The Mourning Kitchen

Chasing my tail

2009-05-19T07:55:00.003-05:00

The winter has faded to spring and now spring is struggling to shake off the last of its bad habits and become summer. And so it goes.

I've been doing some struggling myself to get another video edited, and I'm finally done.

Look here.

I've been getting a few questions about an 'album' and it's not in the cards right now. I can write at my leisure, make a video, post it where I want and therefore don't feel a need to make an 'album'. I like it that way. Download what you want and burn it to a CDR.

I have recently opened a Bandcamp account, though, and for those of you who would like to have better quality files can download them from there. It will cost you at least a dollar!!! I warned you. It will also send a little remuneration my way, so if you feel so inclined, I'd appreciate it.

Other than that the band is still in rehearsal hammering away at arrangements and I'll let you know when to expect something concrete.

Until then, be good.

Facebook Surprise

2009-02-16T15:19:00.002-05:00

A friend just sent me a link to the updated Facebook rules on content.

You hereby grant Facebook an irrevocable, perpetual, non-exclusive, transferable, fully paid, worldwide license (with the right to sublicense) to (a) use, copy, publish, stream, store, retain, publicly perform or display, transmit, scan, reformat, modify, edit, frame, translate, excerpt, adapt, create derivative works and distribute (through multiple tiers), any User Content you (i) Post on or in connection with the Facebook Service or the promotion thereof subject only to your privacy settings or (ii) enable a user to Post, including by offering a Share Link on your website and (b) to use your name, likeness and image for any purpose, including commercial or advertising, each of (a) and (b) on or in connection with the Facebook Service or the promotion thereof.

Same as before, however, they've dropped this section:

You may remove your User Content from the Site at any time. If you choose to remove your User Content, the license granted above will automatically expire, however you acknowledge that the Company may retain archived copies of your User Content.

...which means that they get to keep the rights to your photos, stories, music etc. even after you've deleted the account.

I really have to be more careful about the fine print. You should, too.

The Mourning Kitchen

2009-02-13T09:30:00.003-05:00

Time flies when you're not looking at the clock. It's been a long while since I've posted anything and my excuse is as follows. I get distracted easily. The best way to get my attention is to wave something shiny in front of me.

I suppose that the most recent news is that the album (read collection of songs) is done, with more on the way. The website is nearly ready and the band is cramming for exams.

In the mean time, I've put a couple of covers up on Youtube, go here to see. I've also partnered up with Return Fire and we are in production on a video for Less Than More.

Check out the Facebook page here

I'll still use this space as a catch-all for the various goings-on around here, but like I said earlier I get distracted easily.

2007-10-09T06:00:00.000-05:00

I woke up, this morning, to the sounds of an all out pigeon rumble. Like our own reality, the tethers that bind each individual to the community can grow taut and along those cables a percussive tension can travel, exacerbating the difficulties inherent in communication. The vibrations blot out the sensible and can make even the most carefree mind unravel, causing anxiety and frustration.

Picture this. Each of us has a link to the natural world, a conduit along which we receive and transmit our co-ordinates. If we fly in circles those conduit cross and the inevitable buzz that we hear, as a result, gives us pause as we struggle to re-connect. The easiest remedy would be to cut the cable and fly free, but even a pigeon fears that, and us, well, it would spell the end, wouldn't it?

The cause of all the fuss was probably nothing more than a french fry or a chicken wing, left over from the weekend grab-fest, a morsel of human waste tossed overboard, declared unfit for consumption but exciting and invigorating to the mind of a bird. One of them spotted it, on his morning patrol, and the burst of excitement he experienced was instantly sent out over the wire, so to speak, and within seconds an entire community was fighting over enough food for one breakfast.

It would be comical, even without the comparison to our own behavior, except for the fact that when the wings were lifted and the hullabaloo softened to a sniffle, there was one pigeon who didn't take flight. He walked in circles, making spastic attempts at flight, dragging a bent and broken wing behind him. He looked up, knowing that was where he was supposed to be. Instead, he was grounded, and all in the time it takes to choke back a rotted piece of meat.

No hospital for him, no screaming sirens as the pigeon ambulance chases down his pain, no recovery or physio, and no tearful reunion six weeks from now, the cast just off and his eagerness to get back in the game palpable in the jovial greetings he gives his compatriots.

As quickly as it had begun, the war was over. A few of the hopeful hung in the air riding the breeze, looking for a missed morsel, oblivious and unaware that they had left one of there own behind, that there were fewer voices crying into the morning light, that some one's cord had been cut.

It's a tough life, that of a pigeon.

Hotel Gladstone

2007-05-07T06:36:00.000-05:00

I woke up with the last line from the Eagle's 'Hotel California' in my head. Not the song, just the lyrics.
As I sat, trying to run down the reason the words were still reverberating in my skull, I could make out the strains of the song re-assembling in the background. It's been years since I've heard it and while I can't remember who you are, I have no trouble remembering, note for note, a guitar solo I heard thirty years ago. The highlight of the song is, obviously, the now-famous guitar dualing at the end, between Don Felder and the 'new' guy, Joe Walsh. If I could hear it one more time, I'd prefer not to listen to the pre-amble. Straight to the guitar rock, if you please.

I read a book a few years ago called 'The Dancing Wu Li Masters' by Gary Zukav, before he dove head-first into his quantum physicist/spiritualist phase, in which he haphazardly assembled a belief system based nearly exclusively on Thomas Young's double slit experiment. Interesting stuff. In the end Zukav came to appreciate the phrase, "what you see is what you get," and for a while I went to bed dreaming of a day when I could harness my mind's full potential and finally become a super-hero. Really, all I was after was a way to see through women's clothing and so far I'm not having much success. What good has physics done me after all?

I caught part of Alan Zweig's "Lovable" on T.V. last night and I've decided that he is the saddest man on the planet. He's discovered that some of us will never find someone to love, or find someone who loves us and that he could easily spend the rest of his life alone. I wonder that it's never occurred to him before. The only thing I learned from him, is that chain smoking really isn't all that attractive.

Practice makes perfect. Yeah, yeah, yeah. Lift your ass off the bike when you go over a bump and then you won't find it painful to sit down when you get home. I'm not sure if I want calluses on my ass, but it appears that I've got it coming to me.
I've decided that I don't want people to look away in embarrassment when I take my shirt off this summer. Vain, I know, but I never get tired of people saying to me, "Hey, have you lost weight?" At this late-stage in my life, I've finally realized that a sound body pre-figures a sound mind. I was hoping it was the other way around because it's so much easier to sit on the couch and think than it is to torture muscles into shape. I used to work out regularly but gave it up when my friends expressed dismay at the pitiful amount of beer I could drink. I began a new kind of workout that helped me develop an astounding tolerance for alcohol.

All of this, and it's still there. 'You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave.' Cue Mr. Walsh.

If that's the case, then I don't think I'll check-out just yet. And if I'm staying then I'm not doing it like this. I don't want to reach the end of days only to discover that I didn't have much say in how I lived. Intentions are fine but without actions they're nothing more than thoughts. The big questions? "Who am I?', 'Where did I come from?' and 'Where am I going?' can wait. With apologies to Zukav, Zweig and everybody who has seen me shirtless in the past, I have no intention of growing old and decrepit, while I waste time thinking myself into shape.

Looks Don't Mean a Thing

2007-01-30T10:22:00.000-05:00

"What are you doing?" The voice came out of nowhere and I jumped up in surprise.
"Holy shit, you scared me."
"Sorry, brother. What's going on?" The voice was attached to a boy who had come up the other side of the hill.
"I'm making a sacrifice to Hades. And I'm not your brother." I answered shortly. The kid had a simple look to him.
"Here? Why here?"
"Well, it's a Cypress tree isn't it?"
"So?"
"The Cypress tree is sacred to Hades. Were you born under a rock?" The kid smiled at me with a toothless grin.
"I didn't know that. Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why is it sacred to Hades?"
"It just is, you moron. Now leave me alone." I went back to my preparations. It had to be done just right or I'd end up pissing off the Great Pissed Off One.

I'd never thought much about it before. I'd heard about Hades' attachment to the Cypress tree but you can never get a straight answer from anyone about stuff like that. You try sorting out all the nonsense that people propagate when it comes to their gods. I swear that if people thought about it there'd be a god and a holiday for every good bowel movement they'd ever had. As it is, I just do what I'm told and I'd been told that if you need a favour from the crustiest of gods, you'd better make it a good sacrifice.

"What is it you want?" said the dumb kid.
"It's none of your business." I said.
"Well, it might be." he answered.
"Kid, don't you have some sheep to flock, or something?"
"No." He stood entranced by the fire I had started. I thought about giving him a good thump on the head, just for bugging me, but then I thought better of it.
"Look, kid, I need a favour from him and the priest told me to make a sacrifice under a Cypress tree. Now, fuck off and leave me alone." I blew on the kindling and the fire flared up for a second but then dwindled away again.
"I can make a fire." the kid said, still hypnotized by the small flame.
"Good for you, kid. I don't suppose you have any dryer lint on you, do you?"
The kid laughed out loud at that. I reconsidered the head-thumping business and stood up. As the blood rushed from my own head I began to feel a bit whoozy and the kid spun out of focus. I jammed a hand out and grabbed onto the tree.
"Be careful." the kid intoned in a sing-song voice as I fell to the ground and lost consciousness.

When I came to, I was lying on the floor of a stone cavern that soared more than a hundred feet above my head. I stared, stupidly, at the ceiling for a minute or two before I realized that I wasn't anywhere near the Cypress anymore.
"How do you feel, now?" I heard the kid's voice in my ear.
I jerked around and found myself staring into his vacant eyes. He was squatting about a foot away, looking intently at me. The queasy feeling in my stomach returned as I realized that this was no normal kid.
"Where am I?" I said. My voice sounded hollow and hoarse.
"Right where you wanted to be, aren't you?"
A terror I can't describe descended on me as I realized that I was looking at the Master of Doom. He needed a bath though. And then, I fainted again.

"Orpheus."
I followed the voice up from the blackness that had enveloped me and when I opened my eyes I saw her. I promptly gagged as my breath caught in my throat and I started to hack and cough violently until she had to pound on my back. Finally, I could breathe.
"Eurydice? Is it you?" I spat out.
"Of course it is, Orpheus. What the hell are you doing here?"
"I came looking for you. What's the matter? Aren't you happy to see me?"
"Of course I'm happy to see you, you boob. I mean, how did you get here? Did you die?" She helped me up into a sitting position, the love of my life and the reason I couldn't go on.
"I was making a sacrifice to Hades." I said and then I thought of something else. "Hey, did you see a weird kid here, a second ago?"
"A kid? What kid? Hades told me you'd come for me and that I was to take care of you until he returns. There's no kid here, just you and me."
"Huh." I said.
Just then a door screeched open and a regal looking man entered, only to pause, rolling his eyes, and say, "Do you think you could put some oil on that thing? Would that be too much to ask?" to the servant grovelling behind him. The servant disappeared and returned a moment later with an oil can and squeezed some onto the rusted hinges.
"Orpheus." the Lord of Dread said, "What's going on?"
"Nothing, Master." I did some grovelling then, too. It's hard not to.
"Get up. Get up." Hades sat down on a throne that appeared out of nowhere. "Now, what's all this nonsense about? I hear you've been asking around for me. What's on your mind?"
"Uh." I started.
"Whoo boy! For a writer, you sure don't use a lot of big words. Let me save you the trouble. Take her, but before you do, you have to do something for me."
"Really?" I asked, not a little suspicious.
"Sing, man. Take a look around here. I haven't seen a good show in years. Apparently dead people can't sing very well. I didn't know that. Did you know that?" He waved a hand and a lyre appeared, which he then handed to me. "Do it. Or nobody goes anywhere." he added with some very convincing malice.
I wondered what he wanted me to play and began to dig around in my alcohol soaked brain for a good old rousing 'let them go' song. I couldn't think of a single thing.
"Sing" Hades thundered, and right there I made up a song about how great Hades was and all the cool things he can do. He liked it well enough, although I think he'd have rather'd a song about girls.
"Now," he said leaning forward, "get the hell out of here. And don't bother looking back. If you do the deal's off." He turned and sat down wearily on his throne. "I'm telling you, more people wander out of here than come in, anymore. What's a God of the Dead to do?"

"I can't believe it." she said to me.
"I know. I don't believe it either, but I'm not sticking around for him to change his mind." And I gave her arm a tug. "Let's go."
Just then I spotted the half-witted kid again. I waved to him but he just stood there, not waving back. I should have punched him when I had the chance, I thought.
"Hey, is that the kid you saw?" Eurydice turned as we passed him.

So Cold

2007-01-12T06:32:00.000-05:00

Dr. James Bedford was a psychology professor, born into the family that gives its name to Bedford, Massachusetts. Although his published work explores the ideas of youth vocational interests and studies, the reason his name is still in circulation today is that his body is as well.
Bedford is recognized as the first successfully cryonically preserved human. There were earlier attempts but none were successful.
Bedford died this day in 1967 in Glendale, California and was immediately frozen. Despite the advances in technology in the last forty years, there are still no methods known to reverse the effects of being cryonically frozen, much less to reverse the causes of his death.
Being dead and frozen, however, doesn't bring to an end the trials of life. Seventeen people were cryonically frozen between 1967 and 1973, with Bedford being the only one still waiting for science to catch up with him. In 1979 it was discovered that a number of these early human popsicles had thawed out enough, due to equipment malfunction, that re-freezing was impossible and they were removed from the program.
In 1991, Bedford was moved to a new facility and when they checked on him, all seemed to be in order. He was still frozen, still dead and still waiting for someone to do something about it.
Curiously, a paper of his, written in 1956 is entitled, "Your future job: A guide to personal and occupational orientation of youth in the atomic age." Insert your own cynically detached punch line here.
The most disheartening thought of all is that, even if we had the smarts to thaw him out, cure his ailments and re-instate his standing as a living, walking member of the human race, he likely wouldn't be too happy about being brought back to life, at this point in time. As a society, we probably have less regard for old folks now than they did in 1967. I can't imagine that Bedford went to all this trouble just to be thawed, cured and then shipped off to an old age home to spend the rest of his unnatural life being ignored, mocked and forgotten all over again. He's better off where he is now.

A note to anyone who cares: I'd rather not be frozen, if it's all the same to you. I'm only half-way down to path of my normal life expectancy and I don't understand most of what's going on around me now. And besides, I hate the cold.

In Memory

2007-01-09T15:31:00.000-05:00

Two years have come and now gone. When I woke this morning, I sat on the edge of my bed and I wondered how I ever made it this far. I still don't know.

Nothing will dull the ache that I feel. I don't have the words to describe it.

I do, however, have the words to describe the love I still feel. It is ever-present. With the light of each new day I remember the light of days past and with it the memories of Beth. The pictures I have can show me the smile I miss. I can remember the day it was taken, where it was taken and why. I remember what she said to me and I remember how I felt looking at her, being with her and being in love.
More vivid is the feelng of her near me. The feeling that your senses supply even when you're not looking for it. The nearness, the touch and the quiet assurance that comes from being with someone who has changed your life in profound ways. If I close my eyes I can feel her, still there, chatting about her day, laughing at my bad jokes and then, for a second and sometimes more, I can feel her slip her hand under my arm and take my hand. She's not so far away.

I got up and I made myself a cup of coffee and sat at the desk and wondered what I could say that I haven't already said. Then I realized that words aren't neccessary. That all I need to do is shut my eyes and she's there. She always was and she always will be.

My New Home

2007-01-08T07:14:00.000-05:00

I just took possession of my first Mac computer. I feel like I've been locked out of my own house. So I'm writing this from the front porch, I guess, waiting for someone to come along and let me in.
As I was packing up the old piece of junk that has been home for the last two years, I couldn't help but feel sad. Despite the fact that the fans made more noise than the fire alarm, and that I could shower and shave in the time it took to boot, I knew that computer inside out.
I don't know that Mac users understand the comfort that comes from being able to crack open your computer to diagnose and fix anythinng that begins to malfunction. I've been told that I won't have to worry about things like that anymore. I wouldn't know where to begin with this machine, anyway.

Anthropomorphism aside, I quite like the interface of the new machine while, at the same time, I feel like I'm sitting in the audience as a magician performs his curious feats. I'm also more than a little nervous about being pressed into the Mac Army, wondering if I'm ready to shake hands and kiss babies on behalf of the other side. Please, God, don't make me preface everything I say with an "i".

My first and only concern, right now, is how to get around the Word problem. So far I can only look at the files I've transferred from the old boy. I can't even correct a simple spelling mistake on any thing I've written on the old machine. A quick look around the Internet has confirmed my suspicions about Mac's abilities with Word. Either I fork over a huge sum of money to buy Word for Mac or I figure out how to get around the problem. I have yet to find anyone inviting me to submit something in a format that Mac recognizes. Granted, I've only been looking for a day. I've got a nickle for anyone who can help.

All that aside, I'm coming to appreciate the economy of function I've found here in Mac Land. For the first hour or two I was held captive by the vibrant animation of the icons as I opened and closed applications just to watch them play around the screen. Then, once I discovered how to turn them off (seems like such a waste of resources to a PC boy, like me), I settled down to the meat and potatoes. I've got a long way to go before I'm Mac material, but there's a whole new world out there and I'll be damned if I'm going to spend anymore time with my head inside a computer case, trying to figure out how why my sound card won't do what it's supposed to do. Now let's see if I can get this thing to publish this. My new Mac seems loath to let me know why some things don't work. It just smirks at me when I ask. I may have to teach it a lesson or two about disclosure.

Mmmm. The spell check doesn't work.

Gilligan and Me

2006-12-29T07:20:00.000-05:00

I listened to a show on the radio last night about post-modern literature. I have to admit that I have no idea what post-modern literature is because I’m not that well educated nor do I know much about literature and its divisions. As it is, all I can tell you about literature is that Shakespeare wrote plays. Otherwise, I have no idea what’s been going on or which category a particular author falls into.

I looked up Post-modern literature on Wikipedia and they tell me that Douglas Copeland is a Post-modernist writer. It took me three years to read Douglas Copeland’s ‘Generation X’, and it was supposed to be about me. I don’t remember much of it, though.
I also read that Dave Eggers published ‘A heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius’ in 2000 but I still haven’t gotten around to reading it yet. Actually, until a short while ago I’d never heard of him.
It’s fair to say that I don’t pay much attention to what’s going on around me.

The radio program was a piece written by a post-modernist author whose name I can’t remember. My brain sieve has a gaping whole in it, I guess.
It seems that in the never ending journey of self-discovery, we, as a people, have mastered self-referential satire and assigned it a domain. I got worried for a minute, wondering if I had ever written any self-referential satire. I wondered, then, if it might be a bad thing. I wondered that if I ever accidentally write self-referential satire, must I call myself a post-modernist? I hope not. If so, I’d have to do some research on what it means and care, or something.

I copied this from Wikipedia, after searching for Post-modernism.

In a nutshell, the pro-postmodernism argument runs that economic and technological conditions of our age have given rise to a decentralized, media-dominated society in which ideas are simulacra and only inter-referential representations and copies of each other, with no real original, stable or objective source for communication and meaning. Globalization, brought on by innovations in communication, manufacturing and transportation, is often cited as one force which has driven the decentralized modern life, creating a culturally pluralistic and interconnected global society lacking any single dominant center of political power, communication, or intellectual production.

The thing I find interesting about this is that it’s only two sentences.

I got this one from the Wiki posting on Post-Modern literature.

Neo-Existential writers have also focused more on the post-modern end of Neo-Existentialism, creating stream of consciousness narratives that depict the confusion of post-modern, neo existential angst, as well as the bitter resignation to a blind, uncaring corporate world which alienates individuals from their own individual meaning so that rather than becoming to be "something" (the actualization of their potential), they become rather "nothing" (by the disvaluing and disregard of their potential they are never able to actualize themselves in society as productive members of a process directed towards an end), they become a mere tool to be used and dispensed with as needed.

That’s one sentence. I bet the same guy wrote both of these entries. He writes a long sentence, that guy.

Now, where was I going with this?

Oh, yeah. I like sitting through the trailers when I rent a movie so that when someone brings one up in a conversation I can pretend that I’ve seen it just by mentioning a scene or two. It’s not quite lying, and it’s better than having to watch all those movies. Am I a post-modernist or am I just lazy? And, in the end, does anyone, apart from the people who produce long winded and confusing radio documentaries, care one way or the other?

I feel like Gilligan when he discovered that the Skipper, the Professor and Ginger were kidnapped by aliens and replaced with body-doubles intent on wreaking havoc on the island. Luckily, Gilligan was just too stupid and the aliens gave up in frustration.

A Vince Guaraldi Christmas

2006-12-09T11:08:00.000-05:00

For so many of us Christmas isn't complete unless we can revisit some of the music we grew up listening to at this time of year. For me the only album that gets a complete and attentive listen is Vince Guaraldi's A Charlie Brown Christmas.

There's a story about how the pairing of an up and coming jazz pianist and the creator of one of America's favourite cartoons came about. Apparently after hearing a live Guaraldi track on the radio, Peanuts creator Charles Schultz told his driver to turn around and take him to a nearby club so that he could meet the musician. What came from that meeting was a soundtrack, recorded in 1964, for Schultz's first Peanuts special, A Boy Named Charlie Brown. When Schultz began to put together a Christmas special, Guaraldi was the obvious choice. Since then the Peanuts gang and Guaraldi have been inseparable.

Of the album's twelve tracks, there are six interpretive renditions of familiar Christmas classics done like no other could have. O Tannenbaum is the opening track and takes off from the simple piano beginning, adding in Fred Marshall on bass and Jerry Granelli on drums, to become a swinging glide through a winter wonderland of be-bop and blues.
What Child Is This, Hark the Herald Angels Sing, Beethoven's Fur Elise, The Christmas Song (a peaceful piano solo) and the late addition of Greensleeves round out the traditional songs. These recordings, in my mind, rescue what could be derivative manipulations simply because Guaraldi handles them with care, revealing the beauty of each song as might have been intended.

But it's the original compositions that raise the hair on the back of my arms. My Little Drum, with it's syncopated drumming, adding a smattering of Guaraldi's Latin influences, along with the drone of Guaraldi's left hand evokes a tension that melts away with the children's chorus of "oohs". And it never fails to make me think of the Peanuts kids with their heads raised to the sky.
Linus and Lucy makes another appearance here, the original done for the 'Boy Named Charlie Brown' album and is the first song anyone thinks of when you say 'Peanuts'.
After that the instrumental Christmas Time is Here takes us on a meditative stroll, later accompanied by children's voices, through a landscape of twinkling piano and shuffling rhythms.
The two tracks that stand out for me, though, are Skating and Christmas is Coming. Skating is an upbeat trip-along that evokes memories of unblemished ice surfaces and falling snow. It's full of joy and wonder and you can hear in Guaraldi's playing his sense of humour and his love of simple melodies and rhythm.
If Christmas is Coming doesn't make your feet move, you're dead. It's upbeat and bouncy, while the middle blues progression will make you bust out the air-bass guitar. These two tracks alone are worth the price of admission.

Christmas is a time when it's not hard to find maudlin renditions of carols belted out by this year's newest singing sensation but for my money there's no need to buy another Christmas album if you already own this one. Get it out and listen to it.
You might not be able to separate the music from the visions of the Peanut's kids it evokes but that doesn't hinder the fun, the joy or the wonder at hearing Vince Guaraldi's A Charlie Brown Christmas. For me it brings home what Christmas is all about.

People Get Ready

2006-12-07T10:34:00.000-05:00

With the finality of a slap to the face, winter has arrived in the capital. And I find myself a little unprepared, as usual. This occurred to me this morning as I tried to scrape the windows of the car with a stick and was late for an appointment. Yeah, winter has arrived.
Having waited for the indisputable truth in the form of icy roads and freezing temperatures, just in case winter might have been waylaid in Manitoba, I held off gathering up the supplies that any straight shooting Ontarian needs to survive until the spring.
Judging from the fifty-fifty appearance of the average person on the street, half wearing fur and hip boots, the others, running shoes and wind breakers, I know I’m not alone. A lot of us just need to see winter to believe it’s actually here. Call it denial or stupidity, it really amounts to the same thing doesn’t it?
It’s time for the box of emergency supplies to go back in the car. Luckily, I forgot to take it out last spring, so the extra blanket, pocket warmers and salt/sand mixture are still taking up most of my trunk space. It’s the other things, like a good pair of boots, a pair of gloves and a scarf that I need now.
It’s also time to remember how to drive on snowy roads, how to walk on icy sidewalks and how to smile when your face is frozen in place. And above all it’s important to remember that we’re all in the same boat. Ice boat. Whatever.
The disposition of the average person goes straight into the toilet in winter so I think it’s important to do a little extra work in front of the mirror before you head off to work. This will do you some good, I promise.
As you stand, blearily looking at your mottled and pale complexion, your toothbrush half in and half out of your mouth, imagine that it’s forty below outside. Imagine that the car is buried under four feet of snow and that your breath will likely freeze into little clouds of ice as you meander your way around snow banks as high as your head. Prepare yourself mentally for it. You’ll almost always be pleasantly surprised when you do go outside, if you don’t just give up and go back to bed.

This is the list of things I need to make winter a little more bearable:

1. Long underwear. There’s nothing sexy about these things but the same thing could be said for frostbite.

2. New hat, new mitts, new scarf. And they don’t have to match contrary to what my mother might tell you.

3. A bottle or two of Jack Daniels. Actually lowers your body temperature but I’ll be drunk and won’t notice that my toes are gone.

4. Firewood. I don’t have a fireplace but it might be necessary to improvise at some point. Remember the ice storm?

5. A steady succession of nubile young women to keep me warm. Actually, this does a body good at any time of year.

6. A list of emergency numbers. Dial-a-bottle, Season’s Pizza, etc.

7. One of those big rescue dogs. Always a good idea to have fresh meat on hand.

8. A flare gun. I probably won’t need one but I still think they’re cool. Might be useful to start the fire.

I’m sure I’ll come up with a few more things to add as the winds pick up and sky is blotted out by blizzards but that should be a good start.
Like I said, if you prepare for the worst then winter’s not so bad. Of course it hasn’t actually gone much below freezing yet but you can bet it’s coming. Maybe I should get two dogs.

Parade of Liars

2006-11-28T08:04:00.000-05:00

The line of cars was endless. Hundreds of them, bumper to bumper, heading south and out of the city. I wish I could show you a picture of it because it wasn't until I saw it for myself, in the early darkness, with all those headlights pointed at me, that I realized that Ottawans don't give a damn about environmental concerns.
You tell me. Nearly every car I passed had only one person in it. I guess the discomfort that people feel at waiting to be picked up somewhere outside the city to carpool in to a central location has something to do with the loss of freedom of movement. It could be that we're lousy conversationalists first thing in the morning or that being twenty minutes early is too much to sacrifice for the overall health of our environment.
It could be that the word environment has lost its meaning because we say it over and over again, in magazines, on the radio and in newspapers.
Perhaps we should talk about ecosystems because while the effects of hundreds of cars trundling past seems a little removed from our concerns about global warming and fresh water supplies, we certainly don't need to go far to discover what effect this has on ecosystems like the Rideau river.
I know a few people who live along that river and they say it's been too polluted to swim safely in for years. The only thing left is to put the boat in and roar up and down the river and admire the perfect lawns and enormous houses that have supplanted the flora and fauna.
The reason I know that most of us feel some sort of embarrassment about our disregard for environmental issues is that no one will come right out and say, "I don't give a shit about the environment if it means I have to give up my car, my boat, my green lawn and my right to manipulate the world for my own purposes."
It's okay. You can do it. It beats mouthing the words, in sync with the leftist, save the whale do-gooders while privately and actively destroying our resources.
C'mon, I'm a hypocrite too. I pretend to care about recycling and then throw tin cans in the garbage. And then I act outraged when George Bush criticizes Kyoto. Join the revolution. It's all about giving up the pretense that you care.
If you're wondering who would join such a cause, just wander outside the city at five o'clock and take a seat at the side of the road. Then watch the parade of liars pass by who will, with one mouth, deride big industry for their lack of concern for the environment and with the other mouth defend their right to consume, pollute and destroy their own ecosystems because they feel uncomfortable and inconvenienced.
It will make you feel sick, too.

Hello? Is This Mr. and/or Mrs. Thompson?

2006-11-24T08:23:00.000-05:00

I may find myself alone when I say that I feel sorry for telemarketers. I feel sorry for them because they have to call at intentionally awkward times, stick doggedly to their scripts, and can't allow themselves to respond to the ridicule that most people heap upon them. A lot of people hate their jobs but very few of us have jobs that make people hate us.

With that in mind, I try to act civilized when the phone rings right after that first bite of dinner. The callers have quotas and, as one telemarketer told me (presumably that call wasn't recorded), that each call must last a minimum amount of time for them to be paid. Whether that's true or not I haven't been able to verify. When their spiel is done I politely tell them I'm not interested and hang up. I haven't always been so considerate.

I grew up passing cold callers on to my mother. At first, I passed them to her because I wasn't the one with my hands on the family purse, but after listening to my mother decimate caller after caller it became something of a game to me. My mother was a woman who didn't appreciate her time being wasted by telemarketers and she had no problem explaining that to these salesmen and women, using some extremely colourful language. She would hang up the phone and look at me, waiting for an explanation, and all I could do was laugh.

It wasn't until I did some volunteering with the Canadian Cancer Society that I learned what it's like to be on the other end of the line with someone, like my mother, who resents the intrusion. I accepted the chore, believing that everyone understands what an important function these people play in the fight against a truly horrific disease. I learned quickly that compassion is in short supply when your dinner is growing cold.

As a result of the growing number of calls I have been getting lately, I looked into how to get myself off these call lists. It isn't easy. The most straightforward advice comes from Junkbusters.com

All you have to do is send a letter, templates of which you can find on their website, and send it to anyone you've ever given personal information to, asking to be removed from their mailing lists. This includes, incredibly, your bank, your credit card company, the hydro company, the water company, the cable company, the stores you shop in, the business' you order supplies from and the dating service you use to drum up dates. And when you're returning all those Christmas gifts, and filling out those long and intrusive return forms that most business' use to deter people from trying it again, don't forget to tell them that you don't want your information sold. Whew. Did I forget anybody?

The buying and selling of personal information to telemarketers has been going on since Nadji Tehrani trademarked the word Telemarketing. Mr. Tehrani discovered, in the seventies, that convincing people to advertise in his trade magazines was cheaper and easier if he did it over the phone. As the venerable grand-daddy of annoyance, he has a special place in my heart.

The CRTC has a page which explains how the entire process runs. Go here to fill out a form from the Canadian Marketing Association to have your information removed from marketing lists, although I have to express some doubt about giving these people any more ammunition. It's a bit like hiring a fox to guard your hen house.

In the event that none of these tactics work, I have a plan. It involves asking my mother a teach a class on phone etiquette when dealing with telemarketers. It won't be pretty. I think she's actually made up some of the more colourful descriptors I've heard her use, so you'll need a pad and pen to write these down. Unfortunately the class won't have anything to do with spam. Even my mother hasn't been able to come up with a solution for that particular form of torture.

All's Well That Ends Well

2006-11-15T10:26:00.000-05:00

I came across an unfamiliar term the other day. Geoengineering. For those of you who already know what it is, try to take it easy on me. I'm new to the subject.

In the broadest sense, I guess geoengineering is a word that describes what might be our last chance of surviving beyond the end of this century. I think it's also a term that might show up in the platforms of near-future politicians, as the question is put to a vote. It's probably going to be the cause of our ultimate destruction, if you believe the dire warnings the environmentalists are handing out, and if we do nothing we'll be in the same boat anyway, say the supporters.

It is becoming generally accepted that our efforts to reduce green-house gas emissions is a case of too little too late. There have been a number global summits to investigate various methods to expedite the cooling of the planet and our greatest minds have come up with some astounding ideas. The crazier sounding initiatives range from seeding the atmosphere to launching giant mirrors into orbit and dumping iron into the oceans, all in an effort to turn down the temperature of the planet. Supporters tells us that these tactics might be the only way we will live to see the next century. Detractors point to our less that illustrious history of managing a world wide eco-system and suggest that we'll likely just finish off the planet faster than we could under normal circumstances. And then there are the conspiracy theorists who claim that most of the wild and woolly ideas that have surfaced over the last half century are already well under way.

The reaction to these ideas, for the average guy like me, ranges from complete suspicion to wishful thinking. If it is true that CO2 emissions will cause a considerable warming of the planet, then I suppose we should try to stop it. If it's too late to stop it what do we do? Do we kiss the kids goodnight and make one last call to Florida before the state disappears under the waves, or do we agree to tackle the problem from a fresh point of view.

It's no surprise to anyone that we have made a mess of things, but do we try to fix it or do we put our heads between our knees? Will we finally accept that we've been managing the planet badly and take steps to preserve what we have or will we wade quietly into the ocean and leave what's left for the next species to rise to dominance.

Let me point out that science and science fiction have been pointing to former idea for years. The idea of colonizing other planets, of manipulating their atmospheres, to terra-form and settle down somewhere else has been in our collective imagination for a long, long time. So why not do it here, while we have the chance? Or do we commit to scrubbing down the moon so that when this place goes up we've got somewhere else to go? Does the idea of living in a bubble disturb you so much that you'd go willingly down the road to extinction?

Of course the most important question of all is who do we believe? I have to admit that my faith in anything that either governments or politicians have to say is so thin that they could tell me my house was on fire and I wouldn't even bother to look for a hose.

So, here is a series of questions that I find myself lacking enough information on to give an intelligent answer to:

1. Who's right? Will the Kyoto Accord be enough? Or do I start saving for a radiation suit?

2. What can we do? Do we accept our mission to take over perpetual management of the atmosphere and deal with the repercussions later? Or do we hold a public gathering and sigh a collective "Oh shit." to the universe.

3. Does this golf cart make me look fat? And how many hours will it take me to get to New York at 35 kilometers an hour?

My answer to all of the above is "How the hell should I know?" I've got more than enough on my plate. The car needs new brakes, I haven't even thought of starting my Christmas shopping and if my neighbour doesn't stop walking around in her high heels at three in the morning I'm really gonna lose it.

A Surprised Woman

2006-11-08T09:17:00.000-05:00

Maryon Pearson, the wife of former Prime Minister Lester B. "Mike" Pearson, once said that "Behind every successful man is a surprised woman." Considering his accomplishments, in and out of the political arena, one wonders what there is to be surprised about.

While he was, reportedly, a humble man it was his skill as a mediator that made him so successful as a diplomat, the Minister of Foreign Affairs and, later, as the President of the United Nations General Assembly.
Pearson's role as a diplomat enlarged Canada's reputation in the arena of global politics and it was his creation of the United Nations Emergency Force that averted a war during the Suez Canal crisis. For that he won Canada's first Nobel Peace prize in 1957. The blue berets worn by peacekeeping troops all over the world reflect his role as the father of modern peacekeeping and, at the time, cemented his status in diplomatic circles.
It is ironic that his reputation as a peaceful man became a hindrance when, at last, he became Prime Minister of his country in 1963. In a poll conducted later, most people considered him a better diplomat than politician. During his time as Prime Minister he was often at odds with public sentiment and the continuing embarrassments and scandals that plagued his party marked him as ineffective, something which his politically savvy opponent John Diefenbaker mercilessly attacked him for.

Despite a personality that was, perhaps, unsuited to politics, and his five year stint at the head of the struggling minority Liberal government, Pearson was able to push through legislation that defines this country to this day. The Canada Pension Plan, universal health care, government funded student loans, a new Canadian flag, the model of today's immigration system and official bilingualism are all remnants of Pearson's idealism and perseverance.

Pearson's personal accomplishments in diplomacy, for which he is fondly remembered, and his tenure as Prime Minister, for which he is criticized as having been lack-luster and publicly awkward, is perhaps why, behind him, stood a surprised woman. Maryon Pearson was vocal in her disappointment when her husband accepted the office of Prime Minister at a time when most men are thinking of retirement. Nonetheless, Pearson led this country until 1968, when he retired from politics and began to teach at Carleton University and to write his memoirs. Considering that few Prime Ministers come to office with such extraordinary credentials, it is perhaps not very surprising that fewer still will be remembered as being truly great Canadians.

Winter Wonderland

2006-11-05T09:00:00.000-05:00

Every year, around the first snowfall, I promise to dig out my skates and make some use of the Rideau Canal. For the better part of the last twenty years I have lived within walking distance of the world's longest outdoor skating rink but despite this I can count, on one hand, the number of times I've been on it. I don't handle the cold weather very well and it has been suggested to me, on more than one occasion, that if I had something to do during the long months of winter, I wouldn't be such a miserable lout.

I have compared living in Ottawa, during the winter months, to the necessity of hibernation in the animal world. The long nights and short days, huddled around whatever source of heat you can find, poking the mountains of snow with a stick to locate the car, adding twenty pounds of clothing, preferably fur, every time you need to step outside and resigning yourself to being perpetually damp, despite the dry air, gives me, in my mind, the right to complain, often and loudly, that winter sucks. The remedy for this, according to my sadistic friends, is to find some form of entertainment that will take my mind off of it. And skating, according to the millions of people who descend on Ottawa every winter, to glide up and down the canal, sipping hot chocolate and munching on Beavertails, is a sure way to beat the season.

In the early nineteenth century, the British government, worried about our land hungry neighbours to the south, decided to construct a secure waterway, linking the port of Montreal to the mills in Kingston. It was thought that a canal system, running right through the dense and difficult terrain, would provide an easily defended supply line and construction began, after years of surveying, in 1827.

Of course, by the time it was done we didn't need it anymore.

So, with nothing better to do while they waited for warmer weather, a few adventurous sorts strapped a couple of blades to their feet and, in true Canadian fashion, built an industry out of their misfortune.

Ottawa is a town that loves its festivals and even I have to admit that the sight of the ice sculptures, the miles of twinkling lights, the smell of wood fires and the faces of so many awe-struck tourists can inspire a bit of nationalistic pride in my frozen heart.

So, here we go again.

I promise that this year I will suffer the pain of balancing on two impossible narrow steel blades, suck up the cold-induced aching of my joints and fingers, hide my embarrassment at being circled by roving bands of teenagers, deriding my inferior skating abilities and enjoy the canal, not as it was originally intended, perhaps, but as it is currently acclaimed, in an effort to appease all those people who would normally have to put up with me being crabby and miserable for the next four months.

You never know. If I can rediscover my childlike enthusiasm for the season, I might be able to emerge from my self-imposed solitude, next spring, with a smile and a new found delight in what otherwise might be a hopelessly long sojourn through that dark suffering of the soul we call winter.

A Mighty Wind

2006-11-03T14:08:00.000-05:00

I grew up being force fed the standardized Bob Dylan story, learned of his triumphs and trials at the hands of both the industry and the fans, been forced to nod in mock-appreciation, so as to avert bloodshed, whenever one of his songs came on the radio and tried, oh lord how I tried, to keep a straight face every time a rabid fan quoted his lyrics to me with their eyes rolled back in their heads in an orgasmic reaction to his nearly non-sensical ramblings. Yeah, I know who Bob Dylan is.

And while I will defend the tone of the above comments I would also like to point out that I do like some of his recorded songs. I won't, however, go to see him in concert again. I was there, the last time he was in town and I'd like to tell you that I have never been more angered by a musician's contempt for his fans. I suppose you could make a case for any number of reasons why he sucks so badly in concert but an excuse is still an excuse. The show lasted for close to two hours, I was told later, but after about forty-five minutes of confused and marble-mouthed renditions I'd had enough. It was a wall of confusion and even when I did recognize a song, straining as I was to block out the incoherent noise that seemed to come from everywhere on the stage, it was only because I managed to catch a phrase or two of the lyrics, which were the closest thing to scripture for so many of my friends, at the time.

You didn't ask for my opinion but here it is anyway. Don't bother going to the Scotia Bank Centre on the 5th. In this day and age, when the majors are scrambling to find even a single that merits the millions pumped into them, I'm not surprised that they still allow this guy to make records. His reputation and his near god-like status means a sure thing when it comes to making money.

Should he stop? Hell, no. I need the constant reminder of his sad-sack presence in order to keep fresh the perversions of the music business. The times may have been a changin' when he first picked up a guitar, but since then time seems to have come to a complete and irrevocable standstill when it comes to what passes for quality in arena rock.

If you do go, pay attention to Dave Grohl and company. New? Subversive? Nope, but a damn good rock band and that's really all I"m looking for.