more on texting

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.