Kate of Late

Tablet use rise means resisters’ demise

THAT’S it – I’m over. I know I’ve made this proclamation before, to zero fanfare. But some light summer reading has reinforced my belief that my generation is efficiently and strategically being phased out.

This is more than the usual burden shouldered by my group, which disingenuously refers to itself as “middle-aged.” Most of us have always understood that, after 40, we’d experience random and humiliating aches and pains, a brisk, public slide down the sexual attractiveness scale, and a disturbing increase in mailed brochures from funeral homes. In other words, we’re starting to slowly circle the drain.

Now we’re also faced with the news that personal computer sales are in steep decline worldwide, falling between 11 and 14 percent in the first quarter of this year, compared to the same period last year.

Experts suggest that PCs might soon be elbowed out of the way by tablets, just as the late Steve Jobs, Apple’s lead troublemaker, predicted. “So what?” you say? Here’s the problem, Junior -- tablets are far too small for people who require bifocals for reading and writing.

Skeptical? I paid an innocent visit to my Internet bank account the other day to pay a bill, and was impertinently asked to fill out an online questionnaire about whether I’m a tablet user.

“No,” I answered firmly, almost destroying the “N” and “O” keys -- not that my murderous impulses will do any good. I expect to receive my first unsolicited estate planning advice from RBC shortly.

What possible societal use can there be for people like me if we can’t be sold gadgets and related gear that must be constantly updated and replaced?  There are only so many calls for sage elders and wizened storytellers, and soon those, too, will be preferable in the form of an app.

Obviously, the unspoken plan of the techno-dweebs who now dominate our culture is to deport me and my bitter, squinting posse to remote mountain caves -- the kind Al Qaeda favours. There, we’ll be expected to spend our days quaintly trying to recall the precise wording of Motown hits. At night, we’ll have to hunt for wild creatures to supplement the provided supply of quinoa, and, since we’re too visually impaired to properly operate weapons, kill the critters with our shaking hands.

Evidently, there’s no turning back on this trend. England’s Mail Online triumphantly reported this week that two PhD students from the University of Lancaster have created “Ubi Displays” that are capable of turning any object into a tablet computer.

“The technology uses a projector, a webcam and a PC to create interactive multi-touch displays anywhere and on anything,” declared the Mail in the same tone of unquestioning delight that it will use to inform the world that the royal baby’s umbilical cord stump finally fell off.

As usual, nobody ever asks why being able to project a tablet computer on a wall is a positive innovation. The news story simply shows a picture of one of the inventors checking the temperature displayed on his front door as he leaves his house. Let the bells ring out. I have enough trouble getting my husband, Stanley to set down his iPhone when we’re dining at a restaurant, without having him watch the soy sauce bottle for the latest stats on who listened to his podcast, or read the NAZDAQ off his paper napkin.

I should never have thrown that Loonie into that well and wished for my family to read more. Hello, magical wish granter – I meant actual books.

As these stupid gadgets gain ground, those who don’t rely on them are literally becoming obsolete. The Telegraph online reported recently that an unemployed 58-year-old British man had tried to sell himself on e-Bay. Steve Sewell had experience as a labourer, bike mechanic, toilet paper tester and even an IT technician -- perhaps working at the latter two jobs simultaneously, as I’ve always suspected was the norm.

Despite Sewell’s starting the price at 99 pence, and tossing a little old-man-style humour into his post – “some wear to moving parts, surface finish worn” -- he was apparently suspected of being so undesirable that he didn’t attract a solitary bidder.  And this was a tech guy, of sorts! What a ruthless world.

It cannot be a coincidence that at the same time as Limey scientists are arranging to turn everything into tablets to please impatient tech junkies, a British firm is developing a rocket engine that can bolt somebody into space in just 15 minutes. Reaction Engines’ Synergetic Air-Breathing Rocket Engine, or SABRE, will travel up to five times the speed of sound. It may be fitted to existing aircraft, says the Mail Online, once again entirely unworried about why. The UK government will fund the project. Nope, there’s nothing remotely suspicious there.

I predict the imposition of a worldwide lottery that selects PC-users to fill the first million seats of one-way flights to the moon.

Just see if it ain’t so.

An insider’s guide to Vancouver etiquette

WHEN savvy travellers roam the globe, they often consult guides to local protocols. They learn not to eat with their left hand in some countries, not to show the soles of their feet in others, and, in certain parts of the world, they pretend to agree that women are inferior.

But do people who come to our country pay us the same courtesy, reading up on our exotic ways and testy sensibilities? It seems unlikely; in innocuous Canada, pretty much anything goes. What are we going to do if the visitor makes some gaffe – behead him? Start a war? History proves that we won’t.

Wikipedia has all kinds of advice on international etiquette. It informs us that Ghanaians, for example, consider it rude for a guest to ignore anybody in the room, so even babies must be individually acknowledged. (No word on pets.)

Australians may take offence if you refer to a “fanny-pack” as “fanny” has vulgar connotations, but “bumbag,” for some reason, does not. Meanwhile, supposedly, you must never present a Chinese person with a watch or a clock, as it suggests you’re counting the minutes until his demise. Good to know.

By comparison, the information that Internet sources provide about us Canucks is bland. We’re usually lumped in with Americans, with a little space set aside for French Canadian peccadilloes. We apparently distinguish ourselves from some other cultures by disapproving of racist remarks at social gatherings. We also avoid such topics of conversation as pay raises, education level, and blathering on about our “professional expertise” when we’re with people who might be intimidated. Thus speaketh the experts. Too bad we don’t all follow these rules; they make Canadians sound perfectly charming.

Visitors to Vancouver, however, likely arrive here with no idea of how to behave. Cut off from the rest of the country by geography and, often, choice, we’ve developed our own unwritten laws. Typically, we don’t feel like explaining what they are to random strangers; they’re just supposed to guess.

Herewith, a handy guide for visitors.

1. When invited to a Vancouverite’s home – and don’t worry, this rarely happens – it’s best to enter backwards. Remove one shoe, leave it on the stoop, and inch into the domicile while facing the door. This reassures the host that you have no intention of moving in permanently.
2. The appropriate breakfast greeting is an in-tune rendition of Rodgers and Hammerstein’s  “O, what a beautiful mornin’.” If you cannot sing in tune, or it’s not a glorious day (especially possible in July), feel free to belt out “Didn’t It Rain,” the gospel tune popularized locally by our own Jim Byrnes and The Sojourners. This is Vancouver’s unofficial theme song, and its references to Noah and the Flood are tolerated as folksy humour rather than  religious or alarmist propaganda.
3. Make your bread-and-butter gift gluten- and dairy-free. Chances are your hosts are either allergic to gluten, lactose-intolerant or vegan hipsters who strongly disapprove of gluten and lactose. Your hosts will not have mentioned this before you arrived because they assume that everybody, like them, makes sensible choices. A jar of jam’s a good present, as long as it has no beef chunks in it.
4. You will be expected to bicycle everywhere in a horribly unflattering helmet. If you’re unwilling, it’s best to pretend that your religion – which you needn’t identify -- forbids it. If you simply say you don’t want to wear a helmet, you’ll be forced to endure an excruciatingly earnest lesson.
5. On being taken to Granville Island Market by a proud Vancouverite, don’t remark on it as “a waste of good real estate.” Likewise, Stanley Park.
6. Be sure to look stricken whenever the death of any number of trees comes up. It’s fine to appear indifferent to the fate of rats.
7. Don’t fail to admire what’s presented to you, whether it’s the view of Burrard Inlet from the Lions Gate Bridge or a crowded alley in the Downtown Eastside. It’s always correct to say “Wow” in a dazzled tone of voice. Vancouver Mayor Gregor Robertson hears that word a lot, especially when he wears a kilt.
8. The wise visitor never suggests that anything in Vancouver is sub-par. Our restaurants are the best in Canada, our theatre scene surpasses Manhattan’s, and there isn’t a smarter, warmer, greener, more hospitable place on God’s Green Earth.
9. Act enthusiastic about visiting farmers’ markets. To imply that you can think of better things to do than fondle garlic scapes that cost three bucks apiece while listening to bluegrass played on kazoos is to suggest that you’re an ignorant redneck from a pathetic backwater. Note: The Chili Tank at Trout Lake Farmers’ Market is awesome, but you don’t actually get to dive in.

10. Most importantly, even if it isn’t your natural state of mind, feign a love of the outdoors. Our vistas are the main thing we have to offer. That, and bridge traffic.

 

 

 

Yes, that's a double-smoked pork belly satay kabob in your pocket – but you’re also glad to see her

“IT’S like Cheers with boobs,” longtime patron Stuart Irving said about No. 5 Orange, in a story last week in the Globe and Mail.

Go ahead and pretend you don’t know what No. 5 Orange is, and I will unnecessarily explain that it’s a strip club in Vancouver’s Downtown Eastside. I haven’t been there either, but, like you, I’m delighted to learn that it has improved its menu to meet local standards. The one thing that had been keeping me away from a booty-shaking good time was my fear that non-organic romaine would contaminate my Caesar salad.

According to the Globe’s Marsha Lederman, Irving, former chef/co-owner of Cobre Kitchen and now of Cuchillo, is acting as a menu consultant in hopes of turning the exotic entertainment emporium into a foodie destination that might attract neighbourhood lawyers and firefighters.

Remember when Playboy magazine, in a somewhat successful bid for respectability, used to feature articles by writers who could string a few decent words together, fellows like Vladimir Nabokov and W. Somerset Maugham? Perhaps this is the same idea. Club visitors will be able to tell their disgusted wives and daughters, “Calm down! I only went there because our favourite food blogger said No. 5 Orange’s dill pickle chicken wings are free range, and they’re a ‘Nirvanic juxtaposition of sour and salty.’”

Curious? I went to No. 5 Orange in my imagination so you don’t have to, taking my invisible digital recorder. Here’s what I allege went down.

(SCENE: A dark strip club, around noon. Enter an OLD BOOT (your fearless reporter) in tattered shorts, an oversized T-shirt and flip-flops. A curvy HOSTESS in an abbreviated skirt, 6” heels and a gravity defying pop-top sidles over and greets her.)

Hostess:  Welcome in, Hon. Are you pickin’ up your son or your husband? Don’t worry, it’s his first time here, he just stumbled in with some friends, and had a few too many beverages. I’ve never seen the guy before. Which one is he?

Old Boot: Actually, I’m here to sample your new menu. I read that it might rival the one at Portland’s popular vegan strip club, Casa Diablo. Please get me a seat far from the gynecology lab.

Hostess: Huh?

OB: I’d like to sit away from the stage.

Hostess: Oh, don’t worry, ma’am. You’d put all the gents off their entertainment by reminding them of their moms. We’ll just seat you over at this dark table here. I’ll get you a flashlight for the menu. Want some earplugs?

OB (stuffily): No -- I’m not that far gone! By the way, I saw a sign in the dumpster outside that said “Fresh Meat.” Is your meat no longer fresh?

Hostess: Oh no, that was a sign the management had posted outside, advertising for dancers for amateur night. Somebody raised a stink and they threw out the sign. The real meat’s still fresh.

(She seats the OLD BOOT at a table well behind the packed tables of LAWYERS, FIREFIGHTERS, BUTCHERS, BAKERS and CANDLESTICK MAKERS, who are all tucking in to ice water and large salads containing pea shoots and cranberries. Bon Jovi is playing at a high volume. The HOSTESS serves the OLD BOOT a Diet Coke “on the house” and disappears. All of a sudden, the HOSTESS reappears on stage in an entirely different outfit that seems to be made purely of linked beer tabs. Whoops and whistles begin as the soundtrack plays I’m Sexy And I Know It. The OLD BOOT glances up, recognizes the HOSTESS on-stage, and gestures impatiently for a menu. The HOSTESS pulls it from behind her back and struts down the stage toward the OLD BOOT, throwing it at her like a Frisbee. More whoops from the crowd when the OLD BOOT catches it with her teeth.)

OB (glancing at it and shouting at the HOSTESS): How do I know these are wild sea prawns in the satay kabobs, not farmed?

Hostess (bent in half with her wriggling rear end pointed elsewhere): We’re into sustainable seafood. I’m hoping we get the Ocean Wise designation because I love all God’s creatures.

OB (shouting): Can I substitute organic goat cheese for the mozzarella in the spicy marinara meatball sandwich?

Hostess (on her back doing hip thrusts at the lawyers): I’ll check with the kitchen for you. 

Drunken Lawyer (yelling): Hey, Honey, I’ll get you off, no matter what the charge!

(Lawyers guffaw, clink their water glasses.)

Hostess (rolls her eyes): Frickin’ salad eaters.

OB (shouting): What’s your favourite thing on the menu?

Hostess (now gyrating in the direction of the BUTCHERS and BAKERS, who holler approval): I recommend the Woodland Smokehouse Pulled Pork Poutine, or the Japanese Wasabi Dog with shredded nori and ponzu mayonnaise.

OB (shouting): I read online that this place is suspected to be a brothel. Any truth to rumours that there are grosser-sounding things on the menu here than the vegan chili dog?

Hostess (fed up): You gonna order, or what? FYI, for $2 you can replace the potato chips with sea salt skinny fries.