I think that I may be having a mid-life crisis. May be.

The thing is, I’m not sure if it’s technically mid-life at thirty-five. Also, doesn’t that usually come during the marriage? And I have absolutely no wish to buy a flashy sports car, get hair plugs, or date younger women. Well, maybe that last part. But basically, I’m not exhibiting the standard signs of a crisis. Except maybe uncertainty about my job. No, my vocation; my calling.

This morning, waiting for the streetcar, I looked up at a window washer and seriously thought, “Could I do that?”

I think the main problem is that programming’s just not fun anymore. I’m not talking about sidebar widgets, but the everyday working-for-the-man kind of stuff. On a broader scale, I know that working for money always involves working-for-the-man.  The man has projects and ideas about how he wants those projects to act/look/feel/sound/touch/react/sparkle/etc. Sometimes, it’s hard to get enthusiastic about all those ideas. Sometimes they’re not really even ideas, just innuendo.

As I usually do in my darker moments, I found solace in the Toronto Archives. They revealed that my situation isn’t unique. That others have suffered as I have. That I am not alone:

Gah! That even looks like the office where I work!

Look at them, slaving away for that jerk back there, flipping through filthy mags and abusing himself. And back then, shackles came off only after the shift was finished, and the boss could fire you for anything!

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Oops. I managed to delete this post.

No great story behind this, unfortunately. No lawsuits, no threatening phone calls, no late-night tech support, just a boneheaded click on the wrong button.

Now the comments below are completely out of context. Neat :)

So, sorry, but have a look at some of the other stuff around here. The archives in the sidebar at the right, I mean. Or do a search for a titillating term.

So I think this is the LG Fashion Week.

I gotta be honest with you, I don’t follow it too closely. I mean, I may not be that stereotypical sport-watching (unless you count Formula 1), beer-drinking (not averse though), guy who communicates through bodily noises (though I’m guilty of relaxing, certainly), but fashion is lost on me entirely. I firmly believe that heterosexual male genes do not allow one to comprehend fashion. The mind simply does not connect with it. Sure, it looks good on the girl, but in what way is it practical?

Will it keep my hands warm in the winter? Is it coloured neon orange so that in the event of an emergency I can wave it aloft to signal airborne emergency crews? Is it worth the money? Because I don’t need any tassels or doohickeys, and sure as hell no fluffy balls; I just want my money’s worth (and an extra pair of shoelaces). Since fashion is simply a word, a subjective concept like God or banana bread, it doesn’t affect the decision-making process.

And then there’s this:

I don’t know how the women put up with this. When I sit down for a haircut, I’m expecting to be out in fifteen minutes. Chatter to a minimum – cutting of the hair is priority. These girls probably sit in those chairs for hours having crap smeared on their faces and chemicals tossed on their hair. I’d have a powder brush to someone’s throat in about thirty seconds.

I doubt there will be a repeat of last year’s humorously inebriated speech by Robin Kay, the president of the Fashion Design Council of Canada (and major Fashion Week organizer).  “[That] kind of bad behaviour is the equivalent of wearing a bad accessory”, said one of the event’s vice-presidents afterwards.

I really only have a gestural response to this one: *palm up, shrug, and “I have no idea” smirk*

I might also add: *gentle side-to-side head shake*; for emphasis.

The same could be said of the following item:

You may have noticed that this doesn’t look much like Fashion Week anymore, but it is somewhat related. They’re trying to get me to call this “yarnbombing” after the graffiti word “bomb” (to paint), but I refuse to do it. It’s a bunch of knitted yarn tied a utility pole in a park for the purpose of beautifying it. I read about it in a Star article today which tried to equate the activity of affixing a knitted square to a fence, to spray-painting a wall in a dank, dark alley.

Don’t get me wrong, putting cozies on everything isn’t such a bad thing. But as many people (mostly ladies) who put their knitting and stitching up last year discovered, a little rain or snow will quickly give their good intentions the middle finger.

Just not practical.

I was the happy recipient of my first ever, bona fide media pass this weekend:

Yup, that’s my real last name. Kinda underwhelming, huh? And you wanna know the strangest thing? Never did the kids tease me with Patrick Gay when I was young. Nope, it was always, “So did you score a hat-trick, Patrick?” “Hells yeah, dumbass,” I’d reply in my best Czech-English hybrid, “everyone in my country plays hockey like stars. Don’t you?”

I remember being friends after that.

Sorry, I’m getting off track. The point was that I was invited to come see an exhibit as a rep of TCL. I went disguised as myself; totally got away with it! Neat :)

This time, security apologized to me for asking me not to take photos. “Oh, sorry, sir. Wish they’d make those tags bigger!” “Hehe, that’s okay. By the way, I need to speak to your superior regarding your atrocious behaviour, swine!”

The power. *shiver*

I would’ve been very interested to see this exhibit anyway, so getting an invite was like a cherry on the whipped cream. With my favourite dessert underneath. Alas, I received no remuneration, alcoholic beverages, or comely female accompaniment, so I feel my hosts could’ve done better in those areas. But good on the Science Centre for inviting a good cross-section of media, even the little guys. *sniff*

And I must say, it’s really nice to be able to share a few photos with you, dear reader, in a much more relaxed manner.

Yeah, not that relaxed. But close.

This was one of those things where I just needed to move slowly and take photos of everything; no rush. The exhibit was all about athletics. Or love. Or something. I think. There were lots of smaller bits in display cases interspersed throughout that provided close-up details of something or other, and always in full colour:

Those are real human body parts, dear reader. Preserved for a good long time through a process called plastination. To sum it up, the sliced-up body part is submerged in acetone which replaces the water in the cells. Under a vacuum, the acetone boils off while a polymer (plastic) gets sucked in.  The cell walls are basically filled in with plastic. Then they add soul-piercing eyes:

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Are you feeling astute today? Well, give that brain a scratch and see if you can spot three things in the following photo that are out of the ordinary:

If you guessed the trucks, but not really sure why, you’re absolutely correct! That’s a movie crew and those trucks are just sitting there like that with not a soul in sight. This is in a slightly sketchy neighbourhood, and people do sometimes help themselves to stuff they “find”. So that’s one.

Number two is the complete absence of people on the street. The aforementioned missing souls are missing from everywhere. I think we can chalk that one up to the cold.

The third, and I must admit not so easy to spot, thing wrong with the photo is that it was shot at the end of September, not today. See? Hard to spot.

But today was much like it looks in the picture. If you splashed a bit more yellow on the leaves and had steam coming up from sewers, this would be pretty accurate. And I still think it’s due to the cold.

It’s either that or my slight frame is getting even slighter. And I start to look emaciated at 170 pounds! So what else can I do but take it indoors again.

I hit the PATH from in front of the CN Tower and Convention Centre South building, which is in the lower left-hand corner of the map. That area gets windy and cold in the summer, and if it wasn’t for the brewery across the street, it’d be a completely desolate wasteland. With a big tower.

From there I shivered across the Skywalk to Union Station, tried to get warm as I made my way up through the Toronto-Dominion Centre, and did my best to thaw out as I headed east of First Canadian Place, north to Scotia Plaza, and then out to the intersection of Yonge and King through MetLife Place. Stopping every four steps to take a photo.

Outside, I was cold again. *sigh*

The Bay Adelaide Centre will be a nice addition. It’ll be the other main artery north and give me something new to look at while I try to lose the chills. My God, it’s still just October!

Okay, enough yammering. You know the drill, if you don’t have the Adobe Flash Player, get it here: http://get.adobe.com/flashplayer/

If you can see the dark, grainy silhouette of the CN Tower with a big “play” button on it below, you’re good! Just hit that button but keep in mind that this is a 5 minute animation, so give it some time to transfer to your computer first. Feel like you need a pee break? Now’s the time ;)

I think I’m going to need that Second Cup sponsorship if I’m to survive this winter. That fine, flavourful, and hot brew on a cold autumn morning, what could be better?

Dear reader, it’s so good to see you again! It’s been months, hasn’t it? How’s the significant other? And the things you look after, they’re doing okay? Boss being good to you?

Wonderful! :D

Well, let me not waste any more of your time with idle small talk. After all, we’re both here to discuss matters of the practically passive-aggressive gentleman as regards the urban sphere. And the rudeness therein. Right?

For this instalment, I’ve been blessed with the endorsement of the Toronto Transit Commission. Sort of. Lets not belabour that point because what’s important is the general agreement that as temperatures drop, people will be required to be in close quarters with one another as public transit passengers. Notwithstanding the challenges of H1N1, an even larger threat looms on the horizon. It wears the face of the young buck who decides to use the seat in front of him as a footrest, or the young buckette who insists that everyone should hear her mobile conversation, or sometimes that young crowd over there who believe that no one should disembark the train before they first board.

Such behaviour is crass, uncouth, and frankly, insolent. So what’s the practical gentleman to do?

A great deal has been scribed on the walls of public washrooms as regards these matters, but please allow me to at least get the ball rolling:

Flatulence for Feet

A variation of this technique was featured in a previous guide. However, on closer inspection, the advice within that guide proved most unpractical. Gathering large numbers of people together is difficult enough. Doing so for group farts, even more so.

However, working individually, I believe it could be accomplished. The premise is the same as in the previous guide; load up on legumes, Brussels sprouts, and anything that will arm your gut with something genuinely unpleasant. Improvise: eggs, onions (good on both ends), fried garlic (ditto! plus delicious!), pickled cabbages, and so on. Make a meal of it. :D

Then, when you spot yonder young man with legs outstretched o’er the spot in front of him, shoes dripping wet muck directly into the middle of the seat, you must smite him directly! And of course, by that I mean that you simply sit beside him, saddle up good and close, and start tearing off some justice. Be all cool and relaxed about it, like you’ve just come home, sat on the couch, and just let it all hang out. “Ahhh. Comfy.” The odour should infect the cabin forthwith.

If the offending party protests, simply smile and inquire why he should get to make himself at home and you can’t. You paid your ticket like everyone else, didn’t you? Feet on the seat? Okay. But I get to fart. It’s how I get comfortable.

Hopefully the point will be driven straight up the nose and off the seat.

Of course, you could also simply try asking him to take his  feet off the seat first, but that would defeat the purpose of the ghastly meal you’d ingested the night before, wouldn’t it?

Music for Mouths

Is it safe to assume that most of us have cell phones today? Why not use them to battle those who abuse their own mobiles by TALKING TOO LOUD. For this, you need to read a section of your owner’s manual for the device to figure out how to preview ringtone sounds and set the speaker volume to maximum. You probably already know how – I trust that all TCL readers are exceptionally clever.

In this exercise the offending party, who is making a racket into her mobile, is simply approached. No interaction required; in fact, a nonchalant looking the other way is more effective. Then, our mobile phone is extracted from its hiding place, and the previewing of the ringtones commences. At top volume. Start bobbing your head. Damn, all so good – can’t decide. “Hello, Moto” – funky fresh!

“Excuse me sir, could you please stop doing that?!” (over the din *giggle*)

“Huh?!” *looking genuinely puzzled, but not enough to stop playback*

“Could you please stop doing that?!”

“Oh!! Oh!!” *sudden stop*

“Sorry, I couldn’t hear my phone over the din of your voice. And din (*wearing a look that says “smarten up!”*) means loud noise.”

You can leave that last bit off; it’s there just for extra bite. :D

To be even less conspicuous you could use the music playback capabilities of your phone to loop a frenetic sounding ringtone. Many phones may have a record option, in which case you can simply scream into the phone to record your message. Plug your headphones into your MP3 player, turn that bad boy up, and do the same with your phone. Use your back pocket to host the merry noisemaker – good if you’re standing and the offending party’s sitting. You get the added benefit of having the racket coming directly from your ass. Terrific!

Again, there is the option of approaching the offending party and simply asking them to tone it down if possible, but what waste of much research and masterful skill, don’t you think?

Pricks for Pushers

This particular example of insolence may do more than simply annoy you, it may cause you to miss your stop entirely. In this scenario, the offending parties are multiple, seemingly aligned against you and closing in as a unit (this actually happens regularly!). You just need for one person to step aside and let you through because you’ve got nowhere else to go but back onto the train. Alas, no one does you the courtesy.

In this case, I feel it’s fair to single out one person who seems to be particularly obstinate, and simply approach him, stare at his crotchal area for a bit, point firmly to it, and returning to look him in the eye say, “Your penis is showing.” Fully serious face.

If it happens to be a woman who is hell-bent on pushing you back on the train, the same words may work just as well if delivered with conviction. I find that a single nod while speaking to drive home the point is the gesture that makes it a serious matter.

The point here isn’t to deliver a crushing insult or even a glancing blow, it’s simply to stun the opponent momentarily while you brush by them with an “excuse me”. Classy.

This example is one of those rare cases where I believe there is no alternative approach. There simply isn’t time to reason in that situation, and the offending party’s ego shouldn’t be sufficiently bruised to make him want to miss his train. Or her train. Though in all honesty,  a delivery by a lady to a gentleman is probably the most powerful version of this technique. Ladies will have an advantage over the gentlemen here, I’m afraid. Sorry fellas, we can’t win ‘em all.

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Well, wasn’t that a rousing collection of techniques? I certainly do hope you get some practical use out of them. Apply liberally, for insolence does not sleep when we are tired. We should seek to banish it from within our midst at every opportunity. Because, and I don’t know about you, but I must admit to an innate dislike of the wet seat, the unnecessary noise, and the strange unwillingness to hold back just one second so that I can leave the train.

However, I firmly believe that together, we can lick this problem, one offending party at a time. As long as we hold to the ideals of justice, truth, an eye for an eye, and two men enter — one man leaves, then we can be sure we’re doing it for the right reasons.

Till next time!