Les Bonnes Choses

I had just clicked on one of my ancient bookmarks and found that the site to which it lead hasn't changed since I first bookmarked it. Such websites are called stale, and if you want people to come back to your website, you had best be sure it does not become stale. And, as your reading this blog marks the fine line between me being a producer in the new media economy and a crazy person who talks to himself, I am somewhat obliged to keep coming up with new material; in that sense, blogging is much like treading water.

I write this entry under the influence of Labatt Blue, a Canadian Pilsener that the record shows that I rather dislike. Unfortunately, our home-country themed olympics party required that I buy the only Canadian beer at the local Dominick's (a regional grocery store chain), where I also discovered that Montreal smoked meat isn't a universal staple. Alas, I had to think outside of the box, because I wasn't about to make poutine, and opted to make pastrami on rye sandwiches because none of the other diners have ever had a genuine Montreal smoked meat sandwich, and that's the closest I could get.

So I feel that I have done my part for today, and that perhaps its time for the Canadian readers to give back, because when people think of quintessential Canadian cuisine, the only thing that comes up is poutine and pancakes with maple syrup -- and Labatt Blue, for which I have absolutely no taste and will have 9 bottles for the foreseeable future.

I'm not keen on phone solicitation; few of us are. After hanging up on a particularly obnoxious or persistent telemarketer, you may have been left with regret about not screwing around with them in some clever way. And I'm sure we all know someone who knows someone who says they are "very interested" and then puts the caller on indefinite hold while they "go answer the door". In the last year, I have learned a number of fantastic, less malicious techniques for dealing with these calls. First, moving has alot of perks. An impending move out of the country pretty much precludes signing up for any contract or product delivered over time. Sorry, Toronto Star, I'd love your paper at the deep weekend discount you offer, but I'm moving out of the country in a month. Similarly, my experience getting established here allowed me to deflect the request of a Greenpeace member to financially join their ranks. Yes, climate change sucks. Yes, air quality is important to me because I'm asthmatic. Pledge $25 a month? No, I don't carry around a blank cheque with me and I'm Canadian, you see, so nobody will issue me a credit card, sorry. Renting also allows me to evade calls from roofers, duct cleaners (also avoided if your house has radiant floor heating), home security companies, and pretty much any other company that might want to charge you for modifying your house in some way. So, in stark contrast to virtually any other aspect of real life, if you are a foreigner who owns no property, you have got it made should you be contacted by a solicitor.

I would not say, however, that I categorically dislike call center employees. I often answer phone surveys, if only because I know how difficult it is to conduct research, and I know this attitude to be shared by several of my psychologist friends. And in those cases where I have initiated the call, I make sure to expressly indicate at the end of the call that I am very satisfied with the level of service I have received, on the off chance that the call actually is being monitored for quality assurance. If I can get even one person promoted out of call center hell, I will have earned my place in heaven.

Yesterday, Rebecca and I went to lunch with some friends, and it cost me about $400. I was holding a cranky Asher most of the time because I wasn't eating (I wasn't hungry) and when I took my glasses of to clean them, Asher grabbed at them, snapping them in half. Unfortunately, Hermione Granger wasn't at lunch with us, so I was left hopelessly blind. When I took my glasses in to Lenscrafters an hour later, they said there was nothing that could be done for them; even titanium has its limits, and it isn't particularly easy to solder. Shopping for glasses typically takes me several days to find something suitable, mostly because I have a small head, but because I'm arguably disabled without my glasses, I was quite anxious to find a replacement. Thankfully, Rebecca helped me find a pair, and my mishap coincided with a sale. Any savings, however, will be offset by the fact that Rebecca also found a set of frames that she liked. As far as impulse buys go, eyewear is pretty atypical, but I'm not going to give her a hard time about it because the frames look good on her, it's been at least 2 years since her last pair and, most importantly, these new frames would make her look more like her Mii character.

Update: There's been a lot of talk about this next post. Maybe too much talk... so I updated it.

Fortunately, there is at least one person that I know and trust who is bridging the knowledge gap between the impenetrable musings of knowledgeable but poorly written researchers who study education, and the policy makers that need to know this research in order to avoid doing something stupid. Unfortunately, one is not enough.

When I was in high school, courses came in three flavours: basic, general and advanced. And after your first visit with a guidance counselor, you knew that if you wanted to go to university, you should take advanced courses (and only advanced courses); if you wanted to go to college, you should take general level courses; and if you liked to eat the paste, you might find the basic level courses to your liking. Now, I won't get into the complex rules of how judicious course selection could be used to manipulate your standing in the social hierarchy (hint: advanced grade 12 phys. ed. trumps advanced gr. 13 calculus in many social circles), but it should suffice to say that your social caste was and certainly still is largely determined by your timetable.

Over the Christmas holidays, I learned about the curriculum streams in Ontario high schools from my youngest sister. Since I left high school *mumble mumble* years ago, they have done away with simplicity in favour of a more "PC-up-with-people" streaming system. Prior to 11th grade, students enter the academic, applied, or locally developed streams. In their senior years, students transition into university, college and workplace streams. As these streams have exactly the same functionality as the system in place mumble-mumble years ago, I can only guess that the label change stems from the same sort of thinking that gives us little league where everyone wins a worthless trophy just for showing up.

First -- actually, no, first, what the hell does "locally developed" mean? Second, switching terminology halfway through high school seems completely unnecessary and like something that could only lead to confusion. Third, because there are not too many workplaces you can get into without going to college or university, the workplace stream seems somewhat misleading. Finally, and most importantly, no matter what the heck you call these streams everyone knows who eats the paste and who you should sit beside during the math exam, but ignore every other day of the year. You want to do something about the stigma attached to labels? How about a stream called "sure he doesn't know what Othello was on about, and doesn't know what a cerebral artery is, let alone name them, but he rebuilds car engines on weekends, and you can't even change a flat.".

First, a disclaimer: I hate Valentine's day and firmly believe it only gets the attention it does because it suits the business interests of chocolatiers, restaurants and greeting card companies. That said, Rebecca and I went out last night for an early Valentine's day date. Or maybe it was just a regular date. When you have 2 young kids, just getting out of the house without them seems like something worth marking on your calendar. So on the insistence of Amy and Gill, our BFFs in Chicago (and now regular Catan settlers), we went out for a nice dinner downtown.

We checked out Geja's Cafe, a fondue restaurant that we saw on some program on the Food Network. I had never noticed this before moving to Chicago, but about a third of the restaurants or foods they feature on programs shown on that station are in the Chicago area. So dining at a restaurant that we had heard about though a television program seemed like we were Kinnearing somebody. Three courses and a decanter of sangria came to $130, tax and generous tip included.

We returned home to find that the boys were well behaved for Amy and Gill who were, of course, up for a "friendly" game of Settlers of Catan. Not how one typically finishes off a date night, but then again, we're not exactly having a typical year either.

The title of this entry is a quote from Mr. Meyer, our 10th grade science teacher. And I'd have to agree, given the amount of equipment Mark and I managed to destroy that year. Now I'm almost a full-fledged scientist, and finding that, while engaging in science can be fun even without destroying anything, reporting it invariably isn't. And I'd like to change that.

Take my task for today, for example. Some while ago, I put a bunch of people into an MRI scanner (not at the same time; the experiment had nothing to do with breaking a record). The point was to see how your brain files away the crap you know about things. Many smart people are of the opinion that your brain files what you know according to how it got in there. Smells? Aisle 11. Colours? Aisle 40. Today, I was painstakingly going through the brain scan data for each of my participants finding the spot most lit up during the experiment for each of the senses. But there's a snag: the part of your brain that controls your muscles (loosely speaking) is called the motor strip. Like the name implies, it's long. And it's got an interesting layout:

As you can see, the layout of this part of your brain reflects the layout of your body. Why is this relevant? Well, as you might guess, if you're thinking about something that you hold in your hand, some of this information will be in a different spot than for something you kick with your feet. Now, most of the stuff in my experiment are things you would hold in your hands. But not everything. And some things we can only guess at. Take puppies. If you like 'em, you might hold them in your hand. If not, maybe you kick them. Because we don't know how each person feels about puppies, I think I should just look at the whole damn thing. But when it comes time to write up a paper, I'm going to have to find a much blander way of making this argument. I just think that scientific literature would be more interesting to read if I didn't have to.

Asher is always interested in what Jude is doing. His box of toys can be dumped all over the floor, but if Jude is nearby playing with something else, Asher wants in on it. I don't know if this makes me a bad parent, but I deliberately let Asher get into Jude's stuff because Jude invariably yells out, "not for baby!" to which Asher responds by yelling back. The sound of those two yelling at each other amuses the hell out of me.

We all went out as a family this afternoon to check out a tree stump in the park behind the house. The tree was removed earlier this week, and must have been dead because it had a hollow inside it large enough for me to stand in. Afterwards, we came inside for hot chocolate. Here's a recipe, originally from the London Free Press. I balked when Rebecca made it because it's probably about 1200 calories per serving. But damn, it's good. I have taken the liberty of making it my own. See if you can find my embellishments.

Ridiculously Decadent Hot Chocolate

• 1 cup milk


• 1/2 cup heavy cream


• 1 soft banana


• Pinch cinnamon


• Pinch cayenne pepper


• Pinch salt


• 3 oz. (90g) semisweet chocolate, finely chopped


• 3 oz. (90g) bittersweet chocolate, finely chopped


• 1/2 cup melted marshmallows or marshmallow spread

1. In a blender, combine milk, cream, banana, cinnamon, cayenne and salt. Puree until very smooth and thick. Pour mixture into your All-Clad saucepan and set over medium heat.


2. Warm mixture, whisking constantly until it comes just barely to a simmer. Add chopped chocolate and marshmallow and whisk until completely melted.


3. Ladle into espresso cups. If you are trying to make the next highest weight category for an upcoming UFC title match, you may top with whipped cream.


4. You can drink it as the thickest, richest hot chocolate you will ever drink, or cover in plastic wrap and refrigerate overnight to make a mousse-like dessert. Just don't eat it for breakfast, because a diabetic coma is not a good way to start your day.

Rebecca ordered the Wii Fit Plus over a week ago. We've come to expect ridiculously fast deliveries, so we were somewhat puzzled when, by Sunday, it hadn't yet arrived. And then Rebecca asked, "what's that box?", referring to a box sitting near the front door. So we could have been getting all super slim since Thursday, I think. The box was opened up and the floor sensor set up right away but, as Rebecca and Amy were leaving on a shopping expedition, that left me with a couple of hours to play around with it. And what I found was surprising: keeping in mind that there are certainly more advanced measurement devices that cost much more money, as far as the Wii can tell, there is no room for improvement in my golf swing, and the game told me as much, going so far as to suggest that I go out to a real driving range. The irony is that I hate golf. My experience with the sport is limited to mini-putt (a pass-time at which I am mediocre at best); I have never been to a driving range. And yet this stupid game is going to convince me that I'd probably be really good at it. Now, I'm extremely competitive, so getting this kind of crap feedback is going to cause some serious approach-avoidance conflict. As if I need another money-sink.