...this pretty much sums it up.
It was a rough drive back from Owen Sound. Newmarket, Whitby and the 401 east stop around exit 462 all failed my goodly wife, the ever patient Ellen, in her quest for a Tim Horton's Iced Cappiccino available via her bank card. I thought it was only on PEI, home of the smallest fritter in the world, that Tim's took only cash. I apologize for those particular ill wishes, Mr. Murphy.
So in the name of efficiency, the 401 road stop was the site of a half hour line up to the Royal Bank cash machine before the half hour wait in the Tim's line up. The heat created thereby was not cooled by the frosty slurp.
Get into the 1990's Tim's.
I am used to resentment by Gen Xers such as me of Boomers. Boomers are the bosses who don't get it, the collapsers of their depression-kid parents' pension schemes for the sake of post M&A "rationalization", triumphailists who leave others to pick up the pieces, hippies turned neo-cons. Why wouldn't the bunch of them make you gag a wee bit now and then?
So I read section L of the Globe last Saturday, and there is Johanna Schneller, once workpal of my pal Brent [whose interview of Halifax's Melanie Doane of Friday afternoon on the occassion of her new album was great, by the way] slagging the younger pups, the Generation Y's, for having self-esteem...confidence. Just wacky.
Like the rich, they, these kids, are not like us. I used to gather the biologically post-punk boys down at silverorange once a month [in a scene that felt like an ad for Quacker Oatmeal] to field questions about the good old days of nuclear fear. It takes up a whole chapter of the book Gen X and pervades the slacker ideal. One of the big things that makes Johanna and me and the others who hit high school in time for both punk rock and the Ronnie and Leonid show is that we thought in the back of our minds that we were going to be arbitrarily fried by gamma rays any day. And that sucked.
It's grannie-in-law's 87 and, as she has been a mad hockey fan since before she attended the opening night of Maple Leaf Gardens, it is a good time to be among the caring and knowledgable given Ottawa's loss of last night. Mrs. Penny is a cousin to Ken an Dave Dryden [1st,R1], Murray Murdoch [3rd], Andy Blair [1st] - who got her Leafs tickets throughout the 30's - and the Syl Appses Sr. [2nd], Jr.[2nd,R1], III [2nd,R2]and the up and coming Gillian [2nd,R2] all via the one but mi'chty Dryden clan [of which Peter Rukavina is a member and suffers from my fifth cousin in law status.] EP knows her stuff.
- How can a 600 million people have a conversation about anything - the units of conversation are small.
- These small units are not relationships or communities. At best they are something between a party and a meeting of hobbiests on a topic even if that topic is the discussion itself
- There is nothing new about this. Blogs are merely monitored bulletin boards meeting better browsers which avoid the downsides of user groups.
- Isn't it really weird having a conference about blogging. Aside from the general "dancing about architecture" thing, doesn't it point out the absences in blogs - that you need to phyically get together to discuss them meaningfully.
Of all the silly ideas and services floating around these blogs this one, Blogshares, a fantasy stock market to monitor who is who in the bloggy world is it. A mover. A shaker. There I am at 590 bucks and change. Say... there is reinvented at...$1,500 MORE!?!?! What is that about...I work hard...
Anyway, if you look at referral logs like mine, you will see there are all these programs out there tracking changes in blogs for the giving of notice and the gathering of statistics. I get the notice ones like this one. But why the stats that get spewed out as some kind to rankings, like Blogshares. Why would someone set this up? Who wins? Who knows. Who cares. I hear people collect the identification numbers of trains.
Sports analogies are like...well, you know.
Most often now the point of sports analogies spewing out of "SportsCentre" talking heads is to challenge you the viewer to keep up with the story you are actually being told. Images of war, politics, family relations are all employed. Watching the Senators and Devils in Game Six of the Eastern Conference Finals last night, however, I was struck by how the game as arguement was being played out on my screen and, in fact, it was an argument that has taken about ten years to put in place.
The game was one of the finest I have ever seen. Both goalies made saved pucks that ought not to have been seen let alone stopped. The other players had the required crazy eyes - something I doubted Ottawa had in them - but, also a requirement, they found how to control themselves just shy of the point of turning into the flailing human cudgle that speeding athlete with a sticks gliding on ice in an enclosed pen ought to become.
What really made the game stand out, however, were the both the success and interaction of the disciplines of theory each team has sought to achieve: the Devil's trap, the patience of Ottawa. Both have been called boring and undermining to the game for years. Last night those claims were proved wrong.
Also, see my dismal 2003 hockey pool performance - despite being the guy in charge of the rules! Brother Doug leads the pack.