On the entrance doors at Metrotown, there are signs attached for Naviskaters - people wearing rollerblades patrolling the mall to help shoppers in need. Regardless of the fact that I think that I've only ever seen one of these folk, one of the questions that they can supposedly help you with is 'Where is my favourite store?' How are they supposed to know what your favourite store is? And if it's your favourite, don't you already (by definition) know where it is?

My esteemed cohort of grad students has decided to resurrect the T-shirt slogan idea. At the last caucus meeting, one of the students (Tim) brought it up as a joke. And everyone ran with it. If you don't know what I'm talking about, scroll down to two entries from February and April. Anyway, it was suggested that last year's winning slogan, "History: Because math is hard", be stricken from the competition. The motion was seconded and unanimously supported. I introduced the motion.

I am preparing new slogans as we speak. The T-shirt slogan is the thing that wouldn't die.

I have finished two drafts of the first chapter of my thesis, and one draft of the second chapter. Don't let all of these numbers confuse you, the thesis is still pointless.

I sold my computer today. As a result, I made more money today than in any day this year aside from getting my tax refund in May. Woo hoo.

I'm writing the Customs Officer test in two weeks, so that I can get a decent paying job for the summer. As far as I can tell, if I get the job, I get to be trained in the use of force and the handling of firearms. This can only be a good thing.

There are under three weeks remaining until the final for History 101. Oh boy. I can't wait.

Go Lions!

This concludes today's sampling of random thoughts. Next time, I'll try for something cohesive (or at least coherent).

I sent you an email a few days ago but my computer has been on the fritz so I guess it didn't go through. Here's the deal, a week or so ago I accidentally threw my friend through another friends stained glass door. Now he wants $900 to cover the door. I'm still interested but I have no money to actually pay for the pads. So I dont know if you have other interested parties or not but I guess I'm out of the running for a little bit.

Now, first of all, how does one 'accidentally' throw one's through a glass door? Also, I enjoyed the seeming indignance of the "Now he wants $900 to cover the door". What a piker his buddy is, huh? Anyway, why would he tell me this in detail? Why not just say that he can't come up with the money? I don't understand people sometimes...anyway, now I'm worried because I gave him my address to come and pick the pads up - I'm expecting a car (or maybe a friend) to come flying through my bedroom window at any moment.

Maybe he was joking...?

I hope so.

So, here's a sampling of what I've been up to in the last month. In sort of timeline-y fashion. With interesting comments that you will laugh at or ignore.

2 October: Wrote the LSAT. Came out of it thinking that I could have done better, but also trying to figure out whether the experimental section was the one that I thought it was. The insanely difficult section that I had about half completed when time was almost up and guessed the other answers. It better have been that one. Time to think of job options for History MAs.

9-10 October: Thanksgiving weekend in Abbotsford. Ate too many potatoes. For a normal person, that is - I was fine with them. Had big turkey dinners on Saturday and Sunday nights, then, I think, Kraft Dinner on Thanksgiving itself. But I was very thankful for it.

15 and 19 October: Midterm review Jeopardy! (TM) with my beloved students. I warned them that if any of them addressed me as 'Alex', they would be summarily dismissed from the room. I did call many of them 'Ken', though. Also, I got to practice sounding really condescending in saying, "No, I'm sorry, the question was 'Who was Jean-Baptiste Colbert?'"

20 October: The midterm itself. Now, I don't know if any of my students are enterprising enough to track this website down, so I can't really say all that much bad about them, even if I want to. So, you'll have to hear about how bad they all were from me in person. It was fun to walk around the classroom like the Gestapo though, slapping wrists and rapping knuckles of those who dared write their answer single-spaced.

21-25 October: Marking said midterm. I've already complained enough about this to and with my fellow TAs. It's not as fun as it seems.

22 October: Got my LSAT marks back. Looks like I was right about the experimental section - now the fun of application begins. Should be a barrel full of fun. I'll keep you posted.

Twelve months after I find out.

All throughout this time, I have been working on my thesis - continually paring down the scope of the article in order to really focus my historical analysis. It is now a case study of how a blister on the foot of the third-place caber tosser at the 1907 Vancouver Caledonian Games symbolizes the changes in society for women and minorites in the Lower Mainland, which leads into my overall defence of postmodernism; namely, that truth cannot be absolutely determined about any issue, as long as one narrows the scope of reference to something so minor and insignificant that its own insignificance historically logically concludes that truth is an absurdity, knowledge meaningless, and therefore fact is relative dependent upon one's assumptions.

Also, I'm really hoping to get into law school next year.

That's about enough for now - I have more detailed anaysis of tartan chafing to write about.

Case in point: yesterday afternoon, Andrea and I were driving to Metrotown from my place, when this seemingly insane old man drove up behind us. Now, I drive down Imperial towards Kingsway, and there is a series of four (4) four (4)-way stops (are you following me?). He caught up to us at the second one, by passing the car behind us and tailgating us through the intersection, not having stopped. He didn't pass us through the next two stops, but he ran them without stopping, all the while being about 6 cm from the rear fender of Andrea's car. It was then that I noticed in the rear-view mirror (I was driving) that:

a) this car had a handicapped sign hanging from its rear-view mirror;

and

B) in the passenger seat, I kid you not, was a Raggedy Andy-ish doll about the size of an eleven-year-old child. I believe it had a seatbelt on.

After initially appearing to want to head straight through the intersection at Kingsway, he decided that he would turn right (again following us). I'm not sure if he was senile or insane (he was probably in his sixties) but he passed us on the left, went to the far left lane, his right turn signal on the whole way, and then cut of three lanes of oncoming traffic and turned left onto a side street, his right turn signal still blinking.

Anyway, I was so perplexed/freaked out that I didn't get the licence plate, but I'm sure it was part of an ICBC report about six minutes later.

I hope that it wasn't a crazy uncle of anyone I know, but the whole incident reminded me of other things about driving that annoy me in the Vancouver area.

49th Avenue Right-lane Jockeys:
I chose 49th because I drive it often enough, but this probably happens everywhere. It is a one-lane road (mostly) and has only two dedicated left-turn lanes at major intersections, but it usually divides into two lanes before them, to allow traffic to flow. Many people just get into the right lane whether or not the traffic in the left lane is turning, then have to merge back after the intersection, lest they slam into one of the many minivans parked anywhere between Cambie and Boundary. But they fear the merge. They sit in the right lane, and wait. Then you give them time and space to pull in, but they sit in the right lane, afraid that you're just slowing down to let them THINK that they can pull in to the lane in front of you and then BAM! you rear-end them and now they get a free car repair and a bettger courtesy car than they have now, while you foot the bill for the next ten years of higher car insurance. If you don't have the urge to merge, wait it out in the left lane before the intersection.

Grandview Highway-hoppers:
When you drive east on Grandview Highway towards Highway 1, there are three lanes before Boundary. Please read carefully.

Now, this isn't much of a factor right now, in early September, when the temperature is still relatively warm. And for me, it might not be a factor for some time, as I am apparently more silicon than carbon and function seemingly better in near-freezing climes. However, when it's mid-November, minus three degrees, and freezing rain/snow out, I might see where the lack of warmth could become a problem.

Now, we also are not equipped with any space heater, fireplace, or hotplate, but we do have a metal-looking garbage can, and the department is well-served with fire extinguishers and hoses (just in case), so I feel that a little bit of creativity can solve this problem. Or get me an office to myself. By killing the other office dwellers through CO poisoning.

Now, the nice thing about this office is that it is south-facing, which has two advantages. First, it faces the sun (most of the daytime), which means that it will become unbearably hot in here on any decently warm, clear day. Also, facing south means that if I strain and look over the science building, the trees surrounding campus, and am not blinded by the sun, I can see parts of Burnaby, Surrey, Delta, New Westminster, Vancouver, and Richmond laid out beneath me. As long as it's not cloudy. Which it will be starting tomorrow. And ending in May.

Oh, and of course, I am running my first tutorial tomorrow morning at 9:30. Now, I am going to have to read through all of the university's ethical guidelines to see if publishing stories of anonymous student idiocy on ne'er-read websites is in contravention of those rules. Not that I will be stopped from doing so, but I'd kind of like to know.

So stay tuned, as I have an office now, which is a convenient place from which to type out journal entries.

Well, the biggest part of my last month was the trip to New York with Andrea from the 5th to what turned out to be the 12th of August. All in all, the trip was great. If you want to hear about all the great stuff that I did, you'll have to ask me in person, mainly because typing everything out here is not something that I feel like doing. You don't want to hear about where I ate breakfast, which is good because I don't remember any of the names of the restaurants. (McDunnels? Burbur King?) Just rest assured that I had many bagels with cream cheese. The first two full days in Manhattan involved an approximate seven point three million hours of walking. Essentially, we traveled every street, avenue, and oadway in Manhattan going each way. Needless to say, the details of those two days are somewhat of a blur of horn-honking, fake Rolexes, and searing foot pain to me. So that you all know, the McDonald's on Canal Street has a bouncer in front of the bathrooms. But the one in Greenwich has a bouncer that you can easily beat up.

On Monday, we decided to go to a Yankees game. Not wanting to pay the additional two dollar Ticketmaster fascism surcharge, we (OK, I) figured that the game wouldn't be near sold out and we could buy tickets on game day. Now, another word to the wise: don't do this. I'm not one to buy scalped tickets, and buying them in the heart of the Bronx is another story altogether. The scalpers there don't seem to have the same genial relationship that they do with the cops in Vancouver. Anyway, even if scalping tickets were legal in New York, at the price that we paid, the guy could have been arrested for sodomy (though I think NY is pretty liberal that way, what with Hillary Clinton and a borough named Queens). Well, we got to the game, and the Yankees lost to the worst team of all time, the Blue Jays. They said at the game that alcohol was no longer allowed in the bleachers because of the violence that it caused. I understand. We were sitting amidst several YMCA day camp groups. I wouldn't have wanted to see them when they were belligerent. On the plus side, I didn't give my backpack to one of the street-corner 'bag check' guys with hand-written placards reading 'CHEK BAGS HEAR'. I only gave him Andrea's purse.

Going to the Statue of Liberty on Tuesday morning was also an interesting experience. You see, the statue and Liberty Island are a national park site, so the on-site administration is done by a group of forest rangers that appeared to have had one too many pick-a-nick baskets stolen by bears that might not quite have been as smart as they had claimed. After approximately thirty-seven security scans that involved X-rays, air jets, questionnaires, credit checks, and multiple body cavity searches, we were moved into a small outdoor court at the foot of the statue, where a line-ish thing had formed. Once the concept of orderly lining up had been thrown out the window, and about 150 people were crushing towards the doors, the ranger announced that 60 people would be allowed in. The rangers seemed taken aback that people who had been waiting outside for half an hour or so became upset when they were held out because the idiots had no idea how to run a giant statue. As we stood outside, unable to move because we were surrounded on all sides by overweight Americans complaining, I casually asked Andrea if it was worth mentioning the irony of the situation, and despite her answer, I did anyway. After a few more minutes of waiting, we finally got into the base of the statue (which has been converted entirely into a giant security scanning station - it's a good thing that we didn't go to Ellis Island - I have a feeling that 'processing immigrants' has a different meaning nowadays, and probably explains why American schoolkids' lunches taste so bad). By the time that we actually got to the viewing deck of the statue, we were so fed up that we stayed for about two minutes and then left. Sixteen security checks later, we were back in Manhattan. Apparently, there were no terrorists in my wallet or colon.

Wednesday found us heading back home. It was a good thing that we got to LaGuardia Airport three hours before our flight, because it was delayed for another hour and a half due to a thunderstorm. With flights being compressed and canceled, ours was completely full, when we had expected a nice, half-full plane. Knowing that we only had 37 minutes to connect to our flight to Vancouver in Dallas, we were pretty sure that we would have a quick overnight stay in Texas. Suddenly flight insurance seemed like a good idea. Others on the plane did not take the delay as nobly as us. The woman in front of us (I called her Permascowl) made it abundantly clear that she was SUPPOSED TO BE IN FIRST CLASS ON HER OTHER FLIGHT but AMERICAN AIRLINES PUT HER IN THE BACK OF THIS PLANE and SHE HAD TO CONNECT TO AUSTIN but HER FLIGHT HAD BEEN CANCELLED. Apparently, she HAD TO BE IN COURT AT NINE THE NEXT MORNING and AMERICAN AIRLINES WOULD GET A NICE LETTER FROM HER and she WOULD GET ALL KINDS OF BONUS MILES FOR THIS. Curse you, American Airlines, and your inability to control the weather! I assumed that she was a person that jumped in front of cars and sued the drivers, but apparently, she only represents them. Anyway, after she had tried in vain to go TALK TO THE CAPTAIN HERSELF, she was moved to the front of the plane and another couple was moved to her (and her unwitting neighbour's) seat, so that she could GET OFF THE PLANE RIGHT AWAY. I thought a parachute and an open door over Austin (parachute optional) could have accomplished the task just as easily, but I guess American Airlines would have had to give even more bonus miles for that. After three most interesting tours of Terminal A of Dallas-Ft. Worth Airport by a mildly insane Holiday Inn Courtesy Shuttle driver, we got to our hotel in North Dallas (after having passed multiple steakhouses and boot warehouses). Seven hours later, we were back on the shuttle the other way, with a slightly less insane (and therefore less memorable) driver. By 10:00 in the morning, we had arrived in Vancouver. Adventure over, right?

Well, you know where this is going. After clearing customs, we waited for our baggage (which was Andrea's two suitcases). The first, the smaller of the two, came off the carousel fine. The larger one came down, and when I took it off, I noticed that the handle was a bit stiff. As I turned it around, I noticed that the entire side of the suitcase was smashed in, the handle was stiff because it was warped out of shape, and the fabric was torn and ragged. Soooooo....a trip is made over to the baggage counter. Forty-five minutes later, we had a replacement suitcase (with no wheels) and were on our way. A quick bus trip and short walk later, we were back at Andrea's, where we relaxed by moving furniture and appliances upstairs in preparation for the new tenants at her place, and her move up two floors.

But, the trip was excellent. I promise.

Now, I will digress somewhat. Despite the fact that I was railing on Permascowl, Esq. a few minutes ago, I have registered to write the LSAT in October. I took my first logic games practice test yesterday and got 22/24 on it. So, what I'm saying, is that I will destroy all of you that are planning on writing the LSAT in October. Not just the few of you whom I know, but everyone. In North America. You might want to consider an academic career in the Department of History. At SFU. There might be a vacancy next year. No, I am not overconfident.

Has anyone been thrown out fo the testing centre before for excessive celebration or taunting? Or is it only a ten-yard penalty added on to the kick-off? We'll find out in six weeks.

Well, I've had enough of this.

Part of this process involved calling in to Fido's customer service to cancel my account there. Now, apparently, Andrea found out that one can only cancel their service before 5:00 PM, which seemed somewhat odd to me, but today I found out why.

I call in today, get put on hold for five minutes or so, then get the call centre guy, to whom I explain that I wish to cancel my service. He says OK, so I think that this will be easy. He asks to put me on hold for "Customer Relations". So, I'm thinking that this will be great - I know what's coming.

Another guy gets on the phone after a minute or two. Now, I can't really blame this guy for being somewhat indignant. I'm sure he's spent the entire day answering calls from customers switching their coverage because of this promotion. Both Telus locations that I was at in the past two days had boxes after boxes of old Fido phones that were getting traded in. Also, the guy had somewhat of an annoying French accent (Fido is based in Montreal, I think).

Here is about how our conversation went:
Him: (In annoying French accent) So, I understand that you are wishing to cancel your service.
Me: That's right.
Him: So you want to cancel your phone service, even though it is the best rate in the industry?
Me: I would like to cancel my service, please.
Him: (In an accusatory, and still annoying, French accent) Are you changing service as a result of another company's promotion that allows you to trade in your Fido phone?
Me: As a matter of fact, I am.
Him: (Starting to sound hurt, but still annoying and French) Do you think that this is a good business practice, allowing Fido phones to be traded in to other companies, no?
Me: That's enough, I want to cancel my service effective immediately.
Him: (Sounding as though I have just strangled his French poodle in front of his children) We at Fido respect your decision.
Me: Thank you and good day.
(Click.)

They actually tried to guilt me into keeping my inferior phone coverage. Now, I'm sure that this promotion is going to hurt Fido. But, would anyone actually decide not to cancel their service because some guy over the phone tries to make you feel bad about it? He had already confirmed that I was in the building of the competition, purchasing another phone. Anyway, the whole phone call reeked of desperation, which leads me to believe that maybe Fido won't be around for much longer.

Anyway, I hated those commercials from a couple of years ago with that annoying woman teaching a classroom of dogs.

Karma.

But, I now have a job for the fall, with full medical benefits, which means I will get to go to the dentist again! It's good that my teeth are naturally so strong and healthy, and that I brush and floss regularly though.

But I digress. I've also been given a task by my supervisor that should finally solidify my place in an 'Acknowledgments' section of a published book - I will be editing a series of papers that he has written, prior to their publication. My long-standing struggle to obtain any degree of literary legitimacy might come to an end in a flourish of ephemeral marginalia in a book that a limited amount of scholars will read and desperate undergraduate students will plagiarize. If it gets published before my thesis. If that gets published. Which will only happen if I stop writing this journal entry and get back to the reason that I am up at SFU right now, which is to work on aforementioned thesis. And so, I bid you adieu once again.

Also, Andrea and I have decided, somewhat on a whim, that we're going to head to New York City from the 5th to the 11th of August. It kind of came about the other day when one of Andrea's roommates was telling us about her recent trip there, and later on we just kind of said "Why don't we do that?", and so we are. So, we got us a cheap flight (with a convenient lay-over in Dallas/Fort Worth both ways - don't mess with Texas!) and a room at the Manhattan Y, and there you go, we're on our way! Now, my only job is to avoid being killed while there (Mom, don't read this). Of course, our first impression of the city will be their undoubtedly well-maintained subway system, as we will be arriving at LaGuardia. At some point, I also plan to cheer for the visiting team at Yankee Stadium, which might well be as dangerous as the subway being driven by a crack-addicted loner with nothing to lose. Especially if he's sitting behind me at the game wearing a Yankees hat and holding a Derek Jeter-autographed chainsaw.

So, I anticipate that it should be a lot of fun. My request for Letterman tickets is currently pending (couldn't get tickets to Conan), though even if I am randomly selected from their list of entries, I must still answer a trivia question related to the show. Something probably along the lines of "Who was the intern to the assistant gaffer on the 'Late Show' set from 1998 to 2000?" Of course, they'll try to trick me into thinking that it was Phil Andrews, when everyone knows that he got fired in late 1999, and the correct answer is Jacob Kerr. Duh.

And, of course, we're going to do the tours of Really Big Buildings and Famous Things That You See In Movie Backdrops That Let The Hero Know That He's Really On Earth, as well as a day of Places With Funny-Sounding Acronyms, like MOMA, MSG, TriBeCa, SoHo, and BRONX (Bring Rifle Or Need X-Rays).

If I make it back, ask me about it.

Actually, I'm pretty sure he's just a new employee here and just unsure about everything as of yet. I'm sure he'll work out to be a credit to the Archives. He seems pretty cool.

So, I have decided to plan out the next two weeks of my life to revolve mainly around working on my thesis. I have found that as long as I have a schedule to follow (even if I made it myself, and it has no real bearing to real life, and I do not stand to disappoint anybody should I not stick to it) I will mindlessly do so, thereby producing a large quantity of work that looks impressive from a distance but is in actuality incoherent. The two weeks before I went to Guelph I had such a schedule to follow, which made me spend usually six to eight hours a day on research, and resulted in the production of Chapter One of my thesis, entitled "The Social Role of Maniacal Marsupials in Vancouver's Pygmy Population, 2500-2000 BC". My supervisor has subtly hinted that some re-working may be necessary. Also, I got a whole ream of papers to carry around, so that when I run into a fellow grad student, I can make them think that I've done way more work than they have, thus either sending them into a spiral of self-doubt, or else forcing them to redouble their efforts to write a much better paper than mine.

Anyway, now that I've taken the time to jot down some ramblings for the first time in quite a while, I should return to Chapter Two, "Gender and Pepsi in International Sideburn Trends".

At least I got to watch Game 7 of the Final on the big screen with another guy from BC that I ran in to at the sports bar. Of course, there was something unnatural about hearing 'The Tampa Bay Lightning have won the Stanley Cup'. Another internal shudder, though that may have been partially caused by the fact that I was, in fact, rooting for the Flames for the first time in my life. That is making me shudder as I type this.

As for the studying, it is going pretty well - I spent yesterday mulling through century-old journals in the archives, and today, my microform material arrived from the off-campus storage annex, so I got to go through that. Any feeling of Christmas morning-like joy that I got from getting two boxes full of film reels handed to me as a gift wore away quickly as I resumed the time-tested practice of lightbulb-staring. (Can I fit any more hypenated words in one sentence? Very Eric-like.)

What has really been throwing me here, however, is the time change. Many days when I was working at the Brick I would look longingly at the clock at 2:00, thinking that I could be off of work had I been in the Eastern Time Zone. Now, when it gets dark here at 9:00, I think about the hours of light still available at home. I could care less if the morning starts earlier here; summer evenings are the best time, and now it's dark here and not dark at home. Also, every food service place on campus closes between 5 and 6 PM, which my Pacific stomach cannot fathom. Having stayed in the library until about 6:15 today, I found myself having to walk out to a grocery store to buy a dinner that I could eat without real preparation. Pre-packaged sliced turkey in a wrap is not exactly fine dining.

And, then, of course, there's my living quarters - or my living sixteenths, which is about the fraction of my room at home in which I am now cramped. I cannot understand how a student could live here for the entire school year. Perhaps I have been spoiled with such things as a place to stand outside of my bed. Of course, the shower and its adjoining change room are smaller than my shower alone at home. No sense being greedy, I guess. At least I'm in room 7 on my floor, as room 9 is directly adjacent to the washroom, whose toilet flushes with approximately the noise level of a rock group operating jackhammers while playing a concert on top of the Space Shuttle as it takes off. I hope that Guelph doesn't have a seismic research department.

So, I'm halfway done my Ontario trip. Two more days of research plus a day in Toronto for fun before I come back. Six days away on my own is enough more me - I'm not much of a solitary traveller. I miss Andrea (she knows how much, so I won't dwell on it), but she has sent with me a supply package for each day, which has been wonderful - snacks for the flight, home-baked cookies, candy - I love this girl!

So, depending on how bored I get between now and Saturday, I'll update this again. Until then;

All the best,
Eric
Guelph, ON

Anyway, since the last time I wrote, I defended my prospectus (successfully), took several weeks off of schoolwork, worked at the Brick for five days; endured thrice that amount of time in ridicule for doing so, got back into the swing of doing research, alternated days between the City Archives and various libraries, looked after Radar, went to the interior, lost horribly at poker, and &c.

Now, I'm planning on the ultimate summer vacation - a week-long research trip to beautiful Guelph, Ontario! So next Monday I get to hop on a big plane (bringing my own food, as it's a Jetsgo flight) and then bus out to a dorm room/hostel where I will reside for the balance of the week. The highlight for me, however, should come on Saturday, when I plan to make my way back to the Hockey Hall of Fame in Toronto, for, uh, research. Yeah, that's it. They have lots about Highland Games there.

And, of course, should anything humourous happen on that trip, I will be sure to chronicle it right here, in the journal, sometime in early October.

Or not.

Later,
Eric

My landlords have decided to take another vacation, this time to Florida for nine days. As gratitude for the fact that my rent has largely paid for this and their last vacation, they afforded me the twice-in-a-lifetime opportunity to doggysit my old pal Radar. Now, faithful readers of my journal (read: I) will remember how much fun this experience was for me back in October. However, they are paying me $125 for the week (and a bit), and I really can't say no.

Well, Radar has undergone a bit of a demotion since we met him last; whereas he had free roam of the house before, he has now been relegated to the abandoned pool room, which has been re-fitted with a makeshift doghouse, and doggy door cut out of the wall. Apparently his defecatory difficulties were not limited to October, so his owners got rid of stairs, ramps, etc. and put him on ground level. He can walk right out from his room to the back patio. Of course, there are two stairs from the patio to the grass. Therefore, he has made it to the grass to tend to his business but once this entire week.

But I'm used to that by now. However, last week, the dog managed to cut his right hind paw somehow. Last Thursday, I came upstairs to find bloody paw prints all over the pool room and back porch. After realizing the situation and cleaning his paw off once, I saw that he was no longer bleeding, so I resolved to keep an eye on him. The next two days, he managed to control the bleeding of the cut to the point that he only bled during the hours that local veterinary clinics were closed, and looked remarkably fine during the day. Andrea took a good look at the paw, and didn't notice anything that might be causing it, so I made sure to keep an eye on him yet again. He wasn't limping any more than your typical nineteen-year-old arthritic dog should be (in my estimation). Since the bleeding has stopped for the last four days, he has decided to let me know that he's feeling OK again by voiding his bowels in the most frustrating and difficult-to-clean areas of his stomping grounds (ie - one step away from the grass, the sliding door track that divides indoors from outdoors at his doggy door, etc., etc.).

And, after going to Game 7 last night, I realize that I should have bought a Calgary Flames area rug to cover the floor in the pool room. Sure, it wouldn't have changed the result of the series, but in retrospect, the timing was there and I missed out. Next time, I guess...

This journal entry has faded into even more mindless babbling that usual. I apologize.

Love,
Eric

Basically, I have shut myself off from most of the outside world for the bulk of the last two weeks, as paper-writing season is in full swing. Essentially, the only people to interact with me in that period have been either in my class, supervising my thesis, or dating me. In that time, I have managed to write a pair of essay drafts, though I am not out of the woods yet. I still must retouch and present one of the papers, while the other I must submit to my supervisor so that he might suggest improvements to it. Though I'm pretty confident that all will be well (or at least most will be well), I can't shake the fear that he will tear it apart, spit on it, throw it to the floor, and dance upon it while referring to it as "my grave". Though that scenario is probably unlikely, the insanity that I have developed being cooped up for the last four days typing does not help in allaying these thoughts. To top that off, I know that the marathon of academia that I am currently in is only about half over. Hopefully, these two papers will be out of the way by next Thursday, so that I can take Easter weekend off (and go to game two of the Canucks series with Andrea on Friday or Saturday - suckers!). After that, I get to frantically research archival materials in the Vancouver City Archives, then write a thesis prospectus, then submit it to my committee, then get it back, then re-work it, then defend it by the end of the month. And of course, months seem to go by quickly. Especially when we lose hours of them now and then.

That was supposed to be my segue into the whole Daylight Saving rant that I had. It was really funny. I wrote it, filled it with witticisms, and proposed that we switch the hour that we lose to 3:30-4:30 PM on Friday afternoons. I'll let you guys and gals guess all of the funny stuff that I would have said about that. But now, after typing this journal entry twice, I'm just tired and want to go to bed.

But I'll still save more daylight than any of you. Suckas.

Eric

So, the next day, as I was basking in the glory of respect from my colleagues (I figure non-academic respect still counts as respect), an e-mail from one of the Ph.D. candidates comes through. It reads as follows:

Dear all,

To my surprise I have not seen any comments on the t-shirt slogan and I am wondering if it's due to the silent majority mentality. Often I belong to that group but this time I thought I should speak up, majority or not.

Let me start by pointing out that I had asked to change my e-mail address and instead was off the grad e-list for a while. I suspect that most t-shirt related e-mails fell into this time frame as I only received one about this back in January.

My first thought on the selected slogan, apart from disbelief, was the following epigram by the German author and poet Erich Kaestner. (His books were among those burned during the Third Reich!)

"Was auch immer geschieht - nie sollt ihr so tief sinken: von dem Kakao, durch den man euch zieht, auch noch zu trinken."

My apologies to those who do not read German. The translation reads something like this:

"What ever may happen, never should you sink so low that you subscribe to the ridicule you are subjected to by others."

At times like these when (some) universities place question marks behind certain departments, especially from the Humanities, I feel that we should show a little more self-confidence about our discipline.

Admittedly I would not have thought about this prior to yesterday's e-mail but I feel that something like: History - Math can be done by computers or History - Science just can't explain everything would serve us better.

Cheers,
G--- H--------- - B----

AUDENTES FORTUNA IUVAT

*****

So, needless to say, I was somewhat taken aback. This e-mail was followed up by several others supporting this claim (all of which, incidentally, came from students who were in at least the second year of their graduate program). Tim, one of my fellow first-year students followed up with an e-mail affirming that the popular vote had been fairly tabulated and that those who were upset should deal with the fact democracy can not please everyone, and even at that, those complaining should lighten up. By this point, I felt an obligation as author of the offending slogan, to put forth my two cents:

Greetings all,

Seeing as I am the creator of the slogan at the centre of this imbroglio, allow me to throw in a word or two (or several more) edgewise. First off, I must say that of the slogans that I put forth, this was far from my favourite. That said, I submitted it; the people voted for it; democracy ran its course. Democracy, much like humour, isn't working properly if nobody is pissed off about it. This slogan was intended as a light-hearted, humourous assessment of what I perceive to be a misguided view of the arts in general. To Ms. H------- - B----'s contention that the department is lowering themselves to the point where we believe that such uninformed notions of history (and the arts and humanities) in general, I submit that if anyone in the department actually took this slogan literally, they would immediately pack their bags and leave (I don't think that the money is good enough to keep us here otherwise). I agree with Tim's assertion that self-deprecating humour is a sign of confidence, rather than an admission of inadequacy. Finally, at a personal level, I intended this statement to be ironic: throughout most of my life, and especially now that I am in a graduate program, I have not thought history to be any easier than math, nor do I think it is in any way less relevant in the greater scope of academia. I view the study of history as extremely important; as I said above, I would not have pursued it to this level were that not the case. I am sure that most of you would agree that anything important to one's life and one's identity can be a source of emotional extremes - in academic study, this can often manifest itself as stress. As Oscar Wilde once said, "life is too important to be taken seriously". So, I would say, is graduate school.

That's all I've to say.

Thanks for reading.

Eric

***** After this went out, I recieved a few e-mails supporting my statement, and the heated nature of the debate that was now taking place led the History Student Union Rep to send out a mass e-mail asking everyone to cool down on the matter, and that it would be discussed at next week's caucus meeting. So, one might think that would be the end of it, right?

Wrong.

On Tuesday, several more e-mails are in my inbox on the subject, some directed solely to myself, some to the entire mailing list. Certain people have taken the liberty to add new suggestions for the slogan that play on the situation at hand. Others have decided to undertake direct attacks on the personality of the first complainant. One fellow grad student, whom I have never met, sent me the following e-mail, which outlined her rationale as to why the fuss was being caused:

Morning, Eric,

I'm among those who understood that the victorious slogan was intended as irony; my objection to it (which some of the comments apparently bear out) is that an alarming proportion of North Americans don't GET irony. If Swift published his "Modest Proposal" here and now, he'd almost certainly be lynched, journalistically and maybe physically.

I'm not sure I like the proposed alternatives, but I haven't been able to come up with anything else. Surely it's possible to say something good about ourselves without showing defensiveness towards other disciplines.

I don't think I'm personally acquainted with anyone involved in this, since I never get up there; I certainly can't put faces to any of the other names. That makes the discussion all the more fascinating.

Cheers,

J---

*****

That argument did not hold water for me, so I responded as such:

Hello J---,

Thanks for taking the time to write me about this. Like you, I am not up on campus enough to put faces to most of these names either. I'd like to respectfully address a couple of your points:

First, I am not sure that most North Americans do not understand irony. I have believed this from time to time, but I try to have more faith in humanity than that. I think that most people do understand irony, but are too afraid to admit so. The rigours of political correctness being what they are, people feel that they can't be ironic for fear of offending someone. Those who are openly ironic without worry of being offensive thus often become popular symbols, because they say what other people want to.

But, say I concede the point that most North Americans do not understand irony. Does this, then, preclude it from being a part of a university culture? Do most North Americans 'get' the struggles of aboriginal people in North America? Do they have a conception of the Zapatista rebellions in Mexico (to take an example from my current course with Prof. Dawson)? Do they understand the dynamics of ideas of 'cultural authenticity', and all that it entails, politically and socially? I think the answer is no to all of the above. Personally, I cannot see a difference between the presence of these ideas and irony in universities (especially in the arts).

More specifically to the events at hand, I understood the slogan contest to be for the graduate department alone. I understand that we are representatives of the department within the university, but I would also like to think that one of the major tenets of any university education is the development of critical thinking skills. I would hope that if an SFU student saw a person wearing a shirt bearing the slogan in question, and actually read it, they would not come off with the impression that history students pursue their careers solely because it is an easy path in life. If so, then I think that those people arguing that university entrance standards are too high might need to reconsider their thoughts (there's that elitist side of me that I was trying to hide earlier coming out). Pragmatically, I think people are also overlooking the broadcasting capabilities of an academic department T-shirt. I imagined that these would be worn once, then relegated to the pile of shirts reserved for workouts, weekend games of pickup outdoor sports, and fun runs. Maybe the designers of the shirt (in whatever its final incarnation may be) will prove me wrong. If it bears a slogan that reeks of third-grade self-esteem lessons, I will be sure not to purchase one.

All that said, I'd like to reassert that I thought this was the worst of all the slogans that I submitted to the contest. I thought that some of my other ideas, and those submitted by my colleagues, were much wittier, more cerebral humour that did not rely as much on the cheap gimmick of the quick laugh based on popular stereotypes that this one did. My personal favourite was 'SFU History: Not learning from our mistakes since 1956'. Though now, I have come up with another - 'SFU History: Building Consensus One Rejected Slogan at a Time'.

Best regards, Eric Heath

PS - I must add that I disagree about your comments surrounding Swift. Eating babies is, and always has been, very funny.

*****

By the time I got to school for Tuesday's class, this was a big topic of discussion. The general consensus was that, indeed, those people that were mortally offended by the slogan should shut up and quit being so uptight. Plans were being discussed to send Kleenex to various parties involved, and I think I saw some boxes of 'No More Tears' shampoo being carried around. For whatever reason, the issue of the T-shirt slogan has become the hottest topic of discussion that has come about in the History Department as long as I've been a regular fixture there. People are not giving it up. This morning, there was another e-mail from the student union rep pleading with students to stop sending out e-mails to the entire grad class on the subject. He also mentioned that he had received several e-mails directed specifically to him, and that that was OK, but the mass e-mails were getting out of hand.

Anyway, since I've never really been at the centre of a controversy before, I'm kind of enjoying this whole thing. I've been asked by a few of my compatriots how it feels to be the root cause of all of this fun. I've pretty much come to the conclusion that I'd rather be known for the 'T-shirt incident' than any academic work that I might do. History is written and re-written all the time, but if I can play this out as long as possible, this could be the stuff of legends! I'm already thinking about the Peak (SFU's student paper) article that I'm going to write about it all. Can you picture the feature film, "The Irony is Delicious", starring Tobey Maguire as me? Wes Anderson directs.

Anyway, the story isn't over yet - the caucus meeting is going to be scheduled for sometime next week, and Lord knows whether or not this will have blown over by then. Having been busy most of today, I haven't checked my e-mail in about eight hours, and thus for all I know, more diatribes may have been submitted by now. I still don't know what the moral of this story is, but at least it's a pleasant distraction from the rigours of academic life (even in History, which is remarkably easy...)

Ironically yours, Eric

And, as such, I was victim of the SFU parking lot stalker. The stalker is a strange species that appears generally between the hours of 10:00 AM and 3:00 PM, Monday to Friday, in the western section of B-lot (nearest the main campus buildings). The stalker can have somewhat of an unnerving presence, particularly when there are few other regular humans around, as they will generally follow a pedestrian at foot pace, remaining about ten feet in behind. Communication with the stalker can be difficult, as they tend to respond in a series of brief nods or inexplicable (and sometimes explicable) hand gestures.

There are tried and tested ways to confuse and irritate the stalker to the point that they will leave you alone, however. These, I share with you today, in the hopes that this four-wheeled scourge will once and for all be eliminated:

The lost tourist routine: As soon as you detect the stalker on your tail, stop and gaze about contemplatively. Zigzag back and forth down the aisles of the parking lot, occasionally giving a thoughtful look in the opposite direction that you are heading. Scratch your head as you mutter where your car might be. Pretend to all of a sudden remember where you parked (make an expression as though you are a cartoon character and a lightbulb has just flicked on over your head). Try to gesture to the stalker that you are parked two aisles over. Start walking in that direction; get about half way, shake your head, and turn around. By this point, the stalker will give up completely on you as a target, and likely as a human too. Success!

The silent treatment: This works extremely well when you know that you are parked as far away as possible (at SFU, this means across the street that divides B-lot; stalkers cannot pass that line - it's their code). Make no eye contact whatsoever as you pass the stalker. As he or she starts the stalk, make no gesture whatsoever. Pretend you are completely oblivious to the exhaust-spewing, music-blaring, engine-roaring vehicle that is close enough to you to give you a ride to your own car on its hood. This is the stalkers' international symbol that you, in fact, are parked in the secret spot that is SO CLOSE to the building that they have valet stalker parking, plus they wash your car while you're in class, and give you one of those tree air fresheners too, and as such, they would be idiots not to follow you to the ends of the earth to get this spot. Your nonchalant behaviour is the sign that you, indeed, are so knowing of how unimaginably wonderful that your spot is, and that you are willing to lead them to the Promised Six By Ten Feet Of Asphalt. Try your best not to turn around and smile an evil smile at the stalker until you are two steps onto the bus that you took to get to class that day.

Playing dumb: Think of a colour. Once a stalker starts tailing you, stop at every car of that colour, thinking that it is yours. Try the trunk with your key first, then look confused at why it won't open. Then try the driver's door. Then try the trunk again. Smack yourself in the head and move to the next car. (Note: This works well when there are at least five or six cars of the same colour side by side.)

Psycho: As soon as the stalker does their thing, stop abruptly. Turn slowly towards them, just your head at first. Stare at them intently as though they just drove over your childhood pet and you are swearing vengeance. Turn your entire body ever so slowly towards the stalker, and while so doing, raise your right hand, index finger extended, and point right towards them. Never lose the fire in your eyes. This is critical. If the stalker hasn't already soiled their pants and screeched off, slowly draw your hand to your own throat and make the cut-throat gesture as you draw an almost childishly mischevous smile (with a small hint of evil therein). Take a slow step towards the vehicle, reaching into your pocket or backpack slowly. If your pursuer has still yet to flee, in the middle of this slow march, all of a sudden flail your arms and legs wildly, while screaming gibberish as loud as you can. If anything, the stalker will accidentally slip the car into reverse, hit the gas, and plow into the car/bike/group of nuns behind him or her.

All of these techniques will rid you of the stalker, or at least get you arrested or killed. I guess, as a last resort, you could actually behave civilly, and direct the stalker to exactly where you have parked, quickly back out and drive away, thus leaving them a short walk to campus.

But, there is a reason why zoos have signs that read "DO NOT FEED THE ANIMALS".

Happy stalking,
Eric

So here I am, sitting once again at Koerner library, where it seems I am doomed to spend to bulk of this semester, though now with a laptop full of MP3s. And as I sit listening to one of my favourite songs from my Grade 8 days - 'Disarm' by the Smashing Pumpkins, I was reminded about how for about five years after first hearing that song, I couldn't understand why Billy Corgan said that 'sodomy is such a part of you'. I don't know what I thought the song was about during high school...

Which then got me thinking about another great Grade 8 tune (for the class of '98, that is), 'Jump Around' by House of Pain (as featured on Dance Mix '93, baby!); which, when I hear it to this day, I think Everlast is singing "I can't make it down, so get off your seat and jump around", as though his personal inability to acheive the status of 'getting down' requires him to live vicariously through those listeners who were jumping up and getting down.

Of course, when I first heard 'This is a Call' by the Foo Fighters, I pictured Dave Grohl as some kind of grunge-pop Marxist, what with his worker-solidarity plea "This is a call to order; mass resignation!" I think that might have been influenced by the fact that I first heard the song while I was driving to my training session at Safeway way back in 1998. Nothing stimulates the left-wing rebel in me like having to go to work to earn money.

And on the subject of not understanding lyrics, 'Even Flow' is playing in my ears right now. I atill have no idea what the hell Eddie Vedder is saying. This song is like the Generation X answer to 'Blinded By the Light', at least in the amount of guesses as to what the actual lyrics of the chorus are. (I am excluding 'Tourette's' from this discussion, because I don't think that song has set lyrics.)

At this point, you might be asking yourself what exactly the point of this entry is. That is, if you bothered to read this far. Which of course, assumes that there is actually someone reading this at all. Which is unlikely, because it's too bad - had you stuck it out, you could have read the moral of the story, which I would have been more than happy to tell you. I think it had something to do with interpersonal communication or something. You could have really benefited from it. You'd have really learned something. But you stopped reading, and then planted a virus in my computer merely out of spite. So, no moral for you.

Now, excuse me while I kiss this guy.

Eric
The bowels of the big glass building at UBC

P.S. - If you didn't get that joke, I feel bad for you.

However, it is, as I noted, about the halfway point of the semester, which leads me to reflect on what I have and have yet to do so far, which then leads me to think that I should not have done so. However, in semesters past, I could usually blame the heavy workload of the last half of the semester on the fact that I pissed away the first half. Then, at the three-quarter pole, I would break the last half of the semester down into its constituent halves, and curse my first-half self for not having done any work yet again. Then, at the seven-eighth mark, when I was about to reprise said cursing and continue it ad infinitum, Xeno himself would appear and do my work for me.

Convergent series aside, I have been extremely busy this semester, and yet I feel as though I have done little to no total work to date. In the words of Bill Nye, The Science Guy - "Consider the Following":

THINGS I HAVE DONE SO FAR:

One hour, one shower, and several glowers later, I found myself in the 'Assembly Room', listening to the last two groups of presenters. Once that unpleasantness was behind me, it was time to pack up. The advantage of having the wonderful parking lot view finally showed itself, as I could back the car pretty much right to the sliding door that was conveniently four and a half inches from the side of my bed.

Chris, having procured a ferry schedule, kindly let us know that the most convenient Nanaimo -> Vancouver sailing went off at 3:15. Noting that it was just past noon, we concluded that we had easily enough time to stop for lunch en route to the terminal. We packed back into the car and were off to Lefty's reataurant (where everything is designed for left-handed people, or communists, or something - I wasn't paying too close attention by this point; I hadn't had breakfast). Apparently, the influx of about ten hungry history students and professors was more than this establishment had ever seen, as various employees remarked that the restaurant had never been busier, which possibly explains why it took about twenty minutes to get our orders taken.

Emerging from the eatery at about 2:00, I still felt content knowing that I had plenty of time to get to the terminal. The profs had left about ten minutes before us, but my stragetic driving skills allowed us to pass them (which Chris and Tim doing their faux-canoeing out the side window) about 5 km short of the terminal. As we arrived and paid (at about 2:30), we were told that we would probably miss the 3:00 sailing and get the 5:00; there was, however, a 3:15 at Duke Point. This now was the time to beat Chris, in which all of us partook with great zeal. Apparently, all the years of reading footnotes in historical papers did not teach him to look at the parentheses underneath 'Nanaimo' and 'Vancouver' to see the key words 'Duke Point' and 'Tsawassen' contained within. Nonetheless, we drove onward to the line-up, cursing Chris' name all the way. We watched in not-so-silent horror as every other line emptied onto the ferry as we sat motionless. Finally, we began edging our way ever close to the front of the line, but every heartening application of the gas pedal was met with the BC Ferries employee (yes, I know they changed the company name) raising his hand to halt the line prematurely (for our sake). Having stopped for what we thought was the last time, we saw that three lanes to our left, the first car in line sat unoccupied. Shortly thereafter, the two Matts and Derek (three of our fellow students who had foregone lunch to ensure their place on the ferry) came running across the tarmac and dove into the car, as they were waved on by the stern hand of the dockworker.

Amazingly enough, my streak of making it onboard ferries against all odds continued, as once again, we pulled in among the last half-dozen or so vehicles. The group of professors, whom we had so brazenly passed on the Island Highway, were not so lucky. Fortunately, none of the three in that vehicle have any control over my marks this semester. Arriving on the good side of the Strait of Georgia at around 4:45, I fought the fuel guage all the way to the top of Burnaby Mountain, assuring the Accord that I fould fill the tank at the Chevron at the bottom of the hill on the way back to my place. It seemed to work, and the car responded perhaps in the most prosaic way: seconds after dropping the crew back off at residence, the cassette adapter clicked into place in the tape deck, and the music started playing - a little too late, but a fitting end to the weekend.

All the best,
Eric

The presentations went off very well on Saturday, I think; I don't know - who attends an educational conference to listen to the material presented? At the lunch break, a few of us headed down the road to the beach to get some fresh air, skip stones, drown the UVIC undergrads that abounded at the conference, etc. Fortunately, we were protected by the fact that Qualicum Beach is an area protected by "District 69 C.O.P.s (Citizens on Patrol)". No criminal acts were thus committed during the break, and indecent behaviour was kept to a minimum due to the fact that it was about 2 degrees and raining. That, and none of the C.O.P.s were around.

A five-minute semi-nap in the early afternoon gave me pause to refresh enough to survive the evening, which included the banquet dinner (the second plate of which, containing massive amounts of roast beef and potato, did its best to counteract any positive effects of the earlier siesta). Dinner was punctuated by a speech by Margaret MacMillan, which though interesting, was far too long. The only saving grace came afterwards, as one of the conference organizers, while giving Mrs. MacMillan a collection of authentic West Coast store-bought giftery, announced something to the effect of "This evening, we have heard a lot about the winners and losers (ed. note: of the Paris Peace Conference of 1919 - the subject of the speech), but-"; at this point, I was saying to myself, "please don't say it, please don't say it, I won't be able to control myself, oh, please don't say what you're about to say."

"Tonight, I think that we are all winners."

Well, that was it. The entire table (myself included) burst into laughter, which was fortunately obscured (I think) by the applause of the rest of the crowd. Needless to say, this event would quickly become the provenance of many a joke for the remainder of the weekend. Because, after all, we were all winners. To paraphrase Jon Stewart, the Qualicum conference had officially become the Special Olympics.

After dinner, a few of us headed down to the basement to decompress and make fun of the post-dinner comment, before endeavouring yet again to the penthouse suite in which the girls were staying (there were actually only three of them staying there, but they could have probably fit the whole class in the room). I neglected to mention that at Friday night's to-do, I was appointed (for reasons unbeknownst to me, or anyone else present, and now, I assume, to anybody that knows me) as the "bouncer" of the party, ensuring that rowdy types and riffraff (UVIC students, usually) did not overstep the bounds of decency (as a result, I apparently earned the nickname 'E-dog'). Only three people were forcibly removed from the premises during my tenure, which ended unceremoniously as I decided to leave the party to head down to the beach again at about 12:30 AM (with the hopes that after midnight, the District 69 C.O.P.s would be out in force - it was not to be). Despite my two nights of faithful service in personal security, Cathy was unwilling to write me a reference. Of course, she is writing her thesis on the history of drag racing in British Columbia, so I am assuming that most of the people that she would deal with in that project could snap me like a twig.

I remember very little from the beachside amble, aside from the fact that I was so tired by that point that my eyeballs felt as though they were trying to crawl out of their sockets. Humourous photos that may or may not have included myself were taken (honestly, I don't remember), and at some point, I managed to walk back to the hotel, and heave myself down the stairs in the general direction of the room. At least I had a night with a bed to myself to look forward to.

Or, did I... Find out in the concluding installment of "Tales of Qualicum", coming soon!

Dinner and a ferry ride later, we found ourselves hastily searching through strip mall-laden Nanaimo for a liquor store. Our quest was hastened by the fact that it was about 8:53, and the buzzing neon 'OPEN' would soon be extinguished. With seconds to spare, we spotted the alcohol-jobber, and, with beer safely in our possession, we endeavoured to continue on our merry way to Qualicum Beach, one half-hour northish. It was at this point that Chris remarked on the exemplary level of my driving to that point. It was at this point that my exemplary driving led us to take two wrong turns within the confines of the parking lot, thus delaying us some five minutes. I can be stubborn when I think that I'm right (or at least that someone else is wrong). The rest of the drive proved un-journal-worthy, which means that we actually made it there.

Though the upper two floors of the private-school-converted-to-hotel that we stayed at consisted of rooms with luxurious fireplaces, balconies with sublime ocean views, plush carpeting, and functional heating, Chris, Tim, and I were placed in the Motel-6esque basement, or as we dubbed it, the "Subaltern Room". Featuring semi-functional lamps, an elegant view of the rear parking lot, micron-thick carpeting on a concrete base, and refrigeration in the form of a bathtub, we spent little to no time there. Friday night was thus spent partying in the girls' room (palatial suite), playing pool in the 'College Pub' (I don't think that was part of the private school), and listening to The Darkness blasted from the super-powerful speakers of my laptop (which could be drowned out by the conversation of the four people in my car, not to mention the twenty-odd people milling about in the reception area of the girls' castle). Several hours and beers later, I made my way back down the two flights of stairs to the dungeon, where, as in prison, I was forced to sleep two to a bed, and sharing with Chris, was equally vulnerable to becoming someone's bitch (even if only in sport).

But, for the details of that, you'll have to tune in shortly for the remainder of Eric's Tales of Qualicum!

Eric
Horseshoe Bay, BC

Me: So, I was reading about this group of wealthy Montrealers who went to Sherbrooke for their summer vacation...

Andrea: Really? Interesting! I spent the morning isolating proteins so that I could apply them to test the immunity of the mutated gene that I developed yesterday.

Me: ...and they went on boat trips on the nice lake...

Andrea: Then I had to head to the other room to collect embryos, and check them for the various mutations that I subjected them to last week; then I had to clone a series of genes, but you know how troublesome it is to get uncontaminated DNA.

Me: ...and I tried to print the page out, but the printer was out of toner, so I went to the librarian and was like, "hey"...

Andrea: Oh, and I was preserving the bacteria plates, and I grabbed them out of the liquid nitrogen with my bare hands...

Or something like that. Anyway, she gets to do all sorts of fun stuff involving cloning and embryos and isolating stuff and killing mice and I get to curse myself to early blindness by reading microfilm eight hours a day.

I shouldn't complain, though. I'm finished out at UBC for now, and as far as I call tell, the rest of my research for this semester will involve reading the printed page, rather than the magnified and projected one. Gotta make the mad coin though. Of course, it was only this past week that it dawned on me that I could actually use the CD player in my laptop to listen to CDs as I research...after having gone to Abbotsford last weekend to (among other things) get my mom's MP3 player so that I could listen to a modicum of music while frying my retinae (seeing as the player is about three years old and holds, I believe, approximately eleven minutes of music). Well, at least my education and training in critical thinking paid off, albeit about three weeks later than I might have hoped. All to give credence to the oft-stuck-on-bumper saying "I have an arts degree. Would you like fries with that?"

Life, though, remains good. The fact that it is the fourth week of the semester already is somewhat troubling - term papers of great length lurk in the all-too-near future, deadlines for scholarship applications for next year approach rapidly, and February is preparing to swallow January whole as a snake does a baby rabbit. (Apologies for that - I don't do similes much.) These things notwithstanding (except the whole crappy simile thing; I'll work on that), I am keeping in high spirits, owing undoubtedly to keeping the company of good people.

Busy lives, however, have precluded said keeping of said company of many of said people in recent times - but birthday parties were invented for a reason, and as February departs (this year, like a party guest who just doesn't know when to leave), mine will take place - all of the usual suspects will be invited - the particulars will be sent to the selected few.

Seeing as I have somewhat wandered from the usual journal path, and that I have been typing this for a protracted period of time that was supposed to be spent reading of the Highlands of Scotland (and the culture [non-bacterial] contained therein), I bid you all adieu.

Eric
Vancouver, BC

PS - After having read the editorial sections in many, many 1870s newspapers, I think that it would be a good idea that I develop a useful one-word pseudonym for myself. Any ideas?

Anyway, it seems that Taryn has moved from critiquing the humour (or lack thereof) in here, and has instead taken a harsh stance against my journalistic abilities, accusing me of "gross misrepresentation of the facts", calling me a "D-level Vancouver Province reject", and insinuating that she will be filing a lawsuit against me. I maintain that all information on this website is as true and accurate as when I first thought of writing it. If nothing else, it is at least ben trovato (Italics work especially well with Italian).

Moving beyond that...

The New Year is upon us, and in typing that I realised that until this point, I had the date at the header of this entry listed as '06 Jan 2003'. Not that I am one for New Year's resolutions, but I am hoping to update the journal somewhat more frequently than I have for the first few months of its existence. Now, you and I both know that this will not pan out, and that were I not trapped inside due to the 'Snowstorm of the Century', this would not be written at all. However, though I don't have the hit counter stats to back it up, it would seem that my main competitors in the journal/blogblogblog/notblogdammit business seem to be kicking my butt in terms of traffic (not to mention update frequency).

However, seeing as I have already accepted failure at this task, I will proactively give you the rationale: