Today my mother came by to help me fix up my foliage. I've kept it all wet and I've even done some weeding, but there's no substitute for a green-thumb matriarch with a bag full of mulch.
On a beautiful day and under a beautiful sky we worked at separate tasks, drinking and not really speaking. She did the heavy lifting, being only about five feet tall but actually having a functional shoulder. I did the first REAL weeding I've ever done in my life, digging out the grass that's sapping the life from my burgeoning maple trees and my bleeding hearts. It's amazing how tenacious grass can be, it spreads a thick network of tiny roots through the soil. It's almost a shame to pull up such a capable weed.
After my mother left and I was standing on my patio admiring her work, the dog arrived, a huge bouncy orange creature who barked playfully at the children next door. It had come running into their back yard, followed closely by Pearl, a neighbour I'd only previously seen dancing during an impromptu long weekend celebration on our mutual fire route.
Pearl was talking to the small children, and I found myself drawn to the dog. "Can I pet him?" I asked, and suddenly I realized that dogs are "people bridges" who entice reserved people into talking with each other.
Through this dog I met not just Pearl, but also the kids next door and their mother...I don't think their mother is my biggest fan as of yet, but I'm convinced that it's 99% due to the usual problems with neighbours: we haven't spoken yet. I waved at her across the yard and she smiled genuinely and waved back, and wished I hadn't had that second drink with my mom.
Sensing that the children wanted to talk to me a bit, I turned to one of them and said "When I first saw this dog I thought it was yours."
"No," he sighed sadly. "We don't have anything...except for a baby named Jackson."
So I think that people who move into a new neighbourhood should be able to RENT dogs, so we can stand around and wait for somebody to say "How old is he? Can I pet him? What's his name? How big will he get?" followed shortly by "Hi, my name is..."
Saturday, May 01, 2010
Eat Your Eskimo Pie with the Six Brown Brothers While Playing Tops and Anagrams: A 1930s Trend Retrospective
The New Yorker was in a tizzy about humanism throughout 1930, as the philosophy had suddenly come back into vogue and gained national attention. Thanks to Charles Francis Potter and the establishment of The First Humanist Society of New York, discussing humanism became a frequent pastime among the New York intelligentsia. You can't pick up an issue of the magazine during this period without reading stories and sly jabs about the debates, the propaganda, and the reactionary religious response to the movement.
In the May 31, 1930 issue, Donald Moffat wrote "The Crime at Mrs. Ward's," in which a young man -- fed up with all the latest fads -- actually SHOOTS the guests at a swanky party when they are unable to tell him what humanism is. This supposedly indicates that lots of people gave lip-service to humanism at the time, and they loved to talk about it, but none of them had the faintest idea what it was all about (which seems strange to me, frankly).
Anyway, the interesting thing about the story isn't the heavy-handed plot, it's the long list of PREVIOUS crazes that are presented. Want to know what the highbrow fads were in New York between 1905 and 1930? Here you go.
In the May 31, 1930 issue, Donald Moffat wrote "The Crime at Mrs. Ward's," in which a young man -- fed up with all the latest fads -- actually SHOOTS the guests at a swanky party when they are unable to tell him what humanism is. This supposedly indicates that lots of people gave lip-service to humanism at the time, and they loved to talk about it, but none of them had the faintest idea what it was all about (which seems strange to me, frankly).
Anyway, the interesting thing about the story isn't the heavy-handed plot, it's the long list of PREVIOUS crazes that are presented. Want to know what the highbrow fads were in New York between 1905 and 1930? Here you go.
...my friend acquired a leather-burning set, and happily joined the nation in burning Indian heads on leather--he was too young for the first ping-pong wave. He shouted 'Uneeda Biscuit' to street-car conductors and cabbies, 'Get a horse' to stalled motorists, and said 'ZuZu' to the groceryman. He was among the first of the 1906 diabolo addicts, and as the years rolled by he similarly took to his bosom put-and-take tops, Eskimo Pie, mah-jongg, Coué, scofflawry, categories (or Guggenheim), Queen Marie, crossword puzzles, sex, anagrams, badminton, Yo-Yo tops, and backgammon, as each in turn came into fashion. He seideled to Hoboken and taxied to Harlem when those were the things to do, and wrote little pieces on the social, artistic, and economic significance of....Charlie Chaplin, the Six Brown Brothers, short skirts, Joe Jackson, Lillian Gish, Will Rogers, the return of the corset, Rudy Valée, 'The Well of Loneliness,' Amos 'n' Andy, D. H. Lawrence, Krazy Kat, long skirts, Paul Whiteman, and kindred modern phenomena. He returned from France last summer wearing a beret and espadrilles, and he'd thrown away the top part of his bathing suit.Whew! Some of them are self-explanatory. Here are my thoughts on the others that require a bit more explanation:
- Uneeda Biscuit: I assume this was just a joke on the name of the biscuit -- "Hey, you need a biscuit" -- along the lines of other knee-slappers at the time like "Do you have Prince Albert in a can? Then you'd better let him out!"
- Zuzu: A ginger snap brand. Their advertisements said "For a bang-up time take five cents to the grocery and ask for Zuzu ginger snaps. You'll hit the mark every time!" I guess this was similar to the hordes of people who walk into Tim Horton's and say "Rrrrrroll up the rim to win!" It's the adoption of a catchphrase.
- Seidel: I have no idea what this means. A seidel was a glass of beer, but how this relates to traveling to Hoboken I don't know.
- I also don't get the "beret and espadrilles" and "threw away the top half of his bathing suit" references.
The Great Duckling Rescue of 2010
I didn't participate in last year's Great Duckling Rescue, because my shoulder was an awful mess and I didn't want to aggravate it. Workmate Dave did the honours in 2009.
This year I dived back into the bushes and it was Dave's turn to stand and laugh (and also to stop me from breaking my neck after an ill-advised jump on the stairs). After the problems of past rescues this one went pretty smoothly.
First, the preliminaries: after four years of this ritual, mama duck no longer considers us a threat, and when it's time for the babies to leave their impossible nest she actually comes to the front door of the office and quacks. Then she takes an enormous, smelly dump on the steps (presumably because she's been holding it in during the last few days of intense nesting action).
This year, though, she retreated back to the nest by the time I got out there, and she absolutely REFUSED to let me near the babies. Maybe she realized that one of them wasn't ready to go yet. I made a few half-hearted attempts to approach her, only to have her hiss ominously, which is pretty spooky when you're wedged face to face with her among the gridlocked shrubbery.
Half an hour later she was back out and down on the lawn, quacking for her cheeping babies to come down. Time for us to get to work.
I've discovered a good technique for trapping ducklings in our work planter: I push myself deep into the torturous foliage, with my hands free to scoop the huddled birds out of their nesting corner, and with my left foot against the wall to block their escape. Any ducklings that got past me were ably trapped by workmate Mark, who participated for the first time and probably managed to totally destroy his office casual attire.
Our other innovation was a stiff recyclable grocery bag, which we could put on top of the bushes and drop ducklings into as we caught them. Previously we had to climb partway out of the planter and drop them one-by-one work workmate Aurora far below, which allowed the remaining ducklings to reassemble in a more remote spot and also resulted in more than one baby falling beak-over-tailfeathers into the flowers on the front lawn.
We got eleven of them out and the mother walked toward the creek with her entourage, but one poor duckling was unable to keep up; maybe he was a runt, or maybe he was damaged or deformed, but he seemed to have trouble walking quickly. It was absolutely HEARTBREAKING to watch that poor little baby trying EVERYTHING to catch the herd, occasionally falling helplessly on its back and peeping terribly.
Amidst the usual unhelpful and pointless comments from passing coworkers -- "Nature's cruel!" "Natural selection!" "Let them die!" -- I wondered whether I could adopt this bird. But I've got a cat who LOVES to eat cute little things, and you can't housebreak a duck, and I've got enough things to worry about in my life as it is. So instead I picked him up and helped him along whenever I could, and when he finally got into the water he seemed able to swim well enough to his mother, so maybe he'll live.
It's inevitable that every year a few ducks will hatch several hours later, requiring us to catch them and take them down to the creek until we find the mother. This year, though, it was just a single bird that hatched late...and the parents actually came back for it! I don't know what they'd done with the rest of the brood -- probably left it with an aunt or something -- but after we dropped the latecomer down the three of them waddled back to the water. This is the first time I've seen the mother come back, and the ONLY time I've EVER seen the deadbeat father get involved.
Maybe he's off the booze and is trying to make a second go at family life?
This year I dived back into the bushes and it was Dave's turn to stand and laugh (and also to stop me from breaking my neck after an ill-advised jump on the stairs). After the problems of past rescues this one went pretty smoothly.
First, the preliminaries: after four years of this ritual, mama duck no longer considers us a threat, and when it's time for the babies to leave their impossible nest she actually comes to the front door of the office and quacks. Then she takes an enormous, smelly dump on the steps (presumably because she's been holding it in during the last few days of intense nesting action).
This year, though, she retreated back to the nest by the time I got out there, and she absolutely REFUSED to let me near the babies. Maybe she realized that one of them wasn't ready to go yet. I made a few half-hearted attempts to approach her, only to have her hiss ominously, which is pretty spooky when you're wedged face to face with her among the gridlocked shrubbery.
Half an hour later she was back out and down on the lawn, quacking for her cheeping babies to come down. Time for us to get to work.
I've discovered a good technique for trapping ducklings in our work planter: I push myself deep into the torturous foliage, with my hands free to scoop the huddled birds out of their nesting corner, and with my left foot against the wall to block their escape. Any ducklings that got past me were ably trapped by workmate Mark, who participated for the first time and probably managed to totally destroy his office casual attire.
Our other innovation was a stiff recyclable grocery bag, which we could put on top of the bushes and drop ducklings into as we caught them. Previously we had to climb partway out of the planter and drop them one-by-one work workmate Aurora far below, which allowed the remaining ducklings to reassemble in a more remote spot and also resulted in more than one baby falling beak-over-tailfeathers into the flowers on the front lawn.
We got eleven of them out and the mother walked toward the creek with her entourage, but one poor duckling was unable to keep up; maybe he was a runt, or maybe he was damaged or deformed, but he seemed to have trouble walking quickly. It was absolutely HEARTBREAKING to watch that poor little baby trying EVERYTHING to catch the herd, occasionally falling helplessly on its back and peeping terribly.
Amidst the usual unhelpful and pointless comments from passing coworkers -- "Nature's cruel!" "Natural selection!" "Let them die!" -- I wondered whether I could adopt this bird. But I've got a cat who LOVES to eat cute little things, and you can't housebreak a duck, and I've got enough things to worry about in my life as it is. So instead I picked him up and helped him along whenever I could, and when he finally got into the water he seemed able to swim well enough to his mother, so maybe he'll live.
It's inevitable that every year a few ducks will hatch several hours later, requiring us to catch them and take them down to the creek until we find the mother. This year, though, it was just a single bird that hatched late...and the parents actually came back for it! I don't know what they'd done with the rest of the brood -- probably left it with an aunt or something -- but after we dropped the latecomer down the three of them waddled back to the water. This is the first time I've seen the mother come back, and the ONLY time I've EVER seen the deadbeat father get involved.
Maybe he's off the booze and is trying to make a second go at family life?
Dunjonquest: The Curse of Ra
Rah rah rah! Here are the maps for the third and final expansion module in the original "Apshai" trilogy, "The Curse of Ra."
Level One: The Well of Forever
This simple level is a nice introduction to both the game and the overriding Egyptian theme, and it only gets hairy once you reach the pit.
Level Two: The Sphinx
No annoying riddles in this one. The actual MONSTER sphinx is something you meet right near the beginning. The fun part is enjoying their attempt at creating a level which is actually SHAPED like a sphinx, complete with paws, ears, and a tail.
Level Three: The Pyramid
And what a huge place it is, too! Here's the exterior and interior:
but you only reach those inner rooms when you go partway up and then return through the FIRST passage:
Compared to all the other levels, this one provides the most opportunities for increasing your stats (in the sandy rooms to the north). Watch out for the moving statues.
Level Four: Temple of Ra
Because the Apshai engine didn't allow for triggers or conditions of any kind, attempts to convey a complicated causal environment were bound to falter now and then...if you enter a room LATER that the level designers assumed you'd enter much EARLIER, for instance, you might read a room description that tries to evoke a progressive narrative by referring to a room you haven't been in yet. Causality gets reversed. It feels weird.
This is my way of saying that if you proceed through the levels in the way they HOPED you would, you'll feel nicely submerged in the action. If you DON'T, however, then you might feel like you're watching the episodes of a TV series in the wrong order.
Fortunately I played "Temple of Ra" in the "correct" way, so I was baffled by the "mysterious force" in the secret area following the Temple Room. I do suggest you play through the base of the Ra statue before going to the upper section.
And after you're done...that's it for "Temple of Apshai!" But don't despair, the "Hellfire Warrior" sequel comes next.
Level One: The Well of Forever
This simple level is a nice introduction to both the game and the overriding Egyptian theme, and it only gets hairy once you reach the pit.
Level Two: The Sphinx
No annoying riddles in this one. The actual MONSTER sphinx is something you meet right near the beginning. The fun part is enjoying their attempt at creating a level which is actually SHAPED like a sphinx, complete with paws, ears, and a tail.
Level Three: The Pyramid
And what a huge place it is, too! Here's the exterior and interior:
but you only reach those inner rooms when you go partway up and then return through the FIRST passage:
Compared to all the other levels, this one provides the most opportunities for increasing your stats (in the sandy rooms to the north). Watch out for the moving statues.Level Four: Temple of Ra
Because the Apshai engine didn't allow for triggers or conditions of any kind, attempts to convey a complicated causal environment were bound to falter now and then...if you enter a room LATER that the level designers assumed you'd enter much EARLIER, for instance, you might read a room description that tries to evoke a progressive narrative by referring to a room you haven't been in yet. Causality gets reversed. It feels weird.
This is my way of saying that if you proceed through the levels in the way they HOPED you would, you'll feel nicely submerged in the action. If you DON'T, however, then you might feel like you're watching the episodes of a TV series in the wrong order.
Fortunately I played "Temple of Ra" in the "correct" way, so I was baffled by the "mysterious force" in the secret area following the Temple Room. I do suggest you play through the base of the Ra statue before going to the upper section.
And after you're done...that's it for "Temple of Apshai!" But don't despair, the "Hellfire Warrior" sequel comes next.
Friday, April 30, 2010
The Collected Stories of Elizabeth Bowen
In January I read an extremely positive review of Elizabeth Bowen's short fiction in a 1930s New Yorker magazine. Unable to find any of her short stories at the time, I instead read "The Heat of the Day," which I found tedious in its obsessive examination of people's thought processes. In short, I was impressed by her approach and her zeal but I found the book extremely annoying.
Now, after a long slog, I'm finishing off "The Collected Stories of Elizabeth Bowen," which apparently contains all of the short fiction she ever wrote...and let me tell you, she wrote a lot. Many of these stories were ones that the New Yorker reviewer raved about. How has it been?
Complete collections of a prolific writer's short fiction should come with a big warning, which unfortunately I know I'd disregard anyway: "Do not read all these stories in a row. They were not meant to be read this way. They previously appeared in diverse periodicals and smaller collections. You have been warned."
So I'm warning you: just as the complete short fiction of Vladimir Nabokov and Jorge Luis Borges can drive you insane, so can the complete short fiction of Elizabeth Bowen. Not because it's BAD -- it's brilliant, in fact -- but just because there's too much of it.
And like the complete works of ANY writer I found myself noticing the trends in her work, most particularly:
And the hearts of these stories are devastating, especially the ones written during the '20s and '30s. Most of them are about the slow, mundane grind of everyday relationships and the hidden compulsions that modernists so loved to write about. Bowen has a particular ability for troubled children who are so lifelike that you almost want to turn away. The precocious Maria (in the story of the same name) the crying little boy with his ducks (in "Tears, Idle Tears") and the absolutely doomed Hermione (in "The Easter Egg Party") are permanently stuck with me.
Bowen's style isn't one that relies on an all-encompassing statement to make its point; instead, the drama builds and builds through successive examples, leaving you squirming with the terrible, truthful awkwardness of it all. Here's a description of Hermione, viewed through the eyes of a pair of aunts who are trying a last-ditch attempt to integrate her with other children.
Elizabeth Bowen writes almost all of her stories about these situations.
Then there's the other, somewhat less satisfying trend, the one that the New Yorker reviewer had particularly liked: the ghost stories. These appear from out of nowhere in the collection and they disappear just as quickly and bafflingly. Why did Bowen write about ghosts as often as she did?
Well, most of the ghosts are catalysts for the emotional outpourings of her characters, and likewise the reader is uncertain as to whether they're REAL ghosts or not...except in two stories, one of which (Green Holly) is surprisingly gruesome.
Unfortunately Bowen had an occasional tendency to doddle, in which case her longer stories end up in the same vein as "The Heat of the Day," seeming directionless, obsessive, and far too inward-looking. Her writing was at its best at ten pages or less. I found every story that was longer than 15 pages to be virtually unreadable (and believe me, I have a high threshold for this sort of thing).
Rather than tell you to go out and read the whole book (which I don't recommend) or tell you NOT to read her work (which would be a disservice), I suggest you pick up her Collected Stories and only read the ones from the '20s and '30s, and only the shorter ones. If you have a personal interest in the London Blitz then you should read the War-Time stories as well (and at least give "Mysterious Kôr" a try, which harkens back to her best creepy character studies).
If any Elizabeth Bowen fans read this, please let me know which novels YOU would suggest. I have another one lying around someplace but I don't think I can handle it right at the moment.
Now, after a long slog, I'm finishing off "The Collected Stories of Elizabeth Bowen," which apparently contains all of the short fiction she ever wrote...and let me tell you, she wrote a lot. Many of these stories were ones that the New Yorker reviewer raved about. How has it been?
Complete collections of a prolific writer's short fiction should come with a big warning, which unfortunately I know I'd disregard anyway: "Do not read all these stories in a row. They were not meant to be read this way. They previously appeared in diverse periodicals and smaller collections. You have been warned."
So I'm warning you: just as the complete short fiction of Vladimir Nabokov and Jorge Luis Borges can drive you insane, so can the complete short fiction of Elizabeth Bowen. Not because it's BAD -- it's brilliant, in fact -- but just because there's too much of it.
And like the complete works of ANY writer I found myself noticing the trends in her work, most particularly:
- The trauma of moving to different houses, particularly among the upper classes. Her characters suffer the sale of the ancestral homes and the purchasing of newer, awkward, unpleasant homes which turn out of have sweaty plaster.
- The trauma of living off another person's charity, especially when the other person isn't charitable and -- in reality -- just keeps people around to traumatize them.
- The strange boredom of off-season luxury resorts.
- The thought processes of alienated, troublesome children.
- Aunts. Everybody's got an aunt who is the most significant secondary character.
And the hearts of these stories are devastating, especially the ones written during the '20s and '30s. Most of them are about the slow, mundane grind of everyday relationships and the hidden compulsions that modernists so loved to write about. Bowen has a particular ability for troubled children who are so lifelike that you almost want to turn away. The precocious Maria (in the story of the same name) the crying little boy with his ducks (in "Tears, Idle Tears") and the absolutely doomed Hermione (in "The Easter Egg Party") are permanently stuck with me.
Bowen's style isn't one that relies on an all-encompassing statement to make its point; instead, the drama builds and builds through successive examples, leaving you squirming with the terrible, truthful awkwardness of it all. Here's a description of Hermione, viewed through the eyes of a pair of aunts who are trying a last-ditch attempt to integrate her with other children.
She shook hands with a rigid arm, on which all the bracelets jumped. She looked straight at everyone, but from a moody height: what was evident was not just fear or shyness but a desperate, cut-off haughtiness. In her eyes existed a world of alien experience. The jolly, tallish girls with their chubbed hair, the straddling little boys with their bare knees, apt to frown at the grass between their sandshoes, rebounded from that imperious stare. Either she cared too much or she did not care a fig for them -- and in either case they did not know how to meet her.And that's before things get bad. You see, it's both normal and abnormal, expected and unexpected: it's the odd part of people and everyday life that you try not to look closely at.
Elizabeth Bowen writes almost all of her stories about these situations.
Then there's the other, somewhat less satisfying trend, the one that the New Yorker reviewer had particularly liked: the ghost stories. These appear from out of nowhere in the collection and they disappear just as quickly and bafflingly. Why did Bowen write about ghosts as often as she did?
Well, most of the ghosts are catalysts for the emotional outpourings of her characters, and likewise the reader is uncertain as to whether they're REAL ghosts or not...except in two stories, one of which (Green Holly) is surprisingly gruesome.
Unfortunately Bowen had an occasional tendency to doddle, in which case her longer stories end up in the same vein as "The Heat of the Day," seeming directionless, obsessive, and far too inward-looking. Her writing was at its best at ten pages or less. I found every story that was longer than 15 pages to be virtually unreadable (and believe me, I have a high threshold for this sort of thing).
Rather than tell you to go out and read the whole book (which I don't recommend) or tell you NOT to read her work (which would be a disservice), I suggest you pick up her Collected Stories and only read the ones from the '20s and '30s, and only the shorter ones. If you have a personal interest in the London Blitz then you should read the War-Time stories as well (and at least give "Mysterious Kôr" a try, which harkens back to her best creepy character studies).
If any Elizabeth Bowen fans read this, please let me know which novels YOU would suggest. I have another one lying around someplace but I don't think I can handle it right at the moment.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Jobs: WATFAC
In the summer of '90 I had an amazing opportunity that I mostly squandered: I spent a few months working at WATFAC, the Waterloo Foundation for the Advancement of Computing.
I got into this because my computer science teacher at the time (Savio Wong) recommended me for their yearly student work program, which required some level of aptitude for computer programming. Not knowing C I was at a bit of a disadvantage, but I WAS a little BASIC wiz and I had some experience with dBase III, which would turn out to be the big asset.
What they wanted us students to do was to learn how to use the new software they were developing: Application Creation Made Easy (ACME). It was -- for the time -- an amazing package that integrated with their WATCOM SQL engine and a specially built "Foundation" library, and was supposed to do exactly what it said: make it easy for companies to create applications, particularly the types that were front ends for data storage.
Basically, you built a database using WATCOM SQL, and then you went into ACME to add a user interface for it. This interface was -- strangely and perhaps fatally -- built in a spreadsheet, where each cel represented a page. It was up to you -- the application developer -- to place fields for displaying and entering data, and buttons that the user could press, and write the behind-the-scenes code that controlled the flow throughout the program.
The first thing *I* did with it was create an interactive adventure that allowed the player to explore the WATFAC building, because it was a very strange place to work. Formerly located on the corner of University and Phillip (where "The Marble Slab Creamery" is now), it was a refurbished bank, complete with a vault in the basement where we ate our lunch. The whole place was a rigged-up nightmare of tiny rooms and running cables.
In addition we were occasionally overseen by Wes Graham, patron saint of Waterloo computing, wonderful and just a tad eccentric. During his bizarre orientation speech he used an "onion" metaphor to describe the way layers of information are peeled back, but then he got frustrated when he realized that onions don't have the cores that his metaphor demanded. This lead to us lowly co-ops -- so often with free time on our hands -- creating a grand mythology: Wes didn't want to "advance computing," that was just a front for his REAL project: the sinister development of a peach/onion hybrid called "The Ponion."
All of the games, drawings, and stories we made were based around the Ponion mythology. This was better than what the co-op University students were doing: playing battlechess across the local area network. WE never got caught (because our fun and games were created with company tools and looked like work) but when THEY got caught there was absolute hell to pay (and a memorable lecture to the whole group about teamwork and work ethic).
My problem was that I'd been placed in the only large room in WATFAC, a conference area that I called "the circus." This room hosted about twenty computers and was where all the nerdiest computer students were...and me. These guys were hardcore, they smelled a bit, they had loud voices and yawking laughs; the archetypal computer nerds. Since I was several years younger and I DID NOT KNOW C, there were frequent attempts to denigrate me, and equally frequent attempts by me to explain to them that they should try to straighten out their hygiene and their social problems, and never any work getting done because they were all yelling about the jokes in the latest Math newsletter.
Anyway, our REAL purpose at the company was twofold: to be beta testers for the ACME software, and to write full-fledged applications using it that could be demonstrated to local companies like Bell Telephone and the Waterloo Public Library. We were each randomly assigned an application that a company had shown interest in, and unfortunately I got the one I was least passionate about: a tracking program for expense accounts, under the watchful eyes of a local insurance company. It also had the worst name of them all; while others got names such as "InfoBook" and "InfoList," mine was "InfoExp." Difficult to say, even more difficult to enjoy doing.
What I remember most about this process was the attention given to the user experience, particularly in relation to hotkeys. There were few standardized hotkeys back then -- F1 for help was the only function key that had any real meaning across programs -- and the management quickly saw the necessity of standardization. So everybody brainstormed and came up with hard-and-fast rules for what each function key would do in every "Info" program, and we stuck to it.
Another thing I remember about the user experience was trying to organize data onscreen in a way that was friendly AND informative. While the other kids in "the circus" were outperforming each other trying to hack the ACME boot program with C in order to add esoteric and impossible-to-maintain features, I introduced my one innovation: ASCII graphics to create boxes around lists and to separate data from instruction. Simple and effective, but nobody had thought of it before. Within days everybody had a sheet of ASCII codes at their desks.
At the end of it all we had to give presentations of our programs to the companies themselves. I think I've blocked my presentation from memory -- not bad, but not great either -- but I DO remember the presentation that Mike gave.
Mike was the most obnoxious co-op there -- every day he'd make an endless string of bad computer jokes, along the lines of "Database engine won't start? Pour some gas in it! Hyuk hyuk hyuk! Right into the floppy drive! Hyuk hyuk!" -- and his application was for book filing and reference. He used to brag about how fantastic his presentation would be, and when he stood up there in front of the Waterloo Public Library board I saw an obnoxious, pushy braggart become a confused and stuttering fool. Plus all the books in his sample database were by Gary Gygax. Fail.
Eventually the job was over. I got a nice paycheck, a nice evaluation, and a nice reference, plus a free copy of ACME that I used as supplementary income (by creating a locker assignment application for our highschool).
What I remember most, however, is something I haven't even touched on: it was the first time I lived away from home. The parents of my friend Jeff -- who was also in the program -- owned student housing in the university ghetto, and they allowed Jeff and I to stay in an empty house while they renovated it. I remember many evenings mowing the lawn and painting the railings.
Looking back, it seems to me that I enjoyed this "moving out" experiment very much. My parents would drop in occasionally, and I spent some time wandering around the city and hanging out with Waterloo friends. This was when some women had been sexually attacked on the university campus, and I remember little groups of calm vigilantes wandering around campus and checking student IDs.
I also remember the first time I learned not to leave a kettle boiling when you leave for work. I remember playing Dragon Spirit obsessively at Flynn's arcade during lunch hour -- just to escape the airless, windowless lunch-vault -- and also that my Kate Bush obsession had reached its peak: my paychecks were going to vinyl bootlegs from Encore Records, and I picked up my first Peter Gabriel album (III) when I learned that Bush had done vocals for it. My mind was blown.
Now WATFAC is gone, and WATCOM is only really remembered for their compiler (though children of The ICON will remember WATCOM BASIC). Looking back, I think that ACME failed because it was released around the same time as Visual BASIC, and while ACME was more powerful it was also much harder to use. I'd love to see the program again someday.
And Wes Graham? When I went to the University of Waterloo many years later I was thrilled to see him as a "special guest" in a FASS show, playing a janitor. Everybody cheered. Now there is a road named after him.
Bless you, Wes, and your elusive Ponion.
I got into this because my computer science teacher at the time (Savio Wong) recommended me for their yearly student work program, which required some level of aptitude for computer programming. Not knowing C I was at a bit of a disadvantage, but I WAS a little BASIC wiz and I had some experience with dBase III, which would turn out to be the big asset.
What they wanted us students to do was to learn how to use the new software they were developing: Application Creation Made Easy (ACME). It was -- for the time -- an amazing package that integrated with their WATCOM SQL engine and a specially built "Foundation" library, and was supposed to do exactly what it said: make it easy for companies to create applications, particularly the types that were front ends for data storage.
Basically, you built a database using WATCOM SQL, and then you went into ACME to add a user interface for it. This interface was -- strangely and perhaps fatally -- built in a spreadsheet, where each cel represented a page. It was up to you -- the application developer -- to place fields for displaying and entering data, and buttons that the user could press, and write the behind-the-scenes code that controlled the flow throughout the program.
The first thing *I* did with it was create an interactive adventure that allowed the player to explore the WATFAC building, because it was a very strange place to work. Formerly located on the corner of University and Phillip (where "The Marble Slab Creamery" is now), it was a refurbished bank, complete with a vault in the basement where we ate our lunch. The whole place was a rigged-up nightmare of tiny rooms and running cables.
In addition we were occasionally overseen by Wes Graham, patron saint of Waterloo computing, wonderful and just a tad eccentric. During his bizarre orientation speech he used an "onion" metaphor to describe the way layers of information are peeled back, but then he got frustrated when he realized that onions don't have the cores that his metaphor demanded. This lead to us lowly co-ops -- so often with free time on our hands -- creating a grand mythology: Wes didn't want to "advance computing," that was just a front for his REAL project: the sinister development of a peach/onion hybrid called "The Ponion."
All of the games, drawings, and stories we made were based around the Ponion mythology. This was better than what the co-op University students were doing: playing battlechess across the local area network. WE never got caught (because our fun and games were created with company tools and looked like work) but when THEY got caught there was absolute hell to pay (and a memorable lecture to the whole group about teamwork and work ethic).
My problem was that I'd been placed in the only large room in WATFAC, a conference area that I called "the circus." This room hosted about twenty computers and was where all the nerdiest computer students were...and me. These guys were hardcore, they smelled a bit, they had loud voices and yawking laughs; the archetypal computer nerds. Since I was several years younger and I DID NOT KNOW C, there were frequent attempts to denigrate me, and equally frequent attempts by me to explain to them that they should try to straighten out their hygiene and their social problems, and never any work getting done because they were all yelling about the jokes in the latest Math newsletter.
Anyway, our REAL purpose at the company was twofold: to be beta testers for the ACME software, and to write full-fledged applications using it that could be demonstrated to local companies like Bell Telephone and the Waterloo Public Library. We were each randomly assigned an application that a company had shown interest in, and unfortunately I got the one I was least passionate about: a tracking program for expense accounts, under the watchful eyes of a local insurance company. It also had the worst name of them all; while others got names such as "InfoBook" and "InfoList," mine was "InfoExp." Difficult to say, even more difficult to enjoy doing.
What I remember most about this process was the attention given to the user experience, particularly in relation to hotkeys. There were few standardized hotkeys back then -- F1 for help was the only function key that had any real meaning across programs -- and the management quickly saw the necessity of standardization. So everybody brainstormed and came up with hard-and-fast rules for what each function key would do in every "Info" program, and we stuck to it.
Another thing I remember about the user experience was trying to organize data onscreen in a way that was friendly AND informative. While the other kids in "the circus" were outperforming each other trying to hack the ACME boot program with C in order to add esoteric and impossible-to-maintain features, I introduced my one innovation: ASCII graphics to create boxes around lists and to separate data from instruction. Simple and effective, but nobody had thought of it before. Within days everybody had a sheet of ASCII codes at their desks.
At the end of it all we had to give presentations of our programs to the companies themselves. I think I've blocked my presentation from memory -- not bad, but not great either -- but I DO remember the presentation that Mike gave.
Mike was the most obnoxious co-op there -- every day he'd make an endless string of bad computer jokes, along the lines of "Database engine won't start? Pour some gas in it! Hyuk hyuk hyuk! Right into the floppy drive! Hyuk hyuk!" -- and his application was for book filing and reference. He used to brag about how fantastic his presentation would be, and when he stood up there in front of the Waterloo Public Library board I saw an obnoxious, pushy braggart become a confused and stuttering fool. Plus all the books in his sample database were by Gary Gygax. Fail.
Eventually the job was over. I got a nice paycheck, a nice evaluation, and a nice reference, plus a free copy of ACME that I used as supplementary income (by creating a locker assignment application for our highschool).
What I remember most, however, is something I haven't even touched on: it was the first time I lived away from home. The parents of my friend Jeff -- who was also in the program -- owned student housing in the university ghetto, and they allowed Jeff and I to stay in an empty house while they renovated it. I remember many evenings mowing the lawn and painting the railings.
Looking back, it seems to me that I enjoyed this "moving out" experiment very much. My parents would drop in occasionally, and I spent some time wandering around the city and hanging out with Waterloo friends. This was when some women had been sexually attacked on the university campus, and I remember little groups of calm vigilantes wandering around campus and checking student IDs.
I also remember the first time I learned not to leave a kettle boiling when you leave for work. I remember playing Dragon Spirit obsessively at Flynn's arcade during lunch hour -- just to escape the airless, windowless lunch-vault -- and also that my Kate Bush obsession had reached its peak: my paychecks were going to vinyl bootlegs from Encore Records, and I picked up my first Peter Gabriel album (III) when I learned that Bush had done vocals for it. My mind was blown.
Now WATFAC is gone, and WATCOM is only really remembered for their compiler (though children of The ICON will remember WATCOM BASIC). Looking back, I think that ACME failed because it was released around the same time as Visual BASIC, and while ACME was more powerful it was also much harder to use. I'd love to see the program again someday.
And Wes Graham? When I went to the University of Waterloo many years later I was thrilled to see him as a "special guest" in a FASS show, playing a janitor. Everybody cheered. Now there is a road named after him.
Bless you, Wes, and your elusive Ponion.
Monday, April 26, 2010
A Cigar for the Battered Husband
The P. Lorillard Company advertised these "little cigars" with an amusing ad campaign. While the name "Between the Acts" suggested a person who wanted a quick smoke during a theater intermission, the advertisements focused on more entertaining moments when the protagonist had very little time to spare.I can't remember any of the previous ones right now, but I get a kick out of this one from May 17, 1930. There are so many cute symbols involved. I'm not sure why he has a feather in his tophat, but he's obviously the drunk husband coming home and trying to sneak into the apartment without his wife seeing him. He's holding his shoes in his hand so he can move silently, and because he's smoking a "Between the Acts" cigar we know he only has a few seconds before his wife clobbers him with her rolling pin.
I particularly like the way she's rolling up her sleeve in the background, and the fact that you can't see her face. This is such a fun, ominous, and perfectly-designed image!
PS: When will people stop recognizing the rolling pin as a weapon wielded by disgruntled housewives? I'm not even sure how *I* recognize it, except that it was probably a staple of cartoons throughout the '40s and '50s. Like so many symbols of the times, the cartoons serve as an unintended method of feeding the public consciousness. Someday children will only recognize trees because they saw them in Merrie Melodies.
PPS: Who was the mysterious artist "F.G.C."? I'm unable to find out. I've certainly seen his/her work elsewhere in the magazine, and you can find a few references to his advertising copy online, but other than that...
Sunday, April 25, 2010
The Hallowed Halls Emmanuel
I love reading yearbooks. They're curious anthropological documents that capture certain elements of a subculture, allowing some degree of "backstage" information to seep through, while simultaneously being constrained by the idea of what a "yearbook" should be: that is, a collection of memories that everybody can supposedly relate to, giving tribute to the institution and its people, and also usually some really terrible poetry.
Imagine my joy when I discovered a heap of yearbooks that a nearby church was throwing out! But these weren't just run-of-the-mill highschool yearbooks...these were for the Emmanuel Bible College.
Oh bliss.
I had no idea that our twin cities contain a thriving, long-standing bible college, and I'm anxious to take a bus out there just to look at it. Other than looking at the slick website and fantasizing about what the dorms must be like, how could us secular folk ever know what a bible college is really like?
By reading the yearbooks, spanning the years 1966 to 1991, and finding all the little gems of culture: the things that you'd find in ANY yearbook, and the things you'd ONLY find in the yearbook from a bible college.
First off, the similarities. The usual tributes to the institution's president, the pictures of the students with special attention given to the graduates, the pages given over to clubs and teams (and the egotistical editorial by the yearbook editor), the myopic cafeteria ladies, followed by a dry list of advertisers. And don't forget the candid pictures of goofy campus life! Yes, even in the Emmanuel Bible College yearbooks you will find men in drag with balloon breasts.
But what's different? First, lots of pictures like this.
That's not a bomb drill, it's a time to make personal contact with your multi-denominational saviour. Myself, already breaking the commandments, I covet that girl's leopard jacket.
Next, many of the students are quite old. Ex-farmers from a myriad of itty-bitty Ontario towns seem to come to Emmanuel when they get the calling. Here's Harry Habel from the graduating class of '66, and one of the little poems that the yearbook staff banged out for the graduates that year.
As somebody who was once a member of my highschool's yearbook staff, I vividly remember the torture of having to write upbeat and personal blurbs about people I disliked and barely knew. I'm pretty sure that Mr. Habel -- in between doing a spot-on Jimmy Durante impersonation -- got on everybody's nerves in the cafeteria. Inka dinka doo!
What's disappointing about the books is the constant focus on God's authority. It's to be expected, obviously, but simply EVERY piece of text must lead into a parable or a scriptual quote of some kind, which reduces all of the activities -- even badminton -- into a Thin Tasteless Gruel of God. I can't help wondering if these students -- who so happily write "God is GREAT!" on their dorm murals -- secretly wish the message was toned down a little bit. It's not like everybody who goes to bible college is exactly the same as everybody else.
But besides the emphasis on two aspects of evangelicalism that I find particularly horrible -- missionary work and the Crisis pregnancy center -- there's very little in these books to offend or to cast the college in a bad light. These folks seem intelligent, diverse, passionate, and fun. Granted I'm getting that impression through the rosy-coloured yearbook lens, but even so I find myself wishing I could spend a day or two there, just to experience the comfort and solidarity of a bunch of people who believe very strongly in what each other are doing.
Hey, is there any chance I can get a scholarship? And if so do I REALLY have to learn Greek, and why?
Imagine my joy when I discovered a heap of yearbooks that a nearby church was throwing out! But these weren't just run-of-the-mill highschool yearbooks...these were for the Emmanuel Bible College.
Oh bliss.
I had no idea that our twin cities contain a thriving, long-standing bible college, and I'm anxious to take a bus out there just to look at it. Other than looking at the slick website and fantasizing about what the dorms must be like, how could us secular folk ever know what a bible college is really like?
By reading the yearbooks, spanning the years 1966 to 1991, and finding all the little gems of culture: the things that you'd find in ANY yearbook, and the things you'd ONLY find in the yearbook from a bible college.
First off, the similarities. The usual tributes to the institution's president, the pictures of the students with special attention given to the graduates, the pages given over to clubs and teams (and the egotistical editorial by the yearbook editor), the myopic cafeteria ladies, followed by a dry list of advertisers. And don't forget the candid pictures of goofy campus life! Yes, even in the Emmanuel Bible College yearbooks you will find men in drag with balloon breasts.
But what's different? First, lots of pictures like this.
That's not a bomb drill, it's a time to make personal contact with your multi-denominational saviour. Myself, already breaking the commandments, I covet that girl's leopard jacket.
Next, many of the students are quite old. Ex-farmers from a myriad of itty-bitty Ontario towns seem to come to Emmanuel when they get the calling. Here's Harry Habel from the graduating class of '66, and one of the little poems that the yearbook staff banged out for the graduates that year.
As somebody who was once a member of my highschool's yearbook staff, I vividly remember the torture of having to write upbeat and personal blurbs about people I disliked and barely knew. I'm pretty sure that Mr. Habel -- in between doing a spot-on Jimmy Durante impersonation -- got on everybody's nerves in the cafeteria. Inka dinka doo!
What's disappointing about the books is the constant focus on God's authority. It's to be expected, obviously, but simply EVERY piece of text must lead into a parable or a scriptual quote of some kind, which reduces all of the activities -- even badminton -- into a Thin Tasteless Gruel of God. I can't help wondering if these students -- who so happily write "God is GREAT!" on their dorm murals -- secretly wish the message was toned down a little bit. It's not like everybody who goes to bible college is exactly the same as everybody else.
But besides the emphasis on two aspects of evangelicalism that I find particularly horrible -- missionary work and the Crisis pregnancy center -- there's very little in these books to offend or to cast the college in a bad light. These folks seem intelligent, diverse, passionate, and fun. Granted I'm getting that impression through the rosy-coloured yearbook lens, but even so I find myself wishing I could spend a day or two there, just to experience the comfort and solidarity of a bunch of people who believe very strongly in what each other are doing.
Hey, is there any chance I can get a scholarship? And if so do I REALLY have to learn Greek, and why?
The Littlest Scammer
Some people seem like they're born to scam, even if they don't have to. It's like there's some part of the human brain devoted to "getting something for nothing," and in some people that brain-part has gotten cancerous and absorbed everything else in their skulls except for the little reptile nub that controls breathing.
For the last year I've been noticing a girl at the local Tim Horton's coffee shop. She's short and chubby and unpretty, and every time I see her she is trying to get something for free. Whether it's asking me endlessly if I have a spare cigarette, or concocting some ridiculous story about how she got the wrong order that morning and now she'd like a replacement coffee, or walking from table to table and canvassing for change...I never see this girl have an interaction that does not involve a scam.
Her performance on Friday took the cake. She walked into the store just as two university students were walking out, and she yelled "Hey, you're Judy, right? Hey Judy, wait!" as the students kept saying "What? No, we're not Judy, no..." and frantically trying to escape the girl's clutches. I can only assume this was the prelude to a scam that didn't work.
Anyway, she walked in and -- as usual -- started asking the patrons for cigarettes. Then she made a big show of counting her change and going "Oh no! Damn! I hate that!" When nobody responded, she got into line -- pushing in front of the last person -- and kept counting her change. "Oh no! Damn!"
As she got closer to the front of the line she became more and more demonstrative, trying to engage the people around her in The Scam. "Damn! I hate this, you know? Hey, you know?" Finally, with nobody biting, she actually yelled across the store at two men who were about to leave.
"Hey guys! You know how when you only have $1.50, and you want to get a coffee AND a Coke, you know how annoying that is?"
"No," said one of the men, baffled.
"I hate that!" she shouted. "I've only got $1.50 and I need $3.00 to get a coffee AND a Coke! I hate when this happens!"
"Yeah," said the men, and they scurried out the door.
The scammer eventually just bought the coffee, presumably because the rest of us are accustomed to her performances. It must be hard to carry on a racket -- even one so small -- in the same store over and over again. It must be PARTICULARLY hard when you have an unpleasant demeanor, as she does. Successful scammers need more than brute persistence, they also need charm.
Yes, The Littlest Scammer annoys me.
For the last year I've been noticing a girl at the local Tim Horton's coffee shop. She's short and chubby and unpretty, and every time I see her she is trying to get something for free. Whether it's asking me endlessly if I have a spare cigarette, or concocting some ridiculous story about how she got the wrong order that morning and now she'd like a replacement coffee, or walking from table to table and canvassing for change...I never see this girl have an interaction that does not involve a scam.
Her performance on Friday took the cake. She walked into the store just as two university students were walking out, and she yelled "Hey, you're Judy, right? Hey Judy, wait!" as the students kept saying "What? No, we're not Judy, no..." and frantically trying to escape the girl's clutches. I can only assume this was the prelude to a scam that didn't work.
Anyway, she walked in and -- as usual -- started asking the patrons for cigarettes. Then she made a big show of counting her change and going "Oh no! Damn! I hate that!" When nobody responded, she got into line -- pushing in front of the last person -- and kept counting her change. "Oh no! Damn!"
As she got closer to the front of the line she became more and more demonstrative, trying to engage the people around her in The Scam. "Damn! I hate this, you know? Hey, you know?" Finally, with nobody biting, she actually yelled across the store at two men who were about to leave.
"Hey guys! You know how when you only have $1.50, and you want to get a coffee AND a Coke, you know how annoying that is?"
"No," said one of the men, baffled.
"I hate that!" she shouted. "I've only got $1.50 and I need $3.00 to get a coffee AND a Coke! I hate when this happens!"
"Yeah," said the men, and they scurried out the door.
The scammer eventually just bought the coffee, presumably because the rest of us are accustomed to her performances. It must be hard to carry on a racket -- even one so small -- in the same store over and over again. It must be PARTICULARLY hard when you have an unpleasant demeanor, as she does. Successful scammers need more than brute persistence, they also need charm.
Yes, The Littlest Scammer annoys me.
Scrutable Poetry Corner: "Life's Problems" by Patience Eden
Poetess Patience Eden nails it in this May 17, 1930 poem in The New Yorker: "Life's Problems."
I think it's all of the above. I still have the knee-jerk desire to bludgeon others with my opinions, but I'm learning when it's appropriate to do so, and also -- I hope -- blunting the edges of my criticism a bit.
Unless I'm playing the ROLE of critic, of course.
PS: Who was Patience Eden? Apparently her real name was Martha Thomas Banning, but other than that I can't find any biographical information. She was certainly one of the New Yorker poetry stalwarts, writing under both names from the magazine's inception and into the early '40s.
When I was twenty-three I couldAmen, Eden! How to explain this temperament that comes on many with age? Is it hormonal? Is it from so many years of negotiating with people of all different kinds? Is it a desire for comfort and easy socialization after scuffling with the world? Is it the cynicism of seeing all your sacred cows get tipped over -- one by one -- by their critical inadequacies?
Discern the evil from the good;
I quickly knew which way to turn,
Which path to take, which path to spurn;
Not only this--I could decide
What all my friends should do; I tried
To steer them competently through
Their troubles...and they asked me to!
Responsible as traffic lights
I sent them to their lefts...and rights.
But now that I am forty-odd
I hesitate advising God
About a case of turpitude,
It somehow seems a little crude:
And furthermore I have no views
On bigamy or jazz or booze:
Quite recently I was beset
By problems in a kitchenette--
I could not choose the proper site
For dish-towels to dry at night!
I think it's all of the above. I still have the knee-jerk desire to bludgeon others with my opinions, but I'm learning when it's appropriate to do so, and also -- I hope -- blunting the edges of my criticism a bit.
Unless I'm playing the ROLE of critic, of course.
PS: Who was Patience Eden? Apparently her real name was Martha Thomas Banning, but other than that I can't find any biographical information. She was certainly one of the New Yorker poetry stalwarts, writing under both names from the magazine's inception and into the early '40s.
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