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:

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."

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.

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.

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.

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...

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?

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.

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. :)

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.

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?

Exactly 17 years ago...

... I think we'd finished the wedding ceremony and were heading off to do the photos in the gardens at the university. Then it was off to the reception.

If I weren't being more circumspect I'd post a photo or two here in honour of the occasion. Maybe I'll put something elsewhere.

We'll be abandoning the kids and going off for dinner at a nice retaurant downtown this evening.

In other news: We've succumbed to the lure of Tivo. Well, it's not called that here, but it's something similar. Apparently, the combo of new TV and digital recorder/cable box is what my birthday present money from parents and inlaws went to and it's also my present from family. I think my daughter's the one who is actually most pumped about it, though--now we have Family Channel, which is essentially the same as Disney Channel down south. Sooo much Hannah Montana and Jonas Brothers...

I have to admit, although we've always been limited t.v. watchers--our kids' friends would think us luddites when they'd come here to discover we have only one television in the house (our kids' buddies around the corner have 5 t.v.s in a home with 4 people) and that we don't have playstation, WII or X-Box. We also have had fewer t.v. channel options on our old fashioned non-hd t.v. for them to watch here.

Now we have an HD t.v. It's not huge, but I admit, the picture is amazing. I think sports and outdoor shows are the most spectacular. I even found myself zoning out and watching 4th of july fireworks on one of the HD channels.

Nice thing is, we've revamped our cable/internet package and even though we get a bunch more stations and the ones we actually want, we're paying a little less than we were before.

Still, we don't watch a lot of TV. This time of year, in particular, we're out and about, working in the garden, enjoying the things this area has to offer, going up island to beaches, hanging out with the neighbors--things you'll remember longer than what was on the tube last week. Our neighbourhood is great; typical was a couple nights ago when we're out cutting/raking our hedges at about 9 p.m., then stopping to visit with the neighbors with the twin babies and then off to another neighbors to inspect a new deck and give advice on our old pool we passed along to them that they're setting up. Then soon there are remote control cars zipping around the cul-de-sac and not long after a couple of remote control helicopters buzzing around. Across the back fence is our old swing set we gave to other neighbors, which we got from neighbors whose kids had outgrown them before.

We're moving into the next phase of life when the kids are more involved in their out of the home lives than they are as much with us. It sneaks up on you. Just this past week eldest has had several days with friends at the beach, another evening out with a friend downtown for dinner and fireworks, and today at an "organic fair" because a friend is performing there.

We even had the rare but probably soon to be more frequent experience of my wife and I packing it in for the night while the kids were still up--it's weird that their bedtimes might be later than ours sometimes.

This is a rambly kind of post. Summary: Life is good, and summer life is really good.

Jesse Helms won't be missed on this side of the border

It's funny how mention of Cuba leads to histrionics from the U.S. right wing much like the suggestion that someone's right to keep 50 assault rifles in their basement might be in any way limited by any law.

Yet China can repress and torture and do all the business with the U.S. it wants. Nixon, further right than many republicans, gets credit for opening that door.

Jesse Helms characterized Canada's trade with Cuba as similar to Neville Chamberlain's appeasement of Hitler. Really? Wasn't Canada in the war against Hitler for two years before the U.S.? Wasn't it U.S. right-wingers who are the idealogical forebears of Helms who strongly opposed going to war against Hitler prior to the attack on Pearl Harbor?

Helms went so far as to suggest Canadians were holidaying there to patronize Cuban prostitution.

The Helms-Burton bill punished corporate executives of companies that did business in Cuba; there are apparently today still some Canadian business people who are not allowed into the U.S. due to this legislation.

Another area of contention is the continual application of punitive countervailing lumber import duties. Time after time these duties would go before international trade courts and each time they would be ruled against. Helms and his cohorts would then craft new legislation to reimpose the same duties.

And I haven't even mentioned his tarnished record in the area of civil rights over the years.

Some will lionize him, suggesting it fitting that he died on July 4th, apropos for a great political leader, but don't expect me to take a photograph by any memorials erected to this redneck.

(sorry--I hope my friends to the south don't take offense at this--it's probably better form to look back on a life just ended and celebrate all the public service, but I just can't share that sentiment)

Happy 4th

...to my American friends. (Even if I'm a better American than some of you, hehe)

Let the posting begin

I know I haven't been posting here much. Now it's actually summer and life's shedding the burden of busyness a little, I think that will change. Not that there's any promise of quality, though.

For those of you who read the India travel blog I had linked from here, (or the pretty much abandoned blog linked on the left) I offer another side of Milly:

http://www.themetropolitan.ca/story_tobanralston_thesecretgarden.php?menu=Content

Smart, funny and she cleans up pretty good, it appears. (She's the blonde one.) It's from a photoshoot thing she did after getting back home not too long ago.

More posting to come.

Finally

Summer's here. Last day at work yesterday, and at noon picked up a friend who's in town and we went and wandered Willows Beach. No wind--which is not the norm around here, at least down at the beach.

We had a sucky spring. So far, though, summer's trying to make it up to us. Last night was amazing, again, no wind, warm--after supper we got our pool set up. Today and the next few days it's supposed to be into the low 80s.

Lots of jobs to do, now--but it's the stuff you put off until you have time, and now I have some. First summer in a while with no masters degree to worry about.

Thursday evening I took a bunch of my graduating theatre kids out for dinner. I may post a few pics from that. I had gotten changed in a hurry and headed off--it's probably a sign of how worn out I've been lately that I had misbuttoned my shirt and it stayed that way all evening. Funny that none of my young dinner companions would take the opportunity to mock my dressing skills. Must've been too dark in the restaurant--or so I can hope.

I'm off to go water the garden and finish prepping the pool. Enjoy your weekend, folks.

Oh, and an aside to Jenny: Maybe so, but how many different phone numbers does a monkey really have to learn, anyway? His bookie, a good pizza delivery place, and maybe the PETA donation line?

Pavlov's got us figured

We are now in the transition phase of going from 7 digit phone numbers to having to use all 10 for local calls.

That means that for the next two months or so, every time you forget to dial the area code first, you'll still get your call through, but not before you listen to an incredibly loud and annoying recording telling you that soon you'll need to dial all 10 numbers--and it plays twice.

Needless to say, they'll have us all conditioned to make the change before the actual deadline when local calls won't work the old way.

I guess we've been spoiled; my home town has been doing this for at least five years.

When we were in New York in March we stayed in the Murray Hill area, and it made me think of all those old movies where someone wants to put a call through and gives a number with two words in front, like Murray Hill 48932 or something like that. I guess you used the MH letter equivalents on the old dial phones to get that particular neighborhood.

Growing up, we just had to dial 5 numbers. My home number was 5-5937. All the ones in our part of town began with 5, while those up where my grandmother lived began with 3. It was easy enough to learn all your friends' numbers.

Now our phones all have speed dial and contact lists and I realized the other day I still don't know my own kids' cell numbers--I have just been using the contacts list to call them.

Man, do I sound like a grumpy old codger in this post. Maybe I should do a rant about the good old days when I could fill up my gas tank for under 20 bucks.

Poetry by Dythandra

Pomp and Circumstance

The parentals have that look again,
Wary of what is coming
Like all trainable mammals
They learn from experience.

The first salvo is fired by my mother:
"We have to make plans" she bleats.

Plans.

I have many of them
Some involve explosives.
Probably best not to share those just yet.

"What plans?" I ask sweetly.

She hesitates, then pent-up dreams of conformity
Pour forth.

Photos, my dress, my date, a dinner, relatives, limo...
She pauses, a far-off look in her eyes
No doubt remembering some moment of import--
Her first emptying of stomach contents inspired by cheap rum,
Or drunken libidinal fumblings in the back of borrowed car
The adolescent middle-class dream.

When she finishes, too much revealed, she waits;
Her fear of further disappointment
Springing from the one product of her loins--
Yours truly, a scratch-and-win ticket that proclaimed "Please try again"
But the lottery booth was already closed,
So she plays this losing hand once more.

I almost feel a pang of sympathy,
But recall my childhood mortification as a fourth-grader
When neighbor kids asked why my mother talked that way
And we had so many empty bottles in our trash.

I sigh. "I haven't given it much thought."
Not true--I just push it from the forefront of my mind
For self-indulgent differentness is a luxury of the young
And with this passage I shall face intolerance
For my admittedly pretentious misanthropy.

Metacognition it's called, by those dozens of parenting volumes
Populating my mother's bookcase of futility.

This "milestone" serves to inspire reflection,
Even in one so unrecalcitrant as myself.

A date? Probably not this troubled boy
I think I inspired his prescriptions.

The bus driver's too old,
(Plus I hear he got busted for dealing downtown)
My neighbor's mother will call the cops,
And were Danny suitable, there's that little problem
Of shared DNA.

I could defy the heterocentrist agenda,
But even if the objects of my affections were compliant
I've no desire to become the target
Of peurile Facebook photo tags.

So in a moment of weakness,
I solve another's fear of flying solo
On this evening that belongs to
The partnered and paired.

My outfit for the evening is another point of contention
My mother has a history of being disappointed in my attire
And seems relieved when I admit I'll wear a dress
--Decorated by an artistic print, I assure her--
(Did you know Dali liked to work with decomposing equines?)

My mother plans a family dinner, with all manner of kin
Joining on this awkward occasion.
They show up with ill-chosen gifts
(Grandmama never could shop for me)
But my favorite is my uncle's book of Irish saints
With an offer to bootleg refreshments for me and my date
Tucked neatly by a description of St. Faoileann.

I almost blush to admit I didn't go out with an explosion,
Though I did allow myself one little indulgence;
One of my two former disciples--the one with the less hysterical mother--
Has kept in touch.

Careful timing allowed her to replace the CD
Chosen for our triumphant recessional from the Graduation Hall
Certainly you'd agree--that annoying Vitamin C song is far less apropos
Than "Highway to Hell".

Alas, maturity awaits. I think I shall let it cool its heels
A little bit longer.

Another day, another one found

This is since that last post. Gina Marie put a link to an article in her comment on the last post, and here's another link to info about the sixth foot which was found today.

I'll actually find other stuff to post about, but for now, I'm just following up on earlier posts about this topic.

It may be there's been a serial killer or some other multiple murder who weights down the bodies and throws them in the ocean. Natural processes mean that the feet, protected by buoyant running shoes, would eventually come to the surface and wash ashore.

Still very creepy. The fact that there has been no success in identifying any of the victims makes me wonder if it is something to do with a human smuggling operation gone awry. We had problems about ten years ago with ships coming from China with illegal immigrants stowed away--people who'd paid their life savings to organized crime groups to get them here, which was seen by many as a way to more easily get into the U.S.

9/11 changed that with increased border security, to some extent.

This is getting to the point it's going to make people think twice about coming here for a fishing/seaside holiday.

This is getting ridiculous (updated)

Another foot found.

Update: A more detailed article.

The Cynical Career Counselor Explains Your Future as an

NBA Referee

Hi kid. NBA? Nobody’s ever made it from here and I’ve seen some... What? Oh, a referee. Well, that’s not an easy gig to break into either, but if you’re lucky, it might go something like this:

You’ll take weekend workshops so you can do more than call the freshman girls games and by next fall you’ll be that graduate who didn’t go to college but took a job in the video store so he could be available to referee as many high school games as possible.

You’ll get used to working that two man tandem, and you’ll develop the ability to tune out all the catcalls and abuse hurled your way from the stands yet at the same time you’ll remain exceptionally sensitive to disrespect from players. Face it, it’s a chance for someone who’s not all that tall or athletic to make a bunch of jocks do what you say.

Game after game you’ll run up and down the court, and unlike the players, when you twist an ankle nobody cares--you’re lucky if one of the team trainers deigns to even look at your injuries. The cute girls who come to see the players will pay even less attention to you--so get used to being invisible except when you make a call against the home team and everyone screams for your blood.

You’ll eventually tire of making less per game than the cost of the gas to drive out to the high schools in the boonies, and you’ll head to college, where you’ll take a smattering of unchallenging arts and business courses while spending most of your time sucking up to those in charge of picking the referees for the varsity games.

Even in this lower-tier collegiate athletic program you have to pay your dues, so you do a few junior varsity games just before the season ends.

You’re frustrated after your first year, and all you’ve got to show for the tuition money you spent is a mediocre GPA and a couple of scoresheets with your name on them. You come back here where your stories of college life exaggerate your involvement in the athletics program until one of the benchwarmers on the JV team comes home as well and tells the real story of your insignificance.

You run out of the party where you’ve been revealed as a pathetic liar and head down to a sketchy bar that doesn’t ask for I.D. before it serves you watery beer out of dirty glasses. A few drinks and you’re crying at the bar--telling your sad tale to a bartender who isn’t interested. Just as the bouncer comes to escort you out, he’s stopped by a quiet, dark-eyed man who slips him a banknote and then invites you to join him at his table.

You stop sobbing and try to pull yourself together. Over the next hour this man stares quietly into your soul as he listens to you explain your dream, nodding as if he understands your passion and shares your anger at the injustice of your situation. Then he motions to you to be quiet and speaks:

“How badly do you want this?” he challenges you. You explain you’d sell your soul for a chance to make it to the big leagues, and he smiles--and something freezes deep inside you for just a moment.

“You will place your future in my hands, completely?” You agree, and he stands up, shakes your hand and tells you the large man standing nearby will drive you home.

The next day you receive a call instructing you to go to a summer inter-college varsity league meeting. Your plane ticket arrives by courier and before you have a chance to question your good fortune, you’re sitting with men all at least a decade older who will share the officiating duties of what is essentially a summer all-star development league. You’re given a nice room at a decent hotel and told you’re not to worry about actually reffing--you’re just a backup.

You watch for two days, marveling at the pace of the games compared to what you’d experienced at your few JV matchups. Still, you’re just watching, and begin to wonder why you’d bothered to come when on the third day you arrive to find the head of officiating waiting for you with a uniform and a whistle. Seems an unfortunate traffic accident had put one of the regular refs out of commission and you were needed.

You ref three games daily for the next two weeks, and at the end of the final playoff you’re approached by a PAC-10 college representative and told you’re getting a full-ride scholarship in their sports management program and will be part of their regular officiating rotation. You’ll travel to other colleges in the conference, all expenses paid, and earn a fee for each game as well.

You’re thrilled, and the next few months fly by. Then, late in the season, you’re getting into a cab to head to a game between UC Berkeley and Stanford and your benefactor from that life-changing encounter at the bar slips into the seat beside you. He hands the driver a 50, tells him to take the long route to the stadium, and slides the privacy window closed.

“Now it’s time to begin to pay the piper,” the man, whose name you don’t know, breathes softly. “Number 18 for Stanford is going to foul out in the first half tonight. If anyone complains they’re going to get a technical. Berkeley will be shooting in bonus by the six minute mark of the second half. Got it?”

You’re shocked at the arrogance of the man. “I can’t just make up fouls,” you protest.

“You will see fouls and you will call them.” Something in his eyes terrifies you and you just nod slowly. He taps the cab window again and gets out a few blocks from the stadium. You ride the rest of the way alone and are shaking as you walk onto the court. Something in the way the other referee looks at you makes you realize he knows what’s going on--maybe he’s in on it too, you decide.

It’s all Stanford for the first 10 minutes, and you have trouble finding any fouls to call on #18, but you make a questionable charging call and another for an illegal pick. You happen to glance into the stands during a television commercial timeout and see your cab companion sitting just behind the Stanford bench. His eyes bore into yours and he looks pissed.

The rest of the first half is fairly even, and you simply can’t find any justifiable reason to blow the whistle on your target. Still, you can’t help but glance over behind the Stanford bench a few times, and with two minutes left and only three fouls on #18, you see the man make a subtle gun motion with his fingers pointed towards you.

Right after the whistle you make a completely indefensible call on the big Stanford forward and the Palo Alto crowd goes nuts--some throw things at you. The player himself begins swearing at you and you hit him with two quick technical fouls--getting him out of the game.

You’re scared--it seems like the stadium might erupt in a riot, and during the ensuing timeout your refereeing partner walks over to you and mutters “nice and subtle, my friend”. His sarcasm makes it clear to you he knows what’s going on, and then a moment later he whispers “They don’t have to win; they just have to cover the point spread--Stanford can’t win by more than six--got it?”

Suddenly it’s all clear to you. Both you and the other referee are in the pocket of the same guy--and he clearly represents gambling interests who have made your mercurial rise possible.

That night you nearly don’t make it out of the stadium without being attacked, but fortunately the fact Stanford squeaked out a three-point victory takes some of the energy out of the home crowd’s vindictiveness. You go to your hotel room and consider chucking everything and going home, but then there’s a knock on your door, and the large man who drove you home that night at the bar simply smiles at you and hands you an envelope.

Inside are 20 one hundred dollar bills, and a note with two words printed neatly: “Well Done.”

You feel something die inside you when you spend some of the money the next day at the J Crew outlet and are glad when you don’t get rotated into the playoffs--your shocking performance in the Stanford game keeps you out of the tournament of 64.

The next year, though, all seems to be forgotten and you’re just as busy--even getting loaned out to other conferences for some tournaments. This time you make it through the regular season without being given any special instructions, and you’re picked to do playoff games all the way to the sweet 16.

You’re once again getting into a cab--this time to go to a matchup between fifth ranked UCLA and the 12th seed, Ohio, when you again are joined by an unwelcome traveling companion. This time he gives you more detailed instructions, which will also allow you to be a little more subtle in their execution. You also are not surprised to find the referee you’re paired with--from Ohio’s Mid-American conference--also has received instructions similar to your own. You guess that your gambling friends wait until they find that two of their dirty refs are officiating the same game before they bet most heavily, sure of their ability to influence the outcome of the game.

Your partner is almost artistic in his ability to manage the game to the foreordained conclusion, and he invites you to join him for a late supper after the game, where you are finally able to confide your shame to someone who truly understands. Unlike you, he was already working NCAA ball before being corrupted, but his brother’s legal troubles stemming from a large cocaine bust convinced him to listen to the gamblers who’d make sure his brother got the best legal help money could buy. Once that first step was taken, he could never go back.

While you’re at the restaurant, you get a visit from a different thug who quietly gives you each an envelope containing eight thousand dollars. You and your newfound friend loosen up and order some really good champagne--two bottles, in fact--and get a little tipsy.

You’re walking back to your hotel when a car pulls up and a young woman gets out. She waves the car away and hurries over to you. “Mind if I walk along?” she asks.

She’s way out of your league, you think, but you’re feeling confident with several thousand dollars in your pocket and some good champagne clouding your judgment. It’s only when she’s safely inside your hotel room she reveals herself to be a reporter and pulls out a few grainy photos of you in the cab with your gambler contact, and another receiving the payoff at the restaurant.

“I know what’s going on,” she tells you. “I won’t go to the cops if you give me your story--I’ll protect you as a confidential source.” You’re suddenly terrified, but something about the way her hand rests familiarly on your arm convinces you to go along--you don't often get attention from girls as pretty as her and besides, you don’t feel you have much choice.

Just as quickly as you acquiesced to the gambler’s instructions you go along with the reporter’s demands to tell her everything. She spends the next several hours grilling you, recording everything. At the end she falls asleep on the couch while you lie in your hotel bed, staring at the ceiling, unable to doze off.

The next morning she is gone but before you get on the train to head home for the summer, she shows up at the station and gives you a copy of her story to read. She wants you to check it for accuracy. Your eyes blur with hot tears and you can barely make out the words which describe in unforgiving detail your corruption. You know there will be little doubt on the gamblers' part as to who gave her the story, and you beg her not to print it. She gives you a wry smile and shakes her head. She turns and walks away quickly, leaving a copy of the story in your hand.

You panic and realize you can’t go home, so you go to the ticket booth and buy passage to Milwaukee, where you have an aunt.

What? Oh, I pulled that up on your file as an emergency contact. Don’t interrupt when I’m on a roll, okay?

So you go to your aunt’s and wait for the story to break. After a week you hear nothing, and then another week passes. You wonder if you dare hope that the reporter had a change of heart. Then one Wednesday morning, when you’re alone in the house, a boy comes to the door and hands you an envelope he says he was told to deliver by some guy who gave him 50 bucks. In it is a key and directions to a storage locker in the bus depot.

You are terrified--how could they find you, you wonder--but you force yourself to go check it nonetheless. You stifle a scream and rush to vomit in the washroom when you see the contents of the locker--it’s the head of the reporter.

You stumble out of the bus depot, desperately frightened, and look over your shoulder to see the large henchman of your gambler friend; he and another man are rushing towards you. Your fear keeps you from looking the opposite direction before you step out into the street, and a Greyhound to Topeka will deliver its passengers late that day because the driver will have to give a statement about the crazy guy who ran in front of his bus.

Sorry--I guess you never will quite make the NBA, at least that’s my guess if I were a betting man.

When next you're in New York

...you have to go to the Strand bookstore in Greenwich Village. It's truly wonderful:















































































I'm definitely going to plan to allow myself about five hours there next time. Of course, then I'll need to ship a box of books home since I won't be able to get them all on the plane.

They've been there since 1927. Here's a link to their website.

Sorry for the lack of any sort of decent posts. I'll have more time soon, I hope, and that should change things. Hopefully some rest and a little spare time will get me more interested in writing something a bit more creative as well.

A lone tumbleweed drifts past...

Nobody's blogging anymore. Well, pretty much nobody. Here are some most recent posts:

Milly: May 27, but that was only a haiku

Camila: Recent, but the last one, perhaps

Katie H: May 16

Ella: April 11

Berkeley: May 25, but that was the first after a two-month hiatus

RS: March 16 (her birthday)

AD: May 28

RH: May 12

"Genevieve": May 4

Plus both Nylon and Patrick (Blue Moon Dementia) deleted their blogs.

However, on the bright side, I just rediscovered "Overheard in New York" so I've got something else to procrastinate with.

Also, kudos to neuroticmom who is still posting more than some of you. I just like to kill time by blogwandering, and you're all letting me down.

:P