I barely paid attention to the Olympics this time around, which is a really unusual position to be in. In fact, I wasn't much into them in 2004 either, and had to check just now as to where those games were even held (Athens). Contrast this with 2002, where I was obsessively dedicated to our drive for hockey gold, even watching for the first (and last) time a women's game, and getting damned excited when the ladies beat the American team and their referee. Or other years past, such as 1976, when I left the house maybe twice in two weeks (how fortunate to be an unemployed child of 12).

I'm guessing the change is because I have less interest in sports than ever before, although my wife might offer a dissenting opinion. There is no clear reason for this, no they-make-too-much-damned-money or they-took-my-team conspiracy theories (although they do make too much money and the bastards did take my team). It's more about time - I don't really have any. My favourite sports to watch are football and basketball. But I might have watched one game all the way through before the NFL playoffs this past season, and I don't think I've even done that for my Raptors this year. Instead, there was a lot of dipping in and out, a half hour on the chesterfield before running off to another dance class, or giving up on a game at 10:00 p.m. because of my habitual 5:00 a.m. wakeup call. In the past, lack of sleep would not have kept me from "the game". Now, I don't even consider this an excuse: it's just the way things are.

So, the lunatic running up and down the halls of a Vancouver hotel during the Habs win in '79, the superstitious fool who wouldn't shake the ash off his cigarette as long as the Expos were at bat in '81, the maniac who threw his roommate's remote control against the wall when the Jays blew a close one in '85, the laryngytic drunk from the Jays '93 win, the idiot who rushed through sex to get back to the Bills' attempt to knock off the Cowboys in '94 - these guys are all long gone, visited only occasionally by the sociopath who screamed so loud he thought his neighbours would call security when the Polamalu interception was overturned in '06. It's a kinder, gentler time to be me. At least, that is, until March Madness starts on the 16th.

Maybe it's a female thing, but my wife continues to behave in illogical fashion about more things than I can keep track. For example, this morning. I get up every morning at 5:00, which is 1.5 to 2 hours before the rest of the clan. This allows me some time to ease into the day, although I still have to do the usual pre-work prep - shower, shave, breakfast, teeth, dress, pack bag - plus make lunches for myself, the girls and, occasionally, Maxine. This pretty much fills my alone time: if I want to do anything else - write, for example - I'm going to have to start getting up earlier.

Then there's my wife. Maxine was working today, so she asked me to wake her up at 6:00. She went to bed really early last night because she was fried after getting her B12 shot (as she usually is). One would think she could handle an early wakeup call. One would be mistaken. I went in at 6:00 and 6:10 and was close to my 6:20 visit when she toddled out. At 6:30 she was out of the shower just as I went to wake the kids. If I were in that situation, knowing that (A) I had to leave by 7:45 for the girls' sitter's place and (B) that my spouse would not be helping with breakfast, pushing the girls to get ready, etc., I would haul ass after getting out of the shower. Instead, she made a coffee and sat down in the dining area and started chatting with me about something that could certainly wait while I finished up lunches. When I pointed out her situation, she got snooty and went to get ready. When I left the apartment at 7:10, my three female roommates were all in an uproar.

Maxine lives at her own pace, doesn't like to be rushed, but then expects the world to rush when she rushes. She gets overwhelmed when a time crunch hits, but does nothing to preemptively stop that time crunch. It's maddening as hell, because I am the exact opposite. My entire childhood was spent waiting for a mother who lived on what I call "Norma time". My mother's basic attitude is that no event worth attending can start without her, and they will either wait until she arrives or else what is missed by her late arrival wasn't worth seeing anyway. I have compensated by being the most punctual person I know. If I need 5 minutes to get somewhere, I leave 15 minutes ahead. If my appointment is at 3:00, I arrive at 2:45. If I don't want to seem too eager for that appointment, I walk in at 2:55, but I have been downstairs in a coffee shop since 2:15. I never worry about getting somewhere too early, or about the other party or parties being late, because I never travel without reading material. Since reading is my favorite leisure activity, time in a waiting room is glorious (unless you keep me waiting too long).

Anyway, fun and attractive can overcome a multitude of sins. Lucky for her (and me) she's both.

* * * * *

Last night, I watched The Insider, which is just an amazing movie. The story is very compelling - former executive with big tobacco company blows whistle on corporate practice and knowledge on "60 Minutes" while others work to silence him, by force if necessary. But the film is shot like an adventure story, with slick editing and very creative use of sound - sometimes through silence - to convey, varyingly, mystery, menace, internal conflict. The score is haunting, including a moody closing tune by, I think, Massive Attack. Russell Crowe and Al Pacino are fantastic, but the real thrill is all the recognizable actors in small parts - Michael Gambon, Gina Gershon, Colm Feore, Stephen Tobolowsky, Bruce McGill, Rip Torn (I don't even remember seeing him in the film), the prematurely departed Lynne Thigpen, Nestor Serrano, Wings Hauser, even Gary Sandy from WKRP. Their familiarity lends a comfort level to an otherwise at times dry story of backroom maneuvering, easing the viewer into the material. When McGill tears a strip off Hauser, it's more fun because we've seen them both in so many things. Gershon is at first unrecognizable as a cold corporate lawyer, not the biker chick chic we've come to expect. Just a great movie.

In the clear morning after, I've been wondering if I watch too many movies now. But the reality is that my movie viewing has replaced television viewing, and that seems to me a step in the right direction. Other than sports, 24 and the occasional comedy like My Name is Earl or Arrested Development, the only thing I watch lately on my TV is movies on either TMN or that I've recorded off another channel. I actually think I watch less now that I am no longer channel surfing, and read more. All of this will come to an end this month with the commencement of the NCAA men's basketball tournament. But that's not something I can control.

I'm back. Does anybody care? (Do I?)

* * * * *

A depressing moment in film class last week. Prior to the class, I was talking to one of the guys who sits at the same table, Glen, about what film we might be viewing that night. (One of my frustrations with this class is no viewing schedule is available, although this may be so that the teacher can be more open to whatever his personal whim says should be the film of the moment.) Glen noted that we would be watching something from Hollywood in the '40s, with special reference made in the course outline to Orson Welles and Michael Curtiz. This meant either Citizen Kane or Casablanca, both of which I have seen, although, as I said to Glen, what person seriously considering a career in film wouldn't have seen these classics? As it turns out, in addition to Glen and I, only two people had seen Citizen Kane, the movie of choice. I'm sorry, but how could anyone make a claim to loving movies without having gone to the trouble - and not much effort is required - to see what is almost universally considered the greatest film ever made. How does this happen? I saw this movie more than 25 years ago in Cape Breton, where I had two English-language channels, when video was in its infancy, when DVD and the web were non-existent. If I could find it, how could they, in this age and this city, not have seen Citizen Kane? Before you can create art, you must learn from the greats who came before you, see what they did and didn't do, to emulate, to rebel against, and to steal, where necessary. Painters copy the masters to learn technique, writers deconstruct sentences to learn how they are put together - should filmmakers not at least see films, and good ones? I suppose this is why I can live in a world where a group of otherwise apparently intelligent people can discuss in glowing terms the recent Pink Panther remake, where the genius of Roxanne and L.A. Story is replaced with the hack of Cheaper by the Dozen. If you want to know why so many movies suck, take a look at the viewing habits of our filmmakers. If my classmates are any guide, it's a miracle any films worth seeing get made.

By the way, last night we viewed a portion of Casablanca (as part of a lesson on propaganda films). Roughly a dozen of the class' members had seen this - a small hopeful sign.

The other odd thing about the Citizen Kane viewing was a discussion before class about how movies are shot. The question originated with a pretty bright guy named Jeff who works in television production, and I was surprised as the teacher explained master shots and the like to my clearly mesmerized classmates. Now, before ever taking a class, my fascination with film and long-suppressed desire to make movies led me to read widely and educate myself on these things. Clearly, many of my classmates did not. It is almost as if they woke up one morning and decided they wanted to make movies. I'm all for the DIY aesthetic, but they'll be making some pretty unwatchable stuff if they count on their classes to teach them everything they need to know.

* * * * *

Today is a big day for me as a sports fan since my beloved Raptors have landed as their new President and General Manager one Bryan Colangelo, who was the NBA's Executive of the Year last season with Phoenix. His availability itself is surprising (courtesy of a new owner with a head bigger than all of Arizona) but even more surprising is the organization seizing the opportunity and landing him. Colangelo is NBA royalty, with a history of more good moves than bad and the nerve to bail on his bad moves and try to correct the mistake. He brings instant credibility to an organization decimated by a series of bad decisions under previous management, and makes the team players in the future for serious upgrading of the talent base. We haven't won anything yet, but only a fool would look at the Raptors today without anticipating a very bright future. For long-suffering fans such as I, this is heaven.

* * * * *

To close out, short notes on my recent film viewings:

Dirty Pretty Things: If there were any justice, Chiwetel Ejiofor would become a superstar. But he's black, British and has a strange name, dooming him to be great along the margins. A stunning story about illegal immigrants in London who get caught up in the illicit trade in body parts. Powerful and satisfying in every way.

The Lady Eve: Classic screwball comedy, with Henry Fonda and Barbara Stanwyck wonderful together, and great support from Charles Coburn and Eugene Pallette.

Eurotrip: Stupid, but funny. But way too much male nudity, and not nearly enough female.

Childstar: More Don McKellar cleverness. The message is a little heavy-handed, but McKellar is charming and Jennifer Jason Leigh genuinely terrifying. I have no idea what Gil Bellows is trying to do here.

Kiss Me Kate: Nicole wanted to watch this, so I endured it. Pretty lame, although there's some truly impressive dancing from Ann Miller and Tommy Rall. A pair of dancing and singing thugs are the highlight.

Topsy-Turvy: Entertaining, but seriously overrated, At times, the film just seems to stop for some business that pleases the filmmaker but no one else. Great music, though, and beautiful to look at.

My Brilliant Career: Outstanding period piece, with Judy Davis and a shockingly young Sam Neill.

What's New, Pussycat?: Occasionally funny, but mostly annoying and seriously dated.