The Brown Knowser

Since I was there anyway, and the main attraction had ducked away, I didn't want to come away empty handed. It was a beautiful, mild autumn evening, and the city was lit before me. One of my favourite views of Parliament Hill is seen from the Québec side of the Ottawa River, from the Museum of Civilization * . The beautiful buildings are placed on a pedestal, a symbol of what should be good of our great nation. The river, below, strong, steady, unceasing in motion. And the Château Laurier, a castle in our city. The harvest lunar eclipse may have been bashful, but our city was hiding from no one. I may not have captured a perfect image of the blood moon, but I could certainly capture what lay below. * Yes, the museum in Gatineau is no longer called the Canadian Museum of Civilization, but to call it by its new name, for me, would be giving legitimacy to the millions of tax dollars wasted in renaming a perfectly good museum.

I stood on the walled lookout, above the gentle hill that sloped down to the Rideau Canal, which was obscured by the foliage of the trees that weren't yet ready to admit we were in autumn. Looking east, the apartment buildings of Billings Bridge were the only evidence that we were in the city. I set my tripod on the wall and pointed my camera east. Near me, two women had their own tripod, the camera pointed more towards Dow's Lake. She saw me set up my camera and ask, "Do you think the moon will rise more over that way?" Her hand pointed in the direction that my lens faced. "Somewhere between those twin apartment buildings," I indicated, "and that parking garage." "Are you sure?" "I'm 98-percent sure." "It's not going to rise where those trees are?" her hand gestured in the direction that her camera faced, a giant tree from the Arboretum blocking the view of the horizon." "No." ...

The path grew dark, the bright sun hidden from view by the thick overhang from the trees along the path, which had been trodden upon by the bovine and equine residents of the nearby farm. Only the scant light between the leaves, and the light at either end of the woods provided any natural illumination. The intermittent flashes from photographers provided the rest. Her movements were delicate, contrived, deliberate. She paused with each motion, making sure each of us had an opportunity to capture her. She would flit her light skirts, which seemed to hang, seemed to take their time in their eventual, inescapable influence to gravity. A story was being told in her movements, would never be put into words, would never be written on paper. All you had to do was look, and the tale was revealed. To you, alone. It's a private story, yours to interpret. Don't speak it: just look, and you will understand. Happy Friday!

When you're in front of your boss, at the office, you want to put your best foot forward, want to show that you're an expert in your field and on the ball, that nothing gets past you. Nothing. Not. One. Single. Thing. But what do you do when your boss, the CEO of the company, is having an affair with one of your co-workers? When they believe that they're being secretive, that no one in the office knows. Only, everyone in the office knows, everyone in the office knows that everyone knows about the affair, except for the two adulterers. I saw them, almost daily, taking their lunch break together. In of itself, that's wasn't suspicious. Lots of colleagues become friends and take their lunches together. But for the CEO to have lunch with the receptionist raised eyebrows, especially when their lunch break exceeded an hour. Nearly every day. My suspicions were confirmed when the CEO and receptionist (who also took notes at meetings) arrived late for a meetin...

It's been more than two weeks since I've had a beer. Or anything alcoholic, for that matter. And I'm starting to get thirsty. Actually, I'm handling it fairly well. I have a can of beer in the fridge, on a shelf that is at eye level. Though, with time, other things have filled the space and pushed that can to the back of the shelf, I can still see the pale-blue can poking through, reminding me that it's there, waiting for me, for when I'm ready to start drinking again. When I head down into our basement, to bring something up from our deep freezer or to retrieve something from our overflow pantry, I can't help see our beer and wine, stored on shelves or standing in cases, on the floor. I see the fresh collection from my recent vacation, of the bottles that I collected at various craft breweries. I can't wait to open one of those containers and drink its enticing contents. I'm not desperate. I can wait. It's been hardest when I'm sit...

It's worse than a hangover. With a hangover, my brain hurts and I feel dehydrated. With a hangover, I take a couple of ibuprofen tablets, drink a big glass of fruit juice and even more water, suck it up, and get on with my day. I haven't experienced a hangover in a while because, while I may drink often, I don't drink a lot. These days, I'm not drinking at all. But when the body wears out and fails you, there's nothing you can do except rest and take it easy. This weekend, my wife and I attended a fund raiser that had us dressing up like it was the 80s and dancing to music from the 70s, 80s, and early 90s. The event raised almost $4,000 for the School Breakfast Program, which gives nourishing morning meals to kids who might otherwise have nothing in their bellies at the beginning of the day. Good cause, successful achievement, great party. My wife and I met up with our good friends, Bee and Marc, and we all dressed for the event. Marc dressed fittingly...

They are impressive rock formations, but they hold no flowers. Just some scraggly shrubs, with no blossoms. They actually remind me of wine goblets. But Wine Goblet Island doesn't roll off your tongue quite like Flowerpot Island, just north of Tobermory, off the Bruce Peninsula, on Georgian Bay. There are two of them, though. You could imagine sharing a generously sized goblet of bold, fruity, red wine. There's one goblet for each of you. I'll take the big one, if you don't mind. Happy Friday!

It's one of those moments where you look at a photo, grin a copacetic grin, remember good memories, and wonder about the present: what is he doing now? Shin Hoon had laughing eyes and a kind smile. I never saw him in any other mood than happy. He genuinely liked people—all people—but seemed to have an affinity for foreigners. He enjoyed engaging in conversation, what he called "social intercourse." Mr. Shin owned a small bar that was on the second floor of a small store that was always closed when Urban was open. It's steel, corrugated door shielded curious eyes. The sign, written in Hangul , offered foreigners no clues as to its business. The bar was simple, clean, with welcoming tables and comforting sofas. Light-and-tan-coloured wood covered the floor, walls, and bar; small halogen lamps hung above tables from the ceiling. If you were lucky enough, you could get a sofa near the window that ran from the ceiling to the floor and looked out onto the narrow str...

"I'm funny," I tell my wife, too often, I'm sure. "If you say you're funny," she replies, "you aren't." "No, that applies to being cool. If you say you're cool, you aren't." It's something I've experienced with my dear cousin, who is five years younger than me. It's a story he's said to me several times now; usually, in front of an audience: "When we were growing up," he'd say, "I used to think you were the coolest guy around. But when I grew up, I realized that I'm way cooler than you." "If you say you're cool," I'd remind him, every time, "you're not." And now, I also think, and telling this story over and over again? Not cool. So not cool . I've never seen myself as cool, but I do think I'm a good guy, for the most part. And funny. You can believe that you're a good guy, but you can only show that characteristic in your...

I used to be a risk-taker. I would climb to great heights, even though I was afraid of being up high, unsecured, looking over a precipice, to get the shot. I would climb through caves, even though I'm claustrophobic, spelunking in cramped quarters, wading through a dark cavern, where the frigid, black water came up to my chin and the cave ceiling scraping my chapeaued head, holding my camera above the water with one hand, steadying myself with the other. I took chances, in my youth. I rode my bicycle, leaping down sets of staircases. I once soared from the top of a parking garage, landing hard on the grassy ground below, bursting both tires, bending the front forks, and putting my face into my handlebars, splitting my lip, the blood staining my shirt. I would climb down balconies, holding onto iron railings, dangling off the platforms, feeling for the ledges below. Okay, that one was pretty stupid. As I've aged, I have taken fewer risks. I've settled down. I no lo...