Spinals and Emergency Childbirth

Well, like the little sea lion said - "It's all coming together!" Not in so many words.

So I finished the dots, graphed the data. There are trends. They may be far from significant, but they are there. Mike in my lab group thinks it's not that bad, and we will finalize things when I get back, so that's pretty much done. Again, I apologize for the hiatus. This time I was busy as hell finishing that research and marking papers, then meeting with students over them. I think I am finally ready to skip town for 10 days, and that's exactly what I'm going to do. The WFR course starts tomorrow in K-town, and I am going to hole up at my buddy Ian's for the first little while. I'm just a little uneasy about the living situation. Stupid things. I don't mind sleeping on a floor, no probs there. I just wonder about things like fridge space. Jay and Alaina both laugh at me when I bring this up, but it's true: When someone is staying at your house, you don't mind being the host at all until you open your fridge and see there's no room for your jug of milk because your guest bought that akward bunch of celery stalks that's taking up way to much room for something with negative caloric value. I don't want to be that guy. Catch my drift? Anyway I hope there's enough space for some perishables, the rest of the non-perishables I can keep in the old car. I will be living out of that little golf. Clothes and food my friends, clothes and food. I'm thinking on lunch breaks I may head out to the car and just make myself something right there in the parking lot eh? Anyway, I know it will be fun once I get there, it's just the uncertainty of how everything will work, and the desire not to step on too many toes while ensuring no fucking of the self is going on. Ie, you think the day won't be too long so you pack a bagel for lunch. Things drag on till 6:30 and you fail a quiz due to passing out from hunger. That has a high degree of self fuckage. Really the risk is only present on the first day since after that I will know the schedule. . . Also there is a potluck tomorrow night so I will try to go to that to meet everyone and figure out what the dilly is. I just want to make sure I can roll into K-town on time to get my bearings, do some grocery shopping, make something for the stupid potluck and get there. And then find my way back to Ian's.
Do I seem like a worrier? I don't worry when I know my situation, even if it's bad. If, however, the situation is ambiguous and there would be a way out of fuckage, the way is just vague, then yes, I become a worrier.

Okay that's enough.

Ann emailed me back with specific instructions on how to find her when I get to Geneva. It's kind of creepy really. She's like a spy giving me instructions. Somehow she found out all this stuff about the layout of the airport and surrounding area, and I have explicit directions now of times and places and modes of transport to come meet her. I had to laugh. Ah well, a plan is better than no plan. After we execute that plan, our plan is to have no plan at all, to just do whatever. So like I always say, the only thing worse than no plan is a plan!

So now all that's left to do here is get a good sleep and make sure I get all my poo together before I head off tomorrow. If all goes well I will be giving emergency trachs and reducing dislocations in no time!

Peace out

Re:Rod the Retodd

Hey - wha haaaapen!?

Maybe you, the faithful reader can help me glean whatever is the principal lesson I should be learning from the experience I had last night. First year was one of the greatest years of my life. I lived in a residence called Johston hall, the setup of which is literally a hallway lined with doors, allowing for great social interaction. It's one of the residences you hope to get into when you get into Guelph, and the 60 of us were lucky enough to be part of 3 South that year. We have always kept in touch, at least loosely, the 10 or so of us that were really good friends. There was one room of engineers I am particularily good friends with, and as almost no one went by their real name, unless it was as unusual as Marcus, the engineers were Puma, Scottie G and Driver. Good guys. Scottie G is still at Guelph finishing up is Bio Eng degree because of a fiasco which I can only say is fit not just for another entry, but for an entire other blog. Perhaps with the permission of him I will reproduce his story here one day. Puma and Driver live in a house together in Oakville working for an engineering firm there. Driver has been travelling the world on the business he does with them. He's been to Japan I don't know how many times in the last year, also he frequents the west coast a fair bit, and just a couple of nights ago he was in Chicago. I gathered from his messenger name that there was nothing he would want more than to come to Doogie's, our favourite bar, after his return, to celebrate his birthday there. Lil' Jeff, my old roomie from first year (and then housemate in second year) called me up to confirm I was coming. I told him I had a little Kandalore shindig to go to, but that after it I would be there with bells on. So yeah, Bob and I went to the dinner thing, and we were off to the downtown at around 10:30. It was great to see so many familliar faces from those times again. We had some good laughs. Somewhere in the backround there was Rod: the fine specimen of honour and dignity that is about to become the centre of this vignette. I asked Puma "so how's life treatin' ya?" And he gave me the rundown of his living situation, part of which was Rod as a housemate. This begged the question "Oh really, is he paying rent?" Now speaking of vignettes, I'm going to go back, Tarantino style again, and tell you why I asked that question.

Flash back to the year 2003 or so. It is second year, the townhouse is comprised of Chris Driver, Scottie G, Lil' Jeff, and Yours truly - at least for awhile. At some point in the year (all this is kind of blurry cause I haven't thought much about it since.) ol' Rod became our fifth housemate. Driver is from a little town called Picton, where things get kind of crazy sometimes. The Picton team sticks together, because when any one has fallen on hard times, the others are there to pick them up. I suppose Rod, a semi-tall, oafish low brow individual who has a look of perpetual dissatisfaction with his situation that people with lives remind him of, needed a place to live. What a great sentence that was. Yeah Rod needed a place. I don't know what was wrong with the place he was in, he never told me. In fact he never really talked to me at all. Never asked if he could stay in a house that I shared, use my fridge space, make messes in the living room, set up a matress in our closet, sleep in there, and generally take up space and resources for no compensation, filling the air with racism and obscenities, for approximately 1.5 months. After getting sick of seeing this shit every time I came home from life, I asked lil' Jeff what he thought about the situation. He didn't like it one bit. Finally after reaching a consensus with Scottie and Lil', I approached Driver candidly about the situation. I told him if Rod was going to stay he needed to pay rent. Driver totally understood and took the situation into stride. I suppose he knew Rod's time was limited and he let him stay as long as circumstances allowed. Rod was gone a few days later. It was an immediate relief not to have to be in the presence of someone I didn't actually talk to the second I came into my own house. Not only that, but someone who didn't mind one bit that he was going absolutely nowhere in life - that's just plain annoying to watch. Flip burgers if you have to, don't be above any work, and for god sakes, don't think you're above work in general!

Flash back to Doogie's. "Oh really, so is he paying rent?". Puma got the luck on his face like that was a touchy subject, the answer was a complicated yes, which is a no. However he said Rod had just gotten a job at a bike shop (bicycle) and was working on Norcos. He bought a Sasquatch and rode that to work every day. It sounded good, I was happy for the guy. It was about time he started doing something.

20 minutes later.

I'm sitting on the bench with Bob, little Jeff facing us from accross the table. Rod enters my field of vision from behind and flamboyantly gives me the middle finger. I give it back and point it directly at him, a practiced game puma and I have been playing since first year. It's like tag but with 'f you'. Rod threw a few more fingers my way and I got bored of it so I started talking to Lil' again, who informed me "Rod hates you man, he's not happy." Rod didn't like Lil' Jeff either, cause he was the only other person to tell him that if we had to pay, he had to pay. Apparently Rod is still a violent guy, he seems not to be able to articulate his feelings in any other way. He's tried to physically get into two fights with poor Jeff. Later I was standing by the bar, Driver bought us some shots and we did them. Rod came up. I opened conversation with "Hey, I heard you're working at a bike shop now."
"Fuuuuck yooouuu, don't fucking talk to me man."
"Okay, but I actually thought it was cool that you are working on bikes."
"Seriously, fuck off, don't talk to me."
"Rod, if you don't want me to talk to you, why the fuck would you come and stand next to me?"
"How would you like it if I knocked you the fuck out."
"ahhaha [genuine laugh] " here I irritatingly made a little sockless sock-puppet with my right hand, and opened and close its beak. This is to signify "you talk too much, I can't even hear you anymore"
Then I asked if he really thought that I was afraid of him, again, a genuine question. Rod must've been really drunk to put himself in this situation. I was starting to think about what it would be like to dismember an ignorant bigot limb from limb without any tools.

At this point, Mike the bouncer came up. He knew Rod was Driver's housemate and didn't seem to remember that Driver and I have been coming to Doog's together for 6 years now. Rod immediately told him that I bought Driver a shot to get him more drunk, and Mike believed it. Being an advocate of Driver, Mike warned me about doing that, and about fighting in the bar. I couldn't believe I was getting in trouble for this shit. Did I have a different choice of action? Some may say "Walk away" but I didn't trust this guy enough to turn my back on him, so really that wasn't a choice. I also am not someone with a hair trigger, and was nowhere near fighting, especially inside the bar. I leaned over to Mike and said "dude, I know you don't care about the history of this Drama, but just let me say one thing, what he just told you was a lie." Mike had a glimmer of comprehension in his eye. Minutes later Rod pushed past me, with Mike following him. "Was that him? Was that the guy?" Mike saw Rod's body language.
"Yep."
Though Mike thought he had left, I had a bad feeling. I had the feeling Rod was waiting outside. After about 15 more minutes reports from Driver, Puma, Scottie, etc. Started to filter in that Rod was infact seething outside, pacing, waiting. Apparently what really got him going was when little Jeff would shake his head at Rod and just say "Wow." something I used to do all the time. He would growl "Don't fucking do that, Marcus used to do that." Apparently I really chapped this guy's ass and didn't know it huh? I found out that Colin, a little person who is good friends with the guys had also been insulted and assaulted by Rod. How low can you go man? We had a chat where he gave me the sage advice "This world is filled with assholes man." I guess from that perspective you can see them all, if you catch my drift. Sad.
More reports filtered in that he was outside, Mike would intermittently come by and call him a pussy or a douche bag and tell me not to worry about it, but I was worried. The issue wasn't whether I could kick Rod's ass. I wish it were that simple. In fact in a world with no consequences you better believe I would have gone outside and showed him what's what before he knew what the hell was going on, but this is not such a world. Rod may think he has nothing to live for, but I have parents I have to explain myself to, a girlfriend that's worried about me, a job, future jobs, most include working with children and the ones after that include a respectable instition. Black eyes and scars that are clearly from fighting, not to mention a record with the police, are not worth teaching a lesson to a slow learner. More reports filtered in and I soon heard the police were watching discreetly from the end of the street, and an entire tactical team was on standby to basically kick both our asses should something go down. These guys don't have much to do on a Saturday night. This was not my cup of tea. Bob suggested there might be a back entrance we can take out. After about 30 more mintues of waiting, and the music and crowd starting to fizzle, we decided to make our move. In the confusion of another fight or something being chased outside, Bob and I requested an escort out the back. At this point Driver's girl 'friend' is distraught over the whole thing, and Puma's is downright pissed at him for suggesting he would step into stop Rod if something happened. The whole vibe has been doused, and everyone's tried to talk Rod out of a mistake and he hasn't listened. I didn't like the idea that I was so powerless. The cops were waiting outside, not to protect me, but to kick some ass. I had to find my own plan if I wanted to get safely home that night and sleep in my bed, and a drunken me was in no position to be formulating plans. As one of the bar tenders happily showed us out the secret back door into the old alleway, Mike apologetically thanked us for our discretion and we slipped into the dark, cold Guelph air. Next thing we knew we were on a totally different street, we took the back way out and walked all the way home, talking about the stupidity of the whole situation. I thought of Billy Madison. I thought of when Billy calls all the people he's been mean to and apologizes for it, and how it pays off because one of the dudes is a crazy sniper who then crosses Billy off his list. ahah
I realised I had been on someone's list for three years, and if I had to guess who's, boy Rod would not have been my first. Let's hope this is the last I see of the guy, let's hope he does something with his life and forgets. When you're stuck three years ago, I can see why punching and kicking is all you have left.

So what should I have learned from this? If I had not stepped up back then Rod would have stayed with us till the end of the year. What should I have done differently? He didn't give me much opportunity ever to be nice to him, so I don't see any other way I could play my cards. Well, society will always have its crooks, and there's nothing you can do about it. I guess you always have to look over your shoulder.

That's a shitty lesson.

straight livin'

I apologize for the hiatus. And the size of this huge post - but hey, look on the bright side! There's alot of spaces between paragraphs, so it's really not that long. Also think of it as two posts in one! Read it in sections if you want. The truth is I wrote an entry 2 days ago, which I was quite happy with, and it completely disappeared. That was more than a little disheartening, so I said "F you blog." for a few days. We are now just getting on speaking terms again. The last entry had a grand description of the day the kokanee trucks pulled up and just threw free six packs at us until the cops came, but that is about the extent that I'm going to recount it here. Since I don't want to write about it twice, and if you don't mind I like to consider these entries works of art, which cannot be duplicated, even by their creator. Just let me have my excuse okay?

I'll put the picture up of the kokanee trucks.


Well my actual life isn't all that exciting right now, in contrast the the usual press junkets and book signings I attend, so I'm thinking of posting an excerpt from more exciting times. Just to update you suspended readers though, I'm counting a lot of dots these days. Finished taking pics of the Prefrontal Cortex, all three regions contained therein. We just like to call it the PFC on the street. I'm now up to the Nucleus Accumbens, which is missing a lot of data due to faulty staining, which makes things faster, but really sucks cause that means no results.

Parents called yesterday - they're loving every minute of it down in Fla. They're doing some cool hikes. They've seen an armadillo, a python or two, and a 7 foot crock. Apparently it growled at them, as it was a mother with her young. My dad wants to see a coral snake. I told him he really didn't want to see a coral snake, but I guess he figures if I saw one he should see one. I call him Pap, and I call my mom Mami, not because I am old fasioned, or a pampered little snob, I call them that because my first language was German, and those are the names I learned for them, which naturally stuck. You know we only have room for so much mutation in how we address parents in our lifetime. Mami has always been Mami, and Pap was Papa when I was right up till about 6 or 7, when it started to morph into Pap. Some people have more tolerance for this kind of morphing. Yank for example refers to his parents as Bill and Julie. To their face. To each his own.

Alright to make up for the dearth of postings, I'll insert some story from a previous life (which is soon to resume) in a couple of sentences.

Other than the above I am preoccupied with trying not to play Need For Speed Underground 2 (I am an addict and it sucks), while trying to get all the dots counted before tomorrow's midterm. I have also arranged some accomodations for the WFR which I am taking on Kingston on the 31st. My good friend Katie Quinn has offered to take me in for as long as need be, and my buddy Ian also has some couch space. Think I might split it up between the two. Also Wilderness Medical Associates sent me a 250 pg book on the course. Sweet Jesus. At least I have a reference huh. So that's what's on my mind these days. That and trying to sort out my housemate situation for next year. Either way, let's not think about that right now. Let's you and me enjoy whatever the selection may be.

Ah yes - the Noire. A river I remember well. The crushing psychology of the wilderness can take even a mild mannered person and make them want their mommy, or Mami. Here's my story.

7 Day Noire – 07/15/05

Day 1­

Speeding North along hwy 60 in a 15 passenger van right now is the potential for a fantastic trip. Preparations were more organized this time, but things were thrown off by 2 kids being added last minute and some severe food miscounts on the part of the kitchen. The boys seem like a hilarious group with some good initiative starting to show. The Noire is a very remote river as far as 7 days go, so apprehension on my part runs a little higher. A sat phone is a requirement for this trip, and the 50 k logging road in from Sheenboro is sure to be an adventure. I will have to exercise the same caution I used on the Magnetawan. Let’s hope this feeling of “I forgot something” fades or is not true. I already know one thing – the Zec map I had of the road has vaporized, and I know I put it in my map case. Oh well, Ian claims to have solid directions and this is my third time on the road, so it should be dine. The Noire is a beautiful river. Dark as steeped rose hip tea, meandering, winding back on itself with white sand beaches flanking every turn. The hot days that I have known on the Noire are likely to be rrelived in this next week based on the long term forecast and the history of the weather lately. We have our lunch, our CB radio, our Sat phone, and our will, so that will get us there. Hope there’s no oncoming traffic on the logging road.

· The road has widened and flattened and things were much more navigable than I remembered. Things have changed. We are camped on Lac St. Patrice, at the classic day 1 island site. Someone has left us a bigger pile of firewood than we would have collected ourselves. We suspect it was Trevor Ross, who has a reputation on our trip of doing that. It is the end of a hot day, the site is packed up and we are fed .

We have agreed to try something new. We have invented our own time zone. Rather than sleeping through 2 hours of hot sun after being awoken by ravens and seagulls, we’ve opted to set our clocks 2 hours back so that we enjoy more daylight, less bugs, and more chill time after dinner. This will also help us on longer paddling days. We’ve designated the new time zone STD -> Sexy Standard Time. Not my idea. The guys are all for it so that’s what time zone we’re in. It adds to the whole fantasy of trip, I like it.

· Tonight I stared, fixated, at a blazing sunset for about 15 minutes – we all did. The sky faded through green through all shades of blue over a black spruce and white pine treeline. Over the silhouetted treeline was a foreground of fingerpainted streaks of blazing metallic copper and pink wisps of cloud fanning out toward us. Laid against its blue backdrop, it was a stunning show that made us all happy to be here.

Day 2

How quickly things change. The guys know this great song about “Discoing” that was popularized on a campfire some nights ago. With sand banks on every turn I thought it would be fun to write the lyrics of the song on every bank for other passers through to see. We had noticed messages that could only have been from Kandalore on many of the banks. Wondering who was out here recently, I decided to get out and reprazent, as we like to say. I beached up on a sanbank, walked up the strand, wrote the message, and as I was walking back it happened. A sharp stick pointing toward me slid into my foot just along my sandal sole and broke off. Inside the right sole of my right foot there is a 1 cm diameter fragment of a stick.


Hour 1
I immediately got out the first aid kit and assessed the damage. I could see some of the stick protruding. I snapped at it with the tweezers. With nothing to freeze it with, the pain was quite sharp and I could tell the stick was not going anywhere. I need to be evac’d.
· Hour 2
We paddled 30 minutes upstream, Geoff and I, to a bridge we’d passed earlier. Luckily the road on this bridge leads to our put in. I called nick on the Sat phone from the top of the bridge, reported my coordinates and the help I needed. Right now I am camped with the guys on a sand bar down from the bridge about 20 ft. We’ve set up tents and I am in a holding pattern. I hope Alex can get in to me with Nick soon. They said they’d be here by 8, but I fear the worst. I need this fragment removed now.
· Hour 3 - 3:00
It is extremely hot on this sand beach. Our tents are set up for shelter. Jose was kind enough to put the fly on for me, so I have some shade and an occasional breeze flows through my tent. I have calmed down a little, settled into my waiting game as I elevate my foot and wait. I doze of a little and some sleep would be nice as I will be up late dealing with this tonight. I will try to read my book a bit.
· 4:20
I am getting impatient.
The pain in my foot is slowly growing as I try not to wonder about how fast nick will get here and what could slow him down. Kirby is complaining of “sun stroke” which he diagnosed himself, so he is sitting in my tent with me, resting and drinking fluids. Personally I think he is just trying to get off trip, as earlier he jokingly asked if he could get evac’d with me. It is almost time for the guys to start gathering wood so we can get dinner going. I’m waiting for the sun to fade a little first, as it is very hot. I feel so much regret for getting this stick in my foot, but I don’t know how to fix it. What did I do wrong? Shoes instead of sandals next time? Watch where I’m going? Who knows. I just feel like it’s a nightmare I don’t want to deal with, but I know I’m already awake and I need to get out.

· 5:00
I am laying in wait, thinking, monitoring, wondering what pathogenic goodies could have been in the stick and if they’re going to make a difference in the matter of hours they’re going to be sitting in my bloodstream for. I think I should be evacuated by some more urgent means than this, but the wheels are already turning, so I must impatiently wait for help.
I am hungry and anxious for dinner and help. I wonder about the removal process of this stick. Will they cut the whole thing open? Probably. How many stitches will that mean? How many trips will it affect? I wait for 8:00.

· 6:10
I read my trip log to Kirby and it made us both feel a bit better. The stick hurts unless I ignore it. I ate a few bagels and I feel more stable and happier now. I miss the comforts of home and just want this to be dealt with by a professional. Such is the psychology of the wilderness emergency. Hopefully Nick will be here within 1.5 hours – fat chance. It’s funny how your mood and outlook change due to external conditions. I’m not as worried or mad at Nick for not getting me out immediately. Is this warranted? I will only know when I read this later.

· 7:15
I’ll give my pen to Alex upon his arrival. Time to pack the tent in anticipation.

· 12:30 AM
Things like this never go off without a hitch. I waited and waited, called camp about 3 more times, sweating it about whether or not Nick was going to make it. At 9:30 or so, as the sky blazed its customary pink, salvation came in the form of the red truck. The sun disappeared quickly as Nick and I blazed the roads of ZEC St. Patrice in the pitch black. Over an hour later we were ejected onto the pavement of Sheenboro and we accelerated through the night to Pembroke. Here I sit, admitted and registered in the Pembroke emergency room. A massive hospital whose emergency room is too full with coughing obese people and ambiguously sick children to treat my impalement injury, which I’ve now had for over 12 hours, by the way. Nick is in the car sleeping off the 2 hour wait again. The plan is that I will drive home after this, as the Best Western wanted $125 for the night. Here we go again.

· 1:18
The worst is out.
I’m sitting on the ER table, content to have watched the exercising of my demon under the influence of heavy local anaesthetic. 1 Tetanous shot and a dose of antibiotics later I should be ready for the haul to Haliburton. The nurse and I kept stimulating conversation as I watched the procedure intently. It makes me glad I had so easily curable an ailment. Speaking of exercise, my HR was a record low of 46 bpm. The nurse though something was wrong with me J

· 5:14 AM
Home.

07/19/05

After a day of scary fever and a couple more of swelling, things are starting to improve. The fever may have been the result of the tetanus toxoid update rather than inflammation going systemic. In any case a day off with plenty of rest and elevation did me well, and rather than going through the hassle of program being cooped up in here I’m taking out a 4 day Madawaska tomorrow. Let’s hope it’s a safe one. My ankle is showing signs of improvement. Here’s to the continuation of this trend.


Don't worry guys, I survived. I went on to take out that Madawaska and live happily ever after. Also, interesting note, 2 days into that trip, when I was tending to the wound, out came a grape-seed sized piece of wood. It was still in there! The swelling went all the way down over night and there was no more pain. The nurses don't always get everything, but often your body does.

This entry is about fluffy clouds and puppy dogs.

Today, it rained. I woke up at 10:10. Why the hell is it harder to get up when it is raining out? Is it just the fact that it's darker? Such a weird thing. Either way I needed the sleep, so no big loss. So all the brain slices have been photographed, and the dot counting will commence today. I'm not holding my breath for any cool patterns or great discoveries.

Brian was 11 years old. For 8 of those 11 years he had wanted a dog as badly as he had wanted siblings. By age 11, he understood a few things. He understood his parents were too old to give him one, but that the other could always be bought. Brian's parents, Linda and Ted, (mom and dad to him) had given young brian a little more responsibility around the house in the last year or so. The Wickersons lived in a quaint house surrounded by hawthorne hills and forests of hemlock, maple and beech. Brian was responsible for chopping wood and brining it into the house after his father had cut down a tree. His father would stand by and observe, showing Brian how to safely wield the axe. Brian would only chop wood in the winter, when maple would split like glass if it was hit properly. He was not yet strong enough to split in the summer. The young boy was also charged with preparing the family meal once a week, so that he might learn to cook for himself. He was paid an allowance for the work he did around the house: occasional cleaning, emptying the dishwasher nightly, etc. His father paid him an extra wage for chopping and hauling wood, and dragging scrap to the burn pile. Country life does not come without work. For an 11 year-old, the boy had become quite industrious. It wasn't that he had a stange love of hard work. He was a normal 11 year old boy - he just wanted something really badly. That dog. The country house of the Wickersons was an old farm house style house, but it had no farmland of its own. The house was 100 years old, and since the time of its inception had gone through a series of property annexes and sales that resulted in the current situation. Neighbour owns and runs a farm on the property next door, which used to belong to the owners of the farmhouse. In fact, Brian's house was surrounded by farms. It turned out that on one of these, just across the street, a litter of puppies had just been born. The dogs just opened their eyes the week before for the first time. They were stumbling around, small enough to pick up with one hand. The dogs were a cross between a black lab mother and a border collie father with a blue eye. Brian would go and see them every day after school. He would knock on the door of the Mathesons, who owned the farmhouse, and Mrs. Matheson, the kind elderly woman who ran the hobby farm, would let him in with a smile. She would ask him if he wanted a cup of hot cacao, and he always declined politely, thinking only of the dogs. He gazed into the pen from above, feeling like god looking down on his subjects. The puppies would look up at him and squeak in excitement. Falling all over each other, their disproportionate heads always hitting the fleece blanket first and rolling the puppies over. The mother lay laxidaisically on her side, waiting for the dogs to nurse, casting uncaring sidelong glances up at Brian every so often. Each dog was black and white, and over the last week or so Brian had started to decide which one he wanted. Mrs. Matheson planned to sell each dog for $100 - but she was willing to sell Brian the puppy with the white streak down his nose, Brian's favourite, for $75, because Brian was the neighbour, and she liked him. The question was, would his parents agree? Brian saved and saved. It isnt' easy for an 11 year old boy to save up $100, even if he does get $20 every week. Over the next eight weeks Brian had trouble paying attention in school. All he was thinking about was his future dog. What would he name him? They would play frisbee together. He would teach the dog to fetch, to roll over, to play dead, to do tricks for treats, and to sleep at the foot of his bed while they dozed. Over the next eight weeks Brian convinced his parents that he was responsible enough to take care of a new dog. When the day came brian danced excitedly up the mile long drive way of the Mathesons and let himself in through the front door. He had been visiting almost daily, after all, watching the development of the puppies, and Mrs. Matheson was expecting him today, to come and buy. He handed her his $75 with sweaty hands, and picked up his special little guy. The puppy was 9 weeks old. Lucid and excited to be out of the pen. Brian noticed as he picked the dog up that the little canine had peed just a little. Held his the dog's nose to his own, and they looked each other in the eyes. Brian could barely contain his excitement as he looked into the little green eyes (which would soon turn brown) of the dog that he would know for the duration of the dog's life. He held Drop's nose to his own and felt the moisntess of a healthy dog nose sniffing back at him. Drop. That's what he would call him - after their first moment together, hoping that soon he would have the dog toilet trained and unwanted drops would be a thing of the past. Brian put the dog back in the pen to say goodbye to the others, and from his backpack he withdrew a leash and a collar. He reached down and put the collar around Drop's neck. He nervously picked up the little dog, put him under one arm, and after a thank you to Mrs. Matheson headed out the door and up the gravel driveway. He tried to walk to dog, but he was still too young to have any interest or endurance when it came to walking, so most of the way home consisted of Brain, who was now alsmot 12, carrying the little puppy in his arms and talking to his pet about all the things they would do together. Months passed, and Drop grew quickly. It was now obvious that one of Drop's eyes would not turn brown, for it was a sky blue. The dog was beautiful and healthy, and learning quickly because Brian spent so much time with him. By August he could run around with Drop off of the leash, for he faithfully followed Brian wherever he went. Brian would take drop every few weeks to see his mom, who he no longer had a big interest in, but he really enjoyed playing with his brother, Kamir, as they were the same age. It was time to go home for dinner and Brian jogged all the way down the driveway, with Drop in tow, almost able to keep up now. They ran all the way to the end and across the road. Brian's parents sat inside, at the dinner table, waiting only for Brian and his pal so that they could start their pasta dinner. It had been Brian's turn to cook tonight, but he had been taking such good care of Drop that they were willing to let this slide every couple of weeks. Ted was taking a drink out of his beer glass, and in mid gulp made eye contact with his wife, who was already looking at him. They could barely believe what they had just heard, a terrible rubber scream, like a choir of demons escaping the confines of hell, punctuated by a muffled 'thuck' as though someone had thrown a couch off of a roof. Ted dropped his glass on the table and Linda was already out of her seat. They froze with fear and relief as the front door swung open. Brian's face was terrified as he cried "Drop's Dead!"






Have a nice day.

For better or for worse, shit is coming together.

That's a sea lion. He is cute.

It's like he's saying "For better or for worse, shit is coming together!"

Either that or he's saying:
"Christ on a crutch, look at that mullet - CHILD ABUSE!" Just keep reading, you'll see what I mean. It was quite a spectacle later that day at the aquarium.

So things are happening. Not much to report, just every day things which I feel like writing down. That, after all is the essence of the blog. The brain pix are coming along. I only have one more region to photograph, the amygdala, for those of you who are massochistic enough to want to know. Shame on you. Never ask about my amygdala. That's part of my emotional system, it's private. Anyway. So the amygdala is an easy region to spot, I find myself just landing on it by accident before earnestly attempting to look for it, which makes for fast shot taking. It won't make up, though, for the shit show I put on with the last region, the nucleus accumbens. Oh god. I don't even want to go into it, but suffice it to say on many slides the region simply was not there, or if it was, it didn't stain correctly. So that's a lot of missing data. Hope it doesn't render the study too useless :S Yeah so what if I used an emoticon? That emoticon expresses my feelings. I'm kind of attached to the little guy.
Also yesterday I submitted my pictures to the College Royal Photo Contest, so for better or for worse, those are in there. We will see if they win anything. I had a really good feeling to begin with, but I'm starting to think I was a little too confident. Whatever, you never know until after right? So there's that. Also I signed up for my WRT1 course yesterday, since Dave, my camp Director, has not given a thumbs up or thumbs down (since he was busy sitting on them) as to whether or not it will be included in tripper training this year, I decided to take the risk and sign up. That way if Dave doesn't include it, the rush of people bailing the first day of training to take this course will not screw me out of a potential explorer trip.
Now all that is left are errands. I need to phone the neighbour at home and see if he's there, and whether or not I can get the mail. I need to call the dentist and give him permission to fix the porcelain fracture on my root canal, which he fucked up, and offered to fix for free - last year. So I don't like dental work. Sue me. I need to pay the $2 fee I did not pay for the photo contest yesterday. The girl running it asked over email if I had paid yet. I think she thought I was trying to dodge the fee. There's no smooth way to say "I don't have $2". Seriously. Try it. If you have NO money in your wallet, what are you going to do? Withdraw a $20 and buy a chocolate bar? F-that. So I got $5 cash back at Ultra, when I bought replacements for the best invention on earth - the dishwasher scrubby, the handle of which dispenses soap. Mack busted the scrubby attachment and didn't tell anyone, so when I went to replace that, booya. $5. Now I'm back in the game.

Also I have a flight going to Geneva, arriving April 28. Gotta love this: Depart: 8.00 PM on the 27th, fly 10 hours and something, Arrive: April 28 12:00 - PM. Several hours literally vapourize. Amazing. Then I get them back, when I don't want them. On the flight home. So that what should be 10:45 is 3:45. Gonna be a late night that night. I've done this many times, but when you're a kid you don't care. Now I do. Anyway, all bitching aside, Ann is booked to show up in Geneva on the 27th, so we're definitely going to meet there! Now all we need is a roof to sleep under. Apparently the Geneva airport has a French and a Swiss side. Who knew? Ann was asking which side she should enter. No brainer. Not the French side, if you don't speak French.

Also, Bruce Lee is much more active now, and has built a bubble nest at the top of his vase a sign of good health. He siwms around to check me out every time I walk in the room. The granite stones at the bottom of his abode seem to be getting just a bit algae-ey. (akward). So I think I might need to clean those. I set some water out to replace his with. The instructions are to leave the water out 24hrs. Any ideas why? It wouldn't take that long to match room temp. I'm guessing it's to blow off Cl and various other treatment chemicals that might be in it.

Dull minds lead to bright moments.

Ahhh, Herb Alpert and The Tijuana Brass: you are great. You remind me that life is to be enjoyed, and never, under any circumstances, taken too seriously.

Funny things happen every day:

2 nights ago alaina asked me to go on the local brewerey tour. I didn't think it was a good idea for me, since I had pictures of dots to take the next day, and the only thing worse than a microscope headache is a microscope headache compounded by a hangover. Alaina played the "fine no tour then" card, and I reminded her there were other people on the planet that might be willing to get drunk for $10 on a Friday night. . . I suggested Bob. She conceded that Bob might be a good option. Alaina proceeded to msg Rob on her msn list. She asked him to go to the tour, and he said he had a midterm the next day. Then she said fine, but you're going to the Albion tomorrow, and he said "not bloody likely". She eventually found someone to go with. The next day Alaina was msging Bob. She told him again that he was going to the Albion with her that night. He said "not bloody likely" and her reply was "that's what you said yesterday". Bob sounded confused by this. Then when she asked how his midterm was he got really confused. By and by Bob suggested that perhaps he is not the 'Rob' she was talking to on msn the night before. We have yet to figure out which Rob it was, why he gave the same "not bloody likely" answer as the genuine bob, and just how akward it would have been had this 'bizzaro Rob" shown up for the brewery tour.

The day before that I watched a high speed chase on tv. It was not high speed, nor was it a chase. Will and I turned on the tv and saw a Sherrif's SUV, from an OJ style chase angle zipping around the suburbs, 40 miles outside the LA city limits. I asked rhetorically "Who are they chasing?". Moments later that turn it to "B- What the-.. . " Which became "Oh my god, that IS who they';re chasing." The SUV was a stolen vehicle. The LAPD have the strictest chase laws in the country. The laws state that unless human life is in immediate danger, they will not pursue a vehicle. This is designed to take pressure off of the assailant, so that he or she may drive less wrecklessly, and so the public might stay calmer. For two hours they allowed this woman to drive around and around. I went to get alaina so she could watch too - she doesn't get CNN at her house. Naturally the chase came to its end the moment I walked out the door. No problem, the replays told all. Finally an off duty officer who was waiting on a side street she had frequented leapt out of his car, pistol pointed, and she immediately stopped. 2 bikes and 2 cruisers immediately pulled up in pursuit. They had been trying to talk her out of all this on the police radio she was listening to, to no avail. She drove until a tire came off the back of the vehicle, and then she drove some more. Will and I watched in disbelief as the tire gently removed itself from the vehicle as she sped along the free way. It rolled casually away as though it had simply decided of its own accord not to be part of the chase anymore. Like a booster falling away from a rocket, the tire seemed to say "my work here is done" The woman skidded around on a metal rim for the next 35 minutes. Why did all this happen? Well you see, the woman was under investigation for possible auto theft and was very nervous about getting arrested. So she did what any logically thinking, rational, red blooded north american would have done. She jumped in the Sherrif's SUV and drove away. I guess the solution to suspicion of car theft is to steal one in front of the cops and remove all doubt. And why not hit two birds with one stone while you're at it - get arrested too!


Yesterday I went to Bob's for dinner. We made ourselves some delicious steaks. Bob was playing around with some matches, and jokingly struck one on his cast. I think the brightest thing in that room at the moment was Bob's face. It was more luminous than the match which he still held burning in his hand. The match flared as he ecstatically exclaimed "It worked! It worked!" I would've thought bob invented the light bulb and finally got it to work after thousands of trials. Bob's Edisonian excitement stemmed from the fact that after wallowing in self-pity about having a cast for the last 4-6 weeks finally ebbed - he had found a use for his cast. One good reason to wear it - You could strike strike-anywheres on it. Simply stunning. I thought he was going to set his house on fire.

Last night we had some drinks. I tried my Venezuelan Rum and Gin - they were delicious. A bottle of dad's home brew and then a glass of some extremely gross grape crushy Baby Duck, and I was in the bag. Sitting back watching Doom at the end of the night may have given me the infernal hangover I suffer from now, more so than the Baby Duck, but either way Herb Alpert encompasses my life right now. A string of rediculous incidents to be laughed at, including but not limited to one's own situation.

The Lay's Challenge

So I just got back in touch with an old and good friend. Will Fyfe - better known as Fyfe Dog. I met Will Fyfe at camp back in 1998, the year we were LIT's together. I remember the moment clearly. There was all this hype about Fyfe dog coming back to camp, and I had no idea who he was. When he got there we were both excited to meet each other since we had heard so much about each other. Everyone hears a lot about everyone in the camp world, so this wasn't really exceptional, but we treated it as such, and so instantly hit it off. Will is one of the most well rounded and philosophically intelligent guys I know - and he makes me laugh my ass off. From stories of "How Will Smote the Bear at Tree Planting" to the story of how will and I don't eat Lay's chips. To brief you on the former story, Will carved a sharp pole to ward off a black bear that was frequenting a tree planting encampment he was staying at. Every night the bear would come, around supper of course, often poking his nose menacingly into tents when the inhabitants were home. The spud guns around didn't seem to be doing much any more. One night as Will was eating his dinner someone informed him that the bear was back, and that it had its nose in his tent. Will picked up his sharpened pole (spear) and yelled at the bear. When it turned around to look at him he unleashed his spear with all his might, hitting the bear directly between the eyes. The bear turned and ran into the woods never to return. I may have paraphrased or embellished parts of this story, but the part about will hitting a bear between the eyes with a pole is completely true.

Here is a story not at all embellished:

3.5 years ago, Fyfe and I sat at the cottage of my good friend Kilmer. It was a day off from camp. He was a tripper and I was a section director, which meant he was on the river most of the summer and we didn't see much of each other. We were catching up on each other's summer, downing beers, telling story after story. As Will got up to get another beer I became rapt with the back of the bag of chips I was eating. The bag was of the brand Lay's and the back of the bag, amongst the nutrition information and advertisements for other flavours and varieties of chips lay nestled a small challenge, a dare, if you will. The paragraph boasted the addictive nature of Lay's chips, and seemed to tantalizingly tease "Bet you can't eat just one!". But it did this in a frustrating way. Hostess-Frito Lay had capitalized the word BETCHA* and put an asterisk after it, as if hidden somewhere in the fine print at the bottom of the bag there was some definition or copyright of the word BETCHA. Was this really necessary? Were the executives sitting around a table saying "Yeah, I like 'betcha', it's young, it's uppity, it's cheerful and it's delightfully colloquial, like our chips. But wait. . . We can't just use a word like that, it might get stolen or misinterpreted. We need to make it our own." All these thoughts went through my head, and I was in the midst of them as Fyfe sat down in front of me, on the couch where he sat before. I showed him the bag in all its rediculousness. We became more and more outraged the more we read it. We took this to be a challenge from Lay's - the Lay's challenge if you will. The "BETCHA* Can't eat just one." Challenge. "We're so confident you'll love Lay's chips, that we'll BETCHA* can't eat just one!" Give me a break. They wrote BETCHA* like three times.

Will and I looked at each other.

We knew we had no choice. We took the Lay's Challenge. To show Lay's how rediculous, and counterproductive an advertising campaign like this could be, we decided on the only possible course of action. To bet a consumer that he or she lacks the will power to refrain from consuming the product of a company was just too good to refuse for a couple of rebels with little to no cause like Fyfe and I. We made a pact then and there: That we would never eat Lay's chips again as long as we lived. Then, knowing that as soon as we bragged of our life long pact to the others, that the first thing that would happen was that two more people would make a pact to make Will and I eat Lay's chips before the summer's end. So to protect ourselves we added a clause to our pact. The pact was not broken should we eat Lay's chips under accidental circumstances, including but not limited to being slipped the chips, or eating them absentmindedly. I thought we also included a "survival clause" whereby we were free to eat the chips in a survival situation where Lay's might improve our quality of life, ie give us the energy to get help, but apparently that was not the case. Also this included the chips only that fell under the "BETCHA* can't eat just one." advertising campaign, thus not all Hostess-Frito Lay products were banned. Fyfe and I ceremoniously each picked one more chip out of the bag, the "just one" chip the wager dared us to eat. We popped the chips in our mouths and enjoyed the last Lay's chips we would ever voluntarily put in our mouths. Those were the best chips we ever had, not because Lay's makes a good chip (they don't, the chips are as good as their advertising campaign) but because they tasted like victory.

That was 3.5 years ago, and I have not spoken to Fyfe in about 2-3 years. If there is anyone who will keep a thing like this going, it's Will Fyfe. So when I received his email address from a friend I excitedly emailed him about what he's been up to (ie visiting turkey and the middle east, living in tunisia, studying Arabic, doing 50 day canoe trips flowing into the Arctic ocean - he's the adventurous type) but not to be forgotten: had he been eating Lay's? I had to ask, and here was his reply. Will Fyfe is in Law at McGill University at the moment. It is reflected in his reply.

******

Marcus,
There was no survival clause. Better starve than consciously let lays win.
That being said, I agree that there must be a clause that allows for accidental chip consumption. I am guilty of doing just that. But I think that this is justified because the point of our pact was to show that the wager that frito-lays extended to us three years ago - essentially that we could not resist eating more than one of their chips because the taste of the said chips makes them oh so desirable - was one that we could win. If they meant that we couldn't AVOID eating more than one chip because they are so damned ubiquitous, then perhaps they are right. But we were not setting out to contest the ubiquity of their chips, we both know that they were betting that we couldn't resist the temptation to eat a chip because they are good.
In this respect, we have not only shown that they are shitty chips, but also that we could easily resist the TEMPTATION to eat more than one! and that we have done so!!!!!
I am actually really happy that you brought this up. Wonderful that we have kept it up. By the by, I have a question for you: do Dorritos count as Lays? Julia has been insisting that they do (in her view I irrationally avoid lays while hyporitically enjoying Dorritos, she thinks that I am boycotting or something). My opinion is that our pact related only to potato chips sold as lays as represented in their (evidently backfiring) marketing campain and that we are not boycotting so much as enjoying the moral highground gained by winning a bet. Have you been eating dorritos? what do you think?
In solidarity,
Love,
Will

*****

Whatchu lookin' at, foo?

This is Bruce Lee. Bruce Lee is a fighting fish that lives in my kitchen. His home is a vase with some sort of hyacinth or other water plant living in it, the roots of which he uses for shelter. At the bottom of his vase/bowl are some decorative rocks. There are also decorative rocks above him, held by a cup separating the environment of the vase from that of the surroundings. Bruce Lee is red and blue, as is visible from his picture. He eats 2 little pellets of Bruce Lee food every other day - he's on a strict regimen. His food comes in brown pellets, held in a clear plastic container shaped like a fish. The eye of the fish is a little hatch that pops open, out of which one can dispense his Bruce Lee food pellets. My mom says you can't get any less than ten out of there at a time. This morning I got three, I'm doing alright. I lifted the top decorative rock holder out, and threw the three pellets in. Bruce Lee immediately gobbled up two of them, so he must've been hungry. He didn't see the third one haplessly sinking. I put a finger against his vase, and he swam toward it, probably perceiving it as a threat. I moved the finger along the vase and he followed it. When I got him to swim around till he was facing the hapless food pellet I pulled my finger away. That left him staring one helpless pellet of Bruce Lee food in the face. He completely forgot about the threatening finger and ate the pellet.

Mack says every time he passes Bruce Lee, Bruce Lee gives him the evil eye. Hopefully there will never be a showdown between Bruce Lee and Mack. I would hate to see Mack get hurt.

Bruce Lee is my responsibility now because my parents drove to Florida in the RV. It was either this or he died. So you could say Bruce Lee owes me his life, which is why he offers me protection. He's like a ninja, and ninjas are sweet. He has real ultimate power. If you don't believe me, just go to www.realultimatepower.net

Also, congratulations go to Mack for guessing the name of the fat dude. It was Beachball! Good for Mack. He wins some rum.

If only his bow glowed like a light saber. . .

Woah - I'm listening to this piano piece called Hawk Circle. It has me absolutely staring into space. Do you ever get that? Does it ever happen that you hear music and an entire scene unfolds in your head? I think maybe I should be making movies.
I don't get the deal with this piece, under artist it says Michael Hedges, who's a classic guitarist. Does he play piano too? Who is to know, but he rocks my world. Those are the pitfalls of using winamp for literally all of your musical needs.

Oh where does this picture come from, you ask? Well let me tell you. Alaina and I were walking the streets of Victoria, BC, and we came upon this busker. He was actually a very good fiddle player. Blew my mind, especially in that get up. He was across the street from me, so I would have had to risk traffic to give him some money, but if there was a busker I'd toss money at, this was the guy. Now call me insensitive, but a homeless woman was sitting against the wall just feet away from me as I attempted different exposures and lenses to capture vader over here. "Spare change sir?" she softly called up to me. I looked at her, "no, sorry." I replied. My philosophy and giving money to the homeless if for another blog. But suffice it to say that if I had food or some manual labour she needed done I would have donated that, but not money. What I wanted to say to her was "Lady, across the street is a guy who dresses like darth vader in the hot summer sun, then struts and scampers around playing a fiddle like he's the devil that went down to Georgia and skywalker is the "boy". You don't see me going across the street and paying him for his magnificent performance, so what makes you think I'm going to throw money into your little hat there for nothing!? Your legs work, go dress like a storm trooper and get in there, and then I will toss you both $5." But I didn't. Somehow I think what dark humour that philosophy might posess might have been lost on her, but nonethelsess it went through my head.

So things are starting to come together, Anne gets surprisingly frequent internet access for someone in southeastern Africa.

Woah - the song just ended and it's Michael Hedges thanking the crowd as they applaud. Is there anything this guy can't do?

Back to reality. Okay so right now we're trying to coordinate a meeting in Switzerland to get our feet under us, then possibly a day or two in Marseilles, soaking in some culture. Let's hope they have hostels on the French Riviera huh?

Anyway the anxiety is fading. Now the only thing I'm worried about is the stupid lab. I have to count dots on brain slices that may not have dots. This may not seem like a big deal to you. "no dots, so what?" you may say. Well I'll tell you what. I spent all of last semester trying to make these brain slices have dots on them, and dammit all if I can't count them a lot of money and time are down the drain. There's a good chance my sample quality will be hot garbage, but I think that is alright, since Mike (who is the Master's student who shows me the ropes) and Francesco (my PhD supervisor) are two very understanding guys, and a big part of why I'm doing this now is so I don't shit the bed next year when it counts. When I'm doing a degree. So let's hope that works out huh. . .

Also Francesco said something about possibly getting this really big group grant, which may mean he has the money to fund me through the dept of Biomedical sciences, which would free me from the shackles of the Psychology depts rediculous regimen of useless courses, and open up a door to a world of cool courses and a cool dept. I'm not going to hold my breath for that one.

In other news, the rents have taken off to florida. Yes they have a small motor home, and yes they like going to Florida in it, but don't let them deceive you. They hate crowds, and they hate beaches. Well, abandoned beaches they like. Florida has some incredible hiking. There are some beautiful state parks there, and they like to hike the mountains, mangroves, check out the everglades, look for birds, etc. Let 'em run around for a little huh, they're still young! I thought for awhile there was a conspiracy theory here, I thought maybe they were snowbirds and they were just going down and sitting in trailer parks getting sunburnt and fat. But when they come back they're tanned, in shape, and they have good pix. So I guess that shoots that theory all to hell, in the words of my mom. They left this morning, so maybe by tonight they'll be out of the snowy latitudes, although these days I think I could probably bike out of the snowy latitudes in like a day.

By the way, keep the guessing up for the name of the lost fat guy.