I am coining a term (I think so. I haven't heard it anywhere else yet). The term describes a company or organization who are so entrenched in 'spin' and PR flackery that they are incapable of expressing simple sincere truth. Even (especially) when that truth would be harmless anyway.
In these cases, they are said to be suffering from "spinfluenza".
I was in the pharmacey the other day and came across the condom section (hahaha couldn't resist the pun, sorry). I noticed the flavours, the ribs, the textures, the colours, and the various unguents, lotions, lubes and au jus they are now served with.
One thing in particular struck me though. There are, obviously, condoms of various sizes on offer. We know that there are dicks of various sizes in the world- contrary to what Mr. Skillicorn told us in Grade 9 Gym/Health class. But what I don't understand is how they name the condoms for guys with big willies.
Think about this for a second here. Not only do you actually get to HAVE a big dick, but you also get the joy of walking to the front counter of your local drug store and paying for a large box of something called Trojan MAGNUM 
or Durex XXL.
While some other poor bastard has to slink up to the pimpley faced clerk and present her with this:
"Snugger Fit"
You know what? the guy with the big dick doesn't need your help. Mr. Shrimpy does. So how about we even out the playing field a bit here? Call the big ones Trojan SWOLLEN, or Durex EGO or "condoms for a guy who's cock is big but he doesn't last long enough to give you an orgasm, and besidees he kisses like a basset hound." or something.
I'm not bitter. Really.
Bert, Eric and I were talking about this the other day, via email and whatnot. We were noting that people seem to have a flexible grasp of reality when describing themselves online. So with a nod to our Real Estate Lexicon of last year, here is the first draft of our online dating lexicon. Please feel free to add your own.
Average. This was the term that started it all. When one thinks of an 'average' person (when thinking about weight/height etc.) one would think of a guy in the range of 5'7" to 5'11" (5'9" is average for a North American male). And perhaps he's 155lbs to 185lbs (generously speaking). Average connotes mediocrity, doesn't stand out in a crowd, just a guy, no great muscle god, but not a fatty either. Instead average is used by people who are huge, fat, great big sloppy, jiggly-assed, man-titted, behemoths. Now in case someone is getting into a high dudgeon because I am being indiscreet and rude (and size-ist) well hang on a bit. This has nothing to do with my disliking fat guys (I'm fast becoming one of their number). It has to do with people misusing the language. If your body mass index is above 30%, you are NOT AVERAGE.
Stocky (cf. chubby, 'a few extra pounds'). Well hell if that's average then you can only imagine the sheer magnitude of what chubby entails. King-sized (or queen-sized if he's fat and nelly) surely boggles the mind.
Inches. Most men, studies have shown, have a keen grasp of spatial relations. Findings have demonstrated that their grasp of abstract spatial concepts may, in fact, be better than that of women. It has to do with how we process information. (Women beat us handily in other measures, so fear not, we're all equal.) But one area in which men fail utterly to understand or communicate spatial concepts is when discussing the size of their dicks. Let's just say that if that is seven inches, then I am 8 feet tall. And, as Bert said, "anyone who says 5" would have to be jerked off with padded tweezers."
Mid-30s. The first clue for this little fib should be it's imprecision. There is nothing too taxing about writing your age. At most it is three digits, (god I hope it's only 2 digits if you're in a chat room). That's a full 4 characters fewer to type. But if you insist on using 'early/mid/late' thing, then here's the rule (applies to any decade, but we'll use 30s). 30 to 32 "early thirties". 33 to 36 "mid thirties" 37 to 39 "late thirties". That's it, no bending. NO, you don't get to use the age you wish you were, the age your mother wishes you were, the age your friends tell you that outfit makes you look. You have to use your real age.
As can be seen at any event on Church street in the summer, there truly is someone for everyone, so you really don't have to lie about it. I might write more later about some of the other descriptions (don't even get me started on the ways in which the word 'versatile' has been beaten and wrestled into a contortion of lexicographic horror.) But for now I think this is enough.
Apologies for the unoriginal blog title, but it's warm here today. The weather men say it'll break records (35 degrees, plus humidity making it like 45). Yeesh.
I was talking to a recent immigrant on the weekend who said he what liked about most Torontonians, that no matter how miserable the heat, humidity and pollution is, most of us finish our mild complaints with "oh, well, can't complain, it'll be cold soon enough."
I'll blog more later.
We do this every time. We don't plan it, but it happens all the same. We pack the most stressful things into one short period of time. Like this:
1998
in the space of 6 months:
bought a new car
Eric - new job
Moved to a new house in Toronto
Mark - new job
2006
March - New Condo
May - Mark quits his job and goes freelance
June - Eric promoted to new job
July - New Car
so now nothing stressful for 5 years right?
From Air Canada:
"Mark:
I have had an opportunity to look into your file and review with all parties the sequence of events.
On behalf of In-Flight Service, I sincerely apologize for the treatment you received. I would like to provide you with the results of my findings in reviewing your application.
[...]
it became evident that they had sent you the wrong correspondence and the e-mail you received is an automated letter that is sent to our internal Air Canada employees.
[...]
As for the outcome of your interview, I must advise that at this time we have found more competitive candidates. Your file remains active and we would welcome your application should we have future opportunities.
Once again, I apologize for the misunderstanding and wish you well in your future endeavours."
I gave up some weeks back on the 'waitress in the sky' thing. It was a silly whim and life, even in a few short weeks has moved on for me. I had not yet gotten any kind of 'thanks, but fuck off' letter from them, but I had hardly expected one. So many companies today merely don't bother to have the merest common courtesy anymore as regards how they treat people (customers, employees, applicants etc.) so there's no reason to expect these guys to be any different. (but that's a whole other rant for another time). I'm honestly not feeling bitter about that, or even about not getting the gig, life is what it is and you move on. It's like buying a lottery ticket - you can't be that sad when you don't win, instead you enjoy the period of dreaming between buying the ticket and actually finding out you've lost.
I would have liked to do the usual follow up you do when you are applying for a job, but that was not a venue open to me with this gig. For reasons that escape me they are extraordinarily secretive about contact information. If you go to their website they don't actually list any address (other than the address for their privacy officer as required by law). There is no way to contact them other than the same number you call to buy tickets or complain about lost luggage. So, no follow up.
Then Friday, 3 weeks after my last contact with them. 5 weeks after my last interview, I get an email which is - at last - the 'you didn't get the job' email. But (and this, my dear sweet readers, is where things get truly wacko) is the reason given for my not getting the job:
Following a review of your current attendance record, regrettably, you do not meet that requirement.
This weekend I went white water rafting with a bunch of people from Eric's work (and their friends). It was great fun. I wish I had some pics to show of it but it's kind of hard to take a picture when you're trying not to fall out of a boat. It was exhilerating and hard work and fun and ... well it was a fun day. I don't think I was truly afraid. Of course it's pretty safe, they wouldn't let thousands of people do it every week if they didn't have it pretty safe. but on a continuum of safety it was a bit more down the dodgey end than I've done lately (notwithstanding the way I drive). And it is possible to die that way. Not likely - but possible. But I think that I wasn't scared because, I don't beleive that I will die from drowning. Strange huh? I don't think I'll drown and so I'm not afraid of drowning.
Heights, well that's another matter. Heights scare the bejeezuz out of me. They always have. I remember when I was in university I took a job installing cable for a summer. I only had to go up 30 feet at the most but it still scared the crap out of me. But of course I always did figure that the best way to beat a fear is to face it, so I took the job. And other than a panic attack on the roof of a house, it was fine. However this weekend I kinda beat my 30-foot record. When the woman organized the event they gave her a coupon for a free bungee jump. She raffled it off and I 'won'. Now THAT was fucking scary. I mean full-on, ball-raising, bladder-quivering terror. HO-LEE-SHIT.
Here's a pic of the tower:
I had to climb the fucking thing, which is WAY more scary than ... well it isn't scarier than jumping, but there's way more time to think about death. And it's a fuck of a workout I'll tell you. And all the while you're climbing up this ex-construction crane you're thinking "oh god, i'm scared, everyone's looking i can't climb, down, fuck i'm tired, god i need to go to the gym more, oh man i should have pissed before i started up here..." and so on. 
Then I get to the top and wait with the guys who were ahead of me. Three butch (well two butch and me) guys at the top of a construction tower trying not to sound like they are as terrified as they actually are; discussing strategies for jumping.
"Oh, I think pushing off is best"
"Absolutely, and don't forget to put your hands over your head, other wise the water will hurt."
"Yup for sure. hmm. Nice view eh?"
"Yah, clear day."
Then the guy ahead jumps, and we all sway and bob at the top waiting until he's cut down, and the next of us goes forward. Until I'm there at the top, with the two guys behind me and the guys calls "next jumper!"
There is much shakling, clipping, talking and distracting. Until I'm standing at the side of the tower, toes hanging over, the weight off the bungee tugging at my shins, and he's counting down. In that moment there's no more thinking. The one side of your brain, the monkey side, the limbic brain or whatever is screaming "WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU THINKING OF DON'T DO THIS!!!". Even your concious, logical bits are having doubts. But you are stuck you've made a bunch of decisions that have brought you to this moment and you think... well you don't think. You merely resort to your decided course of action and you leap.
And in 1.3 seconds, you've checked another item off the "to-do" list of life.
Next? Skydiving.
Right, well if you read the blog you'd know that I'm a 38 year old freelance writer with a dog and a husband from Toronto. You'd also know that I've just moved lock, stock and DVD collection, to Hong Kong. Eric, (my loving hubby), Lucky (the Bichon, still in Toronto but soon to be here), and I are starting a new life (for a while anyway) in the sweaty tropics
