I saw something fascinating yesterday. I saw a couple with their young (maybe 10-year-old) daughter. They had a baguette, some nice Brie, a few cornichons, some black olives and even a bit of what looked like country pâté. They had picked it all up at the local grocery store and were having a charming little pique-nique, just like something out of Monet... (wait for it) ... at STARBUCKS. They were sitting at the table next to mine, noshing away at the food they'd bought at the Dominion store across the street (and, curiously, not at the St. Lawrence Market, where they could have got better food for less), along with their grande-no-foam-144-degree-three-raw-sugar-go-easy-on-the-caramel soy-because-I-really-love-milk-but-I'm-lactose-intolerant-and-can't-stand-the-taste-of-Lactaid lattes, and an iced lemonade for Princess or Jewel or Mackenzie or whatever the heck the daughter's name is.
I'm an urban* kinda guy. If you offer me the choice between a week in the country and a week in a big city, I'll pick the latter every time. And don't even get me started on cottages or (ugh) camping. As I always say, my idea of 'roughing it' is when room service is late. There are, though, certain activities that should only ever take place outdoors. Suntanning. Golf. Scuba diving. Yes, rugby. But especially picnics. I mean, come on! Make an effort. At least go to a park. If not for you, do it for the children...
* that's urban, i.e. the opposite of rural, not the more recent usage of urban as a euphemism for 'black'. E.g. "Spike Lee is a master of urban cinema" or "Toronto has only one urban music station".
Sunday, July 13, 2008
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Was Kafka an Aeroplan member?
Yes, it's time for another screed about the marvels of air travel in Canada. Yet again I find myself in Vancouver, busily not enjoying the scenery or the (not quite fabulous) weather.
My return flight to Toronto was delayed by a couple of hours, so I figured I'd make the best of my down time by booking a trip for my summer holiday, using my Aeroplan points. I've done enough traveling over the years that I have a decent number of miles saved up. (for those of you who were raised post-Imperial system, "miles" are those things that we used to use before kilometres came along. Don't ask me why Aeroplan still uses 'em.)
First off, the new and improved Aeroplan now requires vastly more miles for reward travel than it used to. Back in the early days, there were only a specific number of seats per flight that were available for Aerooplan reward travel. A little while ago Aeroplan made a lot of noise about removing that particular restriction. "Every seat can be a reward seat", they crowed.
Not so fast, Sparky. Although it's true that you can now use your miles to get any seat, the number of miles you need to get said seat can often be ridiculous. Air Canada may have simplified its fare structure when it comes to using hard currency, but the byzantine fare rules didn't actually vanish - they've just been applied to reward seats. So a trip that used to cost just 25 000 miles can now cost 150 000 or even more.
*fume*
But wait: it gets better. After I found an itinerary that wasn't going to involve me shedding my entire stock of hard-earned reward miles, I booked it online. I entered all the flight information, dates, name, address, phone numbers, astrological sign, favourite colour and e-mail address. Then I clicked "submit". (There should be doctoral theses written on the appropriateness of that particular verb in this context.)
The highly sophisticated and no doubt ridiculously expensive reservation system essentially laughed at me. "Error", it said, giving an error code and recommending I call tech support to get past this little hiccup.
Being generally the resourceful type, I changed Web browsers and tried again. Same info; same result. Undeterred, I called up the Aeroplan customer service line (yes, as a matter of fact I do think that's a contradiction in terms) to talk to a human being. I went through the itinerary with her, giving all the required information yet again. She was entering the very same information into the very same database I had been using. Then, just as she was about to click "submit", she mentioned casually that it was going to cost me an extra thirty bucks. The explanation was that there is a mandatory fee for booking reward travel through the telephone system.
My response was something along the lines of "Hulk ANGRY". Why fortheluvva Mike would I go through the rigmarole of booking online, be unsuccessful twice, and then have to pay for the privilege of having someone else enter the same info into the same system, with very possibly the same result? The by-now-very-put-upon agent offered to transfer me to tech support.
*fume some more*
Sooooooooo... another pleasant chat, this time with the customer service guy. (A friend of mine in the IT business calls his customer service reps "monkeys". Until today I thought that was unfair.) It turns out that the error code indicated that my e-mail address was "wrong".
Huh? Wrong? The e-mail address I've been using for something like a dozen years? Why, yes, said the (remember, I didn't coin this term) monkey. "Your e-mail address has only two characters before the @. Our system needs at least three."
That's when I think everyone in the lounge heard all the blood vessels in my head explode at the same time.
The system was expecting more characters? I was speechless. Quoth the monkey: "You could always get another e-mail address". It's funny, but maybe I should quit expecting service from, you know, customer service.
My return flight to Toronto was delayed by a couple of hours, so I figured I'd make the best of my down time by booking a trip for my summer holiday, using my Aeroplan points. I've done enough traveling over the years that I have a decent number of miles saved up. (for those of you who were raised post-Imperial system, "miles" are those things that we used to use before kilometres came along. Don't ask me why Aeroplan still uses 'em.)
First off, the new and improved Aeroplan now requires vastly more miles for reward travel than it used to. Back in the early days, there were only a specific number of seats per flight that were available for Aerooplan reward travel. A little while ago Aeroplan made a lot of noise about removing that particular restriction. "Every seat can be a reward seat", they crowed.
Not so fast, Sparky. Although it's true that you can now use your miles to get any seat, the number of miles you need to get said seat can often be ridiculous. Air Canada may have simplified its fare structure when it comes to using hard currency, but the byzantine fare rules didn't actually vanish - they've just been applied to reward seats. So a trip that used to cost just 25 000 miles can now cost 150 000 or even more.
*fume*
But wait: it gets better. After I found an itinerary that wasn't going to involve me shedding my entire stock of hard-earned reward miles, I booked it online. I entered all the flight information, dates, name, address, phone numbers, astrological sign, favourite colour and e-mail address. Then I clicked "submit". (There should be doctoral theses written on the appropriateness of that particular verb in this context.)
The highly sophisticated and no doubt ridiculously expensive reservation system essentially laughed at me. "Error", it said, giving an error code and recommending I call tech support to get past this little hiccup.
Being generally the resourceful type, I changed Web browsers and tried again. Same info; same result. Undeterred, I called up the Aeroplan customer service line (yes, as a matter of fact I do think that's a contradiction in terms) to talk to a human being. I went through the itinerary with her, giving all the required information yet again. She was entering the very same information into the very same database I had been using. Then, just as she was about to click "submit", she mentioned casually that it was going to cost me an extra thirty bucks. The explanation was that there is a mandatory fee for booking reward travel through the telephone system.
My response was something along the lines of "Hulk ANGRY". Why fortheluvva Mike would I go through the rigmarole of booking online, be unsuccessful twice, and then have to pay for the privilege of having someone else enter the same info into the same system, with very possibly the same result? The by-now-very-put-upon agent offered to transfer me to tech support.
*fume some more*
Sooooooooo... another pleasant chat, this time with the customer service guy. (A friend of mine in the IT business calls his customer service reps "monkeys". Until today I thought that was unfair.) It turns out that the error code indicated that my e-mail address was "wrong".
Huh? Wrong? The e-mail address I've been using for something like a dozen years? Why, yes, said the (remember, I didn't coin this term) monkey. "Your e-mail address has only two characters before the @. Our system needs at least three."
That's when I think everyone in the lounge heard all the blood vessels in my head explode at the same time.
The system was expecting more characters? I was speechless. Quoth the monkey: "You could always get another e-mail address". It's funny, but maybe I should quit expecting service from, you know, customer service.
Monday, June 16, 2008
Waving without due care and attention
The province of Ontario is considering a ban on cellphones while driving. Other provinces - Newfoundland & Labrador, Nova Scotia and Quebec - have already instituted a ban, and even Alberta is considering it.
That's a good thing. I can't tell you how many people I see running red lights, blowing off stop signs, passing or changing lanes unsafely, all because they're too busy yammering. Being a pedestrian in good ol' Muddy York can be a real challenge at times.
Why am I blogging about this?
Today I had a moment of true puzzlement. On my way home from work I walk in front of a large office building. The underground parkade there is so busy at peak times that the place could really use a traffic light outside to help manage the volume of vehicles coming out. In the absence of a stoplight, there's a paid-duty policeman who is there to direct traffic. He holds off oncoming traffic on Front Street so that people can get in or out of the parkade; he also protects the pedestrians from getting run over by the drivers. All that is as it should be.
Until today. Here's the fine, upstanding officer of the forces of order, merrily directing rush-hour traffic... and talking on his cellphone at the same time.
Let's recap. The province wants to stop people from using their cellphones while they're driving. Why? Because the attention they're paying to their conversations is attention they're not paying to driving safely (cf. my post re cabbies and cellphones). They're distracted, and being distracted is bad.
Am I to infer from this that it's okay, though, for a police officer to be distracted while coordinating the movements of eight or ten vehicles at once?
Oh, and before you ask: the conversation wasn't a life-and-death matter, either. I think I heard something about groceries.
That's a good thing. I can't tell you how many people I see running red lights, blowing off stop signs, passing or changing lanes unsafely, all because they're too busy yammering. Being a pedestrian in good ol' Muddy York can be a real challenge at times.
Why am I blogging about this?
Today I had a moment of true puzzlement. On my way home from work I walk in front of a large office building. The underground parkade there is so busy at peak times that the place could really use a traffic light outside to help manage the volume of vehicles coming out. In the absence of a stoplight, there's a paid-duty policeman who is there to direct traffic. He holds off oncoming traffic on Front Street so that people can get in or out of the parkade; he also protects the pedestrians from getting run over by the drivers. All that is as it should be.
Until today. Here's the fine, upstanding officer of the forces of order, merrily directing rush-hour traffic... and talking on his cellphone at the same time.
Let's recap. The province wants to stop people from using their cellphones while they're driving. Why? Because the attention they're paying to their conversations is attention they're not paying to driving safely (cf. my post re cabbies and cellphones). They're distracted, and being distracted is bad.
Am I to infer from this that it's okay, though, for a police officer to be distracted while coordinating the movements of eight or ten vehicles at once?
Oh, and before you ask: the conversation wasn't a life-and-death matter, either. I think I heard something about groceries.
Wednesday, May 07, 2008
Language barrier
There's a small food court in the building I work in. As you'd expect, there's a predictably bland kiosk that serves Italian (-ish) food like pizza, panzerotti, lasagne... you get the idea. The guy who works at the cash register has, shall we say, a somewhat imperfect command of the English language.
Normally, as I'm walking away after paying for my lunch I expect to hear something along the lines of "See you tomorrow" or perhaps the ubiquitous "Have a nice day". This guy, though, always says "Good luck" as he waves goodbye. Every time he does that, I look at my slowly congealing slice of 'za and wonder whether he's trying to tell me something...
Normally, as I'm walking away after paying for my lunch I expect to hear something along the lines of "See you tomorrow" or perhaps the ubiquitous "Have a nice day". This guy, though, always says "Good luck" as he waves goodbye. Every time he does that, I look at my slowly congealing slice of 'za and wonder whether he's trying to tell me something...
Sunday, May 04, 2008
The end of the world as we know it
I saw this marquee outside the Sony Centre last week. Now, I'm no expert on the Bible, but I have read healthy chunks of it over the years, and I seem to remember this as one of the seven signs of the Apocalypse:
Make sure all your affairs are in order; the end is nigh.
Make sure all your affairs are in order; the end is nigh.
Sunday, April 20, 2008
Road apples
No, I'm not talking about the classic album by the Tragically Hip (sorry Darcy). I'm talking about the genuine article. I'm talking about that brown, round, full-of-oaty-goodness equine product that one finds on the road when horses have been, er, doing their thing.
Why, you ask?
Well, I was walking home from the office t'other day. En route I noticed a number of not-so-pleasant reminders of the fact that the Toronto Police Service still has a mounted unit - that is to say, I nearly stepped in a couple of flapjacks as I crossed the parking lot next to my building.
Wow. Those are some big horses.
Then I asked myself a question. The city seems to have vast numbers of bylaw officers patrolling every square inch of the Greater Toronto Area, hunting out those scofflaws who dare take Rover out for a stroll in the nearest park without immediately bagging their beloved pooch's toxic waste. Who watches the watchers? It would appear that there isn't anyone following these officers (and yes, the horses themselves are deemed officers of the law) and issuing tickets.
Maybe there's a law-enforcement exception to the city bylaw re public pooping. I suppose to test that theory we'd have to see a human officer try it. Er...no; maybe I'll just leave you with that less-than-wholesome image stuck in your head.
dum-de-dum-dum...
On a completely unrelated note, I read in the papers (yes, I still read newspapers from time to time) that the NBA has approved the transfer of the lowly Seattle Super Sonics to Oklahoma City. Now, in the history of the NBA a number of teams have moved without changing the team name. That's why we have such incongruously named teams as the Los Angeles (formerly Minneapolis) Lakers, the Utah (formerly New Orleans) Jazz, and let's not forget the Memphis (formerly Vancouver) Grizzlies. On the other hand, some pro teams change their name when they move, usually hoping to attract a whole new generation of fans (and sell a boatload of new replica jerseys), but often hoping people will forget years of suckage. Think of the Montreal Expos/Washington Nationals, the Houston Oilers/Tennessee Titans, the Québec Nordiques/Colorado Avalanche and, of course, the California Golden Seals/Cleveland Barons/Minnesota North Stars/Dallas Stars.
To complete my thought (finally!): I can't possibly be the only person on the planet who's wondering whether the new name for the OK City team will be the Bombers. Can I?
Why, you ask?
Well, I was walking home from the office t'other day. En route I noticed a number of not-so-pleasant reminders of the fact that the Toronto Police Service still has a mounted unit - that is to say, I nearly stepped in a couple of flapjacks as I crossed the parking lot next to my building.
Wow. Those are some big horses.
Then I asked myself a question. The city seems to have vast numbers of bylaw officers patrolling every square inch of the Greater Toronto Area, hunting out those scofflaws who dare take Rover out for a stroll in the nearest park without immediately bagging their beloved pooch's toxic waste. Who watches the watchers? It would appear that there isn't anyone following these officers (and yes, the horses themselves are deemed officers of the law) and issuing tickets.
Maybe there's a law-enforcement exception to the city bylaw re public pooping. I suppose to test that theory we'd have to see a human officer try it. Er...no; maybe I'll just leave you with that less-than-wholesome image stuck in your head.
dum-de-dum-dum...
On a completely unrelated note, I read in the papers (yes, I still read newspapers from time to time) that the NBA has approved the transfer of the lowly Seattle Super Sonics to Oklahoma City. Now, in the history of the NBA a number of teams have moved without changing the team name. That's why we have such incongruously named teams as the Los Angeles (formerly Minneapolis) Lakers, the Utah (formerly New Orleans) Jazz, and let's not forget the Memphis (formerly Vancouver) Grizzlies. On the other hand, some pro teams change their name when they move, usually hoping to attract a whole new generation of fans (and sell a boatload of new replica jerseys), but often hoping people will forget years of suckage. Think of the Montreal Expos/Washington Nationals, the Houston Oilers/Tennessee Titans, the Québec Nordiques/Colorado Avalanche and, of course, the California Golden Seals/Cleveland Barons/Minnesota North Stars/Dallas Stars.
To complete my thought (finally!): I can't possibly be the only person on the planet who's wondering whether the new name for the OK City team will be the Bombers. Can I?
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Sociology
I've been thinking about a couple of sociological experiments that would be fun to try. I don't think anyone would get hurt, at least not badly.
The first was inspired by a bunch of long-haired, cheesy-mustachioed guys I saw walking around downtown a week or two ago. They were wearing skinny jeans and black Iron Maiden t-shirts, and I realized that they must all be in town for the Iron Maiden concert that night.
That's when it struck me. Ever since the Beatles, rock bands have had a major influence on the stylistic mores of their fans. I have to wonder what would happen, or rather what would have happened if the guys in Iron Maiden or Black Sabbath or - to be more modern - Van Halen or Guns 'n' Roses or Billy Idol or Henry Rollins had decided, as their little bit of rebellion against society, to wear tuxedos or morning suits as their costumes instead of leather and denim. I'm not sure the world would be prepared for the instant reapparition of dandies. Think about it. [In passing, I do realize that Slash fans haven't created any palpable re-ascendancy of the silk top hat, but perhaps that's the exception to the rule.]
I wonder if parents had the same problems in Mozart's day. "But Mom, all the other kids at school are wearing their wigs backwards like Mozart!" "Johann Chrysostome Josephus Albertus Emmanuel Philipp, as long as you're living under my roof you'll wear your wig the right way around - and don't let me catch you skimping on the cornstarch or sneaking any of your mother's beauty marks!"
Experiment number two popped into my head as I was in a taxi. From the time I got into the cab to the time I got to my destination, and presumably for a good while before and after, the driver was engaged in a high-volume conversation in one Dravidian language or another. The trip itself was obviously a secondary consideration as the cabbie bobbed and weaved in and out of traffic, yelling at his conversation "partner" the whole way. I almost felt badly for interrupting what was obviously a very important discussion to tell the cabbie little things like where I wanted to go and that I needed a receipt for my fare.
This was far from the first time it's happened; in fact, when one cabbie recently apologized to me for answering his phone without asking my permission I nearly fell out of my seat. Good thing the car door was locked.
I asked myself who could possibly use a cellphone continuously like that. Then it came to me: fourteen-year-old girls. So here's my experiment: all cabbies and all fourteen-year-old girls get a phone to use as much as they want, at no charge. The only condition is that any member of each group can only call a member of the other group. A tweenager can only call a cab driver and vice versa. My hypothesis is that within a few days, such an arrangement would free up scads and scads of cellphone bandwidth, and the number of car crashes on Toronto streets, as well as the average blood pressure of parents, would go down significantly.
When setting up this kind of experiment, it's always important to think about what would happen if the experiment goes wrong. Let's look:
1. There would be a run on formal wear. That can only be good news for the retail and rental market, since this might finally give businesses the opportunity to blow out some of those powder-blue and Key lime-green tuxedos they've had in stock since the 1980s;
2. This one is potentially more insidious. I see two potential unwanted outcomes. One might be that we get a new crop of Hindi- or Urdu- or Malayalam - speaking teenagers. Well, being multilingual never hurt anyone. Alternatively, taxi drivers might start obsessing about their hairstyles, or the latest jeans or sneakers, or that cute guy who sits in the back row of fourth-period English class. That, my friends, is too much for my brain to even contemplate.
On a completely unrelated topic: it turns out that the scribblings of one Lord Black of Crossharbour that I revealed in a previous blog post [which were apocryphal, unverified and not even the teensiest bit libelous] turned out not to be his final writings at all. Maybe ol' Tiny wasn't as tough as we thought.
Imagine my surprise when I saw the other day that Tubby had somehow managed to get an e-mail to, of all people, the Canadian Press. Anyone else would have asked for a file to be smuggled in in a cake or something, or maybe a few packs of smokes to use for barter; instead, our favourite ex-press baron sent the equivalent of a letter from camp: "Hi... um, I guess I'm okay. Bye. PS I still think the judge is a meanie."
The first was inspired by a bunch of long-haired, cheesy-mustachioed guys I saw walking around downtown a week or two ago. They were wearing skinny jeans and black Iron Maiden t-shirts, and I realized that they must all be in town for the Iron Maiden concert that night.
That's when it struck me. Ever since the Beatles, rock bands have had a major influence on the stylistic mores of their fans. I have to wonder what would happen, or rather what would have happened if the guys in Iron Maiden or Black Sabbath or - to be more modern - Van Halen or Guns 'n' Roses or Billy Idol or Henry Rollins had decided, as their little bit of rebellion against society, to wear tuxedos or morning suits as their costumes instead of leather and denim. I'm not sure the world would be prepared for the instant reapparition of dandies. Think about it. [In passing, I do realize that Slash fans haven't created any palpable re-ascendancy of the silk top hat, but perhaps that's the exception to the rule.]
I wonder if parents had the same problems in Mozart's day. "But Mom, all the other kids at school are wearing their wigs backwards like Mozart!" "Johann Chrysostome Josephus Albertus Emmanuel Philipp, as long as you're living under my roof you'll wear your wig the right way around - and don't let me catch you skimping on the cornstarch or sneaking any of your mother's beauty marks!"
Experiment number two popped into my head as I was in a taxi. From the time I got into the cab to the time I got to my destination, and presumably for a good while before and after, the driver was engaged in a high-volume conversation in one Dravidian language or another. The trip itself was obviously a secondary consideration as the cabbie bobbed and weaved in and out of traffic, yelling at his conversation "partner" the whole way. I almost felt badly for interrupting what was obviously a very important discussion to tell the cabbie little things like where I wanted to go and that I needed a receipt for my fare.
This was far from the first time it's happened; in fact, when one cabbie recently apologized to me for answering his phone without asking my permission I nearly fell out of my seat. Good thing the car door was locked.
I asked myself who could possibly use a cellphone continuously like that. Then it came to me: fourteen-year-old girls. So here's my experiment: all cabbies and all fourteen-year-old girls get a phone to use as much as they want, at no charge. The only condition is that any member of each group can only call a member of the other group. A tweenager can only call a cab driver and vice versa. My hypothesis is that within a few days, such an arrangement would free up scads and scads of cellphone bandwidth, and the number of car crashes on Toronto streets, as well as the average blood pressure of parents, would go down significantly.
When setting up this kind of experiment, it's always important to think about what would happen if the experiment goes wrong. Let's look:
1. There would be a run on formal wear. That can only be good news for the retail and rental market, since this might finally give businesses the opportunity to blow out some of those powder-blue and Key lime-green tuxedos they've had in stock since the 1980s;
2. This one is potentially more insidious. I see two potential unwanted outcomes. One might be that we get a new crop of Hindi- or Urdu- or Malayalam - speaking teenagers. Well, being multilingual never hurt anyone. Alternatively, taxi drivers might start obsessing about their hairstyles, or the latest jeans or sneakers, or that cute guy who sits in the back row of fourth-period English class. That, my friends, is too much for my brain to even contemplate.
On a completely unrelated topic: it turns out that the scribblings of one Lord Black of Crossharbour that I revealed in a previous blog post [which were apocryphal, unverified and not even the teensiest bit libelous] turned out not to be his final writings at all. Maybe ol' Tiny wasn't as tough as we thought.
Imagine my surprise when I saw the other day that Tubby had somehow managed to get an e-mail to, of all people, the Canadian Press. Anyone else would have asked for a file to be smuggled in in a cake or something, or maybe a few packs of smokes to use for barter; instead, our favourite ex-press baron sent the equivalent of a letter from camp: "Hi... um, I guess I'm okay. Bye. PS I still think the judge is a meanie."
Monday, March 03, 2008
Schadenfreude - or - a fictional account from the near future
The note below was found written, presumably in the author's blood, on the walls of a cell at the Coleman Federal Correctional Facility:
My dearest Barbara,
I feel I must give a full account and explication as to the rationale behind my silence over these past several hours. Indeed, it was only that long ago that you and I made our Odyssean voyage to this place from our own personal Xanadu in Palm Beach. I have much to recount to you.
Upon our arrival at this place I was immediately seized [please excuse the somewhat pedestrian pun] by the sheer size and scale of the estate and grounds. I am convinced that the owners – the Federal Bureau of Prisons, I am told – must have hundreds, nay, thousands of minions labouring from dawn 'til dusk at the Protean task of maintaining it. I must hope that the rumours of labour costs of twelve cents per man-hour are true; that would prove beyond any scintilla of doubt that those benighted labour unions have not yet succeeded in spreading their hateful and cancerous message to the peaceful and happy workers of this Utopia.
Imagine my astonishment, then, when I discovered that I will be expected and required to – dare I even say it? - share my accommodations with another gentleman. I daresay I find it quite beyond me that such a fine establishment – thousands of acres and such well-constructed buildings, if perhaps a trifle utilitarian in a Bauhaus sort of way – should want for rooms. I suppose there are some things about this place that I have yet to learn.
Upon my arrival at this fine estate, I was greeted, not without a certain degree of contempt, by a group of men claiming to be “correctional officers”. I found this nomenclature quite amusing when applied in my case; the last time anyone referred to your humble servant being in need of correction was when I was politely asked to quit the hallowed halls of Upper Canada College, my entrepreneurial flair at selling examination papers being, as it was, unappreciated by the educational staff of that heretofore-august establishment. But I digress: the aforementioned correctional officers, or CO's as they wish to be addressed, promptly exhibited their complete lack of even the most elemental form of decency by requiring that I disrobe in their presence. As you well know, dearest love, I am by no means embarrassed of my physique; indeed, in my sixty-third year I must say I am more than favourably impressed by my musculature, and even more so by the even white shade of my skin. When one CO made the request, I laughed politely and demurred, whereupon one of his colleagues drew an instrument which he referred to as a taser and brandished it in my direction. With my expert knowledge of everything that has ever been reported by those alcoholic wretches who claim to “work” in the North American media – even those stories not dealing with me and my vicissitudes with Dame Justice - I was aware of the potential of these tasers to injure my dignity and perhaps – O horror! - inflict harm on my person. Thus I reluctantly complied with the officers' poorly-worded, unreasonable and obtuse demand. Whereupon a group of men approached me and proceeded to ask me a series of questions about my physical and mental health. Mental health! Can you imagine it, my love? These plebeians could not possibly have any understanding of the force of my intellect. Were I to perform an auto-lobotomy – the temporal lobe, I think – still these so-called doctors would still not comprehend the depth of my mental capacity and acumen.
After the physical examination - which I must report was surprisingly invasive and completely medically unnecessary – I was presented with a new suit. As you know, dearest Barbara, although I am by no means a vain man, I do believe that a fine suit looks particularly resplendent on your Lord Black of Crossharbour. I freely admit, however, that I am not completely au courant, as you are, when it comes to the very latest styles from the Continent. The suit which was given me – completely without charge, I might add – is frankly quite odd. It is made of a stuff which must be of the very latest invention; when I asked the minion who presented it to me (in very simple words, of course) he replied that it was a material known to him as “poly-cotton”. This impressed me greatly; indeed, this new wonder material greatly resembles fine linen and is, if you will believe it, softer and more pleasant to the hand. Of course, upon donning the suit I stole (heavens! I thought I had banished that term from my vast personal lexicon) a glimpse of myself in a looking-glass and stopped for a moment to admire the fine figure of a man who looked back at me with Richelieu-like confidence. I was so pleased with my new suit of clothes that I immediately offered to buy one for every guest of the estate. At that moment one of the CO's guffawed in a Falstaffian sort of way and said (and I quote verbatim): “Y'all don't need to do that, convict (what an odd term!). The federal government (he pronounced it “guv-mint”) done already took care of that”. I looked around and discovered that my grotesque interlocutor's utterance was, quite astonishingly in my view, correct; all of the other guests were turned out in a similar fashion to my own - albeit with less panache, of course. Some of your fashion sense appears to have – what is the term the proletariat uses? - “rubbed off” on me, so to speak.
Thus suitably attired, I was escorted – with a colour guard of these bizarre and motley officers – to a small closet. The closet itself, where your humble servant finds himself writing these few lines to you, is an odd affair. It is the tiniest of spaces, obviously conceived to deal with the high heat and humidity of these latitudes, as well as the larcenous nature of domestic help the world over. Put more plainly – and, as Polonius said, brevity is the soul of wit – the closet is a mere six feet by six, and is built with sturdy solid walls and a heavy door of unadorned metal, with naught but a small crenellation by which to view the interior. Perhaps even more oddly, there is a small writing-desk (I note with some bemusement that one of the light-fingered knaves appears to have absconded with the inkwell already), two sturdy metal chairs and what appear to be two sailor's bunks cantilevered from the walls, but no clothes hangers or hooks. As I write this, a sudden epiphany seizes me. I note that there is a bidet, made of something resembling Sheffield steel, in one corner. Upon seeing this, it immediately becomes plain to me that this is no closet at all; it is indubitably a maid's room. It is now obvious that my escorts have decided to play a harmless prank on a new and presumably good-humoured guest.
My forbearance, however, is tested when I attempt to open the door. One of the Neanderthals has, no doubt inadvertently, locked the door to this cubiculum, this ascetic monk's cell. Surely he does not comprehend that this environment is stultifying to an intellect such as mine. Surely this behemoth must know that I shall recover from such a base insult and rise like the phoenix. I am not without humour, but when slighted my vengeance will be terrible.
While I wait for the rude mechanicals to remedy their colleague's great fault, I will cogitate upon how I might best occupy my time here at the estate. I am given to understand that many here are keen to meet me and learn from me, just as Odysseus's son Telemachus learned from Athena in the guise of Mentor. In fact, to continue my conceit of Greek metaphor, the directors of this estate have already recommended that I lecture my peers at my leisure on the topic of hubris, or to use the considerably less poetic but more generally understood concept, “pride goeth before a fall”. Apparently, even before my arrival here I have been put forward as something of a global authority on the subject. As is often the case with the greatest geniuses, I was unaware of the magnitude of my comprehension of the subject, but in any event I shall acquit myself of my duty with brio. I am told that the next topic under discussion will be the concept of poetic irony. I am convinced that I shall be richly compensated for sharing my not inconsiderable intellectual gifts with the other residents of this estate. I also look forward to sharing my thoughts on corporate governance with an audience which will, no doubt, hang on my every word as if I were the oracle of Delphi.
Once I have been esconced in my proper suite, my beloved Barbara, I shall arrange for you to come visit me. I regret deeply that the somewhat arcane rules for this estate do not permit us to be together. I shall endeavour to find out quickly who is responsible for this travesty, and explain why a woman of your breeding and exceptional character belongs here every bit as much as yours truly.
But soft! The motley fools have returned. They have another gentleman – if I may use that term somewhat loosely – with them. He is rather monolithic in appearance, and judging by his countenance I can only surmise that his mind is as small as those of the mindless journalists who have hectored us at every turn over these past years. His name, as I am given to understand it, is Tiny. How pleasant to learn that someone in this place does understand irony after all! Perhaps he is not such an idiot as his physiognomy might lead one to believe. I shall introduce myself and show him how charming a gentleman of my breeding and intellect can be.
At this point the scrawl stops. It is unclear whether the author's death was due to blood loss, or blunt force trauma at the hands of “Tiny”.
My dearest Barbara,
I feel I must give a full account and explication as to the rationale behind my silence over these past several hours. Indeed, it was only that long ago that you and I made our Odyssean voyage to this place from our own personal Xanadu in Palm Beach. I have much to recount to you.
Upon our arrival at this place I was immediately seized [please excuse the somewhat pedestrian pun] by the sheer size and scale of the estate and grounds. I am convinced that the owners – the Federal Bureau of Prisons, I am told – must have hundreds, nay, thousands of minions labouring from dawn 'til dusk at the Protean task of maintaining it. I must hope that the rumours of labour costs of twelve cents per man-hour are true; that would prove beyond any scintilla of doubt that those benighted labour unions have not yet succeeded in spreading their hateful and cancerous message to the peaceful and happy workers of this Utopia.
Imagine my astonishment, then, when I discovered that I will be expected and required to – dare I even say it? - share my accommodations with another gentleman. I daresay I find it quite beyond me that such a fine establishment – thousands of acres and such well-constructed buildings, if perhaps a trifle utilitarian in a Bauhaus sort of way – should want for rooms. I suppose there are some things about this place that I have yet to learn.
Upon my arrival at this fine estate, I was greeted, not without a certain degree of contempt, by a group of men claiming to be “correctional officers”. I found this nomenclature quite amusing when applied in my case; the last time anyone referred to your humble servant being in need of correction was when I was politely asked to quit the hallowed halls of Upper Canada College, my entrepreneurial flair at selling examination papers being, as it was, unappreciated by the educational staff of that heretofore-august establishment. But I digress: the aforementioned correctional officers, or CO's as they wish to be addressed, promptly exhibited their complete lack of even the most elemental form of decency by requiring that I disrobe in their presence. As you well know, dearest love, I am by no means embarrassed of my physique; indeed, in my sixty-third year I must say I am more than favourably impressed by my musculature, and even more so by the even white shade of my skin. When one CO made the request, I laughed politely and demurred, whereupon one of his colleagues drew an instrument which he referred to as a taser and brandished it in my direction. With my expert knowledge of everything that has ever been reported by those alcoholic wretches who claim to “work” in the North American media – even those stories not dealing with me and my vicissitudes with Dame Justice - I was aware of the potential of these tasers to injure my dignity and perhaps – O horror! - inflict harm on my person. Thus I reluctantly complied with the officers' poorly-worded, unreasonable and obtuse demand. Whereupon a group of men approached me and proceeded to ask me a series of questions about my physical and mental health. Mental health! Can you imagine it, my love? These plebeians could not possibly have any understanding of the force of my intellect. Were I to perform an auto-lobotomy – the temporal lobe, I think – still these so-called doctors would still not comprehend the depth of my mental capacity and acumen.
After the physical examination - which I must report was surprisingly invasive and completely medically unnecessary – I was presented with a new suit. As you know, dearest Barbara, although I am by no means a vain man, I do believe that a fine suit looks particularly resplendent on your Lord Black of Crossharbour. I freely admit, however, that I am not completely au courant, as you are, when it comes to the very latest styles from the Continent. The suit which was given me – completely without charge, I might add – is frankly quite odd. It is made of a stuff which must be of the very latest invention; when I asked the minion who presented it to me (in very simple words, of course) he replied that it was a material known to him as “poly-cotton”. This impressed me greatly; indeed, this new wonder material greatly resembles fine linen and is, if you will believe it, softer and more pleasant to the hand. Of course, upon donning the suit I stole (heavens! I thought I had banished that term from my vast personal lexicon) a glimpse of myself in a looking-glass and stopped for a moment to admire the fine figure of a man who looked back at me with Richelieu-like confidence. I was so pleased with my new suit of clothes that I immediately offered to buy one for every guest of the estate. At that moment one of the CO's guffawed in a Falstaffian sort of way and said (and I quote verbatim): “Y'all don't need to do that, convict (what an odd term!). The federal government (he pronounced it “guv-mint”) done already took care of that”. I looked around and discovered that my grotesque interlocutor's utterance was, quite astonishingly in my view, correct; all of the other guests were turned out in a similar fashion to my own - albeit with less panache, of course. Some of your fashion sense appears to have – what is the term the proletariat uses? - “rubbed off” on me, so to speak.
Thus suitably attired, I was escorted – with a colour guard of these bizarre and motley officers – to a small closet. The closet itself, where your humble servant finds himself writing these few lines to you, is an odd affair. It is the tiniest of spaces, obviously conceived to deal with the high heat and humidity of these latitudes, as well as the larcenous nature of domestic help the world over. Put more plainly – and, as Polonius said, brevity is the soul of wit – the closet is a mere six feet by six, and is built with sturdy solid walls and a heavy door of unadorned metal, with naught but a small crenellation by which to view the interior. Perhaps even more oddly, there is a small writing-desk (I note with some bemusement that one of the light-fingered knaves appears to have absconded with the inkwell already), two sturdy metal chairs and what appear to be two sailor's bunks cantilevered from the walls, but no clothes hangers or hooks. As I write this, a sudden epiphany seizes me. I note that there is a bidet, made of something resembling Sheffield steel, in one corner. Upon seeing this, it immediately becomes plain to me that this is no closet at all; it is indubitably a maid's room. It is now obvious that my escorts have decided to play a harmless prank on a new and presumably good-humoured guest.
My forbearance, however, is tested when I attempt to open the door. One of the Neanderthals has, no doubt inadvertently, locked the door to this cubiculum, this ascetic monk's cell. Surely he does not comprehend that this environment is stultifying to an intellect such as mine. Surely this behemoth must know that I shall recover from such a base insult and rise like the phoenix. I am not without humour, but when slighted my vengeance will be terrible.
While I wait for the rude mechanicals to remedy their colleague's great fault, I will cogitate upon how I might best occupy my time here at the estate. I am given to understand that many here are keen to meet me and learn from me, just as Odysseus's son Telemachus learned from Athena in the guise of Mentor. In fact, to continue my conceit of Greek metaphor, the directors of this estate have already recommended that I lecture my peers at my leisure on the topic of hubris, or to use the considerably less poetic but more generally understood concept, “pride goeth before a fall”. Apparently, even before my arrival here I have been put forward as something of a global authority on the subject. As is often the case with the greatest geniuses, I was unaware of the magnitude of my comprehension of the subject, but in any event I shall acquit myself of my duty with brio. I am told that the next topic under discussion will be the concept of poetic irony. I am convinced that I shall be richly compensated for sharing my not inconsiderable intellectual gifts with the other residents of this estate. I also look forward to sharing my thoughts on corporate governance with an audience which will, no doubt, hang on my every word as if I were the oracle of Delphi.
Once I have been esconced in my proper suite, my beloved Barbara, I shall arrange for you to come visit me. I regret deeply that the somewhat arcane rules for this estate do not permit us to be together. I shall endeavour to find out quickly who is responsible for this travesty, and explain why a woman of your breeding and exceptional character belongs here every bit as much as yours truly.
But soft! The motley fools have returned. They have another gentleman – if I may use that term somewhat loosely – with them. He is rather monolithic in appearance, and judging by his countenance I can only surmise that his mind is as small as those of the mindless journalists who have hectored us at every turn over these past years. His name, as I am given to understand it, is Tiny. How pleasant to learn that someone in this place does understand irony after all! Perhaps he is not such an idiot as his physiognomy might lead one to believe. I shall introduce myself and show him how charming a gentleman of my breeding and intellect can be.
At this point the scrawl stops. It is unclear whether the author's death was due to blood loss, or blunt force trauma at the hands of “Tiny”.
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
The new computer blues
New year, new computer, same old me.
*sigh*
Since early December the geekosphere has been running wild with rumours about the impending new Apple products that are traditionally announced by Steve Jobs in his keynote address at the Macworld conference. The odds-on favourite this year was a super-light, super-slim, extra-sexy new notebook. Bloggers and cognoscenti (real as well as self-defined) opined on what they figured a new svelte Mac would, could and should have. I read the reports with bated breath.
After I saw the reports on the new uber-Mac, I started thinking about replacing my well-worn desktop PC. True to my theory, it went gentle into that good night (to paraphrase Dylan Thomas) last week, leaving me computerless.
I had decided some time ago that my next home computer would be a Mac. I was one of the earliest Mac aficionados/evangelists, going all the way back to (gulp) 1984, when I bought a top-of-the-line (well, actually, only-of-the-line) beige Mac with a whopping 128K of memory. I went through the heady days of disk-swapping, Sad Mac icons, upgrading RAM, the world’s slowest dot-matrix printers… ah, happy times. When my last Mac, a “beast” SE with two megabytes of RAM, two floppy drives and a 20MB external HD, finally chewed up its (second) power supply and gave up the ghost in about 1994 I got a home PC and have lived with Windoze ever since. But I never really abandoned my love for all things Apple.
So on Saturday I bought a sexy black MacBook, knowing that by doing so I was practically guaranteeing that all the rumours would turn out to be true.
And was I right? Steve Jobs announced the MacBook Air (who comes up with these names anyway?) to the enthralled conferenceers in
One of the things that any computer buyer has to be prepared to accept is that whatever machine one buys will be obsolete within about fifteen seconds of delivery. But you know what? I’m okay with that. As drool-worthy as the new MacBook Air is (did I mention it fits into a manila envelope? And the flash memory option?), I’m perfectly okay with my not-quite-state-of-the-Apple-art machine.
Maybe this means I’m growing up. I don’t need to have the best and flashiest.
Naaah. I still want the best and flashiest.
Hey, at least I'm honest.
Friday, November 30, 2007
A great typo
One of the good things about being in a job where I spend much of my time either reading or writing is that I catch a lot of spelling and typographical errors. I even commit the odd one myself.
Sometimes these typos are the innocuous-albeit-annoying ones like teh instead of the, or -toin instead of -tion in words like association. At other times, though, the misspellings create malapropisms that are just plain funny. I've lost count of the number of times I've read about people who have tried to diffuse tense situations instead of defusing them... or the never-ending they're/their/there, it's/its, you're/your or born/borne. And don't even get me started on affect/effect or licence/license.
I think I have a new favourite. As is my wont (not want), I was reading through the comments on a recent CBC News article online. One of the posters wanted, no doubt, to talk about the vicious circle of paying higher rates for a lower level of service on his cellular phone. But the spelling gremlins got there first and our hero ended up referring to a viscous circle.
Ewww.
I couldn't stop myself from thinking about how Gary Larson would have drawn a cartoon to illustrate something like "Gerry suddenly found himself drawn into a viscous circle". Mmmmmmm... imagine all that cartoony goodness.
And, for a bonus point: isn't a spell checker something a wizard should use to make sure his charms are up to snuff? Okay, okay... I suppose a spelling checker isn't much better; imagine a checkers piece rhyming off words like "perspicacious" or "accommodate". How about an "orthographic verification routine"?
Sometimes these typos are the innocuous-albeit-annoying ones like teh instead of the, or -toin instead of -tion in words like association. At other times, though, the misspellings create malapropisms that are just plain funny. I've lost count of the number of times I've read about people who have tried to diffuse tense situations instead of defusing them... or the never-ending they're/their/there, it's/its, you're/your or born/borne. And don't even get me started on affect/effect or licence/license.
I think I have a new favourite. As is my wont (not want), I was reading through the comments on a recent CBC News article online. One of the posters wanted, no doubt, to talk about the vicious circle of paying higher rates for a lower level of service on his cellular phone. But the spelling gremlins got there first and our hero ended up referring to a viscous circle.
Ewww.
I couldn't stop myself from thinking about how Gary Larson would have drawn a cartoon to illustrate something like "Gerry suddenly found himself drawn into a viscous circle". Mmmmmmm... imagine all that cartoony goodness.
And, for a bonus point: isn't a spell checker something a wizard should use to make sure his charms are up to snuff? Okay, okay... I suppose a spelling checker isn't much better; imagine a checkers piece rhyming off words like "perspicacious" or "accommodate". How about an "orthographic verification routine"?
Sunday, October 07, 2007
Oh, the heartbreak...
You know, sometimes life just gives you a good swift kick in the teeth, even when you don't deserve it.
Over the years, I've grown used to living in towns that have sports teams that start losing shortly after my arrival. I grew up in Saskatchewan, so I've seen the ups and (ahem, mostly) downs of the Roughriders. My NFL team has always been the Oakland (don't ever call them the Los Angeles) Raiders, who haven't done much of anything since Super Bowl XVIII over twenty years ago. I lived in Boston (Celtics/Bruins/Patriots). Hamilton (Tiger-Cats) and Edmonton (Eskimos and Oilers) came next. And of course, now I live in Toronto where the Maple Leafs are now in season 41 since their last Stanley Cup, Toronto FC will finish the MLS season in the cellar (with the longest scoreless streak in the history of the league), the Jays finished well out of contention and the U of T Varsity Blues are on track to become the losing-est college football team in Canadian history.
And then we have the All-Blacks. I'm not from New Zealand - never even been there - but the way these guys play rugby intrigued me well before I ever played the game. When I did start playing, NZ were the champions of the first-ever Rugby World Cup. Most people spoke of them with a kind of awe. And awe-inspiring they were: strong, tough, inventive and entertaining to watch. And how can you not love any team, in any sport, where there's a traditional war chant/dance before the match?
The poor All-Blacks are, however, not immune from my little personal curse. After winning the inaugural RWC in 1987, they haven't won it since. The only tiny consolation is that arch-enemy France have never won. The sting isn't entirely gone, though, since France has spoiled the All-Blacks' tournament a couple of times, most notably a 1999 contest which some call one of the great rugby matches of all time.
This weekend the All-Blacks managed to break my heart again. Despite being the team to beat in this year's World Cup, they got, well, beaten by (*sigh*) France, 20-18. NZ missed a couple of kicks, and to my dying day I will argue that the pass to Michalak that led to the final French try was forward... but the final result is the final result.
I don't really hold anything against France. It was the French who taught me to love the game, after all. But do they have to crush my haka-chanting, black-jersey-with-silver-fern-wearing heart?
[a word of warning to the wise should suffice: the first person who says "it's only a game" gets a punch in the mouth)
*****
On a cheerier note, something quite funny happened to one of my server friends the other night. A customer asked her what the word "reciprocity" meant. Before she could start to explain the meaning of the term, the customer asked her whether it was a Canadian word. At this point, my friend just started to laugh; it struck her funny that an American would have no idea of the concept of reciprocity. I suggested that the customer might understand it better if put in terms he could understand, i.e. the opposite of unilateralism... but we both thought it better to just leave the poor guy alone.
I know, I know: it's not fair to blithely label all Americans as ignorant of their own language, as well as global politics. But it sure feels good.
Over the years, I've grown used to living in towns that have sports teams that start losing shortly after my arrival. I grew up in Saskatchewan, so I've seen the ups and (ahem, mostly) downs of the Roughriders. My NFL team has always been the Oakland (don't ever call them the Los Angeles) Raiders, who haven't done much of anything since Super Bowl XVIII over twenty years ago. I lived in Boston (Celtics/Bruins/Patriots). Hamilton (Tiger-Cats) and Edmonton (Eskimos and Oilers) came next. And of course, now I live in Toronto where the Maple Leafs are now in season 41 since their last Stanley Cup, Toronto FC will finish the MLS season in the cellar (with the longest scoreless streak in the history of the league), the Jays finished well out of contention and the U of T Varsity Blues are on track to become the losing-est college football team in Canadian history.
And then we have the All-Blacks. I'm not from New Zealand - never even been there - but the way these guys play rugby intrigued me well before I ever played the game. When I did start playing, NZ were the champions of the first-ever Rugby World Cup. Most people spoke of them with a kind of awe. And awe-inspiring they were: strong, tough, inventive and entertaining to watch. And how can you not love any team, in any sport, where there's a traditional war chant/dance before the match?
The poor All-Blacks are, however, not immune from my little personal curse. After winning the inaugural RWC in 1987, they haven't won it since. The only tiny consolation is that arch-enemy France have never won. The sting isn't entirely gone, though, since France has spoiled the All-Blacks' tournament a couple of times, most notably a 1999 contest which some call one of the great rugby matches of all time.
This weekend the All-Blacks managed to break my heart again. Despite being the team to beat in this year's World Cup, they got, well, beaten by (*sigh*) France, 20-18. NZ missed a couple of kicks, and to my dying day I will argue that the pass to Michalak that led to the final French try was forward... but the final result is the final result.
I don't really hold anything against France. It was the French who taught me to love the game, after all. But do they have to crush my haka-chanting, black-jersey-with-silver-fern-wearing heart?
[a word of warning to the wise should suffice: the first person who says "it's only a game" gets a punch in the mouth)
*****
On a cheerier note, something quite funny happened to one of my server friends the other night. A customer asked her what the word "reciprocity" meant. Before she could start to explain the meaning of the term, the customer asked her whether it was a Canadian word. At this point, my friend just started to laugh; it struck her funny that an American would have no idea of the concept of reciprocity. I suggested that the customer might understand it better if put in terms he could understand, i.e. the opposite of unilateralism... but we both thought it better to just leave the poor guy alone.
I know, I know: it's not fair to blithely label all Americans as ignorant of their own language, as well as global politics. But it sure feels good.
Sunday, September 16, 2007
The *real* World Cup is on!
Mmmmmm.... rugby...
The Rugby World Cup started last week. I'm in heaven. An Irish company called Setanta Sports is carrying all the matches - plus a whole bunch of other rugby (union and league, but no word of sevens yet), soccer, Aussie footie, hurling (!), Gaelic football (!!) and other stuff. A must-have, at least for the four-month minimum subscription.
Adding the channel to my cable TV lineup was a foregone conclusion, although I had to convince the people at the Rogers call centre that since they were advertising the channel on air, they really *should* have it in their subscription system. It took about five tries, with five increasingly-baffled call centre employees, to finally add the channel to my account.
Now my only concern is that the tournament is in full flight just as all my regular must-watch programs are starting up for the fall season. Good thing I have two PVRs.
The Rugby World Cup started last week. I'm in heaven. An Irish company called Setanta Sports is carrying all the matches - plus a whole bunch of other rugby (union and league, but no word of sevens yet), soccer, Aussie footie, hurling (!), Gaelic football (!!) and other stuff. A must-have, at least for the four-month minimum subscription.
Adding the channel to my cable TV lineup was a foregone conclusion, although I had to convince the people at the Rogers call centre that since they were advertising the channel on air, they really *should* have it in their subscription system. It took about five tries, with five increasingly-baffled call centre employees, to finally add the channel to my account.
Now my only concern is that the tournament is in full flight just as all my regular must-watch programs are starting up for the fall season. Good thing I have two PVRs.
Monday, September 03, 2007
Jazz is good for you
No, it's not good for you like, say, broccoli or a good night's sleep, but a group of researchers are studying how the experience of improvised music could serve as a model for collaborative work in other areas.
Quoted in a newspaper article, U. of Guelph professor Ajay Heble says: "A group of people who may have never met, who know very little about one another - may not even speak the same language - can create inspired music. What makes it work and what does this tell us? These are the kinds of questions we are asking." You can read the full Globe & Mail article here.
I can see it now: instead of butting heads with management representatives at a bargaining table, I'll just walk in with a horn and call a couple of tunes. Maybe the choice of song would even have some effect on the tenor of negotiations (pun completely intended): perhaps The Meaning of the Blues if things are going badly; In Your Own Sweet Way if I'm feeling conciliatory; All Of Me for concession bargaining; My Favorite Things during the initial stages when each side presents its initial wish list; Old Folks when we discuss pensions... my mind is spinning with possibilities. I'll leave it up to you as to when I might play a tune like You Don't Know What Love Is or (ahem) Oleo.
And oh yes... Todaybour Day is Labour Day! (sorry for the *-gasp!-* US spellings in the linked cartoon) I think Bennedetto is one of my favourite Homestar Runner characters.
Quoted in a newspaper article, U. of Guelph professor Ajay Heble says: "A group of people who may have never met, who know very little about one another - may not even speak the same language - can create inspired music. What makes it work and what does this tell us? These are the kinds of questions we are asking." You can read the full Globe & Mail article here.
I can see it now: instead of butting heads with management representatives at a bargaining table, I'll just walk in with a horn and call a couple of tunes. Maybe the choice of song would even have some effect on the tenor of negotiations (pun completely intended): perhaps The Meaning of the Blues if things are going badly; In Your Own Sweet Way if I'm feeling conciliatory; All Of Me for concession bargaining; My Favorite Things during the initial stages when each side presents its initial wish list; Old Folks when we discuss pensions... my mind is spinning with possibilities. I'll leave it up to you as to when I might play a tune like You Don't Know What Love Is or (ahem) Oleo.
And oh yes... Todaybour Day is Labour Day! (sorry for the *-gasp!-* US spellings in the linked cartoon) I think Bennedetto is one of my favourite Homestar Runner characters.
Saturday, August 04, 2007
Chairs
I am one of those people who appreciates having a chair to call my own. It gives me a sense of belonging; an attachment; a home away from home if you will. It's a place where I have at least a certain measure of, not necessarily control, but perhaps droit de regard over the things that go on around me. And come on, what man can resist being told that "that chair over there is for you"?
In the past few weeks, this agreeable experience has happened to me not once, but twice. The first time was at the very end of June, just before I started my summer holidays. After months of griping about how my office chair was broken and how I needed a new one, it finally arrived:
It's very comfortable, and I can work at my desk all day - if I have to, that is.
Those who know me well know that I like to find a watering hole close to my place of work. It's a good place to sit and decompress from the travails of the day, meet and chat with friends, to meet people, to flirt with waitresses... you know, a real neighbourhood-y place.
I've been a regular at this particular bar on Front Street pretty much since the day it opened about five years ago. I've stuck with them and they've stuck with me. After months of teasing about how I should have my own designated spot in the place, they finally came through.
Yes, they put a plaque on one of the chairs designating it as mine. It was immediately pointed out to me that if any other bar patron named Keith comes in, I'll be out of luck.
Being a regular at a bar is just fine with me, as long as no one ever confuses me with that other famous barfly from TV:
Hmmm... come to think of it, I am starting to look a little like ol' Norm - although you're not likely to catch me wearing a tie too often. Okay, maybe he's a bad example. How about Morn from Star Trek: Deep Space Nine?
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
My summer vacation
Ahhh... there's nothing quite like the impending end of a summer holiday to remind one that summer holidays are entirely too brief.
This year was much like any other. I spent a week at Humber College at a jazz workshop. I've been doing it for the past six years or so, and it's always entertaining. It's a great opportunity to network with a goodly number of Canada's best jazzers. Just before the Humber workshop there was the annual Toronto Jazz Festival; I was able to get to a few shows, including Metalwood (check them out), guitarist Mike Stern with my favorite (living) electric bassist Alain Caron, and buddy and former Saskatonian Jon Ballantyne.
Also as in past years, it took me a little while to pry myself away from the office. This year, though, it was more because of events and less because of me not being able to disconnect. Of the four weeks I've been officially out of the office I actually did some work for about a week. I do get the time back, though, so it's not like I've done myself out of anything.
One of my work-related activities involved a quick two-day trip to Montreal. My responsibilities kept me there for the full two days, but the meetings were interspersed with lots of downtime, so I was able to catch some of the Just For Laughs comedy festival, as well as Nuits d'Afrique and a snippet of the big international fireworks competition. Mind you, just walking along any of Montreal's major streets is a mini-vacation in itself; the city is sufficiently unlike any other in Canada (or North America, for that matter) that one feels the same dépaysement as one does when vacationing in another country.
Another pseudo-tradition is the time spent catching up on all things Potter. I saw Order of the Phoenix - twice - and read Deathly Hallows - yes, twice. Apparently there is a big international academic conference on Harry Potter here in Toronto in the next couple of weeks. I don't know whether I'll be able to catch any of it, or see any of the conventioneers, although my downtown location (work and home) virtually guarantees that I will bump into some conventioneers at some point. And don't worry, I won't spoil the ending of the HP novels for you - unless you ask me to, of course.
In other news: after years of threatening to do so, I finally got around to getting a busker's permit. Now the question becomes: will I use it? Stay tuned.
In other other news: I read a scary snippet online the other day. Apparently the city of Salzburg has just launched - no, I'm not making this up - a cable TV channel that runs The Sound of Music 24/7.
*shudder*
Just one more reason I'm glad to be living in Canada.
This year was much like any other. I spent a week at Humber College at a jazz workshop. I've been doing it for the past six years or so, and it's always entertaining. It's a great opportunity to network with a goodly number of Canada's best jazzers. Just before the Humber workshop there was the annual Toronto Jazz Festival; I was able to get to a few shows, including Metalwood (check them out), guitarist Mike Stern with my favorite (living) electric bassist Alain Caron, and buddy and former Saskatonian Jon Ballantyne.
Also as in past years, it took me a little while to pry myself away from the office. This year, though, it was more because of events and less because of me not being able to disconnect. Of the four weeks I've been officially out of the office I actually did some work for about a week. I do get the time back, though, so it's not like I've done myself out of anything.
One of my work-related activities involved a quick two-day trip to Montreal. My responsibilities kept me there for the full two days, but the meetings were interspersed with lots of downtime, so I was able to catch some of the Just For Laughs comedy festival, as well as Nuits d'Afrique and a snippet of the big international fireworks competition. Mind you, just walking along any of Montreal's major streets is a mini-vacation in itself; the city is sufficiently unlike any other in Canada (or North America, for that matter) that one feels the same dépaysement as one does when vacationing in another country.
Another pseudo-tradition is the time spent catching up on all things Potter. I saw Order of the Phoenix - twice - and read Deathly Hallows - yes, twice. Apparently there is a big international academic conference on Harry Potter here in Toronto in the next couple of weeks. I don't know whether I'll be able to catch any of it, or see any of the conventioneers, although my downtown location (work and home) virtually guarantees that I will bump into some conventioneers at some point. And don't worry, I won't spoil the ending of the HP novels for you - unless you ask me to, of course.
In other news: after years of threatening to do so, I finally got around to getting a busker's permit. Now the question becomes: will I use it? Stay tuned.
In other other news: I read a scary snippet online the other day. Apparently the city of Salzburg has just launched - no, I'm not making this up - a cable TV channel that runs The Sound of Music 24/7.
*shudder*
Just one more reason I'm glad to be living in Canada.
Monday, June 18, 2007
Is it an emergency if it happens all the time?
A brief rant:
I frequently use taxicabs to get around. More frequently than I'd like, to be honest, but that's another story.
There are only so many things a guy can do to kill time while riding in a taxi, so I've spent a couple of seconds looking at the customer's "bill of rights" as set out by the local taxi commission. A customer has the right to ask the driver to turn the air conditioning on and off; to direct the driver on the route to be taken, and a bunch of other motherhood-type rights.
One expectation we clients are also allowed is that the cabbie will only use his/her cellphone in an emergency. So why is it that nearly every cabbie I've dealt with over the past year or so has a headset welded to their ear? And why is it that they are all so deeply engaged in conversation all the time? I can't figure out to whom they could possibly be talking for such long periods. It strikes me that all the attention they are paying to their long, voluble and (sometimes) high-volume conversation is attention that they are taking away from, you know, the "driving the vehicle and keeping the client safe and comfortable" part.
Nearly every time I get out of the cab at the end of a ride I promise myself I'm going to write to the commission and complain. I've yet to do it.
*harrumph*
I frequently use taxicabs to get around. More frequently than I'd like, to be honest, but that's another story.
There are only so many things a guy can do to kill time while riding in a taxi, so I've spent a couple of seconds looking at the customer's "bill of rights" as set out by the local taxi commission. A customer has the right to ask the driver to turn the air conditioning on and off; to direct the driver on the route to be taken, and a bunch of other motherhood-type rights.
One expectation we clients are also allowed is that the cabbie will only use his/her cellphone in an emergency. So why is it that nearly every cabbie I've dealt with over the past year or so has a headset welded to their ear? And why is it that they are all so deeply engaged in conversation all the time? I can't figure out to whom they could possibly be talking for such long periods. It strikes me that all the attention they are paying to their long, voluble and (sometimes) high-volume conversation is attention that they are taking away from, you know, the "driving the vehicle and keeping the client safe and comfortable" part.
Nearly every time I get out of the cab at the end of a ride I promise myself I'm going to write to the commission and complain. I've yet to do it.
*harrumph*
We've arrived on the world stage
It's official, in my books at least: Toronto is now a true soccer city.
What leads me to this bold declaration? Simple: this afternoon, not long after Toronto FC's defeat of FC Dallas, I saw a very drunk TFC supporter weaving his way down the sidewalk in front of Union Station.
Replica jersey? Check.
Scarf? Check.
Shaved head? Check.
Vacant, dazed expression? Check.
The only things missing to make this genius a true yobbo, in my books at least, were a) evidence of a recent violent encounter with a partisan of the opposing team; and b) handcuffs. Mind you, it would probably be pretty difficult to find a Dallas fan here in Toronto...
What I found truly odd about this particular dude was that he was traveling - if you can really call it traveling, he was pretty loaded - by himself. Normally, your garden-variety hooligan tends to prefer to travel in packs. Well, this is Toronto FC's first season after all, so I suppose this guy could just be an early adopter.
In other sporting news, Canada's men's rugby team lost to New Zealand's All Blacks yesterday. It was a squeaker; the final score was, er, only 64-13.
What leads me to this bold declaration? Simple: this afternoon, not long after Toronto FC's defeat of FC Dallas, I saw a very drunk TFC supporter weaving his way down the sidewalk in front of Union Station.
Replica jersey? Check.
Scarf? Check.
Shaved head? Check.
Vacant, dazed expression? Check.
The only things missing to make this genius a true yobbo, in my books at least, were a) evidence of a recent violent encounter with a partisan of the opposing team; and b) handcuffs. Mind you, it would probably be pretty difficult to find a Dallas fan here in Toronto...
What I found truly odd about this particular dude was that he was traveling - if you can really call it traveling, he was pretty loaded - by himself. Normally, your garden-variety hooligan tends to prefer to travel in packs. Well, this is Toronto FC's first season after all, so I suppose this guy could just be an early adopter.
In other sporting news, Canada's men's rugby team lost to New Zealand's All Blacks yesterday. It was a squeaker; the final score was, er, only 64-13.
I'm sure the Canadians are thrilled with their performance, though. The All Blacks are the New York Yankees, the Montreal Canadiens, the Edmonton Eskimos and the Oakland Raiders all rolled up into one team. Playing respectably - and the Canadians did play a very respectable game - against the All Blacks is a significant feat. Way to go, boys.
Friday, June 08, 2007
Life imitates art yet again
How cool is this? We first heard about it on television in the late 60s; then in the late 80s we actually got to "see" it. Now in the 21st century we finally have documented medical proof of a humanoid - a human, in fact - with green blood.
Who cares if the phenomenon turned out to be completely medically explainable? Having green blood is just totally, undeniably cool. I'm glad to hear that the dude in question has made a complete recovery, but I sure hope somebody took some good photos.
I get the feeling that Trekkers around the world are starting up betting pools on when medical science will find the first humanoids with magenta-coloured Klingon blood (remember Star Trek VI: The Undiscovered Country?) or quadrophonic hearing like the Andorians.
Last month we learned that NASA scientists are looking - I mean actually looking - for a planet in the 40 Eridani system that could conceivably support life. Any longtime Trekker knows that 40 Eridani A (it's a trinary system, dontcha know) was posited by Gene Roddenberry as the main sun of the planet Vulcan. Think about this: we're going out to look for something that just might exist, for the sole reason that a popular, albeit completely fictional, TV program says that's where it is. Cool. Bonus points for being 16 light-years away.
In the meantime, physicists continue to work on 3-D printers - crude replicators, in other words, although they can't yet synthesize food or drink - and they've been working on teleportation, with some limited success, for years.
And people look sideways at those of us who enjoy science fiction?
*scoff*
Who cares if the phenomenon turned out to be completely medically explainable? Having green blood is just totally, undeniably cool. I'm glad to hear that the dude in question has made a complete recovery, but I sure hope somebody took some good photos.
I get the feeling that Trekkers around the world are starting up betting pools on when medical science will find the first humanoids with magenta-coloured Klingon blood (remember Star Trek VI: The Undiscovered Country?) or quadrophonic hearing like the Andorians.
Last month we learned that NASA scientists are looking - I mean actually looking - for a planet in the 40 Eridani system that could conceivably support life. Any longtime Trekker knows that 40 Eridani A (it's a trinary system, dontcha know) was posited by Gene Roddenberry as the main sun of the planet Vulcan. Think about this: we're going out to look for something that just might exist, for the sole reason that a popular, albeit completely fictional, TV program says that's where it is. Cool. Bonus points for being 16 light-years away.
In the meantime, physicists continue to work on 3-D printers - crude replicators, in other words, although they can't yet synthesize food or drink - and they've been working on teleportation, with some limited success, for years.
And people look sideways at those of us who enjoy science fiction?
*scoff*
Monday, June 04, 2007
When pictograms go wrong
It's been pretty well established that the now-ubiquitous practice of using pictograms on signs instead of perfectly good words came into its own at Expo '67 in Montreal, when Paul Arthur decided that drawing stick men and stick women - among other things - would be easier than writing "the washrooms are over this way, pal" in forty or fifty languages. And since the 1972 Olympics we've all spent too much of our valuable time figuring out the, er, clever pictograms that have been developed to represent each of the Olympic sports. You know, come to think of it, I can't remember what the pictogram for synchronized trampoline looked like, although I expect I can hazard a guess.
After that convoluted introduction, on to today's craziness. We just bought a couple of new Dell laptops for the office. Said computers came in the standard (read far too big) cardboard box, with more cardboard and a disturbingly large and environmentally hostile amount of styrofoam padding. The computers were each wrapped in a protective bag with the following gem printed on it:
After cogitating on this for a moment in its proper context, it eventually came to me that this pictogram is meant to say something along the lines of "It's probably not the best idea in the world to stick your head in this plastic bag". Then I started thinking about some of the other things that the original artist might be trying to say:
- If you're choking, don't whack yourself on the back of the head with a cafeteria tray.
- When on an airplane, don't lie on your back and try to poke your head out the window if you feel the need to cough.
- When trying to fall asleep, don't wrap your fingers around your throat - you'll probably end up opening your mouth too wide and you'll start snoring, and I mean really, who can sleep with all that snoring going on?
- If you want to catch some Z's while riding in a car, make sure your shoulder strap goes behind the pillow. Sure, if you hit something your face will go straight into the dashboard, but won't you be more comfortable without that silly shoulder strap cramping your style? And oh yes, before I forget: to keep your head from doing that stupid bob-bob-nod-whoops thing, just put your hand around your throat and you'll be just fine.
I think I must have been bored at the office today.
PS I saw today that the American Idol 2007 tour (where people get to hear all the losers again, just in case anyone's forgotten why these ninnies were voted off the show in the first place) is starting soon. The main sponsor for the tour is: POP-TARTS! Honest, folks, I'm not making this up...
Sunday, April 22, 2007
Good, Evil and the Internet - assorted musings
Once again, it's been quite a while since my last post. There are quite a number of reasons/excuses, but none of them really matter. I'm back.
Last week's shooting at Virginia Tech got me thinking, as did the somewhat predictable reaction of the media - mainstream and otherwise. Although I'm a great fan of the immediacy and "democratization" of the fourth estate as offered by electronic and online news services, there are some significant disadvantages, namely the immediacy and democratization.
Allow me to elucidate. Since the earliest days of news reporting, the challenge has been not so much to get the best reportage, but rather the most immediate reportage. Print reporters for newspapers and magazines were, of course, the first to adopt the first-person - or even the second-person ("you are there") school of reportage, with the emphasis on superficial reports of the actual event and marginally more interest in the effect of said event upon the people who witnessed or experienced the event. The creation of what we think of now as the "modern" or electronic media, i.e. radio and television, led to the next logical step: the roving microphone, followed several years later by the "creepie peepie" or handheld (if you can call anything that weighs over fifty pounds handheld) television camera, perpetuated the rush to be first on the scene and first with stories, sound and pictures.
Here's where the first problem lies. When a media organization, whether it's NBC or CBC Radio or the New York Times, first gets its grubby hands on a snippet of information, I would submit that there needs to be someone looking at the material and exercising what we in Canada might tend to call "sober second thought" before publishing or broadcasting it. News organizations in particular live for the scoop, that elusive and largely illusory moment when one organization gets the story out first. Too often, though, the push for the scoop means that the first information about an event is too sketchy to be useful or even meaningful. If there's one thing we should have learned by now about any catastrophe that's being reported online or over the air, it's that the first few reports from the scene are nearly useless and often contradictory. So much for immediacy.
The mainstream media (MSM) seem to be always a step or two behind the man on the street in terms of adopting new technologies that can or could be applied to reportage. That's not necessarily a bad thing. The biggest problem with the democratization brought on by the Information Age is that people begin to think that whatever they publish themselves is The Truth. The great forum that is the Internet quickly degenerates into a bedlam of half-baked theories, pontification and - I love this word - codswollop.
A.J. Liebling, who was himself a better-than-average war correspondent, once summed it all up by saying "freedom of the press is limited to those who own one". God only knows what he would say now, when a free e-mail account and access to a computer can potentially expose any idiot (yes, including me) and his/her thoughts to billions of eyeballs. It is to weep.
The other much-loathed (at least by me) facet of the democratization of news is the ability to instantly spew random thoughts under the guise of "comments". To return for a moment to the event that spawned this screed, the VT shooting, I would turn your attention to the comments that have been posted on any news website that allows them. One would have to search far and wide to find a greater collection of uninformed and yet deeply felt opinion on nearly any subject, whether or not it has anything to do with the actual news event in question. Reading some of the comments to a recent Alan Freeman story about the VT killer made me laugh, shake my head and seethe, not necessarily in that order. Readers' rants on this single and innocuous article ran the gamut from violent anti-immigration diatribes to equally violent anti-Big Pharma rants, to wildly polarized bleating about gun control (pro and con, of course), to pro-American, anti-American, left-wing and right-wing political posturing, to moping about the sad experience that can be life away from home when you're in your late teens.
Here endeth my rant on News and New Media.
I think perhaps the biggest reason why I've been cogitating on the VT massacre is that it's made me reflect on some similar traumatic events that I have experienced. Almost exactly twenty years ago I was a faculty advisor in residence at a US university and was involved in a situation that had many similarities to the VT shooting. But for the intervention of a few key people, most notably the campus police, the school's administration and the student's parents, things might have gone very badly indeed.
In December 1989 I was in France when I started to hear sketchy news reports about a shooting in Montreal. It wasn't until several hours and many frantic phone calls later that I learned that the shootout had occurred at the École Polytechnique, and not at McGill University where a close friend of mine was studying at the time.
Some years later, as a TV news producer, I felt twangs of guilt after assigning a colleague to cover the school shooting in Taber, Alberta, and over the years I worked and talked with a number of colleagues who had covered events like the Oklahoma City bombing, the conflict in Rwanda and the Branch Davidian standoff in Waco.
Mere months ago I heard about the shootout at Dawson College, where my Montreal friend had worked for several years, and where her husband works now.
Like my Blogger nom de plume namesake Voltaire, I often think about the nature of good and evil. Like Voltaire, I reject the concept of using "isms" as a crutch to help explain the universe and the actions of the people inhabiting it. In the end I think both Voltaire and I would agree on a marginally less "big picture" view of things, and work to improve those things over which we have some element of control. We will never be able stop bad things from happening to good people, but for all that we shouldn't stop trying.
Yikes. I got all philosophical and sermon-y there for a moment. Maybe I'll sign off now and post something a little less uplifting later on.
Last week's shooting at Virginia Tech got me thinking, as did the somewhat predictable reaction of the media - mainstream and otherwise. Although I'm a great fan of the immediacy and "democratization" of the fourth estate as offered by electronic and online news services, there are some significant disadvantages, namely the immediacy and democratization.
Allow me to elucidate. Since the earliest days of news reporting, the challenge has been not so much to get the best reportage, but rather the most immediate reportage. Print reporters for newspapers and magazines were, of course, the first to adopt the first-person - or even the second-person ("you are there") school of reportage, with the emphasis on superficial reports of the actual event and marginally more interest in the effect of said event upon the people who witnessed or experienced the event. The creation of what we think of now as the "modern" or electronic media, i.e. radio and television, led to the next logical step: the roving microphone, followed several years later by the "creepie peepie" or handheld (if you can call anything that weighs over fifty pounds handheld) television camera, perpetuated the rush to be first on the scene and first with stories, sound and pictures.
Here's where the first problem lies. When a media organization, whether it's NBC or CBC Radio or the New York Times, first gets its grubby hands on a snippet of information, I would submit that there needs to be someone looking at the material and exercising what we in Canada might tend to call "sober second thought" before publishing or broadcasting it. News organizations in particular live for the scoop, that elusive and largely illusory moment when one organization gets the story out first. Too often, though, the push for the scoop means that the first information about an event is too sketchy to be useful or even meaningful. If there's one thing we should have learned by now about any catastrophe that's being reported online or over the air, it's that the first few reports from the scene are nearly useless and often contradictory. So much for immediacy.
The mainstream media (MSM) seem to be always a step or two behind the man on the street in terms of adopting new technologies that can or could be applied to reportage. That's not necessarily a bad thing. The biggest problem with the democratization brought on by the Information Age is that people begin to think that whatever they publish themselves is The Truth. The great forum that is the Internet quickly degenerates into a bedlam of half-baked theories, pontification and - I love this word - codswollop.
A.J. Liebling, who was himself a better-than-average war correspondent, once summed it all up by saying "freedom of the press is limited to those who own one". God only knows what he would say now, when a free e-mail account and access to a computer can potentially expose any idiot (yes, including me) and his/her thoughts to billions of eyeballs. It is to weep.
The other much-loathed (at least by me) facet of the democratization of news is the ability to instantly spew random thoughts under the guise of "comments". To return for a moment to the event that spawned this screed, the VT shooting, I would turn your attention to the comments that have been posted on any news website that allows them. One would have to search far and wide to find a greater collection of uninformed and yet deeply felt opinion on nearly any subject, whether or not it has anything to do with the actual news event in question. Reading some of the comments to a recent Alan Freeman story about the VT killer made me laugh, shake my head and seethe, not necessarily in that order. Readers' rants on this single and innocuous article ran the gamut from violent anti-immigration diatribes to equally violent anti-Big Pharma rants, to wildly polarized bleating about gun control (pro and con, of course), to pro-American, anti-American, left-wing and right-wing political posturing, to moping about the sad experience that can be life away from home when you're in your late teens.
Here endeth my rant on News and New Media.
I think perhaps the biggest reason why I've been cogitating on the VT massacre is that it's made me reflect on some similar traumatic events that I have experienced. Almost exactly twenty years ago I was a faculty advisor in residence at a US university and was involved in a situation that had many similarities to the VT shooting. But for the intervention of a few key people, most notably the campus police, the school's administration and the student's parents, things might have gone very badly indeed.
In December 1989 I was in France when I started to hear sketchy news reports about a shooting in Montreal. It wasn't until several hours and many frantic phone calls later that I learned that the shootout had occurred at the École Polytechnique, and not at McGill University where a close friend of mine was studying at the time.
Some years later, as a TV news producer, I felt twangs of guilt after assigning a colleague to cover the school shooting in Taber, Alberta, and over the years I worked and talked with a number of colleagues who had covered events like the Oklahoma City bombing, the conflict in Rwanda and the Branch Davidian standoff in Waco.
Mere months ago I heard about the shootout at Dawson College, where my Montreal friend had worked for several years, and where her husband works now.
Like my Blogger nom de plume namesake Voltaire, I often think about the nature of good and evil. Like Voltaire, I reject the concept of using "isms" as a crutch to help explain the universe and the actions of the people inhabiting it. In the end I think both Voltaire and I would agree on a marginally less "big picture" view of things, and work to improve those things over which we have some element of control. We will never be able stop bad things from happening to good people, but for all that we shouldn't stop trying.
Yikes. I got all philosophical and sermon-y there for a moment. Maybe I'll sign off now and post something a little less uplifting later on.
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