June 6, 2007 - Wednesday

June 6, 2007 - Wednesday
someone around here needs a life

I like big tools.

I'm not referring to Vin Diesel, or Rob Schneider, who is a smaller tool. I'm talking about those tools designed by men, for men, that make loud noises, shake dramatically, and require all your strength to keep control of.

I came upon this realization the other day when I had, in my hand, a Simonize SL 1400 High Pressure Water Cleaner. The thing shoots out 10 liters of water a minute and is quoted as being a "serious water blaster" by people that know about such things. I was using this beast to strip paint off of garage door, and as soon as I plugged in the hose and turned the thing on I knew I was dealing with one bad motherfucker. The amount of water coming out of the nozzle –adjustable to 'wide' and 'focused' spray– was a super-torrent that could easily disintegrate a small dog or strip the flesh off of a charging salesman.

And, there is a reason why small children are not allowed near such machines. It's not just for fear of them driving their eyeball to the back of their skulls by the shear force of the water. No, it's much more cerebral. It took a great deal of will-power to not turn the nozzle away from the garage door and knock down passing bicyclists and joggers with it's formidable spray. This kind of will-power is not available to children who would not hesitate to blast a squirrel out of a tree, or shoot a bird in mid flight. This is the strength over tools I'm talking about; not just physical, but mental.

It was certainly psychological when I pointed the nozzle in the air and saturated people gardening two houses away. The fools never knew that hit them. One minute they were peacefully plucking dandelions out of their Begonia garden, the next thing they knew they were drenched, as if maliciously targeted by an unholy supernatural being. If I had not had mature self-control they would have been in need of an air-rescue.

That's the kind of raw power you have when you're handling a really effective piece of machinery. You are more powerful and relentless than nature itself. Years of thought, planning, and work that may have gone into the design of a structure or room, in a matter of moments can be undone. Like a PCP driven Mongol horde had stormed the place; ruthlessly raping the light fixtures, subjugating the wall unit, and then riding off on the Shop-Vac.

A friend of mine has a 1,000,000 candlepower flashlight. Don't ask me why a guy living in a loft-flat in Prague would have a light so strong that if you put your hand over the beam you can clearly see your skeleton. Suffice it to say –as a testament to his personality– he once offered to show me "how to skin a shrieking rabbit with his teeth". When you shone that thing across the courtyard at 3am into someone's bedroom window you could clearly see the scared shitless faces of people certain they are about to die at the hands of unearthly beings. Although, not dangerous unless you held it to someone's nose while they're sleeping and abruptly turned it on (instantly turning their eyeballs into two charred raisins), you could still easily temporarily blind people that drive slowly in the left lane.

And I can't say enough respectful words about the Orbit Sander. Although it has a fairly unassuming name, most sane households will avoid having it on premises at all costs. The thing is far too unruly; prone to sudden fits of epileptic-type spasm, and obeying it's own rules. When my father rented a Dewalt 3A 5 In. Vs Random Orbit Sander I was unnerved at first because I heard it before I saw it –the thing was loud. As I gazed down on the tool, looking like a cowering armadillo with a sand paper disc for legs (the orbit sander, not me) I almost laughed: "Why, you little devil," I thought, "I'll ride you like a petting-zoo pony."

It was deceptive little fucker though. When I turned it on, it shot out of my hand and raced across the floor like a badger on crack; stripping off an inch of wood veneer in it's wake. Desperately I lunged for the twisting extension cord and caught hold of it with both hands. That's when the De Walt Random Orbit Sander got nasty. It turned on me with a fierce whine and shot towards my face. Showing extraordinary reflexes I rolled out of the way just as it whizzed passed my head coming the other direction. One final dive and I had it pinned under me. With some hard wrestling I finally had the thing firmly in my grip –requiring the full weight of my body to keep the little monster in check. Through brute strength and coercing it got the job done.

Aside from the weed-wacker, with it's rapidly spinning wire that could disable the collars of people that wear them up and strip idiots of their modern mohawk-style haircuts, or the wonderful chainsaw, whose magical design causes disobedient trees to moan in fear, I have to say one of my favourite tools is the power drill. Perhaps it is it's ambidextrous quality, allowing you a vast array of drill bits and removable heads. Drill bits that could bore 3 inch diameter hole through the drums, and skull, of a parkside bongo player. Of course, you'd need an extension bolt for that kind of depth, but that's part of the genius of a power drill. You can get one. Perhaps it is it's solid weight, filling your hand with a throaty vibration –the slow-to-fast torque of the thing –pleasing to the senses. All the senses except smell. That is, until you excavate a hole through a joist, or turn an American Idol into ground beef and whiff the sweet scent of friction-burn.

But it's not all about wrecking and destruction, right? I mean a nail gun, for example is quite suited to securing a baseboard to drywall in a quick an efficient manner. But why engage in such a mundane activity when you have that kind of power? Why not, say, secure a juggler to the drywall instead?

After all, that's why they're called power tools, right?

If you need me I'll be attacking mimes with my Radial Arm Saw.

And why did it take me two weeks to write this crazy drivel?

May 28, 2007 - Monday

May 28, 2007 - Monday
anatomy of a jewish wedding

Recently I had the honour of attending a Jewish wedding and be a key personage therein.
As an outsider to the Jewish faith I became privy to a number of nuances and traditions surrounding their marriage ceremony. For the benefit of those of you who have never attended such a wedding I shall attempt to deconstruct the thing in order to alleviate any embarrassment or blunders that might occur in your ignorance. Blunders such as calling the Yamulke –a traditional head-doily– a 'beany', or screaming "Boo-yaka!" after downing a glass of wine during a toast situation.

I should point out here that in Hebrew the bride is called the Choson . Which would make one think that the groom should be called the Chosor. This is not so. The Groom is in fact called the Kallah, prompting people to say (in Hebrew, of course), "Hey, the chick you've choson is hot, you lady-kallah. Nice one."

The Jewish wedding actually begins a week before the ceremony. At this time it is tradition for the Kallah to say the Haftorah in Synagogue. The Haftorah is a reading of the Torah (the Jewish book of 'Stuff To Do With Our Faith') –but only half of it. In it, the husband-to-be sings a number of pertinent verses from it's pages. Because the Torah is read back to front it must be sung in this manner as well. This means that if you were to record what the Groom is singing and play it in reverse, coherence and understanding will illuminate such lines as:

Aye, so I'm getting marrrried a week from todaaay
She's pretty hooooot, and a hell of a laaaay.
But will she by kveeeetching when she has to cleeean?
This goddamned weeeedding is bad on the beeean.

In the synagogue there is a gentleman who is turning a large brass handle. He appears to have been sitting there since the sixteenth century because he is slumped over dead, and nothing on him moves except for his arm (Perhaps it is the handle that is turning him, the wise Jew might ask). At first I couldn't figure out what his purpose was until I realized that he was changing the numbers on a very large panel featured prominently beside him. These numbers indicate on which page the congregation is meant to be during the shared recital of the Torah. Without once turning his head, and assuming he had gone deaf in 1837, it is beyond me how he kept the non-dyslexics abreast as to where exactly in the massive tomb you were expected to be reading from.

It is imperative during the singing of the Haftorah –and this surprised me somewhat– that members of the congregation wander around aimlessly, talk loudly to each other across the synagogue, and shake hands repeatedly with people they just shook hands with a moment ago. Loud whispering, giggling, and hawking phlegm are also acceptable. However –and this is important– when the drapes that hide the compartment (arc) containing the Torah scrolls are open the entire congregation must hide under their seats and keep perfectly quiet and still until they are closed again. This whole aspect bears further investigation, but I doubt I'll ever be invited to a synagogue again.

It is interesting to note that at the Haftorah candy must be thrown at the Choson and Kallah-to-be. Smaller, sucker-type candy is preferable. Only Rabbis are permitted to throw Toblerones, Reeses Pieces, Oh Henrys, and the more advanced sweets. According to the helpful Rabbi, the throwing of candy is symbolic of friends and loved ones wishing sweetness upon the new couple. This may be so, but I was aware that the trajectory and speed of those hard candies suggested wishes that were more in line with severe ocular injury than sweetness offered. We needn't have worried our throwing arms though. As it turns out, there would be plenty of opportunities to jeopardize the couples' lives later.

But, before I get into all of that, I need to put the Jewish wedding into context: alcohol is involved. Sadly there are no words to describe just how much alcohol is involved. It is the lifeblood of the Jewish wedding –or any Jewish ceremony it seems. Suffice it to say that the amount of alcohol consumed could easily have filled six Olympic sized swimming-pools and still kept all of Malaysia unproductive for a week.

For me, the drinking began at about 9.30, the morning of the wedding, when we met the other groomsmen to change into our tuxedos. Immediately shots of tequila were had –threefold. And, as any professional drinker knows, once you tie on a good drunk you've got to keep the thing going or risk total mental and physical shut down. This was also the first time I'd ever drank a full cup of coffee. The result was that I was twisted and brutally wired by the time we got to the nearby lake, at 11.00, to have the ubiquitous pictures of the wedding-party taken.

Originally a groomsman had a little flask of whiskey which we all surreptitiously sipped out of in respectful deference to the thousands of Chinese tourists milling about to see the famous Ottawa Tulip Festival. But men in tuxedos disdain such mundane rules as it being illegal to have an open bottle of alcohol in plain sight, it being disrespectful to drunkenly park on a heavily populated sidewalk, or screaming loudly and incoherently at entire families unhinges people –especially on a beautiful, peaceful, Sunday morning. The flask was soon abandoned in favor of a mickey of scotch, out of which we took many copious gulps, and commented loudly to passing children how grateful we were to be drinking scotch.

With our utter inebriation things could have gotten sticky when the bride and her maids arrived, but thankfully they had been drinking heavily as well. Occasionally a few of us would wander off to a nearby bar to have more shots. The overall effect was of a large group of well-dressed people carrying on like Mexican sailors at a cock-fight.

In the Jewish wedding it is also necessary to have one key person so above-and-beyond pissed that they become a hazard to themselves and the entire wedding altogether. Essentially, his job is to be 'The Random Factor' –that one uncertain element that needs constant attention outside of the regular stressful build-up towards the actual ceremony or Simcha. Thankfully, one of the groomsmen selflessly took on this role two nights before when he attempted to fire-walk a bonfire at another groomsman's place. The first walk was barely successful, the second time, not so well. I believe someone actually screamed. On the wedding day it was his job to maintain his drunk at such a level that he wobbles precariously, slurs his speech, fondles the bridesmaids, enrages the wedding planners, needs to be supported down the aisle by two people, makes awkward sexual advances on every one of the two-hundred guests with a vagina, and hugs and expresses 'deep love' to every other guest with a dick. All these important tasks should culminate in a loud and stirring version of U2's 'With or Without You' in which the last verse is repeated eight times into a microphone that can only be pried away with two crowbars and a chainsaw.

Where the wedding party itself is expected to be drunk three times on the day, it is the responsibility of all the guests to become drunk at least once by the end of the evening. This drunkenness not only tweaks companionship and dulls embarrassing situations, but it also serves to utterly confound any unified attempt to learn, or dance, some of the required steps. It also excuses your incoherence as you try to sing along with a Cantor who is singing backwards without the benefit of a dead guy with a brass handle and large numbers.

Due to the Bride's heritage it was required that everybody dance the Greek Zorba. I dimly recall the Choson showing me the moves, but it was right after rehearsal, and I was in the heavy-headed ditch between my first and second inebriations. When it was time to actually dance the Zorba there was a failure in concentric theorem –abruptly halting the circular motion of the group and forcing someone's shoulder deep into my nostril. Also there was injurious misstepping onto the bare feet of the dancing women who would soon be hurt more because it is part of Jewish tradition to smash all sorts of tableware –plates, glasses, salt shakers, quadriplegics– onto the dance floor. Further injury would come from people slipping on sudden and surprising pools of fresh female Greek blood.

Indeed, the opportunity to place the lives of the Bride and Groom in great peril abounded throughout the wedding Simcha itself. For example, dancing the Horah; where two men grasp each other's hands in a cross-wise grip and create a kind of centrifuge with their spinning bodies, as they turn in increasingly faster circles, while flailing their legs about like spastic hacky-sackers. The goal here seemed to be to create enough circular momentum for both parties to simply lift their feet off the ground entirely and twirl up into the air like helicopter propellers.

Later, I would unorthodoxically dance the Horah to techno with the groom himself. Happily I finally had an opportunity to injure him and approached the duty enthusiastically; successfully wrenching his shoulder and rendering him incapable of surgery for two to three weeks.

Other duties of the groomsmen include:
Getting drunk
Arranging, and taking part in various circles
Making lewd comments to the bridesmaids
Controlling the 'Random Element' Groomsman
Screaming loudly at anybody not speaking English
Creating a 'flying wedge' through groups of Sunday morning gawkers
Swaying unsteadily, and obviously, during the course of the ceremony
Viciously attacking other groomsmen from behind with large pieces of cake
Constantly explaining your relationship to the Groom
Using your shiny shoes to look up women's dresses

Another excellent opportunity to injure the Bride and Groom is the point at which the Choson and Kallah each sit on chairs of such ancient quality they seemed to be held together by spit. As soon as they are barely seated members of the wedding party hoist them into the air and vigorously bounce them up and down. This is to dislodge their brains which have been affixed to the back of their skulls via the centrifugal force of all the spinning they were doing only seconds before. Keep in mind that the couple have been fasting all day and therefore each of their brains have long been marinating in bone-tanks of pure alcohol. Further serious injury or total death is risked by them both hanging on to one end of a flimsy veil while airborne with one hand, and desperately clinging to their violently bucking chair with the other. The hope at this point is that their eyes are pointing in entirely different directions in their skulls, but because the hoisters cannot see the eyes of the couple they vigorously buck them ten or twelve more times for good measure. I could not find the name of this particular tradition anywhere, but in some cultures it is known as Fukkin Pr'karious.

All this is done while men are wearing the traditional Jewish hat called the yarmulke or kippah. The sources for wearing a kippah are found in the Talmud. In tractate Shabbat 156b it states "Cover your head in order that the fear of heaven may be upon you". The kippah, in it's inherent symbol of faith, defies basic laws of gravity by not falling off, even when you have a garden-hedge sized afro or a smoothly shaven head. And, although I did not specifically feel the fear of heaven upon my head I did, however, feel the fear of looking like a well-dressed penis with a large mole.

The actual ceremony itself is marked by traditions spanning many thousands of years. The recitation of the Sheva Brachot or Seven Blessings is done surrounding the shared drinking of a cup of wine. After the recent lull in drinking before the ceremony this ensures that the couple remains drunk. Relative inebriation is tested by having the bride walk three circles around the groom who could potentially pass-out from the ensuing vertigo. It also prepares the Choson for all the drunken circles she'll have to deal with for the rest of the day. Directly after they have been wedded, and smashed a glass of wine under foot (more broken cutlery), it is custom for the Choson and Kallah to retire to a room by themselves for a duration of time. This is called the Yichud. There is much mystery about what goes on during the Yichud, but in my best estimate it is an opportunity for them to vomit copiously enough to allow their bodies to consume more alcohol. Either that, or it is time to do a series of stretches and exercises to limber up their bodies for the upcoming psychological and physical attacks upon their person.

This Jewish wedding, for me, was an absolute blast.

I hope to finally injure the bride at a later date.

May 3, 2007 - Thursday

May 3, 2007 - Thursday

nothing funny here folks, please move along.

For the past two weeks I've been trying to find some way to dredge up some glimmer of light concerning the Virginia Tech University shootings in which, on April 16th, 2007, a stone-faced Chinese guy shot and killed 32 students over the course of two hours.

Forgive me, but this is my attempting to wrap my head around the whole thing and give it a humourous spin. Sadly, during the course of me amassing data on school shootings in general, the media beat me to the punch. They made, what is essentially a very unfunny thing, a total debacle. And the mountains of data i've accumulated on school shootings is immense. So immense, in fact, that if I suddenly decided to arm myself with a couple of Beretta Cx4 Storm semi-automatic carbines and go Hong Kong Cinema on my Alma Mater, the authorities would have little to do but look at my hard drive and find in my computer the source of all those dead kid's parents woes –clearly I had an obsession. And, although I seemed like a nice boy, I was a bit of an outcast; rejected by my peers and unceremoniously dumped by the woman I love.

I can't for the life of me figure out why the media insists on delving into the 'psychological profile' of people like Cho, or Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold (the pimply shitbirds responsible for the Columbine killing spree), or Kimveer Gill (a skinny little Goth fuck who went on a rampage through Dawson College in Montreal last year).Who cares that Cho (according to CNN) "…demonstrated repetitive behavior such as listening repeatedly to Collective Soul's Shine…" –the kind of behaviour that would prompt me to shoot him... Wait, why not blame it all on Collective Soul? It'd at least shut them up for a little while.

Anyway.

Who gives a ferret's wang that (according to Northeastern University criminal justice professor James Fox) "..In virtually every regard, Cho is prototypical of mass killers that I've studied in the past 25 years…"? 25 years James? I think somebody needs a hug.

In terms of taking preventative steps against these types of things happening, psychological profiles are about as useful as large teeth on a fruit fly. This can be illustrated by The National School Safety Center (or, We Convened This Group About 50 Years Too Late and Still Came Up With Twaddle) with their 'Checklist of Characteristics of Youth Who Have Caused School-Associated Violent Deaths'. They state without raw embarrassment that "These characteristics should serve to alert school administrators, teachers and support staff to address needs of troubled students …as well as referrals to appropriate community health/social services and law enforcement personnel. Furthermore, such behavior should also provide an early warning signal…"

Have these people never been inside a school? They're saying that authority figures are meant to keep an eye out for a few odd birds in places that contain more weird behaviour than a LSD-ravaged circus troupe. Here is their checklist:

Has a history of tantrums and uncontrollable angry outbursts.
Characteristically resorts to name calling, cursing or abusive language.
Habitually makes violent threats when angry.
Has previously brought a weapon to school.
Has a background of serious disciplinary problems at school and in the community.
Has a background of drug, alcohol or other substance abuse or dependency.
Is on the fringe of his/her peer group with few or no close friends.
Is preoccupied with weapons, explosives or other incendiary devices.
Has previously been truant, suspended or expelled from school.
Displays cruelty to animals.Has little or no supervision and support from parents or a caring adult.
Has witnessed or been a victim of abuse or neglect in the home.
Has been bullied and/or bullies or intimidates peers or younger children.
Tends to blame others for difficulties and problems s/he causes her/himself.
Consistently prefers TV shows, movies or music expressing violent themes and acts.
Prefers reading materials dealing with violent themes, rituals and abuse.Reflects anger, frustration and the dark side of life in school essays or writing projects.
Is involved with a gang or an antisocial group on the fringe of peer acceptance.
Is often depressed and/or has significant mood swings.
Has threatened or attempted suicide.

I'm reminded of my very dear friend Andy 'Oxide' Camm; bar owner, misanthropist, and leading metallurgist. He (and I know he would agree with me) will have worn his pencil down to a nub if he was playing at home and checking the appropriate boxes above.

The thing is, My level of surprise could be described as 'serious' if I were to hear about Andy going on a blood-drenched shooting spree throughout the Prague streets. 'Serious', even though every time I met with Andy, which was weekly for sometimes triple-day sessions, he discussed killing one person or another. In his defense though, the urge to go on shooting rampages in the Czech Republic can be very intense on some days.

Well. Whatever.You delve into the psyche of these nitwits and you always end up with the same words: 'troubled', 'beleaguered', 'depressed', 'loner', 'sociopath', 'isolation', 'frustration', etc.. Words, by the way, that can be found all over my personality write-up. These words are always ascribed posthumously and meant, somehow, to distinguish them 'the crazy' from you 'the normal'. They're meant to assure you that there were special circumstances that account for their total swerve off of Rational Avenue, and that you are nothing like them. These words also daintily skip around the real issues –the sticky one's, like how the fuck did a kid get his hands on enough ammunition to overthrow Granada? Okay, maybe not such a good example. I once accidentally overthrew Granada when I asked their consulate an awkward question.

No, news agencies prefer to subject you to the yammering faces of stern be-spectacled psychological and sociological 'experts' who engage in wild speculation as to the mental state of the killer before and during their massacre.

As I've already said many times before: the belief in the myth is strong in North America. The vast majority of people eagerly gobble up 'information' from these quacks hoping desperately to find the answer to the golden question: Why? When the question should really be: How?

These jack-asses, who were obviously happy-slapped in High School themselves, try to make rational people understand irrational behaviour by describing the uncomfortable environmental and sociological conditions of the would-be killers, so that 'normal' people might be able to understand why –well, he wasn't popular in high school, he had an obsession with a girl, he got rejected from the reserves, he found a lewd Cheerio in his breakfast that morning, etc.

Anyone who's seen footage of spring break in Cancun knows that schools are cesspools of psychosis and fucked-up behaviour. Any one of the shadowy dipshits you see in the background of a Girls Gone Wild video is a prime candidate for extremely ugly acts. As a matter of fact, losers like Cho –who would never be invited to those hormonal monkey-fests in the first place– could be considered 'normal' in that context. The thin red line becomes fuzzy here folks.

All the idiot speculation of these 'behaviour analysts' does is provide more airtime to these cretins than they deserve. Do we really need to hear their pathetic whingeing explanation as to what personal strife they went through that caused their deadly tantrum?

Look, they're fuck-ups, they freaked out and didn't freak back again. Fine.  Nothing to see here folks, move along. Let people reel and grieve without having these assholes faces flashed on the screen again, and again, and again.

Ah…I suppose you can't really blame the media though, right? I mean they show what people want to see. Or is it the other way around? Bleh.You can blame the parents, blame the movies, blame their peers, and blame the video games. You can open up these guys heads and find out where the synapses misfired. You can delve arduously into the mental capacity of these degenerates and you're still left with the fact that millions of other violence-obsessed, maladjusted, tweaked, ostracized kids do not decide to solve their woes through the heated barrel of a shotgun.

This from the Chicago Tribune (May 2, 2007 –a mere two weeks after Cho went Chernobyl): "The state's governor, Rick Perry, suggested the other day that Texans would all be a lot safer if gun owners who hold concealed-weapons permits were allowed to carry their weapons in places where they are now prohibited, such as schools, churches, courthouses and bar.

"This from a Prague friend in her blog:"Apologies if I come across as slightly pious, but it does nark me that when 33 Septics are killed in a suicide attack it is front page news, Bush and Blair do their furrowed-brow bit, and even The Queen has a few words to say.

However when, on a daily basis, 60 or 80 people are killed in Iraq in pretty simillar suicide attacks, it makes little more than a nib.

I calculate that the exchange rate in terms of news values is about 20 Iraqis to one American."Odd, isn't it, how the horrors of Vietnam were beamed into the living room of everyone that had a television in the early 70's. You got to see the bloody tatters of flesh and the screaming bandaged wounded. This time around, with Iraq, nary a scratch. You would almost think, judging by the media coverage, that things are going well. Somebody is glossing some naughty things over with other naughty things for the benefit of a cloistered self-absorbed society that can't see too many miles beyond their television set.

By the way. Czechs are obsessed with guns. I know beautiful model-types who go to the firing range daily to fire a few off. I've seen people on the metro blatantly carrying perfectly serviceable broad swords. I've been in houses and seen Glocks lying on a coffee tables as casually as a coaster. Czechs love weapons: blades, rifles, hand-guns, crossbows, Kalshnikovs, maces, smelling badly…hell, the place was a major manufacturer of guns during the sordid communist days. Yet, the amount of violent crime is minimal.

I believe a lot of this had to do with the two years mandatory military service at a young age. This has since been done away with, but the echo still remains: They learn, hands on, about the heavy responsibility of holding a gun –they take the fuckers seriously.

Or maybe it's because they're all too busy trying to attain the Great American Splendor they see in the movies; they simply don't have time to wallow in self-pity and seriously ponder the visceral masturbatory fantasy that we all occasionally entertain about laying waste to everything that pisses us off.

See? like I said, nothing funny here.

April 18, 2007 - Wednesday

April 18, 2007 - Wednesday
i'm into...hockey?

Last night I watched a hockey game.

It was the Ottawa Senators vs. the Pittsburgh Penguins.

Now, I know that manly men of the masculine persuasion are expected to like sports. I also consider myself to be a manly man of the masculine persuasion, but why is it I can't seem to get into them?

When I was living in Europe I was surrounded by people that were obsessed with football ('prancington' in the North American vernacular). Many of my English friends were hard-core and could rattle off obscure game statistics dating back eight decades like an autistic savant. And God forbid you openly support the wrong team because the last thing you'll see will be the sharp end of a broken beer glass right before it encounters your surprised eyeball. The problem was, it's a sport that looks –to me– like a bunch of girly-men throwing themselves onto the ground in bad renditions of fake melodrama all over a big green field. There also seemed to be a ball involved, but rarely.

I managed to confound some of my football obsessed friends with this perception because, not only did I not support a team, but I found lint to be more interesting. As it turns out, giving back equal amounts of total disinterest to someone's raving preoccupation unhinges people. Often, when I cut short a football-oriented monologue with indications that I have no idea what the person is talking about, their faces read like an essay on befuddlement: He doesn't like football? How can this be?

Should I attack?

Football dementia affected the day-to-day lives of many. This can be illustrated by the hordes of men who adjusted their hairdo (heavy emphasis on 'do') into half-assed chicken combs in deference to David Beckham (a famous English footballer who is known in North America for being married to, what appears to be, an ostrich sucking a lemon). It was a strange thing to see grown men proudly sporting the exact hairstyles their mothers had given them as toddlers in their childhood bathtub for a lark. Well, if the last of the Mohicans ever feel slighted by colonialism all they have to do is take a glance across the Atlantic and know that revenge, in part, can be served in style (so to speak). This is actually something that blacks figured out a long time ago and have been inflicting on stupid white people ever since.

In some parts of Europe, particularly the parts that smell like olives and/or paellas, they occasionally kill the actual players of the game in fits of rabid disappointment. In other parts, fans ecstatically kill themselves through shear asphyxiating numbers. If you combine the fatalities in Glasow, Cairo, Beunes Aires, Bastia, Hillsborough, Ellis Park and Anfield the amount of people that have died makes the Spanish Inquisition look like the Spanish Open-Ended Discussion.

What drives people to this level of total brain-damage?

And what's with the connection between being a sports fan and being manly?

I say this because I have noticed that men tend to question the sexuality of other men that do not like sports. Often my friends in Prague –in order to assure themselves and strangers of my heterosexuality– would explain away my disinterest in football by saying, "Oh, he's Canadian. He likes hockey." This, from the same guys that love to watch men running, panting, sweating, and screaming in outfits that would look much better on a girl. I mean knee-high socks and shorts?

Come on.

Okay, I admit to some truth in the Canada/hockey thing. I mean, I am Canadian (though barely), and Canadians love hockey. Invented in Canada and dominated by Canada, it is Canada's national sport. Canadians abroad, when they're not being mistaken for Americans or lambasted for lynching baby seals, are inevitably asked, "So, you like hockey?" and the answer is an unequivocal "Yes!"

And it's true, Canadians are goofy over the game. They'll paint their faces with their team colours and rows of them will each write a letter on their pale chests to spell out 'HE SCORES!' Of course, several beers and many trips to the toilet later, it'll be: 'SECS HOER!' This level of goofiness is no different from football in most of the rest of the world. The key difference being, we don't kill each other or the players over it –we let the players do that to each other. We also don't have people streaking a hockey match. Nudity and ice don't mix unless you're at the morgue.

The similarities between the two games are as follows:

Many men are moving about
They fall over sometimes
They play in a large rectangle with walls
They chase a thing
They try to put the thing in a netted area
The netted area is guarded by a man with crazy gloves
They are all controlled by other men with stripy shirts and whistles
The stripy men frown on any behaviour that would make the game more interesting
Everyone keeps their testicles protected

And that's pretty much it. In hockey, the men glide around at incredible speeds on skates. In football, they jog around on Addidas. In hockey, the men use large sticks on each other and the thing that they're chasing. In football, they use words and cheap theatrics on each other and the thing that they're chasing. In Hockey, when someone gets clobbered, they fall down. In football, when someone falls down they should get clobbered. That last statement I truly feel. Nothing bothers me more than when some mincing ponce collapses to the ground clutching his knee when it was clear that nothing more than an errant fart from another player could have inflicted his grievous injury.

Ah, you see? Now it sounds like I'm just denigrating football in favour of hockey. Like a true Canadian would. But listen: I think hockey is okay as far as sports goes; It's fast, hard-hitting, basic, and interesting to watch. But I, in no way, harbour an unhealthy preoccupation with the thing like many of my compatriots. Ultimately it's just a fucking game; a hell of a lot more interesting than watching golf, and a lot more coherent than cricket.

It's very difficult for me to dredge up any interest at all about sports that don't directly involve me in some way. For example: I'm actually playing it then and there. Take baseball: I actually enjoyed playing it in my youth. Catching things, throwing things, running and swinging a large stick appealed to me (A bit incongruous, actually, because I don't like playing sports in a team. I'm not what you'd call, a 'team player'). But, I will fully acknowledge that watching the fucker is like having a hatpin slowly inserted into your ear. Similar things could be said about watching golf (getting kicked in the balls by a yak), curling (being hung by your eyelids from an operating ceiling fan), and volleyball (being beaten on the head with a whale tongue).

As a matter of fact a better question to ask is what sports do I enjoy watching?

Aside from boxing, road rallies, and amateur female wrestling…well…none.

I do know that watching sports is made much more interesting by listening closely to the running commentary:

"Whoa, he really put his stick up into the crease!"
"In a man-on-man situation, you don't want to be caught with your pants down!"
"Julian Dicks is everywhere. It's like they've got eleven Dicks on the field!"
"He knows that if he wants to take him from behind he's got be sneakier, and a lot faster!"
"If he leaves himself wide open you know someone is gonna come along and score!"
"He's a young guy, but he's strong, talented, and a great stick-handler!"
"When you're playing this game you've really got to strap it on and go at it full force!"
The thing about sports commentators –and this is why I love them– is that they're only good at one thing: rapidly giving play-by-play description as the game is occurring.

Left to their own devices their brains switch to idle:

"Well Bob, there was definitely some exciting play out there on the field. Filled with tension and excitement."
"That's right Phil, it was a tense game on the field, but very exciting."
"You just don't see that much tension or excitement in this sport these days, right Bob?'
"Sure Phil, the excitement was tense, and the sport was these days."
"And, Bob, you know that this amount of tension can only be more intense with all the excitement surrounding today's game."
"Indeed Phil. It's truly intense. Surrounding tension amounts with Bob's excitement makes today's game tensely excitified."
Who are these guys –gibbons they've trained to speak?

Anyway.

Perhaps my general disdain towards watching sports springs from me generally sucking at them. But this doesn't seem to stop other people. And there are some sports that I enjoy doing and am active in; namely, windsurfing and skiing. I just don't want to have to watch people windsurfing or skiing.

To me watching a sport like hockey is a bit like watching a porn with too much plot. I'm really watching the thing to see guys get slammed hard into the boards or throw their gloves down and brawl. Yes, the goals are exciting and the level of skill and dexterity is magnificent, but don't describe to me how Mitzy got trapped in a boarding school with a bunch of aggressive lesbians. Show me what she's going to do about it.

And frankly, although I enjoy the comradery, I'm not even very good at being a spectator. Last night, when watching our city's team play, they scored two goals. Part of the male ritual surrounding your team scoring a goal is to give your fellow spectators high-fives. I was not only unable to land a single one, i even managed to slap a fellow spectator on the forehead in the process.

Instead of the room being filled with clapping noises it was filled with an embarrassed silence.
Rather like this one…