Anyone remember that movie with Michael Keaton as the insane tenant from hell?
I just read Jenny's blog (Laughing Gas and Ennui on the right there) and she told about her old apartment from hell. I couldn't begin to match the awfulness of the place, but I've lived in a few not great spots myself.
There was the high rise in Prince Rupert--moved there after I got tired of the stereo wars with the guy next door, and my car always getting vandalized by the punk kids out on the street where I had to park--though I got my revenge; on the day I left, when I could see them watching from the window, I deliberately ran into their hockey net and then backed over it a couple times...
The high-rise was soundproof, which I wanted, but unfortunately, I lived on the 9th floor, and the heat usually only went up to the 5th--I remember frequently having ice on the inside of my windows. A girl who worked with me also told stories of the creepy building manager (she was on the 11th floor) who used to proposition her until she threatened him, and would use his key to go into her apartment when she wasn't home.
I lived across from the emergency entrance to Vancouver General for a while--in an old unsecure building in a sub-ground floor apt. My roommate, who'd lived there longer, told me of a time a whacked out guy tried to break into his suite with an axe, while my friend was inside. (It was, after all, right near the drug treatment center as well)
My wife and I took an apartment just before we got married that we thought was nice--expensive rent, but it was brand new--we were the first people in the suite ever--and had a fireplace, 5 appliances, two bathrooms, etc. and a great view. Problem was--they wanted to fill the apartments so they could get a year's worth of renting from everyone and then go condo. It's a trick developers use so they don't have to sell the suites as "new", which would mean, up here, that there's an additionaly 7% GST tax on them, which might scare buyers away.
It also wasn't a great neighborhood. There were half a dozen breakins in the "secure" underground parking and in one a car got stolen--we were only there for 7 months--the management figured some guys living in the building were helping or doing it. I remember our downstairs neighbor would get drunk and then forget which floor he lived on and we'd hear him trying to make his key work in our door, and then when you looked out the peephole he was swaying down on all fours. Vomit in the elevator was another nice surprise from time to time...
Drunk guy eventually moved, and potheads moved in, who needed to smoke dope on their balcony every night around 1:30 a.m., which meant them talking loud and essentially making our bedroom a second-hand smoke hotbox.
There were four guys maybe 20 years old across the hall--they got the locks changed on one of their buddies and he pounded walls and screamed for several hours... The building was built so crappy the doors would keep getting out of alignment and then not be lockable, so we'd have to leave our place unlocked for days at a time. They had to re-hang the doors to our balcony 4 times in the few months we lived there, and there was a gap between the top of one wall and the ceiling where it had "settled".
The cops were regular visitors to the building--including the paddy wagon one time, I recall.
It got really funny when they decided to "go condo". They wanted the place to look good for prospective suckers, er I mean, customers, and so that meant, for instance, a daily battle with the person who scratched profanities onto the elevator door--it was probably repainted 10 times in two months.
It was also funny when we got our "condo notice", offering to sell us the suite at the end of our one-year lease. I think I told the realtor "I'd rather stick needles in my eyes". Even so, because we looked after our place, and had nice furniture, a couple of the realtors begged us to let them show ours to prospective buyers--not the realtor who was actually selling our suite--so we agreed, our condition being that we could get out of our lease early. (We bought a house and fled.) The realtors made a point of trying to show it when we weren't home--not out of respect for our privacy, but because we were always careful to show the prospective buyers the problems, and list the litany of complaints.
We drive buy there fairly often, and always feel sorry for the folks who bought in. They've already had to all shell out probably 10 grand each for the outside to be redone, as it was another of this areas infamous "leaky condos".
Still, all of this seems like petty annoyances compared to what Jenny had. Go read her post.
Friday, July 29, 2005
Wednesday, July 27, 2005
Poetry by the Emo Child
Hating my Sheep
"Teach us," they beg.
I pause, and peer over my book
Lovecraft--the cover art usually shields me
But these two br0ke through.
I don't speak, but sit up and glare
At least a year younger than me,
Their piercings red, raw and new
I am the next step on their journey.
"Go eat a spider" I tell them.
They look at me blankly. I smile...
"Or milk and cookies, if you're weak"
Their fear is pleasing to me.
The next week is filled with tests;
They run naked at midnight in the graveyard
Panhandle in front of the school
Sit under my fast food table,
And bark like dogs.
"Is this... some kind of hazing?"
The question hangs there.
I shake my head.
"This is life." They think it deep
and nod without understanding.
Hiding from them is futile,
But then, I don't really blend in
And they find me and stare,
Expectantly.
"I want silence, not subjects"
But they are persistent.
Against my better judgement,
I even learn their names.
Then one night as I wander in,
My father waits--he's nervous, as usual
And stammers about a phone call
From some shrill suburban shrew
I just stare at my nails
And ten pretty skulls stare back.
She asked him to "reign me in"
As if such were possible.
I'm a bad influence, apparently.
I'd rather be no influence at all
To wannabes who look for something
To fill the empty space
Where Hilary once smiled on their walls.
They vanish after that.
Lovecraft doesn't notice,
And neither do I.
"Teach us," they beg.
I pause, and peer over my book
Lovecraft--the cover art usually shields me
But these two br0ke through.
I don't speak, but sit up and glare
At least a year younger than me,
Their piercings red, raw and new
I am the next step on their journey.
"Go eat a spider" I tell them.
They look at me blankly. I smile...
"Or milk and cookies, if you're weak"
Their fear is pleasing to me.
The next week is filled with tests;
They run naked at midnight in the graveyard
Panhandle in front of the school
Sit under my fast food table,
And bark like dogs.
"Is this... some kind of hazing?"
The question hangs there.
I shake my head.
"This is life." They think it deep
and nod without understanding.
Hiding from them is futile,
But then, I don't really blend in
And they find me and stare,
Expectantly.
"I want silence, not subjects"
But they are persistent.
Against my better judgement,
I even learn their names.
Then one night as I wander in,
My father waits--he's nervous, as usual
And stammers about a phone call
From some shrill suburban shrew
I just stare at my nails
And ten pretty skulls stare back.
She asked him to "reign me in"
As if such were possible.
I'm a bad influence, apparently.
I'd rather be no influence at all
To wannabes who look for something
To fill the empty space
Where Hilary once smiled on their walls.
They vanish after that.
Lovecraft doesn't notice,
And neither do I.
Sunday, July 24, 2005
The Cynical Career Counsellor Explains Your Future As
A High School Journalism Teacher
Oh--I remember you. You're the kid who did the exposé on how the flashlight batteries in the emergency kits hadn't been replaced for three years--hard hitting stuff, that. Really? I'd a figured you'd want to run the foreign desk at the Washington Post some day or something... A journalism teacher? You realize I've already got a stack of brochures about teaching on the...no, not journalism specifically. Why didn't you talk to Ms. Willings? Oh right, the stress leave thing. Too bad that--they say she's getting better though--apparently the maniacal giggling at the sight of newsprint responded well to the risperidone...
Okay, I think we've both seen first hand what can happen to a young, bright woman like yourself after a decade or two of journalism instruction, but you think you can handle it, so here goes:
You'll attend university and study journalism. Remember the ideals and values they try to instill, because once you're in the classroom, you'll look back and giggle at their naivete. After your bachelors, you'll do the post degree work and a practicum required for your first teaching job, where you'll realize, to your chagrin, that journalism will occupy no more than one quarter of all the classes you're paid to teach, but take up three-quarters of your waking hours. The horrific marking load of your English classes you'll have to take care of late at night after crawling home from your gruelling attempt to meet yet another yearbook deadline.
It won't just be the yearbook, though--you'll have the school newspaper to contend with as well. In the old days, it was just a few sports results and some jokes lifted from the Reader's Digest printed on an old ditto machine, but now it gets distributed on the internet for the world to see, and everyone from the crankiest PTA member to the district's paranoid legal team can analyze every nuance of every word on the world wide web. Your adminstration sees your work as potentially embarassing at best, and continues to censor your paper for fear of expensive legal consequences.
The final crisis for the paper comes the morning you release the edition with the explosive story about how the money for new field hockey sticks has vanished while the teacher's lounge suddenly has been furnished with deluxe espresso machines and a new flat screen television. You pick up your copy that day to find your students' hard work has been deleted, and replaced with an editorial by the principal denouncing the societal decay evidenced by the recent spate of new graffiti by local "tag" artists.
You are furious, but are called into the office where you bite your tongue and hear that your funding for the newspaper has been cut, and you are ordered to focus all of your attention on finishing the yearbook on time. Since you've no longer got the responsibility for the paper, your principal feels justified in adding a remedial English class to your already soul-destroying teaching load. It becomes even worse when you call together your students and they accuse you of being a collaborator in the muzzling of free speech, and you go to your car that night to find several swastikas scratched into the paint.
They soon find an outlet for their anger, though--an underground newspaper whose masthead features an amazingly good charicature of you burning the bill of rights. Even though you're the most frequent target of their mocking and wrath, the rest of the staff somehow has the idea that you're involved in the illicit scandal sheet, and they ostracize you for it. The students you counted on to help you with the yearbook all walk out on you two weeks before your final deadline, and you're forced to complete using the worst kids from the "behavior mod" class who've been compelled to assist you as punishment for setting up a meth lab in an unused chemistry classroom.
The yearbook is completed on the strength of your will and a two-week ephedrine high. When it comes back from the publishers you feel a moment of pride in your accomplishment--perhaps "instant" would be a better word--and then the recriminations begin.
You used a photo taken of the football team when the star receiver was home sick. You forgot the school's macrame club entirely--though since they only had one meeting it's not hard to understand. Still, understanding is what each shrill complainer has little of. The worst of it all stems from a seemingly minor mistake. You mispelled the last name of a late arrival to the school--his 12 syllable moniker has only two vowels in it and is entirely unpronounceable, but still, you listen to the complaints of his family. It seems that the resulting spelling is the last name of the death squad commander who executed all their relatives and caused them to flee the country with no more than the clothing on their backs.
After you apologize for the 10th time, you finally go home, ready to sleep for a week. You are woken by the explosion in your kitchen that narrowly misses killing you. It seems the internet version of the spelling mistake attracted some attention from the secret police of the obscure eastern european country whose shadowy politics have now targeted you as a person of interest.
The school determines you to be a risk, and hides you out in the juvenile detention home, where you teach future drug dealers and hit men basic academic skills, while you spiral downwards past anger into depression and serious paranoia.
When the danger to you is determined to be over, the school reinstates you to your old job, but insists you continue it as part of the newly expanded behavior mod. program. Functional illiterates become your only companions as you struggle through the long days and lonelier evenings.
The final straw comes as you're nearing the yearbook deadline the following year, and you discover you can't install the desperately needed pagemaker update when it finally arrives because none of your school computers have sufficient memory capability.
The psychiatric crisis team is gentle as they finally get into the principal's office, where you holed up for two hours, after stripping off all your clothes and fending off all who tried to approach with the power washer you stole from the maintenance crew.
Tranquil Oaks is a lovely place--as long as you swallow the pills--and you and your former mentor spend many evenings writing editorials on the backs of the old Yahtzee scorepads, which only the two of you ever read.
So--that's it, kid. Oh here--you dropped the brochure for the "Future Journalists of America" camp you're going to next week. Have fun.
Oh--I remember you. You're the kid who did the exposé on how the flashlight batteries in the emergency kits hadn't been replaced for three years--hard hitting stuff, that. Really? I'd a figured you'd want to run the foreign desk at the Washington Post some day or something... A journalism teacher? You realize I've already got a stack of brochures about teaching on the...no, not journalism specifically. Why didn't you talk to Ms. Willings? Oh right, the stress leave thing. Too bad that--they say she's getting better though--apparently the maniacal giggling at the sight of newsprint responded well to the risperidone...
Okay, I think we've both seen first hand what can happen to a young, bright woman like yourself after a decade or two of journalism instruction, but you think you can handle it, so here goes:
You'll attend university and study journalism. Remember the ideals and values they try to instill, because once you're in the classroom, you'll look back and giggle at their naivete. After your bachelors, you'll do the post degree work and a practicum required for your first teaching job, where you'll realize, to your chagrin, that journalism will occupy no more than one quarter of all the classes you're paid to teach, but take up three-quarters of your waking hours. The horrific marking load of your English classes you'll have to take care of late at night after crawling home from your gruelling attempt to meet yet another yearbook deadline.
It won't just be the yearbook, though--you'll have the school newspaper to contend with as well. In the old days, it was just a few sports results and some jokes lifted from the Reader's Digest printed on an old ditto machine, but now it gets distributed on the internet for the world to see, and everyone from the crankiest PTA member to the district's paranoid legal team can analyze every nuance of every word on the world wide web. Your adminstration sees your work as potentially embarassing at best, and continues to censor your paper for fear of expensive legal consequences.
The final crisis for the paper comes the morning you release the edition with the explosive story about how the money for new field hockey sticks has vanished while the teacher's lounge suddenly has been furnished with deluxe espresso machines and a new flat screen television. You pick up your copy that day to find your students' hard work has been deleted, and replaced with an editorial by the principal denouncing the societal decay evidenced by the recent spate of new graffiti by local "tag" artists.
You are furious, but are called into the office where you bite your tongue and hear that your funding for the newspaper has been cut, and you are ordered to focus all of your attention on finishing the yearbook on time. Since you've no longer got the responsibility for the paper, your principal feels justified in adding a remedial English class to your already soul-destroying teaching load. It becomes even worse when you call together your students and they accuse you of being a collaborator in the muzzling of free speech, and you go to your car that night to find several swastikas scratched into the paint.
They soon find an outlet for their anger, though--an underground newspaper whose masthead features an amazingly good charicature of you burning the bill of rights. Even though you're the most frequent target of their mocking and wrath, the rest of the staff somehow has the idea that you're involved in the illicit scandal sheet, and they ostracize you for it. The students you counted on to help you with the yearbook all walk out on you two weeks before your final deadline, and you're forced to complete using the worst kids from the "behavior mod" class who've been compelled to assist you as punishment for setting up a meth lab in an unused chemistry classroom.
The yearbook is completed on the strength of your will and a two-week ephedrine high. When it comes back from the publishers you feel a moment of pride in your accomplishment--perhaps "instant" would be a better word--and then the recriminations begin.
You used a photo taken of the football team when the star receiver was home sick. You forgot the school's macrame club entirely--though since they only had one meeting it's not hard to understand. Still, understanding is what each shrill complainer has little of. The worst of it all stems from a seemingly minor mistake. You mispelled the last name of a late arrival to the school--his 12 syllable moniker has only two vowels in it and is entirely unpronounceable, but still, you listen to the complaints of his family. It seems that the resulting spelling is the last name of the death squad commander who executed all their relatives and caused them to flee the country with no more than the clothing on their backs.
After you apologize for the 10th time, you finally go home, ready to sleep for a week. You are woken by the explosion in your kitchen that narrowly misses killing you. It seems the internet version of the spelling mistake attracted some attention from the secret police of the obscure eastern european country whose shadowy politics have now targeted you as a person of interest.
The school determines you to be a risk, and hides you out in the juvenile detention home, where you teach future drug dealers and hit men basic academic skills, while you spiral downwards past anger into depression and serious paranoia.
When the danger to you is determined to be over, the school reinstates you to your old job, but insists you continue it as part of the newly expanded behavior mod. program. Functional illiterates become your only companions as you struggle through the long days and lonelier evenings.
The final straw comes as you're nearing the yearbook deadline the following year, and you discover you can't install the desperately needed pagemaker update when it finally arrives because none of your school computers have sufficient memory capability.
The psychiatric crisis team is gentle as they finally get into the principal's office, where you holed up for two hours, after stripping off all your clothes and fending off all who tried to approach with the power washer you stole from the maintenance crew.
Tranquil Oaks is a lovely place--as long as you swallow the pills--and you and your former mentor spend many evenings writing editorials on the backs of the old Yahtzee scorepads, which only the two of you ever read.
So--that's it, kid. Oh here--you dropped the brochure for the "Future Journalists of America" camp you're going to next week. Have fun.
Friday, July 22, 2005
Look over my shoulder...
for a minute.
I'm actually going through articles and such to "situate" my project work. While looking for some historical background, I often find little gems that make me realize how much, I hope, things have changed.
Keep in mind, as you look at these, that I'm one who warns my students against judging Shakespeare, for example, by the standards of our time. You shouldn't assume by looking at Shrew that he's a misogynist or that the character of Shylock is evidence of a streak of racism than was anything more than typical of his day.
That said, I think it best you actually look at them as these were printed in the books where I found them:
This first one is from The Teacher's Technique, which was published in 1949 and is by one Charles Elmer Holley, who worked at the University of Idaho. You probably don't need to enlarge it to read it.
The second is from a book published in 1877 in Montreal, titled The Art of Teaching. This one you'll need to enlarge--it's providing a list of characteristics under the title "Synopsis of Human Nature". It's best if you just have a look for yourself. You'll need to click to enlarge it.
I'd say it's just more evidence of things as they used to be, except I also was reading American Education: Its Principles and Elements which was published in 1851, and can only be described as very enlightened and forward thinking in much of its content. Plus it's just cool to have a book this old to peruse. It has a stamp labelling it property of the "Library of St. Charles College Seminary" Columbus, Ohio. Then in one corner you can see the sticker of a Columbus book retailer.
Since I'm going to be slogging though stuff like this for a while, be warned you might see more posts like this one.
I'm actually going through articles and such to "situate" my project work. While looking for some historical background, I often find little gems that make me realize how much, I hope, things have changed.
Keep in mind, as you look at these, that I'm one who warns my students against judging Shakespeare, for example, by the standards of our time. You shouldn't assume by looking at Shrew that he's a misogynist or that the character of Shylock is evidence of a streak of racism than was anything more than typical of his day.
That said, I think it best you actually look at them as these were printed in the books where I found them:
This first one is from The Teacher's Technique, which was published in 1949 and is by one Charles Elmer Holley, who worked at the University of Idaho. You probably don't need to enlarge it to read it.
The second is from a book published in 1877 in Montreal, titled The Art of Teaching. This one you'll need to enlarge--it's providing a list of characteristics under the title "Synopsis of Human Nature". It's best if you just have a look for yourself. You'll need to click to enlarge it.
I'd say it's just more evidence of things as they used to be, except I also was reading American Education: Its Principles and Elements which was published in 1851, and can only be described as very enlightened and forward thinking in much of its content. Plus it's just cool to have a book this old to peruse. It has a stamp labelling it property of the "Library of St. Charles College Seminary" Columbus, Ohio. Then in one corner you can see the sticker of a Columbus book retailer.
Since I'm going to be slogging though stuff like this for a while, be warned you might see more posts like this one.
Wednesday, July 20, 2005
Poetry by the Emo Child
At the Bus Stop
They think they're funny, the uber twinks
Speaking louder for my benefit
"Rocky Horror playing somewhere, freak?"
I turn slowly, stare, and lick my lips.
I ignore both of them, as they giggle about the weekend ahead
Whoring themselves to whoever kicks the most touchdowns..
or whatever the hell those acne steroid freak boys do.
Then I see it--probably was a squirrel, before Goodyear got it.
Now it's a lovely compact model,
If you don't mind the oozing.
I find a suitable stick,
While the twinks pretend not to watch
Fearing, perhaps, I'll swing it in my wrath.
But no, delicately I pick up the pancaked vermin,
Angering the swarm of feeding flies,
And approach them, grinning--I show my filed fangs.
"Get away from us you freak!"
If I had a dollar for every time I heard that...
"Look!" I shout, "It's your soul on a stick!"
They run, their fear unmasked, up into a nearby yard.
I laugh, my favorite, crazy laugh.
The bus has already pulled up, and I step in
Enjoying a laugh with the young bus driver
As we watch the pit bull chase them from the yard.
I sit near the front as we pull away
The driver eyes me in his mirror,
While I contemplate his dreads
"You're insane," he smiles. "I like that"
He invites me to "party" with his friends that weekend.
I smile and say nothing.
I won't let my soul become a pancake
Just yet.
They think they're funny, the uber twinks
Speaking louder for my benefit
"Rocky Horror playing somewhere, freak?"
I turn slowly, stare, and lick my lips.
I ignore both of them, as they giggle about the weekend ahead
Whoring themselves to whoever kicks the most touchdowns..
or whatever the hell those acne steroid freak boys do.
Then I see it--probably was a squirrel, before Goodyear got it.
Now it's a lovely compact model,
If you don't mind the oozing.
I find a suitable stick,
While the twinks pretend not to watch
Fearing, perhaps, I'll swing it in my wrath.
But no, delicately I pick up the pancaked vermin,
Angering the swarm of feeding flies,
And approach them, grinning--I show my filed fangs.
"Get away from us you freak!"
If I had a dollar for every time I heard that...
"Look!" I shout, "It's your soul on a stick!"
They run, their fear unmasked, up into a nearby yard.
I laugh, my favorite, crazy laugh.
The bus has already pulled up, and I step in
Enjoying a laugh with the young bus driver
As we watch the pit bull chase them from the yard.
I sit near the front as we pull away
The driver eyes me in his mirror,
While I contemplate his dreads
"You're insane," he smiles. "I like that"
He invites me to "party" with his friends that weekend.
I smile and say nothing.
I won't let my soul become a pancake
Just yet.
Sitting here at my muggle artifact...
My, that sounded geeky, didn't it?
I finished it yesterday morning--now my son can enjoy it without worrying that I'll grab it if he puts it down. Don't worry, no spoilers here--but I'd warn you to avoid Alex's last post if you haven't finished it yet--that's "five wall" on the right, but she's changed and moved the blog this week so I guess I should update the link.
Thus far, I know the following people have also finished it. Kate (less than 24 hours after it went on sale), Milly, B.G., Alex, and from a comment she made, Camila. If you want to give it your rating out of 10 without putting in spoilers do so. I'm saying 8 for this one. My least favorite was 5, which I'd give a 5.
I'm going to post some more emo poetry now, I think.
I finished it yesterday morning--now my son can enjoy it without worrying that I'll grab it if he puts it down. Don't worry, no spoilers here--but I'd warn you to avoid Alex's last post if you haven't finished it yet--that's "five wall" on the right, but she's changed and moved the blog this week so I guess I should update the link.
Thus far, I know the following people have also finished it. Kate (less than 24 hours after it went on sale), Milly, B.G., Alex, and from a comment she made, Camila. If you want to give it your rating out of 10 without putting in spoilers do so. I'm saying 8 for this one. My least favorite was 5, which I'd give a 5.
I'm going to post some more emo poetry now, I think.
Monday, July 18, 2005
The Cynical Career Counsellor Explains Your Future As a
Herbalist (by request)
You want to be what? A herbalist? You sure you're thinking of the right thing? You're not that boy who hangs out with those "wiccan" girls who keep burning incense in the back gym stairwell? Mind you, I'll admit it smells better now that... Oh, that's not you? Wait a minute--I remember you--you're that kid who got rushed to the hospital when they thought your appendix was going to burst last year, and you had the emergency surgery. What's the matter, couldn't get your hands on enough medicinal leeches that day?
I'm not completely up on this one, but I think you might expect a rather unusual career path. First of all, most of your relevant texts were likely written back when parchment and latin were a lot more popular. You'll need to know where to get the herbs in question, of course, and that means a lot of midnight trips to obscure locations under a full moon. It's still better than trusting the pharmacy's "natural" line--most of that crap is just placebo pills the drug companies have left from old research studies--kind of like how the big oil companies are buying up all the electric car patents so they can continue their monopoly.
You'll probably apprentice under "madame" something, and your duties the first six months will be putting herbal poultices on the various maladies suffered by her 57 cats. Over time you'll realize that you can only learn so much from her, and you're not really interested in crystal therapy and aura interpretation. One afternoon as she's doing her weekly tarot session down at the senior's center, you "borrow" a couple of relevant books, and open up your own herbal therapy spa in your small rental home.
This begins a regular cycle of interactions with police--the neighbors don't like you running a business from the house in the first place, and after each delivery from the hydroponics store, one of them calls the drug tip line and you are subjected to yet another raid. The police should give it up after the first few times, but your indiscreet remarks quoted in a local newspaper about the value of marijuana as a "nature's analgesic" convince the authorities that it's only a matter of time before they bust you on a narcotics charge.
Eventually, though, you make enough to buy a small farm and grow your herbs there. You develop your own product line, and soon you're selling natural remedies across half the continent. Unlike the competitors, which are all marketed by the same one or two multinational drug companies under a variety of brand names, your therapeutic herbs actually contain the ingredients listed on the bottle.
The drug companies don't like independent upstarts, and soon they're battling you with all three of their best weapons. They cut all their own products' prices to below cost--they can weather the financial beating better than you can, but you still have to drop yours to be competitive. Second, their huge advertising budgets make newspapers and magazines willing to do "exposés" on your operation, equating you with shyster "psychic surgeons" and those who peddle laetrile to cancer victims. It doesn't help matters when one of the writers in your own online newletter refers to the danger presented to our bodies by "free radicals" and the next thing you know, those two little words have the Department of Homeland Security running a full scale investigation on you and everyone who's ever worked for you.
The final tool of the drug companies is litigation. They have huge legal budgets and cutthroat lawyers on retainer--face it, these are the people that gave the world thalidomide and they know how to play hardball--and they'll saddle you with one nuisance lawsuit after another. They know they won't win most of them, but it's fiscal bleeding they seek, and eventually they'll push you past the breaking point.
You'll end up as sales clerk in a herbal tea shop. You won't get rich, but every christmas--sorry, I mean winter solstice--they'll give you a lovely bottle of hemp oil in thanks for your loyal but mind-numbing service.
You want to be what? A herbalist? You sure you're thinking of the right thing? You're not that boy who hangs out with those "wiccan" girls who keep burning incense in the back gym stairwell? Mind you, I'll admit it smells better now that... Oh, that's not you? Wait a minute--I remember you--you're that kid who got rushed to the hospital when they thought your appendix was going to burst last year, and you had the emergency surgery. What's the matter, couldn't get your hands on enough medicinal leeches that day?
I'm not completely up on this one, but I think you might expect a rather unusual career path. First of all, most of your relevant texts were likely written back when parchment and latin were a lot more popular. You'll need to know where to get the herbs in question, of course, and that means a lot of midnight trips to obscure locations under a full moon. It's still better than trusting the pharmacy's "natural" line--most of that crap is just placebo pills the drug companies have left from old research studies--kind of like how the big oil companies are buying up all the electric car patents so they can continue their monopoly.
You'll probably apprentice under "madame" something, and your duties the first six months will be putting herbal poultices on the various maladies suffered by her 57 cats. Over time you'll realize that you can only learn so much from her, and you're not really interested in crystal therapy and aura interpretation. One afternoon as she's doing her weekly tarot session down at the senior's center, you "borrow" a couple of relevant books, and open up your own herbal therapy spa in your small rental home.
This begins a regular cycle of interactions with police--the neighbors don't like you running a business from the house in the first place, and after each delivery from the hydroponics store, one of them calls the drug tip line and you are subjected to yet another raid. The police should give it up after the first few times, but your indiscreet remarks quoted in a local newspaper about the value of marijuana as a "nature's analgesic" convince the authorities that it's only a matter of time before they bust you on a narcotics charge.
Eventually, though, you make enough to buy a small farm and grow your herbs there. You develop your own product line, and soon you're selling natural remedies across half the continent. Unlike the competitors, which are all marketed by the same one or two multinational drug companies under a variety of brand names, your therapeutic herbs actually contain the ingredients listed on the bottle.
The drug companies don't like independent upstarts, and soon they're battling you with all three of their best weapons. They cut all their own products' prices to below cost--they can weather the financial beating better than you can, but you still have to drop yours to be competitive. Second, their huge advertising budgets make newspapers and magazines willing to do "exposés" on your operation, equating you with shyster "psychic surgeons" and those who peddle laetrile to cancer victims. It doesn't help matters when one of the writers in your own online newletter refers to the danger presented to our bodies by "free radicals" and the next thing you know, those two little words have the Department of Homeland Security running a full scale investigation on you and everyone who's ever worked for you.
The final tool of the drug companies is litigation. They have huge legal budgets and cutthroat lawyers on retainer--face it, these are the people that gave the world thalidomide and they know how to play hardball--and they'll saddle you with one nuisance lawsuit after another. They know they won't win most of them, but it's fiscal bleeding they seek, and eventually they'll push you past the breaking point.
You'll end up as sales clerk in a herbal tea shop. You won't get rich, but every christmas--sorry, I mean winter solstice--they'll give you a lovely bottle of hemp oil in thanks for your loyal but mind-numbing service.
Friday, July 15, 2005
TGIF
Yeah, the roofers are DONE--woot!
Tonight I'm trekking down to Fairfield to see Milly's show. I'm sure my delicate sensibilities will be offended. (If you want to know why, follow the undead Alice link on the right and read the last couple of posts)
And I think the Starbucks girls undercharged us on purpose--I questioned them after I got the total and there's no way the three of us should've gotten our drinks for under 3 bucks total but they stood firm so who am I to question.
It is dangerous having a starbucks within walking distance from the house, though. Far too easy...
Katiedid--Your husband has a John Denver collection? I'm so very, very sorry. (Have you ever read Hunter S. Thompson's account of his time in Aspden when he lived next door to John Denver--Thompson's run for mayor is wonderful reading)
Tonight I'm trekking down to Fairfield to see Milly's show. I'm sure my delicate sensibilities will be offended. (If you want to know why, follow the undead Alice link on the right and read the last couple of posts)
And I think the Starbucks girls undercharged us on purpose--I questioned them after I got the total and there's no way the three of us should've gotten our drinks for under 3 bucks total but they stood firm so who am I to question.
It is dangerous having a starbucks within walking distance from the house, though. Far too easy...
Katiedid--Your husband has a John Denver collection? I'm so very, very sorry. (Have you ever read Hunter S. Thompson's account of his time in Aspden when he lived next door to John Denver--Thompson's run for mayor is wonderful reading)
Thursday, July 14, 2005
If I had a hammer...
I could join the pounding that's shaken our house for two days now. Fortunately, it looks like they may finish it today--though it's getting close to four now and I'm not sure if they'll want to go home on time or just get the roof done with. It does look better, though.
Fortunately for my kids, they were at their cousins' throughout the roof work until just now, and my wife is working all this week, so she missed it too. Lucky me.
I realized yesterday that there's a quality of life I like about our city--not just the climate, which despite the whining about the rain is pretty great, and the scenery, etc.--but it's about the right size.
I know lots of my students who find it too small--that's typical of kids everywhere, though. I've lived in a small town. There's more to do and see here. For instance, the new arena opened a few months ago, and in the first six months the concerts in there have included (will include):
Rod Stewart
Cher
Bob Dylan
Avril Lavigne
Black Eyed Peas
Def Leppard
Paul Anka
Robert Plant
Sarah McLachlan
Obviously not as big as maybe Vancouver or Seattle gets, but still recognizable names among them. (Yes, Rizz, I chose NOT to mention Tom Jones on purpose *shudder*)
I was sitting in the dentist's chair looking out across the parking lot to an apartment I lived in while I was a university student 20 years ago. I go to the music store to buy the trumpet we'd been renting and find a former student--from the first musical I did in my school; she's now a music teacher--starting her first day of work there. I hit McD's for lunch and see students I know--present and past.
And so on...
I liked living in Vancouver. There was more there, obviously--but now we spend our money on new roofs rather than concerts, anyway. *sigh*
I should steal some tourist info pics and post them or something. In spite of the things we all whine about from time to time, it really is a nice place to live.
(Then again--I've been looking at R's pics from Finland and they look nice too)
Maybe you should drop links in your comments of websites that show off your communities, if you like. (Kate--Mandeville can't be as bad as you say) :-)
Fortunately for my kids, they were at their cousins' throughout the roof work until just now, and my wife is working all this week, so she missed it too. Lucky me.
I realized yesterday that there's a quality of life I like about our city--not just the climate, which despite the whining about the rain is pretty great, and the scenery, etc.--but it's about the right size.
I know lots of my students who find it too small--that's typical of kids everywhere, though. I've lived in a small town. There's more to do and see here. For instance, the new arena opened a few months ago, and in the first six months the concerts in there have included (will include):
Rod Stewart
Cher
Bob Dylan
Avril Lavigne
Black Eyed Peas
Def Leppard
Paul Anka
Robert Plant
Sarah McLachlan
Obviously not as big as maybe Vancouver or Seattle gets, but still recognizable names among them. (Yes, Rizz, I chose NOT to mention Tom Jones on purpose *shudder*)
I was sitting in the dentist's chair looking out across the parking lot to an apartment I lived in while I was a university student 20 years ago. I go to the music store to buy the trumpet we'd been renting and find a former student--from the first musical I did in my school; she's now a music teacher--starting her first day of work there. I hit McD's for lunch and see students I know--present and past.
And so on...
I liked living in Vancouver. There was more there, obviously--but now we spend our money on new roofs rather than concerts, anyway. *sigh*
I should steal some tourist info pics and post them or something. In spite of the things we all whine about from time to time, it really is a nice place to live.
(Then again--I've been looking at R's pics from Finland and they look nice too)
Maybe you should drop links in your comments of websites that show off your communities, if you like. (Kate--Mandeville can't be as bad as you say) :-)
Wednesday, July 13, 2005
Poetry by the Emo Child
I am the Slug Goddesss
I don't usually get up early
Who wants middle class breakfast?
"You were home late last night"
Not by Transylvanian time, idiots
But those spring mornings, damp...
Dew-covered grass--they are out there
My loyal subjects.
They don't understand me,
(They can join a big club)
But somehow they know I am
I AM. If only they could please me...
Some do, a swirly pattern of slime on the deck
Makes me pause.
That one will be spared, as will the one whose dots
Mirror the freckles on my nose, that I hide so well;
(It's not clown makeup, dammit)
I bring saline judgement in my right hand
The sodium wrath that comes down from on high
Brimstone, without the treacle...
Tomorrow I will sleep in again
Judgement is a sometimes thing.
I don't usually get up early
Who wants middle class breakfast?
"You were home late last night"
Not by Transylvanian time, idiots
But those spring mornings, damp...
Dew-covered grass--they are out there
My loyal subjects.
They don't understand me,
(They can join a big club)
But somehow they know I am
I AM. If only they could please me...
Some do, a swirly pattern of slime on the deck
Makes me pause.
That one will be spared, as will the one whose dots
Mirror the freckles on my nose, that I hide so well;
(It's not clown makeup, dammit)
I bring saline judgement in my right hand
The sodium wrath that comes down from on high
Brimstone, without the treacle...
Tomorrow I will sleep in again
Judgement is a sometimes thing.
Tuesday, July 12, 2005
Anakin as a troubled teen...
"Life as a House"
We watched it tonight, and it wasn't bad. I certainly don't think much of Hayden Christenson's acting in Star Wars--how many variations of "petulant" can get you through two movies? I have to say, though, that the role they gave him in this movie worked better for him. Kevin Kline is pretty good, as usual, and really, while it's maybe somewhat formulaic, the show has a nice feel to it, and I'd recommend it as a cheap rental.
Bought some books yesterday, and finally getting around to reading Camus' The Plague, which I've meant to do for years. It might be too obscure for the Kid Who Sits Behind You , though.
I had a idea for a witty (or less boring, at least) post but it involved a Missy Elliott song that I must've heard 50 times in my booth while people were dancing down below, but I couldn't find it after downloading about 7 in hopes I'd guessed right. Oh well. If Bayley, or perchance Nicole, happens to read this, maybe email me because i think you'd be able to steer me in the right direction.
meanwhile, I seek new inspiration, or at least another career to write about.
We watched it tonight, and it wasn't bad. I certainly don't think much of Hayden Christenson's acting in Star Wars--how many variations of "petulant" can get you through two movies? I have to say, though, that the role they gave him in this movie worked better for him. Kevin Kline is pretty good, as usual, and really, while it's maybe somewhat formulaic, the show has a nice feel to it, and I'd recommend it as a cheap rental.
Bought some books yesterday, and finally getting around to reading Camus' The Plague, which I've meant to do for years. It might be too obscure for the Kid Who Sits Behind You , though.
I had a idea for a witty (or less boring, at least) post but it involved a Missy Elliott song that I must've heard 50 times in my booth while people were dancing down below, but I couldn't find it after downloading about 7 in hopes I'd guessed right. Oh well. If Bayley, or perchance Nicole, happens to read this, maybe email me because i think you'd be able to steer me in the right direction.
meanwhile, I seek new inspiration, or at least another career to write about.
Saturday, July 09, 2005
Poetry by the Emo Child
Build Your Own Emo Boy
I used to have a boy...friend
Saturdays his parents weren't home,
He'd hope for much more
I'd always disappoint
We sat, watching his Monty Python tapes
He'd ask why I didn't laugh,
And I'd tell him--I'm laughing on the inside...
Then offer to slice myself open so he could see.
He didn't like me like that
And went back to his Warcraft World
While I rummaged through his parents' things
Looking for proof of their infidelities.
I liked the "spam" song--I changed it to "angst", though
And sang it nonstop for three days.
One day he gave me a box, asked me to try it on.
"It's a Seven of Nine costume--it cost me 200 bucks"
I swore at him, and called him a trekkie perv.
"Trekker" he corrected me.
I took the costume away, and snip snip--
it fit the dog perfectly.
"You're going to break up with me, aren't you?"
I shook my head. "Not yet.
I must do much more damage before I set you free"
He looked sadder at my truth
So I chased him around the room
With my home piercing kit.
I don't see him much any more...
Because he never leaves his house.
That was my most successful relationship
No court orders in sight.
I used to have a boy...friend
Saturdays his parents weren't home,
He'd hope for much more
I'd always disappoint
We sat, watching his Monty Python tapes
He'd ask why I didn't laugh,
And I'd tell him--I'm laughing on the inside...
Then offer to slice myself open so he could see.
He didn't like me like that
And went back to his Warcraft World
While I rummaged through his parents' things
Looking for proof of their infidelities.
I liked the "spam" song--I changed it to "angst", though
And sang it nonstop for three days.
One day he gave me a box, asked me to try it on.
"It's a Seven of Nine costume--it cost me 200 bucks"
I swore at him, and called him a trekkie perv.
"Trekker" he corrected me.
I took the costume away, and snip snip--
it fit the dog perfectly.
"You're going to break up with me, aren't you?"
I shook my head. "Not yet.
I must do much more damage before I set you free"
He looked sadder at my truth
So I chased him around the room
With my home piercing kit.
I don't see him much any more...
Because he never leaves his house.
That was my most successful relationship
No court orders in sight.
Poetry by the Emo Child
Sisterhood
Placards in hand, they march
In front of the
"Have the baby, raped girl or you'll go to hell" clinic
I pause--and one looks at me, her eyes full of sincerity
And passion.
"Sandra Day O'Connor's gone!"
I nod--and notice her sign.
"Keep your hands of my womb"
"What about your pancreas?" I ask.
She looks at me, confused. Nothing unplanned has ever
Happened in her 4.0 GPA world
"What?"
"I don't want anyone's hands on my pancreas."
She steps back, confused.
I laugh my crazy laugh
The one that makes my mother take her pills
and my father turn up the TV volume.
Then she sees, "Your eyes..." she whispers
My beautiful yellow evil Anakin eyes.
I bought them off Ebay--cheap
The previous owner was deceased
Apparently driving with them is unwise
Now I see through the eyes of a dead man.
Placards in hand, they march
In front of the
"Have the baby, raped girl or you'll go to hell" clinic
I pause--and one looks at me, her eyes full of sincerity
And passion.
"Sandra Day O'Connor's gone!"
I nod--and notice her sign.
"Keep your hands of my womb"
"What about your pancreas?" I ask.
She looks at me, confused. Nothing unplanned has ever
Happened in her 4.0 GPA world
"What?"
"I don't want anyone's hands on my pancreas."
She steps back, confused.
I laugh my crazy laugh
The one that makes my mother take her pills
and my father turn up the TV volume.
Then she sees, "Your eyes..." she whispers
My beautiful yellow evil Anakin eyes.
I bought them off Ebay--cheap
The previous owner was deceased
Apparently driving with them is unwise
Now I see through the eyes of a dead man.
Poetry by the Emo Child
A Hobo Stole My Digicam
I left it sitting there, on the grass
Time-lapsing the flies on the dead bird
I should've noticed him--matted beard
Crazy eyes, yelling at his shopping bags
But Dashboard Confessional filled my head
and blinded my eyes...
Then it was gone.
I stopped, dumbstruck.
My camera, my love--so much, carried in its soul
And now in the clutches of Mr. Stinky.
Would he look? Would he see?
The photos I took for Suicide Girls
Simple, my friends said--just lie about your age
And now, in his filthy clutches, with me
Underdeveloped and Overexposed.
What if they get on the internet now?
Maybe then my mother will notice the cuts...
I shed a single tear.
I left it sitting there, on the grass
Time-lapsing the flies on the dead bird
I should've noticed him--matted beard
Crazy eyes, yelling at his shopping bags
But Dashboard Confessional filled my head
and blinded my eyes...
Then it was gone.
I stopped, dumbstruck.
My camera, my love--so much, carried in its soul
And now in the clutches of Mr. Stinky.
Would he look? Would he see?
The photos I took for Suicide Girls
Simple, my friends said--just lie about your age
And now, in his filthy clutches, with me
Underdeveloped and Overexposed.
What if they get on the internet now?
Maybe then my mother will notice the cuts...
I shed a single tear.
Poetry by the Emo Child
My Cat Would Eat Me if I Were Small
Pippy doesn't fool me
Late at night, when she curls up
Beside my Sylvia Plath action figure...
Were I the size of a mouse
Slash, slice, chomp--I'd be done
Not that anyone would care
Except my tarantula would starve.
I let Pippy sleep in my room each night
They say keep your friends close,
and your devil-spawn, clawed beasts
Even closer.
Pippy doesn't fool me
Late at night, when she curls up
Beside my Sylvia Plath action figure...
Were I the size of a mouse
Slash, slice, chomp--I'd be done
Not that anyone would care
Except my tarantula would starve.
I let Pippy sleep in my room each night
They say keep your friends close,
and your devil-spawn, clawed beasts
Even closer.
Friday, July 08, 2005
I suppose the original blog title gave it away...
Yes, I am a Simpsons addict. My students accuse me of always finding a Simpsons episode analogous to whatever I am teaching--but it's always so relevant.
The "Stonecutters" episode alluded to in the last couple of posts is one of my favorites--partly because it makes fun of freemasons (sorry if any of you are involved) and Patrick Stewart of Star Trek is the guest star. The song the stonecutters sing is perhaps the highlight, but there's also the moment when Homer, who has failed as a stonecutter, has been walking around naked dragging the huge "rock of shame" attached by a chain to a collar around his neck. At that point they notice he has a birthmark that makes him "the chosen one":
Number one (Patrick Stewart's character ): Remove the rock of shame.
Homer: Woo-hoo!
Number One: Attach the rock of triumph.
At this, an even bigger rock is chained around Homers neck.
Homer: D'oh!
I'll try to find something else to talk about for the next sixty posts or so...
The "Stonecutters" episode alluded to in the last couple of posts is one of my favorites--partly because it makes fun of freemasons (sorry if any of you are involved) and Patrick Stewart of Star Trek is the guest star. The song the stonecutters sing is perhaps the highlight, but there's also the moment when Homer, who has failed as a stonecutter, has been walking around naked dragging the huge "rock of shame" attached by a chain to a collar around his neck. At that point they notice he has a birthmark that makes him "the chosen one":
Number one (Patrick Stewart's character ): Remove the rock of shame.
Homer: Woo-hoo!
Number One: Attach the rock of triumph.
At this, an even bigger rock is chained around Homers neck.
Homer: D'oh!
I'll try to find something else to talk about for the next sixty posts or so...
Who keeps Atlantis off the Maps, Who Keeps the Martians Under Wraps...
It's summer, so we watch movies. Tonight, M. Knight Shamalamadingdang's "The Village". After quite liking "The Sixth Sense", being rather comme ce, comme ça about "Unbreakable", and enjoying the rather heavy handed "Signs", I would say this movie was weak. Once there were no real monsters, where's the fun?
Has anyone seen "Adaptation" with Nicholas Cage in dual roles as twin brothers? It's kind of bizarre in that it asks you to think about the writing of the movie as you watch it--it sort of grew on me as it went along, and I think I might make directing and scriptwriting kids watch it because it breaks some rules and calls attention to the fact it's doing so.
In an act of impeccable timing, I sent out a mass email to the musical folks saying I'd be in my theatre with Grease DVDs and tapes from 10:30 to noon this morning. Lucky me--a p.a. announcement comes on at 11:15 saying they're going to be testing the fire alarms for the next 40 minutes...
Still, I got rid of all the dvds and most of the videos.
Must run to bed--driving up island to pick up my daughter from camp tomorrow.
Has anyone seen "Adaptation" with Nicholas Cage in dual roles as twin brothers? It's kind of bizarre in that it asks you to think about the writing of the movie as you watch it--it sort of grew on me as it went along, and I think I might make directing and scriptwriting kids watch it because it breaks some rules and calls attention to the fact it's doing so.
In an act of impeccable timing, I sent out a mass email to the musical folks saying I'd be in my theatre with Grease DVDs and tapes from 10:30 to noon this morning. Lucky me--a p.a. announcement comes on at 11:15 saying they're going to be testing the fire alarms for the next 40 minutes...
Still, I got rid of all the dvds and most of the videos.
Must run to bed--driving up island to pick up my daughter from camp tomorrow.
Thursday, July 07, 2005
Damn you, Hotmail!
I so waaant to send this right now!
Quit your whinin' and get back to work.
I definitely need to copy my contact list onto my yahoo mail.
Quit your whinin' and get back to work.
I definitely need to copy my contact list onto my yahoo mail.
Wednesday, July 06, 2005
The Cynical Career Counsellor Explains Your Future as a
Baker
Hey, you got an extra donut in there for me? Oh, they're for later--yeah, whatever. Soooo..., you're gonna be a baker, huh? Here's what's in store, the way I figure:
You'll probably have no trouble getting an apprenticeship, judging from the number of bakeries you already frequent--no doubt you can talk some fifth generation baker who's heartbroken that his son Gianni refuses to take up the family business to take you on. After you listen to several hours of "You will make me proud and be my son now like he would if I had stayed in the old country" as your future employer grows drunker on the wine he keeps in the back, your apprenticeship is firmly in place.
You're ambitious, and you learn quickly, and one thing you soon realize is that if you're going to keep up the pace in his kitchen and handle the heat of the ovens, you're going to need to shed the extra 30 pounds you're carrying. Look kid, I can say that if anyone can--I'm not exactly svelte here myself. Your working hours take a little getting used to, but after a while it seems normal to set your alarm for 3 a.m., and when you finish work before noon, you can get into the gym to burn off calories before the crowds arrive.
You alternate your time between the bakery and the community college where you're getting your "formal" training. It's there that you adopt the ancient emnity between your kind--bakers--and your hated rivals, the pastry chefs. Your jealousy and hatred is something almost innate whenever you see their smirking, superior faces--not unlike the unbridled loathing the mere optician feels for his nemesis, the optometrist.
Your life isn't all breads and pies, however, and you pine for a normal social life when your evenings end around the same time most of your friends are just heading out for a night on the town. Your sleep patterns suffer for it, but you learn to compensate for a week's worth of early morning loneliness with increasingly wild and debauched weekend adventures.
Eventually, though, you tire of mindless hedonism, and when you ask out the cute college girl who mans the bakery's counter one summer, you're happy that she accepts, and soon you're in your first serious relationship. The problem is, unlike you, she keeps normal hours, and you can't rightly expect her to stay home nights because you have to get up early. Instead, you wallow in jealously imagining her out with other guys as you knead dough alone at 4 a.m.--after all, her inhibitions only vanish late in the evening, when you're hardly ever around.
Despite your jealousy and paranoid delusions, you make it through your apprenticeship successfully, with a tentative hold on both your sanity and your romance. Your boss looks worried each morning at six a.m. as you call your girlfriend's house and hang up when she answers, but he has seen that look in your eyes, and knows better than to ask questions. He seems almost relieved when you tell him you've bought a small bakery across town and he wishes you success.
You now work alone most of the time, and you feel that as a young, enterprising businessman, you are ready to take the next step. You propose to your girlfriend, and struggle to maintain composure when she hesitates and asks for time. For the next few weeks, you're on your best behavior, and work to overcome one of the main stumbling blocks to your relationship--the low opinion her parents have of you. Their hopes for their daughter involved her marrying a doctor or a lawyer, someone able to maintain the silver spoon lifestye to which she'd become accustomed. She'd only worked in the bakery originally to buy a better stereo for the BMW her parents gave her on her 18th birthday.
Disaster strikes one evening when her parents invite you to dinner. On the way there she warns you that she may have given them the mistaken idea that you are a pastry chef, and that they have invited her cousin Robert, which she pronounces the french way, to meet you that evening. Robert is, in fact, a real pastry chef.
You maintain a sullen silence through most of dinner. Robert more than makes up for your aloofness with his witty stories of Paris, where he is studying at a world-renowned pastry institute. His faux french accent makes your blood boil, and it's worse when he insists on referring to himself as a "patissier". Eventually you jump to your feet and hurl the invective that's built up for four years inside you, ever since the community college pastry chefs so soundly defeated the much inferior bakers' softball team, and mocked you for months about it.
Your girlfriend is weeping as she leads you outside; you almost fight past her to attack her cousin once more when you hear his parting shot about "pop tarts". She tearfully gives you back her ring, and you close the bakery and get drunk for three days.
After the hangover wears off, you throw yourself into your work with renenewed passion, and manage to keep busy enough to numb the pain of your broken heart. You struggle to stay away from her, and resist the urge to start making your early morning phone calls again.
Just when you debate terminating your pathetic life, she walks in the front door of the bakery and confesses her misery since your breakup. The two of you hop on a plane to Vegas and a quickie wedding. When you get back, she replaces the counter girl and the two of you work to make the business a success together--you don't have any choice; her parents will cut her off completely when they learn of the marriage.
It's a few months before your paranoid jealousy begins again. You shift her hours to more closely match your own--who cares that no customers want to shop at 6:00 a.m.--and you hire a part time staffer to serve the late afternoon crowd. Still, you barely avoid criminal charges when you mistakenly take a customer's offhand remark "nice buns" for a pass at your wife.
After six months the love of your life realizes her mistake, and runs off in the middle of the night--it isn't tough, after all, since you're already at work. You try desperately to find her, but all her parents will tell you is that she's gone to Europe. You hire a detective, who discovers that she went to stay with Robert, and she's taken up with one of his pastry chef friends.
It's only the conscientious work of Air France security personnel that save her life and put you behind bars until your transfer to the criminal psych ward finishes your career as a baker--at least on the outside. You do become very skilled at producing some of the finest waffles the other prisoners have ever seen; unfortunately their comments about buns do have a second meaning.
What? No, I'm not upset about the donut thing--some people are a little more possessive than others, that's all.
The 40 other career counsellor posts are here.
Hey, you got an extra donut in there for me? Oh, they're for later--yeah, whatever. Soooo..., you're gonna be a baker, huh? Here's what's in store, the way I figure:
You'll probably have no trouble getting an apprenticeship, judging from the number of bakeries you already frequent--no doubt you can talk some fifth generation baker who's heartbroken that his son Gianni refuses to take up the family business to take you on. After you listen to several hours of "You will make me proud and be my son now like he would if I had stayed in the old country" as your future employer grows drunker on the wine he keeps in the back, your apprenticeship is firmly in place.
You're ambitious, and you learn quickly, and one thing you soon realize is that if you're going to keep up the pace in his kitchen and handle the heat of the ovens, you're going to need to shed the extra 30 pounds you're carrying. Look kid, I can say that if anyone can--I'm not exactly svelte here myself. Your working hours take a little getting used to, but after a while it seems normal to set your alarm for 3 a.m., and when you finish work before noon, you can get into the gym to burn off calories before the crowds arrive.
You alternate your time between the bakery and the community college where you're getting your "formal" training. It's there that you adopt the ancient emnity between your kind--bakers--and your hated rivals, the pastry chefs. Your jealousy and hatred is something almost innate whenever you see their smirking, superior faces--not unlike the unbridled loathing the mere optician feels for his nemesis, the optometrist.
Your life isn't all breads and pies, however, and you pine for a normal social life when your evenings end around the same time most of your friends are just heading out for a night on the town. Your sleep patterns suffer for it, but you learn to compensate for a week's worth of early morning loneliness with increasingly wild and debauched weekend adventures.
Eventually, though, you tire of mindless hedonism, and when you ask out the cute college girl who mans the bakery's counter one summer, you're happy that she accepts, and soon you're in your first serious relationship. The problem is, unlike you, she keeps normal hours, and you can't rightly expect her to stay home nights because you have to get up early. Instead, you wallow in jealously imagining her out with other guys as you knead dough alone at 4 a.m.--after all, her inhibitions only vanish late in the evening, when you're hardly ever around.
Despite your jealousy and paranoid delusions, you make it through your apprenticeship successfully, with a tentative hold on both your sanity and your romance. Your boss looks worried each morning at six a.m. as you call your girlfriend's house and hang up when she answers, but he has seen that look in your eyes, and knows better than to ask questions. He seems almost relieved when you tell him you've bought a small bakery across town and he wishes you success.
You now work alone most of the time, and you feel that as a young, enterprising businessman, you are ready to take the next step. You propose to your girlfriend, and struggle to maintain composure when she hesitates and asks for time. For the next few weeks, you're on your best behavior, and work to overcome one of the main stumbling blocks to your relationship--the low opinion her parents have of you. Their hopes for their daughter involved her marrying a doctor or a lawyer, someone able to maintain the silver spoon lifestye to which she'd become accustomed. She'd only worked in the bakery originally to buy a better stereo for the BMW her parents gave her on her 18th birthday.
Disaster strikes one evening when her parents invite you to dinner. On the way there she warns you that she may have given them the mistaken idea that you are a pastry chef, and that they have invited her cousin Robert, which she pronounces the french way, to meet you that evening. Robert is, in fact, a real pastry chef.
You maintain a sullen silence through most of dinner. Robert more than makes up for your aloofness with his witty stories of Paris, where he is studying at a world-renowned pastry institute. His faux french accent makes your blood boil, and it's worse when he insists on referring to himself as a "patissier". Eventually you jump to your feet and hurl the invective that's built up for four years inside you, ever since the community college pastry chefs so soundly defeated the much inferior bakers' softball team, and mocked you for months about it.
Your girlfriend is weeping as she leads you outside; you almost fight past her to attack her cousin once more when you hear his parting shot about "pop tarts". She tearfully gives you back her ring, and you close the bakery and get drunk for three days.
After the hangover wears off, you throw yourself into your work with renenewed passion, and manage to keep busy enough to numb the pain of your broken heart. You struggle to stay away from her, and resist the urge to start making your early morning phone calls again.
Just when you debate terminating your pathetic life, she walks in the front door of the bakery and confesses her misery since your breakup. The two of you hop on a plane to Vegas and a quickie wedding. When you get back, she replaces the counter girl and the two of you work to make the business a success together--you don't have any choice; her parents will cut her off completely when they learn of the marriage.
It's a few months before your paranoid jealousy begins again. You shift her hours to more closely match your own--who cares that no customers want to shop at 6:00 a.m.--and you hire a part time staffer to serve the late afternoon crowd. Still, you barely avoid criminal charges when you mistakenly take a customer's offhand remark "nice buns" for a pass at your wife.
After six months the love of your life realizes her mistake, and runs off in the middle of the night--it isn't tough, after all, since you're already at work. You try desperately to find her, but all her parents will tell you is that she's gone to Europe. You hire a detective, who discovers that she went to stay with Robert, and she's taken up with one of his pastry chef friends.
It's only the conscientious work of Air France security personnel that save her life and put you behind bars until your transfer to the criminal psych ward finishes your career as a baker--at least on the outside. You do become very skilled at producing some of the finest waffles the other prisoners have ever seen; unfortunately their comments about buns do have a second meaning.
What? No, I'm not upset about the donut thing--some people are a little more possessive than others, that's all.
The 40 other career counsellor posts are here.
Tuesday, July 05, 2005
paranoia, brain destroyer...
I warned Kate about keeping stats and how it can make you paranoid. Thing is, getting about 90 hits+ a day right now, I don't bother much with specifics, but I know, for instance, that the majority of my visits come from the northeastern U.S. and western Canada. I see a little Finland flag, and I know that my friend R. visited from there.
But every so often a specific server of origin will tweak my interest. Look what came by this morning:
(you can click on it to see it full size)
Yeah, I guess maybe that "sleeper cell" comment I made in response to Camila's comment a few days ago wasn't all that wise...
But every so often a specific server of origin will tweak my interest. Look what came by this morning:
(you can click on it to see it full size)
Yeah, I guess maybe that "sleeper cell" comment I made in response to Camila's comment a few days ago wasn't all that wise...
Monday, July 04, 2005
Happy 4th
to all my american blog visitors. My guess is that I know much more about your country's history than all of you combined know about mine, but that's only to be expected with the exposure to US media we have here.
I think two of my favorite documentary series were Ken Burns' on the Civil War, and the one he did about the American presidents. My family couldn't quite get my taping these shows and insisting on watching them all, but then I don't quite get how they can stand watching those American and Canadian idol shows.
So, my question, should you choose to answer, is "Who is your favorite president"? You don't have to think he was the best president, it might just be one you've always felt more partial to than the others. Of course, you could also give your most hated, if you preferred.
I've always been partial to Woodrow Wilson, though he couldn't get the states to join the League of Nations, and Jimmy Carter, because despite some of the shortcomings his administration had, he always seemed (and still seems) like a genuinely decent man.
Enjoy your day. Wear sunscreen.
I think two of my favorite documentary series were Ken Burns' on the Civil War, and the one he did about the American presidents. My family couldn't quite get my taping these shows and insisting on watching them all, but then I don't quite get how they can stand watching those American and Canadian idol shows.
So, my question, should you choose to answer, is "Who is your favorite president"? You don't have to think he was the best president, it might just be one you've always felt more partial to than the others. Of course, you could also give your most hated, if you preferred.
I've always been partial to Woodrow Wilson, though he couldn't get the states to join the League of Nations, and Jimmy Carter, because despite some of the shortcomings his administration had, he always seemed (and still seems) like a genuinely decent man.
Enjoy your day. Wear sunscreen.
Sunday, July 03, 2005
Something very strange is going on..
..with blogger. This afternoon I deleted about 20 posts and edited at least a dozen others. This evening, half the changes I made are undone. Plus, a comment I added to one of my posts was gone.
I don't understand this--it's like an earlier saved version of the blog replaced what was there. I've been playing on blogger for over a year, so I know how to delete things, yet this makes no sense to me.
Time for a good alternate universe theory...
I don't understand this--it's like an earlier saved version of the blog replaced what was there. I've been playing on blogger for over a year, so I know how to delete things, yet this makes no sense to me.
Time for a good alternate universe theory...
Saturday, July 02, 2005
The week that was...
First, a note--yesterday, two different high school aged bloggers I link to (well, I have to fix "Freebasing chicken nuggets--she's moved) commented on Sandra Day O'Connor's leaving the U.S. Supreme Court. Now--are all high school kids across America deeply aware of this and talking about it? It would be encouraging, but I suspect these are more the exception. As long as they end up ruling the country one day, it's all good.
So the week ended well--so far no further problems with the insane dance teacher--though the custodian who was there that evening told me even more stuff that convinces me she was having a bad drug reaction or something...
I'm organizing my life for university studies over the next two months, which probably means more blog blathering than usual--I do a lot of my work surfing the grad studies databases for articles and it's simply too easy to take procrastination breaks.
Now I'm off to make waffles. (REAL, HOMEMADE WAFFLES, that's right...)
So the week ended well--so far no further problems with the insane dance teacher--though the custodian who was there that evening told me even more stuff that convinces me she was having a bad drug reaction or something...
I'm organizing my life for university studies over the next two months, which probably means more blog blathering than usual--I do a lot of my work surfing the grad studies databases for articles and it's simply too easy to take procrastination breaks.
Now I'm off to make waffles. (REAL, HOMEMADE WAFFLES, that's right...)
Friday, July 01, 2005
The first real day of summer holidays
This new photo thing on blogger is tres annoying on my mac.
Happy Canada Day, folks. It must be some sort of strange latent patriotism that caused me to go on a little nationalist rant on Camila's blog comments--sorry about that. The nice thing is that I know the H-burg kids are cool enough not to be worried about it.
I've got a strange ancestry working in this area. My dad's mom's family traces back bloodlines that include a "Dirigerie (sp?) Priest" who came over on the Mayflower, and eventually sent for his family in England to join him, but he died before they arrived and his wife ended up marrying someone else in the colonies. My dad's dad's family came to North America from Ireland--a father and son together--to fight the Americans in the War of 1812.
The majority of people who read this blog are Americans, and of course, I love you all. I don't have to agree with everything your country does, and to honest, I don't agree with everything my country does either.
I'm even growing tolerant enough to admit there are some decent american beers.
I don't think we'll be going downtown for the fireworks this year. To my Canadian friends, happy Canada Day, and to my U.S. friends, happy 4th of July.
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