Yes CJ, its story time with Gerry once again.
There 2 things that most Canadians do almost instinctively. Tim Horton’s and translating distance into driving time. You can change Timmie’s into your own favorite; Second Cup, Starbucks, Timothy’s World Café. The list goes on, and grows exponentially in Vancouver. A wider range of drive through caffeine pushers is available here on the left coast.
One really has to wonder whether pumping ourselves full of double-shot fat-free caramel mocha-lattés is the best thing to be doing before getting into high-pressure situations at the controls of a 1000 Kg metal conveyance barreling along at 115 klicks.
Translating distance into time is all about driving. Having lived in many cities, I consider myself an expert on our cities and their different driving personalities. (“After all, I’m an excellent driver” Can you place the quote, without the internets?)
Driving on the mean streets of Montréal is a trial of machismo, or road-ismo. I’ve tried explaining to friends over the years that to survive mentally and philosophically in Québec, you must believe that everyone will cut you off. With this thought placed in mind, only 25% of the people will disappoint you.
In Montréal, you must never back down. If you need to squeeze your 5.5 M car into a 6 M space between 2 dilapidated 1978 New Yorkers doing 120, wait until the trailing driver looks down to light a smoke, and merge in. He wasn’t looking; you took it, good for you. He’ll respect you. That’s why he’s waving to you.
And yes, you may well find the 1978 New Yorkers, but their condition may surprise you. Apart from not wanting claims to go through on their insurance, home car repairs can be very amusing. The use of all kinds of tape on cars predates even myself. I personally believe that Red Green was inspired to use duct tape after visiting Québec.
Now Ottawa is a city of rubber-neckers. It sometimes is quite infuriating. I remember driving in to work one morning with my buddy Doug, and the Queensway was crawling. I joked to him that it was probably some dude out of gas and everyone was slowing to get a look. I was wrong it was a flat tire. I felt like waving at him.
I was at a breakfast meeting one morning with the guys I worked with in Ottawa, and one of my work mates joked about dumb Frenchmen. I had just been delayed on the way in by another brilliant rubber-necking incident. Being on the far side of grumpy that morning, I shot back with; “We’ll we might not be as brilliant as you, but we are at least smart enough to be able to take in some idiot who can’t read his gas gauge, while we're doing 120 klicks!” Have I mentioned that my wife refers to me as a snark-asaurus.
In Ottawa, if you have Ontario plates, you must bitch about crazy-fast Québec drivers. If you have Québec plates, you have to complain about careless and inattentive Ontario drivers. All drivers learn to watch out for red Ontario plates. These are diplomatic plates. Some of the embassies in Ottawa represent countries that have questionable drivers’ license requirements, as well as right-hand-drive automobiles. Not all of these skills translate well to the Queensway. I have noticed a lot of people waving at red-plates.
I spent most of the 90’s living in Guelph and Whitby. In both of these cities, the further you get from the 401, the calmer people become. Unfortunately most of those in Guelph and Whitby spend either their work time or leisure time in Toronto, and for some people the simple act of driving in Hogtown is like downing 5 double-shot cappuccinos, with a Red Bull chaser.
When I was transferred to Guelph, I took a week off to go house-hunting. I had this all wrapped up by Wednesday evening, so I decided I would check out the Guelph rush hour Thursday afternoon. I looked and looked, and then looked some more, but to no avail.
One day, while driving in Guelph, I was trying to merge left; I slowed and dude beside me slowed. OK. I sped up, so did he. I think he was a Torontonian. I braked, and he did, but then I tromped on it and scooted in, in front of him, and moved over to the left turn lane. Dude was fuming beside me and as the light was about to turn green, I rolled down the window and yelled; “Yo! If you own the road, fix the bloody potholes!!!” He was apoplectic, and waving at me.
Outside of this run-in, I can not recall any other serious problem in either Guelph or Whitby. The waving between cars in these cities usually included all fingers.
I will cover Toronto and points west in a subsequent blog.
Cheers folks
Monday, September 21, 2009
Monday, September 7, 2009
Safety
Yes CJ, its story time with Gerry again.
Over the years I have hurt myself in some very creative ways. If you stretch your fingers apart, you will see the small web of skin between the base of your fingers. I cut myself there once with a pair of scissors. Because it was in such an odd spot the doctor could not put in stitches. I was such a klutz that I took CPR just in case I did something really serious to myself.
When I was a teenager, I was working at a restaurant, and was attempting to tighten a pipe fitting. The wrench slipped, and I ended up mashing my hand, at the base of the thumb, into a piece of metal. The doctor at the hospital informed me that I had done quite a job; he told me I had damaged muscle, nerves, and a vein. It would require 7 stitches to close a wound that was less than an inch long. He was examining the wound with a probe, and then asked me if he’d given me freezing yet. He hadn’t.
Shortly after this, I had to move my motorcycle, which was in pieces on the garage floor, out of the way so my Dad, Big Al, could park the car in the garage. On the way out of the garage, with the door partially closed, I walked into a screw-point sticking through the door, and grazed the top of my head. I ended up with 5 stitches.
I think I come by my klutzy-ness honestly. My Dad, sometime after WWII, was working at a printing plant in Montréal. He was waiting for the freight elevator, and after a bit, became impatient. He stuck his head through the gate to look for where the elevator was. Unfortunately, it was there.
He was in the hospital for almost a year. Big Al’s skull and jaw were fractured, among other things, and required some re-building. When they rebuilt his nose and sinuses, things were a little amiss. After he was discharged, every time he lay down with even the lightest of sniffles, his nose and sinuses would plug up in seconds.
When he was in his mid-fifties he suffered some sort of episodes that were later decided to have been a cross between seizures and strokes caused by scar tissue on the surface of his brain. His neurologist believed the scars came from the elevator. It is a very scary day when your old man is squeezing your hand, out of fear, lying in a hospital bed, wondering if he’s going to die. He was the strong one; he was my Dad, and there I was holding his hand to make him feel safe. This was a life defining moment for me.
Big Al did regain his mobility, but never was able to return to work. Interestingly enough, the birthing hospital where my siblings and I all came into this world had been turned into a rehab hospital. After a few months at the Catherine Booth Hospital, he was able to walk around with a cane. In later years, he became a fixture around Benny Farm, walking slowly around the development with his cane, every day.
There were other long term issues; he lost his motivation, lost his organizational skills, and his memory was spotty. He also would later have problems with his gag reflex.
In 1999, while visiting my parents, my daughters and I took Gramps out to dinner. My mom was not feeling well so she passed on dinner. In the middle of the meal, he became distressed and was unable to tell me what was wrong. I was escorting him to the washroom when he collapsed. The restaurant staff immediately called an ambulance, and were being very helpful. One of the ladies pointed out that he was turning blue. My CPR training came back to me immediately and I sat him up and performed the Heimlich maneuver. After 3 deep pulls into his solar plexus, he resumed breathing.
The hospital discharged him that night. My Mom had to do the Heimlich on Big Al at least once herself, in later years. Thanks to my Mom and me, we were to enjoy my Dad’s company for another 5 years.
I can not recall how much the Guelph Fire Department charged me for the CPR course, but it was the greatest bargain ever. It was also the best spent Saturday morning of my life.
Cheers Folks.
Over the years I have hurt myself in some very creative ways. If you stretch your fingers apart, you will see the small web of skin between the base of your fingers. I cut myself there once with a pair of scissors. Because it was in such an odd spot the doctor could not put in stitches. I was such a klutz that I took CPR just in case I did something really serious to myself.
When I was a teenager, I was working at a restaurant, and was attempting to tighten a pipe fitting. The wrench slipped, and I ended up mashing my hand, at the base of the thumb, into a piece of metal. The doctor at the hospital informed me that I had done quite a job; he told me I had damaged muscle, nerves, and a vein. It would require 7 stitches to close a wound that was less than an inch long. He was examining the wound with a probe, and then asked me if he’d given me freezing yet. He hadn’t.
Shortly after this, I had to move my motorcycle, which was in pieces on the garage floor, out of the way so my Dad, Big Al, could park the car in the garage. On the way out of the garage, with the door partially closed, I walked into a screw-point sticking through the door, and grazed the top of my head. I ended up with 5 stitches.
I think I come by my klutzy-ness honestly. My Dad, sometime after WWII, was working at a printing plant in Montréal. He was waiting for the freight elevator, and after a bit, became impatient. He stuck his head through the gate to look for where the elevator was. Unfortunately, it was there.
He was in the hospital for almost a year. Big Al’s skull and jaw were fractured, among other things, and required some re-building. When they rebuilt his nose and sinuses, things were a little amiss. After he was discharged, every time he lay down with even the lightest of sniffles, his nose and sinuses would plug up in seconds.
When he was in his mid-fifties he suffered some sort of episodes that were later decided to have been a cross between seizures and strokes caused by scar tissue on the surface of his brain. His neurologist believed the scars came from the elevator. It is a very scary day when your old man is squeezing your hand, out of fear, lying in a hospital bed, wondering if he’s going to die. He was the strong one; he was my Dad, and there I was holding his hand to make him feel safe. This was a life defining moment for me.
Big Al did regain his mobility, but never was able to return to work. Interestingly enough, the birthing hospital where my siblings and I all came into this world had been turned into a rehab hospital. After a few months at the Catherine Booth Hospital, he was able to walk around with a cane. In later years, he became a fixture around Benny Farm, walking slowly around the development with his cane, every day.
There were other long term issues; he lost his motivation, lost his organizational skills, and his memory was spotty. He also would later have problems with his gag reflex.
In 1999, while visiting my parents, my daughters and I took Gramps out to dinner. My mom was not feeling well so she passed on dinner. In the middle of the meal, he became distressed and was unable to tell me what was wrong. I was escorting him to the washroom when he collapsed. The restaurant staff immediately called an ambulance, and were being very helpful. One of the ladies pointed out that he was turning blue. My CPR training came back to me immediately and I sat him up and performed the Heimlich maneuver. After 3 deep pulls into his solar plexus, he resumed breathing.
The hospital discharged him that night. My Mom had to do the Heimlich on Big Al at least once herself, in later years. Thanks to my Mom and me, we were to enjoy my Dad’s company for another 5 years.
I can not recall how much the Guelph Fire Department charged me for the CPR course, but it was the greatest bargain ever. It was also the best spent Saturday morning of my life.
Cheers Folks.
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Mobiles
Yes CJ, its story time with Gerry once more.
I recently changed my cell carrier. This is something that I have probably done less often than most people. I have been fortunate enough to have had company supplied cell phones for the majority of the last 15 years. I have only had a personal cell phone 3 times; in Toronto around 9/11, in Calgary 6 years ago, and most recently when we moved to Vancouver.
I had a Motorola Razer that I had picked up in Edmonton almost 2 years ago. That was a painful experience. I paid cash for the phone so that I could avoid signing a contract. Unfortunately, if I wanted anything other than pay-as-you-go, I needed to sign a contract for 12 months. For those inexperienced in dealing with retail mobile, don’t try to debate contractual policy with a teenage $10-hour kid who would much rather be doing anything other than listen to you moan.
The mobile industry in Canada already prices its handsets and airtime fairly for some of its clientele. If you are a corporate customer, you generally pay full pop for your phone up front, and pay much lower usage and monthly charges. Personal mobiles though require the ignorant masses to think that they are getting a great deal on a free phone. Unfortunately your 3-year contract is massively overpriced; you are paying off the cost of your handset over 36 months, with interest.
This is actually similar to how Bell Canada used to charge inflated prices on their long distance in order to subsidize the cost of their infrastructure costs on local service. The CRTC slapped them down.
I wanted mobile e-mail and web surfing in the palm of my hand. Nobody will let you have that without a 36-month contract, except for Virgin Mobile & Koodo. With these guys, you have a wide variety to choose from, so long as its initials are BlackBerry.
I have become quite attached to my iPod, so I was leaning towards an iPhone. I waited, and researched, and I waited some more. I saw Fido advertising a used iPhone for $99. A used iPhone I thought? What kind of beast was this? It turns out that iPhones returned within the first 15 days are considered used, and go through a factory refurbishment.
So I get everything set up with Fido, and they explain that it may take an hour to port over my phone number. No problem. I received the new phone the very next day with a Toronto temporary number. No one was able to explain why. I gave them a whole day to port the number, but it wasn’t ported over. I called a few times and kept getting interesting stories.
After a few days, I received a call from my old carrier; Rogers. They had a department they called customer loyalty or customer retention to try to get you to stay with them, and they just wanted to confirm that I really wanted to leave them. I could actually hear this guy winking. This was like the wacko high school girlfriend who does not want to break-up. Ever!
I’m glad I chatted this fellow up a little because he also explained to me that if the account balance was more than $50, they would block releasing the number. Anyone whose mobile bill is less $50 a month, put your hand up! Anyone? Anyone at all. I removed all the roadblocks and was up and running on my new toy.
I think I managed to speak to everyone at the Fido call center. They liked me so much, they sent me another iPhone, and it took them over a month to credit me back after I returned it.
I thought I was ready to post this a few weeks ago, but lo and behold, I had received a bill from my previous supplier, Rogers, for $360. When I called in, a pleasant young fellow who initially could not understand why I would be so perturbed, explained to me that I had renewed my contract in July 2007 and this was an early cancellation charge for $20 a month. We agreed that the cancellation fee was for 18 months.
I explained to the 20-something/$12-hour guy that I had signed a 1-year contract in December 2007, and was actually cancelling 6 months after my obligation ended. I asked him if he could see any bills before December 2007 and he answered no, so we agreed that I only became a Rogers customer in December 2007.We then agreed that July 2007 until January 2011 (18 months from now) was 42 months.
Next came the questions he should have expected but didn’t. If I only became a Rogers customer in December 2007, how could I have signed a new contract 5 months earlier? After a few seconds of silence, I asked him how often he had seen a 42-month contract. I think they put you on hold so often because they need to consult with a 30-something/$20-hour stupidvisor. (Intentional)
I am expecting a refund check in the mail, after only 3 months. My mobile ordeal is older than my niece, and smells as bad as the last dirty diaper.
Cheers folks
I recently changed my cell carrier. This is something that I have probably done less often than most people. I have been fortunate enough to have had company supplied cell phones for the majority of the last 15 years. I have only had a personal cell phone 3 times; in Toronto around 9/11, in Calgary 6 years ago, and most recently when we moved to Vancouver.
I had a Motorola Razer that I had picked up in Edmonton almost 2 years ago. That was a painful experience. I paid cash for the phone so that I could avoid signing a contract. Unfortunately, if I wanted anything other than pay-as-you-go, I needed to sign a contract for 12 months. For those inexperienced in dealing with retail mobile, don’t try to debate contractual policy with a teenage $10-hour kid who would much rather be doing anything other than listen to you moan.
The mobile industry in Canada already prices its handsets and airtime fairly for some of its clientele. If you are a corporate customer, you generally pay full pop for your phone up front, and pay much lower usage and monthly charges. Personal mobiles though require the ignorant masses to think that they are getting a great deal on a free phone. Unfortunately your 3-year contract is massively overpriced; you are paying off the cost of your handset over 36 months, with interest.
This is actually similar to how Bell Canada used to charge inflated prices on their long distance in order to subsidize the cost of their infrastructure costs on local service. The CRTC slapped them down.
I wanted mobile e-mail and web surfing in the palm of my hand. Nobody will let you have that without a 36-month contract, except for Virgin Mobile & Koodo. With these guys, you have a wide variety to choose from, so long as its initials are BlackBerry.
I have become quite attached to my iPod, so I was leaning towards an iPhone. I waited, and researched, and I waited some more. I saw Fido advertising a used iPhone for $99. A used iPhone I thought? What kind of beast was this? It turns out that iPhones returned within the first 15 days are considered used, and go through a factory refurbishment.
So I get everything set up with Fido, and they explain that it may take an hour to port over my phone number. No problem. I received the new phone the very next day with a Toronto temporary number. No one was able to explain why. I gave them a whole day to port the number, but it wasn’t ported over. I called a few times and kept getting interesting stories.
After a few days, I received a call from my old carrier; Rogers. They had a department they called customer loyalty or customer retention to try to get you to stay with them, and they just wanted to confirm that I really wanted to leave them. I could actually hear this guy winking. This was like the wacko high school girlfriend who does not want to break-up. Ever!
I’m glad I chatted this fellow up a little because he also explained to me that if the account balance was more than $50, they would block releasing the number. Anyone whose mobile bill is less $50 a month, put your hand up! Anyone? Anyone at all. I removed all the roadblocks and was up and running on my new toy.
I think I managed to speak to everyone at the Fido call center. They liked me so much, they sent me another iPhone, and it took them over a month to credit me back after I returned it.
I thought I was ready to post this a few weeks ago, but lo and behold, I had received a bill from my previous supplier, Rogers, for $360. When I called in, a pleasant young fellow who initially could not understand why I would be so perturbed, explained to me that I had renewed my contract in July 2007 and this was an early cancellation charge for $20 a month. We agreed that the cancellation fee was for 18 months.
I explained to the 20-something/$12-hour guy that I had signed a 1-year contract in December 2007, and was actually cancelling 6 months after my obligation ended. I asked him if he could see any bills before December 2007 and he answered no, so we agreed that I only became a Rogers customer in December 2007.We then agreed that July 2007 until January 2011 (18 months from now) was 42 months.
Next came the questions he should have expected but didn’t. If I only became a Rogers customer in December 2007, how could I have signed a new contract 5 months earlier? After a few seconds of silence, I asked him how often he had seen a 42-month contract. I think they put you on hold so often because they need to consult with a 30-something/$20-hour stupidvisor. (Intentional)
I am expecting a refund check in the mail, after only 3 months. My mobile ordeal is older than my niece, and smells as bad as the last dirty diaper.
Cheers folks
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Big Al
Yes CJ, its story time with Gerry again.
My dad, whom we called Big Al, had an interesting life. He left this plane of existence in December of 2003. Big Al taught us about being a responsible member of society, respect, and about oral histories. We never sat down on Saturday mornings to crack the books, and study about any of these items.
Even so, Saturday mornings were an interesting time in our home. We lived in a 5-and-a-half apartment. Apartments in Montréal are different; they are counted by rooms. A 5-and-a-half can be assumed to have a kitchen and living room, and 3 bedrooms. The half is the bathroom. Apartments outside of Montréal are counted by bedrooms.
But back to Saturdays. We lived on the 3rd floor of a 3-storey walk-up, at Elmhurst & St.-Jacques. Every Saturday, my dad would sweep and mop the stairs in our building. Some of our neighbors’ would look at him funny, but I never noticed. I wasn’t really aware that our neighbors thought this odd. After all, somebody needed to clean the stairway.
When I was old enough to, I would help my Dad; it was a job needed doing, and it was time I was able to spend with him. We did not crack a single book, but years later I would also show my daughters, by example, the right way to treat friends and neighbors. One day, they will probably do the same.
Over the years, Big Al also taught me to respect authority. We were taught, once again by example, that you respected the police. They were after all, responsible for keeping us safe, we did very much “vous” the police. In French, when you use the ‘vous” instead of the “tu”, it is a sign of respect.
On the flip side of that coin, I can remember my father being very upset about the abuses suffered by Jean Drapeau’s opponents during the October crisis. After the imposition of the War Measures Act in 1970, authorities were allowed to arrest and detain people indefinitely without charging them with a crime. A great number of the mayor’s opponents were arrested & detained, but surprisingly never charged.
Drapeau is the same yahoo who outlawed chip wagons in Montréal, because they did not belong in his vision of what Montréal should be. Bastard!!! Maybe I should rename this blog “Tangents”.
This lesson of respecting authority, and the police served me well over the years. As a teenager, there were about a half-dozen times when we would be stumbling home after a party in the wee hours of the morning, and encounter the police. Invariably, my buddies would panic and want to run, but I would calm the situation, answer the police with respect, and be completely honest. I would tell them exactly whose place we had come from, and that we had been drinking beer. Never once were we detained, because the respect we gave was reciprocated.
While we were kids, our Dad would regale us with stories of the Bradleys in Ireland. Big Al loved his Irish-ness. It is rumored that his dad, ol’ Joe Bradley as Big Al would refer to him, thought himself to be a member of the Irish mafia. I think the Irish thugs tolerated him because he would sneak them into old Forum to watch Les Canadiens, or Les Habitants, which is the origin of the label "Habs".
Big Al would also tell us that County Armagh was our ancestral home. We heard about how the Bradleys were the greatest sheep-stealers in the north of Ireland. We found this outrageously funny at each retelling.
Years later, one of my siblings came across a book of name origins at Steinberg’s, and found that the Bradleys from county Armagh were notorious for pilfering sheep. We found this even funnier. Years later, while living in Edmonton, I discovered my doctor was from county Armagh. He remembered the Bradleys, and was able to place them in the sheep rearing area of the county.
When I was in college, I used to pooh-pooh the idea of oral histories, after all History is the written record of what happened, right? With age comes wisdom, I guess. I tell my daughters stories all the time; some are from my Dad some are from me, but all of them are because my story telling talents are learned from my parents.
There is no punch line to this blog, nor is there a life-lesson; just some memories of a good man who will be remembered fondly by his some of his biggest fans. I'm one of them.
If I made you cry, I’m sorry. I did. I miss Big Al.
Call your Dad, or if you’re in my shoes, remember him fondly.
Sláinte Mhath!
My dad, whom we called Big Al, had an interesting life. He left this plane of existence in December of 2003. Big Al taught us about being a responsible member of society, respect, and about oral histories. We never sat down on Saturday mornings to crack the books, and study about any of these items.
Even so, Saturday mornings were an interesting time in our home. We lived in a 5-and-a-half apartment. Apartments in Montréal are different; they are counted by rooms. A 5-and-a-half can be assumed to have a kitchen and living room, and 3 bedrooms. The half is the bathroom. Apartments outside of Montréal are counted by bedrooms.
But back to Saturdays. We lived on the 3rd floor of a 3-storey walk-up, at Elmhurst & St.-Jacques. Every Saturday, my dad would sweep and mop the stairs in our building. Some of our neighbors’ would look at him funny, but I never noticed. I wasn’t really aware that our neighbors thought this odd. After all, somebody needed to clean the stairway.
When I was old enough to, I would help my Dad; it was a job needed doing, and it was time I was able to spend with him. We did not crack a single book, but years later I would also show my daughters, by example, the right way to treat friends and neighbors. One day, they will probably do the same.
Over the years, Big Al also taught me to respect authority. We were taught, once again by example, that you respected the police. They were after all, responsible for keeping us safe, we did very much “vous” the police. In French, when you use the ‘vous” instead of the “tu”, it is a sign of respect.
On the flip side of that coin, I can remember my father being very upset about the abuses suffered by Jean Drapeau’s opponents during the October crisis. After the imposition of the War Measures Act in 1970, authorities were allowed to arrest and detain people indefinitely without charging them with a crime. A great number of the mayor’s opponents were arrested & detained, but surprisingly never charged.
Drapeau is the same yahoo who outlawed chip wagons in Montréal, because they did not belong in his vision of what Montréal should be. Bastard!!! Maybe I should rename this blog “Tangents”.
This lesson of respecting authority, and the police served me well over the years. As a teenager, there were about a half-dozen times when we would be stumbling home after a party in the wee hours of the morning, and encounter the police. Invariably, my buddies would panic and want to run, but I would calm the situation, answer the police with respect, and be completely honest. I would tell them exactly whose place we had come from, and that we had been drinking beer. Never once were we detained, because the respect we gave was reciprocated.
While we were kids, our Dad would regale us with stories of the Bradleys in Ireland. Big Al loved his Irish-ness. It is rumored that his dad, ol’ Joe Bradley as Big Al would refer to him, thought himself to be a member of the Irish mafia. I think the Irish thugs tolerated him because he would sneak them into old Forum to watch Les Canadiens, or Les Habitants, which is the origin of the label "Habs".
Big Al would also tell us that County Armagh was our ancestral home. We heard about how the Bradleys were the greatest sheep-stealers in the north of Ireland. We found this outrageously funny at each retelling.
Years later, one of my siblings came across a book of name origins at Steinberg’s, and found that the Bradleys from county Armagh were notorious for pilfering sheep. We found this even funnier. Years later, while living in Edmonton, I discovered my doctor was from county Armagh. He remembered the Bradleys, and was able to place them in the sheep rearing area of the county.
When I was in college, I used to pooh-pooh the idea of oral histories, after all History is the written record of what happened, right? With age comes wisdom, I guess. I tell my daughters stories all the time; some are from my Dad some are from me, but all of them are because my story telling talents are learned from my parents.
There is no punch line to this blog, nor is there a life-lesson; just some memories of a good man who will be remembered fondly by his some of his biggest fans. I'm one of them.
If I made you cry, I’m sorry. I did. I miss Big Al.
Call your Dad, or if you’re in my shoes, remember him fondly.
Sláinte Mhath!
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