The 200

200 A DAY KEEPS THE MADNESS AWAY

Run For The Cure

I do not have breasts. 

I am a fan of them.

A big fan.

Some of my favourite people are attached to them.  It’s a real win-win situation for me.

Unfortunately, breast cancer is a very real and deadly threat to both the people and the glorious breasts.  I have written a song to show my support and care for breast cancer research.

On September 30th, I will be taking my sons with me on the Canadian Breast Cancer Research Run for the Cure.  Go to www.runforthecure.com to learn more.

Here is the song on YouTube: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xBXhjsqqtdg

Thanks, everyone!

 

A Dog’s Brilliance

Dogs are the smartest animal on the planet.

Hear me out.

Dolphins may have the big brains, and birds may be firecracker-quick with their beady eyes and long-lost dinosaur ancestors, but dogs are eons ahead of anything either of those beasties have achieved.

Dogs took a look at where humans were going, and realized the meal ticket was right there in front of them.

A sample of an actual recorded conversation between two dogs, some 1.6 million years ago:

Rover: What’s wrong with these guys, Tex?

Tex:  What, those rubbery-lookin’ things coming out of that cave over there?

Rover: Yeah, those guys.

Tex: They’re dead.

Rover: No, wait, give it a sec.

(humans proceed to slaughter something in a horribly human fashion)

Tex: We should probably go hang out with those guys.  They’re savages.

Dogs saw humans and thought ‘be food or get food.’  And for the most part, with the exception of some serious malfunctions of some human minds and souls over the years, dogs have eaten large under the tables of humankind for millenia.

Cats are a close second, but they give off an off-putting ‘I hate everything’ vibe.  And they get high as eff off of catnip.  Junkies.

New Superheroes

I’m bothered by something.  This is a problem that isn’t actually going to change the world, or honestly affect it in any way.  To call this post ‘unimportant’ or a ‘complete waste of time’ would not be a bad judgment call.  But it’s something I’ve been thinking about.  For a very long time.

Where are all the new superheroes?

Superman came out in twenties.  Batman, the thirties.  Spider-man, X-Men, all the big Marvel dudes and dudettes arrived on the scene in the sixties.

So, 50 years, and we haven’t had real big splash on the superhero front for decades.

What happened?

Movies?  Video games?  Comic book writers took a look at what they had and said ‘No, we’re good’?

Are there just no powers left worth exploring?  Flight, spider abilities, retractable claws and billionaire with a bad attitude and grief issues notwithstanding, there are tons of options out there.

If I could draw more than cartoon dragons and a mean cube, I’d be writing my own right now.  But we don’t call them comic books any more, do we?  No, now they’re graphic novels, in some misguided effort to ‘class up’ the genre.

Maybe it didn’t need classing up in the first place.  Maybe it’s just fine the way it is.  And maybe, just maybe, if somebody put something amazing out there, the world could try embracing that AS WELL as issue number 7834 of Spider-man, or the next reboot of how Batman watched his parents die and the latest update on how he manifested that into criminal-pulverizing rage.

Just a thought.

2 Million? TWO MILLION?

All right, I’m bending to it.  I’m writing a bit about the Colorado tragedy.

Not entirely about the moment at hand, but a part of the aftermath.

One of the victims is sitting in intensive care, waiting to survive, and they’re apparently facing a two million dollar medical bill.

TWO MILLION DOLLARS?  What the hell is going on in this world where medical supplies and care for a few days are racking up a two million dollar bill?  How did this happen?

Our priorities are so skewed, so far from where they should be, that we’ve got these corporate prats (another Britishism – means douchebag; of the particularly stupid variety) making stupid, obscene amounts of money, and that’s just the heads of these companies.  Who knows how much the underlings are making, and the underlings of the underlings?  All of them are making too much money for what they do, and then all the costs of their ‘jobs’ are passed down to the consumers, including those of medical products.

If anyone would like to educate me on the actual costs of medical supplies, just so I can see a proper breakdown of where TWO MILLION damn dollars is going, that would be great.  But if I keep seeing CEOs raking in the huge end-of-year bonuses, whilst taking three months off, and leaving early on Fridays, then two million dollars for four days of medicare is just disgusting.

All that being said, good thoughts and wishes to all those suffering after Colorado’s horrors.

Wonder

When is it in our lives that we stop being amazed by everything, and we just look at all new experiences as ‘well, yeah, but what else have you got?’

Kids have it right.  My boy just figured out the lid to his shape puzzle, and it blew his mind.  He was so proud of himself I had to take pictures.  On his orders.

Where does that go?  Is it part of the Internet’s ever-shrinking efforts on our world that we can’t walk up to the Eiffel Tower and be impressed anymore?  Is everything too built up to be truly impressive?

We should all take a step back and remember the simple victories, instead of putting all of our stock into the big ones like buying a house, paying off our student loan, or feeling like WE accomplished something if our hometown team has won whatever silver glob of metal their respective sport hands out at the end of the big final game.

Next time you tie your shoes, savour it.  Make a good-ass cup of coffee, self-high-five.  And if your kid comes into the room, gives you a huge hug and says that you’re the best mummy/daddy they’ve ever had (as opposed to all those OTHER parents they’ve got lying around) you’ve got it made.

Now, about that Eiffel Tower visit…

The G-Man

Twenty-ish or so years ago, I was a cool teenager.  Sorry.  Scratch the cool part.  I was a teenager.  Like most children my age, before I realized that everything everyone else liked actually sucked, I tried to fit in and enjoy gangsta rap.

For a boy raised on Paul Simon and Leonard Cohen, gangsta rap was a tough sell.  But try I did.

One word from that era stuck out, and lives with me still.

‘G’.  To be a ‘G’.

It was the height of supreme cool to be considered a ‘G’.

I never achieved ‘G’ status.  I hovered somewhere around ‘R’.

That being said, you can imagine my confusion as I grew up and discovered other uses of the notorious ‘G’.  As in ‘G-man.’  A decidely un-G individual.  A G-man is a government working individual, specifically a federal agent.

I have chosen to refer to all government working individuals as Gs.  It makes me laugh, especially when Mark from Brampton is calling me up at dinnertime to harass me about whatever topic they’re on this month to make up their quota of annoying Canadian citizens.

Hey, G, do I need to bust a cap?

I believe that means to shoot someone, and a cap is referring to a bullet.  I don’t want to bust a cap, I don’t even own a cap-busting device, but could we maybe limit the calls to the mid-AM?  Dinnertime is just rude.  So is seven o’clock in the morning.  I don’t want to talk to you, and you calling me at times when you’re fully aware people are living their lives is just a dick move.

But, hey, they’re Gs.

Well, I’m Back

Although I do wonder if anyone even noticed I was gone.  The blog-o-verse, or blog-o-sphere, or Bloggity Blogworld, whatever the dizzle you want to call it (that’s right, I threw down a dizzle) is a big, open, well populated little place.  Big and little at the same time, you may ask?

I do say.

I could say I was out saving the world.  I could say I found my spirit horse and realized the true path of my life.

Those would be lies.  Untruths.

I spent the last two weeks covered in the inner gastrointestinal juices of my children.

You may question why I chose to specify ‘inner’, assuming that they were, indeed, ‘inner’ juices.

But oh, they were not.  They spent more time out, than in.

Poor little guys.  But mostly poor me.

To barf is one thing.  To be coated in it is another.  You relieve that pressure once you’ve ralphed, hucked, or otherwise yurged.

That’s a hard ‘g’ in yurged.  Nobody yur’j’ed anywhere.  That’s just gross.

I will return to posting on this fine blog as often as possible, and try to maintain the every day nature I was attempting before EVERYONE IN MY LIFE GOT SICKER THAN THEY EVER HAD BEFORE.

Much love to all, and I will see you soon.

When Did We Let This Happen?

The Miami Heat were crowned NBA Champions just the other day.

Hold on.  Something’s amiss about that last sentence.  I used the word crowned.

Definition of crowned: coronated, lifted to the point of monarchy, anointed.

What did these guys actually do?

Championship teams are paraded through city streets, hundreds upon thousands of salivating fans clamouring for just one chance to see their heroes, screaming when the limousines and soft-top convertibles pull down their street, the triumphant gladiators waving and drinking in every last bit of praise heaped upon them.

But what did they ACTUALLY do?

150 years ago, Louis Pasteur discovered PENI-FREAKING-CILLIN.  As in changed the course of history and human life on this planet.  Did he get a parade?

Every day, garbage collectors drive through neighbourhoods in huge, unwieldy trucks, managing to avoid smashing said trucks into everything on a fairly regular basis.  Then, once the trucks are properly aligned with EVERY SINGLE HOUSE, these collectors hop out and gather our refuse.

I don’t see them getting cards, or being interviewed by every news outlet on the continent.

So, to sum up, if you spent your childhood working really hard to get really good at your favourite game, you will reap the benefits one thousand fold.  And if you and some millionaire buddies beat a rival group of millionaire buddies, you will reach into the hearts of millions and be hoisted on the shoulders of the downtrodden many as their champion.

Hey everyone, Rome called.  They want their societal distraction back.

Sick Babies

Curse you, babies.

Curse your fevers.  Curse your snotty noses.  Curse the glazed eyes that sparkle less and less as your temperature climbs.

Just sit here for five minutes and rest, that toy will still be there when you’re well.  Don’t fuss, don’t cry.  All right, do fuss, do cry, whatever you want, but please, stop throwing the cold cloth off of your head.

It’s there for a good reason, and it’s not for playing dress-up.

You might want to work on those sneezes, too.  I don’t think covering the entire lower half of your face with snot is quite enough.  And maybe avoid swiping your tongue through the mucus on your top lip to clear it out of the way.

Yes, son, snot bubbles are funny.  I’m not supposed to laugh while you’re blowing one, but you’re right, they’re funny.

One tissue will do.  Maybe two.  The whole box might be overkill, and no, I don’t want to hold onto your used up Kleenex.  Ever.

Fine, give it to me.  Hold still, you missed some.  Get me another tissue, okay?  Baby?  Another tissue…forget it, just use Daddy’s sleeve.

You okay, son?

I know you don’t feel good.

I’ve got you, baby.  I’ve got you.

One Year Story – Day Eleven

Thanks to Alex at http://liberatedway.com/ for today’s bridge!  Great suggestions, everyone. 

DAY ELEVEN

It was her.  She was in the coffin, dead.  No waking up from this one, no sudden jolt upright for her.  There she was, stuck in a coffin, dead.

“I want to wake up now!” she cried.

With a terrified snort, Elizabeth woke up.  She rolled over to get back to sleep, but nothing was happening.  She looked over at her alarm clock, and saw that she’d only been asleep for a little while.  A shiny red “2:07” shone out from the alarm clock by her bed, taunting her with its gleeful numbers.  She was drenched in sweat, and her heart pounded as if it were trying to escape her chest.  Her breath came in short, sharp gasps, and she closed her eyes to try to calm down.

“It’s okay, Liz,” she whispered.  “It’s okay, it’s okay.”

She knew she wasn’t going to get back to sleep tonight, so she slid out of bed and crept downstairs.

CHAPTER II

The car to pick her up arrived before the sun rose.  It was a newer model, black and shiny, and looked like somebody took good care of it.  Elizabeth panicked; Mrs. Blinks had not yet arrived.  No one was around to take care of the chldren.

“Great, ” she said.  “The chance to really get ahead, and my baby sitter hasn’t shown up.”

The chance to get ahead was what she kept telling herself.  Keeping her family alive was much closer to the truth.  She needed to do these tests.  Mrs. Blinks had to show up soon, or the car would leave without her.

She thought of ways to stall the car, and one actually made sense.  She would…

How does she think she’s going to stall the car from leaving?