Is it the grumpy season? More little irritations seem to keep cropping up the past few weeks. Here are three of the most recent.

            A call to a member of the staff at the bank triggered a central intercept apparently designed to prevent local, personal service wherever possible. It is especially irritating when the purpose of the call is to make an appointment with the local person to sign some forms they want signed.

            It was already an irritating situation. The forms were to guarantee a loan for one of the children to save years of payments by providing a lower interest rate. What was irritating is that, every time one does something like that now, it is as if the bank has never heard of you before.

            Some poor, young, innocent creature has to endure the snarl in my tone when I explain that I am not going to take in my last income tax return and answer a long list of stunned questions.

            One would think that over 40 years of a consistently clean credit record would obviate such nonsense but apparently not now.

            The little thing that irritates because it is obviously not true and not even grammatical is the recording that says, “To serve you better, press . . . ”

            It is not to serve me better. It is to make me serve myself by operating a bank computer program. It serves the bank better, not me.

            You never hear a recording that says “To serve us better,” do you?

            Even to “To help us serve you efficiently” would be honest and acceptable.

            Why go out of their way to tell us they think we are a bunch of fools they can con with a stupid lie?

Vine-ripened?

            Believe it or not, some supermarkets are still displaying tomatoes with a sign that says “vine ripened.”

            These are not the clusters of tomatoes connected with a piece of the vine.

            First, the tomatoes are not ripe at all. Second, since they are not ripe, they were certainly not ripened on the vine. Third, if they were ripened on the vine, they would not have survived the trip to the store. They would have collapsed into juice on the way.

            What kind of idiots do they think we are?

Someone makes that?

          Why does my coffee maker have a slide lever on it to give me a choice of coffee strength from mild to strong?

            If I wanted weaker coffee, wouldn’t I just put less in the machine?

            Should I assume that they think I am so stupid I would load the machine to the gun’ls and then set the machine to somehow discard half of it?

Not my need

          Have you noticed how the BS artists who want to fogify and mush everything have removed ought to and must from their vocabularies?

            Instead of telling you you should or must do something, they say you need to do it.

            You need to press number 9. You need to provide your phone number with your credit card slip signature.

            How does all this stuff become your doing? Have you ever felt a compelling urge to call someone and press phone buttons? Do you have the urge right now? If you do, I suggest you need to call a doctor – as if anyone would answer! Oops. Oh yeah. There’s a whole new irritation.

            Again, people make their responsibilities or needs our responsibilities and needs. Everyone does and always has.

            The difference was that, when a robber held you up, he used to tell you you had to give him your wallet and watch. He might even tell you he needed your money and valuables.

            Now, if he takes his lead from modern-day corporations, you might be staring down the barrel of a gun and hearing “Excuse me. You need to give me your wallet and watch. Thanks, and have a nice day!”

            Perhaps not. Robbers aren’t usually that dishonest.

            We are still manipulated and herded around like a bunch of witless sheep.

            The difference is that the sheep dog now smiles and tells us we need to have our heels nipped because we need to hurry to the pen to be sheared.

            On we go!

                                                            DAC

            Do you have any kind of phobia about being played for a fool?

            Do you like plastic if it is obviously plastic and doing a plastic job?

            Do you hate it if it is pretending to be wood and displaying a wood grain pattern?

            I seem to have that idiosyncrasy to a foolish degree. An obvious fake or a stupid lie really irritates me.

            This past weekend, in a Home Depot store, a recorded voice came over the public address system and said “Remember, it is as important to keep your child securely buckled in in a shopping cart as it is in your car.”

            What damn fool nonsense! Do they think we are all retarded?

            Please don’t get on my case about the use of the word retarded either. Words are not offensive. The intent of the people who use them can be. There is no difference in the meaning of retarded or mentally handicapped other than what some self-righteous, politically correct people determine to attribute to them.

            The same with elderly, old and senior. There is no more respect in senior than in elderly other that what those same euphemism creators cook up.

            I think it was a Texan who said of these people that they are convinced it is possible to pick up a turd by the clean end.

            How long will it be before we are chastised for using the word blonde to describe hair colour?

            Getting back to seat belts in shopping carts, is Home Depot’s official position that a baby in a shopping cart in a store is subject to the same degree of danger that he or she is in a car going 100km per hour?

            People that stupid don’t deserve my business.

            On the ferry to Prince Edward Island, the last time I was on one, there was a recorded public announcement in a juiceless male voice that said “The waters of Atlantic Canada are pollution free.”

            I’m amazed anyone could say that without gagging on such a huge wad of stupid clutched in two large handfuls of lie.

            Perhaps that’s why they had to get someone with a voice with no juice or salt in it. It had to be someone who has never been near saltwater or, probably, any other kind.

                                                            DAC

            In the final game of the New England Patriot’s perfect regular season, the New York Giants did not have a dog in the hunt. New York’s playoff position was already settled.

            From a strategic point of view, they had nothing to gain or lose from taking it easy and resting some of their valuable and worn and torn players.

            Instead they went on the field and played flat out and inspired. They lost but they paid the game of NFL football, the Patriots and themselves the respect of making the Patriots earn the win.

            It may not have been the most strategic move for the team, looking forward to the playoffs, but it was certainly a classy move.

            A league notorious for its convicted felons, substance abuse and even spying, can certainly use some examples of class and sportsmanship.

Dizzy

            One thing about NFL football that makes me wonder about its collective intelligence is the lengthy consideration commentators, coaches and officials give to whether a loose ball was a fumble or an incompleted pass.

            They’ll watch replays over and over trying to determine if the quarterback’s arm was moving forward or not.

            If the quarterback or his throwing arm was hit from the front, all they need to know is whether the ball went forward.

            In the Washington Redskins, Seattle Seahawks wild card game on January 5, a commentator kept talking about how close the official’s call of a forward pass was.

            The ball landed five yards in front of the quarterback and the defender’s arm hit the front of the quarterback’s throwing arm.

            By Newton’s first law of motion, the ball had to be moving forward when the quarterback was hit.  A hit from the front cannot make something go forward.

            That is as impossible as a batter standing with his back to the pitcher, swinging toward the catcher and having the pitched ball go back toward the pitcher. And no, no matter how hard the batter hits the ball, if he is facing the catcher and swings toward the catcher, the ball is not going to go back toward the pitcher. The most vertical possible foul tip cannot be pushed in the opposite direction with a force applied in the same direction it was going.

            Someone should explain high school physics to football commentators and coaches.

                                                DAC

            Well, we finally got our money’s worth with the latest snowstorm in Miramichi. On Wednesday morning, we woke up to a dandy blizzard.

            Enabled by a tiny electric snow blower and an SUV, Michelle and I were able to get out to pick some work from her office and a few treats for a storm-day celebration.

            There is an old Russian saying, “The church is near but the roads are icy. The tavern is far but I will walk carefully.”

            Nature was as boisterous and drunk as uncles and nephews at a Mediterranean wedding.

            The winter air was filled with the snarls, growls, slams and bangs of tractors, blowers, trucks, plows and construction earth movers.

            Many people enjoyed an unscheduled holiday.

            People who work in places that do not close shone with pride that they are significant and tough. You know — important places like hospitals, fire stations and coffee shops.

            People responsible to clear streets, driveways, and parking lots seem to appreciate the few civilians out and about and seeing their efforts as long as we stay out of their way.

            It never ceases to amaze me how quickly the people responsible to make us mobile and safe swing into action as soon as, and even before, a storm begins to abate.

            A good blizzard is awe inspiring in its fierce beauty.

            A comfortable home and access to necessities in the midst of nature’s rage is a life-preserving blessing.

            It never ceases to amaze me how comfortable we can be in a climate that would kill us in minutes if we were not prepared.

            We owe a significant debt of gratitude to the people in our support systems.

            Thanks folks!

                                                            DAC

            TV coverage of airport havoc during a snowstorm early this week seemed to feature mostly Atlantic Provinces people trying to get home at Christmas. That’s logical given the number of them fanned out all over the world to earn a living.

            There will be more after UPM Kymmene’s announcement this week. The fine paper mill and groundwood pulp mill, like the kraft mill before them, will be decommissioned permanently. Several hundred men will lose their company jobs and untold numbers of truckers, woods contractors, woodlot owners, and all their suppliers and support systems will feel the effects.

            David Adams Richards had a fine and touching article in the “Globe and Mail” this week. He pointed out that skilled Miramichiers always have been going away for work.

            It occurred to me that most Miramichiers arrived here because they had to leave their native lands elsewhere. Scottish, French, Irish, Lebanese and others came here to escape troubles elsewhere over the past 400 years.

            During the last oil boom in the west, I sometimes heard Albertans talking about how Maritimers needed to develop more drive and self-reliance to escape their welfare mentality. Prime Minister Harper bought into that idea, I think.

            Anyway, whenever that happened, I would thank them for the advice and tell them I would go home and pass it on. I asked them to confirm that, if we did show some drive and self-reliance, there would be oil under the ground here too. They would never do that.

            Then I’d ask them how deep the holes were they drilled to plant the explosives for seismic testing. When they said they didn’t know or made up a vague answer, I would tell them they are 60 feet deep. Then I’d ask them why they supposed it was that a Maritimer knew that and they didn’t.

            “Could it be,” I would ask, “that it is because it is Maritimers dragging those coils of wire over the frozen muskeg every winter and drilling those holes?”

            Miramichiers and Maritimers and Newfoundlanders have done a lot of the heavy lifting for every economic success west of here. Many of the most successful companies on the continent were built and led by Maritimers.

            As the folk song goes, “Miramichi men are the tough ones.”

            There is another reason why it is possible to get the Miramichi down but impossible to keep it down.

            A local, self-employed man, Stacey Allison, was recently diagnosed with a cancer. The famous Dr. Ruben says he can drive it into remission with an aggressive program. It will come back in a few years and have to be driven back again.

            Last week a friend asked to borrow Stacey’s truck. He had to go to Saint John to pick up some stuff he had bought there. He needed the truck for the weekend.

            Come Sunday night, it turned out Stacey’s friend had lied through his teeth. He hadn’t gone to Saint John at all. Instead he had put the truck in a workshop across the street from Stacey’s own home.

            There a gang of friends and neighbours had worked all weekend to do a complete makeover on the truck. They had done extensive body work and a paint job. They had even installed a remote starter so Stacey doesn’t have to get into a cold truck when he goes for treatments.

            On Sunday evening, Stacey’s friend told him he had dropped it off at the neighbour’s to wash it after the weekend trip to the US. They went over to get it and, when the door opened, there was the refurbished truck with a large “Merry Christmas” on it.

            So, yeah, the Miramichi is facing up to another setback this Christmas as Stacey Allison is facing up to a personal challenge.

            I don’t know about you but I’m going to continue to bet on the Miramichi to tough it out and fight its way back.

            Oh, and it isn’t just the men. On Friday we were holding our breath waiting for our youngest, Aaran to get home from Grande Prairie where she and half her friends from high school are part of the army of Maritimers driving the current energy boom. Miramichi women are out and about too.

            May you and yours have your family home and healthy this Christmas.

            What more could I wish for you?

            Merry Christmas!

                                                            DAC

            There’s a bit of shtick I love and used a lot.

            It goes like this.

            You are going to ask me two questions.

            The first question is “What do you do for a living?”

            When I answer that question, you are going to ask me the second question: “What is the most difficult thing about your job?
            Okay, here we go.

            You: “What do you do for a living?”

            Me: “I’m a standup comedian.”

            You: What is the most . . ‘

            Me: “Timing!”

            Mayor John McKay of Miramichi doesn’t seem to have much future in standup. His jokes go over with the delicate zing of a watermelon landing on concrete from 20 seconds up.

            Last summer he tried to play comic pirate with the crews of visiting tall ships. He managed to insult them all and drove one captain from the room in high dudgeon.

            Surely he was trying to be funny at a recent council meeting when he brought up the matter of the local newspaper dunning the city for payment of an advertising invoice.

            The options are that he was trying to embarrass a city employee or he was trying to be ironic.

            He brought it before council that the city had been refused credit to place an ad over an unpaid bill.

            He never did explain, in terms anyone seems to have understood, why the mix-up or dispute warranted council attention.

            There was an immediate comedic possibility.

            He could simply have said, “I just wanted to bring it to your attention that the Irving media cut off the city’s credit for being late with a payment.

            (Pause, one, two, three, four, timing, remember, timing!)

            “Ain’t that one for the books?”

            (Pause, one, two, three, four, and on to the next item with a straight face if possible.)

            All New Brunswick and most of the Maritimes would have been FOTFLOL. That’s “falling on the floor, laughing out loud,” in dated internet chat line acronym.

            For the benefit of those unaware of the New Brunswick business environment, or unfamiliar with the term “accounts payable,” let me explain.

            In the world of business, getting the Irvings to pay a bill before it reaches the 90-day list is akin to climbing Mount Everest blindfolded, in shorts and sandals. The thought of an Irving business acting as the injured party is hilarious.

                                    DAC  

            My son in law was talking to an acquaintance about the cold weather we’ve been having.

            “Haven’t seen a mosquito all day!” he said.

            “Neither have I!” said his friend, “And I’m from upriver!”

            That pretty well settles that, then, doesn’t it?

And that settles that

          “Immigrants don’t like Port City, report says” was a headline in the Wednesday, December 12, “Telegraph Journal.”

            I wonder if the headline writer was snickering to himself as he keyed that in. Surely he must have known that, all over the province, people would be reacting, “So? Who does?” or “Well, that settles that, then, doesn’t it?”

Slow learner

          I’m not only the spawn of packrats, I’m a slow learner. For the past couple of years, I’ve been asking around as to where I might get my handsaws sharpened. I’m not enough of a carpenter to bother with a power saw for most of my projects.

            Probably my most common job is sawing a few inches off the bottom of a Christmas tree. Let’s see, how often would I do that per year? Uh, yeah, pretty much once tops.

            When it takes five minutes, and a nutrition break, to complete a Christmas tree butt reduction, one begins to suspect the saw needs sharpening. Yeah, yeah, and I need more exercise.

            So, I’ve been asking around the past few months as to where I might go for such service.

            Finally, a sales clerk at a local store looked at me, from his innocent young face, and said “Gee, sir, I think people pretty much just buy a new one.”

            A guy once said to me he was so old he remembered when the air was clean and sex was dirty.

            I guess I can now tell people I remember when your saw lasted a lifetime and you threw away razor blades.

Highly intelligent idiots

          It is astonishing how many peripherals are attached to home computers these days.

            External hard drives, external lcd monitors, surround sound speaker, cameras, personal digital assistants, iPods, chill mats and card readers are in front of me as I write. Most of them need a cord to interface with the computer and, or, another to supply power.

            My wife finds the term “wireless world” hysterically funny. Can’t blame her. My desk top looks like mating season on the spaghetti ranch.

            There is one thing they all seem to have in common. They will not tell you, even under bright lights and sleep deprivation which gizmo they belong to.

            Computer techs, of course, know them by name, nickname, and league stats. The people who design the things know their names and what they do, at least theoretically.

            These seem to be exceptionally intelligent people. At least we think they are intelligent. They say things like “Slot ‘DIMM 1’ has 1024 MB” and “SDA Standard Compliant SD Host Controller.”

            Mind you they cannot tell you, in any of the romance languages, what any of these things do or how to get them out of the box but they do know lots of jargon.

            What is really frustrating is they cannot, do not, will not, put tags or labels on cords saying “This thing connects your Acme Model Supersexy LSD, digital camera, to your computer. Tab A goes anywhere in the camera it will fit. Tab B goes anywhere in the computer it will fit.”

            Sometimes it can’t be that simple. Peripherals can be fussy about which input, aka port, they are connected to. You will often find a message on your screen saying that the printer connects to USB 003.

            Have you ever seen a USB port with its number marked on it? Have you ever seen a USB port with even USB port marked on it? Of course not. You are supposed to remember that from the instructions or refer to the instructions. Do you know where the instructions are? Can you read them?

            Are the highly intelligent people who create these things really highly intelligent or incredibly incapable of communication?

            Perhaps they are part of a conspiracy to:

1)         Keep us from knowing how our equipment communicates so we need professional help on a regular basis or,

2)         Make us give up and buy all new equipment on a regular basis.

            Putting adhesive labels on all my cords helps but can be frustrating too. Trying to read and understand the cryptic notes I write on little labels reminds me that I am more part of the problem than part of the solution.

            Mark Twain was correct when he said, “The most common misconception about communication is that it has actually occurred.”

            That was about100 years ago. We have, in my lifetime, rapidly progressed, with the aid of computers, fiber optic and satellite communication to the stage where we know communication has not, does not, will not occur.

            There is an old poem, attributed by some to George Herbert that goes:

For Want of A Nail

For want of a nail, the shoe was lost:

For want of the shoe, the horse was lost;

For want of the horse, the rider was lost;

For want of the rider, the battle was lost;

For want of the battle, the kingdom was lost,

And all for the want of a nail.

          Could it be that the next kingdom that falls will be for want of a name on a computer cord?

                                                DAC  

            Fatherhood is a wonderful, scary, privilege. My first child, my daughter, immediately transformed me. I had to be responsible and competent to protect this unbelievable treasure. By the time my son became a teenager, I was, and remain, absolutely convinced that he is a better man than I will ever be. He is as kind, decent, intelligent, funny and generous as anyone I have ever met.

            My stepchildren have all taught me as much as I may have taught them and I experience the same ecstasy in their successes and fears, when their happiness or safety, is threatened that I do for my blood children. I as soon socialize with them and their friends as with anyone my own age. Considering they are all young enough to be my grandchildren, that is, I think, a remarkably good thing.

            I cannot take credit for any of them. Without the pure love and care delivered by their mothers, all these kids may well have murdered me at one time or another. I’m not a natural parent. I always had to work at it.

            Having said that, I’m astonished at two incidents that came to my attention this week.

            In Toronto a father is charged with murdering his daughter who had chosen not to wear religious garb.

            Another father has made an issue of punishing his son for smoking pot with friends by auctioning off his Christmas present on eBay.

            A character in one of my favourite movies, “Pocketful of Miracles,” observed at a heartache moment, “I feel sorry for the whole stinking world.”

            That’s how I feel about a world where a man can be conditioned to think murdering his healthy young daughter is the right thing to do to preserve the family honour. Mohammed would, I am certain, be devastated at the idea of such a thing being done in his name.

            Insignificant by comparison, but confusing, is the case of the man who is auctioning off his son’s “Guitar Heroes III” video game.

            It is bad enough that he freaked out because he caught his son smoking pot. Smoking marijuana isn’t a sin of deliberate cruelty. Those, to me, are the ones that really matter. At worst it is a disappointment and a minor legal infraction.

            The father is a teacher. One would expect that he would know that one of the first rules of human resources management is that you praise in public and chastise in private.

            The other boys who were with his son when he was caught will know what the father is doing and it will become a big tease, taunt and sympathize issue in the boy’s school which is his daily world. Both the taunting and the sympathy will drive a wider wedge between the boy and his father.

            Psychologist Greg MacDonald once told me that a wonderful thing about children is that they will always give a parent another chance. I hope that works out for the teacher and his son while there is still time.

            The prospect of a child going astray is terrifying to a parent. Extended family, miracle teachers, professionals, peers, spiritual advisors and great good luck are all huge factors in helping a parent arrive at a point where family is one’s purest joy.

            Michelle and I expect to see all of our children this Christmas. Aaran will be home for a week on December 21^st. We’re counting the sleeps.

            Daughter Joanne is having me over for oysters and drinks with friends this afternoon.

            Life is fabulous!

                                                            DAC

           Robert Latimer was refused day parole this week after seven years in prison. Latimer killed his 12-year-old daughter Tracy with carbon monoxide gas in his truck.

            Tracy had cerebral palsy, was severely mentally handicapped and suffered horribly from constant cramps so strong they sometimes broke her feeble bones. Doctors had proposed amputating her limbs to reduce the cramps.

            The Parole Board denied Latimer’s application on the grounds that he does not feel remorse for his actions.

            Following is a letter I have written to Mr. Latimer and will pass on to the Honourable Robert Nicholson, P.C., Q.C., M.P. for Niagara Falls, ON, Minister of Justice and Attorney General of Canada at: webadmin@justice.gc.ca .

Robert Latimer

William Head Institution

6000 William Head Road
Victoria, British Columbia
V9C 0B5

Dear Mr. Latimer:

            This is just a note to express my personal support for you and my outrage at what our country’s so-called justice system is doing to you.

            I really cannot imagine the agony Tracy endured and that you and your wife and family endured watching her suffer and watching the futile and barbaric efforts the medical system performed to keep her alive at any cost.

            I can only wish that, were I in such agony, a caring family member could find a way to end my misery. It is frightening to know they could not without endangering their own freedom.

            From a pragmatic point of view, of course, it would be much more convenient for you to lie and pretend that you think you did wrong. It would be very convenient for the system, which could then pretend it had served justice in this tragedy.

            It is tragic and outrageous that you are paying such a terrible, pointless and stupid price for our society’s cowardice in not facing up to its responsibility in cases like Tracy’s. I am sure you would have pursued a legal avenue if any had been available to you that would have spared Tracy’s suffering.

            Surely the people making shrill claims to be defending the safety of the handicapped by keeping you in prison are the cruel ones.

            They are willing to have had Tracy condemned to endless suffering.

            They are willing, even eager, to subject you to real punishment in the name of theoretical danger.

            Real justice would protect us from people like them.

            Sincerely,

            David Cadogan

Damned selfish of her

            I’m a volunteer driver for Meals On Wheels. I’ve been doing it for about 25 years now. So many Miramichiers volunteer that I only drive once every 28 days. Like many others, I thought I was doing it for them when I began. I soon realized I’m the main beneficiary. The people I meet!

            Last year, with no kids or grandparents in the house, I volunteered Michelle and I to drive on Christmas day. It would help take Michelle’s mind off the unusual  Christmas morning peace and quiet.

            It helped and it was a ball. My 90-year-old flirt client was elegantly dressed in red and white and wearing a Santa hat. Tawit, tawoo!

            So, when I got my December reminder call this week, I volunteered us again for Christmas day.

            When I turned up today to pick up my meals, co-ordinator Ann Sillikers told me the volunteer scheduled to do the run that day doesn’t want to give it up.

            Damned selfish of her, don’t you think?

Buy your next MP

            One of the very best December specials is the opportunity to buy your next MP. They are up to 75% off if you act before the end of the month.

            Thanks to a brilliant provision of the Canadian tax act, you can donate $100 to the federal political party of your choice and get $75 back. The refund comes in the form of an income tax credit on your 2008 return due in April.

            If you donate $400 you get $300 back.

            It is part of the plan to make sure our federal candidates are beholden to us rather than to big corporations, unions or pressure groups.

            The other part of the plan is that the unions and corporations are prevented from buying the parties. They cannot outbid you.

            Neither can pressure groups mount campaigns for and against candidates or parties they don’t like. In the U.S., groups like the National Rifle Association can make or break a candidate.

            Why should you give a political party $100 or $400?

            Mainly because they have to get it somewhere. Would you rather they want to keep you happy or keep some big institution happy?

            You can even donate to more than one party if you wish although your tax credit will still only be a declining percentage of the total.

            Giving $500 will cost you $150. The smaller donors get the best deal.

 You could donate $200 to the traditional party you want to see run the country and $200 to the Green Party to help them pressure government if you like.

            Every democracy gets the best government money can buy.

            Who do you want to own your government?

            If you want the people to own yours, this is a wonderful annual opportunity to help ensure that.

 The 632 solution

          In the interests of energy (and money) conservation, I set out to seal and insulate the electrical outlets and switches on the outside walls of my house.

            You can buy sets of foam kits at hardware and building supply outlets. I also found some marvelous stuff in packing material that comes with electronic gear and the shelving material being installed at the refurbished Sobeys.

            However, installing the stuff was driving me nuts. The screws that fasten the cover plates to the receptacle are about the length of the eyelashes of a baby mouse.

            With the foam behind the cover plate, it is very neat trick to find, much less penetrate the screw hole. I spent an hour lunging, stabbing and cursing at one single-outlet panel. The doubles and triples are easier.

            So, being the reasonable person that I am, I took it out on the next electrician I encountered.

            I asked Blaine Jenkins why the %#&* electrical industry made such tiny screws for work you can’t even see.

            He laughed and said electricians wonder about that their whole careers.

            “Fortunately,” he said, “The solution is simple. It is 632.”

            He told me to go to any hardware section and get a box of #6-32 metal screws by one inch long. Apparently #6 indicates the diameter of the screw and 32 indicates the number of threads per inch. The inch long is because size matters. Boy, does it matter!

            Because they are metal screws, they come with little nuts.

            It may seem a trivial piece of information for a column. It does, however, make saving some energy money a much less frustrating, irritating, character testing exercise.

            You’re welcome.