I Went for a Run

This morning I watched the voluminous white clouds, contrasted heavily with their blue-sky background, gently assail straight to God from the kitchen window and decided it was time to immerge from my self-imposed but necessary hibernation and go for a short run.

I gathered my iPod, Oakleys, Asics, and Nikes in their appropriate places and set out.  The light breeze was cold on my face and the calculated frenzied chords of Tori Amos’ “Cornflake Girl” set my pace before I quickly realized I needed to adjust for my lack of participaction through the winter.

To my right, across the street, was a young guy book ended by two equally young girls, looking as though they had just left some sort of debauchery-ridden all night party while a lone gull sat watching us at the corner of the rooftop of the ivied brick high school perched on the highest point of this peninsula, his spectacular ivory feathers beaming.

At this point the music shifted to the pulsing beat and arrythmic tempo of David Bowie’s “What in the World” and the architecture changed to rental units in perpetual states of renovation before I spotted a yet-to-be-claimed nest in a stoic, still leafless spring tree recently staked with surveyor's orange, as an unforgiving government attempted its ownership assertion of history and April March’s “Chick Habit” lifted the cloud of my reality.

I looped downhill, past Saturday shoe shoppers, straight into the view of the bridge that fittingly splits this town and will soon transport tourists through to their intended destination, then levelled onto the industrial road, filling my lungs with exhaust and wood chips as I continued precariously on the gravel encrusted sidewalks, as neglected as the residents of this city, dodging full sods that have immerged like glaciers from the dirt-speckled snow and ice.

Die Antwoord’s “I Fink U Freaky” coaxed me up the unforgiving hill and back onto the once opulent avenue, still marketed as desirable real estate in comparison to other city sections, and a greeting from a familiar leucistic pigeon, nervous atop its shingled roof.

I dodged three bicycles on the sidewalk flanking a rare bike path and eased into my cool-down as Jane Jensen’s penetratingly creative “Luv Song” entertained me.  We’re schooled that positivity is the foundation needed to fuel this city, but we need to feed ourselves on something with better sustenance than sugar – and I do recall being wisely told once not to drink the Kool-Aid.

City of Saint John Set to Improve Local Parks

Saint John - Saint John city council has announced plans to improve a number of the under-utilized parks around the city.  According to councilman Sherman Bugglesbee, the idea for the initiative came when he was surfing a popular Facebook page that shares historic photos of Saint John and he saw a comment referencing plans for an underground parking lot beneath King Square in the 1970s.  Disappointed that never came to fruition, “You can't have too much parking,” he started thinking about other ways in which the green spaces of the city could be enhanced.

“We’ve been using Queen Square in the South End in the summertime for a farmers' market, but that’s only seasonal,” Bugglesbee explained.  “Picture this, residents being able to stroll by Samuel de Champlain year-round, every day as they get their mail from huge new banks of super boxes that will be placed at the south end of the square.  Every Uptown resident will be forced to enjoy the park!”

The City plans to do the same in Victoria Square in the North End of the city too, “It's perfect.  That way the square will be used by everyone instead of just the feral cats,” exclaimed the councilman.

The pièce de résistance will be a new warehouse for the antiquated New Brunswick Museum on Douglas Avenue that will be placed in the barren Riverview Memorial Park, an ancient tribute to the soldiers that fought in the Boer War.  “Who remembers the Boer War anyway?” commented Bugglesbee, “Think of the jobs!  Jobs are what this city needs more than history or a place to let your dog relieve himself.”

The Saint John Public Garden will be a pet cemetery.  “We're going to have the cutest critters stuffed to add a special fun element to the wedding photographs taken in the park.  For a small fee, of course,” he added.

According to the mayor, who said he's practically falling over himself with enthusiasm for the project, they would have also loved to put a drive-in movie theatre in Wolastoq Park, but J. D. Irving Ltd., the company that currently maintains the park, wasn't open to the idea.

Jian Ghomeshi Thanks Us

Living anywhere in Canada, even Saint John, one can't escape the #JianGate (the hashtag that was trending that night) scandal that began, for most of us, Sunday with a Facebook post by Jian Ghomeshi - a post that would be immediately seen by people that literally "like" him - is a continuing nightmare of a roller coaster ride that has taken another turn with another Facebook post by Jian moments ago:

His now infamous Sunday post was met with a tremendous outpouring of support for the radio show host that was combined with an equally vitriolic condemnation for the CBC.  Since Sunday - a black Sunday in many ways - it would seem as though all of Jian's fans have experienced a slap, punch, choke hold, or something of that metaphoric nature, as shown in some of the comments from his latest Facebook post.  While there are still some showing support, they are in the minority.

Here are some of the highlights - remember, this is less than an hour since Jian posted.

Murder at the Saint John Free Public Library

We already know how much I like the Saint John Free Public Library, so it should come as no surprise that with them kicking off the Fog Lit Festival by hosting the event, Lunch and Learn with Debra Komar, I was there.  That and the fact that they had brownies.

Debra Komar is a retired Canadian forensic anthropologist with a specialization in genocide who has ingeniously combined her interest in her field with Canadian history, tapping into the morbid fascination we have with murder, and then she made it local.

She delivered an engaging, suspenseful talk, including everyone and everything from Billy the Kid, Anne of Green Gables, Jeffrey Dahmer, O. J. Simpson, and the US Presidential race to introduce her current, past and future books dealing with historic Canadian atrocities in which she has brought current forensic science to make the reader the thirteenth jury member.

Her present novel, The Lynching of Peter Wheeler is set in tiny Bear River, Nova Scotia and combines racism, the workings of the media, and a cop with his own agenda to weave a most intriguing story that, although set more than 100 years earlier, tells a story that echoes those of today.

The Fog Lit Festival continues in Saint John through October 5th, 2014 and features a slew of entertaining events and workshops.  Visit them on their website, Facebook or Twitter to learn more.

Support Your Local Library

The Saint John Free Public Library - the emphasis is on "free" because it is Canada's first free public library - is a golden opportunity to expand your horizons right at your very fingertips.  I don't intend this to be about the history of the library, but the hows, whys, whens and wheres are just too interesting to omit.

The idea first germinated in 1874, but was put on hold because of the Great Fire of 1877 - it's tradition to bow your head at the mention of this reverent event - so it didn't reach fruition until 1883 when it occupied a room at the City Market.  From there it went to the Masonic Hall on Germain Street and in 1904 it finally had its own splendid building - thanks to a donation from Andrew Carnegie, no less - on Hazen Avenue.

Increasing circulation is a challenge for all libraries and, apparently, the powers that be were enamored with the success of their idea to open the Maritime's first library branch in a mall on the west side of the city in 1967, so in 1983 the main branch was moved from this treasured bit of architecture to Market Square - a glistening modern atmosphere so perfectly suited that it seems it may possess the same interior as it did then.  As I said, they must have loved that mall idea because the east branch is in a mall too.

Now that our history lesson is over, let's get back to why it's in your interest to make use of the borrowing resources contained within the cement walls of your library.

First, it's important to note that the Saint John library is just a cog in the vast New Brunswick Public Library system. This means you can borrow from any library in the province.  Now for a wonderful annotation to this fact: until recently CDs and DVDs were not transferable within regions - I know, that made no sense whatsoever - and there were often two copies of the same album in one region, but none in any other region, let alone your own.  But now that restriction has been lifted, so rejoice!

Next, while the library system doesn't have the extensive inventory available in most of the modern world, you can take solace knowing that if there is something that you want, there won't likely be much of a wait - it doesn't seem as though anyone actually borrows from libraries in Saint John.  Before moving here, I used to make good use of my privileges at my branch of the Halifax Public Library where I would put items on hold, sometimes having to wait weeks for one of their scores of copies to become available, then having to find my name alphabetically amongst walls of shelved material that others had put on hold.  There's none of that here - my first trip to a branch in Saint John saw me asking the librarian to do all the work, having to find my name in the little shelf of requested items while all I had to do was wait and watch.

As an aside, I have The Essential Bruce Springsteen serenading me as I write this article, proving there is some fantastic material to be found.  This is relevant because in other library systems borrowing CDs or DVDs is often futile, having to hope the item isn't too scratched up to actually play - especially on the old, run-down equipment I employ.  Springsteen's vocals, put on this CD in 2003, come clear and unscratched - well, as clear and unscratched as a Springsteen vocal can sound - looking as though the item was just purchased yesterday.

The hours may seem a little odd for a city library, some may even think they would contribute to the lack of circulation, but they do have a drop box with padding at the bottom to try and keep the contents of that special CD together, even if you forget the rubber band it came wrapped in.

Finally, I'd like to let you in on my secret on how I do a little extra to support my local library.  It used to bother me if, when I was in Halifax where their financial pockets seemed a veritable bottomless pit of wealth, I managed to rack up a fine.  Here they will actually extend the due date by a few days, so don't fret if the due date seems too soon, but should I not be able to make it on time, I just view that as my little donation to an important community resource (even more important if it was actually utilized by the community) and know that the item will be waiting on the shelf for me the next time I'm in the mood for The Boss.

Meeting Justin Bourque at a Sport Card Show in Moncton

Moncton, the Hub City of the Maritimes, was recently terrorized by Justin Bourque, a resident of a local trailer park, and as I watched the story unfold from the unnervingly safe distance of Saint John, I became aware that this person was strangely familiar to me.  That’s when I remembered a conversation I had with this individual at a collectors show a few years ago.

CS (cowardly shooter seems an appropriate moniker, since I wasn’t aware of his name until recent events):  Whoa, cool!  [Pointing at a 1974 OPC hockey card of Larry Robinson] Check out the facial hair on that dude.  And that stare, that’s intense – you can see the determination in his eyes.  I wouldn’t want to run into that guy in an alley.  How much?

Me: It’s only $5, it has a couple soft corners.

CS:  Don’t we all.  These old cards crack me up.  Look at the sideburns on some of these fuckers.  And the goalies didn’t wear masks, that’s real boss.  Men were really men back then, everybody fightin’ and shit – not held back by those pansy-assed pigs in stripes.  They can’t do nothin’ these days, they’ve even added an extra pig to suppress those players even more, but who’s watchin’ them?  [He looked up, making eye contact with me for the first time]  You know what I mean?

Me:  [A little unnerved by his stare] Well, the league watches them, I would imagine.

[Thankfully, he looked back down at the cards]

CS:  Yeah, sure, a fuckin’ whole hell-of-a-lot of good that does.  They need another player in that role, maybe some bad-ass retired fighter who knows what it means to have to be out there every game tryin’ to live your life without the man getting all in-your-face about it.  Fuckers.  You got a Claude Lemieux card?  He was a cool player.

Me:  No, I didn't bring any.

[His eyes see something in my case] Oh, fuck man, now we’re talkin’ – it’s a goddam Patrick Roy rookie card!  Can I see it?

[I hand him the card]

Here’s a real man, he goes about his job quietly, while others keep trying to humiliate him, show him up, but he keeps blockin’ that little fuckin’ puck and givin’ them the finger and, when they least expect it, boom!  He fucks them up – pummels some wimpy little American goaltender that’s too cowardly to even drop his gloves.  That dude's got his shit together.  [He looks up at me again]  His son plays hockey too, did you know that?  [I nod and he looks back down to the card]  What a great father, I wish he was my dad.  I bet he doesn’t slap his kid every time the little bastard does something stupid.  Some day I hope a girl will let me have a kid with her.  I’d be a great dad.  No stupid fuckin’ rules for my kid and I’ll teach him to hunt and fish and all the important stuff you need to survive in this fucked up world.

[He pauses for a long time, seeming to look at the card, but his eyes have glossed over and it’s clear he’s not exactly present.  Then he gives his head a shake]

How much?

Me: I need $200 for that.

CS:  Yeah, I thought so.  Some day I’ll buy all the Patrick fuckin’ Roy rookie cards I want and all those fuckers will wish they were me.

[He looks up at me]

I’ll show them, I really will.

Through the Wire

I'm a big music fan; it's vital to my mental wellness, my creativity.  I've been a music reviewer for a large website.  My tastes are varied - my favourite playlist may switch from Paul Robeson to Frank Sinatra to Die Antwoord and then Stompin' Tom.  Tori and Bowie are my heroes and I flew (Holly knows that flying is not something I embrace eagerly) to Montreal a few years ago for a Tori Amos concert.  I'm still kicking myself that I didn't join my friend, John, on a trip to see Bowie in Moncton so many years ago.

It's hard to believe it's been about ten years since I was first introduced to the music of Kanye West.  I saw a story on him and the terrible car accident he was in which led to the hit, Through the Wire.  I hadn't heard of him before that, so I bought the song, eagerly looking forward to that moment when you "discover" something great, a musician that makes you go wow.

I cued the song in iTunes after it downloaded and pumped up the volume and I still remember my reaction.

Hmm.  Okay.  Well, that was whiney.

I didn't play it much more after that and I missed the 99 cents I'd shelled out.

Kanye drifted out of any remaining consciousness, but I'd hear more about his passion and his Taylor Swift interrupting rants and would continue to give him a chance - yup, more iTunes purchases followed by more meh.  I saw him on the Commons in Halifax in 2006 in the rain.  Hey, his jaw was wired for that first experience, he deserved another chance, right?

Hell no.

There are times in your life when you need to stop giving chances and face the reality that the situation isn't going to improve.  That's what is happening living in Saint John - and I'm not alone.

This Sunday past, a young man in a wheelchair took a trip to the North End McDonalds for some treats for he and his family.  Leaving the franchise's Main Street location he overturned his wheelchair in an intersection and had to drag himself and his means of transportation off the road before the light changed, his food spilled all over the street.

What's awesome is that two ladies got out of their car to offer assistance and to make certain he was okay to get home.  It seems they may have even looked after the ruined food.  I learned about this in a heartfelt Kijiji post Cody placed to thank the women.

I do hope these two Samaritans know just how huge it was that they made a horrible situation better.

CBC picked up the story and in a subsequent interview I learned Cody and his family returned to Saint John after living in a city in Ontario where they actually realized the streets and sidewalks do not have to be like this - other cities manage to keep their citizens safe.  In fact they are questioning the ability to remain here and experience any quality of life.

Well, I learned via many experiences, including Kanye West, that there comes a time to cut your losses and move on.  I wish I could say there was hope that the conditions in this city will improve, but I don't see it.

I have learned that my experiences with Saint John have been echoed over and over by others spanning many years.

I hope and wish I will be proven incorrect, but I'm doubtful.  The constant automotive and pedestrian conditions back me up.  That doesn't mean I'll ever stop trying to make the most of any situation I'm in though.

Now, let me leave you with some lines from Kanye, so that you can compare the differences in character between he and Cody, the 20 year old that has gone through 74 surgeries with his condition and still remained as positive and grateful as he has:

When the doctor told me I had a um.. I was going to have a plate on my chin,
I said dawg don't you realize I'll never make it on the plane now,
It's bad enough I got all this jewelry on,
Can't be serious man.

Winter Abuse

When Mother Nature slaps us with a seemingly inordinate amount of weather, we feel it emotionally and physically.  Shoveling out for the third time in nearly the same number of days with wind whipping up frozen pieces of moisture, driving it back upon our exposed, innocent faces as we attempt to direct it away from our homes suppresses our spirit and pains our bodies, but we understand.  We are not blameless in all of this since we knew what we were signing up for by choosing to live here.  This is a Canadian winter in a Canadian city.

What really hurts is when another, lesser courter, becomes abusive and the promises that were made when that relationship was blossoming go unfulfilled.  And then, repeatedly, beyond the courtship and into the marriage they continue that misconduct, never able to live up to their vows or admit responsibility.

Abandoned Sidewalk Plow

We'll keep you safe, they tell us.  We'll protect you and your family and provide a place you can live, thrive and raise your children without fear, without concern, and you'll be happy.  You can grow old here and bask in the wonder and satisfaction that you've made a wonderful choice.  You will matter.

Communities court each and every one of us to either live there or remain there.  They tell us that if we pay our taxes and invest in the locales, monetarily and voluntarily, there are services they will provide that will protect us and confer security and safety.

When they renege, we hurt.  The emotional upheaval that occurs because of their neglect is real and legitimate.

"Sidewalk" Five Days After 1st Storm

A battered partner, we are humiliated and have to choose our next course of action: stay and, in all likelihood, continue to be abused; stay and try to fix our batterer; or leave and start fresh, albeit more aware and less naive because of our experience.

Some may lash out in desperation, accomplishing little and looking, well, desperate because they are so vastly outnumbered by those that have already given up, become mean and bitter, and are just trying to survive the ordeal without any real hope for the future. Those victims have realized the offense internally, fretted over the amount of work it would take to change anything, and resigned themselves to the situation, even defending the abuser, telling others how wonderful he is and how lucky they are to have him.  But when we tell them that not all partners are like this, that other places handle their responsibilities efficiently, that it's not like this everywhere, we see the pain in their eyes in that moment's hesitation before they respond, "It's not?"

Saint John Bus Stop

Denial doesn't help you, your children, your acquaintances, or the violator.  It's time to want more for those that matter in your life - and yourself.  This is a Canadian winter in a Canadian city, a Canadian city that is supposed to be able to handle Canadian weather and meet their promises to keep us all safe and content.

Stocking Up at No Frills

There's a blizzard warning issued for tomorrow, so with Holly working, I was sent out to pick up some groceries for ourselves and her mother.  Her mom needs cat food.  Well, the cats need cat food and that trumps anything.

Since I hate crowded grocery stores - or crowds in general - I decided an early morning trip to be wisest.  This plan brought me to Drew and Jen's No Frills (it used to be Dave's, but I'm not sure what happened to Dave) around nine am, where, after loading the necessities (including some rather scary looking baby spinach that is supposed to be good until the 31st of the month, which sounded more like some highly wishful thinking given their sad, wilted look) into a Walmart cart to avoid having to fish for a quarter in seventeen below temperatures for a heavy duty No Frills cart, I maneuvered myself into the lineup at the only open checkout.

After a few moments I noticed we really weren't moving due to an older lady - sixtyish perhaps - at the front of the cash searching her pockets for some money to pay for her groceries.  Her longish graying hair was pulled back and tied into a ponytail, exposing the weathered skin on her face.  "How much do I need?" she asked the cashier, who had begun to look around for some assistance with her awareness of eyes from those in line looking for her to take control.

"The total is $9.59 and you have $4.77, so you need... just a second," and her focus shifted to her calculator.

The older lady, the calmest personality involved, gave me the impression of a stage actor a little bored of a too familiar role, continued to reach into pockets and glance alternately from her food to the amount displayed on the register.  After a few minutes, which seemed longer for everyone present, a lady about three customers back came forwards and asked the cashier if she could put the difference on her debit card.

At this point a rather managerial-looking man (Drew himself perhaps?) had come to the front of the store and picked up the phone and called for another cashier over the loudspeaker, for which he received thanks from the young cashier.

The older lady casually thanked the person paying for her groceries, tied her hood tightly over her head, placed the last of her food into her plastic bag and left.  By this time the line had thinned thanks to the other checkout being opened.  The lady who paid was paying for her own items now - a number of bags of Covered Bridge potato chips on sale for $2.50 per bag, quite a bargain for this local treat, prompting me to grab a bag for Holly and I - explaining that she only likes the sea salt and cracked pepper flavour.

After my items were rung through, the lines back to early morning quiet, the second cashier asked the other, "How much was she short today?"

Dog Sitting in Saint John

You may or may not know this, but Holly and I have a pet sitting service.  For pet sitting, the holidays are busy times and we've been doing an overnight stay with a German shepherd, a regular customer, since Boxing Day.

Here's a summary of the events through the dog's mind:

Day 1 - Yay, they're home! Woof, woof! I knew they wouldn't be gone long so soon after Christmas.  Woof!  Hey, what, aw it's that shifty guy again.  How long is he going to be around?  Where's the girl?  I like her.  Okay, I'm up for a good walk, but why is there so much ice over everything?

Day 5 - Finally, it's past six, about time you're up.  What's the matter, did my barking last night wake you?  You try being left alone in the kitchen with only a rubber ball for entertainment for the entire night.  It's hard to find good help these days.  Oh, by the way, there's a lot of that white stuff all over everything outside.  You don't plan on walking me far in that shit do you?

Day 6 - Here he comes.  Hey, what happened to you last night?  The girl and I watched a movie together.  You were tired?  What do you have to be tired about?  Try trudging through that white stuff with it up to your shoulders, then having you watch me while I take a dump.  Good dog, I'll show you a good dog.

Day 7 - It sure is getting cold.  What was all that gunfire-like noise coming from Uptown last night?  Why was I barking?  You kidding me?  I was pretty sure we were being invaded.  Fireworks?    Maybe they should plow the sidewalks so you're not tripping all over my ass on those crazy streets.

Day 8 - They're gone again.  She's gone. And she left me here in the kitchen again.  Where does she go at night?  It better not be to see Mr. Shifty.  That movie was good though.  Madeline Kahn cracks me up.  That's what holiday weather should be like. And just what do they mean by "dog smell?"  What was that?! Woof!  I don't see anything.  Damn, it's cold.  Woof!  I don't trust that plant in the sun room.  Woof! Woof!  Woof!  It keeps looking at me funny.  Yes, I ate my poop, don't judge me!  Woof! I miss the cats.  There's a lot of cats in this neighbourhood, but I miss them when they're not around.  Why don't they just stay indoors and stop complaining about the cold though?  Stop looking at me, plant!  Woof!  My stomach feels a little funny.  Where are my moms?  Is it morning yet?  Oh, God, it's still watching me.  Don't make eye contact.  I'll go back to the kitchen and bark there.  Woof!  I can still see it.  Why won't it stop looking at me?  I feel all funny - dizzy and I can't breathe.  Oh, God, I'm dying!  Breathe.  I heard about these on television, they're just panic attacks.  Calm down.  Gah! I can't stand it!  Grr! Woof! Grrr!  There, I hope you're happy!  I won't feel guilty, you can't make me.  I warned you, plant.  It's not my fault you had to be eliminated.  Finally, I here him coming.  I need to get out of here.  I will poop for you, Mr. Shifty!

Day 9 - Great.  She's gone and the the door to the sun room is blocked.  I only have the kitchen.  Just as well, the plant body is still in there.  And why were they taking photos?  I don't trust those two.  What do I do until morning?  What's that noise?  I can't even look out the window now!  Woof!  I can't even walk in the park because it's so freakin' cold and all that white shit hurts my feet.  My ball doesn't even bounce when Mr. Shifty throws it.  He is good at throwing my ball, I'll give him that.  Woof!  Was that a noise?  Let me look out the window, I'll be good, I promise.  My stomach doesn't feel so good.  Aren't plants supposed to be good for you?  When are my moms coming back?  They poisoned them, didn't they?!  I'm sorry, I'm really sorry, I'll be good!  Oh, God, they're going to take me back to that lady that took away my balls!  Oh, no.  No!  I'll be good!  I'm dying!  I can't breathe again.  Gah!  Grr!  Grrr!

Day 10 - Well, last night didn't go so well.  How embarrassing, I chewed up a good bed over nothing.  My moms are never coming back, are they?  Why is it so cold?  I'm not going for a walk in these conditions.  Cats are hibernating for Christ's sake!  Why are you so interested in my bathroom habits?  Fine, I'll poop, just let me out for a moment, but I'm not going for no walk.  FML.

***

We didn't get to see the reunion when his owners arrived home, but we're sure he's a whole lot happier and more relaxed.

Storm Day

There's a snow storm forecast for tomorrow and it's always interesting to watch how different people, businesses and organizations handle such events.

I'm not going to harp on the pathetic street and sidewalk maintenance efforts by the city of Saint John, now it's just a fact, like stating the sky is blue, everyone knows and seems to accept it (it must be like this everywhere, right?) and doesn't see a point in trying to change it.  I must be starting to fit into this city well because I'm now able to take my backhanded slap and carry on with the relationship I've settled into.

Tomorrow happens to be a Sunday.  The second last shopping Sunday before Christmas.  When you're living in a locale desperate for every dollar, you need to do things that may not be terribly safe or responsible - like not clearing the sidewalks and streets as well as they should be for the sake of the safety of your residents or keeping malls open without regard for putting the often-minimum-wage-earning employees in jeopardy - for the sake of economic survival.

I know of at least one mall that has told its retail establishments to track the buses before coming to work.  If Saint John Transit - an interesting entity in itself, taking the Canada Post theory of doing business, increasing rates while decreasing service - pulls its buses off the roads, the mall will close.  There are so many reasons this strategy is so golden, particularly for the employees that took the buses to get to work.

Anyway, I had a friend who was dating a girl who used to use this exact technique for making decisions herself.  Whenever we would pair up with this couple to go out for dinner, she would leave the decision of where to eat to anyone else.  That way she remained free to criticize without having to take any of the responsibility.

The problem in this case is that you're playing a game of craps where someone's safety is valued at the same level as an business's financial bottom line.

And that's wrong.

First Wordless Wednesday

For today's post, I thought I would go with my first Wordless Wednesday featuring a couple shots by Holly on a recent outing with some fabulous NAS students and local photographer Bill Lapp.

Holly was thinking of me when she took this one

And here's a reminder to remember to look in every direction for opportunity, not just straight ahead.

The Songbirds' Lament

The potential promise of warmth on a cold, foggy Saint John end-of-summer night heralded the death of seven thousand lyric dreams, with hundreds more needing to be euthanized.  Countless numbers of songbirds, the inspiration of poets since the poem's inception, perished on a Friday night at Irving's Canaport natural gas plant in east Saint John during a flaring operation that could be mere weeks away from being unnecessary.

The pain one must feel in your heart when coming to work to see that you unwittingly participated in extinguishing such an overwhelmingly beautiful innocence and recognizing a long-thought dead dream in the form of a hurtful twinge as another ember dies inside your body.

There's a lot of pain in this place...

And anger.

Dreams that once existed, only to be replaced by safety  disguised as financial security compacts are less than a memory as more and more fight having to recognize the realization that the promises were false and your new dreams have been built over swampland.

Scent is likely the most overlooked of the senses.  When one is bombarded with too much of a particular offense, you shut down the ability to heed the warnings, as a form of defense, not perceiving the irony in granting the intruder free reign.

Respect the alerts that nature has gifted you and act, before your last ember of hope is put to rest and be wary of the promises that come as a warming glow in a cold, gray night.

Survival

I spent most of my Saturday - at least it seems that way - hunting fruit flies.  We bought fruit from Atlantic Superstore and used it right away, but we've been left with a rapidly expanding population of these tiny beasts.

Normally I don't kill anything (excepting mosquitoes or other blood sucking bastards!), but this is war.  I have already learned much more than I need to know about the drosophila melanogaster.  They live about one month, which, judging by the rate of reproduction since yesterday, is potentially a lot of fruit flies.

War takes its tole on both sides though.  The enemy must invade your mind to be successful (I'm thinking I should have read that free public domain copy of The Art of War that's on my Kobo) and you have to learn to think like your enemy to be victorious.

I firmly believe that both sides lose.  With each death I cause I lose something inside of me.  It matters not what I kill or am responsible for killing.  I try to limit that weight as much as I am able.

No matter how fleeting or seemingly insignificant the life of the fruit fly - or anything else - is, they want to survive, just like us.  Perhaps, after this life, their spirit will move on to some other being, maybe even human (I know plenty of humans that don't appear far removed from a fruit fly).  We may too.  Still, we all try to hang onto the present because of that fear of the unknown.  The future just may turn out to be better than we imagine in our thoughts rooted in fear, anxiety and uncertainty.

The Great Dollar Store Wars of 2013

When future historians regard the Saint John history annals, the year 2013 may just compare in significance to notable events such as the great fire of 1877 or the start of the Great War because the city and its residents has been thrust unwittingly into the marrow of a fierce battle for supremacy and survival between the warring Dollar Store Plus, located in Brunswick Square, and Your Dollar Store With More on Germain Street.

In an economy that has many retail shops struggling and having seen businesses close their doors, Saint Johnners are gaping with anxiety as someone has had the audacity to challenge the very  existence of a local icon, the mall-bound Dollar Store Plus.

The interloping Your Dollar Store With More has invaded the space once occupied by the venerable Appleby's Image Centre and has begun to buttonhole their way into the pervasive cheap-goods market so affluent uptown.

The tension has formed like a great wall of fog permeating the once hot (okay, somewhat warm)summer air as one tries to pass the streets laden with sandwich board signs directing the consumer this way and that.

To see the horror at its pinnacle, visit uptown Saint John on a cruise ship day to witness throngs of tormented tourists standing in confused agony trying to decide where to purchase those necessary made-in-China souvenirs of their trip to the Loyalist City and Canada.

For some, this has to be better than wrestling or MMA because, in the true spirit of dollar store wars, it's free to watch.  Stay tuned.

Not Dying Today

I've been in awe of the survival instinct in some creatures since I was young.  I admire it and often wish mine was as strong, although hope not to have to test my resolve too much.

About a week ago I was waiting for Holly on Germain Street in our car and spotted a haggard, young, grey seagull with its wing hanging limply at its side cross the street at King and walk hurriedly up the street.  It tugged at my heart and I wished him well, but knew there wasn't much, if anything, I could do for a wild, scared gull.

Yesterday, I rounded the corner of Horsfield onto Germain and there, beside Trinity Dental's brick wall, was the same bird.  He didn't run from me this time.  I carefully passed him, trying not to look at all threatening, fearing he may bolt away into the street or try and fly, injuring the wing more, reversing any possible healing that may have occurred.

After passing, I realized I had a giant bag of dried fruit and nuts I had just purchased in the excursion to Costco the night before, so I pulled some out and tossed him some large pieces of fruit and nuts hoping it was okay for seagulls.

Leaving the studio that evening, he was in the same spot, breaking bread with some pigeons and a crow.  And on my way in this morning, he was there again and I was prepared with a bit of cheap dog food with which we normally feed our raccoons.

I thought the outlook for this little guy (okay, I have no clue how to differentiate sex in gulls) was bleak when I first saw him, but I now have hope that perhaps, with the community's effort for sustenance, kindness and respect, he may have a bit of a chance.

I would hate some dog - leashed or not - to scare him into danger.  Cats in the area, already sentenced to the perils of a life outdoors, seem to be giving this large bird space.  He must have found somewhere safe to await the morning when night falls. He's clearly resourceful and has found a way to survive.

Gulls are a part of our Fundy heritage and give the uptown area a whole lot of character.  I routinely hear the frantic alarm from his kin even from the confines of the studio and who hasn't admired the grace with which they glide between the office buildings upon a current we can't see?  This youngster deserves a chance.

I sent messages to two Maritime wildlife rescues asking for their advice, but haven't heard back from either as of this posting.  It's a shame the nearest wildlife refuge seems to be in Sackville, NB.

I'm Tellin' Ya, That's Nuts

Since Costco moved to Saint John, destroying trees and displacing deer and other equally adorable critters, we refused to support them, despite the promise of the lower prices that could be involved.  It seems rather like some secret society for the modern western world - you pay a membership fee for the privilege of shopping there, then you're given a sort of secret handshake in the form of savings by purchasing obscene amounts of highly processed consumer goods combined with relatively decent customer service, especially when compared with the uninspired walking-dead cast that seem to make up the staff (and clientele) at Wal-Mart.  At least you don't have to dress in white sheets.

We are not box store types, we founded Cash Mobs Saint John, for goodness sake.  We feel a strangely sickening feeling walking through their brightly lit large, automated doors that makes us think they must have been involved some way with the extinction of unicorns or some equally horrific misdeed.  But, being that we don't have deep enough pockets or unlimited time to search out local everything, we do need to feed their coffers on a depressingly regular basis.

Our comrade, Back-Alley Bill (trust me, that moniker is a compliment), who until recently was a long-time holdout, offered to smuggle us inside as a guest (envision a pledge at some extremely boring fraternity) to see if the savings warranted the sale of a piece of our souls.

We meandered through the aisles, gawking at the volumes like hillbillies newly exposed to city life, routinely stating, "That's a good price," as we passed giant boxes of sugar-laden cereals, pro and pre-biotic infused snack goods, and industrial strength garbage bags.

We drew smirks from the other customers as we gawked at the restaurant-sized container of Nutella and exclaimed, "Yeah, there's a good idea.  Sit that in front of the kids in the morning and tell them to help themselves.  Who would buy that?" we asked each other.

Loading our bag-less spoils into our vehicle, wondering why on earth we purchased a huge bottle of pickled asparagus, we reflected upon the prospect of joining and could not deny that the help our budget will receive is on the plus side, so we may pony up the fifty-five dollars for a membership.  We reason with ourselves by stating that Costco does pay and treat their employees better than other box stores.  The unanswered question is what kind of a hit will our community-minded spirit take?

I must note that the inspired photography of Bill Lapp can be viewed at The New Artisan Studio at 87 Germain Street, Saint John, NB.  Come check it out!

Cone of Assumption

Holly and I have been doing daily visits to one of her mother's cats because he managed to get a scratch on his face, so we (mostly Holly) are needed to keep it clean to avoid infection.  The irritation of the cut causes him to occasionally scratch at his face and, being a cat, leads to more scratches from his hind claws.

Being pet people, we try to be prepared - it's as if we are trying to earn our boy scout pet sitting badge - and have an Elizabethan collar at home, which we put on the foyer table in case we need to bring it to Holly's mom's.

With our bedroom dark and me trying to remain asleep, I heard Holly stir in bed next to me.  "Why would daddy do this to you?" I heard her say quietly.

I reluctantly opened my eyes to find, sitting on Holly, our older male cat with the collar on.  Biggie Boy has an odd attraction to plastic, never able to resist licking any such material in his vicinity and at some point in the night, must have found the collar on the foyer table and stuck his head into this plastic beast - something most animals avoid like a veterinarian with a thermometer - unable to extricate himself from our devious trap.

When I moved into the house two and a half years ago, Holly made it known that I took Biggie's spot on the bed and that I had no right to be angry with him for jumping onto my face at three in the morning because that space used to be for him.  Biggie's an older cat and, along with losing his hearing, may be losing some of his faculties.

At least that's what he wants us to believe.  Considering I got blamed for torturing him with the collar, I find it difficult to accept any explanation other than this was a brilliant, well-contrived plan to restore himself as the male head of the household.

Mourning Mackerel and Doves

There are some lives you mourn, although you may have never met that person and they may have lived long and full, because the world is a little emptier with their passing.  Hearing the news on the radio this morning of Alex Colville's death at the age of 92, that is how I felt.

Images of many of his large, detailed masterpieces will appear in the minds of those thinking of this extraordinary artist, but it was the smallest of his works that first brought him to my attention as a young boy.

Great mounds of maple leaves, stampedes of beaver and caribou, and the oceans of schooners can become a tad repetitive, thus it was the designs on the coinage of Canada's centennial year that made me take notice of the tiny pieces of art that we pocket every day and made me realize that I must have missed quite a celebration in 1967, vowing to live to see our bicentennial in 2067 - envious of the Americans who were so close to seeing theirs.

I wasn't aware at the time of the name of the artist, but it was the clean lines of the dove and mackerel - referred to as the bird and fish by me back then - that turned me into a numismatist.  Of course, the gentle grace of the hare and the splendor of the bobcat were wonderful, but for some reason, it was the former two that I loved the most.

Although I have never met Alex Colville, I can't say I've never had any sort of interaction with the man.  I've mentioned before that I collect autographs.  In  November of 1995 I sent a letter to Alex at his home in Wolfville, Nova Scotia telling him that he was the reason I collected coins and that I would love to interview him regarding the 1967 coinage.  Included was a small index card requesting his autograph.  A mere six days later I opened the envelope he sent back and found the card signed with a note added: "Sorry, but I don't want to have an interview."  Of course, I found out later that there is a book available, albeit not easy to find, all about his trials designing these coins.

Colville openly approached his work as work, something that may not have been cool with the critics and other artists of the time, but was beyond smart as this planned businesslike technique in obtaining a career led him toward a life full of successes on both the personal and professional sides.

He lived with love, respect, celebration, recognition and reward and examining the making of this man would be something I would recommend to anyone, especially a young person with an attraction to the arts.

Fifty Shades of Something

Holly, my wife, has been buying me erotic novels.  She tells me it's because she knows I can write one and they are for research.

"Call them 'inspiration,'" she says enthusiastically.

Hmm, sure.

Holly enlisted the aide of a Saint John book store employee to make her choices.  "Bared to You," by Sylvia Day, is a New York Times bestseller and the first book in Day's Crossfire series.  Her other purchase was a Canadian bestseller called "S.E.C.R.E.T.," by L. Marie Adeline.

Dutifully, I read them, sharing passages aloud that I found most poignant.  Okay, "poignant" may not be the correct word, and while one would think "adjectives such as "shocking," "passionate" or "sexy" would be the most common choices, "ridiculous," "implausible" or just plain "stupid" tended to be the more fitting descriptive entries.

I mean, there's a scene in Adeline's book - L. Marie Adeline is a pseudonym for Dragon's Den producer, Lisa Gabriele - where the main character, Cassie, a young widow from a marriage to an abusive alcoholic who has signed up with a secret group where women empower themselves by embracing their sexuality through a series of sexual adventures, is flown via helicopter to a yacht in the Gulf of Mexico during a hurricane, abandoned by the pilot, then is swept overboard and rescued out of the raging waters by the man sent to make love to her.  Not only does she have passionate sex with this man, she's not at all angry about almost drowning!  This is such a distracting bit of idiocy that I could never get past it through the remainder of the novel.

The writing starts out quite strong, but tapers as the story progresses.  Of course, the idea is gold.  The marketing possibilities, since Cassie gets a gold bracelet charm as she completes each of the ten steps, are endless and brilliant, but I was left with the feeling that the book was written in a very short time span without time for common sense - perhaps Kevin O'Leary was getting cranky or the losing of Robert Herjavec from her show was just too much to bear.

Then there's Sylvia Day's Eva, a very young, wealthy socialite/some-kind-of-working-girl and sexual abuse survivor who falls for a gorgeous, young, impressively-endowed billionaire with night terrors - how can you not picture Mayor Mel Norton for this role.  In the best interest of brevity, let's just say I wanted to like this girl, but ended up despising her.  She's spoiled, whiny and entitled, and treats her bisexual roommate/protector like a servant (don't feel too sorry for him though, he's just as much unlikable).  As much as I hate to admit it, I wound up secretly hoping her step brother would come back to finish her off.

While the thought of reading a sequel to either of these books makes me want to take an icepick to my eyes I discovered something about the grapevine - don't listen to reviews no matter how convincing they sound.  I say this because I heard nothing but negativity about the wildly successful "Fifty Shades of Grey," but wound up uploading the eBook to my Kobo from the library, unbeknownst to Holly.  E. L. James may not have had the professional editing behind her the others did, but she did bring something to the table that explains her book's success: originality.

It is not the stuff of classic literature by any means, but the characters are well developed and true - all of them.  James also has a good grasp of human psychology and seems to have done her BDSM research.  It moves beyond the painful predictability of most erotic novels and inexplicably left me sheepishly yearning for more.  That's right, I'm presently nearing the conclusion to the second book in the series, "Fifty Shades Darker" and look forward to the final book in the trilogy, "Fifty Shades Freed."  Nobody's more surprised than I am, but it is a nice surprise.

Now I keep handcuffs beside the bed - just in case.  Holly's not impressed.