Scrimger Should Probably Be Writing Something Else

who to hate?

2012-01-07T11:45:00.010-05:00

I hate not knowing who to be mad at. All this anger, you want to direct it at someone or something. Do you know about doctors and phone messages? I just found out, and now I don't know how to feel ...

If one of my kids has an earache and I want to make an appointment at the doctor's office, I must call between 8:30 and 9:00 am. That's my window. If I call before 8:30 I get a recorded message telling me the office is closed, and if I have an emergency please go to the hospital. By 9:00 the slots are all full. So I have this one half hour of grace, thirty minutes to make contact with the office. And -- this is what drove me crazy -- I can not leave a message. The doc does not have a service or a machine. I call, along with every other sick person in town, and get the busy signal, and redial.

Ooh, I used to grit my teeth. I'd have a moaning child in my lap and a receiver in my ear telling me beep-beep-beep that the line was busy, over and over and over and over again. It was the senselessness of it that bothered me the most. My doctor was smart enough to get through medical school, why wasn't he smart enough to install an answering service? Hey, I had an answering service, and no one was calling me with any kind of emergency whatsoever. (Please, Mr Scrimger, can you come to talk to our book club? It's a matter of life and death!!!!) When I asked him about it he shrugged and said they just didn't do things that way. No one does, he said. Jerks, I thought.

And then Sophie enlightened me. I met her at a party and when I found out she was a family doctor my first question was about answering machines. She doesn't have one either. She explained very simply -- as if I (like Jeremy Irons in the stock market movie) was a golden retriever.

If Mr Smith leaves a message on the doctor's machine saying he is having a heart attack, she said, and the doctor doesn't call back for an hour or two, and Mr Smith dies, his heirs can sue the doctor for negligence.

I know, eh?

But ... but that's stupid, I said.

You don't realize how vulnerable family doctors are, she said.

But redialing and redialing seems so inefficient and stupid, I said. It makes me mad. Who can I be mad at?

She shrugged. You can still be mad at the doctor. Knock yourself out. We're used to it. Just don't sue us.

I want my anger to be justified, I said. It's not the doctor's fault. I don't want to blame him. But there's no satisfaction in being angry at a litigious society. Give me a face!

Dr Sophie left to freshen her drink and I haven't seen her since. I called my doctor yesterday sharp at 8:30. When I got the busy signal, I hung up the phone and stared into space.

perspective

2011-12-28T13:45:00.004-05:00

Been back for a week now, managed to throw Christmas together without putting a lot of worry into it. Africa puts things into perspective. One of my favorite things about Addis was the way no one seems to be complaining. The place must have its share of whiners, but I didn't meet any. You'd think that leading your leprous grandma around to beg for change was a totally normal thing to do. It was a blazing hot day and our van taxi was stopped to pick up passengers (love the system -- taxi pulls into the stop with a kid yelling the destination out the side window. At the stop are 4 other van taxis going to different places, with 4 other kids yelling their destinations. You can travel all over town for about a quarter.) The little girl in question was calm, neatly dressed, patient. She met my eye, smiled, nodded gravely, and moved on to the next taxi, pulling the old lady after her by her rotting stump.

In the same way, people would tell me about walking 50 or 100 kms to Addis from their village as if it was a normal way to get around. And why did you leave your village? I would ask. My parents died, they would say. That's terrible, I would say, and they would shrug. It happened, and I had to find a place to live. How old were you? I would ask. Twelve, they would say. Or thirteen or fifteen. That's terrible, I would say again, and they would shrug some more and drink their (lovely but oh so strong) coffee. I must have heard that story four or five times, from tough street kids, from twenty year old students, from the sixty-something director of my NGO. And not one trace of sentiment or self-pity, though my director did admit that they were hard years.

Lunch time my first day home Ed said, Dad, would you make me a grilled cheese sandwich? And I had to smile. Sure, I said. Do you want me to cut off the crusts? I'm not knocking my kid, of course. He has to bear his life, as does the little begging girl and the orphans and everyone else. But like I said, I didn't worry quite as much as usual about who got what for Christmas this year.

travel thoughtfully

2011-12-14T11:45:00.006-05:00

It's 1:00 Ethiopian time which means 7:00 am, and I am getting ready for breakfast and then my gig. I've been here a few days now and am starting to get the hang of it. For instance, service. You can't do it yourself. There's a chef station in the breakfast room, and a guy in white who whips up a great spiced omelet for you, but you can't carry it to the table. You make an I'll take it gesture, and he shakes his head. A pompous guy in a tux points to a demure waitress, who takes the plate from the chef, ducks her head at you and leads you to your table. She brings you coffee one pot full at a time. (Looks like a standard metal pot but does not spill -- that's impressive). She has to make the first pour, then ducks her head again and leaves and lets you finish.

If you want to take food or drink upstairs to your room -- well, forget it. I tried to carry my last cup out of the restaurant a couple days ago and was chased down the hall by an old guy with a tray shouting, Mister mister and looking really unhappy. I tried to explain my situation to him and he tried to explain his situation to me, and he won because he simply would not allow a guest to carry anything. We marched to my room, him in front with the tray and me behind looking sheepish. It wasn't about money -- I offered but he shook his head and marched away.

I don't really like being waited on but it's not my country and I'm not going to insist. Maybe this is a way to deal with unemployment. Everyone gets a little something to do. Like the ladies I saw sweeping the walk in the courtyard of the ministry where I am teaching. I was early yesterday (rare for me) and the sessions started late, so I was able to observe them for almost 45 minutes. There were three of them with brooms and dustpans. The first swept a small section of walkway, the second scraped the leavings into the dustpan and slid them carefully into the third lady's bucket. Then they switched jobs and moved on. I watched in fascination. The tiled walkway was maybe as long as two first downs and no wider than a residential sidewalk. Someone with a leaf blower would have finished in a minute or two. After 45 minutes these ladies were less than half way down the walk.

This is not me making fun of primitive ways of working. Not at all. A leaf blower is never a better answer. I did feel some initial frustration at observed inefficiency -- very similar to my feeling last year watching a large road crew take an entire week to dig up and then fill a hole in my street. (Their work to chat ratio was lower than the sweepers, and the project was completed at umpteen thousand times the cost and mess.) But the three women seemed to be enjoying themselves, and the work was so dogged and painstaking and plain weird to me that it wasn't long before I was hypnotized. Got me pondering on the importance of efficiency. Why do we care so much? What is there about the finishing that matters more than the doing? Maybe there is something to be said for driving slowly through life...

But now of course I am running late and have to hurry if I'm going to enjoy my omelet and coffee. I'd order room service but I am afraid of how many people would show up.

does anybody really know ...

2011-12-11T04:55:00.006-05:00

So, Addis Ababa. It's a real city, in that there are masses of people on the roads and sidewalks, walking and arguing, smiling and sitting around, driving with hands on the horn and heads out the window (love the drivers here -- no sense of lanes or right of way, plenty of smiles, and horns as conversation), selling food and I don't know what and shoes (lots of shoes, seeming like pretty good quality though I am no judge) and generally doing their best to get along and have some fun in the process. It helps that the sun is shining. It may help that it is Sunday and hardly anyone has to work. And it may be that I am missing something. I won't lie to you guys -- there's a whole lot here that I don't get.

Like the guys in the uniforms. They seem to pop up all over the place. I haven't seen a lot of consistency but there are brass buttons and caps and stripes galore. No guns, no agenda that I can work out, but they stay where they are, at ease mostly, and we regular walking-around guys leave them alone.

I say we but I kind of stand out. I am not a regular guy here. The gifts of a city are invisibility and unconcern, and they don't apply to me here. I get stared at. Not heckled or approached, but noticed. I did not see any other white folks on my walk. None. I don't think I was in a tough part of town. The streets were wide and there were all sorts of women and babies and old folks walking calmly. But no tourists except me.

I am gradually getting used to the time thing. After 24 hours on airplanes crossing who knows how many zones, I have no sense beyond day and night. My various electronic devices tell conflicting stories. Computer: 5:13 am. Cell phone: 11:14 am. Wrist watch: 1:15 pm. I set my watch to the clock in Tesfaye's car last night. It said 10:00 but I know that car clocks lie. (I still haven't switched mine to daylight savings.) When I asked him whether the time was correct he shrugged.

Sometimes in Ethiopia when we say 10:00 we mean 4:00 pm, he told me.
I nodded but had to ask: Um, why?
4:00 pm is ten hours past sunrise, he said.
Of course, I said. But what do you do at night? Do you call 5:00 am 23:00?
He laughed heartily. He's got a good laugh.
At night we sleep, he said.

So when I say I am getting used to the time thing I mean I am getting used to not knowing. With luck I may get around to not caring.

me straight him funny

2011-11-26T09:56:00.005-05:00

The problem -- no, not the problem; my problem -- with Frog And Toad Are Friends as a subject for close textual analysis, is that I wouldn't be able to do it without laughing at myself. I have enough trouble taking myself seriously under normal -- even harrowing -- circumstances. So the picture of me poring over these stories comma by comma, discussing how Lobel achieves his comic and revelatory effects ... well, I just had to shake my head. Like taking a spade to a souffle, as someone said, reviewing PG Wodehouse.

So I did a Saki story instead. That's him in the pic looking characteristically somber. He may not be as brilliant as Lobel but he's pretty brilliant. And easier to analyse without feeling like a piece of fruit. Turned out to be a good choice since my instructor is a big fan, and we had a lengthy discussion about Saki's place in the continuum of a certain kind of English humorist stretching from Wilde to Kingsley Amis.

You probably know Saki. A lot of his famous stuff has a surprising chilling flavour -- "Tobermory" or "The Reticence of Lady Anne" or "The Open Window" -- and these are great great stories. But I have a soft spot for his goofy surreal side, where he launches on a fugue of weird fantasy that takes the humour point and just runs away over the horizon with it. Wilde doesn't do that. Waugh doesn't do that. Leacock does it now and then, and Twain, but not as well as Saki. Anyway, it makes me howl with laughter. If you don't know "The Talking-Out Of Tarrington," give it a read.

keeping up ...

2011-11-16T21:59:00.004-05:00

So the first term of my school year is drawing to a close. Where do the weeks go? I am behind on all my assignments -- in class and out -- and I have played hooky a couple times and I owe money to the registrar and the coffee lady and there are three or four things I haven't signed up for. Geez -- you'd think I was I an undergrad again. I have learned NOTHING about time management in all my years of writing and raising kids. I am the oldest nineteen year old in the western world.

Today was a workshop day. I was supposed to present a piece of prose I found life-changing but forgot it was my turn. (Man I am no good at this.) So we spent more time analysing each other's work. It's a fun group -- scary talented and super good-natured. I try hard to keep up with them. Next week we all have to write like Nicholson Baker which is kind of cool. (That's him in the pic. A month ago we had to write like Henry James and that was much less cool.) And, if I remember, I will present a piece of prose. Wonder who I'll pick? Other presented authors have included Paul Bowles and Donald Barthelme and Sheila Heti and important guys like that. Can I do Arnold Lobel's Frog and Toad All Year? I am tempted.

Maybe I'll add my work to this blog. You guys can join the rest of the class in laughing at me. Kids today have no respect for their untalented elders.

free stuff

2011-11-06T19:01:00.008-05:00

Here's a touching story involving car repair. It didn't happen to me -- all my car repair stories are grim. But the brother of a friend of mine (see how far removed from me this story is? I do not even know this man) had a simply wonderful moment at an auto body shop recently.

Seems that my friend's brother -- I'll call him Steve -- had had his newish Lexus dinged up pretty good in a parking lot and took it to a nearby garage to get an estimate. The mechanic looked the car over and made some notes and came up with a figure rivalling the Greek national debt. Steve blenched (I have this on my friend's authority -- Steve is a blencher) but -- as my friend says -- what are you going to do? Car repair guys have you where the hair is crisp. And then the owner of the car garage came out of his office at the back and recognized Steve.

Is it ... Dr Curtis? he said, in a thick accent of indeterminate origin -- kind of like the wine I buy. Steve, I should mention (this is the key to the story), is an eye surgeon. The garage owner gestured dramatically to his employee.
This man saved my eyes, he said. I was blind but I can see thanks to this man! He is a genius! How can I help you, Doctor Curtis?

Steve pointed to his car.
The owner shook his head and said to the mechanic, This man does not get a bill! All our work is free. All the parts are free. This man's car will look better than new when we are finished.
It is a privilege, he continued, to be able to repay a small part of the great debt I owe you, Dr Curtis. I want to say ...
Apparently he went on for about five minutes, causing Steve some embarrassment, and when the dust settled Steve got a new-looking car for free.

Like I said, touching. As my friend was telling me the story I thought: some professions are really set up for gratitude. Take war heroes, for instance. Go into a store with a chest full of medals and some people will fall all over you for protecting their freedom. Crime fighters too -- if Superman walked around Metropolis in his cape and spandex he'd run into all sorts of thankful citizens who would be happy to offer him donuts and drinks and car repair. Surgeons are in this category. Doctor, you saved my eyes (heart, legs, whatever) means you get free stuff.

What if Steve sold shoes for a living? Would the garage owner be likely to honour excellent in-store assistance with free body work? I don't think so. Or take me. My car needs brakes. I have an appointment tomorrow. Will the guy who owns the local Midas dealership turn out to be a grateful ex-creative-writing student who recognizes me and says, Mr Scrimger, you ... improved my syntax! Thanks to you I can write clearer prose. For you -- no charge!

I'm not holding my breath.

notes on a white board

2011-10-28T21:46:00.009-05:00

Alison Kuipers wrote a good novel a few years back that consisted entirely of notes between a girl and her mom with conflicting schedules -- the kind of notes that get stuck under frig magnets or scribbled on bulletin boards. I enjoyed the story of love and loss and humour and growing up, but couldn't help wondering how it would have played with male characters. Would a boy and his dad express their feelings and interests through notes? Well, Ed and I have been sharing a kitchen and white message board for more than a year, and the answer is ... well, what do you think?

We Scrimgers are not afraid to communicate. The board is often full of writing. We are not fond of feelings, however. Or should I say we are not fond of mushy feelings. No LOVE YOUs or TAKE CAREs. But we do not mind expressing our displeasure. The suggestion WASH DISHES was up there for two days when I was away a few months ago. When I came back the dishes were still undone, so I turned a suggestion into an order by adding an exclamation mark. WASH DISHES! Came downstairs the next day and Ed had added a third screamer and a curse: WASH DISHES DAMMIT!!! I confronted him later. He was yawning and I was making coffee.

What is going on with the dishes? I asked him.
I'm waiting for you to do them, Dad.
I was surprised.
That was my note, I said, pointing to the white board.
No, I wrote it, he said. I hate the dishes piling up. See, there, that's the way I write my M, all loopy like that.
Huh, I said. I was sure I remembered writing it. I did the dishes and rubbed out the note.

Later that week the board was co-opted to record the results of home-made crokinole tournament played on our dining room table. Ed and his friends picked countries to represent, and I was interested to note the progress of Macedonia (Ed) against Brazil, Sweden, and Cote D'Ivoire.

Not the stuff of story, eh? I know. Not many movies of the week based on these plot lines, specially when people's choice Macedonia went into a tailspin and finished fourth.

Currently we have a shopping list on the board. You could read it as a poem, I suppose. Or a piece of cryptic prose. HOT SAUCE, BREAD, FEAR. I know where to find hot sauce and bread, but wonder about FEAR. What does Ed want with it? And where can I buy it?
Unless it's BEANS.

sandwich generation

2011-10-08T15:19:00.004-05:00

Epic conversation last night -- my son and my dad on technology. I was in the middle, aware of the incomprehension on both sides. They were fish and bird, and I was the worm between them.

Sam began by describing a new game he and a buddy were playing on the PS3. It involved -- well, it doesn't matter what it involved, killing aliens or filling holes or stealing cars or mining for gold or something. The point is the PS3 platform. My dad wasn't interested in a video game dispenser, but when Sam explained that you could also use the PS3 to watch movies he started waving his hands.

Are you saying that this device of yours does more than play games?

We were in my parents' living room. Sam and Dad were both on their second or third drinks, which may have influenced the conversation. The baseball game played along quietly in the background.

Totally, Grampa. It's like a computer. You can use it to get Netflix.

I was thinking of ordering Netflix. But I thought I could use it to watch the movies on TV. Dad to me.

You watch Netflix on TV, but you need the PS3 to connect your set to Netflix, I said.

Stupid system. What kind of world is it where you need a zombie game device to watch a movie? All these machines hooked up to all these other machines. It's worse than 1984. Dad.

Yeah, I know. Me.

You should get a PS3, Grampa. Sam.

Hmph. How big is it anyway? I don't want a great big box sitting on the floor.

It's ... Sam.

Is it bigger than a breadbox? Dad, smiling. This was a phrase from my childhood. Many a game of Animal Vegetable Mineral revolved around this question. On TV the batter swung at a breaking ball way out of the strike zone, and missed.

What the heck are you talking about? Sam.

A breadbox. You know, a box where you keep --

Whoa! Slow down, Grampa. Sam was laughing now.

Don't you know what I'm talking about? A breadbox is a wood or metal box you kept on the counter. The boy knows what a breadbox is, doesn't he? Dad to me. I shrugged. The batter fouled off a pitch.

They used to keep bread in a box? So weird! What kind of a box? How big was it?

What do you mean? It was as big as a breadbox.

I finished my drink. The pitcher threw a belt-high fastball past the hitter, who was so upset he slammed his bat onto the plate and broke it. The inning ended.

Why, Grampa? Sam had his hands up, pleading.

Why what?

Why did you keep bread in a box? Why a box? Why not leave it in the bag? Or in a drawer? Why take up counter space? Why go to the extra trouble? Who were these people? Sam, to me.

Yeah, I know.

We were people who could turn on the TV and watch it, said Dad. We didn't need a box to connect to another box to connect to the internet to get a movie on the TV. Who's crazy now?

There was a tire commercial on TV. A car spun out of control on an icy road.

A PS3 is about the size of a square cake pan, Dad, I said. And, Sam, a bread box was about the size of a microwave oven. And I need another drink.

school daze

2011-09-25T22:14:00.002-05:00

I've never been busier. More to read, more to write, more miles to drive, more people to try to satisfy (do NOT go there) -- and the same old amount of time. Thank heavens for coffee, for not needing much sleep, and for low standards. These last (the standards, I mean) are in fact invaluable.

All this is by way of apology for not posting more often. I think of you guys sometimes. I want to talk more often, really I do. Only every time I turn around or look up I find another deadline ready to pounce on me. Deadlines are like mountain lions.

You want to know about school? Well, it's really fun. I sit at the back with the cool kids. I mark up my textbooks and pass around notes. We trade lunches and everything. I can hardly wait until birthday season!

Seriously, it's more work than I thought, and the other students are way more talented than they have any right to be at their age. I suspect them of mentally patting me on the head when I make a comment. Poor old fellow, let's humour him. He thinks we're back in the 1980s. While I am struggling to keep up at school, I am also trying to finish a book about a kid with an accidental tattoo, and a kid who falls into a comic ... and do some mentoring o my own ... and of course there are still my kids to drive around, and when I go too fast there are speeding tickets to collect.

Last time I was stopped I tried to tell the officer how busy I was. She listened with a smile of sympathy. You shouldn't be driving around at all, she said. Say, do you want me to charge you, and confiscate your license so you can stay home and rest?
She was laughing, but I tell you I was tempted. It'd be a totally great excuse for not doing the week's assignment -- and a DUI or something might get me some more respect in school. Scrimger the bad ass.

3:20 moment

2011-09-10T20:23:00.000-05:00

The saddest moment of my kid year was always Labour Day Monday, 3:20 pm. At that precise moment the holiday ended. Today might as well have been a school day, I would think, year after year. If it had been a school day, I would have the same amount of time off as I do now. I am already back at the grind. Hello Grade 3 (or 4 or 7 or 12). Three hundred more days until summer.

Cheery little fellow, wasn't I? No wonder I didn't get invited to many late summer barbecues. (Sure, I'll have another hot dog. Who cares about indigestion? Holidays are over. There's nothing to live for except the present ...)

In fact, it was even worse than that. I lived the entire season in a state of diminishing expectations. I would divide the nine or ten weeks into little playtime-sized pieces, and count them like a miser: how many were gone, how many remained. I loved the first week or two of July, but as the month stretched out I would be increasingly aware of time passing. In the middle of August I would think: Only a couple of weeks left now. It isn't really a summer-sized holiday any more. More like Christmas. Another week and summer would be the size of a March break. (March break? Why, that passes in a flash! It's barely a holiday at all.) I would play harder, faster, in an attempt to get more out of my shrinking freedom. In the last week I would count down the days, until there was only a long weekend left. Then a weekend. Then a holiday Monday. And then ... 3:20.

I told Ed about this last week -- one of those early morning coffee and toast musings. I don't know what I was expecting. A laugh, a head shake, a moment of sympathy. He stared at me over the comics page.

What a weirdo, he said.

mmmff

2011-08-27T13:14:00.010-05:00

Sometimes I don't know whether to be impressed or appalled. A particularly daring move at an intersection will elicit my mental applause even while I am slamming on the brakes. A mean but truly funny comment at a party will leave me speechless. I would never allow myself to drive or speak that way, but my hat is off to those who do so dare. I guess I am both impressed and appalled -- impalled.

Which brings me to today's incident. I was at the Y, huffing away, adding my own internal dialogue to the soundless TV screen (a movie with Nicolas Cage and a brunette who spent part of every scene with her hand to her mouth. Her lines were easy: Mmmff, she would say. What kind of mmmff do you think I am?) when a young woman in impeccable workout gear took the machine next to mine and said, That's not all! in a loud voice.

I looked over but she was focussed straight ahead, talking on her blue tooth type phone. I know it's ridiculous, she said, punching buttons on the treadmill. But there's more.

And there was. For the next twenty minutes she spoke without stopping or moderating her voice. It had been a tough shift at her restaurant, and she had every detail fresh in her mind. It did not occur to her that we (I was not the only one in earshot) might not want to hear about the picky patrons, jealous co-workers, missed orders, lousy tips, etc. None of us told her to shut up. I think an older guy wanted to, but she didn't give him an opportunity and he was too nice to interrupt.

I have to say, I was fascinated. She was a storm, heedless and destructive but entertaining, in an awful schadenfreudey way. (Imagine living with her?) I gave up on my TV movie, which had developed a boring office plotline (What is the mmff on those sales figures, JB?) and paid attention to the totally unself-conscious public monologue. Not the incidents so much as the idea that she thought this was okay behaviour.

On and on she went, swinging her muscular arms, working the treadmill hard, and talking all the time. Nothing wrong with her cardio shape -- just her personality. She had no sense of other, no concern for the world outside her own experience. Total self-absorption. I was ... impalled.

bros

2011-08-19T08:29:00.003-05:00

After-dinner conversation overheard through my office window. Ed and a friend on the back porch, talking about a concert in Toronto the following night ...

ED - We're going to miss the last train home. For sure.
FRIEND - What're we going to do? I don't want to leave the show early.
ED - I know. How about staying overnight?
FRIEND - In the city? Could get expensive.
E - No man, my brother and sister and grandparents live there. I'll just call up.
F - At 2 in the morning?
E - Well, not my grandparents.
F - Cool. But there's like five of us. How big a place does your brother have?
E - Doesn't matter. There's a couch and a floor and a bath tub. Better than nothing.
F - What about your sister?
E - Maybe. But it's easier with my brother. We can just show up. Mind you, he gets up real early to go to work. He's going to be pissed.
F - You sure we can do this?
E - Totally. You don't have a brother, do you. Trust me, we can do it.
F - Oh. Okay.

A beautiful late summer evening. The breeze was picking up, carrying with it a hint of earth and cool. The boys were talking excitedly about a TV show. I smiled and went back to work.

shame

2011-08-07T20:33:00.008-05:00

Back from Vancouver now -- the city of shame. Everyone I talked to there referenced the hockey riot a few weeks back. They all shook their heads. They all swallowed in embarrassment. They all talked about what a change it had been from a year previously when the entire city had united in a moment of shared good feeling. Get over it, city.

An exciting trip for me, I have to say. Caught up with some old friends, talked to some very nice audiences, stayed in a hilariously sleazy district, visited a nude beach, and found time to hit two great bars. If you get the chance, visit the Alibi Room down at the eastern end of Gastown. More hoppy IPAs than you can shake a stick at. And there's a place on Commercial Drive called Bier-something that has a fantastic mussels and beer special. Don't mention the hockey riot, though. They'll apologize for hours.

All right, all right. I'll get to the nude beach. I had never been to one before. Not even as a twenty-something travelling around Europe. Somehow the opportunity never came up, or if it did I was always sick or asleep or something. My friends would go and I would listen, yawning or vomiting enviously, to the stories they told when they returned to the hostel. So when I was visiting UBC and saw an arrow pointing own and a sign -- CLOTHING OPTIONAL BEACH -- and I had a free half hour, I thought, Now is my time!

I confess to a teenaged heartlift as I approached. What kind of wonders would be unveiled? (All right, I guess I knew what kind of wonders -- but not the precise ones.) I wondered if I'd be too embarrassed to disrobe, or if people would laugh and kick sand when they saw my pathetic scrawny torso? Imagine my chagrin when I found myself part of a small but impeccably dressed group of beachers. Every one of them (and I checked) wore shorts and tops, dresses, bathing suits. There was a guy in a vest and bowler hat, for heavens' sake. Not exactly like the picture there but you get the idea. Clothing was optional, and they had all opted yes. My heart sank back down to middle-aged territory. I walked along the shoreline, totally in fashion in my shirt and rolled-up trousers.

Maybe Vancouver should be ashamed of itself after all. That recumbent couple at the hockey riot were way more risque than anything going on down at the nude beach.

ugly? yes

2011-07-26T17:03:00.010-05:00

Do I own the ugliest chair in the world?
Seems a sweeping statement, doesn't it -- a grand claim. In the world? But you know, it might be true. It's pretty darn ugly. Ed found it in the Goodwill store, and came home and told us, his eyes alight with the joy of the true philosopher. When something is a perfect platonic example of itself -- when it ideates a single pure form -- you are drawn in a way you cannot resist or comprehend.

We have to get this chair, guys, he said. We have to. It's perfect. It's big and ... words failed him here ... there's blotches and blobs and it's squishy when you sit down and it's so ...
Imo was looking a little dubious.
Um, I said.
And it reclines, said Ed.

Imo turned to me. She was getting it now. She was on the trolley. Like all my kids, she loves a reclining chair. I've never owned one, but when we are in a mall we spend a lot of time in the free test chair section
A recliner, Dad, she said. A blobby squishy recliner....
They were both giving me the eyes. Ok, I said. Ok.
Actually, I was getting intrigued myself.
They went together to buy it, and when they carried it through the front door fifteen minutes and about as many dollars later, my mental staggers matched their physical ones.
Wow, I said.

There can be a fine line between beauty and horror. With some high-fashion models you don't know if they are so ugly they're gorgeous or so gorgeous they're ugly. Well, this chair is not like that. It's way over the line, way over any line. It crouches, squat and menacing, the colour of fear and ice tea. It is warm and soft to the touch, like fresh vomit. It reclines with a groan and a snap of tired springs when you pull the lever at the side -- a lever which wears a matching fear and ice tea sock over its polished wooden handle.

Days later, I am still giving the chair a second look every time I enter the living room. It still makes me laugh. It is the world's ugliest chair.

really fake

2011-07-18T09:58:00.003-05:00

Going to talk about essence today. What a thing is. (Is that ontology? My philosophy has been picked up second-hand in mystery novels. It's cheap but shabby, and sometimes it doesn't work.)

Imo found a package of gummi worms in the junk drawer. Oooh! she cried, taking a couple and chewing appreciatively. These are the real ones.
I was puzzled. What other kind would there be? I asked.
Well, there are those all natural ones, she said. My friend's mom buys them. They're not nearly as good.
I spend a lot of time in my mind. I don't get out much.
All natural gummi worms? I said.
Yeah. You know. You get them at the bulk food stores. They're kind of good for you.
I shook my head. No, I said. I don't know. I don't know at all.

Which brings me to essence. Can we agree on some basic definitions? A thing is what it is, and not something else. Right? Right. So what in the name of all that's advertised is a natural gummi worm? Surely the term is self-contradictory. Taking away the thing that makes it a gummi worm and calling it a gummi worm is an affront to sense. Who are these manufacturers? It's like pushing a breadless sandwich (less caloric) or a noiseless car alarm (easier on the neighborhood). If you eat gummi worms, then you want an instant hit of sugar and gelatin and chemicals. You are not craving something healthy. That would be an orange.

Imo caught the idea right away. The gummis in our junk drawer are the real kind, because they are not all natural. Real because they are fake.

me and tommy lee

2011-07-09T21:12:00.007-05:00

So I made my course selections yesterday. Couple workshops, couple lectures. That's right, I'm heading off to school in the fall. Time to catch up with the kids and their fancy degrees. I wonder if I'll get along with my dorm mates? I hear that one of my profs is a real hard case. I hope she likes me.

Okay, I'm kidding about the dorm, but everything else is true. I'm going to crack me some books (not the ones in the picture -- those books would crack me). It's been a few decades, but I'm sure college life will start coming back to me. Keggers, all nighters, maybe some embarrassing experiments. I might even remember how to write an essay. And when it's all over I'll have some extra letters to write after my name. Totally worth it.

Oh, and I was kind of lying about the prof too. She seems really nice.

Got my room numbers. Got my knapsack, and Hilroy notebooks, and some freshly sharpened pencils. I'm good to go. I haven't quite decided how to handle frosh week. I'm okay with drunk and disorderly, but what if there's hazing? I'll buckle -- I know I will. When the going gets tough I fold like origami. My best chance may be to convince people that I'm some crazy kid's dad, come to pick them up.

(Speaking of kids and craziness, I found my i-pod in a Kleenex box. Whew. But I am still a prank pin cushion. Imo's latest involved unplugging everything in the house. I came back late last night and nearly killed myself stumbling around in the dark. One of these days that girl will go too far. No, wait. She already has.)

daughters

2011-07-02T10:30:00.008-05:00

I'm carless and elder-daughterless for a bit. The one has left me with the other. For the next month or so Thea will be exploring highways and byways and (knowing my car) transmission service centers and brake specialists across this great land of hers. Of course I went through the usual sentimental Dad visions of my little girl behind the wheel (see picture) but on the whole I am neither worried nor terribly bereft. I figure it'll do me good to walk or bike around, and when I have to go out of town I'll have Messrs Go and ViaRail and Mesms Hertz and Budget lining up to help me. I'll be fine. Odd to look out my front window and not see the car, though. In a way, odder than not seeing the daughter.

Speaking of whom, my other daughter, the practical joker, has finally got my attention -- by hiding my iPod. I'm not plugged into the thing but I do use it regularly, and noticed its absence yesterday. After the picture moving incident, I figured that this was by design rather than chance. I called Imo this morning and was rewarded by (and rather moved to hear) her squeal of delight.

Come on, where is it? I asked.
Keep looking, she said. You'll find it. It's not far away.
Imo!
Got a cold? she said. You sound all stuffy.
I'm fine. Where's my iPod?
Another squeal.
Does Ed know where you put it? Does anyone?
Thea knows. She thought it was a great hiding place.
I sighed. Thea had driven off about a half hour ago.

notice much?

2011-06-28T06:59:00.006-05:00

Imo stared at me from across the living room yesterday evening. Notice anything different? she asked. Anything?
I shrugged, shook my head. She raised her hands in a wordless gesture of frustration.
Sorry, I said. What is it now?

She was not talking about her hair. Imo and I do not have that relationship. She doesn't need me to comment on her appearance.
Our father-daughter dynamic is dysfunctional in a different way. Imo is a committed practical joker and I am a natural non-noticer. Or maybe non-carer is the word. You know those little things that make all the difference to life -- the favorite mug, the way the light falls on a certain ornament or corner of the room, even the daily newspaper. Somehow they don't register with me. Or rather they register, but do not matter. Their absence does not alarm or even puzzle me for a moment. So that when Imo hides a coffee mug I like (as she did once) or my alarm clock (as she has done several times) or the morning paper (yes, she did that too) I notice the absence and move casually to the adjustment phase. I take another mug, glance at a wall clock (or if that too is gone, my watch) and find a section I missed from another paper.
It drives Imo crazy. I remember finding the kitchen clock in a junk drawer and assuming that my son Sam -- a light sleeper -- had put it there because the ticking was driving him crazy. I told Imo about it over the phone and she went berserk.
It was me ! she cried.
I didn't know you were a light sleeper.
I'm not! I hid that clock ... a month ago! How can you only notice it now?
Sorry, I said.

The living room looked a little different yesterday evening, but I couldn't put my finger on it. Imo shook her head sadly and pointed at the white board on the wall.
What? I said. Oh, yeah. That should be in the kitchen, right?
While I was at the beer store earlier, Imo had changed all the downstairs pictures around. The movie poster was in the bathroom now, the little print was over the mantel, the kid drawing of a carrot was in the kitchen, etc. A dozen things shuffled at careful random. Then she'd sat and waited for me to notice. And I hadn't.
No wonder she was upset.
When I think of it, I'm kind of upset too. All that effort and I didn't care enough to pay attention. Imo is working on a kind of performance art and I am yawning through it. Would you yawn through your kid's standup comedy? No you wouldn't. This is not good parenting. I must do better.
By the way, that is the original Prince Albert in a can up there. Better let him out.

whatshisname

2011-06-16T10:25:00.010-05:00

I spent a lot of yesterday ransacking the dilapidated mansion of my memory, hunting through room after undusted room, turning over bits and pieces, bric and brac, flotsam and jetsam, mental lumber from early childhood all the way to late breaking news -- but I could not come up with the object of my search, the name on the tip of my tongue.

Elvis Costello.

Sure it's easy now. He's right there where I can see him. Elvis Costello. You're probably wondering how I could forget him for a minute, let alone all day. I dunno, but I did. I simply could not come up with the name. I could remember the glasses and the knock-kneed stance and the voice and a bunch of other things but not the name. The closest I came was Mickey Rooney and -- you know -- that's not very close. Come on, I said. You know the guy. Whatshisname.

I did other stuff yesterday too. I do have a life. It wasn't all whatshisname all the time. But I kept coming back to him. In the middle of answering email I'd think: whathisname again? Frowning over a manuscript. Reading. Washing dishes. Driving kids. Whatshisname?

No google. That'd be like looking at your neighbor's test paper when you know the answer yourself. Because I did know the answer. Whatshisname.

A much more interesting question is why? Not why the passing obsession but why Elvis Costello? He's a cool guy all right, but not a giant headliner and not important to me. Maybe that's the answer. If he mattered more I'd remember his name. But there are a whole lot of unimportant (to me) mid-grade newsmakers I can call up at the drop of a fork. Condalisa Rice for instance. There she is, anytime I want her. Tommy Douglas. Pia Zadora. Mark Messier. Hey, there's Mickey Rooney again. I got millions of them. Why not Elvis?

I dunno. Some names get lost. They just do. A while ago I spent the longest time trying to remember Keith Jarrett. I mean, the guy's on my i-pod but I couldn't think of his name. Grrr. When I finally did turn him up (he was behind the couch in my memory's living room) I wanted to make sure I didn't forget him again, and came up with a mnemonic based on a public school with his initials backwards (Jesse Ketchum in Toronto, on whose baseball diamond I cost my team a city championship -- a story for another day). Every now and then I'll think of Keith and nod in satisfaction. Still got it.

You're shaking your head, aren't you? I don't blame you. I really should let this stuff go. After all, I may lose Elvis, but I'll always have Condalisa.

open secret

2011-06-08T21:58:00.009-05:00

There's something about an elementary school in June -- an air of barely suppressed excitement that pervades halls and classes, playgrounds and staffrooms. Lot of giggles and yells, hardly any discipline. I visited a junior school the other day and tried to come up with a word for the way everyone looked. The word was HAPPY. Simple as that. Even the teacher bent over her desk with a stack of report cards was happy.

Not happy like they're getting married or having a baby. Not happy like winning the lottery or getting the promotion. They are happy because they are sharing a wonderful secret. And the secret is -- wait for it -- that school will soon be out for the summer. Two long hot beautiful months with no work. Wonderful all right!

Everyone in the school is aware of the secret, but no one seems to be talking about it. And when you think about it, some of the biggest secrets are quite well known. Death is scary. Games matter more to us than world hunger. We don't love our children equally. We cheat -- a lot. Everyone knows these things but we don't talk about them very often. They are (for lack of a better word) unhappy secrets. So isn't it great to share a secret that makes everyone smile.

School's out soon.

poor colin firth

2011-06-04T23:50:00.008-05:00

One popular author (and I would tell you who, only I can not for the life of me remember his name. I am pretty sure it was a him and not a her) claims that the secret of his success is always to have two books on the go at once. The idea being that when one of his stories starts to sag he can switch over to the other one. A change is as good as a rest, or something. Sounds like a great plan, doesn't it? I wonder if the guy has two houses to live in, so that when one gets dirty he can move. Two partners (one per house), so that if one gets tiresome he can switch...

I don't know. I have enough trouble hanging onto one plot line at a time. Imagine trying to keep two sets of characters and motivations straight. I'm sure I'd always be getting them mixed up, even if they were two totally different genres. I'd have Piglet (say) showing up in the middle of Gone With The Wind, worrying about Heffalumps. Scarlett would make sure she didn't go hungry that evening, but Pooh and Christopher Robin would be so disappointed. And what a mess the Union army would make of the 100 Acre Wood! Nope, I don't think I could write those two stories at once. (Not that I could write them separately either, but you know what I mean.) Can you imagine juggling Beowolf and Bridget Jones? Me neither. I'd end up with what's his name's arm coming off.

So why -- getting back to the real world -- do I myself have two new projects on the go right now? Why am I adopting the routine of an unremembered popular writer instead of following my own past practice and predilection? I don't know. Except that I am not writing both books, only thinking about them. I have two ideas floating around in the back of my mind, plot points jotted on scraps of paper and the backs of envelopes. If both ideas turn into books, they will be dealt with -- but not together. I don't want to risk looking up from my computer to find Little Orphan Annie struggling up Mount Doom with the Nazgul after her. Leapin' Lizards indeed.

surprise

2011-05-23T14:31:00.010-05:00

It's generalization time. I'm all caught up for now, and feeling philosophical. Not, you know, seriously philosophical. Don't go expecting Kierkegaardian metaphysics. I'm not that caught up. But I have emptied my in-basket, and washed the vegetables for dinner tonight, so I've got a moment for depth here.

The way I see it, you start off in life without any preconceptions except maybe that falling is bad and milk is good. You pick up more preconceptions as you go along, believing the authorities in your life: your folks and teachers, the TV set, the friends who don't fart in the car and then deny it (I hate that). As time goes by, preconceptions begin to bump up against each other, and you make choices. Your parents were wrong about this, your old boyfriend was wrong about that, your church was wrong about everything ... whatever, until you end up comfortable in yourself and your tribe and your particular set of preconceptions. Welcome to adulthood. Then you have kids and philosophy goes out the window. Ha ha, actually that's kind of true but, no, seriously, then you have to be careful not to be too comfortable. You don't want to get set in your mindset. You have to be ready to be surprised.

If you are not surprised by life, you aren't paying attention. Driving towards Houston last week I was shocked and impressed, and one of my preconceptions was altered for a moment. It happened like this. I approached the city along Highway 10, brimful of liberal northeastern-ness, pretty sure that there was not going to be much to admire here. I was proved wrong almost immediately. Not that I saw any evidence of sexual tolerance or social justice or universal health care. Even the driving was kind of narrow and veering to the right all the time. But I had thought the place would be as ugly as the politics -- and it wasn't. My view of the roadscape around me -- the net of aboveground arterial highways interweaving and converging towards the downtown -- was, well, breathtaking. That's part of it in the picture up there. Not bad, eh? I leaned forward, staring up and around through the tinted windshield of our rental car, muttering, Oh my, oh my, like the Mole at the start of The Wind In The Willows. It was elegant, majestic, inspiring. For a moment I saw the scene as someone from the dawn of the automobile age (Toad, say). What a hopeful paradigm for The Future.

It was only a moment. Oh my, I said again, and then some dork cut me off and forced me to swerve right, and the guy behind me honked, and I honked back, and then I wondered if maybe I shouldn't have done that because what if he had a gun? All Texans have guns, don't they? Some preconceptions are hard to shake.

And now it's time to cook the vegetables and I'm out of generalizations.

hair today

2011-05-20T08:29:00.011-05:00

What does it mean when your kid tells you to get a haircut? Ed wasn't being mean or bossy -- just expressing an opinion. We were eating in front of a movie (the new place does not yet have cable, so our culture comes pre-packaged from last season) and Ed looked over and said, You know, Dad, you should get a haircut.

I was surprised. Not that my hair doesn't need cutting. It always does. But it would never - never - occur to me to tell my dad to get a haircut. All too vividly do I recall his flashing eyes as he ordered my ten-year-old psychedelic self to get a haircut. (In justice to my father, my hair grows awkwardly. When it reaches my collar it flows out, not down, so that I begin to resemble a bird with giant wingspan. At the time of the edict, my hair was wider than my shoulders. I could barely fit through a doorway. Not quite like the guy in the pic, but you get the idea. What I mean is that my dad had - maybe - a tenable aesthetic argument.)

Really, I said to Ed.
He nodded. Get it buzzed, he said, his mouth full of pizza, eyes back on the TV screen. (We were watching The Fantastic Mr Fox -- charming and quirky but not, somehow, riveting.)

I am not thinking of getting a buzz cut. That happened once, by mistake, and my ex laughed so hard I thought she would die. She made me wear a hat for a week just so she would be able to look at me without dissolving. I am thinking instead about fathers and sons and life stages. I am pleased that Ed feels close enough to me that he can offer personal grooming tips. It makes us more like pals, equals, which is really cute because he is also a little boy who still asks me to cut up his apple for him.

So ... should I call my dad? Because, you know, I've been thinking that he'd look really good in a beard.

big easy

2011-05-18T06:47:00.005-05:00

The kids and I have returned to New Orleans, having spent a few days here last week, and then a couple of days travelling through Texas -- a vacation with a teeny bit of work involved. I like New Orleans and am glad to be back. It's a walking tolerant friendly city. But, you know, I don't love it here. Maybe because we've spent most of our time downtown, in the areas near French Quarter and Garden District, which are charming but incredibly touristy. There's certainly a vibe, a lazy dirty boogie thing, but it's hard to warm to a place where nothing seems real except the hangovers. Even the seediness is quaint, and the panhandlers all have a romantic soulful decrepitude -- as if, like the rest of Bourbon Street, they are on all the time.

I have never been in a place that parties so relentlessly. At 5:30 this morning the bars in the Quarter were still pumping out last night's beats and cocktails (and if you are wondering what I was doing out at 5:30, well, shut up). That doesn't happen in Paris or Manhattan because, for all their tourism, they are working cities. New Orleans is a party city.

No complaints about the food. It's as good as they say. If you like heavy earthy tasty spicy stuff -- and I do -- this is the place. I am still getting over last night's shrimp and grits. Tonight I'll be back home, and the Kraft Dinner or whatever is going to look pretty darn sad. But it'll be real.

what a drag it is

2011-05-11T14:56:00.000-05:00

Such an interesting moment today at the YMCA. I'd finished my squash game, and was strolling towards the locker rooms past all these women, dozens and dozens of them, waiting outside the gym for the popular Zumba program to begin. (Zumba is the latest fitness craze, combining aerobics and martial arts and dance music in a workout that looks -- to me -- very much like every other fitness craze of the last decade.)

It being 9:00 ish on a Wednesday morning, the women were mostly of a certain age. Fit and feisty, chatty and jolly -- and well over forty. Gray hairs and neck wattles were bouncing up and down as their owners jogged in place, warming themselves up. (Does that sound grotesque? Heavens, I have my share of gray hairs. Anyway, as can see from the picture there, I do not mean to make fun of old folks.) There were greetings and catcalls as I walked past in my sweaty shirt. These were confident and friendly women, outgoing and collegial, strong in numbers and shared commitment to a better self. I smiled and joshed back.

And then I saw her. She stood alone by the door of the gym, a much older lady, thin as sticks and fragile as tissue. Her hair was white, her skin so pale the blue veins shone through. Her sneakers and metal water bottle were heartbreakingly stylish. She held her head slightly forward, looking down. She did not smile, but there was a sense of hopeful shyness about her. She was the new kid at school, hanging out by herself on the playground, knowing she doesn't belong and yet hoping against hope that one of the older cooler girls will notice her ... I thought about how we move up and then down the ladder of life, standing on many of the lower rungs for the second time on our way back to ground level. It's a sad business. Ask Samuel Beckett.

I said hello to the old lady. She smiled up at me, but I could tell that she was disappointed. Oh, hello, she said. Meaning, It's only you. And that took me back to my own playground years where I was -- so often -- not as cool as I had hoped to be.
Enjoy the Zumba, I said.
You should change your shirt, she told me.
And I went to the locker room.

gauguin daydream

2011-05-04T08:15:00.007-05:00

Saskatoon is a dream. Not because the weather is warm, the sun is out, the muffins in the hospitality suite are bursting with freshness, and I am hanging out with helpful strangers and old friends I only see in hotels - though all these are true. Saskatoon is a dream because the house was a mess when I left, a litter of unpacked boxes and unworking phone jacks and junk on the front lawn, and I just walked out. Packed a knapsack, turned on the i-pod, and caught the early morning train. I feel like a deadbeat painter, leaving my wife and children to sail away and live in Tahiti.

Guilt is a funny thing. I should be enjoying myself here in the warm friendly mid-west. But I can't help thinking of all the things I have left undone back home. I hope Ed's buddy with a truck can get the stuff off the lawn. I hope Ed can empty the boxes, deal with the phone company, find something to eat, and get to and from school. I hope the car doesn't break down on him.

I wonder if Gauguin had any moments like this? Did he think sadly and guiltily of his family back in Arles, or did he blot all that out, and focus actively on enjoying his years in the sun, painting and infecting the native girls? I wonder how real Tahiti was to him?

If only I had Gauguin's talent, think what I could do in Saskatoon! The prairie, the potash, the fields of rippling wheat. So much raw material for art. (That picture there reminds me of the hotel sauna!) I'd stay here forever, slip into syphilitic old age, never go back east ... except that my flight is booked for Thursday evening, and I feel guilty.

I hope Ed remembered to take out the garbage.

day before moving

2011-04-28T09:38:00.006-05:00

Tomorrow is moving day. I have put off packing long enough. It is time to begin. I could have started yesterday or the day before. I could have started last week. But the way I see it, the earlier you start packing, the longer your place is in an uproar. You don't pack better if you pack earlier. You just spend more time wondering where the cheque book is, or the corkscrew or the TV remote.

Am I looking forward to moving? I am not. But there are a couple of positive factors. One, Ed is excited. He saw the new house for the first time this morning, and ran around saying, Yup and, Bing and other youthly enthusiasms. I stood there and smiled. Two ... hmm. Now that I think about it, I can't quite come up with a second positive. All I see ahead of me is work. Specifically, packing, carrying, and unpacking boxes of reading material. Subdue your thirst for books that you may die not babbling but at peace, says Marcus Aurelius. (That's him there. Check the eyes!) Too late. Book boxes stack higher and weigh more than everything else I own put together, and that includes some pretty hefty debt.

The good news is that I've done this before, so I know what I am in for. Or is that the bad news? Anyway, I have no time to spare for chit-chat like this. Nice as it is to talk to you guys, I have back muscles to strain. Next room: kitchen.

really?

2011-04-21T13:42:00.005-05:00

The courtroom was low ceilinged, carpeted, with bright lights and a lot of wood accents. Kind of like a basement in a nice suburban house. I was dressed in clean clothes that matched pretty well. I was shaved, gargled and combed. I was ready for my battle with the law.

We rose. We sat. The clerk read the charge. On or about the 16th of March the defendant -- me -- was found to not be wearing a seatbelt in contravention of Section something or other of Statute this and that.

The prosecutor shook his head sadly. (Seatbelt crime is tough. You hear some pretty grim stories.) The judge asked if I had anything to say. Did I? You bet I did. I stood up, shot my sleeves (no cuffs on my sweatshirt) and addressed the Bench.

My original thought had been to go with the stout denial defence, to maintain that I had been wearing a seatbelt all the time, that I always wore one, never took it off, not even to get gas, was in fact wearing one now ... but the case on the docket before me had attempted such a defence (I don't even own a cell phone!) and the judge had shut him down pretty hard. So I went with plan B.

I held out my hands, palm up. I raised my left eyebrow and cleared my throat. I was attempting the "C'mon, really?" defence. The idea is to make the crown feel bad for prosecuting such a silly crime when there are rapists and murderers and drug kingpins out there who are much better targets for legal stricture.

Yes, Mr Scrimger? said the judge. I maintained my pose. No words are uttered in the "C'mon, really" defence. It's all in the attitude. The prosecutor asked a couple of questions. The judge too. After a few painful minutes I was led off over to the window to pay my fine.

What were you thinking? the prosecutor asked me as I passed his table.
You mean about how stupid the charge was? I said.
No, I mean what were you doing, not wearing a seatbelt? This isn't BC, you know. There's rule of law here. This province prides itself on being tough on seatbelt crime.

don to dusk

2011-04-14T23:17:00.009-05:00

Some pleasures are for rich folks only. It's like the sign at the amusement park: YOU MUST BE THIS TALL TO GO ON THIS RIDE. Poor folks don't fly first class. Nor do we drive Lambos, sit courtside, wear cashmere, eat truffles, or own anything haut.

But there are just dozens of genuine pleasures that rich and poor can share. And I don't mean the big obvious ones -- love and kids and ice cream, sleeping in late, and the smell of rain on hot pavement. I am talking socks. Is there -- I put this to you in all seriousness -- is there a better below-the-ankle feeling than putting on a new pair of socks?

Quick side-bar here. I wrote putting on just now because that's what I do to socks. I put them on. Most people do -- until they get inside a book. Bruce Jay Friedman, the American humorist, enforces what he calls the "2 dons" rule of literature. And it has nothing to do with the Mafia. When I come across a scene where someone dons a coat, says Mr Friedman, I sigh and keep going. But if it happens again, I close the book. 2 dons and you're out.

Back now. Really, what is not to like about new socks? Apart from the crisp, clean, freshness and overall good vibe, there is no pressure with socks. If you spend a lot of money on new shoes, you feel compelled to like them (unless of course you are rich; which is the point here). If the shoes start to pinch, or if on second thought they don't look as cute at home as they did in the store, you're stuck. You have to wear them or feel guilty. But if you change your mind about your socks, so what? For 8.00 you can get another dozen pairs.

The reason why new socks are on my mind is that they are also on my feet. I am wearing a pair of virgin grays right now, ankle length, cotton poly lycra blend (I am totally making this up) a gift from Imogen. Happy Birthday, Daddy, she said, holding out a plastic bag and smiling shyly. I got you some socks.

I thanked her and donned a pair immediately.

there was this dyslexic Nazi ...

2011-04-10T22:03:00.004-05:00

I feel so grown up. Here I am twitting away about food and traffic and noise outside my window, even deep stuff on music and feelings. And all in 140 characters, like I'm a poet or something. Who is this guy in the mirror? When did he put on his big boy pants?

And now I have an official announcement. Mostly I use this blog to chat casually. I amuse myself and a few others, I stay out of bars, and no one gets too worked up. But I have been asked by powers that be (her name is Joy) to act like a professional blogger for once. So I am going to talk about a cause. Not global warming. Not earthquake relief. Not poverty. I care about these things, but can not imagine what active good any words of mine are going to do, especially since I am talking to you guys. Hey, global warming is bad! I'd say, and you'd say, Yeah, so?

I am going to mention a reading camp for dyslexic kids (would you believe I typed kdis -- weird or what?) this August. It's my scale of good cause, because you might actually know a dyslexic kid who is interested in reading and writing and has a free day or two this summer. And if you mention the camp to the kid or the kid's parents, and the kid goes, the kid might have a good time. There's a link I am supposed to include ... hang on while I find it ... here we go ... www.canadianstorycamp.org ... Good folks are involved here (Joy, for instance). I'll be showing up at some point too. I'll try to watch my mouth. There's lots of dyslexic jokes.

stout denial

2011-04-06T16:29:00.007-05:00

Two topics today. First, to my sorrow, I am no longer brother to the lady at the laundromat. She has started calling me sir. What a come down! Yes, sir sounds more North-American "normal," more idiomatic, but brother was way more friendly, way cooler. I am saddened at her cultural assimilation.

I am also angry. Not about the brother thing. A week ago I was stopped for not wearing a seat belt. Waiting at a stop light a block from my place, and a cop motions me over and writes me a ticket. Come on, I said. He shook his head, said nothing. Really? I said. He handed me the yellow form, told me to have a nice day. And this was not just any ticket -- this one is for 240.00 and two points on my licence. I don't have that many points to spare. Two points to me is like ten pounds to a supermodel -- the licence is getting awfully tight around my hips.

I have decided to fight the ticket. It's such a big penalty for such a small infraction. I called the court house and arranged a date to talk things over with the prosecution. I wonder what my defence will be? I must think on it. PG Wodehouse, the British comic novelist, used to recommend stout denial as a defence. Maintain your innocence in the teeth of the evidence, he said. No proof, no punishment. I may try that.

tweets and murmurs

2011-04-03T06:47:00.008-05:00

I have been chatting on this blog for years, but I am not a real blogger. I am happy to share bits and pieces of my life with a charming and select community, but I am not part of the larger blogosphere. I don't use this forum to talk about my work or publicize my upcoming appearances. I only recently -- like, yesterday -- learned what a blog tour is.

I am not knocking those who use their blogs for publicity purposes. Far from it. These people are, without doubt, acting in a more savvy and professional manner than I am. I should be less diffident, more web-aware. I should say, I'll be on Letterman tomorrow, make sure to watch... Thank you, Amazon, for making my new book pick of the week ... The problem is that I am too shy. And, well, the statements aren't true. And saying that I'll be at such and such a library, or this and that elementary school, or that I'll be talking to teachers in Saskatoon or dyslexic kids in Vancouver -- while true -- would surely result in little more than a shrug or raised eyebrow among my blog readers. So, you would all think, what? And you would be right.

So why would I open a Twitter account? ( I know. I know. Close your mouths, okay? You are embarrassing me.) I can understand the popularity of Twitter as a way of connecting to strangers without having to follow them around. With a few clicks of the mouse you can find out what Charlie Sheen thinks about whatever it is he is thinking about. And he is a weird and funny phenomenon. I have to say, I find the whole thing kind of creepy -- like authorized (indeed encouraged) stalking. And when it's not creepy, it's dull. But that's our society. We invite the cameras into our homes. A few years ago I watched a scene -- there may well have been more than one -- of The Osbournes where Ozzy was sitting on the toilet, and I remember thinking: the only thing stranger than going to the bathroom in front of umpty million people is watching someone go to the bathroom. At least he's being paid. These days Charlie Sheen might (indeed he might) tweet about his bowel movement.

He would be at the top of the Twitter tree right now, I guess. With all the one-named stars nearby, and the B-listers and C-listers lower down, and the specialists -- well known in their field but not prime-time popular -- lower still. And at the very bottom of the tree, drooping into the humus of the forest floor, me.

I opened an account a few days ago and have posted some half dozen times. I have -- I confess it -- no idea what is going on. The caption in the picture up there sums it up. I feel like a teenaged driver taking the family car up and down the driveway. I'm having fun, but not going anywhere. 140 characters disappear in a flash. My tweets emerge sounding like haiku, or shopping lists. I should take lessons. And then, who knows -- I might even get around to using Twitter as a publicity tool. (Thanx Amazon!) My next book will go on a Twitter Tour.

dismember me ...

2011-03-25T20:55:00.007-05:00

Sam opened a bank account of his very own the other day. It's taken a long time, but all that talk about financial responsibility is paying off. I congratulated him on entering the nineteenth century.

Thing is, to the average idiot like Sam -- or me -- the keep-your savings-in-a-sock school of banking almost makes sense these days. (If you are a savvy commodities trader, you will know better. Mind you, if you are a savvy commodities trader what are you doing reading this? Go back to your ticker.) I remember checking the interest payments in my first bank book. Kind of a Norman Rockwell glow to that picture, isn't there? Simpler days. My kids have grown up in an age where bank interest rates hardly stay ahead of their service fees. With all the compound interest in the world it'll take most of a lifetime to double Sam's investment. His best chance for financial success might be to become a savvy commodities trader, but for that to happen he'd need to start working on it eight years ago -- and he'd need parents with different genes to pass on.

The good news is that if he loses a limb, the bank will pay him. Apparently Sam's new account comes with a penny-a-day insurance package. And what kind of insurance is most appealing to a college kid? Of course: dismemberment insurance.

Dad, I just had to get it, he told me on the phone. I laughed. No really, he said, do you realize that if I lose a finger the company will pay me 5000.00 Just for a finger! Isn't that awesome?
Awesome, I said.
So if I lost, like, three fingers that'd be 15,000.
I told him that I understood the concept. What do they give you for a leg? I asked.
There was a pause.
Dad, get serious. I don't want to lose a leg, he said. And then, Dad? Why are you laughing again?
No reason, I said. No reason at all.

All during the rest of our conversation I was picturing this smooth-talking dismemberment insurance salesman, oiling his way into college dorms and frat houses with his slide show and his box of props ...

tant pis pour moi

2011-03-06T14:01:00.005-05:00

So I was having a marvelous conversation in French the other day -- and by marvelous I mean that I understood what was going on. The topic itself (local rental properties, their location, cost and availability) was pretty dull, but I was working hard and catching on and basking in the radiance of my own linguistic competence ... and then it emerged that my interlocutor was an anglophone.

Quoi? I said, my bouche hanging open.
But it is the truth, he said.
You are making a blague, I said.
But no, he said, his sourire illuminating his visage.
And you speak Francais so bien, I said.
He shrugged.
He had a French name. He came from Montreal. And he looked French, if you know what I mean -- kind of darkish, with a hidden lazy power. Like Jean Reno. When he shrugged he looked more French than ever.
So we could have been speaking Anglais all this temps? I said.
You betcha, big guy. He punched me on the shoulder.
Merde, I said.

My words flowed more smoothly in English, but the thrill was gone. The conversation was dull, not marvelous. After a minute I shook Guy's (I wasn't pronouncing it Ghee any more) hand and left the rental property office.

I should not have been surprised. This has been a personal Catch 22 for me going back to a high-school band trip to Quebec City, where local girls dissolved in laughter and my initial confidence turned to blushes and stammers. I can speak French -- but not to French people. Any francophone over the age of about six is going to go too quickly and idiomatically for me. And most non-francophones have English as a second language. So my French is adequate only when there is no need to speak it. I've been invited to join a club that never meets anywhere. Merde indeed.

so I guess december is a midnight snack ...

2011-03-06T08:49:00.010-05:00

Sam's random texts are among my favorite moments in the day. His choice of topic ranges from Aqua Velva to 100 Years of Solitude to his latest, somewhat puzzling question: What month is brunch? I took a moment to ponder this one (which goes to show you how easily distracted I am -- happy to shelve a story outline problem to contemplate something utterly ridiculous) and the pondering took on a life of its own, and here we are.

So, if the year is seen as a waking day, and if brunch is between breakfast and lunch, but tending towards lunch, then I suppose that brunch would be somewhere in late spring. May, let's say. Does that work?

What other connotations does brunch have? There is a festive quality to it, I think. It's a weekend thing, so no work is associated with the day. And it's a bigger than usual meal, with foods you do not get regularly. Bacon, pancakes, maybe roast beef and pie if you go out to a restaurant. You look forward to it all the way there. You might even dress up for it -- a colorful sweater for no real reason. Sounds like May, doesn't it -- at least in southern Ontario. The first really warm day is one of the true treats of a 4-season climate. No day in the San Diego calendar makes as many people happy as the first really warm day up here.

And this is where the May-brunch analogy breaks down. Brunch, like all festivals, has a downside, a dark aftermath stemming from excess. The day after your birthday finds you hungover and grumpy and a full year older than you were the day before. You wouldn't want another birthday any more than you want a fourth plate of roast beef. But who wouldn't want more May?

And now, if you'll excuse me, I have an outline to finish before Sam texts again.

stolen

2011-03-03T11:29:00.004-05:00

There's a difference between free time and time out. One seems to be more valuable than the other. As an example, take the crossword puzzle. I am not an addict (I can quit any time, really. I do it because I enjoy it, not because I need to do it), but I find it a pleasant way to start most days as the coffee perks and the bathroom waits.
But part of the appeal of the crossword -- I am frightened to think how large a part -- has to do with the fact that I should be doing something else. Instead of playing silly little word games I should be doing something worthwhile -- writing or reading or working out or phoning my mom or paying bills or making Ed's lunch or trying to solve any one of the dozens (who am I kidding -- hundreds!) of problems with my life.
It is the lure of holiday. The fifteen minutes of mental gymnastics is a tropical island away from trouble -- a place of near tranquility where only I and the compiler exist. When the puzzle is done, the day begins in earnest. And pretty darn earnest it can be. Especially at the beginning of the month when the bills come due.

I wonder what would happen if I did not have these other duties pressing on me? If I were actually on holiday, with nothing in front of me all day except self-gratification? A walk on the beach, a movie, lunch, a nap ... (Gee, this is sounding pretty good. Add a glass of wine and a couple of giggles and I'd never come home) . In this idyllic scenario, would the crossword appeal as it does now? Probably not. Which makes me wonder how much of any pleasure comes from its being stolen from things more "important"? And yet what an odd idea that is, for what could be more important than pleasure?

Sorry, this discussion seems to have got a little earnest. Time to go pay some bills.

brother up

2011-02-26T18:51:00.006-05:00

Just back from my new laundromat and I am smiling. Not because of the clean clothes -- or not just because of them. I get a huge kick out of the lady who runs it.

When my old laundromat went out of business a couple of months ago, I was disappointed. The place was handy to my house and the liquor store, and over the last couple of years I'd enjoyed chatting with the people who worked there -- the wide-eyed superfriend, the tattooed demon, the tough old denture-smacker ... all of them. Laundry staff seem to be different from other types of service worker. More personable, somehow. Fewer boundaries. Maybe because they spend so much time with other people's intimates? Anyway, my disappointment at the ending of these relationships vanished the following week when I drove uptown to the new place, and was greeted at the door by the lady in charge. Good afternoon, brother, she said.

I've been called lots of things in my day. (Twerp a couple of weeks ago, but I am not talking insults here.) I don't get Mister or Sir very often, thank heavens, but older guys will call me Buddy or Pal. (Older ladies -- especially if they work in a diner -- call me what they call everyone regardless of age or sex : Dear.) Younger women will call me nothing or You, men will call me Man or Guy. My kids' contemporaries have been known to call me Ed's Dad (Seriously -- Hi, Ed's Dad, is Ed there?) But I don't think I have ever been called Brother. Bro once or twice, in a dim light, thinking I was younger (Yo, Bro, pass the -- oh, hi) but not the full fraternal.

I like it. The laundromat lady has a regal bearing but a warm friendly face. She speaks excellent English with a faint accent suggesting that it is not her first language. But whether she has uses brother as a slightly wonky piece of idiom, or whether she has adopted it consciously as her own greeting, it suits her well. Have a wonderful afternoon, brother, she said to me today. And I did.

drop the grenade

2011-02-22T10:35:00.012-05:00

I keep meaning to talk about Jersey Shore, but I get distracted. Well, now's my chance. I still have not seen an entire episode, but I continue to run across references to it. (Just yesterday I overheard a girl in a high school hallway urging her friend to drop that grenade -- presumably a boyfriend, for whom I developed an immediate sympathy.) As I said somewhere else, you can tell how important a piece of art is by the way it pervades culture. It is, for instance, hard to go through a week without a single reference to the Beatles or Simpsons or Bible. A few years ago I was in an amateur production of The Wizard of Oz, and noticed how that story has become part of our frame of reference. Paris Hilton is so famous that her life has become a work of art. Not great art, perhaps, but pervasive. Whatever Time magazine might say, she is far more present in our culture than Jonathan Franzen.

Which brings me back to Jersey Shore. What, I asked Ed, is the appeal of Snookie and The Situation and the rest? Do you and your crowd want to be like them?Yeah, he said.
But aren't they all kind of awful? Shallow and self-absorbed, and dim with it?

Well, yeah.

So do you admire them?
No. But it'd be cool to live like that.

This is an interesting idea -- to aspire to a condition we do not admire. I remember wanting to be like OJ Simpson back when he played football. But not afterwards.

I think the appeal of Jersey Shore lies in its fantasy factor -- like Lord Of the Rings, it dispenses with the petty irksome details of modern life. No one on the show worrries about money or sick children or the drudgery of a daily job. The conflict is epic and eternal: good versus evil (good being defined as hot and fun to be with, and evil as ugly and boring). But when I tried to explain this to Ed, he shook his head.

It's just a show, Dad. Funny and stupid, you know?

And hard to miss.

typical

2011-02-15T10:36:00.010-05:00

My parents were both pretty good at being tough cop. Mom had a meaningful frown, and Dad had a loud voice, so my brother and I spent a fair amount of time working out how to break bad news to them. Sorry, I forgot (to go, to do, to write, to walk, to say, to thank, to bring home -- whatever) wasn't usually good enough. Especially if you had also forgotten yesterday and last week and the week before. Dave and I would dream up excuses or prior commitments, we'd lie and deny and back each other up, we'd ... why am I going on? You know what we did. You did it too. We acted like a typical family.

So now it's a long time later and my dad has some news to break to us. And the shoe is on the other foot. He calls me first.

Your mom and I are not going to Florida, he says. The doctor doesn't like her cough, and he thinks we should wait. So I am going to have to cancel the tickets.

This is indeed bad news. They've been trying to get down for a while, and it looked like they had finally found a window of time between appointments. I said I was sorry to hear, and we chatted for a bit. I got a sense of him not wanting to hang up.

Anything wrong? I asked.

I ... don't want to phone Dave and tell him, he says. He'll get mad, and say we should get another opinion. Or go anyway.

My brother argues for a living, and doesn't have a lot of respect for the medical profession. And he really wants our parents to have a good time.

You mean, I say, that you're afraid he'll yell at you.

Well, yeah, says Dad.

I'm smiling on my end of the phone. I tell Dad about Dave feeling exactly the same about him, back when we were kids. I offer to call Dave for him, and let him yell at me first. Dad is laughing himself by now.

No no, he says. I'll face the music.

I wondered what typical looked like so I googled it. The picture up there is titled: Another Typical Breakfast. I want it badly.

twerped!

2011-02-10T23:12:00.006-05:00

The other day I was twerped for the first time. I've been jackassed a fair bit in my day, and big-mouthed, of course, and jerked and idioted and -- once, in high school -- insensitive louted, but I had never been twerped before and I took a moment to stare at the guy in the van who had delivered the insult.

That (in case you haven't worked it out) is what I am talking about. Insults. The kind of insult you get can say a lot about you, I think. I have never been called a lummox, for instance. I am not that kind of guy -- too small, too wiry, too chatty to be a lumm or any other kind of ox. The guys I know who get lummoxed regularly are all large, looming and heavy handed. They are too imposing to be jerks or dorks, and too slow to be smart alecs (can not tell you how often I have been smart alecked, going back to kindergarten).

One epithet I've always wanted to hear is scoundrel. There's a rakish raffish charming quality to a scoundrel, don't you think? George Clooney and Johnny Depp and Robert Downey play scoundrels. Paul Rudd (to name but one such actor) does not. If a Paul Rudd character misbehaved (even with the stubble he sports in the picture there), someone would probably call him a twerp. And, as I said at the beginning, that's what happened to me. I was waiting in line at the gas station. A pump opened up. I reversed neatly into the bay just as a van was pulling in from the far side. No question, I got there first. But the van driver was displeased with me. He unrolled his window and told me of his displeasure. I nodded, smiled, pumped away. I waved goodbye as he drove off, and he slammed on the brakes and leaned way out. Did he call me a scoundrel? No. You want a punch in the head, you little twerp? he cried. My eyes widened.

Twerped!

tough problem, easy problem

2011-02-03T16:12:00.007-05:00

So who would want to be sitting in Obama's chair right now? Come on, let's see those hands.

Not me. I'm pretty sure Mubarak is a bad guy. But he's America's and Israel's bad guy -- a poor ally, but the only one they have. The angry crowd in Cairo sure seems to have a case, but if they are going take over the government they need a leader. And who will that be -- a sensible tolerant thoughtful get-along guy, or a tough extremist? Exactly.

Whatever Obama does, it'll be wrong. And if he does nothing, that'll be wrong too. Ain't it fun to good to go to work in the morning? Oy.

The papacy is a different case. (You know, I thought I would talk about Jersey Shore today. That's more my speed. But the article on the op-ed page of the Globe this morning -- ALL OBAMA'S FAULT -- got me pondering here at the high-stakes table and now I can't stop). Partly because the pope is the supreme ruler. And partly because the solutions are, you know, not hard. If I were pope (another strong no thank you) I would at least know the right things to do. There'd be no nagging doubt about making the priests leave the altar boys alone (Are you, uh, sure, your Holiness? Have you considered the ramifica -- Yes. Well, uh, if you're sure. Yes, we're sure.), or letting them marry, or giving women a larger role in the church, or ... well, you get the idea. I wouldn't want the job of pope, but I figure I could get the church on the right track in a couple of weeks. Really, no reason for it to take longer than that. Then I'd proclaim international ice cream day and give out free samples. Maybe then -- here is where I might need advice -- we could talk wardrobe.

bonding

2011-01-23T21:55:00.007-05:00

Ed and I went to the movies the other night. Just the two of us -- a perfect chance to bond without working too hard at it. We've had a few memorable movie dates over the last few years, including Alexander (Dad, are those two guys ... uh ... I mean, they seem like real close friends .... Why yes, son, yes they are) and Troy (Dad, why is Achilles in his tent -- isn't he the hero? Well, yes, son, but he's also kind of a dick) and The Passion Of the Christ (Dad, how many lashes is that? I don't know son, I lost count). Hmmm. Ed and I seem to go in for the big grotty ones. I'm starting to feel like the captain from Airplane who wondered if the little boy liked gladiator movies ...

So anyway, there we were with our popcorn in hand and our feet up on the chairs in front of us, watching True Grit. It fits our pattern. There isn't a lot of creepy prurient ambiguity, but the movie is a sprawly bloody historical drama, and Ed and I both had fun. There's a scary snake-corpse scene towards the end and the two of us went Ewww at exactly the same moment.

Side note. Inexactly forty years ago my dad and I went to the movies together, just the two of us. This didn't happen all that often, but Mom had no desire to see this particular movie, and I was happy to go to any grown-up show. The film was True Grit, starring John Wayne in an eyepatch, and a girl I have no memory of whatsoever. In fact, all I can remember about the film is Glen Campbell in a blue checked shirt singing the opening credits (I may have this wrong, but there's singing going on somewhere) and me and Dad both going, Ewww at the same time.

mcgivern redux

2011-01-13T12:51:00.004-05:00

There is news on the McGivern front.

McGivern, you will recall, is the police officer who kept giving me tickets even though I had paid for my parking spot. I have since moved from Bloor West Village, but it appears that B McGivern has not. An alert blog reader sent me a message confirming McGivern as a big fat wiener. This poor reader was ticketed by McGovern during the one minute it took for the reader's kid to exit the car on his way to school in the Jane/Bloor area.

And now we know what McGivern looks like. Watch out for a mid-sized 35-40 year old male with glasses and a moustache. At least, that's what he looks like on the outside. Inside, of course, he is a worm filled with corruption and spite, a pathetic puerile piranha of the parking meter.

Be alert, B McGivern! Justice is coming to get you. You won't know the form it will take (I am thinking of a banana peel or incontinent Labrador retriever) or the hour of its coming. But you are in its sights. My faith is sure.

2011-01-07T17:37:00.007-05:00

Ed is off to work now, with a smile on his face. And why not? He works at our local movie house. His job is to take tickets and make popcorn and smile. In the lulls between rushes -- and there are many such lulls -- he eats hot dogs, drinks pops, hangs out with several best friends who also his co -workers, and watches first run movies. What is not to like about this job? True, there are limited possibilities for advancement, and the pay is not much. But Ed has no desire to advance, and no expenses. How much money does a seventeen year old living at home need? Half of his budget would normally be spent going to the movies ...
Sam summed it up last week. Every other job you get is going to be a step down, he said to his little brother. CEOs have to go to awful meetings, and carry responsibility for the whole economy. Movie stars have to get up at five in the morning and work with a bunch of dorks. Drug dealers get shot. You have it made, bro.
The bane of all service jobs is usually dealing with the public, but there again the cinema employee is sitting pretty. No one complains to the usher if the line is too long, or the price is too high, or the movie sucks. Ed and his friends fly below the radar.
There are lots of tell-all books about the horrors of working in movies, but none about working in the movie theater. Those stories are usually about the wonder and fantasy of the place. They are tales of appreciation.
So what's playing this week? I ask Ed on his way out the door.
Who cares? he says.

curb your laundry

2010-12-30T04:33:00.009-05:00

Just back from hospital again. Glass of wine. Honestly, it's becoming a routine. I feel so typical here, part of a demographic stereotype. The Jersey Shore types may have their Gym Tan Laundry routine -- for me and my group it would be, what: hospital, liquor store, home office? (Sidebar -- definition of a successful piece of art is one you can reference with minimal exposure. I have seen a total of ten minutes of Jersey Shore. Ed inexplicably fascinated. More on that later.)

Not so funny moment in hospital today. Or maybe it was. Larry David rather than Jersey Shore, though. Here's what happened. Mir's mom was in for a series of tests (she's one of the parents in trouble I talked about last time) and I was chatting in the room with her while Mir went to the atrium for coffee. (Isn't that funny -- I was going to say lobby. Hospitals don't have lobbies, but I have spent so much time there that the place is starting to feel like a hotel.) Anyway, the lady in the next bed caught my eye and asked if I would get her a glass of water. She's a quiet nervous type who doesn't seem to have many visitors. I helped her to a drink and she thanked me with a nice smile. The air is so dry in here, she said, slurping greedily through her straw. I nodded, and then felt my own smile fall off my face and land on the floor with a crash. Over the lady's bed was a sign that said: DO NOT GIVE THIS PATIENT WATER EVEN IF SHE ASKS FOR IT.

Like I said, Larry David. I have seldom been more horrified. I snatched at the styrofoam cup, but it was already empty. What had I done? I stood there frozen, honestly expecting her to start frothing at the mouth or something.

Hey, I said, finally, you aren't supposed to have any water!

I pointed at the sign. The lady dismissed it with a gesture.

Phhht, she said, or something like that, and turned over.

Now what? I am no great believed in rules for the sake of rules, but this was a hospital. Not a hotel. Lives were on the line here. The no water rule might be important. I couldn't just walk away, could I? Could I?

I decided -- I know how dumb this sounds -- to compromise. I asked the lady if she could get out of bed. She rolled back over to stare at me.

What? she asked.

Can you walk? I asked.

Of course I can walk. Do you think I'm a cripple? she said.

Still no frothing. I smiled inanely. Okay, I thought. So she was capable of getting her own water. So the drink didn't have to have been my fault. And she seemed fine. A little tetchier than before, but that probably wasn't because of the water. That was me.

I went back to Mir's mom. But for the rest of the visit I kept checking across the room. Mir commented on my nervousness.

Maybe we ought to take you off coffee, she said.

ch-ch-ch-changes

2010-12-21T19:25:00.005-05:00

I can't help noticing how everyone's folks -- everyone I know, that is -- seem to be in trouble. Not legal trouble or moral trouble or fashion trouble (who am I to talk), but , well, words like angioplasty and elder care, overheard phrases like, Don't let Dad drive, and, How much did Mom remember are becoming very familiar. It's all demographics, of course. Life stages. I remember a time when virtually everyone I knew was getting married. Later they were all buying homes, having babies, building RRSPs, moving to the suburbs, choosing summer camps, divorcing ...

I was always kind of pleased, inside, not to be a part of these trends. I felt myself a bit of a rebel for renting, living in sin, struggling financially. Doing it my way. Not following my particular portion of the herd. Of course I ended up doing most of the herd things eventually, but even then I did them my way, waiting a decade, having more kids than average, moving way out of town, continuing to struggle financially ...

Maybe I'll continue to stay behind. I'm back in the city now, the kids are growing fast, and I still don't have much of an RRSP. Maybe it'll work with my folks too, and they'll defy anno domini ... maybe. But I have to say, listening to my contemporaries now, I miss the days of mastitis and projectile vomiting, when the biggest worry about your mom was that she didn't understand you, and would she babysit.

residential street rage

2010-12-08T21:35:00.007-05:00

Weird moment this afternoon. I'd say it was instructive but it wasn't. I didn't learn that much. Except that people are odd, but I already knew that.

Mir and I crossed a neighborhood street ahead of a little Toyota which turned off the larger street onto ours, and accelerated past us. The driver was a kid - -22, 23 -- with dark unruly hair and a street-wise face. He was moving fast and Mir gave him the wave that says, Hey, slow down. The kid honked. Mir gave him another gesture. I had to smile at her tough Winnipeg attitude. I figured that was it, and began to walk on. But now the Toyota backed down the street towards us, stopped, and the passenger-side window came down. And we had a real confrontation.

The following section of dialogue is inaccurate. But it gives you the intent

KID -- Why did you gesture at me?

MIR -- I thought that you were travelling too quickly down a residential street.

KID -- What on earth can you be referring to? The posted speed limit is 40 kms/hr, and I had not yet reached that speed.

MIR -- I do not believe you.

KID -- Well, that is too bad.

MIR -- No, it is too bad for you.

KID -- I think you should do something unlikely.

MIR -- I think you should do something even more unlikely, over and over again.

KID (staring) -- What did you just say to me?

MIR -- You heard me. Why are you getting out of the car? Do you wish to wreak vengeance on me? You are an impossible combination of attributes.

ME (stepping forward) -- Listen, listen. Do we have to do this? Can't we find a way to settle our differences amicably?

KID -- Person with the glasses, you should do something --

MIR -- Richard, please desist.

There was more, but it was all along these lines. There were a few gestures, and repeated suggestions as to what we could all do. Then the kid geared up and drove off and we continued our walk.

To me, there were two surprising aspects to the incident. First, that the kid would bother to back up half a block to get into an extended argument with a middle-aged couple. And, second, that throughout the entire -- I don't know -- three minutes -- even the bit where the kid was thinking about getting out of his car -- everyone was smiling. There was no denying the emotion involved, but at the same time we were all aware that we were behaving in a ridiculous manner.

Like I said at the top, I don't know how instructive it was. Will Mir continue to yell at overly aggressive drivers? Probably. Will confrontations ensue? Possibly. Are people odd? Oh, yes. But then, I knew that.

what, me mature?

2010-12-07T08:40:00.005-05:00

Got back from a weekend away to find the kitchen a mess. Darn it, Ed, I thought, pouring coffee into a slightly grimy cup. When he got home I suggested he clean up and he said he would.

Now that I think about it, mess is a fairly usual condition for the kitchen. Every now and then -- once a week, or maybe a bit less often -- I clean it, and I think of that state -- the clean state -- as normal. But I am fooling myself. One or two days a month my bank account is healthy. One or two days a month I go for a long run and feel fit. One or two days a month my kitchen is clean. But if I spend twenty-eight days out of thirty as a scrambling poor out of shape slob, then maybe that's who I am. Hmm.

Hang on. I got sidetracked there. I was going to talk about maturity. When are your kids grown up? That was my question. At what point do you simply have to recognize that they are mature responsible beings? When they are taller than you? Smarter than you? When they get a job? When you realize that you can't actually make do anything? When they leave?

None of these definitions quite does it for me. One I like has to do with routine tasks. Your kid is on his or her way to maturity when the job gets done when it needs to be done, and not because you ask for it to be done. I am not referring to chores. If your kid is supposed to make her bed every day and you tell her and you tell her and you tell her and then one day she makes her bed without being told, that's not maturity. That's resignation. But if she takes out the garbage because it's full -- that's a big step. If your kid returns the car with a full tank of gas -- that's a big step. If he washes the dishes because there aren't any left -- that's a big step.

By this definition Ed -- and now we are back to where I started -- is not quite mature. He's taller than I, and smarter, and he has a job, and it's been a while since I was able to make him do anything. But he did not clean the kitchen on his own. I had to tell him.

I don't know how mature I am. My bank account needs money. My body needs exercise. And I'm not doing all that much about it. Maybe I'll grow up one of these days.

more on texting

2010-11-30T10:34:00.004-05:00

Funny about texting. It seems complicated until you try it, and then you see how easy it is. How convenient. Soon enough it becomes addictive. The bell goes off, telling you have a message, and your fingers twitch. I have (I blush to confess this, and I don't do it any more) replied to texts while driving, which has to be one of the stupider uses of modern technology. I feel like a zombie, reaching out for my phone ... MUST BE CONNECTED. Yeesh.

Sam is a latecomer to texting. Last year his cell phone bill was non-existent. But he is an addict now, all right -- I was investigating a ridiculous phone bill a few months ago, and the person at the Rogers store told me that Sam had sent 3000 texts in that billing period. My jaw dropped. A hundred texts a day. Double yeesh. I changed plans at once. Forget long distance, internet, frequently called numbers: just give me more of that sweet sweet texting.

And it seems to be the way of the future. Friends have a toddler (also named Sam) who was playing with Mommy's phone last time we were over. Playing how? you ask. Well, remember how your toddler played telephone, holding it up to her ear, babbling into it? You probably played that way yourself -- they've had toy telephones since the 50s. But this Sam -- like my son Sam -- had the phone open in front of him, and was busy pushing buttons. That's right. Fourteen months old and already texting the infinite. I assume that Fisher Price has come out with a folding button-pushing toy, maybe with digital display. The old model with the the cord and rotary dial has about as much relevance as a Victrola Phonograph.

texts from the boy

2010-11-24T14:02:00.005-05:00

I hadn't heard from my son Sam in a while, so I was pleased to get his text. Ever had a pork rind? he sent.
No, you? I sent back.
No, sounds awful, he replied. And that was it for the night. He often sends me his random musings, and I enjoy opening my phone and finding out what is on his mind. It's a small and slightly grimed window into his life, but I am happy to peer and ponder. Aqua velva -- great invention or world's greatest invention? he sent last month. Of course my reply was along the lines of, What are you using it for? Turned out that he was putting it on his face. I told him congratulations, and that he now smelled just like his grandpa. He didn't reply.

The texts aren't always about him, and sometimes require some extrapolation. Recently he sent: Simon has 2d degree burns from our AMAZING new kettle! And when I asked if Simon (his roommate) should see a doctor, he replied, We're making more tea. From which I inferred that they had taken time off to deal with Simon's burn, and were now getting back to refreshment. I do not know if they are dealing with the rodent situation, because Mice are noisy was a one-off text. I asked for more info, but his next one -- Best half-book I have ever read -- went back to a conversation about a PG Wodehouse novel with some pages missing.

The last book I lent him was called Rats (I have to say -- is that a great cover or what?). Maybe it will prompt him to enlarge on his mouse problems. Or not. I'm happy to hear about whatever he wants to tell me.

good idea bad idea

2010-11-13T03:44:00.007-05:00

You ever run across an idea of yours in someone else's hands? Not just the, Gosh I wish I had thought of that, but more the -- Hey, that's mine! This is not about plagiarism. But sometimes two people can get hold of the same idea. For instance, there was a bad Robin Williams movie (a bit of a long list, much as I admire him) back in the early 80s that happened to have as a subplot the exact idea I was trying to build into a satirical novel about terrorism. I watched the movie, cringing every moment not simply because the acting direction camerawork and so on were iffy, but because so much of the film was so much like my book.

Then there's the idea of yours that ends up in good hands. Driving home tonight I was listening to a piece of music on the radio that sounded eerily familiar … and I realized that it was because I had written it. Well, not quite. Way back in high school, I was sitting at the piano when a melody came into my head. A simple walk-down melody, 16 bars of beauty. The chord changes fit, the ending satisfied … it was perfect. I performed it for my girlfriend at the time, who thought it was okay but that it needed something. I got angry and we split up, and I went into an emotional tailspin as I realized that she might be right. Maybe the piece did need something, but what? I waited for inspiration. I sat at the piano, and sat at the piano, but nothing came to me. I gave up on music as a career, and started writing a satirical novel about terrorism.

So this melody comes on the radio tonight, and it's mine. The same 16 perfect bars. After all these years it has finally found an audience. Then the tune ends and the composer starts playing around with it. There are, like, variations. Quite a lot of them, actually. The thing lasts five or six minutes. And, you know, it's good. Something came to this guy when he sat at the keyboard. I pull off to the side of the highway to write down his name. If you want to hear it -- my idea in good hands -- find the first movement of Handel's Organ Concerto in G minor, part of his Opus 7. It was his idea more than 200 years before it was mine.

things that go bump in the night

2010-11-06T20:01:00.006-05:00

Back from Vancouver now, and the locals are at it again. Toronto, city that can't help itself. A parking ticket on the dash, a used condom on the gravel, and raccoon poop on the bar of soap. It is to sigh.

Let me explain. The laneway at the back of our house (from which the boron-rich dump site was recently removed) is a daytime hangout for graffiti artists and home repair enthusiasts, who add beauty and noise and life to the place. Come nightfall, the sawyers and taggers go home, and the laneway becomes home to a more furtive crowd: parking cops, prostitutes and raccoons. We have tried to keep an open mind here -- even parking cops, we argued, were God's creatures (it had been weeks since B McGivern had ticketed us, and our hearts were softening). But you have to draw the line somewhere, and poop on the back porch and used condoms by the back fence were a bit too much. So we put a bar of soap (a piece of grandmotherly lore) on the porch to discourage the animals, and a garbage can (with a sign saying PLEASE USE!) by the back fence to encourage the johns. And for a few days it seemed to be working. The porch and back fence area stayed clean. I went to Vancouver.

And now I am back and the beasts are at it again. This morning I woke to find fresh spoor from all three nocturnal perambulists. Poop, condom, ticket. The cop is a new name. Monterey, it looks like from the signature. I wonder if the raccoon and sex trader are new too? I put out some fresh bar of soap. We'll see how that works.

If I am awake at 2:00 this morning I may head outside with a flashlight to catch whoever is doing what. Maybe the bar of soap trick will work with the parking cop ...

a tale of 2 cities

2010-10-27T14:33:00.005-05:00

We were sitting in the dining room of the Granville Island Hotel in downtown Vancouver, staring out at the morning. Sun, water, boats, condos, seabirds, mountains. Quite a vista. Ken said something like: Toronto doesn't have anything as beautiful as this.

I drank coffee and grunted something like: Grff?

He chewed a mouthful of hash brown. I go for walks through High Park and along the lake shore, he said, and it's nice. But it doesn't look as beautiful as this. It just doesn't.

We were silent for a moment. Joggers and cyclists hustled along the waterfront path across the bay, the sun glinting on spandex and spokes. I tried to put my thoughts together. On the surface, Ken was right. Few places on earth can match Vancouver's mix of natural and urban beauty. Toronto can't come close. But it has something, darn it. Something that Vancouver lacks. I tried to put it into words.

Outside my back door, I can see the corner of a low-rise industrial place, I said. There's some ivy trailing down the cinder blocks, and it looks kind of nice.

Ken just stared. I tried again.

They've drained the toxic dump site across from us, I said. The body shop parks its wrecks there now, and one of the feral cats likes to sleep on the hoods. Cute, eh?

Ken swallowed some egg, frowning, trying to work out if I was serious.

After a rainstorm there's a stream running down the centre of the laneway, I said, and the styrofoam cups and coloured condoms floating down to Richmond Street are quite cheerful.

Ken stood up and called for the check. Kidding, I said. Just kidding.

But am I? Well, maybe about the condoms. But to my mind there is something truly attractive about a harsh angular urban landscape, concrete and steam and people and noise. Vancouver doesn't have that. I know that it has tough neighborhoods and ugly problems, but to me, if you will forgive the stereotype, Vancouver has a cheerleader's beauty. Toronto is more like the girl who talks too much and laughs too loud. Yes, she can be a pain, but she is more fun to trade lunches with. And darn it, there's something about her ...

suburban idyll

2010-10-15T12:04:00.005-05:00

These are the things that Langley BC is not. Surprising. Beautiful. Surprising. Ugly. Quirky. Old. Dirty. Did I say surprising? Langley is almost exactly like New Westminster or Coquitlam, or Pickering or Richmond Hill or West Bloomfield or Lackawana. It is a suburb, a just fine place where lawns are green, cars are washed, and Tim Hortonses are plentiful. Its streets are numbers and tree names. Its pedestrians are well fed and comfortably shod. I remember an ad from the 1970s for a hotel chain that went something like -- The best surprise is no surprise.

I am not crapping on suburbs -- well, maybe a bit. There's not a lot of apparent individuality here. But when you consider how nine tenths of the world lives, just fine is in fact pretty darn good. Anyone who has survived an earthquake flood riot civil war fire invasion pandemic lightning strike tornado (the one in the picture is from Greensburg Kansas, 1915) or other natural or human-made disaster will tell you that surprise is over-rated. May you live in interesting times is not a blessing-- it's a curse.

And the kids are great. They usually are. Bright and not so bright, eager and bored, wriggling and giggling and picking their noses, the kids and I had a lot of fun. And, hey -- there was a surprise after all. In the mall across the street from the library is an Army and Navy store. We don't have them in Ontario. I bought a pair of gloves.

I'm here in Vancouver for another week. Monday I go to Bowen Island. Ferry boat, hippies, and more kids. I hope my voice holds out ...

boron and on

2010-10-07T20:33:00.004-05:00

In case you have forgotten your tenth grade chemistry, boron is the fifth element in the periodic table, between beryllium and carbon. Nothing to do with Niels Bohr (most aptly named of all Danish physicists, as Bart says), it has something to do with borax, which is a kind of cleaning powder. The only other thing I know about boron is that my old squash racket contains some. It was why I bought it -- the slogan was Boron Power Serve! (Ah, they don't write 'em like that any more.)

So I didn't know what to think when I found out that some land down the laneway from me had been condemned because of trace elements of boron. Was this an example of the government worrying about something we all took for granted that was now known to be bad for us, like cigarettes or pregnant martinis? Or was it an example of government stupidity, worrying about something that wasn't harmful but had a bad rep, like marijuana?

I tried asking around, but no one could help me. Excuse me, I said to the lady on the health line, but I wonder if you could tell me anything about the dangers of boron? She couldn't. Excuse me, I said to the man at the Ministry of Northern Development, Mines and Forests, but could you tell me anything about boron? He couldn't. Excuse me, I said to the kid at the Sporting Good Store, but could you tell me anything about anything? She looked up from her i-phone. Huh? she replied. Forget it, I said.

Conspiracy? Ignorance? I keep telling myself not to panic. I have moved my old squash racket to the basement, just in case. I don't know what else I can do.

mixed neighbourhood

2010-10-04T16:43:00.007-05:00

My grandfather said that his west end Toronto neighbourhood was getting mixed when a ... Portuguese family (that's the way he put it, with a pause before Portuguese) moved into the old Astor place. I don't know what Grandad would say about our neighbourhood. Mixed puts it mildly. We live in an area bounded by a mental health facility, four auto body shops and a slaughterhouse. There's public housing, decrepit wartime bungalows, shabby Victorians, super-expensive condos, and the best dessert place in the city only it's never open (topic for another day). And in our back laneway, until recently, a toxic dump.

That's right. I noticed the low plywood hoarding a few days after we moved in. On the other side was what looked like a swimming pool of stagnant green sludge. I asked a neighbor about it and he said, Oh, that's the toxic dump site. Real casual, like you'd say, Oh, that's the Rec Centre (see picture --a Connecticut Rec Centre. An ornament to any community, no?) I wanted to show that I was cool too, so I said something like, Oh, ah or Sure, sure. And I kept my eye on it. It didn't bubble or anything. It didn't smell too bad. After a while I stopped noticing it. It became part of the landscape, like the raccoons and orange condoms and graffiti (apparently DAN IS NOT THE MAN). The toxic dump site. It even had its uses, the hoarding being so noticeable. I'd give friends directions to our parking spot by saying, We're four houses up from the toxic dump site.

And then, yesterday, I heard a rhythmic thumping and giant sucking sound. When I went out to check (surely not Dan? I thought) I saw a stream of water flowing down the laneway from underneath the plywood hoarding. Two guys were pumping out the sludge. They told me that the city had removed three feet of topsoil a months ago, after they found traces of boron. And now they were finally getting around to filling in the hole. Boron? I said. What do you mean, boron? They shrugged.

As of this morning, the hoarding is down and the toxic dump is gone. Cars in need of body work are parked there on clean sand. I have been researching boron.

On the whole I am not sad to see the end of the toxic dump site. Sometimes a neighbourhood can be too mixed.

houseatoxic

2010-09-19T06:11:00.007-05:00

More about Dieter. He's the contractor who is turning a dump into a haven for us. We did not know it was a dump originally. We thought it was a slightly neglected place in a lovely neighborhood, that would show up wonderfully with a lick of paint and a couple of smiles. How wrong we were.

You hear horror stories about contractors. Actually, you hear horror stories about everyone, don't you. Husbands, mothers, agents, doctors, ghosts, car mechanics, lawyers of course, governmental employees of every rank and stamp ... Hmmm. I wonder if there is a single group that does not have a bad-guy literature about it? Puppies, maybe. Saints. Angels. Though now I think about it I have heard bad stories about slipper chewing and incontinence. (Down, St Theresa. Put it down! Sorry, couldn't resist.) Anyway, apart from a very few specialized groups, you hear horror stories about people in general.

But I do not believe that our Dieter is one of those horror story contractors. He is not, for instance, ignoring us, as some contractors do, so that a three week reno takes three years. On the contrary, Dieter and his team have been bee-busy, dawn to dusk, for about a month now. The problem is that he keeps finding things -- and not treasure, either. Dieter is not the horror story -- the house is. If I didn't like the place so much I'd be scared of it. We've had moisture, animals, rot, more animals, leakage, shortage, garbage, wastage, poundage, dunnage, slipshoddity of many different kinds, and still more animals. A zoo, it is. Peter's regular phone call begins: Hey Richard, you'll never guess what I found ... At which point I shut my eyes and imagine the worst. Human remains, weapons of mass destruction, an irreparable hole in the time-space continuum.

Fortunately, Dieter can fix most anything. For the ultimate non-handy guy like me, he is somewhere between a god and a comedian, juggling drywall, skunks, PVC pipe, shingles, and two by tens with ease. I am sure that if should find Dracula or Osama bin Laden hiding in our crawl space with the other toxic substances (Hey Richard, you'll never guess ...) Dieter will have him whirling in orbit with everything else. Maybe one of these days Mir and I will ll get around to painting. And smiling.

lunch moment

2010-09-08T09:33:00.003-05:00

September is the nostalgic-est month. Cool nights, turning leaves, migrating Monarchs, football, film festivals ... and, oh yes, school. We may have hated school, but it is one of the strongest youth memories. And looking back from our mortgages and deadlines and piles of laundry, school doesn't seem so bad now, does it. So you didn't understand trigonometry, so what?

For the first time in years, I am making lunches. Does it ever take me back! Fortunately Ed is not too picky. Bread, meat, cheese, tuna, peanut butter -- all good. Add a juice box, maybe a chewy bar, and he's fine. And if I am too tired or busy, Ed is perfectly able to make his own lunch.

Yeah, I said peanut butter. That's what Ed is having today. I can honestly say that I have not packed a peanut butter sandwich since I was in high school myself. Ed's school has adopted the policy that allergic kids can deal with it. Good for them, I say. A Darwinian approach -- weeding out the weak. After all, peanut butter is cheap, good for you, and spreadable. If only more of life was like that.

my weekend

2010-08-30T17:23:00.007-05:00

Spent a fun weekend at the Sleeping Giant Writers Festival in Thunder Bay, surrounded by scenery, history, and eager authors. The hotel was a stately relic, a bit past its prime but full of charm. The view out our window was kind of cool. There it is in the pic. Can you see the Sleeping Giant? Yeah.

We gave our presentations at the Fort William Historical something or other (I'd look it up but I'm too lazy) on the outskirts of town. It's an amazing recreation -- an extensive well-maintained pioneer type settlement complete with palisade, folks in costume, goods on display, and canoe rides on the mighty river. One of us visiting writers is a Canadian history buff. There were tears in his eyes as he described how he had lain down on an actual voyageur's bunk. I thought he was going to stow away and live there. He had to be lured back to the hotel with promises of free drinks at the bar.

Speaking of which, what did I see there (at the bar, I mean) but brides! Yup, our hotel was wedding central this weekend, and in Thunder Bay the tradition seems to be for the bride to wander up to the bar just like a regular gal. I bought one of the brides a rye and ginger because her man (I tried not to stare) had THE best beard I have ever seen on a younger guy. He looked like a Smith Brother, or Monet, or someone. Impressive as hell.

And now it's time for home. Can't wait to see what Dieter has found wrong with the house in the three days I've been away.

b mcgivern, you suck

2010-08-25T22:09:00.005-05:00

Okay, here is the object of my righteous wrath. The name is McGivern. B. McGivern. And he or she should be ashamed of themselves. This McGivern is a parking officer, a sad wanna-be cop with a book of tickets and a chip on the shoulder. It's too bad that I don't have a visual here -- I'd like to know if I am steaming at a Brenda McGivern or a Brian McGivern. (Benito is probably closer -- as in Mussolini. There is a fascistic authority-worshipping side to officers who hand out parking tickets.)

Yes, I have had parking tickets before. And I have resented every officer responsible for writing me up. But not the way I resent B McGivern. Because, you see, he (or she) is not only megalomaniacal insecure and full of rage and powdered sugar -- all ticketers are like this -- but also completely in the wrong.

The ticket reads: FAIL TO PROPERLY DISPLAY PARKING PERMIT. Think about that for a second. I purchased a parking permit. I went online and gave the city my credit card number, and the city gave me permission to park on the street for a week. B McGivern knows this. The ticket did not read: PARK WITHOUT PERMIT. B McGivern read my permit, knew it was valid. But B McGivern decided to ticket me anyway, because my permit was placed sideways on my dash, instead of straight up and down. (If you were wondering, that's how you properly display your permit -- straight up and down.) B McGovern had to turn his or her head for a second to read my permit, and that second was one second too many for B McGivern.

I don't think B McGovern feels any shame. They probably weed out candidates who possess the softer human emotions during parking officer training.

street scenes

2010-08-14T02:42:00.009-05:00

Two charming street vignettes today, night and day. Then I will embark on a crusade. A crusade, I tell you.

Sitting on the front stoop in Toronto last week late-ish at night (which ebbs and flows with age, don't you find? Late-ish to an eight year old is not lateish to an eighteen or twenty-eight year old, but by the time you hit middle age it starts to cycle back, so that by eighty lateish is back to where it was when you were eight) by which I mean, oh, eleven o'clock. A teenager walked past in her sandals, flip flop flip, a self-possesed confident stride. This was not strange in itself -- it's a quiet residential neighborhood and a girl alone at night (no matter how late-ish) is not remarkable. I remarked this one because her head was buried in a book. There was no natural light, of course, so she had to hurry from streetlight to streetlight to keep going. I wondered if she would bump into a pole or parked car, but no. There's a god who looks after readers.

I probably wouldn't have bothered mentioning her were it not for the fact that only a few minutes later another reader appeared, walking in the same direction. Another female, late twenties maybe, more formally dressed, went click clack clicking by, head lowered, oblivious to the world outside her page. I waited her out of earshot, then went to the sidewalk myself and peered down the street. Were more ambulant readers on the way? Was this a new movement? The thing recalled those strange mass migrations of the Middle Ages, where whole villages would suddenly head off on a pilgrimage.

The very next morning -- a warm and sunny one -- Mir and I were walking past two street guys, sprawled on their bench.

Hey, got any smokes? the larger one called to us, adding, archly, you have to be smokers because I can see the fire in your eyes.

We shrugged, smiled, shook our heads.

His buddy was lean as a rake handle, with Old Testament hair. Sometimes, he said, there's fire without smokes.

I laughed out loud, and gave him my change. Enough to buy a couple of smokes, maybe -- it's an expensive habit.

Okay, enough charm for now. It's time to expose a villain, a narrow-minded tyrant of the streets. I am working up my righteous anger. But it's getting late-ish and I have to go. So, until next time ...

lay off the Asians, Lou. They're all right.

2010-08-08T14:29:00.011-05:00

One of the shows my kids keep talking about, and I keep meaning to get to, is It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia. Apparently it is brilliant, edgy, goofy, the best show on TV, etc etc. But it is hard to find, and I don't watch a lot of TV, and so I have never seen it. Why am I talking about it now, then? Because one of the early episodes (it may even be the pilot) sounded super funny when my kids were telling me about it, and the idea is interesting. The episode is called, The Gang Gets Racist.

I like the idea of racial-based humour (wait -- don't hang up. I will explain) because it shows that we as a society are loosening up a bit, trying hard to get a sense of perspective on our component parts. Getting rid of racism may be a first step (and no, we haven't quite managed that). But getting rid of, or at least laughing at, a knee-jerk humorless intolerance towards seemingly racist language is a good idea for a second step. Clear? I'll try to concretize. I am not a fan of the n-bomb (is it capped? N-Bomb? I have never seen it written down. Since it can only be derogatory, there'd be no point in capitalizing it, would there?) But occasionally talking about the n bomb -- shaking our heads at it, even simply referring to it as the n bomb -- is better, I think, than shutting our eyes to the situation and talking about the weather instead. The witness who describes a suspect to the cops as male, early twenties, two hundred pounds, shaved head, white t shirt, black jeans -- and neglects to mention the fact that the suspect happened to be Asian as well -- is not helping. Self-conscious correctness is one step removed from racism.
Speaking of Asians (wait again -- this is not going to be a joke), I was driving my son Ed and his friend Frederico to the movies a few nights ago, and Frederico said, Why do Asians only drive Asian cars?

I didn't know what to say. We were at a stop light. The Honda van next to us was driven by a lady with Asian features. This hardly seemed conclusive.

Ford and GM are making lots of money in China right now, I said.

I mean Asians here in Canada, said Frederico. You never see one driving a North American car.

I think it's because they're smart, and they know that Asian cars are better.

I was feeling uncomfortable with this conversation -- perhaps a sign of my own racism.

I don't know that you have that entirely right, Frederico, I said. First, most the Japanese and Korean cars you see here are made in North America. Second, Toyota had to recall a whole bunch of cars last year. Third, the idea of Asians as geniuses is --

At this point we arrived at the mall, and Ed climbed out hurriedly. Frederico followed. For the rest of the day I played race detective, furtively checking out other drivers. (I don't know about Asian Canadians, but as a European Canadian I felt kind of stupid.) Next time I see Frederico I'll tell him about the Hummer driver with the South Korean flag decal on his bumper sticker. Bastard cut me off and then drove for ten blocks with his blinker on....

I ... kind of like ... Winnipeg

2010-08-01T08:51:00.006-05:00

I'm in Winnipeg on summer family business, packing and moving a whole lot of boxes. The city is by turns charming, ugly, friendly, sad. I'm always glad to come, and usually ready to go.

Winnipeg is an up-front city -- citizens talk to you, yell at each other, tell you how they feel. The irony here is mostly about how pathetic things are. The Winnipeg Arcades Project show I went to last night highlights, among other things, a plan to improve local area businesses by pitting police-trained uniformed volunteers like the guys in the picture against streeters. The theme -- Isn't this ridiculous! -- is clear but never stated. The subtext is sadness and anger. The show is part of a series of unorganized art projects, a different one every few hours in a downtown space. (Think June weddings, rolling out the brides and grooms every hour of the weekend.) The show before the Arcades Project was all about preserving things -- from fruit and veg to memories.

Overheard conversations can tell you a lot about a place.

She's not my sister. She's a shoplifter!

Get off me, Dad -- you're crushing my smokes!

Why would I go home with you, a******? I live with you.

No wonder John Sampson writes the refrain, I ... hate ... Winnipeg and calls the song "One Fine City." No wonder Guy Madden can't leave.

garbage thoughts

2010-07-22T08:23:00.006-05:00

I worry about my garbage. Mir laughs and laughs when I tell her I want to get home to deal with it. It might be a question of control. Garbage disposal is one of the few parts of my life where I feel in charge. A friend told me about a crack addict friend of his who got help, put his life together bit by bit and is now doing okay, and always makes his bed. It was part of his therapy, early on -- one of the few things he could control -- and he still makes a Marine corps super tight hospital corners bounce a quarter bed first thing every single day. I guess that's where I am, tying to control my garbage because I can't control my health or kids or career or emotional life.

Except that I am not in control of my garbage either. Many weeks I dash downstairs to take it out just as the garbage guy is pulling away from the curb. I empty my plastic bin into the back of the truck while he frowns and goes, Tsk tsk. I apologize and vow to do better next week. Only I don't. I am nowhere near as successful as the crack addict. I figure it's like I worry about making my bed all day, and finally get around to it halfway through the evening news.

Recently I decided to give the problem away. I asked Ed to be in charge of the garbage. Okay, he said. Just like that. I breathed a sigh of relief.

No garbage was picked up the first Friday. Or the second Friday. Or the third.

Darn it, Ed, you're even worse than I am, I said.

Yeah, sorry, Dad.

The bin was overflowing, and smelling vile.

What are you going to do? I asked.

He shrugged. He may be in charge of the garbage, but he didn't care.

When I woke this morning, the garbage was gone. Vanished like dew. Like the last cookie on the plate. Like innocence. What happened? I asked Ed.

I took it to a dumpster last night, he said. I didn't want to wait until Friday.

My mouth opened, and closed. Ed went back to his cereal.

Don't wait for the truck -- just throw it out. Wow. Can I learn from my son? Would his approach to garbage work for life in general? These are deep waters.

so much for tolerance

2010-07-18T15:57:00.010-05:00

Excuse me for a second while I change my mind. Remember how I was being all non-judgmental about snacks, last time out? I have recently suffered a shock to my tolerance, and I am now prepared to talk about the worst snack ever. I can not understand how these things came to be. Can not imagine a product development meeting where some guy in an artistic shirt said: Hey, I have an idea!

I am not talking about cheesies -- they are simply silly. Not even the new KFC sandwiches -- that stuff is so hilariously bad for you it's almost endearing. No, I am talking about a snack combination -- product and flavour -- that lowers the bar so far that these ... things can hardly be called a snack.

I have always considered sunflower seeds to be a poor choice, delivery-wise. Like pistachios, they take time to eat, but pistachios are bigger and much better tasting, so they represent a realistic return on investment. Sunflower seeds are finicky and tiny, and only marginally tasty, so that the ultimate mouthful of flavour payoff never really arrives.

So much for product. Flavour-wise, I have favorites, acceptables, and losers. And my biggest loser -- by far -- is dill pickle. Dill pickles on their own are excellent, in a way that barbecue sauce (say) is not. Who grabs a quick hit off the Memories of Texas bottle? But barbecue flavouring enhances a potato chip enormously, while dill flavouring simply kills it, as it kills tortilla chips, rice cakes, popcorn, and anything else it touches. Dill pickle -- worst flavour ever. Don't want to hurt anyone's feelings. I'm just saying.

So imagine my shock and horror when I returned from Knowlton (an excellent time there, by the way -- I'll post pix when I get them. Knowlton is a charming cottage town near Sherbrooke, with an active literary and artistic community) -- returned, I say, to find a package of sunflower seeds open on the kitchen table, and a disagreeable odour lingering nearby. Could it be? I thought, wrinkling my nose, reaching for the bag with trembling hands. Sure enough, the label read -- well, you know what it read.

I do not mind coming home from a week away to unwashed dishes, piles of garbage, unmade beds, and a general air of sleaze and grease and unfulfilled promises (Sure I'll tidy up, Dad. You can count on me!). In a way I'd be worried if the place looked neat and tidy. But ... dill pickle flavoured sunflower seeds? My mind is boggling, narrowing, squeezing my sense of tolerance to nothing. The picture up there makes me shudder. I want to find the responsible parties and shake them, as a terrier shakes a rat. Can there be a snack jihad?

in a snacking state of mind

2010-07-10T16:04:00.006-05:00

The perfect conversational topic? Let me suggest snacks. Yes, I know that much of the world goes to bed hungry, and that packaged foods make for a lousy diet. But, in the context of casual conversation, rich poor city country ethnic variety ... well, snacks are a winner. People don't dismisss the topic. I have never heard anyone say, I don't snack. And yet I have never heard anyone say that they like everything either. Sweet or savory, hot or cold, before bed or before exercise -- there are lots of places for the conversation to go. People will have preferences, and they will not be shy about expressing them. There is nothing, a woman said to me once, absolutely nothing like the first handful of salted peanuts from a freshly opened can. I would have proposed marriage on the spot except that I was already married to her.

Another thing I like about snack talk is that it is never earnest, the way talk on love or politics, art or real estate, or diet generally can be serious. (This little entry is about as serious as it gets.) Nor is snack conversation mean, as in, My God did you see what that woman had in her hand? At 2:00 in the afternoon? What was she thinking? No one talks about snackin' crimes. I do not, speaking personally, need chocolate in my life, but I know many people who do, and I respect them for it. Snacking begets tolerance. If only there were a way to extend this attitude -- the snacking state of mind -- to world affairs in general, what a heaven on earth this might be.

teen eats

2010-07-04T19:56:00.004-05:00

Notes from the teenage boy world. Ed is seventeen now, and wanting a little more responsibility around the place. I said he could pay his cell phone bill. He laughed and said, No, seriously, what could he do? I suggested the dishes, the toilet, the kitchen floor ... but these didn't seem to be the kind of responsibility he wanted either.

How about I go shopping? he said.

So I gave him some money and he went away (sounds like I'm talking about a blackmailer or a creepy boyfriend), returning an hour later with friends and boxes of groceries. They'd spent much more than I gave them, and bought enough food for an army of teenage boys.

Boy food. I stood in the doorway watching them put away cold cereal, sliced cheese and meat, buns and bread and bagels, hamburgers and sausages, potato chips, pizza, more cold cereal, Coke, ice cream bars, still more cold cereal -- and two apples.

Ed saw me smiling. You said to buy fruit, he said.

kicked out

2010-07-01T22:19:00.013-05:00

The other day Ed told me he wanted some privacy at my place. A little get together, he said. A summer thing for him and some friends. I was going to be in the city for the day and early evening, so I told him he could have all the privacy he wanted, and that I'd see him eight-ish.

I hope that's late enough, he said. Could you text me before you leave, so I'll have an hour of lead time.

I did this, and got a text back immediately.

THEY JUST GOT HERE. TAKE YOUR TIME COMING HOME.

Driving slow and safe, and arrived in Cobourg about an hour and a half later. I parked around the corner from my place and asked if I could come home yet.

NO, he texted back. WE'RE STILL AT IT.

I asked what they were doing.

I CAN'T TELL YOU.

I told him okay, parked, and went to Kelly's. One good thing about small towns is that there is no shortage of friendly local bars. Everyone at Kelly's was interested in my situation.

Kicked out by the kid, eh? said a lady with a neck tattoo. You'll find peanut butter on the ceiling when you get home.

I will?

Oh yeah. He's having a party, depend on it. Peanut butter everywhere.

Her tattoo was a snake. It wriggled when she swallowed.

YOU DONE YET? I texted Ed.

NO! 5 MINS! he texted back.

I finished my beer nervously, thinking of him armed with a jar of Kraft crunchy. I texted that I was on my way. AND WHAT IS PEANUT BUTTER SIT'N? I added.

WHAT? he texted back.

NOTHING. C U SOON.

I heard the noise from the street outside. Giggles, screams. I pushed open my door and went upstairs, calling out in a loud voice. I did NOT want to interrupt anything.

There was a gaggle of girls on the upstairs landing, all variations on a theme of blonde, bouncy, long-nailed and flip flopped. They pointed down the hall.

What is it? I asked.

Check out what we did to Ed, said the blondest and giggliest.

Now do you see why I wanted privacy? he said.

Well well well, I said.

My boy was sporting the shortest haircut I had ever seen that was still a haircut and not a head shave. It made him look -- my heart turned over -- old. (Old for 17 that is.) Three of his friends had had it done too. I congratulated them all, and told them it was a fine way to start the summer. Shortly afterwards they all left in a group, still giggling. A super cute picture.

The only peanut butter in the place is in the jar. But for the last couple days I have been coming across tufts of hair. Not on the ceiling, maybe, but everywhere else.

serve and protect

2010-06-24T07:14:00.009-05:00

I am not going to get on a soapbox and talk about G20 and G8 and what a ridiculous amount of time and money and care Toronto is wasting. Security forces pulled in from across the country, closing of streets for motorcades, evacuation of buildings, the uprooting of saplings which might be used as weapons ... it's like having the Olympics, only instead of Shaun White and Jonathan Toews we get Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono and Angela Merkel. And we never get to see them perform.

No, I am not going to rant about that. I am instead going to share a moment I had the other day, walking through a downtown parkette. It was late afternoon, with a gray sky beginning to lighten. I was inhaling that most wonderful and evocative of smells -- rain on hot pavement -- while I strolled from the St Lawrence market to Queen Street. I did not have an umbrella because I am a straight middle aged casual kind of guy (the who carries an umbrella discussion will have to wait) but it didn't really matter because it was barely raining.

Anyway, the parkette is about an acre of grass and shrubs with one of those old timey wooden bandstands in the middle -- about right for a brass quartet to serenade weekend picnickers, or a couple of hobos to catch a night's sleep. There were no musicians or streeters there when I walked past. Instead, the thing was full of cops. Must have been twenty of them -- a variety of ranks and uniforms crammed under the overhang. They'd come in out of the rain from wherever they had been patrolling. And now they were peering out at the city they were sworn to protect, while the rain dripped around them.

The scene was so ludicrous I had to laugh. How much are we spending on security for this summit? A billion dollars? Something like that. I walked past the bandstand, laughing out loud, wishing I had a camera.

Is there an upside? At the London G20 summit cops charged into a crowd of peaceful demonstrators. That's the picture up there -- a very ugly scene indeed. This kind of brutality is unlikely to happen in Toronto, as long the protesters take advantage of rainy days.

dirty me

2010-06-17T19:45:00.004-05:00

I feel dirty. Nothing to do with any kind of bodily abuse -- food, sex, drugs, exercise. This is a soul kind of stain. For the last few month or so, reviews have been coming in for the new book. I do not read reviews when they arrive. I compile a file and ignore it. But I can not ignore it any longer. My blog guy and publishers say I have to put the reviews on the website. This website.

So for most of today I have been forcing myself to read about myself. On and on and more and more, and all about me. Talk about your wankfest.

I hate bad reviews. Whether they are smartly or stupidly written, whether they make a good point or persistently miss the point I am trying to make, I hate 'em. Reviews that begin, Scrimger's disappointing new book ... or Until now I have always enjoyed Scrimger's sense of humour ... or I can not understand how Scrimger ... Yuck. I want to take these critics and throw them, collectively, off of a high place so that they land on something sharp.

But, see, I don't really like good reviews either. Scrimger is wonderful ... I think Scrimger is the best writer now .... Scrimger's brilliance is unmistakable ... (actually there aren't any reviews that begin this way, but you get what I mean). These reviews are not AS bad as the stinkers, but they are still kind of cringe-making to read.

Well, it's over now. Bleah. I have combed through the file, picked out the interesting and positive bits, and put them on the Me & Death page. Maybe I should give you guys -- you blog readers -- the real deal, and include the sentences that were not so positive. Maybe I will, at that. But not now. It's been a long dirty day. I'll have a bath in a moment, and feel cleaner.

breathing lessons

2010-06-05T05:41:00.007-05:00

When the bad guys lock Groucho in the bathroom in Duck Soup, he cries something like: Let me out of here! Let me out -- or throw in a magazine! I too like to read in the bathroom. I am not picky as to material -- romance novels, comic books, fine print on the back of prescription bottles, whatever. There's something about literature that concentrates my mind and lets my bowels think for themselves. This may be more information than you need to know about me, and I apologize for the visual, but it is germane to our discussion. Yesterday I was in a staff bathroom at a Lindsay elementary school, and I found I had come in without anything to read. My eyes went round the room looking for something -- anything -- with words on it. And I noticed I sign taped to the mirror. HOW TO WASH YOUR HANDS, it said.

You've seen the sign before, and so had I. In school bathrooms, doctor's offices, various public buildings. That's it up there, a series of diagrams with captions underneath, a short little safety comic strip on the subject of hand washing. I'd never read it. I know how to do this, I had always thought. Now, in dire need of something to help me pass the, well, the time, I did read the whole thing, top to bottom, poring over each diagram (why bar soap and not liquid), analysing each phrase (Backs of hands, Between fingers).
And of course I found that I'd been doing it wrong. Not all wrong -- I mean, I had the right body parts. But subtly, dangerously wrong. Not enough attention to detail. Not enough time. Not enough care. Oh dear, I thought. For decades I have been putting myself in danger of infection. If only I had been stuck in a bathroom without literature back in my teens or twenties! Think how much safer my life would have been.

I resolved to change my ways. This time, I followed the instructions to the letter. Step 1, Step 2 .... I took time. I took care. I paid attention to detail. When I finally emerged from the bathroom, using a paper towel on the doorknob, my host librarian had a quizzical smile on her face.
You okay? she asked.
You bet, I answered. More than okay!
We thought you had got lost in there or something.
I laughed. You wouldn't believe what I was doing! I said.
Her face fell, and she changed the subject.

On my way home that afternoon, I noticed a store front. THE WALKING ROOM. I've passed it a thousand times, but never paid attention. The Walking Room.
I thought I knew how to walk, but now ... I wonder ...

way to go, wozniak

2010-05-28T21:17:00.005-05:00

Whence loyalty? There I was on the goose-stepping machine at the Y, preparing my body for bathing suit season and catching up on my sports watching. Channel 24 had the NBA semi finals, Boston and Orlando in the second quarter. During commercials I clicked up to the French Open, and watched two women I had never heard of. I found myself disliking the brownette, a shorter chunkier woman with an awkward style. She had a habit of punching the air when she won a point, and reacted with disgust when she lost. Most of the time she wore a mean, grumpy, almost piggy expression. The lighter blonde by contrast was tall, slim, graceful, calm, mature, taking good fortune and bad with a small smile. They were in the decisive third set, the darker woman up by a break. Oh, well, I thought, and switched back to basketball.

When I returned to tennis, the blonde had caught up, but I was not pleased. I was horrified. Horrified, I tell you. The screen showed the full names of the players, and it turned out that the light blonde was seeded 5th or 6th, which made the brownette a serious underdog. I always like to cheer for the underdog. And she was Canadian! A Canuck doing well in the French Open. Instantly -- absolutely instantly -- my loyalty did a 180. And not just my loyalty. My whole perception of the two women changed. The Canadian was a feisty player, I saw now, with a lot of moxie and enthusiasm. She really got into the game. That's her in the picture -- don't you love her energy! The languid lifeless bland blonde princess type was hardly worthy of being in the same court. I hated that smug little smile of hers, the same way I loved the pugnacious battling grimace of the Canadian. Come on! I found myself saying out loud, as I stepped fascistically into the red zone of cardio-fitness. Come on!

I would not have called myself a strong nationalist. My heart does not beat faster at the thought of Wayne Gretzky or Terry Fox or Tommy Douglas or Margaret Atwood (well, maybe Tommy Douglas, that sexy prairie socialist). And yet the little icon on the TV set next to the name -- the red and white maple leaf -- had me cheering for a woman I had never heard of playing a sport I don't usually watch.

The girl on the machine beside me was watching the same thing on her TV set. She smiled over at me. Isn't she great! she said.

Oh yes, I said. I've been a fan for almost a minute now.

the big sleep

2010-05-24T08:58:00.006-05:00

Thea and I were at a trendy/shlocky Kensington Market gift store the other day, buying a birthday present for a seven year old boy. (If you are interested, the Potato Gun -- a classic -- is still around, and still a winner.) We overheard a question from the next booth that made me stare, and her gag.

Do you have any children's chopsticks?

I peered around the corner. A couple of thirtysomethings, stylishly underdressed, with a young child between them, were examining a pair of regular chopsticks.

Marlowe here is too small for these, said the woman, but it's important to learn to eat with them, don't you think?

I thought she was kidding, but no. She was serious. She wanted little Marlowe -- at 4 years old or whatever -- to learn to eat with special chopsticks. I couldn't help thinking back to my own kids who, at that age, considered utensils of any kind a needless sophistication. Sometimes they didn't even use their hands, just dived in face first.

The man on the other side of Marlowe nodded earnestly. We saw them on the internet, he said.

The saleslady was cool. She did not snicker. Did not bat an eye. Just said she was sorry, and the couple left with Marlowe between them, hand in hand in hand.

When I got home I checked, and sure enough there are kids' chopsticks out there. They even have pet names: Smiling Sunshine Chopsticks, White Bunny Chopsticks, Little Chick Chopsticks ... Little eaters can use all your help when it comes to making mealtime fun and fulfilling, says the tag.

I sighed, thinking of poor Marlowe's future -- the teasing, the therapy, the unhappy relationships. He might get a gig as a Chinese restaurant stunt double, but that's small recompense for a dismal childhood. Would he ever know the feeling of power you got when you held a loaded Potato Gun?

two takes

2010-05-21T19:49:00.007-05:00

Home from Paris now, and to answer your questions, Yes, we did get up to the top of the Eiffel Tower. It was the last day, and we woke up extra early. By the time we reached the Champs de Mars, long long lines were already snaking all over the base of the tower. Imo was worried when I took out the camera to snap her standing there.

Is this going to be another one of those funny vacation picture of what we didn't see? she asked.

Don't worry, I said. We aren't leaving now.

I took plenty of pictures from the top of the tower, though. In almost every direction there was some landmark we had not got to. My vacation travelogue will have plenty of material.

There was an interesting moment as we were packing. CNN in the background was talking about the ash cloud from the unpronounceable volcano delaying flights and closing airports in England, Ireland, France. The two kids turned to me at once, their faces frozen for a second like the old Greek theater masks in the picture here.

Ed's was the tragedy mask. Horrified, lost, deeply sad. What if we're stuck here? he said.

Imo's was the comedy mask. Beautiful, hopeful, sparkling. Oddly enough she said the same thing as her brother. What if we're stuck here? she cried.

one girl's dream

2010-05-15T17:07:00.008-05:00

I am writing from Paris, city of love and tourists. Pleqse excuse my typing on this keyboard:: it's enough to get by but not as good as I'd like -- kind of like my French.

Ed and Imo and I have seen a couple of the big things, but missed some too because Ed does not do line ups. Notre Dame? Non. Musee D'Orsay? Pas du tout. Pompidou Centre? Quel horreur. But we have watched jugglers and other very cool Parisians, climbed on top of walls and guns, zoomed around on the metro, and drunk many cups of coffee and glasses of beer.

Ed's favorite moments so far include the crippled accordionist at the Pasteur metro station, (Did you watch his fingers, Dad? He was Super Fast!) and wandering around Invalides (That is one big ass tomb, eh?) His life ambition right now veers between these two role models -- he wants to be really good street musician, or Naploeon.

Imo's aim seems simpler. She wants to get to the top of the Eiffel Tower. But will it happen? I don't know. Every vacation the kids and I fail to see something, and take a picture outside it to mark our failure. Two years ago I took a picture of them outside the Empire State Building (the line ups were around the block and Ed balked). Last year it was Fenway Park (scalper prices for a yankee game were enough to make me gag).

This year, said Imo on the airplane, can we NOT take a picture at the bottom of the Eiffel Tower?

We'll see, I said. And then the first day the crowds were horrendous. We have not been back. Tomorrow is our last chance . . .

I'll keep you posted.

be prepared

2010-05-03T05:51:00.005-05:00

What comes to mind when you think boy scout? A neckerchiefed, good-conduct-badged apple-seller? The old-lady-helper-across-the-street? All I recall from my own experience with the organization (I was a scout for three weeks) is standing in the gym, holding out my hands for a fingernail check. (Yup, a middle aged guy inspecting a hundred boys' fingernails. Creepy even for a scoutmaster. And that's saying something.)

Don't worry -- I have nothing sordid to reveal. My point was that our scoutmaster was very keen on cleanliness not for its own sake but because it meant you were prepared. He shouted that motto out at us every week after inspection. Be prepared! he said. With clean hands you can take on the world! (I know. I know.) Later, when I had kids of my own, I heard an echo of my scoutmaster in my son Ed. It took me approximately skady-eight trips to load the van for a simple weekend vacation. Then I kept having to run back into the house for stuff I had forgot. When we were finally ready to go, and I couldn't start the van because the keys were sitting on my dresser, I started to laugh. Ed frowned at me from his booster seat. Dad, he said, I have three words for you: Plan. A. Head.

So yesterday I saw a kid roller blading down Division Street in Cobourg, and wanted to applaud. Talk about planning a head. The kid -- he would have been fourteen, I guess -- carried a hockey stick and a baseball bat, and had a skateboard sticking out of his backpack. Be prepared for fun! I wasn't close enough to check the state of his fingernails, but I felt sure that my old scoutmaster would approve.

fruit in a bag

2010-05-02T18:22:00.007-05:00

Quickie, as I am in the middle of revising and rethinking. (I have zombies on my mind, also a world where everything is upside down.) I was at the YMCA the other day, working out on one of those machines that forces you to step high and often. Good for the heart and gluteal muscles, bad for the self image because you look like a Nazi.

I was flicking through the TV channels trying to find sports. I don't have headphones, so I watch with no sound, and sports is best. I'm not picky about what sport I am watching, as long as I can follow what is going on. I'll watch anything to take my mind off my sweating painful goose-stepping body. Anything? you ask. Anything. I have watched golf, curling, tennis. I have watched darts, snooker, bowling. I have watched poker. Poker, people. I have no pride at all.

Anyway, I was doing okay this time because there was a baseball game on, and the score was close. (For a Jays fan, a close game is all you can ask for.) And then we cut to a commercial about growing tomatoes in a bag. Have you seen this ad? Apparently you hang the bag on a hook, and water it, and the tomatoes grow out the bottom. That's one of them in the picture there.

The ad showed some quotes from satisfied customers. My favorite was from a couple who had written in to say that: One tomato was enough for both of us! Really. That was the quote. At first I thought it was a joke -- I mean, one edamame would be enough to last me my whole life. But no, there was a picture of the couple with their arms around each other, smiling at their tomato bag. I pictured them setting the table, lighting the candles, pouring the wine, then sitting down earnestly to try to get through the tomato. Made me laugh out loud. I was still smiling when we returned to the game. The Jays gave up back to back to back singles to start the inning, and my good humour died away.

watching the snake channel

2010-04-23T05:18:00.006-05:00

Here I am in Ottawa, teaching at a cool children's writing workshop called MASC. The kids in the classroom are funny and excited, the hospitality suite is always full of food and drink, and I get a "shadow" -- a volunteer who follows me around and takes care of all my small personal needs (mostly more coffee).
It's the closest I come to being a real teacher. I am used to standing in front of a gymful of screamers (or worse, yawners), and trying to entertain them for an hour. This is different. The kids are quiet; the notebooks are open; they want to learn. I open my mouth, and they lean forward, pencils poised. Quite intimidating, let me tell you. Because I have no real wisdom to impart. I can not teach them to become writers in a day. I am a fraud.
Thank heavens for my shadow. She takes attendance, shows the way to the bathrooms, and gives the whole thing a veneer of professionalism. She's much more of a teacher than I am. I just tell stories. There's one about me losing my bathing suit; another about a pet turtle who went for a walk.
One story yesterday was about a girl who sat on her own birthday cake. The kids laughed, and asked what happened next. Well, what do you think should happen? I said. And they suggested different things. Maybe her pants caught on fire, said one. Hey, that's good, I said. We followed that storyline along for a bit until we had the girl (whose name, we decided, was Iphigenia -- like I said, these are intimidating kids) falling in love with the son of a firefighter, and turning a backyard swimming pool into a place where they could play with their pet snakes.
So what do you want to call the story? I asked.
What story?
The one we just made about Iphigenia, I said.
But that isn't a real story, they said. That was a bunch of goofy lies.
Welcome to my world, I told them.

no worries

2010-04-16T07:48:00.008-05:00

I drove Ed to school the other day, which I haven't done in a while. We were in no hurry for once -- I was early. So we got a chance to chat. I like time in the car with my kids. It's special time, separate from real life time - - a kind of lazy emotional backwater away from daily stress. This was a gray morning with a bit of light rain, and we were stopped on Ontario Street, waiting for a freight train to pass, talking about -- I don't know what. Fractions, friends, snack foods, that kind of thing. Not memorable but important. It started to rain harder. To pour rain, in fact. I turned to Ed, who was dressed for sunny Southern California.
You want an umbrella? I said. I think I have one in the trunk.
Nah, I'm okay, he said.

I couldn't help thinking back a generation, to conversations with my parents. On a day like this one, there was no way I would have got out of the house without looking like the kid in the picture there. My parents worried -- bless them, they really cared -- if I was dressed to deal with the weather. Snow boots, rain coats, sensible shoes ... I can not tell you how many hours I spent banging my head against the cement wall of their concern. If I didn't wear a raincoat I'd get wet, which would lead to a cold, which could turn serious enough to keep me out of school on the day we were doing something important, and I'd never really catch up or understand the subject, and maybe fail that year. And so my university career -- my entire life -- would be in jeopardy because I did not wear a raincoat. I am not making this up. My parents and I did indeed have these discussions.

A generation later I am not worried about Ed's lack of rain protection. I never have been, really. I don't worry if he's wet or cold or late coming home. I don't care if he watches a lot of TV, or eats cereal for dinner. He'll be fine. Am I smarter than my parents? Not hardly. See, there's always going to be something to worry about. Life is worry. I worry about Ed all the time: will he be happy? Will he get a chance to do what he wants to do in life? Thing is, I can't solve these problems. My parents worried: will he be wet? And that problem they could solve.

The train was a super long one, and by the time it passed and the barriers lifted, I was back in normal commuting mode -- that is, late. With the wipers going full blast I tore up Ontario Street and skidded around the corner onto Elgin.
Take it easy, Dad, said Ed.

s'marvellous

2010-04-09T07:03:00.004-05:00

The picture over there is called Hope. I have to say, it doesn't really work for me. You can find it on the web at mentalhealth.net. The doctor on the site has analyzed Obama's psychology of hope, MLK's psychology of faith, and will help you break the texting-driving habit.

I got way more hope from my last conversation with Sam. He woke me up with a midnight phone call a few days ago.
Just want you to know I'm working hard, Dad, he said. Got the first eight words of my three-thousand-word essay.
I laughed. First eight, huh? That's good.
Oh yeah. I'm almost, like, halfway there.
Almost. When's the essay due?
Tomorrow.
Oh.
Midnight, tomorrow.
Oh, well then.
I got lots of time, Dad. Pot of coffee should do it. I'll call you in the morning, tell you how I'm doing.
He hung up. I smiled into the darkness, and let myself sink back into sleep.

mystery unexplained

2010-04-08T06:28:00.003-05:00

Electricity is funny stuff. I was in the bathroom just now (I know, I know -- you do not need all these personal details) and the fluorescent vanity light over the sink came on. The bulb died about a year ago. I replaced it about six months ago, and it worked for a bit, and then quit. And I shrugged and forgot about it. The overhead bulb worked. I do not need to see my blemishes in vivid detail when I shave. But there I was this morning, and the darn thing flickered a couple of times and came on. Huh, I thought, and continued what I was doing.

Can you imagine feeling that casually about the performance of anything that was not electric? If you squeezed your accordion and no sound came out, and then a month later it did, you'd think that was strange, wouldn't you? If your sunglasses didn't block the sunlight very well, and then you tried them on another time, and they worked perfectly ... See my point? If your brother-in-law got a job, you'd be delighted. If your kid started bringing home Fs, you'd be worried. If Dr Seuss stopped rhyming, you'd think you were going crazy. But what do you do when your toaster fails? Or your radio? You tap the appliance a couple of times (don't try that with your brother-in-law unless he's much smaller than you) and then sigh and have cereal or conversation.

No biggie, here. Electricity is weird, that's all I'm saying. I didn't really miss my fluorescent bathroom light when it was gone. But I plan to enjoy it for as long as it's back. A mysterious gift.

this is us 2

2010-04-06T06:36:00.005-05:00

Great day to be outside yesterday. Warm, sunny, tree branches thick with buds. Walking to tennis (we play on public courts near a schoolyard, not quite as decrepit as the picture, but close) we passed a street blocked off with yellow tape, fire trucks and cop cars. A power line had come down, and they were securing the area before hydro crews came in. We chatted with the crowd, who were out there enjoying themselves. It was their street without power, but no one seemed to mind all. For now it was a definite non-emergency. Maybe it was the weather -- sunshine is a solvent, absorbing human angst.

Strangely one-sided tennis game. Mir and I play pretty level, but for some reason my shots caught the uneven bits of the court yesterday, bouncing at weird angles, and my backhand, usually a high-stakes gamble, turned into a certainty. Poor girl was completely unable to cope (this is all by the way, but you don't get many opportunities to brag and I believe in taking advantage). While we were playing, our attention wandered to an old couple who were walking across the grassy schoolyard. I don't mean old like me or you, or your parents. These were ancients -- he could have been ninety or more, and she could have been his mom -- hunched, hirsute, peering, plaid-wearing lizard people, who looked like they were outside for the first time since last October. She had two ski poles to keep her balance, and moved about as fast as an hour hand. Old age can be very disturbing (last time I was in the hospital I saw a geezer in a gurney, scared and witless and alone, and I thought -- Don't ever let me end up here) but I found this scene in the schoolyard very moving. Kicking against the darkness.

Later, sitting at an outdoor cafe as the sun went down, I found myself remembering that couple. When a taxi door opened in front of me, and a dapper elderly gent (hat, coat, suit, cane) emerged slowly, and reached back to help his friend out, Mir grabbed my arm, and I knew she was thinking the same thing.

word watch

2010-03-26T05:06:00.007-05:00

I saw Kevin Smith on TV the other day, calling something gay, And I don't mean gay in the cool cocksucking way, he said. More in the very lame way.

Apropros of which, I had an interesting moment on streetcar yesterday. I was sitting in the middle of the mostly empty car, early evening, when a group of kids came on. Kids meaning maybe high-school seniors. Young adults, almost. Large, toughish looking, male. And I found myself smiling broadly as I listened to their conversation. They were talking, with the unself-conscious volume of the young en masse, or the slightly drunk, about a mutual friend named Derek.

(Hey, should it be un-selfconscious? Now that I've written that out it looks wrong, but so does unself-conscious.)

So did you know, said one of the young men, pronouncing it didja -- Didja know that Derek is into dudes?

What? said another.

I mean dudes. He's not into chicks. He's, like, totally into dudes.

Whaddaya mean? said the other guy. He had a higher whiny voice.

Well I was at a party and Derek was there too, and he was totally like hugging this other dude.

So what? said the third guy. Lot of dudes hug each other. Doesn't have to mean anything.

Sure, said the second guy. You see it all the time.

Well, they were like hugging and kissing, said the first guy. I was getting a drink at the party, and Derek and this guy were, like, making out.

Big pause.

Huh, said the second guy, stretching it out. Huuu-uuuh. (No idea where to put the hypen.)

Yeah, said another guy. Who would have guessed that, eh?

I know, said the first guy. I was going to whack him on the shoulder and say, Derek! I didn't know you were into dudes. But I didn't. I didn't want to ... you know ...

Bust in? said the third guy.

Yeah. What if he was embarrassed or something?

What if he kissed you? said the second guy.

And they all laughed.

There was an older -- meaning my age -- woman sitting across from me on the streetcar. She and I shared a smile at all this. At my high school, she said in a low voice, those boys were the kind that would have beaten Derek up. I nodded. My high school too. Not that Derek would have been hugging another dude at any party I ever went to.

Mine was the next stop. I waited by the middle doors. The guys were lounging all over the seats at the back of the streetcar, discussing Avatar in derisive tones. A totally gay movie, they agreed.

this is us

2010-03-20T05:53:00.005-05:00

I am not a scientist. Those guys are interested in the truth -- they want to know what things are. As a teller of stories, I want to know what things are like. A picture, rather than a definition. And I came across the best analogy or picture of the human condition the other day. I didn't know whether to laugh or shudder.

I was talking to a friend who grew up in a farm community, and she was describing how country kids learn to drive early. Tractors, cars, whatever. At ten years old, she said, her brother Stevie would spend the weekend perched high in the cab of a gigantic combine harvester, moving with calm precision up and down the north field, perfectly happy to be in charge of a quarter-million dollar machine. Except, she said, when it came to the hedge at the top of the field. Stevie would always speed up when he got there, and steer a little wild, because he was afraid that the hedge was haunted, and that ghosts would leap out at him as he drove by.

It's a great picture, isn't it? This boy driving a super-powerful machine, so in charge of things, so competent, so grown up -- except that he is just a little kid inside, and still afraid of ghosts. Reminds me of, well, all of us.

what the well-dressed boy is wearing ...

2010-03-11T07:09:00.007-05:00

One of my favorite high school friends was a guy we called Crazy John. He wasn't athletic or school smart, not artistic or good with girls -- but he had weird ideas and didn't care what anyone thought. He made me laugh. One day he wore all his clothes inside out, for no reason at all. I just wanted to, he said. He took True and False tests according to his own mood, marking every question the same way -- When I'm feeling good I believe everything, he said.

I haven't thought about John in a long time. I don't know if he went on to become a circus performer, or an accountant, or a manufacturer of prosthetic limbs (I don't know how that became the middle path - it just popped into my head). Whichever road he took, I hope he is treading it with the same fine disregard for convention. I hope he is still making people laugh.

What brings him to mind now Ed's friend Drake. Drake seems to have the same kind of kind of what-the-hell attitude as Crazy John. Most of the Drake stories have to do with fashion -- always a key question for teens. He loves wearing unlikely things, just because. I've heard about mullets and dress hankies and wing tips -- but the latest is the weirdest. Guess what Drake is going to wear this summer? Ed asked me yesterday. He's found a look and he's going to rock it as soon as the weather gets better.

I tried to think of the most outre thing.
Knee socks? I said. Sandals and knee socks and Bermuda shorts? (Flashback to grandpa at the beach 1979: add zinc sunblock and a porkie hate and a roll-your-own cigarette. Who knew the old guy was so cool! )
Even better, said Ed.
I shook my head. I gave up.
Baggy shorts, said Ed, flip flops, cheap sunglasses and ... he paused ... a bullet-proof vest.
I had to laugh.
What? How did he --
I don't know, said Ed. But somehow he scored a bullet-proof vest , and he is going to keep it on all summer long. No shirt, just the vest.
I laughed some more.
Does he think girls will like it? I asked. Or boys? Or anyone?
He doesn't care, said Ed. He's Drake.
So he is.

star-crossed student

2010-03-08T07:16:00.004-05:00

Can you be proud and ticked off at the same time? About the same person? One of Ed's courses this semester is some kind of human history or sociology. (In my day we would have called it Man In Society. Ah, the 1970s.) As Ed tells it, the course so far entails watching Schindler's List and The Miracle of Life, and then writing an essay based on racist/sexist/age-ist slogans which the students have drawn from a hat. (Ah, the 2010s)

Anyway, the point is that Ed's teacher is insisting that the essays have bibilographies written in formal style. You know the one -- Shakespeare, William. Romeo and Juliet. London: WeirdManga Press, 1595 or whatever. (It's been a while since I have written a formal essay. Or paid attention to a bibliography, come to think of it.) And Ed can't understand why.

It's driving me crazy! he told me yesterday, marching up and down my bedroom, gesticulating wildly. Why can't we just say the title and the author? Why do we have to memorise some stupid style? Backwards, comma, colon, brackets! It's stupid.

I smiled. Yes, it is.

I asked the teacher why we had to do it that way, and she said because everyone does it that way. I hate that kind of reasoning.

Good for you, I said.

I'm not going to do it, he said. The teacher told us that if we didn't put the bibliography the right way she'd dock us five marks, but I am not going to do it.

Um, I said.

What does it matter, so long as you can read it? Rules are stupid.

Stopping at a red light is a rule, I said. And it's not stupid.

Sure, he said. Traffic rules make sense. But bibliography rules don't. Rules that are there only because we have always done it that way -- that's dumb.

I told him that I understood and agreed. But you have to pick your battles, I said. Is this the one you want to go to the mat on? Bibliography rules? Sometimes it's easier to suck it up and go along. Write the bibliography the right way, and save five marks.

He folded his arms. Never!

So Ed is going to stick to his principles, and get a lower mark on his essay, and I am going to feel proud of him -- but that's not all I'll feel.

who do you think I am?

2010-03-03T05:27:00.004-05:00

Funny thing came over the email yesterday. No, not the video of the barking baby or the bear driving the tractor. This was an offer sent out of the blue to be -- get this -- my assistant. I am not making it up. A young guy wanted to intern for me, that is, to work for me for free.
Isn't that great? His name wasn't Steve, but that's what I'll call him. Steve told me he was an English major, interested in writing for children. He thought he'd be able to learn from me, watching what I did, helping me with back-up work for the next six months. I laughed heartily, then emailed him back asking him to outline what he conceived to be his duties. I was fascinated at what he thought authors like me needed by way of an assistant. (Maybe I subconsciously pictured him like Ann there in the TV show I have never heard of.)
Opening mail, he replied. Answering letters. Mailing manuscripts, faxing replies to speaking engagements. That sort of thing.
Wonderful, Steve! I wrote back. But working for me, those duties would take you until lunch on the first day. The rest of the six months would pass awfully slowly.
I was being facetious, but only partly. A writing life involves frowning at the screen for much of the day. Typing a page or two or three. Worrying. Drinking lots of coffee. That's the bread and butter of it. Steve couldn't really do that for me. He wanted the jam of the writing life -- the bits that get you out of the house. I love visiting the post office and the fax place. Hey, I love buying groceries. It's a break from the darn computer.
So I turned Steve down -- not without regret, because he seemed like a nice guy, and I was sure we'd get along. I suggested he find a successful kids' writer. The kind who gets a hundred fan letters a day. Who has a publicist and a lawyer and a collection of snuff boxes. Who puts on a dinner jacket or long gown to speak to people a few times a week. I'm not that guy, I said. You want Rowling or Snickett, the Wimpy Kid or Lightning Thief. I already have one employee working pretty much for free, I said. I can't afford another one.

keen on Nimes

2010-02-22T08:23:00.007-05:00

Back from Europe now, full of wine and cheese and memories. My in-basket was full too, and I have been busy separating sheep from goats, email-wise. So far, lots of goats. Who was it whose conversation was as two grains of wheat buried in a bushel of chaff? I know how his wife must have felt. (Is spam seasonal? For a while there I was getting lots of chances to improve my sexual performance -- Ladies Want You To Be A Tiger In The Bedroom! though presumably not like the one pictured. Now I seem to have won the lottery every time I turn around. Sex and money, yin and yang.)

One last comment about Europe, and then I will get back to my present life. Here's my favorite line in the guidebook: Nimes, a flourishing town under Roman occupation, underwent a long period of decline before rebounding under its current mayor to become a thriving centre for tourism and the arts. Long period is right. The Romans were there in AD 200.

I just love the idea of an eighteen hundred year decline. The good citizens of Nimes were in no hurry to turn their economic ship around. The place drifted through the dark ages, middle ages, renaissance, reformation, industrial revolution ... and the town council kept saying, You know, we really should do something about this decline of ours. The Age of Enlightenment is passing us by. What we need is some new ideas! And then they'd break for lunch and a nap, and let the town go a little bit more to seed. It's like a kid who gets an A+ in music in grade one, has huge plans, and finally gets her act together and puts out a cd on her 80th birthday.

Anyway, Nimes is a charming place now, with a well-maintained coliseum in the middle of town, where you can experience bullfighting one day and Leonard Cohen the next. Ole and Allelulia, blood and transfiguration -- another example of yin and yang.

old world charm

2010-02-14T18:41:00.004-05:00

Bye, Geneva, hello south of France. The thing about Europe is that it is -- follow me closely here -- old. Meaning that people have been building there for a long time. And some of those buildings are still around. When you come to my place I will send directions like: get off the 401 highway at Cobourg, come down the main drag and turn right at King Street. Driving to my friend Isabel's in the south part of France, I read directions like: turn left at the 12th century church, (seriously, like the one here) ... go around the monastery wall and over the bridge by the mill. I felt like I was in a Walter Scott novel, waiting for the Black Knight.

I was not driving, by the way. All the cars in France are infected with clutches, and I gave up after I stalled three times getting out of the parking spot at the rental agency. Thank heavens Mir likes to drive standard, or we'd still be there.

So I got to read the directions and enjoy the elderly scenery -- the renaissance castles and Roman corn chandleries and medieval insurance offices and so on. I pointed them out to Mir, who was trying to dodge the French. Their roads are built chariot-wide, but the people in their cars and trucks take them as fast as we do ours, and there is a fair amount of deking and diving and swearing and fist-shaking. Mir interrupted my historical commentary at regular intervals to tell me to glare at a particular car as we passed on a roundabout. Call the driver something awful, she would say, and I would roll down my window and yell, Son of a bridge! and Species of pastry shop! and other French epithets.

Isabel and her husband Bob live in a quiet dream of beauty, with their own olive grove, and the 12th century church and millstream visible from their sun-warmed terrace. A bottle of the local wine was on the table when we arrived -- another thing the Europeans (French especially) have been doing for a long time.

the kids are all right

2010-02-09T22:52:00.004-05:00

A street scene to restore my faith in the Swiss as a nation. Walking past a school in the Paquis (a slightly scruffy part of Geneva -- which means the sidewalks are very clean but not actually polished) at 15:45 or so local time I was pleased to hear children giggling. Rounding the corner I came upon a knot of them -- boys and girls maybe ten years old, wearing uniforms which had been artfully untucked and unbuttoned, in the manner of schoolkids the world over. They were spelling a word aloud to each other, boys and then girls, letter by letter, gasping and snickering after each letter. They finished the word as I reached them, and burst into an explosion of giggles.

The word was -- well, you can guess the kind of word it was. In every country (except Ireland for some reason -- I nearly choked on my beer once, hearing a proper looking woman bellow it out) , a word teachers would disapprove of.

The kids shut up when they saw me, but as soon as I was past them the giggles returned, louder than ever, and they began another word. The ghosts of Calvin and Zwingli were turning in their graves, but I smiled all the way back to the hotel.

swiss hit and miss

2010-02-08T22:00:00.003-05:00

So here we are in beautiful downtown Geneva, where the keyboard looks a bit different and my typing speed suffers (and it was in a fair amount of pain to begin with). I have seen the Mont Blanc. I have eaten fondue. I have wandered the streets of the old town, where John Calvin himself frowned and shook his head at things back in the 16th century. And I have hung out with a bunch of thoughtful and interested anglos (American, British, Australian and yes Canadian) who live in or near here. And I have yet to find anyone who can tell me much about the Swiss national character. What are the stereotypes? Chocolate, cuckoo clocks, banking, neutrality, Heidi. My daughter told me to bring her back a watch or an army knife. Add these up and it all sounds kind of charming.

Then I heard about the Swiss noise rules. If you live in an apartment block you can't flush a toilet late at night. Forbidden. Too noisy. And by late at night I am talking 10: 30. You can't even pee standing up. An American who has lived in the same building for ten years got her mail service interrupted when her name plate fell off her mailbox. A week went by and she asked her letter carrier what was going on. His reply: Your name is not on your mailbox.

But you know me! she said. You see me all the time.

He shrugged. But your name is not on the box.

So I get a sense of an uptight rule-ridden people.

Then I spoke to another ex-pat who informed me that that noise rule is all hokum -- something they like to fool tourists with. Apparently Switzerland has relaxed laws on euthanasia and drug use, and some sections of Zurich are very reminiscent of Amsterdam. And just today I was told by a native that the Mont Blanc I have been admiring is not the right mountain. Mont Blanc has been behind cloud all week. We tell Americans that that one is Mont Blanc so they can go home happy, she said, pointing at something that did not look like the picture here.

So now I am trying to reconcile the gemutlich Swiss stereotype with the repressive one, and adding a streak of mischievious deception. This tourist will go home confused.

swiss mission

2010-02-03T14:58:00.003-05:00

Real fast now, because the taxi is waiting. I am finished the zombie book. Wa-hoo. And I like it!

And am now off to teach in Switzerland. Yup, I am sure my hotel will have a view just like the picture here. I foresee fun and fondue in my future. I don't know if there will be any other causes for alliteration.

I'll try to post a couple times, pointing out random curiosities of the world's neatest neutrals.

Geneva, here we come.

knockwurst before entering

2010-01-29T07:00:00.008-05:00

An odd moment last night. What Malcolm Gladwell might call a teeter point (is that the phrase he uses? It doesn't sound right. I have not actually read Mr Gladwell). I was in front of -- also beside and behind and among and surrounded by -- a large group of kids at a school in beautiful Claremont Ontario. It was family literacy night, parents and kids, snow boots and Timbits and cider. And me. I was the entertainment, the keynote, the rocket launcher for the evening. The gym floor was covered with mats for the kids to sit on. They were not sitting. Their ages varied from ten months to twelve years, their behaviour from hyper to uber-hyper (uber meaning super or above, from the German, a language I know about six words of, one of which is uber. Let's see if I can work in zeitgeist). They roiled and bubbled and exploded across the mats, knocking into each other like uranium atoms in the moment before critical mass is reached. When I made a joke, they screamed uproariously, which would have made me feel good except that they also screamed uproariously when I wasn't joking -- sometimes, in fact, when I wasn't speaking at all.

Don't get the feeling that I was hating this. Not at all. I was having a great time. I love kids and energy. I admire parents who can find time after a day at work to drag their kid back to school in the evening. The point I am making has to do with my sense of crowd control.

Normally, I do not try to control my crowd. I enjoy a little bit of chaos. I like to ride it, like a runaway horse, steering the chaos across unfamiliar and scary countryside towards the safety of the home field, and a gentle trot back to the barn.

Last night the chaos was bigger and stronger than usual, a hulking sixteen-hand stallion, and I was almost thrown. My reference to critical mass (see the diagram) was apt -- I was afraid the whole gym was about to explode. I remember pausing in the middle of a joke, with the noise and energy of a hundred moving bodies eddying around me, thinking -- can I DO this? I didn't want to walk away, and have the librarian yell at the kids until they calmed down and the evening became another yucky hour in school. And I certainly didn't want to yell at the kids myself. They weren't my kids. I only yell at my kids. That was my odd moment, my tipping point (Gladwell's phrase has just come back to me. Maybe I should read one of his books). And then I looked out over the sea of arms and legs and wide open mouths and found -- her. An eleven year old girl sitting perfectly still, staring up at me with total attention, drinking in every word. She nodded at me, as if to say, Please go on. And I did. I finished my joke. She laughed appreciatively. So did her girlfriend, sitting beside her. And the boy doing a somersault behind her.

I took a sip of water and carried on. I didn't direct the rest of my talk at this girl, but I did check in with her from time to time. She was my anchor. When I finished speaking I thanked the crowd for their attention. The parents laughed heartily. The kids screamed. I nodded meaningfully at my savior, but by then she was talking to her girlfriend.

Shoot, I never worked in zeitgeist. Maybe just as well. I am not 100% sure what it means.

bye, coach

2010-01-22T08:59:00.004-05:00

Kid memories are amazing. I was driving down Cobourg's main street with Ed the other day, on the way to his music lesson, when he turned very casually and said, So when can you get Miriam's car?
What do you mean? I asked.
Remember when you said that you could probably borrow Miriam's car if I wanted to use it for my driving test?
(Footnote here for those of you without a sixteen-year-old at home. Driving testers -- the guys who sit beside you in the car and make little ticks on the testing form, and have no sense of humour as I know from bitter experience -- unlike the Dutch folks who came up with the picture here -- those guys finished a long strike about a week ago. Ed can finally take his test. He has a date booked next week. Still in the footnote, Ed loves driving my beat-up old Toyota, but it has a crack in the windshield which I will have to get to one of these millenia, and you are not allowed to take your test in a car with a cracked windshield. Miriam's car has no crack. It was, however, in Toronto.)
Yeah, I remember, I said.
Kid memories. The car conversation took place weeks ago. Ed has not called Nana to thank her for his birthday present, and I remind him daily.
Well, I want to try her car.
Okay, I said. I'll ask Miriam.
Can you do it now? I need the car for tomorrow.
What?
The test is Tuesday, so I want to practice now. So can you get the car for me tomorrow?
We were at his music lesson now. Geez, Ed, I said. How about a little lead time? I wasn't going to go to Toronto tomorrow.
But you said you'd do it, Dad.

Well, I'm a sucker for keeping my word, and it was a chance to see Mir again. I picked up the car. After dinner Ed went upstairs to put on my long johns. Odd, I thought.
Okay, ready to go driving? I said.
Nah -- I'm off to Frederico's now, he said.
What?
Yeah. We're going to a movie. I'll see you tomorrow, okay?
But I got the car for you.
That's great! Thanks, Dad. I really appreciate it. But I have to go to the movies now. So we'll go driving tomorrow.
I had a brief nightmare vision of myself putting my foot down, insisting on Ed cancelling his movie with Frederico and practicing his driving NOW. I saw myself sitting beside him as we drove around town. In my vision my lips were pursed and I wore a grim, satisfied expression because I was teaching him ... something.
I shuddered. The nightmare passed.
Hey, how about calling Nana to say thank you?
He was already running downstairs. I'll do it tomorrow, he called over his shoulder. Remind me, okay?

Nothing to do with Ed, but I am feeling kind of bummed. Paul Quarrington died yesterday. One of the good guys.

feeling pleaumb

2010-01-07T01:10:00.005-05:00

Hey, how about this? Just back from a visit to the Rogers store, where I asked a simple question and got an answer. I said: Can you lower my monthly cell phone bill? And the woman said: Sure.

And then she did it. With a few mouse clicks and some keystrokes she saved me something like 200.00 a month on my phone bill. 200.00 a month -- do you know what that means? I could buy five big free-range turkeys with that kind of money. Five big turkeys every month. Think of that. With gas at 1.00 a litre and my car getting 8kms/litre I could drive ... some large number of kilometres, honking merrily. Every month I could do that. Or I could save up for a year and buy a closet full of lightbulbs. As God is my witness I'd never go dark again (unless there was a power outage).

Anyway, I am pleased at my savings. But I am also upset. I waited months and months to get in touch with Rogers. I'd get a huge phone bill and say: I must call these people. And then I wouldn't do it. Inertia gripped me more tightly than a sleeping child. By the neck it gripped me. And then there'd be emergencies (food, lightbulbs, gas) that would distract me from my phone bills. And another month would go by. And the cycle would begin again. If it weren't for Sam's broken cell phone (a four-alarm fire of an emergency) coinciding with a trip to a mall with a Rogers outlet, I wouldn't have been in the store in the first place.

So here I am waiting for this month's bill, feeling pleased and a bit dumb. And if you want to know how I can feel them both at the same time, well, it's easy. I have practice with this pleaumb feeling. (Should it be plumb? Dumeased?) Maybe it's because my sports teams lose all the time. Maybe because I have kids and an ex and an old car. Because I wear thick glasses, and publish books that not everyone likes. Because I am a person. Come on, haven't you felt pleaumb too?

Hey, speaking of books, my new one is coming real soon. Me & Death. There's some reviews out there that I feel pretty darn pleaumb about. If you get hold of a copy, let me know what you think.

stereotypes and truth

2010-01-07T00:17:00.004-05:00

Mention Winnipeg to your typical Ontarian, and the first comment will be about how cold the place is. I think of my family as completely typical, and when they heard I was visiting there for a few days every one of them: kids, parents, brother, sister-in-law, aunt, nephews: said some variant of: Why would you want to go to Winnipeg, Dad (son, bro, nephew, uncle, Richard) ? It's so cold!

I am back now, and I can tell you that the city is sick to death of non-residents talking about how cold it is. Can't you smug Ontario people think of anything else to say? they ask.

Here's my answer: Get over yourself, Winnipeg! Yes, we are smug, but you are a sub-arctic soul-freezing ice drift of a place in the winter. Cold? Of course they are going to notice. Maybe if the pyramids were in Winnipeg, people would talk about them too. But the conversation would go something like: Those pyramids are great, eh! Too bad they are outside in the freaking cold! When you treat visitors to a casual -40 with wind on top, day after day after day, those visitors (unless they be penguins) will be shocked. And if cold is the first and strongest impression of a place, that's how people will describe it. If you were describing Goliath to someone who didn't know him, would you talk about his good taste in sandals? (Goliath? Oh, yeah, you know, that guy from Gath. Dark hair, dark eyes. Needs a shave. Doesn't believe in the God of the Israelites ...) Or would you say: Goliath -- yeah, he's the big guy.

Well, Winnipeg is the cold guy.

Not yet, not yet, a thousand time not yet

2010-01-01T09:43:00.005-05:00

Happy New Year everyone. That's an easier wish than Happy Christmas Chanukah Kwanzaa Divali Solstice. And for those of you who follow a different calendar, Happy New Year when you get to it.

I am so ready for January. I have already thrown out the Christmas tree, eaten the fruit cake, read the new books, exchanged the pants that didn't fit. I am almost done my own zombie book (I can hear my agent saying, Hurry hurry!) and keen to start the next one. And thinking about words that fit and don't fit different languages. This last prompted by one of those dentist office articles. Everyone knows about the Inuit language with twenty different words for snow, but did you know that Gaelic (I can't remember if it was Irish or Scottish -- but that part of the world for sure) has no word for NO. There is, apparently, a word for NOT NOW or NOT YET. And one for NOT ALL. But the simple negative can not be put into one word.

First off, is this true? It doesn't sound likely to me. Have you heard different? Is my dentist's magazine collection letting me down?

And if true, is this weird, or what? I mean in addtion to No, English has the military Negative, and the slangy Nah, Nope, Nix, Not and Nay, and probably a few I can't think of right now. And all these words mean the same thing: the one-word expression of a simple head shake.

It's such a basic part of human interaction. Can the Gaels get by without it? Ethnic stereotypes come tumbling into my mind -- I picture a race perpetually talking around their problems, burying resentment in a colourful drift of words.

Take education. I see a schoolroom where little Seamus puts up his hand to answer 6 + 6 = and when he says, 11, the teacher shakes her head and says, NOT NOW. What about parents? How do they warn children? Just say NOT YET to drugs doesn't really send the message, does it?

And what about babies? What is THE baby word? What do they somehow naturally find themselves saying right after Mama and Dada? What's the word they shout over and over and over at dinner time, bath time, bed time? Their natural response to Do you want ... anything? I can not imagine -- simply can not imagine -- a Gaelic baby with its face screwed up, pounding on the high chair, knocking away the spoonful of peas and shouting, NOT ALL! NOT ALL!

The more I think about this, the more unlikely a language without NO seems. If I were to adopt a New Year's resolution to avoid the word NO, would I last a day? An hour? Another sentence?

tastes like what?

2009-12-24T13:56:00.006-05:00

Yesterday evening I was visited with a strong case of bad childhood memory. We were at a fancy restaurant in our small town, me and the kids, a kind of pre-Christmas I'm too tired to cook and we're spending money like water anyway celebration. General chat and giggles, making fun of Sam's bad hair and Imo's work schedule and my sniffles and Thea's taste in music and Ed's handcuff idea (long story -- another time), and working out how we would keep the tree alive and vertical. Chris the waiter came by with first courses, and I took a bite, and ... nothing.
Nothing, I tell you. I had lost my sense of taste. I took another bite. Still nothing. I could feel the fish in my mouth, and I had a vague sense of a spicy sauce, but no flavour. None at all.

I went right back to childhood, shedding decades in no time at all. I was nine, a hearty chunky boy with a good appetite, and, at that moment, a cold in the head. Mom had cooked spare ribs, one of my faves. I picked up my first rib, slathered on some barbecue sauce, bit good and hard, and tasted ... nothing. I was horrified and indignant. I demanded to know what was going on. My parents explained how taste and smell are connected, and I ... I was devastated. I wasn't going to take this. Not on rib night! My nose was stuffed tighter than my pants (which was saying something back then; anyone who was at all chunky back in the seventies knows what I mean). I wondered how I could loosen things up -- and thought of exercise.

It was a crazy idea, but I was desperate. I left the table, and started running up and down stairs. Mom called for me to come back. You're not supposed to leave in the middle of a meal! she called. I didn't listen. Dinner without tasting it? That wasn't a meal.

Up and down I ran, until I was puffing and panting and my nose was running like a tap. I blew hard, ran to the table, and took a bite of ribs. Mom was frowning, but Dad had a bit of a grin going on. Well? he asked.

Miracle! I could taste. Oh, what a heavenly moment that was. Sadly, three bites later I had lost my sense of taste again. I needed another couple of flights of stairs before I took my next bite. And three bites later ... It took me almost an hour to eat dinner, and when I was done I was tired and I had a cramp. But it was worth it.

All these memories came back to me in a rush yesterday. Sadly, I am now too old, or socially aware, or scared, to gallivant around Cobourg's best restaurant in order to recover my sense of taste. Or maybe I don't care about food quite as much as I did when I was a kid. Whatever the reason, I ate and smiled. But inside, I was dying.

so this is christmas

2009-12-19T17:19:00.004-05:00

Don't know whether this was the most hopeful, or the saddest thing I have ever seen. But everyone on the car commented on it. I was driving Thea and Sam and their friend Dean along the Rosedale Valley Road through downtown Toronto. It is a ravine road, wooded hills sloping up on both sides and bridges overhead. The visible inhabitants are squirrels and raccoons, birds and hobos. Today we noticed -- all of us, at once, as we flashed by -- that one of the hobo shelters halfway up the hill was decorated. In front of the plywood and plastic lean-to stood a small lopsided Christmas tree.

That is sooooooooooo sad! said Thea.

Sam, not surprisingly, disagreed with his sister. He thought the decoration showed that the hobo had some positive things going for him, and was therefore not as sad a sight as an undecorated shelter.

Dean wondered if it was sadder to know you had last something, or not to know.

Good question. I tend to think it's better to know things than not to know them, but in this case I wonder.