urbanwriter

A regular reader of Dunc’s blog I’m sympathetic to a wide variety of his views, on an equally broad variety of topics, though I would never claim to agree wholeheartedly on every entry every time. Dunc’s latest entry asks  “are the suburbs killing your manliness?”

While Dunc’s broad point is taken, I wonder if there aren’t other issues to question, and, hey, no offense is intended, and hopefully none taken.

To unfairly summarize the piece Dunc asks if suburbanization as practiced in the United States, Canada, England, Australia, much of Europe, and (based on my observations) a good chunk of Asia, is killing ‘manliness.’ And this is predicated on a very specific version of manliness indeed: fulfilling “the need to scratch that itch that comes from within.. the itch to kill things, make things, fix things, build things,” that supposedly existed in men prior to suburbanization.

But I question whether or not all those idealized traits actually existed, whether they were realized in ‘many,’ or ‘all,’ or if they were in actual fact an unrealized idealization that has been generated over a period of hundreds, or perhaps thousands, of years.

First, I suppose, is the idea that butchers, bakers, and candlestick-makers where real, but that they also represented the idea of specialization in trades and skills. Whether you believe in the modern religion of economics or not, that speciation was evident in the earliest human settlements - for the argument, Ur, in what was Mesopotamia (roughly, very roughly, modern Iraq, circa 2500 BC. So some men haven’t been living up to the modern male image for at least 4500 years.

The guys that made jewelry probably didn’t butcher sheep. The herdsmen may have built shelters, but did they have the mathematical skills to craft the ziggurat?

More modern versions of the problem can be found simply by looking at relatively modern settlers from the (nominally) Great Britain, and the Continent, and their adventures in North America (and I’m sure the Antipodes as well . They starved in many cases. They didn’t have the skills to build, they might have been able to kill if they could find something to kill, and their repair skills were often somewhat less than realizable.

History shows settlement after settlement, in a wide variety of terrains, abandoned because the skills necessary to ‘make a go of it’ were not really there.

The Spanish failed at Jamestown. The French failed at Isle Sainte-Croix (Champlain). The English failed at Roanoke. I’m sure one could find records of virtually all cultures failing because those ‘manly virtues’ were not as widely distributed as we think. And, at least in the North American context, there are endless examples of Aboriginals (First Nations, Founding Peoples, whatever) starving to death in unfamiliar terrain - like some settlers not able to hunt, or kill, appropriately. And this, in some ways, leads to my concern.

While modern suburbanization has many faults, and modern economic society likewise, I’m afraid that what we might consider the loss of manliness, is indeed a simulacra. We never had all those skills - and what I mean is that in virtually any modern society (and modern is relative to its time) there has been some form of speciation, or specialization, of skills. Ricardo’s ‘theory of competitive advantage,’ was only a realization of what had been practice for three thousand years. And when we bemoan the loss of ability to ‘have a son, build a house, and write a book’ what we are doing is buying in to a myth, as old as settlement society at least, that one man can, indeed, do it all.

That myth that one man can do it all is what drives Ayn Rand’s ‘Atlas Shrugged,’ and its protagonist, John Galt. John could, I expect, kill a sheep, build hydro-electric dams, give all women guilt-free orgasms, write several books simultaneously, have sons endlessly, and fix the damn vacuum cleaner. But John Galt is also a self-serving myth of perfection, ability, free-enterprise ascendency, individualism, and the absolute right of the individual over the collective. Sort of like divine right.

And, as I don’t believe, morally, politically, socially, or ethically in the divine right of kings, I don’t believe in a ‘golden age’ of manhood, one that preceded modern suburbanization.

Other views of a world before suburbanization may be found here:

‘The Condition of the Working Class in England‘ A great book, well worth reading, and, surprisingly, readable. Robert Fishman’s ‘Bourgeois Utopias,’ an examination of the rise of suburbs in England, in the 18th Century. Lawrence Keeley’s ‘War Before Civilization‘ paints a very different, very well researched, and somewhat bloody version of ourselves before suburanization.

But all this in perspective. And, Dunc, thanks for giving me something serious to chew on for a while. I’m not completely satisfied with my argument, but I’ll hold for now.

Well, after the power outage, a full two days in a major section of Canada’s most important western city, the power is back on. I lost the ‘post,’ but somehow the original title still seems fitting…

Google “vancouver power outage”

Hey Australians, don’t worry about your new airport.

News flash: the next media event/bombing/terrorist/fundamentalist/wacko/hostage taking will happen somewhere else.

Try this on for size: upwards of several thousand people, close to media (meaning if nothing else, TV helicopters), likely to kill, maim, or inconvenience a large number of people, capable of a serious economic impact, and, as these things go, easy to do.

Hmmm. What could it be?

Well, while armed idiots are going through your luggage to check for illegal CDs, smuggled cigarettes, or condoms, look out the window. See all those speedboats out there? Aren’t they colourful? Aren’t they fast?

Don’t they remind you of the USS Cole?

Those speedboats exist in almost every open port in the world.

And, in many of those open ports, are cruise liners.

Forget learning to fly a large commercial jet, even if landing was never very interesting, this is way easier.
Once that liner is in water deep enough that settling on its keel is out of the question, one wonders just how many water-tight bulkheads will be breached. Will the armour plate, oops, this is a cruise ship and the only armour is around the bellies of its passengers, do much to deflect the shock-wave that progresses at several thousand feet per second?

Just think of the chill that will fall over every cruise ship in the world.

The cruise industry as we know it, if, indeed, any of survives the coming $200 USD barrel of oil, will cease to exist. The privately owned island in the Caribbean (where virtually every Caribbean Princess (or Carnival-owned) cruise stops) will become worth more as a landfill. All those boats, off to India or Bangladesh, for breaking.

And the idiots worrying about loonies at the airport will have to change their outlook a bit.

But, while all this cheerfulness begins my day, I’d ask you to read, or re-read, George Orwell. The truth of the future is becoming more Orwellian by the day.

ps: Carnival appears to virtually ‘own’ the cruise-ship business; in their stable is Cunard, Princess, Holland-America, Princess and others.

I grew up in a family where both parents worked. As a kid, all my friends had mothers who worked. And all my grandmothers had worked. So a lot of the feminist rhetoric on the late 1960s and early 1970s was lost on me, though it might also have been lost on me because I wasn’t even near voting age, let alone drinking age. But I remember being dumbfounded that my mother needed my father’s signature, as if she was a piece of furniture, for a medical procedure in 1970 or 1971.

Lots of feminism leaves me cold, in particular the entire notion of ‘victimization’ that is the foundational position for many feminists. I find it not only not feminist, but positively patriarchal, demeaning, belittling, and infantalizing. Yes, it gets my back up. It also, in my opinion, leads to playgrounds for kids that are made of foam rubber, lest they hurt themselves.

But this morning (it is 6:30 AM in Vancouver) I found the following piece by Camille Paglia. Paglia has long been ‘my favourite feminist,’ for her stance on any number of issues. So I’ve stolen the entire piece, and pasted it here. For my few readers I hope it is illuminating for some, interesting for all, and a tonic for what some of us see as ‘feminism gone wrong.’

The ‘two words’ of the title?

Read this.

http://www.bu.edu/arion/Paglia 16-1.pdf

I tried and tried to get the formatting to fit in my blog; I opened a Word document, pressed ‘auto-format,’ to no avail. I tried sending myself various versions via e-mail after struggling with technical jibber-jabber, all to no avail.

And, while agree with Paglia in broad sweeps, there are always fine points where two people may disagree… but Paglia has always (well, since I first read Sexual Personae) been my favourite feminist. Her descriptions of ‘feminine’ life always agreed far more with my vision of ‘women’s world’ than that of academic, theory-driven, upper-middle-class professors and activists.

I no sooner get back to work, after a few days off because of a work-place related injury (my first ever compensation claim), and Fate intervenes again.

A lovely evening for a bicycle ride, just to add to this year’s 3500 and change kilometers. So, out the door I go.

Helmet. Check.

Gloves. Check.

Wallet. Check.

Cell phone. Check.

About 4 or 5 minutes into the ride I am going down a reasonably busy 2nd Ave, mostly, I think, people trying to find parking so they can go to Cirque de Soleil. One of those people just opens the driver’s door.

Here is what I could remember last night, cadged from a letter to my lawyer. Yes, I have a lawyer.
“Lawyer’s name here,

A cyclist for most of my life, and with Excel spreadsheets logging the
last 10,441 km (2007/08) on a weekly basis, I find myself involved in
an accident. The details as best remembered are here. I’ve also
inclucled the business card of one of the attending VPD constables,
and my contact information. As I am writing this fairly late the night
of the incident, I’m a bit beat up, and I hope to hear from you before
I call ICBC to file an accident report.

Thanks for your time,

My name goes here

BCDL ******* class 1 (unrestricted) class 6, air endorsement, no
requirement for glasses.

VPD details:

Constable Matthew $%^!@#
# 2589 constable’s e-mail address
and phone number.
Automobile Driver’s details:

Name of the guy who ‘doored’ me
BCLP# his vehicle license number

Incident Number: 08-128077 (the ‘8′ is hard to decipher, the number
may be 08-125077)

This e-mail is addressed to you, myself, and to my ‘back-up’ e-mail
address - flaneur.

At this point, now nearly 22:05 Thursday, July 3, I ache enough that
I’m not planning on going to work tomorrow.

Please call me at your earliest convenience,

Signed

my cell number

Westbound on 2nd Ave at Columbia (?) mid-block if memory is correct,
roads dry and and weather fine. Prior to 6 PM. Traveling alongside
parked cars, at ‘usual’ separation, allowing for other westbound
traffic. Watching for reverse lights, or people getting into cars, no
indication of vehicle movement. Road speed in the area of 25 km/hr.

Wearing helmet and gloves, shirt, heavy shorts, ‘crocodile’
full-coverage shoes.

Car door opened, swung into my line of travel, I though “oh shit” or
things to that effect. Hit ground, rolled (?), heard helmet slam into
ground once very hard, second time not so hard. First real memory is
of lying semi-fetal, on left side.

I hurt all over.

Most identifiable pain was lower right leg, though it took a couple
moments to determine ‘which leg was where’ through the numerous
inputs.

Car driver, male, very solicitous. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” I don’t
think I said anything along the lines of ‘watch what your ding, then I
wouldn’t be lying on the ground. Someone called 911.

A voice said “we’re Vancouver police.” They attempted to determine
extent of injuries, verbal questions, no limb manipulation. One VPD
asked if there was anything they could do - I asked him to call my
brother, I don’t know his cell phone, use mine. Ambulance arrived
prior to fire/rescue service. back-board and neck brace. A couple
‘work-throughs’ to determine extent of injuries, pain, etc.

Major complaint was lower right leg. From the knee down it hurt.
Muscles at front of throat hurt, and pelvic pain (centered on
imaginary line between buttocks, and fairly deep - like the pelvis
itself was hurt, rather than muscle or flesh pain.

Loaded into ambulance. Police obtained key for bicycle lock, and said
it would be ‘at the hospital.’

After some time, it felt like quite a while under the circumstances,
the ambulance headed for VGH. Arrived at VGH, wheeled in, parked for a
bit. Eventually the back board was removed - commented that getting it
out was easier than getting it in - collar left on.

My brother showed up at some point, a minute or two after I talked to him -
check cell-phone record.

Called Guido, my boss, said I won’t be
there tomorrow, meaning Friday, July 4th, 2008.

More aches and pains were becoming evident. Not big ones, but a host
of smaller, more localized pains.

After some time a doctor (older guy) appeared. He palpated (correct
term?) a number of sites, both legs up and down, ribs, pelvis, ‘breath
in deep, does this hurt?’ and things of that nature.

He suggests that I’m able to leave, if anything really hurts tomorrow,
head to a clinic, or, if it is really bad, to ‘the’ hospital.’

Got up, sat up, on gurney. A bit shakey, damn sore, but mobile.

Brother helped with dressing, and the sorting out of
miscellaneous ’stuff,’ cycle computer, helmet, gloves, clothing bag,
etc.

We call Yellow Cab, for two people and a bicycle.

While waiting for the taxi I take a brief look at the bike. the police
thought it was OK, but the right pedal shows significant damage (bent
spindle, abrasions) and the right crank arm (with chainring) hits the
frame. Contacted Dream Cycle (Darren, also see phone record) about
getting a professional appraisal of the damage to the “On-One” ‘Il
Pompino.’

Taxi home, receipt in hand.

Now at 21:42 approx, I have taken 3 Ibuprofen (250 mg), and the
following things hurt:

right shoulder is stiff

‘lump’ below right knee is swollen, lacerated (from edge of car door?)
and sensitive to touch. Right knee is abraded, knee hurts if any
torque (twisting motion) is applied while walking. Heel of right thumb
is tender.

That is all for now. I’ll update the general overview in the morning.”

Well, it is now morning, and I still hurt all over. Fate really sucks. But it would suck way worse if my head had hit the tarmac, rather than my helmet, in fact I don’t expect I’d be writing this if I hadn’t been wearing a helmet. I might not be dead, but my head would REALLY hurt.  

I’m off work with a work-related injury, and today I went to meet a friend for a coffee, at Vancouver’s main library branch in the Downtown core. Wandering through the front door I’m kind of on auto-pilot, over to the elevator bank, and punch the button.

The effects of summer are more than obvious in people’s clothing, short shorts, and halter tops, and, well, you get the point.

A mechanical slithering sound alerts me to the arrival of the elevator, and I turn to enter the cage. A guy steps out, old, looking older than his years, withered and beaten by time. There are bruises on his hands, the tell-tale signs of blood draws in the elderly, ugly purple stains.

“Ken, for God’s sake, I haven’t seen you in over a year. What’s happening? How the hell are you?”

“Not too good” Ken’s never said ‘not to good,’ even when he was on Death’s door 14 years ago.

I’d seen him, last June or July, just momentarily, as I was out for a bicycle ride. He was about to head home from a day at the beach, all the gorgeous bodies having an appeal, even for a guy in his sixties. We spoke, briefly, and went our ways separately. His birthday was on the horizon, but it was within a day or two of one of my family members, and ‘duty’ demanded that I attend family first. But I left a card, wishing him a ‘happy birthday’ at his home, and never heard back.

Summer is over now, the first cool chill of Fall starts to empty the beaches, and pools, people head indoors.

A bout of indigestion, it passes. But the next day, another episode, and this one doesn’t leave. It gets worse. All night long, an hour’s worth of sleep, and things just don’t feel right. And morning comes.

Admitting something might not be quite right, Ken gets on the bus, and ferries himself to a hospital in downtown Vancouver. Ken ferries himself right in to a triple-bypass. From indigestion, to triple-bypass, in one bus ride.

So we talked. Ken and I have been through a couple really rough spots together, and if anyone I’ve ever met had reason to complain about the hand life dealt them, Ken was the person who deserved to complain. But he never did, at least the complaints were never external, he kept foul tragedies under lock and key inside himself.

We’ll talk again. I know where to find him now, and the person I was meeting at the library, who works there, knows him, and will remember a bit about him. He’ll remember that Ken is someone I know, and care about.

But Ken’s mortality reminds me of a couple things. It reminds me that yesterday I had time to spend with a woman of my acquaintence, we’ve known one another for 12 or 13 years I think, and yesterday we too were catching up. The same sort of thing happened to her.

Don’t feel well, pass it off as ‘just not feeling well…’ and find out you have a 10 inch-long blood clot. Bam!

Into the hospital. Right now. You’re not getting out, though in her case there were a couple not-so-funny stories, or at least they were not-so-funny under the circumstances.

Four days later she is out of the hospital. Healing, but not necessarily healed.

Fate intervened in both of these people’s lives, and, by extension, into my life.

I’m awfully glad I live in Canada. We have ’single-payer’ (as US commentators call it) health care; what it means is that we have socialized medicine, or at least that is what it means on this side of the border. In the United States she might be bankrupt, and he would quite possibly be dead.

Earlier this week I had been thinking about this just because of the work-place injury to my thumb. It earned me a painful and inconvenient 5 or 6 days off work. But it didn’t bankrupt me. I didn’t have to deny myself a level of professional care because my annual income right now is less than 50% of the Canadian median.

But I realize that I got some very good advice 20 years ago: I was younger then, driving a taxi, and my fare was an old guy. He seemed practically prehistoric, and I certainly wasn’t 19 or 20 at the time. But I’ve never forgotten his advice, even if I haven’t actively followed it.

“Whatever it is that you want to do, do it now. Don’t wait. Don’t wait for next year, don’t wait until you retire. You won’t have any money. You won’t have any friends. And you won’t have any health.”

It is advice that sort of re-frames some of my current problems. It is advice that cannot avoid my natural fate, death, but it is advice that could change the way I live.

Life is worth more than waiting for Fate.

I was initially attracted to blogging, in part, as a venue in which I could explore my relationship with the urban fabric, not only in Vancouver, but in other cities I visit. There is also an opportunity to explore relationships with cities I may never see - there is a conundrum there, perhaps - but we all have ideas about places, people, things, and ideas that we may never actually experience.

There have been glimmers occassionally, of that exploratory sense, with respect to the urban fabric, but not as many as I would like.

Today’s entry is a short, small, attempt to remedy that lack.

A few minutes walk from where I live runs an ‘east - west’ bicycle route, the Union St. section of Vancouver’s fairly extensive and diverse cycling facilities.

I have worked on several buildings in the 200 East Union block, all of them within the last three months. I have walked down that section of the street in my ‘off’ time, stressed I suspect about one thing or another, and missed an interesting little place.

Being a bicycle rider, you’d think that the first thing I would notice is a bicycle shop. No. Blew right past it, until walking with Al a couple days ago.

Right there on the north side of the street, is a tiny little shop, maybe 500 square feet tucked into the corner of a much larger housing complex.

Jett Grrl Bike Studio  has been there over a year at 243A Union St., and seems to be a thriving, focused, shop.

But while Jett Grrl is part of what I’m writing about, most of what I’m concerned with isn’t 243A Union St, but our individual inability to sense and detect changes in the urban fabric which envelopes most of us.

I’ve written before about the ‘flaneur,’ for a while a figure beloved by academic theoreticians of urban space and experience, but with a much longer, and more useful pedigree. Ultimately the flaneur’s work may be a dandified version of Pooh’s ‘expotition,’ one modified to allow earning money from the exploration and observation of the city, but one that still fascinates and embraces me.

A significant distinction between wandering aimlessly, and flaneurie (sp?), may be discipline. While the flaneur appears uninterested, perhaps somewhat removed from the people in their vicinity, I believe the necessary discipline must be at hand.

Without discipline, strolling, like many activities, becomes akin to aimless wandering. With discipline, a focus is held in the immediate present, a somewhat Zen-like approach perhaps.

There will be more later on this line of thinking. Now it is time to walk, casually, and keep my flaneur idle.

I have ridden and worked on bicycles for a long, long, time. Sometimes the wrenching was a job, sometimes it avocation. A lot of the learning was ‘hands-on,’ sometimes the lessons learned were hard, and once in a long while either embarrassing or expensive.

Some of those lessons would have been easier had there been more, accurate, information to improve diagnosis, adjustment, repair, and replacement of parts and pieces.

I’ve had Sutherland’s since about the 4th edition, and have a shiny new 7th edition sitting right next to Janson’s ‘History of Art,’ both on the ‘oversize’ shelf.

But I want to write about Barnetts‘ Manual, briefly, because I don’t even have it yet.

Today I decided to order the current CD version, and I asked if it ran on Macintosh/OS 10.

I received a detailed response, or, more accurately, two responses, one from Max Moorman and one from John Barnett himself.

Mr. Moorman assured me that the CD would run properly, and he noted that some of the features needed Microsoft Excel present, being spreadsheet-driven programs.

My primary reason for buying the manual (it’s actually all on CD, with hyperlinks throughout) is to support Barnett for including information on internally-geared hubs (think 3 speeds, but 8 speeds instead) in the latest updates. And that caused a bit of confusion - my fault.

Mr Barnett sent me an e-mail saying they were not going to process my order until it was clear that the manual did not include any information on hubs other than a limited range of current Shimano products. In other words Barnetts was not going to take my money until I acknowledged the range of information in the manual. Barnett was not going to sell me something that might not meet my needs.

My immediate response was to buy. Any business that cares about their customers to the extent that they will refuse a sale rather than disappoint is worth doing business with.

To everyone at Barnett I offer my sincerest thanks.

I had the pleasure of attending, in Vancouver, the 2008 Killam Awards dinner a week or so ago. I’ll let you click the link yourself, rather than attempt to retell either the overall Killam ’story,’ or the details of this year’s winners and why, exactly, they are so honoured. Instead, I’d like to think about other, mostly unrelated, facets of the experience.

While the dinner was open to media, I went as an invited guest, in part because one bit of advice I took in over the years was to attend as many functions as you can stand - there is always someone interesting to talk to - the onus being on me to find them.

Events like this are money-making ventures for the hotel and conference centres that house them. In light of the mercantile back-story, the event is booked into the smallest room that will serve, probably sold as ‘an intimate and collegial environment’ to the event’s organizers. The purveyors of space then cram as many guests at a table as possible - leading to a seating arrangement that leaves those most familiar with Emily Post’s hints on cutlery confounded - your plate buries your salad fork, let alone your dinner fork, and no one really knows whose glass is whose.

The food is ok, the hosts just slightly tight with the wine, and the desserts more or less make up for the pre-dinner choice of munchies in the reception hall. More, or less.

But the fun part, the part that made the entire evening worthwhile, was having an opportunity to carry on conversations with people I would never normally come into contact with. Superannuated professors don’t often head down my back alley to carry on conversations about ‘undergraduate students as cannon fodder in the modern research university,’ my position if not his.

Or the member of Vancouver’s City Council, who was trying to figure out where she (might) have recognized the name, I didn’t mention the numerous tirades I’d sent to ‘mayorandcouncil@vancouver.ca’ over the last few years, and suggested that we may have made contact over the Woodwards re-development program.

Nothing earth-shattering, no profound revelations, no solution for global warming. But enjoyable and informed conversations with a number of individuals, on a number of subjects, including one politician’s thoughts about the upcoming (November, 2008) civic election.

An interesting, rewarding, and oddly compelling little addition to my intellectual life.

I found this

“I was a thirty-two year old woman who had everything and nothing going for her. I had a good job that was theoretically fascinating, but it consumed my hours and days and gave me almost no personal satisfaction.”

— Sundays at Tiffany’s, James Patterson
over at Georgette Tan’s  blog, and the sense of personal affinity with the emotion was revealing.

I’m most certainly not a woman, nor am I anywhere near 32, but neither was the original author. But difference between what I’m ’supposed’ to feel, and what I experience nearly every day, reveals a vast gulf between expectation and experience.

My suspicion is that many of us experience the angst and anxiety, at least on occasion, and things pass. Here, in the world of the ‘theoretically fascinating,’ I’m neither theoretical, nor fascinating.

I’m damned, in an existence and experience of my own doing. Now, to work out of it. My thanks to Georgette for her impeccable taste in quotes.