Spring Collection [Recall]

Sorry all, but I hit the publish button too early and posted an incomplete and misleading version of the content below. Here is the correct version, addendum and changes in green. Please accept my apologies.

Intense Vanity Spring Collection 2006

Glasses—frame by Ray-Ban, lenses by Lenscrafter, $400, covered by the wife's health care plan, so $0
Vest—by Old Navy, approximately $20
Long-sleeve tee—by Roots, $1 from Value Village
Pants—by Old Navy, approximately $10
Watch—by La-Swiss, $69, the name says Swiss, but actually made in Japan. From the La-Swiss discount display
Cross trainers—by New Balance, 2E (wide) because that was the only width on clearance

Hair—by Vi, of Magicuts
Car—by Subaru, five years old with 60 000km
Location—Vancouver, West of Kingsway (by two blocks)

[All of the above are true, honest. As for what follows, if you know me at all, you can probably figure out the veracity of each statement for yourself.]

Time spent loathing oneself in mirror per workday —0.5 hours

Time spent flexing muscles in front of mirror per weekend day —1 hour

"Put a skirt around a chair, hey, I'm interested."
"I judge you by the books on your shelves."
"$15 to get your hair done? Ppppffffff, it better have included a body 'rub.'"

Sunday, Live At The Storyeum

Shaula has now joined the in-crowd at her school: we bought her a pair of wheel shoes Friday similar to these, except the wheels retract rather than pop off. They are the rage among kids of all ages.

I have some safety concerns, but given that Shaula's pretty adept on her scooter and ice skates, and we're not letting her take the shoes to school, she should be okay. As of today, she's still klutzing around.

We had dinner at Taisho. I think Shaula didn't care much for the tuna sashimi as I ended up eating nine-tenths of it. The service was lacklustre and the Chef's Box "B" was cold, so no more visits there.

My knees grew weak Saturday and I bought another La-Swiss watch. We were headed to Kerrisdale for the spring "Kerrisdale Days" which features a sidewalk sale, outdoor bands, pony rides, free balloons, popcorn and carousel ride. But it began to rain, so, surprise surprise, we ended up in a mall, first Oakridge Centre, then Richmond Centre.

Let me state outright that I avoid Oakridge whenever I can. Yesterday was an exception. The place has changed. There's a beautiful, just beautiful Tommy Bahama store where Club Monaco used to be. I looked around, balked at the $145 short-sleeve shirts, and left. Nearby, signage on two boarded-up storefronts announce the impending arrival of BCBGMAXAZRIA and Coach. Abercrombie and Fitch left years ago, but I'm sure they'd survive as a tenant with the recent influx of higher-end stores. Zellers is the odd man out. I also checked out the new La Coste store but left in a hurry from sticker shock.

We had lunch at Richmond Centre. I bought some clothes at Sears, and then the watch, pictured above. Super big face with a broad black leather band. Macho man material.

On Sunday, I walked 14 laps at the track, still nursing my calf. That's a 400 calorie burn. Betty, Matthew, Shaula, and my brother and I went to Storyeum Gastown. The British Columbia Live Underground show (live performers, impressive underground stages) was okay; "a little too musical and corny" was how my bro' described it. Worth seeing once. The Dinosaurs in Gastown exhibit was small. At $15 adult admission, probably disappointing for some, but Matthew and I happen to like dinosaurs. The life-size animatronic T. Rex was definitely impressive. The thing is huge, one T. Rex thigh could supply a small banquet, and it sure had one large bung hole. Pictures were allowed, but I unfortunately left the camera in the car.

It's hard to put myself in Matthew's little shoes, being an adult and no longer capable of being awed by such things. I hope it has a lasting impression on Matthew, perhaps steer him to the sciences.

The gift shop had "authentic" dinosaur teeth, meaning in this case, cast from a real fossil find. See picture above. I asked the Dinosaurs in Gastown host whether they had gingko tree fossils, favourite food of many of the gargantuan plant-eaters, on display. They didn't, only ferns and horsetails, but he did say that there was a live gingko across the corner from the steam clock. We checked it out and then went to Starbucks.

I Should

Somebody I know especially liked the heading "15. I SHOULD" from the chapter titled "My Life Underwater" in Nicole Krauss' The History Of Love. The following words are those of teenager Alma Singer, and read:

I SHOULD
Get out more, join some clubs. I should buy some new clothes, dye my hair blue . . . I should develop some useful skills like public speaking, electric cello, or welding, . . . find a hero that is not a man who wrote a children's book and crashed his plane . . .

Come to think of it, the passage means a lot to me as well. It's a match to light the fuse that brings down one more wall of inhibition, and let in one more breezy aspect of life. Douglas Coupland reckons that a person needs seven hundred years to experience a full, rich life, but he notes sadly, that we all die with a 630 year deficit. In other words, it's a prod for us to get off our asses, to let go, to make good our short lives. A recognition of the need to fight the fear and improve ourselves. With so much to see, hear, taste, it's almost criminal for a thinking and free mind to do otherwise.

The other meaning I get from the excerpt has to with self-loathing, the "looking at oneself in the mirror and then shaking one's head in disgust" type. The embarking on some sort of self-improvement binge, yet again, type of loathing. Symptons include dieting. Working out at the gym. The compilation of invariably half-fulfilled to-do lists. Taking the nth stab at being beautiful.

***

Thanks, Ms. Krauss, for those words, for making public our private battles.

***

My Short Term To-Do List

• Eat toro. My daughter Shaula and I are really starting to like sashimi, especially salmon and prawns. We've graudated from the teriyaki and maki rolls. We're going to try tuna this weekend. Granted, I've had toro [fatty fresh tuna] sushi before, prepared by none other than Hidekazu Tojo, creator of the California Roll, but this was way back when he was working at the Soft Rock Café on West Fourth in Kitsilano. The raw factor was a little overwhelming though, because it was also the first time this small-town boy had ever eaten Japanese—instant noodles excluded. Since then, I've steered clear of tuna, but it's time to give it another try.
  
  All of this culinary adventure (including a maki cone called the "Magnum", a tribute to, and favourite of, Tom Selleck) was compliments of a well-off engineering classmate, who, as it turned out later, was trying to get me to write one of his papers. I believe he was in his seventh year of a five year undergrad program.
• Eat at Vij's, Go Fish, Banana Leaf, Feenie's, West, Wing Nuts, Shiro.
• Donate my tax refund to charity. I'm still researching to whom. Not as easy as one would think.
• Run 10K in under 60:00.
• Lose ten pounds and weigh 150 lbs. I have lost 5.5 lbs so far.
• Catch Mike Stern, Bobby Hutcherson, Paquito D'Rivera, and Neko Case at the Vancouver International Jazz Festival.
• Commit an act of random kindness.

To create and fulfill a life-changing, high-octane to-do list (i. e., not the list above) requires a precipitating event. But nothing of that sort in my life right now.

***

On completely unrelated matters, Matthew gave a hair sample at preschool Monday, as part of a "Population Patterns of Hair Zinc in Preschoolers" survey. Tomorrow, Shaula and her classmates get to ride on a tugboat on the Fraser River.

Stupid Thoughts

Lifted from The Ultimate Page of Stupidity.

1. Not all men are stupid, some are still single.
2. I'm not intending to imply insult or judgment here but I am curious to know in order to be able to respond to your posts in an appropriate manner, so please forgive what appears to be, but in fact is not intended as, an insulting question: Are you stupid? - Melinda Shore
3. It is one of the blessings of old friends that you can afford to be stupid with them. - Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882)
4. A lot of beautiful people are stupid. There's a tremendous amount of idiots who look so good. It's frightening. - Dean Cain
5. There are problems in today's world that cannot be solved by the level of thinking that created them. - Albert Einstein (1879-1955)
6. I don’t know what makes you so stupid, but it really works.
7. USER, n.: The word computer professionals use when they mean "idiot". - Dave Barry

The Sun Run

I am still hurting from Sunday's Sun Run.

----

I tore my left achilles tendon or calf muscle five weeks ago. Doctor's orders to stop training for the run and to rest. Betty continued with her runs, but going no further than 6K.

So it was with heavy hearts that Betty and I decided to walk the 10K course this year just to get a lay of the land—to see how difficult the two bridges and hills were. This is a new course. I wore runners, walking pants, a long sleeve Coolmax top, sunglasses, and had my camera bag with me.

It was a glorious day, warm, windless, the nicest weather so far this year. Even though we signed up in the joggers division, we lined up with the walkers, behind the joggers, runners, fast runners, and the elite groups. For the past few years participants have been starting in staggered waves, unlike the 1997 Sun Run (our only other Sun Run), thanks to the adoption of timing chips. This gave me ample time to realize that all was not lost.

I decided that Betty should run. To go for it and do me proud. That it would make me happy. She was reluctant to leave me behind, but at the starting line, 55 minutes after the first wave, off she went. Her time was 61 minutes, 10 minutes better than her 1997 performance. That's a really good time given that we had arrived with no intention of running and expecting to clock in at 90 minutes to two hours. She could've no doubt run a sub-60:00 had she had me along to pace her, worn a chronograph, and started in an earlier wave to avoid all the purported runners who ended up walking and littering the course.

As for me, I ran the first 2K with Betty, the last 2K, up and down the lengths of both bridges, and in between. I walked the rest. It amounted to an interval workout: run, walk, run, walk, etc. My finish time was 74 minutes, 3 minutes slower than 1997, but pretty impressive given that I walked half the course, and ran the other half in street clothes and with a camera bag. My calf/tendon held up to the punishment but my knees hurt in a bad way (probably my poor biomechanics).

I bought a New Balance jacket and a Timex heart monitor watch at the post-run booths in BC Place Stadium. We then made our way to Robson Street to do some shopping. Joy MacPhail walked past me on Georgia Street.

I produce a lot of lactic acid, especially in the thighs, after an intense workout whenever I resume that activity after a month or a month-and-a-half hiatus, as is the case here. And thus the current agony and limp and extensive use of elevators. The knees still hurt too.

I ended up not taking any pictures. I'll check the official photographer's website to see if they have good shots of us worthy of posting here.

Betty barely broke into a sweat. She said that our regular training runs are more strenuous. This bodes well for next year.

[Updated. I've included a photo, the dude with the sunglasses and pants, top middle]

Spring Collection

Intense Vanity Spring Collection 2006

Glasses—frame by Ray-Ban, lenses by Lenscrafter
Vest—by Old Navy
Long-sleeve tee—by Roots
Pants—by Old Navy
Watch—by La-Swiss
Cross trainers—by New Balance

Hair—by Vi
Car—by Subaru
Location—Vancouver, West

Time spent admiring oneself in mirror per workday —4.5 hours

Time spent admiring oneself in mirror per weekend day —14.2 hours

"If you're not a 10 out of 10, I won't talk to you."
"I judge you by your clothes."
"$15 to get your hair done? Ppppffffff, that's what I pay in tips."

Heard & Seen at the Corner of Robson & Thurlow

A large pickup truck heading westbound rigged with a platform at the front and monitoring equipment in the open-canopied back. One man on the platform operating the camera, two men in the cab, and two more in the back, a total of five.

Choppers in front of and burly men seated outside of the Starbucks on the S.W. corner of the intersection.

A wheelchair bound Asian man in his seventies swaddled in dark clothing listening to his iPod.

Two ladies in front of Banana Republic talking about The Hell's Angels.

A twenty-something guy wearing jeans and a red graphic tee shirt, captioned at the top with "I'd Rather Be", and below a map of Australia, the words "Down Under".

A thin 50-ish First Nations male with a single feather in his cowboy hat mentioning something about NASCAR to his female companion.

A very rotund man in his early twenties wearing an orange shirt heading east along Robson, a book visible through the translucent Chapters bag in hand.

A young man, maybe 19, smiles at me as I take a seat beside him in a store. He's waiting for his girlfriend, I my wife.

--------------------------

What music? Which book?

Single or lonely? Out of love or in?

What did they have for dinner and with whom?

I swear, sometimes it's like taking a walk in the woods.

Day Before The Sun Walk

Woke up at 7:30. Betty went out for her run at 8:00AM so that I could make it to the gym by 9:00. I was planning to post a blog entry about the Man in the Station Wagon (forthcoming), so I take the camera with me and head out. The wagon was in its usual spot at the community centre parking lot. I snap two shots, careful to hide the licence plate. The Man was probably out for a walk. It's a beautiful day, blossoms afire.

I purchase a fitness centre drop-in wristband from Julie at the front desk. I comment that she had on the same blue-on-black jacquard sweater as the last time I saw her. That must have been last Saturday, she says. I say no, you've probably been wearing that top every day. With a smile (I think she had a smile), she tosses the wristband to me. I miss and it lands on the floor.

I'm lifting weights now. I was intially intimidated by some of the equipment but I've got the hang of it. No barbells, just the machines for now, but I'm going to start a vigorous/rigorous dumbbell routine next week.

I upped the weight on the deltoid device today, from 100 to 112.5 lbs, and did two sets of eight reps. Because I can't grip the bar well with my left hand, my right side bore most of the weight, and as a result, I ended up twisting my back. A bit of pain even as I write this.

When I got home, camera still on my person, I took a picture of a squirrel in the backyard. Then I keyed in info for our seventh and last tax return. After lunch we drove to Richmond to look check out a neighbourhood on co-worker J.'s advice. For supper, I carbo-loaded on spaghetti; tomorrow's the Sun Run.

Trust

A&B Sound had a sale over the Easter long weekend. 20% off all CDs other than the ones they already had on special: the two for $15 special, the two for $25 special, and the buy Two-Top-20-Albums-And-Save-$2 special. When I went to pay, I was a little concerned about being overcharged since I had CDs from all of the above categories and had reservations that the items wouldn't be paired up correctly. I was told not to worry, and to trust the computer to figure things out.

It was while we were on our way to Watermania in Richmond that I looked at the receipt and realized that I had been charged full price for four of the CDs. So much for trust.

So I dropped by A&B on the way home (luckily, the store was en route) to get a price adjustment, lined up at the till with only my receipt, was then sent by the cashier to the record department to get assistance from the manager, and then had to line up again to for the correction, accompanied by somebody from the record department who had grabbed the four titles from the shelves for scanning. The record department person told the cashier what to do, but the cashier couldn't figure out how to do the refund, which included crediting the CDs and then rescanning them along with a special discount barcode. So the record department chick took over, fiddled around a while, and managed to credit me the amount owed and handed me the four CDs. She couldn't understand why I didn't want them. If you recall, I walked in with only my receipt (well, okay, with my clothes on, too, otherwise there would've been a riot). My copies of the four CDs were in the car.

So, here I am, polishing my own apple:
I was honest enough to not leave the store with the four "free" CDs. Talk about trust!

So, here I am, polishing somebody else's apple:
A co-worker found $40 at the local Quiznos and left the money and contact information—in case nobody claimed the money—with an employee.

The co-worker, after several attempts, finally got in touch with the restaurant manager, and was told by the manager that he was keeping the money because it was found on his premises. Sheesh, so much for doing the right thing! Sometimes you just can't put your trust in others. People can be so infuriating.

[Jacqueline du Pré: A Lasting Inspiration; a 20% off CD from A&B Sound]

Dead Dog Chew

My parents speak a variant of Cantonese known as Taishan. Taishan is to Cantonese as Hillbilly is to English, missing teeth and all. I suppose each culture has its unique arsenal of cuss words and expressions, but I figure Taishan/Cantonese is right up there at the pinnacle.

In English, there's the litany of mother* insults, and expressions like "Your father has your cheap sister on his breath." and so on. But Taishan is different in that insults are part of the normal vernacular. (There's one very oft used expression that I simply cannot bring myself to post here. You hear the cooks in the back of every dumpy greasy spoon Chinese restaurant saying it.)

An example. A Japanese person in Taishan is a Japan boy. Boy because we want to draw attention to their shorter stature and because it indentures them. A first nations or Indian or Italian or practically any other ethnic group or person is always suffixed with ghoul or bastard, so it's "that Italian bastard" or "caucasian ghoul." Give that caucasian ghoul a beer, that'll keep him happy, was something I heard said all the time.

The older generation I've been around often refers to individuals as that "goddamn runaway slut" or that "damn smelly pig", so much so that I as a kid never knew these people's real names. I would say matter-of-factly to my relatives, "oh, I saw the goddamn smelly pig's daughter today" without meaning to make a derogatory statement.

Now that I'm older, I still make these same remarks, but I also laugh really hard ;-)

Back to the dog chew, the title of this post. The equivalent to goddamn/damn as used above, in Taishan, is dead. So a dead dog chew corresponds to damn/goddamn dog chew. My mother taught me this put down Saturday. She said it was a favourite snub of a close relative, for her own daughter.

During the Vietnam War and World War II, when the Japanese, er, make that Japan boys, raped China, a lot of unclaimed bodies were left to rot. A dead dog chew is thus the rotting human flesh scavenged by hungry dogs.

Come to think of it, I'm starting to think it's my damn mean [these are my words] relatives, and not the Taishan dialect, who are the authors of these kick in the teeths ... wait a minute, that'll explain all the missing teeth.

Elgin Estates Whine

Yesterday was spent driving around South Surrey and Ocean Park. We are looking for a house. Our first choice remains S.E. Vancouver, where our parents and most of my and Betty's siblings live. Hey, free and good daycare for the kids. Short commute for both of us, and good bus routes. Unfortunately, the going price in this part of town is $700 000. The secondary school catchment boundaries guarantee at best an average school, and most likely a subpar one.

We're both comfortable with Richmond—it's central, close to work, will soon get the train to downtown Vancouver, and the people don't look like they call New Westminster home ;-), though Steveston is a bit far south. So, Richmond is a possibility, depsite crashing planes, tsunamis and liquefaction from earthquakes. The place is ugly though.

South Surrey around Elgin Park and mabe Ocean Park are do-able, but, the commute is going to kill us, not to mention yanking the kids from their current schools, making arrangements for daycare for Matthew (and having to pay for it) and out of school care for Shaula. And then a new piano teacher, and probably different places for skating and swimming. Did I mention that Betty hates driving and I hate driving in the rain when it's dark, which is a good part of the year. And the two of us won't be able to just drop the kids off at the grandparents' to go to the gym or out for a jog. The grandparents will miss the kids. The secondary school catchment boundaries guarantee a good school.

Whine: End

[The Flaming Lips: At War With The Mystics]

Tax Break

A patient says, "Doctor, last night I made a Freudian slip, I was having dinner with my mother-in-law and wanted to say: 'Could you please pass the butter?' "But instead I said: 'You silly cow, you have completely ruined my life.'"

Actually, my mother-in-law is nice. But I thought I'd post this joke before I clean out and delete some of my old email.

Betty and I have now done six returns, most recently ours. We are both getting refunds. Just one more to go. We still have to do my brother-in-law's, which is a task, given the mound of T5s and T3s and stock trades.

There was this epsiode of The Larry Sanders Show guest starring David Duchovny. Larry Sanders (Garry Shandling) is a fictitious talk show host who interviews real guests, so Duchovny was starring as himself. In this epsiode, Duchovny was still smarting from having been recently "bumped" by Leno and Letterman, meaning that the interviews before him ran over the allotted time, cutting into his own slot. At any rate, after realizing that his interview with Larry had been cut short, Duchovny whispers to Sanders during a commercial break that when he gets back to his lonely hotel room, there had better be a big f*cking fruit basket waiting for him.

In my case, there had better be a goddamn good meal wating for me when this is all done. And I'm going to even eat dead cow tissue just to get my money's worth.

Turkey for dinner on Friday, at the mother-in-law's [like I said, she's nice]. Birthday party for Shaula's schoolmate, J., at Watermania in Richmond on Saturday. The boy has a confirmed crush on Shaula. The last time we were at Watermania, there was an O'Henry bar incident and they had to shut down a pool, net the little log, and then let the water cycle for an hour.

Then it's more turkey Saturday night.

Okay, break's over, back to work...

Birds or the Bees, and more MOJO

I've got Fellini's La Dolce Vita and two Penn And Teller Bullshit! DVDs on loan due back Thursday, so I'll try to view a video tonight. Speaking of Italian, I was at Starbucks last week when I overheard a lady asking an employee whether dolce was pronounced dol'-chay or dol'-say. Amateur! Tyro! Tsk, tsk, all in due time. Now where's my tall skinny unleaded latte?

Shaula claims she has identified a new type of leaf-eating dinosuar, Barfalottosaurus.

My next read was going to be Sue Monk Kidd's The Secret Life of Bees. But I went with William Wharton's Birdy instead because a co-worker was currently reading it, so we can compare notes. I am simultaneously dipping into Beth Kimmerle's Chocolate: The Sweet History, and thinking about skimming Krishnamurti's Think On These Things. I've read some Krishnamurti before, The Significance of Life, if I recall. Think On These Things does not have to be a linear read as it's a collection of talks. I'll post some of my favourite Krishnamurti sayings some time.
I had a chance to glance at The MOJO Collection: The Ultimate Music Companion yesterday during my daughter's weekly half-hour piano lesson. The piano is in the boardroom. I won't get into it, but suffice it to say that there was a meeting scheduled immediately after the lesson, so people were bringing in boxes of papers and plastic cups and the like, and walking in or otherwise interrupting the session that was clearly in progress. This better not happen again, or some chairs will go missing.

I heartily recommend MOJO as a good place to start exploring good contemporary music. I found quite a few of my favourites in the collection, and the following should give you an idea of my musical tastes:

• Bill Evans Trio Sunday at the Village Vanguard
• John Coltrane A Love Supreme
• Bob Dylan Highway 61 Revisited and Blood On The Tracks
• Van Morrison, Astral Weeks* and Moondance
• Steely Dan Can't Buy A Thrill and Aja
• Mike Oldfield Tubular Bells
• Elton John Goodbye Yellow Brick Road
• Eno Another Green World
• Queen A Night At The Opera
• Keith Jarrett The Køln Concert*
• Kiss Destroyer
• Boston Boston
• Fleetwood Mac Rumours
• Kate Bush The Dreaming and The Hounds Of Love
• Dire Straits Brothers In Arms
• The Waterboys This Is The Sea
• Jane Siberry The Walking
• The Blue Nile Hats
• The Sundays Reading Writing And Arithmetic
  

Each entry gets a full-page writeup, with personnel and track listings. There's quite the cross section of genres. Notice how I peter out in the 90s (Radiohead?, Oasis?, Wu-Tang Clan?, P.J. Harvey?, Offspring?) and after 2000. I've marked two albums with an asterisk, *, to indicate that the music here is not of this world, most likely gifts that slipped into this universe through some freak rent in space and time. FYI, The Waterboys' This Is The Sea is incredibly pagan.

MOJO, $6.99 at your local Chapters' clearance table (regularly $40).

Oh yeah, Sathwick replied to my email and was IM'ing with two co-workers yesterday, good to see that he's alive.

Traffic Jam at the Corner of Hall & Kitchen

Photo by dad. Arranged by Shaula and Matthew late last Saturday night.

When I was a kid, I had two die cast trucks, a red and green refrigeration truck and a BP oil tanker. I still have them.

Reunion by Alan Lightman 4.5*/5*

Another book without a straightforward happy ending. I liked it, so I guess I'm a confirmed sucker for emotional suffering. It's an easy read, a short and poignant novel from the perspective of a middle-aged college professor re-living his first love to a beautiful dancer, the all-consuming mad mad lose sleep type of love, and how his entire life has been shaped by this youthful exuberance.

Any book with astronomy in it gets extra high marks from me, and this is no exception. I should mention that the author has a fascination with the female breast (hey, I'm just relaying what's in the book).

Stirring and touching. The man writes like a younger Chet Raymo.

I've added a bit to my post of March 28.

[Why I read this book: author's name keeps popping up, so was curious, and saw it for cheap at the Borders Outlet]

Weekend Ramblings

Mundane ramblings follow:

Whoever claimed that bumblebees can't fly, please retract your statement. You're giving scientists and engineers a bad name.

Killarney Community Centre had a swap meet this Saturday. I spent $5 for three CDs: Mannheim Steamroller's Fresh Aire III, arguably containing one of the best drum recordings ever, Toccata; Counting Crows' This Desert Life; and the soundtrack from Great Expectations, featuring Tori Amos and Cesaria Evora. Somebody at work saw Evora live in concert three weeks ago, so I'll give her a listen. Shit, I just dropped the CD and broke the hinge. Whoever designed the CD jewel case ought to join the ranks of Mr. Bumblebee-Can't-Fly. While we're at it, can we make this a threesome by adding the mind behind Soft Cell's execrable Tainted Love?

We had lunch at Ellie's. Chicken satay, roti, and Tom Yum fried rice.

Took the kids to see Ice Age 2: Melt Down while Betty was left alone for some quality shopping time. The movie is definitely better than Madagascar. Shaula enjoyed it. I did have time to extend my vanity, a pair of jeans (on sale, of course) from Espirit. First time in memory that I've bought something from there.

Speaking of movies, bought Brokeback Mountain at Future Shop yesterday. I had a salesperson surf to a competitor's website to price match. He told me to have the cashier flag him down for the discount when I was ready to pay. Which I did. But the girl didn't know how to key in a price match and credit me 10% of the difference, so she had to summon the front line head cashier. So there were three people helping me with my purchase. It was like buying condoms or tampons with lots of attention. She finally completed the transaction and put the DVD in the bag—a transparent one.

One of my next reads will be Brokeback Mountain: Story to Screenplay. This before watching the DVD. I want to see how a novel gets adapted to the screen, from start to finish.

I picked up a copy of The Abs Diet at Superstore on the spur of the moment.

Sunday will be brutal. Tax time. Every year Betty and I have to prepare seven, 7!, returns. I truly appreciate the software.

The Graduate

I got to thinking about Betty's cousin Ron who lives just south of San Francisco. He was and still is really big on movies. I remember him purchasing video laser discs the last time we were down there, back in the early 90s. This was before DVDs were common (in existence?).

His guest bedroom was wall to wall books, tapes, and videos. He's pretty conservative in all other respects: his Pioneer stereo receiver was circa 1979, the speakers were a set of Bose 901s. Audiophiles will either nod or shake their heads at the mention of these classic reflecting speakers. I've learned from my brother in-law that only recently did he spring for a large screen TV, sans the home theater element—the sound from the TV speakers serve him fine.

One of his favourite movies is The Graduate. He keeps pointing out the scene in which Dustin Hoffman drives in the wrong direction on the top deck of the San Francisco-Oakland Bay Bridge while en route to Berkeley, cinematic artistic licence taken by the director so that the skyline can appear in the background [I've just confirmed this by Googling to here]. I can understand why it's one of his faves. Ron was the same age as Benjamin, the character played by Hoffman, and he attended Berkeley. A time and a place.

But I can never feel that way about this movie. Nor can anyone younger than me be sentimental about the music I grew up with. I've had so many "A-ha!" moments listening to the 70s music stations (principally on XM, sometimes on Sirius) that garner sorry looks from the younger people around me, the same look I would give somebody born in the 50s singing along to their 60s music, music that for me has always been and will continue to be, but always devoid of any personal attachment, too late to be incorporated into a young, plastic mind at the brink of making sense of the world.

Albert Hammond singing It Nevers Rains In Southern California, Gilbert O'Sullivan, Alone Again, Naturally; Terry Jacks, Seasons in the Sun; Slade, Run Runaway; Mac Davis, Cornelius Brothers & Sister Rose, Argent, My Girl Bill, even tunes forgotten and best left that way—The Streak, Disco Duck; all these have a place and time. A small town. Tenth Avenue. Bell bottoms; high school; loneliness; music plucked from the waves over the Strait of Georgia, signals from a distant and future Vancouver.

I'm getting on in my years. The 80s stations are fast becoming sentimental favourites as well...

Benedictus

An acquaintance's father passed away recently. I was at a loss for words when it came to writing something in the sympathy card. I knew that she was religious. But I knew nothing of her relationship with her family. Did she get along with her dad? Did they even talk? [There were intimations that they did not get along.] Was there a lot of familial bullshit surrounding the funeral and travel arrangements?

I didn't want to risk sounding empty and presumptuous and inane.

I gave it some thought, went back to my desk, played the Strawbs' wonderful Benedictus on my iPod to get the lyrics right:

Bless the daytime
Bless the night
Bless the sun which gives us light

Bless the thunder
Bless the rain
Bless all those who cause us pain

Bless the free man
Bless the slave
Bless the hero in his grave

Bless the soldier
Bless the saint
Bless all those whose hearts grow faint

and wrote on the card the Zen-like

Bless the daytime
Bless the night
Bless the sun which gives us light

Bless the thunder
Bless the rain
Bless all those things that cause us pain

My Kids' Names

It was easy to pick a name for my daughter from a list of candidates, even after excluding biblical ones like Sarah. I, infidel extraordinaire, and of astronomical disposition, also entertained exotic names such as Adara, Alhena, Ascella, Atria, Avior, Capella, Gemma, Mira, Shaula, Talitha, Tarazed.

We finally settled on Shaula (like Paula, pronounced Shawla) and this has caused no major hardship. Sure beats a so-yesteryear name like Betty (sorry, huns) or Mary, or a nom du jour like Britney/Britany/Brittany.

Matthew was another story. I mean how biblical can one get? But our list was very short. Betty also liked Marcus/Markus and Eric, but in the end Matthew/Matt prevailed, I don't recall exactly why. I jokingly suggested Rory or Larry, surefire linguistic embarrassments for Betty and my Chinese-speaking parents. I solicited a bit of input from the guys at the office before making our final decision. I had to make sure that our son wouldn't get ridiculed. I asked Frank about his name. Pretty safe bet, right? No, he tells me, they called me Frankenstein. Next up, Leonard. How can one bastardize that name? Leonard. Say it slowly, he says. Leo-nard. Len-nerd. Len-NERD. Man, kids can be so cruel.

No problems with the boy name so far, except with the birthday cake decorators at Safeway who keep spelling the name with one "t", despite explicit "tt" instructions. In fact, I got into an argument with the lady at the service counter who insisted that "Mathew" was the normal spelling. Cut to: a similar talk with two relatives, so-called Bible reading evangelicals, who both claimed that the Gospel was according to "Mathew." Cut to: Safeway, I finally talked to the store manager who was standing beside the service counter lady, and no longer preoccupied with things that, well, occupy managers. The name tag pinned to his white shirt pocket read "Matt." How many "t"s are there in your full name?, I ask in front of service lady. Two, he replies. Needless to say, I got the cake at a discount.

Time, and some ramblings

It's amazing how time flies and how little I accomplish. The day of month markings on my La Swiss watch, an automatic—which means it uses the kinetic energy of the wearer's swaying arms to store, then power the movement, rather than rely on batteries—really reinforces this sad admission. While we're all use to looking at our analog watches and noting how far along we are in the half-day by the angle of the hour hand, using the full circle of the watch dial to represent a month is altogether sobering. In the photo to the left, the date hand, tipped by the red crescent, points at the 30th (click on the image to enlarge). I have to ask myself what, if anything, noteworthy happened during the full circuit. Well, I had my birthday. But that required no effort on my part. I can almost get coffee from Starbucks without flubbing up, no small feat for me, but ultimately, so what. I started blogging... Okay, one exclamation mark for March; that'll have to do.

I have made it policy to learn something new everyday. That counts for a bit, I suppose. Biscotti means twice cooked, which explains the dryness. Oscar, in the culinary world means a dish topped with crab meat in a hollandaise sauce. Walt Whitman found inspiration from suffering. Rugby tops are in again.

On the topic of watches, follow this link to view a 24 hour astronaut's watch, which means one full 360° swing of the hour hand per 24 hours (day). I've also seen watches that have the second hand make two full sweeps, 720° per minute.

There, an almost happy entry. I'll post my thoughts about 9/11 some time soon.

After work, I took the above snap of the watch, and then went for a walk with Betty and Shaula to the local London Drugs to get some exercise and catch some rays. Never made it into the store but did pick up some pastries and two slices of pizza, which Shaula gobbled up on the walk back home. Couldn't find anything to take to Monica tomorrow; everything is either sweet or made with milk products. Matthew was conked out and sleeping at my parents'.

A Real Reunion

Okay, something about Sunday's ex-Bookstore employees reunion. Everybody looked good, "well-preserved", despite the ravages of ten plus years. There were two notable no-shows. Penis Thigh Trap wasn't there. And, Mike-I've-been-wanting-to-leave-the-damn-Bookstore-for-the-last-fifteen-years, for some reason, didn't make it either despite his RSVP. I figure maybe half the people I knew when I bid adieu to the Bookstore are still there. A strong union will do that sort of thing to people.

There were lots of kids. A Christopher. A Janice. A Phoebe. Others. Stan's son was a Gavin (oh, all the pretty women in this kid's future!). I asked Janice's dad, Carson, whether the close buttons in elevators are actually connected to a circuit, and whether there were shortcut button sequences that let a savvy rider bypass floors. Contrary to what Douglas Coupland claims in Eleanor Rigby, all new modern elevators have functional close buttons. The buttons are not psychiatric tokens to assuage the control freaks among us. As for the special button sequences, no, unless you happen to have a physical key.

Tony has shaved his head. I didn't ask him about his wife. I did ask him about Robert. Tony had some sad news. Tony had left the Bookstore for a large distributor. That is how he got to know a former classmate of mine, Robert. Robert with the Mazda with the salty fish smell. Smart, gentle, honest Robert who was fascinated by the mosquitoes flitting about in our Electrical Engineering 251 class room, and mesmerized by Anne of Green Gables, even taking time off from cramming for our finals to watch the miniseries. Robert, my first exposure to a non-Cantonese speaker from China. His only English when he arrived in Canada was "orange juice," which he picked up from the flight attendant on the plane from Shanghai to Vancouver. Robert with the cute sister engaged to a cigarette salesman. Robert who once saw a boy drown. Robert my school friend.

After graduation, Robert moved to Toronto and worked at Humber College. He then returned to Vancouver, home. I met up with him once with California Mike (my friend and mutual classmate who now lives in Santa Barbara) for a barbeque at Robert's Port Coquitlam townhouse. I think we had Maui Ribs or steaks. I met his wife Joy and his daughter (obviously, he had been busy). Robert had an Ozzy Osbourne CD playing. He was selling real estate at this time.

About five years ago, Tony had mentioned that Robert was gravely ill and depressed and was staying at Royal Columbian. California Mike and I sent some get well flowers, unaware of the incurable, hard-to-diagnose lung cancer. Maybe we both didn't want to know. Come to think of it, Robert did mention a thing or two about his lungs during our third and fourth years in engineering, something about a lingering childhood problem, but nothing major. I suspect that even he did not suspect how things were going to play out.

Tony said that toward the end, Robert had refused to see anybody—he wanted people to remember him as he was, healthy and happy. Robert and Joy and his daughter had just moved into their new home when he was diagnosed. I figure the real reason for the self-imposed isolation was that he was just plain depressed.

The last time I met Tony's wife was on an eastbound 41st Avenue bus. She got on at Cambie Street and looked distraught and immediately began spilling her guts out about Tony leaving her for another woman. I listened. I nodded. I said a lame, "give me a call if you need somebody to talk to" and got off at my usual stop. Dinner was waiting.

I remember something I read two summers ago, taped to a Kitsilano shop window, on the 1800 or 1900 block of West 4th, words to the effect of

Getting old is when you have more regrets than dreams

I am going to find Robert's resting place and honour him. And I will try to dig deeper. How important are other people's lives to me?

As for the rest of the evening, I'd thought we'd share a little bit more of ourselves, but that was not to be. Mostly guys. Besides, a few of the people I never knew well and could never talk to. And empty as I am, I'm no good at small talk. Bummer I forgot to invite J. from R&D, another one of us ex-Bookstorers.

-Finis-

Purdy's Tour

This is our third consecutive yearly visit to the annual Purdy's Easter time factory tour. We parked the car on Kingsway kitty-corner to Purdy's. The queue outside was short, confined to the back parking lot off Earles Street and not visible from the factory front. Most likely the weather, the time change, and the fact it was 8:45AM on a Sunday, help to explain the smaller than normal crowd. We had to wait only 15 minutes.

The tour is interesting but one doesn't walk away with the "big picture" and a mental image of the flow and mixing and baking of the ingredients. A skeleton crew was on hand to give us an idea of how some of the sweets are made. Below are images from today's tour, in chronological order. I didn't take pictures at every station.

We all had to don hairnets. Betty suggested we keep ours on after the tour, buy some of those white workplace application face masks, and go to Hon's for lunch. While there, cough profusely.

We did exactly that—I mean go to Hon's for lunch, not the face mask bit.


This is at the second station. Nuts.


Peanut brittle on temperature-controlled tables. Yummy samples.


Smoothies. Have never tried them before. No samples.


You can see the public snaking through the factory. We were in groups of about twenty.


Conveyor belts. What's a factory without belts?


You probably want to click on the image to whet your appetite.


About halfway into the tour.


Small bunny moulds getting shaken around to eliminate bubbles and to distribute the chocolate.


More mould action. This machine hails from Europe. Click here to see it in action.


Near the end of the tour.


We all exited through the factory store which has on display the full line of products (unfortunately not at factory outlet prices).

He's Only Three Years Old...

By Matthew, March 2006, pre-school art