Prophets of Doom

Prophets of Doom

That’s what journalists have become – prophets of doom. An’ their publishers would then be the beneficiaries of profits of doom – same thing, I suppose. Everywhere you look there’s bad news. That’s what makes good news so strikin’ when you see it. It’s so rare that you do a double take upon comin’ acrosst it. Makes me wonder what the news would be like if the protocol was reversed. It might just re-introduce the true shock value of hearin’ about the bad things in the news. We might not be just so nonchalant about the bad things that happen on a daily basis.

Me an’ the missus was just talkin’ about that this mornin’ an’ that’s the conclusion we come to anyways. Well just think about it. We’d get so used to hearing about good an’ happy things we might just start to think that’s the norm. An’ don’t think we’d get bored with it neither! By the time you got finished readin’ the news each mornin’ or evenin’ you’d have such a smile on yer kisser it’d be hard to wipe it off.

An’ I ain’t the only one sayin’ it neither! Back in 1983 Anne Murray sang a song about it. I remember it well. It was called ‘A Little Good News’. We all said a collective ‘Yeah’, and then just as collectively forgot about it as it faded into the dingy world of bad news. So much for that!

Are we really so tuned in to other people’s misery that we can’t resist it or is our obsession the product of the journalists and’ their journals? Well, the likes of Rupert Murdock would have us believe so. Otherwise he wouldn’t go to the lengths he does to produce this garbage. He has people fallin’ under the bus left, right an’ center in pursuin’ this tack, an’ still continues. Of course this ain’t new at all. It’s all been goin’ on for the longest time. Maybe that’s it. Bad an’ news are somehow linked together. We’re so used to it that we’ve come to expect it. An’ if we don’t get our daily fix o’ misery we think somethin’ is missin’.

It’s not that there ain’t enough good news to go around. When you start rootin’ it out, there’s lots of it – everywhere you look. What you can’t find is the journalist who will write about it or the news media that will publish it. It’s really too bad because the benefits of publishing good news would be like givin’ folks a happy pill as a daily diet. You’d have people smilin’ an’ laughin’ all day long. There’d be a story to capture somebody’s fancy an’ put them in a good frame o’ mind. An’ when a bad news story is told, the shock value would smack us right in the face, restorin’ it in our minds in its proper perspective. Now that in itself is a good news story. At least that’s how it seems to me from up here on the top shelf.

Just sayin’.

 

 

Who Wears the Pants

Who Wears the Pants

There’s certain traditions attached to each way of life according to the culture in which it’s set. I’m talkin’ about the matriarchal system vs. patriarchal models. Well there used to be certain traditions attached to them. These days though, the lines are becoming somewhat blurred. It’s a matter of who makes the decisions about the important things.

Of course, each gender has its own ideas of who the decision makers ought to be. Well that’s only natural. It’s probably at the root of most family arguments. Of course when you’re retired, the dynamic changes somewhat. All the years I was workin’ I never came out of the bathroom to be confronted by the vacuum cleaner standin’ right on the other side o’ the door, for example, waitin’ for me to do the cleanin’. Well it’s little things like that you notice.

Then of course there’s the laundry business. There ain’t a time goes by the missus don’t come back with a story about an elderly couple doing their laundry together. It’s so sweet, she says. They’re laughin’ an’ talkin’ an’ havin’ fun doin’ it. Of course I know what’s on the wife’s mind. We’ll be doin’ laundry together an’ first thing you know, I’ll be doin’ it by myself. It’s a constant battle of wits to stay ahead o’ the game.

An’ speakin’ of laundry, the other day I go into my closet to fetch a pair of my comfortable pants to get dressed for the day. Guess what? No pants! NO PANTS! Well, that ain’t really true neither. I got my suit pants an’ my dress pants, but who wants to wear them around the house? An’ then there’s a couple o’ pairs o’ heavy winter cords that used to fit last year. Gravity has fixed that so now they got to go to the tailor’s.

“Where’s my pants?” I ask the missus none too politely.

“Put away!” she shoots back in similar style.

“Since when do you get to hide my pants on me?” I want to know.

“Since it’s not summer anymore! You’ll look like an idiot wearin’ them pants at this time o’ year an’ you’re not going out with ME lookin’ like THAT!”

“Oh.” It took me a minute to catch my breath.

I regain my composure an’ come back kinda cocky-like: “Listen lady, far as I know I still wear the pants in the family so keep your hands off them.”

She smiles at me sweetly an’ I know I’m sunk even before she opens her mouth an’ demurely says; “Of course you wear the pants in the family dear, but you’ll wear the pants I put out for you.”

Well that’s it then. I’ve finally learned the lesson of how it is that men wear the pants in the family, Or at least that’s how it seems to me from up here on the top shelf.

Just sayin’,

 

One Stop Shop

One Stop Shop 

Well how do you like them apples! I got the flu shot this mornin’ – in church! Now there’s a switch! What I usually get there is hellfire an’ brimstone an’ the collection plate passed. Oh I do get a couple’a hymns to clear my throat with the package, but since my voice has about bit the dust, that don’t help much.

But this now is somethin’ brand new. I guess rentin’ out the church for this kind of activity is a good alternative to bingo night. Not only that, but it brings a whole raft o’ new people to the church. Who knows what they’ll think when they get there? Could be a bunch o’ new members.

So anyways I get there an’ the parkin’ lot is near to full, but I manage. At the door there’s signs directin’ you to the big hall where it’s all at an’ there’s a bunch o’ women dressed in them lime green vests with a big “X” acrosst the back like the road construction traffic controllers. They’re right friendly too an’ invite me in to a table where I get to complete some forms an’ wait fer my number to be called. No sooner I get done an’ my number comes up. Holy Toledo, that’s some service.

Of course, I’m waitin’ for some grizzly old matron with wrestlers arms an’ a giant spike needle to spear me, but no, I get “Cheryl”, my own personal nurse who smiles an’ asks after my health before she tells she’ll give me a little poke. Pffffft! She’ so pretty an’ friendly she could give me any size poke she wants! I wouldn’t a minded even if she’s hit me over the head with a sledgehammer. I’m still processin’ her big blue eyes an’ she’s already puttin’ a band aid on my arm, tellin me to go sit down for ten minutes before I leave, just to make sure I don’t keel over.

Well, I never! I didn’t see that comin’! Floatin’ back out to the parkin’ lot, I’m feelin’ nothin’ but happy at havin’ been to church, an’ havin’ my heavenly flu shot at the same time. I tell ya, I got to hand it to them Mennonites. They sure put one over on the Lutherans an’ the Catholics with their Thursday night bingo. They rent out the hall an’ furniture to the health authority, provide a few volunteers an’ Bob’s yer uncle! An’ they got a preacher there in his office to administer last rites in case somebody croaks, or to welcome new members if they don’t. A guaranteed income an’ they don’t even have to lead their adherents into gambling with their bingo stuff an’ questionable food. At least that’s how it seems to me from up here on the top shelf.

Just sayin’.

Rhubarb in the Senate Sandbox

Rhubarb in the Senate Sandbox

 

Why is it that every time there’s a brouhaha in Ottawa it takes me right back to the old Brooklands schoolyard an’ some o’ the shenannnigans that went on there back in the day? Well it ain’t much different actually. You take the time for instance when Freddy Tataryn was feelin’ his oats an’ tryin’ to impress everyone. He was a new kid at school, kind of a big overgrown dandy with his hair waved just so an’ a cocky attitude that turned out to be more misplaced bravado than anythin’ else.

I can’t remember who he picked a fight with but I do recall him sayin’ he was goin’ to show this kid a thing or two. Well they commenced to proceed with the lesson an’ next thing you know, there’s Freddy, flat on his back in the dust an’ getting’ his face rearranged, an’ yellin’ somethin’ like, “C’mon you’se guys! Come an’ help! I can’t do this by myself!” We just laughed. I think somebody did finally go in to help and the two combatants were finally separated.

Freddy got up from the dirt an’ brushed hisself off. Not admitting that he’d just got the snot beaten outa’ him, he tended to take the position that he wasn’t afraid of the other guy, which was what he wanted to show us. What he actually proved was that he was an idiot. He hadn’t properly measured his opponent an’ it hadn’t occurred to him that he could end up at the bottom o’ the heap. Come to think of it, that wasn’t the point in his mind. He wanted to show us that he wasn’t afraid to take on anybody in the school, but when he called for help, he wanted it. We all agreed with everythin’ ‘cept the last part. I mean who in his right mind wants to get pummeled and punctured with clothes ripped an’ torn so you got somethin’ to answer for when you get home?

Well don’t that remind you of that rhubarb goin’ on in Ottawa? Ol’ Harper says he’s gonna fix them buggers once an’ for all. He’s gonna’ fire ‘em outa the Senate an cut them outa their pay! Well – them’s fightin’ words! ‘Specially if he’s gonna fire a couple o’ long time political journalists turned Senators. Them folks not only have very sharp spears, but I’m sure there’s a couple o’ tommyhawks under their suit coats too. If they don’t get their way, Ol’ Harper’s suit is gonna end up bein’ full o’ holes, an’ that’s a fact. It’s a good thing the carpet in the Senate Chamber is red. It’ll hide the blood stains inflicted durin’ this brouhaha. I just can’t wait for the entertainment to come from, of all places, the chamber of ‘sober second thought’.

Sober? I don’t think so. They’re all drunk with the perception of power. It’s strange though that they are all a part of the same family. Sort of reminds you of that movie “The Godfather”. It wouldn’t surprise me to see every one of them get the kiss of death before too long. It would be too bad too. We’re finally getting’ our money’s worth of entertainment out of that useless bunch o’ politicians. At least that’s how it seems to me from up here on the top shelf.

Just sayin’,

 

 

I.Q vs, Common Sense

I.Q vs. Common Sense

 

There’s a big debate goin’ on over racial differences as they affect I.Q. I was quite intrigued with the discussions among a number of scholars citing studies and producing graphs to back up their claims. It wasn’t until I realized that some Frenchman invented the test around the turn of the last century that I realized that the standard was set to the European white society at that time. So the whole debate today is full o’ holes.

Well they said that the Australian Aborigines scored lowest on the comparison list, for example. Yet I remember a test done a number of years ago where a race across the outback between somebody on a motorcycle, another team in an overland vehicle, and an old Aborigine tracker walking on foot was held. You know of course that after about five days of racing the motorcyclist and the overland driver were each surprised to be greeted by the tracker who was already at the finish line. Go figure. Then just recently there was the little lost girl that nobody could find for about nine days with GPS, helicopters, sniffer dogs etc. Well another old tracker took off from the last place where the girl had been seen and within four hours returned with her in his arms. Go figure.

An’ then the Rogers Telecom System crashes an’ everybody is up in arms about it. I heard one lady say “What would we do in an emergency if we can’t get hold of anybody?” Can you believe that? Tell you what lady, in a situation like that, go to a person over seventy an’ ask them what to do. Once you get over the serious bump from them kicking your stupid I.Q. arse, they’ll tell you exactly what to do.

There was the time back in ’46 when the Weston Bakery employees decided to go on strike. Well holy Second World War all over again! No bread! NO BREAD? NO BREAD! What in the world would we do with no bread? The mothers wouldn’t be able to put peanut butter on them slices o’ cardboard they called bread no more. My mother never said a cussword in her life, but hearing this, she came about as close as damn at these idiot women who seemed to never have heard of baking your own darn bread.

So there ya go. I guess what we gotta do is to define this intelligence crap (or perhaps redefine it). It obviously has nothin’ to do with common sense. For my money you can take yer intelligence an’ stuff it where the sun don’t shine. Give me good old common sense any day. An’ that Frenchman who invented the I.Q. test, well he probably couldn’t bake a loaf o’ bread neither. At least that’s how it seems to me from up here on the top shelf.

Just sayin’.

Malala Youstafzai

Malala Youstafzai

 

I don’t know if it’s a sad day when we have to look to a child to show us the way out of our human dilemma or it’s a good day when such a young person can inspire us. But then hasn’t it always been the way? Didn’t Buddha wander throughout the land as a young boy to meditate and learn all the things he needed to know to set out the basis to live by? And didn’t Jesus enter the temple at age twelve? And didn’t Joan of Arc lead the French armies to victory before being burned at the stake at age of nineteen?

And in recent times didn’t David Suzuki’s daughter address the United Nations on environmental issues that shocked everybody into paying attention? And then there was the Kielberg kid who one-upped Jean Chretien at the United Nations when he was just a little shaver.

Then of course, there is Malala Youstafzai, an ordinary Pakistani girl growing up in a beautiful neighborhood in Pakistan with a penchant for learning – until the Taliban showed up. They came, closed and bombed schools, murdered teachers and students alike and disallowed education altogether.

That was too much for Malala. They would not deny her or any of the other girls their education, so she began to speak out about it. Of course, you know the rest. She was targeted on a school bus going home from classes and shot in the head and left for dead.

Thanks to the heroics of the medical teams in the U.K. and the diplomatic services, Malala pulled through. She lost many things in the ordeal – her hearing in one ear, the sight in one eye and so on. But she never lost her focus on girls’ education, and she never gained an ounce of fear of her enemies. In fact if anything, she gained the ability to categorize them with laser precision. They’re afraid, she said. Knowledge is power and they’re afraid of that.

The whole business seems to have lit a fire in her belly to carry on and advocate on behalf of girls and women throughout the world. But make no mistake. This is not a child or young woman who has tunnel vision on only education. This is a young lady who possesses the emotions of most of us. When an interviewer asked her if her father would be angry if he adopted her, Malala, surprised by the inference, exploded in uproarious laughter and her smile lit up the entire room. Only a few moments before in the interview she was asked what her feeling was about the Taliban who targeted her. She said her first instinct was to take off her shoe and hit him with it. But then she thought that would only lower her to the same level as him. Instead she said she would also advocate for education for his daughters as well and he would do what he would do. She was not afraid.

From up here on the top shelf, all I can say is Wow! Let us never curb the aspirations or the inspiration of our children. They are our last hope for sanity in this convoluted world we’ve created. At least that’s how it seems to me from up here on the top shelf.

Just sayin’.

 

Nurturung Nature

Nurturing Nature 

Seniors will outnumber children worldwide within thirty-five years! That’s what they said on the news this morning. How about that! Civilization is coming to a crashing halt in the foreseeable future. What the H E double hockey sticks? Don’t we know how to make babies any more? How in the world could that happen? How could we possibly screw up sex, I’d like to know.

Well, for one thing, we forgot what sex is for. Used to be that it was taken for granted that it was to reproduce our silly selves. Not no more! No sir! Civilization has come too far for that kind o’ nonsense. These days sex is used for entertainment, conquest between the genders, sales and marketing tools and everything else except its prime purpose. What the heck, there’s sperm banks, cloning technology, and even adoption opportunities of children from third world countries. There’s hundreds of ways to get babies.

An’ now, just in the nick o’ time to save our nurturing abilities before we forget them altogether too, we got our seniors outnumbering the little brats we used to produce to take their place. Now at least, these young people we produced will be able to nurture and care for their parents and grandparents. That’ll keep ‘em from losing the talent altogether. The bonus is that the parents will be able to tell the kids what’s wrong. That’s better than little infants who can’t talk anyway. They just cry so you gotta guess what’s bothering them an’ half the time you don’t get it right anyways. At least this way the old folks can tell you an’ you got a better chance of not screwin’ up. Of course that’s assumin’ they still got most o’ their marbles, the old folks that is.

Me, I’m lookin’ forward to the day when my children can pay total attention to me an’ the missus, lookin’ after our every need and whim. I just can’t hardly wait for to go racin’ down a hospital corridor against the missus, hell-bent for election to the finish line. I got my grandson picked out too. He can run like the wind and ain’t nobody can catch him.

Well an’ then there’s the business of feedin’ us. We got that covered too. One of our granddaughters is a registered dietitian an’ she’s already workin’ in long term care so that’s a no brainer. The only thing I ain’t figured out yet is the bathing an’ diaper changin’. They’ll have to draw straws for that. We just don’t care cause if there’s one thing we’re better at than the little infant children, it’s havin’ long naps. We can nod off on signal an’ never know what’s goin’ on ‘til what’s goin’ on has already gone on.

So it seems to me we’re lucky to have been born in a time when sex was used to produce children. We were blessed with a bunch of them an’ they in turn followed our example. So we’re a self-sufficient family unit an’ everybody else can go take care of their own business. At least that’s how it seems from up here on the top shelf.

Just sayin’.