Lifetime Sentences

By Jim Hagarty

I worked for a big company for six years.

At the start of the second year, I was called into the boss’s office, told I was doing a great job, and offered a raise I hadn’t asked for.

At the start of the third year, I was called into the boss’s office, told I was doing a great job, and offered a raise I hadn’t asked for.

At the start of the fourth year, I was called into the boss’s office, told I was doing a great job, and offered a raise I hadn’t asked for.

At the start of the fifth year, I was called into the boss’s office, told I was doing a great job, and offered a raise I hadn’t asked for.

At the start of the sixth year, I was called into the boss’s office, told I was doing a great job, and offered a raise I hadn’t asked for.

At the end of the sixth year, I was called into the office and let go for the following reason:

I was making too much money.

By Jim Hagarty

My heart is my transmission,
My mind, the steering wheel.
Some days I put it into drive
And let my tires squeal.

Some days I like to idle,
Some days I’m in reverse.
Some days the other drivers
Get mad at me and curse.

But I’m in no big hurry.
I’ll get there, by and by.
My car’s not very speedy.
But then, neither am I.

My heart is my transmission.
The engine is my soul.
To get us all home safely
Has always been my goal.

So just pull out and pass me
And leave me in your wake.
I will enjoy my journey
However long it takes.

By Jim Hagarty

I have accomplished some things in my life during those times when I shut up, often much more than the times when I spoke out.

Speaking out has its place. Shutting up is pretty much appropriate at any time, all the time.

It’s been said, or at least I think it has, by someone who didn’t shut up for a change, that the wiser a man becomes, the quieter he is.

The emptiest vessel, after all, makes the loudest gong when you strike it.

It’s a tricky equation. Some people are interminably silent because they, in fact, have nothing to say. Some people are interminably talkative because they have a lot to say.

The ones to watch out for are those who are interminably talkative despite the very observable fact that they have absolutely nothing to say.

You know what I’m saying?

By Jim Hagarty
This is the title song from an album called Remembering Rankin by my friend and fellow singer-songwriter Ted Schinbein. In the early ’70s, Ted worked for a few years in Rankin Inlet in northern Canada. In 2004, he released this CD as a tribute to those times and the people he met in the North. The CD is available in the Corner Store.

Remembering Rankin by Ted Schinbein

By Jim Hagarty
Renowned Terrible Limericker

I once knew a bee named Bob
Who was an unrepentant slob.
He stole all the honey
And sold it for money.
Then sat on his bum like a blob.

By Jim Hagarty

You know what?

I’ll tell you what.

I’m sick of you know what.

That’s what.

I’m fed up with hearing radio commentators, sports heroes, average Joes and my own family members punctuate their sentences with you know what.

You know what I’m talking about?

The rich and famous, the poor and bedraggled apparently can no longer begin a statement without you know what.

Why and how and when did what make such an emergence to the front of the pack of most abused words in the English language?

I’ll tell you what is literally driving me crazy.

In the good old days, we kept things simple when we mumbled. To get from one part of a sentence to the profound thought that was going to be unfurled in the second part, we used a sturdy little bridge known as you know.

“So I stopped at the light, you know, and finally it turned green, you know, and this guy in a big truck, you know, well, he just, you know, pulled out in front of me. You know?”

You know, it took me many, many years to get used to you know. But at last I realized it was just the short form of do you know what I mean to say and I was grateful that at least I didn’t have to listen to people use the entire expression.

But then some wise person somewhere decided he or she had gotten too good for you know and so added one more little word into the mix. And presto, up from obscurity rose our first annoying expression of the New Millennium.

The first person who can go a whole day without either using this little bit of verbal dribble or hearing it spewed by some unthinking character, can send in two box tops and a loonie and I’ll send you …. No, you know what? Make that three box tops. And I’ll send you a framed portrait of Gordie Howe. Heck! You know what? I’ll send you two framed portraits of Gordie Howe.

This is how it goes down.

“I’ll take out the recycling in the morning. No. You know what? I’ll do it right now, and then it’s done.”

So, we use you know what to indicate that we have changed our minds. We are not really curious as to whether or not the person with whom we are conversing knows what.

But more often, we use it as a statement of defiance. So, you know what, I am going to do what I want to do in spite of your objections or the possible repercussions to myself.

So, as the linguistic Luddite that I have become, ever critical of new expressions that are foisted on us from who knows where, I have been fuming over you know what all winter.

Where did you know what come from?

Who first used you know what?

And as I sat depressing myself with such questions one morning, while my children watched a kids’ show on TV, I heard the words coming out of the little black box that sits on top of my Mom’s old sewing machine.

“You know what?” said a girlish voice in the TV. “I’ll tell you what.”

Pulling my head out from under the cushion where I was hiding it, I leapt from the couch and stared at the screen.

You know what?

There she was. The one responsible for all this mess.

Her name is Marigold and she’s a character on a Canadian show called Polka Dot Shorts. She’s a big, flat-faced ragdoll that looks like the flower from which her name came.

I sat and watched.

Twenty times in one show she said, “You know what? I’ll tell you what,” all the while skipping about like she had to go to the bathroom really badly.

Could it be, I wondered, that a ragdoll with a bothersome bladder could be responsible for causing such leading lights as Wayne Gretzky to sprinkle you know what over his dialogue like he would salt on his eggs?

But, you know what? I’ve decided it just doesn’t matter any more.

I’ll tell you what.

I’m just gonna go with the flow.

If it’s good enough for famous people then, you know what?

It’s good enough for me.

That’s what!

By Jim Hagarty
This is a song from an album called Remembering Rankin by my friend and fellow singer-songwriter Ted Schinbein. For years Ted has hosted weekly jam sessions in his studio and now and then, I sing this song. In the early ’70s, Ted worked for a few years in Rankin Inlet in northern Canada. In 2004, he released this CD as a tribute to those times and the people he met. The CD is available in the Corner Store.

Did You Ever Wish You Were a Cowboy by Ted Schinbein

By Jim Hagarty

Many years ago, at the end of our one and only date, the young woman I had escorted to the movies turned to me, before she jumped out of the car, and declared, “You are the most miserable man I have ever met.”

This was a big and bitter pill to swallow. Especially since I thought I had been on my best behaviour. And given there was an entire two-hour chunk of silence between us while we watched the movie, how had there been enough time left over for me to reveal such extreme miserablness?

Later, I thought about this rather startling reaction from this nice young woman.

Here is what I concluded.

1. She was possibly an excellent miserable detector. (I met her Dad. Yikes!)

2. She had possibly not dated enough miserable men to draw such a definitive conclusion.

3. Our date hadn’t gone that well.

By Jim Hagarty

Where is my friendly bumble bee spotter when I need him?

Last summer I was walking across my front lawn when a 30 something man pulled over in an old car, rolled down his old window and asked me if I had seen any bumble bees. I prepared to hand over my wallet and plead for my life. But he was serious. He was a bumble bee spotter. After a 10-minute conversation with him, I was ready to forfeit my wallet and my life.

Today in my travels I have seen two gigantic bumble bees. Where’s Mr. Bee Man now, I wondered.

Then I wondered how much bee spotting pays.

If it’s lucrative, I’d be happy to get buzzy.