I am never going to be able to do this ever again. That’s the thought that ran through my mind as I walked into the Park Plaza movie theatre for the last time the other night.
hate it when people who have been around a while say to the youngsters out there: “When I was your age we used to have real winters with snow up to our ears, and it was as cold as a well digger’s derriere.”
The Gym Craze. They don’t call it a “craze” for nothin’. Because sometimes, for some people, this newly discovered obsession with going to the gym can get just plain crazy.
I’m not talking about Gym Rats who virtually eat, sleep and scurry around local fitness centres when they are not pretending to be humans, attending office jobs which consist mainly of going to meetings all day.
I’m thinking about lists because we just rang in the New Year singing and toasting in the hopes that Saint Nicolas would soon be here. At least I think that’s what we were celebrating on New Year’s Eve — it’s all a little foggy.
Boxing Day is that most sacred of days — that special day that comes but once a year. That exciting day so many people wait impatiently for all year with baited breath and joy in their hearts and hands on their wallets. The day where the uplifting magical Christmas spirit goes swirling unceremoniously down the toilet.
I’ll admit it right up front, although it’s probably pretty painfully obvious. I am a hopeless romantic and a certified Maudlin Weenie when it comes to sparkling magical times like Christmas.
Many people these days are thinking about a traditional Christmas. You know, when it’s -20, snowdrifts up to your frozen earlobes, north wind howling like the Ghost of Christmas Past. This is also known as “excellent tobogganing weather.” None of this wimpy brown Christmas nonsense for us hearty Canadians.
Fall brings a special time of year, when all the strange and scary, the creepy and the ugly, the weird and the wacky gather for a night of begging and bellowing. I’m talking, of course, about political leadership conventions, but let’s not forget, it’s also the time for Halloween.
So somehow, behind my back, my two rotten kids grew up and left. They left my devoted spousal unit and myself wandering around an empty house, tripping on our old sleeping cat, stumbling over our confused and elderly West Highland White and being generally harassed by our seriously psychotic shih-tzu.
Where did it go? You can hear the cacophony of summer-worshipers everywhere, their wailing and gnashing of teeth, now that the summer of ’09 has faded into the past tense.
It’s unmistakable. It’s special. It’s fall. And something’s in the air. And that something is dust.
I have a new best friend because she always tells me where to go. My wife thinks she’s kind of dumb, but my kids think it’s the greatest thing ever.
It’s a fact. A full moon is an astronomical phenomenon involving a lunar phase whereby we Earthlings can observe the complete spherical reflection of our only orbiting body once a month. It also means many people are going to act pretty weird.
It’s that time of year again! That cheery festive time for blessed thanks and happiness!
No, I’m not talking about Christmas or even Thanksgiving. I’m talking about that yearly ritualistic celebrating by grateful parents of hyperactive tweens and bored teens who are heading back to school.
You know what I miss? I miss setting off firecrackers every July with my dad and almost starting our garage on fire back when I grew up in Parkvale. I miss bottles of Tingle pop for 12 cents. I miss only having to dial four digits when making a local call.
I miss balconies in movie theatres.
I’ve noticed lately, with the keen eye of an astute observer who couldn’t miss it if he tried, that there has been an abundance of heavy metal on the streets these days.
’Tis the much anticipated long weekend in the season of mosquitoes, surprise thunder storms, restless children and even more restless adults. In other words, it’s camping season!
Picture this: A giddy group of tween-aged girls, giggling goofiness, all gazing at the same thing. Or this: A bunch of 20-somethings in a noisy bar, gathering around, cheek to jowl, laughing, mugging mercilessly.
What kid doesn’t have technicolour visions of walking around the fair midway carrying a giant stuffed animal the size of garden shed?
Remember when restaurants were so ‘old school’ and casual that you used to snap your fingers and whistle to get the attention of your waitress who you called “Honey” or your waiter who you called “Buddy”?
