Choose Joy

When I had an account on Twitter, and later, Threads, I got used to blocking people.

I would say that for more than a year before I left Twitter, I got into the habit of blocking accounts that spread hate or people who would troll my account. I'd also steadily block sex bots that would start following me.

If someone was going to follow me, I wanted them to be real.

Similarly, when I joined Threads, I'd have to block accounts on a daily basis. It's like the hatred had found its way from Musk's cesspool into Zuckerberg's platform, and I wanted to shut that noise down.

I left Threads the very day that I learned that Zuck had given a million dollars to Felonious Tangerine Turd's^* inauguration. I was not interested in supporting an oligarch.

Luckily, I found a soft place to land on Bluesky.

Overall, the tone of people on this social-media platform is relatively positive. And I know that some have said that Bluesky can be a bit of an echo chamber for the left leaning, but I'd rather be in a space with like-minded individuals than share it with far-right nutjobs.

As you can tell from this post, I'm not always the most positive person, either. But I try.

Until yesterday, it was rare for me to block someone. Sure, I'd run across someone who would respond in a hateful way to something I've posted, and I wouldn't hesitate to block that individual. One of the great features on Bluesky is that you can mute someone's comment so that your followers don't have to see it, either.

Yesterday, within the space of a few minutes, I found myself blocking several people.

No, they weren't trolls looking to give me grief: they were people who seemingly disliked the politicians and political parties from which I distance myself. On some level, we were like-minded people.

So why did I block them?

As soon as somebody follows me, I check out his or her feed. I'm interested in seeing who the individual is and why they would choose to follow me.

Now, I'm not one for keeping my political views hidden. DW has even warned me to watch what I say on social media, especially since we'll be passing through American airports on the way to our next travel destination.

I've tried, but it's hard. I'll do my best to stay joyful in my posts but I'll occasionally re-post a political message that I find worth sharing. I try to avoid typing some names but I don't always succeed. 

If a new follower only re-posts other people's posts, without adding content of their own, I tend to not follow them (I may, in fact, follow the person who shared the original post). If a new follower doesn't seem to share my interests, I won't follow them. And, of course, if someone has absolutely nothing in their feed, I won't be following them back.

But yesterday, when I saw that I had new followers, I did something that I had rarely done before, especially on Bluesky: I blocked them.

These followers, didn't like what was going on across our border, to the south. They did not like Canada' Conservative parties, especially not their leaders. In addition to sharing posts from other people, they put out content of their own. So why would I block them?

Frankly, it was their bios that did it.

I love reading people's bios. I want to know what their interests are, what they do, what part of the world they come from, but mostly, what brings them joy.

And people don't necessarily have to provide all of that information in their bio, but I appreciate when people let others know who they are.

When I saw that I had a bunch of new followers, their bios only told me what they hated. Some followers used handles that described their hate. And when I looked at their feeds, it was saturated with negativity.

Sure, I was under no obligation to follow them back and I could have let them continue to follow me, but I thought, I don't want someone who is consumed with hatred on social media to be following me. I don't want to see them liking or sharing anything that I post. I don't want to attract that kind of audience.

I get it: people are angry. People are frustrated about the growing fascism around the globe. We all want to let people know that we need to step up.

We all need to punch Nazis.

But for as much as we are upset and worried about what is happening around us, we cannot lose sight of the good that is in the world. We need to also find and maintain the joy in life. Be mindful of and resist the hate that is spreading. But be joyful, because it can spread, too.

To those who want to be angry on social media, to those who want to share information about how hateful people seem to be acquiring power more and more, all I can say is, you be you. Fight. Stay strong.

But please don't follow me.

Happy Monday!

^* Sorry, that name's not joyful. But sometimes, you've got to call it like you see it.

Duck, Goose, Bird

Retirement Haiku

My last day is done
Nineteen years went by quickly
Now, I start anew.

Focused

I didn't get to sleep until nearly 3:00.

I haven't been this excited in years, when I came to a big break in my novel, Gyeosunim, the sequel to my novel, Songsaengnim: A Korea Diary. I know, I've all but given up on finishing that book, but I'll get there, eventually. I got hung up on one of the storylines and I've since decided that I'll take it out, possibly writing a third novel for Roland Axam.

Another time that I became this excited, when it came to writing my fiction, was when I was working on Songsaengnim, and I came up with the idea that explained how Roland found himself in Korea in the first place.

When I get excited about writing, I have to see my idea through, and this is the reason why I went to bed on Saturday night but didn't get to sleep until nearly 3 am. I lay in bed with so many thoughts in my head that I got out of bed, grabbed a notebook and pen, and started writing out my ideas—shaping them, making them make sense.

On the previous Friday morning, as I drove to Toronto with DW and Kid 1, I came up with an idea for a crime novel. That is to say, I thought I'd like to try my hand at a murder mystery. By the time we reached the hotel, all I had was that a young woman would be found floating in the Rideau River, just downstream from the Vimy Memorial Bridge.

As I drove home, that Sunday, I thought more about the story. Who was this woman? Why was she killed? I didn't have much of an idea by the time we got home, other than the police detective being a man in his 50s, who was returning to duty after a brief illness, his doctor clearing him to resume his normal activities. He was a curmudgeony man but an honest cop.

He would be paired with a young detective who was just promoted to her position, and this murder would be her first case. But that was all I had as of last Sunday evening.

Last week was a bit distracting, to put it mildly, after I learned that I was being laid off from work. I still had a couple of documents that I wanted to finish up, so I focused on them during business hours (my last official day with the company is this Friday, but I'm going to use a couple of days of leftover vacation from last year, and so today, Monday, March 24, is my last day of work).

In the evenings, I was emotionally exhausted and certainly in no mood to think about my storyline.

On Saturday, DW and I started the day by going to Mud Lake for a hike and to possibly capture photos of the birds in the area. From there, we did some shopping and ran some errands. But whenever we were in the car, I'd talk about my crime story.

I knew who the victim was, I knew other people surrounding her life, and I had possible motives for her murder. I had suspects but not the actual killer.

While we drove, we had CBC Radio One switched on, as we always do on Saturdays. And while I had thoughts of my story in my head, there was something that was mentioned on one of the shows that gave me a great idea.

An idea for a major plot twist.

Once we were home and had many of our chores out of the way, I sat and thought of the new idea I had, playing with it in my head. For hours, I barely moved from our family-room sofa, and finally, I went to bed.

But I was not tired and I could not sleep.

I got out of bed, grabbed a notebook and pen, and started writing. I had names. I had timelines. I had motives. I had almost the entire novel, outlined and down on paper.

I even had a working title, Dark Water, though I'll likely change it. It doesn't fit the full scope of the story.

It was past 2:30, so I closed the notebook, turned out my light, and tried to push the story out of my head. I was so happy, and finally drifted off within a half hour.

Yesterday, I talked through my ideas and storyline with DW. She had lots of questions, particularly around the motive for the killer. We called Kid 1, who is also a bit of a storyteller, to get her take on my mystery.

She, too, asked lots of questions. And as I answered them, I started reshaping the motive. It was no longer two-dimensional, black-and-white. It became so totally believable that both DW and Kid 1 liked it.

So, today is my last day of work at my job of nearly 19 years. Tomorrow, I focus on my new novel.

Wish me luck.

Distilled Reflection

I love puddles.

After a rain shower, I look for them. When I find one, I crouch low and circle the puddle, looking for something that can be reflected in the shallow water.

Nine times out of 10, there's nothing to see. But when I find something, I get as low as possible, getting my camera as close to the ground as possible. With my smartphone, it's even better than with one of my D-SLRs, because I can turn my phone upside-down or on its side, so that the lens is only millimetres above the puddle.

That's when I get my shot.

I like how the brick of the cobbled ground blends into the shadowy reflection of the historic building that houses Spirit of York Distillery (they make a mighty fine gin!). It's not a perfect reflection but lends to the continuity of the overall image.

Happy Friday!

Working With AI is a Struggle

So, I'm brainstorming for my next novel, which is coming together better than I imagined, considering I only started coming up with a basic idea less than a week ago. I'm going to start in earnest, next week, when my job of nearly 19 years wraps up.

In case you missed my earlier post, I was laid off, along with my entire documentation team, on Monday.

But I digress. This post is about my newest writing project, a crime novel, set in Ottawa.

I don't want to give too much away, but I will say that the story starts with the discovery of a body that is floating in the Rideau River, just downstream from the Vimy Memorial Bridge. The dead body is that of a woman, whose identity is introduced shortly after she is recovered from the cool water.

Even before I've actually written a full paragraph, I have an idea for the book's cover. Not being artistically inclined in any way, I decided to see if I could use AI to come up with the cover. To that end, I entered the following into ChatGPT:

Create a book cover for a murder mystery. A woman is floating, face down, in the Rideau River, Ottawa, below the Vimy Memorial Bridge. Overhead, a full moon lights the night sky.

This is what the AI engine gave me.

First of all, this would be the Ottawa River, not the Rideau River. There is no bridge that spans the Ottawa River and looks like that, and the Vimy Memorial Bridge is also nothing like that bridge.

Contrary to instructions, the woman is not face-down in the water. And while it's clear that this is a night image, there's no moon.

I typed in more suggestions:

Remove the Parliament buildings. Turn the woman so that she is face down.

Again, the tool produced an image.

Frustrated, I wrote, Remove all buildings.

Nope.

Include only a river, the woman, and the moon.

This time, ChatGPT became confused. It replied, I wasn't able to generate the updated image due to issues with the request. If you'd like, we can tweak the description or adjust the approach. Let me know how you'd like to proceed!

So, I suppose, it was my fault.

I tried a new approach, keeping it simple:

Create an image of a dead woman in a river with the moon overhead.

I have to admit, I felt quite uncomfortable trying to ask a program to create several images of dead women. It's unnerving, which I guess is how I'm supposed to feel, so at least I know there's nothing wrong with my moral compass. I'm supposed to be disturbed about mentioning a dead woman and describing the condition she's in.

Here's the image that was finally created.

It's still not what I want, so if and when this story is completed, and should it make it to a publisher, I'm hoping I can describe the cover that I want to a human being.

Preferably, someone who knows what face-down means and what the Vimy Bridge looks like.

The Distillery District

New Chapter, New Book

Last Friday, as DW, Kid 1, and I drove to Toronto to visit with Kid 2 and some of our good friends, who also came to Toronto to spend time with all of us, DW was listening to an audiobook to pass the time. I, on the other hand, had ideas for a new novel floating around in my head.

I know, I know. I never finished the sequel to my novel, Songsaengnim: A Korea Diary, but someday, I'll get there. But for now, I'm going to let other stories take me wherever they lead.

For decades, I've been a huge fan of crime fiction and I thought I would like to write a murder mystery, but I never knew where to start. I saw myself more as a writer of spy stories and had focused on those in my early days of writing.

I've just come off reading three crime novels and so, last week, I thought that maybe it was time for me to give it a try. And that brings us back to this past weekend, where I started coming up with a detective story that is set right here, in Ottawa.

Maybe, I'm channeling inspiration from my friend, Peggy Blair, who has written several crime novels, the last two of which were set in Ottawa?

On my way to Toronto, I came up with the victim and where the body is found. On the way home, I started thinking about who the detective will be and who the murderer is. Both of these characters will need more fleshing out, though I've got a good idea about the victim and what led to her death.

It's not as clear-cut as it will seem.

At a book reading, Scottish crime novelist Ian Rankin once said that when he's writing his books, he sometimes doesn't know who dunnit, himself, until he starts reaching the end of the story. Maybe I'll play it that way, too.

Yesterday, after nearly 19 years with my company, I was laid off. It came as a surprise, considering that there was only one writer on my team, besides me, and our manager, and we were all cut. My last day will be next Monday.

As surprising as the news was, and though it hasn't quite sunk in yet, it's a mixed blessing. I was looking to work for only three more years before retiring. That date has been pushed up and I'll now be scrambling to make sure I'm set for retirement.

It sucks that my career has ended sooner but now I'll have more time to put into my fiction, which is a true passion. Technical writing was never that.

So now, I'll switch to focusing on this crime novel, which will open at a location that is only a few minutes' drive from my home, under the Vimy Memorial Bridge, in the Rideau River.

Stay tuned.

Our Next Vacation

I'm a lot excited for our upcoming vacation. And, I'm a bit nervous.

DW's and my last vacation was all about relaxing with friends. We spent a week at our favourite Mexican resort, in Akumal Bay, with our close friends Bee, Marc, Wendy, and Peter. We ate, we drank, we lounged, we snorkeled, we danced, and we repeated.

The most exertion we experienced was a walk along the beach to an area where there were a bunch of abandoned buildings—likely, condos or a small resort where the company ran out of money—and another trek all the way to Pueblo Akumal, on the other side of the highway from the beach part of the town and where the real citizens of the town live.

Our next vacation will be more adventure-driven. It will also be the first family vacation we've had since 2018, when DW and I took the kids to New Brunswick and Nova Scotia. Since then, with the exception of weekend trips to Toronto, DW and I haven't travelled with our daughters.

California, 2016. Our kids on the Pacific.

So this time, it'll be exciting to travel to a new destination with the four of us. None of us have been to this destination and we'll be learning new things together. It'll be the first time that we've flown together since 2016, when we travelled to Arizona. It'll also be the furthest we've all been from home, as a family, since we vacationed in Italy, in 2009.

But I'm also a bit nervous on this trip.

Our girls are no longer kids. As kids, they sort of fell under our protection at airports, and getting through security seemed simpler when we were seen as a family unit.

But the kids are now adults and will be treated as such. While everything should be fine, there's an uncertainty that uneases me. Especially since we'll be transferring flights in the U.S., whose government seems to have contempt for Canadians.

I hope the transfer is quick and uneventful.

The kids will also be flying home on their own; again, transferring flights in an American city. They are only spending the first week of vacation with DW and me, and so I'll be nervous until I hear that Kid 1 is back in Ottawa and Kid 2 will be in Toronto.

Another reason why I feel nervous for this trip is because over the winter months, I haven't had a lot of exercise, and I'm going to need to be in good shape for this trip. We expect to do a lot of hiking and climbing on this trip, similar to what DW and I did, one day, in the Douro Valley, in Portugal, when we climbed a small mountain in the heart of the port region.

Sure, I've shovelled a lot of snow in my driveway, but I've done little else. There was one day where I went for a hike in snowshoes, and actually ran for a bit while wearing them, and didn't keel over. But we'll be up in some mountains where the altitude can be an issue.

It's time to get back on my spin bike.

Overall, while there are a few issues that make me nervous about this trip, I'm very excited and can't wait to go. New sights, new people, new food. A whole, new experience.

I'm not ready to announce where we're going, and may not even divulge our location until we're there, or even until after we get back. Perhaps some of the clues in this post will give you an idea as to where we're going.

In the next seven weeks, until we fly out, I'll leave more clues. And perhaps, by the time we're ready to go, my fears will have subsided.

Stay tuned.

For a Bit Longer

A couple of weeks ago, DW and I visited with our financial advisor to look at our current situation and to make plans for the future. And because I've recently turned 60, my thoughts naturally fell to retirement.

For a couple of years, I thought it would be nice to retire at 63. There's nothing special about that number, though I would be one year younger than my dad was when he died. It's just that, two years ago, when I really started wondering if I'd be able to retire in the near future, five years crept into my head.

Two years down: three more to go, by that reckoning.

In visiting with our financial planner, DW and I found out that we're in good shape. If I retire at 63, I should be able to live under my current quality-of-life standards for 30 years. Mind you, I don't expect to live to 93. It's just not in my genes.

"What about if I were to retire tomorrow?" I asked, but DW shut me down. Her plans are to work for another five years and she doesn't want me lazing about the house.

Since our trip, in 2022, to Portugal, I've been suggesting that we retire in Porto. I fell in love with that city immediately and could picture us living there. DW was reluctant but in recent months, she's been warming to the idea of living overseas.

We'll buy a modest place but with a sizable guest room for family and friends to visit whenever, I told her. "I wouldn't expect anybody to stick around Ottawa for us," I added, "so why should we do the same?"

It's a few years away, anyway. We'd wait until DW retires before making any decision on where we want to spend our retirement.

But there's another fly in the ointment: the crap that's going on with our southern neighbour and the BS of the Orange Felon trying to annex Canada. We'll stay and fight that battle.

Which means, we'll be sticking in Canada for a bit longer.

Thanks to TFG, though we both plan to be retired within the next five years, our retirement plans are now on hold.

Stay tuned.

Beer O'Clock: Burden of Proof

I had such a great time at karaoke night at Stray Dog Brewing, last Friday. But then again, I always do.

The talent pool is quite deep, with so many great singers, including Brewmaster Marc Plante. Even my karaoke buddy from Hummingbird Hall—and before that, the man who invited me to join his singing peeps at Conspiracy Theory—James, came along and added his voice to the participants.

Stray Dog is in my top three breweries in Ottawa, right up there with Broadhead Brewery and Bicycle Craft Brewery. But there are two things^* that I'm not crazy about with this beer shop: first off, it's too damned far from home.

In good traffic, I can get there in just over 30 minutes, half of which is highway driving, along the Queensway and Highway 174, out to the far end of Orleans. If traffic isn't ideal, I'm looking at almost 45 minutes.

If I want beer from them, I tend to order it online and have it delivered. But I'll almost never drive to check out a new release. It's just too far.

But karaoke night is always fun and worth the drive. You should check out their schedule and keep an eye out for the next one.

The second thing that works against Stray Dog, for me, is that I have to watch my beer consumption when I'm there, because I have to drive home. And I tend to stick to beer that is under the six-percent alcohol content.

On my last visit, I had two 14-ounce glasses of their new pale ale, Tariffied, a juicy and easy-drinking ale. (I feel stupid for not picking some up while I was there!) I had a third drink, their Jeanne D'Ark stout, which is my personal favourite of Stray Dog's lineup. It's only 4.5% ABV, so it's also an easy-drinking brew.

While I was singing, I found my throat was getting dry, but not wanting any more alcohol, I took a look at their non-alcoholic lineup, and chose their IPA. It was refreshing but it was clear that it was a so-called near-beer.

I was chatting with Marc about his non-alcoholic selection, and as I settled my tab, at the end of the evening, he slipped me two cans: the IPA and a pale ale.

Let's look at the latter.

Burdon of Proof Pale Ale (0.4% ABV; 65 calories)
Stray Dog Brewing Company
Orleans ON

Appearance: pours a clear, deep gold that had me thinking of a strong ginger beer. There are large bubbles that cling to the glass, further simulating a soft drink. A fizzy, white head leaves no cap, but a loose lace that quickly dissipates.

Nose: I detected pears right off the top but it had a flintiness that made me think stringent hops. After a few minutes of settling, a nice citrus aroma came forward.

Palate: this pale ale has that watery, light body that tells me right away that there's no alcohol in the glass. There's a flavour that I pick up in lots of near-beer (I'm thinking of Partake), and this one is no different. Stray Dog is not trying to fool you. But it is refreshing and easy to drink.

Overall impression: while I needed something to keep my throat moist for singing, I didn't want any more alcohol, and Burden of Proof IPA hit the spot. But I think I prefer the pale ale version, which is also refreshing but I found the aromas to be more enticing. The IPA is good: the pale ale is better.

Beer O'Clock rating: 🍺🍺

Burden of Proof is a great alternative to actual beer. I'd gladly add it to my repertoire for non-alcoholic suds.

But I won't drive to Orleans to get it.

I would, however, consider adding it to my next online order. Deliveries in the Ottawa area are free on orders of $60 or more; otherwise, there's a $15 charge to get it to your front door.

Many thanks again to Marc for the cans. You are a gentleman and great brewmaster.

And you're a great singer, too!

Cheers!

^* To be clear, my two strikes against Stray Dog are said tongue-in-cheek: I'd never hold anything against the great folks of this Orleans brewery.

Not Even For One Day

I avoided Bluesky. I kept the radio off. I didn't even visit YouTube because the algorithm knows I'm a news junkie and suggests videos from CBC and other news outlets.

Because our clocks had sprung forward, overnight, I slept in later than my body was used to. But DW was up early and I heard the garage door open as she was heading out to the gym. I lay in bed for nearly another hour before I headed downstairs.

I was emptying the dishwasher as she came back home. "I can't believe that Trump..."

"NOOOO!" I screamed, cutting her off. "We're not supposed to say his name. We agreed we wouldn't talk about him."

Nine fourty-three. We only made it to 9:43 in the morning.

"It’s okay," said DW. "You still haven't said his name."

"That's not the point," I said. "The goal was to get through the day without hearing or reading his stupid name, without seeing his ugly face. This day is ruined."

"Don't you think you're overreacting?"

"There are days when I don't hear anything about Trudeau. When Biden was in office, there were some days when he wouldn't be mentioned. There are so many world leaders that I know nothing about. Yet, the Orange Felon is everywhere. You can't escape mention of him.

"Today was about switching off the news, about staying away from social media. I just wanted one day... one day... from having that asshole in our lives."

"You're right. I'm sorry."

We managed to get through the rest of the morning. I barely touched my phone. We did some chores around the house. We started on our tax returns. We went to our neighbour's house, where we're looking after their cat while they're on vacation.

We ran some errands but played music from my phone, keeping the radio off.

My parents invited us over, after dinner, for cheesecake and a movie. When we arrived, they were watching Mark Carney's speech after he won the Liberal leadership race. He's our new prime minister.

And, of course, he mentioned the Orange Felon. And a commercial came on, and there was that dick, with a random sound bite.

Of course, it was an attack ad from Pierre Poilievre. Canada's asshole.

I think that short of locking yourself in a room without a TV, radio, or computer, going a full day without hearing, seeing, or reading about the Orange Felon is an impossible feat.

But I'm determined. I'll try again next weekend, though it may be harder: we're meeting in Toronto with some American friends. Maybe, because they hate him too, we can agree to at least not say his name.

Wish us luck.

Flashback Friday: Posers

In 2011, social media was still pretty new to me. Sure, I had been running a blog since 2008 (not this blog, which I started in 2011) but I really didn't get into Twitter until early in that year.

In 2011, Twitter was in its glory days.

But once I started on social media—Twitter, Instagram, Facebook, and Untappd—I was hooked. I seemed to spend all my free time checking out what I had missed since the last time I put my phone to my face.

Kid 1, who was as sharp as a tack (and still is), noticed that I was missing life around me while I was looking for what was going on in the social-media universe. And she pointed out that I was addicted to my phone while we were on vacation, in Cape Cod, in 2011.

For the most part, I was taking shots of our vacation, but instead of taking the snap and moving on, I had to edit it right away and post it on Twitter, or Instagram, or Facebook. And for her, it was getting to be too much.

So she had an idea for a picture I could take: DW would be looking up at something interesting, while I would be on my phone and Kid 1 was looking at the camera that was capturing this scene, all while pointing out that I was on my phone and pouting about it.

Kid 2 took the shot.

I still use my phone a lot but not nearly to the extent that I was in 2011. For one, I'm no longer on Twitter, Instagram, or Facebook. And though I'm on Bluesky, I don't post nearly as often as I did on Twitter.

Also, I haven't used Untappd as a social-media app in years, as I follow no one and don't let anyone view me (it's strictly a way for me to keep track of the various brews I've consumed).

I even have a tracker on my phone to let me know when I'm on the screen too often in a day.

We'll be going on a family vacation in about two months. I'm confident that we won't have to recreate this pose again.

Happy Friday!

I'm Done

Within days, I just wasn't feeling it.

I love Wales. Though I have only been there once, and that was more than 30 years ago, it has left an impression on me that hasn't faded. The beauty of the landscape and the kindness of the people will stay with me forever.

When I completed the Te Araroa trek of The Conqueror Virtual Challenge, I told myself that I didn't feel inclined to participate in another of these virtual journeys: not, unless, I discovered one that would be so enticing that I couldn't refuse it.

Nearly a year later, one challenge caught my attention and made me think of my short but memorable time in Wales: the Wales Coast Path. The 1,300-kilometre trail would take me past Conwy, Beaumaris, Caernarfon, Harlech, Cardiff, and more, before ending in Chepstow—all places that DW and I visited all those years ago.

I started the trek at the beginning of August, last year, and put some actual kilometres on my bike, in my kayak, and on foot while I virtually covered the norther coast of Wales. I was making good progress, confident that I'd be able to complete the challenge in 10 weeks.

But on the Isle of Anglesey, just past Beaumaris, I lost interest.

Not of Wales. The country of my ancestors still holds a piece of my heart and I hope to someday return. But the virtual challenge had lost its appeal.

I would go for days without logging my progress. And disagreeable weather kept me off my bike more times than I would have liked.

As the 10-week timeframe approached, I moved out the time period to 14 weeks. Then, 16. Then, 20. Then, 26. Less than halfway into the challenge, I was logging only my daily steps toward my goal.

I still enjoyed seeing the Welsh countryside when I logged a distance and then saw, through Google street view in the app, where I was in the countryside. But I knew that as soon as I reached the finish line, in Chepstow, I was done with the virtual challenges.

Chepstow Castle (taken when I was there, in 1991).

I reached the finish line, outside Chepstow Castle, on March 3, 210 days after starting the challenge. It took me 30 weeks to complete it.

I won't be getting a medal for this one. When I had signed up, I learned that the company that creates the app had changed their model, and that you have to pay extra to get a medal at the end of the challenge.

No thanks.

As soon as I reached the finish line, I deleted the app from my phone. I'm done.

It doesn't mean I'm going to stop being active (though, I haven't been as active as I usually am, if I'm being honest). I do need to exercise and get in shape for our upcoming vacation, in May, when I'll be performing an actual challenge, with lots of hiking and climbing.

I won't get a medal for that challenge, either, but the rewards will be far greater.

This is 60

Cupcakes and Karaoke

I couldn't help but have a flashback.

I wrote about this before, when I had a birthday party and decided to pick up a microphone and sing while friends danced around me. But that party was 52 years ago.

A couple of days ago, I celebrated turning 60. It wasn't my actual birthday: that's this coming Wednesday. Like in 1973, because my birthday is on a weekday, we held the celebration the weekend before.

DW asked me what I wanted to do to mark the end of my sixth decade and I said that I wanted to be surrounded by family and friends, to be with the people who mattered so much to me. We talked about reserving space at a favourite brewery, as it would have the space to accommodate everyone, and I liked that idea.

Secretly, she had already contacted Conspiracy Theory Brewery, as I had been frequenting the place, as of late, but when she told me, I was reluctant. While I liked going to Conspiracy Theory for karaoke, it wasn't a favourite brewery, nor even in my top 10 for Ottawa. Sure, they had the space but it wasn't quite the spot I had in mind.

Luckily, she hadn't made any solid plans and had only had a brief conversation with Paul Card, the owner. As it turned out, Conspiracy Theory, itself, wouldn't be around for my birthday celebration, anyway.

We did look at actual breweries that I love, and one didn't seem to have any event planned for March 1, so we reached out. DW had me compose the e-mail message, since they knew me and had once done something really nice for my birthday, a couple of years ago.

Unfortunately, when Melissa responded to me, she told me that they did, in fact, have a live show scheduled for March 1, and that it hadn't yet been added to their Web site. She said that the band was interactive with its audience and was a lot of fun, but I didn't really want to have a live band at my party, especially since I didn't know them, and so I thanked her but said I'd look elsewhere.

(I ordered some beer from them the next day.)

I had only been to Hummingbird Hall once, before we started discussing my party, and I already liked it. When we considered it as a party venue, I was practically sold.

Again, DW had me reach out to Dan, the manager of Hummingbird Hall, since we had already met, though only once, and he'd only remember me if he recognized Brown Knowser in my e-mail address and associate it with the person known as Brown Knowser at the previous karaoke night.

While I didn't want a live band at my party, I thought it might be fun to have karaoke. Lots of my friends like to sing and have done karaoke before. I'd be able to mingle with my friends between getting up on stage to sing, myself.

I put in the request, including lining up a KJ, and waited. Dan got back to me fairly quickly, gave me a quote for renting the room, with him running the bar, and for the KJ and the sound person.

And that was it. We were booked.

There were cupcakes. There were nibblies. There was singing. There was dancing. There was mingling and catching up with friends. Some family and friends came all the way from Toronto to help me celebrate. Kid 2 and my younger sister, who live in Toronto, made the trip to be here.

I'm so lucky. I was surrounded by love.

Photo credit: Marc Dufour

Photo credit: Marc Dufour

This was the first birthday party I had since my 50th, where we did gather for a live show, featuring my music idol, Midge Ure. It'll likely be the last one until my 70th birthday, should I make it that far.

But this party will go down as one of the best, far exceeding my eighth party (where some of my friends from 1973 were back to celebrate again).

This time, the mic was plugged in.

Photo credit: Mom