Adventures in the sorta great outdoors.

So I went camping. Had a great time… once I finally got there anyway. Be forewarned, people, this blog’s a REALLY LONG ONE. Feel free to skip it.

Would have been there on Sunday, ‘cept that I was dying. Had that plague thing still acting up. Once those delays were over and some other logistical things were taken care of, we were on our way. Sure, it was the middle of the week… but hey, I needed the time camping and was happy for whatever time I got.

The plan was that we’d head up Tuesday after Iza’s work, crash at the cottage, then load up the canoe, bikes, and camping gear, and roll on out in the morning. Prolly get there Wednesday around 10am. That was the plan. Reality, not so much.

Someone help me here. The way I see it, if I mention that I’m going camping and my parents tell me that they’ve taken camping gear up north that… well, my camping gear would be up north. Yes? Well, I thought so too. My sister later also said that there were no tents what-so-EVAR in the garage here in Mississauga. Great. So things are up north, right? I mean, where else would they be?

We have two tents. A blue dome that rocks all kinds of ass, is sturdy as hell, takes a snow-load, and remains secure and dome-like in hurricanes, but takes a bit of effort to set up. The brown tent is larger, a stereotypical tent shape, less sturdy, has a sketchy zipper, but is stupid-easy to set up. Like, a couple minutes and you’ve got effortless shelter. Given those choices though, I opted for the blue tent. I know the zipper there’s fine and am willing to put up with the extra set-up time.

Zipped off up north. Slept. Went to go load up the camping gear and found the blue tent. But… no poles. They’re kind of important to the dome concept… otherwise you have a flat tarp on the ground to sleep under. Not so good. Looking around like a Newfie for screech for god only knows how long yielded no poles. It also didn’t uncover the brown tent. You following this, people? Three people needing to go camping, no tent.

I called home, hoping that someone could tell me where the tent might have been stashed where I haven’t looked yet. I was informed that the brown tent was in the garage, in Mississauga, 250km away.

Yaaaaay.

So we measured the seams of the blue tent in the hopes that Canadian Tire might have fiberglass poles we could snag in that length. We struggled for a while longer to get a canoe and three mountain bikes securely strapped to a small boat trailer, and also spent a lot of time trying to get all this gear into a small Acura.

Finally, we’re on our way. Sorta. The canoe job didn’t go so well, we kept losing foam blocks. Also the chains insisted on loosening themselves and dragging along the pavement. More delays.

Got to Huntsville, found the Crappy Tire store… no poles. Splendid. I looked around and figured, shit, guess I have to buy a new tent. But seriously, who the hell needs three tents? Three? I’m also pretty sure Canadian Tire tent return policies are for exchange on defective units anyway… too many people buying tents for a weekend and returning them, I guess, so I’d be stuck with it. Bastards.

Looking around for a while, I found a $50, two-man tent. At the time I comforted myself with the thought that, hey, it’s a nice compact tent. The bag it came in was nice and slim too. It came with only a partial roof tarp, and fiberglass poles, it’s about as light as could be reasonably expected, so it’d be great for say… a motorcycle tour. And, shit, it was only $50. In retrospect, it was probably the best $50 I’ve ever spent. Christina would shack up in Bryon’s tent, and all’s good. Camping trip saved.

Upon arriving at the campground, we started setting up camp. Damn that tent looked small. Immediately I was worried that we wouldn’t be able to get a mattress in there even. But we tried anyway… and it fit. Perfectly. Wall to door. It even had two strips probably a foot and a half wide on either side, perfect for bags, clothing, munchies and footwear. Bitchin’.

The park’s alright, nothing spectacular though. The beach is sandy but unremarkable, and the water is dark like tea. Very high organic content, weeds on the bottom. But whatever. Some nice land around there anyway. Nice river, a nearby waterfall, not all that bad. Especially the waterfall, which we spent a lot of time in/under/around.

Anyhow, one great night’s sleep, a great day of camping… the second evening Iza and I left to take a shower before a planned hangin’ with the peeps at the site. In retrospect, we really could have saved ourselves the walk to the showers. When we left we were just into the last strong rays of sun of the evening. When we finished with the shower, stuff was blowing sideways in the wind, and the rain was pouring like someone’d opened up a firehose. It’ll pass, I thought. Lightning bolt. Heavier rain. Yeah, it’ll pass.

Pass, my ass. But, it let up a little, so we headed off back to the site. The trail was flooded in places. Heaven help the poor bastards that pitched tent in a low spot on their site. We rushed onwards, jumped into the tent, and hunkered down for the heavy rain, heavy winds, and frequent lightning strikes. Wicked storm. I wished we were in a clear glass dome, that storm was one to watch.

As the strikes got closer, I started doing a worst-case evaluation in my mind. The poles were fiberglass. That doesn’t conduct. I touched the floor of the tent. Dry. Great. Also, the mattress we were on was a sort of cloth on the outside, but I know for a fact is rubber lined on the inside. Rubber… insulator. Wonderful. Also, the whole thing was full of air, and some 5-inches thick. Even more isolation from the ground in case of a near-by lightning strike. Bring it on, Momma Nature, bring it on.

And she did. Just as it seemed like things were letting up, and we might actually get to that evening’s hangin’ with the peeps session… a few more lightning strikes. More heavy rain. Another strike that sounded like it hit one of our tents on site. Way cool. But, it was getting late, and the hangin’ cancelled for the evening.

When the rain let up a bit, we heard the chainsaw crew. Obviously things came crashing down on inconvenient things in the campground if they’re running chainsaws at whatever ungodly hour of the morning it was instead of dealing with it during the day. Awesome storm.

In the morning, I woke up and was pleased to find that I was dry. The $50 tent survived splendidly

Did some canoeing and kayaking, which was interesting to say the least. The water was shallow, and the canoe bottomed out frequently. All in all it was a good trip though, but we started it a bit late. By the time the last leg got going we were pulling a canoe through swamp in total darkness. Good times though, good times. Thanks to all who were involved.

Our last day, Saturday, things got interesting again. The people who were up since Sunday prepaid the site until the next Sunday, and I was sent off to get a refund for the last day. I piled into the car with an hour and a half to spare before we needed to get off-site. Christina and I went to the store, bought some food-stuff, and headed off to the office to get some money back. That was the first of many wasted trips to the office.

After standing in line for a while, we were told that we needed to return both the car permit and the site permit for a refund. So, back to the site we went. I grabbed the permits, and away we went again.

In line again. We needed to get things processed by the check-out time, 2pm, otherwise the computer’ll bitch and moan. Just narrowly squeaked in for that deadline. Went back to the site, refund slip in hand, triumphant. But then, the brain-dead bitch showed up. In a cruiser.

The brain-dead bitch in question was some acne-ridden homely-looking park ranger that didn’t look nearly old enough to be driving that big-assed American-built cruiser. Okay, sure, we were on the site and it was 2pm. But hell, we just wasted an hour trying to get the refund for the last day. She wanted to see the car and site slips. “We just returned them for a refund; they were paid up until tomorrow” I explained.

“I’m going to need to see the white permit slip.”

“They were returned for a refund.”

“I need to see the white permit slip.”

This chick for real? I thought through what I’d just said to see if maybe I was off not making sense again. I can’t remember if it was Joe or Bryon who muttered “what is she deaf?” under his breath, and that made me confident that I was indeed not spewing nonsense. I took a deep breath, and tried again.

“We don’t HAVE the white slip, it was just returned to the office for a refund.”

“I’m really going to have to see those slips.”

What… the… fuck? “Look, we don’t have them.”

“I need to see the permit,” she said, like the mindless lemming she is.

I explained, quite calmly really I was most surprised, one more time. She got on the radio and called into the office, I assumed to check to see if our site indeed had recently returned its permit. Confident that she’d finally understand what was being said to her, I turned around and started walking off. She called me back.

“Can I speak to the owner of this vehicle?” Ungh… she was pointing at the Acura. I stepped forward and followed her away from the site.

She then asked to see the permit for my vehicle, specifically. Ah, so that’s what it was all about now. She’d decided to focus on MY car. Guess she got confirmation on the site and the other car, hey?

She said that she’d been by the site before, and had seen my car there, but no permit posted for it. She then said that I could be charged with trespassing. I smirked a little. “Now, instead of charging you with trespassing, what you’re going to do is go to the office and get an AVP and…”

“A what?” I interrupted her. “I don’t go randomly throwing acronyms at and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t either.”

She explained that an AVP was an additional vehicle permit. Essentially, a $9/day parking permit. All I had to do was go to the office, and pay for that permit to avoid being charged with trespassing. I was told the office would be expecting me within five minutes.

I hopped in my car and pulled away a bit, pulled over into the bush and parked. I got out, walked past her in the cruiser, and explained that my wallet was in the tent, not the car. I went back, got some cash, and headed off. She followed me. The whole way there. She walked up to the person at the register and explained what was going on.

The people behind the counter appeared to be utterly clueless as to how to go about entering her request into the computer. Lemming #2 called in Lemmings 3 and 4, and they poked around the PC for a while. I paced around. A lot. I was in a bit of a foul mood at this point. Finally it seemed as through they’d gotten their shit together and they asked me how much time I wanted to pay for.

“Does it work on a 24-hour period, or would a start in one day and an end in another day count as two days?” Hey, it seemed a reasonable question to me, but I got my answer with some rolling of eyes. Apparently it’s a permit for the night. So, one day into the other counts as one night. Fine. They lost me with the eye rolling though. “I’ll take the one night then.” Fuck them. Roll your eyes at me?

I pulled out a $10 and plopped it on the counter. Ranger-Bitch wasn’t having any of that. “That car has been there several nights,” she said. I looked at her and asked her how long she figured the car was there for then. She told me that the car and the kayaks have been there since the rest of the party arrived. I thought to myself, I WAS the rest of the party. Surely she couldn’t mean Sunday, could she? Heh, nah.

“So how long then?”

“Since Sunday.”

I laughed. No way was that car there since Sunday, but she stuck to her belief. I explained repeatedly that I wasn’t there since Sunday. Remember that “I need to see your slip” bullshit from before? It became a conversation just like that. Only longer.

I looked at the clock on the wall. It was getting late, and I’d had about enough of this. “Fine, I’ll pay from Sunday. I want to get the hell out of here already. But I’ll need your ID, a receipt, and a note signed by you stating that those charges are for me being here since Sunday. Include whatever the date was on Sunday. I’ll also need a fax number, as I’ll be faxing in proof of my claim that I wasn’t here since Sunday, and instructions on how to issue me a refund.”

She told me that if I could provide proof, that would really help me a lot. I told her that it would actually help HER a lot if I could, as it’d prevent them issuing a refund and the paperwork mess that would involve. “I don’t think the people over there would be able to figure out how to refund anything, seeing as how it’s taken 20 minutes for them to figure out how to take my money.”

They gave me the total. $54. I looked at the $35 I had in cash and said I didn’t have that much and that I’d need to go back to the site. Went back, grabbed my debit card. Drove back again.

I told them I’d be adding a debit card transaction fee to the amount they would be refunding. I was about ready to snap spines. Ranger-Bitch told me she needed to see my ID. I told her I didn’t have my ID, I had $35 and a fucking debit card. She needed to see my ID. I stormed out of the office, and headed back to the site. I grabbed my ID, stuck it in my pocket, and headed back to the office again.

When I arrived, I checked to make sure I had my ID and debit card before leaving the car. And, when I reached into my pocket and pulled out my ID and a receipt… a receipt from Loblaws for a purchase made on Tuesday, I swear I sported wood. I walked in and slapped the receipt down on the counter. One of the secondary lemmings took it, looked at it, and asked what that was. “A receipt I just found from the 19th. Tuesday.” When she asked what that proved exactly I realized something. The air isn’t so much fresh at Arrowhead Provincial Park as it is thin.

I walked her though the concept. “It proves that I was in Loblaws in Mississauga on Tuesday.” I pointed at the date on the bottom of the receipt. “Not here since Sunday. Follow? I obviously didn’t rush 250kms away, pick up a receipt from home, and rush back in 10 minutes.” I saw the look of understanding spread across her face, and she walked away to find Ranger-Bitch. I followed her. I wasn’t letting that receipt out of my sight.

The chick handed the receipt to the ranger, and I told Ranger-Bitch that that receipt proves that I haven’t been here since Sunday. Further, I’d fax a cell phone statement that shows my travel from the city to Rosseau (where the cottage is) up to Tuesday night, as I’d made some calls along the way. And, when I return the rented kayaks, I’d be more than happy to show her the receipt for ONE day’s rental.

That, my friends, is how I walked out of there paying for one night’s parking. The one night I admitted to. Story over? Not yet. She told me that she’d be back at the site in 20 minutes, and that if I wasn’t off, I’d be charged with trespassing. Fuck you very much. I went on my way. I almost turned around and walked back in to say that 20 minutes wouldn’t be enough, but thought the better of it.

Wouldn’t you know, 23 minutes later, she showed up again at our site. And she brought backup. Some new guy. Male Lemming #1 spoke up. He told Joe he wanted to speak to the owner of my car. Joe called me over.

He wanted to see the permit for my car. This shit again. I advised him to talk to the girl he had with her, that she knew what was going on. I’d wasted over an hour and a half dealing with her and her nonsense, that I’ve proven her wrong on her claim that I’ve been here since Sunday, and that after returning the kayaks I’d be ready to prove her wrong a second time as she stated that the kayaks had been there since Sunday. He asked me for ID. Mmm, trespass charge. I told him that I was busy trying to pack up, and struggling to keep my calm and not flip out on them. I told him I’d had a bad day, so he’d have to excuse me if I got rude or threw things. He said that he has those himself, quite often at that. He seemed in a decent mood though. But he asked for ID, again.

I told him it was around here somewhere, and that I’d get it for him after I was done packing up. He told me that was fine, so I slowly walked around site packing things up as the two rangers stood there watching me.

On one of my return trips to the site I had told Christina and Iza to take a two-way radio and scatter. I didn’t realize at the time that it didn’t matter, but our permit showed four people on it not six. I didn’t want to add that to our complications. But that did leave me packing the Acura alone. Janine walked over and asked me if I needed any help. I told her I’d be fine. She spun around on the rangers standing over me and said, “Do you two have to stand there watching him?” Ah… looks like I got some backup. The ranger told Janine that they were just waiting for my ID, but that he had all day to wait. And I was totally willing to make them wait all day. I continued lazily walking around gathering gear.

Finally, Male Lemming #1 spoke up again. He said that if I could please get him my ID that they could get that going and save us all some time. I gave in, casually walked over to the car, got my New York State ID, and handed it to them. They walked away to their vehicle and did whatever it is that asshats do in situations like that. Finally they returned, ID in hand, told me that trespass is a finable and even arrestable offence. “Hey, do whatever you guys have to do, I’m going to be over there so I can finish packing up.”

He handed me my ID and asked me if I was leaving today. “Yeah, I’m good and done with this place,” I said. He was happy enough with that answer and went on his way.

Joe was right when he said there was a tactful way of taking care of things, and then there was the way they did it. “Enough with the breaking your balls already”. Well, yeah. 20 minutes to pack up a site? Not so much. Returning 23 minutes later? With backup? Come on. But was it over yet? Nope.

A few minutes later, someone came by again. In a pickup truck. “Are you guys supposed to be here?”

Turns out they were sent to our site by the office. They were going to be camping there today. How much you want to bet this site was the first one the fucking office offered them? Fuckers.

So anyway, I’m thinking I might have to go back to Arrowhead. Repeatedly. Without identification. Maybe I’ll bring a mountain bike in or something, leave plated vehicles behind. Yeah, I’ll drop by… and call a whole lot of attention to myself. Anyone else want in?

Or, I could just say, hey Arrowhead? Fuck you very much. It was fun dealing with you brain-dead assholes.

Anyway, if you’ve read this all, congrats. You’re a sad and pathetic individual, but you’re in good company. Why not drop me a note saying that you’ve read it? It’ll make me feel better about the time I waste doing this shit.

raweffect (.at.) golden (.dot.) net

Anyhow, I’m off. Take care, y’all.

…Art
Boiled water advisory in effect

Salesmen, cheats and liars.

Okay. So I lied. You're hearing from me before the end of the weekend.

Thought I'd share a little Bell Mobility logic with you peeps, just 'cuz I thought it was funny.

Recently, I called to cancel my Bell Mobility account. I had to give them 30-days notice, so they got it. The guy on the phone, however, spent 30 minutes listening to the problems I was having, and offering me incentives to stay with Bell. He pointed out that I've been a customer of theirs for a while now, my account has always been in good standing, and because of that they'd be willing to work out a "Special Deal" just for me. Basically, I need a new handset. So they offered me a rebate if I signed on for a two-year term. $100. Swell. They also offered me three months of my current rate plan for free.

Nice.

I pointed out that any random dude can walk into a Bell store, gank a cell, and get the same rebate. The rep pointed out that while that is true, it's the three months of my current rate plan that's the added bonus. Started doing the math, that's an extra $75 in savings. Nothing to write home about, really, but $75 is $75. Then, just hours later, I got a random email from Bell offering satellite, landline, and cellular goodies. THAT, while still not being something to write home about, WAS something to blog about.

See, it turns out that Bell's currently offering the rebate.. and three months of UNLIMITED LOCAL CALLS and EMAIL. Hrm. Unlimited calls and email sounds like a lot more than 100 minutes and unlimited evenings with no email. Wait, it SOUNDS that way BECAUSE IT IS.

Ah, Bell. If it wasn't for the fact that I was getting free DSL on your land-line, we would have switched to another provider long ago. Cell phone? Leavin' ya. Bell ExpressVu satellite service? Hacked it. Good thing too, hardly seems worth paying for at all. If it was legal, I'd be giving DirecTV or Dish Network out of the US my TV-viewing money. Not only is it better TV than what you're offering, it'd also be NOT BELL.

What else does Bell offer? Long distance? Left you guys the day the Canadian long distance market opened up for competition. Anything else? I can't think of anything more.

So, really, that leaves me with Bell Nexxia for internet. I can't avoid that. But at least it's free. I can live with free. And not Bell-branded "Sympatico" service either. Free 'net, free Bell satellite. That's cool. It's just unfortunate that the landline still goes to Bell.

I read somewhere that other companies got together and with the CRTC's help are arranging to allow customers to choose non-Bell landlines, and still get DSL service. Heads up, Bell, when that happens... prolly someone like Sprint'll get our moneh. Moolah you bitches ain't gettin'.

I'm sure no one at Bell will ever read this. Or, if by some chance someone does, they wouldn't give a shit anyway. Feels good to vent though. And all this was brought on by Bell Mobility's unwillingness to investigate a problem I was having with my service, then offering me bullshit incentives to not leave.

These boots, baby, they're made for walkin'. That's just what they'll do. One of these days these boots are gunna walk all over you pig-bitches. And I'll be smiling.

Enjoy the land-line revenue while you still can.

Anyone else wanna join me in my exodus? Hey, cable internet people, why are you still with Bell for your phone line? Switch. It's cheaper. You get to keep your existing phone number too. Bell ExpressVu people, get in touch with someone selling US satellite dishes. They'll likely be able to hook you up with free TV on your existing ExpressVu gear, or steer you to the people who can. Save your ExpressVu dollar and spend it on burgers and beer.

And invite me over. I'm hungry. And an alcoholic.

Speaking of hungry, have I mentioned that Chicago has some bitchin' food? Yeah? Well, I said it 'cuz IT'S TRUE. Go check it out for yourselves. And, while you're at it, hit up Ghirardelli Chocolate Shop & Soda Fountain for some ice-cream. Mmm...

Okay, enough of Chicago for this blog (see, I really did like that town with it's ghettos and smashed up vehicles). But in keeping with the food theme:

I taste like Peanut Butter. I am one of the most blendable flavours; I go with sweet, I go with sour, I go with bland, I go with anything. I am practical and good company, but have something of a tendency to hang around when I'm not wanted, unaware that my presence is not welcome. What Flavour Are You?

Now then. In an effort not to hang around when I'm not wanted, I wish you all a good week, and weekend.

'Til next time...

...Art
Have your pet spayed or neutered.

On the road to recovery.

Holy shit, was I ever sick.

Today I woke up feeling sorta human. I actually woke up hungry and had breakfast for the first time since Thursday. Yes sir, looks like I'm on the mend.

So then, not letting Chicago die, here's some more random Chicago nonsense...

The Sony Store. Can I just say that the one we have here at the Erin Mills Town Center sucks ass in comparison? Hrm. I guess I can. And, just did. Yes, the Sony Store in Chicago is so much more with the good... it's unfortunate that on this revisit they closed off the section upstairs where they used to have the only Sony stuff that matters, the ES series of equipment.

Elevated Standard.

'Cuz, you know, you could by ordinary crappy Sony shit, but then... well, you've just bought ordinary crappy Sony shit. The ES stuff is almost like buying from a real quality manufacturer. Admittedly, some nice stuff. Yisser, stuff that has cables as thick as my thumb to hook the speakers up with, stuff that you'd have to forget putting the kids through university for. Hope they make enough money in the summer through highschool to get that higher education, but hey, you got some sweet Sony ES crap in your rec-room.

Good for you.

Your kids'll never amount to anything anyway.

I mean, who wouldn't want to spend $600US for an AM/FM stereo? Oh, wait, it's just a receiver. On its own, it doesn't even make a sound. $600US for an AM/FM radio with no speakers. Or antenna. But at least it has inputs for two antennas, in case one wasn't balanced enough for you. Ah, Sony.

One thing I fell in love with however... an Apple product. Yup, I went to the Apple store in Chicago. No, I'm not jumping ship, not taking up art classes, drinking faggy pink drinks at the bar...

It's the 30gig iPod. Redesigned over the generation before that I played with a while ago. Quite nice and slick. Just a little too rich for my taste. Still. Maybe they'll come down in price some day. Or, I'll have a job where I can drop the Visa and walk out with stuff and not worry about it. Ah, the good ol' days.

Movin' on with things, hey, things suck less today. I had an appetite, showered, shaved... I need a haircut, but hey, that's not illness related. I almost look passable.

So I've been sleeping on a couch the last two nights, and I'm about to turn in for another couch night. Why, you ask? Well, see, the toilet in my parents' washroom leaked. Water flowed along the floor, ruining hardwood flooring in their walk-in closet, my closet, my room, and ruining the ceiling in the family room below. This, as the house is up for sale. Cancelled Sunday's open house. Heh, I swear, we're cursed. So, about a grand in floor-damage, all because some $5 plastic part thought it'd be a great time to disintegrate.

Anyway, that's enough crap for now. Hope things are going well with you peeps. With any luck, I'll be going camping tomorrow, so you won't be hearing from me until after the weekend.

Health and weather permitting.

Brace yourselves for the hailstorm.

...Art
Killin' your buzz since '75

Are you afraid of the dark?

Wow.

How strange. So where were you during the Great Blackout 2003? I was up north.

My mom, sister, and myself headed off to the cottage for a couple of days. Not to rest and relax, no, but to take care of a tree that had fallen on my boat. I regret going now. As a result of that trip, I'm now sick, tired, and I got to miss Muskoka-like dark skies over Mississauga.

Both my mom and my sister were sick with some sort of nose-running, sore throat plague before this trip. I would normally run air-conditioning with the air-recirculation setting on so as to save fuel and get more consistently cool air without running the fan on high. See, if it's sucking in already cooled air from the cabin, there's less humidity to remove, and less of a temperature drop so the a/c idles more often for longer periods of time. Colder air, better fuel economy, Art's happy. Consider this your car tip for the year. But, with two sick people in the car with me, I kept drawing in fresh air. Didn't want to sit in a cabin that's been recirculating disease-laden air, right?

Apparently it wasn't enough. By the time I hit Barrie, I felt my throat going a little sore. As I write this, I'm sick. Full-blown. Headache, tired, leaky nose… not so much with the good.

A few hours after arriving, the power went out. No big deal, I thought. My mom had just started getting dinner going, so she thought that maybe something there triggered it. You know, too many appliances on one circuit, or something. I went to the breaker panel and reset things. Still no mojo. Clearly the problem went beyond our breaker panel at that point. I'd like to take this opportunity to apologize to the North American Eastern Seaboard on behalf of my mom. In her defense, she was hungry and was just looking to feed her two children. If any hydro-officials are reading this, I invite you to call me and arrange for an appointment to come up to the cottage and see the source of the blackout.

We finished preparing dinner on the BBQ's stove burner attachment. After finishing dinner, I went to the garage and plugged the generator into the panel, and turned the lights back on.

I tried receiving my new email on the cell phone, and was greeted with time-killing music I've never heard before. That was followed up by a message stating that there appeared to be a problem with the email service at that time, and that I should try again later. I swore a bit at my carrier, checked the weather, and put my phone away.

Blissfully unaware of what was going on, I fired up the satellite dish. I got the guide to come up, but none of the channels authorized. After resetting the receiver a couple of times, I gave up and went down to the lake.

During dinner, someone called my cell and left a message. As I walked to the lake, I retrieved the message from Joe asking me to call him back, so I did. That's when he told me that he was out BBQing, as that's the only thing that works. Hungh? There's a power-outage in Toronto too? What a co-incidence. Whaaa? It went beyond Hydro One? Beyond Ontario? EASTERN SEABOARD? Fucking wicked!

I must say, I'm pretty happy with the way things went here. Yes, power was knocked out for us here until Friday around noon… I went to the garage, and switched the cottage over to The Grid and the lights still worked. But I'm still amazed at how utterly unprepared the planet is for this kind of nonsense. Yeah, my email didn't come through on my cell phone. But, really, considering I'm out in the middle of the bush in Northern Ontario, that's not that big a deal. But when I checked again to see how things were going yesterday evening before going to sleep and found that the entire DirecTV satellite array we were pointed at went down (yup, no signal, all 32 transponders), it dawned on me. Had this problem dragged on much longer, life would kinda suck. I mean, sure, we had lights. Our fridge was running. We had a ton of fuel in the garage. News updates via TV? Not so much, if the satellite's down. We have no local antenna here, so no local channels taken off the air from land based transmitters. I think I'm going to have to change that. Also, late in the evening, the 680 News feed carried on Bell Mobility stopped connecting. Sure, the portable stereo was still receiving some stations, (I almost called it a ghetto-blaster, but since the nearest true ghetto is several hours away and across the border…) but how long would it work on the batteries in there anyway? The car radio would work for a while, and the inverter there was busy powering some small items quite happily, but after a day or so of that it wouldn't start anymore. It'd be silly to leave the engine running so as not to drain the battery, 'cuz what happens when it's out of fuel? With no power at the stations to pump gas…

I was especially surprised that the landline went down earlier today, in fact a few hours after power here had been restored. I don't know what that was all about, but it was only out for a few hours. The cell phone still worked, though the network was noticeably taxed.

Sure, I guess we could have conserved. Only ran the generator long enough to keep the fridge and chest freezer cold. Only listened to the radio for short periods. Not ran the cell phone for hours streaming 680 news. If it were wintertime, we'd have enough firewood to keep us warm here at the cottage, but at home? Not more than a day or so. Though in the city, I guess they'd set up emergency shelters and such. We'd be alright, I guess. But what about other people with less firewood? Fuel? No generator? I wonder how long the juice would have to be out for before people started dying off in impressive numbers.

Didn't get to find out this time.

Rats.

Now it's 9pm on Friday. My dad just called a little while ago to ask why the DSL doesn't work. I suggested that it might have something to do with the fact that there was a huge blackout a little while ago, I'm pretty sure he's heard about it. Heh, I'm 24-hour technical support. So what that I'm 250km away? A quick three-way call to the ISP, hit option 2 for network status… "All systems are down due to rolling blackouts…" Guess I was right. And I guess I won't bother trying to post this blog from cottage-country, I'll wait 'til I get back home.

Mmm… Three way calling. Long distance. Cellular phones so that family members can call to ask why broadband internet wasn't working. FAR too plugged in. Next week, I'm going camping. Power grid be damned.

…Art
Back to basics

Got Paranoia?

Hey gang.

I’m thoroughly spooked. Wanna know why? No? Tough. You’re here reading this blog, so suck it up and uh… well, read.

I went to the garage that my dad’s Hyundai was dropped off at several weeks ago to see if they still had a copy of the key. See, when we picked it up, it was after hours so we didn’t drop in to get the key. Anyhow, I’d been at this garage many years ago for the first time with a Ford Windstar I was driving around from work. Now, I hadn’t worked at that place in three and a half years, so it’s quite likely about four years ago that I was in there for the first time. I met the owner, Vince, who seemed like a nice guy, they did the work, and away I went.

Since that time, I brought in my Acura once for emissions testing, the 4Runner was in for some random nonsense (I’m tempted to say it was a cheap oil change)… and the Hyundai. Now, when I dropped off the Hyundai, Vince wasn’t there. Someone else opened the workorder, and I left them the key. When I walked in, Vince said, “Hey, long time no see”, and indeed it had been. I asked him if they had a copy of a Hyundai key. “Yeah, I think so. Melon, right?” Well, yeah. He handed me the key, and the little tag had my last name on it, the license plate number, and Hyundai Elantra written on it. So no big deal, he'd noticed the key was hanging there for a few weeks, and remembered the name on the tag. On my way out the door, he said, “Take care, Art.”

At this point I went off and threw some steaks on the BBQ, and drank beer. I’ll apologize for the blog as it continues from this point on, ‘cuz god damn beer tastes good and makes RoFo fuzzy.

…take care… ART.

I was like, woah. After all this time, dude remembered my name. I was shocked, and touched, but not in the way Izfo shocks and touches me, no, more of a sane and polite shock and touch. Cool how some people are like that with names and faces. I’m not. Normally I need to see you a few dozen times before I remember who you are, and if I don’t see you in a while, I’ve forgotten you unless you've done something amazing or stupid. Or amazingly stupid. So anyway, a shout-out to the Credit Mills Auto Center. Dunno how top-notch their service is, but it’s creepy that they remember who you are.

So anyway, after that, I went off to the EI place. Employment Insurance. See, apparently getting laid off means I’m entitled to get some money back from the government. Money? For nothing? I’m all over that. Money from a system I’ve paid into for more than a decade? Fucking RIGHT I’m all over that. So, it turns out that I need a form whose acronym escapes me at the moment. Mmm, beer. So I headed out to the placement agency to request that form.

After parking, I walked up to the place, and walked in though their open door. Problem is, the open door lead to the wrong side of the counter I wanted to be at, and one of the office workers pointed me to the next door over. I guess they don’t have air-conditioning or something, although it seemed pleasant enough inside. Maybe someone ate a bean salad for lunch, I dunno. Anyway, I turned my ass around, and headed to the next door over. When I got there, I asked if they issued those forms. The guy said they did, and shuffled off to a computer over in the corner.

“Twenty-seven eighty-seven?”

Those numbers sounded familiar. I thought they were the numbers from my address. I thought again to make sure, and I was a little uncertain and thinking that my mind’s playing tricks on me. He turned to face me this time, so I know he was talking to me, and said, “Your address… You're still at 2787?”

Stunned again, and more than a little bit uncomfortable, I tried to remember if at any time I had mentioned what my name was. I hadn’t. I looked at the guy, paid close attention to his facial features, and felt fairly confident that I’d never seen this guy before in my life. At this point I sort of managed to squeak out, “Okay, I’d LOVE to know how you knew that.”

Generally speaking, when people I don’t know very well know my name, it’s bad news. It was always concerning when a teacher in college called me by name ‘cuz that usually meant I’d manage to bomb something horribly or otherwise got myself in enough trouble to warrant name-memorization. I was a little distracted so I didn’t get to hear exactly what he said next, but he waved over his shoulder and said that Kendra or Kendal or maybe it was Roseanne, I can’t be sure anymore, told him who I was.

She used to work at the Brampton office, he informed me. I’m like, who? I looked over his shoulder and scanned the four people behind him for a familiar face. Nada. Went in for a second look, and one of the girls with a phone headset almost registered a “Hey, I recognize her” response.

Almost.

But not quite.

I confirmed my address and was told the form would be sent out to me in the mail. When I walked out of the place I started thinking, and it dawned on me. That girl was the cute blonde at the Brampton office that I picked up my cheque from. Now, this seems unimpressive until I share with you the following info...

See, once upon a time, I drove out to Brampton once a week to pick up my cheque. I went on Fridays, after work, because they let us out early on Friday and the Brampton office was only open until 5pm. So really, closed on weekends, Friday was the only time I could pick up the cheque.

Now, at Feherguard, the place I worked at, they only let us out early on Friday between the first and the last long weekends of summer. When that stopped, and fall came around, I couldn’t pick up a cheque anymore since I worked until 5pm, the same time the Brampton office closed.

Follow?

What I did then was set myself up for direct deposits into my bank account, as it was the only way for me to get my money. So. To recap, I hadn’t gone to the Brampton office for about a year now. And when I did, I only went there a few times to pick up a cheque. Further, the blond girl whose name I didn’t quite catch, wasn’t there all the time. There were probably four different people there who tossed me a cheque, but I always hoped it was her that did it when I walked in… I mean, she was cute. Our exchanges were always brief as there were others in line waiting for their cheques too, so when we talked it was short but friendly. She always greeted me with a smile.

I was single at the time, so friendly smiles from cute chicks were exactly what the doctor ordered, and I didn’t give a rat’s ass if she greeted everyone the same way god dammit, she was cute and it was my fantasy to play out however I wanted to. I never hit on her or anything, I was certain her demeanor meant nothing, besides, there was no way was I ever going to get with that. But, in the three or four seconds that I was in the office, she recognized me, remembered my name, and passed it on to the other guy. All from a few innocent exchanges over a year ago.

I’d like to think that when I walked in there she said, “oh my god! It’s Art! He’s that hot guy I was telling you guys about! It’s so awesome to see him again!” Yeah, I know, I’m no fool. Fat chance. But then, I didn’t think she’d ever recognize me from a year ago either, so whatever. I’ll take the ego boost wherever I can. I’m glad I made someone incredibly happy and made the remainder of her day a pleasure as she sat at her desk and daydreamed about me. Maybe I did strike a chord if she remembered my name. More likely I just weirded her out. But whatever. For today, I’ll pretend she wants me so bad.

Too bad for her she didn’t make some sort of move or drop a hint.

She missed her chance. Good job, Izfo.

So it’s come to my attention that some people who read my previous Chicago blog were left with the impression that I didn’t much like Chicago. Let me be clear: I love Chicago. I had a great time with Iza and Christina. And I’d love to go back again. And will. With a cooler. A cooler I’ll fill with frozen pizza to bring back across the border with me. I’ve also decided that I’ll expand a bit on the Chicago experience for the next little while by randomly dropping in little tid-bits of Road Trip Chicago 2003 in my blogs.

Today, I’ll mention that Christina and I saw a guy sitting on a patio for what looked like a coffee house on some street as we walked between Michigan Ave., and North Wabash Ave. Why, you ask, why mention this guy RoFo? Well, see, he was sitting at a chair with a pool of blood at his feet. He had some napkins with which he was tending to what appeared to be several bullet holes in his legs. I’m sure they weren’t gunshot wounds, for if they were he wouldn’t be patting at them with a napkin as casually as he was. But whatever those wounds were, they looked deep and circular. He had the build of a bike courier though, so we’ll pretend like he was a bike courier in off-work attire, and no bike in sight. He probably had a nasty spill or something. That’s all. Nice and innocent perforation of the shins.

Also, I must say, kudos to Chicago for having a slick transit system. For $5 per day, or less if you buy more than one day at a time, you get a mag-stripe card that inserts into terminals at the train stations and buses of the CTA. Unlimited rides on the bus or train, for a full 24-hours, all for $5. Hey, TTC? You bitches listening?

Also, for the tech-geeks among us (read: Rhys, though I doubt he reads this blog), the buses are being GPS tracked. There’s a small LCD display above the windscreen with positioning information, linked to a larger LED display that showed what the next stop was, and if a stop had been requested by a rider or not. Accompanying the screen updates was an automated voice announcing what the next stop was. Not all of the buses in Chicago were outfitted with this system yet, or perhaps they couldn’t be bothered to send those buses into the ‘hood where they’d be shot up and burned.

Our ride into the ‘hood was announced by an unenthused driver who occasionally uttered street names so quietly that you probably had to be seated next to him to make it out easily. I can understand that he might be bored and not giving a shit, and the run he was making intersected numbered streets. How many times each shift can you enthusiastically announce 35th? Or 47th? But still. System’s slick, and the price is right. PAY ATTENTION TORONTO.

With that, I leave you again, kiddies. Enjoy yourselves, and maybe hit up Chicago for a weekend? Get your transit passes at Jewel-Osco or at cheque cashing places. They’re everywhere. Only they call them checks. Silly Americans.

…Art
An excellent source of vitamin W

Chicago

So I went to Chicago for the long weekend. Sorta makes you realize what you’ve got right here in your own backyard.

First off, I’d like to take this opportunity to give a warm shout-out to the fine lady at U.S. Customs who allowed us admission into the States. By “warm” I mean hot, and by hot I mean licked by the eternal flames of hell. Also, when I say “fine lady” know that I mean skanky bitter white-trash hag. She kept harpin’ on beef. Do we have any beef? Got beef? Cracka, where’s yo’ beef? Apparently they’re all on this Mad Cow trip still. One case, America. One cow that was isolated and destroyed. One cow that never made it into the food chain. ONE FUCKING COW that upon further investigation IT SEEMS AS THOUGH IT CAME UP TO CANADA FROM THE FUCKING STATES.

So anyway, she sent us on our way. How nice of her. We pulled over to verify which highway we were supposed to have been taking, and were almost immediately surrounded by four armed federal officers, one of which walked over and told us we had to move on, but asked us if we were lost. We told him we just stopped to check the map, but he told us which way to go. Nice guy. Not like the “fine lady” we left behind.

Almost immediately, a few things became apparent. Michigan, Illinois, and Indiana aren’t anything like the Canadian suburbs. First off, on the bridge to the States… the first of the weekend’s funky smells. Ah, sewage. What a warm welcome to Detroit.

Then, the roads. Potholes large enough to swallow my poor Acura, and pavement quality that seemed to be right at par with what I imagine a highway would feel like if it was made with spaced out railway ties covered in about a half inch of asphalt.

Then I noticed another thing. They really hate their vehicles down there. The first car I noticed after crossing the border was an old Asian pickup. Like, an 80’s Toyota or maybe a Datsun. Dented, rusted, and body panels flapping in the wind. Then another shitbox. And another. The first nice-ish car was a late-model Grand-Prix. Taillight smashed. Yes sir, if I had a digital camera, I would have spent the weekend taking pictures of cars. Cars with missing headlights. Missing taillights. Missing trim. Bumpers. Grilles. Cars with quarter-panels smashed in. Doors smashed in. ON BOTH SIDES. Plastic vapour-barrier duct-taped around the hole where a window once was. Damage that didn’t seem possible; puzzling damage. Hoods crunched in while bumpers below it were intact. A pedestrian, probably. A cut in a bumper as if chopped in with an axe. Maybe a spouse taking it out on someone’s car as they peeled away trying to avoid a dispute. Maybe a drug deal gone sour. I dunno, but whatever the situation was, I can really only think of an axe making damage like that.

Spooky stuff. So we drove on, and eventually, my basic needs need to be addressed. Washroom break, and food, that sort of thing. We stopped at the Fleming Oil Shell station in Hartford, Michigan. I figured I’d take a leak, make myself a sandwich… all good. I went into the washroom and the urinal was covered over in a plastic sheet. A marker-on-paper sign advised me that it was out of service and offered only “Caustic Substance” as an explanation why. I walked into the toilet stall and was greeted by a full toilet bowl. Paper, shit, brown water… guess no one wanted to flush that thing, and one guy was so disgusted by what was going on IN the bowl that he shat ON the bowl. You know where the hole is? Know the seat hinge behind it? Know the space between the hinge and the tank? There. A nice little log. I unzipped, stepped back, and let loose. As I did so, I realized why no one was flushing the toilet. It’s not that they didn’t WANT to, they didn’t know HOW. The lid was removed and a coat hanger stuck out of the tank. The handle had been broken, and this coat hanger was attached to the tank’s innards, around cord to the flush plug at the bottom. I grabbed the hanger and pulled it up about two feet, and the toilet flushed. My Canadian public-funded education in all its glory; I flushed where many others could not. The girl’s washroom apparently wasn’t all that great either, though between Christina and myself, I had the better story.

When I got back to the car, I popped the trunk, grabbed some bread, and opened the cooler. Wanted to make myself a sandwich, you see. I was hungry. Food AND urination, remember? I opened the cooler and there was no meat. None. The decent slabs of salami and Westphalian ham were gone. That fucking skank at the border took them. WESTPHALIAN HAM isn’t BEEF! Pig ain't cow, ma'am. I was not impressed. Isn’t there a form that should be filled out if they seize property? If there isn’t, there fucking should be. She didn’t even tell us she took anything. I guess the bitch was hungry, or was sick of the offerings at the local food bank. I smeared some Nutella on the bread, and we went on.

Drove through Gary, Indiana. Why? Well, blog buddy Joe mentioned something a while ago about that shit-hole. Something along the lines of: “You wouldn’t live to tell anyone that you walked the streets downtown at night”. He might be right, I dunno. The “stores” were all boarded up. I drove into a residential area, and saw homes about the size of a two-car garage, windows missing, doors made of plywood, some with holes in the roof. Mmm, slums. Unfortunately, it was daylight at the time, so I didn’t get to test his claim. Maybe another time.

The weather was nice, it was sunny and hot, so when I saw a highway sign for Indiana Dunes State Park, I thought, hey, why not? Pulled off of the highway and we headed for the park. At the park’s front gate, there was a sign that clearly said $4 per car. Sweet. See, I bought gas for $15.50, and the ATM spat out 20’s, so I had four one dollar bills. Reached into my pocket, counted them out, and stuck my fist out the window. The girl at the booth smiled and asked if we were from Indiana. I said no. “That’ll be $5 please”… unnh? Apparently the $4 per car price only applies if you’re from Indiana… or, she’s just another bitch in a booth looking to take advantage of me. I broke a $20, and said something about it being silly that things are more expensive for tourists, I mean wouldn’t you want to be attracting tourists to tourist areas? She said that even at $5 it’s well worth it, at least she hopes that I'll think it’s well worth it when we’re done. It was a nice park, a long beach with some patches of rust-coloured water draining onto the beach from some random sewer, a beautiful view along the beach interrupted only by a smokestack belching death into the atmosphere… We walked among the dunes, into the forest… all of it was very nice, especially if you ignored the trash everywhere. I gave in and went for a swim. It was cold, sure, but fuck, I paid an extra dollar (US FUNDS!) god dammit, I was going to make use of it.

Actually, that brings up another thing. What’s with Americans and littering? Dude driving in a car, pitches his coffee cup. Another dude at a train station in Chicago opens up a package of something, and sends the cellophane flying in the wind, even though his fat ass was three strides away from a trash can on the platform. People just randomly chucking shit wherever they want. I felt silly carrying some crap looking for a recycling bin and not tossing it in regular trash considering that I could have just dropped it at my feet and not thought twice about it. You know, when in Rome…

Eventually we arrived in Chicago, and needed to kill time. So while there, we hit up Pizzeria Due, the Lego Store, an art gallery, bunch of other random places… what we didn’t get to do was go to a jazz club, or the zoo, two things Christina wanted to do. I feel horribly about it, we really needed another day. Although, if she’d have mentioned it one of the times we stood around and said, “cool, now what?”, we probably would have done things differently and fit those in. We got to see some family friends though, and they were nice enough to open their home to us and give us a place to sleep, so a big thanks to Stefan and Natasza. Hopefully we’ll head down to Chicago one more time this summer, and I hope Christina’ll make it out too. I’m sure there are penguins, bears, and apes that want to kill or maim us. I mean, say hello and frolic around playfully.

Chicago itself? Wicked downtown. Awesome food. Awesome architecture. I don’t know what it looks like in the suburbs to the north, as I haven’t had a reason to go there yet, but it really is a shame that it seems like the city’s core is surrounded by run-down thug-filled ghetto. Nice place to visit, dunno that I’d wanna live there. No, check that, I KNOW I wouldn’t want to live there. Ignoring the newspaper article I saw while there that asked why New York with 2 ½ times the people of Chicago has lower crime rates and murder counts, beyond the thoughtless littering, even if I didn’t care if my car was smashed, slashed, stripped, and burned… it just doesn’t feel right. If they could somehow move Chicago’s downtown core and dump it, say, over Hamilton, I’d move there. It’d be nice to live close to the stores and restaurants, the river that cuts through Chicago is really nice… and hey, no one likes Hamilton anyway. But as it is, Chicago’s a bit of a jewel in the middle of a truckload of shit. Although, I suppose if you turn a blind eye, and plug your nose, it really is a great city.

Thanks Chicago.

…Art
From the ‘hood and back