Kate of Late

And here's me without even a bucket

OVER the past few years, people have been throwing around the term “bucket list” like we all have one.

As far as I know, this phrase didn’t even exist before the 2007 movie of the same name, starring Morgan Freeman and Jack Nicholson. I didn’t see The Bucket List, not being a fan of Nicholson or of lighthearted comedies about the terminally ill. Critic Roger Ebert, who famously endured thyroid cancer, said the film “thinks dying of cancer is a laugh-riot followed by a dime-store epiphany.”

The Bucket List is about a road trip two codgers embark on after they find out they’re both going to kick the bucket. Conveniently, Nicholson’s character is a billionaire, so they can afford to do anything their withered hearts desire.

It’s a typical Hollywood movie scenario, where there’s tons of money to throw around at foolhardy antics like skydiving. Apparently the moral of the story is that the most important thing in life is your loved ones, which is pretty much the theme of every modern Hollywood film and is about as painfully obvious as it gets.

Yet the concept of a “bucket list” has taken hold. I guess it’s a way for middle-aged people to get into that “1,000 things to see/hear/do/eat/buy before you die” mindset without appearing to be pitifully ambitious.

I do wonder why we now have such a mania for listing items and then crisply checking them off. I’m obviously not the only person who flips through “1,000…” books and feels smug if something I’ve already done, or seen, appears on the list. But why? What does that prove? Was any truly great achievement ever thus inspired? I don’t think Johannes Gutenberg wrote “Invent printing press” on a scrap of paper one day and then crossed it out with a flourish years later.

Of course, the “bucket list” concept hadn’t been invented in Gutenberg’s time, the mid-1400s, despite the existence of buckets and lists. And most of the things that appear on modern lists don’t require much in the way of smarts. They’re easy to do if you can afford them –- they just demand money, desire and a hint of compulsion. A bit of online research unearths 1001 Buildings You Must See Before You Die, 1001 Wines You Must Taste Before You Die (of chronic liver disease, presumably), and 1001 Movies You Must See Before You Die, along with lists of songs, books, comics, MAD magazine pages, video games, gardens, natural wonders, foods, beers, digital photos, fly fishing destinations, sailing spots, golf courses, hikes or dives we should all experience, according to professional know-it-alls.

Some suggestions demand a high degree of idiocy. One online list of “1,000 Freaky things to do before you die” includes “Have sex while free falling” and “Walk into Best Buy naked.” There’s also a book by Helen Arnold called 1,001 Escapes to Experience Before You Die, which I had hoped were things like being chased through Venetian canals by a villain on a speedboat, but turn out to be vacation “escapes.”

If, unlike me, you ever feel that you need more failure in your life, I’d recommend the “1,000 Places to See Before You Die Page-a-Day calendar.” What was the concept there? There are 365 days in a year, and you’re not going to see three of the places on this list per day. On Dec. 31st, as you sadly chuck this calendar into the recycle bin, you’ll consider yourself fortunate if you’ve ventured as far as the Polar Bear Safari in Churchill, Manitoba. Say au revoir to 2012, loser.

I prefer the 2010 book 101 Places Not to See Before You Die, by Catherine Price. Price says in her introduction that she wrote this amusing guide as an antidote to all the other advice out there re: primo activities. Number one on her list of what not to see is Missoula, Montana’s Testicle Festival, where 15,000 people gather every year to munch on the bull calf testicles euphemistically known as “Rocky Mountain oysters.” Apparently the event also features a game called Bull---- Bingo, where somebody wins money every time a bull lays a turd down on a giant bingo card. There must be something wrong with me – this actually sounds like a good time.

If being plainly warned away from things doesn’t work for you, there’s always the option of reading 1001 Places You Must Pee Before You Die, written by Mari K. Eder from the point of view of a Miniature Schnauzer. I don’t know if it’s aimed at dogs who’ve decided that learning to read is one of the 10 things they should do before they die, or at humans who gave up on great books when reading them turned into a competitive chore. I just know that tackling this book’s not on my bucket list.

As a matter of fact, my list of things I’ll be sure to do before I die contains just one word: “breathe.” 

New options for your corporeal form

ALAS, poor young people. We know thee well, and yet we never truly get used to thee.

What is it about our culture that we, the allegedly mature, so conveniently forget our own youthful missteps and have such low tolerance for your wacky enthusiasms?

In my day, any self-disrespecting stylish girl wore hot-pants, tube-tops, and jeans so tight she had to pleat her abdomen to squeeze into them, and boys in ankle-twisting platform boots kept their shirts unbuttoned to the top of their hairless rib cages. These styles were laughable, unflattering, and made us all look trashy, just as our mothers told us, and just as your mothers tell you. But when you’re young, you want to look as distinct from frumpy grown-ups as is humanly possible, hence your decade-long craze for tattoos.

In the consumerist 2000s, some of you also feel that if you’re going to invite a greasy stranger to stab ink into your skin, you might as well get something more out of it than just a case of Hepatitis. When Goodyear’s Dunlop tire unit offered a free set of tires to anybody who’d get its logo tattooed onto his or her body, some 98 people went under the needle, wrote the Associated Press (AP) in 2007.  A website called Leaseyourbody.com connects those willing to be permanent shills to advertisers who crave epidermal ink. Mind you, even five years ago, one marketing expert was observing to AP, “Once corporations use tattoos, it’s clear they have lost some of their edginess.” Word has yet to reach the colonies.

The practice of turning your body into a billboard is centuries old. Wikipedia points out that after advertising posters got taxed in 19^th century London, men would walk around in pasteboard hats that spread the word about whatever their employer wanted them to sell. Fast forward to the start of this century, when several people in the public eye, including boxer Bernard Hopkins during a championship fight, began to sport temporary tattoos featuring advertising.

Wikipedia reports that the first person who agreed to get a permanent tattoo for advertising purposes was a 22-year-old American man, the back of whose head promoted a web hosting service. Observing foolish commitments like that, we should probably applaud the two young Brits who’ve decided to rent out space on their faces to advertisers by the day -- at least that move’s impermanent. Ross Harper and Ed Moyse, both 22, are waking up each morning to festoon their cheeks with painted-on promos that they hope will pay off their 50,000 pounds apiece of student debt, accrued at Cambridge University.

According to links on the men’s website, buymyface.com, post-graduate unemployment in the U.K. is at its highest in more than a decade, with one in five failing to find a job in 2011. So far, Harper and Moyse have advertised for Ernst and Young, Pipers Crisps and an online fundraiser called Mashbo, said a story in The Sun newspaper. They’ll be painting their faces with logos and slogans for a solid 366 days, charging 400 pounds a day for the exposure. I smell a book deal.

If I know parents and grandparents, theirs don’t approve. Naturally, readers of The Sun also chimed in with their reactions to this news. “I think this is (a) great idea and I’ll use these guys to advertise my company which is called ‘Hit Me Here,’” wrote one wag.

“I bet their girlfriends are… Oh wait, that won’t be a problem” wrote another.

What’s the difference, I wonder, between renting out space on your body, renting out your body’s sex parts, and renting out the space around your body? How long will our culture bother making such fine discernments? Are the lines getting fuzzier and fuzzier for young people in their constant quest for novelty?

Last week, in a “beta-test” that was quickly dubbed Homeless Hotspots, homeless people were paid to act as Internet jacks for more affluent Americans. The brainchild of a marketing company called BBH LABS, the project made its debut at the South by Southwest Music and Technology Conference. It featured nine homeless people from a particular Austin, Texas shelter carrying mobile Wi-Fi devices and wearing T-shirts saying “I am a 4G Hotspot.” Wi-Fi addicts were able to use the air around one of these individuals for a recommended donation of $2-plus per 15 minutes. The 4G Hotspots were given $20 daily, with additional proceeds theirs to keep.

The technology may have worked but the stunt caused a worldwide kerfuffle. It prompted other kinds of complaints, too, with one user griping “my homeless hotspot keeps wandering out of range.”

Its defenders note that the 4G Hotspots were not actually advertising anything, just providing a service. Good idea? Bad idea? It’s innovative, anyway – which always appeals to the young. Maybe in the future, our kids will seek careers as hotspots. As long as they dress appropriately, is that okay?

 

 

Kate Lately

Watch for Kate:

• In her column, Going Coastal, every Sunday (almost) since 2001 in the North Shore News
• On Toronto the Tasty in the March/April issue of City Palate
• On Bellying Up to Bellingham in the May/June issue of City Palate 
• Copy editing every issue as Contributing Editor of City Palate 
• On Chef Jamie Kennedy in the March issue of Westjet's Up! Magazine
• On the new Aga stove in the March issue of NUVO
• On three outstanding Sauder School of Business graduates in its alumni magazine, Viewpoints
• In corporate newletters for oil sands employees

Goodnight, Moon. And Goodnight, Boat

WELL, it had to happen. Long a symbol of romantic purity, a luminous orb to be flown to, jumped over, or lassoed, the Moon was overdue for a massive reversal of fortune.

As tall poppies go, it’s our tallest. So it couldn’t just sit up in the heavens forever, waxing, waning, and providing a sweet light that makes even Rush Limbaugh look decent. Just this week, Earth’s only satellite was accused of major malfeasance. Asked Discovery News, “Did the Moon Conspire to Bring Down Titanic?”

Now, I’m not here to play “Judge Judy and executioner,” as Homer Simpson once put it. An actual forensic astronomer called Donald Olson lays out his theory in the April issue of Sky & Telescope magazine, claiming that the Moon may have caused the sinking of the massive ocean liner 100 years ago.

It so happens that on January 4th, 1912, the Moon was at its perigee, the closest it had been to the Earth in 1,400 years, six minutes after it was full. This phenomenon is apparently known as a “Supermoon.” Just the day before, the Sun was the closest it had been to the Earth in a year, its perihelion (who says you never learn anything useful from this column?). The alignment of the Moon, the Sun and the Earth allegedly created an intense gravitational pull that caused abnormally high tides. The three-month stretch between these “spring tides” and the appearance of the fatal iceberg in the path of the Titanic was just the amount of time it would have taken for troublemaking Canadian icebergs to drift into the shipping lanes. “It sunk/Ker-plunk/What a rotten piece of junk,” as the classic tune goes.

The Moon ought to be ashamed of herself. Mind you, over the eons, she’s occasionally been a controversial pie-in-the-sky. Branded female in Greek and Roman mythology, she’s even been linked by some cultures to the “curse” of menstruation. Although she inspired no less a composition than Ludwig van Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata, by contrast, the Moon’s also been called a “harsh mistress” in a much-recorded song by Jimmy Webb.  Nevertheless, she’s not often accused of mass murder.

If the Moon gets her choice of lawyers, I’d recommend Jupiter. He’s big, he’s bright, and he’s full of helium. (You know what I’m saying, even if you aren’t a lawyer -- actually, especially if you aren’t a lawyer.)

Despite taking some heat right now, the Moon’s desirable enough that she’s at the centre of various land grabs. A dozen years ago, one Dennis Hope, who called himself “Head Cheese” of the Lunar Embassy Commission, announced that he owned the Moon and much of the Solar System. He said he’d registered his claim with the U.S government, also informing Russia and the United Nations. (I don’t believe Canada got so much as a phone call.)

At the time, German Martin Juergens scoffed at Hope’s assertion, saying he already owned the Moon because Frederick the Great gave it to one of his forebears in 1756.

Nowadays, however, we seem to have accepted that there’s no need for a formal handover. This land is your land. According to the website of “Earth’s Leading Lunar Real Estate Agency,” Luna Society International, “The future of the Moon, including settlement, tourism and resource development is in your hands.” It’s currently offering a “select group of properties in the Sea of Vapors” at only $18.95 per acre  (transportation not included).

Here’s the blurb, in case your interest is piqued: “THE MOON ON A BUDGET! Breath-taking vistas and a prime location … plus a great price! The Sea of Vapors has everything the smart moon property shopper seeks! Add the beauty of the nearby Crater Manilius, a distinctive center-of-the-Moon location, and you’ve got the total package!”

Of course, to see your lunar property – there are no on-site show homes -- you’ll need to buy the full CD-ROM version of The Full Moon Atlas online. (Don’t be alarmed if it seems to resemble a pair of buttocks – that mountain range in the middle is likely a topographical anomaly.) Do bear in mind that NASA’s next trip is not expected until the mid-2020s, so you’d better get to work pronto on your hand-built spaceship.

If, as a more practical-minded terrestrial, you’re concerned about the lack of oxygen, grocery stores, off-leash dog parks or neighbours on the Moon, maybe you’re better off buying a memorial there for your loved one.

“Your memorial crater will be located in a specially-designated section of the Sea of Tranquility, the Sea of Serenity or the Lake of Dreams,” promises the website of Luna Society International. Once again, the price is reasonable – only $39.95, plus $10 shipping and handling.

If you buy that, I’ve got a property on Mars I’d love to sell you. Let’s be in touch.

 

 

 

Neighbour, neighbour, go away

VACATIONERS, beware! If you’re one of those extremely fortunate families who go away during March break, be reminded that this is when thieves may strike.

It’s open season on break-ins. That’s according to a news release I just got that’s full of startlingly paranoid tips, which include “Don’t use your home address on your luggage tags” for fear of tipping off criminals to your absence.

That likely means our cab drivers and airport bag checkers are suspect. I picture some service industry professional covertly texting my address to his masked buddy in North Vancouver after seeing my family set off on some (imaginary) trip. “Check this house out,” he might type, adding the pertinent link to MapQuest. “But there won’t be much left inside – the owners appear to have taken everything with them.”

I guess all kinds of bad guys are roaming our streets unchecked. Unfortunately for your peace of mind, I include myself in their number. I do a lot of wandering with our rambunctious dog, and she has no aversion to nefarious activities of any sort.

“This is all grist for your mill,” I tell the pup as we troll local cul de sacs for random detritus on garbage day. “You might as well taste everything life has to offer so you can make informed choices. I don’t eat a lot of Skittles packaging myself, but why should my prejudices curtail your taste sensations?”

Because we drift aimlessly about Lynn Valley like noxious spring pollen, I have mixed feelings about how much home security is advisable while you’re away. Who knows, I may feel like breaking into your place myself.

You should welcome this opportunity. While the average thief is looking for money and valuables, and may perform acts of vandalism out of malice or boredom, I’m  your dream burglar. It’s true that I’ll leave my dog tied up outside to upend your potted plants and eat your welcome mat, but I myself will just pry open a window and quietly squeeze in.

I mean you no harm. I just want an immaculate house to sit in for a while, not unlike CBC storyteller Stuart McLean’s fictional character Morley, whose task of feeding a neighbour’s fish turned into a case of house envy on a recent episode of The Vinyl Cafe. Like her, I crave the comfort of a place where every inch of living space isn’t covered with chewed bits of wood, drool-drenched dog toys, skateboards, snow-boots, books, trade show gadgets and barbecue equipment.

So here’s what I’ll do. I’ll break into your place. I’ll take off my shoes, out of respect (something I don’t do in my own house, which explains the low self-esteem that drives me to live outside the law). I won’t look in your bedrooms, so you can relax about that. I’m just going to walk into your kitchen, which you will have left neat and tidy because you’ve gone away. I’ll sigh at the sight of such immaculate, uncluttered counter-tops. How do you do it?

I’ll applaud your colour scheme (probably -- no guarantees) and stroke your appliances. I’ll fondle your unstained mugs. I’ll comb your calendar, see what you’ve got planned for March. You’ll probably have written on there when you’re coming back, which will be handy information. If there’s anything exciting marked down, I’ll make a note of it, in case I want to attend that performance or event; I may be a burglar, but I’m not completely uncouth. Likewise, I’ll correct any spelling errors on the calendar, no charge.

I’ll open the fridge door, just for the hell of it. I know what you’re like – you can’t depart for a week or two without turfing your perishables, in case you suddenly decide to stay wherever it is you went and your place has to be rented or sold as is. I’ll inspect your array of condiments, which, I promise you, will be fewer and far less freaky than mine, and shake my head admiringly. “Only one kind of mustard? Unbelievable!” I’ll mutter.

Then I’ll look in your freezer and predict the likelihood of your ever coming back. If you’ve just got Costco appetizers in there and you went to Hawaii, you won’t be in any hurry, but if you have homemade spaghetti sauce, your own pies and your destination was Comox, you clearly intend to return as scheduled.

I may turn on your TV, watch a little daytime. I’ll flip through your Chatelaine, looking at the recipes you’ve dog-eared to see if I approve. I won’t be able to spend more than 15 minutes because my dog will soon start battering your door with her giant, muddy paws and she might attract the fuzz. I’ll inch out the way I inched in, leaving only a bent window-frame in my wake.

I like to know what’s going on in the homes of my neighbours. Is that a crime?

Incidentally, bon voyage.