The saying goes that those who forget history are doomed to repeat it. To that I would add: or to forget how to. History can be a liberation.
I read a column today in The Globe and Mail... I forget who it was by, but the gist of it was a maudlin retreading of that tired old saw that it really didn’t matter how right we might be doing things in Canada, we’re joined at the hip by Fate to the United States and we’ll only be as well as it is sick.
Is that what we fought for as separate colonies in two continental wars? Is this why we finally came together to forge a new nation and common nationality a hundred and forty years ago? To imagine we have no future, no destiny, but that of the nation we’ve had to work so hard to remain distinct from?
A couple of weeks ago, I was in a used bookstore in rural Ontario. I came across a nice softcover book of Ontario’s history from 1610 to 1985. For the past week or so I’ve been reading it about half an hour in the mornings. And I came across some figures that were truly eye-opening.
In the middle of the 19th Century, before Confederation, the United Province of Canada (what had been Upper Canada and Lower Canada, and would become Ontario and Quebec respectively in Confederation) had a reciprocity agreement with the United States. Partly because they were sore at Britain for its conduct during the Civil War, and partly because they believed Canada’s separation from the US and adherence to the British Empire “unnatural” and only encouraged by reciprocity, the US unilaterally terminated the arrangement in 1866. And do you know what happened?
Canada promptly and obligingly curled up and died. Right?
Wrong.
Canada found other markets. And prospered.
In an age before the first prop-engine freighter ever took the skies, before refrigeration and air conditioning, when rail and sail were still the only ways to get it from here to there, this country (or what was to become this country) turned away from the easy, lazy continental trade we’ve decided is the centre of the universe, and actually hustled and found markets elsewhere.
In 1870, 51% of all Canadian exports were going to the US, and only 38% was going to the United Kingdom (the balance going pretty much to the rest of the Empire). But by 1916, 61% of our export trade was going to the UK and only 27% to the US. Even by 1937, the figures were about even: 41% to the US and 38% to the UK.
Now I’m not suggesting we can simply fall back on Mother England as our alternate to trade with the United States. But let’s remember... there’s a whole lot more to the world than just the United States, and if they’ve been rich and they’ve been close-by, that’s been convenient. But times change, and as they did before, so we must adapt. Our own history shows us what’s possible. If they could do it back then, with the incredible obstacles that time and distance represented for them, what right have we to fall back whining that the end of all good things is upon us? The EU is well-heeled, has nearly twice the number of consumers as the US, and looks upon us favourably (seal-clubbing notwithstanding; and we'll reserve comment here on fox hunting and bullfighting). China, India, and even much of South America are on the rise. These are places that will need our resources and can easily absorb the excess manufacturing output of a relatively smaller nation like ours. What I mean is, it really wouldn’t take that much of the world to pick up the slack the US is leaving behind for a country the size of Canada – if we’ll just get up off our asses and get in the game instead of moaning on the sidelines.
We did it before, and we can do it again. By all means, let’s wish the US well, but let’s not consign ourselves to the role of some Roman slave obliged to open his veins to share the fate of a humbled master. We have our own national life to lead, and our own stars to follow.
After all, wasn’t that the point in 1776, 1812, and 1867?
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Thursday, July 02, 2009
A study in contrasts
In the past week, P-Doug and I have been back twice to a nice place on the Humber we had kind of forgotten about since last summer. Even though only three days separated the two visits, the difference in conditions was astounding.
Saturday we arrived around noon. The river was shallower than it had been the previous time I'd visited (a couple of weekends earlier, by myself), and the riverbed was clear and visible. When we stepped in and wandered down the river to our bathing spot, it barely even wet the hems of my shorts. When we arrived, we undressed and sat under the overhanging shade tree. The day was hot and humid, the water was quite warm for this early in the summer, and the sun was blazing. Even in the shade, you could feel its might.
A couple of summers ago, we had gone nude hiking into the hills there. That side of the river is on a large isthmus that is very nearly an island, and will be soon, I think. P-Doug wasn't game for it this time, fearing the bugs, but I set off on my own and climbed the hill, made my way down the far side, and crossed the river. A climbed the far bank and sat for a while on a bleached white log left in the grass by some long-ago flood, and watched the river. After I bit I crossed back over to the isthmus side and settled back in the grass to lie in the sun. Eventually I made my way back up into the forest and down to where he was still enjoying the water. The bugs had never bothered me. We both got a bit of a burn that day, though; his worse than mine because I spent about an hour of it in the forest.
Wednesday was Canada Day so we decided to go back. It was overcast and only warm, rather than hot. When we got to the river, it was the colour of hot chocolate, and obviously far deeper, even to look at. It had rained quite a bit in the previous two days and we had to undress before even stepping in. The current was surprisingly fast, and it was deeper than we'd even guessed, not to mention somewhat cooler. I was still wearing my shirt and eventually even the bottom of that was soaked. By the time we got to our usual spot and I could take it off, we were at parts that were armpit deep. I've never seen the river as deep as that at that spot. It was anytime we turned to work against the current that we realized just how strong it was; it was hard even to take a step against it. I decided to be prudent with my backpack and put it on road side of the river rather than the isthmus side so I wouldn't have to carry it back across. We spotted a flat, muddy landing on the isthmus side and struggled to reach it, and ended up spending most of our time there, half in and half out of the river. There was really no place shallow enough to actually sit down in the river itself this time. We spent some time there before fighting our way back to the road side where our clothes and food were, and ate sandwiches and oranges on the grassy side of the bank. We sat briefly under the tarp I carry on hikes when it started raining, just enough to give the day another interesting detail.
Eventually we decided to drift off. I prevailed upon P-Doug not to attempt wading back to the initial landing against the current on this day, but suggested instead climbing the steep valley wall behind us back to the old road. He was eventually persuaded, and I spotted what looked like a deer trail and made my way towards it. He gathered his things and followed, and ended up doing a few minutes of nude hiking in spite of things. When we reached the top, we dressed, checked out the trail a bit, and headed back. It was the nicest way to spend Canada Day and really celebrate the great outdoors of this country that I could think of. :)
Saturday we arrived around noon. The river was shallower than it had been the previous time I'd visited (a couple of weekends earlier, by myself), and the riverbed was clear and visible. When we stepped in and wandered down the river to our bathing spot, it barely even wet the hems of my shorts. When we arrived, we undressed and sat under the overhanging shade tree. The day was hot and humid, the water was quite warm for this early in the summer, and the sun was blazing. Even in the shade, you could feel its might.
A couple of summers ago, we had gone nude hiking into the hills there. That side of the river is on a large isthmus that is very nearly an island, and will be soon, I think. P-Doug wasn't game for it this time, fearing the bugs, but I set off on my own and climbed the hill, made my way down the far side, and crossed the river. A climbed the far bank and sat for a while on a bleached white log left in the grass by some long-ago flood, and watched the river. After I bit I crossed back over to the isthmus side and settled back in the grass to lie in the sun. Eventually I made my way back up into the forest and down to where he was still enjoying the water. The bugs had never bothered me. We both got a bit of a burn that day, though; his worse than mine because I spent about an hour of it in the forest.
Wednesday was Canada Day so we decided to go back. It was overcast and only warm, rather than hot. When we got to the river, it was the colour of hot chocolate, and obviously far deeper, even to look at. It had rained quite a bit in the previous two days and we had to undress before even stepping in. The current was surprisingly fast, and it was deeper than we'd even guessed, not to mention somewhat cooler. I was still wearing my shirt and eventually even the bottom of that was soaked. By the time we got to our usual spot and I could take it off, we were at parts that were armpit deep. I've never seen the river as deep as that at that spot. It was anytime we turned to work against the current that we realized just how strong it was; it was hard even to take a step against it. I decided to be prudent with my backpack and put it on road side of the river rather than the isthmus side so I wouldn't have to carry it back across. We spotted a flat, muddy landing on the isthmus side and struggled to reach it, and ended up spending most of our time there, half in and half out of the river. There was really no place shallow enough to actually sit down in the river itself this time. We spent some time there before fighting our way back to the road side where our clothes and food were, and ate sandwiches and oranges on the grassy side of the bank. We sat briefly under the tarp I carry on hikes when it started raining, just enough to give the day another interesting detail.
Eventually we decided to drift off. I prevailed upon P-Doug not to attempt wading back to the initial landing against the current on this day, but suggested instead climbing the steep valley wall behind us back to the old road. He was eventually persuaded, and I spotted what looked like a deer trail and made my way towards it. He gathered his things and followed, and ended up doing a few minutes of nude hiking in spite of things. When we reached the top, we dressed, checked out the trail a bit, and headed back. It was the nicest way to spend Canada Day and really celebrate the great outdoors of this country that I could think of. :)
Monday, June 15, 2009
Conquering Richardson Road
This Saturday, P-Doug and I made our way to the other Nottawasaga River access we were interested in, Richardson Road. Actually, it was the one I spotted first and brought to his attention. He suggested McKinnon (where we went three weeks ago) as an alternate. But this weekend, we made our way to the river down the first road.
Seen from above, the road looks very open. Even with the trees crowding in, there's a definite space between them. And the road was, indeed, unmistakable nearly all the way down. But it wasn't really what I expected.
It was a bit after noon when we arrived. We parked at the end of the maintained road. We probably could have driven further, but first all, we came for the hike, and secondly, I really didn't want to bust an axel or something just to save ten minutes of walking. The road continued on down between two fields, till it came at last to a thick forest. It was overcast, so I wasn't all that concerned about the sun, but given that we were heading into wetlands, we got well set-up with bug repellent as we set out.
The forest trail was blocked off by a steel gate to keep out ATVs (thank you!!), but the way was also strewn with fallen trees every so often that would have made the trip impossible for them... some of them were troublesome even on foot. And they would have had to stay scrupulously on the trail. The nature of the road was unlike any I'd seen before. It was cut through a swamp reminiscent of things I've seen of the Everglades or the bayou in Louisiana. It had obviously been artificially raised above the swamp, with culverts cut into it that the swamp itself had seen fit to supersede with its own methods of transference over time. P-Doug was particularly impressed with what he called the high water marks on the trunks of the trees; they were at eye-height for us, even standing on the road.
As I said, there were a number of places where the swamp had taken it upon itself to balance the water on either side of the road. There were so many fords of water, streaming northeasterly, that I lost count of them. Six, maybe seven, and every one of them different in some aspect. Some were simply one foot in, one foot out; others were fifty feet wide. Some were deep with slippery clay bottoms; others were rafts of plants where I barely got my ankles wet. They were all a challenge, and one I would have delighted in wholly if it were not for the fact that I was carrying two of my cameras with me... and one of them had already been expensively repaired last fall after getting soaked in the Grand River. Otherwise I wouldn't have cared much at all about falling in. But as it was, I was concerned about the cameras, so I put them in the backpack for what little protection that would offer; at least they wouldn't be out, swinging around to potentially put me off-balance.
The road surface changed enormously as we went. It started off as dry gravel, became soft grass, and then in the forest, cool clay and earth. There were places where it was running wet. Mosquitoes were around, but they didn't seem really pronounced until we came to the strangest part of the road of all – completely overgrown with grasses, and ones that grew taller and thicker the further we went. In these places, great swarms of mosquitoes emerged to challenge us for our blood. Most were dissuaded by the bug spray, and those that weren't were often martyred to a quick slap. Even though they largely left us alone, the whining in the ears was highly disconcerting.
The grass on the road was so thick and full that I started wondering if we'd even know the river when we saw it, or would just fall in! Finally I could sunlit trees beyond the gloomy ones, and I knew we'd reached the river. But nature wasn't done with making it tricky yet. We encountered our big nemesis of the past couple of summers there as we approached the water's edge – stinging nettles. These saw-edged, stinging plants that are sheer torture. The slightest contact with them is like having a sharp blade run against your skin, combined with an itch. They really seem to concentrate near the edge of rivers, so for us, the last minute or two of getting to the Nottawasga was an ordeal that the mosquitoes couldn't hold a tiny candle to. They were raking my feet, my shins, my hands when I'd try to brush them aside. And just as we reached the river, we realized we were at the edge of a steep bank... with a very nice broad bank about fifty feet away to our right... through more of the forest. What could we do? We fought on through the nettles and finally reached the bank... where we stood on the clay, panting and cursing and waiting for the pain to subside.
This part of the river was strewn with old fallen trees and logs. There were plenty of places to sit down, so we did. We could finally look around. For all the trouble it took to get to it, it was glorious, and I got to see all the things I really love to see on these hikes. Everything natural. We had the river, places to sit, the bank to wander, the trees all around, and a sky that was first sheltering and then opened up the sun to us when we were ready to receive it.
We decided to try out the river, even though we knew it was too cool yet to really get far. Upper thigh depth seemed to be the prudent place to stop. P-Doug did find a fallen tree that was just exactly positioned to allow him to sit but not get too immersed in the cool water; I reclined on the bank. The bank itself was clay that would support us in some places, but swallow us to the knees in others. I developed a habit of crawling, which seemed to work far better than having to step, sink, haul myself out, and repeat over and over. We covered the place in footprints before we settled back to just enjoy the place.
After a while, we got hungry and wandered back to where we'd left all our stuff and took on the tuna and cracker snack packs he'd brought with him, and the navel oranges. P-Doug had seen evidence of a previous visitor, probably a local fisherman, and he told the sort of tale Tonto might have told the Lone Ranger as he interpreted the missteps, falls, and foibles he read in the clay. After we'd been there an hour and a half or so, we washed in the river, suited up, and prepared ourselves to run the gauntlet of stinging nettles, smothering grasses, tripping hazards, mosquito clouds, and camera-eating fords again. He picked a course that was mercifully sparse of stinging nettles, and off we went.
The trip back seemed considerably shorter to me than the trip down. I think I enjoyed it more. I measured it all out this morning and it was about two-and-a-quarter miles, about half of it the most challenging course I think we've undertaken. But it's exactly what I miss whenever the weather gets cold. So here's to summer.
Seen from above, the road looks very open. Even with the trees crowding in, there's a definite space between them. And the road was, indeed, unmistakable nearly all the way down. But it wasn't really what I expected.
It was a bit after noon when we arrived. We parked at the end of the maintained road. We probably could have driven further, but first all, we came for the hike, and secondly, I really didn't want to bust an axel or something just to save ten minutes of walking. The road continued on down between two fields, till it came at last to a thick forest. It was overcast, so I wasn't all that concerned about the sun, but given that we were heading into wetlands, we got well set-up with bug repellent as we set out.
The forest trail was blocked off by a steel gate to keep out ATVs (thank you!!), but the way was also strewn with fallen trees every so often that would have made the trip impossible for them... some of them were troublesome even on foot. And they would have had to stay scrupulously on the trail. The nature of the road was unlike any I'd seen before. It was cut through a swamp reminiscent of things I've seen of the Everglades or the bayou in Louisiana. It had obviously been artificially raised above the swamp, with culverts cut into it that the swamp itself had seen fit to supersede with its own methods of transference over time. P-Doug was particularly impressed with what he called the high water marks on the trunks of the trees; they were at eye-height for us, even standing on the road.
As I said, there were a number of places where the swamp had taken it upon itself to balance the water on either side of the road. There were so many fords of water, streaming northeasterly, that I lost count of them. Six, maybe seven, and every one of them different in some aspect. Some were simply one foot in, one foot out; others were fifty feet wide. Some were deep with slippery clay bottoms; others were rafts of plants where I barely got my ankles wet. They were all a challenge, and one I would have delighted in wholly if it were not for the fact that I was carrying two of my cameras with me... and one of them had already been expensively repaired last fall after getting soaked in the Grand River. Otherwise I wouldn't have cared much at all about falling in. But as it was, I was concerned about the cameras, so I put them in the backpack for what little protection that would offer; at least they wouldn't be out, swinging around to potentially put me off-balance.
The road surface changed enormously as we went. It started off as dry gravel, became soft grass, and then in the forest, cool clay and earth. There were places where it was running wet. Mosquitoes were around, but they didn't seem really pronounced until we came to the strangest part of the road of all – completely overgrown with grasses, and ones that grew taller and thicker the further we went. In these places, great swarms of mosquitoes emerged to challenge us for our blood. Most were dissuaded by the bug spray, and those that weren't were often martyred to a quick slap. Even though they largely left us alone, the whining in the ears was highly disconcerting.
The grass on the road was so thick and full that I started wondering if we'd even know the river when we saw it, or would just fall in! Finally I could sunlit trees beyond the gloomy ones, and I knew we'd reached the river. But nature wasn't done with making it tricky yet. We encountered our big nemesis of the past couple of summers there as we approached the water's edge – stinging nettles. These saw-edged, stinging plants that are sheer torture. The slightest contact with them is like having a sharp blade run against your skin, combined with an itch. They really seem to concentrate near the edge of rivers, so for us, the last minute or two of getting to the Nottawasga was an ordeal that the mosquitoes couldn't hold a tiny candle to. They were raking my feet, my shins, my hands when I'd try to brush them aside. And just as we reached the river, we realized we were at the edge of a steep bank... with a very nice broad bank about fifty feet away to our right... through more of the forest. What could we do? We fought on through the nettles and finally reached the bank... where we stood on the clay, panting and cursing and waiting for the pain to subside.
This part of the river was strewn with old fallen trees and logs. There were plenty of places to sit down, so we did. We could finally look around. For all the trouble it took to get to it, it was glorious, and I got to see all the things I really love to see on these hikes. Everything natural. We had the river, places to sit, the bank to wander, the trees all around, and a sky that was first sheltering and then opened up the sun to us when we were ready to receive it.
We decided to try out the river, even though we knew it was too cool yet to really get far. Upper thigh depth seemed to be the prudent place to stop. P-Doug did find a fallen tree that was just exactly positioned to allow him to sit but not get too immersed in the cool water; I reclined on the bank. The bank itself was clay that would support us in some places, but swallow us to the knees in others. I developed a habit of crawling, which seemed to work far better than having to step, sink, haul myself out, and repeat over and over. We covered the place in footprints before we settled back to just enjoy the place.
After a while, we got hungry and wandered back to where we'd left all our stuff and took on the tuna and cracker snack packs he'd brought with him, and the navel oranges. P-Doug had seen evidence of a previous visitor, probably a local fisherman, and he told the sort of tale Tonto might have told the Lone Ranger as he interpreted the missteps, falls, and foibles he read in the clay. After we'd been there an hour and a half or so, we washed in the river, suited up, and prepared ourselves to run the gauntlet of stinging nettles, smothering grasses, tripping hazards, mosquito clouds, and camera-eating fords again. He picked a course that was mercifully sparse of stinging nettles, and off we went.
The trip back seemed considerably shorter to me than the trip down. I think I enjoyed it more. I measured it all out this morning and it was about two-and-a-quarter miles, about half of it the most challenging course I think we've undertaken. But it's exactly what I miss whenever the weather gets cold. So here's to summer.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
I Buried Star Trek
Warning: spoilers.
I must be the only person on Earth who didn't think much of the new Star Trek movie. But, okay, I'll say it – I don't. The more time goes by, the less I like it.
I went in there expecting... well, hoping for... a look back at the characters we've all known and loved since before most of us were born. I anticipated young actors, steeped in the history of the show, working with reverence and love to really nail their parts, to put in performances that were tributes to the older actors who laid the groundwork in the 60s, and beyond. But we didn't get anything like that.
I'd heard through the grapevine that the movie was actually going to be an "alternate history". I was disappointed to hear that, because I knew that was Klingonese for "we're going to disregard anything inconvenient in the timeline you love to free ourselves to do whatever strikes us as cool". But, I had similar feelings when they started ST:TNG and the other spin-offs, and yet I found something to admire in every one of them (yes, even Voyager – now stop interrupting). What I mean is, I tried to go in with an open mind.
But they were throwing interstellar babies out with the galactic bathwater right from blast-off. What's the first thing that happens? Kirk's father dies. Now, I'm not the shrewdest guy in the world at picking upon where a plotline's heading, but even I got the message being telescoped here: Jim Kirk's going to be the Archetypal Troubled Kid (trademark, patent pending). You could smell it coming like a Ferrengi. And Kirk was born in space... not Iowa, as we heard time and time again in the TV spots for Star Trek IV... as well as from anyone you've ever met from Iowa (the rebuttal is, of course, "Yeah, but Bill Shatner was born in Canada!"). And I happen to remember that Jim Kirk had a brother named Sam who died in that episode of ST:TOS with the giant flying brain cells. So in the first three minutes of the movie, they had basically told me, "Oh, that guy you loved watching on TV as a kid? He doesn't exist. We've replaced him with this guy." Yeah, a smug, arrogant asshole. The traditional Jim Kirk was self-confident and kind of a pussy hound, but he was almost never what you'd call insufferable. But the one in the movie was. He was the guy in high school you just wanted to pound in the face with a stop sign so at least he'd get the message, one way or the other. I COULD NOT STAND THIS GUY AND WANTED HIM TO DIE... BADLY. Now is that any way to feel about Jim Kirk?
Scotty was completely someone else. I've liked Simon Pegg in the things I've seen him in... loved him Shaun of the Dead, and in Hot Fuzz (till it completely went off the rails half way through and started thinking it was The Wicker Man). But he just was not the Scotty I cared about. Scotty had his quirks, but he oozed professionalism and even a certain degree of stubborn, bullheaded military decorum. This Scotty was an anarchistic, addle-minded, goofy fuck-up with just enough brilliance to get by. He was almost the anti-Scotty.
Leonard McCoy was at least... well, you could glean where it was coming from. He seemed to have his roots in the original character. They never said much about Bones's past, but I still don't get the feeling it was as wild as they put it out to be. That seemed forced. He also seemed too old. He came across as being about 40, when Kirk was barely into his 20s. If there was a ten-year gap between their ages in ST:TOS, I'd be surprised.
Now Spock, on the other hand... his portrayal was for me the only really redeeming feature of the movie. I thought it was spot-on. The new version looked like Spock, acted like Spock (even the kid version had me nodding, yeah, that's him), sounded like Spock... yeah, he was Spock. That one they got right, and really nicely, too. Even so... Spock and Uhura?? Okay, I won't say "no way", but it feels really out of character for Spock, and gratuitous as well. Spock's had romances with human women, but... why another member of the bridge crew? Like we can't see where this is taking us in one of the inevitable upcoming sequels...
So I was largely disappointed in the (mis)treatment of the characters. But where they really lost me is when they blew up Vulcan. This is like doing a retelling of the American Revolution in which the British nuke Philadelphia and kill off poor Ben Franklin, just to make you FEEL something. And it worked: I felt fucking angry — at them. To be honest, once they did that, they'd crossed the line. This was not Star Trek... this was your hyperactive cousin's version of Star Trek on the living room rug, just before he crowns you with the fire engine that's standing in for a Romulan Bird of Prey. After that, I didn't give a shit what they did in the movie anymore. I'd checked out. I was just sitting there because I'd A) paid twelve bucks for the privilege and B) was there with a friend. Otherwise, I honestly think I would have been inclined to walk out.
To me, the overall sensation I have coming away from it is that it was hollow. Far too much history was packed into far too little movie. Kirk went up the ladder faster than Derek Wildstar in Star Blazers, which was laughable even when I was nine — and that was a cartoon. Forgive me for thinking one or two movies about Ensign Kirk that show him learning his craft instead of being born to it might have been preferable. But people don't have time for that these days. Hatch the Kirk, let it dry its wings, then get it killing people! Yeah!
Puke.
I won't be attending any of the sequels. If I skip the next two, twenty-four bucks buys a bottle of hooch I can use to forget about the first one for a while...
I must be the only person on Earth who didn't think much of the new Star Trek movie. But, okay, I'll say it – I don't. The more time goes by, the less I like it.
I went in there expecting... well, hoping for... a look back at the characters we've all known and loved since before most of us were born. I anticipated young actors, steeped in the history of the show, working with reverence and love to really nail their parts, to put in performances that were tributes to the older actors who laid the groundwork in the 60s, and beyond. But we didn't get anything like that.
I'd heard through the grapevine that the movie was actually going to be an "alternate history". I was disappointed to hear that, because I knew that was Klingonese for "we're going to disregard anything inconvenient in the timeline you love to free ourselves to do whatever strikes us as cool". But, I had similar feelings when they started ST:TNG and the other spin-offs, and yet I found something to admire in every one of them (yes, even Voyager – now stop interrupting). What I mean is, I tried to go in with an open mind.
But they were throwing interstellar babies out with the galactic bathwater right from blast-off. What's the first thing that happens? Kirk's father dies. Now, I'm not the shrewdest guy in the world at picking upon where a plotline's heading, but even I got the message being telescoped here: Jim Kirk's going to be the Archetypal Troubled Kid (trademark, patent pending). You could smell it coming like a Ferrengi. And Kirk was born in space... not Iowa, as we heard time and time again in the TV spots for Star Trek IV... as well as from anyone you've ever met from Iowa (the rebuttal is, of course, "Yeah, but Bill Shatner was born in Canada!"). And I happen to remember that Jim Kirk had a brother named Sam who died in that episode of ST:TOS with the giant flying brain cells. So in the first three minutes of the movie, they had basically told me, "Oh, that guy you loved watching on TV as a kid? He doesn't exist. We've replaced him with this guy." Yeah, a smug, arrogant asshole. The traditional Jim Kirk was self-confident and kind of a pussy hound, but he was almost never what you'd call insufferable. But the one in the movie was. He was the guy in high school you just wanted to pound in the face with a stop sign so at least he'd get the message, one way or the other. I COULD NOT STAND THIS GUY AND WANTED HIM TO DIE... BADLY. Now is that any way to feel about Jim Kirk?
Scotty was completely someone else. I've liked Simon Pegg in the things I've seen him in... loved him Shaun of the Dead, and in Hot Fuzz (till it completely went off the rails half way through and started thinking it was The Wicker Man). But he just was not the Scotty I cared about. Scotty had his quirks, but he oozed professionalism and even a certain degree of stubborn, bullheaded military decorum. This Scotty was an anarchistic, addle-minded, goofy fuck-up with just enough brilliance to get by. He was almost the anti-Scotty.
Leonard McCoy was at least... well, you could glean where it was coming from. He seemed to have his roots in the original character. They never said much about Bones's past, but I still don't get the feeling it was as wild as they put it out to be. That seemed forced. He also seemed too old. He came across as being about 40, when Kirk was barely into his 20s. If there was a ten-year gap between their ages in ST:TOS, I'd be surprised.
Now Spock, on the other hand... his portrayal was for me the only really redeeming feature of the movie. I thought it was spot-on. The new version looked like Spock, acted like Spock (even the kid version had me nodding, yeah, that's him), sounded like Spock... yeah, he was Spock. That one they got right, and really nicely, too. Even so... Spock and Uhura?? Okay, I won't say "no way", but it feels really out of character for Spock, and gratuitous as well. Spock's had romances with human women, but... why another member of the bridge crew? Like we can't see where this is taking us in one of the inevitable upcoming sequels...
So I was largely disappointed in the (mis)treatment of the characters. But where they really lost me is when they blew up Vulcan. This is like doing a retelling of the American Revolution in which the British nuke Philadelphia and kill off poor Ben Franklin, just to make you FEEL something. And it worked: I felt fucking angry — at them. To be honest, once they did that, they'd crossed the line. This was not Star Trek... this was your hyperactive cousin's version of Star Trek on the living room rug, just before he crowns you with the fire engine that's standing in for a Romulan Bird of Prey. After that, I didn't give a shit what they did in the movie anymore. I'd checked out. I was just sitting there because I'd A) paid twelve bucks for the privilege and B) was there with a friend. Otherwise, I honestly think I would have been inclined to walk out.
To me, the overall sensation I have coming away from it is that it was hollow. Far too much history was packed into far too little movie. Kirk went up the ladder faster than Derek Wildstar in Star Blazers, which was laughable even when I was nine — and that was a cartoon. Forgive me for thinking one or two movies about Ensign Kirk that show him learning his craft instead of being born to it might have been preferable. But people don't have time for that these days. Hatch the Kirk, let it dry its wings, then get it killing people! Yeah!
Puke.
I won't be attending any of the sequels. If I skip the next two, twenty-four bucks buys a bottle of hooch I can use to forget about the first one for a while...
Monday, June 08, 2009
Fusebox magic copier?
I had this weird dream this morning about moving things around in the basement of the house I used to live in a long time ago. There was someone there with me, but I don't know who. I wasn't even quite me, if you know what I mean. Anyway, there was this fuse box sort of in the middle of the floor, and we realized that anything you leaned up against it, you could get it to make copies of for you. We were doing this with small appliances, things like cell phones and laptop computers and that kind of thing. We tried it with a grandfather clock, but the copies we got were half-assed, like only partially varnished, with parts missing from the face, or with some of the gearworkings missing. That's about all I remember. Oddly enough, when I was dwelling on it getting ready for work this morning, I realized that this probably meant there were limits to how big or extensive the object to be copied could be. I know it sounds trivial, but it just seemed so weird to be working out the dream logic while I was awake, rather than in the course of the dream. I think it might make a good basis for some kind of story, if I can work out what the gimmick is.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
The things you hear when there's nobody around...
I'm here at work on a Sunday because there are things I need to get out of the way, and I'm listening to an online instrumental jazz station. Every so often, they run an ad. I just heard one for — believe it or not — the CIA. They just ran an ad for the US Central Intelligence Agency. I always thought these guys recruited by watching the universities for signs of brainiacism or something. But radio ads aimed at upright, pipe-smoking, slipper-wearing William F. Buckley types? No wonder the collapse of the Soviet Union came as such a surprise. :)
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
McKinnon at last
P-Doug and I have been intending to make a trek up a closed road called McKinnon Road since early this spring. It’s a bit west of Barrie and runs alongside the Nottawasaga River. We actually undertook the trip early in April, but the weather was against us. By the time we got there, it was actually snowing! Pretty much every weekend since then that it’s been proposed, the weather’s been cold and wet. Finally, this weekend past, we got decent weather and gave it a shot on Sunday.
P-Doug picked me up a little after 10 in the morning, and we were at the end of the driveable road a bit before noon. That in and of itself is further than we got last time, when the road just beyond the pavement was flooded and closed to cars.
It wasn’t a promising start. Immediately after the closure of the road was a huge, swampy puddle, and visible beyond that was another. Much as I enjoy wet, soft soil underfoot on our explorations, even I thought that a mile or more of that would be slow going and not very enjoyable. Nevertheless, we decided to give it a go. I was on the point of tucking my sandals into the cargo pocket of my shorts, but at the last moment I elected to leave them in the car and undertake the trek without recourse to them, come what may.
The further we went, the more amenable the path became. We emerged from the swampiness after about twenty minutes. We saw some interesting things… a patch of trees standing in water that reminded us of the Louisiana bayou, where P-Doug spotted a raccoon washing some grub and then swimming away… snowmobile paths marked off with tall orange stakes… a couple of guys speaking French as they sat beside the river, possibly fishing (they were the only other people we actually saw that day, though there were plenty of boot prints on the path)...
We took out time, but after about an hour, we saw one of the things we’d really come to see. It was a bridge we’d seen in the Google Maps shots of the river. In those pictures, it seemed to both of us, we were looking at a crude wooden structure… something so rudimentary it seemed certain to me to be something private and long abandoned. Imagine our amazement when we found, instead, an elaborate and gorgeous steel bridge! Still in fine condition, with an intact concrete roadbed and aluminum paint, it seemed almost hilariously out of place, serving a road that by now is barely discernible even in aerial photos.
When we stood on it, P-Doug noticed that it had a rare feature: in the concrete along the north side was written the name of the bridge, the date of its construction (September, 1927), and the names of the men responsible for its construction. It was a rare, precise, personal connection with the past. Why it was built to serve a road in such a place with such hopeless drainage and unlikely future, we can only guess. But it was, and it seems a real shame it stands there alone, essentially useless.
We walked a little beyond it. We saw what looked like the remnants of the pillars of someone’s driveway gate. We shot the beautiful bend of the river, and then began our way back. Just east of the river, I broke off from P-Doug for a moment to try to reach the sandy banks. Stinging nettles finally defeated me and I came back to my friend on the bridge. We lingered for a bit, and then retraced our course.
I hope we go back. It really was a lovely, variable place, full of interesting sights and possibilities. Furthermore, for me, it was a fantastic hike, three hours and at least as many miles over just about every imaginable surface: swamp, mud, rocky streams, clay, sand, grass, forest floor, ferns, concrete… In Germany and Austria, they have the institution of “barefoot parks”. The idea behind them is related to reflexology, and in practical terms, they give people a chance to explore nature and its textures by walking barefoot over and through it. They seem a bit contrived to me. McKinnon Road, on the other hand, I think would serve that purpose magnificently, and naturally, without any sort of embellishment. If you’re amenable to that sort of hiking, and I know there are others who are, I’d encourage you to give McKinnon Road a try on some warm day.
P-Doug picked me up a little after 10 in the morning, and we were at the end of the driveable road a bit before noon. That in and of itself is further than we got last time, when the road just beyond the pavement was flooded and closed to cars.
It wasn’t a promising start. Immediately after the closure of the road was a huge, swampy puddle, and visible beyond that was another. Much as I enjoy wet, soft soil underfoot on our explorations, even I thought that a mile or more of that would be slow going and not very enjoyable. Nevertheless, we decided to give it a go. I was on the point of tucking my sandals into the cargo pocket of my shorts, but at the last moment I elected to leave them in the car and undertake the trek without recourse to them, come what may.
The further we went, the more amenable the path became. We emerged from the swampiness after about twenty minutes. We saw some interesting things… a patch of trees standing in water that reminded us of the Louisiana bayou, where P-Doug spotted a raccoon washing some grub and then swimming away… snowmobile paths marked off with tall orange stakes… a couple of guys speaking French as they sat beside the river, possibly fishing (they were the only other people we actually saw that day, though there were plenty of boot prints on the path)...
We took out time, but after about an hour, we saw one of the things we’d really come to see. It was a bridge we’d seen in the Google Maps shots of the river. In those pictures, it seemed to both of us, we were looking at a crude wooden structure… something so rudimentary it seemed certain to me to be something private and long abandoned. Imagine our amazement when we found, instead, an elaborate and gorgeous steel bridge! Still in fine condition, with an intact concrete roadbed and aluminum paint, it seemed almost hilariously out of place, serving a road that by now is barely discernible even in aerial photos.
When we stood on it, P-Doug noticed that it had a rare feature: in the concrete along the north side was written the name of the bridge, the date of its construction (September, 1927), and the names of the men responsible for its construction. It was a rare, precise, personal connection with the past. Why it was built to serve a road in such a place with such hopeless drainage and unlikely future, we can only guess. But it was, and it seems a real shame it stands there alone, essentially useless.
We walked a little beyond it. We saw what looked like the remnants of the pillars of someone’s driveway gate. We shot the beautiful bend of the river, and then began our way back. Just east of the river, I broke off from P-Doug for a moment to try to reach the sandy banks. Stinging nettles finally defeated me and I came back to my friend on the bridge. We lingered for a bit, and then retraced our course.
I hope we go back. It really was a lovely, variable place, full of interesting sights and possibilities. Furthermore, for me, it was a fantastic hike, three hours and at least as many miles over just about every imaginable surface: swamp, mud, rocky streams, clay, sand, grass, forest floor, ferns, concrete… In Germany and Austria, they have the institution of “barefoot parks”. The idea behind them is related to reflexology, and in practical terms, they give people a chance to explore nature and its textures by walking barefoot over and through it. They seem a bit contrived to me. McKinnon Road, on the other hand, I think would serve that purpose magnificently, and naturally, without any sort of embellishment. If you’re amenable to that sort of hiking, and I know there are others who are, I’d encourage you to give McKinnon Road a try on some warm day.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
The province of Turks and Caicos?
This is from the March 2nd, 2009 issue of The Ottawa Citizen. I've been hearing about this proposal since I was in high school. We want it, they seem to want it... why does it never bloody happen? Nova Scotia's legislature even passed a vote, in 2004, to let the Turks and Caicos join that province if they ever join Confederation, sidestepping the unanimity requirement for new provinces in the Constitution (besides, with a population of only 30,000, it's unlikely the Turks and Caicos could actually form a viable province on their own).
Read on...
-----------------------------------------
The province of Turks and Caicos?
MP champions special ties with Caribbean nation to boost trade, ability to deliver aid
By Donna Jacobs, Citizen Special
March 2, 2009
Suppose Canada built itself a deep-water port in the turquoise waters of the Caribbean.
Suppose that port opened up a new market for Canadian goods -- more than 120 million people live in the Caribbean and nearby Central and South America.
Suppose Canada enhanced the port with a regional free trade zone.
Suppose Canadian ships carried northward duty-free tropical produce and products from the Caribbean and Latin America. In some locations, food rots for lack of shipping and export markets.
Suppose these ships returned with Canadian durable goods -- now scarce on southern shelves.
Suppose the port, unaffordable for Caribbean countries, boosted their standard of living and bolstered hemispheric security.
Suppose the port doubled as a Canadian military operations base for countries wanting help to patrol their waters and to interdict the Caribbean's robust trade in smuggled arms, drugs and people.
Suppose Canada used the port as an aid base when hurricanes strike.
Suppose Canada fills a vacuum of influence where China, Cuba and -- bolstered by Iran -- Venezuela have stepped in with medical aid, cheap petroleum, schools and factory construction.
Suppose Canada did all this with its usual low-key, good-cop approach to world politics and regional strife, drawing on the goodwill that comes from its 100-year trading relationship in the Caribbean. (Canada's direct investment holdings in the Caribbean-Latin American market in 2007 totalled $87.2 billion.)
For years, Edmonton East Conservative MP Peter Goldring has been campaigning for this all-purpose "Canadian platform" on South Caicos Island. The Turks and Caicos lie north of the Dominican Republic and Haiti.
In the 1970s, Turks and Caicos knocked on Canada's front door.
The English-speaking nation asked to become Canada's 11th province. It was ultimately turned down. Strange in today's multicultural Canada, says Mr. Goldring, but concerns over racial and cultural integration figured in the decision.
In the late 1980s, with some 90 per cent of their population in favour, Turks and Caicos asked again for a "special relationship" with Canada. In 2003, with 60 per cent in favour, Turks and Caicos renewed its request.
The Turks and Caicos -- comprised of two groups of islands -- are independent, but remain a British overseas territory.
For many Canadians -- and everyone else -- Caribbean life is a beach holiday. But, says Mr. Goldring quietly, "the Caribbean can get away on itself, if you do not give it care and attention."
- - -
Indeed, he's taken a lot of kidding for championing the Turks and Caicos -- similar to Edmonton in distance from Ottawa -- as a Canadian territory.
"I'm concerned that the idea is being taken too lightly," he says. "People find a lot of humour in it."
Skeptics are concerned over the prospect of massive migration from the Caribbean or the risk that winter-weary Canadians would overwhelm the islands. Mr. Goldring says both concerns can be handled -- think of Hawaii and the U.S. or of Quebec's provincially-tailored immigration standards.
And the port proposal is not merely a matter for Turks and Caicos. Ambassadors to Canada from Barbados and Cuba, and politicians in Dominica and St. Lucia, have championed more deep-water trade with Halifax which, he says, after touring the Halifax port, has "lots of capacity."
Historically, he adds, two Canadian ships used to ply between the islands. And though Canada's presence has diminished, it staged its Haiti-bound UN troops in 2004 through Turks and Caicos.
"We could have an aid program, a DART unit, an emergency aid unit. I visited Granada after Hurricane Ivan came through and it was very evident we didn't have the capacity to help."
He's visited some 10 Caribbean countries over the years. In Haiti, he toured the Montreal-based Gildan Activewear plant, which pays about 5,000 people double the minimum wage to produce clothing.
In a post-9/11 world, now contracting with global recession, he says, Canada needs to realign its trading routes and methods.
"Too much attention has been focused on the Asian Giant," he says. "And it's getting harder to get products into the U.S. We should be looking at other alternatives."
Mr. Goldring's focus dovetails with Prime Minister Stephen Harper's policy, reinvigorated with last week's announcement of more Canadian aid, more trade and further political co-operation with the Caribbean and Latin America.
Foreign Affairs Minister Lawrence Cannon just returned from Brazil. Peter Kent, minister of state of Foreign Affairs for the Americas, just returned from Guyana, Suriname and Trinidad and Tobago, host of the Summit of the Americas in April.
Beyond Canada's burgeoning trade in the region, the Caribbean has strategic importance, Mr. Goldring says: "You have to be aware of what potentially could go wrong if places like Venezuela and Cuba were forced to align themselves with Communist China.
"Canada gives aid money to China (CIDA gave $37.2 million to Chinese organizations in 2008) and China turns around and builds the schools and hospitals and sports stadia -- with their name on it -- in the Caribbean," he says. "So we have to shake our head, because that is hugely influential."
In recent years, China built a duty-free zone in St. Lucia. (The island turned to Taiwan for help in 2007, angering China and halting its hospital construction.) And in Guyana, China built the headquarters of CARICOM, the Caribbean common market, along with a convention centre.
Canada's friendship with Cuba also carries strategic benefit. While Canada "walks a line with the U.S.," which has a trade embargo on the island, the U.S. appreciates Canada "as a stabilizing element," says Mr. Goldring
"When I visited Cuba two years ago, the Cuban people said, in no uncertain terms, that they believe they're still at war with the U.S. while Canadians are very, very well-liked."
As for the military, he says the Canadian Forces sends a frigate to the Caribbean for annual military manoeuvres, making a regional base there useful.
Mr. Goldring is right: Canada does need to take the Caribbean more seriously.
Read on...
-----------------------------------------
The province of Turks and Caicos?
MP champions special ties with Caribbean nation to boost trade, ability to deliver aid
By Donna Jacobs, Citizen Special
March 2, 2009
Suppose Canada built itself a deep-water port in the turquoise waters of the Caribbean.
Suppose that port opened up a new market for Canadian goods -- more than 120 million people live in the Caribbean and nearby Central and South America.
Suppose Canada enhanced the port with a regional free trade zone.
Suppose Canadian ships carried northward duty-free tropical produce and products from the Caribbean and Latin America. In some locations, food rots for lack of shipping and export markets.
Suppose these ships returned with Canadian durable goods -- now scarce on southern shelves.
Suppose the port, unaffordable for Caribbean countries, boosted their standard of living and bolstered hemispheric security.
Suppose the port doubled as a Canadian military operations base for countries wanting help to patrol their waters and to interdict the Caribbean's robust trade in smuggled arms, drugs and people.
Suppose Canada used the port as an aid base when hurricanes strike.
Suppose Canada fills a vacuum of influence where China, Cuba and -- bolstered by Iran -- Venezuela have stepped in with medical aid, cheap petroleum, schools and factory construction.
Suppose Canada did all this with its usual low-key, good-cop approach to world politics and regional strife, drawing on the goodwill that comes from its 100-year trading relationship in the Caribbean. (Canada's direct investment holdings in the Caribbean-Latin American market in 2007 totalled $87.2 billion.)
For years, Edmonton East Conservative MP Peter Goldring has been campaigning for this all-purpose "Canadian platform" on South Caicos Island. The Turks and Caicos lie north of the Dominican Republic and Haiti.
In the 1970s, Turks and Caicos knocked on Canada's front door.
The English-speaking nation asked to become Canada's 11th province. It was ultimately turned down. Strange in today's multicultural Canada, says Mr. Goldring, but concerns over racial and cultural integration figured in the decision.
In the late 1980s, with some 90 per cent of their population in favour, Turks and Caicos asked again for a "special relationship" with Canada. In 2003, with 60 per cent in favour, Turks and Caicos renewed its request.
The Turks and Caicos -- comprised of two groups of islands -- are independent, but remain a British overseas territory.
For many Canadians -- and everyone else -- Caribbean life is a beach holiday. But, says Mr. Goldring quietly, "the Caribbean can get away on itself, if you do not give it care and attention."
- - -
Indeed, he's taken a lot of kidding for championing the Turks and Caicos -- similar to Edmonton in distance from Ottawa -- as a Canadian territory.
"I'm concerned that the idea is being taken too lightly," he says. "People find a lot of humour in it."
Skeptics are concerned over the prospect of massive migration from the Caribbean or the risk that winter-weary Canadians would overwhelm the islands. Mr. Goldring says both concerns can be handled -- think of Hawaii and the U.S. or of Quebec's provincially-tailored immigration standards.
And the port proposal is not merely a matter for Turks and Caicos. Ambassadors to Canada from Barbados and Cuba, and politicians in Dominica and St. Lucia, have championed more deep-water trade with Halifax which, he says, after touring the Halifax port, has "lots of capacity."
Historically, he adds, two Canadian ships used to ply between the islands. And though Canada's presence has diminished, it staged its Haiti-bound UN troops in 2004 through Turks and Caicos.
"We could have an aid program, a DART unit, an emergency aid unit. I visited Granada after Hurricane Ivan came through and it was very evident we didn't have the capacity to help."
He's visited some 10 Caribbean countries over the years. In Haiti, he toured the Montreal-based Gildan Activewear plant, which pays about 5,000 people double the minimum wage to produce clothing.
In a post-9/11 world, now contracting with global recession, he says, Canada needs to realign its trading routes and methods.
"Too much attention has been focused on the Asian Giant," he says. "And it's getting harder to get products into the U.S. We should be looking at other alternatives."
Mr. Goldring's focus dovetails with Prime Minister Stephen Harper's policy, reinvigorated with last week's announcement of more Canadian aid, more trade and further political co-operation with the Caribbean and Latin America.
Foreign Affairs Minister Lawrence Cannon just returned from Brazil. Peter Kent, minister of state of Foreign Affairs for the Americas, just returned from Guyana, Suriname and Trinidad and Tobago, host of the Summit of the Americas in April.
Beyond Canada's burgeoning trade in the region, the Caribbean has strategic importance, Mr. Goldring says: "You have to be aware of what potentially could go wrong if places like Venezuela and Cuba were forced to align themselves with Communist China.
"Canada gives aid money to China (CIDA gave $37.2 million to Chinese organizations in 2008) and China turns around and builds the schools and hospitals and sports stadia -- with their name on it -- in the Caribbean," he says. "So we have to shake our head, because that is hugely influential."
In recent years, China built a duty-free zone in St. Lucia. (The island turned to Taiwan for help in 2007, angering China and halting its hospital construction.) And in Guyana, China built the headquarters of CARICOM, the Caribbean common market, along with a convention centre.
Canada's friendship with Cuba also carries strategic benefit. While Canada "walks a line with the U.S.," which has a trade embargo on the island, the U.S. appreciates Canada "as a stabilizing element," says Mr. Goldring
"When I visited Cuba two years ago, the Cuban people said, in no uncertain terms, that they believe they're still at war with the U.S. while Canadians are very, very well-liked."
As for the military, he says the Canadian Forces sends a frigate to the Caribbean for annual military manoeuvres, making a regional base there useful.
Mr. Goldring is right: Canada does need to take the Caribbean more seriously.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Ireland Park, Toronto
Matching a set of Rowan Gillespie's statues in Dublin, called "The Departure", this set in Toronto, called "The Arrival", commemorates the 38,000 Irish famine emigrants who arrived here in Toronto in 1847, at the foot of Bathurst Street, at what is now called Eireann Quay. The park was opened by Irish President Mary McAleese in 2007.
Wednesday, May 06, 2009
She's leaving
For nearly three and a half years now, I've lived in a house with a strong roof. No matter what kind of storm was going on high over my head, the torrent was funneled down a gutter to a rain barrel, where it was organized, useful, and all that chaos made sense. It was a good place to be.
My boss has resigned, effective near the end of the month. I'm losing that roof, the shelter, the way things came down making sense. I'm not looking forward to it.
She's got good reasons to go. Better than the garden variety, 'better opportunity' reasons you get 95% of the time. I can't fault her. I'm just depressed that it has to be this way. But it does.
There was a lot of patience, and a lot of learning. I came in here thinking I pretty much knew all there was to know about my job. I spent the first year messing up – barely even aware I was messing up – and didn't do well on my first review. But she took it upon herself to teach me the skills I needed to be more professional. I don't think I ever got proficient, but I'm better than I was. I check things now, I search deeper, I go back over things. Stuff still slips through the cracks, but a lot doesn't – I know, because I'm the one finding those mistakes. Anyway, I'm more aware now, and she's to thank for that.
I feel like I'm losing a friend. People can stay in touch, I know, but work was really what we had in common, and I'm not sure how to maintain that now. We didn't do much outside work... she was my boss, I was her report; there had to be some kind of distance just to maintain the working relationship. But still, there was more to it. I hadn't realized, quite, how much I looked forward to her coming in in the morning... how I tried to have one or two little things out of the way, just in case she asked. Even if we didn't chat long, she was here. Even if we only really went to lunch a few times a month, the option was there.
Most of what I found to look forward to in this place is going to disappear, and it's going to be what downstairs was... a job, in a sea of familiar-looking strangers. Part of the sense of home I've had here is going to disappear.
There are new opportunities, and maybe I will grow accustomed to them, and even eventually enjoy them. But I'm never going to like how they came about.
My boss has resigned, effective near the end of the month. I'm losing that roof, the shelter, the way things came down making sense. I'm not looking forward to it.
She's got good reasons to go. Better than the garden variety, 'better opportunity' reasons you get 95% of the time. I can't fault her. I'm just depressed that it has to be this way. But it does.
There was a lot of patience, and a lot of learning. I came in here thinking I pretty much knew all there was to know about my job. I spent the first year messing up – barely even aware I was messing up – and didn't do well on my first review. But she took it upon herself to teach me the skills I needed to be more professional. I don't think I ever got proficient, but I'm better than I was. I check things now, I search deeper, I go back over things. Stuff still slips through the cracks, but a lot doesn't – I know, because I'm the one finding those mistakes. Anyway, I'm more aware now, and she's to thank for that.
I feel like I'm losing a friend. People can stay in touch, I know, but work was really what we had in common, and I'm not sure how to maintain that now. We didn't do much outside work... she was my boss, I was her report; there had to be some kind of distance just to maintain the working relationship. But still, there was more to it. I hadn't realized, quite, how much I looked forward to her coming in in the morning... how I tried to have one or two little things out of the way, just in case she asked. Even if we didn't chat long, she was here. Even if we only really went to lunch a few times a month, the option was there.
Most of what I found to look forward to in this place is going to disappear, and it's going to be what downstairs was... a job, in a sea of familiar-looking strangers. Part of the sense of home I've had here is going to disappear.
There are new opportunities, and maybe I will grow accustomed to them, and even eventually enjoy them. But I'm never going to like how they came about.
Tuesday, May 05, 2009
Abandoned Ford Drive
Saturday morning, just for the grits and shins, I headed down to Oakville to shoot some more abandoned stretches over Joshua Creek. Many years ago, very early in the 90s, I had a penchant for studying maps of the GTA and I noticed a little gap in one of the roads, where it crossed a stream. When I went there, I found what I hoped I'd find: an old abandoned bridge, probably built in the 50s or 60s and abandoned in the 70s or 80s. I've blogged about it; it's here.
Just a little south of that, on what is actually the same road, there's another abandoned bridge over that same creek, and then another stretch just a few yards further south still. The first is recent enough that I can remember, vaguely, passing down that stretch early in the 90s. The other seems to have been officially out of action for a rather long time.
Named for the car plant it skirts, Ford Drive is more or less a southern extension of Ninth Line. When I got my license at the end of the 80s, it still cut straight south before making a gentle westerly swing to bridge Joshua Creek and then abruptly cross some railroad tracks and dive down Maple Grove Drive. Sometime in the 90s, it was rerouted to the east, completely avoiding the creek (and thus, abandoning the stretch with the bridge), and severing its connection with Maple Grove Drive, which now stops at the tracks and no longer crosses them – according the maps, anyway.
South of that stretch is another I noticed, with another bridge over Joshua Creek. I'm not 100% sure but I'm about 90% convinced that this was actually once the course of Royal Windsor Drive, back when it had a level crossing with those railroad lines. But that must have been a very long time ago. I have access to maps of that part of Oakville going back to 1970, and the huge bridge over the tracks that's there now was also already there back then. So this stretch must have been abandoned no later than when The Beatles were still sending hits up the charts; possibly earlier than that.
I explored the old stretch of (what I believe to be) Royal Windsor Drive first. It's still in surprisingly good shape; arguably, better than old Ford Drive, which hasn't even been off the grid 20 years yet. I think it's being routinely used to service the hydro lines and/or the rail tracks at its eastern end. Passing back, I saw a garter snake; the second snake I've seen in just a few weeks. Years and years go by between snake sightings for me. Maybe it's a good sign for the environment.
To get to old Ford Drive, I had to cross a few yards of marshy ground, but that was accomplished easily enough. I wandered up as far as I could, around the bend, to where Ford now has an upper parking lot that assumes what used to be the road. On my way back, I encountered a couple of dogs. One, a German shepherd, ran just about up to me before turning back. They both had collars and 'kerchiefs on, but I never saw or directly heard the person(s) I assume they must have been with... they turned around and headed back to someone; that's clear. Later I heard a few heavy twigs snap, and that's usually a good indication there's a human around. When I crossed back through the marsh to old Royal Windsor, I expected to see them all, but there was no one. It was weird.
A relatively minor excursion for me as these things go, but one I can now check off my list. :)
Just a little south of that, on what is actually the same road, there's another abandoned bridge over that same creek, and then another stretch just a few yards further south still. The first is recent enough that I can remember, vaguely, passing down that stretch early in the 90s. The other seems to have been officially out of action for a rather long time.
Named for the car plant it skirts, Ford Drive is more or less a southern extension of Ninth Line. When I got my license at the end of the 80s, it still cut straight south before making a gentle westerly swing to bridge Joshua Creek and then abruptly cross some railroad tracks and dive down Maple Grove Drive. Sometime in the 90s, it was rerouted to the east, completely avoiding the creek (and thus, abandoning the stretch with the bridge), and severing its connection with Maple Grove Drive, which now stops at the tracks and no longer crosses them – according the maps, anyway.
South of that stretch is another I noticed, with another bridge over Joshua Creek. I'm not 100% sure but I'm about 90% convinced that this was actually once the course of Royal Windsor Drive, back when it had a level crossing with those railroad lines. But that must have been a very long time ago. I have access to maps of that part of Oakville going back to 1970, and the huge bridge over the tracks that's there now was also already there back then. So this stretch must have been abandoned no later than when The Beatles were still sending hits up the charts; possibly earlier than that.
I explored the old stretch of (what I believe to be) Royal Windsor Drive first. It's still in surprisingly good shape; arguably, better than old Ford Drive, which hasn't even been off the grid 20 years yet. I think it's being routinely used to service the hydro lines and/or the rail tracks at its eastern end. Passing back, I saw a garter snake; the second snake I've seen in just a few weeks. Years and years go by between snake sightings for me. Maybe it's a good sign for the environment.
To get to old Ford Drive, I had to cross a few yards of marshy ground, but that was accomplished easily enough. I wandered up as far as I could, around the bend, to where Ford now has an upper parking lot that assumes what used to be the road. On my way back, I encountered a couple of dogs. One, a German shepherd, ran just about up to me before turning back. They both had collars and 'kerchiefs on, but I never saw or directly heard the person(s) I assume they must have been with... they turned around and headed back to someone; that's clear. Later I heard a few heavy twigs snap, and that's usually a good indication there's a human around. When I crossed back through the marsh to old Royal Windsor, I expected to see them all, but there was no one. It was weird.
A relatively minor excursion for me as these things go, but one I can now check off my list. :)
Sunday, May 03, 2009
Ellesmere Road 1952-2009
I was honestly slack-jawed when I saw the upper photo on the Toronto Public Library's website. If you're not familiar with Toronto, you probably won't think much of it... just a photo of a rural scene that's now urban Scarberia. But the thing is, Ellesemere Road is relatively mid-section in Toronto, and the view you see up top is the sort of thing I would have expected to see of the area from the 1920s or 1930s, not in the post-WWII boom. Not the way I imagined this part of town in the days of Leave It to Beaver.
The lower view is one I took this morning, from the same location, give or take a few yards. What was a farm fifty-some years ago is office space today, just off-screen to the left. Frankly, I'm not sure which view I prefer. They both have something to recommend them.
This one's for you, Jim. :)
Monday, April 27, 2009
Falls of water, falls of rain
Quite the storm on Saturday. Had no idea. Even though I was out in it at the time.
I'd made plans to hike with P-Doug up an abandoned road near Georgian Bay. The plans were tentative because his wife has been having some heart trouble and the scheduling of her surgery was kind of up in the air. There was every possibility she'd be discharged on the weekend, so I wasn't sure which day – if either – would be convenient for him to make the trip.
Saturday, as it turned out, was good for him in terms of the timing, but not the weather. Looking at the radar, he determined that a set of thunderstorms passing through to the north would make the trip to where we'd been considering going ill-advised. He suggested instead something down here in the south, where the weather promised to be more even. He told me he'd been interested, for some time now, in having a look at a pair of falls in the Dundas area. So he met me at my place and we set out in my car for Spencer Gorge Conservation Area.
We took our time getting there. I bailed off the 403 at Dundas Street (Highway 5) and we took that across Halton and into Dundas. Just a few minutes past Highway 6 we found our turn, and made our way to the gorge. I was surprised, when we got there, that we had to pay $5 (either to park or to get in; it's not really clear which). It was a nice trail, right at the lip of the gorge. The rustic wooden rail fence that ran along the edge in places struck me as a half-hearted effort determined to provide safety in some places while entirely trusting to the fates in others... I was reminded of the contractor my parents hired many years ago to build our cottage... he had a binge drinking habit, and his efforts varied wildly from consummate professionalism to weeks of couldn't-give-a-damn neglect. Seems to me you build a fence to keep people from falling in, or you don't. The half-measure seems worse than nothing because it seems to suggest you're safe wherever there's no need for the fence, which I don't believe was the case at all... but anyway, not to obsess here...
It was wonderfully sunny when we got there, and probably the first genuinely "summery" spring day we've had this year. The bare trees put the lie to the notion, but the heat was in evidence anyway. The first falls we came to were Tew's Falls. They are very nearly the height of Niagara Falls (not surprising since they go over the same escarpment), but the amount of water falling over them would take half a minute to fill a bathtub. It's clear they've been something much more substantial in the past, though. We didn't linger long since there wasn't much to see, and we didn't have the right angle to see it anyway. We moved along, heading down the trail toward Webster's Falls a half kilometer away.
The place got busier the further we went. We came to an open area where there must have been three dozen people picnicking and chasing around. There were some interesting sights along the way. One family seems to have built a home right at the edge of the gorge... we were essentially hiking through their front yard. There's also a little place where they've gathered four or five headstones of people who died around and just after the time of Confederation, and they've pressed the stones into cement to preserve them. It was a nice little display and I regret now that I didn't photograph it. That's uncharacteristic of me.
Webster's Falls were, for me, the real show. We glimpsed them first through the trees that lined the lip of the gorge, and I remember remarking to P-Doug at the time that it's a real shame the approaches to Niagara Falls weren't left as natural. You could square the majesty of Niagara if only it still looked as it must have when the first French explorers were shown it by Natives in the 1600s. Even then, there've been some changes to the vista. Most notable among them is the arched stone and mortar footbridge over whichever river, creek, or stream it is that engenders the falls. I shot it from a few different angles as we made our way around it. On the far side is an access to the base of the falls that P-Doug was keen to attempt but I wasn't. I was lugging about ten pounds of stuff in my back pack, my sandals don't have much of a grip to them, and it was a long way down and a long way back up. I suggested to him that if he did give it a shot, he should take my camera (having left his behind) and see what he could get down there. Turned out to be a pretty good idea because some of the best shots of the day came from his trip. For myself, I stayed at the top in the shade of a tree, back to the stone bridge, listening to music on my media player.
P-Doug eventually made his way back up but missed me and orbited for a bit before finding me, verging on dozing. He'd taken some fine shots, as I said, and made a little movie of himself announcing his triumph over the "128 stairs" up and down, and his intention never to do so again. The long and the sort of it is I'm glad he went, and glad I didn't. :)
By then we were both pretty hungry. The air being full of the smell of hamburgers being grilled didn't help. I was interested in hiking a woodland trail north of Milton, and we have a favourite pub thereabouts, so we left the park and headed north. One pitcher of beer, one Ruben sandwich, and one chicken curry over bowtie noodles later, we were ready to hit the trail. But by then, the northern sky was darkening – and surprisingly rapidly. I was convinced it was passing through north of us and pressed on. When we reached the trail, there were already dots of rain, but we trotted in. We headed off trail to a patch of trees with some shelter, but by then the rain had really picked up. I'm not one to complain, myself; under the right circumstances, I like being out in the rain in nature. I indulged myself by setting my clothes aside and sitting under a tree. The rain was cool but not cold; it was brisk but not uncomfortable. A mighty wind was stirring the heads of the trees above us but there was barely a breath of it at ground level. Lightning flashed and thunder rolled; it was spectacular. At least, for me it was. I don't think it was quite P-Doug's cup of tea. He stood in the rain alongside, and we commented back and forth on the show. He didn't complain or hustle me along but he was really just biding his time. As the rain eased up we wandered among the trees a bit. He was gracious enough to leave it to me to suggest we head back, and so I did... we were there about half an hour.
When we got back to the car it was his turn, and he put his wet clothes in the back, as did I. I had the impression we were just going to let them dry out a little but it turned out he had every intention of returning to town that way. He's bolder than me; I redonned my clammy shorts for the trip, sitting on the tarp I had in my backpack. He draped half of it across himself and away we went.
The wind and rain were with us all the way back. I thought they'd be north of us, but the storms had made their way right down to the lake. There was a time issue involved in getting P-Doug back to town to visit his missus, so we skipped going back to my place to pick up his car and simply headed back to his place, where he picked up the things he needed and we went to the hospital for a visit of an hour or so. Afterward, we ate in a pub local to my place (another pint, another chicken curry), and we parted after the long, sunny walk and brief, wet wanderings, with P-Doug vowing that Sunday would be BBQed hamburgers day for him. :)
I'd made plans to hike with P-Doug up an abandoned road near Georgian Bay. The plans were tentative because his wife has been having some heart trouble and the scheduling of her surgery was kind of up in the air. There was every possibility she'd be discharged on the weekend, so I wasn't sure which day – if either – would be convenient for him to make the trip.
Saturday, as it turned out, was good for him in terms of the timing, but not the weather. Looking at the radar, he determined that a set of thunderstorms passing through to the north would make the trip to where we'd been considering going ill-advised. He suggested instead something down here in the south, where the weather promised to be more even. He told me he'd been interested, for some time now, in having a look at a pair of falls in the Dundas area. So he met me at my place and we set out in my car for Spencer Gorge Conservation Area.
We took our time getting there. I bailed off the 403 at Dundas Street (Highway 5) and we took that across Halton and into Dundas. Just a few minutes past Highway 6 we found our turn, and made our way to the gorge. I was surprised, when we got there, that we had to pay $5 (either to park or to get in; it's not really clear which). It was a nice trail, right at the lip of the gorge. The rustic wooden rail fence that ran along the edge in places struck me as a half-hearted effort determined to provide safety in some places while entirely trusting to the fates in others... I was reminded of the contractor my parents hired many years ago to build our cottage... he had a binge drinking habit, and his efforts varied wildly from consummate professionalism to weeks of couldn't-give-a-damn neglect. Seems to me you build a fence to keep people from falling in, or you don't. The half-measure seems worse than nothing because it seems to suggest you're safe wherever there's no need for the fence, which I don't believe was the case at all... but anyway, not to obsess here...
It was wonderfully sunny when we got there, and probably the first genuinely "summery" spring day we've had this year. The bare trees put the lie to the notion, but the heat was in evidence anyway. The first falls we came to were Tew's Falls. They are very nearly the height of Niagara Falls (not surprising since they go over the same escarpment), but the amount of water falling over them would take half a minute to fill a bathtub. It's clear they've been something much more substantial in the past, though. We didn't linger long since there wasn't much to see, and we didn't have the right angle to see it anyway. We moved along, heading down the trail toward Webster's Falls a half kilometer away.
The place got busier the further we went. We came to an open area where there must have been three dozen people picnicking and chasing around. There were some interesting sights along the way. One family seems to have built a home right at the edge of the gorge... we were essentially hiking through their front yard. There's also a little place where they've gathered four or five headstones of people who died around and just after the time of Confederation, and they've pressed the stones into cement to preserve them. It was a nice little display and I regret now that I didn't photograph it. That's uncharacteristic of me.
Webster's Falls were, for me, the real show. We glimpsed them first through the trees that lined the lip of the gorge, and I remember remarking to P-Doug at the time that it's a real shame the approaches to Niagara Falls weren't left as natural. You could square the majesty of Niagara if only it still looked as it must have when the first French explorers were shown it by Natives in the 1600s. Even then, there've been some changes to the vista. Most notable among them is the arched stone and mortar footbridge over whichever river, creek, or stream it is that engenders the falls. I shot it from a few different angles as we made our way around it. On the far side is an access to the base of the falls that P-Doug was keen to attempt but I wasn't. I was lugging about ten pounds of stuff in my back pack, my sandals don't have much of a grip to them, and it was a long way down and a long way back up. I suggested to him that if he did give it a shot, he should take my camera (having left his behind) and see what he could get down there. Turned out to be a pretty good idea because some of the best shots of the day came from his trip. For myself, I stayed at the top in the shade of a tree, back to the stone bridge, listening to music on my media player.
P-Doug eventually made his way back up but missed me and orbited for a bit before finding me, verging on dozing. He'd taken some fine shots, as I said, and made a little movie of himself announcing his triumph over the "128 stairs" up and down, and his intention never to do so again. The long and the sort of it is I'm glad he went, and glad I didn't. :)
By then we were both pretty hungry. The air being full of the smell of hamburgers being grilled didn't help. I was interested in hiking a woodland trail north of Milton, and we have a favourite pub thereabouts, so we left the park and headed north. One pitcher of beer, one Ruben sandwich, and one chicken curry over bowtie noodles later, we were ready to hit the trail. But by then, the northern sky was darkening – and surprisingly rapidly. I was convinced it was passing through north of us and pressed on. When we reached the trail, there were already dots of rain, but we trotted in. We headed off trail to a patch of trees with some shelter, but by then the rain had really picked up. I'm not one to complain, myself; under the right circumstances, I like being out in the rain in nature. I indulged myself by setting my clothes aside and sitting under a tree. The rain was cool but not cold; it was brisk but not uncomfortable. A mighty wind was stirring the heads of the trees above us but there was barely a breath of it at ground level. Lightning flashed and thunder rolled; it was spectacular. At least, for me it was. I don't think it was quite P-Doug's cup of tea. He stood in the rain alongside, and we commented back and forth on the show. He didn't complain or hustle me along but he was really just biding his time. As the rain eased up we wandered among the trees a bit. He was gracious enough to leave it to me to suggest we head back, and so I did... we were there about half an hour.
When we got back to the car it was his turn, and he put his wet clothes in the back, as did I. I had the impression we were just going to let them dry out a little but it turned out he had every intention of returning to town that way. He's bolder than me; I redonned my clammy shorts for the trip, sitting on the tarp I had in my backpack. He draped half of it across himself and away we went.
The wind and rain were with us all the way back. I thought they'd be north of us, but the storms had made their way right down to the lake. There was a time issue involved in getting P-Doug back to town to visit his missus, so we skipped going back to my place to pick up his car and simply headed back to his place, where he picked up the things he needed and we went to the hospital for a visit of an hour or so. Afterward, we ate in a pub local to my place (another pint, another chicken curry), and we parted after the long, sunny walk and brief, wet wanderings, with P-Doug vowing that Sunday would be BBQed hamburgers day for him. :)
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Sunday, April 19, 2009
We wish
I hope it's obvious I've tinkered with the sign a little. I've had four nature hikes in the past year marred by ATV and motorbike shitheads (most recently, yesterday). Morons, if driving like an asshole on the 400-series highways isn't enough for you, if you simply HAVE to "experience nature" by making 120 dB of noise as you bounce around on it and rip it up with rubber, find a nice open space some farmer's not using and will let you tear up for a few bucks. But leave the trails to the hikers. Particularly since it's against the law not to.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
It had to be said
I was wondering when someone would finally have the courage to say it.
Twenty-one-year-old Trooper Karine Blais died in Afghanistan Monday, the 117th Canadian soldier to die in that country since we invaded it in October of 2001. Afghanistan just passed a law that makes it legal for a husband to rape his wife. This is what Canadian and other Western soldiers have died, are dying, and will no doubt continue to die for. A land that doesn't want us there and does not share our values.
Blais's godfather, Mario Blais, has said publically, "I think she did this for absolutely nothing." I would tend to agree.
There are, no doubt, voices in this country that will be quick to shout that this is not an atypical opinion, coming from Quebec with its long history of resistance to Canada's involvement in foreign wars. Of course, the flip side of that coin is that English Canada could be characterized as having a history of being all-too-willing to involve this country in foreign wars. In some cases, notably World War Two, it was arguably necessary. But not in this case. We entered this war largely out of sympathy for the US in the immediate aftermath of 9/11, to catch the men responsible – notably, Osama bin Laden. That man remains at large. Meanwhile, we are seven and a half years, and ten dozen soldiers, bogged down in Afghanistan.
And for what? A democratically-arrived-at decision that a man has the right to rape his wife?
It's time our soldiers stop dying for nothing. Well past time. It needed to be said.
Twenty-one-year-old Trooper Karine Blais died in Afghanistan Monday, the 117th Canadian soldier to die in that country since we invaded it in October of 2001. Afghanistan just passed a law that makes it legal for a husband to rape his wife. This is what Canadian and other Western soldiers have died, are dying, and will no doubt continue to die for. A land that doesn't want us there and does not share our values.
Blais's godfather, Mario Blais, has said publically, "I think she did this for absolutely nothing." I would tend to agree.
There are, no doubt, voices in this country that will be quick to shout that this is not an atypical opinion, coming from Quebec with its long history of resistance to Canada's involvement in foreign wars. Of course, the flip side of that coin is that English Canada could be characterized as having a history of being all-too-willing to involve this country in foreign wars. In some cases, notably World War Two, it was arguably necessary. But not in this case. We entered this war largely out of sympathy for the US in the immediate aftermath of 9/11, to catch the men responsible – notably, Osama bin Laden. That man remains at large. Meanwhile, we are seven and a half years, and ten dozen soldiers, bogged down in Afghanistan.
And for what? A democratically-arrived-at decision that a man has the right to rape his wife?
It's time our soldiers stop dying for nothing. Well past time. It needed to be said.
Monday, April 13, 2009
Lard Lookers? Obese Observers? Vastness Viewers?...
Years ago, I used to be quite a bit heavier than I am now. I went to a men's weight loss program and over the course of about a year, I lost just over 100 lbs. (this is on top of over 20 more I dropped on my own). I was never svelte, but I'd gotten to "normal" for the first time in my life. My waist size was in the 30s, I could buy off the rack, and I felt alright about myself. In the years since, I've strayed from what I know to be sensible eating habits... not entirely, but enough that I've gained back nearly 60 lbs. of what I'd lost. It hit the tipping point last summer where jeans that had been increasingly tight, just didn't fit anymore. I'd like to go back to the men's group, but two things stop me. First, it was hugely expensive; over a grand for six months. Secondly, it meets on Sunday mornings, and really, I just don't want to bisect my weekends that way anymore. I didn't mind it then but for some reason, now I want to be able to get up and get going on what I want on weekend mornings. The good weather's coming up and there's damn little of that in this country as it is without pissing away the first half of a Sunday.
I joined Weight Watchers last week. I could walk to it from where I live in a little under half an hour, and once the temperature's better, I think I will. They're meeting on Thursday evenings and it's a lot less expensive. Sure, I was the only guy there; I got to hear interesting conversations about "bloating" that I just don't hear when I'm hanging with the guys; but the main thing is, I need the accountability. I need to know I'm facing the scale and other human beings will know, week to week, how I've done. That's how I made it last time.
My mother's been going for some time now and she's lost nearly 50 lbs., and it really shows. I never really thought of her as fat, but in retrospect, the way she looks now highlights the difference (and frankly I was shocked to learned she'd even had that much to lose). I'm hoping to lose something about the same by the end of the summer.
Strange as it may sound, I'm not actually a huge eater at home (though I have a tendency to nibble). I have control of the environment and I really don't have things around I can't handle (like peanut butter, say). I think I can put the weight gain down to three factors...
Firstly, I had a lot of booze around over the last few years. Weekend and evening unwinding. I rarely got 'faced, but getting the quiet mellow up and off the ground a few times a week adds up in terms of money and waist size (it also makes it easier to drown out the voices of the better angels and eat eat eat). I haven't really had much around since last November; it's largely down to social drinking now.
Second, there's "portion creep". I'm still eating, for the most part, the things I learned I'm supposed to... just bigger amounts of them. I need to measure and weigh portions again. It's distressing to see just how little a ½ cup of pasta actually is; I'd forgotten. Still, the idea is to eat to live, not the reverse.
Third, there's all the social eating I do. I live by myself so occasions where I can break out for a little while with friends are big deal to me and I really look forward to them. Where I used to work, I really didn't make any long term close friends, so I almost never had lunch out, and that, it turns out, was a big help. Where I work now, though, I tend to be out about once a week, and it's generally to a buffet I really like. I know better, but it's hard to say no and besides, I like the chance to socialize.
Relatedly, there are the quiet weekend afternoons in the pub with P-Doug. High point of the week, most of the time, when they happen. Intelligent and amusing conversation, backgammon, the sweet kiss of beer, and food of such quality and proportions as to convince you the whole universe exists just to give you an ass-rub. It's such a gentle hobby, as King Arthur might say, and it really shouldn't have any down side. But it does.
This is not to say that these social occasions have to cease. I don't intend to starve myself of companionship along with fatty food. The trick, however, is going to be in making better choices. I know the more sensible things to have, and in what proportions, at the buffet. I know I'm going to drink beer when I'm out on the weekend, but that there are things on the menu, not all that exciting, I admit, that will have to be my choices in conjunction with that. I'm not helpless and I'm not unarmed. I know how many points there are in a pint, how many I have for the day, and how to plan accordingly. I'm going to adapt these situations to fit with my realities, like I did before. I'm not going to give up the good things in my life. I'm going to change them so they don't negate other good things in my life.
Hopefully this week will bear that out. Back in the saddle again...
P.S. Of course, the first weekend Old Monk is back on the shelves, that square bottle and me are goin' dancing. That's all there is to it. :)
I joined Weight Watchers last week. I could walk to it from where I live in a little under half an hour, and once the temperature's better, I think I will. They're meeting on Thursday evenings and it's a lot less expensive. Sure, I was the only guy there; I got to hear interesting conversations about "bloating" that I just don't hear when I'm hanging with the guys; but the main thing is, I need the accountability. I need to know I'm facing the scale and other human beings will know, week to week, how I've done. That's how I made it last time.
My mother's been going for some time now and she's lost nearly 50 lbs., and it really shows. I never really thought of her as fat, but in retrospect, the way she looks now highlights the difference (and frankly I was shocked to learned she'd even had that much to lose). I'm hoping to lose something about the same by the end of the summer.
Strange as it may sound, I'm not actually a huge eater at home (though I have a tendency to nibble). I have control of the environment and I really don't have things around I can't handle (like peanut butter, say). I think I can put the weight gain down to three factors...
Firstly, I had a lot of booze around over the last few years. Weekend and evening unwinding. I rarely got 'faced, but getting the quiet mellow up and off the ground a few times a week adds up in terms of money and waist size (it also makes it easier to drown out the voices of the better angels and eat eat eat). I haven't really had much around since last November; it's largely down to social drinking now.
Second, there's "portion creep". I'm still eating, for the most part, the things I learned I'm supposed to... just bigger amounts of them. I need to measure and weigh portions again. It's distressing to see just how little a ½ cup of pasta actually is; I'd forgotten. Still, the idea is to eat to live, not the reverse.
Third, there's all the social eating I do. I live by myself so occasions where I can break out for a little while with friends are big deal to me and I really look forward to them. Where I used to work, I really didn't make any long term close friends, so I almost never had lunch out, and that, it turns out, was a big help. Where I work now, though, I tend to be out about once a week, and it's generally to a buffet I really like. I know better, but it's hard to say no and besides, I like the chance to socialize.
Relatedly, there are the quiet weekend afternoons in the pub with P-Doug. High point of the week, most of the time, when they happen. Intelligent and amusing conversation, backgammon, the sweet kiss of beer, and food of such quality and proportions as to convince you the whole universe exists just to give you an ass-rub. It's such a gentle hobby, as King Arthur might say, and it really shouldn't have any down side. But it does.
This is not to say that these social occasions have to cease. I don't intend to starve myself of companionship along with fatty food. The trick, however, is going to be in making better choices. I know the more sensible things to have, and in what proportions, at the buffet. I know I'm going to drink beer when I'm out on the weekend, but that there are things on the menu, not all that exciting, I admit, that will have to be my choices in conjunction with that. I'm not helpless and I'm not unarmed. I know how many points there are in a pint, how many I have for the day, and how to plan accordingly. I'm going to adapt these situations to fit with my realities, like I did before. I'm not going to give up the good things in my life. I'm going to change them so they don't negate other good things in my life.
Hopefully this week will bear that out. Back in the saddle again...
P.S. Of course, the first weekend Old Monk is back on the shelves, that square bottle and me are goin' dancing. That's all there is to it. :)
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Return of the Monk
Well over a year ago, the Liquor Control Board of Ontario took Old Monk rum off the shelves, apparently because they found glass particles in some of the bottles. I understand the logic in that, but you would think that the bottler would straighten that out in short order, and that the LCBO would be reviewing it and getting it back on sale as quickly as possible. As a government-mandated monopoly in a democratic province and country, I submit this is, in fact, their duty and responsibility (otherwise, let the people decide for themselves).
I would never have believed it would take this long to straighten this out. I finally decided to contact the LCBO about it and express my dissatisfaction and demand the product be reviewed. As it turns out, they must have finally gotten around to it, because they wrote back and said the first shipment is due at the end of April, and will be on the shelves of their outlets in early May.
I've missed Old Monk. It's one of the few alcoholic libations stronger than beer that I can enjoy neat. It has a smooth mellowness about it, and an agreeable mingling of essenses that, whatever they might actually be, remind me of vanilla, raisins, and subtle spices. I'm really looking forward to being able to enjoy it again.
I would never have believed it would take this long to straighten this out. I finally decided to contact the LCBO about it and express my dissatisfaction and demand the product be reviewed. As it turns out, they must have finally gotten around to it, because they wrote back and said the first shipment is due at the end of April, and will be on the shelves of their outlets in early May.
I've missed Old Monk. It's one of the few alcoholic libations stronger than beer that I can enjoy neat. It has a smooth mellowness about it, and an agreeable mingling of essenses that, whatever they might actually be, remind me of vanilla, raisins, and subtle spices. I'm really looking forward to being able to enjoy it again.
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