If I understand, today went like this.
At 8:42 am, you were RUSHED!!!!!!! GOTTA GET TO THE POOL!!!!!! :) LOL!
Then, at 11:47 am, you were STRESSED!!! ITS ALMOST LUNCH!!!
At 2:06 pm, you signalled thumbs up! to a picture of H. Mary Jardine in a lifejacket, holding a paddle and smiling by lake water.
Capped off with a brief mention at 8:33 pm, that you were MAKING POPCORN AND WATCHING SEASON 2 OF "LOST"!!!!
From what I gather, we are, by way of long, thin tangeant, connected. And, in our zest to build up our facebook statistics, we became facebook friends. For me, this didn't mean: would I like a four times daily update on how you feel? Because for me, I could answer "no" to that question and still consider the dejected a friend of mine. Even Bilbo Baggins would probably concede that he couldn't handle more than one Sam in his life. And we are none of us as great as Bilbo Baggins.
By suckering me into your endless web of facebook status updates, you of the "look at me!!:):)" variety are great big assholes.
Monday, July 20, 2009
Friday, July 17, 2009
Parent forces non-swimming child into swim meet
I begin with the crusty old bastard routine:
When I was the coach of a summer swim team here in our perfect oasis of civilization on Montreal's West Island, swim meets started at 7pm and ended at 9 pm - or maybe a little thereafter. Parents rushed home from work, gobbled down a quick supper and raced to their kids to the pool in time for warm-up and cheers. That's still the case today but instead of finishing up at the reasonable 9-ish, the swim meet lasts to the unreasonable 10-ish.
Why does the west island summer swim meet last so much longer? Well, blame it on weakling swimmers. Cute little tykes sign up for a race they cannot complete without having a parent accompany them across the pool. So while the five other swimmers have finished the race, got their towels, picked up a treat from the canteen, that 6th swimmer is still struggling to finish the single lap as if it were climbing bloody K2.
Worse, once the kid wobbles out of the pool, the rest of us are supposed to clap like we've just witnessed a rare feat of human achievement. We haven't. What we've witnessed is a thoughtless parent who thinks he or she can monopolize my time.
Guess what:
If your kid cannot swim a single lap unaccompanied by a parent or lifeguard, then your kid isn't ready to swim in swim meets. And its a cruel trick to play on your kids to make them think that anything they cannot do, we're going to bend the rules to allow them to do it - when that kid goes to write an entrance exam for McGill med school, s/he will be shocked to find out that you aren't allowed to sit next to them for comfort and coaching.
So, come to the pool, splash, play, practice. That's terrific. But burn up my life with your indulgencies? For that, you are a major asshole.
When I was the coach of a summer swim team here in our perfect oasis of civilization on Montreal's West Island, swim meets started at 7pm and ended at 9 pm - or maybe a little thereafter. Parents rushed home from work, gobbled down a quick supper and raced to their kids to the pool in time for warm-up and cheers. That's still the case today but instead of finishing up at the reasonable 9-ish, the swim meet lasts to the unreasonable 10-ish.
Why does the west island summer swim meet last so much longer? Well, blame it on weakling swimmers. Cute little tykes sign up for a race they cannot complete without having a parent accompany them across the pool. So while the five other swimmers have finished the race, got their towels, picked up a treat from the canteen, that 6th swimmer is still struggling to finish the single lap as if it were climbing bloody K2.
Worse, once the kid wobbles out of the pool, the rest of us are supposed to clap like we've just witnessed a rare feat of human achievement. We haven't. What we've witnessed is a thoughtless parent who thinks he or she can monopolize my time.
Guess what:
If your kid cannot swim a single lap unaccompanied by a parent or lifeguard, then your kid isn't ready to swim in swim meets. And its a cruel trick to play on your kids to make them think that anything they cannot do, we're going to bend the rules to allow them to do it - when that kid goes to write an entrance exam for McGill med school, s/he will be shocked to find out that you aren't allowed to sit next to them for comfort and coaching.
So, come to the pool, splash, play, practice. That's terrific. But burn up my life with your indulgencies? For that, you are a major asshole.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Tramp Stamped
June is busting out all over. The pool is open and we've spent our free time on the deck with the rest of my hood. And there, it seems June isn't alone in busting out all over. Tramp stamps are busting out all over. Seems like the lifeguards and many of the mommies have decided to adorn their lower backs with odd, celtic-looking tatoos.
No doubt, each has their own unique and quirky reason for putting ink to skin. Surely, the tatoo is part of a larger narrative of finding a spiritual connection in a post-Christian world. But here's the thing: very few people can actually see the tatoo. Certainly the person with the tatoo cannot enjoy the thing nestled in the small of her back. So if the point of the tatoo is spiritual invigoration, I say it fails completely.
There is only one thing that the tatoo says to me. The tattoo says, "I am here to be looked at while you mount my host in the style of dogs." Oh, cries of "lame!" my get hurled my way, but ultimately I can't find another practical reason for placing your cherished tattoo right in the bull's eye, so to speak. So spare me the neo-animism, its a tramp stamp.
And no, I don't want my daughters to follow your vulgar example, assholes.
No doubt, each has their own unique and quirky reason for putting ink to skin. Surely, the tatoo is part of a larger narrative of finding a spiritual connection in a post-Christian world. But here's the thing: very few people can actually see the tatoo. Certainly the person with the tatoo cannot enjoy the thing nestled in the small of her back. So if the point of the tatoo is spiritual invigoration, I say it fails completely.
There is only one thing that the tatoo says to me. The tattoo says, "I am here to be looked at while you mount my host in the style of dogs." Oh, cries of "lame!" my get hurled my way, but ultimately I can't find another practical reason for placing your cherished tattoo right in the bull's eye, so to speak. So spare me the neo-animism, its a tramp stamp.
And no, I don't want my daughters to follow your vulgar example, assholes.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Young Thug Crosses Street
Its confusing, I know. There you are at an intersection, wanting to cross the street and there's a red light shaped like hand. What the hell is it telling you? Is it suggesting you stop? No. You, young, powerful gansta with the bling bling stop for no one. And so, you cross the street in front of my car while I have the right of way.
Maybe in your rap-warped head you think this proves up your macho bone fides. But to me, you aren't showing how super tough you are - we both know that if I put my foot down hard on the gas pedal, I would bust you up plenty. And that doesn't prove how tough I am either. I could be an 80 year old blind lady in a Chevy Tahoe and if I decided to, I would have you broken and crumpled on the hood of my car. So forget the idea that walking in front of me is an act of bravery or resiliance.
In fact, if you are saying anything at all with this stupid act, its that you trust your fellow citizen some completely that you would put your life in the hands of the drivers you block. Everytime you cross a street when the traffic rules tell you not to, you become Blanche Dubois, trusting in the kindness of strangers.
And now that I am watching you cross in front of me with a brooding look smeared on your face, I notice that your belted jeans are handing somewhere just high of your knees. No denim to cover up your buttocks; they are dancing in the breeze, covered by a flimsy pair of jockeys. That's a nice touch. Again, part of the gansta badass look? I don't think so. Do you know where that fashion cames from? In prisons. When prisoners wanted to advertise that they were for the taking, they would drop their pants below their asses to display their wares.
So the ass hanging out of your pants doesn't communicate, "hey, I'm not to be messed with." It says, "would you like to have sexual contact with my colon? Because I'd love to have you spelunck up there."
Crossing the street in front of traffic makes you a moron. Letting your ass hang out of your pants makes you a shameless freak. And, as Newton proved centuries ago, Moron + Shameless Freak = Asshole.
Maybe in your rap-warped head you think this proves up your macho bone fides. But to me, you aren't showing how super tough you are - we both know that if I put my foot down hard on the gas pedal, I would bust you up plenty. And that doesn't prove how tough I am either. I could be an 80 year old blind lady in a Chevy Tahoe and if I decided to, I would have you broken and crumpled on the hood of my car. So forget the idea that walking in front of me is an act of bravery or resiliance.
In fact, if you are saying anything at all with this stupid act, its that you trust your fellow citizen some completely that you would put your life in the hands of the drivers you block. Everytime you cross a street when the traffic rules tell you not to, you become Blanche Dubois, trusting in the kindness of strangers.
And now that I am watching you cross in front of me with a brooding look smeared on your face, I notice that your belted jeans are handing somewhere just high of your knees. No denim to cover up your buttocks; they are dancing in the breeze, covered by a flimsy pair of jockeys. That's a nice touch. Again, part of the gansta badass look? I don't think so. Do you know where that fashion cames from? In prisons. When prisoners wanted to advertise that they were for the taking, they would drop their pants below their asses to display their wares.
So the ass hanging out of your pants doesn't communicate, "hey, I'm not to be messed with." It says, "would you like to have sexual contact with my colon? Because I'd love to have you spelunck up there."
Crossing the street in front of traffic makes you a moron. Letting your ass hang out of your pants makes you a shameless freak. And, as Newton proved centuries ago, Moron + Shameless Freak = Asshole.
Sunday, June 7, 2009
Shirtless Man From Down the Street
I admit that yesterday was a perfect specimen of late spring - a warm, wild wind whipping the cottonwoods into a roar, periods of baking sun broken by thick, fluffy clouds providing a soothing counterpoint of shade. In the first paces of yard work, any normal human would find himself hot and perspiring in the glorious weather.
How a citizen approaches the heat of a June afternoon is his business on his land. For example, should he take his shirt off to cool down while mowing his lawn, fine. But the shirtless yard worker breaks a subtle but certain barrier when he leaves his property to walk the sidewalk or, worse, visit a neighbour.
As terrific a person as the shirtless citizen might be, his neighbour might find a topless visit completely discomforting. This principle is doubly important towards the early hours of evening when the sun rays are barely making it over the horizon and a purple cool settles in the air. At that time of day, the shirtless visitor gives his forced hosts a lesson in how nipples react to cooler air. At least in the full blaze, the shirtlessness wins sympathy; not when the oldies are grabbing for their sweather-vests.
For the crime of visiting neighbours after dinner without a shirt, including a midemeanor for being a middle aged man walking shirtless down the sidewalk, I declare you a shirtless asshole.
How a citizen approaches the heat of a June afternoon is his business on his land. For example, should he take his shirt off to cool down while mowing his lawn, fine. But the shirtless yard worker breaks a subtle but certain barrier when he leaves his property to walk the sidewalk or, worse, visit a neighbour.
As terrific a person as the shirtless citizen might be, his neighbour might find a topless visit completely discomforting. This principle is doubly important towards the early hours of evening when the sun rays are barely making it over the horizon and a purple cool settles in the air. At that time of day, the shirtless visitor gives his forced hosts a lesson in how nipples react to cooler air. At least in the full blaze, the shirtlessness wins sympathy; not when the oldies are grabbing for their sweather-vests.
For the crime of visiting neighbours after dinner without a shirt, including a midemeanor for being a middle aged man walking shirtless down the sidewalk, I declare you a shirtless asshole.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Colleague Confuses Tomorrow with Yesterday
Don't get me wrong, I respect and admire experience. I am wedded to Santayana's cliche about those who ignore history being doomed to repeat it. However, as with everthing in life, there are limits. There are times when recalling history slips into nostalgic navel gazing.
The history of any successful, enduring company has oodles of failed strategies and flubbed executions. The idea, generally, is to learn from them and move on. It is not to revel in them and recall the taste of triumph which wasn't so much a triumph as the defeat of your enemy.
I'm running a business here, not casting for a re-make of Clan of the Cave Bears. Its wonderful that you can do oral history like an octogenerian in an igloo; but save it for happy hour with your wife. The rest of us need to move forward. I'm glad that you sure told Gary that his plan would never work 6 years ago. Its terrific that for the sin of trying something, you chased Gary out of the company. (Now he's at the competitors and he just landed a pretty juicy account.) But I'm not Gary and this isn't 2003. We have analysed what we did, what went wrong and how we would avoid that problem in the future. Let's get busy.
And if I fail, well, I'll fail. You can run me out of the company too and spend the next ten years boring some junior staffer with war stories about how Raven came to speak to you in a dream and foretold my doom. But for now, you're just a raving asshole.
The history of any successful, enduring company has oodles of failed strategies and flubbed executions. The idea, generally, is to learn from them and move on. It is not to revel in them and recall the taste of triumph which wasn't so much a triumph as the defeat of your enemy.
I'm running a business here, not casting for a re-make of Clan of the Cave Bears. Its wonderful that you can do oral history like an octogenerian in an igloo; but save it for happy hour with your wife. The rest of us need to move forward. I'm glad that you sure told Gary that his plan would never work 6 years ago. Its terrific that for the sin of trying something, you chased Gary out of the company. (Now he's at the competitors and he just landed a pretty juicy account.) But I'm not Gary and this isn't 2003. We have analysed what we did, what went wrong and how we would avoid that problem in the future. Let's get busy.
And if I fail, well, I'll fail. You can run me out of the company too and spend the next ten years boring some junior staffer with war stories about how Raven came to speak to you in a dream and foretold my doom. But for now, you're just a raving asshole.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Fridge Selling Man
I understand your perspective: you live in a river of fridges where tomorrow's fridge is not today's and you've already forgetten yesterday's. You approach sliding trays and icemakers with dismissive familiarity as you hussle amanas and maytags into the kitchens of Montreal.
But remember your customer! They or She or He is making a big purchase. If you take all the purchases that person makes in a year and them sort them from most expensive to least, guess what's in the top five? That damned fridge! Make the same list for three years out and guess what? As a good a chance as any that the fridge still pokes its ugly bill into the mess. Its a big purchase that gets big attention.
Not only is it big but its enduring. That clunker will be with the purchaser for ten years, give or take. Again, make a list of purchases and sort from longest term to shortest term and topping the list: a fridge! Here, a fridge basically does beat a car! Its a long term purchase meaning cocks-up to be suffered over many, many years.
Big Expense + Long Duration = Big Damned Decision. Purchaser wants to get the purchase right!
So when you use the words, "trust me", use them like the fate of the world hung on your shoulders. Or don't use them.
The fridge shows up. They may come from the same factory, but they are not the same fridge. Its those small detail of sliding trays that lead us to one decision. No sliding trays, no fridge purchase. We ask to have it sent back. No one says, "but madame, monsieur, what can we do to keep that fridge in your house?" Instead, beefy robots show up the next morning, whisk the fridge away and I get a full refund.
For wasting many people's time and your company's money, you are an asshole.
But remember your customer! They or She or He is making a big purchase. If you take all the purchases that person makes in a year and them sort them from most expensive to least, guess what's in the top five? That damned fridge! Make the same list for three years out and guess what? As a good a chance as any that the fridge still pokes its ugly bill into the mess. Its a big purchase that gets big attention.
Not only is it big but its enduring. That clunker will be with the purchaser for ten years, give or take. Again, make a list of purchases and sort from longest term to shortest term and topping the list: a fridge! Here, a fridge basically does beat a car! Its a long term purchase meaning cocks-up to be suffered over many, many years.
Big Expense + Long Duration = Big Damned Decision. Purchaser wants to get the purchase right!
So when you use the words, "trust me", use them like the fate of the world hung on your shoulders. Or don't use them.
The fridge shows up. They may come from the same factory, but they are not the same fridge. Its those small detail of sliding trays that lead us to one decision. No sliding trays, no fridge purchase. We ask to have it sent back. No one says, "but madame, monsieur, what can we do to keep that fridge in your house?" Instead, beefy robots show up the next morning, whisk the fridge away and I get a full refund.
For wasting many people's time and your company's money, you are an asshole.
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