theblogofthehandoftamm

…mighty oaks do grow. Do you remember being a kid and thinking a tree would grow inside your stomach if you swallowed a seed while eating an apple? Thankfully that never happened to me because unlike Adam I cannot be tempted by apples offered. Still, I may now have and oak tree taking root in my gut. What particlar subset of quercus, I cannot say. How did I come to be in such a predicament?

Having read the book Oak: The Frame of Civilization a few years back, I was intrigued by the author’s experiments with acorn flour, which was a staple of many a diet hundreds of years ago but is now rare to be found. He suggested looking for it in Korean markets and, lo and behold, it is there.

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The old man and I made a pilgrimage to the Pravda Vodka Bar last night, as they promise an authentic, dedicated vodka appreciating experience. We met with something interesting, but which fell a little short of irresistible.

FIRST IMPRESSIONS
Pravda has high ceilings and high-concept soviet-era artwork, which mainly leans toward portraits of Lenin, Marx, Brezhnev, Gorbachev, and Mao, along with images of Red Army soldiers and noble workers. It’s also louder than a May Day parade in there, with a DJ that seems intent on making sure that any voices of dissent are immediately drowned out. There are sofas and high stools, plus a roped-off VIP section. No regular tables so, in spite of the dinner menu available, this is no restaurant.

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It was nice to be in charge for a few days, just so we could all taste the tyranny of thehandoftamm wielding supreme executive power.

Despite keeping the good ship off the rocks and shoals for several days, my term as supreme commander of that vessel came to an end last night. Within five minutes of my first mate’s arrival, the hands had mutinied against many of my newly-installed rules and the old order was reaffirmed to the sounds of delight in shrieking.

Why all the nautical allusions? Well, I’ve been reading a lot of Patrick O’Brian for the last year-and-a-half, being now more than a dozen books through his 20-book Aubrey-Maturin series that you may recall from a movie adaptation which was a Russell Crowe vehicle from a few years back. Here’s a line I was smitten with recently, from The Thirteen-Gun Salute.

If man is a thinking reed he is also a reed that absorbs and excretes, and if these functions are disturbed so is the first, and humanity recedes, leaving the mere brute.

Who has not experienced the feeling of humanity receding temporarily? I face the brute several times a week -and not always owing to interruptions in the absorbing and excreting functions.

The thrust of the book I’m presently on has the captain restored to the Royal Navy after an ignominious dismissal. Whereas he longed for nothing more than reinstatement when off the list, he now also longs for his time of freedom as captain with an independent letter of marque. That’s me all over. When I was in sole command at home I longed for a return of my co-captain. Once she returned, I missed the free hand I enjoyed in her absence. Typical.

Here’s a shot of a tall ship that I missed getting closer to in Toronto. Once more I’ve not been present to hear the call of the sea.

There’s no glory in being well rested. I can only create semi-legendary fables from late nights and irresponsible escapades. After another BBQ and another step closer to the next waist size in trousers last night, I decided to have a rest at 8:30pm, with an aim toward getting up at 9:00 for laundry and housework and that kind of thing. Instead I slept through the alarm and rose at 6:30 this morning. How does one add to the mythology of thehandoftamm on 10 hours of sleep? It can’t be done. Exhaustion followed by rest is deadly dull. Exhaustion followed by double-ended candle burning is where the literary pay-off resides. I blew it. I’ve let you down, dear reader. (And I use that word in the singular as I optimistically imagine one person may eventually read this post.)

Here’s me in a bubble from my more adventuresome day earlier this week.

There’s nearly nothing in the tank today. Why should that be? Let’s explore together.

Yesterday afternoon was spent in the playing of games, this somehow in pursuit of collegial oneness through fierce competition. The method was bordering on madness, with obstacle courses, other obstacle courses, human foosball, and further obstacle courses. A hot lunch was served and, thankfully, cold beer. A little late with the latter but better than never.

After this I hitched the chariot to the bicycle and wheeled the lads over to our friends’ house for dinner. (Because I’m in that solo parenting state spoken of recently.) There was cold beer, hot cheese fondue, Croatian herb brandy, and heated debate about the nature of corporations and their overwhelming tendency to evildoing. Well, it wasn’t really debate but it was passionate. A recent conclusion for me is that no place on earth has good governance. Heads of state are unanimously tyrants of one kind or another. It’s not just Myanmar or Zimbabwe or the United States that has odious leadership, it’s in every country in the world. What’s more, most of these tyrants must in turn lick the heel of the multinationals that hold governments hostage. How is it that these entities turn their backs on the citizenry that support them? How is it that citizens have relinquished so much power? Short-sightedness, in short. Give me something now and I’ll trade away all tomorrow’s parties.

Are you getting the picture about what kind of high-minded oratory was released by the fermented yeast? Here’s a quote that struck me some years ago and I often refer back to for perspective.

“…this material economic life of ours, this production of goods, this buying, selling, and getting gain, it must ever be remembered, is not an end in itself. It is but a means to an end. It is the basis of our higher life, and is to be valued merely as such. The noblest development of our being, the grandest triumphs of freedom, must be sought in other domains.”
Richard T Ely, from The Growth of Corporations
Harper’s, June 1887

Once we had our fill of perspective and mutual proselytizing, I took the chocoholics home for bed and met with surprisingly little resistance. I myself showed little resolve when a pal turned up at the door past 10:00 and, once more, the corks were popping and the jowls resumed wagging. Thankfully the topics weren’t quite as bloated this time around and revolved around camping with children and becoming lost, doing damage to rental cars, and comparing the relative merits of Nick Cave, The Wedding Present, The Ukrainians, and Primal Scream. Some time after midnight I finally shut up and shut down, only to be summoned at 3:15 and 4:00 by the smallest handoftamm.

The morning ritual was a tough one this time ‘round, with a couple of hours’ worth of arguments, pleading, tears, tantrums, threats, bribes, and too little coffee. Lesson learned, I’m back to ace parenting starting tonight. Unless the opportunity once more presents itself for staying up late and fomenting positive change accompanied by the consumption of fermented yeast.

How would you choose between the hairbrush and the tank?

What a weekend; no time for scribbling or organizing thoughts until this late hour. The following should be considered a refresher in many of the manly arts, as well as sage words of advice from the trenches of hard-won knowledge.

CUISINE
I BBQ’ed the goodness out of/into pork tenderloin, dogs, and burgers both veggie and carnivorous. I ate more of same at two other BBQs. I will be 275lbs by summer’s end if I don’t start turning down invitations to go swill beer and eat bratwurst four times a week. Note: I have three more BBQs in the coming week. Something inside is already atremble. My uncle made some rather uncharitable remarks about the area immediately north of my belt-line just yesterday and the guy checking my passport and boarding pass at the airport indicated I wasn’t looking so good last week. Do I throw in the towel or redouble my efforts?

I also made a veggie lasagna, from scratch, natch. Got to have my kids’ lunches/dinners at hand. More on that momentarily. I have pretty much mastered the scratch ‘gna, which is to say the result is very close to the intention.

HORTICULTURE
Lawn-mowing, weeding, planting of tomatoes, basil, and chard. The hands and tools got dirty several times over three days and it felt good to turn some soil. Less thrilling is the consideration that the yard looks almost exactly as it did before, for all my tilling. Here are two manly secrets to yardwork.
1 -rinse your tools after digging. It’s not just true for the boudoir; this works in the yard to keep things in top running order as long as possible.
2 -If you have depressions in your lawn, throw sod you cut from a flowerbed elsewhere on top. Don’t be a jerk and make it look nice, just pitch in grass on top of the existing turf, dirt side down. Shockingly, it mostly grows through with a minimum of unsightliness in between. This will not be as effective in the boudoir, I hasten to add.

FAMILY, THOSE WHO ARE LIKE FAMILY
An important part of summer is the added opportunities for socializing with family and those who we love in a similar way. We had several opportunities for such over the weekend and they were fun for the adults and enriching for the children. Two observations here are that you might not want to let your children be naked on the bouncy castle set up in the yard for a birthday, as it leads to… well, let’s just say it’s hard to make it make sense on the page. Lean closer to your screen to catch my vibes on this one. Also, there must be an age at which THC should no longer rhyme with garden party in one’s vocabulary. This leads to situations not unlike naturist bouncy castles, only with more sinisterly-coloured giggling. Beware.

TALKING TO THE POLICE
When a considerate officer of the law takes the time to show you the error of your ways in a non-aggressive manner, do not try to escalate the situation into an adversarial one by pointing out to him the flawed error of his logic. This is why tasers are popular with law enforcement officials –there’s no need to endure tiresome debates with arrogant civilians. You do not want to be naked when bounced into the local constabulary’s castle, I imagine it goes without saying.

PARENTING
Being a solo parent is not new to me, as I have had opportunity to practice it on many an occasion. But a Muskoka sales conference of some stripe means I’m at it again for the next few days. (the fact that I allowed my golf clubs to be driven away in making this happen means I’m surely an accomplice. And a fool.) Already the wagering has begun on how much I will have to rely on reinforcements and the beneficence of family and friends. What; you think I can’t hack a few days with only myself to rely on for adhering to accepted practices and policies and schedules? I’ve got half the cooking done already, there’s little need to clean over the course of ~90 hours and frankly, my castle needed to go clothing optional on weekdays too. If I have the strength, an update concerning the items broken in the house (vases, bones, spirits) will be coming in the wee hours of the coming days. Contain your excitement.

Photo is of disembodied arm at the park. Chilling. Prescient?

Listening to the new Wedding Present long player, El Rey, these past couple of days. Still re-examining relationships from every conceivable angle, is Mr. Gedge. It’s a strong record and a return to form which was never truly lost. Points deducted for making the chorus of an otherwise standout (in the positive sense) song, Soup, run as No Soup For You. C’mon! Soup Nazi references are nigh on inexcusable. Points admirably recovered by song title for Don’t Take Me Home Until I’m Drunk. Track 6, The Trouble With Men is haunting, daunting. Too late to be included in Twin Peaks soundtrack, I presume. It’s not the best TWP album but a fine addition to the canon.

I’ve been away a few days (but nearly wasn’t) and there was no wireless in the hotel so haven’t jumped on. [How a self-respecting hotel doesn’t have wireless in 2008 is beyond me but maybe that’s another matter.] Dig this nearly departed tale of how I came to be in New York.

I’m off on one of my thrice-yearly jaunts to NYC for work and am packing the night prior, as one does. My flight’s leaving at 6:50am so I’m going to leave the house by 5:00, which means getting up at 4:30. It’s 10:30 now so I’m thinking fill the bag and put your head on the pillow. Never that easy, because there’s no justice in the world. I can’t find my passport in the usual place. It’s always in the usual place and I haven’t used it since February so where on earth is it?

I start going through all my bags, drawers, jackets, and other places about the house that make sense to me. Nothing. I’m beside myself with fury –the kind of fury that leads a man to curse and punch holes in the drywall. We have plaster so I keep the cursing down and my hands on my hips as I blame the children for my passport woes. Should I wake them up and interrogate them as to where they’ve put daddy’s passport? Not advisable.

It occurs to me that often my passport makes its way briefly into my leather brief, which is on my desk back at the office. Knowing that I can’t board a plane these days without a passport and don’t want to force the company to eat a ticket and a hotel room because I can’t find my papers, I decide to set mind at ease by driving the 35km to the shop. It’s now 11:30pm. What makes that hour interesting is that my security card for the building only works from 7:00am to 7:00pm. What am I going to do when I get to the office? Improvise, baby.

11:55 and I’m at the shop. I can’t get in. There’s a code for security on the panel by the door but pressing it doesn’t call through to anyone. Great. Then an angel in shoulder patches and black boots turns up at midnight. It’s the security guard and he’s not accustomed to seeing people at this hour. He also has a company policy about not letting people into the building, no matter what, that he’s supposed to follow. I make an impassioned plea and maybe even offer him inducements that I can’t chronicle here without fear of reprisals –and, would you believe it?– he lets me in on condition that he chaperone me throughout. No problem!

New problem, more like it. My passport’s not in my office. I thank the security guard and leave empty-handed. Well, not quite. He let me remove my leather folio. What if the whole scene was a scam and I made up the passport story just to steal the vital documents from atop that desk? Leaving this scenario for another short story, I head home and think about the 10-12 hour drive I could do to New York City at this hour, were I not already exhausted (having slept 4 hours the night before). Do I buy a dozen Red Bulls and endanger my fellow motorists? Will I be able to cross at Buffalo on my driver’s license and birth certificate?

I go home and, after a little more searching, go to bed. Nothing more to be done tonight. Get a bit of shut-eye and hope to have breakthrough in the morning. Actually, it’s already morning: 1:30am and I have to wake up in three hours. Not that this poses much problem as there’s no way I can sleep now that I’m fretting about what to do about my flight in a few hours. My elder son wakes up and needs comforting. I’m not in the least put out, as I’m not sleeping anyway. Except he wants mom so I go back to the pillow and before long The Creator has pity on me and decides to stop fucking up my life.

I leap from bed and creep down the stairs with the fervour of a dog on the scent. In the basement I zip open the garment bag and reach into the breast pocket of my winter coat, where my fingers immediately find my government-issued, internationally-honoured identification.

I go back to bed the happiest man in Toronto, until I realize I’m getting up in another 90 minutes.

I endanger motorists while driving half-asleep and drag myself to the airline desk only to be told my flight’s been cancelled, as weather last night prevented the plane from coming in from New York in order to make its return leg. I resist the temptation to cause a scene that would surely risk a tasering at the departure gate. My cool head earns me a 9:30 make-up flight on another airline that’s not actually going to New York but I’m willing to take Newark rather than waste my triumphal passport-finding altogether.

To wrap up this long story, I get to New York, go to my meetings and, in case you thought I was going to crash on the bed or in a chair at some point in this narrative, go out for drinks following the meetings and call it a night only after 1:30am. Details of that night’s carousing to follow another time.

Even when I’m irresponsible, scattered, and shattered… I still rule. That’s the wellspring of over-confidence from which I drink deeply daily.

Always start Father’s Day with a hangover, I say. It’s the only time you *might* not catch hell for it, being allowed some latitude on ‘your’ day.

Last night saw another victorious performance from Toronto FC, with a 3-1 win over Colorado. Picture of a Colorado save is below, as all the snaps of TFC’s goals somehow did not come off. The win very nearly made up for Sweden’s loss to Spain.

My night ended playing me drums at a friend’s house-warming and birthday party that I hadn’t even been invited to. I don’t play drums and my unlucky audience would surely agree that I shouldn’t. Still, I must have played for an hour and this morning my legs are tired like I ran a marathon. At least this is the soreness I imagine is typical of having run a marathon because that too is something I’ve never done and don’t imagine taking up, unlike drumming. I’ve bought a Muppet Show DVD in the hopes that Animal might provide me with some tips.

BREAKING NEWS! Gas prices continue to rise and we are promised that rates in Canada this summer will be in the $1.50/l range. Some people scream bloody murder; I say make it $2.00. Driving is a privilege, not a right, and it’s only right that we do it as little as is absolutely necessary. I have some sympathy for the rural citizen’s particular needs for large vehicles and long drives but the city dwellers with their 6-cylinder, 250hp+ rockets need to stop strapping themselves in for every whim to run to the corner. OK, high prices hit the poor harder than they hit the fabulously well-to-do, who will continue driving their Porsche Cayennes over our corpses no matter what the price to fill their tank. Still, I say give people a reason to consider whether each turn of the ignition is absolutely necessary.

Me? I’m a fool for driving 35km to work each day along the highway. Given how much time I spend idling in traffic jams, I spend about three weeks of my year at the intersection of the 401 and 404 alone. How much gas/money/pollution –and, more importantly, life– is that? Which brings me to the sea cow in my headline; I have been accustomed to driving at a sporty clip over the posted limit and have been annoyed countless times by slow-moving cars that seem oblivious to the flow of traffic in their lane. Cars going at or under the limit really need to be on the right side, y’know? I have been referring to these drivers as manatees over the years. I usually put an expletive in front of that when I mutter it with hostility behind the wheel.

Anyway, a friend of mine mentioned to me that he was slowing down on the roads in order to conserve costly gas. I have been experimenting with same for a couple of weeks and am delighted to find that by driving 100-110 on the highway (when not in a jam, which is rare enough), I’ve added about another 10% to the distance between visits to the pumps. We could say that I’m a hero to the environment and my wallet and leave this topic feeling smug but wait, there’s more! My road rage has all but disappeared as well. Damn, I feel self-righteous. And I’m not even a manatee in the left lane, because I still enjoy watching Toronto’s elite zip past me in their luxury SUVs, foaming at the mouth as they slurp their lattes and curse the slow-moving plebes in their way.

Also, I take pictures in my car while driving now, which is surely dangerous enough.