Memories of Winter

Most of the folks who live here love winter. You've got to - it's long. Fortunately, there are enough days of sunshine and bearable temperatures on either side of the winter solstice that we get outside and take advantage of the snow. It is, perhaps, one of our great nation's best kept secrets.

Alas, we've been in a deep freeze since the weekend and doing anything outdoors, other than starting the car, is just plain painful. Tomorrow night it is supposed to hit -48 (centigrade), according to Environment Canada's website. That's without the wind.

So, to keep my spirits up, I'm trying hard to think about all of the fun things that winter brings, despite these cold snaps that seem to last forever. Happily, I've been able to think of lots of them. We can drive for seven minutes, park the van and hit the ski trails. Or, we can walk two blocks from our house and be at the world's most awesome sliding hill (or the most scary one, depending on your age and your sense of adventure). We can hop across the street and go skating on the city rink, and then come in for hot chocolate and cookies, all in the space of about an hour. When the longer, sunnier days of March come, the snow gets to be just right for building snowmen in the yard or in the park.

The fact is, winter is a pretty great time here in Name of Town withheld. Sure, we could all do without the -40 days and nights, but they're not so bad and they are a relatively small part of a long season. Besides, they're a good excuse to snuggle up with my kids and get cozy. How can I complain about that?

Diagnosis: Stupidity

It should come as no surprise that I was not always a responsible adult. For one thing, I was a teenager and it was the late 1970s. I then entered the late teen and early to mid-twenty years and, although I managed to get married (the practice marriage) and finish my education, I did my fair share of partying.

Way back then, at least for my friends and I, partying necessarily involved beer and usually lots of it. And, every once in awhile, one or more of us wound up doing something dumb. Don't get me wrong - we didn't get into fist fights and we didn't destroy property; but we sometimes did and said things that we wished we hadn't. One of my classmates in law school showed a particularly pretentious professor what she thought of him at a party one night by biting the buttons off of his shirt and spitting them contemptuously at his feet. It was actually pretty funny, even when she accidentally inhaled a button and started to choke (those dress shirt buttons can feel pretty small, especially after 9 beer). She felt silly for a couple of weeks and twenty years later, I'm still talking about it, but she got over it and went on to become a partner in a successful law firm.

I, too, have done my share of stupid things under the influence. I've tried to dance sexy, only to be told later that I looked like I was having convulsions on the dance floor, and I've been known to sing a mean karaoke. My point, however, is this: I've drank my share of beer, had my judgment (ahem) diminished and done some stupid things, but it's never occurred to me to enter rehab for it. In my world, the occasional obnoxious comment or roaring hangover does not an addict make and I doubt that the health departments in most Canadian jurisdictions would pay for treatment to help me overcome feelings of extreme embarrassment.

So why is it that so many celebrities sign up for "treatment" when they drink too much and proceed exercise poor judgment, and embarrass themselves? I'm not talking about the Judy Garlands or Marilyn Monroes of the world, the truly tortured souls who would have benefited from actual therapy instead of self-medicating to the point of suicide. Britney Spears likely fits into this category, too. The people I'm talking about are the Mel Gibsons and, as of today, the Sean Youngs . It was actually an article about Ms. Young that caught my eye and got me thinking about this. It seems that during the Directors Guild of America Awards this past Saturday night, she had too much to drink and started heckling from the audience. This led to the embarrassing situation of Ms. Young being escorted from the event. Instead of just "sucking it up", learning from it and moving on, she did something far more constructive. She acknowledged her weakness and she entered rehab.

Well, best of luck, Sean. May the folks at Betty Ford help you to deal with your condition. Mel Gibson had it for awhile, too. I believe the clinical term for it is "poor judgment."

Oh David

My friend Megan is running a contest called "Being David Hasselhoff". Those of you who read her blog already know that she has a bit of a (ahem) thing for David. I couldn't resist and entered the contest, and Megan published it. I'm going to consider it today's entry and you'll find it by clicking here. Megan's blog is a great read generally, so take your time and enjoy. You'll be shocked - and perhaps somewhat disturbed - by the number of Hasselhoff fans out there.

While you're there, follow the link to the Canadian Blog Awards. Megan has been nominated!

Send Out the Clowns!

Today, the Globe and Mail published an article about the reaction of paediatric hospital patients to clowns. It seems that they hate clowns, universally. I sure I speak for many in saying that I am not surprised, and moreover, I feel utterly vindicated.

It was my good fortune to never have been hospitalized as a child. Nevertheless, like most school children, I did not escape childhood "unclowned". As a youngster, I was terrified of them. They didn't look like anyone I knew. In elementary school, my classmates and I were frequently treated to circus tickets by local businesses and the shows would invariably include some idiot in make-up and exceedingly large shoes juggling bowling pins while balancing on a unicycle. Sure, it takes talent to do that, but that doesn't make it entertaining. Unlike magicians or musicians, clowns just did not hold my interest and actually, I found them a bit creepy.

When I got older, I was into drama and even went to drama camp one summer. We had classes devoted to movement, voice, music, acting and, of all things, clowning and mime. It was the most painful hour of the day, (although I'm damned good a charades now).

I don't harbour these feelings against all clowns. I have great respect and admiration for rodeo clowns, for example, who save cowboys from being gored to death by angry bulls. I think it's telling however, that the bulls are so easily distracted by the clowns and wind up trying to kill them.

My kids find clowns creepy, and I thought maybe it was my influence, but it seems that there is now an independent study and they are creepy. On behalf of freaked-out children everywhere, I commend the authors of this study and hope that they win some kind of prize (just not tickets to a circus).

In Keeping with my Resolution . . .

From time to time, things get pretty quiet in Name of Town Withheld and so a wider variety of items come to be considered "newsworthy" by the media. This morning was no exception and, in addition to reporting on a herd of "lost" reindeer (also known as caribou and no, Santa was not interviewed) and the fact that the distinctive laugh one of the locals, who has become something of a celebrity through Ice Road Truckers (or whatever it is called), is now available to be downloaded as a ring tone, CBC highlighted that on this day in 1955, Mike Reno was born. Those of you around my age will know that Mike is the lead singer of Loverboy, a band formed in Calgary in the late 1970s and which became very famous in the 1980s. Although their music, like many of the other Canadian rock bands from the same era, still makes me cringe, I couldn't help but take a trip down memory lane on YouTube this evening. Among other things, I noticed that the members of Loverboy each sported a mullet of some sort and I thought perhaps I could seize on the opportunity to say something nice about a mullet-wearer. So, in case you have forgotten how they sounded, or you just feel like squeezing into your old Jordache jeans, cracking a Molson product of some sort and dancing around your house, check this out . . .




If this interview is any indication, it appears that my earlier assumptions about mullet people not doing well in life are somewhat erroneous.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MIKE!!!

2008 Resolutions - Be Nice to People who have Mullets

Many who know me can attest to my utter disdain for mullets and the folks who wear them. Generally, I view these people (okay, mostly men) as those who will not do well in life or, should they be over forty, as not having done very well in life and not likely to retire well. I assume they dwell in mouldy abodes in bad neighbourhoods, drive uninsured and misshapen cars with no mufflers and spend their Sundays watching professional wrestling and NASCAR racing. In the summers, they might spend the odd weekend with a group of other mullet-wearers, drinking beer and driving around off-road in souped-up trucks with really big tires, listening to the sounds of some bad eighties hair band. Some play recreational hockey. Yes, I am making some assumptions based on stereotypes; but I have dated a few mullet men and can say confidently that in many cases, my assumptions are entirely accurate.

Recently, however, I had an experience that made me think that my position on those who wear this particular hairstyle is, perhaps, a little bigoted. There is a mullet couple who live in the same town as me and they display several of the preferences and characteristics that popular culture associates with mullets. I see them walking their very large, macho dogs and shoveling snow from time to time. The woman recently updated her hair style, but the man has worn the same bi-level do for at least 17 years. They drive a big-ass truck that is frequently covered in mud, and he works out on weights at the gym.

Their house is for sale and the real estate agent has posted the listing on the internet. My curiousity was aroused and I just couldn't resist. I had to see what was behind the door of a middle-aged mullet-wearing guy. After all, I was never brave enough to enter the dwelling of any of the mullet men I dated. Now I had to know - could someone wear a mullet and otherwise be part of the upper-middle class?

Upon finding the listing on the real estate agent's site, I took the virtual tour, and I was pleasantly surprised! The house was clean and, other than the overwhelmingly large weight-training apparatus located in the lower family room (an unavoidable genetic trait with mullet men, perhaps), it was quite tastefully appointed. This got me thinking that maybe I have been a little hard on these folks, making all kinds of unfair assumptions based on hairstyle alone. Is it right to assume that having bad taste in a hairstyle means that the person is tacky and irresponsible in all aspects of their life? After all, I know a number of men who "comb over", and I never make assumptions about what they might watch on television, their taste in furnishings, or what they do for recreation. So, starting in 2008, when I see or meet someone wearing a mullet, I am going to try and see past it. I resolve that in 2008, I will be nicer to and about people with mullets.