Starting a Personality disorder

It's weird. I've started referring to my online persona in the third person: as in "The Kraut thinks" or "The Kraut will talk about that..." when stating what I'm going to write about to my girls (my wife, daughter and puppy: yes, I talk to my dog about weblogs.)

But it's amazing to think about how you can compartmentalize some of your thinking processes into a seperate entity. In the dream I detailed here I really did introduce myself as Raging Kraut and not by my real first name.

So that leaves me with three distinct personalities-

• Ray- the guy in the real world
• Raging Kraut - the wannabe witty guy writing this blog
• and Helmut - the insane German chef that inhabits the kitchen and harasses passers-by with profanities and silly accents.

Of course many of my friends would say that I already had several personality disorders from long long ago...

F#@$ing Subconcious!

In the dream I am getting on an elevator at the top of the world. As The WHO would say, "I can see for Miles and Miles" but in this case it's thousands and thousands of miles...

The earth hangs below me filling the lower half of existence. I am viewing the night side of the globe with all the cities lit up, burning the night with their yellow glow...I can make out Paris, London, Berlin. On the edge of the globe I can see the East Coast of North America, where the sun would be going down, bathed in the golden glow of the end of the day...

I think to myself that I must be dreaming, because how could I breathe? Wouldn't I be frozen by now? What about weightlessness? The rational part of my mind shuts off and then forgets that I'm dreaming...I'm fully in it now after that brief glimpse of reality.

The doors close and I look at the panel: Floor 27,652.

Oh by the way, did I mention the elevator is transparent? I stare at the floor and realize to my shock and horror that the floor is transparent and the elevator shaft (also transparent, to a degree) appears to end in the ocean just east of the African Continent.

The doors close. I stare around trying not to look at my fellow passengers, but can't help but notice that one of them has a dog's head and is reading Tolstoy's War and Peace. Apart from the dog's head, he would've been an ordinary looking guy in a business suit...

The dog man stares at me and offers me a human hand...

"Anubis, at your service" it says in a clipped upper-class Brit accent. "Always better to introduce yourself at the beginning of a descent. Makes it a more comfortable 27 hours."

"27 hours??" I exclaim. And then I remember my manners. "Raging Kraut, at your service. We're in here for 27 hours?"

"Long way to the ground, my boy, long way. Otherwise the acceleration would kill you quicker than I will." He's staring at a spot on my neck and licking his lips before he buries himself in his book.

The doors close behind me and the elevator starts moving silently downward.

I silently contemplate being trapped in an elevator for 27 hours with an Egyptian God of the Underworld.

Several minutes pass.

"Uh, excuse me, Mr. Anubis?" I ask tentatively.

"Yes, dear boy?"

"Um, that bit about killing me, could you maybe elaborate?"

"Certainly, dear chap. You see, I need to feed, and you are food."

"Wouldn't you rather have a pizza?"

"No. I have this nice chianti and some fava beans." To my horror he's pointing at a table in the corner that's set for a formal dinner for one. At seeing my shock he laughs: "Sorry, but that's my favourite line from the movie."

"Pizza would go well with the chianti..."

"No, I'd rather eat your liver. It's been soaking in whiskey for quite some time now..."

He smiles and I can see that this dog has blood in its teeth.

Just then there's a large CRACK! from above and it's one of those comic Warner Bros. moments when Anubis and I hang motionless while the cables that until now had been supporting us fall towards the earth and catch fire as they burn throught the atmosphere...

The panel reads floor 23,592.

Anubis smiles at me. "That's what I get for choosing the lowest bid. I knew it was too good to be true..."

The elevator plummets to the ground. My stomach is now in my forehead as the acceleration grows stronger and stronger...

The panel reads floor 17,733.

"You know..." I scream at Anubis. "...that one about the guy that was trapped in the falling elevator...and at the last moment before he hits...he jumps with all his strength?"

"Yes, I've heard that one." He appears to be going back to his book.

The panel reads floor 8,042.

"Do you think he would die?"

The panel reads floor 4,932

"Oh yes, instantly." He tosses the book away. "Just as well. Long, boring, depressing book. I don't know why I didn't just buy the Coles Notes version."

The panel reads floor 1,342.

"I'm trying it!" I scream as I crouch down to leap.

"Good luck, old boy. If you make it we can eat his liver instead." He points to a man cowering in the corner. It's Ben Affleck.

"What the hell are you doing here?" I scream.

"Running away from my wife. Took the wrong elevator." he cried. "I don't care if you eat my liver! It's better than where I was. You don't know what she's like!"

Floor 321.
Floor 122.
Floor 53.

I leap up with all my strength...

...and of course this is where I wake up...

Scary

You are a Dragon! You love to eat lambs, cattle,
and most of all you have a taste for Humans.
You don't like any color in particular, and you
are very solitary, choosing to live inside
mountains and atop cliffs. You love to fly, and
to breathe flame. Spells are another talent of
yours. Dragons are immortal and cannot die
unless they are slain. You are quite the
magician, since spells simply bounce off your
protective armor. You also hate anything you
cant eat.


(Pictures in results)What Mythical Being are You?
brought to you by Quizilla

...my friend Chris has some pathological sexual fixation on Dragons. I could be in some danger...

There is no lawn...

You are Morpheus, from "The Matrix." You
have strong faith in yourself and those around
you. A true leader, you are relentless in your
pursuit.


What Matrix Persona Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla

It's definitely better than being Keanu Reeves...

T+5 days

Waiting around for a baby to show up can be nerve-racking...

There are only so many chores around the house you can do before you start to lose concentration. I can't even find stuff in the news to get angry about these days because my whole focus is on when this little procrastinator will finally crawl out of my wife...

I'm getting the urge to do yardwork. YARDWORK! What sort of insanity is this?

No baby yet!

Well it's T+3 days and no second rugrat...

Today I suffered the worst allergy headache I've had this year. My head felt like it was three times the width of the door. Not even the pot of coffee I drank this morning (yes, I'm back on the stuff) could relieve the pressure behind my eyes. I don't even know what I'm allergic to, but from April to June of every year I'm beset with coughing, dry eyes and blinding headaches...

I drifted in and out of coherence at work; luckily my cubicle is buried deep in the administration department, where trolls be found...I wasn't bothered all day in my sensory deprivation chamber.

Princess Boo-Boo, our 19 month-old first-born and thus victim of our experimental parenting techniques has taken to singing at the highest volume possible. I felt my corneas beginning to shatter as she reached an impossibly high pitch and volume as I changed her. Soon she will start toilet-training and then this diaper thing will be history...

So my wife and I are having a conversation over dinner:

• Kraut: blah blah government, blah blah SARs, blah blah Toronto fucked fucked fucked.
• Kraut's wife: blah blah big, blah blah baby, blah blah cramps nausea get it out of me!!!
• Kraut: blah blah fuckin' job, blah blah BORING
• PRINCESS BOO-BOO:

  SHUTTUP!!

Silence.

Princess Boo-Boo goes back to disassembling the piece of pound cake she has been smearing all over her body as "food camouflage." The royal dog appreciates this...

Kraut and Kraut's wife look at each other.

• Kraut: Did you teach her that?


• Kraut's Wife: No. Did you?


• Kraut: No. And so begins the terrible twos, five months early...

And eighteen months later we get to go through it again with the second one, if he or she ever decides to show up. It's going to be the greatest thing ever all over again...

-- Well at least one of my entries has to be sappy/happy

Again...

Fucking again...

Why don't we all wear barcodes to "help" the police...

Considering no one really reads this blog I thought I'd purloin the comments from the Toronto Star on the DNA collection process that the Toronto Police Department is conducting. I find it disturbing that so many people are willing to throw away their rights and freedoms just so they think they can be a little "safer".

I agree with this guy. The Toronto Police have no clue who the real killer(s) is/are so they're appealing to this so-called "process" in the hopes that a blind shot might pull their asses out of the fire.

They are desperate. They have been desperate every since that "one phone call away" speech about how close they were to breaking the case. By definition "any" case, no matter how cold the trail, could be broken open with the right phone call being made. To hint that an arrest was close was a misjudgement that will haunt them politically later.

The common good does not flow from everyone being pushed, filed, stamped, indexed, briefed, debriefed or numbered. DNA screening will not find the monster that did this unless he is stupid enough to actually volunteer for the screening. And national databases are hungry for information...A good database is like gold. You don't throw away gold. Besides, it might help them in "other" unsolved investigations in the area.

Sure, Melanie. It's because us guys are all "wimps" that we don't want our personal details fed into some giant database that may be used against us at some future time. I object to an intrusion of the state into my personal details because ooooooooooh! I'm not "macho" enough.

...and of course, if genetic undesireables try to enter the country we can have them sterilized or trucked off in vans and trains to be "relocated east." Seig heil you nazi freak!

They were scrambling from the start. The police can only do so much and always after the fact. If the tracks have been covered it will be difficult to do much of anything now unless some luck comes the cops way. Victims' families don't like hearing the word "luck" being used when it comes to catching the twisted fucks that do these things.

You sound guilty.

Maybe the state should check your financial records.
And your health records.
And your sexual history.
Put you under surveillance.
Lean on your friends and employers to "come clean" about you...

Or else we'll check their financial records.
And their health records...

Sure I want to give out my DNA...It's called sex and it's very enjoyable. Giving the police access to my DNA when they HAVE NO OTHER EVIDENCE. No thank you.

There is such a thing as right to privacy. It's not something that should be thrown away with such a cavalier disregard. If the police said that the suspect was a white guy of heavy build in his thirties with red hair who lived in my neighbourhood, then I'd say they had a reason to suspect me and that DNA testing should be mandatory (yes: I said mandatory. I have no bleeding heart if probable cause has been demonstrated.)

But if they said "oh we suspect half the fucking population of the neighbourhood. Let's DNA test them all to see what happens..." I'd have two words for the cops at my door: "Good" and "Bye"

You'd be an asset to any police state/fascist dictatorship you'd like to relocate to. I'm sure you could clean up informing on your neighbours.

That's a nice appeal to emotion, but it doesn't make logical sense. This exercise is not about doing your civic duty to help catch a heinous killer. We are all morally-bound to help the police in whatever way we can within the bounds of the law. That means being a witness, or helping with evidence when we find it, or reporting suspicious people when we see them.

It does not mean sacrificing our rights to the creation of a database that will not help in this case. It's really easy to trample on individual rights when confronted by the horror of this crime.

Those who sacrifice freedom for safety deserves neither.

-- Thomas Jefferson (unconfirmed)

It's disturbing how many of us are eager to make that questionable trade.

T minus ZERO

Today is the day that my second child is expected to enter the world...

It's amazing that my first child (Princess Boo-Boo is her full nick-name, thank you very much. Mustn't forget her royal title!) is now almost nineteen months old. And she's out to prove that her head is as hard as mine by headbutting me at every opportunity and then laughing insanely when she manages to do damage to my nose, mouth, eye etc. The apple really DOESN'T fall far from the tree...

It's funny when I compare my edginess-level with the first birth experience. To actually see a little person pulled out of my wife (Oh My God! There actually was a BABY in there!) for the first time was an incredible thing to witness, as well as to do the debrief about the experience afterward.

There are plenty of internet resources to explain it better than me, but let me just say that medicalized child-birth is treated by the hospital system as if it were an illness: the patient is immobilized and hooked up to machines and IV tubes and monitored by the nurse at a remote station. Whatever birthplan that you and your lovely wife decided on during the initial consultation gets thrown out the window, especially if you show up at 3 AM and the night-duty nurse is annoyed that she actually has to do something...(before any RN's flame me over this, my wife is an RN and knows how to scope a ward she's on, as nurse or patient...)

It was very Pythonesque...

OK, so it wasn't that bad...

However, this time we're going through midwives and we're having the birth at home. Nothing takes the edge off of labour better than a DVD Godfather marathon, or so my wife hopes...

1984?

Police request DNA samples

It's sad and tragic what happened to little Holly Jones, but I find myself a little uneasy about a "general DNA sampling."

So if I'm male, and I live in the area, and I'm over 16 I'm a suspect?

In other words, they have no leads and are resorting to creating a database of DNA samples without narrowing the focus of who they suspect of committing the crime. Do they have evidence that the killer lived in the area? There are about 8 million people in the Greater Toronto Area that are highly mobile. Anybody with a car can get there easily. Why 16? Why not over 21? Or over 10? Let's remember the little freaks who killed Jamie Bolger in England...

...voluntary with the prejudice of the following...

...and the neighbours will be eyeing you funny until they catch (hopefully kill) the vermin that killed poor Holly Jones.

Don't get me wrong: I'm no bleeding heart when it comes to the so-called "rights" of pedophiles and sex offenders. They should have no choice when DNA samples are demanded of them. And I've also been fingerprinted twice as a condition of employment. But that's because I was in a specific situation that required I be identifiable.

In this case the general public (males over 16 is pretty damn general in my opinion) in a specific geographic area will be documented if they don't submit DNA samples?

WTF?!

What happens to this DNA database when the killer is found? Is it destroyed? Or is it used to go on a fishing expedition through other unsolved crimes? Could someone be prosecuted on a totally unrelated charge (say breaking and entering) and the DNA sample supplied for the Jones investigation trotted out by the prosecutor as "exhibit A?"

Or what happens if the killer is NEVER found? Will this database ALWAYS be there? And what of the men who don't submit? What if they face investigation for something later:

Good Cop (generic NYPD Blue pretty-boy): Listen, be reasonable. We just want to know the truth...

Bad Cop (Sipowicz): You little fuck! We know you're up to no good. What about the time you didn't give a DNA sample for the Jones case? Only someone guilty would refuse to give evidence!

If I lived in the area and refused to give the sample out of principal, what kind of grief am I buying myself in the long run? How long would my neighbours stare at me with suspicion?

The judgement of a society is to observe how that society deals with an unthinkable test: this unthinkable crime is surely testing our society...

You know, it'd make it real easy for the cops to do their job if every baby born now was DNA-sampled at birth, and then their details fed into a giant database. That way, within a generation the police wouldn't have to deal with those silly things like "probable cause" or "individual rights."

Of course many will read that last paragraph without the sarcasm that it was written with. And that's where we get tempted to throw away the individual rights fought for with the blood of centuries so that we can sleep a little safer in our beds...

What a weird year (so far)

It's only been five months into 2003 but so far:

What next? Locusts?

Soprano deja vu...

It's really weird when you watch a movie you've seen before and then notice that one of your favourite actors had a role in it before he was famous...And that you forgot he was in it!

Because my wife had never seen it before I rented True Romance, Quentin Tarantino's first script and a good little "caper" movie. Before we knew each other, my wife's friends would bug her about never seeing this movie, considering almost all of her favourite leading men are in it: Kilmer, Oldman, Walken. I remember seeing this movie about 10 years ago when it came out and I always remember the visceral shock of the scene where Patricia Arquette is beaten to within an inch of her life by mafia-hood Virgil before she fights back.

This time, to my shock and amazement I notice who is playing Virgil: It's freaking James Gandolfini!, better known as Tony freakin' Soprano!

So now the scene is totally different as I'm watching psycho-Tony Soprano getting down to violent business with pretty young thing Arquette. Now instead of some anonymous goombah, the mob-guy is an actual character for me and the scene is that much nastier and feels riskier, even though I know the result.

Talk about a head-smack!

I'm wondering if there are any other examples that could deliver such a shock?

Weekend Update

Well, I've discovered that I have an aversion to writing when I'm depressed...

-----

I didn't get the Senior position I applied for with my present department. I didn't even get an interview. I got a phone call from some Human Resources lackey who sounded like she resented getting the punishment detail of phoning all the "losers" who didn't qualify for a first interview.

When I asked "why" I didn't get an interview, she became agitated about answering questions from unsuccessful applicants:

"Well you don't have your accreditation do you?" she huffed.

"--well, no. But it didn't say I needed it on the posting..."

"All the interview candidates are accredited. Good-bye." -click-

It always amazes me that the rudest, most unimaginative and generally vindictive people usually wind up working in human resources...

-----

So I started to re-evaluate my current career prospects after this. Professional accounting Accreditation will come my way in two years time and I could wait and have them renew my current contract every six months like they have been but something tells me it's time to see what else is out there...

The other opportunity I spoke of some time earlier has yet to call me back, but that's kinda typical of government/crown corporation positions. They'll probably call (if they do) several months after I get another job. But it would be kind of interesting having to coordinate a move to Kamloops, British Columbia...

Moving always sucks...

Awooooooooooo!

What Is Your Animal Personality?
brought to you by Quizilla

180 channels and nothing on...

I grew up watching Saturday morning cartoons in the 70's and early 80's. Say the phrase "Saturday Morning Cartoons" to a ten year old today and you'll get a blank stare back...

What happened? This article explains it using some economics and demographics (don't worry: nothing too difficult), but it did more than that. It got me thinking...

See, we're a digital cable family. Originally we got the box because that was the only way to watch The Sopranos. When all the new specialty channels came out, we signed up. I've not been impressed by the majority of channels.

By my count we've got 180 channels of shit on the TV to choose from. But why is TV so bad when you've got choice? The answers from the article on Saturday morning cartoons can be applied to the future of TV in general.

-----

I remember when I started working for a living in the early nineties. There was that whole "water cooler" thing. Every Seinfeld line was a bonding moment on Friday morning because EVERYONE was watching it Thursday night. Because everyone was watching it they could pay for the stars AND good writing. The former is good to have but the latter is CRITICAL.

"Master of My Domain" "Mimbo" "Regifting" "Close/High/Low Talkers" and on and on. These are just off the top of my head. The sheer creativity of phrases keeps this one of the few shows I can watch again and again in rerun-land.

Seen Friends lately? After NBC is done paying those six slackers what's left to spend on writing? Exactly. How many times can you hear "How you DOOOOINNN?" before you want to put your fist through the screen? And how many times have they recycled "We were on a break!!"?

-----

I think I'll channel a Friends writer:

[sarcasm] Har har har [/sarcasm]

-----

Divide the potential TV audience (and their corresponding ad revenue generated) by 180 channels and you get less money to spend on production so what gets cut? Usually the writing...

And if the show requires "special effects" and the huge budget that comes along with it you get the travesty that is Star Trek Voyager. When they started slipping in ratings did they get better writers to repair the shit stories that the show was spewing weekly?

No, they imported a buxom blonde name Jeri Ryan and had her slink around in a too-tight catsuit for a couple of seasons (I'm not complaining about that: while they were tinkering with the show they could've at least written some interesting stories...)

And of course, they ripped off Seinfeld when they had the character named "Seven" - which was the name George Costanza wanted to give any potential offspring he might produce. Come on. They could've at least been honest about the demographic they wanted her to appeal to and named her "38 of D."

-----

My favourite show Farscape has been cancelled. This was a show that had great writing, great effects, memorable characters and didn't assume its audience had the IQ of a P.E. teacher. Why was Farscape cancelled? Because the makers of the show spent money on the actors, production and the writing, as they were all integral to yielding a GREAT show, the cost of the show exceeded the revenue the show could earn on a specialty cable network like the Sci-Fi channel.

And yet they (the great collective "they") continue to shove warmed-over shit like ENTERPRISE (derisively referred to as "BOOBYPRISE") down our throats. They've given Boobyprise seven fucking years to run even though they ceased to be even remotely interesting about 2 episodes in. (aaahhhh screw continuity! The fans want boobs, and more "decontamination" scenes...)

-----

The scary part is that this is likely to continue into the future: not just in TV. It's already happening in music. How many crappy bands are out there getting albums produced that have maybe one good song? And because that one good song will be in a specific genre (alt, pop, hip-hop) how many people WON'T hear that song and won't buy their crappy album? Will it be possible for anyone in the future to have the kind of sales success a Michael Jackson, The Beatles, or Elvis Presley had in the past?

The truth is that a market can only be cut into so many segments before the production costs for anything good exceed the amount of money the producers can reasonably expect to get from ad revenues.

The ultimate result:

It's happening. You'll see.

The promise of the 500-channel universe will turn into the curse of "Total-Shit Tuesday" and "Must-Shit TV" as more and more utter crap shows get produced. Worse, because of the low production costs associated with so-called "reality TV" how far away are we from a REALITY TV NETWORK?

I'm going to stop now. I need to go to the bathroom...

Nobel Prize, no. Darwin Award instead?

Read this today at A Small Victory.

As a member of the House of Commons of Canada, and as the International Human Rights advocate for the New Democratic Party of Canada, it is my pleasure to nominate the International Solidarity Movement (ISM) for the 2004 Nobel Peace Prize...

...Although this nomination is for the ISM as a whole, three young individuals merit particular recognition for the courage and resolve they displayed in their acts of non-violent civil disobedience in defence of peace and human rights in the Palestinian Occupied Territories.

These individuals are Brian Avery and Tom Hurndall, who miraculously survived sniper shots to the head by Israeli forces while they were defending Palestinian civilians from Israeli troops, and Rachel Corrie, who was crushed to death by an Israeli Defence Force bulldozer while attempting to prevent the demolition of the home of an innocent Palestinian family.

Sincerely yours,

Svend J Robinson, MP

Let's see...

Don't get me wrong. In their own way, maybe these activists think they're doing the right thing. Maybe it's been drummed into their heads that the U.S. really is the "Great Satan." If somebody says something often enough in your ear, you may begin to believe it is true.

It's sad that these people put themselves in harms way and GOT HARMED. But does that make them right? or righteous? I do not believe that death gives you a free pass when your actions and motivations are questionable (ie. shielding and/or aiding terrorists/suicide bombers/smugglers)

No, my real venom is left for Svend Robinson, in his disgustingly shameless attempt at self aggrandizement. Way to represent our country Svend. Pick a group that may have direct ties to suicide bombers and present them as candidates for a "peace" prize. Just the latest in a long line of Svend's anti-Israeli "causes."

Funny thing is that Svend is probably the most well-known and popular member of the New Democratic Party. I guess this is the face of Socialism in Canada.

There's another Cabal of Sinister Canadians?

I have to read about this group, other than mine, who wants to control the world?

"Hi, it's the cabal of sinister Canadians. We've got an appointment at 10 with the President." And the secretary says, "Sorry, his 9.30 cabal is running late." And you begin to wonder why, if George W Bush has such a small brain, so many cabals are required to secretly control it...

And how exactly did my cabal get pushed back to 3:30?

-----

tip of the hat to Ghost of a Flea for exposing this transgression first...

But I wanted the retractable claws!

You are Professor X!

You are a very effective teacher, and you are very
committed to those who learn from you. You put
your all into everything you do, to some extent
because you fear failure more than anything
else. You are always seeking self-improvement,
even in areas where there is nothing you can do
to improve.


Which X-Men character are you most like?
brought to you by Quizilla

-----

OK, it did get the fear of failure thing right...

How do you know you're old?

Answer: you have to stop drinking the pot and a half of rich wonderful coffee you normally drink because of the angry peasants in your stomach that are threatening an acid reflux/revolt if the dictator doesn't stop pouring that wonderful black gold down his throat.

-----

Tea.

Mein Gott in Himmel! I'm drinking fuckin' tea...

-----

The caffeine better enter my system soon or the rampaging shall commence!

May 10, 1970...

On this day, I had as yet not been born, yet two critical events occurred that shaped me in ways good and bad. I'll let my readers (all 2 of you) decide...

Former Bruins' defenceman Bobby Orr flies through the air with the greatest of ease after scoring the Stanley Cup winning goal against the St. Louis Blues on May 10, 1970 at Boston Garden (The home team wore the dark uniforms on this occasion).

Though I was too young and his career was cut too short by knee problems, Bobby Orr and later, Ray Bourque both inspired me with the offensive way that they played a traditionally defensive position. They also made me a life-long Bruins fan (which explains their inability to win the Stanley Cup)

The second was that my buddy Greg was born:

HAPPY BIRTHDAY SMEGHEAD!

- it has been rumoured that Greg's father skipped out on his son's birth in order to watch the game...Who could blame him?

Real or not, it's a cool story...

I've added "she's a flight risk" to my blogroll. There's debate over whether or not this blog is real, whether she really is a young heiress on the run from her Michael Corleone-style father...Nonetheless it's an interesting read, and if it is a hoax it is a well-written one.

It poses an interesting question: Can someone on the run be able to reach the world without giving away their location to those that hunt them? Be they jealous ex's, the mafia (sorry, there is no mafia...), or the state- wouldn't there be a way for the hunters to find them even if those on the run were the most computer-savvy person on the planet?

Jinx part II

Who knew my curses could be so effective? The Vancouver Canucks certainly *choked* big time! And typically, before the game was even over, the so-called "fans" were streaming out the exits in typical Vancouver-style...

-----

For my sports team jinx to work the following criteria must be met:

I am contemplating which team I shall curse next...

Anaheim Mighty Ducks- I feel nothing towards them, except hatred for the way those three Disney movies portrayed hockey (flying V indeed!)
VS.
Minnesota Wild- They ain't the North Stars. I liked the North Stars.

or

New Jersey Devils- Boring to watch, cool uniforms though. Those are my only feelings about them.
VS.
Ottawa Senators- My father would say "root Canadian" but I've never been a fan of Canadian content (damn cultural crutch that gave us Corey Hart- bah!) Normal hatred of Ottawa politicians prevents me from wanting this team to do well...

So I'm pretty much undecided...Lucky for you fans of those teams.

Darth Persnickety

is my Star Wars villain name

...yes, just wasting more time.

I warned you Canucks fans...

In this post I spelled out how I'm a jinx to hockey teams I support...

For a quite reasonable amount of money I was willing to spare your team from the wrath of my affections...

But you, my Western Canadian friends were too cheap to spare your darling Vancouver Canucks.

I checked my email, the comments to the post in question -- nothing. Not a nickel, dime; not even a penny for your "team."

Now this is all on your head. I tried to be reasonable, but you have forced me to make good on my threat, to seal the fate of this team.

With these words I now curse the Vancouver Canucks -

GO, CANUCKS, GO!

And before any of you point out that I'm a "bandwagon jumper" I'll retort that "bandwagon jumper" is the very definition of the Vancouver hockey fan.

Deny it. I dare you.

It's spelled "Colour"

Neutral:
Harmony and balance is key. You don't look at the
world in a negative or positive way and you'll
never judge or assume a situation- you just
look at the facts. People like you are peaceful
and accepting.


What color do you see the world in?
brought to you by Quizilla

Accepting maybe.
Peaceful? I don't know...

In my neighbourhood...

A story out of my past. I don't know why I feel compelled to tell it now. It always disturbed me.

When I was 15 or 16 my parents started hanging out with another German couple: "Walther" and "Liesl." I don't know how they met- most times my parents met someone of the same ethnicity, it was usually at a deli or bakery that catered to the specialty German foods my mother liked (and that I have come to appreciate and try to find myself- it wasn't so before!) or someone overheard them talking and noticed the accent or the language on those rare times my parents spoke to each other in German.

All I know is that Walther and Liesl started hanging around our house ALL THE TIME.

Walther was an 70-year old alcoholic. I know this because everytime he came over, the level of booze in the 40oz overproof Lamb's Navy Rum bottles would go down a good 3 to 4 inches and he was the only one drinking.

My parents didn't drink. However, every time we visited the U.S. my dad would make sure he picked up a 40oz of Lamb's Navy Rum at the duty-free shop. He'd been doing this for years and we had a good 7 or 8 bottles of this stuff in the pantry. Over the course of one summer Walther had wittled this down to 2 bottles remaining.

Liesl was a tall austere woman in her 60's with piercing blue eyes and a stern-face that didn't smile. She always wore long-sleeved blouses that ended at her wrists. I always found this strange; Kelowna in the summer was blazing hot and dry, like the blast of an oven in your face just before you stick the pizza in.

Come to think of it, most of the women in the neighbourhood wore the same thing. These were women in their 60s and 70s. (Kelowna IS the retirement capital of Canada.) She basically regarded me with thinly-veiled contempt as I usually spoke out of turn, didn't automatically accept my parents' ideas as gospel, didn't read my bible etc. Most Germans of that age group adhere to "seen, but not heard."

I didn't like her much either.

Walther was a so-called "expert" on everything. Economics, politics, sports: you name it he had all "the answers." I got tired of interjecting into conversations because any point I'd make would be dismissed because I was "just a kid." He also had what I've heard referred to as the "blind wall of ignorance" defence, which basically meant he could win any argument by just not acknowledging that you'd made any sort of logical point and bulldozing on with his bullshit rhetoric. The scary thing is that most of my parents German friends were exactly the same way. I got to thinking that Germans were like this. I still kinda think that way...

I got tired of this and started hanging out in my room whenever they'd show up. My dad was not the most argumentative of guys: he was (and still is) a peacemaker. "Why can't we all just get along!" could've come out of his mouth without the slightest trace of irony...So I was surprised when one day I heard my father get into an argument with both of them.

Walther would usually make his wife wait on him hand and foot, even in restaurants. He'd talk to her more like she was a servant rather than his wife. She would silently do as she was asked. Sometimes he would criticize and call her names as she did this. On this one day, my father had had enough of this, especially as this was going on in HIS house.

"Walther, why don't you just let your wife sit and let me get your drink?" said my father.

"It's her job. She's supposed to do this." I can tell that he's drunk because he's slurring his words. "What good is she if she doesn't get my drink?"

"Not in my house," said my father icily and stared at him. My dad seemed to be saying more than those four words with his gaze. "I'm the host here. No one else is a servant."

"You shut up!" screamed Liesl at my father with rage. "You can't talk to him that way! Just because you have no sense of discipline and don't know how to raise your child doesn't mean that you can talk to my husband that way! Come Walther!" She's leaning across the table and screaming in his face.

Walther got up and staggered towards the door with a smile on his face...

They never came again. Can't say that I missed them.

-----

My dad sat there with the weirdest look on his face.

"What the hell just happened?" I asked.

My father shrugged. "He beats her."

"No shit!" I replied.

"Language!" my father pointed at me, not too harshly..."I just didn't want anyone treated like a slave here..."

"But what was she screaming at you for?"

"I was upsetting the balance of her world. You see, she's content with her lot. I just shone a light on it and she didn't like that..."

This I couldn't believe. "That can't be right. Can it?"

"Take a look around the neighbourhood, son. The women here all wear long sleeves in 90-degree heat. Why would they do that? To hide the bruises."

I was in shock. This couldn't be right.

"Take a guess what happens when the day ends and everyone goes back inside at night. How many of these pricks that live around us beat their wives daily. I'll tell you: ALL of them."

"Why?" I still didn't understand.

"I don't know. Do you know that some of these old geezers-" he named three men from the five closest houses "- asked me why I LET your mother have her own car and why I LET her do the shopping herself and how could I ALLOW her to talk back to me in front of others? I was setting a bad example for their wives, because their wives were asking why they couldn't do the same things your mother can. The message was pretty direct..."

"But why don't the women leave?" This didn't make sense.

"Where would they go? Besides the longer they wait, the more likely the old bastards will die and they'll get everything afterward. Don't you notice how the widows on the block all seem to be happier than they were before, when their husbands were alive? Most of them have resigned themselves to the fact that this is how life is, that you and I and every other man alive will treat them this way. Did you know that Walther and Liesl have a daughter?"

"No, I didn't." I was taken aback by this change in topic.

"She's five years older than you. And, Liesl has spent the last few months in that chair bitching and moaning about how ungrateful her daughter is and about how she has betrayed them by not having any contact with them blah blah blah..."

"So..."

"Liesl was mad because her daughter refused to live with what Liesl lives with: she got away. Any man who beats his wife that way wouldn't think twice about beating his kids too. And the perverse thing is that she's mad at her daughter for escaping not at her prick of a husband for being a prick of a husband."

"Language-" I pointed at my father "- I still don't understand this..."

"Neither do I," said my dad "neither do I. But it happens a lot more than I used to think. Next time watch for it."

"I will. But can't somebody help them?"

"No," said my father sadly. "Not unless they help themselves first. The police can only put these bastards in jail, and only if the wife is strong enough to want this: they can't make them stop being assholes."

-----

I started to really look around the neighbourhood after this. I saw the hunted looks in the eyes of the women, and, this was the scary part, the resentment towards my mother for having a nice man as her husband.

I used to think that these assholes that beat their wives was part of a generational thing...that when these old pricks died things would change. From what my female friends have told me, a lot of these old pricks have sired younger pricks, and it's hard to believe that this still goes on, but it does.

-----

When my mother died of cancer years later, the widows came out of the woodwork trying to latch onto my father. One of them did...But that's another story.

Baby #2

So my wife is getting closer and closer to delivering baby #2...

My facade of calm is now starting to slip.

I've always been a nuts 'n' bolts kind of thinker: A leads to B leads to C etc. - so I'm trying to devise plans to deal with work, potential new job(s), relief shifts for new Mommy to take care of my eldest little one (who at 18 months is now mobile, curious and exploring everything- including the dog's food. For the record: "mmmmmm, GOOD!" was her rating of Eukanuba dry kibble...)

What I guess I'm saying is that I'm a control freak that now has to deal with situations beyond my control. And my exitement level is spiralling...Who knows what kind of posts will stream out of my conciousness over the next few days and/or weeks...The only thing that I can do now is wait.

I'm a BAAAAAAADDDDD Boy!

The Dante's Inferno Test has banished you to the Sixth Level of Hell - The City of Dis!
Here is how you matched up against all the levels:

Well that was fun!

Greed and The Fat Book

I've been thinking about my past career as a stock broker lately, which spanned about seven months before I had an attack of conscience...

The key to success as a broker is having a "fat book." In other words, be the account manager of a small group of customers that have a big wad of cash. How big? The numbers kept going up while I talked to more brokers but the consensus was that a good broker with 5 years experience should have at least $25 million under management and the big-swinging dicks (big time producers) should have between $50-100 million under management.

That's why people who try to start an account with full-service brokers with less than $100,000 will get short shrift: they don't want to deal with you because you're penny-ante. An account of $100,000 should generate about $1,000 gross commission for the firm. The broker, if he's a producer will get less than half of that paid to him; the rest goes to the firm. That's if the broker's honest, and the majority are. If you've got less than $100K, you are not worth much to an honest broker.

Beware the broker that takes you on if you've got less than $100K. If he's honest, he's either new, desperate, or callous. Any of these people can lose your money much faster than a regular broker...

And I won't even talk about the dishonest ones...

For an honest broker, the saying should be "beware of clients who think they know more than you do..."

-----

The one thing I learned as a broker is that most brokers know nothing about actual real economics: Most will parrot the party line that is spoon-fed to them by the true brains at head office: the analysts and the portfolio managers.

Brokers will use survey techniques to button-hole you into a generic category so they can apply a pre-made portfolio template for your needs, designed by the portfolio managers. Some do their own stock picking and porfolio work, but these are members of a dying breed: it takes too much effort on an individual account basis to manage these accounts and rarely yields enough commission to justify the time.

To be honest, this is sometimes not a bad thing. Much time, effort and money is spent by many talented and intelligent people to produce these templates. A good plan is better than a bad plan, and a bad plan is better than no plan...

-----

Mostly though, Brokers are salespeople:

They will maintain databases of your wives' and childrens' names, birthdates, hobbies etc. that they will be staring at when they effortlessly phone you to chat about the weather and "oh by the way, that resource company I was talking about is about to issue a news release about their properties in North Africa, its time for you to get in before they get snapped up..."

My manager told it to us this way: "...selling a stock is all about the story behind the stock. People don't want to hear about the third quarter projection and the EBITDA and all the other nonsense...They want to hear an anecdote about how smart the CEO is and how his attention to detail is making them the most efficient company in the industry. They want to hear BIG NAMES thrown about. In short they want EXCITEMENT!"

At this point he'd smile at us benevolently as a proud father and we'd think that we'd been given a glimpse of greatness...I was a true believer until I saw some things in action.

In short, my manager was a great actor. I used to listen to some of his phone-spiel when his door was open. Usually, branch managers do not handle clients unless the branch was very small like ours was. He was always calm and cool, spoke slowly and reassuringly, and never ever seemed to get hysterical. (So much so that he watched the Twin Towers come down in his office on CNBC in total silence, expressionless.)

But on a lot of calls he was wrong.

I remember him telling one client that he should convert all his Canadian dollar holdings to US dollars because the Canadian dollar would soon be worth "around 50 US cents." [the Canadian dollar has actually appreciated. Considering the size of the clients account, the client would've lost 25,000 Canadian dollars on foreign exchange alone. I know: I did the calculations]

-----

In the end I couldn't do it. The confidence you have to display to clients I was not capable of. I understand risk: but clients didn't want to hear about risk- they wanted to avoid risk, like they want to avoid SARS; and the resulting behaviours were just as illogical.

I had a handful of clients. I had had enough of being a broker when my best client told me that he agreed with everything that I said and had presented to him, but wasn't going to go with my recommendation to rebalance his portfolio.

This client had 90% of his portfolio in

one stock only!

I asked him why.

"Well, I just did a home renovation on the vice-president's home and he said..."

"I've got to stop you there," I said. "Anything specific you tell me could get both of us in trouble if it qualifies as insider info. I don't think either of us wants to go down that road..."

He smiled at me the way the cool kids used to smile at me when I pointed out that breaking into the high school to steal sports equipment would probably get us time in juvi...

"Well, this guy's telling me to hold my stock, 'cause it'll double or triple in the next 2 years!" He's got this smirk that tells me that he doesn't have any specific info about this company. I relax about fines and jail, but am now worried because I see my client slipping away...He's my client. I'll try again...

"Have you ever known a VP that would bad-mouth his own company to a stockholder?"

"Whatdaya mean?" he says, already counting the money he hasn't made yet.

"Well this guy, he's got stock in this company, right? If he went around telling everybody to sell, he'd lose money on his own portfolio."

It still hasn't sunk in yet. "You don't understand," says my client. "He's got all his money in the company. He mortgaged his house to buy more stock! It's going up!"

"You should sell it now. If he's pitching you the stock, that means he's pitching everyone, and that means he's going to dump it fast while it's high."

"Why would he do that?"

"Uh, to keep the stock price high, to keep people buying while he's selling. TO MAKE MONEY!" Moron, I say silently to myself.

Suffice it to say, my client believed HIS client/VP of un-named company rather than junior-broker/me and kept his money in this company.

I couldn't tell him that FOR SURE the stock would go down. When measured up against Mr. Vice-President's FOR SURE assurance that the stock would double/triple, my maybes and probabilities weren't convincing to him.

That whole experience left me drained. I had gotten the account, had transferred the assets, had made my recommendations to the best of my ability. My manager was happy because I had gotten the assets in the door- I'll fix his account later "when he crashed and burned." In my manager's eyes, I had done well. If this was doing well, I wondered what doing poorly would feel like...

-----

Madmen crashing into buildings gave me a shock. Not because I felt endangered or fearful: many people in downtown areas in North America felt that way; no, I wondered as I watched the World Trade Center fall, if the people who died in those buildings were actually doing what they wanted to be doing, if their lives were good and happy and if they were satisfied with themselves.

I realized I wasn't.

If planes had smashed into my little building in downtown Toronto and I was to die, I would regret what I was doing. I would regret my life because I wasn't happy with who I was and what I was doing. To me, this became my greatest fear: to die unsatisfied with myself.

I never got the fat book. I still want money, don't get me wrong- I won't lie to you and say that I transcended into a zen-like state beyond the need for things and possessions: I very much want things and possessions. It's just now I can stare in the mirror and like what I see as I live my little life, with my little bit of greed in check. "...greed for life, for money, knowledge - has marked the upward surge of mankind..." - sorry had to get the Michael Douglas from Wall Street reference in there somewhere.

My actual favourite quote from that movie is spoken by another character:

Man looks in the abyss, there's nothing staring back at him. At that moment, man finds his character.

And that is what keeps him out of the abyss.

-----

On Sept 15, 2001 I walked into my managers office at 7:45 am. Like many good brokers, his day started at the crack of dawn. If I can haul my ass out of bed to not be late for my 9am start I'm having a good day...

I resigned my position and told him that I wasn't cut out for the profession. He empathized (or pretended to, I knew him well enough to see the subtle signs) and told me how only one fourth of the people who are hired actually make it through the first year. After that, half of those go by the end of the second year. He said this with pride barely concealed in his voice.

You see, this is the badge of honour they wear. They are better than me, because they made it through the fire that has burned me and consumed so many others: They are the elite; they can shrug off losses, they can deal with shaky markets and shaky clients. They can steer the rich through inflation and recessions and stagflation. They make the rich, richer- They finance your childrens educations.

Their egos are so wide, some of them can't fit through standard-sized doors.

They have to be this way- otherwise they can't do their jobs...Otherwise they burn out like me. Otherwise at forty, that clutching feeling they live with in their chest snuffs out their lives just like so many candles in a strong wind.

They need their egos to survive...

-----

I shook hands with my now-former manager and left the office for the last time. Even though after that I was faced with almost a year of unemployment and a crushing wave of failure that threatened to drown me, there was one thing that I could do that I hadn't been able to do while I pretended to be something I wasn't.

I could look in the mirror and like what I saw...

It's over - Go Home!

One of the fun things about any kind of city event is the entrepreneurial spirit with which the makers of crap sell their wares onto an unenlightened public.

I'm talking about this:

Because how else can you prove that you are a "true" fan unless you fly at least two of these things as you crawl down the highway during rush hour...

On my drive in to work this morning I counted 5 (FIVE!!) vehicles with these flags still attached. Last time I checked the Leafs ARE OUT OF THE PLAYOFFS: and were put out on April 22 - 10 days ago!

These people are as annoying as those home owners who are still lighting their Christmas lights in February. Spirit of Christmas, my ass! Try Spirit of Laziness!

Who makes all this useless garbage? I've been a firm believer in Capitalism all my life, but even I've got to ask why scarce resources should be devoted to the manufacture and sale of such craptastic merchandise...

People in this town will buy anything with a Leafs logo attached.