(the) Misadventures of Mikael

The Seven Ways of Joy

2009-11-09T11:57:00.005-06:00

I had spent the evening with a friend, playing games and conversing and having a few drinks. Because we'd been drinking, my friend wasn't able to give me a ride home, and it was late so I couldn't call for a ride. So I walked home. I was expecting it to take a lot longer than it did, from Linden Woods to River Heights - especially the stretch down Waverly, south of Taylor. But at Taylor, that's when the excitement happened. I saw some seven kids - maybe 14 or 15, decked out in the latest "urban youth" attire - flowing white hoodies with black lettering, jeans down to their bums, baseball hats askew, a horrible strut and attitude in their walk. I walked past them, and I heard calls of "howdy" and "hey there" and I tipped my head, and continued walking on. "What the fuck?!"

I heard a patter of footsteps on the pavement, and suddenly there was a weight on my back, and hands reaching around and fumbling with my face. Another hand grabbed me, and spun me around. I followed it with a severe swing of my left arm, and hit some ribs. I grabbed the hands on my face, and tried to flip that hooligan off my back - he had his legs tightly around my waste though, and held on. I swung around, and bashed him against the traffic light. I don't remember the exact sequence, but the rest of them attacked me. They'd punch and kick at me, landing their blows, but I'd return them with ten times the fury and power, knocking one down with a power stroke, or a one-two to their chest. This went on for a while. They hit my face and head, my neck and back, my kidneys, my chest and stomach. One of them pulled out a pocket knife - like a Swiss Army Knife, and tried to stab me with it. I grabbed his wrist as it came towards me, and punched the knife out of his hand, grabbed him by the neck, and shook him several times before throwing him down.

There wasn't a lot more attack left in these boys - they were whipped good, and as one bolted, the rest followed him. I gave chase, because I was pissed off. I caught two of the hooligans, and was tempted to ask them to take me to their parents, like I did with the vandals at CoTW when I was youth pastor there, but I was tired, and instead, I called the police. There happened to be a cruise car in the area, and they showed up within five minutes. Fortunately for me, as the cop car came into view, one of the kids tried to bolt, and I caught him, but once the cops were on the scene, the two punks tried to say that I had attacked them! The cops patted me down, and searched my backpack, and found a bottle of vodka. I explained I had been drinking at a friend's, and that that was why I was walking home. I described the attack, and what I was able to see of the seven - clothing and distinguishing features. I gave the cops my address and phone number, as well as my friend's, for corroboration of my story. They gave me an alcohol breathaliser test, and I had a 0.4 alcohol level, when I think the legal limit (for driving) is 1.2 or something like that. They must have believed my story, because they put the two kids in the backseat, and let me walk the rest of the way home - about forty minutes. They said they'd call me if they had any questions. I was sore, and pissed off. I got home, and was interrogated by my mother on why I was home so late. I explained being jumped, and that I had been drinking with a friend, which is why I had to walk home. She gave me the third degree on drinking so "heavily", although I had only had three drinks in the space of six-point-five hours. I guess finally she was convinced of my story, and was relieved that I was okay.

I'm still sore - my whole body feels like a big bruise, although in the mirror, I don't have a mark on me. Those punk-ass kids just weren't as tough as they thought they were. I hope I didn't hurt any of them too bad - one of the guys I caught was running with a limp - I think he's the kid that I kicked with the flat of my foot, his inner thigh, and following through until he hit pavement. The other kid was like six feet tall, and 140 pounds - he was squinting through both his eyes, and bleeding from his mouth and nose. They both looked to be in a lot of pain. And I know that at least a couple of them were bleeding from their heads. The stupid hooligans. And the irony is that earlier in the evening, My friend and I were talking about pacifism, and how I thought that in theory I was a pacifist. Turns out I'm not. And now I know that I can handle myself in a fight - this was my first one. MHC was very apologetic when he heard the story, he didn't have his cell on him, but he pointed out that I was able to beat up seven 14 or 15 year olds - it would be a different story against seven adults.

Swift Current and Beyond? - from "Mechanized DEATH"

2009-08-17T04:01:00.002-05:00

I have a habit, it seems, of coming up with trips that don’t really work very well. In theory, of course, they work quite well! Everything fits, everything is thought of. And yet the reality of it, is that nothing ever goes right.

My friend Tyler and I, decided one day that it would be fun to drive out to Kananaskis, and hike a mountain that we had tried to hike a couple months prior with our schools Marsh n’ Mountain Club. We hadn’t been able to then because it had too much snow on it. It was a spur of the moment idea, and somehow, it came to fruition the very next day. With an afternoon filled with parental pleading, Tyler and I convinced our parents to not only let us go, but for our younger brothers to come along too (it decreased our costs to have more people come along); for me to drive my dad’s “brand new” 1982 T-bird Elene; and to do it the next day.

We left early in the morning, nothing really eventful happened – just some dense fog and a drunk truck driver, which I was eventually able to get away from. We arrived in Regina in five hours, which is about an hour faster than we should have arrived. We didn’t want to arrive too early in Calgary, where we were going to be staying, so we decided to take our time in Regina. We went into a mall, and walked around (I’m not exactly sure why) and I eventually saw some water colour paints and was struck by lightning (actually, it was an idea).

With idiotic enthusiasm, which comes only with youth, we painted the T-bird (which was in dire need of a paint job), creating the “Westgate Mobile” – a manifestation of our love for our high school. We had slogans on the bumpers, and windows, and a rebel flag painted on the roof (in honour of the General). We then proceeded back to the Trans Canada via the city, yelling and screaming as befitted our newly acquired stature. It amused us all to see the reactions on peoples faces.

We continued on towards Calgary, now on time, but with the way I was driving, we were sure to be ahead of schedule pretty soon. My heavy foot was likely a large part of what happened next. About five minutes past Swift Current, Konrad and Stephan smelt a heavy, sweet, syrupy smell, and the floor began to shake beneath my feet. Then, what was to be the beginning of depression for some, and adventure for myself, happened. The car died while I was cruising at 160 km/h, and steam began to poor from the hood. Non-chalontly, I turned to Tyler, “Would this be a good time to pull over?” “Yeah… I think so.” I turned on the steering wheel, and stepped on the brake, but I could barely depress the peddle! I did pull over without incident, in the middle of a construction zone, and like mad men, we leapt away from the car. For Konrad and I, smoke pouring from cars was a bad experience still fresh in our minds. For Tyler and Stephen, it just meant bad things.

When the car didn’t explode like we expected it to, we slowly walked back to the car. We weren’t quite sure what to do. We lifted the hood, and the smoke hit us like a thick linoleum lined wall! Green liquid covered the entire engine, and hood. We surveyed the mess, and when we saw the liquid on the battery, we (who knew nothing about cars) came to the conclusion that the battery had exploded, and that the engine was now covered with battery acid.

After about half an hour, a water truck (for the construction) pulled up, and the driver hopped out. A string of profanity poured smoothly and effortlessly from his mouth as he took inventory of my engine. A while later, a man named Curtis (who I later found out was the owner of the construction company) came by, and began cutting at a hose in my engine with a knife! I was extremely worried that this stranger was destroying my car! But, he explained, that he was cutting the radiator hose, which he could then stretch to the radiator, and re-attach. After that, we’d be able to continue on the Calgary. He fixed the hose, and for the next half hour, we boiled water in the sorely over-heated radiator. We went through over thirty gallons of water before it was cool enough that, according to the truck driver, we would be able to continue merrily along our way.

We did continue on our way, starting off nice and easy. Another few minutes later, or far enough that we were out of sight of the construction site, another explosion rocked the car as the hood flew up into the windshield, and a ball of black smoke mingled in with the steam from the radiator fluid rocketed into the sky. I pulled over to the shoulder again, this time more difficulty because I couldn’t see for the engine hood bent over the windshield, and the smoke. We again jumped from the car, hiding in the ditch, waiting for another explosion to shatter the air. Again, it never came.

When finally the smoke subsided, I went and checked the engine again. This time, I knew exactly what was wrong. There was a radiator hose (a different one) blown wide open, in a radial fashion, the entire length of the hose. We were far away from the construction site, so we couldn’t get their help. There was only one house in the area, and after many failed attempts at getting someone to come with me to ask for help, I proceeded alone over and under the three electric barbed wire fences that kept live-stock from the highway (I crossed at the wooden posts). I got to the inner fence, and began shouting out, afraid that since we were in ranching territory, the owner would greet me with a shot gun in the chest. I went to the door and began pounding as I yelled at the top of my lungs (still afraid of being shot), but no-one answered. I went to the back door, and was greeted by two very large horses, but still no-one showed up. Somewhat exasperated, I carefully walked back to the car.

We spent the next three hours flagging cars down, but no-one stopped for us. Our faith in human goodness diminishing, we sat on the roof of the car, hoping – praying for someone to come by. Eventually, a woman did come and stop for us. She offered us her cell phone, but there wasn’t any reception, so she offered to drive one of us to her place in her “shaggin’ wagon” (fifteen minutes down the road) where there was reception. Tyler went because he had the CAA card, but we worried that he wouldn’t come back as the woman was only letting one of us go. He did come back.

Another three hours later, a tow-truck eventually came, but he could only give two of us rides back into Swift Current which was a good thirty kilometers away. The other two had to walk. We decided that since I was the “owner” of the car, I should go – and Stephen should go because he was the youngest. It was Saturday, and we arrived at nine o’clock. All of the places we could go to get the car repaired were closed until Monday. And Tyler and Konrad had thirty kilometers to walk to town, which we figured they’d make no sooner than 3 AM. We called our parents to inform them of our situation, and they had no suggestions, except to call the RCMP to see if they could pick up our two waylaid travelers, and that we shouldn’t try and walk towards them, hoping to meet them to keep them company (as I had suggested).

So, I called the RCMP, and had to answer a bunch of questions about who I was, and who Tyler and Konrad were, and why we were out there, and what their predicament was, and so on and so forth, which lasted for a good fifteen minutes at least. Eventually, they said they’d send someone over to the Canadian Tire where we were waiting with the T-bird. I however, went out to look for stores that might still be open that could maybe sell me some parts to me for the car, leaving Stephen to wait for the fuzz.

There was a Co-op that had a garage across the highway from the CDN Tire, and so I headed there first. I didn’t know the name of the hose that blew up, but I tried to describe it to the pump jockey (as all the mechanics had gone home for the weekend), and he pulled down a bunch of hoses and showed them to me, and while none of them were perfect, there were a few that were similar in shape and size to the one that had blown, and so I ran back and forth from the car, trying to match them, and see if they worked or not. I must have run back and forth at least twelve times, trying different hoses that didn’t work. I also called every garage and car part supplier in the area – none of which were open or able to help.

On one of my runs, I found a Taxi waiting next to my car, just sitting there and looking at Stephen who had locked himself inside the car after the RCMP had left (and said they wouldn’t help us). I looked at the driver strangely, and went on with my work. The taxi just sat there watching. By the time I was twisting the last possible hose into place, a large limo pulled up, and Tyler and Konrad jumped out. None of us were sure how it had happened, but the limo driver had seen them, and picked them up, brining them back to the Canadian Tire. This was a relief as it was one less thing we had to worry about.

Tyler called his dad, as I continued to fiddle with the car, and the limo driver and taxi driver sat in their cars, talking to each other, and looking at us. They really freaked us all out. Eventually, Tyler suggested we get a motel room for the night while we waited for a garage to open and help us out. He and Konrad went, and then the limo driver got out and approached me. He told me that the hose I had twisted and shoved in the engine wouldn’t work. Only the proper hose would work.

The man got back into the car after looking at my busted hose, and started calling places. I had figured out that the hose that was exploded was the upper radiator hose (apparently there are three radiator hoses, and a by-pass radiator hose, which was the first one to explode). As the man called in places, I just sat in my car, staring at the heavy rain that had sprung up upon us. Another half hour, and it was already dark; the limo driver got out of the car and asked me to come with him. He had called a friend who was going to open up his warehouse for me at 10:30 on a Saturday night.

The inside of the limo was amazingly, the details of which I won’t get into here. We got to the warehouse, and the guy who owned the place began to look through his catalogue for the part I needed. I also found out that the limo driver was the owner of the local limo and taxi company (which is why the taxi driver was watching us). Eventually, the warehouse man found the part for me, and sold me a new radiator cap (the old one was busted up good) and some other stuff I apparently needed. I went back to the Canadian Tire, and as we drove huge baseball size hail began to hammer down upon us, denting the limousine like crazy. I hid under the hood as I installed the proper hose in the car, and filled the radiator with coolant, and it was ALIVE!!!

I drove over to the motel where Tyler had got us a really nice room, courtesy of the owner of the motel. (We were really lucking out with the small town business owners!) We went out to Boston Pizza to celebrate – it would be one of many future visits to Boston Pizza during our stay in Swift Current.

In the morning, I decided that before we continued on our way, I would drive the car around town to see if it was really fixed. We went up and down most of the streets, and on one of the streets, we saw the house of the tow-truck driver who had abandoned Konrad and Tyler (it’s on 2nd street on the corner at the bottom of a hill if anyone cares to avenge us.) It’s a good thing that I checked, because as we were stopped at the Canadian Tire again (we had made it our home base), Stephen noticed a large puddle of radiator fluid forming underneath us. “That’s not bad, is it?” he asked hopefully. We were still stranded. And it was Sunday – NO stores were open in the small town on a Sunday morning.

We waited in the sole café that was open in the town. It was across the street from the Canadian Tire so we could see the car. It was a good thing we could see it too, because a van pulled up in front of our car as we were in the café, and a man got out to check it out. I went out to meet him, and as it turns out, he was an old friend of Tyler’s parents. He took a look at the car, and tried to help us, but he couldn’t. So he left.

Another bit of luck hit us though, when the Canadian Tire we were staying at opened up at 11 AM – just for us! I went in and bought the parts I needed to fix the car. It was the lower radiator hose this time. Again, I drove the car around to check it out. It was working fine. No leaks. No sputtering or burning. No nothing but smooth as glass driving. It was a beautiful feeling, and we put on “Eye of the Tiger” to celebrate our victory. It lasted all of fifteen minutes. We sprung another leak, and I drove back to the Canadian Tire. They said they could fix it in the garage, but not until Monday morning. We’d have to wait another night – and the hotel owner wasn’t going to put us up again.

At noon, however, Tyler’s dad’s friend came by again, surprised to see us. He took us out to Boston Pizza so we could eat away our gloom. (I was actually still really pumped from the excitement of it all.) He dropped us off again at the Canadian Tire, and offered to take Tyler and Stephen to the bus stop (as their parents had decided that Konrad and I weren’t reliable traveling companions.) I went into the store, and asked if Kon and I could sleep in their parking lot over night. We prepared for the long haul.

But the nice man came back again, saying that he couldn’t let us sleep in the parking lot all night. In the morning, we waited for the car to get fixed, and then decided we'd travel whichever way the wind was blowing, which happened to be East, and then I drove eight hours home, following the speed limit for most of the way.

The One That Takes the Cake

2009-08-15T04:43:00.001-05:00

I love model rocketry. Although I haven't dabbled in it recently, since my sources of propellant chemicals have been cut off; but I used to be really into rockets. I made my own fuselage (body), fins, cone, and near when I last built rockets, cameras for snap shots from the sky, a parachute system, and a guage to determine how high the rocket flew. I also made my own fuel for my rockets, and sometimes I put a payload inside the fuselage as well, to detonate upon the separation of fuselage and cone. At this time, I was using a ten second fuse to launch the rockets.

I went to the park with a few friends, and we were going to launch one of my rockets. We had it angled against the wind, so that it would land more or less nearby, and not on any of the major roads or rivers nearby. As we were counting down to the launch, I noticed that the angle of the rocket was off, and it would send the rocket right into Portage Avenue, one of the busiest streets in Winnipeg. So, I ran towards to rocket, to try and stop it. I didn't go behind it like I should have, but I ran right over top of it, and managed to pull out the fuse before it launched into my face, which it was very close to. The fuse was very near it's end, and I managed to get out without a scratch or a face full of napalm, but needless to say, I was always more careful with my projectories from that point on, and with my own safety as well.

The Incidental Indigenous Individual's Roll

2009-08-13T04:33:00.001-05:00

I love kayaking in the spring. The rivers are high, just after the ice has melted, and the surface is nice and calm. You can see all kinds of wildlife in and near the waters, plus all the garbage and pollution you can think of. As spring turns to summer, the water levels usually go down, unless we've had an excess of rain. And when the water levels go down, the rocks begin to show, and the currents, which were hidden beneath the glassy surface, are suddenly laid bare, creating thunderous rapids! (Well... not really thundering. not really rapids either... just fast moving water over rocks).

Well, I was kayaking, keeping to the side of what I have called the rapids, in the calm waters near the shore, when I was pulled into the quick moving current, and suddenly hit a rock hard, tipping me over, and spinning me around. My head went under the water, and my head grazed something hard. I rolled right back up, no worse for the wear, except my kayak was filled with water, and I was a bit shaken up. I haven't been back in the water since then... I have a natural fear of water, but I've been trying to go out again, and maybe paddle in more easy areas, until I can find an experienced paddler to go out with me.

Climbing the Walls

2009-08-11T04:46:00.000-05:00

Since I was twelve months old, I've been climbing things. At twelve months, I climbed into my high chair; at eighteen months, I was climbing into the bath with Mom, unless she locked me out. I've been a performer all my life: "18 1/2 months Mikael was turning somersaults over my (Mom's) leg repeatedly while I (Mom) read to the older boys. He did it so well. We visited the Kinselas and Mikael was the entertainment. He did falling over antics and made everyone laugh."

I remember, vividly, the times that as I child I would climb the walls and door frames. I'd plant my feet, and grab the moulding with my hands, and climb to the top of the door frames, and then lock my feet on the moulding and crawl upside down. As I grew older, I was able to prop my body between hallway walls, and pushing with my feet and back, climb up into the corners.

One time, I would have been around five, in Kindergarten, I remember we had a family reunion of sorts at our home. There were lots of people. I was used to being the centre of attention, as I was since I was a baby. I climbed the door frame that separates the living room from the front hallway. It's a wide door frame, and it took a long time to cross upside down. As I was hanging from the top, I would let go with my hands, and just hang from my feet in the middle of the doorway. Normally, this was fine. But with the guests, I must have gotten a bit jittery, or else my feet were too slippery, or something happened that I didn't expect, and I fell from the door frame, and landed on my bum.

I remember feeling embarrassed, and it hurt a bit too. But none of that compared to being sent to my room by my Mom after having performed so lousily. I was ashamed and horrified that I hadn't made it: in front of what I remember as fifty people (although that number is probably not accurate). That's the first memory I have of being embarrassed. Perhaps my very first misadventure.

Notes Burning

2009-08-09T04:20:00.004-05:00

My first time was just after high-school. I had a lot of garbage to get rid of. Old notes and doodles from six years worth of binders and manila folders and duotangs. The first time it was a mystery if it would work or not. We just didn't know. It seemed straight forward and easy enough, but: WOULD IT WORK?

The idea was to build a raft to put the notes on, and then to shoot an arrow tipped with strike-anywhere matches into a container of home-made napalm, that would then set the notes on fire, and burn like a pyre of old. Napalm is tricky stuff to work with - once it's on fire, it does not go out easily. Water doesn't put napalm out by itself, so we had pop bottles filled with a baking soda/water mixture. This, we hoped, would work to put the napalm out should it get on any of us, or the trees, or grass, or it just got out of control.

I had several arrows dedicated to this mission. The first shot was a wide miss, not coming even close to the raft. The second shot hit the raft, and the arrow stuck in to the driftwood we used. The third shot too missed as well, popping just short of the raft. Finally, on the fourth shot, the arrow pierced the jug filled with napalm, and the splintering of the arrow on the wood beneath the napalm caused the matches to light up, and ignite the napalm, spilling over the piles and piles of notes! There was actually no misadventure here, but we watched the notes burn for a good half hour, and as the raft burned up and sank, the fire stayed lit on the top of the water. It was a bloody success! And I've continued the tradition every year of school since then, with the study notes I no longer wish to keep.

English Class and The Dukes of Hazard - from "Mechanized DEATH"

2009-08-07T04:22:00.001-05:00

The play was Othello. An English class assignment was to make a creative presentation on it. I wasn’t in this class, but was drafted for my amazing filming skills. My friends who WERE in the class, Sean, Tim, Tyler and Kevin, had come up with the idea of filming the play via the Dukes of Hazard. This meant a lot of fast, reckless driving, and crazy filming on my part.

One shot involved me standing on top of a van driving at 60 km/h (they wanted to faster, but I don’t think I could have stayed on at faster speeds) and film Luke (one of the Duke brothers, played by Kevin) jump from the General Lee (their car) into a police van. At one point, I had to straddle the two vehicles. Amazingly enough, I was somehow able to keep my coordination, which is an extremely rare occurrence.

Another shot had me crouching on the hood as we “ran down” Roxanne (is that her name?) and over her. I did fall off that time, into the gravel quarry outside the city, which stung a bit, but we were only going ten km/h.

There were also many shots where I had to stand, unflinchingly in front of the General as it came speeding towards me at upwards of 80 km/h, to film it making sharp, screeching turns as they made a get-away from the fuzz. I shudder (as I did then) as to what would have happened to me if they had not properly pulled off the turn.

The film turned out pretty good, although some shots had to be retaken at a later point when I was unavailable because the wind had been pretty strong, and the sound didn’t work so well. Apparently they all got A pluses for the film, and their teacher now shows the film annually to his students as an example of what they can do for their projects.

The Hazards of Loose Clothing

2009-08-05T04:50:00.003-05:00

"Those who inhabit the North are more rude, homely and unruly, and for this reason are called "wild". They wear like the Irish a large and full shirt, coloured with saffron, and over this a garment hanging to the knee, of coarse wool, after the fashion of a cassock." - 1583, Nicolay d'Arfeville.

Winter is my play time. When I lived in downtown Winnipeg, my only trasportation was my bike. I ride it during the glowing summer, I ride it during the briskness of fall, I ride it during the joyousness spring, I ride it during the depths of winter. One day, I was riding home from work, it was minus 40 degrees Celsius with the windchill; it was a Tuesday. But the sun was out, and it was beautiful. I rode home, inhaling the fresh, crisp air, and was intoxicated by it. As soon as I got home, I decided that I'd go for a cross country ski. So I trekked the three minutes down my backlane to the river, and began to ski - I skiied about twelve kilometers along the riverway, and I was feeling good! I was warm, and feeling vigourous. I had on, several layers of shirts - long johns, tshirt, sweater, jacket, belaclava and goggles. I wore my stretchy gloves, and some fishing gloves overtop of them, my legs, however, were only covered by my boxers and jeans. The ski lasted for a couple hours, and then I was still feeling good and warm - a bit nippy in my legs, but I felt good. So, I trekked my skis back into my apartment, and got out my skates and went back down to the river. I skated back and forth from the Forks to the Maryland bridge several times, and began to get tired. My feet were sore, but more to the point, my groin, which was splayed open as I skated, began to feel quite painful.

I tried to skate back into the wind from whence I came, and every single movement made my penis hurt. It was horrific! I waddled back up to my apartment, and stripped of all of my clothes, and my legs and groin were icy cold. I touched my penis to see if it could still feel, and it stung! It BURNED! Oh no! I got frost bite on my penis! It had shrivelled up as much as it could to stay warm, but the boxers and loose jeans just did not provide the same level of support that I needed! Needless to say, walking, cylcing, or even sitting down was quite painful at this time. I missed rehearsal with my a capella group Mindset because of it. I phoned and told them about my mishap, and they were concerned, but laughed at my misjudgement of how cold it was outside. Now I wear boxer briefs, which have the support of briefs, but the freedom of boxers! The best of both worlds! Yet, I could not walk or cycle for, well, several days afterwards. I called my mom to ask if she had any advice on how to defrost my nether region, and all she had to say was, "just hold it". So I did.

Near-Groin Injuries

2009-08-03T04:42:00.004-05:00

It has happened on a few occasions, that I have injured myself near my groin. That's the blunt truth. How I have injured myself there, is something of a repeated mistake. It's something of a repeated misjudgement. I don't think I've injured my groin itself, but I've come closer than I would like to injuring it. I would, after all, like to have kids some day; and I wouldn't want any accident to come between me and that dream.

The three times it has happened, I have been climbing over something. The first time, it was the demolition fence - a ten-foot high chain-link fence, keeping tresspassers from entering the Ogilvie Flour Mill. I enjoy exploring old buildings, as I've said in previous posts, and the Ogilvie Flour Mill was a good one. It had old silos that you could jump into because they had rotting grain at the bottom of them to break your fall from five or six stories. Anyways, on exiting the demolition site, I leapt and scaled the chain-link fence. Now ten feet is not a considerable distance in certain circumstances, but at other times, it seems like a great height. This was one of those times that it seemed like a great height. I didn't want to jump from the top of the fence down to the ground; I thought I'd hurt something. So I climbed to the top, and straddled the fence, getting a firm grip with my boots on either side of the chain-link. But my foot slipped on the outside. I tried to hold up my weight with my hands and avoid falling, but I did just that. I fell, and the top of the chain-link fence dug into my upper, inner thigh, tearing through my jeans, and gouging the flesh underneath. The cut was five inches long, and led from three inches from my groin, down diagonally on my thigh, and it was about an inch deep, tapering off towards the end. It was bleeding profusely. When I got home, I inspected it, and decided that it was too embarrasing to go to a doctor to fix it up - he'd have to see my private parts - so I poured peroxide over it, and stitched it up myself with a needle and thread. It burned like all Hell let loose. Each needle stitch pulled at my flesh and I screamed in agony. It took about two months to heal.

The second time it happened, was at the LeFarge concrete demolition site. They were tearing down an old office building, which had some interesting files in there, and a banner declaring the number of days they had gone without an accident. Again, on the way out, I slipped on the chain-link fence, and this time, I tore the inside of my leg again, but only a glorified scratch. It stung like the dickens, and the inside of my shorts turned red, but with a couple of weeks, and regular dabbing of peroxide, it went away without a problem. This was several years ago.

Four weeks ago, I was scaling a warehouse near the Exchange District, and I was climbing over the fire-escape. It wasn't wet outside, but the metal was slippery under my boots, and again, I slipped, and the railing gouged my inner thigh. Three inches long. It tore my jeans again, and I can claim my recent obesity for the cause of this accident, as I should have been able to catch myself and not fall. I managed to hold on to the railing though, and not tumble down to the ground two stories below. But at Folk Fest, with all of the walking we did, I continuously tore and re-tore the wound. It's been a while since then, and even still, I have to be careful about the way I walk. Keep the thighs apart.

You'd think I'd have learned after each time to be more careful when climbing things - or that I'd avoid climbing over fences and railings all together. But I'm just not wired that way. It may be dumb, but I enjoy the risk and thrills of exploration and being where I probably shouldn't be. Next time, maybe I'll be more careful.

Bitch-Slapped by a Woman

2009-08-01T04:47:00.000-05:00

I like photography. I love going around and taking pictures of things happening in the city. Parades, protest rallies, people milling about, the buildings, traffic - you name it, and I'll take a picture of it. The Forks is a popular spot for photographers, and people in general. There's always something going on at the Forks. You have fire-truck pulls; ice sculptures; salsa dancing; concerts; dragon boat racing; and more.

One day, I went to the Forks with my SLR and a change of lenses (as is always good when taking photos). My intent for the day was to take photos of the Dragon Boat racing that goes on annually as a fundraiser for, I think, some kind of cancer. I had my telephoto lens, which is a big, 20cm. long lens - to get close-up shots of things far away. As I was walking towards the pavilion for the races, a woman in her mid-thirties ran up to me, and slapped me across the face, hard. "How dare you!" She bellowed at me. "Can't a person have a decent amount of privacy?" She stomped off, leaving my face red from the slap, and embarassment at not knowing what she was talking about. I wasn't taking pictures of her! But I guess a camera can bring out terrible sides in people. I got the wrong end of that stick that day. Now, whenever I go out with my telephoto lens, I cradle it in my arms, hiding it away within the folds.

We Won't Flip - from "Mechanized DEATH"

2009-07-30T04:46:00.000-05:00

My friend Tim is as close to being a redneck as anyone living in the white north could possibly be. It’s who he is. If there’s an ethnic slur or group generalization, he’ll find it, and throw it out; he’d sleep with a gun under his pillow if he could; and he knows every nut and bolt that exists on every (domestic) car ever in production. If there is something to know about cars, Tim knows it.

Tim is also a bit of a stuntman. He can do just about anything with a car, including putting it up on two wheels. One day, Tim decided that he wanted to teach me how to do a 180 into a parking spot. It’s an honourable intention, yes? So, we drove out to Birds Hill Park, and found a nice abandoned parking lot. The trick, he told me, was to get some speed: anything over 50 km/h is good; and then turn hard, while first squeezing the life out of the brakes. Simple enough, yes?

Actually, it was pretty simple. He demonstrated for me first, and while it felt the whole time like the van was going to flip, as the rubber burned, screamed in horrible protest, I came away with an extreme sense of “I wanna try now”. I did try, and I succeeded! Yeah for me!

After I realized that the centre of gravity is pretty low on a mini-van, and there wasn’t too much worry that I’d flip, the biggest problem for me became putting this into practice in a real parking lot (empty of course). In a real parking lot, the idea is to speed towards your parking spot, straight on, and then hit the brakes and turn about 10 feet before you reach the spot, and not overshoot the spot and hit the wall, or barriers or whatever else there is in the way that would make my parking job not so nice. Again, I succeeded, and even got within the lines nicely. But I was filled with a sense of conscience, which told me that this was probably not the best thing to do. So, while I have learned what could be a very crucial skill if I am ever attempting to get away from bad-guys trying to hunt me down, and I need to use some tricky driving to get away, I hope I never have to use it.

Snow Dump Folly

2009-07-28T04:19:00.003-05:00

"Climb every mountain, search high and low
Follow every by way, every path you know
Climb every mountain, ford every stream" - The Sound of Music

As I've said in previous posts, winter is my favourite season. There's so much to do in the winter; the landscape is so different than in the summer, spring, or autumn. The snow gets collected, and dumped in huge, massive piles. This is one of my favourite places to be. On the South Side snow dump, caterpillar machines push snow up to a high pinnacle - maybe a hundred feet high. On the side where they drive up, the gradiant is perhaps 30%. However, on the three other sides, where the snow falls, the incline is much more like 70% or 75%. I like to climb up these sides, and pretend to be a mountain or glacier climber. There are often few places to rest your feet as you climb. The snow is rock hard. So you climb, inch by painful inch, moving from side to side, looking for the next hold. Once at the top, you feel like you're the king of the world! You're higher than anything else in Winnipeg.

One of my favourite pastimes when climbing this mountain of snow, is the descent. I like sliding down the 30% gradiant on my toboggan. There are ruts where the snow plows have come, and bumps where the tread was. The ruts are massive, although from a distance they look quite small and insignificant. Going down these slopes, you travel at high speeds, faster than you can control, until you hit the piles of debris at the bottom of the hill. That's if you go down the 30% gradiant.

Sometimes, however, once at the top of the hill, you lose grip of your toboggan, and it slides down the side or back of the hill. One time this happened to me, and I had no choice but to follow it. I sat down on my tuckus, and went down, feet first. But of course, as soon as I hit the first bump, my body changed directions, and I was now going down sideways, rolling as I went. Another bump, and my body is jarred on the icy blocks of snow. Pain shoots up my arm as my elbow splinters against the concrete-hard juts. It takes about thirty seconds to fall the whole distance - at least that's how long it seems. At the bottom, there isn't a nice soft cushion of snow, but more hard, rock-like boulders of snow. I rammed into it with my thigh, and felt my body crumple against it. I found my toboggan though, and climbed back up with it slung over my shoulder. My body ached, but I was ready to go again.

******

There's something else about the snow-dump that enthralls me. Next to the dump, is a building that has remained vacant for about ten years. And yet, at night, if you watch closely, there are black SUVs going in and out of the back of this empty building. I wonder what they could be. One time, I brought binoculars, and was watching the happenings in the building, and then two men emerged, and started towards me on the hill! I wondered if these guys were CSIS, and going to kidnap me for spying on them! That's what my friends thought when we'd scouted the place out in the past. I ran into the woods beside the hill, and trudged deep into the snow towards Fort Whyte. The men pursued for a few minutes as I gasped for air, running as fast as I could. They didn't catch me, but they sure did scare the bejeezers out of me. Since that time, I've seen less nocturnal activity at this building, and I've looked. But the black SUVs don't come anymore. I wonder if they've changed bases of operations.

The One That I'm Not Proud Of.

2009-07-26T19:13:00.005-05:00

It is time for me to write about the misadventure that I am least proud of. It happened nearly one year ago, and involved the police.

I have been a closet depression case for many years, and when, at the end of last summer, a large majority of my closest friends were moving away, the depression hit hard. My best friend was going to Spain to study her Master's degree, and we were having a goodbye party for her the Friday night before she left. I was on anti-depression and anti-anxiety drugs at the time, for just a few weeks, and I was expecting to feel very depressed and anxious during this party, so for two weeks, I saved up my pills, with the idea that I would take them that night to reduce the depression and anxiety.

After a short lived potluck picnic because of the mosquitos, we moved indoors and began some drinking (not to be mixed with anti-depressants!), and I started to go over board, mixing some Sour Puss (a mid-level alcoholic beverage) with vodka (a high-level alcoholic beverage) - half and half. I had several of these concoctions, and enjoyed them, getting a nice little buzz as we played "Presidents and Bums" (also known as "Big Boss, Little Boss, Scum" or "Shit-head") - widely popular hierarchical card game. I went into the bathroom and emptied my little paper envelope of drugs, and ingested them.

After the game, we were going to a popular "Gay" club, because my friend's sister thought that it was the best place to go and not get hit on by guys (not being a guy, I guess she didn't think of us guys being hit on) There were about fifteen of us going. As I stepped out of the car, i was already a bit tipsy, and walked a crooked line across the street towards the downtown club entrance. We payed our admissions, and began dancing on the dance floor. A round of shots was sent around, and we continued to dance. I remember going back and forth between the part of the group on the dance floor (including some of my friend's friends who had met us there, whom I did not know) and the other members, hunkering down at the bar, watching. I usually, I think, followed my best friend around.

Now we enter what I don't remember, but have been told. Apparently, at one of the times that I was back at the group by the bar, I just sat down on the ground. My friends there said that I should sit up on a stool, because if I looked drunk, the bouncers would toss me out. But I was unable to sit on a barstool, so a couple friends took me over to a table. At this point, I decided, and I vaguely remember this part, that I should go home - that I was too drunk to stay on, and that I had shamed my friend. I got up, and left the club, my friends at the table chasing after me.

Apparently I tried to cross the street while there were cars whizzing by, and a friend had to tackle me down to the ground to keep from being run over (I was going to walk home). When seeing the struggle, another guy helped him hold me down. I was held up against the wall, but broke away and they tackled me again. At this time, a police car cruised by, and two policemen got out and took over. I remember a strong hold on me, and not being able to struggle any more. I was on the smooth pavement of the street, and when the cop jabbed me in the side, I threw up some. Soon I felt the cold hard metal of handcuffs being put on me.

They threw me in the back of the cruiser, where there isn't really any space for feet, and I kept my feet out so they couldn't close the door on me. So they went to the other side to open that door and pull me in. But I scooched forward, and exited that door. Again, the cops tackled me down and brought me to the back of the car, this time succeeding in closing the doors, and I suppose the talked to my friends, because they left me alone. At this time, I saw that the window between the back of the car and the front of the car was open, and I began to crawl through it to the front of the car, with my hands tied behind my back. The cops saw me, and pushed me back into the backseat of the car.

They took me to the drunk tank, although I wasn't really aware of where I was at the time. I remember they took off my boots one at a time, and I nearly fell over each time they lifted my foot. And they took some other things from me. I was led into a cell, that only had a matt and a grate in the corner by the door. I don't think I fell asleep - or if I did, I didn't sleep for long. And I tried to strangle myself with my belt, by looping it around the grating in the floor, but I couldn't hold it strong enough to pass out. But the grating was loose, and the hinges for the door were on the inside. I used my belt to remove one of the bars for the grating, and used it to pry open the hinges, and took the door down, and escaped! But the two cops were, or two like them, were nearby, and quickly caught me and brought me to another cell, this time without my belt.

I realized at this time, that the grate was probably for relieving one's self of whatever happened to be in the system, and that I'd been sitting on it to avoid being looked at through the window. That window! It was made of strong plexi-glass, but after several strong hits with my forehead, it began to break. The plexi-glass fell out of the window, and I was soon hauling myself out of it too. Again, they caught me, and pushed me back in to the cell.

I spent the rest of the night alternating sitting, and banging on the door as everyone else seemed to be banging on their doors. No one came this time. At about 6AM (although I didn't know the time), I pleaded to them to let me out, because I had medications I had to take. They eventually let me out, and I found myself near the thunderbird house up by Higgins, and started walking home. I walked in the wrong direction for a while before I realized that it was the wrong direction, and I still felt the effects of the alcohol and drugs I had taken - I was very tipsy. Eventually, however, I did find my way home on foot, and fell asleep.

I slept until late that afternoon. When I woke up, I was not hung over, but I did feel a nasty remorse for what I had done, ruining my best friend's good bye party, and the time for the rest of my friends. I began to slit my wrists and throat with razor blades, trying to hang myself from the door frame in the kitchen, asphyxiate myself - anything to end the shame I felt. At this time, one of my other friends who wasn't at the goodbye party called me and asked me what I was doing. I told him, "Oh, I'm just slitting my throat". I heard a pause in his voice, as if he wasn't sure if he should believe me or not, then he said he'd come over. When he came, he found me in a pool of my own blood, on the floor. He called 9-11, and the same two cops came and brought me to emergency. The hospital pyschiatrists came in, and after a while, said I could go home with my friend, and gave me some medications. I slept, except for fifteen minutes here and there, for the next three days until I was admitted to the McEwan Psychiatric Ward at the St. Boniface Hospital.

Gun Slinger

2009-04-25T19:12:00.003-05:00

Every Christmas for a few years, my gift to the family would be a cache of guns. At the Dollorama, they sell them cheaply. I usually buy about $20 worth of guns. Some are hand guns, others rifles. There are different types of darts that they shoot, but they're all orange and rubbery. They'll come with various apparati such as SWAT flash bangs, police batons, goggles, handcuffs, dart holsters, targets, and more! While we're opening the rest of our Christmas presents, we have the fun of shooting each other with multiple weapons. For the weeks after Christmas, there is nothing but mayhem.

We will go around shooting each other, dogding out of the way, sneaking up on each other, or setting up ambushes. There is a lot of death. There is much wailing and tears. We are gun slingers. We get pretty good at aiming too - from one side of a room, we can hit targets on the other side of the room and beyond (which is pretty good when shooting rubber darts).
One incident that we got into, was in the kitchen. We had a Mexican stand-off from three different entries to the kitchen. No one could make it through there without being shot up. But I needed to try. I took a dive, and turned it into a handsome roll through which I was able to let off two rounds. But I misjudged the distance I was going, and rolled right into the counter, hitting my head.

I wasn't bleeding, but I sure was woozy and nauseous after. Further tests determined that I had sustained a concussion. A concussion from a gun-fight. It's always one of my two truths when I play that game with strangers where you say two truths and one lie, and people have to guess which is the lie. No one ever suspects that I would have sustained a concussion in a gun fight.

How I Broke My Legs (and other stories)

2008-12-22T20:52:00.000-06:00

"A Larimer County farmer lost a cow in a queer manner. The animal in rummaging through a summer kitchen found and swallowed an old umbrella and a cake of yeast. The yeast, fermenting in the poor beast's stomach, raised the umbrella and she died in great agony." - from Modern Eloquence, Volume 10: "Anecdotes Indices".

And with one other story behind us, we shall now consume the meat!

{...and, with a great rush of strength, I leapt from the window towards the building in front of me.} A favoured activity of mine, in which I engage relishingly but sparingly, is something called Urban Exploration. I love nature, but I also see much beauty the creations and machinations of men. CITIES! What beauty can be seen here! At one point, when little was here, someone said that they would make a mark on the world. He saw what could be, and built it! As the years go by, some of what was built falls into disuse, and is abandoned. That's when Urban Explorers and squatters alike fall upon the structures. For me, the exhilaration is in reliving what once went on in the building, as well as getting into the structures...

Often there are fences to be climbed, walls to be scaled, rickety fire-escapes to be lunged from. The Urban Explorer's M.O. is to leave only footprints; I often also leave skin and blood. I've explored everything from old steam tunnels, to bomb shelters, to houses and apartment buildings, to factories, grain elevators, barns, banks, schools... all abandoned, or in disuse.

One particular place I visited was a complex of buildings. There was an office building that was boarded up, and next to it was a factory-like structure, industrial in nature. There were also tool sheds and garages for machinery on the complex. After climbing over the chain-link and barbed-wire fence, the difficulties are few. The office building was boarded up securely, and there was no way in through the ground floor levels or the second storey, either, which I can sometimes climb up to. But there some of the boards on the industrial building were loose and broken, so I took my invitation and went exploring. The things you can find are amazingly fascinating; I love looking at the machinery and figuring out what it did; how it worked, etc. The industrial building was several storeys high, and fairly close to the office building which was three storeys high and had big windows which weren't boarded up. Some of the windows were broken.

So I climbed up to the fourth floor of the industrial building, on some scaffolding and catwalks, and found a window that faced the office building. It was a tall window that opened up and had locks on the bottom. It took me a while, but I jimmied open the locks, and forced the window open. It was the kind that slides up, so I propped it up with a pipe I found lying around. I eyed the broken window of the building across from me. I wanted to go in; I could see that there were filing cabinets and desks still in the building, and I wondered if there were any interesting documents left for me to peruse.

It took me a while to psych up the courage, but eventually I decided to go for it. The building was only ten feet away, I surveyed; I could jump. I ran along the corridor leading to the window, and, with a great rush of strength, I leapt from the window towards the building in front of me. As I was soaring through the air, the thought occurred to me that I might not make it, but the thud of the brick wall proved me wrong. I hit the wall hard, but my hands clutched on to the window frame. I hung there from the third storey window, my body aching and my hands torn up on the glass fragments and debris from the brick. I tried, frantically to pull myself up; I clawed at the brick wall with my feet, trying to lift my body up; but I had spent my strength. With reluctance, I let go of my grip and fell. I fell three storeys onto the snow-covered concrete.

My legs hurt and my chest hurt and my hands were burning furiously, so I licked them to make them feel better, but it only made it worse. I limped back to the fence, and hopped back over it, and walked to my where I had locked up my bike. For a month I worked and walked and cycled and skied. A month later, I stopped being able to walk. My legs just gave out, and I was trapped in my apartment, shuffling along on my bottom from my bedroom to living room, or bathroom or kitchen. I had to quit my job because I couldn't stand. I went to the doctor, and he said nothing was wrong. I went for a bone scan, and it came back negative. Then I had another bone scan because the doctors still couldn't figure out what was wrong with my legs and why I couldn't walk. I had hair-line fractures all the way up both my legs. And so, I continued on with my life, and eventually was able to walk again. And that my friends, is the rest of that story.

On Falling into the River and Perfect Hair

2008-12-21T00:25:00.005-06:00

I fell into the river this evening. It was a grand experience! My initial goal was not to fall into the river as I eventually did, but rather to snowshoe from near Omand's creek to the Osborne bridge where the river is already flooded for skating on, where I would skate. It is minus 18 with a windchill warning, blowing snow, so I bundled up. I had ski pants on since I was going to be snowshoeing (and snowshoeing kicks up a lot of snow onto my bum), long johns, because I didn't know how long I'd be in the john (haha - that's a joke), as well as my jeans, a t-shirt and sweater and jacket. I walked the fifteen minutes it takes to get to the footbridge, and near where it goes down to the river, I put on my snowshoes.

I slid, instead of walked down the slope to the river and debated if I should go on, or turn back home, for I was already sweltering. I decided that now that I was on the river, I was fine, and the world was great, and I could take it on, I dare anyone to prove me otherwise! So on I must go! And so I did.

But curiosity is a simple thing, and it attracts me like nothing else (except maybe love. But love isn't so simple as curiosity, so maybe curiosity wins - at least for now, for the sake of this story). Nearby where I had plummeted from the rather steeper and higher precipice of above, was a sewage pipe. I like to fish from this pipe in the summer; it's my marker for how high the waters flood in the spring. And I've always wanted to crawl inside of one and see how far I could get before it was too narrow and I couldn't go on. As I was recovering from my fall onto the ice, and re-checking the security of my snowshoes, I decided that I would walk up to it and look inside; see how far it went.

Now, don't go thinking I'm completely brainless. I'd already been on the river, skiing, and it has been a cold stretch for over a week now. The ice was thick and strong. I knew this to be true. So, I walked up to the sewage pipe, and bent down to peer in. It happened very slowly and gracefully, but I began to move downwards. As I moved downwards, the snow seemed to rush upwards, and then suddenly, I was smelling sewage, and the inside of the sewage pipe was a lot higher than it was when I was bending over. I was nipple-deep in the water of the river, and my back was quickly arching the way it gets when it's suddenly cold. I kicked around in the water, and couldn't feel the bottom, but I was floating.

I thought to myself that I was in an interesting situation, and I wasn't sure what I should do. Should I reach down and take off my snowshoes? Should I lay on my back and float? I couldn't tell if I was getting cold or not, but I think maybe not. I turned around in the water; all around me was ice and snow, and when I touched it, it fell away. I was thinking, this is Willow's dream-death: to freeze to death, and I felt agreement that it would be a good way to die. But then I realized that if I looked behind me, eventually I would find the solid ice I was standing on before I fell in. So I dog-paddled back, and found this ice.

I tried to pull myself up, but my thick clothes were laden with icy water, and heavy. I couldn't pull myself up. I thought of the cell phone in my backpack, and my skates, how I didn't want them to get wet. I planted my hands on the ice and positioned myself to heave my body onto the ice. And heave I did! And I floundered on the ice like a fat sea-lion (arf, arf!) I still had the snowshoes on, and I was surprised.

I took off my backpack as I stood up, and pulled out my phone. It was still working. Good. I called home, and my brother answered the phone. Can you pick me up, I asked. He was about to go to bed, and declined. Then I said, I just fell into the river, and I'm wet. This was true. But I still wasn't sure if I was cold or not. I felt warm. But I wasn't sure how long that would last, so I didn't think I should try the fifteen minute walk home in my now freezing winter garments. I told my brother where to meet me, and I walked to where I had come down. Too tall, and too steep to climb up. My snowshoes were frozen on to my shoes, and my shoes sloshed when I took a step.

Finally I found a less steep ascent, and began trying to climb it, using my poles to help me, and the metal teeth on my snowshoes to dig into the frozen dirt. It took a while, but I managed to get up part way. Eventually I made it to the rendezvous point, and my brother tossed some towels on me. You okay? he asked. Yeah. I felt good. My clothes were frozen, but I felt good. When I got home, I took off all of my clothes, still feeling quite warm, and put them in the laundry. As I took off my clothes, I looked into the mirror, and realized that I had perfect hair. Thick, and rich like a king of yesteryear. And that, my friends, is the rest of the story. I promised I wouldn't go out again tonight. Tomorrow... that's another story.

Rated 18+ for adult content

2008-07-22T04:37:00.002-05:00

"Great joys, like griefs, are silent." Shackerley Marmion

I am mollified as I report the horribleness which produces from within me the most foul of bile. The incidents which follow will describe the loss of an entire street to these feet of mine. And yet, perhaps, by removing the silence, the grief will subside.

The first occurrence happened on an early morning in December. It was still dark outside as I walked through the snow from my downtown apartment towards the church I was then working at as a youth pastor. I was on Assinaboia Avenue. As I neared the grounds of the Legislative Building, a blue pickup truck pulled in front of me in a driveway. It had been driving slowly the other way earlier, and I thought that the driver must be lost. So, as the window rolled down, I solicitously walked towards the truck with a bright 'good morning', and an offer of help. The driver, a bulbous and queer looking middle-aged man, smiled and patted the door of truck. "Where are you headed to?" he asked. Work. "Oh yeah? Where's that?" A church; I'm a youth pastor. "Really? Because I was hoping that you suck cock." Wide-eyed and quickly sick, I shook my head. I walked around the truck, and continued on my way to the church. I spent several hours doing my best to pray, and reading the Bible to try and shake the dirty, filthy, nasty, evil feeling that would not leave me.

Nothing happened again in 2007, and I began to feel a bit better about walking around my neighbourhood - although I stayed on the river as much as I could from then on throughout the rest of the winter. As spring slowly drifted into this city, the river melted, and I began to walk the streets again. Morning comes late in the cold months, and night arrives early. It is often dark, and walking in the dark cannot be avoided completely. I, especially, enjoy night-walks to cool my head, and to sort out my thoughts.

One morning, I decided to take a walk to the Forks to say 'hello' to one of my favourite street people who slept in a warm-up shack, but had to leave before 6AM so he wouldn't be harassed by jumpy middle-class jackets. On my way, down Assinaboia Avenue again, I saw the blue truck meandering down the street. My nerves raised, I was grateful it was going in the opposite direction from me. Yet I picked up my pace. As I neared Main St., I heard traffic behind me on the road, and turned around to see the blue truck quickly coming towards me, the bulbous and queer looking man craning his neck out of the window at me. I hopped a fence into a parking lot away from the street, thinking he couldn't stop me then. He turned down Fort street behind me, and I felt a glow of relief, but the sweat was damp in my sweater. I began to move back towards Assinaboia when I saw the truck come veering into the parking-lot from the street. My mind shrieking, I jumped the fence again. He followed me through another exit in the fence. He pulled up over the curb, blocking the sidewalk, his window rolled down again. "Good morning", he smiled deviantly. "Suck my cock? Pays well, $400." I shook my head no, and turned away from him, walking as fast as I could without running. He pulled off the curb, and disappeared. I began to think that maybe he only patrolled Assinaboia, so I headed towards Broadway. At the backlane behind the Fort Garry, the truck pulled up again, blocking my way. "$800! Ten minutes, that's all." Again, I turned and fled. As I walked back towards my apartment, I could hear and feel him following me across the road. I didn't want to let him know where I lived, so I continued on past my building, hoping that people would start appearing soon. I made it to the 24 hour Shoppers Drug Mart, and browsed. I peaked out once, and saw the blue truck idling in the parking lot. Eventually, when I left, the truck was gone.

Later, after telling a friend, I was told that I needed to report this to the police. The problem was, I didn't want to encourage the driver by staring at the truck long enough to read the license plate in the dark, and unfamiliar with cars, I couldn't tell what make the truck was. I did report it, but only being able to tell the police that it was a blue pick-up truck on Assinaboia Avenue did not help, and they dismissed me.

I decided after that, that I would completely avoid walking on Assinaboia when it was dark. However, while cycling home from China Town in the afternoon, I saw the blue truck and driver in the Exchange District - it looked like the bulbous man worked in construction based out of the Exchange! Not only did he patrol my streets, but he also worked in my area! I shudder to think about it.

Being quite poor, and always wondering how I'll pay my rent or if I'll eat tomorrow, I wondered how desperate people have to get to do some of the things they do for money. Eight hundred dollars is a lot of money! I wasn't able to think about this for long before I began to gag again. I have seen the truck a couple more times since, during daylight hours, and the driver tried to stop me both times. And now I have the most desperate aversion to the East side of that horrific street of male solicitation.

Baking Shaolin Style

2008-07-16T00:43:00.002-05:00

Two weeks later, my hand is still in an absolute state after my cooking accident. Cooking is one of the dangerous activities I put myself through. There are perils everywhere. Danger lurks around me. For you see, I am a self-proclaimed novice in Shaolin-style cooking. I know that one day I will have to face the eighteen bronze men in my training, and yet I continue. I will persevere, even as my hair turns pure white over night. (Please refer to "The God of Cookery" if you still don't understand.)

With graceful movements and power divined upon me, I spun the water and oil, surrounding and locking in place every grain of flour. Deftly, I tossed the dough into the air, sprinkling more flour on the kneading board as it rose and then fell in its place. Quickly and precisely, I began to beat the dough in all of the styles I had conceived, kneading it with punches, swirls, palm-blows, and more. It would have seemed to be pure poetry in motion if any had been intrepid enough to watch. As the dough became elastic, soft, and held its shape, I knew I needed only one more Shaolin-style move to allow the dough to become. Gathering my energy around me, I thrust at the dough in a final punch! However, my novice status here caught up with my graceful and fluid motions, and the power overwhelmed me. I punched through the dough, and through the wooden kneading board, into the solid counter beneath. My fist recoiled in pain! It was at that moment that I knew...

the oil in the wok was burning! Moving quickly, I was able to remove the wok from the stove-top without touching it. Superb! Disaster averted! My hand throbbed, however. As I ran cold water over my injured appendage, I stretched my body to the other side of the kitchen to see how my chick-peas were cooling for the hummus I was making for the pita bread I would soon bake on my new baking stone. My extended body recoiled in horror as I lifted the pot off of the tile floor, discovering that the pot had maliciously attacked said floor, and held in its clutches a large piece of tile.

Kitchen full of smoke, floor displaying holes, hand swollen and immobile, I retreated. I had faced a volley from Peril's mighty hands, and had survived. I would continue on to finish that pita bread, mash those chickpeas, and breath fresh air. And surrounded by an air of humble victory, I went on to be deluged at Folk Fest. Ahhh, eighteen bronze men, you will have your work cut out for you!

Suicide is Painless

2008-05-23T01:13:00.002-05:00

"Through early morning fog I see
Visions of the things to be
The pains that are withheld for me
I realize and I can see...

"That suicide is painless
It brings on many changes
And I can take or leave it if I please."

-"Suicide is Painless" - Title song from M.A.S.H.

Living downtown, I see things that are covered up, or don't exist in places like the neighbourhood I grew up in. There are people who make their livings begging on street corners; there are prostitutes and crack-addicts; the rich work and step around the poor and cover their noses from their unwashed stench; people sleep in doorways, under bridges, behind dumpsters, in parking garages; people live openly depressed lives on the streets downtown.

There are lots of people who reach out and help the downtrodden - the "disenfranchised" - but there are still lots of people who don't receive the love, help, commitment, or whatever that they need. That doesn't mean that the affluent don't live with depression or the lack of the thing(s) they really need, but the people I see downtown, on the streets, don't have the energy or resources to cover their depression and need, and so wear it quite openly.

One day before my last birthday, I was walking to China Town to buy some groceries - it's a twenty minute walk that takes me block-by-block from the white-collar government and high-business buildings through run-down restaurants and housing-projects through the Exchange District's classy/derelict historical warehouses to the mix-up of City Hall, abandoned slums, and Chinese cultural beacons. As I was walking, sirens blazed about and passed me, stopping in front of one housing project. There were several fire-trucks already there, police, and ambulances. I couldn't see any fire, and didn't know what was going on as I walked passed them, and teams of firemen either sat in their trucks or rushed into the building.

As I passed the lead firetruck, whose team was already inside save the driver who was standing beside the truck, I heard him cry out: "You! Stop!" I turned around, and saw the fireman looking, not at me, but up at the roof. I followed his gaze, and saw nothing. But then I saw a white leg move over the edge - then another. Blue arms surged forward to keep the woman from falling, but the rest of her body quickly followed her legs. She landed hard on the ground less than three meters away from where I stood. I could see her body fat shake and splat into the concrete. I felt some blood on my legs. I heard her head crack as her neck bent. The paramedics above through up their arms - the teams on the ground rushed to surround her and cover her naked body.

Dozens of people on the street and in the building ran closer to gawk. I stood there, not sure what to do. I prayed, but I didn't know if that was enough. What was my civic duty? Do these kinds of things need witnesses? Even if the authorities were already there? As I find happens in these slowed-down fast-happening events, I didn't know what to pray, except for "God, help". People continued to push in, and my view of what was happening was quickly obstructed. Not sure, and with a deeply sick knot in my stomach and with weak knees, I decided to continue on to China Town so that I would not add to the non-professional mass and chaos.

I don't know what happened to the woman who jumped: if she lived or died. I think of her often. I think of her family if she has any. I think of the men and women who tried to save her. I wonder if suicide is the best way for some people. But what about the people left behind? Even the ones who never knew the woman.

I witnessed two other incidents on that trip: an ambulance collided with a fire-truck while turning into an emergency site; a city bus turned a corner too fast and came off it's wheels, tipping over. How do people deal with tragedy and accidents? Why do these things happen? I went home and cried. My soul felt weighed down by these three incidents beyond my ability to cope. So I prayed. I was reminded of that day this afternoon as I walked the same route to China Town for groceries.

The Mystery of the Purple City

2008-05-17T04:46:00.000-05:00

“Have you ever heard of the Purple City?” she asked me, leaning closer. I furrowed my brow and shook my head.

“What’s the ‘Purple City’?” I asked, my curiosity aroused. My friend looked at me equally bewildered.

She wore a cool smile and a jazzy, French beret.

A scream, and the eight ball went in the corner pocket. “Game over, I win!” The floor shook and the bass rumbled louder. The lights danced and dimmed, then grew stronger.

“What is the Purple City?!?” my friend asked me. I shook my head – I did not know.

“I can’t tell you what the Purple City is,” she said, cocking her eyebrow. “It’s an experience! You can’t explain it, and I won’t try.” She turned and walked away.

Frustration burned. I wanted to scream. The bass rattled through my body and the cheering continued by the pool table. Bodies flailed and the room was hot. The floor was dirty, like it hadn’t been cleaned in years.

“Do you know what the Purple City is?” She screamed at the person next to us. She was back. Straining, the goateed beatnik swiveled his head and nodded. He began to open his mouth. “No! Don’t tell them, they have to experience it themselves.” The beatnik nodded, wasted, and passed out on the sofa.

“Please, tell me!” I screamed her name. Again she spun on her heel and disappeared into the swarming mass of sweaty human flesh and rhythmic pulse of the subwoofer. The sound was deafening and pounded my brain. My eyes watered. I needed fresh air and a glass of cool water.

My friend rushed over to the beatnik shaking him. “Tell me what the Purple City is! TELL ME WHAT YOU KNOW!” He was getting violent. The beatnik opened his eyes briefly, lulled by the music, and closed them again. He did not care. My friend looked at me frantically. “What is the Purple City?” he mouthed at me, his voice strained and gone. I shook my head.

The masses swarmed around me and my friend was washed away. The lights shook, and the ground threatened to tear away from beneath my feet. The ceiling swirled above my head and the bass continued to shake. Another scream and the sound of jangling coins swirled around me, sirens shot off in the distance, lost in the picture. Colours spun and danced a perfect smile on every one’s face.

She appeared again. “The Purple City. It’s like nothing you have ever experienced.” My neck twitched. I wanted to know the Purple City. Tell me about the Purple City! Show me the Purple City! I need to know! “Well, maybe you don’t want to know.”

“What?!?” I screamed, my eyes bulging and swirling around in the dim light. “But I want to see the Purple City!” The beatnik stood up and looked at me. A moment of sharp dialect shot through thick air without a breath wasted. This is the wiped out beatnik? I turned to face him and quickly his eyelids drooped and he passed out again.

“I don’t think you want to know what the Purple City is, really,” she shouted over the air, two feet away from me. A blast of hot air hit me in the face and fazed, I stumbled back and tumbled over someone.

The noise surrounded me and the heat was intense. The room shook and spun, colours swirling and a glass shattered on floor next to me, shards spraying making shapes on the ground. A crack split in the floor and the rhythm and bass grew, threatening to shatter my body as well. Liquid swished around me and the horrible silence of sound deadened my mind. Only one thought was on my mind: The Purple City.

Gun shots spun me around and around, dancing lightly around the room, spinning and arching, tearing through time, I could see into different ages, and I was scared. My friend grabbed my arm and my mind snapped back into the present. The room was still spinning and people were moving rapidly around, limbs swaying and flailing, random movements, random sounds, random energy catching me.

“How can we find the Purple City?” My friend screamed with the last ounce of vocal ability left in him. A couple danced on a pool table, and then one fell off, smashing his head on the floor, blood gushing, the wild movements continued, giddy laughter and the reek of sugar. The beatnik crawled up onto the pool table slowly, raising a glass to his lips. A roar erupted and he jumped into the crowd, invincible.

My friend and I made eye contact, our eyes wild and half crazed. The colours continued to spin, and a white bunny hopped across the floor, into a distant hallway.

“Well, I don’t know…” she was back and laughed at me. “Maybe, do you want to know the Purple City?” she asked quizzically, a parrot appearing on her shoulder and flying off – it changed, miraculously into a giant black hawk and spread its wings, landing on a perch, not far away.

Swirling madness, and a sewing machine, whir, whir, whir. The floor shuddered out of rhythm suddenly, and the music stopped. A million heads swung towards the front of the room, and the beatnik raised himself, standing delicately on top of a garbage can. “The Purple City! We are the citizens of the Purple City, all who know. The gloriousness and bliss it brings! We are the gods of civilization!”

The masses crowded and screamed in unison, the windows shattering. The music began again, and my body shook again. The colours began to swirl. The word echoed in my mind. “The Purple City! We are the citizens of the Purple City, all who know. The gloriousness and bliss it brings! We are the gods of civilization! Do you want to know the Purple City? You don’t want to know the Purple City. You’ll be disappointed. It’s an experience.” The voices echoing. Sounds ringing. I do not know the Purple City. WHAT IS THE PURPLE CITY? My mind screams and I break into tears.

I need to know and the world around me spins in circles. Flashing lights, beating rhythm, matches my heartbeat, swirling bodies and crazy feelings. Blackness surrounds me and the lights grow stronger, pulsating. Colours streak across my vision and my mind clears of all conscious mentality. I have entered the dream world.

The sapphire road stretched out beyond me, calling to me. Solid colours greeted me, and were still. The sky and Sun, remaining above my head, and the ground solid and steady. Green grass with the sent of freshly fallen rain which clears the sinuses. The brilliant colours, strong, but comforting to my eyes. I was alone.

I opened my eyes then, and saw all that I had pictured. The sapphire road. Calling, calling. Calling me on a journey to find meaning in life. I heard a whisper. The tiniest hint of a voice, like an ant on the wind. “the Purple City… Go to the Purple City!”” I searched around me, but I did not see anyone. The daisies stood there, gleaming in the sun, the pansies, velvet blue and glistening still in the morning dew. The shapes were solid. I was glad of that. And I heard the voice again. “The Purple city! Go to the Purple City!” Again, I looked around, and did not see anyone.

The voice sounded somewhat familiar, although I could not place it because of the dreadfully peaceful silence. The sky was a glorious ocean blue and was open to terror and attack. I spun around, suddenly paranoid, a grasshopper lunged at my throat. Except this grasshopper was different than the other grass hoppers I had seen. This one was blue – not green, and did not have that lifeless, beady little face most grasshoppers have. Instead, it had the face of my best friend!

“Go to the Purple City!” he yelled at me.

“What?” I stepped back in surprise.

“Follow the Sapphire Road!” The voice came from behind me now. The dried brown grass surrounding the road shook, quivered, and then separated as the girl from the Rainbow Room stepped out, same cool smile and French beret. I raised my eyebrow as I turned around. “To go to the Purple City, you must follow the Sapphire Road.”

I heard a grunt to my left. The beatnik crawled out from under the ground, and closed his eyes, wasted. “GO TO THE PURPLE CITY. FOLLOW THE SAPPHIRE ROAD. GO TO THE PURPLE CITY. FOLLOW THE SAPPHIRE ROAD.” They all seemed to say. And the wings grew from the beatnik, fluttering, and lifting him up!

“Go to the Purple City! It’s blissful” the girl said, and then she grew fangs as her legs grew and she bounded away with a yellow cape, and she disappeared into the Sun. My friend started bobbing his head.

“Let’s go to the Purple City!” cried my friend. His legs twitching, and then, he too hopped off down the Sapphire Road. Once, he turned around, waving his front leg (of six) and then continued on.

I sat down in the middle of the Road. I thought that here in this wonderful world I had come to I would be done with thinking about the Purple City. Not the case. I felt again the paranoia creep over me, and I searched around furiously. The world was still, but a hum which I had been hearing for some time was growing louder. In a matter of seconds, a swarm of locusts flew over me, blocking out the sun. A million bodies and a million voices, a million minds and thoughts. I leapt up, and joined them. I was flying too! How was I flying? The Sapphire Road stretched out before me, and it grew brighter as we went further along.

Bodies bumped into me, and I began to fall. As I fell, I saw the end of the Sapphire Road! It was glowing so brightly! I could not keep my eyes on it. I continued to fall, and then I saw the end of the road finally. It ended, but there was no Purple City. At least none that I could see – the road ended at a sudden a precarious drop, falling deep within the earth, into a perilous darkness, uninterrupted and leaving me with a cold shiver. And I continued to fall.

A jolt, and I sat up. The swirling colours of the Rainbow Room startled me, with the jumping lights and swirling, heavy, sweaty masses of flailing limbs and bodies and the heavy bass, shaking the room apart. “WHAT IS THE PURPLE CITY?” I screamed at the top of my lungs. “TELL ME! WHAT IS THE PURPLE CITY? SHOW ME! I WANT TO KNOW THE PURPLE CITY!”

I looked around, and everything was gone. The people, the swirling colours, the lights, the girl, my friend, the heavy bass and shaking, cracking floor, the pool tables, the blood and vomit. Only the beatnik was lying, passed out in a corner with a cloud of smoke above him. I put my hand to my mouth to stifle a scream of surprise, worry and terror, and it did not make contact. I could not see my hand, and I could not feel my face, or anything else. I was gone as well. And when I opened my eyes again, I was blind.

Burns And Murder Are Opposite

2008-05-15T04:00:00.001-05:00

In those days when I worked as a "Conservation Assistant", rehabilitating the peregrine falcon population in Manitoba, my boss, Rob, had me and my coworkers tear down and rebuild structures we had already built ad nauseum. There was nothing wrong with the structures we built, but Rob would decide that he wanted to build something else with the lumber we had used on this shed or that mews or that addition to the barn.

This was something we came to dread - not just because we had to tear down what we had already built, but more because we had to de-nail every piece of wood before we could stack it and use it again. This is what we did on rainy days. We would bring used lumber into the garage, and one of use would de-nail the wood; the other would straighten the bent nails taken from the wood.

There were rare occasions when this did not have to happen. We didn't have to re-use (and therefore de-nail) the wood if it was rotten, eaten through by animals trying to eat our birds, so full of nail and screw holes that it wouldn't hold any more, or so small from being cut down that it couldn't even be used as stud-spacers. When the wood was in this condition, not only did we not have to re-use it, but we didn't have to de-nail it either! I enjoyed that thought.

One day, the pile of unusable wood had built up. We were cleaning out the woods in which we stored the to-be-reused lumber, re-organizing it, and Rob told me to take care of the rotten wood. Make a fire, he said. I obliged him.

Carefully, I made a neat little tepee within a nice circle of granite stones, and lit a fire in it. It grew in strength, and I added more wood. There was a lot of wood. I continued to add it to the fire. Crackling, and reaching for the sky, the fire was merry and hot. As I finished adding the last bit of wood to the pyre, there was a tremendous crack and I felt a sharp pain in my right hand. I thought the fire had just spat - no big deal. But the fire had caused one of the granite stones to split and sent a shard of it into my hand.

I watched the fire burn out the make sure it was safe, and then I went inside to clean off my hand and to see why it hurt. What I found was a large white indent in my hand. There was no skin. There was no blood. There was no pain. Not feeling any pain, and not wanting to be seen as less than a man, I continued on working. We were building an addition on to the barn, and I was cutting the wood to fit. The wound filled with sawdust. At the end of the day, it was also my turn to change the quail papers - we had dozens of wire cages filled with hundreds of quail. They pooed and bled through the wire floors (which they routinely cut their toes off on), and onto newspaper which had to be disposed of each day. In the summer heat, the room was sickly sweet with their odour. This was not a clean job.

That evening, I went to a walk-in clinic, and discovered that my fire-wound was a third-degree burn, which had revealed the bone in my hand, and severed the nerve-endings. I also discovered that third-degree burns were the worst kind of burns - this confused me, because first degree murder is the worst. But no: burns and murder are opposite.

Donald and Notre Dame 2AM

2008-05-13T03:31:00.006-05:00

It was raining as I was out walking this morning. Just a light mist lit up under the street lamps. I like to walk downtown when I need to clear my head or I just can't sleep which is often. It doesn't matter what time it is morning, afternoon, evening, night... I love the Exchange District and all the old buildings, Portage, and the old churches scattered about. I can be by myself or I can be with other people downtown. I use it to fume and vent steam or to imbibe the life and energy of activity and industry.

As I was returning to my apartment, crossing a parking lot to get to Donald and Notre Dame, I heard a guy yelling, screaming, and swearing on the other side of the street a bit back. This isn't unusual at 2AM, and I knew I'd be turning a corner soon, there was no one with him, so I knew there was no problem. He continued to yell as I turned up the street, and I heard him behind me. Still no problem; I was sauntering, and he'd pass by soon enough. My hands were in my pockets when he came up beside me and yelled "what's up dog?" into my face. He repeated it. "Didn't you hear me?" I responded curtly and continued walking, not sure what I should say to him, and expecting him to continue on. He kept pace with me. He continued to yell and swear.

"Just a trigger slip, bitch" I've no idea what this means. I didn't know if he was suicidal, or if he was threatening me, or if, by what he said later, this was slang for a court decision. My hands were still in my pockets, and itchy. But the way this guy was so jumpy made me keep my hands in my pockets so he wouldn't feel threatened. "You rape my sister? Why'd you rape my sister? She's sixteen, fucker, I'll kill you for raping my sister!" No, I don't know your sister. I've never seen her. "Just a trigger slip" He repeated this over and over.

His eyes were deeply bloodshot like he'd been taking crack all night. His breath smelled like antifreeze. I looked him in the eye and told him I don't know his sister. I didn't rape his sister. "You got a dollar?" No. "I'm not stealing it from you, I'm telling you." Finally the chance to take my hands from my pockets to demonstrate my monilessness and for self-defense if need be. We He walked ahead a bit, and turned to face me, blocking my way. "You want to die, bitch?" No, not really. But you'll do what you need to do. "Just a trigger slip"

We were in front of Trinity Anglican Church, and he asked me if I was a Christian. Yes. "Fuck God." He continued to talk, and to ask me about his sister. He asked me if I knew R.S. (initials only for privacy). No. "I'll give you twenty-grand if you hand me R.S. Right now." As he was talking, he was looking over my shoulder into a backlane, making hand gestures - go that way; no, wait; circle around; slit his throat; etc - I looked over my shoulder, not sure if more people were coming, and he grabbed me by the shoulder with one hand the other down the back of his pants as if he were going for a concealed gun. "You want to die, bitch? You look at me!" So I continued to look at him. I don't need your money, I don't know R.S. sorry. Each time he looked around and then came back to me, he seemed to forget who I was and repeated everything he'd already said. I continued to respond in a low soft voice in a way that I thought would deter him and send him away.

"You a rat?" No. "You see any police, you see any government, any courts, you don't say anything or I'll kill you." I won't rat you out. (I don't think this blog counts, does it?) "Vow. On your honour. On your pride." On my honour and my pride, I won't rat you out to the police. "If I find the guy who raped my son, I'll kill him! His name's R.S." All the while, he continued to make his hand gestures into the church yard, making me nervous. But I guessed he was hallucinating and there was nothing to it. This time, there was something to it.

Two guys walked up and joined us. "What's up dogs?" he asked them. Buddies of his, apparently. Also looking for R.S. "Hit me!" I'm not looking for a fight. "I am. Give me a good left-hooker." No, sorry. The two guys grab knives from their pockets. I'm not looking for a fight, guys. "Twenty-grand to find R.S." Sorry, I don't know R.S. I don't know how to find him. "You want to die? or you want twenty-thousand dollars?" I don't need your money. "You got a dollar?" No. "Then you want the money." I don't need your money, sorry. The two guys don't speak at all. They just stand there. Finally, the first guy nods at them, and they walk off and put their knives away. A police car comes down the street its lights flashing, I wonder if he'll come to us. No - it speeds on down the street.

"You got a big chest on you. You rape my sister?" The guy didn't even know if it was his sister or his son who was raped - he vacillated between them in his questions. But R.S. was real, and this guy was pissed at R.S. "Hit me" No. Finally, when I realized this wasn't going anywhere, I decided that I was tired, and wanted to go home now. If you don't mind, I'm going to continue on now. The guy looked at me, a bit surprised, "I like what you just said to me" What? And then the whole spiel again from the start.

Can I help you? "You can find R.S. I'll give you twenty-grand." I don't know R.S. Can I help you any other way? "I don't know" Do you want help? He looked at me. Not wanting to just walk away (I wasn't sure if he actually had a gun or not, if he'd shoot me or not, or if he'd hurt himself after I left) I grabbed his arm, and guided him back into the exchange. Let's get help. He shook me off. I was expecting it - and more. He looked at me, "What's your name?" Mikael. "Mikael: I respect you." He held out his hand, and I took it. We shook hands, and he took off. I walked back home.

The whole while I was praying for him. I didn't know what to pray, it was mostly just the reiteration of God's name. And for safety. After the fact, I wonder if all the motions this guy was making were at real things that I couldn't see - spiritual things. I don't know. Perhaps that's a leap. I didn't know if I was going to leave the situation alive. Each time he threatened to kill me, I expected that it might happen. Or if I turned to leave, I'd feel a sting in my back. If I looked at him in a way that pissed him off, he might do something. I've never been in a fight in my life. I've no idea how I'd hold up. And although the inside of my body was loosely tense, I felt that if I did die, it wouldn't matter. There isn't a better time. Why not now?

Death at Point Road - From "Mechanized DEATH"

2008-05-11T03:54:00.003-05:00

Every other Sunday, my youth group had a Bible study. In the olden days of yore (or is it golden days of yore?), I was one of the two youthful folk who had attained the righteous power of driving – within the youth group that is. So, it often fell to me to give rides to the other, un-ordained ones – the lesser folk, on account of ‘cause… well, I’m actually not really sure why they didn’t get rides from their parents, but I ended up driving them home most every other Sunday. Not that I begrudged the poor souls a glimmer of what their futures might have in store for them too, one day, if they held fast and persevered… (I have no idea what I’m talkin’ ‘bout!)

Well, it just so happens that it was a Sunday that I was driving these friends of mine home from Bible Study, and at one intersection on the way to one of their houses, the inevitable happened: I didn’t pay full attention to the road! The scenario was this: Four teenage boys driving in a car; green light in special turning lane (with curbs on both sides); cars in front of me going through intersection; I follow; Paul screams; I see red; my body becomes weightless as the car sails through the air, spinning; my car stops thirty feet away from where it was, facing the other direction. (Really, I have no idea what’s going on with my grammatical structure! I apologize profusely.)

What actually happened, is the cars in front of me went because the intersection was clear. I followed them, and was hit in the front axle by a red, one-tonne truck, which sent me spinning. It was actually a really cool sensation. Like in all the cartoons and movies, everything really did slow down. The front side of the car was smashed in, and the front axle was bent at a 58 degree angle, and Jennifer was dead. DEAD AT POINT ROAD.

When I got home, I sheepishly went up to my Dad, and asked him not to be angry. Cheerily he said: “You crashed the car didn’t you?” I laughed and said yes, then skipped away like a little forest elf. Or not… Probably more like a cave dwelling dwarf. Or a troll.

I went with my friend Tim to the graveyard to see if we could scavenge some stuff off of Jennifer to remember her by, but alas, she had already been torn apart by evil pirates bent on plundering and pillaging.

Race - From "Mechanized DEATH"

2008-05-09T04:50:00.001-05:00

My next car after the 1985 Mercury Cougar, was Jennifer – a 1987 Chevy Nova. Not much to look at, and not much to drive; but she had character, which I loved her for. One day at work, with Rob the Bird Man, I had to meet my boss at a Home Depot before we started for the day, to pick up materials. After we had bought the stuff, my boss told me to get back to work fast so that I could prepare the area for the materials we had bought.

It all started out fine. I was driving just in front of him, going back to the mews, when he turned at the street I had just passed. I began to freak, because I figured that since he had been driving in this area for many more years than I had, he would know the fastest way back, and I would be late! So, I did what any red-blooded teenager with a car would do, and I sped like the dickens, pushing Jennifer for all she was worth down the perimeter highway. The road leading up to the mews was long, windy, and gravel, but that didn’t prevent me from doing my duty to my boss by trying to beat him back. I hit speeds that were over the highest number on my speedometer, and I still couldn’t see my boss in front of me. I was worried that he was already waiting impatiently for me, back at the mews. A couple times I almost lost control and swerved close to the ditch.

Eventually, I got to the mews, and my boss wasn’t there! I had sped recklessly for nothing! Youth these days… they’ll do just about anything for adult approval… or they just do stupid things… Anyhow, I ended up waiting fifteen minutes before my boss actually arrived. I guess I made pretty good time.

The Shopping Cart (from HELL) - From "Mechanized DEATH"

2008-05-07T04:40:00.002-05:00

It just so happens that I have done some stupid things. Of course, this doesn’t happen too, too often on account of ‘cause I’m pretty much near perfect. But, it does happen on occasion. I will have a hair brained idea, and actually follow through with it. Or, someone else will come up with a hair brained idea and I’ll go through with it. Stupid, hair brained ideas, I think, are things that common sense should make sure never enter the cognizant mind. They are things that no one would do because there is absolutely no point to do them, or because they will obviously end up in disaster. Such was this stupid thing that I have done.

I was with my friend TB, dropping off a resume at some super chain store in the late evening. We were walking back to my 1985 Mercury Cougar, when TB came up with the idea that it would be fun to sit in a shopping cart, and to push it with the car. I thought: ‘sure! There’re hardly any cars in the parking lot, no one’s around, we’ll just go slow. It’s all good!’ So, TB got a shopping cart, and placed it in front of the cougar; and then a car pulled into the parking lot. Hyper and scared, he jumped into the car, leaving the shopping cart in order to avoid trouble with whoever had just pulled up. I slowly pulled away from the shopping cart and began driving away. It just so happens, that we were on a slight hill in the parking lot, and the cart began to roll. Slowly at first, but it picked up speed fast. My reaction time was too slow, and the cart rammed at full speed into the one parked car that was in the parking lot!

We ran to the car to check out the damage. There didn’t appear to be any. TB and I looked at each other, unsure of what to do. We slowly backed away from the car. Warily, we left a note on the windshield. Nobody called us.

Speeding ...Or Not - From "Mechanized DEATH"

2008-05-05T03:09:00.001-05:00

It was in my first month of driving, sometime in early October, and I was driving down Portage Avenue. I was still in the cautious rookie stage of driving, unwilling to make any slip of the static rules of the road. I would put on my turning signal at exactly the right time before I wanted to change lanes; I signaled that I was moving over a lane whenever I approached a stop sign on a residential street with parked cars; if I was even one kilometer over the speed limit, I would put my foot on the brake, and slow down so that I wouldn’t be speeding. And so, it was on this October afternoon on Portage Avenue, that I was graced with another visit from the police.

The blue lights came on behind me, and the siren blew for a couple seconds – enough for me to take notice and pull over to the right side of the road to let the cop car by. It did pass me, but it also stopped just a few meters in front of me. I was driving by myself and petrified that I had done something horribly wrong and that I was going to go to jail for the rest of my life. The officer came to my window and I rolled it down. “Do you know what speed you were going?” he asked. I shook my head and shrugged my shoulders. “About sixty. The speed limit,” I answered. He looked coolly at my drivers license, and then at his car, and the traffic rolling by, and then back to me. “Did you happen to notice that there are a lot of cars around you?” he asked. I shook my head yes. “Do see that they’re all going somewhere?” Yes. “Did you see that many of the cars were trying to pass you?” I guess… “Well, guess what? That’s called obstruction of traffic. You were going sixty, and the cars around you were going faster. Your speed could have caused an accident! That’s a finable offense.” My eyes were wide with terror and confusion. “But… …I… I was going the speed limit though…” my voice trailed off. “That doesn’t change the fact that you were in a position to cause an accident. I’ll tell you what though. Since you just got your license, I’ll give you a break this time. From now on, drive at the speed of the traffic around you, okay?” I nodded slowly.

It still doesn’t make sense to me… I’m pretty sure I couldn’t have gotten a ticket for obstruction of traffic while going the speed limit. Perhaps the cop just wanted to give me a scare. Still, I make sure that I keep up with traffic – sometimes I enjoy leading it in its pace.

Lawn Care Specialties

2008-05-03T02:36:00.003-05:00

Job searches have always proved to be long and tortuous experiences for me. One summer, I was again in the throes of self-anguish because I had not yet found a summer job by mid-July - already two months into my summer break from university. I papered the city with cover letters and resumes, and received little to no interest from my prospective employers. Finally, I got a break and a job! I would be working as a lawn-care specialist. I would be cutting grass.

I showed up the next day, bright and early, eager to get to work and earn the coming year's tuition. The owner/manager handed me a t-shirt and sent me off with his two other employees. I enjoyed the work. Although it took me several hours and a greatly sloping back yards to figure out the lawn mowers had power-drive capabilities (my co-workers decided to bet on how long it would take me figure it out what the extra lever was for) I working out in the sun doing somewhat physically taxing work was fun!

One co-worker seemed pretty cool, and the other, our "foreman" was alright but rough around the edges. The boss, who kept himself scarce, seemed alright as well if not a bit seedy. In the next few days, we put in a lot of over time, and learned that this lawn care company had had several people in the position I was now filling. The owner adored our foreman, and was said to be "grooming" him - as if this was a large-scale company that needed fresh-blood in its upper-echelons. The reason the owner was so upbeat about his foreman, was this: he was the only employee that had stayed with him for more than six months. I was curious, but kept my mouth shut.

Another few days, and I found out the secret to the first curious bit of information I had been told about the revolving door the employees moved through. The foreman frequently drank on the job and, in what I suppose was his inebriated state, enjoyed relieving himself in the gardens of our customers. This particular day, we were in a posh neighbourhood, in the backyard of a large house overlooking a retention pond, with huge flower gardens full of exotic flowers I didn't recognize. My coworker and I confronted our foreman about his behaviour, and he laughed at us and swore us off. This continued for the next few days.

Finally, a customer saw the foreman and called the owner to report him. He didn't show up, but when we returned to the garage at the end of the day, he went to bat against me and my coworker. We explained what we saw happen and told him that the foreman was likely the reason so many other people had quit. The boss wouldn't have it, so we both quit. The foreman had been his longest working employee, and as he saw it, his greatest asset. Unfortunate. I had to go to the Better Business Bureau to get my paycheque from him.

The Wildmen of Squeah

2008-05-01T06:44:00.000-05:00

This is an excerpt from my travel journal, April 18, 2002 - on high school band tour:

Hiking: it is the past-time of people who have nowhere to go. Barefeet: they are the comfort of carefree flower-children and tree-huggers. Hiking barefoot: the comfortable (??) past-time of wild-men (or almost wild-men). I am one of those almost wild men. Of course, I am somewhat civilized since I am writing this, or surely I'd be shot. And it's here that I tell my story of an adventure full of danger, seduction, love, mystery, suspense... Actually, this story has none of these things except for the danger we presented to the rain-forest and ourselves; the seduction and love of the wildlife; the mystery of where we were; and the suspense of whether we would ever get home again.

It was a bright and sunny day. For real! I'm not just writing that as a cliched literary device. It was extremely hot and humid. It was free time at Camp Squeah, and we decided to go for a hike after our thirty-some hour drive from Winnipeg. I was barefoot and hyper - my friends were out of breath and flushed. Well, we all were after climbing the 220 step ladder from the river below. That's when we separated from our group.

We could have gone back the way we had come from, but that would have been the easy way. We decided, instead, to continue on along a trail called "Lost Hoe Loop". Don't get me wrong: we're not complete idiots. We saw the "loop" part, and Tim, the self-declared woodsman, decided that, yeah, it would lead us back to the path we had come up. Time was inconsequential on this trip - except that we had left the bus at 4:00 and needed to be back by 5:30. The way we felt time on this trip was much longer than what the watch showed, but we can attribute that to general relativity and space-time distortion. In any case, we had about an hour to get back to camp - we thought this was plenty of time.

We headed down the path. My friends were talking, and I was skipping ahead, oblivious to a lot of things. We climbed over logs, under logs, slipped on wet patches of bark, and other things you should do when you're hiking. Eventually, we came to a swampish pool. The path had been well marked, and right in the middle of the path was a giant pile of clear, white, gelatinous substance. Not really thinking, I touched it with my finger. It was soft and, well, gelatinous. Tim and Sean began debating what it could be, while I sniffed at it (us partially wild men use our senses, not our intellects). Tim and Sean thought that it was urine - but it wouldn't be gelatinized. I think they finally decided (knowing that they did not really know) that it was bear snot - the stuff that's always running out of their noses.

We continued on - knowing - remembering that strange landmark. We came to a fork in the path. We decided to go straight. The path was fine until we reached a stream and suddenly the path disappeared! We thought! yeah, we passed by this stream, and the path will continue on the other side. It didn't.

We went back to the fork, and Sean wisely stuck a steak in the path to mark it. We went down the other path. It led to a swamp, and as we crashed down the path, Tim began to emphatically say: now if we see the bear snot, we're going in circles. We got it Tim. We didn't see the bear snot, but the path vanished again!

We stood for a moment, deciding what to do. By this time, even if we made it back to the fork, we'd taken so many other turns before that we wouldn't be able to find our way to the original path which we should have taken. By now it seemed like we'd been hiking for an hour and a half or longer. We were getting worried. We began to joke that they'd send a search party for us, and that Tyler and Kevin must feel really guilty for abandoning us...

Back at the pond, we found a path which led us down quite a ways to a nice cottage isolated by the river. Peaceful and serene. I thought we should ask for directions, but, of course, Tim, the self-declared woodsman wouldn't have it. We continued on to another path which switched back to a gravel cottage road. Now we were really lost.

We wandered aimlessly for another half hour, and made it to the highway. We finally recognized where we were! Excited, I sprinted down the road, only to run back when I saw Tim and Sean slowly walk in the other direction. As we walked down the road, semi-trucks and logging trucks sped recklessly by.

After a couple of miles, we saw the sign for Camp Squeah and let out a whoop for joy. As we came down the road into camp, streaked and dirty, we held our heads high - like heroes. We had beat the mountain - and we had survived.

Ticket Two - From "Mechanized DEATH"

2008-04-29T08:36:00.000-05:00

A week after I got my driver’s license and my first ticket, I was driving to pick up my friend Tyler from his River Heights home. There were several cars parked in front of his house, so I went up a couple houses, and pulled into the parking lane, facing the wrong direction. I put on my four-ways, and walked to my friend’s place to get him. We told his parents where we were going, and then headed out to my car.

Just then, a parking patrol slowly crept down the street. He turned his car around, and got out his car as I timidly walked towards mine. He got out his ticket pad, and started writing stuff down, looking at us. “If you drive away now, he can’t give you a ticket!” advised my friend. But, I waited, too scared to move.

The patrol approached me with the ticket, and asked me if I would prefer to get a ticket for parking in front of a fire-hydrant (which I inadvertently had) or for driving on the wrong side of the street. Fire-hydrant. I didn’t want to have a moving violation and lose my license and ticket to freedom. “Alright then,” he answered, “ I think I’ll just give you this ticket for driving on the wrong side of the street.” I was horrified that I had answered him at all. “Just how long have you had your license for, son?” I replied ‘about a week’, and he shook his head. “Shoot, kid! Just don’t park on the wrong side of the street again!” He shook his head and voided the ticket. I sighed a breath of relief. That was my second brush with the law.

Between Mice and Men

2008-04-27T09:12:00.000-05:00

I worked for several years for a New Zealander, rehabilitating the peregrine falcon population in Manitoba. In a barn-like structure, we had three peregrine couples, a peregrine by herself, a red-tailed hawk, a grey owl (a natural predator of peregrines), hundreds of cotumix and bobwhite quail, as well as some pheasants, ducks, and chickens. My boss, Rob, was never satisfied with any structure he had, and there were weeks and months when shortly after building a structure, or renovating a room in the barn, he would have us tear it down and start again from scratch.

One summer, Rob wanted to make some major renovations to the barn. As we began to tear down the plywood walls of the emptied quail room, mice fell out of them by the hundreds. The floor was covered with mice. The walls were still filled with mice and mouse poo, and yellowed fibreglass insulation. Rob left for a moment, closing the door behind him, and came back quickly, and handed me a sledge hammer. "Mikael," said Rob, "take care of these mice. You can come out when they're gone." He locked me in the quail room with a latch on the outside, and me, hundreds of scurrying dirty mice, and a sledgehammer on the inside. Slowly at first, but picking up speed as I got past my initial violent objections, the mice became no more than red splashes on the wood and my shoes.

Rob later told me that had we caught and released them, they would have just come back to the barn, even from miles away - or else, immigrate to someone else's property, trying to claim refugee status. These were not acceptable options. Poor little mice, why couldn't you have been more like Mr. Jangles?

The Melting Concrete

2008-04-25T08:37:00.000-05:00

I delight in fire; I glory in explosions; I am a pyro sans maniac.

I've always been disappointed that since I heard of The Anarchist's Cookbook, I have not been able to lay my hands on a copy. I am not an anarchist nor do I consider myself dangerous, in any way, to others, but I've heard of some amazing things contained within those pages. While I love fire and explosions, it's a contained love (unrequited as well, it sometimes seems). I do not jump at every chance to play with fire; I prefer creating my own controlled explosions.

After an early experience with model rockets, in high-school, I decided that buying rocket engines was too expensive, and that to cut costs, I would make my own rocket engines. I had been making my own fuselages for several years, and this seemed the next step. Instead of The Anarchist's Cookbook, I found a nice rocket-fuel cookbook so to speak. It also contained other controlled explosions such as fireworks, smoke-bombs, stink bombs, etc., ranging in complexities from the very simple to extremely complicated mixed-liquid-gas concoctions.

After trying my hand at a few of the simpler recipes, such as making fuses and a simple gun-powder, I decided to get to work on my rocket-engines. I devised a nice engine casing to fit in my current design of fuselage, and went to work on a solid propellant. The propellant required melting and mixing in liquid state several highly flammable ingredients. I thought about it, and decided an outdoor fire-in-a-can would be better than using my mom's stove. I brought out a fire-extinguisher, baking soda, and a water-baking soda mix. I set up on the concrete patio in our backyard and set to work.

The ingredients began to melt and I mixed them cautiously, maintaining a fair temperature, and making sure nothing scorched. I continued to add more ingredients one at a time. When it was all mixed together, I would have to pour the molten mixture into tiny test-tube sized engine-casings before it hardened, which it would do very quickly. In the process, I would have to be careful not to spill any of the mixture down the side of the can to drip into the can-fire, or the whole thing would explode. I had designed this mixture specifically so that it would burn at over 1,600 degrees centigrade, and so my concern about premature ignition was a valid one.

The first two engines went together quite nicely. The mixture was runny enough. By the third, however, it began to coagulate. I knew that if it hardened, I would never be able to liquefy it again without extreme danger of it going off. So, I put it back on the flame after checking the can for drips to smooth it out again. What I didn't expect was the one of the ingredients happened to be quite corrosive and had been eating away at the bottom of the can. It erupted in a great roar of white fire and then thick black smoke that poured deeply into the blue sky! I dropped the can onto the concrete, my face and arms scorched, and bounded back several paces.

The can and its contents took a while to burn out, and the neighborhood was underneath a black cloud that seemed to block out the sun, and threatened to call the police and fire department. After the flames disappeared however, what remained was a white bubbling goo where the can had been. I watched it for ten to fifteen minutes, and it was still bubbling. When it stopped boiling, I poked it with a wooden broomstick to see what kind of viscosity this mystery substance had. The broomstick immediately caught fire! After twenty minutes, it was still hot enough to burn an oak handle.

I waited a couple more hours (no police or firemen came to the door), and then poked the now white solid. Smooth, shiny texture, it was also quite brittle and shattered when I struck at it with the same wooden broomstick. Underneath where the white goo had been boiling, there was a four inch deep hole in the concrete, eighteen inches wide. This stuff was exactly what I wanted! I just need a different melting pot.

I've made this recipe several times since, and the rockets it can launch are, I think, quite impressive.

Icestorm North of the 56th Parallel

2008-04-23T04:32:00.001-05:00

There was a time in my life when I drove around rural Manitoba, photographing school children for their mommies and daddies, grandmas and grandpas, aunts and uncles, friends and the odd stranger to have mementos of their passage through time. I loved my job. I often had to leave for one of my schools before 4AM in order to be set-up and ready for the typical 9AM school day start, but it was glorious. I often saw both the sunrise and sunset of the same day while driving. I saw many parts and places within this beloved province of mine.

Usually, I made only day trips, using Winnipeg as my base. I'd show up at the office, load up my rental vehicle with the cases of cameras, lights, power supplies, cables, etc, and then head off into the not-yet sunrise. One week in particular, some time in October I think, my base was a Days Inn in The Pas - a city of approximately twenty thousand, north of the 56th parallel. For six days, I was going to travel to the schools within a two to three hour driving radius of The Pas. I had the chance to explore new highways and not-quite highways in the early morning dark. Actually, I had to give myself extra time to drive to the schools because the likelihood of missing an unmarked turn-off was great.

Mid-weekish that week, it began to rain through the night. I awoke in the morning to find my vehicle under a nice thick sheet of the frozen stuff. But not before wiping out two or three times on the ice-slicked pavement. It was snowing now, and cautiously, I put The Pas behind me and headed inland, towards Moose Lake. It was 4:30AM. I was tired. Out on the highway, the surface was fine and I quickly accelerated to a comfortably quick pace through the driving snow. Driving was fine.

About an hour from Moose Lake, I turned onto an easily missable gravel road, and again continued on my way. Not far down the road, I suddenly hit a hidden patch of ice which spun me around. Wildly concluding a three-sixty rotation, I tried to adjust and correct - always with only the slightest suggestion - but those slight suggestions, not catching at first, shortly jerked me forcefully in that direction, dangerously close to the rock-face at the side of the road. Back and forth. Back and forth. I swung around and around, my arms tired and ready to break off, my shoulders tense, my eyes focused, but constantly searching for a straight bearing. Finally, I came to a stop. Gasping, I regained control of my nerves. I continued on towards Moose Lake.

When I arrived, I discovered that Rod Martins School, the school I was taking photos at, consisted of several trailers. Each classroom was a different trailer, and students and staff walked from trailer to trailer as they needed. It was bitterly cold. After a few minutes, I found the staff trailer, and they showed me to the gym, which was the only building with a concrete foundation (still, it was built on top of blocks). The custodian tried the key to unlock the door, but it wouldn't open. Again he tried, and again. He called another custodian who couldn't open the door either. They tried a variety of tools and wedges to open the door, but it was frozen shut from the rain last night. An hour passed, then two. They brought out the acetylene torch and fanned it around the edges of the door, and still it was stuck. Only when, in addition to some more flame time, they brought out a large crow bar and sledge hammer did the door finally open.

I set up in near-record time and began photos two hours late. During my lunch break, I wandered around the reserve, and among other things, I saw kids skating on the iced-over roads.

I love the north. I hope to return some day.

Day One, First Ticket - From "Mechanized DEATH"

2008-04-21T06:43:00.000-05:00

I had made a deal with my mom that the day I got my driver’s license, I would be able to drive our family mini-van to school. All by myself! Proudly, I pulled in front of the school with my 1984 Plymouth Voyageur. I parked, and I didn’t hit anyone. Yeah, I was good. Swinging my keys around my forefinger, I walked into the school, and began to brag to my friends. We decided that at lunch we would go for Slurpees. I was driving.

During the day, however, I handed my keys off to one of my friends, Tim. I needed him to move the van because of the two hour parking limit on the street, and I had classes straight through the morning. When my last class before lunch ended, I ran out to meet my friend. He was beet red from laughing. In his hand he held a yellow envelope. He stretched out his arm and handed it to me. It was a parking ticket! My first time parking ever, and I got a ticket! On my first day! Within three hours of getting my license! I didn’t believe it. I thought that Tim had to be joking. He was making it up! I didn’t park illegally… or so I thought. My lucky break finding a parking spot wasn’t so lucky after all. There happened to be a fire hydrant on the boulevard two and a half meters behind me. Surely I was far enough from it! Another friend brought out a tape measurer, and indeed, I was half a meter too close.

Somewhat upset, and unsure of how I would tell my folks that I had received my first ticket, I drove my friends to the 7-Eleven near the school. Of course, I wanted to show off a bit. I turned into the parking lot as fast as I could without braking. I have since learned that this is usually not a good thing to do. You are supposed to brake when you make sharp turns. The result was that I didn’t make the sharp turn I was hoping for, and smashed into the dumpster, jolting everyone from their seats. I pretended that nothing had happened, and nonchalantly walked into the store.

Road Test - From "Mechanized DEATH"

2008-04-19T06:21:00.000-05:00

Shortly after my sixteenth birthday, I went for my road test. I was worried, because the woman who gave me my written test was the meanest woman in the world. I mean, she had to be! She wouldn’t let my mommy come into the room to help me to gather my bearings, and she made me drive home to get my own pencil to do the test! She then yelled at me for removing my glasses for the eye test. I wanted to see if I could drive without having the requirement of having to use glasses, but I couldn’t do that. I was concerned that she would also facilitate the road test.

I showed up at the driver’s licensing building, and I was given a different person! Praise be to God! He looked a bit like Val Kilmer. I was ready for the test, and I did everything right! I was perfect. … until near the end… I was at the intersection of Kenaston and Tuxedo, and Mr. Kilmer told me go straight. For some reason, I decided that that meant I should get into the left hand lane. But it turned out that the left hand lane was a left turn only lane! Nervously, I asked “Is it okay if I ask you a question?” He nodded yes. “What should I do?” Should I do as he said, and go straight, or should I turn left since I was in a left turn only lane? “Uh, why don’t you go straight. Just boot it!” I did as he told me to do, booting it from the left-turn only lane, and cut off a car. He laughed. “Way to go, kid,” he said.

After that, just before returning to the drivers licensing building, he took me to do my parallel parking. I got into position, and slowly backed up. I pulled in perfectly! I put the car into park, and let Mr. Kilmer check the distance to the curb. It was good. “Well, you’ve just passed the test with a perfect mark. You can drive back now.” Relieved, I put the car into gear, and gently put my foot on the gas, and smashed into the parking poles behind me. My anxiety rose, and my eyes widened. I was sure I’d just received an automatic failure. “Don’t worry about it,” he told me. He left the car laughing and shaking his head.

I’m pretty sure I should have gotten several automatic failures, plus near 50 points off, if not more, but for some reason, I was passed on my first try. That was a happy day. Life had now begun. I had my drivers license!

Drivers Education - From "Mechanized DEATH"

2008-04-17T06:41:00.000-05:00

Since before I can remember, I had always thought that life began at the age of sixteen. I would have my driver’s license, which would then enable me to go on dates with girls. This was good I thought. I would have it made when that happened. I’ve heard it said that creation and life can’t exist without destruction; and so a whole bunch of life must been created since I turned sixteen, because I have caused a lot of destruction. In the years since I have had my driver’s license, I have driven five family vehicles to total ruin. The stories that follow this will describe my experiences with “Mechanized DEATH”.

***************************************

In the beginning, there was driver’s education. For most people, driver’s ed. is five or six weeks of staying after school and having rules thrown at their young and impressionable minds. The minds these rules are thrown at, however, happen to be minds whose only desire is to drive – they don’t care if they possess the rules of the road, they just want to drive. My class was no different in this matter. Really, the only difference from the norm seemed to be our teacher, Rochelle. Perhaps she enjoyed her job too much, swirling her knowledge in her mouth with a morbid sense of humour, or perhaps she was a seriously depressed woman. I’m not sure, but the stories she told were always gruesome, gory, and included her friends. Either way, they made for some interesting classes.

She would tell us things that seemed ridiculous; things that we should watch out for while we were driving. We would respond with bouts of laughter. One time she told us to always watch out for moose because they would kill us if they saw us. We laughed, because we’d be driving these large, heavy vehicles, while the moose couldn’t be as big. Of course we thought we’d win any game of chicken with a moose. Of course… This barrage of laughter was usually too much for poor Rochelle, who then began to cry, and then tell us the story of how her best friend was decapitated by a moose in some Mafioso-like situation.

Another thing that made Rochelle interesting was her choice in videos to show us. Videos with titles such as Mechanized Death, Americas 30 Most Gruesome Car Crashes, and other such appetizing films.

While Rochelle taught the in-class portion of driver’s ed., her elderly father taught the practical road portion. This may not have been a great idea, he was quite old and frail looking. A strong wind may have knocked him over.

My first time out with OMP – “Old Man Penner” (no relation to the Penner Family Mafia) – wasn’t too bad. I started off fine, perhaps a bit shaky because I wasn’t used to how much I should press the gas peddle to accelerate, or likewise the brake. I drove without incident for the first fifty minutes. It was on the way back to school that things got a bit tipsy. I began to get things backwards. As I made a left turn, I was positive that I had the right of way. I was making a left turn which is more difficult than a right hand turn. I thought that that meant the people going straight should give me a bit of grace and right of way, yes? Not the case. Apparently, the person making a left hand turn never has the right of way. I barely made the turn. My reaction as I saw the car coming towards me was to break, but because I had things backwards, I happened to punch down on the gas – this may have been what kept me from my first accident.

On the final turn into the school parking lot, I was concentrating on making the turn without hitting the curb, which was my most frequent mistake. I was oblivious to the school bus heading towards me. I almost hit it. But, thankfully, OMP had his passenger side brake. He used it a lot with me. We stopped just a few feet away from the front of the bus.

Flying Russian on Canada Day

2008-04-15T06:26:00.001-05:00

What boy does not dream of leaping tall objects, scaling buildings, or punching through a brick wall in a fit of rage? This contradiction does not exist in the real world. Every boy dreams of doing each and every one of these things.

My family enjoys going out to eat. Large family meals are nearly the only things that will bring children and parents together for any extended period of time. One year in 2005, it was Canada Day. (Canada Day is a day that Canadians celebrate the freedom of going to the beach, and watching fireworks. Canada Day is also the one day where Canadians go to the beach or watch fireworks. ) Anyways, it was on this one day in 2005 that my family decided to go out to eat food together. Seemingly more often than not, we go out for Chinese food. When we got to the restaurant, having called ahead to make sure that they were open on this national holiday, but not checking what times, we found that they did not actually open until later in the afternoon a short time away.

Collectively, we decided to wait until they did open, because we wanted to try the crispy ginger beef which is our favourite dish at this particular restaurant. As we waited, my three brothers and I began to get restless. E and K began to play on a parking lot fence, pretending they could do flips over it. Soon we were all doing it. Pretending. And then we got the idea that maybe we could do it (or something like it) for real.

We lined up, and began to jump over the fence. Sometimes we still pretended to do flips over it, but those were only intermittent pretend flips. As we jumped, we always had to one-up the last person. While we had started by planting our hands and jumping over, we began two-foot standing leaps. Or running at the wall that was perpendicular to the fence, and running up it and over the fence that way. We were having fun, being silly, and incredibly cool by every-person-in-the-world's standards. "Look at those half-asian white kids jump!" they would exclaim.

It was during one of these one-ups on the jumping routine, and decided that for this, the most auspicious of Canadian civic holidays, I would perform a Flying Russian over the fence. I had mastered the flying russian in my trampolining days, and was pro. (To properly perform a flying russian, one must leap up in the air and at the pinnacle of the jump, do the splits with their legs, and touch both of their feet with their hands.) And, as I said, I was pro.

Having warmed up with the tomfoolery of previous half-hour, I went straight into the leap. The leap was good - good height, and just the right amount of forward propulsion! As I reached the apex, my legs shot out to the sides, and my fingers caught my toes. Perfect execution - I'm sure it was an Olympic level jump which would have brought tears to anyone who could appreciate all the time I had spent on this jump. As I gently returned to the ground on the other side of the fence, however, there was a snag! Actually, my leg had snagged on the fence. I hit the concrete rolling and cut up my hands as well. When, in pain, I returned to the point of snagification, my brothers and I noticed a most disgusting sight: skin - my skin, with hair still in some of it - attached to the fence as if someone had scraped the mud off the bottoms of their shoes. I looked at my leg, and indeed, there was a huge patch of skin missing from it - in fact, the wound was completely white.

Shortly, the restaurant opened. We went in and ate. I put a napkin over my wound so that it wouldn't get infected, and was greatly amused that the blood from semi-torn skin surrounding the completely-torn not-remaining skin was holding the napkin to my leg. After our dinner, we deemed it acceptable to go to the hospital now. And so I did. And I waited for some time.

Freedom Riding

2008-04-14T08:14:00.001-05:00

In the days when I grew up it seems as if children were given a relatively free reign to play as they wished, compared with the children of today. So long as my parents knew the general part of the world I was in, I could play with fire, race a tricycle really fast, jump off small buildings and piles of stuff, or climb into really small places that no paramedic could ever follow. Of course, I did have "boundaries" - until I was four or five, it was the fire hydrant half-way down the block. Then it was the end of the block. As soon as I had a bicycle of my own, I was taking off, Jack! I enjoyed this freedom. When I played, I played hard, and I didn't need no grown-up to be watching over me.

One of my friends, Jon, lived across the back lane. That was a totally different block than mine. And I went there even before I was six. On my own. I could wander over any time I wanted, and Jon and I would hang out and play. Often we raced his three-gear high-performance tricycle, or I had a gearless tricycle, but it had a removable water-machine gun that we played on. We were always moving though.

As we grew up, we pushed our boundaries. We pushed the danger level. We pushed death aside and said, hey man, we's only kids. Leave us be! (in natural gangster voices that shook death in his boots). The summer I was finishing grade three, Jon and I discovered this great wheeled contraption called the skateboard. Giles and his friends down at the far end of my block played on skateboards all the time - they even had a curb covered in wax just so they could play on it. Jon and I knew we weren't' quite pro enough for the curb yet, so we decided to build up to that level in Jon's driveway. The pavement was nice and smooth, and it angled down into the back lane. No self-propulsion required.

Taking turns, we rode the board down the driveway, and we knew our calling as rebels. One time I was trying it, it was the first time I was trying it. I stepped coolly onto the board, gave a slight kick-off, and began to roll. Oh yeah, baby! A few feet into the ride, however, I began to lose my balance. In order to catch myself, I stuck my hand out - straight into a window in the garage. But no worries, there wasn't any glass in the pane. I caught myself, and grounded my feet, and pulled my body into myself. Jon came over, and as we stood there, we saw fall on the ground, one drop of blood. Where did that come from? Slowly, I looked at my hands, and opened them up - my hands cupped together were full of blood. I've got to go, Jon, I said.

My mom had some guests over - a long time friend of hers, and her daughters. My brothers were trying to escape the girls, and were playing in the side yard. I rushed past my brothers, and into the kitchen. I called to my mom who took her time responding to my calls. I held up my hands, and she ran to the foot of the stairs. We have to head out, she yelled up to her friend who must have been in the washroom at the time. We wrapped up my hand in dish towels, an unthinkably filthy endeavour, it seemed to me, and drove off in my dad's 1985 Mercury Cougar which my mom hated to drive, and sped off to the hospital. I think it may have been the first time I'd ever got to ride in the front seat, and I enjoyed it.

In the hospital, they gave me several stitches, and as I recall, I couldn't use my right hand for six months, and was given writing drills for my left hand. There was, apparently, the putty that holds glass in the window pain still set in the empty frame, and it was sharp enough to penetrate through the side of my hand, and sever some stuff inside.

I don't think I've been on a skateboard since then.

On Giving My Phone Number to Strangers.

2008-04-13T04:09:00.000-05:00

"You can always depend on the kindness of strangers
To buck up your spirit, and shield you from danger
Now here's a tip from Blanche you won't regret
A stranger's just a friend you haven't met"
-Marge Simpson as Blanche DuBois

I forget why we were there, but one winter's evening, my brother K and I were at the downtown bus-stop of Vaughn and Graham. A lot of people move through this stop, and there are a lot of pan-handlers and homeless people that want to take advantage of the people there - for money, conversation, or just their body heat. As K and I were standing there, a man came up to us and began to make small talk. He was wearing a decent looking parka, a middle-aged man, with blunted features. As he was talking, we noticed that this man's hands didn't have any gloves. It was a cold night, and the man was obviously quite cold. K, always the giving person, gave this man, who had introduced himself as John, his gloves, blessed him, and we moved to another part of the waiting area.

John didn't pick up on our not-so-subtle hint that we were trying to have a private conversation, and joined us again, and began to tell us his story. He was once the owner of a computer company in California, and was taking a trip up north to visit his grandparents. He thought we might know of them: they were the owners of the Fort Garry Hotel (one of, if not THE most prestigious hotels in this, our fair city of Winnipeg). They had called him up, and because of their ill-health, wanted him to come and help them out in a managerial position.

By this time, both K and I had concluded that, despite his nice coat, this man lived on the streets. And he seemed to have some sort of mental disability from the way he talked. But we were enjoying talking with him, albeit awkwardly and uncomfortably. We exchanged glances that said that neither of us really believed his story. Near the time our bus was supposed to show up, John said that he liked us, and wouldn't mind having coffee with us and talking with us again some time. I thought that might be okay, and when he asked, I gave him my phone number.

It didn't occur to me that John would ever use the phone number I had given him. Nor did it occur to me that giving a stranger, bum or not, my family's phone number was something I should not do. Even though his story seemed like complete bunk, John seemed like a nice man, and I wouldn't mind having coffee with him some time.

We got home, and K immediately ratted me out and told everyone at home that I had given away their phone number. The response was a lot of scolding, and chagrinning. Whatever, I thought. However, John lost no time in using the phone number, and called both K and me, asking us out for coffee and to return the gloves. Every time he called caused my family to remind me of my utter naivety. The first few times it happened that both K and I were busy and couldn't meet up with John. But as he continued to call, week after week, I became more anxious about actually meeting up with this man whom we had met at a bus-stop downtown. And I began to make excuses not to meet with him.

I felt bad, since he obviously had liked us, and was lonely. I regretted giving him our phone number. I haven't seen John since.

It was perhaps a year, maybe not quite, my oldest brother was having a party with his friends and invited me and my other brothers along. Some time during the party, M brought out for his friends this example of my naivety. One of M's friends piped up and said: oh yeah! I know John - he works in the kitchen. He's sort of the adopted son of the owners of the Fort Garry. K and I stared at each other incredulously. John had been telling the truth!

John, wherever you are, I'd be up for coffee some time!

Snowshoes and Facebook

2008-04-11T05:06:00.000-05:00

"Let winter come! let polar spirits sweep
The darkening world and tempest-troubled deep"
Thomas Campbell, The Pleasures of Hope

Yes! Let winter come! Although the polar spirits are deferring their reign over tempest-troubled deep now in April, I wish it were not. I decided this year that winter is my favourite season of the year.

Although Winnipeg is often horrendously punned "Winterpeg", winter seems to come slowly here. Though the first snow may visit in mid-October, it's usually not until Halloween or even as late as a few days before Christmas that the snow decides to settle down for a long (winters...) nap. This year I watched the river freeze over. Every day I'd watch as slush collected along the banks, break off, and then float downstream until once again it hit something and wouldn't move on. The slush, eventually, froze. As the cooling season deepened, snow fell upon the freezing slush.

By the first weekend in December, there was a thick, heavy layer of snow on the ice. Although the city had just put up "Danger: Thin Ice" signs a week or two before, I was eager to use the frozen river as my own personal highway. One afternoon, I decided to tempt fate and I crossed the river on foot to visit my good friends B.P. and A.B.P. While there were some soft spots where I could see moisture seep into the snow where I had stepped, I continued on, and made it across!

Feeling confident now with the river's solidity, I decided to make another test. That night, I strapped on my snowshoes, and trudged down the river from my downtown apartment to my parents' house several kilometers upstream. I'd never been on the river before, and it was beautiful. I saw, in the blue-pink hue of a winter's night, the backs of houses lining the river. I saw a white owl swoop down and catch and decapitate a rabbit criss-crossing the river. I saw the red-glow of the Miseracordia Hospital's neon cross in front of the glowing Golden Boy atop the Legislature further in the distance.

I soon found out that although I had crossed the river earlier in the day towards my good friends' apartment, not all parts of the river were as solid. As I walked along, I'd feel my snowshoes upon the surface, and then a dull thud, and my foot was in a puddle of slush, broken through the outer frozen ice. But, I never fell through. Even in the places where I expected to fall through (by sewer drains), I was able to circumvent really thin ice.

On my return trip, nearly home, I stopped in front of the Legislative building, all lit up in it's yellow-toned splendour, to take a photo with my phone-camera. Blast! It was too dark! While I had my phone out though, I decided to use a function which I had, at the time, learned to depend upon, internet access to Facebook. So it was, as I stood there before the crown jewel of Manitoba's governing council, checking the stati of my friends on my cellphone, sweating from my first hike on the river, that I suddenly felt the ice capitulate to the weight of my body. A soft gurgle and hiss, and I suddenly found myself mid-thigh deep in ice-cold river water.

After that, I was hooked. I snowshoed on the river nearly every day after that.

Evading Death

2008-03-25T15:00:00.000-05:00

I remember, like it was in a photograph, the frightful months following high-school graduation. Grade twelve physics, with the evil Thiessen, had me learning on my own IB Physics and my own personal spin on projectile motion.

I had for months and maybe even years been developing my own rockets so that I could evade the tight reigns of the NAV Canada. During those formidable days, I was approached by a representative of the Penner Family Mafia who wanted to commission a large supply of these rockets with accommodations for a special payload, and versatile launch procedures. It didn't take much imagination to discover what the Penner Family Mafia was up to. I must confess, abashedly, that I was not strong enough to stand up to them, and I promised to fill their order.

My years at a Mennonite school had deeply affected me, and instilled me with a sense of pacifism that I did not entirely understand. I knew that if I came through on my promise of these rockets, death and destruction would soon follow wherever the arms of the Penner Family Mafia could reach. I decided to go against my word, which I had considered until then to be a bond beyond reproach; I would not supply them with the rockets, I decided. It took a few months for the consequence of my decision to become apparent; but I can say that one does not cross the Penner Family Mafia lightly.

For all their villainy, the PFM is cunning and don't like to dirty their hands. I soon found myself at the receiving end of their wrath, from an unexpected antagonist - my good friend Sean - and his clones. For all of Sean's cunning, and the brute force of his clones, I was able to evade them in the early fall - but in retrospect, perhaps I was not so smart, and they were just trying to warn me - "deliver the rockets, or else!"

At the time, however, I thought I was free. Just to be safe, however, as my music degree promised a great deal of public attention: I decided I would flee to Newfoundland on my bike. Who would look for me in Newfoundland? Who would look for me on a bike? (Okay, anyone looking for me would look for me on my bike. I obviously didn't think through it completely.) But I thought my timing would throw them off - and I would camp in the woods! Live off the land!

In any case, I was wrong. It took a while, but they found me! The PFM would not let things lie; they wanted my rockets or my life. The clones had reproduced themselves, and lay in wait for me along a hidden forest path. June 21, 2003. That was the fateful day. Surrounding me, they aimed their own brand of rocket launchers at me, cricket-bats, and an assortment of other weapons. That should have been the end of me; and as far as the PFM know, it was. But the loyalties of friendship are stronger than a willful arm; Sean and the Clones needed to shake the PFM off their backs and my cooperation helped both of our parties. As far as the PFM knows, I died on that hidden forest path on June the twenty-first, Twenty-ought-three. We'll see if the future reunites us some day.

NOTE: All or parts of this story may be false or exaggerated. Mentally ingest at your own risk.

Monday, March Seventeen - PM

2008-03-25T00:25:00.000-05:00

A favourite thing for many people to do (especially white people, I understand), is to get together with a friend or friends over a cup of coffee. I am half-white, and am not completely exempt from this rule. However, I drink tea instead of coffee, which is a most vile thing to most coffee drinkers. This particular afternoon of March seventeen, I had plans to meet my white friend at Starbucks. As always, my mode of transportation was my bicycle.

On my ride to Starbucks, I was running a bit late, going down the posh condo-lined Wellington Crescent East, I was stopped suddenly as a garbage truck in front of me suddenly leapt into flames. The garbage truck stopped too. I could see the orange flames inside the back of the truck, but they seemed contained. That is, until the truck dumped them onto the boulevard. First though, the truck had to turn perpendicular to the street, effectively blocking traffic in both lanes, and any moving around it. With the beep, beep, beep of reversing, it opened up the crushing door, and ejected the burning refuse onto the melting snow and thawing grass. The sudden air and a gust of wind from the river Assinaboine, caused the flames to jump even higher, and the acrid smoke to riot into the street and air. Through my elbow, I could smell burning plastic.

It wasn't until a few minutes later that a couple of fire trucks arrived on the scene and made quick work of the flames. All this time, however, the garbage truck remained perpendicular to the street, maintaining the driver's idea which said, none shall pass! Eventually, it did move, and with smoke choked lungs, I continued to my Starbucks rendezvous, where for the second time in my life, I drank coffee.

On my way home from an enlightening conversation, again I was riding my bicycle. I was riding in the right lane, next to a row of parked cars - Winnipeg doesn't have bicycle lanes - and as I came along-side of one, it suddenly pulled out and spun me around. In the next lane was a transit bus which efficiently ploughed into me and my bicycle. It hit me in the chest, and I pleasantly noted that I grunted in quite a manly tone and did not squeal or scream. The bus stopped just in time - I was inches from it's beastly tires.

What happened afterwards is a vague blur and confusing to me. There were faces, people talking to me, I think there were sirens and flashing lights, my parents' house is close by but no-one was home, and the next thing I remember is walking to an evening dinner because my bike was broken. My friends were concerned. Near the end of our evening, one of them decided that he was taking me to the hospital, no arguments, which he did, and there weren't. Triage told me to go home to let the injuries become more evident, and I knew, more painful. Now I have to wait for MPI so I can get my bicycle fixed.

Monday, March Seventeen - AM

2008-03-24T23:12:00.000-05:00

It often happens at some time or another that a body and mind cannot fall into that often-comforting-sometimes-not place we call "sleep" or "a good night's rest". For the body typing this, the time following as-I-lay-me-down-to-sleep seems deplorable to lay down and sleep. There may be some laying of me down; this results in crooked necks, wrinkled sheets, twisted blankets, but certainly little-to-no sleep.

On the particular night of Monday, March seventeen (or to clarify, the morning of the night of Sunday, March sixteen), a crooked-neck-wrinkled-sheet-twisted-blanket-little-to-no-sleep experience convinced this body to get up. And what better thing is there to do when evading crooked-neck-wrinkled-sheet-twisted-blanket-little-to-no-sleep experiences at 2:30AM, than to do taxes? So this is what began to occupy my mind. Schedules, tax reforms, last year's claims, T4s, donation receipts, rental and medical expenses. Folders of pages, some in order, some not. I must confess that all of this excited me just a little.

As I finished reading over the Canada Revenue Agency's General Income Tax and Benefit Guide, which is a must-read, the glass of the window above my head suddenly shattered, blowing into the living room, and rained down on me in my housecoat, sitting in my rocking chair. Living down-town, in a basement suite facing a main thoroughfare, I was surprised that my windows had not been shattered or broken before now. I stood up, and brushed the glass off of me, shook it off the chair, and stood on it to look out the window.

Leaning on the window-sill, I looked out at the street, and saw no-body - I heard no-body. Even if someone had sprinted off after kicking in my window, I should have been able to see them. I then noticed that the screen on my window was still intact. Suddenly a furious wind tore at me, leaning in the window. The wind had shattered my window! I covered it up with some corrugated-plastic political signs, and decided that I was finished with my taxes for now, and went back to tempt my body again with that enticing crooked-neck-wrinkled-sheet-twisted-blanket-little-to-no-sleep experience.