Thumb

I had occasion to drive past Eagle Ridge Hospital the other day, on my way back from Newport Village, and it brought forward a memory I have been trying to eradicate from my brain for over a year and a half.  In the end, everything had passed, and there had been no lasting trauma, but some of the events continued to niggle uncontrolled in my brain.  I thought, perhaps, putting them down on paper would purge them from those neurons that so wanted to get them gone.

It happened late Spring of last year, at the height of the Coquitlam road construction and maintenance season.    The season we all love with the loping backhoes wallowing at 18kph in morning traffic, the smell of fresh asphalt wafting in the air rich with the sounds of scraping shovels and beepers of trucks moving in reverse.   The fashions hadn’t changed much from the year before.  Plain weave nylon was still in vogue, in fluorescent yellow and pink tones, with matching hardhats, utility belts and steel-toed boots. Everyone seeming well coordinated.  Did they have fashion shows for people who design construction clothing?  Magazines?  Pallettes of the Spring fashions? Fashion designers need to start somewhere after all.

I smiled as I passed the construction area in front of my home and waved to the young gal directing the traffic.  She waved back using her sign.  The cars behind me were confused by the alternating ‘Stop’ and ‘Slow’ even though stop and slow was the usual traffic pattern for this time of the day.  I figured it out and pulled into my driveway without incident.  

The fact that road construction was going on in front of my home, with all the requisite crews and equipment, played a little part in what followed.  Other than,  that is, the 5 seconds, when the power went out because of the roadwork.  I am a recreational woodworker.  I make things out of hardwood that I either purchase at exorbitant prices, or have been able to greedily scavenge and air dry myself.  Just before the power went off, I was in my shop trying to split a large maple log that had been drying under my deck for over a year.  This was to then be mounted onto my lathe and fashioned into a bowl.  The plan was to split the log into workable chunks in the good ole’ fashioned way, with a big chisel and a heavy hammer.  I gripped the chisel firmly in my left hand and raised the hammer with my right.  The hammer descended.  There was no turning back. Then the lights went out.  The hammer was flying downwards towards the chisel.  Then the hammer deflected off the side of the chisel and hit me square on the left thumb.  This wasn’t just hitting my thumb with a hammer, like missing a nail.  I was bearing down with all my force in order to split this hard, heavy piece of Maple - 22 ounces of steel travelling at about 200 feet per second. The lights came back on.  I didn’t need them. I could see so many stars that I would have needed a pair of dark shades to see anything.   So now what?  I seemed to recall reading an article on orthopedic surgery, somewhere, that suggested putting the injured digit on ice, having a beer or two and watching a few episodes of the Sopranos, as the appropriate treatment for a condition such as this.  I followed the protocol.

Plan B was invoked 18 hours later.  It involved going to see a medical professional at Eagle Ridge Hospital.

My father and mother live downstairs.  As I was about to depart, my 90-year old father came out of the house hearing that I was outside.   He said the usual hello and asked me what was up. I showed him my thumb which looked like a Chorizo sausage, the nail a lovely blue-black indigo color. 

“During the war,” he said - he starts most sentences that way, it’s something about having been in the Italian military during the second world war- “They would heat a needle in a flame and poke it through the nail to let the blood out.”

I immediately felt like I had eaten 50 raw Chorizo sausages.  I am very sensitive to images of injuries to fingers and other sensitive places and felt a little woozy.  I had slight waves of nausea and my thumb began to throb. He offered to do the medical job for me if I could help him find his glasses, a needle and a match. I said that the hospital would probably be a better choice.  He agreed but insisted on coming with me in case we encountered a Jagdtiger tank convoy.  We would be fine.  He would do the talking – after all he spoke German.

The drive to the hospital had been just fine. No tanks, snipers or even light artillery.  It was Saturday and even the road crews had withdrawn behind their lines. I pulled into a slot in the parking lot.  I asked Dad to stay in the car while I paid for parking and went in to get a sense of how long this would take.  He promised he would not leave the car. 

When I came back, two minutes later, he was not where he was supposed to be. Somehow, I was not surprised but was praying for just a little bit of luck that way.   I looked around frantically and saw his Domino’s Pizza baseball cap sticking out from behind a hedge.  He was talking to the gardener, explaining how, in 1944, an off-course British Vickers Wellington had dropped a 227kg bomb on his house after it had overflown the train station.  The last time I had heard that story was when we were pulling into the parking stall and the last time before that was twenty minutes earlier.  The gardener, a New Canadian, was suitably confused about this line of conversation and looked around suspiciously.  What else had he been told by my father?  I grabbed my dad by the elbow and led him back to the car, searching my pockets for an arc welder to secure him in the car.

I got to see the doctor fairly quickly.  It was a quiet morning in the ER.  As I walked in he nodded, showing  microexpressions of boredom, and rolling his eyes at the ceiling.  Another middle aged weekend tool guy!  He told me that he had to drain the blood from under my nail and send me for an x-ray.

“In the old days”, he said, “We would heat a needle with a match and burn a hole in the nail.”

“But of course it’s much more high tech today,” I replied, with some dry-throated anxiety.

“Yes, we heat the needle with a double A battery.”

“But of course now you have some high tech laser pain blocker thingie, so I won’t feel a thing?”

They didn’t and I did, and the smell of burning keratin was the perfect backdrop.

I only waited about fifteen minutes to get the results of the x-ray – about the same amount of time it took my eyes to stop watering from the burning needle – and this time, the doctor from before was looking suitably impressed.

“You really whacked it”, he said with a hint of awe, “It’s shattered, you’re going to have to go see a specialist and maybe have surgery….”  Somehow his enthusiasm was wasted on me.  To him, it was like I had won runner up in some bizarre, self-inflicted injury contest, having come second only to some drunk carpenter who took off his knee cap with a belt sander.  I guess emergencies vary in entertainment value.

My thumb was splinted and wrapped with tape and I was given an appointment to see a specialist at Royal Columbian the following week.

When I came out into the waiting room, my dad was at the counter making airplane-like gesturing moves to the, very patient, triage nurses.  Behind him, in line, waiting patiently, in blood stained carpenter coveralls, was a man pressing a portion of the Tri-City News to one of his knees.

Goin' fishin'

The idea had spawned from a drunken discussion held a few weeks prior, at Wally's, one of Maillardville’s finest watering holes.  It’s a fairly large place conveniently located just a few blocks up the street from the Hell’s Angels club house.  There, old folk usually hang out in the late afternoon and evening, since the food  is quite good,  and the younger crowd shows up later for a little drug use and dancing.  The three of us were part of the early wave that evening and initially we felt like we were showing our age but after a few beers and some appies all felt good.  The three of us had worked together for a number of years and had had gotten quite close.   We would get together quite frequently, with or without our significant others, but over time, people had moved on.  Walker had gotten a new job across town and shortly thereafter  Helmut had quit and started his own business.  The mini reunion had been about a year since the last one so the mood was jovial and the conversation boisterous.   

Walker was building a wine cellar in his basement to store his sophisticated oenological creations, those that he made by sprinkling a little yeast in a pail at the local U-brew place where the staff did the rest.  Walker, being the workaholic that he was, always had some kind of project in process. The year before, he had built a goldfish pond with an electric fenced around it to keep the raccoons out.  Not a good combination, especially since the wiring job was not quite up to code.  Without getting into details, that project had resulted in two second degree burns and six fancy Koi floating supine among the lily pads.  The pond has since evolved into a tulip garden.  Helmut told us about his trip to Ze Fazerlannd to visit with some of his extended family, in his best contrived Bavarian accent.  He had moved to Canada as a child and spoke a little German but his culture was in his genes and they floated to the surface whenever enough bier was consumed.  I went on a bit about feeling a little dead-ended in my job and not having had any kind of a real break for a long while. This wasn’t of any great importance really, but I could tell that it had Walker reflecting a little.  His brow began to furrow, his lips pursed between glugs of beer and I knew then that an idea was being launched. 

So here I stood, waiting in my driveway, on a drizzly Saturday morning wearing a red Floater jacket, of late seventies vintage,  standing next to a pair of rubber boots, a duffle bag of food and gear and  two six packs of Canadian. I was actually motivated for this trip, not by the prospect of spending two days in a cramped little boat bobbing up and down on a frigid lake with two hung over guys, but rather that this little trip coincided with a planned visit from my sister in law.  She is quite a special little woman with an enormous ego  with a constant need to point out why she is superior to all other living things on this earth.  As I was fantasizing about snapping her little pencil-neck with a crescent wrench, Walker rolled up the driveway in his fully loaded F150 and squished one of my six packs of beer.  The cans popped like six big zits under his left front, all-terrain, tire and the foam flooded my shoes.   I whipped them off and just stepped right into the rubber boots since my socks didn’t feel wet. I pitched the shoes further up the driveway and one bounced onto the hood of the wifelet’s car.

I threw my stuff in the back and climbed into the passenger seat.  Helmut was in the back, plugged into his MP3.  He acknowledged my presence with a little nod and Walker belted, “Let’s go” and with that we were on our way to the tranquility of the great outdoors with the fresh sounds and smells of nature, to bond with each other and to partake of the manly art of fishing.  But first, Walker needed to make a quick stop at London Drugs to get a Logiix dual USB iPod charger.  I didn’t have any idea what that was but I assumed that must have been something he needed for some undisclosed medical condition.  I didn’t dare ask.

We were about ten minutes into our trip when I realized that I had already made three very serious errors.  The first was that when I thought that my socks weren’t wet from wading through 2.13 liters beer, I must have been suffering from some kind of post traumatic stress disorder after having seen half of my liquor supply being lost.  My socks were, in fact, soaked, but the good news was that not the whole six-pack was lost. I had at least the equivalent of half a can sloshing around in each boot.  The second was that I didn’t bring any other footwear or socks.  The third mistake … well we’ll leave that until later … you’ll see.

A 2009 F150 with the club cab and the 4 wheel drive option has a maximum height of 7 feet 2 inches.  For those of you that are shocked by seeing the use of Imperial Measures, that’s 218.4 centimeters.  The covered parking lot at Lougheed Mall has a minimum clearance of 22 feet 6 inches but with a hanging scaffold attached for painting it is only 11 feet 2 inches.  A2009 F150 with a custom roof rack has maximum height of 7 feet 8 inches.  A 2009 F150 with a custom roof rack and a sixteen foot aluminum boat on top has a maximum height of 11 feet 5 inches.  It’s really amazing how three lousy inches can create so much noise and disruption and how the general public is so attracted to noise and disruption.

Within two minutes a crowd had formed and people were not only snickering at our predicament but openly guffawing.  Up until now I hadn’t noticed how Walker was dressed.  He had on a fishing vest over a camouflage jacket and was wearing a fishing hat with lures hanging from it.  It was kind of like Chuck Norris meets Col. Henry Blake.  Helmut was wearing a jogging suit with a fishing hat and bright yellow headphones attached to his MP3.  I was a knotted hanky away from being a full blown Gumby.  One of a number of youths in the crowd yelled out, “Hey it’s Mr. James.  I teach mathematics at the local high school.  Monday was going to be a very difficult day.

It didn’t take long for word of the calamity to get to the Community Police Station in the mall and shortly thereafter, a very mature looking female RCMP Corporal appeared and approached Walker.

“Are you going fishing?” , she asked politely.  The crowd snickers.

“Yes we are,” replied Walker defiantly.”We’re heading up to Mosquito Lake.  I don’t know how this  could have happened. I could have sworn I had enough clearance.” 

“Well it doesn’t look too serious, you can probably loosen your roof rack enough to slide the boat out.  Make sure the boat doesn’t leak!” … make sure the boat doesn’t leak! … make sure …………..

The Corporal had a quick look at Walker’s driver’s license then looked right at him and said, “I smell alcohol. Have you been drinking?”

Without missing a beat, Walker replied,” No, but his (pointing at me) boots are full of beer.”

Cpl.  Anne Williams had been with the RCMP for 27 years.  She had asked that question hundreds and hundreds of times during the course of police work in Traffic and General Duty but she had never heard that answer.  But more importantly, she knew it was true.  She knew that my boots were full of beer she didn’t need to come over and check.  Three middle aged guys dressed like characters in a Monty Python  skit jam their vehicle and boat under a scaffold in an underground parking lot on the way to a fishing lake and the guy dressed as Gumby has beer in his boots.  Yes, it all fits.

Then my cell phone rings, or rather, runs through the “Cucaracha” theme three times before it cuts out.  It was in the inside pocket of the Floater but slid through a hole and ended up in the lining.  The caller is persistent and calls back 3 more times which means 9X Cucaracha until I can finally get it out.  The crowd had started to disperse until this latest development.  I check the call display and, of course, it’s the wifelet. I hit Reply and she picks up.  My end went like this: “… the beer got squished and soaked them … Lougheed Mall … Walker had to get something … it got stuck in the lining … the boat’s jammed in a covered parking lot … stop laughing … don’t tell your mother.  Her end involved a number of very colorful expletives which I’m sure she didn’t mean.

I had a look at the way the roof rack was attached and figured that it wouldn’t be that difficult to loosen it off so that we could unjam the boat.  Walker had a big tool box in the back with everything needed to do the job so we sent him off to get his electronic gizmo and two pairs of socks for me, in order to save time.  We got the boat off and had a good look at it.  The bow was a little crushed but there were no holes or cracks in the aluminum.  By the time Walker got back, we had moved the truck out  and were in the process of loading the boat back on.  I took off the boots and shook out as much beer as I could, then we finally got back on the road.

Once we were on the highway, I stuck my feet out the window to dry them off.  This worked quite well until we drove through a swarm of bugs that hit my soles like machine gun fire. In the panic to haul my feet in, I hit the window control switch and almost cut my legs of just below the knees.  I dried the boots in the same way, holding them out the window with the open end out, but at 110 kph they were a little hard to hang on to.  Walker only had to stop twice so we could retrieve a boot.  The first time was fairly easy since it ended up on the right hand shoulder.  The second time the boot took a bad bounce and came to rest in the middle of the highway after hitting three or four vehicles.  Getting it back was a little challenging since traffic was fairly heavy but Helmut demonstrated his sprinting skills very well and was able to recover the battered boot.

In spite of our unexpected delay we still made it to Hope by lunch time.  Walker pulled into the Chevron and eased up to the pump.  Helmut offered that we chip in for gas and I agreed.  Walker looked at us with a wry smile.  “Are you sure?” he asked.

“Yes, of course,” we echoed in harmony.

I drive a compact car that I chose because of its fuel efficiency and Helmut doesn’t even own a vehicle.  He’s one of these guys that you see pedaling like stink in the rain with enough fluorescent clothing to blind anyone that looks directly at him.  So, between the two of us, we had absolutely no idea how much gas that a behemoth like this would need.  When the final amount came up after about ten minutes of fueling, I think we both questioned our generosity.  Mental note:  Never buy any vehicle where the gas tank is bigger than a Yaletown apartment.  Walker pulled the truck across the parking lot and we shuffled over to the diner to get some lunch. The place was small, clean and the aroma of food was delightful.  We had a decent little meal and were only asked by two people if we were going fishing.  Hans suggested that he take off his fishing hat before we encountered other members of the public in order to make the ‘Where are we going? Mystery’ a little more challenging.

Back on the road and I began to settle into a very relaxing groove and for the first time in a fairly long while I was being overcome by an overwhelming sense of tranquility.  My feet were dry and warm in their new socks, the smell of beer had almost all gone and my belly was full of the excellent chili I had earlier.  I must say that if you disregard all the dumb-ass things about big vehicles, like blocking the visibility of others, the high carbon foot prints and just looking stupid, they are really, really comfortable, like being in your living room, except that the flat screen over the rear view is only 24 inches across.  The vehicle swayed gently from side to side as we started up the Fraser Canyon and I faded into a blissful little nap.

Harold Walker is not an aggressive man but he is very assertive.  No one pushes him around, under no circumstances and for no reason at all.  He developed this quality over the many years that he’s spent as a high school principal.  Over that time he came to develop quite a reputation at being very tough in difficult circumstances.  We had worked together at Moody for a number of years until he was enticed to move to another school that had serious challenges very suited to his skill set.  An aggressive trucker is no match to a 16 year old high school delinquent and Walker dealt with those every day.  The Kenworth had passed us going around a corner, uphill, cutting us off as it pulled back into our lane.  Walker had decided that this was highly inappropriate and immediately passed the truck to show the driver who was boss.  This is when I woke up.  The double yellow line was on my right.  The cab of the Kenworth was there too and I was at eye level with the logo in the driver’s door.  We were going downhill and the North Arm of the Fraser River was straight ahead.  In the oncoming lane were two headlights attached to a blue SUV whose driver was probably saying, “WHAT THE F……?”.  Just to my left was the F150’s digital speedo which showed 135kph.  Helmut was completely oblivious to this as he bobbed his head to the music pumping through his giant headphones.  I screamed!  Walker pulled back into the right lane clearing the bumper of the semi by a good three to four inches.  I screamed again!  The truck driver wailed on his horn and I screamed louder than the air horn.  Walker glanced over at me as is he had no idea why I was so upset.  He then slowed down a little and the truck behind us backed off.  I asked Walker to pull over for a washroom break at the next available opportunity.  It may have been too late but I was too frazzled to tell.

Boston Bar came up around the next bend and the speed limit plummeted from 110 to 50 in the space of two hundred feet.  A police car was tucked in around the curve just in case anyone had difficulty with this abrupt transition.  Walker did and pulled into the gravel lot in front of the local coffee shop doing about 80.  The cop hit the gas, spilled his coffee, hit the brakes and got out of his car wiping the hot liquid off his pants.  We went into what was called the Fraser River Café and I headed straight for the can.  I was relieved to see that my bladder was full and that I had been able to maintain control of all my bodily functions.  The other two were sitting at a table by the window with their beverages.  I went up to the counter, grabbed a coffee and was fascinated by these meaty things on sticks turning on some heated rollers.  I wasn’t sure but I think they were corn dogs.  For some inexplicable reason I wanted one.  I wasn’t hungry, lunch had only been an hour ago, but still there was strange attraction to those ill-cooked outdated midway snacks. 

At this point, there is a piece of advice that I would like to share.  If ever, and God forbid, you are kidnapped and held captive in a dark room, deprived of food for two weeks and if, by some unexpected and fortuitous set of circumstances you escape and end up in Boston Bar, outside the Fraser River Café with $1.92 in your pocket – I know this is a stretch, but you never know … - do not eat a corn dog! 

As well as being assertive, Harold Walker is meticulously neat and tidy.  He washes his F150 every week and vacuums and shines the inside every other day.  Therefore, when the sudden wave of discomfort hit me I panicked for a solution.  I thought of the window first but realized that at this speed and given the length of the vehicle that the odds were very slim of complete clearance, stopping was out of the question since I had three to four hundred nanoseconds at most and the ash tray was too small.  Panic rose even more at the realization that disaster would be real and immediate, but through sheer strength of focus, I realized the boots were the answer … but in my haste, I took off the wrong one.  As I lifted it towards my mouth the residual scents of sweat and beer catalyzed the finest upchuck I have ever had since downing two bottles of Baby Duck at my high school graduation.  I was quick to realize that this was the battered boot which had sustained some damage while bouncing down the highway.  I held my hand over the two cracks at the back of the heel.   For the first time ever, I saw panic and distress in Walker’s face.  He slammed on the binders and we came to a screeching, dust-blowing halt on the partially graveled shoulder. 

The cop from before had been following us after his own mishap, in hopes of redeeming himself.  What he saw was a truck doing an emergency stop and a guy wearing a Floater jacket jumping out, in a cloud of dust, holding one of his boots.  He flipped on his lights to add to the drama.  Now this particular guy had worked in Boston Bar for over five years and all he had ever seen were traffic offences and the odd gas station robbery.  Now here, for the first time in his career, a situation presented itself, though he doubted that any crime had been committed, that was puzzling and requiring of his deductive reasoning.  He took his time, starting by running the plate and getting the vehicle owner’s name and particulars.  There was nothing much on that other than a couple of minor traffic things.  He pondered more but couldn’t come up with any explanation for what he had just seen.

Walker started to grow impatient and climbed out of the cab.  The cop lowered his window and asked, “Hi there, you boys going fishing?”

“No,” Walker replied,” He’s (pointing at me) smuggling heroin in one of his boots.”  I then turned blue.

The cop got out of his car and started walking towards me.  He looked at me then at my boot, which now was dripping significantly, then back at me, then at Walker.  And then he stopped.   The corners of his mouth started to rise slowly as he turned and walked back to his vehicle grinning. “You ate one of the corn dogs, didn’t you?  And don’t leave that boot on the side of the road!”

Once again, Helmut Kohler headed up the boot rescue operation.  He went to the box cover on the back of the truck and looked to see if Walker had any garbage bags stashed.  Not surprisingly, he did, but not just the usual big green ones, he had little white ones and great big orange ones as well.  Regrettably, he had only one size of twist tie.  The boot and contents were secured inside three knotted and twist-tied garbage bags and firmly secured to the roof rack underneath the stern of the boat.  I didn’t think I would make it comfortably through the weekend with only one boot so we pulled off the highway at Lytton to look for some footwear.  I didn’t think there would be much selection but, at this point, it didn’t matter, boots, sneakers, flippers  , whatever!  It wasn’t long before I was once again properly shod and no longer feeling the effects of my diaphragm in my throat.  Having survived so many calamities so far this day and happening to be just outside the door of the Lytton Hotel, Walker declared that we should go and have a beer, just one.   I normally don’t drink beer after I puke into one of my boots, but today was an exception   after all,  we were on a fishing vacation.

The inside of the licensed premises of the Lytton Hotel was small, dark and smelled like the inside of the boot that was lashed onto the outside of the truck but the experiences of the day were such that we were not as sensitif as usual.  We sat at one of the little tables and realized quickly that service was not part of the business plan of this little establishment.  I went to the bar to get the beer and Helmut went over to the pull tab machine to buy a fistful of losing tickets.  The beer tasted good and it didn’t take long before the three of us were laughing like crazy at all the stupid things that had gone on that day and the irony of how we were looking for a peacefully serene relaxation experience.  The beer tasted so good, in fact, that we left in haste get up to the lake as quickly as possible so that we could indulge in few more.  It was only about 45 minutes away.  The others headed out to the truck and I went up to the bar to get a six pack to go, to replace the one that was used as a speed bump back home.  A local, middle aged lady, well past her prime, smiled at me from her table.  I smiled back unconvincingly and then turned to get the attention of the bartender.  Then I felt a hand on my butt, guess who?  She had had more than just one beer and I was too shocked to do anything.  She then whispered, or at least she thought she was whispering, into my ear that she could show me a really good time for fifty dollars.  I declined but I was so flattered by the realization that I was still attractive enough to be able to pay for sex that I bought the woman a drink and left quickly with my six pack.

I got back to the truck and told the other guys about my little experience.  “Hell, let’s go back,” Walker bellowed trying to make a joke but sadly I think he actually meant it.  Helmut showed no interest at all. We got to Mosquito Lake in about forty minutes and were parked by our cabin five minutes after that.  It was only 3:15 so there was still time to get a few lines wet if we wanted.  The other guys were up for it but I didn’t feel that I needed any new challenges this particular day.  I would unpack and start to put something together for dinner.

The cabin consisted of one large open room with an airtight stove in the middle. Along one wall was a small kitchenette made up of a straight piece of counter with a two-burner gas stove at one end and a small fridge at the other.  The compressor on the fridge was in palliative care mode and clunked loudly when it started or stopped.  Right in the middle of the little counter was a porcelain bathroom sink with separate faucets for hot and cold.  Against the opposite wall was a bunk bed on one side and a double on the other.  There was only one window overlooking the lake on the South side and below it was a small table with four chairs.  Just below the window on the outside was a partially constructed deck. There was no couch, no tv and no washroom facilities. There was a shower in the larger lodge building but the toilets were al fresco.  The place smelled a little of ‘fireplace and grease’ but overall was reasonably clean. 

Helmut and Walker had put the boat in the water and were manhandling the oversized outboard to get it on the transom.  Apparently this caused more distress than anticipated since Helmut was yelling at Walker in his phony German doing a fairly good rendition of Colonel  Klink, something about ‘my foot’ and Dummkopf (whatever that is).  Then silence, which was broken by a few sputters of an engine kicking into action.  I peered out the window and could now see the boat on its way with its two gladiators heading out with thousands of dollars of sophisticated equipment to do battle with the twelve inch trout that inhabit Mosquito Lake.

I cracked a beer and focused my energies on dinner.  We were only here for the one night so today’s dinner would be the big meal of the trip.  We had brought some New York Steaks, potatoes and salad for tonight, very simple and hopefully very good.  I started by getting the airtight going since it was really starting to cool off.  There was a nice pile of dry Birch under cover next to the cabin along with a little dull hatchet. I bludgeoned away at the larger pieces until I had a nice collection of kindling, split logs, woodchips and crushed bits of branches, not very pretty but very flammable.  There was a little stack of newspaper by the wood as well, so getting the stove started was very simple.   I checked to see whether the flue was open, made a little pile of starting materials and lit them up.  A few minutes later when the flame had picked up, I stoked it with a sizeable load of wood.  Within minutes the fire was roaring.  First there was a little black smoke creeping out, then a little bit more.

I was briefly distracted by a drastic change of pitch of the outboard on the lake.  It had gone from a little trolling putt, putt sound to a screaming high pitched squeal that sounded like a Formula One car.  I swung around and the aluminum boat with my eminent friends and colleagues was motoring at high speed with the bow sticking 45 degrees out of the water.  What was more surprising was that these two university educated guys were both sitting at the very back of the boat with the engine cranked on full blast.  Obviously the steering and visibility were compromised because the boat bounced off the side of the dock, skidded up the little beach and came to rest, with the engine still screaming, with is bow jammed under the deck of the cabin.  When the spinning propeller hit the sand … well, let’s just say the visual was unparalleled by any physical phenomenon I had ever seen before.

While I was seriously wondering whether the intrepid fishermen were complete utter imbeciles they were wondering that of me as well,  since by now the black smoke emanating from the airtight had increased ten-fold and was billowing out the front door.  That was about when the owner of the resort pulled up on his ATV to find out … to use his words, ”What in God’s name of Hell in Christ the Fuck is going on here?????”

Well it was quite simple really.  I had checked whether the flue was open and it was.  I hadn’t checked whether it was BROKEN, which it was.  When it heated up it slammed shut on itself … oops.  The boat thing well yes we checked for leaks … checked for leaks … checked for leaks… but we didn’t have a Plasma Magnetic Interferometer in our ass pocket to check for fucking metal fatigue, resulting from the incident at Lougheed Mall.  The bow split after it came under strain after bouncing along the water.  The only way to keep the boat from becoming Das Boot was to keep the fucking bow out of the water ie weight in the back and engine on full!!!

Everyone was quiet at dinner.  Helmut was nursing the foot that Walker had crushed when tried to lift the outboard onto the boat but he was a smart guy and couldn’t stay mad at Walker.  He had been the only shop teacher at Moody that still had all his fingers, so from that standpoint he was almost considered a genius.  The steaks were actually pretty good but the potatoes were overcooked.  It didn’t matter because the beers kept coming in order to help us cope with this unfortunate change in plans.  No more fishing.  The boat was probably fixable but certainly couldn’t be used any more on this trip,  but more importantly, we had been kicked out of our cabin under threats of bodily injury and found ourselves in the pub in the nearest hotel we could find, 100 Mile House.

After dinner, we listened to Prairie Breeze, a country music ensemble consisting of a very bad singer and a keyboard player of equally questionable caliber.  We had no other place to go.  We were only able to get one room which was cramped and hardly the place to spend an evening and the only other place in town that was open was Save On Foods.  The only solutions appeared to be to murder the band or to drink very heavily.  We discussed this for a bit but agreed that we couldn’t come up with a good way of  disposing of the bodies so we kept the beers coming and coming instead.

The next morning, I was the first to wake up because my alcohol level got down low enough that I could hear Walker snoring.  He was sleeping on his back with all his clothes on in the big bed on the side of the room.  Helmut and I each had little creaky metal cots that were probably World War One surplus.  I hit the shower and then went downstairs for coffee.  Helmut stumbled down after about ten minutes and it was clear that he hadn’t showered.  He did make an attempt to comb his hair but half of the hairs on his head had resisted.  His hair was flat on the right side and sticking straight up on the left.  From where I was sitting, it looked like he was standing in a ninety kilometer per hour gale.  I’m sure he knew but didn’t care.  Walker got down just after my breakfast arrived and greeted us with gleaming white teeth and blood shot eyes.  He had showered and changed but he still wore his silly fishing hat. 

So what was the plan? The drive home was about five hours.  We had planned to fish all day today and to drive home in the evening. If we left now it would be obvious that our trip had been a failure and after all the negotiations that it took to go, for all three us, it would probably compromise the chances of any other road trips in the future.  The truth of the matter was that since we were here we should try to see if we could get the boat fixed and do some fishing.  We went outside to inspect the damage.  The aluminum boat was on the truck so Helmut, since he was the shop guy of the group, grabbed a metal garbage can that was nearby, to stand on so he could go up and have a look.  He did this with great caution to make sure that he wouldn’t collapse into the can. He climbed on.  So far, so good.  He had a good close look at the crack in the boat, and told us that it was actually quite encouraging.  There was about a twelve inch crack down the middle of the bow but the various cross members and the gunwales held things together so that the crack didn’t expand when he put pressure on it.  Walker actually suggested duct tape but then realized quickly from the glare he got from Helmet and me that maybe there was a better solution.  We all piled in the truck and headed for the little hardware store on the main street.  They surely would have Bondo or fiberglass putty or epoxy patching kits.  They did.  But this was Sunday … small town.  Save On Foods was the only place open.

We walked through all the aisles at Save On and our choices were Krazy Glue, silicone sealant, masking tape and Play Dough.  We went with three tubes of the silicone sealant.  That might actually work.  At the check-out we were asked if we were going fishing and whether we needed any help out.  Helmut replied in ‘german’, with something that, loosely translated, meant “No you unfortunate cow!”.   Then we were back in the truck consulting some maps.  It would be silly to backtrack to Mosquito Lake so we decided on Sable Lake which was only about twenty minutes up the road.

Well, you know, sometimes a little confidence, persistence and resolve works.  Within an hour we were in the newly patched boat blissfully fishing for trout.  We were able to patch the crack with a piece of nylon tarp and the silicone.  We were a little short on the silicone so a small portion of the crack, well above the waterline was still open but, other than that, it held beautifully.  We tested and retested before the repair before all three of us got in, kept the speed down and only motored close to shore.  It all worked and it was delightful.  The fishing itself was not all that successful, Walker and Helmut each pulled in a small trout but the overall experience itself was a total success. 

I was disappointed to be going home with nothing, given all the challenges that we had to endure so I convinced the other guys to bring me back to Save On where I could do a little indoor fishing.  I looked all over but most of the fish products were cut up in pieces, frozen and in boxes.  I think I would have a hard time going home with a piece of frozen haddock and telling the wifelet that it was part of a big trout I had frozen at the lake.  But as I kept looking, I found a small anemic Atlantic salmon that would serve the purpose.  It wasn’t a trout but I don’t think she could tell, after all trout and salmon belonged  to the same family.  I pitched the wrapping and bagged it like all the other fish.  Done.  Time to go home.

As we were approaching Clinton an annoying whine was coming from the front of the boat.  We got out and had a look.  Nothing had really changed.  What was happening was that the small unsealed portion of the crack was acting as a whistle and the body of the boat was acting as a sound box.  We went on a little further and stopped in Clinton to find something to remedy the situation.  Again, small town on a Sunday evening … all that was open was a small convenience store.  There was nothing there to do any repairs with but they did have ear plugs. That would be enough to get us home.

The earplugs were of surprising good quality.  They were incredibly comfortable and as we drove we could no longer here the whine from the boat.  When a little silicone peeled away from the crack  and let air flow across of the tarp patch making a sound like a very loud bassoon we didn’t hear that. And when we drove through Boston Bar with a cop with full sirens on behind us, we didn’t hear that either.  We did see the roadblock that was set up 10 km ahead though.  Yes, the Constable who came up to the vehicle was the same one.  When he recognized us he shook his head and just signaled to the others to take down the barrier and we were off again.

We eventually made it home and when I hit the sack and put my arm around the wifelet.  All she had to say was, “Why did you put a boot full of puke in the fridge?”

Pestered

I am still wet even though the sand and sun are very warm.  My mind is foggy and swirling and I can’t remember how and when I was washed up here on the Tahitian beach.  My eyes sting from the salt and I have difficulty focusing on the form leaning over me.  I feel powerless but I am not frightened.  There is something about this place that exudes peace and an inner calm.  I can feel hair gently brushing my throat as the human shape slides closer.

I feel like I am being touched but I can’t tell for sure, as my senses have been combined into a warm bubbling feeling.  I hear a voice, sweet and melodic, of a young woman, in a foreign tongue.  Then there is a second, equally as pleasant.  A little giggling follows with the feeling of warmth and proximity.

Riiiiiiiiiing! What?  All I see now is a blurred image of my family room with the muted plasma screen on the wall.  I close my eyes again fast.  Let’s get back to Tahiti now, go, go, go!  I begin to melt and fade again.  Riiiiiiiiiiing!

I grab my cup of Macchiato and stagger around the coffee table towards the phone on the counter.  The dog is looking at my cup with enthusiastic interest.  I take a swallow but the cup is almost empty and the liquid is cold.   “Spkitchhello,” I say into the phone as I spit a hair off my tongue.  The dog has whipping cream on her nose.

“How are you today sir?” chirps the handset.

“Fine,” I blurt as I stare into my cup.

“I’m calling from the NB Bank of Canada, Canada’s premier banking institution with a very special, time-limited, offer on our new Emperio card which usually has an annual fee of $59.00, but today for just a limited time …”

“There are dog hairs in bottom of my cup mixed in with the cream and caramel…”

“That’s just for you, just for today, if you sign up you will have an annual fee of only $19.99…”

“Can you get rabies from dog hair?”

“But that’s not all …”

“You mean like what, hepatitis, dysentery…?”

“…you get 10,000 bonus air miles and free car rental insurance all over North America…”

“You woke me from Tahiti just for this?”

“No sir, not Tahiti, just North America, all over North America where cars are rented.”

“Do you want to buy my dog?”

“No sir we don’t offer credit to dogs.”

“What planet are you from … Saturn?”

“Yes sir, Saturns, Toyotas, and all brands of vehicles that are rented …”

I calmly place the phone down.  I do not hang up, I just place it down but the non-stop chatter continues.

I sign onto the computer in the next room to find out how to make a Lebanese letter bomb and look up the address of the NB Bank.  My e-mail screen pops up and the only unopened message is about ‘Guaranteed penis enlargement for only $19.99’.  I reply, using my ex wife’s e-mail address, and ask whether they have an ‘extended warranty’, pun intended.  I can still hear the phone chatter in the other room.  It’s really annoying me now so I go back and pick up the phone.  “Alright”, I say, “this does sound like a good deal.” and I give the woman the address to mail the card to.  It’s not my address – it’s the bank’s address that I got off the internet.  She’s made her sale but she keeps talking.  This time I hang up. 

The dog is clearly experiencing the effects of caffeine.  She’s still running circles around the couch on the living room.  Her back legs slide out from under her at each turn but her front paws keep pumping and pumping.  Traction finally gives way and she spins out of control bashing into a large vase and leaving a forensically identifiable nose print in the middle of the TV screen.

During the next week, I pay special attention to all the spam, telemarketing calls, junk mail, flyers and other invasive forms of crap I receive.  The numbers are staggering.  There are calls telling me I’ve won hockey tickets and all I have to do to received them is to attend an ‘information session’ on some new time shares that have been built in some hot, war-torn country.  The girl on the line is particularly pushy and obnoxious so ask her to tell me what she’s wearing, in my most seductive voice.  She hangs up and I tally that one as a success.  I received a renewal notice from Reader’s Digest even though I stopped my subscription six years ago.  I received a promotional bottle of mouthwash that bears a small certificate stating that it was not tested on animals – I am extremely relieved that no baboons were forced to gargle.  During the course of the week, I get calls asking if I want to sell my house, buy a house, have my house cleaned, have my lawn aerated and have lint vacuumed out of my navel.  On Wednesday, I receive thirty–two page flyer from the city explaining the proper way to recycle paper. I receive a second copy on Thursday.

Who pays for all this stuff?  Clearly this is a rhetorical question, but since they’re paying it means that there are people out there that are actually so easily influenced by marketing that they can be convinced to spend their money or alter their life styles with only a little coaxing.  I really have difficulty with impulsive people. Religions are founded in faith, history and culture which have evolved for thousands of years.  How someone could possibly convert to a different religion based on a knock on the door and a hard sell sales pitch boggles the mind.  When I am faced with this scenario, I pull a rubber glove over the top of my head and answer the door naked.  I am going to state the obvious here, but if you choose this strategy, you must be absolutely certain that you know who is standing on the other side of the door.  I have a scheduled court appearance next week that will further examine this point.

The door bell rings but I decide not to bother with the rubber glove thing.  I open the door and am handed a free newspaper, that I don’t want, by a kid wearing a Nike hat, an Adidas shirt and Bum sweatpants. He is gone before I can hand it back to him.  There is a crash from the kitchen so I dart up the stairs two steps at a time.  The dog, who has now become a caffeine addict, has knocked over my cup and is slurping up what coffee was left.  As I approach her, a Starbuck’s coupon book drops out of the paper and I lunge for that instead.  She beats me to it and takes off back into the living room repeating a similar scene from before.  There is a lot of running, loss of traction and spinning out.  This time there is a forensically identifiable nose-print and blood stain on the TV but unfortunately their both mine.

Safety First

It was a bit of a grey, drizzly day as I carefully carried my Macchiato to the shop.  Playing with machines that made screeching noises and reduced wood to dust always uplifted my spirits.  I moved over to the drill press and fiddled with the chuck key to change bits.  I was working on a teak jewelry box that I had picked up at a garage sale.  As I reached across for a 3/8 th’s twist bit, the edge of my cuff caught my beloved Macchiato and spun it off the bench into a double bounce on the floor.  Macchiato literally means stained in Italian.  The floor, the side of my bench and my fourteen-year-old jeans were now macchiati.  I uttered the requisite profanities and moved on.  Clean-up could be deferred to later.  This was, after all, a workshop.

As I hit the start button, a quick flash of a faint memory materialized in my head.  Safety!   I had promised that I would be responsible in my playing with tools so I clicked off the machine and looked for my new safety glasses.  I made sure to step in the Macchiato as I went to grab them off the rack across the room.  They were securely contained in an inner package of clear tamper proof plastic, the same material that is used in the re-entry shield of the space shuttle.   The outside packaging was of light cardboard and bore two paragraphs of safety instructions:  blah, blah, blah … put on head over eyes … blah, blah, blah … if taken internally do NOT induce vomiting … and in French:  le blah, le blah, le blah …  I collected all the tools I would need to open the package.  There were five:  Staple remover, disposable knife, dry wall knife, wood chisel and acetylene torch  (just in case).

I got through the cardboard ok but hit a wall when I got to the space-age plastic.  The first attempt snapped the blade off the disposable knife and I pitched it into the waste bin.  Well not quite.  It hit the side of the waste bin then landed in the Macchiato in one of the creamier blobs next to my foot.   I almost gave up with the chisel as well until I realized the torch was out of fuel.  I took out a hammer to tap the chisel through the plastic.  It wasn’t cutting but it was cracking a little so I felt encouraged. One final, more assertive smack and I was through, except that a tiny piece of the polyethylteflohydro-C3PO plastic flew into my left eye. 

I made my way through the last recognizable blob of cream on the floor to the small washroom across the room.   I looked in the mirror but couldn’t see anything.  My eye was starting to water quite severely and I was beginning to get a little agitated.   I grabbed my eyelid and tried to pull it over the bottom of my eye to try to dislodge the offending material.  All that came out were a few eyelashes and a lot of tears.  My eye was starting to get very red.  I tried again, but only got more eyelashes and more tears.  I needed to go the hospital to get the thing flushed.

Driving with one hand holding a tissue over one eye probably wasn’t the best idea I had ever had, especially when it came to changing gears, but it was the best I could come up with since I was in a hurry to get back to playing in my shop.  All was progressing relatively smoothly – I had only swerved onto the shoulder twice – until I rounded a corner where the traffic morphed into a low moving blob.  Construction.  There was a sea of pink cones surrounding a backhoe operator that was wiping mustard stains from his hot dog off one of the hydraulic levers in his rig.  Six other city employees, wearing hard hats, were supervising this operation. A seventh was ‘directing’ traffic.  From what I could tell, safety was very important to him as well. 

He wore a hard hat, of course, presumably in case any space debris were to fall on his head.  It was covered in large X’s of reflective tape for maximum visibility.  He had on safety glasses, a heavy duty jacket, a reflective safety west, leather gloves, cargo pants with built in shin pads.  Every item was of a distinctly unique, very bright color.  He had on an ergonomic back support presumably so he would not be injured by the weight of his utility belt, which consisted of a flashlight, air horn, flares, radio and a water bottle.  I couldn’t really tell but I’m sure the guy must have been wearing a condom as well.  All he was missing was a parachute.  I was quite surprised by that.  The significant problem here, however was the manner in which he was holding his sign, which was neither clearly STOP or SLOW, but moving back and forth giving some in-between message.  Traffic had accordingly stopped and slowed and slowed and stopped and stopped.  If he were working in the US he would have needed a bullet-proof vest as part of his construction site fashion statement.

I pull into the hospital parking lot and park in the furthermost spot from the pay station.  I walk to the pay station.  I walk back to my car to see what stall I am in.  I walk back to the pay station to record my stall number.  I walk back to my car get change for the machine.  I am breathing hard now and my eye is really starting to hurt.  I finally make it into the building.  There is a large room full of very unhappy people.  Some are bleeding, some are moaning and others are parting with other unwanted fluids.  I’m not sure whether I am in an emergency ward or in a casting studio for a Quentin Tarantino film.  I move to the font desk and am asked what the nature of my ailment is.  I am holding tissue paper over my eye.  I now think I am in an emergency ward.  I tell her I have hurt my eye.  She asks me which one.  I now breathe a sigh of relief because now I know I’m in an emergency ward.  She hands me a form full of medical questions to answer. I move to a seat and try to remember if I’ve ever miscarried or contracted any hematode borne diseases in any African country.

As I sit and rummage through my pocket for a pen, I hear the sound of someone very sick.  It begins as a moan, then escalates to a wet gagged cough that culminates into a full, Olympic-sized upchuck.  I turn and see that the man is about ten meters behind me in the corner.  The smell of bile and partially digested food hits me about two seconds later.  In a purely Newtonian moment, created by a simple calculation, I determine that the velocity of the smell of vomit is 5 meters per second.  I’m sure no one has ever discovered that before.  Once I’m out of here I need to call David Suzuki!

My phone rings.  It’s not David Suzuki.  The room becomes suddenly quiet and all the eyes from the entire cast of ‘Planet Terror’ are staring at me.  The delightful woman at the triage counter clears her throat and points to the “no cell phones” sign on the wall with all eyes shift to her. 

“I’m at the hospital,” I say into the mic.

“What?” she shrieks, for all to here, because I have, inadvertently,  hit the speakerphone option on my cell.

All eyes are on me now, even the guy with the very empty stomach.  He was lying on his back before but now he’s propped himself up to see what was going on.

“I hurt my eye opening the packaging of the safety goggles.”

A man with his hand stuck in a jar of pickled eggs is laughing at me.

My number comes up and I am ushered into the ‘Eye Room’.  A very affable young doctor comes in and places my head in a device that was likely designed in a dungeon in medieval France during the times of Sade.  My head is very immobilized.  The MD shines a little light into the correct eye without asking me which one is hurt.  I am impressed.  He gives it a cursory examination and tells me that there is a little piece of plastic embedded in my sclera.  He squirts in a very drops of anesthetic then comes at me with a scalpel blade.  “Don’t’ blink,” he says.  That would have been like putting a live earthworm in my mouth and saying, “Don’t spit!”.   My eye is blinking faster that it’s ever blinked.  I am creating a draft in the room. 

More anesthetic follows in an attempt to abate my blinking instinct.  It works but now my nose is numb and I’m starting to drool.  The doctor gets closer.  In fact he is very, very close peering into my eye and poking with a sharp thing.  I can see blackheads on his nose and smell his breath.  I don’t think I have ever been this close to another adult male in my entire life.  I try to pull away but can’t as my mouth gets drier and my testicles begin to ascend into my abdomen.

“All done,” he says.  Balls drop down to normal position.

On the drive to the hospital I made a mental not to come take the route with the construction site.  That note got lost somewhere between the speed of smell and the non-blinking challenge.  Back at the traffic snarl, the mustard mishap has been fixed because the backhoe operator is sitting on the front arm of his rig having a smoke.  He only needs five supervisors for this.  The sixth is making scraping noised with a shovel.  Mr. STOP/SLOW has been replaced by a young female with slightly less safety equipment but much better color co-ordination. 

I’m back in the shop and I’ve only lost two hours.  I must get back to my project but first a quick trip to the loo.  I come out and go back in with the safety goggles.  Safety first.

Penguins and Polar Bears

In the Vancouver area, as I suppose, in a number of other areas where cold and colder water are a natural part of winter, a New Year’s tradition has emerged that baffles even the most liberal logician.  It’s called the Polar Bear swim.  Swim is actually a misnomer, because no one is actually in the water long enough to swim, however people do don bathing attire and occasionally more bizarre costumes, and plunge into English Bay for a few microseconds.  They then return to dry land and, traditionally, down a quick shot of the hair of the dog last seen the night before to celebrate their survival.

Initial suppositions regarding the impetus behind this strange tradition center on the excessive use of alcohol the night before which, we can agree, is an even better established tradition.  Over the years a number of theories have been suggested to explain the aquatic tradition (we all fully understand the alcoholic one). The first simply postulates that those who participate are still in advanced states of inebriation and therefore do not have any clue as to what they are doing.  They just attach themselves to some screaming herd of equally inebriated persons and en masse head in a random direction, which ends up at the low tide mark of the local beach. The evidence does not support this supposition, however, for if it were true, we would expect to see other random herds of drunken people doing equally stupid things like cramming into busses naked or riding the baggage carousels at the airport.  We don’t see those a lot so clearly the New Year’s dip is not a random drunken event, especially since we see it repeated reliably each and every year.

Cold water as a counter-irritant therapy to severe hangover has also been put forward as a possible explanation.   I liken this to sitting on a soldering iron to distract the pain from a toothache. It doesn’t make a lot of sense.  In the most severe cases of post partying pain, suicide by drowning might seem plausible but if one’s mood were that low, one wouldn’t likely wear a spandex Grinch costume to their demise.

To consider s more spiritual explanation, New Year’s symbolizes a new beginning, re-birth, starting over etc. This could provide a plausible explanation with English Bay being the metaphoric baptismal font.   The fact that twelve emergency vehicles, with resuscitation equipment, are present might cloud that theory, in that they portend the possibility of sudden death from hypothermic shock rather than rebirth.  However, it might also be supported by they the fact that most men’s personal private things have already begun to shrink down toward neonatal proportions just by thinking of the cold water ahead.

All of this questioning and considering has now led me here.  I have become obsesses with trying to understand this seasonal phenomenon.  This year I am participating in the local festivities at a smaller clone of the English Bay Polar Bay Swim.  The event in my neighborhood of Port Moody is called the Penguin Plunge.

Upon my arrival, one thing was very clear.  The ratio of observers to participants hovers around 60,000 to one, indicating once again, that jumping into freezing water is a questionable pastime enjoyed by only a special few and that voyeuristic sadism is a very popular form of entertainment.  I also note that the plungers are relegated to a roped off area of the boat launch while the observers are stationed high above, overlooking the boat launch from a high and sturdy pier.  They look down upon the plungers from a vantage point much like the boxes of royalty in opera houses of old, or like the Emperor’s box high above the gladiators on the floor of the ancient forum.  All around me warm breath fogs the air and people stomp their feet and shiver from the cold.

There are only two emergency vehicles here.  This disturbs me.  I think that there should be more.  Perhaps there should be one or two per participant, depending on their carrying capacity. I am deeply concerned, not so much that someone should expire, but rather that if they do, they may feel the eternal humiliation of meeting St. Peter while half naked, wearing felt reindeer antlers and a Little Mermaid life ring.  Life should be preserved to ensure death with dignity some time in the future.

The countdown takes place.  The herd roars and plunges into the water.  They turn around and roar again, in a much higher pitch and storm out much faster.

During the chaos, I am actually splashed by a few drops of the freezing water.  Others around me, all of us standing above the plungers atop the pier, step quickly back to avoid the splashes as well.  One errant drop hits me on the jaw and drips down my neck.  I shiver.  I am forced to remove my fur-lined leather glove, thus exposing delicate flesh to the frigid air to wipe it away.  The horror…!

Nest year I will continue my observations and try to find an answer to my question, “why?” And a new one – is there any significance to the fact that Polar Bears and Penguins reside at the opposite ends of the globe?  Until next year, you must excuse me – I must turn my attention to matters at hand.  I almost slopped my hot caramel macchiato in the jostle of the crowd, hurrying back to the sanctuary of our cars and their heaters.

Choices

When you live in a privileged culture such as ours, where purchasing power generally exceeds that which is required to sustain life, people tend to buy things, which may not be absolutely necessary.   I had a neighbor once that owned an electric melon baller, my former father in law owned a magnetic petoncle (French bocce ball) retriever and have a little machine that shaves knots off sweaters.  Again, affluence breeds bad judgement when it comes to purchasing.    For those that decide that they don’t really require the obscure, then the wide range of choices available, for just about everything can appease the ravages of consumer lust.

There is an ice cream place in town that has over one hundred flavors.  The perceived prowess from the perspective of the consumer lies in potential ability to purchase absolutely any of these to satisfy any possible whim.  I can have whatever I want!  The obvious downside, however, is that they can’t all be winners. If you happen to go there, don’t try the Calamari Peach or the Banana Anchovy.   Likewise if you go to Safeway to get a little cream cheese to go with your lox you’ll probably be overwhelmed at some of the bizarre combinations of flavors that have been engineered.  The same is true for potato chips, which have about the same profit margin as street drugs.  One potato can yield about fifty, twenty-eight gram bags.  Again the flavor range is quite broad.   Salad dressings are the same, more flavors than you can shake a carrot stick at.   What I wonder about is given some of the absurd concoctions that are actually marketed, what are some of the ones that didn’t quite make the cut in the food testing lab.  Cramy Cucumber is in, sorry Lumpy Leek didn’t make it.  The mind boggles.

If you go and buy a pacemaker, you have a choice of two.  They both work very well.  Their designs have been extensively examined and their performance has been exhaustively tested. You pick the best one of the two for you, and that’s all you need. They send measured doses of electricity to your heart to contract your ventricles so that your blood circulates.  If the pacemaker fails, you end up in an urn.  Urns come in thousands of shapes and colors.  Pacemakers have a limited product line because they are not visible.  If they were, they would come in thousands of shapes and colors as well.  If they did, some would not be as good as others so there would be a lot more urns around too.  So what’s with all that then?   Adultery!

Yes, we are unable to have long-term monogamous relationships with fashion and color.  We’ll have a new fling with a silk tie in this fall’s new colors but by May we’re surfing the net for new shapes and colors in the Boboli catalogue hoping not to be caught by any of the other members of the household.  But men are not as bad as women.  Makita power tools only come in one color.  Do we really need 16,000 shades of lipstick?  Is it necessary to have an analytical chemist train for eight years so that he can go to work for Revlon and discover a new shade of Pastel Plum Pink?   So the advice to be given to men who stray from monogamous relationships, and are caught, is to be aware of women’s nefarious, adulterous attitudes towards color.  Ask them, “So how many shades of nail polish have YOU used in the last year.” and you will be exonerated - or maybe she will end up shopping for an urn for you in this year’s color.

Cell phones also come in a variety of styles and colors.  Mine actually comes with covers in three different colors.  I hadn’t realized this before so I switched to the blue one hoping that it would improve reception in the non-upstairs-bathroom areas of my home.  It didn’t, but it tied in nicely with the color of the trim around the kitchen.

Toilets and toilet seats also come in a wide range of colors.   That is to be expected, but what really surprises me is that they are all the same size.  The last time I checked, which is quite seldom, except perhaps in the summer months at certain resorts, the human backside comes in quite a range of sizes.  Apparently it’s more important to have a lid that matches your curtains that a seat that fits your keister.  Personally, I find it more important to have a toilet seat that will support your weight when you’re climbing up onto the tank to talk on your cell phone.

There are similar size range problems for chairs, theatre seats, and airline seats.  One size fits all!  Not bloody likely. In the US they have come to realize that, even though all the airline seats are the same, the airlines have made seat belt extenders available to those passengers with ample adipose endowments.  That still doesn’t solve the problem of the seat itself.  I suppose their thinking is that one should be purchasing as many seats as required depending on butt size, which would be limited to three on most aircraft.  That’s nothing to laugh at.  A larger person could ride in comfort and be entitled to three 14 gram packets of pretzels for dinner.

I once paid a large sum of money to be somewhere I didn’t want to be with someone I didn’t want to be with.  We’ve all done this.  It’s called wanting to impress, whom I don’t know.   It was a showing of Cabaret with Joel Grey.  Not really my style. I would have been happier at a tractor pull but whatever … When we arrive at our seats we realize that a very large man is sitting next to one of them, again one size does not fit all.  This guy had his own postal code. He was literally overflowing into what would end up being my seat.  I couldn’t ask my date to sit there.  I didn’t like her very much but since the prospect of potential sex was not unpalatable I played the gentleman.

I am a person that generally does not like being touched by others.  There are limited exceptions to this but that depends on what is being touched and who is doing the touching.   I did not want to touch or be touched by this giant man.  I slid into my seat at an angle resting on my left hip with my right butt cheek against the armrest on the right side.  I then arched my spine to the right and tucked my shoulder down and back.  There had been no contact yet but I could feel myself being sucked into his gravitational field.  So far, so good.  I couldn’t breathe, but the show was only two and a half hours long.

After about 45 seconds, chaos theory took over.  My date caressed my little finger with hers just as I was about to shift down and to the right so that I could take my first breath.  The little distraction caused me to quickly look towards her, triggering severe muscle cramps in my shoulder and abdomen.  I uttered an explosive snort as my oxygen deprived lungs drew in the volumes of air they were yearning for.  This conveniently happened during a silent portion of the show so now I had an audience, giving me the opportunity to experience public humiliation along with physical and emotional distress.  The man in front of me was wearing a toupee.  It almost got sucked up my nose.  The spasms in my clenched abdomen and shoulder made me lose complete muscular control and I fell into the fat man.  It wasn’t exactly a fall of catastrophic proportions in physical terms but it felt like I fell from 1000 psychological feet.   I collapsed sideways a few inches and became one with him.   I felt like I had been dropped into a pond of warm pudding.  Everything was quiet and warm.  Everything wobbled a little from the original impact and then came to rest.  I don’t think he notice a thing.  The union with him lasted the entire evening.  Every time he laughed, I jiggled and I eventually developed motion sickness. 

How to purchase a dog

I recently became a dog owner for the fourth time but with this latest acquisition we, myself and my significant other, of the opposite gender, went though a process.  This was in great contrast to my first experience where my father took me to the SPCA, laid down ten bucks and hauled off with an adult male German Shepherd.  His significant other, again of the opposite gender, aka my mom, is surprisingly still with him.  My parents were in Northern Italy during the war and my father was a little miffed at the British after an off-course Wellington dropped a 500 lb bomb down the chimney of his house.  After that, he held the Germans in the highest regard. Since they had built the best V1 rockets and anti-tank weapons during the war, it was logical to assume that they built the best dogs too, so extensive research was not required in selecting a family pet.  He was given the name Rex thinking that the Latin label would somehow soften his teutonic edges.  Rex came home one day after roaming the neighborhood, as was customary for all large carnivorous beasts in those days, and went into a fit of coughing and gagging.  I thought he had a fur ball like many of the cats I had owned but no.  No fur ball.  It was just a cat’s head that was irritating his esophagus.  When that popped out, he was fine and he settled down to lick his privates.  The owner of the cat had found little humor in this, so the next day Rex was returned to the pound.  We were down ten bucks and we were left with four 25 oz. cans of Rover dog food for any possible future pets that might be brought into our household.

The second dog was vastly different from the first, given the difficulties we had had.  Well, not really vastly different.  Again it was German, after all that’s where the best cameras and motorcycles came from, it was large and very strong.  He was a Doberman named Bobo.  I have no idea where the name came from and clearly not a lot of thought had gone into that process.  Bobo didn’t last long either.  He had far too much energy, a huge appetite and a short, inefficient digestive tract.  What went in one end, came out the other in twice the volume.   I must ask a physicist about that.  Clean-up after that dog involved a shovel, a wheelbarrow and an ergonomic back support.

Number three was selected by my ex wife and was a total success.  Buddy was a Miniature Schnauzer with a wonderful temperament and warm disposition.  Selection of that breed was as per my ex wife’s Committed Relationships Manual.  She retained custody of it after we split but, if I remember correctly, pets were addressed in Volume 14, Section 12, Chapters 7 to 9.  There were also many other significant references in the volumes on general cleaning, towels, lint brushing, bedroom etiquette and shelf allocation for canned goods.

The spotty level of success with previous dogs led us to believe that we should adopt a more scientific approach to the selection of our next family member.  To begin with, the Canadian Kennel Club recognizes 183 canine breeds organized into seven groups.  If a pure breed was not a requirement, mixed breeds could be examined.  Given the 183 pure breeds there are 16653 theoretically possible combinations of first generation mixed breeds.    Make that 16652.  I don’t think a Great Dane / Chihuahua would work, either way you look at it.  Don’t go for the visual, it’s not pretty.  The first choice, that we made, was that we wanted a puppy and had some expectations as to what the puppy would look like when it reached adulthood.  We didn’t want a cute little fur ball later maturing into a two hundred pound behemoth with no teeth and two tails.  Clearly the way to go was with the pure breeds.  However, at 183 the number of choices was still sizeable, approaching that of feminine hygiene products (dry weave, scented, unscented, mini, maxi, wings, flippers …).   We needed help!  The Net came to the rescue.

The internet has close to four billion websites, unfortunately 3.9 billion are strictly devoted to blow jobs.  Finding a reliable breed selector database is still a bit of a challenge.  We used the one from the American Kennel Club, which is pretty much the same as the Canadian version except that the dogs are a little louder, a little fatter and drool more.  The dogs are selected based on certain criteria such as size, hair length, trainability and intelligence.  You punch in those attributes that you like and it spits out your best match – kind of like computer dating except that you don’t get Christmas cards from transsexuals for the following few years.   Initially I thought that the method would have potential until I saw that intelligence was a criterion.  I see intelligence as the ability to learn, to acquire complex information, to use inductive and deductive logic and to reconcile self awareness.  Dogs can’t do that.  They can sit, they can bark and they can run after anything that moves.  To me these behaviors do not display intelligence at any measurable level.  Sure, some dogs are smarter than others and in general dogs are smarter that slime molds, insects and squirrels but I don’t think that there is any danger that the unifying theory of physics will be elucidated by the canine world leaving us, mere humans, red-faced and thinking, “Why didn’t we think of that?”

So how do you pick a dog?  My plan B was simple:  Pick the one with the biggest, wettest nose.  Type that into your net program and out pops Airedale.  Sold.  An Airedale has a very long snout with a damp nose the size of a hockey puck.  These dogs are like giant bingo dabbers with legs.  Once I saw one, I knew that was what I wanted.

With 183 breeds out there you can’t just roll down to Petcetera and expect to find the dog of your choice.  You have to find a breeder.  I have always found that to be a curious term: ‘Dog Breeder’.  What is it that they do?   Provide soft music, champagne and a video of 101 Dalmatians?  In fact, and this is just an educated guess, I think that the dogs do the breeding themselves.  All the so-called breeders do is provide a venue and wash the sheets afterwards.  If they are called breeders so should hotel managers.  Occupation?  I’m a human breeder at the Westin Bayshore!

It gets even sillier when a breeder is found and later referred to as ‘My breeder’ or ever ‘Our Breeder’.  Someone not familiar with our culture would have difficulty translating this.

So anyway, we found a breeder and called ‘our’ breeder.  They were expecting a litter at the end of the summer and the price would be $1000.00.  Then my phone cut out.  It has call display, text messaging, a calculator, downloadable ring tones, internet access, call logs and an alarm clock.  The problem is, that it doesn’t work in my house.  I can use it to track apogees of communications satellites or monitor solar flares but if I want to talk on it, I have to go into the upstairs bathroom and stand on the toilet tank.  The breeder called back on the land line and we cut a deal.

The puppy arrived in October and we named her Bodica, after Boudica, the flame-haired queen that led the Britons in revolt against the Romans in the first century AD.  We dropped the ‘u’ otherwise the short form would sound like Buddha.  Having a middle aged white guy repeatedly yelling that in park would be unfairly cruel and confusing to the sedate crowd of my Coquitlam neighborhood.   But now I do feel I fit in with the other dog owners of my ‘hood’, standing in the rain with the pedigreed dog, the cold caramel macchiato in one hand and the bag of warm shit in the other!