Being recent immigrants to the rural paradise that is Juniorvania, and therefore infatuated with all things pastoral and wild, there are something like nine or ten separate bird feeders hanging up in and around the area surrounding The Pond just outside our back door. The rear of our house features several contiguous large windows, offering an expansive view of the consequent avian comings and goings, to be enjoyed while munching on a bowl of Honeycomb at the dining room table, futzing about with a recalcitrant bok choy in the kitchen, or tippy-tapping on the notebook while seated on the sofa in front of the fireplace.
As you can probably imagine, the number and variety of these many excellent observation posts has encouraged a significant increase in the amount of ornithological research being carried out by the scientists, philosophers and other thinkers the Glorious Leadership have on permanent retainer. Any natural scientist worth his NaCl will tell you that the first order* of business is a concerted effort towards species identification. Thus did the People’s Theorists initially identify the following creatures, believed (at one time) to be birds.
The American Goldfinch (nomenclature unofficial, there is a motion on the floor in the People’s Legislature to re-designate this species as the “Juniorvanian Goldfinch” or (this suggestion from the Hard Rock Party of Juniorvania) the “Juniorvanian Asskicker”:
the Redwing Blackbird:
the Cardinal:
the Blue Jay:
the Rose Breasted Grosbeak:
the Flicker:
the Indigo Bunting:
and this noisy (but thankfully high-flying) little fellow, to date unidentified:
The comings and goings of the birds are many. There is one cedar tree in particular that behaves much like a particle emitter, except rather than spewing neutrons, there are little yellow goldfinches asskickers rocketing out from deep within it’s hidden recesses and darting wildly in all directions. Staring out into the yard, one gets the distinct feeling that the scene is the ornithological equivalent of O’Hare airport, with both arrivals and departures coming in a steady stream and any number of incoming craft stacked up over the field, waiting to begin final approach.
The immediate consequence of all this airborne activity is that our National Seed Consumption is up significantly. So far, two re-supply excursions have been made to the local purveyors of niger, sunflower seeds and suet, and it is looking very much like a third is in the offing. Every one of the feeders in the entire yard is cleaned out like old Mother Hubbard’s proverbial cupboard. Again.
It was this persistent and prodigious seed consumption that has led the Scientists of the Great Republic of Juniorvania to their most astonishing scientific discovery to date: the creatures pictured above are not in fact avian, but rather porcine. These brightly coloured little pork chops knock back way too much chow to be birds; they do not, as it were, “eat like a bird.”
So there you have it; Juniorvanian scientists have conclusively proven that pigs can – and do – fly.
——
* The taxonomists among you are no doubt killing yourselves over that little pun…
The more things change, the more they stay the same.
Reading Mike’s short post today about his jury duty tomorrow and his plans to build a lens adapter for his camera, I found myself thinking about my grandfather for a little while. Let me explain: my Dad’s father was what we would now call an “early adopter” of technology. He did television repair work before most people owned them; he had camera equipment capable of taking and projecting colour home movies in the 40’s, and he was very proud of his Hi-Fi stereo system – much of which was home built. I don’t know if it’s nature or nurture, but my father, my brothers and I have all followed along a similar path: much to the chagrin of our various significant others, our respective homes are filled with equipment that needs to be plugged in; that beeps, whirrs, flashes and hums; and most of all, that is connected to other such devices by wires. Though the tech is different, the thrill is no doubt the same; looking back on it now, I can revel in my grandfather’s geekdom much as I revel in my own.
I think the reason this thought occurred to me following my visit to Mike’s page is that I suddenly saw the similarities between my own daily virtual journey into Mike’s life via the Internet and what my grandfather used to do: he used to basically record voice letters on reel to reel audio tape and send them by mail (the kind with stamps and dog-fearing letter carriers) to a friend in Australia, if I remember correctly. They corresponded in this fashion for years. I can remember him carefully unwrapping a box containing a fresh tape and eagerly heading downstairs to his basement sanctuary, then sitting in a beat-up old reclining chair, bottle of beer on the TV dinner table next to it, listening to the voice coming out of the speakers as the reels rolled steadily on. When I was a kid, I thought it was kind of quirky – none of the other grownups I knew spent time recording their thoughts on tape and mailing them halfway across the world – but I was more focussed on the microphones and the reel-to-reel machines (shiny tech!) than on what was going on. I guess I kind of half-heartedly wondered what he and his friend could possibly think of to talk about – complete strangers so far removed from each other by geography and circumstance, engaged in a series of alternating monologues.
See the parallels yet?
My grandfather didn’t live long enough to see the emergence and prevalence of personal computers in the home, but he would have loved the technology and the community of technophiles for which it provides a home. I wish I’d had a chance to talk with him about it, as I’m sure he would have had some interesting thoughts to offer. The only thing missing for me, as I sit here with the notebook computer on my lap and the wireless card granting me access to the router upstairs and ultimately the Intartubes, sharing this little corner of my life with Mike (and anyone else who cares to read), is the bottle of beer. I can remedy that lickety-split; as soon as I hit “publish” on this entry, I’m going to head to the fridge, grab a cold Alexander Keith’s, crack it open and drink a toast to grandpa.
In the meantime, Mike, I hope you manage to avoid getting selected, but I’m very interested to hear what your thoughts are about going through the jury selection process. And this lens adapter thing is also intriguing to me; I must know more…
I bought the Toronto Maple Leafs today. No, really, and although the Maple Leafs I own will never win the Stanley Cup, I’m just as happy as can be. Just to fit in with the previous owners, I told the first guy I met on the street today, “you’re fired.” I also raised the price of beer – formerly free in the paradise that is Juniorvania – to $18 a pop – and you’ll be lining up to use the bathroom at my place from now on, too. Did I miss anything? Oh yeah, I promptly forgot everything I ever knew about hockey and have instead begun following the Market quotes rather obsessively.
Okay, seriously, what’s this all about?
Some of the regulars over at Pension Plan Puppets are having some good-natured fun at the expense of fans of other NHL teams. There’s a new reference site about hockey being set up called, oddly enough, hockeyreference.com. That site has a page for every NHL player, team and coach. Evidently, the good people at hockeyreference.com would like to bank a little coin to pay for all the server space being devoted to such arcana instead of hosting Second Life netizens; accordingly, they have set things up to allow regular folk like you and me to sponsor the page of their choice. Sponsorship entitles the rights holder to inscribe upon the page a caption for all to behold, as well as to insert a link of the sponsor’s choice.
Interested fans of many teams are scooping up the rights to their various principal nemesises (can that word be plural?) and posting appropriately scathing tributes to their targets. Thus, Caps fans have taken care of Jaromir Jagr; choosing not to overthink the prank, the not-so-huge fans of their former captain at Japer’s Rink (a Leaf fan’s home away from home while cheering on the Caps) have selected a heckle of a traditional bent, pointing out that Jagr wears women’s clothing. They happen to have a link to certain photographic evidence proving the claim (on at least one occasion) to be indisputably true.
Leaf fans have secured the rights to the pages devoted to certain of our own historic arch-rivals, with extensively comedic results: thus Daniel Alfredsson, Wayne Gretzky, and Chris Neil have been skewered. Toronto supporters have also turned some of their anger about the team inward and have given some of the Leaf players the same treatment: see for example Vesa Toskala, Bryan McCabe and – inevitably – Jiri Tlusty.
I chipped in a few bucks on my own behalf and in honour of dear old Dad (hey, Father’s Day is coming up and a guy never knows if he’s going to remember to get a card) to ensure that the Montreal Canadiens and Ottawa Senators franchise pages are under the control of Toronto sympathizers. As I understand it, a suitably stinging caption is still being crafted at this time. I will update with linkies when the deed is done and the prank is posted.
I was of course personally interested in the Wendel Clark page, but it had been snapped up by Sean at Down Goes Brown. I know Sean will take good care of the page; anybody who names their blog in honour of a hockey fight featuring Sylvain Lefebvre is okay by me. (I believe “Down Goes Brown” is a reference to an incident in a game that I actually attended, a December 1992 dust-up between Sylvain Lefebvre and Rob Brown of the Chicago Blackhawks. An overhand right from the usually mild-mannered Lefebvre clobbered Brown and sent him crumpling to the ice, causing Joe Bowen to exclaim – repeatedly – the title phrase.) Since I couldn’t get Wendel, I decided that I would buy the whole damn 1992-1993 team; as I’ve written before, that team gave me so much joy watching their run to the Conference Finals against the Kings.
Sitting in in one of the yellow Muskoka chairs under a tree in the backyard. My belly is full, (eggs, bacon, hashbrowns and toast) and I have a warm cup of tea at hand. Popeye is slumbering in the grass about ten feet in front of me. The birds are chirping and warbling. Hanging from the branches all around me are a series of completely empty feeders – it’s been a big week at the Juniorvanian Avian Fly-Thru Restaurant – so I suppose that there is some mild belly-aching going on in the trees surrounding my current position. It’s an overcast, but not unpleasant day – a slight chill in the air more reminiscent of fall, but with all the grass and the budding leaves in the trees so unmistakably green, there is no forgetting it’s spring.
There is a stack of work waiting for me inside the house, in a briefcase somewhere near the front door, where I abandoned it in the excitement of arriving home on Friday night. There are things in that case that need to get done before this day is over, things that will take some time, effort and concentration.
I pull up the hood on my sweatshirt to brace myself against the cooling breeze that’s coming over the farmer’s field to the southwest and I resolve to turn off the computer for a few minutes, and just listen.
TORONTO (JP) – Sources familiar with the inner workings of Maple Leaf Sports and Entertainment today confirmed that Alvin Fitzgibbons, 28, has been hired to replace recently firedPaul Maurice and interim G.M. Cliff Fletcher as Coach and General Manager of the Toronto Maple Leafs.
Fitzgibbons – until recently the Assistant Manager of a McDonald’s Restaurant at 2936 Finch Ave. E. in Toronto – was widely regarded by experts as an unlikely candidate for either post as he has no prior coaching experience of any kind whatsoever and has learned everything he knows about the NHL by playing EA Sports’ NHL’04 on his Playstation 2. Prior to working with McDonald’s, Fitzgibbons (pictured at right) was employed by Eaton’s Canada on a “seasonal basis”.
According to a source close to the team, Fitzgibbons had submitted an application seeking a position in the concessions and guest services division of the hockey/basketball/condo building conglomerate; through administrative inadvertence, the Fitzgibbons application was mis-filed along with the credentials of some more conventional candidates for the Leafs coaching job, and an interview was scheduled as a result. Fitzgibbons was evidently initially hired as coach only, but impressed the MLSE board so much that they have bestowed upon him both portfolios effective immediately. The source notes that prior to being hired as the new coach of the Leafs, Fitzgibbons’ application for the position of Part-Time Deputy Assistant Popcorn Concession Manager had been rejected, as it was felt that Fitzgibbons lacked sufficient experience and a proven track record of successful results in the food service industry.
Asked why Fitzgibbons – who has never attended a National Hockey League game – would be hired as coach of the Maple Leafs, one source pointed to the urgency to do something to keep the media wolves at bay on Bay. “Alvin is available immediately,” said the source “except that he has to cover the Saturday night midnight to 8 a.m. shift on the drive-thru for the next 16 weeks. We think that works out well for us.” In addition to the convenience factor, Fitzgibbons is said to have wowed the Board during the interview process as a fresh thinker unburdened by preconceptions about his role and imbued with a novel perspective on the job. One board member who participated in the interview but who has asked to remain anonymous said, “Alvin had these mind-blowing ideas – for example, he’ll be instituting a system where every month he’s going to identify the one member of his team who has performed the best, and put that guy’s name and picture up on a plaque on the wall. Talk about accountability on the bench!” MLSE directors felt that Fitzgibbons’ coaching record was comparable to that of other rumoured candidates; for example, both Fitzgibbons and soon-to-be ex-San Jose Sharks’ coach Ron Wilson have each won zero Stanley Cups.
Board members were also reportedly so excited by Fitzgibbons’ plan to offer “smiles” for free to all patrons that they conferred the G.M. portfolio upon him, though jit should be noted that the MLSE Board, while stressing that Fitzgibbons will have complete autonomy over the team’s operations, has nevertheless slightly modified his plan – smiles will now be offered free at Air Canada Centre to fans who have paid the applicable yearly up-front licensing fee of $6000.
MLSE Board members also reportedly found that they were personally more compatible with Fitzgibbons than they were with many of the other potential candidates. They attributed this easy camaraderie to Fitzgibbons’ non-traditional background. “So many of the other candidates we interiewed reminded us of the problems we’ve had in the past with some of our hires,” said the source, “talking about ‘forechecking scheme this’, ‘defensive system that’ and things like ‘salary cap room’ or ‘no movement clauses’- all this technical hockey mumbo jumbo that, frankly, the Board finds boring and confusing. That’s why we hired John Ferguson Jr. – he didn’t know fuck all about any of those things either, but I guess he went off track and tried to walk the walk and talk the talk of other hockey executives. We all know how that worked out. Fitz assures us that he couldn’t care less about any of that stuff and that he feels he isn’t capable of learning; we understand him and he is able to take very clear direction from above, so we’re pretty convinced we’ve found our man.”
Reached at his Etobicoke home, Fitzgibbons was unable to discuss his plans for the NHL club at length, as he had promised his mother he would wash the dishes following dinner and was hoping to take in the new episode of “Lost” airing on ABC before turning in for the evening. Asked whether he was concerned about the pressure associated with the job, Fitzgibbons indicated that he was used to working in a high-stress environment. “Trying to do a cash reconciliation, doing prep for the morning menu and keeping an eye out for the occasional shotgun-toting armed robber, that’s pressure,” Fitzgibbons quipped. As to how he proposes to deal with the so-called “Muskoka Five” players with no-movement contracts, Fitzgibbons indicated that in the past, he had enjoyed a certain amount of success by simply promising to deliver a toy train and handing out a couple of candy canes.
Fitzgibbons is expected to commence work with the Maple Leafs as soon as he can make arrangments to borrow his brother-in-law’s car.
Since reclaiming my driver’s licence about a year ago – no, I didn’t lose it because of a DUI, it just lapsed because….well, that’s a very long story that I’ll have to save for another post – anyway, since I got the dang thing back, I have had an abiding faith in the idiocy of my fellow humans, and their complete and utter incapacity to operate a motor vehicle in a rational, responsible and efficient manner.
Here comes the science. I nominate these guys for a Nobel prize, an Ig Nobel prize, employee of the month at Denny’s, and whatever other awards are available for distribution : this brilliant and necessary work is truly an important and revealing look into the incompetence of your fellow man.
On the way to work yesterday, discussing the chores we had done in the yard on the previous day, Spouse had occasion to refer to our wheelbarrow as one that is “garden variety”. This is to say that the wheelbarrow in question is not designed for use at shopping malls, church, or fine dining establishments – though I’d like to watch the expression on the faces of those “all you can eat” guys if someone strolled towards the buffet with one of those bad boys.
Deal with that, Red Lobster! Oh, and I’m going to need an extra drum of tartar sauce over here….
If a person were attempting to describe my day yesterday in monster-movie terms (and I’m guessing there’s more than one of you out there who does this regularly), it would have been called “Junior vs. The Pond: The Draininating of the Slime”.
Juniorvania is mostly a land-locked little paradise, having few riparian rights to speak of (in spite of a neighbouring stream/swamp on the southwestern border), no inland seas or lakes and no navigable (or un-navigable, for that matter) rivers. Thus, much of the Pride of the Nation, in relation to aqueous matters, is focussed upon The Pond. Being sufficiently unique within the Nation’s borders and furthermore being the object of such ubiquitous reverence and admiration among the Juniorvanian people, The Pond – unlike water bodies of lesser significance – needs no additional descriptive information in its name (cf. “Miller’s Pond” from Leave it to Beaver fame, “Great Slave Lake” or the “Pacific Ocean”). Rather, this formidable geographic feature is known simply and eponymously according to its hydrographical taxonomy.
You will understand that considerations of space do not here permit a comprehensive recitation of a complete history of The Pond. Nevertheless, any discussion concerning the events surrounding that reservoir would necessarily be inchoate without some mention of The Incident. Last weekend, my brother, his wife and their three kids dropped by for a visit to Juniorvania, their first since the weather warmed, the snows receded, and it became feasible for younger folk to explore the far-flung borders of The Nation. In the course of those explorations, my nephew Thomas was wandering about with a pair of camo binoculars for no reason intelligible to anyone over the age of 30 months. A proper (and appropriately scientific) recitation of the events that followed would not be in any way thorough without reference to both this document and this one (interested parties please pay particular attention to the bits about “algal bloom”, those are going to be important to the tale), but suffice to say that there were (at the time of The Incident) many living things of considerable interest to botanists and zoologists alike residing in The Pond. Sadly, there were also more than a few deceased specimens of some of these species.
Our intrepid but diminutive surveyor rambled around a corner with Mom following at a discreet distance (excessively close maternal supervision being notably detrimental to an explorer’s reputation for bravado among his fellow adventurers). According to recollections gleaned from Thomas following the event, it would appear that his perambulations on this day were of some heightened and immediate purpose, as the little explorer evidently felt an urgent need to relieve himself of the grime and grunge naturally accumulated over the course of the day. Say what you will about the little fellow’s standards regarding suitable cleansing facilities, but do not question his motivation, enthusiasm and dedication to rapid achievement of his purpose, for upon rounding the earlier described corner and espying The Pond, little Thomas abruptly bolted for the water’s edge as though he were shot from a cannon. It is unknown whether our little hero had hoped to bring himself to an equally abrupt halt upon reaching the margin where land met scunge prior to wading in more cautiously, or (in the alternative) if his sudden, forceful and complete immersion in the stinky morass represented a conscious and deliberate (if somewhat spectacularly injudicious) choice. Being related to the little tyke and therefore somewhat biased, I’d prefer to accord him the benefit of the doubt on this issue and to attribute to him the former, rather than latter, design. What can be said with some confidence is that if his plan was to approach – but not immediately enter – the water, it became instantly evident that there had been a serious error concerning the appropriate friction co-efficient to be applied in the “distance to full stop” portion of Thomas’ calculations. To be sure, the loose mulch, fallen leaves and assorted twigs at water’s edge would have presented a tricky surface to assess in terms of braking properties for most experts in such matters; for an excited two-year old bent upon a refreshing dip and racing incautiously towards a noxious cesspool, however, the challenges inherent in such an exercise were regrettably insurmountable and – as a result – the plan failed rather suddenly and catastrophically from the point of view of Thomas’ personal comfort. Click here to continue reading Let me tell you about The Pond.
I made a quick trip to the mall today, hoping to get some spare parts for the People’s Lawn Improvement Tractor so that it might actually start up and become mobile, which is an excellent quality in a tractor of any kind. The People’s L.I.T. is a Craftsman, and I thought I might be able to find someone at the Sears to help me identify the necessary bits and help me place an order. That particular procurement mission failed – all I got out of the store visit was a 1-800 number and some gentle mocking from the girl at the catalogue sales counter concerning (in her apparent opinion) my somewhat advanced and possibly premature plans to begin mowing, seeing as we are only at May 3rd.
Having been denied – temporarily – the glory of fully functional heavy machinery, I headed for the bookstore to grab a magazine, intending to grab lunch in the food court before continuing on to my next Saturday errand. I selected a copy of Wired magazine, which (in case you haven’t noticed) has recently gotten a heck of a lot thinner and a heck of a lot more relevant; in my opinion, over the last few years it’s basically been a fashion magazine little different than Cosmopolitan or Vogue, but with high-tech devices in place of ridiculous dresses, and just as many lifestyle based advertisements. Anyway, they’re back to talking about things with lights that flash, that you plug into the wall, and that generally seem cool.
As I approached the counter with my magazine, the cashier (a post-secondary age youngish looking girl who had been stocking shelves behind the counter with some newly released paperback or other) spied me and headed for the till. Attempting to put down some sort of signage that she had been holding, she dropped it on the floor and there was a bit of a clatter as the sign and it’s metal support bracket fell to the floor. When she got to the till, I greeted her with my usual insouciant (and highly charming) “How’s it goin’?” A man of the people, I always feel the need to let the cashier know that I am a person who sees beyond the function they are performing; I see them for the person they are, and I am prepared to converse, should you so desire. That’s just how I roll.
“Not bad,” she replied, “except I have a bad case of the dropsies. It’s not just today, either, it’s like…always.”
Not sure how to respond to this apparent cry for help with her manual dexterity, and entirely lacking any basis upon which to either contradict her self-deprecating assertion or (in the alternative) wholeheartedly confirm the scathing indictment of her complete lack of co-ordination, I felt that my conversational alternatives were somewhat restricted. With the pressure nevertheless on to come up with some sort of intelligent response, I confess to some disappointment that the best I could do was to utter a fairly general and non-committal response: “Yeah, well, y’know. It happens.” This was the equivalent of a “set” shot in volleyball; just trying to keep the ball/conversation going, so a team-mate can make a point.
“It’s why I work in a bookstore,” she continued, tapping my magazine on the counter as if to conclusively prove her point. “Paper. Doesn’t break.” Satisfied with her explanation, she began ringing in my purchase.
I felt I was on reasonably solid ground now, and felt that the cashier’s remark was like a “bump.” Back to me for the spike! In a flash, it came to me. “Yeah, good thing you don’t work in a medical research lab or something,” I said. “Otherwise, that might have been ebola virus all over the floor,” I joked, tilting my head in the direction of the fallen signage as a visual cue that I was referring to the dropped sign. I was pleased with myself; it wasn’t exactly Mort Sahl, but I was convinced that my lightning quick decision to use the word “ebola” was certain to amuse and entertain, because that’s just a funny word.
She stopped mashing the keys on the cash register and looked at me doubtfully; I think she was sizing up whether I was the sort of fellow who might have just said something terribly rude about her. “What’s ebola?” she said.
Thus did I find myself attempting to convey the sum total of my (admittedly rudimentary) knowledge concerning certain hemorrhagic fevers emanating from Zaire to an unamused and very suspicious cashier in the middle of Coles bookstore in Burlington this morning at around a quarter to twelve. If you were in line behind me, I apologize for the delay. Next time, I’ll just grunt incomprehensibly and take my change, thank you very much.
I told the first guy I met on the street today, “you’re fired.” I also raised the price of beer – formerly free in the paradise that is Juniorvania – to $18 a pop – and you’ll be lining up to use the bathroom at my place from now on, too. Did I miss anything? Oh yeah, I promptly forgot everything I ever knew about hockey and have instead begun following the Market quotes rather obsessively.
for either post as he has no prior coaching experience of any kind whatsoever and has learned everything he knows about the NHL by playing EA Sports’ NHL’04 on his Playstation 2. Prior to working with McDonald’s, Fitzgibbons (pictured at right) was employed by Eaton’s Canada on a “seasonal basis”.
