Month: March 2017

By Jim Hagarty
2017

Ten Dumb Things to Get Mad At

1. The way young people dress. Baggy pants, torn blue jeans, short skirts, backwards caps, etc. We had bell bottoms, polka dot shirts, bikinis and Speedos. And we invented streaking.

2. Today’s music. Lots of great stuff out there if we will admit it and open our ears. Adele, Bruno Mars, Ed Sheeran, good country artists by the truckload. Even Paul McCartney is collaborating with new artists. The Beatles loved all music, even country, bluegrass, big band, jazz. They never restricted themselves; why should we?

3. Breastfeeding in public. We willingly eat in front of strangers. Our babies can’t? Nipples are pretty common things, it seems. I saw two of them in my bathroom mirror while I was shaving this morning.

4. Women’s heads covered by religious garments we think are being forced on them by their husbands (they aren’t). We forget the nuns we grew up with who were also covered in black from head to toe with only the smallest area of their faces shown and who definitely took a back seat to the men in their same calling.

5. Today’s TV shows. If the cast of the Honeymooners or I Love Lucy were still alive and able to operate remote controls, they’d laugh like crazy over so much of what is appearing on the trails they blazed.

6. Marijuana. Human beings began searching for mind-altering substances when we were still living in caves. We will still be doing it when we’re living on Europa and Mars. Pot might not be perfect but if we need a drug to get mad at, let’s pick alcohol, a socially acceptable substance which devastates society a thousand times more than any weed you can grow in your backyard.

7. Other people’s religions. If you practise a religion at all, this should be a big red flag for you. Something about love thy neighbour, live and let live, Golden Rule. If a turban or a scarf or a prayer mat upsets you, get mad at yourself for being such a close-minded ass.

8. Taxes. Yes, let’s get rid of taxes. Good luck fighting the fire that consumes your house in the middle of the night or fending off that burglar that wants to take your stuff. Pre-taxes, my great-grandfather owed his Ontario county two days a year of backbreaking labour to build the roads around his farm. Refusal to help meant time in jail. So, yes, no taxes. See you at the Highway 401 repaving near Toronto next week. I’ll bring the donuts.

9. Pornography (child porn excepted). Of course, no one is forced to see it. You have to go looking for it, unless you consider sex in TV ads and shows unavoidable. It has been said of Puritans that they were forever bothered by the suspicion that people somewhere were having fun. Other prudes also worried that sex could lead to dancing. I knew of a man who never got over the fact that he was born in bed with a woman. We have no trouble exposing everyone to images of hatred and violence and war, but we get very nervous about images of love making. Even simple nudity. How odd.

10. Tattoos and face rings. Often the ones who get most upset by these things are older men who wish they had the courage to get a tattoo or an earring. Conformity is the goal for these men. Straying from the acceptable is terrifying. In the sixties, dads were upset their sons were growing their hair long. When those long-haired males became dads themselves, they got upset when their sons came home from the barbers with their heads shaved.

I like what our Canadian prime minister says. Diversity is not a problem in our society; it is our strength.

Lots to be mad about these days, I guess. Maybe we should save our wrath for the important things.

Time to lighten up.

By Jim Hagarty
2014

One of the great advantages for me in owning a dog is the humour he brings into my life and the fun I bring into his.

About the size of a Thanksgiving supper fart, my little poodle Toby has a least a hundred names that I (and other family members) have bestowed upon him over the years and he answers to all of them.

For example, just looking at him today while he sat on the couch hoping I’d give him some of my breakfast, I yelled out, “Hey, Typhoon Bill, here’s a cornflake for ya.” He responded to the new name as though he’d thought of it himself.

And every time he gets a new name, it make me feel good to know that there is no chance that there is another dog in the world with that name. If anyone ever comes across another poodle (or any dog) called Typhoon Bill, please let me know.

Toby’s official name, of course, is Chubbly S. Winterborne III (the S. stands for Socrates). Now, that might sound a bit creative but you can’t really consider yourself a serious nicknamer unless you have nicknames for their nicknames. Chubbly S. Winterborne III, is a little too wordy, obviously, so he is called Chubbles and sometimes Chubby, for short. But not for long as there are 99 other names to use on him, such as Tito Burrito, or (nickname for a nickname) My Little Burreet.

Don’t even get me started on our cats, Archie and Stretchy McFlinnihan (The McFlinnihan Brothers). They are also known as Shredrick F. Wigglebottom III and Squirmford F. Wigglebottom III.

The F. stands for Fartingham, and why wouldn’t it?

By Jim Hagarty
2012

The mind of a cat, assuming there is such a thing, is a very curious apparatus, apparently.

Today was such a beautiful day I let Mario and Luigi out in the backyard to run around after lunch. I watched them from the kitchen window as I washed some dishes and I smiled at how much they seemed to be enjoying the delights of an early spring.

Then I saw both of them eating grass. Hmmm. This is what cats do when they need to get rid of fur and other crap inside them but can’t get it out any other way. They eat lawngrass and for some reason, this makes them hurl. Presto, changeo, happy cats. Bad stuff gone.

I was thinking about the wonders of all this as I washed a cup when I suddenly remembered the other part of this equation, at least the way it plays out at our place. For a reason I cannot explain, the cats have designated our garage as their own personal vomitorium. They will drag themselves on their little cat knuckles and knees across the yard to make sure they make it inside the garage door before they hurl.

I remembered this little wonderful fact of life as I stood at the sink and heard the telltale pre-hurl sounds every cat makes. They arch their back, and move their head as though possessed by a demon. They look like they are in need of an exorcism and not just a stomach purge.

Now, our garage floor is all concrete which makes cleaning up this lovely mess at least bearable. Soak the stuff in vinegar, take some paper towels, etc. But this is where it gets even freakier. We have one small carpet out there at the base of the steps which we use to keep our feet warm as we pull on our boots in winter. Apparently, in this game of Curling (my name for Cat Hurling), there are extra points for the darling that can spew his innards on that little woven carpet from which puke is very hard to extract.

So, to recap, our lot comprises 7,854 square feet. To a cat that stands eight inches high, it must seem as though we own the Ponderosa. Acres of grass to chew. But, only one little place to toss the old cookies.

If it sounds as though I am complaining, don’t get me wrong: I meant to make it sound as though I am complaining.

If I haven’t made myself clear, I hate cleaning up cat barf!

Love the sinner, hate the sin!

Love the cat, hate the barf!

Simple.

By Jim Hagarty
2017

This winter, I slipped on the ice on our driveway and fell, crushing my shoulder on impact. At least I think I crushed it. Somehow my car keeps driving by the doctor’s office without turning in. So, I am living with a fair amount of pain.

This doesn’t interfere with my life too badly, but I am having some trouble holding my guitar for any length of time, even sitting down. My fellow musicians noticed this at the weekly jam I go to on Saturdays and asked me why I wasn’t playing along very much.

Now, a normal person might have confessed to falling, but what fun is that?

Week One:
“My wife hit me with a baseball bat.” This caused some laughter among my friends for a couple of reasons. Number one, they seem to be of the collective notion that I deserve to be it with a baseball bat and two, they know my wife as the gentle soul she appears to be and cannot imagine her slugging me with a bat.

Week Two:
I get asked for an update on how my wife is behaving. “She hit me with another bat, this time an aluminum one. Those suckers are hard!” I conclude by explaining there must be something wrong with my wife as she is becoming nastier by the day.

Week Three:
More inquiries as to the situation at home. “She threw a brick at me,” I explain. “Not just any brick but one of those concrete paving stones. Hard as hell. Hit me right in the shoulder.”

Week Four:
“I am pretty sure she’s been putting arsenic in my soup. I didn’t like the taste at first but am getting used to it. It has slowed me down a bit but my hair seems to be growing back.”

Week Five:
By this time, the jam cannot begin without an update as to how badly I have been treated over the past seven days. “She hid behind the door to the basement and tripped me the other night. I fell all the way to the bottom of the steps, right on my sore shoulder, the one that first connected with the bat.”

Week Six:
The list of tormentations my spouse is inflicting on me is getting a little harder to fill out now, but I have a half hour drive to get to the jam so I have time to think. “She’s bought a taser,” I explain. “I didn’t even know it was legal to buy a personal taser in Canada but somehow she got one. She’s hit me a few times. It’s not as bad as you might expect. All that writhing around on the floor brings back memories of our honeymoon.”

Week Seven:
“She bought me an electric blanket and hooked it up to a high-voltage generator. It’s quite the experience but I find I am sleeping pretty deeply, somehow. We did lose one cat, unfortunately, who jumped on my blanket at bedtime.” I asked my fellow musicians if it is normal for an electric blanket to spark a lot. Not if it is dry, they replied. “It’s supposed to be dry?” I ask.

Finally, I offer the possibility that my wife could use an attitude adjustment.

My fellow music makers want to agree but seem stuck on the idea that she is is somehow in line for sainthood for having put up with me for 28 years.

I wonder if the Vatican will accept a letter of recommendation from me for her sainthood application.

By Jim Hagarty
2016

I have been to Ireland six times.

People assume we have family there. I have always told them we don’t and that is true as far as I know.

But on my second trip in 1994, my wife and I found the farm our family left during the Famine years in the 1840s and 1850s. Incredibly, the old stone farm cottage they had lived in was still standing. We became good friends with the family who now owns the farm and went back there several more times over the years.

In 2013, Barb and I returned, this time with our son and daughter. The farm owner and matriarch of the family was in hospital when we arrived. Against her doctor’s wishes, she checked herself out of the hospital to be with us.

“I have to go,” she told the doctor. “I have family coming.” We had a joyous reunion.

Now, when I am asked if we have family in Ireland, I always say that we do. The best family our family could ever wish for.

Fate saw to that.

My friend and fellow blogger Al Bossence (thebayfieldbunch.com) captured these images today of birds returning to the bushes near Bayfield, Ontario, Canada.

By Jim Hagarty
2012

In boxing, it’s called “leading with the chin.” In everyday life, that is the equivalent of giving people too much information about yourself. By revealing too many personal details of your life to others, you invite some of them, who are so inclined, to judge you, criticize you and advise you. This can have the effect of destroying your confidence, especially if you are a little hesitant about some venture or activity upon which you have embarked.

If the other person does not know a detail, it makes it very hard for him to make a remark about it. I’ve always been somewhat of an open book, many times too open. And I’ve had my knuckles rapped by those who would like to straighten me out.

This never ceases to make me angry but the anger is 10 per cent directed towards my critic and 90 per cent towards myself for allowing him or her the opening through which to walk with well-practised arrogance and condescension. It seems I never learn.

Often I find myself babbling on about things I shouldn’t discuss because I am nervous in someone else’s presence and am searching for something to talk about. So I end up getting career advice, money tips, even marriage counselling.

But the free commentary that infuriates me the most is when someone points out a few flaws she has noticed in the methods by which my wife and I are raising our family. This is especially galling coming from someone without kids but it seems I walk into the trap over and over again.

I can handle almost anyone thumping me on the head for perceived mistakes I make living my own life, but when the conversation turns to possible deficiencies in the way we raise our kids, the old Irish dander starts to fly.

On my most recent dressing down, I responded to my critic by standing up and saying, “You know what you just said right now? That is absolute BS!” Then I left.

Of course we are not perfect and there is always room for improvement but my approach to the raising of a family is this: “If you love them, nothing you do will be wrong. If you don’t love them, nothing you do will be right.”

A friend of mine shares next to nothing about herself with others. I don’t know how she does it but if she doesn’t want to tell you something about herself, good luck finding out about it. She lives by the motto “Mind your own business” and consequently, she likes everyone and everyone likes her.

Sometimes, it seems, discussing the weather and leaving it at that is good enough because you know, there isn’t much I can do to change it so I guess we’ll just have to accept it.

By Jim Hagarty
Renowned Terrible Limericker

I once owned a green giraffe
That was witty and made me laugh.
I liked his big smile
And kept him awhile
But he was too difficult to bath.

By Jim Hagarty
2017

I used to like dancing in my younger days. Almost loved it, in fact, and became half decent at it, or so it seemed to me. Others looking on might have thought they were witnessing a crazy man running around a dance floor, but I think those people were wrong, oh so wrong.

However I had to give it all up for the sake of my health. I came to that realization after I read about the Dancing Plague of 1518.

In July of that year, almost 500 years ago, Frau Troffea, a resident of Strasbourg (then part of the Holy Roman Empire), suddenly took to dancing on the street. Soon she was joined by others, all dancing uncontrollably. Within a month, 400 people were dancing in the city and many of them died from exhaustion and heart attacks.

The Dancing Plague of 1518, as it came to be known, had completely died down by the mid-17th century. If my math skills aren’t failing me, that means the dancing went on for about 150 years. If there has ever been such a thing as a dance-a-thon, I think that one must hold the record.

Historians can’t figure out whether the dancing was a real illness or a social phenomenon of some kind, but I am taking no chances. Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers liked dancing too and how far did that get them? Where are they today?

My point exactly.