Good Knight...

You know, just when I was starting to think that I was getting a handle on this teaching thing... just when I thought that maybe, just maybe, these apathetic adolescents were starting to listen... just when I started to hope that maybe I was getting through to them.......

Last night, I was marking some homework, and in the space allotted for the teacher's name, one student had written, "Sir David Fork."

Now, I found it strange enough to begin with, that by taking on this teaching job, I had suddenly been knighted (although sometimes I feel I'll have deserved it in the end). It's disconcerting to be referred to as "Sir David," and makes me feel that I should somehow be out battling mythical beasts and competing in upcoming jousting tournaments. But now, to discover that one of my students has, after two full months, thought my family was named after an eating utensil, really gets my tines in a twist, if you will.

Sir David Fork, knight of the round dinner table, proponent of culinary Etiquette, arch enemy of the uncouth, hand-eating, Earl of Sandwich. Oh what manner of adventures await him?

Eating Crow...

A few months back, soon after shifting into my latest domicile, I installed a window A/C in the wall opposite my bed. Which, I suppose, makes it less a window A/C than it is a wall A/C, but for the sake of clarity, my intention was to indicate that it is the type of air-conditioner that you fit into a window, even though it is in a wall… because yeah, now it’s perfectly clear. Anyway, this boxy, old unit serves a dual purpose: it gloriously cools my room, and conveniently enough, adequately plugs that air-conditioner sized hole in my wall.

Unfortunately, complete enjoyment of my coolerator was not destined to last. One lazy Saturday morning I was suddenly startled awake at exactly 7:15. From atop my air-conditioner there arose such a clatter; I sprang from my bead to see what was the matter. I ran to the window, and what should I see? But two strutting pigeons staring right back at me. Quickly I banged on the air-conditioner and they took off in a flurry of beating wings. Yeah, so there, take that! I went back to bed.

Half an hour later they were back. A low guttural growl escaped from my throat. Just ignore them, I thought to myself. But then they started one of their pigeon dances, clicking and clacking and cooing with all the fervour of an avian hoe-down. "Damnit!" I ejaculated (verbally) and jumped up to bang on the A/C again. This time however, they stopped dancing, but they didn’t take off. They had me figured. Vaguely, I wondered why I somehow attract the most intelligent pigeons in town. I cranked open my window and shouted, "Get outta here!" The pigeons were startled, but unfortunately, so was the servant in the adjacent yard. I waved reassuringly, realised I was naked, and quickly decided to return to bed.

Everyday, at exactly 7:15, the pigeons would return. It got to the point where my alarm would go off at 7:00 and I’d tell myself I could afford to stay in bed a bit longer, or at least until the pigeons came. By this point, no amount of banging and thrashing on my end of the air-conditioner would come close to scaring them off. By craning my neck, I could see that a ledge ran about 8 inches above my A/C, creating the perfect little cranny for the damned doves. And given my experience at Subaru Kazoo’s place, the last thing I wanted was for them to settle down and make a nest. I just couldn’t afford the heartache.

Finally, one weekend morning, I had had enough. My eyes were set in solid determination and my mind sorted through a melee of competing solutions. I marched downstairs and enlisted the help of my intrepid servant Paul. Together we swept the neighbourhood in search of scrap wood and other various odds and ends from the many houses under construction. Paul wasn’t too happy about this, I think mainly because he didn’t like people seeing his boss out rooting through the trash looking for treasures. Living with two Canadians, poor Paul must just roll his eyes some days.

Having found enough material, we collected some tools and returned to my room. We removed the iron bars from my window frame, and then alternatively holding each other’s feet we leaned out over the abyss, inspecting the problem. Like grand-masters at a teenage Tetris tournament during the great game-boy craze of 1991, we shifted blocks of wood, rotated cardboard boxes, and spun pieces of Styrofoam into place. A small crowd of servants began to gather in the neighbouring yards that share our back wall. Most likely, they were attracted by Paul’s continual shouting, "Boss, are you ok!" followed by my embarrassed assurances that I was fine, at least physically. After some trial and error, I fitted the last piece of the pigeon puzzle into place and wiggled back inside. Now I just had to wait.

The next morning, I watched as a Pigeon came swooping in and abruptly pulled up short in front of the perplexing mess of plywood and polyfoam, hovering in mid-air like giant, ungainly hummingbird. Finally, he flew across to the opposite roof, and continued to stare right at me. I stared back, my fingers twitching over a non-existent six-shooter. Ha! I thought, I have won. The superior intellect has once again conquered the annoyances of the birds and beasts.

That is, until this past weekend, when I heard a clatter, and walked to the window just in time to see a pigeon work a piece of wood out of my conglomerate to send it plummeting to the ground below. With what I swear was a smug look back at me, the bird crawled sedately right inside the jumble of wood. They had found the key-stone! The last piece of the puzzle, the all-important chunk of wood that blocked all entrance. I thought about how there was no way I was taking my window apart again, about how I had now created the absolute perfect nest for the birds, and about whether those damn birds had it figured out all along.

It's a hoax, folks...

To all my well-meaning and otherwise, very intelligent friends:

If you think that the email forward you are sending me is a hoax, but you’re sending it anyway, just in case, I’ll let you in on a little secret: It’s a hoax.

There is absolutely no way that Microsoft, were it even possible to track, would give out a nickel to every apple-cheeked kid who sent an email forward. Think about it. Microsoft did not get where it is today by thinking about the little guy, especially the stupid little guy.

Nor will that cute little baby, who apparently has cancer, ever benefit from your sending that email to everyone you know. In fact, I can almost guarantee that the kid in that picture is now a thriving teenager given how long ago I first started getting these emails.

I will find out about viruses on my own, but thanks for your concern. I tend not to open emails with attachments that I don’t recognise so you can quit warning me about that. And you know that one you guys send me twice a year about the file that has infected my windows system? Yeah, that file is supposed to be there. Chill Winston…

That girl with the red hair who keeps going missing? I bet she’s just fine. Perhaps next time, before sending me a missing child’s photo, you might consider that for such a cross-country scheme to be effective, some details about the child last known whereabouts, height, weight, eye-colour etc, might be helpful. Yup, you guessed it, it’s a hoax.

Enough about microwaves. Water isn’t going to spontaneously leap from the glass and boil in your hands when it somehow becomes superheated in the microwave. An old lady never killed her poodle by trying to dry it off in one of those contraptions. Use a microwave safe dish, even if it’s plastic, and you’ll be fine, super evil plastic particles aren’t going to infiltrate your food.

Oh yeah, and your cell phone isn’t going to blow up a gas station, and please don’t try to perform CPR on yourself by coughing vigorously (although it doesn’t matter, you’ve only got a few seconds before you’re going to pass out anyway.)

And as far as I know, no matter how noble the cause, internet email petitions have no binding legal authority whatsoever. So why bother?

In short, any email that ends with the phrase "please send this to everyone you know" or something of the sort, is always a hoax. Seriously, if you had something really important to tell your friend about, would you ever say, oh and send this to everyone in your inbox? I have never sent on something like that, and never will, so you might as well not bother sending it to me in the first place because the hoax stops here. But beyond that, you just shouldn’t send it to anyone in the first place. It’s a hoax. Always. Every single time. Your wasting all of our time by sending it, and your giving gratification to some whack-job who gets satisfaction from seeing how far an email chain will go (never understood that actually, why not just keep a box of tissues by the bed?).

Thanks!

David J. Ford

Graeme Cracka!

I’m so vicariously excited!

Given my somewhat reclusive sojourn in the third-world, I haven’t really been in touch with my more extended family. On a whim, I checked in on some Canadian Olympic coverage and realized with a start that my little cousin Graeme Gorham is competing as a ski-jumper. This is Canada’s first ski-jumping team in over a decade, and they’re some of the youngest guys competing at the Olympics. From the looks of things, Graeme didn’t qualify in his first competition, but there's still the bigger hill left, and really just being there must be quite the experience. Plus, he’s only 18, and should be into his prime by 2010 when the Olympics hit Vancouver. Fly High Dude.

Here’s a site with his stats and photo etc, although I’m a little embarrassed that he’s given Tim McGraw as his favourite music, although I suppose it could be worse. But seriously, have you ever seen a whiter kid? Hard to believe we’re related.

Of course, this only serves to remind me as my own failure to qualify for the Canadian Olympic Team. Of course, I never tried, but I always wanted to. The Athlete’s village just sounds like a blast. I guess I’d better hurry up and learn curling… or lawn bowling.

Punch Drunk Love...

Yesterday, I was doing the rickshaw walk home from school. By this, I mean that it isn't that far, but it was 12:30 and stinkin' hot, and thus, my forward momentum was hampered by my constant, backward neck-craning any time I heard the rattling, staccato snarl of a motor-rickshaw. Now, this is slightly dangerous, in that my chances of walking directly into an open man-hole rise dramatically, but after a morning of wrestling with apathetic adolescents and William Golding, I’m usually willing to toss down the 20 Rupees (dunno 40 cents?) for a quick, albeit bumpy, ride home.

Unfortunately for the state of my dress clothes, no available ricks were apparent, so I started down my shortcut behind a park to avoid the traffic and crowds in front of my local Mazaar. As I turned a corner, and worked on breathing through my mouth as I passed an open garbage dump, I saw a group of men arguing noisily on the other side of the road. One guy, with a little toddler of a girl straddling the gas tank of his motorcycle, suddenly drew back and punched another fellow right in the face.

Whoa, I thought, that was unexpected. My stride faltered a bit, as part of me felt like I should say something, and the other part of me insisted, “Head-down, keep walking you damn fool, you don’t belong here.” The man jumped off his bike, grabbed his victim by the Kurta and gave him three quick jabs to the jaw. The other men were alternately trying to hold him back and cheer him on; it was difficult to tell which was which actually. By this time, I had inadvertently slowed my pace and was directly opposite them.

Suddenly, with his fist pulled back for another go, the aggressor turned and stared directly at me. Oh shit. His fist hung in the air, and I really didn’t know what to expect. But then his fist unclenched, and still holding the other man, he snapped a quick salute and yelled to me, “Hullooo Boss!” with a big grin. I was a little taken aback. I stammered out a quick “’Salaam Alaikuum,” and hearing the white man give them “The Peace of God” set the whole group to grinning and giggling. A few of them returned the peace, “Walaiku Asalaam,” and I felt a strange pride that somehow my distinct cultural difference and the strange socio-economic interplay that was happening here had calmed their argument.

That pride was somewhat diminished however, when the man gave me another smiling wave and then promptly returned to beating the snot out of his friend.

Foxxy

I am drunk with post-purchase euphoria, basking in the novelty of a new toy.

Yes, I have finally bitten the proverbial, yet still dangerous, bullet, and bought a laptop. I'm now making my first post from my snazzy, chrome and silver, 17 inch screen (which admittedly decreases portability... but it's sooo pretty), Dell Inspiron 9300. Of course, coupled with the novelty factor is the feeling of having spent a wad of Rupees as thick as a hardcover book, but its balanced by that added injection of pride at having gotten a good deal. Afterall, if I consider myself a writer, which I'm gradually coming around to, then this is an essential tool... right?... right?

In addition, another excitement, is that I finally have a computer of my own, can stop being dependent on friend's and work machines (cutting the USB apron cables) and try to get back to this blog with some gumption. And I do love gumption. What this means, particularly, is that I can finally ditch glitchy Internet Explorer and switch over to my beloved FireFox. So this is also my first post from the superior FireFox browser. It's a day of foxxy firsts. If you haven't already, go download the Firefox Browser... I mean right now. You won't regret it.

I can hear Hulleye grinning from here.

And When I Get This Feeling...

A recent conversation en route to what eventually became a night of drunken dumb charades:

Journey: Hey you know those massage guys with the oil that stand on the side of the road?

Me: Yeah

Journey: I just found out recently that they'll do anything... anything... if you ask them.

Me: I just took that for granted. Why, are you interested?

Journey: Ha, no, but I look at them differently now, I think, you know, who would want that from one of those slimey guys?

RJ: Wait, wait, wait, what do you mean, they'll do anything?

Journey: You know... anything... male or female.

RJ: Sexually?!

Journey: Of course, what did you think I meant?

RJ: Oh, I thought you meant like, "Go get me a sandwich."

Journey: Oh... well, probably that too.