Evocations of COVID

I've been checking my 2018, 2019, and 2020 journals to see what I was doing in mid-October in various years.  

It's been very instructive.  For one thing, I realised with a start, that in the past three mid-Octobers,  I had already begun addressing Christmas cards.  (So I started.)

I also realised that, at this time last year, my cousins caught COVID.

In a cruel twist of irony, elder daughter was exposed because she was in quarantine.  She had gone straight  from Heathrow to my cousins' home in Wiltshire, where she was isolated in a self-contained bedroom belonging to one of her second cousins, who was miles away, attending university.

Unfortunately, the other second cousin was attending secondary school, and he brought the virus home with him.  (This was long before vaccines became available.) First, we heard my cousin's wife had been troubled with migraines.  Next, elder daughter reported that her teenaged second cousin had "a cold".  Our hearts sank.  Nobody was getting colds any more.

The second cousin at university urged his parents and brother to get tested.  All three of them had COVID.  Five days later, elder daughter FaceTimed me to tell me that her senses of smell and taste had vanished.  

We were terrified and helpless, eight time zones away.  As it turned out, all four had completely different symptoms, and all four recovered within days, although they were locked down for longer.  The secondary school, as you can imagine, was thrown into turmoil, as the younger second cousin's classmates were isolated and quarantined themselves.

We didn't tell anyone but close friends and family.  As it was, cousins on both sides of the Atlantic had weighed in with their opinions on elder daughter's move to the UK.  The most vocal of the dissenting cousins have no children themselves, and seemed to forget that elder daughter is a fully fledged adult.

And besides, this hadn't been her fault.  She had followed protocols to the letter.

Today, elder daughter returned to Canadian soil for the first time in over a year, in order to attend a friend's wedding.  The ceremony has been postponed three times.

COVID touches and smears everything.

 

Rich in irony (and full of vitamins)

 

During the past year, I've come to see the resemblance between cyclists and wasps. 

I'm not talking about the commuting kind, or those out for a Sunday ride; I mean the jock kind. 

 Our local coffee shop is prone to morning infestations of cycling enthusiasts. They're usually clad in yellow and black; they have hard helmeted heads; they tend to swarm; they buzz -- and they're rather annoying, to be honest. 

During the three months or so when indoor dining was forbidden in British Columbia for what the provincial government called a COVID "circuit-breaker", I found myself huddling in the morning chill at the outside tables, and forced to share space with the wheeler-dealers, who clustered on the patio and talked "jockularly" about their equipment and injuries. 

Once, a couple cautiously mounted the front steps and half-whispered to me: "Have the cyclists gone?"

 "Well, it's Monday," I replied, cheerfully. "They usually turn up on Tuesdays and Fridays." 

"They're just so loud..." they said, in a normal volume, and went to get their coffees.

Particularly galling aspects of sharing space with jock cyclists during a pandemic: a) being athletic, they think they're immune, and hence not likely to social distance; b) if they do practise social distancing, it's only with each other.  I had the opportunity to observe this latter phenomenon several times during the "circuit-breaker".

For example:  One morning, the patio was thoroughly "infested" when I arrived, so I strategically selected a table equidistant from a large cluster of cyclists socializing in the road-side blocks of seating, which have become endemic during the pandemic.  

A forty-or-fifty-something lady with a short blond ponytail poking out of her helmet called out to a gentleman sitting at the crowded table.  He rose, approached her, and they settled on an appropriate distance between them for a prolonged chat, calling over the space between them. Neither of them noticed that they were standing right next to my seat.  Apparently, I didn't count.

I got up, and changed chairs, putting my table between us. This also escaped their notice.

I wasn't listening in to their conversation, but they were socially distanced (from each other, at least), and they were cyclists (and hence, loud), so I did hear some of what they said. At one point, they were discussing a mutual acquaintance who - and here there was some grasping for the correct phrase - "needs something in the way of social graces".  I bit my lip, busying myself with my journals.  It's not often I get such an irony-rich experience.

After more than ten minutes of this long-distance call, Blond Pony Tail bid farewell, and circulated some more, finally riding off with a gal-pal -- on the sidewalk, of course.  I could hear her gears:  clique-clique-clique-clique...

With the relaxation of restrictions, I can now enjoy my mocha and danish indoors, with a nice wall separating me from the wasps.  I can still hear them, but it's more of a comforting buzz.  Winter, alas, will likely bring them indoors.

A poor choice of words

I've been in correspondance by email with a lady who has requested I do an article for a family history review, based on a recent presentation, which -- I'm told -- was well-received, being "entertaining".

All lovely so far.

As it happened, I had just posted an adaptation of the presentation on my family history blog to share with relatives, and this editor took the link, and told me she'd be back in touch with suggestions on how to adapt it for the review. The presentation had been an hour long, so we both agreed it would need considerable shortening, before its inclusion in the spring issue of the review.

I didn't hear from her for nearly a month.

Last week, she got back in touch, with the apologetic explanation that she had had to purchase a computer just before going on a trip. She told me the content would need a fair amount of revision, though the story is interesting . . . . and that if I didn't mind mind making the style more straightforward, there would be room in the summer issue for it.

I felt that familiar dropping in my stomach.
Straightforward?
"More straightforward"?
That would mean less whatever-the-antonym-of-straightforward-is, wouldn't it?
I checked my trusty thesaurus.

Hmmmmmmmn.

Aren't editors in the business of choosing words? She said she often edited and adapted submissions herself, but in my case, she was worried about losing your personal voice.

(What? My devious, insincere and tricky voice?)

I decided to wait a day before answering her. I commiserated about replacing a computer -- our computer died the week after the presentation, so we had undergone similar stress. I had done a word count, I informed her. To meet the length limitations, I understood I would have to halve the text. Then, almost as an afterthought, I added that I hoped she had meant "more concise" rather than "more straightforward".

The response was quick in coming.  A thank-you for agreeing to submit the article, and an apology -- she had been trying to find a polite way of saying a more formal style, suitable for a quarterly journal.

And I thought to myself:  When did "more formal", which implies my writing is informal, become less polite than saying "more straightforward", which implies that my writing is a host of unpleasant things?  Don't editors have thesauruses?

Perhaps it's kinder to put this down to jet lag.

Pinball post

Hump Day - the last Wednesday of the school year, and here I am, dying to go to bed, having written nothing for NaBloPoMo. So, Joe In and Around Los Vegas has asked to see that early Alanis Morissette video that Jarvis Cocker wanted to see. I think Joe is joking, but in fact there were at least three videos from the early nineties when Alanis was being described as the "Debbie Gibson of Canada". (Gee, no wonder she wanted these suppressed when she went all New Age.) I can't for the life of me remember which one they showed to Jarvis Cocker, but this one has a really young Matt LeBlanc in it. I have yet to manage to watch it all the way through. It's pretty bad, but apparently the album went platinum in Canada. Which might explain Justin Bieber. Watch it if you must:


While I was musing about Alanis and irony yesterday, I remembered one of the best definitions of irony came up in an episode of My So-Called Life, which probably would be amongst the top ten in my list of very favourite television series.


This little clip might give you a better flavour of the programme:


Finally, as I ricochet like a pinball from item to item, here's another, more watchable music video featuring a pre-Friends Matt LeBlanc and a very pre-Big Bang Theory Johnny Galecki (who is the fellow on a blanket with his girlfriend) in a 1994 video of a 1976 song about 1962:
The only night moves I'm considering are the ones that will get me to sleep. See ya.

Comedy cheat #4: Is or isn't it ironic?

In this continuing collection of comedy moments that stuck with me long after I first chuckled at them, I have a gem from the nineties. This one has been much on my mind lately.

We're helping younger daughter prepare for her English exam, which involves, among many other things, defining "irony" and "dramatic irony". Let's not get into how to explain an abstract concept to someone who sees life in concrete terms. Let's just say that dramatic irony is pretty easy to define; irony, not so much.

It is coincidental (but not ironic) that seventeen years ago when this same daughter was a very young baby, Alanis Morisette was having a pretty big hit with the song "Ironic". This ditty was inescapable in 1996. If you did manage to escape it, here's the song, featuring Alanis and her three doubles who are presumably imaginary and therefore don't require seat belts:Now, I'm not crazy about Alanis; I don't mind her, but there's only so much New Age jargon I can take at a sitting:
♫I am aware, nooooowwwww.....♪
Oh dear.

However, her earnestness seemed to make her one hell of a target. One of the wittier sharp-shooters was Irish comedian Ed Byrne who gained a fair bit if notoriety for this routine shortly after Alanis Morisette moved up the charts:

Gawd, how old was he, twelve? Now, as much as I guffawed when I first saw this (and it still makes me giggle), I have a couple of reservations: For one thing, Mr Byrne scoffs, "It's not a difficult concept, Alanis!" I beg to differ, Ed. Just try reading this item, then if you can stomach it, some of the hundreds of comments which follow. Or google "irony". Go on, I dare ya.

For another, Ed Byrne declares, as many have since, that the only ironic thing about "Ironic" is that there are no actual examples of irony in it. I draw your attention to the verse about the fellow who was afraid to fly and as his plane crashed down, he thought, "Well, isn't this nice?" I believe what you have there is a case of verbal irony. Don't you think?

Now, that same year, the alternative rock group Pulp was touring in Canada, and stopped by the studios of the music video station MuchMusic in Toronto. (This was back when MuchMusic was still a useful source for hearing many genres of music.) It was the long-standing tradition to play a video request for visiting acts. Jarvis Cocker was evidently aware that MuchMusic had an agreement with Alanis Morissette to not play any of her pre-Jagged-Little-Pill videos -- she had started out as a teen-television-personality who had branched into a brief period of being a pop princess, rather like early Kylie Minogue, or Billie Piper, or Miley Cyrus. Since much of MuchMusic was broadcast live, Cocker seized his chance. It's in the last thirty seconds of the following:
There may have been just a hint of irony in the request.
Don't you think?
And yes, they did play an early Alanis video for him.

Ironic, doncha think? (Write of passage number twenty-six)

Not all of my "writes of passage" take place on buses. This one doesn't:

One evening, I go down to the corner to buy hot chocolate mix from our local coffee shop. It's quite quiet, and since I'm the only person in line, I decide on the spur of the moment to also pick up some hot beverages for the Resident Fan Boy and younger daughter. I put my order in and go down to the end of the corner to wait for my drinks to be ready.

Wouldn't you know it, three people pick this moment to come in for coffee and there are only two baristas on duty. The girl is hastening to complete my order and find a tray so I can carry it home, while the boy fetches things. The first two following me seem pretty relaxed, but as I get ready to cart my drinks away, the third man is starting to fidget.

"I've been in coffee shops all over the city and it has never taken this long," he tells the barista at the expresso machine testily. He has stepped up close enough that I can spot the OC Transpo logo on his pullover.

"I've been waiting ten minutes; this is unacceptable."

I debate inwardly whether to point out that a) he hasn't been waiting anywhere near ten minutes and b) this is damned funny coming from an Ottawa bus driver, but I decide this won't help the barista and, being a non-driver, my chances of encountering this oblivious grouch on the transit system are excellent.

I depart into the night, balancing lattes and smothering a grin.

Tripping the light font taste test

Wikipedia pulled a witty April Fool's stunt yesterday. For "witty", read "rather esoteric in-joke". The only reason I got the joke (in an off-side kind of way) is that when I'm avoiding things I'm supposed to be doing, I read through the comments on postings on Passive-Aggressive Notes, a site that collects notes, very few of which are truly passive-aggressive, although the site-host(s) readily admit to this. One of the key things I have learned from piddling my time away at PAN is that Comic Sans is bad. Comic Sans is the equivalent of portraits of Elvis Presley painted on velvet, ruffled tux shirts, having "Sometimes When We Touch" sung at your wedding. Or, according to one of those insufferable London press fashionistas, wearing a cape. You know, the ones who decree every year what we should and shouldn't be wearing and what losers we are if we don't comply? Am I the only one who wants to slap them?

Comic Sans is a font (yes, it's okay if you didn't know this), and Wikipedia's big joke on April 1st was using Comic Sans in their entry on Helvetica which (apparently) is a very tasteful font even if its name does remind me of cheap cheese.

I've got nothing against Comic Sans, or Helvetica for that matter, although I now know that I dare not use the former if I'm ever to be taken seriously. Up until recently, I had no idea that I was being judged on my choice of font. I guess the fact that I usually use whatever default font is available (usually Arial or Times New Roman) betrays me as being hopelessly unimaginative or completely lacking in initiative.

Frankly, my favourite font ever was a "Harry Potter" one that computer-savvy elder daughter (then about age ten) downloaded for us. It got lost when our computer went foom, and since I have no idea how to download fonts, I use whatever's available on Outlook Express or Word Perfect. When I do choose, it's Calligrapher when I want to take up a lot of space and Perpetua when I don't.

Of course, someone with a lot of time on their hands came up with a clever online test to determine "the font that is best for you". You've probably seen it. I took it for the second time a few weeks ago, having forgotten I'd already taken it months ago and my result this second time was: Okay, I may not have anything against Comic Sans, but I think Plastica is vile. This font sucks. It was apparently assigned to me because (supposedly) I'm emotional, understated, traditional, and relaxed. Plastica doesn't say any of that to me, besides, I'm reasonably sure that last time I took this silly test, I got Archer Hairline (emotional, understated, progressive, disciplined -- apparently I've deteriorated and backslid between the first and second takings of this test) which was okay, but I couldn't find it anywhere. Besides, of the fonts available on the quiz, I only really liked Baskerville Italic(rational-understated-traditional-relaxed) and Perpetua Titling Light(rational-understated-traditional-disciplined), but the latter appears to be only in upper-case, so I'd be shouting all the time. But very tastefully. Besides, I thought it was called Perpetua Tilting Light which I found far more appealing, and so was rather put off when I discovered its true name while attempting to google it.

So, lessons learned:
1. Comic Sans is to be avoided, unless, of course, you're being ironic and everyone else gets the joke.
2. If you take on-line quizzes seriously, you're a fool in more than April.

I wonder if I can find an ironic way to wear my cape.