Off to the Ex we went, on a fine cloudy and cool weekday.

M, having been last year with my dad and me, was in pursuit of two things:
1. Candy apple
2. Cotton candy

D and I of course were using the kid as an excuse to go on rides and eat fudge. So after we acquired a near-neon-red candy apple for M*, we ambled around the kiddie midway (which is hidden away up by Dufferin Gate) and went on rides for a time, fed llamas and chickens at the petting zoo, and then got hungry.

The Food Building, for the uninitiated, is an enormous building full of food stalls, rather like a multi-ethnic food court on steroids. It is full of the greasy comestibles of fifty+ cultures and was probably more thrilling back when gyros were considered exotic. Now, I can get most of those fifty cultures’ munchables within three blocks of my office. But anyway.

M, upon encountering the fantastic greasy madness:

Where’s the fruit? I just want some fruit!

Weird kid. But we did manage to find her a smoothie. Smoothie for kid : fudge for me. You wouldn’t think that would be considered fair, would you?

We wandered through the horse palace, looking for the horse show, again wondering how on earth we managed to house many many people with rifles in there during WWII without causing some sort of deadly mass breakdown, then kept wandering and happened upon the huge convention centre spaces full of stuff for sale.

I did not know the Ex was a shopping destination. But vast hot tubs with built-in stereos and rainbow LED lighting effects were selling at deep discounts and some had sold, so there you go.

The horse show was full, so we headed out to see the Army display. D admired the massive vehicles. I admired the shiny-buff Army folks and wondered if they picked particularly good-looking folks to staff the show. M showed a small blister on her hand to a guy manning an armored vehicle. (He got over his surprise quickly and was suitably sympathetic.)

We found the height restrictions on the main Midway to be much less serious than the online list indicated, which was a happy thing. M takes after me on rides: we look at some spinning/lurching/bouncing ride and think “Hey cool! Maybe it goes upside down!” D, on the other hand, thinks about metal fatigue. So we all went on the swing, M shouting “TOTALLY AWESOME” at random intervals and D looking vaguely ill. D and I took it in turns to go on some of the other rides: I refuse to do log rides (don’t know why I hate them but I do) so he did that one and I — at M’s insistence — did the one where it spins around so fast that you’re stuck to the wall and the floor falls away (oof).

Then (at M’s insistence, and because it was raining) we went to the IAMS Superdogs show.

Oh man. The cheesy lameness. Dogs! Running the same brief and not-hard obstacle course about ten times! Then some dogs jumped over some bars (bigger dogs = more bars to jump)! With hard-sell commentary to try to get you to buy your kid some cheaply-made stuffed dogs, and also “collector’s editions” with leather tags, which will “increase in value the longer you keep them”! And lots of IAMS product hype. And people with mullets and gold lamé jackets. And fat jokes. And we had to keep our snark to a minimum because the kid was enjoying it. AND there was no beer in which to drown one’s regret about spending forty-five minutes of one’s precious life there.

We recovered with the mandatory ice-cream waffle experience (D had not had one before! The horror!) and a bit more tooling around the kiddie midway, including foot massages from these odd chair-machines with a small metal footpad which vibrates insanely for $0.25.

Then we went home and fell down**. And it was good.

–
* Who ate some of the red coating then decided to just eat the apple — is that even allowed?

** Well, no. After M went to bed, both D and I worked for a few hours. But we wanted to fall down.

(Source: GraphJam)

Mighty Girl’s blog post Eight Books That Changed Things For Me got me thinking. Thinking, really, less about what books have changed things for me than whether it was far too embarrassing to publish such a list. So many of them are shallow and rather silly. But what the hey.

In rough chronological order:

1. James Clavell, Shogun

I bought this at a garage sale (for $0.50) when I was eight and devoured it. Goofy as it sounds it was the first epic I encountered, and wow! It totally opened my mind to the possibilities of stories based more in human relationships and grand circumstances than in the simpler plots of children’s lit. I followed it up (as I recall) with The Thorn Birds, that huge novel with a one-word title where small children are fed to Baal via a stone statue, the Old Testament, and the full North and South series. Whoo.

2. Sigmund Freud, a book the title of which I cannot remember

When I was nine or so it was a particularly hot summer. There were three rooms in our house that were air-condiditioned: my parents’ bedroom, my dad’s office, and the sun porch. There were no bookshelves on the sun porch and I could hardly hang around my parents’ bedroom, so I spent a bunch of time reading all the books on my dad’s office shelves (Dad’s a psychiatrist). I eventually read this book either by or about Freud, which had much detail about penis envy and whatnot. I think — and this is a wonderful credit to both my parents — that it was the first time I truly absorbed that some people thought rather little of women.

I confronted my dad: “you don’t believe all this penis envy stuff, do you?” He said something mollifying about it being a classic upon which more modern theories of psychiatry and the brain were based, and he added in a tone of true bewilderment that things might be otherwise, “I can’t imagine not wanting everything in the world for my daughters”. Go, Dad! xxxooo.

I read the Odyssey that summer too (in translation, obviously) but it didn’t make half so strong an impression.

3. Robert M. Pirsig, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance

This was on a summer reading list for my new school the year I moved to Vancouver and I chose it purely based on the title. I was fifteen, which was about perfect in retrospect. My first foray into the land of abstraction, into books with ideas beyond plot, and where they could take you.

It’s good for bit-by-bit reading on canoe trips — I dragged my copy around a fair amount when I worked as a canoe tripper. I still like to read it in the woods from time to time although I now realize it’s badly dated. Cities aren’t good for it.

4. John Ciardi, How Does a Poem Mean?

In the middle of university I sort of kind of accidentally ended up on the literary review, although I was very much a science student (long story, but the previous year the review failed to cut the pages of the thing and urged us to “do violence to the text”. We did.). Frustrated by my inability to express why exactly I liked some poems that were submitted to the review and not others, I expressed this to boyfriend-of-the-time, who happened to be an Classics and English major, and he loaned me his copy of this book.

This is the only English textbook I’ve encountered that actually added to my appreciation of any form of writing instead of diminishing it. Totally changed my approach to not only poetry but prose as well. If we dispensed with the vast majority of high school English classes and replaced them with this book, the world would be a better place. And students would be much happier. To borrow Melle’s current tagline:

“Storytelling reveals meaning without the error of defining it.”

– Hannah Arendt

It’s out of print, of course.

5. Lynn Crosbie (ed.), The Girl Wants To: Women’s Representations of Sex and the Body

Well hey. A collection of erotica that is actually varied and interesting. Who knew that existed? Not me when I found this book late in undergrad, that’s for sure.

6. Susan Griffin, A Chorus of Stones: The Private Life of War

Here, Griffin provides a psychology of war and violence, examining in particular how the denial and secrecy surrounding these events affects personal lives. As examples, she explores the lives of the families of workers on the Los Alamos project and at Oak Ridge, the background and psyche of Heinrich Himmler, the life of a British soldier in the Boer War and World War I, and Gandhi’s resistance to violence and oppression. These are interwoven with autobiographical narrative that illustrate the effects of family denial and secrecy.

This was a required text for one of my grad school classes. We all read it and absolutely failed to discuss it afterward in any coherent way.

“It was –”
“I know! and then it was like….”
“Me too.”
“Yeah, totally.”
(long pause)
“Yeah.”

A book that is felt more than it is read, I think. Every time I’ve loaned this book to someone they’ve stolen it.

7. Starhawk, The Spiral Dance

This book made it obvious to me that I was essentially pagan at heart, although without the benefit of Californian beaches and redwood groves in which to conduct complex rituals and with rather more Buddhist tendencies and a seriously non-foofy approach.

I was doing research for my Master’s at the time. Taking things back to first principles, I ended up researching religions (because you need to base how you handle the Earth’s resources in a system that people will understand and accept). In one class I bemoaned the fact that libraries didn’t seem to carry pagan books at all, and a very generous colleague lent me a number of books including (IIRC) this one. Thanks again, Lynna!

For the record, many pagans and most Native American cultures have it right, Earth-wise.

8. Jane Jacobs, The Death and Life of Great American Cities

I’ve posted about this book before, I know, but it really is a good one. I can’t remember whether I read it before or after Jacobs’ (and my) involvement with Citizens for Local Democracy, but it doesn’t much matter. Read it and you’ll not look at cities, or your neighbourhood, in the same way ever again. And it is such a wonderful read.

–

So there’s eight, but I’m sure there are a bunch of runners-up — off the top of my head, Margaret Atwood’s Edible Woman, Catcher in the Rye, Riane Eisler’s The Chalice and the Blade…

I don’t play WoW (Civilization’s always been my timesucking computer game). But Lore does:

World of Warcraft’s developers have mastered the unholy art of in-game bribery. They have discovered that players will do any number of stupid, tedious things in order to earn perks that have no effect on the game.

Just this week I’ve been fighting in battlegrounds — special areas where armies clash and 12-year-olds question each other’s sexuality — over and over just for a chance to win a tiny little flying dragon. This dragon doesn’t fight on my behalf or give me powers or anything. He just follows me around. In real life I try to avoid being tailed by parasitic flying creatures, but in the game I seek it out, even though I hate battlegrounds.

And really, what does my little dragon tell the other people in the game? The same thing it tells you — I spent too much time playing Warcraft.

This isn’t so bad, mostly because the other players spend too much time playing Warcraft as well. The zhevra mount, however, tells people: “Not only do I spend too much time playing Warcraft, I hassle those with enough wisdom to avoid it.” It’s sort of like helping out a drug baron, except at least drug mules generally get some cash out of the deal. This is as if someone said: “Hey, if you board a plane with this condom full of cocaine stashed someplace unmentionable, I’ll give you a stylish cravat.”

I just listened to the unabridged audiobook of Steven Johnson’s The Ghost Map: The story of London’s most terrifying epidemic, and how it changed cities, science and the modern world.

It is the summer of 1854. Cholera has seized London with unprecedented intensity. A metropolis of more than 2 million people, London is just emerging as a one of the first modern cities in the world. But lacking the infrastructure necessary to support its dense population – garbage removal, clean water, sewers – the city has become the perfect breeding ground for a terrifying disease no one knows how to cure.

As their neighbors begin dying, two men are spurred to action: the Reverend Henry Whitehead, whose faith in a benevolent God is shaken by the seemingly random nature of the victims, and Dr. John Snow, whose ideas about contagion have been dismissed by the scientific community, but who is convinced that he knows how the disease is being transmitted. In a riveting day-by-day account, The Ghost Map chronicles the outbreak’s spread and the desperate efforts to put an end to the epidemic – and solve the most pressing medical riddle of the age.

It’s the kind of history I particularly enjoy, with lots of discussion of customs, beliefs, and real people’s lives and activities. Johnson combines that with a good mystery and well-articulated explanations of science both current and historical — it’s a very well-put-together and gripping book.

Plus, read this book and you get to have fun dinner-table exchanges like this:

Me: Did you know that in 1850s London it was so expensive to get someone to empty your cesspool that one in twenty houses didn’t bother and just let their basements fill up with poop? One in twenty!
D: Don’t ever tell me anything else from that book.
Me: What? I waited until you were done eating!

Yes, with its extensive discussions of sewers, cesspools, smells, miasmas, anaesthetic-free surgeries, and the hideous sufferings of cholera victims, this is definitely not a book to listen to while doing anything involving food or while experiencing a bout of hypochondria. Might be good for inducing urges to clean things, though.

In the last few chapters Johnson expounds at great length about modern disasters, the uses of modern technology, and how we might proceed to avoid these. It’s competently done but since the mystery mentioned in the book’s title has by this point in the book been solved, there’s no plot to hold one’s interest. This extra material — although tangentially related — feels out of place. The book would be stronger if this material were omitted, although it might make for an interesting series of shorter essays. This weaker last section certainly doesn’t ruin the very strong majority of the book, however.

Don’t you want to know all kinds of sordid details about what it’s like to live in a city of 2 million before the advent of proper sewers, public health, or anaesthesia? Of course you do. It’ll make you feel eversomuch better about your own circumstances and give you a whole new appreciation for your toilet.

It’s a jetpack!

The Martin jet pack can, in theory, fly an average-sized pilot about 30 miles in 30 minutes on a full 5-gallon (19-litre) tank of petrol. (BBC)

A mighty dorky-looking and range-limited jetpack, but hey. The 21st century owes us jetpacks, and it’s a start.

Some random quotes on Canadianness…

Quotation of the Day for June 22, 2008

“Canadians and Americans are indistinguishable. The only way to tell them apart is to make this statement to a Canadian.”

- Alan Abel, American, writer for the (Canadian) National Post, quoting (he believes) from “Canajan Eh?” which he read back in the seventies. CBC Radio, “The Current”, 11 Jun 2008.

Quotation of the Day for June 19, 2008:

“Canadians know that other countries exist. You all think of yourselves as one nation among many. Whereas my fellow Americans and I think of ourselves as one nation under God.”

- Will Straw, Acting Director of the McGill Institute for the Study of Canada as quoted by Sean Cole, Boston-based NPR reporter, CBC Radio, “The Current”, 11 Jun 2008.

The summer Jerry Garcia died, I was working at a daycamp in a conservation area outside Stouffville. Once each session some of the kids slept over at camp. I was in charge of organizing and supervising these little adventures, which was a blast but also exhausting since — as it was a daycamp — the kids weren’t used to it. Many had never slept outside before. The level of wildness was pretty high and actual sleeping was pretty minimal, particularly for the staff. We spent much of the evening running the kids around trying to get them good and tired. This never worked, so we then spent much of night making sure the kids didn’t get into TOO much trouble.

One session we had so many kids sign up for the sleepover that we did it on two successive nights. In retrospect, not the greatest idea, since there was no chance to nap during the days. On the second morning I was feeling very fuzzy and pretty spaced out, so after I unlocked the trailer that served as the camp office I flicked on the radio to keep me awake while I checked the messages and did other morning-camp stuff. And then the news came on, and I had the sad task of making my way over to the next field to break the bad news gently to a similarly-sleep-deprived and very sweet Deadhead staffer named Neal before some arriving kid ran off a bus and threw it at him. And so we stood there in the painfully early morning, the news of Jerry’s fatal heart attack soaking slowly through our befuzzed heads, and the kids ran around like wild things. It was …odd.

RIP, Jerry.

(Photo credit: Niffty)

Ripple
Words by Robert Hunter; music by Jerry Garcia.

If my words did glow with the gold of sunshine
And my tunes were played on the harp unstrung,
Would you hear my voice come thru the music,
Would you hold it near as it were your own?

It’s a hand-me-down, the thoughts are broken,
Perhaps they’re better left unsung.
I don’t know, don’t really care
Let there be songs to fill the air.

Ripple in still water,
When there is no pebble tossed,
Nor wind to blow.

Reach out your hand if your cup be empty,
If your cup is full may it be again,
Let it be known there is a fountain,
That was not made by the hands of men.

There is a road, no simple highway,
Between the dawn and the dark of night,
And if you go no one may follow,
That path is for your steps alone.

Ripple in still water,
When there is no pebble tossed,
Nor wind to blow.

But if you fall you fall alone,
If you should stand then who’s to guide you?
If I knew the way I would take you home.

La dee da da da, La da da da da, Da da da, Da da, Da da da da da
La da da da, La da da, Da da, La da da da, La da, Da da.

Listen to this track legally on last.fm

An annotated version of these lyrics is here, for Deadheads of a particularly academic bent.

Quotation of the Day for April 7, 2008

“When you consider something like death, after which (there being no news flash to the contrary) we may well go out like a candle flame, then it probably doesn’t matter if we try too hard, are awkward sometimes, care for one another too deeply, are excessively curious about nature, are too open to experience, enjoy a nonstop expense of the senses in an effort to know life intimately and lovingly. It probably doesn’t matter if, while trying to be modest and eager watchers of life’s many spectacles, we sometimes look clumsy or get dirty or ask stupid questions or reveal our ignorance or say the wrong thing or light up with wonder like the children we all are. It probably doesn’t matter if a passerby sees us dipping a finger into the moist pouches of dozens of lady’s slippers to find out what bugs tend to fall into them, and thinks us a bit eccentric. Or a neighbor, fetching her mail, sees us standing in the cold with our own letters in one hand and a seismically red autumn leaf in the other, its color hitting our sense like a blow from a stun gun, as we stand with a huge grin, too paralyzed by the intricately veined gaudiness of the leaf to move.”

- Diane Ackerman, from A Natural History of the Senses.