A dream I had this morning

Warm, not a hint of cold or even the wind. Heather coloured grass all around, it was everywhere as though it were a theme. An overwhelming sense of comfort upon the air, the kind you have when you're in the presence of friends and loved ones. It was in the evening as we all met for supper. Large birds with long wing spans, water birds were nesting in the near by grass and others flying around. It felt eastern seaboard, Nova Scotia, Maine or Massachussetts. Sand under our feet, not requiring us to wear shoes.

The only sound heard was the laughter of friends and their conversations. We sat at picnic tables that were well built, not wobbly but sturdy, hard, thick cuts of wood - unpainted to be untainted, natural - everything around was natural. Some of the grass was up to your waist, on average just above the knee, not green, not dead but dry and dense and only the sandy paths dare to cut through it.

Potato salad in abundance upon the buffet table. As we finished and walked back the help started to take up their share. I could pick out arabic on their tongue and politely said "Salam Alakim", getting the usual look of surprise I get when it is heard from a face as obviously white as mine. I tried to carry the conversation as best I could with my repertoire of maybe 18 words of arabic, it ended shortly with a giggle from both sides and Stephanie's embarrassment. Along the way Glenn pointing out the nests that were destroyed when someone had stored their gear there years ago. The gear remained as did the skeleton on the nest and that which once bore it. It was decided that after getting back from supper we would all take part in a game of british. It was perfact considering it required nothing for equipment other than shoes of respectable grip. I cringed knowing I had a couple ideal pairs at home, far far away. Looking down at the DC's I bought only because Stephanie liked them, I spied the poor grip they provided and cringed again - mainly for not following my normal selection criteria of grip and functionality when it comes to shoes. I had decided that on our way back to the houses we were staying in I would quickly stop in and purchase a more appropriate pair for our game of british.

Walking back from my purchase and not quite satisfied with the grip of my new kickers, I watched Keith and Amanda take a few bags from the trunk, as I walked down the very slight decline of the lane on our way to the house we were staying in. From the top of the tree lined lane you could see all the houses we occupied. At the bottom of the little hill was the waters edge and it was beautifully positioned at the end of the lane which bifurcated the land. On each side of the lane were these lovely, older, well built 2 storey dimensional houses, each with a sandy driveway and several old growth trees that reached high into the sky.

Starting from the bottom of the hill on the right hand side was the house Glenn and Amanda stayed in, followed by Jason and Trudy, then Adam and Michelle and finally myself and Stephanie. On the other side nearly across from us but just down the hill a bit was Keith and Amanda, then Joey and Maya who were staying in a house that had a small convenience store attached to the bottom. This store was ran by an older man and woman of tasteful manners and a culture similar to that of our own. It just so happened to carry all our favourite beers, not out of coincidence but because they knew we were coming. The store had all our favourite junk food, favourite cuts of steak, the right types of spices, it carried .5%, 1%, and 2% milk as well as 18% cream for mine and Joey's tea. Fruit came in fresh each day, the bread was homemade, the bacon came special order from that place out where Brad lives and there was no such thing as margarine. They had fudgicles stocked and restocked accordingly as my appetite for these delectible treats still number in the 8-12 range each day. They had Wild Berry Backwoods Hand rolled Cigars and the brand of cigarettes smoked only by those who inhabited the idyllic country lane.

Steph and I went up stairs and changed our clothes to something more appropriate she pulled out her "joggers" and I zoomed in on the grip on her shoes, she had better grip than I did. I was starting to fulminate, knowing full well the difference a pair of shoes can make when you're trying to out run and out manoeuvre an opponent, it's like understeer in a sports car; At this point my main opponent was my bloody shoes. I walked over to Joey and Maya's to see if Joe had a better pair. Each time I looked down at my shoes I didn't recognise them, it seemed the shoes were changing but the grip remained the same. I went in and presented my problem to Joe who - making me feel no better - agreed I had a problem. He gave me a pair to try on, they fit well enough and the grip was increasing my confidence. He gave them a second look and for some reason - probably because it was in a dream - says: "those are Trevor Boone's sneakers"

The True Bay Roberts Legend

Reginald T. Badcock

Quote from Mordecai Richler's Barney's Version

"I'll bet you ten to one," I said, "that the covers of his notebooks are numbered and dated out of consideration for future scholars"

- that was the quote Joe

When you see the Gold in someone's eyes, it's hard to see the Silver in others'

Oh it bothers me so, that lights drive my soul

Rogers? What communication?

Are the people at Rogers Communications complete and utter idiots or what?

I have heard NOTHING but BAD things about their reception. I myself had to cancel my contract because I was wasn't getting the range that was set forth in my contract. They are infamous in Alberta and B.C. for garbage reception and anyone who comes home are forcibly incommunicado if they're on the Rogers Network.

Pretty nice when you come home for the Christmas holidays and the phone is rendered useless! Beware my ex-pats when you go out around the bay expecting your Rogers enabled phone to get reception.

Yet for some reason, unbeknownst to me (and I'm willing to bet many many others) their commercials feature the guy - with the far apart eyes - getting crappy reception and always losing calls juxtaposed with the "goodlooking" guy who always has impecable reception stating that he's with Rogers

Do the people at Rogers use their phones with Bell/Telus service? Because seriously how in God's name have they been able to market themselves as having good reception. I think they should fold based on that alone!

How do you like that rant Rick?

P.S. Don't anybody even think of copying that one

Why is he getting up so often?

So I've started a new job and it requires 16 days of training. Today was my second day on payroll and the first of seminars.

At the beginning of the class this morning we were taking frequent 5 minute breaks so we wouldn't get bored or fall asleep. It was great, some would go for a smoke or just chit chat and I would take out my book and endeavour to cut out a couple pages. After we had lunch and gathered back in the room and despite having just finished a coffee I was feeling quite drowsy.

Maybe 20 minutes into it I found myself holding my pee - hoping I could last until the next break - which I figured would come soon based upon the track record.

I should probably say too, that as my day progresses it is a mission of mine each day to attain good homeostasis via hydration. So being readily available, I had drank about 1 litre of water previous to lunch and only peed once, and that's not including the coffee I had (which is a diuretic of course) and the glass of orange juice I drank before showering plus the glass of milk I drank with my Nutella and Peanut Butter mixture sur mon whole wheat toast. Therefore, in an effort to get properly hydrated I drank roughly 2 litres before having lunch.

So having successfully held my pee for nearly half an hour I went to pee and on the way back to my seat I decided I should have another coffee, since I nearly fell asleep earlier. Half way through the cup I was dying to pee. Luckily we took a break, so off I went.

After the break I topped up my coffee and being anal, poured a cup of water as well to wash my mouth of the nasty after taste and to prevent staining on my teeth. Unfortunately for me I had to pee again within 10 minutes of sitting down again, so I walked from my seat at the very front to the rear where the entrance is located going past all the others and thought to myself "I hope this isn't going to be a reoccurring thing".

Well lo and behold, not even 20 minutes later I was up again walking past all the people in the room on the way to the washroom. This time I was growing paranoid of what the others in the room were thinking. I resolved to make no eye contact at all, trying not to bring attention to myself.

Back at my seat I finished my coffee and as I said earlier being anal - took mouthfuls of water and squished it around my mouth to wash it out a little. I guess the last of the coffee and the many mouthfuls of eau engorged my bladder and I was up again and on my way to the washroom. Still not making eye contact I walked to the opposite end of the room past all the others with the thought of whether or not they suspected I was doing drugs or something.

So, again back at my seat and 10 minutes into a video after we just came back from having a quick break I noticed a stench. Now I have been living in Alberta on and off for the past 5 years and I've noticed a particular smell associated with gas heated homes and buildings. This smell is very similar to rotten eggs, to the point that when I first moved into this house and noticing the smell I would walk around searching for the origin.It wasn't until this fall that I realized it was due to the gas heating. I had walked into my hotel room one day, a full 14 hours after leaving it and noticed an aroma as soon as I opened the door and passed through the undisturbed air. It was a tell tale sign for me - after narrowing down all the variables - that the gas heating was the culprit.

I say this only because this smell was ubiquitous, within the conference area, no better yet it was omnipotent, yes omniPOTENT. Good choice of words because if you remember I said the smell resembles rotten eggs or to a greater and worse degree: fart! Because if you've ever smelled this gas smell it's always mistaken for fart first!

Anyways, as I was saying, I was again on my way to the washroom amidst all the stink. However when I returned to my seat I wasn't fearful of them thinking I was doing lines of coke off the counter, rather that they suspected me responsible for some sort of explosive diarrhea, thus the stench!

Written to the iambic pentameter of the song "Raglan Road" sung by Luke Kelly

As I looked in her eyes twas great surprise as our lips softly met
As I held her there it was her stare that held my heart for true
For on those nights when she slept tight I dreamt of days to come
She laid by me with passions free it was where we were meant to be
Her long blonde hair on pillow near as our loved filled the air
The days when her smile would light a mile I let her sunshine in
But with utter grief and disbelief I knew we would soon part
I held her tight on every night so that her impression was made
And on those cold nights so far away I watched her from over here
I remembered her smile while I was on trial for I kept it in my heart
For on those days when we’d not part I would watch her once again
And when I came from far away I knew that we would do
Having baled my hay and next to her lay our life it would begin
No more those days when her sweet gaze was miles from me again

Cafe si vous plait

She hands over the remnants of a $5 bill après 2 cups of coffee have been extracted. Christ! I thought - as I struggled to add up the price of a single coffee - that shit used to be a lot cheaper when I first started drinking coffee.

That thought is then exacerbated with slight frustration realizing the amount of money I have spent for a drink that has often left me with anxiety and an inability to sleep.

Why coffee anyways? Back then I didn’t even enjoy the taste. Why not a milkshake or something I’d enjoy, like a soft drink? And what’s so soft about that stuff anyways? In grade 5 Mr. Kelloway emptied a can of cola into a glass with an iron nail in it, by the next day it had rusted.

Imagine your Teeth Children!

In the back of my mind I always figured the reason I came to drink this damn stuff was in an attempt to socialize. And in essence it was, but it made me feel pretentious. I would have much rathered tea.

By now I think my taste in coffee is refined a little, thanks in part to Richard Brown, who would religiously stop at Esquires for freshly ground French Roast each night on our way to work, a 12 hour shift mind you!

I no longer have a feeling of pretention as I now find utility in it and look forward to a “cup o joe” several times throughout the day. I prefer to buy it freshly ground and brewed at home, where I drink it black. I also use cold water now, so as to make it taste fresher (the water I mean). I got that from Keith and Craig on long nights studying for finals, or simply for nights studying. Engineers tend to be quite studious - it's a necessary adaptation - they need to be! Unless they plan on failing. Either way, after watching them pour cold water into the kettle I asked?
"The water coming from the boiler has been there longer than the water coming straight from the tap."
"Yes, not to mention precipitate", I said.
It made perfect sense.

My Mother used to boil the kettle après dinner using cold water. Just as her mother did and perhaps every other person she has seen put water into a kettle. I couldn’t understand why she wouldn’t just put hot water in there; taking it less time to boil.

Due to my persistence upon her to fill the kettle with hot water she began boiling the water just after we would sit for a meal, on a medium heat thus the kettle would be good and ready at the end. Then to her, my problem with the kettle taking too long to boil was no longer an issue. The fact remained that she never gave me an answer to satisfy my curiosity.

The problem still roamed around in my mind though, why would one do something that was obviously counter productive and never question it?
Why do we do things a certain way and with such frequency and not think to do it differently? I’m beginning to believe that people don’t think about stuff enough.

It's like the countless number of people I've watched eat a morsel of food and introduce liquid to the situation before they've even chewed it 3 times. Day after day I watched this one fella eat his lunch, he would take a bite of food, maybe chew it once and then take a mouthful of juice. I wanted to see him eat steak to see if he would do the same thing.

I could understand doing that if you didn't have teeth, because soaking it makes for easier mastication, but apparently it's not good on the gut, or at least that's what Vendenziehoffrhen said.

Mmm. . . Popcorn is it?

It shouldn't surprise you to know that when I was a child I prepared for my Brother a hearty meal of broken-up pieces of styrofoam, the flavour of which your house is likely insulated.

It was sometime in the early 80's when my parents or my Dad decided it was time to "finish" the basement in our young home. I was there for practically all of it. He had used the white styrofoam to place against the concrete and the itchy fiberglass variety next to that. You could imagine there being a lot of left over insulation of both varietals, and this I put to use.

Initially I had gathered up all the excess fiberglass and made a pile of it, in which I - wrapped up in my "skidoo suit" with the hood pulled tight - would pretend I was swimming in a vast unending ocean. You see I always had a great imagination and had become quite constructive after being weaned on the likes of a master craftsman by the name of Mr. Dressup.

Itchy and full of the dirt which accumulated over a busy basement floor complete with sawdust, I swam to the shore (basement floor) and dried myself off. I was warned days earlier when I was found walking along the insulation of the inside walls that the fiberglass was itchy and bad for me, but I had to find out for myself!

I didn't really learn my lesson until my second day of swimming when I got the damned stuff in my eye and scared my mother half to death when it was too painful for me to move my bloodshot eye within it's socket. So me - full of insulation and dirt - followed my Mom to the upstairs bathroom for a flushing of my eyeball. It was then, with the discomfort of water streaming into my sensitive eye that I decided my days of swimming in a vast ocean of fiberglass were over.

During this time of upgrading the basement my Brother Brad was at my side, and to keep us busy and out of trouble our Dad had fashioned a box from scrap pieces of wood laying around and said that we could help by picking up the pieces of styrofoam. I don't know about you, but my first encounter with this white material was bliss. First of all, it reminded me of Popcorn, it was slightly compressible and broke easily into many pieces. It had the functionality of "craftpaper", only on a higher level. Oh the possibilities.

Being anal at a young age I had cleaned this box our Father made to a degree worth of eating from and collected the refuse of styrofoam and broke them into smaller uniform pieces, which to me, resembled the Popcorn my brother cherished oh so well.

Out of curiosity and amusement I presented to my Brother this box of carefully sculpted insulation under the pretence that it was Popcorn.

To my pure and utter amazement he not only tried it but began eating it with gusto, and to the point that I was afraid he would run out.

So I, (still reeling from his display of satisfaction) not wanting to see my Brother go hungry, gathered more less manicured pieces of styrofoam to add to his plate. I watched joyfully, convincing myself that it wasn't that bad for him, and that he would simply poop it out like the stone of a plum, from which I had found out 1st hand years earlier. I continued to watch as he ate the styrofoam and listened to the characteristic scrunch and squeek of polystyrene polymers rubbing against teeth.

At one point I nearly laughed and gave myself away, but I held my composure and let him carry on doing what he was obviously enjoying.

It wasn't until many years well past puberty, that I relayed this story on a hot humid evening in the State of Quintana Roo, on the eastern part of the Yucatan Peninsula. far from the scene of the crime during a dinner in honour of his Matrimony.

My Mother was oblivious, as was his new Bride.

Mordecai Richler

I tell ya there's nothing like reading a Mordecai Richler book to make you realize how much you don't know! I have begun to read "Barney's Version" and 6 hours into it I'm only on page 12. I have been researching phrases, references, inferences, parallels and words that I either thought I knew, vaguely know or know nothing about.

Each paragraph is wrought with words that cannot be taken at face value or otherwise you will miss the whole point of him making use of such words or phrases. Like many of his previous books I have read, I have a list of words and a dictionary next to me. Only this time Microsoft Word is my scrap paper and Google is my research partner.

Already it looks to be a promising book, but as I further into it the larger my short term vocabulary becomes. People have wondered where I get the words I sometimes use, the "big words" I often put into prose, and Mordecai Richler is one of the sources for that. Because there's nothing worse than reading a book or a magazine and not fully appeciating the strength of the sentence due to not knowing the word of choice, and it is for this reason that I check out these words and their etymology in an effort to understand what the author had intended.

I use big words because sometimes one word encompasses what several may!

So I suggest everyone read a Mordecai Richler novel so that you too can spend several hours of research for each hour of reading. . . and at the end you'll have a larger vocabulary and a greater breadth of knowledge and most of all a snipit of understanding of his brand of Canadian culture.

Nuttin like da sound of a frac!

Yes by I tell ya there's nothing like the sound of 10 frac pumpers running all at once, driving millions of liters of water mixed with about 400 tonnes of sand down into a hole in the ground at 3 in the morning.

Not many of us have had the pleasure of hearing 28 tractor trailer engines roaring to their limit in a collective effort to push a slurry of mud and acid into the ground at over 6500 PSI. It's quite an awesome spectical, the noise is deafening the raw power is incomprehensible and the nerves are on edge.

Many pieces of pipe with a burst rate of 15000 PSI are linked together connected to pumpers creating a brutally crushing amount of pressure down these lines. You'd swear you can feel the earth beneath you shake. The wind roaring up the fine sand off the belts making it look like a blizzard at times, the fine grit in your teeth, the sand sticking to the sweat on your brow makes for an unforgettable experience. Watching the pipe shake on the ground like only frac pipe does. You could almost ride the pipe at times it seems - it shakes so much.

Licking my lips now brings more grit into my teeth, glad I'm not out there now in that storm of blowing sand, echoed by the sound of the exhaust clapper hitting the exhaust pipe over and over again as the tractors give it all they have. The smell of diesel exhaust, like the sound of the machinery and tractor's engines revving pierces everything around you and yet, oddly enough there are hundreds of field mice scurrying about everywhere.

Anyone Can!

I'm a fan of beautiful women, plain and simple. If I could, I would be surrounded by beautiful people all day long.

If you've been on the internet this year you've probably noticed various advertisements featuring the face of a beautiful woman. She's actually a french journalist whom I think is absolutely beautiful. In fact she's been voted "the world's most beautiful news reporter", "TV's sexiest news anchor" as well as "the most beautiful woman in the world".

I decided to post several pictures so you can see just how beautiful she is, as one single photo doesn't really do her justice. You may recognize her from ads on the internet or from magazines.



She's quite the looker!

Her name is Melissa Theuriau and she's my age. I consider her to be my peer, based only on age of course. However, when I see such a beautiful woman I oft wonder if her and I could possibley be a couple or would she ever go out with me. Call me an idealist but I believe we are all on a level playing field. So I decided to check her out on wikipedia - you know - to see what she's up to. To help me figure out whether or not I have a chance with this very attractive woman of the same age.

Well it seems I'm too late, she already has someone. She is in fact married and has a child with an unlikely fellow - I say this because he's not exactly a sports superstar or the hottest celebrity. He has however attained a celebrity in his own right. He's an actor, comedian and a producer in France. He even has a physical handicap. As a teenager he was struck by a speeding train which resulted in the loss of use in his right arm. His name is Jamel Debbouze

Here is a picture of Him and his Beautiful wife.




As you can see from the picture his arm is lame, and has atrophied quite a bit. This guy has an obvious handicap, and one in which is visable to all. Some people would call him a freak, others would be grossed out by this, and yet we have a woman - considered my many to be the most beautiful woman in the whole wide world - by his side.


This fella is very successful at what he does despite any misgivings regarding his inability to use his arm. In many pictures his hand is placed in a pocket so as not to draw attention. I know myself I would be pretty apprehensive about going anywhere if I had such a condition, yet he doesn't let any of this discourage him.


Here's a pic of both of them out for a jog.

Again, looking at this picture, his is an obvious handicap, yet at his side is one of the most beautiful women in the world. Although as years have passed by I'm sure he has gotten less and less conscious of it, when you're out in public jogging people still look and people still point but he lives his life like any other.

This I find very touching. He doesn't have the ability to put his arm around her, so she does it for him. She is so content and at peace in his arms and it's obvious looking at her face.

She could care less in this moment, for her this is a full man, and so he is. When his arms are around her the handicap isn't even there. This relationship is between a man with a handicap and a beautiful woman who doesn't even consider it.

Let this example be a message to anyone who fails to get past their handicap. One of the most beautiful women in the world and the guy who caught her. He is handicapped but it didn't stop him from getting the attention of such a stunning woman.

It's so easy to take things for granted, I happen to take a lot of things for granted.

In my youth my parents would wake up all 3 of us boys for school and get breakfast ready all the while we were trying to get back to sleep.

It's easy to take things for granted - especially when it's something that is always there. Having a spouse or kids that are always around is a luxury, you may be happy to have them around you at all times, but you really know how much you took that for granted when you have to leave. Maybe it's a business trip for a week, but for some it lasts months - and then you know how much you really took them for granted.

Think of something you have around you all the time or something that you have, that you have never done without.

I wake up and look around to see what life is like today, is it drizzley out? Is the sun shining? Is it snowing? All these things I can tell just by looking out my window, but what if I couldn't see? What if my life became black? No light or shadows to even tell me what time of day it was.

Can any of us even imagine what it would truly be like to have no eye sight? To be in complete darkness all the time, to not know what the trees look like, never to see the stars ever again, can any of us really appreciate what that would be like?

Imagine how your life would change, your memory would have to improve because you would have to remember where everything is, where you last put something. Even going to the washroom has been complicated by your loss of sight, some of the most mundane and trivial things, like looking behind you as you back out of your driveway are now something of the past.

The faces of loved ones, pictures of your family and friends, your favourite television show - never to be seen again. Can any of us really imagine how cut off from the world we would feel, because imagining is the only thing we could do unless it really happened.

Imagine waking up tomorrow, what time is it? How would you know unless you were told, because you surely wouldn't have a special clock that told you. You would want to speak to someone because you felt you were alone, where is your cell phone? You have to use the washroom, so for a man does this mean you have to sit peeing? Then you wash your hands, you feel the water and hear it coming out of the tap - but you can't see it.

You are hungry so you go to the kitchen, find the kettle and fill it with water, turn on the stove making sure you place the kettle on the right burner. The phone rings and you search for it banging into things on the way, you hear it but you're not sure which room it's in, by the time you find the room the phone stops ringing. You try to feel around the room for the phone, if you could only have one glance you could narrow it down, then the kettle starts whistling and its back out to the kitchen. You manage to get a cup from the cupboard, fetch a teabag from another cupboard and place it into the cup. You start to pour the boilng water into the cup only to over flow it, and water goes all over the counter and a little onto the floor. You reach into the cupboard for the sugar dish and pull it out to the edge to grab it but it comes out too far and it comes crashing to the floor spilling sugar, mixed with glass all over the place and it's especially messy where it mixes with the water.

What do you do next? Do you breakdown and cry? Do you walk to get a mop or broom? Will you walk over the glass? Will you end up tracking more mess throughout the house?

By now you may be getting a better understanding of what it would be like to lose your eye sight.

Of all our senses eyesight is the most important for survival, can any of us really imagine what our lives would be like without it?

And what are you the dork version of Dawson Leery?

I am 10 minutes fresh out of watching the new Leonardo DiCaprio or should I say new Christopher Nolan movie. I'm walking out of the theatre and past a buch of geeks who have stopped along the wall talking about the movie when I hear . . . Some fuckin dick, who is trying to sound smart say: "Yeah but, the interesting thing is that there's absolutely no plot".

It's funny because as I was walking out I took notice of this kid right off the bat. He's skinny, wearing tight skinny legged jeans, with his hair shaved along the sides and back - save for the (what I like to call) Christiano Ronaldo strip, which this idiot was not pulling off. His lip was pierced, I think he was one of those friggin "Emo" kids, and if an Emo is reading this now and is offended, here's a GO FUCK YOURSELF right from me!

Anyways I didn't even think of the words he spoke at first, I just thought of how much of a dude he sounded like. I walked by with an obvious smile on my face, as I was nearing laughter, when his words hit me, "no plot", what the hell dork? No plot?

This kid doesn't have a goddamn clue, the movie is rife with plot. The whole idea is pretty keen, and this cat obviously couldn't get over it long enough to see what the plot is. Although maybe this jackass doesn't even know what plot is, he was sounding like James Van Der Beek proselytizing to Katie Holmes about movies whilst laying on his bed in an episode of Dawson's Creek.

I usually don't walk away from such a stupid remark, I walked on wondering if I should go back, I decided not to. I just hope his Disciples immediately knew he was way off and called him on it.

Soft Spots

I want to write a funny blog about a guy who lives his life with an obvious defect. I want to describe how when he was a baby, he was dropped or somehow fell onto a Christmas Tree cookie cutter. When he was a baby he landed onto the cookie cutter forehead first and due to a baby's soft spot he has been living with an indentation of a Christmas Tree all his life.

This Bike makes me feel Gayer

So I was waiting at the lights in downtown St. John's. I was first to go through, quietly waiting when all I could hear was this very loud interupting noise. A really loud Motorcycle being revved, not once, not even thrice but constantly, and unnecessarily.

I looked around in search of this asshole on his (in all likelyhood) Harley, but no dice.

I heard it again, only louder this time, the revving continued, I couldn't even hear the radio. I looked in the rearview mirror and pulling up on this bike was a woman of slight stature and a bigger girl sitting behind her.

She was the one revving this terribley loud bike and she continued to do so after she pulled up behind me. I couldn't help but think she was a lesbian with her partner riding with her. Not because they had matching plaid helmets or Doc Marten shoes, I just got a vibe that this was just some missus out for a ride with her girlfriend.

But the constant revving of an obviously loud bike, commanded my attention. I know what it's like to rev up a motor, it's awesome and perhaps this girl loves it too, or maybe she's just looking for attention. I'd say the former.

Maybe she was a rebellious lesbian, one who cuts the arms out of her shirts. Maybe she spent a long time in the closet and now is in a constant state of rejoice.

Regardless, she is very happy to have this bike.

Motorcycles are great, and symbolize freedom and this girl is doing a great job of celebrating it. I could feel her joy and excitement from my vehicle, it was a very goodlooking motorcycle and she looked good on it as did her passenger.

I wonder how she felt when she first got the bike. I'm thinking she wanted it for a long time. I'm thinking it is now part of who she is. Like my friend who has a Harley and wears nothing but harley clothes, boots, jewelery and accessories. It is part of his lifestyle and in some part it identifies him. I'm assuming this woman feels the same. I'm figuring she has wanted this bike for a long time and now she finally has it he loves it and what it stands for and it just feels right.

I wonder though when she got on the bike and rode down the street, did she say to herself, "Man this motorcycle makes me feel more like a lesbian, I feel so much gayer now."

Who's the Fuckin Dork?

Who? Who you say, who?

Only the President of the World Bank. I bet that guy has women throwing panties and bras at him all the time, he's like Jon Bon Jovi, in New Jersey circa 1993. Can you imagine all the women that guy gets?

Seriously,What a DORK . . . Figures! And that's the official "portrait", I can't believe he Okay'd this. Like where was his wife?

It's G20 weekend and I'm watching the public reaction unfold on TV protesting the summit.

But don't get the wrong idea, I'm not one of those "no underarm deodorant, army boot wearing, dreadlocked, marijuana smoking - I only drink fair trade coffee" fucking hippies.

I think some of those fuckers should be arrested for the whole duration of the G8 and G20 Summits, and arrested on a newly enacted (the previous night - just to make em mad) legislation that allows the Po Po to hold individuals viably, that are suspected of practicing anarchy, creating mayhem and disrupting public safety. Mob mentality is contagious!

Protest all you want but don't throw rocks and burn shit. Geez, I haven't thrown rocks since I was like 8 chasing Brian Bullen on my bicycle on Farm Road. I threw a rock at him (we all did, I didn't even hit him), only to lose balance, falling off my bike and skidding along the dirt road, skinning out the palms of my hands and knees and worst of all scraping my poor little pre-pubescent gonad pouch.

Minutes later, back at my house: "Mom I fell off my bike", Face cloth, dirt, little rocks, red tender skin, my scrotum, ointment, pain and my tears, not to mention regret.

I had a feeling from then on that you do wrong and something bad happens to you. In my case that philosophy has rarely failed.

I felt pretty cool for the first time in my life when I was about 10 years old. Mark Greenland (who was my best friend) and I were listening to the album “License to Ill” by the Beastie Boys. We used to listen to it over and over, again and again. We thought we were kings, listening to this cool, rebellious musical style. It was by far the most influential album of life up until that point.

Mark was who got me into ordering shit from Columbia House, it was awesome, you’d look at the list of albums with the corresponding thumbnail photos of the album cover, check off a few, send off the form and a month later you’d receive your cassette tapes wrapped in cardboard. It was like unwrapping a Christmas present.

Oh the possibilities.

I once ordered the Milli Vanilli album “girl you know it’s true”, I sure as hell never told anyone that I was a fan, because it wasn’t cool - for guys anyway. I never admitted that I had an album either. I remember watching the Grammy Awards in 1990 when they won for best new artist, I was so proud of them. I wanted dreadlocks back then too because of them. I thought those guys were cool!

Anyway, Mark had a tape with the Bobby Brown song entitled “My Prerogative”, I’m assuming it was a mixed tape because neither knew the name of the song. Neither did we know what the hell he was saying, because in listening to it we thought he was saying “my barakus”. Don’t ask me what that means because I don’t know, it was the only thing we could discern from the poor recording quality not to mention it didn’t have the whole song, rather a snippet of it.

It was a catchy tune and we certainly enjoyed the little bit of it that we did have. We used to go around the house singing “my barakus “ like fools, thinking we were singing the right words. Marks brother Robert didn’t know what the hell we were saying either, so when we asked we told him it was a new swear word. Unfortunately for us Robert held it over our heads so that when he wanted something and we didn’t give in he’d threaten to tell his Father that we were swearing.

One day Robert decided to tell on us, and Eric (their Father and my Godfather) punished us by sending us both into separate rooms for half an hour or however long it was.

We thought we had something cool going on that only Mark and I were a part of, an inside joke if you will. I guess that backfired on us.

Looking back I wish I told Eric the difference, that it wasn't a swear word, but it was worth Robert not knowing. I wonder what Eric thought it meant, surely he hadn't heard it before. At that time he was a science teacher at Coley's Point Elementary and must have been up on his swear words.

Mmm seasoned...

So Stephanie has a real serious fear of cross contaminating food, she's almost jewish - not liking other foods touching eachother. Well she's not that bad, but I'm not permitted to cut raw meat on a wooden cutting board. In our home it has to be plastic when cutting meat, or wooden whenever she isn't present, and it's unbeknowst to her.

You see I do not have fear of dying due to the bacteria and other microbes that may dwell in a wodden cutting board. I have grown up on food that was cut up on wodden cutting boards. In fact the old cutting board we had when I was a kid was great it smelled of onions whenever it was wet.

The cutting board was a dark brown, glued together using three leafs, it was round and was routed all the way round near the edge maybe 1\4 deep. You hear some people talking about how well seasoned their cast iron frying pan is, well this cutting board was well seasoned. I say if you cut the board up into chunks and put it in a slow cooker you could make a soup from it that tasted awesome. This baby was the shit!

It wasn't until my early teeage years that I started to get fussy about the foods I ate and the way it was prepared. I started cooking myself when I was 9 or 10. I was always baking stuff, especially Duncan Hines's Devil's Food cakes - in which case I always ate a good portion of the batter if not all of it.

I was always my responsibility to clear up after my mess and when preparing meals it was quite a mess. When it came my turn to use the cutting board I became well aware of the scent acpturing properties of wooden cutting boards. You could imagine this cutting board from many years of use all tattered with bits of wood sticking from it. It's like it was growing hair, not rigid enough to stab you but not weak enough to just fall off. This board has seen many a sharp blade turn dull and has helped slice many a hundred onions and carrots and turnip.

When it came time to wash the cutting board I used to let it soak for a few minutes and then wash it thoroughly, I would scrub it vigorously with wash cloths. Some times I'd soak it and scrape it with a sharp knife watching the wood turn a lighter shade as if the knife were a squeegee. I was adamant on getting this thing clean and it seems the more I soaked it and scraped it with a knife the better it worked.

One day I made a fish caserole and of course when it came to cleaning time I was extra anal. I soaked and scraped it twice, then gave it a good scrubbing. For good measure I figured I would let it soak a bit more just to get out all the possible fish smell, so I did. I also decided to watch some TV while I waited. Well, one show turned into 2, which turned into 3. When I went to give the cutting board the final scrub I looked into the sink to find 3 separately floating pieces of dark wood.

I think Calgary is really starting to grow on me

It seems the weather is always favourable when I’m in town. It seems you guys always have a day off when I’m in town. It seems there's always something to do when I’m in town.


I don’t know why, but tea always tastes better when we drink it together. I don’t know why, but nachos always have just the right amount of cheese when we make them. I don’t know why, but the food is always best when the 3 of us pick up the food together.
It's nice to wake and walk down stairs to meet you guys in the kitchen or living room. It’s nice that the tea is ready and your Mom’s homemade bread is ready to turn into “my toast”. It’s nice that you would like to know what I want to do today. It’s nice that you want to know what I’d like to have for supper. It’s nice to be part of a home, and always feel more than welcome.

















I truly love to walk into that room and see you guys there. I truly love to engage in conversation with you. I truly love that you are interested in what I have to say, and I love to say that I am interested in what you have to say. I truly love that you never grab a beer without asking me if I want one as well, even if we’re drinking Justin’s beer. I truly love the fact that the day revolves around me or at least you do a good job making it seem that way.

I like it how you call home from work to see how my day is going and that you guys will be home soon. I like it how there’s a spiced country loaf made in my honour, even if I didn’t get to eat it last time. I like it how every effort is made to accommodate any need I have, and how I never take unnecessary advantage of it. I like it how we are, or at least you are grown up, and we have real jobs now - not working in the fish plant’s blast freezer wearing that Umbro hat.
It’s funny, that I have had 2 identical hats as you.

I’m here at Calgary airport where I have just arrived via a short flight from Grande Prairie. I’m waiting for my friend to pick me up, who is in the middle of rush hour traffic, so I’ve decided to come to this White Hat Volunteers booth and do some work on my computer. I logged into the Calgary Airport Wi-Fi internet access that is so slow that my homepage won’t even load, so I’ve resolved to writing.

At the airport here in Calgary there are seniors who volunteer their time, to help in any way they can – the people who come into the arrivals area of the airport. They all wear, atop their heads the telltale white Stetson, complimented by a red vest, quite similar to the regalia worn by the Canadian athletes at the ’88 Winter Olympics. The booth is there for the volunteers, it is essentially a kiosk. For me it is more of a functional desk. It has 2 power outlets and 3 network/telecommunication jacks and a very accommodating surface that wraps around to the back on the left hand side.

I am now using this kiosk as my work station. I am not really paying attention to the busy people around me but so far I have been called upon twice for help. I have helped as best I can, and to ensure the people asking my help aren’t lead astray and come away with a bad impression of this volunteer organization, I make sure all are well aware that I am not a representative of said group.

I look around aimlessly as my mind cycles through thoughts and ideas and stuff to put into words. I say this so that it’s understood that I am not paying attention to anything other than my hands hitting the correct keys on the keyboard. With that said, I look up momentarily to lock eyes with the most beautiful woman I have seen today. She was walking toward me at a leisurely pace as we both looked at one another; her face was expressionless the whole time. When I say we locked eyes for 7 seconds I mean to say that it was definitely longer than 5 seconds, yet not as long as 10. I was still trying to think of a word that meant ample or spacious as we shared glances, so my intent was purely coincidental - as I’m sure her was as well. The thing about it was she walked right up to the booth and right when I anticipated a question I gave her a polite nod as if to initiate conversation, and at that moment she broke from her gaze and walked right past my work area. I guess she knew I was an imposter.

That Can't Be Nice

I had a few hours to kill before I had to pick up my glasses at the optometrist, so I decided to navigate the Grande Prairie Mall. I checked out a few stores, not really looking to buy, more so to peruse – as Joe says. I went into the jewellery store where back in 2006 I had purchased a watch. I went there to see if they had the same model of watch I was currently wearing. You see I got this watch from Amazon.com, in fact I bought 2 of the same watch, I do that when I like something – maybe I should get another Steph to go with the one I already have. The point was, I was wondering what it retails at, but they didn’t have that particular model. I did however join in to help finish the song “farmer in the dell”, which the sales lady was singing. She enjoyed my accompaniment as didthe other women in the store. We all shared a laugh, such is my usual playful behaviour when out in public – often to the consternation of those shyer individuals who may be with me. Comments like “Yeah he’s always like that”, “he’s special” or “and I have to live with him” or “there’s something wrong with him”, are often spoken by my company at the time. Comments which I feel should not be said at such auspicious occurrences, because my sunny disposition should be celebrated not berated, even if in a jovial way.

From there I continued on to different stores which sparked my interest, looking for something cool or to engage people with my exclusive brand of conversation. After some rather uneventful visits I decided to get some food.

I opted for some stir fry, sour chicken and veggie noodles, infact. But then A&W onion rings started calling me, so I had to fire that up too. So I sat down and started to enjoy my meal.
During my feed I took notice of the people in the seat in front of me - a younger woman perhaps in her early 20’s, a child in a shopping cart and an older woman, who I assumed was the mother and grandmother respectively. The younger woman was about 5’6” and weighted a great deal more than her “ideal” weight. She probably weighed in the high 200 pound scale, large enough so that when she sat down her jeans receded down over her backside making her look like a prospective plumber.



Her shirt and coat also rode up her back to the point that there was an exposed gap of naked skin roughly 12 inches from the bottom of her shirt to the top of her jeans. When she sat back onto the chair her fat would push through the rungs of metal on the chair.


I mean this is something we’ve all seen before, right? It’s a common scene in many a public place, nothing out of the ordinary. But I watched as this woman got up and sat back down several times and in the same fashion each time. Every time she sat back her fat would press through the cold metal rungs and never did she correct her jeans or her shirt and coat from baring her white naked skin. I’ve never this happen to me but I’m sure it can’t be pleasant. I even reached behind me at one point touching the metal rungs of the chair to see how cold they were. It was quite cold, uncomfortably cold in fact. Certainly not something you’d want your bare skin to be pressed against.

I was just on the bus going through Pinnacle Ridge. I went past a section of town houses when I noticed something on the very small front step of one of the houses. These steps are large enough to accommodate a regular sized BBQ and a couple of lawn chairs comfortably.

On this the 14th of April with a high of 12 degrees Celsius I spied an inflatable harbour porpoise and kids swimming pool.

Surely these people aren't extending pool privileges to their children this time of the year. I can only assume they just left the pool avec accoutrements on the front step all year. I mean why else would they have it there? It’s not as though it’s a skidoo or a quad or even a Porsche, it’s a friggin kiddie pool and a bloody dolphin.
Do they not have space for an easily stored deflated fun? Or are they bragging by leaving it out all year for everyone to see and wish that they too could afford such luxuries?

Whatever the reasoning is behind such a thing nearly compels me to go to that residence and make inquiries with the occupants.

Check this out for some crazy fun, I've watched this nearly a dozen times, sure to make you say "holy shit", out of amazement:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DPp2HlIMkmU

Who doesn't love a horse

I have admired these horses who graze in a fenced off meadow close to the road which I travel twice a day. From what I have gathered the farmer brings a fresh bail of hay each day and drops it in the same spot. I have a perfect view of the horses when they are near the hay. One in particular always catches my attention. t is brown with white rounded patchs, but not overburdened with them. It may be the most beautiful horse I've ever seen. I have myself convinced it is an Andulusian, but after just checking "google", I am far from any characteristic which would indentify it as an Andalusian. Silly me.

In my head I start budgeting out my finances, wondering if I could afford to shelter and feed this horse, it would be a glorious gift for my love. I would have to buy a horse trailer, for that matter I would also have to get a truck. Maybe the horse wouldn't survive the trip across canada and maybe this is just another ephemeral thought.

Anyways, I noticed yesterday that the horse was laying in the feed hay, sort of propped up by it. It was laying in the hay as the other 3 horses were around the pile eating from it. I thought this to be quite amusing, thinking that if I were a horse, I'd definitely do shit like that. I mean why stand up when you can lay down. The horse was back on to the other horses and seemed quite content, and content perhaps to the consternation of the other horses

Today the horse was right at the pile again, as were all the other horses. Again the horse was back on the other horses. It was so close to the pile that it's hooves were imbedded in the hay. I looked closer at the horse as I thought it had lifted one of it's hind legs. I believe it did, but then put it back down into the hay. It was at this moment, having looked closer at the horse that I noticed something.

I didn't know if it was funny or not, when I noticed the horse was taking a shit in the very hay the other horses were eating from - as they were eating it. Some glad I don't live wit dat fella!

Zee Vildlife

Ah yes, the wonderful outdoors. I am quite fortunate in my line of work, that I get to drive along pastures full of roaming animals. For the past 2 weeks I've been driving aong the same route, which on my way includes 4 pastures of dozens of cattle, 2 pastures with horses and one area which holds horses and buffalo. Along the route are many deer, sometimes eating, sometimes laying in the meadows and sometimes running across the road and jumping fences.

Deer are very agile just last week we had to slow down as one jumped across the road and hopped a fence with an athleticism that reminded me of a slow motion Usain Bolt, or an Olympic hurdler. I watched as the muscles flexed and contorted as it dashed across our path. I lept through the fence (how I don't know) and to my uber surprise manoeuvred between 2 large trees, which I thought for sure it was gonna bring up solid on. I couldn't believe my eyes, it nearly seemed impossible for the animal to react so quickly upon landing as to avert from even snagging itself. If I had a medal that day I would have given it to the deer.

Yesterday we seen 2 moose in a pasture, very large moose! Then another walking up someone's driveway on the way back to our lodgings. The deer are ubiquitous here and are familiar and some what comfortable in the area they habit. They craze nonchalantly, and look about as though no one ever drives by, which in this case well over 100 vehicles go past them each day. Usually they are in packs of up to 15, as far as I have counted and as little as 5. They are peaceful looking as I drive by and see them laying in the grass, just watching time go by. I often want to get out and walk up to them, perhaps they could sense I mean no harm and just want to have a moment.

Today on the way back to the camp, I looked for those 2 moose from the previous day. They weren't there, but I did get a glimpse of something else, there were 2 ducks or geese (I couldn't quite tell) flying together. I followed them with my eye right until they landed. They were in unison, even the wing beats were alike. I watched as they stopped flapping and glided. They glided for a few hundred feet and lost altitude as they gracefully came closer to landing in a meadow. It reminded me of 2 jet fighters landing, the silhouette of their wings and the long neck stuck out like a cockpit. They are obvious professionals at what they do.

I'm jealous I cannot fly.

He What?

Yes. Mitchell shaves his feet!

Does he know how absurd that sounds?

It is however, utterly necessary. His feet stink something fierce.

Is it Listerine?

What the hell is that smell? I'm currently housed in a workcamp near Dawson Creek, BC. I'm on night shift and every morning when I get back to my room there is a distinct and constant smell.

It's smells like Listerine Original. It's as though someone enters my room each morning right before I get here and rinces their mouth out with Listerine. I wonder, do they gargle? It's hard to do it with the original because it burns. When Pop Snow was alive his washroom in the mornings would smell like listerine original, that and the smell of a long since extinguished cigarette.

The Showman

So I was a huge Kenny Rogers fan as a kid. Christ have you seen what that cat has done to himself with the fucking plastic surgery? Anyways. Well fuck Axel Rose doesn’t even look that bad. I mean Kenny was a handsome man.

Ya, so I was a huge fan. I loved the Gambler, Ruby and the classic with Dolly large Breasts – Islands in the Stream, oh yeah and Coward of the County. My parents surprised me one winter with tickets to a Kenny Rogers concert in St. John’s. Well holy shit I was literally beside myself with elation, I Russell Samways was going to see Kenny Rogers in real life. My parents had gone to one of his concerts before and brought me back a large book. In this book was a poster which hung on the back of my bedroom door for at least 8 years, until it was in tatters. The dude was wearing a pink suit too, I remember the picture being hazy, he was sat on a stool with one leg outstretched, I’m pretty sure the poster was meant for women. I wonder what Dad thought of Mom buying me such a poster, all gay looking and shit. I’m sure he contemplated taking it down a few times.

At that young age I had a slight concept of what stardom was and for me Kenny Rogers was the epitome of all that embodied stardom. I was rather perplexed by the way fans acted when seeing their favourite stars. The way they freaked out, the way they would want to touch them, have a piece of clothing or some possession of theirs, but what got me the most was the not washing your hands after they touched them.

Figure of speech was something I had not mastered at this age, and certainly exemplified by the time Pop Samways slept into Uncle Edwin’s cabin with us one time. Sometime in the morning Pop got up to use the washroom [a 5 gallon bucket in the bathroom, which happened to be more of a closet with a blanket nailed across the doorway than anything, hmm I still remember how it always smelled of ivory soap], when he ventured into the enclosed alcove my Dad was there and I guess startled Pop Samways. Well the next morning Dad was saying to Pop that he(Pop) should have seen his face, and that he looked like he had seen a ghost. I wasn’t really paying attention to the conversation but when I heard “ghost” it got my attention. I promptly got up and went into the room to see what the deal was, as asking him what he meant provided me with no response at all. Dad said that there was no ghost or any such thought of a ghost, but rather what he said to Pop Samways was a “figure of speech”, that was the first time I had heard either expression.

Back to the Ken Meister. So the date was set and we drove in town that evening with Dad pointing out the glowing light emitting from “The Sprung Greenhouse”. I had heard of it many times in the news but to see the glow was a real treat. It was revealed earlier that we would be going there in a BMW, which I soon found out was a car. For some reason Dad was making a big deal out of it, saying it was a luxury car and a really good ride, as far as I knew Cadillac was the top of the line, but this one was better. My impression of it was that the leather seats were cold on my 8 or 9 year old ass.

Memorial Stadium was our venue and what a concert it was, I was on my Dad’s shoulders most of the time, which wasn’t much of a consolation considering Dad probably needed to be on someone’s shoulders too. At one point Kenny Rogers was handing out stuff to the crowd and shaking their hands so Dad grabbed my hand and off we went making our way to the front stage – one midget in front of an even shorter midget. When we got there, Dad picked me up and held me out to shake his hand (sorta like you’d see a woman passing her child to the captain of the life raft before she herself climbs aboard) and when he came close I reached with all my might and slapped his hand(can you imagine how happy he was for me?). I was excited but not as excited as those women who take off their panties or throw their bras. When Dad took me down and asked me how it was I was I looked at my hand and I smelled it (you know just to see what Kenny Rogers smells like) and confirmed what I thought I felt moments earlier. Kenny Rogers slapped hands with me with a rightfully sweatyhand. It was then that I knew I would definitely have to wash my hand and any thoughts of never washing my hand again didn’t even get past the 2% possibility.

I didn’t get to see the sprung greenhouse’s aura on the way out because I fell asleep in the car. I remember waking up and there being a clever sized snow drift across the lane and dreading having to walk in the snow – certainly getting snow in shoes and pants. I remember waking up again as my father was tucking me in.

Isaac Samways, My Dad – Forever missed

Maybe I do care

I bought a watch last year at the Zellars here in Grande Prairie. It’s not so flashy or at least I didn’t think so.

I needed the watch for work, I didn’t want anything expensive, just a simple watch that had a digital display. I required that it put up with swinging 8 pound sledge hammers, getting squat between iron pipe and unions and my wrist, take a clever beating and it was definitely going to be soiled, really soiled with lots of grease. Grease and dirt and pipe dope and all kinds of crap that doesn’t easily wash off after 5 hand washings and a thorough 17 minute long shower.

This watch had to be tough!

I don’t have the biggert wrist mind you, so when I get a watch I prefer one with a smaller face. You know, one that doesn’t accentuate my puny wrist. I needed it to be comfortable and with buttons that didn’t mistakenly change a setting that I had.

I remembered my old Timex Indiglo Ironman watch from back in the late 90’s, the one I burned and melted with a lighter when it ceased to work. The same watch who’s battery exploded and hot melted plastic stuck to my arm, right in front of Danielle Bishop, Renee Lynch and Richard Coombs. I hadn’t planned on it explosion, or pop as it were. Nonetheless an indiglo was in my price range and remembering the reliability of the watch, I decided to go with a Timex Indiglo. Ironman that is.

I perused (as Joe Pack likes to say) through the selection of Ironman watches, most all were either too flashy or way too massive. Some looked like diving watches – like I’d ever use my diving watch for work, if I had one. One caught my eye, I even liked the colours, so I tried it on and, well, I’m wearing it now.

It’s been a great watch, I’ve even timed myself holding my breath a couple of times – 1:47 is my best time, in a fully relaxed state of body and mind of course. But when I got home my girlfriend said it was a girls watch. I was a little insulted, but I wasn’t really concerned.

From time to time I would look at the watch and convince myself that there was nothing “girlish” about it. I mean I only wear the watch when I’m at work or doing something in which its a little too harsh for my other watches. I guess you could say I’m a watch guy. I have 2 ecodrive watches that are solar-powered and I love them equally. One is silver and I consider it my “fancy” watch the other is a “military looking” watch, but both are very plain and conservative. The face is on both is very plain and not too big as to look out of place on my wrist. My work watch is the smallest of the bunch.

All was well until last night when I went to purchase the laptop I’m currently writing on. I arrived at Futureshop straight from the job I just finished in Tumbler Ridge. I was wearing my regular work attire – pair of jeans, longsleeve “inside” shirt and another longsleeve shirt over it. I walked in wearing my dirty black and grey nike sneakers a baseball hat and my sleeves pushed back 1/3 the way. The shirts were pushed back enough so that my watch was in plain sight.

After talking with the salesperson I decided on my purchase and we went over to sign some papers and pay for the computer. I was totally unconcsious of wearing the watch as it’s just a part of my getup, until I noticed the guy look at my watch a tad bit longer than I thought ephemeral. It make me wonder if he was looking at my watch – thinking it was a girls watch. My girlfriend’s comment came straight to mind. Normally I ask people why they do the things they do, I was going to ask him what in particular made him stare at my watch for as long as he did. This line of questioning tends to get the usual defensive: “I wasn’t looking at anything” or “I don’t know what you’re talking about”, so I decided against it figuring he’d think me weird and it would ruin whatever – customer-sales representative – rapport we have going.

On the way back home that evening I decided it best if when I showed up at 9pm to pick up the computer, I wear my “civilian” watch. Civilian is what I refer to anything which doesn’t involve work. For me I have civilian clothes, civilian coats, civilian cologne, civilian boots, civilian hats and of course civilian watches. Otherwise what I’m left with is work stuff, work clothes and stuff like that.

When I went back at 9 I wore my civilian jeans, a civilain shirt that Steph bought me at the Bodies Exhibit in Montreal, a civilian hat and my beautiful civilian watch. I wanted to either wear a t-shirt or something with the sleeves rolled/pushed up, something that would allow my – definitely not girlish- watch to be in plain sight. Perhaps he would notice me wearing a different watch and study it closely, but it didn’t even enter my mind when I got to Futureshop.

I did enjoy wearing my civilian watch though:























Does this look girlish to you? Because this is the watch

where do you go when you have to go?

I work in an industrial setting, a place where the extent of pleasantries are warm meals and the scattered BBQ. One very unpleasant thing is the toilet aka "the shitter", aka "the outhouse", aka "the crapper". But dare I say the washroom - as no washing of the sort occurs here, except maybe the luxury of having hand sanitizer. You can't call it the bathroom because you certainly do not bathe there. What I'm talking about is a small shelter build for one purpose and one purpose only.

Some may contain a tiny heater that does a splendid, often time overwhelming job of warming this enclosure. Some may contain air fresheners and some magazines, but it does not mask the primary use. It's raison d'etre is to poop!

A lot goes on on these work sites and a lot of people frequent them, especially on frac day. As many as 20 people in the run of 4-6 hours may experience their bowel movements in these not so sterile boxes. You could imagine the state of “the crapper” when all is said and done. They do get cleaned from time to time, in fact I’ve seen it done once in all my 4 years working in the patch. It isn’t the nicest place to do your business and some sites have nothing at all –use your imagination – most do.

A company representative also dwells on the location, he is what we call “the consultant” or “company man”. This person is a glorified secretary with many years of experience in the oilfield, they are extremely knowledgeable about operations and usually gets paid over $1000a day. They stay in what most call a shack, a portable office trailer, and every office trailer is equipped with a toilet. Some trailers - most in fact - have fully functional washrooms with showers, bedrooms, kitchens, office area and lounging area. These trailers are the envy of all on location, sometimes the medical personnel are lucky enough to have them but only on jobs where they stay there 24/7.

On this particular job the Medic or Bandaid as they are often referred to was relieved and a female came to replace him. I have no problem with that and why should I? Most of the medics I’ve worked with are female.

Several days ago I noticed the female medic walk from her truck/medical transport unit (basically a truck with an in bed camper with medical supplies in it and the capability to carry a stretcher) to the consultant’s shack. I thought to myself she’s going to see him about something, I also knew that the consultant wasn’t in his shack but rather out at the wellhead. I expected the door of the office trailer to open again shortly after she closed it – realizing he wasn’t in there. This was not the case. I figured maybe she would yell out in the trailer to get his attention as some trailers are 60 feet long and have many rooms and he wasn’t in the office area, I assumed it would take 30 seconds tops for her to come back out, but she did not. She was in there a length of time in which only one thing most likely happened. Roughly 5 minutes she was in there. A time I assumed only one thing was accomplished – a poop. She was definitely doing her poop.

Now she gets to poop where the consultant poops, the only 2 people that are permitted. It is certainly a privilege to be allowed to use this throne. None of us that are here day in day out are permitted to use it. We get here at 6:15 AM every day and usually don’t leave until 7 or 7:30 PM, most of my day is spent here, save the few hours back at the hotel.

Why is she allowed to use the bathroom and we have to resolve to using “the shitter”? Where the hell are equal rights in this picture? Do women not want to be treated just the same as men? Well then why the hell can’t they poop where the men poop? If equal rights was in the picture she’d poop on everyone else’s poop, just like the rest of us. For that matter, maybe they should have co-ed washrooms instead of male and female. What’s so special about a woman that she can’t go poop where everyone else poops? I mean everybody poops!

I brought this up with my girlfriend and she said that maybe she doesn’t want to go use the “facility” where everyone else goes. She probably doesn’t want to go in there after everyone else has used it. Well Christ it’s not like I look forward to going in there. “Oh yes I can’t wait to get to work and see how the toilet is today.” I see her point fully, and I’m not making fun, but why does this girl get to go to a better drop off spot than I do? I don’t really appreciate the whole idea; I think I’ll go ask the Consultant what his justification is for it.

I'm currently just outside of Tumbler Ridge, BC where the weather is astonishingly great. I got here a few days ago, after a 3 hour drive from Grande Prairie. The day before I left I drove from south of Grande Cache for 3 hours plus, where the weather was also incredibly great. The days are equipped with a constant blue sky and an infrequent gentle breeze. The warm sun on my face seems like summer and I have time to think about how fortunate I am to spend this winter in a place where the weather is abnormally kind. Sure it's usually in the minus but this winter has been amazing.

I told all my friends this winter would be different because I plan on wearing longjohns. I haven't worn longjohns since grade 4. But she was mighty cold a few times last year, like -38 for a week and a half on one job and pretty much the same on another job which lasted over 2 weeks. I worked with a guy who drank red bull like it was free, he would walk outside with a can and it would be frozen in less than 5 minutes. This occurred several times a night.

Its odd when the sun is beating on your face and its still -32. But this hasn't been the case this winter. I read an article in the Edmonton Sun about a conference on climate control and the keynote speaker was suggesting that we aren't going through global warming. I think he's wrong.

Alberta is known for it's cold winters, yet all I have seen in the past 5 years is that the winters are getting milder.

Do you know scientists haven't come to terms on how oil and gas deposits are formed.