Egotasm - A Belated Report
Time flows ever on. I wrote the following last night, already 24 hours after I had inteneded to. And I figure I had better post it now, or it will lose all temporal significance.
Wednesday stated well, with Laura making a cameo dream-appearance just before I woke. She looked terrible and my dream-persona took some sadistic pleasure in telling her so. As best as I can remember, that was her first appearance in a dream of mine (that I recall) since I kicked her out last July. I don't put much stock in dream-analyses - certainly, not in terms of analyzing my own, which are usually pretty straight-forward; whatever symbolism they contain are usually as obvious as a clown-nose at a funeral - but I am tempted to think this one might be a sign I have ascended to a new emotional plateau when it comes to the ex, that my anger is now draining away like melt-water off a glaciated mountain peak.
In any event, better still was the The Globe and Mail's letter's page.
I had sent them a letter on Tuesday, one largely based on my recent rant about the CBC's coverage of Laval's soccergate. For those of you without a subscription, allow me to indulgence myself by reprinting the full text of my letter below.
Both your reporters, Tu Thanh Ha and Heather Scoffield (Red card
renews Quebec hijab debate) and columnist Sheema Khan (Hijabs: Don't
kick up a fuss) missed the real story in the Mansour affair - that is,
that not only did Ms Mansour's team-mates support her in her desire to
wear the hijab while participating in a soccer tournament by giving up
up their own chance to play, but so did four of the other teams in
that tournament.
That petty officials will sometimes glom onto Muslim head-gear as a
symbol of "too much" multiculturalism is news on the order of dog
bites man.
That over 40 11-year old girls would decide to sacrifice their own
participation in what for them must have been an important event for
what looks to be a matter of principle is news more along the lines of
man biting dog.
This reader, at least, would like to know more about the kids who
decide to support an openent's right to express her religion and so
gave up a tournament they had no doubt worked very hard to attend.
Perhaps not a multi-million dollar contract from Penguin Books for my first novel, but kind of gratifying nevertheless - who doesn't enjoy seeing his or her name in print? And coming on the heels of last weekend's 3,000-word review of Richard Dawkins' latest book, it had me feeling a little inspired, writing-wise.
And finally, one of you made the decision to take your journal private, having decided your future might be compromised by what you had previously thought okay to air in full view of the great unwashed.
I amused myself (and, I think, you as well) by penning the following pastiche.
Twas brillig, and the slithy bots
Did gyre and gimble across the web:
All mimsy were the gigabytes,
And the pages still online.
"Beware the the Wayback Machine my girl!
The bots that bite, the caches that catch!
Beware the sav'ed posts, and shun
The frumious Server Farm!"
She took her vorpal code in hand:
Longtime the manxome code she sought -
So rested she by the Memory Stick,
And typed a while in thought.
And, as with uffish words she typed,
The Wayback Machine, with hard-drives spinning,
Came whiffling through the fibre-optic wire,
And saved-to-disk as it came!
Bit, byte! Bit, byte! And through and through
The vorpal code went snicker-snack!
She left it dead, and with it's drive
She galumphed to home alive.
"And has though slain the Internet?
Come to my arms, my beamish girl!
O packet day! Callooh! Callay!"
Young Geoffrey chortled in his joy.
Twas brillig, and the slithy bots
Did gyre and gimble across the web:
All mimsy were the gigabytes,
And the pages still online.
Granted, it's a poor imitation of the original, but it made me smile to write it.
All right. Time to make my way through the slush to the office. Maybe next time I'll discuss my adventures in the online dating world, and how it seems the pornographication of our culture contines apace. Last week three different teenage girls sent me nude photos of themselves; it sure ain't the 1970s, folks.
Wednesday stated well, with Laura making a cameo dream-appearance just before I woke. She looked terrible and my dream-persona took some sadistic pleasure in telling her so. As best as I can remember, that was her first appearance in a dream of mine (that I recall) since I kicked her out last July. I don't put much stock in dream-analyses - certainly, not in terms of analyzing my own, which are usually pretty straight-forward; whatever symbolism they contain are usually as obvious as a clown-nose at a funeral - but I am tempted to think this one might be a sign I have ascended to a new emotional plateau when it comes to the ex, that my anger is now draining away like melt-water off a glaciated mountain peak.
In any event, better still was the The Globe and Mail's letter's page.
I had sent them a letter on Tuesday, one largely based on my recent rant about the CBC's coverage of Laval's soccergate. For those of you without a subscription, allow me to indulgence myself by reprinting the full text of my letter below.
Both your reporters, Tu Thanh Ha and Heather Scoffield (Red card
renews Quebec hijab debate) and columnist Sheema Khan (Hijabs: Don't
kick up a fuss) missed the real story in the Mansour affair - that is,
that not only did Ms Mansour's team-mates support her in her desire to
wear the hijab while participating in a soccer tournament by giving up
up their own chance to play, but so did four of the other teams in
that tournament.
That petty officials will sometimes glom onto Muslim head-gear as a
symbol of "too much" multiculturalism is news on the order of dog
bites man.
That over 40 11-year old girls would decide to sacrifice their own
participation in what for them must have been an important event for
what looks to be a matter of principle is news more along the lines of
man biting dog.
This reader, at least, would like to know more about the kids who
decide to support an openent's right to express her religion and so
gave up a tournament they had no doubt worked very hard to attend.
Perhaps not a multi-million dollar contract from Penguin Books for my first novel, but kind of gratifying nevertheless - who doesn't enjoy seeing his or her name in print? And coming on the heels of last weekend's 3,000-word review of Richard Dawkins' latest book, it had me feeling a little inspired, writing-wise.
And finally, one of you made the decision to take your journal private, having decided your future might be compromised by what you had previously thought okay to air in full view of the great unwashed.
I amused myself (and, I think, you as well) by penning the following pastiche.
Twas brillig, and the slithy bots
Did gyre and gimble across the web:
All mimsy were the gigabytes,
And the pages still online.
"Beware the the Wayback Machine my girl!
The bots that bite, the caches that catch!
Beware the sav'ed posts, and shun
The frumious Server Farm!"
She took her vorpal code in hand:
Longtime the manxome code she sought -
So rested she by the Memory Stick,
And typed a while in thought.
And, as with uffish words she typed,
The Wayback Machine, with hard-drives spinning,
Came whiffling through the fibre-optic wire,
And saved-to-disk as it came!
Bit, byte! Bit, byte! And through and through
The vorpal code went snicker-snack!
She left it dead, and with it's drive
She galumphed to home alive.
"And has though slain the Internet?
Come to my arms, my beamish girl!
O packet day! Callooh! Callay!"
Young Geoffrey chortled in his joy.
Twas brillig, and the slithy bots
Did gyre and gimble across the web:
All mimsy were the gigabytes,
And the pages still online.
Granted, it's a poor imitation of the original, but it made me smile to write it.
All right. Time to make my way through the slush to the office. Maybe next time I'll discuss my adventures in the online dating world, and how it seems the pornographication of our culture contines apace. Last week three different teenage girls sent me nude photos of themselves; it sure ain't the 1970s, folks.