Terror in the Darkroom

During grades 11 and 12, I served as the editor of the Leduc Composite High School newspaper. Here I am in the school's Visual Communications Lab sometime during the spring of 1987; I'm pretty sure Jonathan Wright snapped the photo, and I remain impressed by the lighting and the depth of field. Good job, Jonathan!

The lab featured a darkroom (hidden behind the wall to my left in this picture), and Jonathan and I could often be found in the dim red light developing negatives and prints. With the advent of digital photography, I wonder how many schools are still teaching kids how to develop film; I wonder if the school darkroom in Leduc still functions as such or if it's been converted to some other purpose. I love my digital camera, but I also loved experimenting in the darkroom. You could produce all kinds of interesting effects using primitive analog means. Even the mistakes could create beautiful results if you were fortunate.

One day, Jonathan and I were working in the darkroom and for whatever reason we were talking about monsters or serial killers or something along those lines to pass the time. We didn't know that our teacher/supervisor, Mr. Banford, was standing outside and had, quite coincidentally, decided to play a minor practical joke on us: he flipped off the light switch, plunging the darkroom into literal darkness. Of course we immediately suspected that some fiend was about to leap out of the inky black and slaughter us like helpless sheep.
Jonathan and I panicked, running blindly for the heavy steel revolving door that was the room's only exit. We crashed into it together, screaming and yelling, staggering into the harsh light of the main lab, a little bruised and banged up, but otherwise unharmed.

Our teach was holding his side, tears of laughter spilling down his cheeks. Jonathan and I were both a little annoyed, but we had to admit - he got us, but good.

Mr. Banford was awesome, and I thank him for encouraging me to work on the newspaper (and the yearbook), where I developed so many of my passions.

Trek to Timmins, Part Two

Read Trek to Timmins Part One.

When Air Canada employees offered to drive us from one end of the airport to another, I thought it would be cool to shoot some video, dolly-style. But I didn't get my camera ready quickly enough.

In the video above, Paul demonstrates how to ice fish. I was a little grossed out by the minnow impalement.

And here Sylvia takes the ATV for a spin on Lake Porcupine.

Finally, here are some photos and footage of the splendour of Timmins.

Technorati Rating

Lately I've noticed a modest spike in pageviews, but I really don't have the experience or knowledge to determine how pageviews translate into actual readership. So I poked around a little and found Technorati, which provides popularity indexes of blogs.

Today My Name is Earl (J. Woods) apparently ranks #25,295, which frankly doesn't seem that impressive. On the other hand, they track over a million blogs - 1,263,882 to be exact. Does that mean that my blog is read by more people than average? Not being a math, statistics or computer whiz, I really have no idea. Looks like I rank #186 in the "comics" subcategory, though, which is amusing.

I often tell myself that I write for the pleasure of it, for the practise, for my own amusement, that I don't care if anyone reads anything I write. But the truth, which is surely apparent to everyone, is that I enjoy the idea of having readers. My friend Bruce, and I hope I'm not misremembering or misstating his position, once argued quite passionately that art wasn't art unless it had an audience. I'm not sure I agree - I think the Mona Lisa would probably still qualify as art even if it had never been popular - but I do think that art needs an audience to attain any kind of meaning.

Of course I'm not claiming that anything I've posted approaches the exalted state of ART in fine gilt letters. I think I may have brushed against reasonably intelligent discourse from time to time, though. Or at least I've amused a few folks occasionally.

Anyway, this post is rapidly approaching self-indulgence, and I'm only allowing myself a ten-minute break from tonight's speechwriting tasks anyway. Having gone this far, I may as well toss in an ad: if you enjoy this blog, tell your friends! And send me a note if there's a particular aspect of pop culture you'd like me to examine. I can always use new ideas.

My Meeting with Wayne

During the summer of 1988, I worked as a waiter at Mr. John's, a no-longer-extant truck stop on Ellerslie Road. The restaurant was connected to a convenience store/gas bar, and I would occasionally work shifts at the counter rather than serve tables in the restaurant.

During one such shift, a lanky, scruffy-looking guy a little older than me approached the counter with a few bags of Old Dutch chips and asked me if we had any dip. For some reason my mind drew a blank and I pointed out the nacho dips, which aren't exactly well-suited for plain chips. The man looked a little annoyed, but shrugged and said "That's okay." He paid cash. I don't think we stocked conventional chip dip anyway, so I shrugged and stuffed the bills into the till, handed the man his change, and watched him walk out the door.

When I returned my gaze to the store, I saw to my surprise that the place was suddenly crammed full of people, customers and staff alike, appearing like wraiths from behind the shelves to goggle at me. Apparently they'd been watching this common exchange as if it were some kind of special event.

"Do you know who that was?" one of my coworkers asked, his voice pitched about three octaves higher than normal. "That was Wayne Gretzky!"

"Wayne Gretzky eats potato chips? With dip?" It seemed counterintuitive, but I quickly reasoned that playing hockey must burn a ton of calories. In any event, I hadn't recognized the Oilers hockey star, then at the height of his powers.

Nonetheless, I was the toast of the staff for the whole shift. I only regret that my apathy about sports prevented me from participating in the excitement with more sincerity. I felt bad, and still do, that something that meant so much to everyone else meant nothing to me. If you're not a sports fan, you sit pretty far away from mainstream society. Usually I'm fine with that, but on that day I felt like I was letting my team down...sports metaphor intended.

108 Minutes That Changed the World

50 years ago today, Cosmonaut Yuri Gagarin became humanity's first ambassador to outer space. It took him 108 minutes to orbit the Earth. The video above uses archival audio and video of Gagarin's flight and combines it with International Space Station footage to provide a modern facsimile of the view Gagarin enjoyed.

Many have argued that the early exploration of space was prompted by base motives: nationalism, military expansionism and mutual mistrust between human tribes. But according to everything I've read about the world's space programs - and I've been doing so since I was a little boy - many, indeed most of the scientists, engineers, administrators and explorers pursued the dream of space with the very best of intentions: to expand the frontiers of human knowledge, to push the limits of our technological and scientific capacity, to learn about the universe we share and, hopefully, to discover our place within it, and perhaps ultimately something about our purpose - if indeed there is one. (There doesn't necessarily have to be, however much we may desire to impose such meaning; in the end, we may find that each person must find such meaning for themselves.)

Gagarin's joy and enthusiasm transcends ideology and nationalism. He was the first of many cosmonauts and astronauts to see the world as it really is: the cradle of life, a place without borders, our only home in the universe, one that we must share and respect if we are to survive as a species. And indeed, in the long run, a home that we must eventually leave behind, if we are vain enough to hope that humanity might outlive our home star, fated to expand to a red giant and snuff out our beautiful world some five billion years from now. If we do, through some great enterprise, escape that fate, I hope that Gagarin is remembered as one of the pioneers who made humanity's long-term existence possible.

Here's to you, Yuri, and to the many thousands of human beings throughout history who have dared to dream of going new places and flying to new heights.

Edmonton Meadowlark Health Care Town Hall

Tonight a small but passionate and knowledgeable crowd gathered in west Edmonton to speak with Official Opposition Leader David Swann, Edmonton-Meadowlark MLA Raj Sherman and Lethbridge-East MLA Bridget Pastoor (two MDs and a nurse!) about the state of public health care in Alberta. The crowd featured patients and health care professionals alike, each with his or her own stories to tell. While the general theme was frustration and unrest, the group was quite sincere in their non-partisan search for solutions, confirming, I think, the general feeling that people just want health care that works and they don't care who fixes it.

Official Opposition Communications Director Brian Leadbetter moderated the discussion while I shot photos. Well, not this one, obviously.

The problem, of course, is that we live in a partisan political system, and from my point of view and that of other Alberta Liberals, the ruling Progressive Conservatives have mismanaged health care to such a degree that they've proven their inability to handle the job. We feel that a change in government is needed before the systemic mismanagement can be addressed.

Sherman and Swann - one an emergency room doctor, the other a former public health officer and family doctor - once again noted that the backlog in emergency room care can be laid at the feet of our province's critical lack of long-term care facilities and supports. In a nutshell, because there aren't enough long-term care spaces, people are being cared for in the acute care beds of our hospitals - at far greater expense to the public. And the acute care beds can't be used for patients that actually need acute care, which is why ER wait times can stretch on for hours or even days.

The MLAs also argued that the elimination of Alberta's health regions and their consolidation into Alberta Health Services has created a host of new inefficiencies in the system and done a good deal of damage to the morale of health care professionals across the board. Sylvia, seen here in the background, raised a good point about how that damage to morale seems to discourage people from voting. Dr. Sherman revealed that while he was in the Tory caucus, his colleagues actively discouraged him from telling people to vote, noting that low turnout helps the party in power. With cynical truths like these, it's no wonder that folks don't vote!

So where are the solutions? Well, Dr. Swann noted that the new Alberta Liberal health care policy will be unveiled shortly. I'm looking forward to seeing how Albertans react to the Official Opposition's proposals. Maybe they'll even provide a reason for people to head to the polls later this year or early next.

The Six Million Dollar Sean

Fart to the Future

Minutes ago, I awoke with tears of laughter streaming down my face. I immediately shook Sylvia into consciousness to tell her about the beautiful dream I've just had, and now I'm sharing it with you.

In the dream, Sylvia and I arrive in the far future in a time machine. We step out of the machine and see a small village of naked or near-naked humans, living happily in an idyllic garden paradise. Gorgeous violet mountains loom in the distance; a crystal clear river runs through the centre of the community; trees dripping with fruit provide bounty and shade from a warm, bright sun. Every person is beautiful, friendly and peaceful; some have genetically engineered themselves to take the form of centaurs or satyrs. But though they have learned much and built a utopia, so too have they forgotten many things about the past and about themselves. One handsome blonde gentleman approaches us to ask about a great mystery of long standing:

"Excuse me, but do you know why all people have a hole in their bum? It doesn't do anything."

Surprised, I immediately realize that these people of the future must have evolved to the point where they don't need to defecate anymore, processing their food with one hundred percent efficiency. I explain that people of the past used the orifice to expel solid waste.

"Ah!" the man cries. "A vestigial organ, then - useless to us now."

"Well, not so useless," I reply, with a gleam of mischief in my eye. "Watch this."

Then, squinting, grimacing and bearing down, I let loose a tremendous fart, much to the amazement of the crowd.

"Earl!" Sylvia gasps, appalled. To her horror, the villagers are intrigued, and I teach them how to explosively pass gas, comically holding my nose closed with my fingers and blowing to produce the loudest possible blast. Soon the entire village population is producing a cacophony of noise; it turns into a symphony of sorts, toots of different tenors and tones echoing across the valley. I'm laughing so hard I can't breathe, clutching my sides. Sylvia, meanwhile, is completely disgusted by my behaviour, my corruption of Eden, comically sighing and rolling her eyes.

There ended the dream, and my eyes are still wet from laughter. Sylvia groggily summed it all up, half-asleep:

"We travel to the future, and that's your contribution."

Trek to Timmins, Part One

Last week, Sylvia and I flew to Timmins, Ontario so that Sylvia could visit her beloved grandmother one last time. It was a bittersweet journey of tenderness, love, laughter and loss, an emotional trek that reminded me there are many kinds of families.

Sylvia's grandparents raised an astounding seventeen children; the eldest is Sylvia's father. Sylvia's mother comes from a family of ten siblings. Like me, Sylvia grew up in a northern mining town on the Canadian frontier, but she did it surrounded by a much vaster array of relatives. (My father is an only child; my mother has three sisters.) Sylvia comes from the French-Canadian tradition; I'm about as Anglo as they come.

Sylvia and I, therefore, interact with our families in very different ways. I tend to be more reserved and quiet with my relatives; Sylvia, like every Boucher I have encountered thus far, is far more open and flamboyant about her feelings. Both approaches are equally valid, but my experience and temperament left me feeling anxious and ill-equipped to deal with literally dozens of hugging, kissing Bouchers in one brief span of time.

I needn't have worried. With kindness and understanding, Sylvia's family took me in as one of their own, even during a very difficult time.

We stayed with Paul and Monique Boucher, AKA "Rico Suave and Monica," one pair of Sylvia's aunts and uncles. Though retired now, together they ran Do-All Maintenance, now being operated by their son Jason, AKA "Baby Tycoon."

Sylvia's relatives have been keeping a round-the-clock watch on their ma mere since she suffered a series of strokes. Paul and Monique took us to see her right away. Though I'd only met Mrs. Boucher once before, she seemed to remember me, though sadly the stroke has robbed her ability to speak. My laughable attempts to speak French made her giggle (a common reaction from all the Bouchers). Despite the stroke, Mrs. Boucher remained alert and spirited most of the time we were in Timmins.

Of course we couldn't stay at the hospital 24/7, so Paul and Monique did a very good job of showing us the sights of Timmins (and its associated community, Porcupine/South Porcupine). Here Paul prepares to take Sylvia ice fishing on Porcupine Lake.

The weather was gorgeous, at least plus 10, and the sunlight bounced off the lake. I wore my Hawaiian shirt with justification.

Paul built this ice fishing hut at his shop.

Sylvia and her Aunt Mitch relaxed on the frozen yet balmy lake while I snapped photos and shot video (coming soon).

Paul, meanwhile, used his auger to drill fishing holes.

 He even drilled a half-hole so that Sylvia could enjoy a lake-chilled Pepsi.

Metaphorically speaking, you can't randomly toss a pebble in Timmins/Porcupine without accidentally hitting a Boucher. We ran into Sylvia's Uncle Tommy on the way to the lake.

And a little later on, Uncle Leo showed up.

Sylvia insisted on taking her uncle's ATV out for a spin on the lake, despite my trepidation. Here Paul shows Sylvia how to control the vehicle. Note her stylish Versace sunglasses and expensive Coach handbag, which never left her side during the trip, much to the delight of her down-to-earth relatives. There's a reason Porcupine sports an intersection featuring Princess Avenue and Boucher Street.

What, you thought I was kidding?

Being somewhat risk-averse when it comes to physical derring-do, I pleaded with Sylvia to drive carefully.

 Of course she pushed the ATV to its limits, tearing around the lake at top speed.

Sylvia ignored my craven pleas for mercy. Fortunately, there were no casualties, other than, to steal a line from Dr. McCoy, "my wits!"

Next: More Bouchers and a tour of Timmins town. 

Computer Conundrums

My computer is not cooperating. Please treat this post as a placeholder and enjoy the archives.

UPDATE: Leave it to Jeff and Susan to turn a placeholder into something sweet and entertaining. Read their tale of electronic love in the Rejoinders, and see Jeff's illustration here. 

Cover to Cover #7

Originally published in The Peak, Volume 16, Number 3

March, 2000

I haven't read this article in years. I think I enjoy my memories of the old BBS days more than the book reviews themselves. 

Stepping Into the Parlor

My first introduction to the concept of a web of computer users came in 1986, when I was 17. A high school friend, knowing that I enjoyed creative writing and technology, showed me how to “log in” to the first electronic bulletin board systems, or BBSes. With a computer, a telephone line, and some exotic peripheral called a modem, I could send text from one computer to another and exchange story ideas, gossip, and jokes with people I might never meet face to face. I purchased my first modem when I started university, and soon I was hooked, spending more time in front of my old Atari monitor (featuring glowing white text on a blue background – wonder of wonders, I didn’t go blind) than in the library doing research. The process of logging on was often frustrating – because most BBS operators had only one phone line leading into their server, only one person at a time could use the BBS. Busy signals often echoed for hours in the tiny confines of my dorm room. Once successfully logged into the board, the text crawled along at 300 baud. There were no fancy graphics, other than primitive stick figures drawn in ASCII. And it was local; most BBSes in Edmonton were self-contained, not connected to the outside world.

But the BBSes provided fascinating messages from people with fanciful aliases like Hyperion Mok and Benchmark and Cardinal Fang and Fex Semlin. It was a place where you could shed your mortal guise and become whoever or whatever you wanted; all that counted was the quality of your interaction. Together, my virtual co-authors and I spun tall tales of magic and wonder, each of us adding a chapter once a week or so. The results were hardly art – the finished stories were far too disjointed – but our stories served as hints of things to come.

A couple of years after I completed my degree, all that changed. The BBSes, much as I loved them, were quickly left behind when I was captured by the promise of the next new thing: the World Wide Web. Not only did the Web promise fancy computer graphics and a wide range of interesting places to visit, but you could interact with people from all over the world. Not only that, but multitudes of people could use the Net all at the same time. No more busy signals! (Well, theoretically – as anyone who has used the Web knows, back in the beginning the Internet Service Providers often found themselves a bit overloaded with users, despite having much more sophisticated servers than the independent BBS operators.)

 I leapt in with both feet. In the years since, I’ve come to depend on the Internet and the World Wide Web for everything from research to personal finances to correspondence.

It’s amazing how quickly the Net has become essential. Late in 1999, I received a hand written letter in my mailbox. I was honestly stunned – it had been years since anyone had sent anything other than a brief postcard through what we now derisively call ‘snail mail.’ I immediately sat down and responded in kind, and was shocked by how arduous I found the process. No simple push of a button would send my response on its way – I actually had to find an envelope, seal it, go to the post office, buy a stamp, and, finally, toss it into the outgoing mail slot. But I wasn’t annoyed – the act of actually mailing a letter had become so novel that I relished the experience. Similarly, it’s been ages since I’ve stepped into a bank or paid a bill personally; practically all of my household affairs are now handled through the Net.

Perhaps not surprisingly, I became so caught up in the wonder of the Web that I didn’t spend much time considering its origins; soon it became just another essential appliance, like my oven or TV set. The Web seemed so technologically complex that I doubted any serious investigation into its creation could provide anything more than a chorus of yawns.

Actually, it turns out that the story is a fascinating one. For anyone interested in the history of the World Wide Web and its future, two new books, each with a different but complementary perspective, provide a fascinating insight into the tangled world of the Web.

Weaving the Web

Tim Berners-Lee with Mark Fischetti

HarperSanFrancisco

Tim Berners-Lee didn’t invent the Internet, but he did create, on his own, the structure that actually made it useful on a global scale: the World Wide Web. His firsthand account, though a little dry and technical, is nonetheless a captivating look into the development of the Web. More importantly, it is a glimpse of a powerful personal vision that is in the process of transforming our global culture.

According to Berners-Lee, he first conceived the notion of a World Wide Web while working at CERN, site of the famous supercollider where great minds smash together atoms in the hopes of uncovering the secrets of the universe. His explicit hope is to “connect anything with everything.” Appropriately, Weaving the Web is a story of consensus. Though Berners-Lee created the Web, its widespread adoption required the co-operation of hundreds of scientists, engineers, and other professionals. The author describes how, in the space of a few short years, the Web began as a simple tool to exchange data between CERN scientists to a global information warehouse.

Today, Berners-Lee serves as director of the World Wide Web Consortium, the non-profit body that co-ordinates Web development. His work on W3C forms much of the narrative, from the Consortium’s creation to its current initiatives. Without rancor, he describes the clashes with colleagues and the struggle to make the Web a tool not just for the elite, but for the masses.

Especially useful are Berners-Lee’s discussions of current Web shortcomings. He talks about the need for better measures to protect the privacy (not to mention crucial data like credit card numbers and health care information) of surfers without impairing the efficiency of the system. I was shocked when, just a few weeks ago, I discovered that it took just the click of a mouse for Internet Service Providers to make “carbon copies” of all their customers’ e-mail. While I’m not concerned about my own provider, I found the discovery sobering. Berners-Lee asserts that an easy-to-use encryption program should be available to all Web users, to ensure that only the sender and intended recipients can read information sent through the Internet. But it may be difficult to accomplish – currently, the US government considers such encryption programs as munitions, and thus subject to some pretty severe regulations.

As far as the Web has come, it’s still not as user-friendly as it could be. If Berners-Lee has his way, soon there will be more intelligent browsers that use human-like reasoning to make connections between kinds of data; web searches will provide far more useful results, cutting down on the need to laboriously wade through the hundreds of links a typical inquiry currently produces.

In the closing chapters of Weaving the Web, the author describes what steps need to be taken to keep it a free and universal medium, accessible to all. He speaks of a Web of Trust to support the emerging relationships springing up between individuals, corporations, institutions, and governments around the world. He urges us to address the problem of access – the current state of wired rich nations and web-impoverished poor nations. He describes a “Semantic Web,” one far easier to use and more intelligent than today’s work-in-progress. And he urges us to keep the web free from the control of any one government or corporation. Berners-Lee even gives us an insight into the specific hardware and software tools that need to be developed to realize the dream of truly “connecting anything with everything,” and, implicitly, everyone with everyone.

Berners-Lee was named by Time magazine as one of the 100 greatest minds of the 20^th century; reading Weaving the Web is like taking a peek into what motivates genius, and into the future of the ongoing communications revolution. It is also a call to action, an entreaty to consumers to demand a better Web. We would do well to listen.

The New New Thing: A Silicon Valley Story

Michael Lewis

Norton

In contrast to Berners-Lee, Michael Lewis is concerned less with the structure of the World Wide Web than he is with a man who made it more accessible for millions of people. In The New New Thing, Lewis tells the story of Jim Clark, the manic creative genius behind Silicon Valley legends like Silicon Graphics and Netscape. It begins with an improbable cruise upon a storm-tossed, experimental yacht, and ends with the promise of still more to come from an indomitable, mercurial innovator.

Jim Clark’s yacht, the Hyperion, serves as the symbol for Jim Clark’s never-ending quest for what Lewis calls “the new new thing.” For someone like Clark, the new thing is already old hat; once a concept is conceived, Clark leaves it to others to sort out the details while he moves on to the next wave.

Take, for example, Clark’s creation of the Geometry Engine, a computer chip he developed that made 3D computer graphics possible. It led to the formation of Clark’s company, Silicon Graphics, along with the new science of computer-assisted design and even the special effects in many Hollywood films. But almost as soon as Silicon Graphics was off and running, Clark recognized that the $70,000.00 SG workstations would soon be made obsolete by faster generations of much cheaper home PCs. But Clark made enough money from Silicon Graphics to start up Netscape, the company that triggered the Internet boom on Wall Street – before it had even created a single product. Similarly, once Netscape was off and running, Clark moved on to Healtheon, his vision of a system that would eliminate the teeming middlemen between doctors and patients.

Through the story, Clark works on Hyperion, his massive, computer-controlled yacht, a 154-foot beast with an astounding 197 foot tall mast – among the tallest, if not the tallest, in the world. But at book’s end, after making only a single transatlantic journey, Clark is already tired of his technological marvel and working on the next new new thing.

Clark’s ventures have made him a multibillionaire- Silicon Graphics, Netscape, and Healtheon were all valued in the billions of dollars - and yet, it isn’t enough. Though Lewis makes it clear that Clark likes money – a lot – one gets the sense that more important than the wealth is the feeling Clark gets from exploring the fringe, from standing at the bow of a ship that dances at the dangerous but lucrative edge of the world. Behind him, Clark leaves equal amounts of wreckage and prosperity – Silicon Graphics and Netscape have each fallen on hard times, but his loyal associates became rich men in his wake, and the Web became much easier to use thanks to Netscape’s better browsers. The ultimate success of Healtheon – now WebMD – hasn’t been determined yet. It will be interesting to see if Clark’s latest venture follows the established pattern of titanic boom followed by relative obscurity.

Lewis spins an engaging story that I found difficult to interrupt. His prose is unpretentious but rich with humanity; each character, from the iconic Clark to his cadre of sometimes bewildered but brilliant followers, is drawn with precise, elegant strokes.

Webs Within Webs

When I finished these two books, I was struck by how the experience of reading them underscored the web-like structure of the world we live in. Marc Andreessen, co-creator of the early web browser, Mosaic, appears in both books, as does, unsurprisingly, Jim Clark. The Netscape vs. Microsoft conflict is mentioned in both books, as is the Microsoft antitrust suit. (John Gutfreund, the central player in Lewis’ earlier work, Liar’s Poker, makes a brief cameo appearance in The New New Thing, standing Clark up when the executive journeys to New York to pitch Silicon Graphics as a publicly traded company.) But the similar stories are far from redundant. Each narrative is an essential strand in the tale of the Web, adding context and depth.

By far the best thing about the Web story is that we, too, each weave our own distinctive strands into it; we, too, are part of the story, with the ability, through email, newsgroup discussions, and our own personal WebPages, to build the kind of Web we want. Will it be a monument to human creativity and understanding…or an elitist ivory tower denied to the masses? Whatever the outcome, one thing is certain: the Web is here to stay.

500 Envelopes

Summer student and pianist Gloria, hapless EA Earl and ED Leslie at the glamorous Western Board of Music offices.

It was the spring of 1995. I was twenty-six, unemployed, and living in my parents' basement. A young woman I'd once dated took pity on me and told me that a friend of hers was looking for some temporary help at something called the Western Board of Music, which I later discovered was a charitable organization fostering music education.  Temporary or not, a job was a job, so at the appointed hour I showed up on the doorstep of a little old house on the east side of the University of Alberta campus, right across the street from the HUB mall parking lot.

The Executive Director was Leslie, a brilliant woman about my age whom I'd met in passing back in 1991, shortly after I graduated from university. After some words of welcome and a brief orientation, she ushered me upstairs and sat me down at a small desk, upon which rested a large box of newsletters and a stack of envelopes.

"Just fold these newsletters and stuff and seal the envelopes," she said. "Have fun!" 

Simple enough. I dove into the box, folded the first newsletter into neat thirds, slid it into the first envelope, licked the enveloped, grimaced a little at the taste of the glue, sealed it, stamped it, set it aside. I repeated the process for the next newsletter, and the next, and the next, and the next...

After the first half hour, my tongue was numbed by a thick coating of envelope glue. As the afternoon wore on, glue was the least of my worries - my tongue  and the corners of my mouth became crisscrossed with tiny paper cuts. The stack of newsletters diminished as the stack of sealed envelopes grew, but my endurance was waning. How many newsletters were in this box, anyway?

At last, in the late afternoon, Leslie reappeared - just as I was dragging my tongue across the last envelope. Her eyes widened as she shrieked in horror, wrapping her hands into her long brown hair in consternation.

"I can't believe you licked five hundred envelopes!" she exclaimed. "You were supposed to use the envelope sealer!"

I froze in mid-lick, tongue bloody.

"Uh?" I said, not comprehending her meaning. She pointed at the desk - or more specifically, at a small bottle, filled with water, with a sponge on top: an envelope sealer. Leslie had helpfully placed it in plain sight before I'd begun my task, but having never seen one, I didn't understand its purpose: to seal envelopes without risk of lacerations or glue poisoning. My tongue grimaced in annoyance at my stupidity.

Displaying immense compassion, Leslie hired me to serve as her Executive Assistant. There was no lasting damage to my tongue - only my dignity.

Still, I wouldn't trade the experience for anything; not only did I earn valuable experience during my time as Leslie's EA (and later, after she moved on to bigger and better things, as the organization's Executive Director), we developed a friendship that I treasure to this day.

Happy Birthday, Sean!

My younger brother Sean turns 35 today. I'm disappointed that I'm out of town for this milestone, but I'll make it up with "DOUBLE PRESENTS"" when Sylvia and I return. Coincidentally, Sean's birthday and the beginning of my relationship with Sylvia fall upon the same day. It's a big day!

Happy Birthday, Superman!

This article was originally published in a 1998 issue of Singapore's The Peak magazine, which explains the dated references to the "electric blue" era of Superman comics and the thankfully cancelled Tim Burton Superman Lives project. It was a real pleasure not only to write about my favourite comic book character, but to be paid good money for doing so! 

Looking back, this article seems a little breathless to me, and somewhat haphazardly organized. I'd approach the subject with more nuance and deeper analysis today. Still, I think it serves as a reasonable primer for forgiving audiences. 

Happy Birthday, Superman!

60 Years of Truth, Justice, and the American Way

Sixty years ago, a ten-cent pulp magazine called Action Comics #1 hit newsstands across North America. On the cover was an unlikely image: a caped figure in red and blue tights, lifting an auto over his head, smashing it against an outcropping of rock as a band of terrified criminals scrambles for cover. That caped figure was Superman - last survivor of the doomed planet Krypton, who, disguised as mild-mannered reporter Clark Kent, fought a never-ending battle for Truth, Justice, and the American Way. The character was an immediate smash hit, and his adventures have seen continuous publication since that first appearance in June of 1938. Today, Superman is one of  a select number of fictional characters in the pop culture tradition recognized the world over; perhaps only Tarzan of the Apes and Zorro are as well known. It all began when two teenagers, inspired by the exploits of daring crusaders like Doc Savage and the Scarlet Pimpernel, decided to create their own hero in the same vein - but with a few fantastic twists.

Jerry Siegel was born in Cleveland, Ohio, in 1914. Joe Shuster was born in Toronto, Ontario, that same year. Joe moved to Cleveland at the age of nine, met Jerry, and the two began a friendship that endured until their deaths just a few years ago. They would ensure their place in history when, in 1933, they developed their first concept of Superman: a visitor from another world, with “powers and abilities far beyond those of mortal men.” For five years they attempted to sell their creation to the newspapers, intending to publish their character’s exploits in the syndicated comic strip format. It wasn’t until 1938 that they would finally manage to get Superman published - but in a new form, the comic book. Before Superman’s debut, comic books had only been collections of reprints of already-established newspaper comic strips. Action Comics would be the first comic book to feature original material. The editor of Action Comics was a little nervous about such an outlandish character being marketable, especially in a new medium, but to his surprise, the magazine sold extremely well and continued to rise in popularity with each successive issue. In those formative years, Superman fever hit the nation, spawning a second comic devoted solely to Superman’s exploits (Action Comics featured characters in addition to the Man of Steel), a radio program, movie serials, and a 1942 novel. By 1940 he was also featured in a syndicated newspaper strip - the original goal of Siegel and Shuster.

In retrospect, it shouldn’t be surprising that the character was so popular with young men - the target audience, at the time, for comic book adventures. Superman was strong (stronger than anyone!), handsome, invincible - the things every guy wants to be. Not only that - the girls all fell for him, world leaders respected him, and no one but no one messed with him. (As the song goes - “You don’t tug on Superman’s cape.”) The real secret to Superman’s popularity, though was his alter-ego: mild-mannered Daily Planet reporter Clark Kent, the bespectacled nerd who served as the stand-in for the reader. Superman had to disguise himself as Clark, the reasoning went, so that he could spend part of his time living a normal life, as well as ensuring that criminals could not strike back at Superman through his loved ones. Clark was shy, a little cowardly, and very awkward with women. He was smart, but clumsy and weak - no football or track star, he. He wore the same blue suit every day, along with an unflattering pair of horn-rimmed glasses. But when danger threatened, Clark would, without fail, rush into a telephone booth or empty storeroom and rip open his shirt to reveal the red and yellow “S” - a sure sign that hard-hitting action was not long in coming. It was, and remains, an attractive fantasy for young men. Sure, your friends may think that you’re a wimp - but you have a secret. If they only knew that under that meek exterior burned the heart of an unstoppable crusader for good…

The lively supporting cast helped expand the comic’s popularity. For the girls, there was Daily Planet reporter Lois Lane, Clark’s co-worker and love interest: feisty, independent, smart, beautiful, a career woman before being a career woman was fashionable. For younger kids, there was Jimmy Olsen, the eager copy boy who became Superman’s best pal. There was even a gruff father figure, the irascible but warm-hearted Perry White, editor of the Daily Planet. 

Superman’s background story adds to his mythic power. Consider that he is an orphan, the last survivor of the doomed planet Krypton. In the Superman tales, Krypton is an incredibly advanced civilization, densely populated by perfect beings who have conquered war, disease, hunger, and crime. However, the Kryptonians have grown somewhat complacent. Their world is about to explode, and only Superman’s father, Jor-El, realizes that the danger exists. As his wife Lara watches tearfully, Jor-El places his only son, the infant Kal-El, into a tiny experimental rocket ship. Just before the planet explodes, Kal-El is shot into space, saved at the last moment. The rocket lands in Kansas, where farmers Jonathan and Martha Kent find it. They hide the secret of the child’s alien heritage from the world, raising him as their own son, teaching him values and impressing upon him that he is a special being and must use his incredible abilities only to help others, never to cause harm or seek personal power. The circumstances of Superman’s origin are strongly reminiscent of Christian accounts; a godlike father figure sends his only son to Earth to spread the good word. 1978’s Superman: The Movie makes the allegory even more blatant. Marlon Brando, as the spirit of Jor-El, lectures his son at one point in the film:

“It is now time for you to rejoin your new world…and to serve its collective humanity. Live as one of them, Kal-El…they can be a great people, Kal-El, they wish to be - they only lack the light to show the way. For this reason above all…their capacity for good…I have sent them you…my only son.”

In the film, the Kryptonians are garbed in brilliant white and the cities are gleaming crystalline towers; all very heavenly and angelic. The metaphor was little bit too much for some Christians; in the year of the film’s release, there was a brief period of outrage at the comparison of a comic book character to the Biblical Saviour. The furor died down quickly, though, and Superman’s popularity continued to fly high.

Superman’s rich back story became a little diluted over the years, though.

As the 1950s and 1960s progressed, writers began to introduce other survivors of Krypton. First there was Supergirl, Superman’s cousin Kara, a blonde teenager who had survived Krypton’s explosion when her home, the bubble-enclosed Argo City, was blown off the planet in a separate chunk. There was Krypto, Superman’s dog, and Beppo, the Super Monkey, both test animals shot into space by Jor-El whose capsules eventually drifted to Earth. (The SPCA would probably not have approved of Jor-El’s methods.) Then there came Comet the Super-Horse, Streaky the Super-Cat, Titano the Super-Ape, a plethora of super-criminals from the Kryptonian prison known as the Phantom Zone, and eventually an entire shrunken city in a bottle full of survivors of the cataclysm. By the early 1980s, one began to wonder if Superman’s parents were the only Kryptonians who didn’t survive the planet’s destruction.

Superman’s abilities grew as time went on, as well. In the early years, he could merely leap tall buildings in a single bound and was more powerful than a locomotive. By the 1980s, he was flying at speeds faster than light, shifting planets in their orbits, and had a ridiculous array of powers, including “super-ventriloquism” - which, apart from the obvious applications, enabled Superman to talk in the airless vacuum of space!

As the character neared his 50^th anniversary, editors at DC Comics, publishers of the Man of Steel’s adventures, decided that something needed to be done - so they started over from scratch, “rebooting” the character as though he were a buggy computer, to get the kinks out. The experiment worked. In 1986 Superman was born anew, once more the only survivor of Krypton, with more basic superhuman abilities and a less convoluted array of supporting characters. Revitalized, Superman became more popular after the reboot than he had been in many years, and his success has continued into this 60^th anniversary year. At present, Superman appears in over a half-dozen comics per month; he had a very popular television series, the whimsical “Lois and Clark: The New Adventures of Superman” wrap up last year, and an excellent animated series is still running on the Warner Brothers network. Tim Burton, director of the first two Batman movies, is currently at work on what will be the fifth Superman feature film. Currently rumoured to be playing the lead role is superstar (if you will forgive the pun) Nicholas Cage; Home Improvement’s Tim Allen may play the villain Brainiac; and Kevin Spacey (The Usual Suspects) may essay the role of Superman’s arch nemesis, Lex Luthor.

Recently, some longtime Superman fans have been outraged by a radical change to the character; in 1997, his costume and abilities were changed. Superman lost the old red, yellow and blue suit; it was replaced by a blue and white jumpsuit, and his traditional powers were gone. Even the cape was discarded. Now, Superman had an array of electromagnetic abilities, acquiring blue skin and a lightning-boltish appearance.  Dubbed “Bluperman” by detractors, the storyline has nonetheless been popular. DC comics recently revealed, however, that as part of the 60^th anniversary celebrations, Superman will get his traditional costume and powers back.

The character has become a pop-culture staple; the phrases “Look…up in the sky!”, “Faster than a speeding bullet,” and “Up, up and away!” are as immediately recognizable as “Beam me up, Scotty,” and “Who was that masked man?” His symbol, a stylized “S” in an irregular pentagram, is as widely known as any corporate logo, adorning t shirts, keychains, watches, and even underwear. Not an episode of Seinfeld passes without some glimpse of a Superman statue or sticker somewhere in the background; Seinfeld is an ardent fan of the character and even appears with him in a very entertaining commercial running currently in the United States. Musician Jon Bon Jovi and athlete Shaquille O’Neill sport “S” symbol tattoos. The Crash Test Dummies had a hit with “Superman’s Song” a few short years ago, as did the Spin Doctors with “Jimmy Olsen’s Blues” - a reference to Superman’s pal.

During the run of the 1950s series The Adventures of Superman, the character was portrayed by George Reeves. I Love Lucy was running at the same time, and Reeves, as Superman, drops in on Lucy in one memorable episode. Superman has always enjoyed the company of famous personalities; he held off an invasion from Mars in 1950 assisted by, appropriately enough, director and writer Orson Welles. He met actress Ann Blyth in 1949, was honoured by President John F. Kennedy in 1962, argued with Ronald Reagan in 1986, and brought Hitler and Stalin to justice for crimes against humanity in 1939 (!), preventing World War II. (One regrets that this particular adventure was only imaginary.) He visited Disneyland with science-fiction writer Ray Bradbury in the 1978 Eliot S. Maggin novel Last Son of Krypton. He even fought the famous boxer Muhammad Ali - and lost! - in a very enjoyable late ‘70s tale. 

When the character “died” in the much-ballyhooed Death of Superman storyline a few years back, CBS anchorman Dan Rather read the following statement: “We can no longer say, ‘Let Superman do it.’ The quest for truth and justice must become our quest - not singly as vigilantes, but together as the great people Superman hoped we would be.” Superman recovered, of course, but Rather’s words remain moving.

Why such devotion to someone who is, after all, a fictional being, a four-colour wraith who only exists in our imaginations? I think it’s because, at heart, Superman’s greatest desire is to do the right thing. He never lies; he is polite and generous; he is humble; he uses violence only as a last resort; and, despite the ability to do so, he eschews personal power and uses his fantastic powers only in the service of others. In a world where all too few of us display such characteristics, it’s hard not to be inspired by such a concept. A few years ago, a friend and I were watching Superman III on television. She turned to me at one point and said, “You know, Earl - you’re just like Clark Kent.” Though I felt undeserving of the remark (and still do), it was the highest compliment I have ever been paid, and I treasure the memory. The idea of a Superman has inspired countless numbers of people, including me, to be kind to others and to help out whenever possible. In that sense, he is very real - real enough that from time to time I imagine that I glimpse a red and blue blur soaring overhead, and I am tempted to cry out, “Look! Up in the sky…”

So, Happy Birthday, Supes, and thanks for sixty years of adventure and inspiration.

Happily, Ever After

This review was originally published in Singapore's The Peak magazine shortly after the release of the fantasy film Ever After. Looking back at one's own writing is often a painful process, and while I'm reasonably pleased with this review, there are some bits that make me cringe, and overall the piece lacks any real depth or analysis. You can tell I banged this out on a deadline.

Happily, Ever After

Some stories need to be told again and again; they are that important, that enduring. As the centuries pass, their mythic power continues to touch something deep inside the human heart, undiluted by the passage of time or the creeping cynicism of the ages. Such stories remind us of our essential humanity; they help us to recall what it is to experience joy, wonder, and love. They rekindle our sense of adventure, and awaken us to possibilities undreamed of. One of the greatest of these tales is that of the little cinder girl who became a princess: Cinderella. 

But there's a danger in reinterpreting classic tales for the modern era; any new version will inevitably be compared to the great interpretations of the past, and the audience already knows the story - or at least, they think they do. Even today, most audiences think of Walt Disney's animated Cinderella (1950) when they recall this classic story. Despite working in the shadow of Disney, director Andy Tennant has managed to produce an engaging fairy tale that will please audiences young and old alike. This newest interpretation of an old favourite is called Ever After.

In the unlikely event that you're unfamiliar with the original story, a quick recap: Once Upon A Time, a beautiful but poor young girl, Cinderella, lived with her Evil (with a capital E) stepmother and two equally Evil stepsisters. A handsome prince held a costume ball, which Cinderella crashed with the help of her fairy godmother. Said fairy godmother gave Cinderella a new dress, cleaned her up a bit, and slipped a pair of gorgeous (if improbable) glass slippers onto her feet. The transformed Cinderella swept the Prince off his feet, but ran off as midnight approached, for that is when the fairy godmother's magic will come undone and the charade will be revealed. As she ran off, Cinderella lost a shoe, which was eagerly snatched up by the Prince. Cinderella managed to escape into the night and returned to her normal bedraggled state. But the Prince, inflamed by desire for the mysterious princess at the ball, scoured the countryside, searching for her. Only the slipper could reveal the identity of the woman, so the Prince took the shoe with him, telling every woman he met to slip her foot into the shoe. If the shoe fits...she's the one. Naturally, it wasn't long before the Prince arrived at the household of the Evil Stepmother. The Stepmother and her two daughters vainly tried to force their oversize feet into the glass slipper, but to no avail. In the end, the soot-covered Cinderella was asked to try on the slipper. Naturally, the shoe fit, the Prince and Cinderella were married, and they lived...happily ever after.

Ever After takes a slightly different approach. The film's central conceit is this: the Brothers Grimm, having just published their version of the Cinderella story, visit an old woman who has in her possession a remarkable glass slipper. As they gape in amazement, the old woman tells them the true story of Cinderella...

Tennant has fun with the tale, removing all of the fantasy elements and turning it into a kind of costume drama, a romantic period piece. The film is set in a France where slaves still toil in filth, where desperate gypsies rob the rich, and where Kings and Queens play intricate games to decide the fate of nations. It's got a spunky heroine, malicious adversaries, an incredible sword fight, amazing sets, and lush cinematography. The film is laced with wry humour, warmth, and a touch of gentle irony.

If you'd asked me before I saw this film if Drew Barrymore could have made a convincing Cinderella, I would have snorted derisively. But the child star of old has grown into a capable actress; her Cinderella (Danielle, in this film) is a warm, well-rounded person, quite believable and likeable. Danielle has no fairy godmothers or magic to bail her out of trouble. She has to succeed using only her own innate talents. There's a definite '90s feel to this Cinderella - she's an outspoken champion of the proletariat, tweaking the nose of nobility as she fights for the rights of the common people. Born of nobility but raised as a servant, she straddles two worlds, hoping to break down some of the barriers between them.

Dougray Scott is an equally likeable Prince Henry. He's an arrogant young man, but not beyond redemption. Henry's eyes are opened, of course, by Danielle, and before long he, too, becomes something of a champion of the common man. Scott infuses the character with humour and doesn't take himself too seriously; it's easy to sympathize with this poor little rich boy. 

Perhaps my favourite character was Richard O'Brien's Pierre Le Pieu, the malicious opportunist who fairly reeks of oozing, slimy evil. If he had twirled his moustache like a 1930s serial villain, the action would not have been out of place. I had a bit of fun cheering for him during the film, much to the aggravation of the female friend I'd taken along with me. Of course, like all bad guys, Le Pieu must eventually be thwarted. (I do wonder if Pierre Le Pieu is meant to be an homage to the Warner Brother's cartoon character - you know, the skunk who thought he was Rudolph Valentino.)

Notable, too, was Patrick Godfrey's turn as Leonardo da Vinci. Da Vinci is bumbling but well-meaning, a grandfatherly figure who serves as Prince Henry's conscience and a metaphorical fairy godmother - well, godfather - for Danielle. The scene where he walks on water with yet another of his ingenious inventions is a pure delight.

The real show-stealer, however, is Anjelica Houston as Rodmilla, the Evil Stepmother.  Not since The Addams Family has Houston been so much fun to watch; she is delightfully wicked. With an arched eyebrow alone, Houston can make those who attempt to stand in her way quiver in their boots. Audiences booed and hissed with vigour whenever she perpetrated some despicably evil act (giving Danielle's dead mother's dress to her own daughter to wear to the ball, for example, or selling Danielle into slavery). Unfortunately, the filmmakers chose to make the character more "three-dimensional" by hinting that she does have some tenderness for her stepdaughter. While it might be more "realistic", this device actually serves to weaken the film, as it leads to some disturbing inconsistencies in both Houston's and Barrymore's characters. If, as the film suggests, the two really do want to like each other at heart, why then do they do such terrible things to each other? (At film's end, Danielle, too, proves that she isn't completely forgiving.) Better, I think, to stick to stereotypes. Normally I would approve of attempting to build ambiguity into a character, but when you're retelling a fairy tale, it's better to keep the moral tone in strict black and white. Was Darth Vader made more interesting when he was revealed to have a warm and fuzzy side in Return of the Jedi? Not at all. The character's integrity was sapped, the triumph of the good guys watered down. Pure evil is much more interesting and unusual than the real world's banal depravity.

This minor quibble detracted from my enjoyment of the film only a little. In the end, it is a romantic, touching story with a touch of adventure and a healthy dose of escapist fun. There's no doubt that Ever After is pure, unadulterated fluff. But it's fun fluff, and the story is one that resonates even today. After all, what young woman cannot identify with the little cinder girl who is revealed to be a princess? What young man can resist thinking of himself of as the handsome prince, heir to a mighty empire, brave and noble, quick with a sword, and irresistible to women? 

Even today, not many can resist the fantasy. Thanks to these immortal tales, reaching to our era from a distant and wondrous past, we have not yet grown too jaded to enjoy the magic that comes from hearing the words "Once Upon A Time," or, even more, "...and they lived...Happily Ever After."

And thank goodness for that.