Regular readers will have noticed the paucity of coverage in regards to summer events since the move, and the reason for that is I couldn’t find the stupid cable to get the photos off my camera. I dug in my desk drawer today and found what I thought was the relevant cable, poked it at the camera’s USB port, and said “Christ!” more or less out of surprise. Isn’t it funny how those mini-USB cables all look the same? I ransacked my electronics box and came out ( “Jesus!”) with no fewer than ( “Damn!”) nine mini-USB cables ( “Shit!”) that looked like they might ( “Fuck!!”) fit but never did. I think the right one was the very last cable I tried. So without further ado:

Rob at my going-away party. He litigated his way right into Calgary’s fancy public can on 17th Ave and the door shut before we could say “What is he doing?”

One of the many lovely items at our high school reunion auction… nothing says swanky like a ‘milk’ lava-lamp. Looking at this photo, I’m disappointed that I didn’t take one later on, after it had been plugged in for a couple of hours and looked like cottage cheese.

Yes, our high school was populated entirely by hotties. Why do you ask?

I shot this little donk on my phone when I was out doing sulphation plates at the plant boundary. I actually didn’t hear him come up behind me, and then he nudged the chainlink fence into my rear and I just about made a wee onto the plate. Heh. I bet Alberta Environment would’ve loved to see those results.

I would also just like to say that there is certainly no dearth of rabbits on the plant site, and also that they seem to lack reflexes or at least normal rabbit senses. You can drive a semi truck within five feet of them and they don’t even look up from their lunch. I guess fifty-five years of breeding at a metal refinery will do that.

Me, the Hustler, and his friend at Capital Ex on Friday. There seems to be some kind of unspoken rule that the first photo you take at the fair has to be one of people holding corndogs (Solange, I’m looking at you!). As we were going up to pay, the Hustler was debating whether to get a corndog or a “Big Dog.” I joked that he probably wasn’t man enough for the big dog, so of course that’s what he got, and then he spent the rest of the evening whining that his tummy hurt and it was all my fault for egging him on. Poor little princess still managed a bag of mini-donuts, a snowcone, and about ten gallons of Coke.

I was taking photos on the Super-Swing; I like heights and it was still early enough to see the fairground clearly.

However, not everyone likes heights. Case in point: my pal Blonde clutching the central pole on our ferris wheel car while we all laughed hysterically at her. (Later, naturally, one of us - I will not say whom - caught his or her foot on the steps coming off the ferris wheel and screamed like a girl.)

Finally, there was Kelly’s wedding yesterday, which was an unqualified success for all involved. Miss Baptista got hitched to the luckiest man in the world, my rented escort was as sweet as pie all night and did his damndest to not embarrass me, I got down with my bad self and was filmed shaking my lovely lady lumps to ‘Baby Got Back,’ and who here doesn’t love an open bar? I love open bars! Plus, Kelly and I got to keep up the age-old tradition of jamming money down my cleavage at a public venue. Awesome sauce.

I just noticed I neglected to take any photos of the Taste of Stabmonton, but I attended that as well - beautiful warm evening, no mosquitoes, and 20% off tickets because I bought them from work. Also, wine.

Planned posts for when I catch my breath from festival season: a book review of the sassiest piece of humour ever to cross my open palms; a story about a woman I’ve never met who sent me the first postcard at my new place; and thoughts on housewarming parties.

I write fiction (buckets of it these days, in fact, since my work day is about two hours of chaos followed by six hours of dead time) and the question often comes up: “Where do you get your ideas? What inspires you? How can you keep coming up with stuff?”

Are you kidding me? This is EARTH. Something wacky is happening all the time, everywhere, in every country, to everyone possible. Ideas flow from reality like snot from a toddler.

For example, I initially misread this brief headline on MSNBC a couple of times: DOG SAVES WOMAN ATTACKED BY KANGAROO. I kept going “What? What?”

But you can see how that could happen, right? It could have been practically any permutation of attack and salvation. I mean, it’s Australia, things happen. Ideas:

KANGAROO SAVES WOMAN ATTACKED BY DOG - a woman is outside watering her lawn on the outskirts of a major Australian city and is attacked by a roving pitbull. A passing kangaroo, attracted by the sound of the running water, hops across the road and coincidentally frightens the dog off.

WOMAN SAVES DOG ATTACKED BY KANGAROO - it’s rutting season in the outback, a small dog has gotten tangled in a fight between two male kangaroos. A woman driving by in her ATV spots the white bundle and pulls over, scares off the rutting ‘roos with the sound of the engine, and rushes the dog to a vet.

KANGAROO SAVES DOG, ATTACKS WOMAN - a kangaroo has gotten inexplicably attached to a domestic dog owned by an abusive alcoholic. One day, it hops the fence to play with its little friend and discovers the woman beating on her pet. The kangaroo kicks the woman out of the way and leaves with the dog in its pouch.

KANGAROO ATTACKS SAVED DOG-WOMAN - a Mexican circus is lost near a rural Australian city and pulls over to ask for directions. They send the dog-woman because she’s the only one who speaks English and because, as a born-again Christian, she wants to convince the residents to accept Jesus as the one true savior. As she enters someone’s yard, she is savaged by their trained attack kangaroo while the circus looks on in horror.

Just when I thought I couldn’t love Nick Cave any more, I run across this - a letter he wrote to MTV in 1996 asking to be withdrawn from the music awards.

“TO ALL THOSE AT MTV,

I WOULD LIKE TO START BY THANKING YOU ALL FOR THE SUPPORT YOU HAVE GIVEN ME OVER RECENT YEARS AND I AM BOTH GRATEFUL AND FLATTERED BY THE NOMINATIONS THAT I HAVE RECEIVED FOR BEST MALE ARTIST. THE AIR PLAY GIVEN TO BOTH THE KYLIE MINOGUE AND P. J. HARVEY DUETS FROM MY LATEST ALBUM MURDER BALLADS HAS NOT GONE UNNOTICED AND HAS BEEN GREATLY APPRECIATED. SO AGAIN MY SINCERE THANKS.

HAVING SAID THAT, I FEEL THAT IT’S NECESSARY FOR ME TO REQUEST THAT MY NOMINATION FOR BEST MALE ARTIST BE WITHDRAWN AND FURTHERMORE ANY AWARDS OR NOMINATIONS FOR SUCH AWARDS THAT MAY ARISE IN LATER YEARS BE PRESENTED TO THOSE WHO FEEL MORE COMFORTABLE WITH THE COMPETITIVE NATURE OF THESE AWARD CEREMONIES. I MYSELF, DO NOT. I HAVE ALWAYS BEEN OF THE OPINION THAT MY MUSIC IS UNIQUE AND INDIVIDUAL AND EXISTS BEYOND THE REALMS INHABITED BY THOSE WHO WOULD REDUCE THINGS TO MERE MEASURING. I AM IN COMPETITION WITH NO-ONE.
MY RELATIONSHIP WITH MY MUSE IS A DELICATE ONE AT THE BEST OF TIMES AND I FEEL THAT IT IS MY DUTY TO PROTECT HER FROM INFLUENCES THAT MAY OFFEND HER FRAGILE NATURE.

SHE COMES TO ME WITH THE GIFT OF SONG AND IN RETURN I TREAT HER WITH THE RESPECT I FEEL SHE DESERVES - IN THIS CASE THIS MEANS NOT SUBJECTING HER TO THE INDIGNITIES OF JUDGEMENT AND COMPETITION. MY MUSE IS NOT A HORSE AND I AM IN NO HORSE RACE AND IF INDEED SHE WAS, STILL I WOULD NOT HARNESS HER TO THIS TUMBREL - THIS BLOODY CART OF SEVERED HEADS AND GLITTERING PRIZES. MY MUSE MAY SPOOK! MAY BOLT! MAY ABANDON ME COMPLETELY!

SO ONCE AGAIN, TO THE PEOPLE AT MTV, I APPRECIATE THE ZEAL AND ENERGY THAT WAS PUT BEHIND MY LAST RECORD, I TRULY DO AND SAY THANK YOU AND AGAIN I SAY THANK YOU BUT NO…NO THANK YOU.

YOURS SINCERELY, NICK CAVE 21 OCT 96.”

Jesus. “My muse may spook!” he says. If I ever met Nick Cave I would fall at his feet. (Then slap him upside the head for ‘And The Ass Saw The Angel.’) (Then fall at his feet again.)

My first week of work was a crucible in a couple different senses of the word:
1. It was very, very, very hot this week.
2. I think there are actually some crucibles on site.
3. Crucible (n.): an ordeal, trial, gauntlet, or other difficult and ultimately life-threatening task or process, esp. in terms of inquisition, torture, and tests of faith.

Like most of my readers, I’ve had about an average number of jobs in an average variety of fields depending on my proclivities and bank account - barista, field technician, data entry, research assistant. I’ve plied my trade in stuffy offices and jungly greenhouses, in meadows and labs, in the storm and the night. Yet this is the first time I feel like I’m working on a different world.

OK, so it’s a metal refinery. I was expecting the occasional tank, maybe a couple of tubes here and there. But this place, it’s way over the top, it’s just barely a class-M planet. Coveralled men in respirator masks zip around on bicycles with little cans of chemicals in their baskets. You walk along the oddly-named streets and something huffs on you from a pipe. “What was that?” “Oh, I think that’s a steam pipe.” “Mm. Then why, pray, have both my ears suddenly fallen off?” “Sorry. I guess that’s chlorine or ammonia or something then.” “Eh?” The ground, it smokes like old-tymey engravings of Hell. “What is that?” “Steam.” “But the dandelions are nineteen feet tall and have glowing red eyes!” “Well, OK. There’s radioactive material in that warehouse. You got me.”

Thursday I did a site recon at the tailings ponds. I’ve seen photos of the ones in the oilsands. They don’t prepare you for the reality of the ones here at the refinery, which look like Mars. Or how Mars would look after a night of heavy drinking. The gouged erosion crevasses, the manycoloured strata - some barely an inch thick - the viridian water, the turquoise and golden banks, the endless red vistas of warm crumbled stone where metals have gone to die and nothing else can live. My response was about equal amounts “My God, it’s beautiful” and “RUN AWAY!” Because in industry, as in life, the more beautiful something is, the more likely it is to kill you dead.

I admit the danger is kind of exciting. I can see why people love working here. A preliminary list of things that could spurt from a valve and kill me include: acetone, propane, ammonia, sulphur dioxide, hydrogen sulphide, carbon monoxide, chlorine, cyanide, and sulphuric acid. There’s another, much longer list of things that won’t instantly turn me to a puddle but will instead riddle my body with tumours and cause my descendants for seven generations to be cursed with frogs, flies, and Oozing Crevice Disorder, yea, O Israel. If you breathe in too deeply near some of the storage sheds, your heart begins to lug like a racecar in the wrong gear. It also has the distinction of being the only place I’ve ever worked where I’ve seen the phrase ‘mass casualty incident management’ in the new employee orientation handbook.

(Postscript: I have a whole new respect for engineers after doing the plant tour Friday. I have never seen bigger, scarier, louder, or smellier machines in my entire life. And these guys work within inches of these molten belching things all day. Good God.)

Camping out on my apartment floor, will update when I have furniture and etc. So much for living in civilization, eh?