While I was (rather coyly, I thought) combing my hair in front of the window yesterday morning, restraining myself from bursting into a song about bluebirds and true love, I discovered a bump on my head. A new one. Perhaps one could go so far as to call it a lump. To avoid sports metaphors, I will compare it to fruit instead - it’s about the size of, oh, a healthy cherry tomato.

I am worried.

After several frenzied hours of examination with mirror and fingers, I have developed a couple of theories:

1. The Common-Sense Theory
This one says that I hit my head somewhere and didn’t notice. However, I’m afraid that this theory doesn’t hold much water. Not only can I not recall hitting my head on anything, but the bump isn’t tender or red, it doesn’t hurt when I press on it, and it feels like bone. In short: no localized swelling, no injury. Next, I came up with

2. The Medical Theory
Which is that I have a brain tumour that I didn’t notice earlier. But again, no evidence to back that up - no headaches, pressure, etc. Plus which, can they get so big they press out your skull?? Which leads me to:

3. The Scary Theory
My friend Mike is a big supporter of this one. Thanks a bunch. This one says that the nest of parasitic wasps in my head, the ones who, by munching through my neurons, cause me to have the occasional odd thought, are reaching critical mass. Thus, the nest has gotten to alarming proportions and will presumably burst open soon so another life cycle can begin. But… overnight?

4. The Phrenology Theory
I thought perhaps that some aspect of my personality had abruptly gotten so extreme - so very prominent - that my skull had to quickly change to reflect that, as per the latest theories in phrenology. So, I went and looked it up on a couple of diagrams. The bump corresponds to… err… how do I put this nicely… I’ve got a pervert bump. It’s a good big’un, too. So, this is the theory I’m sticking with for now.

Why me…

And to think I gave this guy almost a full evening of my precious precious two weeks in Toronto with the fambly. And now he has the nerve to trample on my newfound, Brit-rock-inspired joy!
Damn you, Rob ‘Haven’t Got It Wet In Months’ Moyse for mocking me and my David Bowie addiction!

Plus which… no permalinks on your blog? I’m all like, what’s up with that?

In other news, I’m going to a leadership-slash-project-management training session tomorrow at the university, mainly (I admit) to smush a few of their too-cute wide-eyed illusions about communal undertakings. Muhahaha. Should be blogworthy.

EEEEEE!!

GUESS WHO’S GOING TO SEE DAVID BOWIE IN JANUARY!!!

(runs around in circles, falls over)

Insomnia has transformed my world into an Impressionist painting. I stumble to a stop in buildings all over campus, huff on my glasses and polish them to a blinding shine, put them back on, and the world is still a pastel smudge. It’s not my glasses. It’s my eyes. They look like stained glass, in fact, maybe one of those really gory religious images like the martyrdom of St. Sebastian. I nod off in lectures and wake up with a theatrical start.

I’m running on fumes, basically - on the molecules of fumes, on the memory of sleep. And I swear to Shub I’m not doing anything wrong. I’ve gone to all the websites to see how to sleep - yes yes, no exercise before bed, warm milk, short warm shower, boring book, same bedtime every night, no loud music, etc, etc. I’m dying here. Johann Strauss doesn’t put me to sleep. My microeconomics textbook doesn’t put me to sleep. I wish someone would come to my house and just clunk me on the head around 9:30 every night.

So apparently Hitler’s filmmaker, Leni Riefenstahl, has just died in Berlin. My first thought was “Good bloody riddance!” Not just, you understand, because she was Hitler’s filmmaker. It’s because of Triumph of the Will, one of the worst films ever made.
It’s not just bad because it was made in the 1930s; it’s not just bad because it’s a Nazi propaganda film. It’s bad because it’s bad. Have any of you guys ever seen it? It’s like, forty minutes of the back of Hitler’s head… with him doing that stupid little duck-flipping wave every ten seconds… and some crowd shots… and a bunch of half-nude SS guys eating weinerschnitzel and soup and singing aloud while they shave, and some very contrived stuff with stilts, etc. And that’s leaving out the propaganda. And Hitler looked nervous and goofy, and very conscious that he was on camera, and you could see the boredom in every single face in the crowd. Not to mention the mandatory aerial shots of Germany that didn’t even relate to the rest of the movie. Lousy Nazis and their lousy propaganda film.

If I hadn’t received e-mail from him or a clever A.I. substitute, I would assume that Mark had fallen off the face of the earth. Since I do not want people to assume the same thing of me, here is a blog entry.

The big T-Dot was the big depressing for the first couple of days. We weren’t using the AC - which I realize practically nobody over here has, but trust me, you need it something fierce in the Far East. Also, I was sleeping on Harry Potter sheets.

Most of my time there was spent trying to convince various family members that, as an Albertan, I wasn’t an ignorant redneck. I think I succeeded in persuading at least a couple of them that I was interesting and bohemian and hip (and with any luck I didn’t give them this web address!). I met relatives who remembered me as a two-year old with ringlets and tantrums and frilly dresses. I met relatives who worshipped strange men with afros. I met relatives who, at the age of three, knew how to work laptop computers and DVD players. (The DVDs were all Hindi, some with subtitles, some not. Oy vey.) I met the cutest baby I’ve ever seen, who at the age of 18 months still can’t really talk and communicates with squeaks and chirrups and honks and squawks. Proves something about the pretty ones, don’t it.

The only time I got to spend away from the enormous burgeoning tentacles of my extended family was a nice evening at Centre Island spent with Rob, whose new condo building is huge and sparkling clean and still smells of paint and electric hammers. Get this - they’ve got their own radio station. Top forty hits? No. 24-hour advertising? Yes indeedy. Plus which, there’s a pool room, a pool, a gym, a library, a bowling alley (not very big, but very new), digitized golf, and Rob. And, it’s right across from the Warner Brothers building! (Rob’s room, when I was there, already looked like home. But Wincent’s was, as promised, a tiny arctic death-trap - and it does in fact contain the door to the laundry room, which I confidently predict will results in all kinds of wacky hijinks.)

The wedding was ultra-great, if a bit long. They did the traditional three-day ceremony (yes, we got breaks to sleep and eat) between the bride’s house and the temple. Hindu temples are not conducive to weddings normally - alcohol, meat, shoes, and swearing are all rigorously prohibited. This did not stop many of my more intrepid relatives from sneaking outside for hits of something nasty from their cars. Sigh. But, all the same, my cousin was a glorious blushing bride, the dance was fun except for the conga line that incontinently joined its back to its front, and I got to videotape the ceremony. Prestige? I think so.