Lectures on Everything

A Picture/Video Message!

2008-01-22T09:40:00.001-06:00

GART Day 5 - The Deadwood Total

2007-06-30T02:45:00.001-06:00

Tamara says that after all the food we bought, and all the stuff we did, and all her gambling, she's still leaving with more money than she came to town with.

It looks like Deadwood was essentially free. Hooray for lucky girl!

GART Day 5 - Exploring Deadwood

2007-06-30T02:39:00.001-06:00

We spent all day doing fun things in Deadwood. I climb as many stairs as I could. We went on tour of the city and the graveyard. We went to every casino in town and gambled in most of them. We learned about Wild Bill Hicock, the reason Deadwood's famous. We ate ice cream and watched gunfights. We milked everything out of this town that we could. And it was a lot of fun.

We were both exhausted by about 7:00, so we decided to head back to the hotel. We bought a couple of subs at the sub shop, then decided to go on the go-karts and bumper boats because we're young and fun! I think Tamara had a little too much fun spraying me with the water cannons on the bumper boats. I told her next time we do this I'm just going to save her the trouble and jump into the pool.

We still had a couple of bonus coupons to use at the hotel, so we decided to do a little more gambling. When we went over to the bar to get a couple of beers, we were told that drinks were free if we were gambling. You mean I could have been drinking FREE BEER this entire time?! I told the bartender that he hilariously opened the floodgates. I'm pretty sure he got tired of seeing me showing up with an empty glass, but there was FREE BEER on the line! Come on!

I also spoke a little with one of the cashiers, and she recommended that we visit Wind Cave. With all the caves in the area, it's been difficult to decide on one to go to. But she's really into caves and dropped this one without hesitation, so I'm willing to bet it's a good choice.

Deadwood has been fun, but exhausting. We've only been here two nights, but I feel like we've been here about a week. Soon I'm going to need a vacation from my vacation.

GART Day 4 - Driving to Deadwood, SD

2007-06-30T02:15:00.005-06:00

The drive to Deadwood was long and straight and boring, on one of the longest, straightest, and boringest roads I've ever travelled on. You could look down the road to the horizon and not see a single curve. And when you got to the horizon, to the farthest spot you could see twenty minutes earlier, the road stretched out further still, longer and straighter. At least it was easy to drive -- I just set the wheel and went to sleep.

Tamara wanted to visit the geographic center of the US, located just outside Belle Fourche and not much out of our way. When we got to the visitors centre in Belle Fourche, we found out it was actually north of the city and not south as we expected. The centre was closed, but directions were written on a sign taped to the door. They included things like, "look for a barn with a red pole on the right side of the highway". You'd think something like this would have, I don't know, a road sign, or something. But maybe they capitalize on visitors coming in from the south.

We got into Deadwood and booked a room at the Comfort Inn. We were able to catch the trolley downtown shortly after we unloaded the car. I don't know the last time I've felt this excited! It all just seemed so surreal, I was laughing at everything!

So we're walking down the street and a small group of people come out of one of the buildings. There was a song being played on bells somewhere in the distance, and one of the woman asked us what it was. It was a familiar tune, and while we could hum it, neither of us knew the name.

Tamara noticed that one of the men had Saskatchewan written on his shirt. After a brief chat, we found out that they were hilariously from White City and knew Wendy and Curtis Machmer.

We decided to eat at Mustang Sally's, and the food was delicious. We did a little gambling at a few different casinos, and Tamara won nearly $50!

Life is good.

GART Day 4 - Running Around in Medora

2007-06-30T02:15:00.003-06:00

We started the day with ice cream for breakfast, because we're adults and you can all get bent. Then we snuck off to the Marquis de More's chateau, which I wasn't really wild about seeing, but was actually more interesting than I expected. While we were there, one of the tour guides told us that there is a crazy backwoods trail across dirt roads, private land, and cattle ruts that runs directly out to the petrified forest! So I would be able to go after all, provided that Tamara wouldn't mind spending an hour by herself as I hiked across the scorching prairie to get to it.

After the chateau, we stopped for lunch at Maltese Burgers, a much better meal than last night's buffet. Then we drove off in search of the petrified forest -- which wasn't as hard to find as we expected, but involved a lot of driving over things that weren't really roads.

The road stopped at the end of Teddy Roosevelt Park. We were told that there was a tiny opening in the fence that you crawled through, and that description was completely accurate -- if I were much bigger I wouldn't have been able to get through.

And so began my 1.5 mile hike out to the petrified forest. I had these visions of seeing rattlesnakes and buffalo -- mostly due to the stories told to us by the guide at the chateau, but it was largely uneventful. The trail was very well marked and required lots of climbing, but there was never a chance of getting lost.

The forest itself wasn't what I expected. I imagined, like, a forest, with petrified trees fallen over every which way, but it was completely different: stark, barren, and strangely beautiful in a simple, very minimalist way. The petrified wood was strewn about everywhere, all around, for hundreds of feet, and the ground was a baked white clay you might find on a sea bed. Actually, it looked like this was the remains of an ancient sea whose water had evaporated away.

I spent about 20 minutes taking pictures, then hiked back, where Tamara was patiently waiting. We headed back to town to gas up and get back on our way.

My worst mistake, though, was doing the hike without my shirt. All I wanted to do is get some colour so Heather wouldn't laugh at me this summer. But instead I got sunburned all across my shoulders and upper back. Now Tamara is laughing at me, because she was insisting on sunscreen. I can't win!

GART Day 3 - Medora Musical

2007-06-30T02:15:00.001-06:00

I don't do a lot of talking about fate, but only because I don't really believe in it. Y'know, there's a tiny portion of my mind set aside for ridiculous beliefs, and it kind of hangs out in there, checks out the fridge and whatnot, maybe watches some TV in its underwear, that kind of thing.

But every so often fate gives me a slap in the face, something that feels as ridiculous and shocking as dumping a pail of ice water down my pants. And I got that during the musical.

It's not like the musical is anything stunning. The first minute into it, Tamara and I both leaned close and said, "Saskatchewan Express!" But to be fair, although the show is in the same theme as something from Saskatchewan Express, it's a lot more polished. The parts Tamara and I liked best were the tribute to the American armed forces, the weird religious numbers near the end of the show, and the closing number: God Bless America, complete with giant American flag.

But it wasn't the music, the dancing, the religion, or the jingoism that masde me think this was all fated: it was Teddy Roosevelt. Roosevelt is peppered throughout the play because of his ties to North Dakota. He's very important here, not only because of his conservation efforts, but also because it's his favourite state. I always just discounted the man as kind of a bully, but it turns out he's more interesting that I gave him credit for. And the times around him were very interesting too.

Very well. So I'm to learn more about Teddy Roosevelt. But why was this fated?

Well, if Tamara hadn't misread the map, we would have driven through to Medora the night before, and gotten rained out. And if I hadn't been overcome with sleep for some reason, we wouldn't have stopped at all. If I'd done the 16 mile hike I'd planned, I probably would have been too tired to go to the musical. And when we booked our room, the bunkhouse we were sent to was called Canada Goose.

Sure, it could all be coincedence, and the pieces tend to come together when you look at things in retrospect. But when things tend to clump together like this, I tend to think more about fate than chance. In spite of myself.

GART Day 3 - Crappy Meal at the Chuckwagon

2007-06-24T04:38:00.000-06:00

We both ate at the all-you-can-eat buffet, and we both got sick from it. I joked on the way in that we should order from Maltese Burgers, and apparently we should have.

It's not that the food was bad, but I was bloated from liquids and ended up eating too much, while Tamara just ate something that didn't agree with her. But this wasn't a very good experience for us.

So far I'm 0 for 2 today. Hope the musical's good. And I hope it doesn't rain like last night.

GART Day 3 - Crappy Day at Teddy Roosevelt Park

2007-06-24T04:30:00.000-06:00

Talk about a total bust.

Look, I'm pretty okay at reading maps, all right? I'm more than happy having Tamara as my trusty navigator, but I can get by just fine when she's not around. However, this did not prevent me from driving back ad forth over the same stretch of ground about 200 times while I was looking for trailhead that would take me out to the petrified forest.

Like, could you guys maybe mark the trails? Y'know, with a sign or something that says "Petrified Forest" and a big arrow pointing in some direction? Instead of giving me some stupid map with the trails not even marked all that well?

As it was, I never found the trailhead. I did manage to find a trail that kind of started in the middle of a field and led down to the bank of the Little Missouri river, but I chose not to wade across it, mostly because I was unsure what would happen on the other side. Like, is there a trail there or what? Could you maybe give me a sign?

So while I didn't get to do any of the hiking I had planned, I did manage to climb all over some stuff and take a few trails through some other areas, like the sandstone and the now extinguished coal fire.

I knew these coal fires burned a long time, but this one was found burning in 1880 and finally burned itself out in 1977. I spoke to some people who were here in 1968, and they said there was smoke coming out of the ground and the whole area had an awful smell. It was also really interesting to see how these sorts of things are just a regular part of the area's life cycle, and the effect they have on the environment.

I got back to our hotel room all hot and sweaty, and although I was later than I expected, we still managed to squeeze in a brief swim before heading out to supper. Tamara bought us tickets to the Medora Musical this afternoon, which actually sounds kind of okay. But we'll see.

GART Day 3 - Hiking and Touring in Medora, ND

2007-06-24T04:14:00.000-06:00

We drove into Medora this morning. I was excited about spending four hours hiking the 16 miles to the petrified forest. Tamara was excited about not doing that. So we decided to split up and do our own things: I'm going to hike and Tamara's going to explore the town.

And speaking of the town, is it ever touristy! I asked Tamara what makes a touristy place stand out, and she said it was because everything is so period. She might be right. Although Moose Jaw kind of smacks of that sort of thing, I haven't been to enough touristy spots to come to that same conclusion.

We are absolutely going to get gouged here.

GART Day 2 - Pizza and Beer in Belfield, ND

2007-06-23T04:06:00.000-06:00

It was a long day of driving and doing stuff, and I needed a nap. We stopped at Belfield for a break, and went to Dairy Queen for a couple of slushy drinks.

We were only 20 miles out of Medora. I wanted to press on, but Tamara pointed out that they had three things here that I wanted: beds, pizza, and beer. So we got a room, watched the hilariously lousy Chronicles of Riddick, and went to the bar to eat pizza and drink the night away.

Tamara drank them out of Heineken, so she started on Rolling Rock. It's an interesting beer: I don't think I'd go so far as to call it good, but the two sips I had weren't really enough for me to decide that I didn't like it.

We also ran into a group of people that went to the Medora Musical -- it got rained out! So it looks like we chose the right time to stop after all. The only bad news: no wi-fi. So posting will have to wait until we reach civilization.

GART Day 2 - Touring Teddy Roosevelt Park

2007-06-23T03:16:00.000-06:00

We hit the north unit of Teddy Roosevelt Park mid-afternoon, after a wonderfully scenic drive that I thought wouldn't take us anywhere near the mountains, then took us so close that we saw giant slabs of rock balanced on nothing but imagination. The sun was hanging high above us and felt as hot and angry as a pail of flaming assholes. Given the chance, I'm pretty sure it would have beaten us with a lead pipe and stolen our wallets.

There were some suggested things to do if you had a few hours to kill posted at the ranger station, so we filled up our nalgenes and went for a drive, followed by a hike. This was my first time in the Badlands, and I'm sure Tamara got sick of me saying, "Wow, look at that!" and, "Holy smokes! This is so awesome!" But it really was awesome, and my only apology is that I don't have the language to convey how swept away I was by the scenery. I don't think the photos I took will really do it either, but maybe the sheer volume of them will be the evidence that tips the scale.

We ended up driving an hour to get up to some crazy lookout way up on a hill that afforded a spectacular view of the Little Missouri river, then went for a far too brief hike on one of the shorter trails. While scenic, the park didn't really offer much in the way of excitement. I'm looking forward to getting to the south unit tomorrow, because I really want to see the painted canyon and petrified forest!

GART Day 2 - Outlaw Burgers in Watford City, ND

2007-06-23T03:01:00.000-06:00

We stopped For lunch at Outlaws in Watford City. The hamburger I ordered is seriously one of the best I've ever had. Tamara also enjoyed her overly-girly turkey croissant.

GART Day 2 - A Museum Stop in Armstrong, ND

2007-06-23T02:56:00.000-06:00

We stopped at Armstrong to visit the Lewis and Clark Museum. It was something of a misnomer, to the point that Lewis and Clark had uncredited cameos. The museum was more of a cultural legacy of the town, providing a place to store old clothing, vehicles, and local artifacts. It's in an old schoolhouse so jam-packed with memorobilia it looks like your grandmother's attic.

And this isn't necessarily a bad thing. We're lucky in Saskatchewan that we have the Western Development Museums to preserve the cultural heritage of the prairies, but this little museum doesn't get any state or federal funding. And we both found it a little surprising and a little horrifying that the preservation of the region's cultural heritage isn't more of a priority. Not surprisingly, Armstrong is facing some of the same issues as rural Saskatchewan, with population loss and school closures. We were told that there's oil money in the area sustaining things, but the state is pushing toward closures and bussing.

The tour started with an introduction to some old-tymey farm machinery, which was no big deal to us. And was apparently no big deal to the guide, as she would say things like, "And this is the thresher, or whatever it is, and this over here is a tractor, or something." But my favourite part, which I'm only taking partially out of context, was, "On Labour Day we have a parade, and some of the local indians come and dress up in their full gear, and it's pretty funny." But to be fair to this women, she kind of evened out a little as things went on, and by the end she was concerned with our well-being and suggesting other places for us to go. Hell not being one of them.

Which is also surprising.

Because there was a huge billboard with the Ten Commandments at the side of the road as we were leaving town. And I mean big. It blotted out the sun. So I guess we found out why this museum doesn't get any funding -- they're too busy trying to educate the heathens.

Overall, I think this stop was kind of a Williston Friday.

GART - Day 1

2007-06-22T02:36:00.000-06:00

So things are a little slow right now, in regards to the blogging of the Great American Road Trip.

Rest assured, the full story of Day 1 will be up in due course. In the meantime, please enjoy news from the rest of the days, which is almost fully caught up.

Because of the hardships of blogging using only a Palm handheld, links and photos will have to wait until we return. So I hope the stories can stand on their own.

A Slow Day at the Loogie Store

2007-06-01T13:45:00.000-06:00

Me: Stop spitting!

Tamara: I wasn't spitting.

Me: Oh. Then start spitting!

Tamara: Start spitting? You just told me to stop!

Me: Well, now I'm telling you to start.

Tamara: Make up your mind!

Me: Want to have a loogie-horking contest?

Tamara: No.

Me: Is it horking or hocking? Do you hock loogies?

Tamara: Isn't hocking something like selling it?

Me: You're going to hock your loogies?

Tamara: I might.

Me: Are you so poor you need to hock loogies?

Tamara: I'll sell if I can find someone stupid enough to buy my loogies.

Me: All right, we'll hang a sign out for you immediately.*

Me: Now we play the waiting game.**

Tamara: You're wonderful.

Me: I hope you enjoy your new loogie-free lifestyle.

* Notice how I intentionally added an apostrophe to draw in the proletariat. Also, notice how I unintentionally screwed up on the dollar sign.
** The waiting game sucked. Instead, we played Hungry Hungry Hippos.

Addendum!
A big thanks to the Incredible Schmutzie for setting me straight: when a loogie leaves your body, you're hocking it. When you're in the process of creating a loogie, you're horking one up.

See, I'd know this if I hung around with more seven-year-olds.

Keepin' It on the Down-Low

2007-05-31T13:33:00.000-06:00

I work with a dark-haired woman who often wears a dark jacket, dark pants, dark shoes, and dark sunglasses. I laugh secretly every time I see her come in to work, because I pretend she's traveling incognito and only I know who she really is.

Top Ten Blogs

2007-05-17T09:02:00.000-06:00

This is in response to, or in continuation of, a post I read on Catprint about a post on Idealistic Pragmatist, about a post by Warren Kinsella. In future posts I may just reference these chains by saying Here <-- Here <-- Here.

Anyway, here's my list of Top Ten Bloggers, with genders included.

1) Defective Yeti (M)
2) Dooce (F)
3) The Palinode (M)
4) Schmutzie (F)
5) Kottke (M)
6) Masthead (M)
7) Spoonman (M)
8) Catprint in the Mash (M)

Honourable Mention: MC Hammer (M): You may know him best as the gentleman who won't live in my basement, but I think he had a singing career or something in the 1980s.

So this looks like I read about 25% women, which isn't as good as Lance was saying, but certainly isn't bad.

It may look like there's only eight blogs listed and not ten. That's because there is. It's not that I don't read more bloggers, it's that I haven't been able to count to ten since my thumbs were sheared off in that horrible indoor grill accident. Damn you, Foreman! Damn you!

Edit: Schmutzie would like me to add that this list is in no particular order, except for the part where both she and the Palinode come before Jason Kottke. 'Cuz that guy's crap.

Also, it appears that linking to Kinsella is a great way to get hits. But the views and opinions reflected in the previous sentence do not necessarily reflect those of Schmutzie.

Vynal Vantasy

2007-04-24T11:07:00.000-06:00

New binders give off a very strong smell of vinyl. I ordered some binders for work yesterday, and today, when unpacking them, I caught a big whiff of vinyl when I tore the boxes open.

It's not entirely an unpleasant smell, but it always takes me back to McCollough's Costumers in Moose Jaw. It was this narrow shop, about 25 feet wide, and it was crammed so full of costume supplies that you literally had to squeeze down the some of the aisles to get to other parts of the store. It was like a life-sized Tickle Trunk! We'd go there on or around Hallowe'en and buy capes and plastic swords and bloody axes, and they'd show us the man they have chained in the attic and the jars of severed heads they had on the shelves lining the basement walls. Occasionally the owner would pull out a bottle that looked like a rams horn from under the counter and let us have a little nip. It was filled with a bright green liquid that tasted like burning rubber, but it would make the walls go all wavy, and we'd sing something like "Ka thoo loo, Fa tay gun" over and over, taking sips of that green stuff and laughing. Sometimes it would look like tentacles were coming out of the floor and dragging someone away, and we'd have to sing even louder to drown out the screams. Those sure were crazy times.

Anyway. Because of this, I don't think I could ever become a vinyl fetishist. I have visions of being brought to the brink of orgasm by someone in a skin-tight vinyl suit and spontaneously yelling, "Hi Sheila, has the Big Bird costume come back yet?"

Keeping Up with the 'Nodeses

2007-03-03T22:53:00.000-06:00

Me: So did you read about the woman who found a grenade in her bag of potatoes?

Tamara: Are you serious?

Me: Yeah! She was peeling potatoes, washed the dirt off one, and, yep -- live grenade.

Tamara: Where's she getting her potatoes from, Vietnam?

Me: I think she mistakenly asked for a "bomb de terre". Hang on, I have to go blog this.

Tamara: See? We have conversations like this too!

Me: Okay, fine. I just wish we had them more often.

Everything's Coming Up Scorsese!

2007-02-26T01:56:00.000-06:00

Martin Scorsese, who is probably my favourite director, has finally won a Best Director Oscar!

He's been nominated for Best Director five times:
2005 - The Aviator lost to Million Dollar Baby (Clint Eastwood)
2003 - Gangs of New York lost to The Pianist (Roman Polanski)
1991 - Goodfellas lost to Dances with Wolves (Kevin Costner)
1989 - Last Temptation of Christ lost to Rain Man (Barry Levinson)
1981 - Raging Bull lost to Ordinary People (Robert Redford)

And, because lists are an easy way to populate your blog, here's a list of my top ten favourite movies, culled from my vote history at the IMDb:

1. Star Wars (1977)
2. Star Wars: Episode V - The Empire Strikes Back (1980)
3. The Matrix (1999)
4. Shakespeare in Love (1998)
5. Terminator 2: Judgment Day (1991)
6. Ferris Bueller's Day Off (1986)
7. Star Trek: The Wrath of Khan (1982)
8. Reservoir Dogs (1992)
9. The Silence of the Lambs (1991)
10. Austin Powers: International Man of Mystery (1997)

Average age: 17.7 years.

This list is a result of a hard-fought battle stretching over two days that left bloodied movie carcasses scattered about like victims in a gangland shooting. Hilariously, nothing came up Scorsese, but as with all things, this is subject to change. After all, I haven't yet had the chance to see Raging Bull, Citizen Kane, Children of Men, or Arthur and the Invisibles.

It was surprisingly difficult to narrow the list of my favourite films down to ten. The comments are open for anyone wanting to list their top ten.

No Good Deed Goes Unrewarded

2007-02-26T01:39:00.000-06:00

Winter so far has been laying on the sofa like a lazy roommate, shifting position only to reach the TV remote control or scratch its ass through a terribly revealing hole in its underwear. But one Sunday at the end of January it was like Winter remembered it had a job to do, dammit, and manically tried to catch up for a whole season of slackness.

Winter storms seem to have the exact opposite effect on me than they do on everyone else. While most of the city hunkered down under blankets and in front of fireplaces, I convinced Tamara that we needed brave the treacherous streets and poor visibility to buy a few things from Safeway. But it was Sunday, and even though I drove recklessly, Safeway was closed when we arrived. So then I convinced Tamara we needed to brave the treacherous streets and poor visibility to buy a few things from McDonald's.

There's a McDonald's about a block north of the Safeway we normally shop at, so really it was just a matter of crossing the street and getting into line at the drive-thru. The weather was getting increasingly miserable. I was pelted with snow when I rolled down my window, and sharp gusts of wind tore my order from my mouth. Somehow we managed to convince the attendant that we wanted a couple of cheeseburgers and some fries, and we crawled forward through the growing drifts to the drive-thru window.

The person in the car in front of us was paying with debit when an unruly blast of wind tore the card right out of her poor, freezing fingers. Because of her proximity to the wall, her passenger was the unlucky one who had to get out and look for the card. She looked under the car, around the wheels, cleared some of the snow away from the ground, but wasn't having much luck. The wind was still blowing fiercely, and the snow was beginning to cake in her hair as she continued her search.

And then suddenly, from nowhere, a hero emerged -- a tall, lanky young man in jeans and a blue parka. He came up from behind us, running past the drivers side of our car, pausing only long enough to grab something by our front tire before continuing on to the car at the front. One there he handed the wayward card back to its owner, stuffed his hands into his jacket pockets, and ran back against the wind to the comfort of his vehicle. The driver paid for her food, successfully this time, and the line advanced forward.

When we got to the window, I asked the attendant how much the order was for the people behind us. "$6.73," she replied. "Okay," I said, "we want to pay for theirs too."

"You want to pay for the people behind you?"

"That's right. Let them know it's because he got out to get that girl's card."

We drove away with big smiles on our faces. It was still cold outside, but I hope this helped to warm him up a little.

Zen and the Art of Street Crossing

2007-02-05T18:42:00.000-06:00

When I was a kid, I got it into my head one day that I should cross the street without looking. More important to this story, I thought crossing the street without looking was a skill -- like swimming -- that could be acquired and refined. I imagined amazing people with my street crossing prowess -- throngs of gaping people watching in awe as I crossed the street heedless of traffic and arrived safely on the other side.

With images of cheering crowds firmly planted in my mind, I set out to practice. My practice, of course, was short lived: a mere three crossings before I was nearly run down by a very angry woman in a very big car. I was able to scamper off into my grandparents' back yard to avoid further embarrassment.

This is one of my favourite stories because it's so outlandish. Who would think crossing the street without looking was a learnable skill? That it should be practiced? I qualified for Mensa, fer crissake.

Had I lived to 80, I never would have believed that this would have some kind of practical import:

In my hotel room there was a little guidebook. The first point in the "Things not to do in Vietnam" list reads: When crossing the street, do not change your speed of pace, do not run, do not step backwards.

I took this advice to heart, and I must tell you, I have never had a more Zen-like experience than crossing the street in Vietnam. Motorbikes and cars zipping past you in all directions and on all sides, but all flowing around you and around each other with a remarkable peacefulness. In North America I would have been scared shitless. Here, I was not worried for a moment. I can only describe it as "moving meditation".

Thanks, Ryan. You just made my childhood that much less ridiculous.

If I Had a Hammer....

2007-01-26T01:39:00.000-06:00

I've got a secret. I've been trying to get MC Hammer to come live in my basement.

It all started innocently enough, with one lonely blog comment posted completely in earnest:
Post #1 - The Original Post

There were then a couple of other stragglers a few months down the road:
Post #2 - No God
Post #3 - Propel
Post #4 - Basement Living

And then things just started to get ridiculous.
Post #5 - Emmitt
Post #6 - Giving Thanks
Post #7 - Rodeo Christmas
Post #8 - Vishal
Post #9 - Best Documentary
Post #10 - Bill
Post #11 - Text'n
Post #12 - Sidekick
Post #13 - Come Together
Post #14 - Cigar
Post #15 - Milwaukee
Post #16 - Picture
Post #17 - Luxury
Post #18 - White Guys
Post #19 - Mountains
Post #20 - Player Haters
Post #21 - Sundance Lounge

But I can't do this alone -- I need your help! Tell Hammer that I'm a good guy. Let him know that my basement's actually pretty nice. Post a comment saying that my dog won't bite him and I won't steal his socks. Well, I may actually steal his socks. But I swear, any money made from the sale of his socks on eBay will go directly to local charities.

C'mon, folks -- every basement deserves to have a celebrity in it! And my basement deserves to have MC Hammer, not just a charcoal drawing of him I did one night while high on solvents. Help me make 2007 the Year of the Hammer (in my basement)!

Great Trip, Terrible Metaphor. So-So Acronym.

2007-01-25T16:57:00.000-06:00

Well, it looks like the Great US Summer Road Trip '07 (GUSSRT) is set in motion, with both Tamara and I batting ideas about like two cats sharing a mouse head. Tamara pulled the head out from under the sofa with a plan to visit friends in Washington, Chicago, and a third place, which I believe she referred to as the mystery place. I pawed the head delicately, suggesting that this circuit was too far to drive. Tamara then swatted the head across the floor with a revised plan to go through Montana and the Black Hills. I feigned disinterest by turning my back and walking a few paces, then suddenly pounced back on the head, doing an amazing half-twist of my body in mid-air: let's make a pilgrimage to the Moose Jaw Brew Pub in Wisconsin. I'm sure I could bring some piece of Moose Jaw memorabilia with me, like my single share of Mac the Moose -- if I can find it. And they're hiring: I may never go home! Or want to!

I know the cat metaphor was a little strained, but I swear to you that's exactly what happened when Guildenstern pulled the mouse head from under the sofa.

Tamara, it looks like the head's in your food bowl. If anyone wants me, I'll be behind the TV licking my arm and rubbing it on my face.

(I may as well mention that I found this link while visiting Jack Pine Press for their book To Kerouac and Back. And I should also plug my good friend Ellen's book Gabrielle and the Man who is Belly-flopped on the World while I'm at it. Jack Pine makes some really neat, short-run stuff.)

Effective Yeti

2007-01-22T13:05:00.000-06:00

Thanks to the delightful Matt Balwin over at Defective Yeti, and my delightful girlfriend Tamara over at, ummmm... my house, I guess... I've won a spot in Plugapalooza! Which means the Yeti will be linking to my little hole in the wall on Friday. Which in turn means I need to write stuff. And fast.

So be prepared, frolicking millions, to gaze lustfully upon the seemingly endless backlog of half-finished, half-started, and heretofore half-undreamt-of posts from the Lectures Drafts Archives. And feel free to also thrill in amazement as I deftly navigate the perilous minefield of where to place the apostrophes in that last sentence.

If I'm to believe my own hype, I ought to pass out energy drinks to everyone that reads this.

Giving the Gift of Links

2007-01-22T02:37:00.000-06:00

A few belated Christmas gifts. Schmutzie, you were the hardest to shop for.

For BAQ: a whole Flickr set of communist propaganda posters.
http://www.flickr.com/photos/bpx/sets/72057594117941491/

For The Palinode: your favourite movie -- La Jetee -- on Google Video.
http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=5354377779883726771

For Zenobia Pommes: The Girl Who Ate Everything (a blog about food).
http://www.roboppy.net/food/

For JCQ: the letters section of 419 Eater (and in particular, the Incredible Shrinking Artwork).
http://www.419eater.com/html/john_boko.htm

For Tamara: American Idol reject Darwin Reedy.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ecVE7u4DPes

For Schmutzie: An mp3 that resets your brainwaves to wake you up.
http://anabubula.com/node/26

One More Story

2006-11-28T08:47:00.000-06:00

Sandi: That cat looks like one of those furry little rodents they have at Petland.

Me: I don't shop at Petland, I shop at Pet Cetera*. Y'know, 'cuz I'm a big fan of Chicago.

Sandi: I still think Petland's better.

Me: But it gives meaning to my life. It's the inspiration.

Sandi: You're ridiculous.

Me: It's a hard habit to break.

*Pronounced "se-TEER-a" in order to facilitate the joke. It did not help.**
**Asterisk format stolen shamelessly from The Palinode.

Mein Coif

2006-10-30T00:23:00.000-06:00

OTTAWA, Ontario (CP) -- Prime Minister Stephen Harper issued a statement yesterday declaring that all changes to his hairstyle will have to cleared for approval through the Prime Minister's Office.

The bold move comes on the heels of a stringent tightening of the political rules in Ottawa. While other Prime Ministers have been comfortable with the rakish look of wind-blown hair or the earthy, laid back style of bed head, Prime Minister Harper is bucking trends with his take-no-prisoners approach.

"From this point forward, no hairs will be out of place," he said at Monday's press conference, threatening that any disobedient hairs risk being removed immediately from his head. Harper attempted to demonstrate party discipline by reattaching a few stragglers from his hair brush, but met with limp resistance.

Reactions from Canadians were mixed.

"I think it's time that Canada demonstrate we can have excellent and well coifed heads of hair," said one Torontonian who asked not to be identified. "It's not all toques and lumberjack hats here."

"I think hair's gone too far," said Ottawa's Lisa Frattello. "Other Prime Ministers have been giving their hair too many freedoms. It's about time someone stood up and gave their hair what it deserved."

But Windsor native Brian Lavallee had a different opinion. "Some people might see messy hair as a bad thing, but I think it only gets in the way if you let it get in the way." Lavallee suggested that it's important to work with your hair, not just demand that it follow an arbitrary set of rules.

"Sometimes you control your hair by giving it what it wants," he said. "A little bit of gel, some conditioner, regular washing -- you treat it right and it'll treat you right."

Putting the "Ass" in Dance Class

2006-10-20T13:10:00.000-06:00

At dance class:

Instructor: You use your weight to move your partner. You need to stand with your weight forward, the same way you would if you were moving that speaker over there.

Tamara: Great. So now I'm a heavy, inanimate object.

Me: You're also loud and have no volume control.

The Meat of the Matter

2006-06-08T00:28:00.000-06:00

Heather: Did you see JCQ's wedding invitation?

Helen: About the herbivores and the omnivores?

Heather: Yeah! How cute is that?

Helen: It's funny, but does she really have to be concerned about the number of vegetarians at her wedding? I mean, how important is it to have a vegetarian option?

Me: I think it depends on the person. If it's your fiancé's dad, then you'll probably want to have something. But if it's the escort of one of your friends, I think they should just be content with the old stand-bys of salad and buns.

Helen: It's just so foreign where I'm from. It's like, "Oh, you're a vegetarian? Here's some chicken."

Things to Avoid, Part 446

2006-05-19T02:13:00.000-06:00

Here's a tip for all the little old ladies out there that read my blog: if you're going to stop me on the street to ask me something, please be intelligible. Then, if you're going to follow me when I walk away, please don't cut a loud one when we stop at the corner. And then, whatever you do, please don't say, "Smells like baloney," or anything of that nature.

But if you do do any of this stuff, please do me a favour and continue to walk directly out into the street, mindless of oncoming cars. It seemed to work well for the one lady I met the other day on my walk home from downtown. Maybe she was forcibly propelled by her farts, I don't know.

The Irony of Fire

2006-04-15T11:29:00.000-06:00

Once you've chopped enough wood to build a fire, you're no longer cold enough to want one.

I tried for 20 minutes to add something more on this theme and came up empty. I'm going to lose my one reader if this keeps up.

Hair 'em, Scare 'em

2006-04-09T13:43:00.000-06:00

If you ever decide to cut your hair off, you should think about donating it to Locks of Love. Locks of Love is a charitable organization that provides wigs made of real human hair to children who've lost theirs through some long-term medical condition, like radiation and chemotherapy treatments or alopecia.

However, if you do decide to cut your hair and donate it, be sure to send it away immediately. If you instead leave it in a bag on the kitchen table for months and months, someone will walk by and look in the bag thinking it contains candy, only to be assaulted by an angry bag of hair. This will happen on a bi-weekly basis. I am speaking from personal experience.

These Glasses Are Neither Half-Full Nor Half-Empty

2006-04-06T12:19:00.000-06:00

After (too) much agonizing over new frames, I've finally come down to two choices which I now present to you all for your insightful comments and outrageous mockery. I did ask the kind folks at Eyes to order in a nice set of round frames for me, but, alas, they weren't quite round enough, and the other round frames they had in stock made me look like a Third Reich geneticist. That might help me with the neo-Nazis, but it's definitely not going to endear me to any of the dirty tree-hugging hippies that hang out at O'Hanlon's.

Actually, I was positive that the round frames I'm wearing here were the same ones they were ordering in for me. I liked them because of their similarity to my current glasses. But somehow in the transition from the catalogue to my face they lost their sterling resemblance to God's marvelous symmetry and became some kind of weighted ovoid more fit for the appendix of an upper-year textbook on theoretical geometry than the bridge of my nose. They sagged heavily at the bottom like a full diaper, and there was an audible whirring noise when I put them on, which I can only assume was Euclid spinning in his grave. I immediately tore them from my face and threw them to the ground, jumping heavily upon them and screaming Lovecraftian curses as the thin metal buckled and snapped beneath my boots. I condemned the wretched things with gasping breaths to the deepest pit of hell, then returned to my seat to reconsider my two remaining options.

I exaggerate. Somewhat. But the point is I am no longer able to keep my delightfully round frames and must venture forth into the previously unknown territory of... the rectangle. So please, drink deeply at the trough of my Flickr account. See what my choices are and help me decide which frames will suit me best for the next decade or so. There's also a possibility of contact lenses, but I can't imagine too many people want an unobstructed view of my googly bug eyes.

You're Both Chicos to Me

2006-02-21T00:16:00.000-06:00

Failed Freddie Prinze vehicles:

(I realize that lists are the cheapest -- and lowest -- forms of entertainment, but you get what you pay for 'round here.)

Chico and the Mandolin
Chico and the Manatee
Chico and the Elephant Man
Chico and the Manheim Steamroller
Chico and the Man from Atlantis
Chico and the Isle of Man
Chico and the Man of LaMancha
Chico and the Mandible
Chico and the Man from Glad
Chico and the Pac Man
Chico and the Man Who Fell to Earth
Chico and the Stunt Man
Chico and the Manhole
Chico and the Mannequin
Chico and the Man from U.N.C.L.E.
Chico and the Six Million Dollar Man
Chico and the Man with the Golden Gun
Chico and the Piltdown Man
Chico and the Mandrill

Bonus Post! Failed Freddy Prinze Jr. Vehicles:

Demand Accountability!

2006-02-10T14:50:00.000-06:00

For those residents in my federal riding of Regina-Qu'Appelle that are concerned with accountability from our new Conservative government, I encourage you to venture over to Petition Online. I've set up a petition asking for our MP, Andrew Scheer, to help restore ethics and responsibility to our federal government by standing in opposition to David Emerson's actions and asking for a by-election to be held in Vancouver-Kingsway.

I know there are people of all political stripes that are outraged by Mr. Emerson's actions. Today, two members of the Tory's caucus, Myron Rose and Garth Turner, stood proudly in support of a by-election in Mr. Emerson's riding. This is not a time for divisiveness along party lines -- this is a time for everyone, regardless of affiliation, to come together and demand that the government respect the rights and the will of the people.

Mr. Scheer is often touting in his many newsletters how he's following the direction given by his constituents. This is an opportunity to provide solid numbers on what his stance should be. Let's tell Andrew that he should stand up for democracy when he stands up for Canada.

Sign the petition. My e-mail to Andrew Scheer follows.

Mr. Scheer:

As the elected representative in Ottawa for Regina-Qu'Appelle, I feel I must write to you regarding the recent debacle of David Emerson. His crossing of the floor for the alleged carrot of a cabinet post in the new Conservative government undermines the foundation of democratic elections in our country. Adding to this that the Conservative candidate in his riding of Vancouver-Kingsway finished a distant third in the election shows there was a clear mandate from the riding to reject a Conservative candidate.

I have no objections with Mr. Emerson leaving the Liberal party for new horizons and opportunities with the Conservatives, but he should do so in a democratic by-election. The constituents of Vancouver-Kingsway will then be clearly aware of who they're voting for and which party their candidate truly represents. This will ensure the Conservatives embody the responsible and ethical government that was promised to Canadians in the last federal election, rather than hearkening back to the last 12 years of Liberal corruption.

Clearly Mr. Emerson's actions taint the motives of the entire Conservative caucus. On behalf of the residents of Regina-Qu'Appelle, and in an effort to act as a moral compass to the Conservative party, I kindly ask that you stand opposed to the actions of Mr. Emerson and in favour of a by-election in his riding.

Thank you,

--Deron Staffen

Edit - 5:54 p.m.: go read Garth Turner's excellent post on why he made the decision to stand against the party line:

I know the PMO has a song sheet it wants all caucus members to sing from, and I know what happens when an individual chooses to go his or her own way. I was just hoping this time I would not be asked to choose – between party and principle.

I chose principle. My deepest loyalty is to what I believe, what I told the voters and what I want Parliament to become.

Now I Am the One Who Is "It"

2006-02-09T10:56:00.000-06:00

This is not something I do regularly.

I'm not talking about updating my blog, but that certainly fits under this heading. So does pooping, for that matter. No, in this case I'm talking about responding to 'tags'.

This time I'm in something of a pickle. Unlike the Palinode, I was actually tagged. By Schmutzie, no less. Now, normally I would cheerfully ignore this kind of thing and vie for the coveted "Who is least likely to respond" title. But the good Schmutzie is read by tens of people daily, and surely to God I'm getting upwards of one hit as spin-off traffic -- especially as I'm the only one of the four with an honest to goodness name.

I really like Schmutzie. She's a good kid. And although the chance is small, I don't want her to come down from Cityland, or wherever the hell she lives, and kick my ass for not playing along. So read! Read like the wind! Fill your tiny brains with far too much information that does more to stereotype me than explain my behaviour! And don't forget to add your derisive comments -- I was made fun of by Dennis Hull in front of 700 people on Friday, I'm sure you can't do any worse.

Four-times-four books I've loved:
1984 by George Orwell
Ender's Game by Orsen Scott Card
Insomnia by Stephen King
The Dark Tower: The Gunslinger by Stephen King
It by Stephen King
Different Seasons by Stephen King
Comes the Darkness by Michael Prescott
Life, The Universe, and Everything by Douglas Adams
Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency by Douglas Adams
"Surely You're Joking Mr. Feynman!" by Richard Feynman
The Wars by Timothy Findley
Contact by Carl Sagan
Replay by Ken Grimwood
The Da Vinci Code by Dan Brown
Life of Pi by Yann Martel
Breaking Smith's Quarter Horse by Paul St. Pierre

Four-and-sixteen movies I can watch over and over and wish to have in my DVD collection if you're thinking of buying me a gift:
Shakespeare in Love
Fight Club
Rattle and Hum
Goodfellas
Star Wars
Star Wars: The Empire Strikes Back
Blade Runner
Dirty Dancing
Snatch
A Fish Called Wanda
The Matrix
The Silence of the Lambs
Memento
Reservoir Dogs
The Shawshank Redemption
Star Trek: The Wrath of Khan
When Harry Met Sally...
Fast Times at Ridgemont High
Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas
Gattaca

Four movies I wish I'd walked out on:
Highlander II
3000 Miles to Graceland
Prospero's Books
My Own Private Idaho

The last two movies I didn't have the pleasure of being able to walk out on, as they were rentals. I did, however, have the pleasure of turning them off and playing Uno. I managed to watch My Own Private Idaho up to the part where Keanu is fighting in a warehouse while quoting Henry IV. I stopped Prospero's Books when all I'd seen during the first five minutes was a kid peeing in a swimming pool. He was on a trapeze. I am not making this up.

Please be aware that I am perfectly capable of playing Uno while having a movie on.

Four TV shows I love:
Seinfeld
Jeopardy!
Lost
The X Files

Four jobs I've had and quit:
Bartender: I used to bartend at the Royal Hotel in Moose Jaw in my younger days. It was a crazy time, and if I'd been a little bit older (my true age is about 75% of my chronological age, so at this point I would have been about 16) I think I would have really, really enjoyed myself, instead of just enjoying myself. It was good times, by and large, even when I was threatened by a biker and stalked by a crazy woman. I left to go to school, and, well, we all know how that turned out.

Coffee shop drone: my triumphant return to the workforce after leaving SEDA was at the hateful and villainous coffee shop. There's not much to report, really, aside from saying I liked the work but hated the environment. The shop's still open a year later, so things must be ticking along nicely. The owners also donated a little something to the KidSport breakfast, so I don't suppose there's any hard feelings. I left because I was passed over for a promotion from Drone to Drone Supervisor, and I felt I'd worked much too hard to be treated that way. I finished my shift and left the shop, telling the owners politely but firmly that this was unacceptable.

Ferdie, the guy who got the promotion, was fired for his incompetence a few months later. So, really, it all worked out in the end.

Car washer: I worked for a short time washing cars at Moose Jaw Ford. It was a good, honest job, and really, I didn't mind it. But the people I worked with were hard to get used to, and the guy I worked closely with was clearly, to borrow a phrase, batshit crazy. I eventually left this job to work at the Royal, which I left to go to school -- and we all know how that turned out.

Busboy: this was a job I had in high school, and one of the few jobs I really didn't care too much about. The pay was lousy, the people were lousy, the management was lousy, and the work was... well, typical for this sort of job. I just kind of decided one day that I wasn't working there anymore, and the restaurant gratefully agreed, not even phoning to check if I was coming in to my shifts. This is the way all quittings should be: some sort of secret signal, like a nod of the head or a finger placed beside your nose, and the tacit approval of management: "Sorry it didn't work out. Here's your T4."

Bonus Job - Telemarketer: it took me 23 minutes to figure out I didn't like telemarketing. There were ten of us sitting around a big table in a hotel boardroom, each with our own phone. We would draw a slip of paper out of a basket in the center of the table. Each slip had exactly one phone number on it, and this phone number was sometimes unlisted, which caused much consternation when we attempted (unsuccessfully) to market to this person by tele.

Looking back, the abuse I took during my one day on the phone is quite entertaining, but at the time it made the job enormously difficult. Which is good, because telemarketing is the lowest form of lowness, with the only exception of spam, which is lower still. I told the guys at the end of the day that I wasn't coming back, and although they told me I was good and used all kinds of tricks to get me to stay ("Telemarketers get hot women", etc.), I adamantly refused. Months later, I was issued a surprise paycheque for roughly $60, which I spent on comic books.

Four places I've called home:
Regina, SK
Saskatoon, SK
Moose Jaw, SK
There is no fourth place. I'm going to die within 100 miles of my birthplace, which will be still standing in spite of the weekly fires by wayward teens and continued promises of demolition.

Four places I've vacationed:
Disneyland
Vegas, baby
Winnipeg, MB
Karlsruhe, Germany

Four places I would rather be right now:
Greece
In bed
1 Infinite Loop, Cupertino, CA
The moon

Four sites I visit daily:
Defective Yeti
Cockeyed
Boing Boing
IMDb

Four people who I wish wrote blogs:
Jesus
Richard Feynman
Mark Twain
Jack Benny

(Note: all dead. Though I understand that Jesus will be coming back for the "Armageddon Tour" sometime in late 2012.)

Four foods I love:
French fries
Bacon
Soup
Grapes

Four people I am tagging:
No one. Not a frigging soul. But if you read this and feel the need to add it to your blog, notify me and I'll add your name to a list beneath this text, with a disclaimer that you're delusional and only "think" you've been tagged by me. Because let's face it: if you feel like filling one of these things out, you certainly don't need my encouragement.

Get Out Your Scorecards...

2006-02-06T14:13:00.000-06:00

Stephen Harper is sworn in as Canada's 22nd Prime Minister:

Harper campaigns on an elected senate -- then appoints Michael Fortier to the senate.
Harper blames Stronach's defection to the Liberals on ambition -- then, when Liberal David Emerson crosses the floor to the Conservative party and a cabinet position, says that he "could serve people of ... British Columbia ... better in cabinet".
Conservatives slam Stronach for her defection.
The votes in Emerson's riding of Vancouver Kingsway were 20,064 Liberals, 15,570 NDP, and 8,699 Conservative.
Harper campaigns on government accountability -- then says during the campaign that he would not force a by-election in these cases.

For anyone who remembers Mulroney's Airbus Affair, it's clear that the Liberals did not have a monopoly on scandal. I think it's also clear what path the current Conservative government has marked as the one they'll set out on: doubletalk and broken promises.

But keep your scorecards handy, we'll tally them up at the end of the show.

Sandpaper Backrub

2006-01-28T17:36:00.000-06:00

It occured to me recently that this masterpeice of a story is not on my blog! It is on my super crappy, and now super defunct, website, but it's a masterpiece and needs a wider audience. For what it's worth, I stole the title from this cartoon.

Anyway, without further ado I present: Sandpaper Backrub!

Vic MacClellen was a clever old gent. He was the type of guy who would swipe your morning paper and use it to line a birdcage. His coffee-making skills were less than adequate. His breath smelled of boiled pork chops wrapped in old sweat socks. He had only one thing going for him in life: his solid-gold rocket car.

Vic would merrily cruise through the streets in his sleepy New England neighbourhood, honking at passers-by as if he knew them personally. Sometimes he would run traffic lights in reverse, forcing other more responsible drivers off the road. These people would mostly curse Vic's name under their breath or gesture obscenely as he roared past. By and large, the townspeople despised old Vic and his solid-gold car.

Occasionally, Vic would go to 7-11 and try to purchase a loaf of bread with a solid-gold spark plug. Sometimes he would try to trade a hubcap for admission to the theatre. No one would take him up on any of his outlandish offers, though, because if there was one thing everyone could agree on, it was that no one could come up with an equitable rate of exchange using the fluctuating value of gold on the world market.

Eventually Vic tired of his rocket car and the financial stranglehold that he lorded over the townspeople. He sold his car to Liberace in exchange for a romantic candlelight recital for him and a poster of Jenna Elfman.

Later that same year, Vic was up to his old tricks again with a pewter skateboard he picked up at a yard sale in Albuquerque. But by this time the townspeople had decided that enough was enough, and they encased him in a transparent polymer while he slept.

The End

On Finding Religion

2006-01-16T23:53:00.000-06:00

I have a friend who I'll call Esmerelda (although her real name's Cynthia Polosky and she lives at 1721 Dewdney Avenue). Esmerelda is going to a Pentecostal church. I find it kind of amusing; I mean, I'm happy to support whatever floats her boat, but the idea of convulsing and speaking in tongues, not to mention the nightly "faith healings" that take place, sounds kind of fishy to me.

When I was in university, I took a religious studies class with a guy named Brad. I was something of a militant atheist at the time, and as he was a believer, we often got into some good discussions. Brad was a great guy: he went tree planting in the summers, rode his old 10-speed bike to school all winter, and worked hard in all of his classes. I really liked him, we just didn't see eye-to-eye on a few issues.

Brad was also Pentecostal. He told me once about a service he was at where there was a good deal of the Holy Spirit flowing through the room. All kinds of people were acting crazy with the passing out and the rolling around and the speaking gobbledygook. He said one guy there had the Gift of Interpretation, and he was moving around the room explaining what was happening. He'd look at a guy flailing around on the floor and say, "This guy wants to start his own ministry." Or he'd listen to someone speaking in tongues and say, "This girl is going to save seven people and bring them into the church."

Brad was one of the few people there who did not feel the Holy Spirit moving through him. I remember him telling me this story, and in his voice I could hear the sadness and exclusion he felt. "I told someone there that I wasn't feeling it," he said, "And I was told to just hold on to some of the people there and continue to pray for them."

Now, the Lord moves in mysterious ways, and if Brad was not captured by the Holy Spirit it must have been for a darn good reason. And even though he was disappointed, there are certain tangible benefits to belonging to a church, not the least of which is social capital and a sense of community. And sometimes holding the hands of a flip-flopping individual and praying silently is enough. But I have a gift too, my friends: the Pentecostals call it the Gift of Knowledge. Sometimes I know things about people. For instance, I knew Tamara and I had something special when she walked past me at Camp Raynor and casually brushed my shoulders. I knew that Esmerelda found me attractive the moment we met. I know that Paul Martin is a liar and a crook. I know that Stephen Harper is a destructive and dangerous man. (Although I support the NDP, I can't speak with any certainty about Jack Layton -- though he seems to be very nice.) And I knew about Brad.

Like I said, Brad was a great guy. But he was searching for something that was missing in his life, and, at the time I knew him, he was looking for it in the Pentecostal church. The thing is, I don't think Brad was really a Pentecostal. It may have been religion he needed, I don't know; but I do know that what he was seeking would not lie where he was looking. I never got the impression from him that this church would make his cup runneth over.

We kept in touch over the rest of the school year, then lost track of each other over the summer. I wasn't able to express it at the time -- I was too angry and closed-minded and cynical -- but I wanted to be able to accept his choices, to see the value in what he was doing, and to help him see that where he was was not where he wanted to be. Instead, we clashed and butted heads a lot; we came to understandings, but no agreements.

Brad never seemed to ask for too much from the world. I hope he's married and happy somewhere right now, with a house full of children and a good, solid, fulfilling religion in his soul. I hope you found what you were looking for, my friend; it gives hope to all of us.

Every Breath I Take

2005-12-31T18:00:00.000-06:00

As my last post in 2005, I would like to take the time to inform all of my faithful readers that trying to inhale A&W Rootbeer is not a good idea. It may very well be the most delicious rootbeer on the planet, but you should not try to breathe it. I've compiled a list through trial and error of things I should not try to breathe, and added A&W Rootbeer right behind water, Good Host iced tea, and fire extinguisher foam. For the adventurous, there may be other breathable rootbeers out there, like Hires or Dad's, but A&W is definitely out.

As for things you should continue breathing, I suggest oxygen, an 80%/20% oxygen-nitrogen blend, and small quantities of helium.

Happy New Year, everyone!

Yesterday, In Song

2005-12-14T12:29:00.000-06:00

Sweet Dreams (The Eurythmics)
Alarm Clock Blues (Dixon Floyd)
Get Up Stand Up (Bob Marley)
Shower Me With Water (Kevin Patrick Quinn)
Get Dressed and Get Out (Johnny L. Northern)
I Missed the Bus (Kris Kross)
I'm Walking (Fats Domino)
Go To Work Blues (Jeffrey R. Smith)
Working 9 to 5 (Dolly Parton)
Home Again At Last (Richard Jensen)
All Alone Am I (Brenda Lee)
Beer and Tequila (Mark Allen Burroughs)
The Drunkest Man (Billy Glenn)
Passed Out On Your Lawn (Christopher Allen Martin)
Vomit Pile King (Kenny Siegal)

All I Need

2005-10-15T14:54:00.000-06:00

This was such a fun entry (which I shamelessly nicked from the Palinode), that I needed to post it immediately. Unlike the Palinode's list, this is only funny for those who know me. It's also about a third of the length -- not because I don't have the patience to list more, but because Google only provides 34 entries.

Apparently I'm not as interesting. But I'm more self-sufficient.

On my sex life...
Deron needs to do it more.
Deron needs to be aggressive and try to score.
Deron needs to look for his shot more.
Deron needs to step up and play.
Deron needs to take some of his own advice.
Deron needs to take the ball to the basket more.
Deron needs to shut up, though.
Deron needs to take a hint.

On my future employment prospects...
Deron needs some sort of "crown" wise deal to get his farm to start producing goods and vegetables.
Deron needs to be able to get past the foul trouble and focus.
Deron needs to keep shooting.
Deron needs to make a horror film.

On my hobbies...
Deron needs a clear liquid epoxy that cures underwater.
Deron needs a good game.

On my hygene...
Deron needs looking after.
Deron needs to lose about 15 pounds.
Deron needs a good waxing.

On my neediness...
Deron needs.

A Brief Complaint

2005-10-13T23:52:00.000-06:00

(This letter is born from a number of thing, including Tamara's semi-comical letter to Tabasco and my own experiences with the seemingly randomly sized Fruit of the Loom two-pack of underwear. Yes, it is an actual letter, sent directly to Fruit of the Loom.)

Dear Fruit of the Loom:

I have been a proud customer of yours for many years, and I am very sorry to write this letter. But I have recently become a victim of some substantial underwear problems which, as a loyal customer, I would like you to address.

I find that Fruit of the Loom underwear is a good size for me, because it makes my genitalia bulge out. This is very attractive to the ladies, and I am never without female companionship because of my massively bulging package. I find that Fruit of the Loom underwear is the best for moulding my manhood into a large, rounded protrusion that is most pleasing to the female eye. I also find that I must replace my underwear every three weeks -- not because it is of inferior quality, but because it is worn to tatters through the vigorous action I get with the ladies. Fruit of the Loom actually outlasts many similar brands of underwear, and those brands it doesn't either have the texture of an unshaven Scotsman or fail to provide adequate phallic support.

Now that I have assured you of the quality of your products and how attractively it shapes my genitals, I would like to discuss the issue I've had -- mainly that the latest package of underwear I purchased does not shape my dong appropriately. I first noticed it at lunchtime as I walked down a street filled with attractive office workers, and not one took a second glance at my usually bulging johnson. Later that evening at a local hotel lounge that is frequented by many attractive ladies, it was disappointingly easy for me to weave through the crowds without brushing against anyone or knocking over a drink with my protruding wang.

This pair of defective undies is obviously an area of great concern, and I worry, not just for my rapidly fading sex life, but for all the lovely ladies who will be going home alone to watch Zalman King's Red Shoe Diaries instead of staring at the richly stuffed crotch of my 501s. Many lovely ladies want to share the glory of my rocket wrapped tightly in its Fruit of the Loom pocket, but my current saggy drawers are less a sight to behold and more a sight to bemoan.

Please make this unfortunate incident better for me and all the ladies by forwarding a new pair of boxer-brief style underpants to me, size small. Please ensure that they are black and tight in the crotch, in order to hold my junk properly.

Thank you,

--Deron Staffen

Spirit in the Morning

2005-07-31T00:44:00.000-06:00

I have an unusually effective morning routine that deposits me at the bus stop with a temporal accuracy that staggers the imagination -- especially if you're familiar with my antics.

I wake to the piercing trill of a $9 travel alarm and a stream of expletive that would shame a group of merchant seamen. The swearing is not all from me. It seems my continual abuse of the sleep button on my travel alarm makes it the most annoying device in our house: while it manages to interrupt my sleep, it fails to penetrate the thick layer of cotton my brain so comfortably nestles into during the night. I slowly come to my senses during the next half hour, as I attempt to continue my sleep while waking to hit the snooze button at five-minute intervals.

At some point I gain enough consciousness to realize that I should be getting out of bed. I turn off my alarm and stumble drunkenly down the stairs in my underwear. By the time I get in the shower I'm usually awake enough to sing whatever tune I have stuck in my head, and depending on the length of it, I'm left with just enough time to dry off, brush my teeth, get dressed, and grab some granola before racing out the door. If the bus is late I spend my time petting the Crazy Cat Lady's dog.

Now all this, with the possible exception of the swearing, is probably similar to your own morning routine. But I mention it today as a preamble to something more. You see, I live in the 'hood, yo, and sometimes interesting things happen while you're waiting for the bus. Sometimes a strange man shows you his genitals. Sometimes you get approached by a prostitute. And sometimes a newer-model black sedan will pull over to the curb and a nicely dressed older lady will approach you and attempt to give you a copy of The Watchtower.

This happened to me a week ago. No shit. Seriously, I shit you not.

The conditions were exactly right for a Jehovah's Witness to appear: the bus was late, the Crazy Cat Lady's dog was inside, and I was alone at the bus stop. When I saw the car drive by, I thought it was either some well-to-do business person racing at a break-neck pace through the 'hood in hopes that those bad kids wouldn't be able to steal his hubcaps, or it was some pimp or drug dealer making his early morning rounds ("Any drugs for you today, ma'am?" "No thank you." "How about a ho for your husband?" "Well, we're between paydays right now -- maybe next week."). When it stopped by the back alley, I thought maybe they had business with the Crazy Cat Lady -- it's not inconceivable. Finally, when the woman walked right up to me, I hoped she was only asking for directions, but I suspected she wanted to save one of the poor, unfortunate souls living in North Central.

JW: Hello there.
Me: Hi.
JW: Would you be interested in this magazine?
Me [looking down at The Watchtower]: Absolutely not!
JW [unfazed]: All right. Have a good morning.

I immediately wondered if I handled things properly. I wanted to be polite, but totally dismissive, the way I would act if she'd handed me a copy of Cat Fancier or Ebony. As she walked away, I felt like yelling venomous, hateful things after her, letting her know how vehemently opposed I am to her religious evangelism. I wanted her to realize how wrong it was to target me -- regardless of how badly it looked like I needed "salvation" -- just because I was by myself at a bus stop. The Campus Crusade for Christ used that same tactic on me when I was at the U of S; it did nothing to increase my interest in Christ, but it did continually interrupt my lunch. And really, the God I believe in wants me to eat in peace.

So instead of putting her on the business end of an angry tirade until she fled in mortal fear, she returned to her vehicle verbally unmolested and drove off. No need to save me a seat out of your 144,000 heavenly passengers, ma'am: if I do go, I'll probably be flying standby, anyway.

Max2!

2005-07-17T04:07:00.000-06:00

We -- and I speak quite broadly as a society, not just as part of a household -- have been assaulted by the horrendously awful Max5 commercial. Those of you in the U.S. of A. may recognize this despicable chocolate bar as the Take5, but its new alias has done nothing to endear itself to your neighbours in the Great White North. First of all, the bar is so Frankensteinian, if that's even a word, that you expect it was created by some slob who swept under his sofa, assembled the results into a bar-like shape, hit it with lightning a few times, and then sent it upstairs for management's approval. Secondly, the jingle has the most vapid lyrics ever conceived in all of jingledom, with gems like "Peanuts are just nutty" and "'Cuz more is more". In fact, you expect that the jingle writer just swept under his sofa, combined the results onto a single sheet of paper, and sent it upstairs for management's approval. Worst of all, the jingle grabs you around the neck like a professional wrestler, and you often find yourself involuntarily humming it and singing the "One more than four" verse.

Our dog loves chocolate. This is not to say that he sits enrapt in front of the TV every time a Max5 commercial comes on -- which, by my estimates, would be about 14 hours a day -- but he enjoys the occasional bar the way a high school drop-out enjoys the odd hoot. We found this out the hard way soon after we got him, when we returned to the car and discovered he'd eaten the four chocolate bars we'd foolishly left on the console wrappers and all. The only evidence that suggested we had had chocolatey confections in the car were a small brown smudge on the passenger seat and a grinning dog with refreshingly minty Aero breath. Needless to say, we didn't want this to happen again. Not only because chocolate can kill dogs, but because we bought those for ourselves, dammit! What are we going to do with two packages of Beggin' Strips?

But we have found two foods Nicky doesn't like: shrimp and pretzels. The shrimp I can at least understand. Nicky is a dog of the people. He's working class, having grown up in an abusive family. He even spent a few months in the slammer before we came along to bail him out -- though in those days he and the other dogs called it the Joint. He simply doesn't have the refined tastes for hoity-toity foods. Give him a bowl of kibble and a bowl of water -- maybe the odd pair of underwear -- and he's good for another day of sleeping on the sofa, pooping in the basement, and barking menacingly at passersby.

It's the pretzels I don't understand. Pretzels are a working man's food. You're done after a hard day at the mill and you head down to old Doc Johnson's for a beer and a bowl of pretzels, which you scarf down in huge handfuls while watching highlights from last night's game and bitching about your coworkers. But Nicky won't even touch them, and I've tried all the tricks: eating them in front of him while making "mmmmmm, these are so good" noises, burying them in his kibble, covering them in various sauces, even chucking them at him so he'll catch them in his mouth. Nada. He might have seen too many reports of G.W. Bush choking on one; he's pretty smart, for a dog. So's Nicky, come to think of it.

Enter Max5. While the website goes out of its way to not tell you the ingredients of Max5 -- which is extremely handy for those people with peanut allergies -- I assure you that pretzels are one of the five ingredients. Unfortunately, there's probably enough other stuff there that Nicky would actually devour these bars pretzels and all. So, in the hopes of saving our dog from an early death at the hands of chocolate, and to provide a semblance of a chocolatey treat for me and the missus, I submit to Hershey's the Max2 -- a bar made of shrimp and pretzels, covered in a layer of rich Hershey's chocolate. I even adapted the Max5 theme for the Max2, so all the hard work is done! I leave the marketing to Hershey's, and let's be honest: if they can sell that oddball conglomeration, the Max2 should be 60% easier.

Shrimp are really fishy
Pretzels go crunch!
Put them both together
You're sure to lose your lunch!
Max2! Three less than five!
Max2! Two-fifths of the taste, it's
Max2! 'Cuz five is jive!
Max2!

My Life, in Summary

2005-07-08T15:56:00.000-06:00

I live my life as a novel, but I write it as a collection of short stories. There is a certain ebb and flow to the stories that make me, and a sequence that does not lend itself to these discrete slices. Such contradictions must inevitably collide, like a steamship with an iceberg. This time my poor blog was the vessel sunk, and it's taken months for the remains to buoy back to the surface. But as you pick through the flotsam, enough of the story comes out to tell you what took place. Here is the wreckage of my life.

I ran the RPS Half Marathon in April and beat last year's Queen City time by about 20 minutes, breaking the two hour mark. My goal for QCM this year is another 10 minutes off, to 1:50. But training has been slow going: I haven't been running regularly since RPS. It's going to be a hard run if I don't motivate myself in the next two months.

I found a new job working at the Saskatchewan Arts Board, and am very happy for the change. It's little more than pushing papers from one side of my desk to the other, but it's somewhat more interesting than it sounds. What's important is that the Arts Board is a 4000% improvement over the hateful, hateful coffee shop. The position is only until the end of August, so I'll probably be returning to the coffee shop circuit after that. But a different coffee shop.

In other hateful coffee shop news, Ferdie, the incompetent, self-centered bastard that was promoted over me while I was away at debate nationals, has been fired. The reason? Well, it turns out he's an idiot. And there was unanimous consensus on this, not just my say-so. Even though it took three long months, justice was finally served.

I've been reading stories about the late Hunter S. Thompson in Rolling Stone and trying hard to channel his spirit. I only seem to succeed when I'm wearing a T-shirt, underwear, and my fake Tilly hat. I've managed to summon a lot of Hunter's fiery invective, but only against my clownish MP, Andrew Scheer -- which isn't necessarily such a bad thing. In other political news, Lorne Nystrom has won the NDP nomination in my riding, and I'm not entirely sure that I'm happy with this decision. It looks like I'll have to continue my bashing of Scheer while holding Nystrom's feet to the same fire.

I've collected enough Big Gulp points for a $50 gift certificate at Home Depot. God help me.

My purchase of a crappy 2.0 megapixel digital camera has, by necessity, given birth to a Flickr photostream. I've been giving my camera to people I know and asking them to take pictures of me. Finally, should I get kidnapped or mysteriously vanish, there'll be at least a few photos of me to put on the milk cartons.

I've gone to an optometrist for the first time in three years, and will shortly be the recipient of an updated eyewear prescription and new, and much less desirable, frames. This was prompted not by my poor eyesight, but because I took a volleyball in the face at a 24-Hour Relay fundraiser. I considered my black eye to be a badge of honour, and missed it when it went away. I also found out that a "10" is legally blind; my prescription is a "9". Looks like I'll have to stop driving without my glasses.

While at the eye doctor, I came very close to passing out as she explained how close I am to having my retinas detach. The same thing happened when I read this story about a guy who wanted to be trepanned, and when I read this book about the ebola virus. Apparently some things bother me more than others.

I joined with my family to celebrate my grandfather's 80th birthday. In true Zany Grandpa John style, he also crammed in his wife's 75th birthday, and their 15th wedding anniversary. Also in true style, I wrote a ridiculous rhyme with fish and enchiladas in honour of AnniversaDay. My mother thought it was brilliant and not at all odd, and tried unsuccessfully to have me recite it at the reception. I was unable to convince her that there was a fine line between subtle mockery and overt ridiculousness.

Fish and enchiladas!
Enchiladas and fish!
Put them both together
And receive your fondest wish!
What else can a person say?
Happy AnniversaDay!

I read Stephen King's On Writing in the hopes that it would help my blogging. There was a lot to take out of the book, and it probably deserves a re-read after I've put some work in. King says you need to read a lot and write a lot -- there are no shortcuts. He also prescribed the equation 1st edit = rough draft - 10%. The unspoken equation I learned from Thompson was rough draft = 75% truth and 25% fiction. It's funny how these seem to fit each other hand-in-glove.

I'm going to be the karaoke host at the Canada Summer Games! Not that I feel I can sing a lick, but because others do; and as long as I can fool the people in charge, I'll continue to do ridiculous things.

Million Dollar Baby is a hauntingly brilliant movie and easily one of the best films I've seen. The movie is driven entirely by the characters, who are likeable and true to themselves. It stands in direct contrast to Revenge of the Sith, which was a bold experiment in seeing how much you can core out from the centre of a franchise and still have people pay to see it. People said that Episode III was the best of the prequels, but who are we kidding? Episode I was all Trade Federation and space politics; Episode II showcased a terrible, stilted teen love story through the double barrels of poor writing and wooden acting. In contrast, Sith started with a space battle, a lightsaber duel, and a decapitation. But there was still lots to dislike about it, headless jedis notwithstanding, and I'm ready to trade notes with anyone at a moment's notice.

Regardless, I did manage to collect the full set of Star Wars toys from Burger King, thanks in large part to the devious and underhanded efforts of Tamara, the best girlfriend in the world. But I did manage to get Darth Vader myself, so I still deserve some of the credit. I took them all out of their protective plastic bags so I could play with them. Our dog loves to carry the Millennium Falcon around in his mouth, and I'm constantly warning him away from the vehicle races on the kitchen floor. The toys are great overall, but I'm disappointed at the conspicuous absence of Lando Calrissian: doesn't anyone remember that he blew up the second Death Star in Return of the Jedi? I'd take him over Watto any day.

My continued efforts to win money at the casino has been hampered by the continued loss of my money. No big surprise there, I know.

Tamara, Brett, Jacqueline, and I went to the show lounge to see the Amazing Kreskin a few weeks ago. Tamara remained unconvinced, saying that he was far more Kreskin than Amazing. I had a good time. He was exactly as I remembered from the Tonight Show and various other programs, but his show was a little short for the time allotted. In a show half the length, he would definitely be amazing. But as the show went on he became just the Kreskin, and then toward the end, the Tedious Kreskin.

And somewhere in this mix of events, I had a birthday. I'm becoming less enamoured with them as they continue piling up. But I suppose it beats the alternative.

Sunday Link Roundup

2005-04-17T23:09:00.000-06:00

More of the links that shape my little world.

As everyone knows, I was meant to be an engineer. Fewer people know that I've wanted to build robots since I saw Star Wars back in 1977 -- big surprise. And now, as my birthday (too) rapidly approaches, Radio Shack chooses to distribute this awesome robotics system. The fools -- ultimate world-conquering power will soon be within my grasp! (link)
Remember Bob McDonald from CBC's Wonderstruck? He was always outstanding as a science guy -- better than that Bill Nye poser, and more Canadian. Bob's been hosting Quirks and Quarks on CBC Radio for almost 15 years, and now CBC has archived episodes of Quirks and Quarks as MP3s; so you can search through the shows for your favourite science questions! (link)
Take this quiz to see how grammatically correct you are. I'm a Grammar God! (link)
There are a ton of legal issues associated with blogging these days, mostly because the legal status of electronic communication is largely undefined. To help people be able to blog without fear of repercussions, the EFF has issued some instructions on how to blog anonymously. (link)
Progressive Boink has issued a list of the 25 best Sesame Street moments. It's a fairly good list overall, with only a couple of things I disagree with. I do think they omitted one of the seminal Sesame Street moments, however -- where's Buffy St. Marie breastfeeding? (link)
With Google Sightseeing you can take a trip without leaving the comfort of your computer chair. I believe it's limited to North America only, right now. I even found my house! (link)
Kingdom of Loathing is this great online game that a friend hooked me up with. It's hilarious and has terrible graphics, two things that I look for in an online game. I'm Three Thumb Jake, if you decide you want to say hello. (link)
Freecycle is a community built on the idea that one person's trash is another person's treasure. Unlike eBay, the items listed here are for free or for trade only -- no cash sales allowed. Regina's Freecycle community has over 500 registered members! (link)
This video of basketball shots literally had my jaw pasted to the floor. (link)
storTroopers are doll-like avatars you can dress up with different hairstyles, clothing, and accessories. I normally don't traffic in these sorts of sites, but they do have a large fan following, and Tamara and I spent at least an hour building people, fighting at some points as to whose turn it was. It was more fun that I'd like to admit. (link)
Hitachi has combined a lesson in hard drive storage with the look and feel of Schoolhouse Rock to bring you Get Perpendicular. It's not only interesting and fun to watch, but it's pretty catchy, too! (link)
Yes, you can now get Cliff's Notes online. I kinda scanned through it, just in case it was on the exam, but I didn't have time to read the whole thing. (link)
Skype is free internet telephony. This means that the Skype software will allow you to send and receive voice calls over the internet to anyone also using Skype. Unfortunately, with our free evenings and weekends long distance calling plan, it's not really all that effective in my house, but I suppose we could use it for daytime calls -- if we had anyone to phone. (link)

Sunday Link Roundup

2005-04-03T23:34:00.000-06:00

It's beginning to look like weekly link posts is all I can do these days -- which is a shame, because I have so much to blog about: leaving the coffee shop, starting my new job, training for the Regina City Police Half-Marathon, and this post about the "slash-fiction writing retards" I commented on last week. I stand by my comments regarding slash fiction, even after reading this Wikipedia article, but I obviously need to explain myself.

Anyway, without further delays, here are the posts I'm talking about this week.

Now you too can use apostrophes like a pro! (link)
Schmutzie uses Diaryland; I use Blogger. Schmutzie uses Kinja; I use Bloglines. To-MAY-to, po-TAY-to. I'm not quite sure how I feel about Bloglines right now, especially as these RSS feeds can be added to My Yahoo!, but I'm giving it a go to see how it fits my lifestyle. One good thing I learned is that Bloglines polls an updated source once and distributes the content to all subscribers, reducing server load. I don't know how many other aggregating services do that. (link)
Google has doubled its GMail storage, now offering 2Gb. If you don't already have a GMail account, you can use the GMail Spooler to get one -- over 700,000 invitations available! (link)
With eMessenger, you can now use MSN, AOL, and Yahoo! Messengers on the web -- with no Java applets and nothing to download. Yeah, I know MSN offers this already, but Yahoo! doesn't, so what the hell. (link)
Clocky is, without doubt, the coolest alarm clock in the world. It's just a prototype right now, but I will seriously consider buying one when they come to market -- and not just because I've cast aside my 20-plus year-old alarm cube in favour of a tiny but bowel-strummingly annoying travel alarm. I'm also concerned about how many of my weekly links deal with timepieces, especially after my steadfast denial that having an accurate timepiece is of any importance to me. (link)
Jian Ghomeshi has been working on CBC Radio with panelists and the general public on building a list of the top 50 essential Canadian songs. Now, I didn't have the opportunity to listen to the programs, due to me working at the hateful coffee shop, but I understand the discussions were very interesting. So while this list lacks the punch of why these particular songs were chosen, you are at least free to agree or disagree with their choices. (link)
Two things come to light with the death of Pope John Paul II: the first is a look at the process of the papal transition, of which both America Magazine and Wikipedia give a thorough overview. The second is the excoriating of the deceased by Chris Hitchens over at Slate. This is nothing new for Hitchens -- he also skewered Bob Hope in the wake of his death; shame he hasn't the balls to put the same columns forward while his targets are alive. This time I'm not nearly as pissed as I usually am because he does make some important points -- but I do disagree with his last statement about America being a secular society. America has been a lot of things, but I sincerely doubt is has ever been secular. (link)
There's also some biblical prophesy that comes forward with the death of an important religious figure, but you can't take any it seriously because it all looks like this. (link)
This is a great story in Wired about a bunch of guys from MIT and how they made a bajillion dollars playing blackjack in Vegas. It's an older story, but it's popped up in my conversations a couple of times in the last few days, so maybe it's time to bring some attention to it. (link)

Sunday Link Roundup

2005-03-27T22:37:00.000-06:00

Here's your weekly link roundup, the chaff completely separated from the wheat. I leave it to you to decide which pile you're reading.

For those people who like their rap music with a heavy religious message, I present Baby Got Book -- by some, uh, white guy. You can choose to just read the lyrics if you don't want to watch the video. (link)
For those people who like their rap music to be more comprehensible, I present the Notorious B.I.G.'s song One More Chance in plain English. (link)
And while I'm linking to music, this guy on LiveJournal has come up with a hilarious way to organize lyrics. Some are better than others, but there are a few side splitters in there. The problem is that LiveJournal is such a tight community, there are about a billion posts to pore through. I hate LiveJournal. And not just because it's filled with a bunch of slash-fiction writing retards. (link)
Buzz Bunny is the new Poochie! Although some people I've shown this to haven't found it funny, I think that the level of satire is absolutely perfect -- because it's EXTREME!!!! (link)
This Flickr set on transparent screens is one of the coolest things I've seen! I'd even try it, if there were anything more than a blank wall behind our computer. (link)
I don't know if I need a new watch, but if I do, this is the one I want. (link)
Honda's Cog is one wicked cool TV commercial. I've seen it at the Cannes Commercial Festival film, and I'm happy to see it get some mention in the blogs again. (link)
I'm not usually a big reader of online comics, but Sexy Losers is really funny. Beware, there is a lot of graphic sex here. (link)
Two LiveJournal posts in one day? Sheesh. Maybe it's a better source of information than I led you to believe. Anyway, this is a link to a DIY silkscreening tutorial. I may have to try it myself! (link)

Terry Schiavo

2005-03-27T00:39:00.000-06:00

With all the talk about Terry Schiavo in mainstream news and on the internet, I really didn't want to spend a lot of my time talking about it. Now, however, I'm finding it important it say something before this horrible chapter of her life is closed.

My buddy Ringgo has weighed in on the case, essentially saying that depriving someone of food and water, regardless of their mental state, is immoral. Now, I am just about as far across the political spectrum from Ringgo as I can get, but I am in total agreement with him.

I am appalled with the idea that it's somehow acceptable to completely remove the materials that are essential for human life. I am even more sickened that, through this deprivation, it's taking more than a week for this poor woman to die. We have the means to end her life peacefully and instantaneously -- if she is to die, then for God's sake, let's use it.

This poster (link removed, so I went to BoingBoing) on Craigslist has injected just the right amount of satire into the situation to mock the people who seek to leverage Terry's suffering for political gain. I only wish that someone would inject some humanity. We would never, ever condone this sort of action toward an animal; why is this barbarism tolerated toward a person?

Brent Some-Part-of-the-Body

2005-03-16T03:05:00.000-06:00

Tamara, Heather, and I saw Brent Butt at the casino last Saturday. The girls had gone out to the Globe Theatre to see Wingfield on Ice, which was, by all accounts, excellent; I, of course, was working that night in my hateful, hateful coffee shop, but I spent my time collecting commas, in lieu of coins, to better punctuate this story. After work, we had made plans to meet at the casino for a little dollar roulette and what-have-you, and for the second weekend in a row the casino was kind enough to pay me $20 for my visit -- a fact that had me seriously considering a career change as I scarfed down a slow-roasted casino hot dog.

Tamara was actually the one who pointed him out. He was at the $5 roulette table, dropping stacks of chips randomly about like piles of turds -- which is actually a pretty good simile, as the guy pretty much shits money these days. We watched him carry off $1400 from a single spin, and then shoot the dealer a nice, fat $40 tip.

The next night I related my celebrity sighting to Robin at work.

Me: I saw Brent Butt at the casino last night.
Robin: Who?
M: Brent Butt.
R: Who's that?
M: From Corner Gas?
R: Oh. Sorry, I don't watch a lot of TV.

Hoping for a better payoff, because like casino games, celebrity stories are all about the odds, I decided to approach Tara with the same story.

Me: I saw Brent Butt at the casino last night.
Tara: Who?
M: ...

In an ironic twist, Brent was having the same conversation.

Brent: I saw Deron Staffen eating a hot dog at the casino last night.
Fred: Who?

Everybody's Gone Surfin', Surfin' In.Tar.Net.

2005-03-12T00:11:00.000-06:00

I don't think it surprises anyone that I spend a lot of time surfing around online. Back in the day, that's all you did: picked a site, followed a link to another site, and so on and so on, until you finally found something interesting.

But those halcyon days are long gone. Now I spend my time browsing through link aggregators -- websites devoted entirely to collecting interesting, offbeat, and, yes, even current event links. Google News is a good example, and not just because it's assembled entirely by algorithms. Some people have taken things a step further and use aggregators to collect RSS feeds -- but even though My Yahoo! and Bloglines can be set up to use it, and even though practically everyone in the world now has an RSS feed -- yes, even Lectures -- I haven't really been bothered enough to get into it.

The sites I visit most frequently are Blogdex, BoingBoing, Fark, and Kuro5hin, in that order, though I still take some side trips to Metafilter and Slashdot on occasion. Normally, when I come across something interesting that I wish to share with someone, I just leave it open on the computer; but because I now have a gaggle of fans with nothing else to read except my poor little blog, I have decided to run a short collection of interesting links (with short descriptions) for y'all to read. Be warned that these links are fresh and some will undoubted expire shortly.

Scientists have discovered that there are mass extinctions every 62 million years, but don't know why. What the article doesn't explain is why everyone's not in a panic, as dinosaurs vanished 65 million years ago. Aren't we a little... ummm... overdue? And besides, I hate to scoop ya, but I read this about 10 years ago in a book called Skeletons.
(link to San Francisco Gate)

Stever Robins -- whose parents apparently wanted to make him the second coolest kid in business school (Steve-o Schneider was that much cooler, damn him) -- wrote up some pretty good tips on how to manage your e-mail.
(link)

Of course for real time-management goodness, I recommend 43Folders.
(link)

Jason Kottke manages a kick-ass blog that always has something good to say. He's recently written a little bit on his business influences, and in this age of capitalism trumps everything, it does give you a good feeling to know that there are people out there who still think the right way.
(link)

Drawn is an interesting blog devoted to drawing and art. Although I'm not much of an artist, it's so interesting I've actually been drawn back to it two times over two days.
(link)

Spamusement is a fantastically funny site where badly drawn comics are paired with real spam subject lines. Quite frankly, I don't think the art is really that bad, and the facial expressions are always bang-on. Bert don't sleep yet is definitely my favourite, though I am including Women change your life as well because it's so very typical of me.
(link)

McSweeney's is a treasure trove of good reading, but this list of Four Ways in Which My Life Is Just Like Pac-Man's is still busting me up. I even tried to center a blog post around some 80s arcade game that applied to my own life, but I got as far as Dig Dug and thought it was a waste of my time.
(link to McSweeney's)

Lastly, this sports photo is just too hilarious to pass up.
(link)

Catching Up With Deron

2005-03-11T00:47:00.000-06:00

One solid week of daily posts, then a solid week of nothing. Very typical of me, I realize. But sometimes there's a lot to be said, and other times it's just the daily minutiae -- and I remain unconvinced that anyone really wants to read that. Moreover, I don't want this to turn into the Bitchin' 'bout Business Blog, even though practically every moment of my real life (both on and off work) is devoted to complaining about my job. But that information is better suited to a night out at O'Hanlon's, if only to watch your mouth hang agape as I continue to provide example after example of how not to retain your employees. For the record, we've lost seven of the original employees in approximately seven weeks. Maybe this is typical -- some feedback would be nice. The only experience I've had with this is when I worked at A&W: there were a shitload of people hired for full and part-time positions, and then, after a few weeks, the lay-offs began. I thought this was the way these food service businesses operated -- sink or swim, only the strong survive.

Anyway, here is a funny story from tonight.

Since the official opening, I've been using the full name of the coffee shop every time I've answered the phone. I do this because I think the full name of the shop is long and ridiculous, and by using it I tried to drive the point home. One day last week I answered the phone three times, and got one of the owners each time. Today she told me I didn't need to use the entire name when I referred to the coffee shop.

"But it's on the sign outside."
"I know, but it's unnecessary."
"But it's on the business cards."
"I know, but it's too long-winded when you say it."
"But it's on the logo!"
"I know, but it's okay for you to shorten it."

After this, she took me to task for the way I worked the drive thru. Now, I maintain that no one actually listens to what's said at the drive thru, and indeed I've snuck through more than one bastardization of the shop's name without so much as a peep from the other side. People are satisfied to sit politely at the speaker until they hear the phrase that acknowledges their turn to speak. "Can I help you?", "What can I get for you?", and "What would you like today?" are all equally good for this purpose, because the person driving through is only waiting for the validation of his opportunity to order; no one is likely to become angry or complain about politeness except in cases of absolute rudeness: "What the fuck do you want now?", for example.

But, as is the case with my place of work, she needed to continue her wanton micro-management. Though I'd been working the drive thru quite well for the last month, things had suddenly become unacceptable -- mostly, I think, because of my continued use of the full coffee shop name. "You need to welcome people to the drive thru. Welcome them like they were coming into your home! Smile when you speak, they can hear it in your voice. And rather than say, 'Can I take your order?' say, 'How can I help you today?' The way you do it is too much like McDonald's -- we need to be exotic.'"

I didn't really say anything about this because I was in too playful a mood at that point; but I think it's important to note that not only have the owners not received any complaints about me or my level of service, but several people have given them decidedly positive feedback about my work -- to the point that some customers ask for me specifically to make their drinks for them.

I spent the rest of the night practicing my hilariously over-the-top Welcome!, much to the delight of my coworkers. And then, the fateful moment -- a drive thru order.

"Welcome," I said, in a comically forced baritone, "How can I help you today?" Robin, who was wearing the backup headset, was almost doubled over with laughter how ridiculous I sounded.

"Wow!" replied the man on the other end of the speaker. "What a fantastic greeting!"

The score: Owners 1, Deron 0.

Old Watch, New Watch, Red Watch, Blue Watch

2005-02-25T01:17:00.000-06:00

The Regina Police Half Marathon is coming up in about six short weeks, and though I am definitely going to participate, I had hoped I'd be more prepared than I am. Alas, it's an abbreviated training schedule that must start immediately. Still, I ran Queen City last year with very little preparation, so six week's worth will be infinitely better. The acid test is seeing if I can make my goal of two hours for the 21.1 km.

I bought a watch on Wednesday: a cheap-ass $12 digital from Tickers in Cornwall Centre. I was tempted to buy the $9.99 watch I saw at Wal-Mart last week because I really wanted something I could use to time my runs. Sure, this one was $2 more expensive, but it came with the convenience of not taking a 30-minute bus ride and an awesome velcro strap which will pay for itself after only a few uses!

This is the first watch I've had since the untimely death of my old watch. Don't worry, the watch died on its own -- I wouldn't want to be accused of killing time.

I had a math prof at the U of S by the name of McLean. He's known for being a hell of a guy and for his remarkable resemblance to Santa Claus. He also pronounces the word salami as sal-A(short a)-mi. And one day in the middle of a math lab on integrations, he showed me this kick-ass watch that displayed the locations of planets, Halley's Comet, and even the dates of solar and lunar eclipses! Needless to say, I was shocked at this amazing technological display, and I raced out to buy one that very evening. That watch served me quite faithfully until 2001, when it became self-aware, contemplated the meaning of life in the face of its own mortality, realized it wasn't going to make much of an impact on the world in the form of a wristwatch, and promptly dispatched itself from this mortal coil and back to the wheel of samsara. I know this to be true: the replacement of its battery yielded no change; its soul was gone.

And I haven't worn a watch since then. While this has had its inconvenient moments, I have, by and large, thrived without a watch permanently affixed to my body. Rather than feeling like I'm constantly late or in danger of missing appointments, I instead feel unconstrained by time. The appointments still exist, but I no longer have the need to compulsively check my position in time like a coked-out OCD patient.

After years of not wearing a watch, the feeling of one on my wrist does take a little adjustment, and I'm finding that I can't wait to take the damn thing off. But the biggest problem is the constant temptation to actually check the time, now that the option exists. I really only wanted a stopwatch; so to escape this horrible feeling, I think I'll have to reset the clock randomly, making sure that checking the watch for the time will be as helpful as Bush's tips for improving foreign affairs.

Ho Ha-Ha

2005-02-23T12:27:00.000-06:00

I came upon -- figuratively, of course -- a prostitute while on my way to work this morning.

Prostitute: Do you go out?
Me: Yeah, I go out.
P: Do you want to go out?
M: What, now?
P: Yeah.
M: I gotta get to work.
P: Not even for twenty?
M: Twenty? Listen lady, I'm so good you should be paying me!*
P (walking away): Fuck you.*
M: You couldn't afford to!*

* Lines marked with a star make for a better story, but may be fictional. Consult your physician before ingesting.

Oh, No.

2005-02-22T21:10:00.000-06:00

No no no no no.

Oh, Vin Diesel. How could you? Didn't you learn anything from Stallone, or Burt Reynolds, or Schwarzenegger (or Schwarzenegger, or Schwarzenegger)?

The next time I'm about to sign a five picture deal with some big shot movie company, someone please take a moment to remind me about this.

Scorchtastic Burninativity

2005-02-21T22:15:00.000-06:00

At work:

Tara: Did you take those mugs of water away?
Me: No, Gil did.
T: Do you know why?
M: He was testing the water for scale deposits.
T: Ah. I thought he was testing the, uh, heatedness.
M: The hotosity.
T: Exactly.

[Pause]

M: The word you were looking for was 'temperature'.
T: Right.

My Time to Shine (The Espresso Machine).

2005-02-21T01:19:00.000-06:00

A thick blanket of snow fell on the Queen City, with the heavy thump of a prizefighter pounding a side of beef. And the city's residents, reeling from the sudden punch, sought refuge under their own blankets. Blankets quilted by grandmothers who stitched together spare cloth as an edifice against the ice and snow. Blankets steeped with the scent of lean, frozen years, that wrapped you tightly in the warmth that only familial love can bring. Blankets that protected you from the clever winter's cold who, having emptied nature's vaults, ground its long fingers against locked doors and sealed windows, searching for even more warmth to steal.

George Walker Bush coasted to an easy victory in November's presidential election, and the Devil, ensconced in the fiery bowels of his empire, spewed deep, resonant laughter from atop his dark throne. He'd stacked the deck and played with the cunning genius of a Vegas insider. But it's the Almighty's hand that always turns up trump, and the biting winter coating the earth burst into the imp's foul lands as He played His final card: Hell was freezing over.

You see, I've found a job.

I had put off posting because I wasn't really sure how I felt about it. What I wanted to do was post triumphantly that my long job search had finally paid off, that I impressed my interviewers with my extensive skill set, and that I was setting off on a career path that would eventually lead to fortune and, possibly, a wee bit of fame. Instead, I have to post humbly that my long job search was an utter failure, that I only received this position thanks to a healthy dose of nepotism, and that I had somehow stumbled off the path and into a thicket of brambles, finally emerging into a clearing where I found, not fortune nor a wee bit of fame, but a coffee shop.

I carried a feeling of deep regret with me to work for the first few days. It's the regret you feel in the morning, leaving the one-night stand you picked up after too many pints and a slow dance to Journey's Open Arms: empty, exhausted, and second-guessing your decision. I felt this whole thing was a mistake: it's not what I want to do, it's not advancing my career, I'm not going to fit in.

But the work has been surprisingly good, in spite of my near constant bellyaching. I have some great coworkers, I enjoy dealing with the public, and the work, at times, is excitingly fast-paced and -- *gasp* -- even fun. Really, it's not much more than a half-step sideways from the bartending I did at the Royal Hotel. Still, I do hope to one day discard the food service industry like an old sweater donated to goodwill, and make my way back through the brambles toward a more productive trail.

If I were going to comment on the one big problem with the coffee shop, it would be management. This is a new initiative for everyone involved, and I think we're all aware that there are going to be a nearly continual series of wrinkles that need to be ironed out. But the management style is like the constant abrading of a stone in our collective shoe, and it sometimes creates a great deal of frustration.

Even though I was being happily buoyed along by my work, problems with scheduling, communication, and micro-management began to weigh me down like anchors in my pockets. Solutions I suggested were either viewed unfavourably, ignored completely, or met with outright hostility. When I realized I would never be promoted to a managerial position because I was too friendly, my efforts, understandably, flagged; but I've always taken a certain amount of pride in doing my job -- any job -- well, and I've tried to elevate my performance to the level the customers deserve, even on my most apathetic days. I've also come to accept my position at the shop, and the realization that my situation is not permanent has carried me through this dark, lethargical valley, bringing me back into the light with renewed zest -- some days more than others. Regardless, there is now food on my table and money in my pockets, and sometimes, that's enough.

So, there it is. This is the place I'm spending my time and my energy until something better should come along -- which, given my track record, could take the remainder of the century. But I remain optimistic: though our occupations often define us, I am not letting this one define me. I am still batting 1.000 for joblessness -- but even Cal Ripkin eventually took a break, and I am certain my star has not yet begun to shine.

They Should Have Seen It Coming

2005-01-09T01:20:00.000-06:00

1st Graders Suspended in Sex Case

I don't mean to make light of the situation, but at least they were attending the most appropriately named school.

News You Can Use

2005-01-06T02:23:00.000-06:00

Underwear Vandalized (from page A7)

Regina (CP) -- Regina resident Deron Staffen is the latest in a line of underwear victims.

Staffen woke Monday morning to find the crotch chewed out of a pair of underwear he'd mistakenly left out.

"I was doing some laundry that night, and I guess I missed it when I gathered up the pile. When I got up in the morning, the underwear was wet and had a huge hole in the crotch, like someone had chewed it."

This is the second pair of underwear Staffen has lost under similar circumstances. Unfortunately, he's not the only member of his family touched by tragedy. Sisters Tamara and Heather Harder have had their own underwear fall prey to this senseless crime.

"Heather's had about nine pair chewed up," said Tamara Harder, speaking for her sister. "I've only lost about four pair."

The first incident occurred about 11 weeks ago, and the strange and continuing nature of the crime has the household baffled.

"I can guarantee that none of us are doing it, and there's no one else in the house," Staffen said.

The continual cost of purchasing new underwear is also creating a heavy financial burden. In addition to every day expenses like food, rent, and clothing, the additional underwear purchases are eating into their already limited budget. As their underwear bills rise, less money is available for necessities.

"If we lived anywhere other than Saskatchewan we could try to go commando a couple of days a week," Harder said, "but it's so cold here there's no way we'd try it. I don't know what we're going to do if this continues."

Cal Johnston, Regina's Chief of Police, has confirmed similar reports from around the city, but is not disclosing further information.

"We're pursuing all the leads the investigation is turning up. But at this point we're not willing to make a statement."

Dog Full (from page C3)

Regina (CP) -- Scientists around the world were stunned by the news that a dog is not eating all of its food.

The dog, a German Shepherd-Basset Hound cross named Nicky, has been leaving a substantial amount of kibble in its bowl for several weeks.

"This is extremely odd behaviour for a dog to have," says renowned veterinarian James Harriot.

"As far as veterinary science knows, dogs are always starving. This is why they constantly beg at the table, snuffle around your carpets, or have their noses buried in their bowls -- they're looking for food to stop their endless hunger. It's a silent epidemic, really."

The dog is owned by Regina resident Tamara Harder. Harder, who is experiencing a strange case of vandalism in an unrelated story (see page A7), is just as shocked as scientists.

"We feed him his kibble every morning and every evening, and he used to gobble it all down like he'd never eaten a meal in his life. Now he comes out in the morning, eats a few bites, and goes back to the bedroom. It's like he's not even hungry."

Some sources suggest that the dog's satiety comes from him filling up on other things. Harder vehemently denies the charges.

"There's no way. We give him some snacks -- everyone does that. But we're not feeding him a side of beef every day or anything. He's definitely not getting more food than a dog of his size should."

Veterinary scientists at the University of Saskatchewan are interested in studying the dog. C.S. Rhodes, Dean of Veterinary Medicine, hopes that the findings can help millions of starving dogs worldwide. Australian scientists have also shown an interest, hoping the secret of the dog's reduced appetite will curtail the growing number of baby snatchings.

Harriot, who is struggling to put together Puppy Chow, a musical benefit for starving dogs, feels the finding will hurt his promotional efforts. "I've already had cancellations from Poi Dog Pondering and Snoop Dogg. Thank God Three Dog Night and the Baja Men are still confirmed."

The dog, when asked, refused to comment.

Putting the "Fun" Back In "Religious Funatic"

2004-12-03T03:45:00.003-06:00

A short post based on the comment I posted about "Rockin'" Rollen Stewart at the Rainbow Man's Blog:

That's right, everyone -- it's time to dip into your wallets and fork out some cash to anyone who can spit a few lines of scripture onto a piece of paper. In the meantime there are thousands of charities, non-profits, and service groups across North America that are changing people's lives on a daily basis; these organizations all need your financial assistance much more than some jailed religious zealot lacking a pencil.

But it's hard to see past that, sometimes, isn't it? It's much easier to think he's doing God's work and open your pocketbook than to consider the organizations that stand up against greedy multi-nationals who would rape our land and poison our water for the sake of profit, or that distribute lunches to children who otherwise would not eat, or that provide protection to women who have finally taken a stand against their husband's abuse, or that give shelter to the homeless by providing them with a warm place to sleep. And this is just a fraction of the organizations out there, all manned by hard working volunteers who donate their time and energies to reduce the violent, decaying stench of this cesspool of a world in which we live; a stench that is, in some ways, made more pungent through the wanton acts of this "Rainbow Man" as he cuts across man's and God's laws in his fanatical crusade.

If Rollen Stewart has the word of God in him, he can minister for free. By all means, give this man your prayers and well-wishes, but let God handle his financial affairs; He will provide, if it's His divine will. I ask only that you exercise some of the free will and higher thought He's given us through His grace: please donate your money where it can do the most good for the most people.

And while I'm at it, take a bounce over to the Independent Weekly and see what Clif Garboden has to say. It's probably what got me all fired-up in the first place.

The Holidays Are Here

2004-11-30T10:43:00.000-06:00

I was recently reminded of a quaint family tradition.

Way back in 1999, my Zany Grandpa John decided that he would host our family's Thanksgiving and Christmas on the same day. As it turns out, the day he chose was neither Thanksgiving nor Christmas. I'd like to think that he was just being practical, acting out of wanton frugality -- but, no. In my family, a day without a holiday is just an incentive to make one; preferably an amalgam of the two holidays that straddle it. Unfortunately, for my relatives, every day seems to be a holiday from sanity.

Crawford and I thought the whole idea of Thanksgiving and Christmas was so ridiculous that we decided to mecilessly lampoon it. We made a number of elaborate "Thanksmas" cards adorned with pictures of turkeys and garishly wrapped presents. The show stopper was a card festooned with a number of turkeys dancing playfully on top of a giant hamburger. Why? Well, it was a hell of a hamburger. Seriously. And besides, what says Thanksmas more than a happy turkey burger dance?

We arrived at Zany John's condo with cries of "Happy Thanksmas!" and began giddily distributing cards to my relatives. They were well received; so well received that instead of getting comments like, "What's this Thanksmas crap?" or "You've lost your mind, you turkey-loving hippy!", we heard, "Hey, great job on these cards!" That's right: not only was my entire family non-plussed at this complete and over-the-top acceptance of a made-up holiday, they also felt that hamburgers and dancing turkeys were prefectly appropriate symbols to represent it.

Since this year's festivities fall so late in the season, it looks like we'll be celebrating American Thanksmas.

It's the Unthinkable!

2004-11-28T03:55:00.000-06:00

Two posts in a row?!

[Feels forehead] Nope, I'm not ill. I'm just trying to take care of my Constant Readers, that's all.

Don't forget to watch Greatest Canadian tonight! One of the best things about CBC is that all times are local times, so 8:00 p.m. for Saskatchewan is also 8:00 p.m. for Ontario (but it's still 8:30 p.m. for those ass-backward maritimers). And don't forget to vote following the episode -- you have until midnight. And definitely don't forget to watch the final episode on Monday. I'll be putting the "social" back in "socialism" at Tommy Douglas House, hobnobbing with all the important NDP politicos and vainly attempted to vindicate my vanity by having my visage viewed on CBC.

Don't forget that the mostly-beloved Ken Jennings is set for a crushing defeat to some vacuous no-name after his 75-day Jeopardy! run on Tuesday, November 30. A tip o' the hat to the omni-beloved Jason Kottke for the reminder.

Some of you know that I eat hamburgers that have been left out all night on the hotel room floor, or on the kitchen counter, or basically any flat, carpeted or non-carpeted surface that could be used to place a hamburger for an extended period of time. But I know someone who ate a hamburger pie that sat untouched on a kitchen table -- a non-refrigerated kitchen table, I might add -- for three entire days with no consequences, so it's quite likely I will continue, and possibly even extend my experiments with flat surfaces as hamburger storage devices.

For those of you who consider this a mistake -- and I'm thinking of one person in particular -- I present this delightful music to further outrage you over my unsafe food handling -- and eating -- ways. Maybe it will play gently in the background at my funeral, should I pass from e. coli or some other frightening side-effect of my zany hamburger antics.

I've said it before (but I'm too lazy to find the link), and I'll say it again: Rob Cockerham is the biggest non-evil genius in the world. That is, he's a genius, but -- thank the heavens above -- he uses his powers for the benefit of mankind, like Brainiac 5, or Jimmy Neutron. Care to see why I'm singing his praises this time?

That's all!

P.S. -- Buy me a calendar for christmas! My birthday's on it!

The Greatest Canadian

2004-11-27T05:38:00.000-06:00

CBC is now wrapping up its series on The Greatest Canadian. It's been an excellent series, and I'm sure that those of you who've watched it will agree. For those of you who haven't, there's still time to catch all the episodes on CBC Newsworld -- or I suppose you could just buy the damn thing. I've seen all the shows but one -- tragically missing Lester B. Pearson because of my inept fumbling with the VCR -- or, rather, my ept fumbling, as I seemed to fumble with it quite successfully; if I'd had a Tivo this never would have happened.

When the series was launched, CBC called to Canadians to submit their suggestions for Greatest Canadian. There were so many to choose from: Riel, Gzowski, McCluhan, Maurice Richard, Gordon Lightfoot, Pierre Burton, Glenn Gould -- the list was, effectively, endless; based entirely upon this ineffible quality of greatness.

What is greatness? Do you have to be political to be great? Our athletes, like Gordie Howe and Paul Henderson, tie us together through a sense of national identity; is this greatness? Our entertainers, like Mike Meyers and Jim Carrey, are known world-wide, and their names are synonymous with our country; is this greatness? What about our novelists? Singers? What about the infamous, like Réné Lévesque; can he be great? At its heart, the most important thing about this series is the discussion it created: what is greatness; who is great. CBC tallied the votes and produced a list of the 100 greatest Canadians; the top 10 of this list was the focus of the series.

But there were, of course, some interesting developments. There were no aboriginals in the top 10 (Riel was number 11). There were no women in the top 10, and only 20 women in total (Shania Twain peaked as the top women at number 18). Worse, the inclusion of loud-mouthed hockey Neanderthal Don Cherry in the top 10 lit up newspaper headlines like scoreboards and enraged (and, I hate to say it -- engaged) people across the country. But that’s what this is all about -- discussion. So even though it’s as painful as a pencil in the eye, even Cherry’s inclusion has some merit.

Since the lack of women and aboriginals was something of a hot topic, and since I had the opportunity, I asked our delightful Lieutenant Governor, Lynda Haverstock, what her thoughts were. She said that she would rather have the list as it stands, rather than have some people misplaced for the sake of more diversity. Fair enough. She also said that Canada is still a growing and evolving country, and that the lack of women and minorities shouldn’t be looked upon too harshly. Again, fair enough. Women have only become major figures in society in the last 90 years; aboriginals, in the last 40. If we were to have this same series 100 years from now, it’s likely that the nominees would change dramatically and would include more diversity. What’s more worrisome to me is the idea that famous equals greatness; nominating people like Shania Twain, Avril Lavigne, John Candy, Pamela Anderson, Mike Weir, and the reprehensible Don Cherry, is a slap in the face to the "Intellectualism rules, pop culture drools" message of the top 10.

I made a great show of considering my submission, but my choice for Greatest Canadian was not a choice at all. Pierre Trudeau towered so high above the landscape he seemed to overshadow even the words: repatriation of the constitution; official bilingualism; the sinking of the Meech Lake and Charlottetown Accords; the October Crisis; fuddle-duddle for God's sake! There was no one like him before or since, and he moulded this country like clay and fired us in his kiln, fixing Canada's shape irrevocably. It would have been a mistake not to choose him.

CBC chose to have Tommy Douglas, the father of medicare, as the first nominee. His advocate, George Stromabopoulopolis -- or however it’s spelled -- presented an energetic and passionate argument for Tommy as the Greatest Canadian; and, true to form, while the other nominees jockeyed for their placings, rudely shoving each other around, Tommy was ahead of the curve, boldly striding into the top spot and staying there for the entire run of the series.

Now, I grew up in the loving political shadow of my grandfather, “Zany” John Cristo, whose strong socialist bent I credit with setting my political direction. But even so, I was shocked at Douglas’s far-reaching accomplishments, the highlight of which was, of course, Medicare. But in Douglas’s first year as Premier, he passed 100 bills, 72 of which regarded some sort of economic or social reform. By his second year he had reduced taxes and paid off $20 million of Saskatchewan’s debt. He introduced new government departments, education reforms, the Crown Corporations, and important legislation like the Trade Union Act. He standardized the work week and established a Bill of Rights several months before the United Nations ratified their own. In 1961 he extended the vote to aboriginals. He even, thankfully, was the one who allowed women to finally have access to bars. Imagine. Even though I had originally nominated Trudeau, my votes began going to Tommy. But he wasn’t the only strong contender.

Terry Fox began steadily moving up in the rankings shortly after his episode aired. He peaked at number two, and has been constantly nipping at Douglas the entire time. His advocate, Sook-Yin Lee, gave us an emotionally compelling story of a young man with a crazy dream, a dream not for himself, but for Canadians. He dreamt that by running across Canada he could raise millions for cancer research and save thousands of lives. He dreamt that cancer could be beaten if we brought it out of the dusty back rooms and into the bright light of social consciousness.

He called it the Marathon of Hope. His goal was to raise one dollar for every person in Canada. Unscrupulously honest, every dollar he raised went to the cause; if someone gave him money for food, fuel for the vehicles, or even a motel room so he could have a good night’s rest, he instead donated that money to the marathon. If he needed something -- like food, fuel, or lodging -- he either begged for it or paid for it himself.

Terry started his marathon in St. John’s, Newfoundland. He managed 5376 km before he learned that the cancer that took his leg had spread to his lungs, forcing him to stop. He ran a full marathon -- 42 km -- every day, for 142 days. Think about that for a minute. I know people who couldn’t run 42 km in a week. Hell, I know people who won’t run 42 km in their lifetime. And he did it all on one leg.

Sook-Yin described him as a tragic Greek figure, and made many analogies to Pheidippides, the Greek messenger who ran from Marathon to Athens to tell the Greeks of their victory over the Persians. It’s a good analogy: they’re both heroes; they were both messengers; they both gave everything they had for others. An entire country shared Terry’s journey, and we still remember his courage, commitment, martyrdom, and legacy. He was a man of unquestionable character and indomitable will, and he is, most definitely, a hero.

And then, finally, after a long list of deserving Canadians, came Trudeau. And also, finally, after a long exposition, comes the end of my post.

You see, all of this comes about because I’m trying to reconcile my admiration of Trudeau with the accomplishments of Douglas and the triumphant perseverance of Terry Fox; and this post comes about because I think I finally have. Greatness means different things to different people, and different people rise to greatness based on character and opportunity. These three are my Trinity, and all three of these men are my Greatest Canadian.

Trudeau, the Father, defined what Canada was to be. He cemented a pluralistic nation, bilingual and multicultural. His was the overarching vision, the one that directed the future of the country. Douglas was the Son (yes, I know he’s older than Trudeau, but bear with me on this one). He looked after the common man, taking care of his health, welfare, and providing essential services. His was the common vision, what the people needed for a good life in a great land. Terry is the Holy Spirit. He had the dream, and he showed us all that dreams can become reality if you want them badly enough. To me, these three men embody Canada in a way no single one of them does, and in a way no one else can.

This is how I justify my votes for Douglas, my admiration of Terry, and my nomination of Trudeau. I can live with them as one, two, and three; though I think my preferred order is one, three, and two. Well, really, as long as Cherry is somewhere near the bottom, stamped out like a stale cigarette, I'll be satisfied.

AFA = Abuncha Foolish Americans

2004-11-15T04:18:00.000-06:00

Feel free to express your disgust with these lunatics here. Unfortunately, no amount of vitriol will be even the least bit cathartic, but sometimes you just have to get things off your chest.

Maybe I'm still upset with the Riders.

Dear Sirs:

I am writing in regards to your boycott. Upon further investigation into the ad apparently showing two men in bed (though, honestly, it's difficult to determine if there actually are two people in the ad), I found that it ran in the newpaper Xtra, a Toronto-based publication that caters to homosexuals.

It seems that, through your boycott, you want to punish Proctor and Gamble for pursuing new markets. This ad was not run in a "mainstream" publication and was aimed specifically at homosexual men. Had Proctor and Gamble advertised in a Christian publication, they would have used a more Christian-themed ad; this is what advertising companies do.

I also note that this ad ran in a Canadian publication, and that your association bills itself as "America's Pro-Family Action" organization. Perhaps your assocation would be better served protecting the USA from those God-hating faggots instead of worrying about what other, more sensible countries are doing.

Allow me to close with words from the United States Declaration of Independence: "We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness." This is the basis for a document drawn up so that the citizens of your country, which some believe is the greatest country in the world, could escape the tyrannical and oppressive hand of the British Empire.

Many people originally left Britain to escape persecution, and found America to be a free land; through your actions, you are being just as closed-minded, unfair, and heavy-handed as the British who precipitated the colonies' sucession.

Please demonstrate through works that you are doing more than causing trouble in an already agitated country.

Sincerely,

--Deron Staffen

PS - I'll purchase three items for each sale your boycott prevents.

We Now Return You to Your Regularly Scheduled Blogging

2004-10-30T04:46:00.000-06:00

In honour of my long-awaited return to blogging, I present you with the longest blog post title ever. Well, maybe not ever, but definitely the longest for this blog.

In honour of my job application at Adult Source Video, I present you with True Porn Clerk Stories. I'm not going to get said job, but I can dream.

In honour of the much anticipated, overly commercial, and pagan imagery-filled holiday of Christmas, I present you with what every little boy wants in his stocking. Besides Marilyn Monroe.

In honour of the season opener for the Cougars Women's basketball team, Regina KidSport™ raised approximately $700 to fund kids in Regina who want to play sports but can't afford to. Not too shabby for two days' work.

Finally, in honour of today's Duke of Edinburgh's Award ceremony, I get to hang out with the always delightful Lieutenant Governor of Saskatchewan and feel like a big shot. I'm only wearing a dress shirt and tie, of course, because I only wear my suit for royalty. Seriously.

Racial Harmony

2004-09-25T01:45:00.000-06:00

A black girl and a white girl were walking together, and they passed by while I was outside Shopper's Drug Mart. The black girl was dressed in black and carried a black purse. The white girl was dressed in white, but had a pink purse (it is after labour day, after all). As I watched them walk by, I couldn't help but wonder if their visual metaphor of racial harmony would be stronger if they had switched outfits instead of steadfastly emphasizing their own ethnicity.

They looked back at me while I was pondering. Their look did not say, "That man certainly is deep in thought about weighty philosophical matters." Instead their look said, "What is that weirdo doing under that stalled car? And why is he wearing only one rollerblade?"

I Am Sir Meme-A-Lot!

2004-09-16T02:31:00.000-06:00

My poor blog is so empty. I get unruly "Update more often!" e-mails several times a week from people who, in real life, seem so kindly that you'd never expect them to menace you with a switchblade. And yet these same e-mails are laced with these sorts of threats. Well, if you replace menace with hug and a switchblade with both arms, you have the text of the e-mails verbatim. But I can read between the lines.

So I needed to add more content to my blog. I needed to have more things to write about. A trip to Defective Yeti showed that he had a number of regular features: The Bad Review Review, Research Day, book reviews, etc. I could probably rip off the book review idea -- I read a good amount of books, and although the Yeti owns an impressive amount of property, he can't claim to have a monopoly on that. That's, like, Water Works and the Electric Co. You can't even build houses on those. Those other two, though, are like the dark blue properties in Blogopoly -- you can win without them, but they're still very impressive.

Then I went to visit Cockeyed, and saw the same things: pranks, science club, How Much is Inside. Rob had regular features too! I needed regular features!

This is how I went in search of a meme.

Rather than just link to the definition, I thought I'd provide it here: A meme is a unit of cultural information, such as a cultural practice or idea, that is transmitted verbally or by repeated action from one mind to another. Those Find Your Gangsta Rappa Name (Deron "Violent Vince" Staffen) and Find Your Gangster Name (Deron "Extra Arm" Staffen) and all those other gangster related quizzes are all memes. But memes don't have to be only about gangsters! The Friday Five was a meme. BadgerBadgerBadger and Bananaphone are memes. Even those stupid Bill Gates is Giving Away His Fortune e-mails are memes. Most importantly, memes are an easy way to fill space in my blog. Success!

Or so I thought. I hit Memepool in search of a good meme, but all they had were currently propagating memes, not ones you could join. Then I hit The Memes List and The Daily Meme in search of something fun. And after all this searching I found out the one important property of memes.

They all suck. Hard. And without exception.

Unfortunately, the people crave content! So I am starting my own meme.

Here's how it works.

Go to your blog and take the first sentence from your last post.
Hit the Next Blog button to find a random blog.
Take the first sentence from that blog.
Hit the Next Blog button to find a random blog.
Take the second sentence from that blog.
Continue this pattern until you have visited five blogs. If you find a blog in a language you don't understand, you are allowed to hit the Next Blog button again. However, if it's just really poor writing, you're stuck with it.
Finish with the last sentence from your last post.
Link each sentence to the blog it came from.
Weave these lines into a story to entertain your readers.

With this meme you get to be creative and visit new blogs. And if you hit the Next Blog button from your blog each time, you'll show up in their referral logs, maybe prompting others to visit your blog. More blog traffic can't be a bad thing. And the best part of all is that this meme is going to be different for everyone, so maybe it'll be interesting to read! I know I'd like to see some of my friends play. I hope there's a good workaround for non-Blogger blogs.

One final thing before I launch into my new Wednesday meme: if you come across a blog with Google AdWords on it, please click on an ad. These bloggers will get paid for any clickthroughs, and it really seems to me to be the right thing to do. A few clicks might change someone's life.

Anyway, on with the meme!

Sunday, September 12, 2004, I realized one of my dreams -- I ran in a marathon. Regular marathons have become too easy for me, so I ran this one on my knees. I still managed to finish fifth, and became a minor celebrity to boot, rubbing elbows with other marathoners and inspired midgets.

The past week has been tiresome. The media have been hounding me non-stop since the marathon. I can't spend much time at the house without photographers trying to catch me preparing supper or sitting on the john. I've taken to spending most of my time wearing a big hat and dark glasses, and waiting at the bus stop for a bus that never seems to come.

Yesterday I waited with a strange man carrying a yellow umbrella. He seemed friendly, and we struck up a simple conversation. He complimented my hat; I mentioned his umbrella. He asked for my name many times, but I politely demurred. In the pauses of our conversation, I noticed he was mumbling words like mukluks, spatula, galoshes, and tuberculosis under his breath.

At length, the conversation drifted toward religion. "The Church of England seems to be a universe with many different planets, and sometimes I'm not quite sure which planet I'm on!" he said.

"Oh. That's quite interesting," I replied, casually inching away from the bus stop. He began muttering more loudly about foibles and bulbous bouffants, all the while asking me who I was. I still didn't gave him my name.

"Jesus dries my dishes," he said. "God chose my clothes today."

"Great that God has made you look good." His umbrella matched his shoes and his belt. I wondered if this was a new fashion accessory for the insane. Just look for the yellow umbrella. I looked pointedly at my watch. For a God so adept at choosing clothing he sure was lousy with buses.

"am i fated huh..." he trailed off, his head hanging as though he'd suddenly fallen asleep.

I considered my options in this island of clarity. I could continue waiting with this man for a bus that would not come, knowing that he had decided to skip his medicine today, or I could put my marathon training to good use and run off, hoping he wouldn't catch me.

He came to while I was tightening my shoelaces. I bolted from the bus stop and he followed me for seven blocks, swinging his umbrella wildly and blathering about blubber and beluga whales. I knew he'd eventually give up if I continued long enough. But I guess I'm a bit of an optimist when it comes to running.

On second thought, this meme also sucks.

2004 Queen City Marathon

2004-09-15T02:37:00.000-06:00

Sunday, September 12, 2004, I realized one of my dreams -- I ran in a marathon.

Well, it was only the half marathon and not the full, but 21.1 kilometres is still nothing to sneeze at. Unless you're allergic to ragweed, and then I think a sneeze isn't just acceptable, it's practically required.

A while back -- April 14, 2003, to be precise -- I wrote about my buddy Colin Keess and how he became a bodybuilder in a delightful post titled "It Plays Music on Your Crotch". It, referring to bodybuilding, does not, of course, play music on your crotch; but it, referring to a musical vibrator, definitely does.

Anyway, Colin once told me that, following his bodybuilding career, which I believe lasted about 18 months, his next challenge was to enter the Queen City Marathon. What a great idea, I agreed, and the idea had stuck in my mind ever since.

I've always enjoyed running. As a kid I enjoyed it mostly because it allowed me some form of escape -- usually from some tough guy trying to steal my gyroscope. This is not to be confused with a gyro scope, which is a binocular-like device the Greeks use to find lunch and is pronounced with that guttural H sound that makes you spit all over everything.

As a teen I flirted with running like it was a sexy divorcee: I was definitely interested, but didn't know what the hell I was doing. And on occasion I had to change my pants before anything actually started.

Then, as an adult, I ran faithfully in the summers and sat placidly on my sofa all winter, waiting for the snow to melt so I could begin running again. My circuits were always about 5km, and I would go out a maximum of three times each week. I think I was most faithful to this schedule while I was living in Saskatoon; my downtown apartment and beautiful trail along the Meewasin facilitated getting out of the house and being active. Also, if you stood still in downtown Saskatoon for any length of time someone would try and panhandle from you. Better to just start running rather than lamely attempting to impersonate a foreign language.

At the end of last summer I decided I needed more running in my life, so I started late night runs from Al's house to the Southland Mall and back -- which MapBlast is kind enough to tell me is 7.4km. During those runs it felt like I was working the kinks out of things, as though my life were scrunched up like a used placemat, and each step unrolled a little bit and smoothed it out. I loved the way my body moved, the way my lungs sucked the air in just long enough to welcome its presence, then expelled it like an unwelcome guest. Of course, I hated how stiff I always was the next morning, and how my legs would scream at me as I shambled down the stairs; but how do you get to Carnegie Hall? Things got better as the running continued. You can only say "Ick habba jabba blabba" so many times before they catch on and start demanding a quarter.

Then, one day, Joe Daniels told me that the Sports Council needed some more coaches for their running club and asked if I'd be interested. And that's how I got involved with the Regina Aboriginal Kin Youth Running Club -- a great running club for at-risk youth with a terrible name that defies all my attempts to shorten it. I mean, isn't this a better name and a great logo for the club? I think the colour's a little off, but you'll get enough of the general gist to say, "Well done, Staffen" in my comments.

My original plan was to enter the full marathon this year, and be damned. Doubly damned, actually, as I was sure I'd drop dead somewhere along the 42.2km route. You see, I knew that 21km was within my reach -- I ran 7km in the Regina City Police Half Marathon Relay, I ran 10km often enough at the field house to get a feel for it, and I ran at least 15km at the 24-Hour Relay. 42km was the kind of Sisyphusian struggle I usually find myself embroiled in anyway, so why not leap in head first, heedless of consequence? A great and typically Deron plan, but terrible timing -- the federal election and Weir's campaign completely threw off my running schedule. But I still desperately wanted to be involved in the QCM this year, so it looked like the half was going to be it.

And, y'know, it was a good distance. And by good I mean gruelling. And by gruelling, I mean the 11th kilometre only. Every kilometre I made after 11 was hard won, sure, but that 11th kilometre had me questioning all of existence and why a loving God would subject me to such unyielding torment. I don't know why, but 11 was my sticking point. I made it 17km before I took an appreciable break in my run -- about five minutes -- and I also walked the length of the Albert Street bridge. No one but the QCM runners know this next bit, though -- I stopped and jumped with both feet on the lines of every kilometre marking after 11, conquering each one with a mighty stomp. I got a few laughs and a few stares, but what the hell, I needed to show those markers who the boss really was.

I developed a horrible pain in my right hip at about 13km, which I ignored as best I could for the remainder of the race. I limped a lot. At 15km I was passed by Kevin "Huggie" Bear, a member of our relay team. At the same time, I tried to keep pace with a woman whom I'd spoke to a little, only to find that I couldn't really move any faster than I already was. She left me behind, assuring me I`d catch her during her next walk break. I didn't see her again.

At 20km I tried to stretch my stride out a little, without much success. In every race I'd run so far, even my practice runs at the field house, I'd always somehow found the energy to show a strong finish. This time it seemed I was going to do my damnedest just to drag myself across the finish line -- and probably with my lips alone, as my legs were so achy I'm sure they thought about packing up and heading home without me, and I'd arrive hours later to find them nestled in a comfortable chair with a scholarly pipe and a copy of Esquire.

The final kilometre passed. I saw the finish line a mere 100 metres away. And I laughed! I laughed because I didn't have the strength for a final push, and I laughed because the signs and the race kit both said that you should smile whenever possible during the race, and I laughed because I had made it. At last. And the announcer, to my surprise, said, "Here comes Deron Staffen from Regina!" I threw my arms up into the air, and the people lining the sides of the road cheered.

And, somehow, I found the strength to run.

Not the relentless plodding I'd been doing for the last 10km, but an actual, full-out run. I heard a couple of people really cheer at that point, and I tilted my head back and stretched my legs out and pulled air into my tired lungs, and I raced hard until I'd crossed that damn finish line. And when I was done I could barely stand or speak, but I was done. And it was wonderful.

2:19:02. I was 738th out of 1034 participants. I placed 357th out of 406 men running the half marathon, and 110th out of 125 men in my age category. Not a great placing, but about what I expected, and something to build on for my next one. I will never be world class, but I will be competitive.

When I run I am often reminded of the final lines of King's novella The Long Walk:

Eyes blind, supplicating hands held out before him as if for alms, Garraty walked toward the dark figure.

And when the hand touched his shoulder again, he somehow found the strength to run.

This is often how it is: the strength you find comes from nowhere. Even though you're as dry as a cow skull in a cracked riverbed, and you know your reserves have all been tapped, it still bursts out at the last minute, like a sudden laugh. The little voice that's been telling you to stop gets snuffed like a stale cigarette, and your throbbing muscles are momentarily forgotten. Even the roaring crowds die away. The energy doesn't so much come out of you as through you, carrying you along so willingly on its currents, and the only things that exist are you and your destination; the rest is chaff before the wind. Upon reflection, I think these are the purest moments I've had in my life.

Of course, King's story doesn't end so nicely. But I guess I'm a bit of an optimist when it comes to running.

Today I Became a Speech Writer

2004-09-09T18:17:00.000-06:00

Tom Stoppard wrote in one of my favourite films, "Once I had the gift. I could make love out of words as a potter makes cups of clay."

Today, I made love out of words. It wasn't as easy as Shakespeare, but I wasn't arm-deep in thesauri, either.

Today was the KidSport™ Breakfast and Silent Auction. Regular readers of this blog -- all two of you -- will remember that I am involved with the Regina KidSport™ Committee, but as I don't air nearly as much dirty laundry as I should, they don't know that the event was slightly less organized than a tube of TinkerToys strewn across the floor. Like most things in my life, the natural condition of this breakfast was one of insurmountable obstacles on the road to imminent disaster. But strangely enough, it all turned out well.

Very well. There could have been more people -- there were 30 less than the previous year, in spite of our promotional efforts -- but we had excellent community involvement when it came to gathering auction items, and the people in attendance were enthusiastic and supportive. There was not a single bad or awkward moment to be had.

And then, in front of that crowd of 100 people, I gave a speech. I had worked on it the day before, knowing that someone from the Committee would have to speak, and bravely taking the onus on myself. And I hit exactly where I had been aiming -- a few people told me afterward I had moved them nearly to tears.

For me, there were two sterling moments: when I returned to the table after my speech, Mayor Fiacco told me I did a great job; and when the provincial KidSport™ chair, Don McDougall, asked me if he could have a copy of my speech. That's when I became a speech writer.

I think this was the best day of my life. Only a job offer could have topped it off.

From the compilation "Deron's Canadian Speeches, Volume 1"

Thank you, Rod, and thanks to everyone here for attending.

You know, I've always thought that the easiest part of giving a speech at one of these events was thanking the person who went ahead of you. And I can't think of a better way to do that than by presenting Mayor Fiacco with this highly fashionable Regina Sports Council and KidSport™ T-shirt!

When Mr. Fiacco started boxing as a young man, he probably never suspected that the work and dedication he used to develop his boxing skills would also develop the character that would allow him to become the best Mayor of the best city in western Canada. And I'm fairly sure he never dreamed that, as an adult, he would attend the most prestigious sporting event in the world as a boxing official.

But this is what sport does: it creates opportunity. Sport keeps some people in school. It keeps others off the streets. For some, bored with everything, it presents challenges. Sport keeps people healthy and active; it reduces drug and alcohol abuse; it lowers the incidence teen pregnancy. It teaches you how to work as a team, to show responsibility for your actions, and that hard work really does pay off. In short, sport changes lives.

And that's why we're here today.

KidSport™ is a national childrens' charity. It was started by Sport BC in 1993, and has expanded to 10 provinces and territories across the country. Regina's committee is one of 32 in Saskatchewan. Volunteer committees in each of these communities organize local fundraising and promotional events, like this one, with all funds raised going to support children in that community.

KidSport™'s mandate is to increase accessibility to sporting opportunities for children from financially disadvantaged families by removing economic barriers to participation. That's a mouthful. To simplify, what we do is grant money to kids who otherwise could not afford to play the sports they want to play.

Last year, the Regina KidSport™ Committee received almost 300 funding applications from local youth. This is a fairly significant number: almost one per day. We also had to reject nearly 20% of those applications — 1 out of every 5 — because of lack of funding. And, as the program gains prominence, the number of applications is growing.

This is why your support of these functions is so important. Your attendance today is providing opportunities for youth to participate in something constructive, to build their self-esteem and self-respect, to challenge themselves and others, and to become well-rounded adults. Everyone here today is helping every young person in Regina who wants a change, to find that change.

On behalf of the Regina KidSport™ Committee and our sponsors, thank you very much for your support of this event.

A Big Mac of a Loss

2004-09-06T03:03:00.000-06:00

I went to my first ever Labour Day Classic tonight.

It wasn't the first Rider game I've attended, but it ended with the Riders being manhandled by Winnipeg to the tune of 17-4. We've heard that same song so many times at Taylor Field that we don't even get up to dance anymore. Instead, when the band starts up midway through the second quarter, we quickly quaff our drinks, mumble something about the time, and then stumble drunkenly out the nearest exit.

This, of course, excludes the glorious 1989 season, when the green and white actually made it to the Grey Cup -- and won. It was like the sun dancing at Fatima, and I think most of the people still attending home games do so as a pilgrimage, hoping their gout or psoriasis is going to be miraculously cured by a saintly vision.

I maintain that exalted win came on the heels of the Superbowl Shuffle, performed by the Chicago Bears in 1985. This inspired our own top ten hit "Eleven Years, That's Enough", which catapulted the Riders onto the radio and into the 1988 playoffs -- which, not surprisingly, they lost. But there was enough momentum to bring our boys to the big prize the following year. And after that... well, they flirted with the Cup again in 1997, but it was just a flirtation. I don't even think they got the Cup's bra off. No, Loss is the real mistress of the Riders, and in spite of their many attempts, they simply can't be unfaithful.

I'm not exactly sure why the Riders hate winning so much. Are they humble? Do they think they're playing golf? Could it be that passing the ball to players in different coloured jerseys somehow contributes to this monumental losing streak? It might be that we're just too darn polite: "I want that ball, ya banjo-playing, inbred hick!" a linebacker yells. "Oh. All right," our quarterback says. "Here ya go. Thanks for visiting Saskatchewan!"

But even the most die-hard fans are getting a bit restless. After all, you can only kick a dog so many times before it becomes boring for you, or the dog, or both. And so, based on my experiences tonight, here are some brief suggestions I offer freely in hopes that all Rider games will improve:

Win one.
The players should start wearing helmets made from watermelons. They don't play well enough to warrant more protection anyway. Not only would this be a clever nod to their devoted fans, but let's face it, watermelon helmets are just plain cooler than anything else in the CFL. I mean, what are the Bombers going to wear, blueberries?
The fans should start wearing the players' football helmets. With the amount of crap being thrown around in the stands, we're risking a lengthy hospital stay just being there. Of course, more stuff gets thrown around as the game progresses and it becomes clear that the Riders are going to lose. So it's possible that winning a game might decrease the fracturing of fans' skulls by blunt objects tossed in disgust. But who am I kidding, we'll never get a chance to test this theory.
Drink prices should be inversely proportional to the Rider's score. That way, fans would have far more incentive to actually cheer the team on instead of trying to get that girl two rows down to show her tits.
The team should actually take the time to learn plays, rather than depending on the quarterback to tell the opposing team that their shoes are untied, then trying to sneak past.
Finally, drop the Whopper of a Win promotion. I actually saw this guy dry heaving today, and it wasn't a pretty sight. But dry heaving rarely is.

Two Conversations

2004-08-25T13:27:00.000-06:00

(At the 2004 Saskatchewan Summer Games):
Me: Hey, Joe. You'll never guess what happened.

Joe: What?

M: So I was at Accreditation, and the woman says to me, "Can I have your name?" And I say, "Deron Staffen." Then she says, "Can you spell your last name?" And I say, "S-T-A-F-F-E-N." And then she says, "You're not in the database." So I say, "Well, I should be!" And then she says to me, "Are you an athlete?"

J: Really.

M: Yeah! Hilarious. Isn't the upper age on athletes 18?

J: Not if you're Special "O".

(And, while talking to Weir in his newly purchased Ford Prostitute):
Weir: There's no Hooters in Saskatchewan, is there?

Me: No. And you know, I think this does a huge disservice to Saskatchewan. I mean, what we're tacitly saying by our lack of Hooters is that Saskatchewan doesn't have enough large breasted women.

W: Maybe we're saying Saskatchewan has more than enough large breasted women, so it's just not a novelty.

Into the Void

2004-08-19T05:46:00.000-06:00

I shaped a post tonight the way a potter moulds clay, and I tried, like Prometheus, to imbue it with life -- only to have it swallowed unmercifully into the vast, electrical maw of program failure. Internet Explorer's bowels were acting up, it seems, and in a fit of pique it chose to liberate my writing from the restraints of solid, ordered prose into free, chaotic electrons.

These thoughts, once released, cannot be recaptured. I am shattered.

Childhood Memories

2004-08-02T16:58:00.000-06:00

Remember when you were little and thought the Leaning Tower of Pisa was really the Leaning Tower of Pizza? And you wondered how they kept it leaning, and if the tourists each took a slice, making it smaller and smaller with each passing year? And you wanted to go there someday and see this giant, leaning stack of pizza before it was all gone? No? Well, I hope I have a better memory when I reach your age.

More Phone Phun

2004-08-02T16:50:00.000-06:00

This cost me 75 cents.

Me: Hi, is there a number for Two-For-One Pizza, please?
Operator: [keyboard noises] Yes there is.
M: Okay, is there a number for a three-for-one pizza?
O: [keyboard noises] Yes.
M: How about a four-for-one pizza?
O: [keyboard noises] There's no listing for that, sir.
M: Is there a listing for a five-for-one pizza?
O: [keyboard noises] No.
M: Are there any listings for any pizza places that offer more than five-for-one?
O: No there isn't.
M: So three-for-one is my best value, isn't it?
O: [silence]
M: Could I have that number, please?
O: [keyboard noises] Thank you, hold for that number.

Make $$$ Fast!

2004-07-30T13:43:00.000-06:00

Reading this post on Defective Yeti, I felt a sense of deja vu. Well, not entirely deja vu, but I don't know much Latin and that's the closest I could get to describing it -- e pluribus unum is something about a salad, or somesuch.

Anyway, I thought I'd posted about this before -- and I had! I scooped the Yeti by more than a year! Ha-ha! Well, again, not entirely, but along the same lines. If the Library Guy had actually signed some kind of lucrative endorsement contract, then I would have scooped the Yeti by more than a year! Ha-ha! Just ignore the rambling parts in my post obviously ghost written by some manic street preacher hopped up on goofballs and you'll be fine. That boils my post down to a most palatable four words: "scooped... Yeti... Ha-ha!"

So it got me thinking: how can the regular people in society -- the average Joes, you and me -- capitalize on our disastrous mental illnesses? Why, through advertising!

Manic depressives for before/after ads

Narcoleptics for mattress companies

Schizophrenics for Reynolds Aluminum Foil

Munchausen patients for government subsidized health care

Alzheimer's patients for memory enhancement products

Sexaholics for contraceptives

The uncontrollably violent for sledgehammers or punching bags

So don't just stand there -- jump on the metal illness bandwagon and let the dollars start pouring in!

Must Be Hump Day

2004-07-29T11:23:00.000-06:00

The Sports Council yearbook is finally finished, for good or ill. And there was much rejoicing.

And now, for your viewing pleasure, what The Cure is in each day of the week:

Saturday: Jail
Sunday: Drag
Monday: He-Man Underoos
Tuesday: A Mexican whorehouse
Wednesday: So much trouble when their father gets home!
Thursday: A second-year chem major's homemade acid trip
Friday: Love, naturally.

Bonus Post! How Robert Smith of The Cure is feeling each day of the week:

Saturday: Sad
Sunday: Wistful
Monday: Blue
Tuesday: Somber
Wednesday: glum
Thursday: Not quite as glum as Wednesday, but still pretty glum
Friday: Mopey

(Synonyms provided by the good folks at dictionary.com. You guys are really, really, really, really nice.)

Enjoy the Joke!

2004-07-20T12:19:00.000-06:00

I just made this up.

Two old men walk into a sauna together and throw their towels haphazardly on the floor. The one old man says, "My God, but that's a long one! And with a nice tip on the end, too!"

"Yes," says the other, "it's good and solid, and straight as an arrow. Bend over, I'll show you how to use it."

(Y'see, the first old man was carrying a pool cue. This is one of those lateral-thinking jokes, y'know, where you're given the joke but not all the information in it, and then you have to figure out why it's funny. I mean, why else would two old men be talking like that in a sauna unless one of them was holding a pool cue?

Maybe I can make a follow-up joke where two women walk into a sauna and one says, "Nice rack!" And then the other one says, "Thanks! I got them on sale, but one of them's a little lopsided and not as round."

Man, if a pool table in the sauna is as funny in real life as it is on paper, I gotta get me one!)

Here I Go Again On My Own

2004-07-19T02:38:00.000-06:00

Still trying to metaphorically find some direction in my life and my place in the world, I once again make some changes to my blog template. We had a housewarming on Saturday, and I asked a friend of mine, who, after drinking 15 different kinds of alcohol, apparently acquires "strange powers", what my direction in life should be. But in the end, his only "strange power" was to speak completely incoherently and ask me the question, "What do you think it should be?" once for each beer he'd consumed. Which was a lot. Like, the CEO of Molson was popping a boner in his sleep. My other friend wrote "Veni, Vidi, Vomit" on our Wall of Fame, which ended up being a self-fulfilling prophecy. It was an interesting evening.

Worse, while I've been having this crisis, which flares up every once in a while like a bad case of herpes, I've been reading Defective Yeti -- partly because I need something to read while I'm on the john, and partly because the guy is damn funny. But don't mistake those loud groans and cries of "Oh, God!" as me holding my aching sides, because it's actually another part of my anatomy that I'm praying for. And after night of drinking with the SuperFriends -- Captain Incomprehensible and the Upchuck Kid -- there was a lot of heavenly supplication. And on a Sunday, too. I've never felt so holy.

Then today I rolled across this post on Monkey Disaster, which was good for some laughs. And the next post was really funny, especially as my head is about the size of, oh, a desiccated peanut. If you think the pro-fit hat is going to to be a pro fit, you, my friend, have just lost your job as a professional hat fitter. And you're also looking at my head through some kind of high-powered magnifier.

Now, Monkey Disaster is not as funny as Defective Yeti or The Morning News, but it's still pretty funny. And John Moe also apparently writes for McSweeny's, which is very funny; why, these lists alone had me doubled over for hours.

So, y'know, while John isn't quite the funniest guy around, he's definitely funnier than I am. And therein lies the rub: I need to be funnier. I don't know what the secret is to funny writing. I mean, Matthew seems to just have it pour out of him like a comic sweat -- go pump some iron, write some jokes, have a shower -- the day's done. I have to labour like Hercules just to push out one funny adjective.

"Uhhhhh... insipid...."

*frontal lobe deflates*

"Quick, stick that tire pump in my mouth! And get me the ginko biloba!"

So I don't know what form my writing is going to take, but I'm hoping for an insanely comedic bent that won't cause me any kind of permanent brain damage. If I continue reading Matthew and John and the other apostles, maybe I'll absorb some funny things and I'll actually entertain the Constant Readers who, I don't know, come here when they're on the john.

Well, a lot of them come here looking for the Bannock Shack, so I'm very happy I decided to post that information. And really, the john is probably the second place they'll want to go, so some funny reading material might actually help them take their mind off the pain. That and some fiber.

Oh, and I just found out that Matthew Baldwin is the originator of Pizza Party USA, so he is now officially a genius.

2004-07-09T11:14:00.000-06:00

A phone conversation:

Me: Hi, can I speak to Jerry, please?

Them: I'm sorry, you must have the wrong number.

Me: No, I have the right number, I just have the wrong name.

*sigh*

2004-06-15T04:06:00.000-06:00

Yes, I know I don't post anymore. This shouldn't surprise anyone -- I haven't been posting regularly since I started this blog. Hell, I haven't been posting anything interesting since I started this blog.

I took this test tonight and scored 163. Now, I think there are a few people out there that could fry this score up like a side of bacon (I'm looking at you, Chris Taylor), but I'm fairly satisfied with this score and don't think I could do much better even if I had spent more time on it.

Yes, I am posting this just to brag.

I have had three (and counting!) mysterious encounters with women who may or may not have been prostitutes. Given the propensity for prostitution and its popularity in this place, I posit these people pander publicly to peculiar patrons and perform preposterous pubic procedures for pennies.

My first encounter came as I was walking home. I was approaching two young ladies who may have been having a conversation, but I wasn't aware of them talking. As I passed, one quite distinctly said, "25 bucks."

My second encounter came as I was driving to shinny. I had stopped at a corner to wait for traffic to pass, and a nice young woman came up to the car and offered to let me give her a ride.

My third encounter came while driving to Safeway. I was driving down the street toward a woman who was standing mysteriously in the middle of the block. She was wearing a long coat that was buttoned all the way up, but it had been raining. As I got closer, she decided it was time to stretch her arms up in the air.

Now, none of these are particularly thrilling, but if you wanted thrills you'd be chewing that ridiculous soap-flavoured gum. No, instead you want boring stories of women who are obviously
prostitutes and how I misinterpret everything as being completely innocent.

You know, I wouldn't have this problem if there were more pimps on the street. What's the problem, exactly? Are they telling their hoes to stand on the corner and make ambiguous sexual advances while they stay home and play Nintendo? They should be out there doing some direct marketing -- selling, cold calls, establishing a clientele. A more efficient business model would allow prices to drop, making prostitutes affordable for the masses and no longer just a luxury item for society's idle millionaires.

But enough of this. I need some sleep. Let's just say the score's Prostitutes-3, Deron-0 and call it a night. Sure, it hurts to be down 3-0 this early in the season, but we've got a strong club this year and we're just going to have to have to rally the troops out there, buckle down, and give 110%.

2004-05-27T02:47:00.000-06:00

I received yet another hit to my blog by someone looking for information on The Bannock Shack. So, to facilitate this continued search for information, I present to you Deron's Official Bannock Shack Post.

The Bannock Shack can be contacted at:

The Bannock Shack
3115 5th Ave.
Regina, SK
S4T 7T2

Phone: (306) 522-7240

It's exact location can be found here. (I normally use MapBlast for my mapping needs, but it choked on the address. Stupid Microsoft.)

If you're coming south on Albert Street, you'll find a Tim Horton's on your right side and a Petcetera on your left. Avoid the temptation to eat at Tim Horton's! If you're Vietnamese, avoid the temptation to eat at Petcetera! Instead, go one block further south and turn to your right.

If you're coming north on Albert Street and you get to the Tim Horton's/Petcetera intersection, you've gone one block too far. I wish I could tell you where to turn, but the landmarks escape me.

"But Deron," I hear you ask, "how's the food?"

Well, I'm no expert on aboriginal cuisine, but I think it's pretty good. They offer a good array of food, ranging from traditional North American stuff like burgers, fries, and pizza, to things like buffalo burgers and Indian tacos. The burgers, of course, come on a piece of fried bannock instead of a bun. They also serve the popular "bullets and bannock" -- some kind of meatball and potato soup, which I think is delicious, and you can get the 6-pack or 12-pack of fried bannock to go. You can even get breakfast in the mornings, with a good plate bacon and eggs for $2.99. But don't ask me why the Toonie Sandwich costs $2.50, because I don't know.

I've had buffalo at Wanuskewin, but I haven't tried the buffalo burger at The Bannock Shack. Similarly, I've had Indian tacos at Junior Nationals in Yorkton, but not at The Bannock Shack. I have had the Bannock Burger and fries, which was pretty good. I've had a lot of fried bannock, which is very good, but kind of greasy. Nothing out of the ordinary, though, that's just how it's prepared. I'm a big fan of the Bullets and Bannock, and get it practically every time I'm there. I've also had their pizza, but I think it's the weakest food they offer. It was big and thick, like Vern's Pizza, but very greasy -- so much so that we had grease dripping down our hands as we ate.

Overall, I recommend The Bannock Shack, and not just because it's awesome to have a restaurant serving aboriginal food. The food there is delicious, the prices are very reasonable, and the atmosphere is terrific.

Now when people search for The Bannock Shack on Google, maybe they'll find what they're looking for.

Please note that I am not affiliated with The Bannock Shack, I'm just a white guy who likes to eat there.

2004-05-17T14:56:00.000-06:00

I don't check my blog, indeed.

I check my blog constantly. I even check the referrers for all the hits I get. I'm surprised by the amount of hits I get from Singapore, though they've dropped off a little recently. I'm also surprised that there's someone in Calgary who remains a faithful reader, though I'm sure I don't know anyone there. My one disappointment is that I don't show up on Technorati nearly as often as I'd like.

Anyway, Anonymous, the problem isn't me letting my poor little blog languish, the problem is finding time and thinking up content to post. I think that's part of the reason why my journal project of 1995 failed so miserably -- not the arrogance or the terrible spelling, though they probably also played their role.

But I find that, like men, my ideas seem to come in spurts. My suggestion is to check back every few days and hope that enough time has passed for at least one interesting post.

You could also check Weblogs.com or something, y'know, to see when I update, but I recommend it only as a last resort.

2004-05-10T02:23:00.000-06:00

So. Blogger has redesigned, and I am riding on their coattails. Now, this isn't the template redesign I wanted, but it'll do until I get my sorry ass in gear and finish learning CSS.

Lectures is now Atom-enabled, meaning that all you tech-weenies can get a feed at http://lecturesoneverything.blogspot.com/atom.xml.

And -- holy crap! There are now comment tags under my posts! So now you can tell me what I jerk-off I am to my face, instead of leaving those horrific messages on my answering machine.

2004-05-09T16:52:00.000-06:00

Today is Mother's Day. So let me start by giving a shout out to all the mothers out there. Also, word to all the muthas out there. Big ups all around.

I went out for brunch with my mom today. I didn't realize it at the time, but mom and Lindsay already had a location picked out. You know you're eating at a quality establishment when the Mother's Day Sunday Brunch Buffet features head cheese.

In case any of you are dreaming of a business making head cheese in your home for fun and profit, or perhaps holding your own Sunday Brunch Buffet, I've included this handy link to a head cheese recipe at Remember Mama's Recipes. I can just imagine the other delectable favourites in that household: scab sandwiches, dink dumplings, sock soup, roast groin. Thanks, mom, for cooking me real food in my formative years, so I didn't have to start a website like that one.

This Red Meat cartoon also came up in my Google search for head cheese. But I still think this one's my favourite.

2004-04-26T01:43:00.000-06:00

Crazy, Crazy day.

First blog post in a while. Nothing personal, y'know, just busy with stuff. But I'm getting to that.

Today I ran in my first official race: the Regina Police Half Marathon. Now, I didn't actually run a half marathon, I ran a half marathon relay: three of us teamed up to run a half marathon. I ran with guys from the running club, and I was really impressed with their performances. They may fool around a lot at running club, but they put the rubber to the road when it counted. I, of course, continued to batter my poor left knee, but I was okay until later in the afternoon when I twisted it played shinny with some kids from the Regina Warriors Box Lacrosse team. I blame Travis for being out of position.

Then, later today, I was finally invited to become a member of Orkut, a community I tried to join from the minute I learned of it's existence. Orkut is members only -- you have to be invited by someone in order to join. This creates an interesting thought line, when you consider that there was initially a core group of Orkut-certified people who expanded the group by adding contacts, and that this, somehow, inexplicably, lead to me. It was probably more than the famous six degrees that everyone talks about, but there is some kind of trail that links me to that core group, step by convoluted step.

Reading more about Orkut, I discover that it's a community to try and manage contacts and make your social life more interesting. Well, there are a lot of communities you can join, and a lot of message boards to read, but I wonder just how much this differs from, let's say, becoming a regular on Fark, or Slashdot, or Kuro5hin, or even on one of your favourite Usenet groups -- like rec.games.backgammon, for instance. This part of Orkut, while important, just seems to me to be yet another community to keep up on -- and if you're like me you're already reading several blogs, Blogdex, social sites like MSN Groups or Yahoo! Groups, current news headlines, some interesting hobby sites like, oh, GammonVillage.com, Homestar Runner (on Mondays), the Onion (on Wednesdays), and assorted bits and sundry; if you're current with the Economist that's one more thing, if you follow discussion boards on one of the aforementioned websites, that's another, and if you're reading Usenet with any regularity (but really, I'd be surprised if there's anyone but the old school hardcores like me that hang around on there any more), that's yet another. Orkut adds more grist to the mill, but is it really doing any more than overloading a system already soupy with information?

Following this, yet another exciting thing happened to me -- I was offered a chance to test Google's Gmail! So I now have levendis@gmail.com, if anyone wants to find me there. I add this fourth address to my group of levendis@yahoo.com, my main e-mail address; clamdigger21@yahoo.ca, which I use for zany account sign-ups and rarely check (and which has largely been replaced by the indispensable Mailinator.com), and jbananapop@hotmail.com, which I use exclusively for MSN Messenger. Nevertheless, in spite of how I adore Google, and in spite of its one Gigabyte of storage space (which I imagine Yahoo! and Hotmail will match in due haste), I doubt I will be moving from my Yahoo! account -- I've just had it for so long, y'know? It'd be like moving out of the home you grew up in, and we all know how I feel about moving.

Anyway, in the wake of all this information overload, I thought I would apprise all three of you who regularly read my rambling ravings about the awesome array of events that I'm contributing to in these days of underemployment. Once I find a full-time job I'll either need to develop 10 times the time management skills I have now or drop some of my commitments. But we shall see -- I may end up surprising us all!

Shinny Supervisor for the Regina Sports Council

Aboriginal Kin Youth Running Club Supervisor

24-Hour Relay Team Fundraising Co-chair

Regina KidSport Committee Secretary

Saskatchewan Summer Games Mission Staff

Erin Weir's Wascana campaign

General shenanigans and tomfoolery

Oh, and my blog is also 4th overall on MSN when you search for ugly boobs -- and, surprisingly, I've been getting a lot of hits for that lately. Are there some ugly boobs out there I should know about?

2004-03-10T14:49:00.000-06:00

Sometimes I feel like a detective. Definitely more Encyclopedia Brown than Sherlock Holmes, but I'm not about to quibble over who's better. Leroy does have those cute, boyish good looks, but Sherlock has the cold, calculating demeanor of a serious private dick; I say it's a dead heat, but maybe this is something to be revisited at a later date.

Anyway, sometimes I feel like a detective; it's often when all the pieces of the puzzle have been presented, and the solution finally gels in my mind like... well, like Jell-O. Except it's not in a bowl, it's in one of those crazy Jell-O moulds, like the breast or pants being ripped off.

Tamara and I went to the casino. She comes out of the bathroom and says to me, "Why do you suppose they have those sharps containers in the bathrooms?"

"I noticed them too," I said. "Lots of intravenous drug users?"

We kind of left things in-between that and convenience and went to either lose money at $2 blackjack or screech obscenities at the horserace game.

Weeks later, I was at the Bannock Shack and read an article by Errol Kinistino about the high incidences of diabetes in aboriginal populations.

Ding, went a little bell. Okay, maybe it was more of a gong being bashed by a heavily muscled guy swinging a tree trunk, but the bell metaphor is so well known -- no one says, "That name causes a gong-like noise to reverberate through my skull."

Fact: Casino Regina employs a lot of aboriginals; actually, all of their job announcements state that they are designated for people who self-declare as first nation or metis.

Fact: Aboriginals, as a group, have a high incidence of diabetes.

Fact: Diabetics need to dispose of needles in a safe and efficient manner.

Conclusion: The sharps containers in the bathrooms are there for the convenience of the staff, and I am a genius!

2004-03-08T13:09:00.000-06:00

Tori: "What did you say? Did you say you were good looking?"
Me: "What?! I would never say that -- although you will hear other people say it."

I think that's called modesty.

2004-03-03T17:48:00.000-06:00

It must be difficult having a common name. I hadn't considered it until just recently.

Having an uncommon name is difficult. I spent many of my formative years burning with fiery-hot habanero pepper rage toward a world who could not seem to place the letters of the English alphabet together properly to spell my name. When I was six, I toyed with the idea that the whole world had some mild form of dyslexia (I now know that people are just stupid -- with age, wisdom) -- after all, there are only 65000 different five-letter combinations! People could choose a 14 million-to-one lottery ticket, but spelling my name is somehow a mind-numbing teaser akin to cracking the enigma code? I don't know why pirates and the Knights Templar didn't use my name as a key to their booby traps -- "You know that guy who sat behind you in the third grade? He had messy brown hair and glasses, and he'd rub one of those crappy Pink Pearl erasers on his desk really fast and then smell it? Spell his name, or death awaits thee."

But as the years passed, the correct spelling of my name became less and less of an issue to me -- even though the number of people misspelling my name seemed to increase in direct proportion to my lackadaisical attitude. Why, there were even some people on the SEDA Board of Directors who did not know how to spell my name properly, even after six years with the organization. But I'm not bitter. All I'm saying is, living with an odd name ain't all puddin' and pie.

Anyway, last summer I happened upon the blog of one Christopher Taylor. I was delighted that I had found the blog of the real Chris Taylor, then saddened that I had, in fact, discovered an imposter. In my anguish, I guess I said a couple of mildly harsh things; he's not going to be able to use my words to scrub those caked-on pots and pans or remove the rust and hard water stains from his toilet bowl, but he could probably use them to exfoliate -- which may be a blessing, seeing what The Body Shop is charging for facial scrubs these days.

Now, it's taken him some time -- I suffer from the same problem -- but he has responded to my post and sent me the following e-mail:

Subject: I am...

the king of town (and the real Christopher Taylor).

Back to my vat now.

Christopher Taylor

Bennett/Sekuler Vision & Cognitive Neuroscience Lab
McMaster University, Psychology Complex
1280 Main St. West, Hamilton, ON, Canada L8S 4K1
905-529-7070 x24489
http://www.psychology.mcmaster.ca/vislab/
http://christophertaylor.blogspot.com

I get the feeling he's somewhat put-off by my remarks. I can't say I blame him: here he is, minding his own business, when this rough-and-tumble blog-wielding maniac comes along and threatens his entire existence by saying he's not the real Chris Taylor. This is the tragedy of the common name. I know I'd be upset if someone said I wasn't the real Deron Staffen -- but in retrospect, I think I'd be able to have a good laugh about how I thought I was the real one for all those years, and how many people I fooled. Then, maybe, the real Deron Staffen would be run out of town on a railcar, and the judge would instruct everyone never to speak of this again -- y'know, like in that Simpsons episode.

I decided to write to the real Chris Taylor for some guidance. He provided six criteria which would help me decide who the real Chris Taylor was. I'll be totaling the scores in parentheses as we go.

1. Why didn't I know you had a blog?? Here I am, wasting away in Japan, desperate for portals into the world of Derron, and unbeknownst to me, you have been providing the world with a portal into your genius.

Chris Taylor knew about my blog before Chris did, so point for Chris. Also, Chris spelled my name wrong (curses!), so minus one for him. (1/-1)

2. I took a look into this guy's work. He seems to be doing some good things. I am basically pleased with his apparent knowledge of Homestar and what not. I agree that he may have been left in the vat too long, and felt that his subsequent reference to the vat didn't do the initial jibe the justice it so richly deserved. I think I would have stuck to simply complimenting you on the vat remark, and then spun off into an original self-deprecating remark, perhaps carrying on the boiling and cooking motif, but not directly replying to your work.

Chris likes Chris's work, so point for him. Also, Chris is right about the vat reference, so point for him too. (2/0)

3. He claims that Lord of the Rings deserves its accolades. The real Chris Taylor would never descend to the level of praising fantasy movies or the oscars, but would instead go to an oscar party and act like he hasn't seen any of the movies involved because he is only interested in Vincent Gallo and early Bauhaus experiments in film.

Chris is right about the real Chris Taylor's attitude toward the movies, so he gets a point. Although this is about the real Chris Taylor, I also agree that Lord of the Rings deserves its accolades and must therefore also give another point to Chris. I don't think this point is even arguable. Well, okay, too much with the hobbits and the elves and the ship there at the end of the film, and yadda yadda yadda, here's another thirty minutes of Bilbo dragging his petrified hobbit ass down to the docks while John Williams flails the cellists with a cat-o-nine-tails, trying to extract every last tear out of the audience, and you start to cry, not because of the story, but because every molecule of water in your body has migrated to your bladder and you've been straining against the crushing pressure of that super-sized Coke for the last two-and-a-half hours, and for God's sake, you need to piss way more than you need to see some old dude about as short and hairy as your grandpa wander around shoeless the way he did at your 13th birthday party, etc., etc. But other than that, great trilogy. (3/1)

4. This Chris Taylor seems to be involved in the sciences, which makes him suspect right away.

Agreed. (3/2)

5. If there is a real Chris Taylor aside from this Chris Taylor, it would be the Chris Taylor who has an office at the U of R and his own mailbox in the education building. This Chris Taylor really seems to have things together, based on the emptiness of his mailbox, anyway.

Here, Chris is open to the possibility that he is not the real Chris Taylor. Chris, on the other hand, proclaims unequivocally that he is the real Chris Taylor, not being open at all to other possibilities. Although I can easily believe that I'm wrong, I cannot easily believe that I'm wrong at the expense of Chris Taylor, real or not, being right. (3/3)

6. One good way to determine if a Chris Taylor is the real Chris Taylor is to ask yourself "Would this guy make a good sidekick to Erin Weir?" The correct answer is yes. This blog Chris Taylor does lots of stuff that Erin Weir wouldn't tolerate. Take, for example, the entry where in he mentions that some book is great and that he would review it but he doesn't feel like it. Now, if this guy said that to Erin Weir, Erin Weir would point out that if he had the energy to turn on his computer and write the sentences that he did, he could probably muster three hundred more words to give us his take on the book. And if he can't, he should at least make himself useful by providing drunken anecdotes for Weir to tell of at later social gatherings.

Weir doesn't have to say these things to the real Chris Taylor, because the real Chris Taylor knows what is what. And if Erin Weir does have to say these things, it is because the real Chris Taylor set him up, knowing that the crowd demanded more Weir than other lines of conversation were providing.

The real Chris Taylor knows what is what. (3/4)

In a close competition, Chris Taylor beats Chris Taylor by a point, reaffirming that I am right, and that Chris Taylor is indeed the real Chris Taylor. It remains to be seen if the Chris Taylor with the clean mailbox can claim the title of the real Chris Taylor, but as that match-up may shake the very foundation of reality, it's beyond the scope of this post.

Now, all this is not to say that Chris Taylor does not have some merit. I've taken the time to read through his blog again. He's gotten some laughs out of me, and he certainly has an interesting, and eclectic, taste in music. If I have a fault -- if I have a fault -- it's that I don't listen to enough good music, and I rely mainly on people with broad musical tastes to broaden mine. He reminds me a lot of David Mark, who I really had no real appreciation for until I started taking up space in the office next to his. Maybe I just needed to hear the melodic strains of Chris's zany MP3 collection echoing down the hallway to have avoided the vat comment altogether, though I'd then be two posts shy in my blog. And the fans crave content!

I think the moral of this tale is that I jump too hastily to conclusions, and that I was much too quick to deny Chris Taylor his rightful place among the Chris Taylors out there. So kudos to you, Christopher Taylor, for being a shining example for other Chris Taylors to aspire to, and for showing me the error of my ways. The only reason I'd suggest you be put in a vat now is to preserve you for future generations, so they could look at you and say, "Hell, he seems like a decent enough guy! I don't know what Super Galactic Supreme Empire Ruler Champ Staffen was making such a fuss about!"

Of course, they would all be blown to atoms milliseconds later for doubting the will of the Super Galactic Supreme Empire Ruler Champ. C'mon, they should have known better.

2004-02-12T03:30:00.000-06:00

Top 10 rejected names for Queer Eye for the Straight Guy:

Mission: Impossible

Queerview Mirror

Fruit Squad

Mighty Makeover Puffter Rangers

From a Pawn to a Queen

Car Full O' Homos

Bed, Bath, and Bendover

Butt Pirates' Shanghai Makeover

League of Extraordinarily Gay Gentlemen

Five homosexuals play dress-up with real straight adult men! (This one is more of a synopsis than a title.)

2004-02-11T16:31:00.000-06:00

Those of you who know me know that I am chronically late for everything. In fact, after I'm dead, I'm positive people will refer to me as the "Late Deron Staffen". I suppose it's possible that somewhere people are refering to the "Punctual Deron Staffen", but that may only be in some backward Bizarro World, or maybe in a Rod Serling-esque alternate reality.

ANYWAY, I went for a job interview today and was told I was early.

Two weeks early.

Is this a terrifying vision of things to come? At least I still go to extremes.

(Some may argue that this should be my theme song; but when Ringgo proclaimed that Danger Zone was his theme song, I chose Rock You Like A Hurricane, and I stand by that decision. Ringgo thought my choice was "Too airshow" -- unlike his, which was only used in a movie about fighter pilots.

In other music-related news, an informal poll reveals that this song from Top Gun and this Madonna song are tied for most romantic song of the '80s.)

2004-02-05T05:36:00.000-06:00

My oh my. A month into the new year and I'm already drawing the ire of some nice folks in the blogosphere. And it all centers around this letter I wrote to Kathy Shaidle.

Yes, I know Kathy's reply to me was written on January 10. Yes, I know my reply to her is more than three weeks later. I don't care. The wheels here at Lectures grind slowly, my friends, but they do grind exceedingly fine. Kathy's response weighs in at 306 words, or approximately 30 words/day between posts; my reply is almost six times hers and approximately 70 words/day, so you see I've been working about twice as hard. And I swear a hell of a lot more, too.

Kathy was kind enough to respond in a manner most befitting a respected writer: she asked me what the fuck I meant before calling me a dickhead. Apparently, though, she didn't actually have the stones to write the word fuck on her blog -- thankfully, I have enough to write it twice. She also didn't have the stones to send me her e-mail, although I certainly did send her mine -- which I'm sure she found in her mac.com e-mail account.

Why Kathy decided to pick a fight with me is up for debate. It's not because I dissented against her opinion -- there was at least one other person days before. I don't think she felt threatened by the five people who regularly read my blog -- two of them choose to constantly disagree with me on principle anyway, and regardless, I'm fairly certain they all went off and read the Dallas Morning News story I linked to. (The original article is no longer on the Dallas Morning News site, but it can still be found here.) I also don't think it was because I sent "hate mail" -- just as there were no weapons found in Iraq, so too there will be no "fuck" or "dickhead" found in my original post. I had thought someone with five years of copywriting experience would pick that out in an instant.

I think the reason Kathy decided to take me on is because I looked like an easy target. Truthfully, her blog does beat the living piss out of mine, and I haven't been published in anything since high school. She also points out, with great enthusiasm, that she was shortlisted for the Governor General's Award for poetry in 1998, but didn't win. I also haven't won the Governor General's Award, which should put us on the same level of mediocrity -- except that I also haven't won a Pulitzer or the Nobel Prize for Literature! In your face, baby!

Kathy does not even try to rebut my arguments, but instead leans heavily on the appeal to authority fallacy: as my poetry is soooooooo wicked awesome, your opinions, regardless of what they are, must be wrong. And her poetry is actually pretty good; but still, swearing at me and not following up makes her look like one of those crusty, old women yelling at kids when an errant Frisbee is thrown into her yard: so full of empty rage, it's difficult to believe it's me you're angry with. At least The Meatriarchy gave my letter the old one-two, but, again, didn't really go the distance. Although they've taken some hits, with a good cut man I think my arguments can make it one more round:

There's a Gulf Between Us: Yes, Saddam Hussein did defy the UN -- but let's not get off-topic! My claim was that Bush defied the wishes of the UN Security Council; finger pointing and cries of "But he started it!" are not adequate justification for these types of actions.

During the first Gulf War, the Security Council passed three resolutions regarding the invasion of Kuwait, including one authorizing all means necessary to enforce a withdrawal of Iraqi troops. Bush Senior then lead a coalition force on a wholly defensive mission to stop Iraq from invading Saudi Arabia, though there was no evidence suggesting that Iraq had designs on anything other than Kuwait. It was after all this that the US Congress authorized the used of force to drive Iraq out of Kuwait. Bush Junior, on the other hand, had no resolution from the Security Council and went on a wholly offensive mission specifically to overthrow Hussain. I think the differences in these two situations are clear enough and there's no need for me to spell things out further.

C'mon, Turn the Other Cheek: Bush doesn't feign a friendship. It's good to hear that he's genuine in his feelings, but there is a certain amount of politicking that comes with the job of, y'know, politician. We're not asking Americans to learn all our Prime ministers or the order our provinces entered confederation. We're not even asking them to stop laughing at the colour of our money or to respect our hockey teams -- but we would appreciate being thrown a bone every now and then.

Maybe Chretien was concerned that Bush would implement huge tax cuts for the rich, run up the deficit, and start a war through false accusations. And if Canada has done so much America baiting over the years, as you suggest, why is Bush is the only one to take offense to it? There were 42 other presidents that could have spoken up just as easily, but maybe they weren't spoiled, grudge bearing babies who rode to power on daddy's money. (With the exception of John Q. Adams, who was likely at least one of the three.)

It's a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad Cow: We're both aware that the mad cow outbreak was an isolated case and that closing the borders to Canadian beef was an overreaction -- Canadians have been eating beef in huge quantities since the border closures and have been going mad for the taste, not because of BSE. And it's the cattle industry in general, and not Canadians in particular, that's irresponsible with its feed, so stop stabbing that finger in the air before it gets cut off and ground up into cow chow.

NAFTA, SHMAFTA: Just because I have my doubts about NAFTA doesn't mean I'm against the reduction of trade barriers; we both know that trade barriers are the least contentious issues behind the free trade agreement, and that reducing trade friction is beneficial to everyone. Regardless, there were few existing trade barriers when treaties like NAFTA and CUFTA were put into effect in the first place, and the main focus of these treaties are not free trade, but shackling governments and granting special privileges to corporations. These are the issues lefties like me object to.

25 Million People Can't Be Wrong: When I say "a lot of [people] hate George Bush", I mean a lot -- not all. I'll concede that there's one person who loves Bush for each person who hates him; hell, I'll give you three to one and six who don't care either way. But with roughly 250 million people in North America, even a tenth of that is a lot of people.

Make a Run for the Border: No sir, we don't buy 80% of the US's exports. In fact, according to the Department of Foreign Affairs, Canada only buys about 19% of American goods and services, whereas the US buys a whopping 16.5% of Canadian goods -- only 63.5% lower than your apparently well researched estimate. This cross border trade amounts to $188 billion per year, or about $1.2 billion per day. That's a lot of money. I mean, it's not a trillion dollar deficit or anything, but it's still a lot.

Kathy, I'm glad you and whoever it is at The Meatriarchy -- Tony, or something -- have found someone -- however misguided -- that inspires you. I'm glad you can find a shred of justification in this crazy war that doesn't make you want to pick your brain out of your ear with a shrimp fork; maybe it's ossified to the point where you need something sharper, like a dental pick, I don't know. I don't understand your attitude, and I probably never will -- but calling me a dickhead and an asshat and then whining about sharing Canada with me are poor justifications for your opinions, although it does seem typical of your rhetorical style.

Allow me to provide you with an interesting mnemonic to remind you of our positions: Left and Right must disagree/always, by necessity. Cute, eh? I just made that up. So, as we stand squarely on opposite sides of the fence, I suggest you use your energy not to add more posts in your blog about this left-wing fucker (or f***er, as you're fond of writing) who just won't give it a rest, but instead to propel yourself forward to new adventures, and, more importantly, new geographic locations! Go! Be free! Throw off the oppressive yoke of Canadian society! I would be delighted if you no longer had to share Canada with the rest of us asshats.

All the best to you and Tony!

2004-01-05T02:55:00.000-06:00

Welcome, everyone, to Lectures on Everything 2004: the same old crap you've been reading for nearly 14 months, but without all those things like content, topical issues, and insightful analysis that you'll find in other, more popular blogs.

New in 2004:

Tamara has a mouse.

I wrote the following poem for this poetry quiz at poetry.com. They claim it's being evaluated by a team of poetry experts as we speak!

Giant spiders ate my butt!
Only giants made the cut.
Smallers ones stayed at the back
For fear of dying in the crack.

Thank you.

2003-12-31T04:25:00.000-06:00

In regards to Kathy Shaidle's article on the Dallas Morning News.

Dear Ms. Shaidle:

I don't know how to begin. As a very left-wing Canadian, I have some beefs with your column; as a Mac user, I respect your Mac.com e-mail address.

What to do, what to do. Well, I suppose even one of the Faithful can be lead astray every now and then.

What I have taken the most offense to is this business of your objections to M. Chretien's actions vis-a-vis the War on Terror. I believe that Canada had every right not to participate in any action the US had concocted; I'm sure you've read MichaelMoore.com and heard his blather about a fictitious war and a fictitious president -- and I firmly believe it's all true. Bush was given the office unfairly; reasons for the war in Iraq were falsified; the US had no business defying the UN (and the Geneva Convention, but I suppose that's still debatable). I am appalled by the actions of Mr. Bush and his cabinet, and as much as I have sympathy for everyone affected by September 11, the US is acting more like a schoolyard bully than the wiser, older brother we all look to as a role model.

Yes, a lot of Canadians hate Mr. Bush; a lot of Americans do too. But we hate Mr. Bush for losing his "family friend" Osama Bin Laden, and for "Freedom Fries", and for the Haliburton deals, and for "Bring 'em on", and for soft-wood lumber, and for declaring people carrying almanacs as a terrorist threat, and for closing the borders to Canadian beef, and for treating us as second class people instead of his largest trading partner, and for taking offense that we are a sovereign nation, and are allowed to make our own decisions regardless of US opinion. We, as a nation, deserve better treatment from our neighbours to the south; we deserve to be treated with the same respect we give, and so far in this presidency, we have not received this courtesy.

I would also like to comment on the content of your column, which was lacking. What was the point of it, exactly -- that you had hated the US at one point in time, but following 9/11 you now love it? Can you tell us why we would care to know this? Can you provide me with the reasoning that might also change my jaded opinions? It seems to me that this Op-Ed of yours is too little Op or Ed, and too much cheering on of the Bush regime. I read nothing more than "Rah! Rah! Rah!"; we have content requirements in Canada -- is it any wonder you had to reach into Bush's home state to get it published?

All the best to you and yours in the new year.

Sincerely,

--Deron Staffen

2003-12-18T05:45:00.000-06:00

I was browsing through the Internet Movie Database after voting on Hackers. I browsed my way through Angelina Jolie's filmography to Winona Ryder's filmography -- by way of Girl, Interrupted -- and clicked through to Welcome Home Roxy Carmichael.

It was filmed in 1990. Winona looks delightful on the movie poster -- limbs somehow crossed and uncrossed at the same time, a pink dress neatly covering the proper places, big, black boots which are seemingly incongruous but somehow appropriate; this was before all the shoplifting charges and whatnot that stole much of her innocence, charm, and public image. I stared at the poster and I remembered how I wanted to see that movie but never did, and then I remembered how attractive I always found her, and, in particular, how attractive she appeared to me just then in that snapshot of herself, frozen in those boots, in that dress, in that position. And for some odd reason, a huge wave of depression washed over me and I wanted to cry.

Thirteen years. God.

Where has my life gone?

2003-12-15T16:25:00.000-06:00

I was reading Reader's Digest the other day -- highly appropriate, I guess -- and they had one of those Dramas in Real Life that they so often put in their delightful publications: Trapped on a Burning Yacht.

This isn't much of a drama in real life; it's more of a drama you might find on Falcon Crest, or Dynasty: "I say, Carrington, Lord Wicktenstein's yacht seems to be on fire. How terribly droll." A drama in real life would be more like, Homeless Boy Locked in Abandoned Refrigerator, or Four Dollars Short in the Nine Items or Less Lane.

I would love to be on a yacht, for any length of time. I'd phone all my friends to come over and check me out. And if it was burning, I would just tell them all to hurry, we've only got, like, ten minutes to enjoy this thing before it's at the bottom of the ocean.

2003-11-30T04:31:00.000-06:00

Places I've puked:

Staff party

Toilet

Kitchen sink

Bathroom sink in department store

Garbage can

Greyhound bus bathroom

Behind a video store

On girlfriend (now ex-girlfriend, but not because I puked on her. Well, not only because I puked on her.)

Bonus marks for people who guess which times were due to illness and which to overindulgence.

2003-11-20T05:15:00.000-06:00

Way, way back, when I was in university, I was in a deep, deep funk. Funky enough to want my life to just abruptly end, but not quite funky enough to take the necessary steps. Life was simply one weight followed by another, and another, day after day, never letting up. And I was so very tired of it.

Eventually, on the advice of a friend, I went to Student Health to see someone. I remember sitting in the waiting room looking at posters produced by drug companies, and thinking that some drug would be prescribed to me. Then I thought about drug companies paying the doctors to foist these drugs on people, and how much of an assembly line it was: ailment-drug, ailment-drug, ailment-drug.

I wasn't feeling particularly down that day, or nervous, or uncomfortable. I was finally called into the examination room and the doctor, a wonderful woman in her mid-thirties, asked me what was wrong. And in response, I inexplicably burst into tears.

I remember how much I ached as it passed through me; I had never known how I really felt, what I had locked away inside, until that very moment when it all just tumbled out like a tangle of drunken gymnasts. I'm often reminded of the Zen saying, "When the student is ready, the teacher will appear"; I think I was just waiting for the right person to ask me how they could help.

I apologized for my outburst, and after some talking she put me on Paxil, the first of my on-again/off-again romance with antidepressants.

There are a few other things that I took away from my visits with this delightful woman who changed my life: she told me that, oftentimes, people on antidepressants feel "more like themselves"; I've found that it's very hit-and-miss. She also told me to read The Celestine Prophesy and Stephen King's Insomnia, as "those guys really seem to know something the rest of us don't." And this, I think, she was right about.

2003-11-08T06:37:00.000-06:00

I lost my job today. It was a great six years, by and large -- definitely more good times than bad. I don't know if I can ask for much more than that.

Sorry, everyone.