Author: Jim Hagarty

I have been looking for a new sport ever since my doctor put an end to my hang gliding (I landed inside a corn silo on a farm near my place and got some nasty scrapes) and now I think I have found it in New York.

Several dozen competitors from around the world took turns Sunday hurling a sacrificial banjo into a polluted urban canal to see who could throw it the farthest. Tyler Frank of St. Louis bested all other male competitors with an 85-foot throw. On the women’s side, Nada Zimmerman of Innsbruck, Austria, tossed the banjo 67 feet into Brooklyn’s Gowanus Canal.

Two things: I want to hire Tyler to tutor me and I am madly in love with Nada.

Event founder, banjo player and radio host Eli Smith, says, “I love the banjo, and yet I have a perverse desire to see it thrown into a body of water.”

I don’t see anything perverse about that at all. So, I’ll be down at the Avon River practising tonight. I just hope I don’t hit a duck or a dragon boater.

Finally, my sport. Shows if you are patient, the right one will come along.

An old joke says the definition of perfect pitch is tossing an accordion in a dumpster and hitting a set of bagpipes with it. Musical instrument jokesters can be so cruel these days. May a flying banjo clonk them in their noggins the next time they’re padding down a polluted river and in their mental haze that follows, they hear the dueling banjos theme from the movie Deliverance.

©2015 Jim Hagarty

My groundhog was out wandering around our backyard yesterday, looking for all the world like a Kennedy on vacation at Hyannis Port in spite of the fact that I stuck a garden hose down his hole under my shed the other day and flushed him out the other hole these wily gophers make sure to excavate for emergencies such as this.

After a few gallons descended on him, he came shooting out of his trench like a seal at feeding time.

Not since I first caught glimpse of the all-you-can-eat buffet at a popular local pizzeria have I seen any creature move so fast. (The second in line almost overtook me but I fought him off bravely.)

If the fire department came over to my house and for some reason filled it up with water while I was inside, I’d probably get out too and be reluctant to return, especially if my cherry pie was ruined.

I assumed the groundhog and I would share the same thought process on that but I was wrong. Either I don’t think like a groundhog or he doesn’t think like a man.

So, today, my ugly little friend (sorry, but he’s no George Clooney), it’s just you and me in combat once again now that you have returned. I will be armed this time with a bag of dirty cat litter, which an Internet search tells me you hate, and a big heavy rock to place over your hole after litter and soil have filled it in.

Have a nice summer at the neighbour’s, Buddy.

By the way, I don’t hate the groundhog but I can’t take the chance he’ll mess up our little poodle which is about the size of the hog and as bold as a stand-up comedian. Our veterinary hospital charges a bundle just to poof up his eyebrows so I shudder at the thought of how much it would cost to put a gopher-mangled dog back together again.

I will let you know how things work out. I only hope my next status update is not sent from a jail cell or the inside of a dog crate at the local Humane Society.

(Update: As I was advised would happen, the groundhog left and built a new home in the neighbours’ yard. I feel as guilty about that as I did when I beat out that guy second in line at the pizzeria.)

©2014 Jim Hagarty

Our cat Luigi and I have different opinions regarding the ownership of my office chair on wheels. Simply put, he believes it’s his, I think it’s mine.

And while the chair belongs to him, apparently, the strange thing is, he never wants to lie in it overnight when I am also not inclined to use it. It seems to me that part of his motivation in occupying my chair all day is to deprive me of the privilege for some unknown cat reason.

Luigi and his twin brother Mario are big, big boys. People who come to our door are startled to see these two lazy felines with bodies as big as a small dog, saunter over to greet them, maybe flop down for a bellyrub. So, when Luigi jumps into my chair, he spreads himself out in order to take over 95 per cent of the surface of the seat. And there he sleeps – all day. Or tries to.

When I want to use the chair, I either have to share it with him, which is not a lot of fun, or throw him out of it which is akin to peeling off a blood sucker while swimming down at the pond. He does not go easily. I can tip over the chair to a 90-degree angle and still he hangs on.

So, a lot of the time, we share it. He takes up 80 per cent, I get the front 20. And he shows his annoyance with frequent loud and disgusted grumbles.

I grumble back, but it doesn’t do me much good. As it doesn’t in my wider life beyond our chair.

©2012 Jim Hagarty

It can be hard to live – and die – in Greece. Especially die. Because the judicial system there is tough on dead people and it’s not easy to defend yourself when being dead prevents you from showing up in court to argue your case.

This week, a judge there convicted a dead guy of stealing electricity. The guy’s lawyer argued that his client’s current state of deadness should get him off the hotseat but the astute judge, ever wary of the criminal trick of dying to avoid justice, wasn’t having any of it. “Guilty as Charged!!!” I don’t know if “Charged!!!” was related in any way to the fact that the item stolen was electricity, but I don’t think it was.

In any case, sentencing has been postponed. The death penalty is not being considered as that would seem to be a bit redundant in this case. Overkill, if you will. So, house arrest, maybe. However, it is rumoured the defendant has gone underground to avoid paying for his crime. But, I think he has boxed himself in. I think he is in deep.

Thank God the judge sees through all that. And I am looking forward to the rulings he makes after he himself has died. I expect they will be groundbreaking.

P.S. You may be thinking that it does not make sense to convict a dead man of a crime. This just shows your ignorance of legal matters. The law has several functions beyond the simple one of deciding penalties. A bigger one is to prevent the establishing of precedents that can result over time in injury to the social fabric. In this case, if one dead guy is able to get away with stealing electricity, this will be open the door to similar abuses by other dead guys. Soon, people who are no longer alive may start stealing other commodities, committing other crimes, all the while thinking they will pay no penalty.

It is important to show that people cannot get away with anti-social behaviour based on the flimsy excuse that they are dead. We are fortunate in Canada where our legal system contains few loopholes and electricity theft by the dead is not a significant problem here. A death certificate is not a get-out-of-jail-free card.

©2015 Jim Hagarty

My neighbour was out polishing his Corvette today so I told him he was doing a good job.

“Everybody’s got to have a toy, Jim,” he said. “Life is short.”

I agreed with him and said I wondered what my toy would be. My laptop? My guitar?

“Whatever happened to your sports car?” he asked. I told him we had to trade it in on a more practical car when the family came along. “I saw one just like it in town the other day,” I said. “Maybe I’ll get one again someday.”

“Don’t wait too long,” said my neighbour. “Life is short.”

I kind of wished he’d quit saying that. By the way, he has two Corvettes. And he isn’t rich.

He reminds of a musician friend of mine who at one point had 12 high-quality guitars, one of them worth $5,000. He said he had no use for RRSPs and CICs and any other savings plans. He’d rather have his savings sitting right there in his studio where he can see them and polish them and play them. And when the rainy day comes, he can sell a guitar or any number of them.

My musical friend has never commented to me on how short life is but I have a feeling he’s just itching to.

©2012 Jim Hagarty

Here is something you might not want to say shortly after you sit down to a wonderful roast pork Sunday supper.

After the cook receives several compliments on her festive presentation, whereupon she credits the new meat thermometer for her success, don’t say this:

“Where is this new meat thermometer?” please don’t ask. “It’s the one on the fridge,” is the reply.

“Oh,” you must never say. “I thought that was a rectal thermometer.” A stunned silence will follow this comment, if you are a big enough idiot to say it.

“But don’t worry,” you might stupidly follow up. “I used it on the dog.”

This comment is followed up by the agonizing sound of cutlery being dropped from mid-air onto plates.

“The good news is, the dog is fine,” you try to recover. “And it’s okay. I wiped it off on my pants.”

Years ago, my family hired a carpenter to come in and build a penalty box in the rec room downstairs for wayward members of the clan. So far, I have been the only one to have ever used it.

But here is where my loved ones made a critical mistake.

I like sitting in the box and contemplating the wonders of the Universe. Some of my best ideas have been formulated while sitting within its confines.

And I always emerge from my time out invigorated, ready for my next challenge.

It’s a living.

©2022 Jim Hagarty

My dietitian is a dreamer which is good because the world needs more dreamers. She wants me to give up frozen orange juice and eat real oranges instead. Something about fibre.

She hasn’t used the words but others in her profession have referred to orange juice as “yellow pop” which, to me, is offensive. But my dietitian seems so earnest about these things and believes everything she says. Who am I to argue?

This morning, I took out the orange juice, then put the container back into the fridge and picked up a real, live orange instead. It took quite an effort to peel the giant sucker, with its skin as tough as a rhino’s, but with the help of a spoon I finally got the job done. But even with the outside layer gone, there was another white subskin that clung to the fruit like a leach to a pond swimmer. I tried to remove it but gave up.

I broke the thing up into sections and started eating them. Man were they tough to gobble up and choke down. And sour. By the time I finished, I was a mess. Covered in orange juice from chin to shin. I rushed to the kitchen sink and got myself cleaned up.

I have bad news for my dietitian. This was the worst-tasting orange I have ever eaten. I doubt the experience will be repeated soon.

About then, a family member began asking around to find out what happened to the grapefruit that had been sitting on the counter near the toaster.

I feel sorry for my dietitian. She earns every penny she makes. I recommend she be given a raise, in fact. She has to deal with some very confused individuals, I thought, as I reached back into the fridge for the orange juice to wash down the taste of my orange.

©2014 Jim Hagarty

I live in a Canadian city that has a population of 35,0000 plus. It’s a pretty good place but I have always felt a little nervous living in the community where I was born.

That is why I am pulling up stakes next week and moving to Kennesaw, Georgia, a city the same size as mine but with one major attractive difference. Every home in Kennesaw is required by law to have a gun on the premises. Every home. REQUIRED. BY. LAW. It is not just legal to own a handgun, shotgun, rocket launcher, tank, etc., it is mandatory.

I would feel much safer living there knowing that whenever I knocked on someone’s door, the owner of that home would be armed. And everyone who knocked on mine would know that I am packing heat as well. That would be so great.

I had a big fat groundhog in my backyard last summer. Took me weeks to encourage him to move on. In Kennesaw: BAM!!! Critter gone. Noisy freakin’ crows in my maple trees. BAM!!! BAM!!! BAM!!! What is that I hear? No crows. Yay. Annoying door-to-door salesmen? I’m pretty sure there is no such creature roaming the streets of Kennesaw.

Yes, this morning six people were shot in Kennesaw and the shooter was shot and killed but, hey, we have traffic accidents in my town but we don’t ban the cars, do we? Exactly.

l will miss you all but if you’re ever down in Kennesaw, drop in any time. We can put on some bulletproof vests and helmets and take a stroll downtown. Kennesaw is lovely this time of year. It hardly ever rains during graveyard services.

©2014 Jim Hagarty

I think I began to see the point at which western society was beginning to reach peak decadence when the patio fan was invented and began selling.

In the first place, a patio itself – basically an outdoor living room – is a bit of a luxury our ancestors wouldn’t have dreamed of, but attempting to do the wind’s job for those seated on the patio by harnessing a breeze-producing machine is maybe a bit excessive. Some of these fans can be hooked to garden hoses and blow a “cooling mist” over the happy family.

But nothing spells “over the top” like patio heaters which can run a buyer a cool $3,000. So, you want to sit outside but it’s a little chilly out there so you buy a machine which can do the sun’s job for it. Previous generations, if it was cold outside, would have stayed inside but modern humans see no need for that.

So, a patio heater it is then.

But not a heater with just an on/off switch. Not on your life. Here is the product descriptions for a $3,000 jobbie.

This patio heater comes with: a variable input temperature control panel, a modulating gas burner, a low-noise combustion air blower, a visual burner inspection sightglass, a combustion and air-proving safety switch, a three-try spark ignition control, a 100 per cent safety shut-off, a low-voltage control connection, a four-inch heat-treated aluminized combustion tube, an aluminum standard reflector, tube couplers, a heat economizer baffle, stainless steel hangers, a decorative grille, an indicator light, and stainless steel burner head construction.

Or you could just go in the house and put on a sweater before coming back outside. Special features: Wool, sleeves, five big buttons. Also available at extra cost: a hoodie.

©2021 Jim Hagarty

My best friend and I were well familiar with the ditches along the almost two miles or so from our farms to the little crossroads of Bornholm northwest of Stratford, Ontario, Canada, when we were growing up. On a warm summer’s day, he would walk on one side of the road, I on the other, and we’d scour the ditches for bottles that we could cash in at the store or the nearby gas station for pop and potato chips. A regular-sized eight-ounce or 10-ounce pop bottle would net us two cents while a large 28-ounce bottle would put five cents in our pockets.

Yahoo!

Because motorists in those days would throw everything but the kitchen sink in the ditches as they drove along, we hardly ever ran out of a supply of refillable glass bottles to turn in. It didn’t take many to pay for our glorious booty from the store. I remember small bags of potato chips that cost a nickel, and pop that you could buy for seven or eight cents for a small bottle to 10 cents for a bigger one.

Our treasure trove took a little bit of a hit one summer, however, when a man in the village started walking the ditches too. We weren’t too happy with this trespasser but we couldn’t do much about him. Our hauls began to dwindle and eventually, so did our interest in fishing the ditches for funds to pay for our habits.

I believe it was a short time after our ditch-digging days ended that we discovered the miracle of girls. We soon found that they were the only worthwhile subject of discussion and would be that for many years to follow.

We hardly ever talked about pop and chips anymore.

But we did learn fairly quickly, as I recall, that it was much easier to find bottles in the roadside ditches than it was to acquire the friendship of girls, as intriguing as they were to us, in reality if not only in our dreams.

©2012 Jim Hagarty