A New Rant – I Don’t Care

apathy

Rant Time!
 
I was recently invited by a well meaning friend to join an online Doctor who fan club. I declined. When I was 15-18 I liked certain shows like DW and I still do (the old show, I am unimpressed with the new one since Matt Smith). I would wear the t shirts and wear the scarves etc., buy the magazines and absorb anything to do with it. Now that I am a grown ass adult I don’t care to do any of that. Someone sends me a link to a DW themed shirt or joke. meh. It just seems so, well, cue old man voice. childish.
 
Would I ever wear cosplay? Not a chance. I think its silly and ridiculous.
 
Will I ever go to a convention of any sort again? Not planning to.
 
Do I want my kids to like the things I like? Only if they want to. In fact I actively encouraged them to play different sports and do different activities than I did, because I didn’t want to be like my dad, an irritating parent trying to force your own “things” onto your kids. Trying to relive youth by living vicariously
 
I guess my issue is I don’t care to connect with people who also like things I like. I have zero tribalism and zero community spirit. I like what I like, don’t care to drag others into my world, though I will mention the things I like aloud to be part of conversations because I guess that’s what humans do (I guess). I am also MORE than happy to make fun of people who like stupid things though on the flip side I don’t care if people make fun of things I like. Its a free world.
 
Call Iain M Banks dry. Don’t care.
 
Call Black Books un-funny, I just assume you don’t get the jokes. Don’t care.
 
I guess, really, I just don’t care.
 
Note: not caring doesn’t mean depressed, it just means, I. Don’t. Care. Apathy is a bliss. It means you are always as happy as you want to be. Personally I think people who are over-exuberant about things are probably depressed and hiding it by being outwardly excited about things just so they can make friends. But that’s just me. Most people I know who fill their evenings and weekends with social events and talk about them ad finitum come across as secretly two wine bottles from jumping off a cliff.
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HOLIDAY RULEZ! WITH TOO MANY IMAGES!

PSA: Here is the Sean Approved List of Holidays and decoration date range:

New Years: Dec 31-January 1. Decorations may be taken down any day before Jan 2.

Image result for new years drunk

Family Day: Third Monday in February. NO decorations!

Image result for family arguing

Easter: Whenever the fuck it happens this year, first weekend after the first rabbit seen having sex after the first full moon following March 20th. No decorations!

Image result for rabbits mating

Victoria Day: Third Monday in May. YOU MUST COVER HOUSE IN UNION JACKS AND PHOTOS OF QUEENS (Monarchs and/or the band)

Image result for queen freddie

Canada Day: July 1. Put up a flag or whatever if you like between May 21 and July 1. Take it the fuck down though before July 15 because THIS ISN’T AMERICA (unless of course you are a military family because you probably have a flag up all year I guess.)

The Canadian Red Ensign that was in use from 1957 until 1965

August Civic Holiday (aka Simcoe Day): First Monday in August. NO DECORATIONS except a photo of a civet just to confuse people. Leave it up till labour day…Image may contain: outdoor

Labour day: First Monday in September. Decorate if you like, I guess.. I mean, a blue collared shirt maybe? Shackles? 

Image result for lazy workers

Thanksgiving: Second Monday in October. You already have fall/autumn decorations mixed with Halloween ones up right? RIght? You can leave them up till Xmas. 

Image result for turkey

Halloween!!!!: Oct 31. Decorations went up on Labour day, right? Or at least you started right! Leave them up! Mix them with Xmas ones come Dec. 

Image result for slutty halloween

Christmas: Dec 25. Decorations can go up WHENEVER THE FUCK YOU WANT. PLAY MUSIC FROM LABOUR DAY TILL NEW YEARS. KEEP PLAYING IT… However note mine go up as soon as Halloween ends.

Image result for tv yule log

You are welcome.

Punta Cana Travelogue

Two am is hell when you actually fall asleep at ten thirty and don’t really sleep because you refused a wake up call and don’t trust both phone alarms to go off. But you wake shower and rush and get to airport and all is okay and you mentally check off a box on that itinerary in your anxious brain.

Minor problem with someone at Air Canada who was was so helpful on the phone when we registered medical equipment for special handling then apparently wandered off without noting anything in our records because they were really just a cleaner who answered the phone (I assume…). Otherwise on plane with tired ease.

Plane food resembles train food. Plane food is no longer free (how long has in been since I flew anywhere?!?). Air stewards all seem to have nice bums (my wife made the observation. I agreed). We of course were sat behind three brothers that resembled humans who could easily go as Shrek on Halloween and their extended, loud, crass family. Otherwise flight uneventful. Bonus points for me.. My don’t use a washroom on an aircraft remains unbroken after thirty-seven years.

Punta Cana airport is quaintly tropical in that it is all open air and thatched roof construction. Runways are buckled a bit due to heat but all in all arrival was spectacula… wait. I forgot we fucked up within three minutes of exiting customs with our luggage.

Porter found.. check.

Oh a lady with a clipboard sees us! Yay she’s the tour guide! Yay shes checking our paperwork, all in order! We are escorted to a desk where another lady talks to us about our trip and oh, goody, deals! Best chance to book excursions! Ooh we can get two for $100 US total and all we have to do is visit a nearby Other Resort (No names mentioned) and do an ninety minute tour then book our times.. um I guess. We paid the $100 and booked our transport to the fucking Hard Rock Cafe for the next morning and the porter shaking his head got us in a taxi because we missed the bus.

Arrived at resort. It was immaculate and beautiful. Everyone was friendly and helpful. In our rooms, in our bathing suits, brief nap then off to book restaurants for the week.

Free booze!*

Free food!*

Sexy Russian women!

More loud irritating Canadians. Woah. Wait. Insert sound of needle scratching a record.

Okay. Here is my list of a weeks worth of vacationer stereotypes:

Russians: women sexy and fit and men less fit. Women enjoying themselves and a bit haughty. Men drunk and or just angry. They don’t seem to like the heat.

Mediterraneans: Stick to their groups. Friendly. Generally fit. Lots of tattoos. Women sexy. Men look like they are ready to challenge you to a sword fight but friendly.

Americans (with the exception of cigar guys) friendly, a little loud, in need of a gym membership. Women friendly, karaoke types. Men: frendly sportsy guys.

Canadians: 50% quiet and unassuming. 50% crass loud asshats. I didnt tell many people I was canadian. Women: 50% american seeming. 50% trailer park. Men: 50% american seeming. 50% brushcuts, goatees, crude lewd t-shirts, drunk by noon and not people I wanted to hang around with.

Russian women: sexy (did I say this already?)

We drank a bit. Swam. Ate. In bed by 8:30pm exhausted.

Next Up: Day Two… The Weather Outside is Not Actually Frightful Just Hottish

Punta Cana Travelogue

Day Zero

I was surprised more than anyone that we were on our way. We say aboard a Via Rail train (Canadian version of Amtrak for you American folk) on our way to Montreal. It was cheaper to fly out of the northern Francophone city than from Toronto or Ottawa and less hectic than adding an extra pair of visits with angry customs folks by heading southish to Syracuse. Also cheap moi had enough travel points to get us train transport for free. Granted, as usual, I didnt account for the cost of parking a car for a week at the rail station… nor my wife for the cost of a needed hotel stay and rousing ones selves when one books a six am flight.

So we sit on a train.

Chug a chug a chug.

It had been a stress inducing few weeks leading up however due to the need to arrange child transportation and care and paperwork for medical supplies for my wife. And buying food they would eventually not eat choosing to be away from home at others places for six of eight days. Oh and not to mention a minor plumbing disaster a week before we left. And work issues. All in all a day before leaving I was at DEFcon 3 and ready to accept losing a few grand and just staying home.

But chug chug chug. We were on a train.

Transport from train station was simple. It was Canada! We are Canadian! No lanuage issues. Everyone speaks engkish! Sure we grew up learning French but realistically, contrary to what they taught us in school and what advocates of French immersion for kids will tell you *, living outside of Quebec you rarely if ever need or use what French you know. Ever. It is all a big lie. And you feel anxious when placed in a situation when you may have to use it.

No French used apart from eavesdropping on others and dropping a “oui merci” here and there immediately followed by a “yes please” so you come off as polite but there being no mistake you are Anglais. We got from train to airport to hotel and ate the best spaghetti Bolognese I had had In years. (Far better than the Tom Hiddleston Bolognese disaster a few years back…).

We slept and set the alarm for two am.

Ugh.

Zut alors..

Next Up:

Day 1: We Arrive… Hell is Other People

Featured

Refresh, Reboot, Going Pro

Jesus Resurrection-07

Oooh they’ll be so surprised.  No they won’t.  They won’t care.  A small select group of them will even notice. That’s what will happen come September 15 when things change.

You see, after years of rambling on about it, come that day two weeks away, I’m doing a bit of truncation and what the heck, there are enough of you here that I will tell you now in advance so as to not cause PANIC.  Okay, perhaps PANIC isn’t the word.  More, mild curiosity.

  1. This Webpage (I hate the word “blog”). It’s being renamed, rebranded and republished.  Old things will still exist however the focus will be different, more frequently updated and more organized. I will have in place a storefront whereby people can buy my bookish things, crap   so as to I dunno, drive up interest before I actually get around to finishing my next underselling masterpiece.
  2. I’m already deleting existing page as of today, now in fact.  New feed will directly be connected to page.  Strictly official and such.  Right now it’s just thousands of tweets of my rambling attempts at short humour and arguments with the Current US President.
  3. Facebook: This page needs a facebook page of its own.
  4. Podcast flagship page and reposts (yeah, I’m finally doing that)
  5. Youtube will also be re-freshed

 

I’m going pro.

 

Etcetera.

All in all, I’m truncating my existing, upgrading what needs to be upgrading and moving forward  Onward and upward and all of that.

 

Huzzah

 

Hoy Hoy

Damien Donovan and the Widows Peak

 

halls-falls

 

 

Messr’s Brown and Thompson 

President, Vice President, Funding 

The Explorers Club 

1225 Maple Blvd 

New York City, New York 

 

 

Sirs: 

 

My name is Dr. Damien Donovan and you perhaps know my name as you co-funded the most recent expedition  in which I took part on behalf of Miskatonic University.  

Last year, 1917, per our expedition charter, I made final verification of our stores, equipment and personnel and we travelled by the most economical means, sea transport, to the northern wilds of Australia.  We performed our duties as directed and are in the process of finalizing our report, photograph logs and specimen charting.  I am happy to inform you that we were one-hundred percent successful and were in fact able to exceed our scope and reach within the financial constraints set by your gracious finding and the Miskatonic board.  That said,  we complete our field work a week early and I being expedition led, was able to leave the processing and preparation in the hands of junior staff under the direction of other senior researchers.  I thus set forth on my own excursion which is the topic of this letter. 

As you know, or may know, I am a biologist by training, specializing in tropical herpetological species with an interest in what some choose to call, “cryptids”.  By loose definition, these being creatures that though documented in various means, are not at present accepted in the scientific community as actual or real.  Some of these being creatures long thought extinct (Lazarus Taxon), creatures of legend (the northwestern American sasquatch or Tibetan Yeti) or are as yet undefined creatures spoken of in legend (sea serpents or the Japanese Kappa, likely the Andrias Japonicus).  I believe there are no such things as  “monsters” per say, merely animalia etc. that have yet to be properly observed and catalogued utilizing proper science due to the great expanse of our world and depth of our oceans. Over time, with man spreading wider and wider, these will become more and more encountered in the wilds, but until that time, I wish to search them out and preserve them from those that would cause harm to them. 

Pardon me for my soapboxing digressions. 

I had ten days free time until the ship was to arrive in Darwin for our transport back to the United States and gave instructions to the team to fly from Borroloola Northwestward as soon as they were ready.   I decided to look into a report of a smallish body of water to the East known as the Widows Bath, where a number of small Aborigine (Yanyuwa) children and one settler have died under mysterious circumstances.  I left detailed mapping of my projected route of travel with trusted colleagues and rented a motorcycle.  My satchel heavy with tools and my saddlebag full of foods and clothes, I made my way.  Three hours rough ride out, I encountered a small town where I was directed to an Aborigine village and provided with a horse for loan for a small sum as the ground beyond it to the Widows Bath was not conducive to wheeled locomotion. 

The sun was blistering hot that day and I had to stop numerous times to swig water from my skins and bottles.  I was near empty when I encountered the village.  It was squalid and unassuming but the people who populated it were both friendly and accepting. Given a stabling area with shade for my horse and a place to bunk down (free of spiders I was guaranteed as they and every other creature here wishes to kill you), I ate with the locals a food stuff I dare not describe and went to sleep after the long day’s ride. I was awoken after midnight by sounds outside my sleeping quarters and found the local chief I would assume or elder at least standing by me flanked by two solid, squat men, one of whom I knew spoke English as he assisted me earlier. 

We sat by the fire silently for a good hour and then the Chief went on to tell me a tale of his childhood,  when he and a friend went to Widows Bath (they had a different name for it) on a similarly hot day.  The body of water he described, is a deep D shaped cut into the high cliffed rocky shore of a larger brackish, ocean fed lake. Freshwater tributaries running to the sea further diluted the brackish waters flowing in from the tide fed lake to which it is attached.  They spent the day playing on the cliff edge, throwing rocks into the deep waters, drinking from the waterfall and trying to catch birds for food.  The chief went to relieve himself in a bushed area, heard a slight splashing noise and returned to find a single shoe and his friend’s hand carved wooden hunting stick halfway down a sloped embankment, the waters below calm and sedate apart from  widening ripple.  He spent the balance of the day looking for his friend, all the while feeling as if being watched.  The chief returned home in the dark, unwilling to sleep anywhere near the water. 

Following the story, the chief stood, patted me on the shoulder and wandered off into the dark toward his home, the other two in the direction of theirs I assume.  I added a log to the fire as is custom, and myself went back to my shelter to turn on the lamp, make notes and eventually go to sleep. 

In the morning, I awoke later than I had planned.  The sun was mid way up toward noon and I cursed myself for the nightcaps I had taken advantage of to help sleep come about. I stretched, found food waiting for me and began to pack my things and fill my water skins.  My horse was watered and fed as well and with a wave to my uninterested hosts I set off.  

The trek took me most of the remaining daylight hours and as planned I camped at a spot indicated on the mapping I was given in Boorloloola.  It was a small fenced in meadow along a small stream with a useable paddock and a shed utilized by researchers to protect them from the elements (not to mention the multitudes of venomous creatures that populate this god forsaken land) while on fauna documenting research sojourns in the general area.  I whipped up a fire, fed my horse, ate a meagre meal, stared at the stars while a sipped a bit of brandy.  I then headed to the shed, carefully investigated every nook and cranny for spiders and snakes and such (it was sealed and screened quite well) then bunked down for the night. 

At half past three in the morning I was awoken by a far off scream of some sort or animal in distress to the west.  I stepped out cautiously, ensure the paddock was secure and the horse was good (she was spooked but otherwise healthy) and throw a good deal of wood on the fire.  No more disturbances noted, I went back to a fitful sleep, stomping on an arachnid that trundled past the shed as I approached. 

The following morning I awoke to a brisk wind from the west that brought smells of the ocean and slightly fetid marsh-like odour that is to be expected at this time of year along the edges of rivers that have somewhat shrunken since the rains.  (I will provide you by the way with verbal verification of the location of Widows Bath following this correspondence should you wish to afford me an interview for further expeditionary consideration.  I will leave it to say it is between the Calvert River and the Pellew Islands region).  I ate, fed the horse, made a written and mental note to return as is customary and replenish the firewood stores, and headed in a general westerly direction for the remaining five miles of travel.  As I approached the location indicated on my map, the ground became more and more treacherous.  Rivers, creeks and rivulets shored by thick at times impossible forest, surrounded by cracked, bone dry land, flats and rock outcroppings.  Thankfully, a signpost had been erected with a wooden, hand painted yet now unreadable warning that was described quite well in my notes was still in place.  I took a long drink and provided the same to my horse, stowed the map and extricated both my shotgun, which I loaded, rope and my binoculars.  We approached the Widows Bath. 

We were able to traverse an ancient path that was only partly overgrown and make our way through the foliage to the edge of a large “D” shaped body of water, perhaps five hundred feet east west and double that north to southeast.  It was surrounded by a stony cliff face with a drop of perhaps twenty to twenty-five feet to the water’s surface.  I could see around the edge of the  low-lying, barren rock island that made up the center of the “D” distance flats that lead to the ocean (according to my mapping), the oceanic inlet that provided the tide driven current that cut the D into the rock and to my immediate right, a small waterfall of fresh surface water and spring derivation.  It flowed down directly into the salty ocean waters to create quite beautiful visible difference in light refraction and color, even given the discernible depths. 

At this point, what should have been a relaxing day’s expedition went sour so to speak.  Instead of dismounting, tying the horse to a nearby tree and walking over to the waterfall, whereby one could walk down the talus/scree slope to the waters below, I thought I would bring her to the waterfall to allow her to drink.  We moved forward on what seemed to be sold, stable rock (well travelled given the presence of  large mammal scat), to adjacent to the waterfall. As the saying goes, leading a horse to water and such, she was spooked and uninterested in drink.  I dismounted, thinking better of my plan and took the lead, attempting to turn her around on the rock slab so I could bring her back to the edge of the wood when a huge splashing from an unseen source below erupted, followed by a roaring bellow that echoed off of the cliff walls.  

The horse reared, my hand caught up in the straps I was pulled off of my feet and swung into the waterfall as she twisted to the left trying to turn on her own back from whence we came.  I tried to extract my hand unsuccessfully, as she tried to bolt.  I was dragged against a large jagged boulder, my progress halted, she realizing she could not continue, whipped to the right as another bellow rang out.  I was yanked free of the water and rocks but in her panic, she went over the edge, just as the straps came free.  I plunged down into the waterfall outfall, striking my head and losing consciousness, my last vision of the horse being her sliding down the rocks, a piece of the large flat stone outcropping we had been standing on coming free and following her down the slope.  Her whinnying scream and a loud cracking was the last thing I remember hearing as the world went black. 

I awoke a short time later (I assumed due to the position of sun).  As my eyes opened and adjusted to the light, I found myself on my right side, the lower, left half of my body cold and wet, my right leg trapped between two large rocks. Thankfully I was not completely immersed in the waters and the sunlight that bore down on me was dappled, passing for the present at least, through some overhanging trees.  I could see I was half way down the slope to the dark, the dark, foreboding waters farther below.  Looking downward and to my right I could see the avalanche that had occurred had also trapped the horse on her side at the water’s edge between a large portion of the flat stone we had perched on earlier and hummock of soil.  She was flopping around, whinnying and snorting but I was unable to determine her condition.  Mine, well, I was sore, my head hurt greatly from the impact, but my wedged leg seemed fine, just locked in place.   

I looked around to see if I could find a branch or pole within reach I could use to utilize as a lever to extricate my leg.  I saw nearby but not within reach, my bag, the strap torn away but otherwise intact, my shotgun and a horse blanket. Immediately I thought to remove my belt and use it too try to snag the items when I saw a curious thing.  A full-sized adult make Chlamydosaurus Kingii (Frilled Lizard) with beautiful colors was standing slightly uphill from my things staring at me.  Its eyes were locked on mine, its frill down and pressed against its neck, its breathing very, very slow, it rocked gently side to side as if in a trance.  Typically these lizards will raise their frills and hiss, open-mouthed in a defensive stance so close to a human in my experience, but no, this one was watching me intently.  I felt no personal concern as they are not a threat, only subsiding on insects and small animalia, but as one who studies reptiles, I wondered what was wrong.  I spoke to it, asking it gently as I do “what is up friend”, and in doing so, broke the spell. It waddled off uphill to climb the overhanging tree and return to what they do best, looking for food.  

My interest was detracted by a pained whinny from the horse.  I looked down and saw fear increasing in her eyes.  She was somehow being pulled against the rock and soil that held her firm.  With each movement, she screamed as only horses can.  I could not tell if she was kicking against the rock with her hind legs or if current was pulling her downward, only that she was definitely moving and entirely  voluntarily.  I turned me attention quickly to my gear. 

Not to bore you with the details, but I managed to over time obtain my shotgun and bag which contained water and much-needed food all the while distracted by the strange jerky movements and horrid noises emanating from the horse.  I ate, drank (not wishing to risk drinking the water falling upon myself from above until I ran out of my own) to prevent dehydration, and debated how best to free myself.  All the while, I kept an eye on the events below me and the lizard above who had found a comfortable perch to watch from. 

I decided as the sun moved westward, threatening to bathe me in its light,  that I needed to find a way to escape using the only available source of energy apart from my own strength.  Water.  I grasped every rock of substantial size I could and began to construct a flume of sorts to funnel the falling and flowing waters toward my leg.  Eventually, a substantial amount of diversion was made and I could feel the waters flowing along the length of  my trapped limb and between the large rocks.  I also felt a bit of a tingling sensation as it appeared that my leg though not broken was torn somewhat.  the waters pooling around below my knee darkened with blood.  My concern began to abate however as with a bit of a pulling sensation, I could tell that the diverted stream had begun to wash away some of the small rocks, gravel, clay and silt that had entombed my foot.  I could soon wiggle it and with a small whoosh, it pulled free, the pooled water shooting down between the rocks toward the Widows bath like a drain emptying. 

I pulled myself backward, gingerly examining my leg.  It was bruised and swollen, a few long though not deep lacerations along the shinbone that I could easily bandage for the trek back to the shelter.  I looked down toward the horse, plotting how to free her and most likely put her out of her misery, when the entire surface of the waters churned like a whale nearly but not completely breaching the surface of the sea. I scrabbled back up the slope toward the base of the tree just in time to see a black blue thick rubbery arm slither up the waters of the inflowing stream, slapping, seeking, probing for me.  Grabbing my shotgun and bag, I moved slowly like a crab to the shaded area, intrigued as one in my line of employ is but of course cautious, my leg made progress slow and as expected, painful. 

The arm, appendage, lifted and swung violently, thrashing the rocks and water, coming within ten feet of my position. I feared it would lift itself up onto the shore, gaze upon me with whatever eye or eyes it possessed, and better direct its aim. I slid back as far as I could, into the shady overhang at the base of the cliff, not bothering to concern myself with whatever I was dislodging out of fear for my life.  I heard a snap behind me, rolled to the side as best I could and saw that a coastal taipan (Oxyuranus scutellatus), a horribly venomous angry snake with extremely long fangs (yet beautiful coppery brown colorings) had erupted from the leaves piled beneath.  It reared back to strike and I was faced with two forms of death, when the frilled lizard rushed into view, bit the snake at the base of its head and proceeded to roll down the hill toward the waters.  This as you may know is not a normal reaction between the two species, a frilled lizard generally eating only mammals and insects of relatively small size. 

I stood, knowing another snake or more may be I the vicinity and limped to the right to attempt to traverse the remainder of the ridge and make my way back whence I came.  The arm was still thrashing but dislodging loose stones and rocks upon itself.  Eventually, it turned its attention to the horse who was now herself white eyed in fear at the sight of a snake and lizard in a death battle within five feet of her head.  Knowing what I must do, I loaded a shell into the shotgun, aimed first at the probing arm that was tentatively touching the lower half of the horse, then moving a bit closer as I dared , I changed my aim for her head instead, mercy taking over my sense of fear.  I pumped two shots into her skull, killing her near instantly before the revolting rubbery arm had fully wrapped around her flanks and began to twist her free of her rocky captors, in might I say, two distinct pieces.  She slid into the waters and beyond view into the depths just as the lizard and snake separated.  Snake moved off along the shore and lizard turned to face me.  As I watched, it dropped on its side and expired. 

I rapidly as possible walked the length of the lower ledge, then up the embankment to the rocky cliff above the Widow’s Bath.  Staring into the dark , brackish abyss, I was able to discern only a modicum of movement below the surface but enough for my liking.  I took what notes I felt were important, drank my fill of water, bandaged my wounds as best possible, then walked briskly toward a small copse of trees to the west. There, what I deemed a safe distance, I set about constructing a small camp for remainder of the day, for walking in such heat was unsafe especially in my condition.  Come nightfall and the rising of the moon, I walked the five miles back to the shed and paddock, shut the gate and started a massive fire utilizing the wood I had left the night before. I cleared the hut to ensure again no snakes or spiders would interrupt my sleep, and dropped, exhausted into the arms of Morpheus. 

I awoke some ten hours later to a knock on the door and the sounds of shuffling feet.  I stood, forced myself to awaken, stood and opened the door to find the aboriginal Chief standing before me. He handed me a skin of water, a small sack of food and clapped me on shoulder looking sideways into my eyes.  He spoke no words, but for the briefest of moments, I saw his eyes for the space between blinks change to yellow with no whites. They became those of a lizard, and then, they were not. I stepped back and stumbled onto the floor of the shed as the Chief laughed uproariously, something I had not expected from someone so stern. 

He helped me to my feet as his two associates came around the corner with a new, saddled and provisioned horse in tow.  I accepted the loan, and it was made clear that it was such and that I owed them for the lost horse. I accepted, made an oath to repay them their kindness and generosity and made my way back to their village to collect my vehicle. 

There is not much more to this story to add sirs, apart from my assurance that I plan to return with a full crew of students this coming summer and would graciously accept any grants you could bestow me for provision of a confidential, fulsome account, including photographic evidence and mapping, in your hands within three months of my departure. 

 

Yours Sincerely 

Dr. Damien Donovan,

June 20, 1918 

 

Personal Food Facts

Since I am in between projects for a few days, I threw together a few fun personal food facts that persons who know me can utilize to explain my somewhat (according to them) odd food ways and means…

1. I had no idea what a casserole was until I was about 20. We never had them when I was a kid and only knew that “tuna casserole” was some disgusting food thanks to TV sitcoms.

Some Disgusting Casserole
To me this looks like something you find on the ground in an alley outside a shady bar at 2 am.

Note: The idea of making, eating or looking at a casserole even to this day is disgusting to me. Gross.  A pan filled with a miscellany of foods and baked together.  Only Lasagna is acceptable as it is technically a casserole.

2. I had no idea what the term “seconds” was until I was in my late teens. My parents being avid fitness and nutrition folks only ever made meals sized to how much we would eat and my sister and I ate like birds. We didn’t like food. We never had leftovers.

I went to someones house once and they asked “do you want seconds?”… I assumed it was some kind of ethnic dessert (they being slightly olive in complexion, thus “ethnic” in my hometown). I said “yes please!” being a polite child.  I was given a second plate of food.  I was in horror. I barely ate the first.  I started to cry part way into it, I couldn’t eat all of this!! I said “thank you, I don’t feel well” and ran home.

*Granted, I also had no idea what my last name was until the first day of kindergarten when they called out first and last names.  I thought they were making fun of me when they did as people laughed at my lack of response.  Yes, I grew up in one of THOSE households.

3. We never had desserts at my house except on very special occasions.  Once or twice my mother did try to make a black forest cake and failed miserably as I remember. When my sister and I went to grandparents homes we scoured them for treats.  When I went to someones house on a mid week summers day and they had pie after a simple, basic meal I was aghast. Was it a birthday party?  What happened?  Why is this thing here on the table? Are we allowed? Maybe just a little piece.

pumpkin pie
I do like pie

4. I never, ever, ever have had a birthday party or a birthday cake.  Ever.

Ever.

Me, 2047
Me, 2047, I get my birthday party

5. I only had a vague idea what brown bagging or “doggy bag” meant again from TV sitcoms primarily.  I ate all three meals at home most every single day of my childhood except special occasions where we went to an actual sit down, very expensive (for the area I grew up in) dress up place. I thought everyone did this. I had no idea for years that we had fast food in my city.  When I finally did go to a Harvey’s ™ I was grossed out by the consistency of the burger I excitedly ordered and couldn’t finish it.

6. We only ate beef 1-2 times a week and for a good three years we primarily ate Asian and Caribbean food. Seafood was was a staple. I thought only rednecks and cavemen ate beef and pork all the time. We very rarely had pork.

Ribs
Unlike pie, I do not like ribs

7. We ate more rice than potatoes which were were a strange anomalous thing we only had with turkey at xmas or occasionally as mashed potatoes which as I remember my mother could never get right.  Once she blended them and produced an inedible paste.

8. Food was never an event, it was just something we needed. I’d show up at the table at breakfast or at home lunch and dinner and something my mother threw together would be ready to eat.  I never took part in the cooking and it wasn’t until college that I actually knew how to make kraft dinner (which is again, disgusting).

9. I don’t like eggs.  I eat eggs but don’t like them.  I would tell people I was allergic to them to keep from being given any or anything that contained eggs.

 

Thus, I am not a foodie.  I do eat, surprisingly, but merely to end a craving.  I don’t care about food generally.  I have a LONG list of things I do not eat or like to eat but generally I can eat most anything.  If I could get Jetson’s food pills I could have a good two hours back each day and that would be okay with me.