Kids These Days . . .

     I was at a family wedding just a couple of years ago. An older cousin--once a notorious hellraiser and womanizer--cornered me. Over the past few years, he had found Jesus, married a woman half his age, fathered seven children on her, and closeted himself and his family from society. I'd idolized him when I was young, but I hadn't seen him in years, hadn't spoken to him since his conversion and the end of my childhood..
     Small talk. He asked me how I liked being a teacher.
     Fine, fine.
     "Don't you find that kids these days are worse than ever?"
     Pause. Do you forget how you were?
     Avoidance. "They have no respect. They don't care about anyone but themselves."
     I repeat my question in my head. Also, in my head: The same could be said for many of the faithful.
     "Don't you think they're just terrible?"
     No, I don't think that at all.

     It's been a long year so far, folks. Wildfires, floods, earthquakes, tsunamis, terrorism, partisan fingerpointing, racial/religious/political shootings. .
     Maybe it's because I have former students in Japan, a friend in New Zealand, family in Norway, and maybe it's because I'm staunchly anti-Harper, hell, maybe it's because I hate the Boston Bruins . . . but, big scale-wise, I don't have a lot of good to say about the first seven months of 2011.
     Whenever there's tragedy, whenever there's an issue, somebody always takes a moment to gauge and to judge the reaction of the youth, or to stereotype the whole based on the few, and then to say: "What's this world coming to? These kids . . ."

     If you've read my blog before, you've read my decrying the folly of today's youth on occasion. Usually, I'm expressing my disgust at someone having to text me from five feet away. However, I've never claimed (or felt) that kids are getting worse every year, or that their follies and choices are responsible for the sorry state of our world. I blame the state of the world on oil, greed, most organized religions, and good old-fashioned selfishness. Oh, and reality TV.
     Despite my dissatisfaction with a lot of 2011, I am not one of those fellas that thinks the world is getting shittier each year we step into the 21st century. Sorry, I saw the Cold War and the Mulroney administration. I saw Poison considered a credible band and Steve Gutenberg a credible actor. There have been worse days.

     Grandpa. You have a Grade 6 education. You didn't have your first pair of shoes until you were twelve. You got up at 5 am every day and worked yourself to arthritis. Your wife you kept at home, then left her for months on end so you could go work, and the most you had to do with your children was to lay into them with a belt. You came of age when every orator worth his salt was becoming a dictator, and you killed people in the most horrible conflict in human history. You smoked, you drank, you swore, you slapped around your wife and kids. You went to church every Sunday and sang in the choir.

    Dad. You were raised by heavy-handed parents who neglected your emotions, worked you like a slave, denied you an education, and expected you to follow in their footsteps. You never expressed an emotion beyond rage until you were thirty. You defined yourself by what you saw on TV and there was never enough for you to watch. Still isn't.You and your friends took so many drugs you still have flashbacks and you speak with a slight lisp. You protested the corruption of the Man, and in less than twenty years you were exploiting every corner of the world for your own wealth. You have expanded our dependencies on oil and energy and your only church is the bank.

     Me. You grew up being told that your feelings mattered, that you should express them, all the while whining that you needed that one extra action figure for total nirvana. You saw a world turn to suit you, a world where all that mattered was your entertainment, and the vehemency with which you demanded to be entertained. As a teenager, you moped in a depression because you just had so much. Needed to be mad about something. You became the first real user of the Internet, the most exciting tool for containing all accumulated knowledge  in human history. You promptly dedicated 99% of it to games and pornography.

     Kids these days.
     Kids these days have the chance to overthrow the patriarchal madnesses: capitalism, militarism, fundamentalism and selfishness.
     Kids these days. They don't know how good they've got it. The world has been rotten before, people have been rotten before. Kids before these ones were selfish troublemakers mired in the demands of their id. Superiority comes with the guilt of failure.
     Kids these days have the world we've handed them. I don't envy them, but then I think they have more potential to stop the madness than most of the generations before them. If they stop listening to our quibbling and criticism, and if they care enough to unfuck the world on their own terms, for the future rather than for the past, well, then the future may be okay.

     Kids these days don't owe us a thing, save accepting our apology.

God Wills It

Last night, I was taking part in an event meant to glorify Christ. I have issues with my association with it, but have always been tolerant of the faithful, even if they're not tolerant of the unfaithful. A decision was made that the outdoor event should go on despite all logic in terrible and dangerous weather conditions. I was in charge of students from a summer school, who were part of the event. The staff whipped the kids into zealotry. "God wants us to do this!"

God wants you to put school children at risk?

Across the Atlantic, in the country my ancestors came from, a killer with a message entered another summer camp, and plunged one hundred families into tragedy. It's early, but all signs say he was of the mind that God would have wanted this as well.

"God wills it!" is the cry Crusaders gave before tearing into the bodies of Muslims and Jews with their swords.

My chief concern is for the safety of the kids in my charge. God does not will stupid, and he does not will murder. I don't believe in hell, but if I did, I would hope that there's a special place in it for those who hide behind faith when doing wrong.

Summer of the Geek

            Since about 1999, after a long hiatus following the first of the modern Batman movies, superhero films have been pretty respectable—as summer blockbusters go. X-Men 4, Transformers 3, Thor, Green Lantern, Captain America. . . . This summer is so front-loaded with the nerdtacular that the ten-year-old in me can hardly contain himself. I think I was born twenty years too early. They’re even dipping beyond the mainstream heroes. I mean, Thor and Green Lantern? Who ever thought to see them on the screen?

These movies have been gold for movie producers, and as you can see by the number of sequels going on, they’ve proven to be a cash cow for Hollywood. And if there’s one thing Hollywood knows how to do, it’s squeeze a capital bovine dry.

Batman’s going on seven modern movies, his third of the second set coming next summer. Superman’s going on movie six, reboot two. Spider-Man is being rebooted after two good and one pathetic films. Iron Man’s had two, Hulk two (one a reboot), now we have Thor and Captain  America all leading us in the direction of next summer’s Avengers movie, which can’t possibly live up to this much hype but who the hell cares? Just that they’re making it blows me away, and these flicks are laden with big-name stars and directors having fun and—often—doing something for their kids or—oftener—funding their next artsy project.

But, ah, the shine is starting to wear off. The public’s starting to see the formula, and at the glacial pace it takes the mob, they’re starting to get a touch bored of the same ol’ same ol’. People know that when they sit down, they’re either getting an origin story or a “how the hero’s presence has made things escalate” story. Those are the only two formulae. Usually the hero quits once per movie, his girlfriend gets kidnapped (all three Spider-Man movies!) and at some point in the third act a sequel is set up. Sequels are usually announced before the first film is released. And then there’s this Avengers mess . . . I never leave a theatre during the credits anymore because there’s always some teaser.

Are they cookie cutter? You betcha! Can you predict everything that’s going to happen, every line of dialogue? Yar! Are you going to catch all the nerdy in-jokes if you’re the type what bathes themselves daily? Unlikely! Is Michael Bay a good director? Nuh-uh, but he blows things up good.   

             But the nerds deserve this Geek Renaissance. The reformed comic addict in me (been on the wagon over a decade now) has been waiting hsi life for 1) film technology to catch up to comic books and 2)for Hollywood to understand that the stories in comics are good (not great), and need only be adapted for the screen, not rewritten. X-Men in 2000 and especially Spider-Man in 2002 taught this.

            It’s not nerdom’s fault that when something bears Hollywood fruit they must turn it to fruit leather.

            Is that my second Hollywood squeezing-related metaphor? Maybe.

            Nerds deserve—nay—require this summer. They sat through 1990’s rubber-shielded Captain America, through the last three movies of the Batman franchise pre-Begins, and all those Stan Lee-awful made for TV movies (the Hulk died falling out of a helicopter? Really? The Hulk, you say? Did you even bother to look at the comic? The Hulk eats tanks and farts cruise missiles).

            It’s about time the nerds enjoyed some actually decent movies. Most of them, yes, are over-contrived special effects extravaganzas—Thor and Green Lantern—some are vehicles for good actors’ egos—Iron Man, Hulk, X­-anything—and a few are well-crafted, subtle, thematic and brilliant—The Dark Knight and  . . . uh . . .

            But, c’mon. Survivor’s been on the air a decade and The Bachelor/ette has been railed on for its idiocy before on this page. I mean, who are you to say something’s stoopid? You watch Glee.

            So, please, let the nerds have their day. Let them giggle at inside-jokes, quibble about changes to the canon, and laden theatres with the smells of BO and stale nachos. They have waited for this brief time where their interests are represented on the screen by spandex-clad superbuffs with ‘roid rage and afraid-looking Botox-ettes dressed in dental floss. Let the geek have his day.

Reset at 1, Again

     Apparently DC Comics is going to reset the numbering of a lot of its titles to 1. Detecive and Action Comics, Superman and Batman, all reset. They can't go to Zero because they've done that once already. Marvel Comics has done this a few times, then undone it, then done it again, then undone it but added the reset numbers to the originals (so that, say, Avengers #432 never actually happened, because it was Vol. III #4. Head hurt?).
     Obviously, this is a ploy to bring on new fans. Knowing you missed the first 581 episodes of back-story is a little daunting. #1 is a great point to jump on. Back when I used to read comics, I remember being excited to buy such milestones as Detecive Comics 600 or Amazing Spider-Man 400. It felt cool, like touching history, being a part of something that stretched all the way back to the Depression.
     And yet, I can also recall the violent thrill of anticipating in those summers of the early 90s the new (simply) Spider-Man series by Todd MacFarlane, or the new (simply) X-Men series by Jim Lee. Those #1s were something so refreshing in an era of 364s and 509s. Funny enough, it's Lee who masterminded this relaunch, and who is redesgning a lot of the major characters.
    What? Mucking with history? Well, maybe there's something to this. Magazines rarely make a big deal of their issue number. Maybe comics cling too much to their monthly designation. I mean, as I recall, every issue ending in a zero had to have some major event in it. The anticipation of issues 595-599, the hangover of issue 601. Creators must've felt a lot of stress having to provide a major payoff whenever a numerical click was coming. Many of those were hokey (new costumes, new heroes, dead girlfriends). I mean--and I take this with a nostalgic grain of salt looking back with childhood joy on a pretty commercial "art form"--I seem to remember the best stories were often nowhere near these milestone numerals, because the creators had freedom to express themselves when they wanted, in the blissful unconcern of the pages of issue 232.
       Maybe it's a good thing, then. Maybe I appreciate history too much, I'm too protective of the past. Maybe when comics are concerned I'm a (DEAR GOD!) little c conservative. Maybe a fresh start is a good thing.
      . . . . Maybe it doesn't matter. I'm not going to start reading them again, anyway.

My First 21k

            On Sunday I ran my first half marathon. Don’t worry, this isn’t one of those inspiring “look how far I’ve come” stories. More like one of those “gee, I did something pretty cool but really should have a long time ago” stories. I’ve been a serious runner for over a decade, and I’m in much better shape in my early thirties than I was in my early twenties. Recently, say the past two years or so, I’ve been a bit more of a fanatic—I think the tell for this is when you start investing substantial dollars on “equipment” in a sport that really only requires shoes.

            Despite that, at 5’10” and 190lbs means I have almost the exact wrong body time for running, it’s been my chief activity for the past few years. Add to this that years of sports, farming and general thoughtless male stupidity have caused me enough aches and pains that 21 kilometres can be seen as a much greater risk for injury than the 5 to 15 I usually do a few times per week.

            I didn’t go in timid, though, I went in confident. Thought I’d share some thoughts about the experience of running the Calgary Half Marathon while fresh:

-I usually run at night. I don’t like doing it in the morning before work because I always feel the stress of time; I like to have an open end. The gun for the marathon was at 7am, which means I was up at four to get to the city in time to be there for a good warm up. Ugh.

-I had some nerves, sure. I mean, the only time I had run this distance before (while timed—I’d done it lots over greater lengths of time), I’d done it at a fair pace of 5m45s/km, on my own, and the last three kilometres I’d found a tremendous struggle. My hoped time for the race was 2h5m, but I was very concerned about exhaustion at the end. I should point out that on long runs I’m a chronic under-hydrater. But a full time moniker-maker-upper . . .

-There were nearly 10,000 people involved Sunday, running or walking 5k, 10k, 21k, or the masochists on the 42k. Like I said, I normally run alone—though I’d come in with some friends who are members of a running group in town. The initial 3k after the gun was just about threading through the crowds, jockeying for position, and not trying to be too rude as you passed people. Oh, and trying to find the damn pace bunny. More on that in a bit. The mass of people clogging the route had me pretty dejected at first, but that wore off as people started to hit strides or lose steam.

-I run to music. Apparently, the purists frown upon this, as in any sport you play it should be work—you shouldn’t be entertained. Whatever. I love running, but for 21k, things can get boring and I don’t want to just listen to myself breath or people’s feet clumping. With two little kids at home, it’s rare I get two straight hours for my tunes anyway.

-When I run alone, I don’t carry water. This is fine for short distances, but has cost me in anything over 10k. It was the story of my big collapse a month ago when practising this distance. Every 3k along the route, though, there were water and Gatorade stations. What a difference—water really is fuel.

-Running is a no glory sport, but the people of Calgary did their best to support us. People lined the route in places, cheering and holding signs, using noise-makers, and there were bands every once in a while. The whole thing was festive. Everyone on the route was appreciative of the others. I felt guilty for how long it had taken me to race, as I’ve been ready for years. For some people this was a real milestone. I’m not a real fan of Calgary at the best of times, but the city earned my kudos during this marathon.

-I normally practise 10/1s (run ten minutes, briskly walk one), but abandoned this right away. I just didn’t need the breaks. I decided that all I would do was walk twenty seconds at the water tables, ensuring I didn’t spill. I was using my Garmin to check my lap pace every 7k, and discovered I had improved my time on the second seven. I was going too easy. The hydrating made a difference, and this got me thinking.

-I referred to pace bunnies. These are expert runners who wear pink rabbit ears indicating the time they will finish. Follow them, know your pace. My intent at the gun was to keep the 2h bunny in my sights, but I lost him in the throng near the zoo. Then, at about the 14k mark, I passed the 1:55 bunny. Sure now that I was taking things too easy, I pushed myself to increase my per kilometre pace up by 20 seconds for the rest of the race.

-With 3k left to go, Pearl Jam’s “Alive” came over my headphones. Providential.

-I came in with two friends who’ve been doing this for years. One of them is a running addict, whose positive demeanour is inspiring, and he’s a wonderful cheerleader. The other is a pure athlete, one of the greatest I’ve ever met, all the more impressive for his “awe-shucks” approach to running, swimming, biking. They finished about a minute apart in the 1h30 range. When they saw me come in, they shot back to the finish line to congratulate me. This was old hat for them, another race, but they wanted to be part of my “I did it” moment when I crossed. They wanted to share in that, but they were also proud because  . . .

-I’d aimed for 2h5m, and came in at 1:53.10. My best pace of 5:30/k I’d improved to 5:07. It’s not record-breaking, but ahead is always better than behind.

Should have done it years ago. I didn’t need the race, the competition. For me, running is something I like to lose myself in. When I was done, I felt good about myself, but it wasn’t an achievement with finality. It was a start. I regretted that I had waited too long to kick it up, and am already considering how I’ll do this next time—before the snow flies.

Vote, Sucka

The Canadian Federal Election is tomorrow and you have decided not to vote. It might be out of apathy or laziness. It might be that you have your justifications, which might just be you rationalizing your apathy and laziness.

            Regardless, a small but vocal group of you out there have declared that you’re exercising your right to do nothing because it’s the right thing to do, nothing.

            You’re wrong. Here’s why:

1.      “I’m too busy to vote.”

Listen, your employer must grant you the time to go to the polls. It’s the law. There were also advanced polls over Easter Weekend (that, happily, saw a 34% increase from 2008).

Cut the crap: You’re lazy. Go vote, and get a coffee while you’re out. Enjoy the rest of your day.

2.      “I forgot.”

Really? You missed the month of news pieces, the signs decorating every boulevard in town, the coffee-room discussions? You know when every NHL playoff game is, when American Idol or The Bachelor come on, and yet somehow you missed election day?

Cut the crap: It’s tomorrow.

3.      “It just doesn’t matter.”

Yeah, I’ve always felt that doing nothing yields much greater results than doing something. Many parties in many ridings are glad you feel this way. If more people turned out to vote, your MP would have to start listening to a broader range of voices, because he needs to garner a broader range of votes, now that you decided to show. Rather than just seniors.

Cut the crap: Be the change, whiney.

4.      “I don’t know the issues and I don’t trust the news.”

Do a little damn research, then. Take five minutes of your Angry Birds time or wait until Survivor’s in commercial, go online and look at party platforms. Decide what matters to you. Health care? Economy? Tuition costs?

Cut the crap: Get off your ass and learn something.

5.      “Politicians are all just liars and crooks.”

Stated from your well-founded and learned opinion, the one that said you don’t know anything. Yes, they’re politicians, which means the majority are a little morally wonky. However, Canada still has one of the cleanest governing systems in the world. Your vote can actually do something. Try getting that in Mexico. Don’t give the dudes in ties the excuse to be more corrupt because you can’t be bothered to influence them.

Cut the crap: The only way to keep them honest is through action.

6.      “It’s not that I don’t care—I care too much. The system is broken.”

I might entertain this view if I ever heard it backed up with facts. Too bad it’s just another excuse for being lazy. Look, I’m not married to this system or anything—I’d much rather see a popular vote system—but the current one can work. If you vote, then lobby your MP to change, it’s effective.

Cut the crap: Take part, then enact reform.

7.      “Where I live, people always vote the same way, anyway.”

I hear ya. The riding I’ve lived in for the past eight years sees its incumbent take 80-90% of the votes, and I’ve never voted for the guy. Is it a little disheartening? Sure. But if our whole riding turned out on May 2^nd, he’d easily drop to about 65%, and that would make him sweat. And when they sweat, they listen. Apply that to his whole party now. That’s  democratic efficacy.

Cut the crap: This is current events, not history.

8.      “They all sound the same.”

Really? Have you read their platforms? Have you studied anything beyond TV and radio sound bites? Have you called your MP or his opposition and asked them tough questions? Do the research, make a decision, go with it.

Cut the crap: They wouldn’t be parties if that were true.

9.      “My identity is not an ideology.”

Neither is mine. But I have wants for my country, for my province, for my kids. For the future. I know what I don’t want and I know what I like. No, there’s no party in existence that meets my needs 100%. Even my wife wouldn’t vote for that party. They need a broader appeal. Compromise a little, find the closest party, vote.

Cut the crap: Your mom should’ve cut you off a little sooner, coddle kid.

10.  “Who cares?”

What you’re ignoring is something Canadians died to preserve in World War 2, which Libyans are currently dying to get, and which every adult Canadian should be forced to exercise on penalty of jail time.

Cut the crap: See above.

A parting shot, from a man much smarter than me: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MhgYhcTl95w&feature=youtu.be

My Trip to the Apple Store

            I went to an Apple store for the first time yesterday.

          
            I needed a very specific kind of USB cable, and was also interested in an iPod specific remote thingy for my headphones. I was at the mall, and I saw that shiny, white, sterile store. I figured what the hell. The only times I’d ever noted the place before was when glancing at the huge line-ups the day the latest iThing was released. Today, I’d enter the place that was many a techie’s Mecca.

Maybe no line-up, but it was still a fair busy place. I paused just inside, taking in the gleam, the glare, the glass. The plastic white-ness. It was like being inside the head of EVE from Wall-E. It smelled like . . . well, it didn’t smell. I imagined this place at night, where no cleaning staff entered, but instead the ceiling sprinklers doused the place in sanitizer.

I own an iPod. It’s a classic 80 gig.

“Classic.” I got it in 2007.

I also own a 3GS iPhone—which means it’s the second to latest edition—and a 4 gig iPod shuffle that I use for running. It was a gift, but I love it.

I will admit, I love my Apple devices.

But I hate their computers. Yes, enough to start a sentence with a conjunction.

Recently, I set off a minor firestorm on my Facebook page when I dared scoff at the glory of Apple computers. I will never join that trend (speaking computers, that is. I’d die without my collection of iDoodads). I don’t care how wonderful their operating systems supposedly are, I don’t care how cool their entertainment systems are, I don’t care how damn white they are. They’re stupidly expensive and I understand Windows just fine, thanks. Why, at my age, with limited time to spend learning rather than using a computer, would I force myself to learn a whole new OS, and shell out that kind of cash just so my laptop bears a glowing white once-bitten apple to impress my friends? Nuts to that.

That was my opinion when I entered the Apple store in search of a USB cable and a remote thingy. The place was very busy, as I’ve said, but there were many employees as well, more than there were customers. Each was young, bearing a blue shirt and a sparkling smile. Odd for an electronics store: plenty of available clerks who appear happy.

No, not happy.

Fanatical.

I passed the first tow glass tables which were set up as iPad 2 altars, and then an employee sprinted up to ask me how he could help me.

When asked, he knew exactly what I needed, and led me over to an accessories wall where he indicated the cable ($30) and remote thingy ($55) that I sought. I didn’t grab them, instead considering places where I could find cheaper knock offs that worked just as well minus the Apple logo.

Unused to having an electronics store employee stay with me, I sought to milk the moment.

“Say, where are your iPhone cases?”

He took me to the opposite accessory wall, which bore hundreds of the cases in all colours and styles, made of gels, rubber, metal, plastic, cork, human flesh (I’m sure). But all for the iPhone 4.

“Mine’s a 3,” I said. Then, like it mattered, “A GS.”

His smile faltered, just a little. To the point of almost coming back into the range of the humanly possible. I took a moment to study his teeth, telling myself that they couldn’t possibly be made of white Apple plastic. No, they couldn’t be.

“Oh,” he said.

He pointed up to a nigh-unreachable corner of the wall bearing four 3GS cases. One looked like a sunglasses fabric bag, another was pink metal, the third was the same as my own, and the fourth was pink and purple with the word “juicy” adorning it in what looked like rhinestones.

“Thanks,” I said. “Think I’ll pass.”

“Okay. Say,” he said, his eyes widening and crossing slightly, a small trickle of drool running out of his mouth, “you tried the iPad 2 yet?”

“No, I’m not really interested.” I’m not a tablet man. My smart-phone and laptop combined make a bulky tablet pretty meaningless to me.

“Oh, but you should at least try it.”

That is not a human grin.

“S’okay,” I said.

“Tell you what, go check it out. I’ll come check on you in a few minutes to see how you like it.”

“Uh, kay.”

I left, fearful that if I stayed a moment longer that a side panel would open up, revealing a shrine of Steve Jobbs made of white plastic, and the faithful would line up for afternoon prayers.

I went to Best Buy, found the items I wanted for less than $30, I didn’t even see  an employee, and was happy that the store was as dishevelled and poorly-organized as ever.

I remain an Applegnostic.