L'Ultima Cena

Probably one of the more surprising evenings I've had in Philadelphia yet. Davide and Andrea somehow managed to gather seven, count'em seven stray women for what was meant to be a leisurely italian meal.

As with any large group of people, there were winners and losers, and thankfully the latter are mercifully and conspicuously absent from this collection of images.

Special mention goes out to Cait and that Mona Lisa smile. Well done!

Does anyone know what the capital of Transnistria is?

Wikipedia always amazes me. Today, I discovered the "Random article" link on the home page, which essentially gives you what it says: a random article. To illustrate just how random the articles are, the first one I was presented with was on Galina Antyufeeva. What is that, you ask? Galina Antyufeeva is a Transnistrian politician and wife of the country's National Security Minister. This, of course, naturally leads to even more questions: what kind of name is Galina, where in the world is "Transnistria" (if it's even in this world), and who the hell knew enough about this topic to write an entire article about it?

Transnistria, it turns out, is not a fictitious place, as I had originally thought. It is a small, poor and fiercely independent province of Moldova. Interesting. One more obscure factoid to add to the pile, I guess. I wonder when I'll be able to slip it into a conversation:

"So, you're from Quebec, right?"
"Yes, or as I like to call it, Transnistria West."

Next, I was served up an article on a book series by Harry Turtledove (another great name) called "Settling Accounts." It is part of a series of books which tell an alternate and fictitious account of World War II, presupposing that the Confederates won the Civil War. One funny and interesting plot detail that is mentioned in the article is that Canada, in this scenario, is under U.S. occupation. All, that is, save for the independent Republic of Québec, which, allied with the U.S., is the ruling force in the other assimilated Canadian provinces, while U.S. forces redeploy to the South to confront Confederate armies. Now, I'm no separatist, but there's something oddly satisfying about imagining Jean-Pierre Tremblay manhandling those Ontario dandies and forcing them to listen to Céline Dion all day. (Come to think of it, don't we pretty much already do all of that?)

Also, now that I think of it, there's also an interesting parrallel between the article on separatist Transnistria and my sudden pleasure at imagining an independent Quebec ruling over the rest of Canada, but I'm not going to go too far down that rabbit hole—I might not like where it leads.

But the main reason that I was moved to write about all of this is that I stumbled upon an academic explanation of something that I've always found fascinating, and which I've observed with alarming frequency since I've been in the States: the tendency for teenagers—mostly female—to speak in such a way that it makes their every utterance sound like a question. You know what I mean? Like? Every sentence? Sounds like? A question? Yeah, like that. Drives me crazy too.

This mode of speech even has a name: High Rising Terminal, or HRT. To quote the Wikipedia entry on the matter:

The High Rising Terminal (HRT), sometimes known as Australian Questioning Intonation or more colloquially as up-talk or up-speak, is a feature of some accents of English where statements have a rising intonation pattern in the final syllable or syllables of the utterance.

Everybody with me so far? It gets more interesting:

It has been suggested that the HRT has a facilitative function in conversation (i.e., it encourages the addressee to participate in the conversation), and such functions are more often used by women. It also subtly indicates that the speaker is "not finished yet", thus perhaps discouraging interruption (Allen, 1990; Guy et al, 1986; Warren, 2005).

It has also been noted in speech patterns heard in areas of Canada and in Cape Town, the Falkland Islands, and the United States, where it is often associated with a particular sociolect that originated among affluent teenage girls in Southern California (see Valspeak and Valley girl).

Now that's just plain cool. And here's where the learning happens. Although this way of speaking, to me, has always sounded like a question, when you actually think about it, a question hardly ever ends in a rising intonation. In regular, every day speech, it's more of an up-then-down intonation on the last two syllables. So the theories about the mode of speech being more intended to sustain listener attention or to mitigate interruptions are pretty enlightening. To me, at least.

Yes, Dillon, that was a whole entry on linguistics. Bite me. It's my blog.

Nic

Quick math: what's 271 + 548?

This journal entry's going to be a complete mystery to everyone but one person: contract no. 548. Brother, wherever you are, remember these words:

Go to the edge of the cliff and jump off. Build your wings on the way down.

—Ray Bradbury

Good luck!

Nic

Ann & Charles

Just got his superb picture today, and felt compelled to share it with the world right away. This is my sister Ann with her son Charles. I could make all sorts of jokes about how my nephew's the most beautiful kid in the world, but seriously, that'd just be reiterating the obvious, wouldn't it?

I don't know how it happens, but it seems impossible NOT to become a total dork in the presence of kids—especially the ones to which we're related. Meh. Whatever.

Nic

Amici per la strada

Today, it dawned on me that being new to a town has its advantages. Like, for instance, the fact that you're not so burdened by maintaining relationships with friends that you're reticent to make new acquaintances.

I think Seinfeld spoke about this; that everyone has a set 'roster' of spots for friends, and that at some point, we achieve a full roster: the daily routine efforts that are required to sustain relationships are such that we can't become everyone's best friend. We have to pick and choose, and eventually we don't accept new applicants. I think Seinfeld spoke about it in terms of, "well, I'm full right now, but if you call back in a few months I may have a spot open up".

Well, it turns out that I have nothing but open roster spots right now, really. I mean, I still have friends and family, but they're all somewhere else. So what all this means is that I can safely go out and meet new people and claim them as my new friends, without worrying about who's spot on the roster this new friend will be occupying.

And that I did today. As I walked into the front door of my place, I overheard two girls speaking Italian on the street, and asked them where they were from. Milan and Rome. Bam. I'm in. I gotta talk to them. What's more, I just happen to have roster spots open for them. The convenience of it all is really quite amazing.

So that's how I met Luisa and Emanuela. Luisa's from Rome, and has been in the States for 19 years. Emanuela is from Milan, and has been here for a few years. We went to a cafe nearby and chatted for two hours, in the process including yet another Italian ex-patriate (Davide, from Bergamo). All were sparkling conversationalists, and I got an earful of Italian—something I'd been craving for a long time! It turns out there's a large Italian ex-pat population in Philadelphia, and Luisa essentially knows where they all live. What's more, they get together routinely and have traditional Italian meals. Mamma mia! Mi sono fatto nuovi amici!

The question now becomes: how many more roster spots do I have? Does anyone have a method for finding this out?

Picard out!

Bob hates me

Bob hates me. I've only worked at IBB for a little over a week, but I'm convinced that Bob can't stand me. It was subtle at first, how the hate manifested itself. I'd get civil treatment in the morning, but in the afternoon, it would just get progressively worse. Denied requests and long waits for what should be routine favours; all of it is getting steadily worse.

And it's not like I can avoid him: I need Bob for every little thing I do. I need to go through him to get all my information. And he hates me!

Lately, the hate's started to spill over to other people. Bob seemingly can't get along with anyone. I wonder how he got to have such a central role in our small firm. After all, you'd think that a small firm would have enough flexibility built-in to deal with such problems quickly and efficiently. Or maybe not. Maybe the fact that we're so small means that there's no time to waste. That however inadequate Bob is to our purposes, he's the only router we have, and we have to deal with it.

Yes, Bob is a Linksys wireless internet router. Didn't I mention that before?

The real tragedy of it all ...

Today, death stood at my doorstep. Literally.

Someone (I still don't know whether it was a man or woman) jumped off the ten-story rooftop of the parking garage across the street, to his/her death. They were drawing up a police zone as I turned the corner from 15th and onto Spruce.

Because this event was already attracting a crowd, and because the scene of the accident (if it can be called that—it was more like an incident) was pretty much in the middle of the street, access to my building was impossible without having to go around from one block south. I was made aware of this by a policeman at the scene, and given the ridiculous heat, I must have made a face like I was inconvenienced—which I was, mind you, but not especially so. To my reaction, the police officer shot back, sarcastically, "oh, *what* an inconvenience!", as if to imply that I was a callous, heartless bastard that I would be more concerned with the minor detour than with the person's death.

And this caused me to think: Am I? Why should I care about this person's death? This person, for whatever reason, chose to end his/her life. Should I feel empathy for this person? And if so, how do I live my life knowing there are thousand who die every day for reasons that are out of their control? Yes, at that moment, I was more annoyed at having to go around the block than I was concerned that someone died on this day. Why should I be more affected by this death than by the countless others I read about that occur elsewhere every single day? Should the proximity of death be a factor for our level of emotional involvement?

It sounds callous to say, but I didn't know this person. People wouldn't necessarily admit this, but, though most people would put up a good front of genuine contrived concern, they don't care either. Five minutes after mustering their best "poor person, I feel genuine sadness at this moment" face, they would have gone about their business, planning dinner and worrying about the noisy kids next door. And that's the way it should be. Am I an asshole for not being hypocritical about it?

And this says nothing of the poilice officer's condescending tone at the moment. Presumably, he felt that I should have expressed concern rather than annoyance, but why? Did he feel concern, other than for the formal show of empathy that he has to present for the public? He sees death every day; even the possibility of his own. Does he really care that this person chose to end his/her life? The answer is, unequivocally: No. It would make his job impossible to bear if he were. But he still puts on a sad face, because that's what you do in his position.

Just don't expect the same from me, is all.

This post is, admittedly, a little dark. I thought it worthwhile to talk about it in this way because, well, that's how I think about these things. Reason is harsh and brutal. I am not. I trust that those who know me will understand this.

Nic

Everyone wants to be Italian!

Including my nephew ...

Campioni del mondo! ITA 1:1 FRA (5-3)

Philadelphia, PA

No words can describe this day! And though I amuse myself at how caught up I get in these things, it still feels good to surrender to mass hysteria sometimes. After the bitter disappointments in 1998 (against France) and in 2000 (against--who else--France), this is as sweet a victory as any I've tasted, even as a Habs fan.

I made some fast friends at Fadò, a local Irish pub a block away from my place, most of whom were French. But this guy, Andrea, became my new best friend. A true Italian supporter from Milano with whom to share the madness!

The French were a little bitter, and perhaps understandably so, after their side dominated the second half and the overtime, while the Italians seemed content to draw it ot to penalty kicks (for what reason I don't know--their record was 0-3 in World Cups). But they held down the fort, regrouped after the Zidane incident (what the hell was that?) and managed to score on all five of their chances.

Riccardo, Valentina, Frank--wherever you are, FORZA ITALIA!

25 cents' worth of abuse ...

"City of Brotherly Love." What a difficult standard to live up to. I thought that race relations were the same pretty much everywhere in North America, but I'm slowly discovering that our cousins to the south have an altogether different relationship with one another.

As I was walking to the DMV this morning, I happened to walk past someone who, while fiddling with a pocketful of change, dropped a quarter, and as it fell it started to roll away on its edge rapidly. Quite naturally, I leaned down and grabbed it before it rolled into the street. Nothing noteworthy so far. Except when I turned around to had it back to its owner. Here's where the learning begins.

Apparently, the Philadelphia way of saying "Why thank you, young man" goes something like "What the fuck you doin' touchin' my shit?" I stood there completely amazed, and a little amused, actually, as this same person demanded I throw the quarter back down. This big black guy was actually screaming at me for helping him out. And I would have chalked it up to him being an exceptional nut if it weren't for the fact that, in my few days here in Philadelphia, it's started to dawn on me that whites and blacks tend to stay apart, out of some commonly acknowledged need to keep a distance.

Maybe there's more to this, and it'll only become apparent after a few weeks here. But somehow, I can't help but to think that after two years at the whitest campus in the nation (save perhaps for BYU), I might have a wrong impression of how blacks and whites actually interact in this country.

ITA 2:0 GER

Baltimore, Maryland

My first 4th of July in the US. Sama's mamma invited me to come with them to Sama's uncle Dave's boat in Rock Hall, Maryland, for a fireworks display. Truth be told, a poor entry in the Montreal Fireworks competition would make this one pale by comparison, but this one had something Montreal's fireworks don't: rednecks! Good, old-fashioned Kentucky fried rednecks! The fireworks originated from a jettee which formed the outer bounds of a boat-filled marina. All these weekend vessels, piloted by beer-fueled specimens of redneckness, would simultaneously erupt in a swell of horn-blaring appreciation after the explosion of a particularly impressive bomb.

Simply amazing.

But, as with all things, it's not so much the setting as it is the company, and I was grateful to have been invited to participate. Sama's family is a tight-knit group, and they play well off one another. There's just one more person to meet, and it seems the forces at work are both inexorable, and inevitable. More on that later.

Nic