Gravenomics 2.0

Last night I found myself bending a few taps and telling a few tales. A couple of bands put on a great show: Oceans dished out some odes to Radiohead spiced with some new alt poppy rockish songs. Ty West mounted the stage like some reborn sage from days of lore. He worked his guitar and mellowed the vibe. Then TBL slung on their flat tops and let loose with some solid acoustic rock.

Graven:

They just snuck up on stage like the Grinch stealing your Christmas. Ben and Matt strummed and plucked out some folky tunes...but this was just the start. Matt was soon joined on stage with Landon (Freebird) and Owen (Blitzen) and in a few seconds the plugged in part of the night began. Sonic booms, bangs and vibrations shook the room. Windows cracked and the drunk club kids looked up from Murray street texting each other wtfs. They were dazed and sad that they had not heard these sounds sooner. Matt built up into a fury; his hands were whirling tight then he swung into some wild windmills. Landon and Ben kept the beat moving. Matt strutted the stage and tried to get Owen to wail - he did. This created a new bigger sonic surge. The crowd pulsed forward - some hot chicks at the bar slammed back a few more shooters, just to keep up with the madness.

Then the lights went on - closing time - back to the real world, a world with too little Rock n' Roll.

Thanks Graven for bringing the thunder.

Poems and Punches 2.0

No person I ever met was more of a paradox than French. I've seen him tell a teacher that they are a "fucking asshole", punch his locker, throw a computer out a window along with a tray of test tubes, and later that day he'd be sitting in his shed writing down a list of songs that make him cry.
Paradox seems to be a powerful force in the universe; no one embraced that more than French. The only thing that ever made him laugh was irony. Irony is birthed through paradox. Often French would be laughing and no one would be real clear as to why he was laughing. He saw the irony in almost everything. This characteristic made him kinda of an awkward person to be around. A lot of people took him as weird, or they worried that he was laughing at them; a typical self-centred, ego driven response. I learned a long time ago to be aware and just laugh with him.
This Christmas I'll honor that with French's favourite drink: Irish Cream (the whole bottle), and a whole pot of coffee. As French would say: "I like to be hyper and drunk". I'll have the coffee brewing and the Bailey's at hand this Christmas; he often comes by my place so we can go to midnight mass.

Poems and Punches

Back in the early nineties I saw a classic school yard fight. A skinhead had moved into my town. He had a different look: shaved bald, tattooed, knee high Doc Martens, and a safety pin through his ear. This dick had been pissing everyone off with some bully bullshit. We only had one black kid in the school (James); so we couldn't figure the point of being a racist s.o.b. in our little town.

We all went down to the caf and asked French if he would be willing to fight the skinhead boy and teach him a lesson. He was like "sure...when I'm done my fries".

Soon after, Skinny the Skinhead and French squared off and the punches started to fly. This was totally one on one - the ethic of that time was no one could step in. Today most teenager fights tend to be at least 3 on 1...or worse.

French and Skinny went into a long punching match. French kept jumping to dodge the big black boots and massive long arm haymakers. Skinny clipped French a good one on the ear; then French landed three quick ones in his the face with beautiful boxing style. Skinny's teeth started to loosen, wiggle, bleed, then fall to the ground. It was eerie seeing a couple of white teeth lying on the pavement. French laughed and laughed; like always - even when he got hit.

As Skinny looked down and held his busted mouth, French grabbed him by his bloody neck and yelled: "knock off this skinhead bullshit".

Skinny walked off alone and everyone gathered around French...but we all had to scatter. Stackhouse the V.P. back then was running out with a couple of gym teachers to break up the crowd.

French bolted, but I caught up with later in his shed. He was sitting alone writing poems with a pen in his still bloody hands.

A Van Halen Christmas

'

It is a little early for Christmas, but all these commercials and jingles in the malls reminded me of how my buddy French got involved one year.

French had a plan brewing. There was a Christmas themed talent show coming up soon at our High School. The principal, George Stackhouse, knew that French could be a bit of a wild child; so George hold French that he could play in the show as long as he played a Christmas song. So French practiced "Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer" with his band (Godzilla and the Liquid Sound Dragons). This was not the band's usual material. But G-LSD worked hard. This was their roster: French on guitar, Sweaty on rhythm, Pancake on drums, and Turkey on Bass.

I hung out with the lads , but they wouldn't say anything more about their plan. French told them all not to drink before the show (right after the show French downed a Mickey of rye in the front foyer of the school).

The day of the show came - the lads ripped into the tune...for a minute...at the bridge French unleashed his plan. He had learned Eruption by Van Halen note by note. He wailed it hard. French started in slow, but he went crazy. The crowd was loving it - they all rose to their feet and started to stomp and stand on their chairs. After about a second Stackhouse was trying to get to the stage. The gym only had stackable chairs. They all went flying back and flying through the air smashing against the basketball backboards. Almost 800 fans/students rushed the stage. French started to play one handed and with the other hand he pounded his amp up and down against the stage. Next he started to rub his Gibson SG up and down on the amp. The amp was cracking and booming. Turkey just keep the solid thrums of his bass coming. Pancake broke his sticks and then ripped off his shirt and played with his hands. His hand split open - blood sprayed out! Sweaty laughed and laughed. It was a mad scene.

Stackhouse cut the power to the stage and the crowd streamed out - taking the band with them. Stackhouse kept yelling: " You're suspended...You're all suspended!"

Good thing French was the last act of the show.

guitaring

Somedays, many days, I want to strum my flat-top and make my fingers bleed, or at least, sting and flatten out. I gotta be able to feel 'em throb.
I'm no gifted musician, but it is bliss bomb to play some seriously great songs, and sing 'em loud. Shake my house, room, desk, make sh*t fall of my shelves - with boot stomps, body shakes, head-bobbing, eye closing passion.
I found some chords of songs that I love - Joel Plaskett, Jon Foreman are today's guests in my hootenanny.
There are songs that can just make ya cry. I'm no pro - nobody needs to hear me perform, but I'm my concert in this house.
There are no records, tours, or mp3s on the way, but I know I'm doing it right if I'm sweating, tired, voice hurts, and low rumbles make things tumble down. If my guitar is cracking, and wearing away I'm playing the song just right.
Friends: go guitaring. - It is good.

Sweaty Bacon

French had left for college, and Sweaty was pretty bored without his big bro around. So Sweaty would ring my bell to see what I was up to. Everyone did this, but Sweaty would approach it differently. For example, one day he shows up and "calls on me" and says: "I have bacon". Bacon nice! So we followed this old cow track down to the river and set up a campfire. Sweaty kept a black frying pan up in a tree down by this favourite spot. We cooked this bacon up. It was more than a kilo of Canadian or peameal bacon. I didn't ask where he got it, but it sure was nice. The sun was going down slowly, the smoke was floating out over the marshy river, a couple of ducks were swimming out in the bay...sublime.

Another time Sweaty showed up again and said: "There was a party at the locks last night." I was like: "Oh yeah?" I was not too concerned about a past tense party. He then explained that there were a tonne of empties and we could make some serious beer money. We collected over 300 empties and brought them back. French was in town so he bought us some beers. All three of us wandered down to the river, stoked the fire, cooked up more bacon and told some stories. We kept the beers chilled in the river. French said: "We gotta throw a line in here some day." Next time out we were frying perch in a whack of butter and chives.

I wonder if that frying pan is still up that tree.

The Best Costume Ever

23% of women dress as cats or bunnies on Halloween. I just made that stat up it is realistic...no?Personally witnessed the best costume ever. Here we go:

About 1991 I was dancing away at my high-school dance. I admit I had a bit of a beer buzz flowing, but it was fading fast. This lad dressed all in green with hoses and weedy looking rags was just smashing the dance floor in a liquor fuelled whirlwind. He had on some goggles, so I didn't recognize him at first. This weird swampy alien dancing dude - whirls a couple of hoses that extended from his hand and says: "suck my finger bro". I was like: "no way". Plus a couple of FUs thrown in. He said, "it is me Sweaty...suck on it". Sweaty is French's younger brother, so I took a quick suck. It was the dirty, but lovely, burning Alberta Rye. Wow dude! As a young lad this was the best moment at a dance. He then said: "Suck my other finger on this hand". It was Cherry Brandy. Damn weird combo. The hoses were actually surgical tubes that he had taken from a recent visit to the hospital. The tubes snaked up his arm and into mickeys he had stashed under the layers of his spacey get up. Best/funniest/most practical costume of all time. Sweaty was a genius.

We danced and danced - every now and then - taking a pull of burning liquor or sweet brandy. Crazy, but wonderful night.

The hot buzz lasted right to the last chords of "Stairway to Heaven".

French's Shed

Seeing French again got me to thinking about the first time I met him. He lived down the street, but when his dad got to drinking he lived out in his garden shed. The drinking got more regular, so French got that shed looking pretty good. He salvaged an old wood stove that used to be on a Caboose from a wrecked CNR train.

I heard him in there one night. The sound was travelling well on account of the freezing temperature. I'd been at a house party that the cops busted up and was walking home. I heard this drumming in the old shed. I looked in the window and saw French's back - his arms swinging to a beat. I knocked loud and went in. It was about -30 outside and about +30 inside. The wood stove was cranking hot. French had dragged his high hat and his snare drum through the snow. He pounded out some steady rhythms all night. We had a few beers that were near bursting from sitting in the snow.

I'd always try to listen for the drumming from the shed. I'd slip over and every now and then the stove would be humming and a few lads (sometimes French's brother too) would show up break out their beat up old flattops and we'd play some tunes. Soon you'd hear Wheat Kings, 38 Years Old, and later some Stompin' Tom and Bon Jovi (to be ironic and funny, but we loved it). The beers would stay cold outside and we'd be sweating, singing, playing and drumming in that old shed that sat out in the backyard. Smoke from our Rum and Wine flavoured Colts circled our heads. We'd blow some smoke out when we went to snag another beer or two.

These occasions were rare and unpredictable, but I always hoped I'd hear the steady thumping from the shed, or see the wood smoke rising above his yard.

The shed has been silent for far too long.

French Update

French showed up last night at "church hockey". I questioned if he was allowed here, but it turns out the ban was never registered...so French was good to go. (He'd been kicked out of church league for decking the goalie - his goalie - )

I asked him where he'd been. French got a job in Winnipeg replacing light bulbs in a skyscraper: "A Bulb Tech" he called it. He got fired when he turned on the lights in strategic offices to spell dirty/funny messages. The people down in the streets were treated to 10 storey F Us in the cold city nights.

He's back on the blades with his typical equipment; velcroed, duct-taped, and stitched up with old shoes laces...one shin pad the crazy bastard. He rolled up some old t-shirts in his hockey socks and then wrapped it tight with electrical tape.

French still has his speed though. Two years off skates and he scores four goals. Hovering at the red line pays off.

He did, however, get banned again. French got antsy for a butt so he sparked up a long American cig. You could see it sticking out through his cage when he skated by our bench. A city employee told him to take it outside. The employee meant the cigarette - French thought he wanted "to go". A couple a hay-makers later French is out of the league again.

Good to see him though - when he left he said it was off to one of his girlfriends.

Good ol'French.

The End of Nicknames

When I was a young lad everyone had a nickname: Ollie was mine. I was rarely called my given name. I wander the halls of Hillcrest everyday. Everyone and I mean everyone is called by their real name (there a few with street names, but that is another story).

Nicknames are often glorious - they capture the true spirit or key event of one's journey.

Who can forget Loaf? - that guy who stole a loaf of cheese bread, there was another guy called bread too...no relation.

Pancake - he stole some pancakes.

Chinga...?

Flush - master of the white throne.

Oldman - the guy with a few greys in Highschool.

Rico - Jock - French - Ringer - Tiny - House - Rock - Soup - Lonesome 50 - Cement - Shark - Grasshopper - Slippery/Slipree - One-Punch - Bucky...all real people.

Snag a nickname - embrace nicknames.

As an aside: I did hear one interesting street name: "psycho-ranger"...solid.

Escape

Found this old pic - reminded me of a very strange day.

Dave "French" Goldstein was in rare form. He'd had enough of teaching and he unloaded on me out by the bus stop.

French jumped right in and said all the things that had been weighing him down:

- girlfriend problems
- wife problems
- hated teaching (said so everyday)
- hip killed him in this weather
- hip "just hurt" any other day
- "drinking too much" - direct quote
- hated being called "French"

That wasn't the worst of it - today he was being called on the carpet. A student had told him to "bite the big one". French lost it. He responded in an improper fashion let's say (Who was swearing at whom? I say).

We looked over to the right as several Hot Air Balloons landed in our field. French walked slow and steady towards them. He talked with one of the pilots for a spell - and then just climbed aboard. They hit the flame and took off over the school.

I haven't seen French in years.

Old Ollie's Summer

As summer winds down (did it ever wind up?) I ponder over past summers and the advent of the new year (January is the false new year). What characterizes this summer the most is just keeping busy; not the I don't really want to talk about it conversation smasher: "I'm busy". This summer I worked at Camp IAWAH - a true blessing - it was a very good week and a return to a place that I have spent many many days. It was excellent to introduce it to my boys and to be there again with Rebekah. God Bless IAWAH!
I also travelled: heading out onto new highways in Good ol' USA was excellent - Saw more of NY, Good taste on Penn State, Some Maryland and plenty of DC. I love to travel around Canada, but getting a good bit of the US this summer was really cool. DC is such an iconic place. Head on down there friends.
I also worked at a day camp at my church. That was actually really challenging, but good. 9:30 to 12:00 seemed really long some days.
So I kept busy - maybe that was a good thing. I'm ready to slip back to Hilly; I guess I haven't gotten too relaxed and couch bound this summer. When I was unbusy I worked out - so maybe I'm getting wiser. This year should be a smoother transition. Right?

Obama's Cracked out Neighbours

When the crackheads role into your neighbourhood and start puking, passing out and sleeping on your curb with soggy piss pants - you move. You pack up your sh*t and find a new place to call home.

I visited president Obama's house last week. It is big and white. He has tonnes of security and big fences. On the sidewalk one block away lives a homeless crackhead. I walked by and he was unconscious, yet his hand was still raised hoping for some charity. Coins rattled out of his motionless hand being offered by the tourists wandering around trying to get a glimpse of Obama; whom they hoped would be peaking out of one of his many upstairs windows. Tricky President.

I guess Obama can't move...at least for four years. But what do you do about these folks lying in the gutter in front of your "palace"? Maybe nothing. Here in Ottawa we have our share of homeless people, but our leader shuffles off to Rockcliffe Park to get away from the riff raff.

Shipping them away is deemed too Conservative - help them: too Liberal. Obama has to run the USA and ponder the problem of crackheads invading his new home. Being at the top in the US can be rough indeed.

I talked to one nice old homless lady. She told me to keep my kids safe, she blessed them and me...I just returned the blessing. God bless her and all of Obama's neighbours.

Last Day of School - Graduation

Every year this day roles around. A day to launch out the next batch from the factory institute/school were I work. I realize that you can't relate to each kid and the process of processing them can be a drag. Meaningless rules and layers of bureaucracy. Yet, the advocacy of students and the ability to relate to the students is a criteria that my superiors look at every 5 years when they evaluate us teachers...disconnect.
The only teachers that meant anything to me are the ones that made an effort to relate to me as a person - not some robot marching through the halls that was there to be built and launched from the front doors. Too many teachers forget what it means and meant to be a kid. Which teachers did they like, and thus work hard for and with? I bet they all hated the ones having meeting to think of new ways to keep the kids in line.
I have no desire to antagonize a teenager. I just want to meet some, work with them, help them out, relate to them human-teacher to human-student. There is a distinction, but we, as teachers, should be more positive more often and be the teachers that we would want, need and respect in the teenage version that we once were.
To end this, less than tight, ramble let me say. Props to Dubeau for getting up in front of his colleagues and hammering home the need for positive thinking. To paraphrase: "mention the good things, because other are sure to bring up the bad" - he also has his students mention two things the they liked about the year and one that they didn't. Smart: more positives than negatives. Good on him for sharing this with us.
I head out now to reload, refresh, rethink and prepare to meet more students in September.
Wish me well, and always: send me your wisdom.

Gravenomics

About a week ago the band, Graven, pulled into town and ripped things up - down in the market. I had to pull my creaky bones out of my soccer-dad lawn chair and see this event in person. Other Ottawans and Iawahians of all shapes and creeds rambled out of the suburbs to hear "the lads". Many old friends got together and bent a few taps. The beer flowed smooth and cold like Matt's sonic power chords. Graven played a tight set - so check these lads out. I asked my friend Bill Henry if liked the rock show. He replied: "yes". Nuff Said!
I went home later, shaken', cranking the Graven CD over the fields of Navan. Cows, chickens and sheep looked up in shock - and oddly enough - pleasure. As an aside: Farmer Henkl, my neighbour, told me that because of Graven's EP his cows gave more milk than ever. Right on.
Graven brought the sound and reforged a community. The revolution has begun.

Mr. Deeds - A true story.

Yesterday a mother and father were approaching some bleachers on the rugby pitch. Their son was knocking the all living out of some poor sacks from some unlucky school. A fellow parent saw them and said: "come sit next to me; I saved you a seat". The first parent with the rugged son said "as usual". The bleacher dad then dashed off this gem: " she (the other dad's wife) can sit on my face". WOW! That play was way offside.

Mr. Deeds would have asked him to refrain - if he wouldn't Mr. Deeds would punch him in the face. Maybe the husband should have...at least done something. He just chuckled as his wife blushed. Weird.

Over on another set of bleachers a grade nine lad was cussing worse than Ricky and Bubbles. In front of some nice young ladies. Mr. Deeds...

I thought that maybe we should go back to not cussing in front of or about women. Fair?

Today my opinion had to shift. Virtually every f-bomb that I heard lobbed about the hallowed halls where I work were bursting out of girls' mouths. Even Mr. Deeds in his supreme wisdom would be a loss.

Crazy society. I thinks Jesus is, more or less, in accord with Mr. Deeds. But society is not. Where do we go from here? Thoughts?

Sick and 1984

The term "sick" has morphed over the years. It used to mean bad, in the non-Michael Jackson, sense. Calling someone sick in '84 would get you a cuff about the ears and teeth. I'm sick right now - being sick is not sick; in the current sense. I'm considering the Dutch wine cure: drink wine until your cold is gone. Could work.

1984 didn't end in an Orwellian blast. For me 1984 was the beginning. That was the year that I bought my first tape/album: Van Halen 1984. It still holds up as a very fine album. An album full of classic hits and a few rare gems too: Jump, Panama and Hot for Teacher...yeah! Getting your first rock album is moment of passage. I'm glad that my first album, bought with my own dough, was so nice. Shit...Culture Club would have gotten me a solid boot circle - so I made the right call. Van Halen 1984 - a most sick album. This is the album that launched my total love of music - just slap that tape into my yellow, sporty, Sony Walkman - very choice.

What right of passage is there today for the youth of our nation? My first legal download? Crazy times. Send me back to 1984...besides maybe I would not have to drink so much wine.

Snoop Bloggie Blog

There are moments in life that just seem to transcend. You feel this deep feeling of rightness. Pure goodness can do this for me.

- cold beers in an icy pail, bbq smoking, wind in the trees.
- a perfect song as I roll down an empty road
- strumming a flat top guitar and finding that sweet chord

What is your moment? Joseph Campbell called this a place of bliss. Zen Monks would pause and compose a haiku. Maybe...modern society needs to snag these moments and recognize them and give them their due credit, value and worth.

Certain songs can do this; I listened to the new Tragically Hip album this morning on the way to the wheel of which I'm a cog. I could barely work - I was drunk with euphoria. I came in telling people to convert to the church of Gord Downie. Read: get these tunes right now.

The thought that I'm having is what makes these moments so great? What causes this huge connection with the universe? Cool shit though.

Also, it is an impossible concept to teach. Kids don't really get haiku...but hey maybe they will someday; when they have one of these moments of super clarity and rightness.

Go get one of these moments for yourself...find your place of bliss.

Being Grown Up

Being an adult is rough one. As a kid I always bounced back from a lot of the evils that befell me. Kids tend to move on; stare at the Star Wars poster on their bedroom wall and watch toons with a bowl of frosted flakes.

Somedays I'm reaching for my PS3 controller, the Bible, a book of old philosophy, beers with a chaser or some tender tunes from a great band. Nothing seems to really set my mind at ease. But hey maybe a few transcendent moments will help.

I'd trade it all for a big rock solid faith...maybe.

The journey is the thing though. Right?

Okay, last couple of days two teens that I know are dying of cancer, and one student of mine from a couple of years ago has schizophrenia. Brutal - not like a catch phrase - but really brutal. These kids have to pack their lives into a short little span.

I'm stuck thinking about these folks and their kin. How do you hold up? Being a grown up, in a way, just means loading up the burdens and bearing on.

Do you give this burden to Jesus? - I wish it was that easy. What does that really take?

Pick a metaphor: life is a burden, life is a journey, life is ...distractions, life is growing up...

Kicking Down the Old Dirty Trail...a Ramble

Sometimes I just dive into a faith...sometimes I find myself diving out. Lately I've been playing Metal Gear Solid. I get addicted like mad when I'm in these phases.

I wonder should I pull out and do something good and real and pure.

Should I just play my old beat up flat top while sipping a couple o'buds from an icy pail. That feels like the answer right now.

Crazy as it sound I put a lotta faith and comfort into my dog; Bonnie the pug. You may look at her and see a fat, one-eyed, flat faced little fucker, but that little canine was my best pal. Something right and good about the loyalty of a dog. Some of the best songs ever written by the likes of Neil Young and Fred Eaglesmith are about their dogs. That dog made me feel real good after a day slamming away at the frontiers of ignorance and the bureaucratic behemoth of education.

On March 10th at 6am ish that fuckin' dog took off, ran away and got hit by a car...dead. I cried for 4 days. Brutal. I live in a world were, so far, I've cried more for a dog than any person; except, maybe, my little baby brother.

Too many blogs on Death too. Life is just a bigger bitch when the young, the cool, and the dear ones pass on from this vail of tears.

We've all got these trials - I'm just not sure why we are on trial. Guess its time to get a new dog. Maybe start a "funner" blog too.

Chris 2.0

I've been through a really wild swing of faith over the years. This comes from growing up United, attending an evangelical camp for many years (15 years/Camp IAWAH), getting a degree in religion (mainly psychology of religion, Jung, Freud, and world religion), I even practised Buddhism because I became convinced that it was more practical than Christianity, I was married and attended Anglican church for the last twenty years and now I am a baptised member of the very evangelical Christian Missionary Alliance Church.

I tend to get really addicted, but oddly for a limited amount of time. My addictions go from really intense to a foggy memory over time.

I have been OCD/addicted to: Led Zeppelin, Neil Young, Zen Buddhism, Smokes, booze, Gnostic Christianity, Mars Hill Sermons, Jack Kerouac, poetry, drawing, playing guitar, basketball (playing and viewing), the Ottawa Senators, Jim Morrison, Hockey Pools, Jimi Hendrix, Carl Jung, Ryan Adams, ebay, Facebook...when I'm in the midst of these addictions, they are pretty all encompassing. I, for a time, become a Jungian, or a Gnostic, or a Beat Poet. Luckily these passions fade and only take over my psyche for a time. I sometimes wonder when, or what the next fire brand of a concept will burn into my brain, and set me going. I also always hope that my next obsession will be a worthy and useful undertaking.

Right now I'm a Christian Apologist. Is this just another addiction, or is this the real thing?

I seem to be annoying some people with my Christian coloured responses, so they'll hope this passes, and I go back to being the guy that always knows the +/- of every forward in the NHL.

I'll let you know.

Church (planting) Attending - 1

This old camp buddy called me up in the spring last year; he was planting a church and starting a revolution: to paraphrase him in all his zeal. This lad, JD,  is working hard raising a family and planning on taking on a massive undertaking: building a Christian Community.

At the time I was barely going to church. If I went, I was going in the most reluctant way. I'd fuss and screw around like a crazy teen, just like I used to with my buddy French - back in my youth.  Most of the time I'd sit and draw cartoons about what I heard. This would, maybe, be "charming" if I were 15 - I was 35.

When I was in church it felt like some sort of museum, or a social club for the over 50 set. It was a stagnant place, at least for me and my family.

I pondered what JD was doing and started to think about my stupid sinful attitude. I took on the task of making a step to rectify this situation. I looked for a new church online (modern man).  If some of my Christian friends of mine are planting churches I thought that I should at least be going to one. My wife agreed that we needed to move on as Christians and a build a better home/family life grounded in faith. The theme song of hell is "I did it my way"...we needed to be part of a Christian Community.

I chose Redeemer Alliance Church.

On the downside I 've done way less cartooning.

Revisted - Redited  - Reposted for...

Falling Down

This is a old one, but it fits Emily's theme...let me know your thoughts...send me insights...please...I need em.


We all fall down: Crashing into the snowbanks; both the literal and the metaphorical.

While cruising down the icy sheets of Ottawa this is especially true. Can some sort of lesson be gleaned from a head long?

Recently, a lady of "advanced age" fell, and fell hard: pants torn open and bloodied knee. We all slip and fall, but the next step is getting up; she didn't. She just stayed down. The thought that the situation was too ridiculous crossed her mind. So she just lay there pondering the moment. It just made more sense to lie amidst the drifting snow than enter the struggle to climb back to her feet.

My first response was: "what a nutter". (not the most charitable thought)

Later: I can see that falling and not having the energy, motivation or incentive to get up might some day come to us all. When we were youngling we would bounce up and fall ten times and more in the biggest snowbank we could find.

Getting old is ridiculous.

Also, she has just made the move past embarrassment. I'll know I've made that breakthrough when I just stay down.

I hope no one saw me fall in the parking lot after hockey on Friday.