Why We Eat Stinky Food

Work has been killing my enthusiasm for writing.

Outward Bound Camp, somewhere in Czech

I was told to bring a lunch for the bus because it was going to take five hours to get to the camp. We were headed in the vicinity of Brno, a city of approximately 300,000 in the south eastern half of Czech. I'm choosing to call the country Czech, for the same reason I call Canada "Canada" and not "The Dominion of..." Unlike the name Canada, which implies the supremacy of Upper and Lower Canada in the confederation of my beloved country, the name Czech favors neither the Bohemians, Moravians nor the Silesians. Forget Belgium as a precedent for the dissolution of Canada, "The Velvet Divorce" of 1993 was a bloodless, and, by all accounts, amicable schism: Slovakia achieved self-determination and Czech kept the flag. I'm not advocating dissolution of the Dominion, but we might as well have it on the table during the upcoming election. With just under 10,000,000 sq km we've got a long way to go before we Balkanize the Great White North. Somewhere between 500 to 1000 Slovenias, Montenegros or Kosovos could fit into Canada. In fact, only PEI comes even close to Balkan stature as far as land mass is concerned. And we should let them keep the bridge. But seriously, Canada, with nearly 50% of its citizenry claiming neither British, French nor indigenous ancestry, seems to lack the nationalistic inertia necessary for dissolution. We'd be better fretting over the ascent of Sharia law or Eschatological Christian Literalism than separation. French Quebec and English Canada seem to be missing the direction in which Canada is headed...again.

If not for 9000 km of separation, my colleagues would have suspected my lunch had been so expertly packed by my dear mother, individual Tupperware containers filled with paprika salami, olives, cheese, cherry tomatoes and Tejföl. These foods have been the staples of my time here, that and beer from Plsen, the home of the pilsener brewing process. Whereas Magyar has a glut of vowels, Czech seems to work fine without them, thank you very much. Tejföl is a remarkable dairy concoction, coming in a variety of fat contents up to and including 20%. Being mass-challenged (some might say skinny, I prefer wiry) I opt for the full-blown 20% variety. Why I'm so taken by Tejföl is that the taste of it is ever so slightly offensive, offensive in a kimchi, Limburger cheese or durian way. Speaking personally, I've never tried any of these foods, but two of the three have been described to me, Limburger cheese as "toe-jam" and durian as a "pissy, shitty diaper". Perhaps it would carry more weight if a more liberally minded state had done so, but Singapore bans durian from its transit system. These unlikely sources of gastronomical pleasure beg the question: what's up with the obsession with stinky food? I detect a further, more expansive blog emerging, so I'll get back on topic, but think about it: you too have a stinky food that brings you delight. Let me finish this thread with the following: perhaps beyond sweet, sour, salty, bitter and umame there is a sixth flavor, skank?

As I polished off a 175 g container of Tejföl for dessert, somewhere on the road to Czech, around Brataslava, it occurred to me that I was getting a little too fond of the skanky flavor and smell and that, perhaps, even someone of my metabolism is better off without 35 g of dairy fat at the end of an otherwise "heart-smart" meal. You see, I am getting obsessed with my mortality.

In the end, I've temporarily sworn off my daily container of Tejföl, maybe permanently. I have a pretty good suspicion that it's the latter outcome. I'll miss you Tejföl. By the way, "tej" (pron. "tay") is Magyar for "milk", and though Hungarian have virtually no cognates with English, I'm confident you'll figure out the second half of Tejföl.

Viszlát

My body, my angst

Carl Jung said he didn't encounter a single patient over the age of forty that wasn't obsessed with their own mortality. My obsession with my mortality was marked by two acute attacks. The first was hiking through the back-country of Gros Morne National Park, at the premature age of 38, when I realized, statistically speaking, my life was half over. That's me above, overlooking 10 Mile Pond and the Gulf of St. Lawrence, after I realized my mortality. I know, you actuarials out there are raising a fuss because life expectancies today don't reflect my life expectancy in 2046, and each year I live increases the likelihood of my seeing another year. Right. Point conceded. By the way, there's a 25% chance that John McCain will die during his second term in office. My American cousins, please, please, ponder that factoid before casting your ballot. Okay, shoot me, I lied. Go read this, but ignore the jack-ass tone: Sam Harris formulates great arguments without having to appeal to mouth-breathing troglodytes. No, no, no, I'm not a Sam Harris fan, but he is the populist, sometimes intelligent mouthpiece of the American, non-eschatological vote. Back to the plot. To take a less pedantic view, irrespective of whether or not my life was actually half over, from the aforementioned day forward, I have been acutely aware that my life will be half over (if not already) in the immediate, foreseeable future. So, I became a teacher.

The second jolt of mortality occurred last Christmas, as I faced the holiday alone and with the words of Rabbi Harold Kirschner from a podcast of CBC's Tapestry pounding in my ears: what do you do when the dream dies? Excuse me? Perhaps Chanukah is a more self-reflective holiday than Christmas, but I'm about to celebrate the birth of the Guy who said I could have ever-lasting life, I don't need to think about what I'm going to do with my dead dream, 40 years old and suffering, heroically I might add - Odysseus heroically - through loneliness and a loss of direction. And THAT was a run-on sentence. The Rabbi picked a pretty rotten time to pull the curtain on the Wizard that was ruling my life, but there was no denying that I was staring into the gaping, pitiless maw of a full-fledged mid-life crisis. Not the buy-a-Porche-911, shag-everything-that-moves crisis, no, this was a what-will-be-the-sum-total-of-my-life moment. Armed with Man's Search for Meaning and Seasons of a Man's Life I headed into Central America in search of my God. Those of you who understand my theology, explain that last sentence to those recoiling from the G-word. I digress. It's my job to digress. What I learned is that thirty always was the new twenties and if you hadn't grown up by forty (I think Carol King put it best) then it's too late baby now, it's too late. I weathered these storms, continued to dress and look the part of an 18-34 year old, whilst occupying the noggin of a sober, forty year-old. I got a job in Budapest. I got my finances in order. I was struggling to be grown up about things, but when you hit forty and you're single, I know everyone talks behind your back about your singularity. Shame on all of you. The burning questions I had to face after staring down my mid-life demons from January to August were as follows: how short should I cut my hair and where should I buy my clothes. Hair-wise, I'm holding out. There's a teacher at the school with way longer hair than me. Clothes? Dockers just ain't working. I'm a 41 year-old stuck in an 18 year-olds body. So I ask you: what would you find more embarrassing, having a paunch and buying Dockers at Sears or having gray hair and wrinkles and having to shop where the 18 year-olds shop? I had a bit of a crisis walking around Budapest's malls, trying on clothes for my age group that fit like mumus or potato sacks. Finally, I screwed up my courage and opted for fit over looking my age. As soon as I buy some black shoes, I'll send some pictures.

The blues jam was a non-starter. I've been too damn tired to get up before 11 am on the weekends (I'm up at 6 am every weekday: hey! I was working musician since the age of 17!!!) I've been practicing, oh, probably 5 days a week and the saxophone feels good again. I'm slightly chicken-shit about going to the jam session, but mostly intent on sounding like a sax player, not a sax owner. There's a huge difference. Yes, I'm aware this blog is getting increasingly recursive. Actually, my playing hasn't felt this strong since 2003 AND I think my horn has some leaks. Usually, when you're rusty, you just THINK the horn has leaks: the horn has some leaks.

That's it. No links (well, a couple), just self-indulgent stream of consciousness. I think I'll extend last week's survey because, frankly, it was a really good posting, especially the last link. So, please vote early and often.

Next week: My Outward Bound trip to Czech

What Condition My Condition Is In

I was going to put a movie here, but embedding has been disabled, so you'll have to click here to see what I'm talking about.

Consciousness baffles me, what comes in, what doesn't, what goes out into the cosmos and what comes back. I keep waiting to receive a bill with my name written on it, currency I'm talking about, except all the currency I ever wrote my name on was paper notes in $1 and $2 denominations.

They say that all bloggers need to find their own voice. They are the seminarians(?) that led the Geist Blogging and Podcasting seminar in Vancouver this summer. That was the best $100 I ever spent. Go to this seminar, even if you only plan to read blogs, it's fantastic value. I'm going to save my family and friends the torture of anticipating my next career move: domesticity and a career in writing. I have a note to myself about it on my computer desk top, and when I do that I become a professional musician, record a CD, travel the world, become a teacher in Costa Rica and then move to Hungary. The will cannot be contained, your will, my will, a will.

My voice may be this: connecting the stuff on the perimeters of our experience to find the middle. There's some expression about the "excluded middle", I'm sure I'm quoting it out of context, but perhaps one of you could send the reference to the "comments". Here's what I'm talking about: back in my Edmonton days, when I was filling out the "chemistry teacher" portion of my resume, I picked up "The Eternal Golden Braid" from my dearly beloved Edmonton Public Library system. If I ever strike big in the literary world I will be thanking the EPL and CBC, right after the six of you, family and friends, that read this blog or have read this blog. Read this book. It's not easy, like "Moby Dick" isn't easy. It's dense and it jumps around. Not that "Moby Dick" jumps around, that's not the point I'm making. I'm talking about density. Recursion is what the book is about. Recursion occurs in language, it occurs in mathematics and it's occurring throughout my blog. Among many things, Douglas Hofstadter talks about pictures that are only background, the dark areas, the perimeter that describes the object, or better, implies the image that ought to be the focus of the picture. That will be my voice, describing the boundary that contains whatever is within. You decide.

What do "The Big Lebowski" and the proposed content of my blog this week (Where Evil Grows) have in common? Kenny Rogers. Check out the beginning of this Poppy Family clip: that's Kenny, as in Kenny Rogers and the First Edition, before "Lucille", before "The Gambler" or "Islands in the Stream" or the chicken franchising, back when Kenny was an ersatz psychedelic, flower child. Savor that for a moment.

When you look carefully enough, there is one degree of separation between every thought that comes to your mind, which, to me, implies that we're receiving much more data than we consciously take in with our six senses. Or is it five senses?

So, "The Big Lebowski"". The bulk of the groovy segments of this Coen Brothers' piece are buttressed by Kenny Rogers and the First Edition rendering "I Just Dropped In". Kenny Rogers, psychedelic, sporting a Mitch Miller beard, striped pants and a white turtleneck. Did Kenny cop that look from Glen Campbell or David Clayton Thomas?

Here's my new working theory for life: everything is connected to everything else, but the closer you get to making the connection between things, the more connection you uncover. I'm going to stay out on the perimeter, sending pointillistic messages from the edge. If you stand back far enough, you'll see whatever you are supposed to see. No talk of the "Evil Empire" this week, go to nagyok.com for that. Read this post, go watch "The Big Lebowski" (Jeff Bridges is brilliant and John Goodman is John Goodman) and then got listen to "Seasons in the Sun" by Terry Jacks. Then go back and watch "Where Evil Grows" and ponder how Terry got derailed and where the Family is during that TV spot.

I am heading back to the cosmos to ponder what happens next (click on this link, please!).

Ken

Next: Obsessions with mortality and the blues jam!