Escape from Reality TV

My exposure to reality TV has been limited; just enough, really, to have allowed me to conclude that I despise everyone who ever has or ever will appear on a reality TV show. In fact, I once concocted a plan to cull all such people from the population by placing an ad for a fake reality show in Variety (that's where they put these things, right? I mean, Annonce if you're trying to sell your '82 Skoda, Variety if you're casting a reality tv show. I didn't spend four years in journalism school for nothing). Anyone who answered the ad would be transported to an island with fake television cameras in all the trees (red lights on) and left there to die.

But that was before some friends and I came up with a brilliant idea for a reality TV show of our own. If you'll permit me, I'm going to practice the pitch I'll be giving NBC (that's who you pitch these things to, right? TV Nova if you have an idea for a naked traffic girl, NBC if you're pitching a new reality show. I haven't lived in the Czech Republic for 10 years for nothing.)

Our show was inspired by (is, in fact, derivative of) a real reality show we watched last night in which this chick had to live for a week each with three different guys and then decide which one she wanted to marrry or date or learn the last name of or something (it's blurry, I blame the saki).

The show was, as you can imagine, AMAZING. The girl was a gym queen with a head of artfully highlighted* and permed hair which she kept STRAIGHTENING. She had a gorgeous Manhattan apartment (or had been loaned one for the show) and a chihuahua named Mooky. (This, according to one friend -- the friend who owns a chihuahua and who admitted she'd watch an all-chihuahua reality show, if one existed -- made her "cool.")

I could go into far too much detail about the three guys and the hijinx that ensued, but suffice to say, the show followed most of the conventions of reality shows including that of having participants talk directly to the camera about what they're thinking.

There's also a crazy-ass panel of relationship "experts" who advise everyone and do colour-commentary on the proceedings.

At some point, fed up with the inanity of the dialogue (and the people, for that matter) we hatched a plan for our own, pseudo-intellectual reality show: "Who Wants to Date Noam Chomsky?"

The premise would be similar to that of the show we watched -- three women would each live with Noam for a week, after which, he'd decide...actually, I don't know if he would decide anything, because I think he's married. The big thing would just be his interaction with the contestants, all of whom would, of course, be airheads. We could imagine him sitting in his bedroom at the end of the day telling the camera bemusedly, "I just couldn't believe the way she'd watch television so...uncritically."

Noam's wife, we decided, would be on the panel (and possibly having the time of her life).

It strikes me now that it has the most important quality for a successful reality TV show -- it could translate across cultures. I can already imagine the Czech version, "Who Wants to Date Jiri Dientsbier?" And the Canadian version, "Who Wants to Date John Kenneth Galbraith?" only he's dead, so recruiting contestants might be more of a challenge. But wait, the generic, "Who Wants to Date a Dead Guy?" might be the most brilliant idea of all.

Does anybody have a number for NBC?


*Whenever I think of highlights, I think of Ukrainian figure skater Oksana Baiul who told reporters she'd gotten "headlights" in her hair. I thought at first it was as an aid to night skating, but it turned out to be a malapropism -- she'd actually been to see Miss Clairol.**


**"Been to see Miss Clairol" is a euphemism I've coined for dying one's hair. It could catch on, except that there's really no need for a euphemism for dying one's hair -- it's like coming up with a euphemism for taking a short stroll, or eating a small meal (both of which, come to think of it, sound like euphemisms in their own right).

Munich


I went to see "Munich" at the open-air theatre on the island last night expecting a documentary about the city and its famous October beer festival.

I kid, I kid. I knew it was a movie about the attack on the Israeli athletes during the 1972 Munich Olympics and that image of the Palestinian kidnapper in his balaclava is one I may even remember from the time. (Yes, I'm THAT old).

What I didn't know was that it was also a movie about plastic explosives, and even more plastic dialogue, and phoney accents of every description, and (inexplicably, to me) elaborate dinners (accompanied by wine, not beer).

I also didn't know it was two-and-a-half fricken hours long (two hours for me, I amputated the last half hour in favor of sitting on a bench, drinking beer, and gazing across the river at the bright lights of the Karlovy lazne night club, listening to the mating calls of the Italian tourists).

I've been reading reviews this morning, trying to piece together just exactly what Spielberg thought he was doing, since simply telling the truth obviously wasn't it. If you want the "facts" about Munich, you should go elsewhere, apparently.

I can't believe the reviewers I've read watched the same movie, "somberly heartfelt, "an audacious political statement, "a brave attempt to wrestle with the impossible, "a film of uncommon depth, intelligence, and sensitivity."

All I could think as I sat on my bench with my beer willing the thing to be over was "I wonder what that movie would have been like if somebody SMART had made it?"

Where is my mind?

I saw the Pixies at Akropolis last night.

If you don't know Akropolis, you won't appreciate what a coup this was -- it's a concert venue with an official capacity of 600 and last night they sold 800 tickets (that's what I heard, anyway, and I always believe the stuff I hear from random people in the crowd at concerts, that's how I found out Elvis was not only still alive he was opening for the Strokes).

If you don't know the Pixies, you're probably Amish and the only music you were allowed to listen to growing up was the stuff you made yourself with your spoons, and god love you.

If you know both Akropolis and the Pixies, then you've just turned bright green with envy and I don't blame you -- I'd be envious of myself too, if I hadn't gone. (No wait, if I hadn't gone I wouldn't have been envious of me, I would have felt sorry for me; if I had gone, I would have envied me. But I did go, so I guess I am envious of myself. This is like one of those puzzles where you're locked in a room with two doors and a guard at each door and one tells the truth all the time and one lies, and you get to ask one question to figure out how to get out. Except my version would be you're locked in a room with me and I don't make any sense whatsoever and you can't get out and you go insane.)

But I digress.

We were packed into Akropolis like tuna in its own oil (I'm trying a new take on an old fish simile, you were expecting "like sardines in a can," no?). The sound check took so long I was beginning to think the guitar-tuning guy was actually a homicidal maniac who'd killed the Pixies in their tour bus so he could steal their audience and force us to listen to his three-chord rock stylings ALL NIGHT LONG.

But then the Pixies came on and my fears were washed away on a wave of mutilation.

We sang, we danced, we sweat. Boy did we sweat -- I could have filled my plastic beer cup with water wrung from my own clothing. Not that I did, that would have been kind of gross, but I could have.

Afterwards, we wanted to drink beer outside, but the outside part (oh, give it a name, call it a "deck" or a "patio") at U Sadu was just closing so we did the next best thing -- we bought cans of beer and stood under the Zizkov tower drinking, doing the post-mortem on the show (Kim Deal looked really happy and surprised by the warmth of the reception and she smokes a lot), and tried to develop "signature dances" in the unlikely case that one of us should become a rock star.

I'm listening to the Pixies right now and I think I'll continue to do so for the rest of the day, grateful that the Pixies got back together, grateful that I attended the show (I got a ticket at the last minute because my friends rock), and grateful that I'm not Amish, forced to relive my concert experience by playing Pixies songs on my spoons.

Useless Information

The average large elm tree has eight million leaves. I don't know what constitutes an "average" or a "large" elm tree (I'm not even sure I'd know an elm tree if one fell on me, crushing me with the weight of its eight million leaves, not to mention its sturdy trunk) but I'm impressed by this statistic. I've been carrying it around with me for several weeks now, trying to slip it seamlessly into conversation, but to no avail. The subject of elm trees just doesn't arise that often in my circles.

Nor does the subject of locusts, meaning I can only share my knowledge that locusts are in fact just angry grasshoppers if I say, "Hey guys, did you know locusts are just angry grasshoppers?" which gets the information out, but so inelegantly. (And I am nothing if not elegant, as my present attire of baggy cotton tank top, shapeless blue trousers of some indeterminate, possibly petroleum-based, material, and house slippers will attest.)

And what of Renaissance astronomy? Did you know the great astronomer Tycho Brae had a gold nose? He lost the original, flesh version to syphillis. Fascinating, no? But waiting for people to stop talking about the World Cup and start talking about the Renaissance, or astonomy, or syphillis is like waiting for the Vltava to start flowing north. Or south. Or whatever way it doesn't normally flow.

I've read that the invention of the telegraph marked the birth of trivia: suddenly, facts - like the temperature in Boston - could be lifted completely out of context and sent whizzing across the country to places (say, San Diego) where they could be of interest, but little use. The result was the invention of the crossword puzzle and the cocktail party - two outlets for otherwise useless information.

So, what I should do is attend a cocktail party, where my store of facts should make me a hit. Failing that (and, as a plan, it seems likely to fail because I never get invited to cocktail parties) I should just drink.

Requiem for a Restaurant

The Georgian restaurant behind my house has DISAPPEARED! Gone like an Argentinian political activist (of years past, of course, Argentina isn't like that no more times, no sir.)

Tamada (the actual name of "The Georgian Restaurant Behind My House") was a neighborhood TREASURE. And that's a term I apply sparingly, the other treasures in my neighborhood being Frank Gehry's Dancing Building and my own bad self.

Now, instead of dadianska chacapuri and kutaisi salad (and the chance to pretend we speak Georgian), we have yet another place for gulas and svickova. And BUDVAR. The beer that prides itself on its high exports, and I wish they'd export all of it.

Below: A bunch of us hanging out at the Georgian place.


There've been many changes in this neighborhood in the past four years, some good, some bad. Lemon Leaf was an improvement on whatever used to be there, chiefly because I don't even remember what used to be there so how could it have been any good? The Colombian restaurant was a nice, if pricey, addition (although I was a bit disappointed to discover that the white stuff in the salt shakers was actually salt; please don't ask me how I discovered this). 02, as far as I'm concerned, is more fun than the public toilet it used to be (in fact, "more fun than a public toilet" is its slogan), and the renos at U Bubenicku were an unalloyed success because, really, can you HAVE too many pictures of big-boobed women around you while you eat? Ich Bin Ibin Ben Carculla (am I close?) is every bit as good as Troll Bar (I'd go so far as to say BETTER) especially since they kept the elvish inscriptions on the walls and we can keep calling it "Troll Bar."

Some changes were neutral: Fajn bar went from gay bar to gay herna bar, a transition that involved the addition of some slot machines and climbing plants, and nobody seemed to notice.

On the "bad" side, Red Room (which I didn't fully appreciate even as I was spending entire weekends there) turned orange overnight and became "Empty Room" (they should have called it "Vacancy"). Yukon closed, meaning the loss of a non-stop that alway had toilet paper in the washrooms. (C'mon, in late-night terms, that's CLASS.)

And to this list I must now add the transformation of "Tamada" into "Czech Restaurant."

Tamada started life as a combination restaurant/shooting club/bluegrass venue with the air of a hunting lodge in northern Quebec, complete with ratty pelts and guns. Over time, the pelts and guns disappeared and the bluegrass occasionally morphed into the kind of stuff Barry Manilow would have played if he were Czech, but the food got better and better.

And now it's gone. And, as you can see from the photo, I am officially in mourning:

"She was always beautifully dressed."

As you've probably heard by now, 17 men...no, wait, make that 12 men and 5 youths, have been arrested in Toronto on suspicion of participating in a terrorist group that planned to blow up parliament and cut off Canadian Prime Minister Stephen Harper's head.

But get this guys -- one of the terrorists is married to a woman from CAPE BRETON! WHERE I'M FROM! How cool I mean shocking is that?!

Apparently, she was just a normal Cape Breton girl named Cheryl, interested in all the normal Cape Breton girl things -- the highland fling, the Gaelic language, singing, crafts, jihad.

(Photo: The new face of terrorism?)

Then she met and married "a muslim prayer leader and factory worker" and "went that way," as one of her uncles put it in the Globe and Mail, changing her name to the ancient Islamic "Cheryfa."

"Staff at the Gaelic College of Celtic Arts and Crafts, which is nestled in the steep Cape Breton highlands, remember her in her dance kilt, a pretty girl with light brown hair..."

Nobody comes right out and says it, but the underlying message is clear -- you can't do the highland fling in no burkha.

"She was always beautifully dressed," said a former staff member who didn't want her name used. (I assume she didn't want to be quoted saying something complimentary about a woman has since gone "that way.")

Elsewhere in the Globe and Mail, neighbors of Cheryfa and her husband Qayyum Abdul Jamal, said Jamal rarely smiled and his wife "wasn't much of a talker, either."

"One thing I can tell you for sure -- this guy was weird," said Jerry Tavares, a neighbour. "There was one time I said, 'Hi,' and he just looked at me. That was it."

Now this strikes me as...MY GOD! IT'S JUST HIT ME! MY APARTMENT BUILDING IS FULL OF TERRORISTS!

They ALL just look at me when I say "hi" and that little old lady who was having such trouble getting her wheeled bag up to the third floor yesterday probably had it packed full of fertilizer.

Because if terrorism can touch Cape Breton, it can touch YOU. Or more to the point, ME.

World Cup Fever...

...has hit Rasinovo Nabrezi 76. And how. I've even designed a special "World Cup" logo to mark the no doubt endless comments I'll be making on the subject.

Today, some introductory remarks: everything you need to know to discuss the World Cup knowledgably over a wine spritzer at a po-mo literature conference.

The World Cup is a giant fooball tournament (that's soccer, for you moms in suburban North America, that thing you drive your children to after their Japanese lessons and before you hide in the laundry room and drink the cooking sherry*).

This time around, for reasons no one has explained to my satisfaction, it's being hosted by Germany.

Many, many countries will participate, even Switzerland.

Teams will play until a winner emerges. If there is no clear winner, the German President will call on the side with the most shots on goal to form a winning team, which it may do with support from another team, but not from the Communists. Or the Nazis.

The winning team gets a trophy that looks like an arthritic hand clutching a doorknob.

The competition is only held every four years because it takes approximately that long to get through the preliminary rounds.

Canada has not qualified.

*Author's note: My impressions of typical suburban North American life are mostly based on John Cheever short stories, "The Ballad of Lucy Jordan," and (I've just realized) a childhood spent watching endless "Flintstones" reruns. And don't try to tell me Bedrock was a city. 

Rumbo

I've taken to listening to the BBC at night as I drift off. I find the sportscasts highly soporific. Just say the word "cricket" and I drop off.

The problem is that sometimes they follow the sportscast with something interesting and I snap awake.

The other night, for instance, I was all but asleep when I heard that Donald Rumsfeld had gone to Vietnam. It was just a recap of the day's top stories, so I didn't hear why Donald Rumsfeld had gone to Vietnam, and I lay there puzzling it out instead of sleeping.

My first thought was that he'd succumbed to dementia and forgotten what war he was fighting.

Then it came to me -- he'd gone back to finish things up, Rambo-style. (If I had photoshop, I would cleverly blend these two photos together, creating a "Rumbo" figure. Sadly, I do not have photoshop and I know the limits of Paintbox too well to attempt anything so advanced, so I've opted to simply give you the two photos. If you cross your eyes a bit while looking at them, they'll sort of blend. The only other option was a pic of Rummy as the main character in the Matrix, which was cool, but which really has nothing to do with this post.)

What brilliance! How better to distract attention from Iraq than to go refight Vietnam? Singlehandedly no less!

Having sorted this all out to my satisfaction, I went to sleep, only to find out the next day I had it all WRONG.

Rumsfeld went to Vietnam to "increase military contacts," not to draw first blood (part II). As far as I can tell (and I admit, I've only skimmed the press coverage) he didn't kill anyone, or rescue anyone, or fire a single exploding arrow.

On the other hand, the cricket scores I heard WERE correct, so pip pip and all that.

Hockey Night in Latvia or What Would Don Cherry Say?

The recent World Hockey Championships (I refuse to add the adjective "ice" even if it is part of the official title; anyone who believes the excitement in Riga these past few weeks has been all about FIELD hockey has obviously caught one too many balls in the ear) are over.

As with all tournaments, there were winners and there were losers. That's of no concern to us today. What we're going to talk about is THAT SWEDISH GUY WHO CROSS-CHECKED SIDNEY CROSBY IN THE FACE.



(Exhibit A: Sidney Crosby, in the halcyon days before he was cross-checked in the face.) In brief, the Swedes were well ahead, Crosby scored to make it 5-3, he was celebrating his goal, and Sweden's Mika Hannula cross-checked him in the jaw.

You're expecting me to get all up in arms about this, but actually, I'm just wondering what celebrated Canadian hockey commentator (I can't believe I just wrote that; that's the equivalent of "celebrated Andean pan-flute commentator") Don "Grapes" Cherry must have had to say about Crosby getting nailed by a Chicken Swede.

That's Cherry's own term, as you may have guessed. He's a former player and coach who really came into his own as a commentator. He also owns a chain of restaurants, including one in my home town (full disclosure: my cousin works there).

His beef with Swedes (and all Europeans) was always that they were wimps:

Grapes' love for Canadian players can only be matched by his disdain for European players. Over the years, Cherry has questioned Euros' heart, made fun of their names and chastised them for introducing diving and visors to the NHL.

So the Crosby hit must have left him torn. Sure, it was perpetrated by a Chicken Swede, but it was Cherry's kind of hockey: violent.

And then, I found this quote - it's Cherry talking about Crosby back when Crosby was playing in the Quebec Major Junior League:

Listen, I like the kid. I see the way he plays and everything. But I’ve seen him now after goals; he slides on the ice, on his knees. And we’ve got something here. You talk about hot-dogging. I think it was 5-0. Yeah, it was 5-0. And Quebec Ramparts are gonna remember this one. Now watch what he does here. This is a hot dog move….Quebec is gonna remember that. The next time they play this kid they’ll be after him. He’s gonna get hurt. They’re gonna grab the mustard and put it all over him.

For the record, I'm not sure what "grab the mustard" means in the context of hockey. If it were the fans he were talking about, I would assume he meant they would, literally, throw mustard on Crosby, but I think he's talking about the players who are generally discouraged from bringing condiments onto the ice. (Exhibit B: putting the 'tard' in mustard.)

And can you "hotdog" when your team is behind by two goals? I think not. So all my googling has been in vain - I still don't know what Don Cherry would say about this situation, but I bet I've accomplished one thing.

I've convinced you that YOU DON'T CARE what Cherry would have said about this, or anything else.

My work here is done.

Dog's dinner

You'll never believe what those whacky New Yorkers are up to now. They're TAKING THEIR DOGS INTO RESTAURANTS!

I know! It's off the hook!

DOGS in RESTAURANTS.

Okay, let's get real. I've spent almost a decade in a country where not only are dogs allowed in restaurants, they're allowed in the kitchens of restaurants, and they're generally served before their owners even get menus. Why, I'm positive one night at Akropolis A DOG COOKED MY MEAL. (I'm a little blurry on the details, but I definitely saw a Great Dane in the kitchen and my garlic soup was decidedly sub par, so YOU do the math.)

These New York dogs are not just pets, of course. They're "emotional support dogs" and they're doctor-certified.

...recently a number of New York restaurateurs have noticed a surge in the number of diners seeking to bring dogs inside for emotional support, where previously restaurants had accommodated only dogs for the blind.

I understand the purpose of a seeing eye dog in a restaurant, but what "emotional support" can a dog offer someone disappointed with their entree? Can the dog pick up the check? Talk his way in without a reservation? Demand the soup be reheated? I don't think so.

Dogs in restaurants, in my experience, drool on your leg and make goo-goo eyes at your food. If that's your definition of "emotional support" more power to you, emotional stability is waiting for you at the pound.

Not that I oppose dogs in restaurants. I HEART dogs in restaurants. And in beer gardens. And on trams. And in the workplace. I think dogs should be scattered around rooms like cushions. But I don't think you should need a doctor's note -- a prescription, really -- to bring one along with you. (Although I like the idea of going to the drugstore, presenting my slip of paper, and being handed a poodle. Possibly in a large, time-release capsule.)

What I'm saying is...I'm glad I live in Prague. Somehow, no matter what the topic, that what I always seem to be saying.

Canadian Politics, Yet Again

It's a beautiful morning in Prague, the sun is shining, the tourists are touring, the river has receded to a more picturesque level, and as I gaze out my window, a thought occurs: what is the new Canadian prime minister really like?

Knowing that for some of you I am the last word on all things Canadian (and the first word, and all the many slurry words in between) I realize I've been remiss in not providing you with some information on our new PM, so today, I'll try to remedy that. [Googles: "harper canada what like?" Tries again without the question mark]

Stephen Harper is head of the Conservative Party in Canada (or whatever they're calling themselves these days, I lost track after Preston Manning left the scene, he was the head of the right wing Reform party whose speeches were said to have been a lot better in the original German).

According to my "research" Harper is the spit of Tony Blair: a premier "in his mid-'40s with a self-possessed wife and appealing children" (Note to self: would exorcism help the self-possessed? Google later).

He is also the mirror image of Australia's John Howard (he apparently stole his entire campaign strategy from Howard, simply by saying "Canadians" wherever Howard said "Australians.")

He is, I've read, neither telegenic nor charismatic.

He looks (this is my own opinion) like he's part Husky (check out those eyes).

He thinks Canada is a Northern European welfare state "in the worst sense of the term" and is a vocal admirer of George W. Bush's America, as in "I don't know all the facts on Iraq, but I think we should work closely with the Americans."

He is, according to one insightful opinion offered by a reader of McLean's magazine (think of it as a less cerebral Newsweek) "like every other politician before him, sometimes good, sometimes bad."

He doesn't believe in gay marriage but he does believe in Stockwell Day, his Minister of Public Safety, who, in his turn, believes:

1) The earth is 6,000 years old
2) Adam and Eve were real people
3) Humans and dinosaurs co-existed; and
4) There's as much evidence for creation as evolution

So there you have it: the new Canadian PM is Tony Blair, John Howard, George Bush and every other politician who has ever existed rolled into one.

I hope that helped.

Wednesdays with Trannies

A good friend (whose name starts with "m" and rhymes with "bike") has just rented a new apartment. I went to see it last night and was suitably impressed. Besides the usual mod cons (electric lighting, gas heating, running water, non-communal bathroom, kitchen sink) the place is located in a pretty courtyard that I would describe as reminiscent of Cordoba only I've never seen Cordoba so that would be a big fat lie and I'm trying to cut down on those AND it's located ABOVE a TRANSVESTITE CABARET.

Entrance is free on Wednesdays and having seen last night's show, I understand why. (At right is an artist's rendition of the act we saw - a guy dressed like a pregnant Mrs. Roper singing some Czech song that was not the theme to Three's Company.)

Come to think of it, the apartment has a sort of Three's Company feel to it, which my friend "bike" actually remarked on as were looking around.

My life often feels like a sitcom - on a good day Seinfeld, on a bad day, Who's the Boss? - so the idea of being a recurring character on Three's Company doesn't startle me as much as it might some. This is especially true since the cafe in the courtyard serves 21 kc Gambrinus. With enough 21 kc Gambrinus, I could sit through an episode of the real Three's Company.

So, if you're looking for me this summer and I'm not out rowing behind a barge full of medical waste while drinking beer (my favorite summer form of exercise, as some of you may remember from an earlier post) I'll be at the Regal Beagle.

Sweet Home Buckinghamshire?

This scene has played out three times in as many days: I'm sitting at my desk, surfing the web for recipes that will somehow allow me to whip up a meal using the ingredients I have in my fridge (mustard, salad dressing, shortening, frozen peas) when I suddenly hear the strains of "Sweet Home Alabama."

I leap to my feet, scurry to the window (getting tangled in my computer/radio/reading lamp electrical cords and almost causing half my room to collapse in on itself) and realize the sound is coming from a vehicle stopped in traffic out front of my house. But WHICH VEHICLE?

Today, I determined two things:

1. It's not the old school Lynyrd Skynyrd version of "Sweet Home Alabama," (you know, the song that was actually a big screw you to Neil Young for his song "Cortez the Killer" which Skynyrd considered anti-South American*), it's just that distinctive - what do the kids call it? a riff? - with some guy rapping over it. And I don't even think he's rapping about Alabama, but I can't really tell.

2. It seemed to be coming from a black SUV with UK plates.

If this were an episode of "Murder, She Wrote" it would be the beginning and Jessica would now find out who was driving that SUV and why they were so devoted to "Sweet Home Alabama" that they played it constantly (because they must - this has happened at completely different times each day).

This is MY show, however, and I say "It came from a black SUV with Brit plates - CASE CLOSED."

Roll credits.

*I know, I know, it was "Southern Man." But I'm a total spaz when it comes to knowing things about the music I listen to - things like who sings it, what's it called, what's the name of that pear-shaped instrument with the strings the lead singer plays? I always come to grief in discussions about music because I run up against people who can not only answer questions like these, they can also tell you what the studio musicians had for lunch the day they recorded this track, what brand of guitar pick the bass player used, where the drummer bought his pants. So I've decided to give up any attempt at being right and concentrate instead on being extravagantly, gloriously WRONG!

You've Always Got Time*

Tim Horton's, for those of you who haven't already had this bit of Canadiana shoved down your throat by a rabid Canuck nationalist (i.e. me), is a Canadian coffee chain. (Owned by Wendy's, an American hamburger chain, which I guess means Tim's is technically no longer Canadian, but I can only follow these questions of ownership back about two levels before I fall asleep, which is why Time Warner/AOL/CNN/Likvidace will take over the world without me noticing.)

Where was I?

Oh yes, so Tim Horton's, the erstwhile Canadian coffee chain, often has contests where you "Roll Up the Rim to WIN" ("Derroule le rebord pour GAGNER" in French which, as you will soon see, is actually germane to this story).

Recently, a 10-year-old girl in Montreal found a Tim Horton's cup in the garbage can outside her school. She "enlisted the help of a 12-year-old girl" to derroule le rebord, and what do you know? They GAGNER-ED a Toyota RAV 4. I'm not sure what that is, but it's worth $28,700, which explains why:

1. The family of the second girl demanded she get half of it.
2. The school janitor, who claims it was his cup, hired a lawyer who demanded DNA testing on the cup to prove this.

Tim Horton's has decided to award the Toyota RAV 4 to the family of the 10-year-old girl. This, to me, seems fair, and that's fitting because the original Tim Horton was a hockey player renowned for his gentlemanly play. He would never have fought over a contest prize. Of course, he probably wouldn't have dived into a garbage can after a used paper coffee cup either, but passons, passons.

*Old Tim Horton's slogan, as was "Your Friend Along the Way." The cups and trays, which can be found scattered profusely along all the major and most of the minor highways in Canada, also feature the phrase "Keep Canada Clean."

Digital Planet

There's this contest on the BBC World Service now where you can win a digital camera (that's a camera you operate with your fingers) just by telling them about the picture you'd take if you won.

I decided the way to win would be to tell them I live in Prague and I want to take a picture of some traditional Prague institution that's in danger of disappearing now that the country has joined the EU.

I started trying to come up with the perfect subject and I realized the best shot would combine a bunch of these things, so I'm going to write and say I would take a picture of a smoking wiener dog with a mullet serving me a well-poured beer that I didn't order. (And yes, I realize EU membership has not, as yet, posed any threat to Czech wiener dogs, but that doesn't mean it won't - once canine mobility becomes a reality we could be up to our ankles in German Shepherds, French Poodles, and Italian Sausage Dogs.)

Of course, I won't win. Some guy from Nigeria will win and I won't be able to grudge him the digital camera because how can you grudge some guy from Nigeria anything? That's right, you can't.

Maybe, instead, I can write a children's story about a wiener dog with a mullet who smokes and serves beer without the children even having to ask. I'll call it, "The Little Mole." 

From the "How's that again?" department

Read this and tell me it doesn't sound like someone asked your grandma to write a New York Times article about nicknames:

Nicknames have been around for centuries, long before the digital age and even before Shakespeare was scribbling iambic pentameter with an inky quill. They have been the province of schoolchildren, athletes, crooners and mobsters, and have described everyone from Queen Elizabeth I (the Virgin Queen) to Loretta Swit's Hot Lips Houlihan character on the "M*A*S*H" television series.

Your grandma, who hasn't been able to see the television that well in recent years and has taken to listening to the radio (or the blender) instead.

Everyone from Queen Elizabeth I to Hot Lips Houlihan? Why not: Everyone from Ethelred (the Unready) to Jerry Mathers' Theodore "Beaver" Cleaver on the "Leave it to Beaver" television series?

Everyone from Idi "Big Daddy" Amin to Vincent Pastore's "Big Pussy" on "The Sopranos" television series.

Everyone from my father's childhood friend "Creamer" Doyle to whatever we're calling Jimmy this week.

In short, everyone.

Pretty much.

Come in Tokyo...

Shuffling toward Bethlehem

The latest trend in all the hip publications (Time, Newsweek, The Watchtower) is to have someone (preferably a celebrity) put their iPod on shuffle then comment on the first five or so songs that come up. iPods, in case you haven't heard, hold literally DOZENS of songs, it's like having a jukebox in your pocket, only not so heavy, and you don't need coins.

I was all set to do this when I remembered I don't own an iPod. So then I thought I could do it with a friend's MP3 player, but I realized I don't really know anything about the songs he listens to (except that they all seem to be sung by incredibly sensitive men from Montreal. I lived in Montreal for two years and never met any incredibly sensitive men, unless you include the ones who wept in their poutine when the Canadiens lost).

THEN I hit on the idea of putting three CD's in my stereo and hitting "shuffle," until I remembered there ARE three CD's in my stereo and they've been there ever since it died sometime before Christmas and hitting "shuffle" probably isn't going to bring it back to life.

Which brought me to my final option (presses play):

Song 1: Cry! Cry! Cry!

Oh! This is the first track on "The Legend of Johnny Cash" CD my sister gave me for Christmas! I always listen to this song first when I play this CD.

Song 2:Hey Porter

This is the second song on "The Legend of Johnny Cash" CD my sister gave me for Christmas. I usually listen to it right after "Cry! Cry! Cry!" I don't know why, it just always seems to happen that way.

Song 3: Folsom Prison Blues

I think this is the third song on that Johnny Cash CD my sister gave me for Christmas, although I also have this song on an old Johnny Cash CD I bought myself, but I didn't just change the CD so I guess this is on the one I got from my sister. It's great.

The Road Not Taken

Sometimes I wonder what my life would have been like if I'd never left Cape Breton Island.

Apparently, it would have looked something like this. 

If I had a hammer

Pictured at right is one of the (by my estimate) 3,500 cobblestones that were hammered into place outside my window this weekend. At the crack of 7 a.m. on Saturday (and again on Sunday) the clink of tiny hammers mixed with the merry laughter of Ukrainian workmen (really merry - drunken, it suddenly occurs to me) came drifting through my window.

They had lots to say to each other, and in my "don't speak the language" paranoia, I assumed, of course, that they were talking about me:

Workman #1: Watch this, I'm going to hammer these in as hard as I can! It is 7 a.m. after all, time to get up and spill the coffee! (A reference to the time I spilled a pot of coffee all over my stove just before the gas man arrived; I believe, of course, that the gas man somehow told the Ukrainian workers about my messy kitchen).

Workman #2: BAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

Workman #1: Why should we have to be up at dawn while lazy foreigners lie in bed nursing their Krusovice hangovers until noon? (More paranoia, the workmen not only know I'm foreign and hungover, they know what kind of beer I was drinking last night.)

Workman #2: BAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

Workman #1: Let's see, it's 11 a.m. We could finish this today or we could stop for no particular reason and come back again tomorrow at 7 a.m. What do you think?

Workman #2: BAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

Workman #1: That's what I thought you'd say! To the pub!

Apple Pie

I made an apple pie last night for the first annual "Chicken Curry, Apple Pie, 'Magnificent Seven'" night at my place. (A success, which gives me hope for my next event, the "Pork Medallions, Chocolate Cheesecake, 'It Happened One Night'" night).

The best thing about making apple pie is that you get to have apple pie for breakfast the next morning, which I did, as you can see by the accompanying photo. (I usually have better table manners, but when there's no table, I figure what the hell?)

I'm wearing my baseball uniform because I have a game later today.

Ah, spring.