Write Anything!

Someone once told me the best way to be a writer is to sit down and write. While I don't aspire to be a WRITER, I like being a writer here when the mood is right. Problem is, the mood hasn't be very right the last few months, so sitting down to write isn't working very well. While I try to avoid the "here's what I did today" style of blogging (my life is not very exciting) that's what you're going to get today because, hey, a guy needs to write, sometimes. Right? Or is that write?

So it was a long, strange trip of a weekend - much of it was spent in the local beach community of Grand Bend. Billing itself as "Ontario's West Coast", it's a place to be when you're young, uninhibited, and don't mind sand getting into awkward places. Obviously, I don't fit the demographic even if I'm somewhat tolerant of sand in my Speedo.

It's a subversive tradition in my town for high-school seniors to celebrate their prom by taking over Grand Bend for a weekend. Like lemmings to the sea, these under-agers make their way towards Lake Huron in the wee hours of the morning after tuxes and gowns are traded for beachwear. While parents mostly indulge this tradition, even renting cottages and bus transportation, the local constabulary is kept on their toes as these Citizens of Tomorrow learn that blackouts and sleeping on the beach are not as fun as the Hangover-American Pie-Superbad movies seem to hint.

So there I was, with three other middle-aged friends, trying my damnedest not to look creepy amongst the 17 and 18 year olds who had overrun the town for a weekend of post-prom celebrations. I was only there to help kill time. Two of my friends had kids spending the weekend attempting (and failing at) debauchery, so their excuse was some light chaperoning. Somehow this translated into my own presence and a weekend spent drinking and golfing in this resort town (neither being something at which I particularly excel). Outside of my alcohol bloat and wandering through the woods looking for golf balls, my only actual chaperone duties involved driving a few sleepy teens back into town when Sunday decided that a good thunderstorm was the best solution to scrape the town clean of vomit-scented promiscuity.

So you would think the highlight of my weekend was the chance to take a little holiday and do all the unhealthy things I never get to do. You might believe that the chance to actually touch local celebrity, Princess Coco, would be a most memorable moment. You might even wonder whether spending two nights at a cheap motor inn with other other middle-aged guys might produce some stories worthy of re-telling.

But I'm going to be honest: the highlight of the weekend was none of those things. The highlight would wait for the comfort of my family room on Sunday night - beginning with a phone call for help and ending in the darkness of a farmer's woodlot. But I think that's some writing that will wait until another day...

Kicking This Old Ass

One of the great questions of our age is whether geekiness can honestly co-exist with sportiness. I think it can and does, of course. While I consider myself pretty geeky in so many ways, I do play a few sports. I generally can't stand to waste time watching sports on TV, but you'll find me playing a bit of pickup hockey, soccer, or baseball when 'tis the season. Lest you think I'm faking it, many of my teammates are the same chaps with whom I've spent countless hours wandering imaginary dungeons or arguing that Madagascar is the key to expanding your armies into Africa.

I like to think that playing these games - often with those unfortunate souls with whom I survived high-school - has been the secret to my relative lack of maturity. Sure, I can hold down a job, wear a tie if I have to, and be passably serious at parent/teacher interviews, but I know in my bones that I'm still a 16 year-old kid with 10 bucks in quarters for the arcade and an old tennis ball perfect for road hockey. I just have never felt old and grown up - at least not before this past weekend.

Almost every Spring my friends and I play in a hockey tournament for charity. It's a lot of fun for a good cause and the food is free. For reasons that don't matter, our team (most of us in our mid-forties or worse) is usually placed in a division where the other players are likely 20 years our junior. We never win very much against those younger legs and quicker hands, but we never embarrass ourselves too much, either.

This year was different. Our skates were caught in molasses. Our sticks were made of rubber. Our lungs became old, cracked leather. Sure we scored some goals and we never quit trying, but we knew from each other's eyes that we were struggling this year. Having a bad game or two doesn't bother us too much. It's just one of those 'on any given day' kind of things.

And then I had this exchange with an opposing player between first and second periods during our last game:

Kid (with a good-natured chuckle): You guys are slowing down! Everything alright? Your bench is quiet!

Me: Ah, we're just pacing ourselves for a kick-ass third period! That what experience teaches you, man!

Kid: Experience?

Me (laughing): Well, you know... most of us have been playing hockey for, like, 30 or 40 years. You learn stuff.

Kid: Holy shit! You must be older than my father!

Me: Well, I guess...

Kid: ... We didn't know! We don't need to be pressing you guys so hard...

And with that - and genuine concern - he reported back to his bench that they were kicking Old Guy Ass. We still lost the game, of course, but they took it easier on us older-than-Dad-guys. My body might have appreciated the break whereas my psyche had no good thoughts for those nice young boys.

Old? Insinuations of feebleness? My roll of quarters and balding tennis ball say, "HA!"

Next year, we'll be ready for them - ready to teach them a life lesson. That is, if my knees hold out.

The Old Ways

When I was a kid, there was probably no bigger treat than a trip to the movies. It was rare that we could afford that kind of extravagance, so spending a few hours in a theatre - all velvety and exotic and lacking any kind of practicality - was a bit like a mini-Christmas. It didn't hurt that I loved movies (still do). I never cared what was playing. So long as there was a story in Technicolor, I was engaged.

The idea of the movie theatre, even now, enchants me. I love that you get to sit in the dark, lose yourself up on the screen, and have a shared experience with everyone else in the room. Opening night for the first Lord Of The Rings, a midnight showing of Rocky Horror, a new Disney classic - these are the times for magic.

But I've come to realize that I almost dread going to movie theatres anymore. It's not the expense. It's not the nostalgia for long-gone opulence now replaced with sad pastel neon and carpeted walls. It's not even the parade of commercials that turn my popcorn cold while I wait for Coming Attractions.

It's people - those wretched assholes who are somehow unaware of the most basic of movie-going equations:

Movie.Theater not_equal Living.Room

I'm tired of the idiot with stunted attention span whose cellphone display shines out as a beacon to warn all those around them, "I have important text messages that must be addressed NOW!". I'm tired of the confused couple who cannot fathom what they are seeing on the screen, and simply must deconstruct the plot for the benefit of all around them. I'm tired of the young people who need to claim their row (and mine) for socializing and resting weary feet on whatever seems handy - their rude bravado made more possible by their numbers and the presence of the opposite sex.


I say bring back the Usher. Beat back the cretins using a crimson jacket and a flashlight. Since I'll pay a couple bucks more to see a 3D movie, I'll probably pay a couple bucks more for someone to stand vigilant against the forces of Incivility.

Until then, the magic is tough to find in the dark. And I'll thank my stars for DVDs.

When Choice Hurts

London's Alpha Geek recently posted a review of the new Nintendo DSi - and it got me thinking a bit about choices. By rights, I think most people probably believe choices are a good thing. If I'm hungry for pizza, I like that I can choose my toppings. If I need shoes, I'll probably look at several pair before I pick my usual white sneakers. But sometimes, when more than a few bucks are on the line, I wonder of choice is a bad thing.

Let's start with Nintendo. Is it me, or is their product cycle for handheld gaming getting shorter with each crank of the Nintendo widget machine? Game&Watch begat Gameboy which begat Gameboy Pocket which begat Gameboy Color which begat Gameboy Advance which begat Gameboy Advance SP which begat Nintendo DS which begat Nintendo DS Lite which begat

Nintendo DSi (and I'm likely missing something, somewhere here). We now seem to measure the distance between models in months when it used to seem like years.

With every new device - a new feature or two and the subtle threat of backwards incompatibility. In the Nintendo mould, new features are put out there in the hopes of finding novel ways for Developers to incorporate them into games. But this constant evolution usually leaves me cold insofar as I hate to leave behind solid old investments to make way for better ergonomics or web surfing on a tiny screen. Maybe I'm too old and cheap for this racket.

Exhibit Number 2: selecting a GPS. I've been meaning to replace my long-gone GPS with a new one - mostly for car trips. As I've discovered, there are lots of choices. I just want a device with a nice screen, color maps, and a pleasant Moneypenney voice that tells where to go and when to stop. Instead I have to decide whether I want MP3 support, FM-based trafiic reports, selectable vehicle icons, routes, waypoint support, multi-calc auto-routing, books-on-podcast subcriptions, and 50 other options I cannot remember. The good people at Garmin have managed to package and re-package these options into about 4 different product lines and 30 different models. Predictably, I'm stumped. Just when I find one that does simple stuff for a fair price, the model is discontinued and I have to start over. I'm lost with or without a GPS, I fear.

I think Henry Ford probably had is right - and I'll just take the black one, thanks.