Four-Bagger

My brother is never boring, which has always been one of his endearing qualities. He was out visiting with his 3 kids and we took the crew out for bowling. On a cold winter day when outside fun has been exhausted it can be just the thing. We had two lanes going and the kids were tossing their balls, yelling encouragement and guiding their wobbling throws "Go that WAY! Go that WAY! Hit the pins!!" Then doing celebration dances and jigs when the pins crashed and banged.

The adults bowled too. We heaved the 3-eyed orbs with little skill or pizzazz. Not a lick of form in our toss, not like some guys we saw bowling next to us who spun the ball and did the kick of the back foot thing like the pros. Rolling the ball straight and true can work to a point, and we did have a bunch of spikes and spares. In the second game, Tim got on a roll. He hit four strikes in four frames, which in bowling lingo is a "Turkey" or "Four-bagger". The scoreboard even played a cartoon of a turkey jumping around when he knocked the fourth set of pins down and the kids loved that.

I noticed the guys next to us were serious bowlers. They had the custom balls, the wrist guards, and the bowling guts - you know the ones that spill over the belt just-so. They threw the ball with flair and the fancy kick. I watched them observing our crew with disdain, and one guy in particular scowled at us like a Country Club golfer forced to play on a public course with the unwashed weekend hacks. The pinnacle was when Tim rolled a ball backwards between his legs and got a strike. The Fancy Bowler shook his head with a look of disgust equal to that as if Tim had dropped his pants and taken a dump on the lane.

Turning in our shoes, the attendant asked how we had done. "I got a Turkey!" Tim proclaimed.
"Nice." the kid said.
"Are you going to announce it?" Tim asked.
There was a tournament or something going on at the time, and every so often we heard the kid announcing a high score or achievement to the cheers of the bowlers.
"You want me to announce your turkey?"
"Sure." Tim said. "It's my first."

Over the PA, came the announcement "Congratulations to Tim on Lane 2 with a Turkey!" Scattered, somewhat lackluster applause, and one loud "Hey, NICE!" I bumped fists with Tim for getting announced. It's quite an accomplishment, in my book.

A few moments later, we over heard someone ask the kid behind the counter "Do you always announce four baggers?".
"Sure, did you get one?"
"No, I just don't think it's worthy of announcement."

We cracked up at the guy's prissy reaction, apparently that guy wasn't impressed by Tim's achievement. Then we turned and saw who it was - the guy from the lane next to us.

Keep practicing, fancy pants.

You Can Take The Boy Out Of Surrey...

I grew up on 5 acres in Surrey, BC. We lived a mile from the ocean (in 3 directions, it was a peninsula) and the area was pretty rural. It was idyllic life. Kind of.

We had a big family, and money was tight. To offset the tax burden, Dad learned that he could become a "Hobby Farm" if he maintained a certain number of animals and devoted one half of the land to growing a crop. So the adventure began.

First came the barn. From the newspaper he found someone selling a tin barn. He assembled a work crew of locals and had the materials delivered. In a single weekend, the metal monster took shape. Luckily, My brother and me were too young to get involved in much of that project. But that would be the last one we were excluded from. The barn needed residents, and my father had a plan.

Borrowing my Uncles Dodge Ram pickup, he would travel the area adopting free animals that were advertised in the paper. Chickens, ducks, geese, rabbits, pheasants, turkeys and a peacock rounded out the small game assembled and moved in to the new barn. My brother and I rode shotgun.

It was cute at first. Animals were new to us, so taking care of them was cool. Then came the annoyances. Collecting eggs on cold, rainy mornings. Shoveling chicken shit on a hot Saturday. Then the killing. Yes, Dad was going all the way with this homestead idea. Tim and I were out there beheading chickens and plucking the feathers off like the pilgrims did years before. It was to make us men. It was the circle of life.

Try telling that to my sisters who had their bunnies end up as the Easter dinner "guest of honor".

Then came larger animals, like maimed horses, demented ponies, and a young bull with a fondness for butting people into the air.

The raspberries came next, two acres of them, planted over a few years by my brother and me with my Dad leading the way. Mind-numbingly boring and hard work. Weeding and trimming the stalks was worse, as bees nests and hornets were a real hazard. I can still feel their rage, as they stung me over and over.

Along with this, my dad maintained a huge garden, full of every vegetable known to man. Rudabega? You better believe it. Squash? Please. Rhubarb? You bet your sweet ass. And it was all thanks to the hard labor of me. Well, not all me, but I put a ton of hours into it.

When I escaped, I mean left, Surrey the thought of having a garden of my own was a laughable idea. I never wanted to soil my hands in fertilizer as long as I lived.

Fast forward just a few years. Today I was outside scoping out my garden in the warm spring evening. I have not lifted a spade in the garden in the years we've lived here, I left my wife have the pleasure of that. But this year something awoke in me, and I'm into it. I've been planning, researching and plotting the garden. I'm looking forward to getting my hands dirty in the dark earth. I may even go buy some manure.

I can't explain it. Except that maybe you can't take the Surrey out of the boy.

Robots. Scarrier Than Bird Flu

I am wary of robots, and you should be too.



It's not that I don't subscribe to Issac Asimov's utopian robot society where they are programmed to respect human life, and I don't think we're headed for a James Cameron Terminator-type future where computers become aware of how puny humans are and move to wipe us off the earth. Sure, the new T3 was a hottie, but she also was a killer. Which brings us to Australia.

In this article, a man built a robot designed to shoot him multiple times.Details are thin in this article, and no pictures of the killer robot. From the description, it was just a machine that fired the gun, not really a robot. A robot has wheels, or legs, and does other cool things besides killing you. R2D2 is a good example.



He could take messages, show little movies, fix broken things at important times, open most (not all) doors, and in an amazing revelation - FLY! I have to admit, that blew me away, seeing that little guy zipping around.

We're headed to a world where robots will be part of our daily life. They will work the drive thru windows, pump gas (when it get's to $10 per gallon, humans won't be trusted to pump their own) and, in an ironic twist, they will replace the workers in India who replaced Americans doing phone support. Much like the current replacement workers, robots will also change their names to seem more like us, changing their handle to "John" from "XCPT-2".

Here's another prediction - there will be robot insurance. You've seen the SNL skit about Old Glory Insurance, offering robot insurance for the growing threat of robots. If you haven't seen it, try this (it appears halfway into the clip).



Very funny, but also very prophetic! Someday soon,they will have it for real as robots will be decapitating and stabbing and maiming people left and right. Will you buy it? Maybe I will. Why not? It's not so crazy. I buy bottled water, when the mere thought of that used to crack me up. "Paying for water that comes from a tap anyways?" I would laugh, "What's next? Robot insurance?"

Yes. That is next.

May The Sun Always Shine On Your Face

I know, I know. The departure was a bit quick. But that's usually how I have to do it. The prolonged goodbye is like ripping a band-aid one millimeter at a time, instead of the one big rip.

So what's up with Shamus? I'm making wine in my basement. I had another hockey season which affirmed I am not yet ready for the "senior" league. Not even close. I had a kickass birthday party where a ton of family and friends came and played golf and drank beer and drove golf carts recklessly, and nobody got (too) seriously hurt! I climbed a mountain, rode along on the mean streets of Syracuse with one of their finest. My team won the Montreal hockey tourney with my brother playing wing - our 3rd championship up there. Got the VIP treatment at a pro hockey game and went from dial-up internet, to satellite, to cable in 6 months. Cable rules.

So, you're caught up.

It's no coincidence that I'm starting again on St.Patty's day. He, after all, was the guy who brought green beer to a thirsty nation. Um, wait, maybe that was Spuds McKenzie? And why am I here drinking wine on what clearly is a beer holiday? Because I don't go with the other sheep, baby. As my playoff beard clearly shows. That's right, playoff beard. No shaving until we win. Or lose, and are out of the playoffs.

Same old Shamus.