Sphere of Archives

April 22, 2001

Witness Says Near Death Experience Was "Okay"

Tripod caught up to me a few weeks ago and gave me a bad spanking. Evidently putting MP3s of copyrighted music violated their vague Terms of Service that I allegedly signed. I remember clicking on some buttons a while back, one of which might have said 'yes'. It's a moot point since they erased my account anyway.

No biggie. Everything was backed up. A total of two people contacted me days later asking what had happened to the site. That's two more than I thought were reading it. I started looking at other free site hosters, but just didn't have the energy at the time. The site was getting bloated and out of control. I was bored by my own writing. There were lots of better things to do with my time, like read all those promising books I got for Christmas, play those video games, or spy on the people living in the apartments across the street. Yet here I am, doing it again. Maybe I'm addicted. I need help. I've coded before, I'll code again.

April 22, 2001

A Call to Miss Cleo

Miss Cleo: Hello, caller. Give me your name, your birthday, and where you're calling from, darlin'.

Caller: Uh, my name's Steve. My birthday is August 18, and I'm calling from Toronto.

Miss Cleo: And how can I help you today, Steve.

Caller: Well, I've kind of built this doomsday machine in my garage, and I made some genetically pure superwarriors in my basement, and I'm wondering if now is a good time to take over the planet and declare myself Supreme Ruler.

Miss Cleo: That's a good question, Steve. The Tower card says this is not a good time for you right now. A lot of your plans are about to fall apart suddenly. And I see the Five of Cups. It tells me you are going to experience a lot of loss, and it will cause you a lot of grief. Steve, you're the kind of person who usually gets what you want, right?

Caller: Usually.

Miss Cleo: I have the Knight of Swords here, and it tells me you have a lot of energy and smarts. But darlin', you're pushing people away with your forcefulness. You've got to try to understand people's feelings when you talk to them, and not cut them down. You catch more flies with honey, darlin'. You can take that to church. Now, Steve, you used to work in a high-tech company?

Caller: Yeah, I worked in Silicon Valley, but they fired me. They said I wasn't a team player. Ha!

Miss Cleo: The Magician card says that, but you made some people jealous, a woman and a young man.

Caller: Another engineer and her lapdog. I'll kill them!

Miss Cleo: I have the Queen of Wands nad the Page of Swords here. And, darlin, did you have a thing for her?

Caller: A little one, I guess. We worked in the same secret lab all the time.

Miss Cleo: Ha ha! I knew it. The Nine of Cups tells me you had a crush on her, and you still think about her. But that was in the past. You've got to move on with your life, Steve.

Caller: Okay.

Miss Cleo: Now, Steve. You're surrounded by a lot of people, right?

Caller: Well, yeah. I've got that army of clones, and some henchmen.

Miss Cleo: Steve, one of those people is going to betray you. I've got the Fool right here, next to the Five of Coins, which tells me you place a lot of trust in people, but it is going to be your downfall. And the Eight of Cups is here, too, and that means in six to nine months, it's the end of the road for you.

Caller: What? But my plans are almost complete. I've taken every precaution. My beautiful death ray!

Miss Cleo: Now don't you fret too much. There's always some good with the bad. The Ace of Wands shows that you can pull yourself up and start again. You've got to be brave, because you have the power to make your own fate. And you can take that to church. So, Steve, thanks for calling.

Caller: Thanks, Miss Cleo.

Miss Cleo: Bye, darlin'.

April 22, 2001

Puckhead Falls on His Ass

I played real hockey (ice hockey, that is) for the first time in 18 or so years. That's my excuse. For me, Pee Wee and Bantam hockey were annual sleep-depriving, ego-destroying rituals I had vowed never to repeat. I thought this time would be different. I was wrong.

First, I didn't expect to be playing anything that night. I had intended to relax and was happily downing shooters and beer chasers, but my friends had planned well to provide all of the equipment. I just had to show up at the arena and not suck. While waiting for the car, I familiarized myself with the equipment. It's important to know in what order things should be donned -- cup before the pants, pants before the skates.

I was nervous on the left wing. It's not the same as dodging people on the Rideau Canal. I had trouble keeping my balance. My feet were in agony because I tied the laces too tight. The other people on the team seemed to look at my with some pity, some resigned disgust. I found I was swearing at myself a lot on the ice, mostly from missing simple passes and loose pucks on the boards.

But it wasn't all bad. I managed to make one good pass that earned me a pat on the shin pads. Then I left for the washroom to vomit.

Lessons learned:

1. don't get drunk before the game
2. do more cardio in the gym
3. don't crush your foot by tying the laces so tight
4. do keep your equipment on between shifts
5. the puck is not voice-activated

April 22, 2001

Have You Seen My Sens?

Oh the humanity! From tops in the Eastern Division to a no-show in the playoffs, the Ottawa Senators just want to "put it in context." And the golf courses aren't even open yet.

It was so easy to gloat two weeks ago. Local announcers talked about how many games Ottawa and New Jersey would play for the Stanley Cup. The Maple Leafs were demonized as slow and kind of dumb. And the fans accused the CBC HNIC hosts of bias. (But then it's hard to find the Preds on RDS, too).

Now, it's time to move on, to unite around the things we have in common, and most importantly to forgive all of those silly bets I made last week.

Go Sens!

April 22, 2001

Signatures of the Technocrats

More from the totally serious and completely true files of graphology. What do the signatures of the world's MBAs tell us about the men (and a couple of women) behind the big desk? Or, more accurately, how can we use little squiggles to make snap judgements about people we haven't even met?

John Roth, CEO, Nortel Networks You can tell from that scrawl that Roth was an engineer. The underline shows self-confidence and desire to take responsibility, but the downward slope indicates some despondency, or a slight tendency to become depressed. Also, the first name is straight, but the last name is right-slanted, which means he is practical and organized in personal relationships, but reveals a energy and enthusiasm in public. He's probably the CEO who goes to power breakfasts but wears Eddie Bauer clothes on the weekend. The writing tends to be in the high zone, showing extreme intellectualism and strategic thinking, someone with big ideas who can see the big picture, but the middle-zone indicates he's not good at managing day-to-day affairs. Probably, his secretary handles that for him. Two letters stick out: the flattened initial 'j' shows a lack of confidence or self-doubt and caution, and the weird 't' again reveals someone with a lot of energy and determination.

Frank Carlucci, Board Chairman, Nortel Networks Frank has big, heavy, loopy writing that shows he is happy, confident, intellectual or spiritual and impulsive. He used an expensive pen. He fills up space. He has a bit of an ego, too, shown by how much larger the capitals are compared to the rest of the letters. The tight loops show a logical thinker. The wide spaces between the parts of the signature show someone who prefers maintaining emotional distance from others, maybe aloofness. The stepped ascending slope reveals someone who is curbing their excitability to avoid offending others.

Ted Cadsby, President and CEO, CIBC Securities Ted probably has a background in accounting or finance. He shows enthusiasm and superiority in handling day-to-day affairs and keeping things organized, but he's not an exceptional thinker judging by the small and narrow loop in the upper zone. He may have done some consulting work. He has a nice garland connecting the letters, showing he's a well-adjusted person with a balanced life. The rising slope shows energy, enthusiasm and optimism. The open 's' indicates confidence. The small, badly formed 'b' says he's not an intuitive or imaginative person. The exaggerated loop on the 'y' reveals deep emotions and sexual passion. The ends of the 'd' and 'y' shows generosity.

April 26, 2001

Study Hard, Medical Test Easy

Are you ready for your... examination? I'm so happy-go-lucky, though, I got two in one day 'cause they're so much fun. One was for my "laser eyes", one just for the heck of it.

I got to the Laser Medical Centre at 11:40 a.m., five minutes early, which is really much too early. Doctors are always late. I know that after I'm buzzed in, I'll be kept waiting in one of those little rooms for at least fifteen minutes. The secretary told me to wait in the main waiting room. Several middle-aged people -- office workers or administrative types, judging by their dress -- were there, quietly reading old magazines or staring at the walls. I flop on the couch, start flipping through the Citizen. I have just enough time to read about more layoffs at Cisco and Sun Life (they handle Nortel's pensions), and earnings warnings from Bell before I'm told to go in.

The first thing that happens is the nurse scans my eyes with some high-tech scanner. She always asks if I want both eyes done, which makes me think at the end of this I'm going to get a surprise bill: "Let's see, $600 for three scans of both eyes, $100 for the check-ups, and another $100 for putting up with your attitude." She finishes the scan and starts printing them out. That's when I pull out my little surprise. The doctor asked me to pay attention to my vision over the past few weeks. I'm such a keener, I had actually taken some notepaper and drew the little haloes and spikes I was seeing around bright lights. I could tell immediately that the nurse was not impressed. She half-heartedly acknowledged my work, but the subtext was, "I just printed out detailed false-colour topographical maps of your corneas with the latest in digital scanner technology. But, okay, sure, I'll add your 'art' to the file. Or maybe I should just hang it on the break room fridge." Critic. Silently, I took back my drawings and folded them into my wallet. Then the nurse led me to the purgatory of the examination room, where penitents await their ascension into the good doctor's line of sight.

For a little more than 30 minutes I looked through the drawers in the desk, read and re-read the charts showing different excimer laser treatments, and played with the some of the hand-held instruments. Then the doctor strolled in, asking how I was doing. He had my file. I took out my drawing again; he acted supportive, but I'm sure he already knew what was wrong with my left eye. He took one measurement to confirm it -- some undulations in the protective layer over the cornea. The solution was to cut it open and smooth it out. Bonus: the surgery would be free! I scheduled my next appointment for the end of May.

The next exam was a regular check-up at the Family Medical Centre. The secretary led me down the hall to one of the little waiting rooms. Yes, I've been in this place before. I had plenty of time to flip through a year-old issue of Conde Nast Traveller and memorize anatomic charts of the spine. After twenty minutes, Doctor Khazzam (Khazzam!) walked in and said hello. He gave me a little pamphlet of the various clinic doctors' biographies. Khazzam, his wife and another partner all went to McGill, and all travel to Northern Quebec a few times a year to treat the Cree. We shook hands. He's a doctor, so I know he's also checking me for jaundice, blood-shot eyes, skin problems, and so on.

The doctor told me this first meeting would be purely informational, so that he could put my personal information into their computer database. Did I have any questions? "I have no questions," I said. Then he started the interview. He asked about my parents' birthdays and my brothers and sisters, what ailments they had, what medications they were taking. Then he moved on to my lifestyle, what I ate, how often I exercised, my sex life and history, my bodily functions. If I was walking down the street, and somebody started asking me these questions and writing down my answers, I'd probably punch him in the nose, but in the beige examination room, there are no taboos.

I must say, 'No one expects the Spanish Inquisition!' On the subject of food, Khazzam raised his eyebrows when I said I drank an average of six cups of coffee a day. He became a little agitated as I proceeded to describe coffee as a food substitute. He then proceeded to lecture me on why caffeine is a drug with all sorts of effects and withdrawal symptoms. I"m glad I didn't mention the caffeine pills I was taking last month. And when I said I hadn't seen a dentist in two years, he started on me. "Why not? It's covered, isn't it? You work at Nortel, so it's covered. So why haven't you seen a dentist?" Yeesh, get off my back, man. Now I have to find a dentist.

The next step is getting a blood test. Any weekday, I fast for 14 hours (nothing but water between 6 p.m. and 8 a.m.), and then just show up at the clinic. A week after that, I finally get the real exam. It'll probably be fairly dull. Khazzam says he shouldn't need to see me again until 2006. I'll have to remember to pencil that in my calendar.

May 3, 2001

Annihilated

Complicated strategy games are not my bag. By complicated, I mean the ones requiring players to keep track of 80 different things happening at the same time, a frantic scrolling and typing game that can drag on for hours, maybe even days for the game-skilled/socially-inept player.

Sure, Civilization and it's sequels were all-consuming time-wasters for me. The difference is that those games were turn-based, with high-definition movies and music. I could stop and get a cup of tea any time. A real-time third-person game like "Total Annihilation" doesn't allow this this human element. You can't even get up to go to the bathroom, let alone sit back and enjoy the graphics while considering strategy.

The game overwhelms new players with an army of details. There are dozens of buildings to erect and little machines to build. Each item has special characteristics that are handy in specific situations. Each item requires/creates a certain amount of resources for the team. On top of this exercise in micro-management, the player has to mount a campaign of war against one or more opponents. In a "best of intentions" attempt to compensate for this entry barrier, the creators and the fans have generated a mountain of data -- numbers and statistics, facts and strategies -- for every aspect of the game. It makes one pine for the documentation-poor early days of "Dungeons & Dragons".

The biggest compliment I hear from Annihilation fans about the game is its artificial intelligence. Sometimes it's like playing with real people. I'm unsure about how to weigh this praise, given that it comes from people who spend most of their free time talking to machines. When the AI learns to trashtalk, maybe I'll be impressed.

I've played a few times over the Internet with two friends. They're both ex-army, both had U.N. tours of duty in Bosnia during the civil war. When they're not taking head shots in paintball, they're playing Total Annihilation. They love the game. After each skirmish, they call and spend half and hour talking about their strategies, their problems, their triumphs. "I started building these machines, and then I built up these resources, and then I saw your first attack, and I knew ..." I have trouble intellectualizing a video game like that. I mean, you don't hear anyone chatting about their PacMan games.

May 6, 2001

What's The Point?

A writer (Douglas Coupland) once postulated that centuries after our culture is destroyed, archeologists will uncover our gyms, dust off the machines, and conclude we were a people obsessed with torture. I felt like that this morning as I looked around at the others riding stationary bikes and grunting while nestled in the Nautilus machines. What am I getting out of all this work? Sure it's only an hour of my time, but it's hardly the stuff of memoirs -- 'Chapter 12: Leg day (again)'.

This always happens to me near the end of a cycle. No, that sounds like I plan my exercises, when in fact my cycles are defined by when I get bored or tired, which occurs after five or six weeks. I have an existential crisis. I yearn for my salad days (1990-92), when I would scorn exercise and say, "I'm an intellectual. No, really." Then I take one or two weeks off, until I start feeling guilty or poorly toned, and the next 'cycle' begins. I don't know if it would make it easier if I knew other people go through the same bout of self-absorption. None of my co-workers or friends exercise. They seem unconcerned about not being able to lift heavy things or nearly going into system shock after climbing a few flights of stairs.

Most of the people at the company gym aren't what I would call enthusiasts. They don't seem to be trying very hard. A few of the women wear make-up. Most of them don't even sweat, whereas I have to wipe off pools of water after I use the equipment and they don't. And in the end there is no apparent difference between us. All of us spend the usual amount of time there, following our respective routines day in, day out. There's no fantastic transformation. It's like work, but without the paycheque.

Then I saw these two pudgy guys struggling in the squat machine. Most people avoid that one, even though, in my opinion, it's easy ("Wow, Suzanne, I can do this while I'm watching teevee!"). It's just fun to sit there. I like to hop in and pretend I'm in a jet plane cockpit. But it was just refreshing to see some people turning red in the face and trying to maintain some dignity by not moaning dramatically. It was inspiring. These non-athletes weren't lifting much (no ego), but they were taking the trouble to use good form, so I thought there's no reason for me not to. A paycheque would be nice, though.

May 11, 2001

Talking Bull

I buy a couple of e-stocks and suddenly my name is on every broker's cold call list. How else to explain the call from Steve, a 'go get 'em' Merrill Lynch agent who wanted to tell me about some great opportunities to minimize my risk* in today's shaky markets. I almost said no, because I have no money. But in the world of Finance, that isn't a problem.

I drove over to the impressive office complex wherein the agent's office is located, a large first-floor suite in an unnamed building surrounded by big-name high tech firms. I was there just one minute early, but Steve made me wait for five more The secretary sat in booth by the door -- she doesn't even get a real desk! Eventually, the agent appeared. He's significantly shorter than me, so I thought, "Ha! I have the advantage now." He led me down a corridor of cubicles to an impersonal and inoffensive office. Either Steve is new, or it's just there for clients. He sat down, and I noticed that suddenly he was significantly elevated. Bastard! I bet his feet were dangling.

Steve didn't know how to start his spiel, so I prompted him with a comment on stocks I've purchased. While Steve blabbed on with his introduction, I took this time to observe his appearance. As a salesman, he thinks he has to spend a lot of time on appearances, so I might as well appreciate it. He looked younger than me. His hair was neatly cut, and he was closely shaved. He wore black thin-rimmed glasses, and a clean, unstarched white shirt, golden cufflinks and a golden watch, black suit pants and polished black shoes. I don't remember his tie, probably yellowish given his profession. The office itself isn't that great -- beige wallpaper, a golf poster, a new, probably empty (no labels) filing cabinet, an average-sized brown desk, windows on either side of the door behind me so that Steve's boss can monitor the conversation.

Oop. While I was looking around, Steve asked me what I think of mutual funds. I said I don't like them, and I listed the reasons: I've gotten bad returns in the past, some of the brokers just churn the stocks to increase their commissions, and the funds always have a withdrawal fee that makes them as liquid as a GIC, and I can buy and sell stock myself for 20 dollars a trade. Steve looked dismayed. "I specialize in mutual funds," he said. Then he changed the subject to the stock market in general, and the recent downturn (see, the market is risky), and we started what I thought was a friendly debate. Then his hands started to shake. He dropped his businessman's pen under his desk. I considered yelling at him while he was under there just to see his reaction, but I felt sorry for him. Poor Steve, it takes skill to convince people to give away their money. I mean, my broker Gerry would have had me in for a few grand by now.

After Steve had gotten himself settled back in his high chair, I asked about retirement planning and how mutual funds promising a certain rate might be involved. I suggested that maybe I shouldn't have let a few bad experiences taint the entire mutual fund industry. He took the bait. He started drawing simple graphs on spare paper, adding little spots and underlining things. He sketched an amoritzation table. He repeated his expert opinion that balance and diversification to guarantee gains was important and useful. Perhaps for the first time today, Steve was having fun.

In any case, it was all for naught. Merrill Lynch won't let anyone open an account unless they have $50,000 to invest in one venture or another. That would have meant dipping into my "mad money" jar. Maybe Steve will call back in a few years. He showed me to the door. We shook hands in front of the secretary's booth, where anyone who was watching could see us smiling amicably at each other behind the logo on the glass door. Bye, Steve, and thanks.

May 11, 2001

Duty Now

The department just underwent its third re-organization this year. And it directly affects you because I have another opportunity to bitch about work. Read on, if you dare.

Three re-orgs in five months. In late January, people were fired. Well, one person was fired, not including all of the contractors and temps. Then in March, the department was officially split into two -- system and lab support -- and everyone got a little raise to match inflation. The latest paper shuffle has all of the lab support teams from each project group combined into one big support group of 30 or 40 people. We're supposed to help each other out, communicate, share our expertise, and keep providing that great support to the users. During the announcement meeting, the operations manager put up a draft of the new organization chart. Even on paper, it looked messy.

There are no illusions that it will be an easy amalgamation. Each project group had reasons for creating their personal support centres: they want exclusive support, they want to control that part of their budget, they want to increase their headcount, budget, and power with respect to other projects, they don't like the Operations Support manager. I've already heard the grumblings that some people are coasters, and that this centralization is really intended to postpone more terminations.

The funniest part, for me, is the communicating and sharing information bit. These other people are supposed to have valuable knowledge that my department (WSL Ops) doesn't have. That may be true about a particular piece of software for particular hardware that a specific group is using, but when it comes to the big stuff that everyone relies on -- the MTX, the PDSN, the Passport -- all but a few of the experts are WSL Ops. I think this information flow is going to be strictly one-way. My suspicions are confirmed by my having to teach a course on Passport next week to the new people. I wonder if any will even show up. And if they do, they'll probably fall asleep. All of the elements are there -- dimmed lights, comfy chairs, white noise machine droning on at the front of the room. It should be fun.

May 12, 2001

My Apartment Days are Lettered

I spent the afternoon looking for a house to buy. Apartment living has just gotten a little, um, unsettling. Partly because of the eviction notice, partly because I need something for my relatives to fight over when I'm dead, I plan to join the leagues of Ottawans (Ottawanites? Politicians?) by the end of the year.

I started in a new subdivision on Richmond Road, which I happened upon while looking for some walking trails. It's owned by the ubiquitous Minto group, one of their "master planned" (say it with a smile) communities. Driving around, the homes were quite large at the expense of the yard, like the new homes in River Terrace (phase 2) in Thunder Bay. I found the sales office. They were sold out, but there were other new Minto gateless communities around town, so the show homes were still open. The prices started at $240,000.

I decided to tour the homes anyway, just to see what a project manager might have. They all had the open concept on the main floor -- no walls, or just half walls or pillars. They were pre-decorated with big furniture and objets d'arts like big vases filled with wooden flowers and ironworked candlelabras, defining the boundary between good and bad decorating. The living room and dining room were open to the foyer. The kitchens were big, too, and invariably connected to a sitting area with a fireplace. Staircases to the upstairs and basement were in the centre. I couldn't imagine anyone just sitting around in these spaces. They are for the power breakfast set, eating toast on their way out while yelling instructions at the maid, and every evening they have a dinner party with their closest lawyers/true friends who love what the decorators did with the place. The upstairs was nice, though. The master bedroom and ensuite were as big as my apartment. The ensuite is tiled and comes with a big tub on a dais, a separate glassed-in shower unit, a toilet and double sinks. The basement was unfinished. I considered all the stuff I would possibly place down there -- pool table, wet bar, hot tub, a couple of arcade games -- and there was still lots of space left.

I went on to Barrhaven, where there is a lot of new housing under construction. The houses weren't as nice, but a little more affordable -- only $180,000 for a big bungalow. The last place I checked was selling row townhouses for $155,000. After the big houses, these seemed cramped and apartment-like. The bedrooms were definitely smaller. The biggest disappointment was the basement, whose low ceiling means I wouldn't be able to put my weight set down there.

May 21, 2001

Two Roads Diverged in a Wood, and I -- I Took the Third Option

"This is my walking song, I sing it while I walk. Walk, walk, walk. Walk, walk, walk. Walking all day long." While other people slept in until noon on Victoria Day, I stomped through a swamp.

Yesterday I spent an hour walking down the Jack Pine Trail in the conservation area in west Nepean. Today, instead of going up and down the Rideau Canal, I decide to try the Stony Swamp trail. It's a series of small loops that I figured I could do in an hour. I start off on a good pace, passing people, making it to an historic lime kiln in 20 minutes. Then I follow a dead end road past the old quarry, doubling back and then heading back to the parking lot. But wait, I can take the shorter blue trail that goes north, or the orange trail that loops to the northwest. Hmmm...

The orange trail is not marked well. Sometimes I have to look in patches of mud for old mountain bike tracks. Eventually, I end up in a clearing of grass and moss-covered rock. There is no obvious exit. There are no orange markers. There are no bike tracks. So I pick one narrow trail on the north side, but soon I hit dense brush. I head back to the clearing and take a western exit. It goes better. There are some bike tracks, but they disappear among a carpet of scott pine needles and broken limestone. Should I head back, and admit defeat? No! I soldier on to the north.

Pretty soon, I'm blazing my own trail through the branches. I can hear highway traffic, but no sign of the highway. I come to another clearing. It's the clearcut for the electric towers. It would be an easy matter to follow this road to Moodie Street... except that there's a small lake in the way. I am forced to circle around. Thirty minutes of heading southeast and a couple of soaked socks later, I find the trail. I cross a wooden bridge over pond outlook, making squishing noises as I pass a small crowd there. There are clots of mud on my shins and bleeding cuts on my arms. One of my shoelaces is undone. "Yeah, I'm a hiker. Take that, you trail followers, you traffic-controlled urbanites."

May 23, 2001

A Little Touch Up

Lying down with a warm blanky, pretty lights, and special attention. Laser surgery was so much joy the first time, I had to do it again. So I did. And I liked it. I really liked it.

For four weeks I've been looking forward to the correction to the corrective surgery. A little wrinkle had developed on my left cornea, and it was interfering with my chance for perfect vision. A series of check-ups had helped him narrow the problem down from debris (dead cells from the first operation) to a horizontal undulation. Really, I think the surgeon was more eager to fix it than I was. Perhpas he felt a need for closure.

This operation took a bit longer than the first time. It took place in a different room, with presumably a different type of laser. The nurse put freezing drops in my eye, then I watched the surgeon calibrate the laser. Then I lay down on the table. The nurse put a pillow under my knees and covered me with a blanket. I didn't get a blanket last time. Maybe people had complained about the air conditioning. The laser light was multicoloured -- red, green, orange, yellow, blue -- mixing and swirling around with a quiet clicking sound. It was over in a minute. The longest part took a few more minutes as the surgeon laid down the corneal flap and smoothed it out, added some drops, more smoothing, more drops. Finally, he placed a contact lens on the eye. Tomorrow, I go back so he can remove the lens and check the results.

May 26, 2001

Can't You Just Try To Be a Team Player?

My friend called me yesterday. "Let's go to Costco," he said. I laughed, "A trip to Costco? Like an anthropological tour?" That miffed him. So today another friend and I joined his family and we trekked to the big box store. My friend showed his secret pass to the casually-dressed greeter/guard, and we entered the inner sanctum. I started ranting about how memberships to discount stores creates the illusion that low prices can only be for a small and exclusive group. At that point, the others left me to my own devices.

There wasn't much for me at Costco, once I had picked up my year's supply of razor blades. While the others honestly shopped, I paced the aisles and watched the other people. I'd say eight percent of the Costco clientele are middle-aged to elderly and have large bellies. And most people are there for the food, even though half of the store is filled with electronics, appliances and clothing. Then again, would you buy your RAM at Costco? Me, neither. The nadir for me was seeing a special display for a cook book by ex-Survivor Keith Famey, the guy who can't cook rice. And he's a jerk, too. What idiot would buy a book from him? If he can get a book deal, maybe I should charge a subscription for my web site.

After our tour, my friend asked if I would ever consider buying a Costco membership. I said I would when I buy a house, for the big appliances, but that's it. He nodded in understanding. But what if I did get a membership? Would I become one of them? Would I be assimilated, try to convince others to join the collective, and believe in phrases like, "The more you spend, the more you save?" I can't risk it. I must never enter that store again.

May 26, 2001

If It's Martial Arts, It Must Be 'Mortal Kombat'

At the Tae E. Lee Taekwondo tournament, everyone's a winner. This was no good-vs-evil martial arts contest starring Ralph Machio and his magical friends (though the thuggish instructors from Montreal might have made you think otherwise). It was, instead, a friendly, quiet and nearly disco-free afternoon at the University of Ottawa.

I got there a little after noon. The tournament started at ten, but the opening ceremonies were being held at this time. It was standing room only. Parents and family friends held their handicams and cameras at the ready. Volunteers were maintaining order by telling people to stand behind invisible lines.

Man with Badge: "Sir, would you find a seat in the bleachers or to the side so this way is clear."

Me: (cold stare) Sure. (take one step to the right)

The speeches went on for an hour. There was one from the founder Tae Eun Lee. Then the Korean ambassador spoke. Then Marlene Catterall, the MP for Ottawa-east and honorary balck belt. Then mayor Rick Cirelli pronounced it Tae E. Lee day (cheers all around). Then ex-mayor Jim Wilson spoke. And finally the emcee took the mic, and tried to get the crowd fired up again. "This is a lot better than the playoffs, isn't it?" There was a short burst of scattered clapping. Tough crowd.

Two demonstrations followed. First up was the University of Ottawa White Tiger (all-women's) School, with their jo sticks and plastic swords. Then the Green Dragon school tried to put on a "Mission Impossible" show. Just like a real martial arts movie, it was hard to discern the plot, but the skills were amazing. One big improvement over other years was the music. In years past, it was usually a clash of dance tunes separated by uncomfortable silences as someone fast-forwarded the tape. This year the groups played songs all the way through, so I heard the whole "Mortal Kombat" theme song, followed by the "MI:2" theme, followed by some easy-listening tune. I don't know what the attraction of the MK theme is to martial artists, and why it gets played every year. Still no "Flight of the Valkyries" or Art of Noise's "Beat Box".

And finally the competitions got underway. There were three people from the Nortel Networks TKD club, and the instructor was one of the judges, which explains why I was there when I don't go to class. Someone has to update the web page. I remembered a lot of the crowd from last year. I recognized yellow belts who were now orange, green belts who were now blue. The Montreal contingent was really small (hence the quiet). Last year they had brought a whole bunch of obnoxious, screaming kids. Ugh.

I left around four, so I didn't see the black belts. Who cares, anyway? It's no UFC.