Because I Can… the random thoughts of Marc Scott

Scotty Lago is an athlete.  A young man, I suspect, not unlike many others.  He snowboards.  He also happens to do it as a representative of his country – the United States Of America.

Many, by now, are familiar with the Olympic tale of this 22 year old man from Seabrook, New Hampshire.  After winning a bronze medal during the Vancouver Games, he allowed himself to get into a bit of a predicament.  Photographs were taken of him in somewhat compromising positions with his medal.  Once those photographs found their  way to the internet, as most photographs usually do, what could very well have been a lapse in judgement turned into an international incident.

For his “punishment” he was, shall we say, “encouraged”, to leave Vancouver early and return to his hometown.  The Olympic dream of a young athlete abruptly cut short, and for what?  For a team to save face?  For a nation to save face?  I’m not sure that I understand.  I’m not sure that I ever will.  But it has presented an interesting insight into our own hypocrisy.

Boys will be boys.  That’s what they say, right?  Now, before I go any further, let me preface this by saying I am not condoning or encouraging his behaviour.  I’m simply pointing out an inconsistency that I see.

If the pictures in question had not found their way to the internet, then one can only assume that this incident would have passed without any mention.  The team would have cast it off as an excited young man having a momentary lapse in judgement amidst the excitement of winning a bronze medal at the Olympics.  Life would go on and Scotty would still be with his team in Vancouver.

However, because the pictures did make it to the world wide web, suddenly that changes everything.  Now, instead of forgetting the whole thing, the team feels the need to publicly reprimand the young man and send him home early.

One sports writer explained it by saying that these days athletes live under intense scrutiny.  I don’t disagree with that.  But that doesn’t explain the hypocrisy.  Why, if athletes are so heavily scrutinized, do their actions only become important when they get caught?  Why do we, as people, and as a society, tolerate a seemingly endless supply of unacceptable behaviour, as long as it remains behind closed doors?  Is it ignorance?  It’s is denial?  Would we rather just be oblivious?

I’m not saying I agree or disagree with how the Scotty Lago situation was handled.  I am more interested in understanding why we only hold people to a higher standard after the fact.  How long was Tiger Woods leading his double life?  Why did sponsors, colleagues, and fans the world ‘round abandon the guy the minute word got out?  Why do we accept our own sins and then turn around so quick to judge those of others?  Is it just because they’re in the spotlight?  Or is it because focusing on the flaws of others allows us to ignore the flaws in ourselves?

The religion scholars and Pharisees led in a woman who had been caught in an act of adultery. They stood her in plain sight of everyone and said, “Teacher, this woman was caught red-handed in the act of adultery. Moses, in the Law, gives orders to stone such persons. What do you say?” They were trying to trap him into saying something incriminating so they could bring charges against him.

Jesus bent down and wrote with his finger in the dirt. They kept at him, badgering him. He straightened up and said, “The sinless one among you, go first: Throw the stone.” Bending down again, he wrote some more in the dirt.

Hearing that, they walked away, one after another, beginning with the oldest. The woman was left alone. Jesus stood up and spoke to her. “Woman, where are they? Does no one condemn you?”

“No one, Master.”

“Neither do I,” said Jesus. “Go on your way. From now on, don’t sin.”
John 8:3-11

There are skeletons in all of our closets.  Some of them are from days long since passed.  Others are from recent memory.  Still some are ones we fight with daily.  As long as we keep them hidden in our closet, we are too often to content to just keep going.  It’s not until we are exposed that try to justify, correct, or save face.

Scotty returned to his hometown a hero.  To me, it’s a perfect picture of forgiveness.  Despite the mistake he made.  Regardless of the fact that his team encouraged him to leave so as to not draw any negative attention or publicity, his family, friends, and neighbours welcomed him home with open arms.  It’s unfortunate that that is not the story that will be told or remembered though.  And I can’t help but think that the reason for that, is because we’re all too busy casting stones.

surprisingly so
you are one of my favourite things
you are like a fairy tale world that’s come to real life
you can see through me
like some sort of transparent material
how could it be
that in such a short time you’ve become one of my favorite things

the small town marching band is in the parade on independence day
proudly marching, stepping in time
wearing those hand-me-down uniforms
everyone gathers on main street
expectantly waiting for their hometown hero

don’t you know ..
don’t you know ..

that you are one of my most favorite things ..
like notebooks, portland and tea
and when you smile.. you smile… you smile at me
you have no idea just how sweet it can be

so the band marches on
and we will sing along
there’s comfort in knowing our similarities
we are captured in time, space and degrees of caution .. wonder .. and awe

like pirouettes drifting
like chocolate
like saccharine
you’re unaware .. appealing
like our friendship, i’ll be content

Amy Seeley – Surprisingly So
http://amyseeley.bandcamp.com

It will be our first Christmas. Well… in my mind it will be our first Christmas. I’m not actually allowed to say such things since we are, as it’s been explained to me, “not officially dating.” Did you know there is a number one must reach before dating can become official? I confess I am quite inexperienced and naive in this department, so I’m learning as I go along. In today’s day and age, I suspect two people are not “officially” dating until there is an update to the Facebook “Relationship Status” setting, but I could be wrong. Oh, and for the record, the number – for those of you wondering – is 7. Until then… I am happily unofficially dating perhaps the most wondrous young lady I’ve ever had the privilege of having my life.

Anywho, I’m a bit of an old fashioned, sentimental guy at heart. So I wanted to try and do something special to mark this Christmas. Something with meaning. It may be our last, though I hope not. But it will always be our first. Given that we’ve only been together – well… not together since I’m not allowed to say we’re together – given that we’ve only known each other a short time, I didn’t have a lot of history to draw from for a memorable first gift. Nevertheless, with my thinking cap securely in place… I came up with two ideas. Neither of them are of any great significance. But it is the thought that counts right? If nothing else… both ideas were born from periods of great thought.

The first gift was tucked away safely on my computer. I have to be careful what I say here, so as to not give any discernible clues. It was the one I was most excited about; I suspect because it was the corniest of the two. I’m a bit of a dweeb like that. Nevertheless, it was there, safe, secured, and ready for delivery when the time was right.

I sat down at my computer last week and went to access the gift on my external hard drive. I turned on the computer, pushed the big blue button on the hard drive, and then went to search for the file. There was a problem though. My hard drive wasn’t showing up. I clicked the button again. Still no hard drive appearing. Upon further investigation, and possibly a moment or two of complete and utter panic, I determined that what I feared was true. The hard drive was pooched. For as long as I’ve owned a computer I have NEVER experienced a hard drive failure. I did on this day. My heart sank a little. Years of my life, quite literally, were gone in that moment. So was the gift.

I tried several different things I had read and heard about to get the hard drive working again… including placing it in the freezer! I was a desperate man, and these desperate times called for extremely desperate measures no matter how ridiculous they may have seemed. I imagine that there is a pimple faced teenage boy sitting in his dimly lit bedroom on the second floor of his parents house, laughing himself into convulsions over all the poor suckers like me that he’s convinced to place their hard drives in the freezer – courtesy of a tip he posted on his blog. On this day, I did not care. On another day, well, I may have tracked him down and flogged him with a wet spaghetti noodle. But on this day, I was willing to try anything no matter how absurd. My efforts were in vain.

It took me a week of surfing the interweb in my spare time before I finally found what was to be the second gift; now the first… and only. It’s amazing what you can find online if you know where and how to look. It’s all about the right keywords and search phrases, or so I’ve come to learn. I was excited about this gift as well. Even more so after the tragic loss of the first. The satisfaction of finding it after looking so hard made me anticipate it’s Christmas delivery even more. It is far from spectacular. But it is the fruits of a sentimental soul. One can only hope that counts for something.

I watched Jingle All The Way with my captivating young lady, her adorable sister, and her sisters boyfriend – who seems to be a gentleman himself – this past Friday night. It really is a total cheeseball movie. I think that is part of the reason why I love it. I mean, lets be honest, Arnold drinking with a reindeer? Who writes this stuff? I learned an important lesson from that movie, though I didn’t realize it until this evening as I began to write this blog. That lesson goes something like this… if Sinbad is even the slightest bit representative of the United States Postal Service, I have suddenly lost all hope of the timely arrival of gift number 2.

Order by this date at this time and it will arrive for Christmas. Those words were in big bold red letters all over the site. When I read through all the shipping FAQ’s, I read those words again. I read the fine print people… the FINE PRINT! I wanted to make sure gift 2 made it, and on time! Ordering when I did… I had plenty of time to spare! Or so I thought.

633km. That’s how far the package must travel. Well… that’s assuming the package travels a direct route. Then again, what are the odds of it traveling a direct route? I agree… slim to none. Regardless… this is a journey that I could have made myself in a day. A long day mind you, but a day nevertheless. The United States Postal Service, however, can apparently not complete this journey in a week. Rain. Sleet. Snow. Hail. They’re supposed to be all over it. But not on this day. Not for this package.

As I write these very words, my Christmas Countdown timer tells me that it’s 3 days, 2 hours, 19 minutes and 33 seconds until Christmas. Not just any Christmas either. No. Our first Christmas. The Christmas of first impression. The Christmas of lasting impression. The Christmas filled with two of the most unlikely stories that will be unwrapped in an empty box. The Christmas I tried hard and failed harder! If you’re going to blow it… may as well do a good job of it! I wanted to make a memory and boy have I ever! :)

And this Christmas will be… a very special Christmas indeed!

We had only gone out on a single date, albeit a wonderful evening.  Our introduction came on Saturday afternoon.  In a very short time, I was captivated by this young lady and knew I wanted to ask her out.  That, in and of itself, is a shock to some people who know me.  I’m the shy one.  I’m the quiet one.  I don’t ask young ladies out on dates.  I think about it.  Without question I have thought more than a few days away dreaming about it.  But to actually take the bold step.  To actually take the chance.  Well, it simply doesn’t happen.

Sunday afternoon I asked her out.  It was… unromantic.  In fact, for a man who prides himself on his ability to communicate, for a man who takes his words and writes them with such care and consideration, looking back I can’t help but think I could have done better.  “Miss [name removed for the sake of my physical well being]… you amuse me and I think you need to let me take you out for coffee this week.”  Even as I type the sentence, I hang my head in shame, but still with a bit of a grin.  One day, should this story ever be made into a book or a movie, I’m definitely going to have to rewrite that line!

She said yes.  At the end of the day, I suppose this is all that matters.  A glass half empty person would reflect on the exceptionally unpoetic way in which the proposal was phrased.  A glass half full person – who may or may not have done a fist pump into the air – smiles at his good fortune and spends the days before their meeting working on better lines.

In today’s society, where so many are raised in broken homes, it would seem that little significance is now placed on meeting the parents of the person whom you choose to date.  Sometimes there is one parent.  Sometimes there are no parents.  Sadly, in so many cases, it seems that two parents under the same roof are the exception rather than the rule.  I think it’s for this reason that it doesn’t seem to be tradition, if you will, as it once was.

Being a bit of an old soul – or so I’ve been called in the past – I still believe that it’s very important to meet a young ladies parents.  I believe that a gentleman has nothing to hide and therefore, nothing to fear, from meeting Mom and Dad.  Don’t get me wrong.  It is still more intimidating to me than when I’m staring down the mesmerizing glow and excruciating heat of a structure fire; but as I always say, sometimes sacrifices must be made for the greater good.

If you told me that I’d be meeting the parents exactly one week to the day of my first contact with this young lady, I would have politely cast you aside as fruit nut, and went about the business of my day.  While it’s true that I am all for meeting, and including the parents, I was a little caught off guard to have it happen so fast.  As I sat in my apartment on the fateful Saturday one week later I found myself frequently checking my pulse, and there may have been a blood pressure check once as well.  My official story will, of course, always be that it was practice for the Fire Department.

The clock ticked louder that day.  I know this because I haven’t a clock that ticks anywhere in my home, but I’m convinced that I heard one knocking off each passing second – so it must have been louder.  I confess that I relived every bad thing that happened to Ben Stiller (aka Gaylord Focker) as he welcomed Robert DeNiro (Jack Byrnes) into his life.  I lowered myself off the couch, and on bended knee I prayed to God that there would be no urn on the mantle, no cat named Jinx, and with more fervor than perhaps I’ve ever displayed, I prayed that there would be no lie detector test conducted by a Florist formerly employed by the CIA.

Few gentleman had been brought home to meet the parents, or so the story this young lady told me, goes.  Being a classic over-thinker, I could only assume such a fact was true because the thought of the pending interrogation proved to be too much for those that had come before me, and they simply bowed out gracefully before ever making it to this stage.  In the midst of my poorly disguised panic, my captivating young lady – with her eyes the colour of a clear summer sky – explained to me that the bar was set very low by those that came before me; though this gave me little comfort.

“Stay awake.”  Those were my instructions.  “As long as you don’t fall asleep while they’re talking to you… they’ll like you.”

“But it’s Saturday,” I cried, “I sleep A LOT on Saturday’s.  Sometimes I can’t help myself.”  My concerns were genuine, though in reflection, mostly ridiculous and possibly brought about as a result of panic and an elevated heart rate.

My captivating young lady, whose smile douses my fear like an inch and a half combat line douses flames, was confident I could pull it off.  It is true that I sleep a lot on Saturday.  It is true that, in the past, I have fallen asleep in random places (refer to the above photo).  But today I was on mission.  Today, my objective was earn the privilege of a second date.  Today was Saturday, and it was time to meet the parents!

Epilogue
On Friday I will see my captivating young lady for the 4th time.  Not only did I manage to stay awake, but it would seem that I may have even managed to impress.  This, dear friends, is evidence to the power of prayer! ;-)

The Provincial Liberal government has spent weeks now trying to convince the fine people of Ontario that the HST (affectionally referred to as the DST – Dalton Sales Tax – by the Tories) is a great idea.  They want us to believe that it will do wonderful and fantastic things for the Province.  They’ve done their best to convince us that it will create jobs and the benefits will be far reaching.

If this is indeed true, then why is it that the Liberals rammed this tax through the legislature as quickly as possible, and refused any and all requests by the other parties for public hearings on this wonderful, amazing, life altering tax that is for the greater good of all of us?  Well… because even the Liberals know that Ontario voters would never stand for such a blatant government cash grab.  If people were given the chance to speak, I am convinced that people would send a loud and clear message informing Mr. McGuinty of exactly where he can stick his new tax.

For those of you that have not followed along with the developing story of the HST, here is your wake up call, albeit it, too late to make a difference.  This tax is coming in July and we’re stuck with it, at the very least, until the next provincial election in 2011.  Hopefully by then people will have educated themselves and decided to use their vote to speak.

People like you and I don’t always have a chance to have a voice when it comes to issues of government.  As evidenced by the HST, politicians will force things through without giving a second thought to the concerns of the very people it affects.  So every 4 years we have the ability to speak.  We have the privilege to speak.  We are given a vote.  It saddens me how many people cast this privilege aside as a waste of time or an inconvenience.  The excuses for doing so are as vast as the very land in which we live.  Each of them is unacceptable.

Take a look at the “price of progress” as this new tax is being deemed.  After you’ve done so; after you’ve had a chance to see just how deeply this will affect you and your family, I want you to mark October 6, 2011 on your calendar.  That will be our next chance to speak with our vote.  I hope you will join me in speaking loud and clear!

THE PRICE OF PROGRESS?

What will be subjected to the new sales tax

- Gasoline

- Utilities (heating/hydro/natural gas)

- Internet bills

- Magazines

- Adult footwear under $30

- Admissions under $4 (e.g., swimming pool, skating rink)

- Veterinary care

- Personal services (e.g., hair stylist, massage)

- Professional services (e.g., legal, accountant, mutual fund fees)

- Membership fees (e.g., gym)

- New homes over $400,000

- Real estate commissions

- Commercial property rentals

- Condominium Fees

- Landscaping

- Vitamins

- Most admissions to live theatres

- Taxi fares

- Conferences and seminars

- Dry cleaning

- Carpet cleaning

- Labour costs related to home renovation

- Motor vehicle services (towing, car washing)

- Ice rink rental

- Hotels

- Overnight summer camps

- Domestic air travel

- Domestic rail travel

- Bus tickets

- Christmas trees

- Electrical and plumbing services

- Snowplowing

- Bicycles

- Funeral costs

- Postal stamps and courier fees

- Green fees

I was a kid working in a garage with manly mechanic men and two cute older girls. Maybe I was trying to man up with the mechanics, or maybe I was trying to impress the girls. Maybe it was a combination of both. All I know is that it was that summer that I first tried coffee.

I’m not sure how old I was exactly, I think maybe around 14. I worked during holidays scrubbing school buses. If you can believe it, that’s not even the worst job I’ve ever worked. It certainly was close. School kids are disgusting! You don’t realize how much so when you’re riding the bus. Enlightenment doesn’t come until you’re on your back, on the floor of the bus with a putty knife, scraping off a couple months worth of hardened Bubblicious!

March Break, Christmas, Summer, whenever the buses were off the road for a few days, I was the guy that got to come in and make them shine. I scrubbed the floors, the walls and the ceiling. I scraped and scrubbed the seats. I washed the windows. It was military. There were inspections.

During one of the breaks I was working with a couple of “older girls.” If I was 14, I would guess they were around 18. So certainly I wanted to impress them. They were cute! And really, what kid doesn’t want to impress older girls? Being in the garage with the mechanics, with their dirty, calloused hands, I certainly didn’t want to look like a cream puff in front of them either. All that said, maybe it’s just that coffee was free and I never had money for the vending machine. I suppose that could be a legitimate explanation as well.

All I know is that it was the first time I ever tried coffee. I remember going into the lunchroom and being clueless as to what was supposed to happen next. A foam cup. I figured that out. A pot with coffee in it. That seemed straight forward enough. But then there was a container of sugar. There was milk. There was cream. And there was some other mysterious product called “Coffee-mate.” I had no clue what that was.

All the milk and sugar in the world couldn’t stop the coffee from being one of the most vile smelling substances I had ever experienced. And, as I would soon find out… all the Coffee-mate, milk and sugar in the world couldn’t make it taste good either. My attempt to man up and impress the girls lasted for 1 sip. A coffee drinker, I was not!

In 1995 I started working towards my dream of being on the radio. Phase 1 involved a cooperative education placement at (then) 1470 C-HOW in Welland. The morning team of Brian Salmon and Pete Morena taught me much of what I know about radio to this day. But there is one lesson I refused to learn. Both informed me very early in my co-op placement that I would not survive 5 minutes in radio if I didn’t start drinking coffee. Well, here I am nearly 14 years later… still on the air… and still coffee free.

Last night, an intriguing young lady with sparkling eyes and a heart-melting smile granted me the happy privilege of taking her for coffee. She spoke few words, but one smile from her could say more than the most eloquent sentence I could ever form. As we said our goodbyes and I began my journey home, all I could think was, I would start drinking coffee this very minute, should she agree to let me take her again.

I took some time off from the blog.  It was partially intentional, and partially not, though I suspect one lead to, or, perhaps fed into, the other.  Yet, all the while this blog was sitting idle people continued to find it courtesy of my good friends at Google.  Part of me hopes they found what they were looking for.  Then again, with some of the keywords that lead them here… part of me hopes they didn’t!

Search Term: marc scott on 60 minutes
Search Engine: Google Norway
Blog Post: Blog Home Page
My thoughts: I’ve done a lot of things in my career.  I’ve hosted TV shows, I’ve done live radio, syndicated radio and I’ve done quite a bit of voice work as well.  I don’t ever recall appearing on 60 minutes though.  I’ll be really ticked off if I missed out on that.  I think it would be pretty cool.

Search Term: spoon in the butt
Search Engine: Google US
Blog Post: Ode To A Wooden Spoon (View It)
My Thoughts: So this particular blog post was about being spanked with a wooden spoon.  But nowhere in it do I recall talking about having said spoon inserted into the butt.  That’s uncomfortable to even think about.  What’s of even greater concern to me is what in the world somebody could possibly be looking for – and why – by performing such a keyword search!

Search Term: donation “World Vision”
Search Engine: Google US
Blog Post: Me (View It)
My Thoughts: I always used to be one of those guys that thought nice thoughts.  Good intentioned, I suppose would be the best way to describe it.  But my good intentions only took me so far.  We need to be people of action.  I tossed around the idea of sponsoring a child for years.  In the end it always came back to “I can’t afford it.”  Then one day I took a step of faith, and since that day a little over a year ago, I’ve never looked back.  More than that, I’ve never once struggled to make my $30/month sponsorship pledge. James 2:14-25

Search Term: texting and driving accident pictures
Search Engine: Google Canada
Blog Post: Texting & Driving (View It)
My Thoughts: I shared a video on this particular blog.  It was a very graphic public service announcement from the UK.  Shortly after I posted it, I noticed it popping up all over the internet in true viral video fashion.  Each and every person, teenagers and adults alike, that owns a cellphone and a drivers license should watch this video.

Search Term: “joshua p warren” “money making kit”
Search Engine: Yahoo US
Blog Post: Thoughts On The Throne (View It)
My Thoughts: I have to tell you, when I first saw this keyword I was quite confused.  I had no idea who Joshua P Warren was, and I sure as heck didn’t know anything about his money making kit.  I clicked on the blog post this search lead to and was quickly reminded.  ”Put this by your toilet and make money being a psychic in two weeks!”  If that’s not enough to make you want to read this blog, I don’t know what is!

Search Term: parents find out about car accident posted on facebook
Search Engine: Google US
Blog Post: Thursday June 26 2003 (View It)
My Thoughts: This keyword search made me laugh.  Sounds to me like somebody has something to hide!  I wonder what they thought when they read the blog post their search lead them to?  This one was definitely one of my more emotionally charged and personal posts.

Search Term: firefigher save cat
Search Engine: Google Latvia
Blog Post: No Glove No Love (View It)
My Thoughts: Yes I am a firefighter.  Yes I’ve saved a cat.  No it was not in a true.  Yes this is a true story!

Search Term: socks (in various keyword forms)
Search Engine: Google (several countries)
Blog Post: One Of The Toughest Things About Being A Firefighter (View It)
My Thoughts: In the last month there has been no less than 2 dozen people that have found my blog by searching for different terms involving the word socks.  ”Putting on socks” “Pulling up socks” “socks” “wearing socks” and the list goes on.  Each one of those crazy searches lead to this post.  I can’t believe how many people Google the word socks!

And finally…

Search Term: grandma was a firefighter
Search Engine: Google US
Blog Post: A Fireman’s Prayer (View It)
My Thoughts: How in the world this search ever lead somebody to my blog is beyond me, but it did.  This post is actually one that I didn’t write.  I printed a prayer that was shared with me years ago.  I think it’s cool though that somebody’s Grandma was a firefighter.

When I was growing up, Halloween was a pretty big deal at our house.  In fact, we had the coolest house in town.  People would come from neighbouring towns for the sole purpose of visiting our place.  They wanted to see what we had done, changed, or added this year.

We had stuffed dummies, all kinds of decorations, and an outdoor sound system cranking scary sounds and music that echoed down the street.  Dad would dress up as the Grim Reaper, and I would dress up as a stuffed dummy (keep your wise cracks to yourself thank you very much!)  We would scare the snot out of people all in the name of good fun.  And their reward for bravery was a bag of the most delicious homemade caramel corn you’d ever experience in your life.

Our set up was great.  I would sit, stuffed full of newspaper, in a chair inside the front door with the bags of caramel corn in a bowl on my lap.  I had a mask on, and, short of a full on close up inspection, nearly all were fooled as to my status of being alive or fake.  Kids – and parents – would walk through our front porch and into the living room.  As they would approach the chair where I sat, they’d stand very apprehensive about the whole deal.  Shouldn’t somebody hand them the candy? they’d wonder.  When they finally mustered up enough courage to reach into the bowl, I’d reach out, grab their arm, and watch the colour drain from their faces like somebody had just flushed their toilet.

It didn’t end there though.  When they would turn around to run for the safety of the sidewalk, they would run right into my dad, whom, dressed as the Grim Reaper, had snuck in behind them unnoticed while they tried to determine if they should reach for their own candy or not.

It was classic.  We were always careful of whom we did this to.  Obviously we weren’t so cruel as to play our game on very small children.  In the end, most were adequately terrified, satisfied with their carmel corn, and ready to return with their friends next year.  It wasn’t uncommon for us to see double, triple, or even beyond, the average number of trick or treaters that the rest of the homes in our community would see.

Another thing we always did that would impress people was our pumpkin carving.  There were no triangle eyes and jagged teethed jack-o-lanterns in our windows.  We would carve full out masterpieces that took entire afternoons of patience and precision to create.  When you’d look at the finished product sitting there on the kitchen table, you’d swear you had just wasted your entire afternoon.  But once you got a candle in it in the dark you could see the fruits of your labour.

I was surfing around on YouTube today and found a couple of videos that made me think back to those Halloween experiences as a kid.  One day maybe I’ll get to share similar experiences with my children.  Only this time around, maybe we’ll employ some different pumpkin carving techniques!

There are many things about me that make anything but a typical man.  For example, I have no problem putting the toilet seat down.  It doesn’t bother me, it’s not hard to remember, I don’t mind it at all.  I even live alone and I still put the toilet seat down.  How about this, if I’m lost – though it doesn’t happen often – I’m not opposed to stopping and asking for directions.  Seems to me like a better solution than mindlessly wandering around in who knows where on my way to who knows what.

The same thing, (the not typical man thing) applies to sports as well.  I don’t need to spend my Sunday afternoon watching 14 hours of football on 17 different channels.  When I go see a Jays game, I don’t paint my face blue, I don’t strap foam wings to my back, I don’t wear Blue Jays underwear on the outside of my pants, and there are no happy dances in on the street when they win.  That said, I’ve never actually been to a game when they’ve won, so I suppose I can’t say for sure… but I’m pretty sure.

One thing I’ve never been able to wrap my head around is the celebratory rituals of fans when their team wins the big game.  I simply don’t get it.  How does climbing a street light, flipping a taxi cab, setting dumpsters on fire, or participating in drunken shenanigans the likes of which you will not recall during your inevitable hangover the morning after, help make the victory taste sweeter?

When my team wins, I get excited.  I maybe do a little fist pump or send a quick thank you to God; though I don’t believe He spends much time impacting the outcome of baseball games.  Outside of that, I just enjoy the moment, and then move on with my life.  Maybe it’s because I’m not a diehard that I don’t truly understand or appreciate the celebrations of others.

For those of you that are diehards, or for those of you just looking to be amused, enjoy some video from the streets of Philly after their boys eliminated the Dodgers and advanced to the World Series.  My mom will be proud to know that she’ll never see me on the news in this fashion! :P

I don’t consider myself to be an emotional guy, although, the years, and to an extent, life,  have definitely softened me.  It’s not that I was ever hardened, or at least I don’t think I was.  I’m just definitely not one to wear emotion on my sleeve.

Part of that thick skin, I believe, is due to my experiences on the Fire Department.  I don’t think one would last for more than a day on the job if you let things really get to you.  You see too much.  Experience too much.  Pain, tragedy, loss, hurt, and then other times joy, relief and even humour; a spectrum of thoughts, sights, and emotions as vast as the clear blue sky.

For all the shows on television, there is only one – has only been one – that truly touches me each time I watch it.  In the span of 60 minutes my heart can break as the story begins and then leap as it ends.  My eyes can glisten with tears in one moment, and sparkle with joy in the next.  I ache from the depths of human tragedy and suffering, and then become inspired by a willingness and ability to move mountains that previously stood in the way of healing.

In my opinion, Extreme Makeover Home Edition is among the best that television has to offer simply for the fact that it’s not about me.  What I mean to say is, it’s not about self.  Television tends to be self oriented.  Game Shows about winning me big money.  Reality Shows about me winning a competition.  Sit-coms and Dramas about the pursuit of self gratification – success, wealth, sex – me… me… me.  Not me personally mind you, but me in the sense of self.

Extreme Makeover, on the other hand, is all about somebody else.  It’s about taking a tragedy, taking a loss, taking pain, taking struggles, and doing what otherwise may not be able to be done on our own.  Beating the odds.  It’s about families, friends, neighbours, and entire communities coming together for a common goal… to serve!  My heart warms just thinking about it.

I know the show has it’s critics, and I know some question it’s extravagance – though I believe it’s been toned down over the years – but all else aside, you can’t question the motives.  To change lives.  To help people.  To provide second chances.  To make the impossible, possible.  In it’s purest, simplest form… to serve.

Each week I watch the show and wish I could be a part of it.  What a joy it must be to volunteer with the show for a week.  This week, in the middle of a brutal Texas heat wave where the temperature never dropped below 100F, people kept their eye on the goal… to serve.  They cast aside their own comfort.  They worked through their own pain.  They gave their time, their effort, their energy, their blood, sweat and tears, and they did it, not for their own personal gain, but for somebody else.

This week at work somebody handed me the Future Shop flyer.  They know I enjoy browsing through it.  Wishful thinking mostly.  As the flyer was placed on the desk I joked that I shouldn’t be looking at it because it will just make me want to spend money.  The individuals response was, “well isn’t that why you work?  To make money so you can spend it on yourself?”

I thought a lot about that statement.  It made me a little sad, if I’m being honest, because it really is a reflection of the way so much of society thinks.  It’s all about me.  Things for me.  For my entertainment.  For my joy.  For my pleasure.  Sum up commom thinking in a single word… me.

It’s great to watch a show like Extreme Makeover Home Edition and be inspired.  We should be inspired!  But inspiration isn’t enough.  Thoughts are nice.  Words can be well meaning.  Actions, though, are real!  They’re love in motion.

I will likely never be on a team that builds a house in 7 days; but I could volunteer for Habitat For Humanity.  I will likely never solve world hunger; but I can make a donation to my local food bank.  I may never save a child from poverty; but I can sponsor one through World Vision.  I may never save a life; but I can touch one.

Do something this week for somebody else, with no expectation of return.  Do something that doesn’t invole “me”.