As I'm sure you already know, Halloween in Canada is an evening of frights, scares, and the occasional attack by arctic wolves. It's a time of pranks, treats, costumes, and somber reflection on the fragility of life.

Why, I remember when I was a child back in the seventies, and dressing up as the most scary thing I could think of. My parents urged me not to dress as Relic from the Beachcombers every year, but I couldn't be dissuaded. My older brothers both dressed as Pierre Trudeau. This caused a bit of consternation with the parents, because my brothers insisted on having real cigarettes and shaving a receding hairline. You can imagine the fear inpired by the mere sight of us ? a grumpy boy with five o'clock shadow and two miniature prime ministers with comb-overs.

Dressing up was always my favourite part of Halloween. After that, however, we were expected to go trick-or-treating. As I understand it, our neighbors in the United States let their children walk door-to-door asking for candy. Canadian tradition is somewhat different. In Canada, the trick-or-treat is an important subsistance ritual.

After dinner, the children would hop aboard the dogsleds, followed by armed parents to ward off the hungry animals. If you've ever seen Hinterland Who's Who, you'll know that our land is crawling with vicious packs of eastern grey squirrels. A small family of those can strip the flesh off a costumed child in less than a minute, so parents stayed alert with their hunting rifles.

And so, from door-to-door, we travelled throughout the night (homes are very sparsely situated across the vast tracts of Canadian tundra). At each one, over gleeful shouts of "trick or treat!" and gunshots, the children and their bodyguards were greeted warmly and given carefully wrapped packages of bison meat, beaver pelts, and Canadian Club. The sleds were soon heavy with supplies ? enough to last our family through much of winter's deep freeze.

At the end of the night, which of course lasts for close to a week here in the north, we arrived home and fell exhausted by the warmth of the firepit. As we drifted off into the dreamland under warm HBC blankets, the parents inspected our haul, assessed our losses to the squirrels, and enjoyed the quiet satisfaction of having survived another Canadian Halloween.

Well those fine folk at Carter Honda took care of my Unhappy Honda. No longer does it sound like a coffee grinder. No longer will people be startled when I drive past. And no longer will my car wander this world without its soul ? without its "H".

6:50am. Standing at the bus stop. The temperature is just above zero (32°F for non-metric people). It's a clear, crisp day and the sun is just about to emerge over the horizon.

6:57am. The number 5 trolley bus pulls up and I get on. After a few attempts to slip the ticket into the fare box, it finally beeps and lets me on. The bus is mostly empty at this hour and the cold air is tinged with the smell of vomit. I sit near the back door, avoiding the seat beside the blood-stained wall.

7:01am. As I check for e-mail on my cell phone, I idly wonder how the blood got there.

7:06am. A loud bang startles me from an e-mail that I'm reading. The trolley's poles have come off the power lines, and an irritated driver stops the bus and steps out to reset them.

7:10am. At the next stop, a man in dirty clothes and a hacking cough sits next to the blood stain and proceeds to have a political debate with himself.

7:12am. I arrive at my stop. As I step off, I hesitate for a moment. Will I walk an extra two blocks to buy a McEvil McMuffin, or will I skip breakfast? I reject the evil and trudge towards the office.

I want my car back.

I left my baby with the mechanic yesterday. Sure, it's not a very impressive car -- a '91 Honda Civic -- but it's my car, and I'm very protective of it. It's too bad that I know absolutely nothing about auto mechanics.

That's quite embarrassing to admit. I've always been very mechanically inclined, but when it comes to cars, what's under the hood is a mystery. The parts I can identify easily are: the battery, the place where oil goes, the washer fluid reservoir, the air and oil filters, the big wirey thing with wires and spark plugs and stuff, and everything else. Things turn inside it. When the engine gods aren't happy, it won't go. And that's the limit of my technical understanding of an engine.

This is a problem. How do I explain to the mechanic what's wrong with it? I have enough sense to tell when something's wrong, but how do I put that into words? So yesterday I found myself describing to an amused mechanic that, when I drive up hills, the engine makes a sound like a coffee grinder.

No problem. They just need to change the filter and top up the French roast beans.

I had planned to make full use of that extra hour gained by turning back the clocks on Sunday. What to use it for? There are so many options. Sleeping in. Getting a head start on the day. Slipping in that extra hour of online gaming.

Every year I have such lofty expectations for the extra hour. And every year I lose practically the whole hour as I track down and adjust every clock in my home. Why do they put clocks in so many things these days? Not a single room is free of a timepiece.

In the kitchen, there's the digital clocks on the microwave and coffee maker, and an analog clock on the stovetop. There's my Star Trek clock on my desk and the internal clocks in both computers, and the impossible-to-read black wall clock over the television. The stereo, television, and VCR all have internal clocks (my VCR never flashes 12:00). And finally my alarm clock on the bedside table and the Wallace and Grommit clock in the bathroom. Oh, and one in my cell phone (although that one seems to magically set itself).

I wouldn't say that I'm obsessed with time -- I don't even own a wristwatch. I don't usually care what time it is, unless it's close to quittin' time at the cube farm. So why is my home full of clocks? Always ticking or blinking or flashing. Crying out for attention. Ticking and flashing and blinking. Ringing and buzzing and ticking, ticking, ticking, ticking-- AAAAAA!!!

I'm okay. I just need a moment to--

Dammit, now I'm late for work.

For the last few days, Blogger has been completely uncooperative. First their servers were down for maintenance, and now FTP won't work unless I use their old "pro1" server. Now I discover that if it does upload to my site, it inserts the paragraph tag in my entries, causing the left alignment to go wonky (that's the technical term).

Is anyone else having bizarre problems with Blogger? I'd love to try Movable Type, but the installation is completely baffling.

Well, Blogger.com may be down for repairs, but that won't stop me from squandering my precious coffee break for some blogging fun. Nosiree, something like that isn't enough to stop the likes o' me from adding an entry to my blog. While all you other Blogger.com users are down for the count, this guy is still writing.

So. Here I go.

Um. Okay, well I don't have anything to say, actually.

Today I recieved yet another plea for help from overseas, in which Mr. Abdul Dagogo requires my help to liberate $32.2 million that belonged to an important Nigerian oil merchant (now unfortunately deceased). Mr. Dagogo explains:

A foreigner, Late Engineer Mark Otagaki who was an oil merchant and contractor with the Federal Government of Nigeria until his death onboard the ill fated Kenyan Airways bus {A310300}was our customer at the AFRICAN DEVELOPMENT BANK and had a balance of US$32 .2million which the bank now expects his next of kin to claim as the beneficiary.We have made valuable efforts to get his people to no avail as he had no known relatives,due to this development our management and our board of directors are making arrangements for the funds to be declared unclaimed and subsequently paid into the federal government purse and to avert this negative development me and my colleagues have decided to look for a reputable person to act as the next of kin to late Mr. Otagaki so that the funds will be released and paid into your account and this is where you come in.

Such tragedy, and such sheer coincidence to follow so closely on the heels of Mrs. Gbagbo's loss of $50 million. Mr. Dagogo, I would love to assist you, but really, I can't at the moment. And to other African diginaries who may be reading: please try not to misplace any more money. I can only help so many at one time.

Some people have a strange obsession with penguins. I have no idea why. They're obviously unbalanced personalities.

Here are couple of penguin-related links:

Priscilla's Perfect Performing Penguins of Persia. I hadn't heard of Persian penguins before. Or Persian icebergs for that matter.

Penguin Humor.

Spaced Penguin. A really fun game. Okay, it's for kids, but it's still fun.

I feel... deeply honoured. Honoured that of all people in the world, they have turned to me for help.

Today I received an urgent appeal from a Mr. Steve Lukas on behalf of Her Excellency Mrs. Gbagbo of the Ivory Coast. Mr. Lukas explains,

During this melee however, the wife of the President, Her Excellency, Mrs Gbagbo was able to airfreight to Europe the sum of Fifty Million United States Dollars ($50m) because of her fears of not knowing the outcome of this conflict. She was assisted by one of the friendly countries who came to evacuate her citizens from this troubled spot. It was airfreighted in luggages labelled as "diplomatic valuables". It is currently with a courier security firm in Europe. Those who airfreighted it and the security firm now in position of it are not aware of the contents.

Sequel to this development, I, STEVE LUKAS an attorney by proffession have been mandated by the first lady to look for an honest and a reliable foreign partner who will cliam the fund deposited with the security company, lodge it in his name in his designated bank and if the need arises, he can also help invest the fund in real estate or any other business/s that yields high returns.

How could I, in good conscience, not help these noble and honest people, who are so obviously not part of that infamous Nigerian e-mail scam?

I'm sorry for keeping you in suspense about the missing co-workers. They're back, and they're fine, albeit a little the worse for wear. It may take days to expunge the scent of seaweed and fish slime, and longer to settle their nerves.

Shortly after my last entry, the rumour spread like wildfire: they were being held hostage by the OLP ? the dreaded Organización de la Liberación del Pingüino from the Faulkland Islands. If you know anything about these birds, you'll know that they're ruthless and will relentlessly go "urk urk urk urk" at you until you submit to their demands. Hideous.

All ended well when a worker at the Vancouver Aquarium discovered my coworkers imprisoned in the seal tank. Knowing the penguins' weakness, he distracted them with a bucket of herring and freed hostages. The penguins are now in custody. You can see them performing daily following the whale show.

What if you had a Monday and nobody came? I'm beginning to feel like I'm just too much of a keener this morning. I showed up at 7:30 and was surprised to see that my coworker wasn't here yet -- usually she arrives before me. An hour later, both of the other tech writers are usually here too. Still no one. Weird.

Did I miss an announcement? Did somebody cancel Monday? I'm going to get to the bottom of this.

I half-expect Rod Serling to step out of a cubicle and start narrating, "Stephen Cavers expected to arrive at an ordinary cubicle on an ordinary Monday, but instead he arrived in... The Twilight Zone".

I stumbled across the list of local food establishment closures. This is a truly disturbing list. I've been to a couple of these restaurants, like Tanpopo Japanese Restaurant. Should I have checked the tempura roll for legs? And Milestones on Denman... "Food not protected from contamination?" Contamination from what? And what does "insanitary conditions" mean?

Ick ick ick ick ick ick ick ick and once more ick.

Several years ago ? and I'm sure this is meaningless to non-Vancouverites ? there used to be a little theatre downtown, under Royal Centre. I loved that place. It had several tiny, shoebox cinemas. Some of them only had about 30 seats. And unlike most "Famous Players" theatres, they showed new films that were just a little off the beaten track.

One of my favourite evening activities was to show up there not knowing what film I'd see, and pick one almost at random. In those shoebox cinemas, I accidentally saw The Girl in the Swing, Withnail and I, Europa, and several others that I might not have seen otherwise.

When Royal Bank took over the property and renovated it to expand its offices, Vancouver suffered a great loss. I sometimes try to do the same thing at the Hollywood Theatre on Broadway, but it's really not the same. Nobody else in town has a half-dozen living room sized cinemas.

In the same spirit, when I rent a video, I sometimes like to grab one that I haven't heard of and avoid reading the synopsis on the back. How could a synopsis do anything but ruin your appreciation of a movie? And how could it really provide you with any meaningful way to judge the difference between one movie and another?

For example: "A man with super powers is willing to sacrifice himself to save the world." Now is that movie Superman, or is it The Last Temptation of Christ?

Anyway, as I came home from work on Friday, I grabbed a movie almost at random so that I could have one of those Royal Centre surprise movie experiences. Was it a comedy or drama? No idea ? all I knew was that it starred Sarah Polley, and if I can confess to something, I've developed a bit of a crush on Sarah, so that probably played some part in choosing it.

The movie was No Such Thing, written and directed by Hal Hartley. All I can say is, go out and rent it now. It's not your regular movie. Neither is it too weird to digest. Sarah Polley is utterly brilliant (though maybe a little typecast) as the pure, innocent girl, and Robert John Burke is perfect as the embittered monster. But I won't attempt to provide a synopsis for you. That would ruin it. Just go grab it. Watch it. Preferably late at night. Let me know what you think.

Oh, and much of it is set in Iceland. Wonderful place. It looks so desolate and moody. I'd love to spend time there being all melancholy by the sea and stuff. I'm sure that's a national Icelandic pastime.

Passing a newspaper box this morning, I spotted this headline on the front page of the National Post: "Lord to Run for PC Leadership".

Well. It's about time the Lord got involved in Canadian politics. I'm sure He'll bring some much needed integrity to a system that has often been accused of corruption and self-serving--

Oh.

It's Bernard Lord. Hmm. Well, I wouldn't have voted for the Conservatives anyway.

Some mornings I wake up with a word stuck in my head. It kind of knocks around in there all day and pops out at the strangest moments. Usually it's one of those words that inexplicably sounds funny. Wibble is one of them. Today it's gesticulate.

Gesticulate. I don't even know why it's funny. It's sounds a lot like articulate, but articulate isn't funny. Well I suppose that depends on what you're articulating. It would be especially funny if you were articulating while gesticulating.

Polyglot is another good one. And cornucopia. Telephony.

I just have to resign myself to having gesticulatory conversations all day.

Looking out my window (my cubicle happens to have one), I see that the window cleaners are busy on one of the other buildings. That looks like a dangerous job -- rappeling down the side of a tower with a bucket and squeegee. Difficult too. There's a lot of surface area to cover.

Maybe it's just me, but isn't it kind of awkward when one of those people passes your window? What's the correct etiquette? Do you close the blinds? Ignore the guy? Or nod a friendly hello? Or do you have fun and write insulting messages on sticky notes?

Or maybe you could just play stupid games, like get really close to the window and follow the squeegee's every movement. And when he drops down to the next floor, run downstairs and do it again.

I should stop looking out my window and actually get something done.

Are they "Sandwich Artists" as they claim, or mere sandwich hacks? As you may know, I take sandwiches seriously. After all, in the cubicle, there is no food item more perfect than the sandwich.

Soup? The slurping will irritate your neighbors and soup may splash onto your keyboard. Pizza? The grease will get all over everything, and the aroma will drive co-workers into a feeding frenzy that you probably won't survive. Sushi? Well, I'll go for sushi too, but the price is a cubicle that smells like fish for the entire afternoon.

With this in mind, you'll understand how off-putting it is for me to go to Subway and be given a sub-standard sandwich (pun intended... oh, I'm just so, so witty. Tee hee hee. Ahem.). I ordered the new teriyaki chicken sub instead of my usual roast beef.

Onto a bed of cheesy slices went the limp, strips of formed chicken -- a close inspection revealed air bubbles in the meat. I think the idustrial process they use to create this chicken-like substance also creates those big colourful bathroom sponges. Onto the chicken-like substance went piles of wilted lettuce and a couple of token vegetables, followed by the crowning glory: the sweet onion sauce. The "artist" enthusiastically filled any empty spaces between the lettuce shreds, so that when it came time to eat the sub, the oil had completely soaked through the bread and flowed freely out the ends.

Next time, I'll ask for the onion sauce on the side as a chaser.

Finally, to add insult to injury -- and I'm just nit-picking now -- their napkins all display the motto "eat fresh". Eat fresh what? Or do they mean us to eat freshly? I'll have to ask their sandwich artist next time I feel like an oily sandwich.

The robotic invasion has been repelled, and the malevolent machines are now in the custody of the publisher. It was an arduous battle that saw the untimely end of many good, strong pots of coffee, but in the end, the forces of good prevailed.

On a sad note, I must report that, after a review by the editor, the Canadian spellings are now missing in action. Truly another blow to lexicographical honour.

In Canada, today is Thanksgiving Day. More than just another superfluous day off from work, Thanksgiving is a precious time of sharing, spending time with one's family, and of course indulging in the ritual of the turkey. Every family, of course, has subtle variations in how they practice Thanksgiving, and in the spirit of sharing, I'd like to describe the traditional Canadian Thanksgiving Day observances in my family.

In the early morning, people start arriving on their snowmobiles, eagerly anticipating the evening feast, but even as they arrive, there's a sense of expectancy in the air. Everyone is waiting for father, who usually returns home around midday with the bird. Like our neighbors in the US, we too enjoy turkey on Thanksgiving, but we prefer to eat the local variety of Canadian wild arctic white turkey. They're a little fattier than regular turkeys and taste like goose or duck.

Anyway, father pulls his snowmobile right up to family home with the great white bird in tow. Because it's so extremely large, we usually run the turkey behind the snowmobile from the trapline back home. Then comes time to prepare the bird.

We begin by herding it into the largest of our igloos, which by this time has a larger hole cut in the side to pass the giant turkey. Despite the frozen building materials, the fire pit keeps the igloo's interior reasonably warm. All of the menfolk then strip down to our loincloths and begin to walk slowly around the turkey while reciting passages from our favourite Farley Mowatt novels, which slowly but surely confuses it into a trance state. That's when the action begins: we bash the turkey repeatedly over the head with frozen badgers until it has expired. In the past, Canadians often used barbarous techniques to subdue the animal, but they have recently been outlawed on humane grounds.

Now that the turkey is dead, father opens the ceremonial case of Molson Canadian and empties all twelve down the turkey's throat for flavour. The remaning twenty ceremonial cases are reserved for the part of the ceremony known as the "piss-up", in which the men call each other "hosers" and armwrestle in the snow. By this time, one or two red-coated mounties often stand guard at the perimiter of the village, in case we attract unwanted attention from a passing polar bear. If that happens, the mounties will wrestle the polar bear into submission using nothing but polite but firm apologies.

After that, several hours slip away while the womenfolk wrap the turkey in strips of damp cedar bark, bury it in the fire pit, and let it cook slowly while chanting the latest Celine Dion hits. This is what I hear, anyway, since the men aren't allowed near the fire pit once the turkey is dead. Whatever culinary magic happens in that pit, the result is the most amazing meal one could ever hope to enjoy. Next to the warmth the firepit, we tear juicy chunks of flesh off the bird with our teeth, and smother it liberally with delicious maple syrup and gallons of poutine.

As the evening wears on and the turkey is stripped to the bones, people become sluggish and torpid, and are prone to reciting Gordon Lightfoot lyrics. We then fall to playing the "I spy" game under warm Hudson's Bay Company blankets. "I spy" usually puts us all to sleep in the end, because when you live in the snow, pretty much everything you spy is white.

They say that, once we get electricity and running water here in Canada, things will change. They say that we'll cook the turkey in an electric oven, for example, and the turkey will have to be an American one in order to fit it inside. I don't like the thought of these changes. I hope that, if change comes, we hold onto the traditial Canadian values that we were raised with. While Canadian Thanksgiving lasts, I for one will enjoy every morsel of turkey poutine, savour every sip of beer, and linger on every reminiscence of the adventures of Bob and Doug around the warm glow of our fire pit. In that spirit, I say to all from the bottom of my heart, G'day, eh.

After working all day on the robots, I finally have something that I wouldn't mind maybe showing somebody sometime if I felt like. Maybe.

I was trying to make a walking robot, but for some reason it started hopping. Okay. Sure, why not? A hopping robot is just as entertaining, if not more so.

Anyway, by Tuesday, it will all be over, and this cubicle dweller will be able to return to real life. No more robots for a while, please.

In a talk with students at Glebe Collegiate institute, Prime Minister Jean Chretien described how Canada's underfunded military could still contribute in a possible UN action against Iraq.



"Wit da fingers puppet, we can multiply our soldiers tenfold, " said Chretien. "And, too, we would be unsurpassed in da 'and-to-'and combating. We 'ave da ten-to-one advantage."

It's so peaceful, driving to work before sunrise. There's chill to the air, and the streets are quiet under the indigo glow of the pre-dawn sky. And really, you can almost doze off slightly without hitting too many pedestrians.

The robots have gained a foothold on my desk! I've tried to keep them from taking over, but I'm barely holding my ground against them.

After my initial success of sending two robots off to the publisher, I thought it was over. But it looks like I'll have to repeat that mission and round up a couple more. It won't be easy. It may take several days of stalking them before I can get a clear fix and bag 'em. But I have my coffee maker and a full can of 100% Colombian as ammo.

Bots, your days are numbered. I've got a keyboard with your name on it. Especially if your name is "Qwerty".

Another appearance of the revered Crunky bar and other interesting products: Engrish.com.

Ah, October weather is here. And with it comes the crisp, cool air, foggy mornings, and brightly coloured leaves that fall gently into the storm drain and clog it until a city works crew comes around to clear it up.

It's strange, but since the summer weather faded away, getting to work has been a regular gauntlet of hazards. There was the damp jeans episode the other day, which I've recovered from I'm happy to say. And today... today marked the annual return of the Green Menace.

Do you get these things where you live? From the rows of oak trees lining the streets, there are millions of tiny, wriggling, green worms that dangle from threads of silk. Walking under these trees is actually hazardous, since you have to push through curtains of these things.

And inevitably, some will stick to you, so that later in the morning when you're in the middle of an important meeting, unbeknownst to you, one of them will be crawling over the corner of your glasses. Or on your lapel. Or in your hair.

Nobody says anything either. Maybe no one wants to interrupt a conversation to say, "Excuse me, but you have a worm crawling out of your ear."

I wish somebody would do something about those things. They're a menace... a menace, I tell you!

Finally. After a marathon robotics session this weekend, the robots, programs, and instructions are finally done! (insane laughter)

And now back to my regularly scheduled life...

I thought I'd round out Saturday by posting my last two bookshelves as a kind of two-for-one deal. Here they are, Bookshelves Numbers 4 and 5.

As you can tell, I've been saving the best for last. This is where I keep the classics including two of William Shatner's best works ever written by someone he met.

Shelf Number 4:

Sir Walter Scott, Redgauntlet
Larry Niven, Rainbow Mars
Frederik Pohl, The Far Shore of Time
Robert Heinlein, Stranger in a Strange Land
Michael Friedman, My Brother's Keeper
John Vornholt, Gemworld
Steve and Dal Perry, Titan A.E.
William Shatner, Dark Victory
William Shatner, Spectre
Larry Niven, Destiny's Road
Terry Brooks, Star Wars Episode I: the Phantom Menace
Jeri Taylor, Pathways
James Joyce, Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man
James Joyce, Sons and Lovers
Paramahansa Yogananda, Autobiography of a Yogi
William Deverell, Trial of Passion
Diane Carey, Ship of the Line
Ernest Hemingway, A Farewell to Arms
Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring
The Norton Anthology of English Literature
Combat Flight Simulator 2

Shelf Number 5:

Bill Richardson, oddball@large
Mystery Science Theatre 3000 videos
Star Trek I, II, III, and IV
Monty Python, The Complete Unexpugated Scripts of the Original TV Series (Vol. 1)
Douglas Adams, Mostly Harmless
Mast and Kawin, A Short History of the Movies
Irwin Gray, The Engineer in Transition to Management
Gary Greenberg, The Pop-up Book of Phobias

Today I was going to write about how the robot designs are coming, but instead I'll just post a picture of my desk, which is now completely taken over by little plastic gears and beams and axles and motors and wires and... you get the idea.

Ever wonder how they make those really detailed 3-D illustrated Lego instruction booklets? I discovered for myself last night. There's a freeware program called MLCAD, in which you choose individual 3-D modelled parts from an enormous catalogue and carefully place them in the correct position and orientation in the workspace. Slowly, painstakingly, you can build a fully 3-D Lego model.

Last night I spent at least four hours "drawing" a small portion of a sub-assembly of a Lego robot that I designed. Oddly, designing and building the robot itself only took an a fraction of that time.

Why am I doing this? I was asked to contribute to a book about building Lego Mindstorms robots, which has a bit of a cult following amongst the geek set. As it turns out, Lego is a lot less fun when you have to design and build robots on a deadline.

I always considered myself a laundry-savvy kind of guy. That is, I know the difference between the settings on the washing machine. I only ever use one, but I know which one it is. Admittedly, as a cubicle dweller, I'm better suited to cleaning a hard drive than cleaning clothes, but I get by.

Due to technical difficulties, my jeans weren't entirely dry this morning and they were the only clean pair. No problem, I thought to myself, I'll just put them on and they'll -- I'm embarrassed to admit this -- get dry as I wear them. Most people will recognize this as a Stupid Guy Moment.

If you've ever tried this, you know it doesn't work. Not only do you end up wearing sticky, damp jeans for hours, but on a crisp October morning such as today they also cause another more subtle form of embarrassment.

In the chilly air, the damp cotton was warmed by my legs and began to steam gently. Little wisps of fog, touched by the golden glow of the rising sun, curled around my legs and evaporated in the gentle air currents. I was the only employee leaving a vapour trail behind me as I strode up to my building.

And I remembered another fine day back when I was about thirteen, when I did exactly the same thing before going to school.

I will never learn, will I?

Hmm. I forgot to iron my shirt this morning. Oh well. The wrinkles will disappear after a while.