"The Snake Pit," Plus Bonus Memories From the Psychiatric Hospital

At the end of the 1948 movie "The Snake Pit," our newly-sane heroine tells her heroic doctor that she knows she has recovered her sanity because she's no longer in love with him. The same woman in the original 1946 novel has a similar moment of epiphany...but for entirely opposite reasons.

I've just finished reading the novel after years of enjoying the film, and the glaring differences between the book and the film are almost as fascinating as the themes that both products share. They are both about the institutional experiences of a woman following a nervous breakdown, and they both give insights into what is effective and what is counterproductive when treating mental illness, but when you compare the book and the film you learn an awful lot about Hollywood -- both then and now -- and about what happens when men who haven't been there adapt a book by a woman who has, and about the fundamental differences between life, art, and entertainment. Mary Jane Ward's fictionalized account of her own experiences is the life and the art...the movie is the entertainment.

I've loved the movie since I first saw it as a teen, and there's no doubting it had an impact on American policy regarding state-run institutions (though how much impact is up for debate). It's heart-wrenching and quite beautiful. Olivia de Havilland -- as protagonist Virginia Cunningham -- is an absolutely jittering wreck and she more than earned her Academy nomination. Helen Craig is also excellent as the vicious Nurse Davis, and Betsy Blair is also pretty spectacular as the silent and dangerously bottled-up Hester. You might also recognize Marie Blake as "Patient Awaiting Staff," twenty years before she became Grandmama in The Addams Family (if there's anybody you'd expect to see in an asylum, it's her!)

But one thing always bothered me about the movie: Sigmund Freud is practically a co-star. His picture hangs on the wall of saintly Dr. Kik's office, overseeing endless psychotherapy sessions and actually taking center stage during the final, Perry Mason-ish explanation that Virginia's problems started when she wasn't given enough affection as an infant. You see, interspersed with gritty scenes of institutional life are long sequences when Dr. Kik probes Virginia's childhood. She had a nervous breakdown because -- in a textbook case of Freudian psychology -- she transferred her love from a cold mother to a warm father, then hated him when he sided with her mother, then felt guilty because he died after she wished he was dead, then felt even guiltier because she accidentally caused the death of a father-surrogate fiancee.

This always seemed like so much bullsh*t to me, even more so after many years studying Psychology (including All Things Freud) in University. So I was wary about reading the book...if the Freudian angle was so significant in the movie, imagine how much Elektra complex backstory I'd have to wade through in the book?

Well, I finally read the book, and the answer is: none. Oh, there IS a Dr. Kik in the book, and he IS a Freudian therapist...but--

(are you ready for this?)

--in the book, Virginia only gets well when she is TRANSFERRED TO A DIFFERENT DOCTOR AND HAS LEARNED TO STOP EXPECTING DR. KIK TO ACTUALLY BOTHER TO HELP HER.

If you've seen the movie, think about that for a second. Mary Jane Ward -- who WAS Virginia Cunningham, for about 18 terrible months of her life -- credits Dr. Kik's psychotherapeutic approach with actually HOLDING HER BACK. By insisting that Virginia's nervous breakdown was the result of guilt about the death of her fiancee after a long illness and her subsequent marriage to her fiancee's friend, Dr. Kik did nothing but chase his tail while neglecting what Virginia REALLY needed...

...which was a healthy environment, an understanding ear, a realistic assessment of her capabilities, and some frigging books to read. Instead, she was kept underfed and cold in a succession of wards where the staff were too busy to notice that she wasn't as capable as they thought she was, then she was punished horrifically for falling short of their (and Dr. Kik's) expectations. She spent the entire time wearing dirty clothes, sitting around women with unspecified skin conditions ("Not syphilis!" says one doctor), usually on the floor, with nothing to occupy her day except confusion and utter boredom. In fact, she suspects that many of the women in Ward 33 (where you're sent if you've been at the institution for more than a year) talked to themselves and created imaginary friends because they had nothing else to occupy their minds.

I mentioned horrific punishment. Some of Virginia's earliest memories of the institution -- all of which are muddled and foggy -- are of a succession of shock treatments. Later she is subjected to the dreaded "tubs," continuously flowing baths that were meant to sedate patients, but involved them basically being wrapped in canvas and submerged up to their necks in tepid water.

The worst torture in the book, however, and one that was whispered among the patients as the ultimate punishment for disobedience: "packing." This was a hydrotherapeutic technique called a "wet sheet pack," where the patient was wrapped in cold sheets, around which were wrapped blankets, then held down on a rubber mat by series of tight sheets over the body.

I suppose there's a fine line between shocking a person to attention and teaching them to avoid terrible punishments, but there's no indication in the book that these treatments helped Virginia (in fact, whereas in the movie the shock treatments are administered as a last resort and are presented as helping Dr. Kik "make contact" with Virginia, in the book it seems that Virginia was getting them constantly since her arrival, and she suggests they may be blamed for much of her disorientation and memory loss).

So if the point of the movie was that psychotherapy and gentleness helps patients and that institutions need to be run with more consideration, what is the point of the book? Well, it's pretty much the same point, except for two things: psychotherapy is barely mentioned, and the entire situation is much less black and white than it is in the movie. There's no explanation for the onset of Virginia's illness -- thyroid trouble and difficulty adapting a life in New York City are the primary suspects -- and even less a resolution for why she actually got better.

In the movie, her recovery is solely the result of Dr. Kik's miraculous unraveling and exposure of Virginia's background. There is absolutely nothing like that in the book: maybe it just took eighteen months for her to recover, or maybe the treatments (and the endless doses of paraldehyde) DID help her focus. A contributing factor seems to have been diversionary  and social occupational therapy that she could actually perform, as opposed to types of work that she was incapable of doing properly due to her well-hidden confusion (or -- in the case of the dreaded floor polisher -- her lack of upper-body strength).

What IS apparent in the book are the signs that she's getting better: she begins to understand jokes and she actually starts to find them funny. She starts engaging in the only sort of therapy she's allowed: "thinking therapy." And -- as is touched on in the movie -- she starts to become selfish, as result of her renewed acquaintance with time:

The softness is leaving. The sympathy. Yes, and the generosity...I no longer distribute cigarettes the way I used to. it is a queer way to judge your sanity...I am able now to take heed of the day to come. I have three cigarettes and if I look ahead I'll see that I cannot order more until the day after tomorrow. Therefore I shall not share my supply but I shall hoard it so that each day I can be sure of having one smoke. That, dear lady, is sanity.

Incidentally, sympathy and generosity are presented as contributing factors to the decline of Miss Sommerville from nurse to patient. The nurses in the book are simply too busy to be able to really help anybody (let alone everybody), and poor Miss Sommerville finds herself walking around the ward keeping track of everybody's bowel movements. As an indication of the differences between a gritty novel and a slick Hollywood film, consider Miss Sommerville in the film: she takes people's temperatures. The film also neglects other significant themes in the book: Virginia's amusing anecdotes about her "True Trotskyite" friends, her less amusing anecdotes about the bathroom arrangements in the institution, and the plight of black patients dealing with white nurses.

You should read the book if you find the subject even remotely interesting. It is superbly written and surprisingly funny -- all hilarious scenes from the movie have been taken word-for-word from the book, including the repartee about "The Hopeless Diamond" -- and it is REALLY gripping from beginning to end. Unlike the movie character, the Virginia in the book is not a cringing little kitten looking for daddy to save her (or husband or therapist, which amount to the same thing). The book's Virginia (that is, Mary Jane Ward) is terrified on the inside but visibly strong and capable (which is ultimately part of her problem).

As a hilariously ironic indictment of the movie's deviations, I give you the following dialog from the book:

Well, the hell with my subconscious. What I'm interested in is getting the old conscious to working again. You know, maybe my subconscious did cook up something like Dr. Kik said, but if it did I'm sure it was for a novel. I always did have a secret, anyhow I hoped it was secret, ambition to write tripe.

Bonus Memories From the Psychiatric Hospital

For several months during the early '90s I volunteered in the psychiatric ward of a local hospital. My job was to help manage recreational activities for the patients on Sunday mornings.

Since I was the new volunteer I was required to take direction from the more keen and seasoned organizers. We'd breeze into the recreation room at 10am, and one of the announcers would say "Hello everybody! Here are some old magazines and some Bristol board. Let's make collages about our favourite sports!"

I couldn't believe it. The patients were uniformly either depressed elderly people or depressed university students. They were adults, and we were telling them to make COLLAGES.

And they WOULD. Next week the announcer would say "Let's make decorative coat hangers!" and these grandparents and adolescents would shamble up and start working with the yarn. I stood there among the cardboard crafts and thought: these people need dignity, and we are stealing it from them. We are making them worse.

So I spoke up. "Here's a deck of cards. Does anybody want to play cards, or chess?" and people would stare at me in amazement. One University student -- a major in NUCLEAR PHYSICS -- came up to me and whispered "THANK YOU SO MUCH" and we played chess together. When I asked him why people came to these things even though they hated them so much, he said something that pretty much convinced me that I was in the wrong major: "If we don't show up, they think it's an indication that we're antisocial and getting more depressed."

You get that? These people were being trained to do something totally abnormal -- to take part in a degrading activity that they hated -- under the belief that doing so would make them BETTER. Their sanity was judged in inverse proportion to how insane they behaved. I was immediately reminded of the rug scene in "The Snake Pit," a huge rug in the middle of the dayroom that the patients were forced to huddle AROUND instead of standing ON because the nurses were afraid of getting it dirty.

Here's what I read today in "The Snake Pit," a book I wish I'd read a long time ago:

That afternoon she was invited to a popcorn party. [Nurse] Vance thought that was just too super for words. When the Popcorn Ladies were summoned, Virginia stumped over to the door to join the group. If you were going to get out of this prison it looked as if you'd have to do what they said, even to the extent of going to a damn popcorn party.

I guess some things never change...but they should. Anyway, I already hated the place because they kept the electroshock therapy bed in the entertainment room beside the ping pong table. When one of the organizers said "This week I've got a Jane Fonda workout tape...we're going to march around the room!" I quit.

All My Neighbours: The Crack House

After leaving The Grey Yonder, some friends and I moved into The Radiator House. This was just across the street and much nicer than the previous place, an actual house that had been divided into two separate areas: a downstairs where a peaceful hippie couple lived, and an upstairs where the four of us shared a few tiny common areas.

Everything would have been fine if it weren't for THE CRACK HOUSE NEXT DOOR.

The guy who rented it was an extremely quiet, perpetually-stoned, moderately well-off young man who seemed to never go outside. At night he'd put his speakers in his windows and play bass guitar at top volume.

We knew he was selling drugs because a constant stream of traffic was always pulling in and out of his driveway, one of those terrible King St. North constructions that scrape the bottoms off of cars. This driveway was the reason for our first real altercation with our neighbour and his patrons.

You see, OUR driveway was a nice, well-graded path that looped around the back into a gravel parking lot. A particularly slick and disgusting fellow -- who we called "American Psycho" -- got into the habit of screeching into our driveway, racing across the parking lot, and driving up the grassy incline into the entrance to the crack house. This allowed him to avoid the terrible hump that was no doubt damaging his flashy low-rider sports car.

The problem was, this route required him to drive directly under the bedroom window of our peaceful hippie neighbours, and he'd do this at 3am every night, spraying gravel everywhere while deliberately gunning his engine. They'd asked him to stop several times and he always said he would, but then the next night he'd do it again, louder and faster than ever before. He was That Kind of Guy.

One morning I woke up to a furious pounding on our door. I went downstairs in my bathrobe and there was the American Psycho, ready to explode.

"WHO THE F*CK KEYED MY CAR?" he screamed, pushing his way into our hallway. American Psycho was big. He wore expensive suits and wrap-around shades and combed his thinning hair backward. He was not a guy to mess with.

"I don't know what you're talking about," I said.

"LIKE F*CK! SOMEBODY IN HERE KEYED MY F*CKING CAR LAST NIGHT AND I'M GONNA KICK THEIR F*CKING ASS!"

"Wait--" I said.

He lunged toward me. "YOU F*CKING DID IT!" he yelled.

"I did not, wait..."

"YOU F*CKING KEYED MY CAR!!!"

"Why would I key your car?"

"BECAUSE I DRIVE UNDER YOUR F*CKING WINDOW!"

"It's not my window," I said. "I live in the attic. That's the window for the people downstairs. Why would I key your car?"

He flew into a complete rage and started kicking apart an old desk that we'd left by the front door. I told him he'd have to leave or I'd call the police, and he stalked around the other side of the house to confront the peaceful hippie couple. I heard him screaming, and I heard the peaceful hippie husband scream back, and then American Psycho came stomping back around the house again. He punched our wall and drove away, the scratch on the side of his sports car painfully visible.

He never drove through our parking lot again. The peaceful hippie husband was built like Grizzly Adams, you see. So it all had a happy ending.

Anyway, the quiet bass-playing guy wasn't the only person living in the crack house. He was also sheltering a drug casualty who squatted in the unfinished basement with his girlfriend. We didn't see much of him either, but on particularly spooky nights we'd hear the door slam open and the girlfriend would howl: "FWAAAAAAAWK YOU!"

"Where you gonna go?" we'd hear him slur.

"FWAAAAAAAAAWK YOU!" Slowly, stoned and incapable, she'd stumble down king street. He'd stumble out and follow her, the two of them shambling along, and he'd keep saying "Where you gonna go? Where you gonna go?"

"FWAAAAAAAAAWK YOU!" she'd howl, and gradually their voices would fade.

Ten minutes later we'd hear them from the other side: "Where you gonna go? Where you gonna go?"

"ffffwwwwaaaAAAAAWK YOU!" And they'd both stumble back into the house, having circled the block and providing us with some sad late-night amusement. This happened a few times and it was always the same. They deserved each other.

------

Eventually the quiet bass-playing tenant left and some friends of ours decided to move into their house because it was really kind of nice. On the first of the month they pulled up with their moving truck, walked inside...and found the crackhead still squatting in the basement.

"I got nowhere to go," he said. "Just let me stay for a few more days." The walls were torn apart and sprayed with graffiti. There were syringes on the floor, circling a highly illegal propane tank which later had to be removed by the police.

Our friends finally managed to coax him out by promising to drive him to a friend's house, but on the way through the door he pointed at the ceiling fan in the living room and said "Wait, dude, that's my fan."

"It's not your fan, it's part of the house."

"I bought that fan. Listen, dude, I'm not leaving without my fan, it's worth a lot of money." So our friends removed the fan and gave it to him, assuming it was a small price to pay to finally get rid of him.

The Radiator House is still there but it has been converted into a massive student apartment, with an addition on the back that actually merges with the crack house. So have things changed and the student slums have grown.

Bell Canada Punches Me in the Nose

Remember me saying that "Everything went smoothly with Bell Canada during my move?" Well, not quite everything, it turns out.

Tonight I got a call informing me that I had an outstanding bill of over $200, and I was like, what? I hadn't gotten any bills in the mail, and I've even registered for ebills to prevent just such a thing happening. Of course I'm happy to pay my bills, but why wasn't I getting them?

So I went online and logged into my Bell account, which happily informed me that I owed no money. But then I noticed that it was displaying my old address, and that the last bill was from June...so obviously my account information had CHANGED.

My next step was to call Bell's notoriously awful outsourced technical support. First he wanted to verify my identity by using the new customer ID and account number THAT I HAD NEVER BEEN SENT. After we got around that little problem, we discovered that the final number in my postal code was incorrect. In his words: "You gave us the wrong postal code, which is why you haven't gotten your paper bills." My response: "I gave you the RIGHT postal code, and you entered it incorrectly."

I asked him how I could access my new account online, and he said "I'm not an expert on that, you'll need to email our support team or have an online chat with them. There is nobody you can talk to on the phone."

Then he tried to sell me Bell's cable service. I told him he was about to lose a customer entirely.

Armed with my new account number and customer ID I was ready to pay the bill online, but first I wanted to see what exactly I was paying for. So I registered for a new account at Bell's website...but it wouldn't let me complete the form because "Somebody is already using that email address."

OF COURSE! THAT'S ME! THAT'S MY OLD ACCOUNT! IS IT UNHEARD OF FOR PEOPLE TO CHANGE RESIDENCES BUT KEEP THE SAME EMAIL ADDRESS?!?

I logged back into the old account and went through the laborious process of deleting it. Finally I managed to create a new account, and when I tried to hook it up to my billing information so I could see the bill...guess what? It wants to know my "bill date." And guess where that information is?

On the paper bill. Which I never received. Because they screwed up my postal code.

Remembering what the awful tech support guy had said -- that there's no way to get website help without using email or a chat window -- I searched the entire Bell site for contact info regarding account issues. Nope! Nothing.

So I tried chatting about "Billing" instead, and got a very slow (but fortunately human) typist who -- after the fifth identity check of the afternoon -- finally gave me my "bill date."

I entered the information. I clicked through a bunch of confusing windows. I finally clicked on the link that's supposed to show me the bill I have to pay...

..."Since your account is new, it will take at least fifteen minutes for this information to become available. Please check back later."

Fifteen minutes. Long enough for me to say: yes, Bell often sucks for two reasons: outsourced technical support and tangled bureaucracy.

I am still a customer. Barely.

UPDATE:
I finally get into my bill and what do I see? THE BILLING ADDRESS IS STILL MY OLD ADDRESS. So buddy was telling me that I wasn't getting my bills because my POSTAL CODE was wrong, but I'm REALLY not getting my bills because THEY HAVEN'T CHANGED MY F*CKING ADDRESS.

What part of "I'm moving" didn't they understand?

Of course I discovered this at 7:04pm, and their support lines close at 7:00pm. Right on the button. They won't answer the phone...no doubt they're too busy sending stuff to my previous address, you know, the one I switched my phone service from.

Fury. The Barracks. Zsa Zsa. Animal Behaviour. Sociology.

I am absolutely DETERMINED to keep my house in tip-top shape. Since I've moved in I have been developing routines for everything that requires maintenance: watering the plants as soon as I come home, cleaning the bathroom and kitchen once a week, making sure dishes and pop cans move steadily to their appropriate places...in short, organizing everything so that cleanliness and maintenance are easy to accomplish.

I haven't gotten the dish-washing routine figured out yet, and most rooms are still so unfinished that I can't get a handle on them, but for the most part I've been thrilled with my progress.

Then, today, I came home and discovered that my beloved cat has been peeing all over my basement crawlspace.

I positively f*cking SNAPPED. To see (and smell) all of my most meticulous attentions thwarted by what seemed (at the time) to be a flippant and whimsical disregard for her litterbox...well, I suddenly understood domestic hatred. I understood how people can -- momentarily -- wish that their loved ones were dead.

It was amazing. As I crawled around in the basement wiping up more and more fresh cat piss, I seriously wished that Zsa Zsa would die. I believed that if she died I would feel only relief. She kept trying to sneak back into the crawlspace, and I kept throwing heavy objects at her to drive her away. Finally I managed to build a barrier that should keep her out, and I told myself that if she peed ONE MORE TIME outside her litterbox I'd take her straight to the vet and get her put down.

As you can imagine, she studiously avoided me for half an hour, and by the time she reappeared I was ready to make nice, and by way of coincidental apology she peed in her litterbox shortly afterward...not even in the tin pan I keep outside the litterbox door, which she usually uses.

Tomorrow I'll buy white vinegar and see if it works as well as the Old Wives say it does, and if that fails...well, I hear that stinky concrete can be sealed, though I don't know how (or at what cost).

In the meantime, though, I'm a little bit shaken at my ability to see Zsa Zsa as nothing more than an inconvenience. I think I understand -- a tiny bit -- those people who go into screaming fits when kids bicycle across their front lawns. I suppose that investing a huge amount of money, hope, and emotion into an inanimate object can skew your priorities a bit.

Korg Nanos and Logic Studio

UPDATE: After you read this, check out my "two months later" review.

I'm saving money, right? I've got a mortgage and new furniture and a brand-new bed, and God only knows how much money I'll be taking home from work once all those expenses kick in. So I've been counting my pennies and going out less and eating cheaper food...

...and then I bought these.


They comprise the "Korg Nano Series," three very cheap and powerful MIDI controllers that you can hook up to your music software and do amazing things with.

It should be obvious what the "NanoKEY" is for: it's a two-octave, velocity-sensitive, polyphonic keyboard that's perfect for tapping out melodies. My "workhorse" keyboard is an enormous and heavy Ensoniq ESQ-1, and it's sheer overkill when I just want to tinker. But I can plunk the NanoKEY down on my lap and use it without any setup or bother. It just works.

Likewise the "NanoPAD," which is ostensibly for drum programming but can also be used to make wonderfully freaky noises. It has a touchpad which you can squish your finger around on, bending and modulating notes with total abandon.

Most important, however, is the "NanoKONTROL," which comes with nine faders and knobs and eighteen buttons. You can decide for yourself what you want these controls to do; since the NanoKONTROL has four different "scenes" that you can switch between, I've programmed the fourth scene as an eighteen channel mixer (I'll explain how I did that in a second), the third scene to accomplish common editing tasks (changing the zoom level, switching tools), and the second scene for controlling EQ parameters. The first scene is for whatever tweaky thing I want to do at the moment...changing the cutoff and resonance of a synth, for instance.

The NanoKONTROL also has six buttons for controlling the transport...it's nice to be able to play, record, stop, and move the playhead without ever touching the mouse or keyboard.

The three devices are lightweight and tiny, and can all be run off an unpowered USB hub. And you damn well better use a hub, for reasons I'll cover in a second.

Bad Things About the Nanos

You get what you pay for. The keyboard is certainly not for performance...it's good enough for recording, but it occasionally drops notes.

As for the controller, the faders are short, none of it is motorized, and it receives no feedback from your editing software, so it is rarely in sync with what you're doing; if you tweak something in your software and then try to tweak it with the controller, the position of the controller and the value in your software will not match. This isn't crippling, but it does lead to twitchiness.

Also, since it has no assignable labels on it, it's very easy to forget how each control is assigned. And you can't get a nice shuttle/jog setup because none of the knobs are continuous; they all have a beginning and end.

But when you spend $80 for a controller you don't expect those kinds of features. These units are for hobbyists and for quick-and-dirty experiments; they aren't professional gear. Sigh.

Bad Things About Logic Pro

The real problems come when you try to integrate the NanoKONTROL with Logic Pro. In some ways it makes sense that the procedure is difficult: both Logic and the controllers are so freely configurable that it's impossible to offer a single solution. You, the user, must make decisions about how you want to use the controller...and then you must teach the hardware and the software to speak to each other.

Configuring the Nanos themselves is super-easy: you download the Korg Kontrol Editor and use it to tell the nanos how they should behave. Which MIDI channel will they use? Which notes and/or control codes should they send for each pad, fader, button, and knob? Should the buttons act as toggles -- sending a different code for each press -- or should they be "momentary," sending one code when depressed and a second when released?

Korg also tells you that, if you want to use more than one Nano at a time, you need to install their USB MIDI driver. I don't know if this is really necessary or not...I did it as a last resort when things seemed to be going haywire (see below).

Your nightmare only begins when you need to tell Logic how to use the NanoKontrol. You need to use Logic's "Controller Assignments" dialog, which you can access by pressing Command-K. Remember that shortcut...you'll use it a lot.

The Controller Assignments dialog is the dark smelly butthole of Logic Pro. It's ancient and unfriendly and buggy. It can just as easily make your dreams come true as it can totally destroy hours of hard work.

If you are faced with the task of configuring your NanoKontrol within Logic, my first advice is to READ THE LOGIC PRO CONTROL SURFACES SUPPORT MANUAL, but when it tells you in chapter one that you must "add" the device to Logic Pro, DON'T BELIEVE THEM. Logic cannot detect the NanoKontrol so it can't be "added" in the usual way. Skip chapter one entirely. Chapter two -- "Customizing Controller Assignments" -- is the one you need to read.

My next piece of advice is to NEVER USE THE EASY VIEW. It's confusing and gives you no idea of what you're actually doing. Skip right to the Expert View and do everything in there...

Key Commands

...unless you're assigning Key Commands, which is best done in the Key Commands dialog (Option-K). If you want to assign a button on your NanoKontrol to a keyboard shortcut in Logic -- and there are hundreds of them -- then use the Key Commands dialog...just select the command you want to execute, click the "Learn New Assignment" button, and press a button on your NanoKontrol. Presto!

This is great for the transport buttons (Play, Stop...) and for things like "Page Forward" and "Switch to Scissors Tool." It is NOT, however, useful for the knobs and faders, or for special controls inside plugins. For those you need the Controller Assignments dialog.

Additional Key Command tips: use the Search field to find the controls you're looking for, and NEVER try to resize the columns; you'll end up with the first column becoming half its width, therefore obscuring most of the commands, and you will not be able to fix it. You'll need to hover your mouse over the commands to receive tooltips, which don't always appear. Grrrrrr!

Controller Assignments

Now for the hard part: the infinitely configurable faders and knobs and plug-in stuff.

Logic Pro remembers the last thing you touched within the interface. If you open a plug-in -- like the EFM1 synth, for instance -- and then click on a control -- such as the FM knob -- then Logic will remember that you touched it.

If -- immediately after touching it -- you go to the Controller Assignments window and click the "Learn Mode" button, the following things will happen:

• A new control called "Learned" appears in the Control list.
• The "Learn Mode" button becomes shaded, indicating that Logic is ready to associate the last thing you touched (the FM knob) with the next MIDI message it receives.

So when you twist a knob on the NanoKontrol (or move a fader or press a button), the NanoKontrol sends the MIDI message associated with that knob/fader/button (which you can set in the Korg Kontrol Editor), and Logic assigns the control to the MIDI message. Presto! The Control list will show something like "Learned - EFM1: Carrier FM Intensity," and when that list object is selected you will see information about the "class" of the control (see the Control Services Support Manual), the device which sends the MIDI message ("nanoKONTROL SLIDER/KNOB"), and nifty options for setting the value (see the manual again).

Here's the awful shit you must now remember to do:

1. If you are finished assigning controls, CLICK THE LEARN MODE BUTTON TO EXIT LEARN MODE. If you don't do this you will screw everything up. As long as that button is shaded, Logic is hijacking everything in order to link controls with MIDI messages. Do not touch anything else in the interface or twiddle ANYTHING on the NanoKontrol before exiting Learn Mode.
2. If you want to assign another control, however, then click something else in the interface (like the EFM1's "Harmonic" knob), then twist another knob on the NanoKontrol -- resulting in a new control assignment -- and keep doing this until you've assigned everything. But remember to click the Learn Mode button when you're done! Otherwise you will reassign controls, or assign multiple knobs to the same thing, and untangling that mess can be hell on earth.
3. Kick whoever designed the Controller Assignment window squarely in the ass. "Learn Mode" button which acts as a toggle? This is NOT part of Apple's design specifications, I'm sure.

Once Learn Mode is off, twiddle your assigned knob. It'll work! You can now tap the keys on your NanoKey and use the knob to change the FM Intensity of the notes. Brilliant! That's why you bought this thing!

If you're using the NanoKontrol to change the automation on a track -- say, to change the FM Intensity for MIDI notes recorded on one of your tracks -- you need to switch the track to either "Latch" or "Touch" mode (read the regular Logic Manual), then hit "Play" (not "Record") and twist the knob as the notes play. The changes are recorded to the track as automation values, which you can go back and edit.

If you want to use the NanoKontrol as a mixing desk, you want to assign your controls to the "Fader Bank" channel strip within the "Channel Strip" class, then set which Fader Bank track you want to assign the control to. This is BEST done in the Mixer window, because when you use "Learn Mode" after touching a channel strip control in the Mixer window, the Controller Assignment window automatically uses the proper Fader Bank and track number. Otherwise, if you do this in the Arrange window, the control will be assigned to just the "selected track."

Remember when I mentioned that I'd assigned the nine sets of controls in Scene Four to be an eighteen-channel mixer? That's because I set one of the buttons to perform a "Mode Change," to toggle between two sets of controller assignments: one for tracks 1 to 9, the other for tracks 10 to 18. By changing modes you can infinitely extend your number of assignments, but this requires planning (because you have to add all your assignments to new Zones and Modes within the Controller Assignment window).

Fortunately, if you fiddle with something on your NanoKontrol, its assignment is highlighted within the Controller Assignments window, which can help you fix mistakes like multiple assignments. But that's the only user-friendly thing about the window: you cannot sort or group your assignments in the list -- they appear underneath whatever you have selected at the time -- and you can't make changes to the parameters of multiple assignments at once, and you can't drag assignments between zones and modes.

As if that didn't suck enough...

Logic Studio Can Forget Your Assignments

Until you realize this -- and why it happens -- you will be SCREAMING IN ANGUISH.

There is a terrible bug in Logic Studio. Each time you add or remove a MIDI Input device to your computer, Logic Studio's list of MIDI devices changes. And it seems that your controller assignments -- those hundreds of knob-and-fader connections you've so painstakingly created -- are not mapped to specific MIDI devices, they are rather mapped to the number of the MIDI device within Logic Studio's list. And if the ordering of the devices in the list changes -- because you've added or removed a MIDI device, simply by unplugging its USB or Firewire cable -- it is highly likely that all of your controller assignments will map to the wrong MIDI device.

So attach all your USB MIDI devices to a single hub, keep them always plugged in (at least when using Logic), and don't swap them around. If you do, you will find that your assignments no longer work. You can manually select each assignment in the window and reset its MIDI Input device (the manual claims that doing this for one device will reset all assignments which use a similar device, but I don't think I believe them), or you can try plugging everything back in and hoping that the list sorts itself back in the original order, but whatever you do DON'T BLAME YOUR NANO. It is Logic's fault.

Tip: Sometimes, when you twist a knob or push a fader that you haven't used in a long time, you will find that it doesn't immediately work; this is probably because it isn't "in sync" with the object it's controlling. Try moving the control all the way in one direction, then all the way back to the other direction, and I bet it will work again. Otherwise open the Korg Kontrol Editor and make sure the Nano is connected. If that doesn't work, open the Controller Assignments window and see what sort of evil crap that Logic Studio has done to the assignment.

I think that covers it. I'm very happy with my Nanos, and more than a little cross with Logic. Fixing the Controller Assignments window should be a top priority for them, and this is a bug they've known about for years...do something, people!

PS: All of your assignments are stored in a file called com.apple.logic.pro.cs. Every time I make a change to my assignments I make a backup of that file (it's in your user's Library/Preferences folder).

PPS: My NanoPad came with the wrong USB cable...a full-size one instead of the required mini. This is strange.

New UPhold Song: "Think"

My Canada Day song contribution is one just finished from 2005 called "Think." It really IS sort of appropriate to the day, as it was inspired by a man who screamed insults at me from a balcony during a long-ago holiday...he was one of the men who explode.

You can listen to "Think" in its short, minimalistic, ambient glory here.

It sounds the way it does because of the technology I was using back then. I wanted to write a conventional song, but since I couldn't sing I decided to use a Vocoder plugin.

Unfortunately the only plugin I had was the one from Cycling 74's "Pluggo" bundle. While I grew fond of many of the "Pluggo" plugins (and many of their "Mode" plugins as well), they were terribly flaky and would sometimes refuse to work altogether. Their Vocoder usually only half-worked for me...you had to route it through their virtual "PluggoBus," and in the case of this song the bus would just randomly fade in and out.

I got so frustrated with the vocoder that I gave up on "Think" after only one segment of one verse. But this year, when I went back to listen to it, I realized that the vocoder fade was sort of nice, and though it completely ruined an attempt at "conventional" music it was a nice "experimental" touch.

So I stripped out the rhythm and the original keyboards and rewrote the track around the vocoder glitch. It probably turned out better than if I'd written some lame song about depressed persecution.

The lesson: keep all of your mistakes, even if you think you'll never use them!

Whining, Pain, Fury, Midnight Special

After almost two weeks of a really bad cold, on Tuesday I started feeling really good...I was getting healthy again!

That night I caught the flu, or something similar. Then today, while walking up my stairs, I slipped on some ice and pinwheeled my damaged right arm, and I was literally paralyzed with pain...it was like somebody had run over it. I couldn't even breathe and everything went white-hot around me.

I stumbled upstairs and got into the shower so I could spray some high-pressure warm water on it, and while I was washing my hair...I lost the hearing in my left ear. It's some congestion-related thing.

And all that time -- while I was stumbling up the stairs in absolute agony, and standing in the shower trying to figure out what had happened to my ear -- the cat was WHINING. She wanted me to put some water in the tub so she could drink it. I suddenly realized that she has NO INTEREST WHATSOEVER in my state of mind.

I don't just mean that she doesn't comfort me when I'm upset -- I would never expect that from a cat -- but she doesn't even know when I'm ANGRY. She has no idea when I need to be left alone. Standing in the shower, listening to her whine with my one good ear, holding my blazing and limp arm with my one good hand, I realized that my cat doesn't have any interest at all in my behaviour, except when I'm making her happy in some way.

So I became furious, and when I opened the bathroom door and she came bouncing in out of some futile desire to drink out of the tub, I sprayed her with the shower hose. Pain can really distort your character.

Of course I felt terrible afterward, and if she gets sick I will never forgive myself. After tracking her down to her hiding place I toweled her off and tried to make her feel better. But even now -- when my pain and frustration has dulled to a pulsing throb -- I can't shake the sudden realization: my cat does not have the LEAST CONCEPTION of how I behave, let alone how I feel.

What got me through my blue funk was a good dose of another kind of funk: the "Midnight Special 1974" DVD. Besides a few stinkers -- David Essex, Golden Earring, Neil Sedaka -- the DVD was full of goodness, but...wow, how did I EVER forget Maria Muldaur's "Midnight at the Oasis?"



I LOVE this wonderful song! I don't think I've heard it since...well, 1974, possibly. "Send your camel to bed," I mean, jeez.

But the best performance BY FAR was by B. B. King and Gladys Knight, in what appears to be a bit of an improvisation for her:



She is SO beautiful and genuine. Those eyelashes! I think it's time I gave her music a closer listen. If I ever get my left ear back.

The Universe - FOX News Edition

I'll watch any science DVD that comes my way, and I have a special soft spot for shows about space. Anything that helps me get a grasp of the vastness, complexity, and beauty of the universe is a good thing!

Except for this History Channel program called "The Universe," my disdain for which I cannot put into words.

But let me try.

The program is OFFICIALLY called "The Universe," but I suspect that the full title is "The Universe is Full of Scary Stuff and HOLY SH*T, WE COULD ALL DIE AT ANY MINUTE!" It's produced in the bombastic style generally used for self-serious war movies, full of loaded adjectives and contextual tricks to convey one thing and one thing only: THREAT.

The music -- which never ends -- is of the type used by TV stations to brand military offenses. The announcer's delivery alternates between doomed acceptance and self-referential downplaying...everything he says sounds like the promo for a cheesy TV show. Even when he's describing the atmosphere on Mars, he's saying it in the same tone he would use to say something like "Buffy is 100% man-killing hot stuff, but a bigger enemy is slouching over the horizon...and he could unleash the very powers of hell. On. EARTH."

I knew something was wrong in the very first episode, which was called "Secrets of the Sun" but was really "Secrets of How the Sun COULD KILL YOU." Despite all the overwrought gravitas about the power at its core and the turmoil on its surface -- complete with real disaster footage from earth, as though there was a relevant comparison -- the bulk of the episode was about solar flares and the predictions about the Next Big One.

HOLY COW, WHAT'LL HAPPEN?!? Show us footage of stuff on fire, and rioting, and mass chaos! More CGI of violent solar winds and snapping magnetic force lines! ARGH! ARRRRGH!

But wait...here are the BRAVE NASA TECHNICIANS who tirelessly scour the sky in order to predict these solar storms! Thank goodness these selfless soldiers of the stars are there to protect us, with their fingers always on the button that...well, puts satellites to sleep for a few hours until the storm passes. BUT THAT'S REALLY BRAVE!

Then, of course, all the stuff about the sun eventually expanding and burning the earth "like a charcoal briquette." End of episode.

I kid you not. Any bits of actual, scanty SCIENCE is trampled by the whiz-bang visuals and endless depictions of disaster. The sun is even scarier than TERRORISTS!

I figured I'd give the show a chance and watch the second episode -- "Mars: The Red Planet" -- because I figured they couldn't make Mars frightening. WAS I EVER WRONG! The surface used to have this HUGE VOLCANO, and that volcano might have RIPPED A GIANT CHASM RIGHT ACROSS THE PLANET! And do you know what would happen if you visited Mars? YOU'D DIE! YOU CAN'T BREATHE THERE! How did Mars turn into such an inhospitable place? BECAUSE THE VICIOUS, DEADLY SUN RIPPED AWAY ITS ATMOSPHERE! AND ONCE PEOPLE THOUGHT THERE WERE EVIL ALIENS THERE, WAITING TO INVADE! MARS IS TERRIFYING!

You can imagine how the third episode -- "The End of the Earth" -- turned out, with its killer asteroids and exclusive focus on "The Big Rip" (SO much more scary than any of the other hypotheses), and don't forget about the VICIOUS, DEADLY SUN, and the same handful of earnest science-guys explaining that we're all gonna die...though probably not for another 50 billion years, shhhh.

As usual, though, there are Fearless American Scientists protecting us, "cosmic bounty hunters" who "refuse to be bullied by the asteroids." Jesus RETCH!

The fourth episode was "Jupiter: The Giant Planet." I managed to sit through fifteen minutes because I wanted to know how Jupiter was gonna kill us. Fortunately it doesn't appear that Jupiter -- "a giant ball of intrigue" -- is out to murder our babies and steal our freedom, but -- here you go -- it tends to draw asteroids into its own orbit...ASTEROIDS THAT WOULD OTHERWISE HIT EARTH AND DESTROY CIVILIZATION AS WE KNOW IT! Cue disaster footage again, and CGI images of disintegrating buildings and fifty-foot tidal waves.

What the f*ck is wrong with people? Can we only engage with things if we consider them to be threats? Are events only interesting if they involve violent turmoil? Maybe I'm so disgusted because I grew up on a diet of Carl Sagan, for whom the universe was a big and comforting pair of breasts, but most of the problem is that I have NEVER seen an emotionally-manipulative, fear-mongering science show about SPACE before. I'd understand if the show was PROMOTED as such, but it's not.

I can't tell you about the atrocities in the rest of the show, but the episode list gives a few hints. Seriously, if I didn't know better I'd think this was a joke:

EPISODE SIX: "A survivor of one of the most violent 'neighborhoods' in the universe, learn how earth was created and discover what creatures hold clues to how life began. What evil forces threaten the demise of Earth?"

EPISODE SEVEN: "Scorched by their proximity to the sun, Mercury and Venus are hostile worlds; one gouged with craters from cosmic collisions and the other a vortex of sulfur, carbon dioxide and acid rain. Prime examples of planets gone awry, do they serve as a warning for ominous scenarios that might someday threaten Earth?"

EPISODE TEN: "Ignited by the power of the atom, burning with light, heat and wrath [?], stars are anything but peaceful. They collide, devour each other, and explode in enormous supernovas--the biggest explosions in the Universe."

EPISODE TWELVE: "Super massive black holes can figuratively 'lasso' the Earth out of the solar system. A clash between two galaxies can result in a barbaric ritual called 'galactic cannibalism' in which the dominant galaxy's super massive black hole eats the weaker one. Magnetars are a cosmic magnetic force so strong it could wipe out data on every credit card on the planet."

And on and on and on. These people should be ashamed of themselves.

The ZsaZsaBlog Continues...

I noticed last night when I came home that Zsa Zsa wasn't sleeping on my bed, like she normally does. Instead she sat halfway under the couch. When I went to bed she didn't follow me...totally abnormal.

After two hours of sleep she finally came into my bedroom and woke me up. For the past year her balance has been getting increasingly "off," but this morning she's downright wobbly, and when she sits down she keeps swaying gently from side to side as though about to fall over. Plus she doesn't seem to sit down totally, just sort of squats on her haunches.

I think she's exhausted and dim-witted, and since I am as well -- afraid to go to sleep and afraid even to look too much at her -- we're a circling team of weirdness, possibly feeding off each other's distress. This is the first time that I've seen her engage in strange behaviour. She doesn't seem to be upset and she's not reclusive, but she IS purring at odd times, which I've heard can be a sign of anxiety or pain.

I want to sit with her and observe her actions, but doing that is so upsetting because she's so obviously "not her." And I just want one more hour of sleep, pleeeeeease.

This simply HAD to happen during a long weekend, you know? Her previous crisis -- the "pee scream" -- happened on a long weekend as well. I'm so tired that I'm feeling an absolute FURY that I can't call the vet, and also kicking myself for not calling last week when it was apparent something was wrong.

Life on Repeat

The Broken Computer Keyboards

I recently noticed that the "plus" key on my new computer keyboard didn't work. Apple promptly sent me another keyboard...which has a mostly unresponsive "right arrow" key.

A third keyboard is now in the mail. You'll know it's arrived when different letters start disappearing from my blog posts.

The Persistent Junk Mail

After three weeks of receiving "The Record Save and Sell," an enormous package of weekly junkmail, I finally had enough. The thing is too big for my mailbox, but the carrier just stuffs it in anyway and leaves the lid open. Therefore my legitimate mail gets crushed and rained on.

I called the company and was "taken off the list," but I received it again the following week. I called back and was reassured that I REALLY wouldn't get it any more...but of course I did. I finally managed to track down the MANAGER, who absolutely, positively promised that I would never receive the Save and Sell again.

It was in my mailbox on Friday.

The Squatter Squirrels

Several months ago my landlords finally admitted that there are squirrels in my attic, and they patched up the roof and laid out traps to remove the critters once and for all.

This weekend they gnawed a hole into the opposite end of the building. They're back again, and this time I imagine they're singing a song:

We're happy little squirrels and we're back to bother you,
with our squealing and our humping and our chew and chew and chew.
We spurn all laws, we have big claws, we're muscular and furry, oh,
don't try so hard to lose us 'cause we'll get back in a hurry!

If you sit all day and wonder what we're doing to your ceiling,
you cannot understand...your little attic's so appealing!
We live in peace, we'll sign no lease, we'll send no rent your way, 'cause
we're happy chewing squirrels and we've moved in here to stay!

Diary of a Daily Muffy

During the blizzardy winter of 2008 Jenn Wilson and I made a plan: we would go to Niagara Fallsview Casino Resort and take pictures of me wearing my Ann Miller "bumblebee" outfit. Since it takes almost two hours to get there we decided we must go during the summer. To avoid traffic we would have to decide on a weekday, preferably around noon hour.

Wednesday, July 23, 2008, 7:20 am: We are aiming to make a head-start on the day so I have already done my ironing and planning and worrying the day before. I have cereal for breakfast and begin to get into drag.

I had tried to be blase about this adventure, but perhaps I was a bit TOO blase when it came to choosing my drag timetable; due to a simple miscalculation I have lost twenty minutes of prep time. There is a lot you can do -- or, in this case, CAN'T do -- in twenty minutes. My hair and makeup is done in record time. I forget my gloves.

9:10 am: We're off! Almost immediately we are surrounded by cars; it would seem that everybody is going to Niagara Falls on the same day as we. They want to see us succeed in our crazy endeavour. They are slowing us down and getting in our way.

10:00 am: Somewhere around Lincoln I begin to feel uncomfortable and anxious and I need to go to the bathroom.

I generally try to avoid bathrooms while I'm doing a Daily Muffy. Drag bathroom-etiquette is difficult at the best of times, and THIS time I'm wearing an outfit that takes time and subtlety to get in and out of. We pull into a Tim Horton's because I'm hoping that the bathrooms have a single stall.

On my way through the door a man asks me if I have a gas can. Then he notices that I am wearing a bright yellow '50s tap-dancing dress that is cut up to my crotch. He recoils.

By the time I'm finished in the bathroom I realize that I was suffering a form of anxiety due to the way the morning has gone: I got out of bed, jumped into drag, and then rushed into Jenn's car...then we drove non-stop through an alien landscape toward a place I'd never been before. I had felt a bit like a fish, yanked out of the ocean, dropped into a fishbowl, and then rocketed off without yet having a chance to get a grip on the environment.

Now that I have stared down the clientele of a roadside Tim Horton's, I have finally "decompressed." Damn it, Niagara Falls, I'm ready for you!

10:30 am: We park at a pay lot and walk toward the casino. We'd been worried about the weather, but the black storm clouds have all cleared away. We are proud that we remembered to bring umbrellas, but of course we leave them in the back seat of the car. We will regret this.

We are well aware that we cannot take pictures near the resort casino, but we plan to run totally amok within the mall and its surroundings. We befriend the man who appears to be head of security and with his blessing we duck into nooks and crannies that we'd otherwise be too scared to explore.

The mall is mostly full of middle-aged tourists and "casino types." They avoid us and are polite when we block their access to brutally expensive posh-stores. One older man walks up to me and shouts "What happened to your skirt? THE FRONT IS GONE!" but before we can be friendly we are interrupted by yet another security guard, who is feeling us out.

We go outside and begin to walk around the mall. It's beautiful! From a distance I get my picture taken with both the American and Canadian falls (another goal achieved!) The Canadian side is WAY prettier. It wouldn't surprise me to learn that the war of 1812 was fought entirely due to falls-jealousy.

Then, thunder. We have become very accustomed to thunder this summer...but I'm standing outside in a fragile dress and Jenn is carting around a ton of very expensive camera gear. Terrified, we rush back to the mall.

12:30 am: It is POURING. We sit in the food court and watch the rain. As I said previously, we'd left our umbrellas in the car, which is a five-minute walk away.

We hatch a devious plan. We walk through the resort's parking garage until we find the exit which we assume is closest to our parking lot, and then Jenn darts out the door to get her car while I huddle in the stairwell and guard her stuff. I realize that the door is identical to all the other doors on that side of the building, and also that I don't remember what Jenn's car looks like, and I don't have her phone number, and that this was a really silly idea.

Then Jenn pulls up and we drive away; she is soaked, I am not.

1:00 pm: Sensing how much I want to take the restrictive "bumblebee" outfit off, Jenn pulls into a covered parking garage behind a hotel and I jump out to get changed. The rain is pouring down. I strip to my underwear just in time for a bunch of tourists to wander into the parking lot with me. Then a car pulls in. The tourists and the car shuffle back and forth as I crouch, virtually naked, waiting for them to sort their crap out and go away.

Finally we are back on the Queen Elizabeth Way and we are heading home.

1:30 pm: The black clouds descend and the traffic slows to a crawl.


Due to an evil brew of construction, weather, car accidents, and the other people's desire to interfere with our shit, our next ninety minutes on the QEW are spent in impenetrable gridlocked traffic, inching forward mile after mile. Then a truly fearsome hailstorm reduces visibility to nil, which is particularly terrifying when you're stuck on the Garden City Skyway. Jenn pushes us through one jam and into the next; we struggle, we fight.

3:00 pm: When the weather clears we are still creeping along the QEW...but we no longer recognize the landmarks. We wonder why the hell we're driving through Oakville. When we start to see "Airport" and "Mississauga" signs our worst suspicions are confirmed: during the storms we missed a crucial turn-off into Hamilton, and spent an hour DRIVING IN THE WRONG DIRECTION.

My mind snaps. I am being driven through a strange area, very far from home, and I am in drag. That alone would be fine except that my face is steadily disintegrating and I have no "boy clothes." I cannot (or rather will not) exit the car in this stage of degeneration, and we've ALREADY spent hours driving in the car...it will take at least another hour to get us back, and we are getting perilously close to rush hour (which would add an ADDITIONAL hour to our journey).

In the face of my emotional-mental meltdown, Jenn is the rational one. We stop and get directions, which are: follow Winston-Churchill Boulevard until we hit the 401. It's a long way home from there but at least we KNOW that area.

Making the best of it, we turn around and resume our journey.

4:20 pm: Home at last. I greet the cat, wash my decaying face, and happily look forward to seeing the pictures we took (you'll see them as part of the next Daily Muffy, if you're interested). I am suddenly cold and I huddle up under the covers, reading Morley Callaghan short stories and enjoying my return to stability.

I realize that the horrific drive home has almost completely wiped out my memory of what we did in Niagara Falls. Thank goodness we'll have pictures to remind us!

Carstruck

As a constant and unrepentant pedestrian I suppose it's inevitable that I get hit by cars every few years. This morning I was hit for the third time -- I've got a nice scrape on my knee from a license plate -- and as stood amazed at the edge of the road I had a sudden revelation:

I am always hit by drivers who are turning right, either at a stop sign or at a red light. As these people pull up they see a gap in the traffic and they decide to take advantage of it, never coming to a complete stop, jumping quickly out toward the propitious gap...and slamming into ME as I cross the street.

The first time this happened a police car literally RAN OVER MY FOOT. The second time a man -- with his windshield so iced over that he could barely see -- drove six feet with me on his hood before he realized I was there. This morning the homicidal driver was a woman who -- fortunately -- was not talking on her cel phone when she whacked me.

In all three cases I have been fortunate to suffer nothing more than scrapes and bruises. I come away from these accidents far less rattled than the drivers, who have suddenly seen their licenses, reputations, and freedom pass before their eyes. I like to think that by being calm in these situations -- not yelling, not sniffing around for a lawsuit -- I am teaching some people to be better drivers. And maybe, if *I* do something terrible someday, somebody will do the same for ME.

We all make mistakes, of course.

Which brings me to the traffic safety tip of the day. Pedestrians, you should ALWAYS try to make eye contact with drivers before you cross the street, to make sure they SEE you. Sometimes they'll look right through you, and sometimes they're too busy salivating over the God-given traffic gap to actually look in your direction, but you can often avoid pain (or death) by looking for the whites of their eyes first.

An Urge to Skin the Noisy Cat

Oh, jeez. For the last few days my cat has been demanding food at 5:00am. I have ignored her, locked her out of my bedroom, and given her a hard swat on her famous bum, but if anything this morning she was TWICE as bad. And when I finally DID feed her at 7:30am she didn't even EAT any of it, which means she wasn't particularly hungry beforehand.

My cat and I have a "don't give me no guff" relationship; she learned long ago that pestering me doesn't help, and she generally only meows obsessively when she's communicating an urgent message (like "mouse in the vent!" or "radiation cloud!")

But I've noticed, recently, that her needy meowing has slipped the bonds of necessity and become sheer annoying petulance. I think she's becoming a bit senile.

Anyway, this 5am breakfast demand has got to stop, if not least because it probably wakes my neighbour up. But the only way I can stop it is by continuing to ignore her.

A "To Hell With It All!" Weekend

Sometimes -- for chemical, psychological, social, and environmental reasons that I can barely understand -- I find myself feeling SO BITTERLY MISANTHROPIC that I need to have a "to hell with it all" weekend. Like the spoiled, petulant child that I sometimes am, I just want to close the curtains, unplug the phone, turn off the lights, shush the squirrels, and moan in a corner until it all just goes away.

When I'm in the throes of this mood I find myself desperately craving an undefinable something, a medicine or a cure that will make me happy again. Unable to find such a thing I fall back on the second best option: lots of movie rentals and a big bag of Ched-a-Corn.

The thing about Ched-a-Corn is that it makes you physically ill, especially if you start at the bottom of the bag where the puffies have literally melted due to high oil content. My craving for Ched-a-Corn makes me wonder if I'm short-sighted, a masochist, or if I'm merely missing certain essential greases in my diet. In any case it's just the ticket for how I'm feeling.

The movies?

The Invasion

With Nicole Kidman as protagonist I can finally root for the body snatchers. The emotionless nature of the alien replicants will at least prevent them from the curse of syrupy overacting. My heart will always lie with the '70s version (which I should have included in that "scariest movies ever" list I made a few months ago, simply on the basis of sound design alone).

Can you forget Donald Sutherland walking between rows of alien pod trees towards a deserted government landmark, while Veronica Cartwright screams and pulls her hair and rehearses next year's encounter with a Gigerrific alien? I can't. God, that movie freaked me out.

The Corpse Grinders II

I was intrigued by the alien catwoman on the front cover, and then I saw that Liz Renay was in it. She inspired me in a way that only John Waters fans can ever understand. R.I.P.

Constantine

Once again, thanks to Keanu Reeves, I can root for the villains. I picked it because it was alphabetically next in the "horror" section, and also because I enjoyed Constantine's "Swamp Thing" appearances (though I was less impressed with the first Constantine trade paperback, which seemed so DESPERATELY new wave).

Judgement Day: Intelligent Design on Trial

I firmly believe that one of the most insidious forces at work in the modern world is the manipulation of words for dishonest ends. "Intelligent Design" is a case in point, and I rented this documentary simply so I could "top up" my already-bubbling fury.

This is the only one of these movies that I've watched so far. Through my gut-aching Ched-a-Corn haze I can at least say that it made the ID proponents look suitably deluded and/or deceptive, and it's awfully funny to see an actor portraying Michael Behe get totally trashed.

I'd rather see Michael Behe HIMSELF on the hotseat, but he's too smart to expose himself to real scrutiny on film. What a maroon!

Too Much Henry Rollins

On Monday night I attended the weird spectacle of Henry Rollins in Kitchener...almost as weird as Elton John in Kitchener, which happened on the same night. I've never been a Henry Rollins fan -- in fact I've been more annoyed by him than anything else -- but I'd never seen his spoken word and I tried to keep an open mind.

Well, it took a while for him to warm up, and most of the time he was "preaching to the converted." Extolling reproductive rights, global understanding, and "sticking it to the man" was hardly a unique perspective to the crowd who came to see him. In fact the most significant statement he made, I thought, was that he himself is pretty much "the man" nowadays, which was nice to hear him admit at least.

His first ninety minutes were pure gold. Of course, there's such a thing as TOO MUCH gold -- visiting my Italian uncle's rumpus room was enough to make me queasy, for instance -- but Rollins managed to pace himself pretty well, staggering his funny stories with "heartfelt insights." He railed on American politics, patriotism, and isolationism. He poked fun at his own shortcomings -- his inability to have normal interactions with people, his need to always be frantically doing something -- and he tackled the usual suspects of the American right-wing.

He was funniest, though, when he simply told stories about the small children in his extended family circle. His anecdotes about the twelve-year-old daughter of his manager (who speaks like a jaded drag queen and constantly puts Rollins in his place) were the best of the night. I think he's right, little girls ARE potentially excellent liars, and he handled this material PERFECTLY.

But then he said he was going to tell us a "little punk rock story," and in the next ninety minutes I saw the egocentric, self-concerned, disconnected, and not particularly critical part of Henry Rollins, otherwise known as "the fanboy."

In short, this story he told was about Rollins being invited to perform at a very significant benefit show for a band he had always idolized (The Ruts), his extreme anxiety about the event, and how it all turned out well in the end. This would make a good ten-minute anecdote, but it just kept going on...and on...and on. He stuffed it full of colourless reportage about people's names, playing style, and previous affiliations. His insights were shallow and pointless. Since Rollins never tells you in advance how a story will end -- and since his tales perpetually telescope with "And so the next day..." and "That reminds me of..." elements -- the whole Rut story took AN HOUR for him to tell, and it was pointless from beginning to end.

It was unbelievable. People were fidgeting and coughing as we watched him string the story along. It was like being stuck at a dinner party where the host just simply MUST tell you about his WONDERFUL vacation, and each time you think he's coming to the conclusion you find out that his vacation included ANOTHER trip, and then ANOTHER trip. I have never been so bored in my life, and I'm including a lot of dull university lectures. Rollins just didn't seem to understand that he was stretching out "his moment" too long, and that it wasn't really significant to anybody.

Then he told us that he was almost done...and spent an additional half hour telling banal stories about his trip to South Africa. Besides being intrinsically boring, it was almost midnight, it was Monday, and we'd ended up sitting there for over three hours. It was simply too much (and, in terms of substance, WAY too little).

So the fun of the first half was overshadowed by the crushing monotony of the second. I can only assume that Rollins is either testing out new material or that he needs some sort of medication. If you're going to attend this tour make sure you bring a pillow and a good book.

The Unofficial "Torchwood Declassified" Drinking Game

If you find yourself watching the bonus "Torchwood Declassified" DVD in the season one box set, set up the booze and follow these rules. You'll only survive if you're very, very drunk.

• When somebody uses a string of one-word adjectives to describe an episode, take a sip for EVERY adjective.
• If the episode is described as "dark," take two additional sips. If it's "SO dark," finish your drink. If somebody says "it's SO dark," and then laughs, polish off the liquor cabinet.
• When Russel T. Davies, Julie Gardener, or one of the executives tries to explain why the sex and violence is "important to the plot," nod your head knowingly and drink a shot. When this explanation is followed by an extended, exploitative montage of sexy clips from the series, simply admit that you knew it all along.
• Whenever it sounds like a cast member is in a "watch Torchwood" commercial, throw your shot glass at the screen. This doesn't count if the cast member is John Barrowman because he ALWAYS sounds that way.
  
• When a cast member talks about their character in the third person, take only a tiny sip, or you'll quickly lose your eyesight.
• Drink a glass of wine every time somebody is described as "lonely."
• Whenever somebody describes Captain Jack in a way that could equally apply to Doctor Who, drink the entire bottle of wine. Destroy your wine cellar if this is within five minutes of somebody saying that the series premise is totally different from Doctor Who.
• When Russel T. Davies "gushes" about a plot twist, that's okay. When the plot twist is horrible and should never have been conceived, let alone filmed, drink your brandy and write him a nasty, fannish email.
• When John Barrowman is slick, Eve Myles is goofy, Burn Gorman is deadly serious, or Naoko Mori is wide-eyed sincere, take a sip of whatever you're drinking and then ask Gareth David-Lloyd for another, please. When Gareth David-Lloyd appears on the screen and you wonder why you never noticed his teeth before, clasp him tightly like John Barrowman would and say "I'm SO SORRY" in a broken-voiced way.
  

Freeze-a-vu

When I was getting ready for work this morning I noticed that my kitchen floor was awfully cold, but I had so many other things on my mind that I forgot about it. After lunchtime I came home to a freezing apartment and the crashing realization that it was happening again: the furnace had stopped working.

I spent two hellish weeks in November 2006 without heat, in a different building but with the same landlords. I have vivid memories of sleeping under a suffocating mound of blankets, and spending evenings trying to watch television in front of two howling space-heaters. My life ground to a halt back then -- there's just no way to be productive when it's only 12 degrees in your building -- and I DO NOT WANT THAT TO HAPPEN AGAIN.

Fortunately, this recurrence was ridiculous enough to get immediate action from landlord D, who brought me space-heaters and invited me to call him if things got unbearable.

But the problem is, what is REALLY unbearable for me is NOT KNOWING WHAT'S GOING ON. If somebody had told me "we've got a service person coming tomorrow at 10am," I could just moan and deal with it. What I CAN'T deal with is sitting by the telephone waiting for an update.

And landlord B -- who does the repairs -- is not a guy who gives updates. I spent hours, wearing a sweater and a robe and an afghan and a cat, waiting for the telephone to ring...and it didn't. This situation is absolute hell for me, the feeling of powerlessness, at the whim of somebody who doesn't communicate the situation to me.

Something had to be done.

I went down to the basement and stared at the furnace. It was humming quietly. I flicked a switch on the wall and it stopped humming. I opened the furnace up and found an instruction manual, which told me to turn the furnace off for thirty seconds and then turn it on again.

I did this. The furnace buzzed back to life and proceeded to make four feeble popping sounds before going quiet again.

One part of the manual told me to turn off the natural gas and go through a bunch of complicated BTU calculations. I decided not to blow myself up; if it was a natural gas problem, somebody else would have to fix it.

Another part of the manual said that the furnace wouldn't start if its filter was clogged. So I found the filter and pulled it out, and it looked like Frankenstein's table napkin. Since there were no clean filters in the basement I scraped the black gunk off as best I could and put it back into the furnace (upside down, for luck).

I flicked the switch on...and the furnace began to hum like a warming-up kitty. It's been running now for an hour (constantly, because it has a lot of rooms to heat). I'm scared that it'll suddenly stop working again and I'll be back to square one, but maybe...

...just maybe...

...did I fix a furnace? If I didn't have the black gunk on my sweater to prove it I wouldn't believe it myself.

Fury

Coda.

Yes.

I'm furious about the recycling bin thing. Maybe this second, useless post will help diffuse my frustration.

And if you don't know what I'm talking about, simply look below and read it in the context of somebody who is just AMAZED at the obnoxiousness of some people.

PS: I do not hope that people who tip over recycling bins will go to hell; I'm sure their crappy behaviour will catch up to them eventually, if it hasn't already. People who break saplings, however, certainly DO deserve hell, and I hope they get it. In spades.

An Open Letter To People Who Tip Over Recycling Bins

A few months ago the Ontario Powers That Be declared that empty bottles of alcohol were redeemable for a deposit. Whereas before you just recycled them and got no money back, now you could take them to the liquor or beer store and get a paltry sum in return.

I don't have a car so I don't bring my empty liquor bottles back to the store. Sure, I'd like to reclaim my deposit, but not at the expense of carting my bottles all the way uptown. Nope, I still recycle them, and many other people do as well.

So a cottage industry has sprung up: people -- generally homeless, as far as I've seen -- wander through residential areas and take recyclable liquor bottles out of people's bins. That's fine, I'd LOVE for somebody to get my bottles...but there's a catch:

THEY OVERTURN YOUR RECYCLING BINS AND DUMP YOUR STUFF ALL OVER THE GROUND.

The first time this happened to me, I started hiding my liquor bottles under all my pop cans, so they wouldn't be attracted to my bin. But then I'd see some scruffy guy come along and search through the bin, wasting a lot of time to determine whether or not I'd actually hidden anything underneath. And I felt bad for him. I thought, he could make a lot more money if I'd just put my bottles in an obvious place.

This week, my bleeding heart got the better of me. I put all of my Christmas liquor bottles into one half of the bin, and then put all my cans in the other half, and even SEPARATED the two sections with recyclable cardboard. I figured that this would help the hard-up people to quickly find what they're looking for, without needing to search through or -- as some of them do -- dump everything out and not put it back in.

So tonight I come home and discover that my carefully laid-out bin has been dumped upside down, my cans scattered up and down the street, and my liquor bottles claimed. I had to walk up and down the street in the rain, collecting cans and cardboard and putting them back in the bin, because some jerk decided -- out of obnoxiousness, I'm sure -- to dump the bin out onto the street. And take away 75 cents worth of bottles.

I will not reward people for doing this. Some of them are sweet and are willing to root through the bin to find what they're looking for, but a significant number of people are not. So I'm going to start throwing my empties in the garbage: end of story.

Bad for the planet? Yes. Vindictive? Only partially. If they stop finding bottles in my bin they will stop turning the bin upside down -- it hasn't been dumped since the last time I hid my bottles -- and I don't want to reward people for being a nuisance. Sure I want them to have that money, but not if they're going to be jerks in the process.

How frustrating is it to be punished for being NICE? Very much, yes indeed. There is simply no excuse for throwing garbage around on a person's lawn.

Strange, Bigoted Interjections

Maybe this shouldn't shock me -- I tend to move in a very educated, socially-capable, easy-going crowd -- but twice this past week I've encountered people who have emitted strange, bigoted interjections in social situations.

I'll be the first to admit that negative generalizations are easy to acquire; when I talk about "meatheads" and "hootchies," I'm laying a negative stereotype on people I hardly know, and I need to constantly remind myself not to jump to conclusions. But I like to think that the stereotypes I fall prey to are based on less superficial evidence than religion, skin colour, or gender.

I'm not going to get into an in-depth discussion about bigotry -- since the causes and effects differ depending on the person who says them, the setting they're in, and the target of their venom -- but it seems to me that people who make socially-obnoxious, bigoted comments are probably responding to some combination of three things:

• Ignorance. They just haven't thought things through, or they're basing their assumptions on inadequate information.
• Anger. They've got some sort of chip on their shoulder, and they focus their anger on some group of people in order to direct it away from themselves.
• Social Inadequacy. They don't know how to attract positive attention so -- like schoolkids -- they "act out" and try to shock people. And they probably aren't aware of how they're perceived when they do this.

How do you confront somebody who does this sort of thing around you? That depends. If they're ignorant, you may be able to point out the flaws in their reasoning. But if they're angry or if they are socially handicapped, arguing with them is probably what they're HOPING you do...then they can get angry at YOU, or revel in your attention.