Regina

Spent yesterday driving to Regina and then trying to find a single interesting thing to do in Regina. Their motto should be, "Sorry, We're Not Saskatoon". Ended up going to the science centre, which only had a couple of other patrons. This gave Archie and I plenty of time to learn about bubbles and how pulley systems work. They had three pulleys; one loop, two loop and three loop. You would sit in a chair and raise and lower the chair via the pulley. The more loops, the easier it was to pull the weight. The fun part for me is that the pulleys were also different colours. This allowed me to push Archie to the edge of madness by insisting that the weight was based on the colour rather than number of loops.

Archie: The mechanical advantage of a pulley system can be analyzed using free body diagrams which balance the tension force in the rope with the force of gravity on the load. A force balance on a free body that includes the load, W, and n supporting sections of a rope with tension T, yields . . . 

Thus, the mechanical advantage of the system is equal to the number of sections of rope supporting the load.

Me: No, listen, I totally get what you're saying, the red one is easier  

Today we took a side trip to Moose Jaw, the home of the world's largest moose statue, Mac the Moose. Now, I've seen large moose statues before. Who hasn't. But wow, this one was exactly the same as the others, just slightly larger.

This was followed by a visit to the Moose Jaw tunnels and the Passage to Fortune tour. This tells the tale of the appalling conditions early Chinese immigrants to Canada lived in. During the tour the guide takes on the character of a ruthless, racist laundry manager who despises the Chinese immigrants but must tolerate them because the owner insists on using the cheap labour. To be quite honest I didn't see much of a difference between the character and the guide. I told Archie that since she's possibly the only Chinese person that's ever taken the tour she should demand restitution on behalf of her people. 

Winnipegagain

The day started like most of my days this vacation. Up early to eat a hearty breakfast and then set sail for what adventure awaits. I drove down to Altona to see the World's Largest Painting on an Easel. What I saw instead was what I assume to be the world's largest easel. That's right, the painting was gone, probably taken by the world's largest thief.

After that disappointment I went to the Canadian Mint. The Mint provides all the excitement of watching, from a distance and behind glass, machines stamp coins and workers package them. A very entertaining minute and a half.

The Museum of Human Rights more than made up for the previous disappointments. It's housed in a beautiful building with zig zagging ramps that lead you through seven floors of exhibits. From the seventh floor a sign points you toward a spiral staircase up to the tower which provides a view of all of Winnipeg. If you're not an idiot though you'll want to take the elevator. I'm on vacation, not at the international stair climbers championship.

Topped off the day with dinner at Shawarma Khan - Can you say delicious? We Khan. (Note: Shawarma Khan, if you would like to use that tag line please contact my agent to work out the details.) The guys there were very friendly and because they were about to close eager to get rid of all their remaining food. Somehow they talked me into taking some of the most wretched of offerings, beet salad. I know what you're thinking, but beets are so healthy. You know what else is healthy? Keeping your mouth shut when I get started on one of my beet rants.

All in all not a bad day.

Winnipeg

Other than getting a photo of the hitchhiking Bigfoot in Vermilion Bay not a lot of excitement on this leg of the journey. 

Many people warned me that Winnipeg was a crime infested den of meth heads and lost dreams. I'm sorry to report that it is not. I've spent three days on the road looking for meth and have nothing to show for it. 

Archie and I are not in agreement on what the best road trip music is. I prefer something with a fast, catchy beat. Archie likes a more somber style like the soundtrack to Schindler's List. This is great if you're planning to drive your car off a cliff. 

"Hey, how about, Walking on Sunshine?"

"We could listen to that, or, what if we listen to Immolation (With our Lives, We Give Life). It's played during the scene in the movie where it looks at first like children are playing in snow and we later come to realize it's actually the ashes of 10,000 Jews that were incinerated."

"Meet in the middle - Girls Just Wanna Have Fun"

Lord Thunderin Bay

First stop today was to see the Wawa Goose. this is actually the third goose. The first goose was made  of plaster and chicken wire and erected in 1960. That goose lasted about 3 years; which is just about 3 years longer than a gigantic goose made out of plaster and chicken wire should last outside in a Canadian winter. The second goose was erected in 1963 and lasted until 2017 when it was replaced on Canada Day (Wawa Gets a New Goose). After mentioning in the article that the new goose is essentially a clone of the old goose, someone from the administrative office still went on to say

"We're hoping that they're going to be able to put most of it together under the parachute so that we don't ruin the big reveal."

I've got bad news for you buddy, the big reveal was ruined in 1963.

Next stop was White River, birthplace of, and sole reason to visit, Winnie the Pooh. After taking a photo with the Pooh statue we headed to the tourist office.

"What's the number one thing to see in White River" I asked.
"Probably Winnie the Pooh"
"Just did that, what's the second best thing?"
"Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh - maybe the museum...but it's closed this weekend." "Okay, do you have somewhere I can fill up my water bottle?"
"Uh, our water is undrinkable."

And sure enough, there were large warning signs over every tap. Thank you White River.

I jumped the gun on the roadside signs breakdown yesterday. From Toronto to Sault Ste Marie I stand by my ratios but from the Soo to Thunder Bay it's a different world. I had the pleasure of learning about Domenic "Hollywood" Filange Figliomeni. Domenic was an amateur boxer with a dream - "Whether you were a corporation looking to mass produce logo'd apparel, or an aspiring boxer wanting to put your fighting name on your tracksuit, he would serve everyone with little hassle and fair price." Domenic can't guarantee a hassle-free experience. You have to have a little hassle. 


I also learned about Minnow Trap 2 from best selling author Brian Horeck. I'm not entirely sure of the scope of his best selling credentials. Is it Canada, Ontario or just his living room?

Based on the Amazon plot synopsis
"Ten years have passed since a tight knit group of Northern Ontario cottagers faced a horrifying encounter with extraterrestrials. They now find themselves collaborating with a different alien species in an effort to stop global warming. Things get interesting when it’s discovered that one of their own possesses supernatural powers from Alien DNA."

Sounds wonderful. For me, if one of their own didn't get supernatural powers from alien DNA it would just be another one of your boilerplate, collaborate with extraterrestrials in order to stop global warming stories. Pretty much writes itself.

Cross Canada (sort of) - Sault Ste Marie

Let's set the scene. I, along with my travelling partner Archie (not her real name) will take the next two weeks or so to drive to Jasper, Alberta and camp for three days before I, sans Archie, drive back to Toronto. Who cares you say. Lots of people have done that and have done it better than you could ever dream of doing it. First of all, what's with the attitude, I thought we were having a fun chat here. Second, go read their blog then.

Our first stop along the way was Sudbury to see the Big Nickel. It was big, it was shiny, it cost six freaking dollars just to park in the lot. Another $21.00 to do the tour of the mine. At that rate, it's going to cost $120.00 to park and see the giant Loonie.

I've noticed one thing during the drive so far. 98% of roadside signs are advertisements for roadside signs. The other 2% are either "Jesus Says Don't Text and Drive" or somebody named Sandy's Gift, Jewellery and Fudge Emporium.

My favourite thing that I've seen is a guy with a table covered in knives and a hand scrawled sign that read KNIVES. This guy looked like he just scrambled out of the woods after a 10 hour battle royale, grabbed the clothes off a scarecrow and set up shop. The sign may as well have read MURDER.

China - The Food

I have lost a couple of pounds while in China on my new see food diet. If I see food that can see me, I don't eat it. I wasn't sure why the fish I was enjoying was staring at me until Jing asked if I ever ate the head. Well, I nearly spit out my fried gluten ball in amazement. I may have experimented a little bit in college, but no, I've never "eaten the head." Then it hit me that she was talking about the fish. This was too much; I couldn't even finish my Caterpillar Fungus Duck. She said it was delicious. I will take her word for it.

I have eaten many things in China that I didn't think I ever would, like duck blood or vegetables (I prefer the duck blood).

I'm also pretty sure they're just testing me with a lot of things to see if I'll actually eat it. One time during lunch Jing's father gave me a clove of raw garlic. I love garlic when it's cooked but to eat a raw clove felt like I was pledging a fraternity. I ate it cautiously while looking around for a blindfold and a paddle.

In a separate incident I was served a bowl of fish, each fish was about four inches in length (with head and tail intact of course). Biting into one of these fish was like trying to chew your way through a spiderweb of bones. The bones were soft enough to break while biting down on them but sharp enough to pierce your soft palate and gums. I think for every ten pounds of fish you get one ounce of meat.  

In truth, much of the food is delicious but I still have moments of weakness when I need to get something greasy and meaty. 

There are two Western fast food chains in abundance in China; McDonalds and KFC. I understand McDonalds but was surprised by KFC. Then it hit me that it may stand for Kentucky Fried Cat. This would be a genius move by KFC. Kentucky Fried Camel, Kentucky Fried Chimpanzee, Kentucky Fried Cobra are all viable options now.

I did try McDonald's one time and was sorrily disappointed. I ordered a burger, fries, a coke and a sundae. Nothing elaborate; I wasn't trying to go rogue and order a McRib. The sundae machine was broken so I asked for a milkshake instead of a coke. The shake machine was broken too. That's fine, as long as I get those golden delicious french fries that are adored the world over. What's that, no fries, but I can substitute corn. I'm not proud of what I did upon hearing that news but my lawyer thinks he can work a plea bargain for just under 10 years hard labour.

China

At the beginning of September I flew into Zhengzhou, China. I'll be staying here for three months and as it's not a tourist city I won't be regaling you daily with tales of adventure. I do intend to write some entries on my life in China in general and specific events if they happen. 

Your first question may naturally be, why Zhengzhou and why for three long months. I can only say that  there is a woman involved and quite possibly some voodoo, which would explain all the chicken blood. So much chicken blood.

As I mentioned, Zhengzhou is not a tourist town. I think the population breakdown is 99.999999% Chinese and then me. Nobody I've encountered thus far speaks more than a few words of English. This leads to me doing a lot of pointing and pantomiming. I've stopped rubbing my belly to indicate hunger though as my Buddhaesque frame leads people to think I'm giving them good fortune.

The thing I like most about Zhengzhou so far, other than the aforementioned woman of course, is Starbucks. It's almost completely empty and has comfortable chairs and free wifi. On the occasions that they play a western song I can even imagine that I'm home.

Why I Don’t Have a Tattoo

I don’t think anybody has ever asked me why I don’t have a tattoo; that may be because I spend most of my days barricaded inside a self-made shelter that can only be described as part fortress, part homage to Bollywood. Or, it may be because, after having spoken to me once, the majority of people decide never to do so again. That being said, I thought, what better topic for a blog post than something that nobody has ever expressed interest in?

The reason I don’t have a tattoo can best be illustrated via a story. When I was in high school, I loved the band Twisted Sister. I don’t mean that I merely found their music enjoyable, I thought they were the best band ever (yes, even better than Warrant and Stryper). Their album “Stay Hungry” was not only the soundtrack to my lonely high school years but also became my life philosophy, leading, ultimately to a considerable weight problem. Perhaps a healthier album title would have been “Don’t You Think You’ve Had Enough Pie?”

In order to show my devotion to these rock gods I paid a friend to paint the “Stay Hungry” album cover on the back of my jean jacket. He did a stellar job and I proudly wore that jacket around until I could no longer take the twice daily beatings I received from the significantly younger, jealous kids. I ended up giving the jacket to Goodwill and in my heart know that some young Guatemalan refugee is currently getting the snot kicked out of him. Circle of life my friends. Circle of life.

I have more than enough naturally (according to several well respected veterinarians) occurring things on my body to be embarrassed about that I don’t need to add more. A full back picture of Dee Snider gnawing on a bloody thigh bone may be nice for some* people but I’m lucky that a group of good Samaritans was able to drag me out of the tattoo parlour and give me a good ass-whooping before I could go through with it.

*I'm using 'some' here of course to mean 'no.'

Waiting for a Bus

Yesterday I was waiting for a bus on the east side of the Sony Centre for the Performing Arts. It was raining a little bit so I stood inside the delivery bay to avoid getting wet. There were a couple of odd characters there. One was a 50ish man wearing a tank top who had more hair on his back and arms then I’ve ever seen on any human being or most animals. There was a sheep that passed away recently that would have given him a run for his money but that’s about it http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shrek_(sheep). The other was a 20ish guy who looked so happy to be alive that the cast of Glee would reject him for being too chipper. Guys wearing rainbow chaps and riding penis floats in the Pride parade would think he was overdoing it a bit.

I only take this bus on occasions when I have to run an errand along its route and I’ve never seen more than one other person waiting for it so two was not usual, but manageable.

The 50ish guy kept rustling around with his torn plastic shopping bag and fiddling with an old vinyl album. The 20ish guy kept smiling with his brilliant white teeth.

There were a few people milling about the artist’s entrance and finally one of the security guards said “I guess you guys are waiting to get an autograph.”

Now it all started to make sense. The hairy monster had brought his vinyl album to be autographed by Elvis Costello who was playing there later that night. I assume he was in the building doing sound check at the time I was there.

Now the security guard and Smiley were having a lovely conversation that I was in the middle of and knew that if my bus came I would have to rudely run right between them to catch it.

I was hoping Elvis would come out while I was there and the bus came as I was in the middle of shaking his hand. Then I could just blow off Elvis Costello and hop on the bus, but that didn’t happen.

The bus came while the security guard was telling us about his massive vinyl collection and, as nobody was actually at the stop, the bus drove right past. I took off like a shot between Hippy Dippy and the security guard, waved down the bus and got on. I was then chided by the driver who said “you can’t be hiding.” Yes driver, I’ve been playing hide and seek all day with you guys and not one of you even came close to finding me. Next I’m going to play tag.”

I'm Not a GPS

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?"

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."

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

We were able to erect a tent this year that fit more than one person. Last year, we brought a wonderful tent that was missing poles. I suggested all my teammates stand outside and hold a corner up while I rested peacefully inside. This was not met with the enthusiasm I had hoped for. We ended up erecting my "two person" tent which was very roomy if you happened to be a circus midget and could put your ankles behind your neck. By the way, on the off chance you are a circus midget that can put your ankles behind your neck, contact me, I may have a job for you.

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.

Incidentally, the trash talking group next to us is called the Downtown Knit Collective. They're made up mostly of retired women who knit scarves throughout the night and then donate them to the Canadian Cancer Society. Oh, and they drip attitude. We were situated beside them last year and, while I won't go into details, a cashmere scarf using a clove hitch makes an incredibly useful restraint against a 79 year old woman and leaves no bruises.

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!!!

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.

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.

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."

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.

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."