Vern's Verbal Vibe

Slim Slow Sacrilege

2012-01-29T12:16:00.004-05:00

I've been on a Van Morrison kick lately, dragging out my old cassettes and enjoying them on my new state-of-the-art, $59 stereo ... which, oddly for these techno-toy times, came with a cassette player. (The acquisition of such oldfangled gadgetry is a story in itself—I recently bought a light box and found I could only fit it on my night table by downsizing the stereo from mini-system to boombox.)

Anyway, that muffled, hissy sound of magnetic tape through two-inch speakers got me thinking that perhaps it's time to ditch the cassettes in favour of remastered CDs. Surely by now, I figured, classics like Astral Weeks have been upgraded to the pristine quality they deserve. Not that I have anything decent to play the CDs on, but still.

To my horror, I discovered that though much of Van's back-catalogue has been remastered, Astral Weeks has not. A Japanese remaster is available at the usual hefty price for imports, but the most recent domestic CD dates from 1987.

Allowing Astral Weeks to languish with substandard sound is the rock 'n' roll equivalent of letting The Bible go out of print. It's sacrilege—a damning encapsulation of the music industry's malaise.

Avoiding Tired Adjectives

2011-12-31T23:40:00.007-05:00

"My date with Gia was amazing."
"Peter's sushi is just incredible."
"My shopping trip to New York was so totally awesome."
"Oh, my God, St. Lucia is, like, beautiful."
"This is our dream home. It's unbelievable."

Yes, my day gig as a closed-caption editor offers ample opportunities to transcribe words better suited to the Shady Pine Rest Home for the Lexically Moribund. Of course, we all use them in everyday life, where the demands of extemporaneous speech compel us to reach for the easy, accessible descriptor. But we needn't write like that. (Unless we're captioning "reality" TV, in which case it's perversely satisfying to let these jus'-plain-folks blather on in their ten-word-vocabulary glory.)

I recently scoured my manuscript for overused words like these and was able to replace or eliminate the bulk of them. Judicious use of a thesaurus helps, but at times a complete reconfiguration of the sentence is in order. If the offending word truly belongs—for example, if I've written a character that really would say "so totally awesome"—I'll leave it. And sometimes, a bland adjective like "great" may well be the best choice. Regardless, my aim is to write lively prose that serves the story.

A word of caution: be sparing, lest you meander into purple-prose territory. I don't want my work to read like Jane Austen, but neither do I want it littered with amazings, awesomes and beautifuls simply because I was too lazy to find worthy alternatives.

Ehh ... What's Up, God?

2011-11-01T21:35:00.079-04:00

I saw a guy today wearing one of those "Atheist Bus" T-shirts—you know, the ones that tell us we can stop worrying and enjoy our lives because "there's probably no God."

What's curious about this is the assumption that fretting and misery are inevitable responses to the existence of God. Of course, such a notion stems from the atheistic conception of the God they imagine we gullible spiritual types believe in: a vindictive, capricious son of a bitch ready to flog at the slightest misdeed.

Fortunately, the God of atheist critique is a caricature, bearing as much resemblance to the real thing as Bugs Bunny does to a rabbit.

The Case Against Evil

2011-10-01T14:01:00.019-04:00

With a weighty title like that, you might well expect a lofty philosophical discourse, cogently structured and flawlessly argued. If so, sorry to disappoint. I do, however, offer humble anecdotal evidence from the world of baseball.

Somewhat miraculously, the 2011 Tampa Bay Rays find themselves in the playoffs after trailing the Red Sox by 9 games as late as September 3. (Boston's spectacular collapse is in itself legendary, but I'll leave that for the denizens of Red Sox Nation to dissect. You know they will.)

Okay, so a team that's done rather well for itself in recent years makes the playoffs again. So what? Well, the Rays began life in 1998 as the Devil Rays, which is where the evil comes in. A quick glance at the Devil Rays' year-by-year record paints a clear picture:

1998: 63-99, last place, AL East
1999: 69-93, last place, AL East
2000: 69-92, last place, AL East
2001: 62-100, last place, AL East
2002: 55-106, last place, AL East
2003: 63-99, last place, AL East
2004: 70-91, 4th place, AL East
2005: 67-95, last place, AL East
2006: 61-101, last place, AL East
2007: 66-96, last place, AL East

In and of itself, compelling evidence that evil doesn't pay, no? That's nine last-place finishes in ten seasons. But there's more.

In late 2007, ownership revamped the team's logo and uniform and, most crucially, ditched the "Devil." In owner Stuart Sternberg's words, the rechristened Rays would be "a beacon that radiates throughout Tampa Bay and across the entire state of Florida." Lovely sentiments, but could they actually win? Let's have a look:

2008: 97-65, 1st place, AL East; AL Champions
2009: 84-78, 3rd place, AL East
2010: 96-66, 1st place, AL East
2011: 91-71, 2nd place, AL East; AL Wild Card team

That's four straight winning seasons and playoff appearances in three of those four years, and this from a team that (a) plays in toughest division in baseball; and (b) has a history of futility about as grim as it gets. So, kids, take good care when naming your sports teams. As the luminous Tampa Bay Rays have shown, good must trump evil, at least in the world of baseball.

(How, then, to account for The Evil Empire and their 27 World Series championships? Or the 1919 Black Sox? Or Roger Clemens? Ah, other posts for other days.)

The Big Maclica

2011-09-24T16:07:00.004-04:00

I've been a vegetarian for 20 years now. I rarely miss meat, but once in a while that Big Mac craving overtakes me. (All together now, those of you who came of age in the '70s: "Two all-beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions on a sesame-seed bun.") Alas, McDonald's doesn't make a vegetarian version of the Big Mac. What to do? Shows you where my brain is at, does it not, that this is a vexing preoccupation. Anyway, I humbly offer ...

THE BIG MACLICA (YOUR STEP-BY-STEP GUIDE)

Find a McDonald's and a Burger King within a block of each other. (Hint for Torontonians: Eglinton Avenue, north side, just east of Yonge.)
Stop in at Mickey D's first and order a Big Mac with no meat. You should get the above minus the two all-beef patties. If you don't, send it back and ask them to try again. Sadly, you'll pay full price for this lighter-than-air burger.
Stash the Meatless Mac in your backpack and sashay into Burger King.
Order the BK Veggie with an extra patty. Make it a combo with fries and a drink if you'd like.
When your order arrives, surreptitiously transfer the BK Veggie patties to the Mac. Discard the BK bun and toppings or enjoy them as a side dish; your choice.
Dig into your replica Big Mac, a.k.a. The Big Maclica.

I'll be trying this out tonight; will let you know how it goes.

Quotable

2011-08-26T11:07:00.001-04:00

Spotted on the Carlton streetcar last night: "I will only believe that war is the answer if as much money is spent on peace and it fails."

For Jack Layton, 1950-2011.

Opening Salvo

2011-07-10T01:17:00.002-04:00

For those of you who don't know, I am a smoker who doesn't drink. It's an odd combination and rather a lonely one, too. Every day I'm deluged by messages telling me, "Hey, loser, you picked the wrong addiction." The preponderance of feel-good alcohol advertisements is surpassed only by the ubiquitous no-smoking signs. Ever noticed just how many there are, everywhere? For fun, try counting them. Without going out of your way to find them, see how many turn up in the course of your day. In a typical day in Toronto I could hit a hundred by noon, easy.

Anyway: our hero is fighting back. There are still (miraculously) places in which you can't drink, but have you ever seen a sign indicating such? I haven't either, but I found one using Google image search and added my own little embellishment.

Coming soon: I'm Dry and I'm Proud, the clothing line. No, seriously. If I had the cash and knew a good designer, I'd do it tomorrow.

The Benvereens Go Upscale

2011-06-20T00:15:00.002-04:00

We have the pleasure of opening for Ron Hawkins and the Do Good Assassins this coming Wednesday, June 22 at the Drake Hotel (Underground), 1150 Queen St. W. Doors open at 8:00; we're on at 9:00. Expect a mix of old and new material along with our special guest Dave MacKinnon, who will sweeten the proceedings with his guitar and keyboard prowess.

Ontario to "Relax" Liquor Laws

2011-05-23T18:03:00.008-04:00

From cbc.ca:

"There's 'overwhelming' public support for Ontario to relax its liquor laws—something the provincial government will deliver this summer, said Attorney General Chris Bentley. Adults will soon have more freedom to wander around at festivals with a drink in hand under new provincial regulations, he said in an interview with The Canadian Press. No date has yet been set for their release, but the new rules should take effect in time for the summer, Bentley added. The public's chance to comment on the proposed changes ended May 1. While a few people disagreed with the idea, most supported it, he said. 'The overwhelming majority were for more flexibility,' Bentley said."

Guess who was one of the six nutters to disagree? Uh-huh. Sadly, society's attitudes toward drinking are where they were vis-à-vis smoking circa 1955: it's harmless, it's relaxing, it's stylish and everybody else is doing it, so what's your problem?

Interestingly, the article goes on to say that law enforcement officials—notably the Ontario Association of Chiefs of Police—expressed concerns, "saying it could encourage underage drinking, create unsafe environments for families and logistical headaches for officers trying to enforce the law." This apparently led to the province to make some changes to their original proposal.

Read the full article here, and for the record, below is my letter to the minister.

-------------------------------------------------------

Dear Minister Bentley,

I am writing to voice my opposition to the proposed "modernization" of Ontario's liquor laws. As a non-drinker, I believe the province's liquor laws are already far too lax. Every day I am deluged by alcohol advertisements and the ubiquitous presence of liquor in Ontarian society. Government outlets such as the LCBO and Beer Store sell liquor and lifestyle part and parcel, their stylish veneer a cloak of denial obscuring the truth about the world's most dangerous drug.

The preceding statement is not mere opinion; science backs me up. A recent study by the World Health Organization found alcohol to be the world's leading killer, accounting for over 4% of all deaths annually. Several months ago, a study in The Lancet found alcohol to be far and away the most dangerous drug, both in terms of harm to individuals and to society as a whole. Based on The Lancet's figures, alcohol is in fact four times more harmful than tobacco, the McGuinty government's favourite whipping boy.

I can also speak of the devastating effects of alcohol from personal experience. As an adult child of alcoholics, liquor has wreaked havoc on my life—and I am a lifelong teetotaller. I invite you to read The Problem, a summary of liquor's impact on those who grew up in families where alcohol abuse was rampant. Needless to say, these effects persist well into adulthood.

In summary, the laws you are seeking to change are not "outdated restrictions"; they are necessary measures to prevent drinkers from further encroaching upon the well-being of those who choose not to imbibe. If you refuse to tighten Ontario's liquor laws, I urge you to at the very least leave them alone.

Best Late-for-Work Excuse Ever

2011-04-01T00:01:00.003-04:00

"I was in the midst of making breakfast when I sneezed, causing my belt to explode. I was delayed because I had to stop off and buy a new belt so my pants wouldn't fall down."

All true—it happened this morning—except I wasn't late. Feel free to use at the workplace of your choice.

The Almighty Knuckleball

2011-03-07T15:54:00.003-05:00

Just finished a great article on the knuckleball by Marty Noble on mlb.com. If you're wanting the inside story behind this mysterious pitch, do check it out. Opposing hitters often find humour the best way to cope with a knuckleball, and in that spirit, I wanted to share a few of the more amusing quotes:

"Throwing a knuckleball for a strike is like throwing a butterfly with hiccups across the street into your neighbor's mailbox." — Willie Stargell, Pittsburgh Pirates

"I wish it were that easy." — R.A. Dickey, knuckleball pitcher, New York Mets

Bob Uecker, broadcaster and former catcher, on how to catch one: "Wait till it stops rolling, go to the backstop and pick it up."

Dear Winter

2011-02-25T19:31:00.005-05:00

In Scottsdale, AZ at 3:11 p.m. Eastern, wiry Giants righty Tim Lincecum threw a first-pitch ball, low and inside, to Arizona's Willie Bloomquist. And with that, Spring Training began. Major-league pitchers are honing their deliveries; major-league hitters likewise their swings. Tomorrow brings a full slate of games in the Cactus and Grapefruit Leagues, including my Blue Jays' Florida debut vs. the Detroit Tigers.

In a little over a month, the boys of summer will make their way north ... to Cleveland, Detroit, and Chicago; to New York, Seattle, and Boston; to Pittsburgh and Philly and Baltimore. Yes, even to chilly Toronto.

Baseball is coming. Winter, you have been warned.

The Writer Is In ...

2011-02-22T00:02:00.004-05:00

... and working so hard on his book that there's no time to blog. Mes excuses.

This is my first attempt at structural editing. I'm learning a lot but my head hurts. Worth it, though; Leilani's Gift has grown leaner, tighter and more focused as a result. I hope to be finished this round of editing by the end of May.

Museum and Arts Pass

2011-01-09T13:00:00.010-05:00

I've been known to grumble now and then about this charming little burg, but here's something to sing about: the Toronto Public Library's Museum and Arts Pass.

For the small price of having to haul my ass to the library at 9 a.m. this Saturday morning, I can now visit the Art Gallery of Ontario free of charge. In subsequent weeks I'll be checking out passes for the ROM, Science Centre, the Zoo, Casa Loma ... and the list goes on.

Conditions vary by venue, but most offer admission for up to two adults and two to four children on the same pass. Even better, passes can be borrowed again and again; the only limitation is one pass per person per week. And the pass needn't be returned to the library—it's surrendered at the venue.

What with general admission at major museums routinely eclipsing $20, this is a fabulous deal.

You Were Expecting What, Saks Fifth Avenue?

2010-12-09T21:19:00.004-05:00

Hilarious storefront sign spotted yesterday on a tatty stretch of Eglinton West:

HOUSE OF MOSS

FASHION'S LIMITED

And That Ball Will Fly, Fly Away

2010-11-14T13:45:00.000-05:00

Baseball lost another legendary broadcaster this week when Dave Niehaus, the voice of the Seattle Mariners since their inception, passed away suddenly. A touching tribute can be found here.

The Most Harmful Drug

2010-11-11T18:58:00.006-05:00

A recent study published in the Lancet compared the harm caused by various drugs, legal and illegal, to the user and society. The results:

Adult children of alcoholics have long suspected as much based on our experience; the scientific corroboration is welcome. Expect drug czars and the like to pooh-pooh the findings, not to mention the alcohol industry and its apologists.

Songwriting 101

2010-10-28T21:36:00.013-04:00

The title on this post is a misnomer, I'm afraid, as I don't know the first thing about teaching anyone how to write a song. That said, after writing lousy songs for the first ten years of my esteemed career—you've never heard them and you never will—I've finally learned how to write a decent one.

Sometimes the music comes first. A chord progression or melody will strike me, whether or not I have an instrument at hand at the time (usually not). Other times an insistent phrase will pop into my head and suggest itself as a song title, accompanied by a hint of melody as well if I'm lucky. The last two I've written, "Next of Kindred" and "When You Wear Black," fall into that category. Both began with just the title phrase and an embryonic melody.

By the time I get to pick up a guitar and see what takes shape, either the words or the chord sequence will evoke a melody. Or vice-versa: on rare occasions the melody will drive everything else. Some of my songs have spent their birthing time as little more than a melody with dummy lyrics. (What are dummy lyrics? A classic example is the earliest version of The Beatles' "Yesterday," which began life in Paul McCartney's brain as "Scrambled Eggs." Original opening couplet: "Scrambled eggs/Oh, my baby how I love your legs." Not bad, huh?)

My best ideas seem to come when I'm doing something else: working, riding the subway, or trying to fall asleep. For that reason I always keep a voice recorder handy. Oftentimes if you don't catch that first snippet right away, it's lost forever.

As for the structure (that's the verse-chorus-solo-bridge stuff), I like to say what needs to be said and no more, musically and lyrically. For me that generally takes between two and four minutes. And though one typically adheres to an established set of genre-based conventions, it's the little twists and turnarounds that can really make a song shine, and in this regard, serendipity is your ally.

Example: the other week The Benvereens were rehearsing one of my brother's new songs, and on the last chorus we hit the wrong chord. The progression was Em-G-C-D and we both went from Em to C. The song fell apart right there and we stopped and said, "Wait a minute—let's do that again. Change to the C straight away and stay on it, then hit the D." We tried it and guess what? We now have a final chorus with a twist that really drives the sucker home.

Borderline obvious, but worth mentioning: if you plan on performing your tune, either live or in studio, put it in the key that best suits your vocal range. (This may involve some experimenting but when you hit on it, you'll know.) Key-shifting is easier for guitarists than keyboardists, since we have the nifty capo at our disposal. If you're composing on piano, I'd suggest you choose the key that best facilitates comfortable singing and playing. If the key is in the ballpark vocally but the song still feels awkward to play, shift up or down a semitone—that should rid you of most of those pesky black notes. As always, experiment till you hit on what feels right.

My First Cuddle Party

2010-09-30T22:13:00.002-04:00

“I’m Vern, and I’ve realized for quite some time that I have a serious touch deficit in my life. And I’m really nervous.” By way of introduction, those were my opening lines at my first Cuddle Party.

Picture fifteen pyjama-clad strangers at a yoga centre enfolded in pillows and blankets with a snack table in the far corner—those were our cuddle party environs. It’s kind of like a pyjama party for adults. Some of us, me included, wore T-shirts and track pants.

During the opening (“welcome circle”), among other things we were asked to pair off and answer the following questions: What’s your favourite sort of touch? What’s your least favourite? What are your boundaries around touch? If the questions took me aback, my answers flummoxed me even more—don’t know, don’t know, and don’t know. This was akin to asking me to rank my top five Yiddish phrases. I don’t speak Yiddish, and I don’t speak touch.

One of the CP rules states that your touch requests should be specific and you cannot proceed unless you receive a verbal yes. Corollary: if you mean yes, say yes. If you mean no, say no. If you’re not sure, say no. Straight away I couldn’t picture myself asking for anything that carried with it the slightest chance of inviting a no … which, it followed, meant anything at all. It quickly became clear that I wouldn’t be asking anyone to touch me or let me touch them, full stop. And for the next three hours, I didn’t.

But I stayed, and as if in reward for my tenacity one woman—I’ll call her Renata; svelte, long blonde hair in braids, to these eyes the most attractive of the five women in the room—asked if she and I could sit back to back. Without hesitation I said yes, and we had a nice conversation about places to live. I shared with her my London dreams; she said she’s content in Belleville for now. And I’d like to thank you, Renata, for sharing your back with mine for a few moments. As you said, “I could feel your vocal vibrations in my spine.”

Victories arising from the experience:

Signing up for a Cuddle Party.
Walking in the door.
Staying for the whole thing, all three and a half hours, through a lot of discomfort.
Staying present and just sitting with whatever came up, which mostly entailed noticing how blocked I am in the tactile department.

Work to do:

Go to another Cuddle Party.
Determine my personal hierarchy of touching, from safest to scariest. (This won’t be easy—another of today’s insights is the realization that my psyche considers “safe” and “touch” oxymorons, though the asking is scarier than the touch.)
Ask at least one person to give me whatever is at the safe end of my list.
Eventually—maybe at my third or fourth party—work my way up: either by asking more people to touch me in the way I feel safest or asking the same person for the next rung up.

Toronto Mayoral Race: Vote ABBG

2010-08-30T20:30:00.006-04:00

Anybody But the Bald Guys. And Rob Ford's rapidly receding hairline qualifies him as substantively bald. Now, don't get me wrong; it's not their baldness I object to but their policies (or what few leanings I've been able to discern amidst the mudslinging).

Sadly, if current polls hold true we'll be electing a hothead for mayor, one way or the other—bald or substantively bald, should you care about that sort of thing.

Introducing ... The Benvereens

2010-07-19T19:31:00.007-04:00

Who really need no introduction; they've been gigging around town for a few years now, led by a fine guitarist and songwriter who happens to be my brother, Vince. His wife Dee plays the drums, and they've just released their first full-length CD, a splendid slice of Americana called Backyard Songs. So why the fanfare?

Once upon a long ago, I spent a good decade as bassist/vocalist with power-pop trio Sour Landslide along with Vince (vocals/guitar) and Dee (drums)—gigging, recording, the whole bit, finally calling it a day in 1998. Though I've worked on some solo material in the interim, I've not been in a band since, and I've missed it. So when Vince told me recently that The Bens were in search of a new bassist, one thing led to another, and well ... here we all are once again.

So far, it's been a delightful mix of the strange and familiar: new name, new sound, same personnel. At our first rehearsal we all agreed that this nifty little unit sounds like us, not like Sour Landslide. It's as though the three of us took 12 years off, then joined a new band together.

And what do we sound like? Work in progress, Cap'n, but if you're insatiably curious come see us play! Upcoming dates:

August 13 (Fri) - This Ain't Hollywood, Hamilton
August 26 (Thu) - The Local Pub, Toronto
September 24 (Fri) - The Smiling Buddha, Toronto

Self-Publishing: The Subway Test

2010-06-05T17:44:00.010-04:00

Well-meaning friend: "Any progress on Leilani's Gift? I'm dying to read it."

Me: "I'm still trying to get it published."

Well-meaning friend: "Have you thought of self-publishing?"

Me: "No."

Whereupon my friend—and it's not just one; I've heard many variations on the theme—will try to sell me on the virtues of self-publishing. For the right author and right book, I suppose, they are several: artistic freedom, independence, complete control and timeliness of publication, to name but a few.

The fact is, I'm a poor candidate for self-publishing, and so is my book. Unless you're a marketing genius, selling huge quantities and self-publishing are mutually exclusive, and self-published memoirs die especially quick deaths. Ideal genres for going it alone are business, motivational, health, how-to, cookbooks, and those aimed at specialty (read: tiny, i.e., niche or regional) markets.

If you don't believe me, try this: next time you're on the subway, take a look at what people are reading. I've been conducting informal research for a few weeks and I've yet to see a self-published book. Of all the material that commuters read—including e-books, audio books, whatever—I'd be shocked if self-published titles exceeded 2%.

If you're content to have your work read by your grandmother and 53 of your friends and can't wait to get it out, by all means, self-publish. You'll have complete control and shoulder complete responsibility for editing, proofreading, bookbinding, layout and design, typesetting, marketing, distribution, accounting ... you name it. But if your goal is seeing a riveted Jack or Jill Lunchbucket turning your pages—on the subway, at the cottage, in the bathroom, in Toronto, Tucson, Turin or Tokyo—traditional publishing is the way to go.

And yes, it's a long road. I wish my book was out too. With a little patience, diligence and persistence, it will be ... when it's ready. In the meantime, I've hired an editor to work with me on a structural (big-picture) edit.

Notes on the UK Election

2010-05-11T12:35:00.015-04:00

Only the British can transform an electoral circus into a dignified waltz. Witness this BBC headline: "Talks between Labour and the Liberal Democrats appear to have reached no conclusion." I had to read it a few times (and watch the attendant coverage) to suss out the translation: talks broke off.

Equally enjoyable is the manner in which election results are announced. Nothing is revealed until every vote is counted, at which time a well-respected returning officer strides to the podium. He/she is flanked by the candidates, all of whom wear gaudy ribbons to identify their party affiliation, looking for all the world as if they were contestants in a dog show. At last—and with much gravitas—the well-respected returning officer makes a sober announcement:

"I, Whatever Whatever, Returning Officer for the Constituency of Lambeth, hereby declare the results of the 2010 General Election as follows: Hutchison, Christopher James Charles, commonly known as 'Thing,' Monster Raving Loony Party, 78 votes." At which point the frizzy-haired bloke on the officer's left—he of the candy-cane suit, fluorescent green tie and oversize bowler hat—clasps his hands, raises them above his head and breaks into a big grin.

This delightful mix of restraint, decorum and out-and-out lunacy tells me that Britain is where I belong.

Mom's Greatest Hits

2010-04-19T22:55:00.011-04:00

My mother taught piano, and were it not for a crippling stage fright she never overcame, I truly believe she could have been a concert pianist. A musician of staggering talent, Mom played (and taught) the classics, but could tear through a wicked boogie-woogie when the mood struck her.

Every so often I'll near a snippet of some classical piece and think, "Ah, that's one of hers," but I never know which one. Having majored in rock, I am only now getting around to exploring the classics in earnest. I can identify Bach fairly easily; after that I'm pretty much lost. Chopin was Mom's favourite, and I wistfully recall our playful banter—she advocating for the romantics, me the 20th-century mavericks. "Oh, you'd like Bartók," she'd say. Then, with a snort: "He plays between the cracks." And with that, she'd pull out one of her music books and give me a sample. Mom could play anything.

All these years later I'm trying to compile Mom's Greatest Hits via download, but as I've alluded to, I've a slight problem: I know them only to hear them. The titles, of course, are of little help. It's a shame that the greats of yesteryear didn't name their masterworks "Beach Blanket Bingo" instead of "Prelude No. 37 in F sharp Minor, Opus 32, No. 6." Would've made it easier for the Luddites of 250 years hence to identify the piece, yes?

So—I download, I listen. If it sounds familiar, it's one of Mom's Greatest. If not, I try again. To this point I've unearthed but three of Mom's Greatest Hits:

Beethoven - Für Elise (look, Ma, a title!)
Chopin - Nocturne in E flat minor, Op. 9, No. 2
Rachmaninoff - Prelude in C sharp minor, Op. 3, No. 2

And to satisfy my 20th-century jones (Mom would find these between-the-cracks city):

Webern - String Quartet, Op. 28
Stravinsky - The Rite of Spring (caused a riot; you can't beat that)
Stockhausen - Kontakte

The journey continues. Thanks, Mom.

Welcome to March

2010-03-01T01:27:00.003-05:00

As we in the northern latitudes know, March is a transitional month. In beautiful Toronto, the transition is from late mid-winter to early late-winter. But here's a better take from Garrison Keillor, as heard on today's Prairie Home Companion: "March is God's way of showing non-drinkers what a hangover feels like."

Dancing Stacks of Paper

2010-02-23T16:27:00.004-05:00

CBC Interviewer: So, how do these two reports jive?

Answer I wish I'd heard: Uh, not very well. They're not exactly limber; they tend to just sit there on desks. I think the word you want is "jibe." But hey, a few salsa lessons and anything's possible.

Dear Nanny

2010-01-18T18:15:00.004-05:00

Letter of complaint to the Toronto Transit Commission, submitted via their web site:

I ride the TTC frequently and hear the following message over the intercom several times a day: "Please remember that smoking is not permitted anywhere on the TTC."

Dear Nanny, how can we possibly forget? In addition to your patronizing announcements, no-smoking signs are plastered around every subway station. At my nearest station, Castle Frank, I counted 13 no-smoking signs on my walk from the bus bay to the eastbound platform. And on the course of said walk, I had to endure your kindly announcement twice.

Nanny, please remember to refrain from overkill on the TTC. Please?

Curiously, one has to look long and hard around Castle Frank Station to find any signage indicating which platform is the eastbound and which westbound. Surely that should take precedence over reminding riders they can't smoke for the fifteenth time?

Nanny, are you running a transit system or a health care clinic?

All Together Now ...

2009-12-30T21:49:00.005-05:00

2010. Twenty-ten. See how naturally it rolls off the tongue? You'll also note the sonorous echo of similar years belonging to previous centuries. Would you, for example, tell someone that your grandfather was born in one thousand, nine hundred and forty? My money's on nineteen-forty.

So say it with me: twenty-ten. Enough of this two-thousand-and garbage, oui?

Newsflash: Toronto Bans Snow

2009-11-30T13:32:00.017-05:00

TORONTO (KP) - In a rare show of solidarity, Toronto City Council has unanimously voted to ban snow for the entire month of November, the Kanadian Press has learned.

Councillor Clem Methuselah said, "As we all know, snow is white ... well, that's how it falls, anyway. And as such it is in direct contravention of the City's Greener Than Thou policy. We are banning snow for a brighter, greener tomorrow."

Chief Medical Officer Alvin Losparanoias gushed, "Any snow-free day is a godsend. Every year, the snow pandemic fells our most vulnerable: the homeless, the elderly, and the Toronto Maple Leafs."

And Councillor Bobby Fjord was heard to chime in, "I'm sick of Council over-regulating our lives, but even I can get behind this. It's a no-brainer. Besides, at the end of the day, the sun sets."

Word is that the City aims to extend the ban well into December.

Sometimes ...

2009-10-01T20:11:00.005-04:00

... you just want to bash your head against the first available wall. Coming out of Dupont station yesterday I saw a poster advertising a "Writer's Boot Camp." Enroll now, as there's only room for one! And no, we don't cover punctuation. Sorry.

According to their web site, which I will not share, this same outfit is also threatening to unleash a "Copy Writer's Club" upon us. All right, you're on: Writer's Club. Writer's Club. Writer's Club.

Oy.

For Beatlemanics Only

2009-09-22T16:23:00.010-04:00

No, I'm not going to prattle on about The Beatles' remasters. I have two so far and of course, they're exquisite, both in sound and performance. Any serious rock fan—does anyone call it "rock" anymore?—is hereby commanded to buy them all.

Instead I wish to share with you a revelation, as it were, about the much-maligned "Revolution 9." Seems our crack research department has recently unearthed the 1963 version, a McCartney classic that has languished in the vaults till now. Shake yer mop-tops, kids!

(For the record, I'm one of six people in the world who like "Revolution 9" as it appears on the White Album.)

Still Raining at Rogers Centre

2009-08-14T01:46:00.004-04:00

Mr. Mario Coutinho
Vice-President, Stadium Operations & Security
Toronto Blue Jays Baseball Club
1 Blue Jays Way, Suite 3200
Rogers Centre
Toronto, Ontario M5V 1J1

Dear Mr. Coutinho:

I am writing to discuss your recent attempts to remedy the problem of drinking patrons frequenting the non-alcohol section (520/521).

First, I will summarize the changes that have been implemented of late, presumably in response to my letter of May 4:

The dry area has been reduced by approximately a third, with a tarp at Row 14 acting as the dividing line between the drinking and non-drinking parts of 520/521;
“NO ALCOHOL” is now printed on any ticket sold in Sections 520/521 (to Row 14 only);
Approximately five inconspicuous 8½ x 11 flyers announcing the new non-drinking area (stated as “Section 520, Rows 1 to 14”—no mention at all of 521) appear in the washrooms, concourses, and once in a while, the beer cart;
The Budweiser cart—after a brief and blessed absence of perhaps a week—has been reinstated in the concourse directly behind the section.

Predictably, these superficial remedies have done nothing to alleviate drinkers’ continued presence in the non-alcohol area. The only tangible result has been a smaller section facing the very same problem.

In my previous letter, I outlined the following contributing factors:

Inadequate signage
No promotion
Improperly trained beer vendors
The preponderance of empty seats, especially in the upper rows
Ill-situated concourse beer stand

Of these you have addressed only the fourth, and this in a most infuriating way by lopping off a third of the section. Signage remains poor; the non-drinking section is still Rogers Centre’s best-kept secret (the “NO ALCOHOL” designation on tickets informs only those who already know); vendors continue to hawk beer to non-drinking patrons; and business remains brisk at the Bud cart below.

And the latter, I suspect, is the telltale indicator of where your priorities lie. Tell me: if the non-drinking section is such an affront to drinkers—and evidently, an utter enigma for you to administer—why are you bothering? If your recent attempts to mollify the teetotal are any indication, the non-drinking section will be whittled to nothing by season’s end.

Once again, I urge you to seriously address my concerns.

Sincerely,

Vern C. Nicholson

cc: Richard Wong, Senior Vice-President, Stadium Operations
Liquor Enforcement, Alcohol and Gaming Commission of Ontario

Opening Day

2009-07-15T23:07:00.004-04:00

For those of you who couldn't make the reading I'm posting it here, introductions and all. This piece will eventually appear as part of Season Pass, likely as the lead-up to Opening Day 2009. Enjoy!

LAURIE FREEMAN (M.C.): It gives me great pleasure to introduce Vern Nicholson, who has spent the past four years honing his mystic/autistic memoir Leilani's Gift. Now Vern is embarking on a new work, the baseball-themed Season Pass, from which he will read tonight.

VERN: Thanks, Laurie, and thank you all for coming. Good evening. [Produces the actual pass] Exhibit A: the Toronto Blue Jays Season Pass. For $95, the bearer is entitled to one seat in the upper deck for any game during the 2009 season. This lends itself to a mad quest on my part: to attend all 81 games this year. To heighten the drama, our hero was inspired to couple his rabid pursuit of baseball with one far more daunting—asking 81 women out, one for each game attended. Tonight I’d like to read an excerpt from Season Pass called “Opening Day.”

April 7, 1977: Snow blankets Toronto’s Exhibition Stadium. Forty-four thousand await the start of our first major-league baseball game. White Sox second baseman Jack Brohamer takes full advantage, skiing across the powdery infield using catcher’s pads and two baseball bats. The neophytes in the stands take little notice. Baseball in the snow… what’s wrong with that?

Labatt’s, makers of a popular beer called Blue, owned the franchise. A name-the-team contest was held the previous summer, and the squad was christened “Blue Jays” in hopes that “the Blues” would catch on as a nickname. From day one, the home nine has been known as the Jays. Yes, there is a God.

A teenage nerd, I’d handed Mom’s note to Mr. Tullo, my homeroom teacher, that morning. God forbid I should skip school for anything, least of all a sporting event. My friend Jeremy did likewise and, legit and good to go, we hopped on the Ossington bus with his older brother, Jason. This was “Opening Day” in baseball parlance, and we didn’t know what to expect. If Opening Day was special, an annual rite that dampened the darkest of winters, what did that make this, Toronto’s first? I felt like I stood at the dawn of time.

“Okay, Cyc,” Jason said with a sly grin. “Let’s test your baseball knowledge. What’s ERA?” Cyc, short for Cyclops—a sobriquet earned in ‘72 when I was whacked in the eye by a frozen tennis ball. This was Jason’s first big-league game too, but he’d followed the Expos on TV for years. He was older. He knew his stuff.

“Uh … Estimated Runs Allowed?” Jeremy cackled, though I could tell he didn’t know either. We got off at Rogers and Dufferin to wait in the cold for the 29. “Well, it’s a pitching stat. You got that at least,” Jason said. “ERA. Earned Run Average.” I stared at him blankly. “How many earned runs a pitcher allows per nine innings.”

“An earned run means the team scored with hits, not errors,” Jeremy offered, eager to impress. “Right,” Jason nodded as the bus pulled up. “Man, this is historic, and we’ll be able to say we were there.”

And I was. My ticket stub proves it: right field reserved bench (and that’s what they were—section-long, frigid aluminum benches), Section 5, Row 5, Seat 27, $3.00, enter through Gate 11. A star-crossed Texan named Doug Ault would be the first Blue Jay hero, belting two homers that day in a 9-5 Toronto win.

After Opening Day and the big victory, I was shocked to discover that the Blue Jays would play again the next day. And the next day, and the day after that, and every day that week, and then another week’s worth of away games. My sporting rhythms, attuned to the football Argonauts’ 16-game schedule, couldn’t quite grasp that these guys played 162 from now till the end of September—81 here, 81 on the road.

By this time, we neighbourhood kids had taken to the diamond ourselves. I couldn’t catch, run, throw, or hit, but I could be counted on to bring the radio. Day after day, I tucked my RCA transistor inside my glove so we could follow the Jays on CKFH. Tom Cheek and Early Wynn, a hall-of-fame pitcher none of us had heard of, called every game. Tom was a veteran broadcaster, a laid-back Floridian with a sonorous baritone and a dry wit. Early? Well, he may have won 300 games, but his cryptic drawl translated poorly to radio.

The same couldn’t be said for this exotic, thoroughly American pastime. Slow enough to let Tom paint a picture, a nine-inning game left plenty of room for Early’s tales from yesteryear. Baseball on the radio was like a tall glass of lemonade on a hot day: gulp it down and you miss the point.

With no intent, these upstart Blue Jays had plugged us into the way-back machine, a timeless Norman Rockwell within. Popcorn, a dog, and a drink. Bleacher bums heckling the ump. A walk-off single to send ‘em home smiling. The race for the pennant. Fathers and sons, mothers and daughters, misfits and average Joes coming of age, echoing, foretelling, being. In baseball a team could never run out of time, only outs. Time-less.

Beyond the ritual lay the language, the syntax of the ol’ ball game. As Tom and Early soon taught me, statistical terms like ERA were just the launch pad. To follow the dance, I had to understand sac bunts, double plays, walk-offs and rundowns, slurves and sliders. Along the way I asked my fair share of dumb questions. (Why was there a “designated” hitter? Weren’t they all hitters?)

Once I could really tell rundowns from walk-offs, I was ready for southpaws, submariners, and suicide squeezes, nightcaps and no-nos, Texas Leaguers and Baltimore Chops. Meanwhile, Tom and Early held master class daily on CKFH. Each home stand or road trip was a university-of-the-air with your hosts, Professors Emeriti from Cooperstown U.

“And Ashby has earned himself a Golden Sombrero. Waaay out in front on that change-up.” (Ashby struck out for the fourth time, swinging at a slow pitch before it reached the plate.)

“That hot shot just handcuffed Garcia. Wise choice to eat the ball.” (Garcia had so much trouble catching a line drive he had no play at any base.)

“Whoa! Guidry was singin’ a little chin music there, Tom.” (Guidry threw at the batter’s head; in his playing days, Early was a chin-music maestro.)

To double the fun, Tom had a few Cheekisms, wry turns of phrase uniquely his own: “Seems Mr. Garvin here can’t stand prosperity” told us that pitcher Jerry Garvin had blown yet another big lead. “It’s Katie-bar-the-door” meant the opposition had loaded the bases and was threatening to tie or go ahead. And if, for instance, an opponent snagged a scorching liner that should have been the game-winning double, Tom would say, “Mercy. Now, that makes you want to go back to the clubhouse and tear all the fuzz off your T-shirts.”

The ’77 Blue Jays gave us ample opportunities to ravage our clothing. Our heroes were zeroes, luminaries of the diamond like Otto “The Swatto” Vélez, Tim Nordbrook, Sam Ewing, and Jeff Byrd, who went 2-13 in his first and only season in the majors. Oh, and a 6.18 ERA. The team finished 54-107, 45½ games behind the first-place New York Yankees. Race for the pennant … ¿qué?

Jeremy, Jason, and I didn’t care—baseball had come to the Ex! Little did it matter that Exasperation Stadium was the majors’ worst venue, the only ballpark where a game has ever been called due to wind (April 30/84 vs. Texas; 6’4” hurler Jim Clancy was blown off the mound, somehow managing six pitches before the umpires shut it down).

Thirty-two years from that blustery Thursday in ‘77, I’m a middle-aged nerd, my Blue Jays wear black, a soccer field sits atop a levelled Exhibition Stadium, and Tom Cheek—who called 4,306 games before brain cancer got him—lies in a simple plot in Clearwater, Florida. These days the boys play at Rogers Centre, a concrete behemoth with a roof … great for snowy days like this April 6th, 2009.

So ditch the skis, Jack Brohamer, and bar the door, Katie, wherever you are. It’s Opening Day, the Tigers are in town, and I’ve signed up for all 81 games. Halladay winds and it’s time to play ball!

All 81? Mercy.

Parliament Writers Read!

2009-06-11T23:01:00.004-04:00

The Parliament Writers' Group is holding its annual reading, and you, dear reader of the blog, are invited! I'll tantalize you with an excerpt from Season Pass, my baseball-themed work-in-progress. Meanwhile, my friends will regale you with tales of unsung heroes, small-town scandals, wild women, messed-up men, and more. As I have a 7:10 ballgame to attend that night I'll be up first, so get there early.

Come hear us read! Refreshments provided and admission is free.

Monday, June 29
6:00-8:00 p.m.
Community Room, 2nd Floor, Parliament Library
269 Gerrard St. E., Toronto

The Non-Alcohol Section: So Wet I Need a Raincoat

2009-05-04T23:19:00.000-04:00

Mr. Mario Coutinho
Vice-President, Stadium Operations & Security
Toronto Blue Jays Baseball Club
1 Blue Jays Way, Suite 3200
Rogers Centre
Toronto, Ontario M5V 1J1

Dear Mr. Coutinho:

I am a loyal Blue Jays fan who attends upwards of 70 games per season. A lifelong non-drinker for a variety or reasons, I choose to sit in the non-alcohol section (520/521).

I wish to draw your attention to the failure of Rogers Centre to consistently maintain Section 520/521 as an alcohol-free section, a state of affairs that hampers my enjoyment of the game.

First off, I wish to note that by and large, your ushers do a good job of enforcing the non-alcohol policy. When they happen to spot a guest consuming alcoholic beverages in the prohibited area, they politely inform the guest that the section is alcohol-free and ask them to move. Yes, most guests do comply, but I raise this point to illustrate the crux of the problem: ushers shouldn’t have to haul hordes of beer-drinking patrons out of this section night after night.

Why do drinkers flock to an ostensibly alcohol-free section? I offer several reasons:

Inadequate signage. Unless a patron is looking for one of the modest signs adoring the passageway from the concourse to seating areas, one would never know that this section has been designated alcohol-free. There is absolutely no signage in the seating area. This paucity of signage can be rectified by: (a) painting the seats in 520/521 a different colour; (b) slapping a (large, visible) sticker on every seat in the section—perhaps a beer stein enclosed in a red circle with the words “NON-ALCOHOL SEATING AREA” would do the trick; (c) hanging a banner in the top row that spans the width of the section, with graphics/text as in (b) above (the banner would be immediately visible to patrons as they turn to go up the stairs to their seats); (d) providing larger and more plentiful signage throughout the concourse.

Lack of awareness. A simple in-stadium announcement, together with a graphic on the video board, could be made once per game—ideally in the second or third inning—to ensure that all fans at Rogers Centre (a) know that this section (and the corresponding Level 100- and 200-areas) exists, and (b) are reminded that those who choose to sit in these sections cannot consume alcoholic beverages.

Improperly trained beer vendors. On at least three occasions, I have seen beer vendors (a) hawking beer in the non-alcohol section and/or (b) selling beer to patrons seated in the section. Presumably, neither the vendor nor the patrons realize that the section has been designated alcohol-free. Beer vendors must be trained to (a) refrain from hawking beer in the non-alcohol section; and (b) refrain from selling beer to patrons seated therein. (Ignorance on the patron’s part is not a valid excuse.)

This-section’s-empty-hey-let’s-sit here syndrome. I understand that—despite its prime location down the first base line—520/521 is usually the most sparsely populated section in the upper deck because the vast majority of guests prefer beer with their baseball. That’s fine, but the lure of empty seats combined with inadequate signage and utter lack of awareness (see above) ensures a steady stream of “migrants” into 520/521. As noted earlier, the ushers do their best to stem the tide; with adequate signage and increased awareness they wouldn’t have to.

Strategically misplaced concourse beer stand. If Rogers Centre is serious about creating a non-alcohol seating area in Section 520/521, why is a Budweiser cart situated in the concourse directly behind Sections 520 and 521? Irrespective of the actual seat number printed on their tickets, patrons tend to line up, grab their beer, and head up the nearest aisle, which of course leads directly to the non-alcohol seating area.

I love watching baseball, but I can’t say I enjoy the split focus that makes up my in-game experience. I spend half my time focusing on the field and the other half playing unofficial section cop. Often the usher is busy tending to other duties, or there are too many migrating drinkers for one usher to handle.

It is my steadfast belief that implementing the simple structural changes outlined above would go a long way toward making Rogers Centre a more hospitable place for drinkers and non-drinkers alike. Though I may be the only one writing, I’m not the only regular in this section who is troubled by these ongoing infractions. As such, I urge you to give my concerns your utmost consideration.

Sincerely,

Vern C. Nicholson

cc: Richard Wong, Senior Vice-President, Stadium Operations
Liquor Enforcement, Alcohol and Gaming Commission of Ontario

Mix Tape Goes Digital

2009-04-20T20:58:00.038-04:00

I know, I know: old news, right? Maybe for you, tech-savvy young'un, but grandpa here just purchased his first mp3 player and is having a blast programming it, which brings me to the subject of today's civics class.

Programming music is an art, one that should be a highly prized social skill. (Why most people care far more about, e.g., the layout of a garden or the presentation of snooty food is utterly beyond me. But I digress.)

Let's begin with issues of top-down structure. I'm old enough to remember when albums were meant to be listened to in totality, in sequence. Thus, my player contains as many complete albums as I could fit onto it (roughly twelve). These are then categorized by genre (jazz, classical, folk, rock, electronica), a feast of full works as the artists intended them.

There are, of course, times when a listener wants a little of this, a little of that. Sure, I could simply use the "shuffle" function but that's too random for my tastes. As one who prefers to program the music's peaks and valleys, I've created a Top 150, a digital jukebox if you will. It too has an overarching structure: one song per artist. This simple dictum in place, we're ready to blast into sonic nirvana. Allow me to introduce you to some of my musical heroes ...

As any performer will tell you, you want to start and finish with a bang. For me, that means kicking off with Game Theory's "Leilani" (a chiming, surreal ode to my beloved via her pseudonym), "Broken" by The Guess Who (the most under-appreciated B-side of all time; Kurt Winter's solo is stunning), and "The Family of Man" by Three Dog Night (what's the sound of one jaw dropping—Danny, Chuck, and Cory, in that order, showing off their pipes). The latter two hearken back to '71-'72, back to my youth, back to the first music I heard that had mojo.

From here we weave our way into and out of the '60s, '70s, '80s, '90s and occasionally '00s, rarely in that order. We rage in teenage indignation with Husker Du's "In a Free Land," shake our cerebellums to Japan's brainy synth-pop ("Still Life in Mobile Homes"), imbibe the pioneering ambiance of Pink Floyd ("Echoes"—yes, the full 23 minutes), and soulfully "Drift Away" with Dobie Gray.

At Song 24 comes our first thematic pairing: "Venus" by Television and "Venus" by The Shocking Blue. (Compiler's note: Bananarama's "Venus" would be both redundant and inferior. As for Frankie Avalon, not a fucking chance! This mp3 player is cheese-free.)

Song 38 introduces the "sunlight" section of the proceedings. Jonathan Edwards' clipped, caustic "Sunshine" is followed by Richie Havens' exuberant remake of "Here Comes the Sun." Add the trippy "That Ole Sun" by modern psych-meisters The Sunshine Fix and you've got your daily dose of Vitamin D and then some.

Some pairings aren't quite so obvious. Consider Songs 45 and 46, Nick Drake's "Northern Sky" and "Life in a Northern Town" by The Dream Academy. I didn't know until recently that the latter was written for/about Nick Drake. Perhaps not coincidentally, both share an ethereal, mystical quality.

Then there are the strictly musical marriages. For instance, at Song 112 I love the way the final chord of Moby Grape's galloping "Rounder" segues into the almost-identical opening of "Kinder Murder" by Elvis Costello. (Note too the completely unconscious "-er" pairing!) The Washington Squares ("New Generation"), Tracy Chapman ("Talkin' 'Bout a Revolution"), Gordon Lightfoot ("Steel Rail Blues"), and Joan Baez ("The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down") form a shimmering folk quartet at Song 97, and let's hear it for this salvo o' soul at Song 106: "Why Can't We Live Together" (Timmy Thomas), "Let's Stay Together" (Al Green), "Funky Nassau" (The Beginning of The End), "Sex Machine" (James Brown). Ow!

I enjoy making "lineage" pairings as well. Though (deliberately) not chronological, the sequence of Teenage Fanclub, Small Faces, The Who and Paul Weller at Song 137 makes eminent musical sense to any student of rock. In a more cultural vein, check out the trio starting at Song 82: "Woodstock" (Matthews' Southern Comfort), "With a Little Help From My Friends" (Joe Cocker, live at Woodstock), and "Moonshadow" (Cat Stevens). The festival's euphoria is first told by a band (and songwriter) who weren't there, shown in process, and spat back in your face through an early-'70s confessional.

As mentioned earlier, it behooves us to end with a flourish, so without further ado I offer The Crescendo, from Song 145: Kate Bush, "The Man With the Child in His Eyes"; Jefferson Starship's epic "St. Charles"; The English Beat, "End of the Party"; The Waterboys, "Spirit"; and Santana's "Every Step of the Way," a white-hot rush of molten fusion ecstasy. If you listen carefully all four touch on transcendence through love, personal or transpersonal.

And once you've fired all your guns, what else to do but lay down your weary tune in the form of Song 150, the hypnotic "Universal Copernican Mumbles." Turn 'em every which way but loose, then let 'em down easy. Sure, this Paul Kantner/Grace Slick tone poem arguably violates the one-song-per-artist rule, especially situated a scant four songs from the Starship. But in that spirit, I beg off with words from Herr Kaptain himself:

There are three rules of rock 'n' roll;

unfortunately, no one knows what they are.

- Paul Kantner, after W. Somerset Maugham

Season Pass Update

2009-03-29T23:18:00.008-04:00

Ze pass 'as been procured, boss, and the first six dates have been sought. Am thoroughly enjoying MLB's Gameday Audio package (a steal at CAN$19), which has allowed me to eavesdrop on spring games from across the majors. As for the dating, I'm 0-for-1 with 5 responses pending, but my refusal to take things personally is perhaps the biggest development. Hope I can keep that up.

Browsing the profiles is amusing. Today's biggest chuckle was elicited by a woman who announced off the top, "IM not lookin for FREAKS." Rest assured, darling, freaks aren't "lookin" for you either.

One week to Opening Day! Projected starters are Roy Halladay and the Tigers' Justin Verlander.

Atheist Bus: The Rejoinder

2009-03-03T23:13:00.038-05:00

As an ex-atheist, I bemusedly note that my erstwhile brethren have taken up preaching. Now, the God of my understanding has never caused me worry, so I must confess I don't know what they're on about.

But the god of atheism—science—is these days wont to wag its finger at my ilk, offering free advice on what to eat and drink, which vitamins to take, how much exercise to get, and so on. Lifestyle is now the domain of science, and it's sloppy science: causation inferred from correlation, extrapolations from animal studies, biased research beholden to special interests. So, I offer this rejoinder (inquiries from transit systems welcome):

Best One-Liner Ever

2009-03-01T10:44:00.002-05:00

"Last night I played a blank tape at full blast. The mime next door went nuts."

(Spotted in a signature file; attributed to comic genius Steven Wright.)

Season Pass: The Reboot

2009-02-09T20:32:00.028-05:00

I'm pleased to announce that Season Pass will be relaunched in 2009. Though I unearthed much material in 2008, the book's major premise—one dating attempt per game attended—came on board rather late, ultimately spinning out as that season wound down.

So, it's time to start the festivities afresh. Tantalizingly, this year brings a bonus and an early beginning: I'll be at Round 1, Pool C of the 2009 World Baseball Classic in Toronto (March 7-11; 6 games), plus I'll toss the full 2009 Toronto Argonaut schedule into the mix (June-November; 10 games).

That's 97 games, 97 dating attempts. Not 97 dates; I wish, but that's, er, unlikely. Busy as the season itself will be—and this thing called work might chew up some time, too—I hope to post updates as the proceedings unfold.

Predictions: Blue Jays finish 3rd, Argos 2nd in their respective divisions; I go on 15 dates. Wildly optimistic in the Jays' case perhaps, but it says here that Tampa Bay just cashed in their lone Cinderella season. Anyway, if I'm right that'll bump up my total to 98, as the Boatmen will host a playoff game. The fun officially kicks off February 25 (Blue Jays' first spring training game).

"So, any grand ideas for our first date?"

"Well, um, you into baseball by any chance?"

Time Passages

2009-01-23T21:55:00.032-05:00

(Those of a certain age will note the Al Stewart reference. The rest of you, just carry on.)

Last week, my local newspaper reprinted a profile of Barack Obama first published in 1990, when he was at Harvard. I spotted "19 years ago" in the headline and did a double-take: surely 1990 can't be ... then I did the math. Yep, 19 years. So why does 1990 seem to me like it came and went sometime last week?

I can only conclude that middle age plays tricks with one's sense of time, or more accurately the passing of time. For me, the span between, say, 1970 and 1975 is huge, with so much happening so fast. I can rhyme off the changes I went through from one year to the next and cite parallel developments in music, politics, and sports. Conversely, I perceive anything from about 1988 onward as a monolithic chunk. If you want to know what has changed post-1988 and how quickly and dramatically, ask a 30-year-old; I can't see it at all. Even my most vivid episodes seem of a piece, thus blurring the distinction between one year and the next.

In a related development, at some point in my forties I awoke one morning and realized that this was no longer the era in which I grew up. Society had changed beyond recognition, and the values I held dear were quaint, archaic reminders of a gentler, more innocent age. (It's akin to that chill you get when you stroll past a TV set from your childhood in a museum.)

Anyway, my friend S. and I believe the world went mad around 1988, thus rendering subsequent events incomprehensible or insignificant. Example: why do most of today's rock singers—and by using the word "rock" I date myself—sound like whiny ten-year-olds? How could such an egregious faux pas have come to be trendy? There is but one explanation, kids: the world has gone mad.

My favourite year? 1971. Check out those chart-toppers and sock it to me!

PM Prorogues Himself

2008-12-13T20:15:00.005-05:00

OTTAWA (KP) - Prime Minister Stephen ("You Call Me Steve, You Die, Socialist Scum") Harper has prorogued himself for an indefinite period, the Kanadian Press has learned.

"Well, look what happened to Mr. Dion and Mr. Rae this past week," Harper told reporters. "I'm no fool. One week you're an Ottawa big shot, the next you're a night clerk at your uncle's motel. Like hockey coaches, politicians are hired to be fired ... but not me. Uh-uh. I'll de-materialize before they boot me out—the GG, Parliament, whoever; if you ask me they're all separatist motherfucking traitors. What's that, François? Oui, oui, quote me, but use the proper translation: 'les jolies souverainistes.' Now if you'll kindly excuse me, I have some urgent Senate appointments to make."

Turf 'Em Out!

2008-12-03T20:05:00.014-05:00

Last week's partisan-vitriol-disguised-as-economic-update was, quite simply, a disgrace. Repeat after me, Mr. Harper: M-I-N-O-R-I-T-Y. You cannot govern like a dictator, ramming your ideological whims through Parliament. Further, in order to govern at all, you must maintain the confidence of the House of Commons, which you clearly have lost.

This has nothing to do with "overturning election results" and besides, if you and your minions want to play electoral shell games, let's remember that 62% of Canadians did not vote Conservative.

Pseudo-patriotic babble about "saving Canada" from a "coup" notwithstanding, the sole undemocratic act in the course of this fiasco is about to be committed by the Prime Minister, should the Governor-General allow it: a proroguing of Parliament. Such hijinks serve but one purpose: to enable der Fuhrer to evade certain defeat for another month and a half. Meanwhile, Canada's economy lurches on, eagerly awaiting a leader with actual economic policies to implement.

This government under no circumstances can (or should) continue governing, yet it's pulling out all the stops (rallies, TV and radio ads, fear-mongering) to maintain its grip on power.

Will the coalition refer to itself as "Canada's new government" in its eventual throne speech? I sure hope so.

Status Back Baby

2008-11-16T21:26:00.013-05:00

Imagine walking into a room full of more-or-less strangers, all of whom are your own age. You don't know any of them per se, though with certain individuals a startling recognition of name or face will occur. Everyone in the room shares this, if only this, in common: four (or five) years' penance at an institution of not-so-high learning during our formative years.

Welcome to the York Memorial Collegiate Institute Class of 1980 reunion, a surreal yet oddly enjoyable soiree held a pub in Etobicoke on Friday. I slithered in around nine (unfashionably late; the event started at six) and was greeted by simultaneous shouts of "VERN!"

For the next few hours I caught up with several classmates, most of whom I had almost no memory of. In the process I discovered something: though I was hardly popular in the conventional sense, many of them genuinely liked me. Some even looked up to me. (Two people actually told me so on Friday night.) And here I thought I was a nobody in high school. Status back, baby!

Why the disparity? Well, at the time I was emotionally at sea, with no idea what was going on in or around me. After the train wreck that was Grades 7 and 8, my overriding concern in high school was staying safe, which meant hanging a metaphorical KEEP OUT sign around my neck. They did, and as a result I didn't get to know any of them or let them get to know me.

That's why, when I walked into the pub on Friday night, all I saw were names and faces. But, for the first time, friendly faces.

So go to your high school reunion, kids. You just might learn a thing or two about yourself.

It is unfortunate that many young Americans

really do worry about losing status

at their high school.

- Frank Zappa

Update: A Vote, Yes ... for No One

2008-10-07T09:41:00.001-04:00

So, last night I trundled up to my local advance poll to vote for none of the above. After a half-hour wait in line that quelled any concerns of participatory democracy losing its sheen, I marked my ballot thus:

BALLOT DELIBERATELY LEFT BLANK.

NONE OF THESE CANDIDATES REPRESENT MY INTERESTS.

PLEASE RECORD AS A PROTEST VOTE.

A Canadian federal ballot contains precious little white space, precisely in order to discourage such shenanigans. I crammed my message into the tiny area surrounding the first name (a Communist, if I recall), knowing full well that my efforts count only as another spoiled ballot.

Why I Will Not Vote

2008-10-06T17:16:00.025-04:00

Conservative: Muzzle local candidates because, God forbid, they might shoot off their mouths and tell the truth about the party once known as CRAP. Will drain tax dollars away from infrastructure, housing and arts/culture and funnel them into the military. Determined to continue a senseless, unwinnable war. Utter contempt for artists, the arts, and anything urban. This agenda is nowhere to be found on their sleek, spin-doctored web site, which befits the most tightly controlled campaign in Canadian history.

Liberal: Brought Canada into Afghanistan and fully support the war. Most notable accomplishment: served as Official Opposition that refused to oppose. Much-hyped Green Shift will transfer the tax base from income to pollution and other "bad things." Who gets to decide what's a bad thing? Oops, I forgot: a cadre of health-and-environment lobbyists have decided for us (smoking, global warming, obesity, bisphenol A). No further discussion needed. Leader prone to fear-mongering insistence that we must act now to save (our country, our planet, our children ... insert motherhood-and-apple-pie noun here).

NDP: Marches in lockstep with the toxin witch-hunters. The NDP vows to "take more poisons out of people's homes, consumer products and communities," generously giving us the gift of purity whether we want it or not. With respect to health policy, they promise to ban trans fats. Next they'll tackle "the crisis of childhood obesity." (No, Jack, it was a crisis last month. Now it's an epidemic. No, breaking news: it's been upgraded to a pandemic.)

Green: A one-trick pony and for my money, scarier than Stephen Harper. Alarmist enviro-crazies who view NDP and Liberal environmental policies as half-baked half measures. Web site reveals a take-no-prisoners approach that aims to ban all toxins and confer special rights on those with environmental sensitivities. And who gets to decide what's toxic? Oh, right: our crack team of unbiased zealots.

I vote none of the above. Though each has something to commend them, the good stuff is far outweighed by the negatives. (Yes, even the Greens; if they could run the Ministry of Transport and nothing else, I'd support them.)

For the record, this is the first time I've done this. I've voted in every election (federal, provincial, and municipal) since I turned 18.

Season Pass Update

2008-09-15T11:05:00.008-04:00

Season Pass news: as the quest to take in 81 baseball games winds down, our hero is nudged by Leilani to embark on a parallel (and more daunting) quest: ask 81 women out! Appropriately, the festivities begin at the September 17 game vs. Baltimore, where yours truly will attend a speed-dating event in Section 230 or thereabouts.

I wonder if other writers use their work to conquer some long-standing fear: "Let's, um, try THIS. If nothing else, a little terror will spice up the story."

Boundaries

2008-08-31T11:16:00.023-04:00

What are boundaries? Boundaries delineate where we end and others begin, and are essential tools in the development of a healthy, recovered self. The following definitions, which are spot-on in my estimation, appear on a Gaia Community discussion board:

The physical boundary has to do with our right to determine how close someone gets to us physically and how they interact with us physically. That can range from how close someone stands or sits to us, to whether we choose to allow a boss to touch our shoulder, to whom we choose to make love with and how.

The emotional boundary is about our right to our feelings—without justifying them, without needing to make sense of them. Our feelings belong to us and we have a right to them.

The mental boundary has to do with our right to think what we think, and to have our own beliefs and opinions, regardless of whether they're rational, in agreement with the latest statistics, or considered wrong or crazy by an outsider.

The spiritual boundary is about our right to our own spiritual beliefs, regardless of how we were raised or what anyone else believes.

I raise this issue because recently, a well-meaning (and dear) friend expressed "concern" over my spiritual beliefs and practices. I gently but firmly pointed out that my relationship with my Higher Power—like that between any individual and the God/Goddess of his or her understanding—is private, personal, and sacred. My choosing to share certain aspects of my spirituality is not to be construed as a veiled invitation to critique.

Adventures in American English

2008-07-20T20:23:00.007-04:00

If, as George Bernard Shaw claimed, Americans and Britons are "two peoples separated by a common language," it's Canadians who are most often left scratching our heads. We share some vocabulary with the British, some with our neighbours to the south, and just to make things livelier still, we've invented some of our own.

Listening to ESPN's Sunday Night Baseball tonight, I heard the following: "The seventh-inning stretch is brought to you by Baby Ruth, the official candy bar of Major League Baseball." What in the world is a candy bar?

Visions of huge, rectangular slabs of Life Savers popped into my head, or maybe those infinite chews of Mackintosh toffee; but no. It turns out that "candy bar" is American for chocolate bar. Sorry, guys ... candy is candy, chocolate is chocolate, and never the twain shall meet. You're out to lunch.

An exhaustive discussion on the topic can be found here.

Parliament Writers Read!

2008-06-16T22:20:00.006-04:00

The Parliament Writers' Group is holding its annual reading, and you're invited! I'll tantalize you with teasers from my mystic/autistic memoir, Leilani's Gift. (It also doubles as a travelogue.) Meanwhile, my friends will regale you with tales of unknown heroes, family sagas, wild women, messed-up men, and more. Come hear us read! Refreshments provided and admission is free.

Monday, June 30
6:00-8:00 p.m.
Community Room, 2nd Floor, Parliament Library
269 Gerrard St. E.

Huh? Whaat?

2008-05-19T14:58:00.006-04:00

Happy Victoria Day. It's been a busy weekend around here, highlighted by fights with my finicky printer among other things.

I've also come down with this annoying ear condition I've had once before called Eustachian Tube Dysfunction. Yes, there is wax buildup (which I hope will be taken care of tomorrow at a walk-in clinic), but I don't think that's the cause of the problem. My ears don't hurt, but both are ringing and my hearing is muffled. I'm using the same nasal spray that eventually rid me of ETD last year; so far, no luck. I'm a little concerned because try as I might, I can't pop my ears.

Quotable

2008-04-15T16:59:00.005-04:00

It is better to be hated for what you are

than to be loved for what you are not.

- André Gide (1869-1951)

When writer Sebastian Horsley uttered this gem on my radio today, I had to uncover its source. I've been thinking along these lines for some time (evidence of recovery, Cap'n!), but hearing it put so succinctly just floored me.

People-pleasers, rise up and claim thy true selves!

Season Pass

2008-04-07T09:01:00.000-04:00

I've started work on Season Pass, the sequel to Leilani's Gift. Like my first book this is a quest, the twist being that instead of travelling I stay put. The premise: our hero buys a Season Pass for the 2008 Toronto Blue Jays, attends all 81 of their home games, and chronicles the team's fortunes along with his own.

I'm three games into the season and already plot twists are unfolding: some delightful, some quite dramatic. It reminds me of the day I embarked on my cross-Canada trip; I had no idea what would unfold. As it turns out, inviting the muse to play catalyst worked so well the first time that I had to try it again.

I admit it—I love setting up these bizarre, monumental parameters just to see what happens. Life may indeed imitate art, but if you really want to bump it up to warp speed, let art call the shots.

I've seen three games (and three Blue Jay wins) on three consecutive days. I get an off-day today, then a three-game series against Oakland starting tomorrow night. Go Jays!

Oh, and if you're thinking of getting a pass, here's a tip. To save a bundle on service charges, don't bother with the online form—buy your pass at the Gate 9 box office.

Bogus Memoirs

2008-03-05T18:56:00.012-05:00

Yet another first-time author has couched fiction in the guise of memoir. Must be an epidemic, 'cause here's one more. These cavalier idiots give true (ahem) memoirists a bad name.

I happened to hear a hour-long phone-in on the topic this morning. The NPR host—who had himself been duped by Ms. Jones/Seltzer only last week—was justifiably embarrassed and irate. I do, however, worry that we're about to see a kind of fundamentalism creep into memoir, a journalistic assumption that every detail, unless independently corroborated, must be false.

Given that readers (and worse, agents and publishers) may now perceive memoirist as a synonym for liar, I'm working on a disclaimer for my book. I aim to briefly address concerns about veracity while claiming the memoirist's rightful place in the pantheon of storytellers. We'll see how it goes.

Evil Empire Makes Good

2008-02-07T17:05:00.000-05:00

E-mail sent to the Hamilton Tiger-Cats (arch rivals of my favourite team, the Toronto Argonauts, for those of you who don't follow Canadian football):

I'm an Argonaut season-ticket holder and have noted with dismay the coming incursion of the NFL's Buffalo Bills into the Toronto market. Though I don't fault the Argo brass for supporting the endeavour—I don't see what else they could have done—I was delighted when the Tiger-Cats refused to participate in the deal as currently structured.

Though I must confess you won't hear me chanting "Oskee Wee Wee" at Ivor Wynne anytime soon, the Tiger-Cat organization has earned my respect. I will of course continue to cheer on the Double Blue but will not fork out a dime, much less two thousand dollars, to see the Buffalo Bills play in Toronto.

I wish the Hamilton Tiger-Cats all the best for the 2008 season and once again, please accept my warmest congratulations for doing what's right. With custodians such as Mr. Young standing up for the CFL, our great game will continue to prosper.

Return of the Son of Winterloathe

2008-02-01T17:51:00.000-05:00

Met a friend at the grocery store today and he called the massive snowfall in progress "pretty." Hmm. I have other adjectives for it. Here's a test: you're a true Canadian if you look out upon that mess and declare it pretty, beautiful, gorgeous, etc.

Clearly, I fail. Call in the Mounties! Snatch my passport, eh?

("And you don't like hockey. Mortal sin," Sgt. Slapshot muttered as he threw me in the slammer.)

You Know You're Canadian When ...

2008-01-03T22:44:00.000-05:00

... you're listening to U.S. caucus speeches and expect the presidential candidates to break into French.

Bonus points if you don't have a clue how their electoral system works.

Freedom From Fear

2008-01-01T16:55:00.000-05:00

I've had a rough patch over the holidays, with fear coming up over a variety of issues. Once I came through the worst of it and felt more centred, I wondered how to confront it. (It's slowly dawning on me that avoidance, my standard strategy, only makes things worse.) The initial response was to set myself a goal of taking one risk per day—large or small, doesn't matter. So far, so good: two days, two (smallish) risks.

I figured more research couldn't hurt, so I went to the library and borrowed Susan Jeffers' Feel the Fear ... and Do It Anyway. This is perhaps a quirk of mine, but when I read self-help books I always do three things:

Avoid all the exercises. They drive me nuts, slow me down, and hamper my learning. I'm a verbal learner, not a doer. I need to grasp the underlying concepts and integrate them with prior knowledge.
Distill the message to its essence. The simpler and more direct, the better.
Put the message in my own words.

Here are the results. I hope they're useful, both to myself and whoever might be reading:

FREEDOM FROM FEAR: TWELVE AXIOMS
(Adapted from Susan Jeffers, Feel the Fear ... and Do It Anyway)

Fear never goes away by itself.
Uncovering the root of my fear may lend insight, but it won’t remove the fear.

Paradox: avoiding fear creates more fear.

The only way to overcome fear of X is to go out and do X. (This can be a gradual process.)

Facing fear builds confidence. The more I do it, the more confident I’ll become.
Everyone feels fear. Some overcome it; some let it paralyze them. Which do I want to be?

Pushing through fear is never as scary as the paralysis that comes from giving in to fear. A risk-free life is death. Obsessive quests for security create insecurity.

Obvious dangers aside, fear generally does not signify retreat; it invites growth.

Underlying fear is a lack of faith. All fears boil down to "If I do this, I won’t be able to cope with what might happen." But I can; I always have. Therefore, there are no wrong decisions—only different sets of experiences, any of which I can handle.

In the big picture, it really doesn’t matter what I decide. Each choice simply creates a different experience. Experiences are neither good nor bad—they are what they are.

The correct answer to "What if?" is always "I'll handle it."
I can live in faith or in fear. When I am afraid, I have no faith. When I have faith, I have no fear.

Ants, Ye Shall Be SAVED!

2007-12-30T00:44:00.000-05:00

My initial reaction to the bizarre headline, "Scientists shrink Hebrew Bible to size of sugar grain." They don't claim to be leading insects to the promised land; the goal is to show the world how far miniaturization has come.

Ah, those zany humans—gotta love 'em. The full article can be found here.

Textbook Example

2007-12-22T00:33:00.000-05:00

Spotted today at the corner of Danforth and Donlands:

FULLY FURNISHED
"SHORT TERM" APARTMENTS
"HASSLE FREE"

Translation: you can check out any time you like, but you can never leave. And we'll hound you mercilessly.

Hilarious "Link"

2007-11-11T15:47:00.000-05:00

It gives me great pleasure to introduce you to The "Blog" of "Unnecessary" Quotation Marks. Hysterical!

I note with "glee" the disproportionate representation of the "food" industry in these examples. It's long been a conviction of mine that most greengrocers and restaurateurs treat the language with as much respect as a gemologist would costume jewellery. Sure, linguistic exactitude is hardly their raison d'etre, but still ...

In the interest of fairness, foodies everywhere are invited to make fun of my diet. With few exceptions, my palate is about as sophisticated as that of your average ten-year-old. Speaking of which, time for lunch: carrots, chip dip, and veggie turkey slices washed down with a spot of Eau de Lac Ontario (this morning was a very good year).

Hold the Mao

2007-11-01T00:13:00.000-04:00

Linguistic blunder-spotting is, I admit, a hobby of mine. Now, I'm not smug—I've committed my share over the years—but I can't help myself when stuff like this comes over my radio and whacks me in the ear.

Here are a few gems of recent vintage. May they bring a smile to your face or a tear to your eye:

"In terms of international trade, Canada has become a mediocre force to be reckoned with."
"It's better be in a healthy relationship than to go around starting a rumour mill."
(Sombre police officer, deadpan) "The suspect is dead. I assure you, he is no longer a threat to the public."
"I need to relocate to another location."
"I honestly don't know how to be honest anymore."
"About twenty-five Mayoist rebels attacked the village festival." (Hint to newsreader: the correct word rhymes with "Taoist.")

Psst! Wanna Find an Agent?

2007-10-18T20:40:00.000-04:00

No, I'm not talking some creepy film-noir character in a trench coat; I mean a literary agent! Sources tell me it's wise to get an agent if one hopes to make a big splash in America or internationally. And, I unabashedly confess, I do. Here's a smattering of the many web resources out there for those of you looking to begin your foray into agent-land:

General

Agent Blogs

Letter to Howard Hampton, Leader, Ontario NDP

2007-09-27T16:27:00.000-04:00

Dear Mr. Hampton,

As a lifelong NDP supporter, I regret to inform you that your Cancer Prevention Strategy, as unveiled in the current election campaign, compels me to take my vote elsewhere.

I quote from your web site: "Closely following priorities set by the Canadian Cancer Society, the NDP will build on its reputation as a leader in the fight against tobacco with a strong tobacco reduction strategy to prevent lung and oral cancers. The NDP plan includes cracking down on contraband and an Anti-Smoking Tobacco Tax to increase the cost of cigarettes by 17 per cent, bringing the rate up to British Columbia's, the leader in Canada."

A disproportionate percentage of Ontario's poor are smokers. This regressive, punitive tax hits one of your core constituencies where it hurts them most: in the wallet. It is with shock and dismay that I witness the New Democratic Party, champion of the oppressed, punishing—with pride, no less—a minority group that is among the most persecuted and reviled in Ontario today. The McGuinty government, through its recent series of campaigns, has seen fit to assault Ontario's smokers with ad hominem attacks that border on hate speech (e.g., telling them they "smell like dog crap" in a television ad).

I infer from the quoted material above (and the NDP's endorsement of the Smoke-Free Ontario Act, 2006) that strategies such as these have your full support. Your sole complaint, I would surmise, is that they don't go far enough. To wit: "We know there's a direct link between tobacco, exposure to toxins and cancer. It [sic] we're going to fight cancer, we need to stop exposing our families to cancer-causing agents including tobacco and toxic substances in our homes and backyards."

I remind you that Ontarians are legally entitled to smoke in any realm not specified in the Smoke-Free Ontario Act. This includes, but is not limited to, their "homes and backyards." Does the NDP's toxin search-and-destroy mission know no bounds, even if it means stripping one in six Ontarians of their legal rights as private citizens?

Federally and provincially, I have supported the NDP for nearly twenty-five years. As I stand in the ballot box this October 10th, I will mourn the death of the kinder, gentler New Democratic Party I knew—that of Donald MacDonald, Stephen Lewis, and Bob Rae. I will plaintively recall a party that sought social justice for all and reluctantly cast my vote elsewhere.

Cookin' the Console

2007-08-12T17:56:00.000-04:00

Looking for something new and different to liven up your prose? At a complete loss for words? Interested in exploring "surrealist poet" as a career option? All this and more is at your fingertips with the Random Phrase Generator. Examples:

practically risen close octane
mythical integer exploring attaboy
unscientific contraband flaking amidst
belated omnipotent dilating yap

Nice, but it gets even better. For all you scribes out there wrestling with advanced writer's block, random sentences and paragraphs can also be generated. (No random 100,000-word books, though. Damn!)

Let's try a paragraph, punching in "love" as the primary subject and "scooter" as the secondary:

Love grinds scooter without the thousand exercise. Love pipelines scooter across the head. The absolute jerks scooter beside the sky. Scooter corners love against the noisy syndicate. An annoyed garage bests scooter without a syndicate. Why can't scooter bore before his moan? An optimal keyword cooks the console. The overload hesitates across love. When can love sabotage scooter?

Hmm. You know, I'd eliminate a few articles to make it more readable, but it's not bad at all. We have some brilliant, unusual verbs, not to mention a few crazy-ass adjective/noun combos. The sentence lengths are a bit samey, but that can easily be fixed. Anyway, amuse yourself for hours ... or as the god of random verbiage might say, "an optimal keyword cooks the console." Couldn't have said it better myself (literally).

The Obesity Witch Hunt Continues

2007-07-31T00:08:00.000-04:00

In their never-ending quest to give us the gift of wellness whether we want it or not, medical experts have—using the finest available quackery—"proven" that obesity can be contagious. "Even social interaction with a friend of a friend could have an impact on a person's weight," the article sombrely warns.

This is a classic example of causation inferred from correlation, and the sociologist in me cannot abide such nonsense. Yes, I'm sure fat people have been known to befriend other fat people (and vice-versa). In other words, consciously or not, we seek the company of others like ourselves. Fine, but to make the conceptual leap that befriending the obese causes one to gain weight is as absurd as asserting that if I listen only to punk rock, my grandmother will, too.

If this drivel is to be believed, then without your knowledge or consent, your best friend's beer-guzzling uncle (whom you met just once) is slowly, insidiously changing your waistline for the worse. Clearly, the fat brigade is out to strip you of your wellness—that's if a smoker or some other degenerate doesn't beat them to it.

So, let's lock ourselves in the closet before it's too late, yes? Allow me again to quote from the article: "Experts say the study offers insight into why obesity is spreading rapidly. 'As the proportion of people that are overweight or obese increases rather dramatically, then one could imagine this spread occurring almost to the entire population.'" (Huh?)

Those deemed undesirable by the elite are vilified by stigmatizing them as "diseased." From there, a bogus pandemic is fabricated in order to create the appropriate level of perceived threat. Under such a scenario, panic appears the only sane option.

What can you do? For starters, don't believe the hype. Use your critical faculties. Be especially vigilant when vicious, discriminatory claims against an outgroup are couched in pseudo-scientific bafflegab.

Birth Notice

2007-06-19T02:15:00.000-04:00

NICHOLSON—Vern and his beloved companion in spirit, Leilani, are pleased to announce the arrival of a bouncing baby manuscript for Leilani's Gift.

Gestation time was 2 years, 7 months, 1 week, and somewhere between 6 and 8 drafts (Vern lost count). The lil' cutie enters the world weighing 445 double-spaced pages, 12-point Times New Roman, 1" margins all the way round.

Father relieved and absolutely spent; mother proud, joyous, and serene as always. Fate of baby unknown—currently in hands of editor at publishing house—but expected to survive.

Come Hear Me Read!

2007-06-01T20:56:00.000-04:00

And not just me: the Parliament Writers' Group reads! I'll tantalize you with teasers from my forthcoming memoir, Leilani's Gift. Meanwhile, my friends will regale you with tall tales of rescues at sea, mad hitchhikers, wild, wild women, and more.

It all shakes down on Monday, June 11, 6:00-8:00 p.m. at the Parliament Library, 269 Gerrard Street East, Toronto. You'll find us in the second floor community room; just follow the twin tones of laughter and applause. Refreshments provided, and a splendid time is guaranteed for all.

Fat Chance

2007-05-03T22:01:00.000-04:00

If health professionals were as concerned about the obesity "pandemic" as they claim to be, they'd figure out which of the many weight-loss programs actually work and subsidize them. One of the few things the experts and I agree on is the correlation between obesity and poverty, and isn't it funny how those who could most benefit from a structured, medically supervised weight-loss program can't afford it? Instead, the health industry prefers to shame, blame, and engage in trans-fat witch hunts.

This fear-mongering ties in with the industry's love of hyperbole. This week's pandemic was last week's epidemic and the previous week's crisis. Back in the days before doctors, nutritionists, and wellness fanatics hijacked public policy, we simply accepted that some people were thin, some fat, some average. Imagine that.

Greetings from da 'Burgh

2007-04-12T11:01:00.000-04:00

Having almost finished my book, I've taken a well-earned holiday. I have an hour here in Pittsburgh before leaving for chilly Cleveland, so thought I'd stop by and say hello.

Some (but not all) white, male Pittsburghers (yes, that's what you call them) talk likedeysgottamoutfullamashedpodayhdus. Conversely, I'm sure they find my speech stilted and proper. I can't count the number of times I've offered a polite "thank you" and been met with a grunt. I'm convinced it's not rudeness but a cultural difference.

Other observations: American talk radio is full of screaming fanatics. The hosts are often worse than the callers. NPR and the major dailies aside, there's no such thing as world news here, unless it's a region in which America is directly involved or has a vested interest. The intelligentsia apart, Americans seem cocooned in a cozy insularity. Such is the price of living in a nation so powerful that it need not concern itself with anyone's business but its own. (In Canada, we pay attention to world affairs not out of an inborn broad-mindedness, but because it affects us more.)

Pittsburgh is hilly, traffic-clogged, and to get practically anywhere, you have to cross a bridge over one of the three rivers that meet at the "Golden Triangle" downtown. Getting around by bus is an adventure. There's no city-wide bus map, so I had to look up point-to-point directions online. And the fare system is simply bonkers: three zones, no map showing zone boundaries, different fares to different zones depending on the time of day, fare paid when boarding or when exiting depending on time of day, which zone you're travelling from and to, and ... I don't know, whether or not it's an alternate Thursday and the moon is in Scorpio. And the "T" (light rail/subway system) goes nowhere useful. Anyway, I managed to annoy several bus drivers, and they most certainly returned the favour.

That said, there's a lot to see here: several top-rank museums, a cool contemporary gallery (The Mattress Factory) in a funky North Side neighbourhood called the Mexican War Streets, two inclines (antique cable cars that go up and down Mt. Washington), a nouveau old-timey ballpark with great sightlines, and so on. For every attraction I managed to see in my two full days here, there were at least three I wanted to but didn't have time for (or couldn't figure out how to get there). The topography is great, too.

More amusing tidbits: at many attractions I was asked for my zip code. When I started rhyming off "M5A ... " the clerk acted like her head was about to explode. Presumably she (or her computer) couldn't handle the alphanumerics. I also noticed that most people expected I'd carry my cash and travellers' cheques (US translation: traveler's checks) in Canadian funds. I had to reassure them that no, I realize that shops in the US take only American money, and seeing as I'm down here a few weeks, I did the smart thing and got myself some.

Based on the two cities I've visited so far (Buffalo and Pittsburgh), US downtowns are spruced-up, reasonably safe, contain some nifty architecture ... and are dead outside business hours. No one lives (or shops) downtown. In Buffalo on Easter Sunday, I did not encounter a soul while walking the streets. It was so deserted that whenever I came up to an intersection, I crossed whether the light was red or green. Granted, it was a holiday; granted, the weather was truly appalling. Still, I had to buy lunch at a convenience store and order room service for dinner because the few downtown restaurants were all closed.

Daylight Saving Time: Tip for Windows 98 Users

2007-03-10T17:09:00.000-05:00

As those of you in North America know, the "new" Daylight Saving Time dates (second Sunday in March forward, first Sunday in November back) are likely to cause much confusion for your PC. For newer versions of Windows, one can apparently download a patch to fix the problem; not so for Windows 98. In its continued push to alienate customers by abandoning all tech support for earlier platforms, Microsoft has once again left Windows 98 users to their own devices.

Happily, we're a resourceful lot. (We have to be.) So: if you're running Windows 98, here's your solution. Double-click on the time display (usually at the bottom right of your screen). The Date & Time tab of the Date/Time Properties window should come up. First, in the "time" portion of the tab (right under the clock), click and drag over the numeral representing the hour. Now click on the up arrow key to advance the hour by one. Presto! You have manually reset your clock to Daylight Time. That's Step 1.

For Step 2, click on the Time Zone tab. At the bottom is a box with a check mark that says, "automatically adjust for daylight saving time changes." Click on the check mark to make it disappear. Now click Apply, then OK. Step 2 disables your computer's proclivity to "spring forward" and "fall back" on what are now the wrong dates. So, come the first Sunday in April, your computer will not try to set its clock yet another hour ahead.

Computer hassles aside, I'm a fan of the new Daylight Saving Time. As a slow starter, I prefer the bulk of my daylight in the evening. I don't give a hoot how light it is or isn't at six a.m., because I'm asleep. That said, I'd argue we ought to take it a step further: if we're now on DST nearly eight months of the year, why bother with standard time at all?

I'll use my own time zone as an example. I live in the Eastern Time Zone (GMT -5:00). If we were to dispense with Eastern Time entirely and permanently migrate to Atlantic (Standard) Time, we'd get all the daylight we wanted year-round and never again have to fiddle with our clocks. Similarly, Central could migrate to Eastern, Mountain to Central, Pacific to Mountain, Alaskan to Pacific, and so on.

I'd write to my congressman because ultimately, that's where these decisions are made ... but I don't have one.

Where Science Doesn't Belong

2007-03-01T19:11:00.000-05:00

As Toronto’s lovely (ahem) winter weather swerves from the appalling to the truly abysmal, I’ve managed to carve out some blogging time.

After 28 years, Princeton University's ESP lab (official title: Princeton Engineering Anomalies Research Laboratory) is set to close. CBC Radio's "The Current" profiled the institute's director, who argued—if rather limply and dispassionately—that psychic phenomena are an entirely valid subject for scientific study. Of course, he didn't dare use that term, couching the P-word in a cloak of academic gobbledegook.

In the pursuit of fairness, a second expert was then summoned to give the opposing viewpoint equal time. Esteemed Scientist #2 summarily dismissed any and all metaphysical research as "voodoo science." At that point, I turned the radio off in frustration.

Why? Both these distinguished experts were completely off the mark. Probing the paranormal via the scientific method is like using performance art to learn how the stock market works. It’s doable, I suppose, but the thoughtless application of an inappropriate paradigm guarantees bizarre, if not useless, results.

Science likes to assume it’s the supreme (or only) mode of investigative inquiry. Sure, I’ll be the first to admit that when it sticks to its rightful domain, science produces useful, beneficial outcomes, such as the polio vaccine. (Or not: see Bomb, hydrogen.) However: when science, its empiricist chest all puffed out, pokes its nose into matters of the spirit, its efforts are at best amusing and at worst an insult to the human thirst for knowledge.

Winterloathe

2007-02-13T00:07:00.000-05:00

Hello, everyone. My name is Vern ...

[ Hi, Vern. ]

... and I can't stand winter. I won't bore you with the many ways in which I dislike the season, because no one needs to hear that much whining. (You're bang-on if you've guessed the usual suspects: cold, colds, flu, wind, snow, ice, road salt, Christmas carols, etc.)

If I'm not accustomed to winter by now, I never will be. And I am coming to admit that I never will be. I dream of one day living in a place where there is no snow or ice and the temperature is never minus anything. My birth certificate indeed says "Canadian," but with a hatred of winter this deep seated, I sometimes wonder. That said, in the spirit of fairness (and because I don't want to be so negative), I hereby present ...

EIGHT GREAT THINGS ABOUT WINTER

Yes, I've found eight. Count 'em. And they are:

No smog days.
I can bake a four-cheese pizza without heating up my apartment.
Another of my pet peeves is sweating (I sweat easily). Even if I try my damnedest to overdress for -15 with a -30 windchill, funny thing: I never sweat.
It's so wretched outside that there's nothing to do but stay inside and write, write, write.
I have a morbid fear of being stung by bees, wasps, and hornets. In the winter, I can relax.
When I hang my T-shirts, they take hours, not days, to dry.
I can drink hot chocolate guilt-free.
Without Toronto's appalling* winter weather, I wouldn't appreciate spring nearly as much.

So, what do you like about winter? Dig deep, people.

(* Winnipeggers, Edmontonians, Montrealers, Haligonians, etc. are at this juncture invited to break into hysterics at the adjective "appalling".)

Furthermore, I Beseech You, Dear Writer, to Refrain from Assigning Convoluted, Elongated Monikers to Posts in the General Vicinity of the Blogosphere

2007-01-12T22:04:00.000-05:00

No time for a proper post, so instead I bring you this witty and succinct guide to the written word:

Rules of Writing

Verbs HAS to agree with their subjects.
Prepositions are not words to end sentences with.
And don't start a sentence with a conjunction.
It is wrong to ever split an infinitive.
Avoid cliches like the plague.
Also, always avoid annoying alliteration.
Be more or less specific.
Parenthetical remarks (however relevant) are (usually) unnecessary.
Also too, never, ever use repetitive redundancies.
No sentence fragments.
Contractions aren't necessary and shouldn't be used.
Foreign words and phrases are not apropos.
Do not be redundant; do not use more words than necessary; it's highly superfluous.
One should never generalize.
Comparisons are as bad as cliches.
Don't use no double negatives.
ACRONYM (Acronyms Cloud—Rarely Or Never Yield—Meaning).
Eschew ampersands & abbrev. words.
One-word sentences? Eliminate.
Analogies in writing are like feathers on a snake.
Use of the passive voice is to be avoided.
Eliminate commas, that are, not necessary. Parenthetical words however should be enclosed in commas.
Never use a big word when a diminutive one would suffice.
Kill all exclamation marks!!!
Use words correctly, irregardless of how others use them.
Understatement is always the absolute best way to put forth earth-shaking ideas.
Use the apostrophe in it's proper place and omit it when its not needed.
Eliminate quotations. As Ralph Waldo Emerson said, "I hate quotations. Tell me what you know."
If you've heard it once, you've heard it a thousand times: resist hyperbole. Not one writer in a million can use it correctly.
Puns are for children, not groan readers.
Go around the barn at high noon to avoid colloquialisms.
Even if a mixed metaphor sings, it should be derailed.
Who needs rhetorical questions?
Exaggeration is a billion times worse than understatement.

And finally...

Proofread carefully to see if you any words out.

The Jolly Season is Here

2006-12-24T21:33:00.000-05:00

... as my friend C. said sardonically. Or, as my neighbour greeted me this morning with a roll of his eyes, "Merry Ho-Ho ... or whatever." If it doesn't trigger a fountain of absence and regret, the season can devour you in consumerism, obligation, and an endless to-do list. Not to mention cheesy Christmas carols: the other day I heard a swing version of "Come All Ye Faithful" so repugnant it made me laugh. ("Ladies and gentleman, DIRECT from His engagement at Caesar's Palace, CHRIST THE LORD! Let's hear it!")

Yet for all its baggage, I'm now better able to deal with Christmas on my own terms. For me, a focus on the spiritual aspect is essential. If you're a Christian, that might mean making some serious room in your heart for the Birthday Boy. My pagan/Buddhist/spiritualist mishmash calls me to commune with Leilani. I light candles; I cook her a special dinner; we exchange gifts; and for a "tree," I decorate the houseplant that was my gift to her five years ago.

I'm learning to cope with the jolly season. It takes work, but it is possible. That said, I'll be relieved when it's over. In the meantime, Merry Ho-Ho or Whatever to you all.

Go South for the Winter ... WAY South

2006-11-19T19:04:00.000-05:00

Wherein the Parliament Writers' Group goes international! When she's not hard at work polishing her words or editing mine, Susan Siddeley runs a yearly writing retreat in Chile. "An oasis for writers," she says, and if I were kicking back in Santiago in mid-February, I'm sure I'd agree. Participants get to work with esteemed authors while basking in the sun, sights, and fine food of Chile. Sounds like the ultimate busman's holiday!

One of these days when I have the means, I plan to go. In the meantime, why don't you? More info can be found right here. First workshop starts January 7, 2007.

Grey Cup Sunday

2006-11-19T17:28:00.002-05:00

Welcome to my high holy day. This is the day I kick back and relax, eat copious amounts of junk food, and take in the festivities on my narrow-screen, low-definition, fifty-dollar TV.

As to who I'm cheering for—roar you Lions roar! B.C. is my favourite western team, so it's an easy call. I'm decked out in the black-and-orange T-shirt I bought years ago in Vancouver.

I've seen three Grey Cups in person: 1976, 1978 (both here at CNE Stadium) and 2004 (in Ottawa). The first was easily the best game, with Ottawa trumping Saskatchewan in dramatic fashion. Can't recall much about the '78 game other than the terrible seat I was in. Of the three, the '04 game is my favourite because it was sweet to see the Argos win it all in person.

This year, I'm being especially hardcore. In addition to watching the pre-game and game on TV, I'm taping both on the radio. The radio broadcast I'll save for a miserable Sunday in February, when I need a sports fix (sorry, couldn't care less about hockey).

It's funny. To me, the commissioner's presentation of the trophy defines a moment: summer is long gone, fall is over, and winter has begun.

Gotta go—time for kickoff. Looks absolutely frigid in Winnipeg. Argos in '07!

Hello, Strawberry Piggies Forever in my Life

2006-11-17T18:39:00.000-05:00

Wow! Just heard the "Strawberry Fields Forever" mash-up from Love, the forthcoming Beatles' compilation. Fab Four traditionalists—an oxymoron in my book, but they do exist—are screaming "heresy!" already, I'm sure. But judging from this audacious track, I think it's brilliant.

For the record (heh heh), I speak as a Beatlemaniac, not a mash-up connoisseur. Sure, I've heard the odd one; some are okay, some terrible, but I'm not opposed to the idea on principle. Why would I be? My musical heroes—including The Beatles themselves—thought nothing of backwards tapes, found sounds, loops, electronic effects, etc. All in a day's work to them. Mash-ups are merely the latest example of studio-as-instrument.

Of course, it helps when you start with the greatest song ever recorded. For all its sublime qualities, "Strawberry Fields Forever" is more than a heightened aesthetic experience: for me, it's nothing short of divine revelation. (Now, stop laughing. Yes, YOU—I'm talking to you. Stick with me for a minute.)

My first hearing (at twelve) triggered a mystical experience. By the time Ringo's drums came thundering out of that fake fade-out, I knew ... I was bathed in ... the spirit. I didn't call it "God," but one certainly could. And before you ask—yes, you snickering at the back—this on nothing stronger than chocolate milk. Not bad for a pop song, I'd say.

Love comes out this Tuesday. It'll make a fitting Christmas gift for Leilani, my beloved spirit guide. The hard part will be waiting till then to play it.

Happiness Is ...

2006-11-13T02:21:00.000-05:00

Swaying on the swings in some park near Royal York and Bloor at midnight listening to Coltrane's Stellar Regions devouring a roll of Love Hearts infused with sweet knowing that my goddess wants me to be here, exactly here, in this delicious moment ...

You know, sometimes (often?) "God's plan" is neither sober nor sensible. It's silly and spontaneous!

Toronto Fall Colours Tour

2006-10-21T02:36:00.000-04:00

Actually, there's no such thing; I'm inventing my own.

Seeing as I can't get away right now, I'm aiming to hop on my bike one day next week and take the Don Trail from Carlton Street all the way up to Sheppard and Leslie. After all that cycling (i.e., all those hills), for the price of a token I can take the subway back, thanks to the new Sheppard line.

The idea is to pack a picnic lunch and really make a day of it. Only problem is the lousy weather we're having. I can't recall an October this cold and rainy. It's like we're getting November for the price of October. I just checked the long range forecast—looks grim: rain Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday, cloudy Wednesday, sunny—I'll believe it when I see it—Thursday and Friday. On first blush, the latter two appear to be the best days, right? Yeah, if I wear my woollies: Thursday's high is 6, Friday's 4. Normal for this time of year is 12.

Guess I'll have to bite the bullet and follow the age-old cyclist's dictum: "There is no such thing as bad weather, only bad clothing." On the bright side, I won't need a freezer pack for the food ...

Plus Special Guest Appearance!

2006-10-13T21:59:00.000-04:00

This just in to our newsroom ... our group's beloved author-in-exile, Howard Whitehouse, is being parachuted in (and here, cue Ed McMahon voice) DIRECT FROM NEW YORK to read selections from The Strictest School in the World. So, your one remaining excuse for missing out on the evening ("Ah, I'd love to come, but Howard won't be there") is null and void. Come one, come all! That's this Monday, October 16, 6:30-8:00 p.m., Community Room (2nd floor), Parliament Library, 269 Gerrard Street East. We now return you to regularly scheduled programming.

And Now, a Word From Our Sponsor

2006-09-20T20:58:00.000-04:00

The Parliament Writers' Group will hold its annual reading Monday, October 16, 6:30-8:00 p.m. I'll tantalize you with a teaser from my mystic/autistic travelogue while my friends regale you with poetry, mystery, memoir, kid lit, and much more. Refreshments provided. Location: Community Room (2nd floor), Parliament Library, 269 Gerrard Street East.

Come hear us read!

Welcome to the People's Republic of Hyperbole

2006-09-04T22:26:00.000-04:00

Please check your brain at the door. Other than the sound of my jaw hitting the floor, I offer the following without comment:

SYDNEY, Australia—An obesity pandemic threatens to overwhelm health systems around the globe with illnesses such as diabetes and heart disease, experts at an international conference warned yesterday. "This insidious, creeping pandemic of obesity is now engulfing the entire world," Paul Zimmet, chairman of the meeting of more than 2,500 experts and health officials, said in a speech opening the week-long International Congress on Obesity. "It's as big a threat as global warming and bird flu."

[ audience roars ]

"Thank you. Thank you so much. You're too kind. So, a monk, a rabbi, and an obesity expert walk into this bar ... "

The full article can be found here.

Writers at Work

2006-09-04T16:59:00.000-04:00

I've been most encouraged of late by the accomplishments of my friends. Our writers' group has now produced its second book, The Strictest School in the World. The esteemed Howard Whitehouse—who, need I remind you, does all his own stunts—has crafted a hilarious tale about a Victorian schoolgirl's struggle to build her own flying machine. While the story enchants the pre-teen in your life, the Pythonesque humour is sure to keep you in stitches. At no additional cost, you also get to imbibe the gorgeous illustrations of Bill Slavin. All told, it's a rollicking ride, and it doesn't stop there: look for Book Two, The Faceless Fiend, next year! (And what's that sound in the distance? But of course—it's the gallery chanting, "We want Bogbrush!")

While you're at it, check out Simon Leigh's novel Wild Women, the first tome to emerge from our happy collective. A racy account of an Australian couple's move to Canada, Simon writes with wit, elegance, and panache, proving that reading about a New Brunswick winter beats the pants off living through it. (Oh, and if you get the chance, come hear the man read his work. He's got Professor Butts nailed to a T ... right down to the Aussie accent!)

As the holiday season approaches, do keep these fine works of fiction in mind for the word lover in your life. (And if you don't know any, hey—what better way to convert someone?)

Love of Labour

2006-09-04T16:05:00.000-04:00

Now that I no longer work in education (hooray!), I can relax and enjoy Labour Day. I'm watching the Edmonton-Calgary game on my four-inch black-and-white TV, taping the Blue Jays on the radio, and anticipating tonight's main event: the Argo-Ticat tilt at Ivor Wynne.

Hamilton has been pathetic all season, but on Labour Day, stats and standings are tossed out the window. No matter what their record, the Cats always get up for this one. I was thinking of going, but couldn't afford it this year. A win for the Scullers would vault our heroes into second place in the East. Arrrr-gooos! As a bonus, this game is likely to feature a piece of history: Toronto QB Damon Allen is poised to become pro football's all-time leading passer. That's not just Canadian Football, folks; we're talking CFL, NFL, any football league in the universe.

In the bigger picture, Labour Day is the fulcrum between summer and fall. I love this time of year. The cooler temperatures are always welcome, but I'm especially anticipating this fall. As autumn's leaves give way to the first snow, my book comes ever closer to completion. The third draft is going well after a painfully slow start. This trudging through quicksand was hardly unexpected: I've known for months that the early chapters—written before I knew how to write—would need major surgery.

Happily, things are looking up in Chapter 4. I've gone from neurosurgeon to triage nurse to hospital orderly. Now and then, I have to fetch the odd bandage for the patient, but mostly, he's fine. A few more rough spots await—Chapter 7, for instance, calls for a delicate switch in viewpoint—but I'm through the worst of it.

"Stupid.ca" is Hate Speech

2006-08-02T21:56:00.000-04:00

Following is an e-mail to Jim Watson, Ontario Minister of Health Promotion. Copies were sent to the Deputy Minister, Assistant Deputy Minister, two Parliamentary Assistants, and all nine Toronto Transit Commissioners. My comments pertain to an advertisement that appears on the exterior of Toronto's buses, streetcars, and subway trains.

I'm quite convinced the recipients will view it as the ravings of a madman, and frankly, that's fine. I really wanted to convey what a kick in the balls this is without being overly respectful, careful, or politically correct. I think I've accomplished that aim.

Should you wish to take action on this issue, please consider writing your own letter and/or refusing to board any TTC vehicle until these eyesores have been removed.

Dear Minister Watson,

I am writing to let you know how deeply offended I am by the "stupid.ca" advertisements that have lately appeared on Toronto's subways, streetcars, and buses. Implying that all members of a minority group (smokers) are "stupid" is hate speech.

So far, the anti-smoking lobby's junk science has not eliminated tobacco use; neither has your government's draconian legislation (the Smoke-Free Ontario Act, 2006). Evidently, when all else fails, your Ministry wholeheartedly endorses name-calling and bullying in pursuit of its zealous aims.

The humiliation and outrage I felt when I first saw this ad is akin to that of a Jew at the dawn of Nazi Germany. My government has labelled me and 20% of my fellow Ontarians "stupid." If state-sanctioned hate speech is now deemed acceptable, tell me: what comes next?

I urge you to remove this detestable advertising from all TTC vehicles at once. Until you do, I—a lifelong transit user—will boycott the TTC. Should these billboards persist, I will file formal complaints with Ombudsman Ontario and the Toronto Transit Commission.

For Roger Upon Ascension

2006-07-12T16:22:00.000-04:00

As we stood at the cusp of youth's promise
you spoke to me in obscure clarity
Is it now up to me—not just me, but me
to separate vision from mythology?

While tethered in body the spirit can't flee
that peeling scotch-tape humanity
We eat, sleep, and ache, love, smile, and die
for ephemeral sips from the chalice

Roger, dear friend, you will not be alone
I will see to it that you're welcomed home

Love, Emily

Roger Keith "Syd" Barrett 1946-2006

Belated Celebration

2006-07-08T20:57:00.000-04:00

Sometime in late May, I finished the first draft of my book. I even typed THE END to mark the occasion. It took me a year and a half to get there! Though this is only the end of phase one, it's a significant milestone. So, with this post, I stop for a moment and allow myself to take pride in what I've accomplished.

In the words of author Louise Penny: "If you've actually finished your first book—well, you're amazing! You're already so far ahead of the pack they can barely see your dust! Most people never even start that first book. Of the few that do, most never finish ... frankly, as far as I'm concerned, the pact you made with yourself, probably as a child, is complete. You wrote the book. You did it ... you've accomplished something most people only dream of."

[ applause dies down ]

Thank you. Thank you so much. :-) And to other writers out there: if I can do it, you can, too. Stay true to your voice and your vision. Perservere. Sacrifice. Risk. Do whatever it takes.

For my next trick, I'll be spending six months polishing what I've written. I have a second draft of 15 of 17 chapters and am beginning a third as we speak. The goal is not to create the "perfect" book, but to craft the best manuscript I can with the resources I have. I have faith that the rest, whatever it may be, will take care of itself.

Introducing Muswell

2006-06-01T01:36:00.000-04:00

My neighbour and I put out food for the strays that frequent the co-op. One day last fall, this adorable orange tabby showed up. At first, he was so skittish I had to put the food down and dash inside so as not to scare him. Eventually, he let me pet him, and before I knew it, he was purring in my lap. When winter rolled around and I spotted him at the window meowing, I just had to let him in.

Last month, I finally adopted him and took him for a check-up. Muswell is two and a half (says the vet) and in good health. He's now off the street and in a good home; as for me, I get a loyal companion out of the deal. And yes, he really is as angelic as he looks!

The Zen of Baseball

2006-05-25T00:44:00.002-04:00

I listen to baseball on the radio to help me wind down. I love the quirky strategy, the sleepy pace, the legend and lore, and the fact that baseball is one of the few (only?) team sports that doesn't run on a clock. Nine innings take as long as they take.

The ultimate game for stats geeks—even the most casual fan knows what 755, .406, 73, 56, and 1908* mean—baseball evokes a certain timelessness. Players, dynasties, teams and even ballparks come and go, but the game goes on forever. Spring training, the exhilaration of that early-April .600 batting average, summer's dog days, the pennant race, and finally the Fall Classic itself—all are inextricably tied to the changing of the seasons. Here in Toronto, the first time I turn on my radio and hear Jerry Howarth's "Hello, friends, and welcome to Blue Jays Baseball," I know that white stuff on my lawn is not long for this world. I love that feeling. (Though Jerry's long-time partner, the legendary Tom Cheek, is sorely missed.)

Yet, all is not peanuts (ahem) and cracker jack. One loathsome aspect of the modern game is the ubiquity of advertising. It's impossible to escape—the in-stadium experience is especially pugnacious—but I've learned to tune it out. Taping the radio broadcasts helps; I now have an intuitive grasp of just how long I should let the cassette fast-forward between innings.

Catching an intercounty game at Christie Pits is on my summer to-do list. It's free, and it'll be interesting to compare the "game day" experience with that at the Skydome. (Sorry, I'm not calling it the You-Know-What Centre. I mean, come on: monikers like "US Cellular Field" just roll off the tongue, don't they? If I were King of the World, naming a stadium after some faceless corporation would be an offence punishable by death.)

* We now present (at no additional cost to you)
YOUR INSTANT GUIDE TO BASEBALL'S MOST FAMOUS STATISTICS

755 - Most career home runs, Hank Aaron (1954-1976)
.406 - Ted Williams' 1941 batting average (last player to hit .400 or over)
73 - Most single-season home runs, Barry Bonds (2001)
56 - Longest consecutive-game hitting streak, Joe DiMaggio (1941)
1908 - Last time the Chicago Cubs won the World Series (longest futility streak in pro sports)

This is Nuts

2006-05-17T20:56:00.000-04:00

Officials in Edmonton have banned peanuts from their football stadium because of a parent's complaint that her highly allergic child has to wear a mask and gloves while attending games. You can read the full article here.

Not only is this overkill; it's insanity. Sadly, no one bats an eye these days, as this sort of overreaction is completely in line with our eliminate-all-toxins agenda. The (eminently sane) compromise—creating a peanut-free section surrounding the youngster—was quickly mooted, as it was claimed that peanut shells or their aroma could waft toward the child from other parts of the stadium.

So, up to 60,000 people must avoid peanuts because one person might experience an allergic reaction. And hey, why stop there? Presumably this kid likes to go to the mall now and then. What if, God forbid, some food-court outlet cooks with nuts? Then there are schools, churches, city parks... I say we declare the entire City of Edmonton a peanut-free zone.

Having expunged the City of Champions of the vile legume, let's turn our attention to allergy sufferers in other cities. The sheer number (and severity) of allergens seems to be on the rise. We've all heard of (or known people with) sensitivities to animals, pollen, perfumes, various foods and chemicals, and everyone's favourite whipping boy, cigarette smoke. Are we going to ban everything under the sun because it might provoke a reaction in somebody, somewhere?

Lest you think me an uncaring curmudgeon, let it be noted that I have a peanut allergy myself. Here's another commentator who thinks the peanut ban is nuts, and an editorial decrying the draconian measure.

In a related development, the City of Ottawa is considering a ban on "artificial fragrances" in city buildings, sports facilities, and the transit system. This would include not only perfumes, "but scented soaps, deodorants, hairsprays, cosmetics, household and industrial cleaning products, and numerous body fragrance products."

I empathize with the environmentally sensitive and agree that, to a point, their needs ought to be accommodated; what I object to is their unilateral hijacking of our municipal bylaws.

Sex is the New Obesity

2006-04-30T17:38:00.000-04:00

No, it only seems like I'm vying for world supremacy in the least-frequently-updated-blog sweepstakes. I enjoy blogging, I really do; what I lack these days is time. So, embarrassed by the prospect of a blank archive for April, we proudly present The Obligatory April Post.

This morning, I heard an item on The Sunday Edition that made my hair stand on end. A doctor of "evolutionary medicine" put forward the hypothesis that cancer and heart disease may be (in part) caused by viruses. Now, I was half-asleep and may be misquoting the guy: if so, I apologize. But I thought I heard something to the effect that if viruses (in addition to genetic and environmental factors) are partially responsible, then cancer and heart disease could conceivably be transmitted through sexual contact or heavy petting. Having no background (or interest) in medicine, I can't say whether this thesis is plausible, absurd, or somewhere in between. What set my mind reeling were the dizzying sociological implications.

See, if HIV didn't discourage hedonism, maybe the nasty spectre of cancer will do the trick. This is called social control, folks, and it's how the health industry and nanny state put your tax dollars to work. Witness the banning of "junk" food in school cafeterias and the paranoid, witch-hunting zealotry behind anti-smoking legislation. And how about this: I was recently in a public washroom that gave me explicit instructions on how to wash my hands. The poster went on to tell me why proper hand-washing is so critical. I'm not opposed to basic personal hygiene, but come on—do we really want to raise a generation of obsessive-compulsives?

I'm beginning to think we do. North American society is fixated on disease prevention. It's as though we believe we'll live forever if we eat all the right things, jog five miles a day, and avoid exposure to any and all toxins (except the ones we're attached to, like alcohol and automobile exhaust). In this neo-puritan age, longevity is valued above all else. Doesn't matter if your jogging-and-broccoli-shake regimen makes you miserable: better to lead a long, healthy, ascetic life than a shorter, risk-taking, fun-filled one. "Life at any cost, no matter how wretched" seems to be the new mantra. Now, I'm not advocating wanton recklessness; even I (sometimes) eat well, exercise, and take care of myself. This now-unfashionable concept is called moderation.

Certainly, health and fun are not mutually exclusive, and I don't claim they are. What bristles is the wellness-above-all philosophy that underlies modern thinking. I'm old enough to remember a catchphrase that went, "If it feels good, do it." Sure, that's naive and perhaps a little extreme, but compare it to today's horrific equivalent: "If it feels good, it's bad. It'll kill you. Don't do it. We won't let you do it."

I'm not saying the good doctor necessarily falls into this camp. One, I lack the knowledge to make that assessment; and two, anyone who raises an eyebrow at bird-flu hysteria can't be all wet. If my foggy morning recollections are right, he was quick to distance himself from the moral quagmire his thesis could inspire. But no matter: if he doesn't grab the ball and run with it, you can bet somebody will. These days, there's no shortage of self-proclaimed experts salivating at the chance to dictate what's best for us. Many of them have legislative powers.

Tobacco is the new leprosy
Obesity is the new tobacco
Sex is the new obesity

Where will it end?

I Like Long Walks on the Beach, Fine Dining, and Jazz

2006-03-27T03:34:00.000-05:00

I'm pushing hard to finish my book on time, so a day off is a precious commodity. I schedule one every couple of weeks. Today was sunny and almost spring-like, so I went walking by the Beach. As always, the water proved a bigger draw than the boardwalk, so I parked myself on a rock and gazed out at Lake Ontario for the better part an hour. It was chilly, but rejuvenating.

After sunset, I caught the 501 car at the end of the line (Neville Park) and rode west till I got hungry. That happened somewhere in New Toronto. I had exactly $12 on me ... just enough for a medium pizza and an orange Gatorade. It was a real treat not to have to come home and cook dinner.

All the while, I listened to every Miles Davis album I own, in sequence. Now, I'm quite new to jazz and am still growing accustomed to its vocabulary. But any way you slice it, the man was both maverick and innovator. If you're at all familiar with Miles, you'll appreciate that Nefertiti to On The Corner covers a lot of territory and is hard to digest in one sitting. As such—and to deepen my understanding and enjoyment—I brought the liner notes along and read them on the streetcar. These days, I barely have time to listen to music, much less read the liner notes. And how I treasure well-written annotations like these! (On a related note, music criticism is probably my biggest literary influence by default.)

Killer Twigs

2006-03-12T22:38:00.000-05:00

A warning to all cyclists, especially those of you who savour a genteel ride in a sylvan setting: beware the killer twigs of Toronto Island!

I decided to spend my day off biking around the Island. Things were going swimmingly until I veered off the main road onto a paved path that led to the boardwalk. Fallen twigs, branchlets, and sundry arboreal parts were strewn about, but the roadway hardly looked scary. In fact, I took little notice until I suddenly heard a crack, then a thump. When my wheel hit the killer twig, the evil appendage somehow leapt from there up into my front fender, which it promptly snapped in two—each end bashed against the front wheel, of course.

The wheel wasn't damaged, just temporarily immobile. And wouldn't you guess, I had no tools with me. I generally don't carry them because (a) I barely know how to use them; and (b) you're never too far from a TTC stop anywhere in Toronto ... except on the Island. So, I performed my best impersonation of Superman/Uri Geller to bend and manipulate the twisted wreckage off my bike and into the nearest garbage bin, then carried on without incident.

Oh, well—it's the back fender that prevents that nasty stripe from crawling up your back. Who needs the front one? Evidently, I don't.

Quote of the Day

2006-02-26T23:36:00.000-05:00

This is an excerpt from my horoscope for Monday:

"Anxiety and intuition go together like marmalade and mayonnaise. They do absolutely nothing to complement one another. When your instincts are working well, you will never feel anxious. Your sixth sense will always tell you what to do for the best. When worry is getting the better of you, though, you can forget all about getting into contact with your inner wisdom. It simply won't speak to you while you are feeling fear."

Thank you, Jonathan. Words to live by.

Stamina

2006-02-21T00:05:00.000-05:00

It's not been an easy week. For the most part, though, I've been able to fight through it and continue working. Today I revised the first part of Chapter 14. Before I bring an excerpt to my writing group, I read it aloud and make changes at home. It's nitpicky, difficult work, but this afternoon, I did it. This evening at group, I read the end of Chapter 12, went to the pub with my writer friends afterwards, came home and incorporated their suggestions into the next draft. After that, I printed/collated several copies of next week's reading, the first half of Chapter 13. I didn't feel up to any of this, and look at what I accomplished. I'm learning to give myself credit for (and take pride in) how much I am able to get done on a bad day.

As for the sleep situation, the chronotherapy escapade has been a success. For seven days in a row, I've been asleep by two and up at ten. Regular, sufficient sleep isn't doing wonders for my mood yet, but it is boosting my productivity. I'll have to be strict about my bedtime in order to prevent backsliding. Part of me truly bristles at this, but I know it's for the best.

Delayed Sleep Phase Syndrome (DSPS)

2006-02-11T02:15:00.000-05:00

This is what I think is troubling me. It differs from insomnia in that it's a circadian rhythm disorder. My sleep/wake cycles push themselves forward incrementally until I'm going to bed at 9:00 a.m. and rising at 5:00 p.m. (like I did today).

Treatments include chronotherapy (progressively shifting bedtimes ahead three hours until desired bedtime is reached), light therapy, and establishing regular patterns of eating and exercise. I'm ready to try a modified form of chronotherapy for starters, but the bright light thing is gonna be tough. I wake up slowly—"dragged out of bed kicking and screaming" is more like it—and don't think I could stand a sudden jolt of light. But I'll turn a couple of soft lights on when my alarm sounds and gradually step it up from there. If that doesn't work, guess I'll have to let loose the floodlights upon waking. In any case, proper light therapy isn't possible until I can afford a light box.

So, that's two sleep disorders for the price of one, as DSPS likely interacts with my CPAP treatment for obstructive sleep apnea. (In lay terms, I have a hose attached to my nostrils that pumps air down my throat so I don't stop breathing during sleep. Fun, eh?) To be fair, I don't think one has caused the other to occur, but I believe each is making the other worse.

I'm trying to self-diagnose (and self-treat) in order to avoid seeing the sleep doctor, who will probably tell me what I already know and prescribe some nasty pharmaceutical concoction. But if my attempts fail, I'll pay him a visit ... if I can manage to find a time when he's open and I'm not sleeping.

Tag Results

2006-02-11T01:22:00.000-05:00

Having been tagged by Jamie (thanks, Jamie!), I offer the following humble answers to this humble set of questions. (For entertainment purposes only. Void where prohibited. This offer not valid in combination with any other.)

When you were little, what were three things you wanted to be when you grew up?

I don't recall having any occupational dreams whatsoever until I was sixteen (at least). In order from there, they are ...

mathematician
sociologist
rock musician

You can live one day over again from your childhood. What day will it be?

That summer afternoon in '71 when I sat in my backyard and heard the sounds of Three Dog Night wafting over from Borough of York Stadium.

You have two minutes (and a mover if you need heavy lifting help!) to grab five things from your home before it morphs into a polka-dotted hobgoblin and hops away. What will you take? (Food, drink, family, friends, and pets excluded!)

photo of my beloved
bed
entire CD collection ... and we'd need the movers for that, yes
computer ... which conveniently includes a CD player
short-wave radio

You have to paint one quote on your kitchen wall. What's it going to be?

"Sign me up as a diplomat, my only office is the park" - Paul Kantner, 1970

Which three things do you want to accomplish by the end of this year?

Finish my book
Submit the manuscript
Sign a juicy deal

You are moving to the moon for one year and can only bring one flower with you. What kind will you bring?

Whatever flower my lone house plant is (I've no idea). Actually, no: I'm trading in the house plant for three more books (see below).

You just received word that aside from one flower, you can also bring five books with you too! (And I'm going to sneak a pen with me.) Your choices?

The New London Property Guide 04/05
The 12 Steps—A Way Out
The Canadian Writer's Guide
Psychotic Reactions and Carburetor Dung, Lester Bangs
Zen: Merging of East and West, Roshi Philip Kapleau

And my three bonus choices for chucking the flower:

Pronoia Is the Antidote for Paranoia, Rob Brezsny
Passport to World Band Radio
a blank journal

Clapham Calling?

2006-02-10T01:43:00.000-05:00

Had an amazing London dream last night—or should I say, this morning. My sleep is all messed up again. Anyway, I go into a tube station to purchase a Visitor Travelcard for Zones 1-6. The attendant is a dapper, polite, and very helpful gent, a true service-with-a-smile type. He wishes me a wonderful time in London. I walk away feeling great and hop on the tube. It might be the Central Line; I'm not sure. In any case, this part of the line runs outdoors. It's a brilliant, sky-blue day, and as I take in row upon row of terraces and mansion flats on the surrounding streets, I smile, let out a big sigh, and think, "Oh, yeah. It's so good to be back. I love it here." The train stops at the next station, then pulls out. Right away, a block of smart-looking properties catches my eye. For some reason, I can see street signs as well. Two come into view: Crescent Lane and Crescent Walk.

The dream goes on, but I'll stop there, because here's the fun part: when I awoke, I searched the index of my London street atlas for Crescent Lane. Yep, there's one in SW4. Wonder where that is? I turn to page 150 and am blown away, for just east of Clapham Common sit Crescent Lane and Crescent Grove (I was off by one word), side by side, a block from the tube station. Okay, it's the Northern Line and I don't think this section runs outdoors, but still ...

So, it's off to The New London Property Guide 04/05 to get the scoop on the area and, if possible, the streets themselves: "Past Crescent Lane lies Clapham's premier street, the gated Regency enclave of Crescent Grove. The fine stucco crescent faces a row of grand semi-detached villas with linked coach houses: £1.5 million will buy you villa plus coach house. In the Lane itself, nine flats and four townhouses set round a gated court are sold bar one house (3-bed, £600,000)."

Does my future dream home await me in Crescent Lane or Grove? I don't know, but next time I'm in London, first order of business is to take the Northern Line to Clapham Common and check out, ah, Clapham's premier street.

Here's another mildly cosmic tidbit. When I first bought that street atlas, I thumbed through the index to see if any of the streets I lived on here existed in a parallel universe across the pond. (I tend to do weird stuff like that with maps.) I discovered that Jarvis (my then-current street) and Westbury (my former street) not only existed in London—they met. Whoa! So, on my first visit to the capital, I caught the District Line to Barking, found the intersection, and took pictures. It wasn't the greatest area, but still, the experience tickled me pink and provided the first inkling that London Town and I share some kind of mojo. The dance continues.

Boring Through the Rockies

2006-02-06T03:58:00.000-05:00

Progress update: I'm slogging away at the book, temporarily marooned in the midst of Chapter 14. Three more to go after this one. I've finally made it through the horror of recounting my day on the Icefields Parkway. After spending an entire night trying to bore through it and getting nowhere, I gave up. Then just before nodding off, the light bulb came on: merge two days into one! This required major cutting, pasting, and juggling of actual events, but that's allowed. See my previous posts on memoir: I give myself permission to omit the boring stuff and put "what really happened" in a different order. Literature is a spatial/temporal illusion anyway. Next, I condensed the scenic descriptions into a paragraph's worth of sweeping generalities ("a staggering parade of rugged peaks, alpine meadows, and shimmering turquoise waters"—you get the idea).

For whatever reason, I have a terrible time describing the physical world, especially those spectacular sights about which readers plead, "Take me there, dear author." I'd love to, dear reader, but words fail me ... literally. They vanish. I stare at my photo albums and see trees, lakes, fields, and rocks. That's it. And "I looked out the window and saw another tree" doesn't take any of us anywhere. I've been tearing my hair out over this, and because the story's setting is a cross-country trip, surprise—the issue keeps cropping up. I think I've managed to create enough real-world grounding that the story appears to occur in space and time, not some literary black hole. That's good, but I wish the process weren't so gut-wrenching every time. I'm happy to report that other than the bloody scenery, the rest of the narrative is coming along quite well.

When you've been at one project this long (over a year), these issues tend to magnify themselves. A word of advice: kids, don't make your first book an epic. Start with short stories. Or Haiku. :)