These are just the result of a walk around the block as the fleeting evening light was already dying and Abetoo made good use of its IS lens. My finger pressed the shutter locally but my thoughts were elsewhere. As always.

I wasn’t always Bushytail Gonzales. My real name is Joe. I do my best to forget about that, it’s so lame. But once upon a time when I was a very frisky young raccoon, full of hormones and ideals, I ran into this tease of a raccooness. She was hot and classy and she drove the males around her crazy. The stripes on her tail were the sharpest I’ve ever seen and her bandida mask was subtle yet incredibly dramatic.

One day, after having eaten too many shells and feeling a touch euphoric, I began to chase her up a tree. Yeah, us racoon are not really known for our tree-climbing abilities but we are actually quite good at it. Back then, I did pride myself in being the fastest climber around. So I closed in on her easily for a few meters and thought I had it made. But that trunk was quite smooth and I began having trouble holding on, and then slowly fell behind. She reached the top and dashed across a branch into another tree while I was barely climbing past the half-way mark. I couldn’t believe it. When I got to the top, the foxy raccoon was nowhere to be seen and I was panting like a hamster on a wheel. So I granted myself a break and leaned against a large sturdy branch at the very top.

I hadn’t paid attention. It turns out the tree was a BC Hydro electricity pole and the branch was a transformer. The arc that flew right through me could have lighted an entire neighbourhood. There was a huge spark and I screamed as the current was flowing from my head to the tip of my tail in a flash of heat. Witnesses say I actually jumped off the pole and landed on my legs 30 feet below, smoking like a forest fire, but I have no recollection whatsoever. They all agree that I let out one long yelp while falling, something like « Ay-ay-ay-ay-ayyy-ay-ayyyyye! » When they got to me, my tail was four times its normal volume and the hair was standing up straight like that of a pissed off cat. To this day, it still does. My scream sounded Hispanic, so I was nicknamed Bushytail Gonzales. It stuck to me. I was hoping this would win me the favours of my foxy lady. She never looked back. Female raccoons are cruel.

But this many years later, I kinda like the name. It’s romantic and catchy. Quite a few females are attracted by it, and even though they are usually swans, ducks, squirels, frogs, turtles, chikadees or fleas, it’s flattering and I feel all fluffed up. Well, I’m permanently fluffed up, I meant my ego does. The female raccoons, surprisingly, have stayed far away. Go figure. So I’ve started singing, too. It’s the ultimate trick and they won’t resist me much longer.

As I have mentionned before and to my everlasting surprise, a while back on a moonless night, I heard the plaintive cry of a young Mexican girl raccoon:  « Laa-la-laaaaaaaaaa, la lalala la lala laaaaaaaa, la lalala la lala-laaaaaaaaa, laa laa laa laa laa lalalaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa... »

At first, I looked up in fear. I thought she was up on a pole and I was going to have to chase her up there. My tail sizzled a bit in memory of its past accident. I mean, these human-made fake trees are a nuisance, I’m sure you’ll agree with me. Not only do they pose a serious electrical threat to an honest raccoon’s reputation and courting efforts, they also seem to be dangerous for other inferior species. Take the squirrels, for instance. The poor bastards are frail and thin. If I got a bushy tail as a reward for my climb, big and strong as I am, they would just fry on the spot and there’s nothing worse than the smell of a burning squirrel.

Even the humans seem to have trouble with those pole trees. I saw one the other day, hanging from the top branch, looking pretty clueless as always. Others were trying to get to him with a strange little basket on a mechanical arm hoisted from a truck. I think I’ve figured out that « BC Hydro » means Bail the Clown with Hydrolics. I’m getting good at this. Of course, I’m talking about the lower species of humans, here. They live in concrete boxes like a bunch of chickens and seem to be about as smart as your average dog. Incidently, they are often seen walking one another around the park I live in, these dogs and humans.

Granted, a few humans are slightly more evolved and appear to understand the essence of living in the wild. They migrate away from the boxes and into the park, leaving everything behind but drinking supplies. They must be the dominant ones, alpha males and wisest among the wise. These haven’t shed their human habits completely, though, and still prefer to sleep on an uncomfortable bench rather than on a soft grassy field. Duh. At times, I see them lost in some deep train of thoughts as if trying to break free of their human condition. Other times they speak their teachings about life out loud for all to hear, even if no one’s around. I think they could be trained and domesticated.

Any way, the song seemed to be coming from a bush just around a bend in the path so I jumped through it with all my lust. Man, I almost inked myself right there. Where I had expected to find a sexy raccoon my size, I bumped into a tall human singing while he ran. Disgusting. I yelped, jumped back and ran into the bushes with my tail between my legs, which kinda hurts because it’s so bushy. Next time, I’ll smell the air first. Female raccoons never smell like sweat and Gillette.

 [This entry was originally published exactly a year ago - July 27, 2007. This is an anniversary reprint. On that date, lightning struck and the greatest wheels were set in motion. Time stood still for only an instant and then leaped forward. A beautiful day indeed...]

This time it was only midnight. I walked towards False Creek and the bridges to go record some invisible colors. Somebody was sleeping on the beach. I can’t blame them.

Draw a salad bowl in your head. Throw in, at random, pieces of Google Analytics, Stacounter, ClustrMaps, Geoloc and Skype. Add dressing. Mix well. You’ve got Woopra.

New kid on the trendy block of web statistics, Woopra is another one of those applications that seem to explode into stardom nearly overnight. The concept hasn’t even emerged out of beta testing yet and already, it is the talk of the hour. The design team had planned to steer 250 beta testers into a controlled study; they now have over 25,000. Something must have gone right.

For someone who is currently using Google Analytics - the so far unchallenged leader of the pack - to track their web site traffic and statistics, Woopra will feel both familiar and weird. There are many similarities - after all they tap into pretty much the same data to render their stats - but there are also interesting differences. Let’s start with the interface; anybody familiar with Google products, and Analytics is no exception, knows that their engineers either favour plain, white backgrounds with minimal eye candy, or have something stuck... somewhere. Woopra is the opposite: total pleasure for the eyes, color-rich interface, dark theme. And just as I’ve now turned to Gmail Redesigned for a richer Gmail interface, Woopra hits the spot in the same tones.

Then there’s the very important fact that while Google Analytics and most other similar tools are web-based, Woopra is a desktop application. This has great advantages but also means that the host application needs to be installed on each computer one intends to track from. Worth mentioning, though: Woopra offers a minimalistic web-based mock-up of their stats readout accessible from anywhere online via your account.

Yet another noticeable difference between the two soon-to-be rivals, is the fact that Google Analytics remains very evasive when it comes to singling out individual visitors, concentrating rather on networks, keywords and general traffic. Woopra, on the other hand, approaches the issue like StatCounter does, offering very detailed information about every single visitor in a voyeuristic way that will probably appeal most to low-traffic site webmasters and bloggers.

And here we encounter the most significant difference yet: while Google’s stats are only updated daily, Woopra woops results to you in real time. Visitors to the site are reported just about instantly, and in that aspect, Woopra reminds me of Geoloc and its flashing dots. But things are now pushed one step further: the webmaster is able to initiate a live chat session with anybody currently visiting the site! Are you a blogger from South Africa? You notice a fellow SAfrican visiting your blog, in real time, and you send them a chat offer that appears in their browser, from the « webmaster ». If they accept it, a standard chat window opens up and you are live with your visitor. How cool is that? Maybe not unique, but now coming to the masses.

What else? Oh yes, the downside. Well, for one thing, how do YOU feel about having so much of your personal information revealed and possibly exploited by the webmaster of a site you are visiting, or getting a chat request by said webmaster when you wanted to remain anonymous? Not good? That’s too bad, because it’s been happening for ages. Woopra just makes it more user-friendly. Now what do I mean by personal information? Nothing worth killing for; your (approximate) location, browser version, operating system, screen resolution, language, IP number, point or web site of origin, keywords searched for, duration of your visit, and color of your socks. Well maybe not the color, but whether you are wearing one or two. But not your name, not your email, nor phone number. Not your secret goulash recipe. Nothing you haven’t flashed publicly on the web for years already.

Another problem is that Woopra, probably because of its unexpected and sudden success, is still only allowing sign-ups upon an individual web site approval process that is taking days and sometimes weeks. I waited 2 weeks for mine. Others wave waited for months. But hey, the thing’s still a beta, so I guess we can cut them some slack. And yes, I’ve found a few bugs, and taken a couple of notes of features I think might be important.

But really, in the end, Woopra is fun to play and interact with, or just fun to watch. Will it replace my Google Analytics completely? Time will tell. For now, I’m hooked.

Six months ago today was the happiest day of my eventful life. How time flies. The road at our feet still stretches to infinity, winding and in turn obscured by shadows or glowing in the warm afternoon sun, but it will never again be lonely. Gotcha indeed.

« It was a lovely day of breaking the rules, of throwing preconceived ideas into the wind, of going back to the source, of shaving the unnecessary, of looking deep inside instead of out, of holding a single hand rather than many, of spending time with angels, of walking barefoot when shoes are in order, of wearing jeans because they feel good, of eating with bare fingers, of doing exactly what we wanted, of staring into the sunset while dreaming of sunrise, of not caring too much about what they think, of taking a last step down and a first up, of burning bridges and opening new doors, of taking chances and daring to jump with no ground in sight, of seeing an everlasting fog finally lifted, of understanding it all, of figuring out how simple life’s complexity is, of saying yes after so many no’s, of definitely accepting the truth as only currency, of taking a deep breath and arriving home, at last. »

I’m obviously not the only one obsessed with fish and islands. These were graciously offered by Craig Gronlund. They are a few years old and were shot in the Cayman Islands, back in the Paradise Divers days. Some things - and places - will hopefully never change.

Thanks Craig!

These were taken far away, deep down, long ago and out of sight. But they still make me laugh, when needed.

219 years ago, heads were about to roll in France. They had before and would roll again. Often. Such is the hideous face of our history.

On the 14th of July, 1789, the prison and armory of Paris, la Bastille, under assault by a mob composed of citizens of Paris and eventually joined by some mutinous National Guards, finally fell. Monarchy was about to collapse. It was the beginning of the French Revolution. 

A little over a month later, a document would be ratified that was called Déclaration des droits de l’Homme et du citoyen (Declaration of the Rights of Man and Citizen). Strangely enough, or maybe not, the US Declaration of Independence was signed in 1776. These were troubled, freedom-seeking times. Bloody times.

Fighting for those rights, against them or not caring at all is just a matter of perspective. As the First Republic was being born, France went through a Reign of Terror (la Terreur) and guillotines snapped happily at a multitude of heads. Parisians were busy killing each other for quite a while; with or sans-culottes, nobody was safe, nor spared.

Eventually, the Republic would again fail as Napoleon Bonaparte proclaimed himself Emperor, no less. Then monarchy did a come back, saluted and plummeted again. Then a Second Empire was built. Yawn. It gets so boring...

But tonight we celebrate the 14th of July and there will be fireworks everywhere. That’s nice. Before the fireworks, however, a huge military parade will catalyze and paralyze Paris. That’s stupid. Let’s, as I have said it in the National anthem of the lobotomized, put war to rest and stop bragging about the size of our... canons.

A bloody hymn will be played across the land, over and over again, as people stand up and veteran eyes shine and politician minds compute and mouths gap, as wide open as the brains that run them, fragile, empty.

From the heart of Paris to the suburbs of Marseilles, from the grey skies of Normandy to the sunny beaches of Côte d’Azur, from little alpine villages to rural Ardèche, everyone French, on this famous day, feels something. Feels different. If only we could get everybody to feel the same. And if only that meant looking forward rather than back. Then we would truly have a national holiday worth celebrating.

The bloodshed and barbarism that have lead us where we stand is nothing to be proud of. It might have been unavoidable but that was then, this is now. Can we, s’il vous plaît, once and for all, put it all behind us and allow ourselves to grow out of the blood bath, rather than look at the stains with the loving eye of a mother blinded by her instincts?

Le jour de gloire est arrivé, mon oeil. Et vive la France.

They think out of the box. They have guts, grace and trust their lines. Where we see a wall they have a playground. A window becomes a challenge, the sidewalk a parterre. They are the Aeriosa Dance Society. For some reason, as I watched them perform on the walls of the Vancouver Public Library last night, I kept thinking about Tolkien and the Elves.

Maybe it was the light. Maybe it was the slightly surreal evolution of the human spiders, bouncing off their own tilted horizon line and reaching downwards for the sky. Maybe it was just because I’ve again started reading the trilogy, for the Xth time, always the first. The critical part is forgetting about the bloody movies. But once I manage that, I plunge into the most detailed, carefully crafted fictional world ever invented with such delight that everything in my daily life becomes tinted by it. The Middle Earth erupts into my mind with such amazing power that I lose track of where the fiction stops and reality begins.

So they danced and they flew and they jumped and glided and hung, seemingly effortlessly, obviously happy, and high on the crowd’s mesmerized silence, which meant but an inner roar. Kudos.

After careful analysis of my many cramps, side aches, crashes, morale low’s, mood swings, mediocre results, motivation deprivation and various other technical factors, I’ve concluded that:

• I run more often in my head than out there;
• I run faster if I have something in the oven;
• I run much better to music and even better to certain specific beats.

Hence my recent problem: for most of those years, I have been running to the same repertoire of less than 10 songs, half of which I actually use most of the time. Sure, they are pretty darn goods song and the repetition probably achieves some kind of hypnotic effect but still, I think a change is in order because as it is, simply hearing one of those tracks in a non-running environment gets my heart pumping, my forehead sweaty, my feet longing for running shoes and adrenaline shooting through me like if an invisible finish line had just materialized.

For the longest time, I had been putting off adding songs to my playlist based on the simple fact that finding tracks with an appropriate tempo within my 1500 song library was a daunting task of trial and error. The thing is, I use some tracks for warm ups and others for the 2 most common speeds I run at (slow and super-slow), and they each fit within their own rather narrow tempo range - 82 BPM for the slowest, 83 to 85 for the mid-speed ones and 86 to 88 for the fastest, as it turns out. It’s amazing how a change of 6 beats per minute can mean the difference between life and death!

Well, yesterday I found a nifty piece of software called beaTunes, which analyzes your MP3 tracks’ BPM (Beats Per Minute) and saves the resulting value in the file’s appropriate field via iTunes. I left beaTunes run overnight so I don’t know for sure, but the whole (one time) process probably took a couple of hours.

Result? I can suddenly browse through my music library, click on a column header and sort all songs by tempo! Nirvana! Not the band, the state! I now have an amazing variety of new songs to chose from and can tailor my running playlists to my needs based on the speed or rhythm I want to be running at on specific routes.

Now of course Microsoft is always behind and the Media Player which I use to upload music to my MP3 device doesn’t support the BPM field. Duh. Why would Microsoft natively support anything useful or cool? Mais qu’à cela ne tienne, iTunes does, so I made my playlist in there and then used the open source iTunes Export to turn it into a WMP-compatible list, and I was done.

The MP3 player is loaded (I refuse to run with the iPod - too bulky, too precious) and eager to get a field test. So am I. The new Asics rock. My runs are mapped over at MapMyRun. For only cramps, now, I will fight those in the hand holding the player.

[Note: this post was originally written about BMP’s but to accommodate the rigid perfectionist mind of some readers, later adjusted to BPM’s.]