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.

Is he or isn't he?

In a room furnished with 16 luxurious leather chairs positioned one in front of the other, in such a way that you can barely fit into it as the chair ahead of it is so close. Roughly enough space to put your feet down and have 6 inches to spare. These chairs are offset diagonally to allow for all the chairs to fit into a room which is longer than wide. In the front corner of the room is a widescreen TV in which I am watching the olympic coverage, seated one chair back and to my left is the man I seen at supper the night before.

He is an older man perhaps 65 and by the way he walks, not in the best physical condition. He's meek and has a high geeky voice with a nasal twang. He's nearing the end of his life as opposed to beginning it, if you know what I mean. He and his arrivals are late for supper which tells me this is their first day at this camp. Upon seeing him at the supper table surrounded by younger men I assume he's there on some mentoring mission or perhaps even a group outing for some organization - I'm thinking church. But, this being a camp in Alberta especially designed for housing individuals working for Encana in the oil and gas industry, I immediately decide against this first theory of mine.

At breakfast he seems kind and addresses those who walk into the dining area, bidding them a good-morning.

He says fuck a lot, which I don't find odd. This is a camp where the men are hard working, tired and dirty at the end of their day, the work "fuck" is common place. But this doesn't sound right coming out of his mouth. You see I have prejudged him and I expect him to be polite and kind, soft spoken and Grandfather-like.

After I eat my supper I go directly to the TV room and sit one seat back from the TV. The older man is in the room watching the olympics and offers me the control. "No" I say as this is exactly what I wanted to watch.

During our time together he learns I am from Newfoundland and tells me that him and a few friends are planning an RV trip this coming summer. I learn he works for a trucking company transporting drilling rigs from one location to another. He sits in the chair where he farts from time to time. No expression or gesture is made, no reference to it. He is old and farts as though every fart leads to a better life, like it is pertinent to his health at the end of the day. When he gets one out there is an audible sigh of relief. Each gaseous expulsion is like a treat for him, I guess where he is old his guts don't work like they used to and the old adage of farting being a sign of health is now his mantra.

He gives colour commentary during the moguls competition, again he uses the word "fuck" profusely. I now think he says it to sound gruff, just to fit in, in this hard working atmosphere where the man with the deepest, scratchiest voice is king, a place where smoking a pack of cigarettes a day just barely tempers the voice box and years of straight whiskey puts the finish on it. But he doesn't have to act around me, and I try to encourage this with my friendly banter.

The next day I eat my supper and head er straight to the TV room to get my full of the olympic coverage. Half asleep and yawning is the old man laid out on a chair suffering through the final hours of consciousness. After half an hour of sports coverage punctuated by slight conversation I simply say "sure buddy you're better off hittin the sack, you can barely keep your eyes open". He takes my advice and walks to the door saying "see you in the morning".

5:25 the next morning I'm sat at the table eating my oatmeal and in walks the old man with a "good-morning" and sits next to me. On the TV is Sportsdesk(as it was once called and I will forever call it) and they are showing the highlights from the day before. They are covering the NBA allstar game and after a minute the old man looks at me and asks "you watch that Nigger ball?"

"What?" I utter.

"Do you follow Basketball?" he reiterates.

I pause as 5 quick things come to mind. I'm figuring 10 long seconds pass as I try to put my words together and be diplomatic yet strong in my conviction.

Here is a man whom I have pitied and sort of befriended. Without calling him out or making a scene I decide to say in a firm and cold voice, whilst patting him on the shoulder "You know you should keep those racist comments to yourself, not everyone appreciates them"

"No" was all he said.

He said it in a way that I couldn't discern whether he was defiant or concurring with what I said and he had just realized.

I had nothing further to say.

What puzzles me is that the first night of us watching TV together, one of the people who works at the camp walked in the TV room and grabbed a bag of potato chips and smiled acknowledging the 2 of us. The old man commented "that guy's a good fella". "Who? Isaac?" I said in agreeance, while actively making him aware of the worker's name. "Yes" he said saying "he's a good guy"

The funny thing about Isaac is that he's Black.

He has seen it all!

Know it alls, aren't they the best? Consummately talked about after they leaveand a pain in everyone's ass. Especially other know it alls!

I was working with this one know it all who said he has seen WD-40 freeze. Now my co-worker and I found this quite hard to believe, we've been around some cold situations. Naturally my co-worker and I countered his comment, suggesting it would have to be pretty cold in order for this to happen. To which he said "I've seen it happen".

Now what brought this all on was our canister of WD-40 not working/spraying in -22 weather. The problem as we soon found out was that there was ice around the nozzle preventing the lubricant from coming out.

As soon as Ginger (as I will now refer to him) seen that the canister was not spraying he didn't suggest but told us that it was frozen. We obviously didn't think this was the case as we have both used this product in temperatures below -30. Given our experience with WD-40 we had to argue against it.

Another instance was when we were talking about hunting and bottling meat. He offered that he eats it straight from the bottle, not even heated. This was all fine and well. During this conversation he says that "rabbit meat isn't really good for you" because it "doesn't contain any protein". Well I knew that was totally incorrect right off the bat! I told him that he has received some bad information. No he says, "there's no protein in rabbit". I told him that it was impossible, that lots of things have protein, "Christ dude" I said "even grass has protein", but to say an animal doesn't have any protein is blasphemous.

Me being me and knowing I was right I argued with him. See I used to be a know it all too. I had a fucking comment to say about everything or a fact to offer that people rarely gave a shit about. I rid myself of this sometime ago, but the temptation is always there, I just let it pass - knowing how bad it looks. My co-worker and I were in on this arguement and as much as Ginger tried to convince us of his "bad second hand news" - as I called it, we just would not give in. Normally during our days working together we would let Ginger go on and on about his superior knowledge and not challenge him since it made the day go longer - but it added quite nicely for something to laugh and talk about when we got back to our office. Realizing it was futile to continue arguing we let him have the last word. His last words and which seemed to me to be his sure fire way of substantiating this claim was that, and I quote "I was talking to someone who works at the hospital"

By the way WD-40 does in fact freeze. It's freezing point according to my second hand information is -73 degrees celsius.

The misunderstanding

I remember as a wee man, one day a Mr. Parsons was at my home when I arrived from school. He was making a brick mantle and shit behind our woodstove downstairs in the basement. I spent - what seemed like- all day with him asking questions and watching his trowel lift and place motar on the wall and lay brick neatly, one atop the other in staggered rows. There was a pleasant smell of brick dust and mixed motar, a musty smell, like that of my grandparents' vegetable cellar. The sound the trowel made as it scooped up the grey mud againt the metal board was satisfying every yearning my ears where in need of. The sound was complicated with bass and treble it had a pitch and a particular rhythm to it which I could count as Mr. Parsons without missing a beat, spread motar along the brown brick. The scraping of metal with the grit of the mud in between was nearly hypnotizing. The mud was prepared in a heavy plastic which lay on the floor protecting the carpet. Many times I bent over to smell the mixture on the plastic and stick not only my finger but tissue, wood, crayons and even slathered some over a piece of paper, all to see the after effects.

I had certainly spent an hour and a half with Mr. Parsons talking and asking him about his work in as much as a 9 year old kid's comprehension would allow. I found it interesting and for that short time, him and I were friends. Our conversation was light but mutually respected, I asked questions and he gave answers. I made sure too, not to pester him as he was there to perform a job. I remember joking around in the simple way a boy and a man could, so it was some surprise to me when my Dad came home and I made an "off" comment.

When my Dad arrived I stayed there in the basement while they made small talk and when Mr. Parsons was finished I made the comment: "that doesn't look very good", I said it with a tone that - between friends - would be easily discernible and taken as a tease. Well my Father didn't think so. He was nearly appauled at his little boy's comment and thoroughly embarrassed. I was told to apologise to the man and was further repremanded apres.

I tried to explain to my Dad that it was taken all wrong that I was just joking with him, teasing him in fact. I pleaded my case right there in front of my Father and Mr. Parsons. I suggested that it was OK to make a comment considering I had spent that time with him and was able to say such a thing and it not be taken seriously. I mean I was kidding anyways, I guess I had the tone wrong. You know how kids try to emulate grown-ups and make uncomfortable comments or converse in such a way that it's obvious they spend a lot of time with people not of their age. Comments that you would expect a 60 years old to say spoken through a youngsters mouth are often curiously peculiar and humourous - like a 2 year old saying "fuck".

At that time I didn't know how to explain to my Dad that I had build a friendship with Mr. Parsons, I was years away from using the word rapport which would have summed it up. I thought I had created a certain rapport with Mr. Parsons which would allow such comments to be passed of as easily as I tell my friend Parsons to go fuck himself, he knows I don't mean it! Without my being able to solidly justify my actions to my Father I must certainly been seen as a brat - which I most definitely was not. Although many babysitters would disagree - but look at me now - I'm a nice guy, and well behaved.

What was further troubling was that Mr. fucking Brick Layer wouldn't come to my defense, I even said to him to tell my Dad the difference but he wouldn't after my Father told me not to be disrespectful. Maybe he felt bad, maybe he didn't have the self-confidence to speak up, maybe he felt guilty or maybe he didn't think it was an appropriate comment. I bet if I made the comment before my Dad showed up it would have went over quite the way I imagined it would, I'm sure I did everything according to normal conversational rules, perhaps it was the fact that it came from a youngster. Nonetheless I got in shit for something which was meant to be taken lightly.

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.