Kevin O’Brien indirectly reminded me today that it has been ten years this month that Reinvented (then known as Digital Island) has been doing whatever it does.

In January of 1994, we started working for the Province of PEI on www.gov.pe.ca.

One of the things I learned from the endless cocktail party on January 1 was that Matt McQuaid, the son of Justice John McQuaid, who I worked with on a Supreme Court of PEI project, is in The Rude Mechanicals.

As coincidence would have it, Steven Garrity’s Acts of Volition Radio, Act III includes a song by the band, with appropriate commentary. Well worth a listen.

As regular readers will know, our client Yankee Publishing is based in Dublin, New Hampshire. And as followers of U.S. politics will know, New Hampshire is the focal point of the Democratic Primary this month, running up to the polling day on Tuesday, January 27th.

As luck would have it, I’ll be in New Hampshire that week (I arrive on the 23rd, and leave on the 30th), so I’ll have my first opportunity to experience primary mania first hand.

Helpfully, one of my colleagues at Yankee is working with the Howard Dean campaign, so I’ll be able to get more oriented than I might otherwise once I arrive.

I’ll blog and post photos throughout my time there. Stay tuned.

Adam Curry points to this feature on the MSNBC website. Notice how, at the bottom of that page there’s a “License this Interactive for your web site!” link that leads to this page at the Copyright Clearance Centre, which tells you that you can license the content for inclusion in your website for only $99.

Why on earth would anyone actually do this, rather than simply linking to the resource itself, as Adam did?

A couple of minor housekeeping items.

First, for those of you in the modern readership that insist on visiting this website without the leading “www”, this functionality disappeared for a while after an Apache upgrade. It’s back.

Second, I’ve added Google Ads to the permalinked versions of items. Because the vast majority of the hits of these are “from away” — mostly inbound links from Google and MSN searches — this shouldn’t affect the daily readership, and will provide a modest income that will help offset the cost of providing Google energy to all those weirdos searching for strange stuff. In the last 24h, I’ve made $1.95!

It took me 37 years, but I finally figured out what the deal with “duty free” shopping is. Here’s the best answer I found on the web.

Summary: if I buy a bottle of “duty free” alcohol in the US, and come across the border into Canada, the bottle is not “free” of Canadian duty — in other words, it’s still subject to any taxes or duties that Canada wants to apply.

The duty that is free is that which the duty free store would have had to pay to import the bottle originally into the US but for the fact that they’re not going to sell it in the US, and are therefore exempt therefrom.

The theoretical savings from buying duty free products, thus, derives only from the seller of duty free products being able to offer lower prices because they don’t have to pay duty to import the products in the first place.

Charlottetown has a grand tradition of New Years Day levees. I’m certain that this happens elsewhere as well, but I’ve a feeling, because of Charlottetown’s small size yet grand sense of self-importance, the tradition is carried on more grandly here than most other places.

Yesterday was our tenth New Years Day in Charlottetown. Until yesterday, I had never been to a levee, mostly from fear of the unknown, with additional fear of the implications of the line “calling card appreciated” at the bottom of many of the levee advertisements in The Guardian. I suppose I lingered under the false impression that a calling card would be used to screen out pretenders — those without one, or those without a suitable one, would be refused admission.

Yesterday, however, proved to be the year that these fears were put to rest. This came mostly because of the return of our friend G. to the city. G. hadn’t been to the levees in thirty years (or maybe never?), and decided that part of his reintegration into Island society demanded that he begin. As well, Catherine, who is always trying to push me towards new heights (or any heights) of alcohol-induced mayhem (the lack thereof being, as far as I can determine, the only major character flaw she sees in me), was very eager that I should attend, although strangely not eager to attend herself.

So, at the crack of 10:00 a.m., G. and I headed over to Government House to begin our levee day. It was a truly beautiful day yesterday: sunny, brisk, newyearial.

My first learning experience of the day is that Islanders get dressed up for levees. Even G., whose fashion sensibilities tend more towards hitchhiker chic, was dressed to the nines. Unfortunately I, never a fashion plate to begin with, had my good shoes in the shop, and any good shirts or ties I may have once owned are buried in the bottom of an inaccessible heap. So I wore my traditional uniform of chinos, buttom-down shirt, and green cardigan. And 9 year old sneakers, frayed at the edges and seriously in need of repair. I wasn’t dressed poorly (okay, I was), but I certainly wasn’t dressed well.

Regardless, we headed up the hill to Government House for the first levee of the day, with Hon. J. Léonce Bernard. On the way up the hill, we were spontaneously joined by P. and J., P. being a boyhood friend of G., and J. being married to P. They became our companions, and drivers, for the balance of the day.

J. insisted that calling cards would certainly be required here, and P. helpfully provided G. and I with spare business cards, on the back of which we scrawled our names. There is some danger that we might be misconstrued heretoforth as having been appointed Queen’s Counsels.

Government House is beautiful inside; anyone who hasn’t availed themselves of a tour (and they are offered, for free, in the summer months), should certainly do so, for the outside doesn’t do justice to the inside.

Once at the door we were led through a winding series of rooms, over the course of 15 minutes, designed to allow the increasingly long line of wellwishers access to a warm waiting place. Fires were blazing. And we had a good opportunity to look at the fine collection of Island artwork. Once we reached the grand front room, our coats were doffed, and we awaited introduction to the Lieutenant Governor and his wife.

It is important to understand two things at this point. First, there were a wide variety of assistants, guards, and aides-de-camp controlling the teaming crowds. Second, I have never met the Lieutenant Governor.

And so it came to pass that I was busy chatting away with G. when I swung around to see a elegantly dressed man moving to shake my hand.

“This must be one of the aides-de-camp,” I said to myself. And so I shook his hand, and wondered when I would get to see the Lieutenant Governor. After a brief shake of the hand of the woman standing next door, I shuffled off.

It was at that moment that I realized that I had actually just shaken the hands of the Lieutenant Governor and his wife. Without realizing it. I shall forever be worried that I didn’t show them the proper deference.

The shuffling continued, and we entered a room where we were offered hot apple cider, fruitcake and, J.’s favourite, gum-drop cake. After some additional milling about — amidst which the Smith Sisters (and Claude and Grace) caught up with us — we headed back out into the cold, this time with the favour of a ride in P. and J.’s palatial town car.

Next stop was the Charlottetown Hotel, home of the UPEI levee (despite UPEI having an expansive campus, walkability is everything on levee day, and holding their levee way out there apparently just wouldn’t do). This time calling cards were helpfully provided and, mindful of my recent experience with the LG, I paid careful attention and was able to recognize President Wade shaking my hand.

On offer was some sort of mild ginger ale-like punch, the specific identity of which eluded us. I got a chance to catch up with a couple of people I hadn’t seen for some time, and then it was time to run off to City Hall before the levee there closed down. Our trip next door contained our first encounter with Andrew Sprague, the well-turned-out CBC radio personality, as well as a meet-up with Island labourcrat and bon vivant Leo Cheverie.

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Having lost track of P. and J., G. and I headed out into the cold and made our way to the City Hall steps. At this point I spotted my old Balkan acquaintance Joseph the clarinet player entertaining, and a quick call to my father resulted in the Croatian translation for “Happy New Year,” which I was able to whisper in his ear mid-music. He seemed pleased.

Then it was a 10 minute slog-wait up the stairs, round the corner, and into the council chambers, cleared, for this event, of all of the crazy technology that has recently afflicted the room. On offer were our new Mayor, Clifford Lee, as well as councillors and friends Kim Devine and Bruce Garrity.

In the next room there were signs of the food that had once been present, but none of the food itself. This was the topic of some grumbling from (recently rendezvoused) P., J., G. and self, as none but G. had taken breakfast before setting out. We resolved to plan the next stop as one that would be sure to have food.

So back out into the cold, and down to the Haviland Club, where P. was sure there would be food. There was not. But there was egg nog, which I drank not knowing it was egg nog, and thus having my first taste thereof. We had a brief chat with Geoff Scales in the hallway, did a brief tour of the upstairs crokinole room, spotted Robert Ghiz and then were off again, this time to the Garrison around the corner.

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The Garrison’s levee was a very grand affair, held in the expansive indoor parade ground. There was a uniformed band playing Chuck Mangione hits, and just enough of the dregs of seafood chowder left to make a meal for the four of us. G., being Island history obsessed, insisted we tour the Garrison’s museum, which turned out to be quite interesting, especially given the presence of a special framed display of “Yugoslavian Money.”

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After a brief encounter with the aforementioned Andrew Sprague, we were back into the town car.

Next stop was the Masonic Temple on Hillsboro Street. This stop was quite eerie for me, as my last enounter with a group of aproned Masons was at my grandfather’s funeral in Cochrane. Nonetheless, we profited greatly from our brief view beneath the Masonic apron, had a couple of pieces of very good Eastern Star lemon cake, a glass of red wine, used the special Masonic washroom, and felt like fish out of water for 15 minutes. Of particular note to me was the use of specially-imprinted plastic Masonic tableclothes on the lemon cake table, the grand throne on the first floor, and the unexpected presence of several young Masons, all looking very fresh-faced. Then it was time to move on again.

Next stop, ironic given our point of departure, was the Bishop’s Palace on Great George Street.

I believe that my entry to the Bishop’s Palace may represent my first incursion onto Catholic soil on Prince Edward Island, save for a one-time bowling expedition to the Basilica Recreation Centre several years ago. Having been raised in a religiously non-committal environment, I have long been daunted by the ritual and ceremony of the Catholic faith, and thus have avoided, again because of fear, their Island outposts: issues of holy water, making the sign of the cross, etc. looming as large as the calling card issue mentioned earlier being the chief impediments.

I need not have worried.

We were well received by Most Rev. Bishop Fougere and his assistants in the grand front room. The Bishop, in fact, went so far as to compliment me on my green cardigan, which was quite an honour, and took the edge off my feeling ill-dressed (although he might have been making fun of me in some weird Catholic sarcastic way; I’m still not sure). On into the further reaches of the Palace, we were offered sherry and punch, and then, making our way to the wood-panelled back room, we found sandwiches, cheese and crackers and cookies in abundance, along with the best institutionally served cup of tea I’ve ever had.

After a brief tour of the Bishop’s Palace basement (which may or may not have received official sanction, and at the end of which J. locked me into the basement for brief minute, during which visions of becoming a basement dwelling recluse entered my head), we were off to the Royal Canadian Legion.

The Legion, like Government House, initially presented some logistical challenges. Our first stop was the bar and lounge in the basement, where much merry making and drinking, complete with special guest appearance by Andrew Sprague, was in progress. This, however, turned out to not actually be the levee proper, but some breakaway splinter levee.

We headed upstairs to the grand ballroom and it was there that we found the levee proper. After shaking hands for the two hundredth time, and wishing the two hundredth Happy New Year, the combined sherry, wine, and punch swirling through me were resulting in a pronunciation more like “Hbly Nblu Wlear.” By this point, nobody seemed to notice.

We were still famished, and were initially elated by the promise of food here. Alas we were, again, too late, and there were but a few meatballs left on the steam table, and we decided to pass. It was at the Legion that we had our most serious bump up against the kilted revellers who travel from levee to levee on a chartered bus. By this point in the day — near 3:00 p.m. — they were all in fine form, and much back-slapping happiness was in view.

After a brief sightings of Ritchie Simpson and Andrew Sprague, flagging a little, we decided to make a dash for the Premier’s levee at the Confederation Centre of the Arts, with hopes that more food would be present there.

Although the Premier’s shindig had just started, there was a line of perhaps 200 people in front of us upon arrival, second only to the lineup at Space Mountain at Disney World in my experience. We decided to stick with it, though.

While in the line, we happened to cross the path of the aforementioned Most Rev. Bishop Fougere. Having my usual inhibitions now completely absent, I plucked up my courage to ask same for his first name, this having been something of a topic of conversation over the course of the day between J. and I. He was very willing to reveal that his name was Vernon, and went on to further explain the origins of the name Fougere, which translates as “Fern,” and closed by pointing out that this meant that a full-on English translation of his name would be “Vern Fern.” This exchange made me think seriously that the earlier cardigan compliment had, in fact, been backhanded. By very pleasant nonetheless. Such that should I ever decide to leave the ranks of the non-committal, I will seriously consider applying to the Catholics for membership.

Also in line was the local gadabout and raconteur Nils Ling, who beat me to the bunch with digital camera out and snapping (I quickly returned the serve, although with enough fumbling to seriously damage my geek cred).

After 20 minutes, we came to the head of the line. Newly outfitted with special Premier’s Calling Cards, we shook hands with Hon. Jamie Ballem, Hon. Mildred Dover, freshman MLA (and old radio colleague) Wayne Collins, and then the Premier. Our photos were taken by Provincial Photographer Brian Simpson (I think I managed to flub mine by moving around too quickly), and then it was off to Memorial Hall for the best food of the day.

The Premier had excellent cheese, crackers, vegetables, sweets, hot items served by uniformed waiters, and varieties of punch, spiked and not. Gordon Belsher was the geographically appropriate entertainment. And Andrew Sprague was nowhere to be seen (perhaps he stuck around longer at the Masons?).

By this point it was nearing 4:30 p.m., and Catherine was beginning, I think, to imagine that I’d disappeared into a ditch somewhere. G. and I bid P. and J. a hearty farewall, G. came by for some home wellwishing. And then I fell immediately to sleep.

As far as I know, I have never received an email from anyone in Montague.

However today I received an email from a man in Australia.

The weird thing is that it didn’t seem all that weird to me. It was like receiving an email from someone in Montague.

Ten years ago, getting an email from someone in Australia would have been very cool, and worthy of mention to your friends.

Twenty years ago, getting an email from someone in Australia would have just barely been possible for the average person.

And thirty years ago, the notion of having almost-immediate contact with someone in Australia would have been, for someone in Charlottetown, a once in a lifetime event. Can you imagine: “Peter, there’s a guy from Australia on the phone…” in 1974?

Happy New Year to all.

Almost every day I get an email message from someone who’s read something on this blog, looking for more information. And almost always the correspondent appears to think that I somehow officially represent that which I write about.

I’ve received email from people who want to donate clothes to the Red Cross. I’ve received email from people who want to purchase Cora’s Restaurant franchises for Mexico. I received email from people who want to purchase Cadbury’s chocolate bars.

The messages aren’t “hey, I read on your weblog about…” messages. They are “Dear Sir, I have several containers of clothing to donate; please tell me where to send it.” Or “We have several excellent sites for our new Cora’s here in Mexico; please have your franchise agent contact us.”

I assume that these queries come from people who go to Google, type in “red cross donate” or “Cora’s franchise” or “cadbury chocolate bars” and end up here. Then they simply click on contact and send off their email, without absorbing anything else (like the big “Reinvented” at the top of the page, or the sentence “Reinvented is two people, Peter and Johnny Rukavina.” at the top of the contact page.

This isn’t a problem in my life, and I’m not complaining, for it’s as much interesting as annoying. But it does suggest something somewhat disturbing about how people read the Internet, how they evaluate sources of information, and about how context appears not to matter.

Our librarian colleagues obviously have a lot of work ahead of them.

Here’s a great aerial shot of Charlottetown, undated, showing how different our waterfront once was: