Or the end of it, anyway. We call this long weekend the May Two Four after the Canadians who head to the beer store and buy a two four to celebrate a weekend which is the start of something or other. They then drink said two four and head out onto the highways, where they continue the celebrations by having a pickup game of "Smash -up Derby". Some people also head to the cottage for the first time of the year, others, like me, lacking a cottage, take advantage and plant their garden now that the likelihood of frost has diminished.
My reflection of the day on gardening: Why on earth is this weed called Creeping Charlie?
Some people still insist in calling the day Victoria Day, and spend the day having a party in honour of a woman who was not amused. A traditional greeting for this day is "Up the Queen!", but since no one really specifies up her what, it seems rather rude. So happy day, everyone.
20 May 2013
18 May 2013
16 May 2013
Blog Day, Post the last: To bed.
Back to bed again. Hope I am feeling better tomorrow. Still feel like crap.
Sad truth is, I can't let myself be sick tomorrow, because I lose money every day I am off. Work shortened my hours to six a day a few years back, but they then gave me an additional hour almost every day to bring me up to the full seven. But my base pay is only six, so when I call in sick, or take a vacation to be with the kids, or a personal day to attend a funeral, I only get the six hours pay, and lose the seventh. I've lost an hour's pay for today. I will lose an hour's pay Monday, as it is a holiday up here. I really need tomorrow. I think I will go in and sneeze on the head manager.
Still haven't found that blasted converter.
Sad truth is, I can't let myself be sick tomorrow, because I lose money every day I am off. Work shortened my hours to six a day a few years back, but they then gave me an additional hour almost every day to bring me up to the full seven. But my base pay is only six, so when I call in sick, or take a vacation to be with the kids, or a personal day to attend a funeral, I only get the six hours pay, and lose the seventh. I've lost an hour's pay for today. I will lose an hour's pay Monday, as it is a holiday up here. I really need tomorrow. I think I will go in and sneeze on the head manager.
Still haven't found that blasted converter.
Blog Day, part the twelfth: Latest acquisitions
After cantoring for the last two weeks (It went okay. Sort of. I guess.) I poked around the office, and asked the organist if there were any old choir books form years gone by, or if they all got tossed. He said: "You mean like this?" and tossed me one. "You can keep it, if you want."
Here's what he gave me.
It looks beat up, but they are supposed to look that way. The only ones that look new are the ones that were never used. This is a sweet find.
He also gave me a copy of CBW one. I've never seen one of those before.
Here's what he gave me.
He also gave me a copy of CBW one. I've never seen one of those before.
Blog Day: Part the Eleventh: Bringing people back
This is something I have been thinking about ever since I posted on St John Cantius in Chicago, and St Peter's in Omaha. I have repeatedly watched the videos I linked to there. One thing that has struck me is that they they say that anyone can do what they have done, in a sort of "if you build it, they will come" way. They also speak of how people come to them and talk about how much better the way Mass is done at these places than it was at their old church. That's one of the things I have been pondering.
A few weeks back there was an article (can't find the link now, saw it on other blogs.) about nuns, where one "expert" said that returning to the old habits will not necessarily mean more nuns, everywhere, just the same number of nuns spread out, as the number of women who wish to get into that sort of thing is a very "small pool."
Most conservative Catholics derided these comments, but I wonder. Is there something to what the expert has said? Are these communities bringing people back, or are they bringing in people already so inclined? Are churches like Cantius and St. Peter's filling their churches by bringing people back, or by bringing them over from other parishes, filling their pews by emptying another's?
Just wondering.
A few weeks back there was an article (can't find the link now, saw it on other blogs.) about nuns, where one "expert" said that returning to the old habits will not necessarily mean more nuns, everywhere, just the same number of nuns spread out, as the number of women who wish to get into that sort of thing is a very "small pool."
Most conservative Catholics derided these comments, but I wonder. Is there something to what the expert has said? Are these communities bringing people back, or are they bringing in people already so inclined? Are churches like Cantius and St. Peter's filling their churches by bringing people back, or by bringing them over from other parishes, filling their pews by emptying another's?
Just wondering.
Blog Day, part the tenth: television revisited revisited.
How many of you have seen that commercial with Sarah Michelle Geller narrating, which begins with the words (from memory): "Who can understand the life of a woman in a third world country, except for all women, everywhere?"
Really?
The hubris and arrogance of this statement is just so stunning, I have trouble wrapping my head around it.
They actually think they can relate to the life of women in the third world simply by virtue of being a woman? What in the name of all that is good and right in this world makes these people think that their privileged, white, western life qualifies them to understand the life of women in poverty and squalor? It is gender based imperialism. You know exactly what these poor women need. Hail to you, O women of the first world! You have just undertaken the White Woman's Burden. Worked out great for men. Good luck with you.
Seriously, if that converter doesn't show up, there will be much suffering.
Really?
The hubris and arrogance of this statement is just so stunning, I have trouble wrapping my head around it.
They actually think they can relate to the life of women in the third world simply by virtue of being a woman? What in the name of all that is good and right in this world makes these people think that their privileged, white, western life qualifies them to understand the life of women in poverty and squalor? It is gender based imperialism. You know exactly what these poor women need. Hail to you, O women of the first world! You have just undertaken the White Woman's Burden. Worked out great for men. Good luck with you.
Seriously, if that converter doesn't show up, there will be much suffering.
Blog day, part the ninth: on Reality
Those thought experiments, or, to use the technically accurate terminology, "fantasies", I mentioned below are fun to do from time to time, but they also have their drawback: reality. It makes reality seem duller, a little less tolerable, when you see how ill it fits with your dreams. It is nice to dream of cars and homes, and of telling your boss where to shove it, and of never going back to the job you hate ever, ever again.
But it isn't real. And when the fantasising is done, you are left with your real life. You will never own that car, or in may case, any car again. You will never own that home. You will continue saying "Yes, sir. Sure thing," to your boss, and you will work until you die.
Is this depression speaking, or is the real depressing in and of itself? I don't know. I wish I could say I don't know how things got this way, but I know exactly how things got this way. It was me, every step of the way. I made my decisions. I never once missed an opportunity to miss an opportunity. That sort of thing is in my genes. I come from a long line of hard working financial failures. Lotteries and their ilk are just a tantalising dream for many of us, and the money we pay for our tickets is the tax we pay for still having dreams. Dreams that don't involve us suddenly making our minds up and working our way out of our mess, or breaking free of the chains of the years we have woven around ourselves. A cheap, easy, free dream of an escape from an intolerable, yet survivable, (although not in an ultimate sense) reality.
But it isn't real. And when the fantasising is done, you are left with your real life. You will never own that car, or in may case, any car again. You will never own that home. You will continue saying "Yes, sir. Sure thing," to your boss, and you will work until you die.
Is this depression speaking, or is the real depressing in and of itself? I don't know. I wish I could say I don't know how things got this way, but I know exactly how things got this way. It was me, every step of the way. I made my decisions. I never once missed an opportunity to miss an opportunity. That sort of thing is in my genes. I come from a long line of hard working financial failures. Lotteries and their ilk are just a tantalising dream for many of us, and the money we pay for our tickets is the tax we pay for still having dreams. Dreams that don't involve us suddenly making our minds up and working our way out of our mess, or breaking free of the chains of the years we have woven around ourselves. A cheap, easy, free dream of an escape from an intolerable, yet survivable, (although not in an ultimate sense) reality.
Blog Day, part the eighth: On Men's Thought Experiments.
Sometimes at work we do what may loosely be called thought experiments, of the "what would you do if...?" variety. They tend to focus on two types of questions: First, what would you do if you won the lottery? and Second, assuming money is no object, (i.e. you just won the lottery) and you had a seven car garage, with what kind of cars would you fill it?
The first I answered some time ago, but I will repeat it here.
If I only won a small lottery, with, say, a few million, I would probably change very little. However, if I won a big one, I would take out a commercial on television. Just me and a camera. And I would say to the camera and the audience:
Hello, my name is Bear, I have just won forty million dollars, and the following people can kiss my @$$:
My boss and fellow coworkers, if you think I am showing up at work on Monday.
My high school teachers who said I would never amount to anything. I didn't, but I'm still a millionaire anyway and you're not. Pucker up.
Whilst we are on the subject of high school, I would like to address all the girls back in high school who wouldn't go out with me because I wasn't good enough for you. How do you like my @$$ now?
Any old friends and or relatives who haven't been in contact with me for the last ten years, not even to send a Christmas Card. Don't bother trying to renew contact now, unless the contact is between your lips and my posterior.
Any charities out there who want to soak me for some of my dough. I have a list of charities to whom I intend to make some donations, but don't call me, I'll call you. if you do call me, your name will be struck from that list and put on another: the list of people who can kiss my @$$.
On the subject of annoying people trying to get money off of me, I would like to invite you all to take this opportunity to consider the wisdom of annoying someone who now has the wherewithal to hire hitmen- the good ones, the kind that don't get caught- whilst sitting on a beach in Costa Rica.
Lastly, I would like to invite the entire world at large to just pucker up and plant one on my backside. I won, you didn't, and you can all just kiss my @$$.
Thank you.
This has been a paid presentation by the "Bear kiss my @$$ foundation," a non-profit organization dedicated to the over-inflation of Bear's ego.
Having settled that matter, it is now time to turn my attention to the seven fantasy cars. This one is a tough one, but I have narrowed it down to two possibilities. First, seven of these, in difference colours:
Or seven of these, also in different colours.
I mean the one on the left. H2 Hummers are for wimps. A misfire out of the Conquest' tailpipe would blow that little sucker away.
On the one hand, the Morgan Motors Roadster, top, has beauty, elegance, and cachet. It has lines that hearken back to a bygone era, a time when cars were works of art. On the other hand, the Conquest Knight XV has Awesome! going for it, and sheer road hogging bada$$ery.
Maybe three of one and four of the other? but which. and which? Decisions decisions. And then there's another matter: reality, which has a way of returning. And it deserves a post of its own.
The first I answered some time ago, but I will repeat it here.
If I only won a small lottery, with, say, a few million, I would probably change very little. However, if I won a big one, I would take out a commercial on television. Just me and a camera. And I would say to the camera and the audience:
Hello, my name is Bear, I have just won forty million dollars, and the following people can kiss my @$$:
My boss and fellow coworkers, if you think I am showing up at work on Monday.
My high school teachers who said I would never amount to anything. I didn't, but I'm still a millionaire anyway and you're not. Pucker up.
Whilst we are on the subject of high school, I would like to address all the girls back in high school who wouldn't go out with me because I wasn't good enough for you. How do you like my @$$ now?
Any old friends and or relatives who haven't been in contact with me for the last ten years, not even to send a Christmas Card. Don't bother trying to renew contact now, unless the contact is between your lips and my posterior.
Any charities out there who want to soak me for some of my dough. I have a list of charities to whom I intend to make some donations, but don't call me, I'll call you. if you do call me, your name will be struck from that list and put on another: the list of people who can kiss my @$$.
On the subject of annoying people trying to get money off of me, I would like to invite you all to take this opportunity to consider the wisdom of annoying someone who now has the wherewithal to hire hitmen- the good ones, the kind that don't get caught- whilst sitting on a beach in Costa Rica.
Lastly, I would like to invite the entire world at large to just pucker up and plant one on my backside. I won, you didn't, and you can all just kiss my @$$.
Thank you.
This has been a paid presentation by the "Bear kiss my @$$ foundation," a non-profit organization dedicated to the over-inflation of Bear's ego.
Having settled that matter, it is now time to turn my attention to the seven fantasy cars. This one is a tough one, but I have narrowed it down to two possibilities. First, seven of these, in difference colours:
On the one hand, the Morgan Motors Roadster, top, has beauty, elegance, and cachet. It has lines that hearken back to a bygone era, a time when cars were works of art. On the other hand, the Conquest Knight XV has Awesome! going for it, and sheer road hogging bada$$ery.
Maybe three of one and four of the other? but which. and which? Decisions decisions. And then there's another matter: reality, which has a way of returning. And it deserves a post of its own.
Blog Day: part the third: On the Leafs
My reaction, in a word: schadenfreude.
As I said, after years of not having a competitive team, after nine years of not even making the playoffs, yet still being the most profitable team in the league due to the undying loyalty/boneheaded stupidity of the fans, the Leafs repay the fans' for sticking with the Leafs through thick and thin by sticking it to the Leafs and raising the ticket prices for the playoffs by seventy five per cent.
I watched a bit of some of the games- as it turns out, the ones the Leafs lost. And I say they lost, not that they were beaten. There is a difference between the two. Beaten is what happens when you go out there, do your very best, and are either just over matched, or catch an unlucky break. There is no dishonour there. Losing is what happens when you give the other team the game. That's what the Leafs did. They lost. They're losers. So are the fans who forked out those exorbitant prices to watch these clowns.
Enjoy the golf season.
As I said, after years of not having a competitive team, after nine years of not even making the playoffs, yet still being the most profitable team in the league due to the undying loyalty/boneheaded stupidity of the fans, the Leafs repay the fans' for sticking with the Leafs through thick and thin by sticking it to the Leafs and raising the ticket prices for the playoffs by seventy five per cent.
I watched a bit of some of the games- as it turns out, the ones the Leafs lost. And I say they lost, not that they were beaten. There is a difference between the two. Beaten is what happens when you go out there, do your very best, and are either just over matched, or catch an unlucky break. There is no dishonour there. Losing is what happens when you give the other team the game. That's what the Leafs did. They lost. They're losers. So are the fans who forked out those exorbitant prices to watch these clowns.
Enjoy the golf season.
Blog Day, part the second: On Bullying
A coworker and I discussed bullying the other day. On the one hand, I thought the current obsession with bullying is overblown. It has become the catchall, the one true evil of our day. People my age remember bullying from school, it's not like this generation invented it. What I remember tells me that the current model- there are bullies and there are the bullied- is inadequate. I remember very few people who were purely one or the other. What I remember mostly was a lot of people treating a lot of other people like crap. This group picked on that group, who picked on that group, who picked on that one, and so on, and so on, and so on.
Back then, among the boys, there was a fair amount of physical bullying. Boys used to fight. It wasn't punished overmuch, because that was what boys did. Emotions would get worked up to a fever pitch, the boys would have it out, and ten minutes later they were friends again. Fighting was actually one way of dealing with bullies, because bullies pick on the weak who will not fight back. A cousin of mine recounts to this day how my father told him to deal with a bully by punching him in the nose. He did, and got a black eye for it, but the bully never bothered him again. A friend of mine is fond of remembering the time at his school when four bullies who terrorized the school cornered some guy in the bathroom. He was a nerd. A meek, weak little dweeb of a male. In short, he was the absolute last person anyone would have expected to be a black belt. All four were carried out on stretchers, and, when they returned, never bothered anyone again. The dweeb was not punished.
Teachers were in on it. You could get the strap. If you told your parents that you got the strap, you would be in trouble with your parents, because you obviously did something to deserve getting the strap. So parents were involved. All parents. Any adult in my neighbourhood who caught me doing something wrong could haul off and slug me. I could go crying home to my parents. "What's the matter?" they would say.
Me:"Mr. So and So hit me!"
Them: "Why? What did you do?"
And then I would be in real trouble.
But that was then. Is it different now?
For a long time, I thought no. It was the same. But I keep reading about these suicides which are believed to be the result of endless bullying, and I realize there is a difference. When I was young, we would get bullied at school, but then we went home. They didn't follow us there. They couldn't. But today's kids are wired in all the time. They have face book, and portable computers and cells phones. There is nowhere they can go to escape these bullies. Not after school, not on weekends, not on vacation. Cyber technology has allowed kids to more fully become the nightmare they always were. We have invented and bought and brought the tools of our own torture into our own homes.
Furthermore, the physical outlet is denied. Now it is punished heavily, in the name of stopping bullying. Elder once told a teacher that she wanted to learn how to step aside when attacked so a bully would punch the wall instead. The teacher was scandalized that she would want to cause such harm to anyone.
Teachers don't get involved much, because there is little they can do. When Elder was being bullied, every teacher we went to told us they had a zero tolerance policy for bullying, and zero was exactly what each and every one of them did to stop it. They intervene, and they will get sued. Other parents don't do anything, for the same reason. We have disempowered ourselves, and slipped chains of our own making upon ourselves. And our children are paying the price.
Back then, among the boys, there was a fair amount of physical bullying. Boys used to fight. It wasn't punished overmuch, because that was what boys did. Emotions would get worked up to a fever pitch, the boys would have it out, and ten minutes later they were friends again. Fighting was actually one way of dealing with bullies, because bullies pick on the weak who will not fight back. A cousin of mine recounts to this day how my father told him to deal with a bully by punching him in the nose. He did, and got a black eye for it, but the bully never bothered him again. A friend of mine is fond of remembering the time at his school when four bullies who terrorized the school cornered some guy in the bathroom. He was a nerd. A meek, weak little dweeb of a male. In short, he was the absolute last person anyone would have expected to be a black belt. All four were carried out on stretchers, and, when they returned, never bothered anyone again. The dweeb was not punished.
Teachers were in on it. You could get the strap. If you told your parents that you got the strap, you would be in trouble with your parents, because you obviously did something to deserve getting the strap. So parents were involved. All parents. Any adult in my neighbourhood who caught me doing something wrong could haul off and slug me. I could go crying home to my parents. "What's the matter?" they would say.
Me:"Mr. So and So hit me!"
Them: "Why? What did you do?"
And then I would be in real trouble.
But that was then. Is it different now?
For a long time, I thought no. It was the same. But I keep reading about these suicides which are believed to be the result of endless bullying, and I realize there is a difference. When I was young, we would get bullied at school, but then we went home. They didn't follow us there. They couldn't. But today's kids are wired in all the time. They have face book, and portable computers and cells phones. There is nowhere they can go to escape these bullies. Not after school, not on weekends, not on vacation. Cyber technology has allowed kids to more fully become the nightmare they always were. We have invented and bought and brought the tools of our own torture into our own homes.
Furthermore, the physical outlet is denied. Now it is punished heavily, in the name of stopping bullying. Elder once told a teacher that she wanted to learn how to step aside when attacked so a bully would punch the wall instead. The teacher was scandalized that she would want to cause such harm to anyone.
Teachers don't get involved much, because there is little they can do. When Elder was being bullied, every teacher we went to told us they had a zero tolerance policy for bullying, and zero was exactly what each and every one of them did to stop it. They intervene, and they will get sued. Other parents don't do anything, for the same reason. We have disempowered ourselves, and slipped chains of our own making upon ourselves. And our children are paying the price.
Blog day, part the first. The William James Problem.
Feeling sick and staying home today. I'm too weak to do any of the things I actually enjoy doing, so I will blog random thoughts that pass through my stuffed up head.
I wonder if I will end up like William James, author of a book on the varieties of religious experience. When he came to write the section dealing with mystical experiences, he decided he wished to try and experience mysticism first hand. Lacking the time and meditative discipline, he sought mysticism through chemistry. So he got stoned on something or other, and while under the influence felt his mind expanding with utterly brilliant thoughts. So he decided to try it again, only this time with a pad of paper close at hand so he could write down the thoughts that came to him during his chemical enlightenment. He came to, and found the words he had written when in a state of enlightened genius: "Higamous hogomous, woman is monogamous. Higamous pigamous, man is polygamous."
Perhaps it is for the best that no one reads this crummy blog.
I wonder if I will end up like William James, author of a book on the varieties of religious experience. When he came to write the section dealing with mystical experiences, he decided he wished to try and experience mysticism first hand. Lacking the time and meditative discipline, he sought mysticism through chemistry. So he got stoned on something or other, and while under the influence felt his mind expanding with utterly brilliant thoughts. So he decided to try it again, only this time with a pad of paper close at hand so he could write down the thoughts that came to him during his chemical enlightenment. He came to, and found the words he had written when in a state of enlightened genius: "Higamous hogomous, woman is monogamous. Higamous pigamous, man is polygamous."
Perhaps it is for the best that no one reads this crummy blog.
13 May 2013
Worthington Dead
Peter Worthington, one of the few Canadian Journalists I respected, has died.
Even though I disagreed with him often, I thought he was someone whose opinion was worth hearing and considering. Godspeed.
Even though I disagreed with him often, I thought he was someone whose opinion was worth hearing and considering. Godspeed.
10 May 2013
Dear Maple Leafs: Hurry up and be eliminated.
Parasite: n:
That's you, guys.
The first game was a humiliation. The second game, granted, you won. The third game you served up to the bruins on a platter. The fourth game, through sheer dint of incredible effort, you snatched defeat from the jaws of victory. Tonight you stand to be eliminated, Go for it.
Nine years you haven't made the playoffs. You haven't made it to the finals in forty six. Yet, despite all, thanks to the fans' pig headed devotion, you are the most profitable team in the league. You reward your fans by selling virtually all the season tickets to corporations, and let the fans fight it out for the remaining few. You charge fans an arm and a leg to watch your pitiful team get crushed. You make almost no effort to use those profits to put together a team that is worth watching. Why would you? Some years ago, the Leafs were offered Gretzky for a song, as he wanted to end his career here. You turned him down, because he couldn't sell any more seats than were sold already, and the low price he was seeking would have cut too deeply into your profits. If fans had any self respect, they would have stormed the arena and torn it down with their bare hands, and sent you guys off packing. Instead, they still fill the arena and your pockets.
This season started with a strike in which millionaires argued with billionaires over who should get more money. the strike ended when they decided, what the heck, let's both get more money, and they upped the ticket prices. Thanks in part to the abbreviated season, as it denied them the opportunity for their usual late season choke, the Leafs managed to make the playoffs. The Leafs' management then showed their gratitude for the fans' undying support by jacking up the ticket prices by seventy five per cent for the post season. Their attitude towards the fans could not have been more clear if they had the scoreboard flash "Thanks, suckers!" in the middle of the game.
When I was young, I played hockey. I was a bad player on a rotten team in a lousy league. My skills were so poor that, at the age of ten, when I fantasized about making it to the NHL, my father told me to abandon the dream. "You're not good enough and you never will be," he told me. No "pursue your dream. son. Go for it," here. Today, if my Dad were still alive, I would tell him: "You were wrong, Dad. I was good enough, I could have played for the Leafs!" I saw a part of the third game, the one the Leafs handed over to the Bruins. I, bad player for a rotten team in a lousy league, would have been embarrassed to have played that poorly. They basically said to the Bruins: "Here. You take the puck, I have no idea what to do with it." These clowns couldn't hit the puck in the unrinal.
People ask me why I am not a hockey fan. The real question is not why I am no longer a fan. The real question is why they are one still. Now hurry up and get eliminated, losers. Make room for a real team. Take your managers and owners with you.
|
That's you, guys.
The first game was a humiliation. The second game, granted, you won. The third game you served up to the bruins on a platter. The fourth game, through sheer dint of incredible effort, you snatched defeat from the jaws of victory. Tonight you stand to be eliminated, Go for it.
Nine years you haven't made the playoffs. You haven't made it to the finals in forty six. Yet, despite all, thanks to the fans' pig headed devotion, you are the most profitable team in the league. You reward your fans by selling virtually all the season tickets to corporations, and let the fans fight it out for the remaining few. You charge fans an arm and a leg to watch your pitiful team get crushed. You make almost no effort to use those profits to put together a team that is worth watching. Why would you? Some years ago, the Leafs were offered Gretzky for a song, as he wanted to end his career here. You turned him down, because he couldn't sell any more seats than were sold already, and the low price he was seeking would have cut too deeply into your profits. If fans had any self respect, they would have stormed the arena and torn it down with their bare hands, and sent you guys off packing. Instead, they still fill the arena and your pockets.
This season started with a strike in which millionaires argued with billionaires over who should get more money. the strike ended when they decided, what the heck, let's both get more money, and they upped the ticket prices. Thanks in part to the abbreviated season, as it denied them the opportunity for their usual late season choke, the Leafs managed to make the playoffs. The Leafs' management then showed their gratitude for the fans' undying support by jacking up the ticket prices by seventy five per cent for the post season. Their attitude towards the fans could not have been more clear if they had the scoreboard flash "Thanks, suckers!" in the middle of the game.
When I was young, I played hockey. I was a bad player on a rotten team in a lousy league. My skills were so poor that, at the age of ten, when I fantasized about making it to the NHL, my father told me to abandon the dream. "You're not good enough and you never will be," he told me. No "pursue your dream. son. Go for it," here. Today, if my Dad were still alive, I would tell him: "You were wrong, Dad. I was good enough, I could have played for the Leafs!" I saw a part of the third game, the one the Leafs handed over to the Bruins. I, bad player for a rotten team in a lousy league, would have been embarrassed to have played that poorly. They basically said to the Bruins: "Here. You take the puck, I have no idea what to do with it." These clowns couldn't hit the puck in the unrinal.
People ask me why I am not a hockey fan. The real question is not why I am no longer a fan. The real question is why they are one still. Now hurry up and get eliminated, losers. Make room for a real team. Take your managers and owners with you.
9 May 2013
Poor Dante. Poor, poor Dante
h/t Mark Shea
First the Inferno video game, now this.
Dan Brown has turned his gaze upon the Inferno.
What is the point of being a screamin' genius, just to have some hack come along and do this to you?
First the Inferno video game, now this.
Dan Brown has turned his gaze upon the Inferno.
What is the point of being a screamin' genius, just to have some hack come along and do this to you?
7 May 2013
Travels with Mom, continued.
So, as I have said in the past, once a month I try to rent a car and take my mom out for a drive to somewhere or other,. We have been visiting old churches, waterfalls around the city of Hamilton, battlefields from 1812 and, sometimes, just driving through the countryside looking for something for her to draw. (For some reason, she is fond of drawing barns.)
Once a year, around her birthday and Mother's Day, I take her for a longer drive, somewhere farther afield. Last year, it was Montreal all to see the Basilica of Notre Dame (I tossed in St Patrick's and Marie, Reine du Monde and St Andrews near Cornwall as a bonus) This year, I asked her where she would like to go, and she said, unexpectedly, Point Pelee. Also unexpectedly, Puff, Younger and Frodo came with us.
When I planned to take her to point Pelee, I was thinking of Pelee as the Southernmost part of Canada. She was thinking of it as one of the most famous sites for birdwatching in the world. As a result, I wasn't quite prepared when we found ourselves surrounded by birders. These people were serious. I saw dozens of people with expensive cameras outfitted with lenses that had to be close to three feet long. You could photograph Saturn with those suckers. I was embarrassed to be seen holding my little rinky dink camera in their presence. But they were very nice people, and I can think of far, far worse hobbies than going out and admiring the natural beauty of our world. We had a great time. When we dropped by the next day for dinner, Mom was on the phone, telling people about her little trip the day before.
But I do sometimes get asked, usually by my sister, and sometimes by others, why do I bother to drive so far (Pelee was about a four hour drive, each way) for merely a day trip? There seems to be little point in that. To which I say, yes, there is little point in that. But, by the same token, there is no point in not going at all. As mom puts it, half a loaf is better than none.
I also get asked why do I take mother? The main answer is that she and I like similar things (except the barn thing, but what the heck) and our trips are fun. People look at me oddly, as though a trip with a late octogenarian with a pronounced tendency to yak could not possibly be fun. There must be another reason. And, yes, there are. As I said, the fact that we have fun is the main reason. But there are other reasons as well, and they begin with Dad, and my regrets.
Dad was the best man I ever met and am ever likely to meet. My first regret is that I never told him that. Dad's died about seventeen years ago at the age of 74, which at the time I thought was good, ripe old age, but now seems far too young. Prior to his sickness, his mortality was not really on my mind. We had time, and the years stretched out before us. There was no hurry. Then he became ill, and time was gone. I would dearly have loved, in retrospect, to have had a last chance with him. Before he fell ill, he was a healthy, active and vigorous man. We had time, and the years stretched before us. Then he was ill, and time was gone. There was no opportunity to say: "Dad, let's go bowling, or golfing, or fishing, one last time, for old times' sake." I could not even ask him to do my favourite thing again, and tell his stories, just one more time. He was in too much pain, and didn't want to talk about such things. One of our last conversations, I asked him if there was anything he wanted me to do or take care of after he was gone. "Take care of your family," he said. "And keep an eye on your mother when you can." And so I visited him, did what I could for him, and watched him die.
Mother endures. She is in decent health. Her mobility is not bad for someone her age. It is not unreasonable to think that she could make it to a hundred. It is also not unreasonable to think that she could be incapacitated by a stroke, tonight, and possibly die in her sleep. I don't know how much time she has. And, quite frankly, it is not my business to know. My business is to do the best I can with the time I have, and to save myself from regret and the thought that there were things I could have and should have done with her, but didn't. That's not to say I won't be sad upon her death, whenever it happens. On the contrary, I will probably be a basket case. But, I will also be able to beguile my grief with the fond and happy memories of the time we had together, and know that we did not waste it.
So we drive. She likes it, and I like it too. There may be places she wants to go that are out of my reach and budget. She may wish to go to Europe. I can't do that, so I don't bother myself with it. Pelee I can do. Montreal, I can do. Places in between, not a problem. My job is to do what I can with the time that we have, to live as best, as well and as much as we can, so that, when our time is done, we will not find that we watched life, rather than lived it. The ancients were wiser than us in this matter, and knew this truth well. Horace put it best and most famously:
sapias, vina liques et spatio brevi
spem longam reseces. dum loquimur, fugerit invida
aetas: carpe diem quam minimum credula postero.
Be wise, pour the wine, trim to a short space
your long hopes. Even as we speak, envious time has
already fled: Seize the day, and give tomorrow little faith.
However, this is the second reason why. More accurately, it is the reason why I do something with mother. The reason why the something I do is take her out for drives is because they are fun. If they weren't, I would do something else.
Once a year, around her birthday and Mother's Day, I take her for a longer drive, somewhere farther afield. Last year, it was Montreal all to see the Basilica of Notre Dame (I tossed in St Patrick's and Marie, Reine du Monde and St Andrews near Cornwall as a bonus) This year, I asked her where she would like to go, and she said, unexpectedly, Point Pelee. Also unexpectedly, Puff, Younger and Frodo came with us.
When I planned to take her to point Pelee, I was thinking of Pelee as the Southernmost part of Canada. She was thinking of it as one of the most famous sites for birdwatching in the world. As a result, I wasn't quite prepared when we found ourselves surrounded by birders. These people were serious. I saw dozens of people with expensive cameras outfitted with lenses that had to be close to three feet long. You could photograph Saturn with those suckers. I was embarrassed to be seen holding my little rinky dink camera in their presence. But they were very nice people, and I can think of far, far worse hobbies than going out and admiring the natural beauty of our world. We had a great time. When we dropped by the next day for dinner, Mom was on the phone, telling people about her little trip the day before.
But I do sometimes get asked, usually by my sister, and sometimes by others, why do I bother to drive so far (Pelee was about a four hour drive, each way) for merely a day trip? There seems to be little point in that. To which I say, yes, there is little point in that. But, by the same token, there is no point in not going at all. As mom puts it, half a loaf is better than none.
I also get asked why do I take mother? The main answer is that she and I like similar things (except the barn thing, but what the heck) and our trips are fun. People look at me oddly, as though a trip with a late octogenarian with a pronounced tendency to yak could not possibly be fun. There must be another reason. And, yes, there are. As I said, the fact that we have fun is the main reason. But there are other reasons as well, and they begin with Dad, and my regrets.
Dad was the best man I ever met and am ever likely to meet. My first regret is that I never told him that. Dad's died about seventeen years ago at the age of 74, which at the time I thought was good, ripe old age, but now seems far too young. Prior to his sickness, his mortality was not really on my mind. We had time, and the years stretched out before us. There was no hurry. Then he became ill, and time was gone. I would dearly have loved, in retrospect, to have had a last chance with him. Before he fell ill, he was a healthy, active and vigorous man. We had time, and the years stretched before us. Then he was ill, and time was gone. There was no opportunity to say: "Dad, let's go bowling, or golfing, or fishing, one last time, for old times' sake." I could not even ask him to do my favourite thing again, and tell his stories, just one more time. He was in too much pain, and didn't want to talk about such things. One of our last conversations, I asked him if there was anything he wanted me to do or take care of after he was gone. "Take care of your family," he said. "And keep an eye on your mother when you can." And so I visited him, did what I could for him, and watched him die.
Mother endures. She is in decent health. Her mobility is not bad for someone her age. It is not unreasonable to think that she could make it to a hundred. It is also not unreasonable to think that she could be incapacitated by a stroke, tonight, and possibly die in her sleep. I don't know how much time she has. And, quite frankly, it is not my business to know. My business is to do the best I can with the time I have, and to save myself from regret and the thought that there were things I could have and should have done with her, but didn't. That's not to say I won't be sad upon her death, whenever it happens. On the contrary, I will probably be a basket case. But, I will also be able to beguile my grief with the fond and happy memories of the time we had together, and know that we did not waste it.
So we drive. She likes it, and I like it too. There may be places she wants to go that are out of my reach and budget. She may wish to go to Europe. I can't do that, so I don't bother myself with it. Pelee I can do. Montreal, I can do. Places in between, not a problem. My job is to do what I can with the time that we have, to live as best, as well and as much as we can, so that, when our time is done, we will not find that we watched life, rather than lived it. The ancients were wiser than us in this matter, and knew this truth well. Horace put it best and most famously:
sapias, vina liques et spatio brevi
spem longam reseces. dum loquimur, fugerit invida
aetas: carpe diem quam minimum credula postero.
Be wise, pour the wine, trim to a short space
your long hopes. Even as we speak, envious time has
already fled: Seize the day, and give tomorrow little faith.
However, this is the second reason why. More accurately, it is the reason why I do something with mother. The reason why the something I do is take her out for drives is because they are fun. If they weren't, I would do something else.
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