On Lost, the principal female character, explaining to Dominic Monaghan why she shed her top: “It was full of bees.” His reply: “I thought it was full of C’s myself.” Took me a couple seconds for the joke to sink in, then laughed uproariously.
Packing up the rest of my stuff this weekend at the old place, I found myself at that ever important last stage: deciding which pictures and letters of my past to keep, and which to just smile nostalgically at, and then rip up so that no trash-diver could ever make sense of it.
It’s strange, when you realise, that some of this stuff has followed you around for the past twenty years, stored away in a trunk, only to be looked at whenever you move and you’re deciding what to toss. Stuff from old lovers, old friends (and, come to think of it, some of them really are old by now. Sigh.), pix from your glory days when sex was so easy (well, easier) to come by, hangovers were for other people, gray was the colour of your once-white socks and not your hair. So, Saturday, I spent a few hours parsing through the dross of my past, thinking “gee, that’s L. from Moncton” only to look at the back of the photo booth portrait and go, “oops, that was actually C. from Ottawa.”
BTW, did every girl in the mid-80s have Robert Smith hair, or was it only those I courted? Personally, I went for the David Sylvian look, which worked rather well.
But I got to do my happy dance last night, watching that little bint Stacy get her walking papers from the Apprentice. Granted, it was hard to keep my balance, since I was three quarters in the bag, but I soldiered on.
Sometimes you gotta work hard and scare yourself silly, if only to end up hanging around like this.
Can I just say that I doubt I’ll ever get along with folks from QA, and most likely never will? I like to say they’re just simple folk, doing their jobs. Who am I kidding? They’re creeps who are bitter because they never got to do programming or, better yet, writing.
Well, yeah, but once we got down to the ‘Dacks, the leaves were so kaleidoscopic that the milliner and I basically hung out, drove around, and repeated, “Gosh, look at those colours.” “Oh, look at those colours!” Slept out in the cold, woke up to drizzle, decided to drive and leaf-peep some more.
Thought of taking some pics, but I know that what appears on celluloid will never do justice to what we saw, so just enjoyed the visuals.
Every autumn, the McGill Outdoors Club (it used to be the Outing Club, but political correctness deemed the wording discriminatory) holds an introduction to rock climbing weekend. Basically, a few folks who have climbed a bit take out complete newbies to a crag and show them how to put on a harness and how to tie into the rope. The participants have absolutely no idea if what they’re being shown is correct or not.
No instructors are certified, though they make this fact clear. However, you have to wonder what one of the “instructors” was thinking when he did this. Oh, there are so many things wrong with this that I don’t even know where to start.
Edit: Strangely enough, the video has been removed from the server, so you can’t view it anymore.
So, on those long, lonely trips into the mountains, I’m sure that this information will go a long way to easing any, um, built-up frustrations.