Summer of Celebrations

Summer of Celebrations

 

This is the way the summer of the world stacks up:

On the athletic front:

The Sochi Olympics and Paralympics

The Brazilian Fifa World Cup Adventure

The Calgary Stampede

 

In entertainment:

Country Fest

The Winnipeg Folk Festival

The Fringe Festival

Those are only a couple of things I know about, but enough to give an example of the mood we’re in these summer months. Nobody really gives a rip about the storms in Atlantic Canada or the flooding in Manitoba, or the forest fires in British Columbia or the Northwest Territories, or the fact that my rent went up again this year.

It seems the world needs a bit of a holiday every year from the ravages the rest of the year puts on us, to recuperate from killin’, pillage an’ plunder an’ rape an human traffickin’ of one sort or another, not to mention corruption. Otherwise I suppose the stress would become unbearable. Not that anyone would consider stoppin’ the killin’, pillage an’ plunder an’ rape an’ human traffickin’ an corruption of course, or my rent increase.

Well take them Philistines and them Israelites for instance. They’re hard at it again, the Philistines seein’ how far they can fire their rockets, an’ seein’ if their drones can penetrate Jewish airspace. They seem to have a goodly supply o’ rockets an’ drones cause they just keep ashootin’ an’ afightin’. An’ the Israelite Prime Minister Net an’ Yahoo keeps shootin’ everything down whilst poundin’ the Gaza Strip with his own ammunition. Human caualties is obviously not even an issue cause they just keep blastin’ one another with no end in sight.

An’ that Stalinist Putin who runs the biggest country on earth still ain’t satisfied. He keeps lookin’ for somethin’ he ain’t got. Then there’s that greasy head of the CIA who labels Snowden as a traitor. Yeah, talk about who’s a traitor. He says Snowden is endangerin’ the lives of (American) people. Well I can tell you, I can think of a number o’ them people could do with losin’ their lives. An’ it would make the world a better place, the CIA for one an’ Congress for another. Well, I could go on, but that would spoil the enjoyment of the summer entertainment now wouldn’t it? At least that’s how it seems to me from up here on the top shelf.

Just sayin’.

 

Wisdom of the Elders

Wisdom of the Elders

Listen, by the time your reach a certain age, you automatically become an Elder. It’s a right of passage when the Federal Government sends you that seniors card, you’re qualified to practice Elderism. First thing you know, you feel obligated to dispense wisdom, encouragement an’ other nonsense, you know, bein’ helpful an’ stuff. Let me tell you, this Elderly dispensin’ of wisdom an’ encouragement to all them young whipper snappers can get a little tricky from time to time unless yer careful.

There’s such a thing as gettin’ carried away with yer own importance. First thing you know, you’re blowin’ off a whole lot of wisdom an’ or encouragement to somebody that don’t really want it, or even more embarrassin’, to somebody who don’t know what in blazes you’re talkin’ about in the first place. It happens, you know.

Just such a thing took place the other day when my granddaughter Cathy phoned the house. She never phones unless she’s prodded into it. See, the thing is, I spy on my grandchildren on facebook. I pride myself in knowin’ their moods an’ their aspirations an’ their shortcomin’s just by their conversations with other folks of their own ilk. An’ I’m always ready to jump in an’ help with words of encouragement. Well, that’s my job ain’t it?

The thing is, I got the notion that things were not goin’ to well with her an’ it had been suggested that she call her Opa if she needed somebody to talk to. Well, like it or not, you always want the best for your grandchildren so with that in mind when she phoned, I was all over her with encouragement and ideas for her career and who knows what all else. Good Lord. I never peddled so much advice in such a short time in a long time.

Finally she asks if she can speak to Oma for a minute, so I hand the phone over to the missus, feeling well satisfied that I’d done my duty well an’ true.

“Yeah,” says the missus (laughing) in response to whatever Cathy said to her over the phone, “once he starts, you can’t shut him up.” (meanin’ me of course) An they both busted out in a gigglin’ spree.

Turns out that Cathy wanted to talk to Oma in the first place, not me, the Elder. Shows you what I know about the price o’ rice in China. She was packin’ to go on a trip first thing in the mornin’ an’ the last thing she needed was my sage advice on everything under the sun but the kitchen sink. She’s runnin’ short o’ time so in desperation she just cuts in, askin’ to speak to her Oma. I can just visualize her rollin’ her eyes tryin’ to figure out a way to get rid o’ all this advice she didn’t even give a rip about in the first place, without bein’ offensive.

Me an’ the missus had a good chuckle over it later. We could just imagine the poor kid tryin’ to get packed on time an’ bein’ stuck with this old outa control whacko poundin’ her ear on an’ on an’ on.

The wisdom I got outa this was to learn to keep my trap shut an’ listen to what somebody has to say before I let loose with both barrels full o’ wind. Both parties will be much better satisfied. At least that’s how it seems to me from up here on the top shelf.

Just sayin’.

The Beautiful Game

The Beautiful Game

I couldn’t let the opportunity pass without commentin’ on this extravaganza they call the beautiful game. Beautiful game indeed! It’s just amazin’ what advertisin’ can do. You can start with how Brazil was selected to host the games for starters. There was only two countries competin’ for the rights to host the games in the first place, them bein’ Columbia an’ Brazil. Suddenly Columbia drops out an’ it’s all for Brazil. Look at that! Go figure. There’s enough drug money in Columbia to buy the world cup outta petty cash, so it leaves one scratchin’ one’s head. Well that’s for starters anyways.

Then there’s the games thereselves. Mind you, the skills these players have is somethin’ to watch. They’re like a bunch o’ gazelles prancin’ around out there with some kinda magnets on their shoes for the ball to stick to. Holy crackers! I never seen anythin’ like it. But as you get a closer look, you begin to see what’s really goin on. This ain’t no sissy game, an’ that’s a fact. I’ll bet if you suited them up in hockey gear an’ let them loose on the ice, even Don Cherry would be speechless (for once). Or the converse, if you let the NHL loose on the soccer pitch for one game, there’s be no more NHL an’ Obamacare would have a field day.

What I mean is the fierce competition between opposin’ players. They’re dead serious about the game an’ they’ll do what it takes to win. Of course I’m talkin’ about the Uruguayan who tried to have the Italian player for lunch. All the Italians got outta that was a free kick. Then of course there was the Dutchman who yanked on the Mexican’s jersey just as he was going to kick the ball. Reminds me of my late brother in law who played semi pro in Austria after the war. His favorite trick was to grab onto the shorts of the man he was covering, and slowly pull on them until they were around his knees. Neat trick. But that poor Mexican, givin’ all he had to boot the ball changed his momentum and went ass over teakettle down onto the pitch. The Dutchman never even got a yellow card.

The worst of it, leastwise in my mind was the penalty shots. I mean them goalies are like springs. They boink around like jacks in a box in them nets. You couldn’t get sand past ‘em if you tried. An’ yet, on the very last penalty shot o’ the game, the Brazilian got past the Chilean goalie to win the match. Well I ain’t sayin’ the fix was in, but then I ain’t sayin’ it wasn’t neither. All I’m sayin’ is it’s a little too much of a nail biter to be dismissed as a bit of a nail biter. But we’ll never know, will we? At least that’s how it seems to me from up here on the top shelf.

Just sayin’.

Peguis Pavilion - Kildonan Park

The Peguis Pavilion – Kildonan Park

 

Well I was goin’ to spout off about the business in Iraq an’ the Ukraine. In fact, I got my rage meter cranked up to overdrive an’ was just about ready to fire off the first salvo when I came upon somethin’ earth shatterin’ that temporarily changed my mind.

Me an’ the missus picked up my sister to go have a stroll in Kildonan Park an’ look at the flower beds an’ enjoy some fresh air. We done that too. Of course all that amblin’ around raised our appetites somewhat an’ so we ambled ourselves into the Peguis Pavilion an’ the bran’ spankin’ new “Food Evolution” restaurant.

We shouldn’t a had’a done that. See, we come from a time when the pavilion was designed as a pavilion, much like the one at Assiniboine Park. In fact, my sister used to work at that pavilion in Kildonan Park back in the day. She had a summer job there when she was goin’ to school. Them days, it was a big rotunda with servin’ stations in the four directions. The waitresses had all they could do to keep up with the crowds on weekends. It was like Grand Central Station.

Then they mowed the place down an’ built a new one back in the fifties. The best part o’ that was the change room downstairs where you could put on your skates and use the washroom before headin’ out on the pond. They even had music (such as it was). The only thing was, the leased out restaurant wasn’t that big a deal. Not only that, but there was this giant empty space in the dining area, totally unoccupied. Except for the odd diner. What a waste!

Well the city must’a noticed too cause they closed the place down and started major renovations. When I saw that I wrote to Mayor Sam Katz about my ideas for the pavilion. They should put up a small stage so young start-up bands, poets an’ authors could perform for free to the breakfast an’ lunch crowd, thus getting some exposure for theirselves an’ providin’ entertainment for the people there. I figured it would be a crowd pleaser an’ draw an awful lot of young folks to the park and the pavilion, thus bring some life back to the park. To my surprise, Mayor Katz got back to me sayin’ it was an interstin’ idea an’ he’d pass it on to somebody.

Well I guess they never got the memo ‘cause the first thing I noticed was a great big bar in the corner of the restaurant. A bar? In a park pavilion? C’mon, who thought that up? That’s like having eight ounce wine glasses at communion. An’ the station where you placed yer order took up another fair bit o’ space too. The menu itself wasn’t too bad though. The only thing about it was that it was much better on paper than on the plate. Where’d they get that food anyways? It tasted like hospital rejects. The waitresses were friendly enough an’ pleasant, but totally lackin’ in trainin’.

At a year behind schedule and two million dollars for renovation, it seems the city has created a “make work” project slated for failure. I hate to say it, but I don’t think it’s gonna fly. At least that’s how it seems to me from up here on the top shelf.

Just sayin’.

Ophthalmology

Ophthalmology

 

That’s what you call what them eye doctors do. I think the reason they call it that is cause if you can read it, you got 20/20 vision. Probly the first six months o’ school, they learn how to pronounce it an’ after that, they ain’t just an eye doctor, they’re a for sure OPHTHALMOLOGIST! – in trainin’ of course.

I called my Ophthalmologist the other day ‘cause I was gettin’ blurred vision in one o’ my eyes. It was one o’ them things that sorta sneaked up on me. The thing is that when you got two eyes an’ only one o’ them is blurred, you don’t figure it out right away. To tell the truth, the first thing I did was to wash the windshield on my car. That didn’t make no difference so I slowly remembered havin’ the wrinkles ironed outta my other eye sometime after cataract surgery. It was an easy procedure done right in the office. The Ophthalmologist gave me some eye drops, froze the eye, stuck a ring in it to keep it open an’ proceeded to iron it all out with a lazer thingamebob. You might compare it to takin’ a hair dryer to the plastic you put over yer windows in the winter time to smooth it out. The whole business was done in less than five minutes except for the wait time while the eye drops took effect.

So you’d figure it’d be a pretty simple affair. Not so, according to that snippy receptionist in the office. “When did you have the procedure done?” she wanted to know.

I looked it up an’ told her five years ago. “Too long,” she says. “You’ll have to go to an Optometrist and get a referral.”

WHAT?  I had a referral in the first place to have my cataract removed. “Don’t matter,” she says with some finality. So I hung up the phone an’ stuck my head in a paper bag to let off steam.

Eighty bucks later, I had a referral to do exactly what I had predicted in the first place, not that they’d believe the owner of the eye that don’t see proper. Well, I made the appointment, but not with them buggers. They wouldn’t miss me anyways.

In my mind it’s the Optometrist should be doin’ that window polishin’ hisself instead o’ some high falutin’ Ophthalmologist anyways. They could set up a whole eye cleanin’ department an’ get some o’ them kids what put together computer parts to do the job. They got steadier hands than most of us an’ with a little instruction, could do as well as any Ophthalmologist, an’ probly better. After all, you don’t need to be an architect to wash the windows on a high rise apartment buildin’ do you? At least that’s how it seems to me from up here on the top shelf.

Just sayin’.

 

 

 

 

Technology

Technology

 

See the thing is, my phones don’t work proper. I say phones ‘cause there’s three o’ them in a cordless package these days. You don’t get single ones no more. I guess they figure you gotta be within arm’s length of any o’ them contraptions in case somebody wants to talk to you. By now of course them cordless phones are a little out o’ date, given all the cell phones an’ other paraphernalia, but then, we ourselves are a little outa date too.

We didn’t realize there was anythin’ wrong with them for the longest time. You could still dial out an’ talk to whoever without a problem so there was no excuse to question them. But, technology bein’ what it is, gets a little technical now an’ then. When you call somebody an’ a machine answers, givin’ you a choice of what department you want to talk to, they tell you to press one for this department, press two for somethin’ else an’ so on. Well I could press buttons ‘til the cows come home an’ nothin’ would happen. Even the machine on the other end was gettin’ frustrated. I was expectin’ to hear a pile o’ indiscrete expletives from it.

It all became clear when our security system wouldn’t let anybody into the apartment. I said to the missus, “I’ll go down an’ phone up an’ you buzz me in.”

“Okay,” she says, “I’ll do ‘er. But don’t forget your key card, just in case.”

So I go downstairs an’ dial up. The missus pushed the button on the phone to let me in. There’s a gurglin’ sound like what yer stomach makes after you’ve eaten a piece of rhubarb an’ strawberry pie for the first time this year. An’ the damn door won’t open.

The big box store where we got the dad blamed thing from don’t know nothin’ about problems with them things neither so they give me a one – eight hunnert number to call the manufacturer. Holy cheese an’ crackers! It took at least an hour to get through to the right customer service department an’ when I finally did they say; “If the equipment you are calling about is more than two years old, there is no service on it. You will be required to pay seven dollars and fifty cents for your question.” Well somethin’ like that. I should have my credit card ready so they can charge me.

I had to hang up pretty quick ‘cause all of the sudden the question that popped into my head had nothin’ to do with telephones. So I decided to look them up on the internet. Wouldn’t you know it, they’re bleedin’ money hand over fist, an’ seven dollars an’ fifty cents ain’t goin’ to save their bacon. Maybe if they was to concentrate on servicin’ their mickey mouse telephones instead of  collectin’ seven dollars an’ fifty cents per question, they might not be hemmoragin’ so bad. At least that’s how it seems to me from up here on the top shelf.

Just sayin’.

The Long and the Short of it.

The Long and the Short of it

 

Listen, this argument has been goin’ on since dirt was invented. It already started when Eve got together with that snake of a snake. An’ it all has to do with the same basic thing. Really girls, you’re not foolin’ anybody one bit. We know what you’re up to. Well who can really blame you. After all you got them blossoming bodies bustin’ outa your bloomers, an’ somebody’d better notice. How else you gonna find out who’s tryin’ to figure out how far up your pants your legs go? Or just how cleaved your cleavage is?

If you think for one minute that anybody’s gonna believe the only reason you dress that way is to be comfortable in the hot weather, think again. Two inches or four inches (or however many centimeters that is) on the hemline of a pair o’ shorts or a top ain’t gonna make one iota o’ difference. The temperature you refer to has nothin’ to do with the weather. It has everything to do with the body temperature rising at the remarks you pretend to be offended by. You might as well wear some “Depends” or a “Colostomy” bag to keep all that crap in. The same goes for them guys wearin’ muscle shirts you girls seem to like so well.

Just so’s you know, let me tell you that school, especially middle school is an incubator for learnin’ not sex. Do you see your parents and grandparents goin’ to work dressed like you are? I don’t think so.

But I’ll tell you what though. You got a good point about the schools bein’ wrong in sendin’ you home to change yer pants. What’s gotta change is the curriculum just a wee bit. Right after assembly, they have to have a mandatory “come as you are arc weldin’ class an’ construction instruction. That way you get to see the sparks fly in ways you never thought you would AN’ you get yer exercise at the same time. Not only that, but you learn a trade different from the oldest one in the book too. What could be better?

Just think. You’d win the age old argument and wear whatever you want with nobody givin’ you grief over it an’ the boys could watch you dance every time you got a shower of sparks up your wazzits, or down your wazzits, whatever wazzits you got hangin out. It would completely camouflage your true intent that you could then take to the next level AFTER SCHOOL IS OUT! At least that’s how it seems to me from up here on the top shelf,

Just sayin’.