Simian Farmer

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This picture lost when Typepad crashed, but I got a free year of hosting as an apology!!

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You down with entropy?

Entropy, insofar as the scientific community is concerned, can be generally stated as the tendency for all matter and energy in the universe to evolve toward a state of inert uniformity.  A similar definition, and one that is slightly more applicable to me, states it as being a measure of the disorder or randomness in a closed system.

Now, apprehensions about the safety of our personal property (not to mention our personal persons) being what they are, combined with a healthy desire to maintain a comfortable household temperature, my wife and I have a habit of keeping our doors closed.  Especially this time of year.  And let me tell you, the past seven months has seen a marked increase in the level of entropy that has incorporated itself into our closed system of a home.

Having a baby will do that. 

Amy and I had not yet had the opportunity to take our 'married' mantles in to be drycleaned before having a matching pair of 'parents' mantles foisted upon us to wear over top.  (It was a very willing foisting, don't get me wrong; we just didn't expect such expeditious success in our initial procreative endeavours.)  And there was a rather large lull before the storm hit.  And since we're so early into it, I'm quite certain that the storm is still only warming up.

The lull is a lifesaver too.  It allows imminent parents (while they are still immanent parents) to prepare - physically, mentally and emotionally - for the new journey of parenthood.  The lull starts with the nine month period of gestation.  Speaking from the man's perspective, it allowed me to slowly adjust to changes in my wife: physical, mental and emotional changes.  Slow yet inexorable as the growth of the life that was within her.  The physical state of our house was altered to welcome the new presence into it, much as our selves were being altered to welcome the same.  The more conscious and intentional both of these changes are, the better.

The storm broke immediately when my wife woke me up near to one AM one morning with a calm yet premonitory shake of my shoulder.  "I think it's time."  This was a very quick squall; for as our new baby entered into the world amidst a flurry of activity and excitement, so too did it quickly taper off to a level of routine for which adjustment was not terribly difficult.  Once we arrived home, less than 24 hours after birth, we quickly established a convention of nurse, burp, sleep, change, nurse, burp, sleep, change...  I took two weeks off work in order to assist in the adjustment to our new domestic situation.  I credit our efforts as new parents for the relative ease of that first transitory phase and, at least as much, the wonderfully mellow temperament of our firstborn son.

Getting into that sort of routine tames the Entropic monster for a time.  The nursery is arranged and ordered just so, daily habits are adjusted and become second nature and a dawning realisation of the new relationship you are about to have with your spouse slowly starts to creep into you psyche.  All of this is then washed over with the rose-tinted patina of the beaming pride of new parents.  Hey!!  Come and see what we made.  Ain't he cool?!  My wife and I were the poster-children for the term, 'shit eating grin'.

Now, after that first lull, storm-squall and lull again, it was not long before we realised the darkling shadows on the horizon.  It wasn't just a new tempest come to try our hand; it was global climate change, and it was coming to stay.  And it was bringing with it such chaos and disorder as had heretofore been strangers to our abode.  (There is a part of me that is quite glad we got a dog just over a year before having a baby.  In a small way it prepared us, or at least me, for the entrance of a living being that depended upon us for survival and had little to no regard for its hygiene or indirect effect on the environment in which it lived.)

Now, only seven months into our new adventure, we have unheard of volumes of laundry to clean (our son soils our clothes nearly as much as his own), an ever-increasing number of toys to administer and then replace, sporadic and spontaneous bodily excretions to tend to, revolving moods to placate, and constant acclimatization to the daily fluctuation in our infant son's development.  Most more experienced parents, I'm quite sure, will smile tolerantly and perhaps admonish us of the traps and pitfalls that lay ahead.  Heck, our boy has yet to crawl, take his first step, go to school, break a bone, get grounded, experience heartbreak...  It's only just begun for us.

For me, the key ingredient has been acceptance of the unavoidable and irreversable increase in the level of entropy that has incorporated itself into our home.  My daily struggle with the level of disorder in my life needs must include a revision of the amount of entropy that is now acceptable.  And that revision is going to have to be revised on a regular basis.  Cripes, my method of dealing with disorder is becoming entropic!  Craziness!!  (This coming from a man who cringes at the sight of bath towels lying crumpled on the floor and not in their rightful place on the towel racks, just so.)

And to sign off, nobody dishes the entropy shiznit like that dope master of the mike: MC Hawking...

"That's entropy or E-N-T-R-O to the P to the Y,
the reason why the sun will one day all burn out and die.
Order from disorder is a scientific rarity,
allow me to explain it with a little bit more clarity.
Did I say rarity? I meant impossibility,
at least in a closed system there will always be more entropy."

Like it or not, in my life, there will always be more entropy.

Rule of thumb

This evening, while watching Daily Planet, a most excellent science news show, and one of the few broadcasts that grasp my attention, there was a brief segment on beer.

One of the hosts was touring a brewery and explaining how there are only four ingredients in 'pure' beer.  As any good Canadian knows, these are: water, barley, hops and yeast.  The yeast is the last of these added to the magical beer making process and must enter into the mix at the right temperature.  Too hot, and the yeast dies.  Too cold, and the yeast cannot perform its task to its full potential.  In this here modern type age, the temperature is gauged most closely by thermocouples and other sensitive measuring devices.

The host then alleged that before this here modern age, beer temperature was gauged by an experienced brewer dipping his thumb into the mix to sense whether it was 'just right' to add the yeast.  Now, I have no idea if this really is true, but it makes for a moderately interesting story.

A really interesting story would probably involve voluptuous space nymphs rocketing to earth, beaming me aboard their nefarious Vixen Vessel and taking me back to their home planet of Boobula Prime (whereon the entire population consisted solely of females; the males having died off from a freakish Boobulaball World Series final game going into quintuple overtime, causing the men to starve to death).  Upon arrival I would be forced, completely against my will, to enter into procreative slavery wherein my sole purpose would be to repopulate the planet as quickly and as exhaustively as possible.  I would then be returned to earth, only one hour having transpired here while, well, at least a little bit more time had elapsed back on Boobula Prime.  I would be left with nothing but the secret of cold fusion as repayment with which to make my fortune and live out the rest of my days on a private island retreat, hunting the elusive jackalope.

Unfortunately, all I had to tell today was a moderately interesting story.  Besides, if the latter actually occurred, I probably wouldn't tell you about it anyway.

The Prisoner of Gaylord Place

Amy and our son went on a dedicated outing this past Wednesday.  The third Harry Potter movie had just been released on DVD this week.  It speaks volumes about our domestic confinement that she and I never went to see it in the theatres when it was first released.  (I should have gone with her to buy it; she bought the full screen version.  Aaarrrggghhhh!!  It's wide screen or nothin', baby...)

The Prisoner of Azkaban was a most excellent movie, and more closely mirrors JK Rowling's book than did the first two.  (I love Gary Oldman in anything he's done.)  I might actually write a more comprehensive review on it some time later when I get a chance to see it again.  We had ordered pizza in, Granny came over to visit with the baby and it took us over three hours to watch the two hour and twenty minute movie.

One of the subtleties that I was able to pick up on, while in conversation with my mother and listening to our baby breath through his head cold, was the identity of one of the paintings.  For anyone who's read the books or seen any of the movies, you'll be well aware that all of the paintings in the wizarding world are sentient.  They can converse and the residents of the canvas even have the ability to move between frames amongst a collection of paintings.

In one particular scene of the movie, a painting's figure turns to Harry Potter and chastises him for bringing his brightly glowing wand into the hallway and disturbing his sleep.  That figure was quite evidently one of Rembrandt's self portraits.  I admire the fact that the movie-makers have gone to the effort of including such features for some of the more discerning viewers.  It's the sort of detail that makes me want to see a film several times to pick up on certain trivialities that I may have missed.

It makes me wonder why the decision was made to change the title of the first movie from Harry Potter and Philosopher's Stone to Harry Potter and the Sorceror's Stone solely for the American viewership.  At least in Canada and in the UK it retained its philosophical moniker.  Do the Very Important People who make these sorts of decisions really think that the general American movie-going public is so ignorant as to not know what a philosopher is?  'Cause if they don't, I'd wager they're no better at demystifying the term 'sorceror'.

Is there some sort of conspiracy in the US by the Smart People to keep the Dumb People dumb? 

The unbearable cuteness of being

Paul has already started the trend, so I thought I may as well enter into the fray with a Christmas related post.  And it's not like I need much of an excuse to show off what I consider to be the single most adorable boy child since the Reason for the Season first came squalling into a manger a couple millennia ago.

So here's my firstborn, sporting the most appropriate of Christmas attire: a Santa cap as an unavoidable nod to the inherent commercialism of the month of December; and a birthday suit to honour the fact that we will be celebrating the birth of our Lord and Saviour, Jesus H. Christ.

And I am also sad to say that the poor boy has just come down with a head cold for the second time in his short life.  Imagine that adorable child with a tragic pout on his face, too much colour in his cheeks, a tear forming in one eye and wearing an expression that pleas for help as he knows not why he is struggling to breathe through his congestion.  Don't it just break your heart?

Sports & Politics

When I shower in the mornings, I have made a habit of listening to the little blue shower radio that adorns the nozzle head.  There were two items of interest to me this morning as I was rubbing the half-depleted bar of Irish Spring over my stubbled head...

The Hockey Lockout
I don't know nearly enough about all of the issues regarding this tragic circumstance to sway my partisanship fully one way or the other.  I can say with nary a hint of uncertainty that I feel not a whit of pity for the players, any of the players, that have been locked out and are not getting paid.  (Well, maybe a twinge for the newer players on the low end of the salary spectrum who really, truly, honestly want to play for the love of the game.  Both of them.)  The NHL definitely needs a salary cap.  I realise this is not the only issue on the table, but it is quite obviously the stickler.  I won't bother to venture my opinion on the wages earned in other professional sports leagues in North America.  Not enough time. 

Except the CFL.  The minimum wage in the CFL is $30,000.  I make more than some CFL players.  Unless you're one of the few marquee players, they actually have to get full time jobs in the off-season.  OR, coordinate their practice and season schedules with their existing full time jobs.  Now there's a league of pros I can respect and would even go so far as to say, hey, don't these guys perhaps deserve a little more than what they're getting given the rigours they put their bodies through, ostensibly for the love of the game?

And now I hear this morning that more than 730 of the poor, deprived locked out NHL players will be receiving lockout pay.  In the order of $10,000 per month.  PER MONTH!  That's four months of CFL minimum salary right there.  And these NHL players are getting it as compensation for not playing.  Hell, I'd be willing to not play hockey for less than that.  I'd not play hockey for $5,000 a month.  Maybe even a paltry $1,000.  I'm doing it for free right now!  For whatever other reasons Gary Bettman may be (deservedly) criticised, I laud him and the owners for the strong front they have presented to the NHLPA.  Something is definitely rotten in the state of Denmark.

And secondly...

The Democratic Vote
It was demonstrated in the recent Alberta provincial election the overwhelming importance to get your complacent ass up off your chesterfield, turn off the tv for half an hour, and go and place a large graphite 'X' beside the name of the individual whom you think represents the political party with the platform that most closely resembles your own political ideals.  (Yes, I realise that's an oxymoron.)

King Ralph's conservatives were a shoe-in from the word, 'Huh?'  That was never in doubt.  I voted for my local Progressive Conservative representative.  Certainly not from being a staunch supporter of Mr. Klein.  My vote is a 'lesser of two weevils' sort of thing.  I vehemently disagree with many of his views.  I do, however, respect a man who has done as much for the province as a whole as he has, as well as the fact that he hides little of his ugliness behind a politic veneer.  That's rare.

And this election's voter turnout was the lowest since 1983.  Only about 43% of eligible voters made the effort.  And that made a huge difference in one Edmonton riding.  The Progressive Conservative incumbent was beat out by his Liberal opponent by a narrow margin.  A very narrow margin.  In fact, that margin was only three votes.  (3, III, trois, 00110011)  (That last was binary.)  It was 5,017 votes to 5,014.  The incumbent has called for a judicial recount, which result will be final.  But how many supporters, I wonder, are now kicking themselves for not taking the time?

After bearing witness to the recent mess that was the US presidential election, I am impressed with how organised our system is.  In all the elections I have participated - federal, provincial and municipal - I have never spent more than half an hour in the voting process.  I walk into the local school gymnasium cum ad hoc voting emporium, have a line drawn through my name on the list, get directed towards the appropriate ballot box, wait briefly in line to be handed a folded sheet of paper with names on it, mark an 'X' beside one or more as appropriate, stuff said paper into large plastic bin, go home, have dinner.

If your democratic choice is not to vote at all, I can respect that.  Seeing no redeeming qualities, or at least not enough, in any of the candidates putting themselves forward to represent you in the political arena, it is your right to elect not to elect.  But if you would rather watch The West Wing than get involved in real life political decisions, that I have a hard time to countenance.  Voter apathy certainly had a huge potential impact on one particular Edmonton riding this past Monday.

O brother, where art thou?

I hated my brother, growing up.  Hate. Hate. Hate. Hate. Hate.

That sentiment, now, can only possibly ever be matched by the degree to which I love him.  Love. Love. Love. Love. Love.

Two words, four letters each, and such polar opposites of each other.  Much like my brother and I.  I'll let you decide which of us is which; but I'd not hazard much to say that we've taken it in turns embracing each of those.

There have only ever been two people in the whole of my existence that have possessed the uncanny and seeming innate ability to reach past my outer defenses, dabble at the machinations of my soul with a lover's caress, find the one discordant string with unerring aim, pluck, and cause such dissonance in my being that I have been left seeing nothing but red.  Angry, mad, red.  Want to kick you in the fucking teeth and stomp your head into the curb mad.  Want to pick up that cast iron frying pan and not be able to identify you from your dental records mad.  Want to do such violence to your person that there is no physical way you will EVER be able to get up and make me feel this way again mad.  This is such an incredibly unique feeling; and it has only ever been incited in me by two people.

Thankfully, oh so very thankfully, I have grown to love the one.  And thankfully, oh so very thankfully, I never married the other.

I asked for, and was honoured to have, my brother stand up for me at my wedding last year.  He stood three places to my left and was disappointed not to go home with the woman standing two places to my right.  I had a list of 'thank yous' to make at the reception, and his name was prominent on that.

Especially after the speech he gave.  My brother was asked to welcome my wife to the family.  We wanted to keep the speeches short, so Amy and I had jointly decided that the only ones to be given were to be the toasts to the Bride and Groom, and welcoming the one spouse into the other's family.  I asked Aaron to welcome Amy into our family; he graciously accepted.  And he brought the house down.

In the space of five minutes, my brother had the entire audience roaring in laughter and had moved those of us who knew enough near tears.  He very simply and eloquently summed up our childhood in such a self deprecating manner that I could not but laugh out loud at his audacious delivery while cringing a little on the inside at the Truth bobbing for some few to see beneath that veneer.  He was welcoming my wife to all of that, and I loved him a little more for it.

When Amy and I had the opportunity to address the reception for a few minutes, I gave Aaron, in jest, the most truthful statement I had made since the ceremony.  I told him that I had always loved him as a brother because I had to; but I never really liked him until he moved out of home.  It garnered a few laughs, but I really, really meant it.  And Aaron knew that.

Growing up together, my brother and I took very different approaches to our relationship.  I always viewed him as the antagonist, and I only EVER retaliated to his incessant onslaughts of verbal vitriol, mimickry and the sinister bait-and-trap.  I certainly never assumed an air of superiority or gave him any cause to lash out in his wonted way.  Nor, of course, was I in any way oblivious to the influence exerted by the now divergent, erratic and conflicted orbits brought about by an alteration in our heretofore stable parental mass.  Right.

One of my most vivid memories of our typical exchange centres around a video game.  It was called Jumpman Junior and it was a favourite of mine and my brother's on our Commodore 64.  I had just given up on a very frustrating game and Aaron took my seat in front of the screen.  I don't recall what exactly he said to taunt me, but I certainly recall my, and our mother's, reactions.  Mere femtoseconds after the sound waves from his larynx reached my tympanic membrane, whose oscillations triggered an autonomic recognition of the voice of the person on the earth whom I hated more than any other, I lashed out and, in what I now recognise to be most Homeresque fashion, throttled my brother.

I so loved the feel of my hands wrapped around the throat of my brother.  His own slapping and clawing at my wrists.  This was a familiar dance.  With one slight difference this time.  He.  Could.  Not.  Breathe.  For the blissful eon that was fifteen seconds, my fervor had cut off all air to the lungs of mine enemy.  His flailing increased and his colour rose on par with my ire.  This triggered yet another autonomic response.  From our mother.

Child.  In mortal danger!  Whoop!!  Whoop!!  Whoop!!  Better to stand between a mother bear and her cub, poking the cub with a pointy stick while blowing raspberries at the mother, than to get caught accosting one of our own mother's offspring.  Never mind that the aggressor at the time also happened to be her progeny.

We were both hauled up by the scruff of the neck and deposited on our asses in the living room.  At this very second, both of us panting for breath, my brother and I were completely frozen with fear.  Our mother took this rare opportunity to expound upon the many and trying faults exhibited by both of her sons.  At great length; at high volume; and completely unintelligibly.  This was accompanied by sporadic and spastic hand flailing which was received either by the thin air, my brother's head or my own.  I am only assuming that she was berating the two of us; though her voice was too high for human hearing, there was enough condemnation in her face for all of Christ's killers.

The silver lining to this particular episode was that my brother and I each learned many very valuable lessons.  It was not, unfortunately, until several years later that we actually retained them.

I share this particular event in relation to my wedding because it was only years later that my brother and I could begin to see parts of the other's upbringing through respective eyes.  It is still taking place; and very slowly.  I think it would be far too painful were it to come all at once.

The relationships that exist between men, and more especially brothers, are often very strange (estranged?  strained?) and grow, to whatever extent, through non-verbal communication more often than not.  Just a couple years ago I began referring to my brother - in letters, on the phone and recently through Email - as 'LB'.  Little Brother.  Just one small way of expressing something a little more intimate than a name.

We are still and always will be such very different people, he and I.  We're also, thankfully, much more aware of those differences.  We each have a deeper respect for the other than ever existed in our youth.  That would be a hard value for any parent to inculcate with their children.  At least now it allows us to know where not to tread or, when doing so, to tread lightly.

Looking back over this post now, I realise it sounds a little like a Daniel Stern sort of Wonder Years voice over.  Sometimes I get overly sentimental.  I'm like that.

Random riddle

I forget where I heard or read this one recently, else I would give credit where it's due:

What 5-letter English word, when you remove the last 4 letters, does not change its pronunciation at all?

Home front

My wife will frequently catch me a little off guard.  Just when I think I've got her licked (don't go there), she'll amaze me anew.

Declan, or more specifically his toys, has outgrown the inflatable duck tub that has, until recently, been employed as an ad hoc toy bin.  (You squeeze the duck's bill and it quacks, very high tech.)  So Amy took it upon herself to make a bigger, better toybox herself.  The picture below is the fruit of her labours.  She took the cardboard box that his high chair came in and turned it into the house frame.  Then, getting really creative, she cut apart and taped together two bulk Pampers diaper boxes to make the A-frame roof.  (Bulk diapers is the only way to go.)  Then she wrapped the whole affair in paper from a roll of butcher's paper that the previous homeowners had left behind in the garage.  A home made paint job finished 'er off...

And just to show off my adorable son, I have to pose this question:
How can a little boy have such a messy face without soiling his bib in any way, shape or form?!

Mindless pink robot

There are very few panel comics that I have ever made a real habit to read on any sort of regular basis.  Quality is hard to come by.  That's why, when a really good one comes along, it really stands out.

My favourite ever is Calvin and Hobbes.  A close second is Dilbert.

Dilbert because it speaks to the omnipresent culture of repression, and more especially the apathetic acceptance of same, of the office environnment.  This is the same reason why I so love the movie, Office Space.

A couple favourite examples:

 

And a couple of my favourite Calvin and Hobbes.  I love this comic the most due to the fact that Bill Watterson never scrimped on the quality of the art that he incorporated into his work and he clung to the infinite imagination, free spirit and sense of optimism that makes me want to be a kid again.

Honourable mention goes to For Better or for Worse.  I'm sometimes amazed at how well I can relate to the real life predicaments of that family.  Or perhaps not really all that surprised.