It's All Greek and Delicious to Me - Autumnal Geekquinox 2025

Having travelled to Greece as part of their comprehensive European honeymoon earlier this year, Pete & Ellen theming the most recent Geekquinox as "My Big Fat Greek Honeymoon" makes a lot of sense. The hit 2002 movie of the same name is fondly remembered as a lot of fun, and obviously that region boasts some spectacular cuisine. (Although their overlooking of 'Greekquinox' as a name until I mentioned it was a bit surprising...)

Audrey was a bit saddened that we didn't have anything particularly Grecian to wear, until I chanced to ask Totty if he still had the toga sheets from G&G XVIII around. Turns out he was planning the same thing himself, but luckily enough he had exactly three of them on hand!

Things opened up with a cocktail featuring ouzo, lemonade and mint leaves that was an absolute delight for both Audrey and I, with the anise flavoured liquor cutting some of the acidity that normally makes lemonade a risky proposition for her.

The first dish was a amazing homemade spanakopita, with loads of homemade tzatziki to go with it. A tandem effort that saw Ellen looking after much of the folding and re-folding of the filo pastry (which would have driven me utterly mad) while pete worked on other dishes, these crispy, creamy hors d'ouevres were absolutely fantastic. Good enough that I reached for a third when two would have been plenty!

Not nearly long enough after that, the grilled souvlaki chicken and Greek rice arrived at the table for lunch proper; Geekquinox begins at noon now to facilitate our aging difficulty in remaining up long past midnight. The grilled chicken was juicy and flavourful, and not tremendously salty (a challenge I often face with grilled chicken), but the rice almost stole the show. Cooked with lemon juice and zest as well as chicken stock and a bit of parsley, this was one of the best rice dishes I have ever tasted, with just the right amount of stickiness.

After a slightly longer break (and some more delicious lemonade cocktails), the main course arrived at the table: a delicious slow roasted lamb leg, Greek potatoes and a Greek salad.  Seasoned and roasted potatoes are one of my favourite sides, but I am generally too lazy or time-pressed to make them myself, and these ones hit the sweet spot right between crispy and fluffy. The salad, with tomatoes, olives, onions, celery and feta in a mild vinaigrette was light and fresh, an ideal accompaniment to the succulent, boneless lamb. How succulent? The first piece that I forked off the platter to hand to another guest, broke apart under its own weight - and it was not an enormous piece. And with au jus for the roast and tzatziki for the potatoes, there was no worry about dryness to be found anywhere.

There was ample time for drinking and chatting before the dessert course was served: a custard dish in an impossibly flay filo pastry shell called galaktobourekos. I would sing the praises of this dessert based on its crust alone, knowing how finicky filo is to work with, but the rich custardy heart of the dish was neither too flaky nor too runny, challenges I have encountered with custard in the past. A delightful finish to the evening, even if it did push me almost to the bursting point!

But there we were, sufficiently fed and watered with full stomachs and fuller hearts even before 9:00 rolled around. And the two dishes that ended up not making it to the table were not even missed, and frankly, might have pushed some of us beyond our limits.

As always though, the wonderful fellowship among dear friends who have done this for well over a decade now, put even the glory of the dishes to shame. Thanks again Pete and Ellen - opa!

Bench Works

I went through a bit of what must have been a nesting period in 2007 when my work situation changed suddenly. I found myself out of my position with 11 weeks of severance pay and (blessedly) health care for that period as well. I wanted to take some time figuring out what I wanted to do next, and was doing some work along those lines at the Bredin Institute, but I also knew my capacity for indolence was practically limitless, and endeavoured to find productive distractions around the home Audrey and I had purchased barely a year earlier.

One of these projects was a workbench and toolboard, something I highly recommend if you have any love of organization whatsoever. The workbench itself, a chintzy Chinese-made jobbie from Canadian Tire, was no great whoop but at least gave me an elevated surface to work from, and a shelf to keep some larger tools off the floor. With some added pegboard and hooks from the local hardware store, I had ample space to arrange my modest collection of tools, including the big set of screwdrivers my sister- and brother-in-law had gifted me the previous Christmas.

I also wall-mounted the grey tool box we'd picked up from Costco shortly after getting married. Again, the tools weren't of any particular quality, but the socket set was decent enough, and it had a specific spot for everything, which I appreciated.

An old change table fit under the grey box as an additional workspace, and it made a good spot for the nuts and bolts organizer drawers I also got as a gift.

To be clear, I do not do a whole lot of handymannin' or project work, but when tools are needed to hang a picture frame, replace a car battery or jury-rig some barriers to isolate the winter tires beside the garage, it is gratifying not having to search too far for the right tool for that job.

And being without work at the time made this an even more satisfying project; lining up the hooks and tools and arranging the screwdrivers was like a mundane and Western version of a Zen garden. AT an unsettled time in my life, this bastion of organization and potential productivity was a genuine balm to my spirits. It made me wonder if Dad had felt the same way about his workspace in the garage in Leduc.

Dad's garage workbench was homemade, constructed out of sturdy 4 x 8 boards and long steel woodscrews as I recall. He mounted both a decent sized vise and a small electric grinder wheel  on it, as well as an overhead fluorescent light. The majority of his hand tools though, he tended to keep in a nondescript but tough canvas bag that I think he'd had since his days in the navy. His electric drill had a dedicated steel box and I recall a few wrenches on the wall, but I think my pegboard game might actually have been better than his. 

That workbench was some kind of solid though.

This weekend, two friends and I went out to their late mother's house in Leduc to get their own dad's workbench out of the basement, in anticipation of selling the home. It's a nice unit, with a treadplate-fronted cupboard and drawers containing that cushy mesh so your wrenches and such don't slide around or clank loudly every time you set them in there. Best of all though, it has a gorgeous, thick wooden top.

Neither of my friends recall this bench from their childhood, reckoning it came in after they'd left home, possibly after their father had retired. What had prompted the purchase? Was it for a special project, of just too good a deal to pass up? Regardless, neither of them had space for it, and I was grateful for the opportunity to give it a new home. 

In anticipation of its arrival, I had pulled the change table out of its niche and swept out almost two decades worth of dust and mouse droppings. I moved the old chest of drawers out of the corner so I could more easily reach the top drawer full of nails and screws, as well as the others with their miscellaneous collections. 

The Mastercraft bench is sturdy and awkward, so getting it up a narrow staircase with a 90-degree turn in it was a challenge, but we managed to do it without damaging the walls or ourselves. It fit easily enough in the back of the 'Lander once one of the second row seats was folded down, and unloading it my garage was a piece of cake for two people. 

When Audrey saw it, she observed that the beautiful wooden top could actually let it serve as a kitchen island if needed. I started to reply about treadplate being an odd design motif for modern kitchens, but stopped when I realized yeah, an incongruous industrial style like that could actually look pretty cool...

There is still some re-organizing needed, as well as a trip or two to the Eco Station and Reuse Centre, but even these initial steps of tidying and reorienting are a salve to my soul, similar to when I had initially set it up. Would that everything in my life could be sorted so easily!

A Half-Century of Terror and Fascination - Jaws

We saw the 50th anniversary re-release of Jaws this weekend, one of my all time favourite movies, and one that had a profound impact on me as a kid. It is a 4K remaster being shown in IMAX, so probably the first time I've seen it in a cinema since, well, the first time, in 1975.

I would have been eight years old at the time, and I have no idea what my dad was thinking when he brought me. I think I wanted to go and may have asked him? Or perhaps he was going anyways and asked if I wanted to come. I know many people in my 4th grade class were two scared to go, and rumours of people becoming physically ill in Leduc's Gaiety Theatre were rampant (and likely apocryphal).

I had planned to put an empty popcorn tub over my head if things got too intense, but a a stern look from Dad dissuaded me, so I watched the film in its entirety. I remember being disgusted at the severed leg settling to the bottom of the estuary, but it wasn't the gore that stuck with me - it was the intensity.

No bad dreams followed me out of the theatre, but a momentary fascination with marine biology did, along with a passion for movies that Star Wars cemented into place two years later.

I revisited the movie with my kids years later and it was Glory's appreciation of it that reminded me what an awesome film this throwaway monster movie truly is.

Since then I have shown it to many people for their first time, and although many will comment on how Bruce the mechanical shark (named after Spielberg's lawyer) doesn't hold as much water these days, especially 30+ years after Jurassic Park, everyone comes away with at least a little apprehension about open water.

I had watched the Jaws at 50 Documentary on Disney+ only a week before, and had learned even more about the troubled film production than I had from my reading and all the special features on DVD and BluRay. I knew Spielberg had run way over time and even more over budget on the film, but I did not know that the responsibility he held for this, and for all the people depending on him, took such a toll on him personally.

Seeing the film in IMAX was a great experience - it made the shooting star that Spielberg puts in every movie much easier to find and for the first time I noticed that when Chief Brody takes a glass of whatever homebrew Quint has served him and hands it off to Hooper while saying "don't drink that," Hooper drinks it anyways - I think I am usually too enthralled by the interaction between Roy Scheider and Robert Shaw.

Shaw, in particular, is one reason that Jaws doesn't need an IMAX screen to be impactful. His telling of the fate of the USS Indianapolis during WWII is just as captivating on a 14" b&w tube TV late at night as it is in this 4K restoration. 

And while our matinee showing wasn't sold out, I still found it a little gratifying to discover that this half-century-old film that the director thought would be his very last movie, actually beat two new releases at the box office.

Jaws is a great story, brilliantly shot and acted, and for the time, Bruce was a very credible stand-in (despite corroding almost immediately due to his being designed for freshwater, not salt). And the story about the story is almost as good - the challenges of shooting on water, the use of the natives of Martha's Vineyard as not only extras but speaking roles. I expect I will see it a few more times in my life, hopefully introducing a few new people to it along the way.

But watching it in the water, like they've done at Sylvan Lake a few times? Not a chance.

Livin' On the Dial...

Like a lot of people my age, I have an enormous soft spot in my heart for the sitcom WKRP in Cincinatti. It ran from 1978-1982, and like Star Trek, enjoyed greater success in syndication than it did in its original airings. 

Set at a midwestern radio station transitioning from an easy-listening to rock radio format, the show had so many great characters and interactions that it is hard to have a favourite. The writing was sharp, self-aware, and shifted from laughs to pathos without missing a beat, like when black disc jockey Venus Flytrap, coming to face the music as an army deserter, introduces the white station manager who's joined him for moral support as his father.

And the music! Rock that ran the gamut from classic to new wave, and all legitimate tracks by known artists. Debbie Harry's band Blondie actually credited the show playing their single Heart of Glass with helping to break it out, and presented the show with a gold record.

But that same verisimilitude was what ended up costing WKRP syndication immortality, as rebroadcast rights shifted or lapsed, and made it impossible to show the episodes without frankly brutal and nonsensical edits, and nixed home video releases.

With syndication now replaced by streaming, and access being limited wither outright piracy or the DVDs released a decade ago by Shout Factory with most of the original music (ooh, and on sale for $59.00 CAD as I write this! hmm...), I am surprised how WKRP remains relevant and maintains a fandom, but somehow it does.

In fact, one of those fans has done something marvelous as part of their Radio Retrofit project: they have stitched together three hours of ersatz radio content, hosted by the show's morning DJ, Dr. Johnny Fever (Howard Hesseman) working a simulated triple-shift. It opens with the choppy dial tuning and static from the show's intro ("-but the senator, while insisting he was not intoxicated, could not explain his nudity-") before launching into the wonderful theme song.

The other music is eclectic and solid, the intros and outros funny ("That's Bo Diddley playing a song called Bo Diddly, and why not? I can't imagine anyone doing it better..."), and best of all, they've included advertisements and news breaks with Les Nessman "...WINNER OF THE BUCKEYE NEWSHAWK AWARD," (Richard Sanders). 

It is a real labour of love that the individual has made available to play or download for free from their blog here. I listened through it today while we had company, and but even that intermittent exposure was enough to convince me to buy the producer a cup of coffee via PayPal. 

Music streaming means I don't listen to the radio a whole lot any more, and when I do it is often news or the listener-supported stations like CKUA with their extremely eclectic mixes. I still tune into the local modern rock/alternative station periodically but their playlist comes off as fairly repetitive even with my limited listens.

Make no mistake, listening to a fake DJ spin real music is nothing if not nostalgic, but maybe that's okay once in a while. The songs played range from 1955 to 1982, and both the time range as well as the variety of styles and tones remind me of a radio ecosystem that simply hasn't existed since. I'm amazed it existed at all, actually, and feel privileged to have experienced it.

In the meantime, I am fully aware of the irony of using a pocket digital computer to digitally play analog radio wirelessly in my vehicle, but that hasn't stopped me from doing it, and looking forward to my next long drive.

The Teardown Shift

It takes three weeks to build the immense site for the Edmonton Folk Music Festival, and another thre weeks to tear it all down and pack it back into sea cans for storage. Folk Fest Volunteers are expected to help with teardown their first year and each alternating year thereafter, but my team (Greetings, aka the Tarp Lottery) has a plum gig where none of our shifts overlap with performances, we pitch in every single year. 

My tendency has to book the Monday off after the festival, sleep in a bit after a couple of egregiously early mornings, and then do the teardown shift on Monday afternoon, thus maximizing my use of days off from work. But it does mean I am usually pretty bedraggled and footsore when my four-hour shift begins, and this year it was beastly hot to boot.

Teardown duties for unskilled hands like myself usually involves taking down  and packing up the multitude of tents, collecting scaffolding and stage parts for later collection, and removing the perimeter snowfence.

Gallagher Park (home of the Edmonton Ski Club) is pretty big, so there is a lot of fence to take down. This involves a crew of 8-10 people first using snips to cut the top level of snow fence off of the metal posts, then rolling up that mesh (about 4' wide and up to 30' long) and zip-tying it for later collection, then repeating this process with the bottom mesh. Next, the zip ties holding the top half and bottom half of the fence posts is snipped by one person while another keeps that top post from swinging loose and clobbering another volunteer. 

The last step is using a post removal tool, a simple but clever lever sort of affair that weighs about 35 pounds to remove the 6' picket post that has been driven 2'-3' deep into the ground. This year the clips went very quickly and I knew rolling the mesh on the ground would devastate my back, so I lugged over the post remover and started uprooting them. 

It is sweaty but strangely satisfying work, especially when a stubborn post has been driven particularly deep, or into a hidden seam of clay. I got about a dozen out by myself, then another volunteer came over to assist so we could take out the other half a bit more quickly.

When I was done, our crew boss, Ross, asked how I felt about doing the opposite - with the perimeter fence down in our area, another fence was needed to keep people from wandering onto the site while disassembly continued.

I said I'd never put the posts in before, but was willing to learn, so Ross got me to grab a hardhat and ear protection, as well as the post driver. This is a capped pipe with handles that feels like it weighs about 25-30 lbs. Ross broke down the process for me - a partner holds the post in place and leans it towards you so you can put the pounder onto the end of it, you then straighten the post out to your E-W perspective  while your partner keeps an eye on the N-S angle. Then you lift the driver up a couple three fet and let it drop - no downward motion required. 

But you will need to lift that hefty bugger up and drop it about a half-dozen times per post, and there were about twenty posts to drive, each about five fet apart.

Ross went over to the crew dismantling a tent to get me a partner and came back with Sage, a girl who was maybe 15-16 years old and maybe 105 lbs counting the hardhat and water bottle. She gamely picked up the first post and leaned it over for me, and we got down to it.

By about the fourth post, my sheen of perspiration had reasserted itself, and by the tenth, I was not lifting the driver as highly nor as swiftly as I had been at the start. Sage, bless her heart, said, "if you're getting tired, we can switch out," which sounded like a grand idea.

I grabbed the next post and leaned it away from me like James Brown with a mic stand, and she boosted the driver up to chest-height, adjusted her grip and placed it onto the post. We straightened it out, and she lifted the driver, dropped it, and then repeated it with a little bit more height. 

About five posts later, the awkward driver was not coming up off her chest with its initial alacrity either, but without a word of complaint. Against my better judgement, I suggested I was probably rested enough to switch back, and so we did. 

By the time we finished, the crew attaching the mesh had caught up to us and were able to secure the new, smaller perimeter with this shorter (4' instead of 8') fence.

After a short hydration break, I was paired up with someone else to remove more posts around main stage, and that accounted for pretty much the other two hours of my shift.

The whole time working out in the 29 degree (humidex) heat, I expressed gratitude that this was not my chosen profession, and apologized to my body for what I felt was sure to be agonizing recovery the next day, or perhaps the day after. 

Surprisingly though, there was only a little bit of stiffness the following day and nearly none the day after.

But gratitude for having a desk job remained unwavering.

More Folk Than Fest

As I write this, literally thousands of people on Gallagher Hill have probably just finished singing Ian Tyson's "Four Strong Winds" to bring the 2025 Edmonton Folk Music Festival to a close. 

Not only was I not there for it, this year was a low-water mark for my participation, having only stayed for one main stage act (Aysanabee, who was wonderful).

I had a very hard time keeping my energy and mood up this year. This is probably due in part to having had a fractured molar extracted two weeks ago on Thursday, then having the resulting dry socket (ugh) treated twice last week. Don't let anyone poo-poo it, the dry socket experience is generally a miserable one.

To cap things off, I had brought clothing on the first day to sort out being cold or being wet, but was one layer shy of being okay with cold and wet. Once I established that this was my condition (midway through Aysanabee's set), I resolved to go home early to prevent getting miserable or ill early in the festival.

I didn't even bring my tarp on Friday, intending to hit the sack early so I could rise at 5 am for my volunteer shift and see all the main stage acts on Saturday night. But then I forgot to bring my tarp on Saturday, and after returning home for my traditional Folk Fest siesta, I lacked the energy to return. 

And with Glory just starting her orientation shifts (and first casual call-in), I missed having my hill-buddy with me. Hopefully she is able to get back on the team next year.

Wih rain predicted for Sunday (which turned out to be quite the deluge!), I decided this year would be less about music and more about service, and you know what? That worked out just fine.

Heading home early Thursday meant I could see Fenya for the first time in three weeks as she returned from Japan. My early morning shifts on Saturday and Sunday wern't nearly as debilitating as they have been in some prior years, with 3-4 hrs sleep at best.

Friday morning, I saw a coyote traipsing languidly through the parking lot at Re/Max Field where I catch the volunter shuttle.

The food is still amazing, especially considering they feed about 3000 per meal in what is basically an army kitchen.

And most critically, the team I work with (Greetings East) is full of great people who are easy to work with. All hackers, no slackers, and the new crew took to the work very quickly - setting up fencing for a corral for the tarp lottery, managing a crowd of up to 2000 people for a couple hours and then lining them up for three city blocks so they can get marched on to the field and place their tarps before the public gate even opens.

It's very tiring work (more so every year, it seeems!) with early hours on the weekend but that means we are done before the first acts even hit the stage - and next year I will be sure to see more of them!

Mutually Acquaintanced

If friends are a blessing (and this point is not actually up for debate), how much more of a blessing are friends who are friends with your friends?

I have known Island Mike since junior high school, and we have remained friends and confidants throughout the years, despite running in drastically different social circles in high school, and despite not having lived in the same area code since 1993. We were best men at each other's weddings and despite only connecting sporadically, his wife and children feel like family to me. 

And in my local friends group, the usual G&G and Geekquinox suspects, at least three other couples have been out to visit Mike and Kelly on the island over the years.

At the Riverhawks game Friday night

With the two of them in town for a family wedding, I offered up our place for a get-together pot luck and smoked a brisket, thinking that at some point maybe the lads could sneak off for a board game or some such while the ladies chatted - but the gaming never started because the chatting never stopped.

People came and people went (with commitments of their own), literal bread was broken and libations shared, and the patio table remained occupied for about eight hours, from half past two to half past ten. Peak attendance was around 11, with two regrets.

It was glorious.

There was no agenda, and at a couple points, smaller groups wandered off to visit the dog park with Canéla or tour the Crystal Palace, but the table was never abandoned throughout a third of the day. 

We talked about everything and nothing, from family and health challenges to games and television. About our impending retirements (some sooner than others) and how we intended to spend our time, because we all agreed, as appealing as doing nothing might sound, Covid taught us all how unsatisfactory it can be in the long term. But I could have done nothing at that table, with those people,  for a good while longer than I did.

These brief intersections are so precious, and the dynamics at work are so intriguing when the larger group gets together - the geometry quickly becomes ungraphable and you simply have to let it draw you in. I am so grateful that Glory was around to take part in it.

Because sitting here now and typing this at 11 pm with a work day looming and a dirty kitchen upstairs and an extracted molar giving me grief, and yes, maybe a few too many servings of reposado on a school night that I may find regrettable tomorrow morning - I still feel like the luckiest man on Earth.

Thank you, friends!