Get Off My Lawn!

Dancing.

2011-10-11T22:04:00.000-07:00

I have been trying really hard to dance.

They used to tell me that life is like a dance. You sway and shimmy to the music of life and artfully make your way through to the other side. Grace, passion and beautiful expression your answer to the darkness that threatens.

Old is this darkness. The fear sailors must have felt on the shores of Ithaca on the eve of another journey in the days before they knew the world. Can you imagine coming home with Odyseus after twenty years of war, sorcery, monsters and hardship? Can you imagine how, having survived the unknown, that you must venture forth again at the request of your master and king?

Yes, the darkness is all around us still. Ignorance, aggresion, re-education, genocide, mountains of skulls, hunger, thirst, apathy, injustice everywhere. Evil haunts us still and we must sail familiar waters in order to guarantee our own small survival.

And you are supposed to dance. You are supposed to look to your art for the light that will show you the path through the haunted woods.

I can't do it anymore. Life is not a dance. Art is not how I shall save myself from the grasp of evil and temptation. Sorry everybody. I have tried. But it is now clear to me that the only answer to some problems is to kick it in the crotch.

Yup. I'm going to have to fight sometimes. You can keep dancing if you want to. I can't hear the music. I shall wrestle what I need from life. If I have to, I will bloody noses and break bones. I am not above hitting someone in the throat if I have to.

Play time is over.

Humbubba

2011-09-20T18:41:00.000-07:00

Softly amidst the cedar and spruce must we tread. Every step will surely crack something. Defilers and despoilers, if allowed to walk where the boardwalk ends we will cause irrevocable damage to the biome. Mustn't disturb the ground, they say.

Humbubba has returned to this earth. Gilgamesh and Enkidu have been forgiven for their careless and mighty sin and the Gods of water and sky have given Humbabba back to us. He is here, I tell you, weaving through the branches and trunks, carful to not be seen lest some other adventuresome duo bury their bronze axes in his sacred hide.

Can you blame him? Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice...

Humbubba has returned. His will can be seen in the signs and the brochures cautioning the tourists to stay on the trail. His influence can be discovered in the voices of the protestors and lawyers. this time, things will be different. And yet, he has barely had time to begin. Humbabba has not begun to combat the larger evils of industrialization, market demands and government logging quotas. There is so much to do and so much time has been lost. Poor Humbubba.

After all, it was not through his negligence that the great cedars of Lebannon were harvested to extinction. He fought hard against the vagaries of human arrogance. But strong enough he was not. And with him fell the trees by the thousands.

And if he fails here? If some rifle wielding maniac with God's blood in his veins and whisky in his pocket flask decides that mighty Humbabba would look good as a carpet by the fireplace and guns him down in the name of glory?

We shall all fall with Humbubba.

2011-09-11T11:43:00.000-07:00

Everyone has a little box or bag of assorted screws.

In my case, most of my screws are loose.

But I do have a little Tupperware container filled with screws.

The problem is that you rarely need one screw. You usually need at least two.

New coat hooks = two screws.

DIY compost bin = twenty four screws.

Fix Dresser = four screws.

So we rummage through our respective receptacles for fasteners trying to find screws that match. And seldom do they match in the cornucopia of simple machines.

The secret to success is this:

Find the one screw you need. Install it ere it wanders away. Search a bit for its mate. Give up and forget about the project. Have a cup of coffee on the deck, small and cluttered with your obsolete snow shovels as it is. Read a little. Do NOT get ready for work tomorrow. Carry on with your Sunday.

And lo. There shall it be. Right where you never thought to look while you are sorting through which Guitar Magazine issue has the review for the new Foo Fighters album (probably the one with Dave Grohl on the cover).

In short, my brethren Questors. Seek and you will find only frustration, loss and grief. Seek not, and you shall find.

Now go hang that coat rack.

Happy Sunday.

Hi there!

2011-08-25T21:57:00.000-07:00

When I was but a lad, I went to a major University.

Well, major by Canadian standards.

This major University was particularly renowned for its fine arts programs. I was a fine arts major.

Of its fine arts programs, this major University was particularly renowned for its theatre program. I was a theatre major.

I had to compete against an awful lot of people to get into this program. They accepted one hundred students in first year. They accepted sixteen people into second year performance. It was extremely difficult to look at all my fellow students as potential competitors for one of those coveted sixteen spots.

I tried really hard to do what everyone wanted me to do. I wrote the best essay I could write, I went to ensemble rehearsals at ungodly hours, I worked crews...

I was seventeen years old.

Near Christmas, every first year student went to see a professor to get official feedback about how they were doing in the program. I sat in a 10' by 10' cell of a room with my assigned professor. She was a dancer by trade. She asked me how I was doing. I said:

"... Uh... I don't know. I don't really feel like I fit in. My hair, my clothes, the way I... I mean I grew up in a place where if you look someone in the eye, you're saying hello. Here, if you look someone in the eyes, you're trying to buy hash. I just..."

She interrupted me. "The best piece of advice I can give you is this. Humour is a trap. You use it to hide behind and are very often not a positive contributor to group and ensemble work because of the inauthenticity with which you shield yourself from anything genuine."

"Uh..." I said.

Around the end of that semester, I gave in and made friends with some of the Physical Education majors in my residence. I drank a lot of beer. I went on a lot of adventures. I broke laws. I laughed uncontrollably and hysterically while others broke laws. I have fond memories. Then I grew up.

I am not an actor. I have not been involved in a theatre production since leaving that fine institution more than twenty years ago.

Though, I remember another piece of advice I got from my stagecraft professor.

"You are all very young. If you want to be successful as an actor...

quit now.

There are just not many parts written for young, good looking actors. And there are so many young, good looking actors. If you want to act, quit. Go and get a job. Live. Get some real world experience under your belt. Come back to acting when you are middle aged. There are more parts for middle aged actors, and there aren't as many middle aged actors out there to compete with. Plus, working construction a few summers will give you plenty of experience from which to draw when you do want to express an honest character."

I think my time is coming. If only I could get some time off work so I could audition for Broadway...

Stories from afar.

2011-06-30T20:20:00.000-07:00

"Hey! Mother******s."

"Wake up" said Chad. he nudged me with his elbow and my drunken mind registered the situation.

The two of us were on leave from the base and had been drinking. Heavily. We were walking back to barracks. Two locals sat on their parked car near the side of the road and had been waiting for some of us pseudo-military types to walk by. They were looking for a fight.

I held up my hands and looked off to the side. "We're not looking for a fight. just wanna go home." One of them called me a chicken**** and bluff charged me a couple of times.

Chad was not being so diplomatic. I looked over and saw him pushing the other fellow into the ditch. Chad was getting ready to start pounding him. I looked back to the fellow facing me in time for his foot to scrape my face in a lame attempt at a jumping kick. It didn't end up leaving a mark.

"Chad!" I ignored my opponent and moved over to the other two. Chad had him down and was wrestling his way on top of him, pinning him with his knees so his hands would be free. I grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and pulled him off. We started walking toward base.

They called us all sorts of horrible names. Chad yelled back a few times. I just kept pulling him on toward barracks and safety.

The next day was a work day. 4am, garbage cans being pounded with sticks as a standard wake-up call, run, eat in 5 minutes, run some more, clean your boots... that kind of stuff. there was a moment when we were all sitting and cleaning something or other in traditional army style. Chad was telling the story to our section commander.

"...They jumped us and this one guy, he tried to wrestle me down. I was pretty drunk but..."

"What were you doing?" the corporal asked me.

"Trying not to get into a fight. I hauled Chad and we got out of there. No sense getting hauled away by cops over local drunk kids."

My section commander grew tense. Angry. He spoke very quietly and looked at me with complete disdain.

"Officially, you stay out of trouble. But if someone jumps you... you f***ing tune em. Christ, what is wrong with you?"

I was never a very good soldier.

Stories of Colonial British Columbia

2011-06-23T10:08:00.000-07:00

I got off the plane to shockingly different weather than when I boarded. I was not prepared at all. I wore jeans, a t-shirt and a light fleece jacket and needed to survive -28C. Seeing as I had started to shave my head, a toque would have been smart.

Disembarking onto the tarmac meant a two minute walk to the heated terminal. Everyone was already crowded around the luggage carousel #2 and I joined them. The buzzer rang, and carousel #1 began to spew forth luggage. The crowd mooed and shuffled to the other side and began to grumblingly sort through the offerings of the baggage handling system. It took me some time to retrieve my one backpack. I resolved to never check my luggage again and I made my way outside.

There was no lineup for taxis like you would find at most airports. You had to stand in a gaggle and jostle for the next one. The cabs weren't lined up either. They were about three minutes apart, which wreaked havoc on the the patience of the crowd and on my poor, uncovered head. People with cell phones were busy calling the cab company and trying to order a taxi. Every taxi that showed up, people would crowd around and try to get in. But the driver would keep his doors locked and open his window calling the name of the person for which he was dispatched. Everyone else complained and tried to ask him when their taxi would arrive. The cabbie, like the best of politicians, was noncommittal. I eventually got a cab.

"Where to?"

"Landmark Hotel on the highway." I answered. I had never been there. In fact, this would be my first night in this cold city. So far, I was realizing that I would need better clothes and should probably keep a cell phone charged so that I could call a cab directly from the airport. I wondered if you could call ahead and have them waiting. I marveled that it worked that way and that the cab company, one of two companies that operated in the city, couldn't figure out that it could do better. But I couldn't think about it too much. This cabbie wanted to talk.

"Where you from?" he asked.

"Mostly Vancouver Island" I answered.

"God's country that is. I used to drive cab in Nanaimo. You ever live there?"

"Yes," I said. "I went to school there for a couple of years."

"This is downtown." the cabbie volunteered. "They call this section 'the Hood'. You want to stay away from this area. A lot of drug addicts here."

I didn't answer. I have lived in a few cities. I understand the concept of areas where drugs are more prevalent. There was something unsavory about this cabbie trying to teach me about this new city. I am not sure if I can explain it well now.

We pulled up to the hotel. It looked seedy. There was course gravel all over the sidewalk and road. The cold wind blew dust into the air. The sky itself was an unfriendly shade of grey.

"Thanks," I said. I gave the man a twenty dollar bill and told him to keep the change. "Is there a good spot to eat close by?"

"Sure. There's a restaurant right here in the hotel that's pretty good. Go there myself for breakfasts on Sundays."

"OK. Thanks again."

"Hey," he said, as if forgetting something. "Don't give money to the Indians. A lot of people do when they're new here. Just ignore them."

I didn't answer.

Hi!

2011-04-13T17:08:00.000-07:00

So I haven't died or anything. I... moved. Again. Yup. I bought a house and now I cannot get internet access. So blogging is going to have to hiate for a while. Hiate. I made that up. Nice huh? The story... is percolating. But right now I am not a writer. I am answering to my calling. ... and spending a lot of time in my new heavily forested back yard. Anyone need some cedar? Makes great kindling. Stop by if you're in the neighbourhood and I will share my fire. See you at the other end.

4

2010-11-21T22:20:00.000-08:00

During her walk home from the subway, Copper made great progress recovering from her “delusion” of the Man with White Teeth. It must have been a delusion. It had seemed so real. But it must have been a delusion. Say something enough times, it becomes true. But delusional episodes disturbed Copper a little.

Copper’s daydreaming came in three distinct categories. Category One daydreaming was intentional. She would be waiting, riding a bus, or sitting at home, and she would cast around for interesting looking people to populate her stories. Themes were usually adventurous or whimsical. Plot wasn’t a major concern. Character and tone was more important than a consistent story line in a Category One dream. A Category Two daydream differed very little from a Category One dream. The only difference was that a Category Two daydream came unbidden. they crept upon Copper when she was least expecting them to happen. They could interrupt a date with prospective boyfriend, they could tune Copper out of any conversation at any time. Some people thought it was like a seizure. Dr. Field thought a Category Two daydream was a petit mal seizure. But Copper knew better. People who experienced seizures lost time completely, she had read somewhere. Copper was aware that she was dreaming, that her attention span had somehow given out and that her mind had begun to wander. She played out little scenarios between the characters she projected on the people around her. Her brain was very active. It was not seizing.

A Category Three daydream was her favourite kind. It was not intentional, and it was not short or populated by people watching. Characters just came to her during a Cat 3. Outlandish characters, full and rounded. They had histories and lives, backgrounds and subtexts which it seemed she needed to discover rather than invent. These totally imaginary people that came to her during a Cat 3 completely took over her attention for hours. They told her stories.

The Man with the White Teeth was not a Cat 3, she was sure. There was something ineffable about him. Something hard to put one’s finger on. He had been... real. Real in a sense that Copper had never experienced before. He was not like a character, No, the best word to describe the phenomenon that was the Man with the White Teeth... Well the first word that popped into Copper’s head was “harbinger.” She was not sure where she had heard that word before. But she decided that, from now on, she would refer to the Man with White Teeth as the Harbinger. Fewer syllables anyway.

At first, thinking that delusions probably were a serious issue, Copper resolved to go back on her meds. Perhaps the Harbinger was an escalation of the chronic depression that Dr. Field had been talking about. He had suggested the possibility of a few other unmentionable psychological conditions that could manifest themselves in delusions. Maybe he was right. Maybe she should have been taking all those pills after all.

But by the time she got to her apartment and had put the kettle on, Copper’s mind had already moved past worrying about the Harbinger or Dr. Field. Instead, she was allowing her mind to wander. She steeped her tea, sat on her couch and stared out of her window. The faded paint on her walls bothered her a little. She had a Cat 1 about a burglar breaking in and redecorating for her. He broke in in the dark while she was not home. He brought a tightly packed bag full of tools. He measured, performed amazing feats of carpentry and interior design, packed his things, left a flower in a tasteful vase on the table and was gone just as Copper entered the apartment. Copper delighted in the changes the burglar had left behind. The new paint was fantastic.

But when the tea was finished, the walls were still the same drab off-white they had been when Copper had moved in four years ago. A second cup of tea, and Copper sat down just as she sensed a Cat 3 coming on. She managed to cover herself with a blanket, her heat was not working properly. She sighed in anticipation and hoped this one would be pleasant. Maybe romantic.

Copper smiled. She became warm, imagined the sun on her face, and with a surprised delight, smelled cinnamon. A man sat with her. He was dressed in many colourful and expensive looking silks. He wore a golden plate about the size of a man’s hand around his neck. A bird of prey was stamped onto this oddly large pendant. He wore what Copper supposed must be a turban (keep in mind Copper did not know the difference between the varied headdresses of the many cultures of the world). Copper instantly loved this man as she would a favourite uncle. When he spoke, he used gentle tones and seemed to put effort into projecting earnest care. His accent was difficult for Copper to place.

“I am Rabban Bar Sawma. This is a strange place. You are strangely dressed. But I am a traveler. Strange dress affects me very little. I have traveled all my life in the service of my Master. He has sent me far. At his request, I walked the breadth of the world to carry his messages and do his work. He thought I would be best because I am a Christian, I speak many languages, and I have always been received favourably by Kings and Emperors. I have seen the pavilions and Ghers of Avagar, the court of the Master of the everything under the Eternal Blue Sky. His court travels as well, is never in the same place twice. It follows the spirit banner of the Ong Khan. I have seen the many oceans of the world. I have learned from the academics who inhabit the oldest cities. I have taken communion from the Pope, given communion to the King of England. I have walked the length of existence. And now, I am sent to you. I am here to offer you a story, young woman. To give you wisdom.

First. The Great are never to be trusted. There is always an agenda beyond what you can see. To serve Great Powers is to walk the path of the condemned. If you are useful or talented, you will be sought and treated well. But make no mistake. You are expendable and, sometimes, you will be expended. Easily. You can be replaced. Dark and winding are the roads that the Great must walk. I blame them not. They are cursed with the responsibility and the burdens of all those who suffer because of the decisions they make. If by discarding me like a token on a game board, my Master can further the greater cause of freedom and leisure for more of the world, I am honoured to serve his purpose. But he does not tell me of his motives. In truth, in all my services to him, I only met him twice. I know that he cares not for me. Only for how I can serve him. If I am ever more valuable to him dead than alive, I will be dead. If your sense of duty outweighs your sense of self preservation, as mine does, this will be acceptable to you. If you cannot exist with the possibility that your superiors may sacrifice you to further their own political ends, do not serve the Great. Instead, you must be Great. There will come a time when you must choose.

Second, a journey awaits. As in any journey, preparations must be made. At first, you will not want to go. But you will. You will have to. The anticipation will be more enjoyable than the travel itself. It is always so. The key to a successful journey is balance. Prepare as best you can. If at all possible, live by a carefully planned itinerary. But also plan for contingency. And when contingencies fail, be ready to adapt to any situation that may arise. It is good to plan. But do not slave yourself to it so much that you cannot recognize when it is time to abandon all plans. Beware highwaymen. They do not always wear masks.

When I was a boy, my family was very poor. I stole to survive. I was a good thief. The armies of my Master were preceded by emissaries. He sent embassies to the leaders of my people. They brought gifts and riches from many far away lands. They promised that a peaceful partnership would benefit everyone. But the emissaries demanded that tribute be sent to my Master, that they acknowledge Him as their Emperor as His ancestors were honoured in times before.

My people were stupid. They took the gifts, mutilated the faces of the emissaries and of the caravaneers that had brought goods to give and to trade. They took the animals and wagons and spurned the embassy. They did not understand.

My Masters approach to war was that of a hunter, not of a soldier. Enemies were prey. They attacked and burned villages and farms in the surrounding countryside. All the refugees came to the Capitol for shelter. For more than a year, thousands of people fled to the walls of the city. There was little food for the poor or for the refugees. When the armies of my Master finally came to the walls of the city, disease and desertions had already defeated the defenders.

You would think that a conquering army would be harsh. You would think there would be rape and looting, fires that burned for days while wholesale slaughter rained blood in the streets. But my Master’s grandfather had ended those practices.

When surrender had been secured, the people left in the city were asked to leave for a period of three days. The armies of my Master spent those days counting, cataloging and securing for transport everything of value. They did not take slaves per se. They indentured people of talent to be sure. I was taken from my family because I had taught myself to read. I had a long life of usefulness ahead of me. I was given to a family loyal to my Master. In fact, I was adopted into that family and taught to serve the empire. They cared not that I worshipped the One God. I was expected to be loyal to the empire. All religions were held to that standard. I was treated well. I was educated. I was given a station in life equal to my talents. I was not doomed to poverty simply because I was not born to the aristocracy. I earned a place of respect and honour in the empire. The Golden Family listens to my advice. Even when they are deep in their cups full of fermented mare’s milk, I am heeded. Me. A peasant. A nobody. I will not forget that. Nor should you.

Now, I know you must have questions. You must be swift with them. I have not much time. My task complete, I will go back and do my Master’s bidding."

“Why do you come to me? Where do you come from? I do not know who you are? Do you represent something inside myself? Do you somehow draw on things I saw on TV or read in a book? You are precious to me. I live for these moments. But... I don’t know how something so sophisticated comes from me?”

Rabban Bar Sawma smiled kindly at Copper. He placed a hand on her forehead, like a father would to a young child. And he was gone.

Intermission

2010-11-20T23:44:00.000-08:00

So...

Novel? Doubtful. I am making this up as I go along. Some of the grammar, spelling, incorrect conventions of story telling are honest, some are intentional. Probably end up a short story. Or a deletion from the ol' blog archive.

And... frustration. I actually wrote a whole big section for instalment 4. I liked it. I lost it somehow. Closed without saving, saved to the wrong place... I dunno. Its not the first time. I've lost essays, reports, dissertations - all gone to oblivion because of spilled coffee, power outages... sudden need for fire starter.

So...

More to come. But not tonight.

3

2010-11-14T18:59:00.000-08:00

Weeks passed for Stahler in much the same way. A killing heat during the sunlight hours, a few hours travel during the brief night. He did manage to find beetles occasionally, which he ate. But no water was available anywhere. In a strange way, Stahler found this amusing. During his time in this odd world, he had learned to divine the secrets of a lizard’s dreams. He had learned to protect himself from arcane machinations of hedge wizards and story-book villains. He had learned a degree of control of the energy that came from the Source of All Things. Stahler probably qualified as a competent magician himself. He was blessed, or cursed some would say, with longevity and was unable to die by any physical means. For ten years, Stahler had thought he was going to be pulled into an unimaginable hell by the summoned demons of an enemy, would be dismembered and left to rot in an alley in some medieval city, would be attacked and eaten by some wild monster coming upon his camp in the night - there were many possible ways for this world to consume him. In the end, Stahler thought it was kind of funny that he might end up succumbing to something as mundane as thirst.

Stahler’s body, although undying, needed energy to function. He still needed to eat and drink in order to be able to move ahead. His strength was waning. The distance covered every night became shorter and shorter. Another two days, three at most, and Stahler was sure he would not be able to continue.

He should have known. This place was a place of stories. No story would end with something as anticlimactic as the protagonist dying of thirst in the desert. In a story, it would be a close call. In a story...

Just as Stahler was ready to lose hope, a thin line became visible on the horizon. Stahler knew immediately what that meant. Hills. No way that was a mirage. His lips parted in a grotesque smile. He definitely should have known. Too predictable really. He had gone through this kind of thing before. All hope lost, overwhelming odds, impending doom, then the sudden life preserver from a friend, from chance, or from some supernatural entity interested in his particular case.

Hills meant and end to this desert. Possibly villages, vegetation, animals, maybe a river. He was going to make it through this phase of his journey. A day and a half after spotting the thin line of salvation, Stahler could make out a ring of trees he might reach by nightfall. That probably meant an oasis. The trees grew closer and closer as he shuffled his way along the sand. By nightfall, as he had guessed. He came to the circle of trees.

Stahler had been right about the water. But water was not all that he found. As Stahler approached the trees and the still pond in the middle, he became aware of a figure seemingly waiting for him on the far side. Stahler stopped and stared at the man for a long time before moving around the pond. There was no point in avoiding a confrontation if that was the man was there for. Stahler needed water. he would need to rest. He needed this oasis. He knew from experience that this world offered nothing without purpose. This strange man would either attempt to stop him, would become a friend, or would point the way. Stahler sat in front of the man and tried to ascertain which it would be.

The man looked strong and tanned. He had dark eyes and black hair. He wore only a red and blue blanket and held an intricately carved staff in his left hand. The staff drew Stahler’s eye and demanded that he pay it close attention. It was carved of a deep brown wood. Its length was carved with animals, one on top of the other, kind of like a totem pole, Stahler imagined. But continuing to look, Stahler realized the animals carved into the staff were not simply resting on top of each other. They were intertwined, one running into the other. They weren’t all animals. Stahler recognized a manticore depicted in the process of devouring a goat. There were people too, finely wrought expressions of agony and fear on their faces as they attempted to escape being burned by the flames of some monstrosity Stahler could not name.

The strange man spoke. “If you seek to hunt in the hills, know that there is a mighty bird. This bird kills all who enter its territories. You must carry a staff carved from these trees and sleep with it between your legs, else this bird will come upon you as you sleep and will consume you. Heed my warning traveller as others have not.”

So he points the way, Stahler thought. Fine. Stahler drew his knife, stood and walked toward the closest tree.

Instalment 2

2010-11-09T23:24:00.000-08:00

The sky turned from black to the colour and consistency of a deep bruise. it would be wrong to say the night brought relief from the heat. Rather, the absence of the sun for six hours per night barely made travel possible. When the sun rose and hammered down on the wasted land, everything either hid or died. Even Stahler. Stahler stopped walking and sat on the bleached and lifeless sand. A small pack slid off his back and Stahler began preparing for the day.

Stahler carried very little. He quickly unpacked a blanket, some old tent poles, a large knife and a water bottle. The water bottle was almost empty and Stahler drank nothing now. He vaguely remembered thirst. The memory of it slid around the back of his mind and danced with the sister memory of clear, cold water running down his throat. But it was an old memory. Faded. Something Stahler had lost a long time ago, and mourned. He would have given anything to feel thirsty. To feel something. All that was left to Stahler now was purpose. That was enough to keep him alive and functioning.

The poles were inserted into the sand, the blanket spread over the poles to create a makeshift lean-to. The sky lightened to a mottled version of its former wounded colour. Stahler prepared to wait out the day. He had no food. He was aware that he needed sustenance. It had been many days since he had eaten anything. He resolved to snatch and eat the next beetle he saw scuttling along the sand. But it was getting close to daylight. The indigenous beetles, for lack of a better word, would be scarce, their business for the night completed long ago and shelter would have been secured for all the beetles by now. Still, Stahler watched the sand closely for an opportunity.

The sun peeked over the horizon and the sand caught fire. It began to heat up right away. Stahler’s shelter kept the direct sun off of him. Still he felt the sudden change in the environment. Much too hot for any reasonable living creature. It had been a hard adjustment for Stahler those many years ago, when first he had come to this land. He could only hope for an end some day. There had to be one. The Soothsayer had told him that if he continued toward the rising sun, he would find a way home.

Home. A thought that had virtually no meaning anymore. Stahler had no home anymore. The first few years had been desperate. He had quested and sought a way to his native land. All to no avail. There had been friends back then. Allies. Fellow stranded. Stahler picked up and looked at his knife. It had been a gift from Sage. Sage, as beautiful as her name implied wise. She had helped him. He had helped her. It was Sage who had learned of the Soothsayer in the City of Mirrors. Stahler stopped thinking of her before he remembered how she had been taken from him. All he had from her was this knife. And, of course, the gift of direction. Without Sage, Stahler would probably still be lost in the Den, fighting for the right to make an attempt at escape. Sage’s sacrifice had made this quest possible. He owed Sage everything.

There had been others. Friends, lovers, sometimes people only to be tolerated until mutual benefit was no longer in the cards. All had gone. Killed, taken, lost, abandoned... Stahler had been alone on his mission to find his way back to where he belonged for a long time. He was not sure for how long. Maybe years. Maybe hundreds of years. His frame of reference was shot. There was no way to tell.

The day played out silently. The sand sighed and wavered in the heat emanating from its surface. Nothing stirred. Stahler drank the last of his water around midday. The sky was gold here. It assaulted Stahler’s senses as it always did. The greys and blues of his youth hovered like a drug in his mind. He needed them badly. To be in sync with where he belonged. But he had no access to that level of satisfaction. So he waited the wait of a junkie in detox for the dark. So he could continue to walk toward some ephemeral gate that might not exist. A gate to take him home. A gate that would let him finally die under a cloudy grey sky threatening rain.

Stahler hoped it would be worth it.

First instalment

2010-11-07T17:28:00.000-08:00

Copper had waited long enough for her turn. She had thumbed through every magazine in the waiting room a few times. She had daydreamed of a fire breaking out in the corner by the buzzing air conditioner. The weird looking guy on the brown couch along the opposite wall had jumped up to fight the fire. He had battled the growing flames heroically but his pant leg had caught fire. Things with the daydream had gone awry, events repeating themselves and the storyline circling around and around until Copper knew that there was no point in continuing. So she had returned to waiting for her turn. But enough was enough.

Copper rose from the wicker chair and gathered her purse and jacket. Just as she was half way to the door of the waiting room, the punch-face nurse opened the other door to the inner sanctuary of the Doctor and called her name. Copper turned slowly, hanging in the balance of indecision. To leave, to be home within the hour, to sink into her own den of clutter and comfort... to be billed for this session regardless. Or to go in. To answer the call of Punch Face and be led through secret doors where a glorified college grad would spend an obligatory hour asking inane questions before adjusting the prescription meant to treat clinical depression - the pills Copper never took.

"So how have you been Copper?" asked Dr. Field. Faintly, Copper could hear a song from the past. "We're the Kids in America..." the phrase tuned the doctor out completely. Vaguely, she was aware she should come up with some sort of an answer for Dr. Field. He would expect something bland and ice breaking. Something non-specific. But Copper was suddenly stricken with the need to remember who had sung that song.

She made a grand show of folding her jacket and placing it on the back of the easy chair. Then her purse needed to be set down just so against the side of the coffee table. As if suddenly remembering something, Copper sat, started, and leaned forward to rummage through her purse. She could only make that work for so long. She knew she would have to either pretend to find something or she would have to stop and talk to the Dr. The anxiety of the impending awkwardness pushed hard against her effort to remember the artist that had recorded that stupid song - even though Copper could no longer hear the song even faintly.

"Outside a new day is dawning. Outside suburbia's sprawling everywhere..."

"Sorry?" the Doctor was a very patient man. Most people had begun to ignore her by this point. But, then again, he was getting paid to pay attention to her. He'd better be patient.

"Nothing," she said. "Just singing to myself."

"Ah. Well, last week you were worried about your job hunting. Have you applied for anything? Any news on that front?"

Copper's focus returned, her 80's music name search abandoned. "Yes. I have applied for a position as an administrative assistant in a school and I have an interview in two days. I am glad you asked or I would have forgotten to thank you for pressuring me to apply for jobs. I needed that push."

"You were very resistant to the idea as I recall." Dr. Field steepled his fingers under his chin in a very cliche doctoresque fashion. Hatred seethed unexpectedly in Copper's stomach. Why couldn't people just accept gratitude when it came. Why the Hell should the I-told-you-so crowd have the right to live past puberty? Deviance like that should be genetically screened at birth. Part of that triple screen thing they do now for expectant mothers. "Spina Bifida? Nope. Down's Syndrome? Nope. Grow up to be a patronizing ass? oooh. OK. Point me to the nearest abortion clinic please.

Oops. He was still talking.

"...whenever you feel that coming on. I don't think we should adjust your dosage for now. In fact, I think if things work out, we might discuss in a month's time discontinuing your medication. How would you feel about that?"

Really? He sees improvement? I haven't taken a pill in eight months. Sorry Doc. Already discontinued.

"OK," Copper said quietly. "I'm open to that."

Outside on the street, Copper spent ten minutes standing on the street corner deciding whether to take the bus, the subway or walk the fifteen blocks. Fifteen. Not too far. A man in a white suit and hat stood reading a newspaper at the bus stop across the street. He kept looking at her. Creep.

Turning toward the subway station, she began to walk. She hadn't really decided on the subway. She actually didn't like going underground. It felt colder down there. Darker. Wetter. Damp. Awful reports in the news always referred to the subway. Part of Copper recoiled at going down there into the artificial web of tubes and trains. Nothing natural about it.

Copper paid for her tokens and went through the turnstile. Down another flight of concrete glossy stairs and she was waiting at the platform for the Eastbound train. Should only be a couple of minutes. There was a bench. Perhaps there was time for a dream or two.

Choosing what to daydream about could be a sordid affair. It was always tempting to populate her stories with people around her at the moment. But she rarely did so. Wholly imaginative beings were far more powerful than the fictions one created around an existing body. If satisfaction is your goal, don't fantasize about the people you watch. Rather you should tune it all out and make people up from scratch.

Her first mental meandering tuned into a sort of adventure. Copper saw herself as some sort of Robin Hood brigand out for revenge against a tyrannical landlord who had stolen some geese. Swords were involved. Children ran and hid from the landlord’s thugs who roamed from farm to farm stealing all the edible fowl and calling it “taxes.” Copper ambushed them and freed the birds who took to the air immediately... so that no one could eat them.

The dream stalled as Copper had come to a moral dilemma. Was she to defend the farm folk and return the geese? Or were the farm folk just as bad as the landlord and his henchmen, enslaving animals for the sole purpose of eventual butchery and ingestion? Suddenly, Copper was aware that someone had sat beside her.

The man in the white suit and hat from the bus stop was sitting right beside her. He had managed to enter the subway station, approach Copper and sit down on the same bench so their thighs were in contact. Copper was not accustomed to people feeling so entitled as to invade her personal space in a subway station. On the train was different. Everyone rubbed up against everyone else on a subway train. But in the station where there was so much room... the socially acceptable protocols were different.

“Excuse me.” She said to the white dressed man. “Do I know you?”

The man in white smiled and turned his head toward Copper. His eyes were a pale green with golden flecks scattered randomly around his irises. His teeth were too white. They looked like someone was shining a black light somewhere. When he spoke, his voice was smooth but piercing and poisonous. Copper was instantly attracted to the voice. But not the right kind of attraction, her mind screamed at her. All her instincts told her this guy was bad news. She should be running. She should be groping for her pepper spray. But his voice froze her in place. Even though it was barely more than a whisper, Copper was caught. And his voice was more real than any reality she had ever experienced.

“There’s a new wave coming I warn you,” he said. He sat smiling his too-white smile at the immobile Copper for a full minute. Then he rose. A train pulled in, the one Copper had been waiting for. The man in white got on the train, turned and looked again at Copper through the window. His smile seemed even bigger as the train pulled away. Copper couldn't breathe.

My First Novel

2010-11-06T19:43:00.000-07:00

Okay. So I haven't written a novel. But I am now going to. And I am going to do it here. In instalments. I have no idea what it will be about. I am going to make it up as I go along. Feel free to edit, correct spelling or grammar, or tell me its shite.

Better yet, feel free to write a chapter. If your writing is better than mine I'd be happy to post your chapter and claim it for my own. First instalment, tomorrow.

I'm excited. How about you?

Sally and Sam. A Unicorn Adventure.

2010-10-16T23:42:00.001-07:00

Sally and Sam were giving people rides. But! One day..... it happened!

A guy named Hubert passed by and said, "Unicorns are dumb!" he said as he passed by.

Sally and Sam were sad going home. Mom said "Dinner time." but Sally and Sam were not hungry.

So they wanted to go to bed. (That's Sam and Sally the unicorns. Their mom is down the hall).

The next day the 2 of them woke up.

Then 2 cats ran by to cheer Sally and Sam up.

The End.

I have no fear for my future. Obviously, she will be a famous author and I can retire in ease and comfort.

Secrets every kid should know

2010-10-09T11:20:00.000-07:00

1. Most adults are vulnerable to the "annoy them till they yell" ploy. This can be fun if you are sure you can avoid any serious consequence.

2. You can avoid any serious consequences. Seriously. What is the worst thing a teacher can do to you? Suspension? Expulsion? News flash: suspensions are a holiday and the government is obligated to provide everyone with educational opportunities. You won't have to stay away from school.

3. You cannot avoid school. In one form or another, you will have to go to school until you are at least 16. Then you can drop out legally if you're parents don't kill you.

4. Your parents won't kill you. Unless they are already sociopathic, you will not lose your life. If you are abused, you do have recourse through social services.

5. Spanking is still legal. Open hand, buttocks only, no marks or bruising. This is not much of a deterent. So the worst thing the average child might have to endure is no priveleges and a good grounding.

6. Grounding is impossible if you play your cards right. Your parents are busy and if you are willful enough, they will usually become tired of fighting with you and will opt for booting your ass out for a few hours rather than be constantly annoyed. Grounding won't work if you do not submit.

7. Structure and routine are the tools that adults use to lull you into submission. These things are comforting, and make you feel secure and successful. They are a trap meant to break you of the habit of doing whaevert you want. Beware.

8. Doing whatever you want, refusal to do chores or schoolwork are safe behaviours. However, bullying will come back and bite you in the ass. There's always a bigger fish.

9. Stay away from bullies. Although attractive because they seem powerful, they will require you to be submissive. If you become subservient to a bully who submits to adult authority, you will have inadvertently become subservient to adult authority. Submit to no one.

10. You can only remain unsubmissive until you are 16 years old or so. After that, no one will think its cute except for the more naive girls. But having no money and probably having to spend time in jail will take the glamour off for those particular girls sooner or later. So, 16 year olds, pick this stage of your life to smarten up and fly right. Buckle down in school and stop fighting everyone. Life becomes less fun if you can't figure this out.

In short, You can easily avoid any responsibility from the ages of 3 to 15. It is easy to get away with if you understand that most of the authority and power out there is mostly in one's head. If you reject it and can turn your conscience off, you may spend a childhood free and full of fun.

I stole pictures from someone else's FB account!

2010-09-27T22:39:00.000-07:00

I don't care either. I'm sure the people who took the photos don't mind sharing. I haven't been in a position to take many of my own.

The airport is under water. The road is washed out in more than a dozen places, perhaps for months. Access to my community is now by boat only. The hydro station has been damaged, diesel generators are running short of fuel. Evacuations, people stranded, homes damaged or lost, vehicles ruined...

The lights may go out. Internet might not work in the morning.

I'm fine. How are you?

I am lucky, actually. My nieghbourhood didn't flood and seems to be in no danger. I managed to get groceries today and I am warm and fed.

What more can any of us ask?

My thoughts tonight are for those friends and co-workers of mine that have suffered financial loss. More than just financial. Home owners lose more than money in disasters.

Stay dry and warm tonight.

2010-09-19T20:11:00.000-07:00

Ach!

This is the sound one must make when one works in "a people business" that is inundated unnecessarily with paper.

The success of my job depends on how well I can build and maintain relationships. You can't fake it. You have to be yourself. You have to genuinely like people, respect people that may be confrontational (and a little crazy) and you have to love kids.

All kids. Even the rotten ones.

They will know if you're faking it. And if you fake it too long, you'll end up snapping at one of them.

Not that I have never snapped. I scolded a parent pretty good the other day. And I have lost it a few times on kids that cannot be nice to each other. I hate that. But they know I like them. Even when I disapprove.

But the paper... sweet Jesus, the paper. I can't move without filling out a form, reading a requisition, consulting policy, writing a proposal, filing a report, adjusting the budget, finding a purchase order, approving a leave application, issuing flyers, writing staff memos, preparing handbooks, scanning report cards for errors, organizing growth plans...

Save me. Let us pray:

Lords of the Earth and Sky, to you do we give our service and pledge our commitment to deal wisely with your gifts. From you do we receive everything that matters. On you do we depend for our very existence. We thank you for the gift of warmth from the sun and for the soothing coolness of the winds and lakes of the Earth. We will fear not the touch of death or decay as these also are your gifts, from which spring eternal renewals. Grant me this one favour...

Whatever Elysium you keep for your favoured, limit the paperwork required to get in to the magazines in the waiting room of the reception area.

Ach! Amen.

Tips for Raising Cats

2010-09-11T12:05:00.000-07:00

I think these rules could apply to raising any animal, but...

well I have a cat. So other animals have no bearing on my current state of existence.

Cat door. No litter boxes. That's right. Free range cats.
Full bowl of food. No regular feedings, just put food in the bowl when you notice it getting low.
Affection? Seek it not. The cat will choose the time and place. Ignore it.
Have vocal chords surgically removed. No more chirping at 2:00 am.
If you go with an indoor cat, de-claw. Save your furniture.
Be the boss. Your cat will be in charge if you let it. Take no shit.
Kill your cat 8 times. That way, it'll know it can't afford to piss you off one more time.
never play with your cat. You ae teaching it to KILL. Do you really want dead mice and birds left under your bed?
Best cat toy? Cardboard box. Hours of fun.
Contrary to popular belief, kids and cats don't mix. They hurt each other.

I know some people will say that it is necessary to keep my cat under control - not let the cat out to roam around pooing in other people's gardens, running through traffic...

To them I say:

If the spirit moves you, put traps or poison in your garden. Never swerve when you see a cat on the road. Swerving causes traffic accidents and puts many lives in danger. If a cat is dumb enough to eat poison, stick its head in a trap or get hit by a car, it wasn't smart enough to be my cat.

Natural selection at work.

No sense at all

2010-09-07T21:35:00.000-07:00

I am a bad bad blogger. Everyone says that when they've been a long time between posts. I won't insult anyone by putting energy toward trying to think of a more original way to put it.

Bad.

"I have a vision in my mind of the life that I've left behind.

Can't you see that lost souls can't swim. You know you'll sink but you still jump in.

And It's alright to get caught stealing back what you've lost.

Yeah don't you know that lost souls can't swim. You beat them back but they'll drag you in.

And I can't say that I'm sorry for all my many sins."

And that bridge is how I feel about it. Unapologetic. Doomed to repeat it.

People, I don't know why I am always in over my head. I do it to myself. I must want it on some level. Maybe we all do.

But today was a good day. No one yelled at me. No one died. No one set anything on fire. No one got lost or ran away.

We lost some. We gained some. We are changing everything.

Uh Oh

2010-08-24T08:51:00.000-07:00

So I decided to include some suicide attempt management tools in my staff handbook this year. I did a little research.

"Spiritual Clues:

Decreased activity in church activities,
Questions about God's existence and character,
Unwillingness to pray or discuss spiritual matters"

According to this, I am officially at risk for a suicide attempt. I display all of these "spiritual warning signs".

I'm sorry. Is it just me or this stupid? This is a recipe for alienating marginalized youth. The fastest and shortest route to making a kid think you don't give a rat's ass about her/him is to design a form that records the responses to a set of questions designed to determine how often one prays.

I remember myself as a teen. If I were hustled into a couseling office, a clipboard taken out and I were peppered with questions about my lack of faith...

I guess it would cure any suicidal thoughts I might have had. Such tactics would turn suicidal tendencies into a thirst for vengeance.

People, this is where rebels and punks come from. It is time to get wise.

Live like a refugee.

2010-08-17T18:48:00.000-07:00

If ever Canada falls apart... Ultra right wing fundamentalist pseudo neo nazi douche bags take over... I hope I can get myself and my family out.

Rather than know my family is going to get raped, tortured, mutilated and decapitated, I would have them endure three months of living in cramped conditions aboard a Pacific crossing vessel captained by a man of ill repute and questionable morals.

I would subject myself to human smugglers.

Dyssentry, malnutrition, murder in the dark, I would go through it if...

if...

if the country at the end of the journey was willing to arrest me, detain me, check my background, question me at great length, feed me, provide me with health care, bury me in bearucracy, and allow its laws to judge whether I can stay to seek gainful employment.

I would do it. Wouldn't you?

Now, to be clear, I am not calling the Sri Lankan Government ultra right wing fundamentalist pseudo neo nazi douche bags. Whether the Tamils from the MV Sun Sea are really refugees from tyranny is not the point. The point is...

I am glad to live in a country that believes in safe haven. Their cases should be judged according to our laws on an individual basis. Those that qualify should get to stay. Those that don't...

we will have to track down, arrest and deport, I guess. Oh well.

And who should pay the ultimate price for human trafficking in this case? The captain of the boat! How come no one highlights him in the news? At least I haven't seen it. His ship should be seized. He should go to jail. He took money to smuggle human beings into our waters. At least one of the passengers died as a result. He should go to jail here for a long time. One less smuggling ship out of criminal hands.

Aw geez

2010-08-08T19:26:00.000-07:00

We have been traveling a bit, my wee family and I.

Not international, or even interprovincial. But it might as well be when you live in Canada. To drive from our home to where my parents live takes 16 hours of travel. We brave:

Free range cattle on the road,

Forest fires and smoke province wide,

the worst drivers in the Western world,

Ferries that may crash into the dock,

Huge stretches of road with no gas or amenities,

Construction during the busiest driving season,

Surrey. Nuff said.

Anyway, we like to think living where we do is a good thing for Juno. She is having a very priveleged childhood. She has free access to the outdoors, she gets to see bears, moose, fox on a regular basis. She is immersed in a unique and beautiful culture and gets lessons in its traditions, its language and its arts.

But she is sheltered.

We were waiting for a ferry in Tsawassen on our way to Vancouver Island. Juno saw a Sikh gentleman walking through the terminal.

"Mom. look. A genie."

Oh man. I am thankful she was not overheard. Bless her, there is not a mean or hateful bone in her body. But maybe its time we put some effort into making her a tad more... worldly?

Mystery?

2010-07-29T15:39:00.000-07:00

I have recently received a gift. A small book shelf filled with books. A series of the "Great Books of the Western World". You know what I mean? Published in 1952, probably originally bought from a guy selling dictionaries and encyclopedia sets.

They smell like all old books smell. I kind of like that smell. Musty. Almost like mildew. And its a complete set. 54 books from Homer to Freud.

Wait a minute. Volume 50 is missing. Hmm. I wonder what's missing?

Let's see, the inside cover of each book contains an index of the series. Hmm, volume 50 is... Marx and Engels.

Well whattaya know? There must be a story behind this missing volume. Of all the books to go missing, why that one? Now if Cervantes or the Newton/Huygens volume had been missing, I wouldn't think much of it. I wouldn't bat an eye at a truant Fielding. I might lament an absent Aristotle, but I don't think I'd wonder.

No, the only book that might make me wonder at its... lack of being there... is the volume devoted to Marx and Engels.

Was it edited from the series by a McCarthy era anti-communist nut? Was it thrown in the fire by the jealous lover of a student dividing energies between Communism and Love? Was it tossed out the window of a train as somebody tried to smuggle it across a border between countries sensitive to political materials?

Likely, none of my imagined scenarios are true. Likely, the book was borrowed and never returned. It would be cliche to say that books have lives of their own. A little too expected for me to say that the stories of books can be more interesting than the stories contained within books.

And, the great question: Is it better to leave that place in the set blank or should I find an old copy of Capital to fill the void?

Leadership

2010-07-22T13:50:00.000-07:00

it is really easy to be critical when the crown lies not with you.

I'm guilty. I have railed, shaken my head and "tsked" away.

"You need to stand up for your employees, not sell them down the river when things get rough." "He has about as much leadership talent as a bean curd."

"It makes no sensed to reward the incompetent and punish others because they're better at their jobs."

All these things I have, in the past, said by the water cooler or in the truck on the way to the job site. I have criticized my leaders. I have shown my displeasure at policies that seemed dumb.

In the end, I have always towed the line. I have always followed direction. I have always been loyal and hard working.

As a leader, as is to be expected, perspective changes.

You can't please everybody. Sometimes there is no right call. Sometimes you have to do what you have to do. Heavy lies that damnable crown.

I question myself. I doubt my own decisions sometimes. I regret when, in my head, I can tie events together from a decision I have made to some horrible occurrence. I lose sleep. I listen to the criticisms and water cooler remarks that reach my ear when they don't think I can hear. I remember how they feel. I sympathize. But I carry on with what I have to do.

I wonder if every leader feels the weight of the crown. If it is supposed to lie heavy, does every brow wrinkle and weather under its pressure? Do we all age prematurely when faced with the responsibility of the welfare of others?

After a particularly hard meeting with his lieutenants, Did Alexander the Great close the flap to his tent and rest his head in his hands, thoughts of home and family playing across the features of his face?

Did Attila regret the price he paid in lives for his successes in the field? Were his dreams haunted by the weight of the sacrifices he asked of his men and officers and their families?

Does Mandella ever wish he had remained beneath the notice of the mighty?

Somehow I don't think Trudeau ever regretted that finger (apologies to you non-Canadians for that reference).

I love the story of Scipio. Farming away, some Roman messenger goes to his house.

"We need you" he says. Scipio drops his rake and shovel and goes to Rome to take control of its armies in defense of Hannibal.

Years and years pass, victories going both ways. Hannibal divides the Roman countryside, gaining allies everywhere, disrupting trade, defeating legion after legion. Scipio holds him off from Rome itself, builds an invasion force and, eventually, launches an attack across the sea, forcing Hannibal to march home to defend his own home of Carthage.

A final confrontation, on land and at sea, and Carthage is beaten. In victory, Scipio and Rome are not merciful. Carthage is destroyed. The earth is salted so nothing will grow there again. Its empire, its civilization, are gone.

Scipio returns to his home, picks up his tools and continues to bring in the hay.

Just like that. I'll bet.

I bet all leaders feel the burden of what they do. At least, they ought to. If they don't feel every sacrifice they make, every sacrifice they ask others to make, they are not good leaders.

Or maybe I just want company.

2010-07-15T01:34:00.000-07:00

A big part of me wants to rant about BP and the environment.

But really, what can I say that will contribute to the collective ire?

So... 10 things I have learned from reading original Conan stories by Robert E Howard.

1. There are no nice sorcerers. Don't talk to them or go to their parties.

2. If you get in a sword fight, the less protection you wear, the better off you'll be.

3. If in doubt, stab it.

4. Civilization is ancient and wicked (the movie got that right at least). Avoid it if possible.

5. Women are trouble. But you can't avoid them can you?

6. If it seems too good to be true, it is a trap meant to suck your soul through your eye sockets.

7. Don't sleep. Ever. You only ever encounter trouble when you're asleep.

8. If it exists, it can be cut.

9. Keep your hair in a shoulder length mane.

10. Any problem you come across, just kill it. Don't worry. you are stronger, a better leader, more skilled and more attractive than anyone else you are ever going to meet. This is important. Repeat this to yourself many times. Conan believes it, so must you.

Alas, if I were to truly live in Howard's worlds, I would be dead in seconds. A minor character in a swift and deadly milieu. I probably wouldn't even have a name. But when I was 14, Conan saved me. Correction: Howard saved me. He was pretty smart.

And deeply disturbed. So...

Don't let your kids read Conan. It messes them up something fierce.

And that's what you get for reading my blog. My mind at 2:00am.

Good night all.

2010-06-18T20:39:00.000-07:00

I made an appointment to look at a house.

It is an older house. Cedar siding, asphalt roof, double paned windows, 4 bedrooms, 3 bathrooms, 2600 sq ft living space, 1 acre, washer, dryer, pantry, kitchen of dubious quality, propane furnace, fire place, 1 broken window, beautiful yard, fruit trees...

Just for Wendy, it is nestled in a 1 acre subdivision with a breathtaking view of the mountains.

yad yada yada.

My beloved told me today that she was learning things. She learned that there is a hole in the housing market because people my age have not been buying houses. People older than me bought houses early. People younger than me are buying houses early. My peers are only getting into the market now.

Why am I typical of my demographic? I have always hated that.

I remember Uncle Owen
Because his story's aimed at me
That was 1977
I was in grade three
Since then I've got to thinkin'
I really can't remember
The last time I was the center
Of the target of pop culture
You see, I'm slightly left of centre
Of the bull's eye you created
It's sad to know that if you hit me
It's because you were not careful
Yeah, I got the middle child blues
I couldn't wear your platform shoes
But now it's safe to go back in the water
But I prefer Neptune's daughter
My older brother's pushin' forty
My kid sister's only nine
Everything he knows is retro
The only word she knows is mine
You see, I'm just outside of nowhere
But pretty soon you'll be in my care
And there are just so many of you
But not enough like me to love you

Sloan

2010-06-11T16:28:00.000-07:00

Same TV.

Same movies.

Same music.

Same cultural influences.

When I have gone abroad, people hear one syllable of my accent and accuse me of being American. That's right, I said "accuse".

But what's the difference? I don't know. Nobody knows. Both Canada and America are diverse in landscape, culture and language. We are only separate nations because a set of common beliefs and experiences have molded us as such.

In the USA, there was the Revolution. The Declaration. The Constitution. One Nation Under God. There was Washington, Lincoln, Arnold, Ike, Teddy, Truman, Revere, FDR, JFK, and the ACLU.

In Canada there was...

there was...

Well we're not American. That's really the best we've ever come up with when we've tried to tie ourselves together with a unifying identity.

As for our reputation, I wanted to set a few things straight.

1. We are not more polite than anywhere else. In fact, I think we can be kinda snobby.
2. We are not crime free. In fact this is where the Hell's Angels come to hide and build anew.
3. We are not tolerant or accepting of other ethnic or cultural groups. Racism abounds in Canada.
4. We are not cleaner. Canada produces more waste and pollution per capita than any other country.
5. We do not all live in igloos. Sorry for this one. It's a no-brainer but I've met some people who believe it.

But it is cold. Oh yes, it can get cold. I know how cold it feels you spit and hear it freeze before it hits the ground. I have made the mistake of wearing denim in -50C weather.

And you know you live in Canada when you measure distances in hours.

But go to Toronto. Hang out a bit. Spend some time. Then go to New York.
There is a difference. I just can't articulate what it is. I can't put it into words. It's an ineffable thing. Ephemeral and elusive. It defies any box I could put it in.

More Sam for you:

Went out on the street today The Canadian Dream was as far away as it’s ever been
As it’s ever been
S.O.C.I.A.L.I.S.M.is here to stay
S.O.C.I.A.L.I.S.M. is the only way
Frozen land, frozen minds Frozen hands and frozen time
‘Cause everything moves real slow when it’s forty below

2010-06-07T18:20:00.000-07:00

I used to have this boss.

He was an aging farmer. He was abrasive, often inappropriate, bad tempered, unreasonable...

a bit of most of the things that make the difference between bad bosses and good bosses.

But for some reason, I remember this boss fondly. Every morning, we would all gather and he would come out of his office. He would lean heavily on the ledge that held the sign-in sheets and assign jobs for the day, share news, give instructions and *cringe* occasionally to deliver a reprimand. Publicly. In front of the whole crew.

He wasn't the best with words and typing. So, once in a while, he would ask me or some of the other workers to stay in the office and do paper work. Once, I wrote job descriptions for every person with my job classification across the country. I never got credit for it, of course. I didn't care. I wasn't out in the weather that day, I was happy.

Once, we were pouring a sidewalk. The boss' son-in-law was my partner. We built forms, we hammered stakes, we shoveled and raked. I worked hard. We got almost two hundred feet ready to pour. But we had never done this sort of work before. The concrete truck came and we told him to pour concrete into the whole 200 foot stretch so we could start working it.

Now those of you who have poured concrete before should know: you pour a little, you work it, you pour a little more, you work it...

The truck was long gone and the concrete was starting to set up. Oops.

We called the boss for help. He was mad.

The whole crew showed up to "save" us. The boss started barking orders.

"Hook that fire hose up to that hydrant! Work harder God Dammit! We need to make this wet again! Get that hydrant flowing!"

"But Boss," said one of my compatriots near the fire hydrant. "This is a four inch hose. No nozzle. If we turn the hydrant on now..."

"Just turn it on a little!"

"Uh... Boss if..."

"TURN ON THE GOD DAMNED HOSE!"

My compatriot started the water flowing. The hose, predictably, went out of control with high pressured water rocketing out the unrestrained open end. The end of the hose whipped around, blew off the Boss' hat, missing his nose by less than an inch. Three people tried to tackle and hold down the hose. The Boss continued to scream. My sweater, hanging on a nearby tractor, was blown over a fence onto an active runway.

I was on my knees working concrete. I started to giggle. Couldn't control it.

We saved the sidewalk that day. If you know where it is, you can still walk on it. And this is one of many stories I recall when I think of those times when I was young and worked with my hands.

My Boss gave me a pretty hard time. He treated me disrespectfully on many occasions. But he also said "Good man" when I did something right. He trained me. He trusted me. He invested resources in me. He was actually very unlikely to get mad if you told him the truth and didn't dodge responsibility. He taught me about cold-starting tractors with an ether injection device. Not safe, but good to know. I learned how to work hard. I was given leadership roles. I was trusted with important jobs and expensive equipment.

I was defended when I screwed up and the military police wanted to charge me with a hefty fine. Another story.

How did this happen? Why did I like that grumpy old man? Why do I still look back fondly? If I were writing a story, I would run into him on the street and speak my mind. Tell him what I really think of him. Have revenge somehow.

But if we ever meet again, if we're allowed to imbibe in the place we meet, I think I'll buy him a beer.

Thanksgiving... sort of.

2010-06-03T18:56:00.000-07:00

The salmon have returned.

Today, we went down to the river and welcomed them.

We thanked everyone who came, from near and far. We thanked the Creator for the bounty of the land. We offered some cedar and parts of two salmon back ro the river. Students danced and sang in honour of this time that has been celebrated sice before recorded history.

Then we ate barbecued salmon.

I need to explain a little about this barbecueing. It's not really a barbecue. We caught eleven Spring salmon yesterday for our salmon ceremony. They were cooked by spreading them and leaning them up to a fire for several hours. Kind of like this:

They cooked slowly, the oil ocasionally dripping onto the rocks below.

We gathered outside the House of Song and welcomed the salmon's return. I am not being poetic.

Once you have shared in a feast with salmon prepared like this, you will never want to eat salmon any other way. Fresh from the river. Cooked over a fire. A side of song.

Of Wanderings and Endings

2010-05-31T13:14:00.000-07:00

Hang cedar boughs on the basketball hoops. Sing of honour and Robins in his memory. The Eagle under the score board watches us all as we sit uncomfortably where the coaches usually reside.

Think of nothing but innocence and fairness as the tiny box rests with its charge. He was never jealous, they say. Never negative. Never angry or sullen as is a six year old's wont.

Stories of dragonflies and water bugs serve someone else's purpose. A metaphor for the holy and sacred, mysterious nature of mortality and death. A reminder to find solace and comfort in those that have changed.

Copper and pine, cedar and a ten channel mixer board. All on cheap tables that will serve later for us to dine on. Something whispers to me.

Something I almost forgot. Something I can't quite remember or define. Something that's been missing.

Later, there are little punks hitching a ride. Skipping school, making it impossible to hold them accountable, smoking, swearing, drinking...

I will give them a ride to the cemetery for the burial.

And it's half full again.

There's No Road That Ain't a Hard Road

2010-05-30T00:12:00.000-07:00

So it is very late.

Never blog when you are tired, after going through a traumatic experience, or when you are generally emotional.

You see a blog entry should be structured.

Sort of.

It needs to be circular, leading the reader back to the beginning in a pleasing way. Tying random seeming comments together in a satisfying ebb and flow of conversational play. But it must also be a bit free. Not rehearsed or overly edited.

You can't do this when you're sleep deprived, stricken with grief or angry at your spouse. You don't have the chops to make it work if you are not...

Centered.

Yet here I sit. After an absence. After midnight. Hungry but I know I shouldn't snack at night. Plenty going on I could be venting about. Definitely not centered. But what am I doing?

That's right. Blogging about blogging. This is no good. I could be telling you all about my family news, my job, my opinion about politics or about my favourite car or music. But no.

And why? Why am I sitting here staring at this when I should be in bed? Why do I knowingly commit blogging faux pas when I understand the structure?

Because its late. I am tired and shouldn't be writing anything in this state.

AND I like Sam Roberts.

Updates and Advice

2010-05-25T19:58:00.001-07:00

Thanks to everyone for their comments on my last piece of vitriol. I can't say I am having an easy time of it these past few weeks. But I will pull through by keeping everything in perspective. In the meantime, some lessons I have recently learned that I will now offer up for your consideration. Seriously folks, these tips may one day save your life.

1. Never look sideways at a Sumo Wrestler. Even an amateur. Five times my weight + disciplined martial arts training + an easily offended disposition = you are dead.

2. Donald Trump's leadership advice is bunk. Listen not to his lies.

3. When surrounded by a herd of deer, don't make sudden moves, stops or starts. You have to run with them. Long, easy motions will win you the day.

4. There are forked tongued devils everywhere. Trust them all. Let them betray you and eat each other alive. You will be broke and probably jobless. But you will not be one of them.

5. Three words: CLEAN YOUR RIFLE.

6. When a cougar is chewing on your head, see if you can get a hand on the lower jaw. You will need stitches and may lose a few digits. But you will survive to tell a wicked story.

7. Always offer aid to the roadside stranded and weary. Do not drive by. karma will kick your ass.

8. You are right. They are wrong. Do something. Don't let it slide. Say it. Consequences be damned.

9. Money is an invention. Artifice. Meaningless. Do nothing for its sake. Only do what you are driven to do.

10. Do everything you need to do to stay regular. Bowel trouble is not a pleasant way to live. Revel in regularity.

Wisdom. Free of charge.

2010-04-28T20:28:00.000-07:00

Alright. I decided to come out of blogbreak. I couldn't help it.

The Premier of British Columbia has decided that it is OK to build another dam on the Peace River.

OK. I lived on the devastation that was created from a major dam. I cannot call myself a human being if I don't say that building another huge hydro-electric dam is a mistake. History will judge us by the marks we leave and by the careless way we "progress" by destroying everything that matters. Not just trees. Animals, plants, migrations, languages, cultures, people...

I might have to renounce my citizenship. I am ashamed to call myself Canadian if we are willing to do this. Again.

2010-04-20T20:23:00.000-07:00

I know. I know. I'm still fishing blogoriphically speaking. But I couldn't just leave a lame pic. So, as you all bemoan my outcast state, enjoy what I consider to be one of the best voices in the world live in some radio station in Australia. Quietly touring outside North America. Great album. Great cover here. Rock like it was meant to be. Full of joy. Full of vengeance. Full circle. Gives me goose bumps. Had to share it.

See you when I get back. Really this time.

2010-04-18T20:31:00.000-07:00

Let's go away for awhile, you and I, to a strange and distant land,

Where they speak no word of truth,

But we don't understand anyway.

Not really going on vacation, just a blogbreak. Still...

2010-04-09T17:35:00.000-07:00

Everyone... well everyone out here in the wilderness lands of BC anyway... is talking about chickenville.

Vancouver is considering making it OK for people to have small chicken farms in their yards.

OK. I see nothing wrong with that. "But" the city councillors say to themselves, "what about all those chickens that get abandoned? We can't just let a bunch of people start raising chickens and then not deal with the strays. Look at all the trouble everybody's been having spaying and neutering their cats and dogs. We have to do something about the stray chickens".

OK. So their solution is to use municipal tax dollars to fund a... shelter for ... homeless, abandoned chickens.

A moment of silence.

Actually this doesn't seem like that bad an idea. It should be mandatory to raise chickens in your back yard. You should all have to do it. Hell, take some from the chicken shelter. Use the eggs to supplement your food intake. Might do us all some good to have to work a little for our food instead of just going to the store right? If you don't want them anymore, don't bring them back to the chicken shelter.

EAT THEM.

That's right, pluck, clean, roast, baste and serve. And for the love of all that's holy, pick up all that chicken shit in your yard before inviting friends over for a chicken bbq. Gross.

Seriously, why are they doing this? Why does anyone care? Why is it news? Is it going to affect anything at all? Are people really going to start to raise chickens on the corner of Denman and Hornby? Is there nothing else to talk about at the council table?

We are reverting back to hillbillys. Not that we had far to go.

What would be the best name for a homeless chicken shelter?

Sting can suck on it. She's better.

2010-04-04T21:39:00.000-07:00

OK, this one was a little while back. My ancient laptop is difficult to run. I am trying to get all the pictures and videos off of it and I ran into this one. I am sorry.

You see, at first I wanted to rant and rave with this blog. Rail against the heavens. Damn you if you don't like it or agree. But I am afraid I am turning into a softie dad type blogger. She is too much and deserves to be on a stage.

So, in my old school, Juno once rocked it old school. We were just stopping by to get something on our way to visit a friend. The drum kit was still set up from music class. Juno decided to play one of her favourite songs.

Enjoy Juno live at the classroom bowl, circa 2005.

The Beginning of Wisdom

2010-04-03T20:11:00.000-07:00

When you pour yourself a portion from a bag of roasted and salted pistachios, you are in for a real treat. Especially if you manage to find them organically grown, harvested by hand and fairly traded in order to assuage my First World guilt as I sit and enjoy my gluttonous vices in front of my energy saving TV.

The glorious pistachios must be shelled one at a time. Your fingers will get coated with that fine salt that adorns every nut and must be sucked clean at the end of your repast. But you cannot simply devour all the pistachio goodness. Because each gem must be individually pried from its natural package, which has already been slightly opened during the roasting process. Yes, this snack forces you to take some time and partake of each small piece one at a time.

You can, if you have the discipline, shell a slew of them and then eat them by the handful. But, somehow, this gorging never lives up to the anticipation. No it is better to eat them one at a time while patiently cracking each one out of its prison.

But contrary to this previous principle of temporary denial - the delay of satisfaction of which all you addicts out there know - the most savory and delectable of these pistachios are the ones that somehow escaped from their shell. You discover them from time to time as you root through the bowl. They require no effort before enjoying. Perhaps they are tastier because there was no effort, but your enjoyment is not spoiled by a glut of sensory input. A small windfall. Enough to delight, not enough to produce the aforementioned disappointing results.

Always near the end, there are a few nuts that didn't crack during roasting. A tool would be required to open them unless you are willing to take a few minutes to open each one of the few remaining. The reward of these few fruits, un-salted mind you, hardly seem worth the effort after you have already enjoyed so many.

I think there are two types of people. Those that throw the last few away because the reward isn't worth the effort, and those that will pry each and every nut from its shell. But as I think about which type of person I am - and probably coming to no answer - I wonder how the equation would be changed by just going back and pouring more pistachios into the bowl.

Yup. Me and Spinoza have a lot in common.

2010-03-29T16:57:00.000-07:00

I spent the last few days driving.

British Columbia is a pretty nice place. But did we have to spread our settlements all over the place? I no longer measure distance in miles or kilometers. I measure distance in hours. It takes five hours to drive from here to William's Lake. It takes another two and a half hours to drive to Prince George - not my favourite place. Vancouver is Twelve hours away, add another hour and a half if you want to get to one of the Island's ferry terminals.

It just takes forever to get anywhere. And that is IF you can survive the journey. Winter conditions can spring up at any time. Not all of BC is paved yet. I have to drive on gravel in order to get to the nearest city. And...

And then there are other drivers.

BC produces the best damned drivers this world has to offer. Only in BC will you find someone stopping, putting on the serious chains at the top of a mountain, plowing through three feet of snow... and whistling all the while. Because this is normal.

Yes we can be proud of the skill we bring to the vehicles in our fair province. But they do come with more patience.

I almost died three times the past few days. Just because:

Someone felt they had the right to drink while screaming along a single lane highway,
Someone felt comfortable passing three vehicles on a double solid near a corner,
Someone was so mad that they forgot what the hell they were doing.

Calm down out there. You know what? I got to where I was going before all of you three. Know why? Because I saw you all pulled over by the RCMP, bless their souls. It wasn't worth driving like an ass was it? Stupid.

Sorry, everyone. Had to be said. I know you've heard it before. It is not exactly an original and creative post. But I had to do it.

P.S. Many of the things I say are hyperbole. They are rhetorical. I know there are plenty of harsh conditions in other parts of the country and the world. There is no need to argue. BTW, when do we get our flying cars? Aren't those possible yet? I want one.

Lost Lake Trail and Saloompt Forest Trails.

2010-03-24T11:58:00.000-07:00

Saloompt Forest Trail is a casual walk. Well marked trails and convenient signs and benches placed along the way. But Juno was intent on a harder hike. She had heard about Lost Lake so we thought we'd give it a try. Lost Lake Trail is about an hour up and an hour down... if you have a six year old with you. It is listed as a "moderate" difficulty but it was nothing for someone of Juno's capacity. We packed her mousey toque, some snacks and water and we did both trails.

On the way up:

Dad How are you doing?

Juno Good. My knees are burning. That means I'm getting lots of good exercise. We should do this every day. Maybe mom should come. We can show her this place tomorrow. Its a good thing I brought my walking stick. But my arms are getting sore from lifting it. Can you carry it for me for a while? What's that?

Dad That's a trail marker. It shows us which way to go so we don't get lost.

Juno That's a good idea. I found that one. How many did you see? My teacher told us how to walk with really little steps. Hey, there's another one. I found that one too. I'm finding lots of these. Remember when we were at the other trail and there were signs that asked all sorts of questions? Can I have my walking stick back? I think I need it. This is a pretty stiff climb. It's gonna be a long way. Oh! I see one! I see one. It's right on the bottom of that tree. Come on, this way. Right there.

Dad Good work.

Juno Yup. I'm pretty good at... (pant pant)... Good eye eh? Are we almost to the top?

Dad Uh. Not far, I think.

Juno This is a pretty stiff climb.

Dad Do you mean "steep"?

Juno Yeah. It's pretty stiff. My legs are really burning. I'm getting lots of exercise. Are we half way yet? Watch, I can go over this log without any help. Ugh. See? I have to be careful not to scrape my back on the log. Remember when I thought I lost you but you were right there? That was kind of scary but kind of funny too. My arms are getting sore. Will you carry my walking stick? Hey look. There's paint on this tree.

Dad That does the same thing as a trail marker. It shows the way.

Juno You have to follow me. I'm in the lead. I will find those markers. Is that like a blaze? My teacher in TKD teached us how to follow a blaze.

What's a blaze? Is that like fire or something? Can I have my walking stick back? Huh! My knees are sure burning. Are we half way yet?

At the top:

Juno We are really high up. What can we see? Is that the town? Can we see my house? I want to throw rocks in the lake. This is pretty nice for camping. We should bring mom back here tomorrow. Ahhhh! Mosquitoes! I hate mosquitoes! Get them off me dad! Kill them! I don't want them to sting me!

Dad They're not going to sting you.

Juno They will drink your blood! They stick their nose in you and sting you! Ahhhh!

Dad Let's take some pictures and then head back down the trail.

Please note that I offered to get her a really nice walking stick. She prefers the broken hockey stick. But I think I could talk her into a new hat. Maybe one without a mouse nose. Such is life with a six year old that likes climbing mountains.

Do Not Feel Obligated to Comment.

2010-03-20T11:33:00.000-07:00

This will not make sense to very many of you. That's OK.

I am no critic. I used to have to criticize people's essays. I mean, we all tried to do the "two stars and a wish" thing. You know, say two positive things and one thing you wished had been different.

I started to refer to that as a shit sandwich.

It is never comfortable to criticize another's writing. Imagine if you had to criticize a short story of mine after reading my introduction here. You'd constantly be thinking, "How am I going to say his phrases are repetitive without him thinking about shit sandwiches?"

So I don't do it anymore. Sure, I still criticize the work of students. That needs to be done. But I am a far cry from being critical of the work of another. Especially when its good.

And it is good. Really good. It plays delightfully on the edge of inviting psychoanalysis of a well developed character. But, as a reader, you don't really want to delve. You just enjoy that sense of there being a lot there to psychoanalyse. You are successfully engaged and develop empathy with the main character. I do not say this lightly. It is not easy to create sympathy with a reader with a character that openly confesses to not having any humanity.

But character is not the only strength. It is social commentary at its finest. It even raises the question: why do we operate within a system of punishment and consequence? Obviously, pain and trauma are passed from one generation to the next and we need to find a way to address much larger issues. Poverty, substance abuse, pollution, out-of-control consumerism...

Alluding to these larger issues allowed you, the author, to paint a background that gives real, and meaningful depth to the story and to the characters. Real people in a real world behaving in real ways that the reader cannot help but find entertaining and darkly humourous.

And I loved the reference to Lucretia Borgia. Shakespeare did stuff like that. It tickles the educated reader's fancy to know what you mean without being an impediment to anyone enjoying the story if they don't get it. Again, not easy to do. I've tried, I just sound condescending.

Ech. This is starting to sound like literary criticism.

So... I loved it. Thank you for sharing it. If you ever need someone to write the back jacket copy, I think I would excel at that.

2010-03-13T08:26:00.000-08:00

Sometimes a song kind of hits you.

It brings you back, it makes you remember where you were, what you were doing. It reminds you of smells, of the way a carpet felt, it reminds you of things you haven't thought of in years.

I didn't hear this one when it came out. I was pretty young. But as I grew into a bit of an alienated lad, this song I remember. Too late to be able to cash in on knowing something cool before anyone else. Not that I would have had the brains to do that.

I was never a punk, new wave, or any other kind of cool kid. I never did fit into any of those cool cliques. I didn't know how. So I don't pretend to have been a huge Joy Division fan. But over the years, I have heard more and more of what they did. Many have said that Tear us Apart is the best pop song written in the 20th century. But that North America wasn't paying attention.

Ian Curtis' story is a sad one. And I wonder what JD would have been if he hadn't passed so young, if he had managed to find a way to cope.

I think Curtis may well have changed everything. I wish I had been paying more attention.

The question now is: how can I possibly know what is happening now to which I should be paying more attention? How can we celebrate the genius we have before it is taken from us and we are forced to look back in retrospect and simply regret?

RIP Ian. For what its worth, that is one hell of a song.

Me and Abe.

2010-03-06T20:24:00.000-08:00

I once took a first year medieval history course. I am very good in a seminar so I eased through this one without much reading.

I make no apologies for being a bad student on occasion. In my early years as a university student I knew enough to learn the system and use it to my advantage. I did as little as possible if I could get away with it. I got called on it once in a while. But it was easy to drop those courses and find ones where I could call it in.

But... medieval history. With the recent move, we got a lot of stuff out of an almost ten year storage.

Books, my friends. Books. And the entire reading list from my medieval history course. Most of them... ahem... never opened.

So I've been perusing. Reading a bit here and there. And now I regret not paying a bit more attention. I also regret spending my time at Scoozi's swilling beer and standing on chairs pouring flaming Sambuca down my throat. When I think that I could have been laying in bed reading about Abelard and Heloise or about Roland's valiant last stand in the rearguard, I am sure I could have been a better person.

But... maybe Abelard, at the end of his days, while he was barely conscious and unable to speak... maybe he thought of Heloise.

Or maybe he thought of lighting liquor on fire and trying to quaff it without setting himself aflame. I like to think this is what that cool dude wished he had done with his youth.

Regrets. Funny things.

Free my ass

2010-03-03T17:17:00.000-08:00

Democracy is a sham.

I am not making this up. I am also not the first one to say it. But I don't want to bore anyone with political theorists.

Really, when are we actually able to have input into decisions? Whenever there is an election? Is that all? Is that what all the fuss is about?

Once the election is over, do we have any say at all? Can we stop laws from being passed, effect changes to the social order that will make anything better for anyone? Can we stop war, hunger, pollution, disease, or apathy?

Is my life really easier than the lives had by anyone in history because we have "evolved" past feudalism into something better for everyone? Are things more fair for me because I vote? Am I safe from natural disaster? Can I count on support and emergency relief from the government if a comet strikes my town? Are we really that much better off or should we have stayed huddled in a hole in the ground covered with straw and dung to keep the water out? Hell, even with democracy there are still people living like that. What difference has it made? Can we really delude ourselves into believing we are better off because of an occasional vote and the rule of money?

No. Its all an illusion. Someone else makes decisions for you. The idea of democracy is the religion of the modern age. In feudal times, the church had a prominent role in teaching people their place in society and economy - as ordained by God! So does the deification of democracy allow us to toil and produce believing that we are free and that anyone can rise to the top because of our democratic equality.

Well, sorry to tell you, we can't all be rich. It aint gonna happen. There are still have-nots. Democracy and capitalism do not work without have-nots. Poor and unemployed people are cogs in the wheels of democracy.

Live with it.

But its the best damned illusion on this planet. Better than that one where I am still athletically inclined and don't hurt myself when I try to run. I'll take democracy any day.

What Kind of Boss are You?

2010-02-26T20:19:00.000-08:00

Sorry for ripping off a topic. I don't do that much. But when I get thinking about something, that's kind of what I'm going to write about.

Suck it up.

So thanks to Ian over at And I Still Think So for making me think about being a boss.

I am a boss, you know. It doesn't seem like it, I know. And I'm not an easy boss to work for. I sure have gotten a lot of flack for the way I do things, so I know that many of you would probably want to run me out on a rail after a few months.

Its OK. No offence taken.

So, if you ever work for me:

Do your job. I'll stay out of your hair. Tell me if you need anything.
Don't go over my head.
Don't go over your co-workers' heads. I'll send you back to them.
Don't gripe in public. Come and gripe to me. I might be able to fix it.
Be ready for unexpected, unplanned and unasked for changes in schedule and planned events. I give no excuses. Just be ready.
I have a sense of humour. If I call you a name, don't sue me. Tell me you didn't appreciate it, I'll never do it again. I promise.
I have nothing to do with your payroll. I don't even sign the forms. Leave me alone.
I have nothing to do with your pension, medical or dental benefits. Leave me alone.
Keep your anger and indignation to yourself. Neither I nor your students are interested.
Late sometimes? Leaving early? Helping yourself to a coffee mug or a box of pens? OK. Refer to items 1 through 9 and I will turn a blind eye.

That's how I roll.

What kind of boss are you?

Re-Posted from 2007 for your enjoyment.

2010-02-21T22:02:00.000-08:00

This is a picture of a desolated place. A barge landing, log dump and artificial lake surrounded by erosion, damaged habitat, traumatized people and dead trees. I was reminiscing a bit and thought about posts I had made at this time in my life. So I went back to my archives. This one is great. I think its still true. Enjoy.

I have a solution to global warming. Let it happen!

Seriously, it's the best thing. You see, there's no stopping it anyway. No one - and I mean no one - is going to stop China and India and the rest of the developing nuclear powers from slowing industrial progress for the sake of the environment. People are getting a taste of the waste that all of us have been living and no one is going to talk anyone into a smaller piece of pie.

Hell, I just saw on the news that less than 3% of the top tax bracket in North America would be willing to take shorter showers in order to conserve water and power even though more than 90% said their biggest concern is the environment. If North Americans are unwilling to take less for the sake of everyone, why should countries that have been denied for so long be responsible?

So forget it! Eat more MacDonald's! Enjoy what you have left! Fight someone over that parking spot and spend all of what you have left on personal, quick and easy gratification! Maybe it'll happen quicker. And the sooner the better so that billions of us can die and the Earth can get back to fixing itself for the benefit of the next dominant species.

Maybe the ants. That would be cool. At least they know what community means.

National pride and my squandered youth

2010-02-19T19:54:00.000-08:00

Canada is the best!

Because some guy I've never met from a town I've never been to has beaten a bunch of other guys at some sport that's so obscure, I never see it unless its on TV at the winter Olympics. He got a chunk of metal for his effort. and... that makes... Canada the best!

Yay Canada!

Okay. So obviously I don't get it.

Once, I came in 6th at a Western Canadian championship. I left with a chipped tooth and a dislocated finger. And no medal or trophy. But 6th. Not bad. A friend of mine once had a piece of bone broken off the inside of his eye socket. It got lodged in the optic nerve behind his eyeball and he puked for hours. Had to have surgery to get it out. So... I guess I got off lightly.

But my country had precious little to do with any of it. If I was born a bit more talented, if I had worked an awful lot harder, if I had learned the mysteries of mind/body/soul that still seem to elude me, I might have done better. But it was mainly up to me and my genes.

No one raised a flag when I hit my pinnacle. No one waved banners or screamed with national pride when I crested and began my descent into middle aged spread.

But my coach bought me a beer.

Somehow, I prefer the latter reward.

2010-02-10T21:39:00.000-08:00

I once sat through a lecture where the professor was pushing the thesis that there was no ceremony left in mainstream culture. No ritual. No observances.

I have thought a lot about that idea over the last many years. I am now ready to comment.

I knew you were waiting with a terrible anticipation.

Bells. We begin our formative education with bells to tell us when it is time to wake up, when to catch the bus, when to change classes, when to meet your date...

We have captured time. It is money after all. We have defined it, taken its measure, we have it in a bottle to do with as we please. It can be relative. We are its master.

It is, of course, all a delusion. But we have fooled ourselves into thinking that we have some control over time. We even call it time management when we are trying to fit everything we need to do into our day. And we measure it out in coffee spoons. We count it and divide it all up into minutes and endless seconds - nano or milli. We have no name for a certain fraction of a second because, at the quantum level, time is kind of undefinable. That's why we have calculus - to describe and provide a symbol for the infinitely small. But we have this need to measure it all out and to perform our functions and lives according to our imperfect tools and methods for tracking time.

It is a ceremony of a sort. Ritual. We wake up like dominoes. As the sun crosses time zones, alarm clocks rouse us all in order. We commute and are industrious. The clocks tell us when to eat, when to go to meetings and when to go home. They stare at us from walls, computers, phones and wrists. It is a form of worship.

Oh Great Lord Time. Through this flawed machine we have clumsily built in order to interpret in some small way your infinite presence and motion, I give obeisance to your authority and to your purpose. Through you, all things will come to us, good and bad. If there is a purpose, you, Oh Time, are the road we will travel to reach it. Give us the wisdom to follow the signs you give us through the changing of the sun and moon, the transition of the seasons, the shift of colour on the coats of the animals. With this wisdom, we pledge not to waste your gift, but to make ourselves useful and industrious.

Amen.

Top Ten Names For My New Band

2010-02-03T20:40:00.001-08:00

I am not a rock star. I never could have been one. I don't have the charisma, the flair, the coolness, the constitution to handle booze or drugs... oh and talent. Yeah I don't have the talent.

Don't get me wrong. I took every music program my high school offered. I played Tuba, euphonium, bass guitar, and I sang in chorus classes, jazz choir, and did all the musical theatre I could.

First of all, can I point out the conflict between cool and musically educated? Most great rock musicians seem pretty cool but let's not forget how much time they spent in some dank basement practicing instead of running around being cool and social. I was definitely not cool back then. I tried, like most kids. But I was never cool.

I was in a band for a while. I played bass and sang back-up vocals. We did a lot of covers and played garden parties and an occasional wedding. Once we had a three night gig in a bar full of baseball players after a tournament. It was fun but ultimately silly. We hardly ever got paid and, when we did get any money, it barely paid for the equipment we had to rent. In the end, we irritated each other a lot. It got old fast.

But I am not a rock star now. I know I never will be. I know I never had a shot at it anyway. But I do love to play. I bought a new Fender Strat. I got a good price on it so I splurged on a Fender amp as well. I am a self-taught guitar player so I do all the wrong things. But I love it.

Now if only I had a garage. Or a bigger house. Or headphones with the right jack.

So screw the fame and stardom thing. I don't even want to write my own songs. I just want to play. That's what it should be right? Glorious simplicity. So I'm starting my own band. No money, no pressure. I just have to think of the right name.

Ulcer. Of all the physical ailment names, that's my fave.
All The Wrong Things. I'll keep that one in mind. You never know.
William Marshall. You see, William Marshall was this landless knight with no money. He climbed the ladder and when Richard the Lionhearted and his brother died, Marshall became Regent of England and... never mind. Too obscure.
Hog. I don't know why. It just seems like there should be a "Hog".
Undersold. So many people won't be undersold. I'll take up the slack.
Purgatory. This may be what it will be like to listen to my band. The name might be fitting.
The Industry of Cool. I just watched Almost Famous. Catchy.
Hamper. It means to get in the way of. But it could mean the laundry basket too. I like it.
Kevlar. That's right baby. We're bullet proof.
O.C.D. Exactly what any song I play or sing will sound like. I think that one's a winner.

So that's it. I've thought of better over the years but they come and go. I hardly ever write them down and now most of them are gone. So you decide. What should I call my new band?

2010-01-29T20:56:00.000-08:00

I haven't really sought out new blog buddies in a long time. I haven't written for anyone in particular in a couple of years. I'm just writing because if I don't write it down somewhere it gets lost in my head. And sometimes, I find things funny or interesting. I hate the thought of these things just disappearing because I couldn't take the time to record them.

I can't imagine what it would be like to try to earn a living with writing. Some of you do it, or have sold novels, poems and such.

Not me. I can tell you right now I don't have a book in me. Maybe an occasional amusing anecdote. Nothing to write home about. I'm not sure if I could take the rejection I would receive as a writer trying to bust into a competitive publishing market.

As much as I'd like to be a punk ass, don't care if you read or not kind of guy, its kind of nice when someone passes on one of those award things that go around sometimes.

I got this one from Bill over at ...usually confined... and I am flattered.

I am supposed to pass it on to a few people and state ten things that make me happy.

Happy has been a challenge for me recently. Job satisfaction stuff. Nuff said.

So this is well timed. I can reflect on the things that make me happy and reaffirm my commitment to being positive. (translation: no punching people. Bad karma.)

Ten things that make me happy:

1. My wife and child. Corny, but true. And they'd be mad if I didn't put them on here.

2. Cold.

3. Punks. They're always in my office, they're extremely disrespectful, I am constantly forced to suspend them. I secretly hope they never change.

4. My new friends, Fender strat and his brother the 100 watt amp.

5. Online guitar lessons.

6. Beck's

7. Wood stove. (Furnace still broken!)

8. Risk. World domination. I never lose.

9. Annoying other people by calling attention to bad martial arts in movies.

10. Mountains. They are watching.

I'll pass this on to any of my buddies out there who care to partake. Take the award. You all deserve it if you're on my blogroll.

mid-life or the end of adolescence?

2010-01-29T12:57:00.000-08:00

There is a bit of a gap between how I see things and... um... how everyone else does. At least that's how it seems sometimes. Maybe everybody feels that way.

But maybe I'm the only one who feels that way.

Anywho, I guess I am trying to reconcile some parts of me that are at odds. Sometimes I feel like a revolutionary. Not that I'm actually affecting any real change. Just that I don't like the way things are and I am waiting for the right moment to ride a wave of change. Other times, I am a stalwart follower and loyal servant and I do things I don't like because it is more important to be consistent and follow policy and direction.

It is not an easy marriage in my head, let me tell you. I struggle. Part of me is patient beyond words, supportive and diplomatic. The other part of me wants to burn everything down and learn to run free and wild... and possibly naked... into the hills without ever looking back.

Therapy may be in my future.

Or maybe I am finally finishing growing up. Damn. It was a good run.

2010-01-25T21:42:00.000-08:00

Never interrupt a murder while it is conducting its business.

You can poison, trap, scare, shoot or otherwise kill as many individuals as you like. No rook will begrudge you protecting your corn. In fact, it is generally considered to be part of the game. No self respecting magpie would eat your crop if you weren't ready to kill him for it.

But a murder is another matter. There is an agenda. There are policies to be followed and protocol to be observed. Grievances are aired. Justice is dispensed. Stories are told. News is shared. The proper observances are made to Thought and Memory. It is a sacred thing, not to be trifled with.

You and I are really not welcome. We have no right of redress or recourse. We do not understand, as a species, the things the murder has learned in its millions of years of governance development. We are not considered to be smart enough to be able to participate. Wolves have been known to consult on occasion. But I could never address a murder. It just isn't done.

A murder can turn on you if you do not show it the respect it deserves. A murder's purpose is its own. Just don't pay attention.

Let them be.

2010-01-24T22:56:00.000-08:00

There was a moment in T.H. White's Once and Future King, where Arthur has doubts.

Of course, the best part of that book was the first part. The part immortalized yet ruined by Disney. The best part was when Arthur was young. Merlin turned him into all sorts of animals and led him around in order that Arthur could learn the various types of government and leadership that could be found in nature. Also, so Arthur could learn what total war really is. Brilliant book, really.

But I want to talk about that other part. The part with doubts. I haven't read it in a long time but I remember this part well. Arthur struggled with the burden of leadership. He had to follow his own laws. He had to sentence his wife to die and he had to watch. The torture he had to go through, only to witness Lancelot save her. He cheered, of course. He loved her still. But although he was strong enough to sentence his love to die, he was, personally, weak and shattered that he had to do it and then that a hero other than he got to rescue her. He was saved, damned, emasculated and vindicated all at the same time.

Such is leadership. Heavy lies the crown and all that shit. I get it.

It is normal to doubt one's ability to pull through. It is normal to entertain the possibility that you are not talented or smart enough to be a miracle worker. And, sometimes, leaders need to work miracles.

Obama is in trouble, I say. He can't live up to the expectations he created for himself. No one could. He's not going to stop other recessions from happening. No one can do that. Such is the nature of capitalism. Ask Adam Smith. He knows.

But... this is about me, isn't it?

I should have been a watch maker.

2010-01-17T15:59:00.000-08:00

A day in the city teaches me to never move back. I guess as far as cities go, Vancouver does not rate badly. Moderate weather, beautiful scenery, plenty of opportunity for a multicultural experience...

But you can have it. I have complained about cities before but every time I have to spend time there, I am reminded. So you have to hear it again.

I spend my life looking in people's eyes. I say hi. In cities, people think I'm trying to buy drugs.

Dudes in malls that get paid to peddle crap are the sixth sign before armageddon. I believe this. The end is nigh because some poor schmo found a job trying to get me to "smell this". Dude, I am not smelling anything strangers shove in my face.

Water tastes like it came from a pool filter. Dirty and full of chlorine. Possibly with a hint of urine.

Hotels. Ech. I actually feel uncomfortable knowing a stranger made my bed and scrubbed my toilet after I only used it once. Think about how many people have stayed in that bed over the last five years. Not a comforting thought.

Another thing. Every hotel I have stayed in the last ten years has a little card encouraging me to save my towels. "If you will use this again, hang it on the shower curtain. If you would like fresh towels, throw them in the bathtub. Help us save detergent and the environment".

I hang my towel every time and I have never found it there when I return. They wash them every day, regardless of their little guilt message. Bothers me a lot. Don't know why.

Traffic, crowds, lineups, pollution, noise... Starbucks just doesn't make up for it. Not even close.

Good to be home.

2010-01-09T12:59:00.000-08:00

Juno is an interesting soul. I remember being a child and realizing that Santa Claus wasn't real. I felt a little betrayed at the litany of lies perpetrated by my parents. So I decided I wasn't going to lie to Juno.

But the more I tell Juno Santa isn't real, the stronger her faith in Santa becomes. I am gentle, mindful of her feelings, delicate, but honest. She is sure I am trying to trick her. I don't know how its going to play out.

In school, Juno's teacher got them to write letters to Santa. I didn't know about it. These letters were mailed to Santa at the north pole (H0H 0H0). Canada Post does this every year, they even answer back.

So Juno got a letter from Santa. She asked him for a cat. I said "No way." We can't have a cat. We're never home. We have enough on our plates. No pets. Not now.

Christmas day, there was a scratching at our back door accompanied by a plaintive chirping sound distinctive to Norwegian Forest Cats. I gave it a little turkey. It never. Went. Away. Juno is sure this cat is from Santa.

I guess we'll keep him. I never should have fed him. And although I will keep telling Juno that there is no Santa, I have a feeling her faith has only been confirmed in her mind and spirit.

Welcome cat. And thanks a lot.

Aww. I can't stay mad at him. He IS pretty cute. I think we should name him Elijah.

Hi Ron.

2010-01-03T15:22:00.000-08:00

Back to work tomorrow. Can't wait to get back into the fray.

In the meantime, the universe is trying to tell me something. What do you think?

I turn on the TV to watch Movie Central. Hellboy and the Golden Army. I turn the channel. Sons of Anarchy season 2 is premiering (never seen or heard of this before, didn't know it was popular). I turn the channel. YTV is showing Looney Toons: Back in Action with Brendan Fraser and Jenna Elfman. Juno wants to watch it. We watch it.

Later, another channel. Alien Resurrection. Horrible addition to the franchise. I turn the channel.

It goes on. It has been going on for a few days. The common denominator? Ron Perlman. Different networks, different shows, different movies... I just can't seem to get away from that big wierd looking guy.

What does this mean? Is Ron just really busy these days? Or is someone trying to tell me something? Don't get me wrong. I think he's not a bad actor. But why is he always in my face these days? I always considered him a character actor, recognizable but rarely getting top billing in any project - apart from the recent Hellboy stuff in which makeup makes him barely recognizable. But now he seems to be everywhere. How did this happen?

Hmmm.

Perhaps its a sign. Perhaps Ron is a Prophet of the modern age. Maybe I should be paying attention to how often he seems to crop up in TV and movies. Perhaps the statistics derived from his appearances in film and television reveal patterns of numbers that can be interpreted by numerological cabalist heiromancers in order to reveal secrets of arcane lore.

Perhaps there is wisdom to be gained by studying this.

Perhaps I have eaten way to much left over turkey. Surely it is going bad by now. I need to throw that stuff out.

Happy New Year!

Keep Your Ties to Yourself

2009-12-30T18:31:00.000-08:00

Even though my job calls for a certain amount of professionalism, I cannot bring myself to buy a suit.

The pressure to do so is increasing. I moved from a little school to a big one. A small community to a bigger one (not really that big but still...). All sorts of arguments in favour of a shirt and tie scream through my mind:

You are the Principal of a school. Look it.
You will feel more confident as a professional.
Staff will take you more seriously
Your superiors will take you more seriously.
Parents will show you more respect.

But I will not cave to these arguments. They are shallow and I will not even engage in discussion regarding the merits of this case.

I don't want to dress in a suit. I don't want to wear a tie to work. I call for an end to fashion tyranny - the vagaries of conformist social forces determining what we should look like. I don't want to live in a world where your garb shouts to people what you do and how seriously people should take you. I call for it all to end, God Damn it!

I feel a little rebellious and sensitive about it. I want to yell:

"I AM SPARTACUS!"

Except I know that no one will call out after I do. I will be revealed and crucified as a rebel and a runaway slave. That's right, a slave to my profession and to the norms of society I will perish. The way in which I approach my work will be swallowed by the expectations of the world and I will cease to love my job.

Call it out people. Though the Romans post us every mile along the road to die in the sun, call it out. End it. It is way past time.

...And Happy New Year. In case I don't see you.

Things Were Better When... a Christmas Message

2009-12-26T14:03:00.000-08:00

Christmas come and gone. School concert, turkey dinner, trees and family. All that it should have been.

And our furnace is out. This is a good thing. We have a wood stove and lots of fire wood. I spent enough time out there splitting and stacking it that to be warm and not have to worry about the broken furnace is strangely gratifying.

I am nostalgiacally attracted to work that has tangible, utilitarian and direct results. Perhaps this is because most work, including the labour of my chosen profession, is abstract and is somehow disconnected from the food on the table and the walls that keep us warm.

Cut wood = have heat. Simple.

Provide behavioural support to difficult classroom = 1 unquantifiable facet of my responsibilities, the total of which = 1 paycheque which must be managed in order to pay for a variety of things, one of which = groceries. Not quite as simple.

I know its not realistic but maybe we should all consider this.

Wake up
Get fire going
Get water
Make and eat simple breakfast
Dawn breaks
Tend to critters (chickens are simplest)
Tend garden (no flowers or unnecessary pretty stuff, just food)
Forage for local wild foodstuffs (bear root is particularly good)
Eat lunch
Perform seasonal/as needed work (cut fire wood, mend fence, till soil, shovel snow...)
Relax by the fire

I'm not talking about a farm life. Not as we kow it today. I'm not talking about selling crop for profit. I'm not talking about cultivators, tractors, grain elevators, or massive herds of factory slaughtered cattle.

I'm not naive. I know what this simpler lifestyle would entail. It would mean lots of hard work. It would mean we would not be able to support current levels of population. It would mean we could no longer spend energy and resources generating elecricity. It would mean... no more blogging.

That's OK. Moving toward a modern version of a log cabin lifestyle would also mean that our population would be under control. It would also mean that we wouldn't be ravaging watersheds in order to power our refrigerators and TVs. It would mean we'd all have to read books. It would mean that human endeavour would be geared toward the support of our families. Not toward economic expansion, toward war, or toward amassing the largest amount.

We all need to find joy and contentment in what we need, not in what we want.

I can't think of a better Christmas message.

Now, if you'll all excuse me, I'm going to go play the Wii with my daughter. She loves Mariocart.

Copenhagen Convention

2009-12-22T13:00:00.000-08:00

So... there was this big meeting. Obama was there, Harper... some other people from various countries and...

Yeah.

Nothing legally binding. Nothing that sets out any real authority to enforce compliance or punish non-compliance.

Like it matters. Face it. If there is going to be real change, the standard of living for most of us in Blogolopia (my name for our new nation) will have to be drastically reduced. There is no way around it. Not because it will be good for the environment. But because we live high on the hog at the expense of 96% of the population of this planet.

Case in point:
I was watching TV - against my will, I might add - and I saw a commercial for "Dollars for Gold". You take all the gold you've got just "laying around" and put it in an envelope to mail off to the company. They weigh it, melt it down and send you a cheque.

What does this mean? It means there are several nations full of people out there who are sitting around watching TV... who have spare gold just... laying around?

Do we realize what that makes us in a historical sense? Rare. Bizarre. Outlandish.

Take a step back from it and think about how many people in history have ever had the luxury of spare wealth just laying around with which they might get some extra Christmas cash if they had the foresight to be watching TV at the right time.

Sometimes, I think we deserve economic and environmental ruin. Cleansed from this Earth by the very seeds we planted.

But I don't want to be too dreary. I did say "sometimes".

Happy Holidays everyone. Spend it with loved ones. Buy nothing.

2009-12-14T06:45:00.000-08:00

We have TV again.

With the move, setting up in a new place and with paying for our new cargo trailer, I was hoping to not have TV. Our new home is in another community with limited access to amenities. A vast improvement from my last posting, to be sure, but satellite is still our only option for TV services.

Sugar wanted it. Juno wanted it. I caved. I was shocked at the bounty of crap TV churned up for my disgust. I can sum it all up with one example:

Steven Seagal - Lawman.

Yes. Seagal is a real policeman and works the streets in some US town - which is really a good thing, because I can't imagine Seagal trying to do martial arts wearing the red Serge of the RCMP.

Anyway, we get to follow Seagal around on the job as he busts criminals and incorporates the "way of peace and harmony" into that thin blue line. Pure unadulterated crap.

Sadly, there is no real bookstore in my new home community. Internet access is still a challenge. I'm going to have to fall back on Archie comics to keep my brain from stagnating any further.

Please. Please save me.

2009-12-05T11:04:00.000-08:00

Songs are not entertainment, people.

A rock song is three verses, two choruses and a bridge. My baby loves me. I'm the greatest. I couldn't be more blue. My baby doesn't love me. Rap and Hip Hop, no better. Dilutions of what a song is. Four chords and a simple four-four beat thrown together in all of their various computations in order to produce a limited, collective, half drugged, cathartic event. In a way, the music most people listen to today is a sad parody of what a song should be.

The older I get (and I'm not that old, you know), the more its all just noise. Re-filtered crap we've all heard before that changes nothing in the long run. You can have it. I used to love it but I'm close to done with it.

But, as I think on it, even this shadow we call rock music is better than the alternative. The alternative would be nothing. A world without song is a world devoid of anything joyful or meaningful. Gray, dismal, failing, ground in the gears of industry with no avenue for recourse or expression.

My mother once told me I was not a spiritual person. I'm still not sure how to properly respond to that. I am not a religious person, to be sure. I claim no special knowledge of what lies beyond. Nor do I claim to have insight into the natures of good and evil, chaos and order, joy and despair. So maybe I am not a spiritual person.

But a real song... If I feel like I've showered after hearing it, is there not hope for me and my poor, listless, brain-damaged spirit?

A song is not for me. Not for you. It is for us. We sing it because we need to be bound together. It should remind us of who we are, it should make us remember what is important. It should tell us all of our stories and teach us the important things. We should lift our drums and hands high when we dance backwards together because if you don't know the song, you will continue to move forward against the others as they change direction. This will encourage you to pay attention to the music.

Listen for the subtle changes.

Anticipate the next beat and how you will respond.

Nothing else matters right now. What could possibly be more important?

So shut up.

Just sing with us.

2009-11-30T16:13:00.000-08:00

I think I'll post weekly from now on. I'll give that a shot anyway. Saturdays, if the wife lets me out of the house. Meantime, that is where I live.

Well, actually I live a five minute drive up the road from this picture, but you get the idea. The most beautiful - and wet- place on this planet.

Hope to see you Saturday.

2009-11-27T14:48:00.000-08:00

Yaw. That means hello. Long time...

I still have no internet at my new residence.

I may have to re-launch this blog. The smart-ass way in which this one was started was a little off the cuff. It's changed a lot over time, and I have embarked on a drastic change in my career direction.

I've been running a small, isolated school in northern British Columbia. If you've been around here before, you will have seen some pictures. Well, I and my family have moved to the coast and are now living in Bella Coola BC. I am Principal of a much larger school now and the change has been...

educational.

To summarize:

I now have cell phone service.

My new cell phone was stolen.

I supervise more than 50 people now and got a big raise.

I never used to pay rent, so my take home has not changed.

I have made innovative and modern changes to this school.

No one understands what the hell I'm talking about.

I haven't heard automatic gunfire in months.

To get back at me for giving him a timeout, a five year old has repeatedly threatened to beat up my daughter.

Watch for pine needles or eagle down in your drinking water. Raven is very clever.

Hey, have you seen the latest Hulk movie? He came here to hide at the end!

Most importantly, I have learned what singing is really for. More on that later.

I think I'm back people. A little less bitchier, perhaps.

A Long Awaited Book Review

2009-08-25T17:06:00.000-07:00

It is just after 5:00pm. I am at work but am really finished for the day, waiting for Sugar to pick me up.

There is lots of news to share. Personal stuff, pictures, feelings to express.

But that will wait until another time as I am burning to say something to a certain writer:

Julius Caesar.

Mr. Caesar (?),

Upon reading your Conquest of the Gauls, I would like to take this opportunity to review this fine piece of literature and history. I first read this book many years ago and was struck with its intensity as a tribute to your brilliance. Of course... you wrote it. So... yeah, a real testament to your genius. As far as that goes.

But upon this second reading I would like to apologize for any sarcasm or criticism implied in my last statement. After all, where would we all be without you? Medicine, engineering, a code of law, clean water, the notion of civic responsibility... all roads lead back to you don't they? Or was that Augustus?

Anywho, we are all very impressed with the various battles and policies that made you what you were and we have your own account of the Gallic campaign from which to draw wisdom. I'm afraid I cannot comment on your writing style or use of literary devices. After all, this books comes to the modern age after having been translated from Latin to Arabic to an ancient form of Iranian and finally back to Latin. Oh, and then to English. I am sure your subtlety of wit was lost in there somewhere. You are not to blame.

What struck me most significantly this time around is your sense of assured victory. You really knew how to win. You saw the world before as a wild thing that needed to be conquered and tamed. Harnessed, if you will. A yolk needed to be put on the people of Gaul in order to bring them into the Roman fold, the Roman way, the most efficient government on the planet. Many advantages come from the Roman way, but first they must all be taught that they serve, as an oxen is yolked to the cart.

I am stunned that this sense of inevitable destiny and world mastery survived you, survived the Caesars, survived Constantine, survived Rome itself, survived the "dark" ages, plagues, revolutions, reformations...

Did you start all this? Have I just finished reading the tale of the First Cause of imperialism? Hmmm.

But thanks for the great read. Watch out for friends in dark places. They can be murder.

Hey

2009-08-19T12:30:00.000-07:00

Hey everyone. How're things?

Sorry to be gone for so long. No internet at home yet. Could be a while. But here's a quick update:

We moved OK, didn't drown, didn't burn or have to evacuate due to forest fires, sushi is really good, restaurants rock, access to produce is a privilege - not a right, Bushmills makes good Irish Whisky, people who drive RV's need to drive them SOMEWHERE ELSE, and lastly:

my books were very happy to see me... and I them.

Can't promise consistency over the next little while. I'll be in touch when things settle down a bit.

Tips for picking wild strawberries

2009-07-10T14:49:00.000-07:00

Don't look too far afield. If you are patient and careful, they can be found in my back yard.
Take your time. You have to be a bit zen about filling the bowl or basket. These suckers are small. Just keep at it.
Watch Juno like a hawk. Bears like strawberry patches.
Watch Juno like a hawk or the big ones won't make it into the bowl.
Spend a lot of time. You need a few hours to get enough to be useful.
Let your mind drift away as you pick, enjoy the sunshine and the breeze.
Go mid-morning, before the bugs come out and before the hottest part of the day.
Use berry picking to procrastinate cleaning the house. Works like a charm.
Put some on vanilla ice cream. Add milk and blend if you like.
Put some on your cereal. They are so much tastier than store bought berries, no hormones, no chemicals.

The home we are leaving is a very difficult place to work and takes a huge adjustment to be able live if you are used to cities.

By cities, I mean any place with pavement and a grocery store.

But this place has its charms. Ice fishing, wild strawberries, blueberries, cranberries, huckleberries, endless (and slightly spooky) wilderness in all directions, moose, elk, wolverine, wolves, lynx, bobcats, caribou, beaver, black bear, grizzly, hiking, snow shoes, mountains, learning to tan hide...

A place where, if you are deemed a nice person, everyone over 60 is your granparent. They will bring you cookies, fresh meat, and make sure you are doing OK. They will also tell you what to do once in a while. Do what you're told. They know better.

We leave Sunday, for good. I mean, we might visit if we can. Next year perhaps. But we will be living in a different community, new connections, new kids, new relationships to build. I am excited and can't wait to start a new, challeging job.

But I will miss it here, where the land itself tells the stories. I was only beginning to learn how to listen.

Another boring comment on literature

2009-07-08T08:09:00.001-07:00

During all this packing and moving, I've had to keep my mind busy doing something. Still haven't really moved yet but the truck is coming to pick up our stuff today. Then, we have a few days of just playing in the woods. There might be some fishing in the days ahead.

But to keep occupied mentally, I allow stupid ideas to germinate in my pea brain and I carry them to their logical conclusions. Here's one:

Odysseus is Batman.

Ancient Greek stories and characters have remained relevant to Western culture over the past few thousand years. I don't know why. There are some lessons to learn from these stories - usually know your place and don't aspire to more than is human, but we don't really take those lessons to heart do we?

But these were powerful stories that the entire world knows. They have some power in our collective soul.

I think they have translated themselves into comic books.

Yup. The foundation of Western literature, in all its resplendent glory, has been distilled to its essence and can be found on the shelf of your local 'Comics R Us'. Think about it.

Heracles? Gilgamesh? Achilles? Superman. Captain Marvel.

Wonder Woman? Diana, duh.

The modern superhero is an archetype. A character based on molds thousands of years old. These slightly-more-than-human people can teach us things about ourselves. They can remind us of the dangers of rising too far above our station. That's why Superman never uses his abilities for his own benefit. He has responsibilities, he takes them seriously. He could be King! But he wouldn't. That would involve hubris, saved for super villains.

But of all the superheroes, I always liked the ones who weren't so super. Batman has no powers. He's just rich, pissed off, smart, and slightly insane. A rat bastard cheater who uses technology, deception, and ambush but who still likes to get his knuckles bloody on occasion.

Odysseus. Sure. Let's recall Odysseus.

After ten years of stalemate war, Odysseus decides to hide a few guys in a statue so they can open the gate from the inside and kill everyone in their beds.
On his way home, he decides to spend another ten years sleeping with a witch.
He finally decides to go home to his wife and kid, gets most of his crew turned into pigs.
When he gets home, he finds a bunch of dudes eating his food and wooing his wife. He disguises himself, gets them all drunk and murders them after locking them into a room and hiding their weapons.

The Great Tactician. Of all the Greek Heroes, Odysseus is the least powerful. He never got dipped into the River Styx. He is not descended from the Gods. He didn't have to kill serpents in his crib. But nothing bad happens to him. Of all of them, he is one of the only ones I can think of that don't end in tragedy. For him anyway. Odysseus always wins by using cunning and underhandedness.

Just like Batman.

Boy I am I ready for holidays.

Guess what?

2009-07-05T13:41:00.000-07:00

Moving sucks.

'Nuff said.

Reluctant good wishes

2009-07-01T10:48:00.000-07:00

Don't delude yourself into thinking that things are better than they used to be.

Don't fool yourself into thinking that history is a progression from worse to better.

It isn't.

The study of history is simply a guess, based on evidence, of where we've been, what we' ve done and how we did things. Deciding to look at our past as a story, with a beginning, middle, end, setting, theme, morality... all those things that stories have... is a mistake.

We will have an end, no doubt. But when the last human dies, who will there be to hear our story? And what is a story with no one to hear it? Meaningless, that's what it is. Sound and fury and all that nonsense.

Still, Canada is pretty lucky. We have vast stores of fresh water and natural resources, not that we should take it all for granted. We are one of the last countries in the world that has real wilderness. We have a diverse population that gives us strength and a store of perspectives on which to draw, as long as we know to listen. We have a high standard of living. We even have Hawkins Cheezies and Tim Hortons. I am thankful for the bounty of my life.

Of course, all this goodness comes with a price in suffering and poverty paid by someone else.

If there are haves, there are have-nots. So it has always been. So shall it ever be.

Happy birthday Canada.

Not a eulogy for anyone famous

2009-06-26T06:46:00.000-07:00

With all the deaths in the media lately, this one will go unnoticed. He never wrote any songs or starred in any movies. Mostly, he just lazed around, chased a tennis ball, cowered during fireworks and lived a codependent lifestyle with my mother.

Still, fifteen years is a pretty good run for a Newfoundlander. It isn't easy for an animal to find its way into my heart. But, somehow, he managed.

It happened fairly quickly, it didn't seem like he was in a lot of pain. But it was unexpected and Juno will be upset. She loved him. He let her use him as a pillow.

R.I.P. Monk.

Good dog.

2009-06-23T17:42:00.000-07:00

Some schools have sports day. We do. At most schools, you run around and push eggs with your nose. You race and throw water balloons, fill buckets with water a spoonful at a time...

At my school, we do things a bit different.

Canoes, swimming, fishing and hot dogs.

Wish you could have been there.

Have you accepted the truth?

2009-06-13T18:32:00.000-07:00

After much thought and reflection, I have decided to reveal to you all the secret of the Universe. Yes, this is the answer to all your questions.

I have always felt that the answer to all of our dilemmas was simple. It has to be. But to wrap one's head around this Primary truth is not as simple as it should be. Everyone wants to peddle the answers these days. Nary a day passes that I don't get someone trying to sell me something philosophical or religious. I used to entertain them. I used to answer the door on Saturday morning dressed commando in my bath robe, grilled cheese sandwich in hand.

"Hello. No I have not, as yet, accepted Jesus as my personal saviour. But come on in while I have my coffee and answer some questions for me would you? If God is the source of all things, is God the source of Evil?"

"Uh... no. Have you read the latest 'Watchtower?' " This was the invariable response. I admit I was a bit unfair asking the paradox, divine mystery questions to poor unsuspecting JW's. It's not that I didn't believe in Jesus. I just didn't think that this Saturday morning missionary was qualified to reveal the truth to me. And I was a bit smart assed about it.

But Taoist masters have spent a long time saying that the answer lies in not trying to find the answer. I have been training, my friends. Disciplining my mind and soul. I have learned to distinguish the waking from the dreaming. I have learned to see the Great Wheel and I think I have fallen from the mouth of Vishnu. In that moment before I was snatched away from the infinite and swept back into the maw of the benevolent Presence, I saw the Universe. I saw everything. I know what to tell you.

"How do I live a happy life? How do I live a good life and avoid evil? Why do bad things happen to good people? Is there a God? What is the point of existence? How is it possible for me to have free will if God knows everything? Will my retirement investments see me through the last thirty years of my life?"

The answer is simple, my friends. I have unearthed it through strenuous meditation and through years of arduous study into the deepest of mysteries and sciences.

Golf fashion.

Think about it.

It just make sense.

Come on, do I have to spell it out for you?

Imagine, its easy if you try, the whole world dressed... for golf.

No. More. Problems.

2009-06-10T08:24:00.000-07:00

Hi all. I am having trouble with Internet access at home. Community shares a wireless signal and these days everyone plays Texas Hold'em all the time. I can never manage to get a decent amount of time to post anything or check in with y'all.

I wrote this horrible post about economics. Really boring. You are all extremely lucky I couldn't post it and now I have thought better of it. Instead, here is what I really think will solve all oif our economic problems:

Raspberry juice, orange juice, one whole tray of ice cubes, one banana. Blend. Very refreshing.

Add tequila for that extra boost to your manufacturing sector.

I'm at work, and will not be blogging much from here. Very busy. I'll keep trying from home, if I'm not around very much, it's poker's fault. Don't give up on me.

Ciao

Go West, young man.

2009-05-30T21:38:00.000-07:00

Our Quest began on Wednesday. We left our remote home of the last seven years in search of a new place to be. This new place had to be special, with the right job, amenities, extra-curricular opportunities for Juno, closer to family on Vancouver Island. The rain on a logging road is a blessing and a curse. Mud is worse than ice but no dust. Our trusty vehicle handled it well.
After two and a half hours of driving, the first sign of civilization, besides the road itself, is a plywood outhouse that is never cleaned out. You see, you just leave the sewage to compost and it takes care of itself over time. As long as it is not over-used. As you can see, this facility does not sport a lineup.

There were many dangers on our Quest. but also many pleasures. Elk, Grizzlies, Mountain Goats... and this river. I'm afraid our camera didn't do it justice.
The Mountain Pine Beetle has a three stage effect. Green phase is when the bugs are eating the loam of the tree but the pitch tubes in the bark are the only sign of the infestation. The needles are still green. One year later, the needles turn red as water and nutrients are blocked from getting up the tree. In year three, the beetles leave and the tree is grey and dead. Then they dry out and make forest fires a real danger. Right now, a forest the size of Great Britain looks like this, red phase. Nothing I can do about it except spread the warning. But it casts a particularly gloomy mood over our adventure.

Many miles later, after dental appointments (a medieval hazard in and of itself), an overnight sojourn in William's Lake BC, we went West into the Chilcotin. Alexis Creek. Don't blink, you'll miss it.

I had an interview here at this school. I was offered a contract to be their Principal. It was a beautiful space, well organized and Juno obviously loved the gathering circle. Still, my soul was still being called to from somewhere else.

But I will be ever grateful that they let Juno play with the hoola while I was busy.

This is stage three of the Pine Beetle attack. These trees are long dead and waiting for a nice fire to take them to their rest.

The top of a mountain in May is still thawing. This lake, at least, was pristine even if the beetle killed wood abounds all around.

And then the road turns to gravel. No trouble for us, seasoned to gravel as we are. But this sign gives one pause. That is not a normal turn arrow.

They call it simply, "The Hill". 14% - 18% grades switchback across the side of the mountain. A verdant valley opens below and we feel our quest is near its conclusion, one way or another.This is the view from the B&B where we rested our heads. I might already be sold.

The view from the school where I was offered, and accepted, a contract for the coming year. A satisfying conclusion to our mission.

But on our way back, the damned cows wouldn't get off the road. Punk ass cows.

And so it ends. And begins. A long, arduous chapter of my life is about to draw to a close. I will have to come to terms with the possibility that all the progress I have made here may be undone by the wrong successor. We can only do so much. Such is the lesson of a Knight errant on a quest. You can only do so much. But make sure you do what you can.

And a new era is ready to dawn. Sort of closer to home. Not really. But this is the right place and the right job. I feel it.

I know where we're going. I think its good.

2009-05-24T11:27:00.000-07:00

So I'm moving. I had hoped to have more to report but so far here is the scoop:

We live in isolation. Gravel roads for hundreds of miles, no amenities, no medical care, and no family.

Juno is five. She doesn't really know her Grandparents, her cousins, her aunts and uncles...

So we decided to move. Only, I have no job lined up. I am applying to some different places but the caveat for us is: closer to home. Such is our quest. The stakes are high. Our losses could be catastrophic. But the grail is to find the place we can settle and from which WE WILL NEVER MOVE.

I have already informed my employers that I am not going to continue being their teacher and principal. I am helping them hire someone new. I think this is the honourable thing to do. I am not on contract, I could just give them two weeks notice in the middle of August and let them flounder. I can't do that to the kids in the school. It wouldn't be right. So I will stay on staff here as long as I need to be in order to allow them to make a smooth transition.

Best case scenario: A good job in a place closer to our family, nice school, rotten kids (I don't know why but I am better with behaviour problems than I am with genius - especially when you get the two together), a place we can buy a home and, maybe, have more kids.

Worst case scenario: I am an idiot throwing away a job during these uncertain times and will move my family into my mom's basement and fall into personal and economic depression.

I have already turned down the offer of a contract. This is a picture I robbed from the internet of the place to which I will not be moving. It would be a beautiful place, but not the right job and we would again be living in a "teacherage". Fully furnished, two bedroom, one bathroom, low rent... not our stuff, not our place, no opportunity to buy. Sugar's Grandpa used to say, "you can't live off the view".

I have two more interviews this week, which is encouraging. I am hoping to get a few more as many schools are just finishing their short listing now. But getting to my interviews is going to be an adventure. Stay tuned next week and I will post some pics. You won't believe them, I promise.

Take care out there, I will return to normal one day, I'm sure and continue to post about the inane and banal. For now, just wish me luck.

No matter where you go...there you are.

2009-04-29T16:34:00.000-07:00

Sorry for the absence everyone. I want to stay in touch and continue reading up on what's up out there. But things are heating up and my quest has materialized.

My Holy Grail is within reach, I just need to figure out how to not screw it up.

I may be absent for a while but will report as soon as its all sorted out.

If you see me poking around and commenting once in a while its cuz I miss you.

Hope to see you soon.

What would a Canadian spy really look like anyway?

2009-04-21T21:42:00.000-07:00

OK. I'm starting to get a little annoyed. I got another resume today from a guy who claims to have worked for CSIS. That's Canada's CIA, for those of you who have never heard of it.

Aside: If you have never heard of CSIS, does that mean they do a really good job or does it mean that they are completely inconsequential? Hmm.

Anyway, at the top of this dude's work experience is that he has been working for CSIS from a certain year until now.

"Specific duties can only be described on a need to know basis".

Yeah. Really.

THIS

SCHOOL

You dope. I don't care about any experience you've had that isn't education related. I am not impressed if you have undergone a security check and are not allowed to divulge sensitive information. I'm not twelve, I don't want to see your badge, and I don't eagerly want to know if you've ever killed anyone.

Taking yourself too seriously anyone?

I hope they are watching me now because I wrote CSIS too much. Because that would mean that they could detect when someone writes CSIS too much. That would actually give me confidence in their ability to protect our great nation from... well from whatever it is that threatens us of which I only have a vague notion. But they're probably not that organized.

If you read this CSIS, you should consier getting a real office instead of wondering how you can save the world over a double double at Tim Horton's. And the next time you try to get an agent in close to me, tell him to not say that he works for you on his resume. Just saying.

The dangers of hiring.

2009-04-20T17:36:00.000-07:00

A resume came my way for a position I am staffing. Not a bad resume, all said and done. Appropriate experience, good references, well written...

Wait a minute. In capital letters across the top, just under the Objective:

CHOSEN BY GOD TO DO HIS WORK ON EARTH...

I stopped reading.

Please, who applies for a job claiming to be God's messenger? Joan of Arc?

On second thought, maybe St. Joan would make a good teacher. We could have a fencing club. Maybe we could teach math and geography by going over the logistical problems inherent in assaulting a fortified position by laying a six month siege. Maybe I could bring St. Joan up to date on current military principles.

Nah. You can hire crazy if you want to. I'm going to stick with people who keep their religion separate from their job, thank you very much.

Hunting

2009-04-15T20:32:00.000-07:00

Ted Nugent is a dilemma. He is irreverent, unapologetic, bad ass, rock and roll hero.

God love him.

He says he thinks its us who are evil and wrong because we eat unhealthy, farmed, hormoned, genetically maipulated food. The Nuge eats only the wild game he catches with hs bow.

Hunting.

What to say about hunting.

There is all sorts of controversy in the news about hunting. Canada, and British Columbia in particular, is a Mecca for hunters from around the world. There is an American owned hunting lodge opening in the area, they're calling it Fort Graham. A bad move, if you ask me, considering that the original Fort Graham is... well it's under water and its former inhabitants were scattered to the wind.

But I digress.

Hunting.

None of us would be here if it wasn't for hunting.

Is that too obvious? I mean, our ancestors were hunters out of necessity. Try building a small town in the wilderness with no access to railway or road, as was the case throughout most of the Western North American continent. We hunted and foraged in order to sustain a growing population that needed time to build farms and to create a labour diverse society. We could not have done that without hunting.

So I am sometimes shocked why people don't like hunting much. The thought of going out and shooting a wild animal shouldn't be a distasteful enterprise. We have to eat. We have eaten meat for thousands... maybe millions of years. Are we so changed that we cannot see the value in keeping in touch with the foundations of all of our cultures? Our connection to land and animal, bound by ancient law and tradition, by natural decree, it is sacred. Holy. To be preserved.

But with respect. It cannot be sacred and holy if it is not out of respect.

And it is not respectful if it is for a trophy.

A friend of mine told me a story about his childhood. His dad bought him a pellet gun. He went out and shot stuff, as kids will do when given a firearm. He shot a duck. My friend was proud of having shot a duck as his dad was a hunter.

Dad was not impressed.

"You didn't need this, did you? But you are going to clean it and eat it. All of it. And your mom is already cooking dinner and you are going to eat every bit of that on your plate as well."

My friend never shot an animal again unless he was eating it. All of it. Wasting nothing.

Well done dad, I say. You taught a vital component of the hunting life to your child. This vital element is missing from a trophy hunter. If you come to northern BC looking for a Grizzly to shoot so you can have a rug, don't let me catch you out there.

So don't get too high and mighty about being an animal lover or about hating guns. Every molecule of your surroundings came at the cost of animals. Every wall, every electron coursing through those walls, the very computer with which you read this. In order to erase the carnage we have already wreaked upon animals, we would have to erase everything our culture has built... forcing us to hunt, I guess.

So that's where I stand on the hunting issue. Right on the fence of my immaculate lawn... on which you shall not tread without my prior blessing.

Except for you Ted. If you ever step on my grass, I'll close my blinds and ignore it.

I have nothing for you.

2009-04-12T10:10:00.000-07:00

I've had many years to think up here in the hinterlands. Thinking about cities, pollution, education, the value of life, family, you name it - I've been thinking about it.

I don't have any special insights for you. No pearls of wisdom to roll aroud on the kitchen floor. No revelations from which one could gain a life changing perspective. Seek not for knowledge or innovation here, friends. I have not these things for you.

Juno found her eggs this morning. Chocolate carrots hung from the lamp, a new fishing tackle box awaits her meager fishing gear. New markers, drawing paper, Mr. Solid, of course. Fresh ground and pressed coffee for me and Sugar. Snow melts, temperatures rise, birds...

Well, to be truthful, small singing birds get unexpectedly and brutally eaten by Golden Eagles.

Easter's lesson of rebirth not to be wasted, this small bird gives life to the predator. Let's be fair, Eagles have to eat.

Happy Easter.

The real reason Canada is a great land.

2009-04-07T20:06:00.000-07:00

Canada's greatest gift to the United States... nay, the world... is not Canadian born actor Keanu Reeves. As sultry as he looks here, as adorable are his bedroom eyes, as dreamy as he unquestionably is...

he's not that great an actor. Whoa.

Nor is Canada's greatest gift to the world Pamela Anderson, Barry Pepper, Neil Young, William Shatner, Paul Anka, or Adam Beach. Well, Adam is close. Beach can actually act.

No, Canada's greatest gift to the world is now Mike Holmes. He is not an actor or a singer. He is a building contractor. A really good one out of Ontario originally. He has this TV show called Holmes on Homes where he finds people who have been swindled or shortchanged by incompetent or dishonest contractors. He fixes their houses and calls for change to building regulations in order to put a stop to the victimization of so many people. It doesn't sound good but its actually entertaining TV.

Well we just watched a special presentation of Holmes in New Orleans where he rebuilt this woman's house, flood proof, earthquake proof, god damned cruise missile proof, I'm sure.

Brad Pitt said a new standard had been set.

So for calling a spade a spade, for just being himself and honest, for having high standards, for embodying the spirit of hardiness and handiness, Mike Holmes is our gift to the world.

You're welcome.

Twilight in Review

2009-04-03T21:49:00.000-07:00

I try to keep up with my teen reading. I end up reading a lot of shit in order to be ready when the next Eragon or Harry Potter comes along. When my class actually gets interested in a book I want to be ready with novel study material, fodder for seminar, book reports, chapter reviews, character studies...

Yes, I want to be ready to ruin the experience for everyone.

But I have to say, I have not read shit as stinky as Twilight.

I can understand its appeal to teen aged girls and if that is the target audience, well I guess it was well written. The crux of the story is the attraction that a teen has to a vampire, with all the angst and drama that entails.

"Oh I love him so much, but he is so dangerous to be around, but he is so beautiful, but he might eat me..." (not an actual quote)

Blar de blardy blar, if you get my meaning.

Anyway, the best part of the book was when a rival gang of vampires hit town and wanted to dine on the teen aged girl. Finally! Conflict! And it got right to it. Only... 400 pages in?

I have to say, I slogged through it and I actually feel a bit dumber for the experience.

Movie night tonight, we watched the film version. Good job capturing the tone of the book and taking an inordinately long time to get to the good part.

Yes, there is a good part. I can't say the whole book was a dud. There was conflict, I just felt like it took too long to get to it. But I can't say I'm going to rush to buy the sequels.

And that's my first ever book review in bloggyland. Hope I didn't offend any fans of the book or of the movie. Like I say, I can understand the appeal to teens. But I am hoping that this series does not induce mass hysteria - Potter style. There just wasn't that much to it.

You have nothing to lose....!

2009-03-30T20:26:00.000-07:00

Time for a communist revolution. You secure the train stations and airports. Bob will capture all important communication facilities. Chris, you know what to do.

I'll bring the sandwiches.

And voila! No more money! Imagine it.

There is enough food in the world to feed everyone and there is enough to do to keep everyone busy. The only reason people don't eat is because we make people buy food. Food has monetary value and its price fluctuates at the whims of the international markets. The problem with markets is that if someone makes a profit, someone has to lose. Hence: starvation. Sometimes on an international scale. SO,

Lets just stop. We might need to improve our means of distributing food and resources but that isn't beyond us is it?

"But what will I do? What will motivate us to become great? Who will do the hard, unpleasant work?"

You're right. Let's just forget I said anything. Except for the sandwiches part. Everyone likes a good sandwich.

Milestones of my Chest

2009-03-24T19:19:00.000-07:00

Well here I am. Back again after a rough time and I have not been keeping in touch with everyone out there. I won't get into why times are a little sad over here. I won't complain about obscure American comedians insulting Canadian military tradition (they were obscure, now they are infamous in Canada. Is any publicity good publicity?), I won't even throw in my to cents about the state of the world today.

I am going to talk about hair.

I am a hairy bastard. Not as hairy as some, more hairy than most. A bit above average hairy.

As I age, it is a little less Tom Selleck-like and a bit more... jungly. If you get my meaning.

Anyway, most of my body hair remains civilized. It all goes in the same direction. It is not unruly or eight feet long or anything. Its getting a bit long at the top of my chest so it kind of curls out at the top of my shirt. I guess I could trim that. But I want to focus on one particular hair.

In the middle of my chest is a rogue follicle. It produces one of my few grey chest hairs. I like to delude myself into thinking that having some grey peppering my chest hair makes me look like Harrison Ford. Like I said, delusion. But I choose to live deluded OK? But this one grey hair is bizarre.

This hair grows three times as fast as the other hairs. It is approximately four times as coarse... no. I will not use the word coarse. This hair is like wire. This hair is a heavier gage than my other hair. Once I plucked it. Two months later, it had already come back and was standing out - not outstanding - proudly flourishing itself from my sternum. I plucked it again. But I know it will come back.

What does this aberrant hair mean? Is it a harbinger for hairs to come? Does it herald the beginning of my middle age? Is it a mutation signaling the onset of super powers? Is it an antenna planted by aliens that will not be denied until it has contacted the masters? Is there a sports car in my future as I desperately try to hold on to my fleeting youth and compensate for my feelings of inadequacy? Does everyone have an errant hair like this?

As I begin new phases of my life, I sometimes wonder if everything I have done leaves a mark? I wonder if my history can be read, like knowing how old a tree is by its rings - being able to tell which years there was fire. Perhaps my hair is like a tree's rings.

Maybe, you could go over my chest with a fine toothed comb and you could read all the things I have done. Maybe you would see the scars I have under there. Maybe you would be able to see which years were hard, which ones held fire for me.

What would my rogue grey hair say to you? If it had a voice, what would it say?

More importantly, would you answer it?

Wow. Possibly my best post ever.

Fish

2009-03-17T20:46:00.000-07:00

Can't really post as normal. Hotel, Spring Break, Wireless access cutting out, 'nuff said.

About Missy, from last post. Nobody worry about her. She'll be fine. Her sisters were exactly the same and, with supportive, firm and consistent behaviour management strategies, Missy's sisters are doing well and are very reliable in the school. I expect the same from Missy by the time she hits Christmas next year.

Second, my little Juno is challenged. She has developed slowly in physical terms. She is very cautious and uncoordinated for her age. Other kids run around her and she just sits down and refuses to play. "Too dangerous" she says to us.

But today, in town, we went to the aqua-center. She loves it. She is a fish. She jumped off the diving board. Many times. Unafraid and with loyous abandon. Other five year old kids continued to wallow around in their wave pool. Today, Juno is fearlessand victorious.

I wish I had access to swimming lessons.

Third, shopping sucks. Get me the hell out of here.

Happy St. Patrick's day everyone.

Cosmic

2009-03-11T12:51:00.000-07:00

Let me tell you about Missy. A four year old kid in my school studying to enter Kindergarten. She was having a good day, which is rare for her. She is extremely mischievous. I will give you an example.

Yesterday, Missy hit three different kids that we know of. She ran away from her teacher, took off outside and tried to make us chase her around the school. She took a pastel crayon from the art table, which she is not supposed to have access to, and drew all over the wall in the hallway, the floor in the gym and all over at least two wooden chairs. When made to help clean her mess, she scrubbed the wall with a damp cloth smiling and telling us how much she likes to clean.

Little rat. You have to love her, she is very cute but...

Help me.

Anyway, today she was having a good day. She read a book about sharks, she told her teacher that she loved her and everything was going fine. Sugar said, "boy she's having a good day". Two seconds later, Missy "put her book away" by throwing it out into the snow.

"That's not very respectful", Sugar said.

Missy ran out the door to get it. The door hit her in the behind as she was leaning down to pick up the book, and Missy was sent sprawling in the snow and was locked out.

Karma, I say. Karma. Even for the little ones.

You don't name your boat "Titanic 2"

2009-03-08T12:01:00.000-07:00

Sunshine. A movie recently released on DVD. I love science fiction and I watch a lot of crap in the hope of finding a gem. Those are rare, as gems should be.

The plot to Sunshine is as follows: The sun is dying, Earth sends a space ship out to recharge it. They name this space ship... wait for it... Icarus.

Morons. Do they not know the story? Who would name their ship after such an ill fated story with such a pervasive message of "Know your place"? Who writes this crap?

Anyway, the Icarus disappears. Its mission failed, Earth sends another ship to complete the mission. What do they name this ship?

Wait for it.

Icarus 2.

Seriously, Hollywood needs someone to smack some sense into them.

Homage to Dodd

2009-03-05T17:35:00.001-08:00

Every city has a flavour. Put me on the streets of Fort Lauderdale, I'd remember the feel of the place. Thoughts and memories of experiences I've had in particular cities associate themselves in the filing cabinets of my soul. Alphabetized and colour coded for easy recovery if I ever need to recognize where the hell I am. New York is yellow because I'll never forget the guy pissing on the street at the intersection.

But errant urine on public property is not the point. Every city has its character, shaped by the arrangement of its streets, the placement of its parks and gathering places, its architecture, its weather, its geographical location, and, perhaps most importantly, by the players on its stage.

Bear in mind that I hate cities. But as far as cities go, Victoria BC is a little bit of all right. It is relatively old in North American terms. Heritage buildings abound, downtown has a decidedly British feel to it, and the inner harbour is an extremely accessible and beautiful feature of the city. But of all Victoria's attractions and assets, I think Dodd is the most powerful.

Yes, Gordy Dodd. Owner and proprietor of Dodd's Furniture and Mattress. When I was a wee child, his commercials interrupted my Saturday morning cartoons. But they made me laugh.

When I was a teenager, I saw another Dodd commercial, his outrageous accent continuing to assure me that he just won't be undersold. "He's still in business?" I thought.

As an adult, I was waiting in a barber shop to get my hair cut. In walked Dodd. He sat a few seats away from me and quietly read a magazine. I said nothing. Got my hair cut. Paid my $8.50 (Dodd and I are both cheap son's of bitches) and left.

I was turning thirty when I began to be surprised by the longevity of Dodd's business and by his continuing, and bizarre ad campaigning.

Once I went into his store to check it out. I didn't but anything. I didn't see Dodd.

An hour ago, a new commercial. Indian dancers surrounded a smiling Dodd, he danced in his store. "I won't be undersold" in that accent, I realized, I have come to love.

I searched youtube for dodd commercials. And was shocked to find many entries. And fans. Not of furniture, fans of Dodd.

Dodd. Dude. You rock. You are Victoria.

2009-03-02T22:20:00.000-08:00

I struggle. Oh how I struggle. I am a white Anglo-Saxon Protes... I mean person, living on a Native reserve in Northern BC. I teach the kids here and I am expected to include traditional language and content in all subject areas.

Don't ask me how I do this. I'm still working on it. There's all sorts of energy put into making Elders feel welcome, creating and supporting community capacity, blar de blar de blar...

But I struggle with ethnocentrism. Who am I to include traditional Native values in my teaching? What do I know about what it means to be Aboriginal? Nothing and nothing, respectively.

The truth is ugly. I don't want to lie to them. There is racism out there. They will experience it. Cab drivers, hotel management, restaurants, schools, you name it, there is a brand of racism out there for them. Maybe even mine?

I constantly worry that I am propagating assimilative trends by teaching from what I know. Because what I know is White Anglo-Saxon... people stuff. At least I'm not afflicting them with that Protestant stuff.

But there is hope. A light that shines down from above to which I might aspire. A simple message that cuts through all my bullshit and makes everything alright. This is like the sunshine of understanding that you would gaze upon if you spent your entire life living in a cave, not knowing what light is and suddenly being freed. What would that understanding do for you? It would terrify. It would dash your entire world view. It would be devastating. But it would, ultimately, make everything alright.

Thank you to Plato for the easy-squeezey ready made allegory.

Yes, there is a story that encompasses all that I believe. It contains every lesson that I hold dear. It says that fashion is a sham, image is not important, differences are superficial and we are all ONE.

Thank you Dr. Seuss.

Of course the book was better. No singing in the book. The book gets it across with greater efficiency. But this is campy and entertaining in its own way. Enjoy.

Doubting a cornerstone of my profession

2009-02-28T20:38:00.000-08:00

Someone help me out. I am having a real problem understanding why we give kids homework.

My kids have real difficulties completing homework. I believe that if I asign something, it is going to get done. So I put a lot of energy into tracking ALL missing homework.

The other day I estimated I spend at least an hour every day dealing with incomplete, lost, stolen, or eaten homework. In my little school where kids have a massive amount of unsupervised time after school, there are days when no one does their homework. Wouldn't life be easier if I could manage to just, I don't know, get everything done in class?

Wouldn't your school years have been easier if you hadn't had to deal with all the homework and the ratty teachers, like me, who chase you until every scrap of assigned work has been half-assed completed and turned in? Is the whole thing a farce?

I am beginning to think so.

10 reasons I have heard from other teachers why homework is important:

To teach good work habits.
To get them used to the reality of adult life.
To teach responsibility.
To prepare them for future teachers who will give them homework.
We can't fit everything in to class time, some of it has to be done at home.
To make sure they understand the concept taught in class.
To build character.
A behavioural tool - positive and negative reinforcers (complete homework = reward)
Practice, practice, practice.
Punishment.

Okay, in order:

Whose standards of work habits are we talking about here? Most people don't take their work home with them. Those that do are crazy and are possibly doing more harm to our society than they are benfitting our society from their industry. Spend time with your kids, for Christ's sake!
The only adults I know that are stupid enough to do an hour of work after work every day are dysfunctional. Why are we teaching people to be dysfnctional?
A secret. I never did homework in school. Never. Drove my teachers nuts. In Uni, I was voted "best use of last minute time" by my profs when I graduated. But I did graduate. Dean's list in undergrad and an A- average in the education program. I am responsible. My work always got done.
I think teachers give homework because its expected. We don't feel like we're doing our job unless kids are miserable and busy every night. This is the weakest excuse to assign homework.
Homwork is meaningless unless you can teach the concept. How can they do stuff at home if they didn't learn how to do it in class? If they did learn to do it in class, why are we giving them homework?
Isn't that what tests are for? Why don't we just take the stress out of tests and have lots of them, for very low marks?
Actually, I like this one. Maybe they should have to do homework AND do ten laps. With a ruck sack. Sixty pounds. Through mud. Under live fire. We'll have character all over the damned place.
I'm not making this one up. There are teachers who openly admit that they use homework so that they can control their class. It gives them something they can hold over students and attach consequences to. I would argue that we need to be building more realistic relationships with our students.
Okay, they do need to practice. Again, if you teach one concept, limit it at one concept per lesson, there is lots of time to practice in class. Plus, they write in social studies and science, they do math in wood shop, home ec... I could go on.
Seriously, they were bad so I gave them homework? Please.

Daily homework is not the reality of our lives after high school. They will build their own character, despite what we plan for them. They do not need us to be their masters or judges. Rather, we need to support them and act in their best interests at all times. If they don't get it in class, they won't be able to do the homework anyway.

Someone help me. Why do we give homework to kids?

My Memories of the North

2009-02-25T18:49:00.000-08:00

Thanksgiving day a few years ago, Sugar and I decided to have the other teachers over and prepare a huge turkey dinner. These other two teachers, Jaime and Amanda, were good friends of ours by this time. They both lived alone up here and were looking forward to having a big meal on us.

So we put the turkey in. And the power went out.

A tree had fallen down in the wind and crashed into the power lines. Thanksgiving long weekend and a line truck had to drive from town, six hours on gravel roads between here and town with nothing in between but bears. I bet the linesmen were not impressed.

And what about the turkey? I was loathe to give up. I wrapped that son of a bitch in tin foil and drove around asking people if we could borrow their wood stove. Rhonda let me in and said I could use hers. I put the turkey on top of the wood stove and watched it carefully to see if it would cook. Success! It was cooking but slowly. Really slowly. And everyone warned me that the bottom would burn. "Bollocks" I say. Have you ever cooked a turkey on a wood stove? Ply me NOT with your warnings.

Several hours later, the power went on. I grabbed the turkey and ran back to the house and threw it into the oven. Sugar did the math... 10:00 pm! Not bad, right? Disaster averted.

Almost. The chief went ballistic. He had told those guys to clear the trees away from the power line last spring. Obviously, it had never got done. "Get out there and cut down all trees within twenty feet of the power lines!" I actually wasn't there for the yelling but there were six guys out there within twenty minutes of the line truck leaving. Chain saws and all.

So, predictably, someone dropped a tree onto a power line and put my turkey out of business again. The poor dudes in the line truck had to come back.

My teachers sat on my couch. They watched tv or played cards. At 11:00pm, I apologized. "It's going to be midnight before we get this turkey cooked. We won't be offended if you want to go home."

Do you think those two budged? Free meal? Hello? They waited it out and we ate at midnight.

Juno fell asleep in her mashed potatoes. Amanda had two pieces of pie. Jaime tried to eat like a bird but was seduced by yams and cranberry sauce. She fell asleep on our couch.

Welcome to the North

What to do when its cold

2009-02-21T17:13:00.000-08:00

It got a little warmer up here in the frozen North. It was -26C on Friday morning. We hosted a community winter fun day. Hot dogs on the fire, a parade (two skidos and one Dodge Ram, all decorated with streamers and crepe paper), snowshoe races, maple syrup sugar candy made fresh in the snow, and a morning of fun games for the kids in the gym. I ran the bean bag toss.

I have to say it was one of the best events we've ever had and Sugar organized it. She's the bomb.

By 2:00 pm it was -6C. A drastic change in temperature if you ask me. I dug out the four wheeler, my little Honda 350cc fourtrax. I tied Juno's wooden toboggan to the back, a couple of her friends from school came over and...

Let's just say, four wheelers + ice + toboggans + hot chocolate and home made cookies = 100 different kinds of fun.

Welcome to kidhood Juno. Enjoying speed and danger is a sign that your toddlerhood is officially over.

Please note: digital cameras do not work well in sub zero temperatures. They might say they do, but they don't. The little shutter that covers the lens freezes shut. So these pictures are not of my quad nor Juno's tobogan. But that quad looks most like mine. Except its in the grass.

Is it just me, or is Stan Lee a genius?

2009-02-18T20:18:00.000-08:00

Hi everyone. Thanks for stopping by. I have been trying to get around to see everyone out there but something is acting screwy. Some of you, I can load your pages fine and all is well. A few of you aren't registering for me out here in the wilderness. I don't know if its Blogger or my sharesy waresy Internet connection.

But Viva left me an award. Check it out on the side over there. I feel grateful for it but am more grateful that she may be posting again. I miss her.

Trust that I have visited and if I didn't leave a comment, its because I couldn't. 'Nuff said.

I love that. "'Nuff said". Stan Lee used to put that in all his comic book commentaries. Memories of my childhood. "Next ish, Spidey goes toe to toe with a certain horned and unwelcome visitor. Nuff said!"

Stan also used to say "Excelsior!" which means, I think, to go ever upward. Then he called me a "true believer" and signed off for another month. I kind of miss those days.

Literacy in my school is a problem. This little community "nestled" (you're welcome Wendy) in the Rocky Mountains is very isolated. It takes me six hours just to drive to pavement. (That's how you know you live in the North. You measure distance in hours). A lot of my kids have trouble reading and they are not really interested in getting better. Their parents don't see the need for it as they are fairly sure their kids will never go to college or amount to anything. Sad, but this is honestly the attitude with which I occasionally have to contend.

Now I, on the other hand, say things in a tone of voice that I never thought I would use. I tell the teens, "don't you dare let anyone tell you what you can or can't do. And don't you let me catch you wandering around here with no job and no hope, I'll kick your ass back into high school. You are all smarter than that." You know, I say things that would get me fired almost anywhere else. We won't talk about how they are letting me tell them to not let people tell them what to do. When they get it, I will use the moment to teach them what hypocrisy means. Then I'll wrap their little minds around the concept of irony for a while and they'll forget all about it.

But yeah, reading. I struggle. I thought to myself, "how did I learn to read?" And the answer came easily once I thought about it.

No one ever taught me a damned thing. I was a rotten speller, a horrible phonic decoder, I couldn't read anything when I was a kid. Because I didn't want to. Seriously, I had Dick and Jane afflicted on me. All I wanted was super heroes.

BORING! Now if Dick had had a six gun or a sword and Jane could shoot lightning bolts out of her mouth... well you may have had a chance at holding my interest.

At ten, I discovered science fiction and fantasy novels. I had a hard time at first, but there was some pretty cool stuff in there. They say that you should never make kids read something if they can't read it with at least 90% fluency. They'll get frustrated. But I didn't care if most of the words were over my head. I was enthralled.

Before I was eleven, I was burning through Conan novels at an alarming rate. This may explain why I am so warped and twisted. Conan, the original I mean, was depraved - not heroic. But thank you Robert E Howard for giving me something that I could sink my teeth into.

From then on, I did not do a lick of homework or study. I read books. For myself. Every day. Without even knowing I was learning, I developed critical tools, instinctive knowledge of story structure, archetypes, character, the importance of setting... I wouldn't have been able to articulate any of it, but I knew it and I recognized derivative work by the time I was fifteen. And I learned spelling. By reading. What a concept.

I am not a genius. I was bored and I looked elsewhere for things to occupy my time. I was lucky it was stories about swords, wizards, galactic empires and aliens that caught my attention. I was lucky I was a geek with no hope of any real popularity. Other bored friends of mine turned to alcohol to occupy their spare moments when they should have been studying.

So I need to find things for my class to read. Things that they will enjoy. Things they can sink their teeth into. I bought a bunch of graphic novels (that means comics) thinking that they would be more interested in reading if they, like me, just wanted cool stories. I bought The Zombie Survival Guide by Max Brooks. That was a good find. There's a kid in my class that is normally wild any chance he gets. Yesterday, he almost walked into a wall because his nose was in a book that could teach him how to survive a zombie outbreak in his area. I found that a bunch of the boys in my class like non fiction books. They are interested in "The Story of AC DC" and who the tallest man in the world is. I bought Guinness world record books, Ripley's-Believe-it-or-not books, Monsters and Villains of Movies and Myth - that is a popular book.

I have spent a lot of money. I am beginning to wonder if my employer will ever say "Enough!" And, to be fair, I buy a lot of this stuff myself. Don't say its generous of me. When I go, I will take my stuff with me. But the kids can read it for now.

A teacher under my supervision took issue with the comics. He said they were inappropriate. He said they were too violent and were inspiring violence in the kids. He said they were too sexually charged. I had a close look at comics these days. He may have a point. They've changed since I was young.

Shit, I hope he doesn't read the zombie book. We're talking about kids aged 11-14. I read Bradley's The Mists of Avalon when I was about 14 - complete with homosexually or incestuously charged sex scenes. Am I scarred? Perverted? Did it hurt me?

Really, you can tell me. I'll take it well.

Disclaimer: I am well aware of any misplaced commas, sentence fragments, and awkward phrasing that may or may not exist in this post. They are intentional. So there.

To Vesper. No Fair.

2009-02-12T21:32:00.000-08:00

Once, in order to emphasize to us beginning teachers that every child is different, a bunch of uni profs made us take a personality test. It was called "True Colours" or some such nonsense and I disliked the experience immensely.

Others of my fellow students ooooooed and awwwwwwed at how their test had revealed the true nature of their personalities. "What colour are you?" everyone kept asking me. I told them, "green". Whatever the hell that meant.

At the end of the class I went away thinking that the point had been missed. Most of my peers were thinking that they were now equipped to determine what kind of personality their students were and that they would now be able to more personally tailor their teaching to their students' needs. No one seemed to get the point that kids are different and you need to appeal to a vast array of learning styles. Instead, they all thought they could give a kid a test and figure out who that kid was, once and for all!

Horse shit, I thought. I am not what a test says I am. I am what I decide to be. I have free will. I have no true nature. I invent myself constantly. True, I generally allow the influences in my socio-political context to colour my own perceptions of myself because it is very hard - even nauseating to be sickeningly derivative - to live an authentic and chosen life all the time. But God damn it! I am not a F*&%$#^ Green!

Next class, I raised the issue. I got a lot of frowns and weird looks from my compatriots. My prof just smiled and said, "All greens say that."

Crap.

So older and more open, less defensive about existential thought, a little more relaxed about determinism and pigeon holing, I took a personality test suggested by a very smart Vesper during a recent bout of arguing about Plato - in which I was over matched and must concede defeat if such things are of the nature whereby one is either victorious or defeated.

I was taking issue with a niggling point about Platonic thought and trying to build an alternative point of view based on a small metaphor used by a speaker. Vesper suggested I take a look at Jungian personality types and take this online test.

Now there are still all sorts of rational, emotional, and philosophical problems I have some sort of need to work out. I approached the test determined to be aware of any flaws or misconceptions with which I could detract from the validity of such tests. But Jung, he was smarter than me - which isn't hard I guess.

My results:

INTP - "Architect". Greatest precision in thought and language. Can readily discern contradictions and inconsistencies. The world exists primarily to be understood. 3.3% of total population.

Free Jung Personality Test (similar to Myers-Briggs/MBTI)

Crap.

Once more unto the breach...No, that didn't end well did it?

2009-02-11T18:32:00.000-08:00

This poor girl said she felt sick. We phoned her Grandma who told us, "I'll phone her dad."

So the girl (four years old) loudly announces, "Daddy's drunk! He's been drinking beers! He breaks into the school and steals pens! And sticky papers!"

So after we did an inventory of our office supplies, Grandma came and picked up the little girl.

Then another Kindergartener came up the hall chanting his own name as if he were a superhero, followed closely by "Ta da!" Now he was running so I had to shut that down. While in the hallway slowing the superhero, I looked out the front door.

Two six year old kids were holding the door open and they were summoning dogs to come into the school. So I had to shut down the doormen. We don't want any dogs running around in the school.

Just then, three teenagers sprinted down the hall past me, laughing uproariously. One of them fell, sprawling all over the floor by the gym entrance.

First Aid time.

My boss came in wanting to talk to me. She looked around and decided to approach me later. A parent came in and tried to convince me to not let her son talk to "that girl", to which I replied, "No. I am going to require all the members of my class to work together. But you are welcome to sit in with us and see how it goes if you're worried. Can I get you a cup of coffee?"

And the bell went. And a furnace technician flew away with one of my teachers' house keys. And a troubled little guy lost his temper and kicked his way out of a classroom. And my entire class conspired to illegally get into the school after hours so they could play on the computer. They broke a sink, flooding half the school. Chief and Council are sure they have an ill-gotten school key but I am working toward encouraging them to earn back trust. Our bus driver broke his hip and we have no one qualified to fill in for him. Three staff members are AWOL. Now I have to discipline. And no one is happy at having to carry the load because its not like I have the luxury of a substitute teacher.

Now, where the hell did I leave my lesson plan for the morning?

But fear not. Everything is well in hand. Thank the gods for the superhero. He saved me today.

Singing in the shower

2009-02-08T21:45:00.000-08:00

I swear, when I have a cold, I sound like Elvis Costello. I can sing loud enough to bring down a jet fighter and, although full of passion and strength, it will always be a little nasally.

When I don't have a cold, I just sound like what I am. Some dude who sounds OK in the shower.

But Elvis has a residence in BC here. In fact, the house he and Diana Krall own is only a short drive from where I grew up. I don't know his address and I wouldn't post it if I did. He's my hero.

Biggest crime in the world?

1979, best new artist Grammy nominations: The Cars, Elvis Costello, Toto, Chris Rea.

And the Grammy went to:

A Taste of Honey.

So as you review your Grammy experience tonight, mull it over and ponder the significance of music in our culture, keep a grain of salt handy.

And give Elvis a Grammy for Christ's sake. He did win one for a collaboration with Burt Bacharach in 1999. But come on. Rolling Stone listed four of his albums in the top 500 albums of all time. And I, for one, don't think they were wrong. Shouldn't he get one?

Meeting minutes and something for your consideration

2009-02-06T20:28:00.000-08:00

Meeting.

Not your every day sort. It was long and it was dry but something was definitely different than the types of meetings to which I am accustomed.

"I walk and hunt all around. I see lots of things. I can see that we will have problems. I went up that river all the way to that little lake. I walked all around here and I seen where this village used to be an island. There is a dry river bed over there and it runs all the way around to the lake. Up that river, I seen where the silt is building. One day, this village will be an island again. We knew this. I would have told them. But no one asked us if this was a good place to build a village. Now, we'll have to move. Again.

Sorry I missed the Elder's meeting earlier but my back is really sore. I hurt it that one time a long time ago. I have to be careful or I will hurt it again."

He passed the microphone to someone else. By the time this seventy-something year old man got to say his piece, there were maybe five people left in the meeting. And a few people nodded but there didn't seem to be a sense of urgency in the response.

Do I believe that this old dude with no formal education at all knows what he's talking about?

Yes.

Do I believe that engineers and planners didn't do a proper job when they built this place?

Absolutely.

Question: When negotiating treaties with Native peoples who have never entered into an agreement with any foreign government, how do you determine the "traditional territory" of a people that were traditionally nomadic? Seriously, there are apparently ancient trading trails that extend as far as Mexico.

Yes from the 59th parallel to freaking Mexico. Now where should we say their "traditional territory" is?

What the government is offering? Five million dollars and 116 hectares.

There are farms bigger than that

Quest

2009-01-29T17:55:00.000-08:00

I need some sort of a quest. Not an adventure, mind you. I care not for such things. No, I think I need some sort of holy relic to find. A goal that transcends my own importance and my own feeble excuses for behaving poorly as most of us mortals do from time to time.

A few things for which people normally quest:

Money
Love
Fame
The Holy Grail
Witnesing the birth of the Messiah
Killing a dragon... strike this one, that's usally for money too.
Sexual gratification
Defeating ultimate evil

Now there are probably a few things that I've missed. I actually thought quite a bit about it and this is all I can come up with on short notice. I don't know if I need a change of career or if I need to clear the air about the goals I have. Perhaps I just played too much D&D way back when.

Regardless, the time has come for me to strap on a blade and polish mine armour so I can accomplish something mythical.

So what's left for which I may quest?

P.S. Sugar's suggestion: photos of the elusive Sasquatch. Hmmm.

How small am I?

2009-01-24T20:40:00.000-08:00

I got on the plane. There were little TV's in the seats. It was a short flight so I just read a book instead. Conrad. Heart of Darkness. Don't ask why I relive the pain of books I once had to study. I can't explain. I think its love. Try to say it you when I feel blue but...

Anyway, it is a really short book. I finished and decided to plug in to the little TV. I found a Foo Fighters concert. Hyde Park. Cool. So I watched for a bit. Suddenly, they started playing a song dedicated to Freddy Mercury. And then, BRIAN MAY came on stage. And then the rest of (what's left of) Queen came out and played Tie Your Mother Down. The Foo's drummer sang. Dave just played rhythm guitar to May's still amazing lead. I realized my mouth was open in wonder. The dude next to me shifted uncomfortably in his chair. The stewardess looked at me as if to offer me a complimentary beverage, then she changed her mind - as if I had been sleeping. And then... did I mention it was a short flight?... just as May's solo was about to begin, the Captain began to SING to us, taking over the sound of the TV. Seriously, does he have to do that?

He sang to us and then spent many minutes telling us about where we were, what the temperature would be when we landed, how late we were, how we all had to sit a little longer because two people were in danger of missing their connections, he told us what God damned time it was in London! For a joke! Shut up! Put the concert back on, you noob!

My life is sometimes so...

small.

But I still miss Freddy Mercury. Rock will never be the same.

Thoughts on adventure

2009-01-21T18:53:00.000-08:00

I am no longer the age where adventure has much appeal. I know what adventure really means.

Now an adventure story can be quite entertaining. It was great, when I was a kid, to imagine myself as a hero of some sort. I could be the one to traverse harsh landscapes, do battle with ferocious animals, save people from being eaten by minotaurs, that kind of thing.

But would any of us really want that kind of life? Uh-uh. Not me.

First, let's be clear, I'm not talking about travel. I like to travel as much as the next person. Outdoor sports is not adventure. Hiking is not adventure. A long trek through the mountains becomes adventure only when your companion throws out his back and you have to carry him to safety, taking three days longer than anticipated and rationing food and water in order to be able to make it.

Occasionally, adventure does find the well planned traveller. But adventure is never looked for. We would not. For adventure carries untold danger.

I have had many adventures in my time. Once, the road was nothing but ice with a little water on it. It was raining. I crawled my truck as far as it could go. It was just as dangerous to turn back as it was to ahead so I kept driving. But I got stuck and nearly went off the road into a fairly steep gorge. Backwards. I had many passengers with me and there was a good deal of panic with which I had to contend. Others came behind us. I warned them on the radio that this particular corner was deadly and that they should stop but, in the end, three other trucks were stuck in the same place as me. Wed discovered that a little snow on the road would provide some traction so we shoveled for hours in order to get one guy unstuck so he could go for help. He made it 1.5 km before he got stuck again. We had to wait thirteen hours before a "rescuer" came who could get us unstuck. Then, we had to inch our way back on the ice back to the village. Tired, hungry, sore from shoveling and from the long gone adrenaline rush of life threatening danger. Weary. More than all the rest, wiser. That is adventure. These are its gifts and its price.

Do not seek adventure, take my word for it. I'm not saying you need to go quietly unto your grave. But don't be too eager to find adventure. It will find you often enough. In times like that, keep your head down, be ready for toil and hardship, and above all, learn from it so it will never happen again.

And carry tire chains, god damn it. Good ones. Not Canadian Tire specials.

Sliante!