Kurt Browning, My Hero

We've all done things we're not proud of. Things that make us cringe to recall them. Things our wives won't let us forget.

For me, a washing machine and cargo pants were involved. Twice. So were my cell phone and my passport. They should put warning labels on those things.

But Kurt Browning has shown he's in a different league from the rest of us mere mortals.

By now I'm sure you've heard how the former Canadian and world figure skating champion torched his Forest Hill home when he attempted to dry the seats of his Porsche convertible with a leaf blower. You read that right.

You want to laugh; I know you do. So go ahead.

Finished now? But before you consign Kurt to the ranks of this year's finalists for the Darwin Awards, and forever equate his name with klutz instead of lutz, consider for a minute the sheer manly awesomeness of what he attempted. No wimpy hairdryer for Kurt; he used a freakin' leaf blower!

Now, I have a leaf blower, an electric one, and I have to hold the trigger down, or it stops. A safety feature they call it, something dreamed up by women or lawyers, probably women lawyers. Did that stop Kurt? No siree!

And here we enter the realm of speculation, because, understandably, Kurt is reluctant to share the secrets of his seat-drying technique, but I'm betting he had to duct tape that trigger down. Woulda probably worked too, except (and you guys will relate to this) Kurt got distracted by some other things he had to do and left the leaf blower running and when he got back to check on how things were going, well, Porsche and garage were burning nicely.

Of course, and again I'm speculating here, it might have been a gas-powered leaf blower he was using. In which case I'd award him a 9.9 for awesomeness!

So while I suspect his wife is never again going to let him use the toaster unsupervised, and every man he meets for the rest of his life is going to slap his back and ask if his seat is dry, I also know that deep down we guys are going to harbour a sneaking admiration for Kurt Browning.

Because, in that Red Green, Possum Lodge world of the middle-aged male imagination, he is our Icarus.

Keep your picks on the ice, buddy.