It's really nothing.

Not good: Reoccurring mild headaches.

Not good: Going to a meeting for "clarificaton."

Good: Wedding on Friday.

Good: Hanging out with friends in my living room.


I was thinking this as I ate a sandwich.

Our first and foremost responsibility, as agents participating in a civil society, is to have as our first reaction to any person or persons who claim an authoritative position of any kind, be it social, cultural, moral, political, economic, religious or academic, should be immediate suspicion and eventual critique of their claim, the validity of their position and the consequence of having such authority.


Giants Invade Russia: Local Populace Entranced

Check out these amazing sculptures by Ron Mueck.


Notebooks and weddings and editors.

The Moleskine notebook has become one of my favourite tools lately. I've taken mine everywhere, from Paris to Chilliwack, and my beloved book has had phone numbers, names of composers and theorists, notes on kinship and gender for my anthropology class, notes for an amateur ethnography on the chess players outside the Vancouver Art Gallery and stories and poems and observations scribbled inside.

Our friend Tala is getting hitched soon. Normally I wouldn't have a problem with this, except for the fact the reception will have an open bar during the festivities. That could only spell doom for our intrepid debutante.

To be fair, life has gotten pretty dull lately. I work, I go home, I play football and I see my friends once in awhile. Not that I'm complaining. I understand that the working life isn't always conducive to high adventure and sensuous pleasures, especially during the first few weeks. Although I have the title, I don't feel like an editor. The routine hasn't settled into my brain yet. So far, the worse part is chasing after people for submissions and waiting for said submissions to appear in my inbox. I suppose those are parts, in the plural.


Here's the scoop.

My stomach troubles have finally skipped town. I could use a day or two of serious rest, though, since I had some trouble getting to sleep last night, and a little less noise and heat from the outside world would be kind of refreshing. The diagnosis? Probably food poisoning.

I wrote my first edit and everyone seemed happy, but not ecstatic. I'm writing one more draft to finalize how the profiles will be formatted. If what I have in mind works, then the excited squeals of gratitude and joy from the project managers will flood the halls of my esteemed university.

Time is short. Next week I'll be collecting biographies from students, or interviewing them if they're comfortable with that, and then editing their submissions for content. I'm also supposed to edit the course program abstracts, facility descriptions and eventually, the newsletter.

I'm boring myself just writing this.

But this is all I've been thinking about: my health and my work. Next week I'm seeking some counseling. I'll be rereading The Elements of Style. Every once in a while I will turn my eyes skyward and look for falling objects. The only food I'll eat will be from my kitchen. I will kiss my cat on the top of his head as he snoozes in the sunlight flickering in my hallway.


Keeping it real since 1994.

I'm writing this post outside, on a bench just outside the Student Union Building. The sky is perfectly blue.

I started the new job yesterday. I have my own office (more like a glorified storage room) with a phone and a gorgeous G5 Mac with two screens. There's even a phone. I spent the day researching faculty profiles on other university websites to get an idea on how the new website will look. Today I will take one profile and write a few samples with different "tones" and present them at a meeting on Friday. I also have to edit the FAQ list and categorize it. Friends, I am happy.

On a darker note I've been experiencing some nausea since Monday. During my orientation yesterday I nearly puked on the floor. Although I'm feeling better now and I can keep food down, my stomach feels as though someone sucker punched me. Have any of you been sneaking into my house at night and walloping on my gut in my sleep? Just asking. I may go the the clinic today to check it out. Sipping water seems to help.

Tuesday night Lisa and I went to a bike party held by Bent at the Anza Club. Man, I was loaded. Lisa had to drag me home. The music was fabulous, there were kids dressed in sexy bike gear and the DJ wore a unicorn mask. We ran into my old friends Sage and Robyn and gossiped about everyone.

That is all for now. Take care.



Does anyone else use Skype?

Since I'll be out of the country for at least four to five months, I though it would stellar to have a way to communicate with friends and family.

-------------------> JOB!

I just got the call this morning: the job is mine! I am now an Editron. An Assistant Editron. I start Wednesday morning and my contract goes until September 1st.

Unfortunately, my house is in disarray. The only solution is to have a barbeque on my front stoop and drink beer. Yes.

I'll be playing football on Tuesday (which would tell you I'm feeling better) and possibly gaming next Sunday.

Oh, yeah. The staples came out on Sunday. I felt as though I was a two-by-four and the doctor was pulling nails out of me. Afterwards I saw Pirates of the Caribbean and to be honest, I wasn't all that impressed. The action was fun and the monsters looked great, but why are indigenous people depicted as having poor hygiene and speaking a simple, childish language? Why are they always cannibals? And, I don't think there are any groups like the one in the film that live in the Caribbean. I know, that's kind of a moot point, but that inaccuracy plus the overt rascism (thanks Disney!) really bit me.

How are you all?


Kill all forms!

So I go to the British Columbia Financial Aid website to download and print an Appendix 7, or reassessment request, just a couple of weeks ago. Granted, I procrastinated a bit, but as I was filling it out today I just realized this form is for 2005 / 2006.


Yeah, I'm good.

Now I have to scramble to get forms filled out and sent and approved and blah, blah, blah. I hate filling out forms. Despise it. If I could hire a crack team of form-fillers ready to write in my vital information in rectangular boxes whenever I shine the Form Signal (which happens to be a rectangular box) into the heavens, then I'll be happy. For now, I will have to rely on Lisa. Who has done a fine job. So far.

Why the hell does academia and bureaucracy have to hang out all the time? Huh? If only they knew what they said about each other in different company. Catty, would be the word.

On a lighter note I'll be watching sword-fighting with Chris later on. Poke! Slash! Poke some more! Ah, yes.


Punctured bicycle, on a hillside, desolate.

Tomorrow I have a job interview. The art history department is looking for an assistant editor and marketing person for their website and their newsletter. I'm pretty excited to get his job - I've been wanting to get some editing experience for awhile and now I have an opportunity.

So Bell Globemedia has bought Chum Ltd., or they just made the bid? Nonetheless, this piece of news twists me out of shape. Okay, I understand that the trend in media now is to have a bunch of old, fat men own every media outlet on the globe. But c'mon, Chum? The broadcaster named after chopped fish used for bait? Does Globe really want their skewed, half-informed journalists spreading indifference and fear through MuchMusic? That's just silly!

I was a little light-headed this afternoon. I laid down and then I felt better. Stupid head wound.


My head wound.

I never had stitches or staples before, so lying face down on a hospital bed at midnight while a doctor pinches my flesh together with steel staples was rather novel.

First the doctor (I don't remember his name, he was really upbeat and yet kept clam calm through the whole procedure) administered some local anesthetic, which hurt a little, then scraped out the blood clot; it was about the width of a quarter and really thick. Then he scrubbed the area to wash out the remaining blood and dirt. I told him I had a birthday recently and a job interview the next day, so as a birthday present to me he didn't shave my head to get to the wound. Very sweet of him.

He had Kayla come in to watch as a "reward" for being such a great first aid person. She told me afterwards that he stuck his forefinger into the wound and felt my exposed skull. I couldn't feel a thing. Pressing the wound together, he stapled the gash in an impressive amount of time. I could feel the skin being squeezed and held together as the staples drove through my skin: those of you with piercings might be able to relate to the feeling. No pain whatsoever, but I felt them sliding around under my skin.

Today I'm much better. I'll be back on the streets tomorrow.


The Aftermath

I'll have to keep this short for reasons I'll explain later.

First, thanks to all who came to my party Friday night. I had an amazing time and received some wonderful gifts from friends and family. Thank you so much!

We started with four of us, Kevin, Iain, Andrew and myself kicking the football around in the park. Later, we ended up with almost twelve players, including kids, parents and the occasional dog running over to grab the ball. When we got back to the house the guests had already arrived, and Carla did a wonderful job setting up the hibachi and getting the coals nice and fiery.

The hike was amazing, but there was an accident. While I standing at the bottom of the chimney leading to the summit, a loose rock fell and landed on the back of my head. I dropped and I lost feeling in my arms and hands. Will, Kayla and Kevin scrambled to stop the bleeding and I somehow walked down the mountain, thanks to my friends. A few hours later I had six staples in my scalp and a tetanus shot courtesy of Squamish General Hospital. No concussion, and apparently no brain damage.

Okay, I have to go and rest. See you.


If I Say Good-Bye I Will Never See You Again

I sat on my stoop and smoked a cigarette.

Someone was plucking a banjo nearby. The song was faint, the notes leaping and tumbling into one another. A long-haired cat, coloured like dried flowers, slept on my neighbour's porch. Sprinklers tossed water across the lawns and sidewalks. The clouds were thick and soupy, mixing with the fading orange light.

Two men walked by. One pointed at my crooked patio and said, "water damage." The other pulled at his thick moustache and asked his companion what he said. "Water damage," he uttered as he looked at my patio, and then at me. They continued walking.

The phone rang a few times. I washed the floors, made potato salad, bought wine and paper plates. I called Lisa.

"What's up?"
"In three hours I will no longer be in my twenties."
"You sound all melancholy."
"I realized while I was cutting potatoes that my twenties will be gone."
"You had a good run. It's only going to get better."

We talked about literature. I explained the trajectory my life had taken. I congratulated myself by repeating all the wonderful things others had said about me. I got excited by the planning and the dreaming.

Night slipped into the city. Tomorrow, friends will arrive. The house was clean and the food was cooked, cooling in the fridge.

I was ready.


I invite the internets to my birthday.

My birthday is this Friday.

Would you like to come? Did you not receive an invitation? Then email inquiries to ghostofjason [at] gmail [dot] com.

There will be booze, barbeque, soccer and (hopefully) poetry, followed by a two-day climb up a gigantic mountain.

See you there.


Blargity-blarg I'm on the internets!

Last night I met some lovely people. I was given the lowdown on butchery (of animals, not people; although, I should write an entry on human butchery in the Secret Hell Blog), discussed Darwin and ecology and then compared Cezanne with Van Gogh.

Hopefully my metrosexual application will be approved.

Also, I met one of the authors of the 'zine Bleach at this wing-ding. She was the host(ess), actually. The fact that 'zines are still being made totally astounds me. The craft has diminished over time, either replaced by the internet or fizzled out due to simple apathy. So readers, please pick up a copy of Bleach at Magpie or Spartacus or wherever fine 'zines are sold.