TubaOrNotTuba

It rained earlier this evening. Not a little shower but one of those “who turned on the firehost” deluges, accompanied with some wonderful lightning. I assume there was also thunder, but the rain was coming down too hard for me to hear anything inside the van. We now know that there aren’t any leaking windows or doorseals, which is a good thing to have under control.

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First of all, let me extend my deepest sympathies to the citizens of Huntsville, Ontario. A lovely community, really; a population of about 18,000. Beautiful countryside, nature in the driver’s seat. Quiet, for the moment. They now have about 24 months to get their barricades in place, because the current government announced today that the G8 summit will be held there in 2010.

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Either it’s an insult or a blessing, when someone offers to “draw you a map”. For those who are often away from home, the road map is a necessity, even when the information has become dated and inaccurate. After all, major roads don’t change direction (often) and the various jurisdictions don’t change the numbering system (often), so if your “personal origami project” is reasonably recent, there’s a chance that you’ll be able to navigate from point A to B.

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The wise consumer ALWAYS reads the fine print. At least, in a perfect world; if you watch TV, you have “briefly seen” what some call mouseprint. Texts that try to make perfectly misleading statements into mistruths. Not exactly lies, but gone by quickly enough that you can’t be sure. Could be the aged eyes, could be the rapid delivery; the whole story is over and done before you realize you’ve been “sold” a false bill of goods.

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As you watch someone unfurl their umbrella, try and guess how long it will be until that protective dome is twisted into a modern art sculpture. If my observations are correct, the average “lifespan” of a parasol can be rated in hours, or the number of uses. A sad reflection on the industry, and a cry for a return to earlier times, when the umbrella could actually be repaired. Or so I’ve heard.

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Use of the movie as a teaching tool has been common practice for many years. Even back in high school we were shown the occasional two-reeler as a way to kill off an exciting period or two of something academic. Sadly, proposed changes to the Imaginary Property laws may make such things impossible for future generations, but until such time as a new law receives Royal Assent we should profit (in the imaginary sense). This afternoon, I decided to teach my dog some things about life, so we flipped channels until the “right choice” was available.

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The conclusion I’ve decided to reach, this evening, is that either I have to devote significantly greater amounts of time to my random trials of Linux, or I will have to read a few more books. Enough of the library collecting; the evolution of the modern distro means that a few simple commands in a bash shell aren’t enough to impress the kids. They want a desktop, in colour with bells and whistles. No CLI for the GUI generation.

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Another long day finishes with the flourish of a triumphant government. The final meeting of a longer year, where the budget passes with barely a wrinkle, the meal is delicious and the hired help (me) head home long before midnight. Bliss, because the weather is also triumphant. Warm without overstatement, clear, a hint of a coming moon. Enough to leave me ready for a walk in the old city among the night class, even if I no longer belong. I’m just an observer, on the road to replenish our coffee supply before heading back to all the comforts of home.

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The wilderness is encroaching on my neighbourhood. It’s been only a couple of weeks since the family followed a skunk, complete with it’s own trap, through the neigbourhood. Then this afternoon, another visitor, just a few doors away: the common porcupine. Or not so common, because outside of roadkill and the odd zoo, I’d never seen one in situ. This one was only a few metres away, perched on the front doorstep of a house and I was suddenly very glad that the dog stays inside.

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Having spent short periods of my life in “older homes”, the traditional plaster-and-lath wall is familiar. I’ve never built one, or tried to repair one; the closest I’ve come is putting a bit of paint or cheap wallpaper, but any time I’ve gone roaming through abandoned farm houses (don’t ask, don’t tell) I’ve been pleasantly surprised by the lasting power of the material. Good for centuries.  Not so the modern replacement.

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