It's Not Large, But It's Good

There's nothing quite like good news when you were kinda expecting it to be good news, but if it had been bad news it would have been really, really bad news.

Especially when it's the sort of stuff you don't want to tell people about because it's probably nothing to worry about but you're still kind of worried about it: don't want to share because it's nothing, but need to share cuz it could be something.

So my lovely wife knew, but friends mostly didn't and family definitely did not.

A couple of months ago -- heck, it was back in November -- I went for a physical. Just to get things checked out, nothing important demanding attention. But then I had to go to another office for blood work and get my blood pressure and such checked out.  Again, no big deal.

And then, in the new year, I contact my doctor to get the results. She hadn't called me, so I figure everything is hunky-dory, but it's always a good idea to follow up.

When we finally talk she tells me that everything has come back fine, but...

(And gawd knows I was not expecting a "but")

... but my heart rate is quite low. And it's probably nothing and sometimes a low heart rate is fine, but given my family history, she'd like me to see a specialist.

My father died of a heart attack years ago (one day at work, leaned over to pick something up and *boom heart attack gone* just like that) so when my doctor says it's probably nothing, I'm still thinking "Umm, no. It's something."

I checked with Stan, one of the guys on my hockey team who happens to be a doctor, happens to be a recipient of the Order of Canada, and happens to be one of just the nicest guys I know, and I asked him for his 2 cents on the matter. He told me that he's seen my play hockey, seen my heart rate go up and then come back down and there I shouldn't worry. It's good that my doctor wanted to get it checked out, but Stan felt that I shouldn't worry.

So I try not to worry.

But getting the bloody referral to a specialist takes a huge friggin' long time; as in, several calls to my doctor's office to have them chase down the specialists that are not getting back to them quick enough for my peace of mind.

Finally I see someone. He checks my heart rate, my blood pressure and also tells me that my heart rate is on the low side of normal, so let's wear a heart monitor for 48 hours and then come in for a fitness / stress test.

And the results go like this...

I do have a low pulse. Average is considered 60-90 beats a minute while at rest. My heart rate is 58-59.

At night, when according to my wife I am snoring more like a banshee, my heart rate is 35.

I happened to be playing hockey while wearing the heart monitor and my pulse climbed to 180.

And when I did their fitness test I was 58 at rest but then my pulse peaked at 166. The doctor also said he was impressed that I completed the whole 12 minutes of the fitness test.

In short, while my heart rate is below normal at rest, it shows the range that they want to see -- low at night while sleeping, goes high during exercise but then goes back to normal. He explained that if a person's pulse is low but is unable to rise with exercise, that is when they become concerned.

Oh and he also said that my low heart rate suggests that I "don't think a lot". I laughed and told him that my wife would probably agree; he then corrected himself and said that he meant I don't *worry* a lot -- that I handle stress well. I'm not sure if that's true, but I guess the heart doesn't lie.

It is strange, having a concern that you can't share. It's probably nothing, but it could be everything. I was worried that the doctor would say something like "Well, it's a good thing we caught this when we did," and I'd be told that it was a lifetime of diet and pills and very careful exercise and eggshell fragile carefulness. Knowing that things are probably okay and not to worry is not the same as being told that "Yep, it's fine. You're good. Keep doing what you're doing and go have fun."

And having that stamp of approval is pretty wonderfully awesome.

So I don't know if I'm big hearted, but I can now confirm that at the very least I am not broken hearted and from the looks of things I am good hearted.

If I Could Give Myself a Title...

A couple of weeks ago I told my team that it was my resolution to be more plodding -- not thoughtful or careful or exact or any of those words of 'precision'. And not devious or conniving or Iago-esque or those words of a 'plot behind your back' nature.

No-no, just more plodding.

But now that I think of it, I'd rather be known as this...

The Prince Regent of Pithiness.

No-no-no, not moaning, complaining, whining or general 'pissiness'.

PITHY as in straight to the point, brief, succinct, not needing three or more attempts at a definition or explanation in order to clarify a point.

But not so arrogant to claim the title of King, Emperor, Heir Apparent or Supreme Ruling Dictator for All Life Eternal.

Oh how I would so like this to be my title...

THE PRINCE REGENT OF PITHINESS.

People would smile and nod in my direction as I walked by. They would offer shy, funny grins of amusement and acknowledgment as we crossed paths, and occasionally I'd stop to tell them a quick story...

Such as the time when my son was 10 years old and we were on holidays and he was asked by a Mexican dressed up as a native warrior if he'd like a picture of a snake around his neck and my son agreed and he then had a huge thick scary snake placed around his neck and I took the photo because I thought it was the man's pet and the snake hissed and I thought "Wow, it's cool how the guy must have de-fanged his snaked because otherwise it would be scary" cuz it was one huge snake and the man lifted the snake off from around my son's neck and he set the snake down and it slithered away towards the jungle and I then realized that the snake was way too big to have fit in the guy's backpack and holy shit that wasn't his pet and I just let this guy put a wild huge thick scary snake around my son's neck!

... and we'd laugh at the quick story and the man on the street would wave and I'd wave and we'd walk off in different directions, both of us feeling enriched by the encounter.

If I was the Prince Regent of Pithiness.

Oh how that would rock my little world.

The Gift that is Toronto Star Headlines

I taught two classes this week, both fairly advanced ESL adult students. It was supply teaching both times, which can sometimes be a wee bit of a challenge because the students are always wondering, "Where's our teacher. And who is this guy?"

So I find it often helps to have an ice-breaker before getting into the assigned work.

And it is at times like these that I just want to kiss the people who do the headlines at the Toronto Star. Because one of the headlines of the print version of the newspaper on Wednesday was this...

Low Blow From Loblaw
Boss Gets Farmers' Goat

First I have the class try to figure out and explain what the headline means. They try to grapple with it and sometimes there are some very interesting answers. One student thought it had to do with low prices because of the supermarket reference of "Loblaw".

And then, as I explain it to them, we're going to translate its meaning because, while it is English, its meaning isn't clear unless you know a lot of idioms.

Idiom 1: a "low blow", which I explained to the class comes from boxing and it's a sports-based idiom. To demonstrate, I have one of the male students come up to the front of the class and we put our hands up, as if we were boxing, and then I jab at his nether regions with a low blow. We then discuss the meaning as an idiom when someone says something unexpected, cruel, nasty and/or unnecessary.

(Oh and as a side note: "necessary" and "occasion" are the two toughest words in the world for me to spell. Big blank spots with both of them. Typing them is fine because spell check will do the voodoo that I can't do, but when I have to write them on the board in front of class, I'm always thinking "sunuvabich you have got to be kidding me".)

After we get the explanation for a "low blow" established, we move to

Idiom 2: which the headline re-words as "gets farmers' goat".

I have the students scour the article to see if there is any mention of a goat in the story (thankfully, there isn't). We then read the first five paragraphs of the article to see if we can ascertain the meaning from what's been written. And the meaning is kind of there, but it's difficult to get past the idea of a *goat* (because the goat has become the elephant in the room) and where is the goat and, if there is in fact no goat, why is it being mentioned?

Finally we get to the idiom and the notion of "getting someone's goat" and, at the time, I couldn't explain the origin of the phrase but I told them it's when someone does something to anger or bother or unexpectedly irritate someone else. As for the definition itself, I was surprised to find this at the website "Idiom and Expressions"...

"The most likely explanation for the origin of this slang has to do with horse racing. It had been a common practice to put a companion animal, mostly a goat, in the stall with a restless racehorse, which was meant to help calm the horse. Obviously, if someone managed to steal the goat before the race, it irritated the owner because it could result in the horse losing the race."

... so now I know (although, that's a more difficult origin to describe to students compared to just having someone come up and then proceed to shadow box them "below the belt").

And then we deal with the pun (although it's probably just a playful juxtaposition rather than a pun) of putting "Low Blow" and "Loblaw" side by side, and then the second pun that turns that second idiom into "Gets Farmers' Goat".

All of this, as an ice breaker with the class, from the front page headline of a newspaper. Eight words turned into a half hour lesson and discussion.

And the fact that the first paragraph of the article starts with "An off-the-cuff remark by Galen Weston..." was just the icing on the cake. Oh, and get this, yesterday's lesson plan supplied by the absent teacher: a worksheet on idioms including "big headed", "pig headed" and "hen pecked" plus so much more.

Low blow, big headed, pig headed, hen pecked, get someone's goat...

It doesn't get much better than that.

When Hockey is More Important than Football?

(When is hockey more important than football? -- When you're playing it, not just watching it! Team reminder...)

My fellow Dragons:

(Please note: there is an important contest near the bottom. Oh sure, you could skip to the bottom, but what about Paul Anka and Gordie Howe? Think about them!)

No comfy chair this week. No Starbucks. No non-existent bespectacled French librarian to be tempted by and then ultimately resisted.

Instead it's an evening of Doctor Who, some gargling and it's "Not Penicillin!" medicine, all because of a dry cough that's trying to loosen up some not-quite-green awful stuff and a sore throat that occasionally feels like razor blades when I swallow.

In other words, an evening of rumpy-pumpy with the missus is probably not in the offering.

Be that as it may, the Dragons *will* take to the ice on Sunday.

And yesyesyes the Super Bowl is this weekend and if I was feeling better I'm sure I would have started with a message about Canada's national sport and the importance of hockey over football and the start time of OUR game versus the start time of THEIR game and how after OUR game you can still manage to have wings and beer in a post-victory celebration and how it's your giant, patriotic duty to play hockey this weekend, and I would have had an attachment of many, many photos of Rosario Dawson to weaken your resolve, coupled with an mp3 attachment that would have had Paul Anka, Gordon Lightfoot and Gordie Howe singing "O Canada" in a powerful and moving Bee Gees-like falsetto.

It would have been an email of such wondrous magnificence that you would have swelled up with manly tears of empathetic hockey-loving astonishment and it would have made the siren call of the Dragons impossible to resist.

Instead it was an "oh poor, poor me, I've got a sore throat and ear infection" egocentric introduction followed by...

Gentlemen!!!

Hockey!! This Sunday!!! At a perfectly suitable afternoon start time that will allow you to play our game and then watch the other game. The Halloween start time of years past has now been karmacally balanced by the start time of this Sunday's Super Bowl weekend hockey game.

Dragons! 4:40!!! Dragons versus Black Dragons!!!!! More exclamation marks than ever before!!!!!!

And don't forget about our first ever, never-before-mentioned, probably never to be mentioned again contest as our "yes or no" summer Dragons get to vote and then potentially win a date with their choice of the sexiest woman in the world.

So far the votes for the Dragons' unofficial mascot Rosario Dawson are astonishingly low, with the surprise front runner being German Chancellor Angela Merkel, closely followed by Betty White and then a feisty third place position for Canadian chanteuse Carole Pope.

Get your votes in! But remember, your vote will be counted only when you accept (or pass) on your place in the summer 2012 Dragons roster.

So your "yes" or "no" to a summer of magnificent hockey will allow you to vote and perhaps win an evening with Rosario Dawson, German Chancellor Angela Merkel, Betty White or Carol Pope. (Contest rules to be cooked up later.)

Yes, the Super Bowl is this weekend and, yes, I am finding it difficult to talk, but wouldn't it be simply wonderful to play a game where there's the potential that I might not be able to speak louder than a sultry Jessica Rabbit-like whisper? Damn, since I've put it that way, I'd sign up myself. Pasquino quieter than usual? That would be friggin' Christmas, Hanukkah and a decade's worth of birthdays rolled together.

And there you are. The aardvark is fine, the meat was not spoiled and it was the taste of a Kit Kat that proved her salvation. So, it's all come together, hasn't it?

Enter the contest! I sincerely hope you didn't skip to the end. Start at the top if you have to.

Sunday afternoon! I'm hoping to see you there.

And apologies for the short message. I'm not feeling quite myself.

All the best,

Kevin

Coveting the comfy but thinking of hockey

(Hockey greeting and reminder...)

My fellow Dragons:

Another Friday night. Another soccer practice for my older son. And me once again at Starbucks coveting the comfy chair.

The thing is this: I don't even like Starbucks. Oh I know that's horrible to say and I risk their free Internet service detecting the words "hate" and "Starbucks" in the same sentence and somehow doing permanent, horrible things to my iPad, but I'm honestly indifferent bordering on dismissive of Starbucks. I'd much rather go to Second Cup, but (a) it's not as convenient, (b) I'm not sure if they have free wi-fi, and (c) it doesn't have the comfy chair.

I don't know if it's a Pee-Wee's Playhouse thing or a Blue's Clues thing or a 'remember that poster from the movie 'Scandal' that was the famous image in Britain' thing, but I like the idea of the comfy chair, I covet the comfy chair, I want the comfy chair.

But I've decided in 2012 to be not only more plodding but also more patient. Like the Margaret Thatcher haters who will wait until she's dead to tramp the dirt down, I figure I can out-wait the two 20-something women who are hogging the chairs and using the word "like" an awful lot: "He said to me, like, 'You can't mean it.' And I said to him, like, 'Yeah, I do.' So he was like all upset and everything." I don't even know if they like the word, but they sure use it a lot.

And yet as I wait patiently (and wonder if I should switch chairs so I don't appear over-eager, but at the same time I don't want to risk someone scooping them up when my back is turned, but if I look anxious there's a chance they'll realize I'm observing them and -- oh my god, I just realized that the comfy chair has somehow become a symbol of my pathetic days as a young man who was perhaps uncertain, perhaps unconfident and perhaps a wee bit desperate when it came to women)...

And yet as I wait patiently, I know that my time will come. Patient and plodding -- that's me. Or maybe it is patient and *plotting* and I'm merely presenting a charade of plodditude? After all, I'm one-eighth Italian so perhaps I'm more Machiavellian than even I myself suspect. Could I be so Machiavellian that even the other seven-eighths of me does not suspect my own 0.125 percent's motives? Was Machiavelli even Italian? I don't care; I'm gonna go with it anyways.

As for HOCKEY....

Sunday night at 10:00 my friends. And as I write that I think "ten o'clock" and as I type this I think I'm writing it because "writing" sounds infinitively more creative than "typing" and I'm thinking about scoring and assisting and winning and all of those things. And if I'm thinking about all of those things as I compose this email, I simply must be *writing* because typing is just qwerty-fying to communicate while this, THIS, is oh so much more.

Oi! Does this guy got his eye on my comfy chair? Oops, he's just been told by his I-guess-it's-his mom that Starbucks doesn't have the hot chocolate that he wants, so he says "screw it". He's now trying to convince her to go to EB Games. He looks like he eats at Burger King / McDonald's / Pizza Hut for breakfast, lunch and dinner and eats his ice cream with gravy instead of chocolate sauce. I will slap his face silly if he even thinks of encroaching on the comfy chair, slap him so hard that his jowls will vibrate in such a violent fashion that a sonic boom will occur. Do not even think of looking at the comfy chair!!!

And with that he leaves to once again dwell in his mother's basement. And I quietly thank god that I'm drinking decaf or I might have got really upset.

Hockey! Sunday night against Shock. I don't know if they are collectively known as "the Shock", "the Shocks" or just "Losers" but somehow we were defeated by them back on December 11th so I think it'd be a wonderful idea to beat them this time. They were beaten by CIP two weeks ago, and we hammered those reprobates last week, so I think it's our mathematical destiny to get a wee bit of vengeance on Sunday. Or is that a wee bit of revenge? Do we 'extract vengeance' and 'get revenge'? Is that the way it works? -- Either way, victory shall be ours.

And so, just as the comfy chair has been mine for the past half hour, so too shall sweet, sweet victory be ours on Sunday.

Damn I'm glad I'm drinking decaf. Cuz can you imagine one of these emails on an espresso or two? Now THAT would be a ride.

Gentlemen! Sunday at 10:00. Send your regrets if you're unable to attend. Otherwise I look forward to seeing you there.

All the best,
Kevin.

Sent from my iPad (and the comfy chair)

No Drive, No Shame

Oscars, Oscars, Oscars.

A couple of years ago my friend Tim and I came up with this test for the Academy Awards and it was beautiful in its simplicity: the question must be asked, how would Tony Curtis vote?

(Yeah-yeah, Tony Curtis passed away two years ago. But stay with me on this one.)

How would Tony Curtis vote? -- Would he nominate a movie that had a German actor playing an American in New York who sleeps with lots of women, shows off his massive schlong but should be pitied because he is emotionally cut-off from the world? --> Tony might *watch* "Shame", but he wouldn't admit to liking it.

Would Tony nominate the actor who played the chimp in the 7th version of a movie that he didn't like back in 1969? -- Hell, Tony wouldn't even watch the movie let alone realize that it was Andy Serkis in an award-worthy performance as Caesar in "Rise of the Planet of the Apes".

And as for the Ryan who was completely shut out for his performances in "The Ides of March", "Crazy, Stupid, Love" and the brilliant but oh-so violent "Drive", Tony would probably get Gosling mixed up with Reynolds, and Tony hated that "Green Lantern Hornet" movie, so who cares anyway.

To sum up...

Michael Fassbender overlooked after *his* amazing year with "A Dangerous Method", "X-Men First Class" and "Shame".

"Rise of the Planet of the Apes" not getting the acting nomination it deserved.

One of the two Ryan's will just have to be satisfied with it being the Year of the Gosling.

And Albert Brooks, so very powerful as the bad guy in "Drive", is ignored. They like him funny; don't like him psychotic.

(Oh and I thoroughly enjoyed "Moneyball", but passing over Albert Brooks or Andy Serkis for Jonah Hill is a real... well, I was going to say 'shame', but I'll just stick with 'letdown'. The guy who starred in "The Sitter" and the upcoming "21 Jump Street" was good in "Moneyball", but nowhere near as powerful as Brooks and Serkis in their movies.)

So, yep, I guess I have to watch "The Help" now.

Coffee and chairs and eyes, oh my!

(the hockey reminder...)

My fellow Dragons:

I'll be honest: what slays me is the fact that he's not even drinking his friggin' tea.

I've dropped Gee off to a soccer practice and I've got some time to kill. So I've headed to Starbucks to grab a coffee and use their Internet and then wander through Chapters to look at books and potentially bump into and then heroically resist the French-accented bespectacled librarian of my childhood dreams.

And as I walk into Starbucks I see one of the comfy chairs just sitting there, waiting for me -- or is it just waiting there for me to be sitting? Regardless / Irregardless, there's a comfy chair awaiting me to be a-sitting.

"Did you throw your jacket on the chair in order to mark your territory?" I hear you ask. No, I reply. Why would I do that when karma had so generously nodded in my direction?

Alas karma (like fate, luck, destiny and my brother's girl friends one, five and eight) is a fickle bitch. And perhaps I, in my Doctor Who t-shirt, hooded sweatshirt and jeans did not seem as attractive to karma and the comfy chair as this pocket notebook writing, tweed-pant wearing, heterosexual-ish Oscar Wilde-looking dandy. He got the chair but I, according to my doctor, have good cholesterol, strong kidneys, wonderful electrolytes and a fabulous prostate!

So screw you, you not-drinking-your-tea bastard. You may have the chair, but I've got a moderately wonderful bill of health that is sure to act as an enticing and irresistibly powerful aphrodisiac for Swedish stewardesses around the world.

Oh and one more thing: did any of you hear the story on CBC radio about the Canadian artist who went to Panama to get her eye colour changed? She got some kind of implants to permanently change her eye colour from brown to green, but it turns out the operation has had the nasty side effect of effectively leaving her blind.

A couple things spring to mind: who the fuck flies to Panama for an operation? Why the fuck would an *artist* pay a doctor in Panama to mess around with her vision and thereby mess around with her livelihood? Who the fuck has eight thousand dollars for elective surgery like this and still thinks that Panama is the best place to go for the surgery? And didn't this candidate for the Darwin Awards ever hear Crystal Gayle's song and take heed of the warning: don't it make my brown eyes blue?

(Oh and as a side note -- my teammate VR said that he heard the same story, but "I didn't actually feel that bad for her though. Is that wrong?" To which I replied "Yes, it's wrong that you don't feel bad for her. But you're right not to. And by agreeing to both of those seemingly contradictory statements, we prove ourselves to be geniuses!!!")

And with that, and finally!, the 21st Century middle-aged dandy has left the Starbucks and the comfy chair is mine!! Karma delayed is still Karma received as she has smiled upon me and my magnificent prostate once more!

(Hmmmm, is Karma a woman for women, too? -- I wonder.)

Hockey! Sunday night!!

We take to the ice down at the MCC at 7:45 against CIP.

No, I don't know what "CIP" stands for, but I'm glad you asked. It could be the "Canadian Institute of Planners". It might be the "Certified Insurance Professionals". But I suspect it stands for "Certifiably Ignorant about Passionately-pleasuring-partners". In my mind they are therefore known as CIP-PP. And that of course is ridiculously close to "See my pee-pee" which is a goofy name for a hockey team (if forced, I would have chosen, CWS, which would of course would stand for "See my Wonderful Schlong") but, hey!!!, it's their bloody team name, not ours.

Sunday night we shall defeat them and silently mock them because we know their Rumpelstiskin-like hidden name and their anti-Casanova hidden shame. They deserve to lose because of their lack of partner pleasuring prowess. And they deserve to lose because I've discovered that winning is tons of gawddamn fun and I'm not about to give up on it now.

Hope to see you Sunday night. Let us know if you cannot attend. I'm now going to leave the comfy chair and tempt fate as I resist the fantastical siren call of the illusionary French librarian of my dreams.

Oh how I love coffee shops that have bookstores next door.

All the best,
Kevin.

The New Year of the Dragons

(for the team...)

My Fellow Dragons:

Sixty-four from twelve equals today.

And I know Iknow IKNOW it has nothing to do with hockey, but there you are.

It's funny. As a child/teenager I was such a comic book/sci-fi geek (and oh how things have changed!) that 2001 seemed like a hugemassiveenormous year in the future. I remember reading Arthur C. Clarke's book (and reading the book well before I ever saw the film) and thinking "Holy fuck. I'm going to be 37 in 2001. Holy fuckedy-fuck-fuck that will be old." And now it's 2012 (and because of Clarke and Kubrick I still think of the year as "Two Thousand and Twelve") and 37 doesn't seem that much anymore.

Strange how the future just... happens. And then it just keeps going. And then, here we are.

Do we get older, or do we just become more like we are?

If I had a time machine, I'd go back, tell myself to buy The Killing Joke page I saw in London, buy another Vess Sandman page, buy a couple more Totleben pages, warn myself that eventually I'd go grey and hair would grow in my ears and advise myself to have as much sex as possible and never say "No" to the opportunity.

Hmmm, come to think about it, I don't think I've ever said "no". Wait -- correct that! There was a friend's wife some 17 years ago and that woman in Vegas 20 years ago. So, yes! I have standards!! Holy shit, I have standards! Yay for me!!!

But enough about all that and the additional ring around my maple trunk...

Gentlemen, welcome to the new year and the return of the most fun you can have on a Sunday that doesn't involve religion, television or farm animals. I'm speaking of course about Dragons hockey!

The Dragons take to the ice at 6:20 in #1.

The final game of last year was against the BLACK Dragons; the first game of this year is against the MAD Dragons. It's like a CFL game where the Rough Riders will win.

After a careful analysis of their past record, I've determined that the Mad Dragons suck and deserve to be defeated. I could go into more detail, but that's the undeniable conclusion of my study and I won't be bogged down with facts. Because facts are for people who refuse to dream of the fictional wonders that they can create and turn into reality. Fact are simple and facts are straight facts are lazy and facts are late, facts all come with points of view and facts don't do what I want them to. And home is where I want to be but I guess I'm already there.

So, welcome to the new year -- a year sure to be filled with all sorts of wonders and confusions and surprises and hopefully the occasional delight.

And heck here's a crazy thought, but with a 6:20 start time on Sunday, maybe we can head out for a beer afterwards. A slightly delayed seasonal celebration of good cheer. Or something like that.

I hope your holidays were the perfect balance of naughty *and* nice. And hope to see you Sunday.

Let us know if you will be unable to attend the game. Otherwise, look forward to seeing you then.

All the best. And welcome to the new year of the Dragons.