Diary of a week, or how I wish I'd precycled my life.
Sunday. One of my favourite places to visit on Hornby Island, apart from the bakery, Helliwell Park and Whaling Station, is the Hornby Island Recycling Depot.
It's a cool gathering place, bustling with bonhomie and good intentions. It represents the heart and soul of the island and since 1974 has led the way on recycling.
My favorite place at the depot is the free store. Here there are clothes, books, magazines, electrical goods and a treasure trove of idiosyncratic stuff. It's a garage sale and flea market and community exchange spot.
I dropped off a sack of clothes and picked up a papier maché bowl, a two-year-old Bon Appetit, a three-month-old Vanity Fair and a small pamphlet on how to improve my tennis game.
I also discovered a new word: pre-cycling.
The store has the following precy-cling tips:
? Buy items that can be reused rather than thrown away.
? Avoid disposables such as diapers. razors, lighters and pens, plastic food-ware, paper plates, throwaway batteries. Each of these has a reusable alternative.
? Choose the least packaged item or buy in bulk.
? Buy milk, juice and beer in bottles.
? Bring your own grocery bag or box.
Monday. Before the Obama-Rom-ney debate, one of our senior network producers asks that we avoid the term "knockout punch." It's a tired, overused cliché around debates. We're so much better than that, he says.
One of our producers says he'll go for the jugular and give 110 per cent. I tell him it's déja vu all over again.
Another producer asks for clarification: "What if one of them actually punches the other and knocks him out?"
Tuesday. To the Vancouver International Film Festival to see a Danish movie, whose English title is Love Is All You Need. I get into a conversation with a man from Copenhagen who tells me the title in Danish is The Hairless Hairdresser. Something got lost in translation.
It's a nice little movie. Pierce Bros-nan, the suave former James Bond, who showed he couldn't sing in Mamma Mia, puts in a beautifully understated performance as a tortured, angry widower. Still suave, but self-mocking - and as he ages, a lot less plastic. He speaks Danish pretty well too, according to my new BDB (best Danish buddy).
Wednesday. To B.C. Place to see the Whitecaps - a birthday gift for my son. The roof is open. A cool wind makes the game feel less artificial.
Before the match, there's a booth where you can kick a soccer ball into the net and they can measure how hard you kick it.
My son gets 90 km/h. My wife scores 50 km/h.
I take my turn. I have played soccer most of my life. I lean into the ball
to crush it. The ball skews sharply right off my shoe, bounces off the side of the booth and careens into two young women who are at a neighbouring attraction.
"I tried to bend it like Beckham," I say, apologizing. They shake their heads in pity. Yesterday: Soccer was such an easy game to play.
Thursday. The consensus is Mitt Romney won the presidential debate. The New York Times, Washington Post, Guardian and just about every major newspaper on the planet employs the term "knockout punch."
Friday. Two pop-culture 50th anniversaries fall on the same day: It's half a century since the first James Bond movie, Dr. No, was released, and on the same day in 1962 a new group called the Beatles released their first record, a jaunty little piece punctuated with harmonica, called Love Me Do.
Whatever they threw at him (including Oddjob's steel-rimmed bowler hat), Bond just couldn't or wouldn't die.
Same goes for the Beatles. John and George may be gone, but the Beatles' music endures. Paul's concert at B.C. Place next month sold out in nanoseconds.
Saturday. My wife, whom I often refer to as St. Beth of the Environment, discovers we have a mountain of paper plates and napkins left over from a wedding.
Since there will be a cast of thousands - slight exaggeration - for Thanksgiving dinner, she suggests this could be their moment to shine.
Everyone seems to think it's a great idea. Paper plates at Thanksgiving? Ye gods.
I'm going to keep my head down at the recycling depot.
