Book Of The Week: Bill Bryson's 'Troublesome Words'

For all wordsmith, both those who practice their craft and those who aspire to great works, Bill Bryson's 'Troublesome Words' is a mandatory read. Before placing pen to paper, or more commonly, digit(s) to key, this book must be read thou roughly in order to avoid the pitfalls and frustrations of poor writing. Never mind the fractured state of the spoken word as a result of habitual uses of jargon and colloquial, short forms and acronyms, because it cannot be salvaged. However, the written word does stand a chance to survive the devolution, and with the help of Mr. Bryson you can assist in the preservation of our fine language.

You might also fancy reading "The Death of The English Language" by clicking on the links to the right. It is the manifesto of an irritated reader written by yours truly.

Things Done Changed: Allergy Follow-Up

Utter disbelief. A position I rarely find myself in, but while scanning the wire services the other day I stumbled upon this article which provides a perfect follow-up to Thursday's blog about erring on the side of caution to the point of annoyance. Thank you Associated Press for the unsolicited use of this article:


This boy stands a better chance of hearing "Penis, Popcorn," than "Peanuts, Popcorn"


WASHINGTON (AP) — Take me out to the ballgame — just hold the peanuts.

Catering to allergy sufferers and parents concerned about reactions that can range from minor irritation to life-threatening anaphylactic shock, a third of major league ballclubs are offering peanut-free seating at some games this season.

While there's disagreement about how much exposure can trigger a reaction, the peanut-less seats are a hook that's gaining traction from Boston to Atlanta.

In Washington, the Nationals have offered suites with peanut-free seats at a handful of games each season since 2007. During a recent July game, parents came toting coolers full of homemade snacks, as well as EpiPens, which are used to give injections that counter severe allergic reactions.

"I have eight EpiPens in my purse right now," said Carolyn Blaylock, whose peanut-allergic sons, 5-year-old Bryce and 4-year-old Nikolas, sat with her in one of two glass-enclosed peanut-free suites during the July game. "(Bryce) has been throwing the ball since he could walk and he loves watching the Nats on TV with his dad. It's fun to be able to take your kids to things their friends are able to do."

Laura Billak said she was thrilled to bring her 7-year-old daughter, Rachel, to the game. Like many children in the peanut-free section, Rachel tested positive for peanut allergies as a baby.

"Literally, your child could die. A lot of parents out there don't understand the severity," Billak said. "When we found out there was a peanut-free suite, we jumped all over that."

The Nationals go to great lengths to ensure the safety of the peanut-free seats, including washing the sections twice before the peanut-free games. They also make sure that fried foods throughout the ballpark are cooked in canola, not peanut oil.

The Frederick Keys, a minor league team in Maryland, keep an allergist on hand during their annual peanut-free game to scan for signs of anaphylactic shock, a deadly reaction that can result in suffocation.

Some think the steps are more about helping fans relax than countering a real safety threat.

Dr. Robert Wood, the director of pediatric allergy and immunology at the Johns Hopkins Children's Center in Baltimore, said watching a game in an outdoor ballpark poses no significant threat to peanut-allergic children or adults — even those who have had severe reactions in the past. But as a marketing technique, it works, he said.

"Somebody who might not even enjoy baseball that much might go out to a game to support this team who is making an effort for their peanut-allergic children," Wood said.

Unlike the cabin of an airplane or an enclosed sports arena, baseball stadiums are safe, he said, because reactions to peanuts caused by inhaling airborne particles or touching crumbs and crushed shells rarely occur in an open space.

"But there are plenty of people who would still be worried even if I told them the risk is small," Wood said. "They just can't imagine being around this many peanuts."

For many worried parents, tickets for the peanut-free seats are hot items. On Thursday, only eight tickets remained out of the 75 made available for the Nationals game Friday against the St. Louis Cardinals, the last peanut-free game this season.

Lara Potter, the Nationals vice president of brand development, said the team sold out all 50 of the $25 peanut-free seats for the May and June games. The team added an extra peanut-free suite for Friday's game because of the increased demand.

"We even have some fans who live in other MLB cities, but drive to D.C. to enjoy baseball games since their teams don't offer peanut-free games," Potter said.

Christina Black, sitting in a peanut-free suite with her 8-year-old son, Robbie, was rooting for the Philadelphia Phillies during the July game, but praised the Nationals for offering the tickets.

"Some people think it's odd because they come to the ballpark and expect peanuts to be part of the experience, but we're just so grateful the Nats decided to do this," Black said.

Even so, when it comes to baseball, peanuts are a mainstay. At Nationals Park, they top the most widely sold snack list. Brian Beck, a team spokesman, said they're right up there with hot dogs and beer.

"We sell way more peanuts than Cracker Jacks, I can tell you that," he said.

This Week's Winner of the Dave Parker Award for Excellence: Roger Maris

"When he (Roger Maris) hit it (home run #61 in 1961), he came into the dugout and they were all applauding. I mean, this is something that's only happened once in baseball, right? And the people were all applauding. They wanted him to come back out. He wouldn't come out, so the players had to push him back out. They forced him to come out and take a bow. That's the kind of guy he was. He was great, and I really liked him." - Mickey Mantle

Without a doubt the most accomplished and acclaimed honouree of the Dave Parker Award for Excellence. He was a team player, a modest man and considering the proliferation of Performance Enhancing Drugs, possibly the best single season home-run hitter in modern baseball. 61 in 1961.

Roger Maris was born on Monday, September 10, 1934, in Hibbing, Minnesota. Maris was 22 years old when he broke into the big leagues on April 16, 1957, with the Cleveland Indians.

Roger Maris

For the un-enhanced players,
Maris' 61 home runs is still the
number used to measure the
greatness of others.

His second consecutive MVP year in
1961 has been overshadowed by the
controversy over performance
enhancing drug use.

His single season home run record
may have been surpassed, (so say the
record books) but not in the
American League.

Regardless of what they do, the leagues
single season home run leader for the
past 48 years is the grossly underrated
and sometimes forgotten Roger Maris.

- Eddie Spirito

Rather than cut and paste a spreadsheet of his career numbers, why not visit my friends at the Baseball Almanac and see for yourself. While there check out some of their collection of abstract statistics.

Islamaphobia In Western Europe

The other night, while flipping channels during the prime-time slot for the first time in months, I stumbled upon Steve Paikin's Agenda on Channel 2. The topic of the show was "Islamaphobia in Western Europe" and featured a panel of three experts on the issue and the straight-man host Paikin. Despite the fact that most other stations were luring me into changing the dial by airing Poker or reality-based throw away programming at the same time, I decided to stay-put and consider the arguments of the guests. The information provided was refreshingly impartial and un-skewed by the politics and policy that handcuffs other news platforms.

While in Europe, I both experienced and witnessed Islamaphobia and the racial dichotomy that exists in Western European nations. Socio-economic divisions of class and race are not as subtle as they are in Canada, but more pronounced and split by city lines and boundaries.

Paris is without a doubt one of the most beautiful cities I have ever had the pleasure to visit, however there are two Paris'; the one we see in films, postcards and while walking along the Left Bank - the other surrounds the 20 arrondisements and acts like an advertisement for the contrast between the haves and the have-nots. Surrounding the entire city is the Victor Hugo Motorway. Besides being a practical means of connecting Paris to the rest of France, the highway acts as a border between white-affluent Paris and the suburbs and ghettos predominantly populated by Arabs and North Africans.

While in Paris, I stayed both in a tourist-friendly Montparnasse and a subleted apartment in the more racially diverse northern arrondisement of Montmartre. Montmartre borders the northern divide of the arrondisements and the outer ghettos and was far more eclectic than central Paris. I absolutely loved Montmartre. Despite my unabashed feelings for the neighbourhoods of Montmartre and my willingness to experience whatever came my way, the racial stereotypes could not be avoided.

One night while dining alone at one of my favorite Parisian haunts Cafe St. Germain on Rue St. Germain, my server Etienne and I discussed my brief move to Montmartre. He told me he lived there too, and if he could offer me one piece of advice, it would be to avoid large packs of Arab youths. The statement did not surprise me, but the nonchalance with which it was said did. Etienne ensured me that this was not a stereotype, but a fact of life that I should heed. A week later, while traversing the sidewalks of Montmartre with the difficulty of a man who had just finished his second bottle of Merlot, I soon realized that I was lost. Without a map and a general understanding of the area, I quickly found myself to be in a rather precarious situation.

A group of teenage Arabic boys approached me and asked for a cigarette. I complied and asked them for directions. They asked me if I had any valuables and I insisted that I did not and was not looking for conflict. The eldest of the group asked me where I was from and why my french was so good since I clearly wasn't a French citizen. I explained that I was an English-speaking Canadian who had come to France to write a book exploring the racial division and unrest that plagues the country. Upon hearing this, the mood changed, and I began asking questions about where they were from, where they currently lived in Paris and why they were so angry. I passed no judgement and listened to their stories. For the first time, I understood the other side of the story, the immigrant's story. By the end of our discussion, with only a dozen less cigarettes in my pack, I shook hands with the boys and wished them luck. They wished me the same and I continued walking without a destination, but with a greater understanding of the issue.

Marseilles is another beautiful French city where the same racial dichotomy exists. Since it is the largest southern European port, the Arabic and North African influences are unmistakable. The western portion of the city is 100% Arabic, while the east is the more tourist friendly version advertised by tourism boards and travel agencies. If you ever find yourself lost in the western part of Marseilles, do not fear for your life or become paranoid in despair, the people are warm and will greet you as if you are one of their own. You may not be able to find a McDonald's, but you will enjoy the best Halal fried-chicken that has ever been prepared by man.

Travelling all-over France I was able to experience some of the racial and social division myself, but before I could draw a more accurate conclusion, I needed the perspective of a French citizen. While staying in the northern town of Lille near the Belgian border, I was afforded this other perspective.

For ten days, I stayed in the home of a French chef named Eric. He was an old friend of a friend of my father's, and while in Lille, he treated me like the son he never had, showing me the beauty of the city, and its underbelly, the shine and the rust. One day, while enjoying an espresso and a smoke, I asked Eric for his perspective. He explained to me that the French are a very proud people who love their country and its history. Being a Canadian citizen of a country built on immigrants that is not yet 200-years old, I simply could not understand. I didnt argue this point. A nation dense with tradition, victory and the exploits of industry and invention, the French love being French. According to Eric, the influx of immigrants, many of whom are Arabs, and the faulty welfare system known as 'Le Sociale' created a fractured social welfare state. The unemployed are assisted too much with being jobless, and many new immigrants are sucking more from the social teet than they are putting in. The fact that the majority of these new immigrants are Arab is why such a blatant stereotype exists. Yes there are Arab immigrants who are abusing the system, but there are also French-born Caucasians who are doing the same - it's just easier to point a finger at a group of foreigners than it is to point that same finger at yourself.

The Times: They Are A Changing.

Shit sucks now days, or is it now-a-days? Whatever it may be, stuff blows.

The internet seems to be a tool of efficacy, but really people may not be anymore intelligent and are far less resourceful as a result. This blog may have reached fewer when etched in massive stone tablets strewn along the routes travelled daily by chariot, but to read it was to seek it out. The current manifestation of my thoughts involves little effort to access and is often stumbled upon by those deceived by the articles' tags.

When i was a kid, nobody was allergic to shit. Now candy bar wrappers have large images identifying that the product is 100% peanut-free. If a youngster shows one instance of defiance or attention trouble in school, before soon he will have a prescription for some pharmaceutical.

Shit sucks now-a-days.

This picture reminds me of better days, when the internet wasn't yet a twinkle in some nerd's eye and people weren't so paranoid about health and wellness.

I love this picture.

Streetcar Diaries

The elongated streetcar came to rest at the corner of Queen St East and Connaught Ave. The driver announced over the speaker system that the 501 Queen St Eastbound car would be going out of service once the passengers had disembarked. The three dozen or so people on the car were informed to proceed to the front to obtain a transfer in the event that they did not already have one and leave the car as another one will be along in a few minutes to continue eastbound to the final destination Neville Park.

I was seated in the streetcar’s rear section with about a half dozen other commuters likely on their ways home from work. Once the driver had finished his announcement, I got off the train at its rear doors, peered westbound down Queen Street in hopes that the next train would be approaching and took my place on the sidewalk with my fellow passengers.

It was a beautiful August afternoon and the next streetcar was quickly approaching as promised by the driver of the previous car. Because of these aforementioned variables, spirits were unusually high amongst the stranded few and conversation could be heard between several of the people waiting on the southeast corner of Queen Street and Connaught. Typically, I stood quietly in hopes that the following streetcar wouldn’t be packed with passengers and that it would be the elongated model that features a secondary car connected to the first by way of wires, cables and clamps that are wisely veiled by a housing compartment where I have stood many a time, wanting a seat to become available to accommodate my quickly-aging lower back and often languid legs.

As the streetcar approached, I noted that not only was it nearly empty, but that it was the elongated model I had pined for, and as I boarded, I made my way to the rear of the second car to sit in exactly the same positioned seat I had sat in on the first car that was taken out of service no more than 5 minutes earlier. My preference is to sit on the left side of the car, three rows of seats from the area adjacent to the rear double-doors. I sit next to the window, fully ajar, with my left arm’s elbow jutting out the window, left leg bent and perched on a ledge about a foot and a half above the floor, neck bent and head down.



Once I had seated myself, I notice that three men who were riding the previous car with me have all sat in the exact same seats they were seated in on the previous car. A man not more than 25 sat two rows behind me on the other side, also adjacent to an open window. He had dark, shortly-cropped black ringlets and a slim moustache. His dark spectacles at first glanced appeared to be a hipster-like fashion statement, but upon second glance, seemed to be quite consistent with his contemporary eastern-european book-nerd appearance. I looked back at him a few times in an attempt to sneak a peak at what he was reading, however unfortunately I couldn’t clearly make-out the book’s title or author, so I turned back around and continued to read my book. A middle-aged bald man sat to my right, three seats over on the other side of the aisle and was presumably text messaging a friend of his on his archaic, sepia tinted flip phone as I noted he was doing on the previous car. The other passenger that was seated in the same seat on the streetcar that had gone out of service was an African man in his late 20’s that appeared to be from a West African nation like the Ivory Coast or Ghana based on the shape of his forehead and nasal column. He peered out the window, constantly craning his neck as if he had just spotted something familiar, turning his head to the right until whatever he had seen was merely an object in the distance.

I wondered to myself if the other three passengers were cognizant of the fact that we had all sat in the same seats we had been sitting in on the previous car. It seemed to be a natural, instinctual move to sit where you had previously found comfort, but nonetheless I found it unusual, if not amusing. We are all creatures of habit, sometimes so much so that we don’t even take note of the minute variables that contribute to such a habitual way of life.

An Effort is An Effort Nonetheless.

An article in the Toronto Star last week highlighted efforts being made by the city to implement rental bike-docking stations in the downtown core. This concept has proven to be quite efficient worldwide, especially in several parts of Western Europe.

While in Pars, I purchased a Metro Pass card for 5 euros that allowed me to place a deposit of 150 euros (roughly the value of the bike) from my credit card onto the card in order to use a bike from one of a hundred docking centres throughout Paris' 20 Arrondisements.

Once I mastered the system, it became a most effective means of travelling throughout the city, as the bike i had borrowed in Montparnasse could be docked adjacent to the Louvre at a station on Rue Rivoli. A bike I had picked-up near the Champs D'Elysees in the city's West End could be dropped-off at the absolute other end of the city while I stopped for a cafe elongee next to Parc Bercy. I would cover the city by pedal pusher, and without taking into account the deposit (which was returned to my credit card within 24 hours of leaving the city and contacting the VeloB Head Office) it was free. The system has a loop-hole of sorts. Renting a bike and having had it returned to a docking station of your choice within a 30 minute window was free. Anything in addition to this half hour would work-out to be around a euro an hour. With the option to dock the bike wherever you please in the city, head north from Montparnasse and stop for a beignet du chocolat, before heading north to Rue des Rennes for a little D&G. Total time spent on bike - 25 minutes with a cost of zero euros.

Besides the lack of processed foods in France and neighbouring countries, no wonder the French as far less morbidly obese than the average North American. They walk, they bike, and they eat fresh foods.

While at first glance I was inspired by Toronto's efforts to institute a similar program, the concept called for a few docking stations within a grid of Bloor St to Front St, between Spadina and Jarvis Streets, which is simply put, too small of an area. Yes, many people work within this parameter, and riding to and fro work would be a great means of some physical activity and a reduced carbon footprint, however very few people work and live within this area. In order for this system to work, the area must cover a much larger scale to be effective and purposeful.

This Week's Winner of the Dave Parker Award for Excellence: Ashley Cole

First off; my sincerest of apologies for the two-week hiatus. To say I have been a busy bee would be a mild understatement. With work, the Tour, the novel and my enhanced social-life, I haven't found much time to work on the blog, and in addition to all this, I've failed to maintain the enlightened standard of the early entries, and am thus slightly embarassed.

Anyways, what better way to jump back into the wild world of having your own pointless website than to identify another recipient of the Dave Parker Award for Excellence. This entry is a bit different than the past award winners because they were all gentleman I actually respected. In this case, Chelsea and England right-back Ashley Cole is the complete inverse. This man had it all; he was a key component of Arsenal's perfect season and as a member of the "Invincibles", he bedded and wedded the country's premier bird, Cheryl Tweedy. While as a member of the Gunners, I was able to look past his emotional immaturities and shortcomings. Then came the day he signed with cross-town rivals Chelsea amidst their overhaul and subsequent attempt to purchase the Premier League trophy by Russian tycoon Roman Abramovitch.

At this exact moment, he became dead to me and each and every time he paced the right flanks I prayed that my eyes would be aborted. He started wearing white often, Cheryl left him for greener pastures and he became the oft-injured Ashley Cole, a deviation of the talent he was at Highbury.

To see him now, holding a smoke with the Travolta scissor-finger technique and standing in a typically afeminite way, is an extremely redeeming moment for me.

Ashley, you used to be my second favorite athlete, now you just suck.