right mind would think this an item worth pilfering. I suggest you consult your local constabulary. They may want to check some emergency rooms for any recent admits with gastrointestinal distress.

At Sixes and Sevens Over Fourths and Fifths

2010-02-22T12:03:00.021-05:00

It was my brother’s birthday this past weekend, so I called him to wish him Happy Birthday. I called early in the day and figured I’d be the first in the family to wish him well on his day.

I asked him if I was the first to call. He told me, “Your fourth.”
“Fourth!” I said, “I feel like a Canadian Olympian.”

Canada's Olympic slogan should be changed from Do you believe? to Can you believe? — because, I can’t. Canada’s bad luck is incredible. It seems as if someone has put a curse on the Canadian Olympic effort.

Canada apparently has had four 4th and four 5th place finishes. No other competing country at these games has come so close so many times. But let’s put this into perspective. Allow me to analyze.

If Canada’s fourths and fifths were firsts and seconds, and firsts and seconds were still firsts and seconds, then Canada would still only be second and the U.S. first, even assuming the fourths and fifths for the U.S. were not counted as firsts and seconds but remained as fourths and fifths. Thirds in all cases are still thirds.

I’m glad I could clear that up.

But fear not, you Canadian Olympian boosters. Ice dancers Scott Tissue and Vera Mouchoir were running a nose behind first place after the compulsory dance. That’s nothing to sneeze at. They plan not to blow it, and to wipe up the ice with the competition as these two ply their craft in the original dance.

They plan to do the Flamenco for their original dance! Hopefully, they will only have some Flamenco-like elements in this routine and they will avoid performing à la José Greco. I’ve already documented the disastrous consequences that can happen from doing that.

Half-Mast on the Halfpipe

2010-02-18T11:09:00.018-05:00

What a laugh!

I was watching the men’s snowboard halfpipe competition yesterday. A lot of these guys were wearing what appeared to be jeans; and in the “gangsta” style, with the crotch of their pants down to the knees.

So here is this snowboarder, going up for a dazzling aerial stunt, and he’s mooning the camera with his underwear-clad butt (thank God for underwear). This guy's pants were at half-mast while he’s performing on the halfpipe. I have no idea how he kept them from falling down to his ankles. How did he compete dressed this way??

I suppose he wanted to look “cool”. Well, his derrière must have been cool enough, what with only a thin layer of cotton between it and the winter breeze.

I’ve always been bothered by this form of dress. I once saw a young man running for a bus while wearing jeans at mid-butt level. He had to hold onto them while trying to catch his ride. Needless to say, he didn’t make it.

Why wear your pants like this? It is so impractical and it looks so goofy! (although Goofy had enough sense to pull his pants up). And yet, young men have been wearing them this way for several years now. I keep waiting and hoping for the style to change lest I find that I can’t purchase any pants for myself that do anything to keep my rear end warm in the winter.

Here’s a suggestion. If it’s fashionable to wear your pants as if you haven’t pulled them all the way up, then how about wearing your sweater as if you haven’t pulled it all the way down?

Kind of like this:

Now that’s cool!

We're Better Than Liechtenstein!

2010-02-10T07:37:00.022-05:00

The Winter Olympics are coming soon to a television near you.

Canada is expected to earn 20 to 30 medals. Some of the small Euro-nations represented here may only garner 2 or 3. Let's hear it, "We're better than Liechtenstein!"

Here are a few little-known facts about some of the sports in these winter games:

Bobsledding

It's interesting to note that this means of traveling at breakneck speeds on a course of ice and snow did not originate as a sport at all. It was a mode of transportation for Swiss men to commute from their homes in the Matterhorn down to their workplaces in the villages below. The early 2, 3 and 4 man bobsleds were just a way to "sledpool", so people could save money on transportation expenses. How these men got back home at the end of the day is anyone’s guess.

Speed Skating

Due to events in 1527, near the Dutch town of Slipsen Falls in the northwest Netherlands, a Christiaan Utrecht is given credit for being the world’s first speed skater. While on a leisurely solo skate on the frozen Zuiderzee, Christiaan successfully skated for his life when the dike holding back the North Sea broke. Accounts from bystanders on shore suggest that Mr. Utrecht’s speed exceeded 80 kilometers per hour that day.

Snowboarding: Halfpipe

This isn’t really a sport. It’s just some skateboard kids having fun in the snow. It is fun to watch, though.

Figure Skating: Ice Dance

Introduced as a medal sport in the 1976 Olympics, the Ice Dancing event consists of three competitions: compulsory dance, original dance, and free dance. The fact that Ice Dancing became a medal sport is surprising considering its shaky start as a demonstration event at the 1972 Sapporo games. The compulsory competition that year contained the ill-advised flamenco dance. The resultant chipped and chopped ice surface required several Zamboni teams to work overnight in order to complete repairs.

Curling

Now this is a sport where Canada really shines. The great thing about curling is that you do not have to be an athlete to compete. Think of it as a glorified game of shuffleboard on ice (my little old grandma used to play a mean game of shuffleboard). Supposedly the teams alternate possession of a hammer, though I’ve never witnessed any tools used — other than brooms — in the matches I’ve seen. The strategy, apparently, is to throw up a few guards during the first nine ends of the game, and then try to smash hell out the opponent's rocks in the last end.

Ice Hockey

This is one of Canada’s two national sports (Lacrosse, with its similarly brutal style of whack and hack play, is the other). Not surprisingly, Canada does very well in this Olympic event. In 1998, players from the NHL were finally allowed to play in the games. Since then, there has been speculation about making Ice Punching an official Olympic sport. With the presence of NHLers, Canada would be virtually guaranteed a top podium finish.

I Know How To Shovel It

2010-01-26T13:30:00.023-05:00

I do not own a snow blower. We have two cars and a lawn mower. That's enough internal combustion engines for one household. Besides, the dog has provided me with more to scoop than the weather has so far this winter.

I use three different ~~apparatusses~~, ~~apparati~~, tools for snow removal — a plow, a scoop, and a shovel.

The Scoop

Or, as I call it, the drift mover. This device is great for moving large quantities of snow, like drifts or that nasty pile at the end of the driveway that the lovely city workers leave when they plow the road. Just ram this sucker into a pile of snow, back it out, then move the snow aside.

This particular snow-removal item was immortalized by a Gladys "Scoop" Jackson. Ms. Jackson would use it to remove even a dusting of snow. So impassioned was she about the effectiveness of this tool, that she sought to use it to pick up the leaves on her lawn one October. She had hoped to popularize this practice and pitched an autumn version of the gadget — called The Lawn Ladle — to several marketing executives. She found no takers.

The Plow

A plow is used for pushing snow out of the way. Do not confuse this with the plow the farmer uses to work his fields. This implement would fail miserably if used for that purpose.

Legend has it that in 1924, a gentleman by the name of Romeo Bellafigura used a snow plow to metaphorically oust the ice from a beautiful maiden’s cold heart. He diligently removed the snow from her driveway for one entire bitter winter, thus gaining her admiration and adoration. The ensuing hot passion staved off any further snowfall that season. Awww.

The Shovel

Unlike the plow, the snow shovel is designed to gather up an amount to be lifted and thrown aside. It is also great for throwing your back out.

Although the shovel is not recommended for removing large quantities of snow, in 1965 one John Henry Sauvé single-handedly shoveled the entire village of Minikin, Ontario thereby preventing that hamlet's first snow day in over 20 years. Mr. Sauvé was given the Citizen of the Year award by the local town council. He was also given the Jerk of the Year award by the local students, which put him in line for several "Flying Snowball" trophies.