My Super Vacation

Well, I thought to myself, I betcha everyone is just dying to know all about everything you did on your vacation, right down to your bug squishing details. Then I thought to myself, I'll be nice and just hit on some exciting things, of which there were many.



That's a lovely map of where I went, in case you're in to that sort of thing. I think it's pretty neat. You can see the actual map here.

I went 4090 km in 16 days, which I'm here to tell you is a long bloody ways. I went with my family with the intend of seeing the West Coast, and see it we did. You may think you have seen beaches, but until you have been to the brilliantly white miles long picturesque Oregon and California beaches with enormous rocks rising out of the ocean, you have not seen anything. I'll stick some pictures in here in here when I get them.

We first drove to a place in Washington just south of the border called Lynden, which is a lot like Abbotsford, only more stinky, and with 20% more windmills.

After Lynden, we went to a place called Port Angeles, which isn't very important because I didn't stay there; I went to Victoria on the ferry to visit Cori. What's important about that day is the name of the road we drove down from Lynden, which is Chuckanut drive. I think more streets need to have "nut" in the name.

From there we drove down the west coast, with scenic beaches, as described above. We stayed a whole pile of places, each of which had some very neat stuff, but every place we stayed on the coast before Florence can be described as follows: foggy, windy and cold. In a place called Long Beach (which does indeed have a very very long beach), it was so foggy we couldn't see the ocean on the beach. And it was so windy that it has been christened the kite flying capital of the world. Most of the Washington and Northern Oregon Coast is like this.

Once we got to Florence, things changed. For some geological reason I don't pretend to understand, there are sand dunes in Oregon. Enormously huge sand dunes. 500ft tall Sand Dunes. (Cranbrook hill is about 500 ft. Connought Hill is about 200). It's very weird to come out of a forest and suddenly find yourself in a desert, but what's the coolest is what you can do on them.

You can rent an ATV and drive all over the dunes. This was about the most excellent thing I have ever done. There is nothing quite like ripping over a sand dune and diving down the other side. The other thing you can do is rent a sandboard, which is sort of like a snowboard, except you ride it down a sand dune. Turns out Frank Herbert, author of Dune was the first person in the area to rent out these boards, and I was boarding down the same dunes that inspired that book.

Then to Crescent City, California, the southernmost point on my trip. Crescent City is notable because it has big trees. And MAN, does it have some big trees. The Coastal Redwoods live there, and there is one tree so big, it could only be called "Big Tree" (Not even kidding). 300 ft tall and 21 ft across, Big Tree is something you really have to see to believe. There are also a bunch of other trees, and some nifty ferns and stuff, but after three days of redwoods, I was pretty much through with big trees.

From there on to Crater Lake, which oddly enough is a lake in the middle of a crater. 7000 years ago Mount Mazama erupted, and left a huge crater. Over the next couple thousand years, it filled in and left Crater Lake, which is 5 miles wide and 2000 ft deep (deepest lake in the states) To see it, you drive around the rim of the old volcano, about 2000 ft up, and it is pretty damned amazing. There is another mini-volcano inside the lake, which makes Wizard Island, and sticks straight up 400 ft out of the lake.

After the freezing heights of Crater Lake, we blew threw a couple of Canyons (The Cove Palisades and the Columbia Gorge) which were warm and dry (first time on the trip). Then we came to Mount St Helens.

Seeing as I used to get TV from Seattle, I know a fair bit about Mount St Helens. But actually being there, in the middle of the blast zone, where 27 years later the only life is small wretched plants is something else.

When it erupted Mount St Helens spewed forth three waves of destruction: First an earthquake triggered the largest landslide in recorded history, which propelled boulders the size of buses as far as six miles away. The landslide released the pressure that had been building inside for the last two months, and the mountain exploded with the force of 27 000 nuclear bombs. A 300 mph death wind of superheated rocks literally blew apart the old growth forest for miles around, leveling what it didn't out and out destroy. Then, water from the glaciers on the peak of the 9000 ft mountain created mudslides that destroyed dozens of bridges and hundreds of homes. 57 people died, including treeplanters who had no idea, and geologists, who should have known better. (Last recorded transmission: "This is it!")

Let it be known that I have a very healthy respect for the destructive power of volcanoes. If the mountain had erupted (which it will do sometime in the next century) while I was there, I would have been incinerated standing 6 miles away.

Actually, as it turns out I was in natural disaster hazard zone pretty much the whole trip. Everywhere along the coast are signs that say "Entering Tsunami Hazard Zone" This is because most of the cities that we went to (since they were on the ocean) would be wiped out in the case of a tsunami. And seeing as there is a fault line about 30 miles from the coast, there is really no doubt that there will be one. And if there was, we would have all of 10 minutes to get to high ground. Makes you feel safe.

All in all, I had a very excellent vacation, and I would very strongly recommend that everyone visit that area. Every mile held some new natural wonder.

Something awsome this way comes

http://www.thewaronsadness.com

Endings

Due to overwhelming popular demand (three people casually mentioning they'd seen my blog in the last month) I've decided to update my blog once more. I haven't felt particularly ranty in a long while, but today I was feeling inspired (read: bored)

I must say, that title seems a lot more emo than I would have hoped. But we are not talking about life endings or even endings of anything real. What I want to talk about is imaginary endings. Specifically the endings to stories that I come up with. I seem to be incapable of writing happy endings. I thought perhaps this was because I am a bitter and angry person, but upon further consideration, I decided I am neither. I have no problem with people being happy, in fact I rather enjoy being happy myself, and if I'm not otherwise occupied being depressed, I am generally a happy person. So, what then is my problem with happy endings?

My problem, I've come to believe, is not so much that I dislike happy endings, as I dislike endings in general. A story, in a general sense, I think, should reflect life. And life does not have endings, with one rather major exception. Death is an ending of life, but if you are dead, then it doesn't matter anyhow. If the atheists are right, then you won't be caring much, seeing as you are no more. If the theists are right, then you've continued your life in another form. So, ignoring death your own, since it doesn't matter, life really has no endings. If someone else around you dies, that's not an ending. The grief you feel lives on, as does your memories of that person. Same thing goes for a breakup, or any other form of loss. It's not an ending.

Neither is something like marriage. Simply marrying the person of your dreams is not a guarantee of happiness. Life goes on after marriage. There is no such thing as "lived happily ever after." That's not to say you can't live out the rest of your life in happiness, but it's hardly a trivial little detail. This particular misconception led to some rather unpleasant business. I admit that from the time I was rather young, I had this notion that once I had a girlfriend, everything would be easy peasy. I would know what to do, and everything would be happy. Those of you who know me very well at all (and if you don't, just what are you doing reading my blog?) know that it didn't quite work out that way, and thus died my childhood notion that all I had to do was set up my happily ever after, and everything else was a cakewalk.

I really am coming on rather emo here, aren't I? I think that's simply unavoidable when writing a blog about anything personal. Or perhaps it's just the emo kid I keep locked in the closet clamouring to get out. But I intended this to be a happy sort of post, so here it comes. I've just finished listing off a bunch of rather depressing things: break-ups and happiness ending, and so on, but the key here is to realize that just as happiness can, and often does come to an end, so too does sadness. In fact, it is my opinion that there are far more in the way of happy moments than sad ones. Most people, if not all, are trying to be happy. And, with so many people trying to be happy, some of them are bound to succeed. And chances are if someone around you is happy, you will be too. So the trick is to have as many happy moments as you can, enjoy them while you're in them, and when stuff sucks, think back to the past, and forward to the future.

Man, suddenly I've turned into Mr. Motivational Speaker. Maybe they'll hire me to go on tour and motivate people. But think of all the effort that would take.

Getting back to my original point about endings of stories, the reason I don't have happy endings is because the purpose of a story (in addition to reflecting life) is to make a point. I've gotten into deep trouble over statements like that in the past, but I don't believe in Art for Art's sake. I think that even Art for Art's sake has a point, even if the point is only to be asthetically pleasing. So, I make my point with my story, and then leave my characters where ever they were when I finished making said point. And the unfortunate things about points is that they are best made by horrific circumstances. You learn a million times better not to touch a hot stove when it burns you than when someone tells you not to. So, I stick my characters in horrific circumstances, so as to make my point and then let them be. Suddenly making everything happy after that seems false, because after something so horrific, happiness would be a bit out of place.

And with that I end my rambly rant. Maybe sometime I'll post one of these stories I've rambled about, but for that to happen I'd have to find an ending I like, and since I hate endings, it might be a bit hard. But we'll see.

Swearing

Since I have just found some new software for uploading, I thought I might have a go at another rant. The issue has recently scraped its way to the top of my brain, and as such has received some (soft) focus from my brain. The problem is (as one might guess from the title) swearing.
Most sub-urbanites, such as myself, begin with our attitudes towards swearing in the same place. That is, it's a BAD thing, and we don't ever want to do it or we will be tasting suds for a week. This attitude typically lasts all through elementary school (unless you're a "suburban bad-ass", in which case you might want to consider having yourself put down for blatant oxymoron-ism). Then comes high school. Suddenly, you see the way cool grade 12's swearing all over the place. This results in two very opposite responses in people. Some, wishing to emulate the grade 12's (which, depending on your gender, is either where you want to be, or the people you're after want to be) begin also dropping curses all over the floor, in a misguided attempt to be just like the awesome soon-to-be grads. The rest retain their sanctimonious abhorrence of the evil that is swearing. "Good" kids, they refrain from swearing in public, but among close friends, for a giggle at the sheer naughtiness of it, the occasional "fuck" might slip out. I belonged to the latter segment of the population, and it is them that I will address in the remainder of this post. If you belong to the first half, well perhaps I'll shed some light on us preppy brown nosers.
In fact, I will concentrate my focus even further, down to those of us who are theatrically inclined. Those of us who derive some sort of enjoyment from standing on a raised platform in front of strangers and attempting to communicate an intention with them. However, the ideas presented apply across the board, I think.
As we reach the end of our tenure at high school, our previously strict abhorrence of certain four letter words begins to wane. They begin slipping into regular conversation more and more. At first, we are horrified, and suspect we are being subtly peer pressured into it (a horrific event for us drama "rebels"). Then suddenly, it occurs to us. There is a reason that swear words came to be, and it is not so that pre-pubescent boys could impress the ladies with their amazing maturity. They serve a purpose, and a very important one, for those of us concerned with communicating effectively.
They reflect a certain emphasis, impossible to otherwise gain. "What the fuck was that?" is a lot stronger than "What on Earth was that?" I heard swear words once described as percussive, and I think that's sort of how they work. They are the beats to the song of our emphatic emotion. They are but words and nothing more, but also nothing less. Semantically, they add nothing to a sentence. "What the hell was that shit?" means the same as "What was that?" It's that extra oomph that fuck gives us that encourages us to continue using it.
Swear words are more than just a refuge for the linguistically challenged. They are the rhythm to the dance of our emotion and they pack a punch otherwise denied us. Am I saying swear words are the only alternative? No, of course not. It's entirely possible to use more family appropriate words and accomplish the same thing. However, they are not something to be shied away from, simply because they are regarded as "bad." It is because they are regarded as bad that they have their use, and for as long as we have language, we will have words that are not considered acceptable, and they will be used. Shakespeare used swear words. We just don't react to them as we would if he dropped a few "shit"s in there because what the Elizabethans found offensive and what we found offensive are two different things.
So, in conclusion, now that I am done ranting, I am going to keep on swearing until I get bored with it, and I don't encourage anyone to start because I said so, but neither should you not because you think it's too lame. Shakespeare did it, and according to me, he's not lame.

Belief

I've ranted about it before, but it has returned to the forefront, since I have finally met someone who can support the other end of the arguement for belief in a religion (ie not be stupid about it). So, I'll rant for a few hours here and then I'll have it all figured out. Anyhow, here is the fundamental problem that I see. I am, deep deep down in my core an athiest. I try and cover it, and I spend a great deal of time trying to convince myself that I am wrong, but way down, I don't really believe in anything past the world we are now in. That's just me. Now, this person I know, let's call her Quanda, believes that we have a spiritual side, and being a baha'i has some pretty precise notions of what that is. Now her argument runs something like this (with appologies for over simplifying and generally murdering it): inside her soul, she knows that there is a god of the sort that baha'i think exists and that there is an afterlife. She can feel it. I don't doubt that. However, I maintain that there is a scientific explaination for it that exists in this world, not in the other. She implies this is because I am ignoring amy spiritual side. But in order for me to STOP ignorng it, I need to believe in it. And in order for me to believe in it, I need proof. This proof must come from our world, and there simply cannot be any. So, the key to begin belief is belief itself. It is a catch 22 situation. You can't give me empirical proof of a soul, becuase it is not an empirical entity. And I can't accept spritual proof as long as I don't believe in a soul. So, although I think I may be wrong, there is no way for me to just jump beliefs like that (atheism is a belief of sorts). I think that this sucks for everyone involved, because I would sure like to see what it's like having spirituality around, but in the end, I can't. Maybe a blow to my head will do the trick.

Second thoughts

I would like to add, before these imaginary people reading this start firebombing my house, that the person on board the flight thst went down in Pennsylvania were, in fact, heroes. They risked (and sacrificed) their lives for that of others. THAT is the highest order of heroism.

See

I told you. This stuff can get pretty bad. I probably offended most people (unless you're a terrorist) with that last post. So....there. (I'm not a terrorist)

Courage

I was thinking about the concept of courage the other day. It's defined (at dictionary.com) as "The state or quality of mind or spirit that enables one to face danger, fear, or vicissitudes with self-possession, confidence, and resolution." Its synonym is bravery. Nowhere in there does it say anything about moral goodness. Courage is merely facing your fears and doing what you feel you have to do. Now, past that, what is a hero? We define a hero as "A person noted for feats of courage or nobility of purpose, especially one who has risked or sacrificed his or her life." So, basically a hero is someone who is courageous, who has "nobility of purpose." That is someone who has a glorious purpose. This glorious business is pretty subjective, but basically it means doing something spectacular. Still nothing about moral goodness.
WARNING!!! WARNING!!!! Highly offensive material to follow. If you are someone who takes offense easily, or even someone who doesn't take offense particularly easily, please withhold your offense taking. (I actually offend myself with these thoughts)
The reason I was thinking about all this was the usage of the word "hero" to describe those people on the planes that hit the world trade centres. According to the defintion, or even the common usage, these people are not heroes. They weren't particularly brave, (not that they were cowardly) they didn't really have a purpose (other than flying on their plane) and that wasn't very noble, although they did sacrifice their lives, but they hardly wanted that, or even accepted it. In fact, if you think about it, the high jackers were much more heroic. They were courageous. They risked their lives, more than that, they KNOWINGLY sacrificed their lives for a cause. THAT is everything in the definition of heroism.
Now, I am not for a moment suggesting that we hold up the highjackers as models for our behaviour, or even that they are good people. In fact, the attack on the world trade centre was one of the most heinous crimes of the century so far. What I take objection to is the mis-use of the word hero. Call the people on board the planes "victims" because that is what they are.

The anti-greeting

I've noticed that everyone seems to start their blod with a "Hi" and a "This is what my blog is about." I'm going to be a rebel, and not tell you who I am, nor what this blog is about. See, I have this theory. If I DON'T tell you what I'm going to say, then you'll be all intruiged and maybe read what I'm actually saying. This particular post right here is only to scare away people who might not like general weirdness. And if you are desperate to know who I am, I do believe it says who I am at the bottom of every post. SOOOO, have fun with all this. (oh yeah, I don't really have a "line" per se, so if I cross yours, please feel free to vomit upon a voodoo icon of me. I may even provide some strands of hair if you ask)