Working Class Anti-Hero Introduction.

Keep Britney and Megan Fox and all your pop hotties. I'll take Order of Canada winner (and undeniable seductress) Valerie Pringle.



It's Dec 31st. As part of my New Year's Resolution I'm dropping out of the social networking set. I've found over the past year that I'm straight up junkie hooked on social networking, my drug of choice being Facebook, and I can't moderate it in the least. I check it like 20 times each day, eager to catch up on the activities of hundreds of people that I've had only the most minor interaction with over the years. I feel somehow compelled to tell all of them the micro-minutiae of my life. "Andy is cooking Spaghetti". "Andy is eating spaghetti". "Andy had too much spaghetti". Blurting out all of these insignificant little details somehow soothes that creative monster that drives me to write however, with the unexpected and unwanted result that I just plain don't write anymore.
So no more Facebook. Instead I'm going to channel that creative energy and typeractiveness back into actual writing. Paragraphs and trains of thoughts rather than status updates and the like. And today's train of thought goes like this.
I'm currently reading another one of Anthony Bourdain's books. "A Cook's Tour". I love Bourdain's writing. He started out being my favorite celebrity chef, quickly became my favorite celebrity tourist (knocking out long time top spot Valerie Pringle) to become one of my favorite all around writers. This guy has skillz peeps.
It was while reading his sometimes sentimental sometimes cynical gonzo-esque memoirs that it occurred to me that I have probably had more jobs in my life than most families have in several generations. It also occurred to me, that with few exceptions, I've loathed and despised every one of those jobs. Where there is loathing, there is passion, and where there is passion there is the potential for some good writing. Sitting in the tub, feet wiggling in the water with Bourdain in the Bay of Biscayne, I decided that I would start to chronicle my work history. I'm going to call the series "Working Class Anti-Hero", which is intended to be a nod to John Lennon's "Working Class Hero", a satirical, Sartre-erical lament for the working man, as well as a nod to Dostoevsky, Knut Hamsun, and Henry Miller, the absolute kings of anti-heroism.
And, as this is already starting to feel a little bit too much like work, I'm going to knock off for now, and think about what there is that I can tell you about working in a nightclub at 15 years old.

That's Right, DR. Andy Tait.

I picked my own Christmas present this year. As many of you may know, I like writers, and my favorite writers have always been the dangerous variety. I'm talking about Kerouac, Henry Miller, Hemingway, Steinbeck at times, and of course the immortal Dr. Hunter S. Thompson.
The first time I read Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas I was hooked. From there I read everthing HST I could find. Eventually I came across the circumstances of his doctorate. He was a 'Doctor of Divinity'. For some reason I'd always thought he was a Dr. of Journalism or Letters or something like that. But nope. Divinity. He'd ordered his doctorate from a mail order church in Modesto California.
So this year, my Christmas present is my own doctorate (legal and legitimate by the way) from the very same church. I join the ranks of quite a few famous ministers. HST of course. But also Milton Berle, Sammy Davis Jr, Mel Blanc, Ray Bolger (who played the Scarecrow in the Wizard of Oz), Richard Branson, Tony Danza, Hugh Hefner, Abby Hoffman, to name but a few. I'm in some damn fine company!

I Don't Get Loneliness.

I remember it like a sickness. When I was in my teens I was terrified of loneliness. The idea of sitting alone had a horror and a sadness to it that's difficult to define.
Around the age of 22 I realized that this fear was crippling me. It made me needy, and there is little in this world more pitiful than a person that literally needs another for sanity. I chose to become comfortable with myself.
It started with reading all kinds of philosophy texts, the classics mainly, like Nietzche and Kant. From there I discovered the existentialists; Dostoevsky, Sartre, Camus. Somehow that led me to Henry Miller, who in turn led me to Eastern philosophy.
I came to embrace solitude. So much so that I actually began to prefer it over company. Still do as a matter of fact. I think that I have felt lonesome perhaps 3 times in the past 10 years, mainly when I'm away from my family for more than a week at a time. And then it's not loneliness so much as homesickness.
Being a complete neurotic as well as a hermit however makes me wonder if this preference for alone time is healthy or not. It's not that I'm anti-social. More that I'm pro-solitude if that makes any sense. Is that such a bad thing?

I Think George Carlin Would Have Loved This.

This is a copy of an e-mail that someone sent to my wife. People don't send me stuff like this anymore because I have a habit of researching the veracity of anything suspect. I then e-mail them back with facts, and while some of them appreciate learning the truth behind hoaxes and rumors, I think it pisses most people off. Whatever. Stuff like this pisses me off. Here, in italics is the e-mail, and below it you'll find the facts surrounding the authorship of 'Paradox'.

"This is an awesome piece. If you have not read it, take the time to read it now. If you have read it, take time to read it again! GEORGE CARLIN (His wife recently died...and George followed her, dying July 2008)

Isn't it amazing that George Carlin - comedian of the 70's and 80's - could write something so very eloquent...and so very appropriate.

A Message by George Carlin:

The paradox of our time in history is that we have taller buildings but shorter tempers, wider Freeways , but narrower viewpoints. We spend more, but have less, we buy more, but enjoy less. We have bigger houses and smaller families, more conveniences, but less time. We have more degrees but less sense, more knowledge, but less judgment, more experts, yet more problems, more medicine, but less wellness.

We drink too much, smoke too much, spend too recklessly, laugh too little, drive too fast, get too angry, stay up too late, get up too tired, read too little, watch TV too much, and pray too seldom.

We have multiplied our possessions, but reduced our values. We talk too much, love too seldom, and hate too often.

We've learned how to make a living, but not a life. We've added years to life not life to years. We've been all the way to the moon and back, but have trouble crossing the street to meet a new neighbor. We conquered outer space but not inner space. We've done larger things, but not better things.

We've cleaned up the air, but polluted the soul. We've conquered the atom, but not our prejudice. We write more, but learn less. We plan more, but accomplish less. We've learned to rush, but not to wait. We build more computers to hold more information, to produce more copies than ever, but we communicate less and less.

These are the times of fast foods and slow digestion, big men and small character, steep profits and shallow relationships. These are the days of two incomes but more divorce, fancier houses, but broken homes. These are days of quick trips, disposable diapers, throwaway morality, one night stands, overweight bodies, and pills that do everything from cheer, to quiet, to kill. It is a time when there is much in the showroom window and nothing in the stockroom. A time when technology can bring this letter to you, and a time when you can choose either to share this insight, or to just hit delete...

Remember; spend some time with your loved ones, because they are not going to be around forever.

Remember, say a kind word to someone who looks up to you in awe, because that little person soon will grow up and leave your side.

Remember, to give a warm hug to the one next to you, because that is the only treasure you can give with your heart and it doesn't cost a cent.

Remember, to say, ' I love you ' to your partner and your loved ones, but most of all mean it. A kiss and an embrace will mend hurt when it comes from deep inside of you.

Remember to hold hands and cherish the moment for someday that person will not be there again.

Give time to love, give time to speak! And give time to share the precious thoughts in your mind.

AND ALWAYS REMEMBER:

Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath away.

If you don't send this to at least 8 people.....Who cares?

George Carlin

It's got some great ideas in it, but as I'm a huge George Carlin fan I thought it was odd that he would say something like "We pray too little", considering that Carlin was a vehement atheist. He once said that the only being he prayed to was Joe Pesci, because he looked like a guy who could get things done. So I did a little digging and found this.
http://www.snopes.com/politics/soapbox/paradox.asp
Long story short, George Carlin didn't have anything to do with writing this. It was written more than 50 years ago by Dr. Bob Moorehead, former pastor of Seattle's Overlake Christian Church. He was later accused of sexually abusing 17 male members of his congregation, forcing his resignation.
I think this is all hilariously ironic in a couple of ways. First, it leads one to believe that the list of ills provided are a product of the modern age, when in fact the author wrote them fully half a century before our modern age. Everyone over 50 with a computer loves forwarding this stuff to their kids with a bit a mix of nostalgia and self-righteousness. I think it's awesome that Dr. Bob was talking about their world.
It's also ironic that the hoaxsters chose Carlin as the alleged author, because he would have found this really funny too, particularly the part with the perverted priest.

Bohemian Dad.

I used to avoid working a lot more than I currently avoid working. I know that may be hard to believe, but it's true.
At one point in my life I had the goal of writing fiction for a living. I read a lot of Bohemian writers and took inspiration from them, most notably Henry Miller.
Miller was a tramp for the most part. Job to job, town to town, until he finally settled in a drafty old cabin in the middle of nowhere.
Like Miller I drifted from job to job, town to town, and I did my best at all times to live hand to mouth. I worked part time if at all, rented closets from likeminded peers in divey apartments. I bought all my clothing used or shared with friends.
The goal of course was always to spend the spare time writing.
I did a lot of writing. What I did not do however was any of the follow through. In 38 years I've sent off 2 pieces of work, to 2 prospective publishers for consideration. That's it. Anyway, I digress.
The point is this. When I became a father, I decided that I'd lost the right to be a Bohemian. My own parents were thrifty to say the least, and I've got to admit that they're choice to clothe me in generic outfits throughout childhood left me a bit scarred. Kids can be mean, especially when they have brand name and you don't.
So I've decided not to put my own kids through that Hell. Every fall we head out to the athletic stores and we get them top of the line running shoes. I spend the $10 or $20 extra to buy them the better labels of clothes.
But I'm conflicted. Personally, I'm averse to consumerism. I subscribe more to the principles of simplicity set forth by Thoreau. It's my own personal philosophy. I'm not going to spend more than a 2 grand on a car, because it doesn't make sense to me. I can't imagine spending more than 20 bucks on anything but task specific wardrobe items (running gear being the exception, injuries and discomfort are extremely demotivating.) I think that mainstream culture has lost touch with what's important because of rampant consumerism. Personalities seem too defined by what they have and what they don't.
That being said, personalities seem defined by what they have and what they don't, and I'm working on defining 3 little personalities every day. As much as I embrace counter-culture thoughts and philosophies, I kind of want them to be mainstream. Hippie families like this just don't cut it in the 21st Century. Do they?

Our mountains are lighter than air.

Saskatchewan is flat. If you wanted a simile for extreme flatness, Saskatchewan would be very near the top of the list.
It's also pretty devoid of any significant scenery other than sky. Consequently that's where I find myself looking most of the time, up up up.
I remember when I returned after spending 10 years in the mountains of Alberta and the West Coast of B.C. that I had the sensation of being at a tremendous altitude for my first few weeks back.
The absence of mountains on the horizon somehow convinced my senses that I must be high above the mountains. It was like vertigo those first few weeks.
I was riding in a friend's car at that time, and I spotted a line of storm clouds moving in far away to the west. I'd been looking at them for a few minutes before I realized that it wasn't a mountain range, but clouds, and I laughed to myself.
Yesterday I was out riding my bike on the edge of town and I saw a distant range of clouds rising over the horizon, and I was reminded again of the mountains, and for a moment I missed them. Only for a moment though. Soon I was full of appreciation for our mountains, lighter than air, advancing and retreating across the sky. You can watch a storm cloud boil and grow, and it looks like a great volcanic lava flow growing and rising. Our mountains light up with fireworks all summer long, and they turn and drop and can be 1000 different colors at once when the sun is setting. By far the very best thing about our moving mountain ranges of cloud, is that they are never the same as they were the day before.
Scenery is entirely dependent on focus.

Confirmation Bias.

When I played poker, I made a living of off the confirmation biases of others. Confirmation bias refers to a type of selective thinking whereby one tends to notice and to look for what confirms one's beliefs, and to ignore, not look for, or undervalue the relevance of what contradicts one's beliefs. For example, if you believe that during a full moon there is an increase in admissions to the emergency room where you work, you will take notice of admissions during a full moon, but be inattentive to the moon when admissions occur during other nights of the month. A tendency to do this over time unjustifiably strengthens your belief in the relationship between the full moon and accidents and other lunar effects. In poker it's the tendency to view one's wins as relevant and meaningful, but downplay or disregard one's losses. It's one of the reasons I used software to continually analyze my game. There's no kidding yourself when you have the mean win/loss rate of 250,000 hands looking you in the eye.
I think that poker may have destroyed my mind. In poker you are constantly playing a game of "What do I think he has, what does he think I have, what does he think I think he has, and what does he think I think he thinks I have. It gets pretty convoluted, but it pays off...in poker.
In real life, I'm having trouble shaking this thinking. I question every action of every one around me for what it really means, and I have a reverse confirmation bias. I tend to use selective thinking that confirms ulterior motives everywhere. I can quite easily convince myself that this is rational, and that on the contrary, the lack of an ulterior motive is irrational.
I analyze situations, find the worst case scenario for another person's thoughts or behaviour, then build up a system of associations and beliefs that make any best case scenario seem naive and optimistic.
Anyway, I'm rambling, not making much sense to myself, better go to bed as I have to be up in 5 hours to count for 3 hours.

Dine and Dash.

I was talking to one of my line cooks outside and we watched the sunset and wound down from the rush and talked about how we could improve our performance next time. We talked for a while and the sun did set and dusk turned to dark and we heard sirens out in front of the building on Circle Drive. Red light bounced off the walls of the building and we poked our heads around the corner to see a fire truck blocking traffic, and a group of firemen huddled around a mass on the ground. I think I saw the thing's feet moving and the firemen were quiet and focused. Moments later there was a police car, and a cop and another fireman were laying out pylons and directing slow moving traffic around the scene and we moved up closer to see more.
"If you get close and you see something horrible, you'll never forget it." I cautioned my young cook, remembering a trip on the bus when I was a kid. An old lady had been killed crossing Broadway and they had a detour set up. As my bus turned I looked out the window and could see a long dark puddle stretching away from a people sized blotch in the center of the road and flowing down in rivulets to the gutter. It was midafternoon in the summer, and the blood glinted black and shiny and smooth in the high sun. It's a sight you don't forget.
My cook looked at me a little spooked and thought about whether he could handle human horror in his head, then moved up anyway.
There was a car stopped in front of the huddled mass, and its hood was smashed and its headlight was smashed and its windshield was smashed and there was this tall lanky teenage kid all pale and shaking standing beside the car hugging himself and biting his lips watching with complete and utter intensity as the firemen worked on the thing on the ground.
It was only another minute or two and there was an ambulance there and the EMS guys got out and started to help, one of them breaking out a stretcher. A TV cameraman showed up and started filming, visibly bothered when a car passed in front of his shot.
Some guy in his 40s came walking by, dressed in business casual, tired, toting a laptop and smoking a cigarette and he stopped to watch with us.
"Pedestrian?" he said.
"Yep" I said, although I didn't really know.
The guy looked at the damage to the car. "Must have been a big pedestrian." he surmised.
"Or a fast car." I noted.
"Maybe both. Dead?" he asked me.
"I don't know, I think I saw his feet moving."
He tilted his head, shrugged, then shook it no. "They're moving pretty slow for a not-dead guy."
And they were. And nothing moved, not feet, not hands, not head, not even my line cook and I. They put the thing on to the stretcher and put the stretcher in the ambulance and the ambulance tore away and we stood there for a couple of minutes watching the clean up.
The firemen passed around a spray bottle and sprayed off their boots and the knees of their overalls and the fronts of their jackets. One of them spread sand across a long glistening patch of dark wetness on the roadway.
I went inside and the party was still going strong, but the bar manager was keyed up anxious and there was a cop asking questions and taking notes and one of the waitresses was in the office crying. The grotesque and curious thing on the road had been a guy in our bar minutes before, a friend of the server and he had dashed across the street to buy cigarettes when the tall lanky kid slammed into him, taking away all his peopleness and life and momentum.
I was shaken. I don't like mortality, and that was a pretty uncomfortable reminder how fast that can happen.

Depends on how you look at it.

I read an article recently that talked about how mental disorders involving skewed perceptions might actually be the more accurate outlook.
What interested me in particular was the concept of depressive realism. Essentially, this is the idea that depressed people have a more accurate picture of reality than the population at large.

Studies by psychologists Alloy and Abramson (1979) and Dobson and Franche (1989) showed that depressed people appear to have a more realistic perception of their importance, reputation, locus of control, and abilities than those who are not depressed.

People without depression are more likely to have inflated self-images and look at the world through "rose-colored glasses".

Just thought I would share that, before I head off to bed. Long day today, early day tomorrow.

This Old World Keeps Spinning 'Round.

I like moments. At one point I lived my life in search of moments. The kinds of moments I like are the moments where I have a mainline right from my center of my being to the infinite divine. Christians would call it a state of grace. Buddhists would call it enlightenment. I call them moments.
I've just come home from one of these beautiful moments, and I managed to make it last for quite a while, which is awesome.
Here's what happened.
I was out on my longboard, trying to get the hang of a few of the more advanced techniques. After I got sick of practicing, I decided to enjoy a nice slow carve along the freshly paved road I was on. The street had a nice gentle grade to it, that allowed me to basically maintain speed for close to half a kilometer or so...no acceleration or deceleration, just a perfect cruise.
Above me the sky was absolutely clear and stars were out in all their glory. Stars get me every time. If I'm out walking at night, I have my head craned way back and my jaw dropped wide open and I stumble around staring up.
I basically assumed that same position tonight, rolling effortlessly down this gentle slope.
Boarding is a beautiful feeling. It's a mixture of near weightlessness and barely controlled momentum. An almost gyroscopic feeling of balance and motion and gravity if that makes any sense. So there I was, rolling along with this weightless sense of motion, staring up at the stars, which of course are far enough away to appear motionless. Watching their stillness, focused on stationary points in the sky I had this moment where it seemed that I was motionless as well. It wasn't my board and I cruising down the road, but more a matter of the road and the street and the city and the world rolling under us. Instant state of cosmic grace!
Driving home later I had the top down in the convertible, still enjoying the stars, still enjoying the sense that it was the world moving and I was a fixed point in space. Then I discovered a new favorite thing, and you can try this too!
My little convertible is old school, a 5 speed manual with power nothing. I came to the top of a small hill and at about 60k I popped the car into neutral, turned off the lights and the ignition and rolled quietly down for a block or so. Let me tell you people...that is fun.
Good night.

My heroes have always been cowboys.

Ronnie Biggs is being released from prison today on compassionate grounds. For those of you that don't know, and I'm assuming that's most everybody, Ronnie Biggs was one of the gang responsible for the Great Train Robbery.
He was one of my Dad's heroes, which by heredity made him one of my heroes. The news that he's dying is disturbing to me. I have trouble with mortality at the best of times, but when 'immortal' legends like Ronnie Biggs come to an end, I find it particularly disturbing.
Earlier this week Britain's last WW1 veteran passed away as well.
When I was kid we had vets like this come speak to us at our school. This passing represents the passing of an era, and for me it represents the beginning of the passing of a century. WW2 was just over a decade behind the Great War, Korea less than a decade after. Our living history, our heroes and outlaws are passing away at an alarming rate. But what I find even more alarming, is the distinct absence of new heroes and outlaws to replace them.

Starlight.

This has been a rough month. I don't mind so much, I'm used to rough months. But it bothers me when the more abrasive side of life brushes up against my kids, and it has done so with a vengeance this month.
Not so long ago we lost a pretty special family pet, and the kids fell apart. Last month we had one of my wife's relatives pass away. She was a woman with respiratory problems, incurable, and it was a long time coming. Janet had helped this woman bring home a rabbit that had been abandoned because it too had respiratory problems...incurable. The kids loved visiting the rabbit, and this woman's wish was for us to take the rabbit, which we did.
My oldest daughter in particular really took to the rabbit, and bonded with it.
Then at the beginning of this month, we found out that we are losing our home back to it's original owner and have to move. This means the kids will be losing all that they know in the way of community outside of the family in a few days from now.
We started packing, which raised a lot of dust, which in turn aggravated the rabbit's condition.
Long story short, the rabbit only lived about 2 more weeks and it died too.
My oldest girl was absolutely devastated.
I took the kids out to a local hillside the night after burying the rabbit and we laid on the ground and looked at the stars and talked about the rabbit.
I rambled on about starlight, about how the light we're seeing left most of the stars we see millions of years ago, and that what we're really seeing up there isn't happening anymore. I told them that light is made up of little photons, and that when we see light, it's actually these little photons that have travelled for millions of years hitting our eyes. I told them that this makes us a part of every star in the sky, and it makes every star in the sky a part of us, and following along on that train of thought, every one of us is a part of one another, whether animal, mineral, vegetable or light, living or dead.
I talked about eternity and infinity and Gods and afterlives and tried to put a positive spin on it, and the kids were buying it and feeling better. In the back of my mind though I was pissed at the universe, pissed at life, pissed at everything, and I felt the rage that every parent feels whenever their kids feel pain.
Then my daughter said something to me about light.
"Dad, did you know that moths aren't actually attracted to light? They're attracted to pitch black, and the blackest point is always right behind a light."
Every once in a while you hear something that gives you a complete paradigm shift in the blink of an eye, a little lightning bolt of enlightenment that shakes your very foundations, and for me this was one of those moments. It occurred to me that if the darkest point is right behind the light, it follows that the brightest light is right behind the darkness. Smart kid.

The Next Superpower Won't Exist.

I recently read a news story that really got my imagination going. It was the story of a player in the game Eve Online. This player robbed one of the game's virtual banks, and exchanged the online game's currency for real world money. You can read up on the story here
One of the things I found most interesting about this article was the mention of the University of Indiana study that studied the real world value of online game world economies. Everquest for example, had a higher GDP than Russia, and a currency that was worth more than the Yen. The average Everquest player earns $3.42 per hour once their 'credits' are converted.
It occurred to me that given this information, and the rapid advance of technology and social networking, that the next superpower won't be an actual nation or state, but rather an online world...a hybrid combination of WoW meets Facebook meets Twitter or some such 'place'.
It just remains for someone to dream it up. I should have gone into programming instead of networking. (smacks palm against forehead!)

3K

My 9 year old daughter is in a running club at school. I'm thrilled! Readers of this blog will know that I count on running as a lifeline to my own sanity, and knowing that she has discovered this lifeline for herself so early makes me ecstatic.
Today her club was running a 3k, and she invited me to come join them.
I pumped up the tires on the jogging stroller, packed it into the jeep with the boy, and off we went.
My daughter's school is ideally located for a running club. It's right on the river.
I was pretty worried that I might embarrass her. I've let my running slide a lot ever since I had my wisdom teeth out at the end of March. It's funny how one little setback like that can completely mess up your program.
It turned out I had nothing to worry about however. We ran a couple of bridges, at an easy 9 year old's pace. In 14 minutes it was all over. I did work up a sweat, but I wasn't really gasping for breath at any point. And running alongside my little girl was an amazing feeling. I was worried she'd be struggling behind her friends, athleticism has never really been her thing. But she was at the front of the pack the whole time. At one point her shoelace came undone, and she fell behind after tying it. But a few easy loping gaits had her past the stragglers and up at the front effortlessly. Not that winning or being first matters. I'm just glad she has a passion for it already.
It also gave me a reason to bust out those new shoes again. This is a good motivator for me. We plan to run together a lot more this year.

Night Terrors.

These things suck terribly.
I've been living free from them for a long time, but there was a time in my life where I was having them several times per week. Science has always seemed unsure of what causes them. For me I know exactly what causes them. Disrupted sleep cycles...waking up and going to bed at random times. I've been awake from this one for about 5 minutes now, and I'm scared to go back to sleep.
I started getting them when I was younger and I had insomnia. I'd force myself to sleep, and invariably wind up having one of these conscious nightmares.
I eventually learned how to recognize that a dream was going to turn into one, and I'd wake myself up before I was caught in the feeling of being paralyzed and dying in my sleep.
I think it was on my first sales job that I realized just how damaging they had been. The regular hours of the sales job meant no more nightmares.
I also noticed I wasn't going crazy as regularly. That was about 9 years ago.
This week I worked 4 day shifts, and 1 night shift. 1 day later I'm waking up screaming in the middle of the night with my wife gently tapping on my back and telling me I'm okay like she used to do (she still remembers the old routine...get to a safe distance and poke me every few seconds, then jump back because I might come out of it swinging)
Here was tonight's freaky bullshit nightmare (which I'm going to write about, because I'm terrified to try sleeping again.)
It started with me trying to get somewhere, not sure where, and I was moving through an alleyway, in an old Saskatoon neighbourhood of old houses.
Somebody was moving out of one of the houses, and their stuff was blocking the alley. Their garage door was open, so I went in through there, and found myself in the stranger's house. I moved through a few houses this way, sometimes just leaving a room before a stranger entered. Soon the houses morphed into one big house, and my family was living in it, and had been living in it for a long time. It was a big old monstrosity, and I was walking around the top floor one day I got the creepiest feeling that other people had been there, and I could feel their presence. I'm getting goosebumps right now at just what a strange and creepy feeling this is. I then noticed that we had never unpacked most of our things from the day that we had moved in.
I was in a room that contained our exercise equipment and a bunch of boxes when I heard someone in the hallway, and in fun I ran out of the room to scare them. The person was a stranger, and I laughed after having startled them...there was nothing unusual about this stranger being in my house apparently. He was kind of angry and he stormed off, and I was laughing away to myself, when suddenly the compulsion to run screaming back into the room I'd just left grabbed hold of me. I ran in screaming, and stood in the room screaming, unable to stop, and my screams began to change. I couldn't move, but I could feel my legs starting to burn. It became clear to me that a little girl had burned to death in the house, and her spirit was still there and had possessed me. I was burning to death as well, and screaming for help, and flames were starting to blaze all over the room. I still couldn't move, and I was screaming a more high pitched scream. At about this point I realized I was in a night terror, but I couldn't get out of it, and now I was screaming so that Janet would be able to hear me and shake me awake. I was screaming so much that I could feel my back rippling (it made sense in the dream), and then that rippling turned to Janet nudging me and then I could hear her saying "you're okay, you're okay."
I fucking hate those things.

doo bee doobeedee dooo dooo...CROSSTOWN TRAFFIC!

5:00 and I'm off work and I'm off work for 24 hours which is a rare and precious thing these days brethren and sistren.
I'm out the door and into my car before the door has closed behind me and I hit the ignition and the gas and the gear shift and the clutch all at the same time and I am jumping forward and ready to zoom like a MUTHA when I find myself locked into the parking lot by a seemingly endless flow of traffic.

Here's the deal.
Generally I head out the parking lot, on to the street, make a quick left and I'm on the freeway. But 5 p.m. is different because the traffic crawls, and I'm all adrenalized and my wound uppedness is all wanting to unwind and fast and I just can't do that sitting motionless in a motionless car.
So to hell with the left! I'm going straight across the road. I've got moves baby. I can run through the briars and run through the brambles and run through the bushes where a rabbit couldn't go. There was but one obstacle in front of me, a freaking imported Daihatsu Hijet of all things. He was making the left into the endless clogged pipe of Circle Drive. My hands drumming on the wheel, cursing and swearing, rolling the window up and rolling the window down I waited for him to make the turn and I hauled out wide around him and I went straight across. I saw him glare at me for a quick half second as I passed, and the driver of that little Daihatsu was a strange looking guy. He was balding, deeply tanned, like golf pro big money tanned, with hair so white the contrast almost had it glowing. Big bushy white eyebrows and an equally white fu manchu mustache to top it off completed his look.
I gave a smile in response to his glare then boom! down Ave. C, and a sharp and screeching left on to 38th Street where there isn't a single vehicle waiting at the light to cross Idylwyld. (Only madmen and lunatics cross Idylwyld at Rush Hour!)

Bam! The light goes green and I hit drive and move out of a cloud of dust express bound for glory all the way over to Quebec Ave. This is another easy left, the common misconception being that if the main vessels are closed, these arteries will be even more jammed. They're deserted, wide open like my throttle is when I fishtail out and head North bound for Circle, having bypassed the majority of commuters. Or so I thought.
There was a back up to make the right on to Circle, five or six cars, too patiently awaiting too large a gap that will never come. Screw these guys too I think and I go up over a curb (4 to da W to da D awww yeeaaa) and through 3 parking lots to beat them all onto Circle and half block ahead.

I'm jammed in good and crossing the bridge. Coming up on to the 14th st overpass I can see the traffic is at a standstill and I see it before most people do because I drive the road 2 blocks ahead not the one right in front of me. I swing over into the exit lane, hit 14th along with maybe half a dozen other drivers perceptive and impatient enough to have made an alternate choice, and then it's a wild zig zag of streets and alleyways I know like the back of my hand, bypassing everybody on the way to Preston at 8th where the traffic always thins out.
Now listen people, here's the thing. I did not stop on my commute home. For me there was traffic, but I was constantly in motion. At no point was I stopped dead for an extended period. I was always moving, always at speed.
So when I pulled on to Preston and pulled up right behind a little freakin' white Daihatsu Hijet you might have thought me perturbed. You might have thought I felt defeated to see that with all my manoueverings and machinations I was still one car length behind. I wasn't. I was ecstatic!
Here's why.
It's not about getting a car length ahead. It's not about getting home sooner. It's about not stopping. It's about not sitting still and always moving.
25 minutes later we may have found ourselves at the same point in time space again, the Daihatsu and I. But I knew that he crawled all the way there. He travelled at an average speed of about 5 km/hr. I on the other hand was consistently moving at about 80k.
According to the theory of relativity, the old man in the Daihatsu aged more than I did in that 25 minutes, because for me, less time had passed. It might be an imperceptibly small chunk of time, but it was time gained nonetheless. And that my friends, is priceless.

Horror Show.

I don't deal too well with death, even if it comes in slow and waving and gentle the way it did with my cat. As someone who has decided firmly to be immortal, the obstinate and unrelenting insistence of death is highly disconcerting. I can't ever remember having a good time where death was concerned, except for pre-conception, when I was just a small void in the big void and none of this death anxiety ever concerned me.
Here's the thing. My mom died a few years back. I didn't really like my mom very much, but my dad did, and that was important. They gave her a choice before she died. 'You can hold to your present course and die soon, or let us saw off your foot and you might buy a few months, buy a few years, or still die soon.' She chose to die. At the time this song was big on the folk station that I use to put on when every one had left the bar I was managing at the time. Now it pops into my head whenever I face a loss.

Requiem for a Boney Old Cat.

I buried my cat illegaly in a conservation area today. Tough noogies, the kids need a special place. Maybe I do too.
I spent some time hugging the kids today, hugging my wife, wiping a lot of tears.
When everybody was rational again, when they hysterics had finished I said to Janet "I'm going out for a bit." and she said "...okay." and I said "I'm not a hugger, I'm a go-er away-er." by way of explanation, which she finally understands after 11 years.
11 years incidentally, is the time that I've known the Boney Old Cat of the title, Itchy. I suppose it would be more correct to say that was the time that I knew him, past tense. Funny how that changes so fast.
I drove for a bit and decided I didn't want to drive. Now I'm low profile incognito in a coffee shop. Surrounding me is that cacophony of sound, that fluid, rippling babble of background conversation that I find so calming in coffee shops. Much like the soothing influence of a stream, but with the option of dropping in and out of the flow. I'm having an Iced Vietnamese Coffee. First time I've ever had one. A slurpee would have been better.
Itchy was a majestic cat. He stomped on the terra. Eyes like etched jade, reminisces of his sabertooth bloodline glinting when ever he cracked open his jaws to yawn.
There are cats in this world that people are immediately drawn too, cats that are cute and fluffy and adorable. Itchy, despite the cutesy moniker, was not such a cat.
Itchy danced to an inner rhythm of violence and bloodlust. His glance held the cold indifference of a great white shark before the strike. One instantly feared Itchy. He approached with confidence, moves like a jaguar, pronounced with a South American accent yet, yeah, he was that Jaguar-y. All of this predatory presence, this animal antagonism, betrayed his true nature, which was that of a kitten before it learns to scratch.
My girls were crying tonight over the loss of the oldest cat in the house, the cat I was fond of referring to as "old man" and "old dog". I told them to remember him, and learn from him the things that they could. Like to take hugs when they need them, rather than wait for one to come along. Itchy didn't wait for affection. He seized it, and when denied he persisted, and when rejected he was undaunted. No one entered our home without eventually succumbing to having this cat, part Maine Coon, part stuffed animal, part Egyptian icon pin them to our couch and nuzzle under their chins.
A girl just sat down with her friends across from me. On the back of her t-shirt it says "Class of O8 Forever Young". Well...not forever sister.
Janet came by Itchy's acquaintance when an acquaintance of hers was planning to get rid of him. He was a foundling, a little kitten that was still being bottle fed, and the person Janet got him from discovered there were allergies in the house. So Janet took him in.
We used to take Itchy for walks in the park. He'd sprint from one bush to the next, displaying that healthy sort of 'just in case' paranoia that endeared us to one another instantly.
Itchy was the shit people. He rotated through the house throughout the night, sleeping at the heads of each of us, children included at different points. He could bite and he could scratch when he wanted to. When he bit it would leave a bruise for days. When he scratched, by God you had been scratched by a claw that Siegfried and Roy could appreciate.
But he never bit the kids, never scratched them. He had an appreciation for the delicacy and fragility of childhood.
I remember the worst I was ever scratched. I had a great white Lincoln, 1979, 2 doors, a machine as long and as quick as a torpedo boat. We were moving to Edmonton, and I drove the Lincoln, with Itchy in a box. Getting him into the box had been a test. It was amazing how strong he was. He pushed so hard against the lid that I had to use body weight to overcome him. In the car he slept, until about half an hour outside of Edmonton. It started with meowing, although the connotations of 'meow' really don't do the throaty 'rowr' of Itchy justice. The box started to jump and move on the seat beside me. I put my hand on the lid trying to keep it down, and he kept throwing his weight against it, with increasing fury. One would have thought it to be a muscular chimp, or an enraged zombie dwarf in the box, rather than just a simple housecat. Finally he escaped, tearing the box to shreds, part of my arms in the process. Itchy did not like cars, even luxurious pinnacles of 70s engineering. After that he didn't like boxes either.
This is part of why tonight was so disheartening. Over the course of his illness Itchy's condition deteriorated. He grew skinnier and skinnier, weaker and weaker. This morning he had trouble walking. I said goodbye to him this morning, got down on the floor with him and gave him a scratch behind the ears. He managed a quiet purr, but it started his chest heaving. At the door I told Janet that it felt like I might not see him again. He felt the breeze from the door, and came stumbling up. He used to make a break for it whenever the door opened. Today we were going to let him out, but he just flopped down at the doorsill, his head hanging over the step, and he watched me leave.
And that was the last time I saw him alive. Janet called me at work, sobbing, partially unintelligible, "can you come home please?" and I asked "Is he gone?" and she said "yes."
So tonight I took Itchy to a beautiful spot and I buried him. I asked the kids if they wanted to help me, or if they wanted to come to the spot after I'd covered up his grave, and they said after. I borrowed a spade from the neighbour, and threw it in the jeep. I put Itchy in a box, and there was no fight, no drama, I just laid him softly on his favorite blanket, and I picked up the box, closed the lid, and took it to the truck. Again there was no scratching, no yowling, no great and terrible beast trying to shred it's cage and any living thing in said cage's proximity. There was just this light lifeless weight sliding around inside, like a doll sliding around in the box you're allowed to guess at on the night before xmas.
We got out to the country and I dug a hole near some trees with the sun going down, in a place where rabbits and deer and birds and sunshine and long grasses breathe life and love and beauty and peace. And when the hole was dug, I took the cat out of the box, laid the blanket in the hole, tucked him in, and covered him up with dirt, and a few heavy stones to keep the wildlife away. Then I tore the box to shreds for Itchy's sake.
Here's a tip people. Don't write about burying the dead cat you were really close to when you're sitting in a coffee shop.

Boney old cat.

I've got a boney old cat. He wasn't always old. When he was a kitten they bottlefed him, with the result that he has maintained a lot of kittenesque qualities for a long time now.
But he's old. About 20 to be exact. Over the past 6 months or so he's been getting skinnier and skinnier, slower and slower, sleepier and sleepier. He used to like sitting on the edge of the tub, but the other day he slipped and fell in. Today he tried to jump up on the counter and missed. His cat-like grace is gone. Given way to geriatric creaks and wobbles and stumbles. He sleeps more than anything else.
We took him to the vet, and they told us it's kidney trouble with him. He's not in any pain. He's just hungry and thirsty a lot of the time. Nothing we can do really, except feed him some more easily digested foods, keep him well watered. At this point he's getting less and less nutrition every day, because his kidneys are starting to fail.
Janet and I both want him to make it through the summer. All of our cats are inside cats, but he loves being outside. Like me he just wants to sit in the sun all day.
We're at the point though where it is a matter of hoping he makes it. We can't imagine him surviving until next winter. He may make it until fall... Summer isn't even a sure thing even.
At home we sit with him on our laps a lot, me and Mommy and the kids. We're giving him all the time we can, and he purrs when he sits with us still. Janet bought him a pillow to sleep on, and while the days and evenings are still cool, he sleeps there. Summer should be here soon, and then he can lay in the sun again.

Symbiote Rhythm (the Jedi paradigm)

I had a great conversation the other night with some friends from high school. One good friend in particular is in to yoga, and the conversation eventually turned to the metaphysical.
We talked about oneness, and from there she talked about being in the zone. That strange sensation where you're doing without thinking, when your moves seem almost guided. I told her that's one of the things that I love most about being the leader of a high volume culinary team. Our whole team can function like that at times, moving as one perfect machine in complete and perfect harmony. I also told her that when I meditate or run, I recreate that sensation by visualizing that symbiotic harmony, that symbiote rhythm, and before I know it, I'm in the zone. The more often that I do it, the easier it seems to fall into.
For me it goes beyond being in the zone. It becomes an affirmation that I'm more than just a man, or perhaps less, depending on your perspective. I'm definitely a part of something greater than myself, greater than my team, greater than my nation. Like a drop of water is a part of the Ocean, I'm part of the great cosmic 'is', an integral part of the universe. An ocean can't be an ocean without drops of water, the universe can't be the universe without lot of Andys. And I have the choice in life to live in harmony with that universe, as a symbiote, or I have the choice to rail and rally against it.
In harmony with whatever it might be that we're a part of, one has the sense of being in the zone more often than not. Some call it a state of grace. Others call it enlightenment. In one of my favorite films of all time, it's described as living in a state of constant total amazement. It's a state of mind beyond the traditional illusory views of good and evil, beyond the traditional views of happiness and success. I believe that this state of perfect harmony is really the utmost goal one can aspire to.
I also believe that railing against the universe is not only futile, but deadly. If one is in fact a part of this great magnificent thing, like a cell or a symbiote, then railing against it can have only one result really. This great thing will come to react to you the way any organism or delicate system would react. It will see you as a malignant cell and do its best to eradicate you. The same goes for acting against the greater interests of mankind, of nature, of the universe. Some people call it karma, or a belief that what goes around comes around. Others talk about attracting success. Buddha said that "With our thoughts we make the world." Whatever the case, people that recognize this seem to get more enjoyment out of life, and people that don't tend to spiral into their own bitterness and misery.
For me, I'm recognizing more and more everyday that I get out of life, out of relationships, out of work, exactly what I put into them. And I try to take a little time everyday to find a quiet spot, and just tune into that harmonious buzz of all things that's always going on. It reminds me that not only am I and my problems infinitely small in comparison to time and space and everything, but at the same time I'm a part of and therefore one with the infinity of time and space and everything.

20 years later.

I went out on Saturday night with some old friends from high school that I hadn't seen in about 20 years or so. They were terrific company by the way.
I was actually crashing a get together that they were having for their elementary school class, so a lot of the people didn't really know me, which was fine. There were really only a couple of people that I wanted to see anyway.
At one point one of the strangers asked me what grade I'd met the girls I knew in, and I explained that I was in a few grades simultaneously. This elicited the usual laughter, which I'm fine with, and then someone asked what year did I graduate and I had to explain that I was expelled from school before I could graduate.
One of my friends said "It wasn't because of intelligence, it was because of attitude." to which I heartily agreed that the School Board did indeed have a terrible attitude problem back then.
Another girl that I didn't really know to well started asking about the group of friends that I hung out with in high school. A lot of my friends committed suicide or wound up dead in high school, a situation that led people outside of our circle to speculate as to whether or not the suicides were part of a pact or an agreement. While it would be a lot more romantic or sensational if they had, there was no such agreement. It was just a bunch of kids with substance abuse problems and some chemical imbalances combined with a whole lot of hopelessness that caused a higher than average rate of attrition. I thought it was kind of funny that even 20 years later, the rumors still persist. She seemed a little disappointed in my answer. People did 20 years ago today. Doesn't make for a good story that way I guess.

Reality Check

I've been pretty good about my running program. For the first 3 months of this year I've only missed 1 run, thanks to the purchase of a treadmill at Christmas.
With the weather improving the way that it has been however, I've had the opportunity to get out on to the road for some real running. What I've found is that I can only push about half of what I can do on the treadmill when I'm outside. I found the toll is much harder on my body as well, as it seems that the treadmill has been completely missing my quads. The other day I pushed a modest (read: embarrassing) 4 km, and it was cause for some moments of reflection. My quads were burning afterwards, and even with controlled breathing I was struggling for oxygen.
Rather than allow this setback to get me down however, I've decided to rearrange my life so that I can get some real running in. I'm going to do what tens of thousands of other people,(though generally not chefs) do, and I'm going to start running on my breaks at work.
So far I've had 2 outside runs, and the newfound challenge of them has me fired up all anew. This year I'm pretty optimistic about the progress I'll make. In Saskatchewan winters past I've atrophied to the point that I found myself sidelined with injuries on my first few spring runs. This year the treadmill seems to have helped keep my bones and my calves strong if nothing else, and I think I should be up to half marathon distance again by Autumn.
Thanks for listening all :)

Chapter on Professionalism, from Professional Cooking by Wayne Gisslen.

STANDARDS OF
PROFESSIONALISM

What does it take to be a good food service worker?
The emphasis of a food service education is on learning a set of skills.But in many
ways, attitudes are more important than skills because a good attitude will help you
not only learn skills but also persevere and overcome the many difficulties you will face. The successful food service worker follows an unwritten code of behavior and set of attitudes we call professionalism.Let’s look at some of the qualities a professional
must have.

POSITIVE ATTITUDE TOWARD THE JOB
In order to be a good professional cook,you have to like cooking and want to do it well. Being serious about your work doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy it. But the enjoyment comes from the satisfaction of doing your job well and making everything run smoothly.
Every experienced chef knows the stimulation of the rush. When it’s the busiest time of the evening,the orders are coming in so fast you can hardly keep track of them, and every split second counts—then, when everyone digs in and works together and everything clicks, there’s real excitement in the air. But this excitement comes only when you work for it.
A cook with a positive attitude works quickly, efficiently, neatly, and safely. Professionals have pride in their work and want to make sure it is something to be proud of. Pride in your work and in your profession is important, but humility is important too, especially when you are starting out. Sometimes new culinary school graduates arrive on the job thinking they know everything. Remember that learning to cook and learning to manage a kitchen is a lifelong process and that you are not yet qualified to be executive chef.
The importance of a professional attitude begins even before you start your first job. The standard advice for a successful job interview applies to cooks as well as to office professionals: Dress and behave not for the group you belong to but for the group you want to join. Arrive neat,clean,appropriately dressed,and on time.Get noticed for the right reasons. Carry this attitude through every day on the job.

STAYING POWER
Food service requires physical and mental stamina, good health, and a willingness to work hard. It is hard work. The pressure can be intense and the hours long and grueling.
You may be working evenings and weekends when everyone else is playing. And the work can be monotonous. You might think it’s drudgery to hand-shape two or three dozen dinner rolls for your baking class,but wait until you get that great job in the big hotel and are told to make 3,000 canapés for a party.
Overcoming these difficulties requires a sense of responsibility and a dedication to your profession, to your coworkers, and to your customers or clients. Dedication also means staying with a job and not hopping from kitchen to kitchen every few months. Sticking with a job at least a year or two shows prospective employers you are serious about your work and can be relied on.

ABILITY TO WORK WITH PEOPLE
Few of you will work in an establishment so small that you are the only person on the staff. Food service work is teamwork,and it’s essential to be able to work well on a team and to cooperate with your fellow workers. You can’t afford to let ego problems, petty jealousy, departmental rivalries, or feelings about other people get in the way of doing the job well. In the old days,many chefs were famous for their temper tantrums.
Fortunately,self-control is more valued today.

Cheffin'

I went in to work tonight to do my order, and see how things were running at the club.
I had to pass through the hotel to get there, and as I moved through the hall, I noticed three somewhat drunken hotel guests staggering towards me. They were young men, and pretty fired up and rowdy, and two of them had their shirts off. They had the look of young guys spoiling for a fight.
I tensed a bit as we drew towards each other, and then one of them piped up "Good evening Chef!" I said good evening right back, and I was a little stunned, because he said it quite respectfully. As they continued off behind me I heard one of them say "What the fuck did you call him?" with a bit of a chuckle, and the kid that had wished me a good evening replied rather angrily..."I called him Chef, didn't you notice the Chef jacket?" and then the other guy quit giggling.
Apparently Chefs are no laughing matter...well, all except this one. The Statler and Waldorf quotes at the end of this one are highly applicable as well :)

The Statler and Waldorf quotes in this one are highly applicable as well :)

Vessels

I'm heading into month 4 of the rebirth of my running habit. It feels absolutely terrific. I'm back into the routine of doing my long run on weekends.
Today I went for 35 minutes, which is still nothing compared to where I once was, but it's a hell of a lot better than I was 4 months ago. Here's the thing about running in general, but about the long run in particular.
Running exercises the mind far more than it exercises the body. The mind is prone to seeking pleasure, and avoiding pain. This is obviously a good system to operate under most of the time, but there are times when it's counter-productive.
For example: Eating candy and nothing but candy is really pleasant. But in the long run it can be extremely harmful. Shooting heroin probably feels pretty good...you get the picture.
Running does not feel good. Not initially. It's the results of running, and the after effects of running that feel good. Running itself is painful. This is part of why it's such great exercise for the mind.
The mind feels the pain of running in the first few minutes after you set off. Its survival mechanisms sense that it's burning more energy than necessary, causing undue pain, and it instructs your muscles, your heart and your lungs to send you stressful warning signals. The mind begs you to stop, and it does so a thousand different ways, until it gets the response it wants. It speaks to you in your own voice.
"You can always do this tomorrow."
"5 minutes is probably good for today"
"missing one day isn't going to hurt."
And it doesn't take no for an answer. It comes back again and again because its mandate is to avoid pain, conserve energy.
The runner learns to overcome this inner voice. And in so doing the runner learns that inner voices can often be wrong. The runner exercises his willpower when he rejects his own counter-productivity and pushes forward.
Today I rejected my brain's entreaties to stop for the longest time that I have done so in ages and it felt great.
Afterwards I had something that exceeded a runner's high. I had this awesome sensation of blood rushing through my blood vessels. I could feel my blood moving in a torrent, through my arms and legs. It was the wildest feeling, like I was lined with surgical tubing and somebody had attached a jet of water to it.
I was going somewhere with this, but I'm tired now, so I'll pursue it later.

I Suppose You All Want to Know About My Shoes....sigh...Fine...

Yesterday I went shoe shopping for my next pair of running shoes. I was looking for a shoe that would deliver performance on the road and off. Currently I'm running on the treadmill, since I live in an inhospitable land where being outside can often be fatal. When the weather improves however, I'll be running a 33/33/33 treadmill/road/trail mix. In all reality a regular running shoe would probably be my best choice, since I'm not on the trail all that much. My concern is that most regular running shoes are white, and it would take only a minute on the trail and they'd be ruined as far as appearance is concerned.
However I took into consideration the cushioning that my treadmill offers, and figured that it's surface is more like a trail than a road, and I decided I wanted a trail shoe.
So last night I came home with the Adidas Kanadia TR, which is a gorgeous trail runner. I really wanted to love this shoe. It had a really unique look to it, black with some well placed red flashes, and a super aggressive tread that looked tailor made for ice and snow. It was also really lightweight, which is always a plus. When I got it home however, I found that it was a little too rigid, with almost no cushioning. For a runner that would be exclusively used on trails this is ideal. You want a rigid sole to protect you from sharp rocks and tree roots and the like on the trail. The tread on this shoe was also great for flinging off mud and water in wet conditions, another must have on an exclusive trail runner. For my purposes it's a little too specialized though. The lack of cushioning would have me nursing injuries in my first week, and the tread was so aggressive that I was concerned for my treadmill belt. Today I took the shoes back, and it was heartbreaking because they were beautiful.
I'm buying these things to run in though, and to run in a lot, and I need a shoe that's going to do it all.
It turns out that finding a good hybrid trail and road runner is tricky. Then I found the Mizuno Ascend 2.
This shoe won the Editor's Choice award from Runner's World magazine, as well as enjoying favorable reviews in Outside and Running Times, among others. As soon as I slid my foot into the shoe, I knew it was exactly what I was looking for. The cushioning is as good as any runner, and the heel gives great stability, which both can be tricky to find in a trail runner. Add to that the water resistant features, breathability and light weight and the shoe is a winner in every category but one...looks. I've got to admit, this is one of the ugliest shoes I've ever seen. But I'm happy with them. They're going to serve me well for a long time to come.

You know what pisses me off??

Listen.
I buy running shoes for one reason, and one reason only. To run. If I didn't want to run, I would wear non-running shoes. Common sense to me.
Because of the miles that I tend to put in on my shoes, I check all the shoe reviews before I make a purchase. And this is what pisses me off.
I'll go to a shoe review site for the latest Mizuno or Adidas release for example, and see what other users have to say about it. I'm wondering about things like blistering, cushioning, how long that cushioning is going to last when the miles start adding up, whether it's going to cause shin splints on a bigger runner like myself.
But all over these sites, there are asshole reviewers, nurses usually, talking about how great these runners are for their jobs when they're on their feet all day.
Stay off the damn running review please!
By reviewing these as a work shoe you've told us 3 things about yourself. 1) You don't run. 2) You don't really do anything other than work. And 3) You're too stupid to realize that wearing a high performance running shoe for standing at work is excessive, pointless, and ill informed.
With that said, I've given up reading reviews by mall walking seniors and obese nurses of the latest marathon rated Asics number, and I'm going to bed.

Now I don't smoke that Loco-weed

but here's the thing.
There was a demonstration in Vancouver this weekend demanding action against gang violence. The news reports say that 'hundreds' of people demonstrated.
By contrast, thousands of people march in support of legalizing pot.
It's estimated that the BC's marijuana industry is worth $7 billion every year. Currently all of that money is going straight to arming and solidifying organized criminals in BC and across Canada.
How much is 7 billion? It's enough to bail out the auto industry in Canada for starters. Hell, it's enough to militarize a small nation. Canada spends only 12 billion annually on defense, not much more than the marijuana revenue of a single province.
It would be interesting to see how many gangs would survive with pot taken out of their pots.

Yep, We're drifting, time to leave the house

Okay, now I'm Drifting.

This was under related videos.

Google Drift, and Where I Wind Up.

The girls are upstairs playing together nicely for a change, the boy is watching some of the original 80s Transformers episodes that I downloaded for him, and I had the beauty of some quiet time to myself.
I set up in the office with a coffee the way I like it (rich full bodied dark roast as opposed to weak Swift Current 7-11 style that the wife likes) and I started picking my guitar. I decided to look for some tabs to a few country songs I'd like to learn (My Heroes Have Always Been Cowboys) and these days I always Google up Youtube first when I'm looking for any kind of how-to. Youtube is a tremendous resource, and I think if I'm ever bored and trapped in the house again sometime I might look up some of youtube's most ridiculous how-to's for all y'all.
Today however I just wanted to post a video that I think you might like. Google Drift is a term that describes what happens when you're just mindlessly surfing the web and wind up a thousand topics away from what you were originally searching for. I'm the worst for it. I'll look up a chicken recipe, see a link for Funny Chicken and I'll say "ooh funny chickens!" and then off I go, then it's off to funky chicken, then funky town, then funk guitar, then Marvin Gaye, then the California Raisins, then before you know it I'm somehow on an explicit porn site,(funny how that seems to happen so often).
Anyway, today I didn't drift too far, and thought I'd share this with you.

And since we're talking about jelly beans...

I like 'em. I like 'em a lot. I'm a High Fructose Corn Syrup junkie, and jelly beans are the crack cocaine of HFCS. The next step past jelly beans is snorting sugar straws, and I've only done that once. It's a place I don't want to go back to.
But here's the thing with jelly beans. I don't like all of them. There are some I don't like. There are some, if I may say, that actually piss me off beyond all belief.
When I buy jelly beans, I buy them because of the HFCS as stated above. That's all I want. A jelly bean is like HFCS wrapped in pure condensed HFCS. The red ones, the white ones, pink ones, they actually taste like pure unadulterated HFCS, the kind you can't get on the street, the kind you have to go to a lab to find.
But then, and this is what pisses me off, THEN they (THEY being the jelly bean cartels) have to go and f*&K it all up by putting in all those flavored ones. Black ones for instance, that taste like licorice. WTF is that?! If I wanted licorice I'd go to some granola peddling hippie's natural food store and pick it up with my ginseng and freakin' gingko. Seriously. Or green ones! Minty muthaf*&^in' green ones! I don't want mints if I'm buying jelly beans. I'm not some fisherman's friend with a halitosis problem and low blood sugar. Keep the herb out of my beans man! that's what I say.
I don't even want to discuss lemon. Holy Shit! Lemon... Yeah, thanks for that one, I'll garnish my next Red Snapper with it. F*&(tards.

Almost as good as a double prizer.

I had a moment today. It bordered on spiritual. To say it was euphoric wouldn't be exagerrating. This is just between us okay. Don't let it get out to too many people.
There is a Canadian Tire Store in the city with a defective jelly bean machine.
Here's the thing. I learned back when I was about ten years old that if you put a quarter into a gumball machine, then turn the dial really slowly, you might find the mythical sweet spot, where the prized candy within just keeps on coming. I've never managed to clean out a machine this way, but I've certainly gotten more than my money's worth more times than I can count. It all started with the gumball machine at the old Pinder's Drugs on Broadway and Taylor. By turning slowly to the limit of the dial, then exercising a couple quick twists of the wrist, I was often able to get 2 or 3 gumballs for the price of one.
It seemed that the candy companies caught on to this sometime in the mid 80s. I've haven't cashed out more than I put in for decades.
Then today it happened.
In the exit door of this Canadian Tire they have a row of candy machines. I love jelly beans, and the jelly bean machine did a Svengali number on the last quarter in my pocket. I sunk it into the machine, and gave the dial a slow clicking turn, the same way that I've been doing for the better part of 30 years now. I could hear the jelly bean bay filling up, and I just knew I was getting a little extra. At the end of the turn, when the dial would turn no more, I gave it the patented Pinder's Flick back a touch, and SCORE! I heard another payload of jellybeans tumbling into the bean bay. It all came back to me, all the subtlety, all the English that I used to know so implicitly, instinctively back in the day. I kept flipping the dial, and I found the sweet spot where the tumblers never locked. I filled the bean bay twice before the Canadian Tire flunkies started to notice my surreptitious activities, and making a mental note of the machine's location, I beat a timely, low profile retreat with a FULL pocket of beans!
Life is good people. Life is good.
Almost as good as a double prizer

When Live People Turn Dead.

Won't tell you how my train of thought got to this station...well okay, I will.
I've been watching clips from the show Scrubs on the net tonight. In one of the clips they lost 4 patients in one day, and they show the deaths in this sad little montage. In some cases it was flatlines, in others they reluctantly stopped trying to save the patient. One of the clips showed them pulling all the sensors off of the patient, which at that point had ceased to be a person and had instead become a corpse.
It got me thinking about that line between life and death. How in one moment a person is living and breathing, and in the next they aren't. How do you measure that moment? How fast does it happen?
It got me thinking about the infinite again. The smallness of that space between living and dead is inconceivable. It's non-existent in fact. One either is or isn't.
Anyway, the other thing it got me thinking of was my mom. She died in a hospital years back. She had sensors taped all over her. It didn't occur to me until tonight that somebody pulled those sensors off when she made that leap from was to wasn't. It must be a strange feeling to be that person.

Doubling Up On Exercise, Couch Potato Style

As regular readers know, I bought a treadmill just after Christmas, and have promised myself that I will run at least 3 times per week. I have been doing so. There has been the odd time that I've only run twice on the treadmill, but on such weeks I've been getting the extra run in when I receive the order at work, running up and downstairs with heavy boxes about 30 times, twice a week.
Tonight I found that I doubled my time on the treadmill, and enjoyed it more than ever as well.
The trick? I put a TV up in front of it, and now I can watch the Food Network or a documentary while I'm running. Absolutely fantastic, and not nearly such a chore anymore.

The End of Political Correctness?

When Obama became president we had an interesting discussion at work. Did his election mean the end of political correctness? Did the ability of a visible minority from a troubled Chicago community to attain the rank of President register null and void any and all arguments for affirmative action, and workplace legislations enforcing diversity? It seemed to me that the case for giving the disadvantaged of the world a government mandated edge to level the playing field has been broken.
Obama's election seems to prove that anyone, from any background, can achieve anything they desire, provided they have the will and the drive. Regardless of perceived social barriers or not.
I'd forgotten about our discussions until I read this article tonight.

Hocus Pocus.

Further to the last note, it's worth noting that I don't get strep anymore. I've discovered a couple of home remedies for pretty much everything.
I think I've written about these before, so I'll just mention them briefly, for anybody that might be struggling with a similar recurring type illness.
The 2 cures that I found are Colloidal Silver, and Oil of Oregano.
You can find them affordably in any health food store. The oil of oregano tastes awful, and will actually burn in an open wound. You can learn more about it here I gave up on antibiotics after about time 15 with strep throat, and switched to colloidal silver and oregano. I use them whenever anyone in the house starts displaying symptoms, or whenever I feel the symptoms myself, and I don't come down with strep.
I was as anti-naturopathic healing as a person could be 2 years ago. But our strep battles frustrated me so much I was willing to try anything. These things work!

Bureaucratic Assholes.

My family and I have been at war with an almost invisible enemy for the better part of 3 years. We had a year of uneasy peace, where we thought we had won, but the enemy was just laying low.
The enemy is strep throat.
All of us have had strep at least 20 times in the past 3 years. This is not an exaggeration. Our family doctor is only available once a week, so most of the time we've gone to a local mediclinic.
Each time we go, we get a different doctor. The doctor gets the same file every time however. We've been told close to dozen times, that there are no antibiotic resistant strains of strep throat in Canada, and that the pain we've felt when we go in is highly unlikely to be strep, as we have just been treated with a course of anti-biotics for it. We then tell them, "Look, there hasn't been a month in 3 years that our home has been strep free. We all know what it feels like, we have strep." At this point the doctor will reluctantly do the old throat swab, all the while informing us that it's most likely just a virus, and he's not going to treat it until he sees some test results.
So whoever the victim is that week will suffer for another 3 days until we get the inevitable phone call "The patient has strep, can you come down and get the prescription you asked for 3 days ago."
Then we go down, and they try to prescribe us some kind of weak shit like penicillin or amoxicillin and we tell them "Look, my wife works with the wife of an infectious diseases research specialist at the U of S. She talked to him about our family's predicament, and he asked for the swab results to be sent to him last year. He found that we have a strain that is resistant to amoxicillin and penicillin, can you prescribe something else." and they'll get indignant, because we haven't been to med school, and they'll prescribe us amoxicillin, telling us in their condescending 'I'm a doctor and you're not" way that if it doesn't work, come back next week, and we'll treat it with something else.
The jist of this is that tonight I'm going to pack up my 3 kids and head down to the doctor, because my oldest daughter has strep, and has had it for about 2 weeks now. We went to see the doctor on the first day, he told us she was faking but swabbed her anyway, then 3 days later when he said "Wow, it is strep" he prescribed amoxicillin, and now a week later I'm taking her back in because this strain is amoxicillin resistant, but they don't freakin' listen. Grr.

Running

I've been damn busy at work, which means that there hasn't been a whole lot of time for blogging. I have managed to make time for running however. I've been managing to get in about 3 runs per week on the treadmill which is great.
I've had one of the side effects of being a runner kick back in again too. I had a really lousy day at work the other day. A lot of people pissed me off beyond all human comprehension. I was actually threatening to slit people's throats, and I probably would have followed through on it if anyone had challenged me. Anyway I came home still angry as Hell, and my first priority was to hit the treadmill and run it off. I pushed 30% further than I normally go trying to run off the fury and it felt great.
In other news, I managed to make it to mid January before the winter blues hit me this year. When they hit, they hit hard. Paranoia, dissatisfaction, irritability, overwhelmed by even the simplest of tasks. Even today, with exercise, vitamins, good diet, I'm still struggling. I find myself formulating tremendously complicated justifications for why I should quit my job and make some sort of drastic gypsy change to snap out of the rut. I haven't beaten it yet either. I have some fears that the irrational fears I get about losing my job are going to cost me my job, ha! How nuts is that?
On a brighter note, I've noticed that the sun is coming up earlier, the days are getting warmer and longer, and if I can just make it through the next few weeks, I'll have a major victory on my hands. I'll have made it through a summer, fall and winter at a job for the third time in my life!
For now though, I'm hitting the treadmill.

Parenting.

Here is a brief example of a day in the life of a parent.
3 Year Old Boy: "Can I have a snack?"
Dad: "If you're still hungry you can have some more supper, or an apple or some broccoli or carrots, but that's all."
Boy: "Why?"
Dad: "Because you just had dessert. ."
Boy: "Yeah but that was dessert. Can I have a snack now?"
Dad: "No."
Boy: "But it's bedtime, I always have a bedtime snack."
Dad: "Yes, you had a banana for a bedtime snack."
Boy: "No that was dessert. I still need a bedtime snack."
Dad: "No."
Boy: "Dad?"
Dad: "Yes?"
Boy: "What can I have for a bedtime snack?"
Dad; "If you're still hungry you can have some more supper, or an apple or some broccoli or carrots."
Boy: "Dad, those aren't snacks."
Dad: "Son, all food outside of meal time is a snack."
Boy: (pause) "Dad, do we have any ice cream?"
Dad: "No."
Boy: "Can I have a cookie?"
Dad: "No. If you're still hungry you can have some more supper, or an apple or some broccoli or carrots, nothing else."
Boy: (voice rising with excitement and enthusiasm) "DAD! We still have Lucky Charms don't we?! I could have some Lucky Charms!"
Dad: "No. Those are for breakfast."
Boy: "I want some breakfast now."
Dad: "No. It's bedtime now, not breakfast. If you're still hungry you can have some more supper, or an apple or some broccoli or carrots, nothing else."
Boy: "Dad..."
Dad: "Son, I've told you what you can have."
Boy: "But I want a snack." (Go back to beginning, repeat 3 times, until son decides he'll have an apple.)

Between the Lines.

I'll often point out to friends of mine that the news we get each day can be vastly different depending on the source. Here in Canada some of the most basic examples are the differences between the Toronto Star and the National Post. Find matching political stories on a similar subject and the difference is immediately apparent. In the US one is a little more hard pressed to find any degree of perspective. CNN, Fox, and the big 3 networks seem to dominate the information market, and are generally well in line with one another, all of it far to the right. Yet surprisingly right wing hardliners in the US frequently refer to the media's liberal bias.
I get my news off of the internet, and outside of human interest stories I'll read the same story from a few different perspectives. This one is a perfect example.
http://english.aljazeera.net/focus/war_on_gaza/2009/01/2009110112723260741.html
vs this one
http://edition.cnn.com/2009/WORLD/meast/01/11/israel.gaza/
and this one
http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/28573204/

What I tend to do is look for the truth somewhere between the lines. It means boiling it down to the bare facts in any given article.
Here are some of the facts.
13 Israelis dead, 10 of them soldiers.
820 Palestinians, roughly 400 or so of them civillians...women, children, the elderly.
Their have been rocket attacks from Gaza, and Israel is attacking Gaza in a very heavy handed manner.
This is known as collective punishment. When a military force collectively punishes a civillian population for the actions of fighters, it is called collective punishment, and it's a war crime under Article 33 of the 4th Geneva Conventions. If Hamas is in fact using civillians to shield it's fighters, then it too is involved in war crimes under article 28 of the Fourth Geneva conventions.
Difficult to read between the lines when the lines keep crossing one another.