May I Have Your Attention Please?!

They're finally making a movie about Fraggle Rock!

http://www.vh1.com/movies/news/articles/1547428/12062006/story.jhtml

Iggy goes back to Harvard.

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!Stéphane DION!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!


!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!WOOT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

(One day, I hope to meet Kyoto.)

Diversions Made for ME!

For more of these delightful snippets, visit: www.phdcomics.com

From the Archival Fond of Yours Truly

Random thought of the day:

I'd like to share that I'm eating baby carrots as I type this. And it strikes me as somewhat repulsive that I'm eating a baby vegetable. In some respects, it's like eating a baby lamb, and people who eat baby anything are usually portrayed as fairly barbaric by the opposing camp. I think that perhaps these stereotypes need to be carried over to the vegetable family; I think vegetarians need to be implicated in the barbarity and cruelty of the human food chain.

Thoughts? For some reason I feel that this was a Seinfeld skit back in the day...and if it wasn't, then it sure as hell should've been.

Hammer-and-Sickle Gingersnaps.

My illustrious roommate Erin brightened my life today when she provided me with a link to "Selections from the Notebooks of Max Roosevelt, 15-Year-Old Socialist."

I immediately thought to 'pay it forward' (slash awkwardly make a comeback to the bloggersphere).

Please. Do yourself a favour:

http://www.mcsweeneys.net/2006/11/28dwertman.html

Boo. Urns.

It snowed today.

This is not a positive development.

SERIOUSLY?

"The values that our countries are based on are the values that should inform globalization." - Tony Blair

Well, there you have it. I blame Tony Blair for ruining this entire day.

I'll spare you the boring details as I have to meet my parents for dinner shortly, but I think you should all know that this post is coming to you live from the archives. It's late...and there are no real historians in the room...so I don't have to worry about getting dirty looks for using a program other than Word. But keep this on the D-L; if you tell anyone, I'm afraid they'll revoke my privileges.

(In case you're wondering, that was a veiled plea for one of my readers to tell someone, and for that someone to ban me from the archives for life. That, friends, would be nirvana.)

Random thoughts: Yesterday, I swallowed a fly while I was biking to the archives. I have since developed a twitch in my right eye. I'm unsure if these two phenomena are related, but I'm seriously considering swallowing a spider.

There was a man wearing plaid pants yesterday. They were rather similar to these puppies:


He came back today...wearing the same pants. He also monopolized the photocopier for about an hour, taunting me with his photocopiable materials. Reason 9,567,221 why I hate studying History: You can't photocopy historical documents.

And now, it's time for me to hit the locker room. True story. Archives Canada provides even the geekiest of historians the space in which we can pat ourselves on the back and pretend to be jocks.

What happens in the historian's locker room, you ask?

'Good research today, kid. I really liked that point on your HB.'

Ahem.

Sweet Comforts.

I made cranberry-apple chutney today. And some plain scones.

Initially, the scones were supposed to be of the raisin variety – but I found myself in a state of advisor-induced stress last night and decided to delve into them rapaciously. So now I sit here. Eating my scones with chutney on top of them.

Deeeeee-licious.

I also remembered to send pictures to Kim today! For her last flight with Martin Air she flew to Toronto at the beginning of September, and it was the first time I’ve seen her since the summer of 2004. Considering it happened over a month ago, I feel it's unnecessary to regurgitate the details, but we did make it to Niagara Falls for a short trip.


Despite how tired I look (and am) in this photo, it was absolutely incredible to see her again! Her visit also marked my fourth trip to the Falls this year with a visitor from abroad. Thus, I would like to share with you some selections from the Brad Clark Seasonal Collection at the Falls.





Because I was 'iced' after the winter shoot, I can now say that I've sacrificed my body for the sake of art.

(How's that for a thought to make you want to chuck your chutney?)

And...because I promised to post it on my blog...here is the sign that greeted me on the door of her hotel room when I showed up! Oh Josef. "Mellah, Mellah!"

Yes, yes. These are my sweet comforts for the day. Pastries, People, and Pictures. And perhaps Potassium. I feel a banana craving comin' on.

The Hope of Democracy

Wow. Terrible Blogger. Right. Here.

So...I disappeared for a little while. I hope that my dedicated reader (Mike) can forgive me. In a related story, the guilt induced by reading Mike’s prolific blog prompted me to post something.

Things to share:

My parents are coming to visit me in Ottawa. Date of arrival: Unknown. Level of stress associated with 'The Unknown': Escalating.

Thesis? I do believe it rhymes with feces.

As I'm in a rush to get to the archives right now [kindly stifle your laughter], I'll post these pearls of wisdom from our very own Northrop Frye. The following is an excerpt from an address given by Frye on the occasion of his installation as Principal of Victoria College at the University of Toronto. I stumbled upon it in a DDF newsletter from 1960, but it was originally published in The Globe and Mail on 22 October 1959.

The Hope of Democracy

The lecturer facing his classroom is not dismayed by the small minority of slackers: they, like bacteria, can usually be identified by tests, and got rid of. The real sources of dismay are the personable docile, polite young people, who do all that they are asked to do, and yet are somehow not students, but merely young people at college… They may be operating at about ten per cent of their mental capacity, but they may not know this themselves… What they lack, from the teacher’s point of view, is drive or momentum, the sense of urgency of knowledge, the awfulness of ignorance, the crucial responsibilities of the educated man, the immense gap between wisdom and ordinary savoir fair. Such students have always been with us, and all the desperate remedies of panic have been tried to shock and startle them. Past ages have used everything from birch rods to the fear of hell; teachers today deliver harangues on complacency and appeal to the celestial publicity stunts of Communism. This last, of course, has thrown the problem into the form of a crisis. The American hare has wakened up to find that the Russian tortoise is not only close on his heels, but still has wind enough to announce with complete confidence that he will soon be in the lead. Hurt and angry, the American public has begun to ask question of some of its educators. Who took advantage of their good-natured, shallow, anti-intellectual optimism to lull them to sleep? Who watered the stock ideas, drained the content out of learning, cheated their children of the pleasures of intellect, crippled them for life in the arts of words and numbers, and then seized all the positions of power and influence to impose their miserable follies on future ages? Who threw up there in front of this a Maginot line of projects that do not accomplish anything, of surveys that do not see anything, of compulsory courses that do not teach anything, or pseudotheses that do not prove anything, or prove only the self-evident, of books that do not mean anything, and are written besides in the prose style of a zoo at feeding time. And above all, what has it been done for? If it were part of an organized revolution, like Communism, one could at least understand it; but what is the point of a revolution without purpose, a subversiveness so fumbling, so witless, so well-meaning?

Many culprits have been named, but witch-hunting in this area is as bad as it is anywhere else. The enemy of education in North America is not necessarily in teachers colleges or in “progressive” programs or in the work of John Dewey or in state or provincial departments. His headquarters may be in your minds, and in mine. The root of all the nonsense in our education is our stupefied satisfaction with what we call our own way of life. This is what leads us to assume that education is simply a means of achieving greater comfort and security in the world, and it is what inspires all the life adjustment programs and the like which pander to that assumption. Until it does; until the prevailing attitude is a little less like the Pharisee of Jesus’ parable and a little more like the publican, education on this continent will be radioactive with ignorance and illiterate blither. Meanwhile, the hope of democracy rests entirely on the earnest student and the dedicated teacher, and there are still too many of both for us to lose that hope.

Oh, Northrop. Thanks for that blast from the past.

A Glebey Saturday Night

Apologies to my American Readers....

but God Bless Lakehead University!

YaleShmale.com

Sure, it lacks both taste and respect for the leader of the free world. But I definitely don't think it's 'repugnant' - as the president of Lakehead's Students' Union does. That's right. Students are the ones criticizing this recruitment campaign, which the administration not only endorses...but refuses to retract!

In other news, my apartment is currently in a state of chaos, as I'm getting ready for my move to Ottawa tomorrow. Why....oh why....do I own so much crap when I move so often?

Farewell, Dear Friend.

Is anyone else upset that Pluto is no longer a planet?! Or even about the way in which its prestigious planetary designation was so ruthlessly revoked?

I’m all for democracy…but we didn’t take a vote to decide if the earth was flat or round. Today, astronomers gathered in Prague defined the namesake of my favourite Disney character out of the text books. How exactly are historians of the future supposed to treat this subject? Nobody is going to care about the dwarf planets. Is society so determined to place everyone and everything it encounters into discrete categories that we’ve now become planetary racists? How is this new category going to be received by members of our own society who are short in stature – for surely they are not lesser people. I for one was happy to admit Pluto into our solar systemic family regardless of its elliptical orbit. And if allowing Pluto into the family meant inviting 50 more, so be it. We could have started celebrating the diversity of our solar system. Perhaps with festivals and parades.

If you ask me, this is all part of Bush’s plan to stimulate the sagging economy. Posters, planetary models, school textbooks – they all need to be reprinted.

In honour of Pluto’s planetary passing, I think it only appropriate to mark the occasion with a little revamping of an old classic. In fact, I think if August Stringberg were here himself he would reinterpret his own words on conceptions of masculinity in much the same way. I call it….

Pluto

Yes, I am crying, although I am a dwarf planet.
But has not a dwarf planet three moons?
Does it not live peacefully in the same milky way?
Is it not wounded by the same weapons…warmed and cooled by the same sun?

If you prick me, I will bleed some spacey substance.
If you tickle me, I will chuckle. Perhaps heartily.
If you poison me, I will die.
Why should a planet be forbidden to
Complain, or its clouds to weep?
Because I am unplanetary?
Why am I unplanetary?

Planetary Pluto: 1930 - 2006
May it Orbit In Peace

No Explanation Required.

It's Not That Hot Anymore!!!

They are currently renovating Library and Archives Canada, and for some reason they’re switching the archival space on the third floor with the library on the second. While the point of these renovations escapes me entirely, I am reaping some substantial benefits from the consultation room’s reduced hours of operation. It’s okay for you to be gushing with joy right now, for I too was excited upon being informed of this development. Instead of sacrificing an hour of work every day and leaving the archives with a lot of guilt around 9:30/10pm, I now get kicked out at 8pm EVERYDAY for the rest of my research. Despite the insane amount of noise that the work crews make, and the barren bookshelves which surround me, I’m definitely happy with the new arrangements.

Now, if I could just figure out how to get there before 10am every morning…I’d be set.

News to report. You, Me and Dupree is by far the worst movie I’ve ever seen. It’s even worse than Army of Darkness (sorry Matt, Ann Marie, and Holly…). I’m usually committed enough to a movie – no matter how appalling – to stick it out until the end. This was not one of those movies. But I saw it with Chris about a week ago, and didn’t want to haul him out of the theatre, so I watched in silent pain. As it happens, so did Chris. In an effort to avoid feeling like I’d wasted my time completely, I thought about my grocery list, whether I should buy a bike or roller blades to navigate the paths and streets of Ottawa if I move here, and the meaning of life. While I’m sure that my answers to both the first and last subjects will only bore you, I think I’ve settled on the roller blades. I’m a little worried that I may die in the event I need to brake (suddenly or otherwise), but let’s face it…they’re cheaper, and I’m cheap *cough* unemployed.

Other news. I exchanged very stern words with a very senior member of the Environmental Health department for the Ottawa Region [whose name/position shall remain anonymous for fear of a lawsuit] yesterday. He refused to release the rabies vaccine to me because Kingston Public Health didn’t have a record of my initial vaccination, and I refused [Seriously, I’ve never been this firm with anyone in my entire life…] to leave his office until he did something about this that would result in me getting a needle in my arm. You see, yesterday was day 3 in my 28-day series, and I needed another hit of HDCV. My brief and tumultuous courtship with Ottawa Public Health started on Thursday morning, when I started leaving messages for people in various departments at the instruction of the Public Health Nurse. I figured it would take a couple of hours to get everything straightened out. I called back, and kept getting the same answering machines that I had left my information on earlier in the day. I let it slide. I called back yesterday morning, and kept getting connected to answering machines. I spoke to the receptionist and got directions to Ottawa Public Health. I stayed calm until the Director’s assistant said there was nothing they could do for me. At this point, I waved my immunization record in his face and told him he didn’t have a choice. They had been calling Kingston Public Health, even though Kingston Public Health doesn’t store or administer the rabies vaccine. Unlike Ottawa, it is stored in Emergency Rooms. As I said in MY VOICE MESSAGES, I was a patient at Kingston General Hospital, and THEY gave me the number for Kingston Public Health so that I could get the contact info for Ottawa Public Health. Clearly, my records are going to be at KGH. By the time I actually got to meet with the director and laid out the different administrative policies of the two regions for him before telling him to listen to his voicemail a little closer and call the emergency department at THE HOSPITAL, it was 11:30. By the time I finally found myself a family doctor to whom the director could release the vaccine, it was closer to 1:30. By the time I picked up the vials, transported them to the office, made appointments for my next series and got my needle for day 3, it was 3pm. So…all in all…it took me 7 hours to get this straightened out. But the staff at KGH assured me it would only take about 30 minutes. The point of this story is that Ottawa’s bureaucracy is not limited to the Hill.

However, I do want to give a shout-out to [unnamed woman who works part-time for Ottawa Public Health] who actually restored my faith in humanity yesterday. She gave up her lunch hour to take me to her family doctor when she found me frantically trying to track down a doctor who could accommodate my situation. When she stumbled upon me, I was on my eleventh quarter. And she was adamant that I not mention the help she gave me to anyone, as she was worried she would lose her job for associating with a client outside of the office. I hesitate to think about how much longer things would’ve taken had this 64 year old woman – who clearly had special needs – not helped me out. And the BEST part is she said she was only helping me because she could tell I was a “gentle person” from the way I stayed completely calm when speaking with the staff. Admittedly, while I did let them know I understood that they couldn’t just release 3 vials of vaccine to me and that we needed to figure out a solution to the problem no matter how long it took, I was definitely NOT calm. I actually thought that I was being a tad too aggressive, but I seriously needed this vaccine yesterday. The fact that the man who was in line behind me COMPLETELY lost his cool definitely helped make me look “gentle.” I also think that I stayed calm only because I’ve worked in customer service before, and I know that I’m much more willing to help someone when they treat me like a person instead of a some administrative assistant. While I’m sure that this remark has angered the Association for Administrative Professionals, they’ll just have to deal with it.

Sigh. Rant’s over. If you made it this far, I commend you. Thanks for letting me get that off my chest.

In case you haven’t been able to tell, my postings have been less-than-regular because I don’t usually have access to the internet. As I’m in Ottawa until 22 August, expect to hear from me sporadically. You will hear from me when word arrives from the Kiwis. If that posting doesn’t come soon, just assume that I’m frothing at the mouth across the desk from another Ottawa bureaucrat. And this one hasn’t answered my e-mails or taken my phone calls for over a week.

I’m heading to the hills….of Gatineau…to go hiking with Chris now. Woot! It’s a mental health day!

Just call me Batman.

It’s hot.

Correction: It’s very hot. Like…forty-eight degrees with the humidex hot, and I’m about to drive myself back to Ottawa, where I will bake in my third floor bedroom that doesn’t have a screen on its window.

Now…I’m sure that some of you out there in reader-land are asking: “In that kind of heat, why does that even matter?” I too once thought along these lines. That is, until last Tuesday when a bat flew in through my open window at around 3:30am. Yes, friends. A bat. If you want to see Brad Clark wake up and hit the floor faster than a speeding bullet, put a LARGE and SCARY flying organism in his bedroom.

It took about 15 minutes for my heart rate to return to normal, and about an hour for me to fall back asleep. Luckily, no beds were soiled in the making of this memory. And let me assure you, I think of it every night before climbing the stairs to sleep in my tower.

[Editor’s Note: The above passage was written about 5 hours ago. While typing, I remembered my conversation with Sara and her girlfriend Erin earlier today about how Erin had to get vaccinated for rabies after being exposed to a bat in NY state. I called TeleHealth Ontario and told them that a bat flew into my room about a week ago. After their usual prodding questions and a close examination of my own two feet, they told me to go to the Emergency Room immediately. And they emphasized the immediately. Apparently…bats don’t usually wake people up before or during a bite. It’s the “HA HA I BIT YOU” flapping routine that they like to do after they’ve feasted on your unsuspicious body that wakes you up. At this point, bat bites look and feel exactly like those of a mosquito - and as I don’t have a screen on my window, you can imagine how many of those I have. Well…long story short is that my bum is now very sore. I just got 5 needles at KGH, and have to get four more over the course of the next 28 days. So…I’m actually NOT going back to Ottawa tonight, but will make my way there sometime tomorrow. At which point, I need to figure out where I can score my next hit.]

In other news, I’m still hot.

Dirt Farmers and Pencils

I am in Ottawa now, and am having a wonderful time getting some research done at the National Archives. By wonderful time, I mean wasting time. I spent at least five minutes today contemplating what the archivist would do if I walked up to the complimentary pencil sharpener, obtained an exquisitely fine point on my HB pencil, and gouged my own eyes out right there in front of her. Unfortunately, I would have had to join a line-up, as the pencil sharpener was unusually popular today. The pencil sharpening became so incessant that I even shared a moment with a professor from Western who was sitting across from me. For those of you who have never done archival research, this is BIG. Researchers make minimal eye contact, and rarely speak to each other, and if they do, it’s never intergenerational. We just nod, and even then do so with genuine approval only occasionally. You see, it’s summertime. And summertime is when all of the freaks and geeks come out of the woodworks to research their family genealogy. These people only bring HB pencils. Real researchers bring mechanical pencils into the archives, and keep our HBs on reserve for emergency note-taking situations. The ‘amateurs’ were out in full force today, and it was so loud in the consultation room that I had to pop on my headphones and listen to some tunes, all the while trying to avoid making my usual schitzophrenic gyrations or burst into song.

Find of the day: An undated letter written on Hotel Saskatchewan letterhead addressed to the President of the DDF that provides a seething examination of the organization’s elite membership and its decision-making machinery without ever broaching the topics. After articulating a solution the Festival’s current problem, the writer asks the President to “forgive a dirt farmer for being simple.”

So…I left early’ish today (around 7pm) and went running along the Rideau River (not the canal) again, but my evening jaunt just wasn’t as enjoyable as my early morning one yesterday. I always thought those 6:30 runners were psychotic, but they are the friendliest damn psychos one can hope to meet. In the span of about an hour, I lost count of how many times I said ‘good morning’ while trying to pretend that I wasn’t dying. And you can’t stop. There are people flowing on both sides of the trail. You’ll look weak. And you don’t want to appear weak in front of the 6:30 psychos, even if they do appear to be sending out warm, fuzzy morning thoughts.

So…current roommates in Ottawa. Crazy. It’s like living in Harrington again, except I’m absolutely sure that this place is dirtier. There are so many flying organisms in this house that I feel like a Lord of the Flies. And someone ate TWO of my bagels yesterday. I only brought three from K-town, and I bought some cream cheese. I had plans for those bagels. I’m not impressed. But they drink a lot, and it’s kind of like living with the trailer park boys…so I’ll let it slide just this…once.

What else can I say about my newfound undergrad foes? I’m the only one who wears a shirt, and they seem to enjoy working out in the living room. I stick to my room on the third floor, which sort of resembles a tower. It’s best this way. They have sleeping patterns similar to the undead, and I woke up at 4am to a full fledged guitar jam and the guy in the room next to me ‘entertaining’ a lady whom I presume he picked up at the drinking establishment he visited after they emptied the keg that was in the basement. This was on Monday night. Good times?

Chris Miller is staying at Carleton with the Ceremonial Guard Band, and we get to hang out a lot as Carleton is right around the corner from my place. Kristin from Queen’s will be staying here for much of August before she moves here in September, and Joanna already lives here. This means that Brad is scheduling a social agenda, which is not conducive to Brad researching and writing a massive thesis by September 15. He should be concerned, but instead, he’s writing this blog entry.

Meh.

Another One Lost to Happiness.

BAH! This is getting out of control people. I just found out that another one of my friends from STU is getting married. This makes five. Add in friends from abroad, and it's even more depressing. And this tally only includes those who have been joined in the eyes of a church!

I dare not speak of those living together, for I fear that I may weep. Perhaps openly.

Anyone free this Friday? I think it's time for me to start...THE HUNT.

You in the corner. Yes, you.

Get out from there. The clock is ticking and I need some cooperation, damnit.

Senseless and Sweaty.

Environment Canada says it feels like 36 degrees outside, and has issued both humidex and smog alerts. There is also no wind. My regular route is 7km, and I usually start to slack off around 6-k in.

Tonight, I thought I was dying by the 4th km. Yet I soldiered on. And now I'm convinced that I'm dying. This is why one checks weather conditions BEFORE running...

I need some ice. And perhaps someone to fetch me some ice.

Any takers? I pay in Kraft Dinner, and can provide you with a mean reference when your term of employment expires.

Theses, feces. Let's head to the pub.

Okay...so after preparing my den to do work, I've decided that it's time for me to stop putting things I can do today off until tomorrow. This is what I like to call reclassifying procrastinatory inclinations. After five years of university, I'm happy to report that I've mastered this administrative art.

So...last month of my life. I went home to St. John's, where I parted with my wisdom (teeth). According to Erin C, this was the only part of me she's ever really liked.

Well damn. I hope the rest of you feel differently.

Either I was incredibly lucky, or other people are incredibly whiny. I was eating chicken that evening, and stopped taking my pain meds four hours after surgery. Take THAT! After ranting about how my oral surgeon raked in more than $1000 for NINE minutes of his precious time, I continued to avoid "academic" things. It was delightful.

I did get to take in some of the Magentic North Theatre Festival while I was home. Daniel MacIvor's new play was amazing, as anticipated. Now that I think of it, I only went to see plays from Nova Scotia...but they were quite good (on the whole).

I was a little annoyed that the festival bills itself as English-Canada's national exhibition of contemporary Canadian theatre. In terms of geographical representation, the playbill wasn't exactly staging the nation I know. And I walked away without a sense of what makes 'Canadian' theatre Canadian, which really would've helped me with this ‘thesis’ thing.

Anyway, the flight back was somewhat eventful. When I landed in Halifax, I was supposed to meet up with a friend for a hug/picture exchange. My flight pulled up to the terminal at 11:30. My flight to Toronto left at noon. Should Brad have left security? No. Did Brad leave security? Yes, he certainly did. Was my friend there? No, but I knew that her absence was a possibility. Did Brad almost miss his flight because of the BEOTCH security guard he met at the end of a very long lineup that took him 15 minutes to get to the front of? Sure did.

So...it's 11:45 and I'm walking through the security arch-thing. Even though I had taken off my belt in an effort to breeze through, I still set off bells and whistles. So, I oblige the prodding requests of Ms. Security Wand and spread my appendages like an eagle.

Note: Usually, I rather enjoy this procedure, as it is the only time that women touch my inner thighs without me having to pay them.

Fine. I'm clean. I move on to meet the Spawn of Satan that works the x-ray machine.

"Do you mind if I look in your bag, Sir?"
"No, of course not. Please go ahead."

We met at the end of an institutional metal table, and she seized my boarding pass for inspection. This is the fifth time it has been inspected. Pack off. Clearly, if I make it this far, I'm supposed to be on a plane - and by this point, mine is scheduled to take off in ten minutes.

She started rooting through my bag, and placed my boarding pass on the table. I...by now starting to freak out about missing my flight and wishing to have all documents ready to throw at the desk agent...motion to pick up my boarding card and place it with my photo ID. While doing so, I ASK if this is okay.

BITCHFACE McBITCHPANTS actually GRABS it as I'm moving my hands towards it, and says QUITE loudly that SHE will hand me my boarding pass when she "has completed the inspection, and only then. Understand, sir?"

Someone clearly did not get enough bran this morning.

She proceeded to TUCK it under the computer keyboard behind her, out of sight. At this point, another security officer notices and circles 'round to ensure that everything is under control. He then stays there to supervise. At this point, my personal belonings are scattered everywhere, and I ask McBitch if its okay for me to pick up my belt and put it back on. She says sweetly..."Of course you can; it's your personal property." It's 11:55. She says she's finished, leaves all of my stuff out of the bag, and hands me my boarding pass.

I repack quickly, not having time to scream...PERSONAL PROPERTY? That $%&*#@! BOARDING PASS is printed on paper from MY PERSONAL computer that was paid for BY ME (Well...my parents....), and EVEN IF IT wasn't, it would still by MY property, as I paid for the EFFIN' FLIGHT THAT I'M ABOUT TO MISS BECAUSE YOU'RE A BITCH AND I'M AN IDIOT!

Sigh. That's the climax of my little ditty. They were paging me as I ran up the stairs past the charming individuals who were crowding both sides of the escalator looking around casually as if they were on a Sunday drive, and I literally ran onto the plane as they closed the doors behind me. Dirty looks abounded.

Upon arrival in Toronto, I made my way to the luggage carousel. For those of you have ever collected your bags at Pearson, you know that it can take up to 45 minutes for the conveyor belt to spit out your bags. On my last three flights into Pearson with Air Canada this year, this has not happened for me. Even when I've been on a direct, non-stop flight.

Anyway, bags were lost again. Apparently, they were in Montréal. How this happens in an age when federal legislation prohibits bags from being placed in the cargo hold of a plane if the owner of said bags is not on said plane, I do not know. But it did. While I could pretend to be upset about this, I did benefit from Air Canada's error. I didn't have to lug my suitcases with me from Toronto to Kingston. They were delivered to me by a rather cheery fellow the next morning at 9am.

And that, friends, was Brad's trip back to Onterrible.

Alright...I'm going for a run. After this, I'm heading to Brew Pub for a night out with the History folk before Colin heads back to Toronto tomorrow. This is also an excellent way to avoid working on my thesis.

Oh, those crazy Protestants.

It is so hot in Kingston that the United Church on Princess Street has changed their sign to read "Our church is prayer conditioned."

HAH! I love it.

That is all. I realize that I suck at this 'blogging' thing, but I promise to write a brief note about my life for the last month later. Also known as maybe later. Also known as never.

Paper, Schmaper.

Is there something fundamentally wrong with putting game 7 of the Stanley Cup Finals on in the background as I write a paper which argues that hegemonic notions of 'Canadian' identity and nationalism ignore the pluralistic realities of the many regions in our society...when I only tuned in because a Canadian team was playing?

I feel that a cathartic moment of academic crisis is in order. Stay tuned.