Sorry.
Interesting joking competition as I shared the booth after school with two students--one explained he was named after the Dalai Lama, and had met him when he was quite young in India. The other countered with "well, the Dalai Lama kissed me when I was four".
I somehow felt sooo not one of the buddhist cool kids...
Monday, May 29, 2006
Saturday, May 27, 2006
The Cynical Career Counsellor Explains Your Future as a
Political Commentator
Interesting choice, kid. Most parents teach their kids that polite topics of discussion don't include religion, sex or politics--of course, the ones who miss that little lesson might eventually make a living violating those taboos.
How you approach this depends on whether you want to be considered right wing or left wing. What's that? Neutral? Oh, that's funny, kid. Nobody wants to hear what a middle of the road rational thinker has to say, so get ready to pick an ideology and go with it.
If you choose left wing you'll go somewhere ivy league, if you can afford it, or some place like Berkeley, which still has a pretty good pinko pedigree. You'll study all the folks so hated by the right--from Marx to Chomsky and everyone in between. You'll also work on the college paper, and enjoy that warm cozy left-wing incubator--never again will your audience be as supportive of your viewpoints on everything from abortion to gay marriage.
If you choose the right wing option, you'll go somewhere less "intellectual" like Bob Jones University. You'll go to classes on foreign policy where the professor's pronounciation of "Eye-talian" and insistence on using the prefix "Red" whenever referring to China makes it clear you're in the heart of Fox News country. You'll join the NRA, get a bumper sticker that has some slogan superimposed over the stars and stripes, and another that has a target superimposed over Michael Moore's face. You'll even buy a confederate flag tie to impress the the Anne Coulter wannabes at the occasional cotillion you're invited to attend.
I figure you for a lefty, though--you don't seem like the pork rind type.
After college you'll turn an internship at some left wing publication like Mother Jones into a low-paying minion job, and hope to climb the ladder to something better. Problem is, you have gone too far left, and you eventually wise up and slip back towards the mainstream a little. You settle for writing op-ed pieces for some mid-sized city's daily rag, and you're always on the side of the liberal angels when it comes to everything from fighting greenhouse gases to eliminating aid to Israel.
Sometimes even you will have a hard time swallowing the swill you have to dish out--you dutifully trumpet the ACLU line on a talk show discussing the case of a fired bank employee who refused to speak the names of the days of the week due to his devotion to atheism--seems invoking "Woden's day" or "Thors' day" counts as prayer in your circles.
You become a frequent guest on shows that pit the left against the right--again, the middle won't be invited--and one Fox News regular will dub you the "Most hated liberal" in America--Michael Moore may be retired by then and any of the remaining Kennedys in public life by that time will be too busy in court-mandated alcohol treatment to challenge you for the title.
You will bask in the glory of your ideological purity. You will be akin to a rockstar in blue state college campuses. There will be only one problem--you aren't getting the same kind of cash flow your right-wing counterparts pull in. They mock you once the TV lights go off at the shows where you battle them, reminding you constantly that the well-connected conservatives whose bilge they sell make sure they're well rewarded for doing so.
You've always refused to sell out, but after some delicate discussions with an agent, you agree to be the spokesperson for the "Universal Encyclopedia of Mankind". It's an ambitious project to put a socially-relevant, politically-correct electronic reference tool in the hands of liberal families everywhere. It's the brainchild of a philanthropic billionaire who you've seen at various left wing fundraising events. He is thrilled you agree to be his spokesperson, and soon your face is on television, print ads and web sites promoting this educational tool.
You'll be shopping for a new Lexus when your cell phone informs you of the disaster. Your benefactor has been very quiet about his brother, and with different last names, few knew that the politically-correct billionaire is step-sibling of the leader of the United Aryan Reich. It will turn out that all the profits from the successful encyclopedia project were being secretly funnelled to train white supremacists in the use of the same weapons it was providing them.
No one will openly explain why you are shunned, but they will make you a pariah nonetheless. When you are told you are no longer grand marshall for the Kwanzaa parade, you'll drink yourself into a state worthy of a Massachussetts senator, and the resulting drunk driving incident will relegate your career to a footnote in the encyclopedia you so effectively shilled.
Hey kid--that finger ain't the peace sign, you know...
Interesting choice, kid. Most parents teach their kids that polite topics of discussion don't include religion, sex or politics--of course, the ones who miss that little lesson might eventually make a living violating those taboos.
How you approach this depends on whether you want to be considered right wing or left wing. What's that? Neutral? Oh, that's funny, kid. Nobody wants to hear what a middle of the road rational thinker has to say, so get ready to pick an ideology and go with it.
If you choose left wing you'll go somewhere ivy league, if you can afford it, or some place like Berkeley, which still has a pretty good pinko pedigree. You'll study all the folks so hated by the right--from Marx to Chomsky and everyone in between. You'll also work on the college paper, and enjoy that warm cozy left-wing incubator--never again will your audience be as supportive of your viewpoints on everything from abortion to gay marriage.
If you choose the right wing option, you'll go somewhere less "intellectual" like Bob Jones University. You'll go to classes on foreign policy where the professor's pronounciation of "Eye-talian" and insistence on using the prefix "Red" whenever referring to China makes it clear you're in the heart of Fox News country. You'll join the NRA, get a bumper sticker that has some slogan superimposed over the stars and stripes, and another that has a target superimposed over Michael Moore's face. You'll even buy a confederate flag tie to impress the the Anne Coulter wannabes at the occasional cotillion you're invited to attend.
I figure you for a lefty, though--you don't seem like the pork rind type.
After college you'll turn an internship at some left wing publication like Mother Jones into a low-paying minion job, and hope to climb the ladder to something better. Problem is, you have gone too far left, and you eventually wise up and slip back towards the mainstream a little. You settle for writing op-ed pieces for some mid-sized city's daily rag, and you're always on the side of the liberal angels when it comes to everything from fighting greenhouse gases to eliminating aid to Israel.
Sometimes even you will have a hard time swallowing the swill you have to dish out--you dutifully trumpet the ACLU line on a talk show discussing the case of a fired bank employee who refused to speak the names of the days of the week due to his devotion to atheism--seems invoking "Woden's day" or "Thors' day" counts as prayer in your circles.
You become a frequent guest on shows that pit the left against the right--again, the middle won't be invited--and one Fox News regular will dub you the "Most hated liberal" in America--Michael Moore may be retired by then and any of the remaining Kennedys in public life by that time will be too busy in court-mandated alcohol treatment to challenge you for the title.
You will bask in the glory of your ideological purity. You will be akin to a rockstar in blue state college campuses. There will be only one problem--you aren't getting the same kind of cash flow your right-wing counterparts pull in. They mock you once the TV lights go off at the shows where you battle them, reminding you constantly that the well-connected conservatives whose bilge they sell make sure they're well rewarded for doing so.
You've always refused to sell out, but after some delicate discussions with an agent, you agree to be the spokesperson for the "Universal Encyclopedia of Mankind". It's an ambitious project to put a socially-relevant, politically-correct electronic reference tool in the hands of liberal families everywhere. It's the brainchild of a philanthropic billionaire who you've seen at various left wing fundraising events. He is thrilled you agree to be his spokesperson, and soon your face is on television, print ads and web sites promoting this educational tool.
You'll be shopping for a new Lexus when your cell phone informs you of the disaster. Your benefactor has been very quiet about his brother, and with different last names, few knew that the politically-correct billionaire is step-sibling of the leader of the United Aryan Reich. It will turn out that all the profits from the successful encyclopedia project were being secretly funnelled to train white supremacists in the use of the same weapons it was providing them.
No one will openly explain why you are shunned, but they will make you a pariah nonetheless. When you are told you are no longer grand marshall for the Kwanzaa parade, you'll drink yourself into a state worthy of a Massachussetts senator, and the resulting drunk driving incident will relegate your career to a footnote in the encyclopedia you so effectively shilled.
Hey kid--that finger ain't the peace sign, you know...
Wednesday, May 17, 2006
Wednesday's thoughts...
Weather is still amazing... It was 35 (95 fahrenheit) in Kamloops yesterday--for those who don't know, this part of Canada, once you move inland beyond the coast mountains, gets quite hot in the summer. Lots of rattlesnakes and such in some parts...
Our little neighborhood felt a bit less safe yesterday--fight at the high school down the street and it ended up in the skatepark nearby where one of the kids knifed the other and police and ambulance was needed.
Tomorrow we meet with the director of the video that they want to shoot a week Sunday--I still don't have the permission from the district, though. I hope it will work out.
Today was weird. Lots of people, myself included, have been under stress, feeling out of sorts, kind of cranky lately. A sense of proportion is helpful--visiting with a niece who spent almost 4 months in much less prosperous circumstances in India helps remind you of that.
I have hella video editing to do. Hear that, Rach? HELLA!
(One day I'll explain the list of forbidden words and phrases...)
Our little neighborhood felt a bit less safe yesterday--fight at the high school down the street and it ended up in the skatepark nearby where one of the kids knifed the other and police and ambulance was needed.
Tomorrow we meet with the director of the video that they want to shoot a week Sunday--I still don't have the permission from the district, though. I hope it will work out.
Today was weird. Lots of people, myself included, have been under stress, feeling out of sorts, kind of cranky lately. A sense of proportion is helpful--visiting with a niece who spent almost 4 months in much less prosperous circumstances in India helps remind you of that.
I have hella video editing to do. Hear that, Rach? HELLA!
(One day I'll explain the list of forbidden words and phrases...)
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
and for my friends of the rainbow persuasion...
...there are posters up encouraging people to be supportive and wear rainbow colours to school tomorrow. On that topic, I just heard something interesting from Murdoch. One local school--not ours or hers--has a policy that if you want to go to the prom with someone of the same gender, you have to bring a note from a parent saying you're gay.
I imagine an exchange that goes something like this:
"Here's the note dear. Now you can ask Suzie to the dance."
"But Mom, I told you I'm bi!"
"Now you listen to me, missy! I'm NOT going to be down at the florists at the last minute because you don't know if you need a corsage or a boutinier. You pick a team and you stay with it, understand me?"
Hmm--well, maybe that wouldn't be the parent's main concern...
Still, strange policy, don't you think?
Oh, and the doctor checked some things and is of the opinion my dizziness is sinus related, and so I've got something that will hopefully help that and maybe deal with the possibility that my hearing hasn't been as good the last couple of months--at least according to some things a couple of people have said to me.
Tomorrow my favorite relative arrives in town to stay for a week--much of it with us. I see some walks to starbucks (leave your corporate-bashing and let me have this) ahead...
I imagine an exchange that goes something like this:
"Here's the note dear. Now you can ask Suzie to the dance."
"But Mom, I told you I'm bi!"
"Now you listen to me, missy! I'm NOT going to be down at the florists at the last minute because you don't know if you need a corsage or a boutinier. You pick a team and you stay with it, understand me?"
Hmm--well, maybe that wouldn't be the parent's main concern...
Still, strange policy, don't you think?
Oh, and the doctor checked some things and is of the opinion my dizziness is sinus related, and so I've got something that will hopefully help that and maybe deal with the possibility that my hearing hasn't been as good the last couple of months--at least according to some things a couple of people have said to me.
Tomorrow my favorite relative arrives in town to stay for a week--much of it with us. I see some walks to starbucks (leave your corporate-bashing and let me have this) ahead...
Sunday, May 14, 2006
The Cynical Career Counsellor Explains Your Future as a
Quantity Surveyor
You again? I told you to get out of here yester... Oh, Dr. Addison--no, I didn't know that Jeremy was... Yes, how lucky for him to have the principal for an uncle. Yes, I did kick him out of my office yesterday, sir. It's just that, well, I don't take kindly to practical jokes, after that gynec... What practical joke? Well, Jeremy made up a career and... Yes, he did. "Quantity Surveyor". I realize boys will be boys, but--it is? I'm sorry. Yes, I realize your family is from Britain. Ahh, well of course. Sure--just have him sit down a minute while I do a quick google search.
Hmm? No, of course you don't have to stay--Jeremy and I will do just fine.
He's gone? Okay kid--you didn't need to bring the office into this. Hmm--this looks pretty straightforward to me... Weird, I thought I'd heard of them all by now.
Okay, here goes:
You'll go to school in England somewhere--honestly, I don't know where, though--probably somewhere you can stay with relatives and eat all the boiled meat you can handle. You'll need... yeah, there it is--you'll need a bachelor of science degree specializing in quantity surveying. So you'll probably learn about, uhm, quantities, and er, how to survey them. It's kind of like you're the guy who watches over the construction jobs and figures out how much everything should cost and keeps track of the budget and stuff.
Once you finish your training, with the good grades you'll probably get, you'll have a number of major british firms competing for your services. You'll go to work for one which does big projects--everything from airports to shopping malls--and your attention to detail will make you invaluable.
You rise as do the fortunes of the firm, and one day they announce they've been awarded a contract by the americans to build a military training facility as part of reward for the brits' continued support in the war on terror. You are chosen to go to the U.S. to supervise it--having lived in the country before and all.
You do your normal conscientious job and are surprised when the subcontractor in charge of wiring the living quarters shows up and awkwardly tries to give you a briefcase full of money. You send him packing and refuse the bribe. Shortly after you discover he has overcharged for the conduit he installed by close to half a million dollars. You report him to the authorities, and he barely escapes prison by fleeing the country. Meanwhile, the word gets out that you are the main reason the typical defence contract gravy train won't be happening on this project.
A group of teamsters trap your car in the parking lot with their semitrucks one evening, and it's close to midnight when you find the one who can move the last truck--with no one else around to witness it they push you around a bit and threaten your life if you don't "go back where you came from" immediately.
Of course, you're still a self-righteous prig, er, uhm--I mean, your integrity makes you report the incident, but the company you work for warns you they can't protect you from all the enemies you're making. You turn once more to your uncle, the now retired Dr. Addison, who has some political contacts, and tell him your story. He is worried and promises to make some calls. Unfortunately, by this time your phone has been tapped and they know you've told him everything, so sadly, he has an unexpected encounter with some "burglars" who kill him slowly and painfully, so as to determine who else he may have told.
You flee back to England, and from there you are assigned to another military contract--you are to oversee the building of a new base in a "friendly" arab emirate. Unfortunately, the bulk of the work is being done by one of the sheikdom's most connected companies--the board of directors has several members of the country's royal family on it--and your attention to detail reveals that they're padding the expenses to finance suicide bombers worldwide.
Again, you blow the whistle, and barely make the flight out before your face is plastered throughout the country attached to some fabricated story of you attacking and killing one of your maids. You fly to a small carribean island which you are sure won't extradite you to face this bogus charge, and start your own small construction firm.
You are worried the first few months that your many enemies might find you, but over time you relax, and your company is a success; you build luxury homes for the executives of the huge tax-shelter banking interests on the island. Eventually you even marry and have a family.
Then, one day, while you are entertaining a small group of banking types at a barbecue at your home, you tell the story of your adventures in the Gulf. Unknown to you, one of your guests is quite connected to the financiers of international terrorism, and he reports your story to his masters.
Because your family knows the story, they won't be allowed to live, but their suffering will be less if you tell your captors everything quickly before they kill you and your kin.
See what happens if you insist on sharing your petty problems? People get hurt. Keep your complaints to yourself and your loved ones may live longer.
Have a nice day.
You again? I told you to get out of here yester... Oh, Dr. Addison--no, I didn't know that Jeremy was... Yes, how lucky for him to have the principal for an uncle. Yes, I did kick him out of my office yesterday, sir. It's just that, well, I don't take kindly to practical jokes, after that gynec... What practical joke? Well, Jeremy made up a career and... Yes, he did. "Quantity Surveyor". I realize boys will be boys, but--it is? I'm sorry. Yes, I realize your family is from Britain. Ahh, well of course. Sure--just have him sit down a minute while I do a quick google search.
Hmm? No, of course you don't have to stay--Jeremy and I will do just fine.
He's gone? Okay kid--you didn't need to bring the office into this. Hmm--this looks pretty straightforward to me... Weird, I thought I'd heard of them all by now.
Okay, here goes:
You'll go to school in England somewhere--honestly, I don't know where, though--probably somewhere you can stay with relatives and eat all the boiled meat you can handle. You'll need... yeah, there it is--you'll need a bachelor of science degree specializing in quantity surveying. So you'll probably learn about, uhm, quantities, and er, how to survey them. It's kind of like you're the guy who watches over the construction jobs and figures out how much everything should cost and keeps track of the budget and stuff.
Once you finish your training, with the good grades you'll probably get, you'll have a number of major british firms competing for your services. You'll go to work for one which does big projects--everything from airports to shopping malls--and your attention to detail will make you invaluable.
You rise as do the fortunes of the firm, and one day they announce they've been awarded a contract by the americans to build a military training facility as part of reward for the brits' continued support in the war on terror. You are chosen to go to the U.S. to supervise it--having lived in the country before and all.
You do your normal conscientious job and are surprised when the subcontractor in charge of wiring the living quarters shows up and awkwardly tries to give you a briefcase full of money. You send him packing and refuse the bribe. Shortly after you discover he has overcharged for the conduit he installed by close to half a million dollars. You report him to the authorities, and he barely escapes prison by fleeing the country. Meanwhile, the word gets out that you are the main reason the typical defence contract gravy train won't be happening on this project.
A group of teamsters trap your car in the parking lot with their semitrucks one evening, and it's close to midnight when you find the one who can move the last truck--with no one else around to witness it they push you around a bit and threaten your life if you don't "go back where you came from" immediately.
Of course, you're still a self-righteous prig, er, uhm--I mean, your integrity makes you report the incident, but the company you work for warns you they can't protect you from all the enemies you're making. You turn once more to your uncle, the now retired Dr. Addison, who has some political contacts, and tell him your story. He is worried and promises to make some calls. Unfortunately, by this time your phone has been tapped and they know you've told him everything, so sadly, he has an unexpected encounter with some "burglars" who kill him slowly and painfully, so as to determine who else he may have told.
You flee back to England, and from there you are assigned to another military contract--you are to oversee the building of a new base in a "friendly" arab emirate. Unfortunately, the bulk of the work is being done by one of the sheikdom's most connected companies--the board of directors has several members of the country's royal family on it--and your attention to detail reveals that they're padding the expenses to finance suicide bombers worldwide.
Again, you blow the whistle, and barely make the flight out before your face is plastered throughout the country attached to some fabricated story of you attacking and killing one of your maids. You fly to a small carribean island which you are sure won't extradite you to face this bogus charge, and start your own small construction firm.
You are worried the first few months that your many enemies might find you, but over time you relax, and your company is a success; you build luxury homes for the executives of the huge tax-shelter banking interests on the island. Eventually you even marry and have a family.
Then, one day, while you are entertaining a small group of banking types at a barbecue at your home, you tell the story of your adventures in the Gulf. Unknown to you, one of your guests is quite connected to the financiers of international terrorism, and he reports your story to his masters.
Because your family knows the story, they won't be allowed to live, but their suffering will be less if you tell your captors everything quickly before they kill you and your kin.
See what happens if you insist on sharing your petty problems? People get hurt. Keep your complaints to yourself and your loved ones may live longer.
Have a nice day.
Friday, May 12, 2006
Congratulations
...to Murdoch on The Laramie Project. I was at the opening last night and was very impressed. She did a great job as did the entire ensemble. It's also very cool to go see a show in an auditorium that goes back generations. I did a practicum at that school in the '80s and their tradition at that point was to put a picture of the grad class on one page of the yearbook and one of the grad class from 100 years previous on the opposite page.
It's the only school around here that has not only their WWII and WWI alumni who died listed on plaques, but also those who lost their lives in the Boer War.
Anyways, Murdoch--Well done!
It's the only school around here that has not only their WWII and WWI alumni who died listed on plaques, but also those who lost their lives in the Boer War.
Anyways, Murdoch--Well done!
Saturday, May 06, 2006
Poetry by Dythandra
the measure of me
It's that time again...
Standardized tests.
I know why they want to "meet" with me
I am a curiosity--they've seen my scores
All 90-something percentile
Classic "underachiever".
"Are you bored?"
Not when I picture you after school,
Seeing what I did to your car
"Are you taking something that...
Uhm, interferes with your abilities?"
I just twitch a bit, and then shake my head.
"Are there problems... at home?"
I shiver and look up
Like a wounded kitten.
"No," I stammer, unconvincingly
I toy with them--I could just as easily
Score within the norms.
But why pretend to fit?
Gifted programs, remedial classes,
Even home schooling--that was a short lived
Experiment in mutual torture
Then there was parochial school
The poor priest, so surprised,
I could see the fear when he realized
His holy water didn't hurt me.
Now I'm back, and yet another well meaning authority figure
Shakes his head and wonders what makes me tick.
A phone call; he steps out
The file is open--how can I resist:
"...exhibits sociopathic tendencies...
...potential arsonist...very dark...moody..."
And then a list, of all the stress leave
Attributed to moi.
He comes back--doesn't want me to leave,
but really, what can he do?
Better than he have lain awake worried
About what I may do next.
"Lovely flowers in your hair" he remarks,
Offering his hand--so formal as he stands.
"What are they?"
"Oh those?" I smile--he thinks me normal for a moment.
"I got them from my garden. They're... columbine."
I can't let my file get boring, after all.
It's that time again...
Standardized tests.
I know why they want to "meet" with me
I am a curiosity--they've seen my scores
All 90-something percentile
Classic "underachiever".
"Are you bored?"
Not when I picture you after school,
Seeing what I did to your car
"Are you taking something that...
Uhm, interferes with your abilities?"
I just twitch a bit, and then shake my head.
"Are there problems... at home?"
I shiver and look up
Like a wounded kitten.
"No," I stammer, unconvincingly
I toy with them--I could just as easily
Score within the norms.
But why pretend to fit?
Gifted programs, remedial classes,
Even home schooling--that was a short lived
Experiment in mutual torture
Then there was parochial school
The poor priest, so surprised,
I could see the fear when he realized
His holy water didn't hurt me.
Now I'm back, and yet another well meaning authority figure
Shakes his head and wonders what makes me tick.
A phone call; he steps out
The file is open--how can I resist:
"...exhibits sociopathic tendencies...
...potential arsonist...very dark...moody..."
And then a list, of all the stress leave
Attributed to moi.
He comes back--doesn't want me to leave,
but really, what can he do?
Better than he have lain awake worried
About what I may do next.
"Lovely flowers in your hair" he remarks,
Offering his hand--so formal as he stands.
"What are they?"
"Oh those?" I smile--he thinks me normal for a moment.
"I got them from my garden. They're... columbine."
I can't let my file get boring, after all.
Monday, May 01, 2006
Some thoughts at midnight
Well, almost midnight. As of now (although he's been asleep for a while now) my son is officially doing the "30 hour famine". He went out and canvassed the neighborhood for sponsorships after hitting up the relatives as well. I think it's a good thing, and it's going to be tougher on him than it would on the rest of the family, since he's at that "always hungry" stage of almost teenagerhood.
Question: Did the "day without immigrants" protest make an impact on any of the cities/towns where those of you south of the border live? (uhm, yeah, south of the U.S.-Canada border, I mean)
Were the turkeys being processed in H-burg? I know Chicago had a protest. How about Atlanta, Jen? Or Pennsylvania, Jenny G.? Probably not much happened up in Ella's neck of the woods, or in B.G.'s college town, I imagine.
Question: Did the "day without immigrants" protest make an impact on any of the cities/towns where those of you south of the border live? (uhm, yeah, south of the U.S.-Canada border, I mean)
Were the turkeys being processed in H-burg? I know Chicago had a protest. How about Atlanta, Jen? Or Pennsylvania, Jenny G.? Probably not much happened up in Ella's neck of the woods, or in B.G.'s college town, I imagine.
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