pyat | Entries tagged with newspaper

When I was in highschool, I used to stay up on Sunday nights, listening to “Theatre of the Mind” on a Toronto radio station. I’d listen to shows like “The Falcon, “Lights Out,” or whatever classic radio serial they chose to air that month. It ran from 11 PM until midnight, with short intro and exit by one of the DJs.

In the summer time, I’d generally be at a friend’s house, gaming, or in the car on my way home from a game when the show ended. We’d listen to the show as a kind of topper to the night. The little musical interlude the station played over the DJ’s exit lines signaled the end of a good time. Time to pack up the stuff and clear away the pop cans and comics.

In the school year, I’d listen to the show surreptitiously in the darkness of my bedroom. I had one of those ear-bud things, which I would plug into my clock radio to ensure I didn’t disturb the rest of the household. I’d listen to the closing musical score, and that would be it. The weekend was over. In eight hours, I’d be trudging through a dark grey world towards school. Listening to the show was (and is, on the odd times I catch it these days) a kind of melancholy pleasure, like visiting relatives on Boxing Day. The main event is over, and soon it’ll be back to the grind.

Certain other things will always hold the same odd mixture of nostalgic happiness and sadness for me. Wayne and Shuster’s closing song, because it meant “bedtime” for me when I was seven. (Wayne and Shuster was the first ‘grown-up’ show I liked to watch.) The board game “Sorry,” because it was the one I played with Oma and Opa. The last time I played it, Opa was dying and Oma was well advanced into Alzheimers and kept moving the wrong number of spaces.

Not sure why I’m thinking of these things this morning. I had a very busy and full weekend, and I suppose that has something to do with it. I woke up this morning about 4 AM, and lay in the warm dark under the covers, listening to the humidifier hum and Erin breathe. I thought... two more hours of this, and then I’m fumbling around the cold house, blearily preparing for the day. The break is well and truly over, and in three and a half hours, I’ll be at the paper, scrounging for scrap with which to feed the weekly edition.

***

A good, active weekend. On Friday, I went to meet for the first time with my New Model RPG Army. Four players, all crack Dice-Jockeys and eminently qualified Dungeoneers. I’ll be running them through the Adventure Path module series, and then William will likely be taking over as DM. Let he who considers RPGers to be slovenly drop-outs consider this - of the five people in this group, I am the least successful and well socialized. We have not one but TWO doctors (a vet and an MD,) a psychology intern, a computer company VP, and me, a reporter. All of us are married, with houses, cars... all the usual accouterments of the Mundane.

*Role-play Roll Call!*

Ladies and Gentlemen, give it up for Dr. Brian Misiaczek, 22 year gaming veteran, columnist, and owner of one of the largest private pulp radio show collections in the country! Woo! Dr. Brian wore in his ten-siders under the renowned GM and RPG author, Robin Laws! Brian is running a Cleric of St. Cuthbert.

Next, the man who would be DM, William Pleydon! William will be taking over as DM at some point, guiding us through a hideously complicated original campaign setting that’s taken him ten years to prepare! A man so dedicated to the DM craft, he kept a former campaign going when some players were in prison! William is playing a mysterious elven illusionist.

Third, Marnee Marnoes! Marnee is a hardened gamer grrl, who cut her teeth on the Red Box edition! Marnee first played D&D as an 8 year old in rural Alberta! Just like the US Midwest, but colder! Marnee will be running a human fighter!

Last, but not least, is Dr. Daniel Marnoes, erstwhile hubby of Marnee! Dr. Dan is the least experienced of the Model RPG Army, but he makes up for this lack with his enthusiasm for the genre. Daniel will be running a half-elf ranger, canny treader of the forest boughs!

We’ll be meeting every second Saturday. Should be a blast.

On Saturday, Dan, Bill and I went on a roaaaaaad trip, all the way to Aurora, where friend Tim recently settled. We drank many flagons of Mountain Dew, and discussed DVD editions of favorite films. As the day progressed, Tim continued his damn fine Star Wars RPG campaign. (It always comes down to RPGs with me. I’m a sad, pathetic, man.) By the end, Bill’s Jedi had a climactic confrontation with the Dark Side, and Dan and I had uncovered a plot to weaken the already reeling Republic. We’re well on the path to fourth level... I have to admit, Tim is a cracking good GM.

On Sunday, ‘twas Church, followed by a fine meal at Swiss Chalet, and a relaxing, non-productive afternoon of reading, snoozing, and snuggle-bunnies. Which brings me to the point I came in... bloody Monday morning.

In about 30 minutes I’ll be attending the funeral of a well-loved local councillor, Bob Baigent. Bob died suddenly on Thursday night, aged 66. The mayor called me about it on Friday, on her cel phone, from the ticket line at Disney in Florida. Such power I have. ;0) This fellow was a simple country type, but very well respected. There was a two hour line up for the viewing on Sunday.

And that’s it for me.

n one of my earlier entries, I related my brush with Peter Kalinin, an elderly Russian man who lives near Dunnville. Mr. Kalinin, to be blunt, is extreeeeeemely eccentric. In my short visit with him, he told me he’d served as a Russian intelligence officer in WWII and had interrogated Rudolph Hess’ family at the end of the war. He told me the war was simply a British/German plot to... I dunno... give the lower classes something to do, I guess. His reasoning was a little fuzzy, and seemed to involve a lot of talk about world gold devaluation.

Kalinin told me that he was going to become the master of the world in a few years, through his organization, Har-Ma-Ged-Don. This group was going to form a new world government. He even showed me the passports he’d created for his new government. Then he ranted about Jews and Women’s Lib for a bit, and told me that when he ascended to power, I would acheive great fame as the first reporter to recognize his greatness.

In short, a classically trained conspiract theorist nutter. Of course, I wanted to hear more. I asked him if I could come back and interview him again, and he welcomed me to do so. Since then, I’ve been back about three or four times, and he’s never been home. Today I decided to bend the rules a little bit, and instead of just knocking on his door, I went wandering around his property to all the little outbuildings. A woman who rented a house from him once called the paper to complain about the “Temple to Himself” that Kalinin was building, and well, I kinda wanted to look at it.

I found it. It was a sad, unwalled, unfinished structure in the middle of a field, hidden from the road by a row of trees. Essentially it’s a 100 x 80 foot concrete pad under a rotting roof, held up by rusting girders. On the pad is stored all the interior items for the “temple” - a giant airconditioning unit, tons of duct work, and some doors and windows. Everything was rusting or rotting. Looks like its all been exposed to the elements for a good 4 or 5 years.

This wasn’t the strangest thing on his property. He also has a ten-unit retirement home (which he lives in), a playground, and a building that looks oddly like a small strip mall. Everything is in various stages of disrepair and decay. Lights were on in the “strip mall,” so I checked that out. There are three “store fronts” in this structure, two locked and full of the junk. The third was open and well lit, and appeared to be a combination office and butcher. I walked in, and was surprised by the powerful stench of fish. On my left was a little glassed-off office, and the rest of the “store” was, as I said, some kind of butcher’s shop or miniature meat packers - concrete floor with drains, big stainless steel sinks, meat scales hanging from the ceiling, and a walk-in freezer. I stepped in a little further, and spotted a pile of twenty fish, partially frozen, lying on the ground in a puddle of water.

This was starting to turn into a really lame Call of Cthulhu adventure.

GM: A powerful smell of roting fish assails your nose as you enter and see...
Player: A Deep One?
GM:...some fish. Roll 1d6 sanity check.
Player: Sanity loss? For fish?!
GM: Well, like, they’re dead and stuff.

On my way back to the car, I stopped to knock on his door once again. Still no answer, but the hall light that was previously on was now off. Either he’s deaf, or hiding from me. I peered inside the little window on the door, and saw a sitting room crowded with SF books, right-wing religious magazines (ie: 'The Trumpet'), and an astonishing amount of pulp novel porn.

So, that's the tale of the Mad Russian.

JadeClaw goes to the printer today, and I’m listed in the credits as a writer! Woo! Mind you, I didn’t actually write much for it. I redid the skills and advantages section about a year ago. But heck, I’ll take all the credit they give me. The game is going to printed in softcover and hardcover, which is really cool. :-)

The old woman didn’t tell us about the cows.

We, that is, myself and my co-op student, were there to take photos of her burnt down barn. She was very happy with the way her neighbours had rallied around her in her time of the need. The barn was a smouldering wreck, nothing left but a 4 foot cinderblock wall and odd piles of charred wood, sheet metal, and unidentifiable blackened mounds, which I assumed were hay bales and feed bags.

I interviewed her in her spic-and-span farmhouse kitchen, but she was far too upset to say much. Instead, she handed me a long handwritten account of the fire, in extremely neat penmanship. She pointed the way to the barn, and we headed out across a frozen field. An extremely enthusiastic puppy followed us, nipping at our shoes. As we approached the barn, I noticed a pile of rubble in the middle was still smoking, and intermittently flaming. An obvious choice for the picture. So, we trooped towards the centre of the ruin, heads bowed in the biting wind. After a few steps, my feet sank in ashes to the ankle. The wind tossed handfuls of hot ash into our faces. I noticed my feet were rather warm, despite the freezing wind. Time for a strategic withdrawal.

As we pulled back, I noted a definite yummy smell borne on the wind. BBQ? Pot roast? I also noted a blackened hoof, jutting at an angle from the ashes. Closer inspection of those unidentifiable blackened mounds showed them to be very dead, very charred cattle. Perhaps two dozen of these mounds lay all around us. Yes, the old woman forgot to mention the cattle she and her husband kept. About 40 cows died in the fire, barely 12 hours before.

As we hustled out of the barn proper and back into the field, two disturbing images presented themselves. First, I passed close by a carcasse, and in that nasty charnel pit of black, white, and grey, was surprised by a grisly patch of bright, glistening, damp redness. One of the dead cows had been decapitated, and the exposed mess was entirely unburnt. Second, the playful puppy reappeared, carrying a charred strip of something in his mouth, shaking it around like a chew toy. We didn’t stop to examine it more closely.

Oh, as the above anecdote reveals, my co-op student (Gloomy Joe Pothead) did eventually return to work, to my great disappointment. However, he only has three weeks left here, whereupon he will be cut loose into the world, utterly, utterly unprepared for anything but a career as Cayuga’s official Pusherman. If I’m still working for The Regional five years hence, I fully expect to write a lead story along the lines of “Local Moron dies in Autoerotic Asphyxsiation Mishap,” with Mr. Pothead in a starring role. “Death underlines danger of Self-Pollution,” say cops, would be a good subhead.

Speak of the devil, and he craps on your head. The kid (well, actually, he’s 20, and still in highschool) just walked in, and immediately started moaning. He SORELY tests the limit of the genial facade I put up when he’s around. Right now, he’s got his head in his hands, and is moaning about a “joyous weekend,” clearly waiting for me to ask him what happened. What really gets me is that I AM a confidante of this little sneak. He does ask for advice, though he never takes it. Hence my general tolerance. I’m a sucker. More later...

There, he’s gone home now. I will speak no more of him! Well, one more thing. On Friday he lipped off to the provincial Minister of Health, Tony Clement. We were at a glad-hand ceremony at a tailor’s shop in Dunnville. Clement was in town to congratulate an elderly former mayor and Conservative party supporter, who’s run a menswear store in the town for 50 years. Dope-boy was peeved at waiting so long for the ceremony to end - he’d left his notebook at home, you see, and had nothing to do.... bah! Enough of him.

I had a very busy weekend. On Friday, Justin (who now has an LJ under the name “thebitterman”) and Cindy came over for supper. Later, Bill and Margaret stopped by, and we played a lively game of Beyond Balderdash. I defeated everyone quite handily. We reporters are inveterate bullshitters, you see. Justin and Cindy stayed until about 1 AM, and as they left, I realized I had to be up early in the morning to get to a D&D game in Toronto.

The game, a continuation, of the Imperial Rome campaign I mentioned in an entry last year, went well. A good, solid dungeon crawl. Sure, my lawful evil cleric ran out of spells, and was reduced to throwing rocks, but a good time was had by all, I think. I got home from the game about 7:30 PM, and found my wife and my two sisters playing a fast-paced card game called “Dutch Blitz” in the dining room. I hobknobbed with them for a bit, then settled in for the evening.

Sunday was church, followed by a free lunch at Jose’s Noodle Factory, on the dime of my mom-in-law. Then I went home and played Civilization III until I lost all feeling in my buttocks.

And now, it is Monday afternoon, about 30 minutes before I knock off work for the day. And that is all for now.

The end.

I appear to have frightened a 50-year old police sergeant very badly, to the point where he has sent a letter to my editor claiming that the media relations officers in the county all find me to be "too aggressive" and "inaccurate." He suggested the newspaper might have problems getting information from the department because of me.

In his letter, he specifically names three officers who have all, within recent months, approached him with complaints about my "aggressive" interviewing style. My editor laughed until her sides ached, because she knows just how bone-idle and inoffensive I am as a reporter. I called all three of officers specifically named in the sergeant's letter. None had any problem with my interviewing style or accuracy. One Detective Constable was extremely angry at being named in the letter, and told me that, if anything, I was the most laid back reporter she knew. She called my editor personally to tell her this. Another officer, who was named in the letter as having "serious concerns" with me, said he didn't even know of my existence before I called him.

Essentially, this police sergeant, a 50-something professional with 30 years of experience as a police officer, felt the need to lie about me. Not only does this make me extremely angry, it proves that petulant pettiness is a trait that some people hold on to well into adulthood. I know what inspired this letter - a story about some homeowners who were beaten by a gang of teens on Halloween night. The police report of the incident makes no mention of their injuries, and the sergeant told me in no uncertain terms that no assaults took place. Despite the bruises these people showed me the following morning, and despite mention of the teens being armed with bats in the police incident report.

I think what really rattled him, after the letter, was the realization that I had called all the officers he mentioned, and they'd shot down his story. At his request, we met for "java" to "clear the air." To his credit, he immediately apologized for sending the letter, but made no apology for putting words in the mouths of his fellow officers. Instead, he made general comments about how they had "concerns," but would not specify, and told me I was being too "serious" when I asked him to be specific. I suspect that if I'd not called the other officers, he would have never apologized or commented on the letter.

Essentially, the meeting consisted of me listening to him say I made him nervous because I'm always "writing things down," and because I'm too "earnest" and "serious." This is a far cry from "aggressive" and "innaccurate," I think you'll agree. I left, pleased that the problem had been dealt with, but utterly disgusted by the sergeant. He's like a sneaky, insecure, and not too bright, 7th grader.

Enough with the bad stuff. On with the good! My co-op student hasn't shown up to work since last Tuesday, suggesting I may be free of his baleful influence. If he doesn't come in today, I'll him to forget about the co-op. This prospect makes me as giddy as a school girl. Heeheeehee!

Last weekend Erin and I went to Conthulhu in Toronto, where I found I'd not been signed up for any panels, as a result of some clerical snafu. Woo! This meant I got to amble freely about the hotel during a nice, small SF con and generally glad-hand the attendees and hob-knob with the other industry guests. As an official guest, I even got to eat free food in the "Green Room." Huzzah! Erin and I pampered ourselves silly. She even got an in-room manicure.

Notable events...
- Saturday night, back in the hotel room. As a gentleman, I can say no more
- meting old friend Jeremy Buehler for a late supper at a TexMex restaurant and eating an enormous gooey burrito. Lively conversation all round.
- running a 6 1/2 hour IronClaw game for representatives from Pants-Shitting Terror (PST) Productions, the guys who do the Cthulhu LARP books.
- dancing the TimeWarp with SF/Horror author Tanya Huff and various other SF bigwigs.
- meeting and talking shop with Hilary Doda. She's the author of the Woman's Gaming Manifesto, and possibly the most successful Canadian woman in the RPG industry. She's also damned charming and pleasant.

The best part of the weekend, however, was the span of a few minutes after the monster IronClaw game ended. I joined Erin at the karaoke/dance, which by that hour had dwindled to about 20 people, all of them con organizers or industry guests. As I arrived, Erin signed up for a song, and wouldn't tell me which one she'd selected. After a few karaoke mainstays (Justin's rendition of "It's Rainin' Men" was just... gah), Erin took to the stage. My beautiful, sweet, fiercely intelligent, utterly amazing wife sang "Twelth of Never," the song her sister sang at our wedding. It's a rather slow, sentimental, and gentle song, quite a change from the usual cheesy karaoke fare, and she sang it directly to me. "I'll love you 'til the bluebells forget to ring." Quite. :-) I don't mind admitting to going a little misty-eyed, and being so again now when I think about it.

I don't think I've gone out of my way to describe Erin in my Livejournal thus far, so I will do so now. She's my wife of two and half years, and has been my significant other for nearly eight. She's utterly glorious. Physically, she's a busty, compact blonde with the most extraordinary eyes. Her eyes are very pale blue, to the point of being nearly grey. Her right eye has a hazel fleck at the top right of the iris. Complete strangers will remark favorably on her eyes. Her voice is extremely level and serious most of the time, prompting more than one person to tell her she should work in radio.

Personality-wise, she is generally very serious and thorough, but she has a sensitive and sentimental streak about a kilometer wide. She has a powerful intellect and a great love of debate and discussion. She laughs at lame jokes, which is a great boon to me. :-) She likes puns and word games and logic puzzles and trashy sword and sorcery novels, as well as cuddling under a quilt. She kicks my ass regularly at Monopoly, and speaks French fluently. She plays the piano, and sings whenever she has the chance. She crochets doilies, sweaters, and blankets, and enjoys watching Home and Garden Television. She recently discovered a love for cut-throat table-top wargames.

And this, in a nutshell, is Erin. A cuddly, voluptuous, sharply clever debate team captain with a burning passion for crochet, handicrafts, and language :-) And she married an underachiever who looks like a young version of Fred Mertz. Go figure.

Now, back to the LJ entry, which was already in progress. Last week was generally dull, aside from the con and the meeting with the cop. On Saturday I played IronClaw at Shurhaian's apartment, along with another local furry named Totempole, and my friend Justin. The game seemed to go well. Totempole, recently arrived from Poland, had a few language issues, but seemed to grasp the rules very quickly. From what he's said, it sounds like he was used to some absurdly complicated home-brew RPG back in Poland. Hmm... I wonder if a Polish RPG is like a Polish submarine? ;0)

After the game, Justin and I went to Burlington, a clean and trim (though somewhat dull) city immediately north-west of Hamilton. He wanted to introduce me to the curried fries at a restaurant called "The Poacher." Unfortunately, the place was packed, so we wandered off down the deserted midnight streets in search of another watering hole. We found several, but all seemed a little too upscale for us. (ie: the customers were wearing suits and evening gowns) Justin decided to try for a pizza place he knew of, and we headed north on Brant Street.

The pizza place was also closed, it was damn cold, and we were getting tired. We started back for the car, and passed "Conspiracy Comics." The lights were on, so we peered in, noses pressed against the glass like a pair of Dickensian street urchins. We spotted two of the staffers playing a game of Warhammer at the back of the locked store, which, for me, rather strenghtened the image of the street urchins. "Hark, good sirs! We are but two poor and gameless nerds, cast out in the cold midnight streets! Spare a few dice, or a pad of grid paper, and may Gygax bless you!"

We hastened back to the car, as a cold wind started blowing, and discussed the merits of Marvel Comic's version of Hercules as compared to Thor. On the drive back to Hamilton, we discussed Justin's IronClaw contract, the Feyadeen supplement. I was at home in bed about 1:30 AM.

Sunday was a lazy day. I woke briefly at 4:45 AM to see if I could spot the Leonids. Alas, 'twas cloudy! I went back to bed and slept till about 10. Erin and I had a nice, quiet day in while she finished marking her report cards. About 6, we went for a brisk walk in the chill twilight, and remarked on the Christmas lights. We discussed how we should decorate our own house this year - our first Christmas in our own house. I feel quite warm and fuzzy about that. :-) Bring on the egg-nog and candy canes! In just ten days, our tree will be up, and the holiday season will have started officially. Huzzah!

And now I'm at work, procrastinating. Enjoy this freakishly long LJ entry. :-)

Current Mood: geeky

Just like to say that my Revelation quote was not intended to indicate that I beleive the end-times are here or what have you. It was simply the first thing that leapt to mind when I saw the video of the World Trade Centre upon getting home from the paper.

For one thing, it was taken entirely out of context - as that Nostradamus quote, I suspect. Of course, I wouldn't trust Nostradamus to predict cold weather in the Antartic, regardles of context.

As I said, long day at work. I arrived at the office short before 8 AM, and set to work transcribing interviews. Immediately before 9, we caught wind of the first plane crash, and switched on the radio. We heard - live - as a reporter interviewed a woman about the first crash, only to see the second plane smash into the World Trade Centre.

From that point on, it became very difficult to concentrate on my lead story about the marshlands clearing.

By late morning, I'd heard reports that US Airways planes flying from Boston to Detroit had been diverted to the airport in Mount Hope. I called the airport admin and the control tower, and they referred me to a government media line in Ottawa - which was busy. However, some calls from folks at the airport confirmed that at least one plane had been grounded and "hundreds" of passengers were stranded. That was story made it in to this week's edition - the small local angle in this much, much larger and depressing story.

The marshland story imploded around noon. I was able to confirm that the owner of the land had gotten approval for the clearing from the Consveration Authority. The piece suddenly became "Marshland to become Park." Still, the owners defense of his actions was quite glib. "Wetlands are a mono-ecology - we're adding ecodiversity." Yeah, right.

What can I say about the rest of the day? The weather is beautiful. I barbequed hamburgers for supper. My sister is in town tonight, and is staying in our backroom. Her friend's grandfather died - an absurdly small and personal tragedy in the face of today's events.

But... we really don't need any more analysis on the days events from armchair philosophers, right?

Tommorow I meet my coop student for the first time... but he will be a entry all his own, I think. I leave you with just this - he sees dead people. And they gave him a bad cold.

Another relatively full day.

I dragged myself out of bed at 9 AM, and Erin and I headed up the mountain to pick up her sister and her boyfriend. I drove them over to the corps for church, and headed out into Caledonia. The local Terry Fox Run organizers had managed to snag the late Terry’s brother, Darrell Fox, for a speaking engagement, and for some reason the press conference was on a Sunday morning. Very, very annoying. Not only did I miss church, but I had to go into the office on a Sunday, which is something that I frankly resent.

I got to the Grand Trunk Station museum where the event was being held, and stuck on a name tag. Exchanged pleasantries with the usual suspects - community group leaders, folks from the chamber of commerce, and other reporters. Oddly, the Sachem didn’t seem to have sent a representative. Not sure if they missed the event, or whether the editor had arranged with one of his chamber of commerce friends to submit a pic. I hope the former - it would be a minor scoop. The Sachem editor is always boasting that his paper has the best coverage in Haldimand for the Caledonia area - this event took place about a block from his office, and if he missed it, well, it’s a small black mark.

The mayor and councilor Ashbaugh arrived the same time I did, and I was able to corner the both of them to ask them about the wetlands clearing. That retired councilor had called them both, it seems. Mayor Bergstrand lives in Dunnville, and was, off the record, rather annoyed. Councilor Ashbaugh was also more than a little peeved. They both seemed genuinely upset, not just providing platitudes for a reporter.

However, there appears to be no legal recourse for the county. The bylaws from the old municipalities have yet to be harmonized across the county, and Dunnville apparently had no wetland regulations beyond the provincial laws. The old town of Haldimand had some pretty stringent wetland regulations, to an extent that often frustrates farmers. Bergstrand said she had called the Ministry of Natural Resources about the issue.

At this point, I was informed that Darrell Fox would not be speaking until 12:30, which didn’t fit in with my schedule. I managed to get a quick interview with him, and was fairly impressed. His late brother Terry Fox, if you didn’t know, was the British Columbia cancer victim who, in 1980 at the age of 21, decided to run across Canada to raise money for cancer research. He only had one leg. Darrell, who was 17 at the time, was with him along the route, following behind in a camper van. The effort started without fanfare and gathered huge international attention. Darrell followed his brother has the run started attracting huge rallies and hundreds of thousands in donations for cancer research. About a third of the way across the country, Terry’s cancer returned, and he died soon after. One of the most moving pictures I’ve seen is a candid black and white photo of Terry in obvious pain, limping through the rain on a remote and empty road in Northern Ontario.

Darrell is now the director of the Terry Fox Foundation, which runs in 55 countries. I was able to get some choice quotes from him in a quick interview in one corner. Kate Barlow, a reporter from the Hamilton Spectator, a big daily, joined in and we asked some fairly intelligent questions. Nice guy, very down to earth. During the interview, his 4 or 5 year old daughter kept grabbing his legs and hugging him.

I snagged some cookies from the refreshment stand and zipped back into town. Picked up Erin and crew at the church, and we went out to Swiss Chalet. My sister-in-law’s boyfriend, an easy-going and utterly vacant guy, had never been to church before, or to a Swiss Chalet for that matter. Not sure what I think of him. He’s a nice guy, but utterly rudderless. He recently informed us that he’d found a "dream job." He’s a clothes sorter at a charity store, at age 24. He has no high school diploma, doesn’t own a single book, has no license, and during the winter, I discovered he had no coat. He had money for one, but he wanted a Playstation instead. So he went the whole Canadian winter in sweaters. Swell. Erin’s sister Heather is eight years younger than he is. She’s quite bubbly, witty, and a cracking good writer - certainly much better than I was at that age. Hopefully, her boyfriend will shape up his life before they get serious. He’s a pleasant guy, and I’m not snobbish enough to think she could do better simply by dating someone with "ambition."

I was hoping to have the guys over for a cracking good RPG session tonight. That hopes seems to be in vain. Bill went to Toronto for the day, and Tim won’t make the trek down from Newmarket for a one on one game session. Ah well. A quiet night in front of the telly with Erin is by no means a 2nd prize.

My finches seem healthy today. Ladybird laid an egg. As soon as I put the eggshell in yesterday, she was down at the bottom of the cage, gorging. Obviously, she needs more calcium in her diet. She lays one egg every few months now, and they seem to be getting harder and harder to lay. I imagine she’s getting old. I’ve had her for nearly four years now, and I’ve no idea how old she was to begin with. Zebra finches have a wildly varying life expectancy - about five years is a goodly age for one, but they’ve been known to stick around for anything up to 20 years.

Anyway, with the egg laid, she seems much happier. Hopefully her tail feathers will come back in soon.

I’ve got to sit down and work something out for IronClaw. They asked me to do a fiction submission for an upcoming anthology... I’ve taken enough time off of writing. Time to get to work, I think.

Current Mood: relaxed
Current Music: Was listening to The Talking Heads earlier.

Well, I woke up bright and early this morn all set to do battle with that evil Wetland Clearing Conspiracy.

I donned The Hat, and struck out for the misty shores of Haldimand County, pausing only for a fortifying "Convenience Store Breakfast." (Bottle of orange juice and a pack of Kraft "Lunchable" processed cheese, meat, and crackers. Yuck!)

I made a quick visit to the Hamilton International Airport in Mount Hope, where gangs of charity groups were busy pulling a 140,000 lb 757 jet along the runway. It seemed suprisingly easy, and was very impressive. If fifteen ordinary office workers can pull a 70 ton jet plane, I guess one hundred wiry slaves can drag some stone blocks together.

I made a call to the paper from the airport guardhouse to confirm the location of the poor, abused wetlands. Then, zoom, I was on on the road again, spinning down sunny country roads, following the banks of the Grand River.

These sort of days make me really love my job. Just rolling through the country side, listening to jazz or CDs.

When I stopped working in Toronto at the computer magazine, the physical and mental relief I experienced coming to this job was incredible. Almost all of that relief could be linked to novel experience of enjoyable driving. No more nerve wracking commutes into Toronto. In Haldimand, I get 10, 15 minutes stretches of travel time where I don't see a single car. Nothing but me, music, and the road, spinning on and on over hills to the horizon. I used to take afternoons to drive to the lake, and look southward to the hills in the US. I know its just boring old Ohio or New York down there, but in the hazy distance, across a lake, it was like looking at a promised land. It was like I was being offered unlimited horizons to expand towards - a welcome change from the 10 kmph traffic on the 401 - from the daily 4 km long string of brake lights I'd see rounding the bend at the Ford Plant in Oakville.

In short, driving in the country for those first few months was like a very banal and bourgeoise religious experience. Maybe next I'm going to be seeing the image of Mother Teresa floating in my morning double-double at the drive through.

Say... I had a story or a point way back there, didn't I? Right. The wetland guy.

I got into Dunnville about 11:30am, and went to the newspaper's branch office there. (One reporter, two newspaper offices. Go figure.) I called out the retired councilor who'd phoned me yesterday, and got some further details. This guy was literally fuming, shouting and cursing over the phone about chopped up turtles, ruined heron's nests, and a plethora of dead frogs. I got into the car and drove over the bridge to Byng Island - a little 20 acre piece of swamp in the middle of the Grand - and stopped midway to survey the damage.

He'd been quite right. About 10 acres of brown, dead, cleared swamp - and another 5 still remaining of neck high green bullrushes. Someone's been busy. I couldn't get down to the spot, but on Monday I'll see if I can rent a boat, or even just remember to bring a pair of rubber boots.

I feel so intrepid and journalisty.

On the way home I bought a lawn mower. Yay, me. Not sure if there's any cosmic irony in that.

A few minutes ago I went to check on my finches. They've taken the move pretty hard. Jake was very jumpy for a few days, but seems to have settled down. Ladybird isn't so hot - at some point in the last 24 hours, she's pulled out all her own tail feathers. She's very agitated, hopping back and forth.

She could be eggbound, but doesn't have her usual symptom of loss of balance. I dunno... I'm going to head and buy a packet of eggs and feed her some shells. If she's egg bound, the extra calcium should clear her up. I hope she doesn't have a cloaca blockage - those kill very slowly, and one killed her previous mate, Jake the First. Poor little things. I'll put some lettuce in too.

Erin's out clothes shopping. She got her first big pay of the teaching season yesterday, and intends to put it to good use.

And that's me for today.

Current Mood: accomplished
Current Music: Finally got that tape out the car player - put in Dylan.

Before I left the newspaper today, I fielded a call from a obviously angry man. He was ranting about the destruction of some "wetlands" near Dunnville, about 60 km away from my office. I was about to leave for the day, and asked him if I should stop by the place on Saturday to get photos and find out more. He said it would be too late.

I suggested he call the Dunnville Chronicle (we occasionally collaborate on stories) - his reply was that the Chronicle didn't "dare stand up to that old man."

I suggested he call the police or the Ministry of Natural Resources if he wanted an immediate response - and he said the same thing. They didn't want to get involved.

At this point he started telling me the mayor of the county was refusing to get involved, and I wrote him off as a crank. I passed him off to the editor. I went back into town to pick up Erin, and we went for supper, then out to buy some stuff for the house.

I spent two hours wiring in a new chandelier before I checked my phone messages. Got one from the editor - my crank caller is a former town councillor, and knows whereof he rants. The man he's accusing of clearing wetlands is a fairly important businessman, locally.

*sniff, sniff!* *Yap!* What's that boy? You smell a story? Sic 'im!

Yeah, as a reporter I'm a bit like a senile terrier. Most of the time I'm content to doze at my desk, gnawing on the bones of council meetings and community group minutes that makeup the skeleton of a small town weekly. But give me the scent of scandal, and it's like seeing a rat scurrying off.

Away I hobble on my arthritic legs, yapping up a toothless storm at the fleeing rat. I can't do much if I catch 'em, except gum them, but I can hope that the barking wakes up some of the other dogs.

Ah, yes! The life of a small town reporter! Tommorrow, after getting photos of the big charity plane pull in Mount Hope, I'll be blazing a trail to Dunnville. Once there, I'll be immediately kneedeep in the muddy ruins of a former wetland - private property, too. (If anyone asks, I used a zoom lens, okay?) I'll be intruding on some thoughtless old small town capitalist, asking leading questions, making veiled threats about public opinion, and generally acting like the world's crappiest detective.

I may ever wear The Hat.

Heh. I love my job. :-) Good hunting!