Natasha Richardson, wife of Liam Neeson, suffered a head injury after she fell during a private ski lesson in Quebec. She wasn't wearing a helmet!
I can't stress enough how important it is to wear a helmet people. There's only a little bit of fluid in your skull cushioning your brain. Most of your know I do news and write for powderroom.net. I can't tell you how many times I've run across articles saying that helmets can save lives. Quebec is thinking of making it the law to wear a helmet no matter how old you are while you're out on the slopes. I've also run across numerous articles where people have fallen off the lifts or had crashes and died of head trauma because they weren't wearing their helmet.
Whether you ski or snowboard or know someone who does, it's important to wear your skull protector. It's not there to make you look like Special Ed from Crank Yankers or block aliens from receiving your brain waves. The helmet is there to protect your head.
Yeah sure she was just taking a lesson, but do you know what it feels like to fall on hard packed snow and ice? The bunny slopes aren't powder. It's hard packed, groomed snow so you can glide. If you fall and hit your head, it's gonna hurt and most likely cause some damage as in Natasha's case.
So, next time whether you, family members, or friends are out on the slopes make sure you wear a helmet!
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Monday, March 16, 2009
And the bear emerges
I just wanted to say how happy I am! Spring must be in the air because my fellow Idea Showerarians (?) are returning to the fold. And I began to wonder if maybe creativity is like a bear, hibernating from the cold, dismal conditions outside. And maybe by its emergence, spring is heralded.
Fuck the groundhog. Creativity is the true signal of spring.
I hope we will all submit some blog entry or two this month to celebrate spring. I know my creativity hibernates through the winter months. (I also find that my finances blossom like flowers come the thaw, probably due to tax refunds and fewer holidays). And so I am set to embark on wallowing in the creative mud as spring envelopes me in its loving, warm arms.
Fuck winter.
Wait, did we have a no swearing policy here? Hmm, I must have thought I was back at rockrageous.blogspot.com (shameless plug). How cheeky of me!
Anyway, I was glossing over the "Puddles" side column, enjoying all the wacky tags. Statistically, our top favourite tags include the following:
-Girl on the Corner (trippin' on Mondays)
Fuck the groundhog. Creativity is the true signal of spring.
I hope we will all submit some blog entry or two this month to celebrate spring. I know my creativity hibernates through the winter months. (I also find that my finances blossom like flowers come the thaw, probably due to tax refunds and fewer holidays). And so I am set to embark on wallowing in the creative mud as spring envelopes me in its loving, warm arms.
Fuck winter.
Wait, did we have a no swearing policy here? Hmm, I must have thought I was back at rockrageous.blogspot.com (shameless plug). How cheeky of me!
Anyway, I was glossing over the "Puddles" side column, enjoying all the wacky tags. Statistically, our top favourite tags include the following:
- Americans (3 tags)
- Canadians (3)
- IPod (3)
- Work (3)
- farm (2)
- news (2)
- stupid people (2)
- travel (2)
- mustaches
- pigeons
- zombies
- Joe Wet Cow (12)
- Girl on the Corner (8)
- Lilly (7)
- Good Man's Daughter (3)
- Nan Eff (2)
- Triptych Chick (0)
-Girl on the Corner (trippin' on Mondays)
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Waiting at the Greyhound station
In the past, Greyhound stations were a mess come boarding time. People clustered around the admitting entrances forming lines within lines, a maze of dazed and irritable travelers. Everyone would wait in the seats along the edge of the station until enough people had formed a line at the admitting booth—usually after five or six people had stood up and staked out their position with a phalanx of luggage, the rest of the passengers would flood in, leading to a crushed, deformed line.
Even worse, the lines for the other bus routes would start to blend with your own, making such a mess of things that you would wonder if you were actually boarding the right bus. The secret terror of this moment was not the chaos or the crowds, but the dreadful possibility that you might find yourself stuck somewhere in a town so little known that even the residents don’t know where it is (perhaps they too boarded the wrong bus).
Now, as a result of heightened security measures, we have to form lines. The station security officers scan us for metal and search our carry-on luggage for shampoo, and in order to do this, we must be neatly ordered in rows. The advantage of this new method—aside from staving off the boarding-time panic attacks that I had come to believe were just a natural part of the system—is that instead of nervously watching for people butting in line and making sure I’m not accidentally going to Manitoba, I can actually take in the varied and strange characters that so vitally enrich the Greyhound experience. The following is an example of one such notable person encountered during my last trip:
A man and his young son pull up to the back of a line running parallel to my own, just a couple of feet away from myself. The boy seems to be four or five, the man probably no older than his early 30s. Trying to kill some time and ease his son’s restlessness, the father asks the boy, “Want to dance?” The son nods and so the father pulls out his cell phone, which plays the unmistakable opening chords of AC/DC’s “Back in Black.” The boy stomps along to the music and we all laugh at this four-year-old thrashing along to the song. He begins stomping on father’s feet and the man chastises him, saying, “Hey, don’t dirty daddy’s shoes—I cleaned them for baba, okay?” After the song stops (only the opening portion plays), the man puts his phone away and sighs wistfully, “They just don’t make them like this anymore.”
Another man gets into line behind them and drops his three bags on the floor. He looks at the father’s luggage and realizes that he has forgotten his own tags. “Where do you get those?” he asks, and the father points to the ticket counter, where a long line of fidgeting passengers waits, immobile and anxious. The man picks up his luggage, sighs and trudges off to stand in another line. “I hear you,” the father says as the man walks away, not even listening. “Next time, I’ll pack everything into one bag, right, Jake?” His son looks blankly at him.
“Next time?” he corrects himself. “There won’t be a next time. Never again.” The man with the luggage is long since out of earshot, but the father continues speaking, either to no one or everyone. “Man, losing your license sucks. It’s almost as bad as getting your balls chopped off. No—worse.”
Another man chimes in with a supportive “yeah,” which encourages the father to continue. “One time, one time—and you lose your license. I had two beers, and then as we’re leaving my buddy leaves behind a full beer on the table. I’m like, ‘That’s four bucks! Are you crazy?’ So I down it, and of course there’s a check stop right outside. Two minutes after I leave, and I’m just over the limit. Just barely.”
He shakes his head ruefully as a new passenger comes to stand behind him in the line. This man wears a hoodie and has sideburns that end somewhere just below his jaw line. Distracted by this sight, the father looks over the man approvingly and declares, “Buddy, those are the best sideburns I’ve ever seen. How long did that take you?”
“Oh, I don’t know. They used to be bigger, but I shaved them for work,” the man says diffidently, a little embarrassed but still amiable.
“Ho-lee shit,” the father drawls in amazement. The man with the sideburns laughs at this, but noiselessly, repressing the sound so that it stays in his belly and causes his whole body to shake. The father glances down at his son, who is crouching, tired from standing so long in line. “Hey, Jake,” the father says sternly. “Stand up like a man.”
The boy solemnly pulls himself up to his full height. “That’s a good boy,” the father says, putting his hand on his son's head. “Daddy loves you. Be good.”
Even worse, the lines for the other bus routes would start to blend with your own, making such a mess of things that you would wonder if you were actually boarding the right bus. The secret terror of this moment was not the chaos or the crowds, but the dreadful possibility that you might find yourself stuck somewhere in a town so little known that even the residents don’t know where it is (perhaps they too boarded the wrong bus).
Now, as a result of heightened security measures, we have to form lines. The station security officers scan us for metal and search our carry-on luggage for shampoo, and in order to do this, we must be neatly ordered in rows. The advantage of this new method—aside from staving off the boarding-time panic attacks that I had come to believe were just a natural part of the system—is that instead of nervously watching for people butting in line and making sure I’m not accidentally going to Manitoba, I can actually take in the varied and strange characters that so vitally enrich the Greyhound experience. The following is an example of one such notable person encountered during my last trip:
A man and his young son pull up to the back of a line running parallel to my own, just a couple of feet away from myself. The boy seems to be four or five, the man probably no older than his early 30s. Trying to kill some time and ease his son’s restlessness, the father asks the boy, “Want to dance?” The son nods and so the father pulls out his cell phone, which plays the unmistakable opening chords of AC/DC’s “Back in Black.” The boy stomps along to the music and we all laugh at this four-year-old thrashing along to the song. He begins stomping on father’s feet and the man chastises him, saying, “Hey, don’t dirty daddy’s shoes—I cleaned them for baba, okay?” After the song stops (only the opening portion plays), the man puts his phone away and sighs wistfully, “They just don’t make them like this anymore.”
Another man gets into line behind them and drops his three bags on the floor. He looks at the father’s luggage and realizes that he has forgotten his own tags. “Where do you get those?” he asks, and the father points to the ticket counter, where a long line of fidgeting passengers waits, immobile and anxious. The man picks up his luggage, sighs and trudges off to stand in another line. “I hear you,” the father says as the man walks away, not even listening. “Next time, I’ll pack everything into one bag, right, Jake?” His son looks blankly at him.
“Next time?” he corrects himself. “There won’t be a next time. Never again.” The man with the luggage is long since out of earshot, but the father continues speaking, either to no one or everyone. “Man, losing your license sucks. It’s almost as bad as getting your balls chopped off. No—worse.”
Another man chimes in with a supportive “yeah,” which encourages the father to continue. “One time, one time—and you lose your license. I had two beers, and then as we’re leaving my buddy leaves behind a full beer on the table. I’m like, ‘That’s four bucks! Are you crazy?’ So I down it, and of course there’s a check stop right outside. Two minutes after I leave, and I’m just over the limit. Just barely.”
He shakes his head ruefully as a new passenger comes to stand behind him in the line. This man wears a hoodie and has sideburns that end somewhere just below his jaw line. Distracted by this sight, the father looks over the man approvingly and declares, “Buddy, those are the best sideburns I’ve ever seen. How long did that take you?”
“Oh, I don’t know. They used to be bigger, but I shaved them for work,” the man says diffidently, a little embarrassed but still amiable.
“Ho-lee shit,” the father drawls in amazement. The man with the sideburns laughs at this, but noiselessly, repressing the sound so that it stays in his belly and causes his whole body to shake. The father glances down at his son, who is crouching, tired from standing so long in line. “Hey, Jake,” the father says sternly. “Stand up like a man.”
The boy solemnly pulls himself up to his full height. “That’s a good boy,” the father says, putting his hand on his son's head. “Daddy loves you. Be good.”
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Who's watching you?
It seems to be the general consensus that Americans are the most paranoid people on earth. Being an American I'll admit that I'm paranoid part of the time, and I don't take it the extreme as my Canadian neighbor does. When she's on vacation for a FEW DAYS, she'll get someone to check her mail and use a timer for her lights in the house. If I'm gone for two weeks then I'll use the timer for our lights inside, but I don't bother with the mail.
Anyways, with all the talk of "Big Brother," being monitored by the government, illegal immigrants, drug wars on the Mexican/U.S. border, and the economy who isn't gonna be paranoid? I'd be more paranoid about the economy than the others. That's just me though. The U.S. government complains that they don't have enough border patrol agents to police the area. Well, when you get thrown in PRISON for shooting a Mexican drug dealer in the ass who would apply for the job?
I'm a bit off topic again. There's a site where ANYONE can monitor Texas' portion of the border. Like you don't have anything else to do, right? Well, apparently one woman in New York spends four hours a day watching. FOUR HOURS!! That's like four episodes of Lost, a bunch of really long showers including shaving, doing several loads of laundry, half a days work, and eight episodes of My Name Is Earl! If you're a mother of a baby, do you think you have time to devote four hours of your day to watching the border?
All I can say is "WHAT THE F***?!!"
You can check out the full story on CNN. The link to the border watching site is there as well.
Anyways, with all the talk of "Big Brother," being monitored by the government, illegal immigrants, drug wars on the Mexican/U.S. border, and the economy who isn't gonna be paranoid? I'd be more paranoid about the economy than the others. That's just me though. The U.S. government complains that they don't have enough border patrol agents to police the area. Well, when you get thrown in PRISON for shooting a Mexican drug dealer in the ass who would apply for the job?
I'm a bit off topic again. There's a site where ANYONE can monitor Texas' portion of the border. Like you don't have anything else to do, right? Well, apparently one woman in New York spends four hours a day watching. FOUR HOURS!! That's like four episodes of Lost, a bunch of really long showers including shaving, doing several loads of laundry, half a days work, and eight episodes of My Name Is Earl! If you're a mother of a baby, do you think you have time to devote four hours of your day to watching the border?
All I can say is "WHAT THE F***?!!"
You can check out the full story on CNN. The link to the border watching site is there as well.
Monday, March 2, 2009
What the hell is wrong with you people?
How many times have you struggled with your blanket on the couch, or haven't been able to find anything in your oversized, overstuffed purse? Maybe you have too many wine stains in your white shag carpet. Or you watch TV loud enough to disturb your spouse.
Then you need any easy answer from an informercial!
The informercial is having a sort of renaissance with the massive hit "The Snuggie" (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2xZp-GLMMJ0). This is the blanket alternative for retards who can't use a blanket. What the hell is wrong with you Snuggie-ites?! You're paying $19.99 for a backwards housecoat! But the most loathesome part is the woman struggling under her blanket. It's a blanket, lady -- not Spiderman's webbing. Why fight it like it's made of lead covered in mercury sprinkled with SARs?
Then there are the clips of the folks wrapped happily (wrappily?) in their Snuggies. The family kills me, because it further takes me away from the reality of how amazing the backwards housecoat is and how it brings people together (like a cult). First of all, the family is wearing the same colour. I never wore the same colour as my sibling (even if the alternative was baby crap yellow/brown or pus pink). There's no individuality in their choices and I conclude they're part of a cult of backwards-housecoat wearers who go to blanket burnings in a wooded compound -- just watch the end of the commercial -- it's all laid out for you.
The Sham Wow is one informercial that causes heated discussions at parties. Does it work? Does it not work? And here's what I think: You won't know unless you buy it from the strange man in the headset. Once it arrives in six to eight weeks, it will only work if you truly believe in its power. If your Sham Wow just lays there and sucks up nothing (instead it just plain sucks), clapping your hands like it's Tinkerbell won't bring it to life (unless you truly, truly believe...).
Another thing about the Sham Wow commercial is something the guy generalizes about that makes me wonder if I should be offended or not: "It was made in Germany. You know the Germans always make good stuff." And why I'm going off to hell is because the first German-made "stuff" I thought of was a concentration camp (now I'm generalizing). He probably (hopefully) means beer or Volkswagens (more generalizing). I don't know if I should be offended that he lumped in a whole nationality or just to let it go.
Then again, I'm not a fat person and I'm still offended by the prick in the Bowflex commercial. You know the guy -- he looks like Duckie from Pretty in Pink, except now that he's on Two and A Half Men. Everytime I hear the non-word "Bowflex" I think of this prick: "I gave all my fat clothes to my fat friends."
Wow, you call your friends fat? How many fat friends do you have now? What's that? None? Big surprise. Prick.
Fat people don't want to be told they're fat by some musclehead -- they know, they're not stupid like Bowflex pricks.
I don't know what the hell is wrong with these people or how they get on TV, but what the hell is wrong with us, the general public? We're buying this garbage. We're twittering, facebooking, and Youtubing our love (or hate) for these products.
If you bought that Bowflex in an installment plan and don't use it enough to make the cost worth it, buyer beware or be aware of yourself and your loose wallet. If you bought the Snuggie and love the hell out of it, so much that you wear it to work or make love to your spouse in it, good for you: you've just given the infomercial folks an easy target for their next cheaply produced advertisement.
-Girl on the Corner, hiding blankets in her attic from the SS (Snuggie Supporters)
Then you need any easy answer from an informercial!
The informercial is having a sort of renaissance with the massive hit "The Snuggie" (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2xZp-GLMMJ0). This is the blanket alternative for retards who can't use a blanket. What the hell is wrong with you Snuggie-ites?! You're paying $19.99 for a backwards housecoat! But the most loathesome part is the woman struggling under her blanket. It's a blanket, lady -- not Spiderman's webbing. Why fight it like it's made of lead covered in mercury sprinkled with SARs?
Then there are the clips of the folks wrapped happily (wrappily?) in their Snuggies. The family kills me, because it further takes me away from the reality of how amazing the backwards housecoat is and how it brings people together (like a cult). First of all, the family is wearing the same colour. I never wore the same colour as my sibling (even if the alternative was baby crap yellow/brown or pus pink). There's no individuality in their choices and I conclude they're part of a cult of backwards-housecoat wearers who go to blanket burnings in a wooded compound -- just watch the end of the commercial -- it's all laid out for you.
The Sham Wow is one informercial that causes heated discussions at parties. Does it work? Does it not work? And here's what I think: You won't know unless you buy it from the strange man in the headset. Once it arrives in six to eight weeks, it will only work if you truly believe in its power. If your Sham Wow just lays there and sucks up nothing (instead it just plain sucks), clapping your hands like it's Tinkerbell won't bring it to life (unless you truly, truly believe...).
Another thing about the Sham Wow commercial is something the guy generalizes about that makes me wonder if I should be offended or not: "It was made in Germany. You know the Germans always make good stuff." And why I'm going off to hell is because the first German-made "stuff" I thought of was a concentration camp (now I'm generalizing). He probably (hopefully) means beer or Volkswagens (more generalizing). I don't know if I should be offended that he lumped in a whole nationality or just to let it go.
Then again, I'm not a fat person and I'm still offended by the prick in the Bowflex commercial. You know the guy -- he looks like Duckie from Pretty in Pink, except now that he's on Two and A Half Men. Everytime I hear the non-word "Bowflex" I think of this prick: "I gave all my fat clothes to my fat friends."
Wow, you call your friends fat? How many fat friends do you have now? What's that? None? Big surprise. Prick.
Fat people don't want to be told they're fat by some musclehead -- they know, they're not stupid like Bowflex pricks.
I don't know what the hell is wrong with these people or how they get on TV, but what the hell is wrong with us, the general public? We're buying this garbage. We're twittering, facebooking, and Youtubing our love (or hate) for these products.
If you bought that Bowflex in an installment plan and don't use it enough to make the cost worth it, buyer beware or be aware of yourself and your loose wallet. If you bought the Snuggie and love the hell out of it, so much that you wear it to work or make love to your spouse in it, good for you: you've just given the infomercial folks an easy target for their next cheaply produced advertisement.
-Girl on the Corner, hiding blankets in her attic from the SS (Snuggie Supporters)
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