When Steve Rechtschaffner (executive producer, SSX) spoke at the IGDA chapter meeting last winter, he told us about his time heading the US Freestyle ski team. He said that most skiers always attempted to perfect the same set of basic moves, but there was this French guy who always did things completely differently, always had a completely new and original take on the same moves. Then he said that EA, in establishing itself in Montreal, was aware that the city had some of that same untapped creative potential, that same original thinking not found anywhere else in America.

And now, EA wants to spend millions training Montreal developers.

Nothing wrong wit dat, if you ask me.

…coz she knows me so well.

As of today, I am officially a pedestrian.

One blog post yielded an interested buyer, and sold my SUV!

Love the blog.

New expression, coined by Paolo: “Pulling an EB Games on someone”. It means speaking condescendingly to someone on a topic about which they are knowledgeable.

Friday night, downtown Montreal.

Gameboy: Let’s go to EB.
Lightspeedchick: Ugh. We’ve already been to FutureShop and Game Buzz, but ok. It’s just that they always ask me if it’s for a gift when I buy a game.
Gameboy: Ah yes. Sexism in the gaming world.

Once we get to EB, I have a discussion with the clerk about various memory cards for the Gamecube. I finally pick one, and I hand him a Playstation game.

Lightspeedchick, out loud: I’ll take this as well.
Lightspeedchick, to self: Wow, he’s not asking if it’s for a gift.
EB Games clerk, looking at the PS2 game: Uh, you do own a PlayStation, right?

I’ve recently realized that I’ve been accumulating a whole bunch of little irritants in my life over the last few months, without really noticing them creeping up on me. Even more pathetic, I’ve developed little workarounds for each one. You know the kind of thing I’m talking about?

- I’d been living in the condo for 8 months, before I got the neighborhood parking vignette. After a while I thought nothing of parking one or two streets away from my house, though there was always a free spot right out front.

- I don’t have a recycling bin. To take out the recycling, I wait for the weeks when I remember to bring a cardboard box home from work. Other weeks, it accumulates in Ikea bins in my study.

- My dryer makes a soul-wrenching noise. I dry my clothes in short bursts, stopping the dryer when the noise starts, hoping the clothes will have time to dry before it does. They never do.

- One of the headlights on my car is out (workaround pending).

- My phone, the shittiest model offered by Fido, turns itself off automatically about three times a day. I tell people to use e-mail to contact me.

- My desk is almost the only piece of furniture in my office. Everything that should be filed in drawers or stored on shelves accumulates on it.

I’m taking next week off, and resolve to use it to fix every one of those issues.

What about you? Am I the only one who repeatedly takes these stupid little “life workarounds”, when a targeted solution would remove the problem?

My third article written for Yulzine has been published, and I’m happy to be in such lovely company.

It’s always a real brainsqueeze coming up with a post on an imposed topic, but I enjoy participating. Thanks to Patrick for coming up with this cool project and keeping it going.

I want to sell my SUV. Any advice on how to go about this? I would like the process to be as quick and painless as possible. I’d like to know how to set the price, and how to find a buyer. Does anyone know if dealers buy cars, or do they only take them as trade-ins?

Here’s the low-down:
1997 Toyota RAV4
2 doors, standard transmission
Hard top
136 000 km
Good condition, one small spot of rust

I’m looking ideally to sell at the end of September, but a sweet offer may make me do it sooner. Thanks for any thoughts on this.

Il y a de ça environ dix ans, j’avais comme collègue, dans une petite boîte informatique à St-Basile, un merveilleux bonhomme du nom de Sarto.

Sarto, corpulent bon vivant dans la cinquantaine, était tout un personnage. Il partait les weekends dans les Cantons de l’Est, choisissait un rang au hasard, et le longeait profondément jusqu’à ce qu’il ait laissé la route loin derrière lui. Il engageait ensuite la conversation avec l’habitant qui s’y trouvait et lui faisait lui raconter sa vie. Il se recueillait de cette façon une foule d’histoires toutes plus hilarantes ou touchantes les unes que les autres, qu’il se plaisait ensuite à nous raconter, nous les petits jeunes dans la vingtaine.

C’est ainsi qu’un jour, alors que nous discutions de l’origine bizarre de certaines expressions, il nous raconta ce qui suit.

Dans le temps de la colonie, il y a des centaines d’années, les gens travaillaient souvent très fort physiquement, dans leurs champs, sur leurs fermes, avec leurs animaux. Il était donc assez fréquent que des fractures ou luxations survenaient, et dans ces temps-là, il ne s’agissait pas simplement de faire une visite à l’urgence. Il y avait donc un bonhomme qui faisait les régulièrement les rondes pour replacer les os cassés ou les joints déboîtés. On l’appelait le “bone setter” (pour “remetteur d’os”). Sa visite signifiait souvent une grande douleur pour les malheureux qui avaient besoin de ses services. Il faisait donc très peur aux enfants, et les parents s’en servaient comme menace pour s’assurer qu’ils se tiendraient tranquilles… “si tu fais pas dodo, le bone setter va venir”.

…et ce serait ainsi, d’après Sarto, que serait née l’expression populaire du bonhomme sept heures, que même ma propre grand-mère a utilisé pour me faire peur. Je n’avais finalement rien à craindre, ne m’était jamais rien cassé avant l’âge de 13 ans…

At the end of a conversation with a foreigner this week:

- I see you’ve been in Montreal long enough that you’re down with the whole two-cheek kiss thing…

- Wait, isn’t it cheek, cheek, tongue?

I was blessed with parents who encouraged me, when I was growing up, to push myself and try absolutely everything that interested me. Nevertheless, there were some things they couldn’t help but encourage more than others. And although he smothered me in unconditional affection, somewhere in the back of my mind, I always felt my father was proudest of me when I did things that showed daring, independence and strength of character. “Boy” things. I doubt he did it consciously, but I felt he was proudest of me when I built things and got myself a little dirty. He’d say “tiens, v’là mon gars manqué encore”. Not wanting to disappoint, I kept my hair short and tried not to be too much of a girl.

Every November, he’d go on a deer hunting trip in Vermont. One day, as he was packing all his equipment, he turned to me and said,

“You know, you’d cost me a lot more if you were a boy”.

It was one of those things that stay with you forever, because for me it was what confirmed it, that back-of-my-mind feeling that Dad was secretly proud of the tomboy side of me, and that had I been a boy, we would have gone on those trips together.

A couple of weeks ago, there was a family reunion at the cottage where I spent my childhood summers. It was incredible going back there after 15 years: huge houses were now small summer shacks, what were once long bike expeditions, now short walks. Unbreachable chasms out of which I once hunted hundreds of frogs, mere ditches.

Our Vermont relatives were there, too, and Dad reminisced about his hunting trips of old. “I’d really love to show you all the spots where I used to go”, he said to me, so innocently. “How would you like to take a road trip there this fall, just you and me?”

Yeah, Dad. You have no idea how much