Gallows Humor

My place of employment has fallen on hard times. The company has had to seek protection from its creditors. Many people confuse this with filing for bankruptcy. I want to state, unequivocally and for the record, that the company has not filed for bankruptcy. It's one step away from filing for bankruptcy.

I see this type of "gallows humor" among those few of us who remain employed there an awful lot these days. For example, Scott Adams recently published this Dilbert comic (which I have linked to on Dilbert.com rather than pasting here for you to read, because the last thing I need now is to be sued by a millionaire cartoonist) whose chief humor comes from how eerily close the depicted scenario is to the situation at my office. There have, in fact, been massive layoffs over the past year. The last round came right after the company filed for protection from its creditors. Needless to say, those employees who remain are just a little paranoid about things like managers who abruptly fall silent when they (the paranoid employees) appear.

In fact, one of my co-workers had been away on long term disability (or so I thought) since just before the axe fell most recently. The similarity to the Dilbert comic ends there, though. In our case, the guy who was away got layed off anyway. Seems he wasn't technically on long term disability at all, no doubt a clever maneuver on the part of the Human Resources department, who already knew that he was in their sights.

Dilbert comics are a particularly popular source of gallows humor during times of corporate stress. Here's another one that was very popular with our accounting staff, because it was just a little too close to the truth.

http://dilbert.com/strips/comic/2009-05-01/

Recently, somebody (whose identity I'm withholding to protect the guilty) circulated the following through our inter-office e-mail:

For all you Working People and anyone else needing it...

There are times when additional support is necessary to get through a grueling day at work. Here's one suggestion.

A Master Reference binder has been created for all who may need to reference it. Inside this binder you will find solutions to everyday problems. If you are having problems with the photocopier, having difficulty dealing with co-workers , having computer problems...please come and get the red binder and it will help you through your issue. You may refer to the red binder as often as you wish.

Use the red binder for all issues...it is guaranteed to make you stress-free and relaxed.

We don't just rely on outside sources for our dark humor. One day last week, everyone was working away as usual, when all the lights suddenly went off. One of our accountants immediately shouted "Uh, Barb, could you pay that invoice now, please?"

Our Network Administrator, Randy, was one of those who were recently layed off. All of the most recent layoffs are technically temporary 13-week layoffs, another wily maneuver by our Human Resources department, designed to postpone the company's obligation to pay severance to those affected, which it would be obligated to pay if the layoffs were permanent, although everyone knows that none of these people are coming back.

I recently sent an e-mail about a red binder (oops - did I type that out loud?) to an inter-office mailing list which still included Randy. A short while later, I received an automatic Out of Office notification from Randy, informing me that he is out of the office and will be returning on August 31 - exactly 13 weeks from the day that he was "temporarily" layed off. Now, Randy isn't naiive enough to actually believe that he will be recalled at the end of August. He's just that witty (not to mention sarcastic).

Speaking of automatic Out of Office notifications, some things that make me laugh aren't necessarily intended to be funny. My boss told me recently that our CEO (a new guy, who replaced the previous CEO right after the company filed for creditor protection) complained about our inter-company e-mail system. We don't use Microsoft Outlook. When you set up an automatic Out of Office notification on our system, it is necessary to manually turn it back off again upon returning to the office, else anyone e-mailing you continues to be told that you are out of the office, even after you've returned. This annoyed the new Head Honcho, who was used to using Outlook which, apparently, turns off its Out of Office notifications automatically on the appointed return date.

Now, this guy is at the helm of a company which is under government protection from its creditors and may be a heartbeat away from insolvency, and his biggest concern is that he has to manually disable his Out of Office notification??? I'm sorry, but I can't help but find that hilarious.

Okay, maybe I'm being unduly pessimistic, but I've been through this situation before with another company some years ago, and it did not end well. Incidentally, I do not work for General Motors, unfortunately, otherwise I'd be much more optimistic of my prospects. In fact, I'd be laughing all the way to the bank, and screw you other taxpayers anyway. I didn't pay into my pension fund, and somebody has to, so it may as well be you.

On a more serious note, the real tragedy, in my humble opinion, when a going concern does fail, is that the last few employees remaining when the ship finally sinks are the brightest, the hardest-working, the most dedicated and the most indispensable people that the company had in its employ, and I'm not just saying that because I seem to be one of them. Let's face it; those people are still there after everyone else has been cut because they truly make a contribution that the organization cannot afford to do without. Unfortunately, if the company ultimately declares bankruptcy, they're also the ones who get screwed, being sent to the unemployment lines with no severance and, in some cases, without even the full pay still owed to them. The secured creditors come first. Sucks to be you.

This is not meant to reflect negatively on those who have been laid off. Many good people have been let go and I believe that many organizations, during troubled times, fall into the trap of cutting too deeply. But those who were laid off earlier were at least given severance packages to help cushion the blow. The most recent victims, as well as those who remain, may not be so lucky.

Those fellow employees of mine who remain with the company are the salt of the earth. I have nothing but the deepest respect and admiration for every one of them. There's Harve, the Pay Master, who has over 30 years with the company and has already been given notice that he's to be layed off this summer because payroll is being outsourced. I could understand if he were bitter and resentful. I could certainly understand if he stopped giving a damn and just coasted through his remaining time doing as little as possible. Yet he still carries out his duties in a competent and professional manner. More than that, he's been patiently passing along his knowledge and experience to the Human Resources department, which will be assuming some of his duties.

There's Jo-Anne, one of my fellows in the MIS department, whose organizational skills, understanding of the business and its needs and calm, patient manner with users calling the Help Desk, leaves me feeling envious of her more often than I'd care to admit. During a recent MIS department meeting with the Restructuring Officer, Jo-Anne sincerely and selflessly asked him to consider her if there were to be any more cuts in MIS, because she'd prefer unemployment over having to work with even fewer of her remaining colleagues.

There's Tina, our feisty, petite credit manager who spends her days on the phone with delinquent customers, many of whom don't always address her exactly cordially, and yet retains a healthy sense of humor and a peppy demeanor.

There's Craig, a relatively recent addition to our Finance department who ... well, what doesn't Craig do? People are in and out of his office all day long looking for information, advice, the solution to some problem, or all of the above. He's so rarely wrong about anything that the our International Controller actually noted the date and time on her white board on one of the rare occasions that he was mistaken. "Craig was Wrong", read the notice, "June 8, 2009 - 3:12 pm".

There's Erin, our Sales Controller, who just recently returned from maternity leave, was immediately promoted and fills the thankless role of liaison between upper management, the Sales department and MIS.

The list goes on and on. I've chosen to mention only a very few examples because this is a blog, not a novel. However, if you're a co-worker of mine and are reading this (as I know that some of my co-workers do - outside of office hours, of course!) know that you're aces in my book, whether or not I've mentioned you by name. If the worst should eventually come to pass, I will miss you all dearly.

The U/C Airplane Follies

My profile, as well as some of my previous posts, tell you that I'm an aviation enthusiast. I love flying, and I love airplanes. I prefer airplanes to helicopters. Admittedly, helicopters seem much more versatile than airplanes, but there's a certain aesthetic beauty to an airplane, its clean, streamlined contours and the way that its wings are outstretched to embrace the sky. Helicopters, by comparison, tend to look like bulbous, squat, ungainly beasts; noisy, flying egg-beaters. If Don Quixote had ever seen one, he would surely have jousted it full-tilt.

Sadly, I'm not a pilot but I compensate for this by filling every empty nook and cranny of my life with airplanes. I surround myself with airplane pictures and airplane calendars. My computer's desktop wallpaper and screen saver often feature photographs of airplanes. I spend a fair bit of time flying Microsoft's Flight Simulator on my home PC. I've taken a couple of introductory flights in small Cessnas over my home town and, for the past few years, I've gone soaring in gliders at least once each summer. In both cases, I've taken the controls for brief periods. In the winter, I wear a small bush plane pin on the lapel of my jacket. I also collect toy airplanes, and airplane models and miniatures. Some of those toys and miniatures have flown.

When I was about 13 years old, my dad bought me a U/C Cox P-40 Warhawk. U/C is an acronym for "U-Control", meaning a miniature flying airplane that's tethered to the flyer by a pair of strings. On the flyer's end, the strings are attached to opposite ends of a small control handle that the flyer holds in his hand. On the airplane's end, the strings are attached to opposite ends of a moving lever, called a bellcrank. By pivoting the wrist of the hand holding the control handle with the strings attached, the flyer moves the bellcrank which, in turn, moves the airplane's elevators up and down, causing the airplane to either climb or descend. There is no lateral control since the airplane, being tethered to the flyer, simply flies around him in a wide circle.

Seems simple enough, right? If all you have to worry about is climbing and descending, how hard can it be? Well, let's just say, if you saw me trying to fly this thing, or any U/C airplane, for that matter, you'd probably agree that it's a good thing I'm only a wannabe pilot.

I recall the first time that I attempted to fly the P-40. Dad and I went to a nearby schoolyard. It was summer, and school was out, so there was plenty of space, or so it seemed. The first lesson I learned that day about U/C flying is that it's a very good idea to pace out a complete circle around the spot at which the flyer intends to stand and ensure that there are no obstacles or obstructions inside that circle.

Dad took the airplane and walked away from me with it until the control lines became taut. He then fueled up the little .049 "Super Bee" gas engine that powered the craft, attached a battery to power the glow-plug, wound back the propeller on its starter spring and let it snap back. After a couple of false starts, the little motor sprang to life. I extended the arm holding the control handle in anticipation, and gave dad the "thumbs-up". He released the airplane, and it trundled away from him, quickly gaining speed. The tail lifted from the ground and then, just as she was getting light on her wheels, they (the wheels) caught the edge of a lawn that had rudely planted itself right in my flight path.

Well, okay, thinking back on it, I'm pretty sure that the lawn was in the flight path before we ever started the engine. This is why it's so important to check for obstructions inside the flight circle. It's not enough to have a clear, flat space for the airplane to taxi along at its starting position. That clear, flat space has to continue all the way around the circumference of the flight path. In my case, it did not.

Do you know what happens when a fast-moving airplane hits an immovable obstruction with its wheel struts? Pretty much the same thing that happens when a fast-moving person hits an immovable obstruction with his shins. The wheels (or shins) stop dead, but the body that either is attached to wants to keep going. Damn you Isaac Newton! My P-40 nosed unceremoniously into the dirt, and one of the wheel struts snapped. The little propeller managed to mow a three-inch diameter of the school's lawn before sputtering to a halt. Thus was my maiden U/C flight pre-emptively aborted.

I can't suppress a rueful smile when I think about how the scene would have looked to any of our neighbors that might have glanced out their windows at the time. First, they'd have seen dad and me, proudly strutting toward the schoolyard, carrying a shiny replica of a P-40 Warhawk and then, about 15 minutes later, they'd have seen the two of us, walking the other way, somewhat more slowly, me cradling my broken aircraft and wearing a decidedly dejected frown.

I was never able to fly the P-40 again after that. Although the engine still ran and the airplane itself was still more or less airworthy (despite a nasty crack along the nose and canopy), the broken wheel strut turned out to be an impassable barrier to flight. It proved impossible to glue that spindly piece of plastic back together with enough structural integrity to support the airplane through a successful takeoff, much less a jarring landing.

Having destroyed a relatively cheap toy that was made from rugged plastic and ready to fly the moment it came out of its box, I did what seemed the only sensible thing, which was to purchase a considerably more costly flying model airplane kit made from fragile, brittle balsa wood, which would take many hours of painstakingly careful assembly before I could even attempt to crash- er, that is, fly it.

Mind you, this wasn't until years later when I was in high school (it took me that long to get over the trauma). This time, it was a German JU87 Stuka dive bomber kit designed by the Paul K. Guillow company. Coincidentally, it could be configured as a U/C model and could be powered by the same Cox .049 Super Bee engine that had powered my old P-40 and, even more coincidentally, I still had it (the motor), although the P-40 itself was long gone by then. I hadn't considered, at the time, that mounting the power plant which had belonged to my ill-fated first flyable aircraft on this new model might be inviting disaster. Perhaps the motor was cursed! Perhaps it was still possessed by the ghost of the old P-40 (a natural enemy of the JU87 to begin with, being an American airplane) and was just waiting for its chance to visit the kind of destruction that its previous host had suffered on some new and unsuspecting airframe. In hindsight, that certainly appears to be the case.

The Stuka was built alongside my best friend, Mart, who had himself purchased a model of a de Havilland Mosquito, also from the Guillow's company. Mart was, if possible, even more foolhardy than I, having chosen a two-place aircraft. Do you know what it's like trying to start two .049 Super Bee engines anything like simultaneously? These engines tend to behave like finicky lawnmower engines. Whether or not they decide to start, when turned, depends on a number of variables including the ambient air temperature, the alignment of the planets and how nicely you talk to them. One engine would start and the other would fail. Then, after several more unsuccessful attempts, the second engine would finally fire, just as the first engine sputtered out, having exhausted its minuscule fuel supply. It was an exercise in frustration, to say the least.

Mart and I spent months assembling our respective models, carefully cutting the frames and formers, painstakingly running the stringers along the wings and fuselage, connecting the bellcrank and control rods to the elevators and, finally, covering the finished skeletal structures with a delicate tissue paper skin that was then painted and strengthened with a layer of fuel-proof "dope". I wasn't content to simply build my model as per the instructions, either. Oh no! I had to add a number of my own, personal "enhancements", such as building small, box-like compartments with forward-facing grilles under each wing. My idea was to fill these compartments with talcum powder. When the airplane picked up speed, the air flowing through the grilles would blow the talcum powder out the back, simulating a stream of white "smoke" trailing behind the airplane. This gives you some idea of my overconfidence in my own abilities at the time.

For the finishing touch, I added a custom bit of paint work to my finished model. Remembering how certain pilots during the war liked to name their mounts, I painted the name "ZERSTÖRER" (German for "DESTROYER") along the nose of my aircraft.

Given all the painstaking work that we had put into our models, Mart and I didn't rush to fly them. We waited patiently for the perfect day; sunny, dry, calm and windless. When that day finally came, we again made our way to a local schoolyard; not the same one where my P-40 had made its ill-fated maiden flight, mind you. No, this time, we went to a school closer to my old neighborhood, in an older section of town, densely populated by mostly Portuguese immigrants.

Although it was again summertime and the school was again closed, Mart and I couldn't evade the notice of a number local Portuguese teenagers as we made our way to the schoolyard. When they saw the two of us, carrying our airplanes, glow fuel, batteries and crying towels (just in case), they became naturally curious and followed us. As we prepared for our flights in the schoolyard, the somewhat rowdy Portuguese kids (whom Mart later affectionately referred to as the "Julios") watched with interest from the sidelines as they shouted taunts and encouraged us with their sincere hopes that we might entertain them with some truly impressive scenes of destruction.

I went first. Having learned my lesson from the P-40 debacle, I ensured this time that my airplane had full clearance and that there were no obstructions anywhere along its flight path. Having satisfied myself of this, I once again took the control lines while Mart fueled the plane and started the engine. He released it. The aircraft rolled along, picking up speed. The tail lifted from the ground and, this time, it TOOK TO THE AIR... a little too suddenly.

Perhaps it was over anxiousness on my part, still smarting from the memory of my P-40's demise, to get those wheels off the ground. Perhaps it was simple impatience to see the fruits of my labors airborne. Whatever the reason, I had tugged on the "up" line a little too eagerly, and my Stuka leaped into the sky in a steep climb.

Alarmed by this sudden rapid gain in altitude, I over-compensated and jerked on the "down" line, immediately putting the Stuka into a steep dive toward the schoolyard's asphalt. This immediately elicited a cacophony of excited whoops and cheers from the Julios, who prepared themselves for a splendid crash.

Horrified, I jerked the "up" line, again overcompensating, causing my Stuka to pull out of its dive scant inches from terra firma and again begin a steep climb, accompanied by a sullen chorus of "Awwww's" from the Julios, which sounded not unlike the disappointed exclamation that one hears from crowds of spectators watching a professional golf tournament after the golf pro narrowly misses sinking a long putt.

Overcompensating once again, I put the Stuka back into a dive, which changed the Julios dejected "Awww's" back into hoots and cheers. It went on like that for several more minutes with my Stuka executing an undulating series of parabolas worthy of NASA's infamous "Vomit Comet", accompanied by alternating cheers and "Awww's" from the Julios.

Then, at the apex of its last steep climb, my Stuka did something completely unexpected. It winged over and came directly at me! As this maneuver brought it inside the radius of its flight path, my control lines went slack and I lost all control of the aircraft. At that point, I did what seemed the only sensible thing. I dropped the control handle and, covering my head with my hands, I ran for my very life as the Julios exploded into a gleeful chorus of cheers.

Since I had my back to the Stuka, I did not see it when it smacked into the asphalt at the very spot that I had only recently occupied. I only heard the sickening crunch of splintering balsa wood a split second before the motor was, again, ominously silenced.

The body of my P-40 had only suffered a single crack after its jarring introduction to the ground. My fragile balsa-and-tissue Stuka was not so forgiving. The entire nose section was completely shattered, with serious damage to the wings and other sections of the aircraft. As I gathered up the debris in an attempt to salvage whatever parts that might be useful in my future attempt to rebuild the airplane's shattered nose, I came across a small scrap of doped tissue paper, with a few fragments of balsa stringers still stuck to its back, on which was inscribed a single, poignant, word ... "ZERSTÖRER". I understood, at that moment, how The Third Reich must have felt in 1945.

(Click to enlarge)

Victim of the Recession

I had just come out of a grocery store recently when a lady roughly my own age approached me in the parking lot. She was thin and somewhat frail looking. Her face was lined and care-worn and she seemed on the verge of tears.

"Excuse me, sir, could you please help me?" she said. I asked her what I could do for her.

"My name is Cheryl", she answered. "I was layed off from work. I need to go in there to buy some food. I have two daughters at home. Please, could you help me? I'm not a bum."

Indeed, this lady certainly didn't seem like your average panhandler, those unkempt, dirty men who sit against the walls of public buildings, reeking of alcohol and harassing the passers-by for spare change. She seemed credible. My heart went out to her.I handed her about eight dollars in change that I found in the pockets of my jeans. She thanked me, and I continued to my car to unload my shopping cart full of groceries. I watched her as I pulled out of the parking lot and saw that she was still approaching others. Well, eight dollars will hardly feed a mother and her two daughters.

Thinking back on it now, what I should have done was to accompany her into the grocery store, invite her to buy whatever provisions she needed, and pay for them. I've been lucky. The recession hasn't touched me ... yet. I could have easily afforded a few extra groceries for this woman and her daughters, and I could have solved her immediate problem and spared her the indignity of having to approach others for a financial handout, but I was preoccupied with my own affairs. I had a shopping cart full of groceries to load into my car. We were having family over for dinner in a few hours and I still had other things to prepare. I didn't want to take the time to do more for this unfortunate than I already had.

I believe that this recession will get worse before it gets better. Many honest, well-intentioned, hard-working people will lose their jobs and some of those will find it necessary to depend on the goodwill of strangers. Our political and business leaders have shown themselves to be woefully incapable of helping. Many of them are more a part of the problem than the solution.

The gap between the "Have's" and the "Have Not's" grows ever wider. The same parking lot where I met Cheryl was abundant with large, expensive SUVs. The owners of some of those may well have been the same people who decided to lay Cheryl off. Perhaps they collected large bonuses for doing so.

This recession didn't come about because of a lack of wealth. It came about because of greed, and the inequitable distribution of an overabundance of wealth. It is the direct result of people thinking only of their own interests, and failing to think long-term. As long as the next month-end balance sheet looks good, who cares about next year? That's someone else's problem.

Let's face it; it's not in the interest of the wealthy to share with the less fortunate, and those with money tend to influence government, so it's naive to expect a more equitable society in the foreseeable future. Therefore, I believe our best hope is for common people to help each other by sharing their resources, their time and their talent. Give a few dollars to those charitable organizations whose envelopes land in your mailbox once in a while. Lend a hand to one of the many non-profit organizations that are always looking for volunteers. Most importantly, if you bump into someone like Cheryl, show a little compassion. There, but for the grace of God, as they say, goes you.

Unhealthy Preferences

I've hinted in earlier posts on this blog that I could stand to lose some weight. I'm working on it. Nothing radical. I'm not a believer in fad diets. I'm just focusing on increased exercise, smaller portions and healthier food choices.

One thing I've changed is the lunches that I take to work. I used to take two luncheon meat sandwiches, some type of fruit, a soft drink (not diet) and a granola bar or a few cookies or something like that. Now, I take a bottle of garden cocktail, fruit and a granola bar or cookies or whatever. Basically, I've replaced the bread and luncheon meats with vegetable juice and I've dropped the soft drink. I figure I'm getting my daily serving of fruits and vegetables and losing the unhealthy stuff.

I don't mind this particular adjustment. I actually enjoy the garden cocktail, but it seems to be an exception to the rule. Normally, I just don't like healthier foods. I prefer enriched white bread over whole wheat or rye bread. I prefer a honey cruller over a bran muffin. I dislike diet soft drinks because aspartame leaves a weird after-taste.

It would be so much easier to adopt a healthy diet if we naturally preferred healthy foods. For the most part, I don't think we do. I suspect it's a safe bet that most people, if presented with a choice between a cheeseburger and a salad, would be naturally inclined to choose the cheeseburger. Some people may end up choosing the salad, either for health reasons or because they're vegetarian or vegan or whatever but, if people were to choose solely on the basis of which food they found more appealing or tempting, I have to believe that the cheeseburger would win, buns down.

If I'm right, this suggests that human beings are naturally wired to prefer unhealthy foods or, at least, less healthy foods. The preference for meat over fruits and vegetables may have to do with the fact that we're natural carnivores or, at least, omnivores. Show a cheeseburger and a head of lettuce to a rabbit, and it will eat the lettuce. A dog, on the other hand, will eat the cheeseburger. Nature programs us with certain preferences.

Suppose we make it a choice between fried chicken and boiled, skinless chicken. Now it's no longer a choice between meat vs. plants. Both choices are now meat. They're even the same kind of meat. And yet, I bet most would choose the fried chicken over the boiled, even though the boiled is technically healthier.

It seems to me that mother nature has a mean streak. She designed us to be drawn to things that aren't good for us. Imagine how much healthier and happier we'd all be if we had a natural preference for the right foods. No more guilt over enjoying a snack. Go ahead! Eat all the rutabaga you like.

Of course, this would radically alter the way in which restaurants cater to their customers. At the McDonald's drive through, you might overhear something like:

Drive-thru Attendant: Welcome to McDonald's! How can I help you?

Customer: Uh, yeah, I'd like a McTofu Meal, please.

Drive-thru Attendant: Certainly, sir. Would you care to super-size that today?

Customer: Extra bean curd? Sure. I'll walk on the wild side. And can I get a soy shake instead of the prune juice?

Drive-thru Attendant: No problem. That'll be $8.50. Please drive through to the pickup window.

Unfortunately, we're not naturally inclined to want the things that are good for us, which leaves us only willpower and self-discipline; two things that I was never very good at.

It's too bad that the Ludovico Technique used in Anthony Burgess' A Clockwork Orange is fictitious, otherwise we could reprogram ourselves. Imagine being strapped to a chair with your eyelids clamped open, being forced to watch McDonald's commercials while getting violently ill. That'd cure the desire for junk food, alright.

Balsillie vs. Bettman

Time for me to sound off with my thoughts on this whole kerfuffle regarding Jim Balsillie's bid to purchase the bankrupt Phoenix Coyotes and bring them to Canada. I'll start right out by admitting that I'm Canadian, and I live in Balsillie's neck of the woods, so my opinion will obviously be biased in his favour (note the Canadian spelling of "favoUr", eh?) I'll also state, for the record, that I'm not heavily into professional sports of any kind, hockey being the only one in which I have even a mild interest. Even so, I hardly ever watch the games and I only follow the season by way of news reports and hearsay. As a sports fan (or non-fan), I really couldn't care less what happens to the Coyotes. As a Canadian, I care a great deal.

Now that that's out of the way, I can state, with a clear conscience, my opinion that Gary Bettman is a pompous, manipulative hosehead with a greatly over-exaggerated sense of self-importance.

Why in the name of Gordie Howe would the NHL Commissioner object to saving a bankrupt franchise by moving it from a place where no market exists for it (which is why the team is now bankrupt ... Duh!) to a place where there is a strong, thriving market for it? Because the strong, thriving market is in Canada, that's why. Bettman strikes me as just another arrogant Yank who can't stand the idea of America's northern neighbour doing anything better than the good old U.S. of A.

Bettman's main argument against Balsillie's acquisition of the team is that he (Balsillie) is trying to circumvent the NHL's rules in moving the Coyotes to Canada. Well, when the rules are designed to put you at a disadvantage, you sometimes have no alternative but to skirt them, if not break them outright. Seems odd that neither Bettman himself nor his vaunted rules had any objection to moving the Quebec Nordique to Colorado back in '95. Ah, but that involved moving a Canadian franchise to the U.S., and that changes the whole picture, doesn't it?

Bettman cited a concern that the NHL's Board of Governors might not approve Balsillie as a suitable franchise owner. "I don't know whether or not he could get approved," Bettman said. "That's, as I said, something I don't get a vote on. If in fact it becomes an issue for board consideration, the board of governors of the league will make that decision."

Sounds like passing the puck ... er, I mean, the buck ... to me. I'm not the obstacle here. It's that darned Board of Governors. Well, has anybody asked them? And who's on the Board of Governors, anyway? More U.S. fat cats? Hardly sounds either fair or objective to me.

It seems to me that hockey has become more about money and politics than about the game, which probably explains why people like myself, who admire the game, can't be bothered the follow the professional league.

I'm struck by the curious similarities between the Balsillie/Bettman feud and the movie, Bon Cop Bad Cop. For those not familiar with the movie, it's about a pair of detectives; Martin Ward, from Ontario, and David Bouchard, from Quebec, who become reluctant partners when they are assigned to investigate the murder of a hockey tycoon who had been instrumental in moving a Canadian team to the United States. More murders of hockey officials ensue and it soon becomes clear that the detectives are on the trail of a serial killer bent on punishing league officials guilty of moving Canadian hockey teams south of the border.

The killer's ultimate target turns out to be the league commissioner himself, one "Harry Buttman", who is on the verge of committing the ultimate sin, moving the Montreal team to the States. Although he is a target, Buttman is portrayed in the movie as arrogant, deceptive and altogether unlikeable. I found it particularly amusing that Buttman is played by Richard Howland, a midget, which I interpret as the director portraying the Hockey Commissioner as, quite literally, a small man. Ward and Bouchard end up tying him up, stuffing him into a body bag and locking him in the trunk of a car, "for his own protection", but can't help enjoying the activity. Maybe that's the kind of therapy that Mr. Bettman needs.

Before I get back on topic, I'll digress just a little further by highly recommending Bon Cop Bad Cop to those who haven't yet seen it. It's one of the most enjoyable Canadian made movies I've ever seen. It captures, better than any other movie I've seen, Canada's Anglophone/Francophone split personality, and the ever-present tension between the two cultures. It's a riveting drama liberally imbued with dashes of uniquely Canadian humour. It should be required viewing for any Americans who still picture Canadians as beer-swilling, French-speaking lumberjacks whose cops all ride around on horseback. (Well, okay, everybody in this movie happens to be fluent in French, including the English-speaking detective from Ontario, so I guess the movie doesn't do much to dispel that particular Canadian stereotype).

Getting back to reality, Jim Balsillie argues that his bid to acquire the Coyotes is about "The passion that Canadians feel for the game of hockey." Quite right. Hockey is Canada's game, much moreso than America's. Everybody knows that. It's a part of the Canadian identity. America took the Nordique from us and they took Gretzky. This is us, taking our national identity back. Don't stand in our way, Bettman. We may not stuff you in any car trunks, Canadians are much too polite for that, but some of us would be more than happy to come down there and demonstrate a proper "jersey pull" for you.

Kids On Moms

I usually avoid re-publishing other peoples' work on this blog. Yes, everything you've read here to date, Dear Reader, is 100% original material, written by myself, available exclusively on this blog, and no-where else. Don't you feel privileged?

As it's Mothers' Day tomorrow, and I have no better ideas, I'm making an exception this weekend and re-publishing something that was sent to me by e-mail. It's a list of insights about mothers, according to a group of second-graders that were interviewed on the subject. Out of the mouths of babes, as they say...

Why did God make mothers?

1. She's the only one who knows where the scotch tape is.
2. Mostly to clean the house.
3. To help us out of there when we were getting born.

How did God make mothers?

1. He used dirt, just like for the rest of us.
2. Magic plus super powers and a lot of stirring
3. God made my Mum just the same like he made me. He Just used bigger parts.

What ingredients are mothers made of?

1. God makes mothers out of clouds and angel hair and everything nice in the world and one dab of mean.
2. They had to get their start from men's bones. Then they mostly use string, I think.

Why did God give you Your mother & not some other mum?

1. We're related
2. God knew she likes me a lot more than other people's mums like me.

What kind of little girl was your mum?

1. My mum has always been my mum and none of that other stuff.
2. I don't know because I wasn't there, but my guess would be pretty bossy.
3. They say she used to be nice.

What did mum need to know about dad before she married him?

1. His last name.
2. She had to know his background. Like is he a crook?
3. Does he get drunk on beer?
4. Does he make at least $800 a year?
5. Did he say NO to drugs and YES to chores?

Why did your mum marry your dad?

1. My dad makes the best spaghetti in the world. And my Mum eats a lot.
2. She got too old to do anything else with him.
3. My grandma says that Mum didn't have her thinking cap on.

Who's the boss at your house?

1. Mum doesn't want to be boss, but she has to because dad's such a goof ball.
2. Mum. You can tell by room inspection. She sees the stuff under the bed.
3. I guess Mum is, but only because she has a lot more to do than dad.

What's the difference between mums & dads?

1. Mums work at work and work at home & dads just go to work at work.
2. Mums know how to talk to teachers without scaring them.
3. Dads are taller & stronger, but mums have all the real power 'cause that's who you got to ask if you want to sleep over at your friend's.
4. Mums have magic, they make you feel better without medicine.

What does your mum do in her spare time?

1. Mothers don't do spare time.
2. To hear her tell it, she pays bills all day long.

What would it take to make your mum perfect?

1. On the inside she's already perfect. Outside, I think some kind of plastic surgery.
2. Diet. You know, her hair. I'd diet, maybe blue.

If you could change one thing about your Mum, what would it be?

1. She has this weird thing about me keeping my room clean. I'd get rid of that.
2. I'd make my Mum smarter. Then she would know it was my sister who did it and not me.
3. I would like for her to get rid of those invisible eyes on the back of her head.

And with that, I extend my wishes for a very happy Mothers' Day to all mothers everywhere. Especially mine.

Contentment

"Nobody ever got anywhere in the world by simply being content."

This quote is attributed to Louis L'Amour, a writer best known for his frontier adventure stories. From what I've read of Mr. L'Amour, he knew his share of hard times and adversity, and he certainly managed to rise above it and make a name for himself.

Mr. L'Amour is certainly worthy of admiration, and I think that most would agree with his philosophy. It suggests that we must constantly strive to improve our lives and ourselves. It warns against complacency and stagnation. We've heard the same sentiment expressed many times in other ways. "A rolling stone gathers no moss," as the saying goes.

The trouble with this philosophy, as I see it, is that it sets up its adherents for perpetual dissatisfaction. We can never be satisfied that our accomplishments are "good enough". The moment we do so, we are seen as quitters; lazy and lacking in ambition. No matter how much we have, no matter what we achieve, no matter how high we ascend the ladder, we must always reach for that next rung.

Is contentment really such a vice? Is it so wrong to be happy with our lives as they are, and not to want more? When do we relax, and just enjoy the fruits of our labors?

Recently, my brother-in-law suggested that I consider upgrading to a larger house. I live in an older three-bedroom bungalow, in a quiet suburban neighborhood. I like my house. There's plenty of room for my wife, my daughter and me. We have a small, one-car garage which suffices because we only have one car. There are things that I'd like to renovate or improve (we desperately need new kitchen cabinets) but I have absolutely no desire for a larger, more modern house. I'm happy here. This is good enough. I'm content. Should I feel guilty?

I'm a computer programmer/analyst by profession. I'm reasonably happy with my job. I enjoy my work, but I'm no workaholic. I put in my 40 hours a week and then I go home. I don't work a lot of extra hours unless it's absolutely necessary. I'm not working on any revolutionary inventions, I'll never be recognized as one of Canada's great writers (or even bloggers), I'll never find a cure for cancer and I'll never win nor even be nominated for a Nobel Peace Prize. I'm just another cog in the wheel and, for the most part, I'm content to be so.

I believe that we can't all be great. The world needs its garbage collectors, its janitors, it's pizza delivery men and its insurance salesmen just as much as it needs its leaders, its rocket scientists and its visionaries. The wheel needs its cogs as much as it needs the engine that turns it.

I once heard a comedian (I forget which one) make the following observation. Did you ever notice that those people who claim to have lived before were always somebody famous? Everybody was once Caesar or Napoleon or Cleopatra. Nobody was ever the guy who used to clean the horse droppings off the streets in a previous life.

There's nothing wrong with striving to better ourselves, our lives or the world in which we live. I humbly suggest, though, that there's nothing wrong with being content with what we have either.