In any case, I’m rambling. And well I might, since I have joined the ranks of the Canadian concussed. Yes, after years of feeling as though I was hitting my head against the wall, I’ve actually experienced the real thing. And how did I obtain my minor head injury? Volleyball. Seems silly to even say it. When my mother-in-law found out about my concussion, she urged me to find a new, less violent sport. Less violent than volleyball? I’m not sure I can think of one. Mini-golf? No, that windmill is a deathtrap. Sure I often injure myself playing volley. Spraining my ankles is a common occurrence, but I tore my ankles to shreds in high school and now they’re weaker than a UN resolution. In fact, in my nearly twenty years of playing the sport, I’ve never seen anyone get a concussion playing volleyball. Leave it to me.

So how did it happen? Well, it was the championship game. Final point. Win or lose came down to the final serve. I watched as the ball flew the wrong way off a teammate toward the wall. I can save that, I thought to myself as I picked up speed across the court. I leaped into the air, hit the ball and saw it hit the top of the net and fall on our side. Failure. Turns out I was wrong, I could not save it. Things are pretty hazy after that. My shoulder is killing me so I must have smashed into the wall at that level, and then my head whipped over and smacked the concrete. I remember a bright flash, a loud crack, and a strange mental image of lightning bolts emitting from my teeth. Then everything was dark. I came to on the floor with my teammate Ted, trained in first-aid, holding me down. Strangely, my sinuses immediately drained, and I found myself gagging on fluid coursing down my throat. I needed to turn on my side, but Ted was, quite rightly, still holding me on my back in case of spinal injury. I managed to convince him to let me turn my head, swallow and start to assess why the hell I was on the floor.

Then I went through what I can only describe as a hard re-boot. I could hear everything that was going on. I understood all of Ted’s “assessing” questions, but I couldn’t seem to bring myself to answer. This, of course, made him think I was really in trouble. But I remember thinking that it was obvious that I was fine, why couldn’t they see that? Slowly, as if systems were coming back online, I realized that I hadn’t yet answered him, so I started sputtering out that I was okay. I heard the league rep. talk about calling an ambulance, and that’s when I really snapped back into reality. Ambulances? They cost money! My stubborn side came out as I vehemently refused that anyone should call the paramedics. Just give me a couple minutes, I kept saying… or at least I think I did. Slowly, I managed to sit up with my back against the wall, and then eventually stood and weaved my way down the gym and took a break to sit on a bench. Ice packs arrived and that made things more tolerable. As I came fully back online, I personally thought I was fine. I was vehement. No, I didn’t want to go sit in emergency for hours to have someone tell me that I had a concussion and should take it easy.

So, I went to emergency and sat for a few hours and had someone tell me I had a concussion and should take it easy. But of course, it was the right thing to do. I was just being stubborn. Head injuries aren’t something you can really assess on your own, mostly because, you know, your head is injured.

So, my first concussion. Back in residence, my crazed, rugby-playing friend Jawn had had 13 when I knew him, I’m sure that he’s had more since then. And Jawn was always a bit special, especially where electrical sockets, staplers and wrapping himself in toilet paper and lighting himself on fire were concerned. So, I’m wary now. I certainly don’t want it to happen again. It was by no means a pleasant experience. And now I’ve discovered that everyone wants to know what it’s like to have a concussion. Perhaps it’s because of our new found Canadian curiosity with brain trauma. It’s not an easy thing to explain, but now that so many people have asked, I’ve had a little practice.

First of all, it’s boring having a concussion. All the things i would normally do when home sick are pretty much off limits. Reading, movies, tv, computer… too much stimulation. I  scoffed at this at first, but after a quick run through the emails the first morning, I was ready to go lie down again. And the first day, I did feel a bit slow. So there’s been a lot of lying around with my eyes closed, listening to CBC radio, chugging down Tylenol. I stubbornly watched the hockey game Wednesday night, and only made it two periods before I went to bed with a decent headache. Too much tracing the puck around, and I found that Don Cherry is even more intolerable with a concussion.

Secondly, I found I was much more aware of my individual senses. Sudden noises would jar me, and bright lights were obviously painful. In a crowd, I found I was honing in on individual conversations and had trouble filtering the whole thing out as background noise. it’s a bit like being a super-hero except it’s really annoying.

Overall, the more you rest and follow doctor’s orders, the faster you recover. Surprise, surprise. It’s been a dull few days, but each day is much better and now I feel more or less back up to speed. Physical activity is annoying in that simple things like climbing a flight of stairs can get the head to throbbing, but that’s better now. I’ll certainly be avoiding any sports for a while, especially the hyper-violent, danger-infused game of volleyball.

It’s been an experience, and i guess I’m lucky it wasn’t any worse. Largely, I can safely say that having a concussion hasn’t really affected hasn’t really affected me in any way.

End of discussion.

Pictured Above: McSkelety

The other night, I actually had the television on, and while flipping through the channel guide to see just how much wasn’t worth watching, I noticed Grey’s Anatomy.  To be honest, I had kind of forgotten that show existed.  I think I was probably better off before.

But it got me to wondering: After six seasons and countless combinations of whiny doctor sex, I wonder how many people watching realize that the title is a play upon the classic medical reference text, Henry Gray’s Anatomy of the Human Body, otherwise known as Gray’s Anatomy?  I’m betting on “not that many” since a quick Google image search for the correct spelling of the textbook yields one image of the book for every twenty of the soap-opera.  What a poor fate for a work that’s been in continual use since 1858.  And of the people who are aware of the seminal medical text, how many do you think actually watch the show?  Seems like a waste of a pun to me.

And really, why are there two ways to spell gray/grey anyway?

And so, I have made a decision. It is time to change my profile photograph. The old one, commonly known as “The Best Picture of Dave Ford Ever” (BPDFE), has had its day and served me well. But, truth be told, that was taken years ago… I’d even guess that it might have been taken last century in fact. Don’t get me wrong, I can still tell it’s me. I personally don’t see the problem, but the beard seems to confuse people. Are you that guy that has the articles in that magazine? Yes. But you have a beard. Yes. The picture doesn’t have a beard. No…. Honestly, I don’t really get it. The article title is Desi-David – GlobeTrotter, there’s a white guy with long hair in the picture, there are amusing anecdotes about an inside-outsider view of Pakistan… but yet when they meet me, a white, Canadian writer with long hair, the beard throws them for a loop. Okay, it may not look exactly like me, but it sure as hell doesn’t look like anyone else round these parts.

So here’s to you Best Picture of Dave Ford Ever, it’s been a snap.

It is with great pleasure that I introduce, “Raja and Dave.” One of my favourite pictures recently, it is also the primary reason for the bizarre rumour in Canada that I purchased a camel at an auction. Works for me. Welcome to the blog.

Anyway, what quite confused me about this Internet weather report was that although the temperature was clearly given as 34 degrees, a little further down, the temperature was adjusted to 40 degrees with Wind Chill. Come again? Wind Chill?

Explain that one to me.

A while back, I was at the local veterinarian’s office with the Soph-Star. She had rescued a tiny, abandoned kitten from the middle of the road, and I had tagged along to ask about my animal-magnetism, which seemed to be flagging of late. The vet assured us that the kitten, whom we had already labelled “Flea Willikers,” was strong and needed only near constant care and frequent eye-dropperings of milk. She informed me that, unfortunately, my animal-magnetism had reversed polarity, which I found distressing. Sadly, the stalwart Flea mewed his way off this mortal coil that very night. Poor little, short-lived Flea. Hopefully we showed him the best day and a half of his little life.

So, all in all, an upsetting trip to the Vet. However, as we were waiting in line, I was flipping through one of those pet-type magazines, which I can only imagine Veterinarian offices subscribing to, when I came upon a small advert that caught my attention. It was a blank white square with only the word “Neuticles” in blue font, and the catch phrase, “Testicular Implantation for Pets.” I was intrigued. I was well aware of the principle of reverse-vasectomies, but I also knew that pets are completely castrated like a sixteenth-century soprano. How the heck do you reverse that? Thankfully, the website, www.neuticles.com was supplied at the bottom of the ad. My head swam with comedic potential. There was no way I wasn’t going to go home and look that up immediately….

….A month and a half later, I sat in front of my computer desperately trying to think of something to look up on the web in order to maintain my achieved level of procrastination. Like a flash from the blue (or a kick to the nuts) I suddenly remembered… Neuticles! Better late than never. And boy was it worth it. A simple flash animation of a bouncing blue ball that sprouts atomic electron orbits and proclaims “Neuticles – The Revolutionary Testicular Implant Procedure for Pets,” led me into the site.

I soon discovered that what I had stumbled upon was not, in fact, a means to reload your puppy’s pistol, but a complete cosmetic surgery. Yes, this patented technique allows proud pet-owners to implant silicon testicles during the neutering process which apparently allows your pet to “retain his natural look, self-esteem and aids in the trauma associated with neutering” for both pet and owner. In fact, the website proudly proclaims that, “With Neuticles – It’s like nothing ever changed!” Yeah, right… nothing has changed at all.

After I had stopped laughing and wiped the tears from my eyes, I dug a little deeper. The “Most Asked Questions” (an MAQ apparently) explains that “Neuticles eliminates ‘neuter hesitant’ concerns.” Neuticles is doing Bob Barker proud by allowing pet-owners to castrate their pets without hesitation and thus saving the world from thousands of homeless strays. The site emphasises that, “We feel the removal of a God given body part – leaving a male pet looking unwhole after the traditional form of neutering, is not only unethical but unnatural.”

Right. I just don’t buy it. I mean, come on. If you’re going to harp on about God-given body parts, then don’t remove them in the first place. It’s unethical to knacker your pet, but it’s not if the pet doesn’t notice the difference? So apparently, if you cut off my hand, but keep a handy prosthetic nearby, you’re in the clear. Another question asks whether a dog would actually miss anything anyway. The site affirms their unfettered insight into the Canine mind by stating in no uncertain terms that

people know their beloved pet. Their pet can tell them when they are hungry, want to play, don’t feel well, hide when approaching the vet’s office or will get excited when driving by or going to the park – why wouldn’t the pet know a familiar body part is missing Would he know if his foot was cut off? Of course he would – its only common sense.

Yeah, common sense, that’s what that is. Chances are, if your dog’s self-esteem is in danger by lopping off his breeding jewels, then he’ll most likely suspect a little something with his “Neuticles.” Hmmm, this is New… and it Tickles.

Someone else asks, “Do Neuticles come in different models?” Despite the hilarious choice of words in that query, the answer is even better. “Neuticles are available in three models: Neuticle-Originals (rigid firmness), Neuticle-Natural (natural firmness) and Neuticles UltraPLUS.” They range in price from $73 to $839, and are curiously sold in pairs and singly (explain that one to me). Each are made from FDA medically approved (“for human use”) materials that “replicate the animal’s testicle in size, shape, weight and feel.” Now forgetting about the image of someone feeling their dog’s equipment, this leads to the predictable, yet hilarious, question, “Can Neuticles be implanted in People?” Absolutely not. Poor Lance Armstrong.

Of course, the site also has the requisite Testimonials Page (I would have gone with “Testes-Moanials”), with statements like: “I’ve put off neutering ‘Crooked Joe’ for months and when I found out about Neuticles and spoke to them it made me feel better about neutering. Joe not only looks the same now – but doesn’t know he’s missing anything.” To me, the most unethical aspect here, is naming your dog “Crooked Joe.” Lane from Louisiana states, “He’s a guy and I wanted him to remain looking like one.”

Now, these testimonials make me curious. Are there that many pet-owners that sit around staring at their dog’s balls? That sounds like a fantastic way to spend Friday night. “He looks the same!” Sure, but who’s looking? “Look Honey, he’s licking them again! He thinks they’re real!” And I bet these are the same type of people who chop off a dog’s ears, or lop off the tails because it supposedly looks better.

To top it all off, there’s even a press section, where Rush Limbaugh states, “Neuticles are just plain neat!” But to be fair, he was probably hopped up on goof-balls and hoping for some sort of Bill Clinton application.

I find myself wondering what my grandfather, who was a veterinarian his whole life (except for the beginning and ending parts) would think of the Neuticles Revolution. I’m reminded of how he would talk about castrating sheep until someone would inevitably ask him how you go about doing that. “Well, it’s pretty simple really,” he would say, “first you take an elastic band and wrap it around and around the scrotum nice and tight. Then you find two big rocks…” Here, he would weigh the imaginary rocks in his hands. “And then, *SMACK*” he would clap his hands together, “it’s done.” Some startled observer would inevitably ask, “My God! Doesn’t that hurt?” My grandfather would look at them like it was the most ridiculous question he’d ever heard, before answering, “Not at all, you just have to make sure to keep your fingers clear.”

So yeah, I think I know what my grandfather would say about Neuticles. He’d shake his head and say, “That’s Nuts.”

If you think that the email forward you are sending me is a hoax, but you’re sending it anyway, just in case, I’ll let you in on a little secret: It’s a hoax.

There is absolutely no way that Microsoft, were it even possible to track, would give out a nickel to every apple-cheeked kid who sent an email forward. Think about it. Microsoft did not get where it is today by thinking about the little guy, especially the stupid little guy.

Nor will that cute little baby, who apparently has cancer, ever benefit from your sending that email to everyone you know. In fact, I can almost guarantee that the kid in that picture is now a thriving teenager given how long ago I first started getting these emails.

I will find out about viruses on my own, but thanks for your concern. I tend not to open emails with attachments that I don’t recognise so you can quit warning me about that. And you know that one you guys send me twice a year about the file that has infected my windows system? Yeah, that file is supposed to be there. Chill Winston…

That girl with the red hair who keeps going missing? I bet she’s just fine. Perhaps next time, before sending me a missing child’s photo, you might consider that for such a cross-country scheme to be effective, some details about the child last known whereabouts, height, weight, eye-colour etc, might be helpful. Yup, you guessed it, it’s a hoax.

Enough about microwaves. Water isn’t going to spontaneously leap from the glass and boil in your hands when it somehow becomes superheated in the microwave. An old lady never killed her poodle by trying to dry it off in one of those contraptions. Use a microwave safe dish, even if it’s plastic, and you’ll be fine, super evil plastic particles aren’t going to infiltrate your food.

Oh yeah, and your cell phone isn’t going to blow up a gas station, and please don’t try to perform CPR on yourself by coughing vigorously (although it doesn’t matter, you’ve only got a few seconds before you’re going to pass out anyway.)

And as far as I know, no matter how noble the cause, internet email petitions have no binding legal authority whatsoever. So why bother?

In short, any email that ends with the phrase “please send this to everyone you know” or something of the sort, is always a hoax. Seriously, if you had something really important to tell your friend about, would you ever say, oh and send this to everyone in your inbox? I have never sent on something like that, and never will, so you might as well not bother sending it to me in the first place because the hoax stops here. But beyond that, you just shouldn’t send it to anyone in the first place. It’s a hoax. Always. Every single time. Your wasting all of our time by sending it, and your giving gratification to some whack-job who gets satisfaction from seeing how far an email chain will go (never understood that actually, why not just keep a box of tissues by the bed?).

Thanks!

David J. Ford

Yes, I have finally bitten the proverbial, yet still dangerous, bullet, and bought a laptop. I’m now making my first post from my snazzy, chrome and silver, 17 inch screen (which admittedly decreases portability… but it’s sooo pretty), Dell Inspiron 9300. Of course, coupled with the novelty factor is the feeling of having spent a wad of Rupees as thick as a hardcover book, but its balanced by that added injection of pride at having gotten a good deal. Afterall, if I consider myself a writer, which I’m gradually coming around to, then this is an essential tool… right?… right?

In addition, another excitement, is that I finally have a computer of my own, can stop being dependent on friend’s and work machines (cutting the USB apron cables) and try to get back to this blog with some gumption. And I do love gumption. What this means, particularly, is that I can finally ditch glitchy Internet Explorer and switch over to my beloved FireFox. So this is also my first post from the superior FireFox browser. It’s a day of foxxy firsts. If you haven’t already, go download the Firefox Browser… I mean right now. You won’t regret it.

I can hear Hulleye grinning from here.

One, it serves to break the latest silence on the blog, which is difficult, because I always feel I have to come back in with a bang. But while I’m on the subject, I just wanted to thank everyone for continuing to check in. I was scoping out my stats (36-24-36) and it seems that although I have been unable of late, for various reasons, to keep up my blogging standards, a great number of you are still faithful. You make a big man cry.

And two, I just wanted to report that the other day I was making tea (which perhaps, as a Tim Horton’s kid, demonstrates my acceptance of this culture more than anything else), and although I watched the pot the whole time (in an effort to increase my procrastination time away from writing TV episodes), and despite my mother’s assurances to the contrary my entire life… it still boiled. Just thought you should know for future reference. Actually, to be honest, I just want to see if anyone can decipher that convoluted excuse for a sentence. And those who know me really well will probably guess that I just spent way too much time going back and adding clauses. In retrospect, I probably should have just said, “I watched a pot, and it boiled.”

Oh well. When it comes to blogging, sometimes you just have to get back on the horse… as long as it wasn’t a gift, and you didn’t look it in the mouth, or, for that matter, led it to water (boiling or otherwise) and tried to make it drink .

Ok stop. God. I annoy myself sometimes.

Serve Your Guests Whizz!

Dip and Drink!

I don’t even want to speculate on that last part.

The creative content, publishing and editorial teams, along with all the rest of the staff of The Artsaypunk (ie: Me and the altered egos) would like to wish you and yours (your what? I have no idea) a very prosperous, non-phosphorus, phantasmagorically fantastic year.

And here’s hoping that Aught-Six shakes down a little better than ole Double-0-Five. I have high hopes, because although staying alive was all well and good in 2005, I’ve always been a big fan of picking up sticks.

Cheers!
Dave