kar0ling

There was an article making the rounds lately about “Xennials” – the group in the shoulder space between Gen X and Millennials, who relate with some of the characteristics of each and not at all with others. A tongue-in-cheek Guardian quiz declared me a true Xennial because “you understand modern technology but are not so emotionally needy as to need constant validation from strangers you will never meet.” Another article said Xennials “possess both Gen X cynicism and Millennial optimism.” You can probably tell that I regard myself as fitting into this group (as much as a nonconformist leaning individual raised in a bizarre subculture ever fits). What it has to do with smartphones is that I’m not “digital native” enough to be good at texting. (I try the two-handed thing, but it seems just as laborious and inaccurate as one-finger hunt and peck.) So I speak to my phone. (Kind of like in the old fashioned days. Except not.) This dictate function works brilliantly for some people. D...

...but poetic. In the humidity, the mist from Emptyful hangs a dreamy fog about the library plaza, diffusing the glaring lights. It used to be so dodgy, you’d avoid it even in daylight; now the park invites a stroll on a dark, rainy night.

Presuming to know something about this medium (HA! My one follower may belie such pretensions), I conducted a workshop on blogging during a short-term mission orientation session. I continued to hang out with the young people for the rest of the day, lured to stay with the promise of a square dance later that night. What happened there was noteworthy, so I feel I must practice what I preach and write up this event. But what did I learn? Oh my! I probably wouldn’t have plumbed the experience for insight had I not sat down here to reflect here, but here goes. (And that’s one of the points I tried to make to the young’uns: writing serves critical reflection.) Lloyd had gone out to the asylum shelter and invited sundry newcomers to join us at the square dance – “a genuine Canadian social activity”. (Actually, it’s probably more accurate to call it American.) Halfway through the evening, they joined us, so I was paired with a young man from Bangladesh. Things weren’t quite as smo...

For someone who has an intermittent tendency to apply nicknames to people (ever been confused by references to “Peach”?), it may be odd that my bikes, which play a significant role in my life, don’t get monikers. But they do get designations. My 3-season bike is the Skyline (the brand on the frame). My dearly departed fatbike was the fatgirl . (Her replacement will likely be the fatgirl 2.0.) And, now, my omafiets has finally arrived. The Dutch bikes – brought over in a shipping container by a local bike advocate with a grand vision to bring comfortable Dutch-style biking to Winnipeg – were handed out at random (based on numbers handed out at registration) and I managed to completely luck out. We were all promised rear racks, though a few – unusually – lacked even that. (Recipients of such bikes were promised a front rack, all of which had been disassembled for shipping.) I got not only a nice rear rack, rear wheel lock, front and rear lights appearing to be in decent sh...