Fighting the Power.

A panel discussion pertaining to university research ethics – specifically related to military funding – rekindled the academic spirit within me today. For someone generally quite averse to conflict, I definitely had my moments of wanting to throw down the gauntlet and join the fray of debate. Or else have my head explode.

Organized by a group calling itself Counter-Stryker, the event featured academics from Huron University College,The University of Western Ontario, York University and the University of Toronto. Regardless of where your personal politics lay, such discussions and debates are central to the whole nature of academia.

The main source of protest is focused on an engineering professor’s work toward developing lighter and stronger metals in partnership with General Dynamics Land Systems-Canada. Metals that may eventually be used on military vehicles, notably the Stryker Light Armoured Vehicle. Three of the panelists were staunchly against the research on the principle that it advances the war effort in Iraq; the fourth, Western’s Vice-President (Research & International Relations), obviously strongly supported the work on grounds of academic freedom. GDLS-C declined to participate which, given the attacks that would follow, was likely a wise decision.

I was already firmly entrenched (sure, let’s continue to use military-type words) in my personal stance on the issue, but I found I was nonetheless disappointed the ‘con’ speakers – despite the obviously imbalanced panel – couldn’t muster compelling-enough arguments to make me even think about individual aspects differently. I wanted to have my beliefs challenged. Instead, one speaker was abundantly arrogant, rude, offensive and generally disappointing for such a noted scholar. Academic snobbery. And intolerance. Sitting there with his hands over his ears while others spoke and calling the Vice-President “a liar”. Repeatedly. While fine, the other two came across as milquetoasts with insubstantially convincing arguments. I expected more.

Too often, the discussion was reduced to “the war in Iraq is bad and these machines are used in the war; therefore, the research should not be conducted.” A bit simple an argument for my tastes. Of course, much of the same was uttered on campuses during the Vietnam War. Yes, I get it – war is ugly and should be avoided. After thousands of years, however, we still haven’t managed to figure that out. In the meantime, let’s keep our soldiers safe.

One of the speakers said “modern war wouldn’t be possible without university campuses,” which is no doubt true. Should we instead still be digging trenches that scar the landscape the way mustard gas singed soldiers’ lungs? Or impaling opponents’ heads on pikes? History is written by the victors. Some research at the university may have military implications and, frankly, I would rather our soldiers have the best opportunity for coming out ahead. Or of coming home. Then we can put these metals to more quotidian use.

Another key beef related to an apparent lack of transparency, both before the agreement was signed, and after. The research has been widely publicized – in fact, Counter-Stryker organizers had, without my permission, been so ‘kind’ as to use one of my photographs from the original announcement in their literature. Er, propaganda. Someone questioned why we hadn’t been able to have a similar type discussion prior to signing the contract with GDLS-C, which sounds logical enough until you consider this university alone has more than 4,000 active research projects. Already, its researchers are loathe to accept further delays to ethics approval. Never mind the practicality of deciding who sits on the panels and makes decisions for each project deemed controversial. Who becomes the gatekeeper to decide which projects undergo extra scrutiny? We all have our buttons. And this would grind the whole research enterprise to a standstill. People were calling to see what is in the contracts as though Intellectual Property (let alone privacy) isn't important. It's naive to think we don't have to protect IP; to think someone with fewer scruples wouldn't take the next great idea if it were exposed to the world. It has happened, time and time again; there has to be some balance.

There is a slippery slope, though. It can present problems when researchers are in bed with corporations – checks and balances must be maintained to limit how much industry drives the research agenda. At the same time, where is research funding going to come from? Universities are increasingly being pushed into commercial partnerships by the ever-increasing costs of research infrastructure and by governments who demand industry collaboration. As is, at $9.4 million, contract research is still a relatively small piece of the $221 million research pie at Western. Four per cent.

But the need for money is still there and only industry has the cash – it may not be ideal, but it’s a reality. A notable example: a researcher at Western will likely know within three years if he has a successful vaccine for HIV/AIDS, but could not have undergone necessary clinical trials without financial backing from a company (in this case, a foreign one, no less). The university couldn’t foot the bill. Nor could the government. Is he supposed to drop 20 years of work toward eradicating the pandemic that has plagued our generation just because he has to partner with a company? Personally, I don’t think so.

Our lives are filled with discoveries that have been made as a result of the military complex. Microwaves, Teflon, the Internet. Sure, I’d rather we develop things outside of such arenas, though it’s more common discoveries are made when you’re looking for something else. To muddy the Counter-Stryker argument further, there’s also a GDLS-C-funded researcher who is developing artificial joints for knees and ankles. It’s still military-based funding, but is it wrong?

As one questioner put it at the panel, we are trying to treat the symptom (military equipment), not the illness (war). I’m not in agreement with the war in Iraq either, but the decision to participate in this war is one made by our elected officials (or a decision they were bullied into, but that’s a different story). Make a difference: vote, write to your members of parliament, join an NGO, express your displeasure. In the meantime, it befits us to support those who are putting their lives on the line for our country.

Should we be careful? Yes. Should we ensure there are checks and balances are in place, even while respecting academic freedom? Most certainly. And more importantly, we should continue to engage in discussion and to effectuate change to improve our world.

'Health Food' Gone Amok.

Perhaps taking a little alliteration a tad too far, Krispy Kreme has introduced a whole wheat donut? Krispy Kreme whole wheat. Holey blasphemy. What's wrong with this picture? Have they gone do-nuts? Hard to imagine this little nugget having flown under your radar when it was launched on Monday. Sorry story here. What, don't you have dreams of whole wheat donuts dancing in your head? I know I'm causing sparks by salivating all over my keyboard. Or not.

While I'm certainly not one to discriminate against a fine grain like wheat, if I happen to have a hankering (yes, I'm continuing with the alliterative theme) for some deep-fried, doughy goodness, I think I'm going to want to go all out. Health consciousness be darned like a sock. The sheaves of wheat look pretty and all, but for a savings of just a whopping 20 calories over the regular glazed donut? As they say in Germany, nein, danke.

You know, when you make a product that doesn't really go stale, I'm already thinking it's not going to be the healthiest choice. I've also long been skeptical of fast food's 'healthy' options, particularly after finding out salads have actually long been among the worst options, but if I'm ordering a donut, I tend to be doing so with the understanding I might just need to take the stairs an extra couple of times. Or else end up with a donut around my midsection.

Hello. My Name is Spam.

It seems taking a bit more than a week off from posting has led Blogger's cyber police (ooh, bugs crawling through the system and ghosts in the machine!) to arrive at the belief Celluloid in Cinders, Sold Slowly is nothing more than a spam blog. Well, I guess they just may have a point there -- by Blogger's definition, spam blogs "...can be recognized by their irrelevant, repetitive, or nonsensical text..."

Because of this false positive (making me feel like Floyd Landis, only innocent), I have been handcuffed from posting until a fully breathing (well, at least somewhat breathing) Blogger cop can verify that, for whatever it's worth, this is indeed a legit attempt at contributing to the swirl of online publishing. Up to two days in the lock-up. I'm just glad my non-blogging reverie didn't continue longer as they threatened to delete my toasty little niche after only two weeks. And after my most serious post yet, too. Conspiracy, I tell ya.

Granted, there is about as much substance here as in the Hormel product -- yessir, all filler, all the time -- but I particularly appreciated the validation that "since you're an actual person reading this, your blog is probably not a spam blog". And I had been wondering what to write tonight. Eureka! Thank you, Blogger. Inspiration. No really, thank you. Henceforth, this intrepid blogger'll strive to make his ramblings more relevant.

[edit: it ended up only taking the Blogger gods a little more than a day to sweep up the bugs and unlock the door to posting]

The Bus.

While I'm often reluctant to share with others much of the creative writing that flows from my fingers on a nearly daily basis, I have on occasion previously included some here. Writing can be an intensely personal process. And its fruit even more so. Yet it is such an integral part of my life, remaining so often shackled in this little box clad in keys.

Maybe sometimes it helps to establish some distance from words you have tried to twist your mind and heart around. In transferring files from my old computer, I rediscovered this short story, penned ten years ago. A lifetime ago.

I had been riding the bus a lot, watching people and wondering what was going through their minds as we traced maps we knew by rote. The smells, sights and sounds were unique, yet always familiar. Watching a microcosm of the world, bus imagery translated itself into a metaphor for life to me -- the adventure of getting on and off this mortal coil and realizing that sometimes you don't have the exact change. But we hold on for the ride.

the bus
Sitting in the bus, my bare legs glue themselves to the blue vinyl bench seat and my feet stick equally to a concoction of bubblegum and spilt soda pop. Office supply manufacturers should market a comparable product: it looks like I am stuck here. Held in place, at least I shouldn't need a seat belt if the bus is to crash.

Outside the window is dark; all I can see are the white, dust like specks that pass by with a rhythmic and hypnotizing regularity. These panes of two-inch glass distance me from the pain of the real world. Hectic. Corrupt. False. Removed. Artificial light within the bus colours everything the hue of parchment. The air is thick. Stagnant. Humid. A man breathes heavily, sweat causing his shirt to cling to his flesh with the force of the air which grasps onto my nostrils. No matter how much I attempt to expel it, there is a never ending supply eager to replace it. His shirt is yellowed, and not just from the light. He coughs. Stale stench is replaced by fresh odours, still growing in their infancy. Maybe they are not so fresh after all. He laughs heartily at the attention suddenly paid to him, exposing two rows of jagged, incomplete, ochre coloured teeth. They match his fingernails.

This laugh has been the only human noise of the entire voyage. The mechanical workings of the bus grind heavily upon my nerves as we jerk to a stop, leaving my pen to rip the page upon which I have been writing. People's tongues lie lifeless, unable to move. They were checked at the door. Silent. Distant. Removed. Their mouths, humid coffins, housing words, unformed. Aborted thoughts. Their eyes are transfixed upon the passing lights: funerary candles whose wicks are soon to expire into wispy grey plumes, easily carried away by the wind.

A woman, dressed as though her luxury car must be in the shop for the day, sits beside the man, unnerved. Upright at the edge of her hard plastic and mass produced seat, she sits – back still arched – looks skyward and rolls her eyes as the man readjusts his dusty jeans. A fly's paradise. His second skin. She straightens her dainty white gloves – creaseless – that fit tightly over her small inelegant pterodactyl hands. Bony. A cubic zirconia-encrusted wristwatch falls from its prestigious perch over the glove. She wears a lie. She lives a lie. A light foundation covers the bruise on her left cheek where her husband beat her. And has beaten her for the better part of forty years. And she still believes she is the winner. The skins people wear.

You sit there, knees perched upon the seat in front of you, a book nestled between them. The knowledge you have between your legs. The power. A man in a dark trench coat and a large hat that allows only a strand of his scraggly, greasy black hair and his beady, opaque eyes to jut out – like headlamps of darkness that pierce the light – peers over your shoulder inconspicuously. He hopes to steal your knowledge. I jot down a warning to you. The book slams shut as you cross your legs. Disappointed, he falls back down into his seat. Crushed. He will never know how the story ends. For him, the story never began.

The persistent drone of the bus's motor is hypnotic in its effect, and lulls some to sleep – the pocket watch of time stood still. It is the urban fairytale, the counting of sheep. Sheep herded off to the slaughter. Like someone who never shuts up, I tend to tune it out after a while. A retired man, his face glazed onto the window, looks like he is at the funhouse mirrors at a circus. Twisted. Contorted. He drools from the corner of his mouth, the result of which creeps down the smooth glass like a snail. A second emission threatens to race it. It races at the pace of his mind, slowed and stale, like the heavy smoke which stands guard over him, keeping people away. His hands are gnarled and yellowed from years of cigarette burns. His breath clouds the cool glass. Clouds from his lungs which are, for once, fresh. The white specks rushing past the window pass by even more quickly for him.

Toward the front, a teenaged couple believing themselves to be in love – her head on his shoulder – is so caught up in the moment of their being together that they are oblivious to all else that takes place around them. Nothing, yet everything. Apathy. His hair is cropped close to the skull, but is covered by a tattered and dusty baseball cap, worn backward. It has been carefully and intentionally dirtied, as is the fashion. Each of his earlobes is adorned – bejewelled by silver rings. A tuft of hair – brush bristles, sparsely scattered – sprouts from his chin. It is as patchy as his complexion. Unkempt, his clothes hang loosely, drooping over the edge of the seat. She slouches as far as does he, but her hair – unwashed – hangs longer and in multiple hues. The bus still makes the colours seem to be simply various shades of yellow. Her rings have lost their way: they cling to her nose – clasping their hands together in prayer, hoping for a reprieve from a sneeze. Their eyes are glazed over from the previous night's partying. They do not need sleep; life is young and the day is there to be seized. Nothing will ever catch up to them. They are immortal. This ride will never end; there is an endless supply of transfers to be had.

Seated in the middle are working parents who sit perched, ready to leap off this shuttle which carries them from one life to another. Lives that blend together but remain separate. Long hours that melt into days in what seems to be minutes. Seconds. The experience of the moment means nothing to them; there is dinner to make, a babysitter to relieve and, if there is time, sleep to be had. There is an eternity for that. His tie – conservative – lies askew, the top button of his shirt peeled open to expose the jugular. Between two lives he leaves himself vulnerable, yet his eyes dart around as though he is able to will the bus to travel faster. A modern Moses parting the sea of traffic in which we threaten to drown. Her eyes, blackened, though lacking make-up, hang droopily like wilted flowers. The flowers of her youth. Even her perfume – lilies of the valley – has faded like years of her life. Her figure. Her passion. There is little of her essence remaining. The woman's eyes are stern and seem to threaten all of the other passengers not to pull the cord that will ring the bell of freedom and stop the bus. It would delay the time of her arrival. What will snap first, the cord or her nerves?

At the very back, an elderly couple with many rides' experience sits, peering from beneath their layers of clothes. Dated, the fraying threads need mending like his heart, which is still warm, but pumps less of life's juices through his hunched frame. Now, his mind feeds life to his core. Will. Stubbornness. Love of life. The clothes are a life's long accumulations. It is as though they want all of their possessions with them when they take their last ride. Though their senses have slowed in direct correlation with their movements – movements cursed as being painful by the working parents, and cursed as being full of pain by the elders themselves – they are still the most aware of all passengers. They take in all of the surroundings: every action, every glance – realizing that they have precious few trips left to take. He jots down his observations in a small, tattered, and yellowed book. She reads, though it appears to be the eyes of those who surround her that are the novel of choice. The pages in her lap, wrinkled like her hands, serve as a guise, hiding her true motive. A decoy. A ruse. She whispers into his ear with a loving look that is more matured and more refined than the one she gave when she whispered and giggled to him during the years that they courted: years they sat at the front of the bus. Many years – many experiences – have taken place since. The rapidity of time's passing has left them slowed, but their minds are as sharp as the burning eyes which feed them. Food for thought. They fill their time observing anonymous people – people they may never see again – but who are not really all that distant to them. Through the years, they have met many like those found here. Everybody is someone else's twin. They have been the teens; they have been the parents crying for sleep. Their stop is coming soon. They will have their time for rest.

The bus slows, but nobody gets off. Another chapter is being written. The street light shines a white beam over two children jumping innocently in the puddles by the curb, careful not to drop the shiny fragments of metal that will guide them through, and gain them admittance to, life. Wet halfway up their legs, they have not paid heed to their mothers' pleas to stay away from the miniature oceans of their imaginations. Pools of life from the fountain of youth. Smiles still grace their faces. Innocence. Careful not to drop the coins clutched in their sticky little hands, they have awaited the bus's arrival with eager anticipation and with a look of glee in their eyes. Their voyage – an adventure – has just begun. The yellow glow no longer seems withered and dated as their childish exuberance, impish grins, and shy giggles fill the stagnant air of the bus. To be able to breathe life again in these aged lungs. A ray of sunshine – a more joyful yellow – enters my heart as the deafening silence is broken by youthful vigour and vitality.

They have a long trip to take, and many more to follow. I close my notepad and you place the wrinkled page marker into your book – the last page – and, taking your hand, I guide you slowly to the door. The bell has tolled for us, and, before reaching the final step, I pause, turn, and smile. The children giggle at the weathered and unironed faces heading through the bus's gates and the parents sigh, rolling their eyes at another frozen moment in their lives. He readjusts his tie. I give one final wave to those who have shared nothing, yet who have shared so much.

Empire State Building Shooting, 10 Years Later.

It has almost become a cliché to ponder the rapidity of the passage of time, like Polaroids through a shredder. Nothing reminds me of that more than watching children grow. And nothing makes me want more to be able to rewind the dials on my watch and lose myself, peering into a non-existent film of life – of times past, of memories remembered and forgotten. Today’s post is a reflection of the past and includes passages from my old-school blog – paper, y’all.

Today marks a decade since I unwittingly became involved in history. Ten years ago, I witnessed – in all-to-close proximity – a disgruntled Palestinian man by the name of Ali Hassan Abu Kamal open fire into a crowd of tourists atop the Empire State Building in New York City. Yes, his name is indelibly etched upon my mind. Looking to kill Americans, he happened to stop beside me before drawing a semi-automatic pistol from his trench coat, shooting seven and killing two, including himself. I’ve always questioned the logic of choosing a major tourist site if Americans were his target. Of seven people shot, I believe one ended up being from the United States. Nervous giggles aside, though, my joke became that it was a good thing he wasn’t left-handed or he might have just turned the other way when he began firing. And with how close I was, I likely wouldn’t be typing this.

"...I heard what I thought was a balloon pop to my right. I jumped. I heard two more pops and turned to my right and saw the back of a man shooting another. I remember the short black hair on the man's neck. He was two-three feet away. I could have grabbed him. He wore an olive green or brown suit or trench coat I think and carried a silver semi-automatic pistol."

I had only been up on the deck of the Empire State Building a few moments – enough time to briefly look out over the skyline and to have one picture taken. And I remember feeling oddly nauseous before hearing what sounded like a balloon popping. Then another. Annoyed at what I believed to be a child playing with balloons, I spun, confronted with the back of a man’s head and stared down his arm to a gun, firing into the corner of the deck. There stood a man, doubled over and bloodied. Chris Burmeister, a young Danish musician, would fall victim to Kamal’s bullet in that corner on that otherwise clear afternoon. I carry a phobia of balloons with me to this day.

"He fired and L grabbed me, pulling me away and to the ground. I was on top of somebody and got up, going down again. I looked back – I was the last person left this far back on this side – and I saw a man lying in a pool of blood, as well as two legs."

I stood in shock, unable to understand the magnitude of what was happening. I had never witnessed a shooting before. And each instant slowed right down, my feet mired in the sands of time. Situated next to an observation tower with mounted binoculars (scene, at right) I stood, stunned, before my then-partner pulled me to the ground. Only problem is, I landed on someone and didn’t want to hurt them, so I got back up. When I finally went down again, everyone had already taken off up the deck, leaving me alone near the fence and across from a man by the garbage can near the corner of the building who had thrown himself over his daughter. Between us was a pool of blood curling from a man’s head. At the time, I didn’t know it was the shooter. In the commotion, I hadn’t realized Kamal had put a bullet through his own brain and that it was he who lay by my feet. It was only at breakfast the next day – upon reading the paper and seeing pictures of the scene – that I realized he had stayed put and hadn’t moved around the deck. And once again, I began to feel incredibly nauseous.

"On the gunman was found: two keys, extra shells, a knife, some identification and a four-page letter telling of his hatred for the United States. He had been asking people if they were American. Two Swiss students said 'no' and weren't shot. Ironically, none of the victims ended up being American (sic). One died at the scene; the gunman died hours later and others are still in the hospital. He has been in the U.S.A. since Christmas day and has already acquired a firearm (from Florida). A month and a half. America: 'Home of the brave, land of the free'. 'And the right to bear arms'. "

Just this month, Kamal’s family reportedly admitted the shooting was politically motivated and not simply the result of his having felt he was swindled of land. But really, folks, Kamal (at right) had been in the US for a month and had already LEGALLY acquired a firearm. Never mind questions about a dearth of security or metal detectors at the Empire State Building, this was still prior to 9/11 and we’ve seen that desperate people will take desperate actions. To legally acquire a gun when you’ve been in the country for a month? In my eyes, there’s something wrong there.

Not since King Kong’s looming presence – or at least since a plane, lost in the fog, accidentally flew into the building in 1945 – has there been such madness atop the Empire State Building as people took the opportunity to loot the gift shop and trample others attempting to flee.

I remember a man with large hoop earrings coming back down the deck toward me, yelling, “Where is he? I’ll kill the bastard.” He was, apparently, a former cop who ended up kicking the gun away from Kamal and going through his coat. I didn’t stick around to watch. Almost immediately, the entire building was on lockdown and everyone was herded into a large room leading to the stairs from the 86th floor. Not yet knowing what had happened to the shooter – or if there was more than one – this was rather unsettling. We just sat by the windows as to not hyperventilate and were eventually ushered down the stairs as a fellow tourist videotaped everyone and others laughed at us. Again, unsettling. And creepy.

Time had slowed so much in my mind that I believed all of the events had transpired over thirty seconds, maybe. It wasn't until I saw video recorded by a tourist in the gift shop which captured the sound of the shots that I realized it was in fact all over in a matter of seconds. Such a fine timeline between life and death. Seeing how quickly it ended helped alleviate any guilt I had felt about not acting with the shooter so close. I couldn’t have. Though he was within reach, the timing in my brain was too far removed. To this day, I still wish I could watch the security video to rectify everything in my mind and see things in real time. Perverse, perhaps, but I also feel it would help me better understand.

As witnesses, we were brought to the front of the crowd to take an elevator out of the building, along with a police officer and another witness’s family. The lower level of the Empire State Building was empty and we were greeted only by a wall of televisions, all set to news coverage of us coming out of the building. Incredibly surreal. We were taken to the midtown south district precinct of the NYPD, where more than 100 witness interviews were conducted. Seven of us were held back (without food for eight hours after the shooting, I might add) for further questioning by the District Attorney. During the wait, officers came in carrying paper bags, dampened with blood, and dumped them unceremoniously on the desk. Kamal’s clothes.

We were, naturally, a little jumpy the next morning. When a mover dropped a trolley off the back of his truck, I ducked for cover a little more quickly than I had the day previous. My hunger that morning was for more than breakfast – I wanted news. The reality of what had transpired was driven home when I saw my name in print in newspaper accounts of the shooting. It was one of the most unreal moments of my life. It had been an eventful first day in New York City.

I have no regrets. I don’t think about the shooting much at this point, but I marveled this past week at the fact ten years have already passed. Ten years. Albeit a frightening one, it was just another life experience – and I generally crave experience. Now, just without guns and balloons.

Toronto, Distilled.

Keys to the rental car in hand, SCS and I fled to Toronto this past weekend to escape the deluge of work cascading over our desks and for a chance to visit friends. Oh, and to smell some fresh human. I’m pretty sure I heard the sheaves of paper whispering maniacal threats as we cast them aside for another day and darkened our computers. Threats they would multiply in our absence. And there they were, glowering like embers in the darkness, when we returned on Monday.

Roomy, but gutless, odd looking and unable to maintain its footing in the snow (sounds like me, though the swelling in my ankle has finally begun to abate, thanks so much), the black Dodge Magnum was at least comped due to poor service received from Enterprise. Again.

Being a fan of old buildings and interesting architecture, I had long wanted to head down to the Distillery District, which has been designated a national historic site and boasts some of North America’s finest examples of Victorian industrial architecture. It seems the former Gooderham and Worts Complex evolved over 170 years from a single, wind powered grist into the largest distillery in the British Empire. Restored in 2003, it is now home to art galleries, trendy restaurants and other stores, and is also an oft-used locale for movie sets, including Chicago, Cinderella Man and X-Men.

As snow danced between buildings and the cold carved its way into my sinews, I was reminded of how this would be a much more vibrant setting come summer when the patios are jammed. And, you know, it’s not sub-zero. But, a Balzac’s coffee (mmm, chocolate-dipped cookie stir stick) and a pastry later and I was back on the cobblestone streets.

As always, some signs and things from the voyage:

“Distillery District Daycare”? I’m imagining those are some of the best behaved children around. Sure, I’ve heard of rubbing some whisky on a teething toddler’s gums, but raising children in the distillery seems to be a whole new game. Graduate straight into AA. Finally, school t-shirts are highly sought after on the playground. School mascot’s likely a bottle, tipped like Pisa.


Outside Balzac’s in the Distillery District, I found this curious little sign over a basketful of brightly coloured biscuits. Literally translated, it reads “Nice dog” or "Kind dog"(oddly, not pluralized). Bad dogs be warned: No cookie for you. What if he was just dogged by a bad reputation? Can she get away with being a bitch? Or would they both be pooched? If so, it’d be a ruff life. Okay, I’ll stop now. Really.


Simply the best knife block. Ever.


And we saw this billboard in a couple of locations. So much for the British having a dry sense of humour. Yike.

Playing With Words. And Hearts.

Ah, happy Valentine's day to those of you up to your eyeballs in powdered sugar and rose petals. May Cupid's arrow be soft and plushy. And your hearts, a-pitter-patter. You know, if that's how you roll (frankly, weapon-toting cherubs aren't my scene).

While I'm generally loathe to forward chain emails, I'll occasionally make an exception if only to revel in debunking seemingly realistic messages as hoaxes (and boy, are there many of those out there). Or, if they're particularly witty, they may merit more than a passing nod, forcing me to suck the drool back up from the corner of my gaping mouth. Perhaps, if they're droll, I won't drool? Granted, with yesterday's post in tow, it may begin to seem like I'm leaning a little too heavily on my inbox for post fodder. But I guess that's what happens when I'm not traveling. I can't regale you with tails of food in a bag. Mmm, food in a bag. Or jerky? Sorry.

Today's email is both clever and apparently, a hoax. Replicated web-wide because the premise is believable and the content, ingenious (though some of the so-called winners don't actually prescribe to the rule of only modifying one letter within the word and I also really cannot fathom a newspaper of that repute using some of these so-called 'winners'). I share for sheer enjoyment only.

The Washington Post's Mensa Invitational once again asked readers to take any word from the dictionary, alter it by adding, subtracting, or changing one letter, and supply a new definition. Here are this year's winners:

1. Intaxication: Euphoria at getting a tax refund, which lasts until you realize it was your money to start with.

2. Reintarnation: Coming back to life as a hillbilly.

3. Bozone (n.): The substance surrounding stupid people that stop bright ideas from penetrating. The bozone layer, unfortunately, shows little sign of breaking down in the near future.

4. Foreploy: Any misrepresentation about yourself for the purpose of getting laid.

5. Cashtration (n.): The act of buying a house, which renders the subject financially impotent for an indefinite period.

6. Giraffiti: Vandalism spray-painted very, very high.

7. Sarchasm: The gulf between the author of sarcastic wit and the person who doesn't get it.

8. Inoculatte: To take coffee intravenously when you are running late.

9. Hipatitis: Terminal coolness.

10. Osteopornosis: A degenerate disease. (This one got extra credit.)

11. Karmageddon: It's like, when everybody is sending off all these really bad vibes, right? And then, like, the Earth explodes and it's like, a serious bummer.

12. Decafalon (n.): The grueling event of getting through the day consuming only things that are good for you.

13. Glibido: All talk and no action.

14. Dopeler effect: The tendency of stupid ideas to seem smarter when they come at you rapidly.

15. Arachnoleptic fit (n.): The frantic dance performed just after you've accidentally walked through a spider web.

16. Beelzebug (n.): Satan in the form of a mosquito, that gets into your bedroom at three in the morning and cannot be cast out.

17. Caterpallor (n.): The color you turn after finding half a worm in the fruit you're eating.

18. Ignoranus: A person who's both stupid and an asshole.

My favourite, by far, was Sarchasm. Hoax be darned like a sock, I still found them entertaining. And I hope you do, too. For more such plays on words, visit unwords.com. And appropriately enough, my word submission for today is "Clogger", defined as someone whose blog is a blatant waste of bandwidth. And on that, I close.

Spam. Which is, Strangely, Not Spam.

Though I tend to stalk my inbox mercilessly throughout the night (some might say like an undernourished hyena), it's certainly not atypical for me to arrive at work in the morning facing a deluge of email. As with most information and communications with which we are bombarded throughout our daily existence, some of it is useful, much of it is not and the rest tends to conjure indifference, annoyance or amusement. I prefer the latter.

Every once in a while, the little envelope icon on my screen contains a nugget. Today provided one such instance. First, I pondered whether or not it was spam -- hm, no promises of enhancement, weight loss or lottery winnings. Darn, could have killed three birds with one stone. And in time for Valentine's day, too. Second, I questioned if it was a joke or not. Nope, the company's legit and I didn't hear any snickers down the hall (for a change).

The University of Western Ontario considers itself -- quite justifiably, I believe -- to be one of Canada's top research-intensive universities. It's known around the world for pioneering work in a number of disciplines. And then, in comes the following request for research collaboration. Yes, I've removed all identifying information to protect the innocent. And anyone else.

On behalf of our client, X, I am contacting you today to determine who the best department or person to contact in order to conduct a study to explore the social implications of different hair colours, lengths and styles. Do blondes really have more fun? Do men prefer women with long hair? If women wear their hair up, are they treated differently than women who wear their hair down?

We would like to work with your institution and the appropriate department to implement this study as part of the spring or summer curriculum. If The University of Western Ontario is interested in conducting this study, we would work closely with the appropriate person to determine the format, length and timing. X will compensate the department for the study.

Following the study, we would like to make a joint announce with the University regarding the results of this study via a comprehensive consumer awareness campaign, which we would like the University's participation in as well. The University's role would be to comment on the study, the results and social implications. X would be identified as the company that commissioned this study.

X is a leading manufacturer of premium beauty care products that are recognized around the world for their innovation and quality. You are likely unfamiliar with the name X, but you are possibly familiar with some of the well-known, loved and trusted products that the company distributes. These products include...(removed)

We would like the opportunity to discuss this opportunity with you in further detail at your earliest convenience. We will contact you next week. In the meantime, if you have any questions or would be able to direct us to the appropriate person/department, please contact me.

Um, okay? Not sure if this would even fit ethics standards, let alone a researcher's. PR for research, okay -- research for PR? Not so sure. I remember a couple of years ago when I received a similar type letter seeking to verify if drinking orange juice in the morning affected your day, but a study of blondes having more fun? Sign me up. And toss in a glass of OJ.

No Leg to Stand On.

Not that anyone should really be subjected to these dogs, but I almost expect alien life forms to come spurting out of the giant grapefruit-like pod currently adhering itself to my ankle. Since last night, it has spread more evenly around my whole foot, making it look like my thigh has descended my leg.

Final basketball game of the regular season last night. A meaningless affair as we had already clinched first-place and the accompanying bye for the first round (let's hear it for recovery time). And what do I do? I go give myself one of the worst sprains I've had since my teens. Of course, it directly followed what had likely been my most athletic play of the year.

Landing, full-force, on someone's foot and I knew: it's over. Bundled up against the shock that would inevitably set in (which isn't helped at all by the fact that you have to put ice on the injury -- cold, so cold) and watched it grow. You know it's not good when the covers you need to keep yourself warm are too heavy and just cause you pain. And now, the only elevation is from my leg on my desk, rather than my elevating toward the hoop. Sigh.

Can't Beat the Real Thing.

Another comical sign from SCS's travels to the Philippines -- nothing says "Keep out" like corporate sponsorship.

As an interesting aside, I read today that the distinctive, wavy shape of the Coca-Cola bottle came about as a result of a mistake (don't nearly all good ideas?) It turns out the intention was to design the bottle based on two of the product's ingredients: the coca plant and the kola nut (yes, hence the name), but the employee sent out to make sketches returned having drawn a cacao pod. No word on whether he was fired for his blunder, but I should certainly hope not as the bottle has evolved into arguably the most recognizable product package in the world. Even with the move to cans.

A couple of my all-time favourite Coke slogans: from 1906, "The great national temperance beverage". Just sort of rolls off the tongue, doesn't it? From 1923 and 1938 respectively, "Enjoy thirst" and "The best friend thirst ever had". Isn't the point of beverages to rid of thirst? From 1927, "Pure as sunlight". Hunh?

Frozen Out.

Considering it's what I do for a living, I like to pay particular attention to communications efforts made by others. I will note, however, that, much like common sense not being so common, communications people themselves can often be among the worst communicators.

The media release to the right came into our offices today and, though there's absolutely nothing wrong with it, I did still wonder if its writer sat there recognizing full-well the inherent irony of what s/he was saying.

It advertised, after all, the cancellation of the Fire Department's ice rescue demonstration. Because of the cold. Too much ice, maybe? Reschedule to June? Couldn't they just light a fire to warm things up? Note to self: don't fall through the ice on a day it's -20 out or you might not be rescued. Actually, I think I'll just subscribe to not falling through the ice at all.

Not Bringing Home the Bacon.

Clad in a light dusting of snow is a nondescript blue box sitting in the middle of a field at the airport. And yet, sitting inside is a full-scale, 1,900 square-foot house typical of the style found throughout south-western Ontario. Why would a brick house be sheathed in a corrugated steel hangar – a hangar on tracks no less?

Not exactly an initiative to provide affordable housing to the poor (with the built-in alarm clock of planes taking-off overhead), it’s actually a new high-tech, $7-million research facility from The University of Western Ontario given the peculiar moniker, The Three Little Pigs. Why hearken back to fairy tales of our youth? Because the facility – the first of its kind in the world – will allow researchers to play Big Bad Wolf and eventually blow the house down with simulated winds up to a category five hurricane – or 200 mph. It will also permit studies of water, snow and mould damage with the intention of helping us build better, safer and more cost-effective homes.

I’ve followed this project since it was still just a concept and an empty field, so I was pretty excited on Friday to be witnessing one of the first experiments actually carried-out in the facility. Despite the cold. Supposedly only -10 inside the hangar, it felt much chillier given the concrete floor – and cold air trapped inside burrowed right into your marrow. I’ve never been more thrilled to see a nice, warm coffee when one was brought in the afternoon. It was a rewarding, but bleedin’ cold nine hours at the site.

The BBC was here to shoot a documentary called Super storm, appropriately enough about storms and research that goes into mitigating damage from them. Testing has yet to begin on the model house itself, but as a demonstration for the cameras, researchers ran an experiment using a pressure box on a test section to demonstrate the impact of top-force winds on windows. The result, like diamonds in the sky: shattered glass everywhere. A really cool component was the use of high speed cameras to capture the breaking of the glass.

They shot at 6,000 frames per second (typical personal cameras take 35 frames per second), using a camera with the capability of shooting 225,000 frames per second. Yes, a quarter-million. And they have cameras which can take 2 billion frames per second. That’s billion with a B. One example the cameraman showed us of a shoot they did using one of the higher frame rates demonstrated how an arrow flies. Surprisingly – not straight. Instead, it seems to swim like an eel, slaloming through the air before eventually straightening out. The shot continued with the arrow piercing a Coke can, which was incredibly detailed. Even at 6,000 frames per second, you could see the glass from the test window start to crack and splinter; the explosion was like a beautiful shimmering of really cold snow flakes. Sharp snowflakes.

Destruction starts for real this summer as the team plans to blow the roof off the house before repairing it and starting to break down the walls. Complete destruction comes in approximately two years. Then, it’s on to a different type of building. According to researchers, it turns out that – unlike the fairytale – the way brick houses are built today, they may not in fact be better for keeping the Big Bad Wolf at bay. Tests will show how accurate that assessment is and provide suggestions for ways in which houses can be made safer. As an example, following Hurricane Andrew, researchers found that drawing lines on tar paper would provide better guides for shingle installation, reducing the number of nails which missed the trusses. The cost: pennies. The result: fewer flying shingles. No mention of rickets.

So, why the tracks? The big blue shed can be moved to expose the house to the full force of nature and allow researchers to measure the impact of loads from snow and rain, and the pathways water takes through homes – which often leads to mould growth.

No pigs were harmed in the filming of this documentary.

The video below – not in slow motion – is of the window panel shattering under the force of hurricane 5 force winds (after such point as the plywood itself had almost completely failed).

Whassap?

Fine, Budweiser Frogs references are sooo, 1996. As an aside, did you know those commercials were directed by the same guy who directed the movie, Celtic Pride. Never heard of it? There you go.

But really, it's pretty cool when you find neat things that have been right under your nose all along, but which you didn't even know existed. Particularly at work. Wandering around campus looking for photo shoot locations last week, I came across the University's medical museum, a small tucked-away room filled mostly with things used to teach medical students. Body parts at random. And not in the good way. Much of it wouldn't exactly be housed in the type of museum to which I am accustomed (not being a veteran of the museum of the macabre circuit), but was interesting nonetheless. And just a titch unsettling for a stomach untrained in gross anatomy. Stress on gross.

Apart from plastic models which take the bloody mess out of dissection, there were also various pickled body parts. Real ones. Kosher dill, anyone? Most compelling was the hand -- skin peeled back to expose the intricate detail of the fine web-work of veins, musculature and tendons. I could somehow picture it reaching out from the soil, trying in vain (vein?) to clutch at my throat. Other things I saw in there, I'll spare you the details of. Suffice it to say that my colleague and I both decided we wouldn't be eating liver and onions in the foreseeable future (though -- not thinking -- I peeled back a can of smoked oysters that night and relived much of the experience anyway).

I'd give an arm and a leg to have muscles like this guy. Wait a second. But with skin still attached. Otherwise, it would be just creepy, not to mention messy. Some of this stuff in the museum seemed to be straight out of a horror movie set. But the most revealing thing of the whole experience was that I could really never be a doctor. Sigh.

on writing

My pen, like scalpel,
builds you from bones
to meat to muscle
and then trains those lean sinews
to rise and climb from the page.
Alive.
2005.02.09

Hand-Suckin' Good.

On the heels of the last post, I couldn't resist including this sign, of which SCS took a picture when she was in Tanzania a couple of months ago. A great example of 'lost-in-translation'. Unless, of course, the food is just so darn good that it merits so much more than just a simple 'Finger-lickin''. Then again, maybe Colonel Sanders served them with a cease and desist notice for trademark infringement. The way I eat sometimes, this just might be more appropriate.

More Products from Asia.

Regular visitors to this electronic repository of random thoughts will know I tend to appreciate signs or products which can be construed in an unintended manner, or which are simply not from the realm of the mundane in North America. Alternate meanings, non-sequiters and childish humour abound (past examples here). Oh, and I definitely have a a taste for the new and the unfamiliar -- the taste of experience.

Such examples often arise out of translational (linguistic and cultural) differences or misunderstandings and I certainly found a number of instances which were comical to me during my trip to Malaysia earlier this winter. Having just returned from the Philippines, SCS brought back a few items which are less funny than they are different and interesting. I'm eager to tear into them and see how the concept of 'treats' differs on the other side of the world.

Above, are a number of confectionery bars produced by Minco Industrial Confectionery Corp. in the Philippines. The Ube bar, is made from Ube (purple yam) milk cream, buttermilk, sugar and glucose. Because when that 3:30 hunger pang hits, the first think I think of is cramming my maw with a yam bar. I guess some people do.

The "Quality Trusted" tag on the second bar made me chuckle. It's made of mangosteen, commonly referred to in Asia as the "Queen of Fruits". Which led me to wonder what the King of Fruits is. A quick online check not only provides us with an answer, it also gives us a perfect segue for the last of the bars: durian. Stinky, stinky durian. Comically packaged with the line, "Source of highest vitamins for body nourishment", there's no mention of just how horrible durian tastes. Or smells. Really -- I'm not even kidding. Everywhere we went in Malaysia, public places were littered with signs banning durian and threatening steep fines, all because of the smell. But don't take it from me, take this funny description from travel and food writer Richard Sterling:

"... its odor is best described as pig-shit, turpentine and onions, garnished with a gym sock. It can be smelled from yards away."

The bottom box, from Tokyo, is simply a beautiful piece of packaging, right down to the individually packaged sablé cookies in transparent wrap to best show off the bird-shaped confections inside. Japanese design: top-notch. And no yams in the cookies.

Stairway to Heaven?

Let's review: winter in this part of Canada tends to be cold. And icy. I had to delight at the delicious irony, therefore, of how little foresight into such weather phenomena the local home builders' association had in planning the stairs leading to their offices.

Not only does the building appear to be inaccessible by wheelchairs, the selection of steep, slippery, metal stairs with narrow steps boggles my mind for an association of "...professional organizations comprised of builders, renovators, developers, suppliers, subcontractors and supporting financial institutions and professions committed to ethical building and business practices." In short, to promote the need for making sure people build better homes. Ah, but I suppose this building is not a home. At least there were railings -- with a thin layer of ice rounding the lip of each step, there was a need to use both today.

The only thing that would have made this whole scene more absurd? The presence of a personal injuries law firm in the same building.

Inadvertent Porn.

Yesterday's post was all about words; today, I am compelled to tackle design. SCS returned from the Philippines last night and -- in her infinite wisdom and foresight -- she knew I would very much appreciate the humour inherent in this placemat, uncovered at a family restaurant during her travels. At the very least, she knew that it would make good blog fodder.

I could go on about how the design consists of a hodgepodge of assorted (not to mention incongruous) images, like the floating sandwiches. Why, pray-tell, aren't they the slightest bit soggy? Didn't Columbus sail the ocean blue on a Monte Cristo? I could also go on about the very-obviously Photoshopped-in flag flying, a couple of sizes too large, over the port.

But, no, the true essence of this design disaster lies not in the inadvertent port, but in the inadvertent porn. That's right, taking the metaphorical cake is the fondue fountain or iced pastry (I'm still not sure what it is), gushing out over the Philippines. Did I mention this is for a family restaurant?

Vertically-Challenged Stories.

I found this morsel of academic humour elsewhere in the blogosphere this morning and it made me chuckle, particularly considering how much brevity really can be the key to successful writing. In a twist of contradictions, while I generally consider myself to be a more than competent writer, I can also tend toward being a wordy bastard. As evidenced -- repeatedly -- throughout this blog. Sigh, windbag, crafting my own noose out of additional letters.

Of more import, however, it also reminded me of the 55 word fiction contest, produced out of California for nearly 20 years (I'm not sure if it's still running -- the web site hasn't been updated in a while). The first book they produced is one of my favourite reads of all time. Brief. Each story, 55 words or fewer, brief. Yet wildly entertaining and brimming with talent in appetizer-like proportions. The essence of a story distilled to its essential elements. Concentrated, like the writer, putting pen to paper.

The blogosphere being what it is, I see someone has picked up the torch and begun a blog to compile like minded, (really) short stories, here. The only rules: for it to be considered a story, you must have a setting, a character or characters, conflict and a resolution. Whittle your pencils because, in a breath, 55 words will have escaped into thin air.

A couple examples of mine:

to have nine lives (55 words)

"The jaguar pounced, seemingly taking feline flight as I hit the speed bump and the bottle. The engine purred its throaty growl as the fender gnashed at the tarmac. The cat spun on its haunches, its tires pawing and eyes glowering toward the supple cries emitting from what I had thought was a speed bump."
2003.08.05

an everlasting hunger (55 words)

"Maria circled her arm under his neck, running her fingers through his hair. She loved him, longed for him and awaited his tender kiss. She had never seen him this way and thought wistfully of the past and their love's growth throughout the years.

And she lowered the lid and her veil with a tear."
2002.08.25

Morbid, perhaps. But only briefly.

Crap, People.

That's "Crap, (comma) people," not a direction to "Crap people". Punctuation, ever so important. Seriously. I somehow can't believe how, in this day and age, some still need reminders to flush. And this, in an institution of higher learning no less. If my manners were in the crapper like that, I'd be flushed with embarrassment. I don't need to see your treats, folks.

Worst thing is, I've seen way too much evidence of late that -- even with a reminder -- people still need help. A toilet valet maybe? You know, it's tough to muster the strength to depress that little silver lever. That stinks.

Bringing out the Nerd in Me.

I've been away from this whole blog thingamajig of late, but not away from the computer. No, keys tapping in fists of flurry, I've instead been busy reacquainting myself with my inner-geek --not to mention discovering how compulsive I can sometimes be. Maybe I knew all along, but just didn't want to face it. Something about colour-coding my shirts and alphabetizing my CD collection might have been the grand tip-off.

See, a little more than a week ago, I was finally able to break down and order a new laptop and I have since spent far too much time transferring all of my data from the old computer. As it turns out, I have many large music and photo files. Many. And it took quite a bit of time to welcome them to their new home. After a year spent plotting the purchase of a new laptop, I spent the 25 hours from order to delivery driving everyone around me nuts, constantly refreshing the online order tracking form for progress. Like I was an expectant father, fingers tapping with a parched caffeine drip hanging languidly from my vein. "Order received. Packed. Shipped. En route." Of course, everyone else needed to be updated throughout. "Dilated, 120km". Yeah, you could say I was giddy. Or something.

Most exhausting, however, was the sheer number of hours I spent meticulously re-tagging music files so that they would all follow the same format. Before changing my mind as to how they should look. Then -- inevitably -- finding an easier way to do it. And changing them again. All albums are now tucked into appropriate folders and have been conveniently clad in their respective album covers. Pretty, but at what cost? Have I gone mad? Am I alone in such neuroses? I sigh with relief under the assumption I am likely not (either mad, or alone). Really, much like cleaning a new house, it helps to start with an attempt at being organized because you know the clutter is going to come. In a deluge.

Photos, too, have been properly sorted by month and year; raw files playing across the school yard from edited versions. Cliques form within cliques as re-sized photos drift apart from those small enough for email, those deemed "Arty" and those bastard sons: the blog photos. Sweat on furrowed brow, I believe I finally have things at a manageable stage (though I there are still a few things I want to integrate). Breathing. A sigh of relief. The caffeine drip has worn off.

So, the details: the new arrival is a Sony Vaio VGN-N170G with a 120 GB hard drive, 1GB of RAM and an Intel Core Duo T2050 processor with a 1.60 GHZ processor speed. Not the biggest rocket in the computer world, but by far an upgrade over what I had been using previously. And most importantly, it fit into the budget. Particularly since work was picking up the tab. Mac users no doubt giggle and aficionados likely decry its presence on the computer landscape, but I'm nonetheless pretty geeked.

As a celebration of the new laptop, I decided to have a little fun with the idea of Transparent Screens (for more, and better iterations, visit this Flickr set). After all of the time I've spent on the computer lately, I didn't really want to devote much more to making the shot perfect, nor to using any tricks in Photoshop, so the first version above is from about ten minutes of playing. A couple of the shots lined up a little better than this one, but it was the action shot of Charlie, likely pouncing on a fruit fly (being the big hunter he is), which made it much funnier to me. I think, maybe, he was just as excited as I about the new Vaio. "Yeah UD, it means more pictures of me now. Um, where's my treat?" The second shot was actually my first attempt, but I whacked the box, throwing it all out of alignment. I guess I crackered under pressure.

Can I 'Axe' you a Question? Why, Oh Why?

Ugh. It's decidedly tough to ascertain which is more obnoxious: the commercials for Axe body spray or the smell of the product itself.

Axe is branded -- perhaps, tongue-in-cheek -- as somewhat of an aphrodisiac (then again isn't tongue in cheek the point of an aphrodisiac in the first place?) But with a smell like plastic flowers disintegrating in a vat of battery acid, little tester bottles floating around the office have been the source of practical jokes over the the past few weeks. And retaliatory advances, carefully plotted with military precision.

A quick glance at Wikipedia reveals that the product originated under the name 'Ego' (as in Leggo my Ego?) before becoming 'Lynx'. Given the only type of woman this product could really only ever hope to attract (and given that the product is targeted at the younger market), it might have been more aptly named 'Cougar'.

"THE AXE EFFECT is the internationally recognized name for the increased attention AXE-wearing males receive from eager, and attractive, female pursuers."

Really? The last time we pulled out our little canisters (again, at the office), the ladies pulled out their little canisters. Only theirs was mace. Axe in the nose or mace in the eyes -- really, a tough call for which would be worse.

As someone who likes to read fine print, and particularly the main ingredients in things I eat, I really had to chuckle that the first warning on the bottle read: "Not for intimate use". Come on people, really? Is this what the world is coming to? Heat warnings on coffee cups, fat warnings on Big Macs and this? I'm thinking that anyone silly enough to use this product in such a manner deserves to smell like Pepé Le pew. And go home alone. Pants, ablaze.

With such a base form of marketing, I'm just surprised that, beside the line, "Container might explode if heated" isn't included a separate tag line: "Just like you."

Auctioneer (Another Engine).

I've long wanted to take in an auction, both for the experience and for the possibility of uncovering some great bargains. Greeted by the strong smells of stale tobacco and alcohol, bacon, eggs and church, SCS and I made our way to one of the local auction houses this morning, wandering in an hour into the four hour proceedings. Rookies on the floor, nervously flinching with our buyer card. The vets paid us no mind, perched as they were like birds of prey on plastic chairs -- copious notes and quick tallies, furiously scribbled into their catalogues. And still, we turned around to scratch our noses with eyes cast downward, lest we be pegged as buyers of crazy old Aunt Ruthie's favourite crocheted mauve slippers, always tucked lovingly onto arthritic feet. And under Morris, her sweaty cat's belly.

No, we have better taste than that. Still, it felt a little like Antiques Roadshow meets garage sale meets Vegas -- every item was a potential gamble, chock full of adrenaline coursing through your veins as players anted up. Are they bluffing, or do you fold? You might just end up with something nice. In the end you wind up with something: your purchase, or a broken heart -- lamenting the one that got away. Yeah, just like Vegas. Ensuring you don't get sucked into the fevered vortex of the moment can be a challenge, particularly for people as competitive as SCS and I both are. That said, with a little bit of research and a set price in mind, you can get some really good deals. So long as you are able to walk away from something you wanted when the auctioneer's chatter climbs a little too high. And the chatter can be quite something.

First and foremost, I was amazed by how pretty much everything goes. When an item doesn't receive much interest, the auctioneer combines it with something else in a package deal. A bonus nobody wanted. Plates, dishes and teacups rarely sold individually; rather, they ended up being combined. It was also incredible to see how cheaply some items sold: a great condition, antique wooden kitchen set, including a table with eight chairs and a hutch? 10 dollars. What? How can you go wrong there? While still a little out of my price range, a Haines Brothers square grand piano with intricately carved legs from the 1800s sold for $600. A quick look on the Internet and I found a similar one which just sold for $25,000. The auction's highlighted item, it would have likely cost about as much as the purchase price just to move it out of the warehouse.

Upon the sale of a cross filled with holy water, a fellow first-timer remarked: "Jesus, sold for 15 bucks? Sacrilege". SCS had fancied a couple pieces of furniture. She has a good eye: those items, of course, ended up being a couple of the day's highest draws and she came home empty-handed. There were obviously some professional buyers in there, grabbing things with good resale value, but there were still good deals to be had.

We participated in a couple of the auctions, but rarely ventured beyond the price raising a couple of times. We hadn't yet grasped auction strategy and were slow reacting on a couple of bids. But we didn't get sucked in, either. Not wanting to leave completely empty-handed, I did win a lot comprised of old glass bottles for five dollars. Much like old books, writing implements and printing plates, I've always had a fondness for old glass -- and particularly bottles. They were just so much more solid, made in interesting colours and shapes, and often had things embossed into them.

One is from Lavoris mouthwash; another big chunky bottle was for Enos Fruit Salts, which was reportedly used for easing stomach discomfort. The neatest, though, is a small rectangular bottle originally used for Davis Vegetable Painkiller. Patented in 1845, it is believed this product was the first nationally advertised remedy specifically for general pain and was distributed around the world by Christian missionaries. Lost out on some old pens and an antique child's chair with a drawer built into the base. Oh well. I think we'll be back another time; if nothing else, it was a fun way to spend a Sunday afternoon.

"Do ah hear five...fi..fi..fi...fi an' a quartah...fi...fi...fi an' a quartah?"

Stick it to Them.

Around the world, it sometimes seems to be assumed that Canadians are born not with silver spoons in our mouths, but silver hockey sticks and blades of steel which carve paths through our childhoods in graceful figure eights. You know, long winters and all (though this season has certainly exposed the veracity of global warming).

In a general way, I long ago tore the ticket stub on my time as a hockey fan (of course, with scanners these days, they don't actually tear ticket stubs anymore). Sure, there was indeed a time when I could quote all the nuances in the rulebook and hastily recite stories which had become lore from the times when we first started peeling the tops off of lacrosse balls (now that's a bouncy puck, my friends) through 'One-eyed' Frank McGee to the goon era and finally, to the ascendancy of the Great One. And then, somehow, the ice melted. Which, in terms of a relationship, would normally be a good thing. Instead, I drifted away from the game.

There is, however, one notable exception: international play. Then again, competitive international croquet would likely get me going, too. There's still something about games representing the nation that leaves me wringing my hands, stamping my feet and throwing my arms into the air. Good full-body exercise, really. And this time of year, with the World Junior Championships, you have kids draped in flags, hurtling down the ice with a nation's hopes weighing down like Zambonis on their backs. I'm always impressed by their poise and their emotion. Not to mention skill. I don't remember kids being that big when I was that age.

And it rarely gets better than a game against a heated rival. Today's semifinal pitted Canada against the U.S., who appear to have become the Russians of this generation. Adversaries. And nobody wanted the 6-3 round robin win over our southern neighbours to be for naught. Must win the big ones, boys -- you'll never hear the end of it from your American teammates when you return to your junior teams. It goes without saying that rivalries don't usually burgeon if the opponent isn't worthy. No, you need competition for the emotion to be worthwhile. To make your blood boil in anticipation. To make you leap off the couch and scream violently at the television when a call goes against your team. Your team.

But a Canadian goal just over halfway through the third to tie the game at one made a feeling rise from a pit in my stomach that the goaltender's duel would come to a head in the form of the ultimate goaltender's duel: a shoot-out. As exciting as they are, I hate shoot-outs, particularly with so much on the line. It's not like soccer, when you really can seemingly play for days without ever tapping one over the goal line. Torture and ecstasy.

The streaming video on the computer was ridiculously choppy, buffering every five seconds or so. And running about 30 seconds behind. When it came time for the shootout, cheers and jeers rained down from the stands and the computer hung for what seemed like an eternity. "And we're tied" bookended a giant black pause with "It's time for them to play the Canadian anthem -- again". 5-4 in a shootout. Canada wins! And thanks to poor technology, the shoot-out was shut-out to me.

Both sides obviously played well, but Canada has now won 17 straight. And they now get the chance to turn that silver hockey stick into gold. Their third in a row.