Kicks are for trids

On freedom

Like many aimless arts undergrads in university, I took philosophy courses. Some were more successful than others. One of the many things I learned, for example, is that I was hopeless when it came to the spatial side of philosophy - the if/then propositions that were closer (shudder) to geometry.

But I also remember learning that there are really two kinds of freedoms: freedom from and freedom to.

In this season when there is so much reason to celebrate freedom, I find myself thinking more frequently about this particular lesson.

I'm not talking about the easy stuff - like pretending we're really thankful to our soldiers for "protecting" our freedom in a country half a world away. What we feel when we see them (or many of us do, anyway, I suspect) is not so much gratitude as relief - that they're over there, getting their asses shot while we're safely back home watching it on television like some bad Rambo movie.

And many of them - and their supporters - would likely tell us that they need to fight the good fight, protecting us from tyranny and terrorism, so that we can enjoy our freedoms to be, do, go, wear, think and say whatever we want.

Fair point. However, I take issue with the fundamentally right-wing view that freedom is somehow the opposite of responsibility.

You'll hear it from the Republicans in the US. You'll hear it from the HarperHeads in Canada. And you'll hear it from their cronies and cohorts in countries "free" and not so free the world over. Government is broken, they'll argue. We need to fix it. And we need to get it off the backs of good, hard-working families and taxpayers and let them keep more of their hard-earned money. It's tax cuts as social policy.

Freedom is about more than the absence of constraint. Like its sister concept, empowerment, it can never really be granted as such; it must be assumed, used and demonstrated. In other words, no one can make you free or empowered. You have to do that all by yourself.

I admit that most of what I know about the biblical story of Exodus is from that epic platter of cheese, The Ten Commandments. And those who know the other version of the story tell me that much of it is quite comically, and emphatically, wrong. For example, the Israelites were apparently gone from Egypt thousands of years before the pyramids were built. They were slaves, certainly. They were just not around for the construction gig.

However, the most telling part of the story for me is that they were not freed by Moses's demand to "let my people go." They were freed when they took matters into their own hands, got their feet wet and fled.

The same is true of black during the civil rights movement. Yes, it's true that Lincoln freed the slaves several generations earlier, but that was the beginning of their freedom, not the end of it. It wasn't until a couple of centuries later, led by great visionaries such as Martin Luther King Jr., that they truly attained what emancipation had promised them in Lincoln's day. (Some would argue, of course, that racism - a direct progenitor and descendant of slavery - is still every bit as toxic today as it's ever been.)

Many American like to believe that hey have a monopoly on freedom, that it is their god-given role to deliver it to the needy and the destitute and the poor. But no country that has the kind of disparity between rich and poor, the vast numbers who die because of inadequate health care, the rates of infant mortality, the disproportionate number of people of colour in prison can truly call itself free - much less the harbinger of freedom.

Not that Canada is much better. Our treatment of First Nations, our willingness to blithely describe certain communities as "under-serviced" as we step over the hungry in our own streets - not to mention our role in Afghanistan and the blind eye we continue to turn to the suffering in Africa - make us complicit in the preservation of privilege, which is the antithesis of freedom.

Freedom - like evolution - is an iterative, gradual process. When we allow ourselves to be lulled into the promise of cheaper, smaller government, of shrinking commitments to immigration and foreign aid, of the triumph of the individual over the needs of the many, we diminish not only others but ourselves. As we shake off the yoke of a brutal, seemingly endless winter, we would do well to ask ourselves: is this really the freedom we want?

Why I'm done with winter

Winter driving makes people stupid. I used to think, naïvely, that snow had some magical property that made people forgetful. I now think it's a municipal deficiency, right up there with cheering for the Leafs and self-deprecation.

Every time it snows - every single bloody time - people behave as if it's the first time. If the very definition of insanity is to do something exactly the same each time, and expect a different result, then I think we're one giant pop psychology textbook.

Our parochial leaders think it fine and appropriate to attack through the property tax system homeowners delinquent - and foolhardy - enough to go more than 48 after hours after a snow storm without shovelling their sidewalks. But when do the city crews come around and plow the streets, when they do it at all? In the middle of the goddamned night, when cars are parked in front of houses. Not during the day, when normal people are away from home.

So you wake up to the double treat - front steps that could kill with a single misstep, and wind rows that guarantee your car's not budging til April.

We pretend we can't walk, or drive, or go to work (or school) because - well, because it snowed.

There are other parts of the country where the amount of snow this city gets in a typical winter (even an atypical winter, such as this one) goes by another name - December.

Perhaps the epitome - or the nadir - of our utter inability to manage our winters was when, several years ago, then-Mayor Mel Lastman called in the army to clear up a few flakes. Not to keep order, or shoot protesters. No, we had trained military personnel patrolling our streets to save us from ourselves.

My oldest friend has always been an avid skier. His son is now following in his father's footsteps, or should I say, in his ski boots. Every winter, from the time my friend and I were 8 or 9, he would say, "This is the year I'm getting you out on the slopes." And every year, I'd respond: No, thanks. I like all my limbs in their current condition and location.

Winter is not a time to be savoured and enjoyed. It is a time to be tolerated. Like annoying telemarketing calls or panhandlers on the street, it's part of life in the city. But it doesn't mean I have to like it.

Customer disservice

En route to Ottawa today, via the back roads, we stopped at a Tim Horton's drive-through in the lovely rural hamlet of Kemptville, Ontario. I ordered my wife her beverage of choice - medium decaf with cream and sweetener - and then moved onto my order.

I'm lactose intolerant, but I like Tim's iced capuccino.

Since its introduction several years ago, I've had varying levels of success in ordering it the way I like it - no milk, no cream. Just the slushy bits, the cup and lid, and a straw.

It sometimes takes more than one attempt. For some reason, the counter staff likes to assume that when I specify no milk, that means I want cream instead.

Apparently, in the Tims' training manual, "no milk or cream" is code for, if not one, then the other.

As I say, I've had this same conversation with Tims' staff in almost every corner of the province. Eventually they get it, and make my drink as requested.

Until today.

The disembodied voice at the other end of the intercom rebukes me sternly.

"We can't do that, sir."

Why not, I inquired. The battle was joined.

"We're only allowed to serve our products the way they're meant to be served."

Uh, oh. Even though we're in the car, I can feel my heels digging in.

"Why not?"

It's a "regulation," I'm told. Apparently Health Canada is getting into the retail game. Who knew.

I ask to speak to a manager, who repeats the same banal piffle and suggests I can write to head office to voice my displeasure.

How that's going to get me my drink, I'm not sure.

I try one more time, explaining that every other Tim's franchise in known civilization has somehow managed to accommodate me before. Why is this one solitary, isolated location any different?

Unfazed, the manager again reiterates - this time with a condescending edge to her voice - that it's apparently become Tim's policy that customers get no say in their orders. There's a master list, I guess, of how and what we're supposed to want.

I'm reminded of the old "Have it your way" Burger King jingle and campaign, which was an unsubtle shot across McDonald's cookie-cutter corporate bow.

As we drive away, I'm thinking even Starbucks isn't this arrogant. At least when the baristas "correct" your order, you still get what you want.

What happens when Tims decides that I don't need another doughnut?

Bad "car-"ma

Our beloved PT Cruiser has gone to car heaven.

And it wasn't a pretty death.

The morning of March 12 dawned pretty much like any other day. Even though it was an extraordinarily busy time for me at work, my wife and I managed to honour our usual routine, more or less. We dropped the girls at daycare, drove to work, said goodbye and settled into our respective days.

Ten or 15 minutes later, her office building - atop the parking lot where we leave our car - had a fire alarm. As a government building, it has its share of drills. But it quickly became apparent that this was not one of them.

The smell of smoke began to permeate. Word came out that there was a car fire in the underground lot. Three fire trucks and assorted emergency vehicles assembled at the driveway entrance. The entire building - 10,000 people including a daycare - was evacuated.

Shortly after arriving at her "safe spot" - about two blocks away, and without her winter coat - my wife called me. She'd heard from one of the building emergency management people that the car that was on fire was a PT Cruiser. She headed back to her own building.

Ours was not the only PT Cruiser in the lot. Still, you wonder.

We didn't need to wonder for long. By the time she and I met up, I had asked a police officer to check the licence number on the now-smouldering vehicle. The worst was confirmed when he radioed back to the cop waiting with us.

It was our car.

We had stopped to have a headlight replaced on our way to work that morning. While the car was in the garage - a local grease pit that we'd used several times - the mechanic noticed that the power steering fluid reservoir was empty. He topped it up for us. No charge for either service. Hence, no receipts.

The mechanic mentioned, in an off-handed way as we were leaving, that the bulb he'd put in wasn't exactly the right part. It had the same part number, he said, but was shaped slightly differently. No big deal.

We still don't know whether the replaced bulb was the culprit. Neither does the insurance company. All we know is that our car - a ride we loved, and were less than two years from paying off - was gone.

Just like that.

Everyone has a horror story about the indignity of dealing with insurance companies in these cases. In truth, ours has been pretty co-operative. There was the odd little surprise - like the news that the rental we were provided would be revoked the day our car was officially written off - but by and large, I have no real complaints about the way we were treated.

For me, the real shock in all of this - the part I still struggle to understand - is that the car is simply gone. Not gone, as in, it slowly decayed over time. Or sustained a fatal injury in a collision. It just erupted in flames, and poof, we didn't have a car any more.

We salvaged what we could from the wreck - and it was a wreck. The front hood, the windshield and the engine were simply remnants. The interior was flooded and heavily smoke damaged. Miraculously, we did retrieve my younger daughter's teddy bear, which was left on the back seat.

Platitudes fall from people's lips like drunks in a bar in these situations. At least no one was hurt. It could have been worse. You're very lucky.

All true. None of it helpful in the slightest.

Cars are simply designed not to do this. They're supposed to have all kinds of built-in safety features to make sure they don't just spontaneously combust.

Some friends and well-meaning relatives have suggested we might have cause for legal action against the garage, or the manufacturer, or the dealer.

To what end, though? Our loss of personal possessions was minimal. To succeed in any lawsuit, we'd have to prove fault - and, as the insurance adjustor told us, that would require an engineer's report that would cost us thousands, and might still not be definitive.

So we're several thousand dollars out of pocket, dealing with the shock, and set back three and half years in our debt load.

What does it all mean? Was it a freak occurrence, the righting of some eternal balance, or something else? We'll probably never know.

There are several things I will never understand. One is that people believe you're entitled to their opinions on what car you should drive. My father told me we should replace the PT Cruiser with a Japanese vehicle - presumably because they don't burn quite as hot.

A stranger at work in the coffee line near my wife overheard the story shortly afterwards, and basically said, "Oh, I guess it's not that bad. I never liked PT Cruisers."

I'm a rational person. I need to make sense of this. Part of me - the cynical part - doesn't believe in coincidences.

Then again, I guess if I were  truly rational, I wouldn't drive a car. But I'm not ready to be quite that rational yet.

Things that make me loopy

It's been a busy time. I'm teaching again, work is hitting its annual insanity quotient - and it's February.

So herewith, in keeping with the season, the first of what I hope will be my annual list of annoyances:

1. Tim Horton's. It's not the quality of the food (or drink), or the community-busting ubiquity of the franchise. Although there are those things, too. It's the stultifying frequency with which the counter staff gets your order alarmingly, egregiously wrong. I take my coffee black - no sugar, no milk. Just the cup, the liquid and a lid. Not complicated. So I've tried ordering "coffee." The question always comes back - "With sugar?" I say no, thanks. "One or two?" And milk? Fuggedaboutit. I'm lactose intolerant. Short of threatening to stay at the store and treat the world to my gastric distress, my only option - once I've left the drive-through window - is to pitch the offending liquid and try again. But the problem isn't just at the drive-through - it happens at the counter inside as well. I also like the Iced Capp - again, without milk. Yes, just the ice and the syrup. It's like an adult Slurpee. When I explain that, I'm greeted with stares that make me feel leprous. I blame my friend Rob for all of this - several years ago, I was sitting in a long line at a Tim's drive through, talking to Rob on the phone. He said, "Bet they get your order wrong." And since then? Like clockwork.
2. Crappy customer service in general. I am not high maintenance. I try to fix most situations myself before calling for help. So when I call for help, I expect it. I hate, hate, hate being in a supermarket or department store or whatever, and asking an employee, "Do you have such-and-such," or "Where would I find such-and-such," or something similar - and getting some vague, non-committal answer like, "If we had it, it would be over there somewhere." Or, "I don't know. I'm not in this area." People: it's problem-explanation-solution. If you don't know where it is, please find out for me. If you don't know whether you carry it, please ask someone who does. I am a customer, not an interruption.
3. Impatient drivers. Specifically, someone who uses a non-turn lane to make a turn - and cut right in front of you in the process. Yes, the other person would be at fault when I t-boned their car. But then I'm without a car while mine's being fixed, I have to deal with insurance - whether mine or theirs - and all because you needed to shave three seconds off your trip. Grow up. Unless it's a life-threatening emergency, there's no excuse for this socially aberrant behaviour. Cabbies included.
4. People who phone you, and then put you on hold. Happened to me just today. I give the "caller" 10 seconds, and then I hang up. If it's important enough, you'll call back. If it's not, then quit bugging me.
5. People who insist on joining conversations, but don't really care about the listening part. I don't need to hear your opinions just because you have them. If you want to engage me in a meaningful dialogue, I'm good with that. But if I'm your excuse to spout off, kindly leave me out.

More to write soon. I have a few thoughts on Studio 60 - RIP.

Bloated

According to the ever-reliable torontogasprices.com, stations in Hogtown are hovering around the $1.05-$1.10-a-litre mark, right around where they've been for most of the past couple of weeks.

Which pisses me off.

The on-going tensions in the Middle East are, apparently, helping to keep the prices higher than they might otherwise be. While it's understandable that regional conflict can - and will - have an effect on oil prices, there are two things that make no sense.

First, Lebanon - the locus of most of the tension at the moment - is not an OPEC member. Which means it has no oil reserves of its own. It relies on imports, like most of the rest of the world.

Second, the oil company that owns your local station bought and paid for the gas you're pumping into your car or SUV three or four months ago - presumably, at the then-prevailing price. So why is it that, every time there's a conflict or other event that threatens the world's oil supply, the price goes up?

And it doesn't even have to be a real event - just the perception of what might happen is often enough. Like during the aftermath of last year's Hurricane Katrina, when there were fears about oil production in the Gulf of Mexico.

The problems never materialized. But it didn't matter. For a brief period, pump prices shot up to $1.25 or $1.30.

It is tempting, in such circumstances, to surmise profiteering. We all want to believe that oil companies - like banks and insurance companies - are insidiously evil and nefarious and would happily destroy their own loved ones if it meant an extra dollar in their pockets.

And maybe they are. But that's not the point.

Neither is regulation of gas prices, despite what some people say. Governments - and I say this as someone who has spent most of his adult life working for one - should stay out of businesses they don't understand.

The political temptation to "do something" can sometimes become so overwhelming that it becomes difficult, if not impossible, to stem the tide. But regulation by popularity contest is a bad habit.

We've had, for years, government regulation of certain commodities, such as tobacco and alcohol. Why not gas and oil?

Well, let's see. What's government's track record when it comes to playing with the big boys? Hrm. And hrm again.

So what's the solution? I say, let oil and gas prices stay high. Yes, it's bad for tourism, and bad for business (especially exporters). But maybe the afore-mentioned public pressure for some - any - alternative will become so loud that our leaders will have to begin to pay some serious attention.

We see the end of oil. It is upon us.

As a responsible civilization, we owe it to ourselves to explore all of our options. Right now, we're at the brainstorming stage. So yes, that includes nuclear power, natural gas, wind and solar power, ethanol - whatever. We need to know what the options are, and what they mean, so that we can make an informed choice.

We need to move past arcane, obolescent arguments about energy "self-sufficiency" and conservation and onto the really meaningful question: What options do we have? What are their relative costs and benefits? What can we afford to do - or not do?

The current crisis in the Middle East will pass. They all do. They simmer for a while, before they explode again. Morons who see this as a portent of World War III miss the point, but not the opportunity to inflame passions.

The point is this: We can learn something from this experience. We can see it as a watershed moment, or allow ourselves to be lulled into familiar - and self-destructive - patterns.

I'm not holding my breath.

Update (later this same day): Ok, this? Is why John Tory does not deserve to be Premier of Ontario. Ontario's taxes on motor fuels are based on volume, not price. What that means is that whether a litre of gas sells for $1.10 or 83 cents, Ontario's take is exactly the same. In fact, rising fuel prices can hurt provincial revenues - if people are buying less gas (as I've advised above...), then the province is making less money. Tory should know that. He probably does. That he was willing to make cheap political hay out of something he knew to be untrue proves he's no more virtuous than anyone else.

Life's rich pageant

If it's true that you reap what you sow, I should be harvesting a whole field of jaded, hair-thinning cynics right about now.

Instead, life seems to be dealing me a hand I don't deserve.

Let me, as Ricky Ricardo used to say, 'splain.

I had a business trip to Ottawa last week. I hooked up with some colleagues in Oshawa for the trip - took to GO Train to meet them, and then we shared a car to the nation's capitol.

On the way home, the process was reversed. They dropped me off in Oshawa, and I took the GO Train back to the big smoke.

Unfortunately, my cell phone kept travelling - all the way to Oakville.

I guess it must have dropped out of my pocket when I was slouched in the seat, plugged into my iPod (Keb Mo and a Sopranos video podcast, if you must know).

At any rate, later that same night, the phone rings at home. A kind a thoughtful man, who identified himself only as Richard, had found my phone and wanted to know if I'd like it back.

Um, let's see. Yes.

I finally managed to retrieve it the following day, exceedingly grateful for both Richard's thoughtfulness and his act of good citizenship.

Richard could not have been more genuine in his desire simply to do good. I asked what kind of gesture of gratitude I could make, and he said that just knowing the phone had returned to its rightful owner was thanks enough. "What goes around," he said, echoing my late, beloved grandmother, "comes around."

The 80-plus km round trip gave me plenty of time to think. And I'm ashamed to admit, some not very savoury thoughts crossed my mind about the motivation of someone who would do what he had apparently done.

Suffice to say, once again, I had underestimated my fellow human being.

For the second time in as many years.

In September of 2004, my brother and I took a trip to New York City for a taping of The Late Show with David Letterman.

Long story short? I left my wallet - with all of my cash, credit cards and i.d. - in the cab that took us back to the airport.

(As an aside, what possible karmic reason could there be for me to have this need to leave personal belongings in different modes of transportation?)

A harrowing trip through two countries' customs and many cancelled credit cards later, the cabbie called me. He'd found my business card inside my wallet and wanted to return the whole kit and kaboodle.

Everything was still intact. Except my afore-mentioned cynicism.

Stories about corrupt and mischievous New York cabbies are the stuff of legend. After this experience, however, I've come to believe that some - perhaps many - of them are actually a different kind of legend: the urban variety.

A religious person (which I am not) might look at these two events and argue that my faith was being tested. I see the lesson somewhat differently.

It wasn't about testing faith. It was about reminding me to have some.

iFraud

I admit it - I'm a bit of a klutz. So it was probably doubly stupid of me to be handling my beloved iPod a couple of weekends ago right after I'd handled something greasy in the kitchen.

In a word: Splat.

The unit is still fully functional, but the display screen is cracked. As with most electronic devices, you kind of need to see what's on the screen if you want to be able to use it properly.

Within 30 seconds of the fateful accident, I'd gone all the way through all seven stages of mourning, and settled on my personal favourite: anger.

In this case, the anger was directed not at Apple itself (which would have been logical enough, in my humble view), but at all makers of electronics who practice one of my least favourite commercial tricks of all time: planned obsolescence.

This was no cheap investment. It was a birthday gift, not even a year ago, from my wife and two young daughters. The retail on these puppies was about $500 Cdn at the time. But no matter - my wife, knowing my affection for all things shiny and new (and especially those that play music) found the money and battled the byzantine shopping ritual involved in acquiring said unit.

(For the uninitiated: You find out what day your local retailer gets the new stock. You arrive an hour before opening, line up with all the other nerds - or the life partners of these nerds - and wait. When the store opens, you are escorted in, one person at a time, to make your purchase. And then - like it's Fort Friggin' Knox or something - you are escorted to the cash to complete the transaction and then leave immediately. I'm so not kidding about this.)

My first thought after The Accident™ - like any logical person - was, ok. So I'll get it fixed.

You know what's coming next:

"Hello, Apple Care. Can I help you?"

"Yes, we can fix it. Send you a beautiful shipping box, all expenses paid. We'll fix it and send it back to you."

"What's that? Oh, about the same as replacing it."

Argh.

I even called around the city to some of the more reputable repair shops (and a few that were, perhaps, less than reputable). Same answer everywhere: Only Apple fixes these bad boys.

I'm what's known in some circles as an early adopter. I like the aforementioned shiny new things. I bought my first CD player in 1984. It cost me $400 - and came without a remote. Because that? Was an extra $100.

Even before I owned a CD player, I had my first two shiny, new discs (Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture and Gershwin's Rhapsody in Blue, if you must know). Because I was just. that. sure. I'd have something to play them on, sooner rather than later.

I welcome as much as the next person - and given my nature, perhaps moreso - the inevitable decline in the cost of electronics. I remember when plasma tvs first came out and cost $30,000. I've learned better. I'll wait til they're $300.

My siblings and I recently bought a DVD player for our father (whom I blame for my fascination with shiny, new toys). Quite apart from the fact that it's now next to impossible to find a DVD player that doesn't also brew coffee, clean the blinds and mop the floor, I was stunned at how much the price had come down. This particular unit - which also plays CDs, photos and .mpeg files - cost us less than $100. The bench fee to repair any electronic device is at least $50. So boom. There you go. Welcome to the age of disposible electronics.

As an aside - this incident has put me in mind of one of my favourite scenes from The Simpsons. Homer is walking through a garbage dump, and passes a sign marked "This section reserved for DVD players."

So what will I do about my not late, but much lamented iPod? Probably replace it. And maybe try to sell the old one on ebay.

Because somewhere, out there, is someone who loves shiny new toys - and knows how to fix them.

Man in black

Why do fat guy clothes have no style? Why is it that the stores that cater to us think that we either want to look like Homer Simpson in a muumuu or like we're getting ready for a cruise somewhere? Preferably somewhere to a land full of blind people who like to run around naked?

In plus-sized women's wear, at least there is some selection. Yes, they can do the sweats-and-loungewear look. But they can also go upscale if they so choose.

Our choices? Are limited to:

• Loud stripes
• Loud checks
• Carnival prints, in big! bold! colours
• Any combination of the above

That's one of the reasons that, many years ago, I stopped wearing ties. That, and the choking feeling they engender in my throat. My mother says it's a shakra thing.

There are two high-end fat guy clothing stores I'm aware of. In. The. World.

One is in Toronto. It's in a tony section of mid-town, and charges $375 for a simple shirt.

The other is an American chain, with stores in major cities only. And the $375 shirt in Toronto? Is $675 at this place.

I like to visit the American chain whenever I have the chance. Not to buy anything - at least nothing more expensive than a $200 pair of Dokkers - but just to remind me of why I should exercise more.

Because then, I could pay $375 for a shirt. But at least I'd feel good about myself.

Bottom line: Most of the time, I wear black. Not in a Johnny Cash way (RIP), as a protest against something. Or in memoriam/mourning.

But because I think I may have some mild variant of what Jeff Goldblum's character had in The Fly: A pathological need not to expend unnecessary energy thinking about my clothing choices.

That, and it makes me look cool.

Things that I like

The Sopranos
Quite simply, one of the best. television. shows. evah.

Maybe it's the writing. It's definitely the acting (especially the brilliant James Gandolfini and Edie Falco.)

But mostly? I think it's about the story. And about the way it's told.

Sure, Tony has mommy issues. And daddy issues. And rage issues (on which point, I am reminded of Melfi's observation - likely unoriginal - that "depression is rage turned inwards").

Then again, who doesn't?

But what's consistently rewarding about this show is that it treats the viewer as an adult. It recognizes - and, in in its own twisted, bizarre way celebrates - that our imperfections are what makes us human.

And interesting.

The West Wing
 Sure, it's slipped a little in the last couple of years. And yes, it's true - John Wells is no Aaron Sorkin.

And it's also true that it's almost impossible to imagine how the show will continue without John Spencer.

But even bad West Wing? Is still better than 98.6% of the rest of the shit out there.

Television Without Pity

The perfect, quintessential use of the Internet - as a community-building tool. And what better excuse than television? You don't feel like quite as much of a freak when you go on-line and see that hundreds, sometimes thousands of other people have shared your experience. Whether you agree or disagree (or feel neutral towards) their view, you share something with them. And that has inherent value.

This was also the first place I sought solace after the death of John Spencer (see above).

Old game shows
What can I say? This - along with big band music - is one of my guilty pleasures. Press Your Luck is like televised gambling (the game board even looks like a slot machine). The Price Is Right - hoary and tacky though it may be, and owing more than a passing debt to Let's Make A Deal - reflects the greedy essence of American capitalism. Which is what both fascinates and reviles us at the same time. And Match Game? I mean, c'mon - tell me that no one was on dope when that show was conceived. Or during its production.

Music I'm enjoying at the moment

• Audioslave (totally tweaks my inner arena rock groupie)
• Green Day (or, for the purists among you - good, straight-ahead rock with nods to the Sex Pistols and The Clash among others; what could be bad?)
• John Coltrane and Thelonius Monk Live at Carnegie Hall (the standard against which all other jazz performance should be measured)
• Y108 (after a couple of years of listening to the other guys, I decided that there is, in fact, such a thing as too much Led Zeppelin and Van Halen)
• WDRV (The Drive) from Chicago (for when I'm feeling a little more mellow - complete with reliable streaming audio, except on Thursdays)

Web sites that make you look smart

• Internet Movie Database
• Metacritic
• AllMusic
• Dead or Alive