Tuesday, December 30, 2008

The Cynical Career Counselor Explains Your Future in

Recycling
Hi there--here, let me slide the wastebasket over... What? Oh, you're here for career ideas? I just figured you were looking for juice boxes in the garbage again. Recycling? I guess I could jot a few ideas down for... Oh, right--you go ahead and record it. No point putting ink on sacred flattened pulp if we don't have to.

So the first thing to remember is that there's no money in the recycling business--not if you are sincere about actually recycling, anyway. There are opportunities to, uhm, exploit the issue but I somehow figure that's not what you're about.

You'll keep volunteering every weekend down at the recycling depot until you graduate, then you'll find a college with an associate's degree in resource management or something similar which gives you a semblance of credibility when you expound your theories, but won't force you to waste a whole four years in school when you could be out making a real difference.

You'll keep volunteering at recycling operations at whatever city your college is in, and eventually you'll come back here--it's cheaper to mooch off your parents and like I said, you ain't getting rich off this gig. The folks here at the depot will welcome you back, and you'll try to be enthusiastic rather than jealous when you meet the new fresh-faced high schoolers who have replaced you as the eager disciples of the movement.

You'll commit 100% of your energy to making the depot an effective, efficient operation. You'll notice which organizations and businesses seem to generate the most waste and inundate them with emails and phone calls offering to provide free workshops to show them alternative choices to reduce the use of paper and other materials.

The few who relent and let you share your message only half-heartedly promote your visits, and you're saddened by how few show up to hear your lunch hour message of hope. You have, by this time, convinced the recycling depot to put you on a small salary, but your workshops are done entirely on your own time.

After almost a year of helping sort and carry bags and boxes of all manner of recyclables, you begin to get a little bored, and start to wonder about the next phase of the process. You see, you only deal with the "drop off" stage of things, so you decide one day to jump on your mo-ped and follow one of the large trucks which picks up the paper and cardboard from the depot. You've seen these large green trucks many times, and always been impressed by their bright clean paint, proclaiming the message: "Recycling--Local Action for Global Survival". As you follow the truck you're surprised by how little exhaust it produces--the hybrid engines run on a combination of electricity and biodiesel.

It's a longer journey than you expected, but eventually you arrive at a large property surrounded by trees--and a barbed-wire fence. The truck proceeds through the front gate, but a security guard stops you from following and asks you your business at the plant. You explain that you work at the recycling depot and just wanted to see where things went. The guard makes a quick phone call, summarizes your reason for the visit, then hangs up. He tells you to wait; the owner of the recycling plant is on site and has decided to come give you a tour.

You park your mo-ped and wait a few minutes; you're surprised when the owner actually arrives--he looks only a few years older than you. He explains as he walks you into the plant that he was at college working on his masters degree in environmental studies when his father, a rich industrialist, was killed in an accident and left his entire empire to his son. The son, Richard, sold off most of the corporate assets, and concentrated his efforts on this plant.

You are quickly impressed--it doesn't help that he's not bad looking--until the moment when you spot the large incinerators and see the trucks backing up to unload your "recycling".

You turn on him with the anger and vitriol of one who has seen the tenets of her faith defiled, and he merely nods and listens while you unload your venom. When you finally pause to catch your breath, he quietly responds.

"Most of what is sent to recycling depots is simply burned and/or dumped in landfills" he explains. "It's too dirty, it's contaminated or simply mis-sorted and can't be used. Even if it's perfectly clean and in order, it's ridiculously expensive to de-ink paper and repulp the various grades into something that turns out well enough for commercial use. The best we can do is contribute 10% of recycled filler to paper made of new fiber." You are shocked, but you'd heard similar cynical rumblings during your two years at college. You'd always dismissed such talk, but now Richard tells you it's true, but then he goes on to justify his actions.

It seems he's as passionate about alternative cleaner energy as you are about recycling. He explains that he created the plant when he heard of plans to build a coal-fired electricity production facility in the area. His plant incinerates waste, using technology he financed to produce electricity while creating very low emissions. He believes strongly that the future of the world is dependent on the reduction and eventual elimination of fossil fuels, and his newest research project involves partnering with the local sewage treatment plant to create methane for use as auto fuel.

You counter by pointing out that his trucks' use of biodiesel may be redirecting the use of valuable farmland away from food production in order to produce politically-correct but environmentally-unsound auto fuel. He sighs and admits he has the same concerns, then looks into your eyes and asks you to join him for dinner at a new vegetarian restaurant that he has recently invested in.

You agree, and after you've both cleaned up you find yourselves arguing by candlelight while enjoying a delicious meal. You both agree you feel passionately about saving the environment--you just have different approaches. You also discover you share some viewpoints--you almost choke with laughter as he does his impression of a sincere but misguided proponent of compact fluorescent light bulbs--you both smugly agree that such bulbs produce far more environmental damage in both their manufacture and ultimate disposal than they are worth in energy savings--particularly when any sensible person knows that LED lights are the green choice of the near future.

You end the night making out in front of your porch, then reluctantly agreeing to keep his secret about the recycling--he would lose his supply of fuel as well as the subsidy he gets for "recycling" the city's wastes. Plus his arguments about the foolishness of burning gas to ferry waste paper all over the continent to the few repulpers that can process such material made sense.

Still, your work at the depot now feels rather pointless. People ask you questions about sorting and you just sigh and shrug your shoulders.

Escape comes when your newfound boyfriend recommends you for a job at the local television station. Seems they've decided to create a new job in the newsroom--environmental reporter--and he convinces them that you're perfect for the job.

You're thrilled--you get to preach to the station's large prime-time evening news audience, and soon you're showing up all over town to salute those helping the environment, or to demonize those who disregard mother nature. You receive several awards for your work, and the better salary helps you save enough money to finally move out of your parents' home.

You and Richard are by this time officially a couple, and his wealth allows the two of you the chance to enjoy an exciting and environmentally-responsible lifestyle. Still, the luxury makes you feel guilty, and you become more and more inflexible in your work at the station, and in your personal life. Your feature is put on hiatus for a couple of weeks after one particularly controversial episode--the folks eating dinner while watching your story about the ancient alternative to toilet paper weren't very happy, it seems.

While on hiatus you continue researching new stories, and also notice more and more things which offend your sensibilities in the station itself. You nag everyone to eliminate the use of paper in all office communications, and start a movement to ban Christmas cards. Eventually, management decides to fire you, but a last-minute threat by your boyfriend to pull his company's advertising from the station gets you a reprieve.

The end of this career comes rather quickly. Seems Richard can't keep the secret of his recycling fraud forever; a network reporter gets wind of what's going on, and when you admit knowing the truth but keeping quiet to protect your lover, it's the end of your job in television.

You get a severance package and move back into your parents' basement. You send off a few half-hearted resumés, but you can't find many people willing to give you a decent reference--simply because most bosses and fellow employees find you and your fanaticism irritating. Meanwhile, a new company takes over the city's recycling contract and promises they won't be burning material which meets standard recycling criteria. You, however, know how unreasonable these criteria are and become more and more hysterical about it. Soon you're using a pass-key you kept after being fired from the station to sneak in at night and wash all the disposable coffee cup and pop cans in the recycling bins. You begin stealing all the staples from the staplers and posting notes reminding people of ways to fold pages to make them stick together instead of using staples for paper clips.

Your manic behaviour takes its toll; you collapse on the street and are rushed to the hospital where you are admitted for observation. You end up in the psyche ward, but manage to convince your watchers that you're fine--nobody catches you sneaking out to the biohazard disposal bins in the middle of the night where you retrieve all manner of used syringes, tongue depressors and even wound dressings, bringing them in and washing them down in the basement laundry room--abandoned when the hospital decided it was cheaper to farm out such duties.

You aren't careful enough, and after half a dozen needle sticks you're eventually diagosed with a variety of medical conditions which render you compostable within a year.

this beats the heck out of bungee jumping


wingsuit base jumping from Ali on Vimeo.



Click on it to see it larger (I think). There's a recent new post on the "other" blog and I've got a new cynical career post about ready to go on this one, so check back again soon.

Wednesday, December 24, 2008

Gaaah! (inarticulate scream as snow drops from trees on head)

http://www.vancouversun.com/news/Canada+whitest+Christmas+Victoria/1109796/story.html

This morning the radio said we had one centimetre of snow than the north pole at the moment...

At least I'm not stranded on the runway at Vancouver Airport.

Let it Snow, Let it Snow... Enough Already

Where have I been, oh faithful reader? (should I pluralize that?). Well, maybe there's a few of you. Sorry. I've been shoveling snow. And them shoveling more snow.

You may not know this, but we don't get much snow in this part of the world. Apparently we had a white Christmas in 1971--I was just a kid--but I can't actually remember a white Christmas. We never get them.

Except probably this year, barring some miraculous disappearance of the two feet of snow outside.

It started about 10 days ago--a Saturday night. It snowed. Then more, and more. We didn't get any days off school, although my kids did--their district cancelled.

As I write this, about 1:15 a.m., it's snowing quite heavily. Great. I'm supposed to go pick up my dad, my sister and then my mom and bring them all out here for lunch and our gift exchange, etc.

We have a strange conglomeration of 13 municipalities here, and to get to my various destinations tomorrow, I have to drive through six of them. The majority of those don't have much of a policy regarding snow clearing beyond "We ain't got no snow plows" so it's tricky, to say the least.

The police are kind enough to call the radio station after each new dump of snow to advise people to "stay off the roads if possible". Great--after how many weeks do you think we'll surface for the bare essentials? Oh, and it is Christmas.

I will say, it is very pretty, and all those songs--White Christmas, Winter Wonderland, Let it Snow--they seem somehow more appropriate. It IS beginning to look a lot like Christmas, and as we sit by the fire, the lights on the tree, the snow outside and the seasonal songs playing softly in the background, it's actually very nice.

Here are a few pics:
























































And I got a little more artsy for this last one; I liked the icicle in the tree--I should probably crop the photo, though.

Monday, December 15, 2008

perspective

When my wife and I were first married, she was a home care nurse whose case load often included palliative care. My job was to deal with the challenge of junior high classes and to try to put together a big musical production.

I would come home with my stresses and whine and vent and then pause to ask how her day went. Some days she wouldn't say much more than "one of my aids patients died today". It kind of put things in perspective.

A former student dropped by a few days ago to visit and get a ticket for our shows last week, and we got to talking. I'll admit that while my stress level and general crankiness were kind of elevated, listening to her describe her experiences of the past year kind of helped me realize what little I had to complain about.

She had tried to get out of the army, but enlister's remorse isn't a valid reason, I guess, so she ended up doing a six-month stint in Afghanistan. While on patrol one day, she went around the corner of a building and was shot--a bullet exploded into many pieces in her thigh.

She's now officially out of the service--I guess maybe she'd fulfilled her obligation. She told me that she's completely cynical about the whole situation there, largely because all sides treat woman like crap. She didn't see how the lot of half the population would improve no matter who eventually wins.

Plus she felt that as a female in the service she wasn't respected, especially by those she encountered from our neighbor to the south. Perhaps her orientation also made some uncomfortable, I don't know.

It was shortly after that I went online and read Camila's recent post about the lot of women in much of the world. It's enough to depress one, but I guess it's more about trying to make things better where we are than giving into despair for the magnitude of the problem.

Sunday, December 14, 2008

It's kind of Christmassy now...

There's about 6 inches of snow outside, and it's still falling pretty hard. We got our (real) tree up and decorated yesterday, and we're just having a peaceful Sunday inside with a fire in the fireplace and enjoying watching the weather outside.

I'm finished with the mini-musicals--two sold out shows--and have time to catch my breath, relax a bit and even post to my blog(s) again. After the holidays, of course, it gets nuts, but that's three weeks away.

So for my first offering, I quite enjoyed this (the result of enough free time to play on the internet and wander through blogs):

Monday, December 01, 2008

Got the magic power of the music in me...

Saturday's a good day to go to the care home. If you're there in the morning, they have tea and something to eat down in the first floor dining area.

My dad and I got there a little later than usual, went up to get mom from the 3rd floor (there are five floors; it's a fairly big place) and then came down to see the main area was full. We took her over to a quiet fireplace area in the empty meeting room and one of the staff saw us and offered to help me get them some of the cinnamon buns that smelled so good. I followed her to the kitchen and happened to hear one of the residents telling a staffer she wanted to sing.

They sometimes have a musician or someone lead them in some songs on Saturday mornings while they have their tea. There was nobody that day, so I offered--I know some Christmas stuff, if they liked. In a moment they were making space for my parents at a table and I was at the piano, playing a bunch of Christmas music I'd known since I was a kid.

I didn't see too much but I heard the old voices singing the songs they knew well; my dad told me later most were tapping out rhythm and a couple got up and began to dance--one old dear with her walker supporting her.

Last week's This American Life focused on the topic of music. All of the segments are certainly worth the time it takes to download the podcast--although it may not be available now the new one's up, but if you want it I can email it to you. David Sedaris's story of his dad's failed attempt to inspire his children to become jazz musicians, another regular's tales of her life as a high school band geek, and finally a powerful tale of music and faith in a church where traditional views had to be pushed aside by music to let love win out.

As someone who hears music around me all day long, and is watching my kids become more and more immersed in music in their own lives, it was great to listen to, and I think it's hooked my son on the show as well.

Wednesday, November 26, 2008

Turkey and Rumours

Happy Thanksgiving to my American friends. It seems later than usual this year to me, although I don't keep careful track of the U.S. dates of the holiday.

I got home a little earlier for once yesterday, and my wife called me at the end of her workday, concerned about the situation at our son's school. One of her coworkers had told her his school was apparently in "lockdown" mode after a shooting.

I'd heard the story on the way home while listening to my car radio, fortunately. It wasn't our son's school, but rather one a few miles from my workplace that was in lockdown. Eventually it was revealed that someone had seen a toy gun someone had brought into school and this triggered the response that led to the police doing a thorough search and investigation.

Weird how that translated into a "shooting" at a school eight miles away. Probably because some people believe it's a more likely site for such things.

I'm frustrated with this blog right now; I've tinkered a lot with the settings, pasting in code and such, but still can't make the posts show whether there are comments posted. For instance, there are a couple on the entry below about the things I envy about the U.S., but you only see them if you click "post a comment" yourself. Otherwise you don't know they're there.

To respond to those comments--I was surprised to learn that PA is as strict about liquor sales as Jen explained. Is it because of the Quaker heritage? Odd how different it can be from one state to the next.

Must go prep my day now; at some point I'll post something more interesting, I hope.

Saturday, November 22, 2008

Us and Them

It's the name of a short play one of my classes has been working on for a while, but thought it might be a good title for this post.

I've read a few blogs and facebook comments from friends south of the border about what they prefer about Canada (or when the outcome of the election was in doubt, why they might move here afterward) so I thought I'd write a bit today about some things I might envy a little bit about their side of the line.

I suppose weather might be something I'd envy those in Southern Cal. I wouldn't want the blizzards of the midwest or the hurricanes of the gulf coast, nor do I covet the yearly tornado watch in states like Kansas, but it would be nice to have a little less rain in the winter. (Of course Seattle's in the same situation.)

Gas prices--we are a net petroleum exporter yet somehow our gas is more expensive at the pump. It's mostly taxes that are to blame, and my city has additional taxes on gas you won't find an hour north of here which support the transit system.

Just for fun (how sad) I did a little conversion work of figuring out our gas price in early September adjusted to the US dollar and the US gallon, and then compared it to now. It's valid, since our government let the big oil companies close most of our refineries a few years ago and now the vagaries of U.S. hurricanes and the fluctuations of the exchange rate do impact what we pay at the pump. Like most places, it's been dropping--price per U.S. gallon was $5.36 in September, and yesterday it converted out to $2.70 per gallon when I filled my tank.

Prices for a case of beer or bottle of wine are also more here. "Sin taxes" are high--both for alcohol and for cigarettes, but at least we can buy it on Sundays now, which changed back in '86 when Expo in Vancouver made the politicians examine some rather archaic rules. Before that, all bars, pubs and liquor stores had to close on Sundays. We still can't buy a bottle of wine in a grocery store, though.

I'm just fine with the high price of smokes here.

Now I'd also have to add your country's leader seems a lot more charismatic than ours--we'll see in the next few months how he handles the responsibilities of the job.

There are other things as well--I could do without our provincial monopoly for basic auto insurance, the fluctuations of our dollar (although I guess that happens on both sides) and I like some of the retail choices/chains that we don't have on this side of the border. (H&M, Century 21, Target, Best Buy...)

I'm sure there's more, but I'm off to go see a play up island with my wife this afternoon. Have a good weekend--if anyone actually reads this.

Wednesday, November 12, 2008

It's the Most Wonderful Time of the... oh, wait

Yes, it's about time another foot washed ashore.

There's got to be a movie or CSI episode coming about all this.

Tuesday, November 04, 2008

Finally

It's about time. I had this dull apprehension that somehow the GOP would be able to manipulate things (like in 2000) to steal this election too. Then it would be a matter of time before the pressure of the job finished off the septuagenarian who already has health problems and put the easiest puppet into the oval office that the dark forces of Cheneyism could ever hope to manipulate.

Thankfully, it didn't happen.

I was watching the Vancouver-Nashville hockey game (and flipping to election coverage from time to time) and when they announced that Obama had been declared the winner, it got a standing ovation in the arena in Vancouver.

We're mostly very happy about this here, although we know that democrats will be more protectionist due to their deep union support than republicans, and that equals potentially hostile trade legislation and practices--but it's worth that risk to see a quicker end to Iraq and less likelihood of other military escapades to help fatten the wallets of arms manufacturers.

How much health care could that war have bought had it never happened?

Off to Nanaimo to see Macbeth at the college tomorrow. The forces of evil are defeated in that story, too.

(You may have noticed I've switched back to a more traditional blog look, but the comments still don't show under the posts as a link--anybody know how to fix this?)

Thursday, October 23, 2008

hehe


Not a great pic, since I took it with my phone camera, but the poster caption reads "When you can live forever, what do you live for?"

Someone taped underneath: "Ever, duh"

Poster's up on the window of our school library, and since I'm quite tired of the hype over this book series, I got a chuckle out of it.

Saturday, October 04, 2008

James Garner was the original Maverick

(and then he played Maverick senior to Mel Gibson's Maverick in the 1994 movie.)

I've been a very bad blogger, but there are few left to judge, and most of you are not as prolific as you once were, either.

My excuse is auditions. I'll probably touch on that stress and some other stuff if I do a post at the other even more neglected spot.

Some thoughts as we approach the elections--both of them. Ours is a week and a half away, while our neighbors to the south go to the polls next month. I find their contest more interesting than ours, if simply because it probably means a lot more globally, and with Bush gone for sure there's guaranteed to be a new president, whereas we may have more of the same when our election's done.

I'm rather tired of the excitement over Sarah Palin. It's more of the same "lookism" that makes someone a sensation because they bring a degree of physical attractiveness to a career which isn't known for "hotties" as her republifans dubbed her at their convention.

I was flipping channels last night and two different entertainment drivel shows were gushing about her the way they might have gone on about "Brangelina" or some other paparazzi prey. And now it's seen as a victory that she didn't make any gaffes during the debate that were worse than the sound bytes that came out of the Katie Couric interview.

She had been prepped. The strategy was simple--turn her into a human tape recorder and whenever the debate moderator asks a question, just hit "play"--ignore the question and bleat your practiced phrases. Nobody really forced her back to the questions much. I loved her "team of mavericks" line expecially--I have a new example for the oxymoron/paradox discussion during poetry classes.

Biden did fairly well, I thought--though I couldn't sit through much more than the first half-hour. Still, what kind of cold meds was he on a week or so earlier when that incredibly bizarre stuff about Roosevelt going on TV in 1929 came out of his mouth? Nothing in that quote had any grounding in reality--it wasn't like he just misspoke and it was clear what he actually meant. The whole thing sounds like something Grampa Simpson might come up with.

Other news: We raised over 28 thousand dollars at my school in our two-week cancer fundraising drive this year--will probably break 30 grand when all the donations are in, for the second year in a row.

Also, we're finished auditions. As of Monday morning (sooner if I decide to put the results on the internet tomorrow) let the hating begin. I'm used to it, though.

Finally: NANOWRIMO! Who's trying it this year? I think I'll give it a go once again--but I don't really know what I am going to write about. For those who don't know what it is, go check out their website. You really should try it.

Thursday, September 25, 2008

Next!

Next week I move back into the director's chair, with a full five-day week of after-school auditions--about 90 audition spots and all are filled and now there's a waiting list.

The stress is building for kids--with a smaller pit band some who before played now think of trying out for the cast, and others who worked in the crew also think they'd like to get on stage for their senior year show.

One 11th grader today told me of her dream where I announced audition results by handing out different coloured jello--apparently in the dream I gave her a red jello, which meant success, but then realized my mistake and took it back and handed her the dreaded blue variety.

What would Freud say?

Saturday, September 20, 2008

Search terms of late

First of all, I'm wondering if blogger is dying. Most of the blogs I was reading regularly are dead. My counter says hardly anyone reads this any more.

I blame facebook. Before, you had blogs that you occasionally visited like you might sip a nice glass of wine at the end of the day. Then the facebook truck backs up and drops off 20 jugs of cheap crappy wine in your driveway, and you drag it in and think--I'll just have a taste.

It isn't really very satisfying, but it's so damn--everywhere. People are using their cellphones to check it 'cause they can't wait for after the bus ride to get on their computers. What do they find? Oooh--somebody added a picture! With blogger sometimes people wrote interesting and even insightful commentary. Commentary on facebook is "Wow--you look really stoned in that picture". (but there'd be some misspellings and the occasional "lol")

Meanwhile, you can't be bothered to restock your wine cellar and nobody else is either.

Enough of the bleating. Here are my "top five searches that brought people to this blog recently":

5. is Costco owned by the Red Army?
4. "blouses with snaps"
3. Strippercize victoria
2. "refuse alcohol treatment"
1. "preserved husband"

Top five (again--"top" just means I like them) searches that brought people to the Cynical Career Counselor site:

5. why are purple doors illegal in ontario
4. strippercize st louis
3. sexy aircraft mechanic jokes
2. will shriners cover the cost of braces for the teeth
1. phrases for your korean hairstylist

At least Nanowrimo is coming soon so I'll get my writing fix there and not worry about the cobwebs up here in the blogger attic.

Wednesday, September 17, 2008

Red Sky at Morning...

We've been spoiled. It figures the year school starts the earliest that we'd have three solid weeks of sunshine, temperatures in 70s or even 80s each day. It's been nice--last night walking out of the grocery store with my dad into a full-moon lit evening and he commented on how warm it felt outside compared to the air-conditioned supermarket--more a July kind of experience.

The new school year is already hectic, and yesterday's news brought this story, which I predicted would happen last spring when we were discussing this year's ban on junk food throughout all the schools in the province:

http://www.cbc.ca/canada/british-columbia/story/2008/09/16/bc-junk-food-trade.html?ref=rss

Not something that would be as profitable at my school as we have all kinds of stores and fast food places very close by. Still, for schools like those north of the city, surrounded by farmland, this is probably going to be an ongoing problem.

Most people I know think it's a well-intentioned but rather foolish bit of interference with basic rights.

Meanwhile, the Cops for Cancer headshave can't happen fast enough for me. I decided to forego my end of August haircut since I'd just be going bald by the first week of October anyway, but this mop on my head is driving me nuts. Plus, our organizer has added a new wrinkle; the men on staff are all growing beards up until the event, and I guess these will be gone that day as well.

I feel like I should be in some 70s wilderness movie...

Sunday, September 14, 2008

Poetry by Dythandra

The Road Less Traveled

Collegial aspirations
Never burned within me
So why are they surprised
To find I have spurned
The fall migration to hallowed halls of learning?

Leagues, vine-covered or otherwise
Have never appealed to me
And frat boys make me shudder.

My father shakes his head a lot
And mutters--he fears the direct approach
Mother, though, damns the torpedos:

Don't you want to go off to school Like all your friends?
All my friends?
She always did have a penchant for hyperbole.

What do you want to do with your life?

I mutter something about
"Medical research test subject"
and retreat to my room.

Then it begins:
The financial offensive.

The fiscal bleating becomes the new
Book of Common Prayer
at our dining table.

She reads the grocery bills
While he chants about heat and taxes.
Eventually, I offer to pay board.
(I'd leave in a heartbeat but I lack the resources
to afford the freedom my psyche screams for)

They agree to a number,
But still take every opportunity
To suggest I am
An ambitionless burden.

Then, a few weeks after "good" offspring
Have blessed their parents with the empty nest
Mine so clearly yearn for,
Comes a new development.

I can tell something's up.
Mother asks what I'd like for supper
Instead of handing me the pork chops
And suggesting I overcome my distaste for such
As a meatless diet has clearly robbed me of
The nutrients that fuel ambition.

I cautiously suggest vegetarian pasta,
And she cheerily begins the preparation
While I look out the window
Expecting one of those "tough love boot camp" vans
To pull up any moment.

Father enters the dining room with his
"We have to have in important talk" face on.

That kind of talk best accomplished
When I keep my mouth shut.

He is a model of understanding
And worldly sophistication.
Of course my internet radio show is a great hobby
(He knows about that?)
and the tattoo parlour job an interesting phase
But it's time to grow up.

Then the anvil plummets.

He's spoken to his boss, and it seems there's room
For another junior office drone in training.

My mother bursts in as if a conductor waived a baton
And crescendos her gushing about the great opportunity with:
"And haven't you always wondered about what your father does at work?"

I've spent more time contemplating the mating habits
of the long-tailed shrew.

Just as I'm debating whether it will be my bedroom door
Or the front door which slams behind me,
He hisses one incentive
That turns this offer of purgatory
Into Eden's seductive fruit:

"You could make enough to get your own place."

The looks on both parentals' faces--
Clear indication that they covet this resolution
As much as I do--
Shouldn't bother me.

At least that's what I tell myself.

"We'd even quit charging you board, so you could
save up to get your place sooner"

Great Central Insurance.

Here I come, dress code or not.

-------------------------------------------------------------------
(more poetry by Dythandra can be found here)

Sunday, September 07, 2008

New Look

I've been wanting to change the look of this blog for a while. Now I just need to sort out the glitch that's hiding the comments. They're all still there, but they only show up if they're the bottom comment on the page.

Saturday, September 06, 2008

more tourist shilling

One of the attractions that draws tons of tourists here is Butchart Gardens. I remember my parents telling me that on one of their trips to England they spotted a big billboard advertising the place at Picadilly Circus.

We don't go too often because it's expensive, but three weeks ago we did the saturday night fireworks. I found out it was the busiest day of the year--the weather was amazing, so no doubt that helped. Never dropped below mid 70s all night and no mosquitos. They get 1.3 million visitors a year--probably more from the U.S. than anywhere else--and there were probably over 20,000 visitors that saturday.

Here's some random entertainment that you see while you're wandering. The little guy dancing is our nephew.



Interestingly, the guy on the left in the band is an employee who also works on the weekly fireworks show, which happened a couple hours after that previous clip:



I think it's a better show than the summer evening fireworks at Disneyland.

Here are a few more pics from that day:











































Friday, August 29, 2008

Stirring the pot

Sometimes people don't have enough conflict in their lives so they go out of their way to create more. As the new school year begins, that's something I'm going to be trying to avoid.

Because it's short, I've pasted an article I found here. Dress codes are one of those things that will always create conflict. You have to have some limits, but this is just picking a fight:

A Crime of Fashion
There are no bars on the windows, but Texas’ Gonzales High School could start to resemble a prison. A new policy at the school, located 70 miles east of San Antonio, states students who violate the dress code will be required to wear an inmate-style navy blue jumpsuit to class if they refuse to attend in-school suspension or don’t change their clothes, The Houston Chronicle reported.

“We’re a conservative community, and we’re just trying to make our students more reflective of that,” Gonzales Independent School District deputy superintendent Larry Wehde said. Dress code violations include spaghetti-strap tank tops, baggy clothes, miniskirts, clothes that reveal underwear, and earrings on male students. T-shirts have recently been added to the list, with students now expected to wear collared shirts.

Although school officials hope the policy will lessen clothing distractions in class, senior class president Jordan Meredith says some students plan to fight the policy by turning the jumpsuits into a fashion statement, even going as far as to say they will purposefully violate the dress code or purchase their own coveralls. “They’ll see it as an opportunity to be like, rebels,” he said. “I don’t think there’s going to be enough jumpsuits for everyone.”

In Ephesians right after the famous passage telling children to obey their parents is one warning parents not to "provoke" their children. Sounds like Gonzales Independent School District doesn't get that, though I bet some of them have used the "obey" part with their own kids before.

It's always better to find ways to defuse rather than escalate. That goes for foreign policy as well as the classroom.

(Addendum: I found this about Texas teachers who are now allowed to carry concealed firearms in the classroom as of this year as well. There are no words...)
(PPS - Here's an excerpt from the article as I was informed that the link only works if you have access to the journal)

The superintendent said some of the school's 50 employees are carrying weapons, but he wouldn't say how many. When pressed further, he first said that revealing that number might jeopardize school security. He then added that he considered it to be personnel information and not a matter of public record.

Each employee who wants to carry a weapon first must be approved by the board based on his or her personality and reaction to a crisis, Thweatt said. In addition to training required for a state concealed weapons license, they also must be trained to handle crisis intervention and hostage situations.

State education officials said they did not know of any other Texas schools allowing teachers to carry guns. National security experts and the Brady Center to Prevent Gun Violence said they did not know of other U.S. schools with such a policy.

School districts in some states, including Florida and Arizona, have closed loopholes that allowed guns on K-12 campuses. Utah allows concealed weapons at public universities but not at primary or secondary schools.

Thweatt said the board took extra precautions, such as requiring employees to use bullets that will minimize the risk of ricochet, similar to those used by air marshals on planes.
"I can lead them from a fire, tornado and toxic spill; we have plans in place for that. I cannot lead them from an active shooter," Thweatt said. "There are people who are going to think this is extreme, but it's easy to defend."

Judy Priz, who has a third-grade daughter, said that "everyone I've talked to thinks it's great." She said she trusts the teachers with her child's life.

"Look how long it takes the police or anybody else to get here," she told the Fort Worth Star-Telegram for a story in its Monday online edition. "If someone wants to come here and harm someone, at least we would have sort of defense."

Sunday, August 17, 2008

The Cynical Career Counselor Explains Your Future as a

Psychic

Hi--what's this? A card--well, thanks. Nobody's ever given me a card here before, except for those smartasses who stuck my name on the retirement list a couple of years ago. So what's your career idea? Psychic? You mean you want to be able to talk to dead people and stuff? Oh right, that's a medium. Okay, so what do you need me for? Can't you just predict the future yourself?

What's that? Open the card. Okay. Oh look--it's my personal fortune predicted by you. That's...weird. Read it? Right... "Today will be auspicious because you will meet..." Auspicious? You'll have to dumb it down for the general public, I'm afraid.

Okay, okay. "...a future famous pyschic"....yada yada...uhmm, pretty generic, what? the bottom? "...and you will ask the tired old question 'why don't you just predict your own future' since you don't realize that the one future most pyschics can't see is their own".

Oh, I get it. Clever. So I acted like most rational people and took an easy potshot at your weirdo career choice. You'll complain to who? Oh sure, 'cause I'll look like the bad guy when you just presented me with my future that includes my death by heart attack a year before retirement.

All right, let's try this again. You'll leave high school and try to convince some chinese restaurants to let you write their fortunes, but they really want platitudes with lucky lottery numbers on the back rather than anything specific. Besides, you really can't write something specific and then trust some random waiter or waitress to get them to the right person, and they won't agree to have you hovering about the restaurant staring at the clientele and then trying to squeeze your hastily scribbled predictions into tiny fragile cookies.

You offer to sub for that woman who does the tarot readings down by the hemp store but it soon becomes clear you're too young and too preppy to be taken seriously by those patrons.

And so it goes. Nobody wants a young, fresh-faced fortune teller--and that goes for the newspaper horoscope department, the county fair and pretty much everywhere else. You get a short tryout with a psychic friends phone hotline, but when you won't do the shtick to get the people to stay on the line and buy extra readings, the hotline folks cut you loose.

You are depressed for a while, so you go to a psychic yourself and are told your future lies in the Big Apple. So off to New York you go, hoping that this prediction is more useful than most of the ones you've offered people.

There are no job openings in the psychic field in New York, but after a few unfulfilling gigs at coffee shops and delis, you answer an add to work as a coat check person in the Museum of Modern Art in Manhattan. You are at least able to interact with people a bit, and you don't have to remember drink orders.

Suddenly, after about six months on the job, you're hit with an inspiration. You notice one sad woman in the line at the coat check--she's hanging onto two kids and looking weary and worn. You want to help her, but beyond a kindly smile you don't know what to do. Then, after she and her children are off exploring the museum, you decide to write her an encouraging fortune. You slip a note in her pocket explaining that you're a psychic and you have a good feeling that things are going to get better.

You hide in the back when she comes to pick up her jacket, and worry that maybe you'll get into trouble for your boldness. Instead, one week later she shows up and after asking around discovers the note came from you. Turns out her husband was in the middle east and was missing--but his reconnaisance group had merely gotten out of radio range and her fears for him were unfounded. She hugs you and thanks you for helping her when she was at her lowest.

This gives you the courage to begin dropping more fortunes into the pockets of jackets and purses as inspiration hits you. You get away with it for a couple of weeks and then a coat check supervisor takes you aside and warns you to stop it. That instruction is quietly reversed, however, when one of the museum's most generous patrons stops by to personally thank you for your perceptive prediction.

Your fellow coat check staffers seemly mostly amused at your antics, though some simply find you annoying. Your fortunes tend to be mostly generic and positive, but still, you rarely have anyone come back and tell you that you nailed it, but there are always a few who return each week to complain that you're an idiot and you have no idea what's happening in their world.

You carry on, undaunted, even when the Village Voice features an article about you which includes two dozen examples of people whose fortunes you got hilariously wrong. In turn, this gives you a sort of cult following, not because people think you can predict the future, but more that they enjoy a chance to share their laughable fortunes--something made easier when a website, titled "Nostradoofus" is created devoted to your work.

Eventually you become too much of an embarrassment to your employers, and the lobby supervisor, a kindly older gentleman you know only as Mr. Parker, takes you aside and explains you have to stop the pocket fortunes. You sadly acquiesce, and find your work days more boring and unhappy as a result. Mr. Parker stops by from time to time and senses your unhappiness, so he always tries to cheer you up, something you appreciate.

You try to return the favor a few months later when you hear his wife has passed away from a sudden heart attack, but he becomes withdrawn, and rumors begin that he will probably retire soon. It is around that time you begin staying late at work to write horoscopes for your own website--which garners only a fraction of the hits of the one which mocks you--because it's easier to type up your predictions on the computer in the coat check office than it is to try to get serious work done in your apartment with your two roommates fighting with each other all the time.

You discover that Mr. Parker has a habit of stopping by a sculpture in the lobby of the museum after everyone's gone home, where he carries on a quiet one-sided conversation before picking up his coat and heading for the subway. It's quiet enough when the floor polishers and vaccuums are turned off for you to hear what he's saying, but you feel awkward about mentioning it to him.

Then one day you hear him say "I guess tomorrow will be the last day I'll be talking to you--but it has to be our secret because I don't want anyone to try talking me out of it". You're sure he's planning to just retire after the next day without any fanfare, and you realize that he's probably still grieving his wife's death and maybe some time away might help him move on.

Because you appreciate what he's done, you decide to write one more "coat check fortune", and you simply tell him that "while we'll miss you, after today everything will be just fine". You seal it inside an unmarked envelope and slip it in his coat.

The next day the museum is buzzing with the news that Mr. Parker committed suicide on his way home from work by stepping in front of a subway train. A few hours later the police come and take you to a small office where they ask you what you knew about his state of mind. You're puzzled until you discover that they found your fortune, still unopened, in his jacket pocket. Your words are interpreted as proving your foreknowledge of his plan to kill himself.

The staff all shun you for not trying to help their beloved boss, ignoring your explanation that you didn't really know his plans, and you eventually quit your job at the museum. You're desperate for some kind of work, and the writer at the Village Voice who helped make you a cult laughingstock feels guilty enough to get you a job taking phone-in classified ads at his paper.

You're bankrupted a year later when Mr. Parker's daughter sues you for not trying to help her suicidal father--the legal fees alone are far more than your meager income can manage. Around that time you're taken off the classified phone line at the paper because of your increasingly odd behavior--you begin offering unsolicited predictions of doom to those trying to sell their household goods. You're sent to a psychiatrist, and institutionalized indefinitely.

I'd come visit you in the nuthouse but apparently I'll be dead by then. Have fun.

Thursday, August 14, 2008

You can't go home again

It's weird being back here where I grew up. It's the first time I've visited here in a little over two years, and the first time I've come up when there hasn't been a family home to stay in.

The town has changed a bit since I was here last. Some places closed, some new ones, others being redone... but it doesn't feel all that different. It's more that there's a dichotomy--I feel like it's so familiar and home in a way, and yet still much more disconnected from this place than I used to be.

Weird also that my kids--grown up in a city about 20x bigger than this place--have said a couple of times that they'd like to live here. They then add conditions like "but I'd miss all my friends" but I guess it makes sense.

Summer is when this place is at its best. Plenty of great beaches to choose from, nice places to go wandering, none of the traffic that's so familiar back home. It doesn't take long to get anywhere when you're here. I remember when I moved away it took me a while to realize that you don't simply leave 10 minutes before you're supposed to arrive somewhere and then end up arriving five minutes early.

The friends we visit have it pretty good as well. We made pigs of ourselves at a very decadent bbq last night at the home of a friend I've known since fifth grade. In addition to his family was another friend I've known since grade one and his wife and kids as well.

Both families live a lifestyle that would cost more in the city. My kids see a very seductive side of this place when you're in a beautiful 5000 sq foot home with amenities that would take paragraphs to proclaim but I'll typify by mentioning the $9000 chandelier in the two-storey entryway.

We could sell our home, had we suitable employment here, and buy something much fancier in this town.

I explained to my kids as we were driving home, though, that there's another side to this place. Everyone knows your business, I tell them--gossip is the major pastime, and you never escape a mistake you might have made 20 years ago. The winter is deadly dull. There's only one movie theatre in town with one screen, and if that isn't your cup of tea you can visit the one (ugly) mall and see the same tired people wandering it. The average age here is probably close to retirement, at least it feels like that.

There's always rumours that some new industry is going to relocate here, and everyone gets excited. It usually doesn't pan out, though. The one main industry in the town used to employ almost 3000 people, back when I was in high school. Now there are maybe 600 people working there.

My kids understand it's not all as fun as it seems when we're here for short visits. Still, part of me likes the fact that they see the appeal of this simple place where I grew up. My wife and I have begun to realize that if the money were suddenly available, and the price right, we'd love a summer place up here. Maybe that's something we'll try to make a reality down the road.

Here's a pic from the lake yesterday. Today we're off to explore some more, and probably hit one of the nice ocean beaches where we can swim this afternoon.













I won't be sad to get home on Friday, though.

Wednesday, August 06, 2008

overhead

Thought I'd post this very short clip from Sunday--they flew over our house several times and I caught part of the last pass.

I don't hate PETA

...except when they pull this crap.

Skip to the fourth paragraph from the bottom of the article to see what disgust me about this cynical opportunism.

Sunday, August 03, 2008

Crackboo... er, Facebook Groups I'd join--

--if I were into joining facebook groups:

Amanda Ray University of Awesome

('cause there's that cool dinosaur, and well, it's a university of "Awesome")

Serious coffee could kick Starbuck's ass if they were giant robots
('cause it's true)

Totally Serial Citizens for the Eradication of ManBearPig.

(just for fun read the comment posts)

Dear God, I Am Totally Awkward
(Actually, I don't think I am, usually, but I like the posted stories in the comments.)

For those who hate the Maple Leafs
(It's a hockey thing, and I'm one of them)

and there's a whole bunch of others I can't bother to find again. Trust me, they'd be good ones if I did though...

Thursday, July 31, 2008

and miles to go before I sleep

stresses suddenly about--don't think I want to post much about it here.

On the nice side, we got my son a new bike or his birthday yesterday, and I ended up going on a bike ride with him after we got back from supper out. Today I discovered that there are some muscles that don't like being ignored for a long time and suddenly called back into action.

I think I need to bike more.

From the Edmonton Sun

Article here.

'a management team would be waiting in Brandon to meet the passengers when they arrived "to take care of any needs they may have"...even trauma counselling, if necessary.'

Gee, ya think?

Saturday, July 26, 2008

summer ain't all it's cracked up to be

Actually, I love the break, but some extra family responsibilities and an abundance of chores have made it not exactly the most relaxing summer ever.

Getting lots accomplished, though, and having some decent family/relaxing time in between.

We went to Mamma Mia last night--didn't get a chance to see the live show in NY when I was there, but I will confess I enjoyed the movie--probably my wife and I shouldn't have dragged our kids to it, although our daughter liked it. Son--not so much.

I think it's probably something more enjoyed by our generation--the 40 - 55 set, perhaps. Meryl Streep pulled off her role better than I would've expected--I know she's a great actress, but it's different from what she usually does.

Meanwhile, blog is being neglected--ten days since the last post--but maybe not so long 'til the next one.

Wednesday, July 16, 2008

Why you should visit - a picture post (locals can just skip this)

I haven't got much to offer--there's stress on the parent health front; I spent 7 hours in the emergency ward on Monday, but I won't go into that here. Instead, I offer a whole bunch of pics for any who want to bother scrolling through. They're all from this area--mostly Victoria, plus elsewhere on Vancouver Island and maybe the ferry to Powell River. I haven't even got the Butchart Gardens anywhere here, and that's what a lot of people come to see.












Downtown
















View from inside the museum













Museum- a decent range of exhibits plus the Imax theatre as well








The museum's display of well-known British Columbians.














Part of the war bride exhibit















Some of the totem poles near the museum








Last Monday we ate lunch at the Old Spaghetti Factory--out on the corner on the patio where we could people (tourist) watch. We saw at least one bus every minute or so. The red one is from Pennsylvania, while the one behind it is from California.
































































There are a bunch of tour companies that will gladly show you the city by bus or even horse-drawn carriage.










Restaurants in converted mansions.












Whale-watching tours












Fancy Hotels




















































and, of course, the scenery:



























































(this pic is from the Malahat--the rather steep drive we take when going north--it's not my photo; I found it on the net)




















































(this is a shot from the university campus in the fall)








Next, you could drive an hour or two up island and have a variety of choices available:







Caving near Horne Lake

























or canoeing on Horne Lake itself










Qualicum Beach--the water's warm and very nice for swimming in the summer, unlike the ocean further south here in Vic.









Yellow Point near Nanaimo











ferry to Powell River
















Englishman River near Parksville
















Campground/resort near Parksville where we stayed last weekend











Rathtrevor Beach - Also good for swimming--tide goes way out and comes in over the hot sand and the water is really warm.

There's a ton more I've left out--festivals, events--so much. Plus of course, there's Vancouver and all the other attractions not far.

And as a bonus, if you come up I'll buy you a local draft at one of our ubiquitous neighborhood pubs. :)

Friday, July 11, 2008

why i'm not posting

I've been doing my school's website for over a decade. It's been sadly neglected lately, so finally I spent some time revamping the whole thing.

It used to be black with white lettering, with a flash menu on top--buttons that change color and such.

It got old. I've still got a ton to update on it, but I've uploaded the work thus far.

More later, either here or the other place.

Sunday, July 06, 2008

Evolving cool

The things you covet change as you become older. I recall when a set of shiny chrome mags for my Nova was what my 19 year self was excited about.

You know you're old when you get jazzed about a new, really big composter:
























What can I say? We're garden geeks. Finally we're getting some warmer weather the past couple of weeks. So far it's just been the radishes (all picked) and onions we've been eating, but I expect by this time next week we'll have fresh peas on the menu:





























Anybody wanna come pull some weeds?