People are stupid. Now that probably seems like an obvious statement to you. But you probably also don't think I'm talking about you. I am. Yes, you too, are stupid. And so am I. I don't exclude myself from that statement. The difference is that I know it and try to avoid it.

I used to work in a grocery store. The bakery department to be precise. The retail sector. Customer service. Let me tell you about "serving" customers. On any given day, I can watch a customer walk in through the automatic door, walk straight past two other employees, across the store directly to me. And then have the gall to ask where the _____ is. Now I don't mind helping people, exactly. I wish more people would help others. However, I like to help people who help themselves. With these particular people, I get a little pissed off. They make no effort to search for the item themselves but rather expect me to point it out for them. And by the blank look on their face when I tell them, they expect me to pick it up, pay for it, and deliver it to their house as well. Half the time the item they are looking for is literally right under their nose. All they have to do is look down. But they are too busy to do that. The other half the time the item is no where near me. They ask about a certain kind of meat on sale or where a particular kind of ice cream is. At this point I look around and notice, to my chagrin, that I am surrounded by bread. For some odd reason, I am standing in the bakery section rather than, say, the meat section or the frozen section. I understand that some people would expect me to know where everything is in the store where I work. Admittedly, maybe I should but I don't. Whereas the people who work in the meat department or frozen section know mostly what is in their departments, I for some reason know only about what is in mine.

The fact that people question whether or not I know my own job offends me. I once had a customer come in and ask if I had and French bread left. "No," I said, "but Italian bread is the same thing." At this point she decided it was time to berate me with the differences between the two breads. After she left in a huff, I grumbled to myself, "For Christ's sake, lady. They come out of the same damn box, along with the white bread. Sure, maybe in a real bakery they are different. And I can say from experience that the bread is different in those countries. But at this bakery they are the exact same bread.

And people seem to think I bake everything from scratch. That is just ludicrous. I haven't the time to mix, form, proof and bake forty different products for a town of eight thousand people everyday. That would take too much time.

People ask if the bread is fresh. No, of course not. It's been sitting there for quite some time. I baked it some time last week and have left it sitting open in a paper bag all this time. What the fuck do you think? Of course it's fresh.

There was this one time I decorated a cake for a lady. Our policy is to take the order a day in advance rather than have the people standing there waiting for a half hour or more. So following the instructions of the order, I proceeded to make a Winnie the Pooh cake... with red trim. The red trim looked fine. Nothing spectacular about it, but it wasn't some Liberace fashion fuck-up, either. So her husband comes and picks it up, takes it home without incident. An hour later I receive a telephone call. The lady wants to complain. The picture of the cake she got had yellow trim. "Is that a problem for you," I asked, managing not to sound bitter. "Well, yes. I really hate the colour red. I thought I'd get the cake that was in the picture." I suspected she wanted me to giver her a refund on the cake and let her eat it, too. Instead I told her I do take some artistic liberties when decorating cakes. Unfortunately, she was quite insistent that she wanted the cake in the picture. Whoa, look out! It's the reality train! Those cakes in the pictures are made out of cardboard and plastic. I can't possibly be expected to make an exact duplicate of that with icing and food colouring. They don't make the best mediums. I'm sure her one year old child ("Happy 1st Birthday Olivia" the cake said) really cares what your favourite fucking colour is.

Then there is always that customer that insists we carry a product that we do not carry. One customer, for instance, I'm told by a colleague (though luckily I never had to deal with this particular one) asks for apple turnovers all the time. We do not carry apple turnovers. Sure, a lot of places do. But we don't. And yet, on a regular basis, this guy comes in and says he buys them here all the time. Obviously he doesn't. Firstly, he is always complaining that we never have them which means he can't be buying them here all the time. Secondly, we don't fucking carry the damn things. I don't know why he thinks my coworker is lying to him. Frankly, it's insulting to her. I figure these are mostly old people who pull this stunt. Their lonely lives quest for someone to talk to.

There are people who insist the product they ordered was from this store. Suggesting t them meekly that they may be mistaken can be hazardous to one's health. It is at about that time that they blow up. There is no possible way they could have made a mistake, oh, no. Not that person. And yet, a simple phone call to the only other grocery store in town reveals their stupidity. Yes, indeed, it was the other store in which the placed the order. However, I prefer not to make that call. A mistake is never so well recognized as by the person who made it.

There is always that person that comes in five minutes before we lack the doors at closing time. They come to the bakery and marvel at the fact that there is none left of the particular kind of bread they wanted. Well, surprise, surprise. Perhaps had they shown up, oh, say, ten hours earlier, they might have found an abundance of that particular product. They don't seem to realize that as a department dealing in fresh foods, we try not to have our shelves fully stocked by the end of the day. That would yield a negative profit. It is a business, after all. The customer then proceeds to spend three quarters of an hour filling up a cart with various groceries and making the staff stay an hour later than scheduled just to accommodate their busy schedule.

Some people want me to make things magically appear out of nowhere. One customer asked me if there were any more English muffins left. "No," I said. "That's it. I'm sorry." "Oh, well, I got this one and I wanted another," she said. Then she proceeded to stare at me blankly. I held out my hand. "ABRACADABRA!" and poof! There you go. One more magic package of English muffins for you. But just for you. Jesus, do I look like Harry Houdini? I think not. I'm really more of a John Cusack.

There are people who believe they own reserved parking spots. Directly in front of the store is a lane way with big shiny yellow signs that say "NO PARKING" set against the dark black asphalt of the ground. Now you'd think people would be able to see those big signs. But no. Somehow they manage to park right over top of them without a care in the world. We'll see whose laughing when the store catches fire with them in it and the firemen can't put out the fire because some asshole parked in the fire lane!

There are people who think they can steal inside after the store has closed. The out door is left open so those inside can leave while the in door is locked so no one else can get in. But, oh, those clever few know this and come in through the out door after they realize the in door is closed. Once inside, they are promptly greeted by the manager who proceeds to kick them out the same door they came in. Some people would like to go home to their families rather than wait on your sorry ass to do your shopping which you should have done earlier.

The one that always gets me the most is "Do you work here?" No, sir, I don't. I stole the uniform and wear it just for kicks. Then, as a prank, I come into the store and do some work without getting paid. Hahaha. What a clever prankster I am. Hahaha!

On all the doors are signs written with bright red marker that say "small carts are not to leave the store." It even says it right on the carts. One fine day, a customer walks out of the store pushing a small cart. Going down the ramp, the cart tips over and takes it jockey down with it. The customer threatened to sue, claiming no one had told him not to take the carts outside. When an employee pointed to one of the many signs, the customer claimed that was not there before. You're right, sir. As soon as you fell, someone wrote a bunch of signs and posted them after the fact without you noticing. Whatever you say, sir. The customer is always a moron.

Of course it's not just customers who are stupid. My fellow employees can be pretty stupid at times, too. Particularly the young ones. Some of them can't even count of tell time. I blame the education system. But that's another story. These kids are either dumb of lack any work ethic whatsoever. And I'm no much older than they are. I like to do a good job. Do it right. And finish it. I leave a few simple directions for these kids. I tell them time and again that this or that has to be done. But they can't follow a simple order. My blatantly sarcastic notes are a wash on them. They pay them no more heed than they do the starving children in Ethiopia.

One of them was hired to do the job. He was told he had to work in the deli department from time to time to cover for their breaks. He was against this as he was a vegetarian. Now I have no problem with vegetarians. Nothing wrong with that lifestyle. However, it was part of the job. No one was forcing him to eat the stuff, just to slice it. Yet he insisted he would not do it. "I really don't want to do it," he pleaded. "I really don't want to do it, either, but that's the job." When I say I really don't want to do it, I really mean I hate it and would do almost anything to get out of it. But I still have to. Somehow he managed to get off the hook for it. But he still did a crappy job in the bakery. After being disciplined twice for not doing his work (which he admitted to the store manager), he was fired. And he wanted to contest it. I don't mind doing my job. But I hate doing someone else's. I was sick of coming in in the morning and doing his job before I could do mine. I'm glad the little bastard is gone and I'd bet everything I have that he's not coming back. Especially after admitting to not doing his job.

Another of the twerps had a major operation performed on his chest which required him to take two months off from work. Ok, fine. When he could return to work, he bore a note from his doctor saying that he could return to work but must refrain from any heavy lifting, bending over and anything exerting. Essentially it meant he could return to work but must not actually do any work. So he'd come in and stand around while other people did his work for him and he got paid.

The same kid also decided he wanted a lot of time off, specifically weekends and holidays. So he draws up a list of all the days he wants off between now and the same time next year. That's not very fair to the rest of the people who would like time off. He even asked for Thanksgiving and the week of Christmas off. In the retail sector, those are the busiest times of the year. No one is supposed to have those days off. When I asked for New Year's off, I was laughed at. Even though the other kid got it off. I guess I should have asked for it off back in 1986.

That kid later got fired for stealing cartons of cigarettes.

They had real difficulty in figuring out how to do dishes. Though I wrote a detailed explanation of how to use hot water and soap, to rinse, scrub and set to dry in large bold letters with black and red Sharpies and posted it above the sink, they could not figure it out. They would simply rinse with cold water and then leave the pans to soak in stagnant cold water until they became moldy.

The management had its high points, too. I was the first employee to arrive in the morning. I had to knock on the window and hope the night crew would hear me from the other end of the store. They would come and let me in. There were three doors to the place. The front door, the loading bay doors and the back door for letting in the drivers. After six years, I was finally trusted with a key to the loading bay doors. Yet I still had to rap on the window to be let in. Nor was I given the key to the back door to let the drivers in. So while the trucks could pull up and I could unload the stuff from the trucks, I was unable to let the drivers in to sign for it. It's that kind of thinking - that we could save two dollars by not getting those other keys cut - that makes executives worth every penny of their six figure salaries.

I don't know whether they do it just to annoy me or they genuinely don't have a clue but other people always manage to get in my way. I do the same thing every day. You'd think they would be able to foresee my coming and going as I see them. I make a trip down the hall after moving various items out of my way. I get what I need. As I walk down the hall again on my way back, I have to move the same crap out of my way again. A few minutes later, when I make the trip again, I have to move the crap again. The space is cramped, admittedly, but I still manage to keep things out of other people's way.

During a contract dispute with the store owner, the union threatened a strike. The first two drafts of the new contract were voted down. A third and final draft was made. It was accepted by a majority even though it was worse than the second one. The first two were voted down due to a couple of outspoken types who didn't have a clue what they were talking about. Nonetheless, they managed to rile a majority and convince them that a 7 cent raise now was better than a 5 cent raise now and a 5 cent raise in three months. The third contract was accepted because no one wanted to stand in the cold for twenty hours a week to get their strike pay. After if was accepted, another employee said to me, "I guess we really had [the owner] scared, eh?" "Yep," I responded, full well knowing that it was the union members who had caved rather than the owner who hadn't made any real changes to the contract. He had deleted some good things and replaced them with some not so good things. And this guy thought we got a good deal.

There is a lady who I simply hate to see. She enters the store and from across the building, she yells, "Can my child have a cookie?" Not even so much as a please. She has to be one of the rudest, most self centered people I have ever met. Her child, on the other hand, seems to be quite mild mannered. He is polite and actually looks embarrassed by his mother's actions. He must get it from his father.

And that's just my old job...

Christmas Card to The People I Don't Know

A number of times this season I was asked what I wanted for Christmas. My typical response was, "Nothing." The typical response from the women asking me was a grimace or eye roll. Truth be told, I'm a pretty Spartan person with much need for material possessions as long as I can appreciate the beauty of the things I have. And I do have a fair bit. I have friends, family, a girlfriend and two dogs. What more does one need in the world? I mean, other than food and water, clean air, clothes, heat, a place to sleep... Anyway, I have pretty much everything I need. Now I've already had my Christmas and I'm not going to complain about the things I received (because I got some pretty cool shit), but next year, when you ask me what I want, I'll tell you this:

Whatever money you had budgeted to spend on me, go take it out of the bank in ten and twenty dollar bills. Go downtown among the Christmas lights and holly, the falling snow and the throngs of shoppers. Find the feeling of Christmas, the true meaning of Christmas, the people for whom Christmas is truly important. Find those unluckiest of souls that wander the streets and give them one of the bills. Repeat as necessary until all the bills are gone. All I ask for is the smiles and stories of those people you've helped. Because while I might like a Wii or a surround sound system, I don't need them. But someone else could use a warm bite to eat.

Have yourself a merry little Christmas....

The best tao poem ever written was never written.

Random Writing #1

In my senior year in college we sat around after the party when almost everyone had gone home and listened to nostalgic music that reminded us of the good old days which had never been all that good nor were they that old. But in the haze of too much beer and the acrid smoke that hung unmoving in the air the past seemed so much clearer than the future we were about to embark upon. We had looked forward to freedom, to being on our own, to be able to go anywhere anytime we pleased. We had ideals and goals back then. Save the penguins and chain ourselves to trees. Roadtrips to the Rockies for skiing and Tofino to surf, Nevada for Burning Man. That was the future of the past. Now the future was growing black, choked out by a suffocating student loan. We had a few months left to make the most of it before reality would come crashing down. Those things had required not freedom but money. Money was still required but now it would go to pay the rent and the loan and feed the baby and the dog and all the little useless things that define the status of a graduate. None of our group ever loved what we did. We did it because we were good at it, or someone else thought we were good at it, or it was the least dreadful of the things we could do. Minds were built in those ivy league classrooms and dreams were smashed. What we liked to do was sit around getting high and imaging all the things we could have done but never got around to doing.

You know, so much of my writing is music oriented. Much of it is either inspired by a song I’m listening to or is meant to have its own little soundtrack going in the background. I wish there was some way I could attach the music to my words through this miracle of electrical engineering we call the internet. I’m sure there is probably some way to link in a song but though I grew up with the rise of computers, I never learned how to write html. Better yet, have John Williams write the score. But I suspect he’s a little busy. And too expensive.

Censorship

I was getting some work done today, grooving to my iPod plugged into some computer speakers when the song “Damn, It Feels Good to be a Gangster” came on. One of the lines goes “All you cocksucking, pussy eater gangsters.” The boss noted how some people might find that music offensive, strongly hinting that I ought to turn it off. Now, my first thought was that I find country music offensive and they pump that through the speaker system for the customers to hear. My music was only detectable to the three people in the kitchen. While I don’t usually go in for hip-hop, that particular song is actually fairly intelligent. It has a point to make.

The next song to come on my iPod was “Cocaine” by the Grateful Dead. A classic song that still gets radio play. While I don’t recall any particularly bad words in the song, it is a song about doing cocaine. In fact, I realized, a lot of classic rock songs are about doing drugs. A lot of country music is about cheating wives and alcoholism. The reality is that popular music is generally about bad behaviour.

It’s not my responsibility to censor myself for the moral millions. Censorship is not a part of this country. The reason why is that something will offend someone. Any one thing will offend somebody. If we censored everything that one person finds offensive, that will be the end of society. Offensiveness – or at least heated discussion - is the basis of expanding social concepts. Without close mindedness, we would have no progressive artists and everything would be a bland mash of Kenny G mixed with a little Kenny G. What would life be like without a little spice? Not worth living. I want some jerk chicken in my life.

Tim Hortons Starves the Homeless

From the Toronto Star, November 29^th, 2008

Toronto - CP

A few years ago, coffee and donut giant Tim Hortons would donate its day old food to homeless shelters in a goodwill mission to help feed the country's poor. Not anymore. Today, an estimated 14,450 tonnes of baked goods will be carted off to landfills across the country, according to Toronto based think tank, Gurney and Lovitz.

"Tim Hortons used to bake their products twice a day and donate any leftover products to local charities such as the Salvation Army or local missions," says Pete Browning, a marketing relations expert for Gurney and Lovitz. "But in 2003 they switched to a method of 'Always Fresh' baking, ostensibly to provide their customers with the freshest product available. Food is now baked continuously around the clock as it is needed. Donuts have a shelf life of eight hours. After that they get tossed."

The switch to 'Always Fresh' baking has decreased the amount of excess of food waste by about ten percent and has saved the company an estimated $10 million dollars a year. But at the same time, the decision was made to halt the flow of day old goods to charities around the country.

An insider at TDL Group in Oakland, Ontario – the corporation holding the Tim Hortons brand – stated that "the decision was wholly about saving money. Some scrupulous bakers may have been inclined to bake more product than was absolutely necessary in order to contribute to the cause of feeding the homeless. Tim Hortons is a business. We are here to make money, not feed people."

"It's sad, really," claims one Tim Hortons employee, a baker who wishes to remain anonymous. "Baking used to be an art. Not it's just assembly line work. It's like industrial cooking with an E-Z bake oven. Donuts come in frozen and we put them in the oven for two minutes and that's all there is to it."

When confronted with the insider's information, the baker responded that "that's ridiculous. I'm here to do a job. But it was a nice thing back then when we donated. It helped the community. Now it's such a waste."

Tim Roald, a spokesman for Greenpeace Canada, applauds the action of TDL Group for its commitment to decreasing its carbon footprint. However, he says, "morally, it's repugnant. Instead of feeding the homeless, they are just dumping it in landfills. While [food] may decompose fairly quickly, they need to work on decreasing their food containers and garbage bags which take much, much longer to decompose."

TDL Group refused to comment.

The insider claims that the company will continue to seek means of saving money while "duping" its customers. "People have brand loyalty. They will stick with us no matter what," he said. Is this cruller smaller than they used to be?

 

The proceeding story is entirely fictional. Any resemblances to actual people are purely coincidental. Sounds like it could have been true, though, doesn't it?

Stuck in the Nut

I hear the most inane things on the bus.

Behind me were two stoner rock star wannabees. “I think it’s time to take our band to the next level,” said one. Truer words were never spoken. My immediate thought was, “Yeah, like maybe write a song.” They ranted against their apparent bandmate, Gord because he was “old.” It seems Gord wanted to perhaps make some progress as a band and wasn’t content to sit on his ass covering the hits of the 60’s and 70’s anymore. Kind of odd considering this kid was going on about how they should do something.

They ranted about how Jimmy Bowskill only had skill and no talent. Jimmy is something of a local celebrity, having recorded blues albums in Nashville while still being in high school. While not being a big fan, I can say the boy has a pretty good song getting airplay in town. These kids behind me didn’t. Which of them had skill, I wonder. What the difference between talent and skill is when it comes to playing guitar, I’m not sure. “He went and he learned the tricks to how to play that style of music, that’s all. He doesn’t have any talent.” I’m no musical prodigy but I’ve learned a thing or two about writing – not that I’m a literature prodigy either. Any accomplished writer worth his salt will tell you to read as many books as you possibly can and absorb not just the story but the manner in which they are written. In short, learn the tricks of the genre and imitate them. If you happen to rip off another writer... well, that’s the way the world works. We’ve all done it and there is no shame. What these boys seemed to be saying was that they had no skill or talent.

“It’s more than just skill and talent. You need ambition. You need drive.” These kids couldn’t drive a car. After all, they were taking the bus. Ambition they might have had. But I think what he meant was that you need business savvy. You need connections. You need to be out there making it happen instead of ranting about how others make it. Yeah. That’s what he meant. If only he knew what he meant.

They went on to complain that Jimmy had the nerve to name his band simply Jimmy Bowskill. Now I kind of agree on that point. It’s a little arrogant to name your band with your own name. But it is the status quo. Can you name Brittany Spears’ drummer? Jimi Hendrix’ bassist or Sam Roberts’ keyboardist? Not likely. And that’s because, for all intents and purposes, those names are the stars. They are the talent. Band members are generally as interchangeable as lightbulbs, electric and bright as they may be.

“We should try to be something different. Maybe a cross between, like, Boston and Rush. Rush and Boston. Yeah. Moving on.

One complained of playing a certain song and always getting stuck in the nut. I don’t know what the hell that means. A quick Google reveals that no one else does either. In fact, the search revealed more of a sexual perversion of men who seem to like to stick their penises into metal nuts and then get erections which seems to result in hospital visits.

“I’m sure we’ll have an album out in a year. Maybe two. No, a year. Until then, I think we should just chill out and find our groove, you know?” I’ll be looking forward to it. I can’t find my Frisbee.

Random Thought of the Day

Society is not made up of people. It is made up of ideas. People are made up of people. And they have their own ideas.

Late Night Confessions

I find myself once again in the job market. Though still currently employed, it's time to upsize. This time around I'm a university graduate. And it's harder to find a job. Go figure. I always knew that an English degree wasn't good for much. When people ask what I can do with that, I joke that I can stand in the unemployment line. I could be a teacher but I don't much like kids. A handful I can handle. Thirty of them is pushing it. Though I would like to get into editing, I haven't really got the skill nor the inclination to do it. I'm lazy. I'm sleepy headed. Reading someone else's tripe all day would annoy me. I haven't got the imagination any more to be a writer. Not fiction at least. Story arc was never my strong point. My confession to myself is that I'm not as good as I think I am. I'll never win the Giller or a Pulitzer. Right now I'd be content with winning a job that pays my student loan. But the bastards all want experience. Even the intern job I looked at required two years experience and a published portfolio. If I had that, I wouldn't need the internship. Joseph Heller, you inspire me and Richard Hooker.

The truth is that there are far more qualified people out there.

And yet...

I have bachelor's degree in English Literature. I can read and write English, French and German. I can understand Shakespeare, Chaucer and Beowulf (but not Henry Miller, that pretentious fart) and I can dissect the works of Hemingway, TC Boyle, Robert Jordan and Tolkien. I have backpacked Europe - twice - and written a novel about my adventures there. I have seen some of the greatest art the world has ever produced. I can pick up nearly any trade in a few days. I've seduced a woman (no easy task for a mug like me). I look damn good in a suit. I can wax poetic on snow falling on cedars or the feeling of an empty heart (oddly enough, a full heart is much harder to wax). I have a vocabulary exceeding that of your average joe and an IQ bordering on MENSA qualification. I can read, write, tell time on an analog clock, still know what an analog clock is, and tell right from left and front from back like so many of my colleagues these days. At twenty-eight I've already worked more than half of my life - close to two-thirds of it - and much of that while you were still sleeping off Friday night's hangover. And here I am, putting pink smiles on cookies for a living.

Whoa, I'm Fresh!

You know why Tim Hortons' slogan is (or was at some point) "Always Fresh at Tim Hortons?" It's partly because they're plugging their own company and not some other place. But mostly it is because it sounds a hell of a lot better than "Recently Thawed at Tim Hortons," which is closer to the truth.

People are always amazed when I tell them that I bake with an E-Z bake oven. Really, it's a glorified microwave. A really, really expensive microwave. Frozen food goes in. Two minutes later finished product comes out. And that's all there is to it, folks. I may be breaking the non-disclosure clause of my employment contract by telling you that but it's hardly a secret anymore. And it's not like I'm selling schematics for a nuclear oven to the Russians. I'm a rebel, not an industrial spy.

I used to work underneath a sign that said "Baked Fresh Daily" and often thought how incredibly oxymoronic that was. Or perhaps it is only redundant. Certainly it's true enough. Bread is baked fresh daily. But then you can't bake stale bread.

Political Ponderings

Congratulations to Mr Barack Obama on his recent win for the presidency of the United States. I must say that I am greatly surprised by America's sudden sudden progressiveness on this issue. At the same time, I think Mr Obama's race was made far too much of an issue. I didn't pay much attention to the race but I caught little wind about the candidates stance on issues like the war, education and economy. What I heard about was an already corrupted MILF who likes to hunt and a black man. I'm sure Americans made the right choice but I wonder if they made it for the right reasons. He is a smart man and I think he will do well. But the fact that he is black shouldn't have even come up as far as I'm concerned.

While that election was taking place, Tabi and I were having a cosy little dinner at a local restaurant. She had a feeling that Obama was a prime candidate for a Lincoln. That is to say, to go the way of Lincoln, JFK,Garfield and that other one (McKinley). And why not? I thought. Let's face it: a lot of people aren't going to be happy with him just because he is him, let alone for his policies. There have been at least 20 attempts on the lives of US presidents over the years. Amazingly, only two on Bush junior, saved once - ironically - because of bushes in the way.

Yet for all my hope of Obama's success, it is tainted with fear. Fear that he can't undo all that has been done. Fear of the reality that it may be too late. Nothing will really change as long as people are concerned with their own prosperity or simply feeding their own children. Not that I blame the latter. But voter apathy is incredibly high. The system isn't working like it is supposed to. You say you want a revolution but you are too apathetic to take to the streets. I watched V for Vendetta last night. Though the movie lacked any real sense of... reality I suppose - it was only a movie - it was poignant in the end to see the people take up against the fascist oppressors of futuristic England. One wonders if it really has to get that bad before we can't take it any more.

A few Canadians have remarked how bad it is that Canadians are more interested in American politics than our own, as though American politics were more important. I would argue that it is merely more exciting. This past election for America really was history making. The first time the choice has been between a black man and a woman in a country that is systematically racist and sexist. Compared to our own election of a few weeks prior, does anyone really wonder what the fascination was? We were faced with pretty much the same choice we were a few years ago and made the same choice again, for better or for worse. I'll show you a few googled pictures to help answer why America's campaigns are more exciting than Canada's. (None of the pictures belong to me. Standard legal stuff).

First America's:

And now Canada's:

Conclusion: Wide angle shots.

In other news, I'd like to know why Blogger adds in lines where I didn't put them and removes them were I do. And ideas?

A Little Glimpse

I'm sick of assholes.

I'm not generally regarded as a nice person. But I'm not an asshole. I'm quiet and introverted. But I never yell at anybody and I'm usually willing to help out even complete strangers if I can. I'm polite. I keep to myself and don't bother anyone.

It was a pleasant night. A thin film of clouds covered a star lighted sky. I could see my breath curl up through my glasses in the cold air. I minded my own business, looking non-threatening in jeans, a white shirt and a pea coat. I sipped my coffee and enjoyed the scene of a bustling night life and the way the street lights reflect off of store windows. When of a sudden, a large fat prick jerked in face shouting "Don't spill you're coffee!," darted out of the way and continued on with his two friends laughing, all the while. I wasn't laughing. In fact, had I not been such a nice person, I would have thrown my coffee in his face. Instead, I carried on my way though I suddenly felt my heart beating rapidly in my ears. At first it was only the shock of an unexpected attack. But then it grew and festered in my heart like a fire stirred in the coals.

If you've ever wondered why I'm a sociophobe, there's your answer. I'm fucking sick of assholes like that roaming the streets. Now you probably say it was nothing. And it was. Really, it was. I know that. But this is certainly not an isolated incident. I've been egged. I've had drinks thrown at me. I've seen a group of girls get hit by a wayward bowl of chili. I've heard people get shot with paintballs. I've been called gay by passing motorists. More than a few times. Tabi can't walk down the street without getting honked at. I've been splashed. I've been offered drugs. I've had a pair of scissors shaken at me. Is this what passes for decent behaviour these days? I can honestly say all of these incidents were entirely unprovoked and were perpetrated by people who were complete strangers to me.

And I'm tired of it. So very tired of it. Civilization is crumbling around me. Recently a friend's status on Facebook said "E___ is playing civilization but aren't we all?" At the time I thought how true those words were. She meant of course the computer game. But how we are all a part of the real life version of Civilization. Now I'm thinking how much truer her words are. The reality is that most of the population really is just playing it. They aren't civilized at all. Civilization no longer exist if it ever did.

What happened to the golden rule? Methinks maybe we need to go back to the days when the rule was used to beat people. I don't know if it's the town or the times. But back when I was younger I walked to work so early in the morning that I saw perhaps four other people on my twenty minute walk down the main street. Two of those people were driving. The other two were joggers who more often than not offered polite "good morning"s on their huffy-puffy way by. Those people had manners. These people here or today do not.

Am I a dying breed? Do we not instill thought processes into our children anymore? Do we not teach them how to behave toward our fellow man? Either things need to start changing or I'm going to lock myself up in my room. Not that you'd care if the one person who will be nice to you goes missing. But the people who are going to be assholes to you won't.

My Right to Complain

Avid voters like to tell non-voters that they have no right to complain about the government since they didn't vote. I see that in the complete opposite light. Those who vote have no right to complain about the government they voted for because they voted for that government. As a non-voter I have every right to complain about a failing system that I did not imagine, design, instigate or control. The reality is that my vote doesn't matter. Extremely few elections have ever been won by one vote. "If everyone said that, the system would collapse." That's true enough. But not everyone says that. After all, the system is built on suckers and maintained by it. But no candidate let alone party has ever accurately depicted my view of what Canada should be. While a candidate or party might keep up the health-care system, their economic policy my flat line. It really is a matter or choosing the lesser of two evils.

There are those who say it is my duty as a Canadian citizen to vote and honour those who fought for our freedoms. With no disrespect to our fighting men past and present, no Canadian soldier has ever fought for the freedoms I enjoy let alone to install the current (or past) government. Let's have a comprehensive run down of wars that Canada has had notable involvement in.

The War of 1812 - This was really a spat between Britain and the US over trading lanes in the Atlantic. Canada did not technically exist as a country at the time. It's soldiers were comprised of militia and British regulars. The war had nothing to do with Canada. It's not a stretch to think America was simply doing France a favour by distracting British officials while they were already at war with the French. Consider it payback for France helping America in the War of Independence. How soon we forget.

The Boer War - Fighting naked Africans armed with hide bucklers and pointy sticks in the deserts and jungles of South Africa hardly counts as fighting for our freedoms.

The Great War - Though Canadian soldiers acted valiantly and effectively (as they have in all wars), no foreign army rolled onto Canadian soil. There was no threat of invasion. Germany didn't even want to be in the war. They were forced on account of treaties made to back up allied countries who declared war. The only reason Canada showed up to fight was it's status as a Dominion of Great Britain. It was forced to show up, too.

World War II - A horrific war and an ugly scar on the history of humanity, this is - in my opinion - the only just war Canada involved itself in, though few would admit to knowing why at the time. Still, at no time was Canada invaded nor is it thought that Germany or Japan had any real intention of invading. It was not for our freedoms that Canadian soldiers fought. It was for the freedoms of others.

The Korean War - Though I know admittedly little about Canada's role in this war, it seems to me another McCarthy type of witch hunt to stop Communism dead in its tracks. Though communist expansion - or at least socialism and the spread of unions - might have been a threat to Canada, Korea wasn't.

The Gulf War (and its subsequent incarnations) - Um... must I? Oil. Enough said.

"You have to think long term," they might say. You can't think long term when you're a country. That's a pipe dream. The global stage is so unstable that it's like trying to perform Romeo and Juliet on a teeter totter. An effective plan for the long term future is a slave to the whims of both the actions of other nations and the reactions of individuals to events.

The reality is that Canada became a nation in a non-violent manner by the debate and logic of rational weaponless people seated at a table in a fancy and rich room. No blood was shed. These people acted on the best of intentions with the best available philosophy of politics at the time. Even today's voters are likely to admit such ideas are probably outdated. No wars were fought to give us independence and technically we are not even independent. We are officially a Dominion, a colony of Great Britain still, subject to it's whims and desires. No war has since been fought to protect our independence.

So, yeah, I can complain when the government fritters away our money and our politicians embezzle our taxes for their own amusement. I can complain when the health care system and education systems crumbles in incompetent hands. In my own way, I am voting. My choice may not be on the ballot. But if someone was paying attention, they might notice that I and nearly 70% of the country are voting for change by not voting.

I'd Rather Be Fighting the Man

Samuel felt the rolling and tumbling of the barrel he was in. There were muffled voices from outside. The lid was being pried up and he prayed to God that it wasn't a bounty hunter or some official come to take him back on the other end of the pry bar. He had come so close and it would kill him to have to go back. He crouched as tight as he could at the bottom of the barrel, trying to make himself disappear in the well of shadows, hoping his dark skin would serve him a purpose for once in his life.

With the lid pried off, a white face peered over the rim to look inside. In the dim candle light of the cabin, only the glint of a pair of white eyes showed. "Sam. Sam, it's all right. We've made it. You're free!"

Samuel Jenkins cowered in the knowledge that it might be a lie. He wouldn't be the first to be told he was free only to discover a pair of iron bracelets waiting for him. One way or the other, he figured, there was only getting out of the barrel to get there. He tried to stand but found himself too cramped and stiff from the long journey nearly doubled over in his tiny wooden prison. He could only raise himself a little before slouching back down. The man who had driven the cart and opened the barrel reached down to take him by the arms and pull him up. He was grateful for the help. The voyage had been long and he had nearly starved to death a number of times. Once the most strapping young man on the plantation he was now only a frail body covered in torn rags. People had helped him along the way but it had been at their own great risk and often they had only little to spare. Even the dim light of the candle was bright to his eyes as he was pulled up and lifted by two sets of rough cold hands over the edge of the barrel and set upon the ground. His eyes darted around the room looking for the wrong sorts of people. Instead he found only a humble white family clustered together to one side, the two men who had raised him up, a simple kitchen with simple furniture and a warm wood stove in the corner. And his own wife. Tears rolled from her eyes. "You're made! Oh, Sam, we're free!" she cried before dashing over to him. She cradled him in her arms and despite the cold that swept in under the door - a cold like he had never known - Samuel Jenkins felt the warmest he ever had in his life. It had been almost four years since he had seen his wife and two since he had any word from her. They had tried to escape together once before. Though she had made it because of his sacrifice, he had been captured and sent back to the plantation for punishment. The scars on his back ached in the cold.

For minutes all he could do was moan and rock in his wife's arms. All the eyes present seemed to be shedding salty drops, even the young white child whose family cabin this must be.

Over the course of the next week, five more people made it to that lonely cabin in the Canadian wilds. One of them Sam knew from his own plantation. The rest came from place he knew nothing about. From here they were to be sent on to the city where they would have to fare as best they could. They would get help from the Railroad and what organizations there were but it wouldn't last forever. Delilah had made a meagre living while waiting for Samuel doing needlework and occasionally trying her hand as a maid. But it wasn't enough for the two of them to live on.

Still, that night was a night for rejoicing. The snow had started to fall a few days earlier and the group of dark skinned men and women sat outside in a circle feasting on the pitiful rations the hosting family could supply. They invited the family to join them in their celebrations. They talked and spoke of their trials, their near escapes and setbacks. They had all endured a tortuous journey and suffered to find their freedom at last. Some small instruments were brought out and the music began.

The river ends between two hills, Follow the drinking gourd. There's another river on the other side, Follow the drinking gourd, they sang and Sam was overcome with emotion. He remembered in detail following the waters of the Tennessee River, the marks on the trees felt more than seen in the dark, crossing the frozen Ohio River and gazing up at the night sky even on the most overcast of nights. So many times he had sung those words to himself as both a guide and map as well as a way of giving himself hope. The stars were not shining that night around the fire. But there was no greater indication that he had reached the north than sitting with his wife and a family of white people as a free man.

Birthday Thought

Since it's close to my birthday I have been reflecting on gift giving. Not many people are actually any good at giving gifts. The common mistake is that people buy things that remind them of the person they are giving it to when what the recipient wants is something that reminds them of the person who gave it to them. Of course, in my case, cashews and Coke are good too.

A Beautiful Bathroom

I was about to punch out from work today when I thought to myself, "You know, I could hold it till I got home. But there's nothing like taking a piss at work. Taking a piss on the company dime. And on company property. Sure, it's a toilet. But the company owns it. Fuck you, Company!"

Although it wasn't a leaner, I had a big smile on my face after that one.

Two Sides of the Same Coin

It's been a little over 14 hours since a national election was called in Canada. I've already seen election signs posted on people's lawns. For all we bitch about politics, we certainly seem to love elections. Casting my vote? Nope. I don't live in my own riding and proxy voting is too much trouble. Not to mention I don't care one way or the other anymore. It's all just lies and betrayal from the two main parties. The other two parties don't have a chance in hell of winning.

To vote for one party on the basis of a single promise or act is short sighted. No one party has every accurately represented my view of the way things should be. But I am glad I'm not American where my choice is between an ass and ass. Two sides of the same coin, as it were.

The Irony of Romance

Every woman wants to be swept off her feet and fall crazy in love. Too bad they don't know it when it happens.

There are two problems – in general – with this desire. One: Women tend to fall for the bad boy who treats them like dog shit stuck to the bottom of their boots. Nice guys tend to finish last.

Problem Two: Women don't know what romance is. I submit as exhibit A the song "Lips of an Angel" by Hinder. The song, in its lack of direction, tells the story of a man talking on the phone with his ex-girlfriend. His new girlfriend is in the next room. He doesn't want to be caught. He's a douchebag. Yet this song is oddly popular with the ladies. At work I keep hearing them say "Oh, I love this song!" when it comes on the radio. I like to tell myself it's the tune they appreciate and not the lacklustre lyrics. But I wouldn't hold my breath on it. Instead of appreciating what they have now, they tend to sentimentalize what they once had. Not that they necessarily want their ex-boyfriends back. But they want their ex-boyfriends to still want them. They want him to be willing to cheat on their girlfriends to get back with them. I find it rather disturbing that women always place themselves in the role of the ex when they hear this song. They never seem to hear themselves as the one being cheated on.

I suppose it works both ways. Men probably have the same feelings. I've been accused of it, admittedly. However, I don't think it was true. I sentimentalize. I have my memories. But I register them as that. Just memories. And though I've maintained friendships with exes, I've never desired getting back with any of them. Exes are exes for a reason and they should stay that way.

But that's not romance. That's a popularity contest. Dance with the one who brung ya.

You Are Reading a Dying Medium

I refer to the newspaper, actually. It’s an old art and one that won’t survive much longer. It’s been replaced by electronic newsfeeds, RSS, TV and radio. But you know, there’s something about getting your updates from a piece of paper. There’s less eye strain for one. And there is certainly a more hands on feel to it.

Have you ever looked at newspapers from decades ago and compared them to today’s papers? Today’s papers often have a large bold headline and a matching photo that takes up half of the front page. Stories are divided up into boxes with odd shapes and made to fit. Back in the old days, the paper was filled with columns. You read one column and where the story ends, another story begins. It’s a different look and one that makes me nostalgic. It’s been redefined for the age of people who need their news fast and in pictorial form.

Then comes the age of blogging. It’s not exactly news but it is a form of media. While newspaper sales are flagging, blogging is on the rise. You might have even noticed that many TV news broadcasts don’t even research the news any more. They just surf the net for appropriate blogs and then broadcast them. But in time blogging will face its demise as well.

I wish I had read some Marshal McLuhan. The medium is the message. There are times when that idea makes perfect sense to me. Other times it slips through my brain like flour through a sifter. I understand this though: the medium itself has a message independent of the story it carries. Blogging for instance carries a different tone if you will than the newspaper does. It has a different effect. But what is its message?

After wikiing that phrase in an effort to rehash my memory, I stumbled on a cute little anecdote. It seems Marshal had written a book by that title. The book however, was published with the title “The Medium is the Massage.” Said to be a publishing error, McLuhan preferred the title, no doubt recognizing the role that such publishing errors have on medium and thereby affecting the message.

I Want My Thirty Cents Back

Last week I stopped at McDonalds for a Southwest Chicken meal deal. There is a promotion going on right now that they donate thirty cents from each “Gold Medal Meal” (whatever that is) to the Canadian athletes heading to the 2010 Olympics in Vancouver. In Vancouver? We’re sending Canadian athletes to Canada? Can’t they just bike to work?

I have serious objections to the Olympics beyond the fact that they hijack my TV with boring coverage of people falling into water and playing polo. They are not the community building effort that organizers would have us believe. They are after all a competition. Competition builds rivalry. Rivalry builds barriers, an “us and them” mentality. I don’t know what it’s like in other countries, but here it seems the Olympics bring out the worst in people – that competitive nationalism that tries to say we’re better than everyone else. As I write this, Canada stands in 19th position in the rankings with a total of 13 medals, only two of which are gold. We’re between Slovakia and Kenya. China in first has 81 medals, the USA is second with 83 (apparently the ranks depends on gold medals won rather than the total or possibly a point system). So at least 18 countries are more athletic than Canada. This about par for the course from what I can remember. Somewhere in the mid teens is what Canada usually scores at the games. In fact, in comparison to the 2004 standings, not much has changed for anyone in the top ten at least. Up or down a notch or two but all in all in it’s pretty much the same. We’ve already established our mediocrity. Why continue to exploit it?

In reality, it’s not that China is the most fit nation on earth although it’s certainly healthier than Canada’s pudgy population. At least we’re sexed if not sexy. Nor do they necessarily produce the best athletes. What it means is they spent the most money on training and funding those athletes. Primarily for the reason that they can then boast of their success and wealth. Sounds a little colonial doesn’t it? After all, that’s pretty much what England and France were doing two hundred years ago and more. Granted, they used guns instead of Reeboks but it’s not exactly progress. We’re still dividing ourselves on the notion that people are inherently different based on their nationality. As though being Canadian somehow made me a better driving than a Frenchman or being French made me a better chef than a German. It smacks of arrogance and racism. Neither of which I am fond of. In the great scheme of things, anyway. My arrogance doesn’t bother me at all.

You might recall (but probably don’t because chances are if you were alive at the time, you don’t read my blog and are probably on an iron lung) the 1936 Olympics in Berlin. Nazism was on the rise and Hitler made a big deal of his Aryan race being superior, that his blonde, blue eyed monster supermen would show the world who’s boss. Turns out Jesse Owens, a black kid from ‘Bama is the boss. Maybe we’ve toned down the rhetoric but let us not bullshit ourselves. The games are all about superiority like two drunk guys arm wrestling.

On an individual basis, the Olympics might be a fun idea. We could see who is truly the best at something. But it always seems to come back to nations. We don’t celebrate the athlete so much as the nation that bore him.

I find it amusing that 61 year old show jumper Ian Millar and his horse In Style got their first Olympic medal at these games. Millar has shown up to eight other games. Now in his twilight years, nigh on a senior citizen, he’s outperforming the 18 year old kids sent around the world to compete for their country’s honour. It must be harsh to be eighteen and full of vigour and cock only to find out a geriatric can flog you like he flogs his horse. Then again, when it comes to show jumping, it’s the horse that does most of the work.

If these athletes are trying to show their merit, perhaps they should do it on their own. Quite frankly, I don’t see why I should be handing over my hard earned cash for them to get a ski vacation in BC. And this applies around the world. The Olympics aren’t about sports. They are about money. Who has it and who can send their best? I’m sure Tajikistan probably has some real winners. But do they have the moola? Probably not. China has a lot of money. So do the States.

You often hear of the economic boom that comes with being awarded the place of the next Olympic games. China spents millions on preparing Beijing for these games. I’ve been to two former Olympic stadiums and can honestly say that upkeep isn’t high up government’s priorities after the games have come and gone. If I recall correctly, most places that have hosted an Olympic event have succumbed to poor economy after the games have left.

So it is my heartfelt desire, McDonalds, to have my thirty cents back. I do not support the games and I do not support our athletes. I do not support racism or nationalism or economic decline. Plus I’m pissed because I sucked at sports in high school.

The Road to Zen

Road is my mantra and road is my path to inner peace.

Smooth black pavement, unpitted by weather and wear. Tall dry grass to either side interspersed with telephone polls. The yellow lines keep coming.

The road gets narrower, turns rough, full of potholes, make of dirt. Looking up, it's the African savanna. Knotty trees grow up in the fields to either side. A pride of lions lounge in the scattered shade of one of the trees brown papery leaves. Broken down fence posts stand tangled in rusty barbed wire. Purple mountains lay on the distant horizon. Cumulous clouds are piled in the sky. The rain is on its way.

The savanna gives way to European fields. The road narrows even more, becomes rutted packed clay. More fence posts spring up, dark grey and rotting, strung together with dark grey and rotting timbers. Evergreen trees, almost black, mingling with brown and white cows chewing idly on vibrant green grass in the shadows of the Alps. Low slanted chalets nestle against the base of the hills covered in vineyard terraces. The road leads up, winding into the mountains, a steep ravine on one side, occasionally through long tunnels. The area levels out and stone buildings pop up. Little stone farmhouses among buttercup fields turn into closely packed stores with French paned windows and gilded signs hanging over the doors. The road turns to uneven cobblestones, narrow and winding among throngs of people. They sit happily sipping tea and hot chocolate and cafe lattes at outdoor cafes that nearly tumble into the streets. Fashionable people walk and laugh together pointing at things in the shop windows.

Junks line the docks and inland canals. The road covers rickety bamboo bridges. Orange paper lanterns hang from overhead wires. Ricshaws and bicycles clog the street. A packed bazaar offers everything from wooden backscratchers to leeks, little carved pandas and straw hats. Neon lights give a modern glare to an ancient city. A temple stands in the middle of a passing square with a green tiled roof and a brassy bell. White cherry trees line the hill on the other side of a crumbling brick wall. Shanty houses made of corrugated steel plates and planks of wood shelter in the shade of the wall.

The road follows along the shore line, waving like the sea, bordered by white sands and seagulls on one side and a forest of tall oaks on the other. The road climbs a cliff and the forest ends in a rock strewn field. The road ends and I step to the edge of the cliff, my naked toes dangling along with sodden grasses over the peak. Below the blue crashes against water worn boulders, green with moss. I lay back against a single tree perched precariously near the end of the world with its roots growing out of the side of the cliff. The smell of salt stings. The sun hangs forever at ten red degrees, a blistering ball of frozen time. I breathe deeply. At the peak of my breath my lungs are filled and everything stops, even the waves against the rocks.

And there is...

Peace of Someone Else's Mind

World peace is such a nice idea, isn't it? I've often spoken up for it, defended it and tried to make you see that you need to change if you ever care to experience it. Well, I'll admit I've been a fool.

I wonder if world peace was ever even considered before he 1960's. Those damn hippies made it sound like a good idea. But is it? Maybe. Maybe not.

What a wonderful concept to think of everyone sitting around singing songs, indulging in too much wine and holding hands. But it ain't going to happen. That's a very utopian view of the world and we've seen time and time again that utopian ideals never quite pan out. They work on a social level. Rules can be applied to groups. But individuals are a different story. The rules will never apply to all individuals.

Here's the thing. We Westerners like the idea of peace not because we think it would be really groovy for some faceless people whose names we can't pronounce to chant a cute little ass-backward raindance and have some clean drinking water. No, we want peace because it means we are secure. All our skyscrapers and overpriced SUVs, our way of life and our penchant for imported petroleum (why were all the dinos living in a desert?) are far too good to pass up. We don't want our loved ones to die in terrorist attacks. We don't want world peace. We want peace of mind.

And we want war. Nothing is better for the economy than war. Unless you happen to be a country ruled by a Bush in which case you somehow manage to screw it up by "winning." (It has to be a much closer contest for this economic case to work). All those shiny new advances in technology, all those rollbacks at Wal-Mart, were made possible by your friends the enemy. Yes, because they do twice the labour for half the wages or less than your lazy ass, you can afford to enjoy the fun toys cooked up by the government that is trying to kill them.

They (the rest of the world consisting of mostly Africa, South America and parts of southeast Asia) want peace because they are tired of seeing their friends and family die in wars they don't understand, to bombs they never see, for working 16 hour days just to eat some rice so that you can have $200 Nikes. They don't care about your Nikes. But I'm sure they would rather your $200 gave them the option of buying some too instead of letting some fat white guy with a cigar in his mouth buy a pair $1000 Italian loafers.

They want war because they are tired of it all. They want the rights that you have. They want not to be beaten for speaking. They want 40 hour work weeks and access to medicine. They want some of the most basic necessities of life that you take for granted.

So I don't want peace. And I don't want war. I don't really care either way. I just don't want war on my doorstep and I'm glad that the war is somewhere else.

Ok, I want peace. But I hope I made a point.

One Lunch to Lose

It’s been years since I’ve seen the show. The local fair as a kid was held in the smaller neighbouring town. At centre stage was the field. A football field the rest of the time, it was a horse show for one weekend of the year in late September, surrounded by barn red grandstands, an animal shelter and a rickety great hall, each with white trim, creaky floorboards and the smell of stale hay. The hall was filled with Saran-wrapped baked goods and gradeschool art projects. Off to the side was where the real magic happened. In the dusky orange hours the sun goes down and the lights come up. Thousands of multicoloured light bulbs spark to life and glitter like patio lanterns at a country dance. The air is filled with grease, oil, sugar and sweat. Bright colours everywhere. Cotton candy. Chip wagons. Bodies. The rides were surrounded by iron fences with little iron gates. Ticket vendor booths stood like sentry posts. Trampled slick grass underfoot. Black wires in the night snaking across the ground to be tripped over. Muffled music over screams and shouts and the clatter of machinery. Hallowed memories and sacred hands.

Half a life later there are different midway grounds. There’s a little less magic through the haze of years and memories under the midafternoon sun. The great hall has been replaced by the local hockey arena. The animal sheds are hidden off in warehouse-style buildings with shiny aluminum siding. The horse shows are replaced by demolition derby and tractor pulls. There’s none of the smell of animals or rotting hay, sweat or oil; only the scent of smog lingers in the bigger city air. Perhaps a wisp of grease from a nearby fast food joint.

The ticket seller’s face is a pair of eyes between money holes and price listings on the plexiglass. It’s four tickets for a ride. One ticket is $1.50. Along with everything else, the prices have changed. The rides and the games are the same though. In the midday light one might even be excused for thinking the lightbulb-lined arms of the various rides hadn’t been in the intervening decades. Half the magic is in those lightbulbs shining in the night.

We wandered between the rides and games, chip wagons, junk stalls and generator trucks. I wondered how many gallons of gas the park must go through in a day. We had to shout to be heard above the clanking of machines, chugging of motors, and hawking of vendors.

Though in ancient days I was fascinated by the rides, I never had the courage to try them. I preferred the games. In modern times I have more courage. I wanted to try the Ferris wheel, having never been on that oldest and most classic of rides. We stepped up and sat in the dangling seat, calm as we slowly made out way to the top, letting others on, the carnie was being vigilant in balancing the weight of passengers, I am sure. Waiting at the top I looked out above the city skyline and saw little but trees. Looking down I examined the structure of struts and bridges that make up the framework. “This thing looks a little rickety,” I commented. “It probably is. You aren’t afraid of height’s are you?” she asked. “No, I’m afraid of the ground. This bar and fourty feet are all that separate me from the ground. This bar and fourty feet...” She grinned at me and kissed me as the ride started to turn. I always imagine Ferris wheels as being romantic. Something about a bird’s eye view propagates love, it seems. Different hands and a pair of lips.

Next up was the Spider. A large black supervillain looking contraption with eight crooked legs, each leg holding two pods, two seats to a pod. The pods spin on their axis, the twin pods spin on their arm, the arms spin around a central point, rising and lowering depending on their point in the cycle. Much of the rotation of pods is based on the centre of gravity of its occupants. The fatter you are, the faster you’ll spin. My knuckles were white on the flimsy bar separating me and oblivion as centrifugal force and the G’s were pulling me apart. The look on my face told her my lunch wasn’t sitting well. Actually it was sitting fine. But it was sitting in my throat and in my groin instead of in my stomach. I didn’t walk steadily to the exit gate.

Above the grounds, towering like a Ferris wheel tilted at thirty degrees was the next selection. It hadn’t looked too intimidating. It reminded me of the teacup ride with its little umbrellas over each seat. The first few rotations were fine, going slowly up and down. Then things started to speed up. The centrifugal force flung us out to the side. The ride up forced my stomach into my groin, the ride down forced it into my chest. After a few rounds I discovered the secret of breathing in on the way up and out on the way down. After a few more rotations, we moved faster than I could breathe. “What if someone’s shoe flew off? It would hit that poor horse in the head. It might kill it,” she joked. I could only half hear her above the clanking and music blaring from below and my attempts to keep my internal body parts internal. My shoes were the least of my concern as my glasses began to slide off. The bucket seat and its simple iron bar weren’t tight enough to keep my body from sliding around on the seat. My hands on it kept me from sliding out and across the park. “Does this thing flip upside down?” I asked with a sudden lurch. “No...,” she answered with that mischievous look that says she was lying. Turns out she just wanted to add a level of fear to my ride. “You know, I don’t think these things are as safe as they could be,” I remarked on the ground.

For the last of our tickets we rode on the “Himalayan;” some paltry attempt at recreating the mine cart ride from Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom. Amid the blaring music from arena quality speakers and the clanking of plates of steel we sat in a circular train. The cars rising up on a slightly tilted plate and then falling again with a few little bumps along the way. However, the dips weren’t the attraction of the ride. As the cars sped up, we were flung against the side of our little booth, the force pushing her against me and me against the seat, the edge of which was digging into my rib cage with a force not often felt by me. The train slowed and started moving backward. “A smoke is going to go well after all this,” I noted. “Why?” “The chemicals in tobacco stimulate.... nevermind. It’s like smoking after sex.” “Ah.” Not that she understood that, either but she knew of the cultural references.

It was the games as a child that drew my attention. I wanted to show my skill, my prowess. I’ve since learned there is no real skill involved with midway games. The games are rigged; the darts are blunted, the fins uneven, the angle of the baskets makes it nearly impossible to keep the ball in it, there aren’t enough pellets in the gun to shoot out the star, the balls are warped.

The carnie did his double talk, upselling his darts with talk of bigger prizes. Hit the apple picture, win a prize. Hit the wormhole and win a bigger one. Everyone’s a winner. Truth in advertising. Who knew? I hefted the dart in my hand, felt the roughness of the grip, the smooth plastic fins. Drew back along my eye and gave a light push, the body sliding through my fingers and missing the wormhole but hitting the apple. Adjust and again. Four darts circled the wormhole. Ten dollars later I was in possession of a two dollar stuffed animal. He’s worth every one of Tabi’s pennies.

I took a shot at the fishing game. Again, everyone is a winner. As many tries as it takes to hook and remove three dolphins from the pond. It took three tries. The hardest part was getting them off the hook. Tabi was in possession of another stuffed dog.

In the late afternoon sun with its rays in our eyes and long shadows at our backs we walked away from the noise and fumes and overpriced concessions. Something was lost in the intervening decades. The haze of years kept something alive. Nostalgia is alive but it dies when it faces the dead past. Still, new memories were made in a new era of nostalgia. In the shadow of the future a new light shines in the past. Though a state of the art arena and its aluminum sided buildings are no match for the red barn buildings of my youth, they may someday hold the memories of another child.

In a way it was not so much a trip into my own childhood as it was having a childhood. I finally discovered the thrill of rides – the fear and tension that makes one’s heart beat faster. Through my veins pulsed the vitality that one loses as one gets older. The world slows down with time as the clock slows when the gears wind down. It takes a sudden jolt to wind the springs up tight again, to make the world move in real time.

Shortest Blog Ever

Take your religion a little more seriously and a little less vehemently.

All Roads Lead to Hortons

There are eight Tim Hortons in Peterborough. There are 12 regular bus routes. Eight of those routes lead to Tim Hortons. Hmm...

Today's the Day the Timmy Hoes Have Their Picnic

Today was the First Annual Something Or Other Picnic. A good time was had by all. Well maybe not all. I wasn't everybody so I couldn't say what the other people had but I had a good time and I'm all that really matters, now, aren't I?

There were games and prizes and food. Most importantly food. Free food helps define whether a man will do something or not.

There were sumo suits. Billy and I were signed up for that but he didn't feel up to by the time we could. Granted, it was thrity degrees out and the suits were reported to be "smelly" at best.

There were hula hoops. Turns out I don't know how to use one.

There were three legged races. Turns out I had no desire to repeat a distressing childhood game.

There were prizes for those who guessed the numbers of jawbreakers, jelly beans and jube jubes. I got them all exactly right, of course. But to spite me they gave them to three different people. Ces't la vie.

There were bouncy castles. I'm a little too old of heart for that. But Tabi wanted her turn which she never actually got.

When I got my camera back, it turns out Lilybit was the star of the party. Lilybit is Tabi's new puppy. Only five weeks old. Of the forty-four pictures on, Lilybit was in about forty of them, posing with the various people from work, including my bosses.

Real men carry puppies.

And my personal favourite artsy pic of the day.

I managed to stay burn free thanks to my trusty SPF50 Coppertone sunblock. Most people use SPF 15 or 20. Not me. Come hard or don't come at all. 50 is the way to go. Without it, I would be as red as a lobster who wore a fur coat to a PETA convention.

Super Mecha Baby Carriage!!! Ahhh!!!

I was riding the bus today. Two women with baby carriages got on at the station. As luck would have it, we happened to be riding one of the newer buses in the fleet as opposed to the majority of 1960's Orion class that dominate the lines. You see, it's a good thing it was one of the newer buses because the newer buses have seat that lift up in the front. They are, officially, for the purposes of wheelchairs. But in a pinch, mothers have been known to dock their strollers in the same spots. Each of these two strollers took up three seats. Not that the bus system in town is so terribly taxed that anyone was forced to ride in the aisles. But still.

What are these monstrosities we call baby carriages these days? They look like something a Japanese animator dreamed up. Some kind of mechanical robot with lightweight aluminum struts, painted grey and storage racks up the wazoo. In the next decade they'll have rainbow stobe lights and rail guns. You know, to ward off kidnappers and politicians.

Back in my day, strollers were tiny affairs. The same ones used for dolls were used for babies. They looked like collapsible lawn chairs. A steel A-frame and a bag for the baby. That was all. Or in the pram tradition, a basket on four wheels. None of this Transformers shit. Since when do babies need their own personal SUV? You know there are parts of the world still where mothers have nothing more than a blanket slung around their shoulders in which to hold their babies. These Mad Max inspired air conditioned baby mobiles are an affront to to such parts of the world where cosumerism hasn't yet run rampant. Babies need love and care, not the trappings of
of a soccer mom with a platinum card.

Time For Nothing

A calendar has 12 months in it. The same 12 months every year. For those of us checking our Gregorian calendars at least. Seven days each week. Twenty-four hours every day. We put things into cycles. When one period of times ends, we start the cycle again. We eat lunch at noon one day. When twenty fours have passed, we do it again. We do our laundry the same day every week. We celebrate our birthday the same day every year.

For the most part, these little cycles are normal. Our bodies run on Circadian rhythms approximating twenty-four hours each cycle, dictating when we eat, sleep, and feel most energetic.

The planet spins on it's axis once every day. The planet orbits the sun once a year.

Yet these cycles are still somewhat artificial. Circadian rhythms for most people actually run slightly less than twenty-five hours. This is due, if I recall, to the seasons. After all, it's dark at 5pm in January (where I am) but there are still four hours of light to go in July at the same time. Technically I guess it's because the earth is tilted which also happens to cause the seasons. The planet spins on it's axis in twenty-three hours, fifty-six minutes and four seconds. The planet orbits the sun in slightly more than 365.25 days. Such distinctions of time are arbitrarily imposed by man. Time as far as the universe is concerned is absolutely meaningless. But for our everyday lives, a little order must prosper.

How far must these impositions go? Are we truly obligated to celebrate our birthdays every year? Many people would rather not. Realistically, one year from the day you were born is nothing. It's probably just a bunch of other people's actual birthday. You might as well celebrate your birthday every week or day or minute of your life because there is nothing special about that particular day every year. It just happens to be 365 days later. A rather peculiar number, wouldn't you say? It is to my metric mind. And suspiciously close to the number of degrees in a circle. Know why? Phoenicians. Yes, Phoenicians. With the basic instruments available at the time, they measured the year to be about 360 days long, give or take. Three hundred and sixty just happened to be a little more conveniently divided by two, three, four, six, twelve.... Handy numbers in the great scheme of things.

My guess is that that's where the idea of circularity popped up. It's something that has stuck with us. And yet it is entirely artificial. Time is not circular though at a glance it might appear so. Thursday the 12th of May will not be a Thursday the next 12th of May. But eventually it will be again. Still. But have you every seen one of those... I don't know what you call them. The best example I can think of is a dietary wheel. A few circles of paper overlap, with each circle getting smaller and all pinned together in the middle so that each circle can rotate independently of the others. You can rotate all the wheels in any direction you like at varying speeds of which you like. Select one particular position where they all line up and keep on moving them. Eventually they will all line up again. Keep doing it and they will eventually line up yet again. This does not mean that everything works in cycles, only that circles revolve. Time is not cyclical, it is linear. Time progresses at approximately (for us on Earth) the same speed at all times. If time was the truck that painted the lines on the highway, it would just keep going straight, hopping the curb at the first bend in the road.

So when that next birthday or anniversary comes along, are you celebrating 365 days of surviving your circumstances? Or the circumstances themselves? What does it really mean to be 365 days older or to have been married for another 365 days? Does it mean anything more or less than having been married 12 days? Or 1000 days? The fact that people choose this particularly odd number to make into an occasion every year suggests they celebrate more the number than the circumstances. After all, if it was the circumstances, why not celebrate every day?

It's not always happy things that we mark by time. Sometimes it's the unhappy things like the death of a loved one. But the same logic still applies. Why that day? Certainly we can't go mourning our losses every day. We do it when the mood strikes us and that is reasonable. What difference does a year make? In the progression of time, only time is lost. In the progression of time, only experience is gained. And you will never be at the same point in your life ever again.

... Unless time travel really is possible and you can go back and visit yourself in some kind of paralell time dimension where it is 20 years ago. But that ain't likely.

Big Rock Challenge

I have long wondered at the power of small things and their ability to gain momentum. Those annoying chain letters for instance. You'd think the first person to get it would just throw it out. But somehow they perpetuate themselves.

A couple of years ago, I heard the feel good story of the year about a man who through a series of trades, turned his little red paperclip into a house for himself. The story caught the public's attention as well as mine. I was fascinated by it. Not the trading or the man. Merely that such a small thing turned into something huge and a national phenomenon.

Since then, I've wanted to do something that would be the next hot ticket. The next Burning Man. Well, ok, not Burning Man, but something just plain stupid that catches on.

And this is my idea. It's not yet put into practice. I want to find a rock. Just a plain old average rock. I call it the Big Rock Challenge but it can't be that big a rock. Preferably one small enough to carry in one hand. A fairly flat surface on one side would be ideal as well. I want to write on that side "Big Rock Challenge: Leave this rock somewhere else. Log on to www.bigrockchallenge.net (or whatever it will be) for details."

That's all there is to it. People pick up the rock and leave it somewhere else. They can go on the website to leave hints about where they left it and the details of where they found it. Maybe my rock will make it across the nation. Maybe the nation will start looking for it. I have this vision that imitation rocks will start popping up across the globe. It will be an international phenomenom. The media wont know what to make of it. Psychologists will be baffled. It's stupid. It's silly. It's inane. It's just a damn rock. But it will catch on. Oh, yes. It will catch on.

Mirror, Mirror

"Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who's the fairest of them all?" the evil stepmother asked of her magic mirror. Or so the Disney version goes. You likely won't find that line in any other versions considering few are written in English. Why does that line stand out? Probably because it rhymes. It's amazing the way the human psyche works. You can't remember to pay your bills on time but you can remember a phrase because it rhymes.

But Snow White isn't about Snow White at all. At least, Disney's version isn't. It's about the queen. Snow White is just another girl. She has no real dilemma to overcome. She naps through the story. The queen on the other hand - like most proper villains - appeals to the inner thought processes of the average person. Inside is the darkness that haunts us. The queen pours forth her evil, lets out the darkness and shows us what we are capable of if we let ourselves.

That's the significance of the mirror. It's a plot device for Snow White. But for us it reflects things we may not otherwise be able to see. Perhaps you've heard of "residual self image." That's what they call it in The Matrix. You keep a mental picture in your head of what you look like. Further, you keep a mental picture of who you think you are; your ambitions, your goals, your abilities, your memories, your powers, your traits, your beliefs, your concept of the world at large are all filed away for instant reference. The human failing - perhaps what makes us human - is that this self image rarely measures up accurately with reality.

Most famous painters have done at least one self portrait. Every writer puts a little of his own life into his best novel. The artist believes what he creates is an image of himself. But put the image and the artist side by side and everyone will see a difference. The similarity is perceptible but the differences are there, too. Van Gogh, after all, isn't made up of a bunch of swirls of paint. Only an impression of him is. I've asked to draw Tabi and she's willing though we never get around to it. She wants to see herself as I see her. She'd be better off looking at a good photo as my drawing skills are only mediocre at best. Yet she recognizes that her self image is different than the way I see her.

The way I see things is usually much different than the way that most people see them. In fact, I tend to piss people off with my vision of the world and my habit of speaking straight. I tell it like it is, as they say, without the sugar coating that most people are used to. I prefer the gritty truth to empty euphemisms. The truth is a mirror that we can choose to look into. Few like what they see and refuse to look twice into the mirror. They create alternate realities for themselves where the harsh shadows and crows' feet of life have already been botoxed. To voice a few examples: I've already written several times about my views on war. They aren't popular views. No one likes to hear that war is good for the economy and keeping the population down. Conversely, they don't like hearing about my lack of support for foreign wars and how I can understand the enemy. Certain dog lovers don't like the reality of pit bulls. Lovable pets, they feel and they can be right. After all, I know a pair of lovely pits and one hell raising Pomeranian. But try to tell them that pits have been bred into existence specifically for the purpose of violence (the bull part of pit bulls refers to bull-baiting - the dogs were bred to fight and latch onto bulls as a "sport." Horrible but true), and they get defensive. My views on religion, nations, and women tend not to be very PC. In fact, I'm just generally not a very PC person. And I don't care. My views are only views and may not be the whole truth but I'm inclined to say they are far less clouded than most peoples'. The mirror I look into is distorted, inclined to warp things and bend things towards each other, connecting things together that others wouldn't see. But at least I choose to look into that mirror instead of covering it with a curtain. I want to know the horrible truth, wrinkles and all. Perhaps one day when the images are identical, the mirror will shatter for there can be only one. Perhaps that day will be the day that the truth will be set free. We will accept it and cherish it and stop all our little quibbling about borders and gods and superiority. We won't fear death and we wont make excuses for our bad behaviour. If this magic mirror of ours really is our failing as humans, with the shards of silvered glass, perhaps we will become something more than human. But first we have to pick up the jagged little pieces and survive the cuts.

Walking 'Round in Women's Underwear

I hear they're comfortable. Tabi always looks so embarassed when I try to put hers on. She's considerably smaller than I am so they don't fit past my knees, of course. But it's amusing to see her snatch them away from me. Secretly I think she's a little turned on by the fact that I try them on. I do it for a farce, but she's convinced I'm a closet cross dresser.

Recently, someone I have come into contact with - a male - has decided to live life as a woman. I made mention of this to some female friends and they asked what the appeal of being a woman was. You'd think being women they would have a better idea about that than I. After a second's pause to think, my only response was "fashion." I then went on a rant about how men's fashion for the past three years has been dominated by pastel colours. Most men don't actually look good in pastel colours. Who came up with this idea, I don't know but they should really be fired. Women's fashion is considerably more varied than men's. Men basically have two options: formal or casual. Formal means a suit. Casual means jeans and a t-shirt. Then again, every man looks good in a suit. Hell, even women look good in a suit.

But it was a valid question. What does cause a man to want to live as a woman? For that matter, what makes a woman. I would have to argue that a vagina does not a woman make. Certainly it isn't the boobs. Perhaps it's the ability to bear a child. Though I can't imagine that's what's going through this particular guy's head. It's never going to happen anyway and I'm sure that must have been an obvious reality for him. I suppose it must be a feeling. It's an issue of identity. He simply must feel like he was meant to be a woman.

I think it was Freud who came up with penis envy. How many jokes have been made at his expense because of that little faux pas? There's probably a little truth to it. Just a little. But I suspect vagina envy is far more likely though few men would admit it. How many of us are absolutely fascinated by such things. Mostly because we don't have them. After all, Dom has his fake boobs - not implants, but breast forms - and everyone wants to play with them. They may not be real. But that's what they're there for. To play with. While having a vagina doesn't make one a woman, it would be nice to have one to play with whenever one wants to.

It's got to be more than that, of course. The identity thing again. To walk down the street and have people look at you and treat you like a woman. It's a different thing than it is as a man. Men don't get looked at twice or whistled at. Men tend to get better service and higher paying jobs, too though. It's never going to be quite the same for Dom, though. As miraculous as his partial transition has been so far, there is probably always going to be evidence that he was once a man. The five o'clock shadow and the Adam's apple are pretty dead give aways. I suppose the shadow can be dealt with though.

As a side note, I don't like that word "underwear" as applied to women's underclothes. There is something entirely unsexy about "underwear." It's very masculine sounding, especially as opposed to the dainty sounding "panties." Tres francaise. Along with brassiere. So much more fun. It rolls off the tongue and hopefully off the body.

Me... personally I would miss the luxury of standing up to pee too much.



As a final side note... You know, this is the new millenium. We've been through women's lib. Why do men have to put the seat down. First of all, we check that it is up before we go. Where's the challenge in checking to make sure it's down before a woman goes? I've had that argument with several women. Not one of them has given a decent answer, only eye rolling. If you want equal treatment, take it and stop complaining about getting it.

Lego My Art

Those who know me know I like my LEGO. Those who don't know me, I like to ask them if they would like to see my 12 inch Yoda. It's made of LEGO. Great ice breaker at parties. I'd like to brag that I have several thousand dollars worth of LEGO though in today's economy, that doesn't go too far. For comparison, let's say in the neighbourhood of fifteen to twenty large kits and about as many of the small ones (a vehicle or some such thing). It's an impressive collection. I long since stopped feeling guilty about ignoring that 12-14 age recommendation on the box. I'd love to get my hands on the $400 Star Wars Star Destroyer kit. As a youngster, a natural offshoot of my desire to be an architect was a desire to be a LEGO architect - to build toys and statues out of LEGO for a living. They call them engineers officially but lets not split hairs. I had even hoped to visit the original LEGOLand in Denmark while I was there. But it was late in the season and rainy and rather out of the way. Maybe next time. To feel like a giant among tiny plastic people...

Anyway, I recently picked up a copy of the LEGO Indiana Jones video game for the PS3. Having played the two Star Wars versions in the LEGO universe (who can forget LEGO Vader holding up a family picture of him and young LEGO Luke?), I was looking forward to the game which would combine what is probably my all time favourite movie franchise and my all time favourite childhood toy (yes, even more than GI Joe). Though it was really just more of the same on the Star Wars model, it was an enjoyable play though no more enhanced by the PS3's capabilities than it would have been for $20 cheaper on the PS2.

In any case, in the castle scene The Last Crusade, I noticed a painting haning on the wall of the castle. It was, suspiciously, the Mona Lisa. I say suspiciously because the painting was not hanging in Mayen at the time. Anyway, the thing that struck me about the painting was not it's suspicious location but rather the subject of the painting. While it was quite obviously the Mona Lisa, it was a LEGOcized Mona Lisa! That is to say, Mona has a round yellow head with painted on smile and beady little black eyes and a shiny black mop of hair. Brilliant, I say! I had to have a copy for my computer, whether for my MSN picture or background or whatever. A quick search of the web did not find the specific picture in question but it did find a few similarities.

It seems I'm not the only adult with a LEGO fixation. I knew this, but I was unaware of the extent. I'd seen life-sized LEGO men built from LEGO bricks in shopping centres before. But never had I dreamed of the fabulous statues that some people can create. I had also never considered the other artistic use of LEGO. That is to use LEGO to recreate existing art. Youtube for one has a section of LEGO enacted movies, something I have longed to do since my highschool experience in stop-motion animation. The Monty Python sketch involving Camelot and the Knights of the Roundtable is probably the most famous though I have seen some daring James Bond enactments along with a hoard of cheap Matrix ripoffs and independent projects.

But the specific art I'm talking about is the use of LEGO to recreate paintings a la Conan O'Brien's regular segment involving the posing of guests to match a photo. One of which was the Mona Lisa. Others are perhaps not as famous yet still remarkably well done. Have a look. Photos are the property of their respective owners. I use them only with the sense that anything already on the web is public domain. Except what I write. Everything else is fair game.