Word Corrections

If word processing programs are smart enough to underline misspelled words, why aren't they smart enough to fix them?

Just wondering.

Politics

I keep wanting to come up with something topical like politics, but I struggle.

The only thing I've thought about writing politically is my idea of adding a basketball hoop to the speakers chair in parliament.

If you want to ask a question you have to sink a shot first. A three pointer means you get to ask a hard question. Something like that.

I'll keep working on it.

Vocabulary Lessons

I try to impart my considerable knowledge of the English language to my offspring whenever possible.

Stop laughing - I'm a professional writer you know.

Yesterday, for example, the kids learned the words Idiot, Dolt, Moron and Jerk - almost entirely in one sentence, while we were driving to the adventureplex thing.

So that was nice.

I hope they (the kids) someday appreciate the wisdom and maturity I impart to them on a regular basis.

Well now that sentence sucked didn't it?

See why I put stuff into an idea file instead of rushing them into columns right away? It's to catch crap like that before I embarrass myself.

Pay no attention. Nothing to see here. Move along. Writer spazzing out.

New Team Name

I have come up with a most excellent name for a sports team here. You have to say it out loud.

The Okanagan Agony. Okanagan Agony. Maybe sponsored by Kokanee.

The Kokanee Okanagan Agony!

Say it out loud and you will experience joy.

Saturday Matinees

I've been working on a piece about attending the Saturday matinee at the Nova Theatre in Edson, Alberta (the late Tom Fowler, proprietor). Growing up this was the highlight of our week. Here is what I remember...

We would stuff our gobs and bulge our pockets with candy and chocolate, purchased with the 75 cents our Moms would supply us with.

The lights in the theater would give just a hint of dimming and instantly several hundred pre-pubescent voices would scream at the top of their lungs...

Popcorn boxes would be flung into the air by the dozen, almost completely blocking the screen (which was the point of course). Shortly thereafter the weird kids who sat in the very front row would be dazed and senseless from getting beaned by all the popcorn boxes being flung their way. Which was also the intent.

Poor Tommy Fowler would wander the aisles with his trusty flashlight, uselessly shining its beam into the faces of some miscreant who had his feet up on the back of the seat or some other heinous crime. His famous line was "Settle down!" as he'd attempt to shush the audience who were madly hurling Goobers at the Three Stooges then playing.

Or we would repair to the 'Cry Room' - an enclosed room at the back of the joint, where supposedly nursing mothers would go to keep their wailing brats from disturbing the rest of us wailing, older brats.

In truth, I think most of the illicit drug deals done in the town were transacted in this room. More than one virginity was lost there too as I recall - not that we knew or understood what was going on. We just heard the thrashing and giggled in the dark. I probably threw some Goobers then too. Might have been Hot Tamales. Whatever.

It kind of amazes me how quaint the whole scene is today. Way back when, the same movie would play for a month in a row. The same movie for one month. 4 Saturdays. No wonder we went mental.

I also learned some valuable lessons in petty larceny too. Mr Fowler would pay a penny a flyer to deliver the monthly movie schedule. Which was kind of hilarious. The entire month would say "Chitti Chitti Bang Bang" or something. Every day. But anyway - he would get us kids to hand deliver these flyers to every house in town.

It didn't take us long to figure out we should just deliver about 10 or so, then dump the rest and head back to the theater for our cash. I think it worked once. Damn him and his spot checks.

I can remember peeing with laughter at listening to a marble or 'boulder' rolling slowly from the back of the theater, through everyones feet, to the front of the theater, then back down into the concave portion of the floor. What a heroic toss that was. From then on marble rolling was rampant and care had to be exercised when exiting your row if you were sitting in the 'dip'.

My dear sister also enjoys reminding me of the time I went to my first night time movie. She told me that at night all the grown-ups always yell really loud when their movies start - just like at matinees. Naturally, being a twit of a boy, I believed the conniving bag of dirt and stood up and yelled my guts out as the lights went dim.

I stood and yelled alone of course.

I think I melted into the concrete floor from embarrassment.

Autumn Beauty

I have no idea why this font is so big. I tried to change it but I really have no idea what I'm doing.

So I was trying to write something seasonal a few months back. This is what I came up with:

Autumn is one of the loveliest times of year. Leaves fall from the trees and begin their long journey upstream to spawn. Fish change colour as they forage for bear spit on the banks of rivers and creeks, and geese hover in mid-air as the earth rotates beneath them.

Something like that.

So - like it so far?

Caving Tragedy

A near tragedy happened in Kelowna recently, one that was not covered by the media.

2 spelunkers were buried in a tragic cave collapse. The roof beams of the main passage they were mapping bent and crashed down, just as one of the intrepid explorers was passing beneath. The other dug frantically and was able to rescue their comrade just in time.

This heroism went unnoticed since the cave-in happened about a dozen times, and then someone farted and the cave got dismantled in a hurry.

We were playing on the big Mom and Dad bed when the kids were supposed to be doing chores.

The roof supports were my legs of course, with blankies and pillows doing yeoman service as dirt and boulders.

I told Mom on the phone that we were doing physics homework, which wasn’t totally dishonest.

The kids, being terribly disobedient, later told the truth to their interrogator, thus getting me in trouble yet again.

More details as they develop.

Our very own terrorists!

I am so pleased to see that we have terrorists right here in BC! Granted they are not up to much - blowing up the odd shack at gas pipeline intersections or something.

I see too that there is now a $500,000 reward for finding the bad guys and locking up forever in Canada's version of Quantanimo. Coquitlam perhaps.

Wouldn't it be exciting if it were Osama Bin Laden here? Perhaps he has decamped from the rugged hills of Pakistan and traded the dusty ranges of Afghanistan for the cold, buggy pine beetle denuded wonder that is northern BC?

Granted I'd be a little curious why he'd trade exotic arabic speaking areas for Smithers or wherever, but hey. To each his own.

I will probably get into trouble for welcoming terrorists to our province, but I think it's pretty darn exciting. Get out the good china.

More Bloggyness Please

So here is what I'm thinking.

Usually I jot down my ideas in a bulging Word file, then I try and combine them from time to time into an actual column.

To make this blog a bit more 'bloggy', I think I'll try jotting down my stupid lines and bits and ideas here, then assemble them into a print column down the road.

It might work, and would also give you a reason to check back here more frequently, click on more ads, and make me my fortune which is my ultimate destiny anyway.

So! On to short humourous bits then!!

Snowbird!

I wouldn’t say I actually like shoveling snow, but I have to admit it is one of those mindless things which lets me contemplate the finer things in life.

Things like a 30 foot wide blade which I could build and attach to the back of our minivan in the garage. Open garage door, lower blade, back out once, put van back in garage, I’m done, and back to the finer things in life like watching the hockey game.

My shovel time (annoyingly frequent of late) has also allowed me to contemplate names for the small thrill you get when shoveling compacted snow and you pry up a really large chunk. It is a feeling of considerable joy to snow pushers.

Slabisfaction would work. Snowilicious. Something like that. Moronshoveling maybe.

Never let it be said I am not an intellectual giant. But I digress.

When it comes to shoveling I don’t know about you, but I employ a cross-body, one arm shove technique. You get a good, long push this way which is very satisfying, and it allows for a more graceful fall when you collapse into your snow bank.

Another method is the Blade at an Angle Pretending To Be A Plow Truck Back And Forth style. This is easier on the back, but getting caught making “Vroom vroom!” sound effects can be embarrassing.

Some people go for the Walk Behind/No Effort Push technique, where you just lazily shuffle along, not caring about all the snow spilling out of either side of the shovel. I forgive these ne'er do wells since they are mainly of the younger generation who obviously have not had the benefit of me telling them what snow shoveling was like back in MY day.

I further suspect this practice was created by someone who was paid by the hour.

Actually, I once learned a valuable lesson using this shoddy technique and that lesson was Do Not Briskly Push a Snow Shovel Whilst the Handle is Pressed into your Belly.

It was during this lesson that I discovered the precise location of my body’s centre of gravity – which is good. You never know when that information will come in handy during the work week.

I was in a hurry this particular day, and the handle of said shovel was pressed firmly in my middle, just below my navel (an ‘inny’ if you must know).

In the middle of a truly heroic running shove, the blade hit a crack in the concrete. My forward motion came to a full and sudden stop, and I was propelled upward by my momentum.

I suddenly became the cross piece on a perfect “T” with my shovel at 90 degrees to the driveway, and me at 90 degrees to the shovel.

Time stood still as the implement tried to impale me, very slowly, using its 4 inch wide handle.

I could not have been more perfectly balanced. Arms and legs flapping like some huge, bemitted, flightless bird, I did not budge from my vertical position.

You would think, given my history, I would have been propelled over onto my head - but no. I was just stuck there, handle firmly in my guts, unable to do a darn thing, until slowly, slooowly, I eased backwards to a standing position. Ta da!

Where are the hidden camera crews when you need them most?

Here I had performed a feat worthy of Olympic gold, or at least a spot on the Cirque du Soleil roster, and no one had seen it.

I did, however, have a huge bruise on my gut the next day that was living proof of my gymnastic prowess.

You could hear the awe and admiration in my wife’s voice when she saw the hideous purple contusion. “That’s wonderful dear, now take out the garbage please” she said.

Trust me – there was some awe there.

I think these astounding feats are too good for the general public to miss, so I have decided to hire my own reality television crew to follow me around.

Do you think they’d let me call my show Survivor?