Hi My Names ‘Travis’ and I have a Problem Solving Problem…

I remember math class quite clearly.  Actually, I remember my “sexy in a bitchy librarian kinda’ way” english teacher more clearly; however, it doesn’t fit into the plot of this blog-post.  So I repeat, I remember math class quite clearly…

One of the most relevant things I learned in all of high school was the value embedded in the ability to solve a problem:

Betty and Tracy planned a 5000km trip in an automobile with five tires, of which four are in use at any time. They plan to interchange them so that each tire is used the same number of kilometers. What is the number of kilometers each tire will be used?

In all my schooling I never, ever properly considered the practical application of this skill, and, more importantly, the absolute banal frustration created by those whom it escapes.  At this point, I’m not just talking about math, you can apply it to any problem that requires solving.  All you need is:

1. Common Sense
2. An element if ingenuity
3. Tenacity beyond all reason
4. Good Communication

Intelligence helps, but it’s not compulsory.  You just have to want to solve the problem.  Consider our example above.  The first inclination for many people might be that “I am not good at math, therefore, I cannot solve this problem.”  Actually, my first inclination was that Betty and Tracy aren’t changing any tires, but that’s not the point. I would argue that you have at least five other viable options for solving this problem:

- Google it (It’s likely Travis stole this example from the Internet);
- Ask someone else (everyone knows at least a couple someone elses);
- Go back to school (if you aren’t keen on taking more classes, just go to any school, and ask a teacher);
- Trial and Error (you don’t have to be particularly bright to dream this up, but you’d have to be on another level entirely when it comes to tenacity);
- Drive 50 km over and over switching tires our randomly as you go; then when you get the answer multiply by 100 (equal parts creative and stubborn);

Enough academia, I have a practical and timely example that both illustrates my point and reads less like a textbook and more like a narrative delivered by Sir Ian Mckellen…

In April I purchased a condo.  It’s a wonderful place.  Quaint and refined in its space having black slate floors and heavy marble countertops.  By all indications it’s a place of immeasurable solace.  An oasis in the overbearing intergalactic maelstrom that represents my work life.  Yesterday afternoon I took a nap.  When I woke from my peaceful slumber, I peered out my patio window to this…

Parking

I stood, dismayed, motionless, in my Old Navy boxer shorts.  Hands squarely on my hips as my brain tried to escort my groggy consciousness through the situation.   This became exponentially more difficult when two attractive blonde women slid out of the Black Explorer, instantly sexifying the situation.   After pinching myself to ensure I wasn’t in the midst of a fortunate dream, I raced to the bedroom to dig out my problem solving hat (and put on some jeans).

I analyzed the situation in my head as I continued to watch the fray of pointing fingers and perplexy (confused + sexy) glances  flying about the parking lot.  The critical facts (as I knew them) were:

1. Those two girls looked spectacular;
2. There are twelve units in my condo building;
3. Units 1 through 5 are allocated (and marked) on the South Side of the parking lot (which you see above);
4. A “Guest Spot” is marked at the very end of the South Side (White Chevy);
5. The parking lot is meant only for owners of condo units in this building;
6. I’d seen White Chevy guy walk from that truck into the building next door dozens of times (possibly millions);
7. There isn’t room to park 6 vehicles (5 + Guest) on the South Side of the lot;
8. I (Red Explorer) am parked (more or less) in front of the stall that says 4 (since White Chevy is parked, more or less, in front of the spots that say Five/Guest);
9. My Condo Contract clearly states that I’ ve been sold a parking spot (See below, ya, I know its blurry, but trust me, it’s there).

I certainly didn’t consider this my problem to solve (there are Property Managers and Supers who are experts in this sort of highly technical minutia); however, I felt quite bad for the delightful Black Explorer chicks.  So I did what any reasonable human being would do.  I sent the following scathing email to everyone in our building…

Dudes, we gotta’ figure this out. It isn’t rocket science but it’s seriously harshing my gig…

We have 6 people trying to park on the south side of the lot (ParkingLot.jpg).  The spaces (as best I can tell) are labelled 1 through 5 + Guest.  The South Side (as best I can tell) has room for only 5 vehicles, unless we all choose to drive Smart Cars (which isn’t nearly enough for what I need to compensate for).  I’m pretty sure (but not certain) that the White Chevy Half-ton doesnt even live here (correct me if I’m wrong)?

I do know, that my Red Explorer is parked directly in front of the parking sign that clearly states “4″.  I live in 5.   Vis a vis, I expect Black Explorer person would like to punch me in the ear (and, by my estimation, they’d be well within their rights).

Here’s the thing.  My (and I would hazard to guess your) contract says “one parking spot”.   I didn’t spend 210K on a condo so I could compete for parking, much less be an irritation to my neighbours.  Can somebody please sort this out?  I work 60 hours a week and don’t have the wherewithal to organize a protest (insert tiny violin music here).

Rock On. Trav.

I tried to strike just the right balance between sarcastic-eccentricity and self-effacing-mockery.  I sat back on my bar stool and admired my work until I surveyed the list of email receivers and realized that the distribution list I’d used didn’t contain any email addresses for condos 1 though 4 (all of whom park on the South Side).  Damn.

Late last night I received this email from the condominium buildings owner…

There are 5 stalls on the north side 6-10, and 5 on the south side 1-5. Unit 12 has the front drive and unit 11 has the north space perpendicular to row 6-10. There is no guest spot on the south. Also, 4th ave parking permits are available at city hall.

Ok, it’s a nice effort, but lets face it, it won’t get him into the problem solving Hall of Fame.  He made an effort to explain “what should be happening”, but sadly, I live in a world where all that really matters is “what is happening”. 

I reported (to him) that there is a spot labelled “Guest” in the lot, and that someone who doesn’t live here is parking in that spot.  He replied that there is no guest spot on the south side of our lot.  That’s either a clever Jedi Mind Trick (these aren’t the droids you’re looking for) or completely lacking in logic.  Let’s say I call the police and report a “panther  in my living room.”   Now, let’s say the police come to my house, have a look around and inform me that “my living room is not a South American Jungle .”  Well that may be, but it isn’t going to keep the panther from shitting on my floor now is it?  To complete the analogy (and complicate the matter further) there would have to be a “Panther’s Shit Here ↓” sign hanging perpendicular to said panther, meaning I wouldn’t even have the right to rub his nose in it.

So really, if our building owner had simply relayed the information to the entire building (which he did by including the rest of them in his reply), plus the tenants in surrounding buildings (a “no-parking” sign might work, but who can know for sure really) the issue would likely be resolved.

He also implied that I could simply not park in the spot he sold me (4th ave parking permits are available at city hall), which I think is about as ingenious as one can get.

At the end of the day, you have to want to solve the problem.

Just, and I mean just, as I finished writing this blog post, I received this email from the President of our Condo Board…

If anyone has parking issues, ie: people parking that doesn’t live there, etc, call my cell at XXX-0000, I am 95% of the time in that area and I will come down and deal with it then and there to hopefully once and for all get this figured out, as for stalls maybe I will chat with [Owner] and [Super] to get some plastic signs attached to each stall post to CLEARLY designate stalls, [Owner] and [Super] please get back to me on this and we can get it together. As I have before, dealt with anybody who doesn’t belong, swiftly, to ensure that no retrobution falls apon tenants vehicles, becuase I don’t care what people in the area think of me and I don’t have a vehicle there, so please call me, we’ll get this taken care of.
President of our Condo Board

If I’m decoding this correctly (and I like to think I am) he’s going to remove all “Panther’s Shit Here ↓” signage.  We are to call him immediately upon sighting a panther and he will swiftly eliminate it (at a success rate of 95%).  He doesn’t believe anyone should have to tolerate a panther in their living room.  He also doesn’t have any pets and couldn’t give a shit what PETA thinks of him.

Sounds Good To Me

(11:23:04 AM) noodle: do you have sound in your office?
(11:23:13 AM) Travsy: wait….
(11:23:25 AM) Travsy: yes…i just made a noise and i heard it. so there must be sound in here.

Like a Rolling Stone

At some point or another I may have (I did) imply that The Rolling Stones are about as entertaining as a Kidney Stone.

I was wrong.  Turns out they’re as delicious as the more publicized portions of Sharon Stone (17 years ago).

Rock on Angie.

ps.  The same does not go for U2.

Starbucks

This website survey promised me a 10$ Starbucks giftcard.   I dutifully completed it and they assured me that I would receive my giftcard in the mail within 2 weeks.

They never asked me for my mailing address.

I’m an idiot.

Worst Trade Ever

In 1986 the Wilkie Legionairres novice hockey team traded Brent May away to the Wilkie Diggers in exchange for Danny Ochs.

That was complete bullshit.

Occam’s Razor’s Edge

Honesty is not the best policy.  In fact, a significant amount of the time, it’s not even relevant.

I asked a girl out for coffee.  She said no.  This happens.  She indicated that coffee was “a prelude to a kiss.”  I thought this was a little presumptuous since I happen to know that kissing a girl after a (first) coffee date is a) next to impossible and b) quite gross.  I argued that, if anything,  coffee is “a prelude to a piss”.  Luckily she was just trashy enough to chuckle.  I offered a safety net in suggesting she bring another couple of her choice and make it a double-date.  This would, in turn, give me the chance to make three (good) first impressions instead of just one.

The date moved along nicely.  My couterpart was an excruciatingly good looking Italian boy with spectacular manners and a sultry accent.  He quickly became the prized attraction and I was forced to play a more subdued roll.  Even I had a tiny man-crush on him.

Incidentally, when I was young, I thought accents were the other language.   As a boy I would have thought this boys Italian accent was him speaking the Italian language.  By the same token, I thought people who actually spoke another language, were possessed by the devil…and anyone who didn’t speak English was bat-shit-crazy.  It’s little wonder I was skittish.

We had just finished discussing the weather and our families and I was (quite obviously by now) trying to move the conversation toward work and hobbies (two of my strengths).  At this point The Italian Guy excused himself to visit the washroom.  Presumably because he had no job and collected stamps.  His girlfriend immediately accosted his designer coat and therein found cigarettes.  She turned to my date and inquired through betrayed eyes, “why on earth would he have cigarettes in his pocket?”  The girls spent the next five minutes (seemingly) discrediting the obvious before looking to me for an explanation…

“He smokes cigarettes.”  If I’d said that they would look at me like I’d just told them Eskimos discovered fire by rubbing two Popsicles together.

The simplest solution is often the correct one; however, if the simplest solution has absolutely zero chance of carrying you to your desired result, then by all means, construe an overtly complicated one, ”the cigarettes are in his pocket because a chain-smoking leprechaun lives in there.”  It doesn’t have to be perfect, in fact, it doesn’t even have to be plausible, it simply must satisfy the querying party’s requirement.  The previously happy couple doesn’t have an argument.  My date isn’t forced to defend her friend.  I’m not forced to choose between what I think and what I know.  My date and I don’t have an argument.  And that little pot of gold protecting bastard lives out his days in a hazy blue shroud of chemically induced denial.

I did well in school.  I was an honor student.  I was sorta smart and did most of my homework.  The one thing that (I believe) set me apart from other students was my ability to infer.  Think of an exam (for example).  Some people are good at writing exams and some people are terrible.  Mechanisms, nuances, and trends in standard evaluations (exams) can always be leveraged in order to increase the odds of getting a better grade (sometimes greatly).  Multiple choice questions yield to the processes of elimination, fill-in-the-blank questions provide clues via context, and essay questions allow you to pad answers in value adding fluff.  Furthermore, if you were prepared to temporarily abandon “what you think” in favor of adopting “what they think” you stand an even greater chance of success (teachers pets generally do well).  What I learned was that I didn’t (necessarily) have to know what I was talking about or (more importantly) say what I actually felt to achieve a desired result.  The whole is greater than the sum of the tiny parts (you’ve manipulated)…

I opened my mouth to speak, trying to simultaneously be my most thoughtful and insightful.  “Well, he said went out last night, it’s pretty easy to grab someone else’s coat when you step outside for a smoke.“  Complete rubbish.  The Other Girl sighed heavily in relief, “ya, that’s true.”  I’d effectively abandoned integrity and honesty in favour of making her feel better.

My date noticed.  We spent the next two months getting to know each-other.   More importantly, she spent that time getting to know me.  A pattern emerged, and it didn’t work out.  Sometimes, it doesn’t matter how perfectly you move about the tiny pieces, it simply has no bearing on the overall outcome.  In these instances, you’d be well served to keep your principles close and simply be yourself.

Redundency Department

As seen on a recently completed Staff Consultation meeting evaluation form…”The material became a little repetitive.  The material became a little repetitive.”

Sometimes I think I would hate me if we ever met.

Pizza

I once dated a woman whose last name was “Bartlett”, now I can’t eat pears. I will never date a woman named “Pizza”.

A Tragedy of Errors

I’m rusty…bare with me…

They say writers write (I’ve no idea who “they” is, but they seem to be well-informed). Finding the motivation can be difficult. My “muse” (the inclination to write) comes and goes as she pleases. Like the maid you’re sleeping with who forgets that you’re paying her to scrub your toilet (the maid is the metaphor, not the toilet). When in tune the words can pour down onto the page in a euphoric maelstrom taking no time, consuming little effort. When belabored, the writing experience is akin to that of scrubbing your own toilet (again, not a metaphor) taking considerable time and considerable effort; resulting in a good deal of shit.  I have many such bits stock-piled, which I haven’t the courage to share and you haven’t the constitution to read. Often, I sit and wait for a literary desire, then when context, situation, and theme present, I exploit them…much like I would the maid.

If “Comedy” left a train station at 9:00 am traveling 80 miles and hour and “Tragedy” left an opposing station at 10:30 am traveling 160 miles an hour, they would smash together amongst a poetic heap of squealing metaphors and twisted analogies. The literal carnage would represent my impetus for writing. I am clever and able to view the world with a sense of humor, but I have an understanding of life’s difficulties (which I feel I’ve earned). While I may feign optimism (for practical reasons), I embody pessimism (for ideological ones). That is the reason I write what I write and I read what I read. “Angels and Demons” is blockbuster fiction spurred by creative genius, exceptional foreshadowing, and a dramatic climax. I received it as a gift and finished it as a favor. Vonnegut survived an entire day in a concrete meat-locker while The Allies bombed Dresden killing over 250,000 innocent people. He later wrote a satirical novel about it. Critics dubbed it “Black Satire.” I’ve read it 4 times.

That’s why when a sequence of events so disheartening, so frustrating, and so depressing occurs, I’m forced to acknowledge the absurdity, the melancholy, and the sheer ridiculousness of the situation. That my friend is when my muse barges through my door, punches me squarely in the groin, stomps on my chest…and waves an indignant finger in demanding I put something on paper…

When you’re young you have big birthday parties and when you’re old you have small birthday parties. Kipp’s birthday party on Saturday was “kinda’ small”. My next birthday party will be “kinda’ small” too. A select few of The Team went to the new Boston Pizza on the east end of Saskatoon. I ended my night early, being of tempered demeanor and limited energies (I was tired and boring). On the way home I drove through Tim Horton’s in order to use the two “Roll Up The Rim To Win” tickets I’d amassed. I presented the tokens to which the attendant turned and shouted “We have a winner!” This coerced an orchestrated response from all of her peers, “Haaay!” Had I known they were going to do this I’d have driven through twice (once for each winning ticket). In any case, I sped off to bed not realizing that somewhere, somehow, I’d lost the plastic clip that serves as my wallet…

I’d been here before, measures have been taken, safeguards employed, mechanisms were in place.

I keep only what items I absolutely require in that plastic clip. As such, I hadn’t lost my health or social insurance cards. They are, along with my passport and birth certificate, in a safety deposit box in Kindersley to which Patsy and I each have a key (I’ve subsequently lost mine). Rosetown (where I now work) does not have a CIBC so I would have to wait until Saturday to replace my debit card. I had enough cash at home to get me to the weekend. The one exception was that I didn’t have enough money to fuel my truck for the commute through the week. I explained the situation to Chelsea (my sarcastic carpooler), who cheerfully volunteered, “You’re going to have a hard time getting to work.”

On Sunday, I used what immediate wealth I possessed to put enough fuel in my truck to get me to a community consultation in Biggar on Tuesday.

Monday came and went like the twenty year old drunken tart who calls 25 times in the middle of the night then show’s up at your condo throwing shoes at your bedroom window and ringing random buzzers until you finally escape the Sandmans grip and answer the door.  That is to say, on the drive home from work Monday I realized that I’d left my truck keys in Rosetown.  I informed Chelsea (my sarcastic carpooler) of both the tart and the truck keys, to which she efficiently responded, “You’re living a life of sloppiness.”  I’m quoting.

I’d been here before, measures have been taken, safeguards employed, mechanisms were in place.

I’d always kept a spare key in my office, which was Kindersley, but is now Rosetown. I keep another key in my laptop bag, which I almost always carry on my person, but that day I’d left in my office in Rosetown. My third key (the key I actually use) was on the keychain that was attached to the lanyard that was swinging back and forth from my office doorknob in Rosetown. Chelsea’s (my sarcastic carpooler) voice pitched as she offered through judging eyes and a murderous smile, “Waaaant me to turn around?” Out of morbid curiosity, I leaped into her cauldron of boiling mockery, “Yes, please.” Her voice reached a crescendo as she cheered, “Weellll I’mmmm nottttt gonnnnnna’!!!!” Chelsea (my sarcastic carpooler) is a sadist.

I’d been in tight situations before; poor, lost, over-worked, depressed, belligerent, heartbroken (all at once I think even). I was confident I could problem-solve my way out of this. I’d simply borrow a car for the trip to Biggar on Tuesday. Then I could ride with Chelsea (my sarcastic carpooler) back to Rosetown on Wednesday to get my keys.

While walking through the parking lot I past my (inaccessible -> locked) truck and surveyed the pile of easels, flip-charts, and supplies scattered about the back seat. Supplies that would be very helpful in facilitating a community consultation in Biggar on a Tuesday…

When an individual becomes impoverished, it’s often determined that no single failure was the cause. It’s usually a cascading chain of cause-effect deficiencies the cumulative result of which produces a broken, homeless, spiritless man living in a box near the ally of 441 4th Avenue North, Saskatoon. My future played out in my head. I’d be absent from the community consultation. I’d be unavailable to answer questions concerning the error-ridden information package I’d assembled. My CEO would appear a buffoon. She would fire me. I’d have no choice but to abandon my condo. Depression would set in. I’d become destitute, and so on, and so forth…until I’d eventually be forced to date women my own age.

Perhaps, at this juncture, its worth having a summary look at the situation. It was approaching 7:00 pm Monday evening. I had no wallet. I had no more cash. I had no vehicle. I was in a new job and the materials I required for an important out-of-town meeting the next day were locked in my truck. I called Patsy. Here is the allure that is my mother. She did not judge, nor did she lament. She simply asked a question; a question she didn’t even bother to ask of me. She queried up into the air as if to herself, “How are we going to do this?”

Patsy drove her spare car to the city. I drove Patsy back out to Warmen. Patsy gave me $100.00 which I email transferred back to her (since I could still do that). I paid a locksmith and his sidekick (loosely approximating Bilbo and Gollum) to unlock my truck so I could retrieve my supplies. Interestingly, at no point in Bilbo’s thirty minute visit to my back alley in the dead of night did he stop to consider whether or not this was, in fact, my truck. He simply unlocked it obediently while Gollum held the flashlight and coughed away his remaining lung. This isn’t the Shire anymore. I digress. I had everything I needed to ensure my life didn’t stagger into complete ruin.

The rest of the week transpired in reassuringly typical fashion. I retrieved my truck keys and replaced my wallet. Crisis, severe as it were, averted. My own little Dresden.

We are who we are and to a certain extent the qualities that define us will always be. I’m not saying our faults give us license to act like complete nincompoops. I’m saying that no matter how hard we try to manage away the particulars of our shortcomings, they are still very much a part of who we are. I could consciously acknowledge where I set my money-clip, I could hide spare keys in more opportune places, and I could employ safety deposit boxes to no end; however, from time to time I will still find myself near wretchedness and in need of some assistance. In profoundly more complicated contexts, “near wretchedness” becomes less metaphorical and unsettlingly more real.

Everyone who knows me knows how I am, and those individuals fall squarely into one of three categories. There are those who resent me for it, there are those who tolerate me in spite of it, and then there are a few who accept it willingly in trade for all the other things that make me awesome (ok…debateable).  That’s the measuring stick by which I define my friendships.

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!)