Save the elves!

Listen, you may not put much thought into the many parties that this blog employs, but let me shed some light on how computers and the Internet work.  

You see, when I type these posts on my computer, the letters don’t just show up out of nowhere; it’s not exactly magic.  There are these tiny little elves that manually pick up each of the letters and carry them over to the appropriate space on the screen.  (They do not like cut and paste, let me tell you…)  Naturally, they are quite small in size, and it often requires the efforts of a group of elves to move capital letters.

Elves specialize in certain tasks.  Clearly, they understand microeconomics and have learned better than to be a jack of all trades.  So the elves that move the letters on my posts are not the same elves that post the comments.  

The problem is, I fear for the job security of my little comment posting elves.  Seems no one is posting comments.  And because there’s not much work, layoffs may be imminent.  Comment posting elves have been frantically running away from anything that even remotely resembles a pink slip.  Which isn’t easy – you try running in pointy clogs!

So here’s the message: Help save the elves – post some comments!  Surely, you must find some of my posts to be mildly amusing.  And if not… well, “it’s a free country”, so I suppose you could post some nasty criticism too.  

But you’re not that mean.  At least not mean enough to get the comment posting elves fired.

87 days till I’m absolutely ripped!

Next time you see me, watch out!

Today was my third day of P90X, the “revolutionary system of 12 sweat-inducing, muscle-pumping workouts, designed to transform your body from regular to ripped in just 90 days”.

If you’ve been following along on my blog, you’ll have noticed that fitness is a big part of my life.  However, it had been almost three months (about a month and a half too long!) since my last program change, and I was definitely in need of a new routine.  So when TDH offered to lend me the P90X system that he got from a friend, I decided to rise to the challenge.

On Sunday, I took the required fitness test, which checks if you are at least minimally fit in order to begin the program.  I passed the test quite comfortably (most would, I think), but the first few days of the program still killed me.  I’ve got a looooong way to go.  (Which reminds me – I need to take a before pic before I get too ripped!)

I’ve used workout videos before (Tae Bo was a favourite!), but this system actually challenges me.  And Tony Horton’s cheesy old man comments are surprisingly entertaining.  (“WOW upside down… is MOM”.  Chew on that one for a minute.)

For the next 87 days, you won’t find me at the gym, or at the yoga studio.  (I’m sure my gym buddies will wonder where I am.)  Instead, I will be at home partaking in the religion that is P90X.  BUT I won’t be following the program’s nutrition plan… because – again, if you’ve been following along – I like food too much.

I’m always open to new fitness suggestions, so please send ‘em my way!

My guardian angel in the Sky

My beloved best friend, Sky, was put down yesterday evening.  I miss him so much already.

I didn’t realize that this would have such a profound effect on my own existence.  I didn’t grow up with any pets, let alone a large dog – the very kind that forced a self-imposed confinement in my grandparents’ home in Taiwan during a visit when I was eight.  (There are a lot of stray dogs there.)  Sure, we had some pet fish, and it was still sad when they got sick and flushed to heaven, but the bond between dog and (wo)man is that much stronger.

I considered Sky my own, by proxy.  He was all golden fur wrapped around skin and bones when TDH’s family rescued him from the SPCA over a decade ago.  He was given a wonderful life of long walks on the beach with friends (and homosexual partners!), the yummiest dog treats (and whatever human food he could get his paws on), and constant companionship in a busy household that was always bursting from its brick wall seams. 

I’ve spent the last couple of days contemplating life, and love and happiness and loyalty and comfort… and suddenly, the petty things don’t mean much now.  

I always hate that it takes something like this to happen for me to remember to cherish everyone in my life.  I am so self-absorbed.  Each time, I promise that I’ll be better, but soon the pain becomes diluted by the hustle and bustle of the oft-meaningless everyday.  It doesn’t ever leave, but it gets pushed further and further back in our minds until we allow ourselves to notice the little things that remind us of our lost loved ones.

Already, it seems that everything reminds me of Sky.  I dropped food under the table at dinner last night, and he wasn’t there to clean it up for me.  (All that wasted steak fat and salmon skin.)  Nor was he there to warm my cold feet with his smelly fur.  I reached to close the door to the bedrooms when we left the house (in recent months, Sky had a habit of… making a smelly mess of beds and carpets) but realized that I no longer needed to do this.  I didn’t have to hide my snacks on a high shelf.  He won’t be there to poke his nose into the room to see what’s goin’ down.  No more catching him sniffing the garbage when he doesn’t realize I’m under the blankets (and no more of his sly pretending that it never happened!).  I miss his slobbery kisses.  Worst of all, there won’t be a tail wagging on the stairs when we come home.  

For once, I didn’t care that my black clothes were covered in short white hairs.  I hugged him tight in my favourite black sweatshirt and wept… 

Sky’s last few days weren’t easy on anyone, especially – as I can only imagine – on him.  He became weaker as the days wore on, demanding abbreviated walks until he could walk no more.  He lost his once-ravenous appetite, even for his favourite egg yolks.  All the while, I felt my spirit crushed too.  

But he was a trooper (though no one knew his exact age).  He marched on after two strokes and being hit by a car.  He even made it through an extreme surgery on his stomach.  (The vet had learned in school that dogs never survived the procedure.)  

Still, TDH and I tried to focus on all the positive memories we had with Sky.  Jumping to rest his front paws on the high patio railing.  Barking to guard the fort from thieves… and to greet the postal workers who would slip treats through the mail slot.  Family trips with Sky wreaking havoc in the Mazda.  The first time I met him, and he tried to eat me – I swear!  Bringing him a treat-filled lei from Hawaii.  Taking naps together.  Everyone who saw him was immediately captivated.  

Sky, I’m sorry for getting angry with you when you tried to eat bones and random garbage on our walks.  I only meant to take care of you.  I’m sorry I sometimes thought I was too busy to always pet you or walk you or give you a smooch and a good rubbin’ every time I passed you.  I should have made the time.  I’m sorry I complained about cleaning up after you as you got older.  Please forgive me and watch over me.

Thank you, dawg, for teaching me unconditional love and patience and service and gratitude.  I appreciate your appreciation for life and will think of you always.

A beef with the Vancouver Canucks

Perhaps not much beef on the Vancouver Canucks this year…

I started this blog on September 4, when TDH and I were submitting our orders for the Canucks pre-sale draw.  You see, we put down a sizeable deposit to secure our spot on the team’s Ticket Priority List.

My beef was that we were in the 2,000s on the list… meaning we’d have to wait for 2,000 account holders (not seats, but accounts, I understand) to bite the dust.  Which might not be so bad, considering the fickleness of Vancouver fans.  But we figured we could afford seasons a few decades from now when we might actually have a chance at some permanent seats.  Not only that – this year, the team started to charge a yearly admin fee to remain on the list, a stipulation they claim is enforced by all professional sports teams.  

The Canucks should have been expecting this rant, because it is Vancouver after all, and we fans must complain.

Fine, we’ll pay the fee.  But here’s the deal: we get access to the abovementioned pre-sale draw.  TDH and I adopt the strategy of entering for all games for which we would be in town, figuring that we might get one if we’re really lucky.

Two days ago, we found out that we were the lucky winners of EIGHT (8) pairs of tickets, which have put a beautiful, couple grand ($$$$!) dent in my Visa bill.  Now, my beef is that we have too many tickets!  

So please buy some off me so I can afford to eat in the next few months.

“Yo, homes. That’s how I roll” and other things old men shouldn’t say

“I know we’re in a tough market, dude, but your miss on the top line is totally flagrant.”

I wish I could take credit for that classic line, but I can’t – believe it or not, it was first uttered by someone other than myself.

His name is Stanley Bing, and he is by far one of my favourite writers.

Actually, his real name is Gil Schwartz (according to the bible that is Wikipedia), but that just doesn’t have the same authoritative ring to it, now does it…

You may remember Stanley Bing from such books as “What Would Macchiavelli Do?  The Ends Justify the Meanness”, “Sun Tsu Was a Sissy: Conquer Your Enemies, Promote Your Friends, and Wage the Real Art of War”, and “100 Bullshit Jobs… and How to Get Them.”  I kid you not.

Now, though I have not read any of these books (and he has many others), Bing still manages to top my list of must-reads because of his witty and current columns in Fortune Magazine.  The aptly titled “While You Were Out” is a one-page, easy-to-read feature at the end of every issue, and I would urge you to check it out – even if this just means standing in the supermarket aisle and stealing a read.  (You know you do it.  It would be embarrassing to actually purchase that US Weekly, but hey, if it’s there… how else are you going to stay up-to-date on the latest adventures of Britney?)  Plus, you’ll get extra points for grandiosely picking up a copy of definitive business literature in front of the guy next to you who is trying to discreetly thumb through a copy of Maxim, one eye always watching for his better half to return with a cart full of groceries.

But again, I digress.  Stanley Bing is a genius with the ability to capture the subtle nuances of office life and to communicate them in an intelligent and entertaining manner.  If you’ve ever worked in an office, near an office, or know people who have, you’ll be able to appreciate the humour.  This article alone is worth our subscription to Fortune.

Take Bing’s column from the August 18, 2008 issue, my favourite in a while – or even ever.  In the article, “New Help for Hodads: Terminal Uncoolness is the ineluctable destiny of business people.  But you can put it off, dude.”, Bing waxes poetic about old school execs adopting hip language in a badly-disguised, inauthentic attempt to appear cool.  As in, “Yo, homes.  What’s going on with your receivables?”  (If you didn’t find that funny, you probably haven’t surrounded yourself with enough accountants.  God knows I have, though.  Lucky me!)

You just gotta read it, brah.  And let me know what you think!  *dab*