as the last clancy brother leaves us, some thoughts about the immigrant experience...and roots

It's funny how news creeps out...even across oceans and continents.

I tripped over the announcement late this evening that Liam Clancy - the last surviving member of the Clancy Brothers and Tommy Makem - had died. And I must admit that it while I wasn't entirely shocked, I was - as the Corrie folks would say - gutted.

For many of us whose parents were Irish immigrants, the Clancy Brothers and Tommy Makem were a connecting fibre.  Eire or Ulster...Yank or Canadian...Catholic or Protestant, the four fine minstrels were a touchstone.

They appeared in equal turns at Massey Hall in Toronto and Carnegie Hall in New York. One of their famous album covers features a photo of the four of them - with Tommy Clancy holding his arms in the air...the cover is black and the title is simply 'Live...At Carnegie Hall.' To this day, the album sells on Amazon, Chapters and iTunes.  I have a number of the songs on my iPod.

They were, in their way, the original fab four.  Two Tommys, a Liam and a Paddy.  I have all those in my Butler family...repeated almost precisely in each generation. They were friends and fans of Pete Seeger - who is acknowledged on some of their albums and in most of their writings. On their double album, the final track is Liam - God Rest You - announcing, "Pete's gonna sing 'This Land...'  They appeared - kid you not - on Dylan commemorative albums.

Perhaps more, they're etched on the hearts of far flung Irish descendants who know them through their albums (really, the vinyl ones), appearances on the Today Show each St. Patrick's Day, and visits to local venues.  I remember vividly the drives to Massey Hall in Toronto. To this day, when I drive to the Big Smoke and I pass under the railway track on Yonge Street, I'm humming those songs, even when it's early in the morning (before the break of day) and I'm off to a meeting.  It sticks with you...

I found myself in Washington on St. Patrick's Day a few years back.  My official meetings done, off I went on on a Sunday evening to an Irish pub.  I was sipping my Smithicks when the singer started up...and when I found myself standing next to a priest.  The singer was good, but the verses were off...and by off, I mean not the Clancy rendition.  The priest and I traded glances....and shook our heads a bit. 'What can I get you, Father?' I asked.  'Jameson dear...and a song sheet for our friend, like Liam and Tommy.' I told him the whiskey I could do but the bigger miracles were his.  We had a lovely chat and with the Clancys and Makem as our common interest, we crossed a number of international borders...and eccliastical approaches.

My father was the youngest of his generation...depending on who you believe, the baby of 10...or 13 ...or 20.  He left Ireland for Canada at 15...came to a sister he adored...a brother he revered but didn't know as well (20 years separation will do that to siblings)...and a place he could hardly imagine.  His children are all proud Canadians...with great love for the Emerald Isle...who were taught to be open minded.

My parents' first house - in Burlington, Ontario - was a lovely spot with a front and back garden.
The neighbours on Wellington Avenue were Irish...he a Protestant from the South and she a Catholic from the North. My father bloody adored them...and he'd explain gently to us that in his day, in his Ireland, that would never have happened...but that it was never to be an issue in his Canada...

If you're at all familiar with the lyrics of The Old Orange Flute - a Clancy and Makem staple - you'll have no doubt where I'm taking this.
www.youtube.com/watch?v=IVlbenGJ8u0

Before I was old enough to understand why it was important, my father used to say it was history...but not to be repeated...it was different.  When I brought home my Mister (25 years in 2010 and who knew - our anniversary was the same day he landed)...the Orange Brit...his sole comment was (based on the lad's size) 'Eileen, we might need more meat....' For a fellow who grew up with limited exposure to many cultures and things, he was remarkably and reasonably progressive.

My only trip to Ireland (so far) was with him.  It's a big family...and I was not prepared to go without an ambassador...and a tour guide. 

My idea of Ireland was shaped - in large part - by the music. Roddy McCorley...The Patriot Game...Red Head Mary...(I know...none of the expected regulars...go figure!)  I met a couple of lovely cousins....briefly...before arriving 25 years later at their end.

When I did arrive (on the heels of a curious relation who made Canadians a bit unwelcome), three things made me a credible presence: first, my firm belief that I NEEDED to buy the first round to pave the way to good karma (that's equally true in the US might I add); second, my unwavering conviction that I was a guest who appreciated being welcome but by no means felt that was a given;  third, my exposure to the Clancys and Makem...when lyrics were up in the air, on occasion, I knew the answer. 

Every Friday night, my father sang those songs.  I listened. I love them still.

When we sat in a sweet cousin's house and discussion emerged about song lyrics, I said quietly, 'Well, the Clancys and Makem sing it this way....' My cousins laughed...but agreed....

My father taught me many things...
Integrity...application....faith... (he was better at this than I will ever be)...equity...
And much of what he taught me was reflected in the songs of the Clancy Brothers and Tommy Makem.

When I go - and I will - DJ has a list....
I'd like a wake....with some music....including the Parting Glass and Roisin the Bow.

For our friend Liam, let's dwell on The Parting Glass which he sang so well....

Oh all the money that ere I spent
I spent it in good company...
And all the harm that e're I've done...
Alas it was to none but me...

There's much more...but that will get you doing (and I can't indent those...)

Wrap me up in me oil skins and jumpers
No more on the deck I'll be seen
Just tell me old ship mates
I'm takin a trip mates
And I'll see you one day in Fiddlers' Green.....

Goodnight Sweet Prince
Flights of Angels guide thee to they rest...
And if you don't mind, say hi to my Dad...and ny Uncle Tom...who taught me to adore you this way....

it's the great pumpkin charlie brown...and from our perspective, it has been great...

If the great Canadian pastime is complaining about weather (and it is), it's been a great year to be a Canadian passing time with complaints.  Weather casters and their critics have been referring to the clement months of 2009 as the 'summer that wasn't.'  There is some truth to that: it wasn't scorching...it wasn't humid...it wasn't all the things we all usually delight in complaining about in the brief weeks where there is no hockey.  (And in our neck of the woods, where we adore Jim Balsillie, where there is something in Toronto that the TimBits league would laugh at, hockey remains a distant possiblity....)

To paraphrase Snoopy (one of the great literary minds of our time), it was a dark and stormy summer.  The skies opened, the air cooled....

Even so, the growing season is what you make of it.
And this year, we did a little experiment....with pumpkins.
Our soil is mostly clay.  We've been dumping in peat moss and triple mix and PC Black Earth and manure in the hope of coaxing the yards into something productive.  The results are mixed, but it is kind of fun.

So when my sweet friend Pam and I got to talking last spring, it occurred to me that pumpkins might be a really good idea.  They throw down good roots (which help to break up clay)...they send forth winding vines (reminiscent of those grown by the Gruesomes in Bedrock, but not so effective at deterring the neighbours who park on the lawn....)...and there's always a chance at something to harvest.

So armed with a package of seeds, a hose, manure and optimism, I sallied forth some time in half past June.  It was a little late, but again, it was a rookie adventure in urban farming.

In went the seeds....

Up came some shoots...

And then - miracle of miracles - blossoms.  A bunch of blossoms.

My sweet neighbour Carrie and I considered them...at length...pondering whether they'd become delicacies for Rascal and Bandit over time. But the blossoms continued. 

The raccoons left them alone (really, they prefer cat chow and bananas) and over the course of the summer, the blossoms continued.  We did get expert advice suggesting that pinching the blossoms would promote better and larger fruit.  We took it under advisement...and left the vines to blossom.  They were lovely. 

In time, we started to notice that the vines were looking shrivelled...but that proved to be a good thing.  Lurking under those spindly shoots were tiny little pumpkins. 

The one in the garden became a buffet.  While we blamed Rascal and Bandit, we came to discover that the gourd gourmet was, in fact, Awesome the Possum.  He enjoyed it regularly over many weeks.  With luck, he's left some seeds that will return next year.

The one near the bird bath remained ungnoshed...as did the one near the driveway (mercifully, unsquished while the neighbour was doing NASCAR maneuvers over the lawn). 

The sweet neighbour (smile and wave, Miss Carrie, smile and wave) suggested leaving the sweet little globes where they grew.  While they are too small for pies or Jack-o-Lanterns, they might prove ideal for reseeding.  She makes a good point...

The experiment has been a success and it was fun to watch over the course of the summer.  We can't carve Junior, but that's okay.

We went up to the dairy farm at the top of Hwy 5 - Sutland Holsteins - and bought Junior some friends.  This way, when he drops seeds over the winter, he'll know what he's aiming for next year.

things you begin to ponder when your friends begin appearing in the obituaries...

For as long as I can recall, my parents (and grandparents) have been newspaper subscribers. I remember my Grandpa Hastings reading the comics to us when we were little (which sure gives you the idea that reading - and papers - are fun).  I also remember my parents reading the classified section - occasionally known as the hatched, matched and dispatched.  We've often joked that if we're not named in the departures column, we might as well carry on and go to work.

Late last week, on of my favourite colleauges from the college posted a message on his Facebook site noting he'd lost a dear friend.  I posted a message of condolence to him, but as the details surfaced, he and I realized we had a 'six degrees of separation' circumstance.  His friend of more than 15 years was my friend from high school.  And so the process of finding others who needed to know (so as not to be surprised after the fact - which happens too often) began for us both in wide and different circles that met a little in the middle.  We'll likely see each other later today at the funeral home.

But the loss of any one of us only makes sense in the context of the connection you shared with that individual and the adventures you enjoyed.

George was one of my favourite free spirits who moved among distinct and seemingly disconnected groups.  He was witty...and charming...quick thinking and quick speaking in one of those ways where the rapid quips always made sense.  He was gentle with others: I don't recall him ever saying an unkind thing about anyone.  How often can any of us say that.

He was the high school president championed by geeks and football players. He was a talented photographer.  He was a smart man - as street smart as he ever was book smart - who was content to just be rather than do.  I don't recall him ever saying he wanted to 'be' something at the end of his studies.  What he was, however, was a lot of things to a lot of different people.

One of my favourite road trips was one I made with George, our friend Ed, and a girl one of them was sort of dating.  I can't honestly recall which of the guys it was, but she didn't last long. I was the fourth to even out the group.  We often did that.

We drove to Buffalo to see -- wait for it -- The Jacksons.  It was a terrific show although it gave us a first taste of what it was like to be a minority in a crowd (not a bad lesson, might I add).  It was loud and fun and a great story to tell earlier this summer when Michael Jackson also made a surprise departure.

As many of us were chatting yesterday, we all talked about how easy it is to fall out of touch. How long it had been since we last talked - never mind saw each other - and we hope to do this more frequently, so we aren't making the rounds of calls the next time somebody we've loved leaves us.  With luck, we'll keep that promise to ourselves.

Oddly enough, George's was one of the yearbook quotes I always remembered.  I don't know why.  It was a quote from the Grass Roots song: Sooner or later, love is gonna get you.

George was actually the object of many girls' affections when we were younger.  Smart girls, pretty girls, popular girls.  He was deft - and kind - about rebuffing them. He appreciated their interest, but wasn't keen to get caught I suspect.  From the number of devoted folks who seem to be feeling George's loss, it looks like love did get him and carried him along.  I sure hope so...
Later today, I'm going to put that song on my iPod and when it plays, I'm going to remember my friend George.  Then, I'm going to call and email some of the others just for good measure.


http://www.lifenews.ca/thespec/profile/55579--petrovic-george-gabriel

block that call...shred that junk...firms for which i have no affection...

I spent a good portion of my Friday evening shredding mail. Pulling the paper bits out of the envelopes that are not recyclable (ah, plastic...I loathe you in almost every form...). It made me think a bit about the firms that intrude on my time - by phone and by mail most often.

The alleged no call list is - I'm told - hard to get onto and harder to enforce.

I appreciate that people earn their livings this way, so I am prepared to be polite -- to a point.

Why so many firms want to push me past that point, I can't be certain; however, I'll do them the great courtesy of being polite and not naming those who either provide such dreadful service or intrude with such vigour.

The firm from which I rent my water heater hired another firm to market its other services. At least I presume that's what the water heater folks intended, but as I never got to that part of their canvass, I can't be sure. The phone rang. I answered it. The 'click' I heard first suggested it was some sort of telemarketing firm and that was confirmed by the canned message naming the 'communications' firm whose rep was calling.

A fellow (note deliberate choice not to use gentleman) came onto the line with a fine imitation of Tony Soprano's best, 'Hey...how you doin'?' I asked who he was and what he wanted, which prompted him to explain, 'Hey, I'm tryin' to be polite here.' Really? Good thing he explained that because my idea of polite isn't some anonymous voice I don't know calling to chat without offering identification -- like this will coas me into buying whatever he may be selling. (To quote from Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman, 'Are you on commission? Remember me? Huge mistake!)

But wait, it gets better.

Again, I asked who he was an what he wanted.
At that point, he named the firm who supplies my heater (and whose marketing department hired another firm to extend our business dealings) and said with thinly veiled disgust, 'You do realize you're one of their clients.' Oh, I do...as will they, when my next quarterly bill lands and I use their alleged customer service line to draw this scintillating exchange to their attention. I affirmed that I did know that, but again asked what he was calling about...and got to listen to him tell his compatriots what a winner he had on the line. At that point I hung up.

It's doubtful I would ever have purchased any other service from the original firm, but had that been a possibility, their 'marketing' effort convinced me not to err in that way. What a great investment on their part.

Similarly, a credit firm continues to send me solicitations on an all too regular basis.

Their direct mail piece comes complete with a little, fake, plastic card showing what the card I could have from them might look like. That means I have to open the envelope, take out the paper, tear off the plastic card then begin the process of separating and shredding the solitication pieces I do not want.
Oh boy! That will make me love you!

In the case of the charities who lead the list of truly intrusive, I most dislike the one that insists on sending me a nickel with its pile o' paper and name labels. If the labels don't guilt me into it (along with the notepads, crappy pens and magnets), that nickel is sure to make me cave. I actually have donated to this charity. Usually, I sponsor someone participating in an event to raise funds for this group -- but their ongoing stream of junk I must manage convinces me to make that sponsorship my only contribution.

I like the firms who offer me the option of getting their news and junk via email. I can read their news or hit delete and not be worried about generating waste I didn't ask for in the first place.
I don't mind firms who send me a calendar once a year as part of an ANNUAL request for support. (I do, however, mind the ones who throw that calendar into a cycle of monthly mailings.)

I gave you money once...that does not connote interest in a continuing relationship on my part.

The competition is fierce...and my time is limited...the more you annoy me, the less likely I am to recommend you or continue to support you.

Plus I have a masterplan...I am going to start mailing it BACK...maybe with some of the other pieces I get just so the sender can pay the return freight.  Maybe that will convince them to ease off a bit.  I doubt it, but if nothing else it will let me share the magic of their inconvenience.

spelling tricks...not an adventure for the feint of heart

You must smile with wry enjoyment at the cheery souls who don't feel the need to spell with any concern for accuracy or consistency. Most times, the text foibles you trip over are a little like a stone in your shoe: they stop you with a wince for a minute, but you move along.

But every so often, you're graced with a thigh-slapper that stops you in your tracks.

Don't think so?
Try this at home...
Sit Spot sit....
Easy enough.
Add the random 'h' in and see what happens. For your safety, grab your roll of pick up bags before trying this at home...

I liked the hiccup that suggested this...

The union has gone to binding medication.

Speaking only for myself, let me say, "OUCH!"

This is not a benefit I'm keen to pay for...but maybe that's just me....

Binding mediAtion -- while not a walk in the park -- still seems a preferable alternative.

The best one I've seen in a long time came in on a resume last week.
Let's be clear...it came in on a resume for an alleged writer. For that reason, it's not fierce to expect some semblance of spelling.

Said writer offered details about occasional submissions to assorted editors and employers under this heading:

FREE LANCE

Who is Lance?

More importantly who has him in some sort of bondage in a basement.

And do we actually know Lance objects to this in some way?

One appearance is a typo that merits a certain brief mocking and chuckling.

But the second reference suggests the writer is either making a tacit offer or doesn't know any better. It's become a legend in some circles --not to mention one heck of a moniker.

I am glad the adventure that has been the screening of the candidates is coming to a close.

What people will offer as 'professional' detail on their resumes baffles me...

I do not need to know that applicants are hosts or hostesses of any sort...nor that they are talented professional tattoo artists, breastfeeding coaches...flying yoga enthusiasts...nor any sort of political hangers-on. What any individual does in his or her free time is his or her business...but offer those details sparingly....and always ask this question, 'Is this what the hiring firm intends to pay me for if I get this job?'

No PUBIC RELATIONS specialists need apply.

the scourge of screening candidates...57 in...

Typically, I like a good gamble. Really, I do.
And admittedly, screening for a contract colleague is like taking your Dad's best friend's son to your high school grad: nobody imagines it's likely to be permanent, but in a pinch, it might have to do.

Canada's one-year maternity leave is usually a boon to the process. A contract of a year is a reasonable length for a candidate to get into a role, make a good impression, and convince a team not to part with him or her. If all else fails, it's enough time to wrack up a few serious references and collect a tasteful parting gift.

It's a good theory.
In practice, it's not so glowing.

A lovely colleague left to commit maternity last summer. We all realized nobody could replace her, so our expectations were limited. We posted...and waited....and since our posting said 'writer with samples' we expected some degree of literacy. After round one, we decided the alleged candidates didn't really understand we meant EXPERIENCE writing. We noted PROFESSIONAL samples .

A reasonable person might surmise that this bold statement would be duly noted. That reasonable soul would be sorely disappointed.

We are three screenings in now.
We've had issues of fit...better offers...and applicants who just can't read.

In the current lot <59>, we have an intriguing and diverse selection.
We have a keen finance applicant who wants to do something called Quants. Even with the updated Webster, I can't quite figure that.

We have -- wait for it -- a grand total of four (4)(iv) who reference writing. Two are junior...two are of questionable stability. One refers to himself/herself exclusively in the third person. The last memorable character who did that was Bob, the character on Becker. Memorable, by the by, is not always a good thing.

With all the good folks who are on the market, you'd think one might blossom out of this growing pile.
I live in hope...there's enough manure at the moment to cover Don Corleone's impressive tomato plot.

I might go apply for something new myself...I wonder if 'want to be a neurosurgeon' or 'enthusiastic interest in delicate nuclear technologies' will lift me out of a pile....

in training for the woofstock walk...

Don't let the laid back appearance fool you...this is one serious pooch...and he's counting the days until June 14. Fresh off his tour to CP 24 where he made his poster child debut, he is gearing up for a return trip to the big city.

Woofstock takes over the blocks around the St. Lawrence Market the weekend of June 13 and 14. Our friends from the Collie Rescue Network always have a booth. Foster did a stint there one year (and loved the location right next to Shopsy's!). Last year, Shadow was scheduled, but serious heat interfered. This year, he plans to make up for it.

If you like dogs of any type, Woofstock is a must-do experience -- at least once. www.woofstock.ca (Beware...there's sound....) Candidly, the site's no great shakes other than offering directions, but the day is a blast.

I like it because while I'm prepared to admit that I'm oddly devoted to my pets, I am not even closing in on the pet people who are really out there. Really. Woofstock kindly reminds me of that each year.

I don't dress my pets to resemble me...in fact, we have a long-standing agreement: they wear what they grow. They share what they shed. I don't ever yearn for a fur coat because I have a different style of one every day. I revel in the fashion adventure of it all....

My pals walk. On their own. Even the cats.

Companions content to be carried in a purse are scary.

Basset hounds dressed in tutus (really...every year...) convince the Alderman Collie Contigent they got reasonably good people. (I suppose we should be greatful that they don't have toe shoes on the poor dogs as well!)

I do admit to collecting hats and t-shirts there. I hope to get my paws on the best one I've seen to date, 'AT THE END OF THIS LEASH WALKS A TAXPAYER WHO HAS RIGHTS TOO'

So this year, we are at the booth, but we are also walking. The route's a couple of kilometres long...so to be sure we don't embarrass our Collie Rescue pals...and to be true to the Legacy of Lassie, we're in training.

The cheering section (aka Foster and Amber) will train with us...a bit.

They're both 10+ so they prefer to share their wisdom but pass on the action part of the show.

Foster would pound the pavement with glee (he still dreams about Shopsy's) but Miss Amber likes to have company so Fozzie is prepared to let the youngster loose.

.

to rescue a collie-ish dog named leroy...

It has been pointed out to me more than once that certain feline folks are over-reprented compared with their canine siblings. They're easier to photograph...particularly when they're a-snooze...which they are a good eighteen hours a day and change.

While the dogs are willing subjects (provided a TimBit, a Marrobone or one of those jazzy liver snacks from Barn and Fitz are being offered), they're a little trickier to settle...unless you have professional assistance. Shadow -- the biggest of the beasts -- is making his TV debut today on Animal House Calls. He is -- in the words of Seth the Linguistic from UCSD -- schtupping -- for his friends at Collie Rescue.

In truth, Shadow doesn't quite qualify as a rescue since he went from a fabulous first home to here. A serious illness in his original family meant a bunch of people moved home to help run a business and care for their family member. These kind people were worried that their friend was being neglected. They told some friends. Those friends told our GO train friends. He came to be Foster's pal.

Smart lad that he is, he figures helping out the folks who find homes for other collies is a smart move. It means there are fewer with the potential to become siblings. He makes a good point.

The Collie Rescue Network is a small group that's entirely volunteer. They put the roots in grass roots. They take in collies and collie crosses then find them homes. They need volunteers to drive, foster, fundraise -- pretty much everything.

Right now, they have a particularly tricky situation: a dog named Leroy. He's only two and he's a smooth collie cross. He has a condition called Osteochondritis Dissecans. In layman's terms -- very dodgy shoulders. He's cartilage is malformed so it hurts and it puts him at risk of losing his mobility. The good news...it can be fixed; the tricky news...it can be fixed for about $2,600. So Shadow is off to do a publicity spot...and he'll walk at Woofstock...and we'll see if we can get Leroy adjusted.

Animal House Calls is a fun show.

Amber did it last year -- and met lovely Monica Kim from E! Canada. Monica is a very elegant woman who loves dogs. Amber liked her. Stairs, however are a challenge for Amber so her more nimble associate is doing the 2009 tour.

Just as well.

He's got broader shoulders so he can carry some weight for Leroy.

To the Big Smoke!

CBC is my ipod consultant...what does that say about me?

I am not a technology luddite...really.

Being without my cell phone ranks neck-and-neck with finding I'm without my watch...
it's wrenching and makes me feel like I'm walking around without all my clothes. That last time I suffered a cell casualty (note to file: unlike Oreos, cell phones will not generally survive a dunk in tea...although they will reliably utter the same snap, crackle and pop sounds we associate with a popular cereal...)

The Irish cousins taught me to text -- a handy little pursuit I've learned to love.
In a pinch, I can take a photo with a phone...and I have a dozen of the inside of my car that prove that. I lost the striking one of the elk from Banff during the sad tea incident.

The i-Pod adventure is one I've grown fonder of as I go. I tend to think of different additions
my collection requires while I'm driving...and I tend to forget what I thought it would be a good idea to add by the time I've navigated the last Highway 6 cut.

Hence, my affinity for certain CBC programs and personalities who have put me
onto some of the best and newest additions to my collections. Andy Barrie was an early i-Pod devotee...and shares his favourites regularly. Emma Lee (That Sinking Feeling) was his suggestion...and I replay that one often.

Michael Franti and Spearhead hit my shuffle after Michael had a very thought-provoking discussion about spirituality with Mary Hynes on Tapestry. Say Hey I Love You is a brilliant track -- and it's impossible to hear it without wanting to tap your feet.

Then I discovered the team at GO post the songs performed by their musical guests for free downloading. They feature a lot of new talent -- which has been pretty impressive so far -- but they also regularly host performers including Molly Johnson and Martha Wainwright. Not bad folks to include on your playlist.

My total index is...eclectic. Clancy Brothers selections (keep in mind, official training for St. Patrick's Day opened yesterday, January 17 - please don't tell my Sainted Mother)...The Cure...The La's (whose brilliant track There She Goes Again is actually a devoted tune about - kid you not - heroin. I got that from Terry O'Reilly - also at CBC - who hosts a show about advertising called the Age of Persuasion. Perhaps someone should tell those nice kids Sixpence None the Richer - the Christian band who made the cover of this one popular in the late 90s).

Lyle Lovett can coexist peacefully with The Northern Pikes. Johnny Cash and Kris Kristofferson fit in nicely too. The Charlie Brown Christmas songs are a good fit too.

It's curious how many artists pair lively little tunes with lyrics so far from lively that you can't get your head around it. Lyle Lovett's LA Country probably gets top billing for this in my books. So there you are, humming along with this energetic, twangy tune...until you realize it's all about a stalker who follows his old girlfriend to LA and splatters her all over an altar as she's marrying someone else. But you still can't help singing it...cheerfully...

Emma Lee is a bit the same. That Sinking Feeling coaxes you in with a great melody but it's all about a woman who goes about merrily rehabilitating romantically bruised boys. As soon as they're back on their feet, they're gone. But you smile singing it. The poor girl should start fostering cats or squirrels or something because if this keeps up, she'll need the company.

I can hardly wait until Rex Murphy starts offering up his suggestions...
After all, he taught me to Twitter (sort of...)

the joy of buzzword bingo...

In the first week of the new year (albeit, just before real Christmas, which we non-Orthodox creatures refer to as Little Christmas), I found myself in a meeting room on one of those cheery conference calls most of us thrill to...

The call was with a vendor...keen to sell us a service (and candidly, we are keen to explore that possibility). The two faceless spectres who initially floated onto the line knew one of our colleagues...who was on the line from another location. I sat in a windowless room (but mercifully, one of the warmest rooms in the building) with a particularly bright and noble colleague.

Admittedly, these exchanges are tricky for people who have never met.
Vendors want to convey knowledge...enthusiasm...empathy...
In the absence of eye contact and samples, the common currency of the exchange becomes the dreaded buzzword.

In my world, buzzwords rank (in no particular order) slightly atop fleas for their power to irritate. Like fleas, they're more a nuisance than an affliction. Like fleas, they're far from fatal, but they are -- in the words of the immortal Tommy Makem and Liam Clancy -- prolific; left unchecked, they travel, reproduce and afflict others who spread them as well. Pity the vet doesn't treat this one.

I spend two evenings a week (most weeks) teaching language and communication.
Early on, my students learn the difference between affect (change, cause or persuade) and effect (n. result, consequence; v. to mount legislation or effort toward change) so they needn't default to the dreaded impact.

Similarly, my close colleagues know the third utterance of an errant 'impacted' in any meeting will prompt me to smile, interject sweetly, explain the four things impacted can describe (wisdom teeth lodged in jaws, tumours lodged in human bodies, ore deposits lodged in land and -- my personal favourite -- the anal glands of small mammals full of nasty matter and requiring manual expression) then ask which the speaker means in reference to our clients or colleagues.

So there I sat on a bleak winter afternoon on the end of a tinny VoIP phone as the firm's representatives spoke to their capability. In truth, the earnest representatives were keen but not offensive.; still, they couldn't help themselves.

I was ready for the standard selections: leverage, optimize, high-level (having nothing to do with height...meaning notional...without detail...)...
Feedback is one that cracks me up: it's NOISE emitted by a poor connection in a stereo (a now defunct technology). Feedback sounds pained and unpleasant...so how did it come to mean 'comments we want from our clients and prospects'?

Time-box (or it's cousin, timeline) as a verb was new to me, so it got a good spot.

My bright and noble colleague watched me scratching out what he initially took to be notes. I asked reasonable questions so he know I was 'engaged' in the activity...but part way throught the penny dropped. He muted the phone.

'Hey, you're playing buzzword bingo!' he observed.
'I'm not playing,' I observed, 'I'm winning.'

He might briefly have thought about chastising me, until the vendor's team tiptoed into acromym territory. Suddenly, we were confronted by an unexpected SOW. We looked at each other and neither of our collective experiences got us past a visual image of a pig. 'Excuse me,' I interjected, 'Our phone cut out for a moment there. What was that last thing you were going to send us?'

'A SOW,' came the earnest reply. No easy out on this tussle.
'I'm sorry, but what is that?'
'A statement of work....'
Who knew? For one brief, shining moment, I really thought I was going to get to put lipstick on a pig.

My noble associate might have let it go until we tripped over a mumbled sequence neither of us could untangle and since it was repeated we felt translation was required. 'Excuse me, but was that VLT or BTM you said?' This time they provided concurrent translation: BPM or business process management -- their 'core' business.

At that, my noble associate snapped...and started adding words and checking subsequent references with gleeful abandon.

Iterations
Deployment (of the non-military variety)
Dashboard (of a non-automotive type)
Optimize
Paradigm
Scalable functionality.

Say it with me campers, "BINGO!"

I can hardly wait until our next call....