Author: wdfyfe

Before WD called himself a writer, he worked at a number of different jobs from stacking lumber to interior design. He studied English at UBC and creative writing at ASU where one of his teachers, Rita Dove, taught him the importance of the tale. He has written for radio, magazines and newspapers, but never television. He’s published both fiction and nonfiction in Great Britain and the US. He reads French passably and speaks enough Spanish to get from A to B and find the toilet. He has interviewed John Cleese, Peter Ustinov, Margaret Drabble, Kenneth Branagh and enough other famous people to make him a hopeless name dropper. His not-so-secret passions are history and trivia, and he has never lost a game of Trivial Pursuit — although he did come 4th one drunken Quiz Night at the Uxbridge in Notting Hill. He lives on the Pacific Ocean, although, not close enough to see, so he spends his days looking at a computer screen. It’s a wonderful life and he has only one regret: he can’t type faster.

Social Media: Where The Wild Things Are

gorillaNobody likes a dead gorilla.  And regardless of which side of the primate debate you’re on, it’s too bad Harambe had to take a bullet.  I don’t know any of the particulars of what happened in Cincinnati because, quite honestly, when I see Animal Rights going toe-to-toe with the Cult of Mom, I look for a place to hide.  However, these unfortunate events have made it abundantly clear that, here in the 21st century, a number of people are repainting reality to satisfy their own personal colour scheme.

To all the gorilla whisperers:  Look!  You can’t figure out what your husband wants for his birthday, your girlfriend likes in bed or why your brother married that idiot!  What makes you think you can determine the intentions of a creature you didn’t even know existed a week ago?  You’re not even the same species!!!!  Besides (and this is a biggie) gorillas are wild animals and WILD animals are unpredictable.  Don’t believe me?  Just ask Steve Irwin or Roy Horn, a couple of guys who worked with animals for decades and still ended up on the receiving end of some serious erratic behaviour.  Anyone confidently explaining what a 400 lb silverback gorilla is thinking is actually telling me one thing, though — somebody’s ego is totally out of control.

To parents:  Children are not supposed to end up in the gorilla enclosure.  It’s like juggling knives, taking candy from strangers or playing on the freeway.  These are all things kids aren’t supposed to do.  Parents, you need to know this stuff.  I’m sure it’s written down — somewhere.  And if you’re still confused, google it — it’s important.  Plus, you need to remember who the adults are.  You’re in charge.  You’re bigger, faster, stronger, and — in most cases — smarter than your kid. You need to use these superior skills to keep him or her safe — by any means necessary.  If you’re not prepared to do that, or are simply not up to the task, you should definitely consider putting condoms on the shopping list — Item #1.

And finally:

To the Social Media Mob:  All of you need to get a grip, get a life and get some professional help — seriously.

Arrivederci Roma

Italy4I’m back.  Italy was brilliant.  And, wow, am I ever stupid!  It’s a fact of life that the more I travel, the more I realize I have tons to learn about travelling.  For example, this is what I learned this trip:

All that stuff in your carry-on luggage is junk — you don’t need it — you never look at it on the airplane and you’re hauling it around multiple airports, buses, trains and taxis because you’re an idiot.
There are some serious advantages to disconnecting yourself from the Internet, but it makes you twitch.
You cannot convince Europeans that you are not personally responsible for Donald Trump or Barack Obama’s Cat-In-The-Hat foreign policy — even though you’re actually a Canadian.
Heathrow Airport in London was designed by Rhesus monkeys who were trying to simulate their wild, survival of the fittest, primeval habitat.
Italian food is still the best in the known universe.
Americans have more fun than anyone on this planet.
And if you want something done, find a busy Australian.

Plus, I picked up some useful foreign phrases:

Foreign Phrase — No problem
North American English — We’re screwed!
Australian English — We’re screwed!  Let’s get started.
English — Apparently, it’s not a problem, Marjorie. Dogs routinely eat British passports in this part of the world.

Foreign Phrase — No problem, sir.
North American English — We are so-o-o-o-o screwed!
Australian English — What are ya going on about, ya bloody galah?  I heard ya the first time.
English — Apparently, that big smelly bugger over there owns the dog.  Give him some money, Marjorie, and let’s get back to the hotel.  No, not the brown ones; a couple of the blue ones should do.

Foreign Phrase — It’s a five minute walk to the (restaurant, Metro, hotel, museum, art gallery.)
North American English — We’re totally screwed.
Australian English — Found it on the GPS.  Bit of a trek to bypass the swamp, but we should get there before dark.  Let’s get started.
English — Sensible shoes, Marjorie, that’s the ticket.  Mind the barbed wire and broken glass.  Come on, Garibaldi.  Walkies!

Foreign Phrase — It’s a local delicacy.
North American English — We’re even more screwed today than we were yesterday.
Australian English — Not to my taste, but put a little Vegemite on it and it’s not half bad.  Give it a go, mate.  No drama: I packed five extra jars.
English — No, I don’t have any idea what “bulbo oculare” means, Marjorie, but the dog seems awfully keen.

Foreign Phrase — Arrivederci — Adios — Au Revoir — Auf Wiedersehen
North American English — Good bye!  We had such a wonderful time.  I just love learning about other cultures.
Australian English — No, we’re not leaving yet.  In Australia you get three months holiday for every year you work, another six months if you’ve work more than three years, another three months, if you work more than six months in one go, then three extra months if you don’t use your sick days, two months if you’ve been to the Northern Territories and another year off for good behaviour.  We don’t have to be back to work until July, 2021.
English — Apparently, as long as Britain’s still in the EU, Marjorie, we simply show them the dog at Passport Control.  That should see us right.

Happy Trails!

Day Of Blame (2016)

Italy2
Venice

What this world needs is an International Day of Blame.  A single day, set aside each year, so people could legitimately blame all their various misfortunes on anyone who’s ever done them a dirty.

You don’t have to be Stephen Hawking to realize that grievance has become a growth industry in this world.  That’s right: there’s an entire industry built on the premise that everything is somebody else’s fault.

The most visible proponents of this are government agencies and the uncivil servants who dwell there, but they’re just the tip of the iceberg.  There’s another whole layer of NGOs waiting down the block to back them up.  Then there’re activists.  Remember when activists were real people who saw misfortune and injustice and took time out of their lives to try and right a social wrong?  Not anymore; contemporary activists are permanent employees of the grievance industry.  It’s their 9 to 5 job.  Their children’s lunch money and school clothes depend on it.  After that, there’s a whole strata of sub-scum hangers-on who feed off grievance as if it were manna from the gods.  There are harassment officers, community organizers and various advocacy groups.  There are also the legal-fecal lawyers who perch like vampires, waiting to sink their fangs into any social complaint that used to be settled with a harsh word and a rude gesture.  And of course, there’s the media.  In the history of civilized behaviour, no other collection of ne’er–do-wells has played The Blame Game with such ruthless tenacity as journalists.  Media personalities wake up in the morning blaming the sun for shining if it’s a hot day and either Obama or Trump if it’s cloudy – and they make millions doing it.  It’s no wonder I blame Phil Donahue for ruining journalism.

Anyway, since finding fault has become an international pastime, it’s time we had a day for it.  The Day of Blame could be March 1st — halfway between St. Valentine’s Day and St. Patrick’s Day.  The sugar shock feel-good of Valentine’s Day has worn off, and the pre-Celtic alcohol run-up to St. Paddy’s hasn’t kicked in yet.  Spring is coming, but it hasn’t arrived, and the late days of winter are still cold and miserable.  It’s a perfect time to sit around and bitch about who’s been nasty to you since birth and the reason your kids are ugly.

This thing could catch fire like a meth lab with a short circuit.  People would be having dinner parties with their exes and blaming them for all their love’s labour lost.  Children would be phoning their parents — collect — and blaming them for every petty neurosis they’ve suffered since puberty.  Grandparents would write letters to the grandchildren, blaming them because they’re lonely.  Students could blame teachers; teachers, students; and on and on.

Hallmark alone would make a fortune on “It’s Your Fault” cards.  Not to mention florists selling dead flowers to anyone who’s ever been dumped and newspapers selling full-page ads to every middle-aged Star Wars nerd who believes George Lucas pooped on their childhood.  Every transgression, every setback, every disaster, calamity and mishap would be fair game — and, more importantly, somebody else’s fault.

But the true beauty of the Day of Blame is it’s one special day — that’s it.  For the other 364, we’d all have to shut up, quit whining and take some personal responsibility.  It would be wonderful.  There would be no more snivelling about how bad life has treated all of us.  And maybe — just maybe — we’d finally realize that, in our affluent western society, we don’t have that much to complain about.   And actually, most of the real blame for screwing up rests on our own little pass-the-buck shoulders and nearly everything else is just life — get used to it.

So I propose a toast to an International Day of Blame.  It might be just what this world needs.

FYI — Day of Blame is the intellectual property of W.D. Fyfe.  If you want to use it, go ahead; but you must give me full credit for the idea and at least 10% of the gross income.  Otherwise, I will find a scuzzy lawyer and make you very sorry.