there are things that happen...

You think I'm going to get on here to start huffing and puffing about my temporary disillusionment with the Vancouver Canucks and how it's turning a poor young-middle-aged biberous into a jittery, nervous, bipolarized crack pot, don't you?

Well, if I had any energy after last night's 8 - 1 fisting, I probably would have, but cooler (read: sweatier and better fed) heads did prevail and even though my emotional journey this last month would have made for must-read drama, I am far too friggin superstitious to get into any of it right now.

(Brief tangent: The old man and I speak carefully like polished politicians when discussing the Canucks' chances these days. Whenever I've been away from Yellowknife for any length of time, the Nucks have dominated our phone call conversations to the point where we'll argue for 30 minutes about whether we think Cody Hodgson is a defensive liability or not. (For the record: I say he isn't.) In recent calls home though, talk of the team is limited to a scant sentence or two: "We're in the Finals." "Yes, it certainly is exciting..." "Ah... (one of us will say before the other gets too worked up) but Boston has a good team, let us not forget." "Indeed." We both twirl the corners of our moustaches.)

So I'm left to shrug it off and hope for the best tomorrow night. I will say that I didn't do my part by getting obliterated at the Sports Station, like I did before/during/after games one and two, so I'll be pulling up a seat to one of their beer tap tables tomorrow night to muck it up for the boys. (Yes, beer tap tables. The taps are built into the table and you pay by fluid ounce or something.)

All I'm going to give you right now is my immediate reaction to Game 3:

"Shea Weber did have a beard."

And don't think I don't remember that Happy Gilmore, one of my childhood heroes, is a Bruins fan. Happy? We're on hiatus, brotha.

Don't take it personal. I had to boycott Neil Young during our San Jose Sharks series. And we're cool, right?

Note: The herbiberous beard is at shaggy, patchiness never before seen and, as a result, I've gained a new respect for bearded folk. Unless you've dealt with one of these things before, you have no idea how often you get sauce or crumbs or boogers caught in there and there's no way to tell they're there unless you get all Howard Hughes about it.

Rant time:

There are things that happen to you as you get older: you find yourself only thinking about sex around 4,000 times a day; your back is sore, but when you crack it, it's still not fixed; you can get boogers stuck in your beard; and, unfortunately, you start becoming a little too serious about your life and what you're doing with it.

Now, my hiatus with this blog has nothing to do with Happy Gilmore superstitions or excuses. It has more to do with my inability to process the past month or two into any relatable narrative, since I still feel weird about everything.

Here's an attempt:

Long story short: I went up to Fort Simpson, NT to work for my old newspaper company for two weeks and then went home for three days and it was there that I realized how much things had changed... or more accurately, how much life had gone on.

I felt like an obsolete data processor trying to deal with all the information I was being fed: houses, weddings, babies, projects. It was overload, but in a fucking awesome way really, in that I saw all my best and closest friends in the world - my brothers - becoming adults or, I should say, men.

I was so proud looking at Slader, with his baby girl (a future Canucks fan! kidding) splayed out on his stomach, while we watched hockey. Brook was barely six weeks old at the time and Slader looked like he'd been a dad for time eternal. We had two dinners at Mindy and Mindy's new house, which is a perfect spot and I was so impressed - even when Mindy showed off the entertainment centre he made in Charlie's woodshop. Patch made us a gigantic, improvised fish dinner from scratch that 10 of us couldn't polish off. Feltch was talking new house and relationship and dog and bringing over home brews. I seriously sat in awe at all of these guys, whom I inexcusably hadn't seen in more than a year, and how they'd grown and matured into these people.

I was only back for three days and I tried to have a good time and connect with everyone like the old days, but I felt really distant, in that I knew I would soon be leaving again with return unknown, without a suitable explanation as to why I was heading back to Montreal. I felt like it was the elephant in the room and I felt insincere, not being able to say why I was leaving all these people that I care about and who care about me, when I don't really have a career or something keeping me down here.

The thing is, I love Montreal. This city is what all organized conglomerations of people should aspire to become and I invite anyone to come visit me here. On a summer day, the parks are full of people picnicking, drinking beers and wine, the streets are closed for festivals, there are free shows and festivals everywhere and things are cheap. I've seen a ton of shows, ate some scrumptious food, met a lot of new people with wild interests from around the globe, including some like-minded writerly-comedy types.

Montreal hasn't lost its luster yet.

Since I've been back, I've wanted to start getting something going for myself down here, mostly fueled by my own dissatisfaction with my current work situation, but also, pathetically, in a small way in order to partially justify my move here. (A girl, who I had only met for one night, boiled me down to two words: "sensitive and restless." Yep and yep.)

Where this blog rant fits in? Because I've wanted to start freelancing stories or articles or whatever, I've viewed the blog as a roadblock, as a venue where I was writing goofy things for free that I could maybe pitch to a magazine or paper or website for some $$$ or at least publication. And that's what happened, really.

And you want to know what happened, really? I stopped writing altogether. This isn't to say that the last month has been a complete loss or anything. Quite the opposite, actually. I've met a girl who I'm really getting on with (and who I may be guilty of doing the 'don't talk about it' superstition stuff with) and it feels like I'm busy doing something every night/day.

But that writing stuff has dried up like a turd in the sun and that has got to stop.

And I know I shouldn't have to explain myself for what I want to do and I know all my buddies are happy for me, but because I am who I am and because I over think everything, I wanted to get this off of my chest. We'll always be brothers, brothers.

(And you have to put up with these crazy rants every once in a while on here. You should know that by now.)

village life

I made it back North of 60 intact.

Nothing of note on my way home, except that my delicious microbrew gift for the Minduses (Mindi?) was confiscated by Montreal CATSA screeners.

"Really, I can't bring this delicious microbrew six-pack through security? They're not going to blow up or anything."

"No, sir. I can't let you do that. You do have time to go back to the front counter and get them to send them separately. You do have time."

I had the time, but I didn't have the time, you know what I mean? Man, these terrorists are winning. They really are.

Spent a really nice day with the Mindys back home before setting out to Simpson, Sunday. I'll probably have something more substantial to write about being home when I'm home for longer than 19 hours. As it was, we just shot the shit and had some laughs like always.

I landed in Fort Simpson yesterday and the first thing I noticed was the trees. They're bigger than the standard NWT fare. I noticed them from the sky, actually, where each one looked like a single hair and, when, clustered on hills, surrounded by white snow- and ice-covered rivers, looked like small pelts of fur.

Got in and was greeted by the editor I'm replacing. She's been super friendly and even more helpful as I get back on the metaphorical horse here. It was funny, when we were walking out of the airport, she passed an RCMP officer who congratulated her. She smiled and thanked him back and I kept walking and thought it odd that someone would get praised about going on a vacation. A few seconds went by and I said that she must know everyone in the village by now - it's a village officially, not a town - and she responded humbly that no, she doesn't know everyone, but that the police officer had just congratulated her on her recent engagement. She pointed to her ring finger. I smiled and duly congratulated her myself.

"How recent?" I asked.

"Yesterday," she replied.

We drove back into town... er... I mean, the village, and stopped in front of a large, two-storey house.

"Here we are," she said and opened the door.

I've got to say, it's a magisterial office, or a Belinni sculpture of a workplace, if I was to steal a few words from Ray Hudson. It reminds me of a ranger outpost: it's wide-open and sparsely furnished, with but a few desks glued to the walls, a couple shelves holding up decades' worth of newspapers and a small, plaid-cushioned couch sitting in the corner. It's ideal, in a word.

Another thing I've noticed about Fort Simpson is the blue sky. Maybe it's the time of year, but I feel like the sun has this rejuvenating effect right now. This place has big windows and it's like the sun gets into every corner of the building.

One unfortunate part of the timing of this trip is that all the ice bridge crossings are closed or will soon be, meaning I won't get out to visit any of the surrounding communities, which are only accessible in the winter via the ice roads or in the summer by crossing the river in a ferry. I'd kind of pumped myself up to drive to some of the smaller spots, but I guess I'll have to do that some other time.

Anyways, life in the North, with its slower pace and tight knit communities, isn't all Wild Roses. Namely, the cost of living is high, but you forget that until you find yourself spending just under $22 for 2 AAA batteries, a small pack of Black Forrest ham and a 2L container of milk. Damn. There were $9 boxes of cereal and a 4L tub of milk was nearly $10, too. You forget these things when you leave and you realize why... it's for sanity's sake.

Also, I almost screwed myself tonight for dinner, since I'd started working on a couple things and it was quarter to seven before I'd realized it. My colleague asked if I wanted to eat some dinner with her and her fiance, but I said I'd just run down to the Northern store to get some food. She said it may be closed. I called and luckily I had ten minutes to get there.

I'd completely forgotten what it was like to be in a place where you couldn't access basic food items at any hour of the day or night. I ran down the street and got some brown beans, some green beans, some Ichiban packs, some bread and a couple of cans of peaches. Wait, does that even qualify as basic food?

I'm a little sleepy, so I'll just say that I've really enjoyed getting back into the saddle. I spoke to a judo coach about a clinic that he took some of his students to over the weekend. Actually, we first heard about it when we were at the school talking to some kids for a little feature that the paper does every week and these kids were all beaming and glowing and gabbing about judo. "Did you go to judo in Hay River?" they kept asking me.

I tracked down the coach - Okay, I'm lying. My colleague, who is like a regional encyclopedia, threw me his work number, home number and likely hours I could reach him. I tried him at lunch and she said, "I think he goes home for lunch," before adding (with effect) "if you look out the window, we'll probably see him drive by in a few minutes. He drives a blue truck." Noted - and we talked for a good hour about the program he wants to set up and how he believes the sport will grow in popularity, as it allows the kids to be physical, but in a heavily rule-based environment, while it also instills discipline and teaches leadership. He said, since the more experienced students mentor and teach the younger students, they gain maturity and learn how to guide and lead others. Another thing going for the program? It's free. And believe me, that's huge.

Like I mentioned earlier though, life isn't all Wild Roses. From what the coach was saying, it sounded like these kids had a transformative time: "I watched these kids come alive," he said - and the pictures he gave me from the event seem to indicate this. The sobering return home, though, was indicative of the heart ache that some of these kids endure.

While the kids were bubbling with pride in the car, eager to tell their parents about the fun times they'd had and ready to show them the silver participation medals they'd all received, the coach said that only one kid he drove back in his vehicle went home to a parent in the household: the other kids did not know where their parents were when they got back.

home movies

During my summer in Iqaluit, a friend and I started talking about putting together a claymation movie. I wanted to document my fruitless fishing forays in a comical way and we began coming up with ideas for a plot... and music. I was staying in an apartment not far from the airport and my neighbour had an old electric organ that she let me borrow. I lugged the thing across the hall and into the apartment, sliding it up against the wall. I plugged it, super excited about coming up with a soundtrack for our little movie. I spent hours goofing around on that thing and, unfortunately, due to my almost-luddite-level ignorance when it comes to technology, what I have below is pretty much all that I was able to record. Since I didn't know how to record the noise I was making, I just used the GarageBand feature on my macbook to record the audio through my laptop's internal microphone. To play it back, I found it was best done using the iMovie feature, but I could only listen to it if I put actual movies alongside to accompany it, as the music would stop once the movie footage ran out. So I uploaded every last movie clip I had on my camera - the camera that can't record audio - and then I was able to listen to my 4:44-minute slice of schizoid heaven.

The claymation movie, like so many of the things I get excited about, never moved passed the imagination phase.

Tonight though, I found the original, for-recording-purposes-only video, and I honestly scratched my head/giggled hysterically while it played. There appear to be little snippets from Yellowknife, Grace Lake, Rossland, Iqaluit, Egypt, Chicago, London, Vancouver, Calgary, a couple some stops along the road... and a whole lot of me walking drunk with my trusty, beat-up, pocket-sized Panasonic.

Note: A couple of the movie files were corrupted, so I had to take a long piece from Egypt and sub in a shot of fireworks at a White Sox game and a ferry ride across the Mackenzie on January 2 in -40C.

Here it is:

continued

Almost a month. Yowsers.

How do I reintroduce myself after such a prolonged absence?

How about with my job title of the year?

I don't really have anyone to blame for the hiatus. Sure I've been working and it feels as if I've had a different guest every weekend and there has been a lot going on, but that shouldn't excuse me from scribbling nonsense onto this digital tableau every once in a while.

(Speaking of tableaus, or 21st-Century tableaus, don't you think we are going to look back at iPads in five or six years and just laugh. We'll kind of look around and ask what the hell we were thinking? Don't they seem bulky and sort of silly, like they are some uncreative compromise between a Macbook and an iPhone? Have you looked at a first generation iPod lately? They seem bulky and excessive and you almost tend to want to look at it with condescension. I feel that we'll all feel the same way about the iPad very soon, when there is some fourth-generation version of it that actually makes sense. The iPad kind of reminds me of the Segway.)

Anyways, I suppose the main reason I didn't feel like writing much was that I didn't feel very funny or at least that I'd be able to write anything funny. Any idea I came up with wound up circling back to some deep sense of nothingness. I think I battled away nihilism this summer. I'd honestly get up in my 40 C room panting and all-sweated-out and wonder if the impending day would be any different from the day that preceded it and then I'd wonder if it even mattered.

See, pretty dark stuff.

Not that I was depressed or anything, but the summer was just odd. I don't think I'm used to such heat and to a summer season that lasts more than a month and a half. In Yellowknife, you are conditioned to go out and take FULL advantage of every semi-decent day. In Montreal, you don't really have to because there is a steady stream of days that seem to go on for like four or five months. Yet there I was, rushing out to soak up every sun beam and I think I burnt myself out a little bit.

And I'm convinced my head shrunk this summer. I've got a full set of hair, which is probably the longest it's been in years, yet the hat I've been wearing for the past year can't seem to stay on my head. I wore it on gusty cliffs overlooking the Atlantic Ocean in Iceland and during winter days on rooftops at work in Quebec City, but when I run across a street, my cap threatens to leap off my head. I think this fact bolsters my claim that my brain evaporated at some point this summer.

(By the way, I think government officials from the defense department should start studying the chemical properties at work on my ball cap. It does not get wet. Rain beads right off it. I'm not sure if it's a year's worth of living and hair grease and dive bars and snowstorms, but it's the most impermeable object I've witnessed.)

I'm doing well, but as I've previously mentioned, I think I need a change. It's not so much a change of scenery or career or anything, but I think it's mainly a change in philosophy.

It's funny how something small, said to you very innocently, can knock you on your ass and make you examine your life and the way you are living it.

Last week, I was having lunch with a couple buddies from work and the conversation turned to poop, like it seems to do at least once every noon-hour (I should say, 2-hour.) We were all talking strategies and making jokes until someone said that I take the stinkiest deuces in the office. I laughed, thinking this guy was just breaking my balls, until two of the other guys I was eating with piped in and agreed in all seriousness. I was shocked and after lunch I kind of became paranoid about my celebrity.

All of the famous stinky dump-takers I've known throughout my life - friends' dads, severely obese dudes at different job sites or tiny, junk-food fiend kids - had one common characteristic: they were all very unhealthy. At my computer desk, surrounded by cups of coffee and empty Pepsi cans, I resolved to eat better and live healthier.

Two days later I was using a friend's 2 for 1 Big Mac coupon at lunch. I tried.

Fun fact: A friend tells me when you are living healthy and eating well, a crap should require very little - to no - wipage. I think I've covered this on the blog before.

But no, I think with winter on the way, there will be less distractions and I'll be able to focus a little more on writing. Really, since my friend Eli quit work in August, I haven't written down a single idea. We used to exchange stories or rants each Friday. She was much better at doing that than I, but at least it forced me to write.

For now, on this here thingamabobber, I might just write self-obsessive tomfoolery to rid the detritus clogging up my neuro-pathways until a nugget of a concept can shimmy its way through to the surface of my consciousness. Seems kind of narcissistic, but hey, what's a blog for then?

And I'm really feeling energetic at the moment, listening to the new Deerhunter album, Halcyon Digest. The thought of picking up the album actually got me through the afternoon and I walked through a rainstorm to get it. It was the first real album I've bought in a long while.

I asked my big boss at work where the nearest metro was to the HMV on St. Catherines. She said Peel. I'm pretty sure I knew this, but I was so zonked from ceaseless callbacks at work that I couldn't think for myself. I got off the metro and got to street level and walked down to St. Catherines. I looked right and didn't see the store, but I walked on even though the sky had opened up and I got absolutely soaked and I kept walking and still I saw nothing. Shouldn't it be close? I cursed my boss under my breath. Why didn't I look where it was myself? Another set of lights and nothing. I kept going and no HMV. I walked like 12 blocks all the way to Atwater, pushing ahead irrationally until I stopped and snapped out of it. It couldn't be that far. I turned back. The rain had stopped. (Some homeless guy asked me for "change for a coffee." Who needs a coffee at 6 p.m.? I wanted to ask him)

I walked back to where I'd gotten on to St. Catherines and continued back East and there was the store, a block away.

I got home and made some pesto shrimp spaghetti and lima beans and tossed on the album and the soaker was worth it.

taken for granted

I don't know whether I should be frustrated - my initial reaction - or just embarrassed at my own ignorance.

Growing up in Yellowknife, there are many things I have come to take for granted: the Northern Lights 180 nights a year, being able to eat the fish out of any lake, river or creek you dip your pole in (heheh... joke aside, maybe you don't want to eat anything found in Back Bay,) and, as I found out today, the fact that, if you have a medical issue, you can call a clinic, book an appointment and see a doctor.

The past week I indulged in some good old self-inflicted existential stress, which I am evidently prone to from time to time. While it saps my energy and makes me feel like junk for a couple days, I usually come out of the bouts renewed with ambition and drive to do accomplish some task I've always wanted to do. I'm in that stage right now and I feel good.

But a side effect from these days of trivial anxiety and self-beat-upedness (like that word) is that the rosacea on my face explodes in colour, severity and size. Once upon a time, I had a baby-smooth face, but I believe after working in the arsenic plant at one of Yellowknife's gold mines for six months operating a pump and having to wear a ventilator over my face for long periods of time, I started to develop a small red rash on each of my cheeks. Over time, the rosacea has conquered more territory on my face (MANifest destiny?) to the point where, when it flares up, I look like I have severe acne. (Worse than that 'too many cho-co-lut bars' commercial guy, back in the old days when MuchMusic used to play music videos.)

The rosacea has provided some hilarious episodes, like when the pharmacists in the territories messed up my antibiotics on my first and second re-ups - giving me antidepressants by accident. However, it does bother me and make me feel unhealthy and self-conscious. It also gets itchy and crusty and it feels like I'm wearing a mask sometimes. People think it's sunburn. At work, someone will say, "Looks like someone got some sun this weekend." And I'll say, "Mothafucka, it's been raining non-stop the last three days. How the hell could I get sunburnt?" Actually, I won't say that. I'll say, "Yep, forgot my sunblock. Oh shucks."

With this red, bumpy stuff creeping up my nose to my forehead, I figured, I better go get some meds to fight off the bacterial invaders. It's done the trick in the past and I've been off the drugs since moving to Montreal in October. So I called up a clinic and tried to book me an appointment. You know, because I live in Canada and should be able to do this.

"Who is your family doctor?" the receptionist asked in French.

"I don't have one. I just moved here last year from Yellowknife."

"Okay, do you have a file with us?"

"No, I just moved here last year from Yellowknife."

"Oh, I'm sorry. We're not taking any new clients."

What? New clients? I'm not a client. I'm not a customer. I'm a person who needs to see a doctor. I was appalled and hung up the phone. I looked up another clinic and called and got the same response.

I walked over to my roommate and asked her what the deal was. She said there is such a shortage of doctors in Quebec that no one can get a family doctor anymore if they don't already have one. Fuck the heck?

Also, the only way I could see a doctor would be by going to a walk-in clinic.

For real?

I spoke to some folks at the coal mine... er... call centre over the week and they told me the same thing. They told me I better go in early to get a number. Super early. They said I could go to a private clinic or a dermatologist, but I was like "Fuck that, this is Canada. I'm not paying to see a doctor."

And so it was this morning, I got up early to the buzz of F1 cars on the island, doing practice runs on the Circuit Gilles Villeneuve for this weekend's Grand Prix. I almost thought I was back in Yellowknife for a second, with the cars sounding like the invisible, invincible mosquitoes that buzz in your ears at twilight and turn you psychotic.

I've got three Fridays off this month (shortage of coal at the coal mine... er... calls at the glorified call centre) and I had pegged today as my doctor's visit day. I made my way to the aptly named Complexe Desjardins, passing old bald men wearing Ferrari hats smoking cigars (almost wrote guitars for some reason?) before 9:30 a.m. It took me 30 minutes to find the clinic once at the building. It wasn't the gastro clinic, or the radiology clinic, but instead a hole in the wall on the fifth floor and when I spoke to the receptionist, she told me they were all full for the day. She didn't even hide the fact that she derived some pleasure from telling me this. I hate those kinds of people. Like, just have sex or something and lighten the fudge up. I tapped my book on the table, took a deep breath and... walked away.

For years, I've heard about doctors shortages. Heard we'd be in trouble. Heard people couldn't see doctors or had to wait hours upon hours to do so... While going to school in Calgary, I never had that problem because we had the University clinic. (I won't say why I visited that place, but I'm sure - or at least hope - everyone's gone to a University clinic for the same reasons I did.) And in Yellowknife, that's never a problem at all. You can book three days ahead of time and get an appointment. With all the neck wringing about health benefits for seniors or emergency room waits, at least you can still get the most basic and important service: a doctor's visit. I know that's not the case outside Yellowknife in the smaller communities, but they have logistical issues to blame.

Montreal doesn't.

Is this walk-in, no appointment thing common knowledge amongst Canadians? Am I a small town buffoon for not knowing this?

Either way, the frustration from not seeing a doc is surely to cause my rosacea to expand even further. I'm gonna have to dig some new trenches against this foe. Scalpel.

nonsense

I had a lot of grand things to say about heat... but unfortunately, heat has kicked in. Therefore, I have no more brainpower, as heat has zapped it all from me.

I am enjoying heat, nonetheless, even though it feels as if I'm being lapped in waves of warm butter with each heart beat.

(excerpt from: How a Poor Feller from Yellowknife Deals with 27-33C Humid-Ass Montreal Weather for Ten Consecutive Days. Soon available in paperback.)

merry holidays

Back in Yellowknife for the week and already fattening up on coffee and Baileys and homemade lasagna and mandarin oranges and board games.

Got on the flight from Edmonton and laughed while the four dogs in the cabin were barking at each other. Yep, that's the North. And the old man in the row in front of me who stared just a tad too long and seriously at the cute Japanese girl's ass, as she patiently waited to take her seat. And the nervous flier lady who told her husband they weren't seated next to each other on the flight a little loud and the husband who responded with a chuckle "That's probably a good thing." And the way the jet was like a barroom the whole flight, with people telling stories and catching up and busting a gut, and even as the bulky cabin dipped and ducked and jitterbugged and juked in the sky the cadence doesn't change because people are so second-nature about flying.

It's nice to be back, playing hockey on the big lake and drinking beers with all the great friends down on the houseboat, telling stories about how we lost our teeth, with frost thawing into our beverages from our makeshift beards.

Merry Christmas.

Plants and Animals -- A l'oree des bois

Chirgilchin - Khoomeige Yoreel

With a paper-weight iPod and all my CDs in Yellowknife, I've had constant cravings for music not in my immediate possession and so have had to rely on youtube to satisfy the itch.

Don't know how many of you are familiar with Chirgilchin -- although anyone at Folk on the Rocks in 2005 would likely remember these guys as they are pretty unforgettable. I was blown away, that's for sure -- but with some long work days and under a little bit of financial stress, I've been all over their songs as of late, since they do to me what a one-hour massage does to others.

Yeah, the whistling and throat-singing is done simultaneously by one guy. Infriggincredible.

Also, listening to these guys strengthens my desire to travel to Mongolia -- next spot on my Magical Mystery Tour. I've long been fascinated by the place and can just picture the mountain plateaus and nomadic animals and tall grasses when listening to these three throat sing.

To Mongolia!

From the vaults

I was looking for essay ideas because I need to write two up for a job I'm applying for, and I stumbled across this clumsy editorial I'd written up while working at the Yellowknifer, in frustrated response to a fruitless few hours on Yellowknife's streets.

I had completely forgot about it. I edited it -- and am going to use it for the application, which explains why it is written in the past tense -- and wish I would have submitted it back when I was working.

---

I felt like a leper walking the streets of Yellowknife.

While working as a reporter for a local paper in the NWT’s capital city, I endeavored to complete a Street Talk column, where residents – their names appearing beside their photo – would be asked to rate the territorial government’s performance over the last 12 months.

Covering an often controversial and contentious legislative assembly, I had my own opinions, but figured I could have been a little insulated by spending too much time in the newsroom. With an important session set to start up the day the column would have gone to press, I wanted to get a sense of how people on the street really felt about the way the government was running.

I did not run out in naively. I realized it would be a difficult task because since I started at the paper – both in Yellowknife and Iqaluit – I had run into many an instance where a resident would refuse a comment based on their employment with the government.

It was frustrating, but I understood.

People open right up and then when asked for their name, they say: “You’re not going to use my name, are you?” or “I don’t know if I can say that. I work for the government, you know?”

I needed just six people to respond.

I spent a solid 30 minutes walking around with no success. I got polite ‘no thank yous,’ explanations and then retractions, and quick refusals. There were people I asked who said they depended on the government for program funding and could not reply.  I got comments from people presently or recently employed with the government – or people who hoped to work for them – who would gladly divulge their opinions after stating they wouldn’t give their names. Their criticisms were insightful, relevant and offered me something new. They’d be healthy for public discourse if they were published. There were ideas to save money, improve programming, save jobs, but no one would get to hear them.

On the flipside, I met people who were very much anti-government – and some whose job it was to be. Their views were very predictable.

I must have asked 25 people in those 30 minutes – old and young, employed, jobless, homeless – and not one person was willing to go on the record.

I’d cross a street and people on the sidewalk would beeline for the other side. They’d pick up their pace. They could smell the question.

It was getting dark and after an hour, I had four respondents – one was very critical, two seemed to have moderate approval and another who was not up on the issues.

The next morning, I showed up for work early and after about 45 more minutes, I found two more people.

I got back into the office, wrote out the column, uploaded the pictures onto the server and was proud to have at least gotten some sort of judgment from the people.

Then I was told four of my pictures were out of focus and were unusable. I gave up and asked Yellowknifers what style of moustache I should grow for an upcoming fundraiser. I found six people in 20 minutes.

I realized those were some tough economic times and everyone was a little worried they might show up to work on a Monday and find a pink slip on their keyboard, I knew Yellowknife was a small place and workers were afraid they could be reprimanded for criticisms. I knew all about the government’s code of conduct, where employees are prohibited from speaking out against their employer.

Where does that leave democracy and the free-flowing of ideas and opinions though? In a system that’s truly open and working and accountable, residents would feel comfortable giving their honest opinions about government, feeling free of reprimand.

With a government accused frequently of incompetence, it does one thing very well: stifle debate. There isn’t public discussion about policy because people are uncomfortable having it publicly. They're afraid some vengeful bureaucrat is poring through Yellowknifer street talk columns, looking to find anyone foolish enough to question the government’s action, to then sacrifice as an example to the rest of the flock.

As a result, no one says anything until something gets taken away from them. And then, as is often the case, it’s too late.

the recession has officially hit Yellowknife

While I have grown tired -- and somewhat cynical -- of all this recession talk (because we all know the rich are somehow going to get richer off this whole sub-prime mortgage/foreclosure/cheap real estate thing that's been happening) I must say, I'm starting to become a firm believer.

No, not because the jobless rate keeps rising, or because stimulus packages are being hefted out by any country with a conscience or even because the NBA salary cap is said to be dropping in 2010.

Nope. I am becoming a believer because even Mother Nature is taking heed, and as a result has given us the saddest freekin summer I can remember here in Yellowknife. The living poor in the capital city, who should be enjoying the one month where it actually pays to live here, have had to paddle through some pathetic, drizzly, cloudy and windy autumn weather this summer, when it should be skin-singing hot.

Case in point: I wore a toque when I hit the batting cage with a friend of mine today.

Yes, friends. A toque. A god-damned, motherfucking winter toque in the middle of July.

The mercury hit a whopping 8 degrees today, when it really should be non-stop, unabashed sun and summer in Yellowknife. People should be outdoors biking, walking and smiling their lives away this time of year, without a thought about the miserable weather and winter which beats us down most of the time.

Instead, Mother Nature is storing her coal away for the cold season, because she's even bought into all this recession mumbo jumbo.

I think we should start protesting.

I think we should get a bunch of fed-up Yellowknifers together and walk down Franklin Avenue in bikinis and bermuda shorts and demand we get at least some sort of summer.

Because, for me at least, this recession is becoming depression.

have you seen this man?

Richard Golden:

Richard Golden, WHERE ARE YOU? And more importantly, where is any evidence of your beautiful, unintentional comedic gold commercials... Also, this is apparently what went for sexy in the late 1980s.

A little background:

As a youngster growing up in Yellowknife, my sister and I spent an inordinate amount of Saturday mornings slurping cereal and munching cinnamon-sugar toast in front of the TV, while snow blasted into the side of our apartment and made outdoor fun torturous.

Unfortunately, a side effect of being a Canadian kid with the most basic of cable in the late-80s, early-90s was the fact that the best Saturday morning shows were shown on the three major American networks: NBC, ABC and CBS.

For some reason, our feed came from Detroit, meaning we were definitely up on our Detroit Tigers (Alan Trammel and Lou Whitaker baby!) and the daily hand-gun murders delivered from the mouths of trustful local TV personalities. WDIV's Carmen Harlan and Devin Scillian, anyone?

These two introduced me and my sis to gangland violence, Halloween firebombs and rape between Hang Time and Saved by the Bell...

Also, we got the run of local, Detroit commercials, which included Mel Farr, who dressed up like Superman to sell Fords, the non-stop hit-and-run, drinking and driving or personal negligence slickster attorneys and the one and only Richard Golden -- the spokesperson, president and pimp of D.O.C.s "Sexy Specs."

Please tell me you remember this guy and his commercials.

They basically began with him saying, "I'm Richard Golden and these glasses are so sexy, they'll make you want to dance...." Then this funky music would start up and he would put on his glasses, walk into a classroom or on to some graffitied up street corner and start busting out some moves, with his feet just sliding and tapping and twirling, which people would watch with shit-eating grins and be all into it.

He's been memorialized in pop art. But there is no documentation of the classic commercials on the internet... that I have been able to find?

I remember watching him and not being able to decipher whether Richard Golden was psychotic, cool or just delusional. Was this normal behaviour or was this guy a complete loon?

It's a lot for a kid to take in... Here's some white guy in a leather coat, popping his collar then rocking some fancy footwork with no invitation to dance from anyone and people just watching him giver in all these different settings... I didn't know if that was socially acceptable. What would happen if I could just start busting a move during class or something, with my hand on my hips? Did people really do that shit in public? It was very confusing.

But looking back, it's absolutely ludicrous and hilarious, which is why I'm making a formalized plea for your memories of this guy and more importantly, a link to one of the commercials.

I can't pay you -- what with the economic slow down being what it is -- but I can promise that whoever is able to provide me a link will get the most flattering photo of their likeness posted on this blog, with an even more flattering write-up.

Please find me Richard Golden. I think this commercial would become the No. 1 viewed and adored video on youtube. It was so ridiculous.

PPPLLLLEEEEEAAAAASSSSEEEEEE!!!!

Note:

Apparently, there will be no more new commercials, as Richard Golden has put the dancing shoes in the closet for good. Say it ain't so... Strong men still cry...

And here is a nice attempt at parodying the clips. But it's not even close to the real thing. Not even close.

Here's a nice, very long discussion about corny Detroit ads.

cold update

Just thought I'd update for anyone reading this outside of Canada (can't think of who that may be, but who knows) about the season.

It's winter, officially. How do I know this? Well my truck has been a frozen block in the parking lot for 48 hours, covered in a grey-coloured frost. It looks like it has freezer burn. Someone told me it reached -40 at some point over the last two days. I believe them. It's nothing to be shocked about, but that first inhale of -40 air each winter does produce that sensation.

I pulled my hockey gear out of my inanimate vehicle yesterday and the whole bag was frozen stiff. A big chunky block. It took minutes to squeeze it through the broken 4-runner passenger seat that barely bends forward. The material of the hockey bag sounded like a thick paper bag crumpling. I grabbed at my composite sticks and they burned and stung the flesh on my fingers. "DAMN!" Hockey was a little painful, as I only had about 45 minutes to thaw my shit out.

For some reason, when it gets this cold -- I'm talking hand-gets-stuck-to-your-keys-cold -- whenever I walk past a light post or a road sign, I have this sick urge to stick my tongue to it. I have no explanation. It makes me cringe. I watched a kid lose his tongue on a slide when I was five and the image has never left me. He was crying. He ripped his face from the frozen object at -40. There was blood all over the snow, the slide and the kids face. And he was just screaming.

Also when I was young, I would often wonder if you could see steam coming from your ass when you farted in frigid temperatures. I got a friend to watch once. You don't fart steam. So if you see me smiling gleefully in -40, maybe stay a few steps away... at least till the smile subsides.

Took the Frankenstein cables to the beast tonight and got her running after two days of inactivity. Took her out for a ride and filled her up. Guess what? Gas is under a buck in Yk! Amazing. Of course, I took the beast to the only station that was still over a buck because it was the only spot I could get a corndog. Mindy spoke about watching gas prices go over that milestone number back when he was working the Truckstop in Enterprise years ago.

It's about g'damn time.

So I had to stock up on candies, scratch-n-win tickets and corndogs to make up for all the money I was saving.

a day for the ravens

With all the warm weather recently, Yellowknife has been sort of white-washed or grey-painted as each day, overcast skies dump layer after layer of snow on the ground and keep temperatures from reaching the nose-tip numbing bitterness I'm used to this time of year.

As a result, there seems to be a colourlessness to the days, like the visual volume is turned down or Ned Flanderized. There is nothing bold and no contrast out there.

I went for a bit of a drive Saturday and maybe due to all the white covering the city, the propensity and activities of the ravens really stood out to me.

I am fascinated by the birds. I did some research a while back and it turns out young ravens are some of the most curious creatures currently on Earth and will try anything once. They're very attracted to shiny objects. But something happens to a raven over the course of its life... Old ravens become neophobic and are terrified to try anything unusual.

I wonder what it is?

The slightly gusty Saturday was truly a day for the ravens.

Pulling through the Timmy's drive-thru, a furry bird with his share of scruffy feathers under his beak, had his neck tucked in to its body, huddled on the ground next to the spot where drivers picked up their food goods from the window. The raven looked as if it was studying how this process worked -- watching as people rolled up to the cashier and exchanged shiny things for pieces of food -- some of which he had probably tasted while picking through the contents of the dumpster behind the building. It bobbed up and down as each car left and new one took its place. He looked like he was really enjoying himself, like a little kid that takes to a game and won't let you stop because it gets such a kick out of it. The raven eyed up the driver. He opened his mouth, as if to mimic the drivers speech. I wanted to jump outside, scoop him up, sit him in the passenger seat and explain how the whole thing worked.

Anyways, I drove away and actively searched ravens out as I meandered through town.

Some of the black birds crow-hopped through parking lots, skipping from one spill in the snow to another to taste test. Others ransacked a bag of garbage beside the highway, like hyenas picking apart a long dead zebra.

I chuckled as every second street light or telephone pole or building corner or ledge held an inquisitive raven, just hanging out, watching scattering and scurrying humanity below, calmly from its detached viewpoint above. I imagined them scrawling observations on notepads, jotting down sketches of what was going on below them, learning something new about those goofy two-legged mammals that did all those crazy things.

I really admire the intelligence and humour of ravens -- the way they work together to solve problems, like breaking into dumpsters. I've watched them play tricks on people in winter. After a big snow fall, they will wait out on a particularly snowy ledge and when a person or another animal walks underneath unsuspecting, they will dump some snow down on them. I can swear a see a smile and a laugh after. I've seen ravens reek havoc on sled dogs, stealing their food after the handlers scoop food into their bowls. The dogs go crazy, tied to their small homes with ropes and the ravens hop away with their food locked in their beaks. Ravens stash golfballs at the golf course (it's not a myth -- I've seen it first hand.) 

They can also mimic sounds. After a day full of sirens and ambulances and fire trucks and speeding tickets one downtown afternoon last week, I was walking down Range back to work and heard a raven -- perched on a rail in the parkade -- sounding out the siren ("boop"  "boop"). It was so strange! There is a raven behind my parent's house in the summer that sounds like a frog. 

Watching these birds, I started to believe that if I had to face off with a raven in a chess match, I would probably get creamed in four moves. And when I left to go get a bite from the pantry, his buddies would have pillaged it.

Maybe it's just me, but I feel like ravens are also becoming more brazen these days. I never remembered seeing a raven standing on a vehicle when I was a kid. Nowadays, they scratch their feet all over the roofs of cars or prop up on bumpers or hitches. And they don't run as quickly as they used to when you approach. That's not true. They do run, or hop away, now. But they used to fly. I think all their note-taking on lampposts is to blame.

I wondered what ravens ate before there was garbage. I wondered where ravens went to die.

Making my way downtown, I watched the ravens swoop into the air madly with updrafts of wind sweeping up the side of Northern Heights. They dipped and dived and then -- whoosh -- back up five stories or so when their wings opened to take in the air. They played. They chased each other like World War I planes dogfighting. I've always wanted to feel the exhilaration of that flight in the wind, as they do at the cliffs by Jackfish Lake or Back Bay in the summer time. It's always something I've wanted to know.

And after seeing all this adventure and resourcefulness and activity on such a bland looking afternoon, I suddenly became very jealous of the ravens, as I sat at a shiny red light in downtown Yellowknife, stuck to the ground in my 21 year old 4-Runner.

Shiny things were not attractive to the young man on Saturday afternoon in Raven Town.

journey outside the biberous oil can

Indulge me for a few moments, kiddies, while we take a little trip.

This involves getting outside the characters characterized characteristically on this here blog -- the ones you have grown to laugh with (hopefully). Yes, let's leave the slightly Costanza-esque Herbiberous and the always cantankerous Oil Can behind for a just a few paragraphs and let us traverse into parts unknown.

It's presently November 14 and I can't think of a more depressing day of the year (other than the literal darkest day - Dec. 21). Winter has finally settled in, every day gets shorter and the mercury won't rise again for six more months.

Earlier this evening, over wings and a beer, I couldn't kick the restless feeling. It doesn't feel like I'm doing anything new or else I've just sunken into the predictable work-afterwork activity-home routine and can't break from it.

And I think it may be evident to you from this blog -- my life and the things I'm writing can't be as interesting as they used to be a couple months ago... I mean, Burton Cummings for fuck sakes. What is that all about?

In Iqaluit, I was encountering something new with every venture out the door, with every conversation at a coffee shop, with every bite of food. New thoughts and entertaining stories bursted out from nothing, from mundanity. A drive from the river to Apex filled me with excitement. That's why I started this thing, because I had so much to write about and many of the people I wanted to share it with in Yellowknife.

Now I'm back and the feeling of adventure is definitely not something I'm getting in Yellowknife right now. Call it fatigue from familiarity. But I find that even while I'm learning new and interesting things at work every day -- like how tuberculosis is more a social disease than medical, due to its higher rates of infection in poorer populations that tend to have overcrowded and poorly ventilated housing; or how this kooky thing we call government works -- I'm still finding myself at home at the end of the night and my days kind of just look like blah. I'm coming home tired with no funny stories to tell.

It feels like if someone I don't know comes up and starts talking to me, I don't have the patience to oblige in conversation and I kind of kindly just walk away. It's as if I don't need to know this person, because I already know enough persons here. But then I'll have nights at the Monkey Tree where I'll shake hands all night but not talk to anybody for more than 30 seconds.

Tonight at the Elks, this old guy walked over to me and the Lion and started telling a story about working for the city in Prince Rupert and how they made him work outside the liquor store landscaping and on hot days people would say "Hey, so-and-so, you're working hard. Here, have a drink." and he'd say "Okay." and so he'd punch in sober in the morning and clock out drunk at the end of the day, and when his superiors found out, they moved him to somewhere he wouldn't be able to get a drink: the graveyard. The story was great, and he laughed big time after the punch-line, and I laughed too. And it's not something I do enough here. I don't listen to peoples' stories. I get too cozy doing the same-old same-old because it's so easy and I gravitate toward laziness. But I've had way too many shitty walk homes from the Monkey Tree cursing myself for not being creative enough to find challenging or new ways to spend my Friday nights.

I do not have the attitude I have when I'm traveling when I'm home. If I meet someone from out of town, I say hey and tell them where to go and that's it. When I'm traveling, I have time for anyone.

I love this place but...

This attitude has to change.

Or I think it's time to leave.

i'm on youtube!!!

I don't know what to say (tear rolling down face).

Dizzle stops at 39... can't beat Patch's 39...

My buddy Neilio told me about a video he posted of my friend Dizzle doing push-ups at a slo-pitch tourney earlier this summer. I looked it up and there it was. 

It's so bizarre. I'm so honoured just to share the same (cyber)space as the dramatic chipmunk and Star Wars kid and two girls, one cup reactions.

I love that I can now be found on my favourite time-waster. 

a lesson in relativity

Last Saturday, I was feeling a little caged in. The air was chilly, the wind blowing, rain/snow inevitable, and I had little energy and less imagination, meaning I meandered around the house for some time, bouncing off the walls, frustrated by my lack of things to do.

I finally grabbed my coat and my keys and a couple bucks, jammed my headphones in my ears, got in the truck and decided on coffee.

I hit a good streak of tunes through the drive-thru and so, coffee in hand and head nodding, I decided to take the airport loop downtown, where I was to meet a bud.

The streak continued and so, instead of turning right, into town, I took a left, off to the Ingraham Trail, thinking maybe I'd just drive out past Giant Mine and to the Yellowknife River and then turn around. I was really feeling the music -- some old, nostalgic Tripping Daisy.

And so when I got to the river, I just kept going, because I didn't want the feeling to end. It was nice just enjoying the moment, you know? No thoughts, really. Just things passing by the window, which would trigger spasms of nostalgia or stimulate old pictures and people and events.

I swung around corners -- the same ones I saw from 10,000 feet on my way out of Yellowknife this summer, which was the first time I'd seen the Ingraham Trail from above, which I found shockingly trivial watching it sprawl randomly through the mass of trees below -- and took in the sights, days before snow would surely cover all of it up for half a year. And I got to the Dettah turnoff and said, "What the hell. Why not?"

I hadn't been to Dettah in probably 20 years -- outside of ice road endeavors in winter. So I took the 18km road slow, and just prayed that the road would never end and I'd be able to keep driving and the moment. 

Cars would come up from behind and coax me to drive faster, and I would oblige because I am a societal product -- afraid to seem like a Sunday driver to a perfect stranger, you know...

Eventually, I found Dettah. And I drove around a bit, watching the late-fall wind blow whitecaps up on the lake, from the tip of Yellowknife Bay. I looked out at the great lake for a long while.

Turned the beast around, and drove past an old ball park, which I remembered being gigantic as a 5 year old kid, now a tiny, rundown relic -- maybe as your brain grows in dimension with age, it shrinks things from your smaller, kid memory storage device? Was that park actually bigger when I was a kid, because I was smaller?

Turning onto the road out, I looked forward to the long drive home. My buddy called. 

I say I'm in Dettah. 

"You're in Dettah?" 

I say I'm on my way back into town.

Then, out of NOWHERE, this old lady, decked out in the traditional purple skirt, stockings, black shoes, pink hood, purple coat, babooshka regalia, throws her thumb out at the side of the road.

I stop without realizing. I tell my buddy I'll call him back. Before the vehicle is stopped, she is already on her way to the door. I unlock the door and she hops right in.

She's very old. Her face is creased all over. It looks like a flesh-coloured raisin with three holes in it.

"Town," she grunts, pulling a tissue out from her pocket, to wipe the tears that had welled up in her eyes to protect them from the howling winds.

"Town? Okay, no problem," I say, slightly uncomfortable now that my solitude-bubble has been burst.

Now I don't want to sound like an ass here, but I sort of pride myself on my ability to strike up a conversation with anyone, from any walk of life...

Not on Saturday.

"Cold out there, eh?" 

Nothing

"Do your legs get cold wearing that?" pointing to her nearly bare legs, covered by thin leggings. 

Barely an acknowledgement.

I was completely out of my element. I had no idea what to say. I offered her some of the peach drink I had. No reply.

I saw the back of the one kilometre sign into Dettah. On the way in, it had brought dread that the drive had ended. Now it had the same effect, but this time illustrating that this was just the start. 

The long drive home now felt UNBEARABLY LONG. I didn't want the drive out to Dettah to ever end, now I couldn't wait to get into Yellowknife, with nothing but the radio murmuring on my blown, buzzing speakers.

I hit 90kph on that road heading back, when I barely nudged 55kph on the way out.

This elder had taught me all I needed to know about the theory of relativity.

I felt bad that I couldn't start up a conversation. I would look over at her strong hands patting away at her face. She stared out the window, no doubt assessing the changes in the land surrounding the road from Dettah to the city, and all that she had probably witnessed over her at least 75 years commuting between the two locales.

We drove over the river, through Giant, past the dump, and the ski lodge without once exchanging a hint of communication.  Finally, we reached the reduced speed area outside the Legislative Assembly turn off and I asked, where do you want me to drop you off?

"Town," she said, almost annoyed that I didn't seem to understand the first time.

Okay, I smiled.

We got outside Extra Foods and I slowed down.

She turned to me and smiled. "Mahsi." She pulled her legs out the door.

"No problem. Take care. Stay warm." Who knows what else mindless small talk B.S.

I must have looked confused or weird or something. 

Because once she was out, she said, "thank you," very slowly, to make sure I understood.

Yep.

And that was it. No look back, she was walking toward wherever it was she needed to go. 

And I was off to... now where was I going again?

did you ever have to make up your mind?

...and this is probably my present-life's sad equivalent to the Lovin' Spoonful song of the same name...

I was at Harleys tonight, meeting some buds for drinks, laughs, etc.

Anyways, a young lady 10ft from where I sat, took off her clothes to music, with a television on the wall beside her playing the top 100 most memorable sports plays of all-time.

Seems innocent enough, right? Nice, relaxing evening where I would not have to once use my brain or have any kind of consequential thought? Well, not so much, actually.

I felt like an addict. 

Like a character from a movie I can't remember (ouch) that takes hits of heroin instead of making love with his lady, with another character explaining that a person is a junkie if they choose the stuff before sex.

I sat there at Harleys watching the damn highlights. Now, I will say the girl on stage was not the most attractive lady ever brought up to Yellowknife to strip, but still... I couldn't turn my eyes away from the highlights.

One-handed catches, miracle plays, crazy buzzer-beaters... I know. A sad state affairs. I really don't know how to explain myself. A woman was dancing naked, and I stared at the TV beside her.

Note: I know the blogging has taken a hit since I got back to Yellowknife, but it's only because I've sort of been trying to catch back up with things.

I went shopping last night and skipped down the cereal aisle when I saw that Cheerios only cost $4.00 a box here, as opposed to the $8.50 I'd been dropping in Iqaluit. 6 bags for $77... ahhh....

It's ugly outside and I'm sure I'll be bored again soon with the rest of the week off and having polished off the first season of Mad Men faster than an 800-pounder through a box of Oreos.

What would Don Draper say about my choice this evening?

"Herb, don't be such a Pete Campbell."

And anyways I've got to get in some sort of retort to Oil Can's Urkel comparisons.

And you can't even blame it on the 80s, Can. Upper Deck came out in the 90s. You're rockin Urkel specs...

Come on, folks. It's not even close. Can is a deadringer.

most wonderful day of the year

Folks, the excitement is building... 

We are a mere five sleeps from the greatest day of the year. No, it's not a birthday, or Christmas, or Halloween, or anything else Hallmark would have a card for... (Although they should. I'd show up at a buddy's house with one...)

September 9 marks the release of the latest installment of EA Sports' NHL series... NHL 2009.

Unfortunately, I do not return to Yellowknife -- and an XBox 360 -- before the 19th, so that should give some of you (read: Kev) a chance to build up some much needed confidence and get some practice in before Daddy SweetThumbs (am I allowed to self-nickname? Sir Score-a-lot? Dr. Kev Kill? Annihilatatron?) returns to reestablish his dominance with a tyrannical reign of beatdowns, shutouts and mid-game-pause-and-resets-because-the-game-is-so-out-of-hand... eh? eh?

I do have a beef, though: Phaneuf is on the cover. 

Dion Phaneuf has 45-minute conversations with rocks.

I've never been so in love with something that has such a horrific and unpalatable appearance.

It would be like a girlfriend coming back from a week long vacation with a Mike Tyson-style facial tattoo. Or being covered in feces or ebola or something... I'll get over it, but I might cringe as I take it out of the packaging.

One other thing. The official trailer kind of pisses me off.

NHL 2009 Trailer

Awesome! Phaneuf lays out the Twins twice, and the Canucks look like a bunch of flunky jabronies... 

At least now, I think we can officially kill the long held (and baseless) conspiracy theory from bitter Oilers/Flames fans that Canucks players' ratings are inflated because the game is made in Burnaby, BC.

No Canucks fan would ever endorse Dion Fanook doing something like this. 

I need something to cheer me up...

Oh, yeah!!! This right here.

Ahhh... much better....

Proof that man is an adaptable creature

To rebut all those creationist crazies running around out there, I have two pieces of evidence proving that man is an extremely adaptable creature and, therefore, a product of evolution:

1) since moving back to Yellowknife - and the long, frigid winters - after school, my chest hair situation went from non-existant (except the lone, long stragglers around my nipples) to sporadic tufting, in under a year; and

2) after less than a month in Iqaluit, I find myself waking to a sunny, +6 morning in early August and walking to work, thinking "what a beautiful summer's day." A month ago, if I'd believed I could ever be capable of feeling that way, I would have put a cigarette out on my nards and ate a handful of toenails (I have no idea why... Just seems like a sadistic punishment for masochistic thoughts.)

So there you have it, ladies and gentlemen. Two personal anecdotes that show how much of a creation creationism is.

PS. I might be going a little bonkers, but a lot of girls have been walking around town in gumboots the last couple of weeks... and looking pretty damn sexy. Yes, ladies, you're downright foxy in kneehigh rubbers. Keep it up.

Just had to wade in on that one...

Herbiberous