Twittering away on the field of play
Pro athletes finding solace in short course discourse
By Terrance Gavan
I just checked my Twitter account.
I count 18 pro athletes and 22 sportswriters and columnist among my rapidly expanding Twittering list of friends.
I am following Canuck hoopster Steve Nash, Kobe Bryant, Chris Bosh, Shaquille O’Neal, Lance Armstrong, Terrell Owens and swimmer Michael Phelps.
Steve Nash just twitted me the other day. He scored a guest shot on the popular HBO series “Entourage.” He also gave a detailed 140-character – the Twitter maximum - account of his vacation in Brazil. Lance Armstrong peeped vaguely about the wheelie goons from the drug-testing police in Europe. Shaq tweeted Kobe well in the NBA finals.
Do I need to know all this?
I follow Denver sports columnist Woody Paige, get tweets from my old friend, and Globe and Mail columnist, Jeff Blair, and I also follow tweets from New York Times sports.
Twittering is all the rage in professional sports today. It’s creating some dilemmas. For every real Shaq or real Steve Nash there are the imposters.
Recently someone set up a fake Tony La Russa account. La Russa is the manager of baseball’s St Louis Cardinals. The bogus Tony Tweeted this under La Russa’s name: “Lost 2 out of 3, but we made it out of Chicago without one drunk driving incident or dead pitcher” — that, an obvious reference to the deaths of two Cardinals pitchers since 2002 (Darryl Kyle and Josh Hancock) and La Russa’s own DUI incident two years ago.
I can’t help it. I smiled, a bit. What can I say, I like the sophomoric turn of phrase. Tony was not amused.
La Russa sued the San Francisco-based company for unspecified damages for harming his reputation and causing emotional distress. The suit was settled a few weeks back when Twitter agreed to pay La Russa’s legal fees and to make a donation to his Animal Rescue Foundation.
Which brings us to the LPGA and their commissioner Carolyn Bivens who said in an interview last week that she “encourages” players to use handheld devices to post content on social-media Web sites such as Twitter or Facebook during tournaments, even if it runs counter to golf etiquette.
Bivens said she would “love it” if players used the social media site Twitter.com to connect with fans during their rounds. Paula Creamer, a leading light on the LPGA tour rejected the notion outright.
Creamer says she is aghast at the idea and called Bivens “an idiot” for even suggesting the use of Twitter mid-round.
How do we know this?
Well Creamer told the world and her followers all about it on a recent post to her “Twitter account.”
“I will not be twittering in my round,” Creamer, who’s ranked third in the world, wrote on her Twitter page shortly before teeing off for a tournament last weekend. “It should not happen in any sport. The players have already told the tour no way.”
Begging the question. “Is Paula hitting irons, or ironies?”
I have my own brush with Twitter limelight.
It happened last week.
Tony Kornheiser a co-host – with Michael Wilbond - on ESPN’s popular Pardon the Interruption sports talk show, manages PTI’s Twitter blog. Kornheiser has a lot of time on his hands since his ouster from the third seat on ESPN’s Monday Night Football. Tony’s spending a lot of his off-hours Tweeting. He often asks for input for the PTI show.
But Tony also takes time for some non-sequitur meanders.
Lately it’s been raining in Washington. A lot. This has caused no end of problems for his dog Maggie, who apparently does not like to go out in the rain.
How do I know this? Well, Tony is tweeting … about Maggie.
“My dog didn’t go out again today. More rain. She simply won’t go in the rain. Might have to toilet train Maggie!” tweets Tony. “She puts her head down on the concrete, digs in her paws, and won’t budge. I’d tug at her, but she’s 14 and I’m afraid what might happen. It’s supposed to rain for two days, so she’s bound to go in the house.”
I tweeted back, warned Tony about the dangers of kidney disease in old dogs, the need for regular bowel movements and then I tweeted a suggestion for a trail of bacon bits from his porch to the backyard bushes.
Today, followers of Kornheiser’s PTI Twitter blog and I all shared some tweeted joy. “Hey my tweety peeps … Maggie went doodooo in the rain! All thanks to my Twitty friend terrancegavan, a.k.a. The Gavball. Big props to bacon bits, Maggie unfurled, and the Gavball.”
That hit went out to PTI’s 50,000 plus followers.
I now have friend requests coming out my ying-yang.
I am a full-fledged celebrity in Twitterland.
Steve Nash Tweeted me from the set of Entourage.
“Hey Gavball … nice job with Maggie. My dog Phoenix used to fetch the paper. Now he’s taken to ripping it up into tiny pieces. Any suggestions? Steve.”
I wrote back. “Hey Steve. I read my paper on line … now can we interest you in a jump from Phoenix to Toronto? Where you can reunite with your old National Team buddy Jay Triano and bring an NBA Championship to T-Dot?”
From Steve?
Nothing yet. Steve couldn’t comment even if he really, really wanted to. It would constitute tampering and go against strict NBA guidelines.
The trouble with Twitter?
All feathers, no substance.
And my mailbox is filling up with dog questions.
Anyone know what to do with a Labradolly who likes to twirl from the living room drapes?
It’s driving Tiger Woods and his interior decorator crazy.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Kris Draper please quit whining
Crosby passes off the allegations of “snubbery”
Detroit’s Kris Draper all whine and no cheese
By Terrance Gavan
I grew up in Ottawa, listening to General Grant on CFRA radio’s morning drive show.
He had a little motto that he recited at the end of every show.
“If you win say little … and if you lose say less.”
So. In the spirit of the Good General’s signature sign-off.
“Shut up Kris Draper!”
That would be Kris Draper, the yawning maw of the Stanley Cup losing Detroit Red Wings.
That would be Kris Draper, the social conscience and etiquette convenor of the National Hockey League.
That would be the same mealy-mouthed Draper who roundly criticized Sidney Crosby for snubbing many Wings’ players - including captain Nicklas Lidstrom – by “refusing” to shake hands at the end of Game seven of the Stanley Cup Finals last Friday at the Joe in Detroit.
Dear Kris: Kindly pack up your bags, unpack your clubs, head out onto the links and leave your junk at the door of the Joe. Oh, and shut your cheesy yap.
We don’t want to hear that mealy mouth whining, and that harpy’s scrunch about Sid The Kid.
And by the way Kris.
You lost. So just please shut up.
Draper says he has every right to criticize.
Lidstrom was up front of a handshake line, followed by the alternate captain Draper, congratulating many of the new champions while waiting for Sid the Kid.
“Nick was waiting and waiting, and Crosby didn't come over to shake his hand,” Draper told an Associated Press reporter a couple hours later as he was leaving Joe Louis Arena. “That's ridiculous, especially as their captain, and make sure you write that I said that!”
The AP guy did as he was told, launching a firestorm of rebuke, rebuttal, righteousness, and rectitude.
I don’t recall how many Detroit players’ hands Crosby shook after the game. I do know he did take time to commiserate with Johan Franzen. A second period Franzen hit put Crosby out of the game. If Crosby was going to snub anyone it would have been Franzen.
I’m assuming that Franzen didn’t apologize for the hit. I’m sure Crosby didn’t expect one.
And Sidney Crosby isn't apologizing to Draper or anyone else for unintentionally failing to shake hands with some Detroit players after winning the Cup last Friday evening at the Joe.
Crosby said that he didn't realize the Red Wings were leaving the ice before he joined the handshake line.
After that game seven 2-1 victory Crosby was rushed to several live TV interviews by NHL personnel, hugged some teammates and was handed the Stanley Cup by commissioner Gary Bettman.
And so Crosby was celebrating when Red Wings captain Nicklas Lidstrom, alternate captain Kris Draper and some other key Red Wings players skated off the ice and to their dressing room.
Big deal.
Crosby himself estimates he shook hands with about half the team, including goalie Chris Osgood and coach Mike Babcock, who congratulated him on his leadership ability.
That wasn't enough to satisfy Draper.
Again. Big deal.
Crosby finds any suggestion that he would intentionally avoid shaking hands a little disingenuous.
“It's the easiest thing in the world to shake hands after you win,” said Crosby, in a TSN story.
“I really don't need to talk to anyone from Detroit about it," Crosby said Sunday. "I made the attempt to go shake hands. I've been on that side of things, too, I know it's not easy, waiting around. I just won the Stanley Cup, and I think I have the right to celebrate with my teammates.
"On their side of things, I understand if they don't want to wait around."
At 21, Crosby is the youngest captain to win a Stanley Cup, but he is an avid follower of the game, its storied history and its entrenched traditions. He would never intentionally stoop to snub. Draper on the other hand stomped some sour grapes into a sublime mash with his stilted and mealy allegations.
“I had no intentions of trying to skip guys and not shake their hands,” Crosby said. “I think that was a pretty unreasonable comment. The guys I shook their hands with, they realized I made the attempt. If I could shake half their team's hands, I'm sure the other half wasn't too far behind. I don't know what happened there.”
And that explanation, from Crosby should be enough for Draper.
“I have no regrets,” added Crosby, already at 21, wise beyond Draper’s years. “I've been on both sides of it, and it's not fun being on the losing end. But it doesn't change anything. You still shake hands no matter what.”
“Nobody respects the traditions of hockey more than Sidney Crosby," team vice president Tom McMillan said via AP News. “It was a young team celebrating its first Cup and some of the guys might have been a little late getting into the handshake line.”
And while we’re talking apologies.
Exactly how many toe-to-toe confrontations went on in the course of this very exciting seven game Stanley Cup hockey series?
About time for Brian Burke, Don Cherry, Michael Farber, Gary Bettman, and a host of other pro-fight cognoscente, to apologize to “real” hockey fans in general for continuing to insist that, “fighting is, was, and always will be … part of the game!”
Please, fellas. Do me a solid. Take a look at the viewing totals for a series conducted miles removed from the milieu of the junkyard dog and brawler mindset.
And the next time you wish to spout generic about the efficacy of fighting in the game of hockey. And how much we need it.
Do me a favor and a Draper.
“Shut Up!”
Detroit’s Kris Draper all whine and no cheese
By Terrance Gavan
I grew up in Ottawa, listening to General Grant on CFRA radio’s morning drive show.
He had a little motto that he recited at the end of every show.
“If you win say little … and if you lose say less.”
So. In the spirit of the Good General’s signature sign-off.
“Shut up Kris Draper!”
That would be Kris Draper, the yawning maw of the Stanley Cup losing Detroit Red Wings.
That would be Kris Draper, the social conscience and etiquette convenor of the National Hockey League.
That would be the same mealy-mouthed Draper who roundly criticized Sidney Crosby for snubbing many Wings’ players - including captain Nicklas Lidstrom – by “refusing” to shake hands at the end of Game seven of the Stanley Cup Finals last Friday at the Joe in Detroit.
Dear Kris: Kindly pack up your bags, unpack your clubs, head out onto the links and leave your junk at the door of the Joe. Oh, and shut your cheesy yap.
We don’t want to hear that mealy mouth whining, and that harpy’s scrunch about Sid The Kid.
And by the way Kris.
You lost. So just please shut up.
Draper says he has every right to criticize.
Lidstrom was up front of a handshake line, followed by the alternate captain Draper, congratulating many of the new champions while waiting for Sid the Kid.
“Nick was waiting and waiting, and Crosby didn't come over to shake his hand,” Draper told an Associated Press reporter a couple hours later as he was leaving Joe Louis Arena. “That's ridiculous, especially as their captain, and make sure you write that I said that!”
The AP guy did as he was told, launching a firestorm of rebuke, rebuttal, righteousness, and rectitude.
I don’t recall how many Detroit players’ hands Crosby shook after the game. I do know he did take time to commiserate with Johan Franzen. A second period Franzen hit put Crosby out of the game. If Crosby was going to snub anyone it would have been Franzen.
I’m assuming that Franzen didn’t apologize for the hit. I’m sure Crosby didn’t expect one.
And Sidney Crosby isn't apologizing to Draper or anyone else for unintentionally failing to shake hands with some Detroit players after winning the Cup last Friday evening at the Joe.
Crosby said that he didn't realize the Red Wings were leaving the ice before he joined the handshake line.
After that game seven 2-1 victory Crosby was rushed to several live TV interviews by NHL personnel, hugged some teammates and was handed the Stanley Cup by commissioner Gary Bettman.
And so Crosby was celebrating when Red Wings captain Nicklas Lidstrom, alternate captain Kris Draper and some other key Red Wings players skated off the ice and to their dressing room.
Big deal.
Crosby himself estimates he shook hands with about half the team, including goalie Chris Osgood and coach Mike Babcock, who congratulated him on his leadership ability.
That wasn't enough to satisfy Draper.
Again. Big deal.
Crosby finds any suggestion that he would intentionally avoid shaking hands a little disingenuous.
“It's the easiest thing in the world to shake hands after you win,” said Crosby, in a TSN story.
“I really don't need to talk to anyone from Detroit about it," Crosby said Sunday. "I made the attempt to go shake hands. I've been on that side of things, too, I know it's not easy, waiting around. I just won the Stanley Cup, and I think I have the right to celebrate with my teammates.
"On their side of things, I understand if they don't want to wait around."
At 21, Crosby is the youngest captain to win a Stanley Cup, but he is an avid follower of the game, its storied history and its entrenched traditions. He would never intentionally stoop to snub. Draper on the other hand stomped some sour grapes into a sublime mash with his stilted and mealy allegations.
“I had no intentions of trying to skip guys and not shake their hands,” Crosby said. “I think that was a pretty unreasonable comment. The guys I shook their hands with, they realized I made the attempt. If I could shake half their team's hands, I'm sure the other half wasn't too far behind. I don't know what happened there.”
And that explanation, from Crosby should be enough for Draper.
“I have no regrets,” added Crosby, already at 21, wise beyond Draper’s years. “I've been on both sides of it, and it's not fun being on the losing end. But it doesn't change anything. You still shake hands no matter what.”
“Nobody respects the traditions of hockey more than Sidney Crosby," team vice president Tom McMillan said via AP News. “It was a young team celebrating its first Cup and some of the guys might have been a little late getting into the handshake line.”
And while we’re talking apologies.
Exactly how many toe-to-toe confrontations went on in the course of this very exciting seven game Stanley Cup hockey series?
About time for Brian Burke, Don Cherry, Michael Farber, Gary Bettman, and a host of other pro-fight cognoscente, to apologize to “real” hockey fans in general for continuing to insist that, “fighting is, was, and always will be … part of the game!”
Please, fellas. Do me a solid. Take a look at the viewing totals for a series conducted miles removed from the milieu of the junkyard dog and brawler mindset.
And the next time you wish to spout generic about the efficacy of fighting in the game of hockey. And how much we need it.
Do me a favor and a Draper.
“Shut Up!”
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Nuisance Bears and life in the country - The Highlander Rants
Nuisance Bears and life in the country
A chat with Smokey, Yogi and Boo Boo
By Terrance Seamus Gavan
A recent cottage country meeting outlined the depth of a recurring problem.
Bears are running wild, rampant, and free here in the Highlands.
And that has a lot of people very upset.
It’s taking a huge toll on the gentle psyches and genteel sensibilities of many residents and cottagers in the area.
All down to “nuisance bears.”
What are nuisance bears?
Well, nuisance bears are those rumbling ursine garbage scows that interfere with our god-given right to enjoyment of the assorted natural wonders flung so haphazardly and luxuriously here in the Highlands.
Bears who brazenly wander through the woods and into “our yards” with alarming regularity.
Bears who show utter contempt for “no trespassing” signs.
Bears who exhibit a blatant disregard for our innate property rights.
Hungry bears with an alarmingly excellent sense of smell.
Bears who are able to discern, from 5 or 6 hectares, the dusky aroma of last night’s salmon steak on a Weber Hot Blast 4000 Super Grill.
How dare they. Pesky bears.
Many people in the Algonquin Highlands have seen these bears.
I know. I’ve heard the complaints. Numerous complaints. At cottage meetings. At council meetings.
“It’s uncivilized,” says one cottager, Jake Usurper. “Bears running around like they own the woods! Just who do they think they are?” Jake Usurper says he’s done the due diligence.
“I keep phoning the bear line over to the Ministry of Natural Resources (MNR) and they keep telling me that bears often wander this time of year. Wander, shmonder. I fought in two wars, I paid for this property, and I own a lotta’ guns,” says Jake, who says that locals may have to contemplate a “thinning of the herd.”
“I moved here five years ago to enjoy my cottage, the wilderness, and all of nature’s rich and bounteous beauty,” says Jake, 75, a transplanted Oshawite. “These damn black bears are ruining my retirement.”
I phoned the MNR hot line in Sudbury.
I got a recording.
“Thank you for phoning the Bear Aware Hot Line. Your call is important to us. The MNR appreciates your input … but all of our operators are currently running around the woods, willy-nilly, and chock-a-block, looking for endangered species, invasive fishies and the elusive Sasquatch. If you’re calling to report a black bear sighting, press one; if a black bear is interfering with your yard work, press two; if a black bear ate your dinner, press 3; if a black bear is doing short laps in your Jacuzzi, press 4; if black bears are ruining your retirement – Jake! Put that bloody rifle down! Now! Thank you for calling the MNR Ursus Horribilis hot line. This call may be recorded for quality purposes.”
It’s all very confusing. When I’m confused I go to the source. Last week Smokey Bear was in town for a photo op and presser.
I tracked him down after the press conference.
“Smokey, why are your brethren bears terrorizing the citizenry in the Highlands?” I asked.
“They’re hungry,” said Smokey.
“But surely Smokey, that cannot excuse the blatant trespassing, disregard for property, and the increasingly hostile reaction to incursive civilization? For instance, you seem to do all right, how do you manage to feed yourself?”
“Look, I’m on a full-ride government-sponsored expense account … so it’s like salmon, filet mignon, shrimp, caviar, and all the Big Macs I can manage, 24-7, especially during fire season,” growled Smokey. “It ain’t so easy for some of the brothers down in the deep, dark woods … Look, if you want the real skinny from a scavenger’s perspective I’ll give you a number of a good friend of mine,” said Smokey.
I dialed the number and the phone rang twice.
“Hello, Yogi Bear’s residence,” said the voice at the other end. I recognized it immediately –a nasally blast from my Hanna-Barbera past.
“Boo-Boo, is that you?” I asked, incredulously.
“Yes, how can I help you?” said Boo-Boo.
“Wow,” I said. “Look I was given this number from Smokey Bear up in Canada. He said I could get some answers about why bears are encroaching on our summer playgrounds, stealing our food, gutting our garbage, and generally making our lives miserable up here in cottage country.”
“Oh yes. We’re great friends Smokey, Yogi and I,” said the Boo-Boo. “But hey, the nuisance thing, that’s Yogi’s territory, and I’m afraid I have some bad news,” said Boo-Boo.
“Why, what’s wrong Boo?” I asked.
“Yogi’s in rehab,” sighed Boo-Boo. “Ranger Smith checked him into Betty Ford for the 60-day Pic-I-Nic Basket Withdrawal Program. It’s all my fault. I’m a classic enabler.”
“You’re being a little hard on yourself Boo-Boo,” I said. “I think you’ll find that like any addict, Yogi will have to step to the plate, own his addiction, make amends, stay off the pork-chops, and move on with his life.”
We talked for a long while. Boo-Boo brings Yogi five quarts of elderberries every day.
“The counselors at Betty Ford are very kind and understanding,” said the Boo. “They’re slowly weaning Yogi off the hard crack of that soda pop, hot-dog and deviled egg diet. It’s hard. People don’t realize how easy it is to become addicted to the fast fix of a free lunch, a leftover pizza or an apple pie.”
Boo has set up the Yogi Foundation, a not-for-profit agency dedicated to eradicating the nightmare of bears on cake.
So Highlanders. It’s up to you.
Make your donation, care of Boo Boo Bear, at beardespair.com.
Send a Highlands’ bear to rehab.
Do it for Yogi.
A chat with Smokey, Yogi and Boo Boo
By Terrance Seamus Gavan
A recent cottage country meeting outlined the depth of a recurring problem.
Bears are running wild, rampant, and free here in the Highlands.
And that has a lot of people very upset.
It’s taking a huge toll on the gentle psyches and genteel sensibilities of many residents and cottagers in the area.
All down to “nuisance bears.”
What are nuisance bears?
Well, nuisance bears are those rumbling ursine garbage scows that interfere with our god-given right to enjoyment of the assorted natural wonders flung so haphazardly and luxuriously here in the Highlands.
Bears who brazenly wander through the woods and into “our yards” with alarming regularity.
Bears who show utter contempt for “no trespassing” signs.
Bears who exhibit a blatant disregard for our innate property rights.
Hungry bears with an alarmingly excellent sense of smell.
Bears who are able to discern, from 5 or 6 hectares, the dusky aroma of last night’s salmon steak on a Weber Hot Blast 4000 Super Grill.
How dare they. Pesky bears.
Many people in the Algonquin Highlands have seen these bears.
I know. I’ve heard the complaints. Numerous complaints. At cottage meetings. At council meetings.
“It’s uncivilized,” says one cottager, Jake Usurper. “Bears running around like they own the woods! Just who do they think they are?” Jake Usurper says he’s done the due diligence.
“I keep phoning the bear line over to the Ministry of Natural Resources (MNR) and they keep telling me that bears often wander this time of year. Wander, shmonder. I fought in two wars, I paid for this property, and I own a lotta’ guns,” says Jake, who says that locals may have to contemplate a “thinning of the herd.”
“I moved here five years ago to enjoy my cottage, the wilderness, and all of nature’s rich and bounteous beauty,” says Jake, 75, a transplanted Oshawite. “These damn black bears are ruining my retirement.”
I phoned the MNR hot line in Sudbury.
I got a recording.
“Thank you for phoning the Bear Aware Hot Line. Your call is important to us. The MNR appreciates your input … but all of our operators are currently running around the woods, willy-nilly, and chock-a-block, looking for endangered species, invasive fishies and the elusive Sasquatch. If you’re calling to report a black bear sighting, press one; if a black bear is interfering with your yard work, press two; if a black bear ate your dinner, press 3; if a black bear is doing short laps in your Jacuzzi, press 4; if black bears are ruining your retirement – Jake! Put that bloody rifle down! Now! Thank you for calling the MNR Ursus Horribilis hot line. This call may be recorded for quality purposes.”
It’s all very confusing. When I’m confused I go to the source. Last week Smokey Bear was in town for a photo op and presser.
I tracked him down after the press conference.
“Smokey, why are your brethren bears terrorizing the citizenry in the Highlands?” I asked.
“They’re hungry,” said Smokey.
“But surely Smokey, that cannot excuse the blatant trespassing, disregard for property, and the increasingly hostile reaction to incursive civilization? For instance, you seem to do all right, how do you manage to feed yourself?”
“Look, I’m on a full-ride government-sponsored expense account … so it’s like salmon, filet mignon, shrimp, caviar, and all the Big Macs I can manage, 24-7, especially during fire season,” growled Smokey. “It ain’t so easy for some of the brothers down in the deep, dark woods … Look, if you want the real skinny from a scavenger’s perspective I’ll give you a number of a good friend of mine,” said Smokey.
I dialed the number and the phone rang twice.
“Hello, Yogi Bear’s residence,” said the voice at the other end. I recognized it immediately –a nasally blast from my Hanna-Barbera past.
“Boo-Boo, is that you?” I asked, incredulously.
“Yes, how can I help you?” said Boo-Boo.
“Wow,” I said. “Look I was given this number from Smokey Bear up in Canada. He said I could get some answers about why bears are encroaching on our summer playgrounds, stealing our food, gutting our garbage, and generally making our lives miserable up here in cottage country.”
“Oh yes. We’re great friends Smokey, Yogi and I,” said the Boo-Boo. “But hey, the nuisance thing, that’s Yogi’s territory, and I’m afraid I have some bad news,” said Boo-Boo.
“Why, what’s wrong Boo?” I asked.
“Yogi’s in rehab,” sighed Boo-Boo. “Ranger Smith checked him into Betty Ford for the 60-day Pic-I-Nic Basket Withdrawal Program. It’s all my fault. I’m a classic enabler.”
“You’re being a little hard on yourself Boo-Boo,” I said. “I think you’ll find that like any addict, Yogi will have to step to the plate, own his addiction, make amends, stay off the pork-chops, and move on with his life.”
We talked for a long while. Boo-Boo brings Yogi five quarts of elderberries every day.
“The counselors at Betty Ford are very kind and understanding,” said the Boo. “They’re slowly weaning Yogi off the hard crack of that soda pop, hot-dog and deviled egg diet. It’s hard. People don’t realize how easy it is to become addicted to the fast fix of a free lunch, a leftover pizza or an apple pie.”
Boo has set up the Yogi Foundation, a not-for-profit agency dedicated to eradicating the nightmare of bears on cake.
So Highlanders. It’s up to you.
Make your donation, care of Boo Boo Bear, at beardespair.com.
Send a Highlands’ bear to rehab.
Do it for Yogi.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Memories from the suicide line
When in doubt – go for the big laugh – and a Newfie joke?
Did you hear the one about the two drunks walkin’ down the railroad track?
By Terrance Seamus Gavan
I was listening to some vintage George Carlin on the weekend.
He has a one-liner about crisis intervention workers.
“If you work on a suicide hotline, and you’re feeling just a little depressed one morning. Do you phone in sick?”
The answer is no. Because that work on the phones, when you get right down to it, is more important than any little thing currently meandering through your tight and pampered prism. So unless you wake up with a sudden urge to head to the roof of your high-rise apartment building and “try for the double line” – another George Carlin jive and jump (and album cover) on the big exit – you should just probably suck it up, brush your teeth, have an espresso, go on in and answer the phones.
“Hi, Suicide Line, my name’s Terry, and before we get started, do you have any Lottery tickets in your wallet that you haven’t checked yet? Cos’ y’know, life is good, and it may already have gotten better.”
I used to work the midnight shift three times a month at the Ottawa Distress Centre back in the mid-70s.
I was dillydallying around St. Pats College and Carleton University plodding through an undeclared year of liberal arts.
They put the young volunteers on the midnight shift. Back then, the Ottawa Distress Center was grossly under funded and we worked out of a ramshackle old building in the old Byward Market District.
The Ottawa Distress Center was not a suicide line per se, but the midnight shift did get the lion’s share of the “one and done” calls. It was before call display, and if we had a “live one on the dead line” who was fading fast from an overdose we were authorized to have the call traced, and once traced, we also had the authority to dispatch an ambulance. We had to phone poison control just to make sure that what the person took was actually gonna’ kill him. The centre got charged for all ambulance calls. It was all tied to the bottom line.
I got a lot of overdose calls. And if the person was fading, I traced, I dispatched. I once sent an ambulance and squad car to a house where the man had ingested a fifth of Jack Daniels and 10 packages of Ex Lax. I didn’t know what he had taken, hadn’t checked in with poison control, and I was listening as the cops and paramedics broke down the door.
I heard some swearing. A cop grabbed the phone. “Hey Terry?”
“Yes, that’s me, how is he?”
“He’s fine. He took Ex Lax Terry! EX LAX! Capiche? He’s doin’ just great, got a dumb grin on his puss. We’re all covered in shit! Thanks for the call out buddy!” Oops.
A Monday night 2 a.m. and I’m alone at the Distress Centre. A call.
It’s a young woman. She lives across the river in the Gatineau area. Her name is Jennifer, she’s 32 and has three girls sleeping upstairs in their large home on 10 sprawling acres. Her husband, a lawyer, is overseas on business.
“I have a gun, Terry,” she says, the voice a far off drift. No affect. Just statement.
“Is it loaded, Jennifer?” I ask.
“Just doing that now,” says Jennifer. And I hear the unmistakable sound of bullets being pushed slowly into the chamber of a revolver. “Click, click, click.”
I ask her why.
“I don’t know Terry. I just know it has to end tonight,” she says. I know that it’s too late for a call trace. I’m all alone. And I can hear in her voice a quiver, and that unmistakable rumble of despair. The kind of despair that rises like a tide from the abyss of a heart, too close to the breaking.
The training kicks in and I ask about her kids, upstairs sleeping. I need names. They are Suzy, Janie and Sarah, 3, 5 and 8. I remind Jen that they will be the ones to find her in the morning.
“It’s better for them if I’m gone, and in time they’ll understand,” says Jennifer. I hear the spin of the chamber. “My husband taught me how to shoot this thing,” says Jennifer. “Truth is, I really hate guns.”
And right there. I heard something in her voice. An affect. And I abandoned all the training.
“Can I tell you a joke Jennifer?” I ask gently.
“A joke? Why not,” she replies.
I continued. Breaking all the rules for a suicide call.
“A couple of Newfie hunters are at a truck stop diner when one of them grabs his chest and falls to the floor,” I begin - my own chest pounding. “He’s not breathing, his eyes are rolled back in his head. The other guy runs to the diner’s phone and calls emergency services. He gasps to the operator: ‘My friend is dead! What can I do?’
“The operator, in a calm soothing voice says: ‘Just take it easy. I can help. First, let’s make sure he’s really dead.’ There’s silence; then a shot is heard.
“The Newfie comes back to the line. He says: ‘OK, now what?’ ”
It seemed like an eternity, but I know it was only 3 seconds. Jennifer starts to laugh.
“Very nice, Terry,” says Jennifer. “I’m unloading the gun and I’m going up to kiss my three daughters good night … but not goodbye.”
“And the number I gave you?” I asked.
“I have it here on the pad and I’ll call the Shrink in the morning,” says Jennifer.
A month later at the Distress Centre desk, a note addressed, “To Terry.”
I opened it.
“Dear Terry – Seeing the shrink. The gun is gone. Life is better. OK, Now What? Jen.”
We pass a lot of signposts in our journey.
I come from a long line of Irish humorists.
My fallback philosophy?
“When in doubt … go for the big laugh.”
Sometimes it’ll keep you off that double line.
OK. Now what?
(Special thanks to Aunt Lorraine, the Reverend Donald Francis Gavan and my pops, who taught me to slay my demons with laughter.)
Did you hear the one about the two drunks walkin’ down the railroad track?
By Terrance Seamus Gavan
I was listening to some vintage George Carlin on the weekend.
He has a one-liner about crisis intervention workers.
“If you work on a suicide hotline, and you’re feeling just a little depressed one morning. Do you phone in sick?”
The answer is no. Because that work on the phones, when you get right down to it, is more important than any little thing currently meandering through your tight and pampered prism. So unless you wake up with a sudden urge to head to the roof of your high-rise apartment building and “try for the double line” – another George Carlin jive and jump (and album cover) on the big exit – you should just probably suck it up, brush your teeth, have an espresso, go on in and answer the phones.
“Hi, Suicide Line, my name’s Terry, and before we get started, do you have any Lottery tickets in your wallet that you haven’t checked yet? Cos’ y’know, life is good, and it may already have gotten better.”
I used to work the midnight shift three times a month at the Ottawa Distress Centre back in the mid-70s.
I was dillydallying around St. Pats College and Carleton University plodding through an undeclared year of liberal arts.
They put the young volunteers on the midnight shift. Back then, the Ottawa Distress Center was grossly under funded and we worked out of a ramshackle old building in the old Byward Market District.
The Ottawa Distress Center was not a suicide line per se, but the midnight shift did get the lion’s share of the “one and done” calls. It was before call display, and if we had a “live one on the dead line” who was fading fast from an overdose we were authorized to have the call traced, and once traced, we also had the authority to dispatch an ambulance. We had to phone poison control just to make sure that what the person took was actually gonna’ kill him. The centre got charged for all ambulance calls. It was all tied to the bottom line.
I got a lot of overdose calls. And if the person was fading, I traced, I dispatched. I once sent an ambulance and squad car to a house where the man had ingested a fifth of Jack Daniels and 10 packages of Ex Lax. I didn’t know what he had taken, hadn’t checked in with poison control, and I was listening as the cops and paramedics broke down the door.
I heard some swearing. A cop grabbed the phone. “Hey Terry?”
“Yes, that’s me, how is he?”
“He’s fine. He took Ex Lax Terry! EX LAX! Capiche? He’s doin’ just great, got a dumb grin on his puss. We’re all covered in shit! Thanks for the call out buddy!” Oops.
A Monday night 2 a.m. and I’m alone at the Distress Centre. A call.
It’s a young woman. She lives across the river in the Gatineau area. Her name is Jennifer, she’s 32 and has three girls sleeping upstairs in their large home on 10 sprawling acres. Her husband, a lawyer, is overseas on business.
“I have a gun, Terry,” she says, the voice a far off drift. No affect. Just statement.
“Is it loaded, Jennifer?” I ask.
“Just doing that now,” says Jennifer. And I hear the unmistakable sound of bullets being pushed slowly into the chamber of a revolver. “Click, click, click.”
I ask her why.
“I don’t know Terry. I just know it has to end tonight,” she says. I know that it’s too late for a call trace. I’m all alone. And I can hear in her voice a quiver, and that unmistakable rumble of despair. The kind of despair that rises like a tide from the abyss of a heart, too close to the breaking.
The training kicks in and I ask about her kids, upstairs sleeping. I need names. They are Suzy, Janie and Sarah, 3, 5 and 8. I remind Jen that they will be the ones to find her in the morning.
“It’s better for them if I’m gone, and in time they’ll understand,” says Jennifer. I hear the spin of the chamber. “My husband taught me how to shoot this thing,” says Jennifer. “Truth is, I really hate guns.”
And right there. I heard something in her voice. An affect. And I abandoned all the training.
“Can I tell you a joke Jennifer?” I ask gently.
“A joke? Why not,” she replies.
I continued. Breaking all the rules for a suicide call.
“A couple of Newfie hunters are at a truck stop diner when one of them grabs his chest and falls to the floor,” I begin - my own chest pounding. “He’s not breathing, his eyes are rolled back in his head. The other guy runs to the diner’s phone and calls emergency services. He gasps to the operator: ‘My friend is dead! What can I do?’
“The operator, in a calm soothing voice says: ‘Just take it easy. I can help. First, let’s make sure he’s really dead.’ There’s silence; then a shot is heard.
“The Newfie comes back to the line. He says: ‘OK, now what?’ ”
It seemed like an eternity, but I know it was only 3 seconds. Jennifer starts to laugh.
“Very nice, Terry,” says Jennifer. “I’m unloading the gun and I’m going up to kiss my three daughters good night … but not goodbye.”
“And the number I gave you?” I asked.
“I have it here on the pad and I’ll call the Shrink in the morning,” says Jennifer.
A month later at the Distress Centre desk, a note addressed, “To Terry.”
I opened it.
“Dear Terry – Seeing the shrink. The gun is gone. Life is better. OK, Now What? Jen.”
We pass a lot of signposts in our journey.
I come from a long line of Irish humorists.
My fallback philosophy?
“When in doubt … go for the big laugh.”
Sometimes it’ll keep you off that double line.
OK. Now what?
(Special thanks to Aunt Lorraine, the Reverend Donald Francis Gavan and my pops, who taught me to slay my demons with laughter.)
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Canada's Governor General Michaëlle Jean - in bad taste?
Governor General Michaëlle Jean … a whole lotta’ heart
Beware! Oscar the Cat is on the prowl!
By Terrance Seamus O’Gavan
There’s blood on her lips.
There’s blood on the ice.
A Hannibal slurp.
And it’s gone in a trice. (Inuit Ode to Governor General Michaëlle Jean)
Our lovely Governor General Michaëlle Jean put Canada on front pages across the world last week when she delved into an “ethical” dish of raw seal heart in Rankin Inlet.
It was touted as a show of solidarity and support for an ancient Inuit rite.
Many more cynical pundits and backbench wailers viewed it as a photo op to gain support for Canada’s much maligned sealing industry, which has been taking some heavy handed cranks from the European Union, Bob Barker, and Brigitte Bardot of late.
Of course, Inuit sealing for sustenance, and the hard banging, head-denting annual seal cull are two entirely different entities. Is Michaëlle Jean that slick?
I’m thinking that she’s no naïve waif, and she had some idea that her delicate and tasty meal might serve as a superbly crafted photo op for People for the Ethical Treatment of Maritime Seal Bashers.
Whatever. The picture of Michaëlle Jean, hands and lips blurred red with seal’s blood created quite a stir.
Buddhists cringed. People for the ethical treatment of animals (PETA for short) barked, mooed, baahed, roared, and whined. Rex Murphy, our loopy goofy Newfie, stuttered, moaned and groaned about the fate of his poor seal thumping Newfie brethren and their god-given right to earn a living.
Four words Rex. “Better schools and Microsoft.”
My God, to hear him prune, preen, and pine, you would think that poor old Rex made his living bumping baby seals on the head before leaping from an ice floe in the North Atlantic to the greener less crimson pastures of the CBC mother ship. Rex held a CBC Cross Country Check Up show about “Bloody Queen Jean” on Sunday.
People phoned in and applauded Michaëlle Jean’s intestinal fortitude. Rex corrected them. “Ma’am t’anks youse’ for calling, but it was da’ heart, not the entrails. T’anks fer’ da’ call. I’se da bay dat builds da boat. Next caller please.”
Rex, that adopted son of a Newfie cod-kisser, makes no bones about his own views on everything seal.
“Pussy-walloped, cod-duffers and ham-handed politicians … is killin’ dis’ here livliehood, my lovelies. Good on ol’ Michaëlle Jean. Chewin’ on dat bloody heart, fer’ da’ good of dem’ sealers from Dildo and Come By Chance! Arrrgh!”
Rex knows Newfoundland. He knows, unlike many of those unenlightened politicos and businessmen - who are attempting to drag Newfoundland into the 19th century - that Newfoundland’s future rests not with technology, call centers, universities, and offshore oil, but rather with the lovely, free-flow of the annual seal slaughter.
“It was delicious,” said Jean.
I’m no Buddhist. But I’m thinking we may have to punch a hole in the paradigm.
The animals are not dumb. And I’ve read Orwell’s Animal Farm.
Just last week an article in the Globe and Mail entitled, “Amateur researchers seek Spot’s sixth sense,” caught my eye.
It contained the story of Oscar the cat. Oscar was adopted by a Providence R.I. nursing home’s Advanced Dementia Unit. Oscar made headlines when it was revealed that he seemed to sense when a patient was about to die.
In more than 25 documented and recent cases, Oscar, normally very aloof, snuggled with an elderly patient, who invariably died within an hour of the cuddle.
Doctors blame it on some extrasensory biochemical reaction. “Oscar just seems to know,” said Dr. Hunter Kevorkian, (no relation) a staff doctor at the Providence Institution.
I’m thinking that their cause and effect exemplar might be a little skewed. Does Oscar know? Or does Oscar, nudge, nudge, and wink … KNOW?
Oscar might be an avid reader. Oscar may have seen Planet of the Apes. He might like to peruse the New York Times on occasion. He might have seen a picture of Michaëlle Jean, fingertips and lips smooshed crimson with the blood of a poor defenseless seal. Oscar might be getting a little tired of this feckless slaughter.
Oscar the Cat. Hospice healer? Or Serial Killer?
I reached 95-year-old Billy Bob Golightly, a Providence Dementia Unit patient, by phone last weekend.
“Oscar tried to snuggle up to me late one night, and I threw him off my bed,” said Billy Bob. “I know what that durn’ cat’s up to. Sixth sense my buttcheek! That cat’s the second comin’ of Hannibal the Cannibal!”
Billy Bob immediately took affirmative action.
“My nephew brought in my old Remington twelve gauge and my trusty blue heeler hound Baskerville,” laughed Golighlty. “Haven’t seen that cat in three nights.”
Oscar has left the building. Headed for god knows where. A serial killer on the prowl?
A wise whispered word to our crimson-tinged princess Michaëlle Jean.
Alert the staff at Governor General’s House on Sussex Drive in Ottawa. Do not, under any circumstances, feed any stray cats.
And Michaëlle. Do look under your four-poster Queen-size bed before closing your eyes for the night.
Oh, and … meeeeoooowww!
Beware! Oscar the Cat is on the prowl!
By Terrance Seamus O’Gavan
There’s blood on her lips.
There’s blood on the ice.
A Hannibal slurp.
And it’s gone in a trice. (Inuit Ode to Governor General Michaëlle Jean)
Our lovely Governor General Michaëlle Jean put Canada on front pages across the world last week when she delved into an “ethical” dish of raw seal heart in Rankin Inlet.
It was touted as a show of solidarity and support for an ancient Inuit rite.
Many more cynical pundits and backbench wailers viewed it as a photo op to gain support for Canada’s much maligned sealing industry, which has been taking some heavy handed cranks from the European Union, Bob Barker, and Brigitte Bardot of late.
Of course, Inuit sealing for sustenance, and the hard banging, head-denting annual seal cull are two entirely different entities. Is Michaëlle Jean that slick?
I’m thinking that she’s no naïve waif, and she had some idea that her delicate and tasty meal might serve as a superbly crafted photo op for People for the Ethical Treatment of Maritime Seal Bashers.
Whatever. The picture of Michaëlle Jean, hands and lips blurred red with seal’s blood created quite a stir.
Buddhists cringed. People for the ethical treatment of animals (PETA for short) barked, mooed, baahed, roared, and whined. Rex Murphy, our loopy goofy Newfie, stuttered, moaned and groaned about the fate of his poor seal thumping Newfie brethren and their god-given right to earn a living.
Four words Rex. “Better schools and Microsoft.”
My God, to hear him prune, preen, and pine, you would think that poor old Rex made his living bumping baby seals on the head before leaping from an ice floe in the North Atlantic to the greener less crimson pastures of the CBC mother ship. Rex held a CBC Cross Country Check Up show about “Bloody Queen Jean” on Sunday.
People phoned in and applauded Michaëlle Jean’s intestinal fortitude. Rex corrected them. “Ma’am t’anks youse’ for calling, but it was da’ heart, not the entrails. T’anks fer’ da’ call. I’se da bay dat builds da boat. Next caller please.”
Rex, that adopted son of a Newfie cod-kisser, makes no bones about his own views on everything seal.
“Pussy-walloped, cod-duffers and ham-handed politicians … is killin’ dis’ here livliehood, my lovelies. Good on ol’ Michaëlle Jean. Chewin’ on dat bloody heart, fer’ da’ good of dem’ sealers from Dildo and Come By Chance! Arrrgh!”
Rex knows Newfoundland. He knows, unlike many of those unenlightened politicos and businessmen - who are attempting to drag Newfoundland into the 19th century - that Newfoundland’s future rests not with technology, call centers, universities, and offshore oil, but rather with the lovely, free-flow of the annual seal slaughter.
“It was delicious,” said Jean.
I’m no Buddhist. But I’m thinking we may have to punch a hole in the paradigm.
The animals are not dumb. And I’ve read Orwell’s Animal Farm.
Just last week an article in the Globe and Mail entitled, “Amateur researchers seek Spot’s sixth sense,” caught my eye.
It contained the story of Oscar the cat. Oscar was adopted by a Providence R.I. nursing home’s Advanced Dementia Unit. Oscar made headlines when it was revealed that he seemed to sense when a patient was about to die.
In more than 25 documented and recent cases, Oscar, normally very aloof, snuggled with an elderly patient, who invariably died within an hour of the cuddle.
Doctors blame it on some extrasensory biochemical reaction. “Oscar just seems to know,” said Dr. Hunter Kevorkian, (no relation) a staff doctor at the Providence Institution.
I’m thinking that their cause and effect exemplar might be a little skewed. Does Oscar know? Or does Oscar, nudge, nudge, and wink … KNOW?
Oscar might be an avid reader. Oscar may have seen Planet of the Apes. He might like to peruse the New York Times on occasion. He might have seen a picture of Michaëlle Jean, fingertips and lips smooshed crimson with the blood of a poor defenseless seal. Oscar might be getting a little tired of this feckless slaughter.
Oscar the Cat. Hospice healer? Or Serial Killer?
I reached 95-year-old Billy Bob Golightly, a Providence Dementia Unit patient, by phone last weekend.
“Oscar tried to snuggle up to me late one night, and I threw him off my bed,” said Billy Bob. “I know what that durn’ cat’s up to. Sixth sense my buttcheek! That cat’s the second comin’ of Hannibal the Cannibal!”
Billy Bob immediately took affirmative action.
“My nephew brought in my old Remington twelve gauge and my trusty blue heeler hound Baskerville,” laughed Golighlty. “Haven’t seen that cat in three nights.”
Oscar has left the building. Headed for god knows where. A serial killer on the prowl?
A wise whispered word to our crimson-tinged princess Michaëlle Jean.
Alert the staff at Governor General’s House on Sussex Drive in Ottawa. Do not, under any circumstances, feed any stray cats.
And Michaëlle. Do look under your four-poster Queen-size bed before closing your eyes for the night.
Oh, and … meeeeoooowww!
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