Grammar

Jila Ghomeshi (Jian's sister), a linguistics professor at the UM, has just published a book, Grammar Matters. If you hadn't guessed yet, it's about grammar. Refreshingly, its tone is not finger-wagging so much as sh*t happens. That is, language changes as we use it.

English, in particular, is malleable and accumulative in that it picks up and adds words from other languages quite readily. As non-native English speakers learn the language, they bring along vestiges of their own language and suddenly you have the word "vuvuzela" incorporated into usage, rather than "plastic horn" or some, more pedestrian, word or phrase. This is an ongoing reality to be celebrated, not fretted over. Vuvuzela is, in fact, a great word. It's a better word. It's alliterative. It has panache.

Though English grammar is often represented by grammarians as rigid and clear and "right," the reality is that our grammar is inconsistent and full of logical holes. There are as many exceptions as there are rules. Ultimately the greater concern of those of us who do care about usage and rightness and not-so-rightness is consistency and awareness. If you're using a word or phrase, or choosing to spell or capitalize or punctuate, in an idiosyncratic or rule-bending way, do you know what you're doing, and will you do it consistently. If the answer is yes, then you're developing a style, and you should "have at 'er."

As an English teacher people seem to be self-conscious about how they speak and write when I'm around. I don't like it. Today a parent came in to the office to drop off a baby ad for the yearbook, for her son. On the envelope she wrote Baby Add for ... . When she handed it to me, she looked at it again and said "Oh, I guess that would be with only one 'd'." I smiled and said that it was pretty clear what she meant.

I meant that, but there's not much I can do for a person when they become self-conscious about something like this because of someone else's presence. I don't know what I'm asking for here. I guess it's my bane to appear as some kind of dour-faced, nit-picker, waiting for an opportunity to pounce on an error and mock it mercilessly. Well, that's only partly true. I'll let you determine which part.

Ride report:

in: -26'C wind 15 ks N

out: -24'C wind 15 ks N

Tomorrow's Monday

And I was thinking about this song by the Boomtown Rats. It's remixing in my head right now with Dire Straits's Money for Nothing and Nirvana's Come As You Are. In my mind you've got to start with the atmospherics of Money for Nothing. Then at some beat appropriate spot you bring in the piano on I Don't Like Mondays - which will ultimately set the pace. And at that tempo, you find the spot where the Come As You bass line has to enter, and you're off.

Right. Off to what? A remix? I just watched RIP: A Remix Manifesto, which speaks to creativity and copyright law and features Girl Talk, a remix artist of epic proportions. So I thought I'd try it, kinda. I have limited tools and time, but I found I Don't Like Mondays (which I don't have downloaded to my machine) on YouTube and paused it, then I opened up Money For Nothing (which I do own in vinyl, and so when I downloaded the album I did not feel any remorse) in Zune Player and paused it, and then I opened up Come As You Are (which is in my digital library via a burned cd from a former student (I forget who) in an old-school sort of file sharing experience) in Windows Media Player. Then, in the order I listed above, I tried it.

It sounded okay for a few seconds, until it was clear that the pace of the music was not close enough. This remix DJing stuff is clearly not something you do quickly, or easily. I maintain that the above songs could be remixed into something interesting, but I'm not going to do it. Not even on a Monday. I would recommend that you watch some Girl Talk videos though, to see what's possible. It is ridiculous, and obviously creative in every sense of the word.

I may explore however, what a remixed short story would read like. I'll get back to you with something in a few days. I intend to start with "A Good Man is Hard to Find," "The End of Firpo in The World," "The Hunger Artist," and "Bicycles, Muscles, Cigarettes." In the meantime, any other story suggestions?

Small instruments

Impressive sounds: Jake Shimabukuro does Bach. Chris Thile does Radiohead

Ride report:

in: -7'C wind SE 15ks

out: 0'C wind NW 20ks

(amazing ride day!)

Lego guns?

Yup. Lego guns. That shoot.

Ride report

in: -8'C wind 15ks NNW

out: -9'C wind 15ks NNE

Cloverfield - the second screening

A few nights ago I watched Cloverfield for the first time, on my laptop. In bed. At around 1 am. It was a bit of a trip. I was tense. I cared about the characters. I was wowed by the monster. I enjoyed the experience. A lot. I went to sleep at about 2:20 am, but not before looking out the window at the moonlit night and wondering ... would something arise from beneath this prairie soil? Hmmm.

Tonight, with my brother who, after a few months apart, was out to visit and had not seen it, I watched it again. This time through I laughed more often, and was a lot less tense. I was more aware of the way the camera jerked around a lot, as well as how the movie (the script and the camera work) does not take itself too seriously. And for that I respect this film a great deal!

If you can manage the herky-jerk-handicam genre of it, watch it. And don't take it seriously. And notice all the references to the other monster films. And enjoy the fun the filmmakers must have had with all the money they used to make it look like the whole thing was shot on a video-8 camera. And suspend your disbelief that three of the characters survive the helicopter crash, and that the camera and the tape survive a "hammer-down" bombing of Manhatten to flatten the monster.

(Of course if you've watched it for that long, you'll have already accepted that the monster is "possible" and that it's "possible" that we're just ants, or mites, or molecules, or atoms swirling about in the cosmos, vulnerable to the appetites of whatever monster might be out there - this monster looks suspiciously like an irradiated ant - some sort of massive insect.)

Watching Cloverfield is an exercise in tenacity, and imagination. You have to manage your stomach, and you have to believe. But if you've watched The Lord of the Rings, or Harry Potter, or Star Trek, or Star Wars (or Jane Austen for that matter) you should only have to deal with your stomach. Your imagination has already been penetrated. You are no longer a "realism is all that I can handle" virgin.

Ride report

in: -9'C wind S 10 ks

out: -8'C wind S 12 ks

Unnatural breaks

We've invented these things called semesters. We've decided that since you can divide a 10 month school-year into two five month chunks, you should. And we have. And it only occurs to you when you're right in the middle of the change from the first semester to the second one, how arbitrary and awkward and unnatural it is to stop something like a "learning period" at the end of January, and then begin another one.

The strongest argument in favour of this kind of arbitrary dividing of the school year is, if not now, when? And since we love the neatness of two five month halves, we think that it won't really matter on which five months we impose it. And it won't matter what other "natural" (in this case "natural" means unavoidable, country-wide breaks, like Christmas, New Years, and Spring Break) breaks occur during those five months, or how those breaks might impact the ebbs and flows of learning. Yes, the strongest argument in of the semester system is "because it creates two equal halves".

But if you hang around a school on the semester system and you have a sense of learning momentums and activities, and you watch the learning community, you will notice the interruptions and anxieties created by these arbitrary starting and ending points. We finish Christmas break, we pick up a few pieces of learning, we prepare for final assessment, we finish, we start again. The hurly-burly of it is ludicrous. Ask any kids who experience it. They're not learning. They're surviving. They're not feeling like their courses are coming to a natural end, they're feeling like they're happy to be walking away from a train-wreck, and looking forward to getting to the next station to board the next train.

We're all just enduring at this time of the year. When we should be crossing the finish line and celebrating a good performance, we have, in essence, run off the track on the final lap in order to find the toilet and void our bowels. We need a break, but not because we've run hard and well, because we've been running without a controlled steady pace, and after the last slowdown, we've actually lost our will to care about the outcome of the race at all.

I have suggested, and will continue to suggest, an overhaul of the semester system, to at least match the "natural" breaks of society. In this new trimester system, the first learning period would run for four months, from Sept to Dec (four courses per day) and break for Christmas. The second learning period would run for three months, from Jan to Mar (three courses per day) and break for Spring Break. The final learning period would run for three months, from Apr to June (three courses per day) and break for Summer. That's it. Every time we take a break, we take a break together (as a society); we finish what we're doing at school, and prepare to start anew. Exitus Aditus Semper ("Every ending is a beginning.")

The learning time per course would be the same as it is now, but more focussed and concentrated, and less interrupted. I have little hope however, that this more "natural" system will ever catch on though. Probably mostly because of its asymmetry (asymmetry is too hard for some folks to comprehend). And because it makes sense.

Ride report:

in: -10'C wind 15ks S

out: -6'C wind 15ks W

Brash-hole blogging?

I had it in mind, last night, to say what I wanted to say, pretty much in the way I'd want to say it, without cussing or naming those I'm criticizing. It took me awhile to click "Publish Post" yesterday. I actually thought some of my readers might find my words unfair, ill-informed, or just in poor taste. When I published it I thought, "Well, bring it then." I thought it would be interesting to see whether saying something offensive (as mild as it may be) might cause a small backlash, and a bit more traffic. Well, as of tonight, 11:21 pm, one brave soul has commented - and he's agreed with me!

I am devastated. I don't know what to say. My worry was that I'd have to fend off the offended. Rather, my words will languish in blogger purgatory, headed, eventually for ignominy in Dante's first, because they are surely too banal for anything more severe. If only I could muster the stuff required to be submerged, head first, heels kicking at the pricks, in a vat of hot oil in the eighth circle.

Alas! I am me too good.

Ride report:

Snow day!

(temp rising from -20s to -14'C, wind N 40+ ks in the morning, shifting to S 13 ks (at present))

Mennonite choir boys to men

Spent the afternoon and evening with two friends at the Concert Hall in the city watching/listening to "A Thousand Hallelujahs" - a concert celebrating the 25th anniversary of the Faith and Life Men's Choir (Mennonite Church sponsored group).

I really want to say a lot about this, but I feel that time is of the essence, and this event just robbed me of three hours, plus travel time to and from, so I'll be brief:

1 - Mennonites can be, and often are, full of themselves, even if they say they aren't.

2 - Mennonites can sing, but they often sing really boring, derivative, songs.

3 - Some Mennonites can write/compose (Paul Bergman, Alexa Dirks, Flying Fox & the Hunter-Gatherers), but their work wasn't performed at the concert tonight. (Some Mennonite guy from B.C.'s "piece" was, and I hope they got a deal for that commissioned "new" sacred music.)

4 - Mennonites are thoroughly, painfully, middle-class white people (Yes, I speak of myself as well, obviously.).

5 - Mennonite boys (and men too) like to sing African songs - enthusiastically.

6 - Any and all words a certain well-known Mennonite-named children's entertainer puts to song sound trite.

7 - If this is the product of the radical reformation, well ... I guess it's official ... been there, done that. There's no t-shirt, but there will be a free-will offering at the intermission (church-speak for a request for funds, brought to you by your prosperous, upscale, sponsors).

I imagine if certain folks read this, they'll be disappointed in me. Well fair's fair. I'm disappointed in them (and myself for that matter).

To perfect the night the three of us stopped at Starbucks for coffee and a snack on the way outta town.

(Jordan Toews! You made my night! Thanks for taking the time to talk.)

In his dream

The writer sits across the table from him in Rae & Jerry's and talks. He listens. He tries to play along. He's a bit in awe, but not to the point that you'd say he's totally out of his league. He's having to work hard though. A little out of breath. There are a few combinations that catch him off-guard, but mostly he spars well.

The boxing metaphor comes to him even though he's only seen it in movies, or read it in a few short stories. He knows that Hemingway did it, so when he wrote it, it made good sense. You could feel it. This guy's actually been in the ring. Actually swung and hit. Actually taken one on the chin. Maybe after a jab. Maybe the shot was hard enough to lay him out. Maybe it would have been enough to end the match.

But he hangs in there. Even tells one of his own stories. A genuine one. About his own family and the weird way his mom died. The weird way his family reacted to it. How it was a hard time for him, with a new job, a new wife (relatively), a new child. Still he had to host the extended family as they shuffled through his apartment, through his new and vivid life. As they spent their days in the hospital praying, and he watched them, detached and angry. Why couldn't they just let her lie in peace. Die in peace. His mother. Here they were when she was really sick, but otherwise they never came around. This was a real story, about how he'd come to hate what they'd done, how it had taken him some time to let go of the hate. Why he'd seen that hate wasn't much help for living. That's his story. That's what he believes. Still mostly he listens, and drinks, and eats the french fries - wondering why he'd ordered them at 11 at night.

The whole night hits another level when she walks in and stops by the table. She's a writer too. The two of them recognize one another and things get strange. Personal. Insider trading, and he's left without information. She's with a friend. She says she's her partner. She says she's taking a break from being a mom, a wife. She says they're just out for drinks. She says she has to get over the bastard. Out of the crappy place he'd brought her to. Out of those things with men. She's already drunk. She's already high. She doesn't know what she's saying. That's what he thinks. He's going to give her that. She knows what she says, but she doesn't measure it.

This is a rough patch for me, she says. I need time away. I could do without humans for about a month. Except for you of course, she says, turning to her friend.

In the parking lot they all stand and smoke. They glow in the Spring dusk. It's picturesque there, just East of the rails, the shopping mall squatting on the other side. They're talking to one another in knowing ways, so he's outside of it now. In total. Still, he smiles, standing there on the East side of the tracks, cigarette glowing suns setting, falling to the asphalt.

You're easy to talk to, the writer says to him as they turn to their cars and say good-bye, each getting in and closing the other out, to motor home down the avenue. The engines hum smooth. He follows a mini-van off of the lot and turns left toward the heart of the city.

Ride report:

in: -24'C wind 15 ks NW

out: -26'C wind calm

Just sayin'

So a few (quite a few) years ago I was privileged to attend a PD session (it was a lovely February weekend at Hecla Island, spent with a crew of other Mennonite teachers concerned mostly with getting by and getting paid, while appearing to educate young Mennonites, etc., in a conservative Christian sort of way - it was a noble time in my life) about how the language we use can do violence, or make peace. It was a weekend that was focusing on Conflict Mediation. It was a weekend for liberals. The school was full of conservatives. Even those of us who thought that liberalism had a few merits, were nonplussed by these bleeding hearts. Just sayin'.

What they told us about the language that we use was that the word "but" is a verbal eraser. This is the one piece of advice from the weekend I remember most clearly. We were given the opportunity to role-play scenarios to demonstrate how this was so. A friend and I worked out a little improv that went something like this:

Student: Hey I'd like you to remark my assignment because I think you marked it too hard.

Teacher: Well I'd be happy to do that, but you understand that your mark may as well go down as it may go up.

Student: Oh. Well I guess that's all right then. Thanks.

Teacher: No problem. Anytime. Thanks for asking.

Get it? We completed the assignment to demonstrate verbal erasure using the word "but" and we demonstrated, from our snarky liberal point of view, how teachers are the kind of assholes that can't just be honest, they have to make the point. Just sayin'.

Get it? Just sayin' is the same kind of cowardly, snark-laden, crappy language for which the elegant but used to suffice.

So, if you're getting used to using the phrase "just sayin'" know that you are being a jerk when you do it, unless you know you're being a jerk. In which case there's a chance that you're being funny. But it's just a chance.

Just sayin'.

Ride report:

in: -21'C wind 8 ks SW

out: -18'C wind 5 ks NW

Is my bike ploughing

'Is my bike ploughing,

That on my daily ride

I hear the crunch and squeal

as snow under tires abides?'

Yes, the tread digs in,

The legs pumping now;

It's these steady rhythms

o'er the land our fathers ploughed.

'Are snow machines whining

Along their groomed trail,

Many seated, chase with fuel,

While I rise, push my rail?'

Indeed, there's game in timing,

We play where we belong;

The bike stays up, the rider

stays up to ride on long.

'Is my girl happy,

Can we live long as one,

Holding on to words and tears

And finish what we've begun?'

Yes, we embrace lightly,

We lie not down, nor fall:

We are both quite contented.

We ride on, the day calls.

'Is my friend hearty,

While I push farther on,

Will we not all find rest

At this end and beyond?'

Sure, friend, I ride easy,

I would ride when I choose;

I pump my thighs like iron,

I seek, I cannot lose.

Ride report:

in: -27'C wind N 15 ks

out: -22'C wind SSE 8 ks

How cold?

The ride in today was tough. It snowed most of the night, and the wind picked up from the North. So not only was I riding into the wind, but I was ploughing through drifts that were a foot or more deep. The 32 c tires cut through these quite well, but not without effort. It was one of those rides that begins with tough-slugging just to get off of the driveway, and then it's the same on the road through the village, because it's sheltered and also accumulates a thick layer. I have to tell myself that after the first mile there'll be less snow - that is, that I won't be steadily ploughing. (Is my bike ploughing?) But once I clear the village the wind takes over. Now I'm struggling with that resistance, which finds any openings and makes me cold, as well as the continuing barriers of snow drifts. This morning the wind found the weakness of the fabric at my crotch. Yikes!

When it's colder than -24'C, and the wind is around 30 ks, the cold reaches another level. This is the point at which you wear just about everything you've got in the closet. I'd neglected to wear my full windpants this morning. I didn't pay in any lasting way, but I suffered for it. The ride home was colder, but the wind was more favourable, as it was at my back.

I had wondered whether this winter we might avoid that classic stretch of stupid cold (-30s as lows, and winds to spice it up), but it looks like we're in for a bit of a stretch of it now. Truly, after the second mile of the ride, I know I'll make it. By that time my core is heating up and mentally I'm in the space of beating it the obstacles. I'm always in a full sweat by the time I get to work, though my toes and a few fingers are a bit stiff (and this morning one other member took a bit of a ... numbing). As daunting as it seems in the morning, by the time I finish the 8 k ride, I'm more ready for the day than without it.

If I don't do it, the day is not as good as it could be. What's my limit? Well, some combination of temperature below -30'c and wind above 30 ks. It's a kind of a 60+ rule. If the numbers of temperature and wind-speed added (as positives) rise toward 70, then it's going to give me pause.

Ride report

in: -22'C wind 30 ks N

out: -24'C wind 25 ks NW

Face value: Desperate for the girl (Pt 2)

So if you're desperate for a friend (much less a girlfriend) what do you do? Zuckerberg's Facebook (in The Social Network this is portrayed as overt), seems to suggest that the way to get more friends, is to get more friends. And, according to Facebook, you get Friends because they want to know your status, and you want to know theirs.

Zuckerberg's (Facebook's) assumption is that we all want status. That we get and become friends to have status. And half of the friends that we have are those with whom we hope to "get lucky." Plain and simple, friends and friending are currency. You sell access to your status, in order to buy access to the status of others. In this way you may amass a fortune of friends.

Who cares right? Who cares if the desperate boy or girl thinks that amassing status by accruing friends might help him luck into a night (or two) of pleasure (I mean real, physical pleasurewithsomeone else)? Frankly, after thinking about it for a while, I didn't think it merited caring about much either. If this is the tune people want to dance to, then let them.

Then I read what economist J. Bradford DeLong thinks Zuckerberg's dream is for Facebook: to becomes the main portal through which people negotiate the web. Zuckerberg wants people to communicate, play, and shop through it (many already do). DeLong suggests that Facebook may take us back to a more "curated" search mechanism. That is, rather than the page rank and "relevant" connections algorithm of a Google search, we will rather go to our Facebook of friends to search for what we want through the curations of our friendship community. In essence, rather than Google's rank and relevance search, we will depend on a "what do my friends like" search. My assumption will become that my friends' tastes will most likely be like mine, so what they like, I will like (self-fulfilling prophecy). My friends and I will, together, filter (curate) our own searches to maintain our own comfortable spaces.

Is this so bad? I'm not sure. Will it narrow my tastes or expand them? I guess that will depend on my friends. What I'm wondering about in all of this is still the "What is a friend?" question. Facebook has altered the word and, perhaps with it our idea of this pretty fundamental human impulse. With Facebook we friend people, get friends, and get friended. In its context a friend has become mostly asset, or accumulation. Here befriending someone is a flippant, seemingly innocent thing we do by clicking. Many of us befriend people we don't know through Facebook - people we've never met, and may never meet. The accumulations that arise from these actions do not require the one thing fundamental to friendship in the "old-school" sense of the word: loyalty.

Has Facebook, by altering our use of the term, also affected the realness of our "loyalty" to one another? How can I express my loyalty for my friends? Does Facebook make me more, or less, likely to help out a friend in real space and time, if need be? Does Facebook make me more, or less, likely to "get the girl" for which I'm desperate? At the end of The Social Network Zuckerberg is portrayed as a wealthy, sad winner, without friends, and clicking refresh to see if the girl who ditched him in the opening scene, will accept his friend request. Despite the virtual success he's experienced, his desperation to be accepted by the person who has disagreed with him, rejected him, and from whom he hopes for some transcendent, redemptive loyalty, illustrates that common drive at the core of most of our beings. He wants to be friends with the girl that he touched, with whom he spoke and disagreed, with whom he ate dinner and drank beer. We want to be friends with real people, and real people friends require loyalty. They require us to accept them in spite of what we don't "like," and that we be accepted despite our failings.

Perhaps one day Facebook will be mature enough to make it possible to "Dislike" what a friend posts. Perhaps that will add some dimension to our interactions there. As it is now, Facebook ignores that vexing reality of friendship, that "opposites attract." Really, I doubt it, because this, and loyalty and disliking, are necessary elements of a more difficult reality: love.

Why care about any of this at all? I don't know. I guess it's just a latent concern for clarity, and a nagging doubt that it's even possible. Facebook is not about face value, and it's only about face value. Who I appear to be there is not exactly who I am. You can't really judge a book by its cover can you? Of course you can, but you're likely to be wrong.

So maybe I'll see you on YouTube?

Accept? Ignore? Like? Dislike?

Dear Saul,

I just finished your book and I have to say that I quite liked it. This word "like" is of course problematic and plain and so in need of a redressing, but what else shall I say. I'm left with a sense of my own insanity. That's how deeply I was drawn in by the last chapter. After I'd finished I put the book down, stood up, put that massive piece of oak on the fire in the woodstove because I'd been saving it for a cold night like this one, then I put your book and my moleskine on the table, opened up the notebook computer and, having decided in advance that I was going to write a series of letters to childhood friends, walked over to the kitchen to do something else.

That else, was culinary. You see, through the whole reading of the last chapter my stomach felt off. I can't quite figure out why though. I'd had pasta with a nice red sauce, a simple salad with a garlic dressing, and a glass of ale (an IPA). It was all quite tasty, but shortly thereafter I felt the stomach roil. Mind you, I'd had a few potato chips then too. Whatever, I was in a state of some discomfort as I was finishing your book. Was it sympathy for Herzog? There would have to have been some of that. That is not to say that I'm totally on his side. He makes me shake my head sometimes. But I'm sure that I make those that know me shake their heads too, so there's no surprise there. Moses was a real kind of guy. A mensch of course.

Where was I? Oh yes, I was going to the kitchen to do something culinary. I was seeking something that might take the turbulence out of my stomach. Strangely enough I was not interested in a nightcap. It didn't turn my stomach so much as not excite my stomach. Whatever the case, I did not feel that having a snort of rye was going to improve things. So I rooted about the kitchen for a bit and, as it often is with me, I found something to eat that was, as it were, on the edge of proper consumption. That is, it was about to be declared (by most I would presume) to be unfit for eating. From about two weeks ago there were five remaining California naval oranges in the box with the other citrus fruits. These five were shrunken and hard-skinned. I'd cut up one of them the other night though, and found that beneath the dry, hard rind there was still juicy, sweet flesh. So today, I thought I'd cut up the last five and prepare a glass of "fresh" squeezed juice. After all, my throat has been tickling me lately. A good dose of citrus couldn't hurt (I know, there's a limit to how much vitamin C your body can absorb in a day, and I'll likely just pee out most of the nutrients and be left with a natural sugar high).

This then is what I did. It took me about 20 minutes to quarter the oranges and hand-squeeze them into a latte bowl. My right hand is now a bit sore from the process. Those five oranges yielded about 10 ounces of juice (I'm sure they could have yielded an ounce or so more had I used a proper juicer, but we haven't got one.). Once I'd cleaned up the peal and washed the utensils (I actually do like to keep the kitchen clean, and I prefer to clean up the bowls and pots and knives and so on immediately after I use them, so that I can eat without thinking of the mess that's left.) I took up the bowl of juice and took a first sip. It was quite a different experience from drinking that stuff from concentrate. More tart, and less soupy. That is, the juice itself had clarity, not that murky, thick, yellow cream that you get from those tetra-paks. I told myself to take it easy, to enjoy it, but within a minute I'd finished it all. As I write this I believe it's been about an hour since I drank it all and rinsed the bowl, dried it, and put it away.

Anyway, back to your book. I sure like Nietzsche too. And women, although I'm no lothario, like Moshe. I'm no philosopher or academic either. I have read a bit from most of the guys Moses discusses, but I think I'll have to read a lot more before I can write the sorts of letters you had your man Moses put down. About that letter-writing thing: it sure let you show off a bit eh? You could name drop authors and ideas with impunity. You create this brilliant, peripheral, enigmatic, and off-balance scholar, and you just get into his head and let him go! Great idea. You're a bit of a show off to do it though, don't you think? Nah. I know. I'm just jealous. Fair enough. I should be reading more. I could blame the internets for their time-sucking abilities, but that would only be an admission of failure. No, I just have to accept the words that come for me these days. And there are a few of them you know. They're waiting to get out. Every single one.

PK

Gettin' it on!

So to celebrate my new Aries-ness we went out tonight. You know. The typical Friday night shtick where you show up at someone's place, preferably the place of someone who's had the moxie, or the sense, to invite you, and you bring something to drink or eat or whatever, but you definitely have to bring something to sweeten the pot, and then you spend the night consuming and laughing (all going well) at each other. And these days you add to that the wonder of it all with Rockband or Wii and you truly have what some might consider, an other-worldly moment, or a series thereof.

This night though, we brought eggs. 12 of them. In a carton. And I don't care that, in writing this, I've just broken a bunch of rules of grammar grossly. It is what it is. We brought eggs. Not wine (we did have a bottle on hand and although it was out on the counter ready to go, the eggs won the day because we decided to be iconoclasts - that's this Aries thing kickin' in - bringin' the eggs!), but eggs. These eggs were not a dozen of the store bought variety. No, we weren't that weird. These were brown, organic (whatever the **** that means these days) eggs, from free (as free as Rhode Island red and black hens can be in a henhouse in the dead of a Manitoba winter in January can be) range hens that M tends all year long, on our own property! (I attribute all of this parenthetical explanational crapola to the revised New American Standard Bible* that I read as a 16 year old, which reveled in the hyper-layers of explanation long before hyper-text, and in which it took damn near an hour to read John 14. Ah, those were the formative days.)

Yes. Eggs. Brown ones. No wine. We showed up with eggs. The eggs that M had collected that morning from the very chickens that had, not more than 24 hours ago held inside their "beings". These eggs were, as they say, the shit. So it goes.

Still, we drank the wine that the others brought. We ate the crackers and cheese. The dips. The chips. The choco-whatchamacallits. But that didn't change the fact that when we got home we had a dozen fewer eggs in the house, and one more bottle of wine than I'd expected, because one of us suggested that we could be unique - different - and bring eggs to the hors d' oeuvres party.

Yup! You can see that Aries shiznat kickin' in I tellz ya. It's gonna be crazy over here for a few weeks before things settle out! You just watch.

Ride report

in: -15'C wind 10 ks SE

out: -14'C wind 15 ks NNW

(another near perfect day - except for the abundance of fresh snow, which made it superb!)

*I've been reminded by my bro (see comments) that the version I read was the Amplified Bible (a version of the NASB).

I'm an Aries!

Just yesterday, if you'd asked, and I'd have thought you were serious, in a stupid sort of way, I'd have said I was a Taurus. I'd have told you that that means that I'm caring, stable & headstrong, a bit possessive, that I thrive on routine and stability, love the finer things in life, and though I can be affectionate, I am stubborn. And you'd have agreed, for the most part. You might have smirked at the headstrong and stubborn parts, and winced at the caring and affectionate parts, but otherwise you'd have gone with it. I have always been proud to say that I am Taurus, the bull!

But as a result of astronomers who "have restored the original Babylonian zodiac by recalculating the dates that correspond with each sign to accommodate millennia of subtle shifts in the Earth's axis" it appears that I am now an Aries. Which, apparently, means that I am energetic, verbal, impulsive, sure of where I stand, and generally living passionately in the moment. Really? I'm experiencing a minor (perhaps major) personality paradigm shift. I'm reconsidering the very core of my being. I have not been who I thought I was. I've been wrong to be so caring and sure of myself. I should have been out there dancing and doing whatever comes to mind. I should have been seeking to suck the marrow out of life!

Sorry. Looks like I've got to get going! I've got some lost living to catch up on. Some of you will be in the same position, so if you've already stopped reading to get on with it, you have my blessing and understanding. Carpe Diem!

Ride report:

in: -15'C wind 8 ks SE

out: -12'C wind 5 ks NW

(what a good day!)

Tough losses

So somedays you're in the third end and you're up by five and you think, well we'll be done in four. So you relax and bit, and, well, that was your first mistake. Because by the end of the fifth end you're up by three. Still, you think, we've got this in hand if we just keep it together. (Warning: If you hear yourself saying this, you are about to experience a "tough loss.")

So you do in fact pull it together for a little and you take one (even though you have the hammer) in the sixth. It's six three and you're feeling a little better. How bad can it be now? Well, you scramble and play half-shots and end up ceding three in the seventh, and low and behold, hammer or not, you're coming home tied.

So it starts out a little shakey in that eighth and final end, but it starts to shape up and, though it's down to the last shot, you think, hope springs eternal. Well. It shouldn't. You've got to get a better grip on what's possible and what isn't. The momentum of the night says it all.

Ride report

in: -16'C wind 5 ks NW

out: -15'C wind calm

I need a softer word

oh my darkness

oh my darling my pain

oh my heartless, my emptiness

please come again

on a stormy night hold me again

oh my darkness

I pray for loneliness

I need a softer word

oh my heartless, my emptiness

make me your loveliness

though you may have heard

oh my darkness

of my rough caress

of the edges I have blurred

oh my heartless, my emptiness

the lover I’d love for less

what have you overheard

of the darkness

oh my heartless, my emptiness?

The ride report:

in: -19'C wind NNW 10 ks

out: -12'C wind NW 5 ks

Night skiing

Tonight, for the first time, M and I, together with Steve, drove out to the Burwalde Woods Trails for their Monday night ski. Steve lent me a headlamp (required equipment) and M borrowed one from the neighbour across the way (we're going to have to invest in a couple of these) and we headed out on a half-moonlit night of silent-swishing down the trails.

This was a fantastic experience. Other-worldly really. During daylight there's so much to look at, that you can forget about the mechanics of your body's work. At night the beam of light focuses you on the trail, and you find yourself much more aware of your body's balances and imbalances. You can see and feel immediately when you're off line. And when you get into a rhythm, focusing on the trail and your movement, it's really a trip.

Gord, Steve, and I skied the creek trail (10 ks) and the main trail (4ish ks) twice. Then we headed over to the warming shack for drinks and snacks and good times with the others. There were about 15 of us there, and in the warmth of the woodstove heated hut ... what, really, could be better. Phil keeps the trails in great shape, and they were quick today, with a dusting of fresh snow to make them pretty.

We'll do this again next week!

What else is there to do now, though?

Reason and emotion have failed him at the core. Sure, he uses them to navigate the worlds of town and home and father and work, but nothing holds him. He floats above it. Watches himself smile, drive, pay, prepare, talk, even weep, but it is all without tether. He recalls that poem that his high school English teacher made them read. No one understood it. The smart-alec kids asked immediately why the poet didn’t write it in English, and the teacher’s eyes rolled into the back of her head. She sighed. She told them that Yeats did this and that and he is recognized widely as a great this and that by so and so, and none of them really cared, except that she kept talking, and they didn’t really have to listen because it wasn’t notes and it wasn’t about the poem. Then she’d changed her tone of voice, and they all knew she was heading into teaching mode. They’d been surprised and quizzed before by her after just such a switch. They’d learned that she was about to deliver right then, along with one- or two-word outbursts on the whiteboard.

He remembers the quiz that came the next day. The one question that he knew he could answer. The only one that he wanted to answer that whole semester, maybe that whole grade 12 year: If Yeats were asking you his question, “And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches toward Bethlehem to be born?” what would be your answer? He can see the question clear and still in front of him, but he cannot recall his own answer. He would go to it now to reread it. To see where he stood then when he had the time and innocence necessary to make the call. But he and his friends had, on one of those final nights of revels, howled at the darkened heavens and, as though they were in fact Irish Catholic boys liberated from the shackles of institution and creed, burned their notes and that quiz answer with them. He remembers that she’d liked his answer. That she’d given him full marks for it. As he tossed his papers on the fire he’d, through his drunken haze, had a moment of hesitation. The memory of the teacher’s smile as she hands you your work and tells you it was good, and you, then, in that moment can feel the weight of the world on your shoulders, and not mind it.

More, you cry then. More weight.

Girls with tattoos. Whew.

So I've heard about girls with tattoos. I'm told some of them (the tattoos) are in places you can't see unless you really know someone. That's kind of the case with The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. That and a lot of angst and anger and killing. Of women. By men. Rapists and Nazis (usually both, actually), to be exact. Which is what men are, if they're not good men. But you knew that already.

This is one of those movies, like The Da Vinci Code, that's based on a thriller of massive pulp paperback proportions. This is also one of those stories in which, as with the Harry Potter series, the heroes get the kind of breaks and deals that make you shake your head and understand more completely why you're a boring old high school teacher, and they're not. Sure they have to pay for those breaks with the odd beating or public shaming, but when they need a break, it comes, even when nobody expected it, or could possibly figure out how it could possibly, remotely, fall into your lap. Like maybe you're a wizard and you can just camp out in a multi-level tent with a chaise lounge, or you're so damn interesting as a journalist that some genius, formerly psychotic, presently computer-hacker, killer girl with a photographic memory (and a pretty substantial tattoo that she lets you "see" a few times (but that's later on in the movie, and it too just falls onto, uh, into, uh, well it ends up on your, uh, lap ... a couple of times) hacks your code and then ends up helping you, in so many ways, crack the case you've been hired, by the richest guy in all of Sweden (of course) to solve. And what is that case? A missing 16 year old niece that was the "apple of his eye" (he actually says that ... in the movie).

Well of course they solve the case. Of course the Nazi brother has trained his blue-eyed (and blue-sweatered) Nazi son to do it, to his own daughter, and to a gallery (?) of other girls - who mean nothing to him, whose eyes he loves to watch as they understand they're going to die, who is so wildly inventive in his so rarely evil ways, that one wonders that if the author of the novel wasn't taken into custody for a year of observation, the murder count in Sweden might decrease. Did I mention that the villain was a Nazi? That his other brother was a Nazi? And the other one too? (But not the brother that hired the hero, who's just a bit surprised when the hero "digs up" via one search on the interwebs that all three of his brothers were Nazis.) By the way, did I mention that the bad guys were Nazis?

Yes. I think the writing (of the movie - I haven't read the novel, but I may give it a shot just to justify this rant - it's been a few years since I forced myself through The Da Vinci Code, so I might have regained control of my gag reflex) here is crap. Yes. I note that a male author "creates" a dark, distant, dangerous, competent, attractive, randomly horny female main character as his fantasy. Yes. I note that the author was a journalist, just as his male lead character is a journalist. Yes. I note that the best thing you can do for your career is to pursue the rich and corrupt bad guy, endure a framing by said bad guy, for that will bring you another offer from a rich guy who you, without reservation, will trust is not corrupt or bad, because he's got tons of cash to throw at you, if you can solve his problem. Yes. That means that the little guys are still running around doing what the rich guys want because, somehow, the rich guys can't do any damn thing on their own. And yes. I note that the bad guys were Nazis. Again.

Really! Who wants to think up these things ... and then write them down? Okay okay, you're saying, PK, you're a writer. You ought to understand these impulses. You ought to see the art in it. The endeavour to translate even the most difficult aspects of the human condition into story so that we may more fully understand ourselves and one another. Yeah. You're right. I am interested in that. But that's not what Mr. Larsson gives us. He gives us a villain that we hardly know, except by what he does. And we only know that he does the worst sorts of things and ... did I mention that he was a Nazi? Like his Dad? Wow. That is breathtakingly inventive insight into the central conundrum of the human condition. I can't tell you how many times I struggle, daily in fact, with these inner urges to ... I'll stop there.

Except for one thing. That girl with the tattoo? Whew!

The ride report

in: -21'C wind 30+ks NNW

out: -18'C wind 40+ks NNW

It doesn't seem to matter

How long was your holiday?

Mine was a generous 14 days.

Should've been a rest bonanza right?

Right.

It was.

Not that that matters.

The first day back is still tiring.

My voice, my enthusiasm, my patience.

On the up side, we just booked our flights to France!

I'm going to ride Mt Ventoux in April!

Watch your ass Lance!

The ride report

in: -22'C, wind 10 ks SSE

out: -15'C, wind 5 ks SE

Several Canadian moments

Today is the last day of Christmas holidays, and for me, the first day of the second round of the curling season. This is Canadian enough. Before playing in our first game of this new year, my rink was on duty to help prepare and serve the fishfry that happens once a month throughout the winter. In Altona, a fishfry involves copious pounds of pickeral (Walleye) fillets (bought by Terry, our intrepid curling club dude, in person in Gimli, which means the fish came out of Lake Winnipeg, and they are excellent) breaded and pan-fried, and battered and deep-fried, along with vats of spicy red beans, french fries, coleslaw, tartar sauce and the other requisite condiments, water, coffee, and, of course, iced tea. For $14 you get a paper plate and right to wait in line and load up as many times as you want. People come from several miles away, in all manner of weather, for this fine repast. The line-up stretches on and on for about 90 minutes, and our curling club brings in a tidy profit, and people walk away startlingly full. Today one of the local doctors was indeed on the premises to ensure that, should there be any stoppages, a professional could offer service. This event is, quite simply, a marvel of community and good eating times. Coming into the town's Community Hall - wherein you've attended numerous socials and grad banquets and company dinners on various occasions - from the windy-white cold of a Canadian winter (of the Manitoban variety) brings a warmth that really escapes language. You smile and nod at most people. You talk to a few. You sit and share ketchup. You stand up to get your friend a coffee. Or you walk over and buy a monstrous chunk of cheesecake from another local group fundraising. It is, as they say, all good!

From there I headed over to the curling rink to get dressed for the game. We were a conflicted bunch however, because tonight the Junior team was playing Russia in the World Junior Hockey finals. We could play hard and extend the game to eight ends, or throw bricks and head up to the lounge to watch the game, drink beers, and eat leftover fish. Oh the magnitude of the decisions! As we are Canadians, we compromised. We did both. And, in all-Canadian fashion, it all ended up sucking a bit because of it. That is, we as good as threw the game (lost 9 (give or take) to 2 in six ends) and then headed up to catch the last two minutes of a game that Canada lost 5 to 3 in the third period. Classic! Up by three with 18 minutes to play and they can't hold the lead.

You want to know why? Canadians win at losing! Those Canadian boys, each and every one of them, knew that when the game was over, win or lose, they were going to be able to go to a bar, or to a home, and sit down and have a drink and a great supper, with great people who, though a little cranky about a stinker of a performance on the ice, would eventually get over it and just be interested in having a good time together. They played badly, because they were already thinking of the party they'd have after the game. And deep down, they knew that they would party regardless of whether or not they won the game. Because Canadians know that being together (and eating and playing and laughing and talking and so on) is what it's all about.

It's kind of Canadian to, inevitably, not care whether you win or lose. (Even though a lot of people are going to point out that we usually care a lot about whether we win at hockey, and they'd be right, but there are a lot of other areas in which Canadians get over their losing and move right on to partying like they've won: the UN security council, Afghanistan, US trade relations, most summer Olympics sports, soccer, baseball, golf, football, and so on.) We're okay with losing, because we'd rather get along and have a drink together, than win and be jerks alone. We win at doing stuff together! Socials, fishfries, curling clubs, bicycle clubs, healthcare, shivering. Win-win. Lose-win. What's the difference?

Tomorrow the daily ride to work begins again! Whoohoo!

Zuckerberg: the new Holden

Part 1 - The ass
The "biopic" The Social Network begins with a scene involving the "geek/asshole" protagonist (ostensibly Mark Zuckerberg) and his generous girlfriend, Erica Albright. Though the geek/asshole seeks to expose his genius and inherent intellectual advantage, he exposes himself as a jerk. Cut.

(For the record this film is well-written, well-shot, and well-acted. I will take that for granted, and thus not provide critical analysis of those elements as elements. I will refer to the film as a bona fide, quality piece of art that speaks to its (our) time and place.)

This film is about America and the ideas of Americans today. I accept that, for all intents and purposes, when I say "America and the ideas of Americans" I am also speaking of those in the whole world who aspire to have what America has and admire the ideas of Americans, and have the means to acquire/imitate them. The backdrop I propose for this film about this America is Salinger's novel about post-war America, The Catcher in The Rye. There are interesting parallels to explore.

For example, the novel The Catcher in The Rye opens (at least in the first six chapters) with a scene involving the disaffected protagonist and the naive mother of a classmate. Though Holden seeks to manipulate this woman in order to entertain himself, he exposes himself as a liar (and a jerk).

Here's a crucial difference. Holden admits he's an ass. He knows he's an ass. He's an ass on purpose. Zuckerberg, on the other hand, doesn't really seem to see his assholishness until the final conversation of the movie, in which one of his lawyers points out to him that he's not really an ass, he's just a nice guy trying very hard to be one (an ass).

What does this difference indicate? Self-awareness. Holden understands himself as an agent in the world. He understands that his actions will have effects on other people. Sure he spends some time trying to deceive them, but that's because he understands that he will hurt them if he's honest. Holden has passed completely through Lacan's mirror stage and understands the reality of his flesh and blood embodiment in the world. He knows that in order to satisfy himself, he may well hurt others, and so he tries to minimize the damage to others just as much as he tries to increase the pleasure for himself. Often, in fact, he allows himself to be hurt, in order to mitigate the discomfort of others. (Think of his encounters with the following: Stradlater, the nuns, the prostitute, Antolini, Phoebe.)

Now consider Zuckerberg. He seems not to care - perhaps isn't aware enough to care - what effect his actions have on those around him. When he does hurt others, he either seems surprised at the reaction, or he downplays it as weakness and self-interest (theirs). (Think of his encounters with, and the effects caused by, the following: Erica Albright, facemash, Eduardo Saverin, the Winklevosses.) He does not put himself in their shoes. He may have begun to pass through the mirror-stage, but he's stalled at the point at which he can imagine himself in the place of others. He's stalled without empathy. He does not care about the effect of himself on others in the world. If he sees himself in others in the world, it's only that he sees it as an Hobbesian war of all against all and he better get his, before anyone else does.

If Holden was a quintessential young American of his time, what he told us was that Americans were liars, but they were principled. He told us that they worried about what others thought. He told us that they had ideals, but that the ideals were crumbling and it was hard to keep on caring, even though you knew you should. He told us that, despite his complaints and attitude, they still believed in the centrality of relationship and an honest sense of self (the ideal of non-phoniness).

If Zuckerberg is a quintessential young American today, what he tells us is that Americans are self-serving and fame hungry. He tells us that they don't care what others think, as long as they get what they want. He tells us that they don't care about ideals, only about what works best for me (the individual). They tell us that despite their confidence and bravado, they are desperately lonely and unfulfilled. They want friends, but they don't know how to get them.

Which brings us to the next installment of this piece (perhaps tomorrow, perhaps not).

Part 2 - Desperate for the girl

Song for a Christmas Past

(In which the speaker belies the wonder of his own experience of seasonal bliss, as evidenced in the family picture appearing just below said yuletide cynicism - Merry Happy Joyous to One and All Greetings!)

What time of the year
is it? They ask us all
from houses of glass and wonder
Their Cameron Diaz eyes
lording it over us
all winking, blinking, nodding
in pantomime sincerity:
Give to us
So that we
May give too
Oh please, you wondrous holy host of the world!
You!
You who are our valentines of peace
If only just this once
your prevision would be ours
you too would see
that the world can be
saved by money
and insincerity
For ours is the kingdom
the power
and the glory
forever and ever.
Amen.