In the summer of 2015 I was up in Alaska staying at a little hostel in a town called Skagway. I was the only one there- when I arrived the owner was cleaning his shotgun. Not that there was anything menacing about the place, it just sticks out in my mind. I didn't do much in Skagway. I took a short hike. It was beautiful, staggeringly so. Glaciers creeping over mountain peaks surround the port town. The bay is brilliant blue. Real postcard material.
I bought a ticket for a ferry ride on the wonderfully titled Alaskan Marine Highway. It's cheap if you are on foot. For a 48 hour ferry ride that crosses the Canada/US border I think I paid 100 bucks. It also follows the same route many of the popular Alaskan cruise ships take, down through what they call the Inside Passage between the islands of the archipelago. So, again, really nice to look at.
The ferry was full of American retirees on long road trips. I don't think I spoke a word to anyone except the cooks in the cafeteria for two days. I overheard conversations about the best places to stay in Graceland, autumn in Vermont, rotary clubs and veteran associations. They seemed to be having a hell of a good time. I read two of the books they had on a little shelf in the games room- one was "An American in the Gulag". I think this book has slipped out of public awareness, but its a real gem if you're interested in the history of the 20th century.
The cheapest tickets don't include a cabin berth on these ferries- I suppose they expect you to sleep in the seating galleries on the mid-decks. I slept on the top deck under the stars. Luckily there were no clouds. For two nights in a row I set up my sleeping bag on a reclining deck chair and watched the night sky. This was all to say that of everything I saw in my trip to the Yukon and Alaska, sleeping alone on the top deck of a ferry gliding through the archipelago in the darkness under a vivid night sky was the best.
Wednesday, October 21, 2015
Thursday, November 7, 2013
JELLYFISH + the end of the world
Not being a coastal dweller, I've only come into the future death zones of jellyfish we know now as our sick and dilapidated oceans occasionally. Jellyfish, in their way, can sometimes be beautiful. They also die like old rotting meringue pies and wash up on beaches world wide. Plus they kill, indiscriminately, and regardless of the logic of the evolutionary food chain, everything they can 'bump' into. Now they are destroying our oceans, hastened by a range of human activities like pollution, over-fishing, indifference etc. These primitive death balloons are expanding their range and threaten to wipe out our marine biodiversity, and consequently, irreversibly and destructively change our planet beyond recognition.
When you are in Oslo, have a tent, and are cheap (which is everyone because Scandinavia is the European disneyland of insanely high prices) you can camp on any of the municipal islands for free. Some people live on them, in tents or little makeshift shelters. When I was there we didn't have any trouble finding a spot that overlooked the westerly horizon. Good for watching the sun go down. Public transit ferries motor around the fjord to take you into the city.
One day we thought we'd go swimming. It's not that warm in Oslo, or at least not while I was there, and the water is chilly even in summer. But there was a beach on the island, and a dock a bout fifty metres out you could swim to. I knew something was amiss when we had to pick our way through dead jellyfish the size of pizzas on the beach. Like a minefield. Jellyfish are such devious fuckers, truly the spawn of Satan, that they've probably evolved to kill even when they're dead and drying on the sand. So we were careful. I poked and stabbed a few with sticks.
We swam out into the bay toward the dock. It was cold. Fifty metres is not so far under ideal conditions but being a bad swimmer, wind picking up etc. can stretch that distance out quite a while. We climbed onto the dock for a little rest. The clouds rolled in and the wind picked up, not in any dramatic sense, just because the weather wasn't great for swimming. We decided to swim back. Luminescent circles appeared around the dock, in the deep water. Not many of them, just a few on either side. Jellyfish! I was paralyzed with fear. For a while we checked each side of the rectangular dock- a delicate circular form rising from the depth on each. Death afloat! When it started to become dark we swam back. In the water the horizon is short- the shore seems further away. You can't see anything under the dark glass of the water. I kicked frantically. If my friend had been stung I wouldn't have stopped. On shore, my companion went back to the tent. I lay on my back panting. This is not a vomiting story, but I threw up in the woods. Swimming wears me out; the cold and deathly afraid I felt of the cloud of jellyfish lingered. On the beach I watched the sun in its northern arc- never really leaving the horizon. A group of Norwegians drank wine and laughed on the shore. One of them, a girl with blond hair, through whom the light of God shone, pushed the jellyfish from my mind. There is a life beyond the primordial harbingers of water and death. Her legs lay against the grass, perfect in my mind. Eventually I got up, and my fear of dying without ever touching legs such as those supplanted my fear of washing up dead, bloated on a northern shore in a jellyfish bloom.
Monday, November 4, 2013
Once, when I was sitting on an lakefront walk in Macedonia enduring the tail end of a rakia hangover in the spring cold, an old man hopped the curb from the street to the path on a tiny motorcycle, barely more than a dirt bike, and drove to the end of the public dock. There were two milk crates straddling the rear wheel, covered with plastic sheeting and full of gear: a sleeping bag, a jacket, some empty water bottles. At the end of the dock he pulled out a map. He marked it with a pen, got out his camera and took a picture of the lake. Then he turned around on his bike and took a picture of the lake with his face in the foreground. I tried to imagine what sort of trip he was on. What checkpoint did this stop fulfill? He was old, probably in his seventies. The embankment was empty, save for me watching him on his bike struggling with his camera. He eventually turned his bike around and puttered over to me. I took his picture at the end of dock, him grinning and holding his bike upright in the wind. He thanked me. I wanted to yell as he rode away and tell him how magnificent he was. Back at the hostel I found this quote from Dante in a Paul Theroux book about train lines: "nothing- not fondness for my son, nor piety for my father, nor love for my wife- could dampen my ardor for experiencing the wider world and human vice and courage." My hangover started to subside. The main thing, when you're travelling (or hungover) is always to keep moving.
Tuesday, January 15, 2013
Leisure Figures from History: Captain John Palliser, "explorer"
Behold! British surveyor Captain John Palliser: famous for surveying much of Western Canada. Here in Alberta there's a school division named after him and a slew of other public buildings and places. However I think a strong case could be made that the legend has somewhat taken flight of the actual life. His first book was called "Solitary Rambles and Adventures of a Hunter in the Prairies." I've read some of it, skimmed all of it. It's pretty entertaining in parts. By all accounts except for his he was a fearless trailblazer and scientist. His own account reads more like the diaries of a rich bon vivant. He spends a good deal of the first chapter describing gleefully an officer aboard the ship he sailed on who was a midget- his clothing, and especially his demeanor, which he took to be most comically at odds with his stature. In the book he catalogues with Germanic thoroughness each animal he kills. It's a staggering amount.
He makes his way inland from Boston, taking every opportunity to lay waste the native creatures. At one point he steps out of the queue waiting for a ferry, loads his gun and begins shooting at the birds to stave off his boredom: "I went out with my double-barreled gun whilst waiting for the New Orleans boat, and after some wading brought back several ducks and quails." His day to day diary includes entries like "Arose at eleven to a fine morning..." and "Left several carcasses to rot for we could not carry all the meat..." In fact most of the land he is credited with surveying had already been surveyed and explored for a while by the time he brought his swath of destruction along, just not by what the British North American Exploring Expedition considered reputable sources. The title is also misleading- he travelled with at least two native guides at all times, and often with a small crew of lackeys and fellow gentleman of means and leisure. I think this illustration is a perfect summary of his life and work- if only because it's hard to determine whether the man clinging to the tree is evading the buffalo or the trigger happy Englishman's bullet.
If he had shortcomings (I wouldn't call them that) as an explorer (which he wasn't) his legacy has more than compensated for them. I'm glad this Flashman-like character of our history has a proud place among the progenitors of this province. If traveling around in a caravan with pack mules for your wine, pack mules for your guns and ammo, guides and lackeys to make and break camp for you and shooting anything feathered or furry with impunity can be passed off as serious scientific inquiry there's hope for us all 200 years down the road. Hats off to John Palliser.
He makes his way inland from Boston, taking every opportunity to lay waste the native creatures. At one point he steps out of the queue waiting for a ferry, loads his gun and begins shooting at the birds to stave off his boredom: "I went out with my double-barreled gun whilst waiting for the New Orleans boat, and after some wading brought back several ducks and quails." His day to day diary includes entries like "Arose at eleven to a fine morning..." and "Left several carcasses to rot for we could not carry all the meat..." In fact most of the land he is credited with surveying had already been surveyed and explored for a while by the time he brought his swath of destruction along, just not by what the British North American Exploring Expedition considered reputable sources. The title is also misleading- he travelled with at least two native guides at all times, and often with a small crew of lackeys and fellow gentleman of means and leisure. I think this illustration is a perfect summary of his life and work- if only because it's hard to determine whether the man clinging to the tree is evading the buffalo or the trigger happy Englishman's bullet.
If he had shortcomings (I wouldn't call them that) as an explorer (which he wasn't) his legacy has more than compensated for them. I'm glad this Flashman-like character of our history has a proud place among the progenitors of this province. If traveling around in a caravan with pack mules for your wine, pack mules for your guns and ammo, guides and lackeys to make and break camp for you and shooting anything feathered or furry with impunity can be passed off as serious scientific inquiry there's hope for us all 200 years down the road. Hats off to John Palliser.
2013
2013. So far I've worked like five days this year. I think I've been in the hot tub about thirty times. Pruny, pruny and boring is how I'd say 2013 is being forecast. My number one preoccupation is keeping the walkways clear enough from snow so the mailman delivers the books I've ordered. Hoisted by my own petard. Wherefore my band of merry leisure fellows? I may have reached a relaxation saturation point.
Wednesday, December 12, 2012
Famous Historical Leisure Figures: HUCK FINN
As December starts to middle there's a noticeable change in people's demeanor: traffic is worse, shoes get dirty and slushy, daylight is overwhelmingly truant, and everywhere a mad rush. This isn't meant to be anti-consumption- consuming is one of the most pleasurable activities in the leisurists itinerary. But right now, going to a mall, or a store, or even anywhere trade is practiced is bad for the humours. At the mall today I became furious at an old couple seeking seniors discounts (extra 15% off at the Bay- I'm totally hitting that up when I'm old) for requesting to try on so many pairs of shoes! I stewed and steamed and snorted- but isn't it Christmas, I can hear you say... Isn't it the holiday for photogenic deprived kids to finally get the toys they want... for goodwill and hearty feelings? The black and white cover of Christmas on 34th Street flashed through my mind and chastised me.
Chastised. My soul is too evil and shrinks like Gollum from such
Huck Finn, also flooded with zen. Surveying the world he has conquered by escaping the rigorous routine and confines of Missouri convention. SOLID COMFORT. Rafting down the Mississippi in a raft big enough to float a tent, a fire, and a whole pile of supplies- check. Corncob pipe- check. Picaresque adventures- check. Intoxicating smirk of satisfaction- check. Lose a fortune, nevermind, Huck knows he'll be fine as long as there's floating down the river, fishing line tied to his big toe.
This Christmas is going to be -and here is another trendy grammar foul- very Huckleberry for me. At the first sign of holiday panic I'm heading out the window to the river banks (out the backdoor to the hot tub). I might get a corncob pipe. If you manage to get that gleam in your eye I guarantee no shopping mall hustle will harsh your Huckleberry vibes. Huck Finn, born a natural leader of leisure, is a perfect example of someone who toed the line between convention and corncob smoking professional child raftsman. A reminder to us all.
MOTORHOME SEARCH Pt. 1
When we finally found the house nestled between concrete silos and the gravel pit in the middle of the industrial park we didn't think anyone was home. The yard was a parking lot- old motorhomes, a teal Ford Pinto, rusted out flatbeds everywhere. Conspicuous on the hood of the pinto was a half-bottle of whisky. We entered the yard. An overweight pitbull wheezed up to us. We stopped, it stopped. The dog lunged and we jumped the fence.
I called the seller. It didn't seem right away like he knew he was talking on a phone-a after some false starts I said we were outside his house. He came out, between swigs of the whisky he picked up as though he had just set it down there seconds before he warned us not to enter his yard or his dog would surely attack.
The motorhome was on blocks- it was a class A, with ample room to sleep about 8 people. There was a rotting hole in the middle of the floor. Does it run? He said, with a conspicuous leer: no, it's more, like for partying. Get a couple crates of beer and some girls. There's girls in here all the time.
He offered to tow it to my backyard for free- 200 bucks for everything! I declined. The atmosphere grew tense. We left on bad terms.
I got a few calls from him over the next couple weeks. Each time it was like a pocket dial, but right next to his face. I would pick up the phone and listen to the the end of whatever he way saying to someone beside him, then he would say "hello? hello? is there someone there?" The first time he invited us to a party. The next time I cut him off and told him to stop calling me. He was so bloated and addled on alcohol I don't think he had picked up on our social cues, or even society's in general.
I called the seller. It didn't seem right away like he knew he was talking on a phone-a after some false starts I said we were outside his house. He came out, between swigs of the whisky he picked up as though he had just set it down there seconds before he warned us not to enter his yard or his dog would surely attack.
The motorhome was on blocks- it was a class A, with ample room to sleep about 8 people. There was a rotting hole in the middle of the floor. Does it run? He said, with a conspicuous leer: no, it's more, like for partying. Get a couple crates of beer and some girls. There's girls in here all the time.
He offered to tow it to my backyard for free- 200 bucks for everything! I declined. The atmosphere grew tense. We left on bad terms.
I got a few calls from him over the next couple weeks. Each time it was like a pocket dial, but right next to his face. I would pick up the phone and listen to the the end of whatever he way saying to someone beside him, then he would say "hello? hello? is there someone there?" The first time he invited us to a party. The next time I cut him off and told him to stop calling me. He was so bloated and addled on alcohol I don't think he had picked up on our social cues, or even society's in general.
Friday, December 7, 2012
Vomiting Again Pt. 2
I was once a camp counselor- to my regret I was, perhaps not surprisingly, occasionally laid back about the whole affair. One might even say a little too leisurely- though perhaps uneven is a better word. I counseled at what could be nominally called a bible camp, but I think this might be putting too generic a tag on one of the best and most unique places I've been.
One night, when I was a lowly counselor-in-training, I was tasked with delivering the evening devotional. I began with the usual talk-about-our-day, prayer-requests, does-anyone-have-any-questions, and then I asked if someone wanted me to read from the bible. One kid said yeah, he'd like me to read Revelations. Relieved that the whole spiel was finally out of my hands, I gladly turned to Revelations and began to read aloud. I read without thinking at first, then when I realized what passage I'd serendipitously turned to, I read with horror. Gnashing of teeth! The unsaved being tortured! Many fires burning eternally! And all in the pitch black of a cabin in the woods, a setting that to any mind, especially an 8-year olds, anything said is immediately imagined, and immediately imagined right outside the door. The King James bible is where the gravity of doom was perfected in our language -phrasing, tone, rhetoric, graphic violence- I defy anyone to disbelieve anything the King James version tells them in a setting like that. I stopped at one point, sure that there were six wet beds in the room. Does anyone mind if I stop? One little kid, I can't even remember his name, said in a quavering voice that he'd like to become a Christian. I was silent- there was sobbing- where was the counselor? He was absent. I cursed under my breath. Surely this was the epitome of scare tactics. And all inadvertently done. Again I cursed. Yes of course, I said. And that is the only time, for better or worse, I've ever guided anyone spiritually. I felt bad about if for weeks- my one conversion, under such morbid conditions.
That was just a super long non sequitur. We had weekly talent shows, where people sang songs, performed skits, played piano etc. A couple of my chums- there were probably 7 or 8 of us- decided that we were going to pee our pants for the talent show. I guess this was supposed to be funny- but the irony was lost on us that this probably shows a dearth of all talent, imagination, and general self-awareness more than anything else. Anyway, we all got together and began drinking water in huge quantities. We drank and drank water until it hurt. You can become intoxicated if you drink enough water in a short enough time. That could account for why the notion that it was a good idea managed to be sustained. At my fourth or fifth 2-litre jug, I began to throw up. I probably threw up ten litres of water. A staggering fire hydrant. The kids cheered. Only one of us managed to pee his pants. It happened before the talent show had even begun. He couldn't make it to the bathroom. Lesson: these sorts of things are impossible to time.
One night, when I was a lowly counselor-in-training, I was tasked with delivering the evening devotional. I began with the usual talk-about-our-day, prayer-requests, does-anyone-have-any-questions, and then I asked if someone wanted me to read from the bible. One kid said yeah, he'd like me to read Revelations. Relieved that the whole spiel was finally out of my hands, I gladly turned to Revelations and began to read aloud. I read without thinking at first, then when I realized what passage I'd serendipitously turned to, I read with horror. Gnashing of teeth! The unsaved being tortured! Many fires burning eternally! And all in the pitch black of a cabin in the woods, a setting that to any mind, especially an 8-year olds, anything said is immediately imagined, and immediately imagined right outside the door. The King James bible is where the gravity of doom was perfected in our language -phrasing, tone, rhetoric, graphic violence- I defy anyone to disbelieve anything the King James version tells them in a setting like that. I stopped at one point, sure that there were six wet beds in the room. Does anyone mind if I stop? One little kid, I can't even remember his name, said in a quavering voice that he'd like to become a Christian. I was silent- there was sobbing- where was the counselor? He was absent. I cursed under my breath. Surely this was the epitome of scare tactics. And all inadvertently done. Again I cursed. Yes of course, I said. And that is the only time, for better or worse, I've ever guided anyone spiritually. I felt bad about if for weeks- my one conversion, under such morbid conditions.
That was just a super long non sequitur. We had weekly talent shows, where people sang songs, performed skits, played piano etc. A couple of my chums- there were probably 7 or 8 of us- decided that we were going to pee our pants for the talent show. I guess this was supposed to be funny- but the irony was lost on us that this probably shows a dearth of all talent, imagination, and general self-awareness more than anything else. Anyway, we all got together and began drinking water in huge quantities. We drank and drank water until it hurt. You can become intoxicated if you drink enough water in a short enough time. That could account for why the notion that it was a good idea managed to be sustained. At my fourth or fifth 2-litre jug, I began to throw up. I probably threw up ten litres of water. A staggering fire hydrant. The kids cheered. Only one of us managed to pee his pants. It happened before the talent show had even begun. He couldn't make it to the bathroom. Lesson: these sorts of things are impossible to time.
Saturday, December 1, 2012
Famous Leisure Figures: Hobbits
I remember reading the Lord of The Rings (L+) and imagining myself as Aragorn or Legolas or another hero-type; never a dwarf or a wizard. Dwarves dig and live underground- they're greedy. Wizards are curmudgeonly. As I've grown older, and now have fewer people telling me my leisure principles are in fact symptoms of sloth, I've come to realize that my disposition is fundamentally hobbit-like. Hobbits wish they were elves, or of the line of Elendil- from the comfort of the Green Dragon (L++), or a hammock (L++), or over the main course of second breakfast (L++). This is all to say I'm looking forward to The Hobbit more than any other
*there's a good bit in Patrick Leigh Fermor's book "Words of Mercury" about gluttony and the Renaissance. Essentially, his tongue-in-cheek thesis is that Raphael, or da Vinci, couldn't possible have painted what they did on a diet such as we have today. It's all olives and scarcity; lean physical comfort.
Thursday, November 29, 2012
Famous Leisure Figures: OMAR KHAYYAM
This is an illustration and a quatrain from the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, a medieval Persian philosopher and poet. He was exceptionally prolific in terms of scientific and philosophic output, but it's his Rubaiyat he's best known for now. It's not hard to see why. You could draw a straight line from Diogenes to these leisure savvy chaps, 2000 years between them notwithstanding. In fact I can almost imagine this is Diogenes sulking when he wasn't invited to their "wine and Houri" picnic under the olive trees:
"But Diogenes, you sleep in a barrel, he lives in the sultan's palace..."
Being a stoic doesn't mean you don't have feelings.
Thursday, November 15, 2012
Viscount Gort Hotel
In the Winnipeg winter of 06/07 I spent most of my leisure time in the swimming pool and sauna of a place called the Viscount Gort Hotel. The fact that I and several of my compadres were able to regularly break into the pool and also break all the rules of the pool for a period of about five months is evidence of a) the total lack of ambition on the part of the hotel staff and b) our blissful shamelessness.
The Viscount Gort was across the frigid Assiniboine River, from our house maybe a ten minute walk. The bridge we had to cross rose considerably- exposure to the wind was terrible, and the city didn't clear the sidewalk of snow. It was a bit of an ordeal getting to and from, despite the proximity. It probably never got warmer than -30 that winter. That sauna and pool was an oasis. Our house was badly insulated (ice formed on the interior of outside walls), our hot water supply limited, and we relied on our bikes to go everywhere all winter long. There were weeks when I went to the Viscount Gort five or six days out of seven to sit in the sauna. Towards the end of our happy time there we began to go in the morning on Saturdays and Sundays, as the south facing side of the pool complex was a floor to ceiling window and the sun lit up the entire place every morning. We would bring thermoses of coffee and my pal rode down the waterslide while pretending to read the newspaper. We threw the soggy Free Press at each other.
Underneath a bench in the sauna there was a little opening big enough to scoot an empty bottle into. After a few months you could drop a can in and hear it clatter off enough other discards to bring a smile to even the most severe anti-leisure types.
Encounters with the hotel security were recounted gleefully to those not present. I was there for a few of them. You might not know this, but a lot of drinking gets done in hotel pools- usually near the deckchairs, but of course this seems an arbitrary confinement after a few Lucky Lager's consumed in the shadow of a waterslide. The first time I encountered security I thought for sure the game was up. We were sitting on the side drinking some beers when they strolled in. Our innocent Shangrila, about to be taken from us by some red-faced pot-bellied minimum wage security stooges! They pointed to the bottles, and told us we couldn't drink them in here... because of the glass. Cans are okay, we were assured. And then they walked out.
Another time we stayed long after the lights were turned out. The only thing better than sneaking into a pool with some economy brews is riding the waterslide after the lights are outtrying to keep your economy brew balanced while you tumble into the water. Eventually someone came and asked us to leave. He went as far as to escort us to the elevator, probably because we were carrying armfuls of winter wear in addition to our normal clothes. We took it up a few floors, changed in the stairwell and left out a back emergency exit.
The Viscount Gort was across the frigid Assiniboine River, from our house maybe a ten minute walk. The bridge we had to cross rose considerably- exposure to the wind was terrible, and the city didn't clear the sidewalk of snow. It was a bit of an ordeal getting to and from, despite the proximity. It probably never got warmer than -30 that winter. That sauna and pool was an oasis. Our house was badly insulated (ice formed on the interior of outside walls), our hot water supply limited, and we relied on our bikes to go everywhere all winter long. There were weeks when I went to the Viscount Gort five or six days out of seven to sit in the sauna. Towards the end of our happy time there we began to go in the morning on Saturdays and Sundays, as the south facing side of the pool complex was a floor to ceiling window and the sun lit up the entire place every morning. We would bring thermoses of coffee and my pal rode down the waterslide while pretending to read the newspaper. We threw the soggy Free Press at each other.
Underneath a bench in the sauna there was a little opening big enough to scoot an empty bottle into. After a few months you could drop a can in and hear it clatter off enough other discards to bring a smile to even the most severe anti-leisure types.
Encounters with the hotel security were recounted gleefully to those not present. I was there for a few of them. You might not know this, but a lot of drinking gets done in hotel pools- usually near the deckchairs, but of course this seems an arbitrary confinement after a few Lucky Lager's consumed in the shadow of a waterslide. The first time I encountered security I thought for sure the game was up. We were sitting on the side drinking some beers when they strolled in. Our innocent Shangrila, about to be taken from us by some red-faced pot-bellied minimum wage security stooges! They pointed to the bottles, and told us we couldn't drink them in here... because of the glass. Cans are okay, we were assured. And then they walked out.
Another time we stayed long after the lights were turned out. The only thing better than sneaking into a pool with some economy brews is riding the waterslide after the lights are outtrying to keep your economy brew balanced while you tumble into the water. Eventually someone came and asked us to leave. He went as far as to escort us to the elevator, probably because we were carrying armfuls of winter wear in addition to our normal clothes. We took it up a few floors, changed in the stairwell and left out a back emergency exit.
Wednesday, November 14, 2012
Famous Leisure Figures from History: DIOGENES
This is the start of a new series on famous leisure figures from history.
When asked by Alexander the Great (U++) what favor he would have from him, the incomparable Diogenes (L++) allegedly looked up, annoyed at the figure casting a shadow over his contemplation, and said "Yes, stand out of my sunlight!" Look at this picture. It's not a painting of the scene I just referred to but a painting of the barrel Diogenes apparently lived in. Notice the hunched shoulders, the pained squint, and the care he has taken to keep in the shade. That has to be the posture and expression of a man who has forgotten his mantra of moderation and indulged in a few too many Palm Breezies (L++) the night before. Notice the belle Athenians (L++) lining the stairs to call on him, and the parchment crumpled into his hands. A true paragon of leisure.
When asked by Alexander the Great (U++) what favor he would have from him, the incomparable Diogenes (L++) allegedly looked up, annoyed at the figure casting a shadow over his contemplation, and said "Yes, stand out of my sunlight!" Look at this picture. It's not a painting of the scene I just referred to but a painting of the barrel Diogenes apparently lived in. Notice the hunched shoulders, the pained squint, and the care he has taken to keep in the shade. That has to be the posture and expression of a man who has forgotten his mantra of moderation and indulged in a few too many Palm Breezies (L++) the night before. Notice the belle Athenians (L++) lining the stairs to call on him, and the parchment crumpled into his hands. A true paragon of leisure.
I'm creating a system for denoting the leisurely from the un-leisurely. It applies to nouns and verbs. For example, a capital "L" is the stamp of leisure- while a capital "U" represents the opposite. Plus signs can indicate degrees. Hot-tubbing is obvious: L++. Someone like Satan, that dastardly tempter of humans into action, is a clear U++.
Milton (L+) again:leisure virtue lies in resisting actiontemptation. I should explain why I think Milton, despite his seeming indefatigable industry, fully qualifies as a man of leisure. Sure he's famous for a few things, namely "Paradise Lost", but he can't hide his true nature behind a few thousand lines of poetry. Get this: after he graduated from Cambridge (L+) he spent 6 years of total unemployment reading (L++) at his father's house in London (U), and then embarked on a 2 year tour of the European continent (L++). He dashed of a few poems here and there during this time, I assume to appease his benefactors, but mainly lay about pondering the imponderables (L). I bet if he had had a hot tub (L++) he would never have written Paradise Lost. A sobering thought.
Milton (L+) again:
Tuesday, November 6, 2012
Idyllic Days of Leisure
Idyllic Days of Leisure:
They come unexpectedly and don't last. I suppose the Lord giveth and society taketh away. Eden represents the pinnacle of the leisure myth, and I think, the highest aspiration of human imagination. Little to no clothing, stable temperatures, soft bowers, God-given love-companion, many beasts to genuflect before your slovenly ways, freedom from the psyche-bruising necessities of labor. God, according to Milton: "For so I created them free and free they must remain."
Anyway I spent a day last week that surpasses in quality all my other leisure endeavors and makes the drudgery of low level-employment more bearable.
11:30-12:00 drowsily awoke of my own accord absent the hellish caw of an alarm clock (waking on your own accord is one of the few pleasures that habit can't diminish- I've been doing it for years.) Lay in bed for half an hour reading leisure mentor Patrick Leigh Fermor. Daydreamed about being Patrick Leigh Fermor.
12:00 Surprise! One of my friends stayed the night and is sleeping on the couch. I wake him up and we go out for breakfast.
12:30-2:30 Breakfast. Metro Crossword completed. We leave the diner swelled with an enormous sense of accomplishment and a dozen cups of coffee. The feeling is no less satisfying than how I imagine I would feel after successfully negotiating peace terms between outdoor cats and dogs accidently let off the leash (top that Picard)- plus having a coffee chugging competition with night shift truckers.
2:30-3:30 Fair's Fair book store then drive home.
3:45-3:50 Load BB's into Red Ryder Daisy Classic BB gun, find towel.
3:50-5:30 Take the air from the comfort of a steaming hot tub, with the added comfort of a loaded BB gun at hand. Read Julian Barnes and take pot shots at the unwitting squirrels gathering their winter stores. Crack wise with my friend who shoots wildly at flocks of migrating birds. Stay in the hot tub until trigger fingers are pruned out to the max.
5:30 A&W milkshakes
7:00 Work, which I won't bother describing.
I have bastardized a genuinely beautiful lament over leisure lost in order to immortalize the afternoon in verse.
They are not long, the shooting and the tubbing,
Books and coonskin caps:
I think they have no portion in the shlubbing
Of leisure hardy chaps.
They are not long, the days of guns and hot tubs:
Seen through the billowing steam,
Naive, a squirrel emerges from a shrub
To the BBs gleam.
They come unexpectedly and don't last. I suppose the Lord giveth and society taketh away. Eden represents the pinnacle of the leisure myth, and I think, the highest aspiration of human imagination. Little to no clothing, stable temperatures, soft bowers, God-given love-companion, many beasts to genuflect before your slovenly ways, freedom from the psyche-bruising necessities of labor. God, according to Milton: "For so I created them free and free they must remain."
Anyway I spent a day last week that surpasses in quality all my other leisure endeavors and makes the drudgery of low level-employment more bearable.
11:30-12:00 drowsily awoke of my own accord absent the hellish caw of an alarm clock (waking on your own accord is one of the few pleasures that habit can't diminish- I've been doing it for years.) Lay in bed for half an hour reading leisure mentor Patrick Leigh Fermor. Daydreamed about being Patrick Leigh Fermor.
12:00 Surprise! One of my friends stayed the night and is sleeping on the couch. I wake him up and we go out for breakfast.
12:30-2:30 Breakfast. Metro Crossword completed. We leave the diner swelled with an enormous sense of accomplishment and a dozen cups of coffee. The feeling is no less satisfying than how I imagine I would feel after successfully negotiating peace terms between outdoor cats and dogs accidently let off the leash (top that Picard)- plus having a coffee chugging competition with night shift truckers.
2:30-3:30 Fair's Fair book store then drive home.
3:45-3:50 Load BB's into Red Ryder Daisy Classic BB gun, find towel.
3:50-5:30 Take the air from the comfort of a steaming hot tub, with the added comfort of a loaded BB gun at hand. Read Julian Barnes and take pot shots at the unwitting squirrels gathering their winter stores. Crack wise with my friend who shoots wildly at flocks of migrating birds. Stay in the hot tub until trigger fingers are pruned out to the max.
5:30 A&W milkshakes
7:00 Work, which I won't bother describing.
I have bastardized a genuinely beautiful lament over leisure lost in order to immortalize the afternoon in verse.
They are not long, the shooting and the tubbing,
Books and coonskin caps:
I think they have no portion in the shlubbing
Of leisure hardy chaps.
They are not long, the days of guns and hot tubs:
Seen through the billowing steam,
Naive, a squirrel emerges from a shrub
To the BBs gleam.
continuation and fin
I tumbled out of the car onto the gravel like a freshly severed head rolling off a guillotine rack and threw up some more. And that's it- there's not much else to tell. The bike ride was at an obscene altitude and I became horribly sunburnt between the end of my sleeve and the beginning of my gloves. The highlands were beautiful. We rode through a few tiny villages and the kids came out to point and jeer "gringooo" at us. I became ashamed of my heritage. We went into one of their small dwellings to see the guinea pigs they kept for culinary purposes. I became reconciled to my heritage. I began to feel better. We left for Bolivia soon after.
One other thing about Cusco: we were walking on the sidewalk to the bus station to buy tickets for the overnight trip to La Paz. The street was sloped with a cement wall at the lowpoint- at the bottom of the hill we turned to walk along the wall. Uphill from us a semi truck somehow disengaged from the park brake, rolled backwards gathering speed for a few meters and hit the wall. Sound-wise it was pretty startling, and we were jut a few feet from being crushed. Neither of us were overly concerned, though this seems strange to me now. We swaggered away, Rambo-like after an explosion. Just the sort of sangfroid I've always coveted, but never been able to convincingly pull off.
One other thing about Cusco: we were walking on the sidewalk to the bus station to buy tickets for the overnight trip to La Paz. The street was sloped with a cement wall at the lowpoint- at the bottom of the hill we turned to walk along the wall. Uphill from us a semi truck somehow disengaged from the park brake, rolled backwards gathering speed for a few meters and hit the wall. Sound-wise it was pretty startling, and we were jut a few feet from being crushed. Neither of us were overly concerned, though this seems strange to me now. We swaggered away, Rambo-like after an explosion. Just the sort of sangfroid I've always coveted, but never been able to convincingly pull off.
Monday, August 13, 2012
When I was traveling in South America I got thoroughly, debilitatingly sick twice. The first time we had just arrived in Cusco, jumping-off point for Macchu Picchu and locus of altitude sickness for hapless tourists.
Altitude sickness. Pshaw. It culls from the herd, like a hunting wolf, the old and the sickly. Not so! I myself was struck down by the altitude sickness. My traveling companion Rob was not. I was very displeased to be alone in my suffering, and though assured by Lonely Planet that altitude sickness affects individuals differently -indiscriminate of health and physical condition- I grew resentful of my body, that it should prove so susceptible, so fallible.
We took an early flight from Lima- shortening, for an additional 50$ hit to our budget, a trip that by bus was something like 18 hours to a 2 hour flight. That meant going from sea level to whatever ungodly heights Cusco is sprawled upon in a very short time, too short for the body to easily adjust. We got out of a taxi near a hostel and were confronted by a steep set of stone stairs, and I think got an early taste of the deterioration of muscle and energy old age brings on. I don't think either of us have ever ascended stairs so slowly or with such grisly effort.
As I said I was laid down by the altitude. The most troubling aspect of it is that along with the fevery headaches, shortness of breath and nausea comes insomnia- so while you can't leave your bed you also can't start sleeping. This can be a huge problem in hostel dorms full of drunk Australians- I think if there's one place you really want to be without any sensory data coming in it's a hostel dorm room on a Friday night.
The next morning we left and got a a private room down the street. Rob was very accommodating but I knew that I was becoming a sickly nuisance, unable to go anywhere or do anything. So on the second night, energized by guilt and sick like a rotten foundation, we went to get dinner at a little hole in the wall nearby and after started drinking with some local middle aged droopy mustachioed types. I don't know what they thought of us. Probably, though I don't recall the particulars, we bought a lot of the rounds. I made a friend in much the same way soon after, while on my first bartending shift in Holland I, ignorant of volumes and languages and ounces, was pouring whoppingly heavy drinks for a Dutchman while he sat at the bar and extolled my skill and virtue to his friends, before the head bartender returned and my whole operation was frowningly shut down. The buds I made on those two nights I never saw again. This is why I almost never buy anyone drinks, lest they abandon me in a similar fashion.
I didn't drink more than one or two beers the whole night, and even those were choked down to keep from violating the very tangible social norms that bind young tourists to old locals during drinking sessions. Everyone was so drunk that during roaring, incoherent Spanish and Quechua toasts, the fact that my glass wasn't thrust forward for more went unnoticed. Even so I could tell they were suspicious of how withdrawn I was, struggling to keep from throwing up my arms and hiding my head in my sweater, so feverish was I feeling. And all the while I could see what a great time it could be to the sound of body.
In a fit of activity the day before we had signed up to go mountain biking in the hills around Cusco. We were to meet our guide at 6 AM outside the hostel doors. We might have gotten 2 hours of sleep that night. Dutifully, and only because Rob was, did I arise and get in the Taxi with the bikes strapped to the roof. Rob! Always astounding me with his resilience. The taxi left the town on windy, potholed roads such as are not seen in what is commonly called the Global North. And it got worse! Bile rose in my throat, accompanying the dread in my soul of the consequences following spewing my guts up in a foreign taxi. Talk about violating social norms! Not the first time I've sacrificed my good sense to avoid a sticky situation only for it to subsequently blossom into a higher dimension of eventual stickiness as a result.
I opened my mouth to try and say something about pulling over, a move that brought down the levy and unleashed my unholy torrent. I futilely, but I hoped assuagingly, positioned my raincoat as a catch all. But it was all vomit-dripping, yelling, and screeching tires.
to be continued.
Altitude sickness. Pshaw. It culls from the herd, like a hunting wolf, the old and the sickly. Not so! I myself was struck down by the altitude sickness. My traveling companion Rob was not. I was very displeased to be alone in my suffering, and though assured by Lonely Planet that altitude sickness affects individuals differently -indiscriminate of health and physical condition- I grew resentful of my body, that it should prove so susceptible, so fallible.
We took an early flight from Lima- shortening, for an additional 50$ hit to our budget, a trip that by bus was something like 18 hours to a 2 hour flight. That meant going from sea level to whatever ungodly heights Cusco is sprawled upon in a very short time, too short for the body to easily adjust. We got out of a taxi near a hostel and were confronted by a steep set of stone stairs, and I think got an early taste of the deterioration of muscle and energy old age brings on. I don't think either of us have ever ascended stairs so slowly or with such grisly effort.
As I said I was laid down by the altitude. The most troubling aspect of it is that along with the fevery headaches, shortness of breath and nausea comes insomnia- so while you can't leave your bed you also can't start sleeping. This can be a huge problem in hostel dorms full of drunk Australians- I think if there's one place you really want to be without any sensory data coming in it's a hostel dorm room on a Friday night.
The next morning we left and got a a private room down the street. Rob was very accommodating but I knew that I was becoming a sickly nuisance, unable to go anywhere or do anything. So on the second night, energized by guilt and sick like a rotten foundation, we went to get dinner at a little hole in the wall nearby and after started drinking with some local middle aged droopy mustachioed types. I don't know what they thought of us. Probably, though I don't recall the particulars, we bought a lot of the rounds. I made a friend in much the same way soon after, while on my first bartending shift in Holland I, ignorant of volumes and languages and ounces, was pouring whoppingly heavy drinks for a Dutchman while he sat at the bar and extolled my skill and virtue to his friends, before the head bartender returned and my whole operation was frowningly shut down. The buds I made on those two nights I never saw again. This is why I almost never buy anyone drinks, lest they abandon me in a similar fashion.
I didn't drink more than one or two beers the whole night, and even those were choked down to keep from violating the very tangible social norms that bind young tourists to old locals during drinking sessions. Everyone was so drunk that during roaring, incoherent Spanish and Quechua toasts, the fact that my glass wasn't thrust forward for more went unnoticed. Even so I could tell they were suspicious of how withdrawn I was, struggling to keep from throwing up my arms and hiding my head in my sweater, so feverish was I feeling. And all the while I could see what a great time it could be to the sound of body.
In a fit of activity the day before we had signed up to go mountain biking in the hills around Cusco. We were to meet our guide at 6 AM outside the hostel doors. We might have gotten 2 hours of sleep that night. Dutifully, and only because Rob was, did I arise and get in the Taxi with the bikes strapped to the roof. Rob! Always astounding me with his resilience. The taxi left the town on windy, potholed roads such as are not seen in what is commonly called the Global North. And it got worse! Bile rose in my throat, accompanying the dread in my soul of the consequences following spewing my guts up in a foreign taxi. Talk about violating social norms! Not the first time I've sacrificed my good sense to avoid a sticky situation only for it to subsequently blossom into a higher dimension of eventual stickiness as a result.
I opened my mouth to try and say something about pulling over, a move that brought down the levy and unleashed my unholy torrent. I futilely, but I hoped assuagingly, positioned my raincoat as a catch all. But it was all vomit-dripping, yelling, and screeching tires.
to be continued.
Views
The bathroom with the second best view I've ever been pleased to relieve myself in was on Isla Amantani in Lake Titicaca. It was one of those stone plaster affairs you only see in desert climates and the developing world- with an open air window overlooking first the flowering garden and then the limitless horizon of that enormous inland lake. Rob and I took a trip there, after stopping overnight in uninviting Puno- a place akin to Red Deer in overall appeal. I think we drank some boxed wine in the hostel and didn't even consider looking for anything else to do. I always remember that bathroom. Best view goes unequivocally to piss plunging into a dark void off the unfinished heli-pad on the shoulder of Lady Macdonald, watching headlights snake down the highway a thousand feet below, full of whisky, low on supplies, high in spirits.
Wednesday, August 1, 2012
The Leisure Alberta Good Times Easy Riding Calgary Ledges Tour actually happened! So that's surprising. More, or less, surprising, depending on your perspective, and if you are my friend or my enemy, is that it was pretty fun. And unsurprisingly, at least one person lost a ton blood and may have ruined one excellent pair of trousers or tights or something. Brian L. (shorten. for anonym.) had so much fun he neglected his responsibilities the following day. I myself was showing some flu-like symptoms from out of nowhere the next morning.
There's another one in the works. Coming up near the end of August. So if you belong to the enormous group of people who missed the ride, and also one of the tiny group of people who might stumble upon this, lucky! If anyone wants to do it at a certain time, comment.
We gave out paper bags of leisure supplies last time.
Thursday, June 7, 2012
CYCLEPALOOOOOOOZA
Leisure Alberta has been offered a large bounty to host and organize a bike ride for Cycle-pa-looza in Calgary. Because I don't do anything that I can't do either in ten minutes right now or just re-schedule for next year, it's a go.
It's hard, in life, to know what you want. Sometimes it can be easy- I'll take a six lucky lagers and six Palm Bay coolers please. Or, I'll have the lawn chair with the reclining back. Or, no, I don't consider these pants too ragged for polite company.
Sometimes there's uncertainty. Like, I'm not sure if I have enough gas to get to Radium Hot Springs... ought I stop? Or, is this one of those fireworks you need to plant in the ground? Or, which is the most downhill bikeride possible in this city anyway?
Hard any decision must be made! The ride will start at 16th AVE and 10th St NW, and will finish and 5th AVE and 10th St NW. Beverages and snacks to follow.
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