Craptastic Cartoons

Joe Barbera (of Hanna-Barbera fame) died yesterday at the age of 95. There's no doubt he was a 'success'. As co-inventor of Tom & Jerry, The Flintsones, Scooby-Doo, and countless other animated characters, he was acclaimed by both the entertainment industry and fans alike. In fact, you'd be hard-pressed to find many people in your own circle of friends who have not seen a Joe Barbera creation.

By all accounts, he was part of the pioneering wave of American animators that sprang up in New York and Hollywood in the years surrounding The Great Depression. While not on the same plane as Walt Disney and Chuck Jones, Barbera carved out a niche in producing an amazing range of programming for theater audiences and (eventually) TV.

Ultimately, the name Hanna-Barbera became synonymous with 'quality' - or lack of it. To deal with the enormous costs required to manually produce a steady stream of cartoon shorts, Barbera opted to produce cartoons with less detail, fewer drawings, more reliance on stock footage, and more reliance on recycled stories. As technology advanced, they embraced it as a way to produce fill-in drawings and further reduce costs.

Low-cost, cheap,-looking - this is how I remember the work of Hanna-Barbera. Out of all their work, the only cartoons I can say anything good about are Johnny Quest, the original Scooby-Doo shorts, and (sometimes) The Flintsones. For the most part, I found their cartoons - including the ones I liked - to be uninteresting, mean-spirited, low quality junk. The characters: usually 'one-note' and generally (but not always) unlikable to me.

I'm no purist, but what is the appeal of Tom & Jerry?

The news reporters will fall all over themselves today in eulogizing Joe Barbera because, after all, he became rich and successful and recognized for his life's work. But me - I'm largely mystified by it all.

Space Camp Guy

Somehow this guy has become a Web meme all on his own; to the point of performing his now-legendary 'Space Camp Song' on Jimmy Kimmel back in November. Why am I always the last to find out about these things? Have a listen - and just try to get the chorus out of your head:



I always wanted to go to Space Camp, but that's another story for another time...

The Laws of Irony No Longer Apply

I'm one of those people who still believes in the old fashioned value that a cellphone exists to make a telephone call to someone else. They shouldn't be used for browsing the Web, listening to music, or snapping a grainy photo. I'll accept that some amount of gaming may be acceptable, but only as a means of deflecting the responsibilities of parenthood in key situations.

Fact is, I've carried a cellphone for only the last few years. This is my begrudging acceptance that I need to be available to my family at all times. It's just that way with the crazy schedules we have.

Today, I learned I might be wrong in my cellphone philosophy.

On a lunchtime trip to a local mall (Whiteoaks, for all you Londoners) I saw something that Made Me Believe. I wish to (insert your deity) that I could have taken a photo. I really do. But because my cellphone clings to my misguided, old fashioned values - you'll have to settle for the thousand words in place of a picture.

She's a Mennonite (maybe Amish?) lady at the mall. She's on the far side of middle-aged. She's dressed completely in black: long woolen skirt, blouse, heavy shawl, heavy-looking woolen bonnet. I'm assuming she's there to shop.

She's talking on a cellphone.

Correction: She's talking very quickly, in some Germanic tongue, on a cellphone.

Further correction: She's talking into the cellphone loudly and excitedly - occasionally pulling it away from her ear to stare at it. She turns it over. She turns it around. She goes back to to her excited German-ish conversation.

I walk by, trying not to be too overt with my stare, but it's much too out-of-place to ignore. It's actually fascinating to watch this person in an apparent verbal deathmatch with technology that, by rights, she shouldn't have.

I wonder about this in silence. Why is she here? Who is she talking to? Where is this other person? How did she come to have this cellphone? Who was the salesperson that sold it to her? What was going in his head?

Later in my trip, in another part of the mall, I encountered what I would assume to be her kin: a teenaged boy and an middle-aged gentleman. They're both dressed in heavy black woolens and flat-brimmed hats; both speaking something vaguely German.

Guess what. They had a cellphone, too.

Scary Mary

I'm a Disney fanboy. Love the movies, love the parks, love the way their marketing machine manipulates my emotions. If I were ever the subject of one of those Freeps 20 Questions columns, I'd hope one of the questions was "With what famous historical figure would you like to have dinner""; just so I could say "Walt Disney".

In spite of my fanboyishness, I have to say the following re-cut of Mary Poppins really rocks. Who knew Julie Andrews was so creepy?

By the way, Walt was 105 yesterday.

With Friends Like These...

A few years back I saw 'news' report on a mini-phenomenon call Real Doll. I'm guessing I had the channel set to Showcase - but I digress. I remember having 4 reactions to the story:

1. That artist/inventor has done something amazing!
   
2. Ummm.... those dolls are kinda hot! Do they really, you know, work?
   
3. Who is so lonely that they'd shell out $5000 for one of those?
   
4. So, is there a website?

In the final analysis, my thinking has been that Real Doll is a fascinating (albeit, dark) corner of Western culture - but the members of that community must be among the most pathetically lonely people on Earth.

I was wrong. I pray this business isn't making money, but I'm probably wrong about that, too.

Evidence!

Tree Mouth Exclusive! This grainy photograph was smuggled out of the London Police Force's heretofore secret basement forensics lab; home of their shadowy Paranormal Investigations Group (aka PIG).

So here's a shout-out to the Freeps, Macleans, NatPost, and the Enquirer. There are more where this one came from. Let the bidding war begin.

My Sixth Sense

I see trees with faces.

Well, not faces exactly; more like mouths. Big mouths. Up in the branches. Smiling with big, toothy, reddish-lipped, kite-eating smiles ripped straight from a Charlie Brown nightmare. Why are they in London? Why now?

So far, there's one down at the Forks of the Thames keeping watch over the playground and splashpad. I've also seen one near the railway overpass on Wharncliffe near Horton.

Am I the only ones who is seeing these? Why is the media ignoring this? I must get a picture of these twisted cousins of the Ents. I'll post one here if I can.

I see trees with faces. Do you?

Chaos in the Blogosphere

Weather is choatic, but climate is not. That's all there really is to Chaos Theory, and that's how I've always kind of perceived this thing called the Blogosphere.

While the Net continues to grow and morph with every passing second, at any moment it's fixed in space, time, and capability. And within this somewhat fixed system there are approximately a gazillion blogs percolating in a gazillion dark little corners (with a gazillion minus 100 known only to friends and family).

The Blogosphere is this roiling, chaotic 'thing' that seems wholly unknowable; even as it's 15 minutes of fame passes with every breathless media pronouncement on how important (or not) this all seems to be. To me, it's much ado about nothing. Blogs exist for the simple reason that they're an effective way for people to share/reach out/have a voice/show-off/wank off. It's Speaker's Corner for us all (the good kind, not CityTV's).

So to hear that there are actually Canadian Blog Awards really blows me away. I had no idea this exists. I had no idea of the depth and breadth of blogging in Canada. I have no idea how the whole thing works.

I was not nominated.

But my virtual friend Sheena was, and that's cool. Congrats Sheenster, I hope you win!

Ok, This is Cool

In my previous post (about a decade ago) I mentioned that I'm loving Robot Chicken these days. The jokes are hit-and-miss, but what really fascinates me are the mechanics of the whole thing; how the tedious process of stop-motion animation can produce subtle and meaningful body language that adds so much to character and storyline. Robot Chicken has it figured out.

Natch, my fascination with stop-motion is nothing new. As a kid I was drawn to the likes of Gumby and Pokey. Back then, it was pretty amazing stuff. I even grokked Davey and Goliath, although I admit that I secretly longed to see Goliath go all medieval on Davey's ass once in awhile. And don't even get me started on all those wonderful Rankin/Bass El Cheapo Christmas masterpieces involving Rudolph, Kris Kringle, Snow Miser, Herbie the Elf, and all the rest of 'em. Burl Ives was meant to play a snowman, okay? MadTV has even done some pretty good stuff in this genre.

So..... it was Monday afternoon, and I had nothing but time on my hands. Somehow, I ended up on a website that talked about do-it-yourself stop-motion photography. I swear I did not intend to go there. Have you ever sat in your car, in your driveway, and wondered how the hell you just got home from work? It was kinda like that.

Anyways, I was on this site and - quite by accident - found some open source ware for doing stop-motion photography. Long-story short - I experimented, and it worked. I'm hoping to interest the kiddos in having some fun with this. In the meantime, I offer 14 seconds of diversion. Oh, and the answer is "yes, it's my hand in there". I'm so proud.

Chickens Are Friends!

I'm loving Robot Chicken now that it's legally available on The Comedy Network. For those of us who put their childhood toys through elaborate and (sometimes) torturous dramas, Robot Chicken brings those imaginings to life through stop-motion goodness.

Oh, and Sean - this one's for you. Cheers!

Suckerpunch Part Deux: Hit Me Again Please

If you're of a certain vintage and spent way too much time with the good folks of Hanna-Barbera, the name "Bad Luck Schleprock" will mean something. For the rest of you, Google is your friend.

It's been a Schleprock kind of week; to the point where I'm really wondering (1) if there is a Supreme Being and (2) why s/he is pissed at me. To wit:

• work (as is in making a living) keeps piling up faster; which makes it difficult for me to maintain my Well-Paid Slacker persona
  
• getting Mom's new-post-stroke-life in order moves at a snail's pace and I still feel like we're 'winging it' most of the time. Dealings with various medical and social service folks this week were decidely unfruitful. My advice: never get sick; but if you must, get really sick. Anything in between and you're on your own, it seems. Also, never lose your income.
• fixing a flat tire in the middle of a freak snowstorm sucks ass.
  
• the downstairs shower (the one I installed 10 years ago before I became the Uber Handyman that you see before you) sprung a mystery leak that may necessitate a complete tear out and re-install. *sigh*
  
• finding out the spare tire is not full-sized and is low on air sucks ass harder.
• got lost in Parkwood hospital twice; once on the way in and once on the way out. Double aggravation points were earned by having a memory-challenged senior in tow.
• BandGeek's school trip (overnight camping at The Pinery) was cancelled because of the snow - after the bus arrived at it's destination, of course.
  
• and now the capper.... found out someone I'm quite close with has developed cancer and started chemo this week. It'll be 2 months before we have a prognosis.

When did life get so damn serious? But as the week gently comes in for a landing on a sunny Saturday morning (when all things are possible), some bright lights:

• Jedi Boy's birthday is almost upon us and I happen to know that one present he'll receive is an EB Games giftcard. This pretty much assures me the opportunity to play Zelda: Twilight Princess the day it comes out.
• after some tinkering, the shower appears to be holding its water. Fingers are crossed.
• my spouse has somehow arranged a family trip to Florida during the Christmas Break (minimum costs, maximum fun). Sheena, I'm bringing you mouse ears!
• bonus fallout from the Florida plans; the logistics will guarantee that the family will not be spending Christmas in the Sudbury area this year! I actually like it there, but travelling at Christmas always seems like a chore.
• BandGeek's camping trip was re-scheduled for next week, when the weather should be a sunnier 16C. She's a happy...errr....camper.
  
• my cancerous friend underwent the first chemo treatment, and did beautifully well. No nausea, no nothing. Hope springs...
  

Here's to 'things can only get better'.

Because Turkey Makes Me Sleepy

If I've noticed anything during my 43 years on this planet, it is this:

On a sunny Saturday morning, anything is possible.

On a gray Sunday afternoon, nothing is probable.

Discuss.

Steal This Meme

Okay, I stole this from Sean aka Kid Dork, but I don't plan to lose any sleep since he stole it, too. Furthermore, I've sitting on this for weeks. By all accounts this should mean the Internet's statute of limitations has expired; so I'm covered there, too.

One Book That Changed Your Life

This is a tough one. As a teenaged, much thinner version of myself, I would say that The Lord of The Rings was likely life-changing; if only because it provided escape from a life that needed an escape hatch. In my twenties, Herman Hesse's Siddartha was somewhat life-changing in that it provided an odd sort of spiritual comfort. There's a pattern here, folks, but no single answer.

One Book You've Read More Than Once

A toughie! I tend not to re-read books, mostly because I'm afraid repeats will spoil whatever magical experience I had the first time round. The Hitchhiker's series is one I've re-visited a few times, but (as embarrassing as this is) the books I tend to read more than once are the ones I've forgotten that I've read before. This happens much too frequently and only supports my theory that being an amnesiac wouldn't be so bad. I mean, really; you'd only need 1 book, 1 movie, etc. etc.

One Book You'd Want On A Desert Island

Hmmm.... Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norell. Lengthy and totally immersive, which would help take my mind off starving and talking to volleyballs.

One Book That Made You Laugh

Another tough one! Douglas Adams's The Long, Dark Tea Time of the Soul. I still smile when I think about the part where a newly-minted ghost tries to use a telephone.

Umm, you had to be there, I guess.

One Book That Made You Cry

A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius by Dave Eggers. Don't tell anyone.

One Book You Wish You Had Written

Every book I've ever loved, but if I had to pick just one - Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norell because it's so damn well thought out!

One book that you wish had never been written.

JPod by Douglas Coupland. I copied this from Kid Dork, but he knows how I feel.

One Book You're Currently Reading

The Cobweb by Neal Stephenson and J. Frederick George. Not great, but a page-turner nonetheless.

One Book You've Been Meaning To Read

The Silmarillion by J.R.R. Tolkien. I've always meant to finish it just out of spite.

Cheap Date

Having recently replaced our Most Excellently Aged and Crappy furnace and air conditioner, any hope of taking a vacation somewhere, sometime soon has all but disappeared into a financial event horizon.

But with a little imagination and a lot of technology, anyone can vacation anywhere from the cramped corner where most of us hunch over our home computers.

"What you talkin' 'bout Crazylegs?", you're asking. "Fill me in wouldja?".

Here's the recipe:

A roux consisting of your home PC and enough comfy chairs for your travelling companions

A large dollop of Internet connection (the bigger, the better)

A splash of Quicktime movie trailers

A healthy shake or two of Google Earth

Mix well, and explore!

The kids and I make this a monthly habit it seems.

First, watch and re-watch all the latest movie trailers. It's entertaining and it's sometimes educational; what with all those interesting people doing interesting in interesting places we can't afford to go.

Afterwards, take a virtual flight anywhere on the globe and look at stuff - often in amazing detail. One of our favourite games; zoom into DisneyWorld and try to identify all the rides in the theme parks from our lofty perch high in the sky.

You make your fun where you find it, and it always kills a few hours for us.

Cheap date, indeed.

Are They Flirting or What?

Help me out here - I'm confused.

It started with the older lady who prepares my inevitable plain-toasted-bagel-with-cream-cheese-please on those mornings when breakfast at home is impossible. I didn't take too much notice at first, but now that I'm paying attention - or what passes for 'paying attention' before the first cuppa joe - I'm finding that Bagel Lady is getting a tad, er, familiar.

"Here's your bagel, luvey.".

Luvey? "Well", I thought. "Maybe that's just how older ladies who sling bagels all day talk to their customers. Sort of a 'brassy dame' thing".

It always sounds kind of forced; like she's looking for her signature line and trying this one on for size. But, I'm getting used to it. My wince probably isn't even noticable anymore.

Today, it happens again. I pickup an iced tea at a mall food court establishment and the not-so-older lady slips me a quick, "Here's ya go dear" with my refreshment.

Dear? Beverage Lady looked to be my age, maybe even younger!

So what's it all about? Is this some new service industry meme? Am I getting more attractive in my middle-aged years? Is this all just faux friendliness?

Or is it just me?

Simply Adequate

A brief interlude from the stress and worry of the past few weeks... The family and I did a quick overnighter in Toronto this past weekend. Since we really hadn't done much vacation-stuff this Summer, the 4 of us had planned a mini-vacation to The Big Smoke to play at being 'tourists' for a few days.

The plan: spend the inheritance on tickets to Spamalot and then cash-in a free family pass to the venerable Ontario Science Center. We'd separate the 2 events with a stay in a moderately affordable hotel (anything with a pool). Since the kids had never seen big-time theater and had never seen a taxpayer-funded tourist trap, we figured this a fresh, new experience for us all.

Spamalot was simply... adequate. Maybe it was our mental state, but the play just did not live up to its hype and price tag. The kids had a good time; laughing mightly at the killer rabbit, etc. I knew they would. Dee and I, on the other hand, just felt like it was mostly... okay. Not bad, not great; just okay. I don't really know what we expected, but it was pretty much verbatim set-pieces from the Python movie with often pitch-perfect delivery from the original. Somehow, it came off looking like bad vaudeville. I wonder if it's better for those without a rich appreciation for all things Pythonesque.

As for the Science Center, it sucked - hard. I hadn't been there in many, many years - but I sold it Big Time to the kids as a cool, hands-on experience. Alas, most of the exhibits (and I mean, like, almost 50%) were literally busted, broken, ex-exhibits. What struck me were the almost-garish marketing throughout the facility; posters, banners, floor decals, many flat-screen TVs. If the Center spent half as much on up-keep as they do on telling you how wonderful the place is supposed to be, we'd have an impressive resource. But it's anything but impressive these days. I just thank goodness we had a freebie pass instead of shelling out something like $60 to see the place (which doesn't include entry into their IMAX theater!).

On the plus side, the hotel was reasonable - and they had a great pool. The kids got to ride a subway for the first time and wander downtown TO for a bit. I think they've taken their first step towards loathing Toronto like all good non-Torontians. I'm so proud.

Suckerpunch

It's been too long - way too long. But I have a story to tell about how the Dark Nasties hide at the edges of our world and wait for those calm moments in your life. When everything is humming along, and you think you have your shit together, these little bastards do their worst. They feed on contentment, I think.

It's been 10 days since they had their fill. This I know. 10 days previous I was on the phone with my Mom; inviting her to our home for Dee's birthday the following evening. 2 hours later my sister called. It was one of those late evening calls when you just know something is off-kilter.

"Mom's in the hospital.", she said. "They think it's a mild stroke. They're doing some tests.".

And it was a mild stroke.

The past 10 days have been harder than I could imagine. Physically, she's doing okay. A sleepy hand and a sleepy foot. Not perfect, but not bad either. The cognitive stuff ; there's another story. Phone numbers come and go. Her address is a mystery still. Numbers and letters dart back and forth on the page; familiar to her and yet not quite within reach. Questions are asked, and asked again. The past 10 days are vague.

And the question looms still. What to do with Mom? She's out of the hospital, but she needs supervision and help. We're trying as best we can for now, and we know decisions will need to be made. Not tonight, though.

More to come, I'm sure. There's so much more to tell.

What Would Seinfeld Do?

For years I've taken way too much guff from my hair. Don't misunderstand - this isn't some sort of metrosexual rant. So long as I can run a comb through my locks and have everything stay in a reasonable shape, I'm good to go. My problem is haircuts or, more specifically, finding someone who can give me a decent haircut.

Trish has been cutting my impenetrable helmut of hair for more than a few years. Until I met her I swear I hadn't had a decent haircut since I was 12. Given the thick, wavy mess that passes for My Hair, most barbers over the years have left me looking like (a) I had fallen asleep in a steambath, (b) a prison escapee, or (c) someone recovering from chemo treatments. You think I'm exaggerating? Check the photo albums.

We first encountered each other in a mall hair salon where she wielded the scissors while I sat and let her work her magic. She always did a great job and could carry the conversation where lesser stylists (is that the right term?) would clip in awkward silence. Knowing a good thing when I spot it, I made sure I hooked up with Trish every 6 weeks or so. Even when Trish left the mall and started working out of her basement studio, I stayed True Blue - even though it meant a 30 minute drive each way.

This was the routine for the past 8 years or so; but I eventually took her for granted. The hour of driving for a decent haircut began to wear on me and blinded my memories of bad barbers in times past.

I stopped going to Trish.

It was kind of easy at first. I simply neglected to make an appointment after the Christmas holidays. As 6 weeks bled into 7 and then 8, I passed the point of no return. I needed a haircut. Bad. But I was afraid to call Trish because it had been too long between visits and she'd know something was up. But I needed that haircut, all the same. And once someone else touched my locks and my 6-week Trish-fix turned into something like 12 weeks, there was no going back.

It's been over 7 months since I saw Trish. I've been slumming around this new Supercuts, and they generally have a done decent job for me. But they're all 'corporate' with their racks of salon accessories (structurizing paste? voluming gel? white grapefruit clarifying?) and their handy wall chart of assembly-line haircut styles such as The Tobias (see above), The Rib, and The Keith.

They don't care about me - it's all about the money. But they do an adequate job and so I pretend I like it there. But they're not like Trish. We had something special.

Tiny Moments

There are moments in life that are small mercies in a world that has little sentimentality. Time surges forward and takes great, selfish bites out of our lives as we try to outrun the demands of jobs, families, chores; but there are those hairline fissures in time. Those moments that barely register on the clock, but insinuate themselves into our memories when all else blurs.

Tick.

We recently had a pond built in the backyard. It started out as a small project, but as our imaginings materialized we found ourselves fine-tuning those initial ideas until, of course, the project grew. But it's done now. The pond has plants and fish. The fish have disappeared somewhere deep and dark and secret. The waterfall is noisy, but we're getting used to it. And, today, the smallish patch of flagstone grew 4 Muskoka chairs, courtesy of of the fine folks at Canadian Tire. One chair for each of us. This evening was the unofficial christening of our small oasis and we four sat by the pond, in the dark, listening to the rushing water, sharing a bag of Fritos, and looking, in vain, for some evidence of the Perseid meteor shower. Quiet conversation made time stand still for a little while. I must remember this.

Tock.

I've started to read in bed again. Usually I'm far too exhausted for this, and it's far too convenient to thumb the remote and surf the tube until my lids grow heavy. But I decided to spend some time with Neil Gaiman. In the past 2 weeks I've devoured 'Neverwhere' and 'American Gods'. The latter is one of the novels that made me wish (desperately) that I could write. The moment.... coming home from a pub at 12:30am and staying up 'til 2am finishing that book. Just me, the quiet dark, and a novel that left me wanting more.

Tick.

Speaking of Canadian Tire... An employee there - a young fellow who was obviously a part-timer - was actually helpful today. Maybe our expectations are low in a world filled with Bog Box stores staffed with people who know little about what their selling. While the shelves were devoid of stock, this fellow cared enough to 'check in the back'. He found what we wanted, he helped us through the checkout, and he helped load our purchases in the van. Afterwards I mustered all my reserves of earnestness and sincerity - difficult for a hardened cynic like me - and thanked this fellow for all his help. And the best reward; he was surprised. For a short moment in a busy parking lot on a Saturday afternoon, I think we both felt human.

Tock.

Right now. It's late, I'm tired, but I'm here because I want to be. I've poured myself some Bacardi's with a splash of Coke. This is unusual because I typically self-medicate with either red wine (Wolf Blatz or Quai du Vin) or a slightly-chilled Corona. But tonight it's rum because I re-discovered that we actually have a liquour cabinet filled with....liquor. So here I am in the quite house working on a mild buzz and tapping on these buttons that form words, and the words form thoughts, and they're my thoughts. So screw the fact that the a/c in the van is dying, forget that I have to be up early (horse show....don't ask...), and nevermind that a dozen emergencies await me at work on Monday morning. Right here, I've made time stand still with very little effort.

My Sweater Has Holes

The responsibilities of being married to a Northener include the occasional need to travel...well...north, to visit relatives sprinkled from Parry Sound to Sudbury. Prior to meeting my wife Dee, I was a typical Southerner who implictly believed that Ontario sort of 'stopped' at Barrie. What makes this extra odd is that I've lived in many parts of Canada that one could consider 'north', but northern Ontario was like this blind abyss for me.

Now, in daylight, a drive to Parry Sound or Sudbury (our usual destinations) can be fairly scenic - even engaging at times. Ironicly, this only happens once you're north of Barrie and away from the concrete clutches of Trawna. But do this trip after dark - as is often the case for us - and you're in a whole different ballgame.

When the sun goes down, highway 400 is simply too black to be interesting. Trees and rocks line each side of the highway. Regular bends in the road serve to obscure. All in all, this is a recipe for several hours of driving boredom. And lest anyone think that several hours of conversation with spouse and kids could fill the void, consider that (1) spouse will be sleeping in that way that just begs for photographic evidence and (2) kids will have headphones glued their ears and be plugged into either a Gameboy or DVD player.

To sum up - it's dark, it's lonely, it's boring, and there's an element of danger should I succumb to sleep. Oh, and let's not even talk about winter travel!

But there is hope somewhere on the radio dial. Whatever one's opinions might hold about our publicly-funded broadcaster, CBC Radio is nothing if not available. No matter where we are on these trips - London, Trawna, Barrie, Port Severn, Britt... - you can always tune into CBC Radio.

There was a time, many years ago, when CBC Radio was my warm, comfy sweater on these long trips. Throughout the evening I could drive, be entertained, and feel informed by the likes of As It Happens, Prime Time with Geoff Pevere, Ideas with Lister Sinclair, and more. No matter how isloated and dreary it was on the outside, there was a sense of familiarity, continuity, and intelligence on the inside.

But times has changed. Sure, we can still find CBC on the dial no matter we are. But the sweater isn't so comfy anymore. Some of the old CBC is still there, but it all feels cooler these days. Slick, derivative, and trying far too hard to be hip. Where the BBC and even NPR have an eclectic - even eccentric - personality to them, CBC Radio seeks out a mainstream that does not seem to exist outside of Toronto and Vancouver. Furthermore, the programming day seems to stop somewhere around 10pm when our country's public broadcaster sees fit to play hour after hour of blues and classical music. Why, oh why, cannot they simply repeat the day's programming overnight, or even broadcast the best of BBC (which I believe was once the case)?

Whatever the reason for their decline, I still pine for those days when CBC Radio was my familiar, old sweater as I drove those dark, lonely roads. Maybe that newfangled satellite radio has a purpose after all.