Transitive Properties

Mathematics 100: Geometry and Logic
Final Examination


Question: What happens when you draw lines through a pre-existing entity?

Answer: If you take an object (say, an unbroken circle) and bisect it at its widest point with a straight line, you will create a new object made up of congruent halves. For our purposes, we will call these compartments. The space once taken up by the object will also be lessened, due to the presence of the straight line. Note also that the extent of this diminishment will depend on the amount of space alloted to the straight line. If you bisect this straight line with another straight line, at a right angle, you will create a cross. This cross will diminish the size of the original compartments, and through careful analysis, you will be able to prove that the compartments can now only relate to one another in terms defined by the cross. Please also observe that while the resulting compartments have similar characteristics, they cannot join until the cross is overcome and the straight lines have been erased.

- End of Proof.

Before beginning the following question, please take time to review the following definitions:

Transitive Property of Equality:

"If a = b and b = c, then a = c.

The Transitive Property is one of the equivalence properties of equality. This is a property of equality and inequalities. One must be cautious, however, when attempting to develop arguments using the transitive property in other settings."

Lemma

"A helping theorem. A lemma is proven true, just like a theorem, but is not interesting or important enough to be a theorem. It is of interest only because it is a stepping stone towards the proof of a theorem."

Postulate:

"A statement accepted as true without proof. "

Axiom

"A statement accepted as true without proof. An axiom should be so simple and direct that it is unquestionably true. "



Question: Ben likes boys. What does that make Ben?

Answer

1) Ben likes boys. Therefore, Ben is gay (see lemma “if you are a boy and you like another boy or boys you are gay” ).

2) Gay is bad ( one can infer this from the answer to the preceding question, or by using the popular "gay is bad" postulate).

3) Therefore, Ben is bad. (Transitive Property).



Bonus question – if you get this one right, you will pass the whole course, regardless of the work you have done before…

Ben is bad. Now what?


We have proven that Ben is a bad object. However objects have many definable properties and we can observe that Ben is also good in school and can play the piano and sing. He can also cook and imitate his parents in a way that makes people laugh. If Ben works at these things hard enough for a long enough period of time, it is logical that people will overlook his inherent evil characteristics.

However, there is a new concept which is really a very old concept which supposes that all objects are good. While this concept cannot be proven, per se, we find that if adopted, it becomes self-evident. It is therefore an axiom, though it is viewed by some as experimental, controversial and vulnerable. We believe it to be correct.


Therefore,

Ben,

Who likes boys,

Is good.

He will still play the piano and sing and make fun of his parents, but he will not do it so that others will overlook any other aspect of his being. In this way, we can assume that Ben, in all probabilty, will be observed in a more comprehensive way, and can therefore exist in a more cohesive manner.


- End of proof.

Why you should always remember to spellcheck.....

Look what I found on a tourism website about Canada:

NATIONAL ANTHEM"Ho Canada" was proclaimed national anthem on July the 1st of 1980, a century after to be sung the first time.

Alles hat ein Ende... Nur die Wurst hat zwei.

Once a year my mother and I have our tarot cards read. Not only is it great fun (we can be as self absorbed and anxious as we want to be for over an hour) but a tarot-session is about a third the price as a visit to the therapist, and the restaurant where we go serves great tempura. I ask you, does it get better than divining and fried food? Not in this life. During our most recent visit, the medium decided to forego the tarot cards as he had decided, upon reflection, that they got in the way of the psychic energy that flowed between himself and the client. This was perfectly fine by me. After all, I come from a race that has always been keen on leaving out the middle man, both in religion and retail. Besides, who needs cards when you have imagination and a wireless connection with the divine?

So then the time came when we had to decide who was to have their reading first. Of course, we each insisted that the other begin, not because we were being polite, but because we wanted to get the other's reading over with. You see, it is quite a trial to be polite and listen attentively when someone else is talking, but not talking about you. It is best to get this over with as soon as possible. Of course, my mother (being of an artistic disposition as I am) is of the same opinion. And so she smiled and looked at me with her " remember that I am your mother and I gave birth to you and I was in labour for 70 hours, indeed, it was the longest labour of 1979 at the Women's Pavilion" look. And so, my reading began.

The medium said that I was about to begin a new phase of my life, and that I must prepare myself for by "improving my attire" and "dressing the part". I took this to mean that I needed hand-tailored suits, or at the very least some off-the-rack Canali. My mother thought
that this was just a metaphor and had more to do with self-confidence. I tried to tell her that
you cannot help but feel your best when you are wearing deluxe Italian upper 200 count wool.
She adjusted the collar on her burlap cape and we moved on.

Apparently, in this time of transition, I will also be saying goodbye to many friends. This is true. As I write to you , Soula is preparing for a concert of Mozart arias at the Berlin Philharmonie,
Wade is on a plane to Quebec City where he will sleep on his friend's couch and learn French in an immersion program of his own design, and in a few weeks Randy will depart for Shanghai to set up an office for her boyfriend's engineering firm.

And then there is Arvedt, who has been recalled to Berlin to work in the protocol office, arranging travel for Chancellor Merkel.

The other night, we were sitting by the ocean, and I was eating Malaga ice cream, which is my favourite. Malaga is like rum-raisin, but the raisins are soaked in rum which for an obscenely long period of time, and then folded into a custard with an obscenely large number of egg yolks. Really, it should be banned. Eating it makes me feel like naughty and rich, like Catherine de Medici, who fit both descriptions very well. Along with the dinner fork and the corset, she is credited for having introduced three important things to France that define it to this day: gastronomy, high heels, and riots. She also introduced ice cream. I can see her now, in her bodice and stiletto heels -- Nero-like -- giving orders to carry out the St. Bartholemew's Day Massacre of Protestants while nibbling on a delicate strawberry ice.

And I am troubled, because while the Huguenot sympathizer in me hates her, the foodie in me cannot help but worship. Had it not been for vain Catherine, the French would still be eating things like goat udder stewed in hyppocras. Worse, they'd still be eating like the English.

Now, where was I? Oh yes, Arvedt. Arvedt was not eating Malaga ice cream. He was telling me about his camping trip to Saltspring Island, which is famous for being infested with mice. Arvedt hates mice, and so he told me how spent the evening lying down in his puptent wearing his bike light as a bandana and throwing morsels of cheese and trailmix to the rodents... not so that they would go away, but so that they would stop for a moment and eat. At which time Arvedt would hit them:

"Oh gott. Means like, the mices were everyvhere, and I kept hitting them with cheese and trailmixes... I said to myself, Gott, if I die now, it would be okay."

I stared laughing uncontrollably, but he looked at me with a straight face and said

"Why are you laughing? You have never had an experience such as this?"

We started to talk about the coming months, and I asked Arvedt how he felt about leaving Canada. He smiled and said

"Well, you know, in German, we have this silly expression: Alles hat ein Ende. Nur die wurst hat zwei"

Which means: Everything has an end. Only a sausage has two.

I wonder what Catherine de Medici would think about that!

People with Penthouses

When it came to dating, the only advice my mother (a card carrying member of the NDP) ever gave me was to "marry up". Indeed, there was a time when the only real way to improve one's social standing was to do so.... of course, you had to be talented, beautiful and determined as hell.

Like my friend Lindsay, who met the love of her life during a production of The Mikado. She was Yum-Yum (in more ways than one, apparently) and her Nanki-Poo, Larry, was smitten. They kissed and he swept her away in his arms. One morning, she awoke from a delicious slumber in 500 threadcount sheets to find that not only was Larry a tenor, but also an internationally successful businessman with a penthouse in False Creek. And they lived happily ever after.

If you are haven't yet met your Nanki-Poo, then my advice would be to get to know people with penthouses and to go to their parties. This way, you can go to the very top and you don't need a man to get you there, unless of course he is pushing the buttons in the elevator. In any event, once you have arrived, there really is no need for social climbing at all, because you can already look down on everyone.

Except for the people with penthouses higher than yours, and trust me, there is always someone.

My friend Lindsay has great style, and throws great parties. We were going to have oysters, but there was a red tide, and rather than be poisoned, we made do with butter drenched scampi -- nibbled from a lofty perch above high above the water. It was a hardship, but we managed. The conversation turned to travel, and Lindsay mentioned that she was going to London the next day. I asked her how she was going to find the time to pack. She replied that all she needed to remember was her music and her underwear. She had an American Express card, after all, and could just buy the rest when she got there. How wise, I said, as I took a bite from a perfectly grilled ribeye steak. I looked down, and saw the people running about. They looked like ants. I thought about throwing my shrimp shells over the ledge for fun, but decided against it. How wise.

As I was mixing myself a gin and tonic, I noticed that the the gin was from Scotland and was infused with cucumber and rose petals. I asked Lindsay where she procured such a delightful beverage, and she said that she didn't know, but that it came from the "good closet". I told her I did too. Ha ha.

But then I thought, I do come from a good closet. That is where I am writing you from right now. It may be small, but it is a space of my own making, and I live on the first floor, so my feet are firmly on the ground. As they should be. And when people walk by, I can look them in the eye. Which is also how it should be.

But I cannot deny that sometimes, I wish I had a penthouse too.

Fondling the Zeitgeist

Here is a conversation that I had with my co-worker Jonathan during a break at the Vancouver Passport Office:

"Hey Jonathan, how was your weekend"
"Oh, fine... I helped my friend Orion recover from her augmentation"
"Augmented? Is that the new way to say 'you're fired'?"
"No... she had a boob job. She's fine, but it's going to cramp her style when she does pole dancing.
"You mean she's a stripper?"
"No.. She does it for exercise.... she takes classes at that new pole dancing aerobics studio on Davie St. It's great for your abs... Orion used to be able to do sit ups on the pole... but now, with the added weight....."
"Of course...Well you know burlesque is making a huge comeback... I was listening to this piece on Out Front CBC radio about a woman who started doing the burlesque circuit to get in touch with her sexuality. It was basically about her challenge of "coming out" as a burlesque dancer to her 5 year old daughter."
"Yeah.... if I hadn't had to take care of Orion, I would have gone to this burlesque comic book convention."
"You mean...comic books about burlesque artists?"
"No... it was basically women dressing up as comic book characters and stripping to funky beats.. "
"Oh yeah....Well I hope your friend feels better soon."
"Me too.. she asked me and my girlfriend Brandy to take her bra shopping. We're going to Park Royal Mall because I don't have to pay taxes there, and they have a kickass La Senza." *


* In addition to being a connoisseur of burlesque, Jonathan is also a hereditary chief from Bella Coola, and Park Royal Mall is on land which belongs to the Musqeam Band...

The measure of my powers

This morning it was cloudy (in Vancouver? How IS that possible?) . This is why I decided to will the sun to come out by staring out the window and playing the Hymn to the Sun from the opera Iris by Mascagni on repeat as I drank my coffee..... Here are the words:

"Son Io ! Son Io la Vita !Son la Belta infinita,La Luce ed il Calor.Amate, o Cose ! dico :Sono il Dio novo e antico,Son l'Amor!"

"I am the sun! It is I, life! I am infinite beauty, light and warmth! O loved one, speak! I am the ancient and new god. I am love!"

It worked. I mean, if you were the sun, how could you not respond to such unabashed flattery? Maybe if King Canute had played Debussy's La Mer when he was ordering the waves to retreat in 1016 things would have turned out differently. As it stands, his failing to control the sea marked the beginning of the end of absolute monarchy in England (unfortunately it is still dying). In fact, just before he died, Canute ordered his crown to be placed on his tomb to indicate that there is only one king in heaven, and that we mortals should know the limits of our powers. I, however, have alwas been keen on testing the boundariess of my powers, as has my friend Pablo who whenever faced with a problem asks his Tarot cards what to do. Like the other day when we made Paella and he was wondering if he should break his self imposed "no yeast diet" and eat some chocolate cake. The first tarot card was "the schizophrenic" which meant that he was caught between two extremes. The second card was the 10 of cups which to him meant that the solution was to act with intensity... So we had 2 pieces of cake each. Of course, Pablo said that you really shouldn't read your own tarot cards because it is hard to make decisions objectively. I told him that one can never be objective when it comes to chocolate, which he should know because he is from Mexico. Where chocolate comes from.

Perhaps this is why Mexicans seem so happy. They are the hobbits of the western hemisphere. When I was in high school I used to go over to my friend Vanessa's (she was half Mexican and Half Mennonite..oy vey... she referred to herself as an "M&M") ... Her mother would invite me over, put on music and we would eat and dance for two or three days. She would also try to set me up with Vanessa, but that's another story. What is even better about hanging out with Mexicans is that most of them are short like me, so I don't have to strain my neck while having a conversationn. Yesterday I went to ahouse-warming at Hugo's place, a friend of Pablo's. Of course, there are 4 people sharing a 1 bedroom apartment and they have no furniture, but this means that they have more room to dance and more money to spend on the important things like chipotle crusted shrimp and smoked salmon in endive leaves. Hugo also wears Armani and has 5 kinds of cologne. I guess it is all about priorities. Everyone was speaking Spanish, which I didn't understand, but I spoke back in Italian when I could and when I didn't we all resorted to the international language of "glance and gesture".... before this I went to my friend Wade's 50th birthday, which was nice, but his friends are mostly Wasps, and therefore mostly tall, and mostly angst ridden. But we had scintillating conversations about the Tony awards and Robert LePage. I am somewhere in the middle because I am Jewish: We are for the most part short (although this is changing because we don't live in Shtetls anymore and have access to protein on a regular basis) and love to eat, but are mostly angst ridden. Although this is changing too (because we don't live in shtetls anymore and have access to protein and all that that entails, on a regular basis) . And as for theTonys... well, is there anything more Jewish than that? We pretty much invented musical theatre, which is a good thing or a bad thing depending on your proclivities. I am an opera singer, so I am again somewhere in the middle: I love outward displays of emotion, but they have to be tasteful and preferably in foreign languages. Which means, gentle reader, that I can enjoy the sentiment without the burden of comprehension.

Becuase once you begin to try to comprehend something, you can get lost and may never find your way. I think Oscar Wilde said that he who tries to scratch below the surface does so at his own peril. But it is important to try and understand, peril or no.....

although sometimes I think it is easier to impose your will on the sun.

Furbala

Whenever I was being petulant as a youngster (or last week) , my mother would say that I was acting like a diva. In fact, she used to call me by that name. I used to be offended, but then I remembered that to be a diva really means to be touched by God, and that made me feel better. The fact that my mother used the feminine pronoun of the word was unsettling (in reality, I would be classified as a divo, as in Il Divo, as in that photoshop-and-soundbyte "band" which is to music what poptarts are to breakfast... something sickly-sweet, white, square and indigestible).. , but I credited this lapse to an unfamiliarity to the structure of Romance languages. I was ready to forgive, take stock, and move on ...

And then I remembered that my mother wears lime green sunglasses indoors and has called herself Queen of the Universe on occasion, and my mind wandered to subjects of kettles, pots and "naming". So, I realized that in the end we are all touched by God, and larger than life, and in how many ways is THAT a cliche?! In any event, this realization means that whenever anyone tells you to get a life, you can inform them that you grew out of yours long ago and set it by the side ot the road like a snake sheds its skin. Of course, whether the aim of this process is to reveal one's true self, relieve boredom, is another question entirely. In the end, it doesn't matter, as long as you can make money while doing it.

Which brings me to Madonna, who has now assimilated another esoteric mystical tradition into her persona, and appropriated a whole new testament in the process. She is now known as Esther, the heroine of the Purim story (which is a very interesting story, but complicated... Basically you should know that most Jewish holidays can be summed up in the following words: "They tried to kill us...... Let's eat!").

Of course, if you deprive Esther of her "h" you are left with an Ester: " a volatile organic compound which is most often used to create artificial flavours and scents... ". To me, this seems a far more apt description.

Sometimes I begin to think about how celebrities have embraced "spirituality" in the last few years. First, Steven Segal claimed that he was the incarnation of a Tibetan lama, then there was Madonna and Kabbalah. I wouldn't be surprised if next week I read that Lindsay Lohan has discovered Kirkegaard...

The other day, I was shopping with my friend Soula. I came across a charm bracelet held together with a red string. It was made by Furla, the chic Italian design firm, and in her best imitation of a valley girl, Soula said "like, ohmigod... it TOTALLY looks like a kabbalah bracelet." And I was, like "Ohmigod... it's like, totally FURBALA"...

We both started to laugh hysterically, and then I thought... Furbala: 'the result of the combination of an ancient mystical tradition and commercialism.... something that is uncomfortable, that catches in the throat, and ultimately must be expelled at all costs."

Like, ohmigod.

Turning around the corner

Yesterday I had the good fortune to attend a dinner in honour of Arthur Erickson to celebrate his work and his life... my friend Michael is writing an article about him for Vancouver Magazine, and he asked me to attend the event... So, I put on my best silk pocket square and off I went. I can honestly tell you now that I had no idea who Arthur Erickson really was, other than the fact that he was an architect.... Sometimes I feel like in my pursuit of music, I can become a bit myopic. Needless to say, I am always glad for wakeup calls.. in whatever form they may come in.. First we went to a talk he gave at the Vancouver Art Gallery... here are my impressions...they are kind of rambling and unfinished... like the long threads of overworked dough... messy....

There was a genius in the room. There was a man who thinks before he speaks, and more importantly, has much to say. (But does a genius need to think before he speaks?) Arthur Erickson is an architect who minimizes the importance of buildings so that natural landscapes can speak. This to me seems like an act of great humility. He envisions architecture as the expression of human aspirations that must be made still, but yet always look as though they would spring to life.... Like a sprinter at the gate.

I think that Gertrude Stein said that when she met a genius, bells went off in her head. I have a feeling, knowing what I know of Gertrude Stein, that she must have heard bells when she met herself. Well, I am not so fortunate as Ms. Stein (may she pontificate in the salons of heaven forever), but I definitely felt something.... As I did yesterday I watched a video of Rostropovich's triumphant return to Moscow, after his citizenship was stripped from him, after he suffered so much for defending Solzenytsyn and Sakharov. He lived for music, and for freedom of expression. So did Beethoven... Today I listened to the Leonore Overture number 3 (overture to Fidelio)...Beethoven triumphing over his demons and calling us all to fight for our own voice, and in doing so, for our freedom, and for the freedom of others. And Arthur Erickson, like Beethoven, and Rostropovich, and Gertrude Stein, were against the status quo. Beethoven and Arthur Erickson said as much: Ericksoapproacheses his medium as an artist rather than a craftsman, and in doing so creates a unique vision for each building he designs. Similarly, Beethoven did not call himself a composer in the traditional sense, rather he called himself a Tondichter (literally a "sound poet") rather than a Tonkunstler (sound artist), which was the usual word for a musician. In doing so he revealed himself to be a musician of the Romantic age -- a poet concerned with feelings, expression and abstract ideals.

Today I listened to David Suzuki say that we must realize that when we hurt the environment, we are hurting ourselves. All of these things are of a piece. For there is architecture in music, and music is movement, and music and movement in words.. and great buildings punctuate space like music does. But it is not about the music, or the building...it is the in between, and the before, and how the music and the building forever change what comes after. It is the moment before the overture starts, the moment before you turn around the corner and see the Louvre, or the El Asqa Mosque, or Angkor Wat... the feeling that you are going to come across something that will alter you profoundly. But how selfish a thought this is, for none of it matters in the slightest if we stay the path and destroy the world, and thus ourselves.

And I am grateful that I live in a time and a place where there is freedom. And I pray that I will not remember this time as the moment before the curtain fell, before the world became dark. Oh, how I hope. I hope that the world will continue to have room for people who dare to be unfashionable... who venture to craft time and space out of the depths of the earth and the depths of their being into something organic and timeless. And then I remember the words of Florestan,the imprisoned political prisoner in Fidelio who said

"Wahrheit vagt' ich kühn zu sagen, und die Ketten sind mein Lohn -- Boldy I dared to speak the truth, and chains are my reward."

People were not ready for Beethoven's music. They were not ready for Gertrude Stein, just as they were not ready for many of Erickson's buildings, like the Canadian Embassy in Washington.

But we are always turning around the corner....

How Dark the Con of Can

Yes, its true.... the real conspiracy of our time has to do with CRTC regulations regarding Canadian Content regulations in print and audio media.... And you thought it had something to do with Jesus. Pu-leeze.

Actually, I did go to the Da Vinci Code, and half way through, the projector broke. I think it was a conspiracy by the church so that we wouldn't see the movie. It sounds far-fetched, but when I was leaving the theatre, I noticed that the movie poster had mysteriously fallen to the ground....

Note to Catholic Church: at Book Stores everywhere, the Da Vinci Code is displayed in the FICTION section.

You say der wassermelonensalat, I say.....

"A dog is "der Hund"; a woman is "die Frau"; a horse is "das Pferd"; now you put that dog in the genitive case, and is he the same dog he was before? No, sir; he is "des Hundes"; put him in the dative case and what is he? Why, he is "dem Hund." Now you snatch him into the accusative case and how is it with him? Why, he is "den Hunden." But suppose he happens to be twins and you have to pluralize him- what then? Why, they'll swat that twin dog around through the 4 cases until he'll think he's an entire international dog-show all in is own person. I don't like dogs, but I wouldn't treat a dog like that--I wouldn't even treat a borrowed dog that way. Well, it's just the same with a cat. They start her in at the nominative singular in good health and fair to look upon, and they sweat her through all the 4 cases and the 16 the's and when she limps out through the accusative plural you wouldn't recognize her for the same being. Yes, sir, once the German language gets hold of a cat, it's goodbye cat. That's about the amount of it. "

- Mark Twain's Notebook

The other day I decided to go out for breakfast with Arvedt. He was going to New York for a week, mostly to go to the Met and see Parsifal. You can do these things when you are an employee of the German state and have an obscene amount of holidays. Arvedt has about 3 months left of his posting in Vancouver... and approximately 4 months of leave to use up.
Anyway, we were enjoying a fruit salad, when Arvedt squinted his eyes, pointed to a piece of watermelon, and said (in his best Prussian school teacher voice) "What would you call this in German?" He does this periodically, to see if I am mastering the language of the master race. I loathe these sessions, because as Mark Twain has explained so elloquently, German is needlessly complex. It seems as though they have projected their notorious sexual fetishes upon every single word by giving them a gender.... Let me explain: like most languages, objects can be "masculine" or "feminine". But German ups the ante by adding a third case... words can also be "neuter". The word for child ,"das kind" , is a neuter word, and I thank the heavens for it. God knows the last thing the Germans need to do is sexualize children...

I often wonder, if words, like people, can have gender issues! Is there such a thing as a gender reassignment for words which do not feel comfortable in their curent gender? Do they pass through the neutered state while undergoing reclassification?

Anyway, here is my German lesson with Arvedt:

"What is this in German"
"Das Wassermelon" (how can a watermelon have a gender?)
"No, it is "die wassermelone" (apparently, a watermelon is female...)
"What if you made a salad out of watermelon?"
"Well, that would be die wassermelonesalat" (duh)
"No... it is der wassermeloneNsalat..... because salad is masculine, and in a compound word, you must use the gender of the second word. Also, you must pluralize wassermelone, because it is a salad made out of pieces of watermelon"

Okay, we're not playing this game again. Because I really don't care about the genders of melons.

I have a basket of berets that I do not wear

There is a woman in a black beret... She sits, writing with a fountain pen in a dark corner of a dark cafe, on the first day of spring. She wears black eyeliner. She drinks coffee in silence and peers out into the world, blinded by the light. I love her. It takes courage to wear black, much less a black beret, and pour out your thoughts on a sunny day in Vancouver. It is a sign of an inner life. I walk by in my new designer gym outfit. I want to mouth "I am so sorry" because I have a basket full of berets that I do not wear... I want her to know that we are kindred spirits.

There is a woman in a straw hat, waiting for the bus. She sits, smoothing her skirt. She is wearing white gloves and holding a hymn book. She is also blinded by the light, or so she thinks. I walk by with my latte, wearing shorts.. She purses her lips in disapproval. I want to say to her "I'm sorry". I like hymns too... I wear white gloves sometimes too. I have a whole basket of gloves I do not wear.. I want her to know that I am a nice person.

There is a man in a doorway in Paris. He is smoking a cigarette and looking at me with a frown. I smile and he closes the door. I am holding the Jewish newspaper. I bought it in a silent shop full of silent people in an old street. I read on the first page that a man was kidnapped and beaten to death. I am afraid. I hide the newspaper in my bag. I start to mouth the words "I'm sorry" but the words catch in my throat.

I have a basket of berets that I do not wear.

Exercise is not a substitute for a social life.

Today I came home from my singing lesson fully intending to go to yoga class, when I got a call from my friend Wade inviting me over for dinner. My gym bag was packed.... I was going to realign my chakras and sweat out the impurities accumulated over the generations. Then I thought that exercise is in no way a substitute for a social life....So I bought a charming bottle of Montepulciano and hopped on the bus. I mean, who wants to suffer through hours of trytopushmyarmthroughmyassna when one can sit in a deck chair with a perfectly mixed gin and tonic and homemade salsa? True, both activities stimulate a feeling of restfulness and psychic wellbeing, except that the latter doesn't cause one to sweat. When it comes to sport, I think that Winston Churchill said it best: "Sometimes I feel the urge to exercise, but then I lie down and the sensation passes."

The other day I was talking to my friend Randy... Randy is a voluptuous and extremely intelligent woman in her mid twenties with a cute boyfriend named Aristotle who buys tailored suits on trips to Shanghai. She decided that it would be wise to start work at 9 rather than 7 so that she could go jogging before work. When she told me this, I looked at her in absolute horror. She said she wanted to go jogging in the morning to give her energy throughout the day. I told her that working at the Passport Office was close enough to hell on earth as it was, and why did she need to add to her misery? Besides, jogging does not give you energy. Sleep does. And if she wanted to burn calories first thing, there was Aristotle. If I had two extra hours in the morning, I would give myself a refreshing cucumber astringent while listening to Debussy, or I would take myself out for breakfast. After, all, I find that there is nothing more luxurious or satisfying than wasting time in the morning. I try to fit in at least 3 sessions each week. Just think of it as pilates for the soul.


If after this regimen, you do feel the need to take exercise, I would suggest pretend you are a pioneer woman and make a dinner from scratch. Or, run to the corner store as if being pursued by the Mongol hordes. I find that nothing makes me run faster than fear. At the very least, be creative!

That being said, I will probably go to yoga tomorrow. As my instructor said, (after telling us that we must give of ourselves selflessly to achieve enlightenment) "who are we kidding? You're all here because you want a sixpack."

Consider The Strawberry - fallout

I just got an email from my kindred-spirit cousin Miriam. Miriam is an intern on the Food Network (bow down and worship..) What is more, she wears vintage clothes with great aplomb. I distinctly remember a fabulous ensemble with dark jeans, a red patent leather purse, and lots of gold lame (and hoop earrings). Miriam is fabulous, because we can talk about food and channel the personalities of our neurotic, but lovable Eastern European Jewish forebearers. She also appreciates the search for "reality" (and by this I am not talking about those reprehensible television programs that are a sign that we are in the midst of a steady decline. The Romans ate flamingo brains by the tonne, oblivious of the Visigoths at the gates. We watch shows like "Wife Swap") .... Here, for your reading pleasure, is an email from Miriam:

Benalah, You NEED to publish your blogs. My mother has been forwarding them to me and I can't get enough of them. I just read your thoughts on all things real and identify with every word. Recently in pastry class we were making the traditional strawberry shortcake ( pastry was not the highlight of my year as we used a lot of fake butter and whip topping instead of 35% cream and so on). Anyways, the strawberries looked outrageous... glorious nuggets of perfect red. I shouted this out to my pastry chef. She then said, "Yes Miriam they are beautiful but have you tasted them?"

I really miss you and can't wait until we can hug and shmooze. My life is fabulous and I am very busy. Just the way I like it. I have been interning at the Food Network, working with a food stylist there. Definitely an avenue I want to pursue. As well, I believe I will be working for George Brown College doing research for the Dean. Miriam on a computer...not so sure but the networking Ben the networking! As well, I have a wonderful boyfriend, Neil. Soooo cute. I am very lucky. So, when is Ben coming to Toronto? I want to hear more of your trip. Do you still have the same phone number? Are there any boys? I need to know these things. I love you so much Ben and really miss you.

All the best in the world,

Miriam

ps. Fresh ricotta cheese with a little brown sugar, marinated blueberries and strawberries in balsamic reduction, then you can reduce the balsamic juiciness from the berries again, over the cheese with shavings of white chocolate. Could you not die? Sometimes I make little butter tarts and stuff the ricotta filling in and spoon the marinated berry mixture over with a white chocolate spears on top.

pps you were the one who opened up my world to what real balsamic vinegar is. We need to talk olive oils next time.

_________

Consider the Strawberry

Strawberry - Fraise

"The Strawberry was valued in Roman Times for its theraputic properties. Ancient hunters ate it to sharpen their powers of perception. The alchemists of the Middle Agers considered it to be a panacea, and as late as the 18th century Fontenelle (who died at 100) attributed his longevity to his fondness for strawberries. He ate them every day when they were in season.... Strawberries should never be soaked, handled too much or exposed to heat, and should be eaten 1 hour after their preparation..."

-from the Larousse Gastronomique

Meeting interesting people in Vancouver is like shopping for candy in an organic food store: You probably won’t find anything. If the gods of sucralose and fraternity show their favour upon you and you DO manage to find something that looks remotely delectable, it will most likely be past its expiry date or full of ingredients with impeccable organic pedigrees that taste like crap. Don’t get me wrong, it will probably look fantastic.

Indeed, we are surrounded by things that look fantastic but have no taste. I have found that this maxim can be applied to a myriad of objects, from produce to people. Take the California strawberry for example … It is plump, it is red and shiny and looks inviting. You bite into it, expecting cascades of unctuous strawberry flavour, and you find it has the taste and texture of watermelon rind. Of course, you can buy these year round and eat them whenever you want. How convenient! How sad.

I do not eat of these strawberries. I wait until June and then I take a ferry to Granville Island and buy a flat of the local berries. And I eat little else for about a week. I like to make strawberries marinated in balsamic vinegar and cracked pepper. Or strawberries dipped in sugar, or chocolate. But mostly, I just eat them as is. They are misshapen. Some have mold or bugs on them, some are rotten. But the taste!

The wonderful thing about real strawberries is that each one tastes completely different.
One is tart, the other one is a little too sweet. The quest is to find the perfect berry that has the perfect balance of both. Sometimes this takes quite a long time, but can you think of a better way to spend an afternoon?

What we eat most of the time are cultivated strawberries. But the best strawberries are the tiny wild ones that you find in the forest. When I picked berries in the summer with my mother we would have pails and pails of blueberries, but I would find, at the most only five wild strawberries. These were hidden immediately (lest someone steal them from you) to be savoured in a secret moment, , or to be offered to another as the ultimate token of affection. They were never apparent to the naked eye, but had to be searched for painstakingly, because they liked to hide under the grass. Wild strawberries have never been successfully cultivated. They have tried to do so but have failed. The wild strawberry remains elusive, individual and rare. But taste one of them, and you no cultivated berry will ever fully satisfy you again.

So I implore you to eat not of the impostor strawberry, the one that has been grown in fake soil to satisfy an immediate hunger. The strawberry encased in plastic, uniform and pale.

It is better to look for something that rings true; perhaps more perishable, perhaps less to look at, but something that is real.

So let it be written, so let it be done!

I got a job! Hurrah!
I got a job as a singer! Hurrah!
With Vancouver Opera!
Next year, I will be traveling to hundreds of schools around BC singing the part of Prince Tamino in a condensed version of The Magic Flute!
I am so very excited. I couldn't tell anyone for a few days, I had to keep it "under wraps"... But of course, I told my parents. Here is an excerpt from my conversation with my father:

"Dad! I got a job!"
"You already have a job"
"I got a job as a singer! I'm going to be in the Vancouver opera Touring Ensemble next year!"
"Will you leave the Passport Office?"
"Probably"
"Oh no, you can't do that. That's a great job!"
"But I'm going to be living out a dream!"
"How much money will you make?"
"Oh, about the same as I make at the Passport Office."
"Is that gross, or net?"
"I don't know"
"Well, you should find out...Remember to keep all your expenses. We'll have to develop a tax strategy. By the way, why haven't I received your tax return."

(I have of course omitted the sections where dad tells me he's proud of me and that he loves me. They are not nearly as amusing. )

This sort of reminds me of the time my dad told his mother that he got a new job as a superintendent of schools:

"Ma! I got a new job!"
"So"
"I'm a superintendent!"
"How many buildings do you look after?"

Now please remember that my grandmother was a Polish-Jewish immigrant who smoked 3 packs of Du Marier king size a day... SO you should read the preceding conversation with this in mind.

Anyway, because I couldn't tell anyone about my news for a few days, I decided to rent the Ten Commandments to keep my mood up. I love this movie. It is tawdry, it is sensational, it has got everything, including one of the best lines in all of moviedom (Nefretiri: But Moses, I am Egypt). I remember watching it with my grandmother. She would cry. I remember watching it with my mother. She would laugh. I just ogle Yul Brynner. Incidentally, the setting for the Magic Flute is also in Egypt, and Tamino is a foreign prince. So maybe he is Moses? If you ask me my religion, I will tell you I am Jewish. But really, I believe in Cecil B De Mille.

And I am ready for my closeup!

In the words of Seti, so let it be written, so let it be done.

Just Offal

Note. The following entry is morose and self-pitying. I also wrote it when it had been raining for 10 day straight.

I hate Easter. It has nothing really to do with the supposed ressurection of Christ, although that kind of marked the beginning of the end for us Jews. I am just glad that the Christians don't physically harm us for killing their Lord any longer, as they used to. Progress! I content myself with the fact that Easter is named after a Western European pagan fertility festival. It would be like the Jews calling Passover "Spring Break" or "Frosh Week", or the Muslims calling Ramadan a crash diet. You get the idea. No, I hate this season because of a particular piece of music that never fails to put me in a funk. It is the Allegri Miserere. You have probably heard about it.. you know, the piece that was forbidden to be heard outside of St Peter's Basilica until the 14 year old Mozart copied it from memory after one hearing. It is traditionally sung at the Easter vigil before Good Friday. Therefore, it is associated with suffering. This is why it was featured in the movie version of E.M. Forrester's Maurice, which gives new meaning to the word "tortured". Consider it a Brokeback Mountain for the tweed-and-high-tea set. I remember watching this movie with my mother in grade 10, when she was developing material for the first ever Gay and Lesbian Literature course at the University of Winnipeg. I of course was not out (although I cannot imagine a more supportive environment... I mean, my mom encouraged me to grow a ponytail and take ballet. In response, I painted my room grey and started dressing like Perry Como) . I watched this movie in petrified silence, hoping to God that my face would not betray any sign of what I was really feeling... Of course, I went out immediately and bought this said piece of music... "Miserere meus domine.... Lord have mercy on me". Grade 10 was a particularly horrible year. I decided to join a show choir because I thought I was in love with a boy. I endured week after week of horrible rehearsals for things like "Disney dazzle" . The only thing that saved me was the Miserere. I would sit in my room and listen to it and read the Larousse Gastronomique...the Bible of French cooking.
One day I came across the entry for "heart":

Heart (coeur): A type of red offal from various animals, which must be bright red and firm when bought. Remove the hard fibres and any clots of blood, if necessary by soaking it in cold water. Heart is devoid of fatand inexpensive. It is considered to be an excellent dish despite its lack of gastronomic repute.

I was comforted, I was saved. The heart, after all, is not something that feels. It is something that is to be eaten. A heart is tough and must become bloodless. It is cheap and must be consumed. Yet, it is considered good. Remember that the mother in Oranges are not the only Fruit mistook a gastric ulcer for feelings of affection.

The heart is just offal.

Do you think I look Gay?

Halloween

Soula and Ben as Tokyo Rose, and Rudolf Nureyev, Respectively.
Below - Arvedt (my friend the German diplomat) as "Stalingrad".... Or was it the 1939 non-aggression pact?

When I was a child, I had very interesting Halloween outfits. One year I was Glinda, the good witch of the north. I had high heels and everything. It was grade 5. I remember walking down the hallway of Montrose elementary saying "one has to suffer to be beautiful." One year, I decided to be a ghost, and of course wore a sheet. My mom decided to up to up the ante and added washing instructions in permanent marker. Get it? Sheet? washing instructions? ( I think she was having a Magritte moment... Ceci n'est pas une phantome or something like that). I didn't either. For about 3 years running, I was a druid. Which reminds me of the time I was in grade seven and I got excited about my school's Spirit Week because I thought it would be a festival about comparative religions, complete with processions, ritual, and incense. How wrong I was. I think that my finest moment in elementary school was when I decided to take the label from the "Wandering Jew" plant and wear it for the day. I would go up to the teachers and say "do you know where I am supposed to go?"... Needless to say I thought it was hilarious. The teachers, not so much.

In other news, I just had a voice lesson. I was working on an aria from The Magic Flute where Prince Tamino sees a picture of a beautiful woman and instantly falls in love... I know. Anyway, here is a classic quote from my teacher, David: "Who are you when you sing this aria? You're a prince. You are not Ben Schnitzer. Those are two different people (but David, can't you see I'm of noble birth?). You have to sing it like a prince. You have to be in control. The conductor is not a prince! Fuck the conductor! If he's worth his salt he'll follow you. You have to sing it like you want to sing it."

"Next Year in Bamako" ossia "I don't want to hear, I don't want to know"

Well, gentle readers, I was supposed to be productive and clean my apartment today, but I am afraid I got off to a bad start and never did find my groove. Last night I went out to clubbing with Pablo, my new-age Mexican friend. Pablo is on a very restrictive diet right now because he has elevated levels of yeast in his system. He got his ears candled (after discovering that he was a number eleven in his numerology book and realizing that it was therefore important to cleanse before determining his life-path) and the woman who candled his ears said that he had a rash and had to give up everything but organic vegetables, herbal tea and brown rice. He even gave me his prized package of Serrano ham that he had shipped from Seattle, saying "ju know, it is so jummy, but I cannot eat it." He was solemn, almost like those mothers in war movies who pretend they are not hungry and give their children the last piece of bread. I was feeling mischievous so I proceeded to eat some chocolate in front of him. He reached out, and cried to the heavens like a man condemned, "ay, I want chocolate, ju are so mean." I told him he was being racist and he told me that I was being more racist. Only in Canada.

Anyway, since Pablo wasn't drinking alcohol ( is too much yist) , I was drinking for two, so I don't remember much other than a bizarre scene at a house party consisting of a room full of gay Mexican men watching a drunk Chilean girl named Felicia doing a mock striptease to Madonna's Sorry. As Pablo's roommate Edgar said "when you party with Mexicans, you never know what to expect!" Incidentally, the opening lyrics to that song are "I heard it all before, I heard it all before. I don't want to hear, I don't want to know".... I think that is an appropriate response to the current state of Madonna's music, and perhaps pop music in general. Maybe I should sing this song to my therapist? Sorry Doctor S, you know I love you. I mean, you know I, um, respect you?

After the excitement of the evening, I was glad that the clocks were being turned back so I could get an extra hour of sleep. After all, it is spring back, fall forward. Of course, I realized my mistake when I was woken up by landlord pounding on my door at noon demanding the rent. Ha ha. April fool's! No rent! Whoops. Note to dad: I am financially solvent and pay my bills online and am not a drunk. I merely play up the debauchery to make myself look more interesting and cutting edge as a writer. The fact of the matter is that I spent most of yesterday translating a Mozart aria and doing vocal exercises in mezza-voce (with closed vowels) that limit my reliance on the vocalis muscle and therefore allow me to sing more lyrically in my passagio. Oh, and I will send you my T4 slips this week. And thank-you for giving me 5 copies of The Wealthy Barber at various times during my adolescence and for helping me with math.

Speaking of dad, you should all know that I am gainfully employed in the public service of Canada because my dad went to high school with the head of a federal department (paging Justice Gomery!). One day in the elevator, my dad said "hey, my son needs a job" and his friend said, "sure thing, ear" (ear was my dad's nickname in highschool). But you know, my dad really did fulfill a mitzvah (Jewish good deed). After all, Maimonedes said that the highest level of charity is to find their son a stable job. Especially if that said son is going to choose something where the chances of supporting himself are questionable at best. Something like opera. Well, my dad, ever the practical one, said "you can do both! Just join the foreign service. Then you can get posted to Paris and sing on the side." I didn't have the heart to tell him that one's fist posting is usually to places like Mali. I can see it now... Ben Schnitzer, tenor, performs Puccini arias with Opera Bamako...

Well, I am off to bed. I just spent the last few hours in singing, among other things, the Apotheosis scene from Faust. It goes something like this: Marguerite gets knocked up, and wrought with guilt, kills her child. She is imprisoned, and invokes the angels to save her.
Then she dies. Some help. Anyway, the devil, Mephistopheles, pronounces her thus "judged", but then a chorus of unseen angels (that would be moi) cries that she has been saved and that Christ will come again and save us all. Does Gloria Steinem know about this?
Sometimes I think Pierre Boulez was right when he said that all opera houses should be blown up. I mean, really. Fortunately, the music is so sublimely beautiful that you forget about the plot. Unless of course, your set consists of a giant puppet and a noose (as ours does! Hooray for Conceptualism! The puppet represents children and control and the noose represents, like, death. And rope.).

I am looking particularly forward to staging this scene on Passover, as Vancouver Opera in their infinite wisdom has decided to schedule rehearsal for both nights. I also learned that in the spirit of sharing, the French decided to call Passover Paque Juif (Jewish Easter). Aww... a resurrection, just for me? Thanks! Except, its not really what I asked for. If the Jews ever needed another reason to continue leaving France, this would be it. So,

Next year in Bamako! Next year, may we all be free! Wait, they speak French there too.
But that is the result of colonialism, so it doesn't count.

Regardless, I am going straght to hell because of my evil writings! Unless of course I invoke the angels. But wait, does that mean I have to die? SO confusing.

Singing lesson

Today I had my first singing lesson in two months. In honour of this occasion, I have
made a collage of my impressions. I am reading Tai Pan by James Clavell and can't be disturbed, so you will have to just interpret my art.