The Art of Consternation

This is a new low for me. The time that has spanned since our last speaking has whisked by like a teenage shoplifter that’s snatched a purse from the arm of an elderly lady having shady blue hair and orthopedic shoes. It’s sad to think that my lack of blogging has contributed to the disarray of our nation’s youth. In my defense, I have been busy…and honestly, flashy old bitties with blue helmet-hair are simply asking for it.

At this very instant I am faced with a logistical conundrum comparable to placing your foot behind your head (you’ve all tried it). I have a wealth of valuable information to share with you; however, I have only one update in which to share it (all the while I frivolously toss pronouns about). I think what I will do is just lay the data out for you piecemeal, and in the most absolute and accurate contexts (as usual). That way, should you have a small enough laptop, you could transport it to the bathroom and read any section of this update whilst you poo (some of you have done it). Think of this as a digital Uncle John’s Bathroom Reader. A word of caution, I have learned from experience that those things which are carried into the bathroom may be dropped into the toilet (which, even if unspoiled, remains quite unsanitary). This is almost always an undesirable occurrence, unless of course you’re carrying poo, in which case you my friend, are quite gross.

I’ve also been privy to some spectacular conversation of late, which I simply cannot exclude.

This is not in chronological order; it is in alphabetical order, since “Alphabetical” comes before “Chronological” in the dictionary (but I’m pretty sure “Chronological” was in there first).

Ford Exploder.
Purples has retired (likely inductee to the motor vehicle hall of fame). It was a very good car, I’ll miss it dearly. I replaced it with a Ford “Exploder” (the moniker is apt). The very first weekend I had the vehicle we drove to Regina for a Roughrider game. At 9:00 am the following Sunday morning we (the hung-over lot of us) slumped into the rig to race home and watch NFL football. Just north of Bethune, approximately 45 minutes north of Regina (and 3 hours southeast of home) delicious streams of sweet billowy smoke began to pour out of the hood, up the windshield, and back down the highway behind us. I looked at my roommate in absolute horror. The vehicle that I had just spent thousands of dollars on was about to burn to the ground.

We pulled into the Bethune hockey arena. I phone my brother, the consummate Good Samaritan. We had a makeshift shinny game for 90 minutes while we waited for Todd to drive from Saskatoon to Bethune to pick us up. Todd drove us to Kindersley(another 3 hours), then he droveback to Saskatoon (another 2 hours). All told, 6.5 hours of driving that day for my brother. I won’t dive into a soliloquy concerning the rarity that is my brothers’ persona; however, he can surely be counted on in a pinch.

The following Monday I had the vehicle towed to Lumsden. A gifted mechanic who smelt of peanut butter and rubbing alcohol replaced the intake manifold gasket (a small mercy in the grand scheme of engine trouble). I talked my way onto a twin engine airplane that looked like station-wagon with wings. The pilots mustache suggested he was much too young to captain a plane. He noticed the look on my face and admitted he was 21. I cringed inside. We flew from Kindersley to Swift Current, where we had the following conversation:

The pilot turned to me and spoke into his head piece, his voice came through stereotypically. That is to say a) in stereo and b) exactly as the movies depict that sort of thing, “We just have to touch down briefly in Swift Current to load some additional cargo.” I spoke awkwardly into my headset having not yet discovered the proper microphone distance to lip ratio, “Ok, I’ll keep an eye out for the Luftwaffe.” Ironically, the joke flew over my pilots head. The pilot climbed to the back and helped a sporty runway jockey toss bag after bag of cargo into the plane. Eventually, the pilot paused in thought and inquired, “Wait, how much is there?” The runway jockey replied cheerily yet unhelpfully, “A whole bunch, we have some extra pieces that weren’t on the waybill.” The pilots face became stoic as he considered weight versus lift, “Well how much does all this shit weigh?” The runway jockey blew a bubble with his gum as he peered down at his clipboard, “Another 400 pounds.” The pilot spun his head around and pointed down the fuselage toward his unplanned travel companion (me) and shouted in obvious disgust, “Well that guy weighs an additional 200!” The unhappy pilot stomped back into the cockpit and replaced his headset. My heart leaped and my voice shook as I gingerly inquired, “Is everything ok?” The pilot looked at me, immediately sensing my discomfort. His eyes softened and his mouth slid into a wide smirk as he accelerated the small plane down the runway, he reassured “Oh don’t worry, this f*cker is taking off!”

We landed in Regina without incident. I took a taxi-cab to Lumsden. I entered the taxi and attempted to ensure I had enough money to pay for transport, “Can you give me a flat rate for the trip?” The driver replied in a regulatory manner, “No, sorry, it has to be by the meter.” I parried, still trying to determine if I would be able to pay, “So what’ll it be? Like 60 bucks?” The driver disabled his meter and ended the conversation, “Ya, it’ll be 60 bucks.” I suspect it may have been substantially less by the meter.

I picked up my Exploder and drove it back to Kindersley.

Ta da!

Memory.
Things continue to escape my consciousness at an alarming rate. Recently I locked my keys in my truck with it running…..and in gear. More recently, I jumped out of my truck at Tim Horton’s and ran for the door in an effort to escape the testicle-receding frigidness. I glanced back at my truck to see it creeping toward the front door of the store as well. For a moment I thought that my vehicle was attempting to come inside and warm up. Then I realized I’d simply left it in gear. As I ran the condescending police-people in the donut store smirked condescendingly over their condescending coffee.

Quotes.
I cannot possibly imagine how anyone (anyone) could suggest that individuals other than my friends (i.e. “The Team”) generate the most profound and substantial conversation….

Todd rises to leave after having our heartfelt conversation discussing the moral and faith based implications of the lifestyle we’ve respectively chose to adopt. He turns and provides a most genuine wave as he delivers his (now) signature salutation, “God Bless You.” I reply, in stark raving disingenuous, “I didn’t sneeze.”

Curtis poignantly and matter-of-factly (as he has successfully done so often) reigns down the logical and factual ballistic warhead that will assure he triumphs in the subjective realm of movie preferences, “I only watch movie’s I’ve already seen.” He catches himself milliseconds later, “I realize the flaw in what I’ve just said there.”

In what is very nearly a lengthy game of Password, Kevin and Kipp attempt to uncover the identity of what is thought to be a common acquaintance. Kevin initiates the discussion, “Do you know Steve?” Kipp counters, “umm, I’m not sure.” Kevin volleys a clue, “He works at Fabutan.” With Kipp continuing to appear muddled Kevin offers, “He drives a Yugo.” Not yet making the connection Kevin offers the least useful hint in the history of time, “He’s your height…only taller.”

Travis instant messages Nikki quickly and without voluntary thought, “Eye eight two much.” Nikki replies in kind, clever as she is, “Eye feel four ewe.” I immediately text message Curtis, thinking he’ll garner a laugh I follow up that text message with one explaining to Curtis that I am remarkably terrible at managing synonyms, to which he responds, “Those are homonyms.” What’s that? Yes. I am writing a book.

Relationships.
If I’d wrote this six weeks ago I would inform you that I was single. I’m writing it now so I must inform you that I am dating. Her name is Krista. She is, for all intents and purposes, wonderful. Amid one typical pre-dating conversation she turned to me with honest and vulnerable eyes and asked, “Would you stay with me if I were fat?” Knowing the only acceptable answer to that question I assured, “I would stay with you if you were 300 pounds.” She sarcastically confirmed, like a teenager who’d just been handed the keys to her fathers Porsche, “Ok!” It is obvious why my friends like her so.

The Book.
Do not be alarmed if you cannot find me on Facebook (i.e. “The Book”). I have discovered that it is dehumanizing (people are not inventory), and so, I’ve closed my account (which, I will have you know, is something approaching the impossible). I am abstaining on the basis of moral polarity. I do not like the window it provides into my life, for a great many individuals that I do not (exactly) consider to be my friends (nor the window I have into lives I do not particularly care for). Do not recoil from your monitor in shock and awe. If you are reading this, trust that we are friends. It’s just that “The Book” communications are so cold, so impersonal, and leave me with a significant sense and feeling of disconnection. I don’t want to be a part of a network that thrives on such sterile interpersonal gaps.

I want interaction, I want stimulation…I want to know people (and them to know me) for who I am, not for what “The Book” profiles me as. I want to approach a woman and tell her she has nice shoes, and then offer to buy her a steak dinner. I don’t want to “drill-through” three people I don’t know and message some lady who looks good in a picture she selected from 500 she took herself. Please don’t misunderstand, I am not lobbying for you to quit “The Book”, I simply (personally) find it disjointed to the point of unhealthy (for me). Please continue posting images depicting my unnaturally high cheekbones and endeavor to generate lengthy threads detailing the fine musculature of my calves, but in the end please read about me here. And if, by some unlikely circumstance you have an authentic urge to socialize with me, then pickup the phone…and text me.

Triathlons.
I am allergic to steak and granola bars. I began my official triathlon training program on January 3, 2009. It began (the very first day), with the flu. I stayed in bed the entire day and abandoned two workouts. That’s two more workouts than I skipped during the entire 2008 marathon campaign. I could taste the guilt. I persevered, despite the melodrama, and had six great workouts Tuesday through Thursday respectively. On Friday I woke up and rode the bike for 80 minutes. Then I went to work where I finished a business case for the provincial government and chaired an ethics committee meeting (you read that correctly). At that point I was sent home for having food poisoning that I’d obviously contracted from the granola bars and steak I’d eaten the night before (some called it “flu like” symptoms). Unwilling to yield, I slept for two hours, then drove to Saskatoon for my afternoon swim.  I spend the immediate 2 hours (after arriving in the city) on Kipp’s cold bathroom floor in the “Fenrich” position whilst I worked my abs via endurance vomiting. Then I felt better.

Other than that the first two weeks have been as expected. My weight plummets as my body adjusts to the regime, so I eat everything. In a minor change from last year, I havedecided to widen my palette. I still don’t eat “zero benefit” foods (fast food, cakes, microwave meals); however, I will yield to more elaborate (and delicious) items (pizza, salad dressing, etc). Everything in moderation. The bicycle seat continues to be a bane in my butt. A fact which, upon my yammering about under my breath, “Jeeze, my ass is sore,” causes a measurable amount of confusion. I am lifting weights again. I am weak; however, I glean a small amount of encouragement in that my miniscule body-weight allows me to do many chin-ups creating an illusion of strength. I continue to run fast, even when not scared. I have had difficulty gaining access to a city pool. It seems the elderly love to swim (…err…float). The swimming lanes are like long narrow mine fields riddled with wrinkly ordinance rich in life experience. I may resort to simply booking (and paying for) a swimming lesson then politely asking that the lifeguard bugger off.

Work.
I have accepted a temporary six month position which has nothing to do with what I am trained to do. My new role will consist of more planning, organizing, phone-call making, and hand-shaking (luckily, I have been practising all of these things). I am excited and look forward to learning from some very wise leaders. I am moving to Saskatoon for the duration, so I can workout in the city unabated. Being in Saskatoon will also afford me more time with family, “The Team”, and of course my girl. All of these changes are exciting and welcome.

To say that the future is uncertain would be like saying “Travis is a bit of a scatter-brain.” Many, many different things could happen and there is an equal chance that when it all shakes out I end up in Kindersley, Rosetown, and/or Saskatoon. I plan to work hard, focus on the present, and keep you thoroughly updated. I have spectacular friends and coworkers in Kindersley whom I regret seeing less. The gang at the Kindersley Sub Office, my roommates, the boys, my workout buddies, everyone.  Kindersley has treated me well, despite my abuse of it.  In that regard leaving is a very sad thing.

Well, that felt quite action packed (except the end there, which got kinda’ Zolofty). I feel like the Vin Diesel of the blogging world. Anyhoodle, that’s about all I have room for. I will try my hardest to keep you informed, presuming something relevant and interesting happens to me in the next few weeks (hopefully not months!)