Nicolas Parenteau, a friend of mine, died on Friday in Chiang Mai. He skidded off his motorcycle in unforgiving Thai traffic, on a chaotic road that terrified me a thousand times, and died in hospital ten hours later.
A fellow Canadian working through CUSO with Burmese exiles in Thailand, Nic was a good person in the purest senses of the word. A gifted agriculturist, he was most fascinated by digging his fingers into fertile earth, and dedicated his final year to giving long-downtrodden people new means to feed themselves. I didn't know him as well as I should have, but I spent a fair portion of my final months in Thailand hanging out with him. He was kind, generous, devoted, funny and full of cheer. Were you to describe the kind of person the world needs to see more often, Nic would be a fine place to start. A vast many people, myself included, are richer for having known him and poorer for having known him so briefly.
Monday, February 25, 2008
Thursday, February 14, 2008
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
In which unrequited counsel becomes a stream of babble...
Then again, it seems likely that any post like this is a call for advice. Christian hates his job, and has understandably begun to wonder if his general malcontent and short temper signifies something chemically amiss in his wetware. I doubt it. Christian's a cranky man, but I think he's generally far better-balanced than he gives himself credit for. He needs to find new work. Not a new job, but a radically different line of work. It's trite, but he has to find something that he loves to do, or he'll spend the rest of his life mired in this sort of restless antipathy.
I'm not doing what I love these last few months. My work is an endless, hurried banquet of minute, unsatisfying tasks that have never once engaged anything outside my reptilian complex. I write a dozen letters for other people a day, tasks so anxiously dull that I feel like instinctively rejecting the praise I receive for their quality. I tread water in a vast ocean of business buzzwords that bury the cliche-meter deep in the red zone.
I am genuinely confused by the deep satisfaction that most of my coworkers draw from their daily labours, which change not one whit between days. I don't begrudge them that - they've found something they enjoy doing day in and out - and I'm sure their heftier paydays lubricate the deal more than somewhat. They are fine people to work with, and my job is neither dangerous (sigh) nor unreasonably difficult nor cruelly underpaid. But this isn't what I'm meant to be doing.
I've been fortunate enough to find politics, which I excel at. I know what I'm supposed to be doing with my life, and I'm not doing it. I must return to work that I love as soon as possible. It's not always a picnic doing what you're best at, either - frustration and impatience are still my periodic companions. On a couple of dire occasions last year at the school in Thailand, my erstwhile boss and I came very close to violence. But for my part, I was so angry because I had legitimately different objectives which I felt he was obstructing. I was in a situation entirely unlike my current one, in that I was an expert in my field and he in his, and so we both had the philosophical footing to demand certain things from the project we shared.
Whereas I'm a rookie at my current job, a mid-level grunt spot in a dandy and well-respected human resources firm. If ever I'm certain I'm right - which happens less often than you might think - it doesn't matter. My superordinates' experience and rank trumps my conviction every time, and despite their superficial attempts to ladle more responsibility into my bowl, I'll never attain the rank and experience to go head-to-head with the powers that be when we fundamentally disagree about what's best for the organization.
That doesn't work for me. I'm not confrontational by any stretch, but I'm a person of conviction and I chafe enormously at lacking the intellectual freedom to set my own agenda to some significant degree. Christian, I think, is more like this than he has been willing to admit to himself. He's a smart guy, and he's frustrated. If I spent a decade selling plumbing supplies to ingrates and miscreants, my rage and contempt for humanity would start to poison the rest of my life too. But go straight for the cause, my friend. Chemical alteration is surely worst conceivable answer (with the possible exception of having kids to beat the boredom) - it doesn't even treat the symptoms of this malaise, it merely replaces some of them (anger and loathing) with others (mental slothfulness and serotonin malfunction). Religion won't help either - that just replaces a few of your dilemmas with larger ones, and then tells you you're going to hell if you dare to ask for real answers. The better solution (though I surely repeat myself) is find something you're bloody good at and that you immensely enjoys. This is surely easier counsel to give than follow, but it's true.
My advice to Christian and anybody else in this situation (including myself): take night classes in whatever the hell you're even vaguely curious about. Start reading the Economist cover to cover - more than once something I found in there sparked an interest that substantially redirected my entire life. Take up a serious hobby in which you run the risk of tragic failure - start growing green things, or making something with your hands, or learning some musical skill, or speaking a foreign language. Fail at things, get better at them, ignore your deep intrinsic laziness, and push far outside your intellectual comfort zone. This sounds like an idiot laundry list of generic self-improvement shite, but it's not - it's a shotgun approach to finding something that ignites a genuine creative passion that you've largely abandoned hope of finding. If you can't stick with it entirely of your own accord, do what I do - set up a system of penalties that screw you even harder if you stop trying. Then once you've found something you love to do can find a way to make money off it and stop doing all this make-work shit you can clearly no longer tolerate.
This is a lot of effort for uncertain reward. It's inconvenient, it's annoying, it might even be expensive - but if it saves you from spending the rest of your life enraged at your career and great infuriating masses of humanity, it would be a bargain at a thousand times the price.
Now I need to get back to following my own advice. I've got some jobs to find, and a thesis to publish, and a PhD to pursue. I'll let you know how that goes.
Then again, it seems likely that any post like this is a call for advice. Christian hates his job, and has understandably begun to wonder if his general malcontent and short temper signifies something chemically amiss in his wetware. I doubt it. Christian's a cranky man, but I think he's generally far better-balanced than he gives himself credit for. He needs to find new work. Not a new job, but a radically different line of work. It's trite, but he has to find something that he loves to do, or he'll spend the rest of his life mired in this sort of restless antipathy.
I'm not doing what I love these last few months. My work is an endless, hurried banquet of minute, unsatisfying tasks that have never once engaged anything outside my reptilian complex. I write a dozen letters for other people a day, tasks so anxiously dull that I feel like instinctively rejecting the praise I receive for their quality. I tread water in a vast ocean of business buzzwords that bury the cliche-meter deep in the red zone.
I am genuinely confused by the deep satisfaction that most of my coworkers draw from their daily labours, which change not one whit between days. I don't begrudge them that - they've found something they enjoy doing day in and out - and I'm sure their heftier paydays lubricate the deal more than somewhat. They are fine people to work with, and my job is neither dangerous (sigh) nor unreasonably difficult nor cruelly underpaid. But this isn't what I'm meant to be doing.
I've been fortunate enough to find politics, which I excel at. I know what I'm supposed to be doing with my life, and I'm not doing it. I must return to work that I love as soon as possible. It's not always a picnic doing what you're best at, either - frustration and impatience are still my periodic companions. On a couple of dire occasions last year at the school in Thailand, my erstwhile boss and I came very close to violence. But for my part, I was so angry because I had legitimately different objectives which I felt he was obstructing. I was in a situation entirely unlike my current one, in that I was an expert in my field and he in his, and so we both had the philosophical footing to demand certain things from the project we shared.
Whereas I'm a rookie at my current job, a mid-level grunt spot in a dandy and well-respected human resources firm. If ever I'm certain I'm right - which happens less often than you might think - it doesn't matter. My superordinates' experience and rank trumps my conviction every time, and despite their superficial attempts to ladle more responsibility into my bowl, I'll never attain the rank and experience to go head-to-head with the powers that be when we fundamentally disagree about what's best for the organization.
That doesn't work for me. I'm not confrontational by any stretch, but I'm a person of conviction and I chafe enormously at lacking the intellectual freedom to set my own agenda to some significant degree. Christian, I think, is more like this than he has been willing to admit to himself. He's a smart guy, and he's frustrated. If I spent a decade selling plumbing supplies to ingrates and miscreants, my rage and contempt for humanity would start to poison the rest of my life too. But go straight for the cause, my friend. Chemical alteration is surely worst conceivable answer (with the possible exception of having kids to beat the boredom) - it doesn't even treat the symptoms of this malaise, it merely replaces some of them (anger and loathing) with others (mental slothfulness and serotonin malfunction). Religion won't help either - that just replaces a few of your dilemmas with larger ones, and then tells you you're going to hell if you dare to ask for real answers. The better solution (though I surely repeat myself) is find something you're bloody good at and that you immensely enjoys. This is surely easier counsel to give than follow, but it's true.
My advice to Christian and anybody else in this situation (including myself): take night classes in whatever the hell you're even vaguely curious about. Start reading the Economist cover to cover - more than once something I found in there sparked an interest that substantially redirected my entire life. Take up a serious hobby in which you run the risk of tragic failure - start growing green things, or making something with your hands, or learning some musical skill, or speaking a foreign language. Fail at things, get better at them, ignore your deep intrinsic laziness, and push far outside your intellectual comfort zone. This sounds like an idiot laundry list of generic self-improvement shite, but it's not - it's a shotgun approach to finding something that ignites a genuine creative passion that you've largely abandoned hope of finding. If you can't stick with it entirely of your own accord, do what I do - set up a system of penalties that screw you even harder if you stop trying. Then once you've found something you love to do can find a way to make money off it and stop doing all this make-work shit you can clearly no longer tolerate.
This is a lot of effort for uncertain reward. It's inconvenient, it's annoying, it might even be expensive - but if it saves you from spending the rest of your life enraged at your career and great infuriating masses of humanity, it would be a bargain at a thousand times the price.
Now I need to get back to following my own advice. I've got some jobs to find, and a thesis to publish, and a PhD to pursue. I'll let you know how that goes.
Monday, February 11, 2008
In which I breathe great relief and unload a little guilt...
Today has been a good day. I grinned through the Chinese New Year's parade downtown, which was remarkably enough my first ever, a strange feat given that I'm a Vancouverite born and raised. I nerded out on Rock Band for 6 hours. I gorged on Hon's for lunch.
Far more important, I discovered that my friend and former student, whom I'll leave nameless for his protection, has been released from the grotesque Burmese prison in which he has been incarcerated on no meaningful charges for the last six months. With his long history of human rights work, he was arrested returning to Burma from Thailand and quickly sentenced to 8 years in prison for crimes I've never heard elucidated. Burmese prisons are even worse than you imagine them to be. Torture is routine; medical care is nonexistent. Prisoners commonly go without food or the most basic hygienic needs. 8 years is more than most could endure, and for months I've been terrified for his survival. It has been no small source of shame for me that I haven't been able to do anything for him, save for throwing some money (to no discernible effect) to the effort to secure his release.
But now he's out. I don't know how, nor why, nor why now. I spoke to him briefly yesterday, and he's coherent but clearly traumatized (to the extent that one can discern from a Gtalk conversation). I don't know whether or how often he was tortured inside, and I don't know the impact his incarceration has had on his health (though he said he has been seeing his doctor daily since being released on Wednesday). He's with his family in Lashio, northeastern Burma, and hopefully recuperating. He has told me that in good time he'll describe the human rights abuses he witnessed and suffered behind bars. Good for him - it's vital that people understand the relentless cruelty of Burmese life.
I still don't feel he's safe in Burma at all. The government launches vicious, sweeping crackdowns with alarming frequency, and he'll remain a priority target for the jackboots so long as he remains in the country. I can't imagine he'd leave his family inside that wretched country, but I'd still feel better if he were in Thailand. For now, though, I'm beyond overjoyed that he's alive and he's walking free. That will have to suffice for the moment.
Today has been a good day. I grinned through the Chinese New Year's parade downtown, which was remarkably enough my first ever, a strange feat given that I'm a Vancouverite born and raised. I nerded out on Rock Band for 6 hours. I gorged on Hon's for lunch.
Far more important, I discovered that my friend and former student, whom I'll leave nameless for his protection, has been released from the grotesque Burmese prison in which he has been incarcerated on no meaningful charges for the last six months. With his long history of human rights work, he was arrested returning to Burma from Thailand and quickly sentenced to 8 years in prison for crimes I've never heard elucidated. Burmese prisons are even worse than you imagine them to be. Torture is routine; medical care is nonexistent. Prisoners commonly go without food or the most basic hygienic needs. 8 years is more than most could endure, and for months I've been terrified for his survival. It has been no small source of shame for me that I haven't been able to do anything for him, save for throwing some money (to no discernible effect) to the effort to secure his release.
But now he's out. I don't know how, nor why, nor why now. I spoke to him briefly yesterday, and he's coherent but clearly traumatized (to the extent that one can discern from a Gtalk conversation). I don't know whether or how often he was tortured inside, and I don't know the impact his incarceration has had on his health (though he said he has been seeing his doctor daily since being released on Wednesday). He's with his family in Lashio, northeastern Burma, and hopefully recuperating. He has told me that in good time he'll describe the human rights abuses he witnessed and suffered behind bars. Good for him - it's vital that people understand the relentless cruelty of Burmese life.
I still don't feel he's safe in Burma at all. The government launches vicious, sweeping crackdowns with alarming frequency, and he'll remain a priority target for the jackboots so long as he remains in the country. I can't imagine he'd leave his family inside that wretched country, but I'd still feel better if he were in Thailand. For now, though, I'm beyond overjoyed that he's alive and he's walking free. That will have to suffice for the moment.
Sunday, February 10, 2008
In which I make plans... again...
I'm at (hypothetical) spider-bite plus 10-15 days, and I still don't have any superpowers (other than self-deprecation, and that one I was born with). I've been attempting to climb walls and seduce Kirsten Dunst for most of the day, to no avail. Those movies lied to me.
I've just gotten home from a Jehovah's Witness wedding at the Art Gallery. I was constrained from drinking by the vast quantities of penicillin in my body. So I ate, didn't dance (with the waifish 20-something God Squad in ample attendance) and was a bit bored. But I did get to see Will and Bree and their delightful hatchling Wesley for the first time in months, and bantered briefly on politics and publishing with Will's sister Jocelyn, who is wrapping up her M.A. in Public Health. It got me thinking...
Maybe it's time to re-enter academia. I finished my Masters' almost two years ago and abruptly dropped off the academic map, mostly because I went to Thailand. My ambition of carving my Master's thesis into 2 or 3 smaller papers and publishing them somewhere where potential employers would see them got thoroughly shelved, and I haven't really dusted them off yet. I'm actually starting to fall behind a lot of my rival Men of Mystery because I haven't had much published, academically speaking, and at some point I need to get that done in order to boost my job-seeking chances out in the dangerous world. So I surely need to get in touch with my adrenaline-junkie thesis advisor for some pointers and see if I can get some press writing about suicide terrorism.
But I'm also wondering if I ought to bite the bullet and go get a Ph.D. No minor question, that. It's a minimum three year commitment that thwarts most of the people who try and dooms the bulk of those who DO complete it to lives toiling in academic obscurity. That last bit certainly doesn't sound like my cup of tea. Academia drives me nuts - the infuriating moral relativism; the inane need to treat any idea, no matter how asinine, as potentially valid; the constant pissing contests between nerds of all stripes. These things and more tend to send me scowling from campus after a year or so. Moreover, it's bloody hard work to finish a dissertation, and it pays starvation salaries - I've little desire to re-enter penury so soon after (marginally) escaping it.
And yet.
Terrorism, rumour has it, is a hot topic these days. I have genuinely new approaches to counter-terrorism policy that could be hugely influential if I had much more extensive research to flesh them out. I could make a name for myself in the field with an eye towards policy jobs rather than academic tenure, and probably find my way into a think-tank or (better yet) international enforcement at the UN or somesuch. I could learn Arabic in the process of doing my fieldwork. I'd have the credentials to find work in my field anywhere, even here in Vancouver - no more dicking around with jobs where people ask me "why the hell would THAT interest you?". Most importantly, I could demand that everyone, including my blood relatives, constantly refer to me as Dr. Paul.
I've spent enough time on my hiatus from my true (if somewhat unhealthy) professional passion - figuring out why people kill each other. I think I need to start doing some research on who might be willing to pay for me to go talk to terrorists for a couple of years.
I'm at (hypothetical) spider-bite plus 10-15 days, and I still don't have any superpowers (other than self-deprecation, and that one I was born with). I've been attempting to climb walls and seduce Kirsten Dunst for most of the day, to no avail. Those movies lied to me.
I've just gotten home from a Jehovah's Witness wedding at the Art Gallery. I was constrained from drinking by the vast quantities of penicillin in my body. So I ate, didn't dance (with the waifish 20-something God Squad in ample attendance) and was a bit bored. But I did get to see Will and Bree and their delightful hatchling Wesley for the first time in months, and bantered briefly on politics and publishing with Will's sister Jocelyn, who is wrapping up her M.A. in Public Health. It got me thinking...
Maybe it's time to re-enter academia. I finished my Masters' almost two years ago and abruptly dropped off the academic map, mostly because I went to Thailand. My ambition of carving my Master's thesis into 2 or 3 smaller papers and publishing them somewhere where potential employers would see them got thoroughly shelved, and I haven't really dusted them off yet. I'm actually starting to fall behind a lot of my rival Men of Mystery because I haven't had much published, academically speaking, and at some point I need to get that done in order to boost my job-seeking chances out in the dangerous world. So I surely need to get in touch with my adrenaline-junkie thesis advisor for some pointers and see if I can get some press writing about suicide terrorism.
But I'm also wondering if I ought to bite the bullet and go get a Ph.D. No minor question, that. It's a minimum three year commitment that thwarts most of the people who try and dooms the bulk of those who DO complete it to lives toiling in academic obscurity. That last bit certainly doesn't sound like my cup of tea. Academia drives me nuts - the infuriating moral relativism; the inane need to treat any idea, no matter how asinine, as potentially valid; the constant pissing contests between nerds of all stripes. These things and more tend to send me scowling from campus after a year or so. Moreover, it's bloody hard work to finish a dissertation, and it pays starvation salaries - I've little desire to re-enter penury so soon after (marginally) escaping it.
And yet.
Terrorism, rumour has it, is a hot topic these days. I have genuinely new approaches to counter-terrorism policy that could be hugely influential if I had much more extensive research to flesh them out. I could make a name for myself in the field with an eye towards policy jobs rather than academic tenure, and probably find my way into a think-tank or (better yet) international enforcement at the UN or somesuch. I could learn Arabic in the process of doing my fieldwork. I'd have the credentials to find work in my field anywhere, even here in Vancouver - no more dicking around with jobs where people ask me "why the hell would THAT interest you?". Most importantly, I could demand that everyone, including my blood relatives, constantly refer to me as Dr. Paul.
I've spent enough time on my hiatus from my true (if somewhat unhealthy) professional passion - figuring out why people kill each other. I think I need to start doing some research on who might be willing to pay for me to go talk to terrorists for a couple of years.
Saturday, February 09, 2008
Thursday, February 07, 2008
Wednesday, February 06, 2008
In which I enjoy MY Super Bowl...
... better known as Super Tuesday. As it stands, it looks like Obama and Clinton will come in very close in terms of delegate count, even if Hillary takes California by 10 points. That's not the tie it looks like. If Hillary wins by only a small margin, she's in trouble, because the as-yet undecided states are mainly places (Texas, Ohio) where Barack has either a polling lead or an organizational advantage, or both. I wouldn't have expected it a month ago, but it looks to my ignorant eyes like there's a 50-50 chance for either nominee. It's going to be a long night... and a long year.
I like them both, I really do - either would make a fantastic president, and either is almost certain to thwomp McCain in November. But I must confess that whenever Barack pulls ahead I feel a minor twinge of excitement that was oddly absent when Hillary took New Hampshire. So there it is - I'm an Obama fan. Good luck , Barack.
In other news, I'm again spastically expanding my music collection. Having had my fill of emo rock, I'm trying to dig up tracks with some proper volume to them, and yet enough rhythm to be properly catchy. VAST-style stuff, perhaps. Or maybe some quality new hard rock - any suggestions? I don't know what's new in Canadian music, but I'm in a download frenzy and will happily accept all advice.
... better known as Super Tuesday. As it stands, it looks like Obama and Clinton will come in very close in terms of delegate count, even if Hillary takes California by 10 points. That's not the tie it looks like. If Hillary wins by only a small margin, she's in trouble, because the as-yet undecided states are mainly places (Texas, Ohio) where Barack has either a polling lead or an organizational advantage, or both. I wouldn't have expected it a month ago, but it looks to my ignorant eyes like there's a 50-50 chance for either nominee. It's going to be a long night... and a long year.
I like them both, I really do - either would make a fantastic president, and either is almost certain to thwomp McCain in November. But I must confess that whenever Barack pulls ahead I feel a minor twinge of excitement that was oddly absent when Hillary took New Hampshire. So there it is - I'm an Obama fan. Good luck , Barack.
In other news, I'm again spastically expanding my music collection. Having had my fill of emo rock, I'm trying to dig up tracks with some proper volume to them, and yet enough rhythm to be properly catchy. VAST-style stuff, perhaps. Or maybe some quality new hard rock - any suggestions? I don't know what's new in Canadian music, but I'm in a download frenzy and will happily accept all advice.
Monday, February 04, 2008
In which all partying and no sleep makes Paul a sluggish boy...
Like a civilized person, I was set to leave Grae's birthday party last night at the sane hour of 1AM, the better to recuperate from the previous night's 6AM bedtime. But after I'd done my goodbye walkabout, someone asked me, in all sincerity, "What's your opinion of the Palestinian-Israeli conflict?"
So I didn't get out of there for another 3 hours. Ye gods, I need more politics in my life. Yes, I'm a nerd. Yes, I'm comfortable with that. But running on 2 nights of nearly no sleep, after several unusually exhausting weeks, has left me a wee bit tattered. I'm wrapping up a quick blog post and then going to bed.
In other news, I offer my heartiest congratulations to Graeme and Corinne on their successful production of a parasitic zygote! Way to fertilize, you two!
And I should know about that apartment downtown within a couple of days. I've dropped off all my data, the manager says it's probably mine, and I think it would be a fine place to be. It's walking distance to everything, and a block away from both a Blenz and a liquor store, so I can be simultaneously and perpetually altered by both fermented joy and the stronger-than-crack-and-twelve-times-as-addictive Matchachillo! All the better, Brendan has agreed to take the place (including my TV, XBox, DVDs, etc., naturally) off my hands should I need to abruptly leave the country, as has been known to happen. So I don't need to worry about breaking another lease, nor about whether I've locked myself into a year of professional discontentment. So it appears welcome changes are afoot. And when I move, there will be Rock Band.
Like a civilized person, I was set to leave Grae's birthday party last night at the sane hour of 1AM, the better to recuperate from the previous night's 6AM bedtime. But after I'd done my goodbye walkabout, someone asked me, in all sincerity, "What's your opinion of the Palestinian-Israeli conflict?"
So I didn't get out of there for another 3 hours. Ye gods, I need more politics in my life. Yes, I'm a nerd. Yes, I'm comfortable with that. But running on 2 nights of nearly no sleep, after several unusually exhausting weeks, has left me a wee bit tattered. I'm wrapping up a quick blog post and then going to bed.
In other news, I offer my heartiest congratulations to Graeme and Corinne on their successful production of a parasitic zygote! Way to fertilize, you two!
And I should know about that apartment downtown within a couple of days. I've dropped off all my data, the manager says it's probably mine, and I think it would be a fine place to be. It's walking distance to everything, and a block away from both a Blenz and a liquor store, so I can be simultaneously and perpetually altered by both fermented joy and the stronger-than-crack-and-twelve-times-as-addictive Matchachillo! All the better, Brendan has agreed to take the place (including my TV, XBox, DVDs, etc., naturally) off my hands should I need to abruptly leave the country, as has been known to happen. So I don't need to worry about breaking another lease, nor about whether I've locked myself into a year of professional discontentment. So it appears welcome changes are afoot. And when I move, there will be Rock Band.
Sunday, February 03, 2008
In which I owe Christian more money than he deserves...
Stupid pay-per-blog rule. I'm out $40 while I'm in fairly dire need of apartment-startup funds. My bad, I suppose.
Is there a full moon or some sort of vicious cosmic alignment underway? Seems like improbably vast numbers of my friends are going through trauma of one ugly sort or another right now. Pets are dying left and right, professional dreams are being dashed, and romantic disillusionment rears its foul head at nearly every turn. Too many people I know are having a really bad year so far, almost entirely in ways that I can do nothing about.
That said, this morning I went apartment-hunting, a none-too-meager feat given my 6AM bedtime last night and the accumulated toxins of Sanctuary. 2 hours of treading the West End did clear my foggy head, and I think I even found a decent 1-bedroom just off Davie Street for a mere $995 per month. It's nothing palatial like my last digs in Vancouver, but I've reluctantly accepted that those salad days are long gone, or at least on hiatus.
As for whether and for how long I want to stay in Vancouver... that's another matter entirely and fodder for another post. At the moment, I need sleep more than I need to pour my heart out. G'night.
Stupid pay-per-blog rule. I'm out $40 while I'm in fairly dire need of apartment-startup funds. My bad, I suppose.
Is there a full moon or some sort of vicious cosmic alignment underway? Seems like improbably vast numbers of my friends are going through trauma of one ugly sort or another right now. Pets are dying left and right, professional dreams are being dashed, and romantic disillusionment rears its foul head at nearly every turn. Too many people I know are having a really bad year so far, almost entirely in ways that I can do nothing about.
That said, this morning I went apartment-hunting, a none-too-meager feat given my 6AM bedtime last night and the accumulated toxins of Sanctuary. 2 hours of treading the West End did clear my foggy head, and I think I even found a decent 1-bedroom just off Davie Street for a mere $995 per month. It's nothing palatial like my last digs in Vancouver, but I've reluctantly accepted that those salad days are long gone, or at least on hiatus.
As for whether and for how long I want to stay in Vancouver... that's another matter entirely and fodder for another post. At the moment, I need sleep more than I need to pour my heart out. G'night.
Friday, February 01, 2008
In which I extend my condolences to Corinne...
On the loss of Themba, her much-loved and too-short-lived hedgehog. I hope Corinne draws some solace from the knowledge that Themba was loved like no other hedgehog in history.
And also perhaps some solace from the Walking with Dinosaurs show we saw tonight! Sure, it's cheesy and kid-focused, but damned if it ain't a ton of fun! Some minor technical glitches notwithstanding (a toppled Utahraptor and a slightly delayed Mama Rex), I was floored by the ingenuity of what they managed to put into a live show. I'm glad I'm nerdy enough to appreciate live theatre about evolution and plate tectonics. Even if I weren't, the big T-Rex (when she finally showed) was just plain mind-blowing. Was it worth 70 bucks a pop? Hrm... maybe not. But it was surely worth more than the nothing I paid for the tickets. Corinne and I happily roared at each other all the way to the Skytrain, mimicking the hyper-enthused youngsters who populated the show. Good fun all around.
On the loss of Themba, her much-loved and too-short-lived hedgehog. I hope Corinne draws some solace from the knowledge that Themba was loved like no other hedgehog in history.
And also perhaps some solace from the Walking with Dinosaurs show we saw tonight! Sure, it's cheesy and kid-focused, but damned if it ain't a ton of fun! Some minor technical glitches notwithstanding (a toppled Utahraptor and a slightly delayed Mama Rex), I was floored by the ingenuity of what they managed to put into a live show. I'm glad I'm nerdy enough to appreciate live theatre about evolution and plate tectonics. Even if I weren't, the big T-Rex (when she finally showed) was just plain mind-blowing. Was it worth 70 bucks a pop? Hrm... maybe not. But it was surely worth more than the nothing I paid for the tickets. Corinne and I happily roared at each other all the way to the Skytrain, mimicking the hyper-enthused youngsters who populated the show. Good fun all around.
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
In which human ingenuity both stuns and terrifies me...
I'm not certain whether this represents the absolute peak of our civilization, or is a herald of the coming dark age. Yes, it's a cheeseburger in a can. What will those wacky Germans think of next?
In a related note, I've been scrambling to finish Michael Pollan's In Defense of Food before Erin wrests it from my cold, dead fingers. I highly recommend it, and it dovetails fairly nicely with my attempts to eat as healthily as possible of late. If only my bosses didn't insist on leaving a vast bowl of delicious Jelly Belly beans at my desk. Bastards. Thank the gods for Coke Zero and cheap Vancouver sushi.
I'm not certain whether this represents the absolute peak of our civilization, or is a herald of the coming dark age. Yes, it's a cheeseburger in a can. What will those wacky Germans think of next?
In a related note, I've been scrambling to finish Michael Pollan's In Defense of Food before Erin wrests it from my cold, dead fingers. I highly recommend it, and it dovetails fairly nicely with my attempts to eat as healthily as possible of late. If only my bosses didn't insist on leaving a vast bowl of delicious Jelly Belly beans at my desk. Bastards. Thank the gods for Coke Zero and cheap Vancouver sushi.
In which a twelve-hour day makes Paul a dull boy...
Trade shows are lame. They take away from my time playing in the snow with the puppy.
For those of you sequestered in remotest Vancouver, you should know that Burnaby got a solid foot of the finest white powder in the last 24 hours. Notwithstanding the 45 minutes I waited patiently for the Skytrain this morning, snow remains the greatest thing ever, and I'll never stop loving this weather.
For those of you who hate snow and need to see the error of your ways, the key is to have a puppy. Despite having seen snow only a handful of times in her short life, Tempo sits eagerly at the window after every flurry and stares mournfully outside. Once unleashed, she tears madly into every snowbank, driving her nose gleefully into the frost. She emerges sneezing, bouncing, and wagging madly. She's obsessed with catching snowballs, which explode gloriously when she collides with them. She waits patiently for me, across the yard, to hoist a vast and fragile double-armful of snow, so that she can sprint furiously and careen headlong into me and witness the joyous results. Anyone who despises this weather simply needs to see Tempo at play in the snow.
Trade shows are lame. They take away from my time playing in the snow with the puppy.
For those of you sequestered in remotest Vancouver, you should know that Burnaby got a solid foot of the finest white powder in the last 24 hours. Notwithstanding the 45 minutes I waited patiently for the Skytrain this morning, snow remains the greatest thing ever, and I'll never stop loving this weather.
For those of you who hate snow and need to see the error of your ways, the key is to have a puppy. Despite having seen snow only a handful of times in her short life, Tempo sits eagerly at the window after every flurry and stares mournfully outside. Once unleashed, she tears madly into every snowbank, driving her nose gleefully into the frost. She emerges sneezing, bouncing, and wagging madly. She's obsessed with catching snowballs, which explode gloriously when she collides with them. She waits patiently for me, across the yard, to hoist a vast and fragile double-armful of snow, so that she can sprint furiously and careen headlong into me and witness the joyous results. Anyone who despises this weather simply needs to see Tempo at play in the snow.
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
In which I'm shuffling on... desperately...
Burnaby ain't doin' it for me anymore. My folks have asked me to stick around for a few months while they complete renovations - all the better for my mom to have an extra pair of functioning eyes around a redesigned house. It's an arrangement that's worked well enough - financial benefits on both ends, and plenty of time to play with the Tempodog. But now I'm fairly desperately needing my own space, hampered as my social life is by both remoteness and lack of privacy. I've targeted March 1st as my move-in deadline for some place downtown or in Kits, but I'd REALLY like to find something decent (i.e. 1 bedroom) for less than a grand per month. I've been out of the market some time, and it looks like things have gotten nuts in my absence.
Anybody know anything about co-ops? Or hidden treasure apartment buildings where I can get a palatial loft for pocket change? I'm in dire need of pointers here. Of course, there's always the entirely probable risk that six months from now, I'll up and move to Sudan. But we'll cross that bridge as it comes.
Burnaby ain't doin' it for me anymore. My folks have asked me to stick around for a few months while they complete renovations - all the better for my mom to have an extra pair of functioning eyes around a redesigned house. It's an arrangement that's worked well enough - financial benefits on both ends, and plenty of time to play with the Tempodog. But now I'm fairly desperately needing my own space, hampered as my social life is by both remoteness and lack of privacy. I've targeted March 1st as my move-in deadline for some place downtown or in Kits, but I'd REALLY like to find something decent (i.e. 1 bedroom) for less than a grand per month. I've been out of the market some time, and it looks like things have gotten nuts in my absence.
Anybody know anything about co-ops? Or hidden treasure apartment buildings where I can get a palatial loft for pocket change? I'm in dire need of pointers here. Of course, there's always the entirely probable risk that six months from now, I'll up and move to Sudan. But we'll cross that bridge as it comes.
Sunday, January 27, 2008
In which I still don't believe in karma...
You know I've been sullen over myriad unwelcome events of the young year. But when I tallied up my life scoreboard of the last few days, over an obscenely vast tureen of noodles at Kintaro's, I couldn't deny that this week was vastly brighter than last. To elaborate:
The vicious bout of long-undiagnosed pneumonia I had battled since at least December, which rose up and thoroughly crippled me two weeks ago, seems to have been decisively curb-stomped. I feel great, and I credit my absurdly simple new health regimen: LOTS of exercise, lots of food, and lots of sleep. And the military-grade antibiotics.
I had a hugely productive week at work, well-appreciated and remarked upon by the powers that be, after weeks (at least) of growing dissatisfaction with my unreasonable workload and unrewarding tasks. Meanwhile, the coworker who'd shunted the lion's share of her work onto me got a gruesome two-hour talking-to from the same elder gods, which left her in no doubt that her job is doomed if she keeps slacking off. I'm genuinely sorry for her situation (I fold instantly when confronted with sincere tears, which were in abundance), but the whole scene still showed me that my efforts are more appreciated than I previously thought.
Last and best, I discovered that I'll have a previously unexpected and entirely welcome visitor from New York in a few weeks - news that couldn't come at a better time. Joy! Details to follow.
There's been other welcome stuff, but I'm tired and that's all for now. Cruelly, criminally, I have to work tomorrow morning, so I still don't believe in karma - but I've still felt some scales tilt back towards the center this week. May next week be even better.
P.S. I was planning to write about politics and my love thereof, but sometimes a week well lived needs a little credit too. Politics will wait for tomorrow.
You know I've been sullen over myriad unwelcome events of the young year. But when I tallied up my life scoreboard of the last few days, over an obscenely vast tureen of noodles at Kintaro's, I couldn't deny that this week was vastly brighter than last. To elaborate:
The vicious bout of long-undiagnosed pneumonia I had battled since at least December, which rose up and thoroughly crippled me two weeks ago, seems to have been decisively curb-stomped. I feel great, and I credit my absurdly simple new health regimen: LOTS of exercise, lots of food, and lots of sleep. And the military-grade antibiotics.
I had a hugely productive week at work, well-appreciated and remarked upon by the powers that be, after weeks (at least) of growing dissatisfaction with my unreasonable workload and unrewarding tasks. Meanwhile, the coworker who'd shunted the lion's share of her work onto me got a gruesome two-hour talking-to from the same elder gods, which left her in no doubt that her job is doomed if she keeps slacking off. I'm genuinely sorry for her situation (I fold instantly when confronted with sincere tears, which were in abundance), but the whole scene still showed me that my efforts are more appreciated than I previously thought.
Last and best, I discovered that I'll have a previously unexpected and entirely welcome visitor from New York in a few weeks - news that couldn't come at a better time. Joy! Details to follow.
There's been other welcome stuff, but I'm tired and that's all for now. Cruelly, criminally, I have to work tomorrow morning, so I still don't believe in karma - but I've still felt some scales tilt back towards the center this week. May next week be even better.
P.S. I was planning to write about politics and my love thereof, but sometimes a week well lived needs a little credit too. Politics will wait for tomorrow.
Saturday, January 26, 2008
In which Christian's pestering leads me on some unsurprising tangents...
In wondering why I'm so obsessed with finding work that fascinates me, Christian said of himself:
"My dream job doesn't exist. I'm not excited or passionate about anything. I don't have the skillset to do anything glamourous, and am honestly pretty damn lazy."
I'll set aside the obvious (and probably true) cliche that Christian just needs to find something to really motivate him. Instead I'd like to point out right now that I'm about the laziest sack of turds I've ever encountered. I procrastinate to a degree that would promptly level civilization if one person in ten followed my lead. I've been known to spend ten hours a day surfing Wikipedia instead of doing my paid job. I didn't start writing my honours thesis until twelve hours before it was due. I can (and do) waste time with the very best of them.
That's why I force myself into asinine deals like my current pay-per-blog imbroglio. I love to write, even thuddingly dull blog posts; I cherish how healthy I feel after I've torn around the Stanley Park Seawall on a disintegrating rented bike; I enjoy a hefty sense of accomplishment as much anybody else. It's merely that that alone won't get me off the couch at any particular moment. Lazy as I am, I still curse myself for days wasted and creativity unexpressed - just never enough to motivate me to do anything substantial. The end result is a predictable spiral of slothfulness, foul-tempered discontent, and ill health. So I rely on my (very) rare moments of proactive lucidity to create contracts that punish future inertia. I get jobs (like my current one) where people rely on me every instant - occasionally with more than their profit margins - because then I can't slack off. I make promises to other people that I'm too cowed to break. I enlist your help in forcing me to write daily. Stiff penalties either financial or social usually suffice to spur me to consistent action, while guilt alone at a wasted life rarely does the trick.
I've accepted my laziness, and now I spend my life defeating it merely by rank self-betrayal. It's worked well enough for me these recent years.
But there's one productive pursuit to which I've never needed any trickery to motivate me: politics. I've been thinking a lot lately, lamentably separated from the great game as I now am, about why that should be so. I'll write more about that tomorrow. Not that this is particularly gripping to you - but it's helping me shine lights into ill-understood chunks of my mind, so I'll be on this tangent for a wee while.
In wondering why I'm so obsessed with finding work that fascinates me, Christian said of himself:
"My dream job doesn't exist. I'm not excited or passionate about anything. I don't have the skillset to do anything glamourous, and am honestly pretty damn lazy."
I'll set aside the obvious (and probably true) cliche that Christian just needs to find something to really motivate him. Instead I'd like to point out right now that I'm about the laziest sack of turds I've ever encountered. I procrastinate to a degree that would promptly level civilization if one person in ten followed my lead. I've been known to spend ten hours a day surfing Wikipedia instead of doing my paid job. I didn't start writing my honours thesis until twelve hours before it was due. I can (and do) waste time with the very best of them.
That's why I force myself into asinine deals like my current pay-per-blog imbroglio. I love to write, even thuddingly dull blog posts; I cherish how healthy I feel after I've torn around the Stanley Park Seawall on a disintegrating rented bike; I enjoy a hefty sense of accomplishment as much anybody else. It's merely that that alone won't get me off the couch at any particular moment. Lazy as I am, I still curse myself for days wasted and creativity unexpressed - just never enough to motivate me to do anything substantial. The end result is a predictable spiral of slothfulness, foul-tempered discontent, and ill health. So I rely on my (very) rare moments of proactive lucidity to create contracts that punish future inertia. I get jobs (like my current one) where people rely on me every instant - occasionally with more than their profit margins - because then I can't slack off. I make promises to other people that I'm too cowed to break. I enlist your help in forcing me to write daily. Stiff penalties either financial or social usually suffice to spur me to consistent action, while guilt alone at a wasted life rarely does the trick.
I've accepted my laziness, and now I spend my life defeating it merely by rank self-betrayal. It's worked well enough for me these recent years.
But there's one productive pursuit to which I've never needed any trickery to motivate me: politics. I've been thinking a lot lately, lamentably separated from the great game as I now am, about why that should be so. I'll write more about that tomorrow. Not that this is particularly gripping to you - but it's helping me shine lights into ill-understood chunks of my mind, so I'll be on this tangent for a wee while.
Friday, January 25, 2008
In which nothing has happened...
My perhaps-foolish attempts to hasten pneumonia's departure with daily workouts has yet to cause a resurgence of the dread disease, but it has left me sleepy as hell. I'm not getting home before 10 most nights and I'll be working much of the weekend (a one time deal, methinks). It's left me with tragically insufficient time and energy to undetake the wholesale reworking of the blog I've promised myself.
That and nothing has happened in my life since yesterday - except that I am the proud owner of a tent-like blue shirt emblazoned with an in-your-face Star of David and reading "SHALOM FROM NEW YORK!!!" Thanks Emily! Heehee... it's funny because I'm not remotely Jewish.
Oh, and it's bloody cold outside. The snow that fell last week in Burnaby has yet to melt. To non-Vancouverites, this ain't much of a shocker, but to us, it's vaguely paralyzing. I'll see you tomorrow.
My perhaps-foolish attempts to hasten pneumonia's departure with daily workouts has yet to cause a resurgence of the dread disease, but it has left me sleepy as hell. I'm not getting home before 10 most nights and I'll be working much of the weekend (a one time deal, methinks). It's left me with tragically insufficient time and energy to undetake the wholesale reworking of the blog I've promised myself.
That and nothing has happened in my life since yesterday - except that I am the proud owner of a tent-like blue shirt emblazoned with an in-your-face Star of David and reading "SHALOM FROM NEW YORK!!!" Thanks Emily! Heehee... it's funny because I'm not remotely Jewish.
Oh, and it's bloody cold outside. The snow that fell last week in Burnaby has yet to melt. To non-Vancouverites, this ain't much of a shocker, but to us, it's vaguely paralyzing. I'll see you tomorrow.
Thursday, January 24, 2008
In which I'm pondering...
Christian asked me, in essence, why I'm not content with a job that doesn't fascinate me. It's a decent and sincere question, and I've been thinking about it in some detail - why do I love the work that I love, and why I am so fucking impatient with every other kind of labour I've ever been asked to do? His question has led me down some well-worn tangents, about which I am far too tired to blog tonight. But I'll have a good blather about it tomorrow, more for my edification than his.
But in the meantime, a counterpoint question to Christian, and everyone else who suffers through work the despise (or to which they merely acquiesce) - why are you content to sacrifice half your waking life just to support the better hours between 5PM and midnight? You'll be doing this work thing for a third of a century, and when that's done you won't get another shot. You can be amazed and energized by your day job, and still draw vast fulfillment from the rest of your life. Why do you think it's somehow undignified or greedy to demand both?
P.S. I need a more private place to blog. I think my coworkers know where this one is. I can't let all my posts be sexless sludge for fear of employer espionage. I'm working on it. Something new comes soon.
Christian asked me, in essence, why I'm not content with a job that doesn't fascinate me. It's a decent and sincere question, and I've been thinking about it in some detail - why do I love the work that I love, and why I am so fucking impatient with every other kind of labour I've ever been asked to do? His question has led me down some well-worn tangents, about which I am far too tired to blog tonight. But I'll have a good blather about it tomorrow, more for my edification than his.
But in the meantime, a counterpoint question to Christian, and everyone else who suffers through work the despise (or to which they merely acquiesce) - why are you content to sacrifice half your waking life just to support the better hours between 5PM and midnight? You'll be doing this work thing for a third of a century, and when that's done you won't get another shot. You can be amazed and energized by your day job, and still draw vast fulfillment from the rest of your life. Why do you think it's somehow undignified or greedy to demand both?
P.S. I need a more private place to blog. I think my coworkers know where this one is. I can't let all my posts be sexless sludge for fear of employer espionage. I'm working on it. Something new comes soon.
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