This is for the dozens of people who find my site by searching for pictures of a campbell's dwarf hamster:

Taking a look at the calendar, I see that it's the last day of March. That can mean only one thing. Well, actually, it means a great many things, but one thing that it means in particular is that it's time to post... When Internet Searches Go Terribly Wrong.

This is my monthly compilation of my favourite misguided search requests. Let's start with the penguin-related searches:

foot preference in penguins
I prefer the left foot, but I hear the right foot goes well with chardonnay.

what else is interesting about penguins
What isn't interesting about penguins. I mean, just look at them.

bacon penguins
That sounds like a genetic experiment gone terribly wrong.

oops anal penguins
I think in that context, "oops" is definitely an understatement.

pictures of naked penguins
Try National Geographic.

naked royal penguin
I wish those paparazzi would leave the royals alone.

chimps on penguins wmv
That's wrong in so many ways.

More wildlife questions:

spotted snow emu
Sorry, we nabbed the last one at Christmas.

What do muffled lemurs eat?
Not much until you remove the muffler.

Normal Campbell's Dwarf Hamsters Pictures
Is it just me, or are canned soups getting really strange lately?

Pressing questions:

Top things not to do in a cubicle
I don't think I want to discuss that publicly.

writing a blog is proof that I'm
Proof that you're what?? Don't leave me hanging!

naked canadian mounties
Thankfully, there are no naked police officers on this site.

chunkylover53
I still get hundreds of hits for this one. chunkylover53@aol.com. It's Homer's e-mail. What else do you need to know?

any damn notes on anil's ghost
Sounds like term papers are due soon.

missing spoons and the connection with after life
It may have something to do with The Holy Spork of Antioch.

sexy professor simon fraser salmon
Sounds like there's an embarrassing story behind this one.

And then the strangest searches of the month:

Stephen Cavers

"Stephen Cavers" "vancouver"

Messenger conversation with River Selkie:

Steve says: i'm good. trying to figure out what to post today. mind's a blank.
river selkie says: hmm.
river selkie says: the natural enemies of penguins?
Steve says: hmm.
Steve says: polar bears? accountants? anti-penguin terrorists?
river selkie says: you are the expert, not me.
river selkie says: flying monkeys?
river selkie says: robot warriors
river selkie says: demented clowns?
Steve says: the dutch. they eat a lot of herring.
river selkie says: maybe! hehe
river selkie says: mean english teachers?
Steve says: unethical south american restauranteurs.

I'm sure most have already seen this... um... interesting example of soy sauce marketing, but for those who haven't yet: Kikkoman.

(Thanks, Matt, for the link.)

According to Rick of Rick's Miscellany, this website was mentioned in a newspaper article recently. Allan Hewitson of the Northern Sentinel (the newspaper of Kitimat, BC) had this to say about Cubicledweller.ca:

Cubicle Dweller is a Steveston book editor who who writes a running blog in which he recently waxed creative about some name changes he suggests for Canada, after reading that french fries had been renamed freedom fries in Washington.

He thinks California rolls should become Canuck rolls, Texas toast should be maple leaf toast and any beer should be renamed liquid Canada. What would that be on the French side of the label?

I don't mean to complain, but it would have been nice if Allan Hewitson had checked his facts before publishing. For example, I don't live in Steveston and I'm not a book editor either. I mean, just look at my grammar and spelling. No Stevestonite would spell this poorly.

All the same, I'm happy that the word will be spread about Canuck Rolls and Maple Leaf Toast. As for the French side freedom side of the beer label, I'll have to do some research on the subject (extensive experimental beer research). At this early stage, I'd guess that it would say "bičre".

In addition to the user manuals, I occasionally dabble in creative writing. In fact, I've written the first page or two of several short stories. I've started bits of certain scenes in a couple of plays. I even have an outline for my first novel, which is currently in a corner of my hard drive gathering moss. I guess you'd call it my sphagnum opus.

Yes, that was the whole point of this entry, and for that, I apologize.

Recently, someone commented that they don't know what I do for a living. Let me take this opportunity to explain.

I am a technical writer, which means that I write user manuals. Specifically, I write the employee procedural handbook for the flensing station, where I work. It's a difficult job, but there are perks ? like free meat on the holidays, for example.

Vancouver, as you have probably heard, is home to Canada's second largest flensing operation. Right here in Coal Harbour, Vancouver, they land the carcasses on the flensing deck for processing using the age-old techniques. Each day, workers bring in at least a hundred of the Arctic White Penguin and, during the winter months, about half as many of the larger Northern Harbour Penguins.

Given the penguin's size, it yields a surprising amount of meat and blubber. An experienced flenser can harvest ninety percent of the penguin's weight. Very little is wasted: blubber is used for food and oil products, the bones can be used for fertilizer and decorative items, the meat is sold to butchers, and the skin and offal is sold to McDonald's.

I come from a long line of penguin flensers: my father was a flenser, as was my grandfather, my great grandfather, and my great great great grandfather. Sadly, my great great grandfather was born without legs and never felt comfortable wielding the flensing knife.

Now I too carry on the tradition in my own way. Because I had put in over a dozen years on the flensing deck with other companies, my current employer placed me in their technical writing department. My cubicle is located in an office right above the quay, where the air is heavy with the scent of penguin blubber. Sometimes, with a certain stab of regret, I find myself yearning to be down on the deck, flensing knife in hand. For all the toil and sweat, it was an honest day's work.

I hope that answers any questions about my job. I should get back to work now ? I have to write the chapter on beaks and flippers.

It's a sign of the times, I think, when I actually have so many personal e-mail addresses that I forget which ones actually work. Most, like the e-mail address for this site, go directly to my inbox (one of my inboxes, anyway). Others enter a convoluted maze of auto-forwards and usually end up wasting away in one of two junk mail collection inboxes. Over the years, I've left this trail of abandoned addresses that still bloat up with spam for herbal medicine and "barely legal" porn sites.

Why so many addressess? I've registered four domain names. Each comes with either pop mail or e-mail forwarding, which means at least four addresses for each domain. I have two hotmail accounts ? one is current, one is now a spam recepticle. I have a few addresses with my ISP, but I don't use any of them. I think I must have at least twenty in all.

So now I'll get to the point of today's blog entry: if you've e-mailed me and I didn't respond, then your message is probably lost in the netherworld of misplaced e-mail accounts. Try snail mail instead.

Tomorrow I arrive at another milestone in my career as a dweller of cubicles. Tomorrow marks two years that I've been with this company.

Each time I arrive at such a milestone, I look back on my time and examine how I have changed and how things have changed around me. For example, when I started, my swivel chair was in perfect working order, but two years later, the cushion is paper thin and one armrest is broken. Ah, I remember good times spent on this chair. Like the time I chose to roll rather than walk over to the next cubicle for a meeting. There was also the time I discovered the exact most comfortable settings. And then there was the time I leaned back a little too hard, broke the backrest, and almost ended up on the floor with a broken spine. Well, maybe that last one wasn't among the good times, but it was memorable all the same.

I also look back on my accomplishments over the years with a sense of pride. I was the one, for example, who took the initiative and rotated my desk to face the wall instead of the window. And there in the corner are my colour-coded, alphabetical files that use a clever system that I myself devised and hope to maybe begin using some day.

So when tomorrow arrives, I'll have to celebrate. I think maybe I'll spend an extra minute or so juggling my penguins.

?Those people wouldn?t know artistic integrity if it jumped out of a hedge and bit them on their soft, dangly parts,? Doug said thoughtfully before returning to the moment. ?Well, maybe that was a bit harsh.?

The pub was dark by this point. It was after 10pm, by which time the waitress had taken the helm at the dimmer switches and lowered the lights to approximately a shade darker than ?Intimate? on the mood-lighting scale. Possibly closer to the ?Hide the Rat-infested Filth? marker, in fact. Doug examined the pub.

A couple at the jukebox flipped endlessly through the albums, playing that back-and-forth game of finding out that their musical tastes don?t actually mesh completely when put in practice. This was quickly followed by a thinly-veiled struggle for dominance at the jukebox controls. In the end, war was averted because he had the loose change to pay for it ? so they compromised and she chose the songs.

Next to them at the pool table was a foursome enjoying a game. Random chit-chat was punctated by the occasional explosion of laughter at a closely-missed shot. The waitress, Wendy, slipped past them, between the regulars, and back to the bar. Her trips were like little moonshots from the homebase of the bartop and out between the unheavenly bodies in seats. In and out she wound, dodging one and orbiting another, until she touched the far corner by the fireplace before falling gently back through the masses to terra firma for another pitcher or two.

Doug turned his attention to his companion in the booth. Bob?s head popped up over the edge of the table for a furtive, darting glance at the smoky environment. He then dropped back to his original pose with his head resting comfortably on his forepaws.

The conversation between them had almost dried completely, Doug realized, so he looked to tying things up.

?Let me tell you,? he temporized, ?I have been to a lot of Ice Capades shows, and those sorry bastards wouldn?t know artistic integrity if it jumped out and bit them. And that would be a generous favour.?

By this time, Bob had completely lost interest and had burrowed his head into the safety of Doug?s burlap backpack. Inside the bag, the cat slithered in circle a couple of times before settling down carefully with his tail curled around and over his paws. His watchful eyes peered out the darkened opening.

Presently, the waitress docked herself at the table long enough to drop the carefully-folded tab before moving on. Glacing at the total, Doug grimaced. He dragged a couple of unwilling twenties from the safety of his wallet and threw their poor bodies onto the bonfire of his life.

?Well, Bob, it looks like we?ve used this place up.? With that, he slid free of the booth table and stood on slightly wobbly legs. ?Come on, Bob.? Doug swung the pack up and over his left shoulder, making Bob emit a kind of indignant ?Mwerp!?

Outside, the chill cut suddenly into him, and he pulled his coat closer to his body.

?Alright back there, Bob?? Doug called over his shoulder.

?Ow,? commented Bob.

The phone rang and Doug lifted it absently.

?Hello??

?Dude! You?re eating my sight!?

?What??

?My sight! You?re eating my sight RIGHT NOW!?

Doug paused a second or two before starting cautiously. ?Um?,? he said in a measured tone. ?Who is this??

?It?s Bill, dude!? The voice rose in pitch by about a fifth. ?And you?re eating my sight! Right now! Don?t deny it.?

?Bill, I have no idea what you?re trying to say. Are you on something?? Doug rubbed the bridge of his nose, as he heard an exasperated sigh from the phone?s earpiece.

?You told me,? Bill said in a lowered tone, ?that you would never visit my sight.?

Doug frowned deeply for a moment before a loose object in his brain fell suddenly into place. ?Oh! Site! You mean your website!?

?Yes!? shouted Bill. ?You? are? reading? my? site. You said you never would, but I caught you!?

Although he couldn?t actually see Bill at the moment, Doug could almost hear him leaning closer to the phone as Bill whispered, ?I have your IP address in my server log, you bastard.?

?Bill?? Doug began gently. ?You?re a moron.?

Silence.

?Oh. Well. Um?,? Bill responded, which he followed with a barely audible click of the reciever.

Like an achene found in the virulent indeterminacy of our velarization, the weblog ? the multisensory, multipolar, and in fact, multivalent concupicense of interdiscplinary conferencing ? traditionalizes the sepulchural memes that once waxed serotinal. Can we express the cultivability of a tonomerous and germinal instrumentality of Hamiltonianism through the errant parvenue of the Internet?

My penguin says No.

Over at Modem Noise, Adrian is conducting a little contest to "Write a brief synopsis for a Truly Horribly Wretchedly Awful novel".

So, without further ado, here is the synopsis of my novel...

Title: The Rippingly Adventurous Tale of Narwin, the Golden Rhinoceros, and His Pelican, Pip

Synopsis: Long ago in the green Trellian Valley, a Rhinoceros named Narwin lives with his family and a sickly old pelican named Pip, whom they occasionally hire as a mime at family outings. Like most young rhinoceroses, Narwin pays little heed to the goings-on of the world outside the Trellian Valley.

Flashback 2000 years: Trellian sits the leaders of two armies on the twin rocks of Aelia and places between them a chess board. Corthnoc, Supreme General of the Army of Hortenoc, ends the chess game abruptly when he counters his opponent?s Kolnikov Gambit with a pointy object to the throat. With this, General Artonius capitulates with a solid thud to the floor. Thenceforth, the Hortenoc maintains possession of the valley.

Two thousand years later, Narwin and Pip embark upon a journey to rescue the Stones of Aelia from almost certain destruction, which is to be determined by a lengthy series of judicial hearings with presentations by all stakeholders. In a sudden twist of irony, Pip is revealed as the true owner of Aelia. They contemplate this revelation in several intimate scenes in various hotel elevators.

Then, in another twist of fate, Pip explodes unexpectedly after eating too many squid-flavoured jellies. The whole mission now being moot, Narwin returns home by way of the Rocks of Aelia and one of them tips over, crushing him. With that, Trellian returns to the valley, bringing the joys of chess!

All I can think about is my CDS. No, that's not "carpal dunnel syndrome". For crying out loud, that doesn't even make sense.

I'm concerned about the state of my Caffeine Delivery System. For several months the vending machine coffee has been my standard CDS. The flavour is sub-standard, as I've mentioned frequently, but it gets the job done. Knock back a couple of those bitter, watery concoctions, and I'm good for at least an hour or so.

Then I considered upgrading my CDS from coffee to cola. Cola has several advantages, the least of which is that you get a sugar kick in addition to the caffeine buzz. I could, I conjectured, add sugar to my coffee, but as a coffee purist, that violates my principles. Even the vending machine swill deserves drinking straight.

So there's cola, but what kind? As a geek, my first inclination is towards Jolt, but that's hard to come by these days. That leaves the front-runners: Coke and Pepsi.

Yesterday I dropped by the grocery store, and there on the shelf, looking all exotic and purty-lookin' was vanilla Coke. And next thing I knew, I was struttin' home with a six pack of the stuff. I knew it must be good ? Simon Cowell said so, right?

Wrong. It's vile. It's worse than drinking soda water with pancake syrup stirred into it. Not that I've tried it. Ahem.

Anyway, now I have a five-pack of vanilla Coke and coffee-swill to choose between as my CDS. Of course, if I could get up off my butt and walk over to the coffee shop on the corner, I wouldn't have a problem, would I?

Wow. All this talk of caffeine makes me have t?

As I've mentioned before, our coffee vending machine delivers a disappointing cup of coffee. It's often acrid and watery, which can only be fixed by disguising it with plenty of cream and sugar. That in itself is annoying if, like me, you prefer to drink your coffee black.

Curiously, the machine has an interesting idea of the relative sizes of the small, medium, and large coffees. On discovering that selecting "large" fills my mug just past the halfway point, I wondered if I could then top up my mug by adding a "small" to it. A fellow cubicle dweller and I performed a little ad hoc experiment to determine the ratios.

With a fresh mug under the spout, I dialled up the French roast... er... freedom roast... and selected a "large". I repeated that again with the "small" setting. As it turned out, adding the small coffee to the large made my mug overflow slightly. Logically, then, the small coffee is at about half a mug. The medium coffee, we assume, would be halfway between that and the large. The difference between the sizes must be only a few millilitres.

We will have to approach this more scientifically in the future, using a graduated cylinder to accurately measure the amount dispensed with each size. This of course, will have to wait until tomorrow, when I'm down from this extreme coffee buzz and I stop giggling uncontrollably.

In a brilliant display of problem-solving skill, it took me a total of four tries to open the double door at the local sandwich shop.

Pushed the right side. Nothing. (pause)

Pulled the right side. Nothing. (pause)

Pulled the left side. Still nothing. (pause)

Pushed the left side. Finally, it opened.

I skulked out of the shop with all eyes on my back. D'ohh.

When I tell people in the software industry that I majored in theatre, I usually get some odd looks. Then they back away slowly, expecting me to spontaneously break into a mime-walking-against-the-wind routine. This, of course, is a completely ridiculous notion ? I prefer the mime-trapped-in-a-box routine. I'm even working on a novel adaptation of it, which I tentatively call Honey, I'm Trapped In A Box. I really enjoy writing the character dialog.

Anyway, I avoid mentioning my theatre background whenever possible, with the exception of occasions when I need to clear a room of programmers. In a geek environment, theatrical behaviour is both strange and frightening to some, and is sometimes greeted with mistrust.

In the face of this, I maintain that theatre can teach a lot about how to run a software project, how to manage a team, how to hit deadlines, and how to distract people with something entertaining when you really screw up. That last one is particularly important.

From my very first show, I began earning skills that I could apply to life in the real world. My first role was a dancing waiter in an amateur production of Cabaret at the Richmond Gateway Theatre. The dance number was simple ? the choreographer worked with what he was given and dumbed down his elaborate steps for a line of eight rhythmically-challenged waiters and no less than sixteen left feet.

And so, to strains of Willkommen, the line of waiters stumbled our way through endless weeks of rehearsals, flipping our trays over, under, and occasionally underfoot. One of the waiters, Randy, discovered the secret to flipping the tray under your arm without dropping it: hours of practice and a roll of double-sided sticky-tape.

That, I felt, was cheating. I'd practiced the tray-flip for hours at a time without dropping it more than every third attempt. As a budding stage professional, I didn't need to resort to trickery. I continued to practice without taping my tray to my fingers.

Finally, we tripped our way into opening night, and the cramped backstage area was full of scantily-clad cabaret girls and white-shirted waiters practicing their steps, tray-flips, and ma-may-me-mo-moos. In the corner, I sweated quietly until little rivers of pancake makeup rolled off my temple and onto my shirt.

What if I dropped the tray? As I considered this possibility and watched the other waiters religiously taping their trays to their fingers, my confidence dissolved into a puddle of jelly that landed next to the growing pool of sweat-and-makeup at my feet. I grabbed a roll and, just for safety's sake, I put a metre or two of it around my fingers and on the bottom of the tray.

The curtain went up, the band played, and into the stage lights we pranced, carrying our trays. It all went swimmingly until the tray flip. Halfway through the number, everything switched to slow-mo: the tray moved under, around, and exactly at the outside of it's arcing path, I felt the tape go "pop". I had time to think, oh... fuck, before I watched it depart from my fingertips.

It slipped from my fingers and tumbled up over my head, flashing in the stage lights before eventually returning to earth in a noisy metal crash. Then it rolled for a bit between the left feet of the first waiter and back around mine before coming to a full stop a metre or two downstage. I think I had stopped moving for a several seconds before the waiter next to me gave me a shove towards the exit.

On my way offstage I grabbed the tray and escaped to the wings. That would have been the end of it, had I not completely forgotten to go back on stage for the next number.

The lesson, of course, is do the show as you rehearsed it ? don't make changes on opening night. I trusted the sticky-tape too much, my weeks of practice went out the window, and my first moments acting on a stage became a minor disaster.

And that's a valuable lesson for software projects too. Don't change your plans right before the product release date. Don't, for example, decide at the last moment to hire a different and untried translator for your user manual. Your English chapter about cross-tabulating data may turn into a Spanish chapter about making tables out of crosses. For example.

On an occasion such as that, however, I can easily distract people from my mistake with a quick mime-trapped-in-a-box routine. Works every time.

Article on Canada.com: "Good Samaritan loses job after helping gunshot victim in Manitoba town".

While on company time, a pizza-delivery driver comes to the aid of a gunshot victim. Her boss fires her because she was away from her job "for no good reason".

Ironically, the ambulance arrived late because they stopped to deliver a large pepperoni with extra cheese.

The War on Fries continues to gain momentum in the US: "House restaurants change name of 'french fries' and 'french toast'". I'm glad to know that they have achieved some tangible progress on that important issue.

On a related note, while watching CNN last night, which I wouldn't normally admit to doing, I was appalled to notice their casual reference to peace activists as "anti-Americans". In particular, the comment was that directors and producers wouldn't be comfortable making movies that feature "anti-Americans" (i.e., pro-peace), and that we could expect the Academy Awards to be affected. Reminds one of the Hollywood communist blacklist, doesn't it?

Well, what did I expect from CNN? Balanced, unbiased reporting of the news?

BBC News: "Martin Sheen: 'President' under fire"

It's a rare thing to see candies in my cubicle. I don't have a sweet tooth. If I snack, I prefer something salty and crunchy. Miss Vicky's sea salt and malt vinegar chips, if possible. Crunchy little dried fishies will do in a pinch.

Today, I broke my habit and brought a bag of jelly beans. Some people are jelly bean snobs and go for the designer jelly beans with flavours like blueberry and piņa colada. I'm a jelly bean traditionalist: cherry red, minty green, lemony yellow, orangy orange, bubble gum pink, licorice black, and the unidentifiable white. What is white? It's not vanilla, is it?



Here's the thing, though: as I dig deeper into the bag, it seems as if the bitter licorice ones drift to the top. I like the licorice ones too, but in large quantities, they can anesthetize your tongue. And when that wears off, you realize that your mouth has been shredded raw by the sugar.

Why is it that when I try to reach for an orange or yellow one, the black ones form a defensive barrier, which forces me to eat my way through it to get to the good ones? Finally, I'll break through, but by that point my tongue is too numb to taste the tangy orange. The struggle was in vain.

I'll even shake up the bag a little to confuse their ranks, but they soon regroup to repel my advances.

I'm looking at my bag of jelly beans and I think it's looking back at me and mocking my feeble attacks. But in the end, I'll be the victor ? holding a bag of licorice jelly beans.

Picture this. At the border between Quebec and Maine, there's a gas station located only 15 metres on the US side of the border. The gas station has a driveway opening on the Canadian side. The nearest border-crossing is some distance away by car. Townsfolk routinely cross the 15 metres into Maine to fill their tanks.

One day, a forestry worker, Michel Jalbert, crosses to buy gas and is stopped by border guards. Because he's on his way to a hunting trip, he happens to have his shotgun with him in the truck. He's arrested and spends 35 days in a US jail. Today he pleaded guilty and his lawyer believes that Michel will never be allowed to enter the US again.

Well this should set an example to all those terrorists who like to fill up their tank on the border.

Commentary by Rex Murphy
Article on Canada.com
Article on CTV.ca

I'm sitting in my cubicle feeling very exposed. Vulnerable. Naked, even. Today I forgot my cell phone at home.

All I can think about is what it's doing right now. Is it ringing, and no one is there to answer it? I bet it's ringing, all alone on my desk at home. So lonely.

It's times like this when I think about all the good times we've had together, me and my phone. Like the day I bought it, when it rang for the first time, I flipped it open and said, "Kirk here." A life-long dream had been fullfilled.

And there was the time I was camping on Saltspring Island and sitting on the beach, I checked my e-mail. I would never again be without the Internet.

And then there was the time I forgot to turn off the ringer during a movie, and it rang. It wouldn't stop ringing. It just kept going and going and none of the buttons would make it shut up! It just kept ringing and ringing and ringing. Damn that phone! When I get home, I'm taking a hammer to it.

Hmph.

I think I've uncovered the secret inspiration for Green Goblin's mask in Spiderman. This is from Godzilla Versus Megalon (1976):



It's an uncanny resemblance, isn't it?

I'm practicing to be a curmudgeon. Which is more effective, harrumph or pshaw?

I considered bah!, but people might think I have a sheep fetish.

Google has done it again. Not even a month after I became the world's leading authority on the "Hockey Hero Sandwich", Google has identified me as the world's leading authority on the cubicle as well.

This explains why each day I get a dozen or so visits from people searching for "cubicle". It doesn't, however, explain why people are searching for "cubicle" in the first place. Do they want to know what it is? Do they want to buy one? Or do they get excited by pictures of cubicles? I've heard of that, you know. Sick, sick, sick people.

While I can't offer any titillating photos of cubicles, I'd be glad to share my wealth of cubicle-related knowledge by answering questions. So if you arrived here looking for "cubicle", ask away! I'll do my best to provide an answer that will be universally recognized as a response to a question.

Hmm. Snow. Snow? What th?

I'm happy ? and a bit confused ? to say that it is snowing vigorously here in Vancouver. That's right. Snowing. Not rain, but snow.

What's gone wrong with the world?

(An hour and a half passes...)

It has stopped snowing. Normalcy restored.

Once again, Thursday evening has oozed into our lives, so what does that mean? Right! Rockpoint PD is on TV tonight at 10:30 on the Comedy Network. And then again at 1:30 for people with no short-term memory.

Has anyone noticed a trend in the show towards... um... topics of an adult nature? I'd blush if I tried to explain the plotlines of the last couple of episodes of Rockpoint. I think I know why it's on so late.

Anyway, you know where I'll be at 10:30. (In front of the TV, in case you weren't paying attention.)

Have you ever looked at the inside of a Dell? I added a new 60 GB drive to mine this morning. No screwdrivers are necessary to do this ? all you have to do is slip a couple of rails on the drive and slide it into the bay until it clicks.

At least, that's what happens if you have drive rails. Without the right rails, you can't mount a hard drive because there are no screw holes anywhere inside the case. They did, however, generously include two spare rails for a 3.5" floppy drive.

Thanks Dell. Naturally, if someone upgrades their computer, they'll add a second floppy drive. Good thinking.

In half an hour, with the aid of pliers, a pen knife, and twist ties, I adapted (read: brutally mangled) the floppy drive rails so that they'd hold the hard drive. Mission accomplished.

On the weekend I visited Granville Island Market. At Duso's, they had some delicious-looking little appetizers ? squid stuffed with crab and shrimp. Aren't the best foods are made by stuffing one animal with another animal?

I think tonight I'll have chicken stuffed with beef, pork, squab, and goat.

In an effort to practice for being a grumpy old man, here's a list of things that bug me.

• People driving in front of me who signal a turn after they enter the intersection, and then take a very long time making the turn.
  
  
• Those smooth and extra-slippery plastic chopsticks that you get at cheap restaurants. Can't they afford the wooden ones?
  
  
• People at the chashier who don't take out their wallet until they actually hear the price read to them. And then they take forever to find it. Was it a surprise that they needed money for the cashier?
  
  
• Microsoft Windows.
  
  
• People who make a turn using both the turning lane and the one next to it.
  
  
• Those cretins who break into my obviously empty car.
  
  
• Daytime TV.
  
  
• People who take daytime TV very, very seriously.
  
  
• People who want to use nuclear weapons to prevent other countries from developing WMDs.
  
  
• Mindless flag-waving.
  
  
• Mindless flag-burning.
  
  
• The fact that there's probably a way to do what I want with XML, but it's probably excessively difficult and geeky.
  
  
• People who use their blogs to write inane lists of things that bug them. Like anyone cares! Grow up already.

So there you go. One of these days, I'll write a list of shiny, happy, fun things that make me feel all warm and fuzzy like a little fuzzy bunny tralala et cetera et cetera. Until then, piss off.

More photos from Granville Island on my photos page.

One of my many remarkable talents is my astounding mastery of leaving the headlights on when I park my car. Without any advance preparation of any kind, I have the ability to walk away from my little red Honda without noticing that the lights are, in fact, still on. As a follow up, I won't return to the car until the battery is good and dead.

I once considered teaching a class on this subject because it's one of those life skills that no one should be without. I decided against it in the end because, as an instructor, one can't teach talent, one can only provide the tools that hone that talent. Leaving the headlights on is so much more of an art than it is a science.

Another talent of mine ? also related to cars ? is the ability to postpone car maintenance until the car actually stops moving. For example, the right rear tire has a slow leak and will go flat within a week or two. It's been like that since I bought the car in 2000.

Do I take it to the shop to have it sealed? Of course not! I stopped at Canadian Tire and picked up an emergency tire pump. If it ever gets too low to drive to the nearest station, I can simply connect pump to the tire valve and give myself a five-minute leg workout. It's kind of like a stair climber, only with a good, practical purpose.

Incidentally, Canadian Tire has got to be the most amazing shopping experience on the face of the earth. This store has everything. Wal-Mart has nothing on this place. As you shop for your tire pump or wiper blades, you can also pick up some new place settings for the dining room and maybe a decorative lamp too.

Canadian Tire is very much a man's store. It's where guys can go to buy an ironing board and laundry soap while pretending that they're actually buying a set of socket wrenches and a litre of 10W30. In my distant and shady past, I once bought several parts for an arts-and-crafts type project while pretending to buy plumbing fixtures. I sure had them fooled. (Insert several quietly smug chuckles.)

Sunday morning found me wandering the aisles of Canadian Tire looking for the gadget... the thingummy that would make my car go after I leave the headlights on. After a few manly moments of acting self-sufficient and wise in the way of automobilery, I gave up and sought the help of one of the Canadian Tire mechanics.

When I explained that I was looking for "a kind of battery pack thing that makes my car start when I do something stupid like leave the lights on", Debbie gave me a very supportive smirk and pointed me towards the "power packs". The power packs, she explained, range in size from one that can jump-start a compact car to one that can jump-start a battleship and provide power to a small village for twelve to fourteen months. I wiped the drool from the corner of my mouth.



In the end, I decided on the smallest one, because my village-powering needs have been few and far between these days. And besides, I probably couldn't lift the large one without straining something. I thanked Debbie and carted the lunchbox-sized battery back home. I connected the cables and in seconds my Honda roared to life. Crisis averted. Until I once again practice my extraordinary talent.

The Cubicle Poll results are in. When asked the question, Are you in favour of twelve 30-day months per year, rounded out with a new 5-day month of togas, cold beverages, and unusual snacks?, only 50% responded Yes, while 46% responded "Mmm. Unusual snacks." We failed to make a clear majority by only 1%.

I promise, however, in the greatest Canadian tradition there is, to keep putting this question to a vote until I get 50% plus 1.

For now, I'll just go console myself with some unusual snacks.