As I was going to work today a woman stopped me on the street and asked if I knew where 18 King St. was. She then pointed to a building with a huge number 18 on it and said, "is that it?"
I didn't immediately answer and she said "are you familiar with the area?"
I think there is a difference between being familiar with an area and knowing the exact location of every building within a 3 kilometre radius. Usually "familiar with the area" questions are along the lines of "is Yonge St. this way" or "is there a Tim Horton's around here?" Not "can you direct me to the nearest Halal butcher with a sour disposition but sweet cuts of beef?"
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
That Don't Add Up
I should rename this blog "Sh*t My Monkey Says" but she's not my monkey, she's a monkey for the world. The latest ridiculousness that she was trying to convince me of is that the month of October 2010 has five of each day; that is, five Mondays, five Tuesday, five Wednesdays, etc.. I'm no mathematician but when I multiply seven weekdays by five, divide by the core temperature of the sun, convert to an absolute value, factor in Heisenberg's Uncertainty Principle, and carry the two I get a value of 35. I checked my calendar and, just as I suspected, October only had 31 days in it. What could possibly be amiss.
The fact is that October actually has five Fridays, five Saturdays and five Sundays. Oh my goodness - a month that has five each of three consecutive days? Surely the gods must have worked in unison to make this the most special of all months. I dug a little deeper. I was working on my own DaVinci Code here. Internet stories abounded that this kind of thing only happened once every 823 years; oh what a wonderful time we live in.
But wait . . . I thought August 2010 had the same phenomenon. Yes, there it is; five Sundays, five Mondays and five Tuesdays. In fact, every single damn month that has 31 days, from the beginning of time to the end of time, will have five each of three consecutive days. Let's say we start a month on a Sunday, as August 2010 did, count 28 days and we end up on a Saturday. Thus far, each day has occurred four times but there are three days left. We don't just tack them on randomly:
"I have my pilates class on Wednesday so let's add them there."
"Arrgh matie I have my pirates class then too, I wholeheartedly concur."
"So we'll have seven Wednesdays in August?"
"Aye aye - for he's a jolly good fellow, for he's a . . . "
"Will you idiots shut up. For one thing, we have no control over the calendar, this is a bake sale, and secondly the days will just continue in sequential order."
"Shiver me timbers . . . this lemon meringue pie is phenomenal."
The fact is that October actually has five Fridays, five Saturdays and five Sundays. Oh my goodness - a month that has five each of three consecutive days? Surely the gods must have worked in unison to make this the most special of all months. I dug a little deeper. I was working on my own DaVinci Code here. Internet stories abounded that this kind of thing only happened once every 823 years; oh what a wonderful time we live in.
But wait . . . I thought August 2010 had the same phenomenon. Yes, there it is; five Sundays, five Mondays and five Tuesdays. In fact, every single damn month that has 31 days, from the beginning of time to the end of time, will have five each of three consecutive days. Let's say we start a month on a Sunday, as August 2010 did, count 28 days and we end up on a Saturday. Thus far, each day has occurred four times but there are three days left. We don't just tack them on randomly:
"I have my pilates class on Wednesday so let's add them there."
"Arrgh matie I have my pirates class then too, I wholeheartedly concur."
"So we'll have seven Wednesdays in August?"
"Aye aye - for he's a jolly good fellow, for he's a . . . "
"Will you idiots shut up. For one thing, we have no control over the calendar, this is a bake sale, and secondly the days will just continue in sequential order."
"Shiver me timbers . . . this lemon meringue pie is phenomenal."
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Call on line 666
I used to work at a summer camp. There was a time when I thought I would like to mold the minds of our young future leaders. I wanted to be a teacher and the summer camp gave me experience that I was unable to get sitting at home lecturing to puppets (although the kids were only slightly more responsive). My experience at the camp quickly beat the desire to be a teacher (and very nearly, the will to live) out of me.
But this entry is not about the summer camp in general but about a specific event. There were five camps spread around the city and each had a coordinator. One summer the coordinators were given beepers. These were the days long before cell phones and the job of the coordinator involved a lot of roaming around so we weren't easy to get a hold of.
Each week the coordinators would have an off site meeting with the district supervisor. On occasion there would be a camp emergency (crying child, crying counselor, bleeding nose, sucking chest wound, decapitation) and a coordinator would have to miss the meeting.
On this particular occasion, we went to McDonald's after the meeting. While sitting and chatting one of the coordinators got a page, checked her beeper, screamed hysterically and threw it on the table. For you see, the page was from none other than the Prince of Darkness, Lucifer. Yes, the number that appeared was 666. I was flabbergasted that not only would the devil use such a pedestrian method of communication but that he would page someone knowing they'd have to call back and foot the exorbitant long distance charges of phoning Hell. But I guess nobody ever said Beelzebub was considerate.
Now, are you sitting down, because it wasn't actually the devil calling. Turns out it was just the coordinator who didn't make it to the meeting. I could have sworn it was one of the little prick kids from my camp. If this kid wasn't the devil he was most certainly a close relative.
Anyway, I suppose you're wondering about sucking chest wounds. They are not, as I thought, a hickey on the teats. A sucking chest wound is when the chest cavity has been pierced and air is sucked into the cavity through the wound on inhalation. They are obviously dangerous for the sufferer and no picnic for the person treating the wound. I once lost a wristwatch and half a turkey sub in a sucking chest wound.
But this entry is not about the summer camp in general but about a specific event. There were five camps spread around the city and each had a coordinator. One summer the coordinators were given beepers. These were the days long before cell phones and the job of the coordinator involved a lot of roaming around so we weren't easy to get a hold of.
Each week the coordinators would have an off site meeting with the district supervisor. On occasion there would be a camp emergency (crying child, crying counselor, bleeding nose, sucking chest wound, decapitation) and a coordinator would have to miss the meeting.
On this particular occasion, we went to McDonald's after the meeting. While sitting and chatting one of the coordinators got a page, checked her beeper, screamed hysterically and threw it on the table. For you see, the page was from none other than the Prince of Darkness, Lucifer. Yes, the number that appeared was 666. I was flabbergasted that not only would the devil use such a pedestrian method of communication but that he would page someone knowing they'd have to call back and foot the exorbitant long distance charges of phoning Hell. But I guess nobody ever said Beelzebub was considerate.
Now, are you sitting down, because it wasn't actually the devil calling. Turns out it was just the coordinator who didn't make it to the meeting. I could have sworn it was one of the little prick kids from my camp. If this kid wasn't the devil he was most certainly a close relative.
Anyway, I suppose you're wondering about sucking chest wounds. They are not, as I thought, a hickey on the teats. A sucking chest wound is when the chest cavity has been pierced and air is sucked into the cavity through the wound on inhalation. They are obviously dangerous for the sufferer and no picnic for the person treating the wound. I once lost a wristwatch and half a turkey sub in a sucking chest wound.
Monday, September 27, 2010
And how come that mute guy never answers me?
Yesterday, while driving, Monkey spotted a man walking on the sidewalk. The man had a white pole with a large rubber tip. Many of you may already know where this is going. Monkey said, "what's he looking for?" She thought that he was holding a metal detector and looking for precious coins on the sidewalk; because the sidewalk of course is where you really need a metal detector. If you are able to detect a coin buried beneath the concrete are you really going to get out a jackhammer and start drilling away on the miniscule chance that you've found an ounce of gold instead of just an old sardine tin lid. Anyway, I replied that as the man was blind, he was probably looking for anything.
Friday, July 23, 2010
The Collision Reporting Centre
Yesterday I went to the Collision Reporting Centre with Monkey. A very minor accident and everybody is fine but thanks for your concern.
I’m guessing that whoever put together the reporting process is not a black belt in Six Sigma process management. It is more likely that they tied the belt in a Gordian knot and then accidentally hanged themselves with it.
The first thing you encounter when you enter the building, approximately three feet inside the door, is a giant sign reading “Please take a number.” My guess is that 40% of people do not take a number. You then wait for your number to be displayed and proceed to the clerk. This area reminded me of a construction site or a Tim Horton’s counter; nine people boondoggling and one person working.
Of the 40% of people that do take a number 90% of them do not wait for their number to be displayed but simply go to the counter or get in line (this is a separate section that I’ll explain in a minute. Actually, I probably shouldn’t use a measurement of time here but rather of position. You may be a very fast or very slow reader. Even a slow reader will probably reach that section in less than a minute. With position it’s either above or below, in this case below. If you’re reading this upside down there’s nothing I can do for you.) What is the thought process there? The numbers are just random? They’re for display purposes only. They unlock the leprechaun’s treasure chest? Have these people honestly never encountered a number system before?
Anyway, after you’ve discussed details with a clerk, they give you a slip of paper that you take over to the police counter. This is where your number is meaningless and they employ a line-up system. The officer will take a quick look at the paper and then go out to the car to view the damage. You go back inside and the officer asks all of the same questions that the clerk just asked you. During this period someone sneaks outside and slaps a “Damage Reported” sticker on your car. Once that is complete a form is printed and you’re to fill in all the same answers you just verbally gave the clerk and the officer. I assumed that the officer was typing in the details as Monkey explained things but I later found out he was working on his novella for young adults about the dangerous yet glamorous life of a collision reporting centre cop and the woman who loves him but isn’t sure how much more of his devil-may-care attitude she can take. And they’re both vampires.
So you complete the form, which has about three relevant questions, and take it back to the police. The officer then asks the same questions that you’ve already answered to the clerk, other officer and on the form. Once he is satisfied he says “Thank you, bring this slip over there and you can pick up a copy of the report”. “Over there” is a counter beside the area where the clerks sit. A clerk will give you a copy of the report that has none of the details that either you or the second officer wrote down on it and then says “that is all we need, you can leave now.” Really, but I was going to stay for dinner.
It turns out that one of the guys that came in wanted to report an accident he had on his bicycle. I didn’t hear the rest of the story because it was drowned out by my uncontrollable laughter.
On the way out Monkey nearly walked directly into a wall which I didn’t think would do much for her case that she didn’t cause the accident. When she saw the “Damage Reported” sticker she said “Can I take this off?” Yes, of course. The whole purpose of the sticker is to identify the damage only while your car is in the CRC parking lot.
I’m guessing that whoever put together the reporting process is not a black belt in Six Sigma process management. It is more likely that they tied the belt in a Gordian knot and then accidentally hanged themselves with it.
The first thing you encounter when you enter the building, approximately three feet inside the door, is a giant sign reading “Please take a number.” My guess is that 40% of people do not take a number. You then wait for your number to be displayed and proceed to the clerk. This area reminded me of a construction site or a Tim Horton’s counter; nine people boondoggling and one person working.
Of the 40% of people that do take a number 90% of them do not wait for their number to be displayed but simply go to the counter or get in line (this is a separate section that I’ll explain in a minute. Actually, I probably shouldn’t use a measurement of time here but rather of position. You may be a very fast or very slow reader. Even a slow reader will probably reach that section in less than a minute. With position it’s either above or below, in this case below. If you’re reading this upside down there’s nothing I can do for you.) What is the thought process there? The numbers are just random? They’re for display purposes only. They unlock the leprechaun’s treasure chest? Have these people honestly never encountered a number system before?
Anyway, after you’ve discussed details with a clerk, they give you a slip of paper that you take over to the police counter. This is where your number is meaningless and they employ a line-up system. The officer will take a quick look at the paper and then go out to the car to view the damage. You go back inside and the officer asks all of the same questions that the clerk just asked you. During this period someone sneaks outside and slaps a “Damage Reported” sticker on your car. Once that is complete a form is printed and you’re to fill in all the same answers you just verbally gave the clerk and the officer. I assumed that the officer was typing in the details as Monkey explained things but I later found out he was working on his novella for young adults about the dangerous yet glamorous life of a collision reporting centre cop and the woman who loves him but isn’t sure how much more of his devil-may-care attitude she can take. And they’re both vampires.
So you complete the form, which has about three relevant questions, and take it back to the police. The officer then asks the same questions that you’ve already answered to the clerk, other officer and on the form. Once he is satisfied he says “Thank you, bring this slip over there and you can pick up a copy of the report”. “Over there” is a counter beside the area where the clerks sit. A clerk will give you a copy of the report that has none of the details that either you or the second officer wrote down on it and then says “that is all we need, you can leave now.” Really, but I was going to stay for dinner.
It turns out that one of the guys that came in wanted to report an accident he had on his bicycle. I didn’t hear the rest of the story because it was drowned out by my uncontrollable laughter.
On the way out Monkey nearly walked directly into a wall which I didn’t think would do much for her case that she didn’t cause the accident. When she saw the “Damage Reported” sticker she said “Can I take this off?” Yes, of course. The whole purpose of the sticker is to identify the damage only while your car is in the CRC parking lot.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
A Letter to my Kindergarten Teacher
I must admit I was taken by surprise when, perusing my old report cards, I came across the phrase “can be sullen and irritable if things don’t go his way”. Those are awfully fancy words for a kindergarten teacher. Did you learn those on your own or were they part of the curriculum sandwiched between “Mixing Orange Syrup Water” and “What to Do When a Child Eats Paste”?
How did you think I’d feel after toiling on the floor piecing together 23 of the 24 pieces that make up the “Hamburglar’s at it Again” jigsaw puzzle only to find the 24th piece chewed, almost beyond recognition, in Mr. Peanut’s cage. Great name for the class hamster by the way. At the age of five we aren’t able to enunciate clearly but perhaps it was your intention to have a group of children shrieking “I want to pet Mr. Peenus.” We certainly got a lot of unwanted attention from the caretaker.
Did you really expect me to maintain my composure after spending the better part of three days building Fort Awesome only to have you tell me it was clean up time. I doubt anyway told Frank Gehry to put his toys away and get ready for story time when he was designing the Experience Music Project.
And Story Time sucked. Why don’t you try a little inflection when you’re reading. You sounded like a depressed robot. Did it look like I was having a good time? Of course it did. I was trying to spare your feelings. Maybe next time you’re writing up report cards in a Jell-O shots induced haze you’ll give that idea a little thought.
How did you think I’d feel after toiling on the floor piecing together 23 of the 24 pieces that make up the “Hamburglar’s at it Again” jigsaw puzzle only to find the 24th piece chewed, almost beyond recognition, in Mr. Peanut’s cage. Great name for the class hamster by the way. At the age of five we aren’t able to enunciate clearly but perhaps it was your intention to have a group of children shrieking “I want to pet Mr. Peenus.” We certainly got a lot of unwanted attention from the caretaker.
Did you really expect me to maintain my composure after spending the better part of three days building Fort Awesome only to have you tell me it was clean up time. I doubt anyway told Frank Gehry to put his toys away and get ready for story time when he was designing the Experience Music Project.
And Story Time sucked. Why don’t you try a little inflection when you’re reading. You sounded like a depressed robot. Did it look like I was having a good time? Of course it did. I was trying to spare your feelings. Maybe next time you’re writing up report cards in a Jell-O shots induced haze you’ll give that idea a little thought.
Friday, June 18, 2010
It's Over
The Relay for Life took place last Friday. Everything went very well. I raised $2,200.00 and the team raised $9,379.00. We were the first place team up until the final week when, out of nowhere, the Brides' Project (if that is their real name) came up with a huge donation and pushed us down to second. They were like snipers hiding in the bushes just waiting for the perfect opportunity to shoot us down.
This year we brought the same tent and made sure we had the poles. We did not, however, make sure the poles were complete. After spending 3 hours trying to thread the elastic through the pole pieces and enduring the trash talking of the group on the site next to us we gave up.
After giving up on the four person tent we went to our back-up two person tent. A different one from last year that actually fit two people. Now you might think, oh, that was very clever that they brought a back-up tent. Au contraire, what would have been clever is if we'd checked the poles of the main tent. Anyway, we got the tent up without incident and I crawled into it just before the rain started down.
After the Relay, because I wasn't tired enough, I went with Auntie Monkey to Snake and Rooster's house to babysit them for the day. It was the first day of the softball season for Snake so she had two games and a team photo. All spaced far apart and all in different locations. When I wasn't standing in the rain watching 9 year olds play softball I was back at the house lying on the couch. Apparently my lying on the couch sends a message to the girls to use me as a human bouncy castle.
The highlight of my weekend though may have been when we went to the schnitzel house for dinner. On entering, the host asked us if we were with the Corey party. I asked if Corey was taking care of the tab in which case we were most definitely part of the party. Monkey however said, "who's Corey". The host then said "oh, we have a lot of kids here for Corey's party so I thought you may have been with them."
What kind of a kid has his birthday party at a schnitzel house? I soon found out and Corey looked exactly like the kind of kid that would have his party at the schnitzel house. The lederhosen and copy of Mein Kampf under his arm were a dead giveaway. I think Herr Corey may have schnitzeled his pants when everyone yelled Uberraschen!!!
Thursday, May 27, 2010
So Close, So Very Freakin' Close
I'm currently sitting at $1415.00 for the Relay for Life; just $585.00 away from my goal of $2000.00.
Many of you have already generously donated and for that I am extremely grateful but I really want to meet my goal so what do I have to do to get the money pouring in? Here are some suggestions:
For a $10.00 donation I will: make you breakfast, read you a story, scream at the top of my lungs in your ear (this probably won't be a very popular selection), give you a shoulder massage OR polish your shoes.
Many of you have already generously donated and for that I am extremely grateful but I really want to meet my goal so what do I have to do to get the money pouring in? Here are some suggestions:
For a $10.00 donation I will: make you breakfast, read you a story, scream at the top of my lungs in your ear (this probably won't be a very popular selection), give you a shoulder massage OR polish your shoes.
For a $20.00 donation I will: make you breakfast AND not eat any of it, clean your windows (ground floor only), walk your dog for a week (no more than a half-mile a day and no poodles or chihuahuas) OR give you a palm reading while you wait.
For a $50.00 donation I will: give you a shoulder massage while softly singing a lullaby in your ear (women only - for men the song selection will be late 80s metal ballads. For requests of Careless Whisper by Wham please see the "Not Enough Money in the World" donations section.), give you a foot massage (that is, I will massage any 12 inch part of your body - man that sounds really dirty, let's make that a $100 donation).
For a $100.00 donation I will: shave any part of your body and at no extra charge, allow you to shave any part of my body, give you a tattoo, wax your car or dewax your ears.
Monday, May 10, 2010
Holy Geez I'm Tired
May has been a very busy month for me. Last weekend we had the The Third Annual Super Karate Monkey Relay for Life Garage Sale (TASKMRFLGS). I'm proud to report that it was a rousing success with the team raising just under $600.00 for the Relay.
All of your favourite Super Karate Monkeys were there - Bitey, Scratchy, Fatty (that's me), One-Eye, One-Leg and Just-a-Head.
Our featured item this year was a lovely sweater donated (in error) by Jabber-Jaw. The sweater itself was a plain white affair but directly in the centre was a large photo of all three sisters. This kind of item brings up all sorts of questions for me. What kind of a person would wear a sweater with a picture of them self on it; and, more importantly, what kind of person would wear a sweater with a picture of people he didn't know on it. I aimed to find out so I placed the sweater in a place of prominence where all passersby could look upon it with mirth.
Jabber-Jaw came by a little later, drove past the house, mouth agape, turned around drove past the house again, threw the van into park (it may have been on the neighbour's dog), ran over, and while pointing at the sweater, said, in a voice shaking with equal parts terror, embarrassment and anger, "WHAT IS THAT?" Needless to say our featured item was quickly taken off the market.
Other highlights of the sale were a nine year old boy who bought a large Asian decorative fan and a family of seven who bought just about everything else. They would leave when their wagon was full, tow it back home to unload and then they were right back at it.
The past weekend was the Asian Hockey Championship and Cultural Event. This is a very large event with a much too small volunteer committee. At one point I was selling merchandise, paying referees and timekeepers, updating the scoreboard, making balloon animals and trying to eat lunch. I knew I was in trouble when I paid a timekeeper with a balloon mouse, tried to twist my cheeseburger into a dog and put up a score as three t-shirts to a hat.
One of the most amusing comments we had this year was a teenage player who came up to reception and asked for his banana and sandwich. Apparently someone on his team had told him that we were giving out free bananas and sandwiches this year. I barely have enough time to eat my own lunch, lord knows I'm not going to be slicing cucumbers and cutting off crusts for this guy.
In the AHC you are allowed to have 2 import players (i.e., non-Asian) however you're allowed to have any number of players with mixed heritage. Two years ago we had a mixed player who looked as Asian as Wayne Gretzky. Players on other teams were complaining that he was an extra import. His defense was that he had a picture of himself with his grandfather in his wallet. Now I'll grant him that his grandfather certainly did look Chinese, in fact, his grandfather came in later to rant about just how Chinese he was. Be that as it may, having a picture of you with someone doesn't prove anything. I have a picture of me at the Vatican but it doesn't mean I'm the Pope. And that picture of me canoodling at Rods of Steel - where the poles do the dancing, doesn't prove anything either.
When we pay the refs and timekeepers each person has to pick up his or her own pay envelope. Last year, one of the refs asked to pick up his friend's envelope and we said that we had to give the pay directly to the person. He replied by saying, "I've known him for over 15 years and I'm a cop, so I'm not going to steal his money." First, being a cop doesn't make you morally responsible. There have certainly been cases of cops breaking the law. Second, just because you say it out loud doesn't make it true.
"I'm a neurosurgeon and a rainbow."
"I'm a deep sea diver and the thing that your mama warned you about."
"I'm a full-time trampoline expert and a part-time lover."
"Hi, I'm a vegan and she's a maneater (Oh oh, here she comes) watch out boy, she'll chew you up. (Oh oh, here she comes) she's a maneater."
All of your favourite Super Karate Monkeys were there - Bitey, Scratchy, Fatty (that's me), One-Eye, One-Leg and Just-a-Head.
Our featured item this year was a lovely sweater donated (in error) by Jabber-Jaw. The sweater itself was a plain white affair but directly in the centre was a large photo of all three sisters. This kind of item brings up all sorts of questions for me. What kind of a person would wear a sweater with a picture of them self on it; and, more importantly, what kind of person would wear a sweater with a picture of people he didn't know on it. I aimed to find out so I placed the sweater in a place of prominence where all passersby could look upon it with mirth.
Jabber-Jaw came by a little later, drove past the house, mouth agape, turned around drove past the house again, threw the van into park (it may have been on the neighbour's dog), ran over, and while pointing at the sweater, said, in a voice shaking with equal parts terror, embarrassment and anger, "WHAT IS THAT?" Needless to say our featured item was quickly taken off the market.
Other highlights of the sale were a nine year old boy who bought a large Asian decorative fan and a family of seven who bought just about everything else. They would leave when their wagon was full, tow it back home to unload and then they were right back at it.
The past weekend was the Asian Hockey Championship and Cultural Event. This is a very large event with a much too small volunteer committee. At one point I was selling merchandise, paying referees and timekeepers, updating the scoreboard, making balloon animals and trying to eat lunch. I knew I was in trouble when I paid a timekeeper with a balloon mouse, tried to twist my cheeseburger into a dog and put up a score as three t-shirts to a hat.
One of the most amusing comments we had this year was a teenage player who came up to reception and asked for his banana and sandwich. Apparently someone on his team had told him that we were giving out free bananas and sandwiches this year. I barely have enough time to eat my own lunch, lord knows I'm not going to be slicing cucumbers and cutting off crusts for this guy.
In the AHC you are allowed to have 2 import players (i.e., non-Asian) however you're allowed to have any number of players with mixed heritage. Two years ago we had a mixed player who looked as Asian as Wayne Gretzky. Players on other teams were complaining that he was an extra import. His defense was that he had a picture of himself with his grandfather in his wallet. Now I'll grant him that his grandfather certainly did look Chinese, in fact, his grandfather came in later to rant about just how Chinese he was. Be that as it may, having a picture of you with someone doesn't prove anything. I have a picture of me at the Vatican but it doesn't mean I'm the Pope. And that picture of me canoodling at Rods of Steel - where the poles do the dancing, doesn't prove anything either.
When we pay the refs and timekeepers each person has to pick up his or her own pay envelope. Last year, one of the refs asked to pick up his friend's envelope and we said that we had to give the pay directly to the person. He replied by saying, "I've known him for over 15 years and I'm a cop, so I'm not going to steal his money." First, being a cop doesn't make you morally responsible. There have certainly been cases of cops breaking the law. Second, just because you say it out loud doesn't make it true.
"I'm a neurosurgeon and a rainbow."
"I'm a deep sea diver and the thing that your mama warned you about."
"I'm a full-time trampoline expert and a part-time lover."
"Hi, I'm a vegan and she's a maneater (Oh oh, here she comes) watch out boy, she'll chew you up. (Oh oh, here she comes) she's a maneater."
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Money Money Money Money
The time has come once again for me to request money. Is it easy to live as a single parent of seven children on a puppeteer’s salary? How about if each of those children has an extravagant extracurricular activity including, but not limited to; polo, aviation, deep sea diving, yacht racing and intergalactic travel? Frankly, I have no idea as this situation doesn’t apply to me in the slightest. If I were to hazard a guess though, I’d say it’s not easy, but manageable. Despite everything you may have heard about skyrocketing puppeteer salaries, union dues and material expenses still take a large chunk.
But I digress, I am, of course, asking for pledges to the Relay for Life. As many of you know, the Relay is a twelve hour non-competitive walk that I bust my ass each year to win. This is my tenth year competing – I mean “participating.”
I’ve set a rather lofty goal for myself this year to raise $2,000.00. I’ve calculated that if each of my friends donated $20.00 I’d be able to raise nearly $18.00 (less his inexplicable finder’s fee and parking charges). This is why I must broaden my circle of appeal to; acquaintances, co-workers, former cellmates, current cellmates, muchachos, muchachas, fast food workers, slow food workers (for the most part these are workers in the fast food industry who aren’t as quick on the uptake as their counterparts), members of the press, game show hosts and single parent puppeteers.
In all seriousness cancer fundraising is a cause very close to my heart. The Canadian Cancer Society not only funds research on all types of cancer they also raise awareness, provide information on causes and prevention of cancer and provide support for cancer patients.
You can read more about why I relay and help me reach my goal my clicking the Super Karate Monkey image on the right and then clicking the “Support David!” button. Thank you.
But I digress, I am, of course, asking for pledges to the Relay for Life. As many of you know, the Relay is a twelve hour non-competitive walk that I bust my ass each year to win. This is my tenth year competing – I mean “participating.”
I’ve set a rather lofty goal for myself this year to raise $2,000.00. I’ve calculated that if each of my friends donated $20.00 I’d be able to raise nearly $18.00 (less his inexplicable finder’s fee and parking charges). This is why I must broaden my circle of appeal to; acquaintances, co-workers, former cellmates, current cellmates, muchachos, muchachas, fast food workers, slow food workers (for the most part these are workers in the fast food industry who aren’t as quick on the uptake as their counterparts), members of the press, game show hosts and single parent puppeteers.
In all seriousness cancer fundraising is a cause very close to my heart. The Canadian Cancer Society not only funds research on all types of cancer they also raise awareness, provide information on causes and prevention of cancer and provide support for cancer patients.
You can read more about why I relay and help me reach my goal my clicking the Super Karate Monkey image on the right and then clicking the “Support David!” button. Thank you.
Monday, April 12, 2010
Tax Season
Each year I do the income taxes for my brother and father. The hardest part of this is getting the information from them. Their filing systems leave a little to be desired. My father has a large envelope in which he very neatly places random pieces of paper. A T4 from 1978, an expired coupon to Ponderosa restaurant, duct cleaning flyers and Ziggy cartoons that he has clipped from the newspaper. Almost everything can be found in those envelopes with the exception of current year tax statements. My brother is not quite as meticulous. He will crumple various pieces of paper into little balls and then stash them in every nook and cranny he can find.
This year my dad and I weren't able to connect for him to pass me his envelope of miscellany so I had to get the numbers from him over the phone. He could have sent an e-mail but he types by the hunt and peck method and I'm not sure if he knows how to use backspace so errors are not corrected, or acknowledged, so that wouldn't have been reliable. As it was, I had to pry the proper form names out of him.
"I've go a T4D here."
"Dad, I don't think there's such a thing."
"Sorry, T47G."
"Try again."
"Right, right - it's a T4164."
"Dad, you have a Manitoba Odour-Control Tax Credit?"
"I am using that new soap."
This year my dad and I weren't able to connect for him to pass me his envelope of miscellany so I had to get the numbers from him over the phone. He could have sent an e-mail but he types by the hunt and peck method and I'm not sure if he knows how to use backspace so errors are not corrected, or acknowledged, so that wouldn't have been reliable. As it was, I had to pry the proper form names out of him.
"I've go a T4D here."
"Dad, I don't think there's such a thing."
"Sorry, T47G."
"Try again."
"Right, right - it's a T4164."
"Dad, you have a Manitoba Odour-Control Tax Credit?"
"I am using that new soap."
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Blackberrys
I'm not against Blackberrys, they certainly have some value, but whenever I look at a user's screen they're almost always playing Brick Breaker or Solitaire. They also, almost always, tell me to stop looking at their screen and, on an unrelated note, put my pants back on.
It irks me to see teenagers - and it irks me even more to see teenagers on Blackberries. If you're still in school and/or don't have a job, you don't need a Blackberry; you don't really even need to be out in public but that's a battle that's bigger than me.
The thing that rattles my snake most about Blackberry users is that they're completely unable to both read a message and get the hell out of my way at the same time. I'm not a patient person to begin with but waiting for some suit and tie to wander out of an elevator, so engrossed in an e-mail that he's completely unaware that there are other people on the planet, makes me wish I could shoot lasers out of my eyes and blow heads apart. That skill would actually come in handy on a number of occasions; can't see the movie screen because some pumpkinhead is sitting in front of you, want to impress a date, stuck beside a bore at a cocktail party.
Getting back to the clueless Blackberry user; unless the e-mail message states that an army of zombies has arisen and is intent on creating a new world order in which the plumpest members of the human species will be turned into slaves and forced to subsist on a diet of human flesh and vegetables, it's not nearly as important as getting the hell out of my way.
It irks me to see teenagers - and it irks me even more to see teenagers on Blackberries. If you're still in school and/or don't have a job, you don't need a Blackberry; you don't really even need to be out in public but that's a battle that's bigger than me.
The thing that rattles my snake most about Blackberry users is that they're completely unable to both read a message and get the hell out of my way at the same time. I'm not a patient person to begin with but waiting for some suit and tie to wander out of an elevator, so engrossed in an e-mail that he's completely unaware that there are other people on the planet, makes me wish I could shoot lasers out of my eyes and blow heads apart. That skill would actually come in handy on a number of occasions; can't see the movie screen because some pumpkinhead is sitting in front of you, want to impress a date, stuck beside a bore at a cocktail party.
Getting back to the clueless Blackberry user; unless the e-mail message states that an army of zombies has arisen and is intent on creating a new world order in which the plumpest members of the human species will be turned into slaves and forced to subsist on a diet of human flesh and vegetables, it's not nearly as important as getting the hell out of my way.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Stupid TTC
I hate the TTC. I know that’s about as controversial as taking a firm stance against cannibalism or expressing disapproval of necrophilia but it has to be said. A quick side note; I was once at a work function that had a fairly boring speaker and one of my colleagues asked the organizer to get someone more exciting next time because some of us suffer from necrophilia. She meant, I hope, narcolepsy. Falling asleep during a presentation is bad, but performing the dancing monkey of desire on a corpse? Not during business hours.
The incompetence and arrogance of TTC employees has been thoroughly covered in the papers recently but I haven’t seen some of my petty issues addressed.
I should note that research for this entry was done entirely through Wikipedia and my own memory; neither of which are reliable.
Why do we still have streetcars? There are two cities in North America that still run streetcars as part of the regular transportation system; Toronto and New Orleans. I don’t know much about the Big Easy – and while topless women and heavy drinking have their plus sides – I’m not entirely sure this is a place we should be modeling our transportation system after.
I realize that electrical power rather than gas is probably beneficial to the environment but there are electric powered buses. At least with buses if one gets stuck you don’t have 5 more lined up behind it because they have nowhere else to go. And buses can actually pull up to the curb so you don’t have to risk your life exiting the vehicle while some jerkwad tries to race past the open doors, not because he has anywhere important to go, but because 20 seconds of his time is clearly more valuable than another person’s life.
Here are some quaint facts about the streetcar system.
The TTC still employs blacksmiths. You can even take a tour of their shop. It costs $15 but you’re guaranteed a much more surly, lazy and arrogant worker than you’d encounter with your low $3.00 ride fare. The slogan is “ten times the attitude for five times the price.” Check tour 4 at this link http://www3.ttc.ca/TTC_Business/TTC_Tours/Locations.jsp.
Sand is used on the rails for extra traction in acceleration and braking. Wikipedia states, “A passenger might notice spilled sand on the streetcar floors near the front of the car; this is where the hoppers are loaded.” Yes, I noticed the sand. If it weren’t for the stink of cat urine and rotting vegetables I would have thought I was at the beach. The hoppers must be filled by epileptic blind people.
This system is so antiquated I expect the first aid box to be filled with leeches and scheduling communication to be sent by telegraph.
- ···· · - - -·-· ··· ··- -·-· -·- ···
That would explain why every single day when I come home from work the streetcar has to wait a few minutes before entering the station because there’s no room in the bay. The bay only holds two streetcars but rather than properly scheduling arrival and departure times so that the vehicles run at regular intervals the TTC has decided that it’s much better for the driver to wait until traffic is sufficiently obstructed. An added bonus of this system is that while I’m waiting on the streetcar I can see my connecting bus leave the station.
One of my favourite tricks the TTC pulls is the short turn. This is when I’m comfortably seated on a not too crowded streetcar. An announcement is made – usually something along the lines of, “this car will be short-turning at Parliament. Parliament will be the last stop for this car.” The announcement, of course, is made at Parliament and what the driver is really saying is, “I know you’re comfortable and I could have given you way more notice that this car was short-turning in case you wanted to take an alternate route but I thought it would be better if I kicked you off abruptly and made you, and all the other passengers on this car, and all the passengers currently waiting at the stop, get on the already crowded streetcar behind me. I’m truly sorry that it is not raining.”
I know that switching to electric buses would require hiring people who are capable of working a steering wheel along with the extremely labour intensive and complicated task of pushing two different pedals; GO and NO-GO. Honestly, how hard is it to drive a streetcar? I’ve seen more complicated rides at Centre Island. Pig could drive a streetcar and he’s not even three yet. Of course if he spots something shiny all bets are off.
And finally, the streetcar bell, is it really necessary? Whenever one streetcar passes another the drivers ding their little bells like Quasimodo being electrocuted. Or, perhaps they’re sending some sort of message via Morse code. Streetcars are 23 metres long, 37,000 kilograms and red. I think we can all see them okay without a bell alerting us to their presence.
I see you – Ding
I see you too – Ding Ding
Ding, Ding, Ding, Ding (which one of these pedals is GO?)
By the way, streetcars are not wheelchair accessible so if you are paralyzed from the waist down you'll have an easier time walking to your destination than getting on a streetcar.
The incompetence and arrogance of TTC employees has been thoroughly covered in the papers recently but I haven’t seen some of my petty issues addressed.
I should note that research for this entry was done entirely through Wikipedia and my own memory; neither of which are reliable.
Why do we still have streetcars? There are two cities in North America that still run streetcars as part of the regular transportation system; Toronto and New Orleans. I don’t know much about the Big Easy – and while topless women and heavy drinking have their plus sides – I’m not entirely sure this is a place we should be modeling our transportation system after.
I realize that electrical power rather than gas is probably beneficial to the environment but there are electric powered buses. At least with buses if one gets stuck you don’t have 5 more lined up behind it because they have nowhere else to go. And buses can actually pull up to the curb so you don’t have to risk your life exiting the vehicle while some jerkwad tries to race past the open doors, not because he has anywhere important to go, but because 20 seconds of his time is clearly more valuable than another person’s life.
Here are some quaint facts about the streetcar system.
The TTC still employs blacksmiths. You can even take a tour of their shop. It costs $15 but you’re guaranteed a much more surly, lazy and arrogant worker than you’d encounter with your low $3.00 ride fare. The slogan is “ten times the attitude for five times the price.” Check tour 4 at this link http://www3.ttc.ca/TTC_Business/TTC_Tours/Locations.jsp.
Sand is used on the rails for extra traction in acceleration and braking. Wikipedia states, “A passenger might notice spilled sand on the streetcar floors near the front of the car; this is where the hoppers are loaded.” Yes, I noticed the sand. If it weren’t for the stink of cat urine and rotting vegetables I would have thought I was at the beach. The hoppers must be filled by epileptic blind people.
This system is so antiquated I expect the first aid box to be filled with leeches and scheduling communication to be sent by telegraph.
- ···· · - - -·-· ··· ··- -·-· -·- ···
That would explain why every single day when I come home from work the streetcar has to wait a few minutes before entering the station because there’s no room in the bay. The bay only holds two streetcars but rather than properly scheduling arrival and departure times so that the vehicles run at regular intervals the TTC has decided that it’s much better for the driver to wait until traffic is sufficiently obstructed. An added bonus of this system is that while I’m waiting on the streetcar I can see my connecting bus leave the station.
One of my favourite tricks the TTC pulls is the short turn. This is when I’m comfortably seated on a not too crowded streetcar. An announcement is made – usually something along the lines of, “this car will be short-turning at Parliament. Parliament will be the last stop for this car.” The announcement, of course, is made at Parliament and what the driver is really saying is, “I know you’re comfortable and I could have given you way more notice that this car was short-turning in case you wanted to take an alternate route but I thought it would be better if I kicked you off abruptly and made you, and all the other passengers on this car, and all the passengers currently waiting at the stop, get on the already crowded streetcar behind me. I’m truly sorry that it is not raining.”
I know that switching to electric buses would require hiring people who are capable of working a steering wheel along with the extremely labour intensive and complicated task of pushing two different pedals; GO and NO-GO. Honestly, how hard is it to drive a streetcar? I’ve seen more complicated rides at Centre Island. Pig could drive a streetcar and he’s not even three yet. Of course if he spots something shiny all bets are off.
And finally, the streetcar bell, is it really necessary? Whenever one streetcar passes another the drivers ding their little bells like Quasimodo being electrocuted. Or, perhaps they’re sending some sort of message via Morse code. Streetcars are 23 metres long, 37,000 kilograms and red. I think we can all see them okay without a bell alerting us to their presence.
I see you – Ding
I see you too – Ding Ding
Ding, Ding, Ding, Ding (which one of these pedals is GO?)
By the way, streetcars are not wheelchair accessible so if you are paralyzed from the waist down you'll have an easier time walking to your destination than getting on a streetcar.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
They Eat What?
Last week on the streetcar I had the far too common experience of hearing a conversation between people who really shouldn’t be allowed out in public. I’ll remind you that I’m half-deaf and can barely hear people speaking directly to me so obviously these two dolts were not only idiots, but loud idiots.
One snippet of the conversation revolved around a Chinese restaurant that made good, cheap pork balls. The little idiot said that he thought they were real pork because there are still plenty of cats in the neighbourhood. He then made fun of the restaurant name referring to it as “Ching Chang Ling Shek Shin Shin”. I believe it’s actually called Spring Rolls. The big idiot was about to say something but refrained himself because, as he put it, he didn’t want to appear racist. He sure didn’t have a problem with appearing stupid though. If you think something racist, whether you vocalize it or not, you’re racist.
So let’s get back to the implication that Chinese restaurants serve cat meat. Would it really matter if they did? I can understand if you’re advertising something as pork that is actually cat meat why people would get upset. That’s a blatant case of false advertising. But, I don’t think that’s the issue, after all we don’t have any restaurants that state they serve pet meat.
Why, of all the things we eat, do people find it morally reprehensible or a gastronomic catastrophe (pardon the pun) to eat dogs or cats? Do you have any idea where eggs come from? A chicken’s butt. It’s actually called a cloaca and serves as an excretory and reproductive tract. I’m not saying don’t eat eggs, I love eggs, but why are we okay with eating ass candy but not Rover.
Don’t get me started on snails. Too late. Who sees something crawling around in their garden and thinks “I bet that would be delicious with some garlic butter.” I don’t eat snails but I do love garlic butter. You could put garlic butter on a shoe and I’d try it.
High on the list of disgusting things people eat has to be haggis. Merely reading the recipe is enough to make you vomit. Take the heart, liver and lungs of a sheep, mix it with onion, oatmeal, suet, spices, and salt. Cook in the sheep’s stomach for around three hours. Not even garlic butter could get me to eat that.
So yes, if a restaurant was serving Beagle burgers or some sort of Calico cat cuisine I’d be fine with that. I might even try it if they offered a kitten size portion.
One snippet of the conversation revolved around a Chinese restaurant that made good, cheap pork balls. The little idiot said that he thought they were real pork because there are still plenty of cats in the neighbourhood. He then made fun of the restaurant name referring to it as “Ching Chang Ling Shek Shin Shin”. I believe it’s actually called Spring Rolls. The big idiot was about to say something but refrained himself because, as he put it, he didn’t want to appear racist. He sure didn’t have a problem with appearing stupid though. If you think something racist, whether you vocalize it or not, you’re racist.
So let’s get back to the implication that Chinese restaurants serve cat meat. Would it really matter if they did? I can understand if you’re advertising something as pork that is actually cat meat why people would get upset. That’s a blatant case of false advertising. But, I don’t think that’s the issue, after all we don’t have any restaurants that state they serve pet meat.
Why, of all the things we eat, do people find it morally reprehensible or a gastronomic catastrophe (pardon the pun) to eat dogs or cats? Do you have any idea where eggs come from? A chicken’s butt. It’s actually called a cloaca and serves as an excretory and reproductive tract. I’m not saying don’t eat eggs, I love eggs, but why are we okay with eating ass candy but not Rover.
Don’t get me started on snails. Too late. Who sees something crawling around in their garden and thinks “I bet that would be delicious with some garlic butter.” I don’t eat snails but I do love garlic butter. You could put garlic butter on a shoe and I’d try it.
High on the list of disgusting things people eat has to be haggis. Merely reading the recipe is enough to make you vomit. Take the heart, liver and lungs of a sheep, mix it with onion, oatmeal, suet, spices, and salt. Cook in the sheep’s stomach for around three hours. Not even garlic butter could get me to eat that.
So yes, if a restaurant was serving Beagle burgers or some sort of Calico cat cuisine I’d be fine with that. I might even try it if they offered a kitten size portion.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Two Embarrassing Incidents
Over the course of my life I have said or done something embarrassing roughly every 172 minutes. That number includes time spent sleeping. What sets apart the incidents I'm about to describe from all the others is the size of the audience.
As a young sprightly lad, I, like most young sprightly lads, enjoyed climbing trees. There was a tree in the neighbourhood that somebody had built a rudimentary treehouse in, essentially a sheet of plywood nailed to some branches, that was a favourite. One day when I was about 8 years old I climbed the tree and tried to convince my little girlfriend to climb up with me. She was too scared and insisted I come down so we could play doctor. This is much more innocent than it seems because she always wanted to be a veterinarian and I would be forced to perform open heart surgery, tracheotomies and kidney transplants on various stuffed animals. Poor Ms. Henrietta Sparklebum, she was such a trooper but it was just too late.
I attempted to climb down but couldn't. Some say a key branch broke off during the previous night's storm so I wasn't able to find that initial foothold. As any climber knows you don't necessarily use the same branches going down as you did going up. Some say the unpleasant episode regarding Ms. Sparklebum haunted me thus mentally preventing me from going down and facing another trauma. Most say I was just a little scaredy-boy.
I'm not sure who made the decision to call the fire department but the decision was made and they did come. When you live on a small street and a fire truck comes along it tends to attract attention thus there was a large crowd gathered as the firemen positioned themselves on the tree and passed me from man to man. When I was safely on the ground one of the firemen gave me a Chiclets. This enraged my younger brother who thought he should have been given something just for having to be associated with me. I think his exact words were "I know firemen are used to rescuing cats from trees but I'm sure you're the biggest pussy they've ever encountered." Pretty mouthy for a six year old.
The second incident occurred when I was performing in my first play at university. My character was required to carry a briefcase so I went to the prop room and came back with one. A more seasoned cast member said that the briefcase had a history of opening at inopportune times to which I replied, "thank you good sir for your most helpful advice. In future when you'd like to communicate something to me rather than just saying it I'd like to have a permanent record so would you mind writing it down in a neat calligraphic script on xuan paper, fold it into the shape of a lotus flower and shove it directly up your ass."
One scene in the play required me to come on stage, set the briefcase on a table, open it, pull out a piece of paper and begin reading. We filled the briefcase with files so it wouldn't look like I was carrying it with only a single sheet of paper inside. The scene ended with a blackout and me and another character existing while the lights were out.
I forget the day the show opened but I remember it went off smoothly for the first couple of performances. Then came the day that everyone I knew decided to attend. The scene happened, the lights went down, I hit a chair on my way offstage, the briefcase popped open, paper scattered everywhere, I uttered an audible curse while trying to gather up the spilled contents, the lights came up, I froze mid-gather took a quick glance at the audience who were delighted with my misfortune and then I scurried offstage. I believe that, and lack of talent, desire, motivation, gumption and looks is the reason I am not a Hollywood star today - but mostly the briefcase incident.
As a young sprightly lad, I, like most young sprightly lads, enjoyed climbing trees. There was a tree in the neighbourhood that somebody had built a rudimentary treehouse in, essentially a sheet of plywood nailed to some branches, that was a favourite. One day when I was about 8 years old I climbed the tree and tried to convince my little girlfriend to climb up with me. She was too scared and insisted I come down so we could play doctor. This is much more innocent than it seems because she always wanted to be a veterinarian and I would be forced to perform open heart surgery, tracheotomies and kidney transplants on various stuffed animals. Poor Ms. Henrietta Sparklebum, she was such a trooper but it was just too late.
I attempted to climb down but couldn't. Some say a key branch broke off during the previous night's storm so I wasn't able to find that initial foothold. As any climber knows you don't necessarily use the same branches going down as you did going up. Some say the unpleasant episode regarding Ms. Sparklebum haunted me thus mentally preventing me from going down and facing another trauma. Most say I was just a little scaredy-boy.
I'm not sure who made the decision to call the fire department but the decision was made and they did come. When you live on a small street and a fire truck comes along it tends to attract attention thus there was a large crowd gathered as the firemen positioned themselves on the tree and passed me from man to man. When I was safely on the ground one of the firemen gave me a Chiclets. This enraged my younger brother who thought he should have been given something just for having to be associated with me. I think his exact words were "I know firemen are used to rescuing cats from trees but I'm sure you're the biggest pussy they've ever encountered." Pretty mouthy for a six year old.
The second incident occurred when I was performing in my first play at university. My character was required to carry a briefcase so I went to the prop room and came back with one. A more seasoned cast member said that the briefcase had a history of opening at inopportune times to which I replied, "thank you good sir for your most helpful advice. In future when you'd like to communicate something to me rather than just saying it I'd like to have a permanent record so would you mind writing it down in a neat calligraphic script on xuan paper, fold it into the shape of a lotus flower and shove it directly up your ass."
One scene in the play required me to come on stage, set the briefcase on a table, open it, pull out a piece of paper and begin reading. We filled the briefcase with files so it wouldn't look like I was carrying it with only a single sheet of paper inside. The scene ended with a blackout and me and another character existing while the lights were out.
I forget the day the show opened but I remember it went off smoothly for the first couple of performances. Then came the day that everyone I knew decided to attend. The scene happened, the lights went down, I hit a chair on my way offstage, the briefcase popped open, paper scattered everywhere, I uttered an audible curse while trying to gather up the spilled contents, the lights came up, I froze mid-gather took a quick glance at the audience who were delighted with my misfortune and then I scurried offstage. I believe that, and lack of talent, desire, motivation, gumption and looks is the reason I am not a Hollywood star today - but mostly the briefcase incident.
Monday, January 11, 2010
I Need a Clothing Store
As a portly man I find it difficult to buy clothes that fit me properly. And by "fit me properly" I of course mean clothes that make me look like a manlier version of John Wayne. I go to these Big & Tall shops but what they fail to realize is that everyone who's big is not necessarily tall so the dress shirts I buy make me look like a nine year old trying on Daddy's suit. The casual shirts all make me look like a guy who would pour coconut milk all over himself and then fall into the fire pit at a luau.
Even though I have a waist the circumference of a giant sequoia I don't have the height to match so why do my pants have an inseam of 103 inches? I bought one pair of pants in 1984 and I'm still using the material leftover when they were hemmed. So far I have a tablecloth, drapes, 2 more pairs of pants and a comforter. Let me know if anyone needs a Jordache winter coat.
Even though I have a waist the circumference of a giant sequoia I don't have the height to match so why do my pants have an inseam of 103 inches? I bought one pair of pants in 1984 and I'm still using the material leftover when they were hemmed. So far I have a tablecloth, drapes, 2 more pairs of pants and a comforter. Let me know if anyone needs a Jordache winter coat.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Ridiculous Ad
On a bus shelter I saw an ad that stated, "Talk all you want, unless you're a mime." I think it was for a cell phone company but it may have been for circus performers. Clearly the ad writer did not think this one through. Mimes can talk, they can talk all they want, they simply choose not to. The ad should have read "Talk all you want, unless you're mute, in which case you should check out our fabulous text message plans." Wordy perhaps but undeniably accurate.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)