centre of the universe - the dreaming

Well. Here we are. Only two coaches left. The most difficult, and the easiest.

First, let me just say that I haven't an appropriate photograph for the first coach (who is, coincidentally, the most difficult coach to find a celebrity lookalike for). The Montreal Alouettes are an excellent team, and have earned every inch of their Grey Cup playoff spot against the Riders. To be completely honest, if I were the sort of person who was prone to doubt, I would be by way of thinking that Montreal will be going home on the airplane with an awful lot of silver.

So. Marc Trestman is the coach of the Montreal Alouettes. He is lean and springy and he has this amazing smile. Seriously, if you've ever heard the expression "...has a smile that lights up his/her face", you know what I mean. Here, I'll show you.

Marc Trestman:	And here, Marc Trestman smiling

And do you know who he looks like? Can you see it in those two images? It's a bit of a trick question, because there are only a select few people who are going to be able to see it. It's not an optical illusion...would you like to guess? Go ahead. I'll wait....

...

...


Okay, no, I'm not waiting. Marc Trustman looks **just like a less good-looking, slightly off VIPER PILOT!!!!**

"Doubleyou tee eff?" you're thinking, if you've no idea who Viper Pilot is. Well, see, I haven't asked his permission to put his photo on my bournal, and the photo that I do have that looks most like Marc Trustman is a Very Old Photo. But you have to trust me. Dude looks like Viper Pilot.

There's also something Very Strange going on with Marc Trestman's eyebrows, which make him look a little like Guy Pearce from one of his seminal roles:


Felicia, from Priscilla, Queen of the Desert.

His Nibs doesn't see it, but the minute I saw Marc Trestman's eyebrows, I thought of RuPaul and some of the most wonderful and FABULOUS drag queens around. I don't know if maybe it's a congenital thing, or maybe if he just has naturally FABULOUS eyebrows. But if you look at the pictures of him smiling, you see his lovely, sensitive eyebrows.

I'm not saying that Marc Trestman is a drag queen.

Although I just now had a really really good idea (TUO, quoting Stuart McLean, would say, "no, cenobyte, you had a *different* idea"). And my really really good idea is that all of the coaches of the CFL should do a drag show to raise money either for charity (more likely) or to help Ottawa or Halifax start up a CFL team. And, on top of that, a players' drag show would also be awesome. I mean, with all the spandex in those change rooms, they have to be halfway there anyway.

I mean really. Are you with me here? Marc Trustman kind of has fabulous transvestite eyebrows. Maybe it will help to see him side-by-side with Felicia here:

Marc Trestman (note the eyebrows)	Felicia, from Priscilla, Queen of the Desert

Coincidence?
I THINK NOT!!!

Now.

This is the moment you have been waiting for. How do I know? Even though you don't know because you don't know what it is that you're waiting for? I know because I *do* know what it is that you're waiting for, and I can tell you that this will be the most shocking and amazing thing you've ever seen. You're going to sit in your chair, with your eyes bugging out of your head, and you're going to gasp: "how could I not have KNOWN this?" Then, when it's over, you're going to say "Thank you, cenobyte, for opening my eyes to the wonders of..." ...oh wait. That's starting to sound like a date I went on in 1994. Nevertheless, you will be amazed.

But before we get there, my friend Rob (who has not lost his marbles yet) thinks that the coach of the Calgary Stampeders looks like actor/musician/douchebag Billy Bob Thornton. They both have that rugged outdoorsy-type look to them, don't they? They both wear ball caps. They both wear sunglasses, and although I've no desire to know whether they both have matching chest hair, I can see a certain resemblance there. I really like Billy Bob Thornton, in spite of his douchebaggery with former King of Spain-turned CBC radio host Jian Ghomeshi. I'm not sold on the comparison with this CFL coach, though. But that could be because I know The Truth. But hey. Give the kid a break.

DK has suggested that Calgary's coach looks less like a douchebag and more like a famous rodent. I must admit, there is no small amount of groundhoggery going on with Hufnagel's ...slight...overbite... I'm relatively certain that if you popped a little wee Calgary Flames jersey on this little fellow, and outfitted him with a set of headphones and a couple of oddly trained CFL officials (see cenobyte's "CFL Officials School" series), and I bet you'd have a fairly good likeness. Still, I think this comparison still has a long way to go.

I'm not sure you're really ready for this, but....

Once upon a time, there was a Western Canadian football team called the Calgary Stampeders. They were very popular with some people from Calgary, although it was always unclear why. You see, they played a pretty good game of football, and they'd won the Grey Cup a few times, and they looked *awfully* debonair in their red and black uniforms. But that wasn't their secret. Really, their popularity, nay, their *success* has been due to only one thing.

And that one thing is that their coach, a so-called "John Hufnagel" is actually not who he says he is. The truth of the matter is that the Calgary Stampeders are the team they are for one reason and one reason only:

Alice Cooper is their coach.

Is this really mild-mannered John Hufnagel,            coach of the Calgary Stampeders?	Or is **Alice Cooper** their real coach?

John Hufnagel?                                           or                      Alice Cooper?

That's right. And this year?
SCHOOL'S OUT...FOR EVAR!!!


Go ahead. Just *try* and not see Alice Cooper every time you see John Hufnagel from now on. In fact, just for you, this is the only image in the entire series that I Photoshopped (badly, I might add):



THUS ENDETH THE LESSON!!!

Labels: CFL, lookalikes, photo essay

Today, you get a special two-coach deal. Why? Because tomorrow is the Grey Cup, and I'm saving my very, very favourite CFL Coach look-alike for tomorrow.

The Hamilton Tiger Cats (otherwise known as the Ti-Cats) have a long and proud football tradition. Which includes losing to the Saskatchewan Roughriders, except on those occasions when we totally suck and can't manage to actually join the game until just after the game is over. Sad, that game was. Sad.

The coach for the Hamilton Ti-Cats is terribly cute. I mean, he is seriously cute. In that "Don't you wink at *me*, Marcel Bellefeuille, unless you plan on buying me a sodie pop after the game" sort of way. Incidentally, doesn't "bellefeuille" mean "beautiful leaf"?

...right.

Well. Mr. Pretty Leaf was a difficult coach to match. Not as difficult at the Montreal Alouettes coach, who only looks like a celebrity in terms of this guy what we know. But I'm getting ahead of myself. I want you to compare the following two images and see if it is or if it is not the *same facial expression*...or at least a strikingly similar facial expression:

This is the head coach of the Hamilton Ti-Cats. In French, his name means "beautiful leaf". He is pretty cute.	This is Dr. Leonard "Bones" McCoy. He's a doctor, not a linebacker.

Because he is the Man of Many (Pretty Leaf) Faces, it also became apparent to me that in more dramatic conditions, during those times when the lights are low, when sultry music is playing in the background...maybe there are garlic butter escargot and a two-hundred dollar bottle of wine on the table...when Marcel is speaking in low, dulcet tones...it occurs to me that Marcel Bellefeuille bears a striking resemblance to another Mystery Man:

Marcel "Pretty Leaf" Bellefeuille...or...	Jean Claude Van Damme (aka Jean Van Goddamn Clam)

Then again, in certain other poses:

Marcel "Beautiful Leaf"       Bellefeuille.	X-Man heavyweight Wolverine.	Autobot Bumblebee

I think the Ti-Cats' uniforms lend themselves nicely to the X-Men and certain Transformers.

Now.

I promised you two coaches, and two coaches you shall have. You may notice a kind of theme emerging in these identification guidelines, and it is a theme or pattern which supposes you have a fairly solid edumacation in things like obscure/nerdy/outdated pop culture. I can *not* watch the Toronto Argonauts without a) feeling a little sorry for Kerry Joseph, who was the quarterback for the Saskatchewan Roughriders when we won the Grey Cup in 2007. He has not been at all successful in Toronto, and I'm not sure if it's all the smog, or maybe if it's because he's just not "meshing" with the team, or whether he's scared out of his wits because his team is coached by a hideous monster:

Toronto Argonauts coach Mike Kelly is actually	wolfman/vampire child Eddie Munster

Okay, maybe a dark, broody Eddie Munster with less eyeliner and more testosterone. But seriously. Eddie Munster. I mean, look at that widow's peak! Look at it! It's like Bela Lugosi's wet dream! Isn't it wonderful?! (the widow's peak, not Bela Lugosi's wet dreams) I mean, grow Eddie up a few years, give him that squinty "are you effing SERIOUS!? THAT is the call you're going to make?" look, and you've got Bart Andrus. Here's Bela Lugosi's best widow's peak:


I mean, same *pose* as Bart, but, well, Bart files his nails, and ...um...well, he does loom, but not in such a swoopy way. In fact, I'd like to see Bart Andrus in a stage production of "Dracula". I'd bet you dollars to doughnuts he wouldn't bloody sparkle. You can tell that no matter how much Brylcream Bela Legosi uses, he's never going to have Bart Andrus' widow's peak. And correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't "Bart" the perfect name for someone with a widow's peak like that? I think he should change Toronto's team colours to purple and black (and silver, for the team 'whites') and play the Sisters of Mercy "Vision Thing" for their entrance song:



Heh. "Bart Andrus as Dracula: 100% sparkle-free, and now with 98% less estrogen! Made like a good vampire flick *should* be!" Mr. Andrus, if you're ever looking for something to do in the off-season, you should call me. I have this idea for this thing at the local theatre...You'd be a shoo-in!

Thus endeth the lesson.

Labels: CFL, lookalikes, photo essay

I hope you are enjoying the pictoral essay of How To Identify CFL coaches. It's like a trapping/hunting/survivalist animal identification course, but it has less spoor.Yesterday, we learned to spot subtle differences between Yankee actors and CFL coaches, and we also learned that Saskatchewan Roughriders head coach Ken Miller used to be a CBC children's television programme host. And that he was once very, very large.

Today, we will study the head coach of the Winnipeg Blue Bombers.

I'm assuming you know about the Winnipeg Blue Bombers.

They, nearly single-handedly, named the Labour Day Classic re-match "The Banjo Bowl". I think the fans out Winnipeg-ways thought it would be the ultimate insult. But, see, this is the thing with people who believe in things like magic and a team that has won the Grey Cup only twice in the past however many years the CFL has been handing them out. We know when 'tis nobler to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, and when to take arms against a sea of troubles, and by opposing end them. And, see, we end them. Every. Time.

Now, their coach is an enigmatic, but expressive gent who goes by the name of Mike Kelly. Mike Kelly has this great scowl. And he wears these crazy sunglasses that you can't see the arms of at the best of times. And I love watching the guy.I think during half time, he slips into the changeroom and dons a full-length black fur cassock.

This is par for the course for someone who moonlights as:

Mike Kelly is the head coach of the Winnipeg Blue Bombers.	Uncle Fester is Gomez Addams' weird electrophilic brother. Or Morticia Addams' mother's brother. Depending on which source you're citing.

Sure, Uncle Fester is pretty cool, but in the long run, he's just kind of the weird cousin of the cool guy (It), and his brother/nephew (Gomez) is infinitely more sophisticated. Um. We're Gomez in that analogy.

Seen here in a much more jovial atmosphere, the similarity is even more striking:


I do not in any way endorse the tossing of light bulbs onto the field during play. Mike Kelly is not a circus performer. He only does the lightbulb thing at family reunions and when Winnipeg wins the Grey Cup. Since you're not related to him and Winnipeg is not likely to win the Grey Cup any time soon, it's probably safe to assume that you will never be privy to the light bulb trick.

Thus endeth the lesson.

Labels: CFL, lookalikes, photo essay

I want to make it clear that I am not forgetting anyone in this pictoral essay of the CFL. There is method to my madness, you see, and I am leaving the very best CFL coach-a-like until last, so you can enjoy it on Grey Cup Sunday.

Yesterday, we learned how to recognise the Head Coach of the Edmonton Eskimos (as well as the General Manager).

Today, class, the best team in the CFL, the Saskatchewan Roughriders.

Now I should mention that I have been watching football most likely since before I could walk. My grandmother used to watch football every weekend in the summer. She didn't care which teams were playing, although she did prefer Canadian football to the American game. My father played football and coached football and watched football...in high school, I attended several football games under super secret cover...which reminds me of the time the cheerleaders at our high school misspelled the seven-letter name of our school. Embarassing, that. When the 'Riders won the Grey Cup in 1989, as I've mentioned here before, I was at the pub (underage) watching the game.

My team of choice has always been Saskatchewan. I don't think I need to explain that. Even when they're not the best team in the league, they're the best team in the league.

Now. When I began this foray into a pictoral essay, I thought I might get submissions from you. And you have not disappointed me! So, I shall incorporate some of the suggestions as well.

Brielle made the following suggestion for The Saskatchewan Roughriders' head coach, Ken Miller:

Saskatchewan Roughriders head coach Ken Miller	This is a guy called Al Franken, from Saturday Night Live.

They are both very happy men; this much is clear. Look at those wide, chicklet smiles. They both wear glasses and headphones. This is a good comparison.

However, the best way to identify the head coach of the Saskatchewan Roughriders is to think back to some of the innocent days of your life. Weekday mornings, CBC television...

This is Ken Miller. He is the head coach of the Saskatchewan Roughriders.	This is the Friendly Giant.  He was a CBC icon.

Sometimes, Ken Miller holds things:	Sometimes, The Friendly Giant holds things:

Coach Ken Miller has a Wide Receiver called Rob Bagg. The Friendly Giant has a Small Rooster *in* a bag!

They just...you know...they just make you so *happy*!

Thus endeth the lesson.

Labels: CFL, lookalikes, photo essay

The second in the pictoral essay of CFL coaches is brought to you today by the number 7 and by the letter Q. No, there are no muppets in this webisode. Okay, well, there are muppets in *everything* cenobyte does, at the very least, in spirit. In fact, when Jim Henson died, my best friend even-tempered, long-suffering Sarah and my own self wore green and black arm bands for a fortnight. THAT was a sad day indeed.

Of course, if I were to own the Muppet Show DVDs...

...but, I digress.

So. Yesterday, we learned how to identify the coach of the British Columbia Lions.

Today, class, we will learn the distinguishing characteristics of the head coach of the Edmonton Eskimos. Now, you might think the head coach of a team called the "Eskimos" might be a guy called "Nanook" or "Tuktaluuk", but you would be wrong. And probably a little culturally insensitive. The first way to identify the coach of this team is to first identify a multitude of Edmonton Eskimos players. They are often dressed in football uniforms; in particular, green and gold football uniforms. You can tell football uniforms by the taut little buns nestling inside, rolling around each other like ben-wa balls in a ....well. They look nice.

*ahem*

On to the topic at hand, then?
First, a word about the previous Eskimos coach: He is approximately five foot one, which, when surrounded by linebackers and tight ends (snicker), makes him look like a cabbage patch doll. But. When it's just a picture of him, he looks just like:

Danny Maciocia	Will Robinson (DANGER, WILL ROBINSON! DANGER!)

Strangely, now that Danny Maciocia is the General Manager of the Edmonton Eskimos, he looks more like another famous Danny:

Danny Maciocia	Danny "Must I Wear Clothes" Bonaduce

But neither of these versions of Danny Maciocia (pronounced "Danny") is the current coach of the Edmonton Eskimos. In fact, the head coach is none other than former Roughriders' defensive co-ordinator, Richie Hall:

Richie Hall	A bunch of wheat.

I can't help but love Coach Hall. I desperately wanted him to look like Shaft, but, no such luck. I do have a photo of him in which he looks a little like Morpheus (from The Matrix), but only because they're both bald black men:

Richie Hall	Morpheus

That is how to identify the Head Coach (and the General Manager) of the Edmonton Eskimos. Tomorrow, my personal favourite for look-a-likes.

Thus endeth the lesson.

Labels: CFL, lookalikes, photo essay

This will be the first in a seven- or eight-post series dedicated to the fine coaches of the Canadian Football League. I decided to do this series as a photo essay when I was watching the football and began seeing striking resemblences between certain CFL coaches and folks..well...what looked like them.

Now, it should be said, if you don't follow CFL football, um, well I don't really understand why you wouldn't, but you never know how many times the clowns have skittered out of your closet in the middle of the night to suck the breath from your nostrils, so I guess you can't be blamed for that. Anyway, the point I'm trying to make here is that the CFL is quite a lot different from the NFL (and I should point out here that "CFL" stands for "Canadian Football League" and "NFL" means "National Football League". NFL is played in the "New Nighted States", as Yours Truly used to call the USA).

First, there are only eight teams in the CFL, which is few enough that I can name them all here, for posterity:
British Columbia Lions
Edmonton Eskimos
Calgary Stampeders
Saskatchewan Roughriders
Winnipeg Blue Bombers
Toronto Argonauts
Hamilton Ti(ger)-Cats
Montreal Alouettes

There is talk in Ottawa about them starting up another team. They used to have a bunch of rag-tag vagabonds running around there called the "Rough Riders", but they wouldn't know a real football team if it slapped them in the arse. Plus, they went broke. Then they came back for a season or two as the Ottawa Renegades. And then they went broke. So now, there's talk in Ottawa about building a new stadium. Which means they're also talking about bring back a ninth CFL team, which can only, IMO, be a good thing. To be honest, I think we need some Eastern teams. I mean, would it seriously be impossible for Halifax to throw together a team?

Anyway. So the CFL is tiny, compared to the NHL (which has 32 teams). Also, there is WAAAAAAAAY more money in the NFL, so sometimes, the coaches, particularly of the more winninger teams (ie - not the Buffalo Bills), and certainly the players, attain some degree of notoriety.

Not so in the CFL. You might watch football for an entire season and still have no concrete idea of what the coach for your favourite team looks like. This photo essay is meant to be a helping guideline for you so that you can learn to recognise the CFL coaches if you see them downtown selling newspapers or used sports equipment to raise money for their team (The Saskatchewan Roughriders are a community-owned team; you can actually buy shares in the team. I'm not sure how many others are, but that's part of the reason why we bitch so much when they don't do well; it's like sending your kid to college and realising he's majoring in the Department of Beer and Bongs).

So. We'll start on the west coast. Oh the left of the screen, you will see the coach. Beside that, you will see the coach's look-alike. Then, later on, there will be a quiz.

This is Wally Buono.                                                                He is the coach of the BC Lions.	This is John Gotti. He is a Mobster*. A dead mobster.

Wally Buono                                                                          John Gotti

Once again, that was:

Wally Buono                                                                          John Gotti


For those of you who do not know who John Gotti was, here is, perhaps, a more relevant comparison:

This is Wally Buono. He is the coach of the BC Lions.	This is Fat Tony. He is a Cartoon Mobster* on the Simpsons.

Wally Buono                                                                  Fat Tony

I should also point out that although the similarity is striking, there is an easy way to ensure you will not become confused as to who is who: Fat Tony is a PRETEND guy. He's a draw'ring', if you will. Wally Buono is very much real, and he has the cutest facial expressions. Usually when his team is doing worse than he thinks it ought to.

Thus endeth the lesson.



--
*Note: No mobsters were harmed in the making of this post. Also: This post in no way infers or implies that Wally Buono *is* a mobster, or that he undertakes any kind of similar behaviours. Merely that he resembles a mobster. Also, all photos used in this series are free-use images and they have not been in any way altered.

Labels: CFL, lookalikes, photo essay

Q: What wakes up in the middle of the night and coughs so hard it pukes?
A: The Nipper!

Q: Who is the most likely person to get the Hamthrax (or any other flu) when The Nipper is coughing so hard he pukes, and when The Captain has a fever of 40 degrees?
A: cenobyte!

Q: Does looking up "Hamthrax" on the Intarweebs work?
A: It SURE DOES!!!

Q: Is it great to be home with the Sicky McSickertons?
A: Yes, but it's No Good when they're this sick, with the constant coughery.

Q: Does the Hamthrax vaccine even work?
A: Well, the McSickertons aren't dead, and don't seem to be getting *dangerously* ill.

Q: But what about the vaccine being full of tracking bugs that government agencies can use to trace your whereabouts for EVER?
A: Um. Those are risks I'm willing to take.

Q: Haven't you ever heard that vaccines cause autism?
A: I've heard that, yeah. I've also heard that all life on the planet was created 5,000 years ago, over a span of seven days. And that all life in the universe is going to end in 1,000 1666 2,000 2001 2012.

Labels: Bad Mojo, sicky mcsickerton

Dear little wee people living inside my television:

It must be very difficult for you living in there; you have to have specially-made tiny furniture and cars and underpants. I suppose they don't let you out of there much, what with the demands of syndication. On the other hand, your weather is usually predictable.

Listen, I think it's wonderful that Doofus and The Crosseyed Wench decided to get married to each other in mini-Las Vegas, and I'm not going to lie to you; when I saw them with miniscule Star Trek communicator pins, my cockles were warmed. I am certianly not one to begrudge two weirdos in love. And honestly, I would have loved to get married on the bridge of the Enterprise. In fact, when His Nibs and Yours Truly were sending out invitations, we even sent one to Mr. William Shatner.

Well. To be honest, *I* sent an invitation. For our wedding. To Mr. William Shatner.

So imagine my surprise when I saw you, trapped in your miniature world, your trifling world walled on one side by glass, talking to a pocket-sized wedding planner about your wedding in Las Vegas, and you said the only guest you wanted was none other than Mr. William Shatner. MY William Shatner. My Mr. William Shatner who didn't even send back my RSVP card, even though I'd sent an SASE and enough Yankee postage to get it back here. I thought, "Oh. Oh, this is too rich. Doofus and The Crosseyed Wench will NEVER get Mr. William Shatner. First of all, he's far too busy to return people's RSVP cards in postage-paid SASEs. MUCH too busy to actually *go* to someone's wedding just because they watched him once a week on Saturday mornings for the first fifteen years of their lives."

You know, I don't really have all that much to say to you, to be honest. The truth is, you are only, at maximum, twenty-some inches high. And you can't 'ekscape' your little LCD/Plasma prison. And I think that serves you right. Shatner stealers.

So we're not going to keep up this charade, my meager former friends. I hope your sham of a "wedding" was everything you wanted to be. The dress made you look fat.

Yours in disenShatulation,
cenobyte

Labels: letters

So. Only one of these scenarios really happened in the really really world.

You might not know this, but I spent the weekend at a monastery while His Nibs and the kids stayed at home. And do you know what happened there? A whole lot of sex. Serioulsy. Couldn't get away from it. A staggering amount of sex. What's the collective noun for an awful lot of copulation? There was a nuzzle of sex. (Wait; can you *have* a collective noune for a verb? It does seem rather counter-intuitive, doesn't it? Maybe it's a collective adjective then.) There was nuzzling and caressing and humping and fucking every time I turned around. I am *totally* not complaining. At a MONASTERY (and yes, the Benedictines are Roman Catholic).

Now, in the dream I had last night (yes, that first part actually happened), Neuba and her J and their gorgeous baby, and Darth Xander and *his* J and *their* gorgeous baby, and a bunch of people who haven't any gorgeous babies at all were all staying in a hotel of sorts. It seemed to me that Neuba and her J were living in this apartment/condo complex, because they had a bathtub in the main room. It was a large clawfoot tub with coloured water and jets. And Yours Truly was about 5 months pregnant. (**sigh**) I mean, lots of other things happened, but that was the real salient point. Oh, and my mum showed up. She and I and my grandmother had a *really* long conversation last night (thank you, mugwort tea!), but I wasn't expecting to see mum again tonight. She was disdainful of all the crap I'd brought to the hotel/apartment (with good right). She also told me to lose some weight (she's been telling me that since I was eleven, and she's right).

So a big hey to Neuba and her J and their wee wiggler, and to Darth Xander and his J and their wee wobbler. You guys seem to be doing great!

Also, babies and toddlers from now on shall be called 'wigglers and wobblers', and in the store I own that has toys, handmade clothes, and other kidstuff, that's how their section shall be labelled. Make it so.

Labels: babies, dreams, smart folks

So this one time, Smarty Pants and I were walking somewhere, and we were talking about stuff...I presume...because I don't remember it. But he assures me it's true and that this really happened.

Then he said some stuff about the ocean and then I said something about ...um... something else, and then he was talking about...er....whales? Maybe? And then there was some such thing about how stupid some people are, and then I said something really funny like, "Pretty Deep", but I don't remember why it's funny, and I don't remember if it's actually that or "Pretty Dumb".

And you know the worst part? The worst part is that Smarty Pants has re-told me this story, this story *about my own self*, that happened when I was not pregnant, and when I *was* completely sober, and had had a lot of sleep the night before. Smarty Pants has told me this story about my own self at least two times. TWO. Times.

Somewhere in my brain there had better be something really fucking important stored, because I swear to God, it's taking up space that could be put to good use. Not that it isn't put to good use now; I mean, have literally no way of knowing.

Labels: Bad Mojo

Two folks have now informed me that they receive notice when I update this bournal, but that they cannot see the posts. I know that at least two folks can see the posts, and the bournal in its full glory.

I have a crackpot theory.

My crackpot theory is that folks in Saskatoon cannot see the bournal because there is a kind of cosmic interference between the bournal's pure awesome and The King's pure awesome. The King, you see, lives in Saskatoon. And is convinced he is made of pure awesome. Which he very well may be. However, I *do* know that the bournal is made of pure awesome, because I made it. And I made it out of pure awesome.

So. If you can see the Bournal and the updates, please post an "AHOY!" in the comments. If you cannot see the Bournal and the updates, tear off all your clothing and run around in the street screaming "It's so UNFAIR!" and throw in a couple of rousing choruses of "THE BELLS!!! THE BELLS!!!" while you're at it. If you can see the bournal but choose not to read it, you're being a poop.

Labels: porblems

"Do you smell that?" His Nibs said, just before the radio went off.
"Ngggghhhhunnnggghhh?" I replied.
"Do you smell something BURNING!?" He was Very Nervous.
To tell you the truth, I smelled my pillow, and that was about it. The kids were moving around, getting ready for school. Then, after a few minutes of trying to figure out if I was still asleep, I realised that yes, I too smelled something kind of smokish.
"I think it's the furnace!" His Nibs called from the main floor.

I sighed, then bumbled my way downstairs. His Nibs (who is not necessarily mechanically inclined) is staring at the furnace. I open it up, turn off the pilot light, then turn off the power. His Nibs asked about the pilot light. It was clear to me that all things furnace were stolidly in my realm. I reset the furnace, and listened to it for a minute. "It sounds like the fan motor is blown," I said. Then I went upstairs and felt the vent. "Yes. The fan motor is blown," I said again. "You'll have to call the furnace guy."

So His Nibs called a few furnace guys, and the morning was spent having the fan motor replaced (it was, indeed, blown. Hot, even).

Then, His Nibs couldn't get the thermostat cover open. Then, His Nibs couldn't find batteries for the thermostat. Then, the light wouldn't work when His Nibs tried to turn it on. Then, His Nibs realised it was Recycling Day, and we hadn't put our recyclables done. Then, when getting eggs for breakfast, he ended up throwing one across the kitchen, and it smashed on the floor.

So.

Today has not been a good day, so far, for His Nibs. Be gentle with him.

Labels: Bad Mojo

The radio is blaring, sounds of car engines in the street trickle with early morning winter light into the bedroom. The children are stumbling bleary-eyed to the bathroom and back to get dressed. Sleepy choruses of "Happy Morning!" chime through the rooms.

His Nibs raises himself up on an elbow and says, "Good morning, love."

And gets punched in the chest.

"THAT," cenobyte growls, "is for making out in a bus with your friend's wife."

Poor His Nibs rubs his chest, his face a geography of confusion. Then cenobyte pokes him in the ribs.

"And THAT," cenobyte continues, "is for **not inviting me**. Jerk."

"Wh...but...wh...co...um..." His Nibs stammers.

"Yeah, whatever, bucko. Don't try making excuses NOW. It's too bloody late. Also: I love you."

It is at this point cenobyte usually storms out of the room because she realises how ridiculous it is for her to be *this mad* at someone for something they did *in a dream*. Sometimes, the vivid and remembery dreams are Just No Good. Thankfully, by now, His Nibs is starting to get used to it. Starting.

Labels: dreams, His Nibs

I just got a call from the socialist political party I support. It turns out they're beating the bushes and digging in the couch cushions to try to find financial support for their upcoming election drive. The very nice young woman who called me warned me that the opposing party (which is doing a pretty okay job of running the province, if you ask me, which you haven't done, but I'm telling you anyway) starting to fundraise for their party already (DANGER! DANGER WILL ROBINSON! DANGER! UPCOMING ELECTION!). I would have been *far more frightened* had she been able to pronounce the leader of the provincial opposition's name.

I have been a philosophical supporter of the provincial socialist party (otherwise known as the New Democratic Party) for as long as I can remember. I'm talking five, six years old. My indoctrination took place early, often, and was fairly comprehensive. And it's the good kind of indoctrination, and I'm not going to debate politicial ideals in this post. It was only natural last year when I actually purchased a membership and became an actual card-carrying socialist (I've carried cards stating as much before, but they've been mostly handmade, laminated with mactac, and coloured in in highlighter and magic marker). I took out a membership during the NDP leadership race.

I did not cast my vote for the man who is now leading the party.

So this nice woman stumbled through his name, which was kind of cute because I don't like the guy, and then she asked me for my support for the provincial party in the upcoming election campaign. I told her, "you know, I have absolutely no problem providing financial support for my provincial party, and I have absolutely no problem providing support for candidates running in my riding. But I will not...I WILL not support Dwain Lingenfelter. I will not give you support to run him as the party leader. I do not support him as party leader. I'm actually considering not supporting the party at all while he is leader. I firmly believe he will drive this party into the ground. He is an ass, and a political opportunist. Worse yet, he is inconsistent and would most likely deny being a political opportunist. I feel that any money I give to this campaign, with him leading the party, will be throwing good money after bad, or bad money after good, or however that expression goes, I'll be wasting my money and my effort. Should Dwain Lingenfelter be hit by a meteorite, and I'm not saying I want him to be, but should he become a victim of the fell chance of circumstance, as William Ernest Henley would say, I would donate craploads of money, and my volunteer time, to the party. But I cannot support you with him in the lead. My apologies."

"Oh, um...ohhh..." I can tell she's looking at a sheet and checking if my option is on her list. "...uhhh....would you like me to arrange a time to call you back, or would you like me to give you a number for you to call at a later time?"

And I thought, this...**this** is one of the reasons I support the provincial socialist party. It's the unbridled and slightly mad optimism. I asked her for her callback number, and told her I would think about it. Had she been on the ball, she would have told me all the reasons I should support the *party* even if I don't support the *leader*. That would have been a good thing for her to say. Because then I would have said "Normally, I would agree with you. However, I believe that if I supported the party, that should the party win, it would mean Dwain Lingenfelter would be leader of the province, and that, Miss, that would make me personally at least partially responsible for the downfall of the provincial government. Because I believe Dwain Lingenfelter would run this province into the ground. Possibly even further. Possibly he would run this province **all the way to CHINA**."

But she didn't ask, and I didn't say that. If she'd asked, I'd have said it, though.

Yet another reason, SWCoyote, I would not do well in politics. I don't think I'd be good putting my support behind someone duly elected to lead if I thought they were bad for the people.

Labels: Bad Mojo, Politics

The truth of the matter is that even though there was an outbreak of what the government and the CDC called "Swine Flu" in the 1970s, the H1N1 virus that's been declared a PANDEMIC by the World Health Organisation is actually a man-made virus. The original virus, which only really affected swine housed in overcroweded conditions, passed the animal/human barrier and spread from pigs to humans. At the time, the then-called 'swine flu' was little more than the typical seasonal influenza. However, the US government, then (and now) in the pocket of 'big drug' companies, was pressed to encourage US citizens to pay for immunizations, so that the drug companies could realise an economic benefit. At the time, revenues had been dropping steadily since the end of the 50s and 60s when prescriptions of painkillers, tranquillizers, and other drugs used to control mood disorders and mental illnesses had been at an all-time high.

Drug companies developed the vaccine, as most vaccines are developed, by incubating the virus in the albumen of chicken eggs (the whites). What the researchers didn't know then was that the Swine Flu (Influenza C) virus *mutated* with a virus in several of the egg whites. This was the H5N1 strain of the Influenza A virus. A mutation occurred between the two subtypes of virus. This produced several sub-types of the Influenza A virus, such as H1N1, H1N2, H3N1, H3N2, and H2N3. The vaccine was first tested on pigs. While the vaccine did seem to aleviate the incidence (and severity) of influenza infections, something strange began happening.

Those *humans* working with the swine began falling ill. It turned out the mutated Influenza strain could cross the pig/human species barrier. Scientists postulated that in incubating the mammalian virus in a cross-species manner (chicken eggs) had provided the virus the opportunity it needed to assimilate the mammalian DNA strands. Once a virus gets into the swine population, it can easily cross to humans...not through the meat (who would poison bacon? A kind and loving God would never do that), but the same way human viruses are spread - through body fluids like snot and spit and puke and poop.

The first human victims of what we now know is H1N1 were misdiagnosed with seasonal influenza. This strain of the disease has been around for years. However, with the advent of much more powerful diagnostic and imaging equipment, it became much easier to discover the strain of influenza affecting humans. Early in 2008, in Mexico, doctors discovered an outbreak of H1N1 among the human population. By the time the WHO (the World Health Organisation, not the band) had been able to confirm Mecian doctors' information, the virus had begun to spread through to the United States. Within a year, H1N1 was declared a pandemic (The WHO's definition of "pandemic" is very specific - an infectious disease must be passed by humans to humans on a certain number of continents). The Big Drug companies saw this as a boost to the lagging economy - they could sell outrageous amounts of vaccines to countries and this would boost their bottom lines and please shareholders.

The drug companies in turn indicated to the various health ministers from various countries that they could produce mass quantities of vaccines, but that they would have to ensure a certain purchase lot size to make the manufacture economically feasible in a time of economic slow-down. Governments were in for billions of doses of the medicine for a flu that, for the most part, was no more dangerous than any seasonal influenza (incidentally, the WHO's definition of 'pandemic' specifically excludes seasonal influenzas). Therefore, government health authorities and well-placed vocal healthcare providers were encouraged to warn the public, based on the WHO's confirmation that H1N1 had indeed become a pandemic, about the disease.

Big Drug marketing departments and political spin doctors knew that fear sells faster than sex, and so engaged the media in a massive campaign of "public information" messages (they did the same thing in the 70s with the outbreak of actual swine flu; this strain is a mix of avian flu and swine flu). This had the exact desired effect; people demanded a vaccine...which the Big Drug companies just happened to be able to manufacture...at a price.

However, as with anything in the scientific community, there were those who were annoyingly vocal about their opposition to the idea that H1N1 is any more fatal than any normal seasonal influenza. These opinions were harming the sale of vaccine, so the government had to manufacture a shortage. Everyone knows that the best way to sell your product is to claim there isn't very much of it.

Therefore, local governments have created a shortage of the vaccine, which has increased demand for it, ensuring the governments will be able to fill their orders and provide enough vaccine for everyone who wants it - but only if they're willing and able to follow a highly contrived 'distribution schedule'. If the governments claimed pregnant women and young children were most at risk, that would tug at the heartstrings of every man, woman, and child in the country. Everyone loves pregnant chicks and babies, right?

This is what a Conspiracy Theory about Hamthrax might look like.

Labels: conspiracy theories, sicky mcsickerton