70s Saturday Sci-Fi Scans

I just had to share this today - it's so weird. entertaining and retro! Thank goodness this vision of future fashion didn't come to pass, because I certainly don't have the body shape to rock this outfit. Imagine a potato instead of Raquel Welch and there you go. According to the helpful YouTube comments, this is from 1970. While some things haven't stood the test of time like space girl bikinis, you can still visit the park pictured in the background. It's Ruta de la Amistad or "Route of Friendship" built for the 1968 Olympics in Mexico.

I know, I know, technically this is not a book, but 2016 has turned out to be a pitiful year for reading. I have started - and abandoned - so many books that I feel a lot of shame. I love reading. It's a huge part of my identity and I am completely confused about it!

Auto-correct, My Worst Enema

As the saying goes, auto-correct is my worst enema.

I downloaded a popular predictive typing app years ago for my Android phone because it was so handy and a time saver; now it seems to have lost its mind a little.

I have pretty fat thumbs so I thought it would help me type better on a tiny screen. Instead, it constantly embarrasses me.

I wanted to congratulate an old co-worker on his new job, so I sent him a text that read "Congratulations Pail!" Oh c'mon, who on Earth names their kid ‘Pail’? Why didn't you suggest ‘Paul’? Doh.

This app will gallantly protect you from making a big ducking fool of yourself, but can’t get a popular name right.

Worse, I recently planned a potluck with a male friend via texting. “I’ll bring the slow cooker and we can make children” was totally not what I meant to write.

OMG! My thumb hit the send button faster than my eyes could see and my brain could comprehend. “Chili! Chili! We can make chili!!” Auto-correct, you’re driving me to an early grave, or at least making other transit riders inch away slowly from all the laughter. A slow cooker is about as unsexy as appliances get.

It seems the app is preoccupied with me having children actually, because it pops up the word constantly. The result is that hubs picks up fried children after work, I have leftover children for lunch and every now and then we go to Swiss Chalet for children with dipping sauce. Yeesh! You’d think I was Snow White’s wicked stepmother handing out poisoned apples left and right. I guess it’s my fault for doing a poor job of training the app. Garbage in, giggles out.

Now this one isn’t entirely the app’s fault, but it’s still pretty funny. One time we were driving down a thoroughfare alongside which our neighbours live. I dashed off a quick note to my friend whiile stopped at the intersection because I could see her sitting upstairs. “I can see your head through the -“ The light turned green and with one little bump, I completed the text. “I can see your head through the blood.”

“OK, I am totally going to hide in the closet now,” she wrote back, because that was not creepy at all!

As the saying goes, auto-correct is my worst enema. At least Word just quietly offers to change it to enemy :-)

70s Saturday Sci-Fi Scans

Today's blast from the past is a time capsule in itself. While we were on vacation, my parents cleverly hid a few boxes of old books in the basement. It took about a month for me to notice :D.

See, back in the day when there were used bookstores all over the place and trendy neighbourhoods were less Starbucksy than they are today, I used to enjoy scooping up old sci-fi paperbacks by the pound. My husband also enjoyed this hobby, and it's possible that we bumped elbows in those dusty, musty places. Digging through the boxes was almost like shaking hands with my younger self. “Why hello there, young woman in the plaid shirt! You don’t know me, but let me tell you about the fuuuuuture!”

Sometimes I wasn't too careful about what grabbed - sometimes all it took was an interesting cover to seal the deal. Let's start with the author photo and cover of today's tome. Pretty groovy for 1976!

Doesn't the title alone make it sound like this awesome dystopia? The “Terminal Generation?” Who are these poor, trapped souls? Are they like “The Starlost”? What evil overlord must they overcome, what adventures will they have? I can totally see why I bought it. On the inside it says:

We are the Terminal Generation...

on the brink of despair, engulfed by waves of confusion, desperately grasping for hope in what seems to be an utterly hopeless world.

But, if I had read a little further, I would have discovered that it was one of those 70s disasters books full of future predictions, and this one more so than others. Hal Lindsey is an end times author, or dispensationalist, as Wikipedia helpfully explains, and apparently there was no shortage of all the ways the world was going to end by the mid-80s, if not sooner. Mr. Lindsey is still at it, actually! There isn't a cohesive narrative that most non-fiction books are able to form at all, just short screeds that clearly inspired the cover artwork. Lindsey's mind is wrapped up in a lot of anxiety caused by world events, particularly a fear of communism. The chapter on false prophets is particularly quaint - sometimes it's easy to forget all the consciousness raising stuff people did in the 70s that was pretty cultish.

It's pretty hard to take the book seriously in this day and age - maybe we’re just used to the news or have some disbelief because we're still here 30-plus years later. It was the idea that the alignment of the planets in 1982 would trigger disasters - but at least there's a hint of science fiction within. Lindsey mentions The Jupiter Effect, a book from 1974 which somehow had an introduction by Isaac Asimov. It's nice to know that goofy ideas existed long before the Internet :-D

Tales of the Unexpected

It's the rattle of the ticket machine that gets my attention, and the way the man pokes fruitlessly at the display. I had gone into Yuppietown to get dandelion leaves from the organic market, and now I was waiting for the train, dandelion leaves, raspberries and oranges cradled in my arms because I was too cheap to buy a reusable bag, and my wallet tucked under my left armpit. It's never just the one thing! Jill Potenti is sympathetic to people held hostage by the whims of machines, so I ambled over and asked, "Is it not giving you a ticket?"

"Nope."

"Hmm..."

"It says push any button. I am doing this right, aren't I?"

It's been ages since I had to buy a ticket, but we walk through the process, just in case. "Durn thing took my three dollars!" His accent is amusing; I would have thought he was from Ontario if he didn't say Nova Scotia. He has a wide. friendly face and a bushy mustache.

"I would just call the transit info line and maybe they'll send you more tickets."

"This is great. I only been here a few days. Not that I want to be. My brother is dying."

"Oh. I'm sorry." Jill Potenti is also sympathetic to those suffering the whims of fate.

"Yeah, I was gonna go see him. He's at the F----------. Don't know how I'm gonna get there."

"Well, I would just go one stop over. Get off at the mall and tell the bus driver the machine ate your money."

"They told me to get off at L----- and catch a bus."

"Oh no no. There's no buses that stop there. You can catch two buses to the hospital from the mall. But it's not just getting there. It's getting back. One bus has the same number, but it goes in different directions. If you take it in the wrong direction, like I did, you go all over the northwest. But I would do that, when my dad had a stroke, that's what I did."

My transit knowledge impresses him; the train arrives just as I was going give more advice so he won't suffer the whims of a fickle transit system. I expect him to get on with me, but he doesn't. "You have a really nice day, thanks, you're a real sweetheart." He touches me on my left arm and smiles before he goes.

I shuffle over on the train, and then the panic hits me after the door closes - I was just the world's worst mark. I squeeze my arm and my wallet is still there. I have a sudden urge to check my pockets even if it means oranges rolling all around the train. What was it about his casual, friendly manner that now makes me think it was a smooth, practiced pantomine? Why do I now think he was patiently waiting for me to say "Oh, here's three dollars I can give you," at so many points in the conversation? And instead all I could give him was free advice! Duh!

Mr. Potenti rolls his eyes as I recount the conversation for him. "Riiiiiight." he says more than once. Grifting three dollars from transit riders probably adds up fast. Thinking the worst of the fellow makes me feel guilty, because I like thinking the best of people. Maybe he is new in town. Maybe he really does have a dying brother. And goodness knows those ticket machines break down a lot. But maybe too, when I mentioned that my dad had had a stroke, he changed his mind, humoured me for a few minutes and moved on to find someone that would make him feel less guilty about taking three dollars. I'll never know for sure. I jot down these little stories because they're always fodder for larger ones. The banal can be oddly interesting. Someone once said that writing is forgetting, but for me, writing is remembering, as well as sometimes an exercise in giving the benefit of the doubt.

Tales of the Unexpected!

"Unexpected" sounds a lot less judgemental than "weird", don't you think? Today reminded me of one of those unexpected times as I helped Mom register for Christmas craft sales like we do every fall. Some you can sign up online for, others you have to wait in a sign up line. It's something fun we do together, and make friends along with some pin money.

Mom knits old fashioned baby sets - usually a little poncho and booties, bonnet, mitts or some combination thereof. It's a classic look - I had quite a few and you probably did too! I bet you were a cutie wootie angel pie, all dressed up like a doll. Alas, if my older brother hadn't ripped up my baby book, I would have such a picture to share instead of finding one online. For years I wondered why my book was so empty - Mom could only shrug. It's not like she could just go to the computer and print off some new ones, something we take for granted now. Since there aren't any little Potentis running around, Mom loves knowing that some little kid will be wearing her clothing.

Now, there are always one or two items every year that are hard to sell. We try raising the price, lowering the price, and offering the customer a special price, but no luck. Shoppers pick it up, stretch it out, fondle it and hold it this way and that. Sometimes it takes a couple of years for a particular set to sell.

Such was the fate of one gender neutral set in soft pastel yellow and green. "I wish someone would buy it," Mom said sadly after every sale. There was nothing wrong with it, the right buyer just hadn't found it yet. Then one day - it happened! At our very last sale for the year, a customer took an interest in it. She picked it up, stretched it out, fondled it and held it this way and that. But instead of putting it back down on the table, she said "I'll take it!"

Mom was so thrilled she could barely count the change as I bagged it up. "I'm glad you like it!" I chirped.

"Is it for a little boy or a little girl?" Mom asked. Some shoppers prefer their friendly banter post-sale instead of pre-sale.

"Neither!" the customer replied. "It's for my monkey!"

"Oh cool!" I said, giving Mom a chance to regain her composure. After seeing it all in forty five years of retail, Mom couldn't cough up a smile or a little chuckle. Shock had rendered her speechless!

"It's going to fit perfectly! I love it!"

"That's great!" I continued on. "Thanks so much for buying it. Have a good Christmas!" Mom might have all the retail experience, but frequent strange encounters have made me the better actress.

I waved after the happy shopper and turned back to Mom, who had sat down and gripped the other chair for support. "A monkey! Can you believe that, a monkey!" she gasped and stared at me with a look I won't forget. Someone might as well have spilled coffee all over our table. For the rest of the sale she just shook her head and muttered the phrase over and over when there were no customers.

Thus Mom learned that the universe of the unexpected has no boundaries. Each individual makes our world that much more unique, sometimes with a story in it to tell. If smartphones were around then, I would have made the customer promise to send a photo of her furry little friend. But ah, Mom would have been traumatized all over again. I don't know, but the monkey is still probably someone's cutie wootie angel pie, and probably hasn't outgrown the set either!

Tales of the Weird!

Some days I look at myself in the mirror and say, "Jill, what is it that makes you a weirdo magnet?" And then I almost want to smack myself in the forehead while repeating "Bad Jill! Bad! Stop attracting weirdos!" Now, lest you think I'm the judgmental type, it takes a lot for me to label someone a weirdo. A weirdo in my book is someone who really crosses a line or makes you want to cross the street. It's not just someone who happens to dress differently or is eccentric.

Just a few weeks ago, I came home, found Mr. Potenti in his man cave and said as much to him. Jack rolled his eyes and stubbed his index finger into his chest. "Trust me, you're not that weird! Get this, so there I was, standing on the corner..."

So there I was, standing on the corner, waiting for the light to change, when a young man next to me mentions that it's a long light. "Yeah, it always is, but I don't have to be anywhere in a hurry." I replied, giving my big tumbler a rattle. It had already seen four refills, so oppressive was the heat that day.

We chatted about the recent rainy and thunderous weather, just like any normal folks would do. But normal is the weirdo's specialty. They are masters of disguise and seldom come with a t-shirt that says DO NOT ENGAGE in big letters. As we crossed, keeping pace with each other, there was nothing about the young man that would have made me scoot a little faster. Yet.

"I have to catch the 86, I work at the Cineramaplex." he said as he kept checking behind him.

"Oh yeah! We go there a lot. " I said brightly. "We want to see Pacific Rim, so maybe I'll see you there tonight!"

"I can't wait to see Grown Ups 2!" he suddenly exclaimed.

"Well, heh, it has a stellar cast." I said, although some would have laughed instead. He did fit the demographic after all, and we all have a right to have our guilty pleasures, even if they rate 7% on Rotten Tomatoes.

"Did you see Jimmy Fallon last night?" Perhaps he had thought in Jill Potenti a kindred spirit.

"No, I don't watch TV."

"Man, you'll never guess who was on! Jesse and the Rippers!"

"The Rippers?" There was a big huh what? behind those two words.

"On Full House? They had John Stamos and the band."

"Oh yeah, heh, it's been years! I used to watch it every Friday. It was on for, like, ten years?"

"Eight."

"Oh! Really. I thought it was something like that." Maybe he was a little confused about my age. That happens a lot.

Then he pronounced a similar love for Saved by the Bell. "They should have made a Full House movie." he said wishfully. "Even a reunion one."

I know I said something like "That's the trouble with those shows, everyone ages." I tried to grasp at some thread of conversation about something I hadn't seen in twenty years. This kid was pretty devoted to his reruns! I couldn't imagine, or even stomach the idea of Bob Saget or any of the girls reprising their roles.

There's a gap I can't reconfabulate, but our time together was almost over as we approached the bus terminal. "I don't listen to new music anymore. It's all Lady Gaga and Justin Bieber." he confessed.

Perhaps I wanted to humour this guy a bit. "I hate to say it, but that happens. Music stopped for me in 1998." Not entirely true, however.

"Lady Gaga is a slut. Or as I call her, Slut Gaga. She comes on the radio and I'm like 'Arrrgggh!' "

Well, that was out of nowhere! Being a natural diplomat like most Libras, I replied, "Heh, well, she does sound like Madonna. And, ooh, that one song sounds like Cher. She's a smart lady, she takes old songs and makes them familiar enough to be popular again."

"She's still a slut." he said with great conviction and veered off for the bus shelter. I walked along a little bit and breathed a sigh of relief that I wasn't trapped on a bus with him. Five minutes with this guy seemed like forever. I was afraid at that point what he might tell me next. I guess he didn't care much for me praising Lady Gaga's business savvy, or hinting that she might be, you know, not a slut.

Now, if I was the more confrontational type, I might have been more direct. The first rule of weirdo engagement is Never disagree with the weirdo. You don't have to overtly agree - an "Oh yeah" or non-committal noise will suffice. The weirdo doesn't care about your opinion. He just wants someone to hear it. The second rule is Agreeing with someone is the fastest way to get them to leave you alone. And as weird as he was, I couldn’t help but think of the fantasy worlds he watched and might live in, where mothers and adult women don't really exist. There's something awfully sad about that made me think he was lonely. But the truly bizarre thing is that he thought another woman wanted him to hear him call another woman a slut. Weirdos. They're out there! Beware!

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