Also, I invented fun. You're welcome.

My company recently asked me for a biography they could add to the website and various marketing materials. Here is my first draft:

Matt Sully was raised by wolves until he was six when he was ousted from the pack as being "too aggressive." Taken in by a community of bears he lived comfortably until the age of sixteen when procreation efforts created "too much confusion amongst the group," especially during hibernation periods when the lady bears claimed to be "too tired."

Using the mysterious medallion worn around his neck from infancy, Matt began his journey to find his real parents who turned out to be Mr. Wizard and a luck dragon. In exchange for his orphaning, the magical couple granted Sully with incredible good looks and intellect previously unknown to humanity.

Along the way there were adventures, treasure hunts, countless love interests, and general swashbuckling antics. Matt Sully enjoys seafood, pillaging, forcing additional entries onto the endangered species list, and doing the neutron dance!

The Old Man and the Sea...of Ladies

Hello nurse. Could you take a look at something for me? Image by Quasimondo via Flickr

I'm having trouble concentrating today. It's so bad that halfway through my research on Ritalin I realized I was reading a blog about lawn maintenance. I often have a lot of things going on, and few things keep my focus for very long. To keep a level of concentration on any one thing I am forced to shut down other parts of my brain. I think a lot of men are like this, which explains how we can play video games for a solid 24 hour period and forget to eat.

Ritalin is prescribed for people with ADHD and, because it's basically cocaine, is helpful for those with narcolepsy. Though my concentration could use improvement, I prefer to reserve the option of passing out at will (I mean, uncontrollably). I often feign sleep, complete with snoring and drool, when someone goes on too long about something or asks me for a favor. Then when I awake, I apologize and blame "the narcoleps." Eventually, with age, I hope to shape this into a believable ruse. Combined with "losing my hearing" and "forgetting where I am from time to time" I could then successfully skip out on restaurant bills and parties I don't want to attend without being arrested or hurting anyone's feelings.

Doctors are using this methylphenidate to help with depression and recovering cocaine addicts, (basically just legalizing their drug use), but no one knows the long term effects. It's literally a wait and see situation. With the changes in diet, drug use, and technological interaction I can't form a good grasp of what our generation will be like when we senior size our citizenship. I'm seriously doubting that we will be respected for our elderly wisdom. With the advent of the Internet you don't need to ask Grandpa what it used to be like in the olden days. You just Google it. My only hope for the future is that pants on women becomes some sort of taboo or masculine imprisonment of womanhood, promoted by the Great Skirt Movement. I plan on being a dirty old man with some thick sunglasses and a mirror on the bottom of his cane. That is until actual X-ray glasses are invented. What's the hold up on that one?

Bearing Fruit

Vanessa has been updating me for weeks on the assumed size of our unborn baby and, to provide easy visual references, she compares our daughter to various fruits. When we discovered her presence, she was already an avocado but had previously been a peach, a lime, a raspberry and a sweet pea. She is currently the size of an eggplant. While I made myself a fruit cocktail I asked, "when will it be the size of a baby?"

On the surface we seem quite prepared for the birth of little Isabel. We have a crib, a changing table, a high chair, and soon the stroller and car seat. Also, due to friendly donations and gifting, we have already acquired more clothing for the baby than I have owned in my whole life. This is all clothing, of course, that will be obsolete in only a few months time as she grows into a much larger fruit. (I picture one of those giant squashes at country fairs.)

Are we actually prepared? I guess so, but I don't know what more we can do. We have a prenatal class in a few weeks where we should receive more instruction but, despite all the available literature and courses, I don't believe there is any amount of preparation that can give anyone complete readiness for the upcoming events. I'm not scared though, but what if I'm one of those people who just goes into a partial coma during a crisis so I don't have to deal with the situation at hand? If, when Vanessa says "my water broke," I curl into a ball or hide in the bathtub then we may be in trouble.

I take comfort in knowing that millions of other people do this parenting thing every day and most of their kids survive to become productive members of society. If we screw up tough, and she ends up in a bell tower somewhere with a rifle I'll just blame music television and whatever band is popular at the time. That seems to work just fine too.

Image via Wikipedia

That's why having more than one kid is important; you play the percentages. The more kids you have the better your chances are of getting one right. Match up all those fruits just right and you could end up prospering yourself. They might all end up being rich and generous to their wonderful parents who raised them so well, or they might just sell bags of oranges out of a shopping cart.

I'm a certified "basic rescuer" - choke on that

As penance for my ravenous blood thirst, Vanessa and I attempted to turn a 180 on the circle of life by signing up for a CPR class. It's been over a decade since either of us had been trained in life saving techniques and, surprisingly, they have changed.

We vaguely recall CPR consisting of 10 to 15 chest compressions in a very specific part of the chest, followed by a few lip to lip breaths delivered to the victim. Now it's 30 compressions just about anywhere in the center of the breastbone with 2 breaths using a mask. No mask, no problem. Due to the general fear of cootie contagions by CPR trainees, sprinkled with some scientific studies, our trainers advised that the breathing part of CPR is less important than the chest compressions. In some courses they disregard the whole breath giving exercise.

Part of the reason, much to my disappointment, is that CPR is merely a means to maintain blood flow and is rarely successful in reviving the patient. CPR-only recipients have about a 6% chance of survival. The life saving only comes into play with defibrillation and CPR is only helpful until you can get your hands on a defibrillator. Well that's a bummer. When am I ever going to shout "clear" and legally run electricity through someone's lifeless body?

How about during the most awesomest CPR training class ever!

That's right. Due to the Public Access Defibrillators (PAD) program, you can find these shock boxes (the green thing above) in lots of public spaces. Alright, so they're made for safety and don't allow you to jolt just any punk that tries to give you lip. However, if that street tough were to tell you to drop dead and you literally did, someone could revive you using this machine. It likely wouldn't be that rude spell casting kid but, with the great design of these defibrillators, any brave citizen can effectively become a hero.

The defibrillator gives verbal commands accompanied by easy to follow pictures through the entire emergency situation. It reminds you to call for help, says when to give CPR, including an adjusting metronome sound for aiding you in delivering well timed chest compressions. It analyzes the victim's heartbeat and tells you when to back away and shock them. The only thing it doesn't do is call 911 or make you a ham sandwich. Ask some bystanders for these favors if needed. All in all it's a pretty sweet device. There was disappointment though when there was no visible or audible electrical charge emanating from these things, plus the instructors told us that people don't really leap off the table when you shock them. Lame.

Our main reason for all this safety concern is our upcoming journey in parenting. We wanted to be aware of what to do if baby started choking, or worse. The practice babies were even more unnerving than the limbless adult dummies, perhaps because their heads kept popping off or perhaps because they looked like aliens, all silver skinned and wearing their rubber future people garb.

We're certified now and feel a beginner's level confidence for emergency situations. Hopefully our infant will chew her steak before trying to swallow. The most entertaining part of the day? We learned that the best songs for mentally keeping time when pumping someone's chest are Staying Alive and Another One Bites the Dust. I guess which one you put on your mental turntable depends on which outcome you expect. Just don't sing it aloud.

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Elky Haul

On Friday the gang gathered for some carnivorous delights. Rather than visiting our local grocer or butcher, our meat selections came from the nearby Elk Farm. Several of us had never tasted the animal and were sort of unsure what it actually looked like with all its useless inedible fur and antlers still attached.

The before and after pictures above give you some deep elk insight. It's a real dark red meat and very tender. The taste is not unpleasant and I actually found the smell of the blood to be fragrant. In the end it's another animal I can cross off my "to eat" checklist, including snake, frog, and squirrel. I'm really looking forward to trying owl, those smug looking jerks, but my end goal is really to find animals whose flavors and sizes complement each other for my ultimate "meat mash up".

Stuffed babushka doll style inside each other, honoring the humble beginnings of the Turducken, I plan to add as many tasty creatures as possible to the eventual meat masterpiece. My assumption at this point is that buffalo will create the final outside layer, that is prior to being wrapped in bacon. Which other of God's many delectable works make it into the fleshy array have yet to be finalized, but auditions will likely remain open for some time.

(elk image from http://www.flickr.com/photos/18729659@N00/2417706828)

Just follow this one strange tip to lose belly fat - Exercise

Image via Wikipedia

It's an odd feeling, health. Hangovers I know. Random pains I've gotten used to. Once you hit thirty they just show up, having no purpose or reason. A soothing warmth flowing through me after a morning exercise, however, is like wearing a stranger's shoes. Your feet fit in them; maybe you even have the same shoe size, but something is foreign and unsettling about the experience. Secretly though, I like feeling healthy and I hope to develop an addiction. Then I can wear undersized mesh shirts, buy organic groceries and give health tips to be people who didn't ask.

We purchased an elliptical machine about a week ago. It's something we've wanted for awhile but, when I noticed Vanessa's pregnancy weight mimicked by my own body, the urgency for getting the machine was greatly increased. I'm an off again/on again exerciser, my dedication usually determined by the fluctuating middle ground between the proximity of gym facilities and the fit of my jeans. If the gym is far away I don't go as much. If I can't fit comfortably in my jeans, distance is less of an issue. Gym membership prices are outrageous here and we became shut-ins during the winter, so to avoid becoming amorphous blobs we had to seriously consider buying something for the house. I'm sure our discussion on the topic reflected that of fitness equipment owners worldwide.

One of us said how more likely we were to work out with the equipment being in the house. One of us, likely me, said they were too expensive. There was talk about noise, and space, what if we moved, what if it broke, etc. Mix in some empty promises, subtle threats and innuendos, and an awesome sale at Canadian Tire, and boom. There is an elliptical machine in our basement.

I don't make big purchases on a whim and, to the frustration of others, I may take months just to research a product and weigh my desires for that thing against my disdain for spending large sums of cash. This often takes me through a hilly country of decision, with peaks of enthusiasm and assurance shadowing over valleys of trepidation and doubt. Basically, I'm cheap.

Maybe when the elliptical becomes just part of the scenery, like those boxes you've moved three times and have no idea what's inside, I will regret buying it. Maybe I'll never stop using it and it will be the first piece of a home gym ensemble that will add years to my life. Who knows? I'm just happy that future winters won't keep me so sedentary. Pale maybe, but active and pale is better.

It's Earth Day...now what?

Gearing up for Earth Day Picnic 2010! At least there are no flies this year. The Image via Wikipedia

I have been informed that it is Earth Day. It was actually on my calendar so I have to believe it's true. I'm unsure what to do about it, and apparently so are many other folks. Google hot trends shows "earth day activities" as the top search right now, only six spots above "earth day wordsearch." Because the only real objective behind Earth Day is to raise awareness of the Earth's environment, circling environmentally themed words is sure to complete that objective. The only time I'm environmentally conscious is when I'm in a small but crowded room and I'm feeling gassy.

There is actually an Earth Week which ends with Earth Day, but I find Earth Hour is really a more favorable duration of awareness. I usually take the time to light a candle and surf the Internet for tips on saving electricity. Some think you should plant trees today, but I'm fairly sure Arbor Day has the dibs on tree awareness. If we keep planting trees where are we going to shop or fine dine? Maybe we can use the toilet less today or process less coal, but I guess then we'd have a bunch of coal miners doing the potty dance all day. Get back to work! I admit, I am at a loss of how to thank the Earth for allowing me to live on it or do anything to make it more comfortable during my stay. I already carpool and I grudgingly recycle.

In my poor college days, I thought recycling would be the answer to my monetary problems. Some friends and I consolidated hundreds of cans one summer (translation: we were drinking and throwing the cans in the yard until advised by the city to clean up the mess) and drove them to the outskirts of town for recycling, only to receive about thirty wet dollars for our good deed. A couple of beer runs later we had 48 more cans in our yard. I was sorely unimpressed by the three 'R's that day, even more so when I could make just as much money giving plasma twice a week. Giving plasma was just two hours of my day that I would have spent doing the crossword, only I could spout blood for dollars like a reverse gas pump. Had the Earth Day wordsearch been available I probably would have done that too.

To be honest I'm not sure that we shouldn't skip Earth Day this year as punishment. Every time I turn on the news the Earth is acting up. Floods here, earthquakes there, ...volcanoes. I say we give the Earth a decade long time out and give it time to think about what it has done. Bad Earth. Bad.

Just a Little Something - Volcano Gods

"Dewey to me baby, all organized like." Image by bamalibrarylady via Flickr

At the end of March, Iceland's parliament voted to ban strip clubs. A few weeks later one of their volcanoes began erupting after 200 years of inactivity.

How can this earthly retaliation, an obvious outcry from the gods, be so easily ignored? Volcano gods like their girls a little on the trashy side, which is why they used to periodically melt down virgins. Then strip clubs came and calmed the fellas down. But now Iceland threatens to take that away, so this is what they get.

If these guys had picket signs they would read, "No more boobies? Then you get BOOMies!"

It's your choice Iceland, and if you want to increase tourism you might consider a name change. Perhaps, Awesomefoodboozeandwomenland.™

Texans in Canada, Part 5

Oh the shame. Image by MPD01605 via Flickr

I'm going to confidently lay out a scenario for you that has not nor will ever occur in human history:

A family piles into their car with rumbling tummies. They all buckle in, the engine starts, and the wife and two kids look to Dad, itching for the question they can't wait to answer. The father turns his head slightly and asks, "What does everyone feel like for dinner?" Then, with unbridled enthusiasm, his wife and children collectively scream, "Canadian!"

Canadian food is not a type of cuisine. There are quirky food items that may exclusively be Canadian, but having ketchup flavored potato chips doesn't establish an ethnic flavoring you teach in culinary college.

There are alternate universe foods here, where names are confusing and flavors even more so. The "Smarties" we all know and love are actually their "M&Ms," and they are NOT a suitable replacement. Pickles have an off taste that I can't properly describe due to my gag reflex hindering my speaking ability. Somehow the beloved Colonel's secret recipe has been tainted. I suppose one or more of the 11 herbs and spices are not available naturally here or through import agreements, though I can't imagine trade relationships being established for any other reasons. What the hell is NAFTA for if not to protect KFC's integrity across North America?

Finding good Mexican food here is a continued search for us, sampling whitened down Mexican dishes (or pale comparisons) at various restaurants offering their versions of tacos and burritos. Our trek is organized, crossing off failed attempts at venues in widening concentric circles using our house as ground cero. Our last effort took us about 30 kilometers out, where cheeseburgers were also on the menu, their salsa was sub par, and they made no attempt at proper queso. I cried in my weak margarita. The problem really is that Mexicans are running for the wrong border. If Canadian officials were to taste real Mexican food, I'm sure they would offer citizenship to all immigrants bearing home made tamales.

The one saving grace Canada has in establishing themselves in the competitive cookhouse lies in a dish called poutine. It's simple and sounds like nothing special, but a first taste reveals an elegant delight to my taste buds and a welcome greeting from my arteries. It is fries, brown gravy, and cheese curds, and it is brilliant. It's so brilliant and so unhealthy that I don't understand why Americans aren't already offering an oversized and overcheesed version in fast food chains nationwide. Canadians aren't shying away from offering crazy variations of poutine though. They've got lobster poutine, filet mignon poutine, and apparently a Mexican poutine, covered in carne asada, guacamole, sour cream, cheese, and pico de gallo. Maybe I won't find quality enchiladas here in Canada, but I can take comfort in knowing this Mexican poutine awaits me. I'm gassing up my new car right now and making a preemptive appointment with my cardiologist.

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Texans in Canada, Part 4

We finally got our own car and, surprise, the steering wheel is even on the correct side. It's a German vehicle made in Mexico that is now owned by American citizens living in Canada so we're dealing with some identity issues, but so far it's working out just fine. It's got fairly low kilometerage for a decade old vehicle and the rust is insignificant. Neither of us are keen on silver but cars here are all the same color for half the year so it's not that big of a deal. The sellers also threw in some winter tires which I assume bare claws when the terrain becomes too unruly, as demonstrated in the video below.



In order to properly purchase the car I needed the appropriate paperwork filed and an Ontarian license. I was raised to avoid the DMV at all costs if I wanted to retain a sane and disease free existence, but eventually we all have to face the demons of government sanctioned facilities. It's really a test of courage. In Canada however, I keep forgetting, everyone is friendly and helpful, including government workers.

I theorize that if I were to stab a Canadian stranger they would apologize to me for whatever they had done to set me off. I picture Eric Idle from European Vacation.

Despite the DMV woman's suspiciously cheery and generous nature, Texas' digital disobliging demeanor prevented me from getting an equivalent level license. I was only able to obtain what is referred to as a G2. This allows me to remove the training wheels from the car but I am required a copilot at all times and I have to submit a flight plan to the tower before departure.

This hiccup aside, I can still drive and was able to insure the car through State Farm, the very same car insurance group I had in the U.S. This is confusing as there are no states here. There are farms though, and I can only assume they are mostly wind farms. There is an extreme abundance of wind in Canada and it magically blows from all directions at all times, likely some Mendelian hybrid.