Trailblazing Weather

Until Thursday, we hadn't any snow to speak of this winter.

Thursday morning, it began with a few very light flurries. By the time the day was over, we had received 16 centimetres, with another 10 centimetres to come Friday. Walking to the train station after the newscast Friday night, I snapped this picture at the corner of Rene-Levesque Boulevard and Mansfield Street.

Normally, Susan designs and excavates the Westie Trail that winds through our backyard on a typical winter day. This winter, I boldly initiated the project and sent the dogs for a romp yesterday and today. Here's one of the wild westies.

Here's the other wild westie.

Westie Trail chief engineer Susan looked out at the trail today and, quite snootily, demanded to know why I hadn't bothered to make the furthest point of the trail circle back toward the house.

This is the woman who, after urging me to park in any available space at the mall, constantly points out all the available spaces we pass that are closer to the entrance!

I've heard there are some people you can't please all of the time but, at least the Westies love me!

Gobbledygook

It was late last night when, after our shifts, I asked Alain whether he had any special plans for the weekend. He told me he was working at the television station this weekend. He explained that because weekends are quieter, it allowed him to work on more time-consuming projects. This weekend, he planned to get the new HD television cameras ready to go.

I asked when our station would be making the jump to high definition. He admitted the switch was supposed to have already happened, but there had been problems with preparations to the net pipe.

I admitted that for the life of me, I would probably never understand the concept of digitization; how “ones” and “zeroes” come out of a cable in the wall and produce such incredible high definition pictures on our televisions. For that matter, I admitted, I can’t understand how “ones” and “zeroes” are transformed into the 5783 songs currently stored in my iPod.

Evidently, Alain, who heads our technical department, never shies away from a challenge! He began to try to explain how digitization worked. He explained how sounds were sampled and how digitization was like taking a thousand cross-sections per second of a picture, or sound, and how, once transmitted through fibre optics, the corresponding “ones” and “zeroes” were re-assembled at the other end, to reproduce the same sound, or pictures.

It was midnight when, still thick as a brick, I confessed I was no closer to grasping the concept, although I wholeheartedly appreciate Alain's patience and passion!

When I worked as a feature reporter on the station's morning show several years ago, I scheduled a visit to the local cable company, Videotron, in the hopes their experts could make me, viewers and my son, understand how digitization and the transmission of digital cable signals worked. It was actually Tristan who asked me how cable television worked and I had no clue how to explain the inexplicable! I remember the morning at Videotron as being immensely interesting, but it allowed no further comprehension on my part.

When, a couple of years ago, I was writing scripts for the television show, “Deconstructed”, I researched and documented the functioning of mp3 players. It involved the convergence of new technologies in acoustics, optics, electronics, electrostatics and magnetism. While compressing and squishing songs into mp3 files results in a certain loss of sound quality, that loss is nothing the analog hearing of most human beings can detect and represents a reasonable trade-off for a unit with such incredible portability. A printed circuit handles tasks demanded of the mp3 player and also decodes compressed music files, converting digital signals into analog ones before amplifying them. The printed circuit is made up of integrated circuits or microprocessors, composed of thousands of electric micro-circuits that, with the help of transistors, influence each other. Sequences of "ones" and "zeroes" are transformed into assignments for the player, including the retrieval of a song from the flash memory and the confirmation message that appears on the player's screen. One second of uncompressed stereo music amounts to 1,411,200 bits. The average song is four minutes long, which, on a CD, represents about 40 megabytes of storage space. Compressed into an MP3 file, the same song only uses 4 megabytes. 

All of that right there, unfortunately, for me; pure gobbledygook.

Blubber-Free Zone

What’s a sensitive man supposed to do?

My wife and son are personified cacti; not quite heartless, but not quite human, either.

They will not cry during poignant parts of movies or television shows. Are they lunkheads who don’t understand the significance of emotional moments? I’m beginning to think that’s a strong possibility. Forgotten by evolution, they prefer to mock what they cannot understand.

I, being the sensitive human in the household, am forced to fight back my tears, or face belittlement, humiliation and mockery.

A shame, isn't it?
Here's an example of what I'm forced to endure. Several months ago, when nephew Ryan came over, Susan and Tristan urged him to keep a close eye on my face as we watched the television show, “Undercover Boss”. When did I become a spectacle? They might as well have me pacing inside a cage behind a bronze plaque that reads, “Endangered Sensitive Man”!

If I offer even the slightest hint that I might be getting choked-up, one barely visible bottom lip quiver, Susan and Tristan begin circling like giggling sharks, waiting for the first involuntary spasm or the tiniest telltale secretion from my tear ducts!

Christmas morning, opening presents, Susan gave Tristan and I tickets to a hockey game. We were both pretty stoked! Tristan gave me a cool Expos hat. Then, after having secretly collected pictures and artwork for several weeks, Susan gave me a wonderful, personalized book, documenting Tristan’s development from birth to now. Many of the same pictures also document my incidental development as a father.

I politely flipped through three pages before losing it! This photo clearly captures the moment when the party really took-off.

Well, as soon as I began tearing up, the eye rolls and guffaws came pouring down! Even on Christmas morning, no one's safe! Again, what’s a sensitve man supposed to do?

Quite inexplicably, I've been deposited in a blubber-free zone.

Sigh.

Human emotion can be a wonderful thing, but just try to explain that to the gargoyles.

2012 - Year of the Intervention

“Do you mind if I look in here?” she asked, almost sweetly, as though she sensed that after being pulled through Bath and Body Works, La Senza, Tristan and Jacob, I was about to bump against my ceiling for shopping tolerance.

“No problem,” I replied, almost sweetly, as though I knew that after being pulled through Bath and Body Works, La Senza, Tristan and Jacob, I had already bumped against my ceiling for shopping tolerance and had begun struggling to suppress telltale symptoms.

I have a brain and I understand. As I have documented repeatedly in these Free Writes blogs, Susan loves to shop! For a couple of days now, she had been itching to wander through a mall and was simply making the most of yesterday’s trip. She had already purchased a couple of sweaters and a bag full of smelly stuff!

We entered the electronics store and, suddenly, as though a powerful tractor beam had latched onto her mind, her zombie-like steps led us straight to the flat screen televisions.

She stood in front of a 46 inch, LED flat screen priced at $899.99 for too long, talking about where she would put it and what components she would attach to it and who would be able to use it and for which shows and games! After several long disconcerting minutes, we would finally wander off to look at a few other things in the store and then, she’d go right back to the same 46 inch television and stand there, longingly.

At one point, with her trembling hand resting on the unopened box, she looked at me and announced, “I’m buying it.” By gritting my teeth, I successfully fought the reflex to blurt out a stream of logical reasons against such an impulsive purchase, but I’m fairly certain some part of my face began twitching involuntarily.

She seemed to manifest a dire need for this 46 inch television. It was kind of eery.

Evidently, the iPhone4S was not enough.

On Monday December 12th, I walked into an Apple store and asked to buy an iPhone4S. The sales clerk asked, “Do you have an appointment?” 
“What for?” I inquired.
“We only sell the iPhone4S by appointment,” stated the clerk.
My mouth said, “Oh”, but my brain screamed, “Are you friggin’ kidding me?”

He informed me that after nine o’clock each night, customers interested in buying the device must log onto the Apple site and schedule an appointment. 

Susan loves gadgets. She adores gadgets and, at times, I fear, may even crave them! This phone is the hottest thing in gadgets and comes with iOS and iCloud, all-new 8MP camera and optics, along with a dual-core A5 chip. It would make a fine Christmas gift.

At work Tuesday, moments after nine o’clock, I dutifully logged onto the store site but was unable to complete the appointment process because of a connection problem. By the time I logged back on, the white 16G version of the iPhone was no longer available.

Wednesday night, I encountered the same problem; connection problem during the final phase. Thursday night, I forgot to log on right after nine o’clock and by the time I did, none of the iPhone4S models were available.

Friday night, the white 16G version was unavailable, although I noticed in one of the edit suites at work that website filters had been installed. Perhaps the filters were the reason I was not able to complete the on-line appointment process from work.

I had begun to consider other gift possibilities.

At home Saturday night, Tristan, who helped finance the venture, tried from his Mac and “boom”, he got an appointment for the next day, the desired model of iPhone, reserved! Exciting stuff! Next, the website had a list of things to bring when collecting your iPhone; they included such suggested items as a passport, driver’s permit, social insurance number, proof of address and a strand of DNA. Gimme a break!

Whatever happened to walking into a store, choosing an item, paying for it and leaving with it in your hand? Honestly, after the hassle of obtaining this phone, I wanted to suggest they change the name of their store to Rotten Apple.

Tristan and I got to the Apple store at 12:30 Sunday afternoon December 18th. A sales clerk named Nancy verified our appointment, typed a bunch of stuff into her iPhone, looked over our ID documents and then, we stood there for several minutes, waiting for an employee to bring it from the back room to the front of the crowded store.

Finally, I had it in my hot little hands. I was fairly sure that when Susan got it in her hot little hands Christmas morning, her craving for a new gadget would have been satisfied for at least a couple of weeks! I was wrong. There we were, New Year’s Eve, she, drooling on the 46 inch LED flat screen and, me, wondering what my next step should be.

I’m thinking intervention.

Christmas Cake Clash

The history of this season’s clash is rich with betrayal and bravery. The testimony of history states the tale of the cake, over the years, is littered with deceit, greed, gluttony and blazing glory.

The conflicts centre around Susan’s delicious whipped cream log cake and the brazen attempts of tyrants to secure larger-than-fair portions.

The log cake in question served as the splendid backdrop to a sumptuous turkey dinner Susan had prepared this Christmas. By the time the meal ended, only a single, precious chunk of log cake remained in the fridge, tucked safely under foil.

Tristan and I had sworn to defend our remaining chunk of Susan’s log cake. Our vow included resisting requests, polite, implied or crude, from friends and all relatives, immediate or extended. The remaining chunk of Susan's log cake would be protected and kept for our palates alone.

Unfortunately, nephew Tyler arrived at our home determined to indulge in the same remaining chunk of Susan's log cake. Though none of the world’s great historians could have predicted its intensity, the clash was inevitable. As reasonable readers, you are sure to derive from this photograph, taken mere moments after his arrival at our home this week, that Tyler’s demeanor typically bears more resemblance to a clown than a warrior. Do not be fooled.

We, sensing threat - and he, sensing cake - grimly assumed our stations. Quickly, with the smell of whipped cream lingering in the air, the line had been drawn.

The battle began in the kitchen as Tyler, fork in hand, charged. For several minutes, the scuffle was punctuated by grunts, groans, giggles and sweat. Tristan and I solidly, almost easily, stood our ground, but in the midst of the battle, Susan, who had inexplicably sworn allegiance to extended kin over we greed-laden members of her nuclear family, escaped with the remaining chunk of log cake. As Tyler’s unsuspecting girlfriend stood in awe, it seems Susan, the lovely but flighty turncoat, had decided nephew Tyler was somehow entitled to the remaining chunk of log cake. Though he hails from her side of the family, Susan's unexpected actions have left me aghast.

Let there be no doubt, Tristan and I fought fiercely, restraining the attacker’s fork hand and grinding our knuckles into his unprotected sternum; still, we are prepared to admit our efforts only caused Tyler to battle more valiantly.

Finally, hunched desperately over the bathroom sink, swarmed and enduring considerable discomfort, he managed, between girly giggles, to stuff forkfuls of the remaining log cake into his mouth.

Though history will report he emerged victorious this round, he knows as well as we, victory will be short-lived and, just as surely as the power of the mighty inspires the admiration of the proletariats, there will be another log cake.

Once again, we stand ready.

Weird Friggin' Weather

Instead of trying to sprain my way up the driveway, I chose the less direct route, cutting across the lawn, causing loud crunches in the ice-covered snow as I stepped. The concrete stoop was a disaster waiting to happen; shimmering ominously in the faint glow of the street light.

The freezing rain had been falling most of the day and night. I had wisely opted to take the train in to work. I knew the walk back home last night would be hairy! I got off the train and took a picture of the coaches speeding past me, the ice-plastered electrified lines overhead, buzzing and flashing bright green in the dark night.

There was no approaching sheet-ice sidewalks or cutting across mirror-like glistening parking lots. I walked home in the middle of the street, following the path where tires had crushed ice into far less treacherous slush. Tree branches looked like spider webs.

Like a reckless mountaineer departing base camp as his support team sleeps, I prepared for the climb to the front door, scoffing at safety cords, spiked boots and hand chisels. Gingerly, making no sudden moves or weight shifts, I placed one foot on the first step and then the other. I did the same for each step, always pausing to see whether my footing was solid enough to attempt another step upward. I finally, carefully, dug the keys out of my pocket and stepped inside at 1:20 this morning.

Before climbing into bed, I promptly left two notes, one on the kitchen counter and a post-it on the front door, warning Susan the front steps were dangerous. She left early this morning and when I got up hours later, I saw that she had spread salt before attempting the descent.

Clever girl.

Insert Foot Here

Your honor, I hereby respectfully enter a plea of "not guilty".

We were watching the Sens-Canucks hockey game last night when a "night shot" of the festively-decorated Parliament buildings appeared on the television screen. Right now, the buildings in Ottawa are decked out in red and green. They caught our eye!

Susan suggested that during the holidays, we go see the buildings; I enthusiastically agreed. Then she mentioned we could take a picture of her and our two dogs on Parliament Hill. I tried to imagine the picture. To me, including Susan, Moose, Spike and the festively-lit Parliament buildings in the same picture seemed a difficult proposition, so I wondered aloud, “Do we have a lens that could fit you, the dogs and the Parliament buildings all at the same time?”

Susan parted the unsuspecting lips of my innocence and inserted a stick of dynamite.

Her face was filled with mock dismay as she demanded to know whether I was saying she was too fat to fit in the picture. Tristan quickly jumped on the bandwagon and ever since I made the remark, I have been steadily sinking into a self-regenerating pit of verbal quicksand.

My situation has become wholly implacable and no matter how I try to explain my statement, I fail to improve things. The truth is - Susan doesn’t want me to improve my situation and she won’t let me improve my situation! She was going on about it last night and is still going on about it today!

Thankfully, as far as I can tell, she’s mostly kidding.

Never in a million years would I say or imply such a loutish thing about my delightfully bratty, blonde, blue-eyed bombshell!

There was absolutely no intent on my part to suggest such a thing, nor was there any intent on my part to profit, humorously, from what, in retrospect, was a lovely set-up. I simply wondered whether we had a wide angle lens that could fit the wide Parliament buildings, while still allowing us to discern Susan and the two dogs. Any picture that includes the entire Parliamentary complex would mean Susan and the two dogs are too small to see.

Not being an expert in photography and concepts such as depth of field, focal length or perspective, any picture where we can recognize Susan and the two dogs, would mean we’re only seeing a small part of the Parliament buildings. To do the decorations justice, the entire building should be included in the picture, which brings me back to my original, reckless question.

While I seek to do justice by the Parliamentary decorations, I now also find myself flimsily seeking justice for myself. Susan would probably argue she’s taking care of it.

I urged her not to go on twisting my words into something I did not intend to say, or suggest and when I threatened to blog about the incident, she merely smirked and offered the title, "Insert foot here"!

As far as my mouth is concerned, I think it's time for another adjustment in shutter speed.