Joël's Journal

Mehmet U WHAT?

2007-07-22T13:30:25Z

Today the Turks are voting, so I have a holiday. I may be a foreigner and ignorant of the complexities of Turkey's volatile political scene, yet I have still determined without a doubt who should win: Mehmet Ufuk Uras.

That's right. Ufuk Uras. Maybe no one else will find this funny, but I do. Don't believe it's real? Click on the banner to visit www.ufukuras.net!

That aside, I have a new job starting in September, after I come back from my brother's wedding in Canada. It's a good job, I think, at a private elementary and high school. It'll pay more than my current job, marginally, but will allow me much more free time to do private lessons.

Now Matt and I are going to spend the rest of the day filming episode 2 of our ridiculous youtube-based Turkish cultural magazine.

Snowboarding and Eating my Face Off

2007-04-24T17:12:36Z

The last time I wrote an entry for this journal, I was on the bus coming back from my border run to Bulgaria. That trip marked three months on my Turkish visa. This week I bought airline tickets to Malta, where I will spend my second border run with Keelty and Australian Jim (known to my students as Hamburger Jim, because in my improvised sentences illustrating various points of grammar, "my friend, Jim" is invariably stealing my hamburger, eating too many hamburgers, or wishing he had a hamburger. Come to think of it, I've never actually observed any behaviour on Jim's part, nor any tendency in his diet, to merit these examples. If you're reading this Jim, I'm sorry!). This reminder of time's swift progress prompted me to take up the laptop and write again.

Since Bulgaria, I have been busy teaching full time, but I have also been making the most of my scant few days off by doing reckless and adventurous things like going to Turkish baths, asking local hairdressers to "make me look Turkish", buying potted orange trees, and taking road trips with Turkish women.

Early one morning, Jim, Matt, Matt's girlfriend Melek, her sister Sibel, and I all packed ourselves into Sibel's little car and began a harrowing excursion to Uludağ, a ski resort south of Istanbul. If we arrived safely at the right mountain and if all else went according to plan, we were to enjoy two luxurious but economical days of snowboarding. It was a dubious proposition from the start. Only Matt and I had ever snowboarded before. Melek, who made the reservations, had done so with an ingratiating and annoyingly chatty travel agent, who I think had been recommended to her by a slighted former lover looking for revenge. Sibel, who was driving, had heard of the mountain we were going to and was almost sure it was somewhere to the left. She was also controlling the stereo and delighted in exposing her passengers to her collection of Turkish-American trance-hop while driving on the wrong side of a major divided highway. Sibel hadn't driven in snow and ice before, and when we got to the foot of the mountain she turned up the volume so we couldn't hear her whimper. The rest of us indulged her musical tastes because we were too terrified to argue. Some enterprising Turks stopped us and put chains on the car's tires, for the cost of a day's snowboarding, and Matt hit one of them in the head with a snowball. Eventually, the music and the chains paid off. We arrived not much worse for wear, and discovered that we had been lied to about the price and the nature of our holiday package: it turned out that we were to have only one luxurious but altogether non-economical day of snowboarding, and another day of acrimonious bickering.

The first day -- the one reserved for caustic exchanges with hotel staff and tour company representatives -- was very foggy and most of the lifts were closed, so even when we weren't haggling, we didn't get much snowboarding in. It was still fun because Jim had never seen snow before coming to Turkey, and had certainly never attempted to slide on top of it with his feet strapped onto a slippery piece of waxed wood while being towed up a hill by a devilish, unpredictably retracting cable. His attempts to master the Tee-bar were quite entertaining for everyone except the short tempered Turkish lifty, but they had the effect of convincing Melek and Sibel to go to a Turkish bathhouse and stay as far from their newly rented snowboards as possible for the duration of the trip. Nevertheless, Jim did manage to hold on all the way up at least once, and we got a run or two in before calling it a day. Staggering into the restaurant, we discovered that we were entitled to draw from a sumptuous, all-you-could-eat buffet dinner, and we determined that we would exact repayment for all our troubles, and for Jim's bruises, in herb and butter roasted lamb shanks, stuffed peppers, and cheesecake. I suspect we got our money's worth on the whole holiday package in that one dinner alone, and Jim and I spent an hour or so groaning and helpless on a couch in the lounge, while the girls antagonized us by eating popcorn and drinking free cocktails, and Matt convalesced in his bedroom.

The second day was entirely beautiful. From edge to edge, the sky was of that endless, atmospheric blue that you only see when you're up at the top world, where the earth reaches up imperiously to pierce through outer space but instead just gets its fingers all cold. The snow was of that blistering white that you can only see when you're down at the bottom of the sky, where the universe piles up all the crushing weight of its infinite blue emptiness, but still cannot dent the brilliant, sheer ridge of soft powder that holds it back. At the peak of that ridge, Jim and I looked down the cliff beyond and saw the place where mountains make clouds; they swirled madly below us in a maelstrom that regularly let fly stray bits of rapidly dissipating vapor into the blue sky. The sun was bright, the snow was fresh, and the air was clear; the snowboarding seemed to me the best I'd ever experienced, and I enjoyed it in blissful ignorance. If I had had the benefit of hindsight, I might never have left my hotel room.

Where mountains make clouds.

Holding up the universe.

Jim finally makes it up.

Indeed, despite such glorious moments as an unintentional rail slide and an ill-conceived back flip from an unexpectedly high jump, I was tempted to regret the whole day in the following week. I had not thought of sunscreen, and my hat did nothing to keep the sun off my face, especially the most intense sunlight reflected by the snow from below. I ended up with the worst sunburn ever. My entire face swelled up like a brilliant red inflatable pool toy. At the height of the swelling, before I went to the doctor, I could hardly open my eyes. I couldn't produce any facial expressions besides a pathetic pout, my cheeks leaked an amber goo that crystallized into a yellow crust if I didn't dab it off constantly, and it hurt to live. I was worried about permanent scarring and had begun to look with wistful remorse at old photos of me "before I lost my face."

The Burn Project: Day 1

Burn Project: Day 2

Fortunately, the antihistamines worked and I got better within a week. Other adventures followed, and I will write about them soon, inşallah!

Bulgarian Border Run

2007-02-08T07:24:20Z

I am on a sleek new Metro Tours bus, riding home to Istanbul after a restful four-day exile in Plovdiv, Bulgaria. Plovdiv was known to the ancient Romans as Philipopolis and to readers of the New Testament as Philipi. It was an important outpost of Byzantine power after the fall of the Western Roman Empire, and was later a centre of Bulgarian culture before being subjugated by Ottoman Turks in the 1800's. Now, after half a century of Soviet rule, the town is still remarkably well preserved. Resolutely perched on the cliffs of a steep, rocky hill that rises abruptly from the Thracian countryside, the Old Town consists of fanciful timber and plaster abodes jutting their upper storeys out over the treacherous cobblestone lanes. Some of the brilliantly painted and gilded manors rise gracefully from the remains of the Byzantine city walls; others seem to have sprouted naturally from the fluid-looking rock formations of the hillside; still others peer down from the walls of a beautifully preserved and seasonally functional Greek amphitheatre. When not ambling the rolling streets of Plovdiv, Jim and I improved our visa-renewal holiday by exploring orthodox churches and monasteries and indulging our three-months-deferred craving for pig-meat, a virtually unprocurable commodity in Islamic Istanbul.
Despite the aesthetic and culinary delights of Bulgaria, Jim and I are both happy to be heading homewards. It is strange to think of any place so far from my own country and family as ‘home’, yet I find myself missing the familiar sights and sounds of Istanbul and the Turkish spirit of congeniality and frank openness with a keenness usually reserved for ‘home.’ Now, the Bulgarian countryside sweeps by the window and into my memories: rolling green fields and neatly furrowed cabbage patches; grazing donkeys and plodding horses drawing wooden carts; decrepit Soviet-era trucks and rusting little Ladas; occasional bleak industrial wastelands and soulless concrete apartment blocks of Communist factory towns whose tenants now cling to life more from habit than from purpose. I cannot help but feel whistful when turning my back on a country I have enjoyed so briefly and superficially, that surely has so much more to offer. But I am also content, knowing that as good and as intriguing as this place is, I have found better, and I am going back there now.
My laptop battery is running low, and Jim, reading in the seat behind me, serves to remind me of Hunchback of Notre Dame, lying unfinished in my bag. The acrid smell of cigarette smoke wafting back from the driver’s newly lit cigarette reminds me that there are some things about Istanbul I don’t miss, but only a border crossing and a few hours of reading stand between me and home, and I am happy.

Photos...
A Soviet statue ala Rio de Janeiro
Randy Ronald McDonald checking out a risque Vodka billboard
Walking through an ancient gate
An old house
Jim and Joel in the mountains
A house perched on a wall
View of the old town hill from a churchyard below
Inside an old orthodox church
Monastery courtyard
A street in Old Plovdiv
Door to a courtyard in Old Plovdiv

Photos from Turkey

2007-01-26T14:34:59Z

Life has been moving along at quite a clip for the last couple months. I have taught every single day since the start of December, and have regularly been putting in over 40 hours of work a week, not counting prep time and marking. I have worked every day, that is, except for a delightful two-day holiday at Christmas, spent making eggnog and singing Christmas carols with other stranded foreigners in the teachers' residence, and a four-day break for Kurban Bayram, which fell on New Years and was spent traveling to some of Turkey's most impressive historical and natural wonders. Despite the busy work schedule, I managed to play an occasional game of chess, take up Turkish-influenced cooking, argue endlessly about the finer points of logic, morality, and bowel movements with friends, and spend far too much time scouring ancient Pera, Istanbul, looking for a place to live. In the end, Keelty and I settled into a beautiful studio apartment. It has two private rooftop terraces with a view up the Bosphorus to the Marmara Sea beyond, framed by the elegant towers of Topkapi Palace, from which the Ottoman sultans ruled, and the glittering roofs of the Hagia Sophia and Sultan Ahmet's famed Green Mosque. It is a mighty view, and it makes Bartholomew Cubbins feel mighty small.

The view from our terrace

The view from our kitchen.

Our kitchen

Jim, Joel and Chris at the Apartment Warming Party

Joel and Matt: Domestic Bliss

There's plenty to see in Istanbul, but the most impressive thing by far is the Hagia Sophia. I can't do it justice with a description, certainly not in the 15 minutes I have till class starts, and none of my photos turned out of the golden Byzantine mosaics and the Islamic plasterwork that half conceals them. Here then, a discarded column from the original church juxtaposed against one of Sultan Mehmet the Conqueror's later minarets serves to illustrate the beauty and the paradox embodied by the Hagia Sophia, holy to two religions and revered around the world for its architecture.

Cross and Minaret at Hagia Sophia

Lights on the Golden Horn

Kurban Bayram, or the Festival of the Sacrifice, is an Islamic holiday that purports to commemorate when God stayed Abraham's hand from slaying his only son Ismael, who went on to be the father of the Arabic people. Where the Jews come from is anyone's guess. None of the Turks I have talked to are aware of a competing version of the story. At any rate, for the occasion, Turks take a rare break from their endless work to kill a lot of sheep and cows and eat them and kiss each others' hands and foreheads. This was just the excuse that Jennifer from America, Jim from Australia, and I needed to explore some of the sights of Turkey beyond the bright lights of Istanbul.

The Ruins of Ephesus
First we went to Ephesus, the best-preserved ancient Roman city, and once the largest city in the Empire outside Rome itself. Ephesus, known to the Turks as Efes, was Ostensibly founded by the Amazons, but those sexy, barely dressed warrior princesses evidently left it to a lot of hungry cats and two friendly but stupid dogs, who have let the place go a little. Still, it was nice. The outdoor toilets were particularly congenial.

Crunching one out in tandem.

Well preserved Greco-Roman villas in Ephesus

The Library at Ephesus
In the amphitheatre where Paul and his companions faced an angry crowd of Artemis-worshiping Ephesians, we raised a can of Turkey's most popular beer, the aptly named Efes.

Drinking Efes in Efes

In nearby Selçuk, Jim and I broke into several historical sights, including an old Selçuk Castle; the Temple of Artemis, one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World, whose many marble columns were ransacked to build several other major edifices, including...; the Basilica of St. John, were John the Apostle is said to be buried; and Isabey Mosque. All of these were largely destroyed by an earthquake in the 15th century, but the remains are quite impressive and speak of both the architectural beauty of the structures themselves, and the sheer volume of marble that must have once glorified the Goddess of Fertility in the valley below.

Old Selçuk Turk castle

Partially ruined Isabey Camii (Mr. Jesus Mosque) with the more ruined St. Jean's Basilica on the hill behind

The last pillar standing at the Temple of Artemis. Appropriately, birds nest upon what's left of Diana's house

The next day we went to Pamukkale, were springs pour hot, calcium- and lime-laden water down the a mountainside upon which the water has formed natural calcium pools.

Joel at Pamukkale

Above the springs is the ancient Ionian Greek city of Heriopolis, which under the Romans served as an imperial resort city to which emperors came for the soothing waters of the Pamukkale. The ruined city is also home to the numberless tombs and sarcophagi of a large necropolis. Above the city and the necropolis lie the remains of Phillip the disciple, whose Basilica was once a church of the cross to which monks and crusaders pilgrimaged.

Joel at Heriopolis Theatre

Streets of Heriopolis

Joel and Jim in Heriopolis at sunset

Joel atop a piece of St. Philip's final resting place

Joel and Jim in the gates of Heriopolis

Istanbul: Ölümüne kankayız!

2006-11-29T00:42:50Z

Last night, I dreamt I was in Constantinople. From the slender spires surrounding me, the soulful strains of Allah's praise spilled out across the city. They bounced off the marble edifices of pashas' palaces, reverberated down labyrinthine lanes bustling with the most robust rug and spice markets in the world, rolled over the cool gardens of the Sultan, and drifted out above the port on the wings of endlessly wheeling gulls. Upon waking, I realised with a sudden thrill that I really was surrounded by opulent Ottoman palaces, elegant minarets, and ancient bazaars; I realised that I was living in Istanbul and that it was my day off.

I left my room and found Jim, my new Favourite Australian, backpack strapped on and ready to explore. With a little prodding, Keelty dragged himself out of bed too, and we all set out in search of adventure and donairs. Along the way, we debated this and that, and, as usual, solved most of the world's problems. After Turkish class and dinner, we challenged some locals to a game at one of the many popular backgammon houses.

Now, I'm back in my room, it's almost one in the morning, and no doubt some people are sleeping soundly. We call those people clinically deaf. Over the caterwauling cats and the equally piercing arabesque music from the restaurant next door (one of ten within a twenty-pace radius of the teacher's residence), a lone man is shouting "Ahmet!" into the night at regular intervals. He's on about his fourth set of 30 reps, and he doesn't seem to be letting up anytime soon, so I might was well keep writing for a while.

I had just been sighing contentedly over my good fortune to be in Istanbul, blithely assuming that everyone else was aware of how significant and cool it is to be in Istanbul, when an unnamed friend brought me back to reality with this shocking MSN conversation:
Friend: So, don't they run bulls down the streets of Istanbul, or what?
Joel: No, they play backgammon.
Friend: Oh. But don't they do something like that? I know Istanbul is famous for something...
Joel: (aghast) Famous for something? Do you mean like famous for being the largest city in Europe?
Joel: (aghast and indignant) Or famous for having been the capital of three of history's great civilizations -- Roman, Byzantine, and Ottoman?
Joel: (aghast, indignant, and clearly getting carried away) Or famous for being the home of the Hagia Sophia, one of the most celebrated pieces of ancient architecture in the world and considered by many to be the eighth wonder of the ancient world?
Friend: Oh, it's the largest, eh? Yeah, that must be it.
Joel: (sputtering helplessly)
Friend: Soo..... Have you visited this Home of Hagia Sophia then?

Viewed from a certain perspective, my life must seem pretty meaningless.

Bidet me this, Istanbul!

2006-11-13T16:43:41Z

Today is my first day off since I started working, and I'm relaxing in my big new room at the teachers' residence. It's on the third floor (which is really the fourth floor since Europeans can't count) and far enough above the street that I'm no longer woken up by the mournful song of every passing street sweeper. The high ceiling of my room was undoubtedly once adorned by a glittering Ottoman painting, but it's since been whitewashed and all that remains are the ornate flowers of the plaster fresco. In other respects, too, the teachers' residence is quite satisfactory. The bathrooms and long winding stairs are all marble, and the floors are a pale hardwood.
It's not perfect though. The old windows, even the few that aren't cracked, admit more sound and cold than light. Only one out of every two fridges is functional, and I'm pretty sure the washing machine predates the Ottoman if not the Byzantine Empire. I don't doubt, either, that it has been stoutly denying clean laundry to all comers throughout its proud history: once you put your clothing in, you can't get the door open again without entreating it, coaxing it, and offering it hefty bribes of unmarked small bills.
The toilets have little nozzles that Keelty calls bidets with which you are supposed to clean yourself, since toilet paper must not be flushed into the ancient sewer system. I had my reservations about the physics of this idea, and perhaps you, gentle reader, will share them when I explain. The nozzle itself is set about two inches below the rim of the toilet, at the back. When turned on (by a knob on the wall), a jet of water shoots out horizontally across the toilet bowl. If the seat is unoccupied when the bidet is turned on, the water hits the front of the toilet bowl, logically a couple of inches below the rim. When the toilet is occupied -- as it was when I was sitting on it moments ago -- the unclean orifice of the occupee is supposed to interrupt the flow of this jet before it reaches the front of the bowl, thus becoming clean (always assuming that the nozzle itself is reasonably uncontaminated by the bacterial cultures and virii sometimes known to inhabit the bowls of toilets). It is, however, generally acknowledged by most medical experts that the human dietary tract terminates some distance from the extreme edge of the buttocks; that is, that our anal orifices are tucked away inside a crack of some depth. I ask you, gentle reader, to imagine how a jet of water spraying two inches below a toilet seat can clean an orifice set within a crack some distance above said seat. It cannot, as I recently discovered. Imagine then, if you will, what happens instead when the jet of cold water continues on, uninterrupted by a bum. For a man, the result is quite shocking. I shut off the bidet and leapt from the seat in a single motion, but I was determined to master this contraption, so I ventured to try again. Taking matters in hand, as it were, and pulling myself up by my bootstraps, if you will, I wedged the rest of me as far into the toilet as I could. Gingerly reaching for the knob, I cranked the bidet to full blast. Instantly, I was soaked by water splashing off the front of the toilet bowl and all over my butt and thighs. Water sprayed out under the toilet seat and onto the floor beyond, not to mention all over the hand I had been using to keep my other parts from interfering. Having pulled my pants down to my ankles, I was somewhat more fortunate than Keelty, who failed to heed my advice, and the next day came out of the bathroom with the back of his trousers soaked from belt line to calf. So I'm back to toilet paper, and if the Byzantine pipes can't handle it, I'll just have to invest in a chamber pot and turn mediaeval. It'll give the street sweepers something truly miserable to sing about.

Merhaba from Istanbul!

2006-11-08T01:53:49Z

It has only been a week and two days since I left Canada. I always marvel at how many more days seem to cram their way into a week when one is in a new place and doing new things. I'm now in Istanbul and have been since early Saturday morning, but before I even arrived here, I had had a week overfull with visiting and adventuring, so naturally I have stories and photos to share.

TORONTO, October 28
On the previous Saturday morning, I flew out of Kamloops to Toronto and spent dinner at the airport with my friend Jon, who works there and was on his lunch break. He kindly gave me a parting gift of some airplane reading (thanks Jon!), which I made good use of while on the red eye flight to London Heathrow.

LONDON, October 29 - November 1
After a day exploring the Kensington and Chelsea area of London, I was joined by my friend Keelty. For two days we strolled through Kensington Park, smoked our pipes, took tea at Lady Di's old digs (the Lady was inexplicably detained), and drank draught and ate (pronounced "et") fish and chips at several English pubs. We rode a double decker bus once. We got lost in the underground as often as we could, and there tickled the racist underbelly of London. We almost bought an original 1600 year old map of Roman Londinium in order to ask directions to the nearest tube station, but the price was too dear, so we watched Les Miserables and visited a couple of free museums instead.

COLOGNE, November 1 - November 3
From London we flew to Köln, Germany, where we were met by two dear friends, Thomas and Myron. I can't express how good it was to see them; even if there weren't a pretty city to explore and a genuine medieval castle to occupy (vassal lords not included, unfortunately), it would have been worth the trip to see those two! Nevertheless, while staying at Myron's house for three days, we ventured about the town, climbed to the top of the famous Dom Cathedral, and learned several important cultural lessons. For instance, in Germany, despite appearances, dogs do not make regular use of the trams, but nuisance koalas do - with dangerous consequences. Also, Germans think nothing of drinking beer while browsing through bookstores or riding the public transit, a fact which no doubt contributes to the koala problems. Finally, although she looks like a nice enough lady, Kein Trinkwasser and her ill-placed peas are responsible for the disappearance of all the helpful gnomes who used to frolic by night around the public fountains. (I know what you're thinking, because I thought it too: "Curse you, Frau Trinkwasser!" It's fine to think that, but don't say it out loud. Unless your German is better than mine, it will come out, "Curse you little bit of naked music!" and you'll be laughed at for days.)
I also got to see another old friend, Karin, whom I hadn't seen in three years, and made some new friends - German and Canadian - all of whom Keelty and I were sad to leave.

EASTERN EUROPE, November 3 - November 4
Our journey to Istanbul was on another midnight flight. It was a beautiful night, and while the rest of the world slept, I watched the capitals and villages of old Europe glittering below me. I tried to figure out which clusters of human habitation belonged to which city by taking bearings from the stars, and while my astronomother has taught me well in that regard, my Eastern European geography is sadly deficient, and in the end I fell asleep.

ISTANBUL, November 4 - November 7
We arrived in the cold and snow, and spent the first two shivering nights in a big old Ottoman apartment with the head teacher of our school. We explored her neighbourhood -- a "fairly old" one, with buildings dating back to 1473 -- but were anxious to get to Taksim where we would be living and working. On Monday, we began observing other teachers at the school, and tomorrow (ok, today, it's past midnight here), we will begin teaching. The school is right on Istiklal, the bustling mainstreet of the historic Beyuğlo district. Despite the occasional mosque and the noisy street vendors, this neighbourhood of some several million souls is as western and European as seductive billboards, trendy cafés, fashionable crowds, and impeccable Romanesque and Art Nouveau acheticture can be. As for the rest of the city -- well, we haven't yet made it to the really old part of town, where Greek and Roman and Byzantine meet Ottoman and Arabic and Turkish, but we plan on going soon. Pictures and stories, of course, will follow. In the meantime, we're taking Turkish language lessons, drinking Turkish tea and coffee, eating Turkish delight (it really *is* enchanted!), and smoking Turkish Pipes in moderation. As in, once. Because apparently they're even worse for you than cigarettes!

It's been a lot of fun so far. Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoyed the pictures. (You did click on the links, right?)

Here's a photo of the whole gang in front of Istanbul's beautiful Dolmabahçe Palace: Princess Diana, Wilhelm III, Thomas, Coğıl, Jean Val Jean, Keelty, Myron, Atatürk, and Amenhotep III.

I have sat in airports guarded glass and chrome.

2006-10-27T19:48:02Z

Tomorrow, I leave for Turkey, with stops in London and Köln.
Why Turkey? Why indeed. Perhaps pictures, with their vaunted verbosity, will do a better job explaining than I will.

Turkey has houses and churches that look like anthills.

Turkey has hot springs that are like nowhere else in the world.

See?

It has Turkish delight.

It's national sport is frighteningly similar to last year's runner up for best film. I'm sure Brokeback Wrestling would replace Lacrosse as Canada's Other National Sport if we only knew what we were missing out on. Or not.

That really was oil wrestling, not softcore gay porn. It's been around for a while. Two men strip to the waist, grease themselves up with oil, then try to pull each other off their feet. The only place to get a solid grip (they claim) is the inside material their opponents' pants. Invasive, but effective.

Istanbul is pretty.

It has castles.

And towers.

And important dead people who wear regal clothes. When they're not covered in grease and grasping one another's loincloths.

Some of those are pretty weak reasons to travel to a place, and I have to admit, they mostly have nothing to do with why I'm going there. But you have to admit, those Turkish delights do look good.

Accident prone and heading for the Middle East

2006-09-26T03:42:35Z

I almost stapled myself in the medulla oblongata today. Last week, I stood on a roll of plastic and slid off a roof into a pile of shingles. The week before that, I shot a three-and-a-half-inch nail lengthwise through my thumb and into the palm of my hand. A couple weeks before that, I tried to swat a blackfly while using a pair of electric hedge trimmers and nearly cut my left index finger off. Six hours and four stitches later, I emerged from the hospital with my finger bound in thick bandages, which I was admonished to keep dry. I was given latex gloves to wear in the shower, but was advised that a condom would work better since the gloves would admit water at the wrist. Rather than going to Shoppers Drug Mart and asking for a single small condom ("No, you don't understand! It's for my finger!" "Ewwwww!"), I wore the glove and held my hand above my head, doing a sort of Pentecostal shower dance.

Why all the failed attempts on my own life? Why the near catastrophes? Because I am currently working in construction with my contractor uncle in Parry Sound while I finish off my Masters Degree. And because, as I often say, there is nothing more awkward than a historian with power tools.

Perhaps, given my propensity for disaster, it's a bad idea to be moving to the middle east next month. But that's what I am doing.

Well, Istanbul at least, which is pretty much the gateway to the Middle East. I'm going with my good buddy Keelty to teach English as a Foreign Language at a reputable private school. The plan is to fly to from Toronto to Kamloops on Saturday, October 21, visit everybody for a week, then fly from Kamloops to London on Saturday, October 28. The next day, Keelty will arrive in London, and because he's as much of a poseur as I am, together we'll stroll through Kensington Gardens in the cool dampness of an English autumn bundled in tweed, our pipes clenched in our teeth, our walking sticks by our sides, and our academic pretensions on our sleeves. After taking in the sights of London, we'll fly to Cologne, Germany to visit our friends Myron and Thomas. Then on November 3, we'll fly to Istanbul, arriving at two in the morning on the fourth. When we wake up the next morning, we'll down two Turkish coffees at a low table in the market and then hunt down a rug and a hookah and begin our Byzantine adventures.

Now, Turkey is usually a fairly safe place, but then so is sleepy little Parry Sound and it's almost done me in several times. Will I survive Turkey? Will Turkey survive me? Will the combination of Muslim rage, the papal visit, and my accident prone self precipitate disaster the way that a black fly and a hedge trimmer can?

Stay tuned after Canadian Thanksgiving, when this LiveJournal will start serving up ten months of Turkey with Joel and Keelty, in a series (tentatively) entitled: "What is Past, or Passing, or To Come."

To effuse.

2006-07-21T23:06:56Z

I suppose this is more a question of vocabulary than of grammar, but since I'm not a member of any Thesau'R'us community (hey, not a bad name though!), I'll ask it here.

I have just written:
“If you only knew how you can mould me!” he effused. “I want you to make me good.”

Can anyone think of a better word than 'effuse'? I want something that communicates "to declare, in a fulsome manner, to gush." I think effuse captures that, but I'm not sure that it can be used without a preposition: I've heard of people effusing about something, or being effusive, but I've never heard of someone effusing, "Let's go to the park." Know wha' I mean? Gush is probably the closest thing I can think of, but this is an academic paper, so that won't do.

Any thoughts?

(I meant to post this in grammarpolice. I was wondering why everyone who answered was a friend!)

Zizou! Pourquoi!?

2006-07-11T03:52:25Z

So France lost the World Cup. That news is a day old, I know, but yesterday I didn't have an essay draft due the next day, so there was no reason to procrastinate by updating my live journal. Anyway, after the match, when the Italian fans took to the streets in their cavalcades of red, white, and green streamered cars all honking and hollering, I was right out on the sidewalk beside them, shouting "VIVE LA FRANCE!" whenever I could do so without risking a beating. I almost started singing La Marseillaise like in Casa Blanca, but I thought it would be inappropriate since we actually lost. I think the only reasons I like the World Cup (since the game itself is slow, slightly dull, and full of wussy dives), is that it gives everyone an excuse to engage in some quaint and harmless nationalism. Aw, nationalism. How cute. Of course, it's all fun and games until someone starts ethnic cleansing, but for the most part, I think sports is a safe venue for national pride.

By the way, in the last day and a bit, I have dreamt several times that we were having an earthquake, and when I'm awake, I keep imagining I can feel the earth tremour. Am I lightheaded from lack of sleep? Obviously. All the same, if there is an earthquake around Kingston in the next few days, I get to say I called it!

Open letter

2006-06-20T23:51:55Z

Hello Citizens of Caledonia Webmaster,

I have heard that on Victoria Day, citizens of Caledonia threw bread and cheese at the Six Nations protesters, in reference to the Six Nations' custom of distributing bread and cheese in their May 24th celebrations. I certainly hope I'm misinformed. That day is used to commemorate the military service of Six Nations people in defense of the crown during the War of 1812-1814, and during the American Revolution. For that service, they were granted the land they occupy (and a good deal more), in much the same way as the white Loyalists in the rest of Ontario were granted the land they occupy as a reward for their loyalty (except that the whites were subjects of the crown, whereas the Six Nations were independent allies).

If the rumours of this "bread and cheese fight" are true, then as your website predicts, the day may well live long in the history books as one of the grossest infamy conceivable, where white residents of Caledonia twisted the most enduring symbol of friendship and common cause between the Six Nations and white Canadians into an offensive and bitter memory for all. In anger I once tore up a card he my kid brother had made for me, right in front of his face. I was so angry at him for something (I can't recall what) that I felt justified in doing so, but I regretted it immediately afterwards, and do to this day. It's one of those memories I'd change if I could. We can never undo those things, but I hope Caledonians will realize the extent of their offense and try to make amends.

In closing, I find it appalling that protesters from Caledonia were singing "Oh Canada" and waving their maple leaf flags as they protested against a group that did much to make the True North "strong and free." If I could send a message to Caledonians, it is that Canadians are sympathetic to their plight (being caught in the middle because of a negligent government is completely unfair, no question), but that we cannot support intolerance and hatred, no matter how provoked and warranted Caledonians believe those feelings to be. Please stop defiling Canada's national symbols.

Yours respectfully,
Brother J.

PS - Best of luck in your bus trip tomorrow. I hope you get results out of this government -- results that will work toward ending the divisions between your two communities, not widening them.

Refugees

2006-06-20T15:59:54Z

Good morning, and happy World Refugee Day! In the news today, Canada has announced that it will mark this festive occasion by receiving 810 Karin refugees from Myanmar. These refugees are among 140,000 who fled to Thailand when the Myanmar government started killing the Karin people in 1995. One hundred and forty thousand people have been confined to this camp for eleven years. The UN says 13,000 of them desperately need to be resettled. Canada, one of the most spacious and best-endowed countries on earth, is generously accepting 810. According to Immigration Minister Monte Solberg, this decision "is in the best humanitarian tradition of Canada." How true.

In homework today, I plan to finish an outline of my cognate essay by 2 pm, then go down to Theological Hall to meet my supervisor and discuss it. When I get back, I'll finish off my appendix from yesterday and then finish the pre-World War One section of my military essay. That will be all.

Old Man

2006-06-10T04:29:38Z

Well that was a nice birthday! I mean, considering I was basically locked in my office all day working, it went very well. All day long, friends and family were calling to wish me happy birthday, until my cellphone died after hearing from kesdra. It wasn't her fault -- I had talked to everyone for a long time! (I guess I was avoiding work, actually. Surprised?)

When I came home from the office, my housemates had dinner, a Guinness, and cake waiting for me! You know, I hear so many terrible stories about bad housemates, yet somehow, I have managed to have only the best wherever I've lived!

Anyway, one of said housemates and I went out for a smoke (he smoking a cigar, and I my pipe -- first time for either of us in months and months). 'Twas a fitting end to the day. I finally got to try my new tobacco that I got in Toronto last week.

While there for a conference, I went a-rambling through some of the olger bits of the the Queen City (does anyone call Toronto that anymore?). It was in the Royal York Hotel that a sign caught my eye: "Julius Vesz, Pipesmith." Naturely, I opened the old wooden door beneath it and let myself into a little shop whose walls were covered with pipes, tins of tobacco, and handcarved wooden soldiers. The chimes above the door announced my presence, but no one appeared immediately. I poked around the shop for a while, reading the fading tobacco advertisements above the fireplace and inspecting the exquisite handiwork of the pipes. Eventually, a kindly-looking old gentleman emerged from a door behind the service counter (which was suitably ardorned with old brass weights and scales). Between puffs on his large pipe, he introduced himself as the proprietor, and in answer to my question, he explained in a thick Eastern European accent that he carved all the pipes himself, as he had been doing for forty-nine years. He used genuine Greenwood(?) root. That's the wood that authentic pipes are supposed to be made from, he claimed, but it was overharvested and has been impossible to get for the last couple decades. Will he run out of this prized root? Hah, no, no, his supply will last longer than he will! He let me into the back of his shop to check out his workbench. Chisels were arranged neatly on a shelf with assorted other small tools. Wood shavings, half-carved stems and bowls in various states of completion littered the high table. Armies of unpainted miniature soldiers (his sideline business) stood at attention on a second workbench. Then, venturing deeper into the shop, I found a dimly lit smoking room with tall wingback leather chairs set upon luxiourious oriental rugs. Between the chairs were tall sidetables on which were reading lamps, pipe ashtrays, and assorted old books. I bought some of his own blend of pure tobacco, which he measured out on the old scales, and I plan to return and buy myself a pipe before I leave Ontario. I hope he'll invite me to smoke with him in his backroom when I do.

At any rate, I'm a quarter of a century old. The rhumatism is setting in. I'm going to like being old, I think. But I don't think I'll like it quite so well as being young.

Song List

2006-06-09T04:20:33Z

Another school year is over. Almost. At least, it's June. I still have three essays to hand in, but that's not important. What is obviously more important than essays is this meticulously assembled list of songs that have defined my past eight months at Queen's. It's sort of a "what I'm listnening to these days" list, only it's really more of a "songs I've listened to so often this past year that I know I'll never hear them again without thinking of this place" list. You don't see lists like that everyday, do you? Well, and for obvious reason: they span an entire year, and take a little reflection. Like I have time for that. In any case, here are the songs that will forever be associated in my mind with Queen's University, 2005-2006:

SEPTEMBER:
Hawsley Workman, “Anger as Beauty,” Lover/Fighter, 2003.

OCTOBER:
Gigi, “Guramayle,” Gigi (Guramayle), 2001.
Dave Matthews, “Old Dirt Hill (Bring that Beat Back),” Stand Up, 2005.

NOVEMBER:
Coldplay, “Till Kingdom Comes,” X&Y, 2005.
Chapeaumelon, “Ma Génération,” Eurotrip Soundtrack, 2004.
k-os, “Crabbuckit,” Joyful Rebellion, 2004.

DECEMBER:
Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Jordan, “Baby It’s Cold Outside,” 1949.
Feist, “Tout doucement,” Let It Die, 2004.
Death Cab for Cutie, “Someday You will be Loved,” Plans, 2005.

JANUARY:
Ben Harper, “Another Lonely Day,” Fight for Your Mind, 1995.
Youth Group, “Shadowland,” Skeleton Jar, 2004.
Youth Group, “Why Don’t the Buildings Cry?” Skeleton Jar, 2004.

FEBRUARY:
Pink Martini, “Una Notta a Napoli,” Hang on Little Tomato, 2004.
Arctic Monkeys, “When the Sun Goes Down,” Whatever People Say I Am, That’s What I’m Not, 2006.

MARCH:
Whitfield, “She Takes Me,” Well Behaved & Working for You, 2006.
The Killers, “All These Things that I Have Done,” Hot Fuss, 2004.
Rufus Wainwright, “Cigarettes and Chocolate Milk,” Poses, 2001.
Rufus Wainwright, “Beauty Mark,” Rufus Wainwright, 1999.
Rufus Wainwright, “One Man Guy,” Poses, 2001.

APRIL:
James Blunt, “Wisemen,” Back to Bedlam, 2004.
The Killers, “Mr. Brightside,” Hot Fuss, 2004.
The Arcade Fire, “Rebellion (Lies),” Funeral, 2004.
Bedouin Soundclash, “When the Night Feels My Song,” Sounding a Mosaic, 2004.

MAY:
Édith Piaf, “Milord,” 1959.
Brian Byrne, “Oscar Thomas Finn,” Tuesdays, Thursdays, and if it Rains, 2006.
Brian Byrne, “Far From Good,” Tuesdays, Thursdays, and if it Rains, 2006.
Brian Byrne, “Days Go On,” Tuesdays, Thursdays, and if it Rains, 2006.
Hawksley Workman, “We Will Still Need a Song,” Lover/Fighter, 2003.
Hawksley Workman, "Jealous of Your Cigarette," (Last Night We Were) The Delicious Wolves, 2001.

JUNE:
Live, “The River,” Songs from Black Mountain, 2006.
54-40, “Casual Viewin',” Casual Viewin', 2000.
54-40, “One Gun,” Show Me, 1987.

Out, damned spot! out, I say!

2006-05-25T05:24:13Z

Yet who would have thought the old squirrel to have so much blood in him?

He was standing on the sidewalk, minding his own squirrely business, when what should come bearing down on him but the terrifying figure of Joel. He saw me approaching and ran into the street to get away. Only there was a car coming from the other direction, so he spun round and ran back onto the sidewalk. By then I had reached the same point on the sidewalk that he was heading for, and seeing me, he leaped back into the road and ran under the speeding car's tyre. He sort of bounced off and stood there bleeding in the road for a few seconds as the car drove away. Then he hobbled feebly onto my sidewalk, pushing himself along with just his back legs, and then, when he saw me, he got scared again and pushed himself painfully back across the road, through traffic, and into the bushes on the other side. I assume he's dead by now.

And so with my hands drenched in the bloodguilt of an innocent squirrel, I made my way see Macbeth, appropriately enough. My friend athenalindia was in it and did a great job. So did Lady Macbeth, McDuff, the doctor, the priest, and the weird sisters (who, in this roaring twenties Godfather-esque adaptation were not hags but sultry flapper femmes fatales). Macbeth himself totally was wooden, and you would never have guessed that he was supposed to be going insane if you didn't know the story. Still, in total, it was a great show, well worth seeing if you're in Kingston. Especially if you can arrange to see it with a cute server from your regular coffee shop.

If there's a list of things you get points for in life, I'm pretty sure Taking the Barrista on a Random Date is up there. Somewhat above Terrifying a Squirrel into Throwing Himself Under the Tyre of a Passing Motorcar.

Scores are double on Queen Victoria's birthday. Long live the Queen. Don't tell Canada that she's been dead for 105 years -- we're still in denial about that.

7 students. 6 plastic shovels. 3 days. 154 miles of canal to dig.

2006-04-24T12:28:35Z

I just woke up from a dream in which professor Errington was making everyone in the class dig their own little canal system from the Severn River way out in western Ontario to a little pond she had built at the end of her property. On a whim, apparently, she decided that Severn water was nicer than local water for landscaping projects, and so she assigned her students little plastic shovels and put us to work. My plastic shovel was broken, so I had to use my fingers.

Now that I'm awake, I find that reality is even worse. I have to get back to writing this paper, due in three days. Not coincidentally, it's for Dr. Errington. I think I'd rather dig the 154 mile canal.

Vive l'oppression! Where are Errington's students in your poem Ned?

Days of the New - Enemy

2006-03-28T04:50:51Z

I always imagined that the Days of the New song, "Enemy" (listen) was an expression of -- for lack of a better expression -- the Devil's theology. (I imagined it as sort of a poprock/Screwtape fusion.)

However, when I ran a quick search of Google to make sure I had the words right, I found that all of the lyrics sites on the internet say I have been singing the song wrong all along. Nevertheless, I submit to you my version of the lyrics for your consideration:

Enemy Lyrics (as imagined by Joel)
Listen, damn you, little man:
I’m not the one who’s trying to change you,
and if you come to understand it will be okay
No need to change you, now.
I’m not the one who’s trying to be...
I’m not the one who’s trying to be your enemy
There’s nothing you need to change
I'm with you: killing God's Son, I once won, I once won.

Obviously, I thought the character in the song was the devil, trying to convince those damn little humans that they've had it wrong all along: he isn't our enemy, he likes us just the way we are! It's God who is always telling us we need to change! And then, as proof that he's on our side, he reminds us that he "once won" by killing God's Son (who presumably didn't stay dead).

I thought the song was quite clever, if a bit irreverent. It certainly seemed to me the sort of song that the devil would sing, if he were inclined to record a single. What do you think? Do you think my interpretation works? What do you suppose the Days of the New really intended?

Baby Seals versus Black Prisoners: or the Return of Carolyn Parrish

2006-03-17T19:50:03Z

A Liberal senator has replied to a family in Minnesota upset about Canada's seal hunt with a letter denouncing the United States for executing prisoners at home and killing people in Iraq.

While I agree with some of her sentiments, I think it impolitic for Senator Hervieux-Payette to say what she did, and not, as some will suggest, because it threatens Canadian-American relations, nor because it antagonizes a family of American citizens who probably share the senator's dislike for American policies. Rather, by implying that unless a country sets its own house in order its citizens should not express concern over perceived injustices elsewhere, Hervieux-Payette undermines Canadian aid agencies the world over. Canada might not execute "mainly blacks" in its prisons or invade Middle-Eastern countries, but we do have our own injustices, and Hervieux-Payette's letter illustrates how blind we can be to them. The senator invites Americans "to come to Canada to see a humane society that lives in safety and respects the traditions of its native people." The disproportionate number of Aboriginal Canadians languishing in our country's prisons is enough to show Hervieux-Payette's hypocrisy for what it is. Fortunately, we do not let problems at home prevent us from helping abroad; we should not demand otherwise from the United States.

Discuss at canpolitik.

Ceci n'est pas une pipe

2006-03-14T03:24:06Z

Last night, I studied. I took my pipe out for a stroll about the wandering, narrow streets of "North of Princess", an old working class neighbourhood of close red brick townhouses and tumbling clapboard extensions. I could have gone half a dozen blocks south and walked among the older, grander, limestone homes of Sydenham Ward, but the night was made for thinking, not sightseeing. The air was still and thick with fog. The streetlights, relinquishing their usual task of illumination, used their rays instead to conceal the world, to divide the streets and alleys into private rooms -- each one warm and glowing, but conspiratorially separated from the next by silence and damp darkness. Passing through those intimate golden chambers, puffing on my pipe, sporting tweed and scarf, I could not help but think smart stuff. No. I should say yellow chambers, not golden, for last night was not a beautiful night, but a somber, mysterious, and, for my purposes, perfect night. I think that study session paid off; the oral exam went well today.*

And tonight, feeling yuppie and corporate, I am sitting in a clone of Starbucks, marking essays with my friend and colleague Mark, and drinking Chai Latté. Or, I would be marking if I weren't attempting to validate my dull existence by making it sound poetic on Live Journal. Right, back to work. I know one thing I'll miss about grad school if I ever become a prof -- marking with other TAs. It makes the task so much more palatable when you can scoff at students together. Imagine reading the word "different" 5 times in one sentence, and 9 times in that paragraph, without having someone to laugh at it with. Would it be doable?

* Sorry, rupertvander for plagiarising myself. This is more or less what I was trying to say in my email. I don't know if my French was equal to it.

Why I don't use MySpace

2006-03-11T07:09:23Z

I don't use MySpace.com. I know, I know. I *have* a Myspace account, so it *looks* an awful lot like I use Myspace. Sometimes, you'll even see my icon with a little "online now" tag below it. Looks are deceiving, I'm afraid. I don't use Myspace.

There are plenty of reasons not to use MySpace. Here are a few of my favourites:

1. Completely illegible. That's right. The majority of profiles cannot be read because of the background images. The trick is to read as much as possible while the page is loading, before the background appears. Then, if you were particularly engrossed in reading about how Ashley is "one h3ll of a party gurl! LOL! OMG!! Half my life is partying, the other half is myspace! OMG LOL!" and want to read on, you have to delete your brower's cache and reload the page, and try to see how much more you can read before the background loads again, or until you rupture a brain aneurysm.

2. Bells! Whistles! Doo-dads! Frills! Glitter! So many to choose from, I can't decide! I know, I'll just glue them all on! Wee, isn't craft time fun? Unfortunately, this isn't kindergarten, it's myspace, and it's taking the internet back to the cluttered, chaotic, animated GIF era of the late 90's.

3. Supports SUVs. You may not know it, but a portion of all proceeds from paid MySpace accounts goes to SUVs. And we all know what SUVs do: eat baby seals. Nuff said.

4. Three words: Push Stream Music. Every time a profile loads, the first thing I have to do is scroll madly up and down the cluttered page until I find where the music is coming from, so I can press the stop button before the cacaphony completely drowns out my own music that I was enjoying. I'm not sure what bothers me most about this: is it the blatant disregard for webetiquette? is it the implication that I'm incapable of deciding for myself whether to hear a song? is it the assumption that I can't possibly be listening to my own music, watching a movie, or sitting in the library? or is it the way it slows down the pageload to a crawl and often freezes my browser? Oh, what the heck, it's all of the above.

I could go on. There's the text that runs past the edge of the window without a scroll bar. There's black text on black back background that you have to highlight whatever you want to read. There's the links that that GO REALLY HUGE when your cursor hovers on them, so that the page moves around sickeningly whenever you mouse over it. There's the complete lack of content. There's Osama bin Laden always leaving mission instructions in my comments box.

That's why I stick with LiveJournal.

Stay tuned next month for "Why I don't use LiveJournal".

Help angels, make essay!

2006-02-06T00:47:44Z

Oh the existential crisis of a mind at mid-semester. How do I reassure myself that my life matters, when it is currently consumed with pouring over the traces of the largely forgotten lives of others? Remind me why we do what we do.

Ah, but here's a line that gives me comfort:
Human beings make great efforts to leave their signatures on life -- in the children they bear, in the diaries they keep, in the constitutions they write, in the things they build. The great privilege of a historian is to be guardian of the signatures that everyone desires to leave.

(My thanks and apologies to Greg Dening, that elder statesman of academe. From "In Search of a Metaphor," in Through A Glass Darkly)

Pictures from ages ago...

2006-01-24T08:03:30Z

Some time ago, the view from my window changed rather dramatically. I promised pictures, but it's taken me ages. Here they are. (Note: just like on a real webpage, you can click on 'em to see them bigger. That's my Infotech 12 html at work. Thanks Cuzzetto!)

I also was going to post a picture of my Christmas decor. I've taken it down now, but it was nice while it lasted. And while there aren't any Christmas cards on the window sill in the picture, by the end of the season, I had a cheery collection. Thanks to all who thought to send!

Oh, and we had an election. I am delighted by the results, even though I would have liked a stronger NDP showing. The Conservatives won a very slim minority, but since outgoing Prime Minster Paul Martin said he will not lead the Liberals into another election, this minority should be more stable than the last one. His announcement means the Liberals are committed to keeping the Conservative government alive for the better part of a year, until they restructure around a new leader. In that time, the Conservatives will have had the chance to demonstrate to Canadians that they are not lunatics. If the succeed, they might even be able to hold onto their minority until 2008, when Quebec goes to the polls provincially to elect the separatist Parti Québèquois. What I am particularly relieved to see is that the Conservatives finally broke into Québec after being shut out for a generation. They won in ten of the 75 ridings in that province, 8 of which were held by the separatist Bloc Québèquois in the last parliament. This is great news, because it means that Quebeckers aren't limited to the rather bleak options of separatists or Liberals. Now that the Trudeau/Chrétien policy of combatting separatism by centralizing power in Ottawa has failed, Harper's decentralist, power-to-the-provinces seems offer the last best chance for Canada to stay together. So more power to the Conservatives. Within reason.

A Mid-Morning Drama

2006-01-17T17:39:07Z

Lights come up on spartan student apartment. Bare off-white walls, cluttered desk, messy futon, boxes of Kraft Dinner stacked a la Andy Warhol against far wall. The absurdly loud growl of a cellphone vibrating startles JOEL, a youngish-looking Masters student, who was nodding off with a book on his lap.

JOEL: [Hunting frantically through the bedsheets, then under the piles of paper on desk. Eventually he finds cellphone in pocket of PLEATHER JACKET, who is lying unconscious behind the futon. Opens cellphone.] Hello?

YVONNE: Hello Joel. It's Yvonne from the History office. Just calling to remind you to pick up the cheque from James Carruthers' memorial.

JOEL: [blank silence] Cheque? James who?

YVONNE: Oh. They didn't tell you? One moment Joel, I'm sorry. [Silence.] I'm sorry Joel, I'm going to connect you to the Chair of the Department. [More silence.]

SANDRA: Hello Joel. Before you say anything, let me apologise profusely on behalf of the department and, indeed, the entire institution. Someone dropped the ball here. We don't know how it happened, but we're giving you a cheque for forty-three-oh-four... um, that's four thousand, three hundred and four dollars... from the James Carruthers Memorial Scholarship. We should have warned you earlier. I really am sorry. In fact, as soon as I hang up, I'll have Yvonne call you again to apologise. Gee whiz, we sure didn't mean for this to happen. [pause] Joel? You alright?

JOEL: Uh, yeah. I'm ok Sandra. I just- Wait, are you giving me $4000?

SANDRA: Yes, yes we are. That's good news, I suppose. But we're just really devastated that you had to hear it like this.

JOEL: Now now, tut tut, chin chin, there there. It won't do any good to beat yourself up over it now, will it? I'll recover eventually. Oh, and Sandra? WHOO HOO! You crazy wonderful lady, I'm thrilled!

[Exeunt. Fade all.]

James Robertson Carruthers, MA, God bless your soul!

Pretensialistic

2006-01-05T19:56:54Z

For all of its intellectual pretensions, academe produces more than its share of bad grammar and unorthodox diction. I know this, but it still bothers me when academics insist on adding to their words every loose suffix or prefix to which they lay their hands.

I just came across this in a book I'm reading for class:
"The Russians were the first to discover the fur trade potentialities of the Pacific coast..."
I suppose the author felt that the mere potential of the fur trade was too banal a thing for the Russians to discover, when, with a few extra taps on the keyboard, a whole vista of potentialities could open before their greedy eyes. And why shouldn't he? The meaning of the sentence doesn't change, and it sounds so much more sophisticated. Of course, that's exactly why he shouldn't: because the meaning doesn't change. Many dear friends of mine are unable to write a university paper without changing all "people" into "individuals" and all "concepts" into "conceptions." They don't "use" certain "methods" in their research, they "utilise methodologies." I don't fault them for this inability; I blame the professional academics, like the one I'm reading now, whose published examples they follow.

Right now, "potentiality" is my pet peeve. What about the rest of you? Are there any unnecessarily elongated words that bother you?

Cross-posted to grammarpolice