Sunday Confessions

Whenever Vinyl Café drifts onto CBC Radio, I secretly wish Stuart McLean would tell the story of the day Dave had a heart-to-heart talk with the man who came into the record shop wielding a machete, and how they laughed after Dave was sliced in three.

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I have never been inside Massey Hall, the McMichael Collection, or the Spadina Museum. I intend to cross at least two of those off my “places you’d think I’ve visited in the GTA but haven’t” list this year.

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As a youngster, an occasional habit of accidentally scratching other cars while opening the back seat door usually coincided with hearing old Freddy Fender songs on Detroit country radio stations. To this day, an impending sense of doom descends upon me whenever I hear Freddy Fender in a car.

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When I woke up around 9 this morning, I felt like the only person in the country who didn’t give a s**t about the Olympic hockey final. Several reasons: 

• I haven’t followed any Olympics with deep interest since 1984, or whenever Anne Murray told viewers they could “count on the [Canadian Imperial Bank of]Commerce.”
• I’ve never been a particularly jingoistic person. Patriotic rah-rahing has never been my style. 
• The winning team was filled with NHLers. Players who make more in a season than I, or most of my peers, will see over our lifetimes. I’m not ashamed to admit the sport has lost me over time—I enjoy watching the odd game, and I cherish my youthful passion for pro sports, but now? Meh.

It’s nice we won the gold. But that’s as far as it goes here. Call me a traitor for not caring. I can take it. If this declaration comes back to haunt me during my run for mayor of Toronto against an antique Rob Ford bobblehead doll in 2042, so be it.

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As a youngster, while shopping at K-Mart in Metro Detroit, I often noticed some kid before me had opened up packs of sports cards and left behind a mess of singles that were beneath their notice (or maybe it was an adult looking for "hot" rookie cards). Sometimes, if nobody else was around, I’d slip those stray singles into my pant pocket. Later in the day, I would mix them in with packs of cards I purchased legitimately.

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Speaking of petty theft, I stole the cookie from the cookie jar.