Friday, April 15, 2016
Thursday, April 14, 2016
The Creative Writing Class
When I was going to high school, many and still-classified
years ago, there was a push afoot to open up the curriculum and
introduce programs not just "three Rs". One I took was Mr. Kelly's
terrific "Creative Writing" class. It was a challenging but comfortable
affair which nurtured the writing soul in me, and the souls of my fellow
future Flauberts. ("Floberts? Doesn't he play for the Leafs? If he does
he can't be very good.")
At the end of the year Mr. Kelly organized an "Academy Awards" for best writing in various categories. Over the course of a week or so we were to go through our classmates' writing files, which were open for all to see and review, and then make nomination lists. Mr. Kelly showed us an example of the trophy itself, a modified liqueur bottle. ("I want that bottle.")
One day I could hear a group of huddled students laughing and whispering. "This is so funny! He's hilarious!" Once I overheard this I sniffed and went back to my own writing, looking for just the right word.
Days later was Awards Day.
The air was tense with multiple categories.
"The Award for Best Male Humourist goes to....Simon!"
"Who, me?!" (Of course.)
I walked rather self-unconsciously to the front of the class to accept the award. I had been building, cultivating, a reputation for being 'out there', so I thought that since my fellow award winners thus far were self-consciously accepting their well-deserved trophies but not saying anything outside and above of "thanks", I should put my own spin on the festivities:
Once the prize was securely in my hands, I said, half-seriously: "I have no one to thank....it was just me."
The class laughed, so too did Mr. Kelly, and immediately I thought, "Gee, I guess I'm not just funny looking".
It was a good class; a good bunch; good times.
Post Script, and "as a comic, in all seriousness", as Bobby Bittman was prone to say: Brian Kelly was one of the outstanding teachers in my years of schooling.
At the end of the year Mr. Kelly organized an "Academy Awards" for best writing in various categories. Over the course of a week or so we were to go through our classmates' writing files, which were open for all to see and review, and then make nomination lists. Mr. Kelly showed us an example of the trophy itself, a modified liqueur bottle. ("I want that bottle.")
One day I could hear a group of huddled students laughing and whispering. "This is so funny! He's hilarious!" Once I overheard this I sniffed and went back to my own writing, looking for just the right word.
Days later was Awards Day.
The air was tense with multiple categories.
"The Award for Best Male Humourist goes to....Simon!"
"Who, me?!" (Of course.)
I walked rather self-unconsciously to the front of the class to accept the award. I had been building, cultivating, a reputation for being 'out there', so I thought that since my fellow award winners thus far were self-consciously accepting their well-deserved trophies but not saying anything outside and above of "thanks", I should put my own spin on the festivities:
Once the prize was securely in my hands, I said, half-seriously: "I have no one to thank....it was just me."
The class laughed, so too did Mr. Kelly, and immediately I thought, "Gee, I guess I'm not just funny looking".
It was a good class; a good bunch; good times.
Post Script, and "as a comic, in all seriousness", as Bobby Bittman was prone to say: Brian Kelly was one of the outstanding teachers in my years of schooling.
Wednesday, April 13, 2016
An F-35 Lighting II Strike in Letters
Yesterday I posted a piece about a letter of mine that was published in the Toronto Sun "Letters" page back in 2009. I was excited when it was printed and I'm excited now even thinking about it.
The excitement continues: Some folk in Ottawa and the RCAF want the Lockheed Martin F-35 "Lightning II" fighter jet really badly; so much so that they're willing to pay for it. "Pay" is about it. This military aviation enthusiast, one who admits he has not actually flown the aircraft, thinks the ever escalating price-tag is insane and that Canada should pull out of the F-35 program. (Keep in mind that whatever quantity of aircraft Canada may settle on in the end does not mean those machines will all be up and running at any one time. Key term: "Hangar Queens." Yeah, kinda like that smartphone you bought that one time. Except this one flies a little better.)
To validate my feelings on the matter, here is a letter I had published in the National Post back on April 13th, 2012.
Cue the jug band. And don't forget to pass the hat around....
Re: Good Aircraft Are Worth The Cost, letter to the editor, April 11.
While I appreciate Major Charles Hooker’s opinion on the subject of Canada possibly acquiring the F-35, I have a big question: How do we know the F-35 is “the best aircraft available (in the procurement time frame)”?
The fact is, the F-35 is unproven. Give me a wad of cash and some dice and I’ll decide for you — the difference being, I won’t charge to toss the dice. Huge savings, guaranteed.
Simon St. Laurent, Toronto.
The excitement continues: Some folk in Ottawa and the RCAF want the Lockheed Martin F-35 "Lightning II" fighter jet really badly; so much so that they're willing to pay for it. "Pay" is about it. This military aviation enthusiast, one who admits he has not actually flown the aircraft, thinks the ever escalating price-tag is insane and that Canada should pull out of the F-35 program. (Keep in mind that whatever quantity of aircraft Canada may settle on in the end does not mean those machines will all be up and running at any one time. Key term: "Hangar Queens." Yeah, kinda like that smartphone you bought that one time. Except this one flies a little better.)
To validate my feelings on the matter, here is a letter I had published in the National Post back on April 13th, 2012.
Cue the jug band. And don't forget to pass the hat around....
Re: Good Aircraft Are Worth The Cost, letter to the editor, April 11.
While I appreciate Major Charles Hooker’s opinion on the subject of Canada possibly acquiring the F-35, I have a big question: How do we know the F-35 is “the best aircraft available (in the procurement time frame)”?
The fact is, the F-35 is unproven. Give me a wad of cash and some dice and I’ll decide for you — the difference being, I won’t charge to toss the dice. Huge savings, guaranteed.
Simon St. Laurent, Toronto.
Tuesday, April 12, 2016
A Letter to the Editor: Toronto Sun
I can't believe it was seven years ago that I had the following letter published in the "Letters" page of the Toronto Sun (March 24th, 2009). The years know only Warp Factor 9; there's no other setting, apparently.
When I pressed "send" I had a gut feeling the paper would print it, even though the piece is almost 300 words in length -- double what they usually accept.
My letter, along with another writer's, was given its own space away from the pack. Kudos to the Toronto Sun "Letters" editor for keeping it intact, with just a couple of small edits (which I think improved the flow of my piece in those places).
The subject: There was a funny guy by the name of Greg Gutfeld who worked for Fox News. He thought he was being cute by slagging Canada and its outstanding military. I doubt Gutfeld knows much about Canada over and above the stereotypes; he probably thinks we're all Leafs fans up here.
To paraphrase the great Elwy Yost: Dim the houselights, and cue the Rózsa trumpets!
THOSE IN THE KNOW GET IT
Like many Canadians I am rather disturbed by the ridiculous, caustic, and childish comments from Fox News Red Eye host Greg Gutfeld and his merry band of oblivious panelists.
But when Gutfeld mocks Canadian Lt.-Gen. Andrew Leslie's name by saying "an unusual name for a man," then you know he is not to be taken seriously. And certainly not as a satirist as he claims to be. U.S. servicemen and women know the score.
While in England a few years ago I was travelling on a train and a group of American F-15 fighter pilots were in the particular car where I was sitting. Almost immediately several of them introduced themselves and welcomed me aboard. One particular pilot and his weapons officer took me under their wing and we struck up a pleasant conversation. I told them my own father was in the Canadian air force and this seemed to give us a connection. The young fly-boy said, "you guys have great pilots ... we fly with you all the time." Another chap, a cool customer who ignored a drunk who tried several times to ruffle his feathers, told me he had recently been on a pilots' exchange program in Goose Bay and had a lot of fun flying with Canadians.
When we disembarked, the Americans helped with my luggage and wished me a pleasant trip.
My point? Well, we Canadians are understood by those who are in the know. Gentlemen like those I met have the utmost respect for our military and what it represents.
It is an argument or concept not understood by Gutfeld and only helps undermine his whole ignorant and feeble rant.
SIMON ST. LAURENT
TORONTO
(Our military: Underfunded, under-equipped and just outstanding)
When I pressed "send" I had a gut feeling the paper would print it, even though the piece is almost 300 words in length -- double what they usually accept.
My letter, along with another writer's, was given its own space away from the pack. Kudos to the Toronto Sun "Letters" editor for keeping it intact, with just a couple of small edits (which I think improved the flow of my piece in those places).
The subject: There was a funny guy by the name of Greg Gutfeld who worked for Fox News. He thought he was being cute by slagging Canada and its outstanding military. I doubt Gutfeld knows much about Canada over and above the stereotypes; he probably thinks we're all Leafs fans up here.
To paraphrase the great Elwy Yost: Dim the houselights, and cue the Rózsa trumpets!
THOSE IN THE KNOW GET IT
Like many Canadians I am rather disturbed by the ridiculous, caustic, and childish comments from Fox News Red Eye host Greg Gutfeld and his merry band of oblivious panelists.
But when Gutfeld mocks Canadian Lt.-Gen. Andrew Leslie's name by saying "an unusual name for a man," then you know he is not to be taken seriously. And certainly not as a satirist as he claims to be. U.S. servicemen and women know the score.
While in England a few years ago I was travelling on a train and a group of American F-15 fighter pilots were in the particular car where I was sitting. Almost immediately several of them introduced themselves and welcomed me aboard. One particular pilot and his weapons officer took me under their wing and we struck up a pleasant conversation. I told them my own father was in the Canadian air force and this seemed to give us a connection. The young fly-boy said, "you guys have great pilots ... we fly with you all the time." Another chap, a cool customer who ignored a drunk who tried several times to ruffle his feathers, told me he had recently been on a pilots' exchange program in Goose Bay and had a lot of fun flying with Canadians.
When we disembarked, the Americans helped with my luggage and wished me a pleasant trip.
My point? Well, we Canadians are understood by those who are in the know. Gentlemen like those I met have the utmost respect for our military and what it represents.
It is an argument or concept not understood by Gutfeld and only helps undermine his whole ignorant and feeble rant.
SIMON ST. LAURENT
TORONTO
(Our military: Underfunded, under-equipped and just outstanding)
Monday, April 11, 2016
"Play It Safe Again, Sam"
After I posted admissions regarding my lack of activity in the now shuttered Brunswick House, I remembered an odd, though hardly unexpected, experience from The Madison Avenue Pub. (“The Maddy" is a hot spot for local students, not just those from the University of Toronto, and professors and Annexians alike.)
Years ago, when I was a regular occupant of the Maddy, I witnessed a potentially ugly incident. One night as I was leaving the establishment after soaking down with friends of mine, I heard a provocative discussion happening in real (but a bit blurry) time on the stairway leading from near the main entrance up to the second floor:
"Man! Give him his rubbers back!" Again: "Man, give him his rubbers back." And: "Come on, man!"
Remembering that I was carrying several packets of condoms in my left back pocket I made an offer to the swaying young bloke amongst the three who clearly was operating sans "rubbers". My kindly gesture might give the lad a night to remember.
"Hey. These are yours. They should last you the night." While tossing a "Thanks, Man!" he extended his right arm but inexplicably missed my personal space. I helped by intercepting his hand, a dance much in the way a Soyuz-Progress spacecraft might mate with the International Space Station. The cargo had been delivered. "Contact."
My hope was he would not notice the expiry date; that the alcohol had disconnected any primal urge to check the potentially prize-winning numbers on yellowing packaging.
As I took the two steps down to the main floor, I turned and looked up to my grateful pal: "Have fun....but be careful."
I spun a half turn toward the opened exit door but a sweeping voice chased me: "What'd'ya mean, be careful?"
I wasn't so inebriated that I could not walk an uncountable pace. That was all I heard. No more "what?". He had probably already forgotten me.
As I walked north on Madison Avenue, a young man – they all seem young after you've punched a third decade in the head – approached with measurable non-precision and puttered a question to my broadside as he wobbled around me.
Years ago, when I was a regular occupant of the Maddy, I witnessed a potentially ugly incident. One night as I was leaving the establishment after soaking down with friends of mine, I heard a provocative discussion happening in real (but a bit blurry) time on the stairway leading from near the main entrance up to the second floor:
"Man! Give him his rubbers back!" Again: "Man, give him his rubbers back." And: "Come on, man!"
Remembering that I was carrying several packets of condoms in my left back pocket I made an offer to the swaying young bloke amongst the three who clearly was operating sans "rubbers". My kindly gesture might give the lad a night to remember.
"Hey. These are yours. They should last you the night." While tossing a "Thanks, Man!" he extended his right arm but inexplicably missed my personal space. I helped by intercepting his hand, a dance much in the way a Soyuz-Progress spacecraft might mate with the International Space Station. The cargo had been delivered. "Contact."
My hope was he would not notice the expiry date; that the alcohol had disconnected any primal urge to check the potentially prize-winning numbers on yellowing packaging.
As I took the two steps down to the main floor, I turned and looked up to my grateful pal: "Have fun....but be careful."
I spun a half turn toward the opened exit door but a sweeping voice chased me: "What'd'ya mean, be careful?"
I wasn't so inebriated that I could not walk an uncountable pace. That was all I heard. No more "what?". He had probably already forgotten me.
As I walked north on Madison Avenue, a young man – they all seem young after you've punched a third decade in the head – approached with measurable non-precision and puttered a question to my broadside as he wobbled around me.
"Hey, man. Do you got any rubbers?"
"Funny you should ask. Sorry, Sam, I just gave the last of them away. Have a good night."
(I should have gone into business for myself. A tall, skinny, well-dressed, in a Metrosexual way, and sober guy is of the sort that must be equipped with condoms-for-sale. It all makes sense.)
A clarification: The above story is a work of creative fiction based on actual events. Not all details are authentic and certain liberties are taken in order to tell an entertaining story; I hope. ("Reality" drifts to the mundane.)
Sunday, April 10, 2016
Should the SkyDome Be Given Its Back Name?
There is a petition going around titled "Give us back our SkyDome!" and it's filed on Change.org.
This initiative reminds me that the name "SkyDome" was not my first choice. A contest had been held in 1987, while the structure was under construction, to come up with an appropriate moniker for this new and impressive soon-to-be stadium; the first one with a "fully retractable roof".
Although I never submitted anything I came up with my own pick very quickly once I heard about the contest: "Trillium." It just happens to be the official provincial flower of Ontario. (Attention, some American readers: Toronto is in the province of Ontario.) In addition, "Trillium" sounds "big"; it does to me at least.
Once the name for Toronto's new stadium was chosen and announced, I was underwhelmed. "SkyDome? That's totally uninspired." (Totally.)
Now I like that name. It's certainly better than "Rogers Centre". To be honest, most Torontonians don't say "Rogers Centre", and rarely do I hear the stadium referred to by that name unless I'm listening to a Sports news reader on the radio. "Live, down at the Rogers Centre....".
No, "SkyDome".
Post Notes: I survived the SkyDome opening ceremonies back in June of 1989. There was a contest at work and I won two tickets, so in turn I took my old school mate Jorge to the promised grand event. It turned out to be an all too tacky affair. More than once during the song-and-dance stuff Jorge and I cracked up laughing. He said to my left ear, "What's with all the Broadway numbers?"
To impress, the dome was then opened. The sky had opened.
This initiative reminds me that the name "SkyDome" was not my first choice. A contest had been held in 1987, while the structure was under construction, to come up with an appropriate moniker for this new and impressive soon-to-be stadium; the first one with a "fully retractable roof".
Although I never submitted anything I came up with my own pick very quickly once I heard about the contest: "Trillium." It just happens to be the official provincial flower of Ontario. (Attention, some American readers: Toronto is in the province of Ontario.) In addition, "Trillium" sounds "big"; it does to me at least.
Once the name for Toronto's new stadium was chosen and announced, I was underwhelmed. "SkyDome? That's totally uninspired." (Totally.)
Now I like that name. It's certainly better than "Rogers Centre". To be honest, most Torontonians don't say "Rogers Centre", and rarely do I hear the stadium referred to by that name unless I'm listening to a Sports news reader on the radio. "Live, down at the Rogers Centre....".
No, "SkyDome".
Post Notes: I survived the SkyDome opening ceremonies back in June of 1989. There was a contest at work and I won two tickets, so in turn I took my old school mate Jorge to the promised grand event. It turned out to be an all too tacky affair. More than once during the song-and-dance stuff Jorge and I cracked up laughing. He said to my left ear, "What's with all the Broadway numbers?"
To impress, the dome was then opened. The sky had opened.
Saturday, April 9, 2016
Hercules: Magnificent Transporter of the RCAF
For a Canadian Air Force Brat it is not an uncommon privilege to enjoy a trip on a transport aircraft like the Lockheed CC-130 "Hercules". This hitch-a-ride in the RCAF is referred to as a "flip". If there's space beside the cargo a serviceman/servicewoman and their dependents can hop on, but this cannot happen with just any flight, obviously: In the 1970s my dad escorted a cargo of explosives aboard a Herc on an overseas flight to England.
After many years my experiences flying on this machine are still vivid and memorable. "An Air Pocket Over Europe: film at eleven!" Soon.
This past Tuesday a CC-130E Hercules made its final trip after 50 years of service, leaving 8 Wing CFB Trenton for the Canada Aviation and Space Museum in Ottawa. This story is described in County Live.
My father served with the Royal Air Force and the Royal Canadian Air Force (and the Canadian Armed Forces), and my mother served with the Royal Air Force. I served with no air force. Great.
At least I was a brat.
Sunday, April 3, 2016
The Deconstruction of the Harper Rights
It happened in one night, through a simple vote tally sum six months ago: On October 19th we Canadians held our most recent federal election, and Canada, as a whole, lost its innocence. Millions of its citizens would henceforth have to live with less.
Game day saw Liberal Party of Canada leader Justin Trudeau and his team beat out sitting bull Prime Minister Stephen J. Harper by a substantial margin, forming a majority government in the feat; and putting Harper and his boys out to pasture, if you'll pardon the expression.
What happened to the Conservative Party of Canada's gastric campaign, anyway? It sure looked to me like someone let the air out of the bag.
The 22nd Prime Minister of Canada was aloof and arrogant, and his obsession with control would have booked Henry II into the nearest retirement home. Harper's demise was written, but his own narcissism would not have permitted him even a morsel of reality.
(The Conservatives still managed to win 99 seats out of 338, but my answer to that is they would have won a lot less had the election not happened so "early". That party was sliding down a seaweed-greasy boat launch slipway the week running up to election day.)
The day after the Canadian citizenry "mistakenly" voted for the wrong Party of Canada, I searched online for a video clip of Harper's concession speech. His manner struck me as being less gracious than what is usually expected of a politician who has been fragmented, but the biggest bit I drew from the shattered man was how bitter he looked. My scanners detected a dash of anger. It must not be forgotten that Harper hates "Justin".
There stood an unfortunate soul: A ministerial sad sack in an ill-fitting coat; Scurf of the Conservative Party of Canada.
It spoke:
To kickoff his monotone of defeat, Harper manufactured a mechanical wave for his party's crushed supporters, but through quivering lips he managed moans of voluminous profundity. "And friends, in a dangerous world, we have stood consistently for freedom, democracy and justice. This is the Canada we Conservatives have been building since the time of Sir John A. Macdonald, and this is the Canada to which, for the countless generations to come, we will be dedicated."
It sounds to me like the Conservatives hold the trademark on tenets.
Most profound: "But know this for certain: when the next time comes, this party will offer Canadians a strong and clear alternative based on our Conservative values."
"Conservative values"? (Those again.)
Hey, they ain't mine, pally. Besides, I don't go for spreadin' less margarine on my toast.
Game day saw Liberal Party of Canada leader Justin Trudeau and his team beat out sitting bull Prime Minister Stephen J. Harper by a substantial margin, forming a majority government in the feat; and putting Harper and his boys out to pasture, if you'll pardon the expression.
What happened to the Conservative Party of Canada's gastric campaign, anyway? It sure looked to me like someone let the air out of the bag.
The 22nd Prime Minister of Canada was aloof and arrogant, and his obsession with control would have booked Henry II into the nearest retirement home. Harper's demise was written, but his own narcissism would not have permitted him even a morsel of reality.
(The Conservatives still managed to win 99 seats out of 338, but my answer to that is they would have won a lot less had the election not happened so "early". That party was sliding down a seaweed-greasy boat launch slipway the week running up to election day.)
The day after the Canadian citizenry "mistakenly" voted for the wrong Party of Canada, I searched online for a video clip of Harper's concession speech. His manner struck me as being less gracious than what is usually expected of a politician who has been fragmented, but the biggest bit I drew from the shattered man was how bitter he looked. My scanners detected a dash of anger. It must not be forgotten that Harper hates "Justin".
There stood an unfortunate soul: A ministerial sad sack in an ill-fitting coat; Scurf of the Conservative Party of Canada.
It spoke:
To kickoff his monotone of defeat, Harper manufactured a mechanical wave for his party's crushed supporters, but through quivering lips he managed moans of voluminous profundity. "And friends, in a dangerous world, we have stood consistently for freedom, democracy and justice. This is the Canada we Conservatives have been building since the time of Sir John A. Macdonald, and this is the Canada to which, for the countless generations to come, we will be dedicated."
It sounds to me like the Conservatives hold the trademark on tenets.
Most profound: "But know this for certain: when the next time comes, this party will offer Canadians a strong and clear alternative based on our Conservative values."
"Conservative values"? (Those again.)
Hey, they ain't mine, pally. Besides, I don't go for spreadin' less margarine on my toast.
Saturday, April 2, 2016
Jack Dennett, CFRB, and Me
At the age of ten I was already an old man.
My favourite radio station at the time was Toronto's "old person's" CFRB. This past week long time CFRB morning show host Wally Crouter died and this sad news reminded me that every school morning in the early to mid 1970s I would tune my Sanyo portable radio to catch the news and, more importantly, grab the previous night's National Hockey League scores from sports man Jack Dennett.
There I'd be sitting, on a chair with my Molson NHL schedule in hand ready to jot down the final scores as Dennett read them out to me. Like any good radio man, he gave you the impression he was speaking to you directly. I can still "hear" Dennett's relaxed voice: "The Boston Bruins beat the California Golden Seals by a score of seven to one."
Unfortunately this comfortable arrangement all came to an end in August of 1975 when Jack Dennett died of cancer. About this time my interest in the NHL was beginning to wane, anyway, as it does for most young men who start discovering other things: like, movies; and other things. Less than a week after Dennett passed away I was in high school.
Needless to say, CFRB is hardly the radio station it was forty-plus years ago. The market has changed. Times have changed. Now we get lots of pasteurized crap (with a Stretch Cunningham-like I.Q. of "one").
If CFRB were to go back to its olde format and sensibility I'd be ready for them in little more than ten or fifteen years.
My favourite radio station at the time was Toronto's "old person's" CFRB. This past week long time CFRB morning show host Wally Crouter died and this sad news reminded me that every school morning in the early to mid 1970s I would tune my Sanyo portable radio to catch the news and, more importantly, grab the previous night's National Hockey League scores from sports man Jack Dennett.
There I'd be sitting, on a chair with my Molson NHL schedule in hand ready to jot down the final scores as Dennett read them out to me. Like any good radio man, he gave you the impression he was speaking to you directly. I can still "hear" Dennett's relaxed voice: "The Boston Bruins beat the California Golden Seals by a score of seven to one."
Unfortunately this comfortable arrangement all came to an end in August of 1975 when Jack Dennett died of cancer. About this time my interest in the NHL was beginning to wane, anyway, as it does for most young men who start discovering other things: like, movies; and other things. Less than a week after Dennett passed away I was in high school.
Needless to say, CFRB is hardly the radio station it was forty-plus years ago. The market has changed. Times have changed. Now we get lots of pasteurized crap (with a Stretch Cunningham-like I.Q. of "one").
If CFRB were to go back to its olde format and sensibility I'd be ready for them in little more than ten or fifteen years.
Friday, April 1, 2016
To the Brunswick House in Passing (Annex Style)
For citizens of Toronto's "Annex" neighbourhood, the Brunswick House was an important ingredient. I don't think I'd be in the minority to report that it was also a place a local citizen walked by all the time but never, or rarely, stepped into.
I certainly had more than enough time to go there for food and drink, since the establishment opened in 1876. Unfortunately, its doors are now closed -- last night was it.
The last time I entered "The Brunny" was about ten years ago: A friend of mine was a big fan of the band "Melody Ranch", and I met him there one afternoon to take in some tunes and a beer (or was it two?). By the way, that was one loud musical act. My ears were ringing when I left the big house. (It may have been the beers.)
The first time I visited the Brunswick House was on New Years Eve 1984 (?!). I remember the event very well, back in the day when that pub was still the place for students to meet up and partake in some suds: A few tables over from where my school mates and I sat, an older gentleman who clearly had a little too much alcohol intake entertained some young guys who sat in bemusement, listening to the senior drinker ramble on about something and everything. Of course, those "young guys", like me, would now be in their fifties. Equally sobering: That entertaining drinker would no doubt be long gone.
So, no lie, as a "local" I was in the Brunswick House a total of two times in 375 months (31.25 years). I'm a good Annex citizen, albeit an embarrassed citizen.
A footnote: The Brunny structure is going to be turned into a drugstore, which I find kind of odd since there is a big Shoppers Drug Mart store little more than a stone's throw away. Not only that but that particular grand and grossly overpriced Shoppers is being expanded substantially. Will this be some sort of "drug war"?
I'm guessing this new Rexall pharmacy location will not be around for 140 years.
Monday, March 21, 2016
Some Fine Fatherly Advice, For Some
This morning a friend of mine seemed to be a little annoyed after reading a newspaper story on a guy, with less than minimal film
& television production experience, who got a decent job on a television series.
My late father, who was "career air force", knew the score for those of us who haboured any pretentions of wanting to work and excel in the film and television business. He dispensed a certain line of sage advice on more than one occasion, even after I had a small record of the Barrie Examiner, Barrie Banner, and CKVR Television doing stories on me and my pals making film. Here it is, made even more relevant now that the wonderful explosion in media technologies allows anyone to make video:
"You have to know how to sell yourself. Stand out from the pack. Otherwise you just get lost in the crowd."
My late father, who was "career air force", knew the score for those of us who haboured any pretentions of wanting to work and excel in the film and television business. He dispensed a certain line of sage advice on more than one occasion, even after I had a small record of the Barrie Examiner, Barrie Banner, and CKVR Television doing stories on me and my pals making film. Here it is, made even more relevant now that the wonderful explosion in media technologies allows anyone to make video:
"You have to know how to sell yourself. Stand out from the pack. Otherwise you just get lost in the crowd."
Friday, March 18, 2016
An Admission 45 Years Later (Maple Leafs Forever)
On Saturday, February the 13th, I came clean by making a long awaited admission of misplaced support from 1970.
Today I will admit something about "misplaced support" from 1971.
In April of that year, deep in the National Hockey League playoffs, I, for some bizarre and inexplicable reason, was hopeful for the Toronto Maple Leafs. The team in eternal question was playing against the New York Rangers, a good, solid club, and one coached by the great Emile Francis.
The date was April 15th, it was game 6 of the quarter final round between these two members of the "original six". The Rangers led the best-of-seven series by three games to two.
Overtime: This match, tied at 1-1, was resolved with venomous brutality when a Rangers player (Jean Ratelle? Walt Tkaczuk?) scooted down the ice over the Leafs blue-line, through a hapless Leafs defenceman (Jim McKenny?), and snapped off a quick shot. Goaltender Jacques Plante shot out his right leg, he stretched out his toes, but failed to stop or deflect the smoking disc-shaped piece of vulcanized rubber from fulfilling its Nomad-like programming. The next event was more acoustic in nature; the sound of what happens after a speeding 6-ounce hockey puck motions past a Leafs goalie at such a critical time in the NHL season. "Clank!!!"
(Forever Futility.)
I did my job quite well: I was a pro. I (got a wee bit upset).
My dad laughed, no doubt amused by a hockey-loving kid who had yet to snap out of a silly phase. I can still picture him, to my right, getting a kick out of my "upset". Translation: "Kid, it's just a bleedin' game. It means absolutely nothing in and among the grand schemes of life." (My dad was right, of course; except when his beloved Habs lost.)
For decades I've asked myself the question: "Why?" Not the question of why a Leafs goalie would fail to stop or deflect an ice hockey puck, which even an answer of "42" could not explain away, but why I would waste allegiances on a total, complete, absolute, non-achiever. This memorable match had played out mere weeks after my 10th birthday, and after the Leafs team began to brush up on all the interesting local golf courses and beer halls, I would, in guided prescience and with great leaps of maturation, shoot my affections to the Montreal Canadiens. This would pay off -- sorry for the spoiler, young ones -- and my reaction this time around would be one of: Joy.
Toronto-based sports journalist Peter Gross reported on the wireless this morning that the Toronto Maple Leafs are just one loss away from being "mathematically eliminated" from making the playoffs this year.
This cynic must admit: That loosey-goosey sports organization has been improving since 1971. By way of avoiding playoff games on a regular yearly basis they spare many a 10-year-old from having certain hopes and, more importantly, breakdowns. And from having anything of relevant interest to write about 45 years later.
(Replay: "Claaaaank"!)
Today I will admit something about "misplaced support" from 1971.
In April of that year, deep in the National Hockey League playoffs, I, for some bizarre and inexplicable reason, was hopeful for the Toronto Maple Leafs. The team in eternal question was playing against the New York Rangers, a good, solid club, and one coached by the great Emile Francis.
The date was April 15th, it was game 6 of the quarter final round between these two members of the "original six". The Rangers led the best-of-seven series by three games to two.
Overtime: This match, tied at 1-1, was resolved with venomous brutality when a Rangers player (Jean Ratelle? Walt Tkaczuk?) scooted down the ice over the Leafs blue-line, through a hapless Leafs defenceman (Jim McKenny?), and snapped off a quick shot. Goaltender Jacques Plante shot out his right leg, he stretched out his toes, but failed to stop or deflect the smoking disc-shaped piece of vulcanized rubber from fulfilling its Nomad-like programming. The next event was more acoustic in nature; the sound of what happens after a speeding 6-ounce hockey puck motions past a Leafs goalie at such a critical time in the NHL season. "Clank!!!"
(Forever Futility.)
I did my job quite well: I was a pro. I (got a wee bit upset).
My dad laughed, no doubt amused by a hockey-loving kid who had yet to snap out of a silly phase. I can still picture him, to my right, getting a kick out of my "upset". Translation: "Kid, it's just a bleedin' game. It means absolutely nothing in and among the grand schemes of life." (My dad was right, of course; except when his beloved Habs lost.)
For decades I've asked myself the question: "Why?" Not the question of why a Leafs goalie would fail to stop or deflect an ice hockey puck, which even an answer of "42" could not explain away, but why I would waste allegiances on a total, complete, absolute, non-achiever. This memorable match had played out mere weeks after my 10th birthday, and after the Leafs team began to brush up on all the interesting local golf courses and beer halls, I would, in guided prescience and with great leaps of maturation, shoot my affections to the Montreal Canadiens. This would pay off -- sorry for the spoiler, young ones -- and my reaction this time around would be one of: Joy.
Toronto-based sports journalist Peter Gross reported on the wireless this morning that the Toronto Maple Leafs are just one loss away from being "mathematically eliminated" from making the playoffs this year.
This cynic must admit: That loosey-goosey sports organization has been improving since 1971. By way of avoiding playoff games on a regular yearly basis they spare many a 10-year-old from having certain hopes and, more importantly, breakdowns. And from having anything of relevant interest to write about 45 years later.
(Replay: "Claaaaank"!)
Thursday, March 17, 2016
Wednesday, March 16, 2016
Picturing Cats Perfectly
Why would a cat sit still for a photo session when it can just move out of camera view?
I was ready.
My friend's adorably peevish pussycat was not going to get away that easily. The flurrious feline's attempt to slink down from his perch to a lower level ended up giving me a better and more interesting shot, I think; it's not as though pictures of cats hanging about, not doing much of anything, are of a unique breed.
You pettish little....
I was ready.
My friend's adorably peevish pussycat was not going to get away that easily. The flurrious feline's attempt to slink down from his perch to a lower level ended up giving me a better and more interesting shot, I think; it's not as though pictures of cats hanging about, not doing much of anything, are of a unique breed.
You pettish little....
Tuesday, March 15, 2016
Monday, March 14, 2016
A Reject Photograph With Atmosphere
When taking photographs we want to present those that are technically fine -- in focus, good density -- but occasionally a picture separates itself from the folder by way of having something noteworthy (I think).
One night back about seven years ago I was walking home from work, here in Toronto, and looked up. As I waited for the lights to change at the downtown intersection I popped out my camera and captured what I thought was an interesting scene.
When I reviewed the files on my Canon camera days later I noticed the obvious imperfections in the shot. Normally I would crack off a bunch of snaps -- bracketing the exposure and shutter speed -- but I guess I could not wait to arrive at the TTC "King" subway station which was just a few minutes away.
One night back about seven years ago I was walking home from work, here in Toronto, and looked up. As I waited for the lights to change at the downtown intersection I popped out my camera and captured what I thought was an interesting scene.
When I reviewed the files on my Canon camera days later I noticed the obvious imperfections in the shot. Normally I would crack off a bunch of snaps -- bracketing the exposure and shutter speed -- but I guess I could not wait to arrive at the TTC "King" subway station which was just a few minutes away.
Friday, March 11, 2016
Setting Up for Hyper-Reality
Here is a photograph of 1st camera assistant Gary Blakeley and I setting up a shot for Hyper-Reality. The push is on to complete this 35mm mini-epic short film. Anyone who knows me can tell this pic was taken quite some time ago.
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| Photo: Jill Cooper |
Tuesday, March 8, 2016
Katzen, Chats, Gatos, γάτες, Catti, Koty, коты, Cathod, Cats....
My posting from yesterday, "A Swinging Cat", spoke of cat-fights and cat-sitters, and cats. While I grew up with both a cat and a dog as family pets, I much prefer the feline due to that type's lower maintenance requirements in addition to its rudimentary affection characteristics. (Notice I did not mention veterinary costs.)
Many years ago I came up with two little and hardly original bits to sum up my admiration for Felis silvestris catus.
* I do not trust any man who doesn't like cats.
* There cannot be a more blissful existence than that of the pet cat of a loving owner.
Many years ago I came up with two little and hardly original bits to sum up my admiration for Felis silvestris catus.
* I do not trust any man who doesn't like cats.
* There cannot be a more blissful existence than that of the pet cat of a loving owner.
 |
| You were saying?.... |
Monday, March 7, 2016
A Swinging Cat Moment
An old friend of mine occasionally needs someone to take care of his two fine felines for a few days. At first he utilized the fine services of his friend Dave, and this arrangement worked on a few occasions. One day, a couple of years ago, Dave found he was unable to deal with two cats that had decided suddenly to settle an old score. Apparently he was "pretty upset" by the paw-fight and wasn't so sure he wanted to undertake his special role anymore.
Next time: My friend called me. "Do you mind doing it, Si?"
"Of course not! You're calling the cat expert."
These cats have not fought on my watch; they've wanted to, but this human knows how to defuse a house-cat-sized political squabble. Admittedly I'm well armed: A cup of water (which I've never had to use), and a great finger-snap. "No!... No!...."
Now: This cat lover naturally would take a few pictures while lounging around on a back patio with two bored cats. I was organizing some picture files on my computer recently and I had not realized that I had captured a special moment: A Certain Feline did not appreciate my camera's flashing red-eye reduction light.
That's one squirrely cat:
Next time: My friend called me. "Do you mind doing it, Si?"
"Of course not! You're calling the cat expert."
These cats have not fought on my watch; they've wanted to, but this human knows how to defuse a house-cat-sized political squabble. Admittedly I'm well armed: A cup of water (which I've never had to use), and a great finger-snap. "No!... No!...."
Now: This cat lover naturally would take a few pictures while lounging around on a back patio with two bored cats. I was organizing some picture files on my computer recently and I had not realized that I had captured a special moment: A Certain Feline did not appreciate my camera's flashing red-eye reduction light.
That's one squirrely cat:
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