Of Moose and Men...

I looked down at the moose lying on the side of the highway. Despite being dead, the animal had definitely seen better days. In fact, it was a God-awful mess. By the looks of the strips of fibre-glass lying around, I guessed that the animal had been hit by an 18 wheeler. There’s not much that can slow down a moose, but a long-haul truck is definitely one of them.

I was working for the Department of Natural Resources and Energy, which is just a fancy, bureaucratic way of saying “Forest Rangers.” It was a great job, no three ways about it, one that I returned to every summer of university despite the low pay and the tongue twisting effort of answering the phone with a perky: “Good Afternoon, Department of Natural Resources and Energy.” The real advantage of the job was that the “Ranger Station” is located right next door to my house. Every morning, I would walk across the lawn to work. I remember one morning I woke up at 7:56 and got to work on time at 8:00. The commute was a killer, especially if there was a lot of dog-poop to jump over. I was technically hired as a computer guy, office assistant type, but the great part was that if I got bored, I could head out into the field with one of the guys. So I was often out traipsing through the woods, rocketing down old roads on quads, canoeing to old camp holdings or fighting forest fires. Great job I tells ya, one that always impressed my city-slicker friends.

Now, one thing that a lot of people don’t realize is that the Forest Rangers are responsible for clearing up large-scale road-kill. The Department of Transportation handles all the small animals, or “shovel-jobs” if you prefer, so basically, anything smaller than a coyote. We handled all the big game (deer, bear, moose, cougar etc.) Such large animals can be a real problem, since our high-speed highways, thick coastal fog, and abundance of wildlife make for a pretty dangerous cocktail.

So there I was, on the side of the highway, looking down at what was once assuredly a moose. I was with Terry, one of the Rangers I had known forever; he had watched me learn to ride my bike in the station’s parking lot. We backed up the truck and trailer and adjusted the winch. We hefted up the moose’s head, which is no mean feat, and secured the cable around its neck. Terry started the winch and I stood by to guide the animal up the ramp as we ungloriously yanked it up by its head.

The winch started to overheat with the strain of hauling the huge animal and we were forced to move the moose up the ramp in fits and starts. Terry would wait for the winch to cool and then give it another burst, hauling the moose up about six inches at a time. We were both starting to curse in frustration when I noticed a car zip past us, swerve suddenly to take the next exit, and come back down the other side of the highway until they found a place to turn and pull up behind us.

“What the hell is this?” asked Ranger-Terry. The car had Ontario plates, and a young couple jumped out with YUPPY written on their foreheads in indelible ink. “I think they’re tourists,” I replied. “Weeell, shiiit,” said Terry, rolling his eyes and giving the moose another pull up the ramp. I walked back to try to head off the couple at the pass.

“Hi there!” shouted the woman, “We’re from Toronto!” Now, that’s a label no one would self-apply where I come from. “Hi,” I said, giving a half-hearted wave, “I’m from right here.” The man grinned and said, “We’re on our honeymoon… we’re from Toronto!” I looked from one to the other, “You sure are,” I replied. I tried to cut between them and the shattered animal, but the woman was already peering over my shoulder. “We’ve never seen a moose before!” she said excitedly, “That’s a moose right?” The husband spoke up condescendingly, “Of course it’s a moose honey,” looking at me and rolling his eyes. I raised my hand and tried to speak with a little authority. “Look folks, I really don’t think this is the moose you want to see.” I’ve always found that when you talk with authority it’s good to call people “folks.”

“No, no,” insisted the wife, “we saw one from a distance once, but it was far away.” I decided not to tell her that things at a distance generally are. “Well, listen, there’s a zoo about half an hour up the road…” “No, no, not the zoo, that’s not the same. We want to see a REAL moose, in the wild.” I was sure that my face was betraying my disbelief. I tried to spell it out to them, “But… well, at least it would be, you know, walking around.”

There was nothing for it. The couple followed me back to where the moose was lying, halfway up our ramp. A pink jelly was oozing from several contusions, one of the legs flopped around like a rag-doll, and slimy green innards were spilling from several old and new orifices. I looked up at Terry on the truck and shrugged. He cursed and turned back to work on the winch. “Wow! Look at that!” said the husband. The couple seemed completely unaware of the mangled condition of the animal. “How much do you think it weighs?” asked the man. I looked to Terry for an estimate, but it was clear that he wanted nothing to do with this. “Oh, I dunno,” I said, “maybe 600 pounds?” Of course, I had no idea, I can’t even judge the weight of a package of hamburger. The woman was bent over the moose, inspecting it carefully, “Are you sure it’s dead?” she asked. I stopped short. “Pardon?” She seemed very genuine. “Are you sure it’s not still alive?” she asked again. I turned away to see if Terry was hearing this. “Well, you know, I’m just a summer student, I’m no expert…” I said, trying not to lose it. They both turned to Terry. I had to hand it to him, he looked at them for a long moment and then said, “Ma’am, in my professional opinion, this animal is dead.”

Seemingly satisfied, the woman ran back to the car and came back with a video camera. This was getting out of control. She started her narrative, “Here’s the moose we saw in Nova Scotia…” “New Brunswick” I broke in. “New Brunswick…. And here are the Forest Rangers.” She started panning over the moose and zooming in. Terry had had enough. He wanted to get the damn moose loaded and put an end to the stage show. He started up the winch, and with a scream of engine and cable, the moose lurched six inches up the ramp.

To be fair, we probably should have warned them. Despite our assurances, and the overwelming physical evidence, the poor woman must have suspected that the moose just maybe, possibly, was still alive, because when the winch screamed and the animal jumped up the ramp, she screamed and jumped even louder and higher, and threw her hands in the air. I give a lot of credit to her husband, who watched agape as the video camera flew through the air in a perfect parabola, but somehow managed to catch it before it became as mangled as the moose. The woman was hysterical, I was shouting, “It’s dead… It’s dead.” I couldn’t think of anything else to say. The couple scrambled back to the car without saying goodbye or thank-you for seeing their first REAL moose, which I thought was a little rude.

Man, would I ever love to see that video.

Here's the Thing...

Alright, here’s the story. Remember that stand-up comedy bit I did a few weeks back. Well, as it turned out, there was a TV producer there that night. He called me a couple days later, said he thought I was pretty funny, and asked me if I wanted a part in a sitcom he was working on. I had some reservations, but figured, well, being on TV in Pakistan had way too much comic potential to resist. The show is a very original concept involving six friends, three guys and three girls, who hang out in their apartments a lot, and even go down to the local coffee shop once and a while (remind me to write something about original ideas in the media over here at some point). I play “Mike,” an easy-going white guy from Canada, who comes to Pakistan to visit a friend and ends up staying to work for an NGO. My character reminds me of someone, but I just can’t put my finger on it.

In any case, taking on the project has meant that I’ve spent less time at the NGO where I usually type things up and post to the blog. Now, it doesn’t help that the days that I have been at my desk, the Internet connection has been as slow as a turtle on its back in a puddle of molasses. Neither have I been very excited about the way this shoot is going, which I would compare to an airplane crashing into a train-wreck and causing a pile-up on the autobahn.

I guess, if there is any good news, it’s that I should have plenty of material for the ole blog by the time I get settled into some kind of routine again. So far, doing this show has been excrutiatingly painful, but in a way that I can already tell will be hilarious in retrospect. That's some foreward thinking retrospection for ya. Anyway, we shall see.

Feeling Flushed...

The other day, I noticed that my toilet wouldn’t stop running. Before someone told me that I’d better go catch it, and being conscious of water conservation, I decided I’d better see if I could fix it. Most toilets over here are the type with the knob that you pull up from the centre of the tank. So I loosened it and figured out how to remove the cover. I’m no plumbing expert, but I’ve got a few shards of common sense left kicking around my skull, so I realized that the stopper wasn’t forming a seal down at the bottom of the tank. I undertook my usual handyman action, which I like to call "fiddling," that I have performed with next to no success on various appliances and fixtures the world over. I fiddled with the stopper shaft, and it seemed to form a seal. The toilet stopped running and the tank began to fill. Ah, success never smelled so sweet… well… not exactly. It may not have been a permanent fix, but in any case, I left the cover off in case it happened again.

Having finished my work as a plumber, I hitched up my pants, and decided I had earned a nap. I settled down and was soon dreaming of a magical land where Q’s aren’t followed by U’s. About an hour later, I woke up, but I wasn’t sure why. I had the distinct sensation that something wasn’t right. I remembered that in my dream it was raining, but I could still hear water. Subaru Kazoo must be showering, I thought, as I rolled over, still in a daze. Wait a minute, I realised, waking up, there’s no way I could hear Kazoo’s shower from my room. I stood up with cold dread in the pit of my stomach and opened the bathroom door.

A plume of water was geysering from the top of the toilet tank. Subaru must have actually decided to take a shower and asked the servants to turn on the water pump downstairs that brings us enough pressure to shower. For some reason, the added pressure blew the valve on the toilet intake and it shot across the tank, hitting the opposite side, arching through the air, and quite literally all over everything. All over my towels, all over the toilet paper and Q-tips, all over the pigeons, all over my toothbrush (fantastic!), and all over my cologne, which is great, because if there’s one thing I like on my toilet water, it’s toilet water.

I took a tentative step and nearly slipped and killed myself. I skittered across the floor toward the toilet tank like a drunk on skates. I reached in and flushed the toilet, which I thought was smart, until I realized that it would in no way inhibit the flow of water. I slid over to the water taps down by the floor and twisted them off. The plume of water shrank down to nothing, and I was left only with the sound of screaming baby pigeons in their saturated windowsill roost. Ah, I thought to myself, so this is what it sounds like, when doves cry.

I spent the next hour working the squeegy over the tiles, cleaning and mopping up. Where I once had a running toilet, I now had a completely busted ass toilet, to use the technical term. I walked out and found Subaru Kazoo and asked him if he knew anything about toilets. "Why?" he asked. "Because mine just exploded." I replied. "Oh…" he said," Shitty." Yup, good ole Subaru Kazoo, always a good man in a jam.

Oh, Now, That's Rich...

In a speech on the "War on Terror" at the National Endowment for Democracy last week, George Bush said the following:

…Islamic radicalism is elitist, led by a self-appointed vanguard that presumes to speak for the Muslim masses. Bin Laden says his own role is to tell Muslims, quote, "what is good for them and what is not." And what this man who grew up in wealth and privilege considers good for poor Muslims is that they become killers and suicide bombers. He assures them that his -- that this is the road to paradise -- though he never offers to go along for the ride.

So, let me get this straight… George Bush, who grew up in about as much wealth and privilege as you can get, who is proud to joke at almost any possible occasion about his dismal grades during his family bestowed time at Yale, who has sent thousands of poor Americans into a war based on lies to become endorsed killers and torturers, who is generally intent on telling the world "what is right and what is wrong," who rigged his National Guard service so he would never have to "go along for the ride," is accusing Bin Laden of what exactly?

Hello Pot? This is Kettle… you’re black.

In the same speech, George says:

Some have also argued that extremism has been strengthened by the actions of our coalition in Iraq, claiming that our presence in that country has somehow caused or triggered the rage of radicals. I would remind them that we were not in Iraq on September the 11th, 2001 -- and al Qaeda attacked us anyway. The hatred of the radicals existed before Iraq was an issue, and it will exist after Iraq is no longer an excuse. The government of Russia did not support Operation Iraqi Freedom, and yet the militants killed more than 180 Russian schoolchildren in Beslan.

This is classic diversionary arguing techniques. No one is saying that terrorism did not exist before the Iraq invasion. The point of fact is that terrorist action in Iraq did not exist, and now it does. Al Queda was not active in Iraq, although a lot of Americans still think they were. Now people in that country have a reason to be angry. And bringing in the Beslan School fiasco is just mind boggling… In fact, taken as the sum of it’s parts, the whole paragraph just doesn’t make any sense.

And since I seem to be on this kick, have you noticed all the "War on Terror" speeches lately? No big surprise, if you ask me. Bush and Co. are losing their footing on the ground they thought was secure, so they’re trying to distract by playing the card they still feel is their trump: Terror. You gotta keep the people scared. It’s hard to care who’s on the Supreme Court when you’re trying to figure out the difference between Orange-level fear and Yellow-level fear. And now, it’s coming out that the New York Subway terror threat was a hoax. The host of MSNBC’s Countdown's, Keith Olbermann has charted 13 "coincidental" occasions when terror alerts immediately followed bad political news for the administration. What concerns me, is that terrorist acts are still a very real threat, and this constant play with the terror scale (that has more colours than a gay pride parade) will just have people so desensitized that any real threat has the potential of being ignored. It’s like the little boy who cried Wolfowitz.

I’m tempted to go on and on here, but I should cease and desist. I think maybe I should go back to not reading the news… those were happy times.

Many Hands Make Light Work... Vs. ... Too Many Cooks Spoil the Broth...

Sunday night, I went with some friends to the PAF Museum parking lots, which are serving as the drop point for disaster relief donations from Karachi citizens. I didn’t exactly know what to expect as we headed up there, but I was hoping to help out in some way, however small. When we arrived, we were confronted by lines of cars dropping off donations, and people like us hoping to lend a hand. Every available space in the parking lots was piled with mounds of supplies, crates of water, milk and juices, and mountain ranges of quilts and blankets. The extent of the generosity was heart-warming. Of course, it’s impossible to look at a vast pile of supplies such as that and try to estimate just how many people it might serve, but whatever the numbers, it was certainly a start.

We made our way toward the main staging ground, where things seemed strangled and confused. Hundreds of people stood around or wandered from place to place, looking for things to do. Civilians pitched to, working at one thing or another, while the military stood by watching, or sitting looking bored. I had been afraid of something like this. I looked around and tried to assess what was going on. Finally, I did the only thing I could do. I stood around, and wandered from place to place, looking for something to do.

Here and there, I found bits of work. I taped together some boxes, helped move some supplies from one pile to the other. I am a hard worker, when it comes to it, but I also have an embedded sense of what I might call "intelligent laziness." By that, I mean that I have no problem working, but I am against doing more work than is necessary, and am always looking for simpler, easier ways to do things. I could already see that the enthusiasm of this workforce was being wasted. Women, in typical fashion, were being relegated to sorting medicine, since someone had decided that it was suitable work for women. That’s fine, since medication is one of the most important aspects of the relief effort. But the tent where the drugs were being sorted was crammed into one corner with a throng of people crowded around trying to help. It was hard to make head nor tail of what was going on. Piles of blankets and sorted supplies were already being moved from one area to another. That is the kind of thing that irritates me. Without an organising principle, everyone will do what they think is best, which is admirable, but not necessarily helpful to the entirety, if things have to be continually moved from place to place. Everyone around me seemed to be saying, "We need more people!" But I didn’t find that to be the case. What they needed was someone to take control and organise. In fact, I felt there were too many people. There was hardly room to move. Trying to carry something from one area to another was a nightmare, as you were forced to weave your way around people and piles of goods.

Finally, I settled myself toward the outskirts where truckloads of rations were being unloaded. I helped form "bucket-brigade" style lines to shuttle supplies from the trucks into piles in the parking lot. Each truck would start out well, but then, with the sight of activity, more men would arrive, the efficiency level would be broken, and we would actually have too many people trying to unload the truck. It was almost comical, as people tripped over each other in an effort to help. Men were crying out encouragement to each other to unload the truck as fast as possible. The enthusiasm was fantastic to see, but of course, there was really no hurry to unload the trucks. I was shouting out, "Slow down! … Chill Out!… Aram Se!" because bags were being broken open in their haste to unload the trucks at lightening speed. There was no line of trucks waiting to be unloaded; there was no rush. Stacking the supplies in a more orderly fashion would have been a better plan than unloading as fast as possible, but of course, there’s really not much you can do in that kind of situation, so I moved on.

I worked with another group, packing boxes with supplies. Again, everyone was cramped together, so I tried, somewhat successfully, to spread them out into stations of boxing the supplies, taping up and fortifying the boxes, and labeling and stacking them together. I was hindered by language as usual, but was proud to have worked out a small system. Unfortunately, the trucks I had left earlier had stopped arriving, so dozens of people came to help with the boxing. As two groups started to squabble and fight over what to do, I walked away.

Huge, double-transport trucks arrived that would be taking supplies up North. I found one with less people around and helped load extremely heavy bales of blankets into the back. A volunteer came back to rear of the truck, where I was wrestling these huge bales into position. He admonished me for not stacking them one on top of each other. In fact, I was lining them up to do just that, but I’m afraid I lost my temper just a little bit. "Then why don’t you help me lift them then?" I said forcefully (yeah, that’s about as angry as I get). I had just maneuvered these things into position that had taken five guys to lift into the back of the truck. I wasn’t about to try to lift one up by myself. Someone decided that each truck should be loaded with a mixture of blankets, water and other supplies. I was having trouble, without the use of language, to convince the guy I had argued with earlier not to stack the boxes of water bottles in the puddle at the back of the truck. I clinched my argument by forcefully picking up an already saturated box and letting the bottles fall through the ruined cardboard and onto the floor. "Acha," he said, as comprehension dawned.

By this time, it was after midnight, and we decided to call it a night. On a small scale, I had witnessed exactly how, without coordination, good intentions and enthusiasm can bog down relief efforts. I could see exactly how organisations find themselves criticized for mismanaging resources. On the plus side, I had also seen more genuine hard-work, effort and focussed enthusiasm than I had yet seen in Pakistan. The next day, I heard that things became much more organised and much more was accomplished, which is excellent. As more donations continue to pour in, I can only hope that it will be enough to help meet the incredible demand.

Enough About Me...

Yes, folks, I am fine.

Thank you for your concern. Karachi is just about as far as you can get from the epicentre of the massive earthquake that occurred yesterday morning in Northern Pakistan.

But enough about me. The human toll of this natural disaster will be immense. The count today sits at 18,000, but projections are for well over 50,000. Whole villages up north have been wiped off the map, and even getting any aide there at all will be extremely difficult. But, as it stands, I feel unqualified to comment as I have only been watching the news like everyone else.

Thanks to Abbas for pointing out that the Lahore Metroblogging site has some excellent coverage. You can read first person testimony, view photos and find out how you can help.

My Finger is on the Button...

Does this scare the crap out of anyone else?

Nabil Shaath [Palestinian Foreign Minister] says: "President Bush said to all of us[In June 2003]: 'I'm driven with a mission from God. God would tell me, "George, go and fight those terrorists in Afghanistan." And I did, and then God would tell me, "George, go and end the tyranny in Iraq …" And I did. And now, again, I feel God's words coming to me, "Go get the Palestinians their state and get the Israelis their security, and get peace in the Middle East." And by God I'm gonna do it.'"

- From an interview in the upcoming BBC documentary "Elusive Peace: Israel and the Arabs."

"George, go and get yourself a ham sandwich."

An Open Letter to the Folks on Khi-e-Badar with Three Bronze Stallions Charging Through the Front Wall of their House:

Folks,

I have driven past your house hundreds of times, but it was only recently, while walking up Badar, that I had the time to notice the artistic travesty that is your home. For whatever reason, you decided to create the illusion that three metallic horses have burst through the front wall of your house. First of all, this is not a very convincing illusion. I am not convinced that you have a herd of metallic horses in your upstairs lounge in the midst of a catastrophic stampede. Second, I do not believe that these animals were somehow trapped there during the construction of the house, and if they were, shame on you. Third, I don’t choose to believe that the raging fury of the concrete-penetrating stallions somehow represents the ostentatious moral fiber of your family. However, this is mostly because I don’t believe in metallic horses. They’re not real.

In any case, it’s not cool. In my estimation, there is absolutely no need for you to have three horses charging through the front face of your house like a pink Cadillac at Planet Hollywood. I see no purpose: whether practical, aesthetic or artistic. In fact, there is only one way I will accept your decision to represent a trio of escaping equines through your exterior wall. And that is, if there are three horses’ asses represented on the interior wall of your dining room.

And if by some chance, you know me, or read this blog, please ignore the preceding two paragraphs.

Cheers! And Giddy-up,

Dave

Going My Way?...

Last night, I was walking home from a friend's place when a rumbling, old truck pulled up beside me. I was slightly conscious that I was carrying more money than I usually do when I'm out walking, but I wasn't too worried. After all, I have a distinct size advantage over most Pakistanis. So I continuted walking and looked over at the truck that was now keeping pace with me. A man leaned out the passenger window and asked me something. From the intonation in his voice and his gestures, I guessed that he was asking directions. I just stared at him for a moment. It was dark, so I wanted to give him a second to register just who he was asking for directions, but it didn't seem to phase him. He thrust out a piece of paper with an address written on it.

Now, there's something in me that always makes me stop in these scenarios. I don't know what it is. I can be walking in a city I've never been in before in my life and if someone stopped and asked me directions, I would listen to them, contemplate, and then tell them I have no idea where they're talking about. All this would be much simpler if I just started out by saying, "No, I don't."

So here I was, with a piece of paper in my hand, sweat dripping down my forehead, looking at the anxious man in the cab of the truck. I held the paper up to the light, and was surprised that the address was in English. Even more surprising, I knew where it was! Miracle of miracles. Now this was exciting. A Canadian was about to give directions to a Pakistani in Karachi, in Urdu even. What fun! Quickly, I drove through a mental map, assembled a patch work quilt of my Urdu directional words (those being strictly limited to... right, left, forward, back), and then told the man where to go, so to speak.

I stood on the side of the road gesticulating wildly. The men in the truck nodded and smiled, every once in a while one of them would say something that I couldn't understand anyway. Anyone passing by must have thought we were involved in some sort of crazy, cross-cultural game of charades.

I finished my masterful description and stepped back. They smiled and thanked me. I felt a swell of satisfaction at having accomplished such a monumental task. Self-Satisfaction which admittedly deflated slightly as I watched them head down to the intersection and drive off in precisely the wrong direction.

Oh well.

Under The Bridge...

Adamjee: Actually, I learned to play bridge in junior high-school, I just didn't have anyone to play with.

Me: Yeah, I don't remember many kids playing bridge in grade 9.

Adamjee: So I ended up teaching my servants to play.

Me: Ha. You taught three, illiterate house-hold servants to play bridge with you?

Adamjee: Yeah. Took me months and months.

Me: Did it actually work?

Adamjee: Well, no. Not really... but it was worth a try.

The Keystone Cop...

Yesterday, I was driving somewhere through Defense Housing area. I wasn't really paying attention, but I would guess it was Phase VII. We slowed for a speed-breaker in front of a Police Station where I saw the following huge sign:

Office Of The
Town Police Officer

Well, I'm glad he's on the job. He's got a bit of territory to cover in the ole town of Karachi, but he knows what he's doing.

Somebody Call the Police! Oh never mind, he's already here.

Diggin' a Hole...

I was just reading that as of Friday, the national debt of the United States stood at $ 7, 924, 890, 927, 754.51… Now that’s a heck of a lot of numbers on parade. I think the precision is pretty funny though. Fifty-One cents. Almost Eight Trillion Dollars, but don’t forget that half dollar and the single, solitary penny. I feel like someone should cop up the .51 to even things off, heck, I’ll do it. I’m noble like that. I’m willing to help out my Southern neighbours (even though I spell neighbours with a "u"). Although, on the other hand, Dick Cheney could always just give another 49 cents to Halliburton and make it an even 755.00, I mean, why not? The victims of the hurricanes are going bankrupt, but those contracts just keep getting handed over without a bid.

But then I started thinking, you know, Seven Trillion, Nine Hundred and Twenty-Four Billion, Eight Hundred and Ninety Million, Nine Hundred and Twenty-Seven Thousand, Seven Hundred and Fifty-Four Dollars, and Fifty-One cents is a lot of money – I don’t think I’ll ever make that much myself. Imagine writing that on a cheque? (I would still put squiggly lines at the beginning so no one could add any extra numbers). But, I started getting curious, if that was the American Debt on Friday, what was it now? So, I found this American Debt Clock, which is just like a normal clock, except completely different. As of this morning, the American National Debt had marched onward as to war, to the tune of $7, 930, 261, 983, 734.81… I mean, Wow! That was quite the weekend. I splurged a bit more this weekend then I had intended to, but no where close to Five and a half Billion Dollars. And according to this site, the debt has increased by 1.5 Billion dollars per day since October 2004. Wow. That’s staggering.

But don’t you think that these numbers are just too much? I don’t think people worry about deficits like this because it just doesn’t seem real. Who can even fathom a Trillion? Back in University, Jeff and I decided to do some calculations to put Millions and Billions in perspective. We figured that everyone has a handle on Millions, but no one really appreciates how much more a billion is than a Million. You with me? So we figured out that when you are born, if you started counting your age in seconds, you reach your Millionth second on your eleventh day on Earth. In comparison, you won’t live your Billionth second until you’re almost 32 years old. Twelve days… Thirty-Two Years, that’s the difference between a Million and a Billion. As for a Trillion… well, it doesn’t take a math genius to tell you, you’d have to live to be 32 Thousand years old to hit your Trillionth second.

Currently, as of 12:21:45 PM, October 4, 2005, taking into account my being born at 1:56 AM July 11, 1978 and an eight hour difference from my birth time-zone, I have reached 858,824,745.. 46.. 47.. 48.. .. .. .. .. .. Jeez, that’s depressing.

If you can fill the unforgiving minute,
With sixty seconds worth of distance run,
Yours is the world, and everything that’s in it,
and what is more, you’ll be a man, my son.

Pigeon Porn...

Folks, I have seen the baby pigeons, and they are ugly.

For years I have heard people speculating on the very existence of baby pigeons. There are no shortage of adult pigeons, white-washing statues the world over, but where are all the youngins? I have even had some folks tell me that pigeons must be born in an adult state. I always thought that a more plausible solution might be that they build nests under the eaves of buildings and such, where it’s difficult for all these baby-pigeon enthusiasts to track them.

Nevertheless, to all of you who still dream of the day you might see the elusive baby pigeon, let me just say one thing: Consider yourself lucky. They are not worth the trouble. After my sister saw some baby hyenas and warthogs in Uganda, she developed a theory that "baby" anything must be cute. Well, let me tell ya, when it comes to pigeons, you can toss that theory right out the window.

You see, this all started a few months back, when I heard some strange noises coming from the bathroom. Now, my bathroom is often the source of many strange noises, but usually only when I’m in there, so I was curious. I found two large pigeons roosting on my bathroom window sill. Since that window stays open all the time (for obvious reasons), the birds had shored up in the cozy, albeit smelly, refuge. I had no real problem with sharing the space, except that I found it a little disconcerting when they stared at me while I peed.

Then I started observing some strange wildlife phenomena. One day I burst into the bathroom with some speed, which is not uncommon, and caught the pigeons in the midst of some kind of ritual… a pigeon dance of sorts. I was suspicious, but I had other things on my mind. Early the next week, I thought for sure I could hear strains of Barry White and Marvin Gaye music coming from the loo, but every time I threw open the door it would disappear.

Then one day, I decided that the flapping and cooing I was hearing from the next room had reached unacceptable levels. I grumbled to myself and strode quickly into the bathroom, catching those two avian exhibitionists red-handed in the act of pigeon-penetration. I have to say though, that I was fascinated. I couldn't look away. I had always wondered how our feathered friends went about making eggs, and now I had a window seat view. It was all very fast, furious and feathered, and seemed to conform to a position I can only describe as "Birdie-Style." Oblivious to my presence, they shared a peaceful cigarette, and I snuck politely from the room.

A few weeks later, what do you know, but the window ledge started filling up with random twigs and leaves. Hmmm, I thought to myself... Sure enough, it wasn’t long before two shiny, little eggs were nestled in amongst the rest of the trash in my window. Most of the time, the mamma pigeon was sitting on the eggs, so I couldn’t really see them, which is probably good, because they tended to make me hungry.

Finally, those little omelets cracked open to reveal the single most hideously revolting creatures I have ever encountered. The first time I saw them, I stumbled backward over my bathmat and almost knocked myself silly against the towel rack. Ugly duckling? No. Ugly is not the word. I’m not saying pigeons are the most beautiful birds in the world, but they might as well be Birds of Paradise compared to their babies. And to make matters worse, they stink, and living as they do in my bathroom, that’s saying something. They’re primordial, reptilian and scaly, with tufts of yellow feathers sticking out at random. Their heads look like a duck-billed dinosaur. Somewhere Darwin is smugly nodding and saying, "Ya see what I’m sayin’? Intelligent Design, my ass."

And so, now I have the Swiss Family Pigeon living in my bathroom window with their stinking, hideous offspring. I have no idea how long it will take these creatures to eveolve into normal birds, but I sure hope it's soon. Otherwise, I might just become overwelmed by their revolting presence, open the screen and push them out into the abyss...

Just kidding.... but I'm telling you, they're that ugly.

Carma

The other day, I was an errand-running phenom. There was absolutely no stopping me. The shopping I had put off for weeks, suddenly came together in one fell swoop. My wardrobe quickly doubled with my purchase of two pairs of pants. Presents for various friends’ birthdays were located in record time. I found myself smiling in a shopping mall for the first time since the success of the lightening-strike, Christmas Eve shopping-blitz, extravaganza of 2001.

One gift remained to be purchased; I had one more stop to make. Unfortunately, the only shop I could think of that would have the item was located smack in the middle of Schon-Circle. Normally, I would shudder at the thought of venturing into the netherworld of that construction zone without a Dune-Buggy, but like a gambler I was riding my successful shopping streak. My bet was staying on the table. I was not to be thwarted! I knew that I could not fail. I strode purposefully across the parking lot to the White Baleno of Justice. The ole Baleno had been giving Subaru Kazoo some difficulties lately, but I was confident as I eased her grumbling through the lower gears. I popped the tape deck into action and listened to a mix-tape that Subaru had bought from a local shop. It was labeled, "Black Music," which I soon discovered meant rap music.

I made my way down through boat-basin and waited at the intersection to make the turn toward Schon Circle. I felt kind of strange, bopping my head to Eminem and the rest of the "Black" music, but I was in a good mood… you betta bulee dat. I successfully navigated the construction site: riding the rim of a few craters and sliding down the side of one sand dune. My streak was still running, as I found a parking spot available right in front of the store. I ran in before the store closed, found exactly what I was looking for in two minutes or less. Truly, I was having the most successful shopping trip of my life.

Triumphantly, I returned to the car, which promptly failed to start. Apparently, my luck had run short. I had stayed in the game one hand too long. I should have quit while I was ahead. I should never have doubted that the life-long curse that has plagued all the shopping endeavours of my entire life would only have a slight time-delay in arriving in Pakistan.

I diligently shut off all power sources and tried the car again. Nothing. I hit the gas, and I could hear it almost catch, but not quite. Gently, I stroked the steering wheel and whispered, "C’mon ole girl," because it just seemed like the right thing to do. Sweat started dripping down my face in the confined space. I looked to the right and saw an Auntie and two kids staring at me from the nearest car, watching the show… "Will the Gora start the car? Tune in next week to find out…"

I tried again… and again. I tried to look non-chalant for my audience. I tried to look like sitting and sweating in my car while attempting to start it a few dozen times was an everyday occurrence. I floored the accelerator, I eased it, I caressed it, I cursed it, I stomped it like a drunken, redneck in a line-dance… all to no avail. Finally, just when I was sure I had flooded it, the engine caught and started. "HA!" I shouted, and turned to the family next to me and gave them a big smile and a thumbs up… at which point the car promptly stalled.

God Damn It. That’ll teach me to be cocky I said to myself, but then I added a footnote that no, it probably would not. After a few more tries, the engine turned over again, and I sat and revved it for a while. I rolled down the window, because the AC had quit (this all being due to an overheating problem). As I started off, I turned on the stereo to a resoundingly loud chorus of "MOVE BITCH – GET OUT DA WAY!" which made me smile, and hopefully traumatized a few nosey kids along the way.