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.