Monday, January 31, 2005
I rented this so-called "movie" on Saturday night ("movie" meaning "formulaic schlock"). Technically, I didn’t rent it. My sister did. I was with her at the video store on Saturday night. When she first suggested renting Wimbledon, I said, "No way am I watching that crap."
The problem was the movie we really wanted to see, Friday Night Lights, was out at all three video stores we went to. The other problem was that Jane looked like she had escaped from 999 Queen Street West (which isn’t too far of a stretch considering she used to work there).
She was drowning in blue flannel pajamas patterned with dozens of egg-sized, smiling snowmen wearing top hats. The pajama bottoms were tucked into the kind of serious winter boots you might find someone wearing in the Arctic. She hadn’t washed her hair in a couple of days either.
I too was wearing pajamas, which consisted of yoga pants and a fleece jacket. If I hadn’t also been wearing thick wool socks and my mom’s plastic sandals, I could have passed for someone on their way home from a workout. (In our defense, we had just driven back to Toronto from the farm and were emotionally drained and physically exhausted.)
So there we were, looking like Thelma and Louise near the end of their adventure. We were standing at the counter of the third video store asking if anyone had returned a copy of Friday Night Lights when we heard loud laughter behind us. We turned around to see four people in line staring at Jane and pointing at her outfit.
"Let’s get the hell out of here," said Jane, who was mortified, yet laughing hysterically at the same time.
"We still need to get a movie so just pick something fast," I said.
And that’s how we ended up renting Wimbledon.
The basic plot went something like this: boy tennis pro and girl tennis pro meet at Wimbledon. After a brief courtship, boy and girl sleep together and fall in love. Boy plays really well and advances to the finals because girl inspires him. Girl plays really badly and fails to advance because boy distracts her.
Boy and girl fight. Boy is so upset, he loses first two sets in the finals. Girl sees match while at airport on her way home. Rushes back to cheer him on. He wins. They marry. The end.
It’s not so much the unoriginal and unimaginative plot line I had a problem with. It’s the obvious lack of research that went into the film. Like the way these alleged "tennis pros" drove to some seaside town during the middle of Wimbledon, and stayed up all night drinking wine and having sex. As if! Also, they go for a 10-mile training run and she’s wearing Converse. Converse! This is Wimbledon. Not the Saskatoon Open or whatever.
Real athletes would have focussed on the game and hooked up afterwards. And they would never, ever, go for a run in Converse. How do movies like this get made and who watches them?
Speaking of bad movies, I did not have to watch any on the flight from Toronto to Vancouver today. West Jet has little TVs in every seat with 24 channels of live satellite TV. All passengers get their own personal TV. Had I known this in advance, I would have scheduled my flight when the good shows are on. I was stuck watching Canada AM, Regis & Kelly and A Wedding Story.
I probably should have just slept instead. I think I’ve hit a level of sleep deprivation so deep that I’m no longer tired.
Saturday, January 29, 2005
I’m in Toronto right now. I flew in on Thursday for my grandfather’s funeral, which was held in Alvinston, Ontario, yesterday.
My grandfather died suddenly and unexpectedly on Tuesday. He was at home, on the farm, fixing the washing machine when he collapsed. My grandmother was with him when it happened. She called 911 but my grandfather never regained consciousness and died before the paramedics arrived.
My grandfather may have been 84 but we all thought he had at least another 10 years in him. He was incredibly strong and healthy. He still worked the 400-acre farm that has been in his family for three generations.
My grandparents were farmers from a different era. They made a modest living planting and harvesting soybeans and corn, and raising cows, pigs and chickens in southwestern Ontario for almost 60 years. They never sought to accumulate wealth or acquire material goods. If my grandfather’s boot leaked, he would cover it with a plastic bag and tie it up around his leg. My grandparents lived simply and humbly with a deep connection to the land.
My grandfather was proud of his orchard, which was filled with an abundance of apples, pears, plums and cherries. He also took pride in his garden, where he grew beans, potatoes, cabbage, cucumbers, onions, grapes, rhubarb, raspberries and carrots, just to name a few. My grandmother raised four children (including my mom) and still found time to make every meal from scratch.
It was hard, grueling work that started at sunrise and lasted well past sunset. They still lived in the same house that my grandfather was born in and that was built by his grandfather in 1860. Somehow, it’s still standing. The porch is sagging, bricks are falling out, it’s not insulated and the windows aren’t glazed. Dishes are still washed by hand in a tub full of water heated on the wood stove.
Now that my grandfather has died, the farm will slowly die along with him. My grandmother is unable to run the place on her own and will move into a seniors’ apartment in town. The farm will eventually be sold, the house torn down.
It’s hard to capture the essence of my grandparents and the farm. In a way, I grew up there. I spent weekends and summers there. I may have lived in Toronto but my heart belonged on the farm. It was where I truly felt at home.
Now, the entire family has flown in from across Canada and the United States to be together to say goodbye to my grandfather and the farm.
After the funeral, all of the grandchildren spent one last night at the farm to drink beer, share memories and stoke the fire. The farmhouse is heated by a wood furnace so our night revolved around finding wood, chopping wood and burning wood. We had to stoke the furnace every two hours around the clock to keep the house warm.
It took 12 of us (ranging in age from 17 to 30) to stoke the fire, a job my grandfather did by himself every day, several times a day. And still we managed to screw it up. We filled the house with thick, black smoke and couldn’t quite get the temperature above cold and drafty.
Somehow my grandfather managed to get the temperature upstairs well into the 90s before we all went to bed. My mom would crack open the double hung windows even when it was minus 20 outside.
So all the cousins spent Friday night on the farm, huddled around the kitchen table in our winter jackets and toques. We talked and laughed well into the night. We listened to classic rock on the radio, which my grandfather used for the sole purpose of listening to the crop reports on AM radio. It was possibly the first time anyone listened to FM radio in the house. We also found a box of Kraft Dinner that was best before 1988 in the cupboard while looking for popcorn. We took turns peeing outside because the pipes were frozen and there was no water.
Stoking the fire became more fun, and more dangerous, the more beer we drank. We even started counting down the seconds to the next stoke as if we were counting down to New Year's Day. My cousin Bradley decided we should call ourselves the BTU club and said he'd make up t-shirts for Christmas.
Our grandfather always made us feel like we weren’t always the brightest grandchildren around. He was probably right.
One summer, my cousin Amy and I lassoed a runt. We babied that pig. We fed it and cuddled it and snuck it into the house. My grandfather humoured us for about three days and then killed the pig because in his world, pigs are not pets and the runt was going to die anyway. We were sad for about a minute and then went right back to playing in the barn and jumping in the hay.
My sisters and I liked to entertain the cows. Jane would lure the cows into the barn with hay and when there were enough of them standing around, I’d jump into the wooden feed trough and march up and down the length of the barn dancing and singing “There’s no business like cow business.”
They were a captive audience, staring at us with their big, bulbous eyes and mouths agape. One time I decided to reward them by giving them all 50 heads of cabbage my grandfather had stored in the barn for the winter. I was happy, the cows were happy. Then the cows weren’t so happy and neither was my grandfather. He wasn’t normally a man of many words, but he was that day. It took him a good year to forgive me. And all was well once again.
My dad always liked to take some of my grandfather’s firewood for the fireplace at our home in Toronto. We always ended up driving back home with our suitcases jammed under our feet because the trunk would be full of wood – beech, cherry, hard maple, oak, ash and even ironwood. I hope my dad lights a fire tonight. When the smoke wafts though the screen, a little piece of grandpa and the farm will be there with us.
Sunday, January 23, 2005
Half the office is being sent to a professional development workshop at a ‘retreat centre’ on Bowen Island. A retreat centre is not a hotel. There is no Internet access, no television, no bar, no swimming pool, no fitness centre, no alarm clock, no room service, no chocolate on the pillowcase, no pillow period.
I’ll be trapped in a primitive mountaintop lodge with my co-workers, a couple of consultants and not much else for four days. This can only go one of two ways – it will either be a tedious nightmare or a lot of fun.
Luckily for me, I happen to like the people I work with so I’m looking forward to it (and I’m not just saying that because I’m worried my boss will read this and fire me. I really do like my co-workers. Besides, I’m way too valuable and popular to get fired).
According to the agenda, there will be some free time in the evenings. I’ve already invited everyone to a party in my room on Monday night with vodka and Ukrainian dancing.
I’ve also packed some board games and a deck of cards in my suitcase. If no one wants to play with me, at least I can entertain myself with a few rounds of solitaire. Or I can entertain myself figuring out how to play solitaire with an actual deck of cards since I’ve only ever played it on the computer.
However, if there are any role-playing games or those trust exercises where you stand in front of someone (not facing them), close your eyes, fall backwards and hope they catch you, I’m jumping off the island and swimming back to Vancouver.
Either way, I won’t be writing in this space for a little while. But I’m sure I’ll have lots of material by the time I get back. Give me strength!
Friday, January 21, 2005
1. Calgary’s Catholic Bishop links homosexuality with adultery, prostitution and pornography, and says the state should use its coercive power to put an end to homosexuality (Jan. 18).
2. The Globe and Mail publishes an open letter from Cardinal Aloysius Ambrozic to the Prime Minister urging him to maintain marriage as a heterosexual rite and use the Constitution’s notwithstanding clause to override the Charter of Rights and Freedoms (Jan. 19).
3. The Conservative Party of Canada announces it will launch an ad campaign against gay marriage that will target Canadian ethnic groups (Jan. 19).
4. American Christian groups protest "pro-homosexual" Sponge Bob, a cartoon character who holds hands with his animated sidekick Patrick and likes to watch a TV show called "The Adventures of Mermaid Man and Barnacle Boy." (Jan. 20)
I’m sorry. You actually expect us to take you seriously? Cranking out an offensive ad campaign and making an enemy out of Sponge Bob (he’s a cartoon character for crying out loud!) does not bolster your case. It makes you a laughingstock.
Can this so-called "debate" please just go away? Seriously, it’s so over. News flash: Lots of gay people are already married, and some of them are even raising kids. The world has not come to an end.
In the end, we’re all the same really. We all shop at the same stores, drive on the same highways, work at the same offices. We all fall in love, out of love and back in love again if we’re lucky. Does it really matter who it’s with?
Same-sex marriage is a human rights issue. It couldn’t be any more black and white than a Dalmatian.
You see, societies change and evolve over time, and laws change and evolve over time to mirror the moral values of those societies. This is a good thing. Otherwise, black people would still be slaves and women would still be second-class citizens.
Anyway, we’re talking about civil marriage, not religious marriage. The Prime Minister has said no church, temple or synagogue will be forced to provide a marriage that contradicts their beliefs.
Still, the Cardinal is worried that same-sex marriage "will be teaching that homosexual activity and heterosexual activity are morally equivalent." Wait a minute. They’re not?
I’m so sick of the self-righteous, morally superior, blindly obedient Catholic attitude. I’m not spewing knee-jerk, reactionary words all over the screen either. I spent 13 years in Catholic school and went to church every Sunday until I was 18. I know a thing or two about Catholic fundamentalism.
I have read the Bible cover-to-cover. I was forced to watch a video of an abortion in religion class. I was taught "sex ed" ("sex ed" meaning "we’re not telling you a damn thing about it until you’re married") by priests and nuns. I even had anxiety attacks about confession when I was a little kid. I used to make shit up because I couldn’t think of any actual "sins" I had committed. Then I’d feel guilty about lying about my fake sins and confess that too.
Brainwashing, all of it.
In a way, I feel sorry for the Bishop and the Cardinal and Stephen Harper. I think they’re coming from a place of ignorance and fear. It can’t be easy to be that rigid.
We’ve been here before. We’ve heard the same "this will ruin society" argument when women wanted the vote, when black people wanted equal rights. It turned out okay, didn’t it? We’re all better people for it, as we will be when we give gay people the same rights as everyone else. I can’t believe this is even a debate.
Wednesday, January 19, 2005
In the great big high school of life, George Stroumboulopoulos is the resident cool kid.
He’s smart, he’s sexy, he’s stylish. He’s charismatic and confident, without being overly cocky. He has earrings, a nose ring, and chunky rings on his fingers too. Which, in case you need these kind of things spelled out for you, means he’s edgy. He’s also aloof, sarcastic and completely irreverent. So he’s cool, but is he too cool for the CBC?
Stroumboulopoulos (hereafter referred to as “Strombo” for brevity’s sake) jumped from VJ duties at Much Music to become the host of a new show called The Hour, which runs every night at 8 p.m. on CBC Newsworld. It’s a current affairs show aimed at the incredibly fickle ‘under 30’ crowd.
The Hour premiered on Monday. I caught the show for the first time last night. Strombo is clearly talented, intelligent and able to think on his feet. But, as much as it pains me to say this, there was something about the show that just didn’t click.
The set was too slick, too large and too empty. The segments a little too raw. The on-set interviews a little too dry. The pacing was all over the map. Sometimes it was too slow, sometimes it was too fast.
It felt like the show was trying too hard to be too much to too many people. It’s not really hip and edgy enough to be hip and edgy. But it’s not really stuffy and serious enough to be stuffy and serious.
The show kept lurching between styles like a small boat tossed around on a rough sea. One minute it was like This Hour Has 22 Minutes, the next it was like Counterspin, then it changed gears to Much News, and suddenly it was like Vicki Gabereau. I was feeling seasick.
Strombo would be great as a Canadian Jon Stewart, but Rick Mercer kind of already fills that role for the CBC.
There were some genuinely good moments on The Hour, including an interesting and lively interview with Jian Ghomeshi on the mainstreaming of mental illness on TV. And, well, George is hot.
But the interview with the lawyer about the Judy Sgro situation didn’t really fit. And a way-too-long segment on why Canadians prefer Canadian beer fell flat.
Because I’m such a Strombo fan, I don’t want to write off his new show entirely. I’m going to chalk it up to growing pains. Sometimes it just takes a while for a new show to work out the kinks and get into a groove. But I’m not entirely convinced the CBC is the right home for Strombo.
If Strombo is the cool kid, CBC is the quiet, boring kid. There’s a place for both of them in the world, but maybe just not together.
Sunday, January 16, 2005
I don’t know how else to put this – I am an awesome bowler.
Discovered this useful fact (must remember to update skills section of resume to include "awesome bowler") when a group of us from the English Bay Swim Club went bowling after swim practice last night.
We divided ourselves into two teams of five. Since there were five gay people and five straight people, it immediately became a gay vs. straight showdown.
Because bowling is traditionally considered a "straight" past time, some worried this might give Team Straight an unfair advantage. But when a member of Team Gay showed up with a pair of his own bowling shoes, it was game on.
In the first game, Team Straight got spanked by Team Gay but we rallied to deliver our own ass whopping in the second game. I would like to point out that yours truly had the highest score in the second game. I was pulling strikes and spares out of my pocket like I was…um…uh…oh, never mind. I was going to insert the name of a famous bowler but none came to mind. Are there any famous bowlers?
The best thing about bowling is that the more you drink, the better you get. Unfortunately, alcohol is not a performance-enhancing drug when it comes to swimming. Sunday morning swim practice is a good hangover cure, though.
On a completely unrelated note, I hope Arrested Development wins something at the Golden Globes tonight. It’s one of the most fresh, clever, original and funny shows on TV these days. Unfortunately, it’s got low ratings and critics love it (a recipe for cancellation). Maybe another award will keep it on the air a little longer.
Speaking of TV, I’m halfway through an Office marathon. Bought the first and second season of the BBC’s bloody brilliant The Office on DVD. Funny, funny shit.
Saturday, January 15, 2005
But I couldn’t sleep without one last comment on Vancouver’s weather. What is this? The North Pole or something?
The snow and ice are still here. Mainly because we don’t have the equipment or complex knowledge required to get rid of it. But also because it’s still cold. This is beyond abnormal. This is biblical. Right up there with locusts and dust storms in the desert and stuff.
It never snows in Vancouver. Until last week, when it snowed and kept right on snowing for days. What is this? Winnipeg or something?
It’s too dangerous to ride my bike to work, which means I’ve been taking the bus. Or more accurately, I’ve been taking one crowded bus to Granville Street, where I transfer to another crowded bus, to travel the five kilometres from my downtown apartment to the Kitsilano office.
The trip takes 45 minutes, during which time I’m cheek-to-jowl with coughing, sneezing commuters who teeter like bowling bins every time the drunk* bus driver slams on the brakes.
[*We are experiencing an endemic of drunk bus drivers in Vancouver. Two bus drivers were fired for being drunk on the job during the past two months. Drunk bus drivers and winter weather have been making front-page headlines out here. It’s all anyone can talk about. Including me.]
Anyway, I blame the bus for making me sick. I blame the Arctic cold front for making me take the bus. And I blame the Arctic for giving us the Arctic cold front.
Oh sure, it was fun for a while. The spontaneous snowball fights and snowman population explosion left us giddy. But the initial attraction has faded and left Vancouverites with the ugly truth – we’re not ready for a real relationship with winter. It’s time to end this.
Wednesday, January 12, 2005
I am no fan of the NHL, which has become synonymous with ridiculous salaries, expensive tickets, ugly violence, and massive egos. Who needs it? My Canada does not include professional hockey.
I realize I'm only 30 but things really were different when I was a kid. My dad occasionally took me to watch the Leafs play at the Gardens. We'd ride the subway to College station and he'd hold my hand all the way up to our cheap seats in the nosebleed section.
I loved seeing my dad so excited, the way he'd cheer and whistle and yell louder than anyone. He'd buy me a hotdog and a pop, and I'd just sit there bursting with happiness.
Things have changed since then. The last hockey game I went to was a few years ago in Vancouver. It was boring, expensive and obnoxious. Worst of all was the way the flow of the game kept getting interrupted by players throwing punches at each other.
Can you imagine watching a swim meet where Ian Thorpe swims over to the next lane, grabs Michael Phelps by the throat and start pounding him in the head? If it's not okay in swimming (or badminton or basketball or any sport other than boxing), why is it okay in hockey?
So since I've decided hockey officially sucks, I think Canada should adopt a new national sport. Australia and South Africa are swimming fanatics. Italy is cycling-mad, and Kenya produces some of the best runners in the world. But in Canada, these three sports are marginal, under-funded and unappreciated.
It doesn't have to be that way. We can all decide we've had enough of hockey and turn our money and attention to something better. So if you had to pick a new national sport for Canada, what would it be?
I'd choose triathlon. Canada is home to some of the best triathletes in the world, like Simon Whitfield who won the gold at the 2000 Olympics. These passionate, broke and genuinely nice athletes deserve our admiration. There's no glory, no fame and no money in the sport of triathlon. The professionals in this sport simply just love to swim, bike and run.
The age of the hockey hero is over.
Monday, January 10, 2005
Me circa 2004 with the same hairstyle I've had for about 10 years, give or take a few inches.
I realize I’m venturing into Leah McLaren territory by writing about my hair, but at least I’m not getting paid big bucks (or any bucks for that matter) to do so.
Anyway, about my hair. I have dark brown hair that is naturally bizarre. I am convinced it got that way because of a mutated gene. The gene that is supposed to determine whether one’s hair is straight or curly or wavy gave me all three types instead. I have a head of hair that is straight underneath, curly in the back and wavy everywhere else.
And because I’m female, I automatically want the kind of hair that is the exact opposite of the hair I was born with. So I have been trying to shampoo, condition, brush, blow-dry and straighten my hair into the look known as “boring urban white girl” since high school.
About two weeks ago, I decided to throw in the towel. I’m tired of fighting my hair. Screw it. I’m letting it do whatever it wants to do. Which is probably why everyone keeps asking me if I’ve gotten a perm (the answer, by the way, is “no”).
It all started with a mind-blowing article in Cosmo over Christmas. Honestly, I don’t normally read that crap. But I found my 17-year-old sister’s stash of back issues under her bed while hunting for something to wear. So I went on a little Cosmo binge when I was in Toronto. I couldn’t help it. It’s more addictive than crack.
It’s also wrong on so many levels that Hilary is reading a magazine plastered with headlines like, “Ten tips on how to give him the blow-job that will blow his mind” and “Quiz: Are you the office slut?”
Anyway, the Cosmo article that blew my mind was on how to style curly hair. It suggested washing your hair, patting it dry and then scrunching it with your fingers and letting it air dry. The key was to not brush it, wet or dry. So I tried it. To my amazement, it actually worked. I had a head of cascading waves for the first time in my life.
It turns out that brushing your hair is what unkinks the curl and causes the massive, frizzy puffball. Who knew? Obviously, I didn’t. Here’s another tip: expect share prices in the hairbrush industry to fall dramatically following this revelation – sell now!
Even though I like my new low-maintenance routine, I still think I look better with straight hair. But I’ll stop talking about it. I swear this is the first and last time I will write about my hair. From now on, I promise to leave the inane hair commentary to the pros in the Globe and Mail’s style section.
Friday, January 07, 2005
Chaos on the corner of 4th and Alma, near my office yesterday
It’s snowing in Vancouver. In any other part of the country, this would be considered a light dusting. But out here, it's a howling blizzard.
Schools have shut down. Buses are delayed. Drivers are freaking out. It’s kind of amusing, actually.
On CBC’s The National last night (yes, this made the national news), there was footage of cars sliding down icy Vancouver streets and crashing into other cars. Over and over again. Great, now the whole country knows what complete idiots we are.
Local news outlets are describing Vancouver’s “cold snap” in tones that should be reserved for serious news, like the tsunami. Um…sorry, but in the rest of Canada, zero degrees in January is considered balmy.
At least we haven’t called in the army like Toronto did in 1999. I was living in New Brunswick at the time. People there could not stop talking (“talking” meaning “laughing hysterically”) about what a pathetic lot of urban wimpsters people in Toronto were.
But Vancouverites will always get the last laugh. After all, we spend most of February calling friends and family in Ontario to gloat about our glorious climate.
“Hi mom. What’s that? It’s minus 20 in Toronto, you say? Well, it’s sunny and 10 degrees in Vancouver and the cherry trees are blossoming! Ha! Suckers!!!!” Click.
Thursday, January 06, 2005
As far as stupid trends go, 2004 was filled with some of the worst. Here’s my top five list of the crap that is, like, so last year. Feel free to add your own.
1. Useless diets: Let’s see, there was the Atkins’ diet, the South Beach diet, the Dr. Phil diet, the Eat Like a French Girl diet, the salmon diet, and the high carb, no carb, red wine, macrobiotic, grapefruit diets too. Enough! Let me spell it out for you. If you consume more calories than you burn, you will gain weight. If you burn more calories than you consume, you will lose weight. Translation: eat smaller portions and exercise more. There. I’ve just saved you $30 and destroyed the entire diet book industry in one sentence.
2. Loser celebrities: So there’s this guy. This dorky civil engineering student at Berkley. On a lark, he decides to audition for American Idol (see photo above). He chooses to do a 90-second rendition of Ricky Martin’s “She Bangs.” Except he yells instead of sings (and somehow still manages to be off key). His hip gyrations are stiff and awkward. After a tongue-lashing by the judges, the guy responds with an earnest “I gave it my best.” Yes, it was hilarious. But the fact he was offered a record deal and even sang at a Blue Jays game wasn’t. Save the real goodies for the people who deserve it. Otherwise, we’ll have a lot more William Hungs and Paris Hiltons out there. And that’s not a world I want to live in.
3. Homely fashion: Ugg boots are just plain ugly and ponchos should have stayed mothballed in the ’70s. It’s fine to follow fashion trends, but people, please don’t forget to have a mind of your own. Ponchos are flattering on no one. They make you look pregnant. Wearing Ugg boots makes you look like a moron. We all know the only reason you’re wearing them at all is because status-obsessed celebrities have decided they were cool. If celebrities didn’t wear them, I’d bet you’d think they were ugly too. No more ugly fashion trends in 2005, please.
4. Half-assed reality TV: It’s no secret that I love reality TV. I’m addicted to the Amazing Race. But I don’t love how we’re bombarded with tired, lame repeats and knock-offs of shows that jumped the shark two years ago. No more Survivor. No more Bachelor. Please. Either make new shows or don’t bother at all. And if they shelf Arrested Development to make room for Big Brother Infinity, I’m going to cancel my cable.
5. General stupidity: Religious fundamentalism, widespread homophobia, George W. Bush, people who voted for George W. Bush, MTV programming, the carb craze. All dominated 2004. Seriously people, we’re supposed to be evolving, not regressing. Or was “The Regression of Species” the book Darwin forgot to write? We’re so much better than this.
Wednesday, January 05, 2005
From: (name withheld)
To: Sarah Marchildon
Dear who ever you are,
I would like to make a statement!!! My statement is this, David Suzuki is an economic terroriste. I think it is bull tht he tells people on t.v. comercials not to eat meat. People can eat what ever they want!!! Just because people eat a little bit of meat or even a whole lot, tht won't hurt the envirroment!!! And saying tht the world is over populated, CRAP!!!
And also, saying tht S.U.V.s are harmful to the envirroment, which they very well might be, and then driving one himself, well I mean come on!!! Also his fruit fly experiment, what a load of CRAP!!!! If he wants peopple to listen to what he has to say and proove tht what he is doing is good for the envirroment, maybe he should make it believable and acctually try somehting worth doing, like I mean one person isn't going to save the world, even if one person could, tht person certainly wouldn't be David Suziki!!
Tht is all!!!!