Suitable for framing.

I've already put this image up on Facebook and Twitter, so my apologies for a "triple post" -- but I wanted it somewhere more permanent. (I consider a blog permanent? Maybe I should buy a printer.) Voila!



Ah, good times. By the way, we posted an incredible time of 2:19 in the B division semis, and in the finals (the only race which actually depends on position rather than time), we raced 2:27, but kept the lead to win the gold! Not a bad job at all, Prairie Fire!

Now, I just have to come up with an idea for next year, and we're set.

Taking Care of Business.

Photos forthcoming.

But in the meantime, my first stint as an Elvis impersonator was an unqualified success. People were laughing, smiling, taking pictures -- I even got to autograph a scarf. The most surreal moment, though, was after the main performance, when a fellow came up to shake my hand. And then... a curious thing. He asked me what my name was.

A split second before I said "Denton", I stopped.

"Delvis Fresley. Pleased to meet you, sir."

He smiled. "The Real Elvis?"

"It's an honour to be here." (I guess I mumbled a bit too much. It worked in my advantage here, though.)

It is true, though -- when you put on that sequined jumpsuit, it's almost impossible not to fall into character. And it's even harder to act like yourself. That jumpsuit unlocks a wave of energy, and all you have to do is let your Inner Elvis pick up his surfboard. After that, It's all smiles and sunglasses.

Although not entirely... I did freak out one young boy -- and he acted in much the same way I did when I was his age, and at a Klingon exhibit in Las Vegas. (Always Vegas.) And I did get booed by one group of young ladies after they asked me to sing a song. But you know what? I suspect that they had already decided to boo me long before they asked. Fatalism works both ways, I guess.

I still had to paddle, though, which means that I am about to drop from exhaustion. But before that, one final observation:

Scarves are awesome. Swing them, drape them, spin around... I think they just replaced capes as my #1 male fashion accessory in sore need of a comeback.

All right. Time to get ready for the B Divison Final tomorrow. Wish me luck!

The sweetest word.

Meanwhile, back at the greenhouse, we recently concluded our annual "employee appreciation" luncheon. I'm not one to complain about a free barbecue. I'm not even one to complain about listening to a half-hour of semi-motivational speeches during a free barbecue.

Because I could if I wanted to. Just so you know.

Anyway, there were also a few door prizes to be won -- that time-honoured tactic of ensuring that employees don't just bolt for the door as soon as they get a slice of cake. Some kitchen toys, some t-shirts, some movie passes, and polite applause throughout. Next, they moved to keyrings, and coffee mugs, and lunch bags, and lunch bags, and lunch bags, and lunch bags.

In fact, I'm pretty sure they had more lunch bags than they had lunches, so the draws kept awarding them, as the applause got fainter and fainter. Meanwhile, I was taking part in that other time-honoured tactic of employee luncheons: Figuring out who was absent, so that we could get their share of cake. Just as I'd claimed a double fudge slice, I heard my name get called.

As you can guess, I wasn't surprised by this. And, as you can also guess, I had my acceptance speech all worked out.

Actually, I hadn't really worked it out. To be honest, I planned to whoop, jump up and scream, "LUNCH BAG!", and run up to the front of the tables, pumping my fist like I'd won a gold medal. Then, I planned to continue expressing my thanks until the MC finally gave me the mike, at which point I'd repeat the corporate motto for his benefit, which would result in wild applause.

And the funny thing is... that's exactly what happened.

But what I didn't expect was so many people congratulating me on that speech the day afterwards. Normally, I work in a very healthy environment, where my flights of fancy are either ignored or quickly countered. But to be encouraged for such behaviour? I was starting to get a little nervous.

Fortunately, a few hours later one of the Grand High Poobahs of Gardening dropped in on my supervisor while I was in the office. He asked him, "Did you happen to hear about the awards ceremony at the barbecue?"

My supervisor replied that he had not, at which point the Grand High Poobah pointed to me. "There was one moment in particular that got a lot of attention. It's being described as... Dentonesque."

And at that moment, my heart burst into song. My name as an adjective? Really, that's all I ever wanted out of life.

We need you, Leon Kompowski.

Yes, I know. The entire world is talking about Michael Jackson right now. But it's not like the entire world did all my listening for me, so it's impossible for me to hear that he's dead and not reminisce a little.

Michael Jackson is the reason I gave up on Top 40 radio -- but not the way you'd think. One summer, the local station in Regina was doing a "Top 500 rock songs of ALL TIME" programming weekend, and I stayed by the radio loyally, pen in hand, transcribing this official record so that I might benefit from their wisdom.

(I was young.)

500 songs came and went, and Michael Jackson... didn't show up once. This was in the mid-90s, and the MJ of "Thriller" had completely vanished by this time, replaced by the National Enquirer's poster boy. Obviously, he wasn't "cool" anymore, and his image didn't jive with what the station wanted.

But to say that "Bad" was never good enough to crack the Top 500? That's not just denial. For a rock radio station to pretend that they never liked Michael Jackson... that's downright hypocritical. Like I said, that was the moment that I realised Top 40 radio just wasn't worth it. Listen to what you like, be it popular or hated. But listening to something *because* it's popular is a fool's game. That's what I learned from Michael Jackson.

And yes, he got freaky. I won't deny that. But that doesn't change the music.

And what music it was.

Bay City Rolling.

All right. Home at last, with a few lessons learned on the nature of mojo -- and the duties that mojo puts upon you. I think I'm ready to start being interesting again.

But before I get interesting -- let's see some vacation photos!



What, you were expecting the Golden Gate bridge? Hey, it's a beautiful structure, but it's been photographed before.

On the other hand, I've never seen pigeons that looked like this. Check out the brown and white one! It was clearly the ringleader, too.



There must be a story behind this. I can only assume she's a costumed crimefighter, and she has to pick up her vigilante license. Why else would taping a note to a parking sign be the best way to find someone?




The lovely staff at the blood donor clinic -- just to prove I wasn't lying.



"The future is here already -- it's just unevenly distributed." - William Gibson



And, of course, the base of operations. Without its central location, its free breakfasts, and its lack of air conditioning and privacy, I wouldn't have been outside half as much as I actually was.

And now... time to go stimulate the mojo economy. But how in the world am I going to do that?

Hm, it seems that the Monarch Theatre will be playing Viva Las Vegas to commemorate the King's death, and they'll need an impersonator.

I guess it's easier than I thought.

Word War. 15 minutes. Go.

I'm typing this on an intern's laptop in the Office of Letters and Light, here in downtown Oakland. I figure that if I'm going to abuse their fine hospitality, I should play by their rules, right? So. Fifteen minutes. Start writing about Jack London. GO.

* * * * *

They moved the cabin from the Yukon down to the bay, to better honour me. I don't know why they bothered. Sure, they'll be able to charge people a bit of admission, but that's providing people deign to show that much love for an author. More likely, it'll just give them a chance to charge twice as much for the nearby hotels. Three times as much, once the moss sets in.

But let them have it. That cabin was an eyesore when I moved in, and I hadn't been too worried about making it any prettier. It's not even where I did my writing, as much as they might have loved to capture my "writer's mojo" or such hogwash.

But, they were looking in the wrong place. They should have looked at the forests, or the glaciers, or the packs of wolves that howl at a sun, smokescreened and windswept until it looked like the moon.

They also should have looked at my underground lair. I mean, it was right there, underneath the cabin. They just had to hook a compass up to a battery, and then physically swing the needle north. Then, the entire floor drops in.

And this! This is the sort of thing they would have loved, O yes. Mementos of all my conquests -- from the skin of the polar gator from the ice floe swamps of the Yukon lowlands, to the glowing gold of Nanaimo. And here! The farewell gift I got from the space-faring Yeti when I helped them escape this rock, and return to their rightful home. It required such a massive detonation, that we had to disguise the radiation as the Northern Lights, which still persist to this day in a certain spot over Bering. I told them that was thanks enough, but they insisted on something else, and so I received this communicator. I'm told it allows instantaneous communication with their people, but its exact operation still confounds me. Perhaps that will be a challenge for some other explorer to unearth.

For unearth, they shall. I lived my days here, and it was not the natural scenery that made it beautiful to me - it was my sweat and toil. I would not dream of depriving the next visitor of that experience. And so, this land shall be wiped smooth, and in years to come, all that shall be found of my Arctic refuge is whatever the tree roots have failed to devour.

And what they find, they shall find with my blessing. Or if the wolves find it instead, perhaps that shall just prove all the clearer that they had always owned it in the first place.

* * * * *

447 words. Not bad, actually -- my personal best for a 15 minute sprint is 501. But you just know that Jack London could have written 502, all while skinning a caribou at the same time.

That's something to shoot for, I guess. But in the meantime, I'll just savour the moment of writing something (anything) in this wonderful place.

mojo status: 100/1000

Oh, by the way, I'm now three degrees of separation away from Koko the sign language gorilla. Thanks, Chris!

mojo status: 150/1000

The First Of The Unplucked Gems.

I love The Hip. I don't think this point can be argued, or even overstated. If they were playing in San Francisco, would I book plane tickets to see them there? Of course I would, without a moment's hesitation. And that's exactly what I did. When I started this mojologue, I did so with the smug foreknowledge that being at the Hip concert would push my mojo status through the clouds, and that I could return home triumphantly.

And now, here comes the twist:

I never went to the concert.

The original plan was to hit a house party, shake a few hands, meet some contractual obligations, and then take my leave before the show started. But, woe of woes... it was a really great party. And thus, I arrived upon one of those grand questions in life... and the question I usually ask in such a case, "What would Gord Downie do?", seemed rather ill-suited to the situation.

Or was it? Naturally, I've been listening to their new album, "We Are The Same", while I've been walking these city streets. Some of their songs, like "Coffee Girl", became instant favourites, but most of them took some time... but once I started listening, the songs opened up for me. "The Depression Suite" is three minutes of ballad stretched over nine minutes of strings, but right in the middle, he sings a single line which cuts right to the heart of the matter:

And I think to myself in passing,
what if this song means nothing?
Now here comes the requisite strangeness --
things always have to get a little weird.

He wants this song to mean something. So do I. He doesn't mean, "What if this song doesn't become a hit?" It won't. He means, "I want this song to inspire people in some way." Well, for starters, this song got me into San Francisco in the first place. But more than that, yes -- not going to the concert is a little weird. But things have to be like that sometime.

And I've no regrets.

The other discovery I made while skipping the concert was this. It may sound like sour grapes, but bear with me: Seeing the concert, and being exposed to Hip mojo, would not have done much for my mojo status anyway. It's not what you receive... it's what you give. It's not a real goal to get your mojo to maximum capacity. That's the life I'd been living for the last few months. Good job, good friends, good life -- what part of that doesn't say my mojo was at 100%?

Nope. For mojo to have power... the mojo must flow. You must be aware of all the mojo around you, and try not to battle it, or surpass it, but simply to go with it. Not to be the shining star that blinds all others -- but simply to shine.

That is the secret of mojo. Thanks, Gord. Thanks, San Francisco.

mojo status: 75/500