Category Archives: Bits and Bobs

Random ramblings that don’t fit as neatly into any of the other categories.

The future ain’t what it used to be

It’s 2012 – wondering where the flying cars are?  The way some people drive, maybe it’s not a bad thing Ford hasn’t rolled them off the production line yet.  But as a fan of science fiction from a young age, a passionate supporter of space exploration from around the same time and a gazer at the stars from long before that, I kind of expected the future to be, well, a little more futuristic.  I’d hate to think that all those classic movies like 2001: A Space Odyssey lied to me, and yet, as 2001 came and went we weren’t boldly voyaging to Jupiter and beyond, we were mired in terrestrial disputes, our feet welded to the ground by political infighting, war, terrorism and relentless media-induced fear.  The words of Robert F. Kennedy come to mind:  “Some men look at things the way they are and say why; I dream of things that never were and say why not?”  Somewhere along the line we, collectively, stopped dreaming of things that never were and became coddled by advances in technology that heighten only the convenience of life, not its quality.  Probably the greatest step forward in the last ten years has been anything produced by Apple, and yet, really, a portable Justin Bieber catalogue isn’t exactly the sort of thing Jules Verne would have envisioned as a quantum leap.  We still get from place to place, basically, on 19th Century engines – they are faster and sleeker but the principle is the same one that propelled your great-grandfather’s old jalopy down Main Street when it was a dirt road with horse hitching posts along the sidewalks.  As Leo McGarry opined on The West Wing, “where’s my jetpack?”  Forget that – I want my damn Back to the Future Part II Mattel hoverboard.

I laud the advances we’ve achieved in communication, this forum being one of them.  What concerns me is that we are moving towards a point in our existence where we may have very little of substance to communicate about.  Human beings are needy creatures – we are forever craving stimulation to make us productive.  From adversity comes advancement.  But what happens when life is so easy, so crammed with distraction, that challenge is all but forgotten?  Look at the difference in a little over half a century – after Pearl Harbor, Americans banded together to enlist, volunteer, ration, buy bonds, collect scrap metal, anything that could be done to assist in the war effort.  Contrast that to the post-9/11 era where the President told his people that the best thing they could do to help their country was to go shopping.  Rosie the Riveter?  Nope, Penny the Power Purchaser.  And why?  Because it’s easier.  It’s yet another distraction, an erosion of altruism for self-interest über alles.  Surrounded by distractions, we do not think.  We forget about the whole and focus on the pleasure of the one.  These mass-produced trinkets are fun, but they fill the one empty space that should be uniquely our own – our imagination.  They saturate it so completely that we don’t think we are lacking for anything anymore, and thus, we are no longer compelled to create.

I am a victim of this myself.  When I was first living on my own, I had only an old computer with no Internet capability, let alone access.  I wrote constantly, generating screenplay after screenplay, thousands of pages of would-be novels.  Without distraction, I could focus on creation.  Then one day I decided to buy a Nintendo 64.  And who wanted to stare at a blank screen and flashing cursor anymore when there were so many goombas for Mario to jump on and so many princesses to save from castle dungeons?  My imagination took a huge hit and I don’t think it has ever completely recovered.  To this day I prefer surfing through a few favourite sites and catching up on the latest show business news over writing something of my own nine times out of ten.  I’ve been prolific here lately because I’m really forcing myself.  But it’s not easy.  The lethargic soul is a persistent enemy forever at the gates.  And he seems tragically immortal.

Primitive computers with barely the memory of today’s pocket calculator helped land men on the moon and return them safely to Earth.  That was in 1969.  2001: A Space Odyssey came out a year earlier, and given the pace at which things were happening then, it seemed a reasonable prediction - barring the unforeseen bankruptcy of Pan Am – of what our lives could be like as the 21st Century dawned.  Instead, HAL 9000 is the iPhone 4S, and the moon seems further away than ever.  But goshdarnit all, I’ve got 100,000 songs in a little gizmo a third the size of my wallet.  Is this what RFK had in mind when he was dreaming of things that never were?  Is this what Stanley Kubrick expected?  Is this what Aristotle, Copernicus, Leonardo or Galileo would have wanted?  Full seasons of Fear Factor streaming to my HDTV on Netflix?  Snooki with a million Twitter followers?

The capacity of what humanity can do with imagination and hard work is limitless.  But we have to force ourselves to look up from the screen and back at the stars again.  Because although they’ll be there forever, we won’t be, and I’d rather not see the ability to download Jackass 3-D at lightspeed as our civilization’s greatest lasting legacy.

Guest post: The Cat’s Meow

My better half is very critical of her writing skills.  I’m not entirely sure why.  She has a natural, friendly style that is earnest and highly readable, and she can get her message across without sounding as long-winded as another unmentioned member of her immediate family (blush).  I try to be as encouraging as I can, but my compliments don’t seem to be sticking.  So today I’m going behind her back a little bit and offering a sample of her prose for your enjoyment.  From the end of this paragraph, all remaining words in this post are hers.  Hope you like it - I know I do.

When a person is speaking of something that they think is really great, they sometimes refer to it as “the cat’s meow.”  So I took it upon myself to do a bit of research to see if I could discover where exactly this phrase comes from.  Most sources seem to indicate that it originated in the 1920′s when flappers and other hipsters used “cat” to refer to ideas that were too cool for words.  In addition to “the cat’s meow” there was the “cool cat” or “hep cat” and “the cat’s pajamas” (although this one I will never understand since I have yet to see a cat lying around in a flannel nightie).  But I must say that lately, I do not consider my cat’s meow to be anything other than highly annoying.

It was a little over 8 years ago, when I innocently went to the Humane Society one day with my sister so she could pick up an application to volunteer.  I had a few minutes to kill while waiting for her to collect the proper paperwork, so I ventured into the “Cat Room.”  The walls were lined with cages containing cats of many colours, shapes and sizes.  Some of them paced back and forth as I walked by meowing loudly, saying, “Look at me, I am stunning.  You will not find a more beautiful cat than me”  Others slept in curled up balls and simply opened one eye as they heard me pass, deciding I was not worth waking up for.  And then, as I shuffled past one cage in the middle of the room, this pretty little gray creature slowly walked up to the front of the cage and tilted her head, looking at me as if she thought she knew me from somewhere.  She moved a little closer and stretched up on her hind legs, inviting me to bring my face a little closer to hers.  As I did so, she reached her two front paws out through the bars of the cage and gently touched my cheeks.  That was it, I was a goner.  I immediately surrendered to Muffins, a dilute tortoiseshell of about 11 years old at the time, and we headed off to start our new life together.

Now, by all accounts, Muffins is a great cat.  She’s clean, well-behaved and she loves to make new friends, as long as they are of the two-legged kind (other cats and dogs just will not do).  And she is affectionate – well, that is to say she loves attention.  In fact, she demands it on a regular basis.  And it used to be that she would simply rub up against us or park herself on my lap whenever I sat down, expecting some petting or face and ear scratching or even a brushing.  But lately, she has taken to meowing whenever she wants attention.  And I’m not talking about a cute little meow that says “Yoohoo, do you see me?  I’d like a bit of  love if you can spare a couple of minutes.”  No.  I’m talking about a loud, annoying meow that goes on incessantly and says “Hey you, yeah you, it’s been at least 5 minutes since you paid attention to me.  How many times do I have to remind you that your job is to give me all the love and affection I desire, no matter what you may be doing.”  And did I mention that Muffins is an early riser?  Her usual wake up call is around 5:15 am but sometimes she’s had enough beauty rest by 3:00 am and it doesn’t matter to her one bit that my husband and I are trying to sleep.  Oh yes, and she doesn’t believe in weekends!

Perhaps, like humans as we enter our senior years, she is having trouble sleeping through the night.  We’ve tried being understanding and waking up briefly to appease her with a few quick pets. But that was not enough for her.  Then we tried ignoring her which only led to her amping up her performance by taking it from just pacing the floor of our bedroom, to jumping up on the bed and pacing across our bodies. So it was time for tough love.  When the meowing started, out of the bedroom she went and the door was closed behind her.  End of discussion.

But neither one of us wanted to be the bad guy.  After all, she’s part of the family.  How can we banish her from the room when she loves us so much and just wants to be close to us?  What if she’s lonely when she’s put out in the hall?  She is getting older, so who knows how much time we have left with her.

So, what next?  Well, after a great deal of thought, I realize that the answer is simple.  I mean, who are we kidding?  Do we really think we can put our foot down now after years of giving in to her every whim.  It is us, after all, that created this mess.  We’ve taught her that all she has to do is turn on the cute a little bit and she can have whatever she wants.  We have no one to blame but ourselves.  This will all be resolved if we just accept who is really in charge in our house.

Meow.

Running, the cruelest of mistresses

What it never feels like.

What ever should one do when one is awoken by a persnickety feline at quarter after six on a Sunday morning and the wife remains sound asleep?  If one has consumed a bountiful meal of cheese, bread, pasta, chocolate, beer, wine and cake the previous evening, why, the obvious solution is to go for a run.  Sounds a delightful idea, doesn’t it?  To be out in the freshness of a quiet morning, with nothing but nature to accompany you – saturating your lungs with clean, cool air, making your heart race as you pound one sneakered foot in front of the other, feeling the burn in your leg muscles and filling your mind with thoughts of health and renewed energy and vitality.  A veritable paradise.

Except that I hate running.  Hate it hate it hate it.  Loathe it beyond all rational means.  Hold contempt for it equal to that of say, brussel sprouts, Kate Hudson movies and Republicans (okay, maybe that’s too much hyperbole.)  And for some reason I keep doing it.  You read about people who are morbidly obese, recovering drug addicts, cancer survivors or what have you who experience almost religious epiphanies when they first strap on a pair of Nikes and preach at length about the joy of running and how it’s changed their lives.  I’ve been running irregularly for about four years now and I’m still waiting for that lightbulb.  I think about that when I’m panting along, the sweat is pouring off my brow like Niagara-freaking-Falls and my legs are ten seconds from collapsing into piles of jelly.  When am I going to have that moment?  When am I going to start to actually like this?

I don’t think it’s a question of would I like it if it were easier.  Writing can be excruciatingly painful and we’re still going steady after 30 years.  But my ongoing courtship with running feels a bit like picking up a gorgeous woman who is the picture of physical perfection and finding out after dating her for a little while that though the sex might be great, you have absolutely nothing to talk about.  Maybe for some people that’s enough.  I want more.  I want to fall in love with running.  I want to smother it with affection and feel the exhilaration of its caresses as we tear up the road together.  I would love to look back on my life from years ahead and know that I was able to run at least one marathon, once – if nothing else, getting in shape enough to successfully complete a marathon will probably mean looking back on it from the age of 95 rather than 65.  Selfish reason?  Perhaps, but I don’t think I know of anyone who runs for the altruistic aspect of it.

I was in a public relations class once and the ice-breaker exercise on the first day involved figuring out what comic character best represented us.  I was completely stuck for an answer on that one.  When I mentioned it to my wife later that day, she immediately had an answer – Garfield.  Which I suppose is pretty accurate.  I do love sleeping and lasagna and have been known to cough up the occasional furball.  I certainly couldn’t have said The Flash.  But I keep hoping that this is going to be the day.  As I don the dry-fit shirt and the shorts and lace up the cross-trainers, I say this is it.  This will be the day that I’m going to be bounding along with a spring in my step and a song in my heart and everything is going to click.  At that moment I will truly become a runner, and my path will lead me to heretofore unimagined heights of fitness, stamina and confidence.  I’ll be one of those guys with those inspirational stories of salvation through exercise.

But then the alarm goes off, and I snuggle into my comfy pillow and mutter to myself, “I hate Mondays.”

I am born

Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, etcetera and so on.  Probably doesn’t do much good to start out with blatant plagiarism.  Then again, Charles Dickens (that’s Dikkens with two K’s, the well-known Dutch author) has been dead for 150 years so maybe no one will notice.  Unless Phil Dickens, his great-great-great-grandson, has a penchant for surfing obscure, just-started blogs for kicks.  But as I understand copyright law (a level of comprehension sandwiched somewhere between “layman” and “utter ignoramus”), I think I might be okay.

Look at this – a brand new blog, born on the fourth of July!  Aw, crap, there’s the phone, it’s Ron Kovic’s lawyer.  Yes, sorry about that.  Birthed on the 27th last day of the seventh month, is that better?  I suppose this riff on infringement and plagiarism is a roundabout way to ask if the world needs another blog.  According to the Great Encyclopedia of Earthly Knowledge (G.E.E.K., better known to you as Wikipedia) there are 156 million blogs on this planet.  156 million and change variably informed people holding court about politics, religion, celebrities, recipes, their damn kids, the history of Romanian cabinet making and just about any other esoteric topic you can think of (see “Long Tail of Media, The”).  What could I possibly contribute other than the merest infinitesimal escalation of the background noise?

More to the point, what is it about the internet that compels otherwise reserved people to spew their ramblings into the void of cyberspace?  I’m reminded of Voyager 2, which has been flying through space since the late 70′s on its way out of our solar system.  This tiny hunk of metal, at latest report over 13 light-hours from earth, still sending streams of data back to its masters on the blue speck out there in the darkness, and continuing to do so until its power trickles down to nothing in the next 13 years.  Crying out even though no one may be listening.  That’s your blogger in a nutshell.  If you’re lucky, somebody who’s interested picks up the transmission.

What it’s really about is the exchange of ideas.  But to get started with that, I’ve gotta put my ideas out there.  And I have more than a few to share.  If you read something of mine that makes you smile, makes you think, makes you punch through the screen screaming “fffffffffuuuuuu,” then something worthy has been achieved.  (Maybe not the latter so much – you might think I owe you a new monitor.)  What you can expect – my declaration of principles as it were – is my three H’s – honesty, heart and hope.

So let’s see where we go with this thing and what we find along the way.  And feel free to let me know how I’m doing.  If you like what you find here, or if you just think I’m an utterly pretentious douche, say so.  It’s the only way I’ll learn.

Namaste and welcome aboard,

Graham