Nerds and Geeks: Part I

This weekend, Hawk and I went to the Calgary Comic and Entertainment Expo.


Neither of us are particularly geeky, but if you've seen this blog post, you know I'm a Next Generation Trekkie.  This past winter, I re-watched Star Trek: TNG from start to finish for the first time since I was young and it was on the television (new episodes were Saturday evenings at 8:00, right after church, and older episodes were at 4:00, after school).  Bearded Commander Riker was my first crush.


TNG taught me Mark Twain's real name, all about small talk, that you can be a smart, beautiful lady and still be a boss, and it gave me hope that in the future, humans will still be curious.


Now I'm grown-up and it makes me sad that so many of the social issues that TNG tackled are still issues today (even if the tackles were sometimes ham-handed, like the one where Riker fell for the androgynous lady and it turned into a ridiculous gay rights speech that was unbelievably cringe-worthy).  Oh well. The stories are still SO COOL and, since ladylike ladies are still struggling to be bosses without turning into manly men, I guess it's still relevant.


So when we heard that the entire original cast of TNG was regrouping for the first time in 25 years at Comic-Con, Hawk and I decided to go.


It wasn't without some trepidation.  I was worried about the masses of geeks with their costumes and, possibly, gawk-mouths.  And, to be fully truthful, I was scared of catching geek cooties.  I'm not into counter culture.  I'm into being your genuine self, while still accepting the reality of mainstream society.  I didn't want to get caught up in what they were promoting as "Full-Frontal Nerdity".


YES! I love TNG and yes, the only other formative show of my youth that I can remember at the moment is Buffy the Vampire Slayer.  But, as an adult, I loved watching Hannah Montana and 6teen after work with my sister.  That's not geeky.  That's just weird.


Luckily, Hawk and I made it home safely, sans cooties.  We had some great adventures, and, given how long this introduction is, I think I'm going to have to change the title of this post to PART I, and split the stories up.


ALL ABOUT FRIDAY NIGHT
We rolled into Calgary on Friday afternoon later than we thought we would, because we wasted a heck of a lot of time leaving Edmonton.  That's what Hawk and I do.  It's fun.  I messaged my Calgary-residing cousin, NightMare, and made plans for a late dinner after a preliminary scout at the Comic-Con.  Hawk and I were pumped.  We'd check out the lay of the land, get a schedule and plan out the next two days, and hang out with NightMare who is uber cool, before crashing at the Westin, which we got for an amazing deal on Hotwire.


Friday night pretty much went according to plan. Except, I didn't plan to meet someone amazing at Comic-Con on the very first night.

Christian Potenza, Jude (in cardboard form), and me!

Okay so Christian Potenza is someone everyone who is reading this blog knows.  I walked past his booth and made accidental eye contact with him, and he said "Hey lady!" or something to that effect so I said "Hey!" and walked on.  Then I was like "WAIT A SECOND!" and Hawk and I headed back.  I wanted to meet him!


You see, he voiced Jude, the best character, on 6teen, a wicked cool cartoon Magpie and I would watch all the time when we lived together. And I didn't realise this until afterward, but he is also a super famous actor from commericals. I emailed Magpie to tell her I met him and she did some research for me to make sure he was exactly who I thought he was, and that this wasn't just some weird look-alike coincidence. 


Before I get to that, Mr. Potenza is an awesome dude. He's unbelievably nice and chill and gave me his autograph for my photo album, and let Hawk take two pictures of us. He called me Rawkabecca.


And now for the amazing part.  Not only is he the voice actor for Jude from 6teen, BUT he is the toothbrush in the Listerine "Evil Gingivitis" series of commercials, AND he's the guy from the Tostitos commercial (a million years old now) where he's daydreaming on the subway and goes "Let's get NA-KED!" Basically he's the reason my family eats Tostitos and uses Listerine.


Anyway, on Friday night we also ...

Found Waldo!

Beamed me up!

Sat in the captain's chair!

It was pretty fun.  More to come ...

Boobs

Today we are going to talk about breast health and it's going to be graphic.


My story has a happy ending.  Many similar stories do not.


Several years ago, I accidentally stumbled upon a lump in my left breast. Whoops.  Guess I should have actually been doing breast self-exams LIKE WE ARE ALL SUPPOSED TO!*  


Anyway, I got it ultrasounded, and it was obviously just a fibroadenoma.  It was just a hard lump of tissue, nothing serious at all.


Until the awful thing started to hurt.  I put up with that for a few years, then the pain started to get more severe and more frequent.  It was so bad at times, it was like someone was sticking a hot car antenna through my breast into my ribcage.  Then, the pain would cascade down my ribs and linger, feeling like whole patches of my skin and bones were recovering from third-degree burns.


I decided it had to come out.  Luckily, I have an awesome doctor.  I'm not revealing her name, because the last thing I need is more people going to her and then she'll get burned out and not be a doctor any more and I can't have that because she is the best and I love her.


July 11, 2011, in her office, my doctor freezes my breast, slices me open, and removes my fibroadenoma.


This is trickier than it should have been.  My lump was clearly defined, but it was only attached at one end, and slid around a lot. Also, when the doc cut me open, she discovered that my milk ducts were all gnarled.  Gnarled milk ducts?  Is that even a thing? She spent probably twenty minutes digging around in there trying to grab the stupid lump with her fancy tweezers.


After a fibroadenoma is removed, it doesn't usually grow back.  (Foreshadowing!)


That's why I wasn't worried and didn't do another breast self-examination until I felt a searing pain in my left breast.


In the span of five months, my fibroadenoma had grown back, and as far as I could feel, it seemed to be the same size as the one that had been removed in July. (The size of that one had remained stable for years.)


It was January, and I had no choice but to return to the doctor (which is never a chore because she is sooooooooo prettay). This time, we discussed sending me to a general surgeon. The doc wanted me to think seriously about that. Was the pain consistent enough to merit a full-on surgery?


I saw my doctor for the second time about two weeks later, on February 13th, and had my ultrasound on February 14th. That seemed to go pretty well. But, on the 16th, my doc's office called, and wanted to schedule me for a "non-urgent" follow-up appointment for the Friday. I couldn't make it on Friday, so I booked it for the Monday.


Non-urgent, right?


On Friday, the lab called, and they needed to book me for a second ultrasound at a fancy breasts-only lab.


Panic set in. Why would they need to do another ultrasound? Oh my god, it grew back so quickly. It could be anything. I am going to die.  I won't die, that's ridiculous. Cancer doesn't usually hurt! Nope, I am definitely going to die.


Well. my doctor wasn't very pleased with the lab going rogue and booking me an appointment themselves. She wanted to book it after speaking to me, so I wouldn't panic.  She explained to me that she needed to have a biopsy done before sending me to the surgeon. The ultrasound showed it was another fibroadenoma, but the surgeon needed the biopsy results before she could see me. And they weren't booking me for an ultrasound anyway, they were booking me for an ultrasound-guided biopsy. Thanks, lab.


Two-point-five-day panic assuaged. Fast forward to April.


I prepare my last meal. It's only a local anaesthetic, but the surgery is going down in a hospital so I'm freaked out. I'll probably get staph, necrotizing fasciitis, or a superbug. Then die.

I choose carefully.  French-pressed coffee in my finch mug, which was a gift,
and honey Shreddies.

It was a great breakfast.


Hawk picked me up and drove me to the hospital, not because I was scared of going alone, but because he is an amazing boyfriend and a great man.*


Because Hawk actually knew where we were going, we arrived in enough time to get hopelessly lost in the hospital and do two or three circles of the lobby before we found the "burgundy line" we were meant to follow along the wall to our destination.


The surgery itself was a breeze. The surgeon froze my entire left breast. It stayed numb for about six hours afterward. I was hooked up to a cautery machine, which added the pleasure of seeing spirals of smoke, formerly my flesh, curling up above my head. The doc was quick, the nurses kind and friendly, everything was great.


But Mum and Dad forgot about me. I was forced to send them an email chastising them for forgetting to wish me well. I included this picture, in which I made as sad a face as I could and ended up resembling my Dad's mother, Gram.

Forget my surgery and pay the price in photos.  Great parenting, guys.

Instead of asking what the ginormous bandage was for, they chastised ME for not reminding them I was going in.  Jeez.  I guess maintaining your own support group is another aspect of breast health we all need to be aware of.


The bandage was just a pressure bandage, stretched tightly across my body to decrease bleeding and scarring.  Nevertheless, it was good for shock value.

Wow, that's a lot of my body you're seeing right now.

That had to stay on for 24 hours.  When it came off, my skin was covered with petichiae from the pressure and I had an unbelievable bruise on my breast.

Side boob is not private.

I'm going to have a gigantic, crescent-shaped scar for a long time.  This particular fibroadenoma won't be growing back, but after two surgeries, my breast tissue will be much denser.  It will be more difficult for me to find other abnormalities.


Ladies and newly-traumatized gentlemen, this experience was really awful for me.  I faced two (minor) surgeries, my skin is torn to shreds, I have a bruise the size, texture, and colour of a blood orange, and will end up with a giant scar.


And that is the happy ending.


If that lump were malignant, I would be dead, because I would not have found it in time.  Ladies, do your monthly breast self-exams.  Talk to your doctor about your family history and get mammograms as early and often as you need to, and then don't put them off.


Please.


That is all.  The next post will be nonsense as usual.




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*Many websites refer to this as a BSE.  Don't call it that.  BSE is bovine spongiform encephalopathy, or mad cow disease.  When I first googled for self-exams, I thought I'd done something horribly, horribly wrong.


*This deserves a post in itself.  Maybe later.  For now, one point of evidence:  when I was having a panic attack about the second ultrasound, he just gave me a hug until I calmed down, then, with a straight face, told me I would be fine, and that sometimes, women just need a man to tell them what to do.  It was so funny I forgot to be upset for several hours.

Guest Posts: Ted Finchley Reams the Dickens out of Modern Television Adaptations of Dickensian Literature

My good friend Mr Finchley, a not-so-recently-retired scientist type, has long spent his free time exercising his creative side. However, it seems to me, his work in the visual arts has left little room for working in writing.  I have always assumed this was due to technical burn-out:  he had to spend a certain amount of time in his work writing, and while there is a skill involved in good technical writing, it always seemed to be a joyless task.


Perhaps enough time has now passed from his glory days of writing about wires and diodes and airplanes and other occasionally snore-worthy things that he has been able to find the joy in the creative power of words.


Or, perhaps it was just that the destructive power held within the visual arts, much like that within an atom, once unleashed on something sacred, spurred him to action.


Mr Finchley, whatever your inciting incident, we are glad of it, and we hope to read more from you, because as far as I'm concerned, the definitive TV version of Great Expectations was by Wishbone.

Television Movies Are Ruining Dickens

Charles Dickens' stories typically, and loosely, follow an ordinary hero and his heroine through an often complex thread of circumstances surrounded by the most fascinating characters imaginable traipsing through their own adventures.  The hero and heroine are typically hum-drum, only providing the glue that holds the stories together.  In the past, television has brought us excellent presentations of some of Dickens' stories by developing his characters to the full. 

Television gave us a superb, self-absorbed Pecksniff and an under-handed tyrant, Jonas Chuzzlewit, in Martin Chuzzlewit; yet the hero, Martin himself, was portrayed as dull—just as Dickens intended. 

A treacherous Uriah Heep lit up the screen in David Copperfield with his overboard, insincere humility; Steerforth, as David's friend, is despicable (I hated him from the first to the last); while David and his dumb Dora simply went through the motions—just as Dickens intended.

So, several television presentations of Dickens' stories have been excellent. 

Alas, more recently, what started my blood boiling was the mindless white-washing of the despicable dwarf, Quilp, in The Old Curiosity Shop—perhaps Dickens' most detestable, interesting and downright ugly character (worse even than Bill Sykes).  Instead of the wretch Dickens intended, Quilp was portrayed as no more than a short, ordinary-looking money-lender.   The movie ignored the fantastic side-plot involving the murderous Quilp, and instead over-stressed the necessary, yet less entertaining, gambling habit of the grandfather.

This past week, Mrs. Finchley and I watched the latest rendition of Great Expectations.  I don't understand why some “artists” think they can present Dickens' stories in ways that suit their inner creativity—or perhaps in ways they think the viewers want and expect; shudder.  Such blasphemous approaches must have Dickens painfully rolling over in his grave, if such a thing really could happen.  Oh, the scenery on the lowlands was fabulous, but where was Biddy, with her unselfish devotion to Mrs. Joe and her quiet and dedicated love for Joe?  Mr. Wopsle, with his supposed fabulous gift of public speaking didn't read his newspaper to his “fans”; nor did Pip  see him fail later as an actor on the London stage.  I saw no Trabb's boy with his hateful envy of Pip.  Pumblechook appeared, very well costumed for the part, but as a side issue instead, as Dickens intended, of the two-faced loser who constantly took credit for, and bragged about, initiating Pip's expectations.  And Jaggers’ clerk Wemmick:  what a jewel in the book; what a disappointment in the movie.  We briefly saw the two sides of Wemmick as he left the office, discarded his tie, and Jaggers’ leash, and went off with Herbert and Clara; but nothing about the kind and good-hearted Wemmick who invited Pip regularly into his little castle with its drawbridge and vegetable garden.  No mention of Wemmick, Pip and the Aged (Wemmick senior) as they slathered themselves in butter, joyfully and blissfully eating their breakfast toast.  Poor David Suchet, what a shame he wasn't allowed to develop his character as Jaggers; what a waste; enough said.  Then there was Miss Havisham, not the one in the book, but the constantly whining one portrayed by our Emmy award winner Gillian Whats-her-name: a fine portrayal, but not of the granite hard and hateful Miss Havisham.  Finally, we must address the portrayals of the hero and heroine.  Mrs. Finchley hit the nail on the head when she voiced my observation:  Pip was much prettier than Estella.  For that matter, Estella wasn't pretty at all; did the director expect her stunning blue eyes to make her desirable?  As Miss Havisham’s protégée, she worked hard at being undesirable but not irresistible.  How can a viewer expect to feel the incredible passion on Pip’s part, and the crusty iciness on Estella’s part, when the characters don't act the parts, or even look the part? 

Well, I suppose one thing was consistent in this latest Great Expectations with my first paragraph:  the hero and heroine were hum-drum.  But perhaps, the worst, and most disappointing part of the latest production of Great Expectations, was that the movie centred totally around the boring hero and heroine; not on the fascinating characters.  Simply put, not as Dickens intended. 

Read Dickens.

Seriously,

Ted Finchley

13 April 2012

Horror Stories: A Photo Essay

I live in Edmonton, Alberta.  Let me find that on a map for you.


Who am I kidding.  The only people who read this are my friends.  They know where Edmonton is.  Most of them live here.  Whatever.  I'll do it anyway—dress for the job you want, not the job you have, right?

This is obviously from Google Maps, but I believe in intellectual
property rights so here's a credit.

As you can see, we're south of Scandinavia, but completely land-locked.  We get some weird weather patterns:  a lot of influence from the arctic, and we're just close enough to the Rockies for them to mess with us a bit too.  It's cold, not humid, sunny, precipitatey, and tempermental.


Thus, I present this photo essay:  the first three weeks of April 2012 in Edmonton.  I call it:


This is Why We Bitch So Much

01 April, 3:05 pm, snowing.

01 April, 5:52 pm, sunny and clear.

01 April, 5:52 pm, shiny and clear.

03 April, 8:05 pm, peaceful sunset.

05 April, 8:18 am.  PSYCH!

05 April, 8:18 am.  

 

05 April, 8:55 am, still snowing like damn. 

05 April, 8:55 am.  So pretty.  FOR DECEMBER!

05 April, 8:55 am. Someone probably made this while their bus was running
forty minutes late.  (Because ETS drivers don't give a shit!)

05 April, 2:37 pm.  The sky is clearing, and the melt has begun.

08 April, 2:46 pm.  Every flake of snow is gonezor.

11 April 5:29 pm.  It's really gloomy out.  You can look right into the sun.

11 April 5:30 pm.  This pylon has been here since before that last snowstorm.
Now it's knocked over.  I have foreboding.  

11 April 5:30 pm.  It's actually kind of pretty.

11 April 5:31 pm.  The light is really creeping me out.  Gotta get home.

13 April 8:13 am.  I am so happy!  We really needed the rain. 

13 April 8:13 am.  I'm super happy.

14 April 11:57 am.  Oh hai winter.
This is getting ridiculous.

17 April 2011, 6:50 pm.  Coraline basks in the sun, and I take the photo in shirtsleeves.

17 April 2011, 7:11 pm.  I love evergreens against a blue, blue sky.

Really!  NO COAT!!!

As I write this, it's plus nineteen on the 22nd of April at 6:04 pm.  Here's what it looks like outside today.

That's $2.69 cilantro from Home Depot, and the street is washed out behind
because my phone camera is all "what? Sunshine? What?"

And last year?  Last year, on the 22nd, we went to Cold Lake for Easter, so I'll have to give you a shot from the 21st.  I think a variance of one day is still a fair comparison.

Ew, check out those naaaaasty clouds.  Also it only got up to 10 degrees.  Gross.

And that, friends, is why we bitch so much.

I wasn't clear?

The weather is mental! Come on!

It's just ... the weather isn't like this on TV.  The end.

Sweet Dreams

The other morning I had a dream.


It was an amazing dream.


I dreamed I was Commander Riker, and I was hell-bent on saving my honour.


I realised part-way through writing my blog-as-teleplay that this wasn't just transcribing a dream, this was fan-fiction.  I was disgusted with myself.  I love me some TNG but I am absolutely NOT a nerd or geek (I wash) and I don't CARE what Comic-Con says, it's the MEEK who shall inherit the Earth ... the meek ... not the geek ... meek ...


But it was a WICKED AWESOME DREAM and this is a WICKED AWESOME TELEPLAY so please, read on!

STAR TREK TNG:  THE SWAP


SCENE I
Pan from the cabin window, where alien stars stand still, to a bed.  It's not RIKER's cabin, as evidenced by stodgy travelling cases, spilling exotic clothing onto the floor, and an elegant cello on a stand where a trombone might otherwise be.  Pan to the bed.  RIKER is lying in the bed under one of those weird silver blankets.  He stirs, sits up, and runs his hands through his hair, standing it on end.  RIKER stands and whacks his shin on one of the travelling cases.


          RIKER:  What the?


He opens his eyes, fully awake from the pain, and carefully navigates his way to the mirror.  He opens the magic drawer of water and rinses his face, then looks up.  His eyes widen. His beard bristles.  He touches his face.  The face in the mirror is not his face!


          RIKER:  [Quietly]  Who did this to me?  [Pause]
          Computer, whose quarters are these?
          COMPUTER:  These are the quarters of Inspector Haggai
          of Starfleet Intelligence.
          RIKER:  [Raising his clenched fist, managing to cut
          a fierce figure despite being in his jammies] Haggai!


SCENE II
RIKER, dressed in HAGGAI's Inspector uniform which has kickass gold ropes on the shoulders, enters Ten Forward. He pauses at the bar near the door to survey the scene.


          GUINAN:  Can I help you find something, Inspector?
          RIKER:  Who?  Oh, yes!  [Blustering]  I was looking for
          Deanna—I mean Counsellor Troi.  I understood she was
          meeting Commander Riker here this evening?
          GUINAN:  [In a typically infuriating seeing
           much more than she says she sees GUINAN fashion]
           I see. She's right over there.  [Gently indicates with
          one of her sleeves a table by the window.]


RIKER turns to see TROI and HAGGAI sharing a chocolate sundae.  TROI has her head down, laughing coquettishly.


          RIKER:  [Stage whisper, fist clenched menacingly]  
           Haggai!


Camera follows the back of RIKER as he strides across Ten Forward, golden braids flapping with each step.  The ensigns at the tables, each drinking a different colour of kool-aid in a differently-shaped glass, swivel their heads to look.  He cuts an impressive figure.  He stops at TROI and HAGGAI's table and looks down at them.


          TROI:  Inspector Haggai!  Would you like to join us?
          RIKER:  No, I would not.


It is clear from the perplexed looks TROI is giving him and HAGGAI that when she looks at RIKER, she sees HAGGAI, and when she looks at HAGGAI, she sees RIKER!


          RIKER:  Have you and Wil been having a nice chat?
          DEANNA:  As a matter of fact, we'd just been talking
          about you, Inspector.  Wil had just been asking me
          for my [tilts head "thoughtfully"] impressions of you.
          RIKER:  [to HAGGAI]  Is that so, Wil?
          HAGGAI:  Why yes, Inspector.  You are a very
           accomplished man, yet somewhat of an enigma.
          RIKER: [Superfast stage whisper] Idon'ttalklikethat.
          HAGGAI:  Pardon me?
          RIKER:  [coughing]  Noonetalkslikethat a-HEM I seem 
          to have some [quickly] pretentiousness caught in
           my throat.  Counsellor, would you be so kind as to
          show me to Sick Bay?
          HAGGAI:  [Petulantly, and in a completely unmanly, 
           un-Rikerly manner] But we're not finished enjoying 
           our sundae!
          TROI:  It's no trouble, Inspector.  These things are
          my curse as much as they are my favourite treat!


As they walk away, RIKER throws a smirk over his shoulder at HAGGAI, who takes it in ill humour by snarfing a giant mouthful of ice cream, instantly regretting it as it hits a sensitive tooth.


SCENE III
RIKER and TROI stand side-by-side in the Turbolift.  There is a moment of silence.  TROI's face is vacantly serene, as it always is unless she is being mind-raped; RIKER's is troubled.  His lips begin to move, silently at first.


          RIKER:  [Barely whispering]  Shoop, shoop.
          TROI:  Did you say something, Inspector?
          RIKER:  No, no.  [Pause]  Yes.  I did.  Deanna,
          can't you tell?
          TROI:  Tell what?
          RIKER:  [Screwing his face into a hideously
          unattractive grimace]  SHOOP!  SHOOP!  Deanna!
          It's me, Wil!  I'm sending you love rays, can't
          you sense that it's me, not that pompous twat Haggai
          in this hideous body?  SHOOP!  SHOOP!  [He waggles
          his fingers with the last "shoop"]
          TROI:  Well, I, would have to admit there was something
          wrong with my telepathic powers if I said otherwise,
          but, uh, prove to me it's you, Wil, prove it!
          RIKER: This is bullshit.  Beverly will believe me.
          She's way smarter than you anyway.


SCENE IV
RIKER sits on one of CRUSHER's examination tables in Sick Bay.  She flashes her tricorder at him.


          CRUSHER:  [With wonderment in her voice] Wil?
          RIKER:  Beverly!  I knew you'd know me.  How could you
          tell it was me?
          CRUSHER:  I have your brain waves on file.  What 
           are you doing in Inspector Haggai's body?
          RIKER:  I don't know.  I woke up from my nap in his
          quarters, in his body, in his jammies.  I think it's
          part of his plot to steal Deanna from me.
          CRUSHER:  You know, I didn't like the way he looked
          at her from the second he got on board.
          RIKER:  I know, the way her kissed her hand was
          just plain smarmy.


A moment passes while they awkwardly look anywhere but at each other.  It is obvious they've never shared girl talk before.


          CRUSHER:  We can probably use the transporter to
          switch your brains back.
          RIKER:  That's your answer for everything, isn't it.
          CRUSHER:  If you confuse me with that son-stealing,
          Datta-saying bitch Pulaski one more time, Wil, I'll go 
          after your father just for spite.
          RIKER:  Please don't.
          CRUSHER:  Now how do we trick Haggai onto the 
          transporter pad?


SCENE V
BARKLAY is escorting HAGGAI down the hallway, BARKLAY stammering and waving his hands and a tricorder about as usual.


          BARCLAY:  I'm not sure why the readings indicated such
          a serious problem there, sir, I suppose next time
          I should check it out before calling a senior officer
          to the scene, I didn't intend to waste your time, sir,
          but I didn't think we had any time to lose.
          HAGGAI:  That's quite all right, my good man,
          nothing ventured, nothing gained, pip pip, fishing,
          blue eyes, beard, trombone.
          BARCLAY:  As you say, sir.


HAGGAI makes to turn right down the corridor, but BARCLAY indicates the door to their left.


          BARCLAY:  This way, sir.
          HAGGAI:  Of course.  What was I thinking.  Must be
          all the drinking I've been doing.  Klingon fire-wine
          flip-cup with some of the ensigns last night.
          HEY-OH!


The doors open onto transporter room three.  BARCLAY turns and locks the door, and RIKER springs from off-camera and tackles HAGGAI.  A fisticuffs ensues.  CRUSHER pops up from behind the transporter table thingy and starts pushing buttons.  Sight gag:  O'Brien is bound and gagged in the corner, a confused look in his eyes.


          CRUSHER:  Broccoli!  Get them onto the transporter!
          RIKER:  Quit pulling my beard!


BARKLAY jumps into the fray and helps wrestle the two much-larger men onto the transporter pad. CRUSHER energizes, the two men vanish into outer space, and I wake up.


I don't know the ending, so you don't know the ending.  Tough titties for all of us, eh?




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Image from Fashion It So

Journeys Home from the Office

The other day, I was on my way home from the office, walking along in the warmth of spring.  It was pretty windy out, and not sunny, but the teeth of the wind bit sweet and gentle, and I turned my face into them as I crossed the street.


That's when the bus made its move.  Jasper Ave is down to two lanes of traffic at one point due to the construction at the First and Jasper building...

(like so)

... and they are detouring buses onto 102 Ave ...


RIGHT INTO MY PATH!


I didn't see the bus, and I would not have seen the bus if not for the roaring of its mighty diesel engine.  You see, bus drivers are like the Honey Badger.  They don't give a shit.  And I know he saw me, because when I made eye contact with him, he was already looking at me—not where the bus was going, at me!

He really don't!

Okay maybe I should have been watching for cars instead of turning my face into the warmth of spring, but the road was clear when I stepped into it and I had the right of way.  So there, Honey Bus Driver.


Little did I know, my two-block trip home was about to take a turn for the even worse.


I don't have an illustration of this next rage-inducing incident because I was afraid to take a photo because I thought someone might be watching.  I feel pretty bad about that.  How can I be an intrepid journalist if I'm afraid to take a photo of something because I think someone might be watching?


Anyway, one block farther on, I spied a yellow vespa parked on the sidewalk.


My body filled up with an urge to tip it over.  I suppressed this urge as I approached the vespa, then, as I came parallel with it, the urge came back, almost overwhelming me.  "I can't believe you are parked on the sidewalk!" I thought at it.  Then, tucked into the footrest, I noted a City of Edmonton parking ticket, and my desire to tip that vespa over was replaced with delighted satisfaction.  The satisfaction grew deeper as I saw a receipt for the adjacent parking lot nestled in the helmet, which the vespa driver had left attached to the seat.  


"Sucker!  You think you can pay for parking in a parking lot, then park on the sidewalk?" I silently crowed.  "Hahahah!" I thought, then continued on my way, regretting my cowardly decision to not photograph the idiotic parking job.


I had just one more street to cross before I was home, but first, I needed to drop some mail in the mailbox.  "What a beautiful afternoon," thought I, depositing my mail.

Let this set the scene for you!

That was when a minivan pulled up to the stop line.  But this was no ordinary minivan.  This was maroon.  This had its windows rolled down.  This had a ball-capped 30-something male for a driver.  And this driver?  He was blasting metal.


He was blasting metal so loudly I was embarrassed for him.


I wanted to go up to him, tap on his window, and say "You know you're in a minivan, right?  A maroon minivan?"


But I don't know.  Telling someone else he's an asshole seems like an asshole move.  Even if the other person is most definitely an asshole.


I suppose that can be my rationale for not giving the bus driver the finger, for not tipping over that vespa, and for not putting that minivan-driving dumbass in his place.


But sinking to their level ... oh!  It would have felt so good.




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Image credits here and here.

Walks in the Woods

Warning: This story stars both my Dad and Hawk!


There is a special place near my hometown called the Pine Woods.  It is where pine trees grow (it's stupid boring spruce trees everywhere else).  The pines grow there because the soil is special, a pocket of sandy stuff in the otherwise peaty, muskeg-ey dirt you find everywhere else.  This place is rad.  

Pine trees!

My Dad would take me there in the spring looking for the prairie crocuses (anemone patens) that won't bloom anywhere else.


According to this map, they don't even grow in the Cold Lake area at all.

The lake cut in half by the Saskatchewan border, approximately half-way north
of the province, is Cold Lake.

These trips out to the Pine Woods were special times for me and Dad.  This set of photos is from our trip in 2008, when he let me use his good camera.

This is hardly worth mentioning.  This sign was just lying in the dirt.

Besides, we are not the only trespassers.  For starters, there is a clearly marked trail.

It winds off deeper into the woods, where you will not be surprised to see it can keep snow until May.

Here is evidence of trespassers.  Beavers!  Look what they did to this place!  You can see spruce trees here.  This is the far edge of the Pine Woods.

Of course, there are the trespassers the DND is actually worried about.  At the time I was considering making a photo essay of just empties.

Teenage girl

Douchebag 

Bless him, it's someone who thinks drinking swill is patriotic

If you follow the path through the woods, and concentrate on nature rather than on the failings of human nature, which you (I) will have to do eventually because your companion (Dad) is ordering you to stop taking pictures of garbage, then the Pine Woods will reward you!

Grouse!

Prairie crocuses, are, as everyone knows, not actually crocuses, which are in the lily family; they're members of the buttercup family, as everyone knows.

Now the really good part was, two years later ... no, no I am getting old.  Three years later, I got to bring Hawk to Cold Lake at Easter time and I got to share the Pine Woods experience with him.

He was concerned.  For a former boyscout, he seemed overly trepidatious when it came to heading into the woods. "Hawk, there's a very wide trail" did not quell any fears.  "Hawk, I come here all the time" didn't help much either.

It was earlier in the year than the 2008 trip.  There was more snow, and more mud.  Hawk was concerned.  But, I pressed him on, all the way down the trail.

Maybe the glowering sky was a source of his concern.

Maybe it was the unsettling verdancy of the pines.

Maybe it was the way the water squelched when I kept stepping out just a little bit farther onto the banks of the creek to get a photo of that goose.

Maybe it was that I promised him crocuses, and this is all we found.

And they're not even true crocuses!  THE NERVE!

Maybe it was because, that weekend, I'd become obsessed with a new dance move I'd invented myself (I told Hawk it was totes legit, though).

It's called "Bats in My Hair".
You flap your hands around your head like there are bats in your hair.
You do not do it to the beat of the music.

Anyway.  Hawk couldn't get out of there quickly enough, but for me, it was a very special afternoon.  I'm sure Hawk felt the same way, once the car was back on the main road.

The trick is, you let them feel safe somewhere the first time.  Then, the second time, they're not concerned ...

Credits

Prairie Crocus Distribution Map:  http://plantwatch.fanweb.ca/plant-information/prairie-crocus/prairie-crocus-distribution-maps/PrCrocus%20MAP.jpg/view

Crocus facts, which I didn't in fact know:  http://plantwatch.fanweb.ca/plant-information/prairie-crocus