What is up with that?

Crow shits: translated = pay day. That I do not get. What does crow poop and payment have in common? I've heard it a few times and the first time I had no clue what it meant. But people just go with it, I don't get the analogy, or is it even an analogy. I simply don't know.



















That's like the saying "I gotta piss like a racehorse". I've asked my friends what it means, and some have said that the trainer prevents the horse from urinating until after the race, which makes no sense to me. If you had to pee real bad would you want to run the 100 meter? Not to mention the extra weight.
I've even got the response that race horses pee a lot after a race hense the saying - but why? wouldn't they be slightly dehydrated from the exercise and unable to pee?
Then someone said that horses pee really fast. But who has timed a horse for the time it takes to pee and compare that with the volume of pee to come up with a number that far exceeds some other animal? But then to come up with that it means other animals have been tested for speed peeing. So I guess the speed at which a horse urinates is so impressive it beats every other animal - hands down. But not only did the horse win but it won to such a degree that people started saying, "man I gotta piss like a racehorse".
My theory is that race horses are fast and people have taken that attribute of the horse and united it with having to pee and usually when you have to pee bad it comes out fast. But then I was thinking, horses are relatively fast, but jet planes are faster, so are sports cars and superbikes. This lead me to believe that the saying actually predated jet turbine technology and that of internal combustion engines.
Well why didn't they use the saying "I have to pee like a bullet" because bullets are retarded fast, but maybe the saying even predated that. I'm not going to get into arrows and slingshots and medieval shit, suffice it to say I think I'm wrong too.Please advise
















Worn to a tread bear? Worn to a thread bare? My Mom says this when she's exhausted or everyday when we were kids. As a child I used to think of a Bear skin rug or Bear fur rug - which would be more practical. I imagined a rug which had been walked over, one which lays on the floor and that my Mother assimilated with this rug to the affect that she felt used or that we had worn her down or exhausted her.
Later I thought of a piece of clothing, blanket or some fabric that has been used or worn. Worn so long that it has no longer maintained it's weave and the underlaying threads were easily seen. Maybe it's even a tire tread and the same goes for that. Last year I asked Mom what she was referring to when she used the phrase but she, like most never really thought about it and just called it a "figure of speech".












Smart vs.Smurt. When I lived in Pickering Ontario our grade 7 teacher asked us to write a story, and in it I used the term "smurt" as I spelled it - according to the way it was pronounced. When she corrected it she edited it and it was spelled "smart". I promptly went to her desk and asked her about the correction saying that in Newfoundland we use a word to describe a particular pain, that word being "smurt". She told me that it was actually spelled S M A R T and pronounced as such, suggesting that due to the dialects in Newfoundland it was somehow corrupted. I refuse to say something smarts, because I feel like an idiot saying it. I still resolve to saying S M U R T. It just sounds appropriate.

Light one up luh!

Years ago I got a ride home from town to Bay Roberts with my Mother's cousin and her husband. Both of them enjoy a coffee, and like many people a good hearty smoke don't go astray wit a cup a Tims! And boy did they like smoking. The 2 of em must have polished off 5 each on the way home. Lucky for me it was only an hour drive and not longer, otherwise I may have jumped out of the fuckin car.

I remember walking up to the car and opening the door to a stale smoke smell. I said hello and politely sat back and put on my seatbelt. A seatbelt which had a distinct smell, one I assume that had developed after witnessing the death of many "rollies". I didn't want the seatbelt touching my skin so all the way out I was adjusting my coat so that it cushioned me against this gross fabric restraint system. A restraint which prevents me from getting launched out the front window - which is what would have been better than what I endured on the way out.

The first cigarette was smoked as soon as we left the parking lot of the Arts and Administration Building, a full 10 seconds after me getting into the car. They took turns smoking it seemed, as in one would smoke and then the other would light one up apres the other is done. Reading that, it would make sense to assume that they only had one smoke going at one time in order to keep smoke out of the car via the widow. But this wasn't the case as they didn't roll down the window at all. They did in essense "hot box" the car with cigarette smoke.

These 2 individuals are known for having the heat up pretty high in their home, when you go in there it's like walking into a cabin where the wood stove has been stogged full all night. Their car is no exception. The heat is up on "buss" in the car which forces me to take off my coat which has been a barrier between me and the smoke infused seatbelt. This bothers me.

The feeling of overwhelming heat is very frustrating, but even more frustrating is the omnipresent smoke which has no way out of the car. One would think the owners of the car would be aware of the stench of the car due to smoking and may want to avoid it, but this too is not the case. They are infact smoking all the way out the bay with out a 3 minute break. Her then him, her then him her then him. It was like a pacifier to them, as though the car could not run unless there was a cigarette going at the same time.

Why? I think to myself are they not opening the window while smoking. This is disgusting. This smell alone chokes me, it chokes me because it's so dry but as well because as soon as it hits my throat I nearly swallow as a reflex as the smoke is so thick. I don't even want to breathe, I started holding my breath thinking it wouldn't be so bad, this wasn't the best idea because I'd get a headrush as soon as I inhaled this caustic mix. Part of me wished I would pass out and maybe they wouldn't realize until I was in my driveway.

By now I'm nearly nauseous as the dry super heated smoke circling the inside of the car entering my lungs starts to sting as all moisture which was in my nose and throat has now been exhausted. I can only assume that for the 2 in the front must have increased mucous production thickened by years of living in a dry hot house and smoking tens of thousands of cigarettes over the years. I am not so fortunate and wish I could eat the snow clumped along the shoulder of the Trans Canada Highway.

At first I was breathing through my nose figuring it would be best. Thinking I was filtering some of the smoke and the particles in the air and perhaps slightly moisturizing the air going into my lungs. I decided against it when the smell started to give me a headache. I was fit to be tied. Tied up and beat to death.

Hot smoke searing it's way into my lungs, a sensation of taste in my lungs which would remain for hours after my ordeal. A dry winter morning, a little after 9 am, stuck in a viciously hot car which alone stinks of stale smoke. This hot air tainted with a heavy gross enrapturing smoke that permeates my skin and hair and all the clothes I have on. When I finally arrive home and thank them for this delightful ride home I make love to the fresh air. Only now when I inhale through my nose there is a stale remnant left behind. Smoke has now entered my pores and has attached itself to my inner nostrils so that every breath is now mixed with a constant reminder of why I should not smoke.

What kind of tire

The other day I noticed something about a guy I've been around for the past week. I noticed as he exited a trailer and the trailer shifted due to his weight.

This guy had the largest love handles I've ever seen. I wouldn't even call em love handles. It was a big spare tire. But when we say spare tire what kind of tire are we referring to because I always considered it a car tire. But this guy brought it to a new level for me. An upgrade if you will.

This guy's spare tire didn't come off a car, it didn't come off a regular truck. By the looks of what what sitting on his hips he must have got his spare tire off a friggin Monster Truck.

Riff Raff

I never used the phrase "Riff Raff" I thought it was too condescending. It was a word I perferred not to use because I didn't feel people deserved to be called such.

Now I have an appreciation for the phrase. From using it colloquially in Newfoundland and in particular out the bay, it's not as condescending as I felt, or at least not the way Brigus uses it and to a greater extent the person who said it today. I realize it is a word reserved for people who aren't of the greatest moral fibre, but not necessarily those who deserve to put down because of their current situation in life.

Riff Raff are some of those whom I have witnessed since I've been coming to Alberta for work. Don't get me wrong there are "Riff Raff" everywhere.

I usually fly from St.John's to Calgary and spend a few days with friends Joe and Maya, and then travel to Grande Prairie. Being amongst friends when in a strange place eases me into being away from home.

Anyways when I travel to GP from Calgary I used to take a Grey Hound bus. This I found was very stressful, not to mention the 12 hour ride from midnight to noon and not getting any sleep. Joe drops me off outside in the freezing cold and I grab my 2 bags weighing in at just over 100 pounds and throw my napsack over my shoulder. I say goodbye to Joe and Maya give them each a hug. As I walk from the vehicle toward the door my anxiety kicks in.

The whole ordeal is rather unpleasant. It entails walking into a not so clean - fairly cold - bus station or depot as it is properly called. When there I usually go straight to the ticket window to verify the time of departure and get ready for a shitty travel experience. I sit on a hard plastic seat and notice the cold surrounding my feet like a fog. Keeping your belongings close to you is important in a place like this as you feel the threat of theft. I notice the people around me, how they're dressed, what they're carrying and their overall mood. I try to look like I belong there as my mind tells me I don't. Why? I'm not sure.

The annoucement for departure doesn't come over an intercom but rather the subtle removing of a barricade by the driver who also checks your ticket and directs you through the loading door. Carrying a large clean hockey bag and large clean duffle bag and a napsack is very awkward and inconvenient, I think to myself next time I will pack lighter. I walk into a damp, cold, wet and dirty loading area where some guy grabs your stuff and puts it on the wet dirty concrete, this increases my anxiety, especially since I'm 100% sure my baggage will arrive at my destination.

I walk onto the bus and look for a seat, walking past people who are all seated next to the window with their belongings taking up the seat - a clear sign they don't want you sitting next to them. As more people come onto the bus most of those people are obligated to let someone sit in the seat next to them. This perturbs me, because in a situation like this I really value my personal space.

So we get going and making all the stops along the way. Towns that hardly seem like towns. Places that have long gone to sleep. The sound of the brakes bleeding off air and the hum and sound of the motor changing gears is a constant. Every 20 minutes at least is permeated by a stop, they call it the milk run. Many times the driver has to drop off packages as the bus also tows a trailer. Greyhound runs a courier service and you are fully aware of this when the bus stops and no one gets on or off. It's just another interuption allow the way, worse for some who are lucky enough to catch a wink here and there.

Every couple of hours the driver stops for the "Riff Raff" to file out into the severely sub-zero sting of an Alberta winter for a - must have - cigarette. Watching from the window you can barely make out the smoke rising up into the air slightly illuminated by the paltry amount of light coming from the street lamps.

Finally we arrive in Edmonton where all must get off the bus, retrieve your luggage and sit in the Downtown Edmonton depot. Again a cold place both in temperature and atmosphere, places like these are rarely nice places to be. It's a transition place, a place of coming and going but never staying. You just simply endure.

Back on the road again and I notice some new arrivals. This one woman has obviously slept on her hair as it is terribley out of whack or at least I think it is. She has brought with her in one hand a large green garbage bag which I assume her belongings are in. In her other hand a multi task is under way. She is balancing a purse on her shoulder, holding a soiled looking pillow and a warm, flat 710ml bottle of Coca Cola Classic. Mmm I can just taste it, and that gross sensation in your mouth well after drinking your last drop. I bet her breath smells bad, I will also bet she's gonna fire up a smoke the first chance she gets. Is she Riff Raff or someone who hasn't had all the opportunities some of us have been afforded?

A visit from home

So I work in Alberta in the oil and gas industry. I am currently working on an oil well. During the length of these jobs many service companies come onto the site to perform work. Today we perforated a zone 1800 metres downhole. Specialists come to execute this task as it requires explosives and a great deal of technical data. In the "patch" we call them wireliners or slickliners or e-liners. They usually consist of a 3 man crew.

During our safety meeting this morning the wireline supervisor addressed all of us on site. He spoke in an accent which I recognized, it nearly brought a smile to my face. After we broke and went back to our respective office trailers I mentioned to my co-worker this accent which was familiar. I wanted to approach this a couple ways but I decided to go with the most appropriate avenue. I will tell you what I was gonna do.

The wireline truck is a large 3 axle truck that requires airbrakes. In order to get into the operating area of the truck you have to climb up 3 steps and open a door to enter the area.

I noticed the 2 other workers were outside doing work and the supervisor was inside the truck preparing to log data. I wanted to abruptly open the door and say "Where's the fuckin Newfies to?". I instead opened the door after a polite - heads up - knock and said "where exactly are you from?
"Corner Brook" he replies followed by "where you from?"
"Bay Roberts" I proudly answer.
"Two of the boys are from home too!"
"Deadly" I say, trying not to smile.

It warmed my heart to know that I would be in the presence of my fellow islanders for the next few hours. That morning I spend talking to these guys speaking proudly in my Newfoundland accent. I was treated with great respect and returned it with the politeness and kindness that was afforded me. I can honestly say nothing pleases me more than when I have to go away from my homeland and arrive at a job site where I will be in contact with other Newfoundlanders. It's almost like going home. It's a feeling that keeps me nearer when I am farther away.

When you share a common culture with people no matter where you are or what it is, it will always bring people closer together.

Did you lose your hands?

I walked into a room today just as this guy was getting ready to leave. As he is getting ready to go I notice he's doing something with his phone. He's talking but from his tone I can tell he isn't talking to another human. He is actually talking to his phone and he is giving it instructions. He says "call" followed by "home". Now what's obvious is that he's using voice command to get the phone to dial a number for him. As he exits the room he says "home" once again, repeated by "home" only seconds later. I listen as he walks through the building on his way out and again I hear him say "home".

Now 2 things have possibly happened here. Either he has forgotten his own home phone number or he's just too lazy to dial the friggin number.

Is this person really that dependant upon technology that he has found it unnecessary to train his phone number to memory? Because I gotta say this guy looked kinda stupid talking to his phone, I mean jesus it was right on his hand. It's not as though he had fallen and couldn't get up.

I know most people now take their phones with them wherever they go. A lot of people have over 100 numbers programed into their phones. I admit, I don't know the phone number to either of my brothers, but I sure as hell don't need to tell the phone to dial for me!

Remember that scratch and sniff paper?

I remember when I was in grade 4 and we had a substitute teacher. She must not have had much time to prepare for class when they called her to come in because I'm sure she never brushed her teeth. I base this on how bad her breath smelled. It was like smelling a fousty toilet. My theory was further solidified when she started passing out these quizzes which were done off on the duplicator. The duplicator used a chemical that smelled kinda funny, which we all smelled, it was somewhere between smelling gas and a pleasant alcohol aroma. Needless to say we all smelled these papers whenever they were handed out. And of course I smelled mine. But when I smelled it, the pleasant aroma was over powered by a stink. A stink which came from when she licked her finger to get a grip of the paper as she passed them out to my classmates and I. I even seen the smudge her finger left, and from this emanated the nastiest stench I have ever smelled up until that point in my life.

With that said I'm in the first aid class and the instructor is going around distributing hand-outs. As he does he's licking his thumb to grip the paper. He doesn't lick his thumb for every piece of paper, but he does for each one that he passes to me. I watch closely at his gross mustachioed mouth and the protruding tongue that lathers his thumb. I am drawn back to my mortified days of grade 4 and that disgusting smell. I observe where on the page his thumb has been placed to make sure my skin does not come into contact with his saliva. I am further disturbed as throughout the day multiple papers are passed out and each has a fresh batch of saliva transferred from his thumb.

I'm starting to get grossed out. I don't easily get gorssed out but body fluids do it to me. I noticed yesterday on one occasion that he picked his ear as he was addressing the class. I mean everyone is watching him right? He is the instructor in front of the class. He picks his ear and he must have been successful in what he was doing because he found something in there and examined it as he was talking. Well of course all my attention shifted to where his attention shifted - which was on whatever was betwixt his fingers. He examined it, squeezed it with his nails and rolled it, surveying every surface of what was surely disgusting.

Well today he did it again. Same thing. He was addressing the class when he stuck his pinkie into his ear, rooted around and extracted another gem. His buggy eyes shifted to what was in his fingers, as did my eyes. He played with it again, examining it, prodding it, trying to decipher exactly what it was. I would have became ill if he continued any longer, but he resolved to just discard it onto the floor. Did I mention we are in our socks.

I was thinking this the whole time I was there

For the next 2 days I'll be doing first aid courses. Today was very long and unnecessarily thorough. The instructor was good but he is certainly unaware of nose hair. He has eyebrows which are comedically bushy and long. How can you look in the mirror with such unkempt protruding hair hanging above your eyes and figure that it is OK to go out into public? What does his wife think? They must argue about it, there's no way they don't!

His nose is large and bulbous like that of an 80 year old Carl Malden. There are what I could count, 7 thick hairs that grew from his nose that reached a length of 1/4 inch, which I figured were trimmed to his specifications.

He has a fiercely thick mustache as well. His mustache overlaps his lip by 1/8 inch to a point where I assume he never kisses his wife. While watching him speak this mustache moves and wobbles above his lip and is just as animated as he is. His mustache is thicker than pubic hair and of a salt and pepper colour.

His nose has hair coming from inside of it too. Infact one hair that I kept noticing was well over an inch long and curled out from his honker and hung out like a cat's whisker. His nose hair was salt and pepper coloured as well, not to mention disturbingly thick. So thick I bet he can't even get his finger in there.

From a biological and evolutionary point of view I know that nose hair acts as a filter and impedes particulates and foreign debris from entering the airway of humans. The density of hair in this man's nose would suggest he breathes through dirt or lives on the dust plains of sub saharan africa.

The nose hair is so thick that it is hardly discernible from his mustache. It's really quite something to look at you know! I'm sure the nose hair is the bulk of his mustache but I can't be sure. I will be looking extra hard tomorrow.

Pissed

I have written 2 blogs in the past. One was destroyed when I navigated away from the page I wrote it on and the other when this fucking computer crashed. I am too mad and tired to write it over. It was poetic too.

No Title (Originally Written January 5th)

I got into Edmonton airport from Calgary yesterday and the same thought came to my mind as comes to my mind everytime I leave home to work.

I flew into Calgary New Years Eve and Joe and Maya were there waiting for me. A very welcomed sight in a far off land. It's always nice to see a familiar face in a crowd of otherwise unknowns, especially when you are away from home.

I work in Alberta and British Columbia in the oil and gas industry, it requires that I leave my precious rock. I don't like to leave. It makes me sad.

Living on an island comes with a certain sense of isolation. Not only is it a physical isolation, but as I find it a spiritual isolation. I am attached to that land as much as that land is attached to me. When I leave my land I feel it. I feel it in my stomach and in my veins. The farther I travel away from that Island the more anxious I get. The longer I stay away the more I realize I belong there.

I almost cried once in Toronto airport when I heard a Newfoundland accent for the first time in 2 months. When I am away and see how life is in other places it makes me increasingly aware of how great it is to be from Newfoundland and be a Newfoundlander.

Although I am several thousands of miles away from home, my anxiety increases when I have to travel an extra few hundred miles further from home. My isolation works in a different regard. If there was an ocean near me I'm sure it wouldn't be so bad.

My body acts as a measuring tape whenever I leave home. Newfoundland my origin. The further the tape stretches the higher the units of anxiety increases.

Everytime I get off a plane there is a time when I contemplate getting back on one to go straight back home. This occurs during each stop over on my way across Canada.

I hate having to leave home to work and yet I am proud to do so. I guess it's a rite of passage to being a Newfoundlander.

I had to pick up my youngest Brother at the Airport for Christmas so I left the house at 2AM in the morning. My dog was home this Christmas, which has not been the case this past 3 years. So I took her along for the ride. I usually take Chippy (my dog) wherever I go - because we are in love. I want her to experience all the smells and terrain Newfoundland has to offer, so she's usually with me. She was also along for the ride because there was no one home to take care of her.

I would be in town for 2 days, all of which my shedding, soft furred, precious dog would keep me company. I love my dog so much.

My old roommate Terry used to make fun of me because when I called home from Alberta I used to ask to speak to her over the phone. This was accompanied by my mother's play by play of what the dog was doing. I imagined her looking into the phone and turning her head to the side as all dogs tend to do. This is always cute. But my dog didn't really give a fuck that there was noise coming out of the phone

We get in the car after she does her thing before the 1 hour journey into St. John's. Chippy loves going for rides in the car and tonight was no exception. She sat excitingly, watching through the window all the way. I looked back at her many times as she looked back at me in a posture that said "what the fuck do you keep looking at me for?", she must of thought I was retarded. I just love her.

We get to l'aeroport and of course I take her out for her business. She's deaf now, so for all she knows this could be the destination, but she sniffs around in anticipation. She leads me around looking for a good place to defile the parking lot. I'm happy to see that no one is around to watch her. I usually laugh my ass off when I take her for a deuce, because people are very aware of what's going on. But hey all dogs do it!

Anyways I go get my brother and walk back to the car. He opens the back door to utter excitement as he sees chippy for the 1st time in 14 months. We are both very happy to have Chippy with us.

I take us all back to mine and Stephs place where Chippy and I will stay for a couple days. This is her 2nd time at my place and I purposely open the door to my room so that she can smell it and acknowledge that I live here hopefully making her comfortable. I also do this because Chippy has a penchant for pooping in other people's places.

I tell Peter (Brother) to keep an eye on Chippy as I put away mine and Peter's stuff. I continue my way to the kitchen where I see my dog squatting down in a fashion that suggests something sinister is about to happen. I promptly run toward my deaf dog who is obviously getting ready to let every other dog in this house know that this is her territory. She senses me coming and briskly walks whilst still in a crouch toward the end of island in the kitchen. By the time I get near her I see the treat she has left on the floor. I continue after her to get her to stop, but by the time I reach her she has made her second deposit. She goes around the island as her attempt to ward off other dogs is now hanging freely from her bum. I now look in horror as I am powerless and watch these "deposits" actually roll along the floor as I chase after her. She must have tried her best under that stress, and was very successful by the tune of 6 when she was finished.

If she wasn't deaf I could have told her she was the only dog living there and she didn't have to mark her territory.

She could have at least peed.

And silly me I thought she was done pooing when we were at the l'aeroport.

The Departure (Originally Written January 1st)

So here I am watching Joe play Super Mario Bros on wii. I am now in Calgary and heading back to work in the gratious oil and gas fields of Western Canada. It's with great trepidation that I am here away from home. This is the 4th winter I have worked in Alberta in the oilfield.

My trepidation comes from leaving Stephanie - she has become my home. Her loving arms have been my solace for sometime now and I left them again. My feeling of emptiness the days leading up to my departure was so overwhelming that I couldn't eat, I had no appetite, I only wanted to be next to her. My physical self exhibited the mental anguish I was enduring, my stomach felt cold and empty. I was huffing and puffing several times a minute. I had never felt this stress before, it was alien to me. I can only say I have come close to what I assume someone feels after killing another person, that is what it felt like.

My only relief came when I slept and I therefore slept as much as I could. On the plane up I exhausted my self watching movies in an effort to pacify my mind. My mind was my enemy. I have never been this bad before.

It is good to be amongst great friends and in an atmosphere of comfort right now. I slept well after a very very taxing day of separation and travel. Joe, Maya and myself went out for Vietnamese (tradition) last night which acted almost as soulfood. We had the same meal as usual and it put me at ease for sure. We came back to Joe and Maya's and basically flaked out as the last few hours of 2009 dwindled away. We ended up hitting the sack before the New Year.

We awoke this morning at the same time and after a quick chat with Steph went downstairs to prepare breakfast with some of my bestfriends.

I have proper nutrients in my body now and am ready. My stress level had decreased somewhat and as soon as I get back into the groove of things at work all will be well.