Here there be transmitters

With the little time left me this week in racing on to page 759 of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, I have been playing with the niftiest thing since sliced bread, a free web application that allows you to make up and mark up your own interactive maps and drop them onto your website. Geo-cachers and other cartographic weenies take note--you'll love QuikMaps. Whether you just want to chart and annotate your latest pub-crawl on some pseudonymous blog, or plot out all the locations for a county-wide arts tour, it's easy--not "as long as you're a webmaster easy"--but actually easy.

I registered with the site at noon yesterday, and by four pm had created several maps, including a new NCPR coverage map, with all our transmitters and facilities plotted to within a couple of feet. You can zoom down on our studio icon, switch to satellite view a find yourself looking at the roof over the control room. I can tell which car in the parking lot is mine. Look for news and event maps in the future. My geeky heart is going pitterpat.

Harry escape

The longer I am exposed to the brutal bleeding edge of popular culture, the greater comfort I take in more antiquated and sedate pursuits. Like many parents with children of a certain age, I rediscovered the pleasures of reading aloud through the adventures of Harry Potter, wizard-in-training at Hogwart's School. The series has outlasted our daughter's residence at home, but the habit of picking up each new book and reading it aloud has stuck. In fact, we re-read the fifth book in preparation for seeing the movie released last week, and the sixth, to bring us back up to speed for the final book, due out with screaming hoopla on Saturday. We read aloud in the car, spelling each other at the wheel, and read aloud in the kitchen, trading the cutting board back and forth. We read aloud in the living room, when taking a break from the hundred channels of mind-numbing cable, and read aloud in bed--which can lead to odd dreams and the need to go back over some pages.

One of the beauties of the process is that it seems tailor-made for the long-married. After thirty-odd years, one tends to use up all possible conversational gambits. You can always talk about the day's news, but after a while, yelling at the radio and muttering obscenities to the inbox--though gratifying when shared with a loved one--is incompatible with sound cardiac health. A mutual reading session, on the other hand, shares all the features of companionable conversation, with none of the stress of figuring out what to talk about--a real blessing after a long day in the frazzle of cyberspace. When we have worked our way through to the stunning conclusion--some time next week, probably--it will be soon enough to engage one another on the pressing issues of a serious relationship. Such as what to read next.

Floating world

A placid stretch of the Raquette River, Sugar Island Flow, runs just behind my place and I have not been out on it since a falling tree during the great Ice Storm tragically snapped the back of my old canoe—a bizarre yellow and black job my father had "customized" by replacing the cane seats with an untidy cat's cradle of nylon clothesline, then shored up the rotted gunwales with split PVC pipe bolted through the hull. I've long been in the market for a low-budget replacement.

In discussing the possibilities, I quickly ran into the phenomenon of kayak evangelism. I have nothing against kayaks—they’re perfect for walrus hunting. Next time I go, I'll wish I had one. But kayakers shill their chosen craft with fanatic devotion. They natter on about hydrodynamics, ergonomics, maneuverability and speed. Yawn. If I was in a hurry, I’d take the car. No whitewater thrills for me--rapids are a nice place to put in above for a picnic. I can gnosh a little and watch the crash-helmeted kayakers suck Kryptonite-colored energy drinks from their CamelBacks while battling back up the drops by brute force and iron will. Then I might catch a little nap.

So despite the arm-twisting, I've settled on another canoe. It may be a sun-faded, scraped-up red slab of petrochemicals, but it will keep me in and the water out. It will go upstream under a moderate supply of muscle power, and will drift back down powered by nothing but the grace of God. As soon as I mail this out, you know where I’ll be.

Be everywhere now

I don't very often get out to big outdoor concerts, but when we heard that Van Morrison would be opening Bluesfest in Ottawa, his first return to the area in 40-odd years, we bought our tickets the first hour they were offered. Certain music heard at certain times in life just burns itself into the bottom of the brain. Van has a little chunk of grey matter all to himself somewhere to the south of my prefrontal cortex. I've changed in the interim, and no doubt Van has too, but the songs remain fresh as a daisy.

But while my attention was otherwise occupied, the outdoor concert seems to have changed, too. While the audience was always wired up--by the proximity of tens of thousands of co-religionists--now they are also wired up in a more technological sense. We bought our tickets online, where once we would have queued up for hours outside some box office, gabbing with fellow fans. Inside the venue, the pre-concert rain remained unchanged, but many were plugged into iPods under their umbrellas, grooving to unknowable music, and many more were texting their beer orders to friends who drew the short straw for standing in line. Others were calling directions into their cell phones, trying to hook up friends with patches of grass held open for their arrival.

Once fan banners were used to conceal microphones to capture bootleg recordings of favorite artists--now people wave aloft their phones, broadcasting the concert direct to friends at home in streaming video. We were 50 yards from stage with a good view, but people around us were often turned away from the stage to watch the video feed on the big screen. Some were even videoing the video screen--the giant cyberhead of Van eclipsing the little Van laboring onstage. Be Here Now used to be the dictum when Van was last in town. The 21st century version is, apparently, Be Everywhere Now.