For Your Entertainment

The action starts at about 2:45. Enjoy!

Signs Of Aging

The cold, hard truth slapped me in the face the other day. On my way to work, I stopped at my local Starbucks to get the same Grande Light Roast I order every morning. I walked up to the counter and gave my order to the queen at the counter while I shoved my hand to the bottom of my bag to come up with $1.98 worth of change. I managed to come up with 20 nickels, 9 dimes, and 8 pennies (Oh... I should tell you... I've been committing social suicide on a daily basis for the last two months. We've had this massive container of change collecting since we moved into this building 2.5 years ago that neither one of us is willing to roll so I decided to shirk the responsibility to Starbucks employees).

I took my beverage, thanked the guy while I snapped on the lid, and before I could get my iPhone earbuds in my ears I heard him say "Have a nice day, sir."

Are you kidding me? He called me sir! Do I seriously look like a 'sir'? Why couldn't I be 'guy' or 'bud.' People only get called 'sir' when they look like a 'sir.' How do I know that? It's because when I was 18, working as a waiter in various restaurants, I only called people 'sir' that looked OLD. Now, maybe I'm being oversensitive about this because I am days away from 31 which, in gay years, might as well be 90. More than likely, it's because I've had a few clients (I'm a clinical counsellor for street youth between the ages of 18 and 24) that have voiced different scenarios where the word 'goof' got someone damn near killed.

Let me take a survey. What does 'Goof' mean to you? To me, it's a nickname for a Disney character or a term one uses in jest, to communicate that someone is acting crazy in a non-harmful way. If, like me, that is where your head goes as well, let me educate you on how the term has morphed into a very different meaning within the English language (you know, if you're under 25 years old). Turns out the word has changed to describe:

1. Goof: A goof is a child molester in prison that likes young boys; they must be kept in protective custody; quite often murdered or beaten into comas. i.e. 'to snuff a goof would be glory.'

Bet you didn't know that, you old fart! As disappointing as it was, I couldn't help but draw paralells between myself and the Mr. Enns, the white haired 'guidance counsellor' at my highschool. I'd never heard of anyone actually going to see him which makes sense since he didn't understand WHAT WE WERE TALKING ABOUT. I realized that I was losing touch with the 'lingo' which, in my profession and with the age of my clientele, is a death sentence.

To help me with my education, I did a bit of research and stumbled upon the Urban Dictionary. Holla! It's been a life saver. Who knew that I was far further out of the loop than I suspected? I urge you, peruse this site. It's an education I didn't get in graduate school but it's just as valuable for me now and perhaps you will be able to benefit from it as well. Here are a few examples of definitions from the website that might be new for you:

2. Joe Sixpack (ala Sarah Palin's debate banter): Average American moron, IQ 60, drinking beer, watching baseball and CNN, and believes everything his President says.

3. Tag Hag: A person who is obsessed with brand name clothing. See Label Whore.

4. Gaybie: The child of a gay couple.

5. Hurrication: Evacuation from a major hurricance turned into a short holiday.

6. Destinasia: When you get to where you were intending to go, you forget why you were going there in the first place. Not to be confused with being 'stoned', destinesia often occurs during working hours, and is the cause of much frustration.

So, there you have it. Live and learn people, live and learn. It's not just Botox and cosmetic surgery that keeps us young, though it might keep baristas from calling us ma'am or sir.

Is This Really Happening?

People, we're not on an episode of Punk'd. The answer is yes.

This morning we woke up at 6 a.m. which, unfortunately (on days off), is when both of our internal alarm clocks go off. Ryan was quick to turn on the TV to catch his favorite show, Reliable Sources, while I tried to muffle the volume of US politics with one of my pillows. I couldn't help but perk up when they started airing the latest Katie Couric interview with Sarah Palin.

God. Help. Us. All.

Now, I know that I am certainly not going to be the first to post these videos but I'm going to go ahead and do it anyway. I can't stop watching them and do you want to know why? It's because they are REMARKABLY SIMILAR. One is a supposedly hard-hitting political interview and the other is a sketch off of Saturday Night Live.

Tina Fey as Sarah Palin:

Sarah Palin as a nominee for THE VICE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES:

Here's the deal. I don't think Sarah Palin is a horrible person. I'm sure that she would be a great person to work with. I'm sure she's a great mom. I'm sure she has many amazing qualities. Having said this, these are not qualities that qualify you to lead a country. I almost feel sorry for her and the position she has been put (chose to be) in. Don't tell me John McCain didn't look around for an attractive female to run with (whom he met ONCE, but anyway...) once Hillary was ousted by Barack. Obviously, credentials weren't of utmost importance.

Gah! There is so much to say here but I'll hold back a bit. Ryan just instructed me not to "alienate [my] American readers." To be honest, if you disagree feel free to stop reading. Oh, wait. I haven't posted for 6 months. I suppose I have nothing to worry about.

I'm Lame

Should I start with a bunch of excuses for having been absent for so long? Nah...

We leave on vacation tomorrow morning. If you want to come along, go here:

A Hop, Skip, and a Jump

A Little Ditty

Sorry things have been so slow. I'm finishing up the last of my school projects and I am transitioning into a new job today. No more night shifts! Woo Hoo!

After watching this video, I suddenly realize what I should have done with all of the dead time at work between 2 a.m. and 6 a.m.

See more funny videos at CollegeHumor

I Think I'm Getting The Black Lung, Pop II

As you would expect from the descriptions of my coworkers in my last post, I would take any and all opportunities to work alone if given the chance. In most cases, this would mean driving one of these:
I know, I know! Any idea what this machine is called? Me neither! That said, I ran one... and often. The machine had a forklift on one end which would allow me to move pallets of concrete powder from one site to another. Now, this doesn't mean that the machine worked like it was supposed to. Too often, I would have to get off the machine and physically move the rusty forks into position in order to have them glide under the pallet so that I was able to lift it.

Throughout my six months at this job I, like everyone else, was subjected to 2 week shift rotations which meant 2 weeks of days, 2 weeks of afternoons, and 2 weeks of nights. It wreaks havoc on a person's internal clock and personally, I found it unmanageable. That 'unmanageablilty' caught up with me at about 4:00 a.m. on one particular shift, about a month before I quit.

Like I had to do many times before, I got off the machine to move those rusty forks into place. Annoyed, I reefed on them, jamming them into place. I felt a quick 'pinch' but didn't think anything of it. As I was climbing back onto the machine, I noticed that my entire right arm was bright red. "What the hell is this?" I thought. It was only when I looked up to my hand that I realized that my index and middle finger were still hanging onto my hand by way of a few nerves. We're talking hamburger.

I immediately became woozy an sat down to keep myself from passing out only to open my eyes and see my nails lying on the ground. I picked them up, shoved everything into my ice water, and walked toward the nearest underground telephone (they had one drilled into the wall every 100 feet or so for emergencies such as, well, this).

Me: Come and get me.

Randy: What?

Me: I... need... you... to... come... and... GET ME.

Randy: What the fuck for.

Me: Get off your ass and come get me.

I hung up the phone and waited. My body must have immediately gone into shock because I hadn't felt a thing at this point. When Randy got up to the site, he asked what was wrong. With a big smile on my face, I took my hand out of the bloody ice water and waved at him, dangling bits swinging from side to side. Randy started dry heaving as I plunged my hand back into the thermos.

So my journey to the hospital started. 45 minutes in the Jeep to the mine shaft, 15 minutes going up to the top where an ambulance was waiting, and a 45 minute drive into the city to the hospital.

Upon my arrival, the nurse asked me to fill out some paperwork. I believe my response was "And how the fuck am I supposed to do that?" Looks like my coworkers' choice of language had rubbed off on me. In the ambulance on the way over, they did not allow me to keep my hand in the ice water. Remember that part about not feeling anything? Ya, not so much anymore. Once I was full of drugs, they helped me take off my coveralls. It was a god thing I was so high, otherwise I might have been embarrassed by the threadbare, navy briefs with a giant hole in the ass that I had selected that morning because I hadn't done laundry in two weeks.

As I waited for the doctor (hours), I heard murmurs of taking off what was dangling and deadening the nerves with a wire brush. This did not go over well with anyone, even me in my loopy state. I explained that I played piano and this wasn't an option. I didn't want to have any digits looking like this and I was more than willing to wait. A plastic surgeon flew in and started putting back the pieces. I watched the whole thing, right down to him sewing back on the fingernails.

I left the hospital with a bandage that looked like a Mickey Mouse mitt and went home. Probably the hardest thing I had to manage out of the whole ordeal with driving my standard car (it was my right hand that was hurt) and keep the injury above my heart for three weeks so the stitches didn't burst. I don't know how many people I passed on the street who would 'wave back' with a confused look on their face, trying to figure out who I was.

All that said, I've got some 'mostly' normal fingers now. You wouldn't be able to tell that anything happened to them unless you took a good look.

Moral of the story? If you're going to cut off fingers, do it in Canada. The entire experience didn't cost me a dime.

I Think I'm Getting The Black Lung, Pop.

Working in a mine had never crossed my mind. The very thought was laughable. Though I am born of strong farming and mechanic stock, I don’t like to get my hands dirty. I had also spent the first two years of University honing my skills at acquiring the largest tip possible from any table, regardless of it’s makeup: no nonsense with the business men, a quick wink at the gay guys, sitting with my arms around the cougars for photo-ops, and commenting to parents how adorable their ‘spawn of Satan’ offspring were. Why would I turn away from a good thing?

$28.90/hour as an introductory wage for an uneducated student is why I would turn away from a good thing.

A friend of mine had informed me a place called Agrium was hiring. I suppose I should have inquired more as to what exactly I’d be doing but I really didn’t care once I had heard what they were willing to pay students. I immediately began dreaming of dinners that weren’t described as ‘Pops,’ whether they be microwavable pizzas or breakfast cereal. I drove my brown, 1973 Mercury Carpi (clad with Dodge hubcaps) 45 minutes out into the country to the mine site and applied. Less than two weeks later, I was informed that I had been hired. I was elated. After all, I hadn’t started and didn’t know anything about the position.

The company had provided very little information as to what we’d be doing. They said that our job description would depend entirely on what team we were slated with. Regardless, we were to wear cover-alls, steel toed work boots, and required to bring a full jug of ice-water daily to prevent dehydration because the temperature consistently hovered around 65F/18C degrees that far underground. I showed up for my first shift and was informed where and with whom I’d be working. I was part of the team that drilled into underground lakes as to alleviate pressure on the mine shafts; once the water was drained from one lake, we would fill them with a lightweight concrete and move onto the next. OK, I thought. I’m up for the challenge. I was then introduced to my team: Randy, Paul, and Dude (yes, Dude. I still don’t know if he has a real name). I realized early on that despite the fact that I was only in my second year of University, I had eight years more education than any of these men. Most had dropped out of high school and started working for the company in their early teens. They weren’t bitter and jaded AT ALL (note the sarcasm. Made for a lovely introduction and working environment).

On my first day, my team and I, along with all of the other men, walked towards ‘the cage.’ Before we entered the ‘elevator,’ everyone was required to clip the numbered identification tag each of us had been given onto the board that signified who was underground in case of an emergency. Shoulder to shoulder, we pressed in. The metal door slammed and locked, the horn blew, and we started our decent. What exactly was I doing here, I thought. Within seconds, we had entered the darkest place I had ever been. I blinked furiously, trying in vain to catch a glimpse of light. After a few minutes we arrived at the base.

I don’t know what I was expecting to see. In my mind, I had visions of dwarfs with picks in tiny dark tunnels, uncovering massive diamonds. Nothing could have been further away from the reality. The doors opened to a massive underground city. The shafts were at least 30 feet high and what I came to learn is that the grids of roadways spanned 80 miles by 140 miles. My team got into our Jeep and started making the 45 minute drive to our site. I was astonished, not only by these new facts but by the overwhelming smell of sulphur.

So, let’s skip ahead to daily occurrences at the mine: Things I became a part of whether I liked it or not.

1. We didn’t actually work very often: Being so far away from everyone else in the mine meant that we could hear another Jeep driving our way with a 15 minute window to jump up and make it look like we were doing something. Randy, our ‘leader,’ would tell us to ‘Fuck Off, he was TIRED’ every time we suggested that it might be a good idea to drain that underground lake before it collapsed on us.

2. The porn ring: It circulated from site to site. Lucky me. Various copies of ‘Barely 18’ showed up at our coffee break table daily and those interested could take them home until the next day. I was subjected to daily conversations such as this one:

Dude: “Magee (my surname), get over here!!!”

Jess: “I’m OK, Dude. Thanks anyway”

Dude: “No, Magee… seriously!!! You’ve GOT to see this!!!”

Jess: “I’m seriously OK with not seeing it”

Dude: “You’re missing out, man. Not a hair on her biscuit and the tits of a ten year old boy!!!”

Jess: “Neat.”

Disrespecting their wives: For example, it didn’t matter what was sent for lunch. Randy was always unhappy with what was sent. On one particular day, his wife sent chilli and buttered bread. Turns out that the container with the chilli in it fit snugly into the larger container that held both the chilli and the bread. When he looked at what was for lunch, all he saw was the bread. And I quote:

Randy: “A butter sandwich… a BUTTER FUCKIN’ SANDWICH. That bitch is going to get a kick in the cunt when I get home… oh, wait…”

Such was my life for 6 months. It was only until I had a major accident that not only forced me to stop working for this company, but taught me money isn’t everything. Stay tuned…