A Galaxy Gone, Gone Away

I was tempted to write this whole thing in Yoda-voice. The idea just tickled me -- doing the whole thing like an ancient Jedi master.

As a matter of fact, somewhere in the house I have a McDonald's Happy Meal that explains exactly how to speak like Yoda. A couple of years ago I bought the McNuggets and fries, got the toys for the boys and then saved the box in order to send it as a gift to a friend. Because he, for some unfathomable reason, even after the travesty that is the prequels, remains unwavering in his joy for the Star Wars series.

Unfortunately I do not feel the same way.

In many ways the series is dead to me the same way Al Pacino's brother was dead to him in The Godfather Part II. Sometimes my boys ask me if I like Star Wars and I have tried to explain to them how much I loved the first three movies when they first came out, but I don't like what's been done to them since. I think I have actually used the phrase "They're dead to me" as I tried to describe the frustration, sadness and incredible sense of betrayal which I now feel towards the series.

My poor boys -- having to hear their dad go on about a movie series as if it was like someone sat down and told me all at once that there is no Santa Claus, I'm adopted, and my dog never liked me when I was a kid. That is what George Lucas has done to me.

And Yoda as a CGI pseudo-Mexican jumping bean in that last film? -- Please, just shoot me now. My rule is simple: just because it can be done with special effects, doesn't mean it should be done. Just because it's now possible to CGI Lucille Ball into a threesome with Fred Astaire and Judy Garland doesn't make it a good idea; and it's the same thing with a ninja Yoda.

It is such a drag, having something you love transform into something that is devastatingly disappointing. I've heard the Clone Wars tv show is fun, but the setting is right in the middle of the very prequels that I loathe. So the show could be a dazzling mish-mash of Buffy, The West Wing and Lost -- and I'd still wouldn't be able to watch it.

And yet for some reason I cannot let go of my ever-simmering hatred for it all. Like a reformed alcoholic who can't stop preaching about the evils of booze, I am always dumbfounded when people claim to enjoy the prequels. "They're really popular with kids" someone said to me the other day. And I then preached and babbled and foamed as I explained why they're horrible and of course kids like them because they are being manipulated into enjoying mediocrity in order for the sales of the merchandise to remain strong and...

And I could slowly see the fear in the person's eyes as they were forced to listen to the ramblings of a crazy person. And they slowly, ever so slowly, attempted to move away.

Be it the Clone Wars, the "Han Shot First" special editions or the upcoming Robot Chicken-produced tv show (really? I mean, really?!?) I've given up on the whole thing.

Oh, and the icing on this cake of craptitude was a book I saw the other day: Star Wars - Death Troopers. It's got Star Wars and zombies -- in the same story!!

It's as if some old-time movie mogul was sitting in his office smoking a cigar the size of Texas and screamed at his quivering lackeys, "Kids still like Star Wars but we've got to keep it fresh! What's hot out there that will keep kids interested?"

And one minion pipes up, "Wizards and magicians are popular, sir! Or hobbits! What about hobbits!"

"Jesus Crossover Christ!" explodes the mogul, "I'm not going to help make some other studio's goddamn franchise more popular by putting it in Star Wars. Hobbits can lick the fur from my unwashed ass-kicking feet! We've got the goddamn Ewoks, why the crap would we need hobbits! And if one of you bastards mention Predators, Batman or Iron Man, I will choke you to death with my cigar, hide your body in the sewers and then crap on your dead useless decaying corpse every day for the rest of my life. What am I paying you brainless geniuses for? What else have you got?"

"Zombies, sir. Zombies are popular," squeeks out one of the other cowering underlings.

"Zombies? Zombies!" says the mogul, savoring the word like an expensive wine. "No copyright infringements. No royalties to pay to some know-it-all creator who wants script and casting approval. Everything in the public domain but still more popular than that long-haired Justin Bieber girl. I like it! Get on it! Do it! And see if you can get Princess Leia in a bikini again. Those ancient basement-dwelling old time original horny friggin' fanboys eat that shit up."

Yep. Star Wars and zombies -- together!! Cuz if it works for Jane Austen, it can work for Star Wars.

As I said Star Wars is dead to me. And zombies are eating its brains. And its heart.

Gone is wonder and originality. Picked over the corpse has become. Bite my ass George Lucas must, he must.

I can't even do Yoda-talk anymore. Sad it is.

The Doctor Visits Craig

I like Craig Ferguson.

I love "Doctor Who".

And when Matt Smith was on the Craig Ferguson show it was very entertaining. But at the beginning of the show Craig talked about the opening having to be scrapped because the producers failed to clear the legal rights for the Doctor Who theme.

It was a strange opening to the show because it was impossible to tell if Craig was just pretending that they had done a song and dance number and was pretending to be royally pissed off, or if they had really done all that work, it had been unexpectedly cancelled and he was really and truly royally pissed off.

Well, youtube finally has the opening song and dance number.

"The triumph of intellect and romance over brute force and cynicism."

The opening scene is brilliant. And y'can see why Craig was so very, very angry.

But don't take my word for it...



Enjoy.

Jerry Meets George

Fourteen years ago, back in the winter of 1996, Tom Cruise starred and was then nominated for an Oscar in "Jerry Maguire".

That role has become a major touchstone in his career both as box office superstar and as a romantic lead. And with the guidance of writer/director Cameron Crowe, Cruise made the phrase "Show me the money" a pathetic, pleading scream of greed, accomplishment, friendship and pride.

And now, in the winter of 2010, actor Paul Rudd is starring in the movie "How Do You Know". Written and directed by James L. Brooks, the movie has Rudd playing a man named George who is tangled in a romantic love triangle with Reese Witherspoon.

Now, ignoring the fact that it is also a romantic comedy with a beautiful blonde and it is also created by an Academy Award winning screenwriter, isn't it freaky and (because both films are from Columbia Pictures) kind of interesting to note that the movie poster has an image of Rudd that is hauntingly familiar? Because you can sense from the picture of Rudd's character on the telephone that he isn't just ordering pizza; he is going through a Jerry Maguire-like hangin' by a thread, about to freak out quasi-breakdown.

Jerry Maguire tagline: "Everybody loved him. Everybody disappeared."

George's tagline: "He's In Trouble."

Although the image of Jerry Maguire screaming on the telephone wasn't used in the original poster, it is instantly recognizable from the film.

Fourteen years later, that image finally makes its way onto a one-sheet, but without Cruise's presence.

As Jerry would say, "You complete me."

Cosmo secrets

Oh those unfortunate cashiers in supermarket check-out lines. Having to deal with people like me who all of a sudden are howling with laughter for no apparent reason.

It goes like this...

I'm grabbing some groceries, minding my own business as I wait patiently for the woman in front of me to pay for her items, bag them all and somehow keep her two-year-old in the buggy entertained as she does all of this, when my eyes wander over the covers of the magazines displayed at the check-out.

And I suddenly start laughing. And I must be laughing quite loudly because the cashier looks at me with surprise. And so I tell her what has made me cackle with amusement.


The cover of the latest issue of Cosmopolitan features the article "Secrets of Male Arousal".

And I said to the cashier, "The secret of male arousal? -- If you express interest, he's aroused. If he's had a beer, he's aroused. If you smile at him or laugh at one of his jokes, he's aroused. The secret? - If he's a guy, he's gonna be aroused."

And the cashier gives me a smile, as if I've just confirmed what she has always suspected.

Men are so easy, they make a game of checkers seem like brain surgery.

Oops. Now I've revealed the secret.

I would therefore suggest completely skipping this month's issue.

That is, if it wasn't for the article "What Even Experienced Chicks Forget to Do in Bed". Cuz that looks pretty mind-blowing.

Disco Barbie

I'm late to this one, but in my defense, I don't often find myself looking at dolls in toy stores.

Nevertheless, I took my boys to Toys 'R Us and we were looking at action figures and there, across the aisle and on the end display, were Twilight Barbies -- as in Barbie dolls which are made with the licensed features of the main characters from Twilight.

Which I thought was strange, but I sorta kinda get it. Teenage girls might want to own Bella Barbie so they can have a re-enactment between her and Edward (Ken) or her and Jacob (Ken). Or maybe a fight scene between Edward (Ken) and Jacob (Ken). Or maybe a scene with all three of them. Or some sort of scene just between the two guys. Some sort of fan fiction fun.

I dunno. I guess. Whatever.



But the really strange thing was that further down the aisle they had Cyndi Lauper Barbie, Joan Jett Barbie and (my personal fave) Debbie Harry Barbie.



And I wondered that if I could go back to New York City in my time machine and visit Debbie Harry in the '70s at her peak at Studio 54 and show her what the 21st Century held for her, whether she'd be thrilled or whether she'd just throw up all over Andy Warhol and blame it all on him.

You Need to Want to Win

I stumbled across this on twitter today. It's from Mark Gatiss (he of "Sherlock" fame) and he wrote...

"Why wasn't there a massively energized, angry reaction when there was a mindless prick in the White House for eight years?"

Which I thought was brilliant.

But it's because the Democrats didn't get their message out and they act as if they should be able to work with the other side; the Republicans, on the other hand, just want to win and don't care how it gets done.

You can't negotiate with someone if all they want is to get rid of you.

"There's a frood who really knows where his towel is"

A little while ago I bought my lovely wife a towel. And, yes, it's a much more thoughtful gift than it sounds.

I ordered it from ebay in the uk and had it sent all the way over here. Because, you see, my wife is from England and I thought it would be perfect for her. It couldn't be used by myself or the boys -- we're much too Canadian and it is very much "Mummy's".

Tonight, after she went swimming, I saw it hanging downstairs to dry.

It is, if I may say, a lovely present. Very British and perfect for holidays.

But then, when I saw it, the pun struck me.


It's to be used by the beach or by the pool when you want to ensure that no one steals the perfect spot and the perfect view that you've found for yourself.

But I then twigged to the fact that it describes that calm, cool British attitude. It quietly suggests that this is the towel of not a crazy person looking for a wild time, but instead, it is the towel of someone dignified, calm and at peace with themselves.

"Reserved".

Indeed.

Countdown begins

It's November the first. The day after Hallowe'en. But according to a couple of retail home pages, it may as well be Christmas.

On the Amazon home page there are doves, Christmas bells, holly and french horns being employed to convey the festive season and all of its shopping pleasures and pressures. If I go to the American site, I can even click on the holiday toy list.

And over on ebay they're kind enough to tell me it's "54 DAYS". They don't even say it's 54 days to Christmas; just "54 DAYS" with a huge bright red ribbon beside the words.

Come to think of it, it may as well be the Christmas shopping season but neither site actually usually the word "Christmas". Amazon conveys it through images and ebay does it with a countdown, but neither uses the word itself.

So, if I understand this correctly, they'll use the holiday to hawk items and even pressure shoppers with the Dec 25 deadline, but they won't use the word in case they offend people of other faiths. It is the season that retailers love, but for these two mega-sites it's a seasonal love that dare not speak its name.

In other words: "Ho-ho-ho, Merry Shopping!"

Hallowe'en memory

The strongest memory I have of Hallowe'en has nothing to do with my family, friends or myself.

Years ago I was driving to work on Hallowe'en morning. The weather was miserable the way the last day of October can sometimes be: cold, damp, and with the threat of rain to ruin the upcoming evening of trick or treat-ery.

And as I was driving, I noticed a young kid, maybe six or so, standing at a bus stop. For some reason he seemed to be crying.

But he was in costume. Wearing a bright, red, full-sized crayon outfit.

So there he was, on that cold Hallowe'en morning, a Crying Crayon.

He looked terrific in his costume and he should have been happy, but instead he looked utterly despondent as he stood alone, crying at the bus stop.

At that moment I felt like I was looking at the saddest little boy in the world.

I've never forgotten him. He haunts my Hallowe'en every year. The Crying Crayon.

The F@*#-ERY Has Ended

The sense of relief is incredible.

When it has just been a case of...

(as my wife so delicately put it)

... seemingly endless fuckery.

With no sign of quitting. No end in sight. Knowing it will go away but not knowing when it will leave.

And then it finally

Stops.

The sense of relief is almost physical in nature. It's honestly and truly like a huge weight has been lifted from your shoulders. As if someone says, "Here, let me take that away for you" and suddenly you can sit up straight and not feel as if something is pushing you down.

It's as if you realize, "Oh hell yeah. This is what it feels like to be normal again. To not be stressed and worried and not know when it's going to end. To not be in a state of fuckery. This is what relief feels like."

And it's not that there wasn't a light at the end of the tunnel; we knew it was going to be okay. But it was not knowing how long the journey through goddamn tunnel was going to take. That was the incredible awfulness of the situation.

But the fuckery has ended. The fuckery is gone. Fuckery no more.

Farewell fuckery, may we avoid being re-united for a long, long time.

NEWSFLASH: Headlines are Never Wrong, But They Can Mislead

The headline in the newspaper says "Slow Release Schedule Benefits Resident Evil".

And it drives me crazy when I read things like that because it's so misleading that it's darn close to being Wrong, Wrong, Wrong.

I read another one on-line that says "Resident Evil Dominates By Default". And, again, I'm dazzled by the dopiness of the statement.

"Resident Evil: Afterlife 3-D" managed to grab $27.7 million in its first weekend.


(It is the 4th film in the series, but the movies have never been numbered -- which suggests to me that the filmmakers must think the audience for these movies has some intelligence and doesn't need the hand-holding and guidance that titles such as "Rocky III", "Rambo: First Blood Part II", and "Friday the 13th - The Final Chapter" seem to imply. Or perhaps that's just me being too charitable to the "Evil" series.)

But the thing is this: the previous "Resident Evil" movie ("Extinction") opened to $23.7 million in its first weekend. So it's not like the box office for the most recent film is a surprise. As a matter of fact, given that the current entry is in 3-D and thereby gets a bump in its average ticket price, the most recent film's box office could be said to be expected.

So why have a headline that says the slow schedule *benefits* the movie? -- Well, the headline is negative and in news it's always better to be negative than blah and average. And it also conveys the fact that the industry box office wasn't, as a whole, on fire this weekend. But the box office for the latest "Resident Evil" movie is exactly what it should be.

Now, admittedly, the release date didn't *hurt* the movie. Being the only major new film in the marketplace doesn't hurt a film. That's pretty obvious.

But it's not like your average moviegoer *must* go see a movie. It's not like the cash in their pocket was suddenly going to expire or combust and they had to rush out to see a film because of it.


Or to put it another way: movies such as "Piranha 3D" and "Scott Pilgrim" only open to $10 million because people didn't think the films deserved their money. If the movies had opened on a slower weekend, they might have done moderately more business, but it's not like they would have turned into better films or created more interest solely because of the release date.

Even when a film has killer mutant fish, a movie that is a dog is going to stay a dog. And even when a film has a terrific story and is incredibly creative, some pilgrims are gonna cause a lot of trouble and simply fail to grab their intended audience.

Opening "Resident Evil" on the same weekend as the latest "Harry Potter" or "Batman" movie would hurt its business because those movies create a black hole/ vacuum / perfect storm where every moviegoer's money is going to be pulled towards the huge mega-hit. That's why nothing (and certainly not another sci-fi/fantasy movie) gets in the path of those films.

So, yes, the release date of a film can help it or it can hurt it. But a bad film isn't going to turn into a huge hit just simply because of when it hits the market.

Or, as John Hiatt says, ugly ducklings don't turn into swans and guide down the lake.

Box office flops won't sprout wings and soar simply because the release schedule is a little less crowded.

People go to see a movie because they want to see it. They can always choose *not* to see a movie.

The latest film in a series that has seen its previous two installments open in September to $20+ million is probably going to open in the same ballpark. It's likely not going to fly much higher, but it's not a shock to see it be consistent.

Stress to the power of a gazillion

My lovely wife is tired of the word "stress".

As in: "You guys must be under a lot of stress right now, with the move and everything."

Buying a house, selling the house, keeping the house constantly clean and immaculately show-worthy, packing, moving, her starting a new job, searching for the same, boys at a new school, new town, leaving the neighborhood we love, hoping it's the right decision, changing magazine addresses, doing battle with companies for phone and internet, and having to figure out how to transport the guinea pigs and goldfish without killing them.

(Damn, hadn't thought of the last one until just now.)

Yep, that's a lot of burning hot coals to keep juggling.

The other day, at our lawyer's office, as we were signing all the paperwork for the new house, the lawyer said, "You guys must be under a lot of stress" and my wife commented to me after our lawyer had left the room...

"I'm tired of people saying that. 'You must be under a lot of stress.' This is beyond stress. 'Stress' is a word that people use too often. This isn't stress anymore. This is... This is... This is just Fuckery."

And I agreed. It was the perfect word for our situation.

I shared her turn of phrase with some people. And they thought it was perfect. It's beyond stress. It's moved onto a new level of decrepit crapitude.

So we are no longer under stress; we are in a state of Fuckery.

And that is not a place we want to be.

It can end soon.

Please.

If I Were the Man You Wanted

There was absolutely no friggin' reason for me *not* to sleep-in this morning.

The past week has consisted of hockey Tuesday night, coaching soccer Wednesday and Thursday night, playing soccer for the first time in (grade thirteen = 19, grade eight therefore = 14, subtracted from 46 =) thirty-four years on Friday night in a 'Refs vs. Coaches' match.

All of that plus packing, packing and more friggin' packing. And, surprise-surprise, there is a whole lot o' books in this house! And not them new-fangled ipad electronic books; nope, it's the good ole-fashioned "Damn, is this box heavy" kind of books.

And Saturday was renting a guy with a truck so we could load and then unload a bunch of stuff (including, of course, *more books*) that were at my stepmother's place and take them up the new house.

So, sleeping-in this morning would have been lovely.

But it simply was not meant to be.

Instead I was awakened because my sleeping thoughts had drifted towards fate, chance, and the decisions we make.


Do we get to where we are because of some guiding hand? Do we get here by choosing Door Number Two when we could have (and perhaps *should have*) chosen Door Number Three Hundred and Fifty-Two? Is there a master plan or just a perpetual motion of lottery ticket draws with some tickets being winners, others being losers but another draw just a decision away.

If I had taken a writing course that had been offered to me when I was a teenager and made the trips from Kitchener to Toronto, would my life be vastly different from what it is now? And would that be better or worse or just different?

And had I taken that road, would I lose everything I have right now?

Or is this where I was supposed to be? Right now. In this moment. In this instant. This is exactly the right place.

Lyle Lovett wrote, "If I were the man you wanted, I would not be the man that I am."



"Home is where I want to be. But I guess I'm already there" sang David Byrne and the Talking Heads.

Alice gave Smoky her childhood and in exchange she lost the certainty that there was a guiding hand in her life and that she had been fated to meet the man she loved. And while that realization made everything more fragile, it also made everything much more precious because she now realized that there was no master plan and she had to enjoy every moment she had. (That's me paraphrasing John Crowley's book "Little, Big".)

And if Schrödinger had ever opened the damn lid, would the cat be alive, dead or would it have got tired of waiting and decided to find its own way out?

Yes, yes: the last four occurred to me as I was writing this. And trying to make some sense of it all.

But the rest woke me up.

I wanted to sleep-in. I probably *needed* to sleep in. Zed is still asleep. My lovely wife is still asleep. I'm doing my best to quietly tip-toe around the house and not wake them. The day is going to be more packing.


And packing is like having a root canal: it must get done, it's very painful, and after it's finished there's still more pain, but in time it fades and everything turns out okay.

But this is the thing, and maybe if I had thought of all this I could have eased myself back to sleep: I'm not a piece of fluff in the wind being blown from place to place. I have roots that are strong and are being transplanted by choice. I'm Popeye with his sweet potatoes because I yam what I yam. And it's all fragile and delicate and precious but not to be feared. There's no grand scheme, but things do have a tendency to work out. It is a royal pain in the ass not knowing when the good times are going to start.

But perhaps worse is not realizing that the good times might be Right Now.

Superman's weakness

So, the other day Gee asked me if kryptonite can be formed.

"What do you mean 'formed'?" I asked him. "Do you mean can it be shaped? Or carved?"

"Yes. Can you form it into something else?"

"Well, kryptonite isn't real. You know that, right?"

"Yes, I know. But could it be formed?"


"Well, it's a rock, but they've changed it in recent years so that it's radioactive." And as I spoke, I started to get my geek on. "It used to be only harmful to Superman and other Kryptonians, but now it's radioactive to people from Earth, too. So it's deadly."

"Okay," Gee said, ignoring but I'm certain nevertheless *dazzled* by his father's embarrassingly rich geeky insight, "but could you form it into something else?"

"I guess you could," I replied. "Like what?"

"Well, why doesn't someone just shape it into a bullet and kill Superman using a kryptonite bullet? Wouldn't a bullet kill him?"

And in my mind I'm thinking of a fanboy response: it would take two bullets, a gold kryptonite bullet to temporarily rob him of his powers, and then a green bullet to kill him. But it might take some time for the gold bullet to take effect, and in that time Superman could spot the shooter and melt the rifle with his heat vision. And it would have to be a very powerful gun because there's the chance that the gold kryptonite would slowly rob him of his invulnerability and his skin might be only slightly weakened. Superman can heal after being attacked by green kryptonite, therefore the assassin would have to ensure that it was a kill shot and make sure not to just wound him. But it probably could be done -- use two different kinds of bullets and go for the kill shot with an incredibly powerful gun.


This is all the stuff I thought.

But what I said was different.

I replied, "You can't kill Superman with a gun. He'd figure out a way to protect himself. He's Superman."

Gee reflected on my response and said "Okay."

And this is why I resisted sharing my fanboy thoughts and answered the way I did: at age ten he no longer believes in Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny or the Tooth Fairy. As he gets older, he loses so many of the things that are wondrous, magical and magnificent as the everyday realities of the world gather around him. That's part of growing older and there's not much I can do to protect him from it.

But he should always have Superman.

Fort of Feathers

So the boys, on their first day of summer, are enjoying a morning of quiet chaos.

Zed just came up to inform me that they've built a diving fort in the basement. "It's really cool. We put all the pillows on the floor and we're diving on them.

"Can we keep playing?" asks Zed.

I can imagine that it includes one of them being *in* the fort as the other one dives on top. Which of course could lead to bruises, nose bleeds, broken bones and all sorts of other fun stuff.

But I remember my brother and I building forts out of cushions, having pillow fights as we were bouncing up-and-down on our parents' bed like a trampoline, and (in a display of incredible stupidity and showing how completely oblivious we were to physical harm) having pencil crayons wars -- which consisted of hiding behind furniture and throwing pencil crayons at one another, the goal being to to hit the other person, because, y'know, we were geniuses.

"Go ahead," I told Zed. "Just make sure you clean up afterwards. And be careful!"

Running back downstairs, he called out, "We will!"

Yes, my brother and I used to throw pencil crayons at each other for fun. My boys could say they're building forts out of kitchen plates or trying to trap raccoons using rancid hamburger and it would still be less dangerous than what I did when I was a kid.

"Have a good time! Don't be as stupid as I was!" should be the rallying cry for all parents.

Last Day at School

It's funny: both of the boys found the last day of school less emotional than I did.

And because they're both heading to a new school next year, I thought there would be some sadness, tension or tears.

Nope. School's out. "It's the summer!" And they ain't looking back.

As for me, I found myself getting choked up talking to their teachers.

I spoke to Zed's current teacher, Mrs. Chapman, who taught both of the boys (she also taught Gee three years earlier) and she told me that she was sad because she would have had Zed again next year because she was going to be teaching a different grade. But she was very kind and said that the new school was going to be getting two great students.

And I also spoke to the boys' former kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Reiart. She also taught both of the boys but she had them for both Junior *and* Senior kindergarten. She therefore had them for four years in total. I was incredibly pleased that I had the opportunity to thank her for helping make the boys into excellent students. I told her that they're both doing exceptionally well in school and a large part of that is because of her teaching. She was kind enough to say that it was very likely that my wife and I also had a hand in the matter; true as that may be, for the first two years of their schooling, she was the person who showed them how to behave, interact and learn in a classroom. They learned and grew because of her.

In many ways teachers in our province have a great gig (summer holidays, a guaranteed job assuming they don't totally mess up, solid pension, etc.) but it's an incredible responsibility and a bad teacher is a horrible, dreadful, awful thing to behold. An uninspiring teacher can poison the well, salt the earth and rain on the parade that is a child's educational future.

But a good teacher -- worth their weight in friggin' gold.

Both of my boys have been oh so incredibly fortunate because many of their teachers had been blessed with a Midas touch.

Here's hoping their new school also has great teachers. And that the boys will continue to enjoy education, even as they're thrilled when they can leave it behind.

Shopping at the Deity-tessen

At one point the main character in the book I'm reading ("The Suspect" by Michael Robotham) asks the question "What sort of God would you like -- a vengeful God or a forgiving one?"

The book is about a British psychologist who gets pulled into a murder investigation, and he asks that question to one of his patients.


And it made me wonder: do we get to choose what type of god we get? -- Isn't S/He passed down on a generational level until we decide to take our shopping cart to another section in the Deity-tessen?

As a teenager I read a lot of Robert E. Howard's stories and I remember thinking that his description of one of the gods was perfect: He gives us life. What more can one ask of a god?

(Or, according to the internet, "But he gave a man courage at birth, and the will and might to kill his enemies, which, in the Cimmerian's mind, was all any god should be expected to do." --> obviously Conan's god, over the years and in my paraphrasing, editing mind, has become a bit more gentle.)


If I had a choice, I guess I'd go with a forgiving god. But I don't expect a lot from Him/Her. I am not a huge fan of the Book of Job because I don't like how God comes off as all-knowing and all-arrogant at the end of the story. Especially after God put Job through the ringer, I would think there would be a bit more respect and perhaps even an apology of some sort: "Hey, Job, sorry about the disease and the death of all your kids; I don't expect you to understand, but here's what happened..."

But if my god is forgiving and your god is vengeful, does that mean we're worshiping the same god? -- Is it possible for god to be both? Sure-sure, god is all-powerful, all-knowing, all etc, but isn't being both forgiving *and* vengeful a huge contradiction?

I guess I see my God as a gentle watchmaker: things are set in motion, and it's my job to do my best and see it through. Do unto others; Karma will be a paybacking bitch; don't trump your partners Ace; and never spit into the wind.

Bottom line: I don't think S/He is going to step in to help.

We're all on our own. Together.

Six months today

The weirdest dang thing...

This morning I got the most infectious of holiday tunes stuck in my head: it has a slow intro of a couple of lines that mention famous characters, but it all acts as a prelude as the actual song kicks into speed and the title character makes his appearance...

"You know Dasher and Dancer and Prancer and Vixen,
Comet and Cupid and Donner and Blitzen.
But do you know
The most famous reindeer of all..."

Stuck. In. My. Head.



And it wasn't even the big bang part of the song that made its way into my head (the screaming "RUDOLPH THE RED-NOSED REINDEER!" part that children love). Instead, what got stuck in my noggin was the quiet, slow introduction of the other characters who barely make a re-appearance in the song. Once they are all listed one-by-one in the song's opening lines, the are relegated to minor parts and become barely worth mentioning as they become "all of the other reindeer".

Nevertheless...

Stuck. In. My. Head.

And later, after the song's lyrics had wormed their way into my head, I saw the date, and it hit me: Today is June 25 and it's six months to Christmas.

Perhaps it was mentioned on the radio as I was half-awake this morning and the date staggered its way into my not very alert subconscious. But even if that is the case and someone on the radio mentioned the festivities that are exactly half a year away, it's bizarre that my brain then made the leap to those lyrics.

On top of that, I'd say that it is "Jingle Bells" that's my favorite holiday song. "Rudolph" is more of a kids' tune where a youngster is recognized as having great potential and hidden talents; "Jingle Bells" has a hint of romance and adventure mixed with its holiday joy.

Nevertheless, for this morning, it was Rudolph who ruled. Six months early exactly to the day.

Weirdest dang thing.

Mulroney and Schrodinger

I finally realized why Brian Mulroney was so confused about all the money that he received in those envelopes!

It was because it didn't come with any sort of T4! There was no sort of tax receipt!! Therefore it wasn't really and truly a payment. It was like a gift! And when you receive a gift, it's, well, a gift! And since it didn't come with a gift receipt, it's not like he could return it or anything!

Oh sure he was supposedly supposed to do something of some sort or some kind for the money, but he didn't actually have anything in writing or anything, so it wasn't like he had an actual mandate -- he didn't have one of those so-called SMART objectives. And what could he do to earn the money without a specific, measurable, achievable, realistic and timely objective? He didn't have anything in writing or any means of indicating whether or not he had completed his task -- so, it wasn't really a job then, was it?

And if someone gave him cash with no receipt or any true expectation of the work actually being done... well, that must have been mighty confusing. But the envelopes kept on coming!


These two guys, Brian and Karl, can't even agree how much money there was because it was just a friendly little informal exchange. It was like going out with a bud for a coffee at Tim Horton's: "Oh, let me buy this week. You can get it next time. Want a honey cruller? No-no, it's my treat. Oh, and here's an envelope stuffed with cash."

And it's not like you can open the money while you're sitting at Tim's eating your cruller cuz that would just be crass. And it would have been equally rude to count the money or keep a record of it because (do you see now?) it was like a gift!

Sure, sure, there are rules regarding declaring gifts when one is a member of parliament, but that's if it's like an expensive vase or an African totem of fertility or something like that. How do you put a value on money when you haven't even counted it?

He just put it away for a rainy day. Imagine his surprise when he saw how much it was! That must have been a shocker: "He gave me this much money for doing nothing?!? Wow! What a gift!"



Poor, rich Brian. Given so much money that he to put it in a safety deposit box and then had to sue the government because it was rumoured that he had done something wrong. Over a simple misunderstanding that could have been corrected if he'd been given a T4 or a gift receipt!

When you look at it that way, it was like a political twist on the theory of Schrodinger's Cat: not really a gift, not really a payment, more like a cat that is whisked into non-existence until someone asks the right question to magically make the safety deposit box, the cat and the envelopes re-appear!

It can all make so much sense when it's examined from a quantum physics-like Alice in Wonderland perspective. "I make the rules! Nothing to see here! There is no cat. There are no envelopes. And off with their heads!!"

Dead words on the dirty ground

I was listening to the White Stripes the other day and it got me thinking about words that fall out of fashion.

I don't mean names that fall out of fashion (although I do find it interesting to note that 'Ralph' was in the top 25 and 'Florence' was in the top 10 in the year 1900) or objects (like the Walkman and Edsel) that become obsolete, but words that we just don't use that often and have a tinge of age about them.

The song is "Death Letter" and it goes...

"I got a letter this morning
What do you reckon it read?
It said the gal you love is dead"

And I thought 'reckon' is a great word but it's rarely used. Perhaps it sounds a little too southern and too cowboy to be using it up here in Canada. I can imagine Lyle Lovett using it in a conversation, but it would not sound as smooth coming from my mouth.

(Oh, and the internet was kind enough to teach me about the history of "Death Letter Blues" and its composer Son House. And the fact that song is 70 years old.)

The other word I enjoy in the same way is 'wont'. That word, and its meaning, is largely lost. Most people would now read that word as a misspelling of the 'will not' contraction.

Doesn't this sound like a great sentence: "As is his wont, I reckon." I can imagine Sam Elliot uttering it in "The Big Lebowski". I just can't see a business man on Wall Street saying the same thing.

Lost, in translation

The argument could be made that by setting my expectations so high there was an incredible likelihood of disappointment.

And that very well might be the case.

Nevertheless, the last 10 minutes of the series finale of Lost simply did not work for me. And because of those last 10 minutes there is a certain stink coming from the entire season.

This final season has had the characters in the Sideways World meeting, touching and eventually realizing that they have all shared an adventure that, for some reason, they've forgotten. As the season progressed, the characters are made aware of their ignorance and they begin not only to recognize one another but also remember everything they've done.

It was if someone had forced them to forget and they are slowly awakening. But what forced them to forget? Who has created these alternate lives? And for what reason?

And in the end, that final answer, that looked liked it was going to explode in excitement, instead just fizzled like a firecracker that had incredible potential but turned out just to be a dud.

I like Jack, but I simply do not accept that the the ending had to focus on him. Is his redemption the only one that mattered? -- Or am I to assume that the Sideways World was a series of interlocking redemptive rings that were all connected to one another and that everyone has now left their old lives and is ready to move to the next step? Really, am I supposed to make that assumption? Because the show certainly seems to expects me to fill in a bunch of blank spots that it seemed too lazy or too hurried to resolve itself.

The only scene that worked for me in the last 10 minutes was between Hurley and Ben, when Ben admitted that, even though he would be welcomed by the people in the church, he still had some work to do. And in that scene Hurley acknowledged Ben's contribution and the work they did together. It was only in that scene that I got a true sense that the Sideways World existed outside of linear time and was in fact *all time*.

But for the concluding minutes to be all Jack-Jack-Jack was the biggest disappointment. I had invested too much time with all of the characters to give the final moments only to Jack.

Speaking of Jack, his son, David, served no purpose this season other than to be a teenage red herring. I had expected there would be some sort of decision by Jack to choose between the Sideways World and his son or to leave it behind for the greater good of his friends. Instead, David's character was conveniently forgotten and shuffled away. There was no need for David to be in the season. He served no purpose except to distract the audience.

And Desmond, who is so important in both worlds, is also pushed aside in the final minutes of the show. I can't even remember what happened to him after he was pulled out of the glowing cave. And in the Sideways World he just becomes one of the gang in the church wishing farewell to Jack. He deserved more than that.

Oh, and while I didn't expect answers to all of the big questions, I didn't expect the show to just disregard them. Why were the children so important? Why couldn't the women on the island get pregnant? Why could Hurley see dead people? And what was the big deal behind those numbers? The finale addressed none of those questions. It was as if the time for answers was behind them and the creators were saying: You are all so hooked on the show, we can ignore those questions and just get to the important part, which is obviously all about Jack.

For the first 2 hours and 20 minutes I found the episode to be beautifully emotional: Sawyer and Juliet's reunion, the birth of Claire's baby, Sun and Jin remembering their life and death. Scene upon scene stacked upon one another to the point that I found myself caring less and less about the Island and just wanting the mystery of the Sideways World to be revealed.

And then to find out that it wasn't a Sideways World at all but instead it was a Jack-centric universe with everyone there to get a little bit of enlightenment and to give Jack a lot of hugs and smiles. To paraphrase The Beatles and the final minutes of The Prisoner, "All You Need is Jack".

Those final minutes made me feel like I had been manipulated throughout the whole episode, suckered into believing that it would be something more than purgatory and cheated because it became all about Jack.

I have to ignore those last 10 minutes in order to appreciate everything that came before it.

And that's why the finale failed for me.

Breakfast of Champions

Part way through watching the finale of Lost and I realized it might be the end of a Kurt Vonnegut novel.

Or the end of Grant Morrison's "Animal Man".

And that would be just fine.

Lost predictions

It's half an hour to the Lost finale.

I say that Jin & Sun's baby is important.

And there will be a "Last Temptation of Jack" moment that echoes "For the Man Who Has Everything".

But, hey, I won't mind being wrong. I just want to have a good time. Even a good time like "The Prisoner". But no "Newhart", "St. Elsewhere" or Bobby in the shower.

Lordy, I'm gonna miss this show.

Fringe Cringe

I like the TV show Fringe, I truly do. But I confess that I really, really want to love it.

And I realize that this is largely due to the separation anxiety/grief that is going to hit me after the series finale of Lost.

It’s a sad and lonely thing, hoping to find love with another before the first relationship is over, but when something is ending it’s not unnatural to start to look to the future. It is perhaps cold and calculating, not waiting until the credits have rolled and the television corpse is cold, but there will soon be a cathode ray void to be filled.

Having said that, it does however put a lot of pressure on the next best thing.

While Lost has hit a handful of rocky patches during its run, it has remained captivating for six seasons. My faith in the show is so strong that at this point the finale is a journey worthy of a televised Icarus: I may worry whether the wings will work, but the only way to find out is to take that final leap of faith and hope that it soars into the sky, but not so high that it causes everything to come crashing to the earth. In other words, I hope it doesn’t try so hard that it loses sight of The Island and all the people that inhabit it.

Over the years the masterminds behind Lost have convinced me to make that leap. The show has been captivating and confusing but I never felt that it pandered to its audience. It showed how strong network television can still be. It was worthy of a leap of faith because even when it occasionally went down the wrong path it was always a journey worth taking.

However, because of the season finale of Fringe, I am now concerned that I will never be able to trust a show in quite the same way.

The two part finale of Fringe, which had the main characters fighting to escape from an alternate universe and get back home, was going fine until the very end of the final episode when it had a moment of such cringe-worthy stupidity that I found myself grinding my teeth and thinking “Ah c’mon, they can’t really be doing that.”

Because I hate it when smart characters do dumb things just to advance the story. Stupid people doing stupid things is fine and can lead to great tragedy and comedy, but when smart people do dumb things the result is a mess of epic Humpty Dumpty proportions. I don’t mean doing stupid things like trusting the wrong person or falling in love and it leads to disaster; I mean doing something they’ve learned was a mistake and doing it again as if they never had the first experience.

Here’s something I learned from television…


The classic television series The Prisoner is a show that has a smart main character doing smart things. Things rarely worked out in his favor (and even when he wins, it’s uncertain whether he won anything at all), but he is always consistent in his actions.

There is an episode entitled “The Schizoid Man” (and, as an aside, I always thought there was a ‘t’ in the word ‘schizoid’ – I'm glad that never came up in Spilling Bea) that is particularly relevant when discussing the finale of Fringe.

In that episode the main character, Number Six, has to protect himself when another agent is brought to The Village in order to impersonate him and then psychologically break him. Of course, as is always the case with The Prisoner, there is much more going on as well – betrayal, the on-going battle against authority, the right to privacy and secrets, and what it means to be an individual. There is always a lot of stuff going on in The Prisoner.

What I learned from that episode many years ago was this: always, always, always have a password that only you and a handful of your most-trusted friends know. That way if you and your team ever get split up, kidnapped or sucked into an alternate universe where everyone has a doppelgang-ing duplicate, there will always be a sure fire way to ensure the real you comes back home.

A secret handshake, the punch line to a favorite joke, the answer to a simple question (Q: Who’s your favorite superhero? A: Swamp Thing) would all be examples of identity checks. They’re not perfect and I’m sure they could be tricked, teased or tortured out of someone, but at least an effort has been made to protect everyone. Because if body snatching aliens are coming from outer space, there better be some kind of test in place to check if your best bud is now a pod person.

And it’s not as if the characters in Fringe are new to this stuff. Even if they’ve never watched an episode of The Prisoner they have seen a lot of weird stuff including (most friggin’ important of all!) shape-shifting alternate universe invaders. And once you’ve seen your best friend killed and then impersonated by some bad guys, you would think that some sort of safety protocols would be put in place. Cuz, y’know, you probably don’t want something like that to happen twice.

Simple questions like “Who was the first girl that ever slapped you” or “What color is your underwear on a Sunday” or “That was no ladle, that was my knife!” would elicit a response that no alien shape-shifting body snatcher from another universe could ever hope to duplicate.

And it drives me up the wall when smart characters do dumb things or don’t act as smart as I think they should. Put it this way: if I can think of it, they should have thought of it, too.


I’m still going to tune into Fringe next season, but the show is going to have to try a little bit harder. I like it, but I’m not sure if it’s ever going to be true love.

Oh the loss of Lost. Will I ever feel the same way about a television show once you’re gone?

(By the way, my super-secret password question and answer: “Q: Who was the greatest baseball player of all time? A: Frank Mahovlich!” Go ahead, let some shape-shifting alien figure that one out.)

The Worst and the Best

I just realized that the worst thing that's happened to me in the past six months was when a pick-up truck rammed into my car as he ran a red light.

The best thing that happened to me was a couple minutes later when I had the realization that I had been driving alone, my family was not with me, and it could have been much, much worse.

Sometimes the bad helps the good look really, really spectacular.

The Sound of Sustenance

"Lunch sounds nice," I said to a friend. "But beer sounds like a symphony of beautiful women playing wind instruments."

Badges of Honour

While waiting with Zed to walk into school, I overhead one of the older boys. And it reminded me of how cool is it to get injured when you're a boy.

"Look at this scab," the boy said to one of the other kids in line. "It looks like a pepperoni pizza."

And he was right. The injury was the slightly larger than a quarter in size, and had two sharp red dots within the scab. It looked like an angry, hot out of the oven mini-pizza with two pepperoni slices on top.

"Go ahead! Touch the scab!! Touch the pizza scab!" he said to his friend. I'm not sure if his friend touched it; I would like to think he was brave enough that he did.

I don't think most girls would express the injury with such joy and enthusiasm. And I'm willing to bet that the boy wasn't quite so thrilled when he hurt himself.

Had it been one of our boys who had suffered the injury, we would have held him, consoled him and carefully patched him up.

But maybe, just maybe, if one of my boys went to school with just such an injury he would have proudly displayed his wound -- as if it was a major accomplishment and something to be proud of.

I never broke my arm as a kid or did anything that required a cast. And I sure as hell wouldn't want to break a bone now. But I remember that I always felt a tiny bit of envy whenever I saw other kids getting their cast signed. It was like we all had to acknowledge their pain and pay tribute to their bravery. As if by accidentally hurting themselves they proved to be smarter and more daring than anyone else.

It's the attainment of popularity and fame through injury. Pity can come from adults; from other kids, it's awe.

May the Fourth Go Away

Star Wars has saddened me.

Because it was Star Wars that made me bitter and feel that things had got worse.

While I was out with friends the other night, someone at the table said, "It's not like the old days," and I replied, "It's never like the old days."

And I remember the first time I ever felt that way: Star Wars, the most recent crap-fest trilogy, made me feel that way.

Because those movies are shit and the originals are better. And only old people say stuff like "It's not as good as the original" or "It's not like the old days."

And that, my friends, is why Star Wars can bite me.

Because they made me feel old.

The Book of Love

Back when I was a teenager, a friend told me that my parents were unusual because he could see that romance existed between them.

Now, granted, this was my mother's second marriage, but he was one hundred percent correct: we were surrounded by parents who rarely displayed any affection towards their partner or even showed enthusiasm for one another. Life had taken its toll on the relationships of most parents. And perhaps that was what had happened for my mom and dad, but in their second marriages both of my parents found partners who gave them a new outlook and a new zest for life.

Yes, I know: most teenagers see their parents as dried out old husks of wasted space who don't realize that their ancient ways are going the way of the dinosaur and that there are new exciting things in the world that they can't begin to understand and why don't you just let me do what I want and why can't you just leave me alone!!!!

... Ahem.

In some ways my parents and their new parents were inspiring. It was sad that divorce had been necessary, but it was amazing to see that there could still be energy, fun and romance when you get older. Through them we could see that romance wasn't something only young people could enjoy.

And I've been fortunate that I have inspiration in other people, too.

Our friends in Montreal, A & D, are wonderful people and a terrific couple. Oh I'm sure they have challenges and most certainly have their ups and down, but they admire and respect one another. They are far from being two peas in a pod and I can't ever remember them finishing one another's sentences or thoughts.

But they like each other. They tease each other. And they laugh together.

For those reasons (and many, many others) I always enjoy spending time with them. Because seeing the best in them gives me hope that my wife and I can be the same way in years to come.

"She's So Funky Now" [sic]

I was grabbing some lunch the day before our trip to Montreal (which, of course, was the day before my wife and I were going to see Peter Gabriel in concert) when I heard "Games Without Frontiers" playing on the radio.

And when I did the math in my head I suddenly felt very, very old.

Because when I heard the song it brought back the memory of when I was young and how I thought the chorus to the song was "She's so funky now". It wasn't until I read the liner notes that I realized the chorus actually was "Jeux sans frontieres" and I was struck by the fact of how wrong I had been and how cool Peter Gabriel was: he was saying the title in French and I had misheard it in English. (Years later I learned that Peter Gabriel took the title and the chorus from a French game show. Which didn't make it any less cool. As a matter of fact, it managed to make the song and its title even more relevant once I read the premise of the television show.)

(Oh, and I still think that "She's so funky now" is a rather interesting mishear-ment of a song. Perhaps it's not as interesting as the classic and horribly incorrect "Excuse me while I kiss this guy", but it's still pretty good.

And my other great mishear-ance was from Randy Newman's "Sail Away": Rand sings "We will cross the mighty ocean into Charleston Bay". But I heard "We will cross the mighty ocean in just one day." The true lyric has historical context, but my lyric is perfectly acceptable within the cruel salesmanship of the song.)

Back to jeux sans frontieres: I remember doodling the words on a French test in high school because I thought they were cool and because I wanted to show my French teacher that I knew something besides the verb conjugation I had learned so very inadequately in his class. Because of all that I'm able to place the song at a certain time in my life.

But then, after all that flashed through my mind, I did a wee bit of quick math and I realized -- ahh crap! -- that if I scribbled the song's chorus in high school, it means that the song is now more than 30 years old! Which makes me -- well, much older than I usually think I am.

(As an aside, Wikipedia informs me that the song came out in 1980 which indeedly-deedly-doo confirms that the song is 30 years old. But it also goes to prove a point: I don't need wikipedia as long as I can rely on simple math skills and the continued kindness of women who continue to wear sandals so I can count on their beautiful painted toes when I've run out of fingers and toes of my own.)

(Oh, and did I mention that Peter Gabriel recorded an Oscar-nominated Randy Newman song for the soundtrack of "Babe, Pig in the City"? Randy Newman finally won an Academy Award a couple of years later. Peter Gabriel was nominated for a song in "Wall-E" but hasn't taken the trophy home yet.

Having said that here's a clip with Peter Gabriel singing "That'll Do" with Rand on the piano...)

http://www.dailymotion.com/video/xan3b7_peter-gabriel-randy-newman-thatll-d_music


As for the concert in Montreal...

The Rhythm of the Heat

It can be a terrifying experience when you dare to see an artist who you've admired and enjoyed for many, many years.

Will they still have the magical charisma of their youth or will they merely be coasting on past accomplishments? Do they still have something to say, or are their best days behind them?

The scene in the movie 'Trainspotting' captured it perfectly when two of the characters talk about the career trajectory of Sean Connery. Their conclusion: "So we all get old and then we can't hack it anymore. Is that it?" Musical examples would be Bob Dylan, The Who and The Rolling Stones -- do they have anything new to contribute or are all artists doomed to follow the path of Sean Connery?

After seeing Peter Gabriel in concert, it is a huge relief to report that he is the exception to the Trainspotting rule.

Before writing about the concert, I have to confess that I am not a huge fan of Peter Gabriel's new album, "Scratch My Back". It has an interesting and challenging concept as he does interpretations of classic songs without the safety net of guitars or drums and instead relies on orchestral arrangement for the material. David Bowie's "Heroes", Paul Simon's "The Boy in the Bubble" and Randy Newman's "I Think It's Going to Rain" are among the songs that he re-works under his self-imposed restraints.

But as a complete work the album sounds monotone and dull because it lack any shifts in mood or passion. It can be enjoy in tiny morsels, but listening to the whole thing in one sitting is somewhat trying. And coming from an artist as energetic and thrilling as Gabriel, the album feels especially dry.

Having said that, when I heard that he was touring and making a stop in Montreal, there was no way I was going to pass on the event.

As a bit of an aside: years ago I had to learn the difference between a play and the production of a play: Shakespeare's "Hamlet" exists on the page; the production is what I might go see in Stratford. The work continues to exist on the page while the production is an interpretation of the work -- sometimes the interpretation is a success, sometimes it's a failure. Books and films can have the same relationship -- the adventures of Sherlock Holmes, Tarzan and Harry Potter continue to live on the page no matter how good or bad the screen interpretations may be.

And in the same vein, while the album doesn't work for me, the concert presentation of "Scratch My Back" was a marvel to hear. While there are still challenges with what the orchestral arrangements can and cannot do, the concert setting and atmosphere makes the music powerful and captivating in a way that the album never does.

The concert was broken into two parts: the first had Gabriel perform the new album in its entirety. He then returned after a a short break to present re-workings of some of his own songs including "Digging in the Dirt", "Mercy Street" and "San Jacinto". The tribal-like of drums were sorely missed in "The Rhythm of the Heat", but "In Your Eyes" and "Solsbury Hill" were exhilarating with the orchestra.

Peter Gabriel's voice sounded somewhat challenged at times but considering the man is now 60 years old, it's not surprising that some of the notes that he hit some 30 years ago are no longer within his range.

But what is surprising is that he continues to challenge himself. It would have been easy for him to coast and merely give the fans what they want. Instead, he continues to challenge himself and his listeners to try something completely different.

The album doesn't work for me and I still can't listen to the entire cd at one time. But I do appreciate it more after seeing the show. Peter Gabriel's latest endeavor could have easily seen him fall on his face, but instead he soared.

Back from Montreal (Part 2)

I am not a violent person.

Honest I'm not.

And while the guys on my hockey team may not immediately spring to my defense, I am not hot-headed. I know I have a bit of a temper, but I would like to think that it takes quite a bit of stupidity on some other person's behalf to get my blood boiling.

But last night during the Peter Gabriel concert I came as close as I have ever come to getting into a major beatdown of a fight.

My wife and I were out with our friends at Bell Centre. We'd had a brilliant day with our friends and my anticipation and excitement had been building as the concert got closer and closer.

The opening act did a short little two song number and then Peter Gabriel opened with "Heroes". There was a huge orchestra accompanying him and the conclusion of the first song promised a special evening.

And after the applause finished I noticed out of the corner of my eye that my wife was talking to the guy sitting beside her. And while I couldn't hear what they were saying, I could tell by her body language that something was very wrong.

They finished talking and I turned to my wife to ask what was going on. Initially she just shook her head. I again asked her what was wrong. And then she told me.

The man sitting next to her had told her to shut the fuck up. He said that she had screamed and it hurt his ear and she better shut the fuck up or there would be problems.

I didn't know what to say. I was completely taken aback. Shocked. I had heard her cheer at the end of the song, but everyone had cheered. She was no louder than anyone else around her.

What was worse was the look on her face. She was pale. With shock. With anger. And she looked very tiny, as if his words had drained her and diminished her. And I think she was hurt that her whole wonderful day and the concert itself had just been shattered by what this big, bulky Australian hat wearing man had said to her.

I asked her to switch seats with me. She refused. Said said she was fine.

We sat in silence for a minute. I then asked her again. I said, "Please, do me the courtesy of switching seats with me. I do not want you sitting next to that man." She looked fragile as she nodded her agreement. I could sense that moving seats would mean that in some tiny way that the man would have won, but it just did not make any sense for her to continue to sit next to him.

We waited until the song was finished. And then we switched seats.

My heart was been beating so hard that I thought that it was going to rip out of my chest. As I had been waiting for the song to finish I was studying where we were seating and I was trying to figure out what I would do if this guy started a fight: where I would move, how I would attempt to throw/drag/grab him, how to handle the guy in such a way to humiliate him and cause him pain without hurting anyone around us.

I then sat beside him. I leaned then over to him. And I said, "Did you actually say what my wife said you did?"

He looked at me and told me to watch the show.

So I repeated myself. A little more forcefully this time. I asked, "Did you say what my wife said you did, you Fuck? Because if you did, you owe her an apology. You Fuck."

He looked at me, asked me if I paid for the concert and then said that I should be quiet and watch the show.

Again I said, "You don't get it -- did you say that shit to my wife? You Fuck."

He tried to be cute. "Sorry, I can't hear you in this ear because of your wife's screaming."

Oh my god I was simply not in the mood for that sort of shit. But I kept my fire simmering. I did not boil over. I did not lose my cool. I did not scream at him or grab him.

"Fine," I replied. "Let me try your other ear." And I leaned across his fat, sweaty chest and said into his other ear, "Did you say what my wife said you did, you FUCK?"

He looked at me and said, "If you keep this up, you are going to end up in the police station."

At this point I looked over at the woman who was with him at the concert. Leaning across him, blocking his view of the concert, I said to her, "Is he always this rude to people? Does he always talk to women like this at concerts?"

She looked tired. Either she was used to this sort of behavior or she was shocked at what he had said and did not want to have any more problems. She asked me to please just let it go.

He looked at me and said, "You don't talk to her."

And with that, I finally had his attention.

So I said to him, "I *am* talking to her. You talked to *my* wife and now *I'm* talking to yours. And now I'm telling you what you are going to do. At the end of the concert you are going to apologize to my wife. You are going to say to her, 'I'm very sorry for being an asshole.'

"No, you know what -- you don't even have to say it like that. You can just say, 'I apologize for what I said. I was out of line. And I hope I didn't ruin the concert for you.' You are going to apologize to my wife. You FUCK. Do you hear me? Do you understand me?"

He looked at me. He must have been sizing me up. Thinking about his options.

And I did not know which way it was going to go. What he was going to do.

And finally he said, "I can do that."

"Good," I said.

And with that I sat back and watched the concert with my wife. I was tense. I was jumpy. And I still wasn't sure what he might do. But my wife then took hold of my hand and I relaxed. And then we did our best to enjoy the show.

Peter Gabriel performed the entire "Scratch My Back" album and there was an intermission as he said they'd be back in 15 minutes.

We all stood up. The guy's wife walked past us. And he was standing beside me.

He then leaned ever so carefully past me and extended his hand to my wife. And he said, "I want to give you my heartfelt apology. What I said was rude and completely uncalled for. I'm on the wrong side of three time zones, but that is no excuse for what I said. I was wrong and I completely apologize for my earlier actions. And I can only hope that it hasn't ruined the concert for you."

And my wife shook his hand and accepted his apology. It was, to be honest, the most sincere and polite apology I had ever heard. And this coming from a man who had been so very, very rude.

My wife and I then turned to our friends and she explained what had happened and why the man had apologized. The four of us then walked down the stairs to stretch our legs and get a drink.

But before we went too far I turned around and walked back to him.

I extended him my hand to him and said, "Thank you for doing that. I appreciate it."

And we shook hands and he again apologized for his actions.

And that was that. It was finished. Nothing more needed to be said.

I walked down and re-joined my wife. We went and bought a ridiculously over-priced bottle of water. She commented on his apology and asked me what I had said to him.

And I told her all of the details of the foul-mouthed in-his-face conversation. All of it. Every little bit. I was not kind to myself in its depiction.

My wife was shocked at what I had said to him. And probably more than a little surprised that the guy had apologized as earnestly as he did after the conversation/confrontation that he and I had shared.

She said that she hadn't wanted me to sit next to him because she had been worried I was going to say something to him. I told her that it didn't make any sense for her to keep sitting next to him. I said that it was the right thing for me to do when I sat next to him. And she told me that she appreciated what I had done. And that it was good of me to defend her honour.

We went back. The concert continued. It was a wonderful evening. It had had just that one little hiccup. But it worked out fine.

Because I am not a violent person. I am not hot-tempered.

But no one talks to my wife like that.