Pre/Post Birthday, Welcoming Fall

The best summer day I think I experienced this year was on this last Thursday evening. It's futile for me to struggle to find the right words for it: I can't describe perfection. The beach for the most part was great, the way the light hit the water on the lake as I was paddling around it made it both serene and surreal. The yellowing leaves along the shores reflected a golden aura around everything as the sun began setting. It was just a perfect way to close out another year of living, as it was the eve of my birthday.

The details of how I spent my birthday are too personal to share. I had quality time for solitude, and better moments with the company I did have. I was just happy to have the kind of time needed to do some navel-gazing that couldn't be impeded by any interference that remotely resembled work. Sitting still and giving myself time to think and reflect was about all I was capable of doing for a long while after the morning of that day. I tried to make some glorious (foolish) attempt that morning to break my all-time distance record for running; but the gaps between hydration stops were too large, and I was beginning to get some cramping and sciatic seize-ups. It forced me to limit myself to doing just a bit over a half-marathon distance. However, I did achieve my secondary goal of crossing all six bridges in this town. I'll need about another day from now to recover soundly after all that before I hit the trails again.

An Irish folk music band at the
Farmers' Market. Worth the
extra effort to shop locally.

The one thing I will comment about of what I gathered during my moments of sitting still and brooding on my birthday is just how much my tastes for some things have changed over time. Now, if I want an adventure, I seek something cultural or culinary rather than trekking on some weird expedition. I look at the value of objects with a more practical and larger-view attitude than with what their supposed monetary value is. Some pictures I took as I ambled around the Farmers' Market and Broadway Street Fair yesterday illustrate this point better.

My thinking today. . .a total
White Elephant.

For example, years ago, I may have been impressed and amazed to actually find a Lotus convertible, like this one shown here that I found yesterday, on the streets of this town. Now, my manner of thinking automatically comes to, "Someone has way too much money to waste on exposing and maintaining this lovely machine in the environs of this wretched climate." My attitude now is such that if you really want a sense of freedom and power, don't get a luxury sports car, or a palatial home, or anything else signifying ridiculous excess. Why get an over-powered car when you can only drive as fast as the idiot in front of you in traffic? A bigger home only compels you to waste time and energy filling it up with shit* you really don't need. I really can't be troubled with keeping up with the Joneses. Opulence and affluence doesn't really impress me anymore, I'm not sure if it ever really did. My idea of what real wealth is has changed radically, especially upon the realization of how the actual 'value' of money is established. I learned much while dabbling around the FOREX markets. It's completely arbitrary, and stupidly assigned and regulated through the means by which ultimately there is a shortage or deprivation of something for someone else, and is maintained by a system that keeps others in debt and impoverished. The drive for the super/hyper-accumulation of monetary wealth ultimately signifies one's willingness to take part in creating suffering of someone else and depletion of resources. The greed of an affluent few makes slaves and prisoners of too many.

Braised Beef Tendons from the
Mandarin Restaurant, my lunch after
my tour of the Farmer's Market.
Years ago, I wouldn't have been
so daring. This cured my aching knees.

The "wealth" I'm most impressed with and interested in now is that by which knowledge and resourcefulness is focused to use that which is deemed unusable, and puts it into a whole new light: quite literally in one case. For this instance, I was amazed by a Facebook post of a Chinese artist who took discarded drinking boxes, and created them into functional and aesthetically pleasing geodesic designs for lampshades. I've been totally enthralled, after reading articles, about the ingenuity of those eccentrics who can build homemade robots out of stripped down laser jet printers, and a crafty application of open source Arduino boards and Raspberry Pi circuits. These, plus those who can grow and produce actual foodstuffs, are the people I'll be seeking out when a global financial meltdown, energy crisis, or some other kind of apocalyptic collapse comes; not the buggers with the shiniest toys.
Gastronomically, I'm becoming more fascinated by chefs who are using entrails and offal and turning them into gourmet cuisine. I think I freaked my brother out a little bit when he phoned me to offer me a birthday greeting. Because he is a meat inspector, I presented the question to him as to where I could find a clean source of hog's blood for making my own homemade sausages**
I'm seeing innovation in what is simple and traditional (for others), and seeing the value of salvaging, and viewing those who squander and waste stuff with a lot more disdain. What I seek more of are truly Zen moments, like I had at the lake last Thursday. That's how I'm changing as I get older.

Along with this fall's harvest of fine fresh, and unconventional food, I welcome the prospect of discovering more unconventional, yet stunning, innovative ideas. I heard a rumour that there is a STEM (science, technology, engineering, and mathematics) expo coming to town sometime this month. I hope I'll get a chance to check some of it out.


* - I love that observation made by George Carlin: something akin to . . . "Have you ever noticed that as you accumulate things that your shit is "stuff", and other people's stuff is "shit'?

** - Blutwurst, boudin noir, black puddings, kishka, morcilla . . .whatever foreign or euphemistic name you give "blood sausage", it's damn delicious, and lately I've been having weird cravings for it. I first sampled it in an Argentinian parilla joint in Valencia. I can't find a source of it around here, so I'm relegated to try making my own.

Welcoming Spring, Touring the Man Show

Acupuncture: the back of my leg's
 impression of being a porcupine.

It's Saturday. . .officially. I finally woke up in the morning without my body greeting me with as much severe inflammation, cramping, and pain. Yesterday's session of treatments were a bit diminished in intensity than last time, that is, I felt less inclined to pass out when my leg muscles were being shifted, stretched, and kneaded. Desperation to expedite the healing process has made me more open to testing alternative forms of medicine. I have to make it a point not to favour the stricken leg anymore, and avoid limping so much. Sure, it's painful; but the extra use of the cane and limping was causing other problems. Deep breathing, and counting out my pace is helping. I had enough tolerance for the discomfort to tidy up inside a bit, and to use a little time to set up my deck furniture and clear the dust and debris that the six-month winter blew in and deposited on my balcony. I wanted to have it clean enough to enjoy some fresh air and a different vista for the evening; to hopefully watch last of this snow all melt away. I sit out here now, enjoying some whisky as I write this account. My peace is being ruined though by some dummies stunting with their vehicles (big half-ton trucks) south of here. I'll get to mentioning more about those kinds of morons in a minute.


There was desperation to do anything outside of the home today, so desperate in fact that I actually made an effort to circulate socially and I took a peek around the venue that was closest to me: The 2013 MAN SHOW. I don't honestly know why I opted to tour this event. It's enough to know that I am a man, with mind/body format compatibility, and I don't really need to do much in terms of shopping around, or finding other ways to waste money and time, to validate that fact. I'm not so insecure with myself that I need to latch onto and depend on some sort of power and status symbols to delude myself to thinking that those things will somehow magically make me more manly. When there is a expo in town with the advertising in big bold letters saying MAN SHOW, I automatically presume that there will be nothing much there for actual personal betterment for me as a man. What my preconception of a Man Show is, in my mind, is an expo of marketing stuff(s) that:

1. is just a tacky looking piece of shit that's built bigger than it needs to be, and just wastes space. 
2. is made to go faster, or have more power output than most people reasonably know how to control.
3. are mechanical and electrical things that exceed certain thresholds of making an obnoxious amount of noise, and using a wasteful amount of fuel/energy to power.
4. is a ridiculous attempt of automation of something to make it "time saving", but in reality is a lot less time/energy efficient or precise than managing the same work with more conventional or manual tools and methods.
5. are leisure crafts and vehicles that you pay thousands of dollars for, to use only a few days of the year.
6. are more technically enhanced ways of isolating yourself and vegetating.
7. if it's a food product, has the right combinations of deep fried/char-broiled protein, grease/trans-fats, salt/spice, which along with beer, induces the maximum capacity for raucous bouts of belching and farting.

Well look here. . . it's a perfect example of a
Skinny-whitetrash-mobile, or a.k.a. "the dumb-fuck truck"
 because that's mostly who you'll find driving them.
This truck pretty much represents the first five
 points I mentioned earlier**. I could also simply call it
"the over-compensator", but then I'd be using concepts these
poor rednecks wouldn't understand, or know how to spell.
Nothing screams out insecurity of one's manhood more than
when I see the types of  jerks who drive these stupid things
around, but yet don't have a job that justifies (or can pay for)
such a massive fuel-wasting piece of steel.

 

However, during this past while of lingering around home for so long, stricken with pain, and seeing how irritable and grouchy I was getting, it was undeniable that there evidently was something missing from around here that could have gave me better comfort in my place. Anyway, I was left to wonder if there were actually any other material things that this event would have had on display that could have brought me contentment. I got curious about it. So, I went just to explore it anyway, and perhaps discover what those things might be.


As I suspected, the event was largely a waste of my time, I only threw my name in a couple of cash prize draws; everything else that was up for grabs in a raffle was too grossly impractical for a condo dweller. There, of course, was a multitude of things stuffed with an over-powered engine, extreme sports gear, golfing supplies, and the ubiquitous presence of things that comprise the ideal "man cave"*. There was also, however, stuff that I wouldn't define as manly at all. Some of the pictures illustrate the point better than my words could. Like this photo of the pink golf cart . . . at THE MAN SHOW?!!!. . . I must have missed some circulated memo about how there's nothing that makes a greater statement that you're a studly pillar of pure testosterone than cruising around in a pink golf cart. I was looking around for the circus clown who owned this thing. Other stuff that was there, that one wouldn't exactly think of as manly, were spa treatment compounds, like Dead Sea Salt hand exfoliant. I also found all kinds of other crazy instances of strange juxtapositions. Here you are, surrounded by these super turbo-charged, jacked up, drive-through-the-swamp-and-muskeg, mega-4x4 half ton trucks, meant to do hard-ass labour, and withstand the worse physical punishment and conditions that can be thrown at a vehicle. . . and what are they selling for them right next to them as accessories, at the MAN SHOW? . . . air freshener scents!

That alone is a sure hint that the buyers don't really want these trucks for doing the actual dirty heavy work for which they were designed. If you have a super-charged half-ton truck, yet don't use it for real work, have all the chrome always polished up, smelling like an ocean breeze or pina colada, and looking like you are going to take friggin' Cinderella to the ball, it's pretty blunt and apparent that you are using it as a status symbol for a delusional sense of power. The only practical reason to have an air freshener handy for the kind of stupid loser bastards who I see driving these kinds of trucks are to hide the smell of booze and weed after they get pulled over.

Another unique thing there was a personal hovercraft. It has to be fully inflated when you want to have some real fun with it, the action happens underneath a skirt, there is a powerful thrust involved; how could a phallic symbol like this not be at the MAN SHOW? Points #2 through #5 covered by this thing. I must confess though that I'd like to try one of these things out at least once to see how it handles.

*- A stupid piece and insulting bit of terminology - since my dwelling's lone human occupant is a male, it by default makes it a "man cave", and I endeavour to be at least a little more sophisticated and worldly than an average troglodyte.

**- The other indicator of how much a vehicle is ridiculously and impractically designed, and made strictly for the senses, is the amount of female models hired to hang around the thing in a showcase.









Springtime in Saskatoyuktuk

It's somewhere in the realm of 3:00 AM time-wise. I'm writing now as a bit of a mind purge. I've not been able to just simply drift off to sleep because the howling 90 km/hour blizzard wind that is slamming at my outer wall of my bedroom. It's not at the state of being destructive: if you are inside, just an eerily noisy nuisance. We are in the midst of a clipper that is raging throughout the western interior of Canada. We've been through our first full day of the vernal equinox, and conditions are nowhere near appearing close to being spring-like throughout the time since I last posted here.

Did I share this photo to show you the interesting
 geographic info on the sign?. . .No. . .
Did I share this photo to show you the alphabet soup
 that is the Inuvialuktan language? . . .No. . .
I shared this photo out of envy, to show you that even
they have less f****in' snow there than we do! 

A few days ago, I noted that Saskatoon was even colder than the far northern hamlet outpost of Tuktoyaktuk near Inuvik in NWT, close to the Arctic Ocean. I commented on Facebook that we should rename this town Saskatoyuktuk, or something else that sounds more linguistically concordant to an Inuit dialect, given the extended length and snowfall of this miserable winter. I thought it would at least roll off the tongue more rhythmically to match all the other "-uck, -uck" words I've been muttering repeatedly every time I've tuned into the weather report for this region each morning for the last few weeks. After these last hours of the wind packing the snow, we would indeed have the ideal banks around here now to cut out sturdy enough blocks to actually build a few igloos. Given the affordable housing shortage around here, that might not be such a bad thing.

One of the first day of spring 2013 photos, taken here locally.

The most salient question I suppose the locals around this city/part of the province have been asking themselves is: "Why do I live here again?" The only positive answers I can scrape up for now is, at least it's not North Korea, or Iran. I can dress for the cold and snow and be protected. I don't know how to dress for an earthquake, or volcano (Pacific Rim), or for a car bomb (the Middle East) or for a sudden spray of bullets (like what's possible now in Syria, or any American school/movie theatre). These realities don't diminish the fact that this winter has been overly long and depressing for me though, even with the effort to use some of the days that were more ideal for skiing. By this coming Sunday, there will have been a full five months of snow coverage, and still no sign in the forecast for potential good thawing weather, until the maybe the second week of April, which still could potentially throw another couple storms our way.

A pileup scene somewhere between Edmonton and Calgary

I'm definitely not an Inuit, nor do I have the constitution of one. I have this innate urge in me to experience greenery, flowers, or even just simple grass close to this time of the year. The heightened flooding alert is going to delay even that from coming normally. It's becoming even more imperative that I visit Gardenscape this weekend at Prairieland Park. After this brutal season, I would bet my bottom dollar, despite the great delay for planting and sowing stuff, that there will not just a few, but throngs of people there, with near-orgasmic expressions on their faces, paying a ridiculous admission price, to just get a simple long awaited opportunity to smell the heavenly aroma of actual dirt and compost again, and to catch a glimpse of these things long estranged from our memory called "tulips", and "daffodils". The horrid road and highway conditions will not deter them. This picture above of a scene from Alberta won't be a sobering enough reminder for them to take it easy, or to just stay home.

That's how desperate people around here are for spring to come. . . here in Saskatoyuktuk.

Groundhog Day, Taboo Night

I bought some kvass today at the Ukrainian import grocery store, and I'm enjoying some as I write this. I don't know what is different about this new brand*, but it seems to be both sticking my brain into overdrive, and making me a little more disinhibited in thinking.

If the cold snap we had, with wind chills dipping down to -48 degrees, had extended into today; and if any groundhog, like Wiarton Willie**, was a resident here in Saskatchewan, I'm imagining that the result after prodding the little bugger to give us a forecast would be just a scene of a furry little rodent arm sticking out from the burrow's entrance, just long enough to give everyone the finger, and then quickly disappearing; with no other trace of him to be seen again until well into mid-April (of perhaps next year).

Thankfully, for this Groundhog Day, it has finally become 25 degrees 'warmer' (the wind chill was still below -20). Groundhogs weren't poking their heads outside around here today, but at least the people finally were, most looking quite grateful for the reprieve. It was my day off, and being concordant with the spirit and theme of the movie, Groundhog Day, I have been desperate for anything radically different from what's coming to look like an infinite loop of cold mediocrity.
I couldn't think of anything else happening locally that was a more fitting way to get out to a social venue and celebrate the escape of such monotony than to explore Taboo 2013.

Taboo is the first consumer expo I got to check out for the year for this new trade show season. It's basically a forum for all things erotic, sensual, and generally anything else 420 friendly. Around this conservative town, this is the closest it gets (as far as I know) to being anything as sort of Mardi Gras-esque. Watching the dancers was the most entertaining part of the event for me. I have a new respect for the strength and grace involved in the art of pole-dancing. It was packed. I don't usually opt to go to such crowded venues, but this was different. I show up to such things to view and study them anthropologically: to basically people watch.

What really makes me happy and interested about such an event, besides seeing scores of beautiful women, is seeing all types of people, of all adult ages, come out of the woodwork, and enter this public place walking around there with a sense of being liberated and being real about what they enjoy and want to include in the most private aspect their lives; it's like you can see it in their eyes. The atmosphere is sort of rich with good karma when people are in a zone with the intent of finding, or learning about, something that's pleasurable for themselves and their loved ones. When people are leaving the useless emotions of guilt and shame at the door, being completely honest with themselves about what truly pleasures them on the level of bodily sensuality, delusions are shattered. I'm happy when I find and discover people genuinely being this honest about themselves. One would find more honest people at a event like this than they would in a church, or any other religious congregation***. When delusions about living are stripped away, we approach enlightenment. This is what Zen teaches me****.

After being there, I realize that this is the first time in a long time that I've sensed that kind of air of positivity. I'm wishing now that this event occurred more than just once a year.

Adding this thought latently: if I were the groundhog responsible for forecasting the climate of others' negativity, I'd be seeing lots of ominous shadows. Hunkering down somewhere, away from it all for the next six weeks, seems pretty much like the more attractive option right now.

* Perhaps it was brewed from rye grown around Chernobyl, that was tainted with some sort of radioactive ergot spores, that made some super-potent residue LSD. Just a theory.
** Canada's version of Punxsutawney Phil
*** It's been my experience that the more people are tuned into religion, the more likely they are to slander and back-stab me.
**** I forget the name of the monk involved in a Zen story I heard, but the story goes as such: there was once a Zen Buddhist monk in feudal Japan who was approached by the abbot of his monastery, who heard testimomy from reliable sources that this monk often caroused, and took carnal pleasures with consorts and other servants. When the abbot confronted him about his conduct, the monk's open and honest retort was something like this: "Enjoying the company of, embracing, and making love to a beautiful woman . . . how can anyone ever think that this is the gateway to hell?" 

Weird Dreams, Yucky Taxes, Happy Feet, Gardenscape

I ascended and reached the top of the narrow stairwell and turned right, entering the place that was my bedroom of my old childhood home. The radio was playing on the cheap, boom box stereo I owned that was perched on the old chest of drawers with the sloppily applied dark walnut-coloured stain and weathered looking varnish.  The radio’s reception was half loaded with static, and I tried to adjust the tuning, but it wouldn’t change to anything clearer. It was night time, and I looked to my left towards the window to see that there were glowing sparks streaking across the sky heading eastward. I went back downstairs, and out the front door walking about 8 meters from the entrance. I turned around, and looked up toward the west, looking above the roof of our house back on the farm. It was a meteor shower, appearing to sweep very low over the sky, directly above our homestead. Suddenly, one of the streaks changed its trajectory, and came careening down toward very close to where I was standing. It brushed over the huge old shady Black Poplar tree that grew on the south east corner on the front of our house, and landed in the yard close to where we used to incinerate garbage. It continued to burn brightly for a while. Unlike any other meteorite when it lands, there was no blinding flash of light or explosive blast upon impact. It rested flat on the ground, making some of the grass burn around it, but leaving no impact crater. It stopped glowing and then instantly became cool enough to touch. The shape of the rock itself was like a prism, about one and a half meters in height at the apex, and 3 meters long. It was hollowed out inside, I could tell by a crack on its surface. I pressed against the end face of the stone prism, and it crumbled away. It was like a weird celestial storage locker. Inside of it were incredible things: rolled up scrolls and canvases of some kind of art that was too intricate and beyond any description I could ever give.  There were bars and ingots of gold, platinum, along with other semi-precious metals; there was another special article there too, which for a split second caught my attention. It was a . . .

And that’s when the train awoke me from this dream, as I heard its whistle and its rumbling going across the South CNR Bridge at 6:00 AM yesterday morning. This really burns my ass. This kind of dream: with myself encountering a surprise source of some sort of treasure, is a commonly recurring theme for me. During the climax of the dream, just when I'm about to see what the big discovery is, there perhaps is a physiological surge of adrenaline that gets triggered through the excitement, which stirs me awake before I get to see what the great wonder actually is, or to remember any more detail in the dreamscape. Or, as in this case with the train noise, I coincidently get awoken by some external stimulus. The initial findings usually appear to be “money”, or strangely printed paper currency, which is another reason why probably collect foreign bills. It would be interesting to know what this all is supposed to mean if it were properly Interpreted. I’ll probably check out the dream section of Hyperdictionary, just for a hoot later.

Sleeping with the window opened a quarter of the way, to have a train’s horn disturb me was a consequence of a forgotten detail from the spring cleaning and airing out the place the day before. It took up most of my day. I honestly shouldn’t have done it because I never felt had energy for it to begin with, since I did a long stint of work before that. I ended that day very exhausted, with a bad headache, but at least nothing is looking further neglected.

I used one of my two mental health days I’m allotted for the year yesterday. I should have used it and the other one long ago. Since yesterday was the last working day I had before the end of the fiscal year, I thought I had better not waste it and I used it to file my bloody taxes, and deal with all other personal fiscal matters. It’s hardly what a “mental health” day should be used for, but I figured it would be in my best interest and easier to pool my energy into dealing with this bit of hell, and then have two full days off to relax, rather than doing it sporadically amidst all the extra shopping and other junk to do; coming back on Monday as a real tired, grouchy son of a bitch. I thought I’d better get those affairs in order and cleared out of the way before making all my other travel plans for the month of April. I’ll be visiting the family for Easter, and attending the burial of my Grandmother’s ashes later in the month. My Dad’s health is as yet a big question mark, but I hope he’ll be released from the hospital before Easter. I’m preparing for contingencies of repeat visits though.

Anyhow, my taxes, plus some other aggravating paperwork, took a few frustrating hours to process, with one break to do some jogging. Then I used the remainder of the day for something else that isn’t conducive for promoting good mental health for me. That would be shopping for shoes.

Sorry boys . . . time to retire.

The 2012 Federal Budget was just released recently from Ottawa, and it’s the Canadian parliamentary tradition for the Minister of Finance to buy new shoes for that day. I figured that since I’ve been probing through my own annual expenses and budget that I should do the same. It couldn’t be avoided any longer, as the ones I have now are pretty much tattered, and I wasn’t going to the bloody malls during a Saturday before the Easter weekend looking for them. I utterly hate shopping for shoes because there are so very few durable, good-quality shoes that actually fit my stupid, semi-deformed feet* properly. It’s easier for me to buy a vehicle for myself than it is to get a decent pair of all-purpose, utilitarian shoes. Like most average Canadian men, I generally avoid shopping for anything that can’t just be grabbed off the shelf and taken straight to the till. I don’t like having to physically try on things to test them; that’s unavoidable when it comes to shoe shopping. I look in hopeless disgust at the heaps of dozens of open shoe boxes that some poor shop worker has went through so much trouble to get for me, only to find out that it was all an exercise in futility to find any hiking or sports shoes that fit my feet, along with my custom made orthotics. I could move on to as many as three or four stores, spending most of a day doing this before I find anything. I’d probably be the shoe customer that would ultimately make someone like Al Bundy blow his brains out. I hate the seriously ridiculous amount of wasted time that is used for this kind of quest. When I do find any they very seldom end up ever being bought at a bargain. This time though, I did manage to eventually find something without too much wasted effort, and not too terribly expensive, but how long they’ll actually last is still a question for debate. I noticed just how much all the running I’ve done has again changed the characteristics of my posture and walking also, and so my orthotics may need to be adjusted, or changed.

New babies

I think I subconsciously and purposely keep all my runners shabby, scuffed up, and riddled with holes, as to dissuade anyone from stealing them, and the expensive orthotics inside them. In a scenario where, God forbid, some maniac is trying to mug me, brandishing a weapon, and demanding that I hand over my wallet, I probably wouldn’t think twice about complying**. However, if the same bastard started pressing me to hand over my shoes, all I’d have to do is think about all the miserable frustration, and anger that I’d be faced with in trying to replace them (and the orthotics), and channel that energy onto this prick as I tackled him. Facing that kind of rage and fury, he’d be begging to die by some other comparatively more merciful, less painful/ humiliating/torturous means instead. I know I’ve been on this subject too long, and even though I’d like it to not have to be so, getting a pair of good, durable shoes for my feet is necessarily a big deal for me, since most of my time is spent with serving people who can’t use their own, and are relying on mine instead. Knowing this, one becomes a lot more appreciative and conscientious of allowing their feet do their job comfortably, and even more so, maintaining the ability to walk properly, seeing day after day how limiting life can be without the ability to do so. I suppose that’s also what’s been bothering me a bit: seeing the kind of condition my own father is in now, and how his mobility is being impaired.

The best sign of spring.

Oooh Yeeeah. . . Daddy like!
Must get this for Man Cave.

Today, the trade show in the neighbourhood this weekend is Gardenscape. The only thing garden related and practical for me would be small container gardening for my balcony, but then I remembered after paying my admission that my deck space is going to be renovated this summer, and thus it would be kind of pointless to plan on planting anything out there. So, initially I felt kind of stupid for even bothering to go there. However, I endeavoured to make it worth my while. I found a demo massaging armchair that I used for a few minutes, and it did me a world of good. It made it worth the cost of entry alone. My own therapeutic masseuse's fee is several times more than the admission to Gardenscape was. Plus, unlike my masseuse, the chair didn’t make me feel like I was getting my hide ripped off of me. I feel so much better. By another lucky happenstance, I made contact with a cute little woman in charge of a housecleaning service, who provided good credentials and references. I think I’ll use her instead of troubling myself with the next go around of long term neglect/absence and seasonal cleaning. I wish I found her sooner. My only other big home project is to reorganize my kitchen space, and then I should be content. I some got ideas for that from Lee Valley, who also had reps there. That chair, new shoes, the smell of flowers, and the loamy aroma of living soil, made me I feel like a new person. I entered a few draws, and with my luck, I would probably win the most impractical thing to ever have around this place: a hot tub (there were like a dozen vendors for them there). It would actually be worse than not winning anything. I have nowhere to put one. I hope there is a cash prize option.

The kind of sign I should own.

*-Not really grossly deformed, but enough to keep me out of the CAF (Canadian Armed Forces) back in the years when I would have considered enlisting, and enough to give me a lot of future spinal/ambulation problems without any corrective support. It didn’t help that my feet/knees were subjected to a lot of punishment doing repetitive and intensive heavy labour during the years of my first wage-earning job after high school, which still has as impact on me I’m sure even today.

**-Judging by all my earlier tax calculations, he wouldn’t find anything in there anyway. The federal government beat him to it.

Collections and Collectors

Fishing Lures?

In my younger adult years, one of the more interesting and educational occupations I had was working in a museum, actually two of them. I had a brief stint doing some communications and database work in one heritage centre, and before that, I worked in a curatorial centre doing conservation and cataloguing of artifacts. From those vocational experiences, I can assert with great certainty that I learned these four things:

1.  I developed a greater sense of awe and respect for the histories of people, and disclosing their stories accurately;
2. I like antique furniture;
3. I greatly dislike using industrial and household polishes and cleaners*;
4. And, coupled along with my schooling in psychology, those jobs made it interesting for me to sometimes use an anthropological perspective in studying the strange ways people like to relate to their household possessions.

 I think that’s why I used some of the brief bit of time I had free this weekend to tour the Collectors’ Show at Prairieland Park.

I remember that my Dad had
one of these novelties,
. . . a pissing whiskey
dispenser. What a treasure!

Straight razors, from a collector who probably
viewed Sweeny Todd a few too many times

I remember and thought about the comment I made in my last entry about people trying to fill voids with shopping, and collecting and hoarding stuff. There are very intelligent and dignified people with an encyclopedic knowledge and keen sense of history and detail, with a sound sense of pride in preserving antiquities. I’m not talking about them; from what I saw at this event, their population was rather small. They were the ones more likely to be selling the stuff than buying it. I totally do not get what the drive is for people to start amassing and keeping huge collections of bizarre and useless things as a serious interest: an oddly focused, yet wasteful, form of consumption. I understand the acquiring of stuff that appreciates in value after a while as an investment, and selling it for some kind of profit, but I fail to see the appeal of using a whole room to store shelf loads and boxes full the same sort of object, be it in theme, quantity, or quality. That kind of collecting, to me, is what I would just call object-specific hoarding. Some of random photos I posted here say it all. I don’t hate or abhor collectors; I’m just saying that I’m not on the same vibe as they are.

Matchbooks and bottlecaps?

Perhaps it’s because I’m not a very sentimental person**, and commemorative things just don’t appeal to me that much. Maybe I just have a different sense of aesthetics. I don’t really covet trophies, or trinkets, or “artifacts”. I don’t own or wear jewelry. I mentioned that I like and appreciate antique furniture, but I’m quite indifferent to owning any. I’m more likely to check out a book about it, which I still wouldn’t bother to keep. Books, or videos, you’d think would be a passable substitute in lieu of actuality collecting stuff, but some people are just hard-wired to possess the actual object. I don’t have a much of what can be construed as an addictive personality, and I’d fit on the low end of percentiles as one who would be prone to having any type of obsessive compulsive disorder. I’d think you’d have to have a blend of all of those sorts of things to have a hardcore philia-complex approaching an object-porn/fetish thing going on.  I saw very little there of what I would consider “valuable”.

Tobacco Tins?

Don't you . . . step on
my blue suede pooh!

That’s the other thing that floors me about collecting things as a hobby: it’s the absurdity of the arbitrary prices and values that some things are appraised at, and the hype and mystique that has to be tagged to it to make it valuable. A piece of dog crap on the sidewalk is a worthless nuisance; a fragment of coprolite*** extracted from the colon of Elvis after his autopsy, presented in a blue suede gift box is probably worth a small fortune.  Who decides the value of this shit (literally, in this example)?

You have got to be kidding me
. . . is this like Toaster Porn?!
Butter me up baby!

My foreign bills

My own history of collecting stuff isn’t really anything that notable. Maybe I did collect more stuff; if so I don't remember it, and didn't prize it enough to keep it with me today. I grew up in a very small house with not a lot of personal space to use, so I never had anything really big in terms of collections. As a child, I liked models, but wasn’t a hardcore collector of them. I mostly collected cassettes and later CDs of my favourite music as a teenager; nothing else really that was in an inordinate scale compared to anything else I had. My subjects of interest were, and continue to be, pretty random; nothing really intense, nor passionately specific. I like the simplicity of uncluttered space; that’s what I missed most growing up. I read a lot of books, but yet my own personal home library is quite small, because I like space and also being frugal . . . I let the public library store all the books I want to read, or I buy them used and re-sell them, all else is digitized as PDF and other ebook formats. I’m not a bibliophile: the kind of person who is fascinated by a book as some kind of totem object rather than having it for its content. I have a much smaller than average DVD collection. The only really weird thing that I admit that I fancy collecting now and then is foreign currency notes, and even that isn’t a big thing for me in terms of quantity, or use of my money, time, and energy.****

I'm doubtful that I'll ever have one of these.

I must say that out of all the crowds at the events I witnessed at Prairieland, the Collectors Show has drawn out the weirdest, most eclectic and eccentric bunch yet so far that I’ve seen there. The weirdest of them, disturbingly yet unsurprisingly, hung around the gun tables and displays. I heard a lot of American accents around there. I overheard things like complaints about how much cheaper this guy could buy so-and-so model of shotgun in Nebraska, and about the comparative legal strictness of purchasing and owning firearms here in Canada. I find that most people who love guns beak off a lot about the right to carry firearms, but sure don’t give much thought about the responsibility involved in owning and using one. The guns themselves didn’t give me the heeby-jeebies, it was the weirdos hanging around them who did. I don’t care much about the issue of gun control per se; I do care about the issue of 'whack-jobs-with-too-much-access-to-guns' control. I didn't want to start taking pictures around some of these crazy-looking buggers: I’m talking about the mean-looking anarchist types who looked like they wore camouflage every day, bikers drooling over the automatic pistols, creepy sociopathic-looking bush-hermits from up in the sticks, and some ultra-conservative redneck assholes who were a little less than tactful in being outspoken with blunt, and blatantly racist opinions in less than politically correct language in such a public place. I detected that it was the smelliest region of the exhibition hall. 

Here are some toy cap guns for the
wackos to go play with instead.

Not with the smell of the gunpowder residue, as one would expect amidst such a massive collection of firearms, but of the stench of great volumes of flatulence wafting throughout the crowd. It was like that had to be done by more than just one person. From all that, it kind of scares me to think that if you’re the type who has no civility or enough manners to care about what comes shooting out of your asshole in public, and cares even less and what comes shooting out of your mouth in terms of bigoted slurs, and angry misanthropic remarks in an open public place, I’d think that you’d be close to having the type of personality that could pick up a gun and shoot it in a public place as indiscriminately as well; that’s bothersome to me if your interest in a gun show isn’t so much for the hunting rifles, or admiring craftsmanship. There were too many kids around the gun tables as well, with their stupid parents who weren’t supervising some of them, making it look like it was as casual as a goddamned trip to the zoo. If has come to be such that there are advisories on movies and video games with simulated violence, do pre-teen children have any business being at a place with real weapons on exhibit? It was also sickening to note that in this one place alone, there looked like there were more guns there than there was available big game in a season in all of Saskatchewan. It was a gross example of wasteful over-marketing of a destructive force. That doesn’t make a lot of sense to me.

beaver stamps

HMCS Saskatoon, in very vivid detail.

There were some model-builders and artists there with some of their stuff. Model-builders and artists are different from collectors, in terms that they actually have a talent with working with great attention to detail in a medium, whereas a collector just merely possesses something possibly created by the model-builders or artists. You don’t have to be talented to be a collector, just obsessive. Collectors, to some degree or extent, render fun or useful things useless. They have the toy, but don’t dare open the box. They have that china that’s reserved for the “special occasion” that somehow hasn’t come yet.

Teak root chairs; it looks like furniture
from a Tim Burton movie.

It wasn’t all bad at the collectors’ show. Another thing that really impressed me was the teak root furniture from Java. It was great to see that there is an effort to use all of a tree and freeing the soil up for other life to take root, rather than abandoning a stump (teak takes a long time to decompose), and halting re-introduction of flora in that bio-space for a long time.

One could observe that in the past few years that there has been a wild onslaught in terms of TV shows about collecting, pawning, auctioning, treasures from trash, picking, appraising, and the transactions surrounding them, that are our ‘reality’ entertainment now. Is it because we have an aging population, and this is the most adventurous thing they’d rather do? Is it because of the long spell of global economic downturn, and everyone is desperately trying to assign a hyper-inflated value to any stupid insignificant thing in their attic? Is it like I mentioned before, another way to protect oneself from existential angst as we neglect other things that a genuinely self-actualizing mind needs to nurture itself?

I say pull out those toys out of the boxes and love them, use your fine china more often; leave your guns in the safe, and enjoy life.

*-I’ve had some extremely bad physical reactions to some products with VOCs (Volatile Organic Compounds) in them. Plus, as I learned from the conservator, if you really want to preserve your antique furniture, common commercial furniture wax is not the way to go.

**- I’m sure some would say that more accurately I’m closer to being an apathetic son-of-a-bitch. I don’t care; I don’t feel like arguing with them (ha ha, get it?).

***- Coprolite: a piece of fossilized fecal matter. There’s some trivia for you. What a shame it would be to waste that wonderful museum knowledge I learned, why not use it for illustrative purposes here. Now go use it in a sentence and impress your friends.

****- Again, I sort of do this as an anthropological/demographic study, kind of related to what I already mentioned. The representation of objects, words, art/ design, and people printed on a nation’s currency, a share of its economic energy, is like a strange little snapshot of the things that a culture values (or what that country’s government is trying to project that they value). Saying this now, I now understand the mentality of a philatelist. Postage stamps, by rights, represent the same sorts of things (but I still wouldn’t bother to collect them, my weird money collection habit is enough).

Weekend Photo Spontaneity

Just for the hell of it, I thought I'd share a few random pictures of the rare times that I get a couple days off in a row, with no commitment to do anything that looks like work during that time, starting the instant that I wake up. Sleeping in is futile as the day begins with . . .

sniff ... sniff ... sniff ... SLURP!!!

getting woken up with a very enthusiastic "Good Morning!" kiss. Actually, it's more like a warm, wet, panting whisper telling me something akin to a, "Daddy, please take me outside to pee. . . RIGHT NOW!" request. My own enthusiasm and energy to move arrive much later.

A better view of the face of the dream-interrupting culprit.

I'm left feeling somewhat a little derailed mentally though, because I think that this is the first time since this year began when I was not sick, stricken with pain, or scrounging around trying to madly catch up with household obligations. Time to get up and move.

I'll spare the details (and pictures) of my ablutions and hygiene, except that showering and grooming happen after the running/fitness: the only thing I feel obligated to do on days like these.

An app-shot of my performance,
 during mid-run.

 I needed to make a scene like this better, it's such a sad affair. . .

Breakfast . . . usually I try to keep at least this meal of the day high in protein to accord with my regimen. I don't keep any bread for toast in the place. Today, however, I felt like I need some extra carbs. I succumbed to the temptation to slip out for something special.

add a hot buttered Almond Croissant and a slightly
better cup of coffee from Il Secondo, and I'm a little happier.

There's that cheeky "Yeah, I'm gettin' some cookies!
 WTF are you gonna do about it?" expression.

After breakfast, and regaining a little more energy (from the extra starch/sugar), a mind with no commitments starts craving new ideas, and gets desperate to seek them out. But first I'm strangely compelled to tour the old neighbourhood. Ella loves that idea, as she has quite a few aunties (kindly female merchants along Broadway) who she likes to visit, and from whom she likes to mooch treats.

Just some of what I perused.

I forgot how nice it is to immerse oneself in the stacks at the public library; losing all sense of time there. I took some time to do that. I went straight to the magazine section, checking out random things. It's just more comfortable than glancing at the same content through a computer screen.





Then came lunchtime. . .

I needed something a little bit Asian and really hot . . . but since
Olivia Munn wasn't conveniently available, this had to do instead.

Then after that, just on a whim, I thought I'd check out a local music shop. I think I'm now in love with Roland guitar effects systems.

I took some of these out for a test drive. . .

.

. . . and monkeyed around on these babies as well. It was great!

2012 Sport and Leisure Show

If trying to tune myself into leisure was my mission I'd thought I'd better check out the Sports and Leisure Show at Prairieland. It was disappointing for me. The showroom was dominated by hunting, camping, and fishing vehicles and equipment promoters, and there was nothing of what I construe as 'sports' gear, like bicycling, skiing, or running, or team sport gear. I threw my name in a few draws, but found nothing much else there to interest me.

After touring around there, I was tired to return home for a nap. Woke up, poured myself a brew, and switched on the TV to probe through the listings for anything that won't waste my time.

Homemade 5.7 % alc/vol Dark Ale, plus watching TV
indiscriminantly usually results in a whole lotta stupid.

 Finished beer; napped again. I started reading when once I awoke. Non-fiction choice: The Short History of Nearly Everything, by Bill Bryson. Fiction choice: The Outlander, by Gil Adamson. I'm sure I'll be continuing with them well into this evening, so I won't waste any more words on that. I could just as well as pass on supper if more beer becomes an option. 

As the day cycles to a close, it has all just been a reminder that confirms that I seem to have highly limited capacity for using energy for seeking or deriving entertainment socially, or from external stimuli. The only thing I like socially is chatting one to one with people, and finding comedy in things.* The most entertaining stuff for me that ever happens in my life occurs between my own two ears, and I don't need much to stimulate me to think. I suppose that's why I've felt such an urge to start writing more, so as to pick through and recover the myriad of the stuff, both deep and trivial, that is trapped in my skull that puts a smile on my face. Some (much) of it is way too complicated for others to get, and greatly loses its impact when I have to try to explain it verbally. And therein lies the value of spontaneity.

*- Well . . . actually, as far as social activities go, sex trumps everything; in my little world though, finding and drawing humour out of people is a hell of a lot easier than getting sex from them.

Convention Crashing

I finally feel like I’m starting to ditch this cold, or whatever bug this is. I realized since the New Year began that I haven’t been really anywhere else except work and home, and doing a bit of shopping only for the essential and practical because I have been either sick, or stressed with fixing stuff. I only had one rendez-vous for a quick belated birthday lunch, but that’s about it: almost no extracurricular social-life whatsoever since the year started.  I thought I better do something about that.

After some strange discussions and revelations that were aired yesterday in a couple of conversations, I’ve come to realize that one of the nice advantages about living in my area of town is that I’m close to all the action when the more interesting conventions, trade fairs, expos, and other odd flea markets or concerts are scheduled at the Prairieland Buildings. I live close enough that I don’t have to drive to see any that interest me, so it’s a hop, skip, and a jump there. Also, when sometimes such events are licensed, it’s a convenient and reasonably safe stagger, trip, and a fall back home if I ever do risk being over the legal limit.

I’m not an overly-social person (obviously), but I think conventions/trade shows/expos are great, because one can walk in there as a total stranger, and generally find some common attraction of interest for sensible discussion for like minded people to chat about. It’s a far more organic affair and natural way of socializing and networking for me than sitting around a stupid bar/ lounge under some pretence of “relaxing” amid music blaring too loud for to have a comprehensible conversation, watching other people make a drama, argue, and bitch about work or life in general, as they (not so) gradually lose more inhibition to alcohol. At a bar, it seems that you’re relegated to be constantly alert and active in dealing with someone who is trying to bullshit you, or with someone just plainly being an asshole; plus you’re more likely to be seen as and treated that way yourself in a bar. I can’t be bothered. It’s hard for me to meet and interface with people in any bar. There are no cool bars around for me anymore. I mostly enter and leave them as an anonymous stranger. If it's a casino, I usually just end up leaving as a much broker anonymous stranger.

I find that’s less likely to happen at a trade show or expo, even when there has been copious alcohol consumption, at least at the past events I have attended*. Whether it’s listening to a lecture or seminar, formally discussing business and making queries with promoters/sales reps, or informally chatting with other interested attendees, I generally find people at such conferences respectful, open, likeable, and most importantly, and genuine and honest about what like want and like in business/work or leisure life. There are, of course, conventions you would never find me attending. The antitheses of the kind of people I like finding at conventions are: the sanctimonious personalities who fall easily into self-delusion; hence you won’t catch me anywhere near a political convention, or religious jamboree of any sort. Religious fanatics and political activists are some of the worst of the toxic bullshitters around; usually none of their topics are of passionate interest to me. I also wouldn’t be convening with the typical people in the crowd you’d find at a Megadeath/Mötorhead concert**. These kinds of concerts, (plus the Ex in general) attract a lot of the social riff-raff. When these types of people amass, it’s doubtful that anything good comes out of it. That’s one downside of living so close to Prairieland Centre.

I regret missing the last Health and Wellness show that came here last week because, ironically, I was just too sick. Of the future events I’d like to see/attend there are: the next Top of the Hops, The Sports and Leisure Show, and any running/marathon training workshops that may be there (or elsewhere in town). I plan to crash a few others too for the sake of novelty. Doing so would satisfy many of the objectives on my Things I Need to Know How to Do Better list I made in the New Year.

*- Top of the Hops is an awesome Expo for those who love sampling different beers, wines, and spirits. Check it out in May! It’s so much fun, and so entirely civilized considering how much liquor is there.

**- This was just a convenient contemporary example to use. They played here yesterday (Feb 16^th). That means there were probably one or two totally empty trailer parks last night around Saskatoon. My neighbourhood was probably swarming with (wannabe) bikers, dope heads and dealers. I did hear lots of sirens last night. It could have been worse; I should be thankful that this didn’t occur while it was summer on the outdoor stage. It’s not so much the band(s)/genre that I despise, since I have and play some metal tunes myself. However, I think that a person would have to have a really polluted psyche if metal was/is/will be the only genre of music they ever like or listen to. It’s also disturbing and pathetic to see guys in their 40s and 50s being metal band groupies. Grow up for crissakes guys . . . and get a bloody haircut!