I actually like Pachelbel's Canon--but this is funny:
Saturday, January 06, 2007
Friday, January 05, 2007
CCC is back
I used to have all the Cynical Career Counselor posts on a page of their own; after some discussion with Nylon, we thought it best to remove that page, while we go over/edit them with the idea of doing something more eventually.
I like having a page out there though, so I'm putting a sampler collection online--14 of the 74 posts, which I suppose I'll change up from time to time.
Here it is.
On a different note, thanks for the kind thoughts those who contacted me or who I've chatted with in the last day or two. Things are going okay--the next several days will show us how successful the surgeon was.
I like having a page out there though, so I'm putting a sampler collection online--14 of the 74 posts, which I suppose I'll change up from time to time.
Here it is.
On a different note, thanks for the kind thoughts those who contacted me or who I've chatted with in the last day or two. Things are going okay--the next several days will show us how successful the surgeon was.
Saturday, December 30, 2006
More seasonal stuff...
Tonight we took my parents on a christmas light drive. We saw some amazing (and amazingly tacky) homes, but pics of lights generally don't work. Last night, though we headed out to Butchart Gardens to see the annual Christmas decorations and displays. Over a number of years they built the "12 Days of Christmas"--we'd been a couple years ago but they added the 12 drummers drumming since then. Here are some pics; if you want to see the rest they're on my photobucket. The password is "lookatthepics".
This is the sunken garden all lit up.
This was kind of cool--a star way up high in a tree and then the real moon above that.
This is the outdoor skating rink--being Scrooges, though, we didn't agree to stick around and pay the bucks to let my daughter and her friend skate there.
My wife thought this looked like the Narnia lantern, an illusion which would be damaged if I hadn't cropped the men's room sign off the bottom of it.
This is the sunken garden all lit up.
This was kind of cool--a star way up high in a tree and then the real moon above that.
This is the outdoor skating rink--being Scrooges, though, we didn't agree to stick around and pay the bucks to let my daughter and her friend skate there.
My wife thought this looked like the Narnia lantern, an illusion which would be damaged if I hadn't cropped the men's room sign off the bottom of it.
Thursday, December 28, 2006
and between the holidays...
1. Boxing Day sales--they're pretty much now a constant state of hyperretailing from Dec. 26 to Jan. 1. Most disturbing thing I noticed: You can buy Moulin Rouge in a 2 for $10 bin, but Pretty in Pink and Big Momma's House 2 go for 2 for $20. What mouth breather is pricing these things?
2. SKYPE! I tried it for the first time yesterday--talked to my niece in Winnipeg for about a half hour, and it was amazing. The sound was really clear, and the whole family at one time or another had a chance to chat with her.
3. Running! Yes, first time yesterday in about a month. Amazing how quickly you lose your endurance. I guess I might as well get a start on that new year's resolution early.
4. 5:30 a.m. in the freezing morning. Tomorrow my son starts his daily paper route, and like a good dad, I've agreed to get up and go with him the first time--partly because I've agreed to give him one day a week off and do Saturday mornings for him. Thus, I guess I need to know it too. Before going back to nursing, my wife did this same route (plus another one) every morning and I used to do it on weekends, but that was about 8 years ago. It's a few degrees below freezing right now so there should be ice everywhere.
I'm off to bed--morning is going to come painfully early...
2. SKYPE! I tried it for the first time yesterday--talked to my niece in Winnipeg for about a half hour, and it was amazing. The sound was really clear, and the whole family at one time or another had a chance to chat with her.
3. Running! Yes, first time yesterday in about a month. Amazing how quickly you lose your endurance. I guess I might as well get a start on that new year's resolution early.
4. 5:30 a.m. in the freezing morning. Tomorrow my son starts his daily paper route, and like a good dad, I've agreed to get up and go with him the first time--partly because I've agreed to give him one day a week off and do Saturday mornings for him. Thus, I guess I need to know it too. Before going back to nursing, my wife did this same route (plus another one) every morning and I used to do it on weekends, but that was about 8 years ago. It's a few degrees below freezing right now so there should be ice everywhere.
I'm off to bed--morning is going to come painfully early...
Tuesday, December 26, 2006
What wonders man hath wrought
So this is it--the culmination of technology this Christmas season. You turn on Channel 93--there's the now traditional shaw cable fire--every so often a hand reaches in and throws on another log. It's also on Cable 11 as well, at least right now.
But that's not the peak, the culmination of what years of technological improvement in broadcasting hath given us. Turn to channel 94. THERE'S A DIFFERENT FIRE!
It looks very similar--but it's not.
Do we really need this much choice?
But that's not the peak, the culmination of what years of technological improvement in broadcasting hath given us. Turn to channel 94. THERE'S A DIFFERENT FIRE!
It looks very similar--but it's not.
Do we really need this much choice?
Thursday, December 21, 2006
The Cynical Career Counsellor Explains Your Future as an
Elf..., er as a Vintner
Oh hey, you been waiting here long? Don't mind these bottles; they let me take a few with me 'cause the staff room's got a bunch in... well, let's just say you kids are supposed to be gone by now.
Whoa, you are a little one, aren't you? I think you'd make a great elf. Of course there's the problem of the cold, and Santa's probably a bit of a tough boss--I mean, face it; you think they get overtime those last few weeks?
Whaddya mean? Sure--a few drinks but... Vintner? What the hell is a... wine? No, you're too young--this is going home with me. Huh? Slow down, you're a little blurry.
Oh, right. I get it.
You'll go to some fancy academy in the wine growing part of California, where you'll do the crap jobs for those snotty people with their fancy name tags who get in your face just because you take the bottle from that extra table that nobody was sitting at anyway and besides, they just write it all off as... oh, right.
You mind if I smoke? I mean, technically school ended about two hours ago. You shouldn't even be here. Why are you here, anyway? Oh--that sucks. Well, maybe your plane being delayed until after supper wouldn't be a problem if you were riding on that reindeer sleigh your boss takes 'round the... oh, yeah.
Wine, right? Okay, so you go to some wine academy in... Oh, I did? Where did I leave off? Name tags? Nevermind.
Skip ahead to you figuring out you're just slave labor for some grape grower who got in a bind when immigration scared off half his work force. Of course, the wine school will call it a "work term" or something--but you'll get tired of it fast and make your escape to France.
There you'll hike the wine regions until you find a small vineyard in Bordeaux. The family, an older couple and their two adult daughters, quickly welcome you into the family. You work in exchange for free room and board, and the insights of a man with over four decades in the winemaking business. At night you sometimes accompany the daughters to the nearby village where you dance at the one nightclub in the region, and soon you're well known to everyone in the area.
You've taken french, right? Good. Anyway, your french improves rapidly, and hours after the village jeweler sneaks word to the vintner that you've just bought an engagement ring, your mentor takes you out to the vineyard for a chat. He explains that you are the son he never had and he's decided to take a well deserved retirement, and he wants you to manage his vineyard for his daughters.
The following spring you are married to the younger daughter, and the two of you move into the big house at the top of the estate, while your new sister-in-law finds herself sharing less opulent surroundings with her parents in the renovated but still humble guest house.
Marie, your wife, has never gotten along that well with her sister, and now she has beaten her senior sibling to the altar, the rivalry grows nastier. Soon Chantale, the older sister, resorts to bringing home a variety of the nastier village ne'er do wells and partying with them on the lawn out behind your house until all hours of the morning.
It gets worse when she settles on one of them for a husband. Chantale and her new spouse convince your father in law that her husband should share management duties with you out in the fields while your wives continue to manage the wholesale and retail distributing of your wine.
You gotta leave for that plane yet? Fine--but I'm going to just have a little glass of this--you okay with that? All this talk about wine is making me thirsty.
Your new brother in law is sneaky--you go out to one of the vineyards one morning only to discover he's sown pot plants between the rows of grapes. You have the laborers pull them up, and later he threatens to "take care of you". You aren't too worried, but still you begin keeping track of where he is when you head out to inspect the crops alone.
Then one day he rushes in and hurriedly blurts out his latest plan to get rich: ice wine. You're familiar with the very sweet product created by leaving grapes on the vine late in the season until they freeze. It's not a product the french like, as a rule, but your partner has made contact with some Germans who are eager to find more quality ice wine to market throughout Germany and North America.
Pierre, your brother in law has learned of a new "cheat" that allows winemakers to produce ice wine artificially--grapes are frozen in big coolers rather than on the vine, and extra sugar is added to give the wine its characteristic sweet taste.
If word of this scam gets out, it will ruin the reputation of the vineyard--a reputation it took your father in law a lifetime to build. You try to stop Pierre, but he has his first batch in the bottle before you can interfere. You swear to yourself that you'll end this abomination before it ruins the whole operation, and you drive out to the end of the estate to confront Pierre.
He listens to your tirade politely and then asks to borrow your cell phone. You hand it over and he immediately smashes it under his foot. That simple step prevents you calling for help when two German bikers step out of the grape vines and join him in physically venting his frustration on you--it won't be pretty.
If you survive, what say you come back here and tell me if the fetal position actually helps? Oh, my cab's here--good luck.
Say hi to Santa for me.
My Christmas? I'll be getting the yearly phone call from my kids at 11 a.m. and then my ex-wife will come on and accuse me of being drunk and then I'll go to the old codgers' home and listen to my mother tell me why I'm a disappointment for about two hours until we eat the pressed turkey sandwiches. With any luck I'll put a bullet in my head before New Years.
Thanks for asking, though.
Oh hey, you been waiting here long? Don't mind these bottles; they let me take a few with me 'cause the staff room's got a bunch in... well, let's just say you kids are supposed to be gone by now.
Whoa, you are a little one, aren't you? I think you'd make a great elf. Of course there's the problem of the cold, and Santa's probably a bit of a tough boss--I mean, face it; you think they get overtime those last few weeks?
Whaddya mean? Sure--a few drinks but... Vintner? What the hell is a... wine? No, you're too young--this is going home with me. Huh? Slow down, you're a little blurry.
Oh, right. I get it.
You'll go to some fancy academy in the wine growing part of California, where you'll do the crap jobs for those snotty people with their fancy name tags who get in your face just because you take the bottle from that extra table that nobody was sitting at anyway and besides, they just write it all off as... oh, right.
You mind if I smoke? I mean, technically school ended about two hours ago. You shouldn't even be here. Why are you here, anyway? Oh--that sucks. Well, maybe your plane being delayed until after supper wouldn't be a problem if you were riding on that reindeer sleigh your boss takes 'round the... oh, yeah.
Wine, right? Okay, so you go to some wine academy in... Oh, I did? Where did I leave off? Name tags? Nevermind.
Skip ahead to you figuring out you're just slave labor for some grape grower who got in a bind when immigration scared off half his work force. Of course, the wine school will call it a "work term" or something--but you'll get tired of it fast and make your escape to France.
There you'll hike the wine regions until you find a small vineyard in Bordeaux. The family, an older couple and their two adult daughters, quickly welcome you into the family. You work in exchange for free room and board, and the insights of a man with over four decades in the winemaking business. At night you sometimes accompany the daughters to the nearby village where you dance at the one nightclub in the region, and soon you're well known to everyone in the area.
You've taken french, right? Good. Anyway, your french improves rapidly, and hours after the village jeweler sneaks word to the vintner that you've just bought an engagement ring, your mentor takes you out to the vineyard for a chat. He explains that you are the son he never had and he's decided to take a well deserved retirement, and he wants you to manage his vineyard for his daughters.
The following spring you are married to the younger daughter, and the two of you move into the big house at the top of the estate, while your new sister-in-law finds herself sharing less opulent surroundings with her parents in the renovated but still humble guest house.
Marie, your wife, has never gotten along that well with her sister, and now she has beaten her senior sibling to the altar, the rivalry grows nastier. Soon Chantale, the older sister, resorts to bringing home a variety of the nastier village ne'er do wells and partying with them on the lawn out behind your house until all hours of the morning.
It gets worse when she settles on one of them for a husband. Chantale and her new spouse convince your father in law that her husband should share management duties with you out in the fields while your wives continue to manage the wholesale and retail distributing of your wine.
You gotta leave for that plane yet? Fine--but I'm going to just have a little glass of this--you okay with that? All this talk about wine is making me thirsty.
Your new brother in law is sneaky--you go out to one of the vineyards one morning only to discover he's sown pot plants between the rows of grapes. You have the laborers pull them up, and later he threatens to "take care of you". You aren't too worried, but still you begin keeping track of where he is when you head out to inspect the crops alone.
Then one day he rushes in and hurriedly blurts out his latest plan to get rich: ice wine. You're familiar with the very sweet product created by leaving grapes on the vine late in the season until they freeze. It's not a product the french like, as a rule, but your partner has made contact with some Germans who are eager to find more quality ice wine to market throughout Germany and North America.
Pierre, your brother in law has learned of a new "cheat" that allows winemakers to produce ice wine artificially--grapes are frozen in big coolers rather than on the vine, and extra sugar is added to give the wine its characteristic sweet taste.
If word of this scam gets out, it will ruin the reputation of the vineyard--a reputation it took your father in law a lifetime to build. You try to stop Pierre, but he has his first batch in the bottle before you can interfere. You swear to yourself that you'll end this abomination before it ruins the whole operation, and you drive out to the end of the estate to confront Pierre.
He listens to your tirade politely and then asks to borrow your cell phone. You hand it over and he immediately smashes it under his foot. That simple step prevents you calling for help when two German bikers step out of the grape vines and join him in physically venting his frustration on you--it won't be pretty.
If you survive, what say you come back here and tell me if the fetal position actually helps? Oh, my cab's here--good luck.
Say hi to Santa for me.
My Christmas? I'll be getting the yearly phone call from my kids at 11 a.m. and then my ex-wife will come on and accuse me of being drunk and then I'll go to the old codgers' home and listen to my mother tell me why I'm a disappointment for about two hours until we eat the pressed turkey sandwiches. With any luck I'll put a bullet in my head before New Years.
Thanks for asking, though.
Sunday, December 17, 2006
The windstorm on Friday - updated
That story is describing us--we're the "outlying areas". We didn't have it as bad as Sooke, but it was still bad--trees on houses and cars, no power, not much fun.
We knew it was coming--I had about a half hour before heading off to my daughter's school choir concert to run around the yard and pack up anything that might blow away.
Still, when we got home, there wasn't any wind, and we wondered if we'd fallen for a false alarm. By around midnight, we realized that wasn't the case. The power went out a little after 12:30. The gusts kept pounding the house, and when I heard a new noise around 3 a.m. I knew there was a problem. I discovered a ten-foot length of siding was loose and flapping in the wind--kind of shredded, and the potential was the whole side of the house could lose its siding.
So there I was, snakelight wrapped around my neck, on a stepladder with hail coming down and winds around 110 kmh (70 mph) blowing the vinyl siding at my face. It was much fun trying to hammer it into place, trust me, and the picture shows we'll have to get that replaced somehow--but at least that stopped it from getting worse.
The next morning showed the extent of the damage, and since I'd had no sleep at all, I called in sick. My kids didn't have any school--their district shut them all down--but my school had power. Even if I hadn't felt like death warmed over, I had no desire to leave my kids home alone with no electricity--and I don't want them making fires when no adults are there.
Later that morning a friend of my daughter's who had electricity invited her over, and when I drove the half mile or so to their place I saw this tree down:
They live across the fence from the house where the classic cars were destroyed in the news story at the top of this post.
We got power back around 1 that afternoon, but many people had theirs out much longer. I bother trying to make it downtown for my staff christmas party--there's 20 bucks I'd rather write off than try to drive home after a couple drinks and about 2 hours sleep in the previous 36.
The winds around our place probably didn't get much over that 110 kmh level, but out at Sooke, they had an hour of 150 kmh--which is about 94 mph, with gusts by the water of 175 (110mph).
Essentially, a hurricane. The record rainfall in November, and more the last few weeks, meant that the ground was saturated and a lot of big trees came down.
Thankfully, both yesterday and today the weather was pretty nice.
One week of shopping left, kids--hope that's the biggest worry between now and Christmas Day...
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
The Cynical Career Counsellor Explains Your Future as a
Modelling Agent
Oh hi--I don't think I've seen you around before... Transfer student? I see. No, you'll have to put that little cigar away. Don't get me wrong, I'm not sexist--girls can smoke the same things boys can, I mean, I saw this picture of of Claudia Schiffer smoking a cuban one time and man, that was... Oh, sorry. No, it's the rules--nobody smokes in the school. That ashtray? Uhm, I take it outside during my break. Look, I don't have time to argue about the school's smoking policy so if you don't have anything else to talk... What's that? A modelling agent, huh?
I'll be honest with you--modelling agents are a dime a dozen. Most girls try to get started on some internet site, and hope the big city agencies might notice them. Those agencies come to town here once or twice a year and all the dreamers flock to them. You're stuck--if you stay around here you won't be able to find work for anyone you represent, and if you go to a major city you'll never make it trying to compete with all the established big players.
What's that? You've got an angle, huh? Well, maybe that's your only hope. What'll it be--something a little edgier like Suicide Girls, maybe? What? No, of course not--I just saw them on one of those CSI shows once. What's that smirk supposed to mean? Anyway, you'll find girls who don't fit the mainstream agencies--maybe the plus sizers or something, and... What? I can't do this if you keep interrupting. Yeah, of course my computer has the internet. Boys? All right, if it will get us through this quicker, go ahead.
You have to log in first--oh right, you're new. No password yet, huh? All right, here--okay, I'm logged in. Go ahead.
What's this? Hey--I can get fired for surfing to stuff like this. What--they're all 18? Some of them don't look like it. Hmm--this is a little creepy. Okay--that's enough--I don't need some IT geek coming after me for this. Anyway, I think I'm ready to give you the quick and dirty version, my friend.
You'll go to business college--learn the basics of contract law as it relates to talent representation, and then you'll go cajole your way into an internship at some agency--not in New York or L.A., but somewhere not so big league--St. Louis, maybe.
You'll specialize in recruitment. Other staffers sit in their offices waiting for prospects to walk in or email something, but you'll be cruising the emo coffee shops or offering smokes to the older denizens of local skate parks. Every chain smoking coffee house poet you sign is too naive to consult anyone about the contract you shove in front of them, and soon you manipulate them to trust you, and ultimately become completely dependent on your advice on everything from what to wear to when to phone their estranged parents for money.
Not all of them are cut out for the business--in fact, most of them aren't--so when you finish your internship and announce your intention to set up shop in Boston, the agency doesn't argue with the half dozen pretty boys who follow you there like brainwashed cultists.
You set up your agency on a shoestring, but as you continue to recruit, you eventually find a few diamonds among the pretty toys you collect and they start bringing in some cash. Ambigious sexuality eventually cycles back into vogue and you're poised to take full advantage--most suspect you have have more testosterone coursing through your veins than any of the foundlings you represent.
You don't age well--cigarillos give way to real cigars, and a bottle of scotch can be handily stored in your filing cabinet to help ease the pain of watching your pretty ones discover their attraction to each other and eventually realize indentured servitude as your harem of house boys is not worth the occasional tux shop flyer gigs you get them.
You, on the other hand, will die lonely of complications of your lungs, liver or psyche.
Hope you like it here.
Oh hi--I don't think I've seen you around before... Transfer student? I see. No, you'll have to put that little cigar away. Don't get me wrong, I'm not sexist--girls can smoke the same things boys can, I mean, I saw this picture of of Claudia Schiffer smoking a cuban one time and man, that was... Oh, sorry. No, it's the rules--nobody smokes in the school. That ashtray? Uhm, I take it outside during my break. Look, I don't have time to argue about the school's smoking policy so if you don't have anything else to talk... What's that? A modelling agent, huh?
I'll be honest with you--modelling agents are a dime a dozen. Most girls try to get started on some internet site, and hope the big city agencies might notice them. Those agencies come to town here once or twice a year and all the dreamers flock to them. You're stuck--if you stay around here you won't be able to find work for anyone you represent, and if you go to a major city you'll never make it trying to compete with all the established big players.
What's that? You've got an angle, huh? Well, maybe that's your only hope. What'll it be--something a little edgier like Suicide Girls, maybe? What? No, of course not--I just saw them on one of those CSI shows once. What's that smirk supposed to mean? Anyway, you'll find girls who don't fit the mainstream agencies--maybe the plus sizers or something, and... What? I can't do this if you keep interrupting. Yeah, of course my computer has the internet. Boys? All right, if it will get us through this quicker, go ahead.
You have to log in first--oh right, you're new. No password yet, huh? All right, here--okay, I'm logged in. Go ahead.
What's this? Hey--I can get fired for surfing to stuff like this. What--they're all 18? Some of them don't look like it. Hmm--this is a little creepy. Okay--that's enough--I don't need some IT geek coming after me for this. Anyway, I think I'm ready to give you the quick and dirty version, my friend.
You'll go to business college--learn the basics of contract law as it relates to talent representation, and then you'll go cajole your way into an internship at some agency--not in New York or L.A., but somewhere not so big league--St. Louis, maybe.
You'll specialize in recruitment. Other staffers sit in their offices waiting for prospects to walk in or email something, but you'll be cruising the emo coffee shops or offering smokes to the older denizens of local skate parks. Every chain smoking coffee house poet you sign is too naive to consult anyone about the contract you shove in front of them, and soon you manipulate them to trust you, and ultimately become completely dependent on your advice on everything from what to wear to when to phone their estranged parents for money.
Not all of them are cut out for the business--in fact, most of them aren't--so when you finish your internship and announce your intention to set up shop in Boston, the agency doesn't argue with the half dozen pretty boys who follow you there like brainwashed cultists.
You set up your agency on a shoestring, but as you continue to recruit, you eventually find a few diamonds among the pretty toys you collect and they start bringing in some cash. Ambigious sexuality eventually cycles back into vogue and you're poised to take full advantage--most suspect you have have more testosterone coursing through your veins than any of the foundlings you represent.
You don't age well--cigarillos give way to real cigars, and a bottle of scotch can be handily stored in your filing cabinet to help ease the pain of watching your pretty ones discover their attraction to each other and eventually realize indentured servitude as your harem of house boys is not worth the occasional tux shop flyer gigs you get them.
You, on the other hand, will die lonely of complications of your lungs, liver or psyche.
Hope you like it here.
Sunday, December 03, 2006
Poetry by Dythandra
Unwilling Accomplice
He sits at the back--just like me
Looking bewildered when he hears:
"Just find a partner for the project".
We don't attract partners--
Or any human contact, really.
The difference is,
I work at it,
While his leprosy occurs more naturally.
It's awkward at the end--
The teacher peers over her charges
"Anyone not have a partner?"
We say nothing, but then
A little cheer whore obliges:
"Those two don't have partners"
The teacher smiles and assigns us each other
With no more thought
Than I gave the beetle
I killed before breakfast.
He looks in my direction
Won't meet my eyes.
I'm not going to make it easy
But then the blonde princess titters
So I glance daggers at her
And join my new... friend.
I pull a desk beside his and roll my eyes
We read the lab instructions
In uncomfortable silence.
He picks at his cuticles 'til they bleed;
While I draw portraits of Tiffany with electrodes,
Decorating her skin.
It's mind-numbingly simple
Earth Science is to real science
What podiatry is to neurosurgery.
We are required to meet on the weekend,
Our task: a trek into the park
To number the carbon-based lifeforms
In one square meter of greenspace.
We meet at his house;
I'd rather not give my parentals false hope
Of pseudo-social interactions,
Plus his family's expressions
When I arrive--too delightful to miss.
It's a short trek to our research site,
Then we look about for the best spot
To perform our grubby census.
He defers to my determination--
I can spot decomp
From a quarter mile away.
Sure enough, our little piece of nature
Yields the sad remnants
Of a family of racoons
No doubt the parents were eaten
Or squashed by an SUV
Too soon for their offspring to survive.
We count the things that call the little corpses home
and I take a few quick digicam pics
While my partner tries hard
Not to look squeamish.
Soon our list is complete
Bugs, grubs and maggots
A veritable city
Just beneath the surface.
As he starts to leave,
I pull out a freezer bag.
He waits awkwardly
While I kidnap the lower life forms.
Monday is a grand success.
I actually meet a deadline
And Tiffany has an unfortunate
But assuredly accidental
Mishap with red ants.
It's quite a scene--she screams and flails about
Before fleeing the room.
Her partner, with his nonchalant good looks
Quietly passes me a note:
"Next time I work with you".
He sits at the back--just like me
Looking bewildered when he hears:
"Just find a partner for the project".
We don't attract partners--
Or any human contact, really.
The difference is,
I work at it,
While his leprosy occurs more naturally.
It's awkward at the end--
The teacher peers over her charges
"Anyone not have a partner?"
We say nothing, but then
A little cheer whore obliges:
"Those two don't have partners"
The teacher smiles and assigns us each other
With no more thought
Than I gave the beetle
I killed before breakfast.
He looks in my direction
Won't meet my eyes.
I'm not going to make it easy
But then the blonde princess titters
So I glance daggers at her
And join my new... friend.
I pull a desk beside his and roll my eyes
We read the lab instructions
In uncomfortable silence.
He picks at his cuticles 'til they bleed;
While I draw portraits of Tiffany with electrodes,
Decorating her skin.
It's mind-numbingly simple
Earth Science is to real science
What podiatry is to neurosurgery.
We are required to meet on the weekend,
Our task: a trek into the park
To number the carbon-based lifeforms
In one square meter of greenspace.
We meet at his house;
I'd rather not give my parentals false hope
Of pseudo-social interactions,
Plus his family's expressions
When I arrive--too delightful to miss.
It's a short trek to our research site,
Then we look about for the best spot
To perform our grubby census.
He defers to my determination--
I can spot decomp
From a quarter mile away.
Sure enough, our little piece of nature
Yields the sad remnants
Of a family of racoons
No doubt the parents were eaten
Or squashed by an SUV
Too soon for their offspring to survive.
We count the things that call the little corpses home
and I take a few quick digicam pics
While my partner tries hard
Not to look squeamish.
Soon our list is complete
Bugs, grubs and maggots
A veritable city
Just beneath the surface.
As he starts to leave,
I pull out a freezer bag.
He waits awkwardly
While I kidnap the lower life forms.
Monday is a grand success.
I actually meet a deadline
And Tiffany has an unfortunate
But assuredly accidental
Mishap with red ants.
It's quite a scene--she screams and flails about
Before fleeing the room.
Her partner, with his nonchalant good looks
Quietly passes me a note:
"Next time I work with you".
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
Real Winter
We get smug sometimes when we look at the weather endured by other parts of Canada. I confess to even having used this blog to "educate" some of our southern neighbours (yes, brit. spelling) about the climate of this part of the great white north. At one point I'd even posted a link to a site about the thousands of palm trees growing in our metro area.
Still, every so often--maybe five years or so--we get a little taste of what others take for granted each winter. It tends to show that we're not all that well prepared. Partly it's that we live surrounded by coastal rainforest, and that means very large trees with limbs that break when the snow and ice get too heavy, or which simply fall down entirely.
These can smash houses on rare occasions, but more often they bring down power lines and people struggle on without electricity for a while. One girl in my English class yesterday explained that she lives in an outlying area which hasn't had electricity for five days; I heard on the radio this morning that some such affected areas won't be getting any power before Saturday.
One area has also been without phone service for three days. Fortunately for us, we've been pretty much spared power outages.
It was -10 celcius last night, which is 14 on the Fahrenheit scale. It's about 22 right now and we're expecting snow to start within the next couple of hours. Still, they predict it will be rain by tomorrow.
On the bright side, our Australian exchange teacher, who finishes her year with us in a few weeks, is thrilled she got a taste of weather typical of elsewhere in Canada, and it's also very pretty to look at.
Here are a few pics:
Our street
also our street--looking next door
our back yard
my kids enjoying the snow
...and the fountain in our school courtyard yesterday--I wish I'd got the pic when the sun was still shining on it, though
Still, every so often--maybe five years or so--we get a little taste of what others take for granted each winter. It tends to show that we're not all that well prepared. Partly it's that we live surrounded by coastal rainforest, and that means very large trees with limbs that break when the snow and ice get too heavy, or which simply fall down entirely.
These can smash houses on rare occasions, but more often they bring down power lines and people struggle on without electricity for a while. One girl in my English class yesterday explained that she lives in an outlying area which hasn't had electricity for five days; I heard on the radio this morning that some such affected areas won't be getting any power before Saturday.
One area has also been without phone service for three days. Fortunately for us, we've been pretty much spared power outages.
It was -10 celcius last night, which is 14 on the Fahrenheit scale. It's about 22 right now and we're expecting snow to start within the next couple of hours. Still, they predict it will be rain by tomorrow.
On the bright side, our Australian exchange teacher, who finishes her year with us in a few weeks, is thrilled she got a taste of weather typical of elsewhere in Canada, and it's also very pretty to look at.
Here are a few pics:
Our street
also our street--looking next door
our back yard
my kids enjoying the snow
...and the fountain in our school courtyard yesterday--I wish I'd got the pic when the sun was still shining on it, though
Sunday, November 19, 2006
Poetry by Dythandra
Field Trip Stowaway
It's an odd sensation--something's afoot
Yet I'm out of the loop.
My usual detachment seems insufficient
For somehow it's about me.
At lunch I hear them talking--my name
That name--I won't speak it--
and muffled phrases:
"She'd love that"
"Maybe she'd find a boyfriend there"
"It would be like christmas--or should
I say Halloween for her"
I glare at them but cannot allow myself
the luxury of asking.
Superior is as superior does
And my mystique is what shields me
From the "prepulent" rabble
Still, something is up, and I must know.
I take my usual approach--
Long smoke breaks in the girl's washroom
Hidden in the stall, I listen
But to no avail.
Then I stand behind the foyer pillar
But no one reveals anything more interesting
Than the identity of the narc
Old news--we spotted his wedding ring tanline
Even before we cringed at his
1997 ghetto slang.
Then a clue--a too-loud jock
No doubt compensating for steroidal shrinking
Sees fit to yell towards me as I pass:
"Hey Morticia--gonna find a prom date on that field trip?"
Now I have something to work with
And soon discover a notice
I'd passed by dozens of times
Without regard:
GRADE 12 BIOLOGY FIELD TRIP:
"Bodies in Motion" I am intrigued.
"...featuring almost 200 authentic human specimens
preserved using the extraordinary method of Plastination"
I gasp. This is school--a class--
They will see this, experience
What has been only fodder
For my fevered dreams.
I must go. I move at a pace faster
Than my usual apathy allows.
The biology teacher is eating lunch
As I blurt my wish to "take advantage
of this amazing learning opportunity".
He looks at me coldly.
"I remember you. The fetal pig kid."
I am horrified--it hadn't occurred to me
That last year's liberation of my pickled pet
Would still rankle in his formaldehyde-damaged brain.
"Uhm, yeah--but that wasn't me," I stammer.
He shakes his head. "It's for the senior biology class--only."
I am not beyond begging, but his eyes make it clear
So I go elsewhere to plot my strategy.
Our town is too small, and the chance to see the exhibit
Miles away in the city
Shrinks with the waning fall daylight--
It's scheduled to move on
Like a rare comet--passing this close once
In our tedious lifetimes.
I turn to my old standby--the counselling department.
They all fear me, and I know their secrets.
My typical requests--excused from P.E.,
early dismissal, free cafeteria food--are always granted
Without a moment's hesitation.
Still, this one requires all my wiles,
And after hinting at recordings and photos
That might exist--they comply.
I have an "independent biology study" class
And the field trip is now curricular.
The biology teacher scowls--tells me the cost.
I hand him twenty bucks--my share of the bus.
He glances at his list and then a wicked smile...
"Sorry, kid--the bus is full."
I leave the money--deposit for my place
On the "waiting list"--then wait for him
To go to answer the call I make to the office.
During his absence, I scan the class list.
I see my targets--it's survival of the fittest.
And even if I hadn't called the tip line
About the stash that somehow ended up in his locker
The drug-addled loser would have likely skipped
The opportunity of my lifetime.
My father raises an eyebrow as he glances at my mother
While she signs the travel form.
They know not to ask too many questions.
I have my camera safely hidden in my boot.
It will come in handy today.
I need a picture
For this year's Christmas cards.
It's an odd sensation--something's afoot
Yet I'm out of the loop.
My usual detachment seems insufficient
For somehow it's about me.
At lunch I hear them talking--my name
That name--I won't speak it--
and muffled phrases:
"She'd love that"
"Maybe she'd find a boyfriend there"
"It would be like christmas--or should
I say Halloween for her"
I glare at them but cannot allow myself
the luxury of asking.
Superior is as superior does
And my mystique is what shields me
From the "prepulent" rabble
Still, something is up, and I must know.
I take my usual approach--
Long smoke breaks in the girl's washroom
Hidden in the stall, I listen
But to no avail.
Then I stand behind the foyer pillar
But no one reveals anything more interesting
Than the identity of the narc
Old news--we spotted his wedding ring tanline
Even before we cringed at his
1997 ghetto slang.
Then a clue--a too-loud jock
No doubt compensating for steroidal shrinking
Sees fit to yell towards me as I pass:
"Hey Morticia--gonna find a prom date on that field trip?"
Now I have something to work with
And soon discover a notice
I'd passed by dozens of times
Without regard:
GRADE 12 BIOLOGY FIELD TRIP:
"Bodies in Motion" I am intrigued.
"...featuring almost 200 authentic human specimens
preserved using the extraordinary method of Plastination"
I gasp. This is school--a class--
They will see this, experience
What has been only fodder
For my fevered dreams.
I must go. I move at a pace faster
Than my usual apathy allows.
The biology teacher is eating lunch
As I blurt my wish to "take advantage
of this amazing learning opportunity".
He looks at me coldly.
"I remember you. The fetal pig kid."
I am horrified--it hadn't occurred to me
That last year's liberation of my pickled pet
Would still rankle in his formaldehyde-damaged brain.
"Uhm, yeah--but that wasn't me," I stammer.
He shakes his head. "It's for the senior biology class--only."
I am not beyond begging, but his eyes make it clear
So I go elsewhere to plot my strategy.
Our town is too small, and the chance to see the exhibit
Miles away in the city
Shrinks with the waning fall daylight--
It's scheduled to move on
Like a rare comet--passing this close once
In our tedious lifetimes.
I turn to my old standby--the counselling department.
They all fear me, and I know their secrets.
My typical requests--excused from P.E.,
early dismissal, free cafeteria food--are always granted
Without a moment's hesitation.
Still, this one requires all my wiles,
And after hinting at recordings and photos
That might exist--they comply.
I have an "independent biology study" class
And the field trip is now curricular.
The biology teacher scowls--tells me the cost.
I hand him twenty bucks--my share of the bus.
He glances at his list and then a wicked smile...
"Sorry, kid--the bus is full."
I leave the money--deposit for my place
On the "waiting list"--then wait for him
To go to answer the call I make to the office.
During his absence, I scan the class list.
I see my targets--it's survival of the fittest.
And even if I hadn't called the tip line
About the stash that somehow ended up in his locker
The drug-addled loser would have likely skipped
The opportunity of my lifetime.
My father raises an eyebrow as he glances at my mother
While she signs the travel form.
They know not to ask too many questions.
I have my camera safely hidden in my boot.
It will come in handy today.
I need a picture
For this year's Christmas cards.
Saturday, November 04, 2006
Poetry by Dythandra
Unsafe at Any Speed
I
After the second "practice", visibly shaking
My mater called the driving school.
I was getting Mrs. Archibald--one of the good ones.
Good=unflappable.
She was, as I expected, formidable.
A cold glare assessed me--dismissed me
But she was paid to fulfill their promise:
"Creating safe drivers since 1992".
How exactly do you... create them?
An unfriendly eye regarded me; disregarded me.
"Keep your eyes on the road".
I pulled out the ones I stole from biology class
And tossed them out the window.
She started to say something, then,
Thinking better of it, shook her head
And scribbled some notes on her clipboard.
We parted--Will you be my instructor next week?She snorted, then walked away.
II
Two instructors and 17 lessons later,
They deemed me done.
Roy, the one who "survived" scribbled out a certificate.
"Show them this--it might help."
But Roy--you still haven't answered my question
Do you "create" them in test tubes,
Or the... old fashioned way?
He never answered.
III
Waiting at the DMV for my road test.
I know how to read people--there are three
Who can grant me the freedom of the streets.
The first--I know her kind.
All business. Everyone should fail the first time
I slip one place back in line.
The second--buzz cut bodybuilder.
Should be a football coach.
My fashion sense will sink me
Before we leave the parking lot.
Third time lucky--I slip one more place in line.
He's younger, awkward--
His voice cracks,
As I stare directly into his eyes.
He stammers directions as we leave the parking lot
Too overwhelmed to ask me to turn down the music
Meatloaf is way before my time
But "Paradise by the Dashboard Light" is still a classic
And torture for a 28 year old still trying
To complete his adolescence.
Nonchalance is my specialty,
And I sing along with the words and sounds
That flush his pockmarked skin crimson.
He seems not to notice when I miss the shoulder check
He comments not on my rolling stop,
My parallel park--5 minutes to perfect
Earns no critique.
We roll to a stop, back at the DMV.
So--how was I? He quickly hands me the affirmation
Of my driving expertise.
Dampened by his anxiety-moistened hand.
My first trip--the discount used lot
I have to hurry--
The hearse won't last long.
I
After the second "practice", visibly shaking
My mater called the driving school.
I was getting Mrs. Archibald--one of the good ones.
Good=unflappable.
She was, as I expected, formidable.
A cold glare assessed me--dismissed me
But she was paid to fulfill their promise:
"Creating safe drivers since 1992".
How exactly do you... create them?
An unfriendly eye regarded me; disregarded me.
"Keep your eyes on the road".
I pulled out the ones I stole from biology class
And tossed them out the window.
She started to say something, then,
Thinking better of it, shook her head
And scribbled some notes on her clipboard.
We parted--Will you be my instructor next week?She snorted, then walked away.
II
Two instructors and 17 lessons later,
They deemed me done.
Roy, the one who "survived" scribbled out a certificate.
"Show them this--it might help."
But Roy--you still haven't answered my question
Do you "create" them in test tubes,
Or the... old fashioned way?
He never answered.
III
Waiting at the DMV for my road test.
I know how to read people--there are three
Who can grant me the freedom of the streets.
The first--I know her kind.
All business. Everyone should fail the first time
I slip one place back in line.
The second--buzz cut bodybuilder.
Should be a football coach.
My fashion sense will sink me
Before we leave the parking lot.
Third time lucky--I slip one more place in line.
He's younger, awkward--
His voice cracks,
As I stare directly into his eyes.
He stammers directions as we leave the parking lot
Too overwhelmed to ask me to turn down the music
Meatloaf is way before my time
But "Paradise by the Dashboard Light" is still a classic
And torture for a 28 year old still trying
To complete his adolescence.
Nonchalance is my specialty,
And I sing along with the words and sounds
That flush his pockmarked skin crimson.
He seems not to notice when I miss the shoulder check
He comments not on my rolling stop,
My parallel park--5 minutes to perfect
Earns no critique.
We roll to a stop, back at the DMV.
So--how was I? He quickly hands me the affirmation
Of my driving expertise.
Dampened by his anxiety-moistened hand.
My first trip--the discount used lot
I have to hurry--
The hearse won't last long.
Sunday, October 29, 2006
Real Autumn
It always seemed, growing up, that the time change from Daylight Savings to Standard was more a seasonal marker than either the first day of fall--since it could often be beach weather, or close to it, after that--or the first day of winter--since we could easily have snow before then.
The time change was often a better divider between the mild, warm days of tennis and playgrounds, and the frosty, short days of fireplaces and fading gardens.
Today we spent a little time driving about with my parents, admiring the fall colours. It's been an amazingly relaxing and wonderful weekend. Here are some pics from today:
If you want to see all the pics from today--including ones of the family--go to this photobucket:
http://s9.photobucket.com/albums/a94/homeandfamily1/
Follow the submenus to get to today's pics, or just browse, if you prefer. You'll need a password if you don't have it already, and if you email me (jpurple01@hotmail.com) I'll be happy to send it to you. If it's been a while since you visited my photobucket, the password has changed so I'll need to send you the new one.
The time change was often a better divider between the mild, warm days of tennis and playgrounds, and the frosty, short days of fireplaces and fading gardens.
Today we spent a little time driving about with my parents, admiring the fall colours. It's been an amazingly relaxing and wonderful weekend. Here are some pics from today:
If you want to see all the pics from today--including ones of the family--go to this photobucket:
http://s9.photobucket.com/albums/a94/homeandfamily1/
Follow the submenus to get to today's pics, or just browse, if you prefer. You'll need a password if you don't have it already, and if you email me (jpurple01@hotmail.com) I'll be happy to send it to you. If it's been a while since you visited my photobucket, the password has changed so I'll need to send you the new one.
Friday, October 20, 2006
Quotes without context
Quotes from today: (I might have said a few)
"Maybe if the bishop hadn't spent all the money on racehorses you'd have a theatre"
"So when he woke up after the vasectomy he said his wife wasn't there but this student was standing by his side, so it was a sign from god"
"He cries. That's his shtick--he cries"
"Then they had sex in front of all the other kids at the party"
"Dude, your student teacher is hot"
"Which of your friends haven't you made out with?" (awkward pause) "That's what I figured."
"Then she asked me why I put the sewage in my classroom"
"Yeah--that's the guy who was the cop on that Beachcombers show. You don't? You're so young"
"They're just jealous of me 'cause I have a tiara"
"Not like just you're gay--she's sincerely gay"
"You know what my entire drama supply inventory is? Three lights and two hammers."
"Who hasn't seen her naked?" "Not anyone in this room, now"
"Maybe if the bishop hadn't spent all the money on racehorses you'd have a theatre"
"So when he woke up after the vasectomy he said his wife wasn't there but this student was standing by his side, so it was a sign from god"
"He cries. That's his shtick--he cries"
"Then they had sex in front of all the other kids at the party"
"Dude, your student teacher is hot"
"Which of your friends haven't you made out with?" (awkward pause) "That's what I figured."
"Then she asked me why I put the sewage in my classroom"
"Yeah--that's the guy who was the cop on that Beachcombers show. You don't? You're so young"
"They're just jealous of me 'cause I have a tiara"
"Not like just you're gay--she's sincerely gay"
"You know what my entire drama supply inventory is? Three lights and two hammers."
"Who hasn't seen her naked?" "Not anyone in this room, now"
Thursday, October 19, 2006
The Cynical Career Counselor Predicts Your Future as a
Magazine Editor
Hey--you're the kid who won that photo contest last month, right? Well, I've got some photo brochures that... Oh? Magazine editor, huh?
You'll graduate high school and go on to hone your photography skills--you need to start somewhere, and that's what you know. You become skilled at both getting the perfect shot, and digital image manipulation on the computer. Once you're finished, you have an impressive portfolio and it isn't long before you're hired by a trendy publication which targets 20-somethings with disposable income.
Your job isn't boring, at least not at first. One week you're doing a travel feature in Pamplona during the running of the bulls, the next you're shooting artsy pics of the latest in high definition t.v. in Tokyo. Along the way you meet a variety of interesting people, but most of them see you as hired help, even if you get the invites to the trendy parties where the elite create fodder for scandal sheets--stories your magazine would never stoop to publish.
You are careful with your money, and although you save as much as you are able, you still can't quite cobble together the startup cash to get your own publication of the ground. You're too young for any of the established publications to consider hiring you, at least without more suitable experience garnishing your resume, so you escape the frustration of your situation by sharing the various illicit mind-altering delights available at the gatherings you attend.
It's a downhill spiral, but before you become a pathetic shell, you encounter the semi-attractive daughter of a magazine publisher who clearly finds you interesting. While she's not of the intellectual caliber of the writers you've met, and she doesn't have the physical qualities of models you've dated, she does have the potential to get you back on the road to realizing your dream.
Her father is a pragmatic man, and he realizes his daughter's happiness hinges on the man she soon calls her fiance, so he promises you a post as assistant editorship of a relatively new and edgy fashion/lifestyle magazine. You aren't surprised, though, when he makes it clear you'll get the job after you get back from your honeymoon. It's a dowry, plain and simple.
You throw yourself into your job, and you're only slightly annoyed at the occasional orders your boss gives you to take a night off and take your wife to a show--clearly he's doing your father-in-law's bidding. Your wife knows better than to demand your attention when she can use her stranglehold over your career to get her way.
Still, the marriage detiorates, and you sense that you'd best be working on your resume--your job is tied to your status as husband and son-in-law. You're eventually summoned to your father-in-law's office one day, where he explains that his daughter still loves you and you had best shape up. You find the intestinal fortitude to stand up to him for once, and when you leave, you also suggest that any attempt to fire you for your shortcomings as a husband will result in an lawsuit that will be at the least, very embarassing for him and his family.
He mutters some threats, but you leave, convinced your job is still safe, and that weekend you move into your own apartment. Your heartbroken bride calls so frequently you change your number and make sure you avoid any social events she might attend. You sense a change in your editor's attitude, at first, but then things seem to gradually return to normal, and you are lulled into a false sense of security.
Your downfall begins, ironically, with what seems like a major kudo for you. PETA is planning a new campaign to have celebrities and models who support their cause pose provocatively in front of uncooperative politicians' offices, often covered by nothing more than a stuffed baby seal toy, or a photo of a mountain gorilla. Normally, they'd go to a bigger publication, but when their P.R. director lets news of the campaign "slip" to you at a cocktail party, you convince him to let your magazine be the means to share their message.
The shoots go well--the P.R. guy insisted that you not only supervise the feature, but also shoot all the photographs. When you get to the last location, though, the model hasn't shown up. You panic and call your office--there's a tight deadline on this and blowing this story will mean irreparably damaging your reputation. Miraculously, though, a model had just stopped by the office on other business, and she is whisked out to your location.
You finish on time and you're pleased with the final product, although it meant a couple of very late nights for your staff to make the deadline. You are allowed two weeks after the magazine hits the stands to bask in your success.
Then it happens. The investigative journalist for a muckraking tabloid who gets a mysterious tip about an underage model in your shoot. It turns out your last model, the one who came fortuitiously to your rescue, is only 14--despite the fact she could pass for 19 anywhere. It's unfortunate that hers was one of the more provocative of the poses, and although it's no more than Janet Jackson showed to millions of football fans, it's enough to violate the recently passed strict laws about child exploitation.
You realize you have been set up, and pull the same maneuvre as Roman Polanski decades earlier--you flee to Europe. France refuses an extradition request, but it's clear that if you set foot on American soil you'll quickly find yourself in prison.
Your wife is cast as wronged spouse of the worst kind of pornographer, and the judge awards her all of your marital assets--not that you brought much to the union anyway.
You go back to photography, and are hired by Paris-Match. You spend the rest of your professional career going from one horrific auto accident to another, where you take graphic photos of charred corpses--a staple of all french newsmagazines.
Hey--you're the kid who won that photo contest last month, right? Well, I've got some photo brochures that... Oh? Magazine editor, huh?
You'll graduate high school and go on to hone your photography skills--you need to start somewhere, and that's what you know. You become skilled at both getting the perfect shot, and digital image manipulation on the computer. Once you're finished, you have an impressive portfolio and it isn't long before you're hired by a trendy publication which targets 20-somethings with disposable income.
Your job isn't boring, at least not at first. One week you're doing a travel feature in Pamplona during the running of the bulls, the next you're shooting artsy pics of the latest in high definition t.v. in Tokyo. Along the way you meet a variety of interesting people, but most of them see you as hired help, even if you get the invites to the trendy parties where the elite create fodder for scandal sheets--stories your magazine would never stoop to publish.
You are careful with your money, and although you save as much as you are able, you still can't quite cobble together the startup cash to get your own publication of the ground. You're too young for any of the established publications to consider hiring you, at least without more suitable experience garnishing your resume, so you escape the frustration of your situation by sharing the various illicit mind-altering delights available at the gatherings you attend.
It's a downhill spiral, but before you become a pathetic shell, you encounter the semi-attractive daughter of a magazine publisher who clearly finds you interesting. While she's not of the intellectual caliber of the writers you've met, and she doesn't have the physical qualities of models you've dated, she does have the potential to get you back on the road to realizing your dream.
Her father is a pragmatic man, and he realizes his daughter's happiness hinges on the man she soon calls her fiance, so he promises you a post as assistant editorship of a relatively new and edgy fashion/lifestyle magazine. You aren't surprised, though, when he makes it clear you'll get the job after you get back from your honeymoon. It's a dowry, plain and simple.
You throw yourself into your job, and you're only slightly annoyed at the occasional orders your boss gives you to take a night off and take your wife to a show--clearly he's doing your father-in-law's bidding. Your wife knows better than to demand your attention when she can use her stranglehold over your career to get her way.
Still, the marriage detiorates, and you sense that you'd best be working on your resume--your job is tied to your status as husband and son-in-law. You're eventually summoned to your father-in-law's office one day, where he explains that his daughter still loves you and you had best shape up. You find the intestinal fortitude to stand up to him for once, and when you leave, you also suggest that any attempt to fire you for your shortcomings as a husband will result in an lawsuit that will be at the least, very embarassing for him and his family.
He mutters some threats, but you leave, convinced your job is still safe, and that weekend you move into your own apartment. Your heartbroken bride calls so frequently you change your number and make sure you avoid any social events she might attend. You sense a change in your editor's attitude, at first, but then things seem to gradually return to normal, and you are lulled into a false sense of security.
Your downfall begins, ironically, with what seems like a major kudo for you. PETA is planning a new campaign to have celebrities and models who support their cause pose provocatively in front of uncooperative politicians' offices, often covered by nothing more than a stuffed baby seal toy, or a photo of a mountain gorilla. Normally, they'd go to a bigger publication, but when their P.R. director lets news of the campaign "slip" to you at a cocktail party, you convince him to let your magazine be the means to share their message.
The shoots go well--the P.R. guy insisted that you not only supervise the feature, but also shoot all the photographs. When you get to the last location, though, the model hasn't shown up. You panic and call your office--there's a tight deadline on this and blowing this story will mean irreparably damaging your reputation. Miraculously, though, a model had just stopped by the office on other business, and she is whisked out to your location.
You finish on time and you're pleased with the final product, although it meant a couple of very late nights for your staff to make the deadline. You are allowed two weeks after the magazine hits the stands to bask in your success.
Then it happens. The investigative journalist for a muckraking tabloid who gets a mysterious tip about an underage model in your shoot. It turns out your last model, the one who came fortuitiously to your rescue, is only 14--despite the fact she could pass for 19 anywhere. It's unfortunate that hers was one of the more provocative of the poses, and although it's no more than Janet Jackson showed to millions of football fans, it's enough to violate the recently passed strict laws about child exploitation.
You realize you have been set up, and pull the same maneuvre as Roman Polanski decades earlier--you flee to Europe. France refuses an extradition request, but it's clear that if you set foot on American soil you'll quickly find yourself in prison.
Your wife is cast as wronged spouse of the worst kind of pornographer, and the judge awards her all of your marital assets--not that you brought much to the union anyway.
You go back to photography, and are hired by Paris-Match. You spend the rest of your professional career going from one horrific auto accident to another, where you take graphic photos of charred corpses--a staple of all french newsmagazines.
Saturday, October 14, 2006
Rapification
Yesterday: the Thursday morning before work dissonance that is the dance class in my theatre (yeah, I said "my"--sue me) with their ginormous boom box blaring the B.A.M.A. version of "Sweet Home Alabama". Meanwhile, through the wall on the other side, I am treated to the band playing "Hello Dolly". Not a pleasant combination of tunes torturing me in between, but far from the worst, trust me. (The Missy Elliott-Christmas/Hannukah songs duels were legendary last year.)
Today: Discussed with a couple folks the annoying "rapification" of so many songs. If something has any merit, or has had any success, there will be some no-talent ready to mumble some generic line that sounds like all other lines and it will be mixed in with the original. Somehow, this is now "their" song. Yeah right.
Using that premise, I could take a print of the Mona Lisa, and draw a moustache on it, and try to sell it. Then I could draw the same moustache on prints of a variety of other works--They wouldn't even need to have faces, since my fans love that reliable moustache. Imagine it hanging in the air over one the Monet's seven hundred different versions of "Water Lillies".
Does that make those works mine? I guess, if doing something relatively talentless and hitchhiking onto something famous confers ownership in our society.
It's this generation's version of the ubiquitous "elevatorization" of songs back in the 70s and 80s. I still shudder when I recall hearing the symphony orchestra version of "Karma Chameleon" playing in Safeway one day.
The rapification, though, doesn't require much skill, or as many people as "elevatorization" did. Just a mixing system and the ability to rhyme a little. Voila--thousands of songs have been raped this way. Some are surprising--"Rock Around the Clock" for instance.
This isn't a racist rant, either. B.A.M.A., who gave the world their own "Sweet Home Alabama", are a couple of white guys, from what I see of their album cover on Last.fm
(I don't think it's actually an album, since all their songs listed are really just one--Sweet Home Alabama.)
I posited that I could come up with the same sort of thing for virtually any song. I offered the example of "The Song that Doesn't End":
This is the song that doesn’t end
Not like life in the hood, I buried all my friends
Yes it goes on and on my friend
My friend, how I miss you my best friend,
I'm cryin' every night, bout how the good times had to end
Some people started singing it not knowing what it was,
Like choirs in heaven, just because, not knowin' what it wuz
And they’ll continue singing it forever just because
Until the day I see your face, I'm prayin
You're in a better place
I'm not sure where the original would be sung and additional line mumbled, but play around on your garage band yourself and figure it out.
Folks--a microphone and a turntable don't make you a musician any more than a library card makes you a writer.
Sorry if you think I drank the hatorade--it just rankles sometimes, is all.
Today: Discussed with a couple folks the annoying "rapification" of so many songs. If something has any merit, or has had any success, there will be some no-talent ready to mumble some generic line that sounds like all other lines and it will be mixed in with the original. Somehow, this is now "their" song. Yeah right.
Using that premise, I could take a print of the Mona Lisa, and draw a moustache on it, and try to sell it. Then I could draw the same moustache on prints of a variety of other works--They wouldn't even need to have faces, since my fans love that reliable moustache. Imagine it hanging in the air over one the Monet's seven hundred different versions of "Water Lillies".
Does that make those works mine? I guess, if doing something relatively talentless and hitchhiking onto something famous confers ownership in our society.
It's this generation's version of the ubiquitous "elevatorization" of songs back in the 70s and 80s. I still shudder when I recall hearing the symphony orchestra version of "Karma Chameleon" playing in Safeway one day.
The rapification, though, doesn't require much skill, or as many people as "elevatorization" did. Just a mixing system and the ability to rhyme a little. Voila--thousands of songs have been raped this way. Some are surprising--"Rock Around the Clock" for instance.
This isn't a racist rant, either. B.A.M.A., who gave the world their own "Sweet Home Alabama", are a couple of white guys, from what I see of their album cover on Last.fm
(I don't think it's actually an album, since all their songs listed are really just one--Sweet Home Alabama.)
I posited that I could come up with the same sort of thing for virtually any song. I offered the example of "The Song that Doesn't End":
This is the song that doesn’t end
Not like life in the hood, I buried all my friends
Yes it goes on and on my friend
My friend, how I miss you my best friend,
I'm cryin' every night, bout how the good times had to end
Some people started singing it not knowing what it was,
Like choirs in heaven, just because, not knowin' what it wuz
And they’ll continue singing it forever just because
Until the day I see your face, I'm prayin
You're in a better place
I'm not sure where the original would be sung and additional line mumbled, but play around on your garage band yourself and figure it out.
Folks--a microphone and a turntable don't make you a musician any more than a library card makes you a writer.
Sorry if you think I drank the hatorade--it just rankles sometimes, is all.
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
Just a little maple leaf waving...
...and if you're not at all aware of sports you likely won't care.
NHL Most Valuable player for 2005-06 - Joe Thornton, Canadian from Ontario.
NBA Most Valuable player for 2005-06 - Steve Nash, Canadian from right here in Victoria
Now--according to a number of articles like this, the frontrunner for MVP in the American League (baseball, if you're not aware) - Justin Morneau, Canadian from New Westminster (right across the water)
The NHL one isn't a big surprise; Canadian players have won more MVPs than any other nationality, but for major league baseball and for the NBA, well, it's not typical, let's say.
NHL Most Valuable player for 2005-06 - Joe Thornton, Canadian from Ontario.
NBA Most Valuable player for 2005-06 - Steve Nash, Canadian from right here in Victoria
Now--according to a number of articles like this, the frontrunner for MVP in the American League (baseball, if you're not aware) - Justin Morneau, Canadian from New Westminster (right across the water)
The NHL one isn't a big surprise; Canadian players have won more MVPs than any other nationality, but for major league baseball and for the NBA, well, it's not typical, let's say.
Sunday, October 01, 2006
The Cynical Career Counsellor Explains Your Future as a
Cook
Hey kid--you're lookin' a little tired. Close up the pizza place again last night? That sucks. Yeah--I do hear you're pretty good at it. Still, there's a difference between a high school job for gas money, and a life sentence.
You'll stick at the pizza place--or go to another similar dive--once you're finished here. Once you no longer have to go to school, you can take the day shifts that keep your evenings free. Of course, you understand by "day shift" they mean 11:00 a.m. 'til whenever the hell the tyrannical manager tells you you're free to drag your grease-coated carcass home. Most likely it will be just after the girl you promised to see has given up and gone out dancing with some other guy.
Probably just as well--as you can already tell, until you outgrow your teenage skin, the greasy kitchen air helps make your pores a fertile home for acne.
You'll work hard--it's hot, constant work--and you hate the fact that when your food is quick and well-prepared, the waiters get the tips, but when something screws up, you're the one who wears it. Like all cooks, you become master of the "hidden lugee"--that blog of saliva and plegm that hides so well in most cream sauces. It's only for the truly difficult customers, of course. Unfortunately for your restaurant's clientele, as you become increasingly bitter, more and more customers bear the brunt of your frustration, even if they are unaware of the bonus DNA you include with the daily special.
You decide to take some college courses--your grades here are pathetic due to the brutal work schedule you already keep, so you'll only be able to get into those overpriced private business and computer colleges--don't be surprised when you're the only one in the class who actually has a good command of the English language.
The "diploma" they give you doesn't make anyone more convinced you'd make a good restaurant manager, so you quit your job and go to work on a cruise ship. It's a big change--when they're in the U.S. or Canada, there is a qualified, conscientious kitchen staff working in completely hygenic surroundings--once they get your first foreign port, however, the "show staff" hops a plane to another ship that might be subject to inspection back home, while you find yourself surrounded by a motley collection of dubiously-qualified refugees from a variety of nations.
You soon tire of the constant pressure of your day--unlike the greasy dives you worked before, the clientele of the cruise ship is used to haute cuisine and won't hesitate to complain if they feel your pretentious preparations aren't up to their standards.
Meanwhile, you learn to look the other way as the staff around you neglects the basic practices of safe food handling and personal hygiene. It is only a matter of time before another one of those "mysterious" outbreaks of disease spreads through the cruise ship population like wildfire, and unlike the baffled passengers and media, you are fully aware of the source of the intestinal plague.
The virus forces the ship back to port where a number of passengers are sent to hospital, and you resign your post as soon as the three-day quarantine is lifted. You head back here, to your home town, and empty your bank account to make a down payment on a hot dog stand. The annual permit costs twice what the stand is worth, but you figure it's mindless, simple work compared to your other cooking jobs, and soon you're pulling in a sizeable weekly income.
Unfortunately, your lungs were damaged by the cruise ship virus, and the constant exposure to damp, exhaust-filled downtown air gives you a nagging cough that eventually develops into pneumonia. When you are released from the hospital, you sell the cart and go looking for a cooking job that includes health and prescription coverage.
Such jobs, for those without actual chef's papers, are few and far between. You are offered a job at the hospital, but you know enough about the "superbugs" that strike every year or so in the wards which house the most weakened to turn that opporunity down. Then, you receive another offer--you are recruited to cook for the state prison down the highway.
It's a job that includes full benefits, and you work relatively normal hours and even get decent holiday breaks. You begin relaxing into the job after a few months, and aside from the sometimes awkward interactions you have with the few inmates assigned to kitchen duty, you rarely come into contact with any of the prisoners.
You even buy an engagement ring for your girlfriend and feel secure enough to put a down payment on a new condo development under construction a mere 15 minute drive from the prison.
Then, in a bid to save money, the government contracts out the food service operation of the prison. You fear you will lose your benefits and see your pay cut in half, but fortunately your union negotiates a deal that grandfathers your old wages and benefits into your new contract--it's only the newly hired staff who will be paid poorly and denied the benefit package.
The new regime cuts corners wherever possible, and their first act is to impose a new set of rules regarding food purchase. Soon the prisoners become agitated as the quality of their meals begins to suffer from the shoddy meat and overripe vegetables you are forced use in all your recipes. Some of the prisoners who work with you begin passing along death threats from the angry cons.
The riot is unexpected, and it takes place when liver is substituted for a planned sparerib dinner. The prisoners take you hostage, along with two guards, but when the swat team storms the building, it is only you who are found dead--a sprig of parsley covering each eye.
Hey kid--you're lookin' a little tired. Close up the pizza place again last night? That sucks. Yeah--I do hear you're pretty good at it. Still, there's a difference between a high school job for gas money, and a life sentence.
You'll stick at the pizza place--or go to another similar dive--once you're finished here. Once you no longer have to go to school, you can take the day shifts that keep your evenings free. Of course, you understand by "day shift" they mean 11:00 a.m. 'til whenever the hell the tyrannical manager tells you you're free to drag your grease-coated carcass home. Most likely it will be just after the girl you promised to see has given up and gone out dancing with some other guy.
Probably just as well--as you can already tell, until you outgrow your teenage skin, the greasy kitchen air helps make your pores a fertile home for acne.
You'll work hard--it's hot, constant work--and you hate the fact that when your food is quick and well-prepared, the waiters get the tips, but when something screws up, you're the one who wears it. Like all cooks, you become master of the "hidden lugee"--that blog of saliva and plegm that hides so well in most cream sauces. It's only for the truly difficult customers, of course. Unfortunately for your restaurant's clientele, as you become increasingly bitter, more and more customers bear the brunt of your frustration, even if they are unaware of the bonus DNA you include with the daily special.
You decide to take some college courses--your grades here are pathetic due to the brutal work schedule you already keep, so you'll only be able to get into those overpriced private business and computer colleges--don't be surprised when you're the only one in the class who actually has a good command of the English language.
The "diploma" they give you doesn't make anyone more convinced you'd make a good restaurant manager, so you quit your job and go to work on a cruise ship. It's a big change--when they're in the U.S. or Canada, there is a qualified, conscientious kitchen staff working in completely hygenic surroundings--once they get your first foreign port, however, the "show staff" hops a plane to another ship that might be subject to inspection back home, while you find yourself surrounded by a motley collection of dubiously-qualified refugees from a variety of nations.
You soon tire of the constant pressure of your day--unlike the greasy dives you worked before, the clientele of the cruise ship is used to haute cuisine and won't hesitate to complain if they feel your pretentious preparations aren't up to their standards.
Meanwhile, you learn to look the other way as the staff around you neglects the basic practices of safe food handling and personal hygiene. It is only a matter of time before another one of those "mysterious" outbreaks of disease spreads through the cruise ship population like wildfire, and unlike the baffled passengers and media, you are fully aware of the source of the intestinal plague.
The virus forces the ship back to port where a number of passengers are sent to hospital, and you resign your post as soon as the three-day quarantine is lifted. You head back here, to your home town, and empty your bank account to make a down payment on a hot dog stand. The annual permit costs twice what the stand is worth, but you figure it's mindless, simple work compared to your other cooking jobs, and soon you're pulling in a sizeable weekly income.
Unfortunately, your lungs were damaged by the cruise ship virus, and the constant exposure to damp, exhaust-filled downtown air gives you a nagging cough that eventually develops into pneumonia. When you are released from the hospital, you sell the cart and go looking for a cooking job that includes health and prescription coverage.
Such jobs, for those without actual chef's papers, are few and far between. You are offered a job at the hospital, but you know enough about the "superbugs" that strike every year or so in the wards which house the most weakened to turn that opporunity down. Then, you receive another offer--you are recruited to cook for the state prison down the highway.
It's a job that includes full benefits, and you work relatively normal hours and even get decent holiday breaks. You begin relaxing into the job after a few months, and aside from the sometimes awkward interactions you have with the few inmates assigned to kitchen duty, you rarely come into contact with any of the prisoners.
You even buy an engagement ring for your girlfriend and feel secure enough to put a down payment on a new condo development under construction a mere 15 minute drive from the prison.
Then, in a bid to save money, the government contracts out the food service operation of the prison. You fear you will lose your benefits and see your pay cut in half, but fortunately your union negotiates a deal that grandfathers your old wages and benefits into your new contract--it's only the newly hired staff who will be paid poorly and denied the benefit package.
The new regime cuts corners wherever possible, and their first act is to impose a new set of rules regarding food purchase. Soon the prisoners become agitated as the quality of their meals begins to suffer from the shoddy meat and overripe vegetables you are forced use in all your recipes. Some of the prisoners who work with you begin passing along death threats from the angry cons.
The riot is unexpected, and it takes place when liver is substituted for a planned sparerib dinner. The prisoners take you hostage, along with two guards, but when the swat team storms the building, it is only you who are found dead--a sprig of parsley covering each eye.
Saturday, September 30, 2006
Sunday, September 24, 2006
The Cynical Career Counsellor Explains Your Future as a
Dental Assistant
Hey--Almost forgot your appointment, didn't you--good thing you got back; I was just leaving. You do that sort of thing a lot, don't you?
No--I'm never here after hours; the evening custodian just says that everytime he's about to light up the bong... er, I mean, he says there's this annoying kid--nevermind. Just have a seat.
Dental assistant? There are some pitfalls ahead, I fear.
You'll go to a technical school of some sort, and learn all about dental instruments, suction and chair operation. You'll learn the tricky art of staying out of the dentist's way while providing him or her with instant help. You'll even learn to translate the garbled articulation of those whose mouths are frozen and filled with gauze.
You're a good student, even if you forget stuff, so you'll get a good job working with one of the more successful dental offices in town. There you'll truly experience all that is disgusting about the human mouth. The mask and glasses don't save you from the stench of fetid rotting teeth, and the water rinse nozzle or the drill just bounce bits of that decay off whatever parts of your skin aren't protected by your gear.
It will take some pretty long showers to make you feel clean after work.
Your boss specializes in "painfree" dental work--he has a particular clientele who are rather phobic about such things--and he has more work than he can handle. Though you get off work at five, he begins scheduling some patients for after hours appointments. He explains that it's the only way he can keep up with the demand for his services, but assures you he's able to handle those extra clients on his own.
You notice that most of these after hours patients are attractive women, but you don't really think about it. Then, one day, you come back because you've once again forgotten something at work. He won't notice you until it's too late--the whole creepy situation now suddenly makes sense, and he rushes after you as you run from the office.
He pleads with you not to reveal his crime, and informs you that your salary and holiday time have both been immediately doubled. You just push him away and drive home.
You don't report for work the next day as you decide what to do. He sends you an email promising it will never happen again, and offering you a share of the business. That afternoon, as you're taking your dog for a walk and trying to clear your head, a car comes out of nowhere and almost runs you down. The driver speeds off, but you instantly know it was no accident.
Fearing for your safety, you rush to the police station and swear out a statement detailing what you saw back in the office. Soon there's a major media circus with you and your boss as featured players. At first, his lawyers try to spin it that you are simply vindictively making up the story because he rejected your romantic overtures, but when two patients come forward to verify your boss's crimes, you become a sort of hero.
It's an election year, and the rights of women in the workplace had already been simmering as an election issue. Soon, candidates from both sides are dropping by to ask your opinion on proposed legislation, and the eventual winner celebrates your courage by inviting you to walk next to her in the "take back the night" march.
There's a great deal of goodwill you can capitalize on--you are offered a variety of jobs with various committees and agencies designed to stop workplace sexual harassment, but you tell everyone you just want to do what you trained to do. The powers that be grant your wish--you are offered a job in Washington at one of the preeminent dental clinics in the world. Some of the top politicians and their high-level staff become your clientele, and you make more money working for your new boss than you would have made even if you'd accepted the bribe offer at your previous office.
It all sounds pretty good, doesn't it. Unfortunately, it doesn't last. There's a revolution in some third world country--their dictator had been a staunch supporter and ally of the current administration--and when he flees for his life, he is whisked away to Washington. Instead of calming the folks back in his home nation, there are daily protests and riots as citizens demand he be returned to face trial for his crimes against his homeland.
Suddenly, conveniently, he is killed in a car accident--the body badly burned. There are some who wonder if the body really was that of the dictator, but the press releases assure the public it was him.
That night, you once again forget something at work, so after dinner, you drive back to the clinic to pick it up. The men in the black ski masks had already replaced the dictator's dental records--seemed some were nervous about a potential invesitigation--and it's just tragically bad timing that you've seen them.
They can't kill you in the office--too suspicious--but you do get many positive mentions in the press when your "suicide" is announced the next day.
I've got to go now--I'm late for happy hour.
Hey--Almost forgot your appointment, didn't you--good thing you got back; I was just leaving. You do that sort of thing a lot, don't you?
No--I'm never here after hours; the evening custodian just says that everytime he's about to light up the bong... er, I mean, he says there's this annoying kid--nevermind. Just have a seat.
Dental assistant? There are some pitfalls ahead, I fear.
You'll go to a technical school of some sort, and learn all about dental instruments, suction and chair operation. You'll learn the tricky art of staying out of the dentist's way while providing him or her with instant help. You'll even learn to translate the garbled articulation of those whose mouths are frozen and filled with gauze.
You're a good student, even if you forget stuff, so you'll get a good job working with one of the more successful dental offices in town. There you'll truly experience all that is disgusting about the human mouth. The mask and glasses don't save you from the stench of fetid rotting teeth, and the water rinse nozzle or the drill just bounce bits of that decay off whatever parts of your skin aren't protected by your gear.
It will take some pretty long showers to make you feel clean after work.
Your boss specializes in "painfree" dental work--he has a particular clientele who are rather phobic about such things--and he has more work than he can handle. Though you get off work at five, he begins scheduling some patients for after hours appointments. He explains that it's the only way he can keep up with the demand for his services, but assures you he's able to handle those extra clients on his own.
You notice that most of these after hours patients are attractive women, but you don't really think about it. Then, one day, you come back because you've once again forgotten something at work. He won't notice you until it's too late--the whole creepy situation now suddenly makes sense, and he rushes after you as you run from the office.
He pleads with you not to reveal his crime, and informs you that your salary and holiday time have both been immediately doubled. You just push him away and drive home.
You don't report for work the next day as you decide what to do. He sends you an email promising it will never happen again, and offering you a share of the business. That afternoon, as you're taking your dog for a walk and trying to clear your head, a car comes out of nowhere and almost runs you down. The driver speeds off, but you instantly know it was no accident.
Fearing for your safety, you rush to the police station and swear out a statement detailing what you saw back in the office. Soon there's a major media circus with you and your boss as featured players. At first, his lawyers try to spin it that you are simply vindictively making up the story because he rejected your romantic overtures, but when two patients come forward to verify your boss's crimes, you become a sort of hero.
It's an election year, and the rights of women in the workplace had already been simmering as an election issue. Soon, candidates from both sides are dropping by to ask your opinion on proposed legislation, and the eventual winner celebrates your courage by inviting you to walk next to her in the "take back the night" march.
There's a great deal of goodwill you can capitalize on--you are offered a variety of jobs with various committees and agencies designed to stop workplace sexual harassment, but you tell everyone you just want to do what you trained to do. The powers that be grant your wish--you are offered a job in Washington at one of the preeminent dental clinics in the world. Some of the top politicians and their high-level staff become your clientele, and you make more money working for your new boss than you would have made even if you'd accepted the bribe offer at your previous office.
It all sounds pretty good, doesn't it. Unfortunately, it doesn't last. There's a revolution in some third world country--their dictator had been a staunch supporter and ally of the current administration--and when he flees for his life, he is whisked away to Washington. Instead of calming the folks back in his home nation, there are daily protests and riots as citizens demand he be returned to face trial for his crimes against his homeland.
Suddenly, conveniently, he is killed in a car accident--the body badly burned. There are some who wonder if the body really was that of the dictator, but the press releases assure the public it was him.
That night, you once again forget something at work, so after dinner, you drive back to the clinic to pick it up. The men in the black ski masks had already replaced the dictator's dental records--seemed some were nervous about a potential invesitigation--and it's just tragically bad timing that you've seen them.
They can't kill you in the office--too suspicious--but you do get many positive mentions in the press when your "suicide" is announced the next day.
I've got to go now--I'm late for happy hour.
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