Primordial Soup

Birthday Bash!

2006-12-09T00:11:00.000-05:00

Nice perfume...must you marinate in it?

2006-11-12T13:46:00.000-05:00

Ok. So as you can see, I've co-opted an Adbusters parody for the reason that it's time to get something up and out of my chest, and that something is stinky assed people who feel the need to baste themselves with so much perfume you can literally taste it from ten feet away. Not that I'm exactly the embodiment of a bottle of mountain fresh Febreze in light of my own stinky cigarette habit, but I do make it a point to limit my smoking when I'm out in public, visiting friends in their non-smoking houses, and most importantly, going to class. Plus I tend to wash my hands and chew some gum when I do smoke around others. But my attempts to exonerate myself from my own indictment digresses from the point...but rest assured, I won't be slathering on the patchouli to soak up the smoky smell.

We now seem to be living in a society where we increasingly go out of our way to appease the needs and wants of others. For example, parties hosted by flesh eaters now frequently accomodate their vegetarian and vegan guests with careful attention to their dietary needs. School boards have gone even further by eliminating the mainstay of youthful exuberance: the PBJ from lunchrooms across the country. Christmas parties now have "Holiday Trees" and kosher food. Indeed, it is fortunate that consideration of others in a society long riddled with self-indulgence has begun to emerge. Accomodation is hip, and is quickly becoming the norm. It wasn't so long ago that my elementary school classmates armed with their Skippy on Wonderbread sandwiches laughed at the falafels my mother made me bring to school. But I suppose if I had lived with my father, he might have sent me to school with a chocolate bar and a pack of smokes. Fortunately the 80s are long dead.

So why is it then that contemporary Canadian society, so well aware of dietary needs and food allergies, so damn squeaky clean, and so frustratingly polite (sorry...uh, excuse me), still produces people who are insensitive to the perfume sensitivities of others? I am one of the latter...most perfume brands give me migraines within seconds of exposure, the number one reason why I avoid the cosmetics section in the average department store or duty free, the former of which I avoid in general because they give me 'The Fear,' and the latter to which I exploit for cheap booze and smokes as much as Canadian Customs will allow. Nevertheless, there exists a minority of perfume bathers who seem to make it a point to soak themselves in designer brands in spite of the fact that social norms dictate one should not wear perfume if it can be detected more than a foot away. In fact, my grandmother always told me that if one wears perfume, you should NOT be able to smell it yourself unless you hold your wrist up to your nose.

If you are sitting next to someone in a lecture hall, you are in their zone, so moving to another seat is an option. If however you are trapped in a small space like an elevator, bus, or seminar classroom, you have no choice but to choke back your nausea because some person really wants everyone to know that they are wearing a hundred dollar bottle of perfume. But the worst part lies for me in the fact that I feel like an asshole if I get up and move to another spot because the look of sad query on my perfumed enemy's face, which compels me to explain myself. I don't want to have to make people feel bad, but if they are making me want to puke, well, I gotta do what I gotta do. At most, I hope that they will continue to enjoy wearing their perfumes, but tone it down when it comes to dousing it on. But dammit, if the fine barley, water, hops, and yeast bouquet of my pint of Guinness cannot be enjoyed at my default bar because I've got a mouthful of some newbie's Chanel #Fucking Five, it's time to take some action.

And yet there are others who have to figure this out. Last week as I was plodding toward another day of token efforts in my French class, I was passed enroute by an Engineering student on rollerblades wearing 'who-knows-what' kind of cologne. He zipped past me quickly, but I could still smell him despite the fact that I could no longer see him...and I was outside! I took quiet comfort in knowing that that guy probably wears the same stuff to Elixer every Hump Night, but always goes home alone. Vindication.

Salvaging my Ego

2006-10-25T19:39:00.000-04:00

Ok. So I've been flaking out on the blog thing, a failure that manifests itself due to the pressing tasks of reading, attending classes, reading, writing essays, reading, writing mid-terms, reading, searching for primary sources, reading, reading, and more reading. My eyes literally feel like they've been hammered into my automatonic skull...unfortunately, I have yet to recall any dreams of electric sheep.

One would think that at this stage in the first semester of my final year of undergraduate tenure, I would have developed some kind of relationship to the work I produce. And yet, it's flying by so bloody fast. My struggle to keep abreast of the workload is making commitment and the sense of ownership to the fruits of my labour as fleeting as my daydreams of publishing great tomes and taking my seat at the table of Nobel Laureates...ok...delusions of grandeur indeed, but I like to aim high.

Nevertheless, I handed in my first paper on Friday, of which I spent 17 hours writing to earn what I hope to be a great grade that only amounts to 10% of my overall mark. Because the prof for this class is one of my two grad school refs, therefore, I'm compelled to go the extra mile. Yet, as I was writing my critique of Ernst Jünger's use of the neo-romantic motif of grotesque in his broad reflections upon the warrior-hero’s search and seizure of both purpose and vindication in the face of probable death. I couldn't help wondering if I actually understood the form and content of what I was writing, and if I even cared. Storm of Steel: good book, but I have 12 more that require my attention on the coffee table. Moving onward...

Right now I'm procrastinating. I have another French midterm in the morning, and I feel like I couldn't possibly know any more about the plus-que-parfait and the agreement of past participles with the verb avoir when there is a direct object preceding the fucking verb. Mes études françaises? Je vais les faire plus tard! Mais maintenant, je dois vous dire un histoire d'injustice!

I did a midterm for my other French class last week (yes, I'm doing 2 French courses, which require my presence on campus 7 more times a week than I would like). I fared quite well on the written portion...82%, somewhat more mediocre on the oral...74%, but I failed the listening portion with a 4 out of 10! Unfortunately, the way my overall marks are calculated, more weigt was given to the latter, which pulled my midterm mark down to a 63%. This was an outrage. First off, I recieved high 80s in the last 2 French classes I took, and second, I understand almost everything the prof says, not to mention all of the material we are using. I'm not on the Dean's List and applying for federal and provincial funding for nothing! I know I have brains. Je le sais!

So where did it all go awry? The structure of the stupid test. I spoke (en français) with my prof and cited several problems, with which many other students experienced. Firstly, we were to listen to a cbc news brief about internet addiction and then answer some questions. However, the vocabulary alone was enough to set most of us back. While the test paper had some vocab explanations, we were not given the time to review these critical words, nor were we given the opportunity to read over the questions we were to answer before she started reading again. Therefore, we scrambled to listen and articulate what she was saying, all the while wondering what the questions meant...if you don't understand the question, there is no possibility of answering correctly or clearly. Above all of that, the tract was from CBC, while our course is at the 100 level. How is it possible that we can present anything about the psychological analyses of internet users if we spend each class talking about ordering french fries at MacDonalds? Our horses were shot before we even made it out of the starting gate.

The results for the class? Out of 15 classmates, 2 of us got 90s, 4 got between 60-80, and 9, yes NINE of us failed. Interestingly, the two who recieved 90s lived in France and spent their highschool years in French immersion. It is relatively common that reasonably fluent speakers join the first year courses to maintain high GPAs, much to the chagrin of those of us who are still struggling with how to conjugate the verb 'savoir' (to know) in the passé composé.

When I spoke to the prof, I asked her if she believed that I understood everything in class, and she said yes. I asked her if she believed that the results of my listening exam reflected my comprehension of the course content. She said no. Feeling immediately justified, I told her that a 40% is probably closer to my understanding of French as a whole (well...probably much less than that, but you get the drift...), while I understand 100% of the material and at least 80-90 percent of what happens in the class...verbal exercises, her explanations, and listening exercises using the vocab we are being taught.

Justice has been served. After establishing that I had no qualms about seeing the department head and ASUS (Arts & Sciences Undergraduate Society) to formally contest my grade, she said she would speak to la coordonatrice herself. Happily, when us failures marched glumly into the language lab today, she greeted us with news that we will have the opportunity to rewrite the listening exam using a different tract, but with time to look at the vocab and questions. A girl named Jenny tapped me on the shoulder and mouthed the words 'Thank you' to me. I rewarded myself with a hero grilled cheese sammy after class and worked out a point of attack for my other exam and a brief presentation in the morning.

Thus, while some of my work this semester seems to leave me in the dark, apparently I can take ownership over my own capability while standing up to departmental exam procedure that not only benefits me, but also my camarades in language acquistion. Yay me!

Ok...so I've procrastinated enough. Time to gas up the tanks with a beer or two and review my French grammar while waiting for the Daily Show and Colbert Report to come on. Alas, my moment of heroism has gone by...time to recede into routine again...

Yours in Liberté. Égalité. Fraternité.

d-lo on the down lo

Pimping off my intellect

2006-10-01T12:03:00.000-04:00

Ok...so the season for external funding is upon us. Really, it is a heinous time for anyone like me considering, or already immersed in, post-graduate studies. The heavily competitive nature of OGS and SSHRCC compels would be scholars to adhere to the absolutes of bureaucratic particularity in such a way that the content of one's proposal seems of almost secondary importance to one's correct use of in-text citations and parantheses. Woe to those who attempt some assertion of stylistic individuality! The grammar and format Cheka will sieze the fruits of your labour and lock it all away into the gulag trashbin of negative history. From that point on, you will be forced into sparse housing, food banks, and second-hand tweed. Ho ho!

Check, check, re-check, and then check one or two more times again. Print, and check again. And again. Have a bunch of people check, and check again. This is the kind of advice most fundseekers adhere to. However, during a workshop in September, one sage prof offered us funding newbies one key admonition: Do not, under any circumstances, invest your ego into this process. If, however, you go so far as to cheat a bit with a 10 pt. Times New Roman font, then ego in itself, becomes a non-issue. Attention span, on the other hand, certainly is, and this kind of oversight will definitely raise a few red flags. What I believed to be a ghetto legend within the History department is, in fact, true. There have been times when people have deviated from the prescribed format, others who submit proposals riddled with speling errers. The Result: their applications burnt out faster than Courtney Love.

While these faults might be somewhat acceptable at the first-year undergraduate level (my very first essay was riddled with contractions and end-of-sentence prepositions and I still got a high B), when one is competing with thousands of others, a little extra effort never hurts, despite the fact that you are going blind with all the desktop time and cheap cans of 'Lucky' liquid confidence.

To add to my despair, I was faced with another whole new level of faceless bureaucracy on Friday morning. After many long months of waiting, waiting, waiting for my new birth and change of name certificates (following my legal repatriation into this country as a happily divorced mature student), I realized I had forgotten to change my name on my SIN card, which of course, is of vital necessity if one actually wants to get OGS/SSHRCC.

However, I was not made to fill out a form and hand over my ID per se. I was seated in the waiting area filled with the otherwise bored and unemployed. I struck up a conversation with a woman who got kicked off welfare because she failed to report the part time minimum wage job she got, and was subsequently laid off from. 3 kids, no partner, no job and bills to pay. She was the only 'real' person I spoke to in that joint.

Our conversation was interrupted by the drone of an 'agent' who called my name in order to 'assess' me. I was seated in a cubicle, where another 'agent' (they call themselves that now) was busy typing away on a pc that had several teddy bears sitting atop of the monitor. The first agent asked me for my documents which I promptly provided. I sat there for about 10 minutes as they inspected the documents, made some notes on the computer, reinspected, made more notes, spoke quietly to each other, made more notes, and inspected the documents again. It was SURREAL. I interrupted their 3rd blacklight scan with the reminder that I was, in fact, still sitting there, and would appreciate it if they asked me something if they wanted to verify who I was. They both said that I should wait, so I read a few pages of my Wilhelm II book to bone up for the seminar I had to be at an hour later.

Finally, after 20 more minutes, they asked me if I was who I was, if I lived where I lived, if I was born where I was born, and if my former address at the time of my previous name change after my marriage was my former address at the time of my name change after my previous fucking marriage. They asked me 3 times. I thought to myself that this could all be the result of stepping up security due to Canada's participation in the so-called War on Terror. Nevertheless, I was fuming, and literally ready to go postal. I had always thought the paper pushing and waiting was 'faceless,' but this scenario has totally changed the way the government relates to the people its supposed to serve, not interrogate. I shouldn't be made to feel guilty just because I've changed my name due to a divorce. Nor should I be treated as an object of suspicion, just because the feds have new policies. Beware people!

After sitting for half an hour or so, I was told I would receive my new SIN card in a few days and to call a certain 1-800 number if it doesn't come. And somehow, I know, that stupid card is not going to come. Murphy's Law or the reality of modern bureaucracy...same difference at this point. I am so looking forward to visiting Hull to update my passport. CSIS will be on me faster than my kids on a new Xbox game.

So that's that. I've had it up to the ying yang with bureaucratic, red tape, paper pushin, grammar and format noting, fact checking, faceless assements of who I am and what I have the potential to do. And yet, while I know, after long careful readings of Nachaev and Frantz Fanon in my course readings, that nothing spells resistance better than a molotov cocktail and dialectical violence, all I can do is suck it up. I don't believe in violence, but oddly, I understand the motivation. And yet, a violent scream, or at least a sob in my pillow, is all I can really muster, and if that's false commitment to whatever it is I'm supposed to resist, so be it. I have to play the game if I want to succeed in my goals. Bah.

I will get that SIN card, and I may even get that federal or provincial funding. But it would be nice if the powers that be actually took the fucking time to look me in the eye and treat me like a person. The big problem for me is: I sat there politely in that cubicle and took it. I've filled out these forms, as well for the purpose of profit. Therefore, in reality, I am a conformist and the last 20 years of my non-conformist ways have been an utter waste.

Who needs a drink...

My War with the Trojans

2006-08-29T01:13:00.000-04:00

Ok. So as I passed by the prophylactic section at the drug store the other day, a thought popped up faster than the speed of an average hard-on. Trojan condoms. There is seriously something wrong with that name. If one considers the mythical tale of the Trojan Horse as told in The Aenied over Brad Pitt's sad attempt to hold onto a career, one will certainly recall the Greek decade long siege of Troy, and the former's artifice: a giant wooden horse that secretly housed Odysseus and his warriors. The Trojans, convinced this magnificent beast was a gift, accepted it stupidly and brought it in to their city.

After a solid night of appeasing the Gods with Trojan beer bongs, the lights went out, the Greeks congratulated themselves on their deception, emerged, opened the gates to let the rest of the Greek army in, chaos ensued, and the hallowed city was infiltrated and conquered. End of story.

By now, you must be sensing an emerging paradox. Here we have an epic story of a bunch of guys who managed to sneak in, under cover of wood, only to creep out and impregnate the city of Troy with thousands of happy little soldiers. Suddenly, the Trojan Condom doesn't seem like the most reliable barrier against unwanted intruders. The thought that millions of happy little soldiers can sneak in by way of the wood, under cover of covers, and creep out to impregnate me with excess baggage is as terrifying as a knife to the throat of a sacrificial virgin. Let's just say I'm ready to burn my bra at the stake in homage to the gods who brought me The Pill and a ready box of Durex to my nightstand.

I visited the Trojan Brand Condoms website found HERE because I figured a little research is more fun than I will get from their actual rubbers after such careful consideration of the matter at hand. On the site, I was able to window shop through the tuque Selector for such design features as mutual stimulation and body heat transmitters. Some even come with special lube for climax control. The site says the Selector "makes choosing a condom almost as fun as choosing blonde, brunette, or redhead." The macho claim practically oozes spermatazoa as it implies women are something to 'choose' like a shirt off the rack, while ignoring the fact that it is women over men that purchase more birth control products, including condoms, and call for their use. Moving onward...

The site includes a whole lot of other novelties. Arcade games for example. Or a whole line of Trojan wear to impress the ladies and guys...just like those dudes in acid wash who like to show off their Playboy Bunny tattoo at bars to women who wear scrunchies and like to share the unicorns tattoed on their tits. Classy stuff.

In addition, the site offers playful 'Notes' you can use to harrass people at the office with because, after all, you never know "what will, um, arise." Yeah, like a court order.

Lastly, one must consider the name of the Trojan Condom manufacturer, Church & Dwight. Church. Not that many people are thinking about church when they're gettin' it on. But the name is almost titillating as it is widely known 'The Church' doesn't exactly advocate birth countrol. Of course, it's probably some corporate bigwig's family handle, but what's in a name? For me, tons, otherwise, I wouldn't have bothered to stay up late finishing this blog.

Lest we forget Church's partner, our ol' buddy Dwight. A name suitable only for guys with mullets. One would think that the mullet should be a rock solid pregnancy repellent, and still, I see a lot of mullet donners with Playboy bunny tattoos walking around with a buttload of kids in tow.

In sum, you wouldn't go to an insurance company called Swindler and Sons. You might call Dynamite Hooker Towing Service in a pinch. You may raise an eyebrow to 3 Ethnics & A WASP Pizza Parlour. You will bury your grandmother with Boxwell Brothers. You might even take a romantic road trip to Big Beaver Lick, Kentucky, a real place about 10 miles from Big Bone Lick State Park(I'm totally serious...Google Earth it now!). In the places we go and the products and services we buy, names are important. I don't know if Trojan was going for the amusing or the ironic, or perhaps, to merely project the image of endurance (Troy held out for 10 years after all), but the Horse is what most people recollect from the lore and literature.

Enough said.

Degrassi Junior High: My Pilgrimage Home

2006-08-23T01:17:00.000-04:00

Ok. So I’ve spent the last week with my pre-teen kids parked on the sofa watching DVD’s of Degrassi Junior High seasons one to three. My kids were hooked from the first episode, pegging Stephanie Kaye as a ‘butt-muncher’ with displaced fashion sense from the get-go. They are treating the program like their very own soap opera, much like I did when I was sitting through
Beachcombers, Seeing Things, and Danger Bay re-runs with almost obsessive anticipation of what Joey, Snake, and Wheels would do next.

Indeed, this stuff was like crack (a subject touched upon briefly by Shane's father). At the time I wondered, at some 12-year-old level, if I was living my life vicariously through Degrassi, or if, in fact, it was really true to life. Let me list off the daily episodes at Frontenac Public School in the 1980s:

1. I, like Stephanie, used to dress differently and apply/remove makeup at school. Yes, I admit, I made embarrassing errors in fashion judgement as well...re: jelly shoes and teased hair.
2. Practically half of the kids showed up everyday with mystery bruises.
3. We had a creepy guy teacher whose advances on young boys eventually put him in the clink.
4. One of my grade 8 classmates had a baby boy. She did not have cool hair.
5. Practically everyone but me was, or claimed to be, "gettin' it on"(I was the class ‘browner’) .
6. One very thin guy nicknamed ‘Tubby’ hung himself in a closet.
7. Cool street toughs smoked, therefore I smoked.
8. A girl named Tanya lost both her parents to a drunk driver.
9. Like Melanie, I had microscopic boobs.
10. The new boy in class was considered to be ‘totally studly’ (re: Simon)
11. The new girl in class was considered to be ‘totally slutty’ (re: Liz)
12. Lots of parents boozed ‘er up before noon. Parent-teacher nights were especially interesting.
13. At my school…it was cool to be held back a year. Joey Jeramiah cool.
14. High school boys were ‘so mature.’ Girls were 'sophisticated.'
15. We all prayed daily that our school would burn down.

Yeah, good ol’ Frontenac…still the roughest school in town. Thus, Degrassi had special meaning for us who actually survived through the 8th grade relatively unscathed. It was at Degrassi that we saw our trials and tribulations of early adolescence played out for us. Nothing was more mortifying than having your folks talk to you about condoms. We learned the importance of prophylactics by watching first Wheels, and later Joey, go to the pharmacy. More exactly, I learned it was easier, and less humiliating to get them out of a vending machine on the university campus (of course when I was older than 12 mind you). As well, we learned some important consequences from Spike, our favorite young mom with way-cool hair, and Dwayne, the bully who got cowed by HIV.

I am not so sure if the negative effects of drugs and alcohol had any real preventative impact on me, or anyone else in my age group. We found it laughable when Joey sold vitamins to Degrassi newbies, Melanie and Kathleen, as 'uppers,' while trying to push Degrassi Grass at the same time. Catnip and hunks of clay rolled in mud were standard fare for the niners at my highschool (and still, they lined up in droves). When Shane dropped that absurdley large hit of blotter, we laughed our asses off! I mean, come on, his little acid test would have had Timothy Leary chortling at the spectacle....after all, Degrassi isn't exactly the ideal 'set and setting' to dose up. Heck, in high school, a hundred lot went around one morning. By lunch, there were many zapped out students, and several unsuspecting, yet totally whacked out teachers roaming the halls and feeling the love...but that's another story. Anyway, Shane's artful reinterpretation of Iron Maiden's Flight of Icarus was, of course possible in real life, but in no way acted as a deterrent. Typically, acidheads hung out in basements for the weekend listening to Black Sabbath and studying the lines on the back of their hands. To us, that was the realism of acid culture. Scare tactics, if anything, served to make drugs that much more enticing.

As for the booze, it was of course standard fare at any sleepover or party. I don't know how many times I had to hold my best friend Lisa's hair as she yacked Dr. McGillicuddy's in the soccer field after importing the vile peach contraband in hairspray bottles to every school dance. Certainly, Degrassi tried to play it all down, but we viewed it as more of an amusing reflection of our quest to be cool. Unfortunately, the way our society works, that 'cool' image is far more important to the average teenager than the consequences of their actions. Nevertheless, Degrassi at least put it out there in a not so 'parents raggin' on you again about shit' kind of way.

Now, as a parent, things are a bit different. They are still too young to divulge the more hardcore details of my elementary/secondary school experiences. Nevertheless, they are old enough to be introduced to ideas and choices that they will inevitably make, with or without my knowledge. So far, they think Rick is uncool because he smokes, Lucy is uncool because she steals, and Kathleen is uncool because, well, she's uncool. Of course, anyone with booze or drugs gets a failing grade from my guys as well.

My kids go to a very tiny rural Catholic school with a student body of 40. (Personally, I'm not huge on the religion part, but the very small class sizes work out well). These kids are, it seems to me, quite sheltered from what they will face when they hit the city high schools. So, I took them on a trip to Degrassi largely to show them the kinds of things they might expect to find when they get there. At the same time, it has opened the doors to lots of important questions like "How do I get AIDS?," "Is being gay a bad thing?," "When is ok to tell a lie?," "When is ok to tell a secret," and my personal favorite, "Arthur has wet dreams- What are those?" From these I gather that Degrassi is, in some way, a useful learning tool.

Call 9/11-Oliver Stone's at it again....World Trade Centre: The Remix

2006-08-17T00:45:00.000-04:00

Ok...so I just sat through Oliver Stone's new spectacle, World Trade Centre. Honestly, I was ambivalent at first. Is it, in fact, too soon to be cutting profits from tragedy? I suppose this isn't the first crack at doing so since those planes hit the towers, but wow...sensationalizing the horror in the guise of a story of digestible heroics...I dunno. All that time ripping Tarantino's NBK script to shreds in order to styllistically critique violence in the media in the classic Stone age way...doesn't this new film fall under what Oliver tried to deconstruct in NBK??

From the beginning, I set out to try and count up all the American flags throughout the movie...watch Armageddon again, and you'll get my drift. I counted only 5 and then well, forgot about it. I got stuck in bad dialogue with a few provocative slogans... one sticks out...something like, "It's going to take a lot of good men to avenge this." Of course, it was a marine named Karnes who said it. Considering the movie was intended to be an homage to the men and women on the Port Authority who died by telling the story of 2 of the mere 20 pulled from the rubble alive, the marine's little sidebar, while weighty, is largely out of place. The movie is about 'rescue,' not 'retaliation.'

At least there was an attempt at humour...well, I take it as such. Jesus, armed with a water bottle, makes a brief appearance in the ubiquitous 'Don't look into the white light' scene. The target audience: the fervently conservative Christian should be pleased. The marine, and Jesus, do a good job of playing 'saviour.' The heroism, manly endurance, and divine intervention turn the film into a typical American Dream rather than a realistic nightmare.

I was however, surprised that there was no actual 'footage' of either plane hitting either tower. Merely a brief glimpse of a shadow on a building with a 'Zoolander' billboard. I half expected a big budget director (63 million) would attempt to recreate the explosiveness in the Bruckheimer-like aesthetic. Instead, he recreates the horror in a way that we the audience might try to imagine it as if we were buried underneath the carnage rather than glued to our tv sets. The only truly disturbing shot was of a person falling from the first tower. Shudder. We all remember watching that. I don't think I needed a replay.

There is also heavy emphasis on the families and their ordeals. I could not imagine the feeling, and yet, this film still leaves me wondering. SAG members, after all, do get paid to look frantic. I guess it's important to view it as Stone wants us to...as a re-creation. But the medium, a movie, a form of recreation (synonym: leisure) just doesn't sit well.

Save your 10 bucks and wait for the dvd. Or read the synopsis on line.

Beer tastes better at 20 bucks a pint

2006-08-15T01:42:00.001-04:00

Just back from a whirlwind, beer-stained trip to the east coast. All of my best buddies who are teaching ESL in Korea flew into PEI for a big wedding...yet roadtripping is more my bag, and a good thing in light of the recent no liquid carry-on brew ha ha. Since I was hauling a 200 pound keg of Keith's in the back of my Subaru, Air Canadamn was not an option. Plus I thought I'd save a few bones.

Well..I was sadly mistaken.

I left Ktown around 6 a.m. last Friday, armed with 2 extra large double doubles, a bagel, and my carefully scrutinized google map itinerary. Making excellent time, even through Montreal rush hour traffic on the heavily piloned A-40, I made it to the outskirts of Quebec City at the average speed of oh...mach 3 around 11. On the west side, I found myself in a speed trap and was pulled over by a smokey who clocked me at 129, gave me a fine of 125 and 2 points off my license.

As I think back to that long 15 minutes of waiting for him to come back from his cruiser with the ticket, I remember how utterly scared I was. I knew I was caught, but I also knew I wasn't going to the clink or anything. Cops just flip me out. I had the same fear when a gargantuan peace officer saddled up next to me as I was inspecting a camembert in the supermarket deli a few months ago. He fondled a feta, and all I wanted to do was cheese it.

Generally, I'm a law abiding citizen...I speed I guess, but I'm not exactly knocking over 7-11's or sailing on speedballs. So why do they scare me?? Is my id in fact telling me that next time I encounter a cop I should just start raving madly and beg to be incarcerated? What does this all mean in the Freudian sense? Am I harbouring guilt about that bag of Doritos I stole from Shopper's when I was 10? (It tasted really good) Am I suffering from paranoia due to the pot I smoked in high school? (It felt really good) Would some shrink tell me I have underlying masochistic tendencies and need to be handcuffed and beaten into quivering submission with a mag-light and phone book in order to overcome this cop anxiety? (Neither pain, fear, domination, nor imprisonment sound good...I am unsure if this is fortunate or unfortunate)

Anyway, after receiving my "Bienvenue à la ville de Québec ma petite biatch ontarienne" from this dimunitive, but still heavily armed cop, I proceeded to a gas station to fill up on petro and coffee. While in the can, I got a call from my buddy, Jer, whose house in northern New Brunswick I was heading to. After I said "Hello," he said he figured I'd be near Quebec City right then and told me to slow down as the fuzz are notorious for handing out speeding tickets, particularly to us anglophone Ontarians. Too late of course, but the irony is amusing in retrospect.

Trying to screech out of the French province at the dejecting speed of 110, I was watchful. I was wary. Damn cop broke me like a shetland pony. And yet, I was still anxious.

Anxious to get somewhere.

I crossed into N.B. and hopped on some secondary logging roads northeast of Edmunston bound for Bathurst. The adjacent switchbacks were in better condition than the actual asphalt and storm conditions were intense in this dark, lonely province. I made it to my destination in 12 hours flat, played catchup with Jer and his folks, and crashed hard.

Next morning, we were up and ready to roll to PEI. Five minutes out, we stopped at a bank to grab some cash. Leaving the parking lot, I gunned it a bit turning left onto the highway only to hear the buckshot sound of a keg crashing through the back window of my beloved Japanese AWD import. Safety glass riddled the road and my sanity as we tried frantically to find an auto glass place open after 12 p.m. on a Saturday. No go.

God (or the equivalent) bless Canadian Tire. Box cutter, duct tape, and weatherproof plastic did the trick for the 5 hour drive. Nevertheless, every turn, every bump, played the weird, spine searing tune of 'crunch tinkle tinkle' the whole way.

Upon reaching our swanky Lakeside cabin (owned by Eli MacEarchan, the Canadian Olympic Gold Medal Winner for bobsledding in Nagano) we tapped that bitch of a keg in the bathtub immediately. As the pump gently weeped the sweet serum into my plastic cup, I knew it was all worth it.

Worth an additional 680 bucks that is. My window had to be ordered out of Truro, Nova Scotia and shipped over to the auto glass place in Charlottetown. But, it's only money. Too bad it was a lot of it. The wedding was on Thursday, but I managed to force myself awake early Friday (noonish) to get it done. Spent the time with my friends Bonnie and Dave in their new house with their new baby, Oscar. Time well spent indeed.

The week fared well...our cottage was the party central for about 150 people who were attending the week long festivities. The keg spat the last of its pagan spume Wednesday night. Thursday (wedding day), there were four more kegs of a lesser brand to go through. I gained 3 pounds in meat and barley. I am very conscious of where my kidneys are inside my body. I am spending the morrow getting in touch with my liver....that is if I can avoid drinking the 24 bottles of beer left behind when everyone left. I took them. I deserve them. That keg cost me a solid grand dammit! Sadly, at this point, I have no idea what to do with these road rockets. Perhaps drink a few in the tub reading Marquis de Sade and then take a couple more for a drive past the local police station. Fulfill my destiny or my crude innermost desires?

I think not.