100

100 visitors (or visits - thanks, Mom) in just over two weeks... thanks for reading!

Kiss The Cook

I really like beef. As a good Alberta boy (and those of you from the great white north will appreciate this) I know a good steak from a bad one. Try as I might, I have not mastered the art of cooking them - though I'm not bad with a grill - but I have a tremendous appreciation for them when I do find them.

Well, today was a bit of a rough day at work. I say that with a little bit of a grimace, knowing that some of you spend more hours at work in a week than I do awake, but still... it was a long day. In the interest of not losing my job should anyone who could help make that happen come across this, I won't go into any details, but let's just say that by 8 tonight my brain was full and I was ready to move on to something different.

There are about 8 of us on this project now, and a couple decided not to join in, but you know me - gotta go wherever the group is going, so I decided to head along for a meal. Honestly, it's been a couple months since I've been able to hang out with this crew, and I have missed them. As much as I truly and honestly hate trying to figure out what all my francophone friends are saying after 12 hours of work, I work with some really good people. So we went to a place I'd eaten at a couple times before, which was good news.

I noticed something tonight that I hadn't before - the music here is a lot better than it is in Geneva. We had some Toto (Africa, of course), Tracy Chapman, Natalie Imbrouglia (who I can now recognize thanks to the MNB) and a few others which, thankfully, featured more guitar and less French rap. Score one for our side.

Now, I don't know what it is about Lugano, but not only is the music vastly superior, but the beef here is way, way better than what I can find in Geneva. I don't know where it comes from, don't know if they just prepare it right, but it's good. I mean, I know three places within a 5-minute walk from my hotel where I can get an absolutely wonderful steak. And we were at one of them tonight.

The wine was a young Italian... very robust, very fruity, with a lot of plum, and a surprisingly good finish for a relatively sweet, young wine. Not particularly well-balanced, but if you like that flavor (and I do) there is a lot of it there to enjoy. It would have absolutely died with a curry, but with my steak... well, I just wanted to crawl inside it and live there forever. The filet was not too big, but, trying to keep up with local customs, I had started with pasta, anyways, so I wasn't too hungry. And the steak was amazing... just enough marbling to really give it flavor but still very lean (it was a filet) and certainly no extra fat to bother me. It was tender and cooked to very perfection... grilled and slightly charred on the outside, and then a deep, rich, beautiful dark pink all the way through. They served it with some grilled vegetables - mostly non-memorable except for the peppers; sweet, still crunchy, but grilled with a little of the sugars burned - and I finished with a nochino (or something like that) - grappa which has had walnuts marinated in it for 40 days. Wonderful.

Wow. In the end I decided it may be best if I didn't meet the chef - better to keep a little mystery in the relationship - but it was satisfying in a way that only a perfectly prepared steak can be. Happy, happy, happy.

My Commute

As I have most weeks for the last year and a half, I flew to Lugano this morning. A couple things have changed since my regular visits before Christmas – instead of muffins, they are now serving little cinnamon buns with the coffee in the morning. That’s good – the muffins were not that great. And the hat guy is gone. I have mixed feelings about that.

He used to fly the same days as me (GVA -> LUG Wednesday morning and then LUG -> GVA on Thursday night). He would get on the plane, and, with a line of people waiting behind him, he would slowly set his bag in the overhead bin. Then he would carefully take off his and put it up, as well. Then he would take off his scarf, fold it gently, and put it into the bin. Then he would take off his coat, fold it, and look distressed. He would take the hat and scarf out of the bin, and put the coat in, and, somewhat relieved, put his hat and scarf on top. Then he would take off his suit jacket, fold it, and look at the pile of coat, scarf, and hat with bag beside them like someone had put them in while he wasn’t looking. Where was he going to put his suit jacket? Tears would start to form at the corners of his eyes, and… well, things usually went downhill from there.

And, when we landed, he would go through the entire process again, in reverse.

I was fascinated by the hat guy, but I became… let’s not say “obsessed with”, but perhaps “interested in” getting a seat in a row closer to the front than he had. I mean, it was pretty funny to watch the first couple of times, and always interesting to see the absolute incredulity of the people standing behind him, but I didn’t like being one of the people standing behind him. I’m the guy who, when I get to the security check, has already transferred everything to my jacket pockets and my PC ready to pull out of my bag. When I get to the gate to board, my ticket is ready, along with my music and the book I’ll be reading on the plane. I do this every week, and it’s not rocket science. Or even physics. Anyways, thanks to the wonders of the telephone check-in system I was usually able to get a seat low in frustration but high in entertainment. He’s not flying any more, though. I don’t know if he stopped working with his company, if his project ended. Maybe he decided he likes the train since he can take 6 hours to arrange his things. But I miss him. I hope that, somewhere, he and his hat are okay.

Much of the rest remains the same, reminding me why, if I’m going to have to travel, this is a pretty good option.

I almost always meet a friend/colleague who is on the same flight.

Darwin continues to recruit their stewardesses, it seems, based almost solely on how beautiful their eyes are. When she handed me my cup of almost-hot coffee and little glass of juice this morning I felt like I was being given… I don’t know… A BRAND NEW CAR! Or, at least, something much better than warm coffee and sample-sized orange juice. Nice.

And then there’s the other view… the sun rising over the Alps. It takes my breath away, every time. It is a heart-wrenching, want-to-burst-into-song, my-God-is-amazing kind of beautiful. I am not much of a scenery guy (except in Tuscany… and Scotland… and maybe one or two other places, but that’s it, really), but the light of the early morning sun reflecting on the snow, the jagged peaks stretching for as far as I can see, the wisps of cloud shrouding the valleys like some sort of divine secret… I am in awe. It’s incredible.

All in all, not a bad commute. Now if I could just do something about the coffee….

[EDIT]: Want more? Click here for the return of the Hat Guy.

I Hate Physics

No offence to Science Nathan, Fred, or any of my other friends inclined in this direction. And, to be clear, I don't discount either the challenge or value of their research. I just hate the effects of physics.

There's the whole, "wow, I really didn't mean for that to fall, unbidden, to the earth and shatter" thing, but that's not even the one that really gets me. What I want to know is, why does music have to go flat when I yawn? Yeah, I know that the change in shape of my jaw when I extend it to yawn lessens the tension in my eardrum, and the rate of vibration that my ear senses has to change accordingly. I know why it happens, physically. But I don't know why it has to happen, metaphysically.

I don't want it to sound like all of a sudden everyone decided to detune... even if there was a musical precedent for it, it almost always ruins a song to key-change down partway through. And it never sounds even... my mind always remembers the key we're supposed to be in, and I generally just hear the vocal sliding down at first. I can't always stifle the yawn until between tunes, though I would if I could, believe me. So, when I'm tired or bored, I run the risk of having my music turning sour. Talk about a vicious cycle.

Maybe physics aren't to blame - maybe it's a physiological issue, and I just need some kind of rigid inner-ear implants to ensure that the tension in my ear is constant, regardless of what the rest of my head is doing. Hmmmmmm. I wonder if it would be possible to rig something up with paper-clips and saran wrap? Looks like I have a new weekend project. If anyone else wants to help with the research, I'll provide lunch and headphones. Please bring your own anesthetic.

Girly

I just finished a practice of sorts with my Monday Night Band (MNB). We didn't actually play tonight, but we each brought in tunes that we thought may be suitable to expand out set list and had a listen to the bunch.

Well, I've had my heavy phases in the past... I did punk, I did speed metal. Lately I've listened to a fair bit of pop-ish stuff, as well as a lot of folk, country, and bluegrass. But I realized, as I was going through my CD collection, that I have almost nothing like I am playing with this band (Corrs, Dido, Texas, Sarah Mclaughlin). Still, I'm playing it. Willingly.

And, what's more, I'm liking it.

Since probably almost none of you have met them, I should just say that we are, at present, a four-piece: three lovely women on keyboards, guitar, and lead vocals, along with me on drums (waiting for Andy to join in on the bass), with all three of the instrumentalists doing backup vocals. These women are talented, and I have really enjoyed playing and singing with them, but clearly, we don't have a lot of testosterone in the room. At first, I didn't think it would be an issue.

But it's become a cause of concern for me. It started (or, at least, I realized it) when one of them suggested "I Love You, Always Forever" by Donna Lewis and I said, "I love that song" before I had a chance to stop myself. They didn't seem to notice, but I felt that something had changed. No longer would I be able to wear a Tragically Hip shirt at practice without doubting myself. No longer could I just glance over from my drums to my Extreme cd's for reassurance. I had crossed a line, and I don't know if I can go back.

And tonight it continued. I managed to pull Jessica Andrews (?!?) out of my own collection, thinking that some of her songs may fit what we're doing. The verdict, from the girls?

Too girly. Not quite what we're looking for.

I am the drummer. I am the man. I am the one who, should we end up gigging, will be carrying anything heavy. I am the one that no one expects to smell good, who should be covered in sweat by the end of a show. I hit things, and I make really, really loud noises. According to all stereotypes, I should show up drunk and in a foul mood and leave, if possible, more drunk and more foul.

So what in the world has happened to my taste in music?

I'm going to go listen to Ozzy now. If I'm not back in three days, send out the dogs to look for me... I'll probably be under a big stack of Christina Aguilera cd's...

Portraits

Man, after seeing the full-frame face shots of the monks in the movie on Saturday, I am absolutely itching to get a hold of a good camera and take some portraits. Not in the Sears, "3000 pictures for $11.99" special sense of the word, but really capturing a moment and a feeling. It's a little strange, I think... I've spent a lot of time taking pictures of people I don't know and of Allison (though it's a pretty... shall we say, "dynamic" process with her), but never done much with taking pictures of people I do know. Can't wait for summer, and full, warm, beautiful light again.... I want to create!

Be Very, Very Quiet

I saw Le Grand Silence last night with some friends - a fascinating movie shot in the Chartreuse monestary in France. It was about 2:45, with very little speaking... no narration, certainly no story, just observing the monks following their routine.

Overall impression? Very cool... felt a lot shorter than I had expected, and didn't at all feel like watching somebody's bad vacation footage (3-minute pan of a waterfall with no commentary, before moving on to the parliament buildings), which I had expected. I think I did miss a few minutes, disappearing into my own little world now and again, but not much. And, as far as I know, I didn't fall asleep. It made me think, which I like.

Aesthetically, it was a bit of a mixed bag... the filmmaker was absolutely golden with textures, particularly some close-ups of skin, fabric, and water. And I mean, I almost let out a gasp when the shot is cut kind of golden. He did some nice things with color, too, the most remarkable for me being the contrast of a young monk's shaven skull against the red of a door as he sat to eat his lunch. I know, it doesn't sound like much, which is why it's a movie, not a book. It was a stunning shot.

He did, however, have some issues on the "special effects" front. WAY too much of the film was shot either in a very, very grainy film or a simulation of that, and not just dark, indoor shots where you may expect it, but outdoor, daylight shots that were completely indistinct from the overwhelming presence of the grain. It was a mess, and it happened way too often.

I think that he also had trouble getting across the "journey" feeling in a suitable way... there were some clear indications at the start of the film (extremely disorienting shots of clouds, done à la grain, of course) that he wanted to start from a place of confusion and draw order from it. Fair enough, but I think that the rituals and way of life in the monestary is disorienting enough to do that without any other influences.

He also chose to include some fast time lapse and very slow motion shots in the first third, I would guess to highligh that time was both moving faster (because he compresses a year into under three hours) and slower (because... well, that's just the way it works in a monestary where a vow of silence is part of the deal) than we are used to in our own lives. He's right, and the time aspect of it was fascinating, but I would guess that most people coming to see this kind of movie - I mean, let's face it... it's not exactly Batman - don't need this not-so-subtle push to think along those lines. The sublte and surprising drama of the seasons changing as he included shots of the outside was compelling enough, and should have been left to do the job on it's own.

So, as a piece of art, it was okay... worth seeing, but I wouldn't tell all my friends they have to go.

Where it did more for me, though, was in making me think about the spiritual life these men lead, especially relative to the life I lead:
1. When the Bible says to medidate on God's word day and night, is that what it meant? I don't think so... it also says to do a lot of other things that aren't really part of the life of a monk
2. Should I be spending more time in meditation and silence before God? Yeah, I should. And that's a lot of the impact this film had on me... I longed to be there, in that chapel, on my knees with those men, with their dedication to this discipline serving as an inspiration to me.
3. Could I do what they are doing? Could I do it for a day? A weekend? A week or two? A couple of months? Could I take a vow to do it for the rest of my life?

For those of you who also saw it, I'd be pretty interested to hear what you though, too....

A Night Well Spent

My quest to make up for the vocal oversights in my CD collection continues. Tonight, it was Jann Arden's turn... a Calgary girl who doesn't just have an amazing voice - she may be the funniest woman alive. Hope you enjoy it; you can download the mp3 here:

http://www.fileden.com/files/26600/GoodMother.mp3

It's a big file, so you should save it, rather than opening it directly from your browser. If you don't get the option to save it when you click, try right-clicking and choosing "Save target as". As usual, if you can't tell which parts are mine, I'll take that as a compliment. Not too hard with this one, though - I'm all over it.

Happy listening. And remember not to tell Jann.

Seen And Not Heard

You know, I love that my pilot knows his geography. I like even more that he knows exactly where we are. But what I don't like is when his voice comes through the speaker eight inches from my ear, loud enough to rip my face off, to tell me in three languages exactly what we can see to our right, what our current altitude and ground speed are, and what the weather is like where we're going. And this is on a 35-minute flight! Can you imagine what this guy would do if they let him loose on the London/LA route?

Really - if you have some extra time on your hands, how about making another round with the proseco?

Tattoo You

I like tattoos, in the sense that they are great to make jokes about, and that some that are really nicely designed can look good on some people. I don't like tattoos in the sense that most of the time they detract more than they add (kind of like brass table decorations, if you know what I mean) and they are very permanent.

For a long time I wanted to get one, a specific one: the Zildjian cymbals logo (just the script… it’s beautiful, isn’t it? And they make fantastic cymbals… *sigh*). I believe that decisions like this shouldn’t be made hastily, and so I wanted to spend at least a year to see if my mind changed. Deep inside, even at the start, I loved the design but felt that it was deeply, unquestionably wrong to put a company logo on my body (even with all trademark issues aside). After a year, and two years, and even now – probably 8 years later – I still love the design, but could not bring myself to become a human advertisement. Except maybe for Pringles, but that’s a whole other issue.

I’m still intrigued by the idea of getting a tattoo. My last idea (as of spring last year) was to get two words in Hebrew: grace and father: “father” both to remember my Father but also to mark who I am, and “grace” because that’s why I am. There are a number of problems that I have yet to resolve about this, though. The most significant of which is where would I get them?

My preferred spot would be on the inside of my wrists, so that I could read them (I mean, theoretically, if I could read Hebrew I could read them) with my arms in front of me and my palms facing up. I love what I read in the Old Testament, where God told his people to bind his word to them to be a constant reminder, and I think that like a band on your left ring finger, this would be a beautiful and inescapable reminder of what matters. It may be a little too visible, though… good for starting conversations, but perhaps a problem for work. As far as it’s ever a good idea to get inked, I think there’s a certain wisdom in having it done in a place that can be covered as needed. So, wrists are out.

My next preference would be on my chest, one word on each side, but, as a friend pointed out helpfully, that could be seen as just a tad aggressive. Plus, I wouldn’t really be able to see them unless I was looking in the mirror. I know what you’re thinking, but no, I actually don’t spend hours with my shirt off staring at myself in the mirror, so it wouldn’t be as practical as it first sounds. And while learning to read regular Hebrew may be something I could spend some time on, learning to read it backwards is a little more of an investment than I’m interested in. On my back, just below my neck, with one word on each side of my spine would be my third favourite spot aesthetically, but then I would NEVER see them, completely defeating the purpose. So that’s a no-go. Tricky.

The second point was one that a few colleagues have pointed out. The possibility of getting strip-searched going into a Muslim country is not that remote: I never had a problem when going into the UAE, but several of my co-workers have, either there or Egypt. And that could be a point at which having Hebrew characters indelibly printed on me could be rather inconvenient, to say the least.

I don’t know… maybe I should just get some henna (or magic markers?) and be satisfied with that. I have a few more months until my self-imposed cool-down period is over, anyway…

Flush or throw?

I have had a cold. Today, as I was blowing my nose, it occurred to me that I don't know which is more environmentally friendly - to flush the tissue (I suppose to be at all green I would have to just put it in the toilet and wait for the next mandatory flush, assuming that whomever is next to arrive doesn't mind having it there) or to put it in the garbage. I'm assuming that my usual method of dealing with trash I don't know how to recycle (that is, lighting it on fire and holding it out my window) is not a good option.

Seems to me that if I flush, there are probably fewer germs being spread, and that's probably a good thing. And it does seem that tissues pretty much disintegrate in water, so even though I know it must theoretically end up somewhere, it kind of feels like it should be pretty easy to deal with. On the other hand, a tissue is not going to take up much room in a landfill, and, without getting into the details of the organic matter it holds, should decompose rather quickly.

If I were an environmental engineer, that's what I would study.

And that makes me think of something else... if I decided to change course now and re-educate myself for another career, what would I choose?

Sociologist - I would study the subculture of the US or Canadian "Bible belt". Not sure exactly how this one would translate into an income of some sort, but it would sure be interesting.
Author - probably erotic vampire fiction, but it's hard to know until I get started how that would go. If it didn't work out I would likely do children's stories.
Art historian - specialising in 15th century Flemish masters and eventually curating at the Groeninge Museum in Bruges. I am ideally suited to this except for my complete inability to remember names, dates, or events.
Recording engineer or producer - the dream that will not die.
Designer - probably furniture, but maybe an architect. I love nice things.

I Hate The Jargon

I was talking with a friend tonight about the wonders of chalk talks. For those who didn't grow up in a North American evangelical Christian environment, I'll explain what that is:

Someone (usually either a single woman in her 50's or a man of indeterminate age with a beard - I'm not sure why) would set up an easel and talk as they would draw with pastels or with chalk (hence the name). They would tell a story, drawing, inevitably, a panoramic scene with a good supply of trees and mountains, a lake, an impossibly colorful sunset, and beams of light piercing the clouds. The story and the picture would ideally be very loosely linked, but the demands of the audience were generally not too strenuous in that regard.

As the talk drew to a climax, the artist (and I do use both of those terms loosely) would turn on a black light and - voila! - the picture would somehow be transformed into a picture of Jesus' face, complete with flowing blond locks, and the beams of light accentuating a cross on the hill. The story, whatever the original theme, would culminate in a happy and predictably pious ending.

"I hate the jargon," my friend said. "I hated it then, and I have even less tolerance for it now."

I agreed, but before we could discuss it further our paths parted. And it left me wondering... why do we hate it so much?

I have no doubt - absolutely none - that, likely without exception, the chalk talks that I heard were well-intentioned. The people that did them spent a lot of time to learn their craft and present a compelling show, though they would likely be mortified to hear it refereed to as such. I am certain they were paid poorly enough for it to be almost funny if it wasn't true. They gave them because they believed in them. So why do I hate it so much?

I love art. If I knew that someone was talking to children about art in a simple way that stirred their emotions and gave them the sense that it was something they could explore further and perhaps find great joy in, I would be more than happy to support them in their effort. So why is it different when someone is doing exactly the same thing with Christianity?

I think that it must be because, for me, the greatest danger in my life of faith is to be complacent with it: to accept mediocrity, to be content with giving a little, or even a lot, but not all. To be willing to be seriously injured to sin or self, but not to die to them. And I have experienced plenty of times when my emotions were stirred, when I was compelled by the easy story being told, but it was not enough to really change me. It was just enough to immunize me.

Why does she hate those easy answers? I didn't have time to ask, but I think I hate them because I know that there must be more.

I want a life of passion and honesty, a life where I can admit that my problems may be dark, and there may not be any sunset that can be flipped on with a hidden switch. But, more importantly, I want a life where I don't need that sunset to magically appear for me to have have real faith. And I want that faith to do more than sustain me - I want it to define me, to own me. I don't want a promise of an easy answer, because the answers I have found are not easy: they take everything I have to get them, they keep me awake at night, and they demand that I give up my pride, my rights, my dreams to attain them. That is the reality, and I am not afraid of it and won't back down in the face of it.

Bottle caps and saying good-bye

I went to a friend's good-bye party last night. One of the best things about Geneva is that people come here from all over the world, and I have been able to make some of the most amazing friends. The flip side of this is that very few actually stay. Some are only here for a few months, some for a year, some for longer. A few people come, leave, and then find their way back again. It makes me sad when good people leave, but I treasure the time that I had with them, and I'm going to miss this particular Swedish frined, who may have the biggest, warmest smile in the northern hemisphere.

While I was at his party, I did find my mind wandering to the drinks I was trying to pour: I mean, why in the world should I have to take the cap off of a bottle of water or juice (or Lagavulan, for that matter) that's already been opened before I pour it? And, more to the point, why would anyone think I'm going to put it back on again?!?

Sure, if we were at a birthday party for a six year-old, I could understand the risk of the drinks being spilled. I would re-cap. I wouldn't have an issue with it. But these drinks were on a table in a room full of adults. There were about 300 people there - I'm sure that the bottle of water I was into would last for about another 40 seconds. There is no reason that I can think of to re-cap, and so I didn't. And I won't. So if you invite me over, just be warned.

Upside Down

I am not really fond of the fact that my blog is upside-down. I can understand why the new posts would be at the beginning: for people who read regularly (love you, Mom) it's easy to see what's new. I'm okay with that.

But when someone new comes on, or when someone doesn't log on as frequently as I post - and I'm not making judgements here - the new post at the top may be a continuation of the slightly older ones below it. And it just feels wrong to me to start at the bottom of the page and work upwards. But it feels worse to think that the context will be all wrong when you try to understand what I've written. Maybe I just need more pictures...

More Dave Barnes

If "Until You" isn't enough to turn you inside out, a couple tracks later, he comes up with this:

They tell me there's songs reserved for angels
Would you sing me one, a stranger
Just to prove your love?
They tell me you've given poor men kingdoms
And handed guilty freedom
And taken on their stains
And your love will never change
Your love will never change
They tell me that you dwell with good and evil
In alleys and cathedrals
Shadows and the light
They tell me that you hold the world together
Not from guilt, but pleasure
And you somehow know my name
And your love will never change
Your love will never change
So tell me there's nothing that you can't do
And you'll love me though I've hurt you
And that you'll take my blame
And your love will never change
Your love will never change

Sensory Overload

This afternoon I was waiting for a bus in Lausanne, coming home from work. It was twilight, and the sky was grudgingly giving back the last hints of blue as the rain and the night moved in, but the light through the clouds and onto the buildings was magical. As I stood in the rain I was listening to the Dave Barnes song, "Until You"... a song so beautiful that if you are in love, it will make you wonder if your heart is going to explode... and if you're not, it will chew you up and spit you out, full of some kind of eternal, painful, wonderful longing. Either way, it is so powerful and compelling that every time I listen the whole world slows and fades around me... "I need you, now and forever - just stay right here with me, don't ever leave. Love was kept from me, like a secret, and I swore that I was through.... until you". And then I realized that unlike the wet dog smell that so often seems to accompany rain on a busy city street, I caught a hint of watermelon. I don't know where it came from, but it was there, and it lingered, and for a minute it transformed that bus stop.

I was taken away, to that place where no rain, no late buses or crowded trains, no long day at work, no choices made or decisions pending could hide from me the beauty and the mystery that penetrate, so deeply, the world that my Father designed. What kind of hope, what kind of love, is this, that it can be alive in the setting sun on a red roof, the ring of a guitar behind a plaintive vocal, and the faint reminder of the freshness of summer? Amazing...

English Bathrooms

Can someone tell me who thought it would be a good idea to carpet a bathroom (or "washroom" for Canadians, "toilet" for the Brits)? Had that person never cleaned under a toilet before? And why are people still doing it? My theory: it's a scam perpetrated by the carpet cleaner guys, and I bet they are making a killing.

And then there is the hot-and-cold-in-two-different-faucets thing, so you either have to fill the basin and use the same water to wet and wash your hands with as you use to "rinse" them, or let the two faucets run and try to move back and forth between scorching and freezing as quickly as you can, trying to convince yourself that alternating frostbite and burning is almost the same as being warm. In what conceivable situation would I require simultaneous access to hot and cold water from seperate sources? I have no theory on this one, but whoever convinced a whole nation that it was a good idea is a salesman I'd like to have on my team...

Fantasy Menu

I'm kind of hungry. But I have a cold, which means not only do I not really feel like cooking (or shopping, usually an optimal prelude to cooking), but I couldn't really taste anything I made, anyways. So I think I'm just going to fantasize a little about what the menu would look like if I were opening a restaurant in my kitchen.

Since you may not be able to picture the restaurant in my kitchen quite as easily as I can, I should maybe explain. It would mean that the food would always be available to me, or to people here with me. I would have the option to help cook it, but there would be someone there to cook it for me on nights like tonight. I wouldn't have to worry about what was in the fridge: since it is a restaurant, everything would be in stock. The music would always be good... loud enough to hear if you wanted to, but quiet enough to talk without having trouble hearing each other. And there would be no dishes to clean up. Ever. So....

Entrees:

• Garlic-stuffed mushroom caps, lightly breaded and crispy
• Escargots, with a lot of garlic
• Pringles, plain
• Bacon-wrapped scallops
• Spinach dip
• Sweet peppers, no dip
• Fois gras
• Bruschetta
• Bacon-wrapped bacon (deep-fried, and served with a side of bacon)

Soups:

• French Onion, with lots of cheese and fresh croutons
• Cream of green thing (broccoli, leek or spinach)
• Cold fruit soups for summer

Salads:

• Rocket and parmesan, with olive oil and vinegar
• Fresh tomato and mozzarella, with fresh basil, olive oil, and vinegar, heavily seasoned with salt and pepper
• Spinach, with mushrooms, boiled egg, crumbled bacon, sweet red onion and creamy ranch dressing
• Big salad with assorted greens, cherry tomatoes, grilled chicken slices and cheddar cheese cubes

Main Courses:

• Steak, filet mignon, bacon-wrapped and grilled any way you like it as long as it's rare
• Salmon, on a cedar plank or pan-fried in a cranberry vinaigrette with the cranberry bits caramelized..... mmmmmmmm............
• Kraft Dinner
• Lobster with freshly drawn butter
• Pizza, especially a really, really good margherita with buffalo mozzarella, cherry tomatoes, and fresh basil, or with various clever varieties of meat, seafood, and vegetables, though no tuna. And capers will be highly discouraged.
• Turkey, served with stuffing, mashed potatoes, gravy, and some joke about "what happened to all the other vegetables"
• Sushi or sashimi, especially tuna and salmon
• A really, really big burger, juicy enough to make you need a shower after you eat it (or part way through on a really good day)
• Lasagna

Desserts:

• Pavlova or trifle (or similar, anything with whipped cream, fruit, and meringue-ish stuff)
• Baked cheesecake, so dense it takes help to lift it to your mouth
• Chocolate cake, rich enough to endanger your health, with a tart raspberry sauce
• Creme brulée
• Magnum bars
• Italian gelato, mostly the fruit flavors

Snacks and Sides:

• Wings
• Potatoes: baked, mashed, or fries
• Grilled vegetables, tuscan-style
• Special K Red Fruit
• White corn tortillas one of two ways: with grated cheddar and montery jack cheeses, jalapenos, tomatoes, and a side of refried beans, or with that fake orange cheez, served in something that would keep it warm for as long as you wanted

Drinks:

• The best beers from around the world: Leffe (blond and brun) from Belgium, Franziskanner wheat beer from Germany, Pilsner Urquel from the Czech Republic, Guinness and Caffrey's from the UK, and Big Rock Traditional from Canada
• A good selection of red and white wines from around the world. I'm not a wine snob, so I'll be easy to please here.
• San Pellegrino sparking water, chilled almost to freezing, served in stemwear so thin you almost can't feel it. Unlike with wine, I am very much a water snob.
• Slurpee, coke and cream soda
• Hires Root Beer
• Italian coffee: espresso, espresso machiato, capuccino
• Licorice spice tea

So - any orders?

And, just for fun, I'm going to keep track of how many edits I do. Because I'm pretty sure that I'm going to go to bed now, think about this, and wake up in three hours covered in a cold sweat, unable to believe that I left __________ off the list.

Total edits: 2. How could I have forgotten gelato?!?

The Look Of Love

I think that, on the plane while we were returning from Canada, I saw the first real look of "I love you" in my daughter's eyes. Before that, I have seen what I interpreted as "I'm really happy to see you", "I'm glad you're around to pick me up and/or turn on Veggie Tales", and "There's that guy who supplies me with bananas". But there was one point on the flight where she was dead-tired and didn't want to lay down... she just wanted to be held, to put her head on my shoulder and sleep. And she looked at me and I could see it there - something that hadn't been there before, and with it was a kind of understanding in her that I hadn't realized was missing until I saw it. It melted my heart. It was beautiful, and I wish you could have seen it. I love her.

Happy Thought Of The Day

From Veggie Tales, an animated series about a group of vegetables. They don't have arms or legs, manage to get around pretty well anyway.

Larry the Cucumber (in tears, to Bob the Tomato, after a particularly touching story): "That was beautiful: hold me, Bob."
Bob the Tomato (also in tears): "I would if I could, man. I would if I could."

Don't Put Your Finger In There

* from June 2006 *

My daughter is a little over a year old - old enough to walk, get into anything that looks interesting to her (usually anything not designed to be used by a one year-old) and understand at least some of what I say. How much, I'm not sure, but she understands "where's Mr. Elephant/Little Lamb/your ball?" because she'll go look for them. She understands "No, that's not for you" because it pisses her off. Beyond that, I'm not completely sure.

Anyways, something hit me this week. When she sees a power bar on the floor, an outlet, or the buttons on the stove, she always wants to check them out. She wonders the same things she wonders about everything... what do they taste like? what's behind them? do they make a good noise if you shake them? When I tell her not to touch them, she gets frustrated. She can't understand why I won't let her play.

But I know that if she gets too comfortable with power bars, she could get electrocuted. It would hurt her more than she can imagine, and it would kill her - a concept that isn't even close to entering her consciousness yet. I know what it could do, and because I love her and want to protect her from harm she never has to experience, I make sure that she stays away when I tell her to.

I think I live my life in the same way... I go ahead, often touching what I want to touch, exploring where I want to explore, even though I've been told that some things are not for me. And I have the feeling that if I had any idea what kind of damage (or even potential damage) I was doing to myself - like my Father does - my actions would be very, very different. I wonder how long it will take to really grow up.

My Favorite Cities

It's funny, I think, how cities have their own character, but how that still filters through different people so distinctly. For example, London always feels very busy to me, like everyone is going somewhere and needed to be there five minutes ago. People are polite, but there is no doubt that you are on their turf, and you would do well to keep to the left.

Paris always makes think it's only a matter of time until I get stabbed... in front of some incredible stone building that any other city would kill to have but doesn't even warrant a mention on the tourist maps here.

Berlin is like walking around in the US but with everyone speaking German - not like Europe at all.

Rome just oozes of passion and beauty and life, in a way that I have never felt in another place. I think it may be the best city in the world.

Edinburgh feels strong and cold and remote, but beautiful; Glasgow has a hard edge that is not very well concealed.

Barcelona is like stepping into pure chaos, where the only sure things are (a) you WILL get robbed, and (b) Gaudi will blow your mind, each and every time.

Havana and Venice are aging sisters. The makeup isn't quite enough to hide it anymore, but they are still captivating in a way that goes beyond the surface.

Listen To Myself

I was at a big jam session/bbq a while ago - it's an annual tradition put on by a guy I'm working with, and he gets some really fun musicians out to his place in France, where we spend about 10 hours playing, eating, and drinking.

It was fascinating for a couple reasons. First, I realized that while everyone else was interested in getting another drink, putting some food on the bbq, I just wanted to play. I ached for it in a way that most people wouldn't associate with wanting to play music, but it was inside me just bursting to get out. I'm a social guy, and love hanging out and relaxing with friends, but when there is music on the horizon everything else fades and I am compelled to create and pound my drums and celebrate...

Have you ever been so happy that you have had to express it physically - to dance around, to laugh out loud, to just put your head back and yell? That's how I feel when I sit down to play, but I have the mysterious joy of having the physical act not just celebrating the happiness I feel, but causing it at the same time, going on and on in some kind of tremendous maelstrom, feeding on itself and growing in power and intensity. There was another drummer there, but he didn't show up right away, left early, and was pretty happy to be at the table or bar, so I was able to play for most of the time - and I would have played the whole way through if I could have.

The second thing that I've realized is that, as I got the CDs of some of the session today, I love listening to myself play.

Is it just that I'm vain? I think that may be a little bit of it... listening and thinking, man - that is one MEAN groove. Maybe it's not vanity as much as just taking pride in creating something beautiful, and especially something that everyone else in the room could feed off of and ride on, a pocket that they could just fall into and have carry them along to create in total freedom and security.

But the other thing is that time is so personal, it's not exactly the same for any two people... where I feel like the beat should be and where you do are going to be a little different. I'm no solo drum monster, don't have fantastic technical skills, but after a lot of years, I can play well enough that, when I listen back to it, it sounds when listen to it like it did when I felt it, which, as anyone who has done some recording can tell you, is huge. It feels right, right in a way that I couldn't ever describe.

I love the Tragically Hip, a great Canadian band, but there drummer feels the beat a little ahead of where it actually lands... and I feel it a little behind. When I've seen them in concert it's almost like a kind of torture - it constantly feels like he's trying to speed it up. I'm sure it would kill him to hear me, too. But when I listen to tunes I've played on, it's like falling into a conversation with a long lost friend: it's familiar and comfortable, but at the same time still fresh and interesting, with nuances left to explore. Beautiful.

My Strangest Supermarket Conversation Ever

Often, when I take my daughter out to go shopping, I wear her in a carrier that's like a back-pack but sits in front of me. We both like it - she's nice and close, I can see her face to talk to her, she can locate me if she feels nervous, and she can hold onto my hands and put her feet on my legs as we walk.

We meet a lot of people together. If I am ever in the mood to pick up women my mother's age, I have the ticket... a smiling baby seems to be just about foolproof. In any case, she loves to see new people and smile and play with them, and I love to have her in a position where she can learn to do that. My French is not great, so most of the conversations are short, but friendly.

A little while ago I had a woman in line who must have heard me speaking or singing to my daughter in English, and so she addressed me in English. It didn't go really well:

"Oh what a beautiful baby [that's a good start]... is it a girl or a boy?"

My little girl does not have much hair, but wears a lot of pink and, I think, looks like a little girl. In any case, covered in pink or not, this is a question I'm used to, so I answered.

"A little girl"

"She looks just like you - she's going to be beautiful"

What do I say to that? Yes, she does resemble me. And I think she is beautiful. And I am not opposed either to people saying that she is beautiful, or to being described as beautiful myself (granted, that's a bit more rare). I don't think she was trying to say that I was attractive... she was just making conversation and complimenting me on having a gorgeous little girl strapped to me. But, it doesn't leave me with a lot of room to come back: do I say that my daughter's not beautiful? Do I thank her on what was obviously a compliment to me and tell her about my aspirations to become the face of Gucci now that Tom Ford is finally gone (he's always hated me...)? There's nothing to say to that.

But then it got, unbelievably, even worse. She continued:

"Ugly in the cradle, beautiful to the table."

*blank stare*

"That's what they say where I'm from [name of country has been removed to protect other people from there with better social skills]. Everyone said I was ugly as a baby, but look at me now."

Well, I looked at her now, and was all of a sudden a little less hopeful about my daughter's future. Thankfully, it was my turn to pay, so I smiled, thanked her for the compliments, wisher her a nice day, and resolved to start shopping at a different store.

Morals of the story (things to remember when talking to a parent):

Good things
1. Saying that the baby is beautiful
2. Saying that the baby will be beautiful when he/she grows up

Bad things
1. Asking whether the baby completely encased in pink is a little boy. This applies equally for the inverse inquiry
2. Saying that the baby looks just like his/her parent and is going to be beautiful, unless you mean it that way
3. Saying that the baby looks just like his/her parent and is ugly, especially if you mean it that way
4. Saying that any baby as ugly as that will surely grow up to be as attractive as you, unless you are extremely attractive. And even then, you should maybe find another way to word it.

Leather Vest

While I was at the Clapton concert this summer, I had the most frustrating camera moment ever... my battery died. I was in the front but didn't get a single picture of EC.

But even worse, there was a guy there I desperately wanted to get a shot of. Probably in his mid-late 30's, average build, dark hair, and (if I remember, and I think I do) a moustache. But here's the great part... he was wearing a leather vest with nothing underneath it... and SHORTS.

First of all, if you're not on the stage, leather vest + no shirt = vvbi (very, very bad idea). But even when we get down to the percentage of society who believe that this is something that will be flattering for them to wear in public, how do the shorts fit in? I kept telling myself, "he must be drunk, he must be drunk, he must be drunk..." just to be ale to retain some sense of faith in humanity.

And man, I wish I could have gotten a picture!

Midsummer Night's Party

I went to a midsummer party thrown by a Swedish friend, and it was interesting on so many dimensions. Even without considering all of the forms of pickled fish and Acquivit we consumed, we played a Sweidsh version of baseball in which no one is ever out, an ancient viking game in which you have to throw sticks to knock over wood chunks set up on the other team's line (almost like chess, but a little more physically engaging), and did a number of maypole dances.

Try to picture 20 sober adults hopping in a circle around a freshly-decorated maypole, singing (kind of - only 3 of the group actually speak Swedish) a song about a little frog who seems to have some problems because he has no ears (at which point we wave our hands by our heads) and no tail (I'm sure you can guess). It was stunning. We found out later that these activities are usually reserved for children. Next year, I'm bringing children.

Oh, and in case you're wondering about the date, yeah, this is older than the date at which I'm publishing it. Oh well.

The World Cup

I've tried to get into soccer (for north americans) or football (for everyone else) and really not been able to make it stick. Still, I've been enjoying watching world cup games, especially with friends from various countries. I just love trying to see things through the eyes of people who are passionate about them, and if that means sitting through a football game, that's okay.

One thing I do like about, at least, is at the start of each match, the teams come onto the pitch with children - one boy or girl for each player, holding hands with their player and standing with them for the national anthem. I don't know where this originated (maybe to keep any fights from breaking out before the whistle? or does that just happen in hockey?) but it is wonderful.

I saw one match with England where they had done up the children's hair to match their player... corn rows, fauxhawk, the whole bit. I don't know if football is supposed to be cute - I'm guessing not - but that was really cute. Now if we could just get them to score a little more often.

Since that only covers the first three minutes of a match, I've come up with a new strategy for who I choose to cheer for. To understand why this would matter, there are three things you need to know:

1. Geneva is a very multi-cultural city, but there are still more people from some parts of the world than others.
2. Many (but not all) cultures celebrate a sporting win by driving up and down a main street while honking their horns and waving flags from their windows. For hours.
3. I live on a busy central street.

Now, I could understand if I lived in, say, Portugal and I wanted to go out and celebrate on the street when my team won... after all, it would be everyone's team! But why I would choose to do this when living in another country is beyond me. At best, most other people will be indifferent about my team's win. At the worst, they are from the country that just lost, and will be really, really unhappy about it. Likely, they'll just be a bit pissed-off about having some idiot driving up and down the street with his hand on the horn.

Anyway, I'm now choosing who to cheer for based on their approximate population in Geneva (or, at least, in my neighbourhood) and the amount of noise that is culturally acceptable to them. For example: the game on now is Portugal vs The Netherlands. There are a lot of Portuguese people in my neighbourhood (I heard recently that Geneva is the largest community of Portuguese outside of Portugal), and they are an enthusiastic bunch... an endearing quality, unless I'm trying to sleep.

The Dutch, on the other hand, are few and far between here. And, as far as I can tell, they are not very noisy. I find it a little pompous that they need to have "The" in front of the name of their capital city, but other than that I don't see much to complain about. So, tonight I'm pulling for The Netherlands. Besides, the orange uniforms are very cool.

Unfortunately, Portugal scored as I've been writing. Still almost an hour left though, so there is hope! My overall pick, Korea, appears to have been eliminated. Maybe next time...

Books I Have Known and Loved

I was recently sorting through the books on my shelves to get rid of the ones I won't read again (or haven't read and likely never will) so I can give them away and have room for the new ones I've bought over the holidays. It made me think of people I've talked to who don't re-read any of their books. I can't imagine getting to the end of a really amazing book and knowing that I couldn't ever go back to it.

So, I tried to think of the books that I have re-read and plan to read again. Without looking again, I think they fall into a few categories:

Books that are just a lot of fun to read. I like these ones because they make me laugh out loud. I do most of my reading when I travel (and I travel a lot), so I have had a lot of time on planes or in airports giggling to myself with these books as company:
Catch 22 (Joseph Heller)
The Bear Went Over The Mountain (can't remember the author)
Most Bill Bryson books, especially his Aussie, UK, and Europe ones

Books that are so well-written that once is not nearly enough. These books inspire me to speak and write with more care, and make me want to learn to be a true story-teller:
Almost anything by Robertson Davies, especially the Deptford Trilogy
Pillars of the Earth (Ken Follett)
A Fine Balance (Rohinton Mistry)

Books that remind me of the man I want to be:
Mere Christianity; Faith, Christianity, and the Church (both by C. S. Lewis)
What A Difference A Daddy Makes (Kevin Leman)
Wild At Heart (John Eldredge)

Books that are just too beautiful to leave on the shelf. These take my breath away:
Tons on Netherlandish masters from the 15th and 16th cetnuries (Campin, Van der Weyden, Ven Eyck, Gerard David)
A few on Gothic and International Gothic altarpieces
Guides from the museums I have known and loved... my version of a "little black book": The Louvre, National Gallery (London), Prado, Acedemia, Uffizi, Vatican Museums...

I'm A Musician

I've been thinking about how, when someone claims to be a musician, we have no standardized scale by which to pinpoint exactly what kind of musician they are. This is not a full system yet, but I think it's a pretty good starting point.

The scoring should, of course, should be graduated. I play piano, bass, and drums. Piano is tough, and should certainly count for something. But bass... 4 strings, you play one at a time? That can't count as a whole instrument. And drums are tough to do really well, to lay down a groove or a pocket that just feels right. But to just play? I could teach you to play in 30 minutes. So, the first step is to identify which instrument(s) you play, and collect the points as listed below:

French horn: 10 points
Piano: 9 points
Oboe: 8 points
Guitar: 7 points
Cello: 6 points
Bass (fretless): 5 points
Saw: 4 points
Bass (fretted): 3 points
Drums: 2 points
Tambourine/shaker/spoons : 1 point

Then you multiply your score by 2 if you can sight read for that instrument, by 3 if you can improvise (in a way that sounds like music, not just in a "free-jazz odyssey" kind of way). Subtract 30 from your score if you also play, or have at any time played, accordion. Add back 15 if you write, and multiply by 3 if you write well (this is usually evidenced by the fact that people who don't actually know you are still interested in listening to your music).