Lobbying for dirty air

I remember playing away the weekends when I was a kid growing up in Southern California. Sometimes, we would play hard, spending hours in the pool. I can remember having painful breathing at the end of some of these days. The pain was due to chemical burns on the lungs from the terrible smog we had at the time. We didn't know it then (nor did our parents), but we were developing permanent scar tissue. Since then, California has become the strictest state in America when it comes to vehicle and factory emissions. And it has worked, as the level of pollutants in the air there has declined steadily over the last thirty years.

As I read today about other states considering adopting the tough California vehicle emission standards, I am pleased - not only for addressing global warming issues, but also because I remember the burning lungs and wish for children to grow up without this. What is sickening to me is that the auto industry is using it's lobbying muscle to kill these proposals or severely limit their scope. And for what reason is the auto industry fighting to keep the air poisonous? (we know it's all about the profit margins, but here is how they are couching it:)

"Consumers ought to be able to make the choices of options they want on their vehicle, and not have those choices made for them," says Eron Shosteck of the
Alliance of Automobile Manufacturers, a Washington, D.C.-based auto industry group (it takes additional equipment on the vehicle to reduce emissions of green house gases)

See they are just trying to look out for our freedom. If consumers want to pollute the air, that should be their choice seems to be the tack here. The people who breathe the air, well we aren't concerned about them (unless they buy one of our cars of course.)

And this leads me to the most disturbing realization of political reality. Those whose sole interest is profitablility wield a huge amount of influence in our political system. This is not new, and we aren't surprised, after all, a company answers to its profit-thirsty investors. But when I see a whole industry lobbying for Dirty Air, I remember those late summer afternoons with burning lungs and am filled with sadness/outrage at our values as a society. That the auto industry's rights to profits outweigh the need for children to grow up breathing clean air.

Gay weddings have the best music

Another gay wedding celebration took place last night. Good friends we've known for years. We were invited and enjoyed the great party. Especially the music. Is there some kind of gay music gene? Because we danced for hours loving all the songs. I don't have a good picture of the happy couple from last night, so here's a picture of us after 6 hours of open bar. Yikes.

Gallons of alcohol and day after blog writing don't mix so well.

I'm gonna go lie down.

Paper pushing and pomposity

So I had an intensive class with a private student yesterday, seven hours of English instruction crammed into one day. Thank God the student is affable and somewhat interesting or I'd be drinking at lunchtime. Anyway, the class is in one of the schools that I take contracts from. It's unusual to give classes at the school, as usually we are dispatched to the workplace of the students to give the lessons. So I'm there yesterday and the head honcho at the school approaches me and says, "Torn, where are the evaluations for these three students from your group last spring?" (I had taken over the class from another teacher and taught the last five weeks of the course. Out of 12 students, I never met three of them as they didn't attend the last five weeks of class.) "Oh, when I turned in the evals, I left a note describing the reason why an evaluation for these students was missing. Namely, because I never met them, so how can I evaluate them." I said, trying not to be annoyed by bullshit beaurocracy. "Well, what you do is fill out the evaluation sheet and write N/A and mark 0 for classes attended, we need that for our records." he says, thrusting the evaluation sheets in my hand.

So I took the three sheets, wrote the three students names, wrote N/A and 0 and signed and dated the form. Took me about a minute, shorter than the time it took to have that little exchange about the missing evaluations. I think it was probably revenge for the nasty email I sent to the head honcho a couple of months ago. Here let me go look for that. Ah yes, here it is, they lock the door during the secretary's breaks and lunch hour, but the closing times vary.

Hello,
I stopped by today, once again though, the time I could stop by to pick up some forms, the office was closed. You know I'm trying to figure out when the office is closed, but it seems to change. Last week, lunch was 1245-1345, but today, it's 1230-1330. What gives? Can we please have some consistency, and how is it good business practice to close the office during business hours anyway? Part of running a good business is satisfying customers and employees. Am I the only one frustrated that I can't swing by in my tight schedule, because I can never know when Secretary's morning break is and now the vague lunch hours. How hard would it be to have someone cover the desk when Secretary is out? (Additionally, students have found this strange when attending classes at the center.)
You'll have to forgive me, but really, there should be some consistency there.
Thanks,
Tornwordo

Incidentally, I never received a response to this email. (I agree it was a bit bitter and whiny,) But now it seems the response was just a long time coming and in the veiled form of asking me to fill out three pieces of paper that I'm fairly sure will be filed and never looked at again.

This is also the problem with me and bosses. (I spent many years being a boss, and I excelled at it, though I loathed it in the end.) If they can comment on my performance, I have no problem commenting on theirs. (Last summer, in a hostile exchange between me and the restaurant manager, I followed her into the kitchen waving my finger at her and saying "It's bad management plain and simple, you have a successful business despite your poor management skills." I'll blog it one day.)

But bosses don't like that, now do they? (And maybe this is why I've been called a pompous asshole more than once. Hmm.)

I want what I want and I want it now

As (insert favorite nationality here), we generally feel that we are entitled to certain rights, inalienable or otherwise. These might vary somewhat based on whatever we put in the afore parentheses. Certainly, after birth we have a right to be here. A right to live. It takes food, water, air and protection from the elements to live. It seems to me that once you reach adulthood, you should contribute a bit of labor to help have those things provided. The rest is gravy, man and we should be so thrilled everyday that we don't have to go without those basic things that so many in the world struggle to acquire.

I think those basic rights should be assured for all. And in the absence of that, the feeling of entitlement should get toned down. Do we have a right to double decaf mocha lattes with nonfat milk and cinnamon not chocolate, or for that matter ski-doos? Obviously we have the right, our society is set up that way. But what happens oftentimes when people have an obstacle (ran out of nonfat milk for example) is that then they make a fuss and insist because they are "entitled" to have what they want/can pay for.

This is why I can't work in restaurants anymore. The only thing that matters is who has the dollars. I'm entitled because I have the money. And meanwhile people on the planet are dying of starvation.

God I sound like a communist don't I. Forgive me, it's early and I'm off to work.

Festoonage

Okay, so I had a lesson yesterday with a student I've been teaching privately for some time. The lesson went well, as usual. We conversed on a number of topics in her shiny executive office, both of us wearing professional attire. (gack) So the lesson is at noon and I stopped at Subway (in the same skyscraper) to eat a BLT beforehand. Afterward, I stopped at the bathroom and washed my hands and checked the hair, straightened the tie. Then I dried my hands and went down the corridor to her office. When I left her office, I went home as quickly as possible to strip off the "nice" clothes. I noticed a little sensation under my upper lip and so leaned close to the bedroom mirror to inspect the teeth, and this is what I saw.



Now when I give class, I'm on, which means quite a bit of smiling. Smiling, I'll have you know, exposes the teeth to observation. So what the hell was this woman thinking? There I am going on about adverb placement, the importance of it, especially in such cases as "often blown" and "blown often" har dee har har, and what can she possibly be paying attention to but the gynormous piece of lettuce festooning my teeth?

And that's not the first time something like that has happened to me.

About six years ago, I was in San Francisco for the food show sharing a hotel room with my boss, the owner of the company. This is nerve racking in itself, sharing such an intimate thing as sleeping in the same room as her, but wait til you hear what happened the last morning there. We got up and showered and prepped ourselves. I went first and when I shaved, I made a rather nasty rashy thing on my neck and patched it up with a little toilet paper to stop the bleeding. (You can see where this is going right?) Then she took her half hour in the bathroom as I watched the morning news. Once finished, we went down to the coffee shop for breakfast.
Yes, we ordered, were served, ate the food and relaxed a bit with our coffee and newspapers before we headed back up to get our bags. When we got upstairs, I glanced in the mirror to see blood stained toilet paper bits on my neck. Horrified, I whirled around and said, "How could you do this? How could you let me go down there and eat and everything like this?" I was bright red with shame, thinking about the waitress, the other customers. "I thought you wanted it like that. I'm sorry." Okay, so she thought she was respecting my quirkiness or something. But if you take anything away from this story, it's that anytime, anywhere that you see a guy with bits of bloody paper on his neck, please, please mention it to the poor guy. And ditto for the tooth festoonage,

As if this needs to be said, people.

Fear and loathing in London

"The evidence clearly shows he was being restrained before being shot dead"

It was pretty horrifying a couple weeks ago when the police in London shot that Brazilian guy, but not half as horrifying as now finding out that the guy had already been tackled, and when other police arrived, they (or he) found it necessary to lodge eleven bullets in the guy's head, though three of them missed. A mistake they were calling it, but now (with the leaked investigation documents) it looks a lot more like murder. Also, I find it interesting that it will be "months" before the final report is due out. Months? There were dozens of people working on getting this one guy (not to mention the bazillion cameras surveiling London), so plenty of witnesses, what more needs to be investigated?

I'll tell you what happened, one of these guys was so blinded by rage at the "terrorists" that he didn't shoot to maim or cripple, no, blood was what he wanted pulling that trigger until the chamber clicked empty. Reminded me of post 9/11 in the states when the population turned crazed and blood thirsty. (Seems they still haven't spilled enough blood.)

It's another shining example of how hatred results in the killing of innocent people. There was but one casualty in the failed London attacks, and it was this Brazilian guy minding his own business, trying to get through his day like everyone else. If I lived in London, I would probably be more afraid of my fellow whacko countrymen, than dark-skinned backpack toters.

And the police? Well, they can't be trusted. I found that out a long time ago when I witnessed police breaking laws (ask em about it, she was there). Subsequently, I tried to "complain" about what I had witnessed, but there was no "process" by which a complaint could be filed by a civilian. Got that? They are there to "protect" us, but if they have a bad day, or want to rough somebody up for no reason, there's just no way to reprimand them.

Do you think the police officer in London who shot the Brazilian guy will reap repercussions? I guess we'll find out some months from now. But I'll tell you right now, he won't be going to jail, though what he did was murder, plain and simple.

Not so bad

I don't know why I got so narded up about going back to work, the day flew by and before I knew it I was back home. I started an intensive class with a young man who works in the government unemployment office. We sat together for 7 hours, mostly talking, and discussing grammar points and vocabulary tidbits along the way. I don't like doing anything for 7 hours, except sleeping, so I was a bit apprehensive about it. And all for naught, we got along famously and accomplished beaucoup.

I sat outside downtown for lunch and enjoyed people watching, the huge crush of noontime worker bees circulating through the streets. You can tell the people who feel they are important, the men swaggering and the women walking like men. The perpetual underlings are easily spottable too, shoulders hunched, not much spring in their step, the burden of knowing they have to go back to their cubby of slavery weighing heavily upon them. The tourists look the happiest, all agape and stupid looking, taking pictures of I don't know what, and soaking in the frenetic energy around them. I swear it's like New York at the lunch hour, everyone go, go go!

I would have to say that the most distasteful part of my day was the subway ride home. The metro is running at more leisurely summer hours still so the rush hour tends to have very packed trains. I hate this part. A bunch of stranger's body parts pressing against you while the train vibrates along the tracks. Why is it never a strapping young buck, and always A: a smelly man or B: a gum chomping teenager? Today, I got both. After work, I squeezed on the metro and somehow a dozen other people squeezed in after me. A gum chomping teenager (with music blaring in her ears) had TWO briefcase size purses, one of which was transparent with steel corners. This transparent number dug into my back, and forced me to shift around and glare with loathing at the girl. She avoided my gaze at all times. (It is customary to put your bags on the floor during rush hour and there are signs posted reminding passengers of this) I couldn't help seeing what was in her giant Zena purse since it was transparent and all, and thought how tacky it was to have your tampons on display. (Her way of saying Don't fuck with me today?) But wait, there's more, on the other side of me there was this sweaty, swarthy gentleman who was just starting to turn sour, little whiffs of it now and then escaping him. On the side of his Streisand caliber nose sprouted a gnarly mole, and I mean grape-sized, nestled in the crack between his nose and cheek. One single hair grew from the grape thing, just one, but it was a good inch long. How could he not notice this thing? Maybe it grows that much in one day? Finally, I just looked at the floor and waited for my stop, trying not to feel hateful.

Hellishness

As I head out this morning (And I say that bitterly, since the sun isn't even up yet) I am remembering this quote from Einstein:

"A human being is a part of a whole, called by us _universe_, a part limited in time and space. He experiences himself, his thoughts and feelings as something separated from the rest... a kind of optical delusion of his consciousness. This delusion is a kind of prison for us, restricting us to our personal desires and to affection for a few persons nearest to us. Our task must be to free ourselves from this prison by widening our circle of compassion to embrace all living creatures and the whole of nature in its beauty."

Something to chew on.

Back to school blahs

Another glorious Sunday sunset on Aylwin street.

For me, the summer ends today. Back to work I go tomorrow, back to lesson planning and test correcting, and explaining the more mystical bits of English, like why we use apostrophe ess for possesives EXCEPT when the possessive belongs to "it". In reality, English is a whole pot of exceptions strung together with some general guidelines. We seriously have the most fucked up language, and the spoken language is even worse, embracing slang and new expressions as we are wont to do. Then there are the completely unexplainable parts.

For example, say for some bizarre reason (like being a person whose native language uses such structures) you construct the following sentence in response to the question "Do you have the key?"

No, It isn't me (or I, depending on your uptight quotient) who HAS/HAVE the key.

or what if the question is "Do they have it?"

It isn't them who HAS/HAVE it.

I think most people would agree that HAS sounds better. But what is your subject? The subject is "NOT I", or "NOT THEY". I and They take "have" as the present tense. Not very clear is it?

These are the kinds of questions I'll be facing in the months to come. I've pondered this particular one a good number of times with no luck in resolving it. And while wordsmiths and linguists just love deconstructing these things, (myself included) this is scary shit for someone learning a language trying to build a reliable map in their brain about how the language works. While I prance around affably lecture on delighting in plays on words and how "wound" can be pronounced two ways and have many meanings, the students sink lower in their chairs thinking "What the fuck kind of language is this? I can't learn this!" Then I catch a whiff of their discomfort and try to do a little damage control. "Why look over here at your own language....explain this little bit of nonsense to me." (Get them thinking in their own language a bit, great English teaching method eh?)

I'm standing on the precipice between freedom and slavery (for all work is slavery, being as there are people who have found a way to make gobs of money convincing others to do all the work for them) and resignation is setting in.

I need a little cheerleading.

Cornucopiass

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A day well frittered

I had very little to do yesterday. Well, I had very little to do that couldn't be postponed easily. I make a list for each day, goals if you will, of what I want/need to get done. There were only three things on yesterday's list. Write Lifestyles, make lesson plans for next week. Organize teaching materials. This one has been on the list everyday for a week. (What doesn't get done one day gets moved to the next day's list) And though next week heralds my reentry into professordom, I am dragging my heels about getting my crap together. I ended up doing none of those things, and every time I looked at my list, I had the reaction as if it read: Have rectal exam, fix something under the house, and worm Sara.

I got the usual Friday afternoon call. The spouse would be going to happy hour with his alcoholic drinking work buddies. I finished playing my 212th 17th game of Scrabble, and took a shower to remove all the sweat worked up from using the mouse to place my letter tiles on the board. I hopped on the bus and headed to the village, a light summer rain falling. I arrived about 6 and the gang was already in their cups, their buzz clearly in its zenith. I had a pastis and everyone seemed to want to touch me and coo over me, pet me. It wasn't disagreeable.

The place had three lottery slot machines in the back. After stopping by the toilet, I popped in to play my usual sneaky $5. I played it and lost it and then noticed $40 sitting next to the machine. I decided to wait a little more time to make sure the owner wasn't returning and played another $5. This time I won $20 and cashed it out, picked up the $40 and went back to the gang. A little good fortune, more libations for all.

Somehow, it was 11 when we departed. We spasmodically made spectacles of ourselves walked through the village, picking up 4 hamburgers along the way, and then crammed them indelicately into our faces ate them in the taxi home. It was still raining and in the 70's. We sat outside on the deck and sniped talked about people, then I went to bed and spouse fell asleep in the chair outside in his underwear. When I woke up to pee later, I saw him and I so wanted to take a picture, but well, I've sworn that off as you know.

Today, my list reads just as it did yesterday.

This and that

Dinner out chez Toque! (The exclamation point is part of the name. Pronounced Tock-Ay)

Had the most expensive dinner out I've ever had last night. (Or rather, that I paid for.) The restaurant Toque! is known as the finest in Montreal. We invited our old neighbors to go there as a thank you for presenting a buyer for our old place that we sold in January. After all, we were able to sell the place without an agent saving us a bundle on the commission, so we thought it right to "thank" them in some way. We all took the seven course tasting menu with wine, and I shamelessly snapped pics of each course. Sure it's gauche, but what's a blogger to do? We all had a lovely time and I couldn't believe four hours had passed when we got the bill. The bill was stunning in its magnitude. I don't want to talk about it.

In other news, I received a judgement against me in the mail yesterday. You see, I was caught in a criminal act back in November. A criminal act you say? The act was smoking a cigarette in the smoking section of a restaurant. Apparently it was criminal because the cafe is located in a Metro station area. Anyway, the patrons that day were cited for smoking, all of us slack jawed as the agents issued tickets to each of us. The bitterness of this event propelled me to write to the Director of Operations for the Cafe Supreme asking why they were offering a smoking room with ash trays on all the tables if in fact, smoking isn't permitted there. I received this reply from the company (STCUM is the transit police):

Dear Tornwordo,

I apologize for any inconvience, the STCUM has made an error, we are indeed permitted to have a smoking section.
The STCUM will be tracking the tickets it has given out within 7 days, we advise you not to pay it, and the error will be corrected.
We are continuing to offer the smoking section at our Cafe in the McGill Metro, we have been assured there will be no further incident.

Best Regards,
BRIAN DEMERS
Director of Operations
Cafe Supreme Canada Inc.
Tel. (514) 875-9803
bdemers@cafesupreme.ca

So I followed Mr. Demers advice, and yesterday I received a judgement in the mail, $125 payable by August 24th. I'll be on the phone to the big Brian later today to discuss this. ( There is no further recourse with the court as the judgement has been rendered.) I think some free coffee is in order, don't you?

Lastly, I wanted to address some fallout from yesterday's story. It's true that I have always enjoyed taking inopportune photos of my friends and family. Back in the day, I had the charming habit of bursting in on someone in the bathroom, bowels in mid movement, to snap a photo. It took a few years, okay decades, to realize that this was not appreciated by people. So I have stopped. I committed to stopping after the ball event a couple of years ago. And though I have had the urge now and then since then, my sneaky picture taking fetish is gone. Let me just go on record saying that I apologize for any inconvenience this has caused anyone. (Giggle.)

The ball

Some of you may remember this story. (Those of you who know me, anyway.) It was a couple of years ago during the summer when I was working in the restaurant La Moulerie here in Montreal. ( I thought it only fair to tell this story after yesterday's post.) A summer employee activity was planned at a park one Monday afternoon. It was a softball match. There was a cooler with cold beers which we poured into plastic cups (no alcohol allowed in the park) and we played softball for a couple hours. Serge came with and took pictures with the digital camera. He got some great shots including one where the boss took a spill while dashing to first base. This became a famous photo. Anyway it was a surprisingly fun afternoon (despite the fact that the idea of playing sports never really excites me) and we all bonded over beer and ball playing.

The following day I downloaded the photos and cropped them and shrunk them for sending to the employees. At the baseball game I had passed around a sheet for everyone to put their emails down to receive the pics. I know that some of them had slow dial up so I was careful to shrink the size of the photo before sending. (This is important, as you'll see.) So I prep the photos, and craft an email and enter everyone's address into the send field. I attach all the photos, which I have written on a paper to make sure I know which files to send. A final review and then I click send. Now, I have fast internet, but the bar showing the progress of the email being sent seemed to be taking a long time. A very long time. Shit, I thought, I must have attached a photo that I didn't shrink. Shit, shit, shit. So I wait until it's finished sending so I can verify whatever error I made by looking in my "sent" file of the email program.

I open the email I just sent and start scrolling down through the photos, all shrunk nicely for easy viewing on the page. Until. About three quarters of the way through the photos, there is a giant photo that you need to scroll up and down and side to side to see it. What is this photo? It's a close-up of something....(GASP) "No, no, no, no, no, no, no, noooooooo!" I keep saying this over and over and start rocking back and forth in the chair. This was bad, very very bad. The giant photo inserted into the mix had been taken two days prior. It was very hot in the morning and Serge was asleep naked on the bed with the covers off. He was on his stomach and his balls were sticking out under his butt, in a squeezed, very uncomfortable way. It was such an odd sight that I got the camera and put it just a few inches away from the extruded ball sack and took a closeup picture. Now, I was looking at that very picture of the close-up gonad (each hair gloriously distinguishable) that I had just sent to all the people where I work! This cannot be happening! Something slightly relieving began to happen as hotmail addresses were bouncing back the email for being too big. In all, five people received the picture (though everyone saw it as it was then passed around via email to everyone else).

At work the next day, the boss just kept grinning at me (she got the picture) and Alex the busboy came up to me and said, "Tornwordo, is it possible that you sent me a picture of a, a, ... testicle?" I didn't really like the idea that this might be construed as some sexual fetish on my part, some kind of scrotal obsession, so I told the truth. Poor Serge then became known as "The ball" and from then on when people asked about him or saw him, they used this endearing term. "So how is the ball?" they asked, "Oh, he's fine." Shame washing over me (and him) each and every time.

And no, I'm not going to post that picture here. I've caused him enough grief.

Marital blister

This is a bad mood day. Probably not a good idea to post. I've got a splitting headache and got little sleep for the following reasons. One, it's hot again. Terrible humid heat, causing sleep to remain shallow and fitful. Two, woke up to pee at two in the morning and discovered that the spouse still was not home. The last communication with spouse went like this:

4:45 pm call from work

Hi Bee (our nickname for each other, short for Baby)

Hi honey, you gonna go out for a beer?

Yes, just one because we all have to work tomorrow morning.

Are you gonna have dinner at home, or should I eat without you?

Oh no I'll be home for dinner, it's just a quick beer tonight.

Okay! see you later.

I finally ate at about 9:30. I tried him on his cell, but you can never hear the ring in the bars because they always have music going. At eleven, I went to bed thinking he would be home any time. So at two when I woke up to pee, I became worried. Two reasons. One, it's fairly unusual that he has to work in the morning but stays out so late - maybe something bad happened. Two, I couldn't help thinking about drunken park shenanigans. So I call on the cell a couple more times and he answers.

I'm close to the house. (the 17,000 beers consumed evident in the slur)

Are you walking? Oh of course, you have no money and the bus is done for the night.

I'm close to the house. (slightly more comprehensible this time)

Okay then, see you in a minute.

When he arrived, he immediately began teasing me for being up, being "worried" about him, and then saying this strange sentence, "Why do you call me on my cell phone, you just want to KNOW all the time and you think I was doing something bad, but well, I was in the park but I wasn't going to do anything, I haven't smoked in an hour." Then he stripped off his clothes and started frying two steaks. (After all it was hot, and dinner was skipped)

So I went back to bed and got a few more hours of sleep. Marital bliss it isn't but what would doctor Laura say? "You picked him."

Shuttle arrives safe and sound

Have you ever imagined what it would be like to stop your car Flintstone-style, with your feet? This is similar to what those astronauts are doing as I write. They've begun the entry, using only friction to slow them down. I wonder what they are feeling right now, knowing as they do what happened the last time a shuttle reentered our atmosphere. Raising their fear another notch most certainly must be the fact that the darn foam broke off again during the takeoff, the very thing that doomed the last crew. All the while, they've got to sport a calm countenance and try to replace their fear with faith that nothing will go wrong.

Something we do every day, that. Because each day presents us a whole gamut of possibilities, including the ultimate possibility - death. Most of the time we wade through our activities, aware and cautious about dangers, but assuming that nothing terrible will happen. Negative things do happen along the way, but death is usually escaped - that is until it's not. Perhaps fear let's us live longer in a way, but a case could be argued that a life spent in fear is no life at all.

They'll be landing in 17 minutes, so now is that really bad part where they can't communicate with the ground, a ball of friction fire obstructing their view. This is when they are thinking about their families and friends, God. They might be wondering if suspending their fear was such a good idea. They might be regretting unfinished business.

As the nation watches, breathless, hoping and praying for their safe return I can't help wonder why we are so interested in the lives of these nine people, while we easily bypass news stories of soldier deaths, famine deaths and the like right here on the ground. After all, they are just facing the day like all of us.

Hey look, someone just got hit by a bus.

Discovery

The child and Sara discovering the river.

I spent the weekend with a small girl. Yes, there were other adults and nature all about, but my attention was drawn repeatedly back to the 19 month old. I don't remember being nineteen months old, though there are hazy photographs in my head of the house we lived in in (gasp) Kansas. What was riveting to me about this child was that every moment seemed to be a moment of discovery. She would get mesmerized and trancelike staring at her own fingers and her ability to wiggle them. The dog was a constant source of interest to her as she pointed and said "Dog!" every couple of minutes. "Yes, that's a dog, her name is Sara," one of the adults would say. She learned new words all day long and then repeated them, pointing, "Chair! White!, Mama!, Spinach!, Water! Hungry! Cloud!" On and on, all weekend long.

I guess I was riveted because I yearn for this long lost feeling. Every day shining a new set of things to discover on you. The child seemed to be demonstrating the secret to life. To find everything around you wonderous and exciting, to wake up and just be so thrilled to be alive and experiencing the incredible world around you. Water is such a magical liquid I imagine to a 19 month old, and it certainly was for this child. An hour was spent slowly dipping an old plastic cup into a tub of water and then pouring it onto the ground. The water then made the dirt mud, and the child squealed with delight watching the dirt change to mud, dipping her fingers in it, brushing it off, and then starting again. Bonus sensations came along the way as she poured the water into her lap, and cooed about this new cool trick with the water.

It made me imagine that her "higher self", for lack of a better term, was so amazed and wild about being alive, like she was pinching herself to make sure this wasn't a dream of winning the Lottery. This energy was so profound that just by watching her I siphoned a bit of it off for myself. And what marvelous medicine that was, the little blue pill that helps you see this big beautiful scintillating world for what it is - magical!

And once again, I felt enormous gratitude for being able to witness and marvel at this stage of development without having to tend to the child's (many) needs 24/7 for the past 19 months. As you can imagine, the parents have been through the gauntlet of a year's worth of sleep deprivation. I can see how it's worth it, but I can also see how blessed I am to have kids in my life. And in the end, even though I went out searching for some nature, I got what I needed, a lesson in life.

On the shores of Lac Megantic

I am so attracted by some aspects of country life. Being close to nature and its marvels is very appealing, and the wide open space gives a sense of freedom to this boxed in city boy. Our friends reside in a "residential" area where the plots are thickly forested with clearings and sum five acres each. The road is not paved. The loudest sounds are generally generated by wind and birds. We roasted marshmallows around a campfire set up in their "yard". Since they live there, our friends took us to secret spots including a public beach on Lake Megantic where there was no one but us, and then this morning to a woody canyon where a river cascades down giant boulders with little pools under each chute. We swam, Sara swam, not another human around.

But.

When I wanted to update the blog yesterday since they are connected to the internet, I quickly found a huge drawback to country life - no high speed access available. It took me over an hour to connect, check my email, access the blog and write a miniscule post.

I remember the days of slow internet, when the internet was a loathesome beast to consider using due to all the wait time for everything to appear on the screen.

I can't go back. So it looks like I'll be visiting the country until they work that thing there out.

In the country

It`s marvelous! Stunning views of forested mountains and valleys. Little villages sprinkled about with carved out areas of pasture and the constant hum of songbirds. The skies are pollution-free blue and we swam in a crystal clear mountain lake today. I`ll have some good pics tomorrow.
Tonight we will attend a presentation at the observatory and have a good hard look at the stars.

Sara is in heaven.

Fleeing the city

We're off today to the country. Damn I hope it's cooler there. It should be since the town is named Mont Megantic and features a cone shaped mountain with an observatory perched atop. It's eighty degrees and 90 percent humidity as I wake up this morning putting the humidex (how it feels) at 95. Sleep was iffy to put it best (especially when the electricity went out and there wasn't even a fucking fan for two hours). Soon I've got to dash out and pick up the rental car, then rush around picking up things and getting our shit together to leave.

Bitterness. You look forward to something and then just as you are about to do it you are robbed of your ability to enjoy it (lack of sleep in my case.) Ah well, there's always tomorrow when we'll be taking the night tour to the observatory (I'll take pics) and viewing the stars with unfettered visibility (or so say the meteorologues). During the day we'll be a) taking a hike in the forest if the temps are bearable or b) kayaking on the cool waters of Lake Megantic.

I'll post if I can, we are staying at a friend's house equipped with a computer. Not much else going on to write about, the muse is on vacation and my head is cloudy. Peace.

Rambling

Serge and I have never seriously considered having a child. Oh the topic comes up every now and then, usually after witnessing some incredible darling thing a child has done, where the conversation goes something like this:

Aww, that's so cute, makes me wish we had a kid. (This could be either of us talking)

Yeah, but that's now, lets not forget diapers, illness, injuries, money, teenage period, and that we'd be 60 by the time the kid moves out.

Oh right what was I thinking.

And other times, we'll witness some heinous behavior and cluck about how we've maintained the right decision.

God, can you believe that kid?

I know, we'd surely end up with one like that.

Thank God we didn't waver from our platform.

Oh sure it goes deeper than this sometimes, that instinctual nurturing thing inside us that we rehearse on Sara. In fact Sara is really our child, as we pay close attention to her moods and habits, her fears and most incessantly her bowel movements. (When we lived in the loft, we collected three year's worth of turds in little plastic bags as we walked her in the park three times a day.) She is eleven now and her age is showing around her muzzle, showing in the diminished spring in her step, showing in the fouler odors escaping her, and showing in that her earlier fears have grown into paranoid obsession. At every passerby on the sidewalk outside she growls. She used to just bark at the doorbell, but now any knocking or doorbell on the TV sends her into a tizzy.

Playing uncle to friends' kids and also teaching kids while raising a dog pretty much gives me all the gifts of parenthood with much less of the horrors. Oh sure I've come across a pile of vomit on the carpet more than a few times, and I've had to admonish kids and be mortified by their cruelty, but I've been spared the 24/7 adrenaline rush that lasts 18 years with your own child.

The thing that worries me though is this: what kind of grief will I experience when Sara dies? Just the mere thought of it crushes me, and so I'm worried about what will erupt within me when it really happens. At least with real children of your own, it is quite possible that you will die before your offspring does.

Dildocox and Nippleclitz

Before devouring bbq chicken pizza in Vegas.


Dirty sex. Apparently this is what it takes to grab the attention of net surfers. I'm not sure if this is a sad commentary on our society, or just un unveiling of what vulgar, animalistic creatures we really are. I'm sure this has happened to you. You have something you want to find more information about on the net, so you go to your favorite search engine to plug in your search terms. Want to find out about the show "Nip and Tuck", or try to find a recipe for "Melon Milk Pie", and what you get are millions of porn sites grappling for your attention. And then if you actually click on one of the sites, you know, just to see....you end up with some porn virus that reconfigures your computer and renders it unable to function. I don't even use the search engines any more, Wikipedia is my search area of choice now.

Lately, it was noted over at Just Babble that one can increase their blog readership exponentially by using any terms for body parts commonly thought of as sexual. Over at Popfizz, he notes that he will read any blog that contains pictures of tits. So I guess if you are looking for readership, sex is the way to go. Just look over here at Sex near the City, a rather popular blog from a woman who basically complains about her sex life and it's (ill written, but we forgive her - English being her second language) regularly in the top ten over at TopBlogs. (You can see where I am on the popularity list if you look at the little brown Vote box to the left on this page.)

Em was ranting yesterday about the whole blog phenomenon and how people are getting fired for what they have put in their blog, and also how friends and family members are often horrified at the information revealed in their loved ones' blogs. I've experienced it myself, "I don't know how you can reveal such personal information. Private things should be kept private." And all I can come up with is "Why?" What is everyone so afraid of? If we all put our deepest darkest secrets out for the world to see, I think we'll all just find that we have the same base and dirty thoughts and opinions as everyone else. Instead, society seems to want us to pretend to be normal, and keep any of the "abnormal" stuff behind the curtain. But then it's also the age thing.

True story with little embellishment: A blogger's parents recently bemoaned reading the blog, saying that sometimes the sexual parts, well, it's too much information, that private things should sometimes remain private. This struck the blogger as quite hypocritical since when the blogger was an 11 year old kid, the blogger discovered (not very well hidden, accidentally stumbled on) naked sex pictures of the parents. A few years later, the father's comic books were discovered wherein was depicted large membered males fucking the eye sockets of dead female corpses. Now that those parents are of grandparent age, suddenly it's shocking to read bloggers shamelessly talking about their own little secret fetishes. I believe that revealing these things might just help take away the shame of it all, what turns you on, what you like to look at, what part of the human klaidescope you fit into. We're all just people. (Well, ok, except for baby man.)

And to any further objections to the contents, or even the phenomenon of blogs, I say "Dildocox and Nippleclitz!"*

* malarkey, balderdash, patooey, nonsense, "you're high"

This is how it works

You put out some (repetetive, turret's like) intention, some deep desire and then start looking for signs. The signs could be anywhere, on a scrap of paper on the sidewalk, in an internet article, in a conversation being had by fellow cafe patrons. The signs will be there, but you have to be paying attention. And you have to be patient. It's not about "wanting" it so much, as imagining what it would be like to have it, to believe that you have it already within your reach, just that you don't see it yet. Are you following me?

Here's an example. The past few years I've been exploring different ways to exercise the spiritual muscle, which has led down a reddish road. For the past year I've been keeping my eyes and ears open for a place to do a sweat, a native practice that is very cleansing, though difficult. I did one last year in California and this year when I went to New Mexico two weeks ago. Since I came back, my interest was renewed again, it should be easy, there are native reservations near my own city. So yesterday, I am playing Literati (Yahoo's version of Scrabble) and a girl joins my room and we play a game together. I notice that her moniker is Mohawkrezgrl, and so I think what the hell, and ask a personal question.

So do they do any sweatlodge things where you are?

In the longhouse, lots of red hot rocks.

Wow, I have been looking for a place to do it around where I live.

Too hot for me. But very cleansing.

I'm in Montreal.

I'm an hour away from you. (I've never knowingly played anyone so close to me geographically and I've played thousands of games)

Well, how would I find out more about participating in one?

Then she gave me directions to a place to go down and poke around, where the people could tell me the time and place of such things. It just so happens that we have a car reserved for next week as we are going camping on the weekend. We have the car for a whole week though and so I have a few days next week with a car, but no use of the car planned for those days. Hmm.

The bread crumbs are all in place, and now it's up to me to follow them.

Watched it

People have been telling me to see it for a while. You know, the movie What the #&%*% Do We Know. I can see why now, one of the main themes being about focusing on the mystery and magic of this world. Did you notice in the film how some of the things were repeated, not in the reality TV (this is the only good bit we got so we're going to pummel you with it) way, but in the native way: the most important things are repeated so that you remember them.

That on a quantum level, there is no here or there, only possible heres or theres. That we are chemically addicted to our emotions. That how we think and feel can actually affect things both inside (on a cellular level) and outside of us, that we create our own reality in a way, even though we think that we are objective observers in an immutable reality.

And I don't know about you, but I have experienced so many coincidences that seem to coincide with my thought patterns of the day that I was thinking it was premonitions, and now after seeing that movie, it opens my mind to the possiblity that I'm making it happen. (Quiet down now, dear ego) How we view ourselves as independent creatures when actually we are all part of the same "reality" fluid - drop an emotional bomb inside you, and the ripples extend much further than the confines of your body.

I thought the movie was a little bit dumbed down, and I would have enjoyed seeing more of the math/physics parts explained. However, it gave me just the boost I was looking for (of course), to seek the magic and mystery of the world, to view each moment as a dance between me and all that is around me, to get lost in the moment until "me" dissolves and there is only the magic of being lost in a thought, a kind of cohesive energy rippling through the substance of reality.

I'm hungry, and the bagels are crying out "eat me, eat me!" It's true, I can hear them.

We're all heroes

Lance Armstrong. Just the name makes me wince. Not because he is in anyway worthy of derision, (though he may be in some private moments we aren't privy to) but because here is a guy who holds the admiration of the world in his hands, having broken world records while also beating that cancer. And then using this celebrity to further the research into cancer - in short, a true hero. But here's my problem: instead of feeling inspired by him, I just feel like I'm a worthless piece of shinola.

Remember when you were young and the teachers and older folks encouraged you by saying that you could be anything you wanted to be? Isn't that what is still happening today? And the reality is, it's just not accurate. Now, I'm sure Lance wasn't pulling on mommy's apron going "I want to win the Tour de France and then I want to get cancer, beat it and win that race some more times. Wouldn't it be great if I could win it seven times and inspire the world to step up and solve some major cancer riddles?" But he may have wanted to race bikes, I don't know we'd have to ask him. (Sure I could traipse all over the net looking for interviews to add some verisimilitude to the piece here, but then I'm no reporter) The truth is that you will probably not be the "best" at anything, that you won't have a previously unthought of thought in your entire life. The truth is also that you will have a set of unique experiences that when mixed together with your personality will provide you with a completely new "existence", unexisted until now. No one piece of it will be new, just the whole recipe taken together.

It took me decades to figure this out. I've tried to do many things, with varying degrees of success. I can read music and write songs, write little stories and swim, bodysurf and bowl. But there is always someone who can do it better, their particular mix of talent and drive far more suited to the tasks than mine. All the jobs! Waiter, model, actor, restaurant manager, calendar maker, teacher, factory worker, gopher; I like to think I was/am good at those things, but I'm certainly not the best. Sigh.

And so, doomed to a life of obvious mediocrity, there is that one tiny thread to cling to; taken together your existence is unique. It's the one thing you can be the best at, the one true way to stand tall and be proud, and the one way that we can all be Lance Armstrong.

Last night

We took the bus down to the village yesterday. This is gay pride week here in Montreal and so I chose to go join the festivities for my birthday. I wanted to eat at Saloon, a popular bistro where I've never had a bad meal. First stop was Sky for a before dinner beer. The place was packed at 6pm, full of tourists and locals taking advantage of the two for one prices in effect until seven. We were just about ready to leave when the pretentious ones arrived and joined us wishing me happy birthday and standing around passing judgemental comments about the patrons, the music, fashion and the like. I can't stand being around them, a bunch of bitter queens spending way too much time showing off their two hundred dollar shoes to each other. They've just got it all figured out those guys, how to be arch and bitter, and ultimately boyfriend-less. When told of our dinner plans, it was wrinkled noses all around. I was wearing a tank top, shorts and Berkenstocks so a high class restaurant was not really in the possible mix of eateries. But anyway, this is how they are, I didn't ask for them to spit on my plans, but they just hawk their loogies up on just about anything.

So what are you doing for your 40th Tornwordo?

We're going to have dinner at Saloon, and then we're going over to the festival site to watch the concert.

Saloon, why do you want to go there? (Looks at watch, yawns)

Always a good meal, and cute waiters to boot. (my eyes sparkling, hey - it's my bday)

Well there's much better restaurants in the village than that. ( with pity and the wrinkled nose disgust look) And there's nothing good at the festival tonight, tomorrow night and Sunday are better. (who asked you?)

Afterwards, we'll probably head over to the Stud to dance a little.

At this point, they were dumbstruck and gave each other little knowing glances of disdain. The Stud is one of many bars in the village. I like it there because it's full of real people, where guys with beer bellies dance with their shirts off. It's a we don't care what we look like, we're here to let go and have fun kind of place. There are many other places with twenty dollar cover charges and New York DJs, the dance floors filled with steroid addled Chrissy queens. Just not my kind of place anymore.

Serge and I finished our beer and said goodbye to the snot patrol, went up and had a lovely dinner at Saloon, enjoyed the festival concert enormously (there was a rendition of God Bless the Child that nearly had me in tears it was so beautiful) and danced until one at the Stud where we ran into our old neighbor who bought us a drink for my birthday. (This was classy, I thought, the arbiters of taste didn't even do that at the beginning of the night.) The music was from the 80's on the dancefloor, actual songs I knew the words to, and we danced unselfconciously to the beat of Madonna, Michael Jackson, Tears for Fears etc. A great way to end the night.

Apparently life begins now

Forty years ago today, my mother suffered a good bit to squeeze me through her loins. Since then, a number of events have shaped me to be who I am today. I can't really say which events played the biggest role, just that taken together, they have led me to this day and the incredible unimaginable life I'm leading right now. If you had told me that one day I would be speaking French and living in a foreign country, I wouldn't have believed you (French always scared the shit out of me) and yet, here I am.

I figure if I were wine, I'd be just about ready to drink right now. Twenty years ago I was far to young and bitter and at thirty some of my harsher edges had been smoothed, but today, finally, maturity.

That said, and to avoid descending into some sentimental morass, I give you:

Top Ten Reasons Turning 40 Sucks

10. People are more interested in your money than your looks.

9. It's no longer cool to smoke a joint.

8. Gray pubes.

7. A semi qualifies as hard.

6. Napping becomes involuntary.

5. You start smelling the way you remember grandpa did when you were young.

4. You tsk tsk the younger generation.

3. When you say something about David Bowie, younger people say, "Who's that?"

2. Your face starts looking like a roadmap.

1. When your ass hurts, it's not because of the hot sex you had, it's because of hemmorhoids.

Tenants

The doorbell rings. Upon opening the door, Leah is standing there holding a bowl of grapes. Ants are crawling all over the grapes and Leah says look, there is a problem at my house.

Leah lives on the third floor above us, she had a baby two years ago with her then boyfriend who has since left her. She seems to resent the world, though she has an unbelievably beautiful son.

What is the solution to the ant problem Leah?

Well, I don't want any poisons because of the baby.

How about keeping the grapes in the fridge? After all it's summer, you might want to put the things away that attract the bugs. (I'm doing my best not to laugh at her, she is purse-lipped and serious.)

Those are carpenter ants, she says, that means you have rotting wood.

Thank you pest expert Leah.

And another thing, she says, last month you didn't cash the rent check until the 20th and I need you to tell me if you're not going to cash it right away.

Now, I couldn't help laughing, and I thought about showing her what a checkbook looks like, but she was being all serious again, so I said, just pay us in cash if you have trouble keeping track of your account.

I didn't know being a landlord could be so amusing.

Twitchy America

Airline travel isn't what it used to be. I'm sure this is nothing new to you. Having visited several airports over the last few weeks, it is quite clear that not only are airports hubs of paranoia, they are also studies in incompetence. I flew from LA to Montreal via Vancouver on the day following the London bombings and there was a huge police presence in the airports on this day, screaming at people unloading curbside and suspiciously eyeing people with baggage (yes, that would be everyone). Instead of feeling safe, it made me nervous, twitchy policemen ready to react.

Last weekend I took a short trip to visit my uncle. When I bought the tickets (from a site called lastminutedeals.com) I was informed that I would be under extra scrutiny for having bought my tickets "last minute". (How reassuring) The tickets were bought two weeks prior to the trip. Even though there are posted signs everywhere about the prohibition against lighters, I thought I would just see if I could avoid having to buy another one and left it in my bag. So I went through security in Montreal with no trouble, and then when I landed to make my connection in Chicago, I went outside to smoke and reentered the security screening - twice. Both times, there was no detection of the lighter in my bag. (I figured if they spotted it, I would play dumb and say I was unaware that it was in there.) Huge tubs of lighters that passengers voluntarily gave up sat in plain view at the checkpoints. Agents were reminding people about it and informing passengers that paper matches were acceptable, but not wooden matches. (Does this ring logical?) I saw people with diabetes explaining why they had sharp objects in their bags, and elderly people getting the bomb squad makeover. A kids' shoes caused a great deal of commotion and agents banged the shoes and wiped them with the bomb detection tissues. Apparently the shoes had little electronic lights that alarmed the agents.

I can see where this is going - soon all baggage will be prohibited and special paper airline gowns will be the only acceptable garb. Cavity checks will be common.

When I returned on Monday, I decided to ditch the lighter because it was on its last legs. Wouldn't you know it, then I was selected for extra screening, agents poring over my bag and shoes demanding to know what's this and what's that. The answers were fairly obvious, uh that's a tube of toothpaste (he must have been unfamiliar with "Crest") and that there is a packet of enchilada sauce (the powdered mix). The enchilada sauce caused the agent to ask for assistance as they opened it to inspect the contents. It came to mind to make a joke about anthrax laden powder but then I thought better of it.

To digress from the topic a bit, going home, I landed in Dallas for my connection and when I got off the plane, I remembered how Texans do everything big, and walking through the terminal, the lifestyle of excess was in clear evidence, this was the land of the behemoths. I've got nothing against people with a little extra meat on their bones, but when walking becomes difficult, it may be time to address your coke and french fry addiction. I actually giggled as I meandered around the airport, and thought about how our energy issues could be solved simply by tapping the liposuction clinics in Texas.

On the last flight to Montreal, we sat at the gate in the airplane for a half an hour as the crew discovered that a passenger's bag was on the plane, while the passenger was absent. We had to wait for the ground crew to go into the hold and find the missing passenger's bag before takeoff.
Passengers on the plane buzzed about how "safe" they felt with these new measures.

I wondered if they really found the bag, or just put on this dog and pony show for us. Really if it's your time to go, it's your time to go and so I sat back and read my book and enjoyed the flight.

Travelog

Back from the highlands of New Mexico, a last minute junket I decided to take to visit my uncle, I'm feeling refreshed and centered, grounded and grateful.














The monsoon season had just begun and I enjoyed the daily thunderstorms, the unbelievable hiking and just hanging out with family, long talks into the night. On Saturday, we took a long hike in the wilderness to ten thousand foot grass mountain.













It was spectacular and humbling, the thunderstorms muttering around us, the deer skitting off as we approached, and the wildflowers blooming everywhere.











The place is Pecos, about a half hour drive
South of Santa Fe.
















Hiking in the mountains with my uncle is really cool, as he spotted wild onions and sage and rattled off the names of plants, trees and animals that we came across.
















Tomorrow, we'll return to our usual format.

Contradicting observations

Living among the French here in Quebec is rather paradoxical. On the one hand, they've embraced many capitalist ideals and a good deal of American culture. (Quebecers are number one in the world for per capita consumption of Kraft mac'n'cheese) On the other, the city of Montreal bucks the mainstream much in the way San Francisco does and is one of the most unique (art-filled, festival ridden) societies in the world. Talk about a melting pot, this place has large Greek, Italian, Russian, Chinese, Mexican and Arab communities within a city of just a million (2 if you count the suburbs). But Quebec being a French speaking province, the preferred (or rather legally mandated) written and spoken language is French. I have had long conversations with English people, solely in French, because the event was French speaking. But in other places, like the metro, everyone speaks their own language, and you hear snippets of all of them every day.

Taxes are high and crime is low. (I don't really think this is a paradox, but my Republican friends will)

People who live here love this city and would never want to live anywhere else, except Florida. (There are huge communities of retired Quebecers who live in Florida during the winter, little towns almost)

French people like to say postitive things in the negative form: It's not cold today. (It's nice today.) That wouldn't not please me. (I'd like that.)

If you don't say "Bonjour" you're rude, but if you decline an invitation, a simple "No" is all that is required. No explanation necessary.

One of the most popular tv shows here features a family living on welfare and cheating the system whenever possible.

Half the people want to separate from Canada, and the other half don't.

All the curse words here are centered on religious objects found in the Catholic church. (Chalice, Sacrament, Host, and the worst, Tabernacle) They use the English word "fuck" constantly, but it has no obscene connotation. C'est fucke! (It's broken)

Quebecers are repulsed by refried beans (sadly for me) and love to eat horse.

Stores can sell alcohol only until 11pm, bars can sell it until 3am.

I suppose I could go on, dear reader, but alas, the day presses at me like a child on the window of an ice cream shop.

Well, fair readers, I must bid you adieu again. Off to the hills to visit my uncle in Santa Fe. And while it would be my greatest pleasure to provide updates, the place I'm staying is rather remote and internet-less. I'll post again when I get back, say Tuesday, shall we?

Ten fantasies

Child dancing at sunset.

1. In a stunning act of bad planning, secret service hustle Mr Bush into a nearby dive to avoid the Jehovah's Witnesses tambourining down the street. Once inside, the secret service are mobbed by a group of drag queens and poor Georgie gets dragged to the back room. He appears sore-assed and in a pink tu-tu on Face the Nation the next morning. He giggles and fans himself. After that, everything changes.

2. For reasons only the karmically enlightened can discern, Rick Santorum is mobbed and beaten in Jamaica, accused of being a "batty boy".

3. Aliens visit Earth, apologize profusely, and whisk Tom Cruise back to their world.

4. Whales grow legs and walk out of the sea to kick some serious butt.

5. Three words: multiple orgasm pills.

6. America becomes humble instead of arrogant, the preferred scenario of course would spare all of my loved ones any hardship. (Michael Moore for president?)

7. Arnold Schwarzenegger is swiftly castrated during a bizarre incident involving the office paper cutting tool. "There is a ruler at the edge of the cutter and I was snapping a picture for my dudesnude profile, when the handle came down," he trills in his new girly-man voice.

8. I apply for and get a job which only requires me to breathe. Any government job will do.

9. A remake is made called "Marty Poppins" featuring a dandy boy from the land of pederast. (Just a spoonful of jism helps the med...well you get the idea) *No flaming please, it's called humor, if you find it in bad taste, fuck off

10. I marry my man and move to a foreign land where we can live our lives in a peaceful and tolerant society. Someplace like Canada. Oh wait.

Reader feedback requested

An interesting question was posed at the barbeque Saturday night.

There were eight of us, Marie and Olivier with their nine month old son and their friends Martin and Frederique (the female) with their 18 month old daughter. We had taken the train to get to Marie and Olivier's house way out on the edge of suburbs and countryside. When we arrived, it was blisteringly hot and muggy and the two infants were in the blow up kiddie pool, squealing and splashing ad infinitum. The six adults sat around the kiddie pool chatting and sipping panache (half beer/half seven-up, ice cold) and cooing over the children. The children had no desire to leave the pool, ever. Eventually, we got hungry and dragged the kids out of the pool, went inside and fed them while getting the adult food together. At seven, the kids were sleeping in the other room, and we all sat down to enjoy barbequed ribs and potato salad with some lightly chilled red wine. Marie served a fresh homemade strawberry tart for dessert and a bottle of dessert wine from 1970. (They are from France, can't you tell?)

Anyway, suitably oiled for more risque talk, the conversation began featuring bodily functions and finally sex. To which the following question came up: How did you experience your first orgasm? We practiced first by going around the table, "Was it alone?" Six yesses all around, then, "Was it before or after the onset of puberty?" Here we were evenly divided. We then shared our stories, one by one, except for Olivier, who smiled nervously the whole time and finally weaseled out of telling.

That would make for a pretty interesting blog, don't you think, I mean the first time orgasm discovery stories? It could be anonymous, everyone showing the incredible diversity of our species. (I was quite shocked to find out that people were having orgasms as children. I felt like I had missed out on something.) We could start right now, you could leave your story in the comments. Oh what? I should tell my story before I have the gall to ask you to leave yours? Geez, my family reads this thing. Okay, family, don't read on.

On the bed with my feet turned up and over my body flat against the wall behind my head. That which best displays my gender made contact with the back of my throat. A strange electrical sensation passed and throbbing began and I got scared, not sure what was happening. After thinking it through, I figured out what it was, and practiced often after that. ( I am, sadly, unable to achieve that position anymore.)

See how easy that was? Go ahead, share, won't you?

Scatty cat

I hazily woke up some 30 years ago, alone in my bed, shivering due to a fever. I had stayed home from school for days and the flu was reaching its zenith inside me. A gnawing pain in my gut reminded me to take sips of the 7-up my mom had left next to the bed. I had a small black and white tv in my room, and it was all I could muster to reach over and turn it on. Suddenly, I was hot and pushed down the blankets to my feet, ready to pull them back at the first sign of shivers. For hours I alternated between sweaty and freezing, slowly sipping from the 7-up glass.


During The Price is Right, our cat Panther paid a visit to my bedroom and jumped up on the bed making purring noises, and I stroked her as she pushed her clawless paws into my legs as if they were scratching posts. She purred and purred and rotated and extended her tail as I stroked her from her head and down her back to her tail. I actually started feeling a glimmer of happiness, sick as a dog, stroking the cat.

And then something unexpected happened.

While the cat was turned toward my feet, and her tail straight up in the air, a tiny bursting sound, a kind of phht popped out of her anus. It sounded like gas and smelled highly pungent and as I started gagging from the smell, I noticed tiny brown specks all over my white t-shirt and on the pillow behind my head. Uncontrollably, the 7-up jettisoned itself from my stomach flying clear across the room in one voluminous squirt, and I stood and staggered to the bathroom. Once in front of the mirror, I could see all the brown specks dotting my face and the dry heaves began. It took me an hour to get cleaned up and change the sheets, doing my best to stifle the nausea.

When my mom came home that day, I was feeling so awful and yet glad to see her. When I told her what had happened, she cried laughing, huge gasping uncontrollable laughter.

I still can't laugh about that story.

More summer ranting

Sunday evening in the back yard. After the air
conditioning hunt.

On a quest for a window box air conditioner yesterday, an unsuccessful quest incidentally*, I had to get on the bus for one of the legs of the journey. The heat has turned everyone into muttering, poor-postured stink factories. We file onto the bus and take a seat. The windows are open, but the heat is suffocating inside. At the next stop, more people get on, and as people brush past you, it is not a little tickle, it is more like a slide, as your sweat hooks up with theirs, gooey and greasy. A well dressed man chooses to hang onto the pole attached to your seat. There is such a jarring assault of odors, you (like me) put your face out the window. The man obviously has some perverted idea that deoderant is useless. His is a gag-inducing foulness. But wait, you detect something else, something even more sickening, yes, he has the most nauseating garlic breath imaginable mixed with something like rotting teeth. He had run to catch the bus, and he stands next to you, his exhalations blowing directly onto your head. You are trapped. You feel your gag reflex gear up with every breath. You begin to breathe through your mouth, and consider getting off the bus and waiting for the next one. You are panicked.

The stench gauntlet was what it was. I'm trying not to be overly critical, but when you notice the sheen of oily sweat coating your body, it might be time for an armpit check, nay, refreshening. Especially if public transportation figures in your plans. Otherwise, and I say this with love, stay the fuck home.

* You would think that in our perfect capitalist society that you would be able to procure an appliance at will. You would be wrong. You would also discover that advertisements are made to lure you into a store to buy a product only to find that they don't have the product. You might be offered a raincheck for when the next shipment comes in in August, and this might make you cranky and wont to tantrums (like informing the salesman that they have an idiot in the ordering department).

All I can say is shove your "sorry" up your ass.

We bought a second fan instead. We have a lot of hot air blowing around the house.

Downpour!

It's dumping outside now. It's 77 and pouring down tropical rain. I've been sitting outside watching the sky pulsate and imagining the clouds as giant sponges, some unseen force squeezing them and releasing. Squeeze and release. Rumbles of thunder roll in from a distance like a choir in the background. Serge sleeps uncovered on the bed, snores escaping now and then, oblivious to my morning ecstasy. Sara cowers under the desk - she hates choirs. The air is heavy and thick, like syrup. The sounds of water dripping from everywhere, incessant, is like a giant lullaby for a sleeping city. I feel like I got up early and caught Santa Claus on Christmas Eve.

Sunday sermon

You have all the answers,
Derived from your brain,
The heart unconsulted,
Intolerance, the refrain.

You hail from a red state,
On us you cast shame,
We don't hold the power,
But still, somehow, are to blame.

You call us naive,
For wanting to know,
What makes the world,
Hate America so.

You market ideas,
Like the latest new thing,
Cloaked in fancy labels,
And talking points that ring.

But what you are missing,
Though you're completely unaware,
Is that you are heartless,
For the world, you do not care.

God bless America,
That's what you say,
God fuck the rest of the world,
Said another way.

You're holding the reins,
We're trapped on the ride,
As you take us ever further,
To the dark side.

And so today,
I send you some light,
Light to be shed,
On this spiritual fight.

There is no us,
There is no them,
There are only people,
Get some heart in your head.

Mother bloodsuckers

Again with the heat, man. Already we've had the hottest June EVER recorded here and now July is shaping up to be a sweathouse nightmare. I so want to love summer; the festivals, the nightlife, the twice weekly fireworks shows, the lightning storms and lush growth in the parks. And the bike rides, I had these great dreams of exploring the bike paths in other parts of the city, going on long rides along the river, and taking advantage of this wonderful network of dedicated bike lanes. All of those things are rendered drudgery when the perceived temperature tops 100.

I'm telling you.

The neighbor upstairs, Guy, informed me of the local public pool, and generally extolled its virtues of proximity and size. All I could think was that you couldn't pay me to enter a public pool with hundreds of other humans a large percentage of which are children. "Thanks, Guy I'll have to check it out" I said. Would this qualify as prissiness? This revulsion for coating my body with urine (yes, I know about the chlorine). I was a kid, and I'm fairly sure that I was not alone in peeing in the pool. I'm just saying.

Should we stick it out or break down and get the window box air conditioner? You know how it's going to go down if we do buy it: the weather will change and we'll have a cool rest of the summer, and I'll be subject to a permenant harangue by my (gosh I love him) battleaxe.

Speaking of said battleaxe, I would like to give only a cursory review of yesterday's events, the details too tawdry to go into. It seems that the manly cutting tool could be seen having his handle polished in a park nearby oh about 3 am. Mitigating circumstances might include that the tool had been marinating in cleaning solution for 8 hours before this event. Today the cutting tool is full of rue. (giggle)

In other news, I went on a quest for more deet. The back yard, harboring as it does this year's winning mosquito breeding ground, is a gauntlet of blood sucking. Each time I am seduced by the warm summer breezes and the new patio, I step out only to swiftly have my blood let. I have started coating myself with bug spray every day (I like to think of it as my camping perfume) and ran out of the Off from last year. So I found some super heavy duty bug spray (30 percent deet) and when I used it, I got a buzz from the fumes. A poison buzz, nice.

So today dawns again with the promise of more sweating and bloodletting, my body an apparent bottomless well of such liquids. Sigh.

No more mo without the jo

Why bust my butt every day to post when no one is even reading it? Anyway, today I have to write for money. Ugh. I get to write how the food is the cornerstone of the restaurant. I'm serious. As if no one knew that the food was an integral part of a retaurant operation. In addition, I've written a similar spot on the same topic, (here's why our food is so good, look at the lengths we go to get the finest and most exotic ingredients blah blah blah) and I just don't know how to improve upon it. But, if I just pull out the old one, I don't get the fifty bucks. I want the fifty bucks, so I'm going to go work on it now.

Sorry there's not much more today, but further stroking is needed for inspiration/ambition.

You have been warned.

The Hoverers part 2

They never figured out exactly what had happened the night that Heart of a Jaguar died so gruesomely. The idea that was advanced and finally accepted was that human sacrifice was necessary to appease the spirits and within a decade the practice of child sacrifice was an annual affair. This gave the tribe a sense of security, and thus creativity flourished. Creativity is easily extinguished by fear, but by this atrocious act of sacrifice, the spirits entered into a pact of protection with the tribe. In fact, the spirits began to mentor the tribe and teach them unknown miracles. Their cultivation and hunting methods improved and the population flourished for twenty years. And then...

Watches the Clouds was 12 at the time. He was the only offspring from his parents, Dawn of Spring (who died giving birth), and Night Wind, who presently shared his sex with Dawn of Spring's sister, Watertalker. Watches the Clouds had missed his mother his whole life. The tribe couldn't understand this as he couldn't possibly remember his mother. But Watches the Clouds did know his mother. She visited him in his dreams nearly every night where they spoke in hushed loving tones. He wanted to be with her, or for her to be with him, to touch and smell her physically. His was a heart of want and desire, unsquelched by the admonitions of others. Where the other young tribesmen were thriving in the social obligations in the village, Watches the Clouds was becoming more withdrawn, solitary, and morose.

As summer was giving way to fall, the young Watches the Clouds told his mother that he was coming to see her. She smiled and loved him and said gently, "Not yet." It was with this impression that he woke up, three days before the annual sacrifice would take place. The decision of who would be sacrificed was left to the elders in the tribe, who practiced ritual ceremony to divine the best candidate. Watches the Clouds went to the house of the elders that morning and informed them that he would like to be the person sacrificed. The elders thanked him for his bravery but gently rebuffed him, saying only, "It is possible." The more Watches the Clouds thought about it that day, the more his sense of urgency mounted and his thinking became jagged, and disconnected. His mind lit upon the fruit from the plant that makes one crazy. That was it, he thought, "I will see my mother tonight" he said. He left the settlement and wandered into the hills in search of the fruit from the plant which makes one crazy.

In the late afternoon, he came upon a clump of berries hanging from a bush near a trickle of a stream. They looked like sweet miracle fruit, but he wasn't sure so he picked one of the berries and put it in his mouth and began to chew. The incredible bitterness of the berry made him spit it out nearly immediately and he knelt down and cupped his hands to drink from the stream and rinse out the bad taste. He took the clump of berries and placed it in his sack fashioned from the hide of a mountain goat he had killed the year before (his first). As he began his journey back to the village, Watches the Clouds started getting dizzy.

His mind became befuddled and confused and he sat down on a large flat rock overlooking the valley with the village below. He heard his mother's voice, distant but real. "Fly," she seemed to be saying. Watches the Clouds didn't understand what was happening to his eyes, the whole world seemed to be composed of vines, rippling and vibrating. "Fly," his mother's voice said, louder and more clearly. An eagle flew past and rippled the vines as it went. Watches the Clouds could actually feel the ripples move past him. "Turn your heart, over and again," his mother said, "Like a rock tumbling down the river, turn your heart and fly." Watches the clouds felt the center of his love for his mother and began to turn it inside him. He couldn't see his heart, but he could see ripples emanating from his torso. "Faster," she whispered. He imagined his heart, his love, turning and turning faster and faster. "Look down," his mother whispered again. When Watches the Clouds looked down, he saw that he was nearly a foot off the ground, and as he gasped in surprise, his heart stopped turning and he fell briskly onto the rock. But, this time there was no fire.

Watches the Clouds stayed on the rock overlooking the village for hours practicing his newfound ability to hover, and he was learning how to move forward and backward and from side to side. It took a good amount of concentration, and distractions were problematic. He hovered back to the village never more than a few feet off the ground. When he arrived, he began walking, not sure how to go about revealing this strange and magical skill. Just before arriving home, he ran into one of the elders. "Good news, " he said to Watches the Clouds, "You got your wish, you've been selected for the sacrifice."

Around the house

So you see the cutting board in this picture? It has hung in that very spot since we brought it home a year ago. We were at Ikea to finalize details on the kitchen cabinets we purchased there, and the kitchen accessory section was just adjacent. All things kitchen hypnotize Serge and as I followed him through the area, he picked up dozens of things proclaiming "we need this!" I said things to engender his love like " Can you define need?" and "We've never made bread, so how can we need a bread-maker?" etc. I thought we did pretty good by getting out of the kitchen section with a few pans, a metal shelf (the cutting board is hanging from it) the cutting board and a tablecloth (which is still in the original wrapping as I write today.) The problem with the cutting board is that it looks so good with it's uniform wood color (that matches nicely with the cabinets I might add) and it's stylish metal trim that we don't want to use it and sully the surfaces. So we have continued using the $2 plastic cutting boards of which we have three. I refer (unfortunately for Serge) to the cutting board now when the phrase "we need this" is used. It shuts him up and saves me money.



Is this what Romaine lettuce is supposed to look like? I've never grown Romaine lettuce but I've bought it at the store hundreds of times. Funny, I've never seen a three foot head of lettuce. We've been eating the lettuce and giving it to neighbors and it tastes like store bought, so what's the problem right? The problem is that when you have garden admirers over, one is pressed to explain how the lettuce grew like that. So far the consensus is that they were planted too close to one another and therefore grew up instead of out. I like to think that I have special lettuce, standing tall in the glow of my love.


This is the pink cup. The pink cup, procured for a quarter at Pic n Save in Long Beach 8 years ago, is my favorite cup. Like Serge, I don't care much for the color, but I drink from this cup every day. This is the cup for water and I am careful to consume several per day. What a lucky cup I have. Of all the like pink cups produced, I figure mine has had the most productive life, truly fulfilling its purpose. We are grateful for each other, my pink cup and I.

Puzzling

One of the prevalent paradoxes in the world of Physics/Philosophy/Mathematics is the following idea:

Suppose that you want to cross the room and touch the wall on the other side of the room. Ok, now imagine that you want to find the mid point between you and the wall. Next, you want to find the mid point of the two halves of the distance (now you have fourths of your path). Mathematically, this can be done to infinity. Therefore there are an infinitite number of points between you and the wall. It is impossible to "cross" infinity because then infinity is finite. So, you can never reach the wall.

But we do reach the wall. How is this possible?

There is no consensus on the matter.

Further, what does it mean to "touch" something? Is there something between you and the wall that you "touch"? (Physicists say yes)

Touching cannot be defined mathematically, but it is easily perceived.

These ideas lead some philosophers to claim that reality is only perception. I am because I am perceived. (I reach the wall and touch it, because I perceive it.)

Isn't our world, our lives, our minds and the present moment all just an amazing magical phenomenon?

Courageous cowards

The blog fallout from the London bombings seems to be continuing. The question that no one seems to be asking is, what part or responsibility do we have for these actions. Similar to post 9/11 sentiments that I had - what are we doing to engender so much hatred for us? (Us being loosely used here to represent the west, or the imperialists, or the capitalists) After 9/11, I discovered a lot of information about why we are hated and when I put myself into their mindset, it was easy to hate us (because, though largely unannounced in our media, we do plenty of raping and pillaging on this planet).

You know in lots of American movies, there is a formula. The antagonist usually has a very large ego, is arrogant, and often has power that takes incredible cleverness to defeat. (the protagonist is this clever person who always seems to vanquish the antagonist spectacularly at film's end, yawn) The audience buys into the collective hatred of the antagonist, waits for him/her to get his/hers, and cheers and applauds for the protagonist's final defeat of the antagonist.

In a way, that is how many of our "haters" see us: our actions are defiant, arrogant, publicly self serving (why wouldn't we do something in our best interest, right?) and though we claim to be on the side of good, we ignore the millions dying of famine and brush under the rug civilian death statistics in Iraq, Afghanistan and elsewhere. That is because at the root of it, we believe our civilians hold more value than "theirs".

I am not on the side of violence, either from them or us. What I am on the side of is understanding all the points of view, because by truly understanding our neighbors, we are less likely to want to hurt them. (I hear you now, what if we understand and try to act respectfully of this understanding and they still end up hating us? That's a good question, but I think it's contrary to human nature to hate people or countries who act altruistically. Just MHO)

And finally, I am sick of people referring to these guys as cowards. What a self delusion. In the movies, if the protagonist shoots the antagonist in the back from a hiding place, we hoot and holler just the same. Blowing up innocent people is a clever way to get our attention.

If we civilians, who vote into power politicians to represent our will (however successful that is in reality) then we must certainly accept some blame for their actions.

In every conflict, we seek out the enemy's weaknesses - how is this any different?

Call me naive, call me unpatriotic, but frankly these terrorist guys are unbelievably courageous, whatever their ends.

Using my Yoda voice: Two, it takes, to tango.

The sky is falling

A strange summer Saturday it was yesterday. That's because it rained all day, a very unusual summer occurence. We totaled up well over an inch of rain and the temps stayed in the 60's. The problem that goes with the copious summer rains is mosquitoes. Since arriving home Thursday night, I have had 8 more bites including on my scalp, forehead, neck, armpit, and ankles. (pretty much wherever clothing was absent)

It got me to thinking about insects and rain too. We had "big drops" yesterday. You know, the kind of rain that is composed of big drops that splash when they hit the ground. (As opposed to misty, drizzly, or light rain.) What do the insects do when it rains like this? I mean, here's a drop of rain (weighing more than the insect) careening out of the sky and smacking everything with all its might. Imagine if it were raining giant human sized balloons of water, you would likely be killed if hit by one, wouldn't you?

So maybe they are killed in heavy rain. Maybe in the fly's eleven day lifespan, a thunderstorm is the equivalent to our tsunami. After the storm, the surviving mosquitoes and flies and bees gather together and try to make sense of this terrible slaughter wrought by mother nature. They talk about the senselessness, the indiscriminate nature of the killing, and question the existence and motives of God. Those who escape death share survival stories and myths are spun out of strange coincidences. (When the crow flies and the dog is near, it is then the sky that we must fear.)

Many of those lucky enough to survive had found the underside of broad leafed tree leaves and hung on as the wind howled and the tree shook. Their harrowing day of clinging for dear life paid off, though hunger and exhaustion haunt them. A new sense of urgency has also inspired them to copulate as quickly as possible to rebuild their numbers, and new waves of young insects will flutter skyward over the next couple of days.

And this roller coaster of life goes on and on, until winter.

Annual Armageddon for the insect world.

Life is a fantastic illusion

I'm reading this book right now about time, space and Einstein. It follows all the philosophical and physics developments leading to Einstein and then how all of this is being interpreted today. I find it riveting as we go through proofs that time and distance are not "real" (because they are relative quantities, therefore variable, it depends on who is observing the time or distance) In addition this leads to a view of the universe where past, present and future all exist simultaneously, that the flow of time is an illusion, that the universe is really static slices of "present" all lined up giving the impression of movement through time.

In addition, there are proofs that true motion doesn't exist at all.

These are powerful ideas and make you question the nature of existence itself. What does it mean to exist?

If you could travel faster than light, you could easily skip to the past or the future in your "present" body. (This demonstrated by proofs, though of course how to travel faster than light?)

There is enough energy in the atoms of your body to shatter the earth completely.

I'm only half way through the book and it's tough reading, but mind blowing. It's giving me a whole new way to interpret "The Matrix".

And now I am revisiting my old philosophical nemesis: Are thoughts real?

Ok, prove it.