Memo to Christmas Party organizers.
If you don't provide a phone number but promise a note in the lobby, with instructions on how to get buzzed into the building ... MAKE SURE THERE'S A FUCKING NOTE IN THE LOBBY!
I don't mind a 10 k ride in a December rain, but I'd prefer there was a reason for taking it.
Meanwhile, I can drink the beer, but what'll I do with all that baklava!?!
No love,
Young Geoffrey
This was supposed to have been my personal Month of the Horse, when I leveraged my attendance tonight at my first arena concert since I walked out on the Rolling Stones back in the 80s to (re?) establish my presence as an awesome, and awesomely consistent, blogger.
Tonight I will be off to Ottawa's big arena to see Neil Young and Crazy Horse (and also Patty Smith, who at one time I would have been more excited about, but who has not, to my mind, made a truly important record since the 1970s, merely good ones).
I was going to start off by offering the ultimate version of the time I walked out on the film, Rust Never Sleeps when the electric music started and demanded my money back because, well, What the fuck happened to the hippy with the acoustic guitar?
I was going to segue into my brief career as a street musician (busker to you hipsters), when I played lots of Neil's stuff, even though I thought the lyrics often inane, but because the chord progressions were easy (and also, somehow, the songs were good and because the songs were popular.
I was going to review Neil's recent memoir, Waging Heavy Peace, which is without a doubt the worst book I will ever recommend to any and everyone. Indisputably written without the help of a ghost-writer, Waging Heavy Peace is a spiralling self-portrait by an "old hippy" who just babbles away about the people he loves and the things that interest him — music, Nature, model trains, old cars, high fidelity digital audio and alternative energy systems. No intellectual, he is an artist of the classically intuitive kind, answering only to his muse.
I was going to review his two new records, Americana and the double-CD Psychedelic Pill. On first listen, Americana, which is Young and Crazy Horse reinterpreting old standards like "Clementine" and "Oh Susannah" (and also not-so-standards, like "God Save the Queen" and "Get a Job") is one of those things better in theory than in practice; truth is, most of those old folk songs aren't all that good and grunging them up doesn't make them so. Also on first listen, however, Psychedelic Pill is awesome if you want to hear a load of veteran musicians really get into their groove. But if songs that go as long as 27 minutes of guitar riffs being traded back and forth aren't your cup of tea, you might want to give it a miss.
I was even going to re-visit the scene of my introduction to my personal Rock and Roll Hall of Shame, Rust Never Sleeps and who knows what else.
But life and procrastination all conspired to get in the way, and now I have hours only before I venture out into the cold.
I leave this entry more for myself than for any of you. A reminder of what was meant to be, and possibly, a rack upon which I will remake the past through the future. Links may appear above where now there are none.
For now, I leave you with a taste of what I anticipate tonight.
The weather tried to freeze him
it tried its level best.
At a hundred degrees below zero,
he buttoned up his vest.— James Stevens, 'The Frozen Logger'
November 17, 2012, OTTAWA — With the official start to winter still more than a month away, the evening of Wednesday, November 14, 2012, felt unusually cold to Ottawa bicyclist, writer and all-round bon vivant Geoffrey Dow when he unlocked his bicycle outside the Ottawa International Airport.
His machine's saddle was dusted with frost, as if the atmosphere itself was freezing out of the sky.
Not to put too fine a point on it, he deemed it unusually cold for the middle of November.
Cycling towards home he soon saw why. He pulled to the side of the road to document the situation some 15 kilometres south of his home in downtown Ottawa.
Electronic sign seen on the evening of Wednesday, November 14, 2012, near the MacDonald-Cartier International Airport.
"Why yes," Mr. Dow agreed when asked if he felt cold. "Now that you mention it, it is a touch on the nippy side!"
Having snapped the photo, he zipped up his jacket and clambered back aboard his bicyle for the long ride home.
— 30 —
(Originally posted at Edifice Rex Online.)
I've almost never been an early adapter. There were long periods during my childhood when we didn't have a telephone, and a couple of years when what electricity we had came via about half-a-kilometre of taped together extension cords laid on the ground between my grandmother's house and ours (the result powered two light-bulbs, possibly a radio and an enormous old black and white television set that took about two minutes to warm up when turned on; also, we had no running water and I shat in an out-house even at -40).
(I would add that I walked 40 miles to school — uphill both ways — but everything in paragraph one is true.)
Anyway. I didn't own a colour television until the late 1980s and it wasn't until about 1990 or 1991 that I started to catch up — a little — when I bought my first computer. An IBM-compatible 368 that came with 2MB (yes, mega-bites!) of RAM and a 40 (count 'em!) 40MB hard-drive. The beast came with Windows 3.1 but I quickly realized it was a useless piece of crap and just stuck with DOS programs, text-only all the way.
That was the internet to me until the mid-1990s, or later. Green words on a black screen, and when an early version of Commander Keen got installed, the colour and movement were pretty damned awesome.
Anyway ...
As the '90s segued into the 'oughts and I found myself somehow working in the tech field rather than toiling in what is now known as Administration but which I called just being a secretary, people I knew started wearing belts, and sporting on these strange devices something similar to a holster for a six-shooter, as one might have seen in Texas in 1882. Only these guys (and they were, mostly, guys) were sporting telephones, not pistols, but — beyond being able to let someone know you'd be late for beers, I couldn't see the point of paying for toys, for Christ's sake.
But come the turn of that benighted decade, I repossed a cell-phone I'd bought for my (soon-to-be ex) and decided — what the hell — that there might be something to being able to let someone know I'd be late for beers. That I could do it via text-message was even better.
But game consoles? Even if they'd play pretty awesome-looking videos? Please. I had a computer, as well as a VCR that played both DVDs and VHS tapes! And what did I need a camera for? I had a camera, with 4 megapixels, baby!
When I moved to Ottawa now three years ago, my phone gave up the ghost, so I switched providers and got another. I had a full qwerty keyboard, when was nice for texting and a cheapo camera, which was slow and took only low-resolution images. My camera itself — which had a 4 megapixel resolution and which had cost 500 bucks or so when I'd bought it four or five years before, died during the move as well, so the idea of getting something better for picture-taking nagged at me from then 'till now.
But I didn't need a camera, not really. And neither did I need a "better" phone.
But. Butbutbut ... But time marches on, and friends show off their handsome Blackberries, and every pilot and flight attendant I drive around has some sort of high-fallutin' beast that does everything but give blow-jobs, or so it seems.
Long story short, the idea of being able to check email while on the road, or maybe post a tweet, or whatever, has been working on me, a phantom syren whose once-shrill song has slowly turned nightingale sweet.
Today, I yielded. Intending only to brunch on dim sum with Raven, and then to pick up some greens at the local Chinese market, we stopped in at a Wind outlet on a whim. And after probably close to an hour, I came away with the New Devil in hand.
Yes, a smartphone, with internet access, an Android operating system and a camera that provides eight megapixels. It also shoots video in "HD" (Aightch-Dee? Wat dat, Paw?) and gives me the current temperature and weather conditions as soon as I power it up. I can check email and browse the web (videos look ridiculously good; seriously, the screen resolution is awesome!) and god only knows what else. Presumably, I can even make phone calls with the beast.
I might no more, but Raven took it away from me as soon as we got home and I very nearly had to resort to fisticuffs to pry it from her delicate fingers.
Anyway. Here I am, now armed with a smart-phone, a technology that would have given just about anyone fits of incredulity even 20 years ago (and maybe 10). To paraphrase a recent post by Warren Ellis, we are living in Science Fiction and I have just been jolted into remembering it.
Do I need a "smartphone"? Of course I don't. Will I need in a year, or a month, or maybe even in as little as a week? I rather suspect I will.
I also rather suspect the exploration of its capabilities will lead to more specifically tech-related posts from me than all of my computers and other bits of the recent future ever have.
 |
Perhaps not the most impressive epitaph, but there it is and that's mostly what we did.
Who knew that Kingston is a minor Mecca for Cambodian food in Canada? I didn't, but fortunately Raven did, and so set our itinerary for my first return to Canada's one-time capital city in about a quarter of a century.
(Is it come time for Young Geoffrey to give up his ever-more hoary moniker?
(Hell no! quoth YG!)
Exeunt
"Shoot them," I said. "Just shoot them. Problem solved."
"What do you mean," the President asked.
"Just shoot the clients," I said. "Shoot johns. Denmark or Sweden — one of those Scandinavian countries anyway, I forget which one — has already taken the first step. They've criminalized buying sex, rather than selling it.
"But if you really want to solve the problem, capital punishment is the only way to go. Lesser punishment's just won't do the trick."
My pun elicited no response. The President just looked at her plate, then glanced back at me, eyes wide, eyes fucking turning themselves inside out.
So much so that it took me a while to realize what I had done, and so I started talking across the table, rejoining a second conversation for a while, before I realized the President of my writer's organization was still staring at me.
The proverbial cartoon light-bulb finally switched on above my balding pate. "Hey," I said, and I reached out to touch her shoulder, "I didn't mean it. I was kidding. I'm actually opposed to capital punishment."
The relief face expressed, the relief from the face of a woman I barely know, must have been palpable three tables away. But still, I thought I should make my position absolutely clear; I joined the group to network, after all! "Really, I was joking. I don't believe the solution to the problems associated with prostitution is to shoot all the johns."
"I'm very glad to hear it," she said. "You really shocked me." And we went on to talk of other things.
And I went on to contemplate the importance of context in any kind of colloquial communication, but especially when it comes to humour.
We all know how easy it is to miss irony and sarcasm online, but it can be almost as easy to miss it face-to-face.
And apropos of nothing in particular except as a reward for your patience with my self-indulgence, when you're safely away from the prying eyes of colleagues at work, you owe it to yourselves to have a look that the ladytits ( below the cut )
I've been having chest pains over the past few weeks. A sharp, vertical blade of pain whose strength ranged from a barely-noticeable twinge to a slice of near-agony in certain positions.
That the onset coincided with my longer commute and my growing tendency to use the curls on my racing-style bike's handle bars; that it did not seem to correlate with physical exertion; and that I had an appointment with my GP scheduled for last Tuesday all combined towards my decision not to rush off to Emergency but rather, to wait for the scheduled consultation.
Did I mention that I (and Raven) have actually managed to land a family doctor? No? Well, Raven and I have landed a family doctor. She is a young Doctor who had been (and still is) working out of a local walk-in clinic and Raven and I both found her personable, intelligent and willing to take time to answer questions. Further, she tends to suggest exercise or stretches rather than jump towards prescribing pills. When she mentioned that she was starting a private practice, Raven and I leapt to sign up.
That was probably nearly two years ago. Whether for reasons of bureaucracy or something else entirely, it took nearly that long for things to be made official. But it happened, and I went in for my first physical with Dr. Chow as my Primary Care Physician a week ago.
I told her I was feeling pretty good, "I think." She confirmed my "excellent" blood pressure and my resting heart rate of 54 beats per minute (which, ahem, the internet tells me is that of an athlete), then prodded my chest a little here and there. "I'm pretty sure it's costochondritis," she said. "Inflamation of the cartilage in the ribs." She said she wanted me to have some tests done, to be sure, "but mostly to have a baseline of your heart functioning for the future," she said.
And so it was that, yesterday, I found myself in a small room, shirtless, with a technician scraping away at me with (really!) sandpaper, before attaching electrodes to the tender spots, all attached to a belt that looked like nothing so much as (I thought, but did not say) a suicide bomber's detonator.
The machine itself looked pretty much exactly like a treadmill in a gym but, the technician told me, has an extra level of inclination — I think it maxed out at 14%. At least, that's where I maxed out, when 10 minutes 24 seconds in and panting and sweaty, I cried Uncle. I had passed my target heart rate of 158 beats per minute a minute and a half before but learned that jogging "uphill" even for a brief time is harder than it looks.
The technician was, happily, willing to give me the benefit of her experience. "Off the record," she said, "I don't see any problems. But of course, the doctor will send the results to your doctor."
The stretches Dr. Chow had recommended had already been working, but the relief I felt surprised me. I hadn't, consciously, thought there was much chance I actually had something wrong with my heart but, apparently, my subconscious was a lot more concerned.
And meanwhile, if anyone is keeping track, I'll be seeing a specialist about my arthritis in December; 'till then, I trust the ibuprofen will keep that pain relatively muted.
P.S. to my American readers. I have no private health coverage; none of this cost me a penny out-of-pocket. I think that's a very good thing.
 |
| Does anybody have a photo of the facade of the old KOS (just around the corner from this streetcar)? I'd be most gratified to use it here. |
September 14, 2012, OTTAWA — As one of maternally Finnish origin, I for many years insisted that the word, sauna, is properly (Correctly! I would insist) pronounced SOW-A-NA, not "SAWN-A" as is the flat and nasal fashion among Anglo-Canadians.
I knew it was a losing battle, yet I kept up the fight; in life, as it would be on the internet, I could not easily let anyone just get away with Being Wrong.
I must have been in my late 20s or early 30s when, having a drink at the restaurant, KOS, in Toronto, I had a similar argument with my friend John.
John, who is of paternally Greek background, corrected me when I uttered the restaurant's name as COSS. The word, he insisted, is pronounced KHOCSH, not COSS. "It's a Greek word," he said, "and I know."
"Oh come on," said I, "we're in Toronto and it's become an English word now. So let it go."
We argued about it for a while, until the parallel with John's obsessive need for me to pronounce Kos "correctly" and my own to correct others in their pronunciation of sauna finally dawned upon me, a slow-motion intellectual sunrise.
And so, upon reflection, did I give up my fight. Languages evolve, and there is little to be gained in raging against the tides of pronunciation, or even (usually) of definition.
Let's let XKDC plays us out ..., since Randall Munroe's latest cartoon inspired this in the first place.
Cartoon is reproduced under the Creative Commons Licence 2.5. The original lives at http://xkcd.com/1108/.
 |
I know you like our day-job. I mostly like it too.
That said, I have to raise a complaint about the pattern in the dreams you've been sending me lately. Do I have to spend almost all of my time sitting behind the wheel of a van?
How about letting me travel by bus tonight? Or bicycle?
How about sending me into space or racing through the night in the Batmobile again? Or even just walking somewhere?
You know I love you, but enough is enough!
Thanks in advance,
Young Geoffrey
Serendipity:
(So long, and thanks for all the bagels)>
July 31, 2012, OTTAWA — As July comes to a close, so too does my tenure in Ottawa's storied Glebe. Tomorrow, I meet with our new landlord to pick up the keys. Saturday, we pack up our things and move uptown, into the very heart of our nation's capital.
Sometime last week, I decided to test out the new bus route to the airport (hint: it doesn't require a transfer and the bus comes to within a few blocks of our home-to-be). The bus to work was running late but the trip was otherwise uneventful. The ride back, on the other hand, made my heart go boop-oop-a-doop.
As the 97 crosses over the Rideau Canal one looks out upon a skyline that actually looks like that of a city, not of a town with a thyroid problem.
Who knew? In Ottawa there are towers of glass and concrete canyons. It's true, the towers are not that high and there aren't that many of them; nor are the canyons all that deep. But they exist, and it thrilled me to know I would be once again living in an area I can honestly call urban.
Which is not to say I won't miss the Glebe. I will. I'll miss the fearless cats. I'll miss the quiet streets and their stately arboreal honour guards. I'll miss Kettleman's Bagel Co. and — maybe more in theory than in practice — I'll miss having a sidewalk and driveway to clear of snow.
And so, just because it happened and I like the accidental results, I will say a cyber farewell to the old neighbourhood with a photo I've entitled Serendipity. I took it last week, the day I gave up on playing soccer in the rain and have (finally) decided that I like it quite a lot.
It might seem strange to commemorate a time of drought with a photo of a downpour, but since I am in fact commemorating a time of change — of giving up and taking on, of shedding and growing, of joys to come and regrets past — perhaps the apparent contradiction is a good thing. If there is anything at all consistent about life, it lies in its inconsistency.
The sky is lowering, with volleys of thunder, cracks of lightning and occasional rain falling from it like tiny long-lost loves.
Leaving Team Seven with a bit of a dilemma: to play or not to play?
( ETA: When the rain comes ... )
"I understand my mother now," said my mother, "when she used to say, 'O! to be 75 again!"
And, sort of, I think I can understand it, too. My mother isn't that far past 80 — she'll be 79 in December — but she has visibly aged in the past couple of years. Her skin hangs loose where it used to be firm, her eyes seem to be permanently shrouded, almost bruised, by pouches of dark skin, lighter when she's rested, much darker when she's tired.
And I, Young Geoffrey only by vain (in both senses of the word) self-designation, am old enough to join in that conversation of complaint, what with my arthritis, my psoriasis and (maybe) my sciatica. "Yeah," I said, laughing. "Whoever it was that said that aging is beautiful can go fuck themselves!"
My long weekend — Canada Dominion Day nearly forgotten — was a good one.
It began when I picked up the rental car on Friday morning and, I guess, ended when I dropped it off this morning.
We had the car only thanks to Raven's foresight and perspicacity. Three or four weeks before, she insisted that I book the car now and, when I did, all but two of the company's locations were already out of vehicles for the long weekend. Duh, Young Geoffrey! Duh!.
Anyway, it was a good trip, and one bolstered by a phone call coming just outside of Ottawa: barring some monstrous unforeseen glitch, our apartment-hunt is over!
I don't think i've said anything about this particular place due to my atavistic fear of jinxing things, but *crosses fingers* I think it's safe to speak up now. The place is right downtown, maybe six or seven blocks from Parliament Hill. It's a (very) small two-bedroom apartment on the top floor (of two) of an old, non-descript (very) low-rise building. What the real estate agents would probably describe as cozy.
But it seems to be well-maintained, the landlord is okay with us brining in a small washer (a must for Raven) and, well, location, location, location. Raven will have about a 200-pace commute to work and while I will have another four or so kilometres added on to my bike-ride, I don't mind at all.
We are supposed to sign the lease on Saturday and move in on the 4th. Don't congratulate me yet, but feel free to cross your fingers in solidarity with mine own digits.
But yes, that call started us off on our voyage in good spirits, which we mostly maintained for the duration fo the trip. About which, really, there's not a great deal to say. I spent some time installing a new operating system, Linux Mint 13 (Mate), since Ubuntu stopped working with their (and my) printer and later versions have "upgraded" the user-interface to emulate the hideous Mac interface.
So of necessity, we didn't get much beyond my mother's apartment (apologies once more Souguy — once again, we'll have to put things off 'till "next time") where, I believe, the proverbial good time was had by all.
Our return-trip was uneventful, but for an unexpectedly delicious stop for lunch in North Bay at Habaneros Southwest Grill whose Tex-Mex food was, frankly, awesome.
Once home, cooking was out of the question, so it was out for Chinese we went, justifying it with the argument that we were still, technically, on holiday.
 |
| Batman and Raven visit Gatineau Park, September 2011. Photo by the Phantom Photographer. |
It's difficult to believe, but it's been two years and close on two days since that fateful night early morning I mastered my fears, dropped my arm across the shoulders of Raven as we sat close watching a movie, then offered her a kiss when she turned to look at me.
Wonder of wonders, she did not refuse me and the rest, as they say, is ongoing history.
It's not that we haven't occasionally had our disagreements, our arguments, and even fights, because (of course) we have. And it's not that we are obviously "meant" for one another. In truth, I can't imagine that any computer dating algorithm would have even introduced us to one another.
Beyond the nearly 20 year age-gap, lie barriers of cultures, of interests and of tastes. Beyond our shared bonds of godlessness and loves for food, the differences are almost legion. Tastes in literature, degrees of interest in politics and musical preferences only start the list of differences between us.
And yet ... And yet ...
We make one another laugh and think; we share many (if not all) of the fundamental values that count; and we have spent very nearly every day of more than two years in one anothers' company. And I can state with confidence that I see no signs that I am growing bored or unhappy.
In truth, I love her more with each and every sunrise.
Happy anniversary, my darling; I only hope I have brought as much joy to your life as you have to mine.
 |
| Chahaya Malaysia restaurant, image from restaurantthing.com. |
We celebrated our anniversary in typical Geoffrey/Raven style: with food.
And what food it was!
Near the western end of Montreal Road, east of Blair, in a desolate suburban area of high-rise apartments, parking lots and strip malls lies an oasis of magnificent cuisine. Or at least, of what is almost certainly the best food of which I have had the pleasure of partaking in Ottawa.
Hulking across a wall from a shuttered Chinese eatery, the Chahaya Malaysia looks like the sort of mom and pop ethnic restaurant that will either be quite good or very, very bad.
Inside, the decor is casual, brightly-lit and with an almost bohemian feel to it. There are cloth table-clothes beneath glass on the tables, and napkins folded elegantly, but I don't start wondering whether I should have been wearing a tie.
We were greeted by the husband-and-wife owners and learned that the restaurant had once graced the Glebe, before gentrifying rents had driven it to the outskirts of town. They had, she told me, taken the chance they had enough customer loyalty to become a Destination on the outskirts in 1995 and, since they are still around, it seems they guessed a-right.
We ordered four dishes, so I can by no means speak for the entire menu.
A vegetarian spring roll, an order of Laksa Penang (a hot and sour fish soup (two stars, out of three on the chili scale), Beef Rendang (Daging Lembu Rendang, three out of three), chili fish (Ikan Masak Berlada, also — we realized once it had arrived, a three out of three) and Nasi Puteh, a plate of flavoured basmati rice.
The spring roll was very nearly the Platonic ideal of its kind. Deep-fried, yes, but only briefly, its pastry wrapping its simple ingredients in delicate layers. The Laksa Penang came with a strong whiff of shrimp paste (unfortunately, one of too many no-go aromas in my life), but I forced myself to taste the broth and very nearly demanded a bowl for myself anyway.
Then came the main courses. The Daging Lembu Rendang was every bit as fiery as we had been warned it would be, but there was a hell of a lot more going on in that than just heat. Behind the fire was a complex symphony of spices, cooked right through each piece of meat and each one insisting on being tasted in its own right.
So good. So, so good.
And the chili fish, the Ikan Masak Berlada, might have been even better. All I said about the beef was true true of the fish (if in a different key), with an undercurrent of sweetness to a sauce lovingly enveloping lightly fried piscine flesh.
The meal was without a doubt among the five or ten most memorable I have had, ever. The only caveat is that their three-star meals are hot. The hostess suggested we should have ordered a vegetable dish to moderate things and the next time, I will take her advice (Raven says she might just order two bowls of the Laksa Penang and be done with it); the particular combination we had was a little rough on the insides.
But o! so worth it.
 |
| Bart and Lisa Simpson behold the ravages of age in 1998. |
Among the stereotypes about senior citizens, the elderly, old people, call 'em what you will, is the one that sees a little old lady (or little old man, though there are fewer of 'em around) sorting through an enormous pile of pills as they, creaking, start their days.
Like more stereotypes than most of us what care to admit (but that is a post for another day), there is a fair bit of truth to this one. What's worse, it is one that is starting to apply to "young" Geoffrey.
I know, I like to boast of my youthful vigour and macho outdoor exploits, and by many measures I am in better shape than I have been in a decade or more.
My blood pressure and cholesterol levels are "excellent", my resting heart rate is around 50 beats a minute and my teeth are (still) to register a single cavity.
At the same time, my waist — never slender — responds not to kilometres I have cycled in recent months, neither does it shrink. Raven, thank God, thinks my modest belly is cute, but personally, I find it more than a little unfair that a significant increase in physical activity should leave my weight and girth more or less unchanged.
But that's largely aesthetics. Much worse is the state of (some of) my joints.
Some of you might remember that I have psoriasis, an auto-immune disease that until recently I thought was strictly a skin disease, causing scaly patches (sometimes to the point of bleeding) on the skin but, in my case, not too severe and localized enough that I could live with it fairly comfortably.
What no one told me until recently is that psoriasis can affect a lot more than just one's skin.
For the past year or so, I've been experiencing pain in my right thumb. Sometimes just annoying, but more often painful to the point of being frankly crippling. I gave up crosswords quite a while ago, in large part because cursive or even printing very often hurts.
Then I noticed that I was having similar problems with my right big toe and occasionally the right ankle — a tensor bandage helps the symptoms with the latter, nothing helps with the former (other than not walking on it).
And then, two or three (or four? Come to think of it, I noticed a problem last summer, while playing tennis and badminton) months ago, my right shoulder started giving me a hard time. Just moving it in the wrong way, or rolling over in the wrong way, can cause not just an annoyance but an really serious, yelp-inducing pain.
I've become one of those half-crippled old farts who grunts and groans while performing the most common-place activities, like rolling over in bed, or signing my name, or walking.
The prognosis is still unknown. I have been referred to a specialist and my name now resides in a pile of similar referrals being triaged. I've been told I will see him within "a year".
And meanwhile, I am taking an ibuprofen or two every day, along with 40 mg of ran-pantoprazole every morning. The latter is to deal with the recent appearance of chronic acid reflux (heartburn to you), which apparently is also associated with that fucking psoriasis.
So there we are. I haven't smoked for more than two years, I've cut way back on my alcohol intake, I'm eating very well and I'm getting more exercise than I have in years.
But I can't lose weight and the major joints on my right side are causing me pain, sometimes a lot of pain. There are people who have things a lot worse (including some of you folks, yes I'm paying attention), but I can't pretend that I'm happy to find myself joining those who lose in life includes pain as a quotidian part of existence.
Meanwhile, in the spirit of lighting a single candle against the darkness, I think it's time to sign up for another summer of soccer. With cleats, this time!
I got to the office early yesterday, because I thought I might need to spend some time debriefing the boss on the Great Big Gaping Hole now grinning from the rear left door of one his vehicles — the one I had been driving the day before.
I'd parked my bike at at the lot, picked up the van that was waiting for me and shucked my leather jacket in hopes of cooling down a bit before I had to greet my passengers. (Wednesday was not nearly as cold as I expected, so I'd worn a much heavier sweater than I ought to have. I digress.)
I fired up the van, confirmed it was fully fuelled and that I had a spare bottle of washer fluid; tuned the radio to CBC in both Ottawa and Montreal and adjusted my mirrors; set the beast in gear and headed on in, secure in my knowledge that I was without blame, but still, just a little insecure about what the boss was going to say about his mangled vehicle.
The SUV was still where I had left it on Tuesday, the guts of the rear door exposed the world, like bones and tendons stripped of skin. I couldn't help taking another look, rubber-necking at my own misfortune.
It being afternoon, the office was a little cramped. The number one and number two guys were at their desks, the day-time dispatcher — let's call him Normand — was at his, and a couple of my fellow drivers were hanging around.
"Good afternoon, gentlemen," I called out as I slipped through the swinging gate.
Normand looked over at me, smirking. "Hey, Geoff," he said with obvious delight. "You're supposed to bring the whole vehicle back with you, not just part of it!"
 |
"Hey man! It's in the back!" I said, referring to a dinner-plate sized scrap of metal that had once been part of the vehicle's door.
I took a look at Ahmed, my boss, and was pleased to see he was smiling, but was distracted when Charley, an older driver asked me, "Geoff, do you live in North Gower?"
"Uh, no," I said, "No, I live in the Glebe. Why?"
"Oh," he said, deadpan. "I thought I saw your sweater in the garbage."
"My sweater!" I thought wildly for an appropriate response, but was too taken aback by the non-sequiteur insult to do anything but sputter while the office rocked with laughter.
Grinning, I shook my head and approached the boss' desk to explain just what had happened.
So what did happen? Click here for Dump Truck Horror on Autoroute 40!
 |
Thanks to those of you who wished me a happy anniversary of birth — it was.
The whole week was a good one, the highlights including an outing in Gatineau Park on snowshoes (I am the bigfoot-like creature at left), finally getting out onto the canal and dining Sri Lankan style.
And also, a Mysterious Ottawa Valley Apparition, caught on camera by the one and only Phantom Photographer, who was able to attend this year's Winterlude opening ceremony, while I laboured on this week's edition of True North Perspective.
Cut to spare those uninterested in my personal blatherings. If you want them, or the striking photo of the Ottawa Valley's no-longer mythical Dance of the Winter Turkeys/Danse des dindes d'hiver come to spectral life, click here.
Driving a group of five (one pilot, one co-pilot, three flight attendants) to Montreal the other day, I was privileged to over-hear the following conversation.
Flight Attendant #1: So, I heard the company is revising the pre-flight checklist for co-pilots.
All: Really?
Flight Attendant #1: Heard it right from [big-wig's executive assistant].
Co-Pilot: I haven't heard about this. What's in it?
Flight Attendant #1: It's very concise.
All: Well, tell us!
Flight Attendant #1: It'll be coming out next week, I guess there's no harm in spilling the beans.
One: Don't touch anything.
Two: Shut up.
All (except Co-pilot): Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha.
Co-Pilot: That's not funny!
 |
| Me and my riding machine (the hockey stick, yes, was an affectation) after a 14 k run from the Ottawa International Airport, January 15, 2012. Thanks to the Phantom Photographer for the image. |
Well, that was a first for me: my bicycle chain froze.
Yes, Gentle Readers, Young Geoffrey has his bragging hat on again.
13 kilometres there, 13 back. And that last half was at a temperature of -18 C (that's about exactly zero Farenheit for you Yanks).
The frozen drive chain meant that I had to keep up a constant pressure on my pedals. Any time I eased up (let alone dared to try pedalling backwards!) the thing would escape the cogs and just slide forward when I tried to move forward again. Only thing that would fix it was to dismount and jiggle it back and forth with my glove a few times, then get back on ol' paint.
Truthfully, it's really not that hard to do; the worst part is that the roads are narrower because of the snowbanks (and yes, a little more treacherous due to patches of snow and ice improperly cleared. I ride faster in the summer).
Surprisingly (at least it was to me, when my parka gave up the ghost a few years back), the key to staying warm is what your mom probably told you: layers.
 |
| That's right: if a screen-cap is proof, then I've got proof! |
I wear a headscarf (like an Arab or a slavic babushka) under my helmet; a pair of jogging pants over my pants; a t-shirt, button-shirt and sweater beneath a leather jacket. Add in a pair of glove inside a decently warm pair of mitts and — voilà! — I usually need to unzip and loosen the scarf before I reach my destination.
And that's about it, really. Just bragging.
I suppose I can add that I'm really glad that I braved the weather for more than bragging rights. As some of you might recall from Facebook, I managed to pick up a flu that knocked my onto my ass last week (despite having had the shot; Raven didn't get it and so far hasn't got the flu, either — go figure), so my body was craving some exercise.
Aw right, maybe I've lost the magic touch when it comes to these personal entries. Or maybe not. What do you think?
 |
You know, by and large, I'm liking my job. The pay's not to far north of minimum wage, but a day's hours (usually) are south of a full eight. Door-to-door is probably about seven hours, which I don't mind at all. Also, I like driving and my passengers range from distant to friendly; thus far, only one whom I would qualify as an actual prick (though most of them could use some lessons about tipping).
It doesn't hurt that the boss seems to be one to treat his employees as people, rather than "human resources". In my case, as someone who gets to work either by bike or public transit, he's made a point of ensuring that I get a ride home if it's especially late or especially cold (sometimes, in truth, I'd have preferred to ride, but felt it would have been churlish to say "no").
Rather revealingly — at least, I think it's revealing; does a sample of five or six out of maybe twenty drivers qualify as significant? — all of the co-workers I've had the chance to question have been with the company for years. Five years stands as the shortest stint so far. And further, with one exception so far, they've all gone out of their way to emphasize that they think it's a good place to work and that they like the boss. All of which suggests that my positive experience is the norm, not an exception.
So. Job. I like it, as jobs go.
Not that it's all open roads and scantilly-clad flight pilots.
Last Thursday saw me get back to Ottawa physically tired and my arms actually kind of sore.
It was our first real winter storm and I was very happy to find myself driving the boss' four-wheel drive SUV rather than a standard passenger van.
The trip to Montreal wasn't too bad. Snow and wind, only three cars in the ditch, and only an extra half-hour on the standard two-hour drive. But the trip back?
Mercy.
Snow. Rain. Freezing rain. More snow. Lunatic transport trucks roaring past with 15 or 20 centimetres between their vehicles and mine. Eight (count 'em!) cars in the ditch. Two-hour drive took four hours, and I arrived back in the office to have some of my co-workers questioning my employer's sanity.
Me, I just shrugged. It's not that dangerous, if you slow the fuck down — which, obviously, I did.
Meanwhile, talking to flight attendants has me (and Raven) contemplating the possibility of making "Come fly with me" our respective mottos. Working 12 days out 30 has a definite appeal.
(The photo, by the way, was taken by my passenger on the way to Montreal, as we crossed over the Lac des deux montagnes to get onto the Island.)
 |
||
|
(Ottawa, Canada, December 25, 2011.
Photo courtesy of the Phantom Photographer.)
|
The propaganda has long since worked its magic. I do like to see some snow on the ground come Christmas and Ottawa, at least, got a story-book dusting. What were but a few flakes as I cycled home from the airport late Christmas Eve had become (as if by magic) a full blanket of snow come Christmas morning.
For Raven and I, the high point was a walk, taken later that afternoon. As you can see from the photo above, we changed upon a quintessentially Canadian scene: the frozen pond, cleared of snow and on which skaters of all ages and abilities were enjoying themselves. Which hockey players most prominent, of course.
As most of you know, there is in the air at this time of year, a recurring noise about a "war on Christmas". Out of the blue, otherwise intelligent and reasonable people are trade angry anecdotes about how they are tired of "giving in" to "political correctness" by being forced to say "happy holidays" or "seasons' greetings" instead of "merry Christmas".
Frankly, I've always found it a little baffling. In my younger and more cynical years, I hate Christmas, both the commercialism of it, and its religious origins. More mellow now, I rather enjoy it, though I stay away from most aspects of it.
But the occasional "holiday tree" aside, when the bitching starts, I can only point out to the shuttered businesses, to the full day of Christmas (not holiday!) music that takes over CBC Radio on the day of, and many other signs that Christmas as Christmas is in no danger in this country.
And as specific evidence, I offer the following.
The day after Christmas saw me drive a sick flight attendant to Montreal (you really don't want to fly when you're down with an ear infection!). Anyway, it having snowed considerably the night before, I'd opted to take public transit to work, rather than my bicycle.
The bus finally pulled up to the stop and we frigid passengers began to mount the stairs, we were met with a sight no doubt designed by a malicious god to throw fear into the sights of pro-Christmas warriors everywhere.
To judge by the beard, the turban and the kirpan, our driver was a Sikh, a slight brown man of probably middle early years.
He was smiling as we began to ascend into his bus. And what do you suppose he said to me as I dropped my tickets in the box?
Yeah, that's right. In yet another blow for political correctness for —
Oh, sorry. Actually, what he said, to each and every one of us as we boarded on the chill December day, was (you guessed it), "Merry Christmas".
So what the hell. If it's good enough for a Sikh bus driver, it's good enough for me.
I hope you all had a merry Christmas, whether you celebrate the actual holiday or not. And I hope we all have a better time in the new year than we did in the old.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dancing_serpent