January // 2007 // equivocality

I never used to answer my phone.

Part of it was because I was being stalked by a crazy girl for a while. Somehow she got my number and called a few times, but Trolley picked up and was able to warn me.

The other reason was because I used to be stoned almost every minute off work. Dealing with people in the outside world was an instant buzz kill.

It’s only recently that I’ve started taking calls again. The languid process of rehabilitating my social skills has been rather slow. Sometimes I get so busy that I don’t have time to check my messages, and they build up into strange archives like this, circa last month.

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0:22	John gives me the funniest advice sometimes. I never did call the girl. Anyone who comes on that strong is usually trouble.
1:13	Dan is easily the most loquacious person that I know, yet he’s perfectly succinct when leaving messages. I find it funny that he always leaves his number at the end. I guess we don’t see each other enough for him to be sure that I haven’t lost it. Last time was November. I should give him a call.
1:25	One time, Pat asked me for my birth date. He told me that he wrote down the date and stuck it to his fridge, so he would be reminded every time he went to grab something to eat. Apparently, he’s terrible at remembering birthdays, so for him to remember mine was quite a gesture.
1:42	My dad left me two messages. They’re rather short, so I’ll give a quick translation. First call: “Jeff, it’s Daddy. Just calling to talk. I’m guessing you went out. I’ll call you later, bye bye.” Second call: “Hi Jeff, it’s Daddy. Daddy moved, so there’s a new address and number. I’ll call you later. Bye bye.” The first two words he says are are my Chinese name, and “Daddy” doesn’t need to be translated.
2:08	This is the creepiest message I’ve ever received. I have no idea who it is, but they know my name. I can’t even tell if they’re male or female. I tried to do a reverse lookup on the number, and called it even, but it’s not in service. The only words I can make out are “Hi Jeff, this is Emily…had to fight for your number…maybe you want to chill some time”.
2:33	Even though we already broke up, Bronwen has no problem telling me that she loves me, then calling me a loser. To this day, our relationship is defined by this very repartee.

At the Tai Chi studio, bathrooms are shared with an accounting office in the same building.

Yesterday I found out that the keys aren’t labeled “Men” and “Women”, they say Yin and Yang.

So I got a fish.

A Siamese fighting fish, or Betta, named Connor to be exact. I wanted something lively in my room, since I spend so much time in it. When I went to the store with Pat and Jen, they noticed that one fish was constantly flaring and swimming in circles, almost like he was pacing. The fish in the cup next to him (to keep them separate or they fight to the death) kept setting him off, so naturally, he was the one. As a clowntail variant, his fins are extended long like a comb.

I also got some live plants with which came a tiny snail, so small that he was transparent at first. After a few weeks, he grew considerably bigger, and survived a couple hours out of water while I was cleaning out the tank. Bronwen named him Humphrey, but he has since died, found dried up at the top of the tank one morning.

Bettas are funny creatures. Supposedly, they have personalities (for fish), but I can never tell with pets I can’t touch. Sure, he swims towards me every time I turns on the lights or enter the room, but for all I know he could think of me as food. I can only tell that he’s very aggressive, flaring out his body and swimming back and forth whenever something gets near enough. It’s like he’s a caged gladiator, restless about his next battle. Dolly likes to sit in my chair and watch him go.

I named him Connor, after the immortal Connor MacLeod from Highlander, because THERE CAN ONLY BE ONE (Betta in a bowl at a time).

Note: I asked John, as a guest writer, to give his opinion. It’s funny to read his writing; the style is completely different. It’s obvious that years of law school have changed him.

When Jeff asked me to write about the “Old Boy system” at UCC, the first thing I asked was, “what system”? To me, “system” implies some order or plan or organization, and the alumni of UCC have no special kinship or bond. An “Old Boy system” connotes one that is different from the ones that exist in every graduating class from every school I know of.

I had mentioned to him that one of our classmates is in my year at law school and Jeff wondered aloud whether I would have mentioned it, or noticed it perhaps, if that classmate and I had not gone to UCC. I replied that I would have noticed him notwithstanding our attendance at UCC, as long as we’d been a part of the same high school class as I’m sure most people would.

My perspective on the “system” is that there isn’t one.

I find it interesting that many people seem to think that one exists, and note that the main evidence used to prove their case is the seeming prevalence of UCC alumni in the halls of power in this country. In response, I would point out that the two things, attendance at UCC and later professional success, more likely have the same root cause — money, family connections, or dare I say it, intelligence.

The likelihood of those things being the cause of one’s professional advancement is greater than or equal to the likelihood that some system of quid pro quos or school ties. Ockham’s Razor is a principle that I would bring up in this context to dissuade those who would claim that any system is behind the rise of Old Boys in their occupations, the tenet of that principle being that the simplest explanation is more often than not the accurate one, and in this case which explanation is the simplest and most elegant.

That Old Boys get together in some nefarious Cabal to chart the course of the country and select from amongst their number the chosen to lead it is a myth.

Or is it simpler to say that chaos reigns supreme and individual old boys make their own way in the world, without the kind of help that the phrase “Old Boy system” connotes?

The people singled out in Fitzgerald’s book are just that — singled out. There are, if I’m not mistaken, 71 old boys profiled in the book who graduated from the 1920’s to the 1990’s. In that time more than 5000 boys have graduated. The idea that 1.4% of those graduates are somehow a reliable and representative sample is ludicrous. Such a sample should not be used to draw any conclusions or to make any generalizations.

The Old Boys of '99 Series

“You’re the perfect woman.”

She realizes this as she writes down my chest, waist, and hip size, then asks rhetorically, “What are the typically ideal measurements?”.

Aaron and I could only look at each other, as we had no idea.

“36–26–36.”

“Wow, so you’re a really hot chick!”, says Aaron.

Hi-LAR-ious. Years of confidence I’ve gained, girlfriends convincing me that I’m not too skinny, gone.

Reduced to a male fantasy, I’m my own dream girl.

“And how much do you weigh?”

“(Pause)…113″.

“After he’s had a buffet”, Aaron adds. My friend the comedian. To console me, he says, “It’s okay. Remember, you’ll be paired up with Jenn in the party”.

My counterpart. The tiniest girl I know.

In the last few years I’ve been to weddings for other friends, but Aaron’s the first out of my core group to get married (although Pat got engaged before him). To pay tribute to his culture, he wants the wedding to be a bit Scottish — something his Popa is especially pleased about.

As a groomsman, I’ll be wearing a kilt. As a Chinese guy, I’ll be feeling a little out-of-place.

Thumbnail: Matching the sporran and kilt colours

He asked me to give him a hand in shopping for the regalia. What a culture shock. Looking through catalogues of claidheamh, sporrans, Sgian Dubhs, Ghillies Brogues. I can’t even pronounce the names. My tongue wasn’t made for these kinds of inflections.

“It’ll take you guys longer to get dressed than the bride”.

Before we leave I remember to ask, “Can we go traditional?”, with Aaron adding, “My Popa would be pretty upset if we didn’t”.

Traditional. The euphemism for commando. The euphemism for bear-ass naked.

“Don’t worry, everything is dry-cleaned”, say the woman reassuringly.

It’s only after we leave that I realize everything but the shirt is made of wool.

I’ll be scratching my balls through the whole service.

I like to think that humans are, in general, cerebral beings, unaffected by bias or emotion.

But every time I’m met with a bigot, who has nothing to cling to but the strength of their opinions, I lose this hope.

The more they speak, the more they prove themselves as incapable of accepting anything but their own beliefs. Added to this is a lack of self-awareness, causing them believe that they’re not closed-minded, they’re just right.

Often it betrays an insecurity. You can tell that underneath their words, they harbour a subconscious feeling that they’re wrong. To make up for this, they express themselves strongly enough to convince themselves that they’re right.

As logically as you explain things, step-by-step, premise to conclusion, they won’t understand. They’ll never be able to accept the truth, and remain completely ignorant.

It’s impossible to have a discussion with someone like this.

The discussion is superficial, and the issue lies within the person themselves.

An old boy network or society can refer to social and business associations among former pupils of top male-only public schools (independent secondary schools)…and indirectly to preservation of social elites over time without regard to merit.

—Wikipedia

My high-school, Upper Canada College, is often touted as one of the best schools to attend in Canada. Someone once said that it provides Canada with a disproportionate number of leaders, of whom include a Governor General, five Lieutenant-Governors, 24 Rhodes Scholars, and nine Olympic medallists.

The faculty was exceptional. A passionate, charismatic group, some of them former professors, notable businessmen, intellectuals. The facilities were top notch; football fields, baseball diamonds, tennis courts, indoor/outdoor pools, squash courts. Even the bands and theatre groups had access to exotic instruments and props. I remember for a production of Hamlet they hired a fight choreographer to lend his expertise in orchestrating the final fight scene.

School isn’t just about the education though. It’s as much about the experience. The classmates. The connections. The Old Boy network.

When I first started at the prep at age seven, I was cycling along a bridge with another little seven year old UCC chap. He said to me, ‘My mother is so happy that we are friends because you are going to be able to do so much for me in later life.’ I remember thinking, ‘I wonder what it is that I am going to be able to do for this chap?’ Then I grew up and realized, ‘So that’s the way it is. That is what people expect.’

—Lord David Thomson (1964–1967, 1970–1975), Chairman of Thomson corporation, Canada’s wealthiest man, sixth wealthiest in the world

The influence of the elite legacy of the Old Boys is far-reaching. Compounding this is the age of the school, and perhaps a degree of nepotism. A related male at the school significantly increased the chances of getting in.

Like his grandfather, John was in McHugh’s house. If had a brother or a son, they would belong to Jackson’s.

Years later, I insisted that my sons, Hugh and Stafford, go to UCC simply because I knew from my own experience that once a boy had gone to Upper Canada, he would never again be in awe of great family names, money, power or social standing. He would know that although a good private school like UCC can produce the best, it can also produce the worst.

—Conn Smythe (1908–1910), founder, Maple Leaf Gardens

It was only when James Fitzgerald, an Old Boy himself, published his best-selling book Old Boys: The Powerful Legacy of Upper Canada College in 1994 (from where these quotes are taken) that the blemishes of UCC came to light.

Beneath the veneer of of navy blue blazers and polished shoes were issues like any other school. There were drugs (though much higher-classed because of better funding). There were sadistic headmasters who looked for an excuse to cane their pupils. There were teachers who molested — or seduced — their students.

I learned to be a sexual masochist at Upper Canada. I’m not kidding. Whenever the housemaster caught me masturbating, his way of dealing with it was to cane me. Caning is a rotten method of teaching anything. What it taught me, of course, was the erotic connections of caning. They are still with me to this day.

—John Gartshore (1935–1943), musician

A couple months ago, I received a copy of Old Times, the semi-annual publication for alumni. In a section called “Class Notes”, they bring others up to speed on their classmates. In the last issue, for example, they mention that Michael Ignatieff, class of ’65, had just joined the race for the leadership of the Liberal Party of Canada.

There are updates starting from the graduates of 1941, including my graduating class, the class of ’99. Out of curiosity, I looked back on my yearbook, The College Times, Canada’s oldest student publication. I had to wonder just how much the prestige of the school had helped them. To compare my idea of where I believed my fellow classmates would be, with what they’re doing now.

The memories I had didn’t always match up with their current achievements.

The Old Boys of '99 Series

Much like my end-of-year photos, I had a few miscellaneous video clips that didn’t seem to fit in anywhere.

Parental Sit Rep

This is the typical thing that happens when I first see John in person. Since it’s usually only once a year I get to do this, we do all major updating. The minor issues are taken care of on a weekly basis over the phone.

I didn’t realize what sit rep meant until I heard it again while going through my footage.

Exhaling Food

And, of course, John gets his turn at catching me up with all his drama. The way John expresses himself often ends up making me laugh at inopportune moments, such as when I’m trying to swallow solid foods, which then tries to make its way through my nasal cavity.

PDA = public display of affection.

Bubble Juggler

Trolley makes a good attempt at juggling two vials of bubble mix, then gets served by a passer-by.

Drinking Buddy

OPEN BAR, DUDE.

Mother

I had John in a tender state, telling me about his mothers last moments. Even though I found out on the first day of school in grade 10 that she died, he never told me the details until that rainy summer day.

I generally don’t like blog networks. Too often they’re superficial, cheaply constructed communities used by the creators to give themselves a sense of belonging and purpose in the blogosphere. Some of the most prominent examples of this are on Livejournal, where anyone will create a clique if they’re an emo kid, a self-proclaimed “hot mom”, or even happen to hate Rachael Ray.

There was only one community that caught my eye in the four years I’ve been blogging. Several prolific sites I frequent, such as graphicPush, Snook, 456 Berea Street, and even Lorelle feature a small leaf on their site. I had to learn more about this little universal logo that was on many of the sites that inspired me, and the network called 9rules.

9rules logo

I discovered that they’re the only community with a philosophy and quality with which I agreed. As on their website, “9rules is a community of the best weblogs in the world on a variety of topics. We started 9rules to give passionate writers more exposure and to help readers find great blogs on their favorite subjects. It’s difficult to find sites worth returning to, so 9rules brings together the very best of the independent web all under one roof.”

Their philosophy is based on a set of nine rules to live by:

Love what you do.
Never stop learning.
Form works with function.
Simple is beautiful.
Work hard, play hard.
You get what you pay for.
When you talk, we listen.
Must constantly improve.
Respect your inspiration.

Although I can say that I agree and follow every single one of them, number eight particularly resonated with me. It’s one of my reasons for living, and partially why I started blogging in the first place.

For once, I felt compelled to join a community.

Becoming a member, however, isn’t a simple task. Every few months, they open a 24 hour window for people to submit their blogs. 9rules doesn’t have a specific criteria for what to accept. Sites are judged on consistency and quality of material, as well the passion for the subjects being blogged.

The community leaders go through every site together, often several times, before deciding whether to let someone join. They also maintain an exclusivity clause; members aren’t allowed to be part of any other community. There was even a purge once, to clean the network of any sites whose quality had dropped.

In the past, the acceptance rates have been between 8–16%. The most recent round (the fifth) was last October, with 1190 blogs being submitted. At the end of this round, the number of accepted members stands at a tentative 134.

Two weeks ago, I found out that I’m one of them.

Christmas is for families, but New Year’s is for friends. I couldn’t decide between Pat and Jen’s or Aaron and Karen’s this year, so I went to both.

Pat and Jen had me over for dinner first. I met Sophia for the first time, which was a good way to put a face to the person who Jen talks about all the time. It was a great change to be hanging out with people who didn’t mind playing console and hand-held games at a New Year’s party. Usually I’m the geek who wants to play games, and most people are uninterested.

I headed to Aaron and Karen’s after a couple hours. They’re only a block away from each other, so it was an easy walk. It was the usual Trivial Pursuit (guys won), poker, and general rowdiness. A few people crashed so they could drink, and the party went into the next day with some early morning Wii.

Mel gave me an invitation card to their wedding in March, and Rob extended the annual Super Bowl party invitation. It was a nice gesture, because I don’t know Rob and Mel as much as I’d like. I think I’m given that respect by association with Aaron. I hope Rob knows that it goes both ways; a brother of Aaron’s is a brother of mine.

When I’m hosting a party, I can see Pat studying the other guests. It’s in his nature to be aware of his surroundings, and he always tells me that there are interesting characters. This time it was my turn to observe, and there were plenty of characters at both places.

I suggested that both couples combine parties for next year, but I’m not sure if the people would mix.