Everything's Not Terrible

…doesn’t even begin to describe it…

2007-03-03T19:22:00.000-05:00

It’s been a year and a bit – an eternity on the internet – since I began my foray into the blogosphere. I remember the good times , the adventures and the setbacks. But mostly, I remember the challenge.

Sadly, “Everything’s not terrible” doesn’t even begin to describe my life anymore. Everything’s just the way it should be, just the way I always imagined it would be, but only in my most fantastically optimistic moments. There are those who live in the past, perhaps spinning their tires remembering ‘best years of their life’ in high school, and those who live for the future, when things will be better. I’ve always enjoyed a good balance between the two – because both are important – but these days everything seems to balance perfectly.

The important thing – if I can leave this place with a bit of advice – is to remember to catch the moments between past and future, because in those moments we can find meaningful contentment. And it is in that feeling that we find the content, the substance, of who we all are.

My muse, my inspiration, and my motivation, K, always says that her blog in an exercise in writing. To do so everyday whether you want to or not, she would say, prepares you for those times where you have to write on command and simply improves your craft.

It’s with that in mind that I begin my new blog and bid farewell to this one.

She said yes!

2006-12-19T10:32:00.000-05:00

Sitting on our front stoop, surrounded by flickering candles fighting against the cold, I waited for her to come home, not really sure if she would. Big moments – big decisions, questions, life changing events – tend to plod through my system like molasses would on this cooling December night. I think and ponder, wait and wonder for weeks and months, and create a timeline that works in my head, like a square peg shoved into a round hole.

It started in May of this year, fresh into our new apartment. We sat in the sunroom, I held her hand, and told her I wanted to know about her perfect engagement ring. Not only did she show me, but she whisked me off to Winnipeg to see for myself. She was glowing.

We made the decision to set the date for the wedding long before I was planning to formally ask the question. That is the way our lives seem to work out, in a funny backwards series of split decisions alongside long thought out plans for the future. Go to Europe / Japan for a year? Spend another year in school? Move to a grown-up apartment? Get cats? Sure!

My big ideas and elaborate plans for the perfect engagement based on the perfect conditions that I would create with a deft hand and seasoned planning acumen – neither of which I posses in great capacity – began to seem out of place and chunky. I’m not a show-y Casanova, or a sensitive Don Juan. My quiet nature and guarded emotions would give away the element of surprise in an instant.

I threw the plans to the wind and set out to do the right thing, and tried to imagine what the right thing was. As I walked outside, looking for the right ring, the snow began to fall. K loves Christmas, and I took this light snowfall as the sign that it was Christmas already and again, as we had already celebrated twice. I stopped in the street and looked up into the snow as trench-coated public servants passed around me like a soft dark river. I felt calm and certain, and I found the ring.

In the end, the best moments are the extemporaneous ones, pursued with dogged intent and fought over through emotion and hardship. All of the planning had failed to catch one element; the perfect time was now. It was always now, whenever now was, because it was not about when, or how, or why, or what; it was about who. And the who was her.

So I relit the candles that flicker and go out in the cold wind, fix the ones whose wicks are drowning in wax, and watch the exact spot up the street where the shrubs end and I see her for the first time as the girl I was going to propose to – imminently.

She didn’t see me or the look of hope that I had on my face until she was almost nose to nose with me. I looked into her eyes with honestly and love, kneeled on my toque thrown to the ground in chivalry, and asked her the biggest question I would ask anyone in my life,

“KLDS, will you marry me?”

And she said yes.

On days like this, nothing is terrible.

D.

Moving Around

2006-11-26T23:00:00.000-05:00

For the first time, I’m blogging while looking out a window onto the perfectly uneventful yet scenic street below our apartment. I think, and K of the two blogs will likely concede, that many people have some degree of OCD. I read, or heard, or saw on TV someone explaining how these slight differences in our brains that make up the varying degree of mental health are the same differences that make us unique, give us personalities.

I’ve got some regular signs that, when mixed with my natural laziness make up the essence of D. For example, when I am sitting at a table for a meal, the cutlery has to be exactly lined up, with the fork on the left, and the knife and, if present, spoon on the right. Even when I eat at the ESD, I move my fork to the left of me. Despite this quirk, I’ve spent many years working in restaurants setting tables en mass, and never once have I set cutlery in perfect parallel dimensions while being paid to do so. My desk at work is a mess of papers because I’m a pack rat, but the pens, notebooks, and piles of paper are all perfectly square to their surroundings.

But the point of all of this is to explain why I’m looking out a window. I need to rearrange my static surroundings about three times a year, and I have moved my desk, removed the hutch on top, and placed it facing the window. When I was a kid, I rearranged the four items of furniture in my room every three months. My sister and I even took the unprecedented step of switching rooms once. In my first university dorm, when I had a roommate who was either sleeping (until 2:00pm) or staying out with his friends (until 4:00am), I had the overwhelming urge to rearrange, but I only had half a room to work with, but I did it anyway. I also figured that since he was never around, had no books or computer in the room, and hadn’t taken his clothes completely out of his suitcase, he wouldn’t mind if I took an extra foot or two of area. And now, with the one room in the house that contains my junk, and our jackets – yes, my “office” is a coat room, I devoted my day to the celebration of that quirk. By the way, since May, when we moved in, this is the third configuration of said room.

Now, I have no idea if this will work, but I invite my sparse but no doubt quirk-rich readers to post their favorite personal compulsion. Yay internet!

The Nation of Quebec

2006-11-24T14:40:00.000-05:00

I’m going to talk about something no politician in their right mind would ever dare to, which saddens me. It makes my heart well up for Canada because we live in a time where no political leader has the courage to say anything other than to pander to one side or the other in ways which may forward their immediate agenda without thought to the greater picture. Whether this can be chalked up to the pitfalls of minority politics, or simply an erosion of bravery since the days of Trudeau, I don’t pretend to know.

The problem, as I see it, with the argument that Quebec is unique hinges on the assumption that they are unique when compared with something uniform. As we all know, Canada is anything but coherent, and that incoherence both troubles us and unites us. Essentially then, the argument is that Quebec is unique in a country whose differences bring us together.

Where would we be without Newfoundland and the Maritimes? We wouldn’t have a sense of humour, that’s for sure. And without Alberta, we would all be a lot worse off in economic terms and in cowboy hats per capita. Without Ontario’s banking and administration, we would be less organized. BC’s street and drug culture keeps us mellow. Without the prairies and their agriculture, we would be more dependent on imports. And without the combined beauty of the Rockies, the East and West Coasts, the Great Lakes, the Canadian Shield, and the mysterious Northern region, we would be a little less proud of our country.

This is not to say that La Belle Province is any less important to Canada, but they are not any more important either. Their industry and research sectors are alive and kicking and they have a unique stake in the history of the founding of Canada. They’ve managed to build a great music, art, and movie culture and star system with a relatively small population, which is an amazing feat considering how poor English Canada’s popular culture is faring.

I have many Quebecois friends and even some family, but I have always failed to see what makes them entitled to have their own nation, whether it be a unique nation currently in Canada, or a nation unique to current Canada, or a newly developed chip on the otherwise unified shoulder of the many disparate nations within Canada.

In the end, we’re all Canadians, we’re all equally different, and for the sake of our country, can’t we all just get along…

D.

Mmmm... Coffee

2006-11-22T13:38:00.000-05:00

Coffee and I have always had a bit of a rocky relationship marred by unfortunate observations and bolstered by clear-headed delight. The question remains unsolved in the depths of my poor brain: when I love coffee, is it only because I am being seduced by the addictive components, and conversely, when I disavow any affiliation, is it only because of an unclear, still sleepy brain?

I had a roommate once who would drink three large Timmy’s Triple-Triples before lunch, two bad campus coffees during the day, and a homemade pot before bed. It got to the point that he couldn’t function without it. One morning, he almost slept through a 9:00am exam. I woke him up in the nick of time by busting into his room and shouting at him. He got up like a bolt, took one step, and proceeded to fall forehead first onto his desk because his brain refused to communicate with his legs without first benefiting from a caffeine jolt. He made it to the exam and wrote it without the benefit of coffee, while dealing with a concussion. I think he failed the class. Another friend once calculated the amount they spend of coffee a year, which under a student budget fuelled by loans, parents, and bad part-time jobs, can be a scary realization.

But the good times, they are good. Working in my alpine paradise atop the Alps of Helvetica, the pace of boozing, ‘boarding, and working necessitated a coffee every now and again. Starting the breakfast shift on my own at 6:00am allowed me free reign of the four-star hotel’s kitchen, which I would use to make the ultimate coffee. Take one soup bowl, inject two espresso shots, and fill with frothed milk and two packets of brown sugar. That was enough to erase whatever horrible tequila and croissant hangover I might have had.

With a few weekend exceptions, I have been coffee free for almost about half a year now. I like to detox every so often, after all my body is a temple. But that streak has come to an end. I have a large thermos full of coffee on my desk which will stay hot all day. I think the benefits of this new method of coffee consumption negate any negatives. Firstly, the coffee itself, bought in a fancy coffee roasting house in the ‘Peg, and brewed in a French press, is awesome. Secondly, the eternal warmth of the thermos ensures that I can regulate the intake of caffeine throughout the day, thereby keeping a constant coffee buzz and not have to worry about crashing until the bus ride home.

So I give a big "huzzah!" to coffee as I prepare to take on the waking world with new chemical enthusiasm.

D.

Full Circle

2006-11-19T21:06:00.000-05:00

W: Oh, it’s like that big ball of black anti-matter that’s pushing everything out!

D: You mean like in that book?

J: Oh, that was a great book!

W: You want to know another great book?

And so the evening went. Ever since little baby Boh was more that just a glint in his dad’s eye, W and J, our old ‘stop-by-for-a-few’ friends have become slightly more scarce. Of course, the scarcity is entirely excusable, and expected. And, truth be told, I am amazed at how often they do make appearances. W, the prototype wired Mommy, is just as involved in the work-time email trains as she ever was. And J never hesitates to call on a whim and tell us about the beautiful sunset he’s watching from the grocery store parking lot. The last two parties I’ve been to, both at their pad, and both in the last three weeks, have been a blast.

When I first met W and J, we were on a ski weekend near Temblant. The most vivid memory of J that weekend was the incredible pasta he made for everyone in the chalet. I think he did all the dishes too, and drove a bunch of people up.

W’s first impression came when I was playing bartender. I was taking my time opening and pouring a beer for her –perfectly of course - while she sat and watched. I guess she was a bit thirsty, and proceeded to tell me to “hurry the hell up with that brew”. That was just about the only thing she said to me all weekend. Good times. Yet, I don’t remember either of them skiing very much.

Model parents they have become, and indeed always were. They are also model friends, and have been through a number of very different phases in their lives. And I’m sure they will remain so, after all; the more things change, the more they remain the same.

K: And I’ll bet she even got her dress made for free in Italy.

W: I’m sure she’s really picky about stuff like that.

D: And can afford to be.

W: Like that big body of anti matter pushing everything out…

Whatever it takes

2006-11-07T20:48:00.000-05:00

Jagshemash.

The fall movie season is always a bit bland. Summer blockbusters have came and went (we remember you with fond disappointment, Superman and X3) and the big Christmas hit have yet to come (bring it on, Nativity Story and Rocky - shudder).

But along came a film so unexpectedly good - despite high expectations – and so unbelievably truthful – despite the fact that it is a mockumentray - that K and I could not even fathom the idea of not seeing it. Yes, it was time to revel in the genius of a Cambridge educated Jewish Brit, acting like a Kazakhstani reporter; it was time to see the Borat movie – the most anticipated movie of the fall, or at least the second most because I can’t wait to find out if Russel Crowe really quits his fancy Wall Street job for the physical and emotional fulfillment of running a winery in Southern France.

Of course, the cinema gods used every dirty trick in the book to trip us up on our journey to keep pace with the rigorous pop culture standards. First, in all of their evil geniuserie, they decided to open the film in only two locations, each at least three busses and forty-five minutes away. As tried and true down-town Ottawanians, we fear to venture anywhere that we can’t walk to, a condition exacerbated by the fact that we are sans car. But, as people over the age of twenty-five with clean driving records and major credit cards, we overcame the roadblock by renting one for the occasion. Take that!

Then, a lineup rivaling that of Return of the King on opening day forced us to sit two rows from the Imax sized screen among gaggles of noisy suburban teenie boppers, who were like, so totally excited to, like, see this- it’s supposed to be, like, ten times better than that new Sarah Michelle Gellar movie and she is, like, so cool.

So, there we sat, K and I, two rows from the front and three seats from the right side wall. All of the on-screen shoes looked like VW bugs and everyone’s head was floating like distant hot air balloons. But it really didn’t matter. Seeing a balding ‘humour coach’ getting his tweed sports jacket turned inside out by Borat, who doesn’t even get gist of the ‘NOT!” joke, you understand the cleaver genius of the film, and the you bother to look for it in the grossest of moments no matter where you are in the theater.

There wasn’t a moment that I wasn’t doubled over in my seat in laughter, but there were parts where I had to cover my eyes. It was a bit like watching a horror movie, except instead of peaking through your fingers to see if the masked serial killer was finished hacking up the college co-ed, you were checking to see if Borat was still wearing a poorly assembled banana hammock (I'll keep the photo small).

Anyway, I’ve said too much. Go and see the movie.

Now.

Things not to do on a rainy cold Saturday in late October:

2006-10-28T15:29:00.000-04:00

1. Buy a pumpkin and carry it home on foot

2. Walk on sidewalks near busy puddle filled roads

3. Wear a toque without carrying an umbrella

4. Walk through a grassy park

5. Leave the gym without drying your hair

6. Walk anywhere at all, really

7. Actually, let’s just sum this all up and say: leave the house, especially when it is filled with the smell of pumpkin loaf, impending beef dip sandwiches, and sweet dry warmth

8. Write a decent blog post

Everything you ever wanted to know, in 600 pages or less

2006-10-27T15:56:00.000-04:00

It is one of the most difficult things in the world to pick up a book after staring at computers and newspapers for 8 hours a day. Evenings and weekends are better kept looking at other things, like trees, clouds, overgrown kittens, K, and yes, even TV. Basically, anything that doesn’t require thinking while using your eyes is fair game.

Never one to make my own life easier, I decided that my New Year’s resolution for 2006 would be to read a book a month. I think I’ve read 5 books this year, including the whole 800 pages of “Hitchhiker’s Guide” and, my most recent conquest, “A Short History of Nearly Everything”.

If you want to blow your mind while simultaneously feeling all-powerful and minuscule, this is the book for you. It explains pretty much everything we have come to lean and understand as a species, and how we came to know it. It accounts for every scientific discovery, from Newtonian to quantum physics, and from the largest distant sun to the smallest element of matter.

For example, the book explains that if you attached all of the tightly wound and very thin strands of DNA contained in each of the cells of one average person end to end, it would reach to the moon and back a couple of times, yet we still haven’t managed to explore the majority of life and surface area on our own planet. We know how the universe started (sort of) but we have no idea how humans as a species came to be. Basically, each chapter of the book goes a little like this: “this is what we do know, these people are arguing about this, and this is all the stuff we don’t have a clue about.” Naturally, the “stuff we don’t have a clue about” accounts for well over 50% of the content.

The most captivating and relevant section is about the world we currently live in, obviously the most advanced period for humans though our whole history as a species (from the time we descended from the trees), which only accounts for about 0.001% of the earth’s timeline, or something. To give an example of how quickly we evolved, pre-human sites have been found in Africa at which Cro-Magnons (pre-humans) basically spent a few millennia carrying stones over 10 miles to carve basic triangle shapes which they then left in organized piles over a large open plain – a “stone factory” that lasted for thousands of years, as described by the author. No actual use for the stones has been found, they just seem to have amused themselves by carving them. They also found the same shaped stones in Asia, Northern Europe, and Australia. By contrast, after we discovered how to write, it only took us about 3500 years to get to where we are now.

We’re a damned lucky bunch of meat sacks, by the way. Our climate, a major factor in our ability to advance to level we are at, is overdue for an ice age, and we aren’t even sure how quickly or slowly it will come. We are beating the historic odds in terms of catastrophic meteor events and volcanic activity. Oxygen levels are decreasing slowly, as they have been since the creation of the atmosphere. Past ice ages, it is speculated, have been caused by changes in the salt levels in the ocean. If the ocean is not salty enough, it will start to freeze and bounce back the sun’s rays, affecting water and air currents, and natural greenhouse gas level. Much of Europe and the US are kept warm because of these fragile currents.

I could go on, but you’d be better served by reading the book. And when you do, think about the huge destructive effect that humanity has had on our fragile, unique, small, blue planet. Compare that with the wonders of creation we’ve thought up, like the symphonies of Beethoven, renaissance art, the pyramids, or whatever else you happen to love for its aesthetic quality (Star Wars saga?).

But chew on this, whether we destroy the planet, or nature does it for us, all traces of our existence will be long gone before the conditions are right for life to emerge again, human or otherwise, and if we are remembered at all, it will be as a small blip in history.

Have a nice weekend!

D.

Writing alone for throusands of miles

2006-10-25T15:38:00.000-04:00

I spent an hour on Sunday cleaning out my oft unused fancy fountain pen, given to my by my sis many years ago. Writing has always been a conflicting exercise for me. I have nearly illegible chicken scratch on paper, and I write very quickly. I also prefer to write with non-ball point pens, preferring the fountain pen to anything else, but the last inch to the far right of my paper is always smudged as is my right pinkie. Writing on a computer does no suit me. The letters are all exactly uniform, no matter how frustrated or happy I happen to be.

K gave me a wonderful gift for my birthday. It was a leather bound moleskin notebook, with a clasp and a pen holder and everything. I have a thousand poems lost in notebooks like that, from all over the world. It is by far the best medium for writing given the portability, flexibility, and durability.

My favorite writing moment, the one that I channel whenever I need to find that special spot, was in Switzerland. I was in Zermatt, the town at the foot of the Matterhorn, for a weekend of hiking and tennis tournaments. I climbed to the base camp one afternoon and fell asleep with my back to a boulder in an open field with an amazing panorama of Alps and blue skies. White clouds were streaming off of the evaporating snow that capped the Matterhorn’s summit. I must have been asleep for about thirty minutes, with my hemp tilly hat covering my face and my notebook open to a half written poem about nothing at all, when I was woken up by strange sounds and smells. Surrounding me, and nipping at my hat, were two dozen sheep accompanies by an eighty year old man with a big hooked stick. I carefully stood up and, giving the sheep a wide berth, found the trail back down the mountain.

Good times.

D.

If this blogs a rocking…

2006-10-24T16:31:00.000-04:00

Attention faithful readers,

I am re-invigorating my blog for the new millennium, and it’s about time. I tend to think of myself as an adept user of computer-thingies, but my knowledge of HTML coding is on par with my ability to sew. Sure I wear clothes everyday, but I couldn’t make a sock if you put a gun to my head. I figured that I should learn to edit my own blog before someone decides that it’s a life and death situation – and because I haven’t learned a new “skill” since I finished school.

So I’ll be screwing around with templates and settings until I get the gist of it. So bear with me in case things get ugly, and I’m sure they will for a while.

D.

Music Review: The Tragically Hip "World Container"

2006-10-23T14:58:00.000-04:00

A review in 4 questions

1. First of all, how much of a Hip fan are you?

My first Hip album was Trouble at the Henhouse. I’ve bought every one they made since then, except for Music @ Work – only because I thought the only reason they wrote that song was to sell it to radio stations for their 9 to 5 working sob listeners. Well, this past weekend I downloaded all the missing albums and listened to the whole Hip catalogue in order, and I was wrong about Music @ Work. It’s good as well.

So I’m a big fan, and I am now armed with historical context.

2. What are the standout songs?

The single “In View” is catchy, of course. The Hip have a knack for pop-hooks that never sound cheesy. I mean, if any other band recorded this song, it would be a cheese fest, but they pump it up, and Gord’s voice and lyrics knock it out of the park. “World Container” is, in my humble opinion, the best Hip song ever. It is emotional, complex, easy to listen to, orchestral, and catchy as all hell. I had to listen to it a few times to get into it fully, but once I did, I can’t get enough of it.

“The Kids Don’t Get It” is one of my favourites on the album as well. It is a heavy rocking song, and I love it whenever Gord screams. But basically, every tune on the CD is great. It’s a very consistent album that can be listened to from front to back without wasting one second.

3. What is the best way to describe Gord’s voice on this record?

This occurred to me while I was watching them on The Hour last night. Gord plays his vocal chords like one of those crazy wailing saxophone players. I think it’s the timbre he puts into it. It’s not a clear pitchfork sound, but he does hold his notes perfectly. And he can do so much with it, from harmonies to screams, to spoken word, to low intimate crooning. And the lyrics are as great as ever.

4. So is this the best Hip album ever?

I think it is. I never listen to an album more than a couple of times in one sitting, but it’s been my music at work from 9 to 5 for a week straight.

The many faces of D

2006-10-23T12:34:00.000-04:00

Hey.

Ususally, I shun the silly "made for bloggers" inserts that can be uploaded on the principle that they are silly - although usually highly amusing.

Anyway, here is one that I found on the most recent blog to enter my sphere. I don't think I look anything like any of these people, by the way, but the temptation of curiosity was too much for me.

It is good to know that I could replace two thirds of the male cast of Freinds.

http://www.myheritage.com

The announcement

2006-10-16T16:18:00.000-04:00

The only thing I remember about the first girl I ever kissed was that she had black hair and was a good painter - for a six year old. One morning in my grade one class, I mustered up all of my courage, crept up behind her, tapped her on the shoulder, and planted a wet one right on her cheek. I was subsequently knocked clean off my feet, not by any rush of emotion but by a paint-brush wielding fist.

I’ve applied the lessons learnt from that encounter to great success with the last girl I will ever kiss, K. She had plenty of warning.

In case you live under a rock (i.e.: anywhere outside of Ottawa), K and I are getting married. Usually, big events tend to sink in slowly with me. This is the exception to that rule. I cannot wait for the wedding, both for the event itself, and for the larger context of being a married couple. And, as evinced by K’s recent frantic blogging of the subject, she is a bit excited as well.

I do have to choose my words carefully. K and I are getting married, but we are not yet engaged. The perfect girl who will be joining me in this perfect wedding (stay tuned for details!) must have the perfect engagement as well, which will be hatched in the coming months.

For those of you who are out of the loop, here is a list of blog entries that will get you up to speed on all things wedding related.

K's blog posting
Refried Bride (a dedicated wedding blog)
A Poem from Elsewhere

Until next time!

D.

Felt like sharing

2006-09-25T13:44:00.000-04:00

Once upon a time, when I was a young, idealistic university student, I was part of a loose group of students who enjoyed writing stories, poetry, or whatever. This pre-dated the current blog-boom, when people actually had to meet in dungy dives and watering holes to share their written thoughts. Anyway, one of the exercises we partook in was to write something based on a word chosen from the dictionary at random (similar to McSweeny's "Thirteen Writing Prompts" Contest).

Thanks to Rogers and their unending pursuit of quality in customer care and service, I found myself in an internet-less abyss the other day and came across something I saved on my computer that I thought I would share with you. Our word was:

Prescription

"What’s the first thing that comes to you, how do you feel right now as I show you this..."

As he looked across the desk at the card being held up, only one thing could come to him. Looking past the card being held up by two fingers and thumb, he saw the doctor’s face, cold and unwavering, insistent.

He expects me to think this, he wants me to think this, if I think this, that makes him right.

He looks back at the card then down at his hands folded in his lap. How did those hands land him here in this world of doctors, counsellings, rehabilitation, and prescriptions? Once, he had other kinds of prescriptions to be filled. Psychosomatic, need driven, impulsive. These words drove his life for the past ten years dictating his desires, choosing his actions, landing him here, now, with that card facing him and the doctor waiting for some sort of answer.

The doctor sat patiently waiting for the man to figure out what came to him, what this card meant. The only things the man could think of came from what he had read in various pop-psychology books. A picture, perhaps disturbing to most, will bring about certain documentable reactions in people with certain nervous disorders, and once these reactions are documented, treatment can begin, prescriptions can be written, and institutionalizations can take place. The sooner this man is categorized, the sooner he can begin the process of re-entering normal society. He can buy a house and a car and get a job. He can have normal interpersonal relationships. He will contribute to the economy, vote, and have barbecues during the summer months. The doctor, who did all of these things himself, worked hard to help people become as useful to society as he was.

This man, a drug addict, a thief, and a murderer, was brought to him a week ago. During that week, a cleansing was necessary in order for the institutional drugs to take effect. The man was removed of all street drugs, his system was flushed. He was made pure, and only in the span of a week. The doctor was proud of his staff’s ability to cleanse people so quickly. He could put Betty Ford out of business if the outside world knew of his methods, but the patients he worked with were not voluntarily submitted to his care, they were sentenced to him. People on the outside had no intention of actually becoming pure. If this mad man, this pure body, submitted only a week ago, had been released after that first week, he would not survive. New drugs were administered in order to assure that his new state of purity would take hold.

The man looked up from his hands and faced the doctor again.

He wants me to think this, he thinks again, without knowing what this was.

Something won’t let him. Something inside him was telling him that to think the doctors way, play the doctor’s game, was the wrong thing to do. What was the right thing then? He wanted only to escape back into the streets, run to his water stained apartment, be his own person, but this doctor was somehow keeping him here. To be here was wrong for him. He knew where he was, he was in an institution, a mental hospital, a nut house. He knew that he somehow belonged there, and he felt it fitting that the doctor was there with him, telling him what to think of that card, the picture being held two feet from his face. There was a prescriptions pad waiting on the doctor’s desk with a pen balanced across the top of it, eager to help him, if only he would speak. He could not choose silence, for that had a treatment as well. Outrage was another option, but such violent emotions were not suitable for a productive contributor and voter. Acceptance was symptomatic of a repression and inability to express himself clearly. Either road leads him to the prescription pad.

He thought instead of a note, leading to a chord, coming from a piano being played in an empty hall. The doctor still sat watching him. He played the chord again, resonating it through the space between himself and that lone observer. He played another chord, threw some melodies in on top of it. He played another chord, then returned to the first one, added more melody, and paused. The doctor, now sitting fifty feet away in the large hall, looked at him, at his piano, and simply held up the card again, insistently. The man threw himself back at the piano, giving a loud wail. He peppered the keys as he cried out, trying to forget the card that the doctor was forcing him to look at. The idiot music was equally insistent in its spontaneity as he drove the doctor out of the hall with all his will. He stopped as abruptly as he began and looked out to see the card still facing him, unmoved.

Back in the office, the doctor watched the patient sweat. He was intrigued by this. He lifted a pen out of an old cracked coffee cup turned office supply and wrote on the file: patient resists treatment. The sudden movement brought the man back into the office. The leather chair was becoming sticky as he sat in his clinical white clothes and slippers. He scanned the office with his eyes as if he had just sat down. He looked from the certificates on the wall, framed for posterity and longevity, to the man sitting across from him, to the prescription pad with the pen laying at ease on top, to the outstretched hand holding a card.

"It’s a bird," he said.

"Very good, Mr. Cranston," said the doctor. "Now what is this card?"

"It’s a sunset."

"And this one, Mr. Cranston?"

"A mountain," he replied. They continued on for most of the morning, the man becoming more and more at ease with the exercise.

"What is nine plus eight?"

"Seventeen."

"And, now, who are you?" asked the doctor, leaning forward and placing the cards aside. The man looked up, puzzled. After the mornings exercise, he could only think of one was to answer that, but he knew it was not right. He knew that he was more than one thing, but the tree was a tree, the cloud was a cloud, nine plus eight was seventeen. He looked around for a picture of himself, but he couldn’t find anything. He looked at the picture of the doctor’s family on his desk, searching for familiarity or something to point to, but the children seemed too small, the wife too delicate, and the man in the picture was sitting in front of him, talking to him. He said the only thing he did know:

"My name is Jerry Cranston." As false as that seemed, he continued. "I live at 126 Caprice, unit 4." There was more than this, something deeper and more meaningful, yet he continued. "I was born on March 19th, 1972, in Toronto. I grew up in Toronto. I had my first bike when I was five, smoked my first cigarette when I was seventeen." That was where he stopped. He couldn’t reduce himself to these details, yet he felt good allowing himself the pleasure. The years of resistance faded from his face. The doctor looked at him and smiled a pleased smile. He picked up his pen and wrote a few words on the prescription pad, tore the sheet off, handed it to Jerry, and said; "You can go home now."

Jerry got up and walked out of the office. The orderly had his belongings ready for him. He changed his clothes, got his prescription, and left the hospital as the doctor watched him go, as he watched all his patients, from the barred window of his office.

An Ottawa Vignette

2006-09-23T16:38:00.000-04:00

Sitting on the number 7 bus, heading down Rideau Street after work in a rare state of satisfied near-exhaustion (a reward for nearly doubling the distance of my infrequent treadmill sessions) I people-watch lazily out the window while methodically rating songs on my iPod in a futile attempt to add a further layer of organization to my 3,500 song library. The bus, following the detour caused by the ridiculous Bank Street construction, makes a wide, loopy left-hand turn onto O’Connor. A well dressed man in his mid-thirties, trim with respectfully graying hair and shiny brown leather shoes, moves to cross the street directly in the path of the slow moving bus. The bus driver slams on her brakes, causing the passengers to lift their noses from their Metro’s and trashy novels in the hopes of seeing something that might add some excitement to the end of their day. The driver throws open her window and spits a rapidly flowing stream of angry near-obscenities at the man. He walks calmly over to the window, rests his hand of the edge, leans in and in a quiet Quebec-French English accent, bordering on France-French, he says:

“Hey. Relax, why don't you? Life, she is too short to be worrying about ze small things.”

To which I though ‘Um, yeah. Especially if you are in the habit of walking in front of moving busses.’

On Peru...

2006-09-13T11:13:00.000-04:00

Despite the opinion of our cats who dislike any prolonged absence on or parts, vacations are freaking great and we don’t nearly get to go on them often enough. K and I have just retuned from Peru, my first real vacation since I began the daily nine-to-five over a year ago – although I kicked off that time with graduation gift vacation from K to Amsterdam (best vacation ever – have I mentioned this before…?).

For most, an average vacation might involve sand, sun, pampering, lots of rest and some sort of escapism. In our case, we had all of these things but not quite the same vein as you might expect. The sand we had was picked up in our hiking shoes and firmly deposited between our toes and up our legs where it would remain until we could find a shower. The sun beat down on us from atop steep cliff-side paths at an altitude of 3000m. We were pampered by our two cooks who awoke us every morning at 4:00am with cocoa tea. We had lots of rest as we collapsed smelly and exhausted in our tents as early as nine at night.

But really, none of these things matter because the crux of the vacation is the escapism, and in that, this was the ultimate. We were only gone for ten days, but in that short time, I was able to completely disconnect myself from my everyday life. It’s a bit tough to think about your job when you are sitting atop an ancient Incan city witnessing a sacred ceremony while a huge condor buzzes you overhead. I truly felt like I was away for over a month, although it was only over a week.

Parts of Peru contained some of the most beautiful scenery I’ve ever seen. It also contained great poverty contrasted with great life. I only got a brief taste of the country, not nearly enough to do it justice, but this was definitively one of the best experiences I’ve had to date.

I’d like to formally thank K for pulling this together for us: planning the flights, the tour, the hotels, and thinking of the idea. She also expressed her thoughts on the trip in many more interesting ways including a detailed account of the hike (in four parts), a collection of wonderful photos, and a video montage.

Until next time, happy trails.

The Long Return

2006-09-04T11:32:00.000-04:00

A quick hello from a random internet cafe in Cusco, Peru, while I charge my iPod, bone up on my news (Steve Irwin had a tragic sting ray accident?). Although it only took slightly more than half a day to get down here, it will take us a day and a half to get back, mostly because of long airport layovers in Atlanta and Toronto. Ah well.

Many more details forthcoming. The trip was amazing. We are both tired and looking forward to getting the return trip over with.

See you all soon!

D.

Peru

2006-08-27T15:39:00.000-04:00

Okay, for those out of the loop, K and I embarked on a vacation to Peru yesterday. After an epic flight, we arrived in Lima where we will stay until tomorrow morning. Another early flight tomorrow will take us to Cuzco where we will hike for eight days to Choquiquera.

A few quick words about Lima. I´ve never been south of the equator, let alone South America. It´s a very different place than I thought, and my European travel exprience is of very little use here. It is winter right now, which means that it is grey and 20 degrees, which is perfect hiking weather, as long as the visibility clears up.

More to follow later, pending internet access. Feel free to barter beers for stories upon my return.

D.

20-20

2006-07-20T16:18:00.000-04:00

K, despite her blessed patience and understanding, freaked out at me just less than two months ago. It must be said that this was totally justified and deserved. For the last year, ever since K took me on a fantastic and unexpected graduation trip to Amsterdam (best present ever!!), my only task was to take another vacation with her at some point in the not too distant future. I didn’t even have to take her on vacation, I only had to scrimp and save enough so that I could go, and she would do the same, which seems like a simple enough task given that we are both avid travellers stuck living the horrid nine-to-five grind of the average working sucker.

When I suddenly found myself with a bit of extra cash, I went full barrel into the self-indulgent world of unnecessary surgery and had lasers shot at my eyes instead. K, although supportive during the immediate post-surgery healing phase, quickly pointed out my oversight. Needless to say, I felt like a heel. I prophesied that I would not make the full recovery until I had made amends for being a total and inexcusable tool. It only seemed right, in a symbolic sort of way, which is how I tend to think anyway.

Usually, after having lasers shot at your eyes, your vision slowly improves over the next three to six months. I had my two month check-up just this week, coincidentally the very same day that I asked the powers that be for a week off which would be used for an amazing week of hiking in Peru. Lo and behold, the eye doctor said my vision was 20-20 already, and I got the week off.

As tempting as it is to plan a ticker tape parade down Bank Street and declare a national “off the hook” holiday, it is exactly that kind of thinking that got me into trouble in the first place. Women are tricky, and you have to stay one step ahead of them lest you find yourself making your own dinner and cleaning the kitty litter.

So, onward and upwards we go.

D.

I declare myself a local

2006-07-17T15:52:00.001-04:00

One of my favourite things about living in Ottawa is being able to show visiting family and friends around the city. On those long summer days when, even if you were to walk around buck naked with a 10-person crew using a variety of air-conditioning and fanning units to constantly cool the air around you, it remains stubbornly and unbearably muggy and gross, I still enjoy sharing the city with newcomers.

This weekend, my Dad’s cousin’s son (my second cousin?) was in town with his wife and three boys. Despite the distant relation, our two sides of the family have always been close. To make the family tree even more complicated, he is my god-father as well as my dad’s god-son. While I was “finding myself” in Europe, many moons ago, he put me up in his home and gave me a good job. But that’s a story for another post.

I tend towards the notion that I am “from” Ottawa these days. My only other viable options are to say that I am from Barrie, where I lived for four years and where my parent’s remain, or from the small-ass town of Azilda, where I spend those magical childhood years between 6 and 14. I have now been in Ottawa for seven years, but since that is three more that I spent in Barrie, and far more recent than my Azilda years, it’s as accurate an answer as any.

But Ottawa is a little microcosm of Canada in the sense that the tendency of people who ask you where you are from leans towards wanting to know where else you are from, unless you are born and raised - as if is makes that much of a difference. I’ve been here long enough to blend seamlessly with the fat-cat locals, to giggle in annoyance at the gaggles of tourists, and to impart wisdom on more recently arrived denizens. I think I’ve earned the right to answer the question “Where are you from” with “Why, Ottawa, of course” without having to add any caveats or footnotes.

When I drag family members around our capital, I do so with a sense of pride because I’m not just showing them around Ottawa, I’m helping them get a sense of Canada as well. The numerous sets of provincial and territorial flags lets me yammer on about the regional differences (“uh, those three flags are, um, Manitoba, Saskatchewan, and Alberta – in no particular order. They’re the west.”), the War Museum gives them a sense of how un-militaristic we are (the room with all the old tanks and other equipment looks as though it has enough firepower to take on our current army/navy/air force, mothballs and all!) and the Parliament Buildings allow us to show our pride and our roots.

In true Ottawanian fashion, I am also accumulating a few good local stories for the guests. The locks at the end of the Rideau Canal are a good conversation starter about the Irish who built it, the old City Hall has some good ghost stories, and the stories of various neighbourhoods can be fascinating for anyone interested. I can also quickly locate the best ice-cream, Chinese food, pub, and park in just about any part of the greater downtown area, all while skilfully avoiding the Market and its overpriced, over-touristed silliness.

The only problem is that I am using up all my family members I can introduce to the city.

D.

The Final Frontier

2006-07-14T11:47:00.000-04:00

While I continue the eternal struggle to blog every freaking day, I thought it might be fun to add a new feature. By their very nature, blogs are nerdy. They flout our use of computers and our penchant for other people’s blogs as well as other equally nerdy web sites. Enbiggened by a quote I read in an interview in the Ottawa Xpress with some super-nerdy techno-musician who said something to the effect of “I don’t trust people who aren’t nerds. Nerds are just people who are really into something and if you don’t have the personal fortitude to totally invest yourself in something, then screw you”, I’ve decided to introduce the new Everything’s Not Terrible forum

What the hell is the ENT forum?

Well, it’s like a super-sized “comments” section that is a bit more user friendly than the version that appears at the end of each blog post.

What are you going to do with it?

I hope that it will be used by people who are either bored at work, itching to opine, have the urge to vent, or just want to find out what our little online community thinks.

Let’s say I’m “itching to opine”, how can I do this?

Right now, the forum is completely open. Anyone can start a thread or post replies. I’m going to give this a shot for a while, but if it gets too crazy and spam filled, I’ll have to put some restrictions on. You have free reign, use it wisely!

Why would I go on your forum when I can just post a reply to your blog?

Good question. First of all, I like the forum idea because it’s more conversational than the blog comment section. It also lets people talk about whatever, not just what I happen to blog about on a given day.

Secondly, I will be having regular forum contests and competitions. The first one that will be set up this weekend, so come back and look for it!

What general threads will there be on the ENT forum?

There will be the general “movies”, “books”, and “politics” threads, as well as a very useful “blow off some steam” section, in which you can verbally rant about anything you want in anonymity. Of course, as it is open, you can feel free to add whatever you want, but try to keep things organized. If you want to start a thread for your own blog, please do so with my blessing.

I think you are a big nerd.

Why thank you. I think you are a nerd too. And really, that’s what this is all about. Let’s embrace our nerdiness, celebrate it, and find new and fun ways to share in it together.

D.

Yes, it’s time for me to blog again

2006-06-26T13:49:00.000-04:00

Upon learning that Everything’s Not Terrible had made it onto Today On Oprah’s “...BLOGS THAT I AM GOING TO BOYCOTT UNLESS THEY START POSTING AT LEAST ONCE EVERY FOUR DAYS. IT WILL BE MY VERSION OF BLOG REHAB...” list, it has become clear that I need to post something. So here we go.

A few things that bear mentioning have fallen through the cracks in the last week. First, a brief shout-out to the millionaires of the Edmonton Oilers who earned every penny this spring. It seems Canada will have to wait a few more years until the Canadiens get their act together before we can have a homecoming for the Cup. And no, the Senators will not win it anytime soon. Neither will the Leafs, despite the 40 years of waiting.

Now, another mention of a family member must be made. My glorious and talented sister has recently defended her thesis. She’s an architechture student at the U of Waterloo’s School of Architechture. If asked, I don’t think that I could provide an adequate description of her actual thesis, but it has something to do with the Grand House Student Co-operative housing project, of which she is the founder and head-honcho (as much as anyone can be the head honcho of a co-operative). So, a few revisions from now, she’ll be finished with her program, and she couldn’t be more releived. Just to give an idea of how proud and happy the family clan is of her, my Dad actually closed his business (which is only even closed on Christmas Day) so he and Mom could drive down to witness the defence.

Way to go Sis!

So as you can see, there are lots of potentialy bloggable moments that have passed by. W, I only hope that I will not be present at the first BA meeting.

D. - “Hi, my name is D. and it’s been three weeks since I’ve blogged”

Everyone in unison - “Hi D.”

D. – “It’s not that I’m lazy, its just that I have not had time at work to write the requisite blog every four days”

W (leading the group session) – “It’s okay D. We all understand, don’t we group”

Everyone in unison – “We understand and forgive, D.”

W. – “Now, how can we help D. pay more attention to his blog?”

Everyone in unison – “Support, comment, and link”

W. – “Very good! The key practices here at BA are Support, Comment, and Link.”

D. – “Wow, thanks guys! I’ll be sure to support, comment, and link for you as well! Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go to my internet addiction support group meeting next door, then my nightly online internet poker group MSN session.”

D.

Papa

2006-06-18T11:35:00.000-04:00

K and I sat in the quiet summer night exchanging comments on the perfection of the evening, the colour of the sky, and the radiant new white summer dress she was wearing. It was one of those endless summer evenings, the kind where dusk surprises you suddenly around 10:00. Inevitably, the conversation turned to reminiscing. Usually, this involves travel or drinking stories but this evening we spoke of family. K told me of her grandparent’s place, a white clapboard house with an attic only accessible though a ceiling trap-door in the bathroom.

Attics in grandparents’ houses are always a mystery, especially because they are going the way of the old red tractor. There is a cavernous, cobwebbed charm hiding among the posts, pillars, and uneven floorboards. I had an interesting perspective on this as my two sets of grandparent’s were from completely different worlds. My Opa and Oma, who lived in small-town Nova Scotia (is there any other Nova Scotia?) had a similar old house, complete with a slightly more accessible attic. My grand-papa and grand-maman, however, had a slightly different place. My two sets of grandparents have never met face to face, which is just as well since they wouldn’t be able to communicate very well. Each of their versions of English would be further watered down as they are broken by two different mother tongues.

My dad grew up in a hotel in Switzerland. His father was a chef in the restaurant of the hotel and his family occupied the upstairs apartment. I can only image how chaotic is must have been to live there. The small town’s still-cobbled streets snaked all around the hotel, laundry and flags waving from the iron balconies above rounded wooden doors with wrought handles and knockers. Every hundred meters or so, a fountain filled a stone basin with once drinkable water used long ago for household washing and watering the horses. We would visit the hotel every time we vacationed with family, and while we never actually stayed there, we did eat their wonderful food.

Sometime after the kids moved out, my grandparents built their dream house on the hillside above the small town, a one hour walk up the winding roads through the vineyards that cut neat geometrical spaces in the steep slope. My grandmother used to make that walk everyday until she finally moved to an apartment in town. Every one of my aunts’, uncles’, grandparents’ and cousins’ houses always felt like home, and most of them are memorable, homey, and well lived. This house was all of things as well, complete with an indoor swimming pool and a fantastic view of the green valley and lake below. At the time it was built, there was nothing but sparse farmhouses, vineyards, and cattle, and it remained that way until just recently when the condos came. The house also had a fantastic attic.

Grandparents’ attics are the keepers of all the relics of parents’ youth. I was never able to get a picture of my dad as a kid. As far as I was concerned, he was an adult his whole life. As well as being a supportive, loving, and loyal father, he was a hard person to read. I always looked up to him and respected him in a way that seems rare these days and he would command the respect of my childhood friends just as easily.

I remember the day he came to pick me up after public swimming. His still-strong Swiss-German accent and constant goatee made an intimidating parent. I was the envy of my class because my dad was the most like Arnold Schwarzenegger, at least compared to the beer drinking hockey dads in our small town Ontario home at the time.

He worked hard his whole life and never let the stresses of his job spill into the family circle. My sister and I were always the envy of our schoolmates because we went to visit my family in Switzerland every second or third summer, and went to Nova Scotia every other year. I think it was important for both my parents that we saw as much of the world as we could. Our vacations to Europe were always about family, and we were never tourists, and I thank my dad for giving us that perspective. It allowed us to make these frequent trips (without the added cost of renting cars, booking hotels, etc...) in the comfort of family and friends and it gave us the chance to appreciate these second homes that were offered to us. It also allowed us to take these seemingly extravagant vacations without the financial burden, which allowed my parents to put their hard earned money towards our educations and other important things. While most people think of Switzerland as an expensive, precise, banking country, we always saw it as comfortable and quaint, a view which extended to the rest of Western Europe as well and greatly aided both my mine and my sister’s post-high-school Euro-trekking phase.

Not only was my dad a great influence on my world-view, but he was also the consummate teacher. For many years, he taught college level courses on tourism, hospitality and management and we would often hear the horror stories about his students. As much as he complained, he really did love the work and his patience extended to his handling of us at home. The biggest complaint my grade school teachers ever had about me was my handwriting. My dad made every effort to help me get over this impediment. I would write a whole page, copied word from word from a French textbook, single spaced, every evening before I was allowed to go outside or watch TV. I must have done this for years, and my handwriting is still completely illegible. But dammit, he tried valiantly and patiently.

I never understood the devotion to perfecting my penmanship until I found my dad’s old school work in my grandparent’s attic. He went to a boarding school from a relatively early age, a common thing at the time and place, and I can just picture the nuns whacking away with their rulers until the students had perfect, precise, Swiss handwriting. My dad’s notebooks were all immaculate with no evidence of any pre-whacking sloppiness. His penmanship was clean and neat, but my favourite thing about it was the slight tight angle he used. His writing always looked like a race car to me. He writes like a doctor these days, and it is only after years of practice that I am able to read anything he writes.

Also among the odds and ends in the attic were old crafts and rusted Meccano sets, evidence of my dad’s hobbies as they exist today. Since I always thought of my dad as an adult, I was forced to imagine his adult self playing with these toys which was never very hard to do. He always took an interest in my remote controlled cars or legos. We would spend whole weekends together in the garage building wooden toys. He did it as a serious hobby and always made his trains, cars, and block-puzzles with the care and craftsmanship expected from the Swiss, eventually bringing his wares to craft sales. Every so often, I would get the inspiration to make something out of wood myself, and he always helped with a patient hand and a perfectionist eye. The Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle phase saw him help me make wooden versions of all of those popular ninja weapons, including an awesome sword I still have at my parent’s place. Each project was carefully laid out, planned, measured and finished and we would show mom out days work with pride – his as much as mine.

My greatest attic find was at the most unlikely teenage time. In grade 10, smack in the middle of the grunge years, I found my dad’s old army boots from his mandatory military service. Everyone at school was wearing plaid shirts, army pants, and eight-hole Doc Martins, and an old pair of Swiss military boots were the perfect accessory. At a time when you start to wonder about how well your parent’s really understand you (a period lasting about four or five years), these boots were like an old leather crystal ball.

The boots had been collecting dust in the attic for at least 20 years and were solid blocks of hard leather. I had only one week to work them into wearable shape because they were too heavy to pack in our luggage, and I would have to wear them on the plan home. It turns out that the boots were extra heavy because of the metal plate in the soles, designed to protect the foot from nails and rudimentary land mines, which made going through customs a lot of fun. We went out and bought various leather restoration creams and polishes and I spend every free moment working the leather to its old, lustrous, supple shape.

I was amazed by the idea that my dad had been in the army. I could picture him cleaning these boots with the same devotion he used when he would clean and shine his dress shoes every Sunday. I always envied the way my dad would go about these regular systematic rituals, whether it was saving for trips, working on projects with his son, or the routine household duties he would undertake. He did everything with a quiet confidence and patience and never showed any outward signs of the worldly problems or concerns he might have had.

The boots were worn at school for most of the fall and winter. I would work the leather every few weeks trying to keep them in shape. Despite all my efforts, the boots never got back to their original state, and they were always much too large for me. In the end, I stopped wearing them and they now sit in my parent’s basement, waiting for the next young large footed family member to pick them up, dust them off, and try them on for size. I may even do it myself one of these days to see if have grown into his shoes, after all I’ve had almost ten years of growth since then. But I have a feeling that I’ll never be snug and secure in them, no matter how many wool socks and insoles I use. They are noble boots from a time long gone, built to last and despite their age they are still very wearable and will come in and out of fashion from time to time. I can only hope that I leave such large shoes to fill for my children.

This weekend marks both my dad’s birthday and father’s day. I don’t think it is mentioned enough, but I am very proud to have a father like him as both a role model and a father. I wish him the best of luck in the coming years, which will see both retirement and freedom from his dependents.

With love and warm thoughts, Dad, happy birthday.

Your son, D.

Fire the "Laser"

2006-05-29T11:09:00.000-04:00

- Fade in on six year old D, wide eyed in the optometrist’s chair –

“You mean I get to wear glasses? Cool! Just like a movie star!”

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For some strange reason, my six year old self thought it would be quite a treat to have to wear glasses every moment of my seeing life. I can clearly remember playing with a pair of red plastic sunglasses before I got my real ones. I would pop out the tinted lens, stand on the chest in the living room and look into the mirror wondering who that handsome, intelligent looking, debonair six year-old was.

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- Skip twenty years to the future –

“You mean I can just shell out some cash and be rid of my cumbersome glasses for the better part of my active adult life? Cool! Just like a movie star!”

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And so, in a few hours, I will be sitting underneath a laser with my eyes pried open “A Clockwork Orange” style (without the benefit of slooshying any of that lovely Ludwig Van) waiting for that bright light to turn off so I can curl up into a little ball of light sensitivity and listen to books on tape for the rest of the week.

I am one of those people who abhor anything touching their eyes. When I tried to wear contacts (a failure due to the annoying dryness) I had to visit the eye doctor to take them out until I got the hang of it. But the mere notion that I will not be encumbered by these wire frames anymore is enough for me to quickly get over my silly fear. After all, your eyes are just a body part, like your hand, your nipple, or your teeth. And these people know what they are doing (I hope…).

So, I bid you adieu, blogosphere, until I emerge from my apartment, remove the cocoon of blankets keeping that annoying sunlight out, spread my eyes, and see everything (periphery and all) for the first time in twenty years.

Wish me luck.

D.

The “You’re an Idiot” Guide to Cat Ownership - A short list of things NOT to do with your cat.

2006-05-19T14:09:00.000-04:00

One of the benefits of living in the “Centertown” area of Ottawa is that you get to witness the very strange behaviour from the unique demographic in the area. The housing ranges from huge old houses occupied by new families of public servants, huge old houses transformed into three or four unit apartments for young professionals, huge decrepit old houses transformed into three or four student apartments, and over-crowded row-houses. All these people are attracted to the proximity to three Royal Oaks, dozens of Chinese, Thai, Vietnamese, and Indian restaurants, two high schools, a half dozen elementary schools, dog parks, bus routes, and lots of trees. While living in this little neighbourhood, I’ve been witness to many strange sights. There is the guy who rides his bike all day blowing a whistle, the random domestic screaming matches, people carrying furniture on their heads, and the crack park that lies a block away.

Lately, however, I’ve noticed a disturbing trend. I hope, for the sake of felines everywhere that these are just isolated incidents and that the behaviour will not be disseminated further. I have a message for the perpetrators of this behaviour: “Cats are not dogs, no matter how hard you believe!”

It all started on evening whilst K and I were enjoying our front stoop. We spotted a young lady walking her cat. WALKING HER CAT. Who the hell walks a cat? Moreover, how exactly do you walk a cat? And why? What purpose does walking a cat serve other than to inspire the anger of this blogger. Are you trying to get your cat to exercise more, loose weight, and live longer? Trust me, a cat will sooner die of embarrassment from being harnessed to a four foot rope than it will from being overweight. Unlike dogs, cats aren’t interested in getting their fifteen minutes of daily exercise, and they are even less interested in walking down a sidewalk along side you. If your are adamant that your cat needs the type of exercise and inter-feline social relations that can only be found outside of your apartment, then get it some shots and set it free.

Then, as I was walking to work one morning a few days later, I saw a different cat on a leash tied to a front porch. I now walk past that cat every morning, sitting on the front step on a short leash. What is a cat going to do on a leash? It can’t chase birds or bugs, it can’t hang with other cats and yowl at the moon. It can be the laughing stock of the other neighbourhood cats who stray-cat strut by and tease it from just outside the leash’s range. All the cat can do is the same thing it does inside; look around and lament that it isn’t able to run free.

I am a recent pet owner. We acquired a pair of cats a year ago. They are K’s first pet, and my first since my hamster, Hammy, died when I was ten. Gibson and Kishka are strictly indoor cats mainly because they have no way of getting in and out of our apartment, but they’ve tried. We live with two little Houdinis, always braced and ready to escape. They made it onto our third floor balcony a few times, but we were too afraid that they would jump after a fly and hurt themselves to allow them free reign out there.

As such, they are big sissies and would not survive ten minutes in the real world. But they don’t know that. Kishka likes to growl at the pigeons on the ledge outside our window, but I think the pigeons would get the best of her if it the confrontation ever escalated. If Gibson ever escaped, he would just lounge on the front lawn somewhere.

In the end, I’m no cat expert. If you want to take your cat for a walk, then go ahead. Be my guest. As far as I’m concerned, this is how cats should live:

D.

post script: Thanks to K and her blog for the readily accessible photos of our muffins.

- Blink -

2006-05-18T14:03:00.000-04:00

The one year anniversary of starting my full time job was last April 11th, and just to illustrate how quickly it passed me by, I almost forgot to blog about it! I did enjoy a quiet moment of reflection about the past year, however, but I feel oddly compelled to write a little bit about it as well.

It’s impossible for me to write an “Oh! Woe is me!” post about work for reasons I’ve gone into before. It is also impossible for me to go into all sorts of detail about the insane people who work with me (who I love, all of them – none of whom actually read this!) simply because I need to get away from work when I’m here. Incidentally, I do recognise the subtle humour in writing a “yay for work” post while I am slacking off at work, but what can you do when you are a slave to inspiration!

So, I suppose my only recourse would be to yammer with gentle and fluffy non-specifics and platitudes.

The first lesson that really stuck with me was how differently you are treated and approached when you are wearing a suit. I always had a general goal of one day wearing expensive suits every day to work. I had no idea what kind of job I would want that would fulfil that goal, nor did I realise how ridiculously expensive suits are. My first big boss (not my immediate boss, but the head honcho) always berated me whenever I wouldn’t wear a tie to work, especially if we were in a meeting. And it wasn’t always in the jolly co-worker sense.
Hugo the Boss at weekly meeting – Welcome everyone, D as well. It’s a shame your tie couldn’t make it
Staffers – forced chuckling
Me, under my breath - Freaking Sun King and his deplorable fashion sense. What the hell is a tie anyway? Stupid fashion norms and codes. Damned society.

This is the reaction that bubbled up in me. Unfortunately, the reality is a bit different. Do you remember that commercial with the guy in a hotel room on a business trip where he’s saying “goodnight” to all of those random typical office types that are hanging out? During this period of my employment, which only lasted the first four months or so, I always thought of myself as the kid he says goodnight to…

“Goodnight new guy, uh Jason, Jarred…”
“It-It’s Jason.”

Yeah. That was me. A poor young naïve new employee swimming is a sea of seasoned veterans. Luckily, my immediate boss had my back and turned me from that nervous new guy to the dynamic, multitasked that I’ve become (thanks AL and JL!). But the lesson wasn’t lost on me. To this day, I still wear a tie occasionally, even though I don’t need to. It’s all about dressing for the job you want, and not the job you have.

The second lesson that I learned is that a great boss is essential. It’s not enough just to have a nice boss, but you need one who will be a teacher, a mentor, a friend, a listener, and a stickler. My first boss (not the big boss, but my immediate boss) was a great boss, despite how demanding she could be. I worked my ass off for her, but she taught me a lot in return.

My current boss is a genuinely nice guy, also a great teacher and a little less demanding. This is the perfect second boss to have because I need to fend for myself and keep myself busy most of the time. He put me in control of my “professional development” so my future is in my hands. I’m trying to make the most of it.

So my one year at work has been eventful. I’ve laughed, I’ve cried, but I have yet to hurl. Let’s hope the next 34 are just as entertaining (oh god).

D.

The Black Hole

2006-05-17T11:16:00.000-04:00

As I mentioned a couple of times in recent entries, K and I have found a new set of bricks, drywall, and wiring to call home. Although we only moved four blocks west and half a block north, I like to say that we’ve actually moved up. The new place is bright, clean, and secure, has tonnes of character, a sunroom, tiled bathroom floors, and is apparently situated in a black hole.

I had a roommate once, long ago when I lived in the other end of the city, named the White Lightning. He fought crime at night. Sadly, we’ve lost touch over the years. He used to amuse himself while we would watch TV by quietly whispering from across our living room “nobody loves you…” He was trying to subliminally destroy my self-esteem and self-worth. I think he did it because I was ahead one series of best-of-seven series to none in our ongoing living-room sock-hockey tourney. Anyway, in this black hole that is our new apartment, I am feeling less than loved by the various people who are being paid for various services that K and I expect. Here’s the list:

1 – Rogers
Never in my life have I had to deal with so much incompetence on a telephone. And to make matters worse, said telephone was on payphone because of said incompetence. Rogers was supposed to come and install our cable, phone, and internet on the day after our move. I took that day off work to unpack, rest a bit, and get all the Rogers related business taken care of. On a whim, I decided to stop at a payphone on the morning in question to confirm the appointment, only to find that they had no record of it.
Rogers Tool - We’ll call you when an appointment opens up.
Distraught New Apartment Dweller - But I don’t have a phone.
Rogers Tool - You don’t have a phone?
Distraught New Apartment Dweller - No, BECAUSE YOU HAVEN’T HOOKED IT UP YET!!
Rogers Tool - Oh. Well we need to confirm that someone will be home before we send someone over.
Distraught New Apartment Dweller - How exactly do you set up new phone lines if you have to call to confirm before you set up the phone?
Rogers Tool - I don’t know.
Distraught New Apartment Dweller - Well, I will confirm to you that I will be home between 2:00 and 5:00 today.
Rogers Tool - Oh, we can’t do that.
Distraught New Apartment Dweller - Okay, figure it out and I will call back in an hour.
Rogers Tool - Okay. Have we answered all of your questions today?
Distraught New Apartment Dweller -click-

Three days and four hours on hold at various pay phones around the new neighbourhood later, we had internet and cable, but still no phone. A guy did come to plug the phone into the wall. He went back and forth between his van and the apartment for half an hour, only to disappeared. An hour later, I called from a payphone to find out what was going on, only to go through the same old routine.
“The guy just left?”
“Yes.”
“You should have received a call letting you know that there was a problem with your phone.”
- click –

2 – UPS
K bought us an air conditioner from Costco and arranged to have it shipped to our apartment. After coming to the conclusion that there was no possible way to arrange to have the package delivered to us after 5:00 (is that such a strange request?) we opted to have it sent to a friend who is home on weekdays. After two days without a result, I called again.
UPS Tool – Hmmm…. It says here that there were two attempted deliveries, then an address change, then… nothing.
Distraught Soon-to-be-to-hot-in-our-new-apartment Guy - Nothing?
UPS Tool - Nothing.
Distraught Soon-to-be-to-hot-in-our-new-apartment Guy - Do you think you could tell me why?
UPS Tool – Let me check with my supervisor.
5 minutes later
UPS Tool – We don’t know why.
Distraught Soon-to-be-to-hot-in-our-new-apartment Guy – Okay, can you send it then please?
UPS Tool – Sure! We’ll call you before 11:00 to confirm.

That was two days ago and we still haven’t heard anything. I really wonder about people sometimes.

These recent experiences have also solidified my extreme dislike for automated phone systems. They serve no purpose whatsoever. With Rogers, for example, I spent the first 15 minutes of every phone call inputting my phone number, my postal code, and my shirt measurements (so that when I loose my shirt, they’ll know which employee to give it to) before proceeding the next menu - “Do you want help with Roger’s phone, cable or internet services?” The answer is “all of them!” but since that isn’t an option I would amuse myself by choosing a different option every time. Oddly enough, the cable option will get you the quickest service, but no matter which option you choose, the same person will answer and ask you the same questions again. Turns out that those phone systems are all just there to sell you more stuff, make you wait longer and give you the illusion that the company you are dealing with isn’t run by a group of a Noah’s Ark of crack addicted animals. Seriously, ask anyone who works for Bell or Rogers!

So, with the knowledge that no one from either Rogers or UPS loves me, I continue to wait for our new air conditioner and let the loathing for Rogers – who now controls our cable, TV, and internet – to secretly ferment close beneath my calm and composed exterior.

D.

post-script: It must be mentioned that K came to my rescue with Rogers. She's got fantastic phone skills. We now have all of our services hooked up as well as two weeks of free service.

post-post script: Here's what I imagine every time I am on the phone with someone stupid: Dead Parrot

Super-Charmed Life

2006-05-15T10:59:00.000-04:00

In case there was any doubt whatsoever, I have the best girl in the world. I made this point a while ago while celebrating the first ever International Month of K., but it was reinforced again this weekend.

K is the best because of the effort she puts into everything. Just take this weekend as an example. While I ran off for my old friend Krawn’s Stag and Doe (or Jack and Jill, or Buck and Doe, depending on where you are from) in Ajax, K was busy being perfect. Upon my return, here is a short list of what I found.

1 – Clean floors
K washed the floors. Personally, if my significant other is off partying, I’m sure as hell not going to clean. I even had to specifically tell her NOT to go on a crazy cleaning spree while I was gone. To be fair, I am going to clean our bathroom in the next few days.

2 – Part-ay
Just to make sure that I won’t be the only person hung-over on Sunday, K went to a raging party on Saturday.

3 – Make dinner
As soon as I walked in the door on Sunday, I could smell that K was up to her usual antics. She is currently in her “pre-party planning mode” which consists of finding as many great recipes as possible to serve at our next party. I get to be the guinea pig for all the great food that she makes, a task that I take with utmost seriousness. After eating Tim Horton’s, vending machine food, and other random junk foods all weekend, I came home to mushroom, bacon, and scallop skewers, roast-beef, onion ring, and horseradish-wasabi mayo sandwiches, and lemon-herb corn on the cob followed by fresh-cut fruit salad. Wow.

4 – Decorate
Two weeks into our new apartment, K has already ensured that the place is as comfortable and beautiful as our last place. This weekend, she hung a set of colourful Japanese cloths on just the right wall, at just the right height and spacing.

5 – Look Amazing!
So, not only was K busy with all of these goings on (as well as being “a bit under the weather”), but I was also greeted with a request to look at her beautiful new dress (complete with shoes). So dinner smells great as it is cooking, the place is clean and decorated, and K puts on this gorgeous summer dress. In usual D fashion, I was overwhelmed by all of this and fell flat on the one task that was given to me: tell K in no uncertain terms how amazing she looks. My only recourse is to plan a great romantic evening where I can show her off. Stay tuned.

So there you have it. Oh, what did I do this weekend you ask? Well, I went on a road-trip to Ajax and had too much beer (all in support of Krawn’s upcoming wedding, of course!) and passed out. So I’m a bit tired this Monday morning at work, but K must be exhausted – and who could blame her!

D.

Review Index

2006-05-12T14:17:00.000-04:00

Reviews by D:

Pearl Jam - Pearl Jam

Tool - 10,000 Days

The Tragically Hip - World Container

Music Reviews: Pearl Jam - Pearl Jam & Tool - 10,000 Days

2006-05-10T14:31:00.000-04:00

So I went out and bought some new CDs last week. Yes, you heard that right, I bought music. From the store. With money.

Even though I own an iPod, I really like listening to a non-compressed CD in a dark quiet room with big juicy headphones on. Call me crazy, but you really can tell the difference between and mp3 and a CD track, especially on the sound of the snare drums and cymbals. So when a CD comes out that I know will be good, and I know I will need to give the sound the justice it deserves, I will go out and buy it. It’s kind of like going to see a movie versus renting it (or downloading it, for that matter). There are some movies that you just have to see in the theatre, like Star Wars or King Kong, and there are some CDs that you have to buy to listen to, like Nine Inch Nails or Radiohead. This is not to say that they are lesser CDs, it just means that I can live with myself if I don’t own them.

Now, the two CDs that I bought this week are must-owns. Here’s a short review of each:

Pearl Jam – Pearl Jam
So, the new Pearl Jam CD has been called a “return to form” by a lot of reviewers. It seems that the prevailing opinion on Pearl Jam is that their last few albums were crap. I for one think the crazy experimental Pearl Jam was just as good as the rest. I love Binaural and No Code, I think they have great songs on them and as a whole, the albums stand up well. And they don’t sound that much different than this new one – the only difference is that the new CD is much more accessible and fast paced. I think all of the little pieces that made me enjoy the other albums came together on this one.

If you compare this CD to Ten or Vs, they are completely different. I think these two are their best so far followed closely my Vitalogy (which was great, but had its moments of “meh…”). Where this one stands out that it combines the energy of Vs with the edge they developed over their last few albums, and that edge is what I always characterized with Pearl Jam. Whenever I hear "Alive" or "Even Flow", I think of how great those tunes could have been with a bit more of a fine touch to them. This is what they’ve managed to do with the new CD all while combining the “Anti-Bush” sentiment of Riot Act.

Standouts are “Army Reserve” which has a great groove in its main riff, as well as some good old fashioned Vedder screams and “Comatose”, a “Spin the Black Circle” rocker. As with any great album, there are some great slow tracks as well, like “Come Back” which has a slow-jam feel and “Parachutes” which feels like it could have been on a Pink Martini CD.

Overall, the album is well done and worth buying.

Tool – 10,000 Days

Okay, Tool may not be everyone’s cup of tea, but it certainly is mine! I’m not a big fan of all things heavy and loud, although in my youth, I have been known to listen to a few questionable bands (Limp Bizkit anyone?) but always with an underlying appreciation for what they were doing different. I liked the Bizkit because of Wes, their guitarist who always managed to make a regular rap-metal song different. I had a soft spot for Korn because they were the first to really tune their sound down low and experiment with it. I still enjoy the Deftones because they are more than just a metal band. And Tool has always done things a bit differently as well.

For anyone that hasn’t learned to appreciate this band – a position I completely understand – let me give you a bit of a primer. Tool is like mathematical Led Zeppelin with a good chunk of dark Black Sabbath, psychedelic Pink Floyd, and pure loudness.

Reviewing a Tool CD is hard because it isn’t very accessible, and it is definitely not easy to convince a non-listener that they should listen. As a matter of fact, if you are thinking of becoming a Tool fan, talk to me first. I’ll get you some essential listening and explanations on why what you are listening to is so awesome. It is also tough to review because you cannot listen to the tracks as single songs, true appreciation can only happen if you listen to the whole thing. And you can’t listen to it just once; you have to listen to it, in its entirety at least five times before you begin to get into it. That takes a big time commitment. Thankfully, they make their albums with five years between them, which is just enough time to digest it properly. I’ve always bought their albums shortly after their release and I have never found myself waiting for the next one. In fact, I still listen to the album of ten years ago, Aenima, with as much wonder as I did when I bought it, and I haven’t even begun to figure out their last (and best) album, Lateralus.

As such, I was a bit unprepared for this one, which is a shame because there is a lot more going on with this album than any of their last ones. It is also a lot harder to listen to because there aren’t any solid easy listening singles. Almost every tune feeds into the next one, and thematically they are all tied together. Sitting down with this one on my day off last week for a first listen was almost painful because so much was being pushed into my head at once. Now, after a week of digesting, I think it is one of their best. It definitely has some of the best tracks ever, but one or two weaker ones hurt the flow a bit.

“The Pot” is a great song with some really interesting vocal sounds. “Vicarious”, the first single, is possible the best Tool song ever, and the 17 minutes of “Wings” (a song about Maynard’s recently passed mother – split into two parts) is the most personal and emotional song Tool has ever written.

As usual, the CD is full at 78 minutes, which I love. I always feel better about buying a disk that uses all the space to its fullest. I feel like I am getting my money’s worth. Rather than run through 11 tracks, the band takes their time and develops the songs and the themes to their fullest. It is something that can seem a bit bloated if it isn’t done right, and Tool definitively does get it right by not repeating the same verse-chorus-verse structure, but rather by moving the songs forward with new ideas throughout. I know a lot of people will bristle at this comparison, but I always think of classical music when I listen to Tool simply because they never use a verse-chorus-verse formula in their songs, but rather use themes, time changes, key changes, and new ideas to build a song.

Of course, the drumming is out of this world. If you are a fan of bands that have great drummers, then you are missing out. I’ve never heard any band have such consistently mind-blowing drumming. I have no idea how they do it. The vocals are great as long as you appreciate Maynard’s style. The bass has a very different sound than previous Tool albums. I think it sounds more “prog-rock” than before, but it is featured only when it fits. The guitar work is great, and genius in its simplicity.

So, if you are willing to invest the time to understand the CD while blowing out your ear-drums, pick this up!

D.

Thumb watch 2006

2006-05-09T09:02:00.001-04:00

So, in a past blog I made mention of our freindly and open PM's use of the thumb. It was mostly a reason to talk about J and W who were, at the time, about to welcome a little bundle of joy into their lives. Of course, the bundle is here now, crying and sucking away at his soother, and depriving his mom of sleep.

Anyway, W sent me a picture which will inspire a new segment on my blog. The segment will document the rising use of the "thumbs up" by various celbrities and public figures, as popularized by this very web site. Of course, I am reluctant to take all the credit for the upcoing rash of thumbers, but I think time will show that they can all be traced back to this blog and to J, the original and most prolific thumber there ever was.

So, here is the photo:

It is of the PM again and his head cheque writer, Jim Flaherty after they delivered their first big cookie to the Canadian voters. They're happy because they think they've just won themselves a solid four years. They're also happy because they are under the impression that they are winning the war on control of public opinion. Here is a snippet of a closed door conversation that I imagine they might have had after giving this raucous thumbs up.

PM: Wow! By shutting everyone up, we're doing really well!

PM lackey #1: Right-o, Stevey! As long as we can shut everyone up for the next year or less, we're set!

PM: Righteous!

PM lackey #2: But, doesn't the media play a large part in public opinion? I mean, there are two 24 hour news chanels and dozens of papers in Canada that are getting more and more annoyed that we won't talk to them about anything of substance! And even Rick Mercer is getting pissed. We've had two of his "Rants" directed squarely at us! And just because the press was nice and cozy with us during the last election, doesn't mean that we can just as easily win them over next time around...

PM: You're fired.

So let the good times roll, Canada. And enjoy your tax cuts. Thumbs up.

post-script: Anyone wishing to submit a "thumbs-up" photo is free to do so. You should have my email...

The Grind

2006-05-08T10:25:00.000-04:00

It was about a week ago as I was walking down one of the long grey halls of the non-descript interior of my bland workplace that someone passed me in the hall and said something that I found a bit disturbing.

As anyone who has spent any time with me will tell you, I am a pretty content person. Not only content, but calm as well. It is rare that I fly into a rage about anything, unless I'm driving a rental car - or any car for that matter - as I have been known to yell and curse at other drivers. At work, I am even calmer simply because there isn't anything worth getting into a fuss about. I've worked in the kitchen at Harvey’s in my high school days, and that was a stress filled job. The particular location in which I slung grease was the record holder for sales in a year in Canada. When you can keep track of 30 different burgers on the grill, six different deep fryers, all while keeping up the stocks of buns and packaging for hours on end, while rocking out to Led Zeppelin IV, you will know you can handle any kind of stress. When you work in a shoddy hotel with clients expecting four-star service, and you are one of three waiters on staff, the senior waiter in fact, with three shifts of Pizza-Hut serving credentials to your name, and no one speaks English or French, you will know stress, and how good four straight shots of brown tequila can taste!

Don't get me wrong, office jobs can be stressful. There are tight deadlines, people yelling at you, you yelling at people, people yelling at other people, long hours, and with the blackberry craze there are times when you can never leave. And I must say, in the grand scheme of things, my office job in particular isn’t very stressful.

And no one who has a steady job - especially those of us who are public servants - ever has the right to hate their job. They are paid well and have job security and benefits. What more could you ask for. With only a modicum of motivation, you can find a job that challenges or interests you.

So there I was, walking down the hall, and someone who I don't know all too well walked by and said "What are you so happy about?” Of course, I had no idea that I had one of my goofy smiles on as I was strutting along with my head in the clouds. I was probably thinking about our new apartment (stay tuned!) or the hockey game the night before. I might have been laughing at an old tired joke (Did you hear that the Pope caught the Bird Flu? He got it from one of his Cardinals - Wakka wakka wakka! Thanks B.).

K., by the way, frequently asks me what I am smiling about. While I often have no idea which of the billions of trains in my cranial-subway system generated the smile, I maintain a fairly solid answer:

"You know, there are so many random acts of violence and hatred in the world that I guess I just feel like I need to add a small act of random happiness, for balance."

Of course, I couldn’t articulate this to the person I passed the hall. All I could answer was "Oh, just life in general," which was met with the reply "Must be nice..."

Next time you find yourself in a bit of a "Must be nice..." mood, try this little exercise. I saw a CBC news piece about Laughing Yoga or something. Most of Laughing Yoga consists of getting together which a bunch of people and just laughing for no reason. You just go and belt out some good old laughter. I thought was a bit excessive, I mean why should I pay some stretchy pants wearing Yoga type $10 for an hour of laughing when I can rent The 40 Year Old Virgin for $5 and laugh for two hours? But one nuggets of wisdom that came out of watching the story was this:

1 - Take a pen or a pencil THAT IS CLEAN!
2 - Place lengthwise in your jaw as far back as you can so you look like a dog carrying a bone
3 - Try and pull your lips away from the pen or pencil

This is an artificial way to force a smile. Whether through Pavlovian training or some biological reaction, when we smile, we get happy. Apparently, we don't smile because we are happy, we are happy because we smile. So if you are stressed at work, try it out and inject a little random act of laughter into our world. I dare you not to give a little laugh as you do - you can't help it, it's biological.

Tee-hee.

D.

Thumbs up!

2006-03-26T15:33:00.000-05:00

Pre-script: This post is a little bit dated. I began it shortly after the election, but put in on the shelf because I am a fantastic procrastinator. I thought now would be a good time to resurrect it, for reasons that will become clear very soon.

As you know, unless you are still in denial or in outer-space, we’ve just elected a new Prime Minister, and he’s from Calgary. Here are a bunch of recent (and some really old) pictures of our new PM. Now, despite this impressive collection of mug-shots, I am not a Harper-booster. I just googled him. Really.

Now this is a series of photos of my good friend J. who is also from the West.

Even though I’ve only been once, and don’t remember too much, I love the West. I don’t think I’ve met a bad seed from that wonderful region of Canada. One of the reasons I love people from the West is because they are so damned cheerful and friendly and easy going. The same goes for people in the East – but that is another story. Having lived my whole life in Ontario (in Barrie, Sudbury, and Ottawa), I have become accustomed to our habit of being a bit cold, unconversational, and reserved. I rarely wave at other cars that let me cut in. I’ve never invited someone I’ve recently met over for Thanksgiving dinner. I don’t remember the last time I had a friendly chat with someone waiting in line with me at the video store. Apparently, outside of Ontario, these are regular occurrences. Of course, these do seem like fairly obvious things to do on a regular basis, but they have somehow escaped the collective consciousness of my central-Canadian brethren, and that is to our shame. So to me, and everyone like me, get on the ball.

But I digress.

I’m not one to lump everyone from the West together in a big heap, but it occurred to me that there was a curious similarity between J. and the PM’s pose. I’ll give you a hint – check out their thumbs. They are up! All of them! I’ve never met our new PM, and I’m sure that he doesn’t have his thumb up all the time, but if he’s giving the thumbs-up to people while he is being sworn in, he must be a regular thumber.

J has never had a picture taken of him without his thumb being featured prominently. I think it is an awesome trademark. Thumbers are a rare breed, and should be congratulated. They are like someone who can wear a mullet or converse high-tops, someone who can sing Billy Idol tunes or listen to Winger in their yellow mustang. Someone who has enough confidence to make himself the centre of the picture by flashing that big thumb. Obviously, when applied to our PM, this theory retains less water than Swiss cheese. In fact, the only reason I brought Harper into this is to postulate that there might be some connection to the West and the Thumb. And while that may be, I think more research is needed. Someone should write a paper on it, maybe.

Soon, there will be another thumber in this world. J. and W. are about to be parents, and while they’ve practiced and prepared with three cats and a dog, I’m sure that they are about to go the craziest adventure of their lives. J. is particularly excited, and I am excited for him. In a recent email, me told me that waiting for fatherhood was akin to waiting for Christmas. You know there’s something there, and you kinda know what it is, but you are sure that it will be a fantastic surprise.

Whatever the surprise is, I’m sure it will be worthy of a big thumbs up.

Congratulations, J & W.

D.

Miscommunication in the modern age

2006-03-21T11:03:00.000-05:00

Quote du jour: "If he said the sky was blue and she said the sky was purple, then the sky was purple."

The above quote was stolen from an article about how ex-President Clinton now has to clear everything he does with his wife, who is gearing up for a run at the presidency in ’08. So what’s my angle here? Am I going to rant about whether or not the US is ready for a female prez? Am I going to go off on roles of husband and wife? Am I going to wonder out loud about why the hell the Clintons are still married after he publicly humiliated her (can you say “political sham marriage”, kids)? Alas, no. I’m going to talk about something much more boring. But you might learn something, so read on.

The quote was uttered by one of Hillary’s “handlers” – indicating that she has a small contingent of handlers responsible for making sure that she stays in line. Apparently, there are also “handlers” watching poor Bill on her behalf. This is the norm these days and sadly, I have a feeling that Brittany Spears has more “handlers” than both Bill and Hill combined. By the way, I don’t like the term “handlers”. It sounds like something someone on a ranch might do:

Jack: “Wha’d you do last fall, Ennis?”
Ennis: “Well, pardn’r, I worked for ol’ Jed’s ranch.”
Jack: “Really, Ennis? Wha’d you do at ol’ Jed’s ranch?”
Ennis: “I was a handler.”
Jack: “I reckon that musta been a good time, Ennis. D’you handle for Hillary, or Brittany?”
Ennis: “Neither. I handled for ol’Bessy, until she quit me. Now she’s in a better place.”
Jack: “You mean she…”
Ennis: “Uh-huh. She’s at ol’ man Jared’s farm, he’s got a mechanical milking machine and a whole team of handlers!”
--Cue Hee-Haw banjo music--

Now, I realize that this is just a silly quote meant to show that Hill is the boss, and what she says goes, but it is indicative of a much larger problem that people in the public eye have to face: the sky is not purple. Bill is right. And if Bill is right, why is everyone being told that the sky is indeed purple.

Maybe recent political events in Canada have made me unnecessarily nostalgic for a time when I was nowhere near existing, but I remember when politicians would speak their mind, and people would vote for the person whose mind most resembled theirs. Remember FDR’s fireside chats that helped people get through the depression and the start of WWII? Or Kennedy’s “ask not what your country can do for you…” address? Or even the drunken antics of Sir Johnny A. Mack? Neither do I and that is a problem.

By way of jogging the collective memory of my 2.5 readers, I suggest visiting the cbc.ca archives. Start with this one, but beware, it is six minutes long and it contains more information than two dozen thirty second sound clips.

What I love about it isn’t the content or the politics. I don’t know enough about the man (CBC miniseries aside) to say what a great PM he was, but imagine for one second having three very calm journalists walk up to Mr. Harper – or any recent PM for that matter - without any “handlers” nearby, and have a serious, challenging discussion about something of vital importance to the country, on Rideau Street in broad daylight, and then having that whole six minute exchange broadcast to the country thereby allowing us, as citizens, to make up our minds.

It’s about as hard to imagine as a purple sky.

D.

The IMOK Wrap-up – A long expected posting

2006-03-19T12:59:00.000-05:00

So, everything about IMOK was a success, except for the part about posting all kinds of wonderful updates and stories about K and her astounding greatness as a person and my closest friend, but anyone who knows her understands that. There is one message about K and IMOK that I would like to clarify before I put the issue to rest.

Many have complemented me on being a “good boyfriend” and whatnot. Although I reject any such statements, I felt a bit like Apu when he made every wife in town hate their husband because of his Valentine’s Day antics. Keep in mind that Apu only did that because he screwed-up big time. He was making up for whatever it was that he did wrong (my Simpson’s trivia is a bit rusty…but was that the squishy lady episode?). While I wasn’t attempting to correct any specific wrongdoings by proceeding with IMOK, I wasn’t doing just for personal glory or to make any other boyfriends out there seem substandard.

What may people might not realize is that this silly little month of gifts (mostly just trinkets and scrapbook materials) is nothing when you compare it to the things that K does for me on a regular basis. She is making fudge right now – from scratch. Even if you discount her considerable culinary skills (the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach – not directly though his chest cavity as some women might believe), she is everything you would want in a woman. Hell, she took me on a surprise trip to Amster-freaking-dam!

The point I am trying to make is that despite the apparent thoughtfulness and beauty of IMOK, I still have a lot of catching up before I become as great a partner as she is to me.

And on that note, I say a fond farewell to the month that was (half a month ago…).

D.

Days Three through Eight of IMOK – Tempus Fugit

2006-02-08T20:09:00.000-05:00

For those keeping score, K has gotten eight gifts so far. Even though I’ve already acquired most of the remaining IMOK gifts, the scope of the task is starting to become clear.

But I was thinking yesterday on my way to get gifts number ten and sixteen that K, through no fault or direct purpose, gives me at least one gift idea every day. If I wrote them all down in the wallet-sized spiral pad I’ve taken to carrying in my back pocket, I would be able to start the International Lifetime Celebration of K as early as next year, which would then start a chain reaction that would allow me to constantly get her presents. I would have to hire an assistant and an executive vice-president in charge of wrapping to handle the workload.

But that would be ridiculous. What would I do for Christmas and her birthday and May two-four? How would I reconcile the difference between an occasion and a regular day? Not get her a gift? Yeah, let’s see how that flies! No, the only logical choice here is to keep the month as is for the time being, which is pretty great as far as I’m concerned. I think K is of the same opinion.

D.

Day Two of IMOK – Back on track

2006-02-03T12:34:00.000-05:00

Well, day two of IMOK went off without a hitch. Yesterday’s gift was a replacement for the recently broken French coffee press that has become integral to the morning routine in our apartment.

Coffee is a weird thing. I am not, nor do I ever plan to be, one of those “low fat, soy, double stuffed, whipped half-and-half, non-partisan latte, please” people. Before the French press, I was a “large double-double” person, maybe the odd cappuccino from Starbuck’s, but largely a meat-and-potato coffee drinker. I have had lots of warning of the ill effects of coffee – mostly from my former and presently estranged roommate, The White Lightning, who would drink three EXTRA LARGE TRIPLE TRIPLES a day. If he missed one scheduled coffee time, he would become a nervous wreck. It was funny to watch, and even funnier on the days when he would pull an all-nighter to finish an assignment, and would run out of his room at 8:00am, on no sleep and 10 cups of coffee and attempt to make it class before his body gave up on him.

K, on the other hand, is a relative coffee neophyte. I think she only really started drinking it when she began working for the feds here in Ottawa, which makes perfect sense. Somehow, she managed to survive five years of school, all in dorm rooms, often hung-over, without becoming reliant on coffee. An amazing feat for any student.

I have dealt with my own coffee addictions, and have decided that moderation is the key (as with anything, good or bad). The benefits of coffee (great taste, warmth, alertness, some medical mumbo-jumbo – probably) are too good to pass up. So join K and I in our morning coffee ritual or create your own. Just keep it to fewer than 3 extra large cups a day, and you’ll be fine.

D.

Day One of IMOK - The first setback

2006-02-02T16:34:00.000-05:00

Well, the first day of the International Month of K (IMOK) went off without a hitch, which is to say that I didn't screw anything up. Unfortunately, K's immune system had other ideas. Dancing and bronchitis don't mix, so the first day's present (dancing lessons) has been rescheduled.

Luckily for me, however, my month long plan is very flexible (for the most part! Get better soon, K!) so adaptation was easy. Instead, we went to the Elgin Street Diner for comfort food. The Elgin Street Diner, for those of you who are not from Ottawa, or are hermits, is the best diner is the city. Better than Zack's (too '50s!!), better than Nickels (too Céline!), and so on.

The great thing about K is how gracious she is. I will be the first to admit that I've had my share of missteps in this relationship. Allow me to give you an example:

Our birthdays are one day apart, K being a few hours older (and many years wiser) than myself. The first year that we actually were in the same country to celebrate our birthdays, K said "Let's forget it, we're both students and poor and our presents would just cancel each other out" to which I replied "okay". Of course, the day that we celebrated our days comes, and K gives me a present. I had nothing, as per our previous agreement.
I learned a couple of valuable lessons that day:

1. Always do the opposite of what a girl says.

2. Always give a present, especially if you are in doubt!

I am trying to apply both of those lessons this month. In an ideal world, I would have a closet full of presents ready to give to K every day, but alas, even I can’t think of that many gifts.

So day two is ahead, as well as lots of chicken soup, tea, and Vicks Vapo-rub. It's going to be a great month.

D.

International Month of K

2006-02-01T13:49:00.000-05:00

I officially decree this month to be the International Month of K. This doesn’t mean too much to the average person, but to me, it means a great deal. K and I have been together for six years this Sunday, and each of those years has been filled with a different set of emotions, but always joy and love.

Anyway, six years ago, in my youthful desire to “stick it to the man”, I declared February 10th as the International Day of K, which K thought was cute. I bought her a pair of socks from The Gap that year. Little did I realise that is it impossible to replace Valentine’s Day with some random holiday of my invention, no matter how thoughtful it was because of the trap. The Valentine’s trap goes like this:

Girl: Where’s my Valentine’s Day present?

Guy: What do you mean? I got you something for the International Day of XXX just four days ago. I invented a day just for you.

Girl: So what, I’m not your sweetheart?

Guy: Of course, but Valentine’s is a corporate sham meant to sell roses and cheep boxes of chocolate.

Girl: So what, I’m not worth roses?

…and so on into the vortex of female logic that somehow escapes us guys.

As you can see, it is important to take every chance you get to let your girl know how much you appreciate her putting up with your bodily noises, bad habits, and body odour, and K does a lot of putting up with me. In that spirit, this entire month will be dedicated to her. I will be giving her a present every day (thankfully, it is February!). This blog will also be a hub for updates about the past day’s presents and a forum for me to tell sappy or poignant stories about K and I and our wonderful history.

So stay tuned!

And K, get ready.

iPod Neuroses – A Handy Guide to iPod related Mental Illnesses

2006-01-16T13:21:00.000-05:00

Good morning class,

I am visiting your psychology 101 class today to tell you about iPods and the new and fascinating field of research that they have allowed me to get rich from/educate people about. Although the great iPod boom happened way back in Christmas of 2005, the past five years have yielded a number of interesting new psychoses related, interestingly enough not only to iPods, but to all personal music players, both external and implanted. Of course, the new iPod Microbe has just been released, and in depth studies into its emotional damage are yet to come to light in the greater academic community. That being said, however, the trauma that can come from implanted technology has become very clear, as in the memorable case of Gates vs. the American Federation of Senior Citizens (it seems that illegal downloading of Windows Pacemaker, 2007 beta’s side effects are not attributable to Gates himself, although the decision is still working through the courts).

At any rate, you will find more in depth analysis of the following condition in my book “iPodosis: The iPod and the Mental Landscape”, available now at all three fine independent bookstores left in Ontario.

iPod Envy
Characterised by the strong desire to compare iPods with everyone who is using one within eyesight. Can lead to feelings of inadequacy in those using older generation iPods or iPod Shuffles.

iPod Self Loathing
IPod self-loathing can occurs when the iPod user is overwhelmed with dissatisfaction with all the music on his or her iPod. Non-treated iADD can lead to iPod self-loathing. IPod self-loathing can lead to a user switching to regular radio, where the selection is truly random, or in severe cases, the subject can be heard to sing loud songs of their invention which often sound like The Strokes.

Seasonal Affective iPod Disorder
Occurring mainly around the Christmas Season, seasonal affective iPod disorder usually manifesting itself two months before the season actually begins. The condition is characterized by the subject listening to overly jolly music sometime in late September or October. Subject suffering from severe cases can be seen shopping for Christmas decorations in early October while humming “Santa Clause is Coming to Town”. There have been documented cases of “The Thong Song” being sung in March and “November Rain” being whistled in August.

iADD
IPod Attention Deficit Disorder is often accompanied by frequent switching of songs, often shuffling through over one hundred songs in five minutes. It has had its effects felt throughout the music industry with the rise of short punchy songs (a la Franz Ferdinand) and the fall of classic rock (such as Led Zeppelin).

iPod Anti-Social Tendencies
Many experiments have been carried out with laboratory mice to study this particular disorder. The studies have shown that large groups of mice, each attached to their own iPod device, will have trouble relating and organizing in large groups. When tested in the cheese maze, many of the mice simple walked quickly in one direction until they either hit a wall or ran into another mouse, after which the mice changed direction and walked quickly in a different direction, seemingly at random. No mouse attached to an iPod has ever found the cheese leading to speculation about the relationship between iPods and desire for gratification/pleasure in mice. No conclusive human testing has been approved.

iPavlov
Subjects who are frequent iPod gym goers have been observed to move faster and sweat more when listening to their iPods outside of the gym setting.

iGod complex
The iGod complex had two separate indicators which have not yet been clearly separated since they often appear together. IGod manifests itself in the idea that while listening to an iPod, the subject is invincible and will frequently walk into traffic and bump into much larger people without excuse. The second indicator was discovered by Dr. Isaac McLorken when a test subject suddenly threw his iPod at Dr. McLorken. Upon questioning the subject, it was discovered that iPod users will often associate ideas of immortality with their iPods.

Repressed iPod Anger
Repressed iPod anger is rare and is often found in conjunction with the iGod complex. Subjects with iPod anger can be observed to throw their iPods at perceived enemies. IPod Minis are the most often used in this exercise as their solid metal casing makes them ideal projectiles.

iPod Mothering
Users of iPods who swaddle their devices in two inches of padding and protection, often containing Kevlar coating and asbestos insulation, are victims of iPod Mothering. A strong and irrational desire to protect and preserve their iPod can lead certain victims of iPod mothering to become iShut-ins (a field which has been much looked at by Dr. McLorken)

Of course, with any new disorder, there is a bevy of suitable medication that can be applied in various ways. If you or anyone you know suffers from any or all of the above symptoms, there is a twenty-four hour cure. The subject is isolated in a completely soundproof room for a full twenty four house, after which an appreciation for silence and an understanding of the need for human contact are regained.

Please, if you have any questions, come and see me after the class, or buy my book. It is also available in iBook format for download onto your iPods from my website. Thanks for listening, and good mental health to you all.

Post-script:
I like post-scripts.

I am a proud iPod owner – I have a Mini and I have thrown it at someone – actually a car that was trying to run me over as I was exercising my iGod complex. My Mini has a chip on its shoulder to proove it. So is K. – who has a Nano, which I am iEnvious of!

We’re all crazy in some way or another and these iPod neuroses are just one more way that we can relate to each other, know each other, and bind the fabric of our society with. So go! Get an iPod – or a reasonable facsimile, and join the movement. If we make these conditions the norm, then normal people will be the crazy ones. And who will be laughing then? Probably the ones listening to a random Phil Ochs tune, and not those engaged in “reality”.

Take care.

D.

Why Montreal is Cool OR A Tale I Pulled out of my Ass

2006-01-15T16:43:00.000-05:00

Chapter The First - Pedro's Knocking OR The Socks Will Have To Wait!

So there I was, looking forward to another nice and quiet weekend, when my good friend, Pedro (all names have been cleverly changed to preserve some shred of anonymity), comes crashing onto my desktop with frantic MSN messages about space aliens from beyond the asteroid belt. My sock drawer REALLY needed to be cleaned and organized, however, and I knew that to be a full two days worth of work, so I had to respectfully tell Pedro that saving the world would have to wait. Much to my surprise, however, I was informed that the aliens weren’t here to kill us all, but rather to sell cheep Tupperware. I immediately packed my bags because if I can avoid paying $99.95 for molded plastic, I would willingly brave the unknown. I dropped my socks and ran straight to Pedro’s house.

The first thing we had to do was get ourselves equipped. Although the space aliens from beyond the asteroid belt were purported to be harmless, we figured it was better to be safe than sorry. The first thing we had to do was head for the local army surplus / dollar store.

Now that we were appropriately attired, there was only one last stop to make before we could head off. Our old friend and mentor, Superman, would undoubtedly have a few nuggets of wisdom to pepper us with, having fought aliens on a number of occasions, not to mention the fact that he is himself and alien. Luckily, I had my tape recorder with me, so I was able to record the conversation, which I will transcribe for you verbatim, exaclty as it happened, no word of a lie.

Knock, knock.

Superman: Ah! Pedro, and D.! Please, enter my classy downtown condominium of solitude.

Pedro and D.: Thanks, Superman.

Superman: I’ve told you before, please just call me Man, or The Man, you prefer.

D.: Thanks, Man.

Pedro: Yeah, thanks, man.

Man: Well, I was just reading the paper, about to organize my sock drawer, but what can I do for you?

D.: Oh, Man! Don’t get me started on sock drawers, I’ve been trying to get to mine for months!

Man: Me too. But, you know, life just keeps getting in the way. You’d think with super powers, I would be able to find the time.

Pedro: Why don’t you hire a maid?

Man: Well, I thought about it, but I hate the idea of someone else in my place all the time, and I’d feel weird wearing the spandex all day if someone else were here, and I love to wear the spandex. It takes me back. Besides, Lex is still trying to get at me somehow, although he’s mostly confined to that mason jar. But he's still dangerous! But what can I do for you? Wheel of Fortune is about to start. Love that Vana White. Fine slice of cake, isn't she?

D.: Well, she might have been, but she’s getting on in years.

Man: When you’ve been fighting evil as long as I have, D., you learn to appreciate a mature woman. Besides, my journalist fetish is starting to wear thin. Those dolls ain’t what they used to be.

Pedro: Man, we’re headed off to buy Tupperware from space aliens from beyond the asteroid belt. We’ve got plastic multi-action artillery with real sound, but we need some advice. We figured that since you were so old, you might have some?

Man: Well, Pedro, if there’s one thing I’ve learnt in recent years, it’s that no matter how super you are, eventually, everyone needs a little help.

Luckily, Pedro had brought his paint supplies and painted this picture while we were taking, complete with The Man’s inspirational quote. Now, no one can dispute our story.

Chapter The Second - Beer and Nails OR How I Leant To Stop Worrying and listen to Rock Stars

We had everything we needed at that point, and we were ready to go. Since the space aliens from beyond the asteroid belt were in Montreal, and we were in Ottawa, we decided that the best way to travel the 180km was by rocket. Obviously, it was not the most practical, but we both agreed that it was by far the most appropriate. Luckily, the 20:20 direct to downtown was about to leave.

As soon as we arrived, Pedro remembered that he forgot the space aliens from beyond the asteroid belt’s cell number on his end table. It was Friday night, and they were only in town until Sunday, which seemed to be plenty of time for us to find them, I mean they would stand out, right? It didn’t take us long to realize that people in Montreal are pretty weird at the best of times and that we had our work cut out for us. Our first step had to be to get good and drunk so we could start fresh in the morning, so off we headed to the nearest public house to mingle with the locals.

A couple of ale’s into the evening, Pedro started getting anxious about finding the space aliens from beyond the asteroid belt, and stumbled off to ask some of the patrons if they knew where we might find them. He returned to our table about an hour later with a black eye, three phone numbers, and tickets to the Nine Inch Nails concert. When I asked him who gave him the tickets, he pointed to an empty corner of the bar. He claimed that there was a tall, skinny, big headed dude with a bad moustache and a trench coat who said that the tickets could help us. We immediately ran off the concert to see what we could find out - after finishing the six pints that Pedro also brought back with him.

It became obvious that there was a strong connection between the space aliens from beyond the asteroid belt and Nine Inch Nails. Pedro told me that the incubators that they used were very similar to the stage props and that the lights were part of their complex and ancient mating ritual. At this point, I was glad to be standing, let alone make sense of the world. It all seemed very probable to me.

We decided that we definitely needed to get backstage to talk to Trent Reznor and find out if he knew where the Tupperware party was. Luckily, the guy with the list wasn’t too bright. We told him that our names were Candy and Bubbles and that we were here to see Trent. After checking with the band, we were ushered into the back room to find five sweaty middle aged rock stars looking at us like we had no heads.

“Candy and Bubbles are our nicknames. I love candy, nerds especially, and Pedro loves his bubble bath soap.” I explained.

“My nickname is actually Bunny,” came a surprising reply from Trent. “I bit the head off one because Ozzy told me that decapitating small animals with your mouth was good for your mental clarity. Luckily, I stopped at one. I can’t say the same for poor old Ozzy. Come in, tell me more about candy and bubbles.”

“Actually, Mr. Reznor, we are here about the space aliens from beyond the asteroid belt. Do you know where we can find them?” asked Pedro.

“Me? No. But I do know who can. Go to this address,” he said handing us a small card. “They know all about them and the nefarious evil they bring.”

“Don’t you mean ‘the cheep Tupperware they bring’?” asked Pedro.

“Make no mistake, the Tupperware is a ruse. They true purpose is much worse,” he replied.

On that note, we made our excuses and left. Pedro didn’t know what this business about evil was all about, but I told him to keep his head up and imagine the prospects of keeping celery fresh and crisp for weeks on end.

It was at this point that we realized that we hadn’t remembered to find a place for us to crash for the night. Our only option was to stay awake and wander the streets. The best thing to do, we decided, was to buy a lot of booze at “le dépanneur” and find an appropriate park bench. Since the benches were only made for one, we split up. I have to admit that I don’t remember the rest of the evening, but I woke up in an alley drooling on a very strange homemade sign.

I don’t know who “Gaylord” is, nor do I know why he is the 29th. I still maintain that it is not me since a) it was not my birthday b) my handwriting isn’t as legible and c) I am philosophically opposed to carrying any such sign, whether it be a sandwich board, a foam hand, or spray painted sheet. Pedro ended up sharing his bench but he claims to have no memory of the evening either. One thing’s for sure, however: there’s nothing better than that first cigarette in the morning.

Chapter The Third - Pedro and D VS The Aliens OR In The Morning After The Music

As soon as we had finished breakfast, after walking around for a few hours to get the circulation going, doing a bit of shopping, and taking in a few of the local sights, we resumed our quest to locate the space aliens from beyond the asteroid belt and get cheap Tupperware. The building that we found at the address that Trent Reznor gave us was an old “Masonic Memorial Temple” located at the foot of Mt. Royal. We walked up the door and knocked.

“Who goes there” came a high pitched voice. Pedro and I looked around to see if there was an intercom or something that we might reply to, but there was nothing in the smooth stone of the temple.

“We’re here about the space aliens from beyond the asteroid belt” replied Pedro, uncertain but very loud so that we could be heard through the heavy doors.

“There’s no need to yell!” said another high pitched voice. This time, we could tell that the voice came from above us. We looked up, but only saw a few pigeons.

“I hope we don’t get shat on” I remarked to Pedro. I have a slight fear of being shat on by birds. Actually, I have a slight fear of being shat on by anything. Actually, it’s not so much a fear as it is a strong aversion.

“We’d only do that if you keep talking about us as if we weren’t here” came the high pitched voice again. “What purpose do you have in seeking out the space aliens from beyond the asteroid belt anyway?”

“Well, we want the cheap Tupperware, of course” replied Pedro, still obviously trying to figure out if the birds were actually talking to us, or if I had slipped him some LSD with his coffee.

“Sarcasm will get you nowhere, heroes. Yet your purpose is clear to us. Enter, and your quest to save those innocent lives will begin!” said the bird. The doors opened and we were greeted by the strangest pair of people we had ever met, and keep in mind that we just met some talking pigeons.

“What the crap…” I said to Pedro as quietly as I could.

“I don’t know D. …”

“Just because I have a Ken doll head and my wife is make of wood doesn’t mean we can’t hear, dumbasses!” said the odd looking fiddle player. “And before you ask, the evil space aliens from beyond the asteroid belt did this to us. They aren’t here to sell Tupperware, they are here to turn us into cheap busker acts for their home planet.”

Ken, which was his actual name by a strange cosmic coincidence, proceeded to explain to us all about his years battling the evil space aliens from beyond the asteroid belt, and his final defeat and narrow escape.

“If it wouldn’t have been for that bag of instant popcorn, the three pennies in my pocket, and the solar eclipse, I would be well on my way to beyond the asteroid belt to pretend to play this fiddle while my wife pretended to dance” he explained.

“That’s all very interesting” I said, “but how to we get our Tupperware?”

“There is no Tupperware, but I can help you find the evil space aliens from beyond the asteroid belt’s ship and you can save the rest of their captive before they take off” said Ken.

“Hey, whatever will bring us to the Tupperware” said Pedro. “Where is the ship?”

“To find it, you will need a bird’s eye view” said Ken. “Come outside with me.”

We followed him outside where, with no warning whatsoever, he threw some power at Pedro and turned him into a bird.

“Now go fly around and you will undoubtedly see their ship” explained Ken.

As it turned out, the ship was fairly easy to find, and we had to wonder why the locals hadn’t noticed it already. We headed off immediately after Pedro was returned to normal because we knew that the best Tupperware would go fast.

As we approached the ship, the space aliens from beyond the asteroid belt started to fire lasers at us. We knew that we would have to get closer to the ship to explain that all we wanted was Tupperware, and that they could have all the buskers they needed, but the lasers only intensified as we got closer. We knew that we needed a ruse clever enough to have been thought up for a Star Wars movie –at least twice, with the same character. In order to get close to our goal, we needed to have a decoy prisoner.

We set off in search of a suitable busker in the streets on Montreal. Thankfully, we needn’t have looked far. We found “Franko the Somewhat Interesting yet Mediocre” at the nearest town square. He was a perfect candidate because he was just about the light himself on fire in frustration with the lack on interest in his “art”.

After we told him that there was a captive audience of space aliens from beyond the asteroid belt (we left out the evil stuff, of course) just waiting to bring him back to their cute little planet, he was all for it. We found some handcuffs and chains, and off we went.

As we neared the spaceship, a loud voice came booming over the laser blasts, asking us what the crap we wanted. We told it that we had a peace offering, a very talented and underappreciated busker that they could take in exchange for some cheap Tupperware. The space aliens from beyond the asteroid belt were very willing to acquire this new trophy for their planet and let us through to their ship. The lead us pas a large gallery of buskers, street clowns, mimes, musical groups, and human statues until they showed us into a room full of cheep Tupperware. They gave us our pick of as much Tupperware as we could carry, which we greedily accepted.

To this day, I am thankful to the space aliens from beyond the asteroid belt. I am now able to make as many leftovers as I want and keep all kinds of fruits and veggies safe. There kindness was outstanding, even if they did have a bit a weird street performer collection fetish, but hey, who’s perfect.

Postscript OR Explanatory Note:
All of these events occurred exactly as they were detailed, somewhere, at sometime (said place and time may include, but is not limmited to “in my head” and “on another plane of existence"). This adventure is being posted mainly to showcase the creative and skillful photography of Pedro (some of which I massacred by cropping and bad copy-and-pasting) with whom I spent a really cool weekend in Montreal, seeing Nine Inch Nails and the Leafs – Habs game (which the Habs sadly lost in overtime). None of the other people in the pictures were asked for their permission, and any artwork photographed was done in blatant infringement of a number of copyright laws, I’m sure, but who cares. It’s not like I make any money off this crazy page.
Thanks for a great weekend, PF, DR, and K!

D.

It’s a brand new year.

2006-01-04T12:14:00.000-05:00

Pre-script:
I wrote this entry on the train home after Christmas, around the 28th of December.

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As I sit here pondering the landscape of middle-Ontario, returning from my all-too brief visit with my family for the holiday season, I begin to wonder what will happen in the coming year. Of course, by my very nature, my ponderings begin with introspection. Inspired by the planning that K and I have begun to do on a regular basis, I’ve set aside a detailed plan for the year’s finances and goals. But it occurred to me after I laid everything in that MS Word table that the plan only represents what is bare and basic about the future. What aren’t in the plan are the little things. Much to K’s frustration, I tend towards the little things, the small details of life, the universe, and everything. I’ve always felt that I had better control over those types of details. And so the plan I’ve made seems a bit airy and hollow because I am not used to thinking in those terms. At this point, reader, you are probably thinking that these large things I am talking about are anything but elusive and insubstantial. Rest assured that this is a lesson that I am learning rather quickly.

The large things in life are the ones that I’ve always thought of as out of my control – or, to put that more honestly, they are the things that I’ve always either let other people worry about, or just allowed to happen naturally without too much interference on my part. Luckily enough, the big things that I’ve let go have worked in my favour, so far. I have a fantastic life complete with love, friendship, and stability – and I haven’t had to sacrifice any of my set-in ways. I am still able to sit and play video-games when I feel like it. I can spend an evening watching television if I choose. I can go out and get a good meal, or have one brought to the apartment within half an hour. I have the most understanding and thoughtful girlfriend in the world, not to mention the most beautiful, kind, and intelligent. Hell, even our cats are well behaved and perfect. I’ve got a good job where I get to work with good people and learn good things. I have an education – which in any form is something that we can often take for granted. I have a good roof over my head and many nice things.

So far, most of this has been effortless. Whether this is the result of surrounding myself with good people, or the ingrained effects of a great upbringing (thanks Mom and Dad), I cannot tell. Although I have worked hard when I have had to, I am not naïve enough to think that my hard work alone has earned these things just as I am sure that my luck is not boundless. I am at an interesting junction in life. I’ve just ended the student phase and I am, for the first time, completely in charge of my fate – which is to say that there is no one who will tell me that I have to have this paper finished by Tuesday, or an exam on Friday, or that I will graduate next June, for example. It is a time that I have always thought would be a great and happy time, and my expectations have been met. The one thing that I got dead wrong was that it will be a time of leisure.

During my life as a student, I always looked forward to having “free-time” when I could go out for beers, vegetate, watch television, and generally do what I want. I always found this amid the scarce work I did in my undergrad degree. I always had a summer job (except for that one unfortunate summer), and so I was always kept busy. All along, I was under the impression that once I finished university, I would be able to live my life. As a student who didn’t worry about the little things, I never bothered to spend time learning things that would be needed in the future. I never read “The Wealthy Barber”, I never learnt to do my taxes, I never read to learn anything outside of the classroom. Since I didn’t change any of this, the past eight months have been a study in how not to transition from student (dependent) to adult (independent). The past few weeks, however, have been an eye opening time. A great friend recently made it clear how much need I was in of a reestablishment of my priorities, goals, and wants in life. When faced with questions of the future, it was easy as a student to say “things will be different when I graduate” or “it all depends on what I do when I finish” and in my fashion, I would exacerbate this trap by not thinking of the big things.

Of course, there are no definite life changing dates anymore for me, except for the ones I set myself. No one is going to tell me that I need to do this or that, and if I want to get ahead in life, I had better figure out how to do it myself. I have no one to look to or to blame for the way the next 80-plus years (hooray for modern medicine!) of my life will turn out but me. So not only do I have to figure out how to make my life better, I have to start to give back and make the lives of those around me better as well. The same great friend mentioned above also showed me the value of giving, trying in vain to show this to me for years and years, and leading by example. I think I’ve figured it out. I think I’ve come to understand the greatest big thing there is to think about, and that is that I have a life to live. It is high time that I start to take it into my own hands and live it as best I can, as kindly as I can, as generously as I can, as intelligently as I can, and as quickly as I can. I have precious few short years to get my act together before I again change from being an independent to something far greater.

D.

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Post-script:
Since then, I have not played any video games and I have put in action much of the revelations that came to light during this meditation - I think. Here's to 361 more great days.

'Tis the Season

2005-12-15T15:16:00.000-05:00

So this Christmas thing is turning out to be quite a bit of work. You have to buy presents, wrap them, visit people, write a dozen cards, and be cheery while everyone else scrambles around malls, busses and streets - themselves under the same stresses that you are.

But you know what? On a very important and meaningful level, it is all worth it. And sometimes, the extra effort that you put into the season comes out for the better in the end. Witness:

Case Number One: The Christmas Dinner Party
Every year (for two years now), K throws a wild and crazy Christmas dinner party. Every year, we invite a small group of people over to eat our food as we drink their wine while basking in K's glorious seasonal decorating. People come from out of town just for the event. Together, K and I (and when I say "K and I" I really mean K with me goofing around - mostly) cook, clean, prepare, get gifts, wrap them, and so on. But the feeling
that was in the air as dinner was in it's last throes and the guests were unwrapping the presents was so filling and warm that it hardly seemed fair that we were able to enjoy it for such a small price.

Case Number Two: The Visit to my Parents Place
I have to take a smelly 7 hour bus ride home, and there will undoubtedly be at least three crying kids and mothers with big ornately wrapped presents taking up too much space. But I've only spent one Christmas away from my family and until I have a family of my own, I plan to make this yearly visit happily.

It gets harder and harder to buy presents for the people you talk to once a week, and see three or four times a year, and I always fret over what to get for these people who are closest to me. I think I did alright this year, by the way. There is always something special about waking up on Christmas morning with my wool socks on (which I expect another pair of this year…) and opening my stocking while my sister and parents are all still asleep. Somehow, I still manage to wake up around 5:00am, despite the fact that I am “a grown man” (pppthththththt!!!).

Case Number Three: Random Acts of Charity
I’m not big on charity – not that I oppose it – but last year, I made a trip to the food bank with my sister.
It was a small thing, but it was still something that helped. This year, I am volunteering at a present wrapping booth in the local mall. I will let you know all about the warm and fuzzy feelings this produces, but in case I forget to blog this adventure, let it be said that I had a great time.

So Christmas is a lot of running around and a lot of small chores, but it is also a lot of warmth and caring, and we can all use a little warmth this time of the year. And in the end, like everything else, you only get out of it what you put into it.

Have a merry Christmas.

It's Been A While

2005-12-12T12:12:00.000-05:00

Um, hi. How are things? I’m fine – thanks for asking – but I, uh, well, I feel like I’ve been shirking my responsibilities as a blogger. I have not posted an entry since freaking Halloween! That’s a whole forty-two days, three pay checks, six weekends, five laundry days, twenty-eight 6:45am alarm clocks, ten tie wearing days (much to the chief’s disdain), three Chinese take-out meals delivered to the door, and thirteen days of election time (seems longer somehow, doesn't it!).

So what have I been doing? Have I been re-tooling my blog strategy to find a new and exciting way to reach all three of you? Have I been having marathon brain-storming sessions with myself for your benefit? Nope. It’s just the same old me, so much so in fact that I have no viable explanation other than laziness, and lack of willingness to post a blog just because I felt like it.

But you know what I came to realise? Some of the best posts from the few blogs that I bother to read myself are the ones that come out of nowhere; that are non-topical, non-important, and even non-factual – almost like a blog about nothing, which, as “Seinfeld” pointed out, can often be the most real and honest.

But don’t you worry, because I’ve been stockpiling ideas. I’ve got as much stuff to say as you have patience.

See you again soon.

A short entry about hockey

2005-10-31T19:39:00.000-05:00

My short blog entry about hockey is going to start with a ‘shout-out’ to the random people who have decided to post comments. You guys rule – for the most part. I do have to take issue with you all on one thing. While I agree that “cabs rule”, which is mainly due to their tendency to take you and up to four (five if you get a nice driver) of your drunk friends home, the comments about the Habs are unfounded lies.

LIES!!!

Blogging about hockey is not something I plan to do very often. I only watch about one game a week, if I am lucky. I grew up in a hockey town, but only played on pavement, and I’ve only been to see two games live. But I will allow myself to defend my team’s honour just this once.

From a very young age, Montreal has been my team. I think it was because my very bestest friend at the time (who is still a good friend, although slightly estranged) told me they were the best, and I believed him. These days, thanks to my amazing faculties of logical thinking and whatnot, I am able to tell you that they are the most successful team in NHL history, and the most storied. I am sure that somewhere in the great wide web, there is someone who has compiled it all and I say “hooray for them”.

They have won the Cup twice in my lifetime, and I watched them win the latter of the two live on TV. I actually helped them win. Without my authentic Roy jersey, my Montreal boxers, and my Habs mini-stick, they would never have won all of those overtime games. Never. I really felt slighted when they didn’t invite me to the parade.

The last thing that I will point out about Les glorieux is that they have won a cup every decade. They will be turning 100 in 2009, and they will win their 25th Stanley Cup in that year. In three years, all of their great rookies will be in their prime, and their current stars will be grisly veterans. Think about that for a second. Leaf fans, who haven’t seen a cup since ’67, or the Senators who haven’t been able to bring it home yet (in their new incarnation). The Habs have won a cup almost every four years for one hundred years.

That’s a lot of cups.

Well, that’s about all I have to say about hockey for now. I don’t think I’ve changed any minds, but I hope I’ve pissed off some of those damned cocky Leafs fans. And don’t get me started on Sens fans!

Paul and Me

2005-10-25T21:20:00.000-04:00

The great thing about having a new blog is that you have a stockpile of stories that you can draw from, and you don't always have to talk about what you did today.

So this is Motoki. He's been to most of the corners of the world and met some interesting people.

He's an adventurer.

One evening, about a month and a half ago, Motoki and me decided to visit Paul's house. Paul's this guy who has a big house, talks a lot, works in that big fancy building downtown... you might know him too.

Motoki and me had never been to a place like this. It had free booze and montreal smoked meat from this random restaurant and everything. And some good conversation.

Anyway , Motoki wanted to get a picture with Paul, so I had to stay until the crowds cleared out before we got a chance. But I was glad we did. The beer was good.

So we left, and took a cab home because, shit, we had just been to Paul's house, and damned if we were going to ride the bus!

So that about sums up the evening - besides all the stuff that could get anyone fired.

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On a side note, I'd like to say that I'm very happy with this blog thing. It lets me write to myself, and to others (with no extra effort!). I appreciate the feedback.

D.

The future will blogged.

2005-10-16T19:50:00.000-04:00

Wow. I made it...

I made it into the blogosphere. It’s kinda like I thought it would be, warm, dark, a little dry…

I left about three days ago, on my journey to the world of blogs, but I have had the trip planned for about a month. It began when I tried to think of some sort of concept for this blog-to-be, which of course would start with a name. I was watching either The Simpsons or The Family Guy (sadly, it could also have been American Dad - ugh!) one evening. There was a political rally going on and one of the crowd people had a sign that read "Yay! Everything's not terrible!!!" with a smiley face, and they were cheering and everything. And so I thought to myself; self, that's pretty funny, and it would sound good in big letters on the internet!! I quickly wrote it in notepad on my desktop, and there it sat, collecting screen dust until three days ago when I started to try figure out how to use this thing.

Believe it not, despite my one year of computer science at Carleton U., where the "K" stands for "quality" (I jest, I jest, I love my alma matter) I really don't know a thing about the internet or websites. I've actually never had one of my own, and despite how "neat" this one looks (with the black background - for that special internet mood) I don't think I'll be adding "web site wizard" or "internet connoisseur" to my resume anytime soon.

Nonetheless, here I am. And what am I going to do? Probably just yammer on to those few who are interested. I'd like to dabble in reviewing movies and maybe a book or two – possibly music as well. The world needs more critics!

So that's it for my first ever foray into DIY internet publishing. I hope I've amused someone.

D.