The Wild Moose Hunt

I've joked about how my job is sometimes a wild goose hunt. Yesterday, it was a wild moose hunt.

Somehow, a bull moose (up to 1500 pounds, 7 ft) regaled itself in the city without anyone noticing. Until it laid down in a woman's garden in a central area of the city.

This is the 3rd moose in a week.

How did it go unnoticed? It probably wandered in at night. I don't kid myself that this is a party town, but come on, really? A moose, and nobody awake to notice?

We may as well fax terrorist ninjas for a coup, since they'll be able to completely surround and inhabit the city before anybody wakes up. We need our precious zzz in this province, and damn anyone trying to disturb them.

That's my attitude anyway. I wasn't up to see the moose. But I also don't live in that area.

I found out from the police where the moose had showed up in a garden and headed to that block. I had no idea whose garden it was, but I had a good feeling about this hunt.

I even found a trail of blood.

But I also talked to a lot of people who looked at me and laughed. It's not often you knock on someone's door and the first thing you say is, Did you happen to see a moose? Some people asked whether I'd lost mine. They just don't make good leashes for moose these days.

A couple guys were in their back-alley garage building something with wood. They invited me over for moose burgers later.

I finally found the woman and she showed me where the moose had laid in her garden. The rhubarb was partially flattened and moose tracks everywhere! This reporter had uncovered the best photo op of the day, and had absolutely no camera.

I wanted to lay down in the rhubarb, feel what that moose had felt, its flanks heaving in and out, scared shitless of this uneven treeless labyrinth. But then I saw the trail of blood. It wasn't drops because the moose obviously had been running. They were spatters, the kind you might see in an abstract painting.

They continued down the entire block, and were even on a woman's car.

Poor moose.

I forgot to mention that by this point, I knew the moose had been tranquilized. It wasn't the moose I was after, so much as the people, cars, and fences it had laid waste to in its path.

The woman who had found it in her garden at 6 a.m. told me she had gone back to reading the paper. "What can you do?" she said. Indeed.

This city never has moose. And now it's had three moose in a week.

One woman thinks it's the dryness. It hasn't rained enough to make the ground wet in about 2 months.

The moose may have been trying to find some food. It probably injured itself in its frantic gallop through the city. What made him choose that woman's house? No fences on the side. A welcoming yellow bungalow.

At least it didn't do what a cop said happened once with a deer: the deer plunged into someone's living room and started running around inside.

I can't imagine a deer ever feeling at home in a living room.

Moose used to be my favourite animals. I often forget this fact until I see my collection of moose plush toys and printed-out emails from mooses_are_cute@yahoo.com. I still think they are cute, but am glad I can sleuth in the safety of knowing the creature is sound asleep in its favourite bog.

Or desert plains, as it were.

Where is the damn rain? My gin-inspired rain dances have not been working.

Cranks for the cranky

You may have seen me at the side of the road today. I apologize for thrusting an ethical dilemma of whether to stop for me into your life. I guess a girl in high heels on her cell phone with her arm thrust out like a heil next to bumper to bumper traffic in rush hour is less appealing an image than it's made out to be.

And sorry, cops who drove by, I realize hitchhiking may be illegal. Maybe that's why no one stopped. Or was it the manic look in my eyes as I tried to dial a cab with my cell phone and accidentally called a friend instead?

Yes! Oh God, thank God you picked up! I need a cab right away in front of the Mendel.
. . . Um, I think you dialed wrong.

I hung up to see "Friend from Shakespeare class" blinking at me. Shit. I just cold called a guy I haven't talked to in months, who probably would have been happy to hear from me if I hadn't just tried to order a cab from him.

I eventually sidled up to a woman in a huge white SUV waiting to turn, and she offered me a ride in the same direction she was going in.

*Faith in humanity semi-restored*

And there was still the possibility of making 20 minutes of my 30 minute massage. I realize the irony of throwing myself in front of a car in order to get to a massage. What some would call stupid, I call "perseverance to succeed."

I had left my truck lights on all day, ultimately because the squirrels need to see what they're doing in the bush. I'm practically PETA. I would appreciate at least a hand-crank like in the old days when the radiator started overflowing (does that happen?) and they just threw open the hood and cranked 'er up. That would have been useful on my cellphone too, when it died yesterday and I couldn't find my friend.

Cranks! It's a back-up plan every device should have... so Sony, Mazda, Telus, NASA take heed. Cranks are the future, because in the future, people will rely more and more on technology, and less and less on their real memories. I consider myself ahead of my time.

R-ice weddings in May

This morning as I drove to work, I saw white chrysalids sliding towards earth, exploding on the ground.

Saskatchewan is special this way. We don't have a flurry of flower petals that fall from the heavens in springtime. We have ice pellets that explode on our windshields as they fall from the elms.

I thought about taking a rowing course in May, but I would have ended up taking out a boat called Louis "ice-breaker" Riel, slapping the ice with a paddle like a beaver's tail while wobbling in my sliver of a boat.

My friend's baby niece said "snow" for the first time this week.

I think farmers were probably saying a few choice words before "snow" which the baby will probably learn soon.

If only airline policies extended to other inconveniences

Canada's airlines have downed the ante.

They've come up with their own bill of passenger rights to counter the one proposed by an MP. This is the equivalent of making up my own punishment as a kid when I did something bad, hoping that my somber tone and profligate use of sighs and adjectives would trick my mother into thinking that I really thought my self-imposed punishment was harsh.

But the airlines have some right to complain. The private members' bill could impose fines of $500 an hour on airlines who delay flights, and require them to provide food after 2 hours and shelter for overnight delays.

This sounds great, until you realize that most delays are caused by mechanical problems, not the whims of extravagant heiress' who send their chihuahuas on private flights to Cancun.

"Mais non! I will nat allow zat flight to Winnipeg! Gingerbread cakes wants to visit Iqualuit. Where is my silk moomoo?"

Once this legislation is passed, airlines will basically have incentives to
a) fly despite mechanical errors and/or rush the job
b) crash, thereby killing all the passengers they could owe thousands upon thousands of dollars to, depending on the size of the flight.
c) shaft all small flights, since the incentive would be to avoid paying gigantic fines.

Frankly, I have had more than my fair share of airline fuck-ups. But I've discovered one Canadian airline's secret - something they don't publicize, but honour without fail.

When I ask, the flight attendant gives me a noble nod. It's a code word not many people know. A word that inspires both joy and fear in the hearts of flight attendants around the globe. A word that I wield like a sword every time the airline asks me to sit on the tarmac for 3 hours, after delaying the flight 5 hours before that.

The word is gin.

They will provide it free of charge.

Not many people know the airline's current "Code of Ethics" but this is one chapter verse that I know: thou shalt provide pitiful passengers with free booze in the hopes they shall lay dormant for the rest of the flight.

And it works. On me at least. Half that little bottle of Beefeater and I am drooling on a stranger's shoulder, mumbling the words to La Cucaracha.

Imagine, on the other hand, if this were the policy with other inconveniences.

Bus late? Have a transfer and a Caesar.
Your library book recalled? Take a gin and aspirin.
Children screaming while you wait somewhere in line? Have this pitcher of wine.

Of course, you might really start to like inconveniences, but when they're inevitable, why not enjoy them?

That's what they said at Christmas.

How I got here

I've been in a coma from reality. I barely made my plane yesterday after spending all afternoon lounging on a hill next to Parliament, flashing the nation's capital every time I forgot to adjust my skirt. It was a favour. Parliament hasn't had much action since December.

Jack and Jill (that's me) sat under the statue of Champlain, trying to avoid slipping lest we roll down the steep grassy hill and reach the bottom prickling with used syringes with cigarette butts in our hair. Quebec was looking as dour as a Charles Dickens novel, no doubt to piss off Canada. The 80-foot smoke stack was quite obviously giving the Library of Parliament the finger, while the other buildings were doing their best to be rusty, windowless, and grey.

I probably flashed them too at some point. They deserve something in the passive-aggressive defiance category.

I felt I could be generous, since things seemed to be working out in my favour. Sometimes the world decides to knight you, and doesn't slip and fall and accidentally behead you.

My cabbie was a jester knight sent to my aid, though I contend he wasn't a real cabbie. He was there to offset the bad karma brought to me by my prof who's given me another extension on an assignment originally due in March. The 14th extension now? It's what journalism school would be like in hell - the same, but with never-ending extensions that prevent you from handing stuff in.

So God sent the cabbie into Shawarma King, and there he met a young woman and man, and even though he had not eaten in days, his sense of goodwill overcame him and he invited them into his wagon.

As the young man got out, the cabbie used his spiritual powers to roll down the window so they could say goodbye.

"Do not be sad, behold the galloping horse on the pay-o-meter how it speeds and slows with the rolling of the car."

The girl was overcome with laughter and tears simultaneously.

End of psalm 1

Begin Modern English version

When we got to the airport he bitch parked in the wheelchair zone, grabbed a cart and hucked my half dozen bags onto a cart. He raced inside, leaving the cab trunk wide open, me chasing after him. Inside was an enormous line-up, at least an hour wait. Just follow me, he said, and I followed him into the empty Executive Class queue. He was going to make up for more bad Karma than I thought.

"Have you done this before?" I asked.

"Executive class deserves executive service," he said, winking. The galloping horse wasn't the only thing running on diesel.

We were ushered to the next attendant, and before the lady could ask for my name, he was already throwing my bags onto the belt and waving his palm at the woman, saying, "it's ok, now, it's ok."

Then he bowed out, leaving me to deal with the no-bullshit attendant whose lecture I accepted with puppy eyes.

The passenger at the attendant next to mine overheard my situation - and where I was headed, and helped me pull old tags off my bags.

"Not you, ma'am!" my airline rep snapped, but the woman tore away.

Who were these people?

The woman caught me by the arm as I pulled away and asked if I'd take a piece of carry-on for her.
"What is it?" I asked, as though her answer were the deciding factor.
"Roller-blades."
I did a little head bobble at my existing carry-on load and apologized.
"Why don't you wear them?"

So I'm back on the prairies, and have already written a story about canola. Just ask how many excess tons of canola SK produces each year, and prepare to be shocked and amazed. More trivia coming your way, as I catch up on the past week's absent blog posts.

Bodies are like Light Brights

I've been worried about my memory and general stupidity lately.
"Lately" may include the past three years. Episodes like the tropical
bird gouging me in the eye after I tried taking a photo with it in its
cage was one. Missing flights, another. Never fixing my bedroom light
so every time I unscrew my light by hand, I burn off some of the
feeling in my finger tips. That probably counts.

I've never been one for supplements, but I've always been curious. I mean, Viagra is a supplement. It works. Maybe there is a drug that can make me stop boiling water and leaving the house.

Like a good Gen Y-er I strolled through the supplement aisle to fix me a batch of smarty pants.

Erring on the side of safety, I chose the Children's Learning Formula.
I was hoping it would help me learn about other people's favourite
colours and keep track of how many sleeps till Christmas.

I've been downing Children's Learning Formula and B100 Complex
for a week.

Conclusions:

- Children's Learning Formula: like eating a handful of bath beads.
Friends think it makes me manic; I think it makes me happy. Possibly too much hassle for a placebo effect.

- B100 Complex: Inspired by the "Be 100% Complex," a mental disorder
characterized by the desire to be at 100% mental and physical capability at all times. Users may occasionally think of supplements downed with beer as a meal.

-The conclusion that I may have wasted $17 but at least I'll be arguing from experience now.

But no effects are better than bad effects, am I right? You will after you read this. (Credit to Dave for the link.)

Chantix is one of the more disturbing drugs. Side effects include
"sleep disturbances" which may manifest as horrible life-like dreams.

The doctor probably didn't go too in depth on that one. If he had, he
would have said, "Hey this drug will help you stop smoking. Now watch
this David Cronenberg film to learn about the side-effects."

Darkness, demons, inanimate objects coming alive, you know, typical common side effects for this line of drugs. Those things won't make you want to smoke will they?

Guest Post by Carmen Sandiego

I wrote a whole post about how I was paid in coupons to visit a strip club, knowing that I could never publish it. The Internet is not about being stalked, but about creating the paranoia that you're being stalked. And I fully embrace that paranoia, especially when it comes to people who currently or futuristically employ me.

Yes, some people employe me in the future. And some people write employ with an e.

I probably haven't met these employers yet, so your guess is as good as mine as to who they are. I'm really hoping it's the tornado chasing branch of National Geographic that gets paid in coupons because its employees are being laid off left and right.

Stay tuned for more unsubtle hints about said missing post!

Segue!

I remember thinking how great it would be to meet my future husband as a 10-year-old. I didn't mean become a child wife. I just meant meet the other 10-year-old I would eventually buy a house with.

This was a very romantic idea, because of its plausibility. Maybe I had met that boy. Maybe it was that kid throwing potatoes at the dumpster when we went through the car wash.

[Cue part of Laura's brain responsible for delusions/Cue Laura's brain]

It was obviously a boy who had been to space and loved building forts out of kleenex boxes. Or moccassins. (Note: parents may pretend to enjoy moccasins made out of empty kleenex boxes, but they will eventually wean you from their preening. I suggest a large kleenex box fort to keep reality at bay).

Blah Blah

The right words gahhh809

Thinking is frustrating. So is writing. And so is logic come to think of it. Which is why there are so many non fucking sequiturs in this blog post and many others.

A man disappears for a decade. Police put out large reward now. Won't explain why.

This is a story I happened to *read* while at work. Admitttedly, I also wrote it. FUCK.

Anonymity is so hard on the internet. I feel cornered.

What would you do if a normal day was your superior telling you you need to drive to an international border town an hour away, question its residents Carmen Sandiego style about missing man, and you ended up in a strip club?

Be glad they can't take away what they've already given you? ie) 2 for 1 coupons you are hoping to pawn for bus tickets?

Someone disappears a decade ago, and their friends are in the same bar today. My official position is they're drinking the same beer.

The spot the missing man used to sit in? Have a seat. That was his view. Coffee?

Who serves coffee in a strip bar?

I say strip bar, because this ain't no club. It's more like a whatchamacallit... small-town bar with girls in bikinis. The lights are so dim it's got that classic bunker feel. A beach-themed bunker minus the sand. Complete with intrigue, and a "boss" upstairs who says he's coming down and never does.

But all this happened to me a long time ago. I was just reminded of it recently when I was sent down to a small down on the border with an hour to do my job, the only guidance being that it was a small town. Someone ought to know him.

This is a new holiday destinations for all you Carmen Sandiegos. I'll let you know when I come out with the 2009 best-kept secrets version, rated in number of geese. The book of wild goose hunts turned Who unstrapped my bra?

Come to think of it, that sounds like a trip to my basement.

Except instead of geese it is all the spiders I caught and released all winter. And all the jagged nails hooking onto my clothing without saying hello.

Not a Carmen Sandiego moment, despite my flowing red hair and yellow fedora. I figure I'm not big-city sleuth until I figure out how to make people trust me even when I look ridiculous.

"Tell me your feee-lings!"

(I stop to bite my pen and bobble my head - no bra!)

That sounds like I'm trying to hypnotize people. I do too much interviewing over the phone, and trust me it's difficult to avoid the dial tone of failure when you take the vow of silence and commence the bra-less seance.

But that's all laughs! HARDEY HAR HAR!

You didn't even read this...