Don't mind the green sludge
Why does everyone here always look at me like I'm the crazy one when I say I don't want to swim in the power plant tailings pond? Am I missing something? It's the most popular place in the region to swim & hang out on the (sort of) beach and somehow I'm the odd one when I resist swimming in it. OK granted, it's not actually a tailings pond, it's only a cooling pond - for a giant industrial facility!!! Just doesn't seem right.
Belated responses to old comments: the cat never came back, when I was 13 Hillary Duff was like negative two, the milk was fine, the neighbours were only here for a month so I never bothered getting to know them, the bird was yet another experience I'm glad I had but really don't want to have again, donate unresellable(?) texts back to the program, people will be happy for free out of date editions, and no I don't think the camera was near a magnet, but that's a dam good thought.
----------
Simpson's moment of the day (brought to you by Vioxx):
[Lisa fears a new girl in school is more talented than she]
Marge: Believe me, honey. She's more scared of you than you are of her.
Lisa: You're thinking of bears, mom.
Sunday, August 28, 2005
Saturday, August 27, 2005
digital disaster
Friday’s are usually the busiest day of my workweek, Monday being production. Everything always converges on Friday, a lot of photo ops, charity BBQ’s, performers at the old folks home, concrete pouring at the new pool, workers preparing for a big weekend football tournament etc. It’s when I’ve settled on stories and know who I have to talk to etc and I start to feel the pressure of needing everything done by Monday and not wanting to work all weekend (which I seem to anyway).
This Friday our Ed was away and I’d let things pile up more than usual—a lot of things were planned for Friday out of my control—so I had a really busy morning, especially photo wise. By the time I got back to the office to download the digital camera (which has a wonderful 1-gig card) I had well over 100 pictures from 7-8 different events or locations. It was around 12:30 and I had been working my ass off for 4 hours.
The download screen popped up on the computer and instead of thumbnails of pictures there were squares with big red question marks in them. Despite the sudden sickening feeling I stayed calm and spent over an hour trying to recover the images (with the help of the computer shop next door) while running out with the crappy ass back-up camera to catch a couple other planned photo ops.
In the end it looks like the pictures are long gone & unrecoverable. They said they can usually recover things like that (the photo’s are never really gone, just copied over) but they don’t know what’s going on, they can see where the pictures are (or were) but can’t access them.
Not only did I lose a crucial and unrepeatable morning of work, but was left without a card I could trust. By the time this reality set in it was pushing 2 and the 3 person production team was sitting around waiting for something they could use to start laying out the paper—without my pictures there’s little point in starting—which they usually get half done on Friday afternoon. I bought another card and ran around frantically inventing things to take pictures of and somehow managed to pull it together enough by the end of the day to at least be confident that I’ll pull it off over the weekend, but that was a hell of a day, and now it means once again I get to work through the weekend.
Moral: even if it’s inconvenient, download pictures as often as possible throughout the day – don’t trust bits and bytes. Those digital photos don’t actually exist on your camera, just a memory of them.
______
Homer (on phone): “They were the suckiest bunch of sucks that ever sucked.”
Marge: “Watch your mouth.”
Homer: “I gotta go, my dam wiener kids are listening.”
Friday’s are usually the busiest day of my workweek, Monday being production. Everything always converges on Friday, a lot of photo ops, charity BBQ’s, performers at the old folks home, concrete pouring at the new pool, workers preparing for a big weekend football tournament etc. It’s when I’ve settled on stories and know who I have to talk to etc and I start to feel the pressure of needing everything done by Monday and not wanting to work all weekend (which I seem to anyway).
This Friday our Ed was away and I’d let things pile up more than usual—a lot of things were planned for Friday out of my control—so I had a really busy morning, especially photo wise. By the time I got back to the office to download the digital camera (which has a wonderful 1-gig card) I had well over 100 pictures from 7-8 different events or locations. It was around 12:30 and I had been working my ass off for 4 hours.
The download screen popped up on the computer and instead of thumbnails of pictures there were squares with big red question marks in them. Despite the sudden sickening feeling I stayed calm and spent over an hour trying to recover the images (with the help of the computer shop next door) while running out with the crappy ass back-up camera to catch a couple other planned photo ops.
In the end it looks like the pictures are long gone & unrecoverable. They said they can usually recover things like that (the photo’s are never really gone, just copied over) but they don’t know what’s going on, they can see where the pictures are (or were) but can’t access them.
Not only did I lose a crucial and unrepeatable morning of work, but was left without a card I could trust. By the time this reality set in it was pushing 2 and the 3 person production team was sitting around waiting for something they could use to start laying out the paper—without my pictures there’s little point in starting—which they usually get half done on Friday afternoon. I bought another card and ran around frantically inventing things to take pictures of and somehow managed to pull it together enough by the end of the day to at least be confident that I’ll pull it off over the weekend, but that was a hell of a day, and now it means once again I get to work through the weekend.
Moral: even if it’s inconvenient, download pictures as often as possible throughout the day – don’t trust bits and bytes. Those digital photos don’t actually exist on your camera, just a memory of them.
______
Homer (on phone): “They were the suckiest bunch of sucks that ever sucked.”
Marge: “Watch your mouth.”
Homer: “I gotta go, my dam wiener kids are listening.”
Wednesday, August 24, 2005
Sex, rain and the 7 second bird
How old am I feeling? The other day I found myself bitching about there being too much sex on TV! It seems only yesterday I was bitching there isn’t enough sex on TV…er wait, that WAS yesterday, I got over it pretty quick. But I do wonder about kids and pop media/culture these days.
I think the weather is pushing me to the edge of a nervous break down. After two weeks of cold, dark, rain, hail & frost it cleared up a bit over the weekend actually hitting 29 on Sunday leading me to publish a story yesterday about the wet and how it was supposed to be nice and sunny and warm this week.
Today we’re back to horizontal driving rain, a dark sky that looks like dusk at 1pm, and a high of 7. Environment Canada, who last week claimed it would be 28 today, still have the audacity to be calling for 27 on Friday! I’ll believe that when I see it.
Meanwhile it’s impossible to buckle down and work, I just feel like drinking, or sleeping in front of a fireplace I don’t have, or sitting in a Jacuzzi, of which there are none in town.
Yesterday I was driving in town when a flock of Robin size black birds took off from the other side of the road right into my path. Several bounced off the side of my car and one flew right in my open window flapping frantically around the front seat bouncing off the windshield and dashboard a couple times, almost making me swerve into an oncoming car before it found it’s way out the passenger window. The whole thing took about 7 seconds and left me a little dazed.
Hey Scott, just so you know, I didn’t have this entry pre-written in my head before I started typing. It probably shows.
---------------
Simpson’s quote of the day: (Artie Ziff) “You can’t spell party without Artie…uh, if you misspell partie…or Arty.”
How old am I feeling? The other day I found myself bitching about there being too much sex on TV! It seems only yesterday I was bitching there isn’t enough sex on TV…er wait, that WAS yesterday, I got over it pretty quick. But I do wonder about kids and pop media/culture these days.
I think the weather is pushing me to the edge of a nervous break down. After two weeks of cold, dark, rain, hail & frost it cleared up a bit over the weekend actually hitting 29 on Sunday leading me to publish a story yesterday about the wet and how it was supposed to be nice and sunny and warm this week.
Today we’re back to horizontal driving rain, a dark sky that looks like dusk at 1pm, and a high of 7. Environment Canada, who last week claimed it would be 28 today, still have the audacity to be calling for 27 on Friday! I’ll believe that when I see it.
Meanwhile it’s impossible to buckle down and work, I just feel like drinking, or sleeping in front of a fireplace I don’t have, or sitting in a Jacuzzi, of which there are none in town.
Yesterday I was driving in town when a flock of Robin size black birds took off from the other side of the road right into my path. Several bounced off the side of my car and one flew right in my open window flapping frantically around the front seat bouncing off the windshield and dashboard a couple times, almost making me swerve into an oncoming car before it found it’s way out the passenger window. The whole thing took about 7 seconds and left me a little dazed.
Hey Scott, just so you know, I didn’t have this entry pre-written in my head before I started typing. It probably shows.
---------------
Simpson’s quote of the day: (Artie Ziff) “You can’t spell party without Artie…uh, if you misspell partie…or Arty.”
Monday, August 22, 2005
Ode to my neighbours (and Tom Waits)…a true story
What the hell are they building in there?
They never wave when they go by
They’re hiding something from the rest of us
They have no dog
And they have no friends
What are they building in there?
With that light burning all night
Now what's that sound from under the door?
He's pounding nails into a hardwood floor
They come and go all day and night
And I keep seeing the blue light of a T.V. show
They’re moving furniture for hours on end
Is that a table saw?
What are they building in there?
I heard they came from some place called Saskatchewan
And often they arrive without their car
And they used to work in show business
But what the hell are they building in there?
They have no friends
But they get a lot of mail
I'll bet they spent a little time in jail
I heard they were out by the trash last night
Signalling with a flashlight...
Seriously, what the hell are temporary workers--staying in a simple furnished apartment--doing moving furniture for 4 hours a night for weeks on end? I keep hearing odd bits of rumours about them and despite being inches away from their front door I never see them.
What the hell are they building in there?
They never wave when they go by
They’re hiding something from the rest of us
They have no dog
And they have no friends
What are they building in there?
With that light burning all night
Now what's that sound from under the door?
He's pounding nails into a hardwood floor
They come and go all day and night
And I keep seeing the blue light of a T.V. show
They’re moving furniture for hours on end
Is that a table saw?
What are they building in there?
I heard they came from some place called Saskatchewan
And often they arrive without their car
And they used to work in show business
But what the hell are they building in there?
They have no friends
But they get a lot of mail
I'll bet they spent a little time in jail
I heard they were out by the trash last night
Signalling with a flashlight...
Seriously, what the hell are temporary workers--staying in a simple furnished apartment--doing moving furniture for 4 hours a night for weeks on end? I keep hearing odd bits of rumours about them and despite being inches away from their front door I never see them.
Thursday, August 18, 2005
Hello, Raisin Bran, how may I help you?
I grabbed something from the fridge a while ago and was rather surprised to find my box of Raisin Bran in there. I pulled it out and went about my business. Twenty minutes later a startling thought popped into my head, I jumped up and ran to the cupboard where I usually keep my cereal – to find my milk.
I must have put it there this morning, 12 hours earlier.
I think the weather must be throwing me off the last few days. I have to keep reminding myself it’s not October. I’ve heard rumours it’s summer in other parts of the world but here we’re getting frost and short, dark, cold rainy days with highs of 8.
Weather is funny (hehe, wea-ther) (is it a bad sign that I’m making myself laugh with grade 3 humour?). Some parts of the country are in record setting heat while others get record cold. Since I’ve been in Alberta we’ve had tornadoes, hail, frost, floods and (I shit you not) grasshoppers! (aren’t those like locusts?)
My brain seems to be going into winter hibernation. It was one thing when I got the name of someone I’ve never met wrong, when leaving her a message, a more worrisome spectacle when, on the next phone call, I got my own name wrong.
Tuesday, August 16, 2005
Turn right at which cow?
These are actual directions I got the other day, as close to verbatim as possible (names are likely wrong), I had just been speaking to the old farmer about how I was new to town and didn’t know my way around, his directions: “Just go up the old Sullivan Lake road till you hit the Brownly’s farm and hang a left-“
“Is it called the Sullivan Lake road or does it have a number?”
“Oh sure, but I can’t remember the number, everyone just calls it the Sullivan Lake road, then once you’re on the road by Brownly’s go 4 miles-“
“Hang on, you’re going to have to gimme a name or number for the Brownly’s road,”
“Oh I don’t remember that, but everybody knows the Brownly’s, his father was in government back in the 50’s some kind of MLA or something, when you get 4 miles past that, right where the Hampstead property ends on the left there’s a turn off, there's usually a bunch of cows there, you won’t miss it, take a right and go 9 miles to the stop sign-“
“I’m sorry I can already tell I’m not going to be able to find it this way-“
“No, no, don’t worry it’s real easy, my property is right along the Palliser ridge, next to where the old Thomas boys used to try to grow Canola. If you just turn right at that stop sign you’ll see the Thomas’ family house within a few miles, a big pink place you can’t miss, they haven’t lived there in years but you’ll see the house. My road is just 3 miles past that, on the right, you might see those kids playing around on that corner with their bikes, they live up the other way, if you get to Ed Wright’s driveway you’ve gone too far…”
The flip side of a town where people give directions like that is you can usually find someone else who knows where it is who can just show you on a map.
______
Marge: [to Bart] Now we have to find another school for you.
Homer: And if you get kicked out of that one, you're going straight in the army, where you'll be sent straight to America's latest military quagmire. Where will it be? North Korea? Iran? Anything's possible with Commander Cuckoo-Bananas in charge.
These are actual directions I got the other day, as close to verbatim as possible (names are likely wrong), I had just been speaking to the old farmer about how I was new to town and didn’t know my way around, his directions: “Just go up the old Sullivan Lake road till you hit the Brownly’s farm and hang a left-“
“Is it called the Sullivan Lake road or does it have a number?”
“Oh sure, but I can’t remember the number, everyone just calls it the Sullivan Lake road, then once you’re on the road by Brownly’s go 4 miles-“
“Hang on, you’re going to have to gimme a name or number for the Brownly’s road,”
“Oh I don’t remember that, but everybody knows the Brownly’s, his father was in government back in the 50’s some kind of MLA or something, when you get 4 miles past that, right where the Hampstead property ends on the left there’s a turn off, there's usually a bunch of cows there, you won’t miss it, take a right and go 9 miles to the stop sign-“
“I’m sorry I can already tell I’m not going to be able to find it this way-“
“No, no, don’t worry it’s real easy, my property is right along the Palliser ridge, next to where the old Thomas boys used to try to grow Canola. If you just turn right at that stop sign you’ll see the Thomas’ family house within a few miles, a big pink place you can’t miss, they haven’t lived there in years but you’ll see the house. My road is just 3 miles past that, on the right, you might see those kids playing around on that corner with their bikes, they live up the other way, if you get to Ed Wright’s driveway you’ve gone too far…”
The flip side of a town where people give directions like that is you can usually find someone else who knows where it is who can just show you on a map.
______
Marge: [to Bart] Now we have to find another school for you.
Homer: And if you get kicked out of that one, you're going straight in the army, where you'll be sent straight to America's latest military quagmire. Where will it be? North Korea? Iran? Anything's possible with Commander Cuckoo-Bananas in charge.
Saturday, August 13, 2005
Oh what fun...
I don’t like being a reporter. I like writing, I like being paid to be curious, I like that my time is flexible, as long as I do the work. As a curious person I love that it’s actually my job to be nosy when I see something going on, that I get special treatment (sometimes negative) when I call up the people in the know to find out, on behalf of the public.
My job is very slack but none of this makes up for what I’m learning I dislike about reporting. I hate cold calling people—never been a big fan of talking on the phone—and trying to weasel my way in to talk to people who may not want to talk to me. I absolutely despise being a public figure and having to care about what people think of me and having everyone paying attention to me all the time. I hate stretching a non-story into a story because there’s a hole in the advertising.
I hate having to write objective stories about crap I hate or disagree with, have a moral objection to or have less than no interest in. I hate re-writing press releases and golf scores and having to be careful about not offending the wrong people.
People might say oh well that’s just there, but it’s not, it’s the same in most small towns and realistically most of the type of jobs I’m likely to get are in small towns where the Editor doesn’t want to piss off their advertisers and other important people – i.e. almost everyone who would normally be in the news.
I hate sitting here whining like a 13 year old girl in her My Little Pony diary but I fear I just spent years and a fortune getting into something that isn’t any better than the crap I’ve been doing for the past 15 years. Same pay, same cow-towing to authority, same dread of going to work in the morning…same shit, $40,000 poorer.
It also scares me that this isn’t an internship or a temporary thing, nothing else to look forward to, this is supposed to be my career now, and apparently I don’t like it.
Just spoke to Robyn briefly online. She was complaining about how boring Kamloops is, which I did plenty of when I was there. Now, looking back, I can’t imagine how or why. A town full of friends and books stores and restaurants and movie theatres and places to walk other than 30 minutes around the flat square and live music and rock trivia and house parties and a swimming pool and hot tub and gym and magazine store and coffee shops and more than one supermarket and video store and a some nice parks and a ski hill and a few hours from all kinds of cool places and and and…
Anyway a shout out to all those still there (Lisa, Ross, Jeff, Robyn, Meghan, Kelly, Sarah, Sophie, Tara, Marcel…Joe…Marcello?, don’t know where he is, Lailani?…) even though Tara’s probably the only one of those who reads this. Also to the few that have to go back (Scott, Chris, Jen…?) who are probably hating the idea though I’d give my right arm for it at this point.
It also really sucks not being able to chat online since I developed that habit over the last two years and expected to keep in touch with everyone that way. Enjoy the big city (which I used to think of as a tiny town) while you can guys, if you get a reporting job you’ll almost certainly be in a smaller town – not as small as this mind you, but smaller than da’Loops.
Funny I really did always think of it as a smallish city, a distant 5th in B.C. behind places like Victoria & Kelowna, Nelson, a 6th the size, has a better selection of restaurants and live music etc, but then you get out here and see Kamloops is considerably larger than Alberta’s 3rd largest “city” (Red Deer) and I retroactively appreciate the city amenities Kamloops offered. Red Deer is smaller than Chilliwack, which felt like a small hole when I was there last summer – not to degrade either of those towns, just putting things in perspective.
Anyway I don’t know why I’m rambling, avoiding going in to work, for my 6th weekend in a row. I gotta figure out a way to stop hating this career—fast—or I’m going to do something drastic which will make it difficult to get a job in this field again.
I don’t like being a reporter. I like writing, I like being paid to be curious, I like that my time is flexible, as long as I do the work. As a curious person I love that it’s actually my job to be nosy when I see something going on, that I get special treatment (sometimes negative) when I call up the people in the know to find out, on behalf of the public.
My job is very slack but none of this makes up for what I’m learning I dislike about reporting. I hate cold calling people—never been a big fan of talking on the phone—and trying to weasel my way in to talk to people who may not want to talk to me. I absolutely despise being a public figure and having to care about what people think of me and having everyone paying attention to me all the time. I hate stretching a non-story into a story because there’s a hole in the advertising.
I hate having to write objective stories about crap I hate or disagree with, have a moral objection to or have less than no interest in. I hate re-writing press releases and golf scores and having to be careful about not offending the wrong people.
People might say oh well that’s just there, but it’s not, it’s the same in most small towns and realistically most of the type of jobs I’m likely to get are in small towns where the Editor doesn’t want to piss off their advertisers and other important people – i.e. almost everyone who would normally be in the news.
I hate sitting here whining like a 13 year old girl in her My Little Pony diary but I fear I just spent years and a fortune getting into something that isn’t any better than the crap I’ve been doing for the past 15 years. Same pay, same cow-towing to authority, same dread of going to work in the morning…same shit, $40,000 poorer.
It also scares me that this isn’t an internship or a temporary thing, nothing else to look forward to, this is supposed to be my career now, and apparently I don’t like it.
Just spoke to Robyn briefly online. She was complaining about how boring Kamloops is, which I did plenty of when I was there. Now, looking back, I can’t imagine how or why. A town full of friends and books stores and restaurants and movie theatres and places to walk other than 30 minutes around the flat square and live music and rock trivia and house parties and a swimming pool and hot tub and gym and magazine store and coffee shops and more than one supermarket and video store and a some nice parks and a ski hill and a few hours from all kinds of cool places and and and…
Anyway a shout out to all those still there (Lisa, Ross, Jeff, Robyn, Meghan, Kelly, Sarah, Sophie, Tara, Marcel…Joe…Marcello?, don’t know where he is, Lailani?…) even though Tara’s probably the only one of those who reads this. Also to the few that have to go back (Scott, Chris, Jen…?) who are probably hating the idea though I’d give my right arm for it at this point.
It also really sucks not being able to chat online since I developed that habit over the last two years and expected to keep in touch with everyone that way. Enjoy the big city (which I used to think of as a tiny town) while you can guys, if you get a reporting job you’ll almost certainly be in a smaller town – not as small as this mind you, but smaller than da’Loops.
Funny I really did always think of it as a smallish city, a distant 5th in B.C. behind places like Victoria & Kelowna, Nelson, a 6th the size, has a better selection of restaurants and live music etc, but then you get out here and see Kamloops is considerably larger than Alberta’s 3rd largest “city” (Red Deer) and I retroactively appreciate the city amenities Kamloops offered. Red Deer is smaller than Chilliwack, which felt like a small hole when I was there last summer – not to degrade either of those towns, just putting things in perspective.
Anyway I don’t know why I’m rambling, avoiding going in to work, for my 6th weekend in a row. I gotta figure out a way to stop hating this career—fast—or I’m going to do something drastic which will make it difficult to get a job in this field again.
Monday, August 08, 2005
Pet peeves
So I solved one of the strange noises (see 3 entries ago). I was in my living room when the exact same loud noise of something crashing into my front window startled me. This time it was daylight and the curtain was open as I saw a cat hurtle itself into the window like one of those stuffed Garfield’s with suction cups.
The window starts about 4 feet off the ground and I assume the cat was leaping onto a non-existent sill. It frantically pawed the window as it hung suspended in mid air for a moment before crashing to the ground and disappearing around the corner before I could get to the door to see what the hell the little bugger wanted.
Anyway it’s been a while since I posted (some good discussion in the comments on the previous post) so I figured I’d rant about something that’s been buggin me: I resent the hell out of having to tip!
I hate our tipping customs. Who decided who gets tips and how much? I don’t understand the reasoning behind the choices and I hate having to tip 15% to waitresses when they’re already getting paid for the job, I don’t understand how a “tip” became a given. When some spacey twit or…(what’s a male twit?) just barely does an adequate job of the onerous task of bringing food from the kitchen, and is already paid to do it, why am I the asshole if I don’t want to reward them for doing their job?
Why do valet’s, hairdressers, delivery drivers, bellhops and taxi drivers get automatic tips when people working just as hard or harder in a dozen other fields never do? I hear arguments all the time, usually from former waitresses etc, “oh they work hard, they live on their tips blah blah-” so what! I’ve worked hard and in 15 years of crappy ass, minimum wage jobs I’ve probably made less in tips all together than a mediocre waiter/waitress or bartender at a decent place makes in a good night. When was the last time someone tipped a construction labourer or a roofer, reporter, teacher, nurse, garbage man, letter carrier…?
The crappy thing is it throws the whole idea of what I though a “tip” was out the window. What do you do when you actually get unusually good service that you want to reward? Am I supposed to tip 30%?! I want to be a generous person, I like to tip well – but I want to do it on my own terms, when it seems earned, not as a given tax on certain services. Anyway, may seem like a small thing, but it’s really been buggin me.
_____
"I wish we lived in a place more like the America of yesteryear that only exists in the brains of us Republicans." Ned Flanders
So I solved one of the strange noises (see 3 entries ago). I was in my living room when the exact same loud noise of something crashing into my front window startled me. This time it was daylight and the curtain was open as I saw a cat hurtle itself into the window like one of those stuffed Garfield’s with suction cups.
The window starts about 4 feet off the ground and I assume the cat was leaping onto a non-existent sill. It frantically pawed the window as it hung suspended in mid air for a moment before crashing to the ground and disappearing around the corner before I could get to the door to see what the hell the little bugger wanted.
Anyway it’s been a while since I posted (some good discussion in the comments on the previous post) so I figured I’d rant about something that’s been buggin me: I resent the hell out of having to tip!
I hate our tipping customs. Who decided who gets tips and how much? I don’t understand the reasoning behind the choices and I hate having to tip 15% to waitresses when they’re already getting paid for the job, I don’t understand how a “tip” became a given. When some spacey twit or…(what’s a male twit?) just barely does an adequate job of the onerous task of bringing food from the kitchen, and is already paid to do it, why am I the asshole if I don’t want to reward them for doing their job?
Why do valet’s, hairdressers, delivery drivers, bellhops and taxi drivers get automatic tips when people working just as hard or harder in a dozen other fields never do? I hear arguments all the time, usually from former waitresses etc, “oh they work hard, they live on their tips blah blah-” so what! I’ve worked hard and in 15 years of crappy ass, minimum wage jobs I’ve probably made less in tips all together than a mediocre waiter/waitress or bartender at a decent place makes in a good night. When was the last time someone tipped a construction labourer or a roofer, reporter, teacher, nurse, garbage man, letter carrier…?
The crappy thing is it throws the whole idea of what I though a “tip” was out the window. What do you do when you actually get unusually good service that you want to reward? Am I supposed to tip 30%?! I want to be a generous person, I like to tip well – but I want to do it on my own terms, when it seems earned, not as a given tax on certain services. Anyway, may seem like a small thing, but it’s really been buggin me.
_____
"I wish we lived in a place more like the America of yesteryear that only exists in the brains of us Republicans." Ned Flanders
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