Euro Day 5: Splish Splash

Eagle House's garden entrance

July 12, 2007. It's Thursday, so it must be time for a Bath. One full day of sightseeing and one last day on our own before the good people at Disney start running the show. After a quiet breakfast at Eagle House, we pointed Blue Passat towards Bath. Dee was slightly annoyed that our morning dawdling might mean we'd be late for the 10am walking tour of Bath. The tour was free - hosted at the local Tourist Information (TI) office in Bath. Based on the great experiences thus far with free tours, Dee was not about to miss out.

Blue Passat knew the way back to the Cricket Grounds and we were at the TI with 10 minutes to spare (and lash marks across our backs!). In reality, the tour did not start until 10:30am, and we were obliged to cool our heels in the small square outside the TI. We passed the time watching dodgy-looking street folk try to keep the pigeons at bay. Good times. Soon enough we met our guide Myra - an elderly native of Bath with an encyclopedic knowledge of local history and architecture. For the next 2 hours Myra led us through back alleys and across broad boulevards and kept us rapt with her stories. The kids were generally engaged, although JediBoy did wane towards the 90-minute mark. We all agreed that Bath - with its Roman/Victorian stonework, lush green spaces, and the River Avon - was among the most beautiful cities we'd seen so far.

Bath phone booth

Bath counil flats - i.e. public housing

After a quick lunch - a Yorkshire pudding bowl filled with beef in ale, all designed to hide those hideous peas - we decided to dive into the algae-tinged waters from which Bath got its name. Actually, we decided to stroll casually beside the waters, in the Roman baths. As luck would have it, we fell into yet another free tour as we passed the turnstile. I think we got far more out of the tour than had we wandered about the ruins on our own simply reading the posters and signboards. The baths are an interesting combination of Roman engineering with a thick layer of Victorian dramatis on top. The waters begin some 4 kilometers below ground from where the hot water literally bubbles to the surface. The sickly green tinge is a result of hot water meeting sunlight. Back in the day, the now-open-air baths where sheltered by a wooden roof, and the waters would have been clear and inviting. As well, the baths were once part a larger complex available to the average Roman to cater to their more 'sensual' needs. I think our modern-day spas probably pale in comparison.

Main bath complex

View of Bath Abbey from the main bath complex

As a fitting end to our tour of the Roman baths, we adjourned to the famous Pump Room - a Victorian tea room that overlooks the baths. Included in the bath admission price is the opportunity to sample a glass of (filtered) bath water from a pump located in the aforementioned tea room. The theory: drinking the heavy mineralized water has curative properties. The reality: the water is a rather acquired taste. I found it not too bad, but with a vile aftertaste. I await The Cure, however.


We banished the taste of bath water with a quick ice cream snack out on the square. As the minerals washed from our tongues, we listened to the variety of street performers that earn coins from the tourists. My favourite was a dreadlocked Jamaican fellow who only knew 2 songs - and only 2 or 3 lines from each song - which he simply repeated over and over as he mugged for the tourists. What he lacked in talent he made up for in bravado.


Also skirting the square is the Bath Abbey. It's quite ornate for an Abbey and proved all the more interesting by the fact that Myra (leader of the morning tour) had educated us a bit on the symbolism in the Abbey's stone carvings. As luck would have it, the Bath Philharmonic was holding a public rehearsal - which afforded us a lovely concert as we sat in one of the rear pews.

Bath Abbey tower

Inside Bath Abbey

It was nearing mid-afternoon at this point, and we had decided to have dinner in Bath rather than driving back to Bathford. As we strolled over near the River Avon we noticed there were a number of small, 2-deck tour boats sitting idle. This would be a perfect way to kill some time before dinner and relax a bit. Long story short, the Avon cruises are relaxing for sure (and the on-board beverage service didn't hurt either). However, these tours have little in the way of historical narrative. These are really just 60-minute scenic trips, and that was just fine for us.

A fellow Avon River tourboat

Boat rentals on the Avon River

Refreshed from bobbing up and down the Avon, we strolled the narrow alleys of Bath a bit - looking for someplace to grab a bite to eat. We settled on a light dinner of sandwiches at Bath's (in)famous Sally Lunn's - known for it's signature "Sally Lunn's buns" - small round loaves of bread. This local eatery has a history stretching back 300 years, and the atmosphere doesn't disappoint. The food did not disappoint either and we found ourselves purchasing some buns to go.


With our stomachs full, it was time to say good-bye to Bath and head back to Eagle House. We would cap off our wonderful day with a walking tour of Bathford. There has been a community on the town site since Roman times, with the local church - St. Swithun's - in existance since the 1300's. The village looks like what a small English village ought to look - if it were haunted. Stone walls bordering narrow lanes, an ancient church with an adjacent graveyard, stone buildings surrounded by stone walls, greenery overgrowing everything, and no human activity other than a couple of fellow tourists walking the same circuit as us. The village is beautiful and yet so foreign to us North Americans. But I couldn't shake the whole Children of the Damned vibe.

Bathford near dusk

The family walking in lonely Bathford

And at that, we retired back to Eagle House to pack our vagabound belongings and prepare for another travel day ahead. Tomorrow, we would head back to Heathrow and turn ourselves over to the good people at Adventures by Disney.

Avoiding the Bedroom

There was a time not so long ago when Highway 400 was exactly what's it's called - a highway. In those days, people would drive upwards of 100 km/h (or more!) to travel between Barrie - a medium-sized city - and Toronto* - a very big city.

*GTA is a more accurate name, but does anybody outside the GTA really know where Vaughn begins and ends? I thought not.

Nowadays, Barrie lives within the economic event-horizon of the GTA (see, I can do it!) and the 400 is just another commuter lane. For all intents and purposes, Barrie is now a bedroom community of Toronto - like Mississauga, Etobicoke, York, and the rest of the GTA gang. It's just another checkpoint in the mad rush to flee Toronto's environs. It's a chance to barter an extra-long commute and much less family time for affordable housing and a patch of green near the back door.

The results have been predictable, of course. Housing is no longer affordable. The population of Barrie falls and swells to the workaday rhythms of those glass-skirted skyscrapers to the south. And the 400, it's just another parking lot. For those wretched souls sitting inside their cars or their GO trains, madly mashing their thumbs into their Blackberries to send their assurances they'll make the second half of Junior's soccer game, this cannot be a life fully imagined.

So why do I care?

I care because London - our all-mixed-up, little-town-in-big-britches London - is slowly and almost inexorably headed for Toronto's bedroom. It's true that we have a little more geography between Us and Them, but it's mattering less.

Our own economic giants of yesterday are gone or disappearing. The examples - they're easy to find. Canada Trust is being held hostage somewhere near the Skydome while London Life is tethered to a post at Portage and Main. These institutions once gave us the economic clout to stand on our own and thrive. The echoes of what's left tell another story. While the buildings still stand, they are but branch plants serving masters beyond the farms and hills that have always provided a sort of common sense to the city as a whole. We all know there are other examples. The London Free Press, McCormick's, O-Pee-Chee - no longer master's of their own domains.

So where am I going with this?

It's all part of of an unhealthy trend - these worrisome clues:

City Hall, the Chamber of Commerce, and LHBA chant the mantra that 'Growth is good' - all the while having no real vision what we're supposed to be when we 'grow up'. Mississauga is offered as a model. Being small-townish is now provincial and to be avoided. Success is to be measured by size - big homes, big geography, big box.

Housing prices in London have risen sharply, and no one can really explain why. Housing starts are at all-time highs while our jobless rate stubbornly sticks to 6% year after year.

The city has spawned unimaginative tentacles of bland subdivisions into the countryside, using more bland big-box stores to serve as battlements against being a Livable City. In it's wake the core crumbles. And the final irony - big boxes abandon their boxes for bigger boxes a little closer to the edge of town. And we follow along.

Our local economy lurches toward the Scylla and Charybdis of a weak economic base - Call Centers and Auto Manufacturing. As both industries siphon themselves to places where the sun is warmer and wages are lower, we in London continue to celebrate and embrace them.

More and more, private sector, high-incomes earners live in London and work (at least part-time) somewhere else. Check the Via station or airport on a weekday morning, and you'll find Londoners (unhappily) doing their regular commute to Somewhere Else (Toronto and Winnipeg are regularly destinations). Some forward-thinking companies are even running their own daily bus shuttle between London and the GTA. London has become cheap office space, but we don't run our own show, it seems. Is this a life fully imagined?

In short, we are becoming our own Mississauga. No real focus or identity or personality of our own. No real control over our own lives. No longer author's of our own stories. A home-grown service industry susceptible to the economic whims of grey suits in other places.

This is not a screed against Toronto or growth or economic success. This is simply my small wake-up cry that we're no longer calling our own shots. And I fear it will get worse.

I have no answers, really. We need to keep focused on our strengths - medicine, education, a still-reasonable standard of living, culture, etc. But we need economic decision-makers in London. We need to be masters of our own domain once more. We need to support the notion of 'being local'.

So how about it you Londoners, you LEDCers, you City Hallers, you Ambassadors - how do we stay out of the bedroom?

Euro Day 4: Old Stones and Cricket

Wednesday, July 4, 2007 and the Salisbury morning brings bright Sun and warm breezes. After one last Rokeby House breakfast, we bid our hosts, Karen and Mark, a smiling farewell and drove a few kilometers into the town center. I will note for the record that Dee declined the car keys for this short journey.

We were set on visiting Salisbury Cathedral. After a short stroll through quiet, narrow streets, we passed through the ancient arch and stood at the edge of the green space that skirts this, the tallest spire in the UK.

The free tour inside was led by our newest friend, Peter. A retired military man, Peter was the very model of a modern Major-General - and his knowledge of the Cathedral's history and architecture is vast. For 90 minutes he kept us all spellbound (even the kids!) with his stories and attention to detail. While there were so many highlights during this tour, seeing an original copy of the Magna Carta and the world's oldest working medieval clock are a few that stood out for me. It was only later that we learned the typical tour is scheduled to last only 45 minutes, and we appreciated Peter's lessons all the more.

With our time Salisbury coming to an end, our goal for the rest of the day was to meander our way towards Bath, taking in a few sights along the way. Our first stop - Old Sarum - which is the original site of what is now Salisbury. All that is left on that emerald-coloured windswept hill are the foundations of what once was. When the local populace decided to bug out in the early 1200's, they took whatever building materials they could, and moved them a few miles south to the town's present location.

After a good hour's worth of exploration at Old Sarum, we piled back into Blue Passat for the short drive to Stonehenge. Driving on the Salisbury Plain must be one of the more relaxing and idyllic trips one could make on a sunny day. Miles of green, undulating hills give way to spectacular vistas - always at just the right moment. Soon enough we were there - in the middle of nowhere in particular - amid the ancient stones of Stonehenge. While perhaps a little bit more commercialized since my first visit some 20-odd years previous, not much had changed around the site. The open fields, curious sheep, and low-key trickle of visitors were largely how I remembered things. I liked that visitors were now issued a device that provided an audio tour of the site (a feature common at many tourist destinations in England, so it seems). One big difference was the show of military force this time as compared to the 'hippie riots' that had punctuated my last visit.

After an hour or so of looking around and lunching on ice cream and scones, it was time to push on towards Bath - our next base of operations. Our actual destination was the village of Bathford on the outskirts of Bath - home to our next B&B, Eagle House. We'll explore the village of Bathford in another post, but suffice to say that it is ancient and makes liberal use of stone. Eagle House, some 250 years old, is magnificent with its stonework, gardens, and 12-foot ceilings. Certainly there was a different 'feel' than Rokeby House, and we knew we'd enjoy our stay.

After a bit of settling in, we decided it was time to dip our toes into Bath (yes, bad pun). While our guidebook suggested otherwise, we decided we might drive ourselves into town. John, our host, gave us excellent directions that would get us into the heart of town while avoiding the typical tourist congestion. The drive was not bad, although we got lost for a bit in the busy traffic. But soon enough we were in a public car-park at the Bath Cricket Grounds. This was a tip from John - not many people know that the car-park exists, and we had no trouble finding a spot for Blue Passat. As a bonus, some cricketers(?) were on the pitch holding a practise, and we spent a few minutes watching this very odd sport!

Expectedly, Bath is old and constructed largely of stone. After some 'roadhouse faire' at a restaurant in the central area of Bath, our plan for this evening was to avoid any real sightseeing. Rather, we intended to to sign on to watch a bit of street theater known as Bizarre Bath - which had run across during our Internet research. So, we found the pub at the appointed meeting time and paid our pounds. The one-man show did not disappoint. The best way to describe it is 'street theater meets Monty Python'. While it offers no historical education, we did get to spend 2 hours walking through central Bath being thoroughly entertained. Mind you, if you pale at the idea of a magic trick involving a rabbit named Stuart, a rucksack, and the River Avon, then perhaps you'd be better off to skip Bizarre Bath. My family, however, loved it.

The tour wrapped up at 10pm, and so it was time to find our way back to Bathford. Driving the twisting roads in the dark was not so bad, but I made a note to avoid doing it again. And so, a busy day came to an end inside the old, stone walls of Eagle House. Tomorrow, we would tour Bath properly.

Time Traveling in the Blogosphere

So I went and made a somewhat-public statement that I'd go back and finish the posts I started 6 months ago about Eurotour 2007. After re-reading my trip journal, I think this will be fun (for me) and uncomfortably close to watching someone else's vacation slides (for you). But since there's bugger-all going on here lately and my Vanity Project isn't being nominated for any awards anytime soon, what the hell. Let's do a Dallas Shower Scene and pretend it's July 2007 once more, shall we?

Eurotour Day 1 (and 2) was Monday July 9, 2007 and that was the day I had a heart attack. No one paid much attention, but it happened. You can read about it here.

Day 3: Suck It Up, Buttercup

After the horrors whose corporeal form was a Blue Passat, today promised more of the same. The game plan was to drive(!) 60 minutes from Salisbury down to Portsmouth; the present and historical home of the British Navy. I love ships - especially old ones - and this day was one I had been planning for weeks. The trouble was, I was not enamoured with the idea of more driving. And so, I avoided the topic as long as possible.

The morning stated with a lovely breakfast of smoked salmon and creamy scrambled eggs prepared by our hosts at Rokeby House. I think I enjoyed this much more than anyone else. All through the meal I studiously avoided any talk of Portsmouth.

After breakfast we wandered over Salisbury market looking for interesting things to buy. There were none. We wandered over to Salisbury Cathedral for a look-see. There was a funeral underway and we couldn't go inside. I'm sure there's more to do in Salisbury on a grey Tuesday morning, but it was not obvious to us.

And now, the picture that is etched in my mind forever more: my family imploring me (rather angrily) that we needed to get into the Blue Passat and go see Portsmouth. When you get leaned on by an 11 year-old, you better grow some stones (I heard some big kids say that once).

And so I did.

Karen from Rokeby assured us the drive was easy. Well guess what? It was easy! And the tire held! And 60 minutes later we descended from the high, flat plains of Salisbury and my breath froze in my lungs as I saw the vast, sweeping, grey-hulled expanse of history that is Portsmouth. I had never seen so many ships in my entire life!

In this, the birthplace of Charles Dickens, there really was more to do than we could fit into a single day. We concentrated our time, therefore, on the Historic Dockyards. Upon purchasing the deluxe tourist pass, the highlights included:

The soaring Spinnaker Tower and it's 23-mile view out to the Isle of Wight:

Nelson's HMS Victory - the oldest commissioned ship in the Royal Navy:

And Henry VIII's ancient Mary Rose - cast in a haunting, waxy light:

Add to all this a boat tour of the harbour, a chance to climb around another vessel or two, some museums, and a most excellent Italian meal, and you've got a jam-packed day of salt-water, barnacles, and history.

As we drove back to Salisbury at the tired end of the day, it occurred to me that I'd learned a few things. First, driving in England could be tolerable (barely). Second, I'd been reminded of how much fun a family could have together. Third, my sense of direction still sucked. We got lost in Salisbury (again) and ended up in the maze of one-way streets in the old part of town that all the guide books say you must avoid.

After a few rolls of the dice, however, we magically were spat out from the mouse maze of narrow streets and found ourselves back at Rokeby House. And thus ended the day with cups of tea all around and some quiet journal writing. Tomorrow we would be traveling back in time even further - Stonehenge and beyond!

Computer Boy, Heal Thyself!

Back in the mid-70's, my younger cousin Joe received the gift of a new calculator which, in those days, was an expensive rarity to be owned only by engineering-types who only grudgingly gave up their slide rules. But for a young teen such as Joe - a non-geek - to own such a device meant instant celebrity status. In truth, this fueled a secret loathing in some of us covetous types as Joe - again, a non-geek - seemed to collect and discard these sorts of treasures on a regular basis. That's a subject for a different post, I think.

His calculator came with a book that detailed all sorts of neat tricks with numbers. The only ones I really remember today are how to make the display read "Shelloil", and how to calculate (and graph) your personal biorhythms.

Now, I never really believed in biorhythms but the notion always stuck in my head. I suppose it's due to the same brain-wiring that makes me open up the Freeps every morning to read my horoscope (yes, that's 2 strikes in one sentence). The last few weeks have made me think again about biorhythms - specifically the point at which the Emotional, Physical, and Intellectual cycles intersect at their lowest points. This, of course, would be a good time to lock the doors, open a book, and wait it out. To do otherwise would guarantee a Very Bad Day.

Indeed.

These last few weeks would seem to prove that biorhythms are real. Everything I've touched has gone to hell in pretty craptacular ways. I've been dull-witted (really), quite moody, and fighting perpetual fatigue. The evidence is tangible:

• I installed a rather large closet organizer and, close to completion, I realized all the drywall anchors were installed backwards. I'm a reasonably handy fellow, but what should have been a 2-hour job turned into something closer to 5 hours.
• I've been napping - every day. I never nap.
• Closet organizer redux - It took me hours to realize that the (dozen) marks in the new hardwood floor were not a result of my awkward man-handling of the closet doors. Rather, they were caused by the metal legs of my step-stool where they had cut through the rubber feet. Lovely, huh? Thanks be to Xenu for creating matching wood filler.
• BandGeek, my 15 year-old daughter, is barely talking to me this week. We don't quite see eye-to-eye on setting appropriate levels of usage for MSN chatting and text messaging on cellphones. Apparently I'm over-reacting. In other words, my temper is to be avoided this week.
• The coup de grace - I inadvertently blew up my computer. With the PC case open, I moved the power cable to the CD drive every so slightly and exposed a heretofore unknown short in the CD power connection. This power lead also serviced 2 of the 3 hard drives in the PC - and they were toasted. Now, I've been an IT Guy for 25-ish years and I'm pretty handy in that department. In my neighbourhood, I'm the go-to Geek for PCs, plumbing, eletrical work, etc. Biorhythms don't care how clever I am, so it seems. It cost me 2 new drives, a whole bunch of re-install time, quite likely some videos I've been working on, and a great big glistening ball of my dignity.

This is just a partial list. It's been that bad. Just for giggles I checked my biorhythms for the past few weeks. As suspected, my cycles were at critically low levels. But, hey, things are looking up next week. I'm a believer now.

P.S. So why was Computer Boy here pushing wires around inside a working PC? He was checking for free memory slots in preparation for a few upgrades that would enable him to play Bioshock at decent settings. Sad, isn't he?

What Geeks Get In Their Stockings

Christmas is all about quiet reflection, lazy times with Loved Ones, and re-energizing the soul. It's not about presents.

Am I right? Of course I am.

So I won't say anything to the contrary. I'll just show pictures and smile warmly.





I love my family. And now I get to upgrade my video card.

News Flash!

I love old newsreels. I love their quick-cut soft-focus black-and-white style. I love their off-beat stories and over-the-top narratives.

I also love hyphens, so it seems.

So imagine the tingly feeling I got when I discovered - quite by accident - that venerable British Pathe Limited has digitized their entire library. That's 75 years of still photos and, yes, Pathe newsreels.

It's all out there at www.britishpathe.com and it's free. You can search their vast database, you can view the content, and you can even download videos. Just as good as the actual stuff are the comments tagged onto each bit of footage in the archive.

A random search on 'turtle', for example, yielded a few gems such as:

Professor Huxley introduces a new policy of encouraging public access to the animals.

Turtles crawl across a beach, a woman turns a turtle over and boys are cruel to turtles.

Quirky news from France and Florida.

Maybe it's not everyone's cuppa, but it's a cool little gift to me.

Oh, and the comment about imagining tingly feelings... you can ignore that... unless you're Billie Piper or some such, that is.... in which case you can imagine all you like so long as you video yourself imagining such tinglings and post the evidence so that everyone (and that means you Mr. Twist!) knows it.

Forget lolcats

Let's start a new meme, my friends. Lock up your citrus trees -- 'cause the Innertubes are clogged with lemon-eating babies. The horror...the horror...

Mind The Gap

I'm loathe to re-gurgitate someone else's re-gurgitated story on the Net, but this one is too good to let go unacknowledged. The voice of the London Underground, Emma Clarke, was recently let go from her job after 'management' discovered she was keeping a personal blog of spoof Underground announcements.

Listening to her MP3's will evoke much chortling, I guarantee. A few of my favourites:

"We'd like to remind our American tourist friends that you are almost certainly talking too loud."

"Would passengers filling in answers on the Sudokus please accept that they're just crosswords for the unimaginative and are not in any way more impressive just because they contain numbers"

"Do not drop litter on the train. Please use the tramps provided"

CanCon Despair

I read today that CBC has a few new made-in-Canadaland TV series lined up for January 2008.

Now, sit down. Comfy? Good.

One of the new series is a 13-part serialization of Coupland's JPod.

I'm not kidding.

The good news - I guess - is that Coupland, himself, is executive producer and wrote the scripts. Maybe the visual medium will translate Coupland's story better than print. But I'm not real hopeful.

The bad/weird news is that Alan Thicke is in the cast. Now, William Shatner would be sort of hipster-casting. But Alan Thicke?

I'm from Missouri, but you know I'll watch an episode anyways.

Oh, and another new series is MVP. A hockey-meets-Desperate Housewives soap that was shot in London over a few months earlier this year. I can't wait to see the JLC and Convention Center on my TV.

Oh wait, I can. Guess I better head to Chapters soon.

Now, Where Were We?

It cost a few extra coins, but I've ferried back across the River Styx and have left Death behind for awhile. After a week of visitations, funerals (two of them, actually), long-lost relatives, too many death certificates, and a quiet spot for ashes under a leafless Magnolia - it's time to cast these eyes back towards the Living.

Today was Winter Preparation Day at Casa Crazylegs. The lawn got one last trim, the pump has been pulled from the pond, the deck chairs and bikes have been crammed into the shed. I can, once again, fit the van into the garage.

Now - we wait.

I hate Winter a little bit more every year. Sure, all you glass-half-full types might have said something like, "I like Winter a little bit less every year". Not me, though. My hatred for Winter just grows.

It's not that I don't like snow. I like snow just fine. And cold? Bring it on, man. It's just that Winter has become much too ambiguous for me. Winter in Southwestern Ontario is decidedly an under-achiever these days, and someone ought to do something about it.

What has happened to the Winters of our youth? When was the last time we had to call out the army to rescue stranded motorists? Anymore, Winter is nothing but nothing but feast-or-famine snowfalls and a continuous cycle of freeze/thaw. We have a whole generation of kids who've never had that sense of entitlement for Snow Days.

So come on Winter. Show us what you got, or I'm calling Al Gore.

Surreal Life

So now it's over. Last night, surrounded by his family, Dad passed away. It was the oddest experience I've ever had. I've known death before, but I've never watched a person actually die. But that's what we did - just watched him cling to life, all the while telling him it was okay to let it go.

There were tears. Of course there were tears! The seven of us huddled around Dad's bed just kind of watching him, holding his hand, murmuring sadness. Soon his breathing slowed and we suspected the end might be near (the will of the body is impressive).

There were a few laughs, too. Dad's wife made a teary jest about 'the Energizer Bunny' that lie before us. I shared a secret dread that we might be living a sitcom moment - fast-forward an hour or two where Dad is still hanging on while our collective deathwatch succumbs to tired legs and hidden boredom.

At 7:10pm Dad's breathing stopped. He winced once, twice - his lungs drowning, giving up. And with JediBoy holding Dad's hand, he was committed to oblivion.

Not knowing what one does in these situations, we stood around the lifeless body and we told each other funny stories about Dad. The weight had lifted and a few of us dared to admit we felt better, somehow, someway.

We packed up Dad's things and the detritus of several days worth of living in a hospital room. We hugged the nurses - the amazing nurses. Then we drifted into the night without looking back. Dee, JediBoy, BandGeek and I - having not eaten since lunch - made our way to one of those interchangeable roadhouse joints and ate ourselves silly. There was little talk of Dad - just the happy-chatter of a family together.

The funeral arrangements are pretty much taken care of, so I now just await word on the when-and-where. Today I will write a eulogy. And it will be a happy one, I think.

When Did You Last?

True to my somewhat cynical nature, I tend to consider the darker side of things. When someone says, "What's the worst that can happen?", I'm usually the guy who can answer the question. I'm great at parties. To my credit, I can usually figure out a way to avoid the Worst. A footnote: This is not to say that I have no sense of humour. On the contrary, I chuckle and guffaw on a daily basis - and, in fact, there is no topic in which one cannot find humour - at least in the right company.

So where's this headed? I may in the minority, but the topic of Last Times has invaded my moments of lucid dreaming on more than one occasion. It's usually on those sleepless nights, in the lonely hours, where I ponder about the 'last time' I might do something before I die. Some examples:

When will be the last time I kiss my wife and kids?

When will be the last time I eat in a restaurant?

When will be the last time I am in complete control of myself and my dignity?

When will be the last time I see my beloved DisneyWorld?

You get the picture.

If that isn't morbid enough, I consider whether I would know - or would want to know - when these Last Times occur. Would knowing it's a Last Time be harder on your psyche? Would you do anything differently if you knew it was your Last Time? Do you do anything today with an actual realization that it may well be a Last Time? The excercise always leaves me felling small and melancholy - and I suspect it's all about becoming middle-aged, with a dim understanding that you're not immortal after all.

Things do end. Life is not fair, nor is it unfair. It simply is.

My Dad, all of 64 years old, has been fighting cancer for a little over a year now. We've know for quite awhile that the prognosis is terminal, and we've mentally prepared ourselves for the inevitable conclusion. This past Saturday we took one more final step together and admitted Dad to the Palliative Care Unit at Parkwood. Realistically, we're probably counting time in weeks before the rounds of chemo, radiation, morphine, tumours, pneumonias, and a hundred other Dreads finally collect the price they've sought for these past 15 months.

And then it occurred to me as I thought about the ambulance that took him away on Saturday afternoon. This a Last Time. This is the Last Time he will ever see his home: his own bed, the deck he loved to sit on, the walls he painted, the workbench he built, the turkey dinners he hosted, the once-happy woman he married some twenty-odd years ago.

I've been wondering what he thinks of all this, but I cannot bring myself to ask Dad about Last Times. I think such a question would belie a selfishness in myself - like looking into the eyes of a dying man to catch a glimpse of what lies beyond.

Things do end. Life is not fair, nor is it unfair. But sometimes I wonder.

Butterfly Wings

At this precise moment, I'm listening to the insufferable Kris Kristofferson doing his piteous warbling on an bondfide 8-track tape. If you must know, it's his classic(?) 1978 offering called Easter Island. It's torture, even for someone like me who owns the original version of Video Killed the Radio Star (Bruce Woolley and the Camera Club, not The Buggles' ripoff version).

How'd I get here - and why do I stay?

Rewind to a couple of months ago (something one cannot do with an 8-track!). My father-in-law, Clarence, sends one of his infamous Monday morning emails. In between the usual weather report from the Sudbury area and his rundown of local news, he asks if it's possible to copy 8-tracks to CD. Like the great guy *cough*idiot*cough* that I am, I say, "Sure! We can probably do it. I can show you how next time you visit. Just bring some tapes and a player and we'll figure it out.".

Clarence has the world's largest collection of 8-tracks. The Guinness people don't know it, but it's the truth. He does. His tastes run decidedly towards old-school cowboy music, but he throws in a Carlton Showband or Burl Ives here and there. He also has a modest collection of 8-track players that he picks up a garage sales and flea markets. His primal fear - his vast collection perishes (the tapes tend to break easily) or he runs out of players. Hence, his email.

Long story short, he brings me a player and 24 tapes. While Clarence is long gone back to the wilds of Northern Ontario, I sit here copying 8-tracks to CDs for him. I could have shown him how, but it's fussy, tedious work and I wanted a chance to come up with an easy system. Next time I see him, I'll pass the torch and he can beaver away at the remainder of his collection.

For now, I'm on tape number 8, with 16 to go. Got me some Stompin' Tom and Wilf Carter to look forward to - if I can just get through Kris. I'm sure he's a nice enough guy, but lord he sounds painful. I've learned my lesson well.

Low Rent Tableau

It was brief and hard to understand. I was driving too fast - my attention focused on merging into traffic from a parking lot. My mind, juggling too much input and too many decisions, registered the scene as humourous. When I changed my mind, it was already too late.

A family walked together down the street. They looked young. The street was one of those places always dusted with grey leaves that sometimes take their breezy orders from passing trains. The tracks inevitably perch on a high embankment that marks boundaries for the neighbourhood of grey leaves. The boundary says this is a place for the dispossessed - relying on welfare, workfare, angry machismo, one more training course, too much rent, and too much time.

The family really wasn't walking. They moved first down the sidewalk and then across an expanse of scrubby grass . They moved forward together, but they moved as an ever changing swarm - the four of them.

Mother - blond and small and emotional - arms gesticulating wildly at Father as she struggles to remain in front of him, face to face. She keeps falling behind, though.

Father - tall with patchy facial hair and adorned with ball-cap and backpack - walks with deliberate strides. Paying no attention to Mother and eyes fixed ahead, he has Brother's arm and is drag-walking him to whatever objective he had set.

Brother - small and scared and probably 5 years old - hangs lop-sided from Father's grip as he stumbles to wherever he supposed to go. I knew he cried and screamed.

Sister - blond like Mother and a protector for her younger Brother - follows Father with angry screams dampening her face. She uses a long, thin stick to weakly hit Father's backpack, but to no real effect.

I had driven a few blocks before my brain put it all together. These were people in crisis and sorrow, and I could imagine many reasons. I remembered this feeling. It's been so many years, but I remember the Kid-Me and his fears.

At the next block I turned the van around. I needed to see this family again. Maybe I would do something, but I wasn't sure I could help. Maybe I just needed to see Brother and Sister. They could be alright now and I wouldn't even know it if I didn't see them. Kid-Me made that snide smile because he knew that all the years hadn't dulled the ability to justify and lie on the inside.

But they were gone already. It had only been a few minutes, and I'd missed them. Two weeks have passed and I'm still bothered by it all. I hope they're okay now, but I doubt they are.

Best Line I've Heard Today (So Far)

The difference between blogging and flogging is that flogging leaves an impression.

Discuss - all you bloggers.

We Have Liftoff!

It wasn't perfect, but it'll do. As the late Tom Synder was known to say - fire up a colortini, sit back, relax, and watch the pictures, now, as they fly through the air.

Houston?

So we've been building this water rocket. Actually, I've been doing the design/build work whilst JediBoy as been the much-too-eager ground crew. Like most projects I start, my reach tends to barely exceed my grasp and the rocket-building took on new complexities at every turn.

The concept is simple enough: use a standard 2-liter plastic pop bottle as the main component, add some fins for stability, a nosecone for aerodynamics, fasten a parachute, and hack together a launching apparatus. Then you fill your rocket with water (about 40% full) and pressurize it with air. The launcher keeps it all together and, when you release the rocket, it flies. In fact, 100 feet is not an unusual target with these things.

We built the rocket. We built a lovely standing launcher to control pressurization and rocket release. We tested at every turn with small, controlled flights of about 20-30 feet. Everything just worked. Watch:

Today was our final test before going for serious altitude. The test - make sure the nosecone would fall off easily and release the parachute.

Here's the 'before':

And here's the 'after':

Yes, after 2 semi-successful tests, the nosecone failed to fall off when we increased the amount of water and air pressure. The additional thrust (we think) caused the nosecone to jam, and the parachute could not deploy.

But we will try again. London needs a space program.

From Whence They Came

When I'm really bored I like to check the tracking info for this blog and find out how people end up here. Obviously I exclude the 4 or 5 sick puppies who come here on a semi-regular basis of their own volition. Usually, it's pretty pedestrian stuff - somebody Googling for theater of cruelty or one of its isotopes. Other times it's someone even further to the right than I on the Bored-O-Meter who clicks 'next blog' just for giggles - and wins the lottery.

But sometimes.... sometimes I scratch my head and wonder what chain of events, what drunken scheming, what wild-ass lost bet led them here. So, here are some recent Google faves that inexplicably resulted in some poor bastard clicking a link to my Vanity Project:

tourist spots in London Ontario - a paradox, since Google should return no hits

Seinfeld hair - can't even imagine what they were after

crocs bare feet - do clowns 'go commando' inside their big floppy shoes?

bullwhips london ontario - makes me feel tingly all over

theater of cruelty pictures - sick individual or English lit major? You decide.

knights of the dinner table geocaching - a geek looking for fresh air and daylight. Godspeed son.

So, how'd you get here?

Kid Dork, 1965 - 2007 RIP

Sean Twist - noted pop culturalist, Guitar Hero, and guerrilla-writer for hire - was found dead today in his heretofore unnoticed Fortress of Solitude, somewhere in London, Ontario. The gruesome discovery was made by a delegation from Comic Retailers Against Poverty (CRAP) as they marched on Mr. Twist's residence. They had intended to confront Twist about lost revenues they claim resulted from his recent decision to focus his energies away from comic books towards hard-to-get overseas cartoon DVDs. Instead, they found themselves calling 911 after a brief slapfight over who should make the call.

CRAP spokesman Norbert Nerdlinger had this to say, "We were pretty shocked about what we saw through Sean's basement window. But, you know, we're still kinda mad because he's got like 9 people who read his blog and they don't buy comics from us anymore just because Sean went all nuts for anime or something. We think it's a warning. Just stay away from that Japanese stuff. I mean, Sean saw The Ring. He knew the risks!.".

Special Constable Doug (Doug) Douglas of London Police Services issued the following statement shortly after news of the Twist's death was leaked to the media:

There will be no official cause of death until the Medical Examiner's office has had an opportunity to do their job. You know, with laser lights and science stuff. However, we do not believe foul play is involved in this case. Observers at the scene of Mr. Twist's demise are pretty sure the cause of death was a 'head explosion'. The deceased was discovered clutching a computer monitor and the top of his head seems to have blown completely across the room. The following image was displayed on said computer monitor and we will be treating this as a solid lead.


While London Police puzzle over the this clue in what has been dubbed The Monitor Girl Mystery, crack reporter Natasha Duvet of The London Freak Press did an intensive Google search through an entire lunch hour and dug up a few juicy clues of her own.

According to Duvet, the mystery girl is, in fact, British actress/bombshell Billie Piper. "Our sources indicate that Mr. Twist was something of a fan of Ms. Piper. As well, Piper has apparently made some kind of sex movie. We believe there might be a link here and...oops, lunchtime's over! Must run now - reports of cougars attacking teachers or something out in Byron...".

Ms. Duvet added as she ran for her car, "You know, that Billie Piper has a nice smile. Makes me feel funny in my stomach.... shame about Sean's head exploding and all. Still.... that smile...".

Stay tuned for more lurid updates as the story unfolds.

Hard Time in the Internet Age

Apparently I've dodged a bullet, but I may be a wanted man. You might recall my abject failure in blogging from Europe last month. You may also recall my one small success in exchanging a few quick emails courtesy of a wide-open private wireless connection I encountered.

I broke the law, as it turns out. Using someone's WiFi signal without their permission is a crime in the UK. And the authorities are prosecuting. At first blush I thought this sounded a bit harsh. As I think about it a bit, I'm conflicted. It probably should be viewed as theft, but what is the best punishment?

Either way, I'm polishing my shiv.

David Tennant Saved My Marriage

For as long as I can remember, Dee and I have always had 'our show'. It's very seldom that we ever find ourselves sitting down in front of the TV at the same time, but we've always found 1 or 2 programs that we would make a point to watch together. Really, it's been an excuse to spend time with each other - and the fact that we always have a good snack and a good red wine only enhances the ritual.

Way back when, it was Twin Peaks (we're still pissed about the dancing midget ending). These days, we try to catch the Daily Show and we eagerly await the new seasons of 24 (aka Fucking Jack!) and Heroes. Lately we've been in a lull, however, as there really isn't much on the tube that we both agree deserves our limited, combined attention spans.

While our tastes are somewhat divergent in the general sense, I know she's a repressed geek. So I delicately introduced her to the The Doctor. As in Who. I have to admit something - I'm somewhat of a lapsed Doctor Who fan myself. This season I promised I'd watch every episode, with no exceptions. So one evening I casually popped in the latest epsiode that I had taped, and proceeded to watch The Doctor whilst Dee did a crossword.

Long story short - she's hooked. Now she's not content to wait 7 days between each CBC airing, so I've managed to.... ummmm.... 'find' a complete set of Series 3 that we can watch at our leisure. So now we have 'our show' again. Dee looks forward to each Doctor Who adventure, and has even wondered aloud what other 'stuff' David Tennant has done. I believe she's smitten.

I just don't have the heart to tell her there are only a few more episodes in a the current run. Maybe it's time to 'find' Series 2.

The Invisible Threat

In the not too distant past it would have seemed somewhat odd to talk about terrorist threats while leafing through your vacation snapshots. Sadly, the Bogeyman is our regular traveling companion anymore. I'd swear we know some TSA agents by name down in good ol' Orlando MCO. And the sight of National Guardsman (with serious firepower at the ready) is almost an unremarkable fixture in many tourist spots throughout the US.


But Europe was different. In the UK, the threat of the Bogeyman seemed more ominous; the feeling of safety more tangible.

• Salisbury Plain - tank crews patrolled the back-roads of Salisbury Plain as we casually strolled the walking paths of Stonehenge. Yes, the picture above is real.
• London - as London Eye riders exit their 'capsule', 2 attendants calmly enter the capsule with over-sized dental mirrors. Their goal: search under benches and above light fixtures for anything suspicious. Oh, and don't take video footage of this process - they don't like that at all. Trust me.
• Portsmouth - the current terror threat level is causally posted for all to see in this, the home of the British Navy. Two heavily-armed (i.e. automatic assault rifles) security officers stand watch over a group of burka-clad ladies and their children as holiday photos are snapped beside the HMS Victory. The security officers don't pretend to be doing anything other than watching these people. When the Muslim tourists move, so does the security detail.
• UK in general - We heard a statistic on the radio as we putt-putted down the M4. The UK employs more CCTV (security) cameras per capita than anywhere else in the world. While actual numbers are not known, the estimate is something close to 1 camera for every 12 people. That's over 5,000,000 cameras keeping citizens safe - or something. George Orwell sprang to mind as London police arrested the latest batch of terrorist suspects based on CCTV evidence.
  

France - or rather Paris - was another story. The only overt security we really saw were a few soldiers patrolling a railway crossing in the middle of nowhere as we sped by on the Eurostar. As well, the President's residence enjoyed the protection of a few dozen Surete and soldiers. Their job was mostly standing around making idle chit-chat and some occasional spirited blowing of whistles at rubbernecking tourists.

Beyond this, it seemed that the French are somewhat half-hearted about the whole idea of terrorist threats - no armed officers prowling tourist hot-spots, no posted threat levels. There were some very token bag inspections at the Louvre and Disneyland, but that was it. Our hotel was a stone's throw from the Saudi and Japanese embassies, but we saw exactly one rent-a-cop in the vicinity. His job: keep the illegal parkers from his part of the street.

Two countries. Two realities. And both different than ours. It's a strange old world, isn't it?

Checking Out

Because I work much too hard, I'm taking a week off for our annual pilgrimage to Dee's family cottage. I wish we could get an Innertube connection there. One can only spend so many nights playing Rummoli and dreaming of air conditioning and indoor plumbing.

Nevertheless, I shall be back next week with a few more self-absorbed posts about Europe. Brace yourselves.

A Meezer No More

We've lost a few friends in the past 12 months - both the 2-legged and 4-legged types. And just when we thought this particular planetary alignment had been re-shuffled towards chaos, it spent the last of its cosmic influence on the weakest among us.

We were compelled to commit little Maple to the oblivion of the veterenarian's needle yesterday. She had been a member of the family for a scant 6 weeks or so, but the last 10 days saw her change: drastically, rapidly. Within a few days of our return from Europe, Maple had become lethargic and her apetite was lacking. Even her favourite game of 'chasing the little plastic thing down the hall' could not hold her interest.

By coincidence, we received word from the Cat Breeder that there had been problems in Maple's litter, and that we should call her if we noticed persistent sluggishness. We called and learned that Maple's father had passed along a disease called FIP - Feline Infectious Peritonitus. This wasting disease has no cure, no accurate test beyond autopsy, and is always fatal.

Maple stopped eating. She stopped playing. She spent the past week just sitting in patches of sunlight trying to keep warm while she dozed. We brought her water and we sat with her. She seemed to like that and, sometimes, she'd summon the energy to crawl into someone's lap for a neck scratch. Unfortunately there was little else we could do and, with Dr. Sears' blessing, we decided to end Maple's suffering rather than commit her to a painful and sad end brought about by a full run of FIP.

The kids are devastated. This was the 'real pet' they had never been able to have in the house until they discovered the uniqueness of Siberian cats. Now she's gone. To their credit they put Maple first, however. JediBoy put her in the carrier, kept Maple calm during the car ride, brought her into the vet's office, and handed her over. There were (and are) lots of tears, but we all played the best hand with cards that had been dealt.

Under the circumstances, Cat Breeder has dealt with this well. Maple's father has been sterilized and removed from the cattery. The other cats have been isolated according to standard FIP protocol. We have the choice of a refund or a new kitten (apparently this not the case with all breeders, so our vet tells us).

We'll have to decide what we want. While she wasn't with us long, Maple will not be forgotten - or replaced.

White Knuckles

Part 1 in semi-regular series detailing Euro Tour 2007 highlights. While guaranteed to be interesting to the Author, it's likely and expected to be less so to Readers like you. All hail the Wankosphere, for it feeds my ego. Let's begin, shall we?

Phase 1 of the adventure was a 4-and-a-half day free-spirited driving tour of Southern England. The general plan for Day 1: land at Heathrow, pickup the car, visit nearby Windsor Castle, then drive to Salisbury for some R&R in a B&B we had booked. The theme here was to keep jet-lag at bay and quickly get ourselves acclimatized to UK time.

The plan generally worked, but not in quite the way we had intended.

Air Canada fulfilled all of our expectations and ensured our flights were late. The culprits, as always, were ominous mechanical issues followed by the tried-and-true 'bad weather in Toronto' gambit. This time, it didn't matter. We were getting into Heathrow at 6:30am anyways, so Air Canada could be late as they liked as far as I was concerned.

After an uneventful flight filled with boring movies, uneatable 'food', and free booze, we arrived at Heathrow (late) and spent almost an hour clearing customs. Because I don't sleep much on airplanes, I had already achieved a Zen-like state of fatigue and the customs lineup took on a slightly psychedelic tinge around the edges.

With some perfunctory questions from a customs dude with frosty-tipped hair, we found our bags, found the Avis shuttle, and - before I could think twice - we were standing in front of a gleaming blue 2007 VW Passat diesel wagon. Good news: it would easily hold our luggage. Bad news: the steering wheel was on the wrong side.

According to Google Maps, Windsor Castle is but a mere 18 minutes from Heathrow. Armed with these instructions, a traditional map, and a GPS, we managed to extend the trip to about 45 minutes. Finding Windsor was easy. Finding the Castle was dumb luck.

Prying my hands of the steering wheel required gentle coaxing. I knew my heart would explode before the end of the day, but my family would not believe me. I wondered how they would get my body back to home soil. I could only imagine the Air Canada screw-ups.

But the sun was shining, the air was warm, and the Castle was the first friend we would make on our journey. It was interesting enough, but not really the sort of place that would inspire awe in Her Majesty's subjects. We saw the changing of the guard, some staterooms, the chapel - but my mind became fixated on the journey ahead.

Soon enough, we decided to head to Salisbury where we would be using Rokeby Guest House as our base for a couple of days. Notwithstanding the valiant efforts of our navigational tools, we could not escape the environs of Windsor. We got lost, got lost again, found ourself back where we started, then did the whole thing over again. For 90 minutes we did this as the muscles in my neck crept ever-close to my earlobes.

This was a trial-by-fire driving lesson in England. I soon got the hang of driving on the left and my tires were hitting the left-hand curb less frequently. It soon became apparent that the mechanics of driving would not be the issue. Navigating would be the problem - and a big one at that since roads tend to Not Be Straight and Not Go Directly Anywhere. Traffic circles were a cute idea, but little-resembled circles. Imagine a highway clover-leaf flattened out and shrunk to fit inside the smallest English village. Now imagine that finding your road inside one of these hairballs is decided by a lottery who's rules are a secret. Now you've got an English traffic circle.

Then came Eton, home of the venerable Eton College. While not on our agenda, we nonetheless found ourselves quite suddenly on its narrow, ancient streets wistfully imagining the circumstances under which the authorities would find our bodies decaying inside a lifeless blue Passat. I made a mental check of the location of our passports. It would make identification easier, I imagined.

That's when we had 'the incident'. The left front tire (or is that tyre) kissed the curb yet again and emitted a rubber-on-stone shriek. As a cabbie would soon point out to us, this had caused the sidewall to develop a plum-sized rupture. Day 1, and I was already having to deal with car repairs. It was Nova Scotia all over again (another story for another day).

Into a gas station for driving directions and a check of the tire. The spare tire was full-sized, so there was no urgent need to locate a garage to buy a new tire. I made the decision to drive on the damaged tire and, if it burst, I'd throw on the spare. Damn the torpedoes.

90 minutes later, we were in Salisbury - 3 hours in total to take a trip that the good people at Google promised would take 1 hour. And the tire - still intact.

The final irony - we got lost 1 block from the B&B because the lovely people who own Rokeby Guest House gave us incorrect directions. Once we sorted this out (with some help from a convenience store clerk), we found the B&B a comfortable oasis in which to encamp. To put things in perspective, a pile of leaves under a tarp would have been equally as comfy for us by this time. We had long ago ceased to be running on fumes. Now it was spite.

The last act of the day before falling into comas would be dinner at a local pub where the people were friendly and the food was better than Air Canada's.

This was Day 1, and I already had an irrational fear of driving blue Passat's. What would the next 4 days bring? The large beer told me to forget about all this for while, and so I did.

The Myth of Free WiFi

Okay - Euro Tour 2007 was an utterly amazing 2 weeks. Portsmouth, Bath, Salisbury, Old Sarum, Windsor, Eton, London, Paris, Versailles - and the list gets longer. It was truly a family adventure and there are stories to tell, pictures to share, and impressions to paint.

I so hoped to be posting from Over There. I had my cool little Palm device with WiFi and had figured out how to post to Blogger via email. All I needed was an occasional wireless connection and I'd be reporting from the front lines. I had read so many breathless accounts of the European penchant for free hotspots, I suppose I pictured myself sitting in a cafe or in a park exuding a diamond-cool Wired magazine kinda vibe as I casually jacked into the Net from my PDA.

Cue the squeeze-box music. A loaf of bread, a bottle of wine, and the Information Highway running through my hands.

But I 'supposed' wrong. Nowhere did I encounter wireless access for the proletariat. Hotels, airports, cafes - they all wanted my credit card. Only once did I find a free connection, and that was some poor soul's unsecured home network that appeared for only for a few moments late one night at our room at a Salisbury B&B. I managed to squeak out one quick email to our house-sitter to let her know we'd arrived in England reasonably intact. Then, the connection evaporated - consumed by the Salisbury mist, I imagine.

I'm going to share some stories anyways. Maybe I'll even post it as a day-by-day account (set the Wayback Machine, Sherman) - at least until someone cries "Uncle!". But I can't help being a tad disappointed that my little experiment in 'You Are There' ended up a failure.

Stay tuned...

Does Anybody Here Remember Vera Lynn?

In about 6 hours we'll be on our way - London Slightly-International Airport to London Heathrow, by way of Toronto Pearson. Assuming I can sleep through the in-flight flicks - Wild Hogs anyone? - we'll be touching down about 6:30am local time Monday morning. The weather there is predictably cool and wet.

The anxiety levels are high, but time will lurch inexorably forward and we'll be there soon enough. The biggest problem right now is packing light. I'm counting no fewer than 6 different electronic chargers for various cameras, phones, iPods, and other whatzzits that are apparently key to our survival over the next few weeks. Contrast that to my first trip abroad 22-ish years ago when I brought a duffel bag, a Russian-built manual camera, and a travel iron. Note that the travel iron was never actually used.

I'm hoping this is not my last post for awhile. I plan to blog from Over There whenever I get the opportunity. I have this cool little used Palm Tx (thanks eBay) that can do email and limited surfing whenever it's in range of an open WiFi connection. So long as I can send email somehow, some way - I'll post something here. The downside - it's unlikely I'll be able to post any pictures. And, yes, I'm bring a charger along for the Palm.

Be back soon. I hope.

The Frumious Bandersnatch

This is Maple - no doubt resting after hunting her latest kill.

We stay off the stairs now. And we never let our feet dangle off the bed. It's just better that way.

Ummmm.... Oi?

Fundamentally, I own 3 pairs of shoes. One is the running shoes I wear everyday - even to the office. Two is the sandals I wear when I can't manage bare feet - outside the office. Three is the formal black things that I wear on those oh-so-rare occasions when a suit is required.

Of course I have boots, but we're Canadians here and talking aboot boots is redundant, eh?

The imminent Euro Tour demands a new pair of shoes that exist in the theoretical rift between running shoes and formal black things. I'm not sure these exist, but I have to believe they do. I believe Heisenberg's Uncertainty Principle was based on this theoretical footwear. Or maybe it was Adams' Improbability Drive.

No matter. I needed shoes.

So I've been searching shoe stores for the past few weeks and have been largely unsuccessful. Strike One is that I'm an Average Joe, and stores don't really - you know - exist for us. Strike Two is that my feet aren't wide enough. All the nice shoes are for guys with wide feet. I don't understand why, but I'm secure enough in my manhood that this doesn't bother me too much.

After hours of searching (I'm not kidding) I finally found a pair that worked for me. That's pretty good news in itself. Even cooler is the fact they're Doc Martens. At least I thought this was cool for about 10 minutes.

You see, my perception of Doc Martens was forged in the crucible of Punk many years ago. They were the uniform of young toughs who were all about senseless anger and useless gestures of pointless violence. And they attracted the right kinds of girls back in the day.

But they were beyond my means back when it meant something.

Apparently everyone grew up, and Doc Marten went legit. So my uniform now includes casual dark brown Oxfords with a logo that echoes back to a different era. Just when I thought I'd finally arrived, everyone left.

Oi.

As in 'Syrup'

Because you're dying to know, the rare and deadly Siberian cat moved into our home just over a week ago. And her name *tympany please* is Maple.

Maple is doing great and has pretty much taken over the house - as cats will do. She's friendly, will set the 'playful dial' to 11, enjoys sitting in the upstairs shower stall for some inexplicable reason, and will undoubtedly be huge. My guess is that she'll tip the scales at 20 pounds or more when all is said and done.

I've owned many cats over the years or, rather, many cats have deigned to acknowledge my presence. But I have to say this is the most vocal feline I've ever encountered. When she enters a room and sees someone, she talks. When she wants to play, she talks. When she needs a lap to flop into, she talks. Odd, that one.

So, that's Maple. I'll post a pic when I get a chance, but be forewarned that I'll need to balance all this cute-and-fuzzy talk with a few unreasonably violent and/or pornographic posts in days to come.

Sick of Being Sick

It never fails. I rarely get sick, but when I do the Gods of Virii (that's a virus with friends) pick precisely the worst time to strike. Like now. For the past 4 days I've been lethargic to the point of catatonia. Judging from the apparent swelling and soreness of my throat, I really should be spitting up blood and smallish pieces of tissue.

But I can't enjoy my illness right now.

Work has been nutso-crazy the past few weeks, so I can ill afford any time off. The kids have managed to save their dentist, optometrist, and orthodontist appointments until after their recent cessation of hostilities with teachers and such, so I can ill afford to cancel any of these appointments just because I've lost the ability to swallow or breathe. And finally, our Euro Tour '07 begins in just 1 week and, of course, I'm not ready yet. I need shoes. I need Pounds. I need to know how to dial a phone in France. I need to believe every detail is known and documented.

But I don't have the energy.

Someday, before I die, I'm going to get sick at precisely the right time. The cupboards will be full of good snacks. We'll have a big screen TV that even shows all the correct colours. There'll be a lock on the bedroom door. And I'll just relax.

Houston? We Have a Problem

You have to be 'a certain age' to remember Commander Tom. He was a staple on WKBW (Buffalo, channel 7) for about a hundred years or so - first on Rocketship 7, followed by The Commander Tom Show.

Even if you never crossed paths with the Commander, have a look at the following clip from his old show. I can't decide if he's bored, or quietly earnest about his work. Either way, watch for a particularly uncomfortable exchange (about 1 minute in) between the Commander and a young fan on the topic of cigarette companies. It's weird.

Time for Gifts

'Fits and starts' pretty much describes my blogging efforts lately. I have simply been feeling overwhelmed by 100 other things lately - with the Must Do and Like To Do camps often in mortal, bloody opposition. Blue skies are ahead, I think. That's what I have to believe for sanity's sake.

While I simply lack time right now, I feel obligated - to myself if no one else - to offer a gift or two. The simple truth is that I've been relying on the fruitful efforts of other Bloggites to keep me entertained in my passive stupor the last few weeks. As recompense, I offer these mementos from Star Wars Celebration IV. I hope you enjoy them. But if you do not, then please don't click here.

Who Am I?

Say "hello" to - well - we don't know, exactly. All we know is that she's kinda cute and she'll be moving into Casa Crazylegs sometime around the end of June.

Let me explain, and make my plea to you, Gentle Readers. We love animals in our house. But we love Dee - Mom to some, Bestest Friend and Critic to others - even more. Dee has pet allergies, big time: watery eyes, hives, the whole works. Dee can simply stand in the doorway of a pet owner's abode and immediately tell that furry creatures dwell inside. It's that bad.

As you might guess, this has limited our pet choices to a few fish and Bernard the Hamster (RIP 2004 - 2006). The kids have wanted a more substantial pet forever, and have basically adopted other peoples' pets in lieu of having their own. Late last year, kid number one (aka Band Geek) did some research and discovered the Siberian breed of cat that purportedly has hypoallergenic properties. While this breed has only been in North America for about 10 years, we managed to locate a breeder in Welland.

To say that I was skeptical is putting things rather mildly. There's no scientific evidence that supports the rather anecdotal evidence that this breed is allergy-friendly. Naysayer that I was, I really enjoy cats (always had one as a pet during my formative years) - so we contacted the breeder and arranged a 'test visit' to see if these cats really have the magical property that allergy sufferers seek.

Long story short, Dee spent an hour with Mama Cat on her lap and kittens crawling all over the place. No sneezing. No hives. No nuthin'. Stunned and surprised, we put our money town and picked out a kitten. And that really is her picture above.

Did I mention we were stunned?

So our little Russian ball of fur will be moving in at the end of June. There's just one problem: we cannot decide on an appropriate name. In fact, we seem to suck mightily at this game.

Sasha? Mischa? Hey You? We've even had a suggestion of WYSIWYG (What You See Is What You Get). Wizzy for short, I guess.

Here's the mission: bring to bear your impressive creative skills and feed me suggestions. A cat's very identity rests in the balance.

Spasibo!

Glenda Got Some Splainin' To Do

Mea cupla - having a cellphone that takes photos is pretty useful for capturing weird little everyday moments when you think, "Wouldja look at that.".

Such was a recent lunchtime fly-by of London's venerable downtown market-come-cattle-barn. My Lebanese walking companion, in need of pita bread, led me to a market stall named simply Glenda's. While pitas were being squeezed and examined for their pita-bility, I listlessly perused a wide assortment of dips in the refrigerator case. Typically, I wouldn't pay attention - but today was different. Glenda has either a bizarro-world marketing plan, or a truly macabre set of recipes behind the counter.

Thanks to my Swiss Army cellphone, you can check out the labels from Glenda's offerings and judge for yourself. One more mea culpa - the photos are grainy in that way that lets you just know they're clandestine. Quite honestly, I'm lucky to be alive to show them to you.




Spicy Pinto Beans with Chimp









Sandinista Dijon










Howler-Monkey Tzatziki garnished with bird heads









Asiago Dips - please god let this be for cats

Mexicali Sauce - Lions love it!

Why Is This So Hard?

For pure entertainment value, nothing beats Rogers Wireless customer service.

In most ways, I loathe the idea of electronic collars. But I made an exception when Rogers offered a rock-bottom deal through my employer. I managed to get 2 cellphones for less then the street-price of 1 phone, and this lets my oh-so-active daughter keep in touch with her oh-so-neurotic Dad. So, yes, we wear electronic collars.

Just a tangent - the only other exception I'd ever make on the whole electronic collar issue is for those perimeter wires that train your dog to 'stay put' via electronic shocks. I don't own a dog, but I think this technology has fun possibilities. I'm guessing the legal, moral, and philosophical issues are probably a little thorny.

Back to the phones. So I have 2 of them, and I discovered that this model (they're identical) will work in Europe, but they don't support the cell frequencies used in England and France. I wanted the comfort of a cellphone for our upcoming vacation, so I did some research and found that the current generation of phones will work fine for us.

I went to Rogers with the simple goal of replacing my phone, and I was prepared to pay. I wasn't looking for anything else: no changes to my account, no extra services, nothing. I quickly learned that I'm naive. Where cell service is concerned, nothing is simple.

First off, the Rogers outlet was staffed by teenagers, on a Wednesday, in the middle of the day. Great, I thought. Highly educated service technicians. Turns out one fellow was the Veteran and he was supposed to be training the New Guy.

Over the course of the next 40 - count 'em - minutes, I descended into a bureauatic miasma that even I found breathtaking - and I've spent the last 25 years working in multinational corporations. I will never be able to recreate the conversation that, at various points, brought Veteran, New Guy, and myself close to blows.

The highlights:

• I have a 'corporate plan', and store computers can't access these. They had to phone someone, somewhere who could see Who I Am and What I Have.
• paper forms needed to be filled out like I was opening a new account, except they wrote 'hardware upgrade' across the top of the form. I fear this.
• Veteran thought my corporate plan sounded too good to be true. I must be mistaken, apparently. This made me mad at Veteran.
• my new phone was a free upgrade! Naturally this makes me nervous. Nothing is 'free'.
• the new phone takes pictures and videos, and plays MP3s, and surfs the Web, and plays games! I'm kinda hoping it makes phone calls.
• Veteran was sick of New Guy, and the feeling was mutual. This erupted into frequent verbal fisticuffs.
• you need to write down several codes to replace a phone. They are secret, and I believe they can cure the sick, raise the dead, and hack HD-DVD videos.

40 minutes for this. My favorite part - as I left the store New Guy gave me a wink and let me know this would have been much easier, but Veteran is kind of an asshole.

I can't wait to open my next Rogers Wireless bill.

I'm anticipating a Part 2 to this story.