Worry About ME!

Yesterday an email dropped into my inbox and the subject was 'A New Idea'. This New Idea was a whole list of activities mapping out a few could-be futures for my recently graduated younger brother, whom everyone seems to be worried about. I talked to my brother about the worriers, and he doesn't seemed to be worried about the worrying at all, which is maybe the reason people are worried. What I'm worried about, is the lack of worrying that is being devoted to my cause. So in an attempt to sway the band-wagon worriers back in my direction, I responded with this appeal:

I read this email and I have some thoughts. I seem to think this is the second message in the last little while where someone has commented on this topic of 'Worry about Neil'. My question is, 'What in the Heck! Why is there no worrying about the Jacksonian?!?!?!' Sure I smile a lot, and have a job, and take care of my body, and dress well, and like to partake in activities, and eat in moderation, and have friends, and no longer talk to stuffed-animals, and don't murder people, and brush my teeth, and aren't addicted to Crack, and shake hands firmly, and own a car, and like to listen to music, and find Puppies cute, and hate Jihadist Terrorist Cells, and can tell time on an analogue watch, and enjoy travel, and play team sports, and never stare at the sun, and never say 'never', and have the ability to tread water, and can rub my stomach and tap my head at the same time, on a good day, when no one is watching, if I rub with the left and tap with the right, and really concentrate on it, and only do it for 3 to 5 seconds... But Honestly! What's the Deal! People should be worrying about me all the time. All the Time!!

I don't think it worked though. It's much like the concept of insanity; to think you are insane in fact proves that you are not. Likewise, to ask for people to worry about you tends to suggest that they don't need to be concerned. Now, on the other hand, if you blog about worrying...

Fear the Flu

Earlier this week I read an article and had the following thoughts:

That's the spirit, a touch of the positive. Up until now I have faced the Fear-of-the-Flu with my usual approach to life's Less-Desirable situations; Let Future-Jack deal with it. I've more-or-less assumed that everything will simply take care of itself, and in three weeks my biggest worry will be 'have I spent enough time dosing under this palm tree'. But dammit if the Global-Gossip column won't let me dream my dream. Pandemic or no-Pandemic, Mexico or no-Mexico, 28-Days-Later or Shaun-of-the-Dead, the one thing I am ready to take from this whole Swine Flu ordeal is probably best descibed by one Jules from the Pulp: "Pig's a filthy animal..."

Below is the April 26th True/Slant article by Turi McNamee

http://trueslant.com/turimcnamee/2009/04/26/swine-flu-nothing-new/

As for the rest of that classic Quentin:

Vincent: Want some bacon?

Jules: No man, I don't eat pork.

Vincent: Are you Jewish?

Jules: Nah, I ain't Jewish, I just don't dig on swine, that's all.

Vincent: Why not?

Jules: Pigs are filthy animals. I don't eat filthy animals.

Vincent: Bacon tastes gooood. Pork chops taste gooood.

Jules: Hey, sewer rat may taste like pumpkin pie, but I'd never know 'cause I wouldn't eat the filthy motherfucker. Pigs sleep and root in shit. That's a filthy animal. I ain't eat nothin' that ain't got enough sense enough to disregard its own feces.

Vincent: How about a dog? Dogs eats its own feces.

Jules: I don't eat dog either.

Vincent: Yeah, but do you consider a dog to be a filthy animal?

Jules: I wouldn't go so far as to call a dog filthy but they're definitely dirty. But, a dog's got personality. Personality goes a long way.

Vincent: Ah, so by that rationale, if a pig had a better personality, he would cease to be a filthy animal. Is that true?

Jules: Well we'd have to be talkin' about one charming motherfuckin' pig. I mean he'd have to be ten times more charmin' than that Arnold on Green Acres, you know what I'm sayin'?

A One-Two Punch

"Yes, these are bruises from Fighting. Yes, I am comfortable with that. I am enlightened." Chuck Palahniuk's words coming out of Edward Norton's mouth; classic Fight Club. But this time around there was no Tyler Durdan, it was just me, my co-workers, and those three truths. And I am enlightened. I've played the role of Hockey Player for 18-years without ditching my mitts. It's not that I want to be that old washed up hockey mess with the Owen Wilson nose and the Tooth-Fairy Plus-Membership, but "how much can you really know about yourself if you've never been in a fight?"

Today as I wore my war wounds around the office, I was Edward Norton from Fight Club. I am Jack's Abstract Visage. People would stop mid-sentence and ask if I'd fallen into something, or if I'd hit something with my face. I know I may not be as gritty as a Philip Marleau, or as comic-book as a MMA goon, but it is a little disappointing to have 'Getting in a Fight' completely ignored from the list of 'broken face' explanations. However with that said, I was told that prior to yesterday's tussle, my entire squad would have awarded me with the 'least likely player to drop the gloves' honor, and with my Pts-average of 2 points per game, and the 6 minutes in Penalties I recorded this season, I have to agree that the role of enforcer was a surprising twist to my player profile.

But was it really a twist. On the same night that I responded to a flagrant elbow to the face and a cheap sucker-punch, Captain Crosby fought Florida's Keith Ballard, after the young defensemen delivered a low hit to Pen's star forward Evgeni Malkin. Everybody has to fight sometimes. Iginla, LeCavalier, even finesse frontman Alex Semin have danced with their fists when the time was right. It's been front and center in the news more than once in recent history, 'Fighting and Hockey, yay or nay?' To many the subject of Fighting in Hockey is an easy conversation involving adjectives like savage and barbaric, with statements about the violence of the event, and the lack of purpose it serves. To these privileged debaters, a lack of hockey experience and understanding allows them to wave a proud flag displaying their elitist thoughts. It's too easy to assume that peace and love will regulate this high intensity contest. Emotion, Speed, Adrenaline, and the Express Judgments found in hockey makes the opinions of those outside the sport uninformed.

The question is not: 'Do we ban Fighting from Hockey or continue to have players die?', but yet it's the one being answered by the majority of nay-sayers. Most players, coaches, and experienced fans of the game will tell you that in general Fighting, or more specifically 'the possibility of Fighting', is in fact a measure to reduce violence and injury in hockey. Fighting is the sport's self-correcting tool. It generates the same warrior-respect as the concept of Mutual Destruction, which guided the World passed the all out annihilation that threatened the planet during the Cold War. Why not just toss out a knee on the star player of the opposition? Injure him? Remove him from the game? Why not spend each shift carving players up with your stick? Feeding them slashes behind the refs back? Catching them where there's no padding? Why not hit from behind, spear, butt-end, or run someone without the puck? Because of the threat of a penalty? Really? Is the idea of 2 minutes in the penalty box going to convince everyone to 'play by the rules'? Some players don't respond well to the 'Minor Penalty' concept. Queue DiNero from Righteous Kill: "Most people respect the badge, but everyone respects the gun". No cheap shots, no testing the boundaries, no distractions from the 'Game'. For the Cold War's Superpowers the 'possibility of the Fight' allowed for negotiations and politics to be the focus, on the ice the prospect of a flexed muscle helps to eliminate everything that isn't hockey.


'Do we ban Fighting from Hockey or continue to have players die?' Just because it serves a purpose, doesn't mean that it justifies tragedy. Major Injuries resulting from Hockey Fights should generate a different discussion: Should Fighting be taught? In my opinion the answer is yes, but even as I consider suggesting this question the out-cry has drowned out any free thought. Should Fighting be taught... to the cute little Timbit Hockey Cabage-Patch-Kids from the commercials? No. Should Fighting be taught... to the once-a-week, division 4, teen player out on the ice for a chat, concerned more with the 'Mate' than the 'Team' part of teammate? No. The weekend rec puck player? No. The twice a year pond hockey bum? No. Should the proper Fighting techniques be made available to the high level player graduating from the minor ranks and pursuing a life in the sport of professional hockey? Yes.

There's more to a Hockey Fight than just the Looney Toon windmill of iron fists being caught by a big mushy face. Like the graceful offensive trickery of an Alexander Ovechkin, the moves of a Fighter are magic. While delivering similar combination to those of a boxer, the Fighter has to throw his punches while dancing on the ice. Balance is always being tested. But bobbing and weaving isn't enough. The threat of the rolling haymaker creates the need for strong grappling defense without sacrificing the offensive attacks that land the success. There's jersey control, strong-arm vs switch-up, foot work, and on top of that, each match up is different. The best of the best make it look easy enough that the average player thinks Anger is the only tool required. The worst injuries occur when basic technique is ignored. If each punch is opening you up, and you have no control of the other player's body, and the ice hits you just as hard as the knock down blow, then it's not the fighting part of the confrontation that is hurting you, it's all the mangled, irresponsible technique that's drawing blood (your blood). In the professional game, having a fundamental understanding of how to fight is as important as being able to deliver and receive a check, play with an awareness of all the players on the ice, and stop without piling up on the boards. The know-how won't encourage the act, it will simply remove the mystery, the fear, and the danger of it. Good Fighters will drop their gloves, battle within the abstract choreography, and congratulate their rival when the contest has run its course. The Hockey Fight is the neglected middle child, punished without being understood. It’s time to figure this kid out.

None of this was a concern of mine when I was faced with the only four options available to a helmetless player staring down an avalanche of hammering fists. I had challenged the goal on a two on one, and as the puck and the play left the offensive zone a crushing elbow met my right cheek bone. Total confusion and disgust. I could feel the clever wit mixing with my frustration, and as I turned to tear Elbows open with a string of hurtful Trash Talk, I stopped his mitted fist with my face. Sucker Punch! Are you kidding me?!?! This defensemen was not just pushing me around, he was setting the stage for bullying our entire team. All it takes is one talentless oaf to get away with roughing a player up and the tone of the game can shift, leaving one team vulnerable to physical abuse. I pushed back to remind the Oaf that I wasn't his play toy, but as quickly as the elbow and fist had found me, he had dropped his stick and forced my helmet off. The four options that now faced me had previously been discussed between myself and our Goalie (Goalies tend to know more about hockey then they let on, they are wise, they are sneaky, watch them carefully). I flashed on the following: Duck and Turtle and hope to survive; skate away and hope that the Oaf doesn't follow; stand strong and take the punches, Or... Fight Back! Oddly enough the lack of creativity involved in reffing most Men's Hockey League games means that all four available options lead to the same even up calls. Embarrassment aside, what's the point of taking the punishment for 'fighting' if you don't actually do any fighting. The worst part of getting in a Hockey Fight is getting punched in the face, and since I had already done that...



I wanted to use my ridiculously long and lanky reach and land enough punches to convince him (and everyone watching) that I was more than just a pretty face, with a large elbow shaped bruise. It all happened within a confusing rustle of banging equipment. Heavy breathing and angry grunts were all that the Oaf offered up aside from some slow miss-fires. Go figure, I can fight. I can only imagine that it's all the Playstation tussles I've put those little electronic tough guys through, that, and luck. I landed half a dozen decent punches, enough to get him leaking, and was able to protect myself from most of his attempts (random dodging maneuvers made me a pretty slippery target). "This is going Very well!" I thought to myself (Inside-Me smiled at this, Outside-Me continued to make the scrunchy face that does nothing for preventing landed punches, but looks really goofy). I then became well aware of the fact that the refs were nowhere to be found. After three or four good cracks on his noggin I was about done with the whole experience. Check it off the To-Do list, and abandon ship. This is where the fear came in. I suddenly realized that I was in a fight with a monstrous Lunatic, full of old-man strength, and irrational rage. Where were the refs? Why wasn't anyone coming to save me? I was now terrified. It's a good thing that I had chosen 'Fight' when I did, because with the Crazy-Nutjob getting more frustrated I wanted the other three Weenie-Options back ASAP. Just then I saw my opportunity; as the Oaf lunged forward we moved in unison like life-long dance partners, and my Judo instinct eased me on to the ice with a textbook Break-Fall. Beautiful, beautiful ice, my new favorite place. My mind quickly replayed the whole scene as the Where's-Waldo refs finally joined our situation. I smiled (not at the Oaf though, the risk-taking has to stop somewhere). I had not only survived the Fight, but I think I'd won, I made a big huge doofus bleed his own blood. I am bada$$. I feel great!

And that's exactly what I told my cheering section. I loved it; I loved that it was over, I loved that I wouldn't have to do it again, I loved that I hadn't started to cry, but mainly I loved that in the end the consensus was a thumbs up. The guys on the team couldn't get enough of it, they had been feeling the Oaf's stick all game, and were fed up with his cheap shots. The crowd was all geared up, as they had looked passed his moronic-Oaf exterior and saw the goon for what he really was; doosh-bag... big doosh-bag. Even the rink rat who gave me a bag of snow to ice my face told me that seeing people beat up oversized losers was the highlight of his job.

As I skated passed my fans (the true Jack-Webb hockey fanatics - Family mostly, but enthusiastic Family, truly committed, in fact they make up about 90 - 100% of the game's audience most nights), I saw a mix of concern and disappointment. My inside smile waivered. Did they not share my excitement? Did they not view the situation in the same way that I did? Was the Webb Crew part of the Ban-Fighting Following? Was there something other than 'Fight' or 'Weenie' that I could have worked with? No. The concern was for my safety, and the disappointment was for my sentencing. It should be noted that among the frowns and worried expressions, my brother brought something else to the table; he was all smiles - smiles, wide-eyes, and high fives. In the end, once the adrenaline had worn off and I had received an elegant off-setting double-minor to accompany my dismissal from the game, all that was left was our 7-2 victory, a couple of delicate black-and-blue souvenirs, an invitation to play in the next playoff game, and a great story complete with a 'you should see the other guy' tag line. My only slip-up throughout the whole adventure was during my recovery; way too much icing. Twenty-four hours should have produced a full collection of rainbow shades to decorate my face, but instead the elbow-imprint, the forehead goose-egg, and the bright red tracer drawn by the edge of my helmet, were all distant shadows of themselves. I am Jack’s total disappointment.



And now everything is back to normal. The story has been told, the bruises have disappeared, I’ve returned to the ice as the dangling play maker, and life goes on. But I feel different. Something has lingered, something quiet and subtle, something new; I have changed. And it has very little to do with the fight itself; it’s not the landed punches or ducked death blows, it’s not the excited cheers or my resulting survival, it’s that I did it. I lived that experience, and because of the adrenaline, the energy, the fear, and the smiles, that Fight is not just a memory, it is now a part of me.

A page from the eBook Story

I consider myself to be not only technically capable, but technically preoccupied. I love the gadgets. I love the way that devices like the iPhone take all kinds of 'Needs', bundle them with 'Wants', throw in some 'Unnecessaries' to create 'Simplicity' that just makes so much sense. I am no longer willing to carry a phone, laptop, MP3 player, daytimer, note book and finger drumset, when I know that it can all be packaged together in a sleek, cool, James Bond style gadget (I'm sure it was Q that came up with the iPhone, except when Mi6 handed it over to Apple, Steve Jobs had to remove the laser and the grappling hook).

But when it comes to Books and their transformation from pulp to pixel, it's the collector inside that seems to take over. I am less concerned with needing to teach my page-turning finger the new 'drag across the screen' move, and more concerned with the loss of my teetering stack of novels. I like the idea of letting a pristine collection of pages gather character as I move through the chapters. I like that my copy of Treasure Island has held on to a few grains of Mayan Riviera sand from my first trip to Mexico; that I have folds and scars on the cover of Jack Kerouac's On the Road from hostile floors and train station benches, dating my 2007 Euro Adventure; that it looks like each page of my Confederacy of Dunces book has been pawed three or four times, because it has; and that my copy of the Catcher in the Rye is broken-down and beaten-up because it was held hostage for several months by a book-murderer (my brother). The story behind the story about the story.

At this point the electronic book is a forced move for me. And sounding like an old soul who scoffs at change, the e-book lacks the warmth and imperfections of my travelled print copies. It's against my gadget-guru nature to side step the Kindles of the world, but if a scrolling screen can't capture the tears of laughter that now stain the pages of my Catch-22 book, then this word revolution has lost more than it's ability to gift paper cuts.

It Has to be True, Cause if it Wasn't No One Would Believe It...

The Hockey Dressing Room is a sanctuary. Like Superman's Fortress of Solitude the Dressing Room provides a team with protection from foes, the tranquility needed to recover from battle, and the support and guidance of family. For the Man-of-Steel it was Jor-El, his Kryptonia Father, who he confided in, for the Warrior-of-the-Ice (the hockey player), it is his teammate brethren who he strategizes with. And it's not simply an X's and O's To-Do List of tactics for the next period that gets bounced off the four walls of a Dressing Room, it's life that is discussed; it's tears and laughter, happy families and failed marriages, Glory Stories from the Night Before and last weeks episode of Entourage. The Hockey Dressing Room is the ultimate Tree-House where secrets are exchanged with total confidence as everyone who enters the hide-out lives by the same code: Jersey Colours Run Deep.



It's right up there with 'Bros before Hoes' and 'Blood is thicker than Water'. It's just an unspoken certainty; teammates, love them or wanna kill them with your skate-blade and harvest their organs for black-market sales using your back-up stick, when it comes down to it you'll battle in the trenches with them and give them a shoulder to cry on (that's right, even the Manly-Men Jocktastic Ice-Solider needs to let it all out sometimes - we're an emotional species)...

But that's not where I'm headed with this little write up. The Bond of the Hockey Player is a tale for another day. Today my chit-chat begins with Googly-Eyes, our back-up puck-stopper.

I have a great concern that I am slowly becoming desensitized to comedy. Most days the average joke will barely earn more than a light chuckle from me, and the idea of pouring-tears, soar-abs, and frantic gasping for air between uncontrolable cackles seems to be more vague with each moderately funny sit-com episode. One-liners and Slap-Stick just don't cut it anymore. (None of this requires any significant amount of concern though, I saw "I Love You, Man" this weekend and I'm still bursting into laugh attacks over it). But the other day, in the gentlemen's club that is the Hockey Dressing Room, I heard a story that's hilarity took me by such surprise that I feel it's my obligation to share it with my devoted Reader (the Following may be up to 2 or 3 by now... very Flights of the Conchords).

It started with Googly-Eyes, a goaltender whose right-eye has been known to check-out from time to time. The fact that I don't know Googly-Eyes real name has nothing to do with his goaltending skills (which are quite remarkable considering the googly nature of his eyes) or his googly eyes themselves, the truth is he's only subbed as a goalie for our team twice, and I am awful with names (real names, I'm great with remembering made up, ridiculous, mildly-offensive names). When it comes down to it, it's just impressive that someone would willingly stand in front of hard, rubber projectiles while working with a 'special' vision situation. This was the topic of conversation that lead to my funny yarn; "The Dude only has one Eye".

I wasn't there, and neither was Googly-Eyes, but that doesn't make it any less of a typical Hockey Dressing Room:

"... yeah, Googly-Eyes, the Goalie with the Goof-ball Eye situation. He's got this lazy eye, so basically he's playing with only one eye." It was an explination that was generating some light guffawing by the crew as they got ready for the game. Guffawing by all, except for a big fella from P.E.-Nova-Bruns-Foundland-and-Labrador.

"Nuttin' wrong with one eiye!" He wasn't impressed. Turns out he only had one eye. From there the questions started up: "How long have you had one eye?", "Do you ever have trouble on the ice?", "If I siddled up on your right side and slap you in the face or pee on your shoe, would you have any idea it was me?" The usual...

Queue the story of how the big Maritimer discovered that he was 'special' (read with Big Maritimer accent):

"I was born this way, I've never known anything different. The eye looks and moves like a normal eye, but it's a dud. I can't see anything with it. Since I spent my whole life like this it really doesn't effect me on the ice or anywhere else, it's what I'm used to. When I was younger I didn't even know that there was anything wrong. One Halloween I wanted to go out as a Pirate, so my Mom fixed me up this costume. She was putting together the final touches and when she popped the eye patch on I could see a damn thing. Totally blind. I was in grade 2."

WHAT?!?! It took you seven years of life to figure out that only one of your eyes worked?!?! You had to dress up like a pirate and don a freakin Patch to discover your unique ability to only see out of one eye?! Bahahaha I love it. Googly-Eyes you have met your match.

I can just imagine how it all went down:

"Here ya go hun, this will seal the deal..."

"What's that Ma?"

"It's an Eye Patch, all the Pirates are wearing them..."

"Okay..."

Patch goes on, lights go out.

"Ahhhh!! Ma, where do you go?! What's happening, I can't see?!?!"

"What are you going on about dear?"

"Get it off! Get it off! I hate the Eye Patch! The Eye Patch is evil! It doesn't 'seal the deal', it makes the world disappear!"

Or something to that effect. Priceless.

Everyone had a good laugh, including the One-Eyed Maritimer. It was a classic Dressing Room moment of comradery that was so fantastically outstanding that it rises above the confinds of the room to obey a higher code of conduct (shockingly a code even more powerful than 'Bros before Hoes'): Life is too Short. This is code that comes into effect when an experience arises that is so extraordinary that it's mear existance alters the state of the universe. The code states that the experience must be shared with the world. Experiences like the Kennedy Assassination, Man Landing on the Moon, the creation of the internet, getting a hole-in-one, talking your way out of a speeding ticket (hooking up with the cop that you talked your way out of a speeding ticket with), winning the Boston Marathon, Michael Phelps' record number of Olympic Golds, the election of Barak Obama, the events of 9/11, the end of the Cold War, the What's Up Superbowl commercial, being involved in a three-some (with 2 girls and a guy, no need to share if there are two or more dudes involved), a cure for cancer, a cure for male-pattern-baldness, Viagra (braveau science), the ability to simultaneously rub your stomach and tap your head (if you're not trying it right now it's because you know you can't do it), the ability to harness energy from nuclear fission, the realization of flying cars, the realization of Back-to-the-Future style hoverboads, the inventing of Oreo Cookies, Sudoku, Fire (a la Tom Hanks in Castaway or Quest for Fire), being able to ride a unicycle, the movie 'Donnie Darko' or 'Boondock Saints', Cell Phones with useless 'apps' that play viral videos, methods for increasing the efficiency of solar energy conversion, wrickle-free pants... these events are more important than pride and individual success, more significant than family and friends, more powerful told than untold, they are vital to the advancement of the planet. They alter the state of the universe. They are stories that live on, they are the foundation of lessons-learned, they are what Legend is made of.

So now, today, I share with you the Story of the One-Eyed Maritimer, not because it is the funniest thing ever (which it is), but because the world needs to know that it is possible for someone to live for 7 years without knowing that only one of their eyes works. This isn't why Eye Patches were invented, but it's why they should have been invented. Have you ever worn an Eye Patch, you might have a dud eye too...

St. Pad

The emotional clash between the 'All-Singing, All-Dancing, one-day Shamrocks' and the 'Fun is Bad, Assassins of Holiday Spirit' is epic. Does anyone else take joy in observing this awkward fallout on March 17th? My routine is Switzerland. I sport a mild amount of green and then facilitate confrontation. Do I feel bad about this? Nooooo. The people who pinch, the Pinchers, they have their McGreen-Radar sensitivity level through the roof and their 'Do something about it' obligation set to 'Annoy'. With or without my suggestive commentary they would eventually find the Normies and would begin their attack. My job is simply to fast-track the process and ensure that I'm around to encourage the chaos. Of course it's not as easy as that. A simple pinch may only conjure an uncomfortable forced smile and fake laugh, my Switzerland must stoke the fire within the Poopers-of-the-Parties and emphasize the ridiculousness of the No-Green punishment that is headed their way. Teeth grinding, fists clenching; these characters have subconsciously gone Sans-Vert with the hope, the want, the need to explode in an embarrassing tirade of Holiday-Hatred. It's amazing how little involvement is required to create disaster.

I play an important role in all this. Too often the public gets all caught up in the celebration of Saint Patrick and his title role as the Christian Missionary who spread the word of God across the rolling hills of Ireland. People forget the Hallmark significance of the PotOGold-DancingLeprechaun-CloverHoarding-BarBrawling-BeerGuzzling tradition of this Calendar Marker. It's hard enough to ensure the proper mass consumption of Green Alcoholic BEvERages during a weekday March 17th, without having to worry about the need to encourage Tomfoolery and Shenanigans. I am doing my part to make this day True. This Holiday requires committment. Committment from the Haters, the Fakers, and the warped Switzerlands.

She can wear whatever she wants... or nothing at all...

The Fun doesn't stop with the Green Costumes. How about Bad Irish accents? I can't get enough of them. It's one thing to roll with the 'Everybody's Irish on St Patrick's Day' idea, but if you know you're a big old fony, why would you go through the struggle of trying to pass off an Australian-German hybrid as Celtic tongue. For some reason these are the same people that get louder and further from Irish the more their audience laughs (...at them, they never pick up on that, we are laughing At them).

It's not unusual for the Bad Irish accent crowd to also suddenly turn into St. Patrick wiz-kidz. It doesn't get much better than watching a couple of Lucky-Charms try to one-up one another with the same stail Wikipedia Quotes from the page that's posted on the office kitchen wall. You are not clever, your knowledge doesn't impress us, you are annoying and I want to throw a rabid-Leprechaun at you.

How about the brain behind the St. Patrick's day cookie scam. This guy is Einstein smart. Of course people need clover-shaped cookies on the 17th, they need them like the Irish need an excuse to drink (as an Irishman myself I feel that comment is just edgy enough).

The bottom line is that all this is Ridiculous, and that's why I love it. Everyone needs to relax and not try so hard. You don't celebrate the nation of Ireland by pinning up a bunch a green streamers and wearing a four-leaf colver pin, you are embarassing yourself, and the Irish probably want to fight you. Just drink a Beer, watch Boondock Saint, and everything will fall into place, including that Bad accent.

Come on Fellas, tone'r down a little (refer to above picture to remove image of two large men from your mind...)

Barack Obama: Serial Pastry Grifter

Barack Obama; this guy is good. First he gets himself elected as President of the United States (well played good sir), then he got his hands on 7oo-plus billion dollars (nice little chunk of change), and now he's stocking up on our Canadian pride and joy; the Maple.

Sure, sure, there will of course be some public interest in the Obama-Harper matters of discussion such as the Environment (Go Green or Go Home), the Economy (a stimulating topic), and Foreign Policy ("let's form an alliance and vote off the terrorists"), but the excitement of that political chit-chattery pales in comparison to the American President's Wheeling-and-Dealing seminar in Ottawa.

Most Powerful Man in the World, fine. First Black President of the USA, right, so I've been told. But I say, come on Barack, step up, impress me. Well earlier this week he answered the call while visiting our nation's capital. Amidst all the ObamAmazing highlight reel hits, the speeches, the big moves, it was his bravery and charisma at the front lines of 'Pastry' that sold me on the idea of 'President Obama'. Following his meeting with Prime Minister Stephen Harper, Obama made a surprise visit to an Ottawa Market, where he 'attempted' to purchase some maple leaf cookies from Le Moulin de Provence, a local bakery. Well, it's the President of the United States of American, of course the owner is going to toss out the old 'no, no, it's on the house' or maybe it was a little of the 'your money is no good here'. Either way, one slow-rolling move for the wallet and a charming Barack smile later, and the President had himself a few free maple leafs specials.

This may seem like nothing, a minor detail, a kind gesture, a piece of good hospitality, but it's about more than just a man and a pastry. And I won't even get into the controversy of the leader of the USA 'accepting gifts' - no worries, the cookies were worth less than the $350 maximum acceptable gift value, no crimes here, just bakery-trickery.

It's not surprise that I'm faced with here, it's more that I am impressed by the audacity of Mr.-Stimulate-the-Economy to Not Pay for the cookies. What about the trickle down effect? What about the need for spending? It's not like he didn't have the cash for it, I seem to remember some headline about 700-and-some billion USD. I don't know, I think I like it though. I think I like that I don't know what to expect from the new Pres anymore; first the 'Yes We Can', now the scamming of treats, the anticipation of his next move is killing me.

I'm a fan of free cookies myself, so maybe it's that I can now better relate to the guy, or maybe it's that in other news Barack Obama received a free Beaver Tail from another un-named vendor. And I looked into it, I'm told that a Beaver Tail is a sort of donut, and not actually the tail of nature's heroic Engineer (from one Engineer to another, the Beaver is okay in my books). Barack Obama: serial Pastry Grifter.

Regardless of the details, what matters the most is that The Obama is now on my radar. Leading by example, he is advising his fellow citizens to cross the 49th for a round of free desserts... my desserts. I am watching you Barack Obama. Enjoy the Maple, but know that I am on to you.