Striking the Balance

   My son’s favorite toys are as follows:

   1. An empty coffee can with some dry rice in it

   2. Any pot, pan or random kitchen implement he can lay his hands on

   3. Tools, forks, high voltage electrical outlets and/or wires, containers of hot or stain causing or poisonous liquid, the stove, or anything else he has been expressly told not to touch.

   4. That Fisher Price thing that has a clear dome containing what appear to be delicious gumballs. They’ve been making them forever. You know, it has a long handle and two wheels and when you push it the balls bounce around and it makes a super loud popping noise? It's apparently like catnip to a child but makes a parent want to smash the thing like Pete Townsend with a Stratocaster after about ten seconds. Even when I was a kid everyone had one of those things, but I’ve never seen a new one. They were always a hand me down from some older cousin and now I know why. I would snatch that thing right out of Goat Junior’s hands if I ever got a chance to hand it down to some other little tyke and their unsuspecting parents, but I’ve gotten off on a tangent here.

   This list has taught me two things. One is that we’ve wasted a lot of money at Toys ‘r Us. The other is that Goat Junior doesn’t watch enough TV yet to realize that it’s impossible to have fun if you haven’t collected all 136 of whatever dumb fad you’re into. He foolishly thinks it’s super fun to play in a fort made from an empty BBQ box or run around chasing pigeons.

   I grew up on a farm as an only child in what could be described as fairly modest economic circumstances. We were poor.  Yet I still managed to have lot of fun with only a dog, my imagination and the outside world. Eventually I got my hands on a pellet gun and an ancient mini bike and man, the world was my oyster!

   Now, I realize that for a lot of parents today at least half the things on that list are the stuff of nightmares. Dangerous, perhaps even politically incorrect? At the very least I was savagely gender identified! But somehow I and most of the other kids I knew survived and grew up to be reasonably well adjusted adults, at least by Haliburton County standards.

   When I think of the best times from my childhood they involve messing around outside with friends, not some amazing toy I thought I needed. Except for the GI Joe aircraft carrier that Corby Kent had. It was awesome. I really did need that.

   Compared to today’s world of vehicle mounted DVD players, smart phones issued at birth, 24/7 internet access, the cartoon network on demand and video game systems that would have literally made me pass out from sheer excitement, those times seem so far removed I might as well have been floating down the Mississippi with Huckleberry Finn. And I’m still in my thirties!

   Technology is a wonderful thing, I’m just struggling with how to help Goat Junior take advantage of the wealth of information and learning opportunities all these innovations provide (not to mention tantrum free car rides) while still fostering in him a love of physical, outdoor activities and imagination based fun.

   One time my buddy Phil and I were goofing around in the front field. We thought it would be fun to start a little grass fire because when you’re ten burning stuff is awesome. Just like when you’re a drunk adult. Everything was going great when a little breeze wafted across the field, a zephyr if you will, and our harmless little slow burning fire instantly became a raging, hay fueled inferno. It was the kind of fire I imagine mighty bands of Sioux warriors kindled on the great plains in order to drive massive herds of bison over cliffs to their deaths! The smoke rose hundreds of feet into the air and was visible for miles! At least that’s how it seemed to a frightened 10 year old who’s dad might look out the window at any second.

   Phil’s momma didn’t raise no fools so he decided his best option was to distance himself from the situation and skinned out, running like hell towards the barn. I’m not sure my dad would have believed that I was torching a field while Phil pitched in and mucked out a few stalls, but I reckon he thought it was worth a shot.
   I knew I had about 10 seconds to do something before things got completely out of control so I did the only thing a kid with an aversion to corporal punishment could do. With a savage battle cry that to the untrained ear might have sounded a lot like hysterical weeping I leaped into the conflagration and started stomping on it like a meth fueled clog dancer. In a few moments the fire was out and I stood soot covered and breathless in the middle of a patch of burned grass that could have been seen from space or at least from the top of the Dorset fire tower. I wasn’t sure about my dad’s views on aliens causing crop circles but I sure hoped he was a believer.

   To make matters worse this was only a couple of weeks after we had gone back to school shopping and I knew as I looked down at the smoking husks of my brand new shoes that we couldn’t afford new ones. I threw them in the bush and wore my old ones for six uncomfortable months until I could claim I’d grown enough to need another pair.

   My parents never mentioned the fire or the shoes and I was sure we’d gotten away with the crime of the century, but looking back they must have noticed. They probably thought having my feet bound like a geisha was punishment enough.

   Another time Phil and I were playing Robin Hood or Lord of the Rings or something. I had a child’s miniature compound bow and an arrow with the tip broken off so it was just a blunt stick with fletches on it. Phil was armed with an aluminum ski pole, the point of which we had stuck into a piece of rigid Styrofoam insulation so he could hit me with it without causing injury. It seemed like a fool proof plan but as the imaginary and painfully nerdish battle was joined the downward force of Sir Phillip the Fleet‘s mighty blow whipped the improvised padding off the end of the metal ski pole and I took the full force of his attack on the top of my unprotected head. It actually bent around my skull. I dropped like I’d been tasered and emitted a howl of pain and rage that sounded like Sebastian Bach slamming his testicles in a car door.

   Once again Phil weighed his options and settled on heading for de hills. Sadly for him, lonely hicknerds (my own term) living in the middle of nowhere have a lot of time to practice their archery skills. I rolled into a crouch and hit him right in the kidneys at a full gallop, a shot I’m unapologetically proud of to this day. He went down in a writhing, squealing heap and I resumed my high pitched wailing.
   Seconds later my father burst from the house, certain we were being set upon by a band of ravenous wolverines or possibly caught our hair in a drill press. Instead he found two idiots who had turned on each other due to a combination of poorly engineered fake weaponry and severe anger control issues. A proud moment to be sure.

   I told you these stories because they are two great examples of the type of wholesome outdoor fun we used to have. Think of the character building and the life lessons. The grass fire taught me that sometimes in life, as in arson, you make mistakes. When that happens you have to be ready to jump right in and make things right…and then hide the evidence.

   The nerd skirmish taught me that when life bashes in your skull with a metal shaft you have to get back up and fight. Even if that means shooting your friend in the back as he runs away begging for mercy. A harsh lesson but life’s rough. Phil learned that you never run away from a psycho with a projectile weapon in a straight line. You gotta zig. You can’t learn this stuff from video games or TV

   When my dad wasn’t watching one of his hay fields burn down or treating arrow wounds he and I were always outside fixing something or doing chores. He loved to take me on long walks through our property and teach me about nature and the history of the land. At the time, especially as I got older, I often wanted to be somewhere else. In hindsight however those were the best times of all. I would give anything if my son and I could go for one walk in the woods with his Grandpa.

   We can’t, but we can go together and I can try to pass on some of the practical skills, stories and love of nature that he taught me.

   Were he here however, my dad might also tell you that some things you just can’t teach. For instance, how to hold a flashlight for someone fixing the carburetor on a ’74 Dodge pick-up. I would usually get distracted by a squirrel or something and end up shining the light into the wheel well as dad blindly scraped all the skin off his knuckles. This is actually how I learned about zigging when fleeing from an enraged lunatic so luckily it still turned out to be a teaching opportunity.

   I bought that ancient mini-bike I mentioned earlier with money I earned trapping minnows in the creeks and beaver ponds on our property to sell to the local bait shops. It involved miles of walking to empty the traps and my dad walked every foot of it with me, often after work and chores. We spent countless hours together in the woods and fields collecting those minnows and now as an adult (kind of) with a son of my own I realize that those times together were a much bigger reward than even a sweet ass 50cc Honda Z and those memories are something I will always cherish.

   At least I know I had a great role model as I try to find a way to strike a balance for my son between today’s technology driven activities and the robust, knuckle headed outdoor fun of my youth.

   Now, if you’ll excuse me, Goat Junior just finished watching a show which taught him how to solve problems using reading and words. He is now chasing a cat around the deck with a tower he built using Mega blocks . Looks like maybe he’ll just strike his own balance.

  

   The other day my cellphone died leaving me with no contacts and a new Blackberry i didn't know how to use.
   The helpful weirdo who gave me the tutorial on it's use overlooked the one feature I really needed to know about but is secondary and almost obsolete in today's world of twitter, youtube, instagram, facebook and skipeing. He didn't show me how to answer a call or hang up or you know, use it as a telephone.
   The next day I had to call CAA to have my truck towed from my new house to my mechanics. I placed the call and after everything was arranged, Joyce, my friendly CAA customer service rep, told me that when the truck was ten or fifteen minutes from my house I would receive an automated call to confirm everything.
   I then called Ross, my mechanic, to let him know it was on it's way. We had discussed it the week before but hadn't confirmed the details. There was no answer at his shop but I just assumed they were busy and decided to try back in a few minutes.
   Shortly thereafter my phone rang. It was CAA confirming the tow. This is when I discovered that I didn't know how to answer. I searched desperately for something clearly marked "phone answering button" or a picture of a cartoon man chatting on a tiny cartoon telephone, but to no avail. I felt like my dad trying to set the timer on a VCR. As the phone continued to ring I grew more and more desperate until I missed the call.
   I didn't know if by missing said call I had cancelled the tow, so I tried to call them back. I had already placed several calls but the strong mixture of panic, confusion and rage coursing through my veins somehow completely shut down the memory and reasoning centres of my brain and I couldn't figure out how to do that either. It just kept trying to find the number in my contacts.
   After what seemed like an eternity of fumbling around I finally got someone on the line who confirmed that the tow was still en route.
   Now it occurred to me that I had a guy coming to tow my truck 150km from Oshawa to Minden and I still hadn't confirmed with Ross that someone would be there to receive it. I quickly dialed the number of his shop again. I had actually figured out how to make a call, putting me on equal footing with everyone in North America born after the outbreak of World War One.
   The phone rang and rang with no answer. What if no one was there today due to unknown circumstances like a family illness or little known religious holiday? Ross didn't seem like the kind of guy who would shut down for Ash Wednesday but who knows?
   "Great Scott!" I thought, "I'd better call back and cancel that tow until I can speak to Ross!"
   It was then, as the phone rang on and on, that I realised I didn't know how to hang up either. Previously when I had managed to defy the odds and actually place a call, the person on the other end  had hung up and terminated the conversation. There was no one there to save my non tech savvy buttocks this time. If no one ever answered I might have to just throw the phone out and start over!
   In my mind I could see an imaginary clock ticking off the seconds until it would be too late to cancel the tow without suffering some kind of horrible consequences. A lifetime towing ban perhaps? Getting kicked out of the CAA? For the love of God! Where will I get my maps? I desperately jabbed at the device like a starving chicken pecking at a handful of corn.
   It was then that the panic, frustration and anger overwhelmed me. I began screaming "Why won't you hang up you..." well...lets just say I made some rather harsh and inappropriate accusations about the Blackberry's relationship with it's mother.
   Seconds later, as I stood there trying to regain my composure, I heard a faint voice say "Hello?".
   "Oh, hi Ross, how's it going?" I said nonchalantly.
   "Fine", said Ross in the tone of voice one uses when one answers one's phone only to find a crazy person screaming obscenities at one for no apparent reason. Sort of a mixture of confusion and barely restrained fury.
   I informed him that I had just gotten a new cell phone.
   "I see", he replied in the same voice.
   Clearly he would need more of an explanation.
   As my tale of stupidity and poor anger management unfolded Ross began to laugh and told me that he too had had his run ins with new technology.
   My wife has since shown me the two curved lines that are supposed to represent a right side up and upside down handset used for answering and hanging up. I'm not sure why the people at RIM chose icons so open to artistic interpretation, but I digress.
   Next week she's teaching me how to program a VCR.

A small change.

You can now post comments without being a member or signing in or whatever it is you used to have to do. Good or bad I appreciate the input.

Sunny Day at the Ballpark Bummed Out by Beer Bastards!

Saturday, June 5th was the kind of day baseball was invented for. Around 28 degrees, little wind, just a few faint wisps of cloud in the sky and the roof of the Rogers Centre wide open. With this in mind my good friend Doug, his charming sister Disey and I set out to cheer on the home team. $14 got us a seat in the upper deck and a mere $9.50 got us a beer, and I don't mean the big ass beer, just a normal beer.

Now I understand supply and demand and markups etc. but that's a little much. Lets assume that beer cost the concession $2.00, which it didn't but with wages for the beer sellers etc. lets say it does. I'm no math whizz but that's like a 375 per cent profit. Any where else charged you that much for a pint you'd tell them to get stuffed but they know they've got you. Who doesn't like some nice cold suds out at the old ball park?

Hank III hits Toronto

When I was a boy growing up on the farm it was just me and my mom and dad. Across the road at the top of the hill lived an aunt and uncle and at the bottom of the hill lived another. One family had 5 children and the other had eight. The oldest of these cousins had kids who were close to my age as well. Basically my family was my social world, and in that world you listened to country music...just country music.

I remember about grade eight I went over to my friend Dustin's house. He had young parents and they had a record collection. My life changed forever in that basement, listening to Pink Floyd and Alice Cooper.  Zeppelin, the Doors, AC/DC, Fleetwood Mac and Eric Clapton. I mean, we weren't Amish. I'd heard whatever crap they were playing on whatever radio station you could get in Miners Bay, Ontario back then, but to sit down and listen to "Are You Experienced" from start to finish, well that was an awakening. My love of Music was launched in that basement and I've always felt I owed Dustin a bigger debt than I could ever repay for sharing those dusty lps with me.

Scorcese, Weasel Pull Off Psycological Thriller

First lets get one thing straight. The movie reviews you read here are going to be for real people watching movies because they wish to be entertained. Most reviews I read are by some pompous dick telling me that some boring, plot less piece of shit is the movie of the friggin' year, thereby causing me to waste two and a half hours of my life watching the piece of crap. And if I don't agree, it isn't cause they're wrong, it's because I'm not smart or cultured enough to appreciate the delicate genius of the work. Bullshit!

Reports confirmed: Cleaveland Does in Fact Rock

I've always heard that Cleveland is kind of a shithole. Last weekend my wife, Mrs. Goat, and I travelled there to visit the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame (RRHF from here on out) and, the Browns not withstanding, we found these reports completely unfounded. Through Hotwire we got a nice room for $59 on the 20th floor facing the lake with floor to ceiling windows. From left to right our view took in the Federal Courthouse (all the public buildings are done in that impressive/cheesy classical Greek/Roman architectural style our American friends love so well. It's like Caesar's Palace without the slots), Browns Stadium, the Cleveland Public Auditorium (this one looked so Roman I think I saw Russel Crowe fighting a tiger through the window), the Great Lakes Science Centre, Cleveland City Hall and the RRHF with beautiful Lake Erie in the background.

In the morning we ordered breakfast from room service and as always I was amazed by how inexpensive food is in the States and shocked and a little dismayed by the size of the portions. Mine included two eggs, a mound of home fries, four sausage patties and two pancakes. "Who the hell could eat all this crap," I wondered. I think I figured it out later as I watched my fellow patrons waddle around the RRHF, but I digress. Mrs. Goat ordered french toast which was four huge pieces with some kind of hazelnut, cream cheese concoction sandwiched between them, fresh fruit on the side, juice and a full pot of coffee and the whole mess came to about $30.