Nothing Objectionable


Last Saturday I drove to London (Ontario) at the mercy of radio as my only means of entertainment. Once you get a good distance from Toronto your choices become extremely limited and somewhat dodgy, and I found myself hitting the search buttons on the radio tuner almost every 30 seconds, hoping desperately for some consistent programming that could help prevent highway hypnosis.

I forgot about the radio for a few minutes when I had to do some tricky lane changing. When I was all sorted out I heard a station identification for the frequency I was on. They said their programming was family friendly, from their music selections to their between-song banter, and you could listen to them with confidence they would never, ever let you hear anything remotely objectionable.

Deeply offended by this, I immediately hit the search button again and landed on a station playing “Anarchy in the UK” by the Sex Pistols. I cranked it, singing at the top of my lungs, drumming madly on the steering wheel, neither family friendly nor socially acceptable but delighted to the core.

A Dream Remembered


I don’t often remember my dreams unless they wake me with my heart pounding in my throat. When it happens, I’m glad it’s not a regular occurrence.

I woke this morning at 4:00 after dreaming about an old high school buddy named Kurt. We had been pretty tight even though he was a year or two ahead of me. He was always pretty laid back and open to discussing weird ideas, and he had a sense of humour, which really counted.

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An Open Letter to Boreas, God of the North Wind

BoreasDear Boreas, venerated Greek god of the cold north wind and the bringer of winter,

Enough already. We get it; you’re a god, we’re puny, insignificant mortals. You’ve proven your point ad nauseam this year. You’ve caused snow to fall in almost every part of Canada and the US this winter, and I’m pretty sure you’re responsible for all the ice that seems to have a death grip on the sidewalks around here. You’ve really outdone yourself this time. Might I suggest you knock off early and put your feet up for a bit.

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Parental Veto Power


Thanks to the American sitcom How I Met Your Mother, I had to sit through Bon Jovi’s “You Give Love a Bad Name” when it came on the car radio the other morning. The kids immediately recognized it as the first tune on Barney Stinson’s “Get Psyched” mix (from the episode “The Limo”), and they outvoted me when I tried to find a new station. Democracy sucks, but I believe in using my veto power judiciously.

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