It's Monday morning, and I'm tempted to go over to the dark side.
No, I'm not talking about joining Darth Vader's quest for universal domination, nor am I planning on listening to Pink Floyd's eighth studio album. The dark side I'm thinking about crossing involves caffeine – specifically, coffee.
I've never been a coffee drinker. In fact, I've only drank one cup of joe in my 26 years. Even working at Tim Hortons for nearly three years as a teenager, I didn't indulge in Canada's unofficial hot beverage.
But today I just can't seem to wake up and I need a boost – and my green tea with honey isn't doing the trick.
Sometimes when I'm really tired I have an energy drink. But I would feel unprofessional sipping a Red Bull in the newsroom. When I think of Red Bull drinkers, I imagine party animals, running on 30 minutes sleep, and still tipsy from the previous night's bender.
For me, it seems foolish to drink a Red Bull after I stayed up too late Sunday night ironing my weekly work clothes and watching 60 Minutes.
This isn't the first time I've been tempted to turn to coffee on a miserable Monday morning. But the same ritual fears continue to hold me back from crossing over to the dark side.
First, I hate the taste of coffee (although I love the smell). Second, I don't want to become dependent on caffeine. I see coffee addicts everywhere. These are the people who can't start work, wake up or hold a conversation without their much-needed morning java fix. I don't want to be that person.
But I don't want to be the person I am right now, either – a zombie.
So what is a young journalist to do?
As I look around the office I see Starbucks cups or refillable mugs on almost every desk.
Coffee, believed to have originated in Ethiopia, is one of the most widely drank beverages in the world. From South America to the Middle East, everyone seems to be drinking coffee. Maybe I should just join the masses. Then when a friend or co-worker does a Tim Hortons run I wouldn't have to sheepishly ask for a jelly donut.
But on second thought I see a flaw in caffeine consumption. Yes, coffee drinkers perk up after getting their java fix, but that high is short-lived, then it's right back to where they started an hour ago.
Meanwhile, I'm only getting more awake as the day goes on.
So I'll leave coffee to the caffeine consumers, Red Bull to the rock stars, and I'll just try to get to bed on time in the future.
Saturday, October 30, 2010
Got hair?
It's that time of the month again for me: I'm due for a haircut.
Getting a haircut isn't an enjoyable experience. First, it costs money. I got my last two cuts in different cities – something I regret doing. For one, I was in Montreal attending a bachelor party when I went to the mall to get a pre-party trim. After finishing my cut the girl at the counter asked for $30. I was shocked. Clearly reading my terrible poker face she said, "Welcome to downtown Montreal."
But my French Canadian cut didn't prepare me for what I encountered four weeks ago in Toronto.
As the best man for a wedding, I wanted to look sharp. So I went to a upscale barbershop in Toronto's trendy King West district to get my hair did a few hours before the ceremony.
This time a wash, cut and style set me back a whopping $50 – another costly welcome to a Canadian metrolopolis.
Note to self: the smaller the city, the cheaper the price for this dreaded service.
But it's not just the monetary aspect of haircuts that leaves me sour.
I'm not a fan of the obligatory small talk with the stylist. It's always the same conversation, "What do you do? How was your weekend?"
And the worst question, "What do you want me to do with your hair?"
I never know what to say to this query. I'm sure I don't want to leave with a Justin Bieber 'doo or look like an enlisted man, but I'm not exactly sure what I want, either. The hairdresser is the expert, so I want them to make a decision. It's like going to the doctor for a physical and the physician asking, "What do you want me to do?"
But the worst part about haircuts is I'm locked in a never-ending cycle. I get a haircut; it looks bad for a week, then it looks decent for about 10 days before it goes back to looking overgrown for another week, and then I have to repeat the process again. I feel like Bill Murray in Groundhog Day.
I wish my health plan covered haircuts – that would be great.
Sometimes I think I chose the wrong medium of journalism. Many television reporters get complimentary cuts to ensure they look good on the air. However, as an invisible newspaper scribe, my hair isn't a priority in the newsroom.
But I guess I really can't complain – the alternative to needing frequent haircuts isn't so great either.
Getting a haircut isn't an enjoyable experience. First, it costs money. I got my last two cuts in different cities – something I regret doing. For one, I was in Montreal attending a bachelor party when I went to the mall to get a pre-party trim. After finishing my cut the girl at the counter asked for $30. I was shocked. Clearly reading my terrible poker face she said, "Welcome to downtown Montreal."
But my French Canadian cut didn't prepare me for what I encountered four weeks ago in Toronto.
As the best man for a wedding, I wanted to look sharp. So I went to a upscale barbershop in Toronto's trendy King West district to get my hair did a few hours before the ceremony.
This time a wash, cut and style set me back a whopping $50 – another costly welcome to a Canadian metrolopolis.
Note to self: the smaller the city, the cheaper the price for this dreaded service.
But it's not just the monetary aspect of haircuts that leaves me sour.
I'm not a fan of the obligatory small talk with the stylist. It's always the same conversation, "What do you do? How was your weekend?"
And the worst question, "What do you want me to do with your hair?"
I never know what to say to this query. I'm sure I don't want to leave with a Justin Bieber 'doo or look like an enlisted man, but I'm not exactly sure what I want, either. The hairdresser is the expert, so I want them to make a decision. It's like going to the doctor for a physical and the physician asking, "What do you want me to do?"
But the worst part about haircuts is I'm locked in a never-ending cycle. I get a haircut; it looks bad for a week, then it looks decent for about 10 days before it goes back to looking overgrown for another week, and then I have to repeat the process again. I feel like Bill Murray in Groundhog Day.
I wish my health plan covered haircuts – that would be great.
Sometimes I think I chose the wrong medium of journalism. Many television reporters get complimentary cuts to ensure they look good on the air. However, as an invisible newspaper scribe, my hair isn't a priority in the newsroom.
But I guess I really can't complain – the alternative to needing frequent haircuts isn't so great either.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Guess who's back?
Well, I’m finally getting around to doing it. After six months back in Canada I decided to return to the world of blogging. I don’t really know why it took me so long to get another blog up and going. After all, I love writing and taking pictures.
Perhaps I feared I was a one-hit wonder with Sleepless in Suva. I mean, will I be able to entertain readers now that I’m back in the Forest City or would I end up like that guy who sang the Macarena: all washed up … what was his name again?
In Fiji I had street dogs, local grifters, homemade licence plates, and a slew of other Third World anecdotes to blog about.
Now, back in London, I have two cats, a girlfriend who’s repeatedly requested to be left out of all of my writings and sleepwalking habit that I can’t seem to kick to rely on for material.
So you can see why I put off starting this new blog for so long.
But the fall is a time of new beginnings: students go back to school (suckers), a new season is ushered in, I just started a new job and we could even get a new mayor in London. Well, OK, the last one is bit of a stretch. But anyways, I’m back.
Perhaps I feared I was a one-hit wonder with Sleepless in Suva. I mean, will I be able to entertain readers now that I’m back in the Forest City or would I end up like that guy who sang the Macarena: all washed up … what was his name again?
In Fiji I had street dogs, local grifters, homemade licence plates, and a slew of other Third World anecdotes to blog about.
Now, back in London, I have two cats, a girlfriend who’s repeatedly requested to be left out of all of my writings and sleepwalking habit that I can’t seem to kick to rely on for material.
So you can see why I put off starting this new blog for so long.
But the fall is a time of new beginnings: students go back to school (suckers), a new season is ushered in, I just started a new job and we could even get a new mayor in London. Well, OK, the last one is bit of a stretch. But anyways, I’m back.
Monday, October 18, 2010
The apple of my eye
One of my favourite parts about October is it marks the beginning of Ontario apple season.
Yes, I know you can get apples all year round at any grocery story, but a California apple isn't even in the same league as an Ontario apple — it's like comparing apples to oranges … or tasteless, bruised pieces of fruit.
Autumn brings a wide variety of fresh local apples, from Jona Gold and Golden Delicious to the Northern Spy and the McIntosh. Each fall, I bid goodbye to boring apple juice and say hello to the king of beverages: apple cider.
Really, how many other drinks taste equally delicious when served both hot and cold? I dare you to bring your morning glass of orange juice to a boil or let your double-double get ice cold.
And the timing of apple season is impeccable. Summer brought a bounty of local berries, from blueberries to raspberries. So fruit fanatics are suffering from a berry hangover. Then the noble pomum (Latin for apple) comes along and saves the season with its crisp, multicoloured skin and juicy flesh.
Who can say no to an apple? Don't forget, it was an apple that lured Adam to his demise in the Garden of Eden. Had Eve offered him a papaya, he never would have e
aten the forbidden fruit.
The apple is the king of fruits — it's even fabled to have medicinal properties, as the saying goes, "An apple a day keeps the doctor away." The apple is a symbol of health – just take a look at the huge mural on the Middlesex Health Unit building.
In fact, the apple is the most talked about fruit. If someone is well-liked, they're referred to as "the apple of my eye," whereas if the person is no good, they're referred to as "a bad apple."
And it's no coincidence that one of the most innovative technology companies in the world choose the fist-sized fruit as it's namesake and symbol. Obviously, Steve Jobs agrees with me on the top fruit.
As I type this column I'm munching on my favourite apple: the red delicious. It's a bold move naming a fruit delicious, but it lives up to expectations.
When it comes to eating apples, I do something slightly unorthodox — I eat the entire apple. In university I remember eating apples while riding the bus to school. When I started eating the core I got some strange looks from my fellow passengers, but I didn't care.
So put down the junk food and grab an apple — it's good for the Ontario farmers; it's good for your health and, most importantly, it tastes good.
Yes, I know you can get apples all year round at any grocery story, but a California apple isn't even in the same league as an Ontario apple — it's like comparing apples to oranges … or tasteless, bruised pieces of fruit.
Autumn brings a wide variety of fresh local apples, from Jona Gold and Golden Delicious to the Northern Spy and the McIntosh. Each fall, I bid goodbye to boring apple juice and say hello to the king of beverages: apple cider.Really, how many other drinks taste equally delicious when served both hot and cold? I dare you to bring your morning glass of orange juice to a boil or let your double-double get ice cold.
And the timing of apple season is impeccable. Summer brought a bounty of local berries, from blueberries to raspberries. So fruit fanatics are suffering from a berry hangover. Then the noble pomum (Latin for apple) comes along and saves the season with its crisp, multicoloured skin and juicy flesh.
Who can say no to an apple? Don't forget, it was an apple that lured Adam to his demise in the Garden of Eden. Had Eve offered him a papaya, he never would have e
aten the forbidden fruit.The apple is the king of fruits — it's even fabled to have medicinal properties, as the saying goes, "An apple a day keeps the doctor away." The apple is a symbol of health – just take a look at the huge mural on the Middlesex Health Unit building.
In fact, the apple is the most talked about fruit. If someone is well-liked, they're referred to as "the apple of my eye," whereas if the person is no good, they're referred to as "a bad apple."
And it's no coincidence that one of the most innovative technology companies in the world choose the fist-sized fruit as it's namesake and symbol. Obviously, Steve Jobs agrees with me on the top fruit.
As I type this column I'm munching on my favourite apple: the red delicious. It's a bold move naming a fruit delicious, but it lives up to expectations.
When it comes to eating apples, I do something slightly unorthodox — I eat the entire apple. In university I remember eating apples while riding the bus to school. When I started eating the core I got some strange looks from my fellow passengers, but I didn't care.
So put down the junk food and grab an apple — it's good for the Ontario farmers; it's good for your health and, most importantly, it tastes good.
A man for all seasons
It's official: summer is over and autumn has arrived.
Days are getting shorter, mornings growing colder, and the leaves are falling from the trees as animals prepare for hibernation.
I personally love fall. What's not to like about the season that offers Thanksgiving, new television programs, Ontario apples, great scenery, Halloween and the start of the NHL and NBA season?
fctAdTag("bigbox",MyGenericTagVar,1);
But some people complain about this sweet season. And it isn't only autumn that falls victim to season bashing. I'm constantly hearing friends, family and co-workers complain about winter being too cold, spring bringing allergies, summer humidity too much to handle, fall being too depressing and the list of grievances
goes on.
In fact, the season slandering has got so out of control that I've come up with a new term for this type of prejudice: seasonalism.
Closed-minded seasonalists lurk in every corner of society, spreading their season-hating propaganda at workplace water coolers, coffee shops, sporting events – anywhere there's a pair of listening ears.
It's impossible to spot a seasonalist based on appearance, but they are easy to identify by their comments, casually suggesting we should do away with winter or saying spring is a far superior season fall. Many dream of a one-season state, much like California, where the weather is constantly warm during the day, but not hot, and cool at night, yet not cold.
One climate all year long? I think that would be boring.
Canada is such a great country because of its smorgasbord of seasons – we get a little taste of everything. Yes, there are downsides to each season: scraping your car in the winter morning is no picnic, seeing the sun set at 5 p.m. can be depressing and hay fever can be hell, but the negatives are minor in comparison to the great pluses each of the four seasons offer.
From the great beach weather in the summer and skiing in the winter to seeing flowers and trees bloom in the spring and then watching them graciously wither in the autumn, each season is unique in its own special way.
Like any prejudice, seasonalism is spawned from ignorance.
Poets, for example, are far too enlightened to stoop to petty seasonalism.
George Elliot described autumn as delicious, saying, "If I were a bird I would fly about the earth seeking the successive autumns."
And Percy Shelley, the 19th century poet, declared, "There is a harmony in autumn."
I believe we as a nation must resist seasonalism and its narrow-minded attitude. Instead, we should embrace season patriotism, celebrating each of the four cycles with pride. Only then can we live in a society where all seasons are seen as being created equal.
And with experts calling for an especially harsh winter this year, we have a long way to go.
You may say I'm a dreamer, but I'm not the only one.
Days are getting shorter, mornings growing colder, and the leaves are falling from the trees as animals prepare for hibernation.
I personally love fall. What's not to like about the season that offers Thanksgiving, new television programs, Ontario apples, great scenery, Halloween and the start of the NHL and NBA season?
fctAdTag("bigbox",MyGenericTagVar,1);
But some people complain about this sweet season. And it isn't only autumn that falls victim to season bashing. I'm constantly hearing friends, family and co-workers complain about winter being too cold, spring bringing allergies, summer humidity too much to handle, fall being too depressing and the list of grievances
goes on.In fact, the season slandering has got so out of control that I've come up with a new term for this type of prejudice: seasonalism.
Closed-minded seasonalists lurk in every corner of society, spreading their season-hating propaganda at workplace water coolers, coffee shops, sporting events – anywhere there's a pair of listening ears.
It's impossible to spot a seasonalist based on appearance, but they are easy to identify by their comments, casually suggesting we should do away with winter or saying spring is a far superior season fall. Many dream of a one-season state, much like California, where the weather is constantly warm during the day, but not hot, and cool at night, yet not cold.
One climate all year long? I think that would be boring.
Canada is such a great country because of its smorgasbord of seasons – we get a little taste of everything. Yes, there are downsides to each season: scraping your car in the winter morning is no picnic, seeing the sun set at 5 p.m. can be depressing and hay fever can be hell, but the negatives are minor in comparison to the great pluses each of the four seasons offer.
From the great beach weather in the summer and skiing in the winter to seeing flowers and trees bloom in the spring and then watching them graciously wither in the autumn, each season is unique in its own special way.
Like any prejudice, seasonalism is spawned from ignorance.
Poets, for example, are far too enlightened to stoop to petty seasonalism.
George Elliot described autumn as delicious, saying, "If I were a bird I would fly about the earth seeking the successive autumns."
And Percy Shelley, the 19th century poet, declared, "There is a harmony in autumn."
I believe we as a nation must resist seasonalism and its narrow-minded attitude. Instead, we should embrace season patriotism, celebrating each of the four cycles with pride. Only then can we live in a society where all seasons are seen as being created equal.
And with experts calling for an especially harsh winter this year, we have a long way to go.
You may say I'm a dreamer, but I'm not the only one.
Reunited and it feels so good
I'm back.
Since graduating from the University of Western Ontario 16 months ago, I embarked on a journalism odyssey that took me across southwestern Ontario and to the other side of the globe.
But now I'm finally home.
After all, it was a love of my community that led me down my current career path. Unfortunately, after finishing school, working in London wasn't an option. So I set sail on a reporting odyssey, featuring stints at a daily newspaper in Sarnia, a semi-daily paper in Fiji, a weekly publication in Chatham, then back to Sarnia again before I finally landed in my favoured Forest City on Sept. 7.
Unlike Odysseus, I didn't encounter enchanting Sirens or six-headed monsters along the way, but I did run into plenty of obstacles of my own. From government censors in Fiji to a mind-dulling two-hour daily commute to the Chemical Valley, my journalism journey was bumpy one at times.
But throughout the whole ordeal, the unforgettable words of wisdom of the terminator … I mean, Governor of California, Arnold Schwarzenegger, ec
hoed in my mind: "I'll be back."
I just hoped my odyssey would be slightly shorter than Odysseus' ten-year expedition. After all, I had a Penelope (though much less patient) of my own to get home to, plus I was eager to start writing about my community again.
Now, here I am.
Again, I differ from Homer's Greek hero because, now home, I don't plan to slay any villains, build a shrine or rule any countries. I'll be far too busy delivering the news to my fellow citizens.
And is there a better time to be a reporter in London?
The fall is a season of changes, full of fresh stories – from a heated municipal election to thousands of students heading back to the classroom to a never-ending stream of interesting occurrences in need of telling.
The pen is truly mightier than the sword – maybe had Odysseus realized this, his odyssey might have been a little shorter.
Don't get me wrong, I loved the last 16 months of meeting new people, living in a foreign country and being a part of some great newsrooms. But in the words of another famous protagonist who just wanted to return to her community, "There's no place like home."
Since graduating from the University of Western Ontario 16 months ago, I embarked on a journalism odyssey that took me across southwestern Ontario and to the other side of the globe.
But now I'm finally home.
After all, it was a love of my community that led me down my current career path. Unfortunately, after finishing school, working in London wasn't an option. So I set sail on a reporting odyssey, featuring stints at a daily newspaper in Sarnia, a semi-daily paper in Fiji, a weekly publication in Chatham, then back to Sarnia again before I finally landed in my favoured Forest City on Sept. 7.
Unlike Odysseus, I didn't encounter enchanting Sirens or six-headed monsters along the way, but I did run into plenty of obstacles of my own. From government censors in Fiji to a mind-dulling two-hour daily commute to the Chemical Valley, my journalism journey was bumpy one at times.
But throughout the whole ordeal, the unforgettable words of wisdom of the terminator … I mean, Governor of California, Arnold Schwarzenegger, ec
hoed in my mind: "I'll be back."I just hoped my odyssey would be slightly shorter than Odysseus' ten-year expedition. After all, I had a Penelope (though much less patient) of my own to get home to, plus I was eager to start writing about my community again.
Now, here I am.
Again, I differ from Homer's Greek hero because, now home, I don't plan to slay any villains, build a shrine or rule any countries. I'll be far too busy delivering the news to my fellow citizens.
And is there a better time to be a reporter in London?
The fall is a season of changes, full of fresh stories – from a heated municipal election to thousands of students heading back to the classroom to a never-ending stream of interesting occurrences in need of telling.
The pen is truly mightier than the sword – maybe had Odysseus realized this, his odyssey might have been a little shorter.
Don't get me wrong, I loved the last 16 months of meeting new people, living in a foreign country and being a part of some great newsrooms. But in the words of another famous protagonist who just wanted to return to her community, "There's no place like home."
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