Critics take different forms

My mom called today to tell me she had seen me on television in Montreal (don't have the link yet. Will add it once I find it.) She enjoyed watching me, and spoke endlessly about how in control I seemed. I guess I hide it well.

While she loved what I had to say about Nortel and all the related fun geek stuff, she focused her feedback on one thing: She said I had circles under my eyes, and I looked tired.

I had to laugh. It was comforting to hear a small smile in her voice, even if it was only for a small sliver of time. I guess I'll just have to keep making excuses for her to tune in or otherwise be proud of everything we're up to. I know she is, and that's yet another small thing to hold on to as we try to figure out how we go on from here.

One more thing: Canwest filed for bankruptcy protection and Bell and Telus both announced they'll start selling the iPhone in Canada next month. So my phone was busy, and I did a ton of media, including:

• A bunch of CBC Radio, including Home Run with Meegan Read, Radio Winnipeg, Radio Regina and Radio Montreal, the last of which I did live and in French (stop laughing.)
  
• CTV News Channel with Sandie Rinaldo (first time I've been interviewed by her...she's a legend around these parts.)
• Business News Network with Michael Hainsworth (no one does tech-business interviews as precisely.)
  
• CBC Business News with Fred Langan (which because they couldn't confirm a studio, I did via Skype from home.)
• CJAD News in Montreal (my hometown's main newstalk radio station...)
• Reuters, Canadian Press and the Globe & Mail

I didn't have a whole lot of time to dwell, which in retrospect was a good thing. As I got into the car following my last interview, a bee flew in the open sunroof and refused to leave. I opened every window and door and tried to shoo him (her?) away, but the more I shooed, the more stubborn he/she became.

Eventually, the interloper got tired of my antics and flew into the nearby bushes. As I drove home, exhausted and thankfully unstung, I thought about the lessons I learned from childhood that were helping me get through this day - on the phone, in front of a camera, doing live radio from the parking lot or simply flinging e-mailed answers back to reporters before the tea was ready. I couldn't help but think about how well prepared I was. Someone clearly did a good job, and I was sorry he wasn't around to take a bow.

Missing my critic

Today I took a trip I've taken so many times before, to the television studio a few kilometers from our house. It was a nice day, so I biked the route, leaving early enough that I could cruise along and feel the wind on my face.

I was scheduled to chat with CTV Montreal, my hometown station (also known as CFCF and Channel 12) about Canada's tech landscape in the wake of the Nortel asset selloff. It was my first television interview since my father passed away, and I was scared that I wouldn't make it through the 4-ish minute chat without freezing up or otherwise losing it.

We were taping it, so I knew there was a bit of a safety net. But I've never liked safety nets, and every time the red light goes on, I chat away as if it's live even if it isn't. So this time, as I settled into the chair, I stared intently at the red light, focused on my voice, reviewed my talking points in my head and prayed I had what it took to make it through.

In the end, the hit went well, and I was happy that we covered the ground we wanted to cover, and I didn't melt down on camera. For a few brief minutes, it felt good to bear down on a topic and explore it in detail with an anchor, Todd van der Hayden, who clearly understood the guts of the story. For a few brief minutes, I was Carmi the analyst.

After we were done, I got back on my bike and slowly headed back home. As I turned the first corner in the quiet suburb, I thought about how this would be the first interview where my father wouldn't be around to critique my performance, or comment on how little time they gave me, or share his thoughts on the shirt/tie combination that I wore that day. I guess I'll have to get used to not having my built-in critic around from now on.

If you're in Montreal, the interview airs tomorrow (Tuesday, October 6) on the noon-hour newscast. It'll probably hit the air sometime around 12:30 p.m. EDT. I'll post the link here when it's uploaded to the station's website.

The view from the balcony

Everything changes
Laval, QC, September 2009

In a prominent spot on the wall of my parents' house, there's a framed picture of a scene I shot from a hotel window in Colorado just about three years ago (click here, I'll wait.) When my father saw the picture, he asked if I'd blow it up for him. It's my first commission, and every time I see it on the wall, it reminds me of him, and of a quiet moment in a faraway place that connected us.

During shiva, I often found myself staring at the image. I tried to understand what it was that he specifically liked about it. Initially, I thought it was the color and texture of the brightening sky. But the more I stared into it, the more I was drawn to the silhouetted community below. And I saw a fully formed, slowly awakening world there that had completely eluded me when I first composed the scene. Between the water tower, the houses, the businesses and surrounding landscape, I had captured the essence of a community: Which, at the end of it all, was what my father lived for.

I took this photo a few days after he passed away, from the same balcony where he used to tend his plants and watch the boats glide by below. My mother had noticed the trees beginning to change and said it was something he always appreciated. So I took my camera out, stood where he once stood, and snagged this image.

We'll be blowing it up and framing it for display right next to the Colorado sunrise one. Because the community and family life that was so important to him thrives on reflections like these.

Looking back in time

Life happened here
London, ON, September 2009

I decided today that flipping through the photo archives might help soothe my soul. I'll let you know how that works out in the days to come. For now, here's one glimpse that I wanted to share.

It was early on a Saturday morning, our daughter's 12th birthday, three weeks ago today. A lifetime, it seems. My parents were visiting us. I had a blood donation scheduled, so as I slipped out of the darkened house as quietly as I could, I couldn't resist the urge to lean over their sleeping forms and kiss their foreheads just as they so often did when I was a kid.

We had a busy day of cake and togetherness planned, so my goal was to show up at the clinic first thing and sheepishly beg for them to take me as early as they could. I suppose I could have cancelled the appointment - and in retrospect, it would have given me more time with them - but since I became serious about donating blood when my father first got sick 12 years earlier, I knew he understood why I felt the need to do this. It was a neat connection, one I know brought him joy.

So as I pulled into the clinic's parking lot on this clear and sunny morning, I realized I had misread the schedule, and had arrived about half an hour before the doors opened. As it's located on the grounds of London's largest hospital complex, I grabbed my camera from the passenger seat and went for a walk.

I didn't get far. The ivy-covered wall stopped me in my tracks. I've shot ivy before. It intrigues me because, depending on its condition, it can signify life in its various stages. And even when it's just bare tendrils on a concrete wall, you can't help but hold out hope that despite it all, it'll find a way to grow again.

I ha no idea how prescient this photo - or that lonely moment on the quiet hospital grounds - would be.

Disengaged

I've been told that grief is like a roller coaster. I believe it, but I'd like to amend the definition somewhat: It's like a roller coaster in the dark.

The ups and downs are the same, of course, but you never know when something's going to hit you and send you reeling in a new and unexpected direction. At least if we had the light of day to work with, we could prepare for whatever comes next. In reality, no such luck.

So today's surprise was a gloom that settled in from the moment I opened my eyes and once again chimed in to the awful truth of the recent past. I'm pretty sure I've moved past the "it's like a nightmare and I hope I wake up soon" phase, but there's still a heartbeat of time every morning when it hits me that I no longer have a dad. While most days up until now that moment of realization has resulted in a wave of teary sadness, today it made my body ache and my spirit turn grey.

So all day long, that was me: quiet and unable - and probably quite unwilling - to smile or otherwise engage in the usual back-and-forth of everyday life in the not-so-big city. While I went through the motions of bringing the kids to school and chatting with parents and staff, I felt a curious mixture of lifelessness and pain that I couldn't fully cover up with a forced smile and happy-sounding voice. I've never been a good actor, and today didn't change that.

Yesterday I did my first interview - a taped chat with CBC Radio's Meegan Read - and today I did my first live radio interview with CJOB Winnipeg's Richard Cloutier. I spoke with CBC Money's Dave Simms and with David Friend from the Canadian Press, and we mused afterward about how good it felt to be back. And as good as it felt to be hearing and actively working with these professional, caring people, and as cathartic for my soul as it was to once again be the analyst and deliver crisply built perspectives on biz-tech issues, as soon as I hung up the phone I once again saw only dull grey.

So here I sit, reflecting on a day when not even a walk through the grocery aisle with my BlackBerry's camera was enough to budge my mood, when it hurts to lift my arms to type on my laptop, when I simply want to curl up and go to sleep.

Maybe it's OK to have days like this. Maybe this is where the rollercoaster was destined to go. I just wish I could see it coming.

Those who know. Those who don't.

Had an interesting epiphany today, courtesy of my ever observant, ever lovely wife. She said we think that we're walking around with signs around our necks announcing what our family has just been through. But the truth of the matter is not everyone knows what's happened.

So when a friend or acquaintance approaches us and congratulates us on a nice quote in a national newspaper, or pulls out copies of their new magazine from the trunk of the car and stuffs them excitedly in our hands - both of which happened to me today - we should resist the urge to look at them funny and wonder why they don't get it. As devastating as loss can be to immediate family members, it's often just a blip, if that, to folks located further toward the periphery of our existence.

From now on, I'll remind myself of this perspective every time I read the obituaries page in the paper. Within the context of each affected family, entire worlds are being irrevocably changed. My distance from them doesn't change any of that. Nor does magazine-trunk-lady's distance from me change anything for me.

One more thing:

Speaking of my ever lovely wife, I can't continue without sharing a thought on her own, additional, burden these days. Her mom's been in the hospital for nearly two weeks. She had surgery earlier this week and is scheduled for another date with the knife tomorrow. Her road back to health is long, challenging and uncertain. Even without my dad's passing, this alone would have been enough to slam lesser folks into uselessness.

Not my wife. While she's been moving heaven and earth to be there for me, to cushion me from the harsh realities of the planet while I try, pathetically, to heal, she's been wrestling with being there for her mom and keeping it together for her marathon man of a dad. She's also been single-handedly parenting our three kids, integrating herself back into her teaching and keeping the increasingly psychotic dog from camping out on the kitchen table (story for another day, I promise.)

I recently wrote about our daughter's backbone, about her strength of character that seems to defy any force that comes up against her. She gets it from Debbie. Who clearly got it from her parents.

If you have a spare moment, I'd like to ask you to please say a prayer for Deb's mom. While we can't get back what's been lost, we remain hopeful that everyone else in our orbit can return to a happy, healthy and fulfilling life.

--
Related link: Debbie's blog. Feel free to say hi.

Writing in the dark

I often write things in my head long before I get anywhere near a keyboard. I don't think I control the process as much as it controls me: Any time, anywhere, the words simply begin to dance.

And so it was this morning, in the pre-dawn darkness, as I lay in bed with the furnace/dog draped over my legs. A column that I had begun to slash out on my laptop before bed last night decided to complete itself. So I got up, grabbed the laptop and its handy dandy gooseneck USB LED light (best $7 I ever spent, btw) and parked myself on the living room couch to finish it off in earnest and send it halfway across the continent.

It's my first piece of beginning-to-end, actual, professional writing that I've done in what seems like an age. I re-read it countless times to ensure it flowed OK and wasn't rife with evidence of my decidedly less-than-focused state. Confident it didn't read like a Swahili-language breakfast restaurant menu, I sent it on its way.

I can't say I enjoyed the process. I still feel overwhelmed with thoughts and feelings that I can't understand, let alone adapt to. I still feel like I've lost my edge, and worse, I've lost one of the most critical members of my audience. But if the show goes on for the proverbial performer, it has to go on for the proverbial writer as well. Write, invoice, live. It goes on...albeit painfully.

One more thing: I wrote and published this piece for Betanews, My father's laptop: A humble machine's simple lesson, last week. I hope you'll take a moment to give it a read and let me know what you think.

Home alone

I had all sorts of grand plans today. Dig through the pile of work that awaited me at home, start to clear my impossibly backlogged inbox and generally wrap my head around what I needed to do to catch up and get ahead. As soon as Debbie left for school with the kids, I turned to the dog, heard the deafening silence of the suddenly empty house and realized I was truly alone for the first time in a week. It wasn't a good start to the day.

Thankfully I got help from all sorts of surprising places. I spoke to colleagues by phone. I IMd with my brother-in-law. Friends pinged me in Skype and comments continued to pour into my Twitter and Facebook pages - and here, of course. A friend I've known almost my entire life took me out to lunch and, for a couple of hours, managed to get me to think life was normal. It wasn't, and isn't, of course, but the break was both welcome and treasured.

As the day drew to a close, I had somehow managed to corral the bulk of my out-of-control docket. I spoke to the key folks who had so graciously let me freeze everything for the week, and slowly began the process of moving my outstanding work forward. Tomorrow will be another day. As will Friday, and beyond.

It's hard. No sooner do I start reading through something than my mind drifts back to the sad reality now faced by my entire family. As much as I'd like to seek refuge in the staid, safe world of words, reality seems to intrude anytime it pleases. So I go back, and try it again. And again, until I manage to make it through without interruption or drift or tears. My head, already rattled by days on end of little sleep and endless worry, just doesn't seem as sharp as it once was. I'm told this will pass, that the brain cloud is an understandable byproduct of trauma and stress. But as a writer who's used to ripping through work with a sharp-edged pen as my weapon of choice, reversion to a dull-faced, slow-to-respond instrument is a shock to the system.

But I'll stop whining now, because my lot in life pales in comparison to my mom's. At the end of the workday, Debbie came back home with the kids. The dog, who while I was out got himself stuck on top of the kitchen table and needed to be rescued (third time this month, if you're keeping score), barked madly at the front door as the kids tried, repeatedly, to move his wiggly form aside and get into the front hall. The silent, empty house quickly filled with noise and laughter. I still have my family, my boisterous brood, my routine. I can't get it out of my head that my mother does not, and there's nothing I can do about it.

I suppose my challenge as a son is to change that as best I can. It's another form of discovery I wish none of us had to make.

The journey home. The journey away from home.

We moved away from Montreal almost 13 years ago. After growing up, going to school, getting married and starting our family there, it was time to replant our branch of the family tree in a city 730 kilometres to the west. Since then, we've become all too familiar with the endless stretch of asphalt known as highway 401 - Canada's, and arguably North America's, busiest - and the aggressively incoherent drivers who menace those who simply want to get to their destination in one piece.

Thankfully, tonight we safely completed our journey despite a long day of near-constant torrential rainstorms punctuated by brilliant sun and even more brilliantly painted skies. Along the way, we texted my sister and brother-in-law as we drove through Toronto, and bantered back and forth with their kids, our munchkins' little cousins. We messaged my aunt - my dad's sister - and uncle as they winged back to Florida. We twittered a huge and hugely supportive community of family and friends, and smiled as responses flowed back to my BlackBerry. We opened the sunroof to watch an Air Canada 777 on final approach to Pearson International Airport pass so closely overhead that it felt like we could reach out and touch its landing gear. We called my mom to make sure she didn't feel alone. We called my mother-in-law to let her know we're praying she comes home from the hospital, healthy and soon. We said a little prayer that we had access to such technology that connected us so richly despite the fact that we were speeding away from them all.

After the trauma of the past few days, our subdued little family pulled into a rain-soaked driveway and opened the door on a suddenly-changed home. The kids helped unpack the van as we tucked cordless phones onto our shoulders and called everyone that mattered to let them know we were here, and that we couldn't stop thinking of them. I walked the dog for the first time in what seemed like ages, relishing the simple pleasure of watching an innocently happy animal romp through the damp grass. We changed into jammies and lingered over tuck-in.

And as the dog curled up in a tiny, impossibly cute ball on my side of the bed, I tiptoed through the darkened house, stopping in each munchkin's room to kiss their heads and tell them that I loved them. Dahlia and Noah were fast asleep, but Zach was still awake. We chatted for a couple of minutes before I held him one last time and headed back to bed. My dad used to tuck us in the same way, and as I trundled back into our room and carefully moved the dog over, I felt a tiny twinge of connectedness to a man who may no longer be alive, but whose spirit clearly lives on in those of us who carry his name and his legacy.

I hope to find more twinges like this one in the days and weeks to come.

Forget the past. Embrace the future.

We've been living in quite the bubble for the past week. It's almost unfathomable to me that at the very moment I write this, we mark exactly one week since my father died. As unreal as the whole thing still seems, I suppose there will be many such milestones ahead of us, where we simply stop and think it's been X days, weeks, months, years since it happened.

And as my incapable brain has absorbed countless words of comfort from countless friends and family members, the one that continues to resonate in my mind revolves around the past and the future. A dear friend of our family since long before I can remember pulled me aside in shul (synagogue) tonight and said the last thing I want to do is dwell on the past. Nothing I can do will ever change it, and focusing on it will only bring me pain. The future's the thing. And we must do everything in our power to build a strong one, no matter what may have happened to us up until now.

Of course, I'm not explaining it right. I can't formulate words all that well right about now, and I'm praying my writer's voice returns, in force, later this week when I return home to a growing pile of deadlined work. Somehow, I know it'll get done. And I'll reach into a reserve I hardly knew I had before last week to find new ways of being there for my mom and reaching out to my sister and my brother. I'll also need to be an even better husband and dad as I figure out how to help my wife and kids adapt to this new, sadly changed reality.

How this will all happen, I have no idea. But it'll happen somehow. It has to. I told my wife earlier tonight that I feel broken. Although I have no prior experience, I suppose every loss like this leaves us all changed in some way. I know none of us will be the same, but I still find myself looking for the good, and knowing that he'd want us all to figure out a path that takes the lessons he taught us and helps us build a more vibrant future.

As I figure out the how, I'll do my best to share it here. I hope you'll do the same, because I can use all the advice I can get.

Waiting. Haunted.

This is one of the waiting rooms at the Jewish General Hospital in Montreal. It's where I found myself earlier this afternoon, after we completed shiva in honor of my late father (still coming to grips with seeing these two words in stark black and white.) My mother-in-law had just come out of surgery and was in recovery...a story for another day, but for now, I hope you'll join me in praying for her health.

As I sat there wondering about life, death and sickness, I realized how this very place had figured so centrally in so much of my father's journey. I thought of how often we had gathered right here as a family for him. And how we were doing the same thing for my wife's mom, who I also call "Mom", now.

It reinforced that life, in whatever form, goes on. And that this place will haunt me for longer than I care to admit.

Quick note: Yom Kippur - the Jewish Day of Atonement - starts tonight. As we're in Montreal, I'll be marking the holiday, with a heavy heart, with my family at my father's congregation, the Young Israel of Chomedey. It's a place where his impact is felt in almost every nook and cranny. I also practically grew up there. Expect radio silence until later tomorrow eve. Whatever traditions you follow, please know I wish you only good health, happiness, community and peace in the coming year. Gmar chatimah tovah.

Update - Feb. 28, 2013: Apologies for this note from the future, everyone. But I'd be remiss if I didn't somehow connect this moment to the here-and-now. My mother-in-law passed away on Feb. 22, and I keep thinking back to this day over three years ago in the hospital, and the conversation we had when we first saw her after my dad's funeral. It was brutal then, and it's brutal now. Loss is never easy, and I'd be lying if I said I had any idea how to navigate any of this. Updated link here. Entry 2 here.

Symbiosis on hold

It's no coincidence that the first word in social media is "social". As a new-millenium communications medium, it raises the art of two- and multi-way communication to a new level. People who missed that memo and use the tools for one-way messaging without somehow finding a way to leverage the value of everything that flows in the opposite direction are missing a golden opportunity.

So it's with great difficulty that I see, fleetingly, the wave of incredible support that friends and family have been providing all week, and I barely have the time, cycles or emotional capability to acknowledge any of it. Detailed, supportive emails, Facebook comments and instant messages pour in from everywhere - around the corner, Georgia, Israel, California...you name it - and all I can do is read them on my BlackBerry when I have a free moment and pray that the sender knows how grateful I am.

So if I haven't gotten back to you yet, please know that I got the message, it touched me in ways I could never have imagined, and I'll close the loop at some point in time when I feel ready to get back to the keyboard. For now, please accept my deepest thanks and appreciation. Knowing how blessed we are by the community that surrounds us has given us immense strength these last few days.

Random observations from an unreal journey

I had a few free moments between waking up from non-sleep and letting the fog of a massive headache settle back into its now-near-permanent place in my head, so I thought I'd start jotting down some things I've noticed over the past couple of days.

With apologies for bad formatting - I'm doing this on my BlackBerry, tapping it out intermittently through the morning, in between visits from friends and family - here goes:

- I find myself staring at people I've known my entire life as I try to remember their names. Inevitably, after a few uncomfortable seconds me me flailing around in confusion, I fail and have to ask them who they are. The response, usually in a "I can't BELIEVE you don't remember me" tone, sets me straight and reminds me just how compromised my head is these days.

- I sometimes jokingly blame my memory issues on my sudden-onset "brain cloud" - a reference to an old movie that nobody remembers (bonus points if you guess it right.) The attempted humor doesn't seem to bring smiles to their faces. I find myself wishing I knew how to recapture the funny.

- It's impossible to put into words how blessed we are with friends who dropped everything and ran cross-country to be here for us. I don't know what I ever did to deserve friends so remarkable that I see them as family, but whatever it is I'm glad I did.

- People don't change. Those who have always been mean-spirited, petty, self-centred and/or vindictive are renewing my belief in the inability of leopards to change their spots. Whatev...I've got other things, and people, to worry about.

- It's easy to feel that you're ok when you're surrounded by a room of people. Conversations about anything and everything - catching up on kids, careers and lives and arguing about the Canadiens-Maple Leafs - keep the dark, sad thoughts that hang over you temporarily at bay. But once it gets quiet, you're left alone with your thoughts. Or someone close to you starts to cry and you rush to be there. Or you catch sight of a picture and realize what you've lost.

Either way, not my best day.

More soon...

As the sky lightened...

...this morning, I stared at our kids as they slept. They tossed and turned restlessly, largely due to the fact that in a period of barely 24 hours, their entire world had been turned upside-down and they now found themselves sleeping on floors and couches hundreds of miles away from home.

I did the same thing early yesterday morning. I stood in our youngest son's room and watched him sleep. Peacefully, with that look of mixed contentment and happiness that he seems to carry with him every moment of every day. I secretly wished that I could slow down time, because I knew when he woke up and we told him what had happened while he slept, that look of contentment and happiness, that bubble of childhood innocence that I've long written about, would evaporate. I knew nothing would ever be the same for him, and I knew there was nothing I could do to change or fix it for him.

So I hovered, and tried to remember every last detail of what he looked like at that, fleeting moment. Of what that bubble looked and felt like before it went away for good. Or at least a long while.

And sure enough, as night turned to day, he stirred. And when he did, my wife and I were there to tell him what had happened just a few hours before. And he cried. Which only made us cry. So we held him close, our tears falling on his neck, and told him it was okay to cry. Because that's how nine-year-old boys, and their parents, learn about incalculable sadness and loss. About how despite a parent's seeming invincibility, there are things they cannot fix.

Today he'll hold onto his older brother and sister, and to us, as he attends his first funeral, his Zaidy's. I know he'll cry, as will we, for a grandfather he'll always love and always miss and always hear and see in his mind's eye. And tonight I'll hover over him again. And watch for signs that the bubble, albeit irrevocably changed and scarred, has returned in some form.

2:23 a.m.

It's never good news when the phone rings in the middle of the night. Tonight was no different.

It was my mom. My dad died suddenly earlier tonight.

I don't quite know what to say or do, except our kids will be up in a few hours, and I can't even begin to imagine how I'm going to find the right words to tell them.

Some days, I wish life could be easier. Or longer. Today is one of them.

Relics of an industrial past

Where beer is made
Montreal, QC, August 2009 [Click to embiggen]

The scene: Late afternoon. I'm walking along the eastern edge of Montreal's downtown core with our oldest son. I've just finished the second of two national television interviews and we're making our way back to the car. It's been an adventure for him, as he's gotten to see what I do in a place we moved away from when he was a toddler. We banter about everything and anything as we decompress from the intense couple of hours we've just experienced. It's a day I hope he carries with him for a long time.

We walk past the Molson brewery. The fact that I barely drink anything, let alone beer, doesn't faze me as I admire the multifaceted old building in the golden glow of a lovely evening. We stand on the sidewalk and stare intently at it because it's a perfect example of function dictating form, and a proud icon of a city that's lost so many stalwarts since I was a kid. But not this one. It's also the perfect excuse to stretch our alone-time before we have to head back home.

Your turn: A moment you remember from your childhood. Please discuss.

About this photo: We're (slowly) winding down this week's Thematic Photographic theme, urban (click here to toss yours into the ring.) Tomorrow (Wednesday) at 7:00 p.m. EDT, I'll post the launch entry for next week's theme. And what will that theme be? Glad you asked:

Temporary

If it's here today, gone tomorrow - or gone in a blink - then I'm hoping you'll consider sharing it. Check back here tomorrow to see what all the fuss is about.

Mackenzie Phillips, please go away

The headlines began quite ominously earlier this week. Mackenzie Phillips, the star crossed child actress whose ongoing battles with drug addiction have scarred her career and her life for the better part of the last three decades, was scheduled to appear on Oprah Winfrey's show this Wednesday. She was going to drop a bombshell.

Pause for dramatic-sounding music from your favorite entertainment "journalism" program. There, I'm good. Let's continue.

If my deep and extensive research is on target, her big bombshell revolves around allegations that her late father, John Phillips (aka Papa John) of The Mamas and the Papas, raped her on the eve of her wedding, and later carried on an ongoing sexual relationship with her.

Pause. Ew. There, I'm good. Well, not really, but the initial wave of nausea has passed. So let's continue.

I wasn't there, of course, so I can't validate or dispute her claims. Coincidentally, neither can Papa John, who died in 2001. But I can conclude that this is an integral component of a perfectly orchestrated plan to sell more copies of her book, High on Arrival. Also coincidentally, the book is being released...tomorrow.

It's almost as if the great big daytime media machine needs an endless supply of sad sacks to keep the masses titillated and primed to buy whatever it is that keeps the machine oiled and fed. Wait, not almost. It is.

I find myself wishing Ms. Phillips would fade into an obscurity that allows her to finally heal. But even if she mercifully does just that, there's a never-ending lineup of celebs waiting to take her place.

Your turn: What compels people to bare all in public? What compels regular folks to lap it all up like bees consume nectar?

Velo at rest

Parked curbside
Toronto, ON, May 2008 [Click to enlarge]

About this photo: We're celebrating urban week as part of the latest Thematic Photographic. If this seems somewhat cryptic, please click here for some background.

The lowly bicycle gets precious little respect in the big city. Motorists honk it off the road. Building owners force riders to lock up outside. Thieves lurk in the shadows, ready to claim your ride as their own.

Years ago, when I commuted to a decidedly bike-unfriendly office, I bought a beater mountain bike to ensure the thieves picked someone else's ride when they came by. And sure enough, every couple of weeks, another newly bikeless colleague would post a forlorn notice by the bike racks at the back the building, asking if anyone saw anything before said set of wheels disappeared forever. (Rule #1: Never have the nicest bike on a shared rack. Rule #2: See Rule #1.)

Security aside, when I see a sturdy old bike locked up outside, I feel a little stab of hope that the city won't be completely swallowed by the almighty car, that the motor-driven chaos that defines life in these green-free zones can slowly be clawed back by silent citizens spinning their pedals. It's idealistic of me to think this way. And probably a whole lot of unrealistic, too. But all revolutions, no matter what form they may take, have to start somewhere. May as well be a sun drenched sidewalk on a gorgeous afternoon.

Your turn: Who rides this bike?

Caption This 137

Please caption this image
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London, ON
March 2008
Click photo to enlarge

About this photo: It's urban week all week long, and this scene supports that vision of our not-quite-natural surroundings. To see where it all began - and hopefully share a Thematic perspective of your own - head over here.

The building that once stood around this forlorn doorway no longer exists. For the record, it was a worn out, utterly forgettable three-storey apartment block at the edge of a neighborhood that most of us would usually avoid at night.

The modern apartment building that is now going up on this site will soon welcome new tenants - and hopefully a new sense of security and community for a part of town that has long had little of either.

Your turn: Got a creative caption for this photo? If so, please click the comment link and share as many suggestions as you wish. Winner gets posted next Sunday. If you're new to Caption This, click here to see where it all began.

About last week's photo of a bird in flight: We're two weeks into the school year here, and I already miss the beach. Nothing stops us from returning, of course, but the day just isn't the same when you're not surrounded by crowds of like-minded city folks, all hoping to escape the heat. Maybe we simply need to reset our expectations as the temperatures continue to fall. Until then, this photo reminds me of what it felt like to have warm sand on my back and the sound of our happy children in my ears.

Mojo's "Mile High Club" takes the cake this week, because it gave this scene a much needed dose of levity. If you've ever wondered whose work I study to try to become a better photographer, please visit his blog, Why? What have you heard? for confirmation. In a word, he's got vision.

Ticky tacky boxes

My main drag
London, ON, April 2008 [Click to enlarge]

About this photo: Thematic Photographic explores urban this week. Please click here to participate. In the meantime, Carmi explores the intricacies of the Jewish New Year (5770, if anyone's counting) and is otherwise happily occupied with family, friends, personal reflection and a whole lot of eating. Thank you, Google, for implementing forward-timed entries. Back live Sunday eve.

Dundas Street runs east-west from the river that defines the midpoint of our city right out to, and beyond, the eastern edge of town. While it eventually turns into a bucolic regional highway that rolls through staggeringly beautiful farmland, this stretch of it is known as the spine of London's long-suffering downtown core, a street that used to be a magnet for the region, but is now struggling to overcome decades of suburban flight, botched urban planning and endless political small mindedness.

In so many respects, this road is little different than similar ones in other major - or even minor - cities anywhere on the planet. Except this one's in my town, and the never-ending discussion of what to do about it has colored my life here since the day I moved here. I so wish I could roll up my sleeves and fix it.

Troubled as it is, Dundas Street still possesses the capacity for hidden beauty. Walking along on a bright Sunday morning, it's easy to forget about the difficulties that plague this place. The storied facades that could tell us so many stories stand proud against a streetscape that's waiting for someone to write its next chapter. All we need to do is take the time to look and listen.

On this morning, I'm glad I did just that. I hope you are, too.

Your turn: Urban renewal. Please discuss.