Act Your Age... Getting a Part-time Job

In Douglas Adam’s Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy, the answer to the ultimate question of life, the universe, and everything is 42. While Adam’s himself said the number was arbitrarily chosen for its lack of significance, the characters in the book often seek the ultimate question in hopes that once it is discovered, 42 will make sense as an ultimate answer. Perhaps, as the primary protagonist Arthur Dent suggests, the question is: “How many roads must a man walk down?” For me, the ultimate question (which should bring me enlightenment and direction and make sense of this life I now reside in) has turned out to be: “How many Christmas trees are in my lot?” Of course, the answer is 42.

Let me start at the beginning of this tale. After graduating with my MA and returning from a month traveling Europe, I began to apply for jobs across the country. For over two months I applied to positions ranging from National Events Coordinator to Funeral Planner to Writer. Until, on the tenth of December, I sent out my 97th application. Hoping to hit number 100 that evening, I jumped onto kijiji where I found a variety of labour intensive work that would be easy to apply for. Thus, my 100th application was to an online ad to be a Xmas Tree Salesperson. I didn’t even attach a resume. I simply replied to the ad saying my name, the fact I had some sales experience, and that I was strong enough to lift a tree. Satisfied with my 100 applications, I went to bed wondering if I had any will left to continue my job hunt.

I woke up at 9 am the next morning to a ringing telephone. I pulled myself groggily from my bed. The man of the other end of the line and my future employer asked me three questions: 1) Did you apply to sell Christmas Trees (to which I said “Yes”), 2) Do you have sales experience (to which I answered that I had solicited donations for a non-profit), and 3) How old are you. Upon answering successfully, he told me to meet him in a gas station parking lot down the street in an hour. I wasn’t sure if I was hired, if I was going to an interview, or if I was about to be mugged, but I put on my warmest wool sweater and a hoodie and headed to Irving.

I was met by a man in a red truck, who sounded remarkably like a serious version of comedian Adam Carolla. He explained that the trees sold anywhere from $20 to $35 depending on height and quality and that wreaths were $17. A customer pulled into the lot and he gestured to her saying, “There’s your first customer.” I looked over at her, looked back at him, and suddenly realized I had a job.

I approached her, trying to be friendly, and asked if she needed any help. She looked along the rows of Christmas trees, turned to me, and asked, “Do you sell any other kinds of trees?” Only later did I realize she was asking if we had spruce or pine as opposed to the balsam firs that filled the lot. But at the time, I just stared at her blankly, imagining a Christmas tree lot filled with cactuses and palm trees, and then politely responded, “I think this is the only kind of Christmas tree we have.” In the end she bought a tree for $25 and after I’d sold two more at the same price, my employer approached me once again.

“You’re not just selling trees,” he explained. “You’re selling a franchise, and that franchise is a perfect Christmas. Some people want big fat trees and some people want little skinny trees. So the perfect tree is really subjective.”

“So I should be selling them for $30?” I asked.

“Well... yeah, if you can,” he responded. From then on I stopped offering the option to negotiate and when people asked the price of my trees I told them, “On average: $30.” For the most part it worked too. The problem was the hagglers. If someone offered $25 on any tree, it was hard for me to say no. I’m a people pleaser who hates confrontation, and nothing was worse than having to put up a fuss over $5.

Before too long (maybe a couple hours after I had started), my boss gestured for me to come over to his truck. He handed me $50 in change and the keys to his van. Just before he sped off, I asked, “Should I keep track of the number of trees I sell?”

“If you want,” he responded. And that was that. After replying to a kijiji posting the night before, I was the supervisor at my own tree lot. The job itself wasn’t bad. Then again, after spending a summer cutting fish and filling a box with their guts, a “bad job” was somewhat relative. All I really had to do was wait in the lot for customers, the majority of which knew exactly what they wanted. Once they’d made their selection, I’d take a handsaw and slice off the bottom to make a fresh cut allowing the tree to soak up more water. Then I’d load the tree into the back of their car or tie it to their roof. When they were gone, I’d grab another tree from the pile, heave it over my shoulder, and chuck it in the empty pot. After 7 hours, I’d sold nine trees, two wreaths, and two bundles of boughs.

While it felt akin to waiting at Home Depot until a truck pulled up to hire a labourer paid in cash, the job did manage to get me out of the house, talking to people, and exercising. So like anyone else who’s retired and looking for something to keep them busy, a no-brainer part time job may have been just what I needed. Sometimes the answers to life’s tough questions are complicated... and sometimes they’re just 42.

I Can Explain... Online Dating

In a world filled with nearly eight billion people, with technology that connects us all, why does it remain so hard for so many people to find somebody to love? The truth is we all live within our bubble of friends and family and meeting new people is a challenge not easily accomplished without the aid of blind dates and/or alcohol. Thus, to compensate, the internet has given us a tool to meet strangers in a hypothetically “safer” way. But are there really plenty of fish in the online sea or is it all a waste of a good fishing rod? No need to bait your hook just yet… I can explain!

If you’re looking for an online dating site, you have quite a selection to choose from. There are a variety of pay sites like Match.com, eHarmoney.ca, and lavalife.com. Though there are issues with these sites as browsers and members often have trouble communicating and it may be hard to differentiate the two. There are also free sites like PlentyofFish.com, which I can speak to more specifically.

When you first register on Plenty of Fish (PoF), you’ll be asked to fill in your profile as well as a short questionnaire. In the profile you’ll answer generic questions like name, age, height, body type, and hair color; then there are some biographical questions like if you have children, your religious affiliation, if you drink or do drugs, and your job and education level. You’ll also have to write a brief biography describing yourself. Most are short and a solid percent start with some version of: “I hate writing about myself, but…”

Once you have a profile, you’re ready to go! You can search for people based on how they answered their generic and biographical questions or you can let PoF narrow your search to people they think you’ll get along with. Once you find someone that peaks your interest, just send a message and hope for a response. You can see who has looked at your profile and who has read your messages. As well, you can limit the people who message you based on age, gender, marital status, intentions, and other variables.

In an episode of How I Met Your Mother, Barney Stinson broadcasts his cell phone number to the world at the Super Bowl. As a result, his cell phone rings off the hook with women calling for dates. That is PoF for women sometimes: many messages, all of the time, mainly generic, and many inappropriate. For men, it’s a bit different with (like in real life) the expectation falling on the man to make the first move.

However there are success stories. My sister is dating a boy from PoF, my ex-girlfriend is engaged to someone she met on the site, and a close friend is now happily married to her online love connection. So who’s to say meeting a stranger at a book store is any better than meeting someone over your browser? Perhaps, the future of dating is online. If you’re comfortable with it, take these sites for what they are: a way to get out of the bubble and meet some new people. If you find a shark, just throw him or her back and keep on fishing. And if you’re not sure what someone means when they ask “ASL?”, well… I can explain!

Act Your Age... Join A Board

Me and you: we’re not in such different situations. You may have recently retired. I recently graduated. You may be a bit lonely without the everyday contact with coworkers, or because your social group is getting older or doesn’t visit as often as you’d like. I’m newly single and recently moved back to a city I haven’t lived in for over a year. We’re facing new challenges, trying to remain productive members of society, and maybe we’re all just a little lonely and a little bored.

Can I get an “Amen”?

It’s that boredom that’s the key. And for many, the solution is in the problem.

Bored? Why not join a board? Boards often require you to commit only one or two nights a month to attend meetings, and your level of involvement in the everyday work of the organization is subject to your own discretion. So why not? You get the social aspect of the meetings while remaining connected to people. Plus, it’s a way to give back to the community and feel like your contributions really matter.

Thus, on November 25, I sought my first position on a Board of Directors:

Jeff deViller, Board Member. I like the sound of that!

The event I attended was called “Boards & Beer”, and it was run by GenNext United Way. At a local brewery, nearly 20 non-profits had setup tables and (in speed dating fashion) they would meet with potential volunteers and board members ten minutes at a time. So donning my “job interview” shirt and tie, I left the warmth of my apartment and stormed the frigid evening air in search of opportunity.

I arrived with minutes to spare and was instantly greeted by a PR peer from my undergraduate years. Assisting in running the event, she was in the know and guided me through the experience. To start, all of the potential volunteers were given a chart with a list of the organizations involved, as well as a bookmark with the number of the table where we would start. As we met with prospective boards, they would take our number and write if they were interested. We would do the same on our chart. I was at table 12 of 12 and was attendee number 51 of 56. That’s what I get for registering the night before!

When the cow bell rang letting us know that the event had started, people rushed to their tables and mine filled up before I had a chance to take a seat. Somewhat embarrassed and not sure exactly what to do without a chair, I chose to sit the round out and ordered another $2 stout from the bar. A cute redhead, who appeared younger than the late 20's/early 30's crowd, approached me representing one of the potential boards. She gave me the prepared five minute spiel about her organization, and I politely asked a couple questions about her experience with the organization. I think, once upon a time, I used to be good at small talk. At the very least, I could engage a girl in a conversation without sounding like an android. If it were ever the case, it isn’t any more, and I do believe I spent the majority of our conversation talking about you, my good readers: retirement, retirement homes, and retirement activities...as engaging as that is for a cute girl at a bar.

The cowbell rang once again and I excused myself in search of more situations in which I could make awkward small talk. It wasn’t long before the opportunity presented itself. I sat with nine different organizations ranging from boys and girls clubs, to homeless shelters, to the Canadian Mental Health Association. Most complained that they didn’t have enough office space and hoped to move in the upcoming year. Many were seeking potential board members to make a three to 10 hour commitment. Around half of the organizations spent the entire 10 minutes explaining what their organization is, leaving no time for them to get to know us. And no one seemed to be using their charts.

That said, it was still an interesting experience. There are certainly voids in non-profits throughout the city that can only be filled by interested and engaged people such as you and me. I left the event a little tired from all of the small talk, but also a few résumés lighter with a pocketful of business cards. Not bad for a night’s work.

I didn’t get any callbacks to sit on a board. Perhaps an unemployed 23-year-old (who may move away within the month if a job presents itself) wasn’t what they were looking for. Or perhaps it’s only a matter of time before my phone starts ringing off the hook. Whatever the problem, it’s not something that you’d have to worry about. We may be in similar situations, but you have significantly more skills, experience, and contacts which make you a very valuable asset to any non-profit organization.

And I do highly suggest it! I’ve worked for a variety of non-profit organizations in my experience as a PR professional and as I search for full-time employment, I’m focusing my attention on these sorts of small groups. Not only does your contribution have more impact, but what you accomplish as an organization has more meaning with a cause you can be passionate about. If you don’t mind the limited funds, it’s a win-win!

So follow my lead! Make contacts! Attend networking events! And stop being bored by joining a board!

Act Your Age... Letting Go

Just three years ago, I was living in Halifax with my long-term girlfriend, taking my undergraduate, and working a co-op term at the Department of National Defence. Lisa loved animals and though she was allergic to nearly every species under the sun, she desperately needed a creature to love. While her primary goal was to get a hypoallergenic dog (she has one now), we were moving every year and it seemed irrational to limit ourselves to the very few dog-friendly apartments in Halifax. Cats caused her the sniffles, fish were hard to cuddle, and hamsters were fragile and boring.

So to appease her, I did some research and discovered the perfect pet: rats. They were furry enough to cuddle, intelligent enough to train, and small enough that they wouldn’t infringe on our living arrangements. I barely uttered the idea and she was on Kijiji, found free pet rats, and got on a bus heading outside of the city to pick up a grey hooded rat I named Adelaide “Ada” Rat-sputin and an albino rat she named Sophie Flawless. A few months later, Daisy “Dukes” O’Dare, a tan baby rat destined to be snake food, was added to the family.

I am not a pet person. When I was young I loved animals, but in adulthood they’re just one more chore. So I was hesitant to get a pet from the beginning. Then when I too often was left to clean their cage and fill their food bowl, the idea that they would be a chore became a reality. But they became something more than that and their intelligence and cuteness melted my heart. Before too long, I was calling them my rat babies and had pictures on my cell phone, which I showed off like a proud parent.

Like any new pet owners, we had our hands full. We fed them, cleaned their cage, trained them to do a handful of tricks, and tried to spend as much time with them as possible. In return, they were great pets. When you’d enter a room they’d jump to the side of their cage and stare out at you as if they were happy that you were there. They learned their names and would come when they were called. And like all good pets, they were incredibly cute, despite their long tails that turn so many people off.

Time went by and, as it so often does, life changed. Lisa and I broke up. I moved to Ontario to do my Masters and had to leave my babies behind. Then when Lisa started having allergic reactions to the now adult rats, they got forced onto my younger sister who had moved to the city a year before. Jessica raised them like they were her own.

Two months after Jessica inherited this responsibility, I got a phone call. Sophie, our albino rat, had died. Since I was waiting for the bus with a group of school friends heading to a restaurant for dinner, I kept my composure and after the meal I got a second call. Lisa and Jessica were burying Sophie at the school. Upset, I excused myself to the bathroom and listened as they tried their best to make me a part of the funeral.

Ada and Daisy kept each other company for nearly a year after Sophie passed, but by the time I returned from Ontario and Europe it was clear that Ada wasn’t doing okay. On numerous occasions, her breathing got shallow, she would lie on her side, and we would think she was done for, but three times she bounced back. It was on October 26th that she once again lied down and began to breathe harshly.

It had been a hard month with unemployment and a break-up chipping away at my typically positive attitude. As she lay gasping, I held her and prayed that God would take her away. I cursed myself for not being stronger and not being able to put her out of her misery. And in the end, I laid her on her blanket and walked away. Having experienced so much loss, I couldn’t watch her pass. Less than an hour later, I checked on her again and she was stiff and cold.

Adelaide was gone.

Sarah, a friend I made during my undergraduate, is renting a house with a big back yard. So that evening my sister and I got a ride to her home and we dug a hole deep into her rock garden with a spade. After a few words, we placed Ada into the shallow grave and buried her.

This week’s “Act Your Age” has been a bit different from past ones, since I’ve told you a story of something that happened to me as opposed to something I set out to experience. I tell this story because our lives are defined not only by the decisions and paths we choose, but by how we react when life happens to us.

You’re forced to retire. You become dependent on medicine or a walker or an institution. A pet or a loved one passes and you can’t imagine a life without them. I make no claims to know what anyone has gone through, but these are all similar stories. They are stories of loss, but also stories about trying to put a new life together and accepting the changes for good or bad.

The death of a pet is an interesting allegory for all of the shit that can go wrong and all the things a person has no control over in life. I don’t have any answers or pearls of wisdom to make the feelings of powerlessness and loss go away; other than to say this, as clichéd as it may be. You’re not alone. Your story is timeless and its universal and we all go through it. Even though in this instance you can do nothing but accept the things you cannot change, there are things that you can control. And it’s okay to grieve and it’s okay to hold onto your memories and cherish them. It's even okay to fall apart for a while and lose yourself... to not be okay... to mourn and shatter. Just, when you’re ready, come back to us.

I Can Explain... Internet Vernacular

As much as some of us would like for language to be bound between the covers of the latest edition of our dictionary, it is a far more dynamic cultural entity. It is continually adapting and changing to fit the technology and culture of the time. Because of this, the internet and cell phones have spawned their own sort of language. For good or bad, it has begun to enter the vernacular of young and old a like and while we may not want to embrace it all too quickly, it’s important to at the very least try and understand it. So before you start ROTFL at the thought and I TTYL... I can explain!

Like all languages, internet vernacular does have certain rules. Let’s start with the simplest. Any word that sounds like a letter or number is represented by that letter or number. This includes, of course B (be), C (see), K (okay), R (are), U (you), Y (why), 1 (won), 2 (to/too), 4 (for), and 8 (ate). Thus you could see a sentence like “R U OK?” or “I C U R doing OK” or “Y?”

Along the same lines, if a symbol or number sounds like a part of a word, then it can be substituted for that part. The number 4, sounding like for, could thus be substituted in words like B4 (before) or 4ever (forever). The number eight can be used in the same way in words like GR8 (great), L8 (late), H8 (hate), and W8 (wait). The application of this rule in compound words including a number is more obvious including every1 (everyone). The symbol @ can be used in both of these ways. It can be used separately as its own word @ (at) or as part of a word like L@R (later).

Next, in internet vernacular abbreviations and acronyms are used often. Most abbreviations can be sounded out or their meaning can be assumed like plz or pls (please), abt (about), and def (definitely). However, if no one tells you the meaning of the acronyms, they are much harder to decipher. The more common acronyms include:

That’s funny and/or has made me laugh:

§ Lol (Laugh out loud)

§ Lmao (Laugh my a** off)

§ Rotfl (Rolling on the floor laughing)

Good bye:

§ Brb (Be right back)

§ Ttyl (Talk to you later)

§ C ya (See you)

And:

§ Btw (By the way)

§ ILY (I love you)

§ JK (Just kidding)

§ OMG (Oh my god)

Of course, smiling faces or “smileys” and symbols are often used to convey emotions including:

§ Happiness as a colon and left facing bracket :)

§ Extreme happiness as an equal sign and a capital “D” representing a big smile =D

§ Sadness as a colon and right facing bracket :(

§ Crying as a colon, apostrophe and right facing bracket :’(

§ Suggestiveness as a semi-colon and left facing bracket representing a winking face ;)

§ Silliness as a colon and capital P representing a person sticking their tongue out :P

§ Love as a triangle left and number three representing a heart <3

And the list goes on and on. So if you’re grandson ever says “l.o.l.” after you say something funny and you want to know what the heck he’s trying to convey... well... I can explain!

Act Your Age… Take a Flight

I have a love/hate relationship with flying. The fact that for relatively cheap prices you can get across the country in no time at all is a real perk. The propulsion you feel as the plane hits that take-off speed and the tires lift from the asphalt is incredible. Even the little packages of cookies are great. For me, it’s the landing I can’t stand. With sensitive ears, the swelling pressure in my head makes it feel as if my eyes will explode from their sockets.

I remember the first time it happened. It was three years ago. I hadn’t flown in nearly a decade, but suddenly I found myself on a plane to Newfoundland for a summer working at Memorial University. While the ride was enjoyable enough (I remember watching Boston Legal for the first time and since then I’ve watched the entire series twice), the landing made me face my mortal existence. It started with my ears feeling clogged. Then a small headache began to develop near the front of my brain. As the pressure built so did the pain, until I felt like there must be a blood clot in my brain ready to blow my head clear off my neck; irrational as that may be.

So finding myself at the Halifax Stanfield International Airport on August 30^th, with a cross-Atlantic flight before me, I had mixed feelings. I was certainly excited about flying to Europe for a month long adventure, but that pain… it was a more pressing concern.

I went through security without a problem and met my friend, Natasha, in the lounge area. We would be taking this flight together. The flight began to board and the two of us walked down the long chute-like hallway and reached the door to the plane. The crack between the hallway and door showed a small glimpse of the ground far below. Cautiously, I stepped over the crack and smiled at the female flight attendant standing before me. She pointed me in the direction of my seat, which seemed silly all things considered. Stepping onto the front of the plane, there was only one direction to go, but I’m sure she just meant it to be a friendly gesture.

Because I was flying Iceland Air, each of the headrests had a fun fact about Iceland. I found my seat and began my process. I took a magazine, headphones, gum, and a bottle of water out of my knapsack before sliding the bag under my seat. I put my supplies in the pouch on the back of the seat in front of me, buckled my seat belt, and leaned my head back against the Icelandic factoid. I was in a middle seat with Natasha sitting at the window and a quiet man sitting to my left. I was pleased to see the small television screen built into the back of the seat in front of me.

A woman’s voice came over the PA system, welcomed us aboard and explained the emergency plan in case of plane problems. The flight attendants stood in the aisles and did their all too familiar dance: pointing to the six exits, demonstrating how to use the oxygen mask that will fall in case of a change in cabin air pressure, and showcasing the flotation vest.

Once they were finished their presentation, the lights dimmed and the seat belt sign lit up. There was no turning back. The airplane slowly began to inch its way to the tarmac in the darkness of the night and before I knew it we were in line for take off. There seems to always be that moment of dead stop before all the engines are switched on full and you’re pressed into your seat. I was propelled back as the plane barreled forward.

My stomach rose to the back of my throat as the nose of the plane tilted to the sky and the wheels left the runway. It’s in these moments that I become incredibly Catholic. I did the sign of the cross and began with my Hail Mary’s. If I’m going to die and face the Almighty, I’m going out with a prayer on my lips.

And then we were airborne. The plane turned to the right in the air and for a moment there was uncertainty of which way was up. Up and up we rushed, until the plane finally leveled out and we were on our way. I finished the last of my prayers and turned on the TV in front of me. It was a four hour flight to Iceland and then another five hours to our destination in Paris. Three movies and a pack of cookies later, we were descending.

Before they announce that we’d almost arrived and were preparing out descent, I could feel it in my ears. The slow descent starts and the pressure builds immediately. I had read, after my first horrible flight, that drinking water could help since it causes you to swallow repetitively. So that’s what I did. I took out my liter of water, tipped the bottle back, and sipped it slowly and consistently. At the same time, I chewed loudly on three pieces of gum. The pressure built anyway and the headache started. But the feeling of my head exploding never comes and we land without too much suffering.

On safe ground for only a temporary stay in Iceland, I desperately want to get off the plane. I’m antsy and need to get out. It takes another fifteen minutes for the plane to be attached to the building and for the people in the rows in front of me to gather their bags and move off the plane.

Despite my trepidation about flying, the experience is always exciting and the destination always makes the pain of getting there worth while. So whatever you’re reason for flying, whether it’s to see family or a new country, I highly suggest it!

I Can Explain… Vampires!

This past Sunday, on Halloween, you wouldn’t have been surprised to see the typical array of ghouls and ghosts wandering the street in search of their next feed (i.e. Candy). But given the current state of popular culture and the sudden fixation on the vampire phenomenon, seeing a blood sucker has become common place in television shows, movies, and books throughout the year. So what are these new vampires like and why the sudden trend? Please remove your fangs from my neck so that… I can explain!

Vampire lore and its infusion into our popular culture is nothing new. It started with a short story in 1819 called The Vampyre by John Polidori, continued in 1897 with Bram Stoker’s pivotal piece Dracula, and more recently picked up with movie trilogies like Blade and The Lost Boys. In the past few years this genre of horror has resurfaced once again though the reason is uncertain. Many theorize that the trend reflects current issues of immigration, religion, or AIDS, while Stephen Marche in Esquire Magazine suggests that vampires have become popular again because “young straight women want to have sex with gay [Read: Unattainable] men.”

Whatever the reason for the sudden insurgence over the past few years, it’s relatively safe to blame Twilight for bringing vampires back out of their coffins. A series of four books written by Stephenie Moyer, the stories tell the tale of Isabella “Bella” Swan and her infatuation with a quiet, uninterested high school peer named Edward Cullen, who, of course, turns out to be a vampire. Complications ensue as a love triangle starts with werewolf Jacob Black and vampires continually try to kill Bella.

HBO’s True Blood has a different take on vampires. Having existed for centuries, vampires in True Blood have recently surfaced and begun to try and mainstream. This means that rather then hiding they are trying to be accepted by society. Many have stopped killing humans and drink a blood substitute branded as “True Blood,” which comes in flavours like O-Negative and AB-Positive. Taking place in a small town in America’s south, the first season’s strife is caused by the prejudice against vampires. When waitress Sookie falls in love with a vampire named Bill, the town must choose sides. The idea of what it means to be human is explored in a blatant way, but the ideas proposed are often intriguing. Certainly vampires lose control and kill, but are humans not as equally volatile? Interesting. The vampires as a minority trying to gain equal rights is also an allegory for the gay rights movement according to the show’s creator.

Not all the vampire fiction uses the same lore. Whether it’s Edward or Bill, there are many commonalities and differences between modern vampires. For example, while Edward sparkles in the sunlight, Bill burns to ash.

Whatever the reason, vampires will be with us for a while longer. The final Twilight book is going to be divided into two movies coming out over the next couple of years and season 4 of True Blood comes out in the summer of 2011. That said, this vampire trend is not immortal and eventually a new or old trend will be the stake to the heart to vampire’s popularity. Hopefully, that trend will be zombies, but that’s just me wishing. In any case, prepare for some more bat-filled nights and if you were wondering why you saw so many fanged kiddies this Halloween well… I can explain!

I Can Explain... 3D Movies

After years of 3D being relegated to documentary films at the IMAX theatre, it suddenly seems like every movie this summer was taken into the third dimension. From Toy Story 3 (perhaps the best movie I saw this summer and the newest addition to my top five all time favourite movies) to Avatar to this fall’s Piranha 3D, the 3D graphics spanned genres and demographics. But why the sudden re-emergence of this 50 year old cinematic styling? And how does 3D work? Put on your 3D picture glasses and sit back because… I can explain!

Movies that are in well-done 3D are supposed to appear to jump out of the screen at you. Regularly, you may see people reach out towards the screen to try and grab a hold of whatever seems to be immediately in front of their face. Mediocre 3D will just seem to have another dimension… more depth. However, in general, I find one often gets used to it within the first few minutes and it doesn’t make a significant difference.

So how does it work? Well, most people have two eyes. This is what gives us depth perception. Looking at an apple on a table in front of you, your left eye sees part of the left side of the apple and your right eye sees the apple from a different perspective (around 2 inches over). Since your two eyes then merge these two images into your sight, the apple appears to be three dimensional. Movies in 3D work in a similar way. If you’ve ever taken off your 3D glasses in a 3D movie, you’ll notice the film looks like its showing itself twice: once and then a second time overlapped and slightly to the right. That’s because the film is being shown on top of itself. The glasses make it so that you see each film in only one of your eyes. Thus your mind believes that there exists that depth. Just like the apple.

Three-dimensional photography has been around since the mid-1930s, but it was in the early 1950s when 3D films became popular. At the time, the process involved using two projectors to show the same film side-by-side. In the 1960s, the process made a comeback with an array of B-horror-movies including Amityville 3D and Jaws 3D. This did little to progress the styling. It was actually a Canadian company called the IMAX Corporation that re-launched 3D in the mid-1980s with its non-fiction films.

Finally in 2003, James Cameron, the man who would later bring you Avatar, reinvented 3D film-making with a new system called the Reality Camera System, which he used to film Ghosts of the Abyss. Since this film, 3D has progressively grown in popularity until this summer when it felt like there were more 3D than 2D movies. Some would argue that the popularity coincides with a time when the technology is ready for it, while others would say that 3D is a novelty only being used to get bums in seats. Only time will tell.

Until we see if 3D is the new norm or if it’s a passing fad (2011 is expected to also see an abundance of 3D movies), the stores are being filled with new gadgets to appease our longing for 3D. There are 3D plasma screen TVs, 3D digital cameras, and personal rechargeable 3D glasses. And if you’re blind in one eye or don’t know what all the fuss is about, well… I can explain!

Act Your Age… Enjoying the View

As I wrote in last week’s Act Your Age, I am very goal oriented when being a tourist on vacation. I have a check-list of the things I want to see in each city. As I see each site I often get more enjoyment from crossing the item off my list than from actually experiencing it. It was a running joke throughout my recent Europe trip that I spent more time looking at my lists than at any of the wonders we saw. And we certainly saw some incredible things: the Coliseum in Rome, the Eiffel Tower and Catacombs in Paris, the Cliffs of Moher in Ireland, and the Sistine Chapel in Vatican City to name a few.

But it’s one thing to put something on a list and another to experience it. At the beginning of the trip, I don’t think I realized that. There is a church in Barcelona called the Sagrada Familia. We went to the very peak of the church tower and looked across the city from its highest point. The city sprawled out in front of us, but I was hungry and looked forward to our next stop, Spanish McDonalds. Days later, we went to the top of Mount Tibidabo. At the peak of this small mountain is an amusement part with swings that seem to almost throw you off the edge of the mountain. It was an incredible view, but I was distracted by the next stop on our list; the roller coaster. I hate roller coasters and I was thoroughly distracted.

This sort of distraction continued throughout the trip. That weekend, we took an hour train ride out of Barcelona to Montserrat, a monastery at the top of a mountain. Our group took a ten-minute cable car to the monastery, a funicular (basically a train that goes diagonally up a mountain), and then hiked for an hour to reach the very peak of St. Jerome, which is 1,236 m above sea level. The view was breath-taking, without a doubt, but at the time I didn’t really know what breath-taking meant. Certainly staring out across the world, the winds billowing around us, I was moved by the view. But I also knew if we didn’t leave within five minutes we’d likely miss the last cable car down the mountain and be stuck at Montserrat overnight. So I took my pictures and rushed down.

My girlfriend had already seen Rome, so during our week in the city I had purposefully looked into doing some side trips so she could see something new. During my research I found Capri, which is a resort island known for its lemon flavoured liquor and so-called breath-taking views.

We arrived at the ferry terminal early after leaving our hostel. I was coming down with a cold and admittedly wasn’t in the best of moods. Sprawled out across three seats, I slept for most of the ferry ride and before I knew it we had arrived at the Marina Piccola on the island of Capri. Departing the ferry, we were met with postcard views of mountains, greenery, and a sandy beach. We dipped our feet in the Mediterranean before taking another funicular to the town of Capri. After having a quick lunch of over-priced cheeseburgers, we decided to take a bus further up the steep island. I had read that the bus ride to Anacapri, the island’s other town, was filled with sharp turns and narrow roads, which made the experience quite harrowing.

The four of us crammed into a bus and were forced to stand, holding tightly onto both the hand-railings and each other. My girlfriend stood in front of me facing the window, while my friends stood to either side. The bus’s engine roared to life and started to zoom along the narrow streets, swerving up the mountain and regularly making 180o turns.

Being the smartass I am, I joked, “Are you guys harroweded yet?” They weren’t impressed.

At one point, the bus made yet another sharp turn and suddenly we seemed to be at the very edge of a cliff looking down to the marine port we had just left. From my girlfriend, I heard an audible gasp. I chuckled and asked her if she was scared.

She didn’t turn her head; her eyes stared across the mountains and ocean. My jaded girlfriend then said the one thing I did not expect. She whispered, “It’s just so beautiful.”

I looked over her shoulder and out the window and indeed it was beautiful. But my breathing remained consistent. She had had her breath literally taken away by this incredible view, but for the life of me I could not feel that same wonder. It was just one more view in a string of incredible views. Trying to understand it all, I looked down at her.

She was staring out the window. Her mouth, open because of her dropped jaw, was surrounded by her red pouty lips and her blue eyes, which often looked green or grey depending on the light, darted back and fourth across the scene before her. Her sun-freckled shoulders held up her black summer dress with pink polka dots, which was tied tight across her slender stomach. And as I looked at her in all her stunned appreciation and stunning beauty, I felt my heart skip a beat.

That’s when I learned to enjoy the view and it’s a lesson that we can all appreciate. Sometimes the view you have to take time to enjoy is from the top of a mountain. But sometimes, if you’re lucky, the only view you need is the view of the face of the person you wake up across from every morning.

I Can Explain… Justin Bieber

Justin Bieber; upon the utterance of his name pre-teen girls across the country squeal with glee. But who is he, why is he famous, and why is his hair so long? Don’t worry. I can explain!

Justin Bieber (Pronounced Bee-Bar, though it kind of rhymes with “beaver”) is a 16 year-old R&B singer from Stratford, Ontario. Raised by a single mother, he showed signs of musical talent from a young age, teaching himself how to play the piano, drums, guitar, and trumpet. His mother began to post his vocal and instrumental performances on Youtube.com. Watching the short-haired Justin playing a guitar that seems far too big for his 13-year-old frame, one can see why his videos were watched by so many people, including Scooter Braun. This record producer flew Justin and his mother to Atlanta where he met and impressed Usher. Mentored by Usher, Justin earned a record contract and his first single “One Time” launched his career.

Like the dozens of children artists that came before him, Justin is now a pre-teen heart throb, that’s heavily publicized and manufactured. His short hair has grown into his famous shag known as “The Bieber” and is imitated by fans and non-fans alike. His face is on t-shirts, posters, and coffee mugs and he’s currently attempting to transition into movies. A rumour began about Bieber staring in a remake of Back to the Future, and while it proved to be just a rumour, it certainly is a sign of things to come.

Of course, Justin does have his haters. There are those who feel he’s just one more child, in a long line of children, whose careers are manufactured by publicists and whose fame will last about as long as it’ll take to text “I <3>

If you do happen to listen to his music, he uses the term “Shorty” at regular intervals. Confused I asked my girlfriend what “Shorty” meant and apparently it means “girlfriend” or at least a serial monogamous female partner of some sort. Just so you know!

So what does the future have in store for Justin Bieber? It’s hard to say. Though given the string of child singers we’ve seen in the past decade, it’s not looking good for Bieber. Likely he’ll end up yet another sacrificial celebrity that the world will love to watch fall (Read: Britney Spears, Lindsay Lohan, etc.). Alternatively, he could continue to make music as his fame slowly fades (Read: Lil Romeo, Lil Bow Wow) or disappears altogether (Read: Well… they’re long gone so I can’t remember their names). Or maybe, just maybe, he’ll be the next Justin Timberlake.

So, in conclusion, if you’re interested in listening to the music that your pre-teen granddaughter listens to or are just curious to find out if a 16-year-old Canadian has what it takes to be hip hop, then take a listen. And if not, be glad that I can explain!

I Can Explain… Jersey Shore

Jersey Shore. You may have heard DJs talk about it on the radio or your grandchildren mention Pauly D, JWoww, or The Situation, but what is it really? And more importantly why is it on TV? If you don’t know, and are even mildly curious about what the hype is about and why you should check it out or avoid it like a punch to the face, then you’ve found your answer. After all, I can explain!

Jersey Shore is a reality television show on MTV. The premise is seven young Italian Americans (Kind of… few are actually of Italian descent) living together in a summer home in Seaside Heights, New Jersey. Cameras follow them around as they work at a local t-shirt shop, tan and groom, and party at bars near the beach. Drama ensues as love triangles are created, relationships form, and people get hurt.

I first heard about the show, while doing my Masters in Popular Culture. While taking a class in Melodrama, we studied this new show as a perfect example of the current reality driven drama. It’s over the top emotions is likely a large draw for the audience as well as an appreciation for the absurd antics of this group of youngsters. After incredible ratings success, the show has been signed for a second and third season and spun off into Wicked Summer, which will be the same show in a different city… Boston.

But success doesn’t mean it’s good. It is typical over-the-top reality television based on over reactive and over drinking New York and New Jersey young adults falling head-over-heels for people they just met. So unless you’re a young adult who enjoys a drink or seven while dancing to loud beats or at least enjoy watching that sort of person, then Jersey Shore is not for you.

There are a key elements of the show that you may hear people talking about, that I can explain so you don’t have to watch for yourself to understand the references:

- The Situation is the nickname of Michael Sorrentino and began as a reference to his strong abdominal muscles.

- “Beat up the beat” refers to when the men in the house crouch on the dance floor and hit the floor with their hands to music.

- JWoww, Pauly D, and Snookie are all nicknames of people on the show.

- The most cited incident on the show was Snookie getting punched in the face by a man at a bar. He had been stealing drinks from the group and when she confronted him he punched her. He is currently serving time in prison for the incident.

We’re likely to see more shows like these. They’re cheap to produce as the network doesn’t have to hire writers, actors, or directors. Plus people can’t get enough of the drama that seems to spiral around these people. So stay clear if you can, and if you ever feel curious enough to find out what it all means, well, I can explain!

Act Your Age… Bargain Hunting at a Flea Market

There is a certain, unmatchable thrill in finding a good bargain. Perhaps the enjoyment dates back to our earlier years as hunters and gatherers or perhaps a cheap find appeases our current sense of greed and consumerism; get a lot of stuff for little effort or money. There’s nothing quite like it. Whatever the reason, bargain hunting at flea markets is a past time enjoyed by both the retired of every community, and a bit closer to home, my own family.

So entering yet another flea market near my sister’s apartment is nothing new. Oddly enough, it’s finding the flea market that gives us the most trouble. Because of my compulsion to get an orange slushie from every gas station I happen to pass, my sister Jessica and I end up getting off the bus early and find ourselves at the back of the large bingo hall where every Sunday tables are arranged and amateur merchants set-up shop.

I know that going around the building to the right will bring us to the entrance of the flea market, but going to the right seems quicker. Maybe it is curiosity, or that hunter instinct is already kicking in, but we decide to take the path unknown. Wrong decision! We walk down a narrow alleyway. A chain-link fence runs to our left, while the large ominous building casts a looming shadow across our path on our right. Upon reaching the other side of the building we can see our destination, which happens to be across two fences and up a grassy hill. The only way to go is up a set of stairs at the top of which people yell in a foreign language. We choose to return to the back of the building and start over.

After this minor hiccup in our shopping plans, we make it to the entrance of the market. A young man plays fiddle at the door and an older man with a thick black beard exclaims, “Get in there quick! People are already taking down their tables!” as we walk by.

Now, about this flea market. As I’ve moved to Halifax, Nova Scotia, it’s a Sunday market on the corner of Robie and Young Street just outside of the downtown. But being in a different city doesn’t make shopping at the market any less of a universal experience. It’s the sort of flea market that every city and town across Canada has. A large room, filled with an array of colorful characters with tables and shelves overflowing with merchandise ranging from children’s toys to DVDs to old paintings that only the most eccentric would hang in their homes. Because we’re in Nova Scotia, not to be stereotypical, there are also miniature lobster traps and glowing lighthouses for purchase.

As Jessica wanders ahead, I begin to peruse the various tables. I flip through rows of DVDs and VHS tapes in pursuit of a rare find, but nothing jumps out. A game of Trivial Pursuit: Pop Culture Edition catches my fancy for a moment, but without a marked price and with a particularly intimidating looking vendor I move along. I may be 6’2 with a big beard of my own, but I’m a pussycat deep down.

I finally catch back up with Jessica, who is examining a small wooden duck. For some reason, Jessica has always had a special place in her heart for ducks and a special place on her ankle for a duck tattoo. She says it’s because they represent a life of freedom to her, while dad joshes her about his weekly trips to the camp during the “season” every winter. In any case, this wooden duck has in the moment captured her imagination. While flawed, with a chip on its tail feather, it’s still a duck and Jessica has no intention to leave her new feathered friend behind.

“How much for the duck?” she asks the balding man behind the table. He steps forward, and plucks the duck out of her hand. He examines it from butt to beak before handing it back to her.

“Five dollars,” he answers. I grimace at the surprisingly high price for such a small trinket, but Jessica reaches into her pocket and pulls out two toonies.

“I have four,” she counters. There is a long drawn out moment of silence. The man hesitates before lifting the duck from her hands once again. He looks at it as if it was made of solid gold and he’d found it in tomb of King Tutankhamen himself. Jessica adds, “It has a chip in the tail and four dollars is all I have on me.”

He final puts it back in her hand and sticks out his own hand for her change. “Want a bag?” he asks. Jessica shakes her head and we walk away with a new treasure.

As we head back toward the exit, the couple with a table full of baked goods lifts up their large yellow sign, which reads “SPECIAL!” I walk over to make my own purchase of some caramel squares for half price.

Yes, there’s nothing quite like hunting for a bargain. While this trip had only a few minor successes, the experience is worth the couple of hours and few dollars spent on a Sunday morning. For this reason, I do suggest taking some time and checking out your local flea market.

As we leave, my sister smiles and tells me that I should end this article with the line, “When flea marketing, you may not find what you’re looking for, but you’ll always find something.” Isn’t that the way it always is!

Act Your Age… Appreciating Art

How I ended up sitting in front of Picasso’s painting Science and Charity in a museum in Barcelona, Spain is a bit of a long story. Needless to say, on my travels this month through Europe, I’ve ended up walking along streets crawling with cockroaches and witnessing mountain top views that literally take your breath away. But I digress. Today I’m telling you about my visit to the Museu Picasso de Barcelona with three of my best friends, including my girlfriend, to see some Picasso paintings.

To be honest, it was not my idea to come to the museum. While seeing some original Picasso paintings intrigued me in the sense that I could later say I had seen the pieces, I had no real appreciation for the art itself. Were I to see the paintings in a book, I would likely flip past them without further thought. However, because I was making an effort to see the things that my travelling companions were interested in and because I write Act Your Age about my experiences trying new (for me at least) activities, I agreed to find the museum. I would not be disappointed.

It was down a cobblestoned alleyway that we found the entrance to the large cold museum. The brick wall to our left opened up into a grand arch and we made our way through. After paying a small admission fee and delivering our bags to the coat check for safe keeping, we entered into the first gallery of the museum.

There were a range of Picasso’s early works in the first rooms. A few oil paintings and a variety of sketches hung on the walls. I walked past them all making empty glances at them. It was almost as if all the paintings were items on my “To Do” list and I had to just check them off by seeing them. Oil painting. Check. Sketch. Check. Portrait. Check. Another sketch. Check.

I wasn’t really appreciating any of the art. Certainly I was seeing it. My primary goal of saying I had seen Picasso’s work was being met. But was I getting anything out of the experience? Not at all. I found myself well ahead of my group of friends and with sore feet I plopped myself down on a bench.

Growing bored, I looked up and began to analyze the painting in front of me, which as you can now deduce was Science and Charity. The painting, which is the size of a large rectangular kitchen table, was painted by Picasso in 1897 when he was only sixteen. It depicts a man lying sick in his bed. To the man’s left is a doctor seated in a chair, staring at his watch, and taking the man’s pulse. On the other side of the sick man is a nun looking down at him comfortingly, while offering him a drink and holding his child.

When I had first walked past the work I had certainly looked at it. Big oil painting. Check. But I hadn’t really seen it. Now as I sat staring at it, I began to take it apart with my eyes. As its name described, the painting contrasted the doctor’s cold calculating treatment of the sick man with the nun’s warm comforting care. “What was Picasso trying to say with this painting?” I wondered to myself. Was the fact it was a nun important; a comment on religion’s ability to comfort the sick and dying? Were a male doctor and a female nun reflective of the times or a comment on gender stereotypes concerning emotionless calculating men and emotional caring women? Was the child with blond curly hair supposed to suggest that “charity” would look after the man’s child or was the child supposed to be Jesus? Maybe I was reading too much into it.

My girlfriend caught up with me shortly and sat next to me on the bench. With a bachelor degree in cultural studies and with a few art history courses under her belt, she began to point out aspects of the painting I’d overlooked. She observed that the shadow on the left side of the doctor’s face suggested a single point of light, but the fully lit nurse suggested that even the light had something to say. She also noted the painting was likely painted from the inside out.

The other two in our group finally caught up and I proceeded through the rest of the museum in my usual fashion, observing each painting as another trophy for my eyes. Picasso’s Blue Period. Check. Picasso’s nudes. Check. Picasso’s abstract portraits. Check.

But it was Science and Charity that stuck out in my mind. When I entered the gift store at the end of the tour I sought out the painting in its postcard form. Thus, I accomplished my retirement activity of the week. Appreciating art. While I didn’t take the time to appreciate all the paintings in the museum, the ten minutes I spent in front of that one spoke to me. A stagnant century old canvas became dynamic as I spent time trying to understand, and if not understand then appreciate, the piece. And there is certainly merit to that.

While I can’t specifically suggest that you fly to Barcelona to see the Museu Picasso de Barcelona, I do suggest going to one of your local museums or art galleries and sitting or standing for a few minutes in front of a piece that speaks to you. They all won’t, but find one that captures your imagination and try to find its story. Talk about it with your friends and see what you come up with. Even if you’re as artistically dense as me, you may be surprised with what you come up with!

Act Your Age: It’s A Story!

Hello. My name is Jeff. You may know me from my interviews and profiles with community members in the Niagara region for Retirement News Weekly’s column “Visionaries of Our Community.” After writing profiles for six of the most amazing people I’ve ever met, it’s time to introduce to you someone different. Me. I’m certainly less accomplished then the people I’ve interviewed and I haven’t found that “life’s passion” that the bookseller, the chef, the conductor, and the coach have for their particular arts. I am, however, doing what I love. Writing! Starting this week I’ll be bringing you two new bi-weekly columns, I Can Explain and Act Your Age!

But, before I get carried away writing about these columns, let me tell you more about me. I’m 23 and was born in a small, French, fishing village called Pubnico in Nova Scotia. Before you ask, I am unilingual, though I’d like to think my mastery of English compensates for my utter failure to conquer French. I had a really nice childhood, two loving parents, was raised Catholic, and played (badly) a variety of sports. I attended Mount St. Vincent University in Halifax, NS and received a Bachelors of Public Relations before moving to St. Catharine’s for a year to take my Masters in Popular Culture. I’m not finished it, as my thesis still needs work, but I should be done soon enough! I’m spending August with my sister in Halifax and September in Europe seeing five major cities.

Now, for my passion, writing. I started young. When I was 12 I wrote an 80 page novel about a boy who starts a charity club. By the time I was 17 that list had grown into six plays, four movies, a rewritten version of the novel, an autobiography, and a musical called, “Isn’t Life Ironic.” It was about a young man who writes a musical to impress a girl that doesn’t care about musicals and the story still seems pretty close to home. In my senior year of high school, desperate to be read by anyone, I started an unofficial newsletter and in University began an online newsletter. Perhaps it was these experiences that gave me the edge when I applied to work at Retirement News Weekly this summer.

I loved working for Retirement News Weekly/Niagara. Interviewing these incredible individuals and telling their stories was a dream job. Unfortunately, all good things must come to an end and with regret I had to quit in order to return home. For what happened next I will be eternally grateful. I was offered a column and went immediately to the task of proposing a variety of ideas. Two were selected and the columns will come out on alternating weeks.

“I Can Explain” is simple enough. In this column, I will choose a new pop culture or technological trend and attempt to explain it as clearly as possible. Whether its Jersey Shore or Twitter, I want to make it an easy reference of new developments and let you know what they are and whether or not they’re worth checking out.

The inspiration for the second column, the one you’re reading right now, came somewhat as a fluke. While writing the “Visionaries of our Community,” I was invited to attend the opening gala of Music Niagara and listen to Andre Laplante play Chopin and Schumann.

To be brutally honest, I know nothing about music. It’s actually a bit embarrassing as my friends regularly tease me for not knowing about artists and songs. That said, as little as I know about music I know even less about classical music. The prospect of sitting in a pew in a church while watching a man play a piano for two hours was not the most appealing use of my Saturday night. However the ticket was free and finally I decided, “Why not!” My philosophy has been and continues to be, even if things end up a disaster, they’ll at least make a good story.

This wasn’t the case for the opening gala. I attended and was blown away. While it was strange just to sit and listen to music without any visual stimulation, there was something about the experience that could be universally appreciated. Even if you couldn’t delight in the music, which I did, the simplicity of this man holding his audience in rapture through his playing was entertainment enough. The experience inspired the article “1000 Words About Music From A Man Who Knows Nothing,” which inappropriately enough can be found in the archive for “Visionaries of our Community.”

This inspired me to write this column. Every other week, I will go out and try a cliché retirement activity, and then I’ll report back to you my findings. I will humbly submit myself to a variety of activities that I would otherwise wait until retirement to try. The outcomes of each activity will vary. Some will be incredible, like “appreciating classical music.” Others will be embarrassing, like “trying yoga.” Yet others will be revealed to be cliché for a reason, like “learning to knit.” But I’m willing to have my eyes opened wide! Maybe all these activities need is a chance.

The benefit of this column is that you can read about my experiences every other week. If it’s something you do, you can enjoy it from my fresh perspective. And if it’s something you’ve never tried, it at least gives you options of cheap activities that are either nominated or discouraged by someone you now know. Me!

You may be currently saying to yourself, “Jeff, this has been a great start to your column, but it hardly lives up to what you’ve now promised us! You haven’t tried a single clichéd activity!” But I beg to differ. “Tell a complete stranger my life story.” Check! I’ll see you in two weeks!

1000 Words about Music by a Man who knows Nothing

As published on Retirement News Weekly/Niagara on July 23, 2010.

To start, I must tell you that I know nothing about music. While my friends are each knowledgeable about their genre of choice, ranging from 80’s rock to death metal, or have musical training on the piano or guitar or harmonica, I can boast none of these things. All I know is what I like, an eclectic mixture of acoustic guitar and pop hits, and what I don’t, mainly operas. So given the opportunity to attend the Opening Gala of Music Niagara, a festival that aims to showcase impressive Canadian classical and jazz talent, I seize the chance to be exposed to historically powerful music with only slight hesitation.

Before July 17 and this incredible night of music, I had only one question. What do I wear? I finally settle on a blue dress shirt and black pants before leaving my St. Catharine’s apartment and making my way to the beautiful Niagara-on-the-Lake. Driving down Byron Street, a narrow road at the edge of the town, I spot St. Mark’s Anglican Church with ease. Its grey granite-block exterior offers the illusion of a medieval castle, but the manicured lawns and neat stone pathway suggest more modern times. People are gathered in front of the church, collecting their tickets and having them ripped at the door. After collecting my ticket, I make my way through the small crowd and enter the church that dates back to the 1800s. It’s dimly lit by four chandeliers hanging from the ceiling and the smell is a mixture of expensive perfumes and colognes with the polite musk of an older church. It’s a comforting smell somehow.

The wearers of said perfumes and colognes are dressed to the nines in formal wear. Men are in suits and women are in dresses or conservative blouses. Looking around the room, I regret my decision not to wear a tie. Sitting in the very back of the church, in a seat I would later find out was set aside for volunteers, I take the aesthetics of the room in. The cream colored walls are framed by brown trimming and the dark stain-glass windows prevent any light from entering. The audience, finding their seat in pews atop complimentary square cushions, is a buzz with excitement. As 7:30 approaches, a sudden quiet falls on them.

After brief speeches and the mandatory thanks from organizers and select local political figures, pianist Andre Laplante enters from the back of the church with his head held high. The small ponytail that you would expect from such a man hangs behind his head. He politely introduces himself with a slight Quebec accent, explains a minor change in the night’s program, and then sits behind his piano and begins.

The music starts slow and builds and one can find beauty in the performance. The show is nothing more or less than a man and his piano. There are no special effects, no plot or visual stimulation of any sort, but there is beauty in the simplicity. The audience remains captivated. They sit in awe as Andre taps and pounds on the keys. In a day and age when it seems nothing so simple could keep our attention for more than thirty seconds, it’s wonderful to see that the marvel of music can still hold an audience in rapture.

And for the music, which I know nothing about, I can only describe it as I experienced it. Andre’s fingers race across the keys, building in speed and intensity. The sound becomes almost palpable in the room. It fills your ears, but more. It’s filling your head and mind, filling your body, filling your soul. It can make you feel insignificant, but fills you all the same. It brings you into the music, making you a part of the growing and crashing sound, making you part of the magic.

The church is suitable for such an experience. Not only was it designed with acoustics in mind, but the religious undertones of what is being performed do not escape me. It is, after all, almost a ritual for Andre, who has played the piece hundreds of times. At the same time, the tradition and ritual of the piece does not make it any less gripping. More so, with each precise key stroke, we are still witnessing the art of creation. As many times as it’s been played before, it is still the first here and now.

Wave after wave of Chopin’s Sonata in B flat minor opus 35 crashes over the audience. It is both assaulting and soothing at the same time; both joy and melancholy. At times the music startles, jumping from smooth melodies to jarred and sharp notes. Yet the audience is drawn in, longing to satisfy their urge to be a part of this creation. One man hums loudly with the music. The rest sit on seat’s edge and feel themselves being taken away.

When Andre finishes, he jumps from his seats and bows. The crowd erupts in applause, also jumping from their seats in a standing ovation. This is not an audience being polite. This is an audience being appreciative for the journey they were just taken on.

This is only intermission. The second half of the show is just as moving as the first with the addition of the Gould String Quartet. Violinists Atis Bankas, Tanya Charles, and Natasha Sharko with Luke Pomorski on cello add a new dimension to Andre’s piano. They appear almost like wooden puppets on strings dramatically bending at the elbow and bouncing in their high back seats with each powerful and graceful strum. At the end of the evening, the crowd erupts again, this time in a rush of murmurs followed immediately by applause.

Afterwards I talk about the experience with Terry Lett, one audience member and the official photographer of the festival. He proclaims his love for both the music and the quality of artists that Music Niagara brings to the region each year. If the Opening Gala is any measure I must agree. Knowing nothing about the music, it is still without doubt quality and beauty.