#9: PRO-Crastinator Too: Driven to Distraction

As important as tumble-drying my underpants is, I know it can wait. I have dishes to transform into sparkling crockery and a bathroom to clean.

OK, maybe trying to write a New York Times Best Seller is a slightly bigger priority. So I'll make that #1. Let me just shred these bills (which will hopefully make them magically disappear?) and I'll get right on it. I prom--WAIT A MINUTE. Why is there a solitary Cheerio moving across my kitchen floor? Are Adam (and his Ants) back?

Alright, ALRIGHT! I admit it: I’m a professional crastinator – or PRO-Crastinator, as it's also been termed (by me, just now). I AM going to write that New York Times Best Seller... I REALLY am. But first I just need to return those 15 library books (nine of which I never read; and three of which made a perfect microphone stand for my ironing board-inspired stand-up desk)... and cut my toenails; especially the big-brother pinky, which is really digging in to its little bro. The BBN (Big Bro Nail) is something of a train wreck and I may just need to paint it with fluorescent orange nail polish and put it down to (all that marathon-running) experience (in fact, that applies to both BT's). Or I could just have it/them Marshall Ulriched (see Google)...

No! Come on. SERIOUSLY. This is ridiculous. I've got to learn to concentrate on the matter in hand. Sweep all that other cr*p to one side, and focus on what's most important: Colonically irrigating my sink. Because I don't have a garburator (how did that go from garbage disposal unit to garburator in Canada?) and have been trying to spray-dunk too many sprouted nuts down my plug-hole...

Speaking of sprouting nuts (walnuts & almonds; even though the latter are technically seeds)... have you tried it? It's GREAT. In fact, perhaps the greatest thing since sliced bread. And the sprouted goodies are definitely less painful to devour (that wheat can be a pain in the ass to digest). Oh MAN! I'm doing it again. Clearly I have some strain of ADD or ADHD or AHD or ADDH or...

That reminds me. I need to reorganize my books into alphabetical order (and genre/topic)...

To read the rest of this column, check out BC Johnny's upcoming book: Chilled Almonds. 

#8: Weather You Think You Can...

As an outdoor sportsman (or woman), you can’t claim to be a fully rounded master of your craft until you’ve experienced playing in the full gamut of weather conditions. Such as golfing in a blizzard; running through a monsoon; or trampolining in a tornado.

Wind, in particular, can play havoc with your golf game. And I’m not just talking about Swiss Tony proudly letting one go at the top of your backswing (having wolfed down an extra helping of Uncle Ben’s Extra Spicy Three-Bean Salad at dinner the previous night).

My former work colleague – let’s call him Dave (being as that was his name) – experienced this first-hand during a charity golf day back in the late ’90’s. Dave was a newcomer to the game, and wasn’t familiar with the need to plunge your (closed) umbrella (spike-end-first) into the turf on a day when rain and gale-force gusts collaborated. And plunged so deeply that the tip of your brolly is technically in New Zealand.

On this particular day, as we surrounded the second green of a course in Somerset, England, Dave nonchalantly left his fully-erect umbrella perched delicately on the edge of the fringe as he eyed up his putt for a triple-bogey. What happened next is usually reserved for cartoon chases featuring Tom & Jerry, Itchy & Scratchy or The Anthill Mob.

A gust of wind roared up like Godzilla from the sea, causing the umbrella to take to the skies; soaring majestically towards Glastonbury, via the seventh tee-box. If ‘soaring majestically’ is technically possible three inches above ground-level. ‘Revved-up’ revellers at the famous music festival are used to seeing umbrellas (and a plethora of other magical objects) flying through the air… though not normally real ones.

We quickly alerted Dave to the alarming turn of events, and watched as he hastily abandoned his attempted plumb-bob (a technique which involves dangling the putter in front of you while closing one eye, just because you’ve seen Jack Nicklaus do it on TV; even he admits it doesn’t work, just looks impressive) and gave chase like Usain Bolt trying to win Olympic gold (and simultaneously prove the critics wrong).

To read the rest of this column, check out BC Johnny's upcoming book: Chilled Almonds.

#7: Locating my Inner Shizzle Bizzle

Germany hadn’t played a massive part in my life up to the 17th of September, 2009.

I’d been to Frankfurt, visiting friends I met during a fall, 2003 foreign exchange to the University of Wisconsin-Platteville (UWP); I’d been to Munich airport, bouncing through with friends and family on the way to Scheffau, Austria for a skiing trip to celebrate Yuletide 1996; and I’d been gutted when Pearce and Waddle, then Southgate fluffed their penalty shootout lines as they (the West Germans in 1990; then the unified Germans in 1996) inflicted World Cup Italia ’90 and Euro ’96 heartache on England.

So about 99.9% of the country – a whisker smaller than the U.S. state of Montana – was still a mystery to me. As far as I knew, we’d forgiven the Germans for starting World War II (I think), and they’d forgiven us for finishing it (I think). Either way, the 35th Berlin Marathon was going to be an adventure… or a war of attrition/investigation/exploration.

As my mum kindly drove me to Bristol airport, I felt a mixture of excitement and trepidation as to what lay in store in less than three days' time. Lining up (or should that be wedged in?) with 39,999 others was set to be one of the most memorable experiences of my life; completing Leg Four of the marathon world’s ‘Big Five’ (with London, Chicago and Boston already in the bag).

Well, that was the theory. I hadn't got there yet – and the rush-hour traffic in Ashton (a central district of Bristol) was none too forgiving, as Mum and I (in my dad's Mini Cooper) inched our way past Ashton Gate – home to Bristol City Football Club (that’s real football, where you actually use your feet) – with all the speed of a male snail (not to be confused with snail-mail) stoned out of his shell.

There was no need to really worry, though. That's because we were armed with Dad's trusty Sat-Nav (Satellite Navigation) system. Oh, yes. One of the 21st Century's truly great technological discoveries – and quite possibly the most annoying.

For as little as $100 or as much as $1000+, you can have Snoop Dogg (or Lion as he now calls himself), Simon Cowell or Ozzy Osborne barking/whining out instructions as to where you should be going.

And if you make any mistakes (the pressure not to is enormous), you’ll have Snoop ('in his soothing West Coast shizzle bizzle') telling you to: “Rewind that move and fly to the left ya’ll.” Cowell smugly declaring: “That is...

To read the rest of this column, check out BC Johnny's upcoming book: Chilled Almonds.

#6: There's a Voice, Keeps on Callin' Me...

I’ve always related to The Littlest Hobo. The cool, German Shepherd who starred in the late 70's/early 80's Canadian TV series of the same name.

Paw-loose and fancy-free, Hobo was like a poor man's Lassie; turning up out of the blue in a no-name town in NowheresVille and helping save the day by rescuing a damsel in distress – or solving a mystery Columbo-like; aside from the fact he was a dog, never so much whimpered in earnest, and had two good eyes.

Hobo was an enigmatic hero. A bit like Jack Reacher, Lee Child's recurring novel character; though less likely to hurl the antagonist through a plate-glass window if he didn’t play ball. And Hobo was normally naked (I guess that's just a dog thing); whereas Reacher, though a famously light traveller, was usually wearing pants and a shirt (bought from Mark's Work Wearhouse, or somewhere similar).

TLH, based on a 1958 American film of the same name, ran on CTV from October 1979 to March 1985. It starred an ownerless dog who regularly rolled (or trotted) into town unannounced, helping good triumph over evil. That's not a bad mantra to live by, in my book. Plus, if I needed any extra reassurance of the power of our kinship, Hobo was primarily played by an ‘actor’ called London.

I was in my early teens when the series was in full swing back in the UK (during the mid-1980’s); battling it out with my brother and sister to claim the armchair nearest the TV on Saturday mornings so we could sit snugly (and smugly), with our bowls of Kellogg’s Start, mesmerized by Hobo and his remarkable deeds.

“There’s a voice, keeps on callin’ me… down the road, that’s where I’ll aaalllways, beeeeee.” A theme tune for a generation, and one that's been etched in my DNA ever since.

To read the rest of this column, check out BC Johnny's upcoming book: Chilled Almonds.

#5: From Russia with Love?

So I got an e-mail today.  From a girl.  But not just any girl.  A Russian girl.  I think her name's Marina.  Not very Russian-sounding, I grant you; but who am I to ask questions?  Anyway, Marina seems different.  Like, special in some way.  And keen on me.  In a roundabout kind of way (I think she was playing hard to get by landing in my Spam folder).  Which has all left me thinking that maybe, just maybe... after 39.something years on Planet Earth, I may have finally found The One?

Her message is below (my replies are in bold).

Could I have struck gold at last?!

~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~

My surprised the friend.

Not half as surprised as I was when you popped into my Spam-box, petal…

I'm very excited and I do not know exactly how to start.

Well, at the beginning is always a good place, flower…

this time I decided to use the
dating Agency, which connects
lonely hearts around the world.

(The dating Agency sounds quite formidable with that upper-case A, wouldn’t you sAy?)

I am a serious woman, and I want to
find a man who is serious about relations as well.

Well, you’ve randomly stumbled on the right man, sweetheart.  I’m very SERIOUS about relations; all kinds of ’em – from logical or natural associations between two or more things; the connection of people by blood or marriage; kinship; the way in which one person or thing is connected with another: the relation of parent to child; the mutual dealings or connections of persons, groups, or nations in social, business, or diplomatic matters; sexual intercourse; reference; regard: in relation to your inquiry; the act of telling or narrating an account/story; TO... the principle (in law) whereby an act done at a later date is considered to have been done on a prior date (thanks Dictionary.com).  Yeah, serious about all kinds of relations…

About me: I'm FromRussia, a city of brides.

Coooool… Russia’s known as the City of Brides?  Kinda like Paris is known as the City of Love and New York the City That Never Sleeps?  Wow, I never knew that.  Every day’s a school-day…

This Marina 28 years, slavic externality.

To read the rest of this column, check out BC Johnny's upcoming book: Chilled Almonds. 
 

#4: Steering Wheel of Fortune

I love to drive. There's nothing like getting out on the open road, with your foot to the floor and feeling the wind rushing through your hair. Then remembering you need to get that roof fixed.

But seriously (well, kind of). There's a boy/girl racer in all of us and he/she craves to be the Formula One World champion. Well, there is in me, anyway. And I get a kick out of the freedom and liberation being able to drive brings.

However, putting pedal to the metal in Vancouver’s Lower Mainland (which I’m now fortunate to call home) is not an experience for the faint-hearted... or weak-boweled. In fact, driving round here should come with a public health warning – especially the section of Highway One between Vancouver and Surrey (the latter’s very similar to Surrey, England… in that it’s also called Surrey).

This stretch of (H1) highway is permanently 98.9% under construction, due to being built with a special polystyrene-based tarmac (part of the provincial government’s cunning plan to remove traffic from the B.C. roads). As a result, weird and hard-to-track diversions are forever in place, and lanes – which you need Superman-strength vision to decipher being as they’re ‘distinguished’ by white lines (painted with a special off-white paint which magically disintegrates in the rain) – become virtually impossible to make out in a patchwork quilt of tarmac old and new.

The camber of the road weaves liberally left and right and you’ve no choice but to hang on (to the steering wheel) for dear life as you strain every muscle, vein and tendon in a bid to stay within the flow of vehicles heading the way your car is facing, and avoid bouncing off any mountains, careering into lakes or inadvertently veering into oncoming traffic.

Most cars that frequently burn up and down this particular portion of Highway One have dents scattered freely around their bodywork, because engaging in a real-life game of dodgems is inevitable at some stage, as you navigate your way through the construction zones and try to figure out how in the hell you’re supposed to keep track – and within bounds – of this temporary lane system?

To read the rest of this column, check out BC Johnny's upcoming book: Chilled Almonds. 

#3: On the Lode to Nowhere...

As some of you know, I like to pound the pavements whenever possible. And I'm an avid runner, too (hey-hey! Buh-drrrrrrrm-chsssssh). But recently the pounding packed a little too much punch... and I was a little TOO avid. I pushed the training-racing envelope to the point where I was posting a letter to renew my BC medical insurance -- rather than a PB in the 2012 Vancouver Marathon.

Which meant I had to bite the bullet, throw my New Balance 880s in the closet and accept the fact I’d be forced to engage in some alternative sweat-enducing endeavours, in a bid to avoid gaining weight like a sumo wrestler priming for a Grand Sumo title bout (their version of the Olympics).

One of the best non-weight-bearing activities is, of course, swimming. Done in a facility called a swimming pool (if a tropical beach is not handily located), this activity involves a person self-propelling across the water (rather like an alligator stalking prey, but with less grace): flailing his or her arms windmill-like (front crawl); like Tarzan trying to separate branches of a bush in the Amazonian rainforest to snatch a view of Jane (before they were going steady; breast-stroke); flailing their arms like a double-armed reverse windmill -- the famous goal celebration of 1970s English football/soccer star Mick Channon (butterfly); and practicing a vague combination of the crawl and breast-stroke facing chest-up (back-stroke). All the while doing something useful with their legs/feet (namely kicking and splashing voraciously to at least soak a few people in the Slow lane). And all with the principal goal of not sinking to the bottom and drowning.

For runners, there’s also the option of pool running – or aqua jogging, as it’s also known (most runners will refer to it as the former, as referring to anything running-related as jogging is a heinous crime and will result in us runners emitting steam like a boiling kettle from various anatomical 'spouts' and not speaking to you for at least five seconds... until you ask us how our running's going).

So pool running (if you remember where we're at? I sure hope you do, as I'm pretty lost) is where you dive into the deep end of the local baths and try to simulate running wearing a flotation belt (like a World Championship boxing belt made of foam, but slightly less prestigious or hard-earned) – or going flotation belt-free, if you’re really hardcore... and keen to prove you can 'tread water' on-the-move.

I made my pool running debut last week, so am now (it goes without saying) an expert. Here’s my guide to this (possibly) ancient art-foam... I mean, form:

To read the rest of this column, check out BC Johnny's upcoming book: Chilled Almonds.