Turning, turning

I can't sleep and the sleeping potion bought in Germany has made my body tingly. The instructions were written only in German, and my German is bad. I guess my time in Germany was better spent drinking Jaeg at Turkish bistros and tippling through art shows and soccer games. Stories not meant to be revealed here.

There's a moth scuttling across my screen. Now it's hopping. I'm chasing it with the mouse.

Tomorrow I drive three hours to do Master's research. I'm in suspended disbelief and can't get my thoughts to shut up. My brain is an ever-turning search light of a ship anchored at sea, the light trying to sweep across some buoy of comforting logic.

Maybe I should take off now -- get there at 5 a.m. eyes like saucers, breath spritzed with a hint of German sleeping potion tasting suspiciously like Jaegermeister.

My eyes are always tired-looking these days. I need botox if I hope for anyone to ID me again. I read about employees of one company in the U.S. who were laid off and got a special severance: botox injections.

I hear it numbs emotions. Good call, company.

I must find my mic stand, and phone numbers, and make business cards. And start caring about my appearance.

Everything that will promote me to a cushy anchor job.

How the West was fun

We knew we were in cowboy country when we passed an electric wheelchair with vanity plates.

"Drive it like you stole it" it read. The scooter was strapped to the back of a pickup.

We had driven eight hours, stopping first in Vanscoy where I found a magazine called Cowboys & Indians. It taught me how to wear turquoise jewelry and to tell apart different styles of cowboy hats. Its cover story on John Wayne proved interesting only for as long as we could figure out how to hook up the iPod port to the car stereo. The prospect of ordering a year's worth of the mag for our Calgary friend was tempting, but they minted them in the Yanky West and charged $20 to Canadians, likely for transport via chuckwagon, fuelled by yeehaws.

Our car on the other hand was fuelled by the looks of disgust and appalled glances of Huckleberry as I documented the drive via my digital voice recorder.

"Dear diary . . . " I breathed into my recorder. "We are now on highway number seven, flat and unexpressive . . ."

In Drumheller, we toured dim galleries of dinosaur bones and fossils encased in 4-inch gold picture frames. It was like viewing a private collection at a mansion where each room had a special name: The fossil "libry" The bone "gaaalery" The sea atrium. I got a picture of Huckleberry with his head in the maws of a Piranha skeleton the size of a cot. He can check that off his life to-do list.

After a hall of Darwin's sketches, we walked into a tunnel with a glass floor. Under our feet were the manifestations of pictures drawn by 3-year-olds. Organisms familiar if it weren't for the teeth, or the extra legs, or the odd shape. We were surrounded by mutant water insects and some were our ancestors. I imagined photoshopping some of my forebearers (who likely had the capability to self-spawn and eat simultaneously) into our latest family photos for Christmas cards.

I marveled at how far we've come in evolution as I sipped my Starbucks on the wooden walkway overlooking the badlands and the museum. Coffee . . . mmm . . . thank you dinosaurs for giving us oil . . . so we can make Starbucks.

I was confronted with my own limited evolution when we arrived in Calgary with no idea where to find the Stampede. Our local friend didn't know and Internet was on the lam. He called his brother for advice. We followed him like three ashamed sheep to the Park & Ride.

"You get off when all the stupid cowboys get off," he said.

We did our best to fit in: being fake was part of the ditty. The only real cowboys were behind the corral. For us, it was button-up plaid, cowboy hats and cigars.

The C-train took about 30 minutes, and I witnessed the two-minute half-life of a tram headed to the Stampede. Each stop doubled the number of hyped-up cowboys and girls filing onto the train who prevented fresh air from circulating.

Virtually everyone was paying some small homage to the west, whether with a hat, boots, plaid, or all the above.

Just inside the gates was a faux western town circling a treed picnic area. We stood by the blacksmith shop and watched a clown cowboy on stilts angle through the crowd. He had a braided whip in one hand and snapped it like a firecracker. That answered my question of potential heavyweights taking him down.

Hasslers, just like animals rights protesters, will never take down the cowboy clown.

Even though the Stampede is somewhat clownish and precarious, PETA protesters have had no luck shutting down any of the events.

Partly it's tradition, and partly it's the claim that animals injuries are rare. For more info, GOOGLE.

As we sat and watched the rodeo events, I tried to feign indifference to the cow's plight (Think Frau Farbissina listening to Dr. Evil and Scott argue after they meet).

Between the three of us, we encompassed all possible attitudes towards the Stampede: horror; appallment; excitement; indifference; glee.

The MC upped the tension by announcing the various ailments of cowboys as they mounted the bucking horse or bull.

"And this next cowboy, from Texas, who's all here from Texas? he's got a broken back! A slipped disc. Let's have a round of applause!"

In the large TV monitor, we could watch the cowboy's expression as he slid his hand under the bull's riding strap or get a good grip on the horse's rope.

It was an expression not of fear, per se, but his muscles knowing instinctively what would happen when he nodded his head and the gate flew open. His body tensed, teeth clenched like those of human remains found buried in Pompeii lava, contorted in pain.

I bet they were sweating like a volcano too. One guy fell off his bull, but in his effort to remain on, ended up under the 2000 pound animal as it bucked and stamped its feet in a high stakes game of Dance Dance Revolution.

He scampered away with his neck craning back at the bull, then he fell onto his knees, hands folded in prayer to the sky.

He is not the first to brush injury. For 100 years, the Calgary Stampede has brought the lore of western ranchers into the competitive ring. Wild horses needed to be tamed on the frontier, and cowboys needed to teach them not to buck. Some horses naturally buck more than others, though, and since half the points allotted to the cowboy go to the horse's performance, it's important the horse buck well. Most rodeos ban the use of any equipment that harms or discomforts the horse, and cowboys testify to horses not performing well if they are in pain. The bucking horses simply don't like anyone riding them. They're bred to buck off whoever mounts.

Clench those teeth, cowboy.

As Huckleberry looked appalled at the calf roping event (another skill from ranching days) my SK ex-pat friend was underdoing a gradual chemical change. His skin was becoming as red as chafed cowboy thighs. The sweat dripped down his face. I had no idea three hours had gone by until I saw how burned Ex-pat was.

It looked as though he had dipped both arms in red dye up to his T-shirt sleeve line.

That basically ended the day. On our way to the train we got stuck in the equivalent of a cattle run - hundreds of people trying to funnel through a narrow passage like sand in an hour glass. We were the sand that refused to funnel.

The tram ride home was virtually silent, and very empty. Stampede had demanded energy we no longer could afford until we found some heavy duty aloe vera. Preferably in a "run through the sprinklers" format.

Ex-pat friend descended into his basement suite and refused to come out for the rest of our visit. Huckleberry and I bought some industrial strength sunburn anesthetic.

It was our parting gift.

The German Smorgasbord was worth it

Bea and I pushed our noses against the faux waterfall.

Electronic drops illuminated our cheeks with blue light.

"I have a good feeling we are going to leave here ruined," I said.

It was the lights and sounds that reminded me of Disneyland. Boops, beeps, and chimes... a conference hall of games themed with The Little Mermaid, Inca Adventures, and the Wild West.

The child in me perked up.

The ceiling was not a ceiling at all, but a volcanic wasteland tipped upside-down. Craters and pustules shone above the dings and blinking of the machines.

I was here to surf Bea's free tickets to the Canadian Open golf tourney at a brand new course 30 minutes outside the city. It came with a $10 voucher to the casino - the only attractive part of this whole idea.

The golf had been unexciting. We were the only spectators, and had no idea who anyone was, so after whispering for a while about our options, we decided to trail a set of golfers across a lawn that had the texture of renegade underarm hair - potentially comfortable in a bed of nails kind of way.

After giving my cheeks and hands a nice exfoliation on the green, I scampered to catch up with our herd.

They were literally beating around a bush for a lost ball.

Having never golfed myself, nor having much knowledge of the game, I delighted in the opportunity to help.

I spotted the white ball that was the key to my belonging in the herd and presented it to one of the golfers.

"Is this it?" I said, anticipating the yell to the other hunters that the hunt was over.
"No. If you see a golf ball DO NOT pick it up."
"Oh. Sorry. I... I..."

I put it back. Only golfers would think it fitting to replace a golf ball into the middle of a bush.

I discovered that whispering outside is not my forte. I felt like I had to take on the psyche of a gopher: forced to freeze in my tracks if a golfer was preparing to swing, lest I distract him.

"Are you as crazy as you look?" one of the golfers asked me, a father caddying for his son.

At least 15 reasons why golf is a ridiculous game jumped around inside my head.

"I guess so!"

The golfers took their shots, and my slow-reaction time meant I never followed the ball's flight path. I was too fixated on the golfers themselves. Who were these strange creatures? What was their agenda? I hoped none of them was out to change the world. Never do I want a golfer prophet to bring grace to the land.

"Tremble not! Thou shalt take thy caddy to thy birthplace and there will come a star that will lead you to the promised land of Astroturf and khakis!"

In this case, it led us to the casino.

The illumination from casino games is not flattering on anyone's face. Because the players sit on tall stools, the light beams up like a flashlight under the face, sketching dark rings under each eye, outlining the gravity lines from the nose to the bottom of the chin.

I felt no more at home here than I did on the golf course, and there were probably as many people staring at us. Bea and I ambled through the rows of games, and I read the titles out loud:

Uncle Jess's Shootout Galley! PollyPocket's Dollhouse Teaparty . . . A Squaw's Revenge . . . Wolf Hunt . . .

Each machine operated the same way -- you filled it with your bills and a button blinked inviting you to push it, triggering the wheel.

It required about as much skill as plugging a parking meter, and its payoff was about the same.

Bea and I decided to play $10. We each put our first $5 in a $1 slot machine.

I turned the crank. My stomach leapt! Lines from Percy Shelley mingled with the beeps and bops of the surrounding slot machines.

Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,

Pestilence-stricken multitudes!

I lost, but giggled and squealed for effect.

Bea was winning. $1, $1.50, 30 cents . . . the more she won the quicker her hand slammed down on the blinking button.

I reached for the crank to try another hand.

"Why isn't it working?" I asked.

We both stared at it. An older man sitting next to Bea glanced at us uncomfortably.

"I think that's actually a $5 machine . . ." he said.

Ouuuuuu.

Well then.

I think I'm moving on.

Bea used up her $10 while I hummed and hawed over my next conquest.

Would it be Wolf Hunt or Lucky Larry's Lobster Mania?

The Lobster one looked more friendly than the machine with a growling wolf on it. It's hard to make starfish and lighthouses look foreboding.

This time I got luckier. I won 2 free turns, then 5, then 250!

250 turns times 5 cents . . .

I cashed out and looked at my money voucher: $13.80

Karma had redeemed me.

I promised Karma that I would name my next hamster after it, alongside a hamster called Irony, and walked out $4 richer.

Coming out ahead meant I had to celebrate with a 3-course meal and beer.

The joy of gambling probably put me in the hole -- and not in the golfing kind of way.

But as Shelley would say, if winter comes, can spring be far behind?

J'adore

Welcome to J'adore -- formerly Laura's Page of Plenty. I got sick of the old name. This page is all about things I love and I thought J'adore is a nice way to incorporate my love of pretentious French accents.

I haven't yet done any Sarkozy impersonation interviews, but I feel equipped after watching Saturday Night Live Bill Hader's impression of Keith Morrison:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vBeI-A8PHWc&feature=related

Unfortunately, the funnier skit is not available on Youtube yet.