Nothing much changes when you have a baby; sure there’s an absolute imperative that drives your entire life, keeps you up all night, necessitates driving around town at 3 am in search of a packet of this or a bottle of that, but this isn’t unfamiliar territory. At least not to anybody who’s been a junkie of whatever sort.

If I had a one of them “what I’m reading lists” Boogie Nights would be on it (check out the lighting on Burt), Burt Glinn would be on it, and so would the Department of Transportation’s Motorcycle Driver’s Handbook. Gotta memorize this handy little guide in order to acquire my License to Kill (Myself) from the Canadian Government.

Meanwhile I’m still intrigued by the sullen sense of space enjoyed by Canadians. It’s odd. It envelopes them like a space suit or one of those groovy Boy in the Bubble outfits that were popular in the 70s (where have all those bubble kids and flipper kids and so on gone?) or maybe like an aquarium—one that has a sign on it that reads “please don’t knock on the glass.” This interest is piqued by the motorcycle handbook. “Experienced drivers” (we are told) don’t weave in and out of traffic, nor do they “lane-split.” “Experienced drivers” follow the rules and above all “maintain a safe distance from other vehicles.” The idea seems to be, generally, that if you follow the rules and maintain a safe distance from your fellow citizens, that you’re going to be ok.

Experienced Canadian politicians, meanwhile, line the pockets of their pimp suits with millions of dollars of public funds. Far be it from me to suggest that there is any connection between a government that teaches its citizens that blind obedience to the rules is the only way to stay safe and a culture of impunity for those who make the rules, but one does sometimes scratch one’s bean and wonder. Were there a point to this, it would warrant cross reference to a libelous and defamatory Encyclopedia Canadiana entry on Adolphus Egerton Ryerson. But there isn’t so it doesn’t and now I’m going to change a diaper