Update: March '07

Thumbnail: Chewie
Thumbnail: Chewies gun
Thumbnail: Sled
Thumbnail: Sled
Thumbnail: Hot dog stand
Thumbnail: Ice snowflake
Thumbnail: Rideau Canal stairs
Thumbnail: Caricature

A design realignment

The prob­lem with hav­ing a spe­cific lay­out style is that it only caters to one mood or topic.

My entries cover a spec­trum of things, so I never stay sat­is­fied with one design.

In an attempt to achieve even more uni­ver­sal mid-tone min­i­mal­ism, I’ve re-aligned things a bit: more con­trast, bolder titles, com­po­si­tion to a ver­ti­cal rhythm, and a lack of that tit­u­lar cap­i­tal E that was taunt­ing my sense of alignment.

Let’s see how long this lasts.

Blogging milestone

The num­ber of com­ments I’ve received has exceeded the num­ber of entries I’ve writ­ten, the lat­ter of which passed 1000 this year. I remem­ber when I first started in 2002, using a basic con­tent man­age­ment sys­tem I wrote with Perl scripts. It didn’t even sup­port com­ments. Eventually I moved to Movable Type, and finally set­tled on WordPress.

I’m glad to say that I don’t get any more of those ran­dom one or two word com­ments that never actu­ally say any­thing, although they’re pretty com­mon on other blogs.

My com­menters are dif­fer­ent. They rule.

They give me feed­back, make me think, and fur­ther the dis­cus­sion of what I say.

Balls of Fury

Edit: I found out today that the release date has been pushed back until September. Very disappointing.

In this secret soci­ety, the com­pe­ti­tion is bru­tal and the stakes are high. It is the unsanc­tioned, under­ground, and utterly unhinged world of clan­des­tine Ping-Pong tour­na­ments. Down-and-out for­mer pro­fes­sional Ping-Pong phe­nom Randy Daytona (Dan Fogler) is sucked into this mael­strom when FBI Agent Rodriguez (George Lopez) recruits him.

Balls of Fury, a com­edy that mixes ping-pong, matrix effects, and Christopher Walken, comes out in less than a month. George Lopez’s Scarface impres­sion is spot on, and the fact that it’s based on Enter the Dragon (although the title comes from another Bruce Lee movie, Fist of Fury) gives it even more super awe­some flava.

My friends agreed to come watch it in the the­aters with me. Even Bronwen is going to make it, trav­el­ling over 700km to be here. I’ve been chomp­ing at the bit to see this since John sent me the trailer last year.

A trip to New Hamshire

This Sunday, I’ll be fly­ing to New Hampshire — with cohort Louise — for two weeks of train­ing. The sched­ule is pretty open, with nights and week­ends off, giv­ing us a chance to travel and explore.

I prob­a­bly won’t be stick­ing to my reg­u­lar Monday and Friday updates, but I’ll be post­ing when I get the chance.

Confidence and socia­bil­ity comes and goes in cycles for me. When I first found out about the trip I was at a low-point, so I wasn’t feel­ing strong enough to make extra plans. Such plans would have included tak­ing a few extra days off to meet Maggie (aka number18) at my trans­fer in Philly on the way back. One day I’ll get to meet her and take pic­tures of her.

The good thing is that I’m on an up-swing right now, so the excite­ment is start­ing to set­tle in my brain.

Vacation With John '06: Part 4

Thumbnail: Becky cries 
Thumbnail: Me with gramma Currie 
Thumbnail: Becky tickles John 
Thumbnail: Going for a dip 
Thumbnail: John's birthday present 
Thumbnail: Parade pairs 
Thumbnail: Swimming doggie 

300 km, Windsor to Kincardine, from the bor­der of Detroit to the doorstep of the cot­tage. Due to the break-up, John was too jit­tery to drive. I took the wheel until he could com­pose himself.

This week­end was espe­cially impor­tant for John; it was his birth­day and an over­whelm­ing num­ber of fam­i­lies wanted to visit in cel­e­bra­tion, includ­ing his father. Being the mater­nal cot­tage, Dr. Lea hasn’t been up since his wife died, and this was more impor­tant to John than any­thing else.

By May, the week­ends are already booked past August at the cot­tage. It’s filled with rooms, beds, cots, couches that can accom­mo­date more than a dozen peo­ple. Families come and go, and only Gramma Currie remains con­stant. For most of the year she lives in an apart­ment in town, but when it’s warm enough to live by the fire, the cot­tage is opened for lodging.

This time there was Ross, the cousin who’s since fin­ished pay­ing off his tat­too. There was Ray, hus­band of Fran, father of Heather, uncle of John, who eats his hard-boiled eggs by reg­i­mented rou­tine: dash of salt, dash of pep­per, scoop of mar­garine, scoop of yolk in sequence. There were all the asso­ci­ated fam­i­lies, about five in total, and even a few kids run­ning around, mak­ing four gen­er­a­tions of the Currie family.

I couldn’t even remem­ber the last time I was here, but my last entry in the vis­i­tors log shows that it was three years ago.


Thumbnail: Ballon garden 
Thumbnail: Beach front 
Thumbnail: Beach bench 
Thumbnail: Clear water 
Thumbnail: Carcass 
Thumbnail: Monarch butterfly 
Thumbnail: My pasty feet 
Thumbnail: Praying mantis 
Thumbnail: Beach shells 
Thumbnail: Rock shells 
Thumbnail: Watery log 
Thumbnail: Yellow butterfly 
Thumbnail: Stormy beach 
Thumbnail: Stormy waves 

The best cot­tages are off the beach, and the begin­ning of fall is the best time of year to appre­ci­ate such things. Even though the wind com­ing off the water keeps the area rel­a­tively cool, the sum­mer heat can still over­whelm such delights.

There’s nowhere else like this.


My house was 650 km away, nine more hours on the road by car, bus, and taxi. On Sunday night, it was good to be home.

Vacation With John '06: Part 3

Thumbnail: Hamilton Market
Thumbnail: John and Sandra

A short detour, 80 km, Toronto to Hamilton.

We met up with Sandra for din­ner. Prior to this, I only knew Sandra as John’s “best friend from school”, the one he spends most his time with when he’s not with his girl­friend. On the drive up my curios­ity was killing me. Was this Sandra per­son a threat to my friend­ship with John? Would she even­tu­ally replace me as the one he goes to with his prob­lems, his inse­cu­ri­ties, his excite­ments, and would I lose my best friend in return?

No.

Social graces dic­tate that you don’t strike up a din­ner con­ver­sa­tion on which not every­one can opine, but when you get two legal-minded peo­ple together, there’s isn’t much non-law-student can do but lis­ten and observe.

They got along well, but there’s a cer­tain level of inti­macy miss­ing. They still feel each other out, whereas John and I have con­ver­sa­tions with a sin­gle look. When we left, I was reas­sured of my posi­tion as best friend, and felt silly about how I could be so inse­cure about a bond so strong.


Thumbnail: Iced tea
Thumbnail: Club sandwhich
Thumbnail: Club 29
Thumbnail: Lounging in the club
Thumbnail: Serious John
Thumbnail: Julie
Thumbnail: Laura

300 km, Hamilton to Windsor.

I had never been to Windsor before. It’s always remained a place in my head, never tan­gi­ble, because it’s always John who vis­its me. Windsor is where he goes to law school, where he spends the major­ity of the year, and where he works. This was the first chance I had to sub­merge myself in his life and lifestyle.

I went to work with him at the com­mu­nity law office. It’s here that he shares an open office with a dozen other stu­dents, who defend clients from bad land­lords, ten­ants, par­ents, chil­dren, shoplifters, or any other type of liv­ing thing.

Law stu­dents are a dif­fer­ent breed. They’re peo­ple who have ini­tia­tive, who can be extro­verted at the right time. After work, they meet at a pub, sit on the patio, and talk about their cases, about the crown attor­neys who have vendet­tas against them, about moronic clients who speak out of turn and plead guilty to a charge before a bar­gain can be reached.

I was a fish out of water.


Thumbnail: Hall handles
Thumbnail: Room number
Thumbnail: Stair arrows

Given a short tour of the University of Windsor, I took a few quick snaps.


Thumbnail: Helen sign
Thumbnail: Helen dies

The first night we arrived in Windsor, John noticed the win­dow was open, with a note from his girl­friend about car­ing for the hibis­cus just out­side. He stuck his head out the win­dow to see. “How fit­ting”, he said. “The plant has fallen over, and died”.

Minutes before leav­ing for the next part of our trip, they broke up.

Greyhound Home

Thumbnail: Bus seats
Thumbnail: Sleepy Passenger
Thumbnail: Half way scenery

I’m on my way home. It’s early morn­ing, and the air is clean and clear. Everyone on the bus is asleep, and even­tu­ally I suc­cumb to the drowsiness.

Half-way through is the Log Cabin, a Greyhound autho­rized stop that’s a com­bi­na­tion con­ve­nience store and restau­rant. Out of the dozens of times I’ve trav­eled this route, I never get off the bus. It’s some pho­bia I have of los­ing my seat, or los­ing my place, or for­get­ting to get back on, but this day I grab my cam­era and step off, giv­ing up to my wanderlust.

This shaggy, old build­ing, located on the side of a two-lane asphalt road stretch­ing end­lessly, is sur­rounded by wilt­ing trees and grass. There’s noth­ing else around but an aban­doned red struc­ture 50 metres away. I walk behind. To my sur­prise is a frozen river run­ning par­al­lel to the high­way, a stark win­ter scene I rarely get to see. The ele­va­tion and veg­e­ta­tion keeps this hid­den from my view on the bus.

And once again, I’ve taken a chance, and this is my reward.