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

Celeb-ration

Wow--the bad puns seem to be pretty much automatic these days. It actually works pretty well as a title for this post, though.

As we drove into Manhattan from the Airport last Saturday, a couple of the kids started talking about how they hoped to see some celebrities. Right. A city of 8 million+ and we're going to bump into famous people.

I mean, sure if you pay to see them in a show you'll be within a certain distance of the genuine article, but otherwise, I told them, don't expect it.

The next day we went to Lincoln Centre. At the end of the tour, we finished where folks were milling about during the intermission of a performance by the National Chorale. Christopher Lloyd walked right by me--only I and another student recognized him. I remember him best from Taxi, while students know him as "Doc" from Back to the Future.

On Tuesday night we went to Hairspray. "Norm" from Cheers--George Wendt--plays the mother. Once again, the performance was great. Sure, if you're talking celeb spotting, you probably can't count a show you paid to see, but we had good tickets and it was a great show, so whatever.

Wednesday afternoon we were in the NBC Nightly News studio during a tour and in the studio next to us--glass between us, except for a door-sized opening--was Kevin Spacey, there for an interview. That impressed the kids more than Christopher Lloyd.

So maybe celeb spotting isn't all that difficult.

When our flight to Toronto got cancelled going home--this was in Laguardia--I went to the desk to find out what we were supposed to do next. I had noticed sitting across the way a woman who looked strangely familiar--I was sure I'd seen her in something.

She ended up behind me and came over to the counter with me, asking if it was okay with me if she eavesdropped--she wrongly thought her flight had been cancelled. After, I asked her if she was a performer, because I was sure I'd seen her in something. She looked a bit sheepish and said she hadn't performed in the past three years, but yes, she'd done a bunch of theatre in New York, as well as some commercials and was on a soap opera for a while.

Later, I chatted briefly with her again, still trying to figure out what I'd seen her in. She hadn't been out to the west coast or in any of the musicals I'd seen, nor had she worked with the production company whose director had come to my class and shown us stuff from her lesser-known Canadian films.

She told me her name, and I think I got it right when I 'Imdb'd" it, but not much other than one movie credit showed up.

I'll figure it out eventually.

Another foot

Back in February I posted a link to a story about the third right foot that had washed ashore on the BC coast:
http://herrdirektor.blogspot.com/2008/02/this-is-creepyweird.html

Seems a fourth one just showed up. All right feet, all in shoes. Read about it here.

If this had come from an episode of CSI I'd have mocked it for being too farfetched. Really creepy.

the play's the thing

This post is from New York, where I'm sort of adapted now to the time change.

Tonight we saw Rent; it was my second time seeing it after having gone to it when we were here about two and a half years ago. Once again it didn't disappoint.

I'm writing more about Spring Awakening, though, which we saw last night. Some have suggested it will take Rent's place as the new edgy rock musical about the disenfranchised. I'm not so sure.

It's an odd experience to see the Broadway musical version of a play only two days after I attended the non-musical version back in Victoria. I think it was kind of helpful in understanding the plot and characters a little more quickly. I had studied the play back when I was an undergraduate, but that was centuries ago...

We got the tickets from the TKTS 1/2 price booth--which is still in its temporary location at the Marriot. Some of our group went to Avenue Q, and quite enjoyed it. Another friend from the internet world once told me all about that one, but I have yet to see it.

Six of us, though, chose Spring Awakening. They were described as "obscured view" seats, but really, they were quite good--four and five rows back but on the side.

When things got going, though, we were very puzzled by the behaviour of the crowd. As soon as the actors ran out on stage, they got a very enthusiastic standing ovation. This made no sense, yet the whole audience was doing it. I felt like I was at a cult rally or something.

Then someone in front of us who was also confused asked a nearby "ovationer" about it and was told it was the lead actress (Lea Michele)'s last night in the show. Later we heard it was the lead actor (Jonathon Groff)'s last night as well. The story is here

It was a very emotional performance. One song, titled "You're Fxxxed" (x's inserted to protect the tender sensibilities of my readers) ends in a freeze with the performers all giving the audience the middle finger. The audience stood and gave another loud ovation at that point and kept on going. The actors, therefore, had to hold the freeze. The lead girl began sobbing during this, and some others were laughing and crying. It was kind of a magical moment.

What was surprising was that we actually got tickets. I did a little internet research when we got home and even back in February some were saying that night was getting close to sold out. It was probably the "obscured" label on those seats that made them available.

The whole show felt more like a love-in with family and friends (and a lot in the audience were family and friends) and I did the verboten (yes, an homage to the German origin of the show)

I pulled out my camera and caught a bit of the afterwards. It's jumpy 'cause I didn't want to watch it through the viewfinder, just held it about where I thought it should be. Not great footage, but you get a bit of the idea:



Prior to this, the edgiest show I'd taken kids to was probably Rent. This one challenged the limits even more--some nudity at the end of act I and the scene repeated at the beginning of act II, a gay makeout scene, a masturbation scene as part of a song, and of course the song mentioned above.

And to think I rejected the idea of Equus during the London trip last year. Of course, that was partly because I knew the play well enough to know most of my kids wouldn't have enjoyed it, despite the thrill of seeing Harry Potter in the altogether.

The show was good--but I don't think it's as good a show as Rent--well, maybe not as good at doing what Rent does. Part of what is amazing about Rent is that it really touches broadly on the human condition, while Spring Awakening deals with an issue, if the difference makes sense. Also, I get goosebumps hearing the harmonies of "Seasons of Love", and the harmonies throughout Rent are amazing. Spring Awakening just doesn't have that complexity in its vocals--lots of unison.

I have a more detailed critique to offer sometime, but must be off to bed--it's an early start down to the ferries to Liberty and Ellis Islands tomorrow, then the Met Museum in the afternoon.

*I recently posted that I'd be moving all "personal" posts to another more secure spot. That's still the plan, but I think some posts like this I'll put here for a little while then move them there before search engines and random folks get to this one.

busy times

Last night's variety show--completely organized by a student who's going off to work at an orphanage in Guatemala after graduation and wanted to raise money not for her trip but to bring to the orphanage--was a great success. Admittedly, the crowd was small as it began, but more came and donations totalled $400.

What was nice was that I got to just sit and watch--didn't have to tech, organize, film or anything. Congrats to the one participant I know who reads this sometimes.

Today it's off to see Spring Awakening which is a little more serious project. I remember studying the play at university years ago, and it's being performed by a very good local theatre company which features high school students. They take on things that often wouldn't be typically done in a high school.

Funny to see Milly tech-ing that one.

Then, crazy early tomorrow, it's off to NY for most of a week. I'll try to post from there at some point if I have internet. What sucks is it's supposed to be 27 here tomorrow (81) and so we're getting our first nice warm weather of the year, and the forecast in New York is for rain.

Meh, it's still New York. It will still be warmer than when I was there in March.

Downsizing

I've moved some of the "personal" posts to another place. I'm going to use this blog for writing I do for fun, but I think I won't put things about work, family or friends here.

Reading Camila's most recent post was the final push I needed to help make the decision.

If you're a regular reader here and want to be added to the other list, drop me a note. If I don't want to add you, it's nothing personal, it's more that I'm trying to keep some boundaries between different parts of my world for the moment.

I'll still be posting stuff here, though, if you want to bother to look.

rethinking

I'm contemplating a reorganization of the blogs. Recently, discussing the whole world of personal online journaling with friends both local and elsewhere, I realized I am not entirely comfortable with lack of control of who reads what goes here, or the resultant self-censorship such uncertainty can cause.

Gone are the heady days when I'd get over 2000 "hits" in a month--mostly due to the promotion of a couple of the career posts on a popular site elsewhere. Now, according to the counter, I get around a dozen visits per day on this blog.

It's mostly the same folks, I suspect. Most I know, while a few returnees, such as the one from Egypt or the ones from England and Ireland, I don't know at all. (not that you're any less welcome)

A friend was telling me a bit more recently about the fallout of a relative stumbling across her blog and reading posts from back when this writer, now 20, was maybe 15 years old. Honest venting about family stuff was not intended for this or other relatives to read, and five years later, the feelings are no longer the same--but the words are still there.

I delete a lot of posts. Every so often I go through and wipe out the majority of those which have personal information--leaving only the "writing" ones I do for fun. I think I may just make this the blog where I do that--put the things I write for fun, or make occasional observations or comments on news stories, youtube videos, sports results and the like.

The "other" place I write would be where I put the personal stuff. Most of what you see right now below this post would fall into that category, with maybe the exception of the "quotes" post, and the Dythandra poem.

The audience of the other place is defined, and part of the deal is they know I write whatever I feel like there and if it's boring or annoying or stupid or offensive--it's my place to be self-indulgent. (Though all blogs should be that, to some extent, I suppose.)

Thus, if you don't feel comfortable with that, you won't be asking to be added to the readership. Also, it's easier to keep local (people who deal with me in real life) readership out of that blog, so if I were to go on a rant about something at work I wouldn't have to worry about some student or colleague having that inside perspective on how I really feel about something.

So, I guess what I'm saying is, if you see things change here, I haven't joined a cult, I've just become a little more circumspect. I may move some of the more recent posts below to the other site and delete them from here soon.

I could just write a journal, but as a young friend said recently, it's nice to know that someone could be reading what you write, even if nobody is.

Another installment...

...of random quotes I've heard recently in my little space at work (none of them spoken by me, I assure you):

"If I ever become a hooker, I’m not a person--egg me."

"I’ve lost so much respect for you for egging a hooker."

"If that hooker met you in an alley she’d stab you for the 15 cents in your pocket."

"We’re not soulmates any more--deep down inside you’re a hooker egger, and I’m not."

"Asian Mike is good at customer service and that is going to be your downfall"

"I’m going to go donate blood to starving African vampire children"

"I don’t have any grandpas--I deserve a death."

"They’re definitely not rapist glasses; they’re pedo glasses."

"C’mon, throw me a F--in bone, Miniputt."

Not really a post

...but rather just informing that I've updated "Dythandra's" poetry page--much overdue. It's gone from 24 to 38 (if I counted right) entries. You can find the first page here:
http://members.shaw.ca/jpurple01/dythandra.html

The layout of the index still needs a bit of work, but I've made it chronological--you see the newest at the top, rather than the reverse.

Going to see another school's Anything Goes tomorrow--they're doing a slightly different version so it should be interesting to watch after doing it ourselves.

Poetry by Dythandra

Waterloo Averted - A Ballad

My ‘net radio was scant weeks old
When their lawyers found it
"Intellectual property"
They’re chomping at the bit.

To “Dythandra” came the letter
Thanks to my ISP
My mother shook her head and sighed
And passed it on to me

A record label I had wronged
“Dovebludgeon”, the band’s name
They pretend to be all gothic,
But play the corporate game.

Some other bands were also named
The label’s ages old
Their lawyers want to meet with me
If they could be so bold.

Well, it’s just one lawyer, really
Paul Blentwick, LLB
He’ll be here in town next Wednesday
And plans to visit me.

There is one good thing in all this,
I try to keep my cool
They made their case before I moved
The server to my school.

Had that not been the case I fear,
The school board lawyer types
Would play this in the media
And there’d be lots of hype

But this ‘twere best done quietly
And I begin my plan
No school this week, I must prepare
To thwart this lawyer man.

The law library is step one,
Some case law I must check
Information is one thing
That might help save my neck

Then my old albums I peruse,
And find the one I seek
The line “Kill hated siblings all”
Might influence the weak.

From one more of this label’s bands,
When I was only ten
Sold at a concert I’d snuck in
“ ’01 Gothagedden”

Their booth tried to look so hardcore
Albums on a table
Conformity was not for them,
And no Advisory labels.

With case law and cd in hand,
There’s one thing more I seek,
Of all my plans and strategy
This part is the most weak

I’m glad when underneath my bed,
The weathered case I find
The evidence of when they thought
I’d truly lost my mind.

My parents moved me from our home,
A town I thought I loved
Suburban, bland conformity
Was where my soul was shoved

Back then I was in middle school
Precocious they all said
I made a little fairy tale
A brother who was dead.

I photoshopped some photographs
Faked a few news stories
Wrote one for Wikipedia
So sad and oh, so gory.

And then on show and tell one day
My classmates got to hear
I took a knife to brother’s room
And stabbed him in the ear

I held a picture up right then
Some kids began to weep
I said the psych ward for two years,
Was where I got to sleep.

And then they said that I was cured
“We’re starting fresh right here”
I looked, and all around the room,
Kids’ eyes were filled with fear

That was the first of many times
My mom and dad were told
I was a budding psychopath
It really does get old.

And now I’m glad I’ve kept these things,
And also glad to see
That Wikipedia hasn’t cut
The lies made up by me.

In fact, a Google search reveals,
There’s something slightly more
Than seventy assorted links
To my fictitious lore

I add a few facts here and there
To add meat to the tale
Use different ID’s to proclaim
What pushed me past the pale.

‘Twas gothic music dark and bad
That made this child go wrong
She cut up her little brother
Advised by a sick song.

When Wednesday comes, I’m fully clothed,
In scary, leather gear
I smile and introduce him to
The voices that I hear.

I arranged to have this meeting,
A little after lunch
Dad’s still at work; mom drinks upstairs
Her favorite “homemade punch”.

I ask Paul Blentwick, LLB
If there is any way
To meet the band whose instructions
I followed on that day.

I show him the collection of
The things I have prepared,
His voice no longer arrogant,
Starts shaking; he is scared.

He asks if he can step outside,
I nod, his wish is granted
And on his laptop, in his car
Finds evidence I planted.

I see him talking on his phone
A frantic call or two
Then back inside my living room,
Says “Here’s what we can do”.

The settlement was fine with me
Took what they had to give
I’m free to use their music for
As long as I shall live.

That night I tell my listeners
About my little scare
But have no fear; it’s over now
Dythandra’s on the air.

Poetry by Dythandra

Positions Wanted

Internet radio means late nights
And I, already so slow to rise,
Now wearied further
By late night verbal ministrations to my loyal audience.

Public school's near an end
For one such as myself
Yet here are hoops to jump through
And my apathy
Makes such gymnastics difficult.

The counselor looks up warily,
As I saunter in, sit indifferently, pop my gum
And meet her tense smile
With narrowed eyes.

So, (here she speaks my hated name)
It seems we have a problem with your... credits.
You're not in a position to graduate.
I glance at the computer screen she swivels my way.

Of course, if you pass your math class...
She and I both know that math,
Bane of my school life,
And oh so early in the morning
Is an insurmountable obstacle.

So, (she seems a little hesitant)
We need to see what we can do
To put you in a position to graduate.
She keeps repeating that phrase.

I murmur something about positions, too
Alluding to something more... tantric.
The color in her cheeks
Tells me she heard, but chooses to pretend.

She decides my last best hope
Is to saddle some poor teacher
With a less than enthusiastic assistant
It will provide the credit hours
That will free me from this place.

She runs down the options quickly,
Shakes her head at some,
Giggles at another--
I sigh and slump back in my chair.

Then a pause.
What do you know about computers?
Seems the nearly-retired computer teacher
So behind the technological times
Has lost his most able helper.

'Twas actually a North Korean,
And the passport was off a bit
In age as well.
The Homeland Security folks
Took our young foreign student away
When he tried to access missile command
From the school's computer network.

I grab the proffered life preserver
And head down to the tech lab
To get the papers signed.

Serendipity, it seems
When I arrive home that day
To discover our internet provider
Has warned we've reached our bandwith limit
My radio success has overwhelmed our allotment.

Now the school server
Will broadcast my wisdom
To my faithful fans

If only I trusted them enough
To share this delicious irony.

I could have coasted thus, content
To the end and then, escape.

But only three weeks later,
I'm called to account.
Seems one of my most loved record labels
Has tracked me down
And copyright lawyers are coming to visit.

My best battle is yet to come.

Poetry by Dythandra

My Loyal Listeners

Anyone can do it, they said
Down at the tattoo place.

Internet radio.

It caught my fancy,
As my love for solitude
Conflicts so with my need
To vent at foolish humanity.

Here is the best of both:
Alone in my room, yet
Telling the sheep
They have been measured, and found wanting.

Some simple software, and voilá
I'm live and on the air.

I play a few of my tamer tracks;
Queen Adreena, Libitina,
And lesser known sounds.

Between the music, I offer my wisdom
For anyone who might stop for a listen.

I suspect it's all make believe.

The next day I'm better prepared,
(Spent Literature class writing out
The content of my rant)

I skewer the powers that be--
Local and Global
And take a parting shot at my most recent adversaries:
The local mall's music store
Who've reduced the alternative and punk sections
To make way for a bright and cheery
Hannah Montana aisle.

I sign off with my chosen name
So few know it anyway.

The next day I'm surprised
Walking home through the mall
(Simply to avoid the rain)
A window boarded up

And there, scrawled on the wall
"Dythandra defies Disney,
Death to corporate sellouts"

This is an interesting development

I hurry home to my computer
There is further mayhem to be wrought.

Poetry by Dythandra

In Pursuit of Filthy Lucre

Your dad's bonus didn't come through
And money's going to be a little... tight.

I'd always thought myself above such...
Mundane concerns.

I'd sneered at their attempts to bribe me,
To change my wardrobe or my hair.
Blackmail's more my thing--they cave so easily.

This was different, though--they were... embarassed.
Twas not a total surprise--they'd been hinting for a while.

When I was your age, I had a job.

With that kind of early start,
You'd think you'd be further ahead

Money doesn't grow on trees, you know

Maybe not, but I've got some friends
Who grow it on smaller plants

When the cash flow ends, I get creative.
Mommy dearest's empties
Bring me enough cash
To keep black nail polish in supply.

Still, it's not enough
For even my meagre expenses
So I finally deign
To scan the "Help Wanted".

It's lucky--call it that if you must--
That the job market is such
That demand makes employers
Look past my fashion sense.

I try telemarketing first.
They don't see me; I don't see them.
Win-win for all.

That one lasts two weeks.
Seems that my prospective customers
Found my unsolicited pitches for carpet cleaning
A little sarcastic.

I feign surprise when my pimply supervisor
Confronts me about my claim that
"We suck more than any company in town".
We clean carpets--of course we suck
Or at least, I'd guess you do.

No resume construction there.

My next opportunity--the perfume counter
At the entrance to the deparment store.

Apparently some poor manager misread my look
As young, hip, "trendy'.
I suppose misanthropy does make the disdained
Try a little harder.

I was to wear the outfit--black skirt, white blouse
And the--I shudder--pastel apron.
Then spray samples on prospective customers
Who happened by.

They were no fun--"Ask permission" they warn.
I tried that
But too many glanced in my eyes,
Then, instincts trained from avoiding predators,
Through eons of evolution,
Warn them away.

Mothers clutch children,
One complains I'm spraying "witch water"
Another simply screams.

That dismissal was more fun.
They wouldn't look me in the eyes,
But I got two weeks severance.

Still, that money won't last forever,
And I've underground music and comics to buy.

Perhaps it's time to visit my friends at the tattoo parlour
And see if my fake ID
And love of skulls
Can start me down a real career path.

Plus how can the parentals complain?
Think of all the money
My staff discount will save...

The Cynical Career Counselor Explains Your Future as a

Cartographer

Hi kid--sure, sit down. That--oh that’s an old globe that’s been cluttering up this office for years. I keep meaning to chuck it out. Really? Sure you can have it. So what’s your career goal?

Cartographer? Oh, yeah--those people that do the geography stuff--it’s pretty much the only answer I know when some kid comes in who’s acing geography and they ask what the hell they can do with a degree in it. So that’s what you’re thinking of? I suspect your future may not go the way you’ve mapped it out, if you’ll allow me the pun.

You’ll go to some nearby college and do a degree in Geography. You’ll cover all the bases--the plate tectonics stuff, urban geography, political geography, environment, and a bunch of other stuff I’m getting sleepy thinking about. After your first degree you’ll realize you need graduate credentials to get anywhere so you’ll begin your masters right away, picking ups some TA work to help pay the bills.

Once you’re done, you’ll look for something that allows you to use your training, and the internet phenomenon of global photo mapping should provide that. Everything from onboard car computers which can chart out a travel plan to stalker sites that allow one to check out the back yard of the old high school flame utilize people with your skill set to make everything work.

You’ll toil in front of screens for hours as the dreary days all run together. Occasionally you get a bit of excitement from the visit of government types who’ve suddenly decided some new military hot spot must be removed from your scans of the globe, but otherwise it’s pretty mundane work.

You begin using your weekends to visit museums which feature displays of old maps--Vasco da Gama holds more interest for you than Google earth ever could. You eventually chuck your high-tech job and take on a poorly-paid position at a historical institute specializing in cartographic history.

It’s fascinating--you spend hours pouring over ancient maps from all over the world--some completely the product of their creator’s fantasies, while others are almost as accurate as those created hundreds of years later.

After a few months in this new job, you realize that while your soul is content, your bank account--already meager--has shrunk to nothing. You are forced to vacate your modest one-bedroom apartment and move into a storage room in the historical institute. The manager takes pity on you and gives you the room almost rent-free, in return for your doing some minor caretaking duties at night.

It turns out this is even better for your obsession with the older artifacts in the institute; you begin wandering into the dark basement and dusty attic of the building every night--finding uncatalogued maps and charts that haven’t been looked at for years. One catches your attention more than the others--it’s a fragment, showing a piece of land--possibly an island--with a narrow channel separating it from what might be mainland. What bothers you is that it looks vaguely familiar, but none of the few names on the map mean anything to you. There is nothing to even indicate the continent of origin, but the island has something you later are able to translate from a mix of Portuguese and Latin as “The Lost Land”.

You go about your work half asleep during the day, because each night you try to find anything to help you understand the map fragment that has captured your imagination. Suddenly, just before dawn one Thursday morning, you realize the mainland is a portion of the south Chilean coast--very close up. You search Google Earth and some other maps to confirm your theory, and you’re positive you’re correct. Problem is, the "Lost Land” is not anything you’ve ever seen referenced anywhere before. You do a bunch of internet searches, and come up with a couple of obscure references to some crackpot named Dr. Chavez who presented a paper at a “cryptogeography” conference that suggested that all previous theories about Atlantis got it wrong--the lost continent was really a relatively small island off the Pacific coast of South America which had once been home to an advanced civilization.

You sleep in and are woken by your supervisor--he’s angry you missed the start of your shift, and informs you that a visitor wishes to see you. It’s the same Dr. Chavez--turns out he’d been tracking the map fragment you found and somehow was informed of your internet searches after his sleuthing had already led him to the institute.

He takes you out for lunch and picks your brain, and soon determines you know little. He then explains his theory, which has evolved from that he shared at the conference two years earlier, and it revolves around ancient visits from alien beings, advanced technology existing on a small island thousands of years ago, and the possibility of riches and treasure with the discovery of the sunken remains of this mystical place.

Hang on--I need to answer this. Hello? Oh right--I forgot it was Margaret’s birthday--still some cake in the staffroom? Okay--no, I’ll be there in a sec.

Sorry kid--what? Oh sure, I’m going to finish it.

He’ll lead you out into an alley behind the restaurant where you’ll show him the map fragment which you smuggled out of the institute. Then his accomplice will suddenly appear behind you and inject you with a quick acting poison which kills you quickly but painfully. A few months later he’ll be famous and rich.

Maybe 20 people will turn out for your funeral. Their gift to your memory will be a really accurate map of the spot they sprinkle your ashes, which they’ll post on your myspace page.

Gotta run.