Pony Express

The first horseman of the apocalypse usually rides into town on a white steed.

The embodiment of righteousness. Deliverer of the good word...and bad news.

A biblical postal worker, if I may overstretch an analogy, as usual.

Unfortunately, there are three more fellas behind this pony-apocalypse-express, each with their own brand of end-of-days parting gifts.

Mail in Canada was once delivered by ponies. If you happened to live north of the treeline, birthday cards came by dogsled. Today, with every modern technology at its disposal, the Canadian national letter carrier cannot perform its singular task.

The end is nigh.

It would prefer you do it yourself.   At least some of the way.  Naturally, charging you a little more for the privilege and leaning evermore on their already over-worked employees.

Exploitative price increases, spectacular cost savings (half a billion) through layoffs and axing door-to-door, while posting tidy profits, this crown corporation has fooled us all.

The Canadian stamp does not even have the courtesy of letting you know its worth.  The cost has been removed from its design for some time now.  A seemingly innocuous omission of a number has allowed its price to be discreetly and ridiculously inflated.

A single Canadian stamp now costs one dollar.  Canada Post ended its 2014 year having sold an extra 194 million of them.  Somehow they need my help?

For one dollar your piece of mail will not reach its destination.  It will come close though. For one dollar, your nana will get her birthday card from metal box a short walk from her home.  She may walk it back in the rain. Maybe on ice.  Unless she lives in Vancouver.  Then, definitely rain.  Out west, they're having a problem with theft, so she may not get anything at all.  Poor little old lady.

Best to just text her.

Community mailboxes are springing up everywhere across the country. They are installed in a few short hours, in the light of day, with almost no resistance.   Everyone is at work.  Generating tax dollars.

Fret not, lovers of longhand paper travel, there is a small faction of folk who are trying to "save" Canada Post.  Sigh.

Until last week, the proposed space for my postal grab-bag was a flower garden, planted by my neighbourly non-conformists who fought hard to save door-to-door.  A nice try.  Now the personal information of my entire block is stored in one location, available to anyone with a screwdriver and a crowbar.  When the temperature dips and the sun begins to set at 5pm, there will invariably be a crush of headlights surrounding this area, engines idling daily.

Very environmental.

Thankfully, some Canadians aren't the passive lay-down-and-take-it types.  One Charlottetownian has gone so far as to park a trailer on his future site for these metallic monstrosities.  His front lawn spared.  For now.

Of course, everything assumes that Canada Post delivers items of a personal nature.  Since May, I have been collecting in my mailbox anything not addressed to me.  On the first anniversary of this postal bilge collection experiment, I plan to return-to-sender every piece, one by one, using the very company that delivered it to me.

If Canada Post wants to waste my time at my expense, I can happily double their efforts by not affixing postage, returning junk mail.  Repeatedly.

I had thought about a deluge of December Dear Santa letters, but Canada Post uses volunteers for this "charitable" effort.  Even Santa's replies will delivered to the community mailbox.  More lies parents will need to tell to keep the dream alive.

This Hallowe'en I might use my communal mailbox for an effective way to disperse goodies.  Think of the time saved.  Think of the children.

I certainly don't mind walking the two-hundred feet for a pizza flyer. Frankly, the more opportunity for caloric burn, the better.   Though if I'm to do some of their work, I expect to share in their profits.

Clip-clop.

A Lovely Pile of Kokosnöts.

Something is rotten in the state of Sweden.  It's not the meatballs.

Well, kinda.

In 2011, IKEA made 1.2 billion Euros (1.8b Canadian) selling food.

Yes, the leviathan home-outfitter offers some artery-clogging fare at some cut-throat prices.  I'm a fan of cheap eats.  A one-dollar breakfast and seventy-five cent hotdog are really the flagship fly-tape that gets you in and keeps you shopping.  

If a white van (with no windows) pulls up, offers you candy, do you go for a ride?  Of course!  To the IKEA Jeeves! How else will you get your Trysil into your dorm?

Ottawa's IKEA is the largest in Canada. It is almost 400,000 square feet and if you're lucky, you can make it from entrance to exit in 15 minutes.   That's 1.3 kms walking at an average pace, not stopping to correct your mult-directional shopping cart, getting caught behind the walking dead, or being fooled by the directional signage deviously inspired by M.C. Escher .  

You haven't purchased anything, mind.  Fifteen minutes of your life just to get through the bloody store.  Charge your phone.

Five Canadian-sized football fields full of crap that will be in a landfill in no less that 5 years.

Swedish Narnia.  Behemoth bargains.

You're going to need sustenance.  You'll want it cheap.

According to the Toronto Star, IKEA's thrifty breakfast, while filling, isn't too healthy.  My store opens at ten on weekdays.  Not nine, like most businesses.  Ten.   By this time, there is a lineup of construction workers, new-moms, do-it-yourselfers on their day off, and the elderly waiting patiently outside.

Most of these people are usually up by 6am. Offering breakfast at ten even for a dollar isn't a deal.  It's an obvious ploy with a dash of evil.  It's no secret.  We are painfully aware.

The early-birds are famished and by 10am they don't care about sodium, carbs and most definitely do not read the Toronto Star.  When IKEA's doors finally open the race towards powdered-eggs, sausage and hash-browns moves faster than a mob across a Hungarian border patrol.  Oh wait.. I've confused my puns.

Hungary. Hungry.

Moving on.

Greener foods are available, but who's kidding who?   A seventy-five cent pig-missle after a walking through a maze of umlauted furniture is like receiving an Olympic gold medal.   Made from pork.  Furthermore, stress-eating is a perfectly acceptable way of avoiding 'relationship' conversation on the minivan ride home. A buck-fifty avoids putting your foot in it.  Save the domestic for the assembly of your pressed-wood, melamine bookshelf.

I can pretty much endure most all IKEA-isms, knowing what I'm getting into when I pull into the parking lot and sigh heavily.

Except for one thing.

Huh?

It's a piece of something, alright.  The last halm.  Er, straw. 

Care-free capitalism has finally planted its fat bottom down on the consumers sofa for the long haul. Be prepared to really do-it-yourself.  That fat bastard is guilting you into doing their job.  IKEA, my sweet raringar, is asking you to help around the house a little (in the spirit of community) to "keeping prices low".  So get off your häck and help out a little, ok?  

Even the filthiest mall in the most depressive forgotten town in North America has people at the food court to clear the debris, spray some lung-burning cleaning agent on a table and labour back behind that filthy mystery door.    So why not here?

Apparently, our friendly yellow clad employees are so busy they can't spare a moment.  Try and find one when you need one and risk making a wrong turn in the labyrinth.  I dare you. 

In Ottawa, the average salary for an IKEA employee is $12.16/hour.  Before income tax,  full-time employees earn just under a hundred bucks a day.

They seem pretty goddamned happy. 

You're telling me that of the approximately 330 stores worldwide, hiring one extra person a day to clean up plates from old ladies is bank-breaking?   I've done the math.  It's a little over 12 million dollars for 330 employees 365 days a year.  A drop in the knod.

IKEA's revenues for 2014 were 29.29 billion Euros.  That's 44 billion Canadian dollars.   They were up a slight 3.33 billion Euros in profits.   

A mere five billion loonies. 

Tidy.

The gross domestic product of Guyana.

Still, I suppose it's cheaper to produce condescending reminders for each table.

After you've cleaned up and escaped the cat's-cradle, make your way to the self-checkout.

It's a piece of cake.

Whistle-whistleblower

I'm not entirely certain how many muscles it takes to whistle, but it's definitely too many.

The mouth-meat involved in human birdsong is called the 'buccinator' (snort) and the orbicular oris. These muscle groups, guided by some alien and ignorant impulse from the brain, allow the mouth to form the most ridiculous of all human facial positioning, in preparation for the most foolish utterance ever conceived.

The whistle.

It is a facial-expression akin to having a straw removed quickly from your gob or what it looks like blowing into someone's ear (which today might get you punched out by your most intimate relationship).  You know the face.

The sound that comes from this sphinctered oral orifice is so utterly repulsive, it's a wonder the human race has survived at all.  The only other human hole capable of making such awful sounds, is, well...for another blog.

I'm not talking about a getting-your-attention, help-I'm-lost-in-the-forest, fingers-in-your-mouth whistle.

I mean the other one.

It's the self-indulgent unnecessary weird neighbour, whose shirt is off in the front-yard as soon as the snow melts.   Yes, that self-obsessed jackass that no-one wants at the thanksgiving table.

There is a book entitled  "A Brief History of Whistling" by John Lucas.  One can only surmise that this 196-paged hardcover was titled as such because Mr. Lucas must have needed a divorce lawyer halfway through its writing.   Brief history indeed.  Hopefully there are thousands of copies left.

There's something about whistling and old men.  A little misandry here fellas, but it's definitely a male issue. You never hear an old lady bent over in her garden whistling for no goddamned reason.  Men are just ignorant, boastful, imbeciles.   They whistle.

The range of sound that comes out of their sometimes hairy puckered pie-holes is impressive. Some can carry a high pitched tune, while others are just whistling idiotic, making noise, creating CO2.

I reckon there can be but two reasons for this persisting phenomenon:

JOY
Whistling is generally associated with good feelings.  Whistle while you work, take your mind off the mundane etc.  Positive, uplifting Disney tripe.  We've been fed that if someone is in a good mood, whistling can express it no better.  Can a person not share with the world (within earshot) his good news, his good mood?  He can't contain himself!  Guess what old man?  Please don't. The world is an ugly place, ugly with you in it and far uglier with your noises.  Some of us are having a bad day.  A hangover is a real thing.  Don't rub it in.  What could you possibly be happy about anyway?  The thought of your wet pursed lips would be better around a cigar or a bottle of vodka.

Maybe whistling makes you appear non-threatening to women-folk (or other men-folk for that matter) in your immediate vicinity.

Excellent.

We will see this as a sign of weakness and attack you with abandon.

ILLNESS
Whistling of course could be a tick. Involuntary even. Even Tourette's Syndrome uses words.
If you've nothing to share and you're whistling, well perhaps there is something wrong with you. Crazy folk talk to themselves at least. English jibber-jabber is my favourite means of information transportation. We have some lovely cuss-words.  We invented the swear-jar. Honestly though, you may have a mental illness and we're too polite to tell you. There are professionals that can cure you of your melodic uncontrollable mouth-flute outbursts.

If you're not lobotomized soon, you may find yourself one day with a fatter lip to mouth-chirp with.




HOPE

Fret not my whistle-whistleblowers.  You're not alone.  Say hello to misophonia.

Just not too close or loudly, mind you.

Misophonia is diagnosed as a rage induced reaction from certain sounds.   Sounds of people eating, clocks ticking, water dripping from a faucet, vacuums, all send people into a state of unbridled violent anger.

Whistling is also in this category.

The deafening sound of unnecessary vanity and self-importance should make everyone punchy, n'est pas? 

Thankfully, whistling isn't catching on these days.  Children learn how to do it out of developmental pride and soon toss it away like all the other plastic crap given to them during their indulgent little upbringings.   Still, a whistle will pop its foolish head now and again, always at the wrong time and place, usually by old men (who are probably perverts anyway) and deserve to be internet-shamed here on a blog that none reads.



THE I-WHISTLE 2000

I'm standing at the checkout line at Walmart.  Don't judge me. They price-match, so if you hate capitalism, then go back to Gorbachev's Russia, pinko.

Nasdrovia.

It's just after the rush hour, six-thirty.  I've chosen a regular line, forsaking the twenty-person-deep express.  There's no way they'll beat me out of here. I'm living on the edge.  I am the smartest man alive.

Trapped between a handsome portly couple ahead with enough junk food to give a small town diabetes and a woman having a one-sided conversation behind, I glance left at the quick moving express, just enough to peripherally see her act out her every reply.  She's wearing earbuds. She's in her mid-twenties. Talking loudly into my neck and gesticulating like she's all alone in her one-bedroom condo (where she probably cries herself to sleep in every night after a bottle of grigio), I'm unwillingly invited into her conversation.

Boy, she's starving.   Yes, Mike IS an idiot.  I couldn't agree MORE, this weekend was AMAZING, she drank so much and I do hope that guy calls her.  And so on.

I am calm.

A ninja.

Blinking ferociously, on the inside I am screaming. "Clean up at cash two!  Bring a mop.  There are teeth and phone bits everywhere".   On the outside, pure serenity.   I was taught to compose myself as if it were 1950's England.  Emotionless, conservative politesse, unless addressed directly.  Pleasantries, then move along.

Admittedly, my achillian weakness is public displays of any kind.  Cellphones conversations, whistling (obviously), domestic disputes in the parking lot, open-mouthed kissing, talking loudly if there are more than two people in a room.

Steve Jobs wasn't a genius.  He created a monster.  He's quoted as saying he would never let his kids play with his own technology.  That's like Pablo Escobar not letting his kids snort coke.  Excellent father, but the Oppenheimer of his trade.

Innate trust in the internet and its illusion of privacy has been our undoing.  Paying for a subscription online, having a password,  does not guarantee some teenager in his basement isn't going to hack into a website and divulge that you are a closet Coronation Street fan.   (Frankly, that's nothing to be ashamed of.)   Sent a nude pic by text once?  It's going to kick around forever.  At least it will remind you of your slutty youth and your once wrinkle-free bits.

The smartphone. Misnomer of the twenty-first century. There was a time when if a phone rang, it was in your home.  When it did, a signal triggered a ringer (with moving parts) signifying that someone, anyone was trying to reach you.  In the privacy of your domicile, you were expected to answer and have a confidential chat.

If a phone rang in your office you picked it up. It still remains a delegated place to have a phone conversation.

Today, everyone is painfully aware of when you receive a private message on your impressive portable telephonic device.  Congratulations.  Incessant pings let everyone know around you that someone wants to speak with you. They are sending you private texts. You are giving us privy to their top-secret delivery.    Repeatedly.  You won't notice our irritation because you can't take your eyes of the screen.

Ping.  You respond.  Ping. You respond again (sometimes with pretend typewriter clicking noises).

Ping.   You laugh out loud.  Then type LOL.

Ping.

Ping.

Better still, you can simply take a call and have a full-voiced conversation in the privacy of a packed elevator or subway.

Someone loves you!

At least ten people now hate you.

Ping.

I will conclude my rant with the 'selfie'.   It's the perfect word.  The cute diminutive of "self-portrait", it is the dumbing down of what was at one time a true art form, taken with an actual camera.  Sometimes if you were really talented, with a paintbrush.   If you have over 90 self-portraits you'd better be Rembrandt., otherwise you're just some guy with a smartphone who thinks you are special, or you're completely mental, or variations on this theme.

The very act of taking a selfie today is having everyone watch you, watch yourself taking a picture of yourself, sometimes in real time.

You can occasionally bring the unwilling public into your personal life -  without their consent.

It can even be done in the checkout-line at Walmart.

Ping.