The cat came back: part four, or The Joyful Reunion With the Favourite Toy

So I was woken up this morning by a paw tapping my nose insistently. When he saw my eyes were open, he hopped down from the bed and sat in the doorway, looking back over his shoulder at me and miaowing. As I hauled myself groggily out of bed, he trotted a few steps on and paused again, looking back, miaowing again. At this point I assumed he wanted food, but then I saw his bowl was still full. Still doing the pausing, looking back, miaowing thing, he hung a left and led me into the living room. And sat down expectantly on his favourite toy. At which point I realized it had happened -- I'd been manipulated by my cat.

He had played this little trick on Kristen once or twice, but I hadn't yet fallen for it. Until today, that is.

What was this little game all about? He wanted to play with his favourite toy, and needed his dancing monkey to help him do so. It's a plastic rod with a string and a fluffy thing at the end, which he goes slightly insane chasing while you flick it around. It's very entertaining, too ... for a few minutes. After doing his manic leaps after the fluffy thing that apparently taunts him like a mocking Frenchman, he then goes into hunting mode -- hiding behind the endtable, under chairs, around the couch, etc. like a tiger in the foliage. At which point I'm expected to keep this toy almost motionless, twitching it slightly every few minutes ... until he comes bounding out of whatever hiding place he's in and pounces.

This toy, it's like crack to him. He will sit beside it and miaow mournfully at me, every few seconds giving it a tentative, sad little prod with his paw. It had been sitting in the trunk of my car since I moved here. I was reluctant to reintroduce the drug to the addict as it were, but he'd been going a little snakey these last few days. And now we're back to our old routine. Sigh.

Giving thanks

I got an email from my mom yesterday, saying she was feeling nostalgic -- and that this was my first Thanksgiving I would not be spending with family, which made her a little sad. She's not the only one ... I've been kind of down all week, partly of it because of the run-up to Thanksgiving weekend. In fact, this is not my first Thanksgiving sans family; I have on occasion not made the trip home when I've been snowed under with other things, but there's a big difference between being just a two-hour drive down the 401, and being a three and a half hour flight away. So even when I haven't gone home for turkey day, there was comfort in knowing that I could be there quickly should I change my mind.

So I'm a bit sad ... I've been missing Ontario somewhat, missing Kristen, missing friends and family, missing the dinner that's happening at my parents' house this evening, a Thanksgiving made all the more special by the presence of little Morgan. It's hard to know I won't be there for her first Thanksgiving.

I've also felt a bit overwhelmed by work these last few days, and not just a little daunted by what I have to do over the next year or five. Impostor syndrome never goes away: that feeling all grad students get during their MA that someone is going to show up and say "I'm sorry, we've made a mistake -- you're not actually smart enough to be here" does in fact persist into full-time life.

So I took a long, contemplative walk downtown today and rolled all this over in my mind, and ended up doing what I always do when I feel this way -- reminding myself that 99% of the world has it way worse than me. I think this is why Thanksgiving has always had a poignancy for me. I have so very much to be thankful for:

• I'm thankful for my family, who have never been anything but supportive and loving. I know so many people for whom this is otherwise that I realize, quite painfully, how much in the minority I am.
• I am thankful that I have such a wonderful and beautiful girlfriend, with whom I am deeply in love.
• I am thankful that I have the friends I do, in Ontario and abroad.
• I am thankful for the new friends I have been making in Newfoundland.
• I am thankful that I have been able to pursue a career with reasonable success that is consistent with my principles and values, and that I have had to sacrifice nothing of what I believe to do so.
• I am thankful that I have found a career that lets me pursue my passions in teaching, research, and writing.
• I am thankful that I have never wanted for anything--that I was born into prosperity, and raised to never take it for granted.
• I am thankful that I was born in Canada, and grew up and continue to live in the best country in the world.

This is only a partial list ... but you get the idea. It's hard to wallow in one's petty discontents when you write out a categorical list of the positive things in your life. If I have one ever-present anxiety, it's that I won't do this life I have justice.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.

The countdown begins (or continues, I suppose) ...

Wow, I just realized I went four days without a blog entry -- a new record for me.

And I am remiss in my duties, as the seven days of Lauramas began this past thursday. So I hope everyone has been observing their Stations of the Laura? Thursday, the first day of Lauramas, is the day we sit motionless on the couch through eight hours of CSI. Yesterday was the day to attempt the 20-minute pilates video and instead go for a drink on the pation of the Runt Club or the APK. Today is coffee at Williams, and tomorrow at Starbucks.

(I am in a state of theological angst because of my great distance from some of these locations. And I could only find seven hours of CSI. I pray for forgiveness).

So in tribute, I offer some images of The Laura ... and an object lesson in what happens when you let her and Patterson get their hands on your digital camera after they've gotten nicely juiced at your thesis party.

For the best effect, scroll down very quickly.

We have a winner!

This just came from my mom over email:


Forget the nuclear family, we have here the epitome of the hockey family. Matt's a hockey fanatic, but Michelle eclipses even him, having been playing since she was three years old. Seriously--three years old. I've seen her play, and it's a pretty awesome sight, especially when she's on the ice with my brother and his friends who have really only been playing for a few years, and who are (in at least one case) still figuring out how to skate.

Looks like the torch is getting passed from mother to daughter.

I just hope she doesn't grow up to be a Canadiens fan. Matt would need to undergo some serious therapy.

Cuteness

My parents just emailed me a bunch of recent pictures of my niece Morgan, which is as good an excuse as any to play proud uncle and post some pictures of the most beautiful little girl in the world ...

One of my favourites!

Laughing!

My sister-in-law Michelle with the girl of the hour ...

She's alert now, and aware of her environment ... according to my parents, she is infinitely curious, wanting to see everything that's going on. Looking right now like she'll be quite the handful once she's ambulatory -- but then, that's no surprise given who her parents are. :-)

This is one of the difficult things about my move ... I can only experience my niece's growing-up virtually.

Who's our Henry?

This story shall the good man teach his son;
And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remember'd;
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition:
And gentlemen in England now a-bed
Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.


My favourite professor ever, Arthur Haberman at York (no, that's not a picture of him), was fond of saying that someone someday needs to write a magical history of Canada.

Not the typical boring high school textbook history, or a shocked and dismayed postcolonial revisitation of our national sins (which is, granted, at least somewhat more interesting than my Grade Nine textbook), nor even a CBC-friendly celebration of our multicultural nation (we're back in boring platitudes again), but a history that will focus on some of the truly bizarre events and characters that constitute our nation's damatis personae.

Like PM Mackenzie King, who made some of the most crucial decisions in Canada's history during WWII ... after conducting seances to consult the spirits of his dead mother, Louis Pasteur, Leonardo Da Vinci, or his dog Sparky.

Or our offensive in the War of 1812 that took us all the way to the White House, where Dolly Madison had, hearing of the coming soldiers, evacuated her forty guests just before they could sit and eat. Upon finding the table groaning with food, our soldiers had dinner before burning down the White House.

Or Sir John A. himself, who was a bigger drunkard than Winston Churchill and Shane McGowan combined.

Or Sam Hughes, the bombastic egoist who commanded our armed forces at the outset of WWI ... whose bizarre, nepotistic, and self-indulgent excesses were comparable to a spoiled Roman emperor.

And on and on. We're such a self-effacing nation, we rarely take note of the eccentricities we produce.

And yet, we have no mythic figures. This is on my mind because this week we start Henry V in my survey course, a play I am inordinately excited to teach again. I was trying to convey to my students the iconic quality Henry would have had in the minds of Shakespeare's audiences -- the kind of historical hero-worship that would have had the groundlings ready to cheer at the key moments before the player came out on the stage. I said, "Henry had the same qualities for Shakespeare's time as ...", thinking to mention someone who would be comparable for us. But came up with a blank.

Who is our Henry? It's not like we lack iconic figures, but they're just as likely to elicit boos as cheers -- Trudeau, for example. I started to say, "OK then, Joey Smallwood ..." but saw half my class wince instinctively. Believe me when I say that Newfoundland seperatism is experiencing a renaissance at the moment ... the man responsible for bringing the Rock into confederation is no unproblematic hero.

So who's our Henry? I don't think we have one ... certainly not in the way that Henry V worked and works for England, or Washington and Jefferson work for the States. And truth be told, I'm not too chuffed about that. We suffer on some fronts for not having enduring legends and myths as a nation, for not having figures that effectively elicit the same emotional response as "Go Leafs Go" does in the ACC ... but at the same time there's a certain freedom that emerges from that lack. I like the fact that our truly iconic figures, i.e. the ones that elicit genuine emotions (I mean, the mention of Sir John A. doesn't tend to piss people off, but it also doesn't inspire hope or joy beyond realizing that you have a ten dollar bill in your pocket) are pretty universally contoversial. As a nation, we're ambivalent. While this tends to lead to a lot of waffling and apologizing, I do think it's one of our strengths.


And the fact is, we have had our Henrys ... but being Canadian, they've been understated. Any nation that manages to produce generals like Lewis Mackenzie or Romeo Dallaire has to be doing something right ...

Boy, those Germans have a word for everything!

I just read an article about a book that I must get--called The Meaning of Tingo, it lists words in other languages that have no direct equivalent in English. My three faves are all German. Drachenfutter means a sexually indiscreet husband who buys an expensive gift for his wife out of guilt. The literal translation is almost as good: "dragon fodder."

Then there's the term for overeating because of depression: kummerspeck, or literally, "grief bacon." But the best is backpfeifengesicht, which refers to a face that really needs to be punched (literally, "baking whistling face).

Speaking of backpfeifengesichts, I've really been enjoying my schadenfreude over the last few days as I've been avidly following Tom DeLay's discomfiture. I especially love his oft-repeated accustion that this whole indictment is a baseless accusation concocted by a conspiracy of Democrats out of sheer spite.

First of all: based on what's emerged from this prelimary beating of the bushes, "baseless" is not an adjective likely to get far. And as so many editorials have observed, this is a man whose entire career has essentially been about pushing the ethical envelope, no matter what hypocrisies occur along the way (for example, his ceaseless bashing of Democrat policies as the intrusions of "big government" in the lives of citizens didn't seem to be an issue to him when he spearheaded the attempt to get government intercession in the Terry Schiavo case); if nothing else, these investigations are finally making people ask whether or not his political tactics aren't unethical in and of themselves.

Secondly: I don't quite get how the conservative press is so surprised at appalled at the thought that a group of Democrats might have been in contact with each other over this issue. Said DeLay accusingly, (I'm paraphrasing) if you were to check Ronnie Earle's email and phone record, you would probably find a ton of calls and messages to and from leading house Democrats. Well, duh. Earle is a democrat himself -- why would we be surprised he would speak to members of his own party? Why is the conservative press shocked that Democrats would want to take DeLay down?

(Because Republicans would never do such a thing. If I recall correctly, the impeachment hearings for Clinton proceeded haphazardly, with no collusion whatsoever amongst leading Republicans).

Finally, yes this is a spiteful proceeding, yes there is intense dislike for DeLay, and yes Democrats (and a number of Republicans) want to see a bullying, arrogant, hypocritical and unethical political thug taken down a few pegs. Newt Gingrich--yes, Newt Gingrich--recently said that "DeLay's problem isn't with the Democrats. DeLay's problem is with the country."

Never thought I'd ever agree with the Newt, but here we are. So I'm now going to enjoy a sunny St. John's day, have a late lunch on Water Street, and savour my schadenfreude. It is so much fun to watch a self-righteous ultraconservative running scared, no?

The cat came back: part three, or Clarence's Big Hallway Adventure

Really, it was only a matter of time.

This morning I stepped out of the apartment, remembered I needed something else, stepped back in, and went into my office. I heard the door creak and dashed back out into the hallway to be treated to the following image:

His escape made, he proved very reluctant to be brought back into the apartment. And believe me, my cat can be slippery when he wants to. I was doing very well time-wise this morning, ready to go at 8:15 ... only to spend fifteen minutes chasing Clarence up and down the hallway as he explored and sniffed at every other door but mine.

And then when I got home this evening, there he was -- out the door like a shot. Having had one taste of freedom, dammit if he wasn't going to go again (it was this evening, incidentally, that these pictures were taken -- while tempted this morning, I did not in fact prolong the experience by playing wildlife photographer). He seemed less enthused the second time however. I guess the novelty of my building's hallway wears off pretty quickly.

Well, that's hardly surprising ...

Here's a fun test courtesy of my friend Amy ... it tells you what level of Dante's Hell you're destined for!

I myself will apparently end up in Level 6, the City of Dis. What brand of sinners are consigned there, you ask? Why, the heretics, of course! I guess apropos of my post on the saintly Dr. Reverend LaHaye, this is to be expected. So I'll languish with the heretics in the City of Dis ... which I'm told has some fabulous pubs and night clubs.

But you know what they say -- that the boredom you get in Heaven is worse than the excitement you get in Hell.

le divan, il est arrivé!!

Ah, finally ... a place to flake. Somewhere to crash. To zone. To vegetate. And somewhere guests can sit. I think I need to have a couch-warming party.

I was concerned that this inaugurated a new era of vacuuming cat hair, given that the upholstery does seem likely to attract and hold it ... but Clarence seems content to have unrestricted access to my Ikea chair now, and has been generally indifferent to the new addition. Fingers crossed.

Rapture? I’ve got your ^%$%# rapture for you right here, you ^*%%$#$ leave-it-to-beaver, evangelical homophobic, fundamentalist mother^&*%$!!!

Ick. Ick ick ick ick ick ick. Ick.

I feel like I need a shower.

I just finished reading the novel Left Behind, the first of a series of twelve depicting “the Earth’s last days,” written by evangelical preacher Tim LaHaye and general prose hack Jerry Jenkins. Simply put, these novels begin with the “Rapture,” the supposedly prophesized moment at which all genuine born-again Christians get miraculously assumed into Heaven, leaving the rest of us behind to suffer the seven years of tribulation visited upon the earth by the Antichrist. Hence, “left behind.”

You may have seen this parodied on The Simpsons.

Why, you may ask, am I subjecting myself to this? Good question. The Left Behind series (which has in fact been trademarked) is enormously popular in the US—especially, as you might imagine, in the so-called “red” states, where the vast majority of Dubya’s fundamentalist Christian vote emerged. They have sold over 70,000,000 copies thus far. No, that’s not a typo. Seventy million. So as someone who is both a scholar of contemporary American literature and popular culture, I have been thinking for some time that this is a phenomenon I should have at least a passing familiarity with.

Fundamentalism in any form is something I find utterly baffling. On his website, Tim LaHaye says, as part of his doctrinal statement, that “We believe the Bible should be interpreted normally, as with any other piece of sane literature, by a consistently literal hermeneutic.” Which is a fancy way of saying that anything written in the Bible is literally true. Not symbolically or metaphorically true. Literally. Adam and Eve in the garden, six days of creation and a seventh of rest, a flood covering the entire earth, a boat that can carry every single species of animal, God stopping the sun in its tracks to give the Israelites the time they need to defeat their enemy (a scriptural passage used to refute Galileo, incidentally), etc. etc. etc.

I don’t even know where to begin with this. What, for instance, does he mean by “any piece of sane literature”? Literature can be sane?? Or does that mean that any piece of literature that needs to be read metaphorically is insane? Maybe this is a new strategy I should use in my class: “Hey kids! In Holy Sonnet #14, John Donne is asking God to rape him! I know that seems weird, but hey … that’s what it says.”

Of course, LaHaye &co. themselves are simply being disingenuous—the very act of writing a series of speculative novels about Bible prophecy itself denies any sort of literal interpretation of scripture and moves into the realm of fabulation. And while Left Behind consistently claims that the end-times prophecies are laid out simply and transparently in the Bible for anyone who cares to look, anyone with a skeptical mind and a passing familiarity with the Bible knows this simply isn’t the case. The Bible, especially the Book of Revelations—the lynchpin in these readings—is written in highly symbolic, metaphorical, oblique and suggestive language. Ignoring the fact that any Bible in English is a translation from Greek and Aramaic—and in some cases from Latin, which makes it twice removed from the original text—a literal reading of scripture is simply impossible anyway. And the so-called “literal” readings we get, such as with the evangelists you see on late-night TV tying themselves in knots trying to assert that Kofi Annan is the Antichrist and the war in Iraq is outlined in detail in Revelations, are themselves playing the symbolism game, but in a manner so reductive and simplistic that if my students did that in their essays, the best they might rate is a C-.

It is however the arrogance of it all that infuriates me—the suggestion that in a world of six billion people with hundreds and thousands of holy texts, religions, sects, splinter groups, cults and congregations, a few hundred thousand have found the key to salvation. Perhaps I’ve read too much Joseph Campbell, but the underlying beliefs and mythologies of all these groups bear too much resemblance to each other for me to ever buy into the exclusivity of a single, reductive, chauvinistic claim to the capital-T Truth.

And the idea of the Rapture itself strikes me as little more than the ultimate revenge fantasy. Think of it: the belief that at some indeterminate point in the future, all born-again Christians will be lifted up into Heaven, leaving the rest of us liberal, urban, agnostic, atheist, Catholic, Jewish, Muslim, gay, lesbian, etc etc. people behind to suffer the strife let loose on the earth by the Antichrist while they look down from their cushy clouds in smug satisfaction. The most lucid statement about the rapture in the Bible is 1 Thessalonians 4:16-17, in which St. Paul assures his persecuted followers that those oppressing them will get their comeuppance. Now, forgive my non-literal reading, but this does rather strike me as a tired Apostle trying to buck up the troops—don’t worry, you’ll have the satisfaction of watching them suffer for a change.

Little of this would really bother me if it weren’t for the fact that evangelicals and fundamentalists actually wield a rather large amount of political clout in the States presently, and that this particular ideology represents one of the ugliest species of American exceptionalism to rear its head, ever. One would think that if you had a genuine belief in the Rapture and the end of days you’d be content to let the world literally go to Hell, to let gays marry and liberals control the Supreme Court. After all, the countdown to Armageddon (according the Reverend Dr. LaHaye) is marked by these such signs and more. Why not just let it happen? But no, there is remarkable triumphalism within the religious right these days. I would think they would be disappointed by a born-again president, a hardcore right-wing Supreme Court, an emasculated UN, and a hobbled left wing, as these things can only serve to slow the coming of the day when they’ll be granted their rightful place beside God.

Looking over the good Reverend LaHaye's website, one finds countless links to other sites engaged in ultraconservative political activism; one also finds a huge amount of marketing. LaHaye may be destined to be raptured up to be Jesus' cup-bearer, but in the meantime we're encouraged to add to his fourtune by purchasing the books of the Left Behind Series, any one of his almost fifty theological tracts, the children's version of the Left Behind books, the Left Behind handbook (believe me, based on the subtlety of the novel I've just read, anyone who needs a guide to these books must be developmentally retarded), as well as a host of Left Behind paraphernalia. Quite the booming business he's got going.

But then, I suppose there's something to be said for living out the pre-tribulation days in comfort. I wonder if he's looked lately at Matthew 19:24 -- "It is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God."

Now, how would you read that literally?

The parents have landed!!

Yup, the 'rents are visiting for the weekend, which is a prospect I know for many people would inspire dread and despair, but not me. I have the best parents in the world, and I'll put mine against anyone else's in a parents-off anytime, anywhere.

Of course, the whole good-relationship-with-the-parents thing, coupled with the concomitant happy childhood, means I'll never be a poet or novelist of any note ... not having had any family trauma or fucked-up growing up phase, what would I have to write about? But then, that's a small price to pay. Of course, I am a little bitter about that inability to become a novelist ... hmmm ...

We did the rounds today of St. John's, starting with the Signal Hill and environs hike (at the points where the stairs were particularly brutal, Mom accused me of trying to get my inheritance early), then had lunch at Nautical Nellies and wandered around dowtown for a bit ... and then made our way out the big boxville where they treated me to my apartment-warming gift of a new couch. It arrives on Tuesday -- it's blue and it's sectional!!! My apartment will finally be made whole. Look for pics here on tuesday night. Also, it has a sofa bed, so I'll be set for visitors. Seriously. I look forward to visitors.

Then we rounded it out with dinner at the Fairmont Hotel, where they're staying. I have to say: for those who might think St. John's a parochial backwater with no culture to speak of, come and eat at this restaurant. It easily ranks in the top five meals I've ever had -- and that's saying something. I had one of the best Caesar salads I've ever had to start, and then an entree of caribou and scallops. I'm still feeling the glow from that dinner.

A fabulous day. And one more to enjoy tomorrow ...

And Percy the Puffin's relatives living on Signal Hill wanted me to say hello ...

On the joys of running in circles while listening to 80s hair bands ...

I saw a girl today at the gym who I'm fairly certain was genetically predisposed to go to Western, but obviously has had that dream thwarted. She was blonde -- very coifed, not a hair out of place -- and dressed in low-rider hip-hugging black sweats and matching tank top, both with purple piping; a pastel purple iPod mini on her arm; pale purple running shoes; and one of those South Pacific style bead belts that hangs fairly low around the waist. Seriously. I have no idea what was up with the belt. At first glance I figured she was done with her workout and on her way out, but no, she went an joined an aerobics group working out in one of the spaces divvied up in the middle of the track.

Remember that list I posted a ways back listing things I missed about London? This caricature, not so much.

So in the aftermath of my aborted run yesterday thanks to the iPod freezing up, I went a little longer than normal today -- actually just shy of an hour. It's kind of satisfying to see other people start their runs while you're already on the track, and then finish while you're still going strong. Ah, small pleasures.

So you may well ask: why did I not just do my run anyway yesterday, frozen iPod or no? Or maybe you're not asking that -- maybe you know as well as I just how excruciatingly boring running can be in the absence of two principal criteria: (1) Scenery; (2) Music. When I'm running outside, be it around Quidi Vidi or the Thames back in London, I find music obtrusive. I like those outdoor runs; I find them so contemplative, almost zen ... but I need to have something to look at. Conversely, when running indoors, either on the treadmill or the track, music is an absolute necessity to distract me from the crushing tedium of running in place or running in circles.

And not just any music will do! I need something upbeat, energizing, with a good rhythm. And a rousing refrain, something that makes you pick up speed without thinking. The iPod is the greatest invention ever for this, because it's so easy to make custom playlists that you can select based on mood. Some days it's cheesy retro and disco (top picks: Village People, Boney M, Dead or Alive), some days it's just loud and angry (Rage Against the Machine, baby!).

But there are some songs that are always good to run to, no matter what the mood. So, in no particular order:


Chris' Top 10 Running Songs

The Killers -- Somebody Told Me
Bon Jovi -- Livin' on a Prayer
Quiet Riot -- Come on Feel the Noise
Green Day -- American Idiot
U2 -- Out of Control
Weezer -- Buddy Holly
Boney M -- Rasputin
Rammstein -- Du Hast
Metallica -- Enter Sandman
Yakoo Boyz -- Scotland the Brave [techno with bagpipes!]

So, yes, a somewhat ecclectic list. But try it, and tell me afterward that each of these songs doesn't have a moment or two when you start sprinting in spite of yourself ...

Not my best day so far ... no, really not at all

Today's sequence of events:

1) The computer in my office did not turn on. Or rather it did turn on -- repeatedly. It got to the "Starting Windows" screen, then turned off and rebooted. And did it again. And again. When this happened the fifth time, I kicked my desk and let loose with an expletive that rather shocked the student outside my door waiting to see my neighbour. IT said it's a virus they're familiar with and will be by tomorrow -- which in MUNspeak is Friday or Monday.

2) Murphy's Law is playing out at full strength: yesterday evening, upon finishing my lecture notes for today and getting ready to go, I thought "should I print them out?" No, of course not! Print them out tomorrow -- when your ^%%$#@# computer isn't working! So, yet more seat-of-the-pants lecturing. Which isn't something I mind doing, except when I've actually gone to the effort of writing the damn notes out in detail. It's fine when I've been swamped with other work, out till 4am or just simply lazy, but not when I've actually been conscientious! Stupid computer.

3) Upon sitting down to hurriedly jot down the broad strokes for both my classes, I spilled my entire coffee over what I'd written so far.

4) Running out to go find paper towels of some description, I shoulder-checked my door jamb with a force that could well have put down Ti Domi ... but unfortunately, the door jamb was unimpressed.

5) Realized about three minutes into my improvised lecture on Doctor Faustus that I'd forgotten my text in my office and had to run to get it.

6) While trying to make a point in American drama on a play about working-class people in the 1930s, asked why is was significant that three generations of a family all lived in the same apartment -- and upon seeing the sea of blank faces, attempted to simplify things by asking, "Ok, let me put it this way -- why do we find it kind of pathetic to see a thirty-something man who still lives with his parents?" ... and then, scanning my students, realized that I had probably mortally offended, or at least deeply depressed, about a half a dozen of the men in my class.

7) Right after class, decided to hell with this, I'm going to go work out now. Which I did -- went through my weights routine, but was really looking forward to running the track to work off the day's annoyances. And thirty seconds into my run, my iPod froze up. It's done this before -- it simply freezes, stays like that for an hour, and then comes back to itself with a dead battery (anyone else have this happen?). But this of course spoiled my run, so I just packed myself up, stopped for a bottle of Jameson and a ready-made dinner on the way home, and turned to the blog for a much-needed rant.

I suppose I should be happy at this point that my car started -- that would have been the cherry on the cake of my day.

But now I've vented, I have a glass of Irish in front of me, a pizza baking in the oven and a cat who seems to sense the mood and is trying to make things better by sitting in my lap and licking my hand. Which makes it really hard to type, but I appreciate the sentiment.

The cat came back: part two, or Computer Tower Triptych

Well, Clarence has settled into the swing of things pretty quickly here -- though I think he's a bit annoyed with my new computer, as it doesn't have the kind of monitor he can lounge on, leaning over the screen to bat at whatever happens to be moving on it. He's having to make do, as you can see here, with the tower. It's comforting to have him there -- my own little angel in the house. An angel who's petulant and needy and aloof all at the same time, and will occasionally leave little love marks down my arm with his claws. Much closer to a Miltonic angel than a Hallmark one, I think ...

I'm starting to fall into a routine here, which is good ... I'm pretty much on campus each day by 8:30, and then I round the day out at 4pm by working out at our rather impressive sports complex (which I must say puts Campus Rec at Western to shame -- not that that's really difficult). Teaching from 11-12 and 2-3 monday, wednesday and friday (not the time slots I would have chosen, but then I am the new guy), with office hours in between.

And here's a shock -- students have actually been coming to my office hours. WTF? This is a brand new thing for me ... usually office hours are empty stretches of time during which I can pretty much count on getting work done until around mid-November when essay panic starts to set in in earnest. Every year in my first classes I strongly encourage, cajole, implore and indeed all but beg students to make use of my office hours, telling them it will actually benefit them. But never till now have my office hours been so busy in the first few weeks of school ... don't get me wrong, I like this, this is a good thing, but I just have to get out of the habit of assuming I can use those two hours to prepare for my next class. Yesterday I had to wing it for the second half of my american drama class.

Which, as you all know, is difficult for me--I almost never wing it. Really. Hardly ever.

Bruce almighty

No no, not that vaguely disappointing Jim Carrey movie ... I'm talking about the king of B-movies, Bruce Campbell, the lantern-jawed wonder we know and love from the Evil Dead films. If ever there was someone who raised schlocky, tongue-in-cheek television and film to an art form, Bruce is the man. Hail to the king, baby.

This post is apropos of watching one of his recent movies, Bubba Ho-Tep ... and how beautifully absurd the film is! Elvis -- played of course by Bruce in impressive lambchops, big-ass gold sunglasses and lots of makeup -- is alive and living in a nursing home in East Texas, having years ago switched places with an Elvis impersonator named Sebastian Haff in order to get away from the insanity of the limelight. Unfortunately, Haff was as fond of the booze and pills as Elvis was and died of an overdose. Elvis could never come back to his rightful place, having lost all evidence of the switch in a barbecue accident in his trailer park.

And so he finds himself, aged and decrepit with a broken hip in his past that forces him to use a walker. His best friend, played by Ossie Davis, thinks he's John F. Kennedy.

Elvis: No offense, Jack, but President Kennedy was a white man.
JFK: They dyed me this color! That's how clever they are!

As if this pairing wasn't beautiful enough, the decrepit duo discover that the recent deaths at the nursing home were the result of an ancient Egyptian mummy come back to life, who must sustain himself by sucking the souls of sleeping mortals out of their, um, assholes.

JFK: He was after my soul. Now you can get that out of any major orifice of a person's body—I read about it.
Elvis: Oh, yeah? Where, man? Hustler?

The mummy is pure Egyptian white trash -- sporting a cowboy hat and boots. Hence, "Bubba" Ho-Tep (some text helpfully defines "Bubba" for us before the movie begins as "Cracker, redneck, trailer trash").

What I loved about this film, besides the myriad conspiracy theories assembled (this film so gets a mention when I rewrite my thesis in book form) is Bruce's portrayal of the sad, aging, forgotten Elvis. For such an absurd premise, the film offers some remarkably poignant moments. The balance of reviews I've read pan the film for being so slow-moving -- it takes a good forty-five minutes, halfway into the film, before the whole mummy part of the plot really gets moving. But to my mind, that is one of the great strengths here ... Campbell's Elvis has some genuine pathos in his voice-overs as he lies motionless in bed, disingenuously pondering why fame and fortune couldn't fend off the ravages of age, whether Lisa Marie would visit him if she knew he was alive, and going over obsessively all the mistakes he made on the road to fame. You end up feeling for him enough that, when he girds himself for action finally, it is actually an edifying moment.

Elvis: Ask not what your rest home can do for you. Ask what you can do for your rest home.
JFK: Hey, you're copying my best lines!
Elvis: Then let me paraphrase one of my own. Let's take care of business.
JFK: Just what are you getting at, Elvis?
Elvis: I think you know what I'm getting' at Mr. President. We're gonna kill us a mummy.

This is followed by a shot of Elvis and JFK advancing down the hallway, ready to do battle--Elvis in his trademark white jumpsuit and walker, and JFK in a presidential suit and motorized wheelchair.

I loved this. Not a film for everyone, but despite its absurdity and deliberate B-movie quality, it actually contains some lovely meditations on the value of life and the depredations of age, to say nothing of forgotten icons and the culture of fame.

Da month o' da Laura

Yes, it's that time again -- the month-long run-up to the greatest of holidays, the feast of feasts, the celebrate-good-times that transcends even Kool & the Gang. Of course I'm talking about Lauramas, October 14, the day upon which we rejoice in the anniversary of the great redheaded wonder's birth. Yes, Laura is god and Mr. Darcy is her prophet. And Mr. Bingley is her, um, valet (for those unfamiliar with The Laura's accolytes, see here).

Such an occasion naturally cannot be contained in a single day, so we lesser mortals must needs begin our devotions a month in advance. Hence, I declare September 14 to be the first day of The Laura -- for such is how she must be addressed in this holy month.

I realize that some may not be conversant in the practices and rituals of Lauramas. For those living in London, this could be critical, for you may well encounter her on the streets (she likes to mingle with the mortals on occasion).

Should you encounter the individual pictured in these images here, it is customary to place an offering of food on the ground 5-7 feet away, and then prostrate yourself with your head on the pavement and hands outstretched in her direction. Good food choices are generally anything fried, though perogies will curry particular favour with the exalted one. In a pinch, a Tim Hortons coffee will do, especially if it happens to be before noon and she looks grouchy. Failing that, she likes songs to be sung to her, particularly those of Sloan, Bloc Party or Interpol.

In the seven days before the DAY, we observe The Seven Stations of The Laura: (1) motionless on the couch through eight hours of CSI; (2) an attempt at pilates which ends on the patio of either the APK or the Runt Club; (3) coffee at Williams; (4) coffee at Starbucks; (5) bumping into random stationary things like door jambs, coffee tables, parked cars, trees, etc.; (6) ignoring your blog; (7) and on Lauramas Eve, the ceremonial eating of the mac and cheese with Manhattans.

Happy Lauramas to all!

The cat came back: part one

The drugs, they did nothing! Nothing!

Well, that's not entirely true -- they made my cat hate me because of the trauma involved in force-feeding two little pills to him, and they kept him absolutely quiet during the 10-minute drive from the airport to my apartment. But as for the airport/airplane experience? Sedation, my ass. Although I suppose this is a question of degrees ... just how wired and insufferable would he have been without the drugs? You know, I never intend to find out.

But yes, Clarence's first flight made for quite the adventure. Air Canada requires that pets taken in the cabin are kept in a soft-sided carrying case ... which made perfect sense to me up to the point in the departure lounge when the woman with the rat-like lap dog, which she had on a leash as opposed to being inside its soft-sided case, came over on his extendable leash to explore. Unfortunately, I was distracted by what I was reading and didn't figure out what was happening until I heard the snakelike hiss emenate from Clarence's bag, and then watch the bag roll over rather violently in the direction of the rat-like dog.

The problem with soft-sided carrying cases for pets? The pets quickly discover they have a measure of control over their environment.

I think the dog and its owner nearly had a coronary. Though I must say, the venemous look the woman gave me was very nearly worth the price of admission.

The worst moment however was coming through security, when I was required to remove Clarence from the bag (in the event that I was an enterprising terrorist who had managed to cram a measure of C4 in with my cat -- though some who have met Clarence might just describe him as a WMD). So here I am holding my cat, who doesn't like to be held at the best of times and is several weeks overdue for having his claws trimmed, walking through the metal detector (or the "freedom threshold," I think it's now called in the US). Had I thought this through, I probably would have removed my belt and shoes before attempting that first passage. As it was, I walked through tightly clutching my sharp-nailed cat and off course set off the alarm.

Cats do not care for high-pitched squeals. I have a set of claw marks on my shoulders, which were turned into gashes when the security woman walked toward me with the squealing wand, at which point my cat attempted to make his escape up my chest, over my shoulders and back through Terminal 1. He very nearly made it, but for my own tenacious refusal to have to go running after a cat through an airport.

The woman demanded that I then take off my belt and shoes and walk through again. I was at pains to suggest that perhaps I should put Clarence back into his case--at the moment still on the other side of the x-ray machine, or "freedom monitor"--before doing so. For reasons passing understanding she seemed very reluctant to do so until one of her supervisors, with an exasperated air, told her to wait.

The silver lining in all this was that the flight was not full and I had an empty seat beside me, so I only had to stow Clarence under under the seat for takeoff and landing; and the guy who sat in the third seat was amenable to cats (I'd kind of been hoping that it would be the rat-dog lady, but alas it was not to be). I suppose I shouldn't complain too much. He was well-behaved for most of the flight, with the exception of the periods when he attempted to burrow through the sides of the case. He was also, predictably, not pleased with the takeoff and landing, but he appears to have survived. Upon deplaning however he made his displeasure known. In response to the pleasantries offered by the stewardesses as we exited, he let loose with a low, threatening miaow of disappoval he usually reserves for large animals on the other side of the window.

The stewardesses looked somewhat offended and not a little hurt.

And then home ... and as I said, I think this was the point that the drugs finally kicked in. When I let him out in the apartment, he nosed around for a moment or two before again curling up to sleep for half an hour -- very uncharacteristic Clarence behaviour upon encountering new territory.

But now he's back to exploring, and has already managed to knock over most of my picture frames as I sit here typing. Ah, it's good to have him home.

Hello hello (hola!)

Well, these old guys sure do know how to show the young 'uns how to do it ... twenty-five plus years at this game and they only seem to keep getting better. Say what you will about the music, whether the albums are up or down, they peaked in 1984, in '87, in '91, they've sold out, they're repeating themselves, they never lived up to the promise of The Joshua Tree, or Achtung Baby or whatever. Blah, blah, blah.

I don't care about any of that. To say U2 still know how to put on a show is a drastic understatement.

Tonight: the Air Canada Center. First show of the third leg of the Vertigo tour. Seats? Floors, baby. Where on the floor? In the ellipse. How far from the stage? About five bodies.

The show itself? Quite possibly one of the best I've ever seen anywhere, anytime, by anybody.

After a rather frustrating long wait in line to get into the general admission area, the waiting paid off (or at least was made worthwhile) at the point where they scan your tickets to see whether you're in or out of the ellipse. For those unfamiliar with what I mean: for the Elevation tour, they had a stage in the shape of a heart, the inside of which housed the prime floor seats. The band has gone with the same basic idea again, this time with an ellipse. The ellipse tickets are randomly scattered amongst the floor seats, and you discover whether you're one of U2's elect after passing through the turnstile and having your ticket scanned.

And yes ... Kristen and I were among the elect. The chosen few, you might say ... which brought us within spitting distance of the stage.

And what a show. I won't attempt to describe the light show ... for that, see if you can get your hands on last month's Wired -- William Gibson has an article in there that does the show much more justice than I can.

Tonight's play list:

Vertigo
I Will Follow
Electric Co.
Elevation
Beautiful Day
In a Little While
I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For
City of Blinding Lights
Miracle Drug
Sometimes You Can't Make it on Your Own
Love and Peace or Else
Sunday Bloody Sunday
Bullet the Blue Sky
Miss Sarajevo
Pride (In the Name of Love)
Where the Streets Have No Name
One
Old Man River


FIRST ENCORE:
Zoo Station
The Fly
With or Without You


SECOND ENCORE:
All Because of You
Fast Cars
Yahweh
40

Total Concert Time: 2 hours, 20 min.


Spotted: Corporate break dancers. While we were outside waiting in the endless lineup, a trio of kids with a ghetto blaster and T-shirts saying "Fido after hours series" danced for the benefit of the generally unimpressed U2 fans.

Also spotted: Former students Sarah and J.Po. Sarah was en route to the peon seats in the bleachers; J.Po was meeting a friend at Union to go see Bloc Party. Which I imagine rates somewhat higher on the cool-O-meter, but with a much inferior light show.

Unfortunate decision in this tour's concert tees: Some of the shirts were black and sporting a red "V" that looked painted on. Very striking, but I couldn't help thinking of that 1980s alien invasion series.

Unfortunate repeated gesture on Bono's part: During the refrain of "City of Blinding Lights," he kept touching his heart and raising his hand in salute to the crowd. While presumably a heartfelt gesture of love and community, it looked disturbingly like he was zieg-heiling.

Watching my favourite band age: Adam has let his hair go grey, but it looks really good on him. Bono looks pretty rough, and needs to get some exercise. Larry is Larry--actually gets better looking as he ages--but needs a haircut. And I think Edge is ageless. He pretty much looks exactly the way he did when he first adopted this look (watchcap, goatee) back in the Achtung, Baby days.

Freedom has a scent, like the top of a newborn baby's head ...

So my TO weekend serendipitously intersected with a shower for my niece Morgan, thrown by my cousin Jeff and his wife Christine. An afternoon of playing pass-the-baby? Delightful ... and I have a memory stick full of images now. Huzzah!

The proud grandfather, my dad.

Trying to provoke a reaction.

Who is this crazy idiot?

Asleep on Grandma's shoulder, stage one.

Stage two.

The proud Papa.