One of the things I like about “Game of Thrones” is that it has, so far at least, dispensed with a lot of the usual fantasy bullshit.  The problem with fantasy novels is that the vast majority of them are ripoffs of The Lord Of The Rings, and are essentially attempts to copy that story over and over.  Consequently, they fall into the same traps over and over.  “Game of Thrones” thankfully avoids a few of them; it has very little in the way of magic, for one thing, and has no elves or hobbits or (in the fantasy sense) dwarves.   there is no “Dark lord” – the book is essnetially about a civil war between idiotic nobles, and Catelyn Stark, who is supposed to be sort of one of the good guys, is actually mostly responsible for starting it.  But it still trots out just a bit too much of the old crap, even pulling a dragon or three out at the end, to be a really great work of art.  It’s also five novels long already, which is ridiculous.

Eight years ago I came up with an idea called “Frodma ’03.”  It was a tongue in cheek play on the idea of “Dogme ’95,” an idea in cinema of making movies without any special effect and stuff.  You’ve never heard of Dogme ’95 because it resulted mostly in depressing Danish movies that make you want to kill yourself.   Frodma ’11, as I’m now updating it, would result in, I think, way cool books.  So here’s what I would like out of a fantasy novel:

THE FRODMA ’11 RULES:

1. A FRODMA 2011 fantasy story will not be any longer than three normal-length novels. The total number of words in “The Lord of the Rings,” NOT including appendices, is the absolute maximum limit, and even that should be avoided if possible. If a FRODMA 2011 story is longer than one novel, each novel must have at least some conclusion to a subpart of the story.  (A Song of Fire and Ice fails this test.)
2. No FRODMA 2011 fantasy novel shall include footnotes, appendices, or prologues. The novel will begin at Chapter 1 and end at “The End.”  (SOFAI fails)
3. No character in a FRODMA 2011 fantasy novel will have an apostrophe in her or his name. Ridiculous names like “Ce’Nedra” are absolute no-nos.  (SOFAI, I believe, passes this test.)
4. FRODMA 2011 novels shall not use normal English words but try to make them cool by giving them different but phonetically equivalent spellings, such as “magick,” “dragyn,” and the like.  (SOFAI only does this with one word, but frequently and very irritatingly; “Ser” instead of “Sir.”)
5. If FRODMA 2011 characters speak a lingua franca (a language used by many people for mutual understanding, the way English is today) they will not refer to it as “The Common Tongue” or “Basic” or some similarly idiotic description.  The lingue franca will actually have a name, as in fact all human languages do.  (SOFAI fails)
6. If there are humanoid races besides humans in a FRODMA 2011 novel they will not be elves, hobbit, dwarves, or some transparently obvious equivalent.  (SOFIA wins on this one.)
7.  FRODMA 2011 fantasy novels shall not, under any circumstances, include a map in the front or back of the book.  (SOFAI fails)
8. The dramatis personae of a FRODMA 2003 novel shall never include any of the following characters: A young, plucky girl who can talk to wolves, dolphins, dragons, eagles, or any other animal frequently found on airbrushed sweatshirts; Any character who is so obviously a ripoff of Gandalf it makes you want to barf; An intelligent horse; An intelligent sword; A rakish but good-hearted thief/bandit
9. FRODMA 2011 novels shall avoid the use of Macguffins. Any object that is the object of pursuit shall have a real impact on the story or characters besides its existence and importance.
10. No FRODMA 2011 character will ever be surprised to find that s/he is related to a rival or a powerful individual they didn’t know they were related to (the “Luke, I Am Your Father” Rule.)
11. FRODMA 2011 characters shall behave according to their age and their experience. Thus twelve-year-old farm girls will not have wisdom and keen insight far beyond their years; nor will elderly viziers, wizards and generals of vast empires act like ignorant, immature, indecisive brats.   (Thanks to Wumpus from the SDMB for this and the next one.)
12. No FRODME 2011 novel shall contain a Thieves’ Guild, Assassins’ Guild etc. Any criminal organization described in FRODME 2011 novels shall behave like actual criminal organizations, not like members of a High School student council.
13. No goddess may be referred to simply as “The Goddess,” and “The Earth Mother” should be avoided as well.

There you go,.  Write me a book, puppets!

California isn’t a sunny paradise.  Well, the southern part is, but northern California is not as hot as you think, and the week proved it; the temperature was never above “put a jacket on.”  So it wasn’t really a going-outside kind of week, which in any case is not what Scott and I do when we get together.  What we do when we get together is play video games.

These visits are referred to as GameFest and involve marathon sessions of whatever video games presently strike our fancy; for the last few it’s been “Civilization V” but there have been others.  Of course, GameFest 2011 had to bow to the realities of the fact that little Henry needs constant attention but that’s okay; he’s a fun kid, and we got lots of gaming in.  I owe Scott and Greta thanks for being wonderful hosts, feeding me great meals (even Greta’s folks, Bruce and Judy, cooked me a birthday meals and how awesome is that?)

Oh, and I did some comedy, hitting up the local club, Rooster T. Feathers:

So the other day we were at Stupid Sister’s celebrating the second birthday of my beautiful, smart, wonderful little neice (or cousin, to Maddy) Sylvia, and it came to pass that Maddy saw the animatronic triceratops.  This thing is huge – it’s as big as Maddy, easily.  Apparently it terrifies Sylvia, and is there only because it terrified another child whose parents gave it away to Stupid Sister.  But Maddy, being older and enamoured of dinosaurs, loved it, so it got lent to us.  It’s currently standing in my living room staring hopefully at the TV.  The damned thing is huge.  It’s not a toy, it’s furniture; I don’t really have a convenient place for it, so there it sits.

Anyway, while walking Madz to school a few days ago we were taling about the dinosaur, and this conversation ensued:

MADDY: I’d like a real triceratops!

ME: But if you had a real triceratops it would poop everywhere!  Who would clean it up?

MADDY: You could!

ME: Oh no.  It’s your triceratops.  You have to clean up the poop.

MADDY: … it’s OUR triceratops.

Come on, that’s funny.  That’s just solid wordplay there, a clever change of pronoun.  That’s a smart kid.  She’s growing up.

Too fast, though.

Something else she’s recently told me when I walk her to school is that she wants to walk to school all-by-herself.  Not with me anymore.  All-by-herself.  Of course there’s an age when that just can’t happen, and for me apparently that age is 39.  I can’t hack letting her do that yet, so I compromised; I said I’d follow her at a distance.

In real life she doesn't look this far away, but she feels a mile away.

My little girl is growing up.  It’s wonderful, and so sad because you know it will only happen once.  Every day is a joy and every day breaks your heart a little more.  My princess, always.

So anyway, now I’m going to write something about Remembrance Day.  That’s a hard thing to do, because everyone writes stuff about Remembrance Day.  Facebook is jam packed with maudlin stuff about it; every event, every workplace will observe a moment of silence at 11 AM (note: it’s not supposed to be at 11:11.  It’s the eleventh day of the eleventh month at 11, but not the 11th minute.  Pass it on) and almost everything that could be said about sacrifice and never forgetting and such has been said, often in words far better than mine.  As to the general sentiment of Remembrance Day I’m not sure that I can really add anything intelligent right now, so instead I’m going to just give you a little history lesson, and tell you about my grandfathers, who are two of the people you should be remembering tomorrow.

My maternal grandfather joined the RCAF in 1943 and he was commissioned as an officer.   They put him in Bomber Command, and trained him as a pilot and bomb aimer.  In 1943 he was shipped off to Europe two weeks after his wedding – I want you to think about that for a moment – and assigned to 427 Squadron, a bomber squadron in Leeming, England.   He trained for the rest of 1943 and in the beginning of 1944 they started flying combat missions over occupied Europe.

My Grandpa is on the top left.

Being a bomber crewman was arguably the most dangerous job in the Allied armed services; 44% of all Bomber Command crewmen died during the war, and a substantial percentage of the remainder were wounded or captured.  That is a worse casualty rate than the Soviet infantry would have experienced.  Only 27% of men in bomber crews managed to get through their tour without being killed, hurt, or imprisoned.  And if you didn’t die this week, it was near certain a friend would.  It was a pretty horrible job.  My grandfather (Flight Officer Charles Laing) was one of the lucky ones.  His entire crew somehow survived 35 combat missions and not one of them was scratched, an amazing accomplishment.   Flying a Halifax B.III, they bombed German cities, bombed Normandy defenses before D-day, bombed factories and mined harbours.  They were shot at by flak and chased by fighters, and once shot down a fighter (a rare accomplishment for a bomber) but they always made it back.  (Anyone who used a plane after his crew did had different luck, though, and always seemed to be lost, so much so that they were nicknamed “The Jinx Crew.”)   When my grandfather died in 2005, he was the first man in the crew to pass away.

Of course to me, my grandfather was the kindly, bald old man who lived right down the street and loved computers and gadgets and would tell me stories about the war that from my perspective might as well have happened in the Middle Ages.   He had some interesting adventures after the war, perhaps notably that he was stationed in Germany itself with NATO, where he and my grandmother and my mother made friends among those who had been our enemies.  But by the time I “met” him he lived in the house he would never leave, and was a very quiet and reserved man.  He wasn’t really much into the Legion and whatnot; despite being a legitimate war hero he didn’t put on the semi-uniform the veterans wear and go marching and stuff.  Part of that was just that he was shy and reserved, but part of it was that I just don’t think he wanted to think about war much.  And who can blame him?

My paternal grandfather, of whom I sadly have no picture, has a story even more remarkable.  He was a pilot in the RCAF as well, and spent much of the war as a trainer, teaching flight to other students.  He wanted to go overseas and do his part,though, and so managed to get transferred to RAF 3 Squadron late in 1944, flying the Tempest, a huge, fast fighter that kind of looked like a Spitfire on steroids.

At that point in the war the Germans didn’t have a lot of air force left so he rarely got to see an enemy plane.  What they spent their time doing was shooting down V-1 buzz bombs.  No, really; the Tempest was fast enough that if it started above the V-1 and dove at it, it could briefly match its speed.  Shooting at a flying bomb has its dangers so they tried to get next to them and tip then over with the wings of their aircraft – I swear I’m not making this up, they really did that – and spin them into the Channel.  I believe my grandfather got one.

He was also assigned to ground attack missions and this was his downfall, so to speak.  In February in 1945 he was attacking a train in the Netherlands when an antiaircraft battery shot his plane up, killing the engine.  Too low to bail out, he crash landed the plane into a field and ran away.  He was taken in by the Dutch resistance and befriended by a man named Paul, who I had the occasion to meet many decades later.  For a few months he fought with the Resistance (the Allies knew he was there; like many pilots on the lam he even had an identification number for escaped pilots) running errands and raids, eating grass and sawdust because the Dutch had nothing to eat, it had all been stolen by the Nazis.  Eventually their luck ran out, or so you’d think.  On a trip to a safe house the Waffen SS showed up.  My grandfather (Pilot Officer Richard W. Jones) held them off to give Paul time to escape, and Paul’s escape was such a narrow one that there were bullet holes in his overcoat.  Then my grandfather surrendered.

The Germans informed my grandfather that, regrettably, as he was an Allied pilot trying to pass himself off as a civilian, he’d have to be hanged.  Fortunately, Paul escaped towards Allied lines – this was very close to war’s end – and informed the advancing formation, which I believe was the British 49th “Polar Bears” mechanized infantry serving within the 1st Canadian Army, of the situation.  They sent an officer in under flag of truce to suggest to he Germans that they give the pilot back or else maybe there’d be no surrendering when it came time to capture the town.  So the Germans let him go, hours before he was to be executed, and he went home to his wife and baby son, my Dad.

I didn’t know my paternal grandfather nearly as well, because he lived far away, but he liked me and indulged my interest in his war stories, and that was enough for me.   He died quite a long time ago, in 1983, I believe.

So those are the real stories of two real veterans, and if they sound rather amazing, well, they ARE amazing.  My maternal grandfather survived an arm of the service more suicidal than playing Russian Roulette with two bullets, and my paternal grandfather’s story would make a pretty good movie.  Men did this stuff, by the millions.   They weren’t superheroes; they were ordinary people who had no choice but to take the most awful risks.

My grandfathers are both dead now, and we’re running out of World War II veterans.  Many express sadness at that, but it’s a good thing we’re not making veterans as fast as we used to.  (Now we have a lot of Afghanistan veterans, but obviously not nearly the same number.)  The World Wars caused destruction and horror and misery on a scale beyond the scope of imagination.  So please remember what my grandfathers did for us, but work towards creating a world where nobody ever has to do it again.

I’ve now done a dozen sets or so and while comics tell you know nothing until you’ve done 200 sets I know I’ve learned a few lessons.  (I’d love to have a picture in this column, but I have only video of myself and can’t figure out how to get a still.)

Anyways:

1.  I can’t drink beer before a set.

A few times now I’ve had a beer before a set, something you’ll often hear isn’t a bad idea because it relaxes you; a LOT of comics will have a beer or a drink before going up.  But there is a strong, strong correlation between me having a beer and doing poorly; at gigs where I’ve had a beer I’ve done a mediocre job, and at gigs I did not, I did better.

I’m not saying I was drunk.  In fact I didn’t feel the beer at all.  But still, it’s a near-perfect correlation; beer equals bad set.  Alcohol can affect you without you feeling tipsy.  While the data sample isn’t large enough to absolutely prove the connection, it’s big enough to put doubt in my mind, so no more pre-performance drinks.

2.  I need to practice more.

I’m surprised I have to say this about myself because when it comes to public speaking I am a practicing fanatic.  Prior to my first performance I practiced my set hundreds of times.  I’ve always, always done this for any sort of public speech; when I did speeches in high school I would run them, hours and hours at a time.  My belief in this regard is that it’s not enough to memorize it; you must KNOW it.  You have to go beyond memorization and into innate understanding.

There’s a great scene in “Reservoir Dogs” where (SPOILER ALERT!) the undercover cop is being coached by his handler in how to tell a funny story that will convince the criminals he’s a legitimate criminal.  The handler explains, “You can’t just know the story.  You have to make it your own.”  Asked how, he says “Keep saying it, and saying it, and saying it, and saying it.”

When you see the ease, confidence, and seemingly relaxed and yet limitless command of the stage from the great comics, you’re not seeing a guy who was just born relaxed in front of people; you’re seeing practice that went way beyond just memorizing.  That’s practice done to the point that the comic has reached a level of total command of his stories; they’re hers/his and they can now say them with total command.   That’s one of the reasons that comedy instructors will tell you to keep working the same 5-10 minutes you start with for years; you must command it.

Well, I’m letting off juuuuuust a bit on the practice.  I’m confident in my A set, and pretty confident on my B set, but

A) The B set delivery is still not wholly settled, and

B) The transitions aren’t figured out yet.

What happens last night was I made some transitions I hadn’t done before, got lost, and just threw in the towel and thanked the audience.  I knew the bits, but the SET was not rehearsed, and I paid for it.  That won’t happen again.

I now have, basically, two sets, which if you list them off as premises go like this:

A SET: (which is in a link in my February column): http://rickthegreat.wordpress.com/2011/02/14/that-moment/

• Wrapping presents
• Cat Shit, Part 1
• Cat Shit, Part 2
• Tropical Fish
• Ants (this part’s optional; it doesn’t yet work sensationally and you can drop it and keep the narrative)
• Cats Again

B SET:

• DQ Money Mart
• Ugly Children
• The Surprise Party
• Awesome Provinces
• Power Tools

No matter what set I start with you can always lead with “Fister-Furbush” if you have the time.

Anyway, the B set’s in development, but it’s often pulled out at small comics-only sets where it’s generally expected that you’ll try new stuff, and pauses and bits that don’t work are well forgiven.  It’s also edgier and ruder, which comics like but a general audience might not.  Last night I decided at the last minute to try a new mix, starting with B but then adding some A after Awesome Provinces; I blew Awesome Provinces sky high, which is unfortunate because it got laughs, started in on Wrapping Presents, did that, didn’t know where I was on time, and said to hell with it.

That said, I’m not upset; I learned.  I learned valuable comedy lessons.  At this stage if I want away from any show not knowing something I should do better, I’m a fool.  Anyway I was sufficiently funny to earn an invite to a future show.

And you know what?  I STILL FREAKING LOVE IT.  A new comedy friend of mine repeated a quote that could not be more true; “the worst day of comedy is better than the best day in an office.”  So, so true.

I know the picture's fuzzy, but the photographer was 6 years old and "Stand still" is not a skill they're super good with.

This is a look I think is best described as “Norwegian Goodwill,” or possibly “My great-aunt heard I liked skiing.”   This sweater was the runnerup for being my attire at the Ugly Sweater Party, and in fact was the sweater of choice until but five hours prior to the party when I fond the Golfing Guy sweater.  I’m glad I didn’t wear it, though, because, aside from the fact that the Golfing Guy sweater was uglier, this sweater

1.  Is as hot as a bastard,

2.  Is itchier than a horsehair duvet.

The sweater is wool and shouldn’t be machine washed and you can tell it’s been machine washed a dozen times or more; despite being an XL it’s incredibly tight and doesn’t really fit correctly in any way.  Or it might have been made that way;  it’s tight in the torso but crazily loose in the arms, as if it was knitted by a person whose understanding of human anatomy was restricted to stick-man drawings and so concluded that a man’s chest is the same width as his forearm.

What makes this sweater hideous, aside from the weird shape, is the fact that the patterns don’t make any sense.  If you start from the bottom up we’ve got some kind of surf/wave thing, chevrons, diamonds, and four-pointed things that kind of look like butterflies but aren’t.  There’s no logic to it all all.  If the patterns had a theme, like if you had a winter theme of snowflakes, snowmen, etc., there’s at least be a kitschy cuteness to it.  But it’s just random geometry.

I’ve very proud of this sweater, and plan to get a job interview just so I can wear this sweater to it.

Why is this sideways? Anyway, trust me, they're in there.

Remember the Sea Monkeys ads from comic books?  Weren’t they great?  The ad promised an amazing collection of merperson-like pets, smiling little guys with crowns and jovial expressions, all for animpossibly low price.

This must be the greatest print ad ever designed by a human.  It doesn’t actually SAY you’re going to get pets that looks like that but it sure implies it.  I also like the “DO NOT RESIST” command.  I always found these ads fascinating but even when I was eight years old I knew there was some heavy duty bullshit in that ad.  I may not be Yoda, but I was born with a health ydegree of skepticism.  So I never got any.  It helped that my parents would never have given me $13 for something adverised in the back of a comic book.

But recently the Small One and I wandered into a Mastermind store and they were selling Sea-Monkeys (the official trade name has the hyphen) so I figured what the hell.  I wanted to buy Maddy something educational and everything else was too expensive.  Also, when you’re tired of your Sea-Monkeys, you can feed them to your tropical fish.

Of course Sea Monkeys don’t look like people.  They’re brine shrimp.  (The Sea-Monkey people insist they aren’t brine shrimp, that they’re some magical species they invented, but they’re just crossbred brine shrimp.)   Apparently many people with low IQs buy Sea Monkeys and come away really disappointed that they don’t actually look like Ariel.   Seriously, there are actually people out there who thought the ad’s picture was the literal truth.  When I wa Googling up pictures and info for this column I actually found a link to a CBC edition of Marketplace from back in the day in which the CBC guy intones, with the voice of a man discussing something that might actually matter, that Sea Monkeys don’t actually look like merpeople.  If you ever thought watching or listening to CBC was an indication that someone is smart, I have video proof it is not so.  Apparently some people are really stupid or harbour some weird ass slave fantasies, I don’t know.

So we brought the Sea Monkeys home and set it up.  No humanoid-like animals appeared, but to be honest I was more impressed with it than I expected.  It’s stupidly easy; it’s just a plastic “Tank, as you see above, that holds many ten ounces of water, and three little packets.  On Day 1 you pour in a “purifier” packet, which I imagine clears out the chlorine.  On Day 2 in go the eggs and salt, and poof, within a day or two out they come, and every five days you put in a tiny bit of algae for them to eat.  That’s it.  The kit worked exactly as promised.  In a few days, the little plastic tank was full of live brine shrimp, and they grow fast; a week ago they were dots and now you can see the outline of their bodies and tails.  They’re tiny now, but allegedly they can get about half an inch long.  They’ll also start humping soon and making new babies; if you keep them around they not only get big but will keep replacing themselves.

You don’t want them to, though.  Here’s what the little bastards look like up close:

Isn’t that disgusting?   Maddy’s warming up to the idea of feeding them to the fish, so I figure this weekend those suckers are going for their last swim, before they get big enough to gross me out.

Anyways, I was always unapologetically geeky.  Of course, it’s easy to be unapologetic about it when you’re also socially capable and have friends and actually have had sex with women; I’ve never had to combine geekiness with being a social outcast.  But it’s safe to say I have never hidden my love of video games, in particular.  Video games, mostly PC games, have been a hobby of mine since an IBM PC was actually made by IBM and didn’t have a hard drive.  I’ve bene playi8ng PC games for 26 years, longer if you go back into TI-994As and Commodore 64s, and loved them.  I have many fond memories – stop laughing, I’m absolutely serious – of playing video games, both solo and with friends.  Scott and I have had amazing week-long video game vacations.  I’ve played hundred upon thousands of simulated baseball seasons and I can still remember my version of the Blue Jays coming back from a 3-0 deficit in the ALCS, the time my simulated Blue Jays were victimized by a perfect game in a playoff game, and the time a scrub catcher named John Russell hit six home runs in one World Series.  I can still remember an unbelievably epic game of Empire I fought in 1989 in which I was sure I was doomed but battled my way back to victory.  I remember many Civilization games, Sim City, TIE Fighter, you name it.  I finished Half-Life 2 just a few months ago and loved it.

Anyways, that’s starting to wind down.

I decided recently to cancel my World of Warcraft account.  I’ve played it for five years and just stopped about four months ago but I’ve been keeping it up assuming I’d get back into it and I just never did.  I fired it up this week and it’s just not my cup of tea anymore.

Now, partly this is because the game’s changed in ways I dislike.  But a lot of it is just that my life has changed.  Maybe it’s that I’m turning 40, or maybe it’s that I’m divorced, or maybe it’s that the current crop of games is really sort of shitty, but playing video games for hours on end no longer appeals to me.   If I’m going to be sitting in front of a glowing rectangle I’d really like it to produce something, whether it’s writing blogs or comedy material or stories or my book (yes, I have a book on the go) or just emails to friends.  I don’t really watch TV anymore, for the same reason – it just seems like that’s time I’ll never get back.

Something in me has decided recently that I need to redouble my comedy efforts, and so that’s going to take up a lot of my time.  And I need to get out on dates, and that consumes time.  I have a day job that consumes all my weekdays, and I need more working out… I dunno, guys, I don’t think turning 40 bothers me, but I don’t like the idea of turning 50 and not being substantially ahead of where I am now.   I’ve wasted enough time.

Hey, I’m not saying I’m going to shun video games.  The dude and I will still have our video game vacations – in fact we’ll probably still be doing that when we’re in retirement homes -  and now and then you just have to let your brain idle while you play a little Civilization.  And when friends are over why not crack out Rock Band?  But it’s casual gaming, not a regular hobby.

And you know, I really don’t feel sad about it at all.  I’m looking forward to doing more comedy.  Maybe I’ll take a course in something else, too.  I’d like to learn Spanish.

So World of Warcraft’s done with.  If you’d like to buy an account with a level 85 paladin on it, let me know.

I am once again amazed at the Small One’s love of Hallowe’en.  It is her favourite holiday, by far, even more than Christmas.  For what reason I really do not get, the Small One absolutely loves horror themes, especially the undead.  She loves vampires, ghouls, mummies, zombies, and ghosts.  She loves shows, books, and stories that are Hallowe’en themed.   She recently expressed an interest in going to church; when her confused mother asked why she wanted to go to church (we are both firmly irreligious) it turns out that what she really wanted to see was a CEMETERY.   One Easter she demanded by entire family pretend to be zombies emerging from their graves.  Which is, I guess, just a variation on the Jesus story, and so was more seasonally appropriate than we perhaps appreciated at the time.

So of course she was a vampire, though a pleasant, nice vampire, “Draculaura” from the Monster High franchise.

Tonight I took the Small One out trick-or-treating with her little friend Julia, and they had a blast and got about ten pounds of candy between them.  I took them around the neighborhood around Maddy’s Mom’s (formerly MBW but hereinafter abbreviated MM) house, since that’s where Julia is, but it was an excellent choice; the neighborhood is dense with houses and the participation rate was higher than at our old neighborhood.

Still about half the houses didn’t participate.  Some people were not home, and I understand that, but a lot of people were and simply refused to answer the door.

Now, I am a libertarian-leaning type who thinks people should be allowed to do what they want and it’s not my place to make them do otherwise.  But I am also free to say what I think, and what I think is you should HAND OUT SOME FUCKING CANDY, ASSFACE.   If you’re not home and have stuff going on, hey, fine, but it’s your sitting on your fat ass watching “The Amazing Race” or whatever shit people watch on Monday nights, get with the goddamned program, spend five bucks on confections, and give cute little kids some treats.

Again, it’s a free country, and you are free to be a jerk in some respects, but does the world really need LESS joviality, kindness, and generosity?  No, it does not, it needs more.  So while they may be artificial social conventions, for Christ’s sake, hand out candy on Hallowe’en, tip your server generously, and wish people a happy holidays when Christmas rolls around.

Oh, and speaking of Christmas, one house where people were home but would not hand out treats had this sign (more or less, I’m typing it from memory)

NO HALLOWEEN TREATS HERE

COME BACK AT CHISTMAS IN YOUR CHRISTMAS COSTUMES

JESUS IS THE ANSWER!

The sign was printed in words just small enough that you had to walk halfway up to the door to read it.  Sighing, I turned away with the girls and said, “They won’t hand our treats until Christmas.”  The girls were confused, and asked “What?  What do you mean?”  “Christmas,” I said, “There’s no treats here, they want you to come back at Christmas.  They aren’t nice, don’t worry about it.”

“Pfft.”  said the Small One.  “Christmas is just a big myth.”

I have no idea where she got that but I laughed so hard I almost fell over.

I took much of the summer off, but I’m back at it.  The problem in doing standup when you live in Burlington is that you live in Burlington, and there’s no comedy here.  Getting into the city is a logistical issue so you’ve got to make it count.  So I’m starting my own room in January (albeit likely in Mississauga.)

In October I had the chance to play Absolute Comedy again, and did better than ever and again loved it.  What blew me away, though, is that while I was waiting to do my set, I saw Keesha Brownie.  Keesha, who is a terrific comic and hosts her own show, was sitting in the back where the comics hang out.  I was delighted to see her and we exchanged hellos.  She wasn’t on the night’s set list, though.  “Are you here to support someone?” I asked.

“Oh, no,” she said, “I’m just here if a spot opens up.”

So here’s a comic, a GREAT comic with years of experience, a known name around town who’s performed everywhere and who runs her own show in Brampton and who gets PAID to be a comic, something I dream of, and on a Wednesday night she came to Absolute just in case a six-minute spot opens.  Just for that six minutes to blast some new material as a good crowd.  And she’s not the only experienced comic I’ve seen do that.

When I got into comedy I had a few people tell me they didn’t like standup comedy because standup comedians all seemed to be broken, bitter jerks.  I can guess why people get this impression; for one thing, talking about what’s wrong with you is a very easy and fruitful source for jokes, for another standup comedy happens at night in bars and other seedy places, and for another there’s a lot of high profile comics who WERE broken and bitter jerks.  But I’m here to tell you; the impression is wrong.  In terms of bitterness and jerkishness I can honestly say that standup comics are no more jerkish, weird, broken or bitter than anyone else (they’ll deny it, but it’s true.)  What immediately strikes me about comics is how hard they work at this.  Standup comedy is hard.  It’s hard to do; the hours are horrible, it doesn’t pay much, you need to have a day job until you hit it big, and there’s an obvious connection between time spent hustling for stage time and success.  You cannot take it easy, you have to work it hard.   I’m telling you that a lot of these people BUST THEIR ASSES.

What has really amazed me, though, is how damned friendly people have been.  It would be very easy for the Keeshas of the world to blow me off as a rookie and treat me like either new competition, and therefore an enemy, or untalented and therefore of no worth.  But that’s not at all what happens – as a matter of fact it’s dramatically opposite to that.  Standups seem to welcome me; I don’t think it’s that they think I’m particularly good, but they just seem to love what they do, and that a new person seems to share the same joy in it clearly delights them.  I’m sure it helps that I’m an inherently friendly and likeable person, and am respectful and professional when I get stage time, but I’ll tell you; I am treated with vastly more suspicion and coldness by my customers in my day job, one in which I am actually extensively qualified and skilled.   I’ve been given stage time sight unseen by several people and then invited back for more.  I’m given nothing but encouragement and friendly words.  in maybe six months of effort I already have a mittful of people I owe honest thanks to; Ryan Magnulob, who needs to update his website, Rene Payes, who’s put me on three times, Candace Lovett, who despite what she says on her website is a delightful woman, Ian Atlas, who runs the best comedy competition in town, David Andrew Brent who for what reason I do not understand seems to always have a kind word for me, Eric Bud gave me stage time twice despite never having heard of me before… and seriously, I’ve met dozens of comics and they’re all nice and supportive, whether they’re fellow rookies or experienced masters.  Or in the case of Jennifer McAuliffe, the world’s most remarkably efficient MC.  (“This show will be done at 8:40 because I HAVE SOMEWHERE TO GO!”  It was done at 8:35.)  I’ve already given mad props to Ted Bisaillion, who taught me 90% of what I know, and my fellow Standup 101 students.

In all my life I don’t think I have ever been more pleasantly surprised about anything.  I really, truly honestly expected that the world of standup comedy would be suspicious and leery of newcomers.  It’s not at all, not even close.  I’ve been treated with almost universal welcome and kindness.  What a fun time it’s been.  Thanks, guys.

I’m going to skip over the reason Rick The Great wasn’t updated all summer (I had better things to do) and get right into what you’ve all been wondering about; ugly sweaters.

Last night I was invited by Toronto’s famed Sexy Typewriter to attend the Ugly Sweater Singles Mixer, the idea being that if you’re single you put on an ugly sweater and go.  I decided to put in some effort and find a really, really, really ugly sweater.  I didn’t want to just wear an ugly sweater.  I wanted an ugly sweater to wear ME.  I wanted a sweater so ferociously ugly that children would cry when they saw me.  I wanted a sweater that Bill Cosby would refuse.  I wanted a sweater that was so awful it flew past “good in an ironic way” and straight to “My eyes!  For the love of God, my eyes!”

I went to one Value Village, a Sally Ann and two Goodwills, and folks, I found my sweater:

Sofi and I. Sofi is wearing what I believe is steel wool; I am wearing the very distilled essence of ugly. It's even making my face uglier than usual.

Now what you’re probably thinking is “Holy merciful hamster of Christ, that is one ugly sweater.”  And you’re half right.  The truth is, the sweater is even uglier than it appear in this picture.

First, in addition to the hideous picture, the sweater has green plaid elbow patches.  ISn’t that GREAT?  A blue sweater with green plaid elbow patches.

Secondly, the guy in the picture is a lot worse than you think.  The person who made the sweater inexplicably knitted him in with two left hands.  His head is missing.  Everything about him is weird.

Finally, you might want to note that the guy on my ugly sweater is himself wearing a really ugly sweater (or shirt-vest combo, it’s hard to tell.)  So it’s a meta-ugly-sweater thing.  There’s an ugly sweater within my ugly sweater, which raises the metaphysical question; am I the guy in someone ELSE’S ugly sweater?  Is there an ugly sweater-within-an-ugly sweater thing going on here?  It’s like Ugly Sweater Inception.  BWOOOOOOMMMMMMMM!  I love this sweater.  If I’m invited to dinner at Buckingham Palace with the Queen (again) I’m wearing this sweater.

But we’re not letting go of ugly sweaters just yet.  You see, in my search for this wonderfully ugly sweater, I bought two other ugly sweaters.  For we’re going to have a weekly feature, the Ugly Sweater of the Week, in which I will model ugly sweaters for you and discuss the science of ugly sweaters, which I shall now officially coin “Cosbymetrics.”

“Daddy, I’m going to sleep with you,” she announces.  She did not think to bring her blanket or pillow, so she jumps into bed, grabs my sheet, and starts sleeping.

I’m not really up for telling her no at 3 AM and anyway she does this maybe once every two months, so I figure there’s no point in fighting it.  I got up, went and got her blanket and pillow, and settled in, sleeping fitfully.  I don’t sleep well with anyone else in the room.

Anyway, after an hour or so of this, I decide the Small One is sufficiently snoozy that I can transplant her back to her bed.  So I pick her up and bring her back.  But then when I get back to bed, she’s back in my bed.  Huh.  She must have gone around the other way (there are doors from our bedrooms into the hallway, but also a door between our rooms.

So I bring her back to bed.  But the next thing I know she’s back with me.

So I bring her back a third time, but she’s back in bed with me almost instantly.  Gahhhhh!

And then I woke up.  You see, the first three times I’d brought her back to her bed, I’d been dreaming.  All that effort.  So the fourth time I actually do carry her back – I knew it was real this time because my God, she’s heavy – tuck her in, kiss her cheek, and tell her that I love her very much, little princess.  So two lessons here:

1.  If you do something three times in a row when you’re asleep you might want to consider the possibility you’re dreaming.  If you see Leonardo DiCaprio, it’s a sure bet.

2. Even when you’re tired and irritated and want to sleep there’s nothing quite like carrying your little girl, all warm and snuggly, to bed, and tucking her in and kissing her little cheek, to fill your heart with joy and love.

I was getting my tires switched (it’s May 30, so I took the plunge and took the snow tires off) and I had nothing to do while they did the work, so I went for a walk.  As I walked past the Burlington bus depot, I was confronted with this.

Why is this ugly brown loafer right in the middle of the depot’s driveway?  How could it possibly have gotten there?  Why is it right in the middle of a driveway that’s used many times a day?  

I am vexed by this problem.  I can see finding a shoe near a dumpster, or a shoe behind a store.  I could even understand why you might find a shoe in a parking lot (it could fall out of a car without the owner noticing.)  But there is no earthly reason why this shoe is where it is.  It is nowhere near any sort of garbage receptacle.  It is nowhere a person would park.  It is in a place used for vehicle traffic and quite a lot of it, but nowhere near anything or anyone that would drop a shoe.

Whose shoe is this?  Where is the other?  Why is a man’s shoe seemingly making it way across Burlington in a northeasterly direction?  I examined the shoe (without touching it) and could see nothing untoward about it, but I did not have a Geiger counter. 

Rest assured, dear reader, that Rick is on the case.  I will leave no stone unturned, no lead uninvestigated, no clue unexamined, no witness uninterrogated.  I will scour the earth for the truth about this shoe.  My search for the origin for this shoes will not end until I have found the truth, or else just lost interest on it.

Added 17 minutes later: I have lost interest in it.

These are disgusting and should be illegal.

First of all, shoes.  I was reading a comment by some moron on a message board who was bragging about the fact that he owned just a pair of sneakers and would wear nothing else.  I found this appalling.  I wouldn’t suggest we all go back to wearing suits and ties all the time the way they did generations ago, but seriously, you can’t wear anything but sneakers?  The wife wants to go out for a nice night on the town and you can’t be arsed to put on a decent pair of shoes?  A man who wears nothing but sneakers is an asshole.

Men need a minimum of five different kinds of shoes:

• Black dress shoes – the kind you actually have to polish.  Real dress shoes made of leather. 
• Brown dress shoes
• Casual shoes, usually brown
• Running shoes for when he’s actually exercising (don’t cheap out on these)
• Running shoes for doing scut work and going to Walmart (cheap out on these)

As the case might be, you may need other types of shoes designed for a specific activity.  In winter climes you need boots.  I also have a pair of cleated baseball shoes, since I play ball, and steel-toed safely shoes when I’m visiting a place of business that requires those, but obviously you might not need such things.  However, you must still have the minimum number of shoes types described above.  A guy might also want flip-flops for the beach or locker room but flip flops are NOT SHOES.  Men should not wear flip flops in public unless they are actually going to the beach or engaging in an activity that specifically requires the use of flip flops.  If you wear flip flops to a store or something like that, grow up, for fuck’s sake.  You’re an adult.  Put some goddamned shoes on.

A man who wears Crocs doesn’t even deserve to live.

Now, socks. 

I like socks.  I like having lots of different colours of socks and wearing interesting socks.  There’s nothing I love more than the feel of a new pair of socks.  Actually that’ s a lie, there are many things I love more, such as my daughter, my relatives, my friends, the feel of really crushing a baseball right in the sweet spot, raunchy sex, coffee, and a few other things, but new socks is in the top 30.  If I win the lottery, I swear to God I will wear a new pair of socks every single day for the rest of my life.  I might wear two or three pairs a day.  Who’s gonna stop me?  You?  Come on over and make something of it.

Anyway, the rule for socks is simple:

Do not wear white socks unless you are wearing sneakers or some other type of athletic or activity shoes.

Seriously, what kind of imbecile wear white socks with dress or casual shoes?  And yet many do.  I realize that for some reason in Germany they do it the other way around, wearing white socks with dress shoes and coloured socks when they exercise, but that’s wrong, it’s the main reason we’ve had to go to war with them twice, and if they don’t change soon they’ll have it coming.

For women, I have no idea what the rules are except apparently you have to own a million pairs of shoes.

It’s been commonly claimed that this is proof the NHL’s strategy of putting teams in the southern USA is a bad one.  I’m actually not wholly convinced of that; the situation in the various places the NHL is failing is a lot more complex than just “too far south.”  For one thing, some teams at more southern latitudes are doing just fine; nobody talks about moving Tampa Bay, Nashville (a city way smaller than Atlanta) or Los Angeles or Anaheim or San Jose.  Best of luck getting a San Jose Sharks ticket; at the price they command on ebay they’re apparently minted in solid gold.  And some of the league’s basket cases aren’t down south at all; the New York Islanders are in dreadful shape and they’re in, well, New York.  The Columbus Blue Jackets are in Ohio, hardly a southern state, and are in a bad way.

Anyway, each situation is different and it basically amounts to the fact that the league expanded faster than they could find genuinely suitable owners.  If you have dedicated ownership you can make a team work anywhere; witness, say, the Utah Jazz, who for decades have been wildly successful selling the blackest sport in the world to the whitest state in the Union in a city with fewer people than Mississauga.  Conversely, Los Angeles, which has more people in its metro area than live in all of Ontario, lost both its NFL teams.  It’s all because of ownership.  A good owner with a real plan could make a hockey team work in Atlanta.  And if the ownership in Winnipeg is bad, they will fail (as they have failed before.)  But in their greed to get a big TV contract the NHL just handed a team to a bunch of morons just so they could have a team in Atlanta, a big TV market.  And being morons, they have run the team into the ground.

Anyway, today I was reading a story about some Thrasher fans who staged a rally today to protest the Thrashers’ moving.  It was a sad affair with just a few hundred people showing up.   It reminded me of the time I went to a Florida Panthers game.

Have I told this story before?  I don’t remember and don’t care, you’re hearing it again.   Back in February 2004 I was in Sunrise, FL on business. Sunrise is a suburb of Fort Lauderdale, which in turn is a suburb of Miami; I’d guess Sunrise is 25 miles out of Miami.  Anyway, while we were there (I was with my boss) we were delighted to find out that Sunrise is in fact the home of the NHL’s Florida Panthers, and that the Leafs were in town.  My boss and I went to the arena forthwith and demanded two tickets. 

“That will be fourteen dollars,” said the ticket lady.

We were amazed.  “$14?  This is the Florida Panthers, right?  The team in the NHL?  Playing an actual game against another NHL team?”

“Yes.”

So I pulled out fourteen bucks and my boss pulled out his $14, and she said, “No, gentlemen.  It’s fourteen dollars TOTAL.”

So in we went with our $7 tickets.  After buying hot dogs and beer we made our way to our seats just before they were to drop the puck.  There could not possibly have been 7,000 fans in the arena.  It was shocking.  The place was 40% full, maximum; there are OHL teams that draw more fans.  We were aghast.  My boss asked a security guard if this was a normal crowd and he said it was.

We enjoyed the game, all the while marvelling in the insanity of an economic model that puts hockey teams where there are no hockey fans.  But I noticed something; of the fans that WERE there, a lot of them were kids, and they were really into it.  They clearly loved the Panthers.  When the Panthers scored (which was often, since they were playing the Leafs) the announcer would yell “Pantheeeerrrrrs…” and the kids would all scream “SCORE!” and then he’d read off the goal and assist credits.  In fact – and I am not at all exaggerating – I would guess that despite being 2/3rds empty, that Panthers games actually had more kids than a Leafs game.   I’ve been to some Leafs games where I saw no kids at all.   Families can’t afford Leafs tickets.  But it was families at the Panthers game, and they were having a fantastic time.

So I felt really bad for those Thrasher fans.  I’ve never been to a Thrashers game, but I have to assume they’re like Panthers fans – there aren’t enough of them, but the ones that are there probably love the Thrashers dearly, and desperately want them to stay.   The fact that the team’s failings are the fault of inept management doubtlessly drives them insane with rage; they’re going to lose their beloved team because of someone else’s stupidity.  I can only imagine how I would feel if Rogers drove the Blue Jays into the ground and then sold them to someone who moved them away.  I would be heartbroken, even if I was the last fan standing.

To those of you who aren’t into sports this must seem amazingly stupid to care about these businesses, like getting worked up over a department store moving.  But goddamn, it DOES matter.  I live and die with my Jays.  When Jose Bautista swatted two more dingers today and they won I got a little extra spring in my step.  When they blew it yesterday it made me sad.  I like feeling like I am part of an ongoing story, a string of success and failure, ecstasy and heartbreak, that stretches back to 1977 (when the Jays began play) and itself is part of the grand story of major league baseball that stretches back to the 19th century.  The personalities and tales of victory and defeat and the day to day drama, it’s all remarkably fun and compelling, but of course if only works if you’re emotionally invested in it.  And with that investment comes risk, and Thrashers fans will have their hearts broken and I feel terrible for them.

This billboard is in Windsor. I imagine if you lived in Windsor, the world's ending might be a relief.

 Now, to be fair, it’s a bit more complicated than that, according to Harold Camping, the leader of the nutball group.  As I understand it, May 21 will just be the beginning of the end, when the destruction of the world begins with worldwide earthquakes and pandemonium, and the righteous will ascend into Heaven.  But the judging will take five months, and the universe will actually cease to exist on October 21.  I’m not sure why it takes God five months to do all the judging – I guess, hey, there’s a lot of paperwork – but that’s what they say.

Now, you might be worried about the End of Days and hellfire raining from the sky and the earth torn asunder and the log weekend basically getting all fucked up, but as usual, here at the Rick The Great we have all the answers to make the coming Rapture FUN FOR THE WHOLE FAMILY!

The thing to remember is that, as a North American reader (virtually all this blog’s 1.7 million regular readers live in North America; the rest of you are screwed) you’re going to have time to prepare.  You see, according to Mr. Camping, the world’s destruction will commence with an earthquake that will start at exactly May 21 starting on the International Date Line, and then proceeding westward with the dawning of May 21 as it proceeds through the various time zones.  Apparently, while things go according to God’s plan, God’s plan in this regard is the same as Alexander Fleming’s.  That means that here in the New World, we’re going to have LOTS of time to see it coming and watch the progress of the Apocalypse on TV.  The Eastern Time Zone, where I live, is a full 17 hours behind the International Date Line, so when the End Times begins in the middle of the Pacific at 12:01 AM local time, it’ll be just 7 AM here.   Hell, you’ll just be starting your coffee when the word comes that the End Times are advancing toward you.  I’ll be the best television ever, as one bug-eyed, terrified reporter after another reports on the earth swallowing cities whole, fire and brimstone falling from the sky, plaques of demonic hell-beasts devouring the wicked… it’ll make the Gulf War look like Teletubbies.  It will be particularly satisfying to watch the Middle East be consumed.

And the beauty of it is that with your seventeen hours’ grace, you don’t have to worry.  You’ve got more than enough time to be “saved.”  According to the fundamentalists, all it takes to be saved is to say out loud something to the effect of “God, please forgive me all my sins, I believe in you and want to be saved blah blah blah” (read a Chick tract if you need the exact wording) and you’re good to go, literally.  That takes all of 30 seconds; with 17 hours to go you have more than enough time to rush off and engage in all kinds of depraved sex, drug binges, boozing and whatever other sorts of nihilist hedonism you want, because as long as you drop to your knees and ask Jesus to give you a hall pass between 11 and 12 PM, May 20, it’s all good.  You might worry about whether sincerity is necessary in the matter but when you see the news reports you’ll be damned (ha!) sincere, since the irrefutable proof will be thundering towards you, consuming one time zone after another.  Even I, a staunch atheist, will convert in plenty of time should the events of May 21 make it apparent that I no longer have to worry about my credit card balances.