The Strangest Thing Department

A Geezer’s Notebook, By Jim Foster

Most normal people don’t notice the little things in life – and then there is me.

One morning I was driving down the main street and I realized as I signalled for a left-hand turn, the click-click-click of my signal light coincided exactly with the beat of Seasons in the Sun playing on the radio. I took that as a sign from above that I should drive straight to the liquor store.

That bit of information could be handy for any young chap about to propose to a fair maiden and seeing another guy’s feet sticking out from under the drapes. Rather than make a complete ass of himself by asking for her hand (and I assume a few other parts too) in marriage, he can say, “Did you know Foster’s signal lights click to the tune of Seasons in the Sun?”

If she says, “I didn’t know that.” He can say, “Well then, I guess you’ll have to marry the bozo hiding behind the curtains.”

I found the Seasons in the Sun business fascinating, so I jotted it down and tossed it on the rather large pile on my desk. I write down all sorts of things so I won’t forget them. Then every 5 or 6 years I clean off my desk since I can no longer find the computer for scraps of paper – and once in a while the desk too come to think of it. The trouble is a scrap of paper with Season – signal lights written on it will mean absolutely nothing when I finally get around to reading it.

These long-lost treasures are like the ideas that come to you in a dream. You write them down on a pad beside your bed or on your wife’s back, whichever is handy. In the cold light of day, your brilliant plan for a solar-powered nose-hair trimmer makes no sense at all and you are left stunned by your own stupidity and also having to explain to your wife why she better not wear anything back-less for a month or two.

Every now and then though, you come across a something really interesting and actually learn something.

Today I found a news clipping buried a foot down in the pile which read, ‘Nostradamus published a collection of jelly recipes’.

I did not know that. Everyone has heard of Nostradamus and his predictions that have amazed scholars for over 400 years. Well not everyone, I have always found his prognostications just a little vague and I am pretty well convinced the scholars who are so thrilled by his drivel could benefit from a round or two on a psychiatrist’s couch. On the other hand, I am truly sorry the world hasn’t heard about his jelly recipes.

Not once have I seen his recipe for lemon jelly featured in Chatelaine. It’s a shame really. Most men would be overjoyed if their wives could finally find a recipe for a jelly that wouldn’t bounce from the floor to the ceiling. (We have to replace the globe on the kitchen light every other week – and there’s still the collateral damage to consider, like broken windows and a traumatized cat).

Another item in the bonehead division of the pile is about a youth outreach co-ordinator for PETA, the People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals. This gentleman (I am with-holding his name, not for fear of lawsuits, but for my belief that dipsticks should never have their names published; it encourages stupidity). As I was saying, this chap legally changed his name to

It is his hope that such a clever move will call attention to the alleged mistreatment of chickens by a KFC supplier in West Virginia. Incidentally Canada’s own Pamela Anderson is supporting his name change. What Pamela has to do with PETA and the KFC controversy is a bit baffling to me, unless her own breasts are dusted with a secret blend of 11 different herbs and spices. If they are it might explain why I used to get hungry every time I watched reruns of Baywatch.

I guess I’m a little cowardly, but I have never felt the urge to do anything drastic in support of a worthy or even an unworthy cause. I once thought I would change my name to that of a really good beer though. Hopefully that would make me famous and get me a free six-pack now and then, but I was afraid anyone seeing Couchiching Black River Stout Woodside Drive in the phone book would be calling me after the brewery closed for the day. Or worse, Coors-Molson’s might buy me and move me to Colorado.

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