A +1 error

I have learnt, over the past decade, to be… judicious… in what sort of pretty inspirational type messages to share with my husbean.

Because he is a beautiful soul, attached to a relentlessly analytical mind, encased in a web of straightforwardness.

Yesterday, for instance, without thinking much about it, I mentioned to him how I enjoy the whole package of the idea “Fall Down Seven Times, Get Up Eight” (nice poster here).

He thought about it for a moment. Then he went a bit quiet. I figured he was mulling it over and enjoying it.

Then he said: “….I think it’s a plus one problem.”

Me: “Come again?”

Him: “A classic plus one problem. If you assume you were standing to begin with, then you’d only need to get up 7 times. It’s a plus one problem.”

Me: “It’s not a… the math isn’t the… let the poetry breathe baby. Just let it breathe.”

You should see him when he’s working on one hand clapping.


ETA: Another friend just pointed out “It’s not a ‘plus one problem’ it’s an ‘edges versus nodes counting problem’. Tell him that.”

I am only friends with romantics. 🙂

The Ghosts in the Machine

Thanks to Rob, itinerant linker and all-around thinking man’s vagabond, I’ve been reading Patrick Rhone’s Enough site.

This morning, I landed on page 4 and The Value of Email. It’s a thoughtful pondering on the place of email and email archives, guest written by Mike Rohde.

I have another point in favour of keeping your email archives. Archives that go back years and years. It’s not a super cuddly “up” sort of point, but here it is…


(It keeps coming back to death. Oh mortality, you attention-hogging cad.)

I’ve written before about the strange glitchy comfort that technology provided on the night of my dad’s death. When he had “logged off”, but his GChat had not. His status simply lapsed to “Away”, which was at once poetic, accurate, and unnerving.  Though first, it stayed as “Busy”, which, if consultants did sailor-style tattoos, was a status my dad should really have had inked in a heart on his bicep.dadchat

But beyond a lingering presence on a chat list, what I have are emails. Hundreds of them. Thousands? A sloppy filter I set up says I have 1,659 emails from my dad. In one account.

What a strange artifact of the mundane minutia of a relationship. What it’s really like to be friends with someone. Not a perfectly composed photo, but hundreds and hundreds of tiny exchanges. Give and take and send and receive, over and over and over.

That may be the strange niche of email archives. Because we dash off emails all day every day, they seem less precious to us than letters. But the snapshots they retain of a relationship are so much more deliciously everyday. In a letter, we tend to be our best selves. A little more scripted, a little more careful, a little better framed. They’re composed. Gmail may still use a big “Compose” button to start a new email, but that’s not often what we’re doing. We’re jotting and answering and pinging. “How’re you?” “Good, you?” “Good.” Emails are sometimes elegant and articulate, but often not. They’re many thin threads of caring and checking and supporting that tie you together.

I have not yet gone back through my emails from my dad. I’m not even sure how I would do that. It is the same daunting challenge of going though any archive, but at computer, not human, scale storage. I think I have kept them though not because I plan to go and meticulously reread them. Certainly not all, but perhaps not even any. I think they are there to thumb a finger across. It’s not an Ansel Adams compendium. It’s a flipbook of dad. It’s a million little gestures of kindness and humour and questions and answers and plans and dates. It’s friendship in funny little sketches. Archived.

It’s not a pretty whole but, as a whole, it’s awfully pretty.


…I really understood very fast that a computer is exactly the opposite of a human being. It’s really fast, really exact, and completely stupid. So it was interesting to figure out how to speak to this beast so that we could have it do whatever we couldn’t do ourselves.

A computer is the most extraordinary error amplifier ever built, because a computer has no common sense and no humor.”

~Gérard Berry, in Communications of the ACM – December 2014.

“How can we ___ while we also ___”

My dear old dad would have been 63 today. I wasn’t sure I wanted to think about that yesterday, so I took the long road around the landmines and set my brain to work on my taxes.

But the best laid plans something something kaboom, because my dad and I worked together. So my filing boxes have lots of little dad-isms lurking in them.

Including, apparently, this elephant:


Which dad drew while we were hanging out together during some after-conference dad’n’daughter time.

He thought it was a terrible drawing, while I thought was both fantastic and adorable, and I cajoled him into letting me keep it.

And on the reverse side, some actual work material (not that the elephant doesn’t look like a hard worker):

BryanElephantA good old Dad fill-in-the-blank to get you thinking. Letting ideas be in tension, and finding the balance. Looking the complexity of a situation straight in the ol’ eyebulbs, and figuring out how to deal with it.

On a day when I miss my dad especially, while remembering him with huge love… yup, it fits.


Your dream is not a hoax

My bro-in-law sent me the HUVr clip this morning.

“Lie” alarms went off in my brain, but I chose to hit snooze until the end of the video.

Why? Because I would like us to build some of the things we dream about. I would like for that to be true. For the same reason as everyone believes hoaxes — I want it to be real. I want people to be out there building transporters and hovercrafts and holodecks and sharks with frickin laser…wait, scratch that last one.

I also want the world to be just slightly different than it is. Hovering, sure — that gets at our deepest dreams of flight and fun. But what if mankind’s contributions to the world were more fantastical, less destructive? What if we built hoverboards instead of cars? What if applied science was applied to joy? How amazing, let’s do it!

I also want the world to be less of a sneering snidey place. I don’t want celebrities to cash in on being idols (Tony Hawk) and guides (Christopher Lloyd) — to gain people’s confidence only to trick them. That’s why these are the celebrities in the video. They are there because we trust them. You have to have trust before trust can be betrayed.

Pranks that prey on people’s dreams are gross. Sad in your job? Did this give you a blip of happiness? Haha, gotcha! There is nothing beautiful and fantastical out there, and people should laugh at you for believing there might have been. Gullible. Sucker.

It’s mean-spirited and it eats away at hope, trust and empathy.

It makes all of us jaded and wary, and it makes people feel silly for still having dreams. Which do we want (and need) more of: building dreams, or tearing them down?

I guess I’ll just have to get to work on building my own hoverboard. I promise, if I do, I’ll let you ride on it.


He’s a dear boy.

Fact 1: I am a light sleeper with intermittent insomnia. It is something I am working on, but it is a hard row to hoe.

Fact 2: I have been with The Boy for 14 years. He pretty much knows all the things about me there are to know. Including Fact 1.

I got up early this morning, before I was really properly awake, did a big pile of things, and then made myself crawl back into bed about 4 hours later because my eyeballs hurt.

Shortly after I fell asleep, the boy walked into the bedroom.

Him (full volume): “Are you awake?”

Him: “Because I wanted to ask if I got the right thing yesterday? I think maybe you wanted baking soda and I got baking powder?”

Me: “You… woke… me… up… to ask me that?”

Him: “I was just wondering.”

Me: “You are beautiful and have many charming qualities, but I kind of want you dead right now. Baking powder.”


Later the same day…

I am in my office, listening to “Salute Your Solution” rather loudly, and I may have been excitedly exclaiming to myself, also rather loudly, as I began allocating and filling my new storage boxes. (“Jolly disco!”)

When The Boy came into my office – which, of course, made me jump (Fact 3) – and started laughing at me. First for being startled, and then “Oh no, don’t let me interrupt. Keep enjoying your little storage party. What were you saying to your files?”

Me: “You are ruining my day.”

Him: “Don’t blog this.”


UPDATED. The Him says I misquoted him, and has the following amendments:

Him: “When I came into your office, I shouted “FILE PARTY!” and joined in your raucous celebration of filing. Also, I didn’t say ‘don’t blog this’, I said I’m going to blog this.”

Oh my.

A Good Marriage: Using your words (and obscene hand gestures)

Not to use swears, but I am pretty darned good at just telling the husband what I need — and expecting him to do the same. I mean, fuck, games are for good times with buddies and bourbon sours, words are for gettin’ it done.

I like to be super specific. A la:

* “Could I have a hug?”
* “I could really use a cup of tea if you have a minute.”
* And, of course, one of my many obscene hand gestures. Those are his least favourite, in that he’s a fan of what they represent, but he finds them “not classy” or something. He’s my delicate little flower.

When it comes to gift-giving though, sometimes I outdo myself with my specificity (though I guess the hand gestures leave little to the imagination…):

From: Me <me@me.com>
To: Him <him@him.com>
Date: Mon, Jan 27, 2014 at 9:49 AM
Subject: Haaaaapppy
Valentine's Day to meeeeee Happy Valentine's Day toooooo meeee Happy Valentine's Day, dear Chaaaayyyyydaaaay Happy Valentine's day toooooooooooooo meeeeeeeee!: http://www.lush.ca/Love-Locket/05066,en_CA,pd.html#start=7

My sister reviews movies.

At some point, my immediate family went from being totally in the same boat on movies, to everyone abandoning ship to the life rafts and setting off in cardinally opposite directions.

My siblings and I can now comfortably acknowledge this with each other, and the shorthand is usually a reference to our father’s increasingly appalling taste in movies. Movie suggestions are often caveated by a reference to one of my dad’s later-day favourites: “Well, you might like it, but … My Big Fat Greek Wedding”.

But even when we don’t agree, I still enjoy hearing what my big brother and little sister (LS) are watching and liking.

And, unsurprisingly, the little sister who works in the jungle really just watches movies for the creatures… Plot, shmot.

Little Sister: “For 1st night of new year: popcorn, pjs and pelicula.”

Me: “Whatcha going to watch?”

LS: “It is looking like Planet Earth or Life of Pi. Might be Life of Pi, because David makes me sleepy and being alone with tigers in boats less so…”

Me: “I don’t understand Life of Pi. Is it good? Everything I’ve read about it makes me feel a little stabby, but that may be because the furry tiger inside me who is supposed to teach me lessons about life and love and spirituality died long ago because I only fed him the bitter fish of pessimism and hypercriticality. Then I made a coat out of his skin because practical.”

LS: “I have no idea. We spent like 200 days at sea and I passed out. [My girlfriend] won’t tell me the ending, but apparantly the irritating Canadian now believes in god because I saw that part. Visually it was quite well done. It is hard to win me on content. I liked Avatar when I saw it last week. Though it was also over the top. I like the animals.”

My sister’s movie reviews are my favouritest movie reviews. Though they, and maybe large chunks of her life, could probably be summed up as “I like the animals“.

ABRAZOS HERMANITA! May your animal movies be plentiful. 🙂

But you can buy the movie for $5

I was thinking today about some of the people who are gone, and some of what they said about being gone, before they left.

Went looking for footage of David Rakoff, wondering if he could still dance with no feeling in one of his arms, whose death preceded that of the rest of his body.

I found this:


Thoughts on loss and death, stock parts in everyone’s humanity, are stuck in a traffic jam at the border.

Geddy Lee: Unwitting patron saint of airport joy

Just returned from spending 2 weeks in the Ecuadorian jungle with my excellent baby sister.

And oh, there are stories. Great stories. Because everybody likes snakes, right? Okay fine. But everybody loves baby monkeys. Including snakes, who like them… AS LUNCH! Har har har! Food chain humour. No? Moving on…

It’s possible that a trip which starts poorly can end well. But it is so much more enjoyable to me – as I am old and boring – when you have a trip which starts well and then continues to go well and then ends well. Like, say, how enjoyable it is to begin your trip at the airport with an auspicious sign.

Or auspicious individual.

Like Geddy. Fucking. Lee.*

Lemme a’splain.

I am at the airport at the ridiculously early appointed hour. The plane I’m catching is probably still on the ground in Atlanta, the baggage loaders taking a coffee break because why not, they have plenty of time. But when that plane arrives in Toronto I will be ready for it.

I pass without incident through US border control. For the first time in a long while, they don’t ask why my husband is not traveling with me. Which is good, because each time they ask, my knee-jerk cheekiness worsens. (“Guys, we have a situation. There is a fully-grown married woman travelling without her husband here. I know. I tried asking her but she just said something about it not being 1938 and then she showed me a permission slip he signed.”)

Then on past border control to baggage drop. I never ever travel with checked luggage, ever. But the little most excellent sister is working her butt off in the jungle without peanut butter and maple syrup and this cannot go on. So I am bringing a bag full of provisions. And pants. I wait behind the guy in front of me, who was just redirected to this conveyor, seems a little lost, and has quite a few bags to put on the belt. No worries. I’m in no rush.

I’m in no rush. But (you had to see this coming), HE SURE IS. The realization process in my brain goes something like this:

“Man I hate airports, they didn’t used to suck like this, it used to be an adventure and it was special not hostile okay, remember, I love my sister I love my sister do do do that guy has pretty distinctive hair I wonder if WHOOOOOLLY FUCK THAT IS GEDDY LEE IS IT GEDDY LEE I THINK IT’S GEDDY LEE YES IT IS MOST DEFINITELY GEDDY LEE GEDDY LEE GEDDY LEE”

Hubby and I will sometimes talk about celebrity culture. It’s a big old messy mixed bag. For the most part, I’m not into it. But I have tried to empathize with what motivates people to stand across the street from a hotel all day during TIFF to try and catch 10 seconds of sightline to someone who once pretended to be someone else while someone recorded it. And I circle back to the people who create things and think thoughts and say words I respect. The John Hodgmans and Joss Whedons. It’s a short list, but it’s there in my brain. A little list of people I would like to thank for being in the world and, by doing what they do the way they do it, making it more awesomer for all of us.

Two of the three members of Rush are on that list.

Geddy Lee and Alex Lifeson just seem like decent talented hardworking dudes. And I respect that Neil Peart prefers not to interact with his fans. That’s not confusing and it doesn’t offend me in the least. It’s why he’s not on the list, even as I take up drums. You just keep doing what you’re doing buddy.

But, along with the little short list, it is in my brain that in It Might Get Loud, Alex Lifeson did say that if a fan “wants an autograph or a hug or something” that that is a-okay. I feel like he’s authorized my request for hug when I see him on the street. Maybe just a high-five. Whatever he’s feeling like. I’m flexible.

Geddy also said he was fine with being approached by fans. But that he’d had to reconcile himself to the idea. That it was a choice to let it bother him or not, and that he’s fine with it now. “No big deal” I believe he said.

And yet.

I stand in line behind him as he loads his luggage onto the conveyor belt. And even though he’s on that very short list of people I’d assumed if I ever encountered I would definitely say “hey, just wanted to say that I think you’re fantastic”, it doesn’t… seem right.

Because it’s an airport. Because airports, even to the famous and accomplished, are just that side of hostile to humanity. Because no one wants to linger in security. Because he’s just trying to live his life. Because maybe someone saying “hey, you’re fantastic” is always welcome (especially somewhere hostile to humanity). But just as possible, he’d rather just get through here as quickly as he can. Just like the rest of us. His magical bass playing hands might not be human, but the rest of him is.

And, unless I’m wrong (which happens), I think he has that look. That slightly closed look of someone who is used to being approached, and is just sort of hoping that they aren’t going to be approached right now. Not unfriendly. Not mean. Just a bit heads down. An unspoken body language request to let him just be a dude on his way to a plane.

I end up with plenty of time to second-guess my decision to just enjoy the encounter as one-sided and let him be. We’re moving in the same clump, and I end up behind him twice more.

I am waved over for the hand wiping test thing they do now. I believe it is to test for explosives, so I’m not going to think too hard about what ensures I’m “randomly” selected every time. Geddy is not selected, but the woman administering my test says something totally unintelligible to him about how it is random and he can keep moving. He does not hear her, and steps in to have it repeated. I take the liberty of explaining that it’s random, and she said he can keep going. And so I have spoken to Geddy Lee. To explain that the hand wiping explosive testing I’m currently being subjected to by airport security doesn’t apply to him. Just how you imagined that conversation would go.

Then I go over to the plebian line for security screening, only to be redirected to the Nexus line, where I wait behind Geddy Fucking Lee. Again. I wait to put my shoes in a bucket behind Geddy Fucking Lee’s shoes. And then I pass through to reassemble myself behind Geddy Fucking Lee.

And then off he goes. Whisked through a “this secret part of the airport probably sucks considerably less” super sekkrit door.

I am not alone in recognizing him. Or, it seems, in deciding not to say anything about it (oh Canadians you adorable bastards). As soon as Geddy is out of sight, the security agent turns to the guy beside her and Rush gushes: “Do you know a band called Rush?” Him: “Huh?” Her: “RUSH! That was Geddy Lee!!”

The guy beside her did not know Rush, but, as so often happens among teh ladies, our mutual love of Rush brought us together (boom stereotypes, boom). My contained enthusiasm and surprise and happiness finally bubbles out and I gush that I know a band called Rush, and how seeing Geddy Lee just made my whole day. Her: “Mine too!”

A little bit of humanity in pre-flight. It’s not the same as getting to tell Geddy Lee he’s fantastic, but I’ll take it. Maybe next time…

*Apologies to Mr. Lee, but I am physically incapable of referring to him any way other than “Geddy Fucking Lee”. Because he is Geddy. Fucking. Lee.