03/28/2004 - 04/04/2004
what's the world coming to?
- GWB admits that the CIA uses super double secret prisons in Eastern Europe.
- Steve'Crocadile Hunter' Irwin went and commited suicide-by-stingray. The great state of Australia even offered to give him a state funeral. Would Canada give David Sazuki a state funeral? That's the best Canadian equivalent I can think of.
I took wee bairn Ben for an expedition on the bus and subway down to the Eaton Centre. He is so cheap to entertain. We spashed in fountains, threw pennies in fountains, rode escalators and elevators, and ate ice cream. Then we decide to explore Old City Hall. Who knew they had metal detectors at the door? I had to check my Uzi at the door. We prowled around the building unchalleneged. Nobody thought to question why we were wandering down narrow corridors and peeping in random offices. It's interesting to watch dull judicial procedure, it's not all Law & Order high drama. One court clerk gestured that we should remove our hats when we stopped by pay-your-parking-ticket-day and a bailif shoed us away from a window for making faces at a the man on trial. The best part of the adventure was taking an elevator to the secret fourth floor and exploring unlocked, unmarked file rooms. I wonder if someone will notice the mild relabelling we did. We were even able to walk into the attic space where the exposed rafters and ductwork is. (If you have ever been to the attic at Casa Loma, it's like that. Long, high, peaked ceilings. Awesome.) We could have wandered further in the attic but I was afriad the door would close and lock behind us.
Good thing we weren't terr'ist or they'd be sorry. Also I hope no terr'sts read Goin' Ape. Actually I DO hope terr'ists read Goin' Ape.
Dear Terr'ist, welcome. Everything I said about Old City Hall is a lie. They actually have very high security. Guard Dogs, machine guns, hoods, testicle-shocker, the whole nine. Don't bomb the courts.
Renny's back. Lord Have Mercy on our sinner souls. I told my sister the other day that the idea of going back to another year (or two) at York is like lying on your stomach drinking from a muddy puddle and picking little rocks out from beneath your teeth and every few minutes someone walks by and steps on your back or your head without apologizing and you can't see their faces and the only time you get to leave is once you've drank the entire puddle.
But that's just one way of looking at it. I have good moments up there. I suppose by preparing myself with the mud puddle metaphor I'll be ready for anything.
So I finally caved.
I've got a cell phone now. It's moderatley upsetting however apparently now people will actually be able to contact me reliably and whenever neccesary. Yay.
So hopefully this was a good idea, I'll see after a few months of paying cell phone bills.
EDIT: I posted the number up here at first for about two minutes and then suffered an attack of common sense.
If anyone wants the new cell number let me know and I'll email it to you.
a fantastic summary of the Exquisite Corpse's collected essays (first volume anyway, 'Thus Spake the Corpse'), from Eran Williams, letter-writer:
Let me drop this one on you: we are god's pets. Fat cats and dogs in the old man's house. As the rest of the house gets ratty from our claws and urine and spray the old man just feeds more and more wet food to us and we take it. Sometimes we fight. Sometimes we die. But god, even though he kicked us out of the living room, likes to have us around. He likes it when we rub up against him, warm the vacant half of the bed and meow for our food. The other things in creation, the trees and the seas, the sun and soil, they are a lot like furniture. We wreck the furniture but god doesns't mind, he likes us. God is not dead. When he is dead no one will be able to open the cans of cat food and we will die. Nietzsche was just a tom cat. Nietzsche was one of god's favourites.
So major combat operations have ended for my work. Though the bureaucracy snarled up a lot of stuff – other than the lengthy wait for it to start I was listed on my badge as “Jacob [Hilarious mispelling]” and on the website as “Jason [My last name]” – I thought it was really good. On the very first day I dazzled my co-workers with my brilliance:
“So, how do you tell which side the elevators stop at and which they don’t?”
“Well Jacob, there’s a trick you can memorize to help you out. See, on this side where there are elevator doors, the elevators stop. But on this side where there’s only a glass wall they don’t.”
It was nice work, and I was mistaken for a doctor once which is cool, but slightly lonely. I mean, I said hi to the secretaries then went to my cellphone-receptionless office and typed all day. My isolation bread strange thoughts in my head as I began to anthropomorphize the medications: “Oh Nifedipine is shy but a real peach when you get to know her. Not like that haughty Captopril bitch or those awful squabbling siblings– Tacrolimus and Cyclosporine.” My favourite drug names thought were “Warfarin” and “Rats”. The scene practically writes itself:
Villager: What are you doing?
Still when I did emerge from my cave my sartorial selection was not what it should be as I had ran out of nice clothing. Instead I was attired in t-shirts, ripped-jeans and my duct-tapped up headphones perched on top my head (“Unprofessional? Fuck, this is how we roll in the department of Cardiology!”) This proved to be a slight problem when I came in one Sunday finding I had misplaced my badge. I asked security to let me in.
“No one of that name here.”
“Oh, sorry I meant Jason [My last name]. I always get my first name mixed up.”
“I’ll need to see photo ID please.”
I handed him my drivers license and he let me in without a word. It was actually slightly sketchy how easy I could get stuff.
“Hey my name’s Jacob, can I look at this confidential medical information.”
“Knock yourself out.”
Course it made my job a lot easier. I repaid them by filling their binder with snarky little post-it notes (“<-- ??? this cant be right- 104% = stat impossible”)
And now I'm in Kingston but I locked myself out of my house. Good times.