Ten days ago I set out in a VW hatchback that ran on canola oil with four other guys to Prud'Homme Saskatchewan. Sitting squashed in this car, sliding between static Caterpillar road warriors on dented roads, I realized that this is my new life as a journalist. The question, "how the hell did I get myself here?" was a theme this past week.
Last Tuesday, I camped out on the lawn of the Bowl in front of the Administration Building on campus. This, after having been ditched by my tent mates, having slogging through another long Sheaf production night, having drunk too many $1 beers at the campus pub, and then collapsing, around 1 a.m, in one of my friend's empty tents, which was still full of mud and grass from Ness Creek. The camping celebrations were mostly over by that time; I briefly considered ingratiating myself with a group of huddled strangers before smoke visions of elementary school campouts destroyed that humble idea.
Maybe it was because I was drunk, and sort of felt as though I'd lost a pint of blood, that the only interior voice I could hear, was saying "fuck it."
I slept for about an hour before I woke up and had to pee. Like Bigfoot, I emerged from my tent as noisily as possible, fighting with the tent zipper while trying not to fall over. I then walked to the Sheaf office, which was locked, before finally finding a patch of bush and trees next to the Faculty Club. This was the same forest I used to play in as a kid at Faculty barbecues, a fact which disturbed me at first. But then I thought, why should it? I was merely marking my territory, once again.
At 5 a.m. it began to pour; I pushed my earplugs in again and covered my eyes with an eyemask, and it wasn't until 7:45 that I woke up again by the ring of my cellphone, which is the Entertainer, incidentally. On the other end of the line was Michelle from CBC's the Morning Edition telling me that I would be on the air in about 15 seconds. Sheila Coles was going to ask me about how miserable camping was and the housing crisis, and blah, blah, blah.
I can only thank Gaia, I'd written notes on my hand the night before. There I was on live radio, approximately 30 seconds after emerging from a very deep alcohol-and-work-fueled slumber, while sound-system checks boomed outside my tent and I tried to remember the rules of logic and grammar outside the crazy reality of my dreams.
The interview was rather mundane since I couldn't think of anything funny to say. When I finally emerged from my tent, I spied James Pepler (Student Union President) a little ways down the field where he was staring back at the minaret-shaped faux bison fur cap, neon pink with white snowflakes sweater and brown striped pants that comprised my morning attire. A sardonic grin formed at the corner of his mouth, but he didn't say anything to me from where he was, and so my intentionally-outrageous clothes remained an unshared private joke.
It was still raining around 8:30 when President McKinnon, the Honourable Warren McCall, and Premier Lorne Calvert delivered their speeches, and so, being a late-comer, my back almost skirted the rain dripping off the end of the tent's roof. Mosquitoes were everywhere and while Lorne Calvert said something to the 40 or so people crammed together under the tarp, a mosquito zipped down my shirt and into my cleavage (I had changed out of the snowflake sweater). I instinctively pulled down the V neck of my top and dug between my breasts while the Honourable Premier Lorne Calvert was the only one in my line of sight to see this: I was standing directly in front of him. This is how much attention I'm paying to you Calvert! I'd rather dig through my cleavage.
On Thursday, I went to see Jane Goodall. She was truly fantastic. Before the talk, I had wanted to tell her about how I have been living with spiders for 3 years, have lived with them, slept with them, laughed with them, and have observed acts of compassion, and their use of tools. But then I knew she would take it the wrong way. Seriously though, go see Jane Goodall if you can.
Friday, I met Roy Romanow, outside of Louis of all places, shook his hand, and listened to him tell us that when he was USSU President they fired everyone from the Sheaf. Wasn't that hilarious. But later they took them back. Romanow and I were attending the same dinner, where I got to hang out with U of S alumni from the 1980s while dressed in jeans and a plaid country shirt. I'm press: I can get away with it. I can also get away with leaving before the speeches to drink beer somewhere else. But, honestly, I would not have minded staying. Me and the Commie grads at my table were all set to break dance later. I gave them high fives on the way out.
