For thousands of years hardly anything changed.

Spears used by humans tens, even hundreds of thousands of years ago stayed the same for millennia. You could learn how to use it as a kid and the skills you learned would last a lifetime. Hundreds of lifetimes. Even in the last thousand or so years you could learn a trade from your father, or a particular skill, and trust that it would still be applicable years later to teach your own kid.

Not anymore.

Now everything changes. Constantly and quickly.

My parents grew up with no running water or electricity. Now that’s practically unthinkable, in this country at least.

I learned analog broadcast production skills in school. Now it’s all digital. I grew up with three channels to choose from on television. In black and white. Now there’s hundreds, all in colour. When I was a kid I had a real dog. Now I have a robot dog. No wait, sorry, that’s my future grandkid I’m thinking of. You think I’m joking? Just wait. (Imagine a dog smart enough to pick up his own poop… worth inventing! You’d make a mint.)

Much of this change is positive. Me, I’m all for hot showers and coffee at the flick of a button. But the sheer pace of all this change is starting to irritate me. Should it not be possible to purchase a computer with a particular operating system and trust that you won’t have to mess with it for ten or so years?

Apparently not.

I’m writing this on a MacBook I purchased in August 2006. It seems like yesterday to me. It’s running OS X 10.4.11. And all the new software I want won’t run on anything less than 10.5.x. So I have to go through the rigamarole of upgrading to Snow Leopard. This isn’t as easy as it sounds. Do you have any idea how hard it is to catch a Snow Leopard? (There’s a great episode on Snow Leopards on the series Earth… took them weeks if not months to find one.)

Anyway, I guess you have to take the good with the bad. Hot showers and instant coffee = constantly having to upgrade your computer.

Okay, I know that once every five years isn’t exactly “constantly”. But if they could make a spear (or at least, a type of spear) that didn’t need to be upgraded for one hundred thousand years, why not a computer? And here’s a good question: might the day not come when we’ve gone as far as we can with computers? When they’re as good as they can be, and there’s no point in upgrading them further? And they stay that way for one hundred thousand years? Just doing what you need them to do without having to fuss over them constantly. Imagine! Bliss? Or boring?

Doesn’t really matter. Cause one thing’s for sure.

It ain’t gonna happen in our lifetimes.

Murmuration from Sophie Windsor Clive on Vimeo.

Spectacular… I wish I’d been there to see it myself (though I did see something similar, if infinitely more modest, once…)

Yesterday — two days after Christmas — one of our cats died.

Brandy was named after the song by Looking Glass called Brandy, just because I liked the song, and the named suited her, somehow, or came to.  We can’t remember exactly when we got her, but it was something like fourteen years ago.

About three weeks ago we noticed she wasn’t looking great.  She had an unusually skinny tummy.  Her chest looked slightly enlarged, but perhaps this was just in contrast to her tummy.  We attributed her looks to her not eating her food, which consisted of crunchy pellets.  We thought she might have sore teeth, and just wasn’t able to eat the food.  So we switched her to moist food, which she took to right away, and we thought okay, now we’ll see some improvement.

But while she continued to eat the moist food for awhile, she eventually started eating less and less and started spending virtually all of her time sleeping in her cat bed.  Still, we didn’t really think the end was nigh, because she still moved throughout the house, upstairs and down.  But perhaps that was my own naivete.

So far a relatively straightforward story of the death of a cat.  Here’s where it gets slightly more complex.  It did occur to us to take Brandy to a vet.  We have friends that are vets.  But we didn’t want to, because we were afraid that it would cost us a fortune.  A fortune we do not have, especially after Christmas.

We were afraid the scenario would play out like this.  We’d take Brandy to the vet.  The vets are our friends, but they do not give us a break.  We wouldn’t expect them to.  It’s a business, after all.  There would be a fee for examining Brandy. A fee, or several fees, for a series of tests.  Maybe something could be done for Brandy, maybe something couldn’t.   But our collective gut told us that Brandy was fourteen years old, she clearly was not well, and we could easily envision spending a fortune having her looked at only to have her die anyway.

Our decision meant that she died at home.

Well, actually she died en route to the Emergency Animal Hospital where we took her when it became evident that she was in obvious distress.  And my intent there was just to do what I could to reduce her suffering, had she not died en route.

Ultimately her death cost us just over forty dollars.

As I stood in a private waiting room with her lifeless eyes staring reproachfully at, well, not exactly me, but somewhere near me, I had to ask myself if we’d done the right thing.  Initially I thought no, we screwed this up.  The cat suffered needlessly.  It had been dying for days, probably lamenting its inability to speak English, thinking you fools, can’t you see I’m wasting away here, don’t you care, DO something, HELP ME!

But apart from switching its food and petting it more than we usually did of late we did nothing concrete to help our poor cat.

I was angry with the vets, because we could not count on going to them for assistance with incurring potentially exorbitant fees, with little or no hope for a positive outcome save assuaging our guilt.

I thought of my grandfather, who once gave me a potato sack full of kittens and asked me to take them down to the cow trough to drown them.  I was eleven, the age my daughters are now.  Thinking that I had to do as he asked, I dutifully tried to drown the kittens through a veil of tears, but I didn’t think to put a heavy rock in the sack with the kittens, so when I placed the sack in the cow trough the kittens just cried piteously and scrambled en masse to stay afloat.

“Can’t do this,” I told my friend June Forrest, and I freed the kittens and ran away to hide until my sister found me and brought me back to my grandparent’s farmhouse, where my mother and grandmother asked my grandfather what the hell he was thinking before baking June and me a cinnamon apple to make us feel better about the whole unfortunate episode.

My grandfather clearly had a completely different attitude toward the fate of animals on his farm, and almost certainly would not have paid the forty some dollars I paid the Emergency Animal Hospital to dispose of my poor, dead cat.

Forty some dollars.  I was upset.  Not at the forty dollars, but at the death of my cat, and at the way I felt I had failed her, and as I stood there wiping my tears away I was fairly certain that when I die it will be equally miserably, or ought to be, because this was a living, feeling being, and why should I get to die any better?  Having failed her.

While I was wallowing in my abject misery a representative from the Emergency Animal Hospital came in and tried to sell me my cat’s ashes for eighty bucks or so.  And when she failed to sell me my cat’s ashes she tried to sell me my dead cat’s pawprints in an attractive memorial ceramic tile for something like two hundred bucks.  WTF?  (I suggest pronouncing the preceding out loud in full for the complete effect.)

They blatantly tried to profit from my cat’s death and my sorrow and my guilt.

I paid them the forty bucks to dispose of my cat and that was all.  I donated two towels to their cause.  Two towels that I had brought along ostensibly to make Brandy more comfortable, but really so that we wouldn’t have to touch her soiled body as we placed her in the cat carrier to take her to the hospital.

I was mad at the Animal Hospital for trying to profit from my cat’s death, and I was mad at our vets for creating a climate where we were afraid to take her in to be checked out for fear of being bankrupted.  And I was mad at myself for not being willing to do that and for feeling guilty about it.

It’s only a goddamned cat, my grandfather would have told me.

But dammit, I had liked that cat.

That afternoon we bought pet insurance for our dog, because we don’t want to go through this with him.  We didn’t buy it for our surviving cat, because she’s also fourteen, and also because we can’t afford it.  It’s over forty bucks a month for the dog alone, and there’s STILL a five hundred deductible for each accident/condition the dog suffers!

My grandfather would no doubt have a word for sentimental, animal loving folk like myself.

That word is fool.

Rest in peace, Brandy.

I’m sorry I wasn’t able to do more for you when you were alive.

You were a fine girl

And now time for the Mahoney Family Christmas Letter, a Mahoney Family Tradition for two solid years in a row:

Merry Christmas Everyone!

Where did we leave off after last year’s letter?

Let’s see, we celebrated Christmas, and then it was January, and we took the Christmas decorations down (or at least, Lynda took them down, which is only fair, considering she put them all up), then it was February, and Keira and Erin turned eleven, and suddenly our children seemed all grown up.  How grown up?

Here’s an example.  Last summer we took them Tree Orienteering in Moncton, New Brunswick during our bi-annual Maritime trek.  Or rather, their father took them Tree Orienteering.  Because their mother would know better than to ever do such a reckless thing.  What their father didn’t know until he got there was that tree orienteering takes place thirty feet above the ground, on ropes and old tires and rickety wooden platforms.  There was NO WAY the girls were going to do this.  Or ought to be allowed to do it.  But they insisted and completed the entire orienteering course with panache because somewhere along the way they’ve morphed into brave adventurers.  Which also probably explains why they barely squawked during their annual flu shot this year.

The girls continue to develop their artistic side, writing and illustrating their own impressive stories and comics, and they’ve joined the Glee club at school.  We have heard them perform, and we are impressed.  Oh, and they’re really smart and pretty, if we do say so ourselves.

On the animal front we continue to own and operate the Mahoney family zoo, now in its twelfth year.  You may be pleased to learn that we plan to open the zoo to the public soon.  There’s plenty to see.  You’ll be awed at how much vomit the cats can produce in a week.  You’ll marvel at how far our guinea pigs can fling their poo.  You’ll relax as our dog licks (and possibly pees on) your foot.  You’ll wonder why anybody would ever own a frog.  I should mention that the dog, Maxwell, is currently enrolled in a tricks class where he is learning to wave, roll over, spin, bow and make odd grunting noises (oh wait, he already knew that one).

A bit about the so-called grown-ups: Joe continues his dubious work for the Canadian Broadcorping Castration, where he toils as Chief Peon of A Bunch of People Who Fix Things.  Lynda continues her noble work dispensing pharmaceuticals to the suffering masses.  On the home front Joe continues to demonstrate a remarkable inability to fix things, although he did enjoy ripping up the carpet this past summer.  And Lynda continues to impress with her uncanny ability to make our home a wonderful place to be.

Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays Everyone!

Joe, Lynda, Keira, Erin (and the zoo: Maxwell, Chloe, Brandy, Lexi, Speedy, George, Canyon, and Storm)

In my last post I talked about reading a story I wrote as a kid at Grownups Read Things They Wrote As Kids.

Here’s a recording of my reading from that event , courtesy of organizer Dan Misener.

It runs about five minutes forty seconds:

Attended a really cool event Monday night put on by the inimitable Dan Misener of CBC Radio Sparks fame.

It was called (if memory serves) Grownups Read Stuff They Wrote As Kids.

I’d been wanting to attend one of these events for a while now.  This was the ninth or tenth one Dan has put on.  Dan and his wife are about to leave for France for a year, so I knew this was going to be the last one for awhile, so I made sure I attended.  And I volunteered to read.

So the weekend before I perused my three scribblers full of juvenilia, mostly written between the ages of 12 and 14 (Grades 7 to 9) for school.  I chose three potential pieces, each one varying degrees of ridiculous.  Although I remember thinking quite highly of them at the time I wrote them!

I walked to the Garrison Pub at Ossington and Dundas with Dan an hour and a half before the event.  I told Dan I had mixed feelings about reading my stuff.  On the one hand I felt a sense of betrayal toward my younger self because I would essentially be mocking that kid’s work.  And as a kid I had been proud of my writing.  I thought I was pretty good at it.  On the other hand, I noted, maybe the kid deserved to be mocked, because the one piece (the one I eventually read) had been written as homework, sitting before the television.  Even so I had thought it was pretty good at the time (it wasn’t, really).  (Ooh, there’s that pesky sense of betrayal again!)

We got to the club and it turned out nobody had set the chairs out.  So Dan and I (and the club’s sound guy) got to work setting up the chairs (two other readers eventually joined in).

We got under way at 7:30.  The place was packed — an impressive turnout.  I was the fourth reader.  The first two readers were awesome.  One guy read from a monster book he had written in Grade One, complete with cool monster pictures.  He was quite funny.  I can’t remember the second reader’s material as I type this (it’ll come to me long after I’ve posted this, no doubt) but I remember it was entertaining and well presented.  I began to have serious qualms about reading the story I had selected.  I didn’t think it was either good enough or bad enough.  I was afraid it would fall flat.

I didn’t hear the third reader because I was busy behind the stage trying to pick out a better story.  But Dan introduced me by saying I would read a science fiction story, so I was stuck with the one I’d selected.

Fortunately the audience was laughing by the second sentence.  They continued to laugh throughout.  Bottom line, I didn’t bomb.  Of course, the story had not been written as a comedy; I don’t think there was a single line in it that was supposed to be funny.  So although I didn’t bomb, I did completely betray my twelve year old self.  What a heel.  But it doesn’t bother me at all.  Because ya gotta be able to laugh at yourself, whatever age you are.

It was a great night.  The rest of the readers were terrific. A standout was a woman names Laura (I think) who read a will she had written at the age of nine!  Surreal and quite amusing.  I was really glad I participated, and many kudos to Dan for putting an event like that on.  (It’s simple, he told me on the way over.  Book the club, which is surprisingly cheap, get readers to sign up on line, arrange for the sale of tickets online, and Bob’s your uncle.  The odd time you might have to set up the chairs yourself.  Ticket sales go to fund the venue with excess funds going to charity.  A class act, Mr. Dan Misener).

I think he’ll be putting more of these on in a year, when he’s back from France.

Which means, of course, that the next one will have to be in French.

The last time I went to the Canadian National Exhibition was twenty-six years ago, as near as I can figure.  I was about twenty and it was me and a bunch of unruly roommates.  The only thing I remember about the whole experience was the roller coaster.  Coming from PEI, I’d never been on a roller coaster before.  I loved it!  But that was about all I loved about the Ex that visit.  Because as I said it’s all I actually remember about the Ex that visit.  I’m not quite sure why that is, but knowing me and my roommates at the time, probably the roller coaster is the only thing we did that visit.

So I went back today with my family, and it was a completely different experience.  Mostly because my wife took firm hold of the reins and managed the entire experience like the sane, sensible adult that she is.  Rides in the morning, shows in the afternoon.  The rides were nothing spectacular, but they were pleasant enough.  The girls enjoyed them.  The shows were nothing spectacular, but they were entertaining enough.  We all enjoyed them well enough (Superdogs, some kind of Rock Figure Skating show called Beyond Broadway, I think, and a hypnotist).

We also attempted the Air Show, but that was pretty much a bust.  A major disappointment for me, actually, as I love planes.  The problem was we walked forever to get to a good spot to see the show, then waited forever for planes that never came.  Okay, that’s not entirely true.  One cool jet started the show, then after an interminable wait three guys parachuted out of a plane and took about twenty minutes descending, then a lame plane limped out towing a glider, then a goofy passenger airliner kept doing pointless circles above us, then we lost interest and left.  Later, in between the other shows I caught glimpses of the Snowbirds and a couple of other cool jets, but it seems if you really want to enjoy the air show, you have to devote the entire afternoon to it.

The weather was acceptable.  Hot and humid, but better at the CNE than we understand it was at home, away from the lake.  It rained once, but we were inside watching a show at the time, so it didn’t bother us.

The food was less than spectacular, but not a complete write off.  We ate both lunch and supper in the Food Building, which had the best variety and was out of the hot sun.  My wife had a Pita that fell apart and wasn’t particularly tasty.  I had a pulled pork sandwich that wasn’t particularly tasty but didn’t fall apart.  The girls had pizza that was perfectly fine for them.  For supper my wife and I both had hamburgers that have yet to make us sick, and the girls loved the 99 cent spaghetti on offer, and you can’t argue with prices like that.

So, I would give the CNE a solid six and a half out of ten on the Mahoney family enjoyment scale.  Points for modest entertainment, edible grub, inoffensive rides, plus additional points for the girls getting along great and the positive family vibe that still persists even as we try to get them into bed now, woefully late at night.

I do miss the roller coaster, which apparently was dismantled years ago, but roller coasters are what Canada’s Wonderland is for.  Which I believe is next on the agenda…

My girls have been talking about fame a lot lately.

I used to want to be famous, like them.

Now I just want to be pretty.

Neither are going to happen anytime soon, at least in my case.

Anyway, we were talking about fame at the zoo.  And I said, girls, it’s better to be respected than famous.  Take a look at that rhinoceros, for instance.  Everybody comes here to look at it.  They all want a glimpse of that rhinoceros.   In a way, that rhinoceros epitomizes fame.  Everybody knows the rhino, and in return, the rhinoceros has little or no privacy.  Of course, it’s worse when you’re a famous rhinoceros.  It’s not like you’re gonna get the best seats at the restaurant when you’re a rhinoceros, or get to drive a porsche.  You just have people gawking at you all the time.  But sans good seats and porsches it’s the same general idea.

I asked the girls if they understood, and one said, “What does epitomize mean?” and the other said, “Dad, that’s a hippopotamus, not a rhinoceros.”

And anyway, they went on to say, we don’t really want to be famous, we want to own a pet store.

I was pleased.  Now I don’t have to worry about them becoming famous, and I’m certain they’ll be respected pet store owners.  Better yet, if they decide they want to sell rhinoceroses and hippopotamuses, I’m confident they’ll be able to tell them apart.

For a tiny bit, anyway.

I really would like to be blogging a lot more. Much the same way I should be exercising a lot more, and playing music a lot more, and studying martial arts a lot more.

But I will try to squeeze it in.

Quick facts: This blog has received, believe it or not, 73,709 comments. That’s on 206 posts. Of course, out of those comments, only 739 have been approved. For a total of 72,970 spam.

Sugar Diet Update: Christmas hit and that went the way of the dodo, I’m afraid. I frequently think about going back on it, but actually my weight has held steady at a solid 179 – 180, which is acceptable for a 6 foot tall individual (or 5’11 3/4 inches, as my mother insists). I weighed 173 when I got married 15 years ago, so that’s not too bad.

The novel is going well (knock wood). I thought I would finish it at about 340 pages, but I’m now on page 343 and there appears to be about another twenty pages to go. This is because it became evident around page 320 that I needed to add an entire section, which I’ve now done, and it’s now on to the (hopefully) exciting conclusion.

Making a meatloaf for supper, lots of dishes to clean up. Here’s hoping I can dash off more of this sort of quick post from time to time to keep the blog up.

Better than nothing…

Back in the middle of the summer I had the best of intentions. Blog a lot more. Heck, start a second blog with a fictional character and blog every day on that one too!

I even managed to keep it up a while. But working full time and raising a family takes a toll. A toll on blogging, anyway. So I fell a little short of my goal.

Enough complaining. What is happening in (as the inimitable Lisa Trimble used to call it) Joe Land?

Writing the conclusion of A Time and a Place. Sure, I’ll be writing the conclusion for another two or three years, but at least it’s the conclusion I’m writing. Imagine if it was only the beginning? Then I’ll string a few cat motifs and allusions through the thing and it’ll be done.

Thinking about a little project with a friend that we’re calling Pilot. Have to finish the novel first, then we’ll tackle Pilot: The Pilot. Think Robot Chicken. Robot Chicken only with less talent, money and time. It’ll be a lot of work to do it right. But to paraphrase John F Kennedy, we don’t do these things because they’re easy. We do them because we’re kind of stupid and like to get in over our heads.

The sugar diet. I know you’re all waiting with whis’pring humbleness and bated breath to find out how the sugar diet’s going. The weight loss has slowed down a bit but it’s still going well. This morning I was 176. So I’ve lost 9 pounds since August 23rd by drastically reducing the sugar intake. If I could give up marmalade and orange juice it’d probably go faster, but alas. 176 is a good weight to be. It’s how much I weighed in 1992. So, not bad. Still, I’ll see if I can’t bring it down to about 173.

Oh, and the pumpkin pie I rewarded myself during Thanksgiving Dinner was absolutely delicious…