Pigeon Queen

Cynics and pessimists get on my nerves. You know, those who always look for the blackest feather on the raven, those who religiously watch the 6 o'clock news every day to listen to the anchor's sermonical tally of the day's tragedies, as if it were divine justification for their cowardly stance in life. What a curse it must be to live like that, doomed to a banausic quotidian routine in gray-scale.

I remember one day, during the time when I was taking a photography class. It was an icy winter morning: somewhere in the vicinity of -25, no wind, clear sky and bright sun shining. I was walking downtown in search of inspiration. As I came out of Starbucks, holding my large latte, I saw an old woman sitting on a park bench across the street. She was obviously homeless and not nearly dressed warmly enough. Her cold-stiffened fingers reached into a small paper bag and pulled out a handful of bread crumbs which she threw at the mass of pigeons surrounding her. In that instant of extreme altruism, she looked absolutely regal to me and I felt humbly privileged to have been the sole witness of such beauty. It gladdened my soul to see the smile on her face as her feathery subjects cooed appreciatively.

As soon as I got home, I excitedly related it all to my mother. I was about to explain how amazing I found that someone who probably didn't eat every day still set aside something to share with other living creatures but she interrupted me, as she so often does.

"Those nasty pigeons carry a lot of diseases. What a nuisance. The city should do something to rid us of them."

I stood speechless, my enthusiasm muted by her engulfing pessimism. I suddenly knew it was pointless to go on explaining. She would never see what I had seen. I turned around without another word and left to go develop my pictures.

I cherished those pictures for years. To everyone else, they were in black and white but to me, they were vibrant with the colors of all that is pure and beautiful in this world.

Wherever you may be, my Pigeon Queen, I will forever remember you.

How disheartening

Last night, while at work, one of the janitors was walking down the hall. Knowing he's latin-american, I waved to him and said, "¡Hola!" He stopped by me, mildly surprised, and asked, "¿habla español?"

So we started chatting in Spanish. I told him I had learned it from five years' worth of schooling, that I spent a summer working in Dominican Republic and that I had dated a couple latinos who didn't speak anything but Spanish. Nevertheless, it's been nearly 10 years since all that and while I can still understand pretty much everything, my speaking skills are rusty. He still seemed impressed and told me I was speaking it pretty well for someone who hasn't done so in 10 years.

Then this jovial conversation took a turn for the worse. He said he wasn't surprised that I had dated latinos because most women think of them as best in bed. I said that I wouldn't comment on that specifically but that "hot blooded" could and did have other not so glorious consequences. Namely jealousy and violence. He chuckled, saying that he wasn't violent nor jealous. As proof, he added that he didn't mind if I had a boyfriend. I ignored that and specified that the only reason I would need a latino in my life at this time would be to go out dancing. Either I worded that poorly, or he really heard only what he wanted to hear. Immediately he said "I can take you out dancing tonight." I clarified. "I don't want to go out dancing," I said, "I'm dating an American now and if I go out, it would be with him and him only. I was merely stating that my boyfriend can't dance salsa and merengue and that's the only thing I miss from having a latin boyfriend."

Part of this was a lie. I'm single now. Significant Others have never deterred any latin american man I've come across. I knew it was a futile attempt but I had to try. I thought this last clarification had been enough to get my point across though. I was wrong. He went on to say that he'd noticed me a while ago. That he found me beautiful. And then he made a stupid mistake.

I have lived and hung out with latinos enough to know that lying is a way of life for most of them. Men and women alike. I absolutely abhor lies and liars. I don't mean the little white lies we tell to spare the feelings of those we care about. I mean the nasty ones and the useless ones. This guy gave me a confidently flirtatious grin. He turned around and pointed at the board on the wall where all the security card pictures of the controllers are and said "I've pointed out your picture to the other fellows I work with, to show them how pretty you were. " My picture is not on the board yet because I'm still an intern.

What an amateur. Some liars are intelligent. They have style, they have flair. They're so convolutely charming in their lies that you can't be mad at them. I can respect such a liar, in a way. They're almost sociological artists! But this guy... it was so pathetic that I didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

Amused, I gave him one of my most dazzling smiles before saying, "Alberto. Sólo amigos, ok?" Then I walked away without waiting for his reply.

On blog pollution

Yesterday I was reading the profile of a woman who posts on a message board I read regularly. I noticed her link for "homepage" was her live journal. Curious to find out more about her, I eagerly clicked the link. It is relevant for me to add that this woman is 34. Not 14.

Oh. My. God. That blog is the epitome of what I desperately want to avoid. Furthermore, it is the epitome of what I wouldn't want ANY blog to be like, should the blog world be under my command. I would outlaw such a thing, threaten with immediate deletion and spam their email with ridiculous heart-breaking chain letters! Let them cry for the loss of little Suzie as I have cried from seeing their polluted blog! The disease is highly contagious and spreads quickly. It's all over message boards already.

Is the suspence killing you yet? Do I have your full attention? Because this is very important. I want you to remember what I am about to say.

Internet quizzes are the Devil.

In all fairness, internet quizzes as a whole are merely stupid. The ones that I refer to in this post are the ones that tempt you with a pre-made bit of html code that you can conveniently cut and paste into a message board post and, unfortunately, into a blog entry as well. There's nothing wrong with doing a stupid quiz now and then. It's relaxing. It's fun. And shameful. But no one has to know, right? Wrong. It looks like some people really want you to know. Badly. The particular journal that inspired this humanitarian post consists of html-ized quiz results and... nothing else. Post after post after stupid post. As if you could piece together the personality of this person by reading:

"You are 16% abnormal!"
"The movie of your life is a cult classic"
"Curvy and naughty!"
"Your element guard is Boreas"
(These are real examples taken from said journal)

What the hell does that mean? Element guard? 16% abnormal, is that like 74% pregnant? The Devil I tell you! Don't be lazy. If you want to share things about yourself, find the words to express them. There are about half a million of them in a good English dictionary. That's a lot more than there are quizzes and they'll serve your purpose much more adequately.

Stop the blog pollution! Get rid of the quizzes!

How are you?

People ask and get asked this question all the time. You cross someone at the cafeteria or you wait in line with them at the copier.

"Hey, how are you?"
"Good good, and how are you?"
"Oh I'm good."
"Great!"

Most of us have a conversation like this every day. Why do we ask? Because we don't really wait for the answer anyway. We know they're going to answer "Good!" "Doing well!" "Awesome!" and for the most daring, a "Not too bad" perhaps. To be polite? For lack of something more interesting to say? Because we hasten the pace, just in case they answer something unexpected such as "Not so great" or, God forbid, "Not well at all." What would we do then?

I can tell you. Because I've done it myself less than a week ago. Someone answered me with "Not well" and we both chuckled, me thinking what a funny guy he was. It's only days later that I thought, what if he was serious? The fact is, I chose to assume he was kidding because it was the most comfortable position for me. How many of us have answered "I'm well" when we really weren't? I know I have. Is it really because I wouldn't like to talk about it? In some situations, I'm sure that's the case. But I'm thinking about another reason for that little lie. I think we know they just don't want to listen. We know that if we answer "Not well," an awkward chuckle or silence will most likely follow.

I'm going to try to change that about myself. I'd love for someone to turn around and tell me "Really? What's going on? Wanna talk about it?" Even if I didn't want to talk about it with that particular person, just that small expression of concern, the feeling of another human being leaving their bubble for a minute and reaching out to me would be enough to bring me a small measure of comfort. I'm going to try to do that for others.

Here it is. My first truly emo post!

Every year, come January, I do an evaluation of my previous year. What happened that was good for me? Did I build on it? What happened that was bad? Did I learn from it? Did I accomplish some of my short term goals? Did I progress towards my long term goals? Did some new goals arise that I need to include in the project? Yes I really do ask myself all these questions and try to remain fair in my answers. Then I take action. I make changes. Changes in my friendships, relationships, my attitudes and perceptions. I can always come up with a plan that will get me what it is I feel I need the most. This time, it was a little harder.

I feel starved for meaningfulness. A lot of people would like to have a meaningful life. I have no such noble ambition. I would just like to live a little something that's meaningful, every day. The problem is that I cannot define 'something meaningful.' I just know it is when I feel it, not a moment before. I feel this warmth build up from within and I know that if my life were to end right that second, I would die smiling. I want something like that, every day. I make sure none of my days are meaningless, I learn something new every day, but what I would like is just that special moment that gives the day its glorious glow. That's a great plan but the means to get there are a little abstract at this point. Time will tell.

A civic duty

My parents inculcated my brother and me with a strong sense of duty. This namely includes the number 1 civic duty: voting. Every time we near election time, the news start talking about how the participation rate is declining steadily. I hear things such as:

"Canada is near the bottom of the industrialized-world turnout league tables."

"[...] in the 2000 federal election, the participation rate among voters older than 58 was greater than 80 percent, but for 18- to 20-year-olds it was a dismal 22 percent ."

"[...] age is one of the best predictors of electoral participation—better than income, educational attainment, interest in political issues or perception of voting as a civic duty."

This shames me. Where is my generation while the fate of the country is being decided? Playing World of Warcraft? Why are they so convinced that it makes no difference? The general attitude seems to be "they're all corrupted anyway so who cares?" I'm sorry but, even if we adopt this as a true premise, we should still care. Stephen Harper corruption is definitely very different from Paul Martin corruption. It matters. I feel like screaming it at the top of my lungs. IT MATTERS! VOTE DAMNIT!

Do you, non-voters, really think that all your elders believe the electoral candidates will do any of the things they promise? Do you think that one gets more naïve with age? So why is the participation rate clearly proportional to age? Because we understand that blue garbage is different from red garbage and we want to be able to choose which stench would be more tolerable.

I'm registered with my mom's address. Last year I had just moved back from Newfoundland and my income tax report was done under my mom's address. So today, I need to drive 50 km through the city, in heavy traffic, to reach the little piece of paper where I will put my X. Then I will drive back 50km, through the city, in even heavier traffic. All that to vote for a party that is guaranteed never to be in power on the federal level. And you know what? I still look forward to it.

New year resolutions

Have you ever noticed how most people's new year resolutions are rather unpleasant? Oh, the ultimate goal is always noble. Lose weight, quit smoking, go to the gym. All that is good for you but everyone hates the process. That's why all the gyms are empty by March, you've put all the weight back on by Valentine's day and you're lucky if you managed to quit smoking for a week.

This inspiring revelation dawned on me with the new year, as I was pondering which torture I would inflict upon myself in 2006. Then I thought, no way. Let's be wild and rebellious this year. Let's choose a resolution that is as enjoyable in journey as the end goal is good for me. I should go and give motivational conferences on this revolutionary concept. Maybe even write a book!

So what's my resolution for 2006? Attend one cultural event per month, with pre-research to enhance the impact of the experience. My program looks like this for the next few months:

January: Uncle's dream (theatrical adaptation of a story by Dostoïevsky)
February: The imaginary Invalid (play by Molière)
March: La clemenza di Tito (one of Mozart's operas, in Italian, with subtitles)
April: Giselle (famous classical ballet on pointes)
May: Aïda (Verdi's most famous opera, in Italian with subtitles)

Pretty cool huh? It's been ages since I've seen an opera. For a long time I couldn't afford to go. When I finally could, I lived in a small town with about 9k of population, on the distant island of Newfoundland with a total population of 250k (ok maybe 500k but the point is, there's definitely no opera house). I would have had to fly out to go see an opera, which, as you can imagine, once more pushed this cultural delicacy out of my wallet's reach. Well! Now I'm back in my beloved Montreal and nothing will stand between Mozart and me!

Furthermore, my renascent desires to expand the limit of my culture and to attempt one more grasp at philosophy's quiddity have pushed me to start learning Latin. Despite being a polyglot and quondam straight A student, I still at times feel as though I would need an exegete to explain some of the recondite syntax found in the classical texts used in the books. Dubiety still plagues me as far as my capacity to master this new language, but I do believe that the esuriency with which I tackle the task more than makes up for it. Hopefully, Latin and I can eventually reach some sort of comity that, if not plenary, can still satisfy me and my university teachers!

The previous paragraph includes the January 2006 'words of the day' that were new to me (+1 from December which I just had to include because I love it so much!). That's a 4 year old resolution of mine. I check out the word of the day every day, and try to use it in a sentence as soon as possible to better memorize it. I had been slacking so far this month but I'm all caught up now thanks to this previous paragraph.

That's it for today!

P.S. I really am learning Latin. Well ok, not exactly yet. I do have a grammar and a self-study book though. I plan to start once I'm certified and all settled in.

French roast heaven

Cooking is the most inexact of inexact sciences. So inexact in fact, that Inexact got offended, pompously reminding me that its definition is "Not strictly accurate or precise," which implies that it is at least partly exact. Why couldn't it be as purely exact as mathematics or astrology? Now those are some nice, exact sciences! Wiki's definition of an exact science:

"[...] predictions, and their verification, are possible, by measurement, experiment, observation, and rigorous logical argument."

That is SO astrology! I suspect there might be dissension among the ranks at this bold statement but we shall reserve this argument for another day. Today we talk about the wildly inaccurate science that is cooking. Some of you may want want to call it art. I refuse to do so. I like to associate art with beauty. Sure, some chefs create breathtaking meals. I'll gladly call the meal a culinary work of art. But not the act of "cooking." There's nothing beautiful about mashing some grease, flour and eggs with your bare hands or chopping bits of tendon and fat off a gooey chicken leg.

A couple days ago I was walking aimlessly in the grocery store when suddenly, a divine beam of neon light shone down on the most gorgeous piece of (animal) meat I had ever seen. It was love at first sight. It had to be mine. Once at home, I gave it a prime spot on the top shelf of my fridge, a spot fit for a king, all by itself and far from the other proletarian victuals that populate the lower shelves. For two days I sighed appreciatively every time I opened the fridge door and the light, reminiscent of that divine beam of light that had brought us together, illuminated my glorious roast. Alas, this love story had to come to an end and I could think of no noblest tribute for such passion than this roast ending in my stomach.

And this is where things got complicated. I have never roasted beef before. I've never roasted anything at all, actually. I could figure out the basics, but I needed help for the tricky part, the cooking time. The following is a quotation from a most helpful website:

"Cooking at a constant oven temperature of 300°F (160°C), a 5- to 8-lb standing rib roast will take 17-19 minutes per pound for rare, 20-22 for medium rare, 23-25 minutes for medium, and 27-30 minutes for well done. A sirloin roast of 8- to 12-lbs will take 16-20 minutes for rare, 20-22 for medium rare, 23-25 for medium, and 26-30 for well done. A boneless top round, by contrast, will take 28-30 minutes for rare, 30-33 for medium rare, 34-38 for medium, and 40-45 for well done. If you roast at 325°F (160°C), subtract 2 minutes or so per pound. If the roast is refrigerated just before going into the oven, add 2 or 3 minutes per pound."

Easy! So. My roast is 'inside of round', whatever that means. Is that closer to 'standing rib', 'sirloin' or 'boneless top'? It matters! Because, notice this frightful snippet? "By contrast"? That's potential for disaster there! My roast weighs 2.2 lbs. Not 5 to 8 lbs nor 8 to 12! How does that affect the calculations?

Assuming the ratio of cooking time in relation to total roast weight is a linear progression, and assuming my 'inside round' is somewhere between 'sirloin' and 'standing rib', I estimate the cooking time for my french roast (doesn't that sound distinguished?) to be:

(21*2.2/((8-5)/2 + 5) - 21 2.2/((12-8)/2 + 8))/2 + 21*2.2/((12-8)/2 + 8)) = 5.87 min per lb + 2.5 min per lb for being refrigerated - 2 min for doing it at 325°F (calculations done for medium rare) = total cooking time of...

14.01 minutes! Err. Somehow that doesn't sound right. Oh what the hell. I'll just put it in for 40 minutes at 350 and eat whatever comes of it. 40 is a holy number after all. Noah's flood lasted 40 days and 40 nights. Jesus was tempted in the desert for 40 days and 40 nights. He ascended to heaven 40 days after the resurrection. How could my roast not ascend to roast heaven if cooked for 40 minutes? You can't possibly go wrong with the number 40. The very exact science of astrology says it's one of my lucky numbers anyway!

Well. The roast is now eaten and I mourn its loss. When it was over, I chanted a poignant elegy that would have made the most radical vegan weep for its beauty.

How was it? Why, but it was a culinary masterpiece, of course!

Only in movies...

Yep. Only in movies would something like this happen. Now that I said that, I hope you won't be let down by the lack of special effects and anticlimactic ending.

Roll camera and... action!

My first day on the floor. Our instructors have coached us a bit on the people we'll be working with. I had worked with CY in the simulator so I already knew what type of person he was. You'd think he'd contribute in making trainees feel welcome. You'd think. Considering the unit is way understaffed and it's not going to get any better in the next 5 years. They really do need all the certifications they can get. But no, not dear old CY. He mutters sarcastic comments all the time and when he really can't resist, pulls me aside to share some of his expert wisdom. Obviously, he doesn't like me much. That in itself is pretty unusual. I'm a likable person.

Fast forward to end of the day. I walk out to my car and under a wiper, there's a note saying "Please come see security guard." Christine is with me. We both look at one another and shrug. So we go see the guard. I show him the note and ask him what it's about. He says: "You parked into someone else's car and made a mark. CY's car. He's a supervisor in the North unit and wants to know who did this."

Quick close up on my face. Freeze frame. Appreciate the horror and shock that soon melts into despair. You can almost see my future 15 years pass in fast forward in my eyes. Beautifully nuanced. Academy award performance right there.

Off camera, mad laughter is heard. Christine is almost crying. The security guard looks totally baffled. I feel like I'm Woody Allen for some reason. There are hundreds of people that work in this building every day. Of all people. It just had to be the one person I should avoid pissing off at all costs.

The next day is really busy. Lots of traffic, not a lot of staff. Yvon and I are never on break at the same time. Finally, when the day is almost over, I have about 5 minutes to talk to him. "I'd like to talk to you about something, Yvon." I adopt a meek demeanor. He turns towards me and says: "It comes to about 800$."

That devious security guard wrote down my name when I swiped my card as I left the building and gave it to Yvon, before I had a chance to talk to him myself. That's low. But, more importantly, I am convinced to this day that the whole story is false or at least wildly exaggerated. I never felt anything, there's absolutely no mark on my car and he says I was lucky not to trigger the alarm. Barely leaning on a car triggers the alarm so how much damage could I have possibly done? The story ends with him magnanimously telling me not to worry about it, and that he'll live with the scratch. Yeah. Wonder how he lives with the scratch on his heart. A dent even? No, no. I won't be mean now. Christine says he's just a harmless teddy bear. Teddy bear, maybe, but not harmless for as long as I'm not qualified.

Credits:

Meek little intern: me
Evil supervisor: Yvon
Unhelpful best friend: Christine
Traitorous security guard: still don't know his name but I'll never forget his face.

As Good a Day as Any

Today my father would have turned 60. That's ten birthdays without him, and the pain is still at times unbearable. Time has polished it, as the river's running water makes a pebble round and smooth, but the stone is there to stay.

Most people are very uncomfortable talking about death. Who could blame them? I often feel like there's no one I can talk to about it. I imagine that they feel they should say something, and not knowing what to say is what causes them discomfort. All I would need though, is for someone to be willing to listen, someone who would just hold me in their arms and listen. There's no one like that in my life right now. This is why I figured that today was as good a day as any to start a blog. You, my (soon to be) thousands of virtual (soon to be) friends, will get to know the inner me: what goes on in this head of mine in the rare moments when I am not speaking.