I. Will. Write.

San Franciso is so awesome. The streets are dry. No need to work out. Just walking gets the heart racing. A street car clanged loudly at me today because I was driving the wrong way in its lane headed steeply down to the bay. Nobody, but nobody, drives a standard.

But I'm tired. After three days of networking, speeches, a CBS interview, and talking in San Diego, I have two more days of the same ahead. And although I love my job, I feel a bit tapped.

But I'm also overwhelmed by how lucky I am. I get to travel all over North America talking to people about how to reach low income and disengaged people with a simple action and the promise of more. It's super. But I need to go to bed.

Thanks for stopping by. Sometime in the next few months I have to get to the cabin to spend a week with the kids just keeping the wood stove going. Yes. That sounds good. Uhn-huh. G'nite.

Quarters

Once, when I was maybe 10 my mom made me eat a raw onion when I asked her for 25 cents to buy the new Hubba Bubba grape. I did it. Another time, my grade two teacher Ms. Ferguson called me to the front of the class and offered me 25 cents if I hiccupped one more time. I didn't.
>> Photos: First winter at Walden Cabin in PEI (1995), and in 2007.

Love your messed-up muttface self

Sister-in-law JD's looking for a dog. She found a hot prospect tonight on UsedOttawa.com, mixed in with listings for old CRT TVs and IKEA furniture: An 18-month-old Corgi. The ad's a bit dodgy for a doggie posting. First of all, the owner posted what looks like a catalogue picture of a corgi. And it states emphatically that the dog is wonderful with "considerate children."

Upon reading the ad I was instantly taken back to the late 70s and remembered the hot rashy feeling of my wrist after Frisky gnawed on it. God love her she meant well and never broke skin, even though she scared the crap out of lots of little considerate kids that she obviously mistook for mewling ewes.

Frisky was my Corgi/Collie mutt. She was actually the runt pup of my cousins' purebred corgi called "Corgi." Uncle David had planned to breed purebred corgi pups, which fetch a pretty penny, but his plans were sullied when Trixie the neighbour collie mutt from further up the dirt drive mounted Corgi and caused a fracas with the purebred society. I choose to believe that Corgi was a consenting partner. So my Frisky, mutt runt of the unholy encounter of Corgi and Trixie, was an interesting mix. She was short and flat-backed like a corgi, with the stub snout and oversized ears, but with the fur of Lassie, white under the chin and a beautiful auburn back all the way to her bushy tail. Unlike her purebred bitch mom, her tail wasn't docked. Which seems like an awful thing to do to a dog.

I Loved Frisky. She was odd -- fiercely loyal, but wild. She gnawed at my wrists and ripped up my pant legs and roamed the back fields with impunity while we were at school. She had three litters of pups behind the toilet in the laundry room and would guard my backyard fort from the neighbourhood rabble as they raided in waves on their mini bikes. When we wanted Frisky to come home we pulled the clothes line that was attached to the back of the house. She'd come running to the the rusty squeal of the clothesline wheel and jump up to take a bite from the pole like a beaver. All day Saturday she'd sit on her spot on the front lawn watching me work across the road at the little country store. Her ears would perk up every time I emerged to pump gas or carry loads of groceries to a car. She was all mine, and was there for me through my parent's divorce and the unguided era that was teenage in late-80s Prince Edward Island. Frisky was my absolute best friend ever.

By age 14 she started to suffer arthritis in her hips. Mom wrote to me in France, where I was studying, telling me to prepare for bad news. But Frisky held on until I got home. She died in her spot on the lawn four days later. People said she waited. I believe it. We were inseparable.

It took me a day to build a coffin and bury her in her ratty blanket beneath the clothesline pole. It fell down that winter, broken at the bite marks.

So JD should get a dog. For her kids. Because the gnawing and the fleas and the muck are worth it for the Love.

My 15 minutes, continued.

People are scared. This hit me today in studio at CBC as I was doing a live-to-air segment on Newsworld (interviewed by Suhanna Merchand from Toronto) about concerns that UV radiation from CFL bulbs can cause sunburns and other medical conditions. I'm often called to give this kind of interview, and I'm increasingly comfortable doing so, even though it's weird to sit in a dark closet with just a camera and try to act as if you're having a friendly chat.

The other issues I've been asked to address since 2006 are legit: Mercury, safe usage, energy savings/empowerment of communities ... But the radiation issue is different, and I think it's a sign. If people are really worried that there's a minute chance that being within 10" of a light bulb could cause a slight skin irritation, there's something wrong out there.

And I said as much. When I told Suhanna that Project Porchlight had mobilized 10,000 volunteers to hand out now close to 2 million bulbs and that we'd not had one complaint of a sun burn from a bulb, and I commented that, "based on what I have seen, the bulb is safe," Suhanna jumped on me.

"Why should we accept that broad generalization? Who have you hired to find out if these are safe?"

So I kind of lost it and just called the whole issue "bogus." Then I held up an 8x10" colour picture of a coal plant belching smoke, and cited an Ontario Medical Assoc. study that says 9500 Ontarians die prematurely each year because of pollution, and told her basically to get over the radiation issue. Because it's bogus.

That felt good.

I was feeling like I'd recovered ground once I pulled out the coal plant prop, but I probably took things too far when I told Suhanna that if she spends long periods too close to a light bulb that maybe there were other issues we should discuss. I've already received email from avid readers who swear by their handy articulated-arm desk lamps. Back off!! (from the lamp).

The thing is, there are massive problems we could be talking about, problems that I would rather be talking about. Like those coal plants. Or the fact that people who can't pay their electric bills because the mill or auto plant is laying off will probably not sweat over a bogus and unsubstantiated risk if they think that changing all the bulbs in their house will save them $1000, which it will.

I tried to get that message in there too. But my time was up. The next story was about "Obama Fashion."

Thank you, Wilf.

Tonight seems like a good time to share the story of my first trip to Washington, DC. I love Washington, and am there frequently lately with the project. It's exciting to get to know a city -- to find a favourite bookstore, a little hotel where you can get to know the desk staff, and even find an unpretentious clothes store that sells top notch shirts.

My first time to Washington was in 1996. It was August and I was in town on business with the Canadian Psychological Association, where I was Managing Editor of the journals division. I'd been sent to CPA's American partner org, APA, to discuss the newfangled Internet's impact on academic publishing. (Thank you for sticking with me his far).

August in DC is HOT. So humid that you're constantly soaked. So I decided to go for an evening walk from my hotel to the Capitol Building. I was 28 at the time, and very green when it came to US travel. But since I'd just spent 3 months wandering around the Middle East without incident, I figured DC would be fine for a casual after-dark stroll.

I was wrong.

At one point within a few hundred yards of the steps of the Capitol Building I noticed that I was being followed by a large man in basketball shorts and sleeveless top. I crossed the street but could not shake him. Everything was closed by that time, my hotel was at least four blocks away and, despite my rising panic, I didn't run because a ridiculous Sting song popped into my head, "I'm an alien ... illegal alien ... A gentleman will walk but never run ..." Then it occurred to me that there could be fewer things worse than dying with that song in your head.

Finally, I was outpaced and cornered. And then he leaned in close and spoke.

"I could kill you right now. Cut you."

A turned and looked right at him. Then at the gleaming dome of the Capitol. In that fraction of a second I also noticed how pretty the sky was, how it suddenly felt cooler, and then the blood red light at the sharp point of the Washington Monument, winking at me.

"Why would you do that?" was all I could think of as a reply.

"Got any money?" he asked.

I seized on his interest in a conversation like a life raft on the Potomac.

"I'm from Canada. I just got here and it's really hot. You know, I don't know how you guys handle this humidity. It would make me crazy ... We get summer you know, but not like this ... yeah, I have some cash .. just a sec ..."

I pulled out my wallet and found I only had a blue Canadian five dollar bill. I handed it to him, making sure the side with the kids playing shinny and the quote from Roch Carrier's "The Hockey Sweater" was facing up. As he took it, I added, "That's worth about $3.50 US."

He handed it back, turned and crossed the street.

I shoulda framed that fiver. It has increased in value since.

Bean in stickier situations?

I'm looking for a good slow cooker baked beans recipe, preferably one that includes molasses. I was proud of myself yesterday because I'd gotten organized enough to soak a large bowl of black-eyed beans for a full 24 hours before I carefully layered them with sliced plum tomato, onion and brown sugar and a few healthy chunks of fatty pork tenderloin in my slow cooker. I set it to Low and went to bed, but was horrified to discover in the morning that I'd forgotten to plug it in. Slow indeed.

So I'm ready to try again, but want to use molasses. What a great word! I'm really craving molasses over the past few days. Is that like compulsively eating chalk? Should I get checked for a mineral deficiency, or is it just the fact that the sun goes down at 4:30PM and TV is just So Boring? Suzy's been away most of this week. Maybe I just need someone to talk to after dark when the kids are asleep and Puddy only wants me for my warm lap.

A quick search brought me to "126 uses of molasses." I particularly like #30: "To alleviate ear ache, mix with vinegar." They don't say if you eat it or put it in your ear, and #94: "Used instead of salt on icy roads." Sweet!

I have very fond memories of my dad smearing black molasses on fresh bread with butter (butter first!), and in baked beans. Neither application is listed among the 126. I suddenly have a new mission.

Public Transit-ion

It's day 37 of the Ottawa transit strike. There's no sign of a deal. But it didn't really affect me until yesterday (aside from a slightly longer commute and new carpool company, which is actually quite pleasant). Yesterday I came home and was annoyed to find that my housekeeper hadn't come to clean the house, as she does every two weeks while Suzy and I are at work. The place is overdue. Ceta hasn't been here since early December, before the holidays. I've been keeping up with the tree needles and the laundry, but we count on her for a twice-monthly scrub. And we've set her up with other friends as well. She's putting her nieces through school back in the Philippines.

So when I got home it hit me that no transit = no Ceta. And I instantly felt guilty. I should be doing something about this stupid strike.

I mentioned this to Dan on the way in to work this morning and suggested that what we need to do is kick the bums out of City Hall and start over. But nobody's doing that. There are no rallies or posters up or even heckling, and no obvious leader around which sensible voices have coalesced. Heck, there aren't even ad hoc transit options popping up -- like pink ribbons on random street lamps denoting pick-up spots for women by hockey moms putting their minivans to good use, or new carpool web sites ...

I asked Dan if we should get some eggs and go to City Hall -- if we could start something. There's violence in cracking egg shells. He shook his head.

"This is so Ottawa. The government employees are too rich to care, and the poor have no voice."

It's true. The little wad of cash is still there on the wash stand by the key bowl inside my front door. It didn't make it to Ceta, to her bank account, and to those nieces. And Dan and I just went to work, like everyone else. And we don't work for the government. Another normal day in Ottawa.

The Singularity

I'm fighting with a couple of books, for very different reasons. Downstairs on the side table by the front window rests Pillars of the Earth by Ken Follett. It was my third Christmas read, and the one that provided the bridge for that awkward and often painful period between an easy work-free New Years afternoon and the return to work. The problem is, at page 800 I just want it to end. I'm invested, but I've learned all I want to about cathedral building, thank you. With every page turned I skim along hoping for a raging pestilence, a spectacular tumbling buttress or a sudden surge of wild uninhibited witches from the woods. You know, to pep things up a bit. C'mon!

Upstairs on the nightstand, mixed in with Richard Scary, is John Ralston Saul's A Fair Country: Telling Truths About Canada. Without getting all philosophical, it's fair to say that I'm in love with the idea of loving these books. And I have to admit that I bought this because of the playful cover. A turtle! What's hilarious is that the jacket notes suggest that John Ralston Saul "challenges Canada's established elites." He no doubt felt like a real outsider in the horse-drawn landau on his way to the opening of the new Parliament. But seriously, I'm hoping to be surprised by this book. It's definitely time for some serious objective thinking about how Canada can find its way again. (Yes, we're lost. Look around.)

Which reminds me. In 2008 I discovered that my favourite place is actually Vermont. When I mention this to someone friendly in Vermont (heck, they all are), the response is pretty universal and predictable: They say that I like Vermont because Vermont is a lot like Canada. In fact, Vermont is more Canadian than Canada. Burlington, VT is also run by a mayor from the "Progressive" party. So that's where the P went when the Conservatives dumped it. Someone should tell Peter MacKay.

This weekend I plan to start reading this. I just wish Ray Kurzweil would stick to solar panels. We could all use his help. Ah, sunshine. Only 9 weeks to spring!

Go Jasper Go

My son Jasper (8) is growing up. He loves hard guitar music, is fearless on a snowboard and, last week, shocked his mother when he told her he liked how "some girls have shirts that show a bit of their belly." I'm having trouble keeping up. And sometimes feel out of place. Like at his hockey games. A year ago he could barely skate. Then, suddenly, he is a sought-after goalie in Novice B. Other parents at games call him "fantastic."

But I still feel out of place.

The thing is, I've never been a hockey fan. And a year into going to Jasper's games, I still don't really know what an off-side is. So now my problem is that every weekend I watch, powerless, as an entire front line flies down ice toward my micro-preemie son, determined to knock a frozen disc past his well-padded self. Aside from being paralyzed with fear, I'm literally at a loss for words. Because, as a non-hockey dad, I tend to yell all the wrong things.

As other parents around me clutch double-doubles and jump to their feet yelling something about creases or off sides or some kind of violation, I defer to plain language: "Really! Move your leg a little more to the left, son!"

When his team makes its move, what comes out is: "That's it, go past that blue line there and then shoot!"

Or at a sudden turnabout just, "Oh my God! Do something. Stop!"

Luckily, my tepid instructions are lost in the frenzy. My biggest fear is that once I know the words I will be kicked out for being too vocal. Language is power.

**

And delight.

I have a new favourite book. "Jamie's dinners," by Jamie Oliver was a Christmas gift from Suzy. She said she thought I would "like to cook dinner from time to time." And I do. But my chicken-thighs-a-la-bottled-pasta-sauce is getting a bit tired. And Jamie's my new hero because his recipes speak to me. Tonight I followed two of them. I love the simplicity of "Tender and crisp chicken legs with sweet tomatoes" (p. 222), and "Andy the Gasman's beef stew" (page 246), both of which were prepared in my kitchen tonight. Who knew that rosemary sprigs and orange zest would set off a stew, or that cherry tomatoes and fresh basil could tie together a set of chicken legs with such big Yum? Yeah.

But I like Jamie because his recipes are simple and straightforward: "Use a snug-fitting pan... throw in a handful of basil ... chuck in your tomatoes ... squeeze out the pulp from the roasted garlic and toss it in with the skins!"

If I continue to cook, maybe I'll find my hockey legs.

O'er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly streaming?

I'm in Washington. I love it here. And it's not just the lack of snow. Think about it: The US has just endured what some here are calling "the lost decade," nearly a decade of perhaps the worst president ever unless you consider James Buchanan (1857-1861), whose dithering nearly split the country as he remained indifferent to slavery and somehow didn't see the Civil War coming. That was bad. There should be statues to Lincoln in Ottawa. Canada was formed when the Fathers of Confederation realized the US was getting its act together and they figured they'd better get theirs in shape too before the US took over everything north of 49.

Yes, there's a lot to be worried about in the US, for sure: Economic collapse, two grinding wars (one based on a lies), wiretaps, environmental whistling in the wind, Katrina (speaking of wind)...

You'd think Americans would be running scared.

They're Not.

We say "depression." They say, "New Green economy." Where there are problems, they see opportunities. A taxi driver told me this morning that if you don't fail at least twice in America you're not trying hard enough. I like this attitude. Heck, a big story here yesterday is how Joe the Plumber is now a foreign correspondent in Gaza. Geez, these people think they can do anything. And then they do.

There's a lot you can say about the US. But as another taxi driver said yesterday, they've "got it all goin' on." After eight lost years, America's got its mojo back and it's about time. We need them. And I admire them. God Bless America.

I still eat sausage too

I often feel a bit shattered at this time of year, if it's possible to be a "bit" shattered. A big party's over. And resolutions no longer seem to reassure. Last year my sister-in-law and I pledged to give up breakfast meats ("Who needs bacon, really?"), but it didn't last. And today I toyed with the idea of putting down $60 for the half-marathon training course at Running Room, but just walked out (slowly) with the brochure.

With age comes some self awareness (or at least I think that's why; ask me when I'm older). So it's a bit amusing to be conscious that I just can't pack the Hallmark singing Santa face down in the decorations box, and that it bothers me that there are only four more buds on the Christmas cactus. The Santa thing's just weird, I know. But the cactus only blooms at this time of year. And when it stops, it's inevitable that my mind will cast forward to Christmas 2009. Where will we be? What's going to happen this year?

I deal with the January uncertainty by writing little notes to my kids to tuck in with the decorations. This year will be the tenth time I've done this (the first ones were to Suzy). They're pretty much the same every year and range from "Happy Christmas! If I'm dead, I Love You!" to "Don't eat the old chocolate coins you find in this box!" What's comforting is the fact that the notes show less anxiety and more quiet confidence with every passing year. Which is something I'm going to think about as I write this year's note. My net's going to be cast even wider this year, and I'm really excited about it. And as long as I get at least two weeks at the cabin, I'll be fine.

I'm just hoping that this time next year the top story will be what to call the decade that just ended, and how Canada's about to take all the gold in Whistler.

Or just count sheep

Day five of seven sharing a ski chalet at Sutton, Quebec with the in-laws and cousins over Christmas break. Jasper (8) is on the floor on a mattress beside the bed where Suzy and I are curled up with the Little Monk (Simon, 4). It's 11:45 PM

"Dad! I Can't Sleep!!"

"Dude, you just have to close your eyes."

"No! It's NOT working! I don't know what to do!"

"Just close your eyes!! Think about the day you just had on the hill. Your awesome snowboard lesson. Think about the fun we're having here, and all the family with us."

"OK."

"Think about your friends from school back at home. And your hockey team buddies. Think about the Christmas tree that's all decorated back at the house and if Puddy managed to plug the lights in on her own while we were gone on Christmas day.

Keep your eyes closed!

Think about everybody you love. And how safe it is here in Canada. How lucky we are. And how much we love the cabin in PEI. And what that little yellow bird that we see every spring from the skylight over our bed does in winter. Where does it go?

Think about the Earth. And how small we are in the universe and if there are other planets like ours and if so if they also have snowboards and video games and kids and if we could talk to them what we'd say and if it would make a difference to how we live together here and if they would know how to fall asleep without trouble ..."

"Zzzzz..."

"Jasper? Jasper??"