Something that never really could have been produces things that never really were, or something to that effect

Way back in elementary, I had this wonderful dream of becoming a commercial artist. There were a couple of things that fed into this dream of mine. First, the school I attended happened to have an arts core programme. Second, my best friend was an amazing artist. You will notice that not included was any mention of my own artistic ability. Sadly to say, in spite of attending an arts core programme and having a close friend with natural ability, I wasn't able to gleam much talent from my environment. Although I held out some hope throughout junior high and into high school, by the time I reached grade 11, I was pretty sure that the jig was up. The reality of my self-delusion was driven home when, at the end of my grade 11 school year, I asked my art teacher if I had a chance to get into the art programme for grade 12; it was a resounding (to my ears anyway), no. I should have seen it coming as those enrolled in the senior level art programme seemed to spend all day in the art room; and with good reason, for they were very talented, very accomplished artists. I remember feeling like a complete fake through most of my grade 11 art class, as I saw the works being produced, not just of the senior class, but of my own classmates as well. So when I was advised not to continue in the programme, although crushed, I can't say that I was at all surprised.

Over the years, I've never lost my appreciation for art and design. I've dabbled a little, mostly with Adobe Illustrator, trying to come up with my own posters, CD covers, etc. A little while ago I had a rush of inspiration and turned out a series of mock gig posters for myself as a DJ. I thought it'd be fun (interesting? amusing? tedious?) to dredge them up and showcase them.

This was my first poster. At the time I was reading George Orwell's Nineteen Eighty-Four, hence the use of the Newspeak term, doubleplusgood in small print and water-marked on the image. The name of the opening act was taken from an album put out by Gomez entitled, Abandoned Shopping Trolley Hotline. The name of the venue was, well, kind of stupid. I wanted to come up with a name of a club and I thought about some spot in an old industrial warehouse, and there you have it.

My second poster was inspired by Halloween, or more specifically, the days following Halloween and the Mexican celebration of Dia de los Muertos, Day of the Dead (I may or may not have been listening to Concrete Blonde's Mexican Moon at the time). The opening band is in reference to a dubbed spoof of the old G.I. Joe public service announcements in which the Joe (Footloose) calls a kid, blanco niño, white boy. The venue is Calavera's Barra, calavera being the Spanish word for skull, and a central motif in the celebrations of Dia de los Muertos, and barra is simply, bar.

From Orwell to Burgess, my next poster was inspired by A Clockwork Orange. The venue is the famous/infamous Korova Milk Bar where moloko plus (milk laced with drugs) is served. While quite a few actual establishments by the same name exist, I chose to locate mine at Tavy Bridge Centre, Thamesmead South, the filming location of Alex's flat in the film version of A Clockwork Orange. At this point, I'd like to say that I was damned impressed with the logo I designed for the Korova.

Who's up for some electronica? I was listening to Kraftwerk when I came up with this one. The programming in the top right was my best attempt to recall from the nether regions of my memory the Basic I learned in high school. The venue's name and logo are, of course, in reference to the 1956 sci-fi classic, Forbidden Plant starring Leslie Nielsen and featuring Robby the Robot. The address is a nod to Binary; it means absolutely nothing; well almost nothing. If you ignore the hyphen, 1001110 converts to 78 in base 10, or "n" in text. So there.

I was listening to a lot of ambient, downtempo, and other assorted chillout music when I came up with this one. The image is a statue of Guanyin (Kuan Yin, Avalokiteśvara) the Bodhisattva of Compassion. Once again, the venue is the Korova Milkbar.

Back to Nineteen Eighty-Four and Orwell's Newspeak. The idea of having the title fade into oblivion came from what happens in the story to unpersons (i.e., individuals who are executed and removed from all history by the state so that not only do they not exist anymore, but they, by all accounts, never did). The running ticker contains news stories from the Times in Newspeak. The venue is a place called Airstrip One, which is what London, or what used to be London is called in Nineteen Eighty-Four. The address is 84 (pretty much self-explanatory by this point) Ingsoc Place; Ingsoc being the Newspeak word for English Socialism, the prevailing ideology of the Party. The four (plus one) circles refers to the interrogation of the protagonist, Winston Smith, who is forced to embrace doublethink, the act of believing two contradictory statements simultaneously, all the while recognizing that they are contradictory, yet     asserting to oneself that no conflict exists between the two. His interrogator, O'Brian holds up four fingers and asks repeatedly for the correct number. Winston can only see four, no matter how hard he tries to convince himself of the false statement, 2+2=5. Finally, after repeated torture there arises a single moment when Winston believes that he can see five fingers. This results in no reprieve, however, as O'Brian coldly admits that the answer is ultimately irrelevant as dictated by the Party. Seems like a lot of effort for four little circles. I mean, five; five little circles.

Helvetica is my favourite typeface. I'm not really sure what "clean, functional music" is, but whatever it might be, Helvetica is the font to promote it. I had intentionally messed with the text wrapping, just 'cause. We are now onto our third round of moloko(plus). You felling it? I sure am...

Back to '84 and the dreaded Room 101. This is where especially difficult prisoners are taken to live out their own worst nightmares in an attempt (always successful) to coerce information and/or completely break down any remaining ability to commit thoughtcrime (thinking contrary to the Party). Just thinking about it now, Room 101 could also be an upstairs room for private functions at the Korova, where we find ourselves yet again. The text on the side refers to a dream of Winston Smith in which he finds himself in a "place where there is no darkness," presumably a time when Party is no longer in control (or is it?). The eye represents the universal monitoring of the Party, including the omnipresent gaze of Big Brother that all citizens of Oceania must endure.

Finally, we have this gem. This was a poster for a album put out by a fictitious band. The name, Nellie's Tit Ninjas basically grew out of a in-joke; you know who you are, and you know what this is about. The title of the album, This Is an Anagram, also came about from a collaboration with others. We were simply tossing around meaningless album titles. Avon Records does not exist, it was part of the original joke. Although it's not mentioned, I'm pretty sure the release party would have been at the Korova.

Oh, and that friend of mine from elementary? He's a successful illustrator and graphic designer. Live the dream, my friend. Live the dream.

Monday's going to be weird.

It's the end of an era. After fifteen years working together, a good friend of mine is leaving for another job. Got to say, I'm kind of bummed. Don't get me wrong, I am exceedingly glad for the guy. He's starting a new chapter in his life, and he deserves the opportunity that's been presented. Nevertheless, I remain behind. I really have no excuse to wallow in self-pity. It's not like he's leaving the country or anything. We'll still be able to get together; in fact, maybe more so than now. For all the years we've worked together, we've seen each other outside of work only a very small fraction of the time. I guess when you see someone day in and day out, week after week, month after month, it doesn't really seem all that necessary to get together outside of work. Now that we won't have that daily contact, I wager I'll be looking forward to meeting up with him on some weekend here and there.

As our office got together to say farewell, I couldn't help but reminisce about some of the old times. There were the years when we were still working part-time hours. We would often work evening shifts and on the weekends. There were many trips to the pub after work. I remember the agonizing time spent working whilst the building underwent renovations. I think I can speak for my friend (as well as my fellow workers at the time) that those painful years, as it turned out to be, were undoubtedly formative for us. We all emerged from the renovations a little more jaded; a little more cynical; and little more bonded. I remember the years working with the public, especially the regulars, as we called them; those individuals who would test our patience and resolve, and who, like the renovations, would become pieces of who we are today. Those were the days in the trenches. Even after we both ascended to the upper floors to fill positions away from the general public, and here I hope I speak truthfully of my friend as of myself, we never did seem able to shake a mentality that tasted of cynicism and disappointment. I know that even here, away from people and history of the past, new disappointments always seemed to arise; new opportunities to lament at a work environment bogged down in the mire of arcane policies and irrationality. I recall something said at one of my workshops: a cynic is a disappointed optimist. Looking back at all the days leading up to now, I can see some truth to that statement.

Now he's on to other opportunities, and while the industry is the same, the environment is surely to be something very different. I hope he can use this chance to start of fresh; to shake off the dust of the renovations and leave the regulars behind. I hope he can find in this new place, a group of people who have a slightly brighter outlook on the job and the life it can lead to. I hope that he can find in this new place a chance to become more optimistic in finding less disappointment.

Meanwhile, I'll still be here; getting by, but making the most of it. When all is said and done, no matter where his new position takes him, we'll still have stories of floods and gas leaks; stories of DRA vs. Unicorn; stories of Doug, Jamie, and "Three fresh ones for today!"; and we'll always have the patio of the pub where we buggered off that one summer day and enjoyed a pint on company time. Cheers!

Confessions of a reluctant runner. Part 5, Concerning buggered feet and the passing of time

By now you realize that running does not come easily to me. Take my feet, for example. I suffer from low arches, heel spurs, and plantar fasciitis. In the past these conditions have caused great discomfort for me, but after I started to exercise more and lose weight, my feet didn't seem to bother me as much. It got to the point when one day I didn't notice any pain coming from my heels. Even after several half and full marathons, I never experienced the pain that I had suffered through earlier. However, a runner with flat feet can only tempt fate for so long. Sure enough, as my annual marathon approaches the pain has suddenly returned. It started at the end of last week, and by the weekend I found myself awaking in the morning to crippling pain in my right heel. Today, with much reservation, I decided to go for my regular run at lunch just to test things out. After two strides I found the test to be successful in that the data returned was positive; positively excruciating! Of course I decided to continue with my run, because yes, I am that stupid. After a truncated and painful run I discovered that my heel was not the only problem. You see, in order to compensate for my heel, the rest of my body had to do some adjustment, so much so that I could detect the strain in my right knee and left hip. Well, that was enough of that.

I do not want to forgo the marathon in August, and so there is something that I must do in order to even attempt it this year; something that I'm not very good at; rest. Yes, I need to rest. I need to give the plantar fascia, the tissue that connects the ball of the foot to the heel, time to repair itself and, hopefully, loosen up. I am not looking forward to this.

Note: Little red glow of pain not to scale. Increase to a magnitude of Sweet Fuck! Take the Fucking Knife Out of My Heel!

I've had injuries before; an aching muscle here, a sore tendon there, nothing big. I've always been one to "play through the pain" even though that probably has been the wrong thing to do. As a result, I've had nagging injuries that have lasted quite a while until, literally, I wake up one day and it's gone. This time, though, I know I have to take a rest. Unfortunately, because of my particular brain circuitry, there's no way I can do this without feeling guilty. You may ask, "Whatever for?" That's a difficult question for me to answer. Guilt has always come very easily to me; it's second nature and as such doesn't necessarily raise my consciousness. Now that I think about it, though, it could simply be frustration masquerading as guilt. Frustration of not being able to do something that I'm usually able to do. Frustration that my feet are buggered up. Frustration that it will take time to get back to where I was before taking a break. Frustration that I'll miss the marathon. Frustration over the simple fact that I'm frustrated. Once again, I am not looking forward to this.

Yet, wait I must. I've tried the other path; the one that says, "If I just keep going it'll eventually work itself out." I've tried it many times before and I now see that while waiting for an injury to heal may be frustrating, pushing myself and risking further injury will only prolong the problem, quite possibly making it worse.

Stupid feet. This sucks.

Of failed blog posts and old feckers.

Here I am on the advent of the thirty-sixth year of my existence on this planet and I feel like taking stock. Well not really, but it does seem like the thing to do when birthdays come around...

... Alright, I'm going to be perfectly honest with you. This is the third or fourth time I've attempted this post. Nothing seems to be working. Nothing! I tried to come up with a list of random stats to illustrate my life, and that just ended in a dead end. I tired to write about how the before mentioned post containing a list of stats ended up in a dead end, and that ended up in a dead end. I tried another angle where... look, you know what? Forget it. I could compose a post composed entirely of failed post ideas, but that would be silly.

Today I turn thirty-six; no big deal. Sure, according to some polls and/or surveys, I'm in a whole new bracket. Brilliant. I really don't feel any different than the day before, but then I wasn't expecting to. I figured out a while ago that my life is not a series of switches that get flipped as soon as I hit certain chronological points. While there have been pivotal moments throughout my life, it is not so much these moments, but rather the what follows these moments that have shaped who I am. My life is an accumulation, a constant addition of experiences that equal more than the sum of these parts. Every day I'm different than the day before. Whether or not I appreciate this constant change, I acknowledge that the change nevertheless occurs.

So where does this leave a newly minted thirty-six-year-old? Wherever I want to be. I could take this day, roll it's stiff joints out of bed and groan, "Jaysus, I'm an old fecker." I could drop it from a height and remark that, "I don't seem to have quite the bounce I used to." I could throw it in a pan on the stove and lament that, "I'm still crap in the kitchen." Conversely, I could take this day and stretch it out on a mat and marvel that, "I'm still quite flexible." I could lace up it's shoes and boast that, "My cardio kicks ass!" I could hold it up to the mirror and admit, "Actually, I kind of like the lines around my eyes." 

In the end, though, I will take this day and file it in my albums, along with the photos of me growing up; next to the photos of my family and friends over the years. I will take this day and hang it up on the wall next to the photos of my wife and children. Then I will step back and remind myself that regardless of my achievements or failures, these thirty-six years have never been about just me. Nothing we do as humans exists in a vacuum. No life is lived completely separate. The years in the past and the ones that are to come, are mine for the sharing. After thirty-six years, I'm still trying to figure that out...

Disneyland. Part two, Princess for a day

In part one I talked about the queue design in Disneyland. In part two, I want to talk about the employees of the park, or as they are known, cast members. The cast members at the Magic Kingdom are a special group of people. They do a good job in making the experience special, not by being all loud and boisterous, but in small subtle ways, and it was the subtlety that made it even more amazing. When we first walked onto Main Street, one of the first things I noticed, as did my daughter, was a row of cast members in uniform greeting us with giant, over-sized Mickey Mouse hands; a nice touch. When it came time to go on the rides, I was impressed the the efficiency and care taken by the operators. As a veteran of summer expositions populated by the good folks of Conklin et al., it felt nice to walk the park without being subjected to the "carnie wave" beckoning me, come hither. Some rides had pre-recorded messages for the riders, but a good number of them had the operators giving instructions in their own unique way. At one point we passed by the Buzz Lightyear ride and noticed it wasn't operating. There were cast members standing in front of the entrance announcing their regrets for this inconvenience. One cast member, when asked why the ride was not operating, confidently and without pause, reported that they had run out of batteries and were currently searching for the right ones to replace them; that made me smile.

First, wardrobe. Next, make-up...

Without question, though, the highlight of our interaction with the cast members, and indeed the highlight for me this entire trip was when our four-year-old daughter got to dress up as Princess Aurora for a day. My wife and I had arranged this to be a surprise for our daughter, so that morning she woke up to find a package at our hotel room door from Aurora. When she opened it, she found a Sleeping Beauty dress and crown that my sister, who had recently visited Walt Disney World had generously bought for this occasion. As we made our way into the park that morning, I caught onto something that had I had noticed our first day in the park when my daughter had worn a Rapunzel dress. It started with the cast member scanning our tickets. As good mornings were exchanged there was suddenly, "... and good morning princess! I hope you enjoy your day." Much like the batteries comment from earlier, this was done confidently and without pause. The next surprise was a princess make over that my wife had arranged at the Bibbidi Bobbidi Boutique. My daughter was attended to by a Fairy Godmother in training as they did her hair and make-up. Whilst in the boutique, my wife was addressed as Your Highness (which she loved!) and was asked if "the King" would be attending to see the princess as well. Again, it's the little things.

It's hard work being a princess

The king gets to see his princess

When the girls had finished at the boutique, we met up again and made our way through the park. Every time we went on a ride or interacted with a cast member my daughter was addressed, not just as princess, but as Princess Aurora. Usually my daughter becomes quite shy when this much attention is given to her, but even she could not help but smile.

The next big thing on our list was a lunch with the princesses. This is when the princesses come around to each table during the meal and give you opportunity to take photos with them. Each princess who came by was beautifully done up and played the part very well. Princess Aurora (the official one, not our daughter) said, "Oh look, it's my twin." when she came to our table. I must take this opportunity to mention Belle who gave special attention to our 22-month-old son, even giving him a kiss on his head.

Her Majesty, The Queen, flanked by the Princesses Aurora.

After lunch we continued with our rides and such, all the while being reminded that we were in the presence of royalty. This happened to to be our day to see the World of Color water show and the fireworks display, so by the end of the evening we had one tired princess. We knew, though, that she had a great day; so much so that the next day we were dealing with a bit of a princess hangover and insisted on wearing her Rapunzel dress the last day at Disneyland. 

As we spent our last day at Disneyland, I was once again impressed at how the cast members zeroed in on the purple dress and addressed our daughter as Rapunzel.

The perfect cure for a princess hangover? A giant Mickey Mouse cookie!

I can see how some might find this all very silly. Why have I made such a big deal over something as simple as employees calling my daughter a princess? All I can say is there was something very special that I saw in the face of my daughter when she came out of the Bibbidi Bobbidi Boutique. Something that carried on through the day as she was recognized as Princess Aurora. There was something to her smile that showed through the usual shyness that overtakes her when strangers pay so much attention to her. It's for that smile that I thank the cast members of Disneyland.

For a father, the smile is all that counts.

Disneyland. Part one, The coolest place to queue up!

My family just got back from a trip to the Magic Kingdom! It was a great trip and there are any number of topics that I could talk about, but I have decided to focus on two that really stood out for me. Queues and Cast Members.

First, queues. Disneyland is a place where the art of the queue has been mastered. You may think that I am referring to the wonder of the Fast Pass; the ingenious system of getting tickets for a ride in advanced so that you can come back later in the day and skip to the front of the line. Indeed I was impressed with that, but I was more impressed with the design and architecture of the queue itself. I have two examples in mind. The Hollywood Tower of Terror and Space Mountain.

The Hollywood Tower of Terror is free fall type of ride that involves a car that gets raised up, and then drops, and then gets raised up again, and then drops, etc. It's a simple idea. This is a popular ride and each time I went on the estimated queue was around 30-40 min. Now, Disneyland, what can you do to entertain me whilst I wait? Well, first there's the facade, which is much more than simple flat frontage to hide the mechanics of the ride. It is, at least externally, a recreated full-sized hotel building. As you wind yourself around the stanchions you are greeted by music from the '30s piped through the speakers.

I can't wait to get settled in!

When you get inside the building itself you get to see this wonderful rendition of the lobby of this glamorous hotel way beyond its prime. At this point you are ushered into a study by a cast member in period dress.

Funny, it doesn't quite look like the brochures.

When everyone has filed into the study there is clap of thunder, a flash of lightning, all goes dark, and then a small TV flickers on in the corner with an into to the Twilight Zone in which the tale of the hotel is spun and the audience is informed that they are now the players who will see this story through to the end. Keep in mind, we haven't reach the actual ride yet.

That's the problem with hotel TV; nothing new is on.

The TV shuts off and then the queue continues through a set of doors into and area that is made up to be the boiler room of the hotel. You continue to snake around the interior with the lights flickering, an old radio on a desk playing static between stations, a pipes leaking water, the hum of machinery, and a set of maintenance elevators along the wall. All the while you taking in the amazing dedication to detail and mood created by your surroundings.

Are we there yet?

... oh, and through these elevator doors is the actual ride. Almost forgot about that.

Then there's Space Mountain. While the Tower of Terror is a fairly recent ride, Space Mountain is one of the classics that I remember from when I was a kid. The average wait time for this icon was between 50-65 min.(ouch!) Although the design of the ride has changed little, the surrounding architecture has gone though modifications over the years. The resulting structure is quite imposing. If the building were to be gutted, I could easily see it being used as a convention centre.

The location of this year's SAQ (Society of Appreciators of Queues) Convention

The queue is mostly outside the building, giving one plenty of time to appreciate futuristic spires, buttresses, and girders. As the queue continues inside, the launch announcements come over the speakers as one files down corridors that are sectioned off and labeled numerically (01, 02,03, etc.), with periodic screens showing technical displays.

The future will consist of corridors..

... endless corridors...

... and displays.

Finally one enters the launch bay (the ride loading area) and sees a model of a ship hanging in the center. As you get strapped into the car and move forward along the track, the last sight you see before entering the darkness (the entire ride is in the dark, lit only by a simulated star field) is a control booth above manned by cast members.

The Pink Floyd laser show is about to start!

Space, the black light frontier.

There were many other examples of creative queuing around the park; enough to convince myself that there must exist a group of people who show up not to experience the ride so much as to experience the queue. The secret is to incorporate the queue in such a way as to make it part of the ride itself. As you file along you are in a sense moving through and introduction and rising action of a story that ultimately results in the climax that is the ride itself.

Now I am not saying that such design alleviated the pain of queuing altogether, but I must admit that it did give me a feeling of anticipation that bolstered my ability to shuffle along with my fellow queue mates as shackled livestock to the slaughter, albeit in a kick ass abattoir.

Next: Part two, in which a commoner becomes a princess, much to the delight of her father.

Confessions of a reluctant runner. Part 4, States of matter.

My runs during the ridiculous freeze-thaw cycle that we've been experiencing in Edmonton this last little while have had me thinking about the different states of matter... don't look at me like that. Anyway, this in turn, got me thinking about how these different states of matter are associated with my runs (look, I'm fairly certain you're not buying any of this, but if you could play along, it would be very much appreciated.)

First off, there is solid. Bones, muscles, tendons, my entire body absorbing impact and propelling me at the same time. The intermittent patches of solid water (i.e. ice) that challenge my footing. The variations of asphalt, concrete, brick, gravel, dirt, and wood as I progress through my run.

So many parts, so many opportunities for pain

Next is liquid. The perspiration that has me soaked by the end. The seemingly endless supply of phlegm that my lungs produce. The before mentioned patches of solid water that have transformed into miniature glacial lakes. The squish of my shoes and socks as I return from slogging in said lakes.

*volume of water and physique of runner may not be exactly as shown

Then there's, gas. The water vapour that forms from my breath. The steam that rises from my body as perspiration evaporates into the cold air. The, um, other gases that, um...alright, there's no getting around this one. Nitrogen, Hydrogen, Carbon dioxide, Oxygen, and of course, Methane; they're all present and accounted for in varying percentages. Running is a very jarring activity and with that one's insides get quite a vigorous massage. Looking to "cleanse" your body? Between the flatulence, the burps, and the phlegm, there's nothing like a good solid run to make you feel like you've exorcised more than a few demons. Speaking of the foul, a lung-full of vehicle exhaust as I reach the top of the stairs. The cigarette smoke as I pass clutches of smokers huddled around the various entrances to buildings. That one particular spot along the trail where the scent of sewage is perennial and potent.

I shall use the  Rosetta Nebula as an illustration of the interplay of gases... close enough, damn it!

Finally, plasma. Ummm... If it's not too cloudy, the sun feels nice. That's about all I've got for that one. Oh, like you even considered plasma in the first place.

I bet you're considering my ionized particles now, eh? Ka-POW!

So, the next time you're out and about on a early Spring day, take some time to appreciate the wonders of matter, in all it's states; and remember, the triple-point of water is not, in fact, 0°C