Here. I'm demonstrating my blog. Whoa! It's very exciting.

Today I feel grand. If only because yesterday is over. (Actually, it is a glorious day. Weatherwise, this is the place to be today.)

What the hell happened with Saturday though? The whole day was spent with Advil and thumb-twiddling as I waited for the headache and general malaise to pass. Where do these days come from? Why is there no biological early-warning system?

A friend of mine suffers from major migraines. I’m willing to bet if I call her up she’ll tell me she was in bed all day yesterday with a doozy. (I don’t get migraines, just brain stupification … meaning dull-wittedness, vertigo, headaches, and aches in a variety of joints and muscles. Oh joy! Oh bliss!)

I remember reading (somewhere) that people who suffer migraines experience fewer with high pressure systems dominating and more frequently with low pressure systems. (Lighter, drier air versus heavier, moister air.) I also had a doctor tell me once that such things like migraine or arthritic flare ups are not so much affected by the air pressure system as they are by the change from one to another. Sounds good to me. I’ll buy that. (He could have been humouring me with a load of crap though.)

Yesterday, from the air perspective, was a gymnastic tumbling affair with wind shifting direction, moist air being hustled out like a loud drunk by bouncers. A windy day; an off and on cloudy day with big fart monster clouds whisking across the sky like white caps on an ocean or lake. It was entertaining in its way but would have been more enjoyable had I not been feeling like el crapo.

Really, I wish I knew more about the cause (since I am fully versed on the effect). It was an entire day wasted. Anyway …

It was not an entire loss. By the end of the day, the wind having settled down, I felt much better and sat down to watch The Sound of Music. Normally, I’m with Voltaire on these things: “What is too stupid to be spoken is sung.” (He was speaking of opera, but they’re close cousins, musicals and operas.) But how can you not love a boyish looking Julie Andrews and the songs of Rogers and Hammerstein? It is a nice break from “Baby, baby” songs. Melodies with non-throwaway lyrics – lyrics someone actually thought about and crafted. Imagine that!

Yes, The Sound of Music has got large doses of schmaltz but sometimes, when it’s done well and not too over-the-top, schmaltz is just the thing to cap a day of being the plaything of the inscrutable heavens.

This morning has yin and yang-ed me with a puzzling blend of the lovely and the vexing. The sky is sun-filled, the air is tumescent with possible rain and my head is pounding like shady loan collectors who’ve finally tracked down some poor schmuck who has missed a payment.

Why is this?

Could it be the full moon? The yank and release of tidal forces? Could it be the roughhousing of wrestling pressure systems, unseen but bulky and cross in the sky overhead? The biometeorological bullying of climate?

I dunno, I dunno. But whatever it is, I wish it would stop. It’s an otherwise delicious day.

Now this is a cool notion: the brain communicating with itself wirelessly. Geez ... my head hurts thinking about it.

No posts in the last few days - but that doesn't mean I've been idle! No siree Bob! I've been hard at work watching movies and upgrading the Movie Room.

In an effort to restore order to my personal Piddleville, I have generated greater chaos. I stupidly bought some cabinet type things at IKEA on weekend. They weighed far more than my limpid little limbs could handle, so I had them delivered. They arrived yesterday.

Bonehead! How could I have forgotten the nightmare of having to put that crap together? What was I thinking?

So ... now the clutter of home is increased as 3 large, elongated boxes sit idle as they wait for me to hunker down and tackle the Promethean task of trying to put this crap together. Is there anything less dignifying than meeting your own dull-wittedness face to face? I am so stupid ...

Many people don't know this ...

The late, great Sam Cooke is probably best remembered for his song 'Stand By Me'. This was not, however, the song's first title.

Originally, the song was called 'Stand On The Sidewalk'. But a year before the song really hit big Sam was at a gig in a small club outside of Detroit. After the show an auto worker, Bob Percy, who had seen the show, went up to Sam.

"Love the song, Sam," he said. "But you've got to change the title. 'Stand On The Sidewalk' just doesn't scan. And it really doesn't make a lot of sense to sing, 'No, I won't be afraid; no, I won't shed a tear just as long as you stand on the sidewalk.' What the hell is that?

"How about 'Stand By Me'? Wouldn't that work better?"

Well, the lights went on for Sam. He changed the words and the rest is music history.

Just think ... Would you have gone to see a Stephen King story turned into a movie if it had been called 'Stand On The Sidewalk'?

I don't think so.

(This story was first told to me by Crabs the Clown.)

Change. Coin. The rattling metal stuff in your pocket that weighs you down as if you were a New Jersey bookie who'd gotten on the wrong side of the wrong people.

What the hell do you do with it?

It litters my home, and clogs my pockets. I think - give it away! That would be easy. But, having experienced the discouragement of penury (being broke) and scrambling in sofas or anything for a few coins to buy something - anything! - to eat, I can't just give it away because ... Well, someday I may be broke again. And won't I be pissed knowing I'd tossed away a meal or two because I was a bit inconvienced by some nickels, quarters and dimes?

But my God ... it's everywhere!

You know something? One day when I'm gone and they're going through the detritus of my life, they'll find all this coin. It will be everywhere. And someone will add it all up and then say, with some surprise, "Damn! Can you believe it? This guy had more money than Bill freakin' Gates!"

Is there any better feeling than getting home after being away, especially if you've been away at something you didn't particularly want to do, in a place you didn't particularly want to go? (No offense Calgary - anywhere that isn't home is a place I don't particularly want to go to.)

Must stop typing "particularly."

Anyway ... Gonzo, the cat, is still talking to me. In fact, she won't shut up. This is the cat's revenge. Affection in excess.

Now it's DVD time. Snared by the digital siren call, I came home with Jerry McGuire, Ocean's 11 and Next Generation, Season Two. Must take next week off. I'm feeling unwell. ;-)

Hats off to the Exchange, the lounge in the Calgary Marriott hotel. I could have sat there all night. The music was aces ... Tom Waits, REM, Elvis Costello, Leonard Cohen and so on. Too cool. My music.

As for me, after tomorrow's class, I get to go home. Geez ... I'm a terrible traveller. I can't get home fast enough. Wonder if Gonzo is still talking to me ... (I also wonder what the damn bill for all this is. It'll be a corker, I'm sure.)

There’s a Little Feat song, written by Lowell George no doubt (or was it one of his solo albums?), called I’ve Got 20 Million Things To Do. Or something very similar. This is how life feels all the time. 20 million things to do.

In fact, there are so damn many things to do, the will do them evaporates because of the sheer impossibility to complete them. And so, as a result, 20 million things quickly becomes 40 million things because things to do continue to come in, accumulate, and beat down the will “to do.”

My will to do is done and gone. So … I sit indifferently watching the Ottawa-Toronto hockey game. It’s an apathy day. A sleepy day. A “leave me alone when I’m under the blanket” day.

And this is odd since the sun is finally shining in Calgary, the aberrant snow is disappearing, and the semblance of spring is slowly becoming manifest.

Calgary vs Edmonton: a draw. Calgary scores a point by being an actual city, with a real downtown. (Edmonton for unexplained reasons seems to shun the notion of a lively downtown – the preference for shopping malls baffles social scientists.)

Calgary loses a point however because, while it is a city, it is not my city.

Home’s home, even if it sucks.

I'm in Calgary now. And guess what? It's snowing! Snowing, snowing, snowing!!!

I can't escape it. Heading south on Highway 2, a little on the north side of Red Deer, we hit it. Snow. From there to Calgary it was snow freaking' snow every damn where!

Aaagggghhhhhhh!!!!!!!

(In the background, the radio lists school closings due to the snow ...)

I really don't care for travel. Flying is definitely the worst. This is why I'm taking the bus to Calgary. I'd walk if it was the only way to avoid airports. They are the most tedious, mind-numbing experiences imagineable. Want to have an impact on crime? Send the convicted to airports. That would show them we're not kidding around.

I don't mind destinations, however. Once I get someplace, after an adjustment period, I usually like the place. (Though this week may be an exception since it's a week in a hotel and taking a workshop I have no interest in.)

Anyway, today is a day of anxiety, reflected well in the dull gray sky and late fall temperatures, despite the fact we're into May. Running around making sure the cat has enough food, ensuring I actually have clothes that don't stink and aren't wrinkled to badly, and generally packing. Actually, I find I'm more concerned that I have books, CDs, laptop etc. to ensure there is something to do when I get bored than I am in clothes. Those are usually last minute things. Sort of like, "Oh shit! I better take clothes too."

Nothing worse than showing up butt-naked. The company frowns on that sort of thing.

It is May 4th. I look out my window. It is snowing.

God has abandoned us.

Next week promises to be … well, I’m not sure what. But I’m off to Calgary and hotel living. “Yippee-kay-eh!” as the Canadian cattle folk like to say. I’m not even sure why I’m going. I’ll be taking some workshop or classes or whatever they’re calling it on “Web-based Training Design Something-or-Other.”

When it’s done, I should be able to create, or at least describe, online tutorials and other Web-related thing-a-ma-bobs.

Perhaps I’ll make a tutorial on how best to experience Piddleville. A little something on how to make a good gin and tonic. (Limes are everything, and Bombay Sapphire is a must.)

This actually happened ...

At work, we had a meeting scheduled. Someone invited him/herself to the meeting. Then, having done so, they cancelled the meeting and rescheduled it because they couldn't make it.

(sound of head banging on table)

Forgive me, but I have to whine again. This afternoon it was about 16 degrees (Celsius). Currently, at midnight, it's 0. Going down to minus 7. Tomorrow's high about 3 or 4. Who have we offended?

On another note, I just watched A Few Good Men for about the 3rd or 4th time. This is such a good movie. Here's my suggestion for the Star Wars people: let George Lucas handle the special effects, but hand over the reins of the directing to Rob Reiner. Who knows? We might get a watchable movie. You know, something with vaguely real characters and a story elevated above the tedious level? Just a thought ...

And again (forgive the redundancy) ... It's a little before 8AM. It is 1 degree above (Celcius). Expected high of 7 degrees. I look outside and ... it is snowing. What the hell kind of Spring is this? Are we going to have to sacrifice virgins to sun gods? What does it take?

Here's some falderal I came up with based on a question I came across.

The Law of Creative Relevancy

The greater the apparent lack of relevancy (to anything) of a given object, person or thing, the greater is its potential creative value. Note: 1) Actual relevancy is not a factor; only perceived relevancy and, 2) actual creative value is not a factor, only potential creative value.

I have no idea what that means. But it sounds like it should be a deep thought.

Toodles.

Finally ... the sun is here, and it must be warm The cat is on the balcony stretched out in the light and looking pretty damned content. Now to the point of this post ...

Last week I experienced a pleasant kind of deja-vu. I stopped by a couple of the sites I drop in on fairly regularly, the Canadian DVD Users Group and USS Clueless. One, as the name suggests, is about DVDs, the focus being on Canada (which is nice since that’s where I am). The other is mix of politics, technology, and pretty much everything under the sun, since it’s a personal blog.

But last week, I went into the forums on these sites. It’s been a while since I went into things of this sort. Years ago, pre-Web, I was a regular Fidonet user. But things then went Web and there you go.

What I liked about Fidonet was the communication. The dialogue. For me, communication is really the only thing about the Internet I care about. Communication and information (it’s hard to have the former without the latter). What made the Fidonet echoes I went to especially appealing was the fact that they were relatively small and focused. Things like newsgroups or whatever they’re called are, for me, a waste of time because of the noise level. The difference was the same as trying to have a conversation in a large, loud crowd and talking in a small intimate café.

Anyway … What I liked about the forums last week was the smaller size and focus. Also, the writing. While varied, it seems much more intelligent, respectful and, particularly in the case of Clueless, literate. They write well, for the most part, and that’s a fairly rare thing on the Web. (The downside is that I’m much more aware of my own writing and its sloppiness.)

The upshot is that it was nice to come across this kind of conversation on the Internet again. Not that it ever went away, or that these forums are rare. They're not; they're everywhere. But I suspect I simply lost contact with this sort of dialogue (due to changing technology and the movement of people on the Internet).

Although I made the odd posting last week, I was largely a lurker. I basically monitor and read what people have to say. And that’s okay since any worthwhile conversation begins with listening.

With the grief and horror of waking behind me now, it turns out it is an excellent day. It has scored an average 8.5 from the judges (might have been higher but there are rumours about the French judge.)

The birds are all a twitter. Not exactly sure what that means. How does a bird, or anything, twitter? Checking dictionary …

Well, apparently if you chirp with a series of high tremulous sounds, laugh, speak quickly in a high tremulous voice, or chatter, it may be that you are twittering. Which is more or less what I thought it meant, but you can never be too sure.

Should you ever find me twittering, please, slap me silly till I stop.

To continue … the birds today are twittering. Somewhere on the branches by my balcony, there is a passle o’ robins. There are also some sparrows and maybe the odd shrimpy wren. This may seem less than remarkable to you, but if you had to live with mornings of magpies and crows, you too would be elated at seeing wrens, sparrows and robins.

Those magpies are freakin’ big buggers. And crows? We’ve got crows the size of small pigs here. Steroid designed crows. I half expect to see one swoop down one day, snatch up the cat and scarf her down like fried hot wing.

Don’t ever be misled by these ornithological hooligans. If a bird looks like Death come calling, it is.

Yesterday, while riding the bus to work, I saw small gulls swimming in the river. These were baby gulls. (Baby? What the hell do you call bird infants? Chicks? Doesn’t sound right somehow.)

I would call our gulls seagulls but it doesn’t seem right. They look like seagulls. They sound like seagulls. They shed seagull feathers. But … how can something be a seagull when its something like 1000 miles to open water? If these are indeed seagulls, they do a poor job of seagulling. They clearly have no sense of direction.

Perhaps they’re simply traumatized? One gull became misdirected, the others followed it, they found themselves in a barren, desolate landscape with strip malls and quickly thrown up (but fashionable) housing, and it all went to hell from there.

Somewhere around the Great Lakes, or perhaps the Pacific or Atlantic coasts, other seagulls mull around, chit chat, and say every so often, “Whatever happened to that group of gulls that kind of went north and left? Ever hear from them anymore?”

It’s a tragedy of ornithology and worth at least one episode on A&E (with a DVD to follow). I mean, if they can do the Shackleton documentary, surely there’s room for “The Lost Seagulls of Canada.”

Just a thought.

Oh … when I say I saw these gulls swimming in the river, I am speaking romantically. Lyrically. The river is not so much a river as a broad stream of flowing mud and corruption. Birds (or anything) do not so much swim or paddle in it as flail helplessly, rather like spasmodic mud wrestlers. It’s a hell of a thing to see. You don’t know whether to laugh or cry.

Finally, to wrap up this ramble, I am listening to the Robert Michael disk Allegro, his latest CD. It’s very good, if you like the guitar thing. If you don’t like guitar music, this probably isn’t the disk for you. But if you do like it, this is wonderful. It begins with a peppy little thing called Café Allegro. Makes you want to wiggle your bum. Being beyond the prying eyes of the rabble, I do (and with some enthusiasm).

Shake it, Goatboy! Shake it!

(Note to self: work on butt exercises. Feels like your packing a bowl of Jell-O back there.)

Toodles.