Monday, November 27, 2006

I'll Bag the Groceries, Dear...

Look, if your other 'alf is anything like mine, well she likes things done a certain way and grocery packing is no exception. Don't try to get it right my fellow men. And, oh do not fall for the set-up where she stands waiting for the total from the cashier while you stand there with nothing to do, nothing to do except make yourself useful, right? This is where you are falling into the trap. For now you start piling the groceries into the paper bag, and in no particular order, maybe weight is determining factor but that is about it. All the while you are looking around and admiring the scenery or possibly pondering whether the cashier at register two actually does have a ring on or whether the old lady to your right, who you see through your peripheral vision, will finally conquer that shake that is driving you nuts. "Hm, just imagine her working with crystal ware", you ponder.

Fortunately for me today I was at our Coop where there is always a Coop member bagging. So after positioning myself in the only space down by the bags, I waited and received my official release. God, I love those words, "would you like me to bag those for you?"

I am sure some of you out there, unlike the rest of us men, take great pride in bagging and wouldn't dream of letting someone else bag for you. God forbid. You, like my wife, understand that there is an order and place for each grocery item. And how could anybody other than you get it right? Even a tenured bagger at the Coop could not possibly remember the criteria.

The question remains that though you have avoided a duty sure to end in a domestic dispute, as in "who packed my celery like this next to the warm roast chicken?" Notice when she utters this the cadence in her voice. The notes rise at then end and you immediately feel the accusatory tone. Naturally, you usually witness this in the kitchen where there is just you and the dog. Usually it is right when you about to exit the kitchen, snack in hand and plonk yourself on the couch. So there is nobody else to fob it off on. You are trapped. She's got you. Only getting caught red handed at the wrong internet site could be worse, perhaps.

Well, I managed to avoid this by yielding to the bagger today. Though I was right proud of myself too, the problem is it never ends with the groceries, does it. Nope, you are a man, after all, attempting to cohabitate with a being who operates so counter intuitively to you that you have to resign yourself to this: you can dodge one domestic landmine but that is why they call it a mine field. Dodge one only to get blown to bits by another.

Monday, November 20, 2006

The name 's Bond...Well Casino Royale is certainly not cut from normal Bond mold. Yep, I decided to put the goats back in the pen for the day and instead cast my eyes on a good matinee. This one gets two thumbs up for a couple of reasons. Firstly since the producers finally realized that they had taken the suave, sophisticated and, let's face it, moribund Bond character as far down the road as Joe Public would let them and still pay to see it at the big screen. When they cast Craig they gave us a chap who the working man can relate too. They gave us a hero in the sense of a real hero: strong yet vulnerable and tortured by his past, and very alone in the world.

Even if you don't normally go to Bond films, but say you enjoyed what Christian Bale did for Batman, then you will not be disappointed with Craig. For to me, what is behind the secret agent, i.e., the history and psychological make-up is a lot more interesting than what he can do as a secret agent. Why does he do what does? Why can he read people so well? Why is his normally sharp judgement blunted by smart and beautiful woman? Why can he love that beautiful woman right after brutally dispatching with an advesary? In short, what makes the man? In a way it is what a lot of people find troubling about classic Greek heros. Agamenon is a hero at Troy, yet he sacrifices his daughter. Odysseus is a hero for saving his wife from the suitors but not without being a reckless and a butcher. Yes, the complex hero is back. Thank you Mr Craig.

Thursday, November 16, 2006


Social Skeet Shooter II: Revenge of the Old Fogey

Ugh! So we are at dinner at a friend’s house. I knew before-hand that we would be introduced to an elderly couple who my friend assured me were a blast. That said, I did have my reservations when I quizzed my friend about the dinner guests and he indicated that they ran an antique shop and had some “great stories”, upper crust English, at least as far as his ear could ascertain, and were quite conservative.

But could I have envisioned the evening that lay in wait for me and my family? Well, we are all headed there one day but let this encounter be a lesson to any of us pondering what we may become just before we “go gently into that good night”. What my friend had left out…well, where to start? That these two crustaceans represented just about every social ill imaginable, that they put on airs, putdown anything anyone else had to say, coughed incessantly, possessed an omniscient obsession, that they couldn’t stop in their reveries of yesteryear was well, skeet shooter overload for me. So that night biting my tongue, I traded my normal stock 12 bore for the big boys’ toys: the social skeet shooter’s Uzi.

The male fogey introduced himself and after sending off his first volley, consisting of “where are you from”? This was delivered in the tone of a fellow anglophile who was concerned that if my familial stock and background were superior to his, I might pee on his tea party. I took the bait, and explained I grew up in Chelmsford and gave his ear a lick of my vanilla—somewhere—in—Essex—dialect. At which he breathed out while declaring that he and his wife, who smiled wanly from beneath her best attempt at a Henley Regatta Hat, had just come from our neck of the woods where they had observed a rowing contest. Click, click.

My eyes narrowing, I readied my weapon for the predictable onslaught. And I was not disappointed. What followed included the old boy’s comparison of the southern VT rowing crew with those back home (in the UK). Naturally the VT crew were okay but not up to English muster. Then we got onto memories of Norfolk and Norwich. I attempted to add some seasoning to his tale while sprinkling a few interjections, like “oh we used to go on holiday in Norfolk…up in Cromer and Beccles”. This served as sufficient bait that I was listening intently while mentally I blew the dust off of the first 45. Hmm, what should I label this one? But I did not have to wait long to answer that. For somehow we managed to veer off course from rowing and end up at a Norwich City football game where wouldn’t you know it, the football club had mixed up their tickets and sold their VIP Box seats. Fancy that, tut, tut, the blighters, can you believe it? His wife chimed in adding that they were given two tickets at some lesser seats for that game and two more in their Box seats for a subsequent game. Her eyes fluttering and wan smile conveyed that they had put the world on notice that anyone who underestimated the social station of these old fogies did so at their peril. First disc to be labeled “Putting Norwich Football Club on Notice”.

Out of respect for the social venue, my wife and I tried to interject some color, other observations and tales of our own but the male fogey would have none of it. Next it was “Out of Africa”, and tales of giraffes, lions and antelope drinking together from the water trough outside his house. “The wonder of it”, the fogey opined, “hunter and hunted lapping at the trough where normally one would be pursuing the other as prey”. His eyes lifted upwards and his head moved affectedly left to right while his voice lifted into a dramatic crescendo. What a master, I noted. The “Out of Africa” 45 had definitely spent some time in the mixing room. Did the fogies rehearse together before attending such gatherings, fine tuning their tales and performances for maximum affect? I did not bother to interrupt with my mother’s accounts of her life in Rhodesia and Zimbabwe. It would have been futile anyway. Though as he droned on about the hunter and hunted, I did wonder to myself how only the social conventions of a dinner party prevent its guests from verbally assailing each other. And I readied my weapon du jour, listened for the cue that “Out of Africa” was airborne, squinted my mind’s eye, salivated a little and then squeezed my trigger for the most delicious shattering of social skeet I have banqueted on to date.

“How is your spaghetti bolognaise?” I motioned to the male fogey…”Very good”, came the clipped response while he took a breath between reveries. Mine is particularly delicious, I gleefully thought to myself.

8:33 rolled around, dinner formally adjourned and by this time my Uzi’s ammo had been spent, shells and shards of social skeet lay around me with titles such as, “Why We Despise the French”, “The Germans are Fine, Really”—now that we have discovered your wife is German—“What is it with all these People who Carry Bottled Water…Do you Carry Water?”, “Homosexuals and PC People Have Taken Over England”, “Don’t Let Your Daughter Act As it is Full of Deranged Druggies”. Phew! This last one is worthy of note for a few reasons. Firstly since we had explained to the Fogies, that is, while they were coming up for some air, that our daughter was really excited with acting and was part of the New England Youth Theatre. Ah but their daughter and son had been on stage, had been in numerous BBC features, you know—yawn, and Kerbang—but the theatre is full of some terrible people. Why their daughter had shown up for a role, albeit a sassy role, in plain dress and the director had insinuated that she wasn’t tarted up enough. Er, hate to break it to you, dear, but if your daughter is applying for a role of a tart, well…

Naturally, their accomplished children were now recovering drug addicts and all because of the theatre, you know. At this my oozy didn’t stop, like a fanatical fundamentalist, there I was surrounded by the fogey’s social skeet desperately trying in vain to rid my mind of the verbal barrage. Send for back-up, I cried to myself, all the while wishing I could clone myself like agent Smith to provide a chance of keeping up with my foe. Fortunately, my salvo was answered by one of our hosts who reminded the fogies about the rain outside. Fogies hate driving in heavy rain and at night. Yes, they should be pushing on. Standing, weary from a night of social skeet battle, I managed to throw out a hand for the ceremonial good bye. Mr. Fogey took it forcefully and as if quite unaware of my war-torn state, invited me to one his Friday nights at the tavern where I could meet some of his wonderful friends. Was I game?

Sunday, November 12, 2006




'80s One Hit Wonders

Okay, Information Society has to be one of my favs. “What’s on Your Mind (Pure Energy)”, still appears to get me dancing after all these years and again takes on additional level of irony which could not have been foreseen by its writers, not that I should give them too much credit for being social commentators. Nonetheless, think about it, surveillance everywhere we go, interrogations; hm, reality imitating art anyone? And can’t forget the lovely little sample of Mr. Spock: pure energy, perfect. Even the name appears more applicable today than in 1989. Now, as for the video, well I for one would have advised against the peddle pushers and the collage of boldly coloured instruments. Hey why don’t you just announce that none of you play any instruments, eh? All that said, I can think of worse videos from the ‘80s. Yep, these guys tapped into something and the song still works today.


Okay, the Buggles and Video Killed the Radio the Star?

Oh, right, everyone refers to that one as it was the first video on MTV. My only recollection of this as a wee lad was marching over to the neighbor’s house who had what at the time could be considered cool: a voice recorder for a door bell. Since it had that tiny, cheap speaker sound to it, my mates and I used to enjoy running up, pressing the button and then with our noses held we would chant “I heard you on my wireless back in ’53…” We usually didn’t get to the next part but we usually achieved our aim of annoying the neighbors. Anyway that is all I have to say on this one. As for the glasses, silver suits and Spartan background in the video, you decide. Again, they had a point didn’t they, video may have indeed killed the radio star; yet when I tune into some of the stations around States I realize this may not have been such a bad thing. I just wish it could have been a little more thorough in its annihilation.

Animotion and Obsession well what a lovely little song to come of age with. Have to admit that the big blond hair do and turquoise number may not be what look for today but at the time it was hot. As for the song, well not really too much to say about this one other than it was a hot little dance number. Other than that this one does not do much more for me.

Men Without Hats and “Safety Dance”.

Sure you have to throw out “Pop Goes the World”. What a strange little band they were, eh. And what is with the dwarf? Now thinking back to this one, I can remember going on a school trip to a place called “Wicken House” which my mates and I would sing to the part “We can dance, we can dance.” This was immensely popular in the UK. I think everyone liked the novelty and appreciated the sort of medieval quality to both the keyboard music which pervades the song and the video mirroring the medieval theme. Little did I know that when I would eventually settle in a small pseudo-hippie town in southern VT that many of the characters in the song would be its inhabitants. Okay, so we can dance but what else can we do…dwarf toss, bear bait, badger bait, _____bait.


That’s certainly all folks yet I would love some feedback and perhaps your own selections.

Saturday, November 11, 2006

Quote of the day: "Lift up the receiver, I'll make you a believer" (M.L. Gore of Depeche Mode, from Personal Jesus)

Hm, I do not think Mr. Gore could have imagined how prophetic those words could have become. For when I look around me in much of the western world today we all appear to be searching for meaning somewhere. No the Goat man has not gone and found Jesus and is now on some crusade to spread the word, but rather I am concerned like I think a lot of us are with the spiritual void in which we inhabit. Okay, so the word spiritual might be a little scary for some but I want to make the distinction that this deep connectedness that we all appear to be looking for may not be found in organizations, institutions and certainly not the material things we appear to still delude ourselves will bring us happiness, but rather maybe through some deep inner reflection.

No, I am not saying I have found nirvana. The fact is I may be as lost as the next man or woman. Reflection often yields more questions than it yields answers. Nonetheless, just imagine if a lot us lemmings out there could stop marching around the mall or racing to get to the next meeting and take time to think about the bigger picture, namely what really connects us deeply to others, the world and life in general. Maybe we can all agree on what it really is not, namely acquiring more possessions, or joining some institution that we think will do the mental heavy lifting for us by providing some ready made belief system where all we have to do is abandon ourselves to belief. No for me I think it is about connecting with those around me deeply. Naturally this means that the social circle may not be as large as it once was but possibly I end up getting something more meaningful out of life.

And now for something completely different…

Friday, November 10, 2006

Bored Shitless

Okay, yep, this is a strange one but it has long since bothered me as to why my golden retriever eats the turds from other animals. There Dandy and I will be either playing fetch in the yard or on a walk and his nose diverts him all of a sudden from the immediate activity to hunt out and snarf down some fresh defecation du jour.

In my dog's case, it is particularly annoying since he has a never ending supply thanks to the goats’ pellets. Hey, whatever lights your candles, dog, but this behaviour has some uncomfortable side effects, particularly the dog breath. "Oh, what a beautiful dog an acquaintance might say," while bending down to pat the dog. Then Dandy opens his mouth and the out gassing hits their nostrils. Yep, it usually knocks off their initial smile.

Anyway, apparently a dog's attraction to dining on defecation has an official name used by vets: coprophagia. It even sounds just lovely now, doesn't it. Not content with discovering the term, I visited a couple of veterinary sites for more information on why my dog and other dogs engage in this behaviour. Here is what this chap Mike Richards, DVM of vetinfo.com says in his short answer: “Coprophagia” is the technical term for eating feces. This has been studied in dogs by several people with no definitive answer for "why" being found."

Great, so no definitive answer as to why. I read further on his site and really the “no definitive answer” exists as a little legal disclaimer, I think, as Mikey does go on to provide some reasons, among them nutritional deficiencies and boredom being a couple. Okay the former reason I can sort of understand...well, sort of...still weird though isn't it. Hey, thinks my dog Dandy, I feel like I really haven’t got enough nitrogen today so here's a quick and robust source! Adds a whole new meaning to “nitrogen fix” now, doesn’t it. And as for the latter, being bored, are you bonkers Dr. Mikey? My dog, says to himself, God, I am bored shitless...so why don't I, yeah, that's it, go find some shit to eat?

Perhaps I will never find the answer as to why, but I suppose I will try some of the suggested remedies, meat tenderizer in the food. Don't look at me. This is what Dr Mikey says will work. Though I think I am sticking with the one my own vet told me... “Well, Greg you can try carrying Tabasco with you on your walks with Dandy and heating up his defecation delicacies before he consumes them”. I'll certainly look a little daft, but it is worth a try.

Thursday, November 09, 2006

Okay, these little diary entries started as an obssession I had with reading The Secret Diary of William Byrd of Westover, who was a 17th century American nobleman and settler of Virginia (see http://www.csustan.edu/english/reuben/pal/chap2/byrd.html). I just love the way this chap elloquently waxes on the most mundane of day to day activities, seguaing between the weather, fantasies about a family friend, what he just ate for lunch and the guilt he feels when he neglects to say his prayers; so for a period of time I decided to experiment with writing my own diary entries ala Byrd style. Here's a sample



The Diary of Greg August 2005...

28th August 2005

I rose at 6:30ish to hear the World Service coming over my radio which I found to be rather unsavory; for there is only so much a man can take of the latest descriptions of African genocide. What greeted me in the living room enroute to the bathroom did nothing to shake my mind from melancholy: damn cat Cleo had deposited a dismembered animal on the hearth again! This crime is punishable by denial of breakfast privlages and a sharp shoo out the back door for cat Cleo. Next I reluctantly exercised my morning ablutions, and while cleaning my teeth I dared to let my eyes wonder to my naval—usually an area off limits—but today I could see that the effects of the new running regime were paying off. Teeth brushed, face scraggle shaved, I decided to exorcise my inner demons by enacting self abuse over the unshakable female form dominating my thoughts.

Mind cleansed, body washed and refreshed I emerged from the bathroom to find my kitchen in bad order. The latest fruit fly insurgency had taken up residence in the compost bucket and due to its overnight pro-creative success was expanding to other areas of the kitchen. I immediately set to crushing this insect invasion with the compost’s removal. My efforts to stealthily steal away to the compost bin outside were thwarted by one of my beady eyed goats awaiting his morning grain, and who on sighting me set all the others in a braying chorus. I then set about the morning ritual: pulled out the Costa Rican French Roast from the freezer, gave the ceremonial sniff, threw my Coop Supernatural granola in a bowl and devoured oats, all washed down with a fine cup of cappuccino. While savouring my crunchy mouthfuls I fantasized about having our good president’s ranch over-run by herds of goats who were braying, and relieving themselves over his podium and his person while he tried in vain to deliver his latest “Good News in Iraq”, which was drowned out from the incessant braying. I had good thoughts, good vibes and set about the rest of my day determined not to let life’s annoyances shake my spirit.

Get Greg's Goat

Beware the Social Skeet Shooter

It started happening again last night. We were over in Cambridge, MA at a social gathering to recognize a college president’s work. There I was with my wife, Angela, at the garden party. There were about two people out of the forty or so gathered that we knew and those included the President of the college and the Director of Development. The rest of the gathering included a sprinkling of recent college graduates, undoubtedly invited for some light seasoning and the trustees, the elder set, oh and the benefactors served up for the main course.

It was while conversing with some of the benefactors, that it happened. There I was standing opposite this lady of 60 who after getting her bearings--that is, who I was, what stock I was from, what my line of work was and why I was here—proceeded to insert the picture of her life as a busy banker, as a friend of Bob Champion, the Bob Champion who the movie was about. Naturally she knew him while she was in England selecting a thoroughbred, and, wouldn’t you know it, they had made a movie about him…so what was it I did again…? I gave her the bait she wanted, well, sort of, as my stock line for the evening was that I was a recovering graduate student. As I said this, she immediately cut me off, eyes fluttering condescendingly and started back in on recounting her illustrious past; and I had that image take over my mind. A little video started. One that has gotten all too familiar when I find myself bored stiff at these type of events. No matter how I tell myself to focus, to be respectful and listen to what others are saying, people like this force me to see the image of an old vinyl 45 which I am dusting off. It has no song title but rather my interlocutor’s name emblazoned on it and where there are normally tracks I see titles such as Me and Bob Champion or My life on the Board of Directors at a Frightfully Important Financial Institution, or Why I like Talking about Myself at Social Events, etc...

It is at this point as I am staring at my interlocutor and she is droning on yet looking at my eyes for cues that I am listening, yes at this point that I see myself in the video blowing dust of her life’s 45, tossing it into the air and then firing at it with 12 bore shot gun: bang! All the pieces of the 45, or my interlocutor’s life, come raining down in shards of little shiny black plastic like car tire blowing out. Then I feel an uncomfortable mixed feeling of mischievous gratification, almost sated satisfaction and tingles of guilt. For here she is pouring her life out to me, or as she wants me to see it, and here I am shooting it to pieces. Don’t you ever find that? After a while, after a lot of social gatherings you start to build up a collection of 45s? Then at the next gathering you are at a new face approaches you, but shortly after the handshake there you are again dusting off that 45. Yep, you find yourself thinking, I have that one down, madam.

I suppose I shouldn’t be embarrassed by this but naturally it does contravene the social etiquette with which I was raised. I mean, we are taught to respect our elders, especially those of higher social standing. We are taught to show our interest in them, put on our public face. Yet beneath the surface maybe we are all skeet shooting in these interactions. Think back to the last social gathering you were at, talking to someone you had never met before who is talking to you about nothing remotely interesting. You probably said to yourself, yep I know where you are going with that Banker Bob, or so, you are one of these type of people…Then you did it; you threw the chapters of their lives in the air and shot them to pieces. But what does it say about our society if we are all, well, social skeet shooters? We are all feigning to listen to each other and then blowing each other’s lives up while we wait our turn to paint our own fairy tale life? Maybe, I shouldn’t be ashamed about social skeet shooting. After all it is a lot safer than how our Vice President dispatches with those who bore him on a hunt.