Terra Aeronautics - Virtual vehicles for the metaverse

Swingline
Friday, May 30, 2003

The cube farm is indeed a place of mystery. Why are cubicles grey? Where do recycled documents go after you put them in the bin? Why does the coffee always taste so much worse than the coffee you make at home?

But the biggest puzzle of all is the stapler. We have all seen the setting on the stapler that lets you bend the staples outward instead of inward. Why would you want to bend the staples outward?

I don't know. It's a mystery.

Cubey Terra

Working for the weekend
Thursday, May 29, 2003

The weekend can't be here soon enough. Now that the weather is warm, I'm aching to find a quiet spot where I can shoot things.

Like Emese, I too have a new camera that I'm aching to try. It's not the drool-inducing professional camera that she bought, but it's a big step beyond my automatic box-with-a-lens towards a real camera.

I spent some time last night puzzling over new concepts like shutter speed, aperture, ISO, and manual focus. Already I'm amazed by what I can capture in low-light situations. Can anyone recommend a good book on the subject?

In the meantime, as I slog through edits to a new manual, the gorgeous scenery outside of the window taunts me. From where I sit, I can see over Coal Harbour and Stanley Park, and beyond to the mountains. Time to apply my nose to the proverbial grindstone or I'll be looking at this view all weekend too.

Cubey Terra

12 comments

My Favourite Things
Wednesday, May 28, 2003

With apologies to Rogers and Hammerstein...

Ripping up roses and stomping on kittens
Sporks made of metal and earning a pittance
Brown soggy sandwiches crawling with things
This is what happens when EOL sings.

Cubey Terra

13 comments

Mrs. Hogsworth
Monday, May 26, 2003

[A hotel room in a state of disarray. An agitated woman in her fifties, MRS. HOGSWORTH, hobbles from the bathroom to a table next to the window. She is dressed very conservatively, and her right sleeve and front appear to be soaked with something. From a handbag on the table, she extracts a cell phone, dials three digits, then waits anxiously, checking over her shoulder frequently.]

MRS. HOGSWORTH: [into phone] Pardon me? Oh, um... ambulance please. No, police. NO! Ambulance. Yes. Definitely ambulance. Can I order both? I'm really not an expert on the subject. I've never called 911 before so I don't really know the routine. I mean I've seen it on tv and stuff but--

[short pause]

Where's the what? Oh! I'm in Winnipeg.

[short pause]

Okay, don't get snippy. I didn't know how much detail you wanted. You have to be specific, okay?

Okay. Um... I'm at the hotel... um... I can't remember the name. Some hotel. At the corner of [peering out the window] the street with the Dairy Queen on it and the other street, you know the one that crosses it, the one with the big... flashing thing... I don't know the name. You know, the big, flashing... It's all... flashing and big.

[short pause]

No, I don't know the street names. How am I supposed to know the street names? I'm from Vancouver for chrissake! I just flew in this morning and I've been travelling all day and I really haven't had time to memorize all the street names just yet--

[short pause]

Landmarks? Landmarks... um... ok. I mentioned the big flashing thing that's all big and--

[short pause]

Don't get snippy! Don't... get... snippy!

I mean I'm trying here. I mean I just came into town and I'm expected to know all the street names and landmarks and what kind of two-bit operation are you running here? Can't you just trace the call and we can skip the sight seeing tour of Winnipeg and get to the point? This is an emergency, or did they leave that detail out of your training?

[short pause]

What?

[short pause]

Yes it's a cell phone.

[pause]

Oh. Okay, well I didn't know you can't trace cell phone calls.

[She peers out the window at her surroundings.]

Fine. I'm on the second floor... I can see... that Dairy Queen... and a mailbox at the corner... and... there's a Bank of Montreal... and a Petrocan station... Oh! And look for the crowd of people and the bleeding guy on the sidewalk. You can't miss it.

[pause]

Yes. Bleeding guy. [enunciating exaggeratedly] The buh-leed-ding guy.

[pause]

I don't know, it's not like I'm a doctor or anything. He's just bleeding. From his head I think. It's hard to tell how bad because he's wearing a red shirt. No, hold on... it's a white shirt with blood on it.

[pause]

What do you mean an ambulance is already on its way? How could an ambulance possibly be on its way? You don't know where I am and for crying out loud we just wasted precious minutes gabbing about the big, flashing thing, and the Dairy Queen, and the bleeding guy, and you didn't even bother asking me what the fucking problem is!

[short pause]

FUCK THE BLEEDING GUY! What is your fucking obsession with bleeding guys?! You are one sadistic fuck, do you know that?

I've got an emergency situation here. Someone broke into my hotel room and all you want to do is gossip about bleeding guys and... and the Dairy Queen and... fucking landmarks.

[short pause]

What?

[short pause]

Yes! Broke into my room! I was at the market -- you know the Forks Market -- down by the river, and I buying all kinds of--

[menacing voice] Didn't I tell you not to get snippy? I don't want to warn you again.

Fine. So I got back to my room and the door was kicked in and my bags were open and all my stuff was all over and the fucker was still here.

[short pause]

Yes! He was still here!

[short pause, confused.]

Am I okay? No I'm not okay.

[short pause]

Well I was going to tell you why I need an ambulance, if you'd let me get to that.

Okay, so I smashed a bottle of whiskey over his head. It was definitely single malt scotch. Dammit, it was the good stuff too. Well after that, he kind of stumbled out the door, and anyway I twisted my ankle running to the bathroom to wash the whiskey off me and I don't think I want to walk to the hospital myself, especially smelling like some kind of booze-fiend, so could you please hurry up and send an ambulance? Oh and the police too, because--

[pause]

The police are on their way too? How did you know where to send--

[peering carefully out the window towards the bleeding guy]

Do, um... do people bleed... a lot... from um... say... whiskey-related... wounds?

[pause]

Uh-huh.

[pause]

[hurried] Okay. Um... I've got to go now. Bye.

[She hangs up and skulks out the door.]

Cubey Terra

14 comments

More about rodents...
Monday, May 26, 2003

Looking at the cubicle poll results, I see that over half of the voters prefer hamster vindaloo over chicken, lamb, veggie, or shrimp. You sick, sick people.

Cubey Terra

Dead mouse
Monday, May 26, 2003

There's a dead mouse on my desk. In typical Windows fashion, my computer went all wonky as soon as I needed it most and as soon as there was no support staff. Saturday morning, I sat down to my computer, and the mouse was dead.

I'm almost ashamed to admit that I couldn't figure out what was wrong with it. Windows claims that the registry is corrupt, but I've stopped trusting Windows a long time ago. Tried deleting it from the Hardware Manager, then re-adding it, but to no avail.

When was the last time you used a computer without touching the mouse? It takes a lot of patience. It's Monday morning now, and I'm waiting for the IS guy to drop by my cubicle. In the meantime, I'm enjoying a moment of mouseless blogging.

I suppose I shouldn't complain. After all, I happily used mouseless computers for years before mice became de rigeur for PCs.

Hmm. There's a Mac in the corner. Do I dare...?

Cubey Terra

Deadline
Friday, May 23, 2003

Today is the day of the big deadline and everything is progressing according to plan. It's all working like well-oiled starship captain.

Cubey Terra

16 comments

The Rime of the Ancient Martinizer
Thursday, May 22, 2003

It seems I have a request for an epic poem about dirty socks. I can't remember the correct rhyming scheme for epic poetry, so I'll just use rhyming couplets instead. Here goes...

The Rime of the Ancient Martinizer

I'll tell you now of times long past
When men did eat the gooey brie.
On splendid ships both strong and fast,
They plied the oceans and the sea.

I'll speak of socks which might be shunned
For fear our wits might just be stunned;
I will now speak upon the Spot:
That dreadful yellow forget-me-not.

The Spot of Dread arrives unseen
From filthy sport socks from Chuck Sheen.
From there the Spot will try to grow
To epic sizes — heel and toe.

One evening, I had cause to sigh
(If I can have an alibi),
For Spot spread out to shirts and pants
To breed anew through random chance.

I felt I ought to try and seek
A martinizer, not the meek.
I searched one high, I searched one not,
I even searched beneath the cot.

The one I found was after doughnuts,
Coffee, and some tasty... um... go-nuts. (?)
Creeping in the darkened corners,
Belching at the passing mourners.

As fearful as I felt that night,
I spoke aloud despite my fright:
"Dear sir," said I with trembling lip,
Afraid he might request a tip.

"The Spot! The Spot! The Spot!" cried he.
"The Spot! The Spot!" He giggled with glee.
The ancient martinizer had
A mind of rot and temper bad.

"This Spot," said he, "its colour's strange.
How did it get the rotting mange?
It must be but a figment of
An ill that fits me hand?in?glove!"

"I have a problem you might fix
While choking down those pizza sticks.
If you would waddle over here
I know of trouble with a beer."

"A beer?" asked he of Mister Parker,
"Would it be Lite or something darker?"
"Just that," said I, the name not known,
But happy getting more than moan.

"Now look," said I, "I need your help.
It's not at all to do with kelp."
"With kelp?" he frowned, now in a dither.
"Why would kelp be here or thither?"

"Please," I prodded for attention.
"This I say is much worth mention."
"Fine," said he, "but be you wrong,
I'll smack you down like big King Kong."

"Sure, sure," said I, and showed the way
Back to the Spot I'm sure was fey.
"And here it is!" I yelled aloud,
The Spot was looking like a crowd.

The martinizer waddled faster,
Eating like a Jedi Master.
"Use the Fork," old Ben had taught
When fighting with a Sock of Spot.

And now, this bit will end the verse
Before I exit in a hearse.
I hate to write without much sense,
And do not want a recompense.

So now I must be on my way.
"Good day," is what I have to say
To all my guests of this, my blog,
Feel free to browse and pat the dog.

Cubey Terra

16 comments

Ooooh, penguins!
Wednesday, May 21, 2003

The package arrived. The sender: Treefen of Icklenet.com. It was a plain, brown envelope that was completely encased in transparent tape. I found a crowbar and opened it.

Inside was a pink, handmade envelope. And inside that was a little tin with Donald Duck on it. And inside that were four lovely little penguin magnets — the runner-up prize for the Ickle Fiction blogiversary contest.

These are very cool little things. All hand-made, it seems. And penguins too. Thank you, T. Yer neat-o.

Cubey Terra

10 comments

On a serious note...
Wednesday, May 21, 2003

On a serious note, I'd like to take a moment to discuss a problem of mine. A friend pointed this out to me this morning, and I have to admit to myself that it is, in fact, true.

I have a problem with take-out bags.

Last night, I met up with Lola and Bev for dinner at Raga — an excellent Indian restaurant on West Broadway that's conveniently near Toys 'R' Us (you never know when you might need to buy an action figure to play with during your meal). I ordered a spicy shrimp vindaloo, Bev ordered a spinach thing that had too many vowels in it, and Lola chose a sampler plate with tandoori chicken.

As an aside, Lola often claims that she hates chicken and never eats it. "I never eat of the dirty bird," she says. Yet there she was with a plate full of the stuff. Ha!

Ha!, I say.

Anyway, by the end of the meal, it looked like there was more than we could finish, so we asked for the rest as take-out. And to cut a long, non-story short, we left it behind on the table.

According to Bev that was the third time I've done it this year. What a waste. All that lovely vindalooey stuff. But perhaps I should take it in stride, for as Euripides once wrote: "Waste not fresh tears over old vindaloos."

Or as Aesop wrote in The Lion and the Mouse: "No shrimp vindaloo, no matter how small, is ever wasted."

And as a parting thought, I'd like to share these lines from Shakespeare's sonnet 30:

When to the sessions of sweet silent thought,
I summon up remembrance of things past,
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,
And with old woes new wail my vindaloo's waste

Cubey Terra

10 comments

Diego William
Tuesday, May 20, 2003

On May 16th, two excellent friends of mine — Christine and Edgar — became parents of a bouncing baby boy. I asked them to stop bouncing him, but they wouldn't listen to reason. From the proud father:

Hola a todos,

Les escribo para darles una buena el viernes 16 de mayo a las 7:35 PM (Vancouver Time) - 9:35 (Peruvian Time) nacio Diego William Lazarte-Norquist. Tanto Diego como Christine estan muy bien. Todos estamos un poco cansados pero recuperandonos poco a poco.

I am really proud of them. Christine is amazying, she is so strong. Diego likes to suck all the times. He is really cute.

Aqui les estoy enviando una foto de Diego minutos despues de haber nacido.

Diego William

Well, I have to go now. Tomorrow I have to go to work and leave everything in order so I can take a week off.

Bueno, un saludo a todos

Edgar.

Happy zeroth birthday, Diego! My heartiest congratulations to all three of you!

Cubey Terra

Happy Birthday, Vicky
Monday, May 19, 2003

Monday has rolled around again, only this time I'm at my desk at home. As all Canadians know, today is Victoria Day, also known at various times as Queen's Birthday, Empire Day, or Commonwealth Day. So back in 1837, presumably Victoria popped out and started her long journey towards becoming the sovereign of the British Empire. Fast-forward to 2003, and we still honour her memory by hopping into our cars, driving someplace sunny for the weekend, and consuming way too many beers. I'm sure she'd approve.

I didn't manage to get away this weekend, but that's partly because I'm faced with a dilemma: to go for a nice long walk along the water's edge or to spend the day in my cubicle. I know, it's a tough one isn't it?

The problem is that I have a deadline to meet on Friday. It's the biggie. The one deadline that my team has been working towards. We wrote three new manuals and rebuilt the online help. It's a big deal. For my part, my work is pretty much finished already, so I don't need to show up, strictly speaking. But appearances are important. Also, I plan to work next Saturday and/or Sunday.

I think I'll put on my shoes and see which way they take me.

Cubey Terra

Abandoned
Saturday, May 17, 2003

My neighborhood is in a state of transition. Once, fifty to seventy years ago, it was a residential neighborhood. Over the decades, light industry took over, replacing homes with warehouses and factories. Now the industrial buildings are vanishing and the popular False Creek developments threaten to encroach on the empty land.

Photos from the neighborhood

Cubey Terra

Sabotage
Friday, May 16, 2003

For me, the morning routine on the cube farm begins with a trip to the coffee vending machine. This evil monstrosity has been our source of caffeine since that fateful day in July when workmen carted away our beloved coffee urns. Since then, coffee has been acrid and unmistakably mechanical in nature. It's hard to describe the subtle difference between a cup of freshly-ground coffee-maker coffee and machine-pressed liquid. They are similar, I suppose, but there's a certain roundness of flavour that the machine fails to capture, and a delicate hint of machine parts seems to linger, unless that's just my imagination.

There are two flavour selections on the machine's panel: French and Hawaiian. Despite my expectation of either croissant or ham-and-pineapple, respectively, they taste identically bitter to me — like Safeway brand, but with a hint of WD-40.

When I noticed that both hoppers were empty in the machine, a subversive notion overwhelmed me. I opened the machine and very deliberately filled the French hopper with Hawaiian and the Hawaiian hopper with French. If nobody notices, then I believe my point will have been made.

Cubey Terra

Cackling with glee
Friday, May 16, 2003

Warning: techy stuff ahead. Non-geeks may get glazed look and fall asleep.

For months now, bandwidth thieves have been "borrowing" images from my site for use on their own site or bulletin boards. Today I decided to do something about it. I installed an .htaccess file in my images directory.

As you may know, you can use an .htaccess file to block people from using images that are hosted on your server. You can also use it to replace images with another image of your choice. Some people have suggested using a naughty image for this, so that the thief's site would then become littered with nekkid people. But I'm not that mean. Also, my hosting service provider wisely prohibits pornographic images on this server.

Instead, I made a simple animated GIF that alternates between solid yellow and solid magenta. Anyone stealing my images will now have a site full of irritating flashing squares. Hmm. Maybe I should reduce the rate of the flashing — I don't want to induce seizures.

Here's a sample from the Google cache, just to give you a taste.

Cubey Terra

The state of my livingroom
Friday, May 16, 2003

In a startling revelation, I suddenly realized that the most comfortable item of furniture in my livingroom is my exercise bike. I now have the desperate urge to throw my IKEA futon frame out my window and burn it in the street. You have a lot to answer for, Ingemar.

Cubey Terra

Stimulating storylines
Thursday, May 15, 2003

As I walked from the parkade this morning, past the woman kissing the rock, past the McDonald's (alright, alright... through the McDonald's), and down the street to the office, I wondered if last night's episode of Enterprise was a complete waste of an hour of my life. The storylines on this series started so well, with a mysterious person from the future plotting to unravel the fabric of time. As the series progressed, plots became a little thin.

What happened to the thought-provoking themes that were the hallmark of Star Trek? What happened to the edge-of-your seat suspense like when Picard became a borg? Now it all seems so completey... lame. Like the episode where Trip gets pregnant and grows a nipple on his wrist. Now there's some thought-provoking drama. [heaves exasperated sigh]

Last night's Enterprise plot: T'Pol, the va-va-va-Vulcan, enters the Ponn Farr during a decontamination routine. What this means, for those who wisely avoid the show, is that a jelly-smeared, half-naked, sexy Vulcan with implants (no, not her ears), becomes a sweaty, crazed sex-fiend who tries to mate with anything on two legs.

Well, on reflection, maybe it wasn't a complete waste of an hour.

Cubey Terra

10 comments

Please Use Caution! Extreme Frowning Area!
Wednesday, May 14, 2003

Ouch. My wrist and finger joints hurt. I have blisters forming on my fingers where I hold my pencil. My neck hurts from hunching over my desk. My eyes have gone all wonky from staring at these printouts.

After ten hours of marking up hardcopy (with one 15-minute break) yesterday, I began to tire. Today is day three of these edits. I'm beginning to lose my patience. If you work for this company, allow me to offer a word or two of advice:

Do not ask me to start making last-minute additions to the manual.
Do not ask me to create two dozen new illustrations by tomorrow.
Do not ask me to adjust the width of the template (and all styles) by a quarter inch.
Do not ask me to create three dozen new screen captures in XP rather than 2K.
Do not ask me to write an entirely new booklet on how to find the other manuals.
Do not look at a three-month-old early draft of the help then enter a bug saying that it's out of date.

If you attempt any of these, you may receive the frowning of a lifetime. Be warned. My frowns can leave lasting emotional scars.

Cubey Terra

Health regimen
Tuesday, May 13, 2003

I have decided to take the plunge. Starting yesterday, I began my strict health regimen:

Each day, I will walk at least five metres.
I will not visit McDonald's unless it is before 8:00am or after 12:00 noon.
Beer is completely forbidden except on weekends, holidays, Friday lunches, and any day that has a vowel in its name.
After work every day, I will spend at least half an hour on the stationary bike, of which at least some of the time will be spent pedalling.
I will eat at least one vegetable each week.
I will no longer eat orange foods. Basically nothing orange is natural. Except oranges, of course.
I will spend less time in front of the computer.
I will give up cigarettes. Thankfully I've never smoked them, so that one's easy.
I will use my feet whenever possible.
I will only drink beer from a keg, because lifting one of those is a real workout.

Cubey Terra

9 comments

Fred
Tuesday, May 13, 2003

There once was a penguin named Fred
Who drank quite a bit, it is said.
He spent every night
Drinking pissy Coors Lite
By morning he looked like the dead.

Cubey Terra

2 comments

Pete
Tuesday, May 13, 2003

There once was a penguin named Pete
Who never made use of his feet.
It did slow him down
When he went into town
'Cause he shuffled around on his seat.

Cubey Terra

I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled
Sunday, May 11, 2003

I grow old ... I grow old ...
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
—T.S. Eliot, "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock"

Tranquility is becoming rare. When my days are packed with deadlines and outside pressures, the moments to myself become precious (Oh, my precioussss. It issss preciousss to me.).

Early today, I escaped the weekend routine and drove without any particular direction. I had my camera with me. I don't claim (or want) to be an art photog. I like having a camera with me because taking photos is restful. It anchors me in the moment.

My first stop was Admirality Trail in the University Endowment Lands.

Like many of the trails through this vast park, the birch trees arch overhead as the trail winds around and through the many streams and gulleys.

The forest floor is carpeted with lush green moss, which is home to all kinds of creatures, leggy and otherwise.

The trail emerged next to the beach at Spanish Banks. It's not uncommon to find inukshuk and cairns built by someone in a meditative mood. Just offshore, a harbour seal watched me with silent curiosity.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

Cubey Terra

12 comments

Meeting? What meeting?
Friday, May 09, 2003

Cubicle Rule Number 9: Never forget about the quarterly company meeting.

I'd completely forgotten that the meeting was today. And to add to my bewilderment, I was presented with one of the company's two quarterly "Value Awards".

Having forgotten about the meeting, I naturally showed up in my XCF clothes (eXtremely Casual Friday): my old jeans, beat-up boots, and a raggy old corduroy shirt. As I shook the president's hand on stage, I was very happy that I'd decided to shave this morning.

Oh, the award category was "Sense of Humour". I hope they're laughing with me. Hmm.

Cubey Terra

That 70s Diet Plan
Friday, May 09, 2003

Weight Watchers in the seventies must have hired chefs from another dimension. Candyboots.com explores some recipe cards from the mid-seventies. Approach with caution. Contents may or may not resemble actual food.

(Link via Daily Blah.)

Cubey Terra

3 comments

Journey to the depths of Squamish
Friday, May 09, 2003

As long as I'm revisiting writings from years past, I might as well dredge up this one. I wrote this back in 1996 but never finished it.

The sky had a greyness about it that weighed down on us. Although it was July, a chill invaded the car that made me pull my coat tighter around me. On either side of me, in a blur of green and grey -- the colours of raw earth, the forest -- sped by to the sound of the swishing of the windshield wipers, and the hiss of tires on wet pavement.

We were going for a hike somewhere near Squamish, as John had suggested. But oddly, none of us had dressed or packed for hiking, as if we knew secretly that none of us really had the will to commit ourselves to a long, rainy trail. Deep down, the three of us?John, Simon, and I?knew that we would never see the trail today. Nevertheless, we folded ourselves into Simon?s little Toyota and set out on the highway.

The act of committing oneself to the highway has always struck me as a metaphor. The highway is a place between places, without name, and without real existence. Where are you when you?re on the highway? Nowhere. Just after one town, but not yet to the other town. Each time I get onto a highway, I feel that, as I leave behind the city, I also leave behind my life. Sometimes when I feel a little tense, it helps me just to get in a car and drive, and where I end up is exactly where I should be.

So into that place of transition, we threw ourselves, peeling off the lives of the city, and searching for a place of purity.

Then, without warning, a shark flew in through the open window and attacked me. Fortunately, I had my spear gun with me, and Henri, who had previously been silent, pulled it from my bloodied hands, and fired the death shot through the shark?s head. For nearly two minutes, the dying shark thrashed in the confines of Simon?s car. My heart began to resume a normal speed only when the last twitches had left the beast. Once again, I owed my life to Henri?s cool head.

Although the others suggested that we turn back at this point, I felt it was important to press on. And so, after a short rest break, Simon pulled us back onto the highway. But this time with more caution. For where there was blood, there would come other sharks. Or worse still?the dreaded Yeti.

Yetis, although somewhat rare in this part of the world, can be counted on for an appearance where there is fresh sharkmeat. Although we had left the shark carcass behind us at the side of the road, the scent of blood was now on the car, acting as a kind of beacon to every meat-eating predator on the Sea-to-Sky Highway?including the Yeti. Forging ahead, we maintained a keen lookout.

Every minute stretched into what seemed to be at least one and a quarter minutes, and the relentless tension wore us down quickly. We realized that, although we were making good time, we couldn?t keep moving for much longer. We had to rest.

When we arrived in the town of Squamish, our eyes were red from fatigue, and we needed to find a safe harbour in which to rest and recuperate. As Simon pulled the car into the town, we searched for a place of refuge. We made our way along the main street, where we found a varied and strange population in the streets: some walking, some standing or sitting, others driving, as we were. Keeping in mind our previous experiences in small towns, we decided it was best to avoid making direct contact with the inhabitants, lest we provoke a response.

The pub we finally settled on was inhabited by an unusual variety of dolphins?not outwardly friendly, but non-aggressive for the moment. Henri had fortunately remembered to carry a small bucket of herring to keep the locals happy if they became too curious. In a tense moment, a tasty snack can distract a dolphin just long enough to slip away to the safety of the car. And as a bribe for leaving us alone, a well-timed handful of fish can ensure privacy too.

Simon poured us the first glass of a strange brown liquid that the locals apparently drank a lot of, and ignoring the small beach crabs nipping at our toes, we settled down to plan our strategy.

The rain, we decided, was something we hadn?t fully accounted for, and although it didn?t present a barrier to our journey, it was in fact really nasty and cold. Throughout our discussions, Henri cast worried glances over his shoulder at the wet grey canopy enveloping the cliff face known as the Chief. I knew Henri. He didn?t get worried about ordinary things. But this time he was genuinely spooked. And that spooked me.

Brushing a roving squid from my ear, I refilled our glasses.

Cubey Terra

How I plummeted to the earth
Thursday, May 08, 2003

When Greg recently blogged about skydiving, it brought back memories of my own jump about ten years ago. It was an amazing experience. Shortly after the event, I wrote this essay for a writing class. If I had time, I'd revise it. No, that's not true. If I weren't lazy, I'd revise it. So here it is, unedited, and far too long for a blog.

I was hanging onto the wing strut with the wind tearing at my jumpsuit. If you don't know where a wing strut is located, it's on the outside of small airplanes, which is exactly where you don't want to be when the plane is three thousand feet above the earth. Looking down, I could see cows -- white specks, actually -- scattered across a diminutive green patch that was their pasture. At this point, I found myself wondering what I was doing there.

I'm not a risk-taker, and I'm deathly afraid of heights, so it's really not in my nature to sign up for extreme sports like skydiving. I'd always thought of skydivers as slightly unbalanced thrill-seekers who eat plenty of fibre, exercise regularly, and perform many other stunning physical feats. I know I would never have flung myself from an airplane had it not been for Simon and Leanne, who insisted on signing up with the Skydiving Club during Club Week at UBC. Knowing this, I felt much better about skydiving because if it didn't work out, I had someone else to blame.

Only a handful of people signed up in addition to the three of us. The more clever students avoided it for the simple reason that it's too damn scary. In reality, the jumping is the easiest part of skydiving, and on one Saturday two years ago, I learned that for myself.

On the following Saturday, thirteen of us shivered in the early morning air. Leanne, Simon, and I glanced nervously at each other, but without no one uttered a word about backing down. Looming over us was the rusty shell of the hangar, which cast a long shadow on the dew-laden grass, like the hand of doom. We were embarking on a possibly fatal adventure, and in my eyes practically everything was an omen of death or misfortune: there were thirteen of us, I'd seen a black cat, and I had already two people had walked underneath ladders.

My shivers turned to more obvious tremors -- I imagined the stories of my accidental death reported in the local newspaper: "Local student drills hole in field with head". Oddly, the thought of the news story did more to build up my excitement, than to make me back down.

During the hour-long drive to the airfield, we had been discussing the subject of death and injury at great length. We convinced ourselves that to die while plummeting from an airplane was probably the very best way to go. By the time we reached the airfield, our philosophizing had reached a level so intense that we made the other trainees give us odd looks and back away a step.

We agreed, in principle, that having one's spine rammed up into one's skull wouldn't be entirely enjoyable. However, if we compared it to dying while crossing the road, the prospect seemed positively filled with glory and heroism. To die while intentionally flinging ourselves into the arms of fate, we concluded, was far more poetic than to fall victim to a random street accident in the routine of everyday life. By Leanne's shifty expression, I could tell that she believed that argument as much as I did. Simon, on the other hand, was positively charged up. Eventually the three of us fell into a nervous silence and contemplated our imminent pulping on the sunny meadows of the airstrip.

The basic training was... basic. Our instructor was exactly the type of person I'd expect to be a skydiver: macho, arrogant, and conceited. I think that's why he instantly won our respect and confidence. He acted like a skydiver. How could we even think of trusting our lives to a run-of-the-mill sane person?

This man was a dashing daredevil. I knew it, the trainees knew it, and he knew that we all knew that he was exactly the professional madman that we could trust with our lives. He had done it before. He had been there, laughing in the face of death. And at that moment, I almost peed myself.

The training didn't boost my confidence. We started with emergency procedures and learned what to do in a variety of situations: tangled lines, twisted lines, a balled-up chute, or even a burning chute. When I asked the Daredevil if he had ever actually seen a parachute catch on fire, he informed me that one in every hundred parachutes will fail, so we couldn't be too careful. I made another trip to the washroom.

With six hours of training behind us, the Daredevil showed us where the equipment was stowed. I noticed that none of the experienced skydivers would help me pick out my parachute or even tell me how to choose a good one. I imagine that they wanted to avoid giving a trainee the one chute in a hundred that fails -- or the one that mysteriously catches fire -- and so I closed my eyes and made an educated choice. The first one I picked was pink. I put that back and grabbed the orange one next to it. Dying with a pink parachute didn't seem appropriate.

Finally, the Daredevil escorted us to the runway in our group of four trainees -- Simon, Leanne, me, and some guy who kept shouting "yahoo" in an unnaturally forced manner. At that moment, I felt as if we were astronauts about to embark on a dangerous mission. Suddenly I wasn't afraid anymore. My helmet was strapped tight, my goggles were in place, my jumpsuit was zipped, and the parachute was strapped so intimately to my body that I was having trouble moving my legs enough to avoid waddling. "If there's room for a ball to slip in there," the Daredevil had said, "chances are, it will." I took that advice very seriously.

Waiting for us on the tarmac was an old Cessna of the 1960s variety, and its numerous dents and broken rivets showed its experienced. I would have preferred the less experienced, shiny airplane beside it, but we weren't being given a choice. The daredevil didn't seem perturbed, so I decided not to think about it much. Besides, the idea of backing down at this point was unthinkable; Simon and Leanne might think I was a wimp for not hurling myself from an airplane with only a sheet of nylon to keep me from being crushed into a pulp on the ground. Also, Leanne was asking to be the first to jump. The "yahoo" guy asked to go last.

The daredevil unlatched the door, swung it open on its rusty hinges, and we crawled in one by one. The inside was not exactly roomy. Once we were firmly stowed, the pilot informed us that because our total weight was so much, we would have to lean forward during take-off so that most of the weight would be distributed under the wings.

With a stuttering roar from the engine, the plane surged forward on the runway, and we leaned. The ground dropped away from us. As the pilot leveled the plane at three thousand feet and circled back towards the drop zone, the Daredevil swung open the door. Wind tore into the cabin, surprising me with its force.

Slowly, carefully, Leanne climbed into position. And then she was gone.

The daredevil grinned at me, and gestured to the door. I hesitated for a second, then edged my way to the door on my knees.

Gripping the battered door frame, I aimed my foot at the step and thrust my foot into the gale, and missed the step completely. Luckily, my grip on the door frame kept me from hurtling out the door, but I simply hadn't expected the wind to be so powerful. I tried again, this time a little more wary of what I was fighting, and connected with the step. Great. I was now clinging to the outside of a Cessna at three thousand feet with the wind trying to tear my away from the plane. It was a good thing I had a parachute with me.

A thought struck me -- it seemed as if there was nothing holding us up. The wing vibrated in the wind, extending out into nothingness... and then I simply let go.
Psychologists call it sensory overload. When I jumped, I completely forgot all of my training and watched the Cessna disappear between my feet into the blue sky. Something tugged at my back and weight returned gradually. Looking up, I saw that my canopy was open and looking beautiful, so I pulled down the steering toggles and I was flying.

Green patches of landscape rolled from the purple mountains on my left to the mighty Fraser River on my right. I had conquered the laws of nature. I had dropped from a moving plane and not died, which in my mind, elevated me to the status of a superhero. A superhero brave enough to challenge Fate itself, and almost braver than Leanne, who was already landing.

Simon followed me shortly, executing a perfect jump? with the exception of the landing, which he buggered up completely. He landed like a sack of potatoes, and spent a few quality moments rolling around, moaning "argh" with convincing sincerity. After Simon's crash landing, the fourth of our group hit the earth with a startled "yahoo" before crumpling into a heap of ropes and nylon.

Hours later, Simon, Leanne, and I sat around a table, drinking a toast to danger. We had risked our very lives that day and enjoyed every moment, with the exception of Simon's landing. Now, years later, I yearn for that incredible feeling of freedom, and I know that sometime soon I'm going to sign up again.

That is, I'll sign up again if Leanne does first.

Cubey Terra

A sign of my inevitable descent into insanity
Thursday, May 08, 2003

I won't normally delve into my dreams in this blog, but this one is too weird to pass up. I was at a karaoke club. I was forced to sing "Lady In Red". The weird part is that I knew all of the words. I even had a plaintive quaver in my voice, just like Mr. de Burgh.

Thank god it was only a dream. (shudder)

Cubey Terra

Another sign of my inevitable descent into insanity
Thursday, May 08, 2003

At lunch, I bought a bottle of freshly-squeezed carrot juice with my salad. Carrot juice!

Cubey Terra

Ron MacLean
Thursday, May 08, 2003

What's with Ron MacLean and his steepled fingers? Is he a Vulcan-wannabe or something?

Cubey Terra

Ickle contest winners
Wednesday, May 07, 2003

Throw on your bathrobe and drop by Ickle Fiction, where Treefen has announced the winners of her blogiversary writing contest!

Cubey Terra

"Doh", revisited
Wednesday, May 07, 2003

I didn't notice anything wrong until I stepped into the elevator and couldn't operate it. I reached for my security card, but found nothing. I reached for my wallet, which wasn't there either. Once again, I'm cardless and moneyless for the day.

Doh.

Fortunately, I think there's a mess o' leftover chow mein noodles in the fridge, if it hasn't slithered away yet. Well, after this it can only get better, right? To quote Walt Kelly's Pogo, "From here on down, it's uphill all the way."

Cubey Terra

Hawaiian
Tuesday, May 06, 2003

I notice that the coffee vending machine now has a flavour button for "Hawaiian Islands". This stuff is terrible — it doesn't taste anything like ham or pineapple.

Cubey Terra

8 comments

I've been Googled
Tuesday, May 06, 2003

I'm happy to announce that for the first time since I created endofline.ca on April 14, I've been Googled. The search string: Zoodles snacks.

Unfortunately, there's absolutely nothing about Zoodles snacks on this site. My apologies to the Googler in question. I'll try to be more relevant next time.

Cubey Terra

My love-hate relationship with Satan's sous-chef
Tuesday, May 06, 2003

It has been suggested that I have an unusual preoccupation with McDonald's. I have, after all, written several posts relating to McDonald's and its foodlike products, so I think it's time that I explained myself.

I have a terrible, terrible addiction to fast food. If it's greasy, I'll give it a try. And then, of course, I'll spend hours feeling bad (both morally and physically) about what I've done .

So naturally, I need to assuage my guilt by calling them evil. Hypocrisy can be so useful. Really, I feel better about myself already.

Cubey Terra

Coco-bloody-Rico frickin' Caf�
Tuesday, May 06, 2003

An experience at a local caf� yesterday started me thinking about something new for the blog. I like to visit eating and drinking establishments, as everyone does. Why not post reviews on my blog? Homer Simpson did it, so why can't I?

Up until yesterday, I would have given Coco Rico on Robson Street a good review. They have beer and wine, serve a decent cappuccino, and they have nice munchies (or if you're trying really hard to be all classy 'n' stuff: "tapas"). They have a sidewalk patio and interesting decor. Their service, too, was excellent. The server was always prompt and friendly. Note the past tense.

Yesterday, however, after waiting for quite a while, I actually had to go look for a server. Inside, there was a cluster of employees chatting about the big TV they'd set up for the game. I had to go up to them and get someone's attention. Even after that, nobody offered us a menu. No one came to the table to take orders. We were generally ignored unless we ordered from the counter from a surly bartender.

OK, I know that some places want you to place orders at the counter, but in the past, Coco Rico has had table service. Now they apparently specialize in no service at all. Why does the place have both a bartender and a waitress working, when they don't do a bloody thing for the customers?

And the name still sounds silly. Coco Rico. Sounds like something from a bad eighties tune.

And now I'm going to sit here in my cubicle being grumpy for the rest of the day.

Cubey Terra

2 comments

What? Game five?
Monday, May 05, 2003

Tonight is game five of Vancouver versus Minnesota. I don't normally watch sports, but when I do, it's hockey. I don't know stabbing from jabbing or high-sticking from slashing, but I know that it's exciting when the underdog suddenly begins playing well. Basically, I thought the Canucks sucked, but there they are anyway.

What I don't get is how you can have a series of seven games, in which the Canucks have already won four, yet they still need to play another game. Am I missing something here? If the Canucks win four of seven, isn't it pretty much impossible for the Wild to win? Could somebody please explain this to me so that tonight's game makes sense?

Addendum: JenB has kindly informed me that the Canucks haven't won four, but three of seven. (smacks self over head) Doh.

Cubey Terra

12 comments

Tip Top Tailors
Friday, May 02, 2003

Because I've written about my summer as a fry-guy and my job grilling burgers, I thought I'd continue the theme. Does anyone else have any interesting reminiscences about a summer job?

Around the time I was in first year, I landed my first non-food-related job. I somehow found myself selling clothes at Tip Top Tailors ? a conservative men's shop. In addition to casual clothing, Tip Top sells suits, and its employees had to dress appropriately. I didn't have a suit of my own, so I "borrowed" a costume piece from the theatre wardrobe department (shh... don't tell Rosemary). So in a shapeless, faded old jacket from the fifties and a pair of rayon slacks, I hit the sales floor.

Tip Top is (or was) known for its sweater tables. The store would have two or three long tables piled high with shaker knits and poly-cotton abominations with patches of leather sewn on in seemingly random places. I especially liked the turquoise sweater with the one leather shoulder.

Sometimes, I worked with Sefa and Rob ? the two other guys around my own age. When things slowed down, we'd stand in a line across the doorway and watch the foot traffic. It was a quiet moment like that when Sefa confided in us.

"You know," he whispered conspiratorially, "I sometimes feel this overpowering urge to strip naked and throw myself onto the sweater table. And just kind of... roll around."

We considered this. Come to think of it, rolling naked on a pile of sweaters might be really nice. We mulled that over until Pierre, the creepy old suit salesman, broke in with his own non-sequitur.

Pierre was an old hand in the polyester suit business. He'd sold them for decades, starting back in the seventies when his greasy toupee actually matched his hair colour. When business slowed, he'd emerge from the suit racks to irritate us with strange fantasies about Collette, our only female coworker.

"What would you do," he asked the three of us, "if you were at a chicken barbecue..." He paused for dramatic effect before continuing. "And you saw Collette... naked?"

"Specifically a chicken barbecue?" Sefa asked.

"Yes. I don't eat beef," was Pierre's answer.

We mulled this one for a bit longer than the sweater table idea. What would we do? Hmm.

"Well it might put me off my chicken," Rob said finally.

Pierre nodded thoughtfully. "Yes," he admitted. "Me too." And he drifted back to the suit racks deep in thought.

"That one's pretty good," commented Sefa. "More imaginative than the one where he finds Collette naked in the change room." We nodded in general agreement.

Eventually, a customer drifted into the shop and we abandoned our daydreaming.

"I see you have your eye on our selection of sweaters," said Sefa said. "They're 110% polyester. You couldn't stain one of those if you tried."

Cubey Terra

Oops
Friday, May 02, 2003

I just noticed that in my archive list, it said "Septmember" instead of "September". I don't know what septmember is, and judging by the sound of it, I'd prefer not to find out.

Cubey Terra