The Auto Show

There’s no charge to get in, I get fed and I always get free stuff when I’m there. And yet the love affair between me and the Auto Show appears to be fading.

I go to Media Day every year, and while there have been moments – I met Carroll Shelby one year – it’s become more mundane with each passing year.  I love beautiful cars, but after the first dozen or so Aston Martins, Jaguars, Ferraris and Corvettes, how many do I need to see? I love beautiful women, but after the first seven or so dozen beautiful models, how many of them do I need?

Maybe eight or so dozen models, but you get my point.

I even saw a Rolls-Royce I didn’t like. A Rolls! And it was ugly! What happened to me?

The day started off well enough. A pleasant ride on the GO to Union, followed by a hike on the Skywalk to the Metro Toronto Convention Centre that got me to the show in plenty of time, without taxing my tender shins unduly.

Once inside and all credentialed-up, my goals are simple:  get to the General Motors exhibit and get a GM story (‘cause all we care about in Durham Region is GM stories); get the free lunch, and get as many manufacturers data sticks as possible.

I found the big boss straight off – Kevin Williams, the President of GM Canada – and worked a story out of him on what the company is going to do about the void at the Oshawa plant when the Camaro leaves in 2016. I’d like to tell you what he said, but some models walked by just then so I wasn’t really listening. Still, once I go over my notes I’m sure I’ll have something for the magazine.

Then I did the walkabout, checking out the new models and scooping up USBs – I scored an even dozen, because you can never have enough data sticks – before arriving back where I started in time for lunch. I saw some of the world’s most beautiful cars along the way, including a Ferrari F12 Berlinetta, an Aston Martin Vanquish and an Alpha Romeo 8C (the sexiest cars at the show, in my opinion), and I saw more of those beautiful models, all getting ready for the big reveal at the press conferences to follow.

And I was getting bored.  One car was starting to look the same as the last, and the models were starting to show that vacant, slightly pissed off look they get when they’ve been standing around trying to look pretty for too long.

And my shin was getting sore.

I sucked it up and forced myself to stuff my face at the buffet table – and ran into my old boss Dan (the Gas Man) – before heading over to the Cadillac booth to hear Williams speak one more time. And then it was time to get out of there.

The walk back to Union seemed longer the second time (I occupied my mind with thoughts of a Jaguar F-Type – I want – and the Rolls-Royce Phantom – shockingly ugly) before I finally arrived at the terminal, just in time to see the message that my train was now boarding.

I hurried my sore shins up the stairs to the tracks, only to see my train slowly pull away just as I got there. The next train wouldn’t arrive for another hour. Of course.

The message I’m getting is you can only stand so much beauty in one day before life kicks you in the ass. Or in my case, the shins.

My Three Sons

I’ve already written about a few young women who engage and inspire me, so I figure it’s time to hear it for the boys.

Specifically, the three young and handsome dudes who rock my world.  My three sons.

Matt, the oldest, is all passion, except when he’s all logic. A lover of all things science, Matt is taking some time off from his bio-technology program at Durham to learn a bit about the working world, though he’s always ready for an academic discussion, especially if it involves science. (Or maybe the Leafs or his almost equally beloved Green Bay Packers.) But if you want to get a glimpse of what really makes Matt tick, check him out when he’s invoking the spirit of Dimebag and shredding on stage with his metal band, Into Exile.

(Shameless plug – Into Exile will be playing The Atria in Oshawa February 23. Jes saying...)

Cam is a year and a bit younger than big bro, but it was on the athletic fields where he made his mark. I’ve seen him do things with a puck - and more often, with a ball hockey ball – that I didn’t think was possible. He still loves to play, but work, and getting his hands dirty, is what drives him these days.  He just came back to Oshawa, actually, after spending the past few months working in B.C.’s Sunshine Coast with his buddy. Welcome back, Cameron. We all missed you.

And that brings me to Jake, the little ball of awesome and amazing that drives me to be better each and every day. Clever and uber intelligent, Jacob doesn’t seem to think much of school, yet brings home report cards with nothing but As and Bs. He’d rather stay home and play Xbox than go to practice some days, but goes anyway and always give his all. Damn good athlete, too. He’s pretty good at everything he tries, actually, and he is the sweetest kid I know. Everybody who knows him thinks he’s pretty special.

Me too.  But then, I think all my boys are pretty special.

The Storm (I'm getting too old for this crap)

That was a helluva three days, especially for me. I'm getting too old for this crap.

My full-time job in property maintenance means snowstorms have me looking at the the business end of a shovel until the snow is cleared, or until the boss decides we've had enough. That was nearly 18 hours Friday, another eight or nine Saturday and another six-and-a-half Sunday, my day off. And with today scheduled as a clean-up day, we're still shoveling, so we're not done yet.

From 10 Friday morning until seven that night the snow fell at a rate of four to five centimetres an hour. That's a helluva lot of snow. How much snow? Well, I'll tell ya how much.

You know when you get the feeling in the back of your head - that little itch - that something's behind you? That something might be gaining on you? On Friday, something was gaining on me: Snow.

We  would be digging out a big pad and I would look behind me about 30 feet or so and see snow already accumulating where we had just shoveled 20 minutes before. It was ready for another round. Again.

We just couldn't keep up. No one could.

The storm shut down business early on Friday and those who stayed open until then didn't get much business. People couldn't in to the malls to shop, and they weren't too happy about it.Usually we get good vibes from people on snow days. People - most of the time - appreciate us and the work we do. Not this time.

I almost got into it with a young dude at one of our Ajax properties on Friday. He was obviously stuck and when we pulled in with the plow truck he waved us over. I figured he wanted our help, but instead he started snapping at us for taking too long to get there.

"You want our help, and this is how you ask," I said. "Get stuffed."

Something like that anyway.

I can tell you I sure wasn't too happy about this storm.

I developed a nasty shin splint on my right leg by lunchtime Friday, and it only went away because I started noticing other pains, such as my arthritic left knee with the perpetually torn meniscus, and my cold, cold feet.

It was today before I got some anti-inflammatory pills, so we'll see if that makes it all better.

The bright side is we only got 30 or 40 centimetres of snow. New England got dumped by more than 90. There are communities in Connecticut that are digging out from more than 100 centimetres!

I am still getting too old for this crap.

Davis Cup Glory

It may have not got the attention it deserved - it was competing with the Super Bowl for news space that day - but Canada's Davis Cup victory over Spain last Sunday was a monumental achievement for tennis in this country.

It was the first time we've reached the quarter-finals in this annual competition, and with Italy next on the horizon, there is a chance we could make the final four, setting up a semi-final against either the once-mighty U.S. or Serbia, headlined by Novak Djokovic, the world's number one player. For a tennis nation like Canada - until Sunday, a true minnow on the world stage - that's a very big deal.

For some in the media, Canada's upset of Spain - the defending Davis Cup champion and the winner of three of the last five titles - came with an asterisk, as the Spanish did not field their best side.

Not with this media guy. I understand Rafael Nadal's excuse - he's been off for seven months nursing a knee injury - but number 4 David Ferrer begged off, citing fatigue, as did number 24 Fernando Verdasco, and 11th ranked Nicholas Almagro was scratched at the last minute. Spain has eight players ranked in the top 50 of the world, in fact, and had to turn to veteran Guillermo Garcia-Lopez - ranked 82 - to stave off elimination.

That, my friends, is arrogance. Fatigue? Bah. Spain thought they could field their 'C' team and they would still walk all over us. After all, they win everything, don't they? But this is Davis Cup, the World Cup of the sport, and these players couldn't be bothered showing up. The upset looks bloody good on them.

Milos Raonic is getting a lot of credit for this and deservedly so, as he won both of his matches, including the straight sets victory over Garcia-Lopez to clinch the win. But give Frank Dancevic - ranked 166 in the world - props. It was his giant killer straight-set rout of Marcel Granollers (34) that put us up 2-0 and set us up for Raonic's heroics. We didn't even need to win doubles, and that's a speciality in which we actually have some cred on the world stage, with long time veteran (and career Grand Slam winner) Daniel Nestor anchoring the team.

Nestor and his partner, Vasek Pospisil, weren't able to seal the deal and it didn't matter. And that must have really cheesed off the Spaniards.

With Raonic set to climb into the world's top ten this year and a handful of promising junior players set to play with the big boys, the future looks bright for Canada in international tennis. Good on them. Good on us.

And maybe Spain will know better next time.

The Fudge

(a Pizza Dude Tale)

Then there was Sudbury. And the fudge.

I had a brief stint as a copy editor at the Sudbury Star and was there for the creation of the world’s largest slab of fudge. I never understood this one. It’s Sudbury. They already have the biggest nickel and the largest city-that-doubles-as-a-moonscape. But fudge?

You certainly couldn’t argue with the results. The thing weighed 2.29 tonnes – that’s more than 5,000 pounds – and it was a fundraiser for local school kids. And it also put Sudbury on the map as the fudge-packing capital of Canada.

That’s what Melvin Dockerson, the pompous Mayor of Sudbury, said in his big speech after the record-breaking event. It drew raised eyebrows from some people, polite applause from the old folks in attendance, and much snickering from most of the people there.

Us media types, we were busting our guts. Sven  Redmond – he was the sports editor at the Star at the time and had got me my job there – was on the floor laughing so hard he was having trouble breathing. A radio guy – I forget his name, but he was a veteran dude, probably hired by Marconi himself – just stood there with his head in his hands.

“Why,” he said to himself as much as to us, “do the people keep electing this guy?”

Making fun of stupid politicians was a perq of the job for most newspaper people. After all, politicians provide jobs for journalists. If they didn’t continually put their collective feet in their collective mouths, most of us would be back serving blueberry fritters at the local Tim Hortons, or  - no, no one could sink this low – picking up garbage at 5 am for some landscaping company.

Sure, we can expose stupid politicians when they say something stupid, but we’re still restricted by libel and slander laws and by the fact that most of us in the Fifth Estate actually have ethics and know how to use them.

Sometimes we do get satisfaction, however, if only by accident. I remember covering an agricultural fair in the tiny Manitoba community of MacGregor. I was hanging with the local TV crew that day and one of the cameramen – Camera 2 that day, to be exact – was a city boy, new to all things rural. So while us newsies were getting ready for a big speech – and a live TV shot - from the local Mayor, he was pointing his camera at the sights and sounds of an agricultural fair. He was particularly fascinated by the prize bulls awaiting auction and, figuring the other camera operator had the speech well in hand, he zoomed in on the part of the anatomy that made that bull a champion.

Then, to his horror, he heard the words from the truck  that haunt him to this day: ‘Cut to Camera 2.’

“Now, introducing, the Mayor …”

Spending My Inheritance

This is my Dad's favourite time of the year.

You see, my mom - his wife for lo these 57-plus years - turned 80 last week. Dad, however, is just a spry young 79. For five weeks, anyway, until he turns 80 himself.

It's during these five weeks every year when he can tease the hell out of Mom, and it's the only time when he can get away with calling her an old broad and we kids just roll our eyes skyward. It is their way, and has been for the duration of their marriage.

Fifty-seven years is a helluva long time to be together and I've often wondered if this happened because their lives got too comfortable to change, or because they truly love each other so deeply we can never really understand it. Perhaps they stuck together for the sake of the children. A united front, the better to say no when we ask for money, something like that.

I think it's all that, and more.

They've done so much together in those years. They raised three great kids (if I may say so) together; spent summers building a cottage together (after travelling the continent first) and they've planned their retirement together. They paid the bills together (we kids made ourselves scarce during those sessions) and they did a bunch of other stuff together, too.

Mom and Dad always had separate lives as well. Dad travelled all the time on business during my childhood. I wish he was around more, but he was there to teach me how to ride a bike and he was there to look the principal in the eye and tell him his son doesn't lie. "If he said it wasn't his beer on school property, it wasn't his beer."

Thanks Dad. (And it wasn't.)

Mom had her things. She had her exercise classes with the neighbourhood ladies (how she could find women in our small community shorter than her is one of the great mysteries of life); she had her upholstery classes; she had her garden. She had her boys.

I think they, like every successful couple, needed that separate peace. It made them stronger together.

Now, what they like to do together (as Dad likes to remind me) is spend my inheritance. They're off on a cruise as we speak, with Brazil and Rio's famous Copacabana beach next on their itinerary.

And Carnival.We can't forget Carnival. Go easy on the locals, Mom. And keep Dad out of trouble. He's still a young man in need of guidance.

The Goose (a Pizza Dude Tale)

Ever have a connection with a wild animal? The kind that makes you feel one with the natural world? Like you’re part of God’s grand scheme? I have. And it’s all well and good if the critter acknowledges your presence, gives a regal shake of its magnificent head and disappears into the mist, leaving you breathless and thinking big thoughts. But what if the wild beast simply hates your guts?

Every spring Canada Geese invade shopping malls and shopping plazas all across North America to lay their eggs in the manicured, man-made islands that dot the landscape. At our mall, mating pairs were everywhere, and just like people, each couple had different personalities. Some were full of piss and vinegar until you approached, and then they would back off in a hurry, leaving behind little green piles of bird turd as evidence of their craven cowardice.

Other pairs, however, were a little harder to intimidate. A team that nested over on the east side – I named them Bart and Lisa – quickly gained legendary status. 

They say birds – not lizards – are the most direct link to the age of the dinosaur, and if you watch Canada Geese up close – but not too close, unless you wanna get T-Rexed upside the head – you’ll see what I mean. This goose seemed to hate all things human. Certainly every time any of us walked by he would fluff up his wings and give a little hiss. If we got too close, he would take his performance to the next level by spreading his wings wide and hissing – “hissssspp” – like some prehistoric reptile. If that didn’t work we got the neck treatment: he would advance upon us, bending his neck into an ‘S’ shape, straightening it, then continuing the routine until we were summarily chastised.

It was kinda funny, except we had to get the garbage near the nest, so the ritual would be repeated on a daily basis, with the nest guarding Lisa – who generally never moved from her unhatched babies - adding her own raptor-like hisses to the din.

Bart and Lisa’s nest wasn’t on my normal route. But a couple of the young lads couldn’t handle big Bart and word got back to the boss that garbage wasn’t being picked up. “You better get that goddamn garbage, or I’ll get it myself,” he huffed and puffed. “And there’ll be one less bird when I’m done.”

Partly to ensure the goose would survive to see his little goslings leave the nest – and partly to show the boys that I wasn’t a scaredy cat, I volunteered for the job.

Now this wasn’t my first nature rodeo, and I know well enough to leave then be if they’re nesting. It’s the right thing to do, but it’s also a wise course of action because they’re nasty bastards. They’ve been known to kill ducks and other smaller waterfowl who ventured too close. Hundreds of species go extinct every day in this world. Who knows? Maybe some of those were wiped out by a Canada Goose having a bad day.

But I knew I had no choice but to confront my foe. If we were going to share the parking lot, there had to be an understanding between us. Man and nature have battled for supremacy of this planet for millions of years, and this fight would be no different. Either he stands down, or he birds’ up. There can only be one winner.

The next morning, I got the run that took me past Bart and Lisa’s nest. There they were, waiting for me. And there I was, broom in hand, intimidating snarl on my face. Bart hissed, I said “show me what you got.” Bart advanced, neck coiling in that serpentine way. I grabbed my broom, took two steps towards Bart, and shouted, “You want some of this?!”

Bart backed down. He didn’t bird up. Bart left a trail of shit behind him. I won.

For the next two days, I walked tall among all the goose nests feeling like the King of the Waterfowl. No goose gave me trouble. And I liked that feeling.

On day three I found myself at Lisa’s nest, giggling at her weak “hissp” and thinking superior thoughts. And just as I turned to leave, Bart swooped down over my head. The ‘whoosh’ from his feathers was audible, the trickle of warm goo I felt oozing down my scalp horrifying.

It was payback – prehistoric style. Nasty bastards.