Maxwell


I have been meaning to write this for a while, but other things have gotten in the way, like not sleeping for days at a time. Every time I have sat down to write there has been something else to do.

Max arrived at 228 am on December 24th. Anya and I stayed in the hospital until noon on Christmas Day, when we drove home with our Christmas present.

I took the week off from work to help Anya recover and to get used to the new one who now rules our schedule. As there is little else to do besides sleep and feed baby, we have watched a tremendous amount of television, mostly CBC Newsworld covering the tsunami disaster. I keep telling Anya that it does no good to watch this disaster non-stop.

Back from the Dark

Early December has always reminded me of the assasination of John Lennon. I will always remember where I was when I learned that Lennon was murdered. I was in Vermont, where our parents had dragged us while my father was working in South Burlington. Our father was living in Burlington at the time and we were in Stowe, in an area called The Hollow

We had just turned on Cronkite at 7pm, when the phone rang. It was Teddy Grennan calling, who told me that Lennon was dead.

Last Wednesday I thought about Teddy, as the anniversary of Lennon's death always reminds me of that phone call. I searched for him in Google, managing to find one picture. But I kept looking. I searched under his cousin's name, and discovered that sadly, he had died in a car wreck in BC this last September. As sad as this made me feel, the comments left by friends and family made me feel that he had lived a great life and made so many happy.


Well, come on, I can't be cyncial ass all the time.

This weather is really getting me down. Every time I get in my car, I realize that I only ever drive during the dark, even if it is 730am or 4pm. Since I started bringing my lunch to work, I hardly ever see the outside world during the dim grey period of 7 hours that we call "daylight".

I need to get out of here, and I know that I won't be able to do it.

I have long felt that the climate of a place breeds a certain temperament, and during CBC's Canadiana lovefest documentary, this idea was shared by Bruce Mau. He used the example of settlers digging in for their first Canadian winter. Imagine what went through their minds as the temperature plummeted to -20 and the snow never stopped for weeks?

Getting ready for winter wasn't simply a matter of stocking up on supplies. If your roof leaked or your house was not ready, you weren't uncomfortable, you were dead. Not enough food? Starve to death. Wrong clothing? Dead. Get drunk and fall asleep outside? Dead. Having your shit together was a matter of survival.

Imagine then, the relief when whitey discovered the west coast. Nothing but temperate rain forest and mild winters. Get drunk, pass out and wake up in the morning, wet but still living. Whereas the harsh winters in the East required the settlers to plan carefully and live in fear of death, the mild weather here in Vancouver resulted in complacency. A little more creativity but a whole lot more sloth.

i wouldn't trade it for anything.

I have almost finished reading Good to Great, which contains some entertaining anecdotes about once-powerful companies which subsequently turned to dust. One such company was Bethlehem Steel, which chose to build its new headquarters in the shape of a cross, so that it could provide a corner office for it numerous VPs.

This reminded me of how when I was a child, I thought I wanted to be a "businessman". I imagined that a businessman had only to get the right education, know the right people and work at the right company and then all you had to do was show up at the office, and everything else took care of itself. As a "businessman" you made decisions that others acted upon. You didn't do any actual work, you just sat at a desk all day and received phone calls.

It turns out that Bethlehem Steel would have been a perfect fit for me at the age of 8. Alas, the business culture of the 1970s is no more, which is probably a good thing. But can you imagine the sheer joy of smoking in your workplace?

Bonjour le Weekend


It was Grey Cup Weekend here in Canada last weekend, with Toronto and Vancouver facing off for the oldest professional sports title in North America. The competition between the two cities sparked off the usual ridiculous comparisons between the two cities; Toronto is ugly, polluted and too focussed on making money, while Vancouver is lazy, shiftless and hopelessly idealistic.

CBC Radio was talking up the games each morning, which I listened to on my drive to work. One morning featured a city councillor from each city boasting about why their city was better. The Vancouver councillor touched on the familiar themes of Vancouver's superiority: its mountains, the ocean, the islands, the wildlife, in short, things that were here millions of years ago and have nothing do with the accomplishments of Vancouver's citizens.

This is what Vancouverites usually boast about during their endless comparisons with larger cities. But we're cleaner! We're more beautiful! Yes, but that has nothing do with you've done with your life. At least in Toronto they never had a chance to be beautiful, and are doing the best with what they have.

The game itself was interesting until late in the match, after Vancouver embarassed itself by letting the play clock run out not once, but twice on a 2 point conversion attempt, only to botch the ensuing 22 yard convert kick.

Michael was cheering for Toronto, as he wanted Pinball Clemons to win the Cup, and he wanted the Vancouver media to have nothing about which to bitch for the next few weeks, given the current stalemate in the NHL.

Speaking of the NHL, Rob predicts the players will eventually capitulate under financial pressure. Going from $5 million a year to nothing is quite a shock for someone with a grade 9 education, and many of the players are just "one bad restaurant chain away from bankruptcy."

The Vancouver media has indeed run out of things to talk about, so they are making small issues into class and race wars. One friend of ours was on the radio defending the condo owners who led the charge to enact the odor law. He deftly avoided the interviewers attempts to portray him as a racist, stating that it's not the kind of food odor, it is the intensity and the duration of the nuisance. The interviewer thanked him at the end of it, and Ken, in his posh English accented muttered only one word, "right".

Ha Ha!

Sorry about the delay. I wrote earlier about July being a busy month, but October was even worse. Anya and I began the renovations on our new East Van slum, in an effort to turn it into a decent family home. I even took a few days off work to do menial labour, as I don't like to pay trades people their hourly rates to take out trash. Leave that to an expert like me, who has acutally worked as a "garbologist".

As expected, the plumbing and electrical ended up costing way more than we forecast, which required us to leave the basement unfinished. That leaves us with the equivalent of a 900 square foot appartment with a 900 square foot storage locker.

The dirtiest and most time-consuming task was removing loose fill insulation from the attic. Imagine crawling into the corners of an attic with a low, sloping roof, wearing a respirator, so that you breathing sounds like Darth Vader's; reaching with a makeshift rake to pull recycled newspaper covered in chemical fire retardant from the corners. You have been laying on the joists for so long you have 2 -inch bruises across your ribs. The goggles do nothing. The roof above your head is so close that you can feel the rusty nails sticking through scrape along your scalp as you move. Pull it all into a pile and shovel it into a garbage bag.

This was how I spent my evening in October. This was how I listened to the greatest comeback in sports history. It was work so horrible that the only people I could ask to help me were relatives, and even then I felt guilty about paying Michael to do it.

Speaking of Michael, he has a new commercial on the air, which I think is his best to date; better than the dancing tongue or the cup-chasing fisherman. He has already become tired of it, and has begun to pick apart his performance as Beauregard.


PEACE

I feel compelled to observe Remembrance Day because of my grandfather, who spent 4 years on Royal Navy destroyer. Brad and I went down to the Cenotaph for the ceremony, which caused me to get teary-eyed, looking at all the old vets. I think what chokes me up is the selfless sacrifice they made for others they would never meet or know. For that, I am truly grateful.

It's All in the Breeding

Business-savvy students at my high school's arch rival were caught selling fake $10 bills for $5. Reportedly, some grade 9 and 10 boys unloaded $12,000 of counterfeit bills, mostly on younger students. What an ingeniuos new business! Taking money off intimidated 12 year-olds and sticking them with worthless paper.

The core group has "permanently withdrawn" from the school. I am sure, however, that mainly alumni are secretly admiring the chutzpah of the enterprise; such business creativity at such a young age. The headmaster stated that at least it was for a reasonable purchase: to pay off one student's gambling debts.

Sometimes there is no substitute for "unhealthy" things. i have never found anything to replace butter. Non-chemical cleaners fail to eliminate the mold and filth that accumulates in a bathroom. The "natural" deoderant i have started using offers no protection to others from my offensive odor. I suppose it is a small price to pay for a fresh scent.

Anya and I have been working non-stop on the house we bought in East Van. I go to work , come home and then pull a short shift at the house removing loose fill cellulose insulation from the attic. Feel free to join me, if you have a preference for dirty work in hot, confined spaces.

This made me howl yesterday, but, as Stewart says, it's for all the wrong reasons.

Man am I tired.

Bright Ideas, Bold Moves #13

Since my father was the more lenient of my parents, I figured it would be safe to try smoking in my bedroom when my mother was out. I just had to tell my dad I was doing my homework and then close the door. Next, I turned off the lights, opened the window stuck, my head out and lit one up.

I was required only to stick my head out the window and exhale upwards, always holding the cigarette far above the window, because the smoke would simply rise from the scene of my crime. The light was out in case he barged in and asked what I was doing, standing in a dark room by myself. The darkness would give me a split second to toss the cigarette butt into the snow.

When the lights came on , he asked what I was doing perched on the window sill and leaning my head out the window, when I was supposed to be doing my homework.

- I was tired and needed rest my eyes from the light. He was disappointed that this was the best story I could concoct. The smell of cigarettes was suddenly intense, but there was no evidence of smoking. He had nothing, and was furious. He leaned out the window, straining his eyes over the snow to spot the glowing heater, but there was nothing to be found. I had butted out the heater the instant I heard the doorknob turn.

He gave me a lecture that I was an athlete, and not just some guy who smoke, yet I maintained my innocence to the end. I felt that since I had devised a scheme to smoke in my room without producing evidence, I should thus be afforded the presumption of innocence.

I have long been a fan of Donald Rumsfeld's use of hand gestures. Perhaps the photo editors choose to publish only the photos with outlandish hand gestures, or perhaps Rumsfeld actually gesticulates wildly all the time.

Regardless, his fighting technique is unstoppable, and has now been compiled and revealed.

As a child, I admired Jimmy Carter, even in his goofy cardigan or crew neck sweater. Having just moved to Vermont when he was President, he was my role model for what a President should be; austere, honest, and hard working.

Soon after I arrived in Vermont, Reagan was elected. Almost overnight, everything changed. The deficit exploded, war was planned for Central America, and interest rates shot up to 18%

Carter disappeared for many years, but has resurfaced as a election observer, most recently observing the elections in Venezuela and Indonesia. He writes a compelling case about why international observers are needed in Florida this November.


The differences between Carter and the neo-con cabal currently in place could not be greater if Carter himself were from a different planet. After office, Carter ran Habitat for Humanity, and devoted himself to resolving conflict and creating peace. He could have devoted himself merely to making money, but he chose to use his power for ends other than making himself wealthier.

This is the type of rich and powerful man I intend to be, as soon as my Super 7 ship comes in; some old codger in dusty overalls and a beat up pickup truck.

After a 2 year break, I have once again visited Ishkur.com. Back in the day, he was more of an angry young man, but I found his smarty-pants attitude towards the rave scene to be refreshing and amusing. What I thoroughly enjoyed were the rave captions, although they made me embarassed to have ever been a willing participant in that scene. I suppose I loved the site because it exposed the silliness of a huge room of really high people thinking they were on the cusp of achieving something really, really great.

Now he is a better writer, but if you scratch beneath the surface you can still feel the venom.

Mise au Jour

How many Magnum PI episodes included a voice over by Thomas to the effect of I know what you're thinking, and you're right? Too many, I would say, making the show often predictable, which I worry my blog is becoming. I fear that I start too many sentences with the "I"; I fear worry that the blog is boring. I worry too much.

Monday night I was worrying about how tired I was on my way to the Beastie Boys concert. I was coming down with a cold, I was exhausted from work, and the week promised to be long, painful and emotionally draining. I was actually not looking forward to a night spent in a minor league hockey arena with 12,000 drunk kids.

All my worries melted away once MixMasterMike took the stage. He played a 3 minute set that set the tone for the audience: this would be a party, so get up for it!

The Beastie Boys strutted out to start off with Root Down, followed immediately by Sure Shot. The rest of the night was filled with a few new tracks but mostly with classics, notably Time to Get Ill, Sabrosa, Ricky's Theme, So What'cha Want, Pass the Mic, Paul Revere, and the crowd favorite Brass Monkey. For their first encore they appeared in the stands only 12 rows in front of us to belt out Intergalactic. The show finished with Sabotage, dedicated to George W. Bush.

I ended up getting much sicker because I stayed out late and was stressed out from work, but it was worth it to see Mixmaster Mike scratch in synch with a DVD of Stevie Wonder playing Superstitious.

Find me a German word of the feeling of knowing you have done something that will hurt you but feeling good about it anyway. I suppose rationalization will do.

Speaking of Germans, there is now a radio in Germany that broadcasts in Klingon. Yes, a language created for a television show. I guess there are likely people who speak Orc, or Ewok or even Wookie.

Tonight we are off to the Beastie Boys, at Pacific Coliseum. This will be my first trip to an "arena" concert since I went to Tool, way back in 2001. I'll have to remember to bring a lighter, so I can hold the flame high when the house lights go down.

I will feel particularly old at the concert, since I'll be attending with my pregnant wife.

Today I finally finished The Miracle of Castel di Sangro. It was so enjoyable to read that I was actually upset when the book ended. I rank it as the best book about soccer (or football, or calcio or whatever you want to call the beautiful game).

Honorable mentions in that category would include The Football Factory, England Away, Fever Pitch, and Among the Thugs.

It would make a great movie, although I would fear for the author's life.

Since an NHL season looks unlikely, hockey addicts should jump on the Whale bandwagon early. While millionaire fourth-line journeymen squabble over money with other millionaires, you can enjoy the passion and enthusiasm found in a hard-working 13th division. The Whale are off to a good start this year, but feel they have been put in a division too low for their calibre.

It appears that little has changed at my alma mater, a haven for those who believe that in vino veritas, and that the more vino, the more veritas. Oh, how we found the truth....

There is one problem with the pictures, as Kerry pointed out; the windows were left intact. If you are going to burn down a house, you might as well break the windows first.

Admittedly, I am as susceptible to schadenfreude as anyone, but I take particular enjoyment in the demise of the worlds built by pompous liars. The only punishment suitable for Lord Black is the stripping of his title and the repayment of the money, as I don't think anything else means much to him.

It's nice to find Richard Perle's name in there, too.