johnrobe

Allow me to predict jokes to be made shortly on the Daily Show or The Colbert Report.

The French are experimenting with the concept of a paid nap for workers. Be prepared for an endless stream of jokes about how the French are lazy, or surrender too easily, or smell funny, or are rude, etc. etc.

Yet here’s the thing … good lord I would love it if I could have a nap during the day, and I bet you would too. After spending time in France, I’m more convinced that it’s really just a country that’s run by people who don’t really care what other people think, they’re just living their life the way that it feels good. That’s really not so bad, is it?

Lines in France do suck though … naps will not help the situation.

It's Monday, and they always suck. Today will be no exception I'm sure.

One sure fire way to relieve stress, at least for me, is a sheet of bubble wrap. Nothing feels better than popping those little buggers.

I knew others liked it as well as I did, but I didn’t know it was quite so universal as it appears to be. I also didn’t know that bubble wrap would prove one of the funnier truisms of our modern times, namely that everything has its own special day.

Yes, that’s right folks, today is Bubble Wrap Appreciation day!

If you don’t have access to any, the site has a little game that lets you pop them in a fairly therapeutic way. Hope you don’t need it too much today.

Any country is a blend of at least two different types of people. Blue state vs. red state, country vs. city, cilantro vs. non-cilantro. It’s not always a discrete choice mind you… there are spectra of people as well, and yesterday on the ride into work, I got to experience two distinct points on the subway riding spectrum.

On the Bloor line, it was quite crowded, and I was sharing a pole with a woman, about 25, tall, fit, and wearing stylish clothes. We did a little bit of a “whose hand is going to be higher up on the pole” maneuvering, and then I went back to my book. She on the other hand, put in her headphones, picked a song, and then began to dance.

Not bopping her head to the music, not swaying back and forth to the beat, not even lip synching or air guitaring — she was doing a full-blown getting down on the subway. Kicks, twists, headbobs, shimmying and gyrations aplenty, all while keeping her hand on the pole for safety.

This was quite distracting given that we were RIGHT next to each other and that the car was packed, but I liked it because it was weird and different but in a harmless and non-threatening way. If you’ve ever been on a subway car when Zanta goes through, you know that sometimes weird can be kind of creepy and threatening too.

At Yonge/Bloor, I switched lines to head downtown, and the train was even more packed, that’s when I ran into the subway personality type that annoys me beyond all others … the “Excuse me, I’m getting off here” type.

I don’t mean the standard person who asks to be let past you so they can get off at their stop, that’s normal and fine. I mean the type of person who, even though there are 30 people between him or her and the door, simply has to get past all of them before the train comes to a stop — even if they’re all getting off at the same place.

I am standing there, squished like a sardine, and we’re approaching Dundas, my station, and this woman tries to nudge past me to get to the door. We’re only about halfway there, but she’s trying to get out. I haven’t moved out of her way for two reasons; 1) there’s nowhere to move and 2) I’m getting out at Dundas anyway. That isn’t good enough for her though, and she starts saying, “Excuse me! Excuse me, I need to get out here!” To mollify her somewhat and to give her the idea that all will not be lost when we get to the station because I too am getting out, I turn around, put my book away and make it clear that I’m headed for the door.

Not good enough. She starts tapping me and the person next to me (who also is clearly getting out at Dundas) saying, “Excuse me! I need to get out! I need to get out!!” in a loud voice.

Neither I nor the person beside me say anything, though I dearly want to. Subways are, like urinals, places where conversation should not be had with strangers, in my opinion.

Finally, the woman has had enough with our non-responsive attitudes and as the subway starts slowing down, she forcibly starts squeezing in between us, exclaiming in a loud voice, “I neeeeeed to get OUT!!!!” Her shoves push me into another person, who dominos into the next and everyone starts looking at us in an annoyed way. Finally I turn to her and say, “We’re all getting out here, relax!”, to which I get a dirty, though possibly deserved, look. She did actually relax though and although it may shock you to learn this, we all got off the subway together without incident.

Sometimes, I wish I had a car.

I was only partially shocked to learn that there is a website called I Hate Cilantro.com. Personally, I love the stuff, I love it almost beyond measure, but Timmi? She hates it.

I didn’t understand for a long time why some dishes that I loved so much weren’t appealing to Timmi. Sure, Timmi and I are pretty finicky eaters in general, but we’re actually pretty closely aligned in terms of what we both liked. Growing up in Woodstock, I’d never been exposed to fresh cilantro, so I didn’t know what the wonderful taste was at first.

One day I isolated the flavour and happily told Timmi. She said she’s always known that it was a vile weed and couldn’t stand it.

I remained perplexed until a study announced that the taste’s perception of cilantro was genetic. Some people just genetically tasted cilantro as a stinky soap taste, which the rest of us tasted that fantastic citrus-y spicy taste.

Even though I’m on the other side of the fence, I admit, I like I Hate Cilantro.com. I love the idea that something could inspire such bile and anger. I love the idea that the taste of cilantro could inspire people to write haikus, like:

If MacGyver could,
He would destroy cilantro,
Using his duct tape.

So tell me people, which side are you on? Love it or hate it?

I go from one end of the country to the other and the world goes to hell in a handbasket!

I grew up in the 80s (and maybe the 70s, I admit nothing) and lived in perpetual fear of a nuclear holocaust, and ever since I was aware of it, the Doomsday Clock was the symbol of that fear. I used to honestly think about the clock, imagining its giant hands clicking closer to midnight and the fireballs over Toronto and London and Kitchener that would mean I had to run to the basement and go into hiding until the fallout was gone.

Today, The Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists, the group that sets the clock, announced that they were moving the clock two minutes closer to midnight, putting us at 11:55 — not a good place to be. I first heard this on the radio, and images from my childhood of that giant, scary clock went through my mind.

And then I saw a clip on TV at the airport of one of the scientists solemnly pulling a cloth off a stand next to the podium revealing a terrifying piece of BRISTOL BOARD with a clock on it in what appeared to be magic marker!

Gah!

Seriously, this is the Doomsday clock we’re talking about. Stephen Hawking was at the press conference to read a statement. It was a worldwide news event. The best you could come up with was CARDBOARD?

Wait a sec … does this mean there IS no clock? That there never has been one?

Apparently!

Seriously, I’m not expecting that there’s some sort of magical clock that reads the minds of scientists and sets itself accordingly or anything… all I want is an appropriately scary prop that looks like a clock! It’s not that expensive! I’m sure I could whip one up for a couple hundred bucks that would do the job! Hell … didn’t anyone have a standard kitchen wall clock they could have used? Set it to five minutes to midnight, unplug it, then put that ominous cloth over it for the ceremony. Voila!

Remember the first time you found the truth about Santa Claus? How you had this crushing disappointment because something so good and wonderful wasn’t real? This is the opposite of that.

Isn't it odd how sometimes one conversation you have will predict another?

This afternoon, I was having a discussion with Eric about what Regina V. means on court documents (it refers to the Queen) and in the conversation, we talked about two different facts:

1) That if it was we had a King, it would be Rex V. instead of Regina V., and

2) That it also appears on our coins.

About 5 minutes later, I went downstairs to get ready to head out to run some errands, and realized I had no money. We keep a jar full of old change at the door, and I started rummaging through to come up with a little moolah, and a weird-looking coin caught my eye. It looked like a quarter, but there was a man on the back rather than a woman, so I assumed it was an American quarter.

(Numismatic enthusiasts (coin collectors and other coin geeks) will point out that it’s actually the front of the coin that has the portrait, not the back, but nobody else cares.)

Upon closer examination, it wasn’t an American coin at all, it was a Canadian quarter — from 1951! The Rex in question on the coin was King George the VI!

Looking at the coin, it started to boggle my mind a little bit — here is a coin that’s not only older than me (which is no small feat in and of itself) but significantly older than me. The coin pre-dates Queen Elizabeth. George was King during World War Two, for pete’s sake. This coin had been minted when Canada was a really different place. Aside from King George VI being on the money and the throne, here are some tidbits:

• The Prime Minister was Louis St. Laurent.
• The population was just over 14 million.
• The National Ballet of Canada gave their first performance.
• Canada was fighting in the Korean War.
• Labatt’s Blue was introduced.

So much has happened since, and during all of it, that little quarter was circulating around, sitting in someone’s piggy bank, or pocket, or money jar. I’m sure it should have been taken out of circulation long ago, but I’m glad it wasn’t. I’m not sure what I’m going to do with it, but I’m definitely not going to do something silly like put it in the Cold Drinks machine… it deserves better.

Riding the subway home today, I finished the book I was reading (rating: major disappointment), put it in my bag, and looked up into the eyes of a man with the most glorious mullet I had ever seen.

It was kind of like the one pictured to the right, but only in the same way that my kittens are kind of like the of lions of the veldt.

This mullet was huge, mellifluous and flowing. It went up for about 8 inches before arching back over his ears and cascading down over his shoulders halfway down his chest and back.

The moment I saw it, I was entranced. I have seen many a mullet in my day (I grew up in Woodstock after all), but never in all my life have I seen one like it. I simply had to take a picture so I could share it with the world. I was pondering what the etiquette of the situation was, did I need to get his permission to take a photo and put it on the blog? I’ve put pictures of people on the blog before, but this one clearly showed his face, and really, out of common courtesy I should get his permission right?

And then he smiled at me.

It wasn’t the type of smile that makes you calm down, or feel better, or smile back. It was the smile of a man who is just crazy enough to think that you’re staring at him because his hair is gorgeous and irresistible. In a way, he was right — in a very macabre sort of way. It was the type of smile found on the face of a child you just can’t bear to disappoint, or in my case, dare to disappoint.

Quite seriously, the smile scared the hell out of me. I was too paralyzed to do anything before the next stop came and he stood up and left with a quick “Go ahead and admire me from the back, I know you want to” glance from him.

So I’m sad to report, I don’t have a photo, all due to my own fear. I’m scared to think what will happen to me someday if something REALLY scary happens. Judging from my reaction when presented with a bad hairdo, I don’t like my chances.

To try and make up for the lack of picture, I offer you a bunch of mullets set to the late but immortal Wesley Willis classic “Cut the Mullet”. There are some glorious mullets in there, but none are as glorious as the mullet that passed me by tonight.

Rock over London, rock on Chicago! Insure What — it’s the insurance superstore!