I'm Tired, So Please Shaddup Already

I worked hard today. Really hard - as in 'hours of sweaty yardwork' hard. Now I'm tired, with thin slice of crabby on the side. And for no apparent reason today I got to thinking about Cheryl Miller and I got even crabbier.

Ms Miller has managed to garner a bit of press here in London by pushing for Internet filters on public computers at local libraries. The catalyst for her media crusade-lite was a recent incident where a rather disturbed fellow was caught surfing (child) porn at the library, and was summarily arrested.

Rather that acknowledge that maybe the system worked in catching this library patron, Ms. Miller would like to censor public access to the Internet - at least in libraries. Now I don't doubt that the Counciller from Ward 14 has some genuine feelings here. But she needs to keep them to herself. And she needs to knock off a call for public meetings on the subject - which is really a disengenuous path to getting her own way by whipping up public indignation at taxpayer expense.

Clearly, we should not be filtering Internet access at London public libraries. And I say this for two reasons:

Number One - It is no one's place to censor what someone else can say or see so long as no laws are being broken. The personal freedoms of Democracy are a very messy business, indeed. Certainly a city Councillor should know that.

Number Two - Internet filtering is, at best, imperfect. Having spent years as an IT Guy working with this technology, I can attest that they do not work well and are easily thwarted by someone motivated to do so. They provide a false sense of security and, ultimately, reflect someone else's idea of 'appropriate'. Who will be that Someone Else in London, Ms. Miller?

If we're worried about people accessing objectionable material in London libraries, then address the problem in ways that don't require censorship. Ensure the library's policy is clear on accessing porn, etc. Position public PCs so that their screens are not visible to anyone else. Assign someone to physically monitor and patrol areas where PCs are available. Get rid of public PCs altogether, if the porn problem won't go away.

But for heaven's sake, don't let the Cheryl Millers of the world decide whether Londoners should see images the the Venus de Milo or access safe-sex information on a public PC.

Things That Make Me Stop...

It was a lovely weekend - all solitary moments under shining Sun leading to red wine conversations under a gentle velvet night-sky. At one point I found myself driving in the environs of Oxford and Waterloo, and I spotted these young artists creating frogs. The picture does not capture the true colours, so I encourage you to see for yourself sometime. Oh, that the suburban graffiti-boys had an inkling of such talent.

I Lose The Bet

More fun with cellphone cams: One of my walking partners (sans sticks, I might add) recently bet me that London's storied Jet D'Eau would be broken down by the end of June. I took the more charitable view that we'd make it until Autumn before repairs were necessary. By mid-day today, this was the sad tableau down the Forks.


Heavy equipment, a portable sewage sucker, disassembled jets, a man with a clipboard - we wept from the bridge.

Update: I'm pleased to announce that by 5pm all was as it should be, and the glorious arches of tawny liquid were once again creating rainbows to thrill the graffitti-boys patrolling the riverside playground. Halleluiah! In your face Eiffel Tower!

Jet D'ewwww

London's brand-spanking new flood-control system is deemed 'ineffective'. Sources inside City Hall blame the Metric system, a rusted compass, and Board of Control. More details as the story unfolds.

Balls? We Don't Know From Balls...

I went for a lunch-time constitutional through Harris Park recently and came upon a crew taking down a damaged tree. The only way to describe this tree is to confirm that was Ent-sized. The crew of 3 was taking it down piece-by-piece, limb-by-limb - without a crane. See for yourself below, and tell me if you feel a little less manly for having done so.


And in case things aren't clear, that's a guy climbing around with 2 (yes, 2) chainsaws in tow.

Paging Captain Obvious....

I draw your attention towards the Freeps daily dose o'stupid, 'We Asked You'. Instead of the 96 shut-ins who typically respond to the daily poll, we got something a little, um, juxtapositional today.

I sorely wish this was some printing press underling's idea of sly humour - a bit of glistening irony for those with a quick eye. But, alas, I'm guessing it's a coincidence of supernatural proportions.

And now I await the inevitable letters to the editor, or an eye-glaser penned by the likes of Rory Leishman.

For You Shall Know My Meme...

Life is full of coincidences, right?

Like when I'd light up a smoke at a bus stop (in a past life, alright?), it was a guarantee that the bus would come by within 30 seconds - schedule be damned.

Like when I send the kids to school in light jackets and shorts, it's pretty much a certainty that snow is coming soon.

Like when I have a day off and time to make a big breakfast for myself, it's one of the 62 holidays that shut down the Freeps' printing presses (and I have to force one of the kids out the door to find me a real paper before breakfast gets cold).

Like when I post a crappy little piece about Facebook on February 3rd and someone else - someone who gets paid for these kinds of things - posts their less-crappy little piece about Facebook on February 7th.

Karma says that Herman might owe me a beer. I'll even go with something domestic.

Looking For Plan B

Any de-stressing and muscle relaxation I may have achieved after 2 weeks of doing-nothing-in-particular vacation has been obliterated after just 3 days back at work. And even winning the lottery has become just a little more elusive.

What's it all for, anyways?

Eco-Friendly Space Travel?

So I'm driving home from work a few days back and I get behind a little Honda fuel-efficient something-or-other heading West on Riverside. I was thinking to myself, "Damn you all to H-E-double-hockeysticks for not buying North American!" when I noticed his bumper-sticker. So I took advantage of a well-timed red light to whip out my cellphone (screw you McGuinty!) and snapped a quick picture. The bumper-sticker read:

My Other Car is a TARDIS

Without the benefit of the TV-show technology that Jack Bauer uses every week to identify blood-spray patterns and foreign terrorists from high above the Earth's atmosphere, you'll just have to take my word that the above picture is the real deal. It made me smile at the end of what had otherwise been a craptacular day working for Da Man.

Furry London

So off we went to our first cat show this weekend hosted by Pawsitive Paws Cat Club. Given Dee's allergies for most things furry and four-legged, we'd never dared to set foot inside such an event before. As it was JediBoy's birthday (one more teenager emerges from his pod) and this was a Formal Birthday Request, Dee popped some over-the-counter drugs and off we went to puruse the felines at the Carling Heights community center.

I'm not sure what I expected, but it was fun in a setting-foot-on-a-new-planet kind of way. While a bit on the small side, there were dozens and dozens of cats being shuffled about 4 or 5 judging rings. It was obvious that many of the cats were veterans of the Cat Show Circuit - judging from their bored expressions and lack of discernable bone structure as their officious-looking owners carried them to wherever they needed to be.

There were a few of us rubbernecker types trudging up and down the aisles, checking out the hoipoloi of the cat world. But the majority in attendance were serious about these things. The fans tended to be on the elderly side while the breeders tended towards middle-aged couples. In all, the whole vibe was reminiscent of gathering of CB-radio enthusiasts I attended with my cousin way back in the late 70's - normal people with abnormal fixations on a hobby-cum-lifestyle. It was all very charming, actually.

And did I mention they were serious? The judging rings mystified me in the way that polo and cricket mystify me. I get the point of everything, just not the rules. All the same, it was cool to watch - the people moreso than the cats.

The only disappointment was the sparse number of cat breeds. While there was the odd Sphinx (weird) and Maine Coon (huge), the majority of cat-thletes were Persians - a lovely cat for sure, but one eventually gets tired of their flat faces and anxiously-bored expressions. And nowhere did we spy any Siberians - a breed dear to our own household.

And at that, I open the floor to comments on feline slang nomenclature and its overlap with human anatomy colloquialisms.

So Close to 'Cute'

I wandered into one of the last remaining actual 'stores' in Galleria Mall this week (is it still called a mall?). You know, the one that sells end-of-the-line stuff that The Dollar Store and Giant Tiger can't move out the door. Anyhoo, I wandered through their major-league Hallowe'en section and found this almost-adorable Cow costume. It made me feel sad inside - sad for the Chinese manufacturer who almost grasps English, sad for the parent who'll smile at the gently-comical 'joke', and sad for the tyke who'll never realize why it doesn't quite work.

And then I felt a little angry at the pricks like me who'll smile and chuckle for all the wrong reasons.

For The Lack of a TARDIS

Since no one is mailing me cool toys to divert my attention, I have a large mouthful of "fuck you's" to share. So here's one.

A big 'fuck you' goes out to the 20-something knob in the red, late-model Mazda with the sunroof. Tossing your empty beverage cup out the sunroof may have impressed the girl in the passenger seat, but it just makes you look stupid. But don't lose any sleep - I picked it up for you.

Fucker.

And your plate starts with 177.

Why I'm Losing Weight

I hate noise - I mean really hate noise. Nothing sends my gut into rolling spasms quicker than late night sonic assaults from hormonal young'uns and their portable steroes. That goes double if there's rap music involved - and there usually is, you know. And please don't get me started on the topic of squeaky trampolines that never stop - well - squeaking.

In the 13 years we've lived at our current address, we've had the odd episode of noisy neighbours. I'm sure we're no different than most manicured suburban neighbourhoods. Of them all, only one episode became a Summertime Obsession that made for bad feelings and one ineffectual call to the front desk down at Police Central. The resolution: the teenaged bad seed turned 18 and was given the boot. We all applauded.

After the past few years of blissfully pleasant Summers where we could sit on the deck and hear the little chirps and warbles of Nature - a new Summertime Obsession has materialized. Ironically, it's the same house as our last episode. You know, the one with the rainbow-coloured blinds whose backyard overlaps ours by just a few feet in the northeast corner. Yeah, that one.

It started with a portable pool and kids spalshing about - not a problem. We have a little pool just like it. It escalated with the arrival of a trampoline that serves as a diving board for the pool. Okay, we can live with that, too. The thing sits kind of close to the fence and maybe isn't optimal for (our) privacy - but no problem.

Then came the backyard entertaining. Dad, the emcee for these events, strikes me as the biker type - bald, goateed, tatooed, a beer gut that belies a history of muscles, and a voice that rasps gravel and too many smoke-breaks. Son is thin, pale-skinned, and brush-cut. He's all about gangly fidgits and bored meanderings about the yard. Beyond these two, there seems to be an occasional cast of supporting characters, including various kids from 6-ish on up to mid-teen as well as a few adults supplying by Central Casting. And all of them swear a blue streak. Where our neighbourhood is concerned, it is without malice and snobbery when I say that these folks just ain't from around here. They are The Osbournes without the benefit of money and an interested audience.

They love kickin' back, it seems, and spend part of most weekend afternoons and evenings with their like-minded friends sitting in their unkempt backyard playing in the kiddie pool and sucking on cans of Blue Light. I know it's Blue Light because I can see the crushed cans littering their yard from our bedroom window. But all that doesn't bother me. It's sweet to see families and friends connecting. And I can always plant more cedars if need be.

The problem: noise and profanity. It's breathtakingly loud and stunningly lacking in class. As the Blue Light flows, so does the stream of 'fuck' and 'asshole' and 'bitch' that is literally shouted through the 'burbs for all of us to experience. I'm not a prude, but this assault is more over-the-top than anything I've experienced in the hockey locker room or on the factory line. Backyards (mine and others) are rendered unlivable during these innocent soirees.

So now Ozzy's neighbours (we're calling our new friend Ozzy), spanning two blocks and a dozen families, are massing for the attack. Ozzy's next-door neighbour has tried once to work things out. Things, of course, did not get worked out.

We are gathering intelligence. Ozzy is a single Dad and Son is 11 years old. Son does not like school and Ozzy has told him he doesn't have to go to school. Son seems to spend the day on his own, often playing his boom-box too loud in the backyard. Son seems to spend a lot of evenings on his own, too. We had hoped Ozzy is renting the property, but it looks like maybe he owns the place and is putting down roots.

The police have been consulted, and they're too busy dealing with student parties to pay much attention to our little problem. Video cameras are capturing the occasional evening bonfire. Ozzy's next-door neighbour has consulted a lawyer. The neighbours want and need to do something collectively, but aren't sure what this something might be.

And underneath it all, we dream of using our backyards once more. We dream of letting Little Ones play on their swingsets without the sonic assault. Some of us secretly pray for rain and snow - and wonder where the For Sale signs might land come Spring.

Fucker.