Confessions of a middle-aged fan girl

(Guest blog by S. Mitchell)

When I told a friend that I had tickets to see both Crowded House in Montreal and the Police in Vancouver in the summer of 2007, he jokingly - and somewhat snidely - asked, "Do you only go to see 80s bands in concert? Do you ever go to hear new bands?" The answers were no and yes, of course, but I could see his point.

I like hearing new bands and music, but what is different now is that I don't invest the time in getting to know a band and their music the way I did in the 80s. Those were the days of record players and cassettes and free time and boundless energy...and the ability to stay up until the wee hours listening to music. And we’d listen together, just a bunch of friends; it was an accepted social activity. On my own, I'd listen so intently to my records, play them over and over again, memorize every song. I'd pore over the lyrics and study the cover art. Music was more tactile then - if that makes sense; we were more engaged, physically, in the experience. We’d select the record from the stack, slide the vinyl disk smoothly from its soft plastic cover and place it ever-so-carefully on the turntable. We’d run the felt dustbrush over the surface, and set the needle down, waiting for that exquisite moment when the static crackle quieted and the needle reached the music-infused groove. And then we’d really listen.


Now we can load numerous songs or cds into our players, we can skip, delete, fast forward; we can cherry-pick the songs we want, without ever having to listen to an album straight through.


I'm guilty of that; I bought a Jason Mraz cd months ago and have yet to hear the whole thing. I haven’t made time to focus on the whole effort. Speaking of focus, I can no longer enjoy the cover art or liner notes either....unless I have my reading glasses and a good light source nearby; everything is too small. (Insert snort of laughter here).


It could also be because my taste in music has broadened that I can’t maintain that same intensity, even if I wanted to. I like to listen to lots of different music. My husband has made me a fan of Tom Waits (and I like to think I’ve made him one of Crowded House). I like Charlie Haden and Jimmy Cliff; classical music, ska and surf guitar. My latest discovery is violinist Sophie Solomon - look her up, if a mixture of klezmer, folk and pop intrigues you - and my nephew recently introduced me to German industrial metal band, Rammstein. Yikes.


If only there were enough time in the day to get acquainted with all of those artists to the same extent that I knew and know the music of Crowded House. They’re the ones that I’ve stuck with over the years. Since 1986, in fact, when the first notes of "Don't Dream It's Over" wafted to my ears for the first time from my clock radio in the darkness of my room in Victoria. I loved that song immediately, then the album, and thus began my relationship with Crowded House. I’ll never forget the concert they played in Victoria, in the summer of 1987 at the Royal Theatre and not just because they played a surprisingly good cover of Led Zeppelin’s “Whole Lotta Love” as an encore.


One very clear memory from that show is that during a break, the lights suddenly went up on the dark stage for just enough time for us to see the drummer, Paul Hester, standing there, naked. The lights went back down and delighted laughter and murmurs filled the theatre. Minutes later, the band returned to the stage, with Paul Hester nonchalantly buttoning up his shirt and saying "I just won $50 in a bet". He was known for his sense of humour, and what a great moment that was! That same night, I bumped into William, a friend from school and work. He was taking photographs at the concert and I was thrilled to see him; he was very clever and funny, in addition to being tall, handsome and popular, but a little dark and alternative, as well. It seemed that everyone either had a crush on him or wished they were him. That was one of the last times I saw William because these two concert memories share the same sad epilogue. Both Paul Hester and my friend William ended their own lives; William a few months after that concert and Paul Hester in 2005.


Fast forward to the present. All these years later, the world knows a lot more about depression and I, too, have more experience with grief and tragedy than I’d like. Happily, though, I also know more of joy, wonder and gratitude. And I’m still here on this earth. And so is Crowded House. It’s 24 years later and I’ve recently seen two Crowded House concerts, in two different cities, in two provinces, in the space of three days. And I might see another in Vancouver in a couple of weeks. I know how that sounds, but hear me out and I guarantee you might not think I’m a fanatic. Although the band has endured a break-up, lost Mr. Hester, and seen different members come and go, this latest iteration is solid and the shows in 2007 and those last month were as good, fun and exhilarating as that concert way back in the days of shoulder-padded, brightly-coloured 80s fashions. Lead singer Neil Finn is still in very fine voice.


I’ve seen other 80s favourites in the last decade or so and the experience has mostly been disappointing, though I’ve learned to manage my expectations somewhat. Sometimes it’s the venue: to see a formerly big name playing at an out-of-the-way casino or country fair seems to be a blow to their dignity. Sometimes it’s the musicians themselves: they’re ageing badly, they’re thicker around the middle (to be expected) and straining the seams of their too-small leather pants (to be avoided). Or their voices are raspier or weaker, whether due to age, misuse, rough living, or lack of practice. Or they try to act like they’re still 20 onstage, when they’re nearer to 50. Please no pelvic thrusts; you’ll slip a disc! And, lastly, they play the oldies, but have nothing new. It’s like they’ve given up. This only reminds us, the fans, that we’re getting older too. You can never go back to your glory days - yes, the ones you didn’t appreciate enough when you were living them.


But then there’s Crowded House, a band that has endured, overcome and morphed into a partly new, partly familiar, but still shiny, entity. They sound and look great and it’s clear they love what they’re doing. They’re pros: consummate showmen and musicians, without the rock star airs. This band shows literally no degradation over time and, bonus, they have loads of new material: two new cds in the last three years. How rare is that? (Well, I guess U2 does that, too, but Bono’s shades smack of rock star attitude...and didn’t he just put his back out?) For me, the perseverance of Crowded House provides this strange and wonderful link between the 22-year-old me and the 45-year-old version. Two very different worlds and perspectives, with this one great band in common. It’s like revisiting the old (young) me.


Experiencing Crowded House in concert again in 2007 - 20 years after that first Victoria concert - got me thinking about how music can have such a profound effect on our lives....and how strange that thought must be for the musicians themselves. I began to understand, too, that revisiting our past through music can be so rewarding and not just sadly nostalgic, and how rare it is to have something wonderful in your life remain constant and appealing, when so many things change, fade or disappear. It's the connection to that part of our lives when our love of music was intense and pure, as were we.


They say that if you write out a list of things you want to accomplish in your life, they’re more likely to happen. I’m starting to believe it, because I made a “life list” (sounds better than bucket list) in 2007 and number 8 on the list, after “photographing hippos in the wild” and before “hike the West Coast Trail with my family ”, I wrote “Meet Neil Finn”. Don’t ask me why. Astoundingly, a few months later I did in fact meet Mr. Finn and the rest of the band. ( I also had “Meet Colin Firth” on my list; nothing yet, but fingers crossed!) My husband and I had tickets to see Crowded House at the St. Denis Theatre in Montreal and, by coincidence, ended up staying at the same hotel as the band. My husband, ever-patient and wonderful, suggested that if I really wanted to meet the band, we could probably catch them on the way to the mid-afternoon sound check. I didn't pause to think about why I wanted to meet them. Or what I would say to them at such time, which became painfully obvious when I did in fact come face to face with them. My husband and I "staked out" the door between the lobby and the tour bus. It was more than a little pathetic; a lone middle-aged fan waiting hopefully by the door, pen in hand, camera at the ready. That weekend, the hotel was also home to many competitors in the Rogers Cup tennis tournament. Many hot young tennis stars breezed past us, but even Federer would have meant nothing to me, so intense was my focus on meeting Crowded House. Finally, one by one, the band members came out, dutifully signed my cd and posed for photos. They were kind and slightly amused, I think, by my presence.


Why do we want to actually meet our favourite celebrities? Maybe we believe that if we get close to them, some of their greatness or beauty or charisma will magically transfer over to us. We pose next to them like they’re the Taj Mahal or Niagara Falls. Look at how close I was to this amazing thing! Look at my brush with greatness!


When it happens, though, it’s more than slightly surreal. A clash of the familiar (celebrity to fan) and the unknown (fan to celebrity). It must be odd for a celebrity, especially a reluctant one, to be approached by strangers who feel as if they know them and actually do, in a sense. And, really, what can a fan/admirer possibly say, in the space of a minute or two, that hasn’t been said a thousand times before? How do you convey your appreciation for their effort, their creativity, their talent without coming across like a total dweeb or, worse, a psycho fan? And more importantly, how do you do that when the strange effects of celebrity and fame have tampered with your ability to speak and behave in a manner approximating normal.


Here’s how I did it....I blurted out the following inane comments, in a strangely strangled-sounding voice, using only simple sentence structure and little to no intonation:. "We're looking forward to the show" and "We're so glad you're touring again". Then I stood for a photograph standing next to poor Mr. Finn, not looking at, nor interacting with, him. Then, without me saying anything at all witty or interesting, he was gone. And the show that night was wonderful. Of course. Then I saw them again last month, twice.


“Yeah, what’s with two concerts in three days?” you ask. “You truly are a fanatic.” Simple explanation: I bought tickets to the Montreal show before I found out they would be playing Ottawa, too. They were two very different shows, covering lots of songs between the two of them. The Montreal show, held at a music hall/night club, was filled with a lot of diehard fans, ones who were familiar with all the material, even the new stuff, whereas the show at the Ottawa Bluesfest attracted many who knew of Crowded House in the 80s. To hear the comments coming from those around me in the audience was fantastic. They were blown away by the energy and quality of the band. Example: "Holy f**k, these guys are so good, even after 20 years; that's a real testament to what a great band they are". I hope that show, and the many others on the tour, contribute to even greater success for Crowded House. They deserve it. I mean, these guys are good. So good I might even fly to Vancouver to see that concert at the end of August. After all, my brother does have an extra ticket and I would like to see my family and the mountains and the ocean again.


And if I had a chance to meet the band again, this is what I would say:


Thanks for continuing to make brilliant music, thanks for caring about your audience enough to put on really fantastic shows, thanks for being kind to your fans, and, last but not least, thanks for inspiring me to be creative. I’ve thought a lot lately about the notion of contributing something tangible to the world, so I’ve been trying to spend more time and energy on my passions: writing and photography. Seeing Crowded House again gave me the idea for this essay, so maybe number 8 on my life list was really meant to push me back into writing. Done!

One word of advice though, to Crowded House: if you don’t want your fans to feel old and doddery, don’t sell tea towels as concert merchandise again (as you did in 2007). Or, if you do, go the whole distance in an ironic way, by selling Crowded House tea cozies, Crowded House teacups, Crowded House tea balls, etc. These would go over very well in my home town of Victoria.


Epilogue: I did go to the Vancouver concert....no tea towels in sight.
Post epilogue: Just noticed they're selling tea towels for latest tour on website....

Confessions of a Becoming Jane and Zombies Book Club Addict

(guest blog by G. Aubertin)

I discovered Jane Austen at the age of 21 when I picked up Emma to escape a particularly horrible weekend getaway. Although I had previously read Pride and Prejudice, perhaps at too young an age, I had positive but not fanatical feelings towards her novels. After Emma, however, I was enchanted and proceeded to read and re-read the remainder of her 6 novels with varying appreciation (none have compared to Emma for sheer reading pleasure, even though P and P is one of the greatest books of all time). Even so, I was slow to understand the extent of Austen’s genius. When I saw Clueless for the first time I didn’t detect the borrowed storyline. However, by the time the A&E/BBC P and P miniseries had ended I was completely in awe of all things Jane Austen, not to mention all things Colin Firth, and many things bearing some relation. Therefore not only am I a Jane Austen fan, I am a Jane Austen adaptation fan. In 2004 when I visited England for the first time my itinerary included Jane’s house at Chawton, her grave stone at Winchester Cathedral, a house she stayed at in Bath, her father’s grave in Bath, and various filming locations of P and P including the glorious golden home that was Longbourne. Gwyneth’s Emma inspired a long-standing celebrity crush, which is another whole story. At my wedding P and P music was played, my dress was inspired by Jennifer Ehle, my hair was Gwyneth’s Emma. My husband-to-be drew the line at English country dancing, but his handsome resemblance to Jeremy Northam helped me forgive him.

I have been so delighted by many of the adaptations of Jane Austen’s works, from the unbelievably authentic BBC version of Persuasion to the creative achievement of Bridget Jones’ Diary (the novel, less so the films). However, my feelings in regards to the surge in Jane Austen’s popularity are best described as a mixture of pride and, yes, prejudice. Pride, of course, because Austen is so great so it is no surprise that others have caught on to her appeal, and when you know about something good part of you wants others to know it too. But prejudice, because, my god, zombies? And, without having read that one, I can say from many of the other recent novels with appropriation of Jane, or her subject matter, the quality is just not always there. And having been an Austen fan (not a Jane-ite, please) for close to two decades, I do feel a sense (and sensibility? I’ll stop now) of ownership. To someone just discovering Austen, I say welcome to the club.

It’s a little like the time in high school I identified a boy, previously unknown to me and very attractive, near the end of the school year when one would have thought every post-pubertal girl in the neighborhood would have been talking about him for months. I kept my discovery to myself, but sent long pining gazes down the hall to his locker. Then somehow within mere days, I began to hear about other girls liking him too. I felt like he was mine simply because I liked him first. It turned out with this boy that my early adoration was rewarded with his returned interest. And here, the comparison with Austen falls apart because after spending time together I learned that as sweet and nice and darned attractive as he was, he was actually kind of boring. Kind of like those Jane Austen rip-offs.

Golfing with Jim

I would see Jim all the time at the Clifton School. His daughter, Maya was in Georgie's class. He was the Oak class parent rep. and seemed like a very nice guy. One day in the fall we were chatting and the subject turned to golf. I was thinking of hitting a range some time and he told me about one down North Druid Hills Road. He said he hardly golfed anymore since the kids came along but would like to get back into it. We talked about going but never did. I looked for the range one day, half-heartedly but I went the wrong way and ended up at Target. So it never happened. Then I went to Florida for a week. When I came back fall had given way to winter and Atlanta's repuation as a year round golf destination was exposed as myth. At least in the winter of 09-10, the worst one in 20 years.
In the spring our thoughts once again turned to grand game (is it called that?) and we eventually made a date to meet at the Druid Hills range. The place is a dump but that suited me fine for my first hit in eons. No intimidation factor and the price was right. Jim hit the ball well and seemed to be much better equipped than I. Though this was not hard as my clubs are 20 years old.
We practiced many times together and enjoyed discussing ways to improve our swings. I watched a lot of the golf channel and he had some computer programs that analyzed his swing. We were two duffers with time to spend working on the silly game. It was perfect. We were both unemployed. Our kids were at the same school so after drop off we were free to play. Sometimes we would go the golf stores and try out new clubs and putters. Once we drove out to Celebrity Golf Club where Jim's friend worked. A place once owned by NBA great Julius Erving and where I had seen Charles Barkley hack and slash his way around while trying to cure his outrageous swing at the hands of Hank Haney.
But our true golf home would be the Charlie Yates Course at East Lake. I discovered this little gem in an ad in "Creative Loafing". It is adjacent to the famous East Lake Course, where Bobby Jones played and where I had seen Tiger and Phil battle it out the previous September, just a few weeks before Tiger's life came undone. We practiced at the much nicer range there and eventually took the leap and played an acutal round of golf. It was tough. The little course has multiple hazards and we seemed to find most of them. But we were very compatible on the course and I was happy to have a new friend. We played that course several times through the spring. I think we improved but my scores only got worse. We would always walk the course and it got hotter and hotter as the weeks went by.
One day at Charlie Yates, Jim brought a couple of sandwiches along (he has a high metabolism and eats constantly). He offered me one but I stuck to my Coca Cola diet. He ate one but the other went missing. He would often puzzle about what had happened to it. About 6 weeks later he made a gruesome discovery under the front seat of his car. The sandwich, now unrecognizable as such had been percolating in the Georgia heat. Luckily the integrity of the ziplock bad was not compromised and he was able to toss the distended moldy bag without further incident.
We went to Stone Mountain for a practice day. The course there is upscale and in the shadow of the great granite behemoth that is Stone Mountain. Stone Mountain has may attractions: campsites, a gondola to the top where there is a great view of Atlanta, hiking and running trails and an amusement park for the kids. My friend David calls it "Hillbilly Disneyland". It does have a pretty southern theme, with homage to many civil war heros. Stonewall Jackson for one, and maybe Robert E. Lee but not the psychotic Sherman. At the golf course in the blazing heat, I spent about 3o minutes practicing in the bunker. And there I saw a really big daddy longlegs. I had plans to hike the mountain but I needed to get out of the heat. It was only June but it had become too hot for golf. Jim and I just hadn't realized it yet.

Our next outing left no doubt. It was our ill-advised 18 hole adventure in Southwest Dekalb county. We drove the 45 minutes east of the city to play Mystery Valley. It was about 90 degrees and stinking humid. Although we rode in a golf cart we were exhausted by the end. To make matters worse we were shamed by a 75 year-old man playing behind us. He was walking the course, carrying his clubs! And even though we were riding and he was on foot, he was still catching up to us, slowly but surely. He would hit his shot, then sling the bag over his shoulders, put his head down and start his slow march up the fairway. He wore a wide-brimmed straw hat. He took almost no time before hitting and never seemed to hit a bad shot. Every time I looked back, he was a little closer. It was freaking me out. He was like a zombie getting closer and closer. Coming to get us and eat our brains. I think the heat was getting to me. Jim hit one into the trees and while he looked for his ball I fretted about the living dead. Just forget the ball, Jim, play a new one! It didn't matter, the undead got to us on hole number 15. "You boys mind if I join you?" Not a zombie, thank god, just an old southern man. And I mean old.

*old white southerners sometimes call me "boy", old black southern men sometimes call me "boss". The old south, in a nutshell

After that round, Jim said he felt like he had been beat with a stick. I felt his pain. I couldn't decide whether to pass out, throw up or start crying.

Soon after that, Jim went to Texas and then I went back to Vancouver. I wish we had been able to play more. But we just couldn't have done more in that heat. Now that it is fall it would be perfect. I hope to play a round or two with Jim when we visit next month.

Jim and I had good times together and we have a lot in common. His wife works at the CDC and is a loevly person as well. Jim campaigned for Obama and I was very impressed by his inviation to the innaguaration. He had it up on his kitchen wall. As Todd of Todd and Craig said, southern liberals are some of the nicest peoople you will meet. It is true. Maybe because they don't take it for granted. You have to fight for it there. Or at least put up with a lot of abuse.

I hope Sarah Palin runs for president and wins. Because Jim says they are moving to Canada if that ever happens.

Saturday night in Vancouver

I am still writing on the Atlanta blog, though sadly it is almost three months since we left Georgia. It is fall here and I missed the long hot summer down south. Replaced here by a wonderful warm, mostly dry summer. I guess I will have to change the blog's title though I am going back to Georgia for a week this month so maybe we can keep it going for a while longer.

It is Saturday night and after enjoying the beautiful fall day, I man the kitchen while Gudrun is downstairs getting the girls ready for bed. I am clearing the table and washing dishes while I listen to CBC radio. The "Canadian Broadcasting Corporation". Like National Public Radio in the US. It has the same liberal bent, and is also hated by conservatives. A waste of taxpayers money they say. To me, tonight, a great find. I have lucked into Randy Bachman's "Vinyl Tap". Randy Bachman was a key member of both "Bachman Turner Overdrive" and earlier "The Guess Who", two of the biggest bands ever to come out of Canada. BTO may have literally been the biggest. "Bachman Turner Overweight" they were nicknamed. Bachman is a mormon and has never done drugs or drank. And if you can't drink or get high, you have to eat, right? The good thing about his clean lifestyle is that he actually remembers the 60s and 70s and is full of great stories from a life in rock and roll. Bachman now lives on Saltspring Island, a one-time hippie haven but now rife with yuppies and their SUVs, blackberries and Labradors. I like to go there once a year or so and watch these groups battle for control of the island. Of course, the yuppies are winning. They always do. They are much better planners and do a lot of goal-setting. Note to self: open Starbucks franchise in the village, force Saltspring Island Roasters out of business.

Bachman is a great guy and always has lots of stories that he tells between songs, while strumming his guitar. The show's intro has some of the "Takin' Care of Business" riff and solo.

Tonight's show's theme is "clap and snap"- songs with clapping or snapping. We've heard "Betty Davis Eyes" (recorded as a one-take live performance apparently), Bobby McFerrin's "Don't Worry Be Happy" (some argument that he is just hitting himself and therefore there is no actual clapping or snapping of any kind), Hall and Oates "Private Eyes", The Who, "My Generation" with it's complex off-beat clapping, Boyz to Men "In the still of the Night". There is lots of great background and little-known facts about the songs and artists and how the songs came to be. Now we are getting a lesson on the structure of the doo-wop beat, as illustrated by "Runaround Sue" by Dion. I have to stop to clap along. Randy encourages audience participation.

Blue Rodeo in Atlanta

Smith's Olde Bar, Atlanta, June 8th, 2010. Canada's Blue Rodeo plays as part of their little tour through the US. Sadly, I had to go alone, as Gudrun came down with the flu. I decided to hit Cowtipper's next door for a steakburger. I regret this now but it might be unfair to blame my stomach upset on their food.

Smith's is a great little venue. When I walked in, I couldn't believe I was going to see the band in such an intimate setting. they don't play stadiums or anything in Canada but nothing nearly this small, at least not where I have seen them. I got there late, but in time to check out the t-shirts. I met a mother and daughter there to see them for the first time. You Tube fans it seems, never seen them live. What a great place for your first Blue Rodeo concert! And I was sure only displaced Canadians like me would be there. At least one blog world friend is tuned into the event. I love the fact they have a fan base down here. I mean, they kinda are americana, as funny as that is for a band from Toronto. I know a lot of bands I hear on the radio here have the same kind of sound.

The back up band 'Cliff the Duke' was great. All young guys playing rootsy rock. The lead singer looked a little like Rivers Cuomo (?) from Weezer, but a little rougher (by design?) around the edges.

With anticipation I watched the crew set up for the BR show. I saw them tape the set list to the floor and my neighbours were stealing peeks at it. I didn't want to know so tried not to listen. A very disheveled Basil Donovan gentled pushed by me and went into the back to get ready for the show. A few minutes later the band appeared. They looked great, happy. They opened with 'Cynthia' and played many songs not normally on the rotation up in Canada. Some old favs like, "Stop Stealing the Indian Lands" and "Heart Like Mine" (first song from their first album) and a lot from Five Days in July ("Head over Heels" "Five Days in May"). Also, "Moon and Tree" and three or four from the new album ("Candice", "Don't let the darkness in your head", and I think "Never Look Back". I love hearing their new songs. They had Anne Lindsay with them playing violin and she did a fantastic solo to replace the guitar one in "Five Days in May". Greg Keelor came to the front of the stage and strummed a solo acoustic "Hasn't Hit Me Yet" while the crowd sang the first verse and chorus. Then the band kicked in and it really took off. I've seen this before up north and it was very cool to see it work here, the whole bar singing along. There were one or two Canadians in there I think. The place was full of people who love the band which made for a great vibe. Not that it isn't that way in Canada but I got the sense that the people here, like me, were really psyched to see them.

They played so well and it was so good to see them again. I loved being so close yet not crushed. As sad as it was that Gudrun couldn't be there, she would have been annoyed by all the other woman (did I say cougars?) competing for Jim Cuddy's attention.

They are a fantastic band. They joked about the barbeque they had earlier. Fat Mac's. I checked out the website, it looks good. I will have to give it a try before I leave.

Next stop for them is St. Louis. Looks like they are making their way all the way to the west coast. That is one long bus ride.

Car incidents and accidents

Today as Elise was getting out of the car at school, and as I was slightly distracted, the car next to us backed out. But the driver had some kind of coordination lapse and made contact with the open door and... kept right on going! The driver was oblivious to the door, the toddler behind it and likely anything she couldn't see out of her rear view mirror. With some wild gesticulation and coarse language, I managed to get her to stop and she got out, an odd smile on her face. I pointed out the red stripe and scratch half the length of her car left by our car door. She kind of laughed and said, "Yes, Ok" then got in her car and drove off. I think her English was weak so I don't think she got my sarcastic comments about her driving abilities.

This keeps happening here. And sometimes it is much worse. Another day not long ago. I was driving through campus and traffic was stopped due to a downed power line. A crew had just hit the scene and I was second from the front of a line of stopped cars. The small pickup stopped ahead of me was several car lengths into the work zone and started to reverse. Faster, faster, faster straight at me. Soon it was obvious she was going to hit me. I leaned on the horn and she hit the brakes, almost stopping beofre hitting my front grill. Almost, but not quite. I got out and once again brought out my trademark irritated sarcasm. Something like, "nice driving" or " way to spaz-out behind the wheel". The woman was about 60 with crazy messy hair and a soft southern voice. Why was I not surprised that she was driving a pick-up, everyone drives one here. She said, "I touched you some but there's no damage". Her car was still wedged against mine and I pointed out that she couldn't possibly know this. She said, "I'm very sensitive and I can tell these things" To add further to my irritation, she was right and only after she was on her way did I come to the conclusion that she was either drunk or high, or both.

But the cream of the crop of the ATL driving follies was the sideswipe perpetrated by the dirtbag. A tailgater who I irritated by driving progressively more slowly. I have grown out of the slam-on-the-brakes tactic, though I do miss the panic on their faces when they think they're going to hit you. Anyway, this fine citizen passed me but not before taking off my front fender in a crazy swerve toward me as he passed. I think it was unintentional but in any case he ran for it. I caught up to him at the next light but he darted down a sidestreet at about 60 miles an hour. As they say, I broke off the pursuit and reported the accident and his "tag". The officer checked but the tag turned out to be invalid so it cost me some money. I did get a trip to the Dekalb County courthouse and police station where I got to ride the elevator with some colourful individuals. "They say I got two B and Es but I ain't got but one!"

Gudrun and I are sure there will be in another accident. It is just a matter of time. The driving here is a different type of bad from Vancouver. There they are usually incompetent or aggressive, not usually both. Here they put it all together. We're bad, we're mad (and also we're proud, and loud) and we're gonna get you and your little girly Mitsubishi Lancer.

June 7, 2010

Today was a perfect day. It is now 7 pm and I was just outside. There is a sense of relief when the sun goes down and hot gives way to warm. It is now breezy and a comfortable 26 Celsius. Funny that I now think 26 C is comfortable. But it does seem like a nice Hawaiian evening. Yeah, just like that except the beach is a 4-hour drive east, or south but that one has oil all over it, or soon will.

Earlier I ran over to Piedmont Avenue and back. The sun was still up and although it was 6 pm, it was scorching. I was sweating like a human being (who has a disgusting sweat disorder) and annoyed by all the traffic. It took me longer than I thought. Irritatingly, the sidewalks along East Rock Springs keep ending and then continuing on the other side of the street. As Georgie likes to say now, "What the!" So I was on the road a lot, with the excellent Atlanta drivers. I went through 20 oz of Gatorade but was still parched. I ran past the beautiful homes. Lovely large brick houses with nice yards for under a million. Hard to believe.

I don't usually run that way but I had to go to Smith's Olde Bar to pick up tickets to Blue Rodeo, playing in concert tomorrow night. The poster outside reads: "Direct from Canada, Blue Rodeo!" It is hard to see how that will be a selling point. Hey, that band is from Canada, let's go! No, Canada is not cool in the south. Harmless, and maybe and a little silly but not cool. Oh sure, the democrats admire our health care and some Yankees who have found themselves marooned here have an almost positive view of the great white north. But, Canada is such a long way away and just sort of... irrelevant.

Now the sun is down and the fireflies have begun their nightly performance in the front yard. The girls are in bed chatting up a storm. Most nights recently, the girls and I have gone outside to watch the fireflies. From a distance they look like the end of a cigarette, glowing while someone takes a drag. They hover, slowly falling closer and closer to the grass then have a burst of energy and rise sharply. That's the moment their tails light up. It's like they have little afterburners. They are really active just before dusk until it is dark then they seem to disappear. Who knows where they go. One was in our living room recently. Weird looking thing, almost like a elongated beetle. Gudrun didn't believe it was a firefly until I took it outside. It flew around for a while until one of his compadres came by and they flashed each other. Dirty little buggers.

Today was Georgie's first day of camp and Elise's first day in her new class. It all went swimmingly, though drop-off was a nightmare. All the CDC and Emory parents were on site at 8:30, their SUVs choking the parking lot. One Cilfton mom told me once, "I won't drive a car again" and then jumped in her BMW monster. She then drove off down the road, talking (texting?) on the phone, and ran over two (o)possums and a squirrel. People like her probably are the ones responsible for all the roadkill. They can't possibly see those critters from way up there. I thought Vancouver was SUV crazy until I came here. SUVs and huge pick-up trucks. Now if the US would stop keeping the price of gas so low, these folks would really start to sweat.

My friend Jim and I headed out to Tucker after our girls were happy in class. His daughter Maya is in camp with Georgie. Tucker, Georgia is just outside the perimeter. Our destination was the Heritage Golf Club. We had no illusions about playing such a fancy course, we just wanted to use their practice facility. And god knows, we could use the practice. We had heard they have a big putting green, sand bunkers, chipping areas and a driving range. Heritage was until recently owned by NBA legend and Atlanta resident Doctor J. He had a dream to bring in all sorts of celebrities and celebrity tournaments here but that dream died when the place went bankrupt. Charles Barkley and Hank Haney did visit during the ill-fated "Haney Project" attempt to cure Barkley's yippy swing. I think the hard times on the course actually benefited us. An attendant came to ask if we needed help carrying our clubs. We told him we were just driving range scum but he still treated us well! Turns out Jim has a friend who works there and has offered to get us on for next to nothing. Well, nothing for Jim, 25 dollars for me. It might have been my questionable attire. Jim looks the part of a golfer while I look more like a greens keeper. I am Bill Murray to his Chevy Chase. Before we actually play there though, I am going to have to stock up on golf balls. There are some big lakes there and reportedly a Sawgrass-style island green.

We had a great time getting ready for our game tomorrow at East Lake. We putted on the 15-on-the-stimpmeter greens, hacked out of the bunkers and slashed many outrageously bad shots down the range. A few good ones thrown in for good measure too, most of them care of Jim. It is customer appreciation day tomorrow at our "home course" and we will be playing a free round of golf, along with about 500 other golfers. Jim and I have played there three times and my score gets worse every time. I swear I am playing better but the scorecard does not lie.

Jim gave me some photos he took of our last field trip. I am becoming increasingly aware that my time here is short and Jim has been a good friend and golfing buddy. The photos are nice shots of Maya and Georgie having lunch at Chic Fil-A, and some of Jim and his wife and girls. Chic Fil-A is basically a chicken sandwich fast food joint. It is huge here and they even sponsor the college football opening game, held in Atlanta. Our field trip was last week with Maya, Georgie, Elise and Maya's little sister Alexa. The dads and the girls. Gudrun was back in Vancouver and Jim's wife Lore was at her job at the CDC. Before lunch we explored a new park, with trails that Maya was especially keen on. Georgie was less enthused when we came upon a snake. It was either a very large garter snake or a teeny tiny pit viper. I will stick to the pit viper story, though I know they don't exist here. (They are fresh in my mind because I just read about a little Afghan boy, bitten by a pit viper, deathly ill, refused treatment by the US military... then a change of heart, a Blackhawk airlift, touch and go for a few hours in the field ICU and an eventual return to good health) There are vipers here, not the least of which is the deadly copperhead, a snake that I can't seem to stop mentioning in this blog. Note to self: take "snake whacking stick" on next walk in the woods. Maybe then I will take a page from my old favourite comic strip, "Bloom County" and in error beat the life out of a spark plug cable from a '73 Ford Pinto. Just like Opus and his buddies did.

Ear infection

I came down with "swimmer's ear". Either that or my 2-q-tip a day habit had finally caught up with me. Now I had an ear infection that was getting worse by the minute. My ear canal had swollen up and was oozing yellow gunk. And I couldn't hear out of that side. I was freaking out. Was this my Meniere's disease returning, this time for good to eradicate my prized residual hearing? And what to do? My wife is a doctor but her specialty in Medical Genetics hardly prepared her for this challenge. Her diagnosis of 'dysmorphic ear syndrome' was not helpful in the least and, I must say, a little stigmatizing. Seriously, she looked in my ear and diagnosed me with 'otitis externa', an outer ear infection. Well, at first she said my ear was "gross" but I already knew that, and when pressed she gave me her professional opinion.

But diagnosis is but the first step. What to do next? I suddenly missed my ENT and audiology friends back home. They would surely take care of me. But here I was a foreigner in the US healthcare system, granted post Obama-care, but still a foreigner so I didn't count. Would I be put before one of Barack's "Death Panels" and deemed too expensive to treat? To make matters worse, my daughtner had come down with the stomach flu. Misery and darkness descended.

As I read once on a church billboard in Oak Bay, the darkest hour is only 60 minutes long. And soon, through somewhat illegal channels, I had procured some powerful narcotic agents to quell the inferno of pain in my ear. Soon the agony and disgusting discharge subsided and I was on my way to healthy hearing once more, vowing to never q-tip again.

Shanika

We got to see Elise's friend today. Shanika works at McDonald's. We went there to get ice cream. Shanika lit up when she saw Elise. "I haven't seen you in a long time, girl!" Elise was happy to see her too. I felt bad that I had no idea at first who this person was. Later I convinced myself that I remembered her. Elise placed her order and she and Georgie and I sat at a nearby table and ate our ice cream cones. It takes them a really long time for my girls to get through a soft serve. It's a sacred ritual. Each step is taken very seriously. Carefully licking the cone to reduce in a somewhat uniform way, getting down to the cone, removing the paper wrapping and ensuring there is no residual paper or glue, biting around the cone, liking out the remaining ice cream and finally polishing off the bottom of the cone. Elise cares very little about the mess on her face or clothes. Georgie doesn't spill a drop, unless we are outside in the heat. Shanika came by a couple of times and said 'hi', and said she had to restrain herself from giving the girls a big squeeze.

On the way home Georgie was pondering something in the back seat then came to the conclusion that, "if vanilla was brown, then chocolate was white!" Hard to argue this logic.

Ballet and gymnastics and moms

I took Georgie to her ballet class. Elise and I watched. Afterwards, her teacher, Miss Kalela instructed me to put Georgie's hair in a bun for the performance on Saturday. Gudrun is a away and I can barely manage a pony tail. "No problem", Kalela said. "I'll do it. Georgie already told me that her mom doesn't know how to do a bun". What? Something Gudrun can't do? And how did Georgie know?

Georgie was keen to tell me that Kalela, did I know, is actually a teenager and not a grown-up! At the coaches performance last weekend, Kalela did a beautiful dance to the song "Too late to apologize". Georgie was mesmerized and fathers of daughters got all choked up.

At ballet and gymnastics, I am the only dad. All the other little girls come with their mothers. I get along very well with the moms. At the Atlanta Gymnastics Centre, there is a lively group of the real housewives of Decatur. Though these real housewives rarely resort to name-calling or hair-pulling. No, they are very well-behaved and fun. I don't think any of them work so I fit right in. Except when the subject is online coupons or stupid men. I know men are stupid but being one of them, I have nothing to add.

I look forward to our Thursday mornings together. They have accepted me into their social circle (actually, that's the name of a town east of here!). The other day I was talking to one of the women as she was breast- feeding her little girl. She was standing really close to me because it was really noisy in there. Her baby came off and was hanging upside down smiling at me as we talked. She continued on telling me about her job (she is an occupational therapist) and took a very long time to cover up. She seemed unconcerned by her overexposure. Or maybe unaware, but how could that be? It was a little like that scene from 40 Year-Old Virgin, except not as funny.

The group has lots of different personalities. One of the RHOD is a Lauren Holly look-alike and has the biggest and best southern accent of the bunch. She owns a candy shop in town and is a friendly, smily person. It seems amazing that a candy store owner should be so thin. Especially here in the south. Then there is the somewhat brash, ex- new yorker. She has lots of positive energy and is not as focused on her outfits as Lauren Holly. She always has lots of stories about her out-of-control life is but actually seems to be doing pretty well. She is loud and a bit dominant but the other women seem to like her and so do I. And she was friendly to Gudrun when she came to class. There are two others who, like me have little ones to watch while the five year-olds are doing their class. Theirs are babies though. They have their hands full and less time to socialize than the rest of us. One other woman is a transplant from Germany who moved first to Texas with her American husband before relocating to Atlanta. She's afraid to go south of Memorial Drive. It got a little quiet when she said that. Like she insulted their town or something. As if there is no crime here. Civic pride, I guess. The few times I have been to south east Atlanta, I often find myself humming, "In the ghetto". And that is one of the worst songs ever. Elvis really could suck when he wanted to. Next is little Miss Intense who talked about the dirty looks she got while visibly pregnant and at a bar drinking wine. I asked if it wasn't the tequila shots that drew the nasty looks but she seemed not to get the joke. Why not? That's frickin' hilarious! I mostly talk to Jen, whose daughter Catherine is in class with Georgie. She was the first one to talk to me, the lone male, and kind of broke the ice for me and the group. They saw that a man, while often crude and offensive, can serve a useful social purpose. And now look at me! I am the life of the party, or gymnastics viewing lounge, as it were. Jennifer has given me a lot of good tips about where to go in Georgia and we share the guilty pleasure of Disney World. Gudrun is convinced that I have fallen madly in love with her and that we are planning to run away together to Valdosta. This is of course ridiculous. I don't even like Valdosta.

And then there is ballet class. Again, all moms and me but a smaller more reserved group. Plus there is a really annoying older nanny of one of the kids who constantly interrupts my conversations with the other parents. This week I spoke more with a women whose two girls are in a dance class in the adjacent room. She is from Peru and has made several references to her and her daughters' petite -ness. Elise is a giant chubby monkey next to her little girl the same age. "My girls, they are tiny, just like me!" Gudrun takes exception to this claim, the part about her being tiny. Anyway, Ms Peru told me she was having an 80s party this weekend. She said she likes 80s music but has always been into more "rougher" music like 'Guns and Roses' and 'Journey'. Yeah, that Steve Perry was a real bad ass. She told me her husband is a whole seven years older that she and is not so into the whole party idea. Just then she got a call but rolled her eyes and said, "Mother-in-law. She can wait!" While on the subject of gymnastics and she told me that she is "crazy flexible" and "can do things I just should not do". What things? I should have asked. She wasn't nearly this chatty when my wife was here last week.

Ballet is over now and Georgie had her recital. It was wonderful. All those little girls in their tutus doing their twirls. They ran across the stage and did their jumps and threw flowers toward the audience. At the end they all hugged Kalela. Georgie said she wants to do another ballet class in the summer with Kalela but by then we'll be back in Canada.

Rain

The weather here continues to fascinate me. The rain, the heat, the humidity. It is getting warmer. In a few short weeks it has gone from being too cold to eat outside to too hot. Restaurant patios have a very short window of operation here. There are a few crazies that are out there, eschewing the AC, in the 90 degree heat. Probably the same loonies who run at mid-day in August. It's like they have a death wish. Or at least a heat stroke wish.

During the week it seems to get hotter and hotter as the days go by. And the hottest time of the day is around five or six in the evening. I guess with no ocean to cool things off it makes sense. Also, the buildings and the pavement absorb all the heat and re-radiate it. The 'heat island' effect. But my neighbourhood is all trees and it still stays warm well into the evening and even the early hours of the next day.

A typical pattern is ever increasing temperatures throughout the week, then big thunder storms just in time for the weekend. Most of Georgie's Saturday soccer games have been cancelled due to rain. One theory I have heard is that all the pollution from the commuters builds up the particulates in the atmosphere and "seeds" the clouds. So, you get more rain near the end of the week.

Last night we had a big thunder storm. I was sleeping and I remember the start of the rain. Not rain like I am used to. I've never experienced rain like this. And I am from a rain forest. It really should be called a drizzle forest. No, this is real rain. It rains so hard that it wakes you up, it disrupts your thoughts, it keeps you in your house or your car, it causes accidents, washes away roads and cars and people. Back home rain is an annoyance. Here it is a worry.

After the rain came the thunder and lightning. They call it an electrical storm. I was aware of the flashes of light in our room, followed closely at random intervals by the thunderclaps. It seemed to go on forever. I kept trying to go back to sleep. Sometimes so close it rattled the windows. Then it would move off and I could here only the distant rolling thunder. Not such a crash, more like a far away rumble. Now I can go back to sleep, I thought, but then it would come back and shake the house again. I don't know how the girls slept through all that.

Ray at the coffee shop said his rain guage registered 5 inches overnight. And he pointed out that his guage wasn't one of those cheap ones. Nashville, not that far away, got 13 inches. They are literally underwater. The rain stopped just in time for me to take the girls to school. Then I went to the driving range with Jim. It was better than usual since it was flooded and it was fun hitting balls into the new lake.

A few nights ago the power went out. There was a loud explosion sound (blown tranformer?) and then it went dark. Both Elise and Georgie started crying. I went and picked them up, Superdad-style, one girl in each arm. (Georgie told me recently that I am the strongest man in Atlanta, so that's another thing I have going for me). Gudrun came in to hug the little girls but it was pitch black and she couldn't see a thing. I had already stood up with them in my arms so instead she hugged my legs. I almost fell over.

We all huddled in our room with candles. The girls actually fell asleep in our bed and Gudrun and I slept in the guest room. I moved them back to their rooms at 3 am. Elise recounted the story the next day: "It was dark and it went boom!"

Before the rain, the girls and I, and Chris and his little girl, Magnolia enjoyed a Sunday afternoon in the Georgia wilderness. We hit the interstate at 9 am, heading up the GA 400, and then US 157 to Amiacalola State Park, near Dawsonville. It is a lovely wooded area around a waterfall and river. The girls had a great time. It was a wildlife bonanza. We saw a number of caterpillars. Really big fuzzy guys. Also we saw a stick bug and some hawks. Five possums too, but they were all dead on US 157.

There was a long wooden staircase beside the water fall. It has 650 steps. The trip down was easier than the return, but still not easy carrying a 30 pound chimp on my back. On the way back up, Elise was in the backpack carrier, poking me in the neck with a stick. I asked her to please not do that. "Ohhhhh-kaaayyyy!" Then a few minutes later, poke, poke, poke. "Stop that!" "Ohhhh- kaaaayyyy!"

Georgie hiked the whole way back up and Elise entertained us with her broadway-style songs. "Whenever I want to do, I want to do what I want to do" and "You and I and I and you" are her current favourites. At the songs' big moments, she has her arms outstretched and looks to the sky. She really knows how to bring it on home.

Does this look infected to you?

Yesterday Elise woke up with Croup. We are very familiar with this wheezing, barking monster but this is the first time it has hit Elise. She cleared up quite well after a spell on the front porch. That sounds pretty southern, doesn't it? Setting on the front porch for a spell with the little one, her on my lap wheezing away next to the azalea bush.

So I kept her home from school and she spent the day with me, happy as a clam, no sign of croup. We had a great time together, going for coffee, grocery shopping, hanging out in the front yard, saying hi to the mailman. She told anyone who would listen that she was "a little bit sick". A little bit loco is more like it. Maybe the pollen had something to do with it. The croup, not the loco-ness. Pollen counts above 130 are said to be "very high". The count hit 5700 here last week! That has to be a mistake. Today was 300 and something.

Eventually, the end of the day came and it was time to get her sister from school. We arrived and she was taking her usual time getting out of the car. I tried to hurry her along, which I seem to be doing a lot. Impatience is surely my fatal flaw. She made her way hastily to the doorway and I wasn't really watching but somehow, she managed to lose her balance and careen head first out the car and straight toward the pavement. I couldn't catch her. All I could do was stick my leg out to try to brake her fall. She bounced off my shin and tumbled to the ground. Bloody murder was screamed. Her face had smacked solidly into my leg. I did a quick check and she still had all her teeth. And none seemed too loose, although they all seemed a little loose which struck me as odd, but I had other more pressing matters. Anyway, she recovered quickly as she does. She is a tough little girl. She does have a lot of accidents these days. One of her favourite things to do is to walk or run while looking behind her. This often ends badly.

We went inside and told the story to Ms. Miosha at Georgie's class. That's when I noticed I was bleeding. My little monkey's teeth had scraped a gouge in my shin. I didn't think much of it and we carried on with our day.

The next morning the cut looked ugly. It is a little swollen and kind of oozy. The dreaded monkey bite! The girls were both very excited by this and the fact that this meant I needed a band-aid. Georgie made me promise that she could put it on but emphasized that she had no interest in removing it later.

I remember another time when I was worried about getting bitten by a monkey. Gudrun and I and our friend Nigel were standing looking at some baboons that were blocking our path. We were trying to go for a nice little hike in the Drakensburg mountains only to have our day ruined by some ill-tempered apes. Are baboons apes? Well, wherever they fit on the monkey- ape continuum, they grudgingly yielded the trail to us but hung out in the bushes nearby and grunted and growled at us with increasing intensity until we made a hasty retreat (ran away like little girls). We felt rather silly for being scared of them so tried again with similar results. They sounded even more aggressive and annoyed with us this time so we returned to the hotel. We rationalized that we had done the right thing but inside we felt like cowards. I think we told the guy at the hotel that the hike was "great". Tough sefricans like him would not understand. Nigel was concerned that a bite from one of these guys would be a bad thing as they had "dirty mouths, just like people". I was more concerned about them ripping me limb from limb. Those SOBs were big.

Anyway, I am off to put some polysporin on my monkey bite. I fear it has become gangrenous. Get the hack saw. I probably have a night of delirious dreams ahead of me.

April 23, 2010

Yesterday when I was picking up the girls, Georgie told me that cars are not good for the earth. "Bikes are good for the earth", she said. Well I don't have a bike so today I decided I would leave the car at home and walk to pick them up. It is about a 45 minute walk through our tree-lined neighbourhood, Emory Campus and Lullwater Park. I took the stroller and a backpack. It was humid enough to make an 85-degree day seem even hotter. I enjoyed all the beautiful flowers and trees along the way. The lower part of Emory Road is what Gudrun likes to call "the tree tunnel". This is the nicest time of year here, as long as you're not allergic to pollen. The azaleas are particularly nice.

I made my way through Emory pushing the empty double stroller. I stand out on campus amidst the coeds, all giddy about the end of term. A father among children. They all seem to be about 15 years old. Just when did aviator sunglasses come back? And why were they ever in? That's at least three iterations of that silly style in my lifetime.

By the time I got to Clifton Road I was a sweaty monster and was happy to reach the shade of Lullwater Park. Amazing that just a few weeks ago this place was barren. Not a leaf to be found and now it is a jungle. A snake-ridden jungle.

I got to the pool at the Eagle but changed my mind about going for a swim. Apparently, this was "Luau Night" and the place was packed with the aforementioned 15-year olds. I felt very old and out of place. There was one other old fart there but he was wearing a speedo. Poor guy, probably just moved here from some backward country where speedos are acceptable and just doesn't know how lost he is. And it was one of those high-riding speedos, too. I left him and his thinly-veiled genitalia with the partying freshmen and headed up the road to the Clifton School.

After a protracted pick-up (Georgie performed her slow-motion snack eating ritual) we were on our way. Georgie has a new teacher who is african-american and has a skin condition like vitilago or something so that her face is mostly white with what looks like dark freckles. Georgie said one of the kids asked her about why she had so many dots on her face. She told them they were "kisses from God". Funny that Georgie didn't ask us who God is. Maybe we've had that discussion already. I think we did, about all the different possible gods and belief systems, etc. From what I recall, she was bored beyond belief.

Anyway, we headed back through the park and ran into Alison's Dad, Chris. Alison is in Georgie's class. Chris is also coach of Georgie's soccer team, The Warthogs. He teaches biology at Emory University gets to walk from his office through the lovely park to the Clifton school. That's his daily commute. We had a nice chat there among the trees and flowers. He told me that the copperhead snakes hide out in the ivy bushes. Except the one that was after me, I guess. He was nowhere near any ivy. Apparently, the last University president, whose house is in the park, had a problem with copperheads biting his dogs. They kept going in the ivy. Kind of like a Darwin award for dogs.

We walked out of the park and to Gudrun's office on campus. We waited outside and sat on the grass. Elise and Georgie went up to some students who were studying and chatted to them about pre-school and Tinkerbell. Georgie reported to me about all the little red bugs she was finding. When Gudrun was done we went to 'Rise and Dine' for dinner. Gudrun ardently loves that place and would happily eat all her meals there. Growing up, she frequently ate pancakes for dinner so I think this formative pattern steers her to these type of establishments. She also loves Waffle House, a southern institution. I think Kid Rock got in a fight in the one here.

We walked home at dusk, still hot enough to make me break a sweat for the third time that day. Nice the mosquitoes are not here yet.

Atlanta headlines and news, 2009-10

They have brown bread here made to taste like white bread. They advertise it right on the package. Brown bread with that great white bread taste! Ok, that's not a headline but it is fantastic and therefore newsworthy. Why put up with the disgusting taste of brown bread? One of the many reasons I love it here. Other reasons include drive- thru everthing and the fact you can put anything out by the curb and someone will take it away.

The Atlanta city jail is closing. The downtown jail. Closing because they can't pay for it not because they don't have enough people to lock up. They got lots of folks that need to be behind bars but I guess they will just have to go somewhere else. Anyway, Fulton County is apparently very excited by this news. So excited that they want to buy the jail. They have even more felons to put away, I guess. This is funny to me because another county just outside the perimeter don't even have enough money to keep paying for their police force. They just laid them all off and are hoping for the best. I'm sure that will work out just fine. Good thing the MARTA only goes to Buckhead.

Oh, and the MARTA, Atlanta's public transit is bankrupt.

A funeral home in one of the suburbs has been fined for keeping some bodies unrefrigerated for more than two months. The owner of the funeral home felt the punishment was too harsh. I mean, if he could stand the smell, where's the problem? It's your classic victimless crime. I remember a similar story from South Africa. A funeral home where they kept taking the bodies, promising to bury them or cremate them and instead they just stuck them in their back yard. Eventually, someone complained about the smell and the owners got charged or fined or something. And just like here, they seemed to not quite understand what they had done wrong. The bodies were piled very neatly.

Not far from here, still in north east Atlanta, body parts starting showing up. An arm in this park, a foot in an alley and so on. Eventually, they had a whole person and a murder investigation was under way. As far as I know they never got the guy, assuming it was a guy.

They have been fighting over water for some time here. Water from Lake Lanier, a big man-made reservoir north of the city. It seems the Army Core of Engineers dammed up the Chattahoochee River back in the 50s and made the lake. Now it is a major supply of greater Atlanta's water. The problem is that folks downstream in Alabama and Florida don't like us using all the water. The once mighty Chattahoochee ain't so mighty anymore and farmers and others who enjoy water are unhappy. They showed some farmers from Alabama on the news. They seemed ticked off, though I couldn't really understand what they were saying. Word articulation is much better when you have a full set of teeth. That's not fair or even true. What's the best thing to come out of Alabama? The I-20. Also unfair but possibly true. Anyway, It seems there was never an agreement to use Lake Lanier for drinking water so there's a fight brewing. Governor Sonny Perdue wants to take it all the way to Washington but he forgets that folks in DC don't really care about the south.

Tennis

Before Gudrun broke her toe in an unfortunate household accident we had regular battles on the clay courts at Emory. These hotly contested matches had much drama and more than their fair share of questionable sportsmanship. Gudrun's penchant for calling all the close ones 'out' would irritate me no end. I also had the disadvantage of having to use a borrowed racket which was warped and strung far too loosely which caused me to spray shots wildly. Gudrun said that it is a poor athelete who blames his equipment. That's just like her to mangle a quote. But her forehand is formidable and she covers the court like Steffi Graf in her prime. Her backhand is outrageous. It is either a rocket into the corner or flies out of control into the the barbeque area (sorry, I mean the "grillin' area"). One of the strongest parts of Gudrun's game is her attire. She favours a very sassy tennis outfit which is distracting and puts me further off my game. But then again, winning isn't everything.

After two months in Atlanta-July 2009

We have been here two months and the dust has settled. Sort of.

Today has been typical so far. We all slept in. None of us seem to be able to get our sorry asses out of bed. It is pretty nice not to be woken up early by the kids. Georgie has been the biggest sleepy head, adopting a teenager-like sleep pattern. She's awake until 11pm, often complaining that's she 'tired of waiting until morning'. Elise isn't much better. She sings and yells and then cries, wants the door opened, wants a book, wants most of all to see mommy and eventually falls asleep in some strange position as if she was shot with a tranquilizer gun and fell right where she stood. As if sleep overcame her all of a sudden. Maybe it did.

The morning is full of negotiations and arguments about cereal, bowls, outfits, order of teethbrushing and sunscreening. Elise goes berserk when sunscreen is applied to her face or when her teeth are brushed then walks around the house moaning and wailing her sad lot in life.

Both girls are mostly settled in daycare. Elise is in Sweet Gum while Georgie is in the Oak room at Clifton school. Elise is the youngest and seems to fit in well. Georgie's room has mostly nice little children save for one psycho who likes to punch kids in the face then burst into tears. I told Georgie to punch him back if he did it to her but I know she won't. She is a peaceful child. (Luckily that kid soon left the school, possibly for some electroshock treatments). The teachers are wonderful. Miss Miosha and Miss Sonia, both originally from California. Occasionally, the fabulous Miss Rebecca comes to read a story to the kids or hang out. She's been there for almost 20 years and has a sort of free run of the place. She has a big booming voice. She has very short hair and one of the kids asked, " Are you a woman?" And she said, "AM I A WOMAN?!! CAN YOU NOT SEE THE BEAUTY?!

Carpenter bees and hornets

Spring advances. So many nice blossoms and flowers and everything is green. And the pollen is unbelievable. There is a fine yellow dusting of it on everything. Including the lining of my lungs. Allergics are in misery.

And here come the bugs. I almost forgot about them. The ants, the flies, the mosquitos, the beetles, the cockroaches. Our first arrivals are the carpenter bees. Think of a bumblebee then triple its size and there you have it. Georgie calls them 'wood bees'. They are digging holes in our mail box post. They leave little piles of sawdust beneath their tunnels. Their legs dangle straight down as they cruise slowly about. They often hover right in front of you, and look at you with those rediculous legs hanging down. This doesn't bother me now that I know they can't sting. I learned that fact from Georgie. She is a great source of information actually. For example, she knows all about ants. She freaked out on our walk from school yesterday. "OH NO! A FIRE ANT!" I asked how she even knew what one was and she replied, "Because it's RED!" and ran down the path. She told me they are called fire ants because when they bite you "IT FEELS LIKE FIRE!" I calmed her down about the ant but then a big hornet buzzed around her and renewed her panic. These hornets are rusty orange in colour. One was on our car's side view mirror and Gudrun was trying to get a good photo of it. Until it almost flew in the car. One got in the car later in the day. Gudrun got out of the car in a hurry and I whacked it repeatedly with a map of Georgia and Alabama until he was dead. I used the Alabama side of course. Gudrun has since instituted a 'windows up' policy. The AC is on all the time since winter has given way directly to summer.

Swimming at the Eagle

Swimming with Georgie. She is in an inner tube, kicking herself around with a lovely contented smile on her face. It is the day after her 5th birthday party. A bright, sunny day but not so hot today. In the reflection of Georgie's sunglasses I see my father. His hair is slicked back and wet. He's in dark sunglasses and has a stubbly beard. He's smiling and if you could see his eyes, there would be a twinkle. I remember him swimming with me in the summer. I was older than Georgie, I think. I could swim on my own. We would be in a lake or the ocean offshore and he would silently disappear under the water, like a seal, and be gone for an impossibly long time. Then he would surface just as silently twenty yards away. He loved swimming and he especially loved swimming underwater. Another of his specialties was the running dive, something he passed on to all his sons. We are three running-dive experts. He used to talk about how smoking had made it harder to hold his breath, though you would never know it from his numerous submarine voyages. And besides, officially, he didn't smoke.

On Georgie's first day at the Clifton School, I walked with her and her classmates down the road to the Eagle. Georgie was nervous about her new class and was happy I was staying with her.

Ray fell while running down the sidewalk and scraped his knee. The teachers had brought a wagon o' snacks and water. It was one of the first really hot days of summer.

We sat on the field that day in July, boiling in the heat. The field overlooks the pool and one of Georgie's new friends pointed out that one of the swimmers was going underwater while wearing sunglasses. Conner, I think, said, "My dad does that, too". I told him that my father did the same thing. Georgie who had not said a word piped up with, "His dad died, he died". Conner found this an alarming idea, that a dad could be dead so I attempted a little damage control. This lead to questions about how he died. More of the children were listening now. I wished I hadn't said anything. Thankfully, Miss Sonia took the conversation in another direction. I was off to a good start with these kids.

Now summer is almost here again, and that day seems like a long time ago. Georgie loves her class and her friends. Almost all of them were at her birthday party. Ray and his family are gone now, moved to Seattle. Georgie said she cried at nap time on Ray's last day. In one of her reports from the school, there is a photograph of that day at the Eagle with Georgie and her friends from the Oak room.

I often think of my dad when I am with the girls. Being father to two little ones brings back good memories of my childhood, none better than swimming with Dad.

Spring here, the grass is... still yellow

April 2010

Crazy grass here. It goes dormant. These are special varieties of grasses here in the south designed (genetically engineered?) to withstand the heat of summer. The tradeoff is that they are ugly and yellow all winter and well into the spring. And it is well into spring. Actually, feels like summer to a Canadian. This is good enough, no need to get any hotter. And despite a good couple of weeks of this sunshine and warm temperatures, the grass is still yellow. Not our grass of couse. That's because our lawn is all weeds. Lovely, lush, green weeds. It is the only way to go. It is all about the colour. Not that we have anything to do with it. Our landlord has hired some 'lawn care specialists', and I use the term loosely, who come whenever the spirit moves them to hack down our weed lawn and attack the jungle out back. Mostly what they do is use leafblowers to fire all the trimmings and crap into the neighbours hedge.

We are an embarrassment on our street, actually- our street of lovely homes (not rentals like ours) and well maintained manicured lawns. I think they use an overseeding of other grasses because many of them are actually green now, or at least greenish, and crucially they are all grass. Not a weed to be found.

Other signs of spring have yet to come. The hummingbirds are not here, nor are the fireflies. But the crickets have begun to sing at night. Not the thundering roar of summer but they make their presence known. Also making an appearance are the gigantic carpenter bees.

And the possum road-kill is back. I had to negotiatiate a hard left followed by a hard right ('the dead possum two-step') to avoid two of them down on Old Briarcliff Road, my route to pick up the girls. One was right in the middle of the road, lying on his side. I hate that. Just looked like he was having a nap. I dread seeing his progressively mangled body.

It reminds me of last summers 'Mr Possum' on (new) Briarcliff Road. This one is a really busy street compared to the wind through the forest that is Old Briarcliff. Anyway, this little guy met his end on Briarcliff in the 'valley of the jungle', an area just before the supermarket. There is a river below a bridge and an expanse of forest that looks very wild and exotic. There are vines and dense vegetation. He must have lived in there and decided to cross the road fo some reason. At first, before I knew about possums or opposums as they are actually known, I liked to think he was a mongoose. 'Mr Mongoose', I imagined, had lived in that jungle carrying out the noble quest of killing snakes. But after a visit to to the natural history museum and a funny story from my little girl, I realized Mr. Mongoose was in fact, a possum. Georgie had excitedly told me that her music teacher, Mr Randy, had had a possum appear in his kitchen one night. He had crawled in through a hole in the floor under his refridgerator. We also had one in our backyard and he attacked the dog from downstairs. Anyway the original Mr. Possum ended up dead on the side of the road out of harms way. Well, he was out of the way of further desecration by cars. That's what I hate about roadkill. Sure there is the whole petrifiying flesh thing, and the tragic waste of precious life so that someone can go to the store to get ice cream. But the real killer is the indignity of the continued abuse of the body. The smushing, the crushing, the slicing, the dicing. Enough already. There was, of course, no clean up crew and I passed him every day as he shrank and stank, and oozed, and then eventually dried up in the stifling heat. Over time he became a flat little patch of fur, and then almost like a stain. Then the monsoon of September came and he was gone.

But now the season has begun again and the poor little possums are in for it. For this is a town of cars and bad drivers and of forests and little critters who just can't seem to stay off the road.

Summer with G and E

The Little Girls

Gudrun is away in Philadelphia and I am taking care of Georgie and Elise. Man, they can be a lot of work. They know how to push me right to the edge, then do something so sweet that I forget what I was so frustrated about. Elise has today starting calling me 'Daddy' after months of 'Gaga'

That was months ago and now "Gaga" is gone for good

Spider update

The spider out front is really starting to give me the creeps. It has doubled its size in the last week and now has a creepy friend, a miniature version of itself. It looks sinister. I am feeling the urge to kill it. The American way is rubbing off on me. Anything foreign or strange must be assimilated or destroyed. This spider is never going to come around to my way of life so it has to go. I really have no choice. America is like the Borg. Resistance is futile

The spider disappeared one day, leaving his little friend alone. This both relieved and bothered me. Where did he go? He was there so long and put all that work into that crazy web. A few days later, he or one just like him appeared on our porch, with a new web in the making. He was getting closer! I didn't have to worry about him too long. The weather got cooler and they were both gone. We'll see if they come back this spring.

The Vagina Monologues

A while ago, in the summer, Georgie would often adopt funny poses, with her legs open. Standing, sitting, lying she would do it as though she was doing some kind of stretching routine. In her car seat, she often had one leg draped over the side. When I would check on her at night and she was often spread-eagled, covers off. One day in the car with the whole family, my mother included, she said, “Do you know why I open my legs like this?” We didn’t know and actually kinda wondered. She told us, “Because my vagina always gets stuck together!” I didn’t comment. This was clear mom territory. "Mommy, why does my vagina always get stuck together?!” She replied that it was due to a ‘design flaw’. Good one there Gudrun, but not good enough. “Mommy, what is a design flaw?”

Not many days later I picked the girls up from preschool and Georgie excitedly told me that that day she had learned to be respectful and keep her legs closed. I asked her if someone had told her to keep her legs closed. But she would admit to nothing.

While I was changing Elise’s diaper she started talking about her “naihna”. She usually points to herself and says, “ma naihna” then says, “Daddy’s naihna?” I replied that I don't actually have a "naihna" but did not seem convinced. Now, Elise is much more interested in bottoms, which she refers to as "butts" or "butt-butts".