identify 100 things that make me happy (besides money)

If I am to get through all 100 of these things before I die, I am going to have to start posting these more often. So I have compiled a list and now need photographs for many and write ups for others. In any case, without further ado…

I love used books stores. Just the idea of hunting in one of these places excites me. I don’t know where I will start, probably looking for some rarer science fiction, fantasy or mystery novels. Then off to kids books for the kids, cookbooks for intriguing recipes, computer books for ancient books about programming the Apple ][, photography, plays, literature, history, spanish language…
All of these ‘destinations’ will just be a pretext though, a spot to move on to as I search through the stacks and the boxes… looking for things that catch my attention. Actually looking for things that spark interest in me, sometimes a new interest, sometimes a long forgotten one.
Used books stores offer the last opportunity for me to search for treasure in life.
When I was young we used to go down to the US a couple of times a year for vacations, as our family is all from Washington and Oregon. On these trips I would get a little while to spend my allowance in some sort of convenience store stocking up on candies we didn’t get in Canada. Jolly Ranchers, Milk Duds, Hubba Bubba, the list could go on for pages. I would look forward to the trip (yes, I really loved-strike that love-candy) for ages beforehand and I would covet my treasure trove of purchases for as long as I could after. Unfortunately, distributors brought all of those same candies into Canada. Luckily by then, it was computer games and computer programming books that had caught my interest. We didn’t have any of the great computer game stores in Canada when the Software Etc, and EB Games were in malls throughout the US. I would plan for these trips and love my purchases. I would talk to friends endlessly about my impending treasure hunts and we would share the books and games upon my return. Unfortunately this too ended, as book stores in Canada supply every book the US does in the same time period and the computer game chains moved north as well. Movie stores, clothing stores, pet crap stores, you name it. We have it all now.
I remember as a kid talking about how ridiculous it was that we didn’t get stuff in Canada as fast as the US, but it never dawned on me how important it was to me that we didn’t. From these experiences I have gleaned the wisdom that I know hold as my internal mantra. ‘It is good to want things’. The wanting, the planning, the journey and the anticipation have all been stolen from me, and with the advent of the internet, stolen from us all.
We now immediately know whatever it is we want to. We can research and acquire anything. How much is that rookie card at the garage sale really worth: eBay; how much should I pay for the first edition of Delta of Venus by Anais Ninn: Bookfinder.com; the old vinyl Rolling Stones album: amazon… Really, the free flow of goods and knowledge has taken away a whole dimension of anticipation and supposition. Still, I am not writing about things that make me unhappy, so I will get back to my point.
Used bookstores are filled with so much information, so many books that you wouldn’t ever have known that they had existed in the world. By browsing through the aisles you really get one of the last opportunities for a treasure hunt. Sure, the bookstore owner has already gone through all of his or her books and pulled out anything with any value and sold those online, but still, some items only have value to you. These are the real treasures, amid the book lovers, the boxes of yet unsorted books, the musty book smell… All used bookstores are the same. There is so little organization, different bookshelves, obviously acquired at different times. Bizarre other items that the bookseller is selling because… well, he or she can.
There is a true love of books in these stores. Clearly no one figured running a used bookstore was a get rich quick scheme. I love people who love books. To me, it is like these people clearly have their values right. I don’t need to ask them anything, I just know they are good people. Like William of Baskerville in ‘The Name of the Rose’, a person who sees the value of protecting written knowledge is always on the side of good.

Although I have been a little down lately, I definitely want to keep adding to my list. Even though not as much is making me happy these days, one thing certainly continues to brighten up my days… Coffee.
I would love to say that I love coffee, but that would be understating my relationship. I need coffee, but not in a bad way. Coffee gives me a personal ritual, a grounding experience. It humanizes me and connects me fundamentally to people in my life.
I wake to a cup of coffee first thing. It is a ritual that I enjoy and depend on.
In a morning meeting, I have my coffee there on my side, almost as if it is my silent friend, sitting on the edge of my reach, waiting to pick me up or distract me or to give me a sensual blast of joy in a monotony of nothingness.
Throughout the day I break to get a cup of coffee and this process allows me to look up at my surroundings and the people around me and talk and laugh and pontificate and enjoy.
In the evening it gives me an additional dimension to my relaxation. A constant companion to reconnect with whenever I lift my head from whatever else I am doing.
Yes, Coffee is my friend, who stays with me all day. Thank you for your unwavering companionship coffee, you have been very kind to me.
All of the things coffee does for me and I still haven’t mentioned how much I enjoy going for coffee, or coffee shops or coffee makers in hotel rooms (I know this is an odd one because I almost never drink coffee from the machine, I tend to order it up from room service because I like it with milk). I love all of the rituals of coffee.
Oh, and the many ways in which it is served. For starters there is how bold you like your roast. Then there are the many ways to make it, drip, percolated (does anyone percolate any more), french press… oh and the myriad of espresso drinks such as lattes, cappuccinos, espressos, americanos… I love my coffee almost any way it is served. The only exception is that I hate sugar in my coffee. I used to love it, but I made the transition to get rid of it, and although it threatened our friendship, like all good relationships, we just came back stronger than ever.
I love my coffee warm and cold, hot and iced, bold and weak. I can’t believe that this has pretty much turned into an ode to coffee, but that just represents how I feel about it. Thank you coffee, you have made me very happy in life.

It wasn’t until recently that I discovered that this wasn’t something that everyone enjoyed. I really thought that road trips were like fresh air or water. Everyone needed them to survive. I have recently been disabused of this belief, but in its stead I now have the realization that I really love road trips.
I love the sight of the open road stretching out before me, knowing it is a lifeline to my destination, like a phone connection between 2 points. I love the knowledge that I am going somewhere. The funny thing about going somewhere to me is that it combines the notion of going some place and meeting some people. It is the people-place combination of this time and this trip that I am traveling on that I am so excited about.
To me it is like opening a new part of my life, like a tree putting out new branches and thus growing and living. Getting behind the wheel, driving towards the border (I tend to road trip down to the US), stopping for pizza and jo-jo potatoes, candy and road puppies (beer for the car-don’t get me wrong I am a firmly opposed to driving drunk, but I do enjoy a beer at the beginning of a long trip, sort of a preview of what’s to come after we get to our destination).
The driving tunes, the sights, the changing flora and fauna… I have done this many times and I have so many fond memories, from trips as a kid with the family to driving from one end of New Zealand to the other. From the trip to Reno with Steve and Eric, then Alberta and getting lost in Montana, looking for a place to sleep and ending up in St. Mary’s, a definite candidate for heaven on earth and a great time. The many trips with my brother in TR6, running out of gas then and again with Eric on a trip from back from Tahoe and San Francisco. The road trip to the Grateful Dead concert in LA, with the police escort, sleeping in the car in the parking lot in a Denny’s, being forced to drive into Inglewood that night while I driver was incapacitated… So many youthful, most of us drunk, spur of the moment, end of the party, not wanting to call it a night, trips to Seattle. Black Butte Oregon. The very enjoyable road trip to Napa Valley with my wife, back when she didn’t hate road trips.
Yes, put me in a car, like a modern day seafarer, I need to take to the road and freely travel and have new experiences. I do think that the journey is the destination, both in spirit and in life. Journeys make me very happy, and the road trip is the quintessential journey for my generation. I can’t wait to be on the road again…

It isn’t surprising, being in Canada, that I have 2 examples of Winter Sun in the top 25 of this list (and no, I don’t want people from out east chiming in saying I know nothing of winter in Canada, being in Vancouver. I am aware of that, but I doubt anywhere in Canada has less sun in the winter than Vancouver and this is titled Winter Sun).
There is nothing as relaxing, fleeting and visceral as lying in the winter sun for warmth. There is no greater connection to our primal, earthly selves then depending on the weak rays of the sun for warmth. This is doubly true when lying on a couch or window seat in a pile of pillows, doing nothing but reading a book or taking a nap.
In fact, I can’t imagine a nicer way to spend an afternoon than reading a book in the winter sun. It has to be an afternoon because by then the angle of the sun has essentially been set and now you have as many hours as possible with the warming rays coming from that angle, and those hours are all too brief in winter in Vancouver…all too brief.
I was going to take a picture of myself or someone reading a book in the sun, but this didn’t work out. I was lucky enough to capture a shot of a friend sneaking a nap in the sun, a friend who enjoys many of the same relaxing past times as myself.

It’s the fall, the unfallen apples
hold their brightness
a little longer into the blue air, hold the idea
that they can be brighter.
-Galway Kinnell

I love poetry. I love the imagery of it. The way it forces you to think with your senses as well as your mind. Apparently there are people who sense sounds as colours and tastes, as well as hearing them. The condition is called synesthesia. To me, poetry opens up the world of synesthesia to all of us, and even extends it to include sensing concepts like life and death; youth and aging; ripe and rotten; love and hate; sorrow and joy; to give these concepts feelings, colours and sounds of their own.
Apparently we all begin life as synesthetic, but over time these abilities become inhibited in most individuals. I think poetry is a way back in to this rich pageant of sensation, and as I have always contended, life, for me, is truly about sensation.
Poetry, like sunsets mostly makes me melancholy, so it is hard to refer to it making me happy, but really it does. There is something about being aware of the human condition, not avoiding it or hiding from it, nor being totally oblivious and insensate to it that makes me happy. Happy to know I am alive.
I also love women who write poetry. There have been a few women in my life who have written poetry and I am always pleasantly surprised by the depth of it. I remember a poem that my wife wrote. I can still envision her sitting at a table in a coffee shop, smoking, with the cup of coffee, dirty from refill after refill, sitting right in front of her, her chin resting on her hand and a faraway stare in her eyes. All of that from a poem she wrote, and nothing in the poem talked about what she looked like. I must have read that poem 20 years ago. I doubt that she even thinks that I remember it. Ahh, the power of poetry.
I took an American Poetry class in University, and it was the only A that ever received. I really enjoyed the poetry of Whitman, Frost, Ginsburg, and Sandburg. I have never tried to write a poem myself and that is probably for the best, but my eldest daughter right now is very interested in poetry. The poem to the left (or the excerpt from ‘The Apple Tree’) is from a book I used to read to her at bedtime. It was Baby Einstein : Poems for little ones. It had fantastic excerpts from a bunch of great poems. Maybe reading that to her when she was young has opened that world to her, or maybe she just takes after her mother.

Not many seasons have 2 interchangeable names, but Autumn is one of them. I love how much the absence of summer makes me embrace the unique qualities of this quiet, moody, rustling season.
First, there is the colour that the trees take as they stubbornly hold onto their leaves, not quite ready for the transition into the darkness of winter. There is no way to calculate, see or even feel the amount of colours in one leaf, more or less a tree. Imagine the whole season of infinite colours of yellows, and oranges, greens and reds…
This too is he season of Halloween and Thanksgiving. The two halves of the Fall Festivals, the yin and the yang of reasons to celebrate. Both of these festive occasions are, of course, held indoors, with friends and family to keep us warm. One a celebration of family and being thankful for all of the wonders that familial joy, love and triumph can bring. The other a celebration of carnal joy and delights, food, drinking, dancing, costumes, and skin. Truly a celebration of surviving one more year with friends and soon to be friends, surrounding you as celebrate what it is to be a human animal. A farewell to the flesh, until spring where it may appear once again…
Finally, my favorite part of Autumn is the short, short days. Many people complain that when they leave for work and return from work, it is night out (at least at these northern lattitudes), but nothing is more sensual to me than knowing that night has brought out its dark cloak early and the activities that are so often enjoyed in the darkness can be enjoyed longer and earlier… Just the idea of this, like so many things in my life, is enough.. bring on the night.

Okay, fall has definitely set in here, and when fall sets in in Vancouver, everyone starts thinking about warmer places. You can’t help it, when the cold wet weather seeps into your bones, but hey, this is 100 things that make me happy right? So, I will concentrate on the tropical paradises(can paradise be pluralized) that lie to my south, at this very moment, beckoning me, calling to me with their sandy shores, warm water and sunny poolsides…
Really though, there are too many great things to list about the tropics to fit on a single blog page… Instead of listing things, I will share some of my memories of distinctly tropical experiences…
I remember stepping off the plane when it touched down in Fiji. I was hit with a wall of humidity. Saying that I was hit by this wall, is such an understatement, I was immersed in it. I was going to say mugged, but despite the fact that it is such a shocking and visceral experience, it isn’t unpleasant, just unexpected. I was meeting a girl I was traveling with on some island outside of Nadi. I had lost the piece of paper that I had written down the Island’s name on, but the instructions included hopping a plane from Nadi airport, and after all, how many islands could Fiji have…. 844?? This was quite a dismaying revelation I received as I stood in front of the ticket counter with the realization of just how stupid I was, slowly dawning on my face. The nice counter girl started naming islands and during this hopeless and dispiriting process, she announced that the last plane to Plantation Island was leaving in moments. A light went on and I got the last seat to the island. Still, I wasn’t sure this was the right island, but it sounded familiar…
I flew in this little plane over to the island, with maybe 5 or 6 other people. We came down on this little gravel airstrip that went from one side of the island to the other at a small saddle between the two hills that made this place more than just a reef. This was just as the sun was setting. There was smoke from some little fire that drifted across the landing strip-the very short landing strip. After the landing a tractor came out and picked us up and drove us to the hotel check in. I held my breath when it was my turn and said my companions name, and lo and behold, I would be sleeping indoors this night.
Of all of the memories that I have, the most perfect tropical one occurred next. I remember walking out of the registration burre (hut in fijian), and it was dark, but very warm and the air was still a little moist, not at all uncomfortably moist, just perfectly moist. I think there was a note at the desk to meet at the beach bar, so I walked on to the beach and there she was sitting there with two tropical cocktails in hand. She came up to me-wearing a white tropical dress and tropical flowers in her hair-and handed me the drink. There were torches burning around the beach area and we walked down to the water. I kicked off my shoes and stepped into the ocean. It was warm, and the water was fluorescing as the small waves broke around my ankles. This night time warmth is so foreign to me-living in Vancouver-that I will probably never forget how perfect the night time is in the south pacific. Perfect.
Other memories of that trip include: playing tennis at high noon in the baking sun, developing food aversion to curry, the awesome power of a tropical storm, sitting on the patio of our oceanside house with the bananas growing all around me, the lies about there being no spiders in Fiji and Raratonga, the paradise on earth called the Cook Islands, snorkling for food and fun, the beaches, the sunsets, the broken pool tables, Steve, turtle races, the happy hour drum-I still salivate when I hear a hollow log hit with a stick.
Several years ago, I went to Aruba with a friend of mine. We partied a lot. A very lot, but in between we snorkled, swam, explored off-roads and I played a fair bit of poker. The food was so good, incredible. Other than the day of off-roading, which was awesome and yet, mind numbingly terrifying, I have 3 very distinct tropical memories:
Before the first day of the world poker tour, I enjoyed a buffet breakfast, and being alone, I went down to the ocean to relax before getting dressed and heading over to play poker. I lay back in the warm Caribbean and half floated, half stood in the water. The temperature was perfect, the water was calm and I focused on nothing. I have said before that meditation is not my thing, but this was the closest I have come to complete and utter relaxation. When I left the water, I was more mentally focused and yet calm than I have ever been before or after.
PJ and I have had more romantic dinners together than my wife and I, and one of the most romantic was sitting at the top of the waterfall at the resort hotel in Aruba. I have no idea why they seated us there, but the meal was incredible. We had Chateaubriand for two, a fantastic bottle of red wine, as the sun set over the ocean. When they brought out the red wine and the glasses, the glasses were immediately covered with condensation from the humid tropical air. That doesn’t happen too often in Vancouver.
After landing in Aruba, on our first night there, we went to Carlos and Charlies. We drank and danced and partied the night away. There was this large group of girls from Chicago that we were dancing with-I don’t even recall how we got into that group, but they were so much fun. They were a little larger, but so full of life and most of them were great dancers. I was dancing with this girl at one point and she said, almost offhandedly, ‘show me your moves’... I didn’t know what to do or say. I am a terrible dancer. As a drunken group dancer I was holding my own, but with the circle of girls opening up to see my moves, I was lost. In terror, I blurted out, ‘What do you mean show you my moves, this is all I have, I am white and I am a Canadian’... I don’t think the music stopped, but that effect was the same. Everyone stopped and looked at me. I don’t know if it was the admission that I was white, or that I was Canadian that shocked the girls dancing with me, regardless, they quickly forgave me and didn’t ask me to show them my moves again. At around 1 am some whistle blew and the place emptied. It had something to do with a cruise ship, but that didn’t help console either PJ nor me when we stumbled up to the bar in the empty establishment. The drinks we ordered did help though. I had figured that the night was over, and I was quite sad, as I didn’t want it to end. PJ and I discussed this, and after some time, we turned to go, and there, behind us all along was a club full of people. It had filled up slowly, and now it was quite full. Mostly locals who came out after the cruise ship left. The partied until the wee small hours of the morning, okay, actually not so wee and small, and we joined them. One last thing I want to mention about partying at these tropical night clubs, and that is the crazy things that the entertainment director does to liven things up. I have never seen it anywhere but the tropics, but the guy with the whistle who makes people dance on tables and bars, and do all sorts crazy things, may be annoying and tacky, but he/she rules. My hats off to the party director. Other memories from this night include: stunning sweaty bodies dancing in the humid tropical air, the crazy cocktails, breaking up a fight on the street, being chased by jealous columbians, PJ going missing, the exclusive hidden night club in downtown Oranjestad-no sign, no windows, only one hidden guarded door…
I also have great memories of my family in Mexico and Hawaii. Deep sea fishing, swimming with dolphins, eating, drinking, lava flows, swimming, surfing, shopping, mexican coffees, friends, adventures. While I have been thinking about all of these things, the sun has come out and the day isn’t so miserable. Amazing the power of positive thinking…

There is something about a pool, about the serene colours, the little tiles, the small waves… I am not much of a meditator, I have never really been able to calm down and relax long enough to get into the meditation thing, but whenever I am in the water, i can’t help but slow down and take it easy.
I love the fact that everyone wears a swimsuit at the pool (I don’t mean to take away from skinny dipping here-possibly the greatest activity that can take place in a pool-just that it has been so long since I have skinny dipped that I can’t include it here). I know that people wearing swimsuits is so obvious, but what I mean by it, is that everyone just throws on a bathing suit, and even if they are self conscious, they just do it and pretty soon, it is clear that no one cares. I know I never have, at least once I am there. Even at my fattest, I am just me and I would never think of hiding myself and missing out of pool time instead. It is unthinkable, and everyone there shares my feelings, at least for the most part. I love that.
All of this is great (especially the little tiles, I love little tiles), but none of it compares to being in the water… I love being in the water. Water makes me so happy. Other entries on my list will echo this love of water, but right now, we are talking about the largest man made body of water possible, the pool.

I can attack this list again, as I have replaced my camera. I have purchased a Nikon D40X. I am complete once again…

I have been going through some personal stuff, so I haven’t been able to think of anything to add to my list, but that is the idea of this list, so I will keep thinking.

I wish there was a better name for this. The Thesaurus shows just how no word in english captures the meaning of this for me (note, I looked up Baccinalia in the thesaurus because, well, partying isn’t even a word in the first place).

Definition: celebration
Synonyms: bacchanal, bacchanalia, bat, bender, binge, blowout, bout, carousal, circus, debauch, dissipation, excess, feast, fling, group grope, indulgence, jag, merrymaking, overindulgence, party, rampage, revel, revelry, saturnalia, splurge, spree, surfeit, tear, toot, wassail, wingding.

To start at the beginning, I am not entirely sure how bat, bout, dissipation, and rampage got in here.

Past that, binge, jag, toot and tear all sound like what alcoholics do (not to denigrate the activities of alcoholics, but just that partying is so much more to me). It might be the fact that all of those words are one syllable and really waste no energy getting to the point, and in my experience, that is exactly how a hard drinker approaches his/her drinking.

Indulgence, spree, overindulgence, excess, surfeit and feast just sound so glutinous and fling and carousal sound more like a date. I am not going to touch group grope-that doesn’t even sound like a good orgy, more like an orgy for young teens.

Merrymaking and wingding are words that you just can’t say until you are deep into your merrymaking or wingding, so they are useless. Saturnalia I thought was the Roman version of Christmas, and therefore I have a hard time viewing it as a time of partying, more a time for family.

This leaves me with wassail, bacchanalia, and debauch.

The problem with wassail is it is a drink to health (although it would be fun to watch what people do when I invite them on my wassail-to my wassail, into my wassail, not sure of correct grammar here), and in any case, I am just not committed to drinking to health. Sure, it sounds good, but really, if I cared about health I would be running to my health.

A baccanalia sounds great, but it has its problems. There is something so grand about a baccanalia. After all you are celebrating to honour a god. Just think about it. That is a lot of pressure to put on your partying. Could you have lesser baccanalias? Do they have to include orgies (I really have nothing against orgies, just I have never partaken in one-nor had the opportunity-so I think any title that requires orgies really doesn’t define partying for me)? Mind you, optional orgies, I do like the sound of that. As well, Bacchanalias sound a little pretentious. Sort of like the suburban teenagers acting like gang bangers and pouring beer on the ground to statements like ‘here’s to all the homies we lost’ and you know the only ‘homie’ they lost was Chad who had to move to Cleveland because his dad got transferred. So I figure I will be in the middle of my Bacchanalia, thinking I am doing justice to the great God of Wine, himself, when a ghost of bacchanalias past will show up and say, ‘you call this a Bacchinalia, I will show you a Baccinalia’! A kind of ‘scared straight’ moment.

de·bauch
–verb (used with object)
1. to corrupt by sensuality, intemperance, etc.; seduce.
2. to corrupt or pervert; sully:
3. Archaic. to lead away, as from allegiance or duty.
–verb (used without object)
4. to indulge in debauchery.
–noun
5. a period of wanton or sensual self-indulgence.
6. an uninhibited spree or party; orgy: a wild debauch.

Wow! This is close. I love the repeated use of the word sensual here (also, sully, self-indulgence, seduce and corrupt). No Gods included to haunt me with my word choice. This is so close. It also appears that when you include the orgy, you actually call it a wild debauch, as opposed to a tame debauch. Nice.

The real problem though is the usage of this word. Am I going on a debauch? Going debauching? Will people join me if I try to set up a debauchalia? Realistically, if I invite some friends out on a night of debauchery (which really is the only way that you can say it and have it sound cool: a real mouthful), will we all be thinking the same thing?

I am quite a hard partier, and I would be surprised if someone actually outpartied me, but I am betting I am only a soft debaucher…at least I don’t feel like I have pushed the limits of debauchery, where I know I have pushed the limits of partying. I like being out at the limits of what I enjoy. I like that people fear for my long term survival-and out and out doubt even the short term survival of those that join me-given the sheer stupidity of many of the antics of my partying. I wouldn’t like to be shunned and looked down upon in the rankings of the debuached.

So, with no better name (but clearly the desire to join the rankings of debauchery), I will explain why Partying makes me happy.

When I start my evening/afternoon, I look around at where I am. Maybe I am in the City, maybe at an interesting place near my house. In any case, it may be familiar or it may be new, but from this vantage point, this warm up before the night begins, I can’t see the road before me. The night could go any way. I can’t help but notice the collection of people around me and know that there is every chance that some of them may join us on our night out. Which ones, who knows…friends for life or lost during the night, who knows…
What I do know, is that the first few drinks will knock down some of the walls that we all have and open up honest conversation, discussion, flirting and insights that may only be transient and true for that moment, but none less are true, maybe more so by virtue of being transitory.

Will the night end with skinny dipping in English Bay, wandering the streets with a coterie of crack whores, shopping cart ladies and street people all seeing the City with new eyes, or just a forgettable (and all too often, entirely forgotten) cab ride home at the end of the night? Stanger things have happened.

I guess, being a married man, I have needed to have an outlet to believe that my life is still wide open, that anything can and will happen. I am committed to my wife and I don’t believe in lying and cheating, but I need to connect to women in a sensual manner. With sex ruled out, and stability ruled in, partying gives me my outlet.

Also, when you are out and not looking to hook up, the world of drinking changes from your youth. Women can sense your intentions, and trust me, the relationships you can have with women when you both have agreed upon a boundary are so exciting and fulfilling, and you can quite often see a side of someone that no one else has (I bet this goes both ways, but it is harder trusting a man’s bounderies I guess). In a lot of ways that is as fulfilling as sex-just not all ways. Yes, it is dangerous too, but a necessary part of a tame debauch. So if you are going to pick your game up a level, you will have to master this.

All this writing, and I haven’t even touched on that feeling when the music hits you, or you have found your way into a restaurant that you wouldn’t even use the washroom of when you are sober, but when you are drunk…the chili burger tastes as good as Chateaubriand…better even…