A petition to let the Green Party into the debate

It's been shown that once a party is allowed into the televised debates, their support can soar. It's what happened to the Reform Party. People just need to see them deliver their message. The Green Party already has 11% support in Toronto. It's the only party gaining support in the Ontario race. And yet, they're not letting the Green Party leader into the debates. Fair? No. So please sign the petition at www.letfrankin.ca

(Sorry for this posting not being funny. The environment is just too serious an issue to make light off. However, if you've been good and signed the petition, you can turn on some clown music and go back and read the posting again, while listening to clown music. The posting will be funny that way.)

My marriage proposal's on ecorazzi.com!!!

Holy crap!!! Check out this amazing promotion of my marriage proposal by clicking here. It looks like it was put up on August 23rd. I had no idea it was there, though. I only just found it now because I was googling "Josh Rachlis" and "Jay Leno" and this link popped up for some reason. Anyway, all I can say is... WOW!!!! Thanks so much to ecorazzi for joining the cause. I will for sure reserve a whole ecorazzi table at my wedding to Laurie David if, I mean WHEN, it happens. There's even a comment at the post, from "rebecca," who mentions my An Inconvenient Ruth movie (which I made for Laurie's eco-film contest a while back). If Laurie doesn't see my proposal now, I don't know WHAT she's doing with her time. Other than devoting every waking minute to fighting global warming, I mean.

Oh, and check this out. People are reviewing the ecorazzi posting at this other page. Michael from Pensacola (known online as "moreminimal") writes: "Funniest thing I've seen all week. Laurie, you should at least go out with this guy. Who knows?" It's a great feeling to know that I've got the support of Pensacola, Florida behind me. And I'm sure Laurie has great respect for moreminimal's opinion because he's obviously got great taste in comedy and in men. So this could work out great.

(Oh, and why was I googling "Josh Rachlis" and "Jay Leno," you ask? Well, an account guy at work here just mentioned that a creative director at work mentioned that she heard that my marriage proposal was mentioned on Jay Leno's show. I said that the creative director must have misunderstood. But I googled it, just in case. And I found the ecorazzi post. Which proves that you never know what's out there! So maybe I've been on Leno after all and just don't know it yet...)

My letter in today's Star about MMP

Click here to read my letter in today's Toronto Star about the misconceptions surrounding the Mixed-Member Proportional election system we'll be voting for (or against) in the upcoming Ontario election. MMP will mean your vote will count for more. It will also help the environment, because parties that actually care about the environment will actually earn seats and be able to make positive changes for all of us. So make sure to get out and vote in October... and vote for MMP!

Radio station Edge 102 joins the cause to get Laurie David to marry me!

Alan Cross, the all-powerful and obviously genius Program Director at Toronto radio station Edge 102 has realized the vital importance to the world of getting Laurie David to see the marriage proposal video I made for her. So, as a public service, he has written about it on his blog. Check it out by clicking here. And from now on if anyone asks you what your favourite radio station is, the answer is no longer CBC, despite CBC's in-depth and important coverage of global warming. The answer is now is Edge 102, because of their in-depth and important coverage of me. I mean, coverage of me insofar as it will lead to me marrying the world's top crusader in the fight against global warming. So that her and I can work together to lick this climate change problem once and for all. In this way, Edge 102 is doing more to help fight global warming than CBC. That's what I meant. I didn't mean to be vain.

A clip of Beaver Tale 2 will be shown tomorrow night on CBC TV!

Wow! CBC Television really loves our good friend Pelt The Beaver! He'll be on the show Exposure yet again! The email below says it all. So if you have cable and a VCR, please tape it for Pelt and me! (We don't have cable. We're "old-school." Rabbit-ear antennae all the way, baby.)

----Original Message Follows----
From: Maia
To: Josh
Subject: Beaver Tale 2 on Exposure
Date: Sat, 25 Aug 2007

Hi Josh,

It is Maia here, the Program Assistant at Exposure.
I wanted to let you know that we will be showing a clip from your video
BEAVER TALE 2: THE BED & BREAKFAST, as part of our Round Up on Animals.
The show starts at 11pm, Sunday, August 26, on CBC TV.

Enjoy watching the show and thank you for uploading!

Maia

Beaver Tale will be on CBC Television this Sunday at 11pm!

Well, a clip of it, anyway. Not sure what part they're going to show. So be sure to find out by checking out Pelt The Beaver's television debut! They're showing it because it's been getting lots of views and good ratings on the show's website. I'm sure this is just the beginning of your favourite beaver's television career. Actually, there was a clip of Beaver Tale shown on Chatham television when he won Audience Choice at the Small Town Film Festival. So this is merely the continuation of his television career. But really, anything to do with a television career is pretty exciting. Especially when you're a beaver puppet. Beaver puppets are shamefully under-represented in the entertainment industry.

And the heart test says...

So, I was waiting in the little room that the receptionist took me to, settling into an issue of "Hello! Canada" with Angelina Jolie on the cover, when there was a knock on the door. It was very polite of the doctor to knock first. I'm not sure what he thought I might have been doing in there, but I can't really blame him for thinking the worst. Anyway, he walked in and right away, before even sitting down, said: "I have good news!" and told me that my tests were good. "No abnormalities whatsoever!" He kept looking at the file and couldn't even think of anything to add. I asked what it was that had showed up in the first place and he said the EKG test was just off. Then he warned: "You have to take care of yourself." What? How? "You need to hang out with better people." Oh, right. The brownies. Yah, putting drugs in them without telling me was pretty immature. "Immature? It was almost criminal!" But at least I have a new lease on life. :-)

P.S. Oh, and afterward, I treated myself to a Booster Juice from the hospital foodcourt, as a celebration. That's not really relevant to the story. But you know what? I love Booster Juice. It's always a special treat that makes me happy. So there.

My heart test... Testing my poor heart... :(

As you’ll recall from The Pot Brownie Incident ©2007, the emergency room doctor didn’t like what was going on with my heart. So she made me an appointment with a cardiologist. I met with him, an elderly Polish doctor, a few days later and he listened to my heart through a stethoscope. And after his analysis, he said that there was absolutely, positively... something weird. This was his professional, medical diagnosis. "Weird." (I could have told him I was weird and saved us both the trouble of the visit.) Unfortunately, he didn’t know anything more than that. So maybe it’s something really awful and I have a short time to live. I prefer to think that maybe I have some kind of SuperHeart. Like, I’m the next step in human evolution and my SuperHeart will allow me to run great distances and also I’ll never die. Either way, Dr. Petrovich was not impressed with the people who filled me with illegal drugs.

So a couple of weeks later (June 13, 2007, for those historians who are taking note of this for future generations) I was back at the hospital at 8:45am for an Echo-Cardiogram. I was about 15 minutes late because, hey, that’s pretty early in the morning. And I never expect doctor appointments to start on time. But the woman passive-aggressively asked: “Do you know what time your appointment was for?” Receptionists never come out and just say: “You’re late. You’re a prick.” They always find some kind of passive-aggressive way of pointing it out. Anyway, I slipped into a sexy frontless gown, lay on my side and a medical technician named Dimitri put his arm over my body and rubbed a gel-coated metal probe over my heart for about 20 minutes. For most women and 10% of guys, this would have been a lot of fun. Perhaps even something to pay good money for. But for me, the only fun was getting to hear my heart beat. Not the regular “ba bump, ba bump” you hear when you put your ear to someone’s chest. (Not that I would ever do such a thing.) No, this is the kind of wet heartbeat where you can hear all the liquids sloshing around inside. Like when they listen to fetuses. It’s neat. I could have sworn I heard my heart say: “No more pot brownies! Slosh, slosh. And no more cheeseburgers while you’re at it! Slosh, slosh. And hey, it’s called ‘exercise.’ Try it sometime!” But that might have been just my imagination. At the end of it, Dimitri said he didn’t see anything wrong with my heart. Except that I obviously “love too much.” Haha! No, he didn’t say that. But I know he was thinking it. I could see it in his eyes.

Then I went for a cardiac stress test. A nice lady injected me with radiation. And then I had to lie on a slab while a big metal plate slowly moved around me for twenty minutes. This would have been a good time for a nap, except I had to have my arms raised above my head the whole time, which isn’t normally how I sleep. (FYI, I normally sleep on my side, curled up like a cute little ball, for anyone who is building a fan site about me and wants the inside scoop.)

Then I got two hours off. So I sat in the food court of the hospital, reading Metro and eating a sub. I wasn’t supposed to have any caffeine or any heavy foods. When I got back to the Cardio Ward, there was a new, Russian nurse and as we were walking to the injection room she said: “I hope you had a nice lunch... With no coffee or cola...” and I said: “Nope. Just a couple of cappuccinos.” She stopped in her tracks and almost had a heart attack herself. I quickly told her that I was joking. She recovered and said that I had retorted so quickly that she didn’t think I could have been joking. I started to explain about my extensive improv training but I think she had stopped listening to me altogether.

Anyway, she had to inject me again. She asked if I had a problem with needles. I said it’s not the most fun I can think of, but I’m ok. But she found it hard to find a place to inject me. Because I already had bruising from the two blood tests on the night of The Pot Brownie Incident ©2007, plus bruising from the morning’s injection, it was hard to find a vein. So she really had to jam it in there. And this time, she was inserting an IV thing that would stay in my arm. It really hurt. I got a bit dizzy and broke into a cold sweat. I think her and the other nurse were rolling their eyes and thinking I was a big baby and that I had lied to them about being able to tolerate needles. But it was my body reacting to the pain, not my brain. If my brain had had any say in it, I would have been off at the ScotiaBank Theatre (formerly The Paramount) watching the smash-hit blockbuster of the summer, Spider-Man 3, in full Imax glory. But my brain had no say in it. So I was dizzy and sweating. She told me to lie down, and she told another woman to get me a juice box. I should break into cold sweats more often, ‘cause I love juice boxes.

When I was ok to sit up again, the nurse had to shave parts of my chest so she could hook up electrodes to me. This was kind of kinky. In a disgusting sort of way. Chest hair is weird, actually. It's a lighter, fluffier texture than other hair. So it falls to the ground lightly. Gently. Like little angles descending from heaven. Little fuzzy, disgusting angels. But I digress. Back to the story, I got on the treadmill. At this point I remembered that I had a digital camera in my man-purse. I mean, in my manly sport bag. Because, hey, what better time to want a picture taken of oneself than when one is partly-shaven, wearing an open gown, hooked up to electrodes, injected with a radioactive IV and walking on a treadmill? What a great Facebook profile picture that would make, I thought. So many people put up pictures where they look “good.” What a cliché. So I asked the nurse (the Russian one had left, this was the juice box one I think) to take a picture of me. She said we should start the treadmill so that I’m really walking on it, otherwise people won’t believe it was real. Thanks, Nurse Spielberg. She took a picture, looked at on the camera screen, and then turned off the lights. I figured this was a medical thing, so that they could see my radiation or something. But the she took another picture, and then turned the lights back on. I realized that she had probably turned the lights off because she didn’t like the lights reflecting off my shiny head in the picture. Sigh…

So the treadmill was going along slowly and she asked how I’m doing and I said I was fine. I was pretty impressed with myself, actually. I was pretty sure I was beating all the 90 year-olds who have to do this treadmill test. She started cranking up the treadmill and then putting it on an angle and then I was running pretty fast on a very steep incline and ok, now I was starting to sweat and breathe heavy. She kept asking if I thought I could do another minute on it. I didn’t know why she was asking that. They never explain things. It was only later, when I was reading about this kind of test on the internet, that I learned that they need to have you run for one minute after they inject the radiation into you with the IV. So why didn’t she just say that? Why be cryptic? Nurses are like girlfriends.

Anyway, they injected more radiation into me… I kept running… I was dripping sweat and breathing hard and then I was done. She said she had had to stop the test because I was breathing so hard. Which made it sound like I sucked at the test. But another woman, the metal plate machine technician as she was walking me to the machine, said that I was really good at running on the treadmill and said that I must do that kind of thing at home. I said that, well, yes, I must admit, that when I do go to the gym I usually run on the treadmill for half an hour or even an hour and that while I don't normally do it on an incline, I do go pretty fast... But I think she had stopped listening to me. My clue was that she was no longer in the room. So I lay quietly in the machine again with my arms above my head. Regaling myself and my fellow patients down the hall with my armpit odour.

After the machine thing, they asked if I would be traveling soon, because the radiation would set off alarms in an airport. And they told me that I shouldn’t go near any pregnant women. I asked if the radiation would have any bad side effects. Like, say, give me cancer. Spielberg scoffed and said that I’m exposed to radiation every time I go outside in the sun. Hmmm… True. But as my friend Adrienne later pointed out, I’m allowed to go near pregnant women after I’ve been out in the sun.

When I got home I looked in the mirror at my chest and realized that I looked like a fuzzy block of Swiss cheese. So I shaved the rest of my chest. Which I’ve heard can enhance one’s muscular appearance. Except, I learned, when one is a flabby slob. In which case, one looks like a plucked frozen turkey.

So, anyway, we’ll see what happens. I’m kind of hoping that the radiation unleashed some superpowers in me, and that the next time I’m almost hit by a bus I’ll instinctively leap into the air and stick to the wall of a building. But so far, no sign of any powers. It’s true, I’m awesome in bed. But I was already awesome before. Haha! Just kidding. I’ve never been with a woman. I just hope I live long enough to maybe one day know what that’s like. I get the results on Tuesday.

I'm in the New York Times!

And surprisingly it's not because I've been arrested for a spectacularly dramatic/disturbing crime. No, it's just little ol' me spreading the word about going green. Check out the article here. Thanks go out to the excellent author - Martha C. White - for writing an entertaining and informative on a very important subject: environmentally-friendly hotels. Let's hope America pays attention!

Oh, and it's not just America who will be told what's what. This article is also running here in The Sydney Morning Herald in Australia and here in the International Herald Tribune and here in Spanish in some Sao Paulo newspaper. Thanks to that one, I'm going to have my business card title changed to "Josh Rachlis, redator de publicidade baseado em Toronto."

I'm huge in France. Me and Jerry Lewis.

Funny story: This morning at work my colleague Jason starts off a group meeting by telling us about his recent trip to France. He says he was in the middle of nowhere in France. Somewhere in the countryside. In a farmhouse. His little boy was acting up and Jason wanted to give the kid something to do. So Jason turned on the TV, which was hooked up to satellite. He found some French channel, and as he turned away from the TV, the first thing he heard was MY voice. He couldn't believe it. But he was positive he recognized my "bad Scottish accent," as he put it. So when his wife was going out with the child a few minutes later, Jason said he had to stay behind to see the credits. And sure enough, there was my name in the credits of Time Warp Trio, an educational cartoon being broadcast in France. I guess some French Discovery Channel Station of some sort picked up the show. I did the voice a couple of years ago, at least. Was playing some kind of Scottish explorer in the 1800's, I think. I've never even seen the show myself. I only had maybe five lines. I was only a tiny part of the half-hour show. But somehow... Across the ocean... In a deserted farmhouse in France... My colleague turned on the TV at the exact moment that those few lines were coming through the TV. I'm not sure what the point of my story is. And I didn't tell it in a very funny way. So maybe I was misleading by setting it up with "Funny Story." I'm sure you were hoping it involved me accidentally ingesting some kind of narcotic. So I'm sorry to disappoint. But man, it's just kind of neat.

Check out my letters about hybrid cabs in the Toronto Star and Metro, then write to Howard Moscoe and tell him you want them in Toronto!

Here they are:

http://www.thestar.com/article/217486

http://www.metronews.ca/letter.aspx?id=50368

Why'd I write them? Because this week I was delighted to see that NYC is converting all its taxis to hybrids. The benefits to the air New Yorkers breathe will be huge. And what was the immediate response from Councillor Howard Moscoe, who's in charge of licensing cabs in Toronto? Like a whiny baby, he says things like "stop picking on cabs" and "everyone else should have to drive a hybrid then." What? He's not even making any sense. Apparently, with the federal and provincial tax credits and rebates, a hybrid costs 30 grand now. And taxis would save 15 grand in gas a year. So it pays for itself in only two years. Plus, the city charges something like 300 grand for a taxi license. So all they'd have to do is offer a subsidy to taxis and whammo, they're all enviro-friendly. Is Howard being paid by the mob or something? Nothing else makes sense. Drop him a line and tell him you want Toronto to follow New York's lead. Now.

Howard Moscoe. City Hall 100 Queen Street West, Suite B30 Toronto, ON M5H 2N2 Phone: 416-392-4027 Fax: 416-392-4191 councillor_moscoe@toronto.ca

Why I spent 12 hours in the hospital Thursday (Also titled: Oh, you made pot brownies? How about also making a frickin sign that labels them as such?)

Since many of you are wondering what happened to me, here it is. I was at a party where the food was some chips and some brownies. I hadn't had dinner. I thought of eating dinner on the way to the party, but "Don't eat dinner," my friend Adrienne said. "There will be food at the party." So at the party I ate a lot of chips. And then, though I'm normally not a dessert guy, I ate a brownie. There were two trays of brownies. They were labelled "nuts" and "no nuts." I tried the "nuts" one. Because I love nuts. But nuts weren't enough to save this brownie. It tasted like crap. Almost like it had gone bad or something. But I finished it, 'cause I was hungry. And after the brownie I was still hungry. So I figured I'd try the "no nuts" one. I figured that maybe the "nuts" one had been store-bought, and the "no nuts" was homemade. Because they looked a bit different. But the "no nuts" tasted like crap too. And while I was forcing "no nuts" down, someone, said, hey did you know there's marajuana in those? (I assumed they meant in the "nuts" brownies, because otherwise they would have stopped me from eating the one I was eating.) I was like, WHAT? So I stormed over to the woman who made them. Let's call her "The Baker." While eating my "no nuts" brownie, I yelled at The Baker. "There's marajuana in those brownies? Why didn't you tell me? That's ridiculous! What's going to happen to me?" "Oh, calm down," The Baker responded, as I finished the last bite of my 'no nuts' brownie. "Nothing will happen," she added. And then she said, "And besides, if you're worried, why are you still eating them?" "WHAT???," I shrieked, though I'm sure it was hard to hear me over the Bon Jovi karaoke tune that was blasting. "There are drugs in the 'no nuts' ones too??? Why didn't you tell me???" This was ridiculous. These brownies had been carefully labeled "nuts" and "no nuts." But perhaps it would have been more important to label them "These contain large amounts of marajuana" and "These also contain large amounts of marajuana." I thought I should leave and go to a doctor or something but I was told that this was no big deal and that I should stay and party. I was told that the drugs would kick in after about an hour but nothing would really happen. After an hour, I felt a bit warm, but not too bad. So I went home, because I had a big day coming up at work and an audition at the end of the day for an animated show called "Poop Deck." I walked from the party to McDonald's and had 4 cheeseburgers, a small fries, and an orange juice. I got it "to go" but then I couldn't wait so I sat down and ate everything. Then I waited for a streetcar. A strange old homeless man with a broom was sweeping the sidewalk and swept some puddle water onto me. To be fair, he did say: "Here it comes!" just before sweeping it onto me. He was also on the streetcar with his broom, and got off at my stop. I'm still not quite sure if he was real or not. I wanted to poke him to see, but I didn't think that would be a good idea. But anyway, on the streetcar home, WHAM, the drugs hit me and I didn't know where I was. The streetcar had detoured off King onto Queen, which was abnormal. Combined with the drugs, it meant I couldn't get my bearings at all. I realized I was in trouble and made some calls to the people at the party and to a couple of people not at the party. But nobody was answering their phones. The messages I left were of me whispering "I took some drugs" or "The drugs are affecting me." I didn't want to say it too loudly lest I be kicked off the streetcar or arrested. The messages also all ended with: "I need help." or "Please help me." Somehow I stumbled up the street and got into my apartment (It's technically a "condo" but I'm just renting. So I don't like to say: "My condo" because it sounds misleading). I called my friends again. The only one who answered was my neighbour Maria who said she was sleeping and that I should just drink lots of water. So I went into the bathroom and drank lots of water. I left my front door unlocked in case I lost consciousness and help came. I also put on some some pants and a t-shirt, because I didn't want to be found in my underwear. Then I lay down on my bed for a minute thinking maybe I would be able to sleep but I kept snapping up and not knowing where I was, what day it was, what was going on. And my throat was closing up. Finally I called 911 (at least a couple of times, because I kept not knowing whether I'd really called them or not and I was afraid that I'd die while waiting for an ambulance I hadn't actually called). My cell rang and I was going to buzz whoever it was in, but then the call hung up. I thought that maybe I'd lost my last chance for assistance. But I guess somebody let them in, because a couple of ambulance guys finally came. I told them Maria told me to drink lots of water. They said I shouldn't do that. I was like, "Sh*t." They said it would dilute the tests they were going to do on me. I know that drugs make you paranoid, but I still think they were kind of laughing at me. I asked if they were going to take me to the hospital. They said they couldn't decide that for me. I asked how much it would cost. They said OHIP would pay for the care, but the ambulance would be 50 bucks. I figured my life was worth 50 bucks. It probably isn't, but it seemed to me like it was at the time. So I said to take me to the hospital. I probably said it more like: "TAKE ME TO THE HOSPITAL!!!" So they put me in their stretcher. A couple of cops showed up too, because one of my calls hadn't quite been completed. We all rode down in the elevator together. It was fun. Except for the fact that I was having a complete mental and physical melt-down. And also the ambulance guys were now laughing at me with the cops. My ambulance guys took me to the hospital in what was now MY stretcher. I convulsed in my stretcher for while in the hallway (safely strapped in, like Hannibal Lecter), moaning away and disturbing the other patients. I was told by a nurse, or maybe the ambulance guy, to breathe slower and less loud. A nice lady doctor fast-tracked me into a room because she noticed something weird happening with my heart-rate and saw my situation as pretty dire. I was hooked up to electrodes (which I later learned are hard to pull off from chest hair). They took urine and blood samples. They took some more blood at 8am, because the doctor said she needed an "8 hours after" test. When she asked me if I knew where I was, I said: "Toronto General Hospital." When she asked what day I thought it was, I said: "Thursday, May 17th..." "Good," she replied, making a note. "1883," I continued. "Ha ha, good one," she responded. But I don't think she really thought it was a good one. I thought it was pretty funny, though. (I think I picked that year because earlier this week I watched the old Back to the Future III trailer online, where they go back to the cowboy days. The trailer looks like awful, by the way.) Anyway, they turned off the light above me for a bit so I could "sleep." But it's hard to sleep when you have to pee. And when a PA system beside your head blasts out: "PAGING DOCTOR PETERS, YOU'RE WANTED IN HOSPICE!!!" every 15 seconds. I don't know what hospice is. But I know it's a pretty busy section of the hospital. And I know they're huge fans of Dr. Peters up there. I was finally released around noon. I had to remove my sexy, backless robe and find my way out of the hospital. The door led out to Gerrard. I'm never on Gerrard. Who goes to Gerrard? This, coupled with the lingering effects of the drugs, made for some confusion. I walked around downtown, not sure where the heck I was. Finally I figured out the right direction and made it home. But I have to go back to the cardio clinic in a couple of days because the nice lady doctor saw something on my EKG heart charts that concerned her. There are many ways i could have died last night. I could have walked into traffic... Had a heart attack... Suffocated on my constricting throat. It was the scariest experience in my life. But I'm alive. Still a bit dizzy. But alive. And I'm grateful to have friends and family who are concerned and who care. So thanks for asking.

Oh, and below are a couple of photos for visual reference. The first is the sign that was put beside the brownies AFTER I ate them. For future reference for anyone who throws a party, I think the key with placing warning signs like this is to put them beside the narcotic-laced desserts BEFORE people eat them.

The next photo is the receipt from McDonald's. This has great value and meaning, because it could have been my Final Meal. Which would have been sad. And also not environmentally-friendly. But at least, even in the midst of my complete mental meltdown, I had the presence of mind to keep the receipt. In case I needed to return the fries at some future date or something. (Side Note: Especially attractive is the little bit of caked-on "cheese" from one of the 4 burgers. Not sure how I let that bit get away. I was quite hungry.)

Please buy the 1/2 price CFL's at Cdn Tire this week... and post about it at my myspace!

below is what my ex-gf Jen (www.myspace.com/finnfisher) just posted on the www.myspace.com/joshrachlis blog, in response to my posting about the half-price sale on compact fluorescent bulbs at Canadian Tire that's happening right now from Friday to Saturday Jan 26. so if you know anyone who goes to get them for half-price and makes the switch, could you ask them to post something at www.myspace.com/joshrachlis and/or the blog at that page so that she can see people are doing it? that would be awesome.

here's jenn's posting:

---

Just posting to let you know that - first of all - you are an environmental superhero!

I hope the masses realize the personal sacrifices you make to create a better world for all of us to live in!! I've personally witnessed (and have been seriously delayed enroute to various engagements with you ;)) how you bravely approach all idlers and polluters...you are wholly incapable of passing a single bit of recyclable detritus on the street.

Anyway - for all of that - I salute you. love you. respect you. It's hard work. And all of your efforts are NOT falling on deaf ears...which brings me to my second point...

I'm going to Canadian Tire this weekend...and I encourage everyone else to do the same! No - I demand that you do the same! For Josh. So that he can sleep easier at night.

My challenge to all who read this - It's called "The Josh Challenge." Go buy one pack of Nomas. Buy two. And pass it on. I have a special prize for the person that buys the most. Or, is responsible for having the most light bulbs changed (by telling family and friends, for example). Let's see if we can reach 357 bulb changes by Feb 1st. Why 357? Because they are nice prime numbers and prime numbers are lucky.

Post when you change. No fakers!