Everyone's a critic, I guess - even in this, the festive season, where goodwill to men and women of all creeds is encouraged. But, no! Not from my friends...they demand perfection at all costs! You are all vultures! Vultures, I tells ya!

But, as usual, I digress...

Anyway, you're right. The last journal entry was pathetic, and not in the ambiguously-defined archaic sense of the word, but rather the 'miserably inadequate' sense of the word. It stunk. Badly. Who was I to think that I was capable of describing my own life? A fool, that's who.

As such, today, I announce the end of this journal. I cannot continue broadcasting the stories that compose my life; that make up my very identity - nay, my very existence - merely to have them ridiculed on a regular basis by my reading public. That's not why I got into this business - I just wanted to make you smile, maybe even laugh here and there...but not this. I - I just can't take this any more. Goodbye, cruel world. Goodbye, cruel Internet. Goodbye, cruel keyboard, with your cruel numeric keypad on the right hand side, and slightly less cruel typewriter-style numerals above the letters.

HA! Fooled you!

Psych!

Merry Christmas, suckas!
Eric

I have finally started life after the Brick, as my last shift was on Wednesday. The party seemed to go well, with Tudor trying to avenge the cake-crushing incident by dropping a can of Coke while for some reason standing on one of my dining room chairs. While Tudor scored highly for artistic merit, the presentation marks from my cake destruction should be enough to keep me in first place.

I finally made my way into the mid-1990s yesterday by getting the cell phone that I had for so long put off until tomorrow. Now, I just have to find another reason for my limited social life, as people's inability to contact me is no longer valid. Maybe if I keep the phone turned off...

Alas, I am headed back to Abbotsford today to spend the next week or so with family and friends. A brief trip back to Burnaby for a family get-together on Sunday afternoon will put my Burnaby<->Abbotsford trip count to six trips in sixteen days, well on my way to the estimated ten-twelve for the entire month.

So, I say to all of you, have a Merry Christmas, a Happy Hanukkah, a Kwaazyy Kwaanzaa, a tip-top Tet, and a solemn, dignified Ramadan.

Word to your respective mothers,
Eric

So, stay tuned.

I'll give you money...

Seeing as time is quickly running out and papers are not so quickly being written, I felt it was the perfect time to skip town for a few days. With that in mind, I felt like a warm, sunny destination - someplace I could really unwind. Then it hit me - EDMONTON! Where better to beat the November blahs then the land of minus twenty and snow? Visiting Ryan and Rebecca seemed like a good idea too.

So, I land in Edmonton Friday morning, and Ryan immediately whisks me off to West Edmonton Mall. Not for shopping, or to a private hotel room, or even to ride the submarine, but to work. That's right - we headed to the Brick to do some good old fashioned Merchandising Support Centre work. In the end, I spent parts of three of the six days in Edmonton working.

But vacations aren't all about answering e-mails, crunching numbers, and writing reports - there was fun to be had! For that, I went to the fabulous Golden Palace Casino (located conveniently just above the Brick), where, through cunning and artifice, I managed to scam my way into forty dollars of hard earned casino cash (forty dollars = eight hundred nickels).

Of course, there were friends to spend time with too, as Paul, Nicki, and Andrea were out to visit Chez Dix as well. Saturday night being the only time that all of us were there, we headed out to O'Byrne's Irish Pub on Whyte Ave., Edmonton's colder and less bustling version of Robson St. I had been strongly urged to patronize this establishment by Aisling, a former employee and current colleague-in-studies at SFU. Seeing as I am quite patronizing as it is, this was not much of a stretch - and it paid off. The food was excellent, and the evening culminated in Andrea's and my mad dash back to the apartment to catch the last two periods of the hockey game. And also to do the crossword. (Note to Andrea - A four letter word for "suspend" is "HANG", not "HALT". That was why that section was messed up - my answers were right after all! Good effort, though. You were sooooo helpful to me.) <--- See how patronizing I can be?

'Twas also good to see Mary-Ann for the first time in a really long while - comparing grad school experiences and apprehensions (mainly the latter) with someone else is always a good way to get everyone else to leave the room.

Alas, the hour runs late, as I readjust to the twin PSTs of Pacific Standard Time and Provincial Sales Tax (the former taxing my mental state, the latter simply taxing me), I bid you, the reader (I assume there's only one of you) - adieu.

Eric

Back in Burnaby.

But, I thought, "maybe I'm being unfair talking about the dog this way; after all, he's old, he misses his mom and dad, he's not that bad". And on Monday night, I thought that maybe that might be true. You see, he had gone forty eight hours at that point without defecating inside, and I had actually witnessed him doing his dirty sinful business out on the lawn once (where he was supposed to do so).

So, on Monday night, when I was trying to read and I heard him plaintively giving me the "I want attention" bark from upstairs, I decided that he'd been such a gooooood boyyyyy that I would go and play with him. So we roughhoused a bit, as boy and dog have been known to do since time immemorial, and as I'm patting his stomach, I'm saying to him (because I can't help but talk to dogs), "you know, you're not so bad; I mean, we've had our rough spots, but I think you're actually starting to like me and by gosh, I just might be finding a soft spot for you too". And I tucked him into his little doggy bed, and I gave up on writing my paper and tucked myself into my little doggy bed, and we both went to sleep. Awwwwww.

Dateline: Tuesday morning - The alarm wakes me up much too early (as it is wont to do) and I go upstairs to go see the gooood puppy aren't you a goooood boyyyy yes you are a gooood boyyy and I am greeted by a foul, yet familar odour as I round the corner form the basement doorway. Looking down (without my contacts in), I see the all-too-familiar dark spot on the blue carpet. But, it had been nearly sixty hours since his past intestinal transgression, and I was still in a good mood from playing with the pup the evening before, so I turned a blind eye (metaphorically, that is; I'm not going to step in that again or am I?) and continued to the kitchen to fetch the dog his Milk-Bone. A quick glance to the left, near the kitchen table, reveals that last night was apparently doubly productive.

My good mood is fading somewhat my this point, but it was raining pretty heavily overnight, and I'm somewhat placated by the fact that I've but a day left to go. I tidy up the offences and go out back to deposit them into the, ahem, crappier (read: "compost heap"). At this point, it occurs to me that I may want to clean up the back yard, seeing as the dog has been soooooo gooooood and has being going to the bathroom predominantly where he's supposed to.

And then I see the back patio, which is obscured from view from indoors.

And I learn that the grass was just too far away from the comforts of inside, and Canus Minor has created his own constellation, Feces (Apologies to MST3K).

Well, my feelings of having bonded with the dog are completely gone by this point, but at least there's only one more day. I mean, what else could happen? (Note: Never, ever, ever, ask that question.)

So, I'm writing that paper that I had put off from the night before (read: "procrastinating and surfing the web") when I hear Junior trotting down the stairs, sniffing around, etc. Nothing out of the ordinary. Then he goes back upstairs and comes down a minute later (a bit strange, with his arthritis, he does not like to repeatedly challenge Mt. Stairwell). I hear nothing for about fifteen seconds, and then he is back upstairs. I think nothing of it (the above dialogue didn't really happen until I was piecing events together later).

A few minutes past, and I step out to get something to drink. And, then, that smell. That awful, awful, smell. Again.

Did I mention that I have brown carpeting downstairs? Here is a useful analogy to what next took place: I found the needle in the haystack, but it was by poking blindly in the hay until I jabbed my hand on something sharp. Then, shortly thereafter, I stepped in dog shit.

And at that point, and that point finally, I decided that the dog hated me. I gave up rationalizing his behaviour (and I love rationalizing things) and faced facts. The dog hates me. He had come downstairs with the sole purpose of crapping on my carpet. To paraphrase an oft-heard insult, he has all of the characteristics of a dog. Which, sadly, include loyalty. Extreme, fecal matter-expelling loyalty.

But hey, 250 bucks is 250 bucks.

Love, Eric (with help from Radar)

My new goal (in addition to the Jeopardy one, not supplanting it) is to find an extremely obcsure topic and learn everything about it. And talk about it at all available opportunities. I could turn people's reactions into a party game: I'd get one point if they subtly changed the subject, two if they abruptly or rudely asked me to stop talking, three if other people have to restrain them from physically injuring me, four if they can't, and five if I actually render someone unconscious from boredom.

I've got this planned out perfectly (some may argue with my logic on this particular point), aside from the fact that I don't have a topic on which to focus. I do have some ideas, though:

Anyway, as I remove the evidence and go out back to throw it in the garbage, I glance at the dog's handicapped access ramp (see "Dogsitting - Part One"), only to find that it is - how to put this delicately - covered in shit.

It looks as though the dog has not made it to the lawn once, and since I haven't done a real walk-around of the backyard over the past three days, what with the fact that we've had about nine inches of rain since then, I didn't notice it until now. Lucky me. Now, it was probably due to the rain and the fact that doggie didn't want to get his carpet wet (see Part One again) that things transpired in this manner, but I am not quite ready to believe that, after the stairs incident.

I mean, come on - on the stairs?!

Anyway, it's four-thirty in the afternoon, which means it's time to load the cannon again...

Love, Eric

PS - Don't get me wrong, I still love dogs. It's just that I hate them.

A few things about this dog:

- The dog wears a rug
Before the owners left, they had his hair cut, and I guess the doggie stylist gave him too close of a crewcut, because he shivered constantly afterwards. Now, I'm sure the other dogs would respect their elders, and would probably not give him a hard time if his owners put him in one of those stupid doggie sweaters. They'd probably just kind of walk by him at the fence, and try hard not to stare too much, but also not to totally look away. It would be a little awkward, but they would get used to it (he doesn't go outside much anyway). However, he does not wear a doggie sweater. Instead, he has a piece of carpet cut out and strapped around him, held together with a safety pin. The poor thing looks like the canine equivalent of an elderly man that insists on dressing himself even though he is completely senile.

- He barks in his sleep
I was sitting on the couch reading yesterday, with the pooch sleeping on the floor, underfoot, when all of a sudden, the little thing lets out a bark. Granted, he doesn't really have the strength to let go a booming, cat-menacing, child-scarring bark, but it startled me anyway. If anyone else has even seen or heard a dog bark in its sleep, let me know. (Props to Jessica for talking to a vet about this - it's actually quite common. I guess my dog is the freak; although that doesn't surprise me. -Eric, 19 Oct) This goes on to the list of why I like dogs more than cats.

- He is "differently abled"
The owners built him a ramp so that he can walk out his doggie door to the lawn when he needs to go outside. I am thinking of giving him wheels before they get back. Whitewall, with nice chrome hubcaps, and maybe replace the carpet with leather. Also some flames down the side, and his name in fancy lettering across his forehead.

Essentially, I am looking after an old person that I feed once a day and occasionally pat its head - in exchange, I am getting two hundred and fifty bucks and the use of a bigger television for a couple of weeks. Nobody loses (depending on the outcome of me tricking out the dog).

Eric
Burnaby, BC