Rail-gunning Against Injustice

My dearest Saskatoon, we must speak.

It concerns your driving, my city. You are abysmal when behind the wheel of an automobile of any sort. You frequently change lanes without signalling and you brake for no apparent reason. You text at stop-lights. You leave detachable trailer-hitches in place year-round, with no regard to the ruin you would make of someone else's vehicle in a fender-bender, with this flange, this ramrod, this point-load that completely defeats the purpose of having a bumper to distribute the force of impact. You attempt to lane change into my blind spot, as I am changing lanes, meaning that I am ahead of you and quite visible when you make your decision, and you have the gall to tootle your horn at me in anger. Despite the fact that the main streets have been recently scraped clean, and starting and stopping takes place with near normal efficiency and alacrity, you elect to drive twenty to thirty kilometres below the speed limit. When multiple driving lanes exist, you occupy all of them simultaneously while driving in full parallel, thus preventing anyone from passing. If you happened to be driving the limit while executing this parade-style manoeuvre, I would languish behind you but at least admit to myself that you were obeying the law; alas, you are not driving the posted speed limit - you are lollygagging. Moreover, at eight-thirty in the morning, when trying to drive my girlfriend to work on the other side of town, what you are doing is spurring forward my car-mounted rail gun designs. I suppose I should thank you for that, I'll make a mint from selling those; further, your continued macadam-based jackassery will also make driving past the flaming wreckage of your SUV all the sweeter.

I wonder how long it will actually take to charge the capacitors for this rail gun, this gauss rifle that I will be bolting to the frame of my Chevy Cobalt? Without doing the actual math, I'd say quite some time. What that really means is that I'll need to make it powerful enough for one shot to clear a path through the section of lights on College Drive, right in front of the university, and that I'll have to be patient, like a sniper, and choose my shot when it can clear the most self-contained people movers off of the road in front of me. I suppose I'll need to reinforce the frame and install magnetic shielding on my electronics.

I digress.

You drive like you're scratching your taint the entire time you're behind the wheel. Quit it. Buy some talcum powder, change the fabric with which you gird your loins, see a doctor and get a cream, but do it, and do it soon.

Yule-tide: When Christmas Trees Go Up & Down

The Ships of Yule

When I was just a little lad,

Before I went to school,

I had a fleet of forty sail

I called the Ships of Yule;

Of every rig, from rakish brig

And gallant barkentine,

To little Fundy fishing boats

With gunwales painted green.

They used to go on trading trips

Around the world for me,

For though I had to stay on shore

My heart was on the sea.

They stopped at every port to call

From Babylon to Rome,

To load with all the lovely things

We never had at home;

With elephants and ivory

Bought from the King of Tyre,

And shells and silks and sandal-wood

That sailor men admire;

With figs and dates from Samarcand,

And squatty ginger-jars,

And scented silver amulets

From Indian bazaars;

With sugar-cane from Port of Spain

And pines from Singapore;

And when they had unloaded these

They could go back for more.

And even after I was big

And had to go to school,

My mind was often far away

Aboard the Ships of Yule.

- Bliss Carman, Echoes from Vagabondia, 2nd edn. Boston. Small, Maynard. 1913. 8-9.

When I was just a little lad, before I went to school, my parents used to have my siblings and I memorize poetry and excerpts from literature, in order to build our vocabularies, polish our diction, and develop our memories. This was one of those poems, and it is the one that has stuck in my mind most clearly into adulthood. I've never forgotten the first stanza, and while I had to look up the rest of it online, it felt more comfortable and familiar with every word, line and clack of the key. I'm looking forward to re-committing this to memory, and while I realize that posting this and saying that spoils the surprise a little, maybe I'll put on a little recital when I'm home for Christmas.

I plan on doing similar things with my eventual children. A mind is indeed a terrible thing to waste, and a child's mind doubly so. 

The Tar-Stained Blanket Computer

In the early 2000s, I worked one summer for an electronics retailer in the small town that my parents had moved to. It was one of those "only electronics shop in town" sort of places; we sold satellite TV, cellphones for the provincial telecomm, high speed internet for that same telecomm, radio shack stuff, general electronics (consoles, TVs, digital cameras, etc), computers, and did tech support for the entire community, domestic and commercial. We did house calls for tech support, as well as doing in-store stuff, and that was how I met the tar-stained blanket computer.

The owner of the local bakeshop (we'll call him Bob) was an old pal of the owner of my shop of employment (anonyname: Frank), and they gave each other deals on things. They were also just down the street, so when my boss asked me to walk over and pick up Bob's computer for servicing, it was no big deal. Bob was complaining that it was running really slowly, and Frank, having built the thing a few years beforehand, figured we'd pitch some new RAM into it and call it a day.

I walked over to the bakeshop, walked up to the counter and introduced myself to the woman at the till (small town, yes, but I hadn't been there long). I was led back through the restaurant side, through the bakery itself, and into the dank, windowless hidey-hole that passed for Bob's office. I was not filled with hope. Bob's office was piled high with old paperwork and magazines on every available surface, except for a two-foot square space on his desk, which was covered in ashtrays overflowing with ash and cigarette butts. The entire room reeked of stale cigarette smoke, from years of obvious chain-smoking in a hotbox. The computer tower was pointed out to me, and I was left to my own devices. I mention specifically that the tower was pointed out because, while I would have found it on my own, it would have taken me a little while.

The tower was sitting on the floor, buried under magazines and paperwork, between the desk and the wall, pinned in one of the corners of the room. There were tall boots and a jacket piled in front of it. I had to excavate the thing. I appraised the situation and took in the almost brown colouration of the once light beige frontpiece, sighed, shut down the computer (which I was happy to see was running Win 98se, at least) and began to dig. When I had it clear, I noticed that there was a distinct line of colour around the edge of the case: the large portion that had been buried was much, much lighter than the two inches of case that had protruded. It was all grossly yellowed from years of second-hand smoke, but the front looked like someone had coloured it emphysema. It was tar-stained. I shuddered, but carried the thing back down the block to our workspace.

When I got it into the backroom, I grabbed a screwdriver and popped the case. A cloud left the tower as I pulled off the first side panel. It was like an old movie where an archaeologist opens a sarcophagus, except instead of mummy-rot, it was a pungent cloud of condensed cigarette smoke. Here, I discovered the blanket. There existed a good two inches of thick, layered dust lining the bottom of the case, forming a grotesque blanket of felt-like consistency. The fan on the back of the case had an inch of felt on it, and the air-intake on the front of the case had a similar accumulation, but with streamers of felt coming off of it where the air had continued to eke through, drawn by the work of the labouring, long-suffering case fan. I froze like a rabbit sensing a predator, stunned, disgusted, before I caught a lungful of the cigarette-cloud and coughed until tears stood in my eyes. I called over Frank and the assistant manager to have a look. We were a small shop, so it was just the three of us, most of the time. They laughed, having seen this, literally, this, from Bob before, and having sent me in as a bit of a hazing ritual.

With a smile and a chuckle, Frank handed me a pair of latex gloves and a fresh can of compressed air, and I suited up before carrying the case outside into the alleyway to begin my archaeological dig. Most of it, having the actual consistency of dryer lint, I simply removed by hand. I killed the can of air, but the internals of the case did come clean, and it really didn't even take that long. The rest of the upgrade went painlessly: new ram, defrag the hard drive, scan for malware and viruses, make sure it had all of the latest windows and antivirus updates, slap the side panels back onto the tar-tainted case, and I walked it back over.

Took it into the office, met Bob, and he hovered while I hooked everything back up and booted. He was a taciturn sort, so he more grunted at me than thanked me, handed me a box of donuts, and sat down to work. I left, ate a donut when I got back, and had a normal rest of my day. The donut was pretty good, actually; raspberry filled.

Fade Into the Shadow the Hedgehog

Recently, say about a month ago, my girlfriend was feeling ill. She requested comfort food, which I volunteered to procure; this led me to Dairy Queen to obtain a marshmallow and chocolate sundae for her and a Skor blizzard of entirely too large a volume for any sane consumption for me. I entered the establishment and made my way to the counter, attracting a great deal of attention as I went. This is normal, currently, as I have a shaven head. My head is shaven because I have been partaking in chemotherapy, and most, but not all, of my hair had fallen out. The shaved pate was a concession to convenience, cleanliness and fashion. Having obliged myself of the necessity of the first two conditions, I was pleased to discover that my naked head is of a pleasant shape. Having said that, I am certain that, due to my otherwise completely Aryan physiology, I incur in others the question: is this man a Nazi?

This was the first thing my mother asked me when first I buzzed my hair short. My answer is the same now as it was then: SIEG HEIL, I mean no, no I am not. Was that over the top? I can never tell.

At any rate, people stare at me a lot. Never more so than when I am wearing a SARS mask, because I am immuno-suppressed, but that's a given: if you see someone wearing a germ mask, it raises questions, draws the eye. I wouldn't have thought a shaved head was that big of a deal. Maybe my girlfriend is writing obscenities on the back of my head while I sleep. Who knows? Certainly not I.

As I approached the counter, I noticed a foursome of college girls off to one side, looking at Ice Cream Cakes, saying "OMG" and waiting for their orders. This I mention only because of what happened next. As I was waiting for the signal to come to the till to place my order, a large man in Star Wars t-shirt came up behind me. He was approximately 6'3", about 250 lbs, and sported both a terrible beard and a toque in the shape of Shadow the Hedgehog's head. 

This is Shadow the Hedgehog.

Several years ago, Sega decided that Sonic wasn't edgy enough, and set out to make him more "extreme" by association. Shadow was the result. As you can see, he's black, has a motorcycle and guns, and I can only assume he has "attitude."

This is a Shadow the Hedgehog hat.

Follow this link for other angles of said hat: Shadow the Hedgehog hat at Cutesense 

Between this hat, the Star Wars t-shirt, and his ensuing actions, I feel quite safe in describing this man as both a giant nerd (and I'm nerdy) and an awkward turtle. Allow me to explain. He walked up behind me, glanced at me for a split second, broke eye contact and stared at the college girls' butts for a full second, looked back at me, met my eyes and saw that I had seen him look at said asses, and then he looked down and ashamed, all once. He then faded behind a pillar and hid, staying there until the girls left. He did not make eye contact with me again, nor with the cashier.

Neither his nerdiness, nor his awkwardness would have been particularly relevant on their own, but combined... well...

Poor little feller.

Paradigm shift, then Tokyo Drift

Friends, a lot has been going on.  I will elucidate and expound upon these happenings, but, I think given the state of affairs, it is far more appropriate of me to dust off The Wonderful Life of Cancer Boy, than to post this through the more light-hearted Invader Tim.  

Link:  http://twlcb.blogspot.ca/

Wanna see something neat?

I was setting up a reactor at work (no biggie, you know, it's just my reactor, for science) and had to move an air cylinder across the lab.  When I got in close, this is what I saw:

Is that a Swastika?  I can hear you asking it.  You know you did.

The answer, of course, is yes, yes it is.  See, tanks for compressed gasses can last a long, long time.  This one is from at least April of 1927.  I know this because the inspection dates are stamped on the tank like so:

It could be even older than 1927, that might just be the first inspection date.  The dates keep going around the top of tank, with the latest one in 2006.  This is a German compressed oxygen tank manufactured by Linde in 1927.  The interesting part is that it isn't terribly unique - there are tons of these things in circulation.  This one is slightly different than most in that the swastika hasn't been covered over or altered with another mark.  Usually, the gaps in the edge are filled in and it looks like a little grid of four squares, like a little window.

It doesn't really have anything sinister about it either, other than simply having been manufactured by a German company, in Germany, during a time when the Nazis were acquiring their power.  It'd be like having Made in Canada embossed on the side with a little maple leaf.

Isn't that neat?

I didn't like it.

Last night, I had a singularly unpleasant experience, which I will now share with you:

After a pleasant evening of barbecued meats, ingestible liquids, and the discovery that the live-action Tick series is now on NetFlix, I negotiated the stairs to the basement where I would find my bathroom, bedroom and girlfriend, in that order.

The bathroom was the first stop, being highest on the order of immediate priorities, and being the resting place of a book about dinosaurs, for priority-based perusal.  I set about readying myself for sleep.  To whit, the removal of contact lenses, the washing of face (important that this be done after the contact lenses are removed, lest you accidentally wash one of those suckers up behind your eyelid and then spend the next 5-40 minutes trying to dislodge the persistent transparent bastard), and the brushing of teeth.

This last is where the unpleasantness set in.

I loaded up my futuristic, multicoloured, multitiered, multi-textured, plaque removal bristle-stick with Aquafresh, and vigorously brushed my teeth for about thirty seconds, or until I accidentally tripped my gag reflex, whichever came first.  My body, responding to the physiological prompting of this most urgent of reflexes, promptly evacuated the large glass of water I'd consumed only minutes before, mostly through my nose.

Oh, but wait, it gets better.  Or worse, yes, definitely worse.

There were also teeny-tiny little bits of my supper that came along for the ride, and, having made it to the sinuses, were quite keen on the scenery and decided to stay there indefinitely, to see what the seasons might bring, and take in the local culture.  I shall not go into detail concerning the smell, let us simply say that having gone out through the olfactory in-door, it was quite intense and lingering.  Repeated uses of facial tissues, over time, yielded up these digestive migrants, bit by bit.  Lettuce.  Onion.  A bit of beef.

I recall saying, "Oh, oh God," quite frequently.

Once I stabilized the situation in my beak, I made a brief trip into my bedroom to retrieve a lubricating nasal spray that I keep on hand, largely to deal with winter dryness, but also for emergency.  Spray in hand, I commenced to use a significant amount of it.  Gradually, grudgingly, some sense of nasal normalcy was returned to me, as the blessedly scentless liquids of the spray washed away the memory of the event, like a river running clean and clear.

It was at this point that I returned upstairs to calm myself and make sure there would be no more lingering surprises, so that I wouldn't wake my somnolescent companion with anything particularly disgusting.

Thank you for your time.

Haug Sux a Fatty

This graffiti is carved into one of the walls of one of the bathroom stalls of one of the restrooms on the second floor of the Engineering building, at the University of Saskatchewan:

It has been there for at least six years.  I, personally, cannot recall a time in which it was not there.  Side note: is it still graffiti if it's been carved into something, or is that just straight vandalism?  Anyway, I've been wondering the following since I first noticed this message:

1. Who is/was Haug?
2. Who carved this?  I assume they were male, since this is the men's room.
3. What college(s) were the participants enrolled in?  I can only assume Engineering and/or Agriculture, based on region traffic.
4. What is "fatty"slang for?  Weed?  Dick?  Large women?  Oversized Freezies?
5. "Sux" must mean sucks, right?
6. Is Haug a nickname?  A last name?
7. Does Haug, in fact, sux anything?

I'd like to mention, at this time, that I made a special trip into the stall with my camera in hand, expressly to photograph this commemorative missive - an inscription that will stand the test of time.  I liken Haug to Ozymandias, puzzling scholars of the future.  I would hope that the skilled artisan who carved this spellbinding philosophical treatise also made a special trip into the stall, armed with his tools, enlightenment for the masses on his or her mind, but I am forced to concede that it was probably just some guy, taking a crunch, who recalled that he had his keys with him when inspiration struck.  Perhaps he had to find a way to fill the time, scraping away while his legs went numb.

Stall graffiti puzzles me some.  Who takes a marker with them when they need to grunt one out?  Do you go in with premeditated intent?  Odd.  What really confounds me is urinal graffiti.  Who has the bladder capacity large enough to give you time to write some of these novels?  If you're sticking around post-urine to complete your epic, what happens when someone else walks in?  Do you keep writing?  Do you freeze up like a deer, before bolting for the door?

Mysteries of the universe, these are.