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.