Tincanman's Xanga

For Those About To Drive [We Salute You]

Wed, 09 Jul 2008 12:16:33 GMT

Having driven school buses for many years, and motorcycles for many more years before that, the concept of waving to oncoming drivers of similar vehicle-type was not new to me in 2006 when I was first hired by Grand River Transit. With that said, it has taken me these two years to decide where I ultimately stand on this seemingly insincere routine of waving to each and every GRT driver, each and every time you might pass by him or her on the road. In the beginning I waved religiously simply because I thought that that was the communal expectation. However, as time passed I began to notice that some of the drivers were not returning my wave. I found this lack of conformity perplexing on one hand, but perfectly logical on the other. As I attempted to weigh the value of being a waver vs. a non-waver--I actually went through a period where I experimented with not waving to anyone--I soon discovered that being a non-waver also required me to avoid eye contact, which was actually more of a distraction to me than if I had simply waved back. There was also the mild concern that I would actually offend someone by not reciprocating his or her greeting.

This topic clearly has two sides, arguably balanced between logic and sentiment. To the non-wavers let it be said that I completely understand the apparent lunacy and unarguable redundancy of waving to the same driver three or four times within a two hour period, which can easily happen depending on the route you are driving. Clearly I can understand and appreciate how the non-wavers came to this “all or none” solution--in this case, none. I can picture the non-wavers now [you know who you are], eyes hypnotically glued to the road; hands that couldn’t be pried from the steering wheel without a crowbar. I’ve learned to spot these drivers from a distance and have become respectfully obliging to his or her apparent wish to be left alone. Some days though, I like to wave at them extra frantically, just to see if I can make them flinch. Honestly though … how hard is it to lift one or two fingers off the steering wheel, especially if you know that it’ll make another driver’s morning?

What the wavers lack in logic they easily make up in sentiment. I mean, who can honestly resist the double “thumbs-up” of John Doe when he’s having an exceptionally good day, or the unobtrusive nod of the Rooster as he flies down King Street. I think it’s important to decipher what the wave is and isn’t. The wave isn’t an invitation for that driver to show up at your cottage unexpectedly some weekend [at least I hope that’s not what it is], or an expectation that your name will magically appear on his or her Christmas card list. As one driver explained it to me, it’s not so much a wave of friendship as it is a salute of solidarity. A simple gesture of union and commonality that tells the other driver, “Hey, I’m out here too.” As professional drivers we’re all in the same boat basically, so if lifting a finger in salute [not that finger] helps to ease the frustration of Mainline, or helps to spur the morning more quickly into afternoon, I don’t see any reason why we should hold back.

I was going to leave this last bit off, but someone [a non-waver, I bet] will invariably bring it up, so here goes. Obviously, safety is our chief concern and should always take precedent over waving [or anything else for that matter], but we all know that there is ample opportunity to acknowledge one another on the road without jeopardizing safety. That being said, it remains each to his or her own. Just don’t expect a Christmas card.

Marty

Riding Public Transit 101

Fri, 23 Nov 2007 18:06:40 GMT

As you may or may not know, I am a public transit operator. For the most part, I love my job. The routine is relatively diverse, so far as jobs go anyway; I don’t have a shop foreman or office manager constantly looking over my shoulder. I am the captain of my ship and the passengers are my cargo. Generally speaking, the people who ride the bus are friendly and unobtrusive—just regular city folk trying to get to and from school or work as conveniently and economically as possible. And then there are “the others”. Those on the margins of society who are riding the bus for one basic reason—they don’t (or can’t) own a car. And why is that? Why can’t someone own a car? One of two reasons: They don’t have the mental, physical or financial wherewithal to maintain one; or they are so fucked-up that no reasonable judge, lawyer, doctor or social worker could possibly concede that they are responsible enough to drive one. And what's their alternative? Welcome to:

Riding Public Transit 101

If you are waiting at a bus stop that serves more than one bus route, and the bus that you are not waiting for approaches, take one giant step back from the bus stop while shaking your head, “no”. This simple gesture tells the bus driver that you do not want that particular bus, without the driver stopping the bus and opening the door while you stand there and stare at him or her—wasting everyone’s time except yours.

When you step into a bus, acknowledge the driver in some fashion, however slight. For example, you could make eye contact or nod or smile or simply say “hi”. The driver is not a vending machine or a cyborg—he or she is a human being and deserves the simplest social considerations, just like you.

If you are talking on your cell phone while boarding the bus, politely pause your conversation whilst paying your fare. The same applies if you are wearing headphones or ear-buds. The polite thing to do during any human transaction is to remove them briefly in the off chance that the person you are transacting with may actually have something to tell you.

If you require a transfer, politely ask for one while paying your fare—don’t just stand there like a mental patient waiting for your pills. Transfers aren’t door prizes—they don’t get handed out for just any reason. And please don’t just point to the transfer holder—open your mouth and say the words, “transfer please”. Unless you don’t speak English, or are mentally retarded, it’s the least you can do.

If you do not have the exact fare, tell the driver! Don’t just throw a handful of pennies and nickels in the fare box and walk on by. Most drivers will let you ride for free if you don’t have the correct fare, but no driver likes to be duped. The fare box automatically counts the change, so you aren’t actually fooling anyone; you are simply setting yourself up for a potentially embarrassing scolding in front of the other passengers from a burly, 290-lb., bearded bus driver. And that’s just the female ones.

Once you board the bus, pick a seat and sit down as quickly as possible. The bus will be merging back into traffic within a few seconds, so unless you want to go reeling down the aisle like an epileptic at an exorcism, sit-the-fuck-down. No one wants to see that shit.

Before you leave your home, find out where you are going and how you will be getting there. Unless your destination has a large, neon arrow pointing to it, I probably don’t know where it is. I’m not your personal assistant, nor your chauffeur. I don’t work for MapQuest or the Yellowpages—I’m a bus driver. If you provide me with an address of where you are going, I will probably be able to get you to the bus stop nearest to it. I don’t know where “Reptiles-R-Us” is, and I don’t know which bus goes by “The Hungry Greek Diet Centre”. Do your homework before you leave your house!

If it’s past 11 p.m. and you are under the age of twenty, you shouldn’t be pushing a baby stroller. So unless you live alone, and you have been out to the clinic for an emergency methadone injection, the baby should be at home in bed. No one wants to listen to your crack-addicted baby scream while you wipe dried blood from your nose. Go the fuck home already!

The new, “low-floor” style of bus is designed to accommodate those mobility carts that you see so many people riding around in. Assuredly, they serve their purpose well, enabling seniors and the physically challenged to go about their lives as routinely as possible. However, unless you actually can’t walk more than a block, you shouldn’t be riding around in one—they aren’t go-carts. And the irony is, the more you insist on needlessly riding around in one, the more likely you will actually need one eventually. Get off your ass before it’s impossible to even have a choice.

When you ring the bell for your stop, please do so well in advance. A city bus is approximately thirty tons of glass and steel, flying down the road at speeds in excess of 30-50 mph, requiring at least 300-feet to stop safely. Keep in mind, it’s a bus, not a helicopter—the pilot can’t just “set ‘er down” because you were daydreaming.

If my sign reads, "OUT OF SERVICE" when I pass you at the bus stop, please don't take it personally by flipping me the finger. Not every bus that passes your stop is your bus, the same way that every minivan that passes you isn't your mom.

Marty

The Lake

Fri, 28 Sep 2007 20:37:00 GMT

The blackness of the lake’s water confirmed its depth—a bottomless abyss so cold it could barely sustain life. The razor-thin horizon of the ominous steel-blue sky gently pressed against the surface of the lake. Along its shores nothing stirred save an occasional gust of raw wind that rattled the autumn leaves and threw them violently into a muddied palette of orange and crimson on the ground. Cattails and bulrushes stabbed out of the marshy sponge-land adjoined to the lake’s still depths. As silent as the abyss seemed to be, its soggy surge was crafty, relentlessly inching inland, slowly invading the sand and soil. Slender whips of the overhanging willow slapped at the marauding water in a bid to protect its turf. A solitary hill hunkered in the east and stood guard over the lake, seeing all, but saying nothing. Monochrome clouds, heavy with rain, floated near the hilltop like wounded zeppelins, as slivers of lightning infused the sky with light, trying to outrun the chasing thunder. Atop the tallest of the pines sat a crow, its head seemingly jointless as it swiveled robotically near 360 degrees. From its perch it could see the forgotten dock barely afloat near the lake’s furthest shore. Rickety from years spent alone—its cottage companion long vanished, a victim of a single, merciless bolt from the quiver of Thor. Only the stony foundation remained—the crow’s last reminder that it had once shared the lake with others. Remnants of a trail wound its way from the foundation to a patch of weedy brambles--threshold to the impenetrable forest beyond. And what lay beyond remained beyond, held in check by timber centurions, the moroseness of the lake forever sealed.

Clothes

Thu, 14 Jun 2007 13:19:35 GMT

Today, for lack of anything better to do, I decided it was time to "inventory" my clothes, discarding various items for one reason or another. I wasn't sure what my prerequisites were going to be when I started, but it didn't take me long to find some solid parameters.

- fleece pull-overs covered in pet hair. I don't even own a pet
- hoodies celebrating sports-teams that have been defunct for years
- cargo-shorts that make me look like Jaba the Hut on safari
- anything with the words "Puma" or "Reebok" on it
- souvenir t-shirts from places I've never visited

Anyone still here?

Thu, 07 Jun 2007 21:29:00 GMT

Just checking...

Hear No evil

Thu, 19 Apr 2007 18:30:55 GMT

On a warm spring's day in May 1998, Kip Kinkle, a fifteen-year-old boy from Springfield, Oregon, shot and killed both his father and his mother. The following day, he walked into his high school cafeteria and opened fire with a 9mm Glock semiautomatic pistol, killing two of his fellow students and wounding twenty-five others. Less than two years later Kip Kinkle would be found guilty of his crimes and sentenced to over one hundred and eleven years in prison. The American legal system was able to impart justice, but it failed to successfully establish the exact motives behind Kip's murderous rampage. The debate is ongoing and experts agree that there was probably far more going on inside of Kip's young brain than what was revealed at the trial.

It must be established early on that, Kip, in many ways was a typical teenager. He enjoyed listening to music, watching movies, and playing video games. He had a reasonable number of friends, an older sibling, and seemingly supportive and loving parents. His interest in martial arts, knives, and guns, albeit potentially violent, was not considered particularly abnormal for an American teenager--the culture in which he lived promoted such things as "hobbies." What wasn't typical about Kip Kinkle was the secret he kept about the voice in his head; a voice that he tried so hard to hide from the world. The voice obviously disturbed Kip--he knew it wasn't supposed to be there. He also knew that if he told anyone about it, the embarrassment and potential ridicule could be overwhelming.

A year prior to his rampage, Kip's mother, due in part to his depression and antisocial behavior--Kip liked to set off explosives when he was angry--, had scheduled nine consultations with a child psychologist spread over six months. During these sessions Dr. Jeffrey Hicks did establish that Kip was depressed and had some anger management issues. Hicks worked with him in developing alternate ways of expressing himself and, as so often happens when the real answers can't be found, prescribed the antidepressant, fluoxetine (Prozac.) Due to either a lack of information, or simply poor diagnoses, Dr. Hicks was unable to detect the early stages of paranoid schizophrenia in Kip, who, for his part, did not mention the auditory hallucinations in his head. The medication evidently kept the voice at bay for a time, but in the end may have been a contributing factor to his final violent episode. Studies on the effect of Prozac and similar antidepressants are inconclusive in regards to how they react on specific forms of mental illness, particularly schizophrenia. Contrary to the testimony of two other child psychologists, both of whom interviewed Kip after his arrest, Dr. Hicks maintained at the trial that Kip was not mentally ill.

Like every other teenager on the planet, Kip had some relationship issues. On the surface they appeared relatively "normal" problems: his girlfriend had recently ended their relationship, and he had an apparent distrust for adult authority--his father in particular. As normal as these relationship issues appeared to be, Kip was seemingly ill-equipped to deal with them in a "normal" manner. He often took to setting off explosives, or writing bizarre entries in his secret journal--writing of his loneliness, his self-hatred, rage, and apparent recognition that there was something terribly wrong with his brain. A part of him, however, clung to a realization that he did care for others. Even in his angered ramblings, written right after he murdered his parents, Kip confessed, "I love my mom and dad so much..." His note was a confused confession of guilt, and a heartfelt admission that he was the disappointment, and that it was he who had failed them. He wrote about the voice as well, and with the post-trial suspicion that Kip was already in the early stages of schizophrenia at the time of the shootings, it seems a pathetic irony that Kip was the only one who knew it.

Sociologists have already drawn some conclusions as to the effect of music with depressing lyrics, violent movies, and first-shooter video games, on teenagers and the antisocial behavior sometimes acted out. The general consensus is that violent forms of media, although not directly the cause of any such incidents, are unequivocally catalysts to the cause; the desensitization of youth to bloodshed and violence does little to uphold moral deterrents. However, in the case of Kip Kinkle, it can be argued that, with or without these outside suggestive forces, he was already on a fast track to some form of breakdown due to his mental illness, and his inability to convey the seriousness of it to his family and doctor.

Perhaps Kip knew all along what was in store for him. And had he been able to overcome his embarrassment, and the stigma that goes with being mentally ill, things could have maybe turned out differently. At his trial, Dr. Richard J. Konkol, a pediatric neurologist, showed to the court, computerized scans of Kip's brain and the defects in his frontal lobe that received reduced blood-flow and undoubtedly affected his emotional control and decision making process. Dr. Konkol added that, this condition, although serious, was not untreatable. This was the only hope that Kip Kinkle had ever been offered--and the only time during the entire trial that he lifted his head from the table. Somewhere in his brain Kip had always known that it wasn't really his father, or the music, or the guns, or the kids at school that had made him this way--but the voice in his head had deceived him into blaming everyone and everything except itself--schizophrenia.

Marty

"The world is a dangerous place. Not because of the people who are evil; but because of the people who don't do anything about it."
~ Albert Einstein 1879-1955

It's Not Always Black & White

Sat, 14 Apr 2007 11:57:29 GMT

I bought ink yesterday for my older-style printer, an Epson Stylus Photo 750—impressive name, expensive ink cartridges. It takes two ink cartridges, one for black and one for coloured. (This is not a Don Imus joke btw) As I stood deciphering the ink display, I glanced once or twice at the discounted printers in the aisle nearest me. For approximately the same price as my two ink cartridges, I could have a brand new printer! I weighed my options for several minutes—purchasing a new printer with the ink already supplied, or buying the replacement ink cartridges for my old printer—before my imagination conjured up the unpleasant image of my office cluttered with dozens of discount printers, one for each time I ran out of ink. I bought the ink.

Speaking of Don Imus, why did he all of a sudden become the whipping-boy for rude, insensitive and offensive comments? There is nothing new here. What about rapper, Ludacris singing, "Move bitch, get out the way", or "Hooooooooo (Ho) Youza Hoooooo (Ho)". I realize that Ludacris isn't singing his songs directly to the Rutgers girls basketball team, but he recorded these songs with someone—some woman—in mind. What makes this better or worse than what Imus said? And what about Chris Rock, strutting back and forth on stage ranting his entire "cracker-ass cracker" routine? Granted, there is context for Rock's routine, but that does not lessen the bluntness of his words. Did Billy Graham or Pope Benedict go on a talk-show tour asking for either of their jobs? Al Sharpton (that's right, I'm comparing Al Sharpton to the Pope) needs to come to terms with something: Either he wants a country where free-speech dominates, or a country where censorship dominates; a society where "entertainers" and "loud-mouth media-types" (both Sharpton and Imus fall into the latter category) can say what they want, regardless of who they offend ... or a society where arbitrary censorship is both routine and consistent. He can't have it both ways; no double standards. Don Imus’ statement is but a drop in the ocean of American racial and misogynistic insensitivity—both black and white.

Canadians aren't just tolerant, we are also very observant.

Marty

Good Friday - Mediocre Saturday

Thu, 05 Apr 2007 16:58:26 GMT

This past Thursday I was delighted when a friend presented me with an unexpected Easter gift. The generous gift-bag included a box of delicious Lindt milk-chocolate bunnies, a "Cash-For-Life" lottery ticket and a 300ml bottle of 'Sake' (Japanese alcoholic beverage). I had never tried Sake before, but I looked forward to it with eager anticipation! The write-up on the bottle sounded inviting & encouraging as it read:

"Hakutsuru Draft Sake is carefully aged after brewing for one month in its fresh state around 5'C before being bottled. This new style of Sake should be consumed chilled around 8°C to appreciate and enjoy its freshness and light taste. This Sake is slightly sweet and its superb aroma enhances food flavors. It is best served with Sushi, Yakitori, Tempura, etc."

Later that evening I sat down in my favourite chair with chilled Sake in hand expecting to be stuporously soothed by its 14.5% alcohol content. I followed the directions on the bottle closely which involved throwing the Sake in the fridge for a couple of hours and preparing some delicious 'Canadian Sushi' (a tuna sandwich).

Now, keep in mind, I have never drank rubbing-alcohol or window-cleaner before either, but I have a pretty good imagination and sense of smell. After a couple of introductory sips of the Sake, my taste buds were quickly trying to figure out which of these two categories this swill best belonged in. After three or four more sample-sips I decided that its best use would be as a kitchen-sink-clog-remover.

Next week when my friend asks me how I enjoyed the Sake, I will tell her: "It when down smoother than Extra-Strength-Drano!"

Marty

I only post on holidays now

Saturday, March 17, 2007

Sat, 17 Mar 2007 13:57:44 GMT

Happy St. Patrick's Day

Howard Callan Wilson 1965-1987

Sat, 03 Mar 2007 21:23:02 GMT

I first met Callan in 1980 while we were both working as dishwashers at the Elora Mill Restaurant & Inn. Having gone to school with his older siblings, Clare and Andrew, it felt like I already knew him a bit—he was that kid that was always hanging around whenever Clare or Andrew would throw a party at the house. Mrs. Wilson, a single parent, was a very cool lady and allowed her home to be used for her teenage children's social functions on the condition that we would behave responsibly and not destroy the place. The Wilson kids always threw the best parties—they were five young people, Alane, Kathy, Andrew, Clare and Callan, all born within ten years of one another, so the social dynamic was always fun, diverse and unpredictable.

Callan seldom mentioned his father. Not out of any intentional disrespect mind you; it was more a case of Callan—being very young when his parents separated—not really knowing all that much about him. When he did talk about him though, I could sense the quiet hero-worship going on behind his eyes. He knew his name was Malcolm, that he was British, and that he was a rally car driver—an interest that Callan would inherit enthusiastically. So much so that when I bought my first car, a 1978 Honda Civic, Callan was gung-ho to learn to drive—oh my poor car! I recall one situation in particular where we were both at an out of town party. When it came time to leave, it was obvious to everyone that I was in no shape to drive—I could hardly walk—so Callan volunteered with much insistence that he would drive. The Civic was a 5-speed, standard shift and his experience in driving it was limited to the two or three times that I had actually let him try. Although I was very drunk and partly passed out, pressing my inebriated face against the passenger's cold window, I can still recall vividly, hearing the SOUNDS of Callan grinding his way through each gear. He was up-shifting and down-shifting at every possible occasion, as if he were driving a Renault Dauphine through the streets of Monaco during the Monte Carlo Rally, as we made our way back into Fergus. [A humourous side-note to this story involves me waking up the next morning in Clare's bed. I honestly forget if Clare was actually there at any point, but I recall that she was not impressed the next morning when I came down the stairs. Mrs. Wilson didn't even bat an eye and quickly offered me breakfast and some Tylenol for my hangover.]

Music was huge in Callan's life. Having been heavily influenced by his sibling's cutting-edge taste and magnetism for all things "hip", Callan introduced me to many bands that I probably would not have discovered otherwise. He refused to pigeonhole his taste to any one genre; his philosophy for appreciation being mature and well developed even at sixteen-years of age. If the music inspired him in any way, it was added to his repertoire of favorites, regardless of genre and rarely being anything that was on the radio at the time. I recall that, because of our limited funds, we would sometimes go halves on LPs with one of us taping it and the other keeping the LP. We alternated this arrangement several times. In fact, I still have many of the LPs: Bruce Springsteen's Born to Run; the Kingbees debut; B. B. Gabor's debut; Roxy Music's Flesh + Blood; the B-52s debut; Garfield's Strange Streets, and Carolyne Mas' debut.

In 1980 Callan and I went through a phase where we lived and breathed everything "Blues Brothers". We saw the movie and listened to the soundtrack repeatedly; dressed like them, talked like them, and drove like them. We dressed-up as the Blues Brothers for our high school's Halloween dance and even had the Gimme Some Lovin' dance from the movie down pat so that when the DJ played it we were pretty much front and centre, performing as Jake and Elwood, the Blues Brothers.

Callan always spoke highly of his family, having complete respect for his mom and sisters. In the absence of his father, Callan naturally idolized his older brother, Andrew, adopting and mimicking many of his fashion trends and mannerisms. Part of this was inherent obviously, but part of it was also pure adoration. Andrew meant so very much to Callan and he took every opportunity to let others know it.

In the winter of 1987 I was living in Eastern Ontario, travelling home only a couple of times a year to visit friends and family. On one such occasion, in the spring of 1987, I was at a bar in Elora, catching-up with some old friends when someone at the table brought up Callan's death quite casually and matter-of-factly, as if it were old news. The thing was though—I hadn't heard it yet. I can still remember feeling extremely shocked and saddened by the news.

Although our friendship was brief—I lost all track of him by 1984—Callan has had a lasting effect on my life, mostly in terms of music. In fact, to this day I can't listen to anything off of Roxy Music's Flesh + Blood without hearing Callan's voice—he sang along without embarrassment whenever it played. Although he had some strong, independent opinions (he loved to play devil’s advocate) and was a true artist when it came to sarcasm, Callan really was a likable kid—witty and intelligent, with a wide degree of interests.

Admittedly, I haven't thought of Callan much recently. In fact, it wasn't until today when I was looking through a drawer of old newspaper clippings I'd saved and found the one about his accident that I decided to memorialize him in some small way.

R.I.P. Callan

Marty ... ... ...