Discovery

I had a lovely lunch and shopping trip in Outremont with my friend Maychai today.

We had lunch at the lovely Steak Frites, although we were both good and had salads (hers with duck, mine with grilled shrimp) and then I tossed all caution to the wind and had a lovely molten chocolate cake for dessert with our lovely double espressos allongés.

But the discovery came before lunch, as we shopped. We went into Gourmet Laurier and I found out that the rumours were true! One can find Orangina Rouge on this side of the Atlantic! And TUC LU crackers, too! And here is the proof:

Does this mean that I will stop sending my employees on missions possibles when they have meetings to attend in France? No. After all, they're going anyway and even with the exchange the price I found here was a bit steep.

Still, it is comforting to know that, in a pinch, I can satisfy my beverage needs without shelling out for a plane ticket to Paris.

Mum

I wanted to write a letter to Mum to talk to her about some of the things I remember with fondness and appreciation. This is by no means an exhaustive list, or even necessarily a list of the most important things; I keep discovering each day new ways in which I miss her and new ways to remember her with a smile on my face, even as tears threaten to well up in my eyes.

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Dear Mum,

I’m writing to you to thank you and to tell you about some of the ways you have permanently impacted my life.

First of all, thanks for having me. As the second child of a two-child family married to the first child of a two-child family, it certainly couldn’t have been very expected that you would have five children. As child number four, I should be particularly grateful for that one. But when I think about this question, the thing that most pops out in my mind is the recurring conversation among us kids discussing the responsibility of people to limit themselves to replacing themselves by having at most two children. This conversation almost inevitably evoked an almost tearful response from you: “I can’t imagine what I would do without any of you.” Your attachment to all of us, in very different and individual ways, is something that I miss already.

Thanks for making sure that we did things together as a family. I know so many people who have little connection to their siblings, or who haven’t spoken to them for many years out of anger or disinterest. We are not like that. As diverse as we are as individuals – and as bossy and domineering, too, I am compelled to admit – we actually get along, and we enjoy spending time together. All of our meetings have times when you wouldn’t be able to fit a word in edgewise as we all try to share our own experiences and points of view with each other, and they all have moments of laughter, even in the saddest of times.

Thanks for being, with Dad, among the most open-minded, tolerant and even accepting parents of teens and young adults I have ever seen. I remember the time during the 1970s that my older sisters moved in with, or otherwise shared space with, their boyfriends. Other families lived this experience as a rupture and a tragedy, but you made sure they had enough dishes and towels.

There was very concrete application of this to my own experiences, too. After all of the horror stories I had heard from others about coming out to hostile families and all of the disaster scenarios I played out in my own head during the years (yes, years) I reflected on coming out to you, I got love back. “How could you be so silly as to thing this would matter to us? You’re our son and we love you.” And later, when we had a moment face-to-face, you anguished about all the times over the years you must surely have offended me without realizing it. This is the kind of acceptance that made me know that I should not hesitate to share and seek support from you when I was diagnosed with HIV. I got the same love and support in return.

You were always upset when your gathered children reminisced about the various punishments we received as children. I hope that you took some comfort from my words when I told you that we wouldn’t be talking and laughing about it if we had been abused and scarred. No, I remember most the image of a mother who, helpless with laughter, was unable to keep two of us from having a little raw cookie dough as we acted in tag-team.

I also remember the Mum who seemed to know how to do everything, skills developed through years of just scraping by when we were all young and you and Dad were moving your young family all over rural BC, or skills born of your own creativity and practicality. Art, sewing, cooking (especially baking!), canning…there was no apparent end to the things you were able to do and to encourage us to do. And then there was the English grammar. As frustrating as it might have been for a child to be corrected, I think that all of us owe our grammatical reflexes to your interventions. If I ever feel I need clarity on which construction to use, it is your voice I hear in my head and it always will be.



And in the same vein of practicality, let me thank you for your clarity about your final arrangements.

First, the distaste for euphemism. I’m proud to say that we respected that approach in your obituary – you were the only one on that page of the Kamloops Daily News on the first day of publication who actually “died.” The others passed away or passed on.

Second, the reaction to religion after you had lived with the hypocrisy of small town churches early on in your marriage. One of my favourite anecdotes – and one that I only recently heard – is the one about your being visited by the priest in hospital. He had come to ‘console you about your loss.’ “I think you have the wrong room,” you said. He beat a hasty retreat.


Finally with respect to your remains. Cremation without frills or ceremony, and your desire to have your ashes go somewhere you would have been afraid to go in life. We have a pretty good plan for that, I think. And we can all hear you remind us that those ashes are not you. You are living in our heads now.


Love, Ken

(I will try to get better versions of some of these photos and replace them as I am able.)

Enid Norah Monteith 1933-2009

Enid Norah Monteith (née Lucas) died suddenly December 13, 2009.

She is lovingly remembered by her husband of 56 years Mel Monteith, her brother Ken Lucas (Anne-Marie) of Ottawa, her sister-in-law Doreen (Roy Baillargeon) of Kamloops, her children Mike (Linda), Brandy (Brenton Wilkie), Terry (John Pisarczyk), Ken, Syd (Tracy Baird), 8 grandchildren and 5 great-grandchildren

Enid grew up in Kamloops, graduated from Kamloops Senior Secondary School in 1951, and worked as a legal, administrative and medical secretary while raising a family throughout the B.C. interior.

Enid was a hard-working, intelligent, creative and caring person. Her baking talents and great sense of humour brought pleasure to countless others. She was a ravenous reader and took a keen interest in what was happening in the world around her.

Together with her husband Mel, Enid raised a loving family and inspired them all to do their best. What made her happiest was having her whole family together, and it is a tribute to them both that being together is always a happy experience for the whole family.

Enid will be remembered in a private family gathering. There will be no service by request.

In lieu of flowers, please send donations to the Dr. Helmcken Memorial Hospital (Acute Care), R.R. 1, Clearwater, B.C. V0E 1N0.

Enid, Mum, Granny…we miss you.

Inappropriate Eating

Okay, it's time to denounce a practice that I keep seeing but will never accept. Nor should I. I am talking about the scourge of eating on public transit — what are you people thinking?!

This is not just about hygiene, although if you are really trying to consume everyone else's viruses and bacteria, you couldn't find a better place. Grab that bar or strap to steady yourself and then, once seated, use the same hand to manipulate your sandwich into your germ receptacle (mouth).

It is also not just about the cleanliness of the bus or the metro car, although I am generally grossed out by having to avoid a seat or a patch of floor because of the crumbs — or worse! — that I find there and disgusted by those who would just drop their food wrappers where they stand instead of hanging on to put it in a proper garbage can.

Oh no, this is about the rudeness of it. It is not the appropriate place to eat, just like it is not the appropriate place to have a loud and animated conversation on the phone (but that's a whole other post, now, isn't it?!). You are impinging on the space of others who are using public transit for the purpose it is intended to serve (travel from one point to another) and you are having an inadequate culinary experience on top of that. For shame!

Beyond the bus and the metro, there is another offender I would like to mention that has no place on the sidewalk. This is a relatively new phenomenon, having arisen with the Starbucks and the Second Cups. It is the person stumbling down the street with her/his cup of coffee held out in front at half-arm's length.

This coffee thing tends to happen at all times of the day, but I imagine it to the worst during the morning rush hour. I get it that you are addicted to coffee. I get it that you have some place to be. I get it that you are late. Surely none of these things is well-served by your rude stumbling along the sidewalk with your coffee outstretched before you.

At best, you will have an unsatisfactory coffee experience (probably bad coffee in that cup anyway, getting cold faster than you had planned) and you will arrive at work late and with coffee spills on your outfit. At worst, you will spill your coffee on me and that, my friends, is completely unacceptable!

Get up a little earlier or call to warn your work that you will be a little late today, sit down and enjoy your addiction to caffeine the way it was intended to be enjoyed. Or do we need to get funding to set up a safe sipping site for you?

World AIDS Day

I'm with Brian on this one. Er…let me explain…

It's World AIDS Day as I write this (the day doesn't end until I go to bed) and I have a shopping list of items that I would like to get as gifts on this day.

The serious version:
• Stable and adequate funding for AIDS organizations and those working with populations vulnerable to HIV infection
• Appropriate prevention activities for all who might encounter a risk of contracting HIV
• Appropriate HIV sensitization activities for all
• Affordable and effective medications for people wherever they live — and the same standards for defining what that means
• Accessible medical follow-up for all
• Judges who recognize that personal responsibility is shared when two people are involved
• Effective interventions to proactively address the issue of stigma and discrimination related to HIV/AIDS
• Policy decisions based on science and not ideology
• A cure?

And just to keep it light:
• A wealthy, generous and doting boyfriend so that I can be what I have always wanted to be — a volunteer!

Only 364 shopping days until the next World AIDS Day….

Hypocrisy

Today, the Swiss voted in a national referendum to ban the construction of minarets in their country. They voted convincingly enough that this measure will be added to the Swiss constitution.

Now, I'm no friend of religion, and certainly no friend of one that in many of its manifestations would rather see me dead than alive, but I have to pose that question about subjecting a minority's rights to referendum. The whole idea of human rights protection — and these measures are generally enshrined in countries' constitutions — is to protect unpopular minorities (the popular ones not needing any help).

The ultimate hypocrisy, of course, is to be found in so-called laic societies defending themselves against the expression of a religion that might be newer to their territory while defining the symbols of the dominant religion as 'cultural' and therefore protected from the application of the same norms.

I'm sure that the church spires I have juxtaposed with minarets in the pictures above are seen as 'heritage buildings' or 'cultural symbols', but I really don't see the difference between them. I have read that the four existing minarets in Switzerland are not even used to issue the call to prayer. Can we say the same thing about the bells (or increasingly speakers) in all of those church bell towers?

This all reminds me of our vociferous debate in Québec about 'reasonable accommodation' of minorities, sparked by a similarly intolerant ban on burkas by a by-law of the town of Hérouxville. After a commission that heard testimony from many hundreds of groups and individuals called for the reinforcement of laicism in our society, the members of the National Assembly voted unanimously (unanimously!) to reaffirm the presence of the crucifix above the Speaker's chair as a 'cultural symbol'.

This pretty recognizable symbol of Christianity has not been there since the building was built. It was installed during the 'grand noirceur', the reign of conservative Catholic premier Maurice Duplessis.

I'd say if you are going to ban one, you must ban them all. Maybe we can start by removing their tax-exempt status and see who survives.

One More Long Day

My last night in Toronto, and I am worn out! It has been an interesting conference, but the days have been rather long and I feel like I just need to nap.

An annual general meeting tomorrow and then we will zip off to catch the 5 pm train back to Montréal. (Our choice was to rush less for the train, but take the milk run and get in at almost midnight, which didn’t appeal to me.)

As I promised last time out, here are a couple of shots from my hotel room window in the daylight.

Osgoode Hall, home to the Law School and the Court of Appeal (my Toronto friends will correct me if I mixed up what actually happens in there).

Toronto’s very distinctive city hall, with its curved towers. As many times as I have been to this city, this is the first time I have been in this neighbourhood. I had never even seen the old city hall, right next to the new one (but out of my picture). It is a very lovely brown stone building with delightful gargoyles sticking out from the four corners of its clock tower. Here is a lovely photo of it that I picked from the web, specifically from here:

T-Dot

I am in Toronto for the next few days for the Ontario HIV Treatment Network (OHTN) Research Conference and the Annual General Meeting of the Canadian AIDS Treatment Information Exchange (CATIE). I came on the train with my Board President and amused myself along the way updating my Facebook status with my progress (I had to add back in the accents on the French ones, as FB stripped them away!):

- is headed to T-Dot on the T-rain today.
- est à Dorval...en route vers T-point. Est-ce que ça se dit?
- empiète sur le térritoire canadien...et personne n'a demandé de passeport!
- Cornwall! (Hi Shendah's mother!)
- Kingston, et le train sera complêt pour le reste du voyage, on annonce.
- Farmland...and no sudoku in the VIA Destinations magazine.
- Guildwood.
- 29e étage! (Oui, le monsieur est arrivé a T-point.)

Only 8 updates, which I consider rather restrained. ;-)

Now for the lexical translation… T-Dot being a hopelessly inane name for Toronto. I believe it started with T.O., and then they just dropped the O (did it sound too much like BO?). This is probably all quite passé as well, as I think they are calling it « Metro » since their own municipal mergers, but that will always designate for me a train on rubber tires wending its way through underground Montréal.

To make things worse, I have attempted my own translation of the archaic inane expression, making it T-point in French. All of my FB friends are most confused.

I will attempt some photos of my fabulous view, looking north over Osgoode Hall and the Toronto City Hall, from the 29th floor of the hotel, but that will have to wait until there’s a little light tomorrow.

For now, in a nod to Bob, let me offer you a look at my hotel room. I wonder if his will be looking similar this week?

Verification

How annoying! One of my long-ago posts suddenly had a spammy comment (selling likely fake pharmaceuticals), so I have had to enable the word verification thingy on my comments.

If I get any more I will have to start moderating, even though I prefer free expression. Of course, the kind of expression I have in mind when I think of that isn't trying to sell anything or cheat someone of their money.

Grrrr.

Vaccination

I got my vaccination against Influenza A (H1N1) last Saturday. For the sake of simplicity, let's just call it the swine flu and be done with it.

I was anxious leading up to this experience, but not because of any vaccine fears. I was worried that I wouldn't be able to get it soon enough to not interfere with the other vaccination I have coming up. You see, we discovered last spring that I had lost my protection against Hepatitis A and B and I had to restart that process of vaccination (three doses, at 0, 1 and 6 months) to get that coverage back. My third dose will be in the first week of December and I really didn't want to have to choose between swine flu protection and the success of this latest attempt to ensure protection against Hepatitis A and B, especially considering the length of the latter process.

My experiences of Hepatitis A and B vaccination now number 3. The first time, I produced no immune response. This was in the lead-up to my diagnosis with HIV, so I probably had no immune system to mount a response (remember I was diagnosed rather late, with a CD4+ cell count of only 4). The second time around, in 2000, it seemed to have worked, right up until seeing the lack of protection in my routine blood tests last spring. Now is time number 3. May it work in a more lasting way.

The experience of the swine flu vaccination was a relief. Our many governments seem to be somewhat disorganized in their response, with fluctuating supplies and changing lists of who is eligible/prioritized for vaccination. The weakness of devolving the organization of health care to the regional level has clearly shown itself: there seem to be no two regions in Québec that are proceeding in the same way, leading to increasing confusion in the population.

The situation is also evolving rapidly, and these changes confuse, too. Our public health authorities across the whole country worked really hard to create a sense of urgency for the whole population to be vaccinated, and then when events — particularly the death of an otherwise healthy teenaged hockey player in Ontario — helped to illustrate the potential seriousness of this virus and really sold people on the vaccine way that the public health messages had not, they all seemed to have been caught unaware. (I would have said 'with their pants down,' but this vaccination is delivered to the arm!) Long lines and frustrated, panicked people were the results.

In that context, I was a little trepidacious about my own trip to the vaccination centre. Would they respect the order of priority explained in the flyer we got in every household (children under 5, women in the second half of their pregnancy, pregnant women with underlying health conditions, and people who are immune suppressed) or the list published two days later in the newspapers (all of the above, except the immune suppressed)? Would my vaccination be pushed back to a date uncomfortably close to my final dose of Hepatitis A and B vaccine?

All of the worry was for naught. I arrived at about noon and they were still giving out tickets marked 11 am. I went right into the building, had a form printed and within minutes was upstairs watching the informational video (with English subtitles, even!). I completed the consent questionnaire (did I feel sick today, did I have allergies to eggs, etc.), had a brief visit to a nurse to verify my reason for getting the vaccine (they didn't even want to see the proof I had brought) and then I was in front of another nurse getting injected. Statutory 15 minute waiting period, and I was out the door a mere 40 minutes after arriving. Done and done.

And I didn't even cry like the other kids being vaccinated next to me, not for the needle nor for the putting back on of the coats to go outside (which seemed traumatic for many of my young co-vaccinés).

Magic!

Tonight's performance of the Magic Flute by the Opéra de Montréal was very lovely, one of my most enjoyable opera experiences yet. This is one of the first German operas I have seen produced by the company — they usually stick to the Italian side of things — and I would heartily recommend it.

Let's talk about the sets for a minute. Not fabulous, but they still worked. I'm not sure if they intended for us to laugh as Tamino and Pamina endure the trials by fire and water, but it was so cheesy as to be very funny indeed. In the big scene at the end, I thought the set made Sarastro look like Raël or maybe the high priest of the Order of the Solar Temple. Either of those would be comic in a kind of tragic way. The spirits floating across the stage on a cloud were inspired and the periodic appearance of props from on high (bird, noose) also made us laugh out loud and worked quite well.

Costumes? Fabulous animals, including the serpent at the beginning and all number of creatures brought out by the flute, including a … camelcorn? Tamino had a lovely outfit through most of it, until he donned the Solar Temple robes at the end, and the Queen of the Night's tiara was to die for, or to die of if she had decided to use it for evil, which I wouldn't put past her! The best of all were the costumes of Papageno and Papagena, most birdlike indeed.

And while we're on the topic of Papageno, I have to salute the fabulous job that Aaron St. Clair Nicholson did in the role of Papageno. Not only does he sing beautifully, but his comic acting abilities, including great timing, had us rolling in the aisles. The Queen of the Night aria, sung by Aline Kutan, was also very beautiful and well executed.

Of course, some of the content of this opera is not for the feminist of heart. Memorable lines like "A woman does little, chatters much" and "A man must lead your hearts, for without him every woman is misguided" are not exactly cut from the pages of a Gloria Steinem book. But I guess we can all agree that Mozart was not a feminist, but a product of his time and move on from there.

Good fun, this one, and even better in good company.

At Least It Was a Moral…Defeat

Lovely aftermath of our municipal elections, which took place yesterday.

The mayor, whose administration was mired in a few ethical scandals, was returned to power, and with a majority of seats on the city council. At least a few of the big names in his party, including his brother (there's that high school look again — mayor's brother occupies important post in the city) lost their seats.

The progressive provincial politician who unfortunately chose to take a run at municipal politics with the most right wing of the municipal parties came second.

The leader of the new progressive party (the only one that ran mainly on the party's ideas and not on the personality of its leader) came third, but almost tripled his showing from four years ago. In fact, the party — Projet Montréal — has complete control of the Plateau neighbourhood and made some gains in other parts of the city, too, ending with 10 city councillors this time in comparison to the lone one last time out.

Ah, but the real moral defeat was suffered by our democracy. Overall voter turnout was extremely low by Canadian standards — between 30% and 40% — even after all the hot ticket issues that came out during the campaign. The mayor got a whopping 14.2% of voters to turn out and support him. The others did even worse. There were no more than a handful of areas in the city where more than half of the electors turned out to vote, and those were squeakers with just over 50%.

We'll see if there is any impact on the things that really need to be changed.

Démocratie?

C'est l'année des élections municipales à Montréal et je m'inquiète de l'état de notre démocratie.

Première indication de trouble : le maire d'une des villes en banlieue a réussi à convaincre un candidat de l'opposition de se retirer, mais s'est trouvé avec un autre moins collaborateur. Son argument? Comme plusieurs des conseillers de la ville ont été élus par acclamation, donc ce serait un gaspillage d'argent d'avoir à mener des élections dans ces districts. Il paraît que la démocratie ne vaut pas les 20 000$ que ça peut coûter.

Deuxième signe de problèmes : les partis politiques qui changent leurs noms pour y incorporer le nom de leur chef. Le parti du maire sortant s'appelle maintenant « Équipe Tremblay - Union Montréal » et celui de l'opposition officielle « Équipe Harel - Vision Montréal ». Deux autres partis se nomment d'une manière similaire. Ça me fait penser que ce sont des partis non pas d'idées, mais de personnalités. Retour à l'école secondaire…

Troisième cri d'alarme : la nouvelle configuration de la représentation de mon arrondissement. Je suis installé dans l'arrondissement de Ville-Marie, au centre-ville de Montréal. Dans la plupart des arrondissements, chaque citoyen va choisir un maire d'arrondissement, un conseiller de ville et, dans certains, un conseiller d'arrondissement. Tous ces élus constituent le conseil d'arrondissement. Pas chez moi. En fait, je suis privé du choix de maire d'arrondissement, car c'est le maire de la ville qui assume automatiquement ce poste. De plus, mes concitoyens et moi vont élire ensemble trois conseillers de ville (dans les trois districts de l'arrondissement) et ils vont siéger avec le maire de la ville et deux autres personnes nommées à partir des conseillers de ville élus ailleurs dans la ville. La moitié de ma représentation locale aurait été choisie par les gens qui ne demeurent pas dans mon quartier.

Dernier gros problème : la non-participation. Je serais dans les 30% des électeurs qui vont participer à ces élections. C'est encore pire lors des élections scolaires, où je fais partie des 2% qui votent.

Devrais-je me contenter qu'il n'y a pas plus de monde dehors mon quartier qui va participer à choisir mon conseil d'arrondissement?

Mayan Y2K*

I've had my eyes on a film that is coming out soon: 2012

I even came face to face with the large version of the publicity for the film in the cinema.

It seems that the Mayan calendar is coming to an end and with it, so the theory goes, the WHOLE WORLD! Don't bother running for the hills — they will be going, too! And all because some ancient stonecarver neglected to indicate that the new calendar should come out a few months before the old one expired.

No doubt there will be all sorts of doomsday profiteers cashing in on the insecurities of the weak-minded. Some are even cashing in on the cynicism.

I'm reminded of the groups of atheists who have set up a post-Rapture pet care service to take care of the pets of the faithful after the Rapture (pets can't go to heaven and those providing the service guarantee that they are blasphemers and won't be going either). No refunds if the rapture fails to occur or if you get left behind!

And what will they all do if it fizzles like the computer Y2K? Or what if it's real?!

Like those who spent a whole lot of money to prepare for the computer Y2K, I have adopted a preventive strategy to head off any disruptions in my own life.

Some years ago, I switched to the Firemen Calendar, largely out of concern for burn victims (the calendar I buy benefits a burn unit). Now I find that this act of charity will also serve to protect me from the apocalypse. I am sure that there will be a Firemen Calendar in 2013, and that it will be out well in advance of the expiry of the previous one.

*Term stolen from someone I was in a meeting with this weekend. Thanks!

Now the Story Can Be Told

I have been living in fear and disgust since the weekend of Labour Day, when a most disturbing event took away my peace of mind.

I saw a rat. In. My. Apartment.

There were actually three sightings. Once from the corner of my eye, the kind of thing that you're not really sure is really there, but you could swear you saw something. I pinned my hopes on mouse, but thought it was a rather large mouse.

The next was unmistakeable and the most disturbing, as is zoomed across the stove and counter and down behind the fridge. Enraged, I moved the fridge forward a bit, grabbed the broom and did my best 'crazy person gonna squish that animal with a broom' moves. I heard, but did not see its quick dash to freedom.

Then the investigator hat came out. I found a little pile of crackers behind the fridge, which I quickly disposed of, and then I found the emptied box of crackers on the counter. I switched into panic cleaning mode (with some help — thanks Andrew! — and did that kitchen purge of clutter that I should have done long, long ago. A was most helpful in giving the critter a name — Benoit — which I later amended to Benoit XVII, successor to the current pope, perhaps? After Andrew left, I did the cleaning part and now have clean top surfaces, at least, and way more space without the clutter. I should note that every time I walked through my dining room, in which is located my stereo permanently fixed on CBC Radio One, there was almost invariably some kind of rat story being told, usually something about the province of Saskatchewan having an explosion in rat population. Or there would be the program As It Happens making dozens of rat-based puns. All a little too much for me to handle.

Sighting number three was a little foray back from checking on the state of its cracker stash (gone). I spent a rather sleepless night, considering that my bedroom is not far enough away from the scene of the crime.

I called the exterminator. Because my landlord was out of town, I got to choose, so of course called the cute one we used at my old work. (Bonus!) He had a look around, didn't see a lot of traces (so it hadn't been around long?) and left some lovely blue blocks of poison behind the major appliances, with some spares for my use.

I spent the day that day working at home in the front of my apartment. I happened to wander back to the kitchen and froze as I got close. One of the blue blocks of rat poison was now in the middle of the kitchen floor! I had a brief flash of a rat on its hind legs, throwing the block at me and telling me to eat the darn thing! Some quick sleuthing revealed that it was the one from behind the washer, so I put it back.

The next day, returning from work, I checked the block placement. The popular one from behind the washer was gone! Nowhere to be seen! I replaced it with a fresh one from my supply. I discovered the next morning that it was not, in fact, gone. It had been moved behind the fridge. Where once there was one, now there were two! (So glad I didn't see that the night before; I had slept on the basis of a rat gagging on poison somewhere outside of my apartment.)

Two days later, I went to see a movie in the evening and wasn't able to check until I got home much later. Big surprise! Nothing behind the washer. Nothing behind the fridge. That would be three missing blocks of rat poison. Surely that would kill it! I replaced them and went to bed with mixed feelings (yes, poison maybe consumed, but it had been there that day!).

A week went by with no sounds, no sightings, and no more moving blocks of poison.

The exterminator came by today for a follow-up visit and we found a few things. We did find one of the 'missing' blocks under the fridge, chewed upon, which is good. We also found the hole into which the rat was escaping, which had been a big mystery. (It was under the toe-kick of the cupboard, at the edge where there was just a filler board to make the cupboard flush with the wall.). Best of all, he found a body downstairs in the neighbours' outdoor closet thingy. Phew! I am allowing myself to sleep by believing that the body was the rat that was in my apartment and that there were no others.

But I'm watching. I'm monitoring the blocks. And I found some dollar-store steel wool to plug the opening of that hole. So I hope my ordeal is over.

And as for Benoit — and I do mean the pope this time — did you realize that his family name is…RATzinger?!!

Neglect

OMG! Almost two months since my last post!

I was away for a while, busy for a while and lazy for most of the time. I promise to get back to recounting my life and inane thoughts soon.

The thing that I can't neglect, however, is upon us! It is time for our annual AIDS Walk, Ça Marche, and I will again be participating, but have not yet decided who to walk with (since changing jobs, I am not sure that walking with my old group would be appropriate). Maybe I will muscle my way up front and walk with the Farha family and the other Star Walkers. At least that way, I won't come in last like I did last year (seriously, the police cars closing the walk were on my heels!).

The big thing about Ça Marche is the fundraising, so please do sponsor me. You can click here or on the image to the right at the top of the blog.

Thanks for your support!

Meet Grumpy Old Man

I realize that through various 'rant' posts I have revealed my not-so-hidden Grumpy Old Man persona. It's time to make this official by including it as a searchable topic and sharing those little things that set me off.

Well, internally, as I am still a WASP in control of his outward expressions.

Tonight's episode: the rules of the road.

We live in a society with certain rules that exist to protect us from each other. Some of the most delicate balances concern roads, streets, bicycle lanes and sidewalks, especially in a city like Montréal, where the rules seem to be something we don't necessarily follow, but that we love to point to when someone else's free spirit has inconvenienced our own.

Tonight, I took a bus home after seeing a movie at the other side of downtown. While waiting for the bus, I watched with some degree of amusement as four bicycle cops bore down on what they seemed to think was a drug deal in the park. It may well have been, but the small group scattered and that's all the cops succeeded in doing. Shortly after that, it seemed to be the end of their shift, and they set out eastward like a pack of dirtbikers, whizzing past me at the bus stop with mere centimetres to spare. Oh no, I was not perched on the curb; they were speeding from the park across the sidewalk right past me onto the street. Now that's respecting the rules of the road, no? And by the people who are charged with ensuring that the rules are followed.

It gets better.

The configuration below might be familiar to many: the crosswalk. (In Montréal we tend to think of these as 'targeting zones' and don't really believe the cars will stop for pedestrians at them. We are usually not disappointed in our assessments.)

At the corner of my street where I get off the bus, debarking passengers must cross a bicycle path to reach the sidewalk. Luckily, there are crosswalk stripes painted across the bicycle lane at both bus door locations. Do you think my mad cycling police officers stopped to allow me to cross? Not a chance! They whizzed by as I pointed at the crosswalk with my own cross look directed at them.

Good thing they were wearing their sunglasses with the anti-glare feature or they might have been withered by my look.

Thanks for showing us all how to respect the rules of the road, boys!

Guerre des journaux

Il est revenu. Le journal que je déteste, que personne ici ne veut et dont j'ai pensé avoir mis fin à la livraison…est de retour.

Mercredi passé étant la journée nationale de déménagement au Québec, ils auraient dû pensé que la femme qui y était abonnée il y a plusieurs années a décidé de revenir s'installer à nouveau dans son ancien logement. Non, ça ne fait pas de sens, et ce n'est pas le cas.

Donc, je passe à la prochaine phase de ma lutte contre le Journal de Montréal, cet espèce de déchets produit par des briseurs de grève que je trouve devant ma porte chaque matin depuis jeudi. C'est la phase où je livre ce même journal chez eux, par un moyen qui va leur coûter chaque fois qu'ils livrent chez moi. Je les mets dans une enveloppe sans timbre, avec leur adresse comme destinataire et comme source, et je les mets à la poste. J'inclus une note avec chacun qui lit comme suit :

« SVP ARRETEZ DE LIVRER VOTRE JOURNAL AUX [omis] À MONTRÉAL

IL N'Y A PERSONNE VIVANT À CES ADRESSES QUI VEUT LE RECEVOIR

LES JOURNAUX NON VOULUS REPRÉSENTENT POUR NOUS UNE MÉNACE À NOTRE SÉCURITÉ, CAR ILS ANNONCENT DES LOGEMENTS PRÊTS POUR LES VOLEURS

DE TEMPS EN TEMPS, VOUS LIVREZ AVEC LE JOURNAL UNE FACTURE AU NOM DE [omis]. CETTE FEMME NE DEMEURE PAS ICI DEPUIS AU MOINS 4 OU 5 ANS

VOS JOURNAUX VOUS SERONT RETOURNÉS PAR LA POST, NON TIMBRÉS POUR QUE ÇA VOUS COÛTE, CHAQUE FOIS QUE VOUS LES LIVREZ »
Et comme partout, la guerre n'est pas gratuite pour moi : j'ai eu à acheter des enveloppes assez grands pour envoyer ces journaux. Espérant que mon investissement porte fruit.

Mixed Message

The 30th Montreal International Jazz Festival is underway, and the zone in which it is traditionally held is in full construction mode.

The location of the welcome banners is obviously pre-determined and did not take into consideration the street closures for construction work. Here is what greets people at the intersection of de Maisonneuve and St-Laurent:

…and a close-up of that barrier fence across the "entry" way:

Welcome to the Festival indeed!

I guess we will find out later what the purpose of the work depicted below will be, but it started out with the removal of some rather lovely flowering crabapple trees that outlined the two little triangle-shaped parks flanking that section of de Maisonneuve, between Clark and St-Urbain.

And I didn't even take pictures of the demolition of the Place-des-Arts parking structure (just to the right of this view of the big hole) or, to be fair, the part of Jeanne-Mance that was apparently completed in time for the Stevie Wonder concert last night. Or mostly completed…

On Making Decisions for Oneself

While the rest of the world wailed, gnashed teeth and moonwalked over the death of an odd recluse who they had never met, something a little more important — in my mind — was unfolding on the floor of the Supreme Court of Canada. The story of that case is here, but let me also express my disappointment with how difficult this was to find on the web site of our national broadcaster (much easier, in fact on several commercial services).

A 14-year-old girl, determined to be sufficiently mature by psychiatrists, had her decision to refuse a blood transfusion overruled by a judge and the treatment was administered without her consent. Yes, she is a Jehovah's Witness, and no, I am not given to defending religiously-based viewpoints. But the notion of being able to consent to or to refuse medical treatment is something I care very much about.

The justices speak of life-saving treatment, and insist that this is not about religious freedom or the attitudes toward what has long been a stigmatized religion in this country and many others. But let's change that example and propose a pregnant child — like the incest victim excommunicated in Brazil for having an abortion when following through with the pregnancy would have killed her — and the point of view of the Roman Catholic church. Would the courts and child welfare authorities intervene to compel such a child to have an abortion to save her life if she and her family insisted that this would violate their freedom of religion? Sadly, I don't think so, and more sadly still, that has everything to do with the perceived legitimacy of the Roman Catholic church, versus the Jehovah's Witnesses.

Not being a child, and not being likely to have any, this still concerns me as an issue as a person living with an eventually fatal disease. I want to know that I am in control of the decisions relating to my treatment, that I will be able to say no, or no more when in the future I have decided that I have done enough. I need to know that the content of my decision will not be used as proof of my incapacity to make it — surely he can't be in full possession of his faculties if he is deciding not to cling to every last second of life.

I probably wouldn't make the same decision this young woman wanted to make, but I find myself firmly on her side with respect to her right to make it (with apologies to Voltaire).

Christo de Farge débarque à Paris

Pour marquer mon retour de Paris, je partage avec vous un petit projet que j'ai fait lors de ma première visite à Paris en 2006. Ceci pour expliquer le geste que j'ai encore posé cette fois, et que je poserai chaque fois que je me trouve à Paris.

Frais d'une réunion à Hoche en compagnie de ses collègues français et de « La Canadienne » de la rue Blanche, Christo de Farge prend le métro et, passant par...

...Stalingrad...

il change de ligneà la station Républiquepour enfin descendre à Rambuteau.
Non pas pour le Centre Pompidou,

mais pour faire un peu de shopping, quoi?

Une petite boutique quis'appelle Why? (en bon français),dont le site internet est beaucoup moins intéressant que l'endroit lui-même.

Ensuite à Mokuba, magasin à rubans, tout simplement pour demander où il peut acheter de la laine et des aiguilles à tricoter. Le beau jeune homme qui s'habitue à répondre aux besoins en rubans de designers est quand même poli et connaît bien le quartier.

Il dirige Monsieur de Farge vers La Droguerie.

C’est pleine de matériel pour le tricotage dont les images décorent l'esprit de notre protagoniste. Il sélectionne une laine rouge et des aiguilles 3,5 mm. Il continue à pied vers le premier arrêt prévu.

En passant par le Palais du Louvre,

le Musée du Louvre,

le Musée du Louvre encore (il est grand!),

l'Hôtel du Louvre et autant d'autres immeubles Louvrés qu'il n'aurait pas eu d'autres prises dans sa caméra s'il les prenait tous en photo!

Ah! De la verdure! Ça doit être le Jardin des Tuileries!

Avec son art moderne...

...son art manquant...

et un marais qui semblait plaire aux canards, sinon à Monsieur de Farge.

Toute de suite après le Jardin des Tuileries, et avant le Champs Élysées,

on trouve la Place de la Concorde, sa destination convoitée!

Elle se distingue par son art volé

(ou, si on peut croire les inscriptions autour, ce « cadeau » de l'Égypte à la République!)

Elle contient aussi l'inscription qui confirme que c'est bien l'endroit ou a tricoté il y a des siècles une certaine Madame de Farge, inspiration au de Farge moderne, lorsque la noblesse a rencontré son destin incontournable.

Comme il n'y a pas de bancs, ni d'ombre, notre héros retourneau Jardin des Tuileries, plus spécifiquement au Café Veryafin de se préparer pour sa tâche.

Il roule en balle sa laine, se désaltérant avec un « ice tea pêche » comme disent les citoyens, encore en bon français.

Il commence ensuite son tricotage, malheureusement pas dans l’endroit de son inspiration, mais tout près quand même.

Il monte les mailles et il tricote trente-seize rangs, pour ses années sur la terre et ce, avec un café crème au bout de ses doigts.

Il prend une longue marche pour trouver l'autre objet de sa mission...

...le Pont Neuf...

et il continue jusqu'à la Place de la Bastille,

d'où il prend le métro vers son hôtel, en passant, bien sûr, par...

...Stalingrad!

Il tricote ce soir-là les rangs 47 au 161, pour la placesur la liste d'ancienneté d'un objet de son désir du passé, été 1981.

Il se lève le matin et il tricote encore 14 rangs (au 175),même s'il préfère ne pas arrêter à un rang dont le chiffre est divisible par 5!

Il prend son petit déjeuner au Café Bleu et il marche jusqu'à l'Opéra.

Sur l'escalier devant l'Opéra, il tricote les rangs 176 au 199.

Il est difficile à dire si les touristes,qui prennent en photo l'Opéra (au lieu du McDonald's ou le Hard Rock Café!), sont plus amusés par son tricotage ou par le sérieux du garçon qui s'est installé sous l'indication « Poésie lyrique » pour écrire, il est certain, de la poésie lyrique!

Il marche encore, cette fois se dirigeant encore vers le Jardin des Tuileries, plus spécifiquement aux trampolines qui s'y trouvent, pour tricoter les rangs 200 au 222.

(Pas de photo de ces trampolines, parce qu’ils n'étaient pas si intéressants et personne ne les utilisait!)

Avec une vue sur la Place de la Concorde, Monsieur de Farge s'approche de l'expérience de son homonyme en tricotant les rangs 223 au 249.

(On remarque comment il est soucieux d'éviter les arrêts divisibles par 5, après sa défaillance du matin!)

Deux rangs seulement (250 et 251) sur un banc devant le Petit Palais.

L'escalier du Grand Palais était en rénovation, et il manquait des bancs visibles!

Il traverse le Pont de l'Alma pour se retrouver dans le Parc du Champ de Mars, où il termine son projet (ou presque!) avec les rangs 252 au 285.

Tout cela devant la Tour Eiffel. Plusieurs touristes japonais l'ont trouvé tellement intéressant qu'ils le prenaient en photo.

(Oui, le chiffre 285 est divisible par 5, mais il porte une autre signifiance pour Monsieur de Farge qu'il garde pour lui-même.)

Une petite bouchée dans la Place des Invalides (un bon mélange de l'asiatique et du français),

et il arrête les mailles devant l'Assemblée Nationale.

Monsieur Lafarge passe sur le Pont de la Concorde, par la Place de la Concorde, dans le Jardin des Tuileries, où il prend le temps de boire un autre « ice tea pêche » et il dévoile pour la première fois la nature de son projet.

Il marche le long du fleuve vers le Pont Neuf, cette fois plus près de l'eau que de la circulation. Il remonte et il traverse le Pont Neuf jusqu'à l'île, où il descend sur le Quai des Orfèvres. Il « emballe » l'anneau qu'il y trouve avec sa création et y attache son message de souvenir à 17h15, le 26 septembre 2006.

« Garry Rossy. m. 22 mars 1992 à Montréal.

Je porte toujours et partout mes souvenirs de toi. »

Il n'y a pas de moment ou de manière inapproprié pour rendre hommage à ses amis.

Mission accomplie, il retourne à l'hôtel, en passant une dernière fois par...

...Stalingrad!

• • • • •

Mercredi de la semaine passée, je suis allé au Pont Neuf pour encore attacher un ruban rouge à la mémoire de cet ami.

...tout comme je me promets de faire à chaque fois que j'irais à Paris.