-The highest of low art , the lowest of high art-
EXEMPTORY EXEMPTIONS Presents
a Jimmy O’Fool Production:
Astra, Bill, & Stella in “Roy's Barbershop Quartet : A Small-Town Love Quadrangle”
A Sonnet Cycle
Astra loves Bill...
Bill loves Stella...
Stella loves Astra...
and Roy...
Who knows what he’s up to?
Musical Interlude: Roy’s Lament
Some call me Roy, or Royson, or Royal.
(The last if they’ve no wish for life.)
I’ve been in this place a very long time,
Cutting hair and dispensing advice.
I’m the wealthiest, healthiest man in the town,
And everyone stops by my place.
I’ve learned all their stories one by one in those chairs
Their lives and their joys and their pains.
Most often I know just what to do,
But not now…
Everywhere that I look, everywhere that I see
There’s nobody...
nooooobody...
nooooobody...
for me.
...What is a man to do??
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Saturday, May 9, 2009
Changing a Diaper Is Not Fun
For some time I've been coming across reports and studies stating that having children actually lessens an individuals happiness. That, on the whole, people without children are happier. Could it be true? Is this possible?
I'll have to ask all those childless people in Japan in thirty years, when their tax base has collapsed and there's no one about to pick up the trash or mend the roads.
Demographics aside, I find the results of these studies to be quite disturbing. One of the key elements cited in these studies relates to how some of the tasks of parenthood are such drudgery, so very boring and anti-intellectual, that they can only deaden the soul, and leave an individual despairing to be rid of this seemingly unending task. That chore? Changing diapers.
Why this is disturbing to me is that it proves, or at least suggests that I must be abnormal. Why? Because my kids and I have a ball changing diapers.
Can others be happy changing diapers? I guess it depends. Perhaps if you saw it as a chore, as a necessary activity that you have to engage in which distracts you from your real life, that is, the things you would rather be doing but can not because the kids keep distracting you, then no. But then again, if you really did feel that way, then I would venture to say that you aren't a parent at all, but a co-habitant, living in the same space as other human beings, but otherwise unconnected to them as much as is possible.
You can not quantify happiness, you can only qualify it. As with anything that lay within the experiential realm, what "it" is can only be known by individuals engaged in the experience, a knowledge that, while we do try to communicate to others, more often than not is almost entirely visceral and ineffable.
Which is why when it comes to communication between dedicated parents and dedicated non-parents, "never-the-twain-shall-meet" is perhaps the only operative phrase.
I'll have to ask all those childless people in Japan in thirty years, when their tax base has collapsed and there's no one about to pick up the trash or mend the roads.
Demographics aside, I find the results of these studies to be quite disturbing. One of the key elements cited in these studies relates to how some of the tasks of parenthood are such drudgery, so very boring and anti-intellectual, that they can only deaden the soul, and leave an individual despairing to be rid of this seemingly unending task. That chore? Changing diapers.
Why this is disturbing to me is that it proves, or at least suggests that I must be abnormal. Why? Because my kids and I have a ball changing diapers.
Can others be happy changing diapers? I guess it depends. Perhaps if you saw it as a chore, as a necessary activity that you have to engage in which distracts you from your real life, that is, the things you would rather be doing but can not because the kids keep distracting you, then no. But then again, if you really did feel that way, then I would venture to say that you aren't a parent at all, but a co-habitant, living in the same space as other human beings, but otherwise unconnected to them as much as is possible.
You can not quantify happiness, you can only qualify it. As with anything that lay within the experiential realm, what "it" is can only be known by individuals engaged in the experience, a knowledge that, while we do try to communicate to others, more often than not is almost entirely visceral and ineffable.
Which is why when it comes to communication between dedicated parents and dedicated non-parents, "never-the-twain-shall-meet" is perhaps the only operative phrase.
Astra, Bill, & Stella (VII of XII)
-The highest of low art , the lowest of high art-
EXEMPTORY EXEMPTIONS Presents
a Jimmy O’Fool Production:
Astra, Bill, & Stella in “Roy's Barbershop Quartet : A Small-Town Love Quadrangle”
A Sonnet Cycle
Astra loves Bill...
Bill loves Stella...
Stella loves Astra...
and Roy...
Who knows what he’s up to?
VII of XII
This morning I got to work about nine,
so worried that things had gotten some strange.
With Stella and Astra, I'd crossed a line -
no choice I had, cause some things have to change.
I'm feeling this stirring gripping my loin
It's making me go and do these good deeds.
But taking this chance, flipping this coin,
may or may not quite take care of my needs.
"Hey Roy!," said Bill, as he walked right on in.
"She's just what I like, all as feisty as spit,
but I think I'll be the last of my kin
since she gave my boys a mighty big hit.
I think that I'll try another approach,
and it's you that I want to act as my coach."
EXEMPTORY EXEMPTIONS Presents
a Jimmy O’Fool Production:
Astra, Bill, & Stella in “Roy's Barbershop Quartet : A Small-Town Love Quadrangle”
A Sonnet Cycle
Astra loves Bill...
Bill loves Stella...
Stella loves Astra...
and Roy...
Who knows what he’s up to?
VII of XII
This morning I got to work about nine,
so worried that things had gotten some strange.
With Stella and Astra, I'd crossed a line -
no choice I had, cause some things have to change.
I'm feeling this stirring gripping my loin
It's making me go and do these good deeds.
But taking this chance, flipping this coin,
may or may not quite take care of my needs.
"Hey Roy!," said Bill, as he walked right on in.
"She's just what I like, all as feisty as spit,
but I think I'll be the last of my kin
since she gave my boys a mighty big hit.
I think that I'll try another approach,
and it's you that I want to act as my coach."
Friday, May 8, 2009
Of Buildings Old and New
A while back, Slow Reader left a comment asking me if I missed the oldness of Toronto, the architecture and the buildings. I started into my answer by a long, meandering route, first going on about the color green, and then the color grey. Today I think I have arrived at my destination, having long since passed through segue station, and am ready to give it a go.
On Homes
Growing up, I moved around quite a bit. At various points in my life, I've lived in a trailer, an apartment, a townhouse, a duplex, a condominium, a basement couch, an office, a storage closet, and, once or twice, in an actual honest-to-god detached house. During my first two decades on this coil, I moved in and out of those many types of accommodation in three of Canada's four largest cities, and numerous small towns.
Nice as that little bit of biography is, what's it got to do with the oldness of buildings in Toronto? I guess it has to do with how I've come to view how others see their own homes.
In Canada, just as it is in the United States, a dilapidated house with chipped paint on the walls and an unkempt front lawn signals poverty. It signals the presence of a person or family uninterested in how the community views them, or how their behavior affects the community. On the other end of the spectrum, a house that is completely walled off, disallowing the any passersby the possibility of glimpse inside signals someone who is could be rich, crazily eccentric, or preparing for the coming apocalypse. Either side of the coin is considered a derivation from the norm, and the norm for homes in Canada and the United States means houses with a front and back lawn, a big window facing the road, and a driveway with one or two cars. We mow our lawns, tend our gardens, and in general ensure that cleanliness and order rules the day. A fence with chipped paint quickly gets repainted. A leaning chimney gets straightened. A wild looking lawn gets tamed. And on, &c.
To care for our homes and lawns, a entire multi-billion dollar economy centered around home improvement sprang into being, replete with a profusion of Home Depots, Home Hardwares, and Canadian Tires. Something needs doing? Head on over, buy some 2x4s, nails, get a new power saw, and maybe a can of paint for the garage door. With do-it-yourself not only an option, but every homeowner's duty, there is no reason, short of financial ruin, why a person's house shouldn't be spic and span.
Which is why, when I moved to Tokyo, I was at first disoriented by what seemed, to me, a total lack of care and concern homeowners seemed to have for their homes. Rust, chipped paint, stained walls. In entirely prosperous areas, I saw homes that would have faced the wrath of suburban bylaw committees back home. More than that, most homes were entirely walled off, and cars parked in driveways behind a padlocked gate. That irony of that last little bit never ceased to amuse me. Of all the cities in the world, Tokyo is one place where you would have to go out of your way to be victimized in any way. A buddy of mine left his laptop in a Mister Donut for two hours one fine day, and after all the panic, breathless running, and racing with a sunken heart, sure as shine that it would be long gone, he arrived at the Mister Donut and there was his laptop. Though every table in the shop was full, nobody sat near the laptop, perhaps thinking that the owner would be by soon enough.
It seemed strange to me that in such a safe society, people would act so paranoid. Almost every house I saw was a walled in compound. Little or no care seemed to be lavished on the house, almost as if to say to onlookers "Look away. There is nothing to see here."
In Dubai, most stand alone homes are that way as well. Pretty much all are closed off from the outside world, which is less due to taxation (there is none) and more due to social and cultural norms. And while many villas are shiny and new, they won't look that way for long, and soon the new villas and the old will all seem dilapidated.
I had never put much thought into the matter until I listened to Malcolm Gladwell read his book . In Outliers, Gladwell mentions how Chinese homes were assessed for taxation purposes. The poorer a home seemed, the less it would be taxed, which provided an incentive for people to let the external portions of their home fall to seeming ruin, leaving them to focus on what was inside the home. In Japan, the interiors of homes were very much the opposite of the exteriors, as it is in Dubai as well. In both places homeowners do care about their homes, it's just that they have different priorities as to where to apply that care.
On Buildings
The most common complaint about Dubai is that, architecturally, it has no history. All the buildings are new. How I feel about those thoughts is best summed up by Christopher Saul.
As I approach this brand new building, I am struck by something so few others seem to have noticed – it's new. This new city is filled with new buildings. There is not a single Anglo-Saxon era church, no Roman remains, no Georgian terraces. Nothing built here over the last twenty years is older than twenty years. How can British people sink so low as to live here? Why have they not built anything older?
The old versus new issue really has no place where I live. Not just because of the age of the place, but due to the basic geography of the place.
In Canada, you if you built a beautiful stone church in the 1800's, chances are it would still be around today. Sure the doors may have been replaced, and maybe a few windows, but the building itself is still there. What's more, these buildings are remarkably clean and nice looking, considering their age. They look especially clean compared to buildings that are only twenty years old in Dubai. Which begs the question, why is that?
In the temperate zone, where all the G8 nations reside, buildings are buffeted by wind, rain, and snow, and maybe the odd bit of car exhaust. Little else. In Dubai, any building, no matter how shiny and new, looks like a complete wreck in ten years. Not because the owners destroy it, but because the unending barrage of extreme heat, humidity, and constant surface abrasion caused by the sand wears down buildings very quickly. Old stone churches would never have lasted two hundred years in this environment. The mortar would long ago have been chipped away by windblown sand, and the stones would have fallen one by one until the entire edifice lay on the ground, in a heap of rubble.
When you think about it a bit, it all makes sense. Places where humans could successfully settle permanently, absent technology, are also places where permanent structures can be built, and were built. In places where permanence was a death sentence, humans took up a nomadic existence, and permanent structures were not built. It's basic geography, the effect of which on humans themselves seems to have been long forgotten by so many commentators today. Technology and the globalized world have lulled is all into forgetting what once was the most salient point of life - survival depends on adapting to your environment.
On to the Question at Hand
All the above said, still doesn't answer the question at hand. Do I miss those old buildings?
I do, a little, but mostly I don't. The old buildings were nice to look at, sure, but I never lived in any. I walked by many, walked into a few, and thought about walking into more, but their absence is not something that pains me that greatly.
What I do miss is that sense of permanence, of solidity. The buildings back where I am from, with all their niggling building codes, R-2000 ratings, and more, are all quite dependable. In Canada, at least, you can be sure that if you live in the city, in a building, it will have adequate water, power, elevators, parking, air conditioning, heating, lighting, and more. You know the building won't fall over, and that if an issue occurs, you have legal recourse to force the developers or building managers to attend to that issue. In the US this is mostly the case, but according to NPR, in many of the new "luxury" accommodations that sprang up, new tenants are finding themselves trapped in buildings without proper power, water, improperly built foundations, and no owner at all. The "owner" or developer, having long fled the country. But other than those few examples, you can trust in the soundness of structures, that they will last.
The same has yet to be proven in Dubai. It is a bit disconcerting to see so very many skyscrapers built, essentially, on sand. During the record rains earlier this year, there was some speculation amongst a number of my colleagues about how these new buildings would hold up. Would the water erode the foundations? Would the buildings themselves flood due to improper drainage? We didn't know, and if it had happened, we still wouldn't know because news like that just would not get reported at all. So for all new structures, potential renter or purchaser follow the same code - caveat emptor.
The building I live in is 19 years old now. Built in 1990, and completed, actually, during the first Gulf War. It's a good building, solid as a rock. My wife's parents worked hard to get a flat in this building, and held on to the lease ever since. Whenever the topic of moving comes up, the question is quickly sent to die on the floor, unanswered and uncared for. Why move when where we are is a sure thing? What's more, all the newer developments here adhere to the North American nonsense of strictly separated commercial and residential zones. In those new suburbs and developments, there is nowhere to walk to, no way to go anywhere if not by car. But where I live now is in the middle of a very dynamic, urban area. Which brings us to what I do like about where I live.
Jane Jacobs would smile at a place like this, with it's mixing of residential and commercial. The first floor of my building has over twenty jewelry shops, a host of textile shops, a "department store" called Cha-Choos that once got a shout out on the show 30 Rock, a nice restaurant, and a small, very dirty cafeteria (a mini restaurant). Step outside and there are buildings old and new, countless little restaurants and take aways, small grocery stores and large, and just about any amenity you can think of. I can sit down and eat a $1 shawarma with a Pakistani laborer, sipping a $0.25 cup of tea, or walk five minutes down the road, and bump into jet-setting douchebags at Saks Fifth Avenue, and unload $20,000 on a gold plated Vertu phone.
In Karama, where I live, there are buildings that inner city slum dwellers in Detroit would sniff at, yet parked out front there are no shortage of Porsche Cayennes, Toyota Land Cruisers, and every imaginable class of Mercedes. It is the most insane juxtaposition of high and low, rich and poor, that I have ever encountered. In Toronto, if you want rich, you go to Yorkville or Younge St., south of St. Clair, roundabout the Rosedale Subway Station. For low, you have quite a hike over to Jane and Finch, Rexdale, or the Kensington Market. But in all of those places, there is a strict separation of economic class. That's not the case here.
While I might miss the sight of a few buildings in downtown Toronto, like the flatiron off of Yonge St. near Front St., those areas with charm are also areas that I would never have been able to live in or near. Those old, charming buildings filled with wonderful lofts are actually only converted factories, gentrified by overpaid artists and downtown professionals. Walking in and among those neighborhoods, I never had the sense that I could strike up a conversation with anyone I saw or met outside of a Tim Hortons. And even thought Toronto is supposedly the most diverse city in the world (47% are recent immigrants!), where I live, over 90% of the population is from elsewhere. In this community I am an extreme minority, since pretty much every other white (For South Asians, little distinction is made between Canadian, American, or European - They're all known as "whites") long ago demonstrated their discomfort with anybody of a darker shade, and sequestered themselves in far off gated communities.
In Toronto, the different nationalities sequester themselves in small communities, to the extent that not only will you find the traditional Chinatown, but you can also go to Little Italy, Little India, Greek Town, Korea Town, and New Guangdong (Otherwise known as Markham). In those small communities, you will see English alongside other languages, but outside of those little enclaves, that diversity quickly evaporates. Where I live, the Chinese restaurant is next to the Arabic joint, which itself is next to a kill-your-tongue Keralite curry house. Here, wherever you look, there is an explosion of language - Sanskrit, Arabic, Malyalam, Telugu, English, Chinese, Urdu, Russian, Serbian, you name it. On signs, on billboards, in stores, spoken on the street and on the television.
Back home I'd see lots of nice old buildings, and I'd also see the people who lived in them or around them - who would almost always resemble me. In Japan, where only 1% - 2% of the population was foreign born, I knew what it was to be in the minority, forever excluded from the majority. But in Dubai, I live the life of a minority in a profusion of minorities, not isolated from the mix, but warmly welcomed in. And while this experience will one day end, and the call of the two car garage on a quiet street draws me back to Canada, I will continue to learn and grow here.
On Homes
Growing up, I moved around quite a bit. At various points in my life, I've lived in a trailer, an apartment, a townhouse, a duplex, a condominium, a basement couch, an office, a storage closet, and, once or twice, in an actual honest-to-god detached house. During my first two decades on this coil, I moved in and out of those many types of accommodation in three of Canada's four largest cities, and numerous small towns.
Nice as that little bit of biography is, what's it got to do with the oldness of buildings in Toronto? I guess it has to do with how I've come to view how others see their own homes.
In Canada, just as it is in the United States, a dilapidated house with chipped paint on the walls and an unkempt front lawn signals poverty. It signals the presence of a person or family uninterested in how the community views them, or how their behavior affects the community. On the other end of the spectrum, a house that is completely walled off, disallowing the any passersby the possibility of glimpse inside signals someone who is could be rich, crazily eccentric, or preparing for the coming apocalypse. Either side of the coin is considered a derivation from the norm, and the norm for homes in Canada and the United States means houses with a front and back lawn, a big window facing the road, and a driveway with one or two cars. We mow our lawns, tend our gardens, and in general ensure that cleanliness and order rules the day. A fence with chipped paint quickly gets repainted. A leaning chimney gets straightened. A wild looking lawn gets tamed. And on, &c.
To care for our homes and lawns, a entire multi-billion dollar economy centered around home improvement sprang into being, replete with a profusion of Home Depots, Home Hardwares, and Canadian Tires. Something needs doing? Head on over, buy some 2x4s, nails, get a new power saw, and maybe a can of paint for the garage door. With do-it-yourself not only an option, but every homeowner's duty, there is no reason, short of financial ruin, why a person's house shouldn't be spic and span.
Which is why, when I moved to Tokyo, I was at first disoriented by what seemed, to me, a total lack of care and concern homeowners seemed to have for their homes. Rust, chipped paint, stained walls. In entirely prosperous areas, I saw homes that would have faced the wrath of suburban bylaw committees back home. More than that, most homes were entirely walled off, and cars parked in driveways behind a padlocked gate. That irony of that last little bit never ceased to amuse me. Of all the cities in the world, Tokyo is one place where you would have to go out of your way to be victimized in any way. A buddy of mine left his laptop in a Mister Donut for two hours one fine day, and after all the panic, breathless running, and racing with a sunken heart, sure as shine that it would be long gone, he arrived at the Mister Donut and there was his laptop. Though every table in the shop was full, nobody sat near the laptop, perhaps thinking that the owner would be by soon enough.
It seemed strange to me that in such a safe society, people would act so paranoid. Almost every house I saw was a walled in compound. Little or no care seemed to be lavished on the house, almost as if to say to onlookers "Look away. There is nothing to see here."
In Dubai, most stand alone homes are that way as well. Pretty much all are closed off from the outside world, which is less due to taxation (there is none) and more due to social and cultural norms. And while many villas are shiny and new, they won't look that way for long, and soon the new villas and the old will all seem dilapidated.
I had never put much thought into the matter until I listened to Malcolm Gladwell read his book . In Outliers, Gladwell mentions how Chinese homes were assessed for taxation purposes. The poorer a home seemed, the less it would be taxed, which provided an incentive for people to let the external portions of their home fall to seeming ruin, leaving them to focus on what was inside the home. In Japan, the interiors of homes were very much the opposite of the exteriors, as it is in Dubai as well. In both places homeowners do care about their homes, it's just that they have different priorities as to where to apply that care.
On Buildings
The most common complaint about Dubai is that, architecturally, it has no history. All the buildings are new. How I feel about those thoughts is best summed up by Christopher Saul.
As I approach this brand new building, I am struck by something so few others seem to have noticed – it's new. This new city is filled with new buildings. There is not a single Anglo-Saxon era church, no Roman remains, no Georgian terraces. Nothing built here over the last twenty years is older than twenty years. How can British people sink so low as to live here? Why have they not built anything older?
The old versus new issue really has no place where I live. Not just because of the age of the place, but due to the basic geography of the place.
In Canada, you if you built a beautiful stone church in the 1800's, chances are it would still be around today. Sure the doors may have been replaced, and maybe a few windows, but the building itself is still there. What's more, these buildings are remarkably clean and nice looking, considering their age. They look especially clean compared to buildings that are only twenty years old in Dubai. Which begs the question, why is that?
In the temperate zone, where all the G8 nations reside, buildings are buffeted by wind, rain, and snow, and maybe the odd bit of car exhaust. Little else. In Dubai, any building, no matter how shiny and new, looks like a complete wreck in ten years. Not because the owners destroy it, but because the unending barrage of extreme heat, humidity, and constant surface abrasion caused by the sand wears down buildings very quickly. Old stone churches would never have lasted two hundred years in this environment. The mortar would long ago have been chipped away by windblown sand, and the stones would have fallen one by one until the entire edifice lay on the ground, in a heap of rubble.
When you think about it a bit, it all makes sense. Places where humans could successfully settle permanently, absent technology, are also places where permanent structures can be built, and were built. In places where permanence was a death sentence, humans took up a nomadic existence, and permanent structures were not built. It's basic geography, the effect of which on humans themselves seems to have been long forgotten by so many commentators today. Technology and the globalized world have lulled is all into forgetting what once was the most salient point of life - survival depends on adapting to your environment.
On to the Question at Hand
All the above said, still doesn't answer the question at hand. Do I miss those old buildings?
I do, a little, but mostly I don't. The old buildings were nice to look at, sure, but I never lived in any. I walked by many, walked into a few, and thought about walking into more, but their absence is not something that pains me that greatly.
What I do miss is that sense of permanence, of solidity. The buildings back where I am from, with all their niggling building codes, R-2000 ratings, and more, are all quite dependable. In Canada, at least, you can be sure that if you live in the city, in a building, it will have adequate water, power, elevators, parking, air conditioning, heating, lighting, and more. You know the building won't fall over, and that if an issue occurs, you have legal recourse to force the developers or building managers to attend to that issue. In the US this is mostly the case, but according to NPR, in many of the new "luxury" accommodations that sprang up, new tenants are finding themselves trapped in buildings without proper power, water, improperly built foundations, and no owner at all. The "owner" or developer, having long fled the country. But other than those few examples, you can trust in the soundness of structures, that they will last.
The same has yet to be proven in Dubai. It is a bit disconcerting to see so very many skyscrapers built, essentially, on sand. During the record rains earlier this year, there was some speculation amongst a number of my colleagues about how these new buildings would hold up. Would the water erode the foundations? Would the buildings themselves flood due to improper drainage? We didn't know, and if it had happened, we still wouldn't know because news like that just would not get reported at all. So for all new structures, potential renter or purchaser follow the same code - caveat emptor.
The building I live in is 19 years old now. Built in 1990, and completed, actually, during the first Gulf War. It's a good building, solid as a rock. My wife's parents worked hard to get a flat in this building, and held on to the lease ever since. Whenever the topic of moving comes up, the question is quickly sent to die on the floor, unanswered and uncared for. Why move when where we are is a sure thing? What's more, all the newer developments here adhere to the North American nonsense of strictly separated commercial and residential zones. In those new suburbs and developments, there is nowhere to walk to, no way to go anywhere if not by car. But where I live now is in the middle of a very dynamic, urban area. Which brings us to what I do like about where I live.
Jane Jacobs would smile at a place like this, with it's mixing of residential and commercial. The first floor of my building has over twenty jewelry shops, a host of textile shops, a "department store" called Cha-Choos that once got a shout out on the show 30 Rock, a nice restaurant, and a small, very dirty cafeteria (a mini restaurant). Step outside and there are buildings old and new, countless little restaurants and take aways, small grocery stores and large, and just about any amenity you can think of. I can sit down and eat a $1 shawarma with a Pakistani laborer, sipping a $0.25 cup of tea, or walk five minutes down the road, and bump into jet-setting douchebags at Saks Fifth Avenue, and unload $20,000 on a gold plated Vertu phone.
In Karama, where I live, there are buildings that inner city slum dwellers in Detroit would sniff at, yet parked out front there are no shortage of Porsche Cayennes, Toyota Land Cruisers, and every imaginable class of Mercedes. It is the most insane juxtaposition of high and low, rich and poor, that I have ever encountered. In Toronto, if you want rich, you go to Yorkville or Younge St., south of St. Clair, roundabout the Rosedale Subway Station. For low, you have quite a hike over to Jane and Finch, Rexdale, or the Kensington Market. But in all of those places, there is a strict separation of economic class. That's not the case here.
While I might miss the sight of a few buildings in downtown Toronto, like the flatiron off of Yonge St. near Front St., those areas with charm are also areas that I would never have been able to live in or near. Those old, charming buildings filled with wonderful lofts are actually only converted factories, gentrified by overpaid artists and downtown professionals. Walking in and among those neighborhoods, I never had the sense that I could strike up a conversation with anyone I saw or met outside of a Tim Hortons. And even thought Toronto is supposedly the most diverse city in the world (47% are recent immigrants!), where I live, over 90% of the population is from elsewhere. In this community I am an extreme minority, since pretty much every other white (For South Asians, little distinction is made between Canadian, American, or European - They're all known as "whites") long ago demonstrated their discomfort with anybody of a darker shade, and sequestered themselves in far off gated communities.
In Toronto, the different nationalities sequester themselves in small communities, to the extent that not only will you find the traditional Chinatown, but you can also go to Little Italy, Little India, Greek Town, Korea Town, and New Guangdong (Otherwise known as Markham). In those small communities, you will see English alongside other languages, but outside of those little enclaves, that diversity quickly evaporates. Where I live, the Chinese restaurant is next to the Arabic joint, which itself is next to a kill-your-tongue Keralite curry house. Here, wherever you look, there is an explosion of language - Sanskrit, Arabic, Malyalam, Telugu, English, Chinese, Urdu, Russian, Serbian, you name it. On signs, on billboards, in stores, spoken on the street and on the television.
Back home I'd see lots of nice old buildings, and I'd also see the people who lived in them or around them - who would almost always resemble me. In Japan, where only 1% - 2% of the population was foreign born, I knew what it was to be in the minority, forever excluded from the majority. But in Dubai, I live the life of a minority in a profusion of minorities, not isolated from the mix, but warmly welcomed in. And while this experience will one day end, and the call of the two car garage on a quiet street draws me back to Canada, I will continue to learn and grow here.
Astra, Bill, & Stella (VI of XII)
-The highest of low art , the lowest of high art-
EXEMPTORY EXEMPTIONS Presents
a Jimmy O’Fool Production:
Astra, Bill, & Stella in “Roy's Barbershop Quartet : A Small-Town Love Quadrangle”
A Sonnet Cycle
Astra loves Bill...
Bill loves Stella...
Stella loves Astra...
and Roy...
Who knows what he’s up to?
VI of XII
"Good morning Stella," I said when she came,
"So what bring you here to grace this rough place?
Something important I can see by your face.
What's up, my classy, world-weary dame?"
"Stuff it!," she said, with a look meant to maim.
"Call off your Bill, 'fore I beat in his face,
'cause I've had enough of his foolish chase.
Stop him, I swear, or I won't be to blame."
"Stella, my dear, will you calm down a bit?
He's still a young man, and he's got a good heart."
"Hrrmph!," Stella chirped. "He's a moronic tool!
Clumsy and crude, and a dumb little twit."
"Hey Stella," I said, "Now don't even start.
Keep on like this and you'll look like a fool!"
EXEMPTORY EXEMPTIONS Presents
a Jimmy O’Fool Production:
Astra, Bill, & Stella in “Roy's Barbershop Quartet : A Small-Town Love Quadrangle”
A Sonnet Cycle
Astra loves Bill...
Bill loves Stella...
Stella loves Astra...
and Roy...
Who knows what he’s up to?
VI of XII
"Good morning Stella," I said when she came,
"So what bring you here to grace this rough place?
Something important I can see by your face.
What's up, my classy, world-weary dame?"
"Stuff it!," she said, with a look meant to maim.
"Call off your Bill, 'fore I beat in his face,
'cause I've had enough of his foolish chase.
Stop him, I swear, or I won't be to blame."
"Stella, my dear, will you calm down a bit?
He's still a young man, and he's got a good heart."
"Hrrmph!," Stella chirped. "He's a moronic tool!
Clumsy and crude, and a dumb little twit."
"Hey Stella," I said, "Now don't even start.
Keep on like this and you'll look like a fool!"
Thursday, May 7, 2009
A Little Give Gets a Lot
Back last September, when school started, I spent the first few weeks of classes training my students up on Google Documents. I would email a document to each student, have them upload it and share it with me, and from then on I could monitor their progress. Because of the powerful revision history tool, I could also monitor every stage of a document's development. I could tell, in an instant, if a student had copied and pasted something into their work without attribution, and through Google's search tool, I could take a string of text and compare that with all the other documents that had been shared with me. All told I could catch just about every instance of cheating imaginable, and I did.
By taking away their ability to cheat, I thought, I could eliminate cheating and foster a most positive academic climate. So I showed them, in detail, everything I could do, and every way I could catch them. By knowing this up front, I figured, they probably wouldn't bother trying to cheat in the first place.
Afterward, when I found a student had cheated, I called them over, showed them the proof of their academic dishonesty, and issued a reproof about the impropriety of cheating, and the need to do one's own work. A few students, thankfully, had enough of a sense of shame to admit what they had done, and endeavored not to repeat their mistake. But with others, the same conversation led to no few howls of protest, and emphatic claims that no cheating at all had occurred, and even when I pointed out the proof sitting there clearly and unequivocally on the screen, most took the Shaggy approach - they said "it wasn't me." And no matter the proof or the logic, they acted as if by being emphatic enough for long enough, the accusation would just go away.
But I'm not one to be swayed by my students in that manner.
Before long I had garnered a reputation a teacher with an unerring eye for cheating, how had the will to call students out for it, and stick to his guns. I noted down every instance of cheating, and if students persisted in refusing to admit what all and sundry could see as plain as day, I'd issue an incomplete, mark an x in a little box, and cease all discussion on the matter.
Back in Canada, I would have considered the matter closed, the battle won. I would have informed the students that for the next and each subsequent assignment, I would expect no less than honest effort. While I am sure some might have complained, I would know that regardless of whatever pressure a parent could bring to bear on the administration, I was protected. I could call on my union rep, quote the appropriate academic guidelines, and leave the matter at that. From a letter of the law standpoint, I would have been on the side of angels. But I don't live in Canada, I live here.
Knowing they could be caught dead to rights, many of my students started waging a misinformation campaign. To other students, other teachers, the admin, and the principal, they made claims, let their grievances be known, and came up with all manner of excuses as to why it was all so unfair. They focused on undermining the use of Google Documents. What if they did not have internet access at home? (Every student making this claim later recanted, admitting they did, indeed, have internet access at home). Why doesn't the teacher just give a paper out? (To prevent rampant copying). Why dd I insist on them calling me "sir?" (Because saying "teacher, teacher" is poor English, and "sir" is a universally accepted, respectful mode of address). On, and on it went. Endless meetings, conferences, you name it. Students would bring in parents with the most wild eyed claims (He makes us search for our homework on Google!), and while in each case the misinformation was cleared up, and the parents left with a good mind to introduce their son to the back of a hand, the damage had been done.
Complaints. There had been complaints. There had been a torrent of seemingly endless complaints. If my ears were deaf to them, my students figured that others might be more receptive. That the complaints had no merit was not the issue. That there were complaints, was. Why did I have to rock the boat? Why did I have to be so strict? Why couldn't I be a little more flexible?
Not one to stand against the tide in a foreign country where my rights are limited and the possibility of being packed on to a plane and sent home is a possibility, I decided to drop the matter. I love that Google system, but not enough that I'd put myself in the path of a possible pink slip for it. So when the New Year dawned, I was given entirely new classes. A fresh start, I was told. Sometimes, I was also told, some people just aren't a good fit in one place. Change is good.
I accepted my new situation, but for most of the rest of the year I felt bitterness, and no little amount of betrayal. The way I saw it, I had been looking out for my students, enforcing proper academic standards, and properly preparing them for entrance into a tertiary program the following year. I saw my removal from one set of classes and placement in another set as a gross error that not only undercut my authority and credibility, but which would only serve to reinforce exactly the wrong lesson for those students whose long and bitter campaign had ended in triumph. While railing secretly over what I saw as an injustice, I also came to feel a little depressed, unsure of myself and my ability as a teacher.
Then things began to change. Ever flexible, I acquiesced to the imperative I had been issued. Change! Change something. Do something. I was told to think long and hard and to find somethng that worked, with the implication that if I was called back, the subsequent discussion would be much briefer.
So I did as asked. I changed. I thought long and hard, and I used those hard fought battles and the experience that came with them, and adjusted my entire system. I lightly introduced the Google Docs system to those willing, and to the rest I would email documents as Word files that could be completed on a computer, and I even printed out hard copies for those who wanted to do them by hand. Keeping tabs on cheating was a little harder, but still doable, and that added flexibility seemed to be appreciated by my students.
I found that by storing every submitted assignment away on Outlook, I could still detect cheating, and call students out on what they had done. But the evidence was not quite as unequivocal, and soon some of my students found some wiggle room. Simultaneous submissions, renaming files, and more. But being the geek that I am (apprentice level, really, as I have a long ways to go to hit uber-geek status), I still had a few tricks up my sleeve. One good one was being able to check out the file properties, and see who last saved the file, or who had created it. The students saw my actions as fair play. I was doing my job, but wasn't being a hard ass about it. They knew I wasn't trying to submit them to the panopticon, but they knew I was paying attention.
With the new classes there were no complaints. Cooperation increased. Participation increased, and our little system purred beautifully. My new students knew I was as hawk-eyed as my reputation suggested, as time and again I'd softly call one over and have a brief discussion about the need to redo an assignment. But by omitting any sense of censure or moral indignation from my tone, almost every time I called a student over, I found my students willing to admit what they had done, and willing to do their work for real.
I could still catch them, but I wasn't totalitarian about it. And when I did catch them, instead of trying to get them to feel shame over an immoral act, I looked on their indiscretion as I would a traffic ticket. No judgment, just a simple statement of fact and a clearly defined consequence.
As the school year winds down and summer approaches, and I look back on this year, I find myself feeling humbled, truly and deeply humbled. In September I had thought that by demonstrating to students that not only could they not cheat, but that it was impossible to do so, they wouldn't try. Little had I known then, but can see so clearly now, I had sown the seeds for confrontation through my own actions. From the student's perspective, what I'd said was that I expected they would try to cheat, which was tantamount to basically saying that they were all cheaters, and that my opinion of them was about as high chocolate thins wafer.
I'd done to them what music and movie companies have been doing to countless media consumers the world over, and I reaped the same reward. By making it impossible to cheat, by removing my students' free will in the matter, conflict became inevitable. It's not a matter of right or wrong, but of human nature, and human dignity. Being honest with myself, I could not say that I would have reacted differently had I been in their position.
Don't get me wrong. Cheating is something teachers have to strive to stamp out, but I learned that the key to the process is the striving itself. You cannot make the system perfect or infallible. You have to allow for imperfections, for the possibility of wrongdoing. In order to foster moral behavior, you cannot simply prohibit immoral behavior or make it impossible. You have to offer morality as a choice, one not coerced or forced, but just a choice laying on the table.
The old students I had had, as I learned, had not turned a new corner with a new teacher. They'd won their battle, and felt all the bolder for it. I felt sad for the students who had been honest, had worked hard, had applied themselves, and who found themselves in a less than ideal learning environment. But I didn't dwell on it. It's a challenge many students the world over have faced, and is by no means unique to this part of the world (Which is why I believe that Season 4 of The Wire should be required viewing for every teacher). It all could have been avoided, as they say, had I known then what I know now. But teaching, just like any other job, is something you learn to become better at through experience. There will inevitably be failures, but the key is to recognize those failure and leverage them into, if not success, then something better.
Right here, right now, I feel the truth of that old adage, that old cliche. When God closes a door, he opens a window. Even though my actions may have been right, and my intentions also, how I went about it had much to be desired. A younger me, a less family-ed up, worried-sick-about-not-being-able-to-support-them me might have made more noise, stood my ground, and fought for my principles.
That I hadn't, perhaps, is a sign that I'd grown up. As I look at my wife, and my children, all safely, peacefully asleep, I am so very thankful that I did.
By taking away their ability to cheat, I thought, I could eliminate cheating and foster a most positive academic climate. So I showed them, in detail, everything I could do, and every way I could catch them. By knowing this up front, I figured, they probably wouldn't bother trying to cheat in the first place.
Afterward, when I found a student had cheated, I called them over, showed them the proof of their academic dishonesty, and issued a reproof about the impropriety of cheating, and the need to do one's own work. A few students, thankfully, had enough of a sense of shame to admit what they had done, and endeavored not to repeat their mistake. But with others, the same conversation led to no few howls of protest, and emphatic claims that no cheating at all had occurred, and even when I pointed out the proof sitting there clearly and unequivocally on the screen, most took the Shaggy approach - they said "it wasn't me." And no matter the proof or the logic, they acted as if by being emphatic enough for long enough, the accusation would just go away.
But I'm not one to be swayed by my students in that manner.
Before long I had garnered a reputation a teacher with an unerring eye for cheating, how had the will to call students out for it, and stick to his guns. I noted down every instance of cheating, and if students persisted in refusing to admit what all and sundry could see as plain as day, I'd issue an incomplete, mark an x in a little box, and cease all discussion on the matter.
Back in Canada, I would have considered the matter closed, the battle won. I would have informed the students that for the next and each subsequent assignment, I would expect no less than honest effort. While I am sure some might have complained, I would know that regardless of whatever pressure a parent could bring to bear on the administration, I was protected. I could call on my union rep, quote the appropriate academic guidelines, and leave the matter at that. From a letter of the law standpoint, I would have been on the side of angels. But I don't live in Canada, I live here.
Knowing they could be caught dead to rights, many of my students started waging a misinformation campaign. To other students, other teachers, the admin, and the principal, they made claims, let their grievances be known, and came up with all manner of excuses as to why it was all so unfair. They focused on undermining the use of Google Documents. What if they did not have internet access at home? (Every student making this claim later recanted, admitting they did, indeed, have internet access at home). Why doesn't the teacher just give a paper out? (To prevent rampant copying). Why dd I insist on them calling me "sir?" (Because saying "teacher, teacher" is poor English, and "sir" is a universally accepted, respectful mode of address). On, and on it went. Endless meetings, conferences, you name it. Students would bring in parents with the most wild eyed claims (He makes us search for our homework on Google!), and while in each case the misinformation was cleared up, and the parents left with a good mind to introduce their son to the back of a hand, the damage had been done.
Complaints. There had been complaints. There had been a torrent of seemingly endless complaints. If my ears were deaf to them, my students figured that others might be more receptive. That the complaints had no merit was not the issue. That there were complaints, was. Why did I have to rock the boat? Why did I have to be so strict? Why couldn't I be a little more flexible?
Not one to stand against the tide in a foreign country where my rights are limited and the possibility of being packed on to a plane and sent home is a possibility, I decided to drop the matter. I love that Google system, but not enough that I'd put myself in the path of a possible pink slip for it. So when the New Year dawned, I was given entirely new classes. A fresh start, I was told. Sometimes, I was also told, some people just aren't a good fit in one place. Change is good.
I accepted my new situation, but for most of the rest of the year I felt bitterness, and no little amount of betrayal. The way I saw it, I had been looking out for my students, enforcing proper academic standards, and properly preparing them for entrance into a tertiary program the following year. I saw my removal from one set of classes and placement in another set as a gross error that not only undercut my authority and credibility, but which would only serve to reinforce exactly the wrong lesson for those students whose long and bitter campaign had ended in triumph. While railing secretly over what I saw as an injustice, I also came to feel a little depressed, unsure of myself and my ability as a teacher.
Then things began to change. Ever flexible, I acquiesced to the imperative I had been issued. Change! Change something. Do something. I was told to think long and hard and to find somethng that worked, with the implication that if I was called back, the subsequent discussion would be much briefer.
So I did as asked. I changed. I thought long and hard, and I used those hard fought battles and the experience that came with them, and adjusted my entire system. I lightly introduced the Google Docs system to those willing, and to the rest I would email documents as Word files that could be completed on a computer, and I even printed out hard copies for those who wanted to do them by hand. Keeping tabs on cheating was a little harder, but still doable, and that added flexibility seemed to be appreciated by my students.
I found that by storing every submitted assignment away on Outlook, I could still detect cheating, and call students out on what they had done. But the evidence was not quite as unequivocal, and soon some of my students found some wiggle room. Simultaneous submissions, renaming files, and more. But being the geek that I am (apprentice level, really, as I have a long ways to go to hit uber-geek status), I still had a few tricks up my sleeve. One good one was being able to check out the file properties, and see who last saved the file, or who had created it. The students saw my actions as fair play. I was doing my job, but wasn't being a hard ass about it. They knew I wasn't trying to submit them to the panopticon, but they knew I was paying attention.
With the new classes there were no complaints. Cooperation increased. Participation increased, and our little system purred beautifully. My new students knew I was as hawk-eyed as my reputation suggested, as time and again I'd softly call one over and have a brief discussion about the need to redo an assignment. But by omitting any sense of censure or moral indignation from my tone, almost every time I called a student over, I found my students willing to admit what they had done, and willing to do their work for real.
I could still catch them, but I wasn't totalitarian about it. And when I did catch them, instead of trying to get them to feel shame over an immoral act, I looked on their indiscretion as I would a traffic ticket. No judgment, just a simple statement of fact and a clearly defined consequence.
As the school year winds down and summer approaches, and I look back on this year, I find myself feeling humbled, truly and deeply humbled. In September I had thought that by demonstrating to students that not only could they not cheat, but that it was impossible to do so, they wouldn't try. Little had I known then, but can see so clearly now, I had sown the seeds for confrontation through my own actions. From the student's perspective, what I'd said was that I expected they would try to cheat, which was tantamount to basically saying that they were all cheaters, and that my opinion of them was about as high chocolate thins wafer.
I'd done to them what music and movie companies have been doing to countless media consumers the world over, and I reaped the same reward. By making it impossible to cheat, by removing my students' free will in the matter, conflict became inevitable. It's not a matter of right or wrong, but of human nature, and human dignity. Being honest with myself, I could not say that I would have reacted differently had I been in their position.
Don't get me wrong. Cheating is something teachers have to strive to stamp out, but I learned that the key to the process is the striving itself. You cannot make the system perfect or infallible. You have to allow for imperfections, for the possibility of wrongdoing. In order to foster moral behavior, you cannot simply prohibit immoral behavior or make it impossible. You have to offer morality as a choice, one not coerced or forced, but just a choice laying on the table.
The old students I had had, as I learned, had not turned a new corner with a new teacher. They'd won their battle, and felt all the bolder for it. I felt sad for the students who had been honest, had worked hard, had applied themselves, and who found themselves in a less than ideal learning environment. But I didn't dwell on it. It's a challenge many students the world over have faced, and is by no means unique to this part of the world (Which is why I believe that Season 4 of The Wire should be required viewing for every teacher). It all could have been avoided, as they say, had I known then what I know now. But teaching, just like any other job, is something you learn to become better at through experience. There will inevitably be failures, but the key is to recognize those failure and leverage them into, if not success, then something better.
Right here, right now, I feel the truth of that old adage, that old cliche. When God closes a door, he opens a window. Even though my actions may have been right, and my intentions also, how I went about it had much to be desired. A younger me, a less family-ed up, worried-sick-about-not-being-able-to-support-them me might have made more noise, stood my ground, and fought for my principles.
That I hadn't, perhaps, is a sign that I'd grown up. As I look at my wife, and my children, all safely, peacefully asleep, I am so very thankful that I did.
Astra, Bill, & Stella (V of XII)
-The highest of low art , the lowest of high art-
EXEMPTORY EXEMPTIONS Presents
a Jimmy O’Fool Production:
Astra, Bill, & Stella in “Roy's Barbershop Quartet : A Small-Town Love Quadrangle”
A Sonnet Cycle
Astra loves Bill...
Bill loves Stella...
Stella loves Astra...
and Roy...
Who knows what he’s up to?
V of XII
Stella's a star, in all and in name.
She comes by sometimes, to give me her mind,
about me and my friends - guys of one kind.
For her problems she needs someone to blame,
not seeing that life is just a crap game.
She's a little uptight, needs to unwind,
but what do I know of girls of her kind?
A life of hiding and fear and of shame.
With Bill gone off now, to crash and to burn,
I'll take some time now to plan and to think -
figure some way to get each what they want.
Kindhearted deeds, doing friends a good turn,
and after it all, when they're all in synch
I'll then be known as the romance savant!
EXEMPTORY EXEMPTIONS Presents
a Jimmy O’Fool Production:
Astra, Bill, & Stella in “Roy's Barbershop Quartet : A Small-Town Love Quadrangle”
A Sonnet Cycle
Astra loves Bill...
Bill loves Stella...
Stella loves Astra...
and Roy...
Who knows what he’s up to?
V of XII
Stella's a star, in all and in name.
She comes by sometimes, to give me her mind,
about me and my friends - guys of one kind.
For her problems she needs someone to blame,
not seeing that life is just a crap game.
She's a little uptight, needs to unwind,
but what do I know of girls of her kind?
A life of hiding and fear and of shame.
With Bill gone off now, to crash and to burn,
I'll take some time now to plan and to think -
figure some way to get each what they want.
Kindhearted deeds, doing friends a good turn,
and after it all, when they're all in synch
I'll then be known as the romance savant!
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
Arthur and Ronny
I had a post for today, somewhere. But I can't remember where. You see, I'm keeping my wallet handy right now, in case someone asks a question I can't answer. Like "What's your name?" That's the kind of day it is. So here is a little fiction. See you tomorrow.
"Arthur. You sure it's the right room? It looks kind of small, you know?"
"It's not that small, Yes, it's the right room. Says so on the door."
"Actually it says 203, not 'this is the right room.'"
"Just shut the door, okay? There's room for at least 18 people. Count the chairs."
"Elevators always say 'max 20' but I'd like to see you get 20 people in one."
"Whatever, okay? Jesus! We don't have much time."
"Well I don't see nothing, other than some old dirty chair-desks that nobody can fit in, and weird old cream paint on the wall. Kind of reminds me of a butcher room in some old B-movie horror flick. Are you sure it's the right room? I still think it's kind of small."
"Shut up, Ronny. Okay? Okay. Right there, on the wall by the door. There some symbol thing."
"Hey! That's Mandy's sign. Strange, eh? So where did Mandy say the stuff was?"
"She didn't say. She just said it was in here somewhere. And so far I don't see anything. There's nothing on the tables. No cupboards on the wall either. Maybe it's behind the whiteboard. Let me see."
"Whiteboard? When was that thing last white? And who's 'Christopher Dewdney?'"
"Who? What? What are you talking about?"
"'Christopher Dewdney.' See, on the blackboard. It says 'Chistopher Dewdney, Acquainted with the Night.' Who's he?"
"He's probably a professor, and there's nothing behind the whiteboard."
"Acquainted with the Night, eh? Maybe he's, like, a vampire or something."
"I don't think he's a vampire."
"Huh. If he was, I bet it'd say "Child of the Night.' Maybe he just likes vampires."
"Ronny, enough with the vampires. Okay? Now...There!"
"What?"
"Above the door, those vents covered by paper. Let me get a chair and take a look."
"Professor, eh? Oh! Wait! That's awesome!"
"It's like the paper is just stuck on by air pressure. That's funny."
"Gimme a sec. I want to sit in the professor chair. Okay, okay. Now let's think."
"Nothing in the first vent. Let me look in the other one."
"What's the word? What do you call it, when you give something, like, a short name?"
"Abbreviation."
"Yeah, abruption, right. Anyways, maybe his students call him, like, Dewd, you know?"
"I don't think so."
"That's awesome! I'd be in class and he'd come in, and I'd be like 'Hey Professor Dude! How's it going, dude? We'd have some beers after class, and I'd say 'Dude, man, you're a real dude!"
"Shut up, Ronny. The vents are empty. The stuff's not here. We've got to go."
"Why?"
"Why? The stuff's not here. Somebody got here before us. That's why!"
"Then how come it's right here under the table?"
"What!? Where?"
"Right here, by the Dewd's knee. See! Prime B.C. Bud! Tonight, I'm gonna roll me the fattest cannon in the spliffdom."
"Oh, thank God nobody took it."
"And all this time, next to Professor Dude's knee."
"Ronny, seriously. I don't think they call him Dude."
"You never know, you know?"
"Whatever. Let's go before security comes by."
"Arthur. You sure it's the right room? It looks kind of small, you know?"
"It's not that small, Yes, it's the right room. Says so on the door."
"Actually it says 203, not 'this is the right room.'"
"Just shut the door, okay? There's room for at least 18 people. Count the chairs."
"Elevators always say 'max 20' but I'd like to see you get 20 people in one."
"Whatever, okay? Jesus! We don't have much time."
"Well I don't see nothing, other than some old dirty chair-desks that nobody can fit in, and weird old cream paint on the wall. Kind of reminds me of a butcher room in some old B-movie horror flick. Are you sure it's the right room? I still think it's kind of small."
"Shut up, Ronny. Okay? Okay. Right there, on the wall by the door. There some symbol thing."
"Hey! That's Mandy's sign. Strange, eh? So where did Mandy say the stuff was?"
"She didn't say. She just said it was in here somewhere. And so far I don't see anything. There's nothing on the tables. No cupboards on the wall either. Maybe it's behind the whiteboard. Let me see."
"Whiteboard? When was that thing last white? And who's 'Christopher Dewdney?'"
"Who? What? What are you talking about?"
"'Christopher Dewdney.' See, on the blackboard. It says 'Chistopher Dewdney, Acquainted with the Night.' Who's he?"
"He's probably a professor, and there's nothing behind the whiteboard."
"Acquainted with the Night, eh? Maybe he's, like, a vampire or something."
"I don't think he's a vampire."
"Huh. If he was, I bet it'd say "Child of the Night.' Maybe he just likes vampires."
"Ronny, enough with the vampires. Okay? Now...There!"
"What?"
"Above the door, those vents covered by paper. Let me get a chair and take a look."
"Professor, eh? Oh! Wait! That's awesome!"
"It's like the paper is just stuck on by air pressure. That's funny."
"Gimme a sec. I want to sit in the professor chair. Okay, okay. Now let's think."
"Nothing in the first vent. Let me look in the other one."
"What's the word? What do you call it, when you give something, like, a short name?"
"Abbreviation."
"Yeah, abruption, right. Anyways, maybe his students call him, like, Dewd, you know?"
"I don't think so."
"That's awesome! I'd be in class and he'd come in, and I'd be like 'Hey Professor Dude! How's it going, dude? We'd have some beers after class, and I'd say 'Dude, man, you're a real dude!"
"Shut up, Ronny. The vents are empty. The stuff's not here. We've got to go."
"Why?"
"Why? The stuff's not here. Somebody got here before us. That's why!"
"Then how come it's right here under the table?"
"What!? Where?"
"Right here, by the Dewd's knee. See! Prime B.C. Bud! Tonight, I'm gonna roll me the fattest cannon in the spliffdom."
"Oh, thank God nobody took it."
"And all this time, next to Professor Dude's knee."
"Ronny, seriously. I don't think they call him Dude."
"You never know, you know?"
"Whatever. Let's go before security comes by."
Astra, Bill, & Stella (IV of XII)
-The highest of low art , the lowest of high art-
EXEMPTORY EXEMPTIONS Presents
a Jimmy O’Fool Production:
Astra, Bill, & Stella in “Roy's Barbershop Quartet : A Small-Town Love Quadrangle”
A Sonnet Cycle
Astra loves Bill...
Bill loves Stella...
Stella loves Astra...
and Roy...
Who knows what he’s up to?
IV of XII
Back when she was a girl and first met him,
there was no one else in her world but Bill.
But right from the start, he'd always been dim.
She'd try, and try - his reaction was nil.
It really did seem he just didn't care.
But whatever else could she do for this man?
She worked out, lost weight, changed clothes and her hair.
Bought nice new heels, and then got a nice tan.
Nothing worked, nothing at all! Like today,
she tried to shake him a bit, make him mad,
and all that she’d said, he brushed it away.
Then all that happened was her getting sad.
I see her sometimes and think "What's the use?
In loving a man who’s so damn obtuse?!"
EXEMPTORY EXEMPTIONS Presents
a Jimmy O’Fool Production:
Astra, Bill, & Stella in “Roy's Barbershop Quartet : A Small-Town Love Quadrangle”
A Sonnet Cycle
Astra loves Bill...
Bill loves Stella...
Stella loves Astra...
and Roy...
Who knows what he’s up to?
IV of XII
Back when she was a girl and first met him,
there was no one else in her world but Bill.
But right from the start, he'd always been dim.
She'd try, and try - his reaction was nil.
It really did seem he just didn't care.
But whatever else could she do for this man?
She worked out, lost weight, changed clothes and her hair.
Bought nice new heels, and then got a nice tan.
Nothing worked, nothing at all! Like today,
she tried to shake him a bit, make him mad,
and all that she’d said, he brushed it away.
Then all that happened was her getting sad.
I see her sometimes and think "What's the use?
In loving a man who’s so damn obtuse?!"
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
A Model Model
A few weeks back I was bemoaning the spectacular ineptness of my beloved Rajasthan Royals, whose inaugural Cinderella season last year, culminating in winning the first IPL championship, seemed as if it was being followed up by season long clinic of how not to play cricket. Dead last after three matches, the Royals are now sitting in second, within a hair of the number one Delhi Daredevils. They've now had a streak of four straight wins, a turnaround which stands as a real testament to the leadership of team captain Shane Warne.
That and the Howitzer-like batting arm of Yousuf Pathan.
As I was leaving work today, my wife made sure to call me up and let me know just what I was missing. The Royals were 211 for 4 at the end of their innings, a result standing in stark contrast with the 58 with all out from the first match of the season. From the bit I caught at the end of the match, after getting home, it really seemed as if Priety Zinta's Kings XI had lost their shine, again in stark contrast with their last ball win over the Mumbai Indians barely a week ago.
As it was last year, this IPL is wildly unpredictable, and that makes for great entertainment.
That said, something I've noticed while watching the IPL matches this year has really stuck with me. It's something beyond the matches and the teams. Due to security concerns in India during the month long election, it was decided that the IPL, the Indian Premiere League, could not actually operate in India this year. Imagine that same scenario played out in a different sport. Say the NHL's Canadian teams were shipped off to Slovakia for a season. How would that fare with the home audience?
I'm betting not well.
Yet somehow, being shipped off to South Africa has not seemed to have hurt the league at all. The matches are still packing in the stadiums, and the broadcasters are raking in the ad revenues. Ratings are massive. Fully half the teams in the league have earned back their initial investment from only two years ago, and the rest will be in the black by the end of the season. In the annals of professional sports leagues, the IPL has been a spectacular success, a success that I think may provide a model for other sports.
You see, fans of cricket won't admit this, but even though the game is fanatically followed by far, far more people than are fans of the NFL, NHL, or MLB, cricket has long been a sport for poor men, played for honor and little else besides. Sure you made a decent wage on a national club, and earned a little better than a teacher would if you made it on a county cricket squad in England, but other than that, money itself seemed allergic to the game. All the money in international cricket combined probably wouldn't have covered the salaries of Manchester United.
Then along comes 20/20, and suddenly cricket is not just a growth sport, but an incredibly lucrative one at that. The trend was already there with the "renegade" Indian Cricket League (Renegade because they didn't pay due respect to the Wallahs in charge of the BCCI - Board for Control of Cricket in India - terrible name, isn't it?), but it really solidified with the first IPL last year, and continued this year as guys like Kevin Pietersen were offered salaries that stars of many US network dramas would blink at.
That said, it's not the money itself which makes the IPL stand out for me. The NFL, NBA, and English Premiere League all feature grossly inflated salaries and wildly overcompensated athletes. But the way the IPL is leveraging its financial success to build bridges with new markets is something that really stands out.
At first there was a question as to whether South Africans would support the IPL at all. Would people even come to the matches? At first attendance did not shatter records. The first week of the new season saw half empty stadiums. So what did the IPL Wallahs do? They stepped up the incentives.
At each match, an announcer finds a few very beautiful, young women, and enters them into a "Miss Bollywood" contest, where they have the chance to end up in a Bollywood film. These announcers also dig up people to award 50,000 ZAR (Rand) scholarships to, and each game one or two schools is featured, where students and faculty appear in full uniforms, all neatly groomed and ready to receive 100,000 ZAR cheques for their schools. Suddenly the matches were not just matches, but lotteries, contests, and community building charity events.
The first time I saw one of these giveaways, I didn't think much of it. 50,000? 100,000? How much is the rand worth? Isn't it like rupees these days? What's 100,000 rand in American? 10 bucks?
I laughed at first, but after watching giveaway after giveaway, I got curious. I wondered just how much 100,000 rand was worth in South Africa. So I looked into it a bit.
Google Finance has the ZAR being pegged at 8.43 per US dollar. And according to The Economist's Big Mac Index, which is not at all a scientific gauge of purchasing power parity, but does serve to crudely illustrate the issue, it costs about $1.66 USD for a Big Mac in South Africa, versus $3.54 USD in the US. This means that stuff in South Africa costs a little less than half what it would in the US. So that 100,000 ZAR? The purchasing power is equivalent to $200,000 USD, or about a quarter of a million in my own home and native land.
A quarter of a million ain't nothing to sneeze at. In fact, where I am from, most school administrators would trample each other in steel tipped stilettos to grasp a cheque like that. A quarter of a million funds an entire suite of after-school programs, fills a library with newspapers and magazines, and has enough left over to equip a full computer lab with new computers, software, and even a projector or two thrown in for good measure. A quarter of a million means a world of opportunity for a whole lot of children, and in a country like South Africa, it means a lot more opportunity than it would in Barrie, Ontario.
Those IPL Wallahs are clever. These charity giveaways, funded by money that probably came through TV revenues anyways, or new sponsorship deals, not only buys a whole lot of goodwill, but it establishes the league brand in the next generation of fans, in an entirely new market.
From a marketing standpoint, it's a stroke of genius. 100,000 ZAR? It wouldn't be enough to buy a Ford Fiesta with. It might pay for a little over 1 second of air time during an episode of Heroes, but barely over 1/10th of one second of air time during the Super Bowl. In terms of ad rates, 100,000 ZAR is laughable. But the impact on the IPL's image, reputation, and their target market is not.
I hope the IPL does not go back to India next year. I hope it goes to Bangladesh, or Sri Lanka. Perhaps Australia and New Zealand, or even England. If the IPL makes a circuit of cricket loving countries, and keeps on working the same marketing magic, the league could very well make it into the top tier of professional sports leagues.
As a newly converted fan of cricket, that's something I'd like to see.
That and the Howitzer-like batting arm of Yousuf Pathan.
As I was leaving work today, my wife made sure to call me up and let me know just what I was missing. The Royals were 211 for 4 at the end of their innings, a result standing in stark contrast with the 58 with all out from the first match of the season. From the bit I caught at the end of the match, after getting home, it really seemed as if Priety Zinta's Kings XI had lost their shine, again in stark contrast with their last ball win over the Mumbai Indians barely a week ago.
As it was last year, this IPL is wildly unpredictable, and that makes for great entertainment.
That said, something I've noticed while watching the IPL matches this year has really stuck with me. It's something beyond the matches and the teams. Due to security concerns in India during the month long election, it was decided that the IPL, the Indian Premiere League, could not actually operate in India this year. Imagine that same scenario played out in a different sport. Say the NHL's Canadian teams were shipped off to Slovakia for a season. How would that fare with the home audience?
I'm betting not well.
Yet somehow, being shipped off to South Africa has not seemed to have hurt the league at all. The matches are still packing in the stadiums, and the broadcasters are raking in the ad revenues. Ratings are massive. Fully half the teams in the league have earned back their initial investment from only two years ago, and the rest will be in the black by the end of the season. In the annals of professional sports leagues, the IPL has been a spectacular success, a success that I think may provide a model for other sports.
You see, fans of cricket won't admit this, but even though the game is fanatically followed by far, far more people than are fans of the NFL, NHL, or MLB, cricket has long been a sport for poor men, played for honor and little else besides. Sure you made a decent wage on a national club, and earned a little better than a teacher would if you made it on a county cricket squad in England, but other than that, money itself seemed allergic to the game. All the money in international cricket combined probably wouldn't have covered the salaries of Manchester United.
Then along comes 20/20, and suddenly cricket is not just a growth sport, but an incredibly lucrative one at that. The trend was already there with the "renegade" Indian Cricket League (Renegade because they didn't pay due respect to the Wallahs in charge of the BCCI - Board for Control of Cricket in India - terrible name, isn't it?), but it really solidified with the first IPL last year, and continued this year as guys like Kevin Pietersen were offered salaries that stars of many US network dramas would blink at.
That said, it's not the money itself which makes the IPL stand out for me. The NFL, NBA, and English Premiere League all feature grossly inflated salaries and wildly overcompensated athletes. But the way the IPL is leveraging its financial success to build bridges with new markets is something that really stands out.
At first there was a question as to whether South Africans would support the IPL at all. Would people even come to the matches? At first attendance did not shatter records. The first week of the new season saw half empty stadiums. So what did the IPL Wallahs do? They stepped up the incentives.
At each match, an announcer finds a few very beautiful, young women, and enters them into a "Miss Bollywood" contest, where they have the chance to end up in a Bollywood film. These announcers also dig up people to award 50,000 ZAR (Rand) scholarships to, and each game one or two schools is featured, where students and faculty appear in full uniforms, all neatly groomed and ready to receive 100,000 ZAR cheques for their schools. Suddenly the matches were not just matches, but lotteries, contests, and community building charity events.
The first time I saw one of these giveaways, I didn't think much of it. 50,000? 100,000? How much is the rand worth? Isn't it like rupees these days? What's 100,000 rand in American? 10 bucks?
I laughed at first, but after watching giveaway after giveaway, I got curious. I wondered just how much 100,000 rand was worth in South Africa. So I looked into it a bit.
Google Finance has the ZAR being pegged at 8.43 per US dollar. And according to The Economist's Big Mac Index, which is not at all a scientific gauge of purchasing power parity, but does serve to crudely illustrate the issue, it costs about $1.66 USD for a Big Mac in South Africa, versus $3.54 USD in the US. This means that stuff in South Africa costs a little less than half what it would in the US. So that 100,000 ZAR? The purchasing power is equivalent to $200,000 USD, or about a quarter of a million in my own home and native land.
A quarter of a million ain't nothing to sneeze at. In fact, where I am from, most school administrators would trample each other in steel tipped stilettos to grasp a cheque like that. A quarter of a million funds an entire suite of after-school programs, fills a library with newspapers and magazines, and has enough left over to equip a full computer lab with new computers, software, and even a projector or two thrown in for good measure. A quarter of a million means a world of opportunity for a whole lot of children, and in a country like South Africa, it means a lot more opportunity than it would in Barrie, Ontario.
Those IPL Wallahs are clever. These charity giveaways, funded by money that probably came through TV revenues anyways, or new sponsorship deals, not only buys a whole lot of goodwill, but it establishes the league brand in the next generation of fans, in an entirely new market.
From a marketing standpoint, it's a stroke of genius. 100,000 ZAR? It wouldn't be enough to buy a Ford Fiesta with. It might pay for a little over 1 second of air time during an episode of Heroes, but barely over 1/10th of one second of air time during the Super Bowl. In terms of ad rates, 100,000 ZAR is laughable. But the impact on the IPL's image, reputation, and their target market is not.
I hope the IPL does not go back to India next year. I hope it goes to Bangladesh, or Sri Lanka. Perhaps Australia and New Zealand, or even England. If the IPL makes a circuit of cricket loving countries, and keeps on working the same marketing magic, the league could very well make it into the top tier of professional sports leagues.
As a newly converted fan of cricket, that's something I'd like to see.
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