Rumble young man rumble

From The Dead, from James Joyce’s The Dubliners:

“A few light taps upon the pane made him turn to the window. It had begun to snow again. He watched sleepily the flakes, silver and dark, falling obliquely against the lamplight. The time had come for him to set out on his journey westward. Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over Ireland. It was falling on every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills, falling softly upon the Bog of Allen and, farther westward, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves. It was falling, too, upon every part of the lonely churchyard on the hill where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead. “

I am the Charlie Brown of bloggers in my office.

Let me come clean: I understand little of the do-dads available to dress up blogs — links and tags mystify me and widgets wonkify.

My co-workers on the other hand, are the crown prince and princess of the blogging planet, online masters of the popular sites: observationsofanewsjunkie.wordpress.com and theryancokeexperience.wordpress.com.

A typical conversation between the three of us:

Observations: Wow. I received 1,000 hits on yesterday’s post.

RyanCoke, nodding sagely: That’s nothing. I scored a cool 5,000.

Me: I got two on mine and one of them was me.

This reminded me of the It’s Halloween Charlie Brown cartoon:

“I got a chocolate bar!”

“I got a quarter!”

Charlie Brown: “I got another rock.”

Once, I received 10 whole hits on a post, which only served to attract a round of nods and pity.

That’s when my canny sense started to tingle.

I researched online tips to attract more hits — one site suggested making comments on other people’s blogs and including a link attachment to your own site.

I tried this on a friend’s blog about Barack Obama:

My comment: That’s interesting. It reminds me of a fascinating article on rumbleyoungmanrumble.wordpress.com.

It lasted a whole 5 minutes — the length of time it took my blogmaster friend to hit the erase key on her keyboard — apparently it’s bad form to lie in the comment box.

She’s become my blogging Lucy.

However, I’m starting to learn the ins and outs of the blogging world — for instance I can now include photos and polls in my posts — excuse the copious number of polls over the next few weeks; it’s just so exciting.

One day I will open my proverbial halloween box and discover a Hershey bar instead of a dirty mish-mash of rocks.

Fifteen years and counting.

The last time a Canadian team won the Stanley Cup Bill Clinton’s presidency was only a few months old, the Mulroney-era was mere months away from collapse and Groundhog Day was first released at movie theatres (Great movie).

The Montreal Canadiens beat Wayne-Gretzky’s L.A. Kings in the 1993 finals.

Since then, Lord Stanley’s Cup has set up permanent residence south of the border, flitting from Detroit to New York to New Jersey, Denver and a host of red, white and blue cities.

The Ottawa Senators came closest at winning the coveted hockey trophy in 2007, but fell to the once-Mighty Ducks.

This year looks to be another no-show, with Vancouver and Edmonton, Canada’s only longshot candidates.

My question to you gentle reader is why?

Hundreds of thousands of jobs lost.

Billions spent propping up ailing the auto maker and financial sectors.

And the stock market has flat lined over the past year.

I think we all might need a little pick me up.

The solution is obvious.

Create a holiday.

Ladies and gentlemen open your minds and hearts and welcome Recessmass into your yearly agenda.

It’s simple to set up:

A) Recessmass Tree: Chop down one of your neighbours or former bosses’ trees — preferably a small bent tree with little foilage — something that resembles the classic from A Charlie Brown Christmas. Place it in your office and home and decorate with ornaments made from useless stocks and bonds certificates; pink slips and eviction notices are other options.

B) Recessnog: Gather round the Recessmass tree and serve up some cold Recessnog; it’s easy to make: just squeeze a few plastic containers of ketchup, mustard and relish into a rusty steel bowl, add lukewarm water and stir. Yum. Friends, co-workers and family can gather round the tree quaff a few nogs and sing old favourites like: Brother Can You Spare a Dime? Money and I’m Down, by the Beatles, and She’s Giving Her Children Away (The Kids) by Lou Reed.

C) Don’t worry about expensive light decorations — you probably can’t afford electricity anyway.

D) Gifts: If you have children who insist on gifts just tell them Depresso Clause won’t be coming this year because they were such bad boys and girls. Alternatively, tell them to get a job.

E) Food: No food is required except for muffins — It is absolutely vital that make muffins for your co-workers.

G) Date: April 1.

Have yourself a Merry Little Recessmass.

Over the past year I have been sucked into the phenomena known as Lost.

Apparently this has been one of the top-rated shows on television over the past four years.

At first I attempted to ignore it’s existence.

Enter my co-workers.

For the sake of their anonimity I will give them fake names: Carol Frink and Com Tollins.

Anyways, here’s a sample of a typical conversation at my office over the past year.

Carol: Com? Did you watch Lost last night?

Com: Yeah. Pretty neat. I think the Island is a dinosaur and the trees are aliens.

Carol: No I think Richard is a time traveller.

Meanwhile I sit in the corner tapping away on the computer, struggling to understand the city’s latest economic forecast — unsucessfully as visions of T-Rexes dressed in space suit suddenly fill my mind.

Com: No. Richard is a caveman who ate a magic coconut that turned out to be the fountain of youth, giving him eternal life.

Carol: My favourite character is Hurley. I think he’s going to turn out to be Locke’s long lost daughter.

At this point I simply HAVE to make a comment.

Me: Why do they call it Lost?

Com: Passengers on a plane crashed on a deserted island and now they are lost.

Me: Didn’t they bring a map?

Carol: It wouldn’t matter. It’s a magic island.

Me: What’s the plot?

Com and Carol in harmony: You’d have to watch all the episodes to understand.

Com and Carol share a knowing look and then begin discussing the implications of the polar bears and decades-old beer.

Me:  They should do a sequel — you know what I’d call it?

Com and Carol again share a look: “Found. You’ve used that joke a dozens of times.”

I then made a valiant attempt to discuss the similarities of Lost to another deserted island sitcom: that 1960s golden oldie: Gilligan’s Island.

No dice.

That day I vowed to watch Lost.

Over several months I slogged my way through all four seasons — OK I used the fast forward button on my DVD remote, but I watched some of it.

But I’m still, well, lost.

I don’t understand why this Richard guy seems to live forever.

I don’t understand why the black smoke sounds like a Godzilla monster.

And I don’t understand why the main characters seem so desperate to return to the Island — they should take a page from the book of Gilligan.

Carol told me I needed to watch each and every episode — in their entirety. Then she resumed her conversation about space monkeys and quantum theory playing a key role in the future of the show.

This week I took out the official guide to the Lost series.

As Carol is my witness, I will understand this show.

I still think they should call it Lost in Translation.

(Series spoiler: The Island will turn out to be Newfoundland.)

Some would say a wedding is a magical time, a union of two souls, two hearts beating as one, (I read this somewhere in Vogue).

Sigh. Magical.

But let’s take a closer look.

There have been so many weddings over the centuries — who invented the concept by the way? — that humanity has developed a tried and, I guess, true script for the perfect wedding.

Script: Guy in suit stands awkwardly at the altar/secular non-place of worship trying not to notice the intense stare of thousands of eyeballs looking out from the pews/chairs. Standing beside him is a much-more relaxed guy in a suit fiddling with a jewelry box in his pocket.

Cue the organ music.

Guy in suit turns pale and is usually trembling by the time a set of doors open to reveal a strange figure dressed in various shades of white, her face covered by something resembling a doily.

She is accompanied by yet another figure in a suit, usually beaming — a strange sight for Trembling pale guy in suit — in the past whenever he came calling at the door the Beaming Man usually had a concerned frown on his face and was intensely interested about the subject of time.

“You and my little Annie have big plans tonight?”

“Yes sir.”

“Well, don’t be afraid to stay out until 8 p.m. — and show my little Annie a good time.”

At which point Beaming man would offer directions to the local movie theatre where the latest Disney movie was being shown.

During the wedding, Beaming man seems overjoyed to be gaining a son-in-law, however tightly he holds his daughter’s arm when giving away the bride.

When the music finally ends, the woman in white stands by Guy in suit’s side and the ceremony continues.

“Do you take (him or her)?”

“Yep.”

“Yep.”

The ceremony concludes with the ritual pelting of the guests with flowers.

Usually the guests retaliate with rice — in ancient times they used rocks, but gave up the practice after a few mishaps.

All this ceremony breeds familiarity and boredom often creeps its way in.

Why not spice the ceremony up a bit?

For instance, hold a karaoke wedding — where the bride, groom, father of the bride and assorted guests can sing their favourite tunes at different points during the wedding.

Or how about turning it into a romantic game show, like The Dating Game?

Script: Cue Wedding March, bride enters church.

Minister: “Live from Ottawa! Welcome to the Wedding Game! I’m Minister Mulver. Today we have Carol Ann, a dental assistant from Pembroke, Ontario. And today she will marry one of these three attractive bachelors . . .

Or why not add some drama to the event.

When the minister asks the groom if he will take this bride in holy matrimony, instead of saying “I do” why not allow a mysterious expression fall over his face as he says coyly, “Well, I dunno . . . Maybe yes and Maybe no.”

After a long dramatic pause, he could wink at the bride and say, “Just kidding honey.”

How about dramatic voiceovers, like they use for movie trailers?

Husky dramatic voice: “She was a blond waitress with a taste for jewels and a zest for life. He was a simple unemployed factory worker with a taste for television and absolutely no ambition. In less than an hour they will marry and there will BE … NO…WAY…OUT… If you thought Die Hard was thrilling wait until you see THE WEDDING!”

A wedding is supposed to be one of the most important stages in a person’s life.

Why not make it memorable.

The variety of possible themes is endless.

Habs playoff hopes are sinking

Well it looks like the Ottawa Senators will soon have golfing partners to pass the time away during the NHL playoffs.

The Montreal Canadiens are sinking fast in the Northeast division.

The Habs-not have lost nine of their last 11 games – their last donut-hole coming in the form of a fourth-consecutive loss to the Edmonton Oilers on Wednesday night.

Over that spread, they have potted 25 goals while allowing double that number to find shelter in Carey Price’s net.

Enter the inevitable calls for coach Guy Carbonneau’s head.

Coaching isn’t the problem.

The team just isn’t playing with any heart.

No drive.

No cajones.

The Habs aren’t dealing with any harsh injury problems relative to other teams in the league – they just refuse to work hard, resembling the early-season Ottawa Senators.

Following a 5-2 loss to the Toronto Maple Leafs, a teary-eyed Carey Price was at a loss to explain his team’s performance except to say he had to stop more pucks.

He could use a little defensive help from his teammates.If the Habs continue their lackluster play they won’t make the playoffs. The players must dig deep within themselves to recover.

How do you say ‘Golf anyone?’ en francais?

A funny thing happened on the web last week.

Rumble Young Man Rumble fell off the list of links of a popular news blogging site.

The horror.

I begged to have my link restored, but the blogmaster turned a deaf ear to my appeals: first I offered cookies, the Cornish webmaster responded with an amused laugh.

Muffins? A disgusted snort.

Chocolate? Well, she ate that, but then yet again refused my link.

Membership has its price, and that means I’m going to have to start blogging again — not that I don’t enjoy it.

Look for a steady stream of blogs about a wide variety of topics: basically whatever tickles my fancy.

Today, I’d like to discuss pregnancy.

The trouble with pregnancy is that it has a gender bias — the language of the expectant is naturally geared towards women.

Blatant discrimination.

“Oh you’re expecting?”

“I’m four weeks.” replies the glowing mother.

In the spirit of a more inclusive society, I think we should use terms that will invoke the interest and understanding of the unfairer sex.

“Oh, you’re expecting?”

“Yes. I’m about the size of a football.”

or

“Yes. My belly is almost as large as a regulation-size NBA basketball.”

When women deliver, they can describe their progress to husbands using sports terminology:

A wife whose water has broken can relate the news to hubby by saying: “Game time!”

False labour? “The game has been called on account of rain.”

Halfway through the birth she can update her progress by saying: “Time for the half-time show!”

And when little bobby or sally is about to make an appearance:

“Touchdown.”

Tearing down the barriers of communication can only make the experience of child birth that much more special and meaningful for both husband and wife.