If you are squeamish, or a self-appointed skin doctor (or a real doctor), don’t read this.
For a couple of years I have had two big wart-like growths on the side of my head, just to the right of my forehead. They didn’t worry me much and my dermatologist always referred to them as “friendlies” and left them alone.
It wasn’t fun walking around with two miniature muffins attached to my face but the rest of my Brad Pitt looks seemed to keep me out of Shrek the Ogre territory on most days. This winter, however, there were developments. The dermatologist decided to biopsy my gruesome twosome and she did.
So I went home and worked on my will for a week. Don’t worry. You are all in it. She finally phoned one day and said that everything was okay. As it happened, I was scheduled not long after that for an event which required me to appear before a couple hundred people. And there would be a spotlight on me and my face for almost an hour.
A few days before the event, I was looking in my bathroom mirror and scrutinizing the mini hockey pucks on my head. And becoming concerned. Out of the corner of my eye, I spied a pair of toenail clippers.
I will spare you the details. But I am happy to announce that the practice of Dr. Jim Hagarty MD, Plastic Surgeon, opens Wednesday. Check my website for hours of operation. Rates reasonable.
My daughter has an app on her phone that lets you take a picture of someone and then ages that image somehow to make the person look old.
She showed me the photo she took of herself and it’s amazing. Her 14-year-old face was all wrinkly and drawn, her long dark hair was gray. It’s kind of creepy because it’s a still image and yet the eyes blink and it looks like it’s moving.
So we laughed and got all excited and I asked her if she wanted to try it on me. Of course she did, so she snapped a picture and excitedly, we looked at the result.
Absolute truth here. I looked exactly the same in the “aged” photo as I do in real life. We could not find even one difference. If anything, it made me look a little younger.
So, we laughed about that. At least shed did, her eyes blinking away many tears of mirth. But I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised. A restaurant once offered me the senior’s discount when I was only 48. I was with a friend who received no offer. He was 60.
After all that, my daughter then she showed me another app that makes you look fat. She took a picture of herself and sure enough, her cheeks and neck were all puffed out. And, again creepily, her eyes blinked.
“Wanna try it Dad?”
My first reaction was that, ya, that would be cool. Then I remembered the first picture and I declined. Once bitten, twice shy.
Bring me an app that makes me look young and thin, and I’m in. But, in my case, I’m afraid, that might exceed the limits of modern technology.
I am about to be murdered. It is true. I don’t usually joke about my own violent demise, but the crime is about to be committed.
I can’t tell you the exact time or place or the method that will be used to end my existence, but I do know who will perpetrate this misdeed. The murderer even now preparing to do me in is my neighbour, ten houses to the west of me. He used to be a good guy, as far as I can tell, but life has made him hard. And determined. I have no doubt about his determination.
Why, you rightfully ask, would anyone want to take the life of such a terrific soul as me, you? What have I done to so enrage my neighbour that he is willing to spend the rest of his life behind bars to right what he sees as a major wrong?
Not to make excuses for myself, and you don’t have to believe me, but I have done nothing. However, in this weird little passion play, the fact that I have done nothing is a big part of the reason for the passage of the death sentence upon me.
The fault lies with Bell Canada, and as my neighbour hasn’t got the resources and know-how to kill Bell Canada, his murderous intent has been directed towards a simpler target – me.
Five years ago, Bell Canada, for some reason, gave me the wrong address in its phone book. Instead of my own address – 550 My Street, they put me down as living at 500 My Street, where, coincidentally, my neighbour actually lives and will continue to live until his arrest someday soon by a SWAT team.
Because they steal Bell’s phone book listings, all local phone books produced by other companies over the past five years have also listed the incorrect address. As have Internet directories. The result has been that my neighbour’s mailbox, for five years, has been jammed with mail that is meant for me.
At first, this merely annoyed my neighbour. He would knock on my door, hand me my mail, and politely ask me to please correct the phone book listings. I said that I would. And I meant what I said. And I have tried. For five years.
But with every new phone book, I would see the mistake has never been corrected. Over those years, my neighbour’s attitude towards me has deteriorated. He used to scribble, in small letters, across every piece of mail, “Change your address!” The scribbles turned to scrawls. And now, each envelope is covered in lettering worthy of a kidnapper demanding ransom: “CHANGE YOUR ADDRESS!!!!”
And this is where, I have to declare, that I could get a sex change, and then have it changed back again, easier than I can get an address change. I could have had cornea transplants, hair weaves, stomach-staples, and joint replacements with more ease and speed than getting Bell Canada to change my address.
I floated a few alternatives with my neighbour. Maybe we could just switch houses. Maybe he could nail his mailbox shut. Maybe I could move to another town. But I am pretty sure he has settled on neighbourcide as the best solution.
And I think I know how he might be planning on ending the torment that I have become for him. He has a grumpy dog named, ironically, Jimmy. I think Jimmy is being prepped for his first kill. At least I assume it will be his first.
So, this week I decided that my past failed attempts to right this wrong had to be set aside and I needed to try again. Therefore, in the only life-saving move I could think of, I phoned Bell Canada. I talked to numerous people at Bell Canada, in fact. And I began each conversation with this life-saving plea, spoken in a trembling voice: “My neighbour is going to murder me. Please help me!”
Well, points to Bell Canada employees. They expressed full support for the idea that my being murdered was not a desirable outcome. I spoke finally to a wonderful woman who I really think wants to know that I die peacefully in my bed someday and not by wounds delivered by the sharpened teeth of Jimmy the dog. She put me on hold to talk to a supervisor and came back with the good news that I would be receiving a call within 48 hours by people from another department, fully trained in saving lives. They would sort it out.
I was relieved. But rightfully terrified that I would miss the call. I carried my cordless phone with me everywhere. Everywhere. I was careful not to get beyond the 75-foot range that my phone is capable of reaching. I was bound to my property at 550, not 500, My Street
Forty-eight hours passed. My fully in-range phone never rang. Yesterday, I phoned Bell Canada again. Gonna be murdered. Please help. Talked to several wonderful people. None of them up for contributing to the slaying of a customer.
Finally, I reached a sympathetic woman who I think should consider counselling as an alternative occupation. She put me on hold. Went to talk to a supervisor. Came back with the information that my file is still being worked on and that Bell is very busy. If I do not hear from Bell by the middle of next week, I should call back and re-start the process.
Please do not send flowers to the funeral home. Instead, make a contribution to our local, understaffed Humane Society. When it is all over and done with, I think it only fitting that two Jimmys be laid to rest. But not side by side.
The only cemetery in our town is so big it has streets and numbers. Bury Jimmy the dog at 500. AND ME AT 550!!!!
My final wish: Do not let Bell Canada be involved in the arrangements.
I mentioned in a recent post that the best popular song ever written is Does Your Chewing Gum Lose Its Flavour on the Bedpost Overnight?
I am confident in my assessment of that piece of musical brilliance for a very good reason. When I judge a song for its quality or lack thereof, I rate it on its uniqueness along with other factors. Has that song employed any words that cannot be found in any other song? I think this is important as it indicates a maximum level of creativity.
So, for the song mentioned above, I have always been delighted to know that the word “tonsils” is repeated several times, in reference to the chewing gum: “Do you put it on your tonsils, do you heave it left and right?”
I challenge song lovers everywhere to come up with another pop song that uses that word. If you know of one, please forward it and I might be forced to reassess my adjudication.
A possible worthy runner-up might be All I Want For Christmas Is My Two Front Teeth. What other song in musical history, I ask you, refers to the singer’s “two front teeth.”
I wrote a new song this week. I soon realized it is the best song I have ever written. A few minutes later, it dawned on me that this is, in fact, probably the best song that has ever been written – by anyone.
Wow! You can imagine my happiness at that discovery.
So, what you do with the best song ever written, of course, is sing it 24 hours a day till you hate it worse than oatmeal porridge (which is not recommended for human consumption). It is at that point that you are willing to entertain the idea that it might not actually be the best four minutes of song styling ever put together since the beginning of music. That distinction goes to My Boomerang Won’t Come Back.
However, having thudded back to Earth isn’t the least bit disconcerting because you still think the thing is pretty darned good for an amateur. You have to or you’d never write another one. Besides, there is always next week when you probably will come up with the best song ever and My Boomerang … will just be a distant, but wonderful, memory.
Ian Tyson was interviewed by a Canadian radio host a while back who asked the folk/country artist what the best song he ever wrote was and the only answer could be Four Strong Winds. Tyson wouldn’t cooperate and gave him the name of a song he’d just come up with.
“That’s the best one I’ve ever written,” he said excitedly to the dejected interviewer. “You always think your latest one is your best one.”
I guess I am in good company. But no matter how good I get at this, I will never surpass the writer of Does Your Chewing Gum Lose Its Flavour on the Bedpost Overnight?
One of my favourite pastimes in recent years has been to walk past construction sites and examine the proceedings. Yes, it’s true, I have become a Certified Sidewalk Superintendent. I have my full papers from the Canadian Construction Industry and am completely licensed to stand at a distance and detect whatever flaws I might witness being perpretrated on a new building.
I earned this stature because of the many astute observations I have made over the years, criticisms that range from the subtle, “Who the hell designed this mess?” to “That thing’s gonna fall down in a year.” I am able to make these assessments based on my own past, working three summers on bridge construction when I was attending university almost 50 years ago and from growing up on a farm where we built a lot of sheds and things.
And so it was that a big hole was dug in the ground last year on a lot just a stone’s throw from my (well-constructed) house. Although I was not notified that construction was under way, I soon detected the activity and began my daily inspection tours.
For the first while, I had no idea what was being planned for the hole, but the builders, thankfully, erected a very nice sign showing an artist’s conception of a new medical centre. It was very appealing and I hoped the builders would adhere to the architect’s vision very closely.
I walked by almost every day, even during the winter months, and was mostly impressed with the gradually evolving three-storey brick structure. It would be a very welcome addition to the neighbourhood and to be honest, I could find little fault with the construction though it wasn’t for a lack of trying. The thing that appealed to me about it was the fact that it was all function and no frill. If it was a car, it would be a stripped down Chevy Malibu.
Some modern buildings look like works of modern art with metal protrusions and glass hanging out all over the place. I always wonder how they will replace those special panes of glass and fiberglass panels 30 years down the road. I worry about stuff like that which makes me an excellent Sidewalk Super.
Finally, the completed Stratford Medical Centre opened its doors on a Monday in early January. I just happened to have an appointment that morning.
Guess who was the Medical Centre’s first patient?
A very fitting development, I must say.
I asked my doctor if I would be honoured in some way, maybe with a special gift, a plaque on the wall, a large framed portrait in the lobby. In response, the good physician fought me off bravely and handed me a prescription for more drugs.
One thing I have noticed about our changing times is the lack of respect these days for the critical role Sidewalk Superintendents play in the scheme of things.
Warren Buffett and I have a lot in common. Males, fathers, eyeglass wearers. Balding. Speak English.
But our biggest shared characteristic is our incredible financial acumen. Our brains don’t operate in the same way others do. Ours are functioning on a whole, remarkable, elevated level. Don’t feel badly that yours doesn’t. Warren and I are special.
My evidence of the above truths, is this.
Today, I entered the McDonald’s drivethrough, wanting a cup of coffee. I told the woman who greeted me through the speaker that I had a card for a free one. I had collected seven little stickers from previous cups I had drank and attached them to this card. This entitled me to a free medium coffee. At the last minute, and in my enthusiasm, I asked her to include a carrot muffin. She said that would be $1.65.
Now here’s where the acumen kicked in.
“Really?” I said, unbelieving. “Just for the muffin?” The reason for my skepticism was that I have, in the past, paid just over $2 in total for a medium coffee and muffin at McDonald’s. Now I was being asked for $1.65 for the muffin alone, given my coffee would be free.
I had to think fast. Buffett and I are good at that. We make decisions quickly and change our minds slowly. The mark of most great men.
I slipped the free card out of sight and when I drove up to the window, I told the speaker woman there that I didn’t have the card after all. That I wanted to pay cash for my purchase.
“That will be $2.10,” she said, looking a little confused. (Maybe even a bit scared.)
Therefore – try to follow the logic – I acquired a carrot muffin for next to nothing.
When I got to the window, and was handed my food, I asked the woman there how much a medium coffee on its own would have cost.
“It would be $1.82, plus tax,” she replied.
I pulled off to the side, activated the calculator on my phone, and quickly came to this conclusion: By paying $2.06 cash for my purchase, I had received a muffin for four cents. Whereas, if I hadn’t thought quickly, I would have been charged $1.65 or, put in Hagarty-Buffet terms, 165 cents as opposed to four cents. This is the kind of inflation both of us insist on avoiding.
McDonalds wanted $1.65 for a carrot muffin. I paid four cents for mine. It’s all about beating the system.
The only flaw in my operation, and this is one I need to correct in future, is that if I had paid with my debit card instead of with cash, the cost would have been $2.09 instead of $2.10, but that is a downside of living in a country which doesn’t have pennies anymore.
I will admit, that it is that penny that signifies the central difference between Warren Buffett and me. He would have never made an error such as that. This explains why he has $60 billion and I have less than $60 billion. But, we both have some dollars, another similarity.
Also this difference: He steers his own car through McDonald’s drivethrough. Frequently. He doesn’t have a driver. He’s his own driver.
And that is the only other difference between us.
To close that gap, I am going to fire my driver tomorrow.
I have been studying the political landscape for some time now with an eye to running for office somewhere. However, judging from what I see and read about the process, it seems as though it is a lot of hard, hard work and a big commitment of money with wholesale rejection by the voters a good possibility as a candidate`s reward. I have never done well with wholesale rejection. Too many high school dating memories still haunt.
But now, as I digest today’s news, I realize I have been approaching this from a misplaced starting point. I always assumed, not without some reason, I suppose, that a candidate for public office would need to be alive and breathing in order to run and win. But apparently that isn`t so.
On Tuesday, Dennis Hof won a seat in the Nevada state legislature less than a month after dying. Hof defeated Democratic opponent Lesia Romanov. The Nevada Republican died on Oct. 16 at the age of 72 following a weekend of parties to celebrate his birthday.
Although I am happy for Dennis, my heart goes out to Romanov. Imagine knocking on all those doors only to lose to a guy who just recently knocked on only one door – Heaven’s. I think that would give me the sads.
I don’t know whether a dead candidate’s occupation has any influence on his electoral chances but Hof was a fine, upstanding businessman, best known for owning seven legally run brothels in the state of Nevada. He also previously starred in the HBO show “Cathouse.”
This last item might trip me up, I am thinking, as I own no brothels, legal or otherwise, and to be honest, I don’t have the energy to start any. I honestly would not know where to begin. But Dennis did.
So, when my doc says I have one month to live, I am going to enter my name into whatever public office I think could use my talents after I die. If I win, I guess it will be up to the authorities to get me to the meetings and while I might not say much, I promise to be a good, quiet listener.
I wonder who the first person was who said the words, “You don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone.” Maybe some guy who went completely bald at 30. A hungry breakfast eater who found an empty box of his favourite Chewy Chunks cereal in the recycling bin. An owner of 50,000 shares in a company that just declared bankruptcy.
Years ago, we had a nice new car stolen from our driveway in the middle of the night and wrecked by the thieves. I also wonder who first used the words “write off” as we heard them used to describe a vehicle we really liked.
And while the loss of the car was a blow, what bothered me almost more was the idea that strangers had been walking around on our property in the middle of the night. It took a long time to shake that feeling.
But here’s a funny thing. I can get myself worked up to the point of around the bend over little things while major events such as the loss of a job I can handle with comparative calmness.
And so it was my mind was blown when I went outside this morning to see that the lid to one of the two big plastic garbage cans I had put out last night for pickup by the city was gone. I knew on some level how important those lids were to me, but not till that moment, did I realize just how much value I had attached to them. I didn’t know if it would be possible to buy a new lid. I suspected it would not be.
It was a very windy day in our city today. It was almost gale-like in intensity. So I spent too much time walking up and down our street looking for our lid. During my search, I discovered lids of every size, shape and colour dislodged and lying around but none that belonged at our place. Always in search of our town’s Citizen of the Year Award which, amazingly I have never won, I picked up several neighbours’ lids and reattached them to their cans.
But our lid was gone and there was only one conclusion that made any sense at that point.
There is a garbage can lid thief roaming the area and our lid was just too gorgeous not to steal, with its black handle, gentle contours and slightly rough black surface. Even someone who had never stolen a thing in his life could almost be forgiven for wanting to give himself the five-finger discount on our lid.
This bothered me one whole hell of a lot.
So an hour later, I wandered our section of town once again, this time crossing to the other side of the street for a new perspective. I even took to peering into people’s backyards to see if a thief had tucked it away behind his house.
The wind was fierce, blowing me west and almost preventing me entirely from walking east.
But to reward me, I guess, for replacing my neighbours’ lids, the Universe blessed me by showing me where our garbage can lid had wound up. There it was, lying in the middle of a four-lane main street. Almost as though it had been blown almost an entire city block to where it came to rest.
With only one truck on the road, I dashed out onto the street to rescue my treasure. You would have done the same.
What has me puzzled, however, was why the person who stole our lid dropped it onto the pavement as he ran across the street. Sadly, for him, he probably didn’t really know what he had till it was gone.
Ever since I bought a used smartphone a few years ago, I have noticed a strange thing happening when I send text messages. Every once in a while, my oversized gorilla fingers touch the wrong button and the bottom half of the screen is suddenly filled with this strange thing with a wavy line running through it. I’ve tried to ignore it and soldier on but it’s been a real pain.
On Sunday, as I was texting a message, the random screen popped up again. This time, I was shocked to see words appearing at the end of my message that I hadn’t typed.
“What the hell?” I asked, then was flabbergasted (my all-time favourite word) when the words “What the hell?” appeared on my message. To test this out, I said a few more words: “This is just crazy.” Sure enough, “This is just crazy” appeared in my message too.
So, brave new world, here I come. Finally, I can give my stubby digits a rest and talk and text instead by tapping a microphone icon at the bottom of the screen.
I just hope my editing skills are up to par and I don’t click send on a muttered remark such as, “Why does this silly person keep texting me?” or “I wish I could just ignore this idiot.”
