Sylvia Boucher points to Sean Woods' sinister goatee. Note the evil stare.
My brother Sean has written a brilliant short story: A Boy and His Emu. Visit the Sean Woods All-Night Disco Blogorama now!
Wednesday, March 16, 2005
Blahgspotting
Sylvia Boucher points to Sean Woods' sinister goatee. Note the evil stare.
My brother Sean has written a brilliant short story: A Boy and His Emu. Visit the Sean Woods All-Night Disco Blogorama now!
Cheesecak Memories
Steven and Earl consider the good old days, when a visit to the "Cheesecak" involved hot coffee groin-burning, ice cube artillery, and whipped cream thrown willy-nilly into hapless open mouths.
The Lens
Michael, Naomi and Elliot think simultaneously, "This is going to end up on Earl's blog, isn't it."
Mini-Michael
Michael Snyder donated his genetic material to create this amusing imitation of Mini-Me of Austin Powers fame.
Return to the Cheesecak Cafe
Steven Neumann, Earl Woods, Naomi Littlewood, Elliot, and Dr. Michael Snyder.
Just after writing about the origins of the phrase "Cheesecak Cayfee," none other than the Cheesecak originator himself, Steven Neumann, emailed me to say he'd be in town. So last Thursday, Steven popped over, along with our mutual friend Mike (AKA Dr. Michael Snyder, now a professor at the U of A), his lovely girlfriend Naomi (I didn't catch the last name) and their new offspring, Elliot (didn't catch his last name, either). Appropriately enough, we decided to gather at the Cheesecak. A good time was had by all.
Monday, March 14, 2005
Earl Woods: Agent of CTU
Last night, I dreamed I was watching 24. I was in the bedroom, and the television was providing the only light; I was hunched forward, fascinated as Jack Bauer and his Counter Terrorist Unit team chased down a suspect through an industrial park in Calgary. Jack and company were driving SUVs; the terrorist, a balding, toque-wearing Caucasian with a few days’ growth of dark beard, was driving a battered white Lincoln town car.
I was amazed that the show’s producers had chosen to make Canada the setting for this season. And not only that, Calgary city police had joined the chase, along with elite CSIS units. The vehicles roared along, tires squealing, dust flying – all the clichés were in place.
The suspect abandoned his vehicle beside a rust-brown warehouse with large, lime-green bay doors. He leapt out, and a CSIS agent was close behind, also on foot, toting a machinegun. The suspect rounded a corner and found himself trapped in a dead end; the CSIS agent shouted “On the ground!”, but the suspect merely turned and shot him.
“Argh!” I said, dismayed that the Canadian hadn’t made the arrest, that once again it was up to Jack to save the day. Any minute, and Jack would come thundering down the alley, disarm the guy, and they’d cut to the next scene.
But instead, the suspect turned to face the wall of the warehouse, and suddenly I noticed that there was a door there, a door with flaking paint and a battered old doorknob. The suspect opened the door and walked into the warehouse, and suddenly a flatscreen monitor dropped from the ceiling and hung suspended before his startled face. An older man with silver hair appeared on the screen and began speaking to the suspect in a foreign language. Subtitles translated his words, not into English, but yet another foreign language. It was clear, however, that the man on the screen was giving orders to the terror suspect.
Meanwhile, Jack Bauer and his team, along with several Canadian police officers, had found the body of the fallen CSIS agent. They tried to enter the warehouse via the same door the suspect had used, but found it locked. There was a brief discussion of what to do next, and it was decided that they would have to find a battering ram of some kind to break down the door. Moments later, they found a huge mobile crane, and Jack and his right-hand man hopped into the cab and started up the engine.
At this point, I became a part of the show’s cast; I was another CTU agent, and I watched as Jack and his friend revved the crane’s engine and drove towards the warehouse. I ran behind, accompanied by a Calgarian police officer, and watched as the crane smashed through the warehouse wall. There was a tremendous explosion of dust and debris, and I was horrified at the scope of the crash. The police officer and I ran into the wreckage of the building, where we found Jack, burned and bleeding, coughing over the body of the other CTU agent.
“Are you all right?” I asked Jack.
“Find the suspect!” he said. I looked up, and the suspect was right there – and he was pointing a gun at me.
“Jack –” I said, trying to warn him, but the suspect pulled the trigger and shot me in the upper chest.
“Ah, dammit,” I thought. It really, really hurt, and I realized that I was dying. The suspect was telling Jack to surrender, to put his hands behind his head, and all I could see was my life spinning away into darkness. Everything went black.
But then I thought, “I don’t have to die. I can survive this.” So I focussed my will, and moved the bullet higher up, into my left shoulder, where the wound would be painful but not fatal. Then, I played dead as the suspect, joined by some of his comrades, put me in a body bag. They dragged me across the warehouse floor, into a space made up of office cubicles. The floor was cold and it was hard to breathe without giving away the fact that I was alive, but somehow I managed.
Time passed. The terrorists (and Jack) went away, and office workers started to file into the warehouse – which was now more like an office building. Soon I was surrounded by curious professional women, one of whom pulled off the body bag, lifted one of my legs, and rapped me hard on the left testicle. I couldn’t play dead through that, and I jumped up with a yelp of pain. The women jumped back, and I turned to one of them (played by whichever actress plays the mother on That 70s Show) and pleaded with her to help me. She hesitated, and suddenly Lesleah Horvat, head of the floral department at Hole’s walked into the office. She was surprised to see me, and I was equally shocked by her arrival. She said she was meeting with someone to arrange flowers for a wedding, and I realized that it was the head terrorist himself, the man on the video screen, who Lesleah would be talking to.
This made my situation even more precarious, and so the woman I asked for help agreed that I could hide under her desk. I did so, once again trying hard not to make any noise. A difficult task, considering it was all I could do not to whimper in pain from the bullet wound!
I waited under the desk. The light changed as the sun moved through the sky, and I watched the patterns of shadows move across the floor. Eventually it was night, and I crept from under the desk.
I was surrounded by good-looking Asian people in business attire. A friendly woman spoke to me, but I couldn’t understand her; she wore a nametag, but it was in Chinese or Japanese script. I wandered through the cubicles, looking for someone who spoke English, but no one could help me, though clearly they wanted to.
Eventually, I made my way through the cubicles and found myself in the lobby of a large metropolitan airport.
“Where am I?” I implored. A group of young Caucasian men in their twenties looked over at me.
“You’re in Canada,” they said.
“Who’s the mayor of Calgary?” one of them asked.
“How should I know, I’m an American!” I said. At least, I was playing an American on the show, so I reasoned that I shouldn’t know who the mayor of Calgary is.
“You’re in Edmonton,” one of the men said.
“Edmonton? Why would they send me to Edmonton…unless…because they know that I’d know where to hide!”
I ran down the corridor. The airport changed into the University of Alberta campus, into the Central Academic Building. There were klaxons blaring, and students were running everywhere; terrorists were on the campus, gunning down everyone they encountered, and I knew that they were looking for me, and that I was causing all this destruction.
I ran into the biological sciences building – I knew that the crazy architecture there would offer me someplace to hide. I headed for the basement, leaping down the stairs, and there on the bottom level I found Jim Hole.
“This way!” he said, pointing to an elevator door half-submerged into the floor. He pried the doors open and I jumped in feet first, landing on the elevator floor – which was, in fact, another set of doors. Jim closed the door above me, waving his hand as if to wish me well, and for a moment I was in darkness. I could hear a distant rattle of gunfire.
I knelt on the floor and forced the doors apart, slowly. Light burst through the widening seam, and I felt as though something good waited on the other side…
I dropped through the doors, and awoke.
I was amazed that the show’s producers had chosen to make Canada the setting for this season. And not only that, Calgary city police had joined the chase, along with elite CSIS units. The vehicles roared along, tires squealing, dust flying – all the clichés were in place.
The suspect abandoned his vehicle beside a rust-brown warehouse with large, lime-green bay doors. He leapt out, and a CSIS agent was close behind, also on foot, toting a machinegun. The suspect rounded a corner and found himself trapped in a dead end; the CSIS agent shouted “On the ground!”, but the suspect merely turned and shot him.
“Argh!” I said, dismayed that the Canadian hadn’t made the arrest, that once again it was up to Jack to save the day. Any minute, and Jack would come thundering down the alley, disarm the guy, and they’d cut to the next scene.
But instead, the suspect turned to face the wall of the warehouse, and suddenly I noticed that there was a door there, a door with flaking paint and a battered old doorknob. The suspect opened the door and walked into the warehouse, and suddenly a flatscreen monitor dropped from the ceiling and hung suspended before his startled face. An older man with silver hair appeared on the screen and began speaking to the suspect in a foreign language. Subtitles translated his words, not into English, but yet another foreign language. It was clear, however, that the man on the screen was giving orders to the terror suspect.
Meanwhile, Jack Bauer and his team, along with several Canadian police officers, had found the body of the fallen CSIS agent. They tried to enter the warehouse via the same door the suspect had used, but found it locked. There was a brief discussion of what to do next, and it was decided that they would have to find a battering ram of some kind to break down the door. Moments later, they found a huge mobile crane, and Jack and his right-hand man hopped into the cab and started up the engine.
At this point, I became a part of the show’s cast; I was another CTU agent, and I watched as Jack and his friend revved the crane’s engine and drove towards the warehouse. I ran behind, accompanied by a Calgarian police officer, and watched as the crane smashed through the warehouse wall. There was a tremendous explosion of dust and debris, and I was horrified at the scope of the crash. The police officer and I ran into the wreckage of the building, where we found Jack, burned and bleeding, coughing over the body of the other CTU agent.
“Are you all right?” I asked Jack.
“Find the suspect!” he said. I looked up, and the suspect was right there – and he was pointing a gun at me.
“Jack –” I said, trying to warn him, but the suspect pulled the trigger and shot me in the upper chest.
“Ah, dammit,” I thought. It really, really hurt, and I realized that I was dying. The suspect was telling Jack to surrender, to put his hands behind his head, and all I could see was my life spinning away into darkness. Everything went black.
But then I thought, “I don’t have to die. I can survive this.” So I focussed my will, and moved the bullet higher up, into my left shoulder, where the wound would be painful but not fatal. Then, I played dead as the suspect, joined by some of his comrades, put me in a body bag. They dragged me across the warehouse floor, into a space made up of office cubicles. The floor was cold and it was hard to breathe without giving away the fact that I was alive, but somehow I managed.
Time passed. The terrorists (and Jack) went away, and office workers started to file into the warehouse – which was now more like an office building. Soon I was surrounded by curious professional women, one of whom pulled off the body bag, lifted one of my legs, and rapped me hard on the left testicle. I couldn’t play dead through that, and I jumped up with a yelp of pain. The women jumped back, and I turned to one of them (played by whichever actress plays the mother on That 70s Show) and pleaded with her to help me. She hesitated, and suddenly Lesleah Horvat, head of the floral department at Hole’s walked into the office. She was surprised to see me, and I was equally shocked by her arrival. She said she was meeting with someone to arrange flowers for a wedding, and I realized that it was the head terrorist himself, the man on the video screen, who Lesleah would be talking to.
This made my situation even more precarious, and so the woman I asked for help agreed that I could hide under her desk. I did so, once again trying hard not to make any noise. A difficult task, considering it was all I could do not to whimper in pain from the bullet wound!
I waited under the desk. The light changed as the sun moved through the sky, and I watched the patterns of shadows move across the floor. Eventually it was night, and I crept from under the desk.
I was surrounded by good-looking Asian people in business attire. A friendly woman spoke to me, but I couldn’t understand her; she wore a nametag, but it was in Chinese or Japanese script. I wandered through the cubicles, looking for someone who spoke English, but no one could help me, though clearly they wanted to.
Eventually, I made my way through the cubicles and found myself in the lobby of a large metropolitan airport.
“Where am I?” I implored. A group of young Caucasian men in their twenties looked over at me.
“You’re in Canada,” they said.
“Who’s the mayor of Calgary?” one of them asked.
“How should I know, I’m an American!” I said. At least, I was playing an American on the show, so I reasoned that I shouldn’t know who the mayor of Calgary is.
“You’re in Edmonton,” one of the men said.
“Edmonton? Why would they send me to Edmonton…unless…because they know that I’d know where to hide!”
I ran down the corridor. The airport changed into the University of Alberta campus, into the Central Academic Building. There were klaxons blaring, and students were running everywhere; terrorists were on the campus, gunning down everyone they encountered, and I knew that they were looking for me, and that I was causing all this destruction.
I ran into the biological sciences building – I knew that the crazy architecture there would offer me someplace to hide. I headed for the basement, leaping down the stairs, and there on the bottom level I found Jim Hole.
“This way!” he said, pointing to an elevator door half-submerged into the floor. He pried the doors open and I jumped in feet first, landing on the elevator floor – which was, in fact, another set of doors. Jim closed the door above me, waving his hand as if to wish me well, and for a moment I was in darkness. I could hear a distant rattle of gunfire.
I knelt on the floor and forced the doors apart, slowly. Light burst through the widening seam, and I felt as though something good waited on the other side…
I dropped through the doors, and awoke.
Sunday, March 06, 2005
In Remembrance of Cheesecaks Past
Illustration by Sean E. Woods
Young we were, and golden-eyed...
The way I remember it, it happened in my car - the '82 Corolla. Steven and Susan and Tony and Ron and Jeff were in the car, and we were wondering where to go for dinner. The Cheesecake Cafe was one of our normal hangouts, and so Steven suggested we go there...or at least, he tried to make that suggestion.
"How about Cheesecak?" he said.
The response was merciless. We all started to guffaw as Steven stumbled over his words, and Tony immediately piped up, "Cheesecak Cayfee!"
And so, the Cheesecake Cafe became the Cheesecak Cayfee forevermore. But more importantly, it inspired a Paladin of Order (or was it a Minion of Chaos?): Cheesecak Shakspear. And it led to yet another round of back-and-forth nonsense. It's impossible to say who said what at this remove, but it went something like this all night:
"Damn cheesecak, damn near took m'arm off!"
Which, later on, led to the great jaw-replaced-with-an-ashtray meme: "Broke m' lower jaw clean off and I had to have it replaced with an ashtray, CLANK CLANK"
And of course, any story involving blunt trauma damage to the jaw has to involve Paladin of Order, Jake Radish, Tooth Shootist, who never shot until he saw the whites of their teeth. Said passerby Sean Woods,
"I’m amazed he can shoot out teeth while leaving the jaw relatively unharmed.
That’s the mark of a good Tooth Shootist."
Woods also overheard other remarks:
“Then guy smiled and BANG!, a shot went off behind me. I turned to see exactly who fired the gun, but I didn’t see nothing. I looked back at the dude, and all his teeth were gone. It was one heck of a shot – I’m amazed his jaw wasn’t shot clean off.”
“I says to the guy I says ‘You’re lucky your jaw doesn’t need to be replaced with an ashtray.’ ”
Thursday, February 24, 2005
Squishing Sylvia
Schematic by Sean E. Woods
Sylvia, for some unfathomable reason, loves doing the laundry. Unfortunately, this is a dangerous love, for roughly a quarter of the volume of our laundry room is full of comic books, in long cardboard boxes piled precariously to the ceiling.
Fortunately, the heavy boxes are reinforced in such a manner that the odds of a catastrophic collapse are low. A long, heavy coffee table, tilted on its side, acts as a bulwark against disaster, shoring up the comic boxes.
My brother is currently in need of a coffee table, and at first I thought perhaps I could loan him the one in the laundry room. But after Sean and I examined the situation together, we realized that to risk the structural integrity of the precariously positioned collection of funnybooks - not to mention Sylvia's structural integrity - was foolish. Sean's detailed schematic of the situation (above) should make our problem clear.
How long will the coffee table keep the boxes safely in place? Who knows? Sometimes I worry that I'll come home one day and Sylvia's limbs will be sticking out from under a pile of torn cardboard and scattered comics. An ironic end for the girlfriend of a geek, to be sure, but one cannot go about risking human lives willy-nilly for the sake of an elegant dramatic turn.
Looks like I may need to build some shelves.
Tuesday, February 22, 2005
Unburied Treasures
Earl Woods, Wayne Reti, Phil Cresswell, Stephanie Gillis, Ravinder Singh, and Jason Taylor-Collett at the end of the 1988-89 school year.
Years ago, Wayne Reti loaned me a package of film negatives, pictures he'd shot during his time at Lister Hall. Much to my consternation, I quickly lost the negatives - or thought I had. I just rediscovered the envelope a few weeks ago, and so naturally I rushed over to McBain Camera to have the pictures processed. There were plenty of gems in the pile, at least if you're Earl waxing nostalgic, and the above shot is one such gem. As my second year at the U of A drew to a close, I spent much of my time taking photos of my floormates of Main Kelsey - and so did Wayne. I really like this shot - I cared very much for each person in the photo, and I hope they're all doing well today. Maybe I'll see them at the Lister reunion being held this spring.
In other news, Sylvia continues to spoil me, work continues to become more and more stressful, and I'm getting regular exercise. So it's a mix of good and bad. Isn't it always?
My wheelbarrowful of gifts now includes new shirts and underwear, handy office items such as Post-It notes, batteries and a new photo album, and far too many goodies.
Sean came over on Friday for supper and a round of Zombies - you can catch his very entertaining writeup here.
Later this week (I hope), I'll post my analysis of two movies in a very small but fascinating genre, and my brother's incredible schematic of a home dilemma I have yet to solve.
Stay tuned!
Tuesday, February 08, 2005
Happy Birthdays to Me
I've been a little stressed over my job situation recently, so Sylvia has decided to ease my pain by giving my birthday a temporal extension. Starting at the beginning of February, she started giving me a gift a day, each designed to appeal to one or more of my interests, obsessions, or weaknesses. Here's the lowdown thus far:
Day 1: A LAVA LAMP! I've always wanted one of these, and it's in Kryptonite green. Most excellent.
Day 2: A bag of peanut M&Ms. Yummy!
Day 3: SILLY PUTTY! I love Silly Putty, and I haven't had any in years. This batch is metallic gold.
Day 4: The latest issue of Laptop magazine. Hmm, there's some cool stuff in here - an interesting read.
Day 5: A package of Reese's Swoops. They're tasty little chocolate thingys.
Day 6: A new memo pad! Fantastic - I needed one of these.
Day 7: A can of mixed nuts. Delicious and nutritious.
Boy, I'd better figure out something good for Valentine's Day...suggestions gratefully accepted.
Day 1: A LAVA LAMP! I've always wanted one of these, and it's in Kryptonite green. Most excellent.
Day 2: A bag of peanut M&Ms. Yummy!
Day 3: SILLY PUTTY! I love Silly Putty, and I haven't had any in years. This batch is metallic gold.
Day 4: The latest issue of Laptop magazine. Hmm, there's some cool stuff in here - an interesting read.
Day 5: A package of Reese's Swoops. They're tasty little chocolate thingys.
Day 6: A new memo pad! Fantastic - I needed one of these.
Day 7: A can of mixed nuts. Delicious and nutritious.
Boy, I'd better figure out something good for Valentine's Day...suggestions gratefully accepted.
Friday, January 07, 2005
Thank You, Lois
My employer, Lieutenant Governor Lois E. Hole, died yesterday.
I wouldn't presume to call myself a friend of Her Honour, but I had tremendous respect, admiration, and affection for her, and I hope that she felt the same way about me.
Unlike many Albertans, I was barely aware of Lois' existence before I started working for her. But I quickly discovered what a genuinely warm and caring person she was, and I appreciated her willingness to allow a stranger to work on her autobiography. Lois always gave everyone the benefit of the doubt, even when they'd wronged her.
Lois was unfailingly kind and generous to me during the years I spent writing in her voice; even when I made a mistake, she rebuked me so gently that I was doubly motivated to do a better job next time. She met Sylvia twice, and treated her with incredible solicitude. She made her feel welcome, and I think Lois was genuinely happy that I had a girlfriend.
I am not emotionally devastated by Lois' death. I was not a family member; I was an employee. To indulge myself in an overabundance of grief would be, I think, disrespectful to those who have far more cause to mourn: her loved ones.
But I am sad. I'm sad that she didn't have the chance to meet the Queen again, nor to participate in Alberta's centennial celebrations. I knew that she was really looking forward to the big events of 2005, and she really deserved to be there. And I think the people of Alberta would have enjoyed the centennial all the more if she had lived to take part.
Moreover, I am deeply saddened that this most conservative of provinces has lost a great liberal voice. She was making a difference in our political culture, a positive one from my point of view, and I wish that she'd had that extra twelve months to get her simple message out: care for each other. All the speeches about libraries, about schools, about multiculturalism, the arts and health care boiled down to that simple point. We're here for each other.
Or we should be.
The really hard thing about death is that life goes on. Someone important vanishes, and yet we who live on still have to drive home, wash the dishes, pay the bills, get our homework done, go back to work the next morning. Life doesn't stop to mourn.
Lois, thank you for giving me the chance to realize a dream. Thanks for helping me help others, thanks for caring, and thanks for speaking out. You make me wish I believed in an afterlife.
Earl, Her Honour and Sylvia at the 2003 L.G. staff Christmas party.
I wouldn't presume to call myself a friend of Her Honour, but I had tremendous respect, admiration, and affection for her, and I hope that she felt the same way about me.
Unlike many Albertans, I was barely aware of Lois' existence before I started working for her. But I quickly discovered what a genuinely warm and caring person she was, and I appreciated her willingness to allow a stranger to work on her autobiography. Lois always gave everyone the benefit of the doubt, even when they'd wronged her.
Lois was unfailingly kind and generous to me during the years I spent writing in her voice; even when I made a mistake, she rebuked me so gently that I was doubly motivated to do a better job next time. She met Sylvia twice, and treated her with incredible solicitude. She made her feel welcome, and I think Lois was genuinely happy that I had a girlfriend.
I am not emotionally devastated by Lois' death. I was not a family member; I was an employee. To indulge myself in an overabundance of grief would be, I think, disrespectful to those who have far more cause to mourn: her loved ones.
But I am sad. I'm sad that she didn't have the chance to meet the Queen again, nor to participate in Alberta's centennial celebrations. I knew that she was really looking forward to the big events of 2005, and she really deserved to be there. And I think the people of Alberta would have enjoyed the centennial all the more if she had lived to take part.
Moreover, I am deeply saddened that this most conservative of provinces has lost a great liberal voice. She was making a difference in our political culture, a positive one from my point of view, and I wish that she'd had that extra twelve months to get her simple message out: care for each other. All the speeches about libraries, about schools, about multiculturalism, the arts and health care boiled down to that simple point. We're here for each other.
Or we should be.
The really hard thing about death is that life goes on. Someone important vanishes, and yet we who live on still have to drive home, wash the dishes, pay the bills, get our homework done, go back to work the next morning. Life doesn't stop to mourn.
Lois, thank you for giving me the chance to realize a dream. Thanks for helping me help others, thanks for caring, and thanks for speaking out. You make me wish I believed in an afterlife.
Earl, Her Honour and Sylvia at the 2003 L.G. staff Christmas party.
Tuesday, January 04, 2005
Visitors from Abroad
Andrea took this shot of Sylvia and I in our dining room. It was a great visit, and I'm glad that Andrea and Greg took the time out of a tremendously busy schedule to pop in.
Visitors from Abroad
Here's the happy couple, posing in front of our recently-completed (well, almost) feature wall. Mirror tile is so groovy.
Visitors from Abroad
My friend Andrea MacLeod is in Canada right now, visiting from Germany, where she's lived for the past 11 years. Andi and I were in the U of A Star Trek club together, but she's far less geeky than I. She and her fiance came over last night.
Sunday, January 02, 2005
Sylvia in Leather
For some reason I can post pictures again, so here' s a gratuitous shot of my sexy, leather-clad girlfiend.
Spock and the Vending Machine
So here's the photo I was talking about - the one that inspired that dreadful story. I suppose I could write something about Evil Spock and his attempts to purchase a refreshing beverage, but it's past my bedtime...
The Brotherhood of Blogs
Just a note to say that my brother Sean has started a blog of his own, the Sean Woods All-Night Disco Blogorama!
Check it out!
Check it out!
Saturday, January 01, 2005
Hello, 2005
Last night I dreamed that I'd been appointed Prime Minister. But I was only 19 or 20 years old, and I didn't understand any of the day-to-day procedures of the office, including where to sit in Parliament. I waved down a helicopter at the wrong time and felt foolish, and went on a tour of the official residence with a bunch of teenagers. Anne McLellan was constantly shepherding me, but she wasn't getting frustrated, thank goodness.
But before that, I dreamed that I was in a metropolis. I leapt into the air, and landed atop a skyscraper. I had no way to get down. It was an angled roof, and I had to hang on to a protruding slap of roofing material to keep myself from sliding off.
I thought of jumping off and using a parachute to slow my fall, but I was too scared to make the attempt. Then I started to think about the nature of fear, and I was gearing myself up to make the jump when a window on the roof opened and a blonde-haired accountant helped me into the building.
I used the stairs to reach ground level.
But before that, I dreamed that I was in a metropolis. I leapt into the air, and landed atop a skyscraper. I had no way to get down. It was an angled roof, and I had to hang on to a protruding slap of roofing material to keep myself from sliding off.
I thought of jumping off and using a parachute to slow my fall, but I was too scared to make the attempt. Then I started to think about the nature of fear, and I was gearing myself up to make the jump when a window on the roof opened and a blonde-haired accountant helped me into the building.
I used the stairs to reach ground level.
Friday, December 31, 2004
Goodnight, 2004
I've had a good year. I'm surrounded by incredibly generous friends and relatives who help me whenever I need it, and I have a remarkable girlfriend whose love and support have transformed the way I live. I have a rewarding career, and I can honestly say that I've had a positive, if indirect, impact on thousands of lives.
So naturally I feel guilty in the wake of this weeks horrifying news from Asia. I'll give what I can to the Red Cross and Doctors Without Borders when my next cheque comes in, and I'm sure it will do some good. But it won't change the fact that billions live in poverty while a small minority gorge themselves on the world's resources. Nor will it change the fact that I treasure my lifestyle; I enjoy creature comforts too much to give them up. I try not to be wasteful, and I give to charity at regular intervals, but I won't give up my car for the sake of the environment, and I won't sell off my books or movies and donate the proceeds to worthy causes. I'm not that selfless.
On the other hand, few are. You don't have to be a saint to make a difference; just indulge yourself a little less. That's going to be my New Year's resolution for our next spin around the sun, and I'm going to do my best to stick to it, to give back to the world more than I take. As far as I can tell, creating a better society isn't accomplished by one or two or even two thousand people each doing a lot; it's accomplished by billions, each doing a little. Let's each of us be one of those billions.
Lives can be washed away as easily as grains of sand on a beach. Enjoy yours while you can, and take advantage of every day in 2005, and all the years to come.
*Edit: Ah, screw it - no need to wait for my next cheque. Thanks to online donations, I can just put it on my credit card. What the hell, it's not like I was going to pay it off this month anyway.
So naturally I feel guilty in the wake of this weeks horrifying news from Asia. I'll give what I can to the Red Cross and Doctors Without Borders when my next cheque comes in, and I'm sure it will do some good. But it won't change the fact that billions live in poverty while a small minority gorge themselves on the world's resources. Nor will it change the fact that I treasure my lifestyle; I enjoy creature comforts too much to give them up. I try not to be wasteful, and I give to charity at regular intervals, but I won't give up my car for the sake of the environment, and I won't sell off my books or movies and donate the proceeds to worthy causes. I'm not that selfless.
On the other hand, few are. You don't have to be a saint to make a difference; just indulge yourself a little less. That's going to be my New Year's resolution for our next spin around the sun, and I'm going to do my best to stick to it, to give back to the world more than I take. As far as I can tell, creating a better society isn't accomplished by one or two or even two thousand people each doing a lot; it's accomplished by billions, each doing a little. Let's each of us be one of those billions.
Lives can be washed away as easily as grains of sand on a beach. Enjoy yours while you can, and take advantage of every day in 2005, and all the years to come.
*Edit: Ah, screw it - no need to wait for my next cheque. Thanks to online donations, I can just put it on my credit card. What the hell, it's not like I was going to pay it off this month anyway.
Friday, December 24, 2004
I'm So Meshuggeneh I Could Plotz
On wednesday, I was taking a little tour of the garden centre at Hole's when Anne, one of my coworkers, asked me if I knew what a dremel was.
"Um, I know it's something Jewish," I said.
"You're thinking of a dreidel," she said, after a brief pause.
"Whoops," I said.
Maybe it's the season - dremels have something to do with carpentry, Jesus was a Jewish carpenter...
Happy KwansChrisHannuSolsticeHumanLight!
"Um, I know it's something Jewish," I said.
"You're thinking of a dreidel," she said, after a brief pause.
"Whoops," I said.
Maybe it's the season - dremels have something to do with carpentry, Jesus was a Jewish carpenter...
Happy KwansChrisHannuSolsticeHumanLight!
Wednesday, December 22, 2004
The Drive-By Pundit
On Wednesday or Thursday afternoon, Bruce and I got talking about brand inspectors - guys who inspect cow brands, making sure they're authentic. At first I was amazed that there are actually people who do this, but Bruce explained that brands help authenticate cattle ownership, which makes cattle rustling more difficult.
"Wasn't cattle rustling just a 19th century thing?" I asked, realizing even as I said it that clearly I'd seen too many westerns. And indeed, Bruce explained that even now, stealing cattle can reap pretty impressive rewards - at five hundred bucks a head, nab a hundred cows and you've got 50 grand.
"That's a lot of MOO-la," I said.
Bruce actually cracked a bit of a smile - I think he's finally beginning to understand my comic genius. Would that the lot of YOU would do the same!!!!!!
"Wasn't cattle rustling just a 19th century thing?" I asked, realizing even as I said it that clearly I'd seen too many westerns. And indeed, Bruce explained that even now, stealing cattle can reap pretty impressive rewards - at five hundred bucks a head, nab a hundred cows and you've got 50 grand.
"That's a lot of MOO-la," I said.
Bruce actually cracked a bit of a smile - I think he's finally beginning to understand my comic genius. Would that the lot of YOU would do the same!!!!!!
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