OK, this isn't actually a sign of the Apocalypse, but it is a sign of the times. Ten years ago, how many men's mall washrooms would have had a sign informing its patrons where to have their baby bottles warmed up? Free of charge, at that.

I am glad to see that the child rearing responsibilities have so firmly shifted to the shoulders of both parents that mall management sees potential profit in appealing to its male cold baby bottle carrying customers. I suppose this sign will have new significance once I actually have a child, but I have to admit that in the dark, primitive, grunting regions of my brain, the last thing I want to think about in a room full of silent peeing men is the prospect of feeding a baby, or doing anything domestic for that matter.

The funniest part is that when I whipped out my camera in a bathroom full of men holding their penises, nobody flinched or even cleared their throats in protest. In fact, the guy in the picture seemed to hold still while I captured the moment.

Guys in bathrooms are weird.

It makes me sad when I see tangible evidence of how ridiculously stupid our society has become.

I was shopping in Oakville Place mall over the holidays with my mother, when I saw this gem pasted on a fire extinguisher panel: "Fire extinguisher for Fires only."

Wow. I mean, seriously, think about what happened here. A group of supposedly intelligent people decided that the rest of us needed to be told this. In red block letters.

Let's break this down. Are there people who would decide to use a fire extinguisher for something other than a fire? Are these people unaware that they are doing something wrong when they abuse the fire extinguisher? Would a sign, even one in red block letters, be enough to deter these morons? I mean, if you're too dumb to know when it's appropriate to spray a public place with a high pressure hose, are you likely to read cautionary notices?

Of course, everyone knows these signs are ridiculous. But they're there to provide defence not against unwanted wetness, but rather unwanted lawsuits. The success of said lawsuits only goes to show that our lawmakers and justices are as stupid, or perhaps helpless, as the people whom the sign was meant to thwart in the first place.

I guess my biggest complaint is that the stupidity of the few has led to the over-signing of North America, which belittles us all and results in a general acceptance of personal irresponsibility.

I like beets. I didn't realize how much I liked them until I travelled in Australia, where every diner and roadhouse makes them a common hamburger condiment. I was actually having beet cravings between stops as we drove up the Red Centre.

Pictured here is what remains of a mason jar of beets. These beets, given to me by my friend Tracy, have strange and wonderful healing powers.

Being surrounded by hundreds of tiny screaming germ sanctuaries all day at school, you would think it inevitable that I would get sick. Last Friday I was feeling like I was coming down with something. I came home and had some beets. I felt better. This week I was feeling crummy, and was worried today that I was getting the flu. Came home, had some beets. I feel better.

We might be on to something here...

It's official: I'm a published author. The Fall 2003 issue of On Spec magazine includes my story "Under a Full Moon." For more information on how this came to be, read the article Losing My Amateur Status.

It remains to be seen whether this issue will ever make the newsstands; at first it seemed like the distributors had missed Fall altogether, but today I visited my local Chapter's and was stunned to find them carrying a half-dozen copies of On Spec! The only problem: it was the SUMMER 2003 issue.

The good news is that the Fall 2003 issue might be available at a bookstore near you sometime in early 2004. The bad news is that if you want a copy right now, you'll have to go to the On Spec web site and order it from there.

Don't eat ice cream while you're marking. Soon enough, you will confuse your implements and attempt to transport the frozen treat to your mouth with the business end of an angry red pen.

After hearing about the black widow spider found in bunches of grapes here in Eastern Ontario, I examined mine very carefully before washing them. What I found were the dried out husks of several little creatures, like the one pictured here, hidden among the stems and fruit.

BLEEAUGH!

Ahem. I thought I was okay with the reality of where our food comes from. But now I'm wondering how many crusted bug wings and antennae I ingest in a typical week.

You may be thinking that I'm recommending close inspection of your food. Au contraire, dear reader. Rather, I implore you ignore it instead. Don't look at it. Don't think about where it came from, or how it got to your plate, or what happened to it along the way.

You'll only spoil your appetite.

Ever been to a restaurant, theatre, or lecture, only to have some jackass' cell phone ring? Wouldn't it be nice to have some kind of James-Bond-esque jamming device that could put an end to all that?

Well now you can. An article on Slate.com describes a little gizmo that, for less than US$170, will provide you with a 30-foot bubble of cell phone impregnibility. The thing is even built to look like a regular cell phone, so nobody will know that you're the one causing the peaceful bliss. They'll all just think they're in a so-called "dead-spot."

This is terrifying news, and somehow I missed it last month: my most favourite of woman types, the wild, freckly redhead, is in danger of becoming extinct.

As much as I'd like to.. uh... "help" the situation, my genetic makeup is likely to only further muddy the ribonucleic waters. So, I implore redheads everywhere to get together and make more of themselves.

[Ed's Note: Yes, it's hopeless as all that giant panda mating, but that hasn't stopped us yet, has it?]

As of tonight's dinner, I have officially turned 6 pieces of good, innocent steak into crispy charcoal briquettes on my landlord's barbeque.

I don't know what the hell I'm doing wrong. I never had this problem on my dad's Weber, but now it seems like every time I put a piece of meat on the grill, in a few minutes it becomes a flaming nugget of carbon.

I've tried different temperatures. I've tried cleaning the grill. I've tried turning the meat at different times... none of it works.

Luckily I'm within shouting distance of the home of poutine. I will get my grease the way of the traditional Quebecois: fries dripping with cheese curd melted under hot beef gravy. I knew there was a reason I came to Ottawa.

Here's a good way to really screw with your nervous system:

1. Get a bowl of nice, cold ice cream.
2. Draw a hot bath.
3. Remove your clothing.
4. Sit in the hot bath, eating the cold ice cream.

Not that I've ever done this, and especially not recently.