The Medicine Hat Dodgeball Conspiracy.

Today, I finally found out what it was like to be a popular kid in Grade 6: I got invited to a dodgeball game.

My first reaction was, of course, "Dodgeball? What fun!" After all, who doesn't like throwing things at other people, and trying not to get hit? It's like a re-enactment of the great Roman wars, only with sponge balls instead of javelins.

I showed up at the YMCA, ready for action. I'd imagined that it would be like a combination of... I don't know, Frisbee and Dance Dance Revolution. Something that would give people a chance to show off their moves to a bouncing soundtrack. Possibly with some slow-motion camera and strobe lights during the jumps.

(In case you can't tell, most of my sporting experience lately has been through snowboarding video games.)

My delusions quickly bumped up against cold reality when everyone around me started warming up. Full body stretches, heart rate monitoring, close attention to water intake... this was my first clue that these people took dodgeball seriously.

There was a review of the rules, the selection of teams, and then we were off. The first task: run and get the dodgeballs. I did so... and my usefulness started to taper off at that point. I've never had the best throwing arm, but in an effort to ensure that dodgeball remains a safe sport, the balls have a whiffle-like consistency that seems to act like a hundred tiny parachutes which deploy from the ball as soon as it travels more than two metres. I was tempted to stuff cork inside of them, to make them *heavier*. And so, almost every throw simply turned into a breath of fairy dust, which the opposing player could snatch out of the air with a giggle and a childlike sense of wonder. That is, provided that my throw was well-aimed enough to come within their peripheral vision. I think that happened about twice.

Was I any better at dodging? Well, I wasn't bad at running around the gym, I'll give myself that much. And I was also pretty good at being the person the other team didn't have to worry about (see above paragraph), so I'm happy to say I did all right for myself in that respect. However, near the end of the game, I saw one ball hurtling towards me like a missile (don't ask me how, but everyone else could fire dodgeballs back and forth like they were on wires). I could already see where it was going -- straight for my left calf. No problem, I thought. I'll just step back. Or forward. Or jump. Any of those things... and then the ball hit my left calf, as my body simply refused to enact any of those plans.

That's when I realised that running around the gym and vaulting off the walls wasn't the best strategy, provided that you wanted to be able to react to stimuli later in the game. It soon became apparent to the other team that the direction Denton was moving was the direction in which Denton would keep moving, because he no longer had the energy to change what he was doing. My contribution to the team (such as it was) started to decline rapidly.

Mercifully, the game eventually ended. Ten minutes had elapsed -- and we had booked the gym for two hours.

It was a long afternoon, but I must admit, it was still a great deal of fun, thanks to my fellow players. They were all a friendly bunch, easy-going and quick with a joke. They applauded appreciatively as I got knocked back hard enough to lose a shoe, and one of them actually called me "J.C. Denton" as a compliment. That right there is worth any amount of suffering.

So if they were such a casual, fun-loving group, what was the deal with all those stretches and warm-ups? As it turns out, they didn't take dodgeball seriously -- they did indeed see it as a harmless pastime. What they took seriously was being able to move the next day.

And that's why I'm typing this entire post with one finger. No other muscles will respond.

Can't wait for the dodgeball season to start again in September, though.

The World Ends With You.

Is there any greater delight in travelling than being able to shrink the world? The very act is a Zen counterpoint to itself -- the easiest way to shrink the world, of course, is not to go anyway. But the very act of finding the similar refrains in different worlds is impossible without achieving a greater understand of just how large the world is in the first place.

But I didn't dance the night away in a seafood restaurant just to put my interpretations of Zen koans to the test. I danced because when you're eating crab legs in San Francisco with two other friends from Medicine Hat, that's cause to celebrate.

Alas, they declined to join me in dancing. Maybe that's because everyone on the dance floor was a waitress... or maybe they were just tired from all their sight-seeing. Yeah, that's probably it.

mojo status: 50/100

I stand corrected.

A few posts ago, I laughed about the unlikeliness of a luchador movie festival coming to Medicine Hat.

A few days ago, I ended up as a volunteer, working towards the resurgence of an alternative and classical film theatre.

A few posts ago, I laughed about my complete and spectacular failure when it came to creating a chocolate sauce for chicken.

A few days ago, I discovered that a South American import grocery had opened up in the city, and they sold the very mole sauce recommended unto me in the comments thread.

And, a local Vietnamese restaurant started selling bubble tea to go last month (one of the first things I missed upon moving from Edmonton.)

And, my curling team's been curling really well lately.

Seriously, guys, I'm getting scared. If this keeps up, Medicine Hat's going to become an enjoyable, modern city. Once that happens... all bets are off.

And worth every penny.

Before settling down in the Hat, I shuffled across a fairly large swath of the prairies. Each time, the classic conundrum presented itself: how do I become part of the community? In a place like Swan Hills, the answer was "don't worry, your very existence is a boon to us." In Edmonton, the answer was "don't worry, just get out once in a while and appreciate what's already there." In Grande Prairie, the answer was "don't worry, your bizarre work hours will keep you from ever attending two consecutive Saturday afternoons, anyway."

Medicine Hat, though, required a different tact. It required... participation.

I sought volunteer organisations. For instance, I'm a board member for Praxis, a committee dedicated to encouraging science education in classrooms. Neat stuff, right? Bob MacDonald, science fairs, chemistry magic shows, and all that. However, the last meeting was dedicated to writing up confidentiality agreements, and finding a computer that could read our 1994 club policy documents from an AppleWorks file on 3.5" floppy. Also, there's the slight problem that I've never actually been inside any school in Medicine Hat. So, maybe this isn't the best match for me.

But then, I wandered past the Monarch. I've blogged about it before; an arthouse theatre with shoddy projectors and lousy service that honestly deserved to be shut down, as galling as it was to have only a single mall multiplex serving the entire city. That building's left a pang in my heart for two years... but now, it's getting renovated. And, what's this? They need help? I fire off an e-mail to the contact, asking what the plan is for the Monarch. She responds with a huge list of plans, projects, guidelines, and dreams, but in the middle is one crucial detail:

No talking chihuahua movies.

Really, that's all they needed to say. And so, I spent yesterday covered in dust, scraping plaster off the walls of a 100-year-old movie theatre, getting it ready for that glorious day when its doors open up once more. I don't know if I'll be taking tickets, popping popcorn, or sweeping floors that day, but I can guarantee: This is how I become part of the community.

So, yes, it's been a good weekend.

Also, Stampede Wrestling.

This weekend, I relaxed with an iced coffee inside one of my favourite cafés in Medicine Hat, while reading a translation of Eugene Onegin, Alexander Pushkin's early 19th century epic. One of my friends from work was also there, and after a brief chat, I left her to continue her reading: Doctor Zhivago.

You can say that Medicine Hat is culturally bereft, and in the standard understanding of the term you'd be correct. We're famous for Kalan Porter, not Cole Porter, after all. But somewhere in Paris, underneath some wrought-iron arches, there are two people drinking Slurpees and arguing over whose car is most impressive with the ladies. I feel safe in declaring a victory of some sort here.

It did get me thinking, though. Culture (once again, in the ill-defined standard definition) is not something that can be consumed -- it can only be produced. The only way to increase it around you is to increase it in yourself. And yes, it can exist anywhere. It's just that it's easier to nurture in some places more than others. Still, if your city's not cultural enough, the solution starts with you.

Perhaps the reason I'm dwelling on such matters is that Eugene Onegin is surprisingly delightful, and I've been moved to speak in praise of the Arts. I was especially touched by the last stanza of Chapter One, which portrays the courage of an author willing to let go of his writing:

About its structure I've been brooding --
Its hero, how he'll be yclept;
But meanwhile, look -- I'm just concluding
My novel's Chapter One. I've kept
My eye alert to weak depictions,
And noticed scores of contradictions;
I'll leave them, though, with no regret.
To censorship I'll pay my debt.
I'll hand reviewers, who'll devour,
Fresh-fallen fruits of pen and ink.
Fly bravely now to Neva's brink,
My newborn opus, fly and flower,
And earn me glory's just deserts:
Hot air, vain noise, faint praise that hurts.

And since those last two lines apply equally well to anyone who talks too much about a city's culture, perhaps I'll be quiet and go play some video games now.

The 10% gratuity is included.

The story can be told so simply and yet so completely, it's almost as if a haiku happened to me.

I enter a Subway sandwich store at 20h00 on a Saturday evening. Before I order, the youth comes out from the back room and says hello.

"Just so you know, we're out of bread."

"...bread? How does that happen?"

"Ehh, the staff screwed up. It happens sometimes."

See, this is why 1.5% unemployment isn't always a good thing.

Write early, write often.

This is my 250th post on this blog. Thanks for reading it, everyone!

Now, I don't usually delve too deeply into politics, but this time, I'll make an exception. You always hear about activists exhorting people to write their MP. I'm not going to do that here. Instead, for the first time since I moved to the Hat, I actually did write my MP. I'm sure it's not going to change the course of this country, but on the other hand, what good is this modern age, if we don't use it to communicate?

If you'd like to comment on any of this, please do so. Or better yet, send your comments to your MP, whatever they may be. Or, best of all... send your comments to my MP, and tell him what a great guy that Denton is, and how he's worth listening to.

Or, if you'd prefer to see pictures of mummified body parts, tune in on Sunday, when I get back from Edmonton.

Mr. Solberg:

First of all, let me congratulate you on representing such a wonderful city. I moved to Medicine Hat from Edmonton just a few years ago in order to work at CFB Suffield, and I consider it one of the best decisions I've ever made. This city became home to me much faster than I ever would have thought possible.

Over the last two years, I've never had any reason to write my MP with regards to the events in Parliament, but with so many things happening so quickly right now, I'd like to weigh in with my opinions, if I may.

1. I was never particularly worried about the provision about federal funding for movies in Bill C-10: The only way laws can be applied to art is through subjective terms like "public policy". It would have been a nightmare if the Bill had provided a list of what will and will not be funded. A far wiser idea is to keep it simple. Best of all, it was public policy. Had Sarah Polley needed that funding for her next movie, and if the public agreed with her, there would always be room for the government to change its stance. Likewise, a movie which would only harm Canada's world reputation might find its funding revoked. By allowing flexibility, it makes accountability easier.

2. However, that's exactly what's missing from Bill C-61. Based upon the usage of the DMCA in the USA, it seems that it's little more than a weapon for the CRIA to wield against individual citizens. They have millions of dollars at stake: they will be able to intimidate, harass, and bully anyone not prepared to spend their life savings on court fees. What I fear is the CRIA being able to take the law into their own hands, and create criminals out of people such as myself whenever it suits their purposes to do so.

I understand that Canadian artists need to be protected and rewarded for their work: I've bought every one of my mp3s through legitimate means, because I want Corb Lund to be able to record his next album. But under this legislation, I'm still breaking the law depending on how I play those mp3s. I'll be buying less music, not more, under this system, and that's not any better for the Canadian music industry.

Also, any new laws on digital rights really should recognise the fact that media becomes an indelible part of our culture. Look at the recent kerfuffle over Hockey Night In Canada's theme for a perfect example. If a bar band does a cover of the theme, are they now going to be sued by an 81-year-old woman living in London, England? In fact, according to American copyright law, a band could be sued for playing that song in a bar 75 years after her death. Please, before this bill passes, take another look at how this affects people, and please look at some other options.

3. And now, if I may shift gears for a moment: I really like the reasoning behind the new Green Shift proposal. It's a made-in-Canada solution, and it doesn't mention the Kyoto protocol or its unattainable goals anywhere. Unlike the carbon tax in British Columbia, there's a direction to this one. It doesn't penalize people for earning more money; it penalizes people for creating more pollution.

True, it's going to change the average income of Canadians one way or another, and not everyone will benefit unless they make changes to their lifestyle. The truth of the matter, though, is that people didn't stop buying SUVs because of their conscience; they stopped because gas prices went too high. It takes an incentive to generate change, and right now, change is badly needed. This is the sort of policy that could inspire other nations. Rather than wait for India to clean up its act first, why not show India how to do it?

As I watch the political circus in the States unfold along the familiar old "Red vs. Blue" borders, I'm grateful that I live in a country that actually allows minority governments, which can allow its politicians to compromise, listen, and work together, regardless of party affiliations. I don't need a government run by Stephane Dion, but I'd love a government which has the wherewithal to know a good idea when it sees one, regardless of where it came from.

Thank you for taking the time to read this, and have a nice day.

Sincerely,

Denton Froese

How I became a better person by leaving my pants at home.

On this bright and sunny Victoria Day weekend, I felt it was a good day for a walk. Load up a few tunes, and sample the scents that sweet spring air. With the sun beating down, though, it didn't take long before I fled to a convenience store, seeking slushified relief.

Now, I was wearing my kilt yesterday, and although the whole trick of wearing a kilt (actually, the trick of wearing anything is to look like it doesn't matter to you, I couldn't help but be just a bit self-aware. The convenience store was owned by a middle-eastern couple, and the woman always dressed in a hijab headscarf. When I approached the counter with my drink, though, she was all smiles.

"Excuse me, but what do you call that -- that clothing?"

"Oh, it's a kilt." (Also known as a Men's Unbifurcated Garment, but only jerks point that out (Oh, wait. Forget get I said that.).)

"Ah. And how do you spell it?" She wrote it out on a piece of paper. "And where is it from?"

Now, here the story usually goes into me rambling how I'm Low German/Ukrainian by descent, and this particular manufacturer doesn't put any tartans on their kilts to avoid the "Celtic bloodline requirement" that usually accompanies these things, although there's a tartan for each of the Canadian provinces, et cetera... but that's not the sort of conversation one should foist upon strangers. Instead, I just smiled and said, "It's from Scotland. Quite a few men still wear them there, although it's mostly just a matter of tradition. Still, family is family, right?"

And at this, she smiled even more warmly. "Exactly."

Hm. You know, I never thought about it that way.

Sun In An Empty Room.

Ladies and Gentlemen: It's time for me to go to mattresses. The splintered, wobbly IKEA bedframe? It's kindling.

But it doesn't stop there -- Everything must go! The trips to the grocery? No more. From here on in, I eat only what's already on my shelves, until everything's gone. It's just as well, really... that giant bag of instant mashed potato mix has been with me for three years now (ask me sometime why I don't like Costco).

The couch I got for free from Grande Prairie? Drafted by the Salvation Army. The book collection? Box only what I want to keep, bid adieu to the rest. The DVD collection? Same thing. The wardrobe? Let's just say that Medicine Hat's needy will be wearing more Hawaiian shirts next week.

Why the reduction, you ask? Because against all hope, my friends... my condo's got a completion date. On March 27th, I pack up my worldly goods and make my last move for a while. Hence, the rush to have as few worldly goods as possible. Because it's hard to start out on a clean slate when you're using the same dresser drawer you had in high school.

The housewarming party will be coming. Just as soon as I find a place for everyone to sit.

The Long November.

Four weeks of laundry -- check.
Four weeks of clutter -- check.
Two weeks of dishes -- check.
Two weeks of take-out meals when the dishes ran out -- check.
Four weeks of unpaid bills -- check. (is in the mail.)
Three nights with more than ten hours of sleep -- check.
One apology to supervisor for lost productivity -- check.
Resume regular blogging activity -- check!

All right. It took me a week, but it looks like I've successfully recovered from another wonderful NaNoWriMo November. It was a wonderful month, when long-forgotten plot points seem to resurface at just the right time to almost look intentional, and when characters launch into rants and observations that manage to crystallise what you've been thinking about for weeks. It's also a time when I get to write about a giant monster walking over a strip mall, its roof supporting the behemoth's weight as well as a thick crust of snow would, before it finally gives way. The ending may have been a tad videogamey (hit the weak point for massive damage, etc.), but so long as I didn't have to involve more giant monsters, nuclear drill bits, the power of love, or "oxygen destroyers", I think I held my weight against the originals. If anyone wants to read a copy, send me a message, and let me know whether you'd prefer the rough draft with all its blemishes, or if you'd rather wait for a slightly edited (i.e. half as lengthy) version.

I've been doing NaNoWriMo for five years now, and it's incredible how much of a social event it's become. For instance, check my Facebook profile, and you'll see a video of me at the Edmonton wrap-up party, phonetically reciting a typographical slaughterhouse. The audience is in stitches, but it's not because they're laughing "at", or even "with" the excerpt. Each and every one of those authors is laughing with each other. Who would have guessed that Edmonton would mean more to me now than it did when I lived there?

It got me thinking, though, that I haven't visited Regina since April. So, I threw out an e-mail, asking who was going to be in town next weekend. One response I got said, "Why, are you coming home for a visit?"

Note the wording there. You can hang your hat wherever you wish... but when your friends tell you you're home, you're home.

And if that wasn't proof enough, I got another response asking me if I wanted to join in on a 2nd edition AD&D campaign that weekend. Let us not squabble over the merit of such an offer -- the fact that such an invitation was even made is proof enough that a piece of me will always be stuck in a snowdrift on Grant Road.

It's going to be a grand December.

Their team jackets would be legendary.

At the Medicine Hat Curling Club, the bulletin board is adorned with league standings, bonspiel announcements, and the occasional ad for curling equipment. Also found: a recipe for dessert squares that taste "just like Skor Bars". The secret ingredient is Skor-flavoured Chipits(tm).

The important thing here, though, is the absolute sincerity involved. I've grown to like Medicine Hat for its scenic valleys, strategic location, and various amenities, but I think this is the closest I've come in two years to truly feeling that "charm of a smaller community" that is supposed to be such a big draw.

Of course, I don't go to the curling club for baking tips -- I go to the curling club to curl. Our latest game ended in -- what else? A Flaming Disaster! We had fun, though, and almost all our shots went in the right direction. Baby steps, people.

Far more interesting, however, was our opposition. Frank and his teammates were all pushing seventy, but they were just out for a good time like us. In fact, they were the only other winless team in the league, until they beat us 11-4. The truly endearing thing about them, though, wasn't their sportsmanship. It was their... "familiar" team dynamic.

Frank, you see, is your classic Mr. Big and Tall. His wife (the lead) is almost half his size. He dresses in black and grey, and he calls out his commands in a throaty rumble.

The vice-skip, Roger, is a different story. He's a bit smaller, dresses in red, and has a higher-pitched rasping voice. Also, he thinks he should have the skip's job. It was plain to see in how he argued the skip's decision, in how he held his own little meetings with the other team members, and how he'd yell his sweeping commands over the voice of the skip. It wasn't an ego problem, either. For one thing, all vice-skips are a little like that, and for another thing, this vice-skip was actually a pretty good curler.

In other words, it was just like curling with Decepticons. The comparison between Roger and Starscream was obvious to this child of the 80s, which made Frank a perfect analog for Megatron. His diminuitive wife? Laserbeak. The second was a pretty quiet guy, but we'll call him Soundwave, just so that he doesn't feel left out.

So, if we had to lose, I'm glad we lost to a team like that.

And survived.

My solemn duty.

It was a lovely brunch at the Zucchini Blossom this morning: homemade borscht with a dollop of sour cream and dill, a vegetable panini, and a big, soul-warming mug of eggnog latté. There's a good reason it's the most famous coffee shop in the city. As I paid my bill at the counter, I noticed a granite plaque on display by the register: an engraved re-telling of the origin of the name "Medicine Hat".

"That's a very nice plaque," I commented to the owner, who was ringing in my bill. "Where'd you get it?"

"Oh, from CanCarb. It's an award for "Small Business of the Year", she said proudly.

"Well, you certainly deserve it," I agreed. "It's a shame about the typo, though."

"Oh, yes, well... what?"

"See? Right here, in the main title. How Medicine Hat Got It's Indian Name. There shouldn't be an apostrophe right there."

Her voice became rather soft. "Oh."

"Well, thank you very much!", I said cheerfully, as I paid my bill and left.

Now, I like to pretend I'm a kind-hearted man. However, I'm just a little bit pleased with myself today, knowing that now, every time she looks at that plaque, all she'll see will be that apostrophe.

(Of course, I made sure to send out a polite e-mail to CanCarb customer service right away, as well. I'm sure they'll appreciate it.)

The Flaming Disasters take to the ice.

Last week was my curling team's fantastic debut. That's "fantastic" in the literal sense, by the way, since losses that huge can't possibly be achieved without the aid of imps and pixies spitting honeydew on our rocks as they wheezed and whizzed down the ice. The opposing team was very good about the whole affair, though. In fact, they were polite enough not to keep score after the first end -- a great kindness which is usually rewarded with a kingship in the fables.

(Stop the presses! I just realised that "fable" is probably the origin of the word "fabulous"! Another victory for linguistics -- but also a crushing defeat, since that actually justifies "blogalicious" as a real word.)

I'll say it again: we are an awful team. We'd actually improve if we just started throwing stones at random. Actually, I take that back, for it isn't true. The reason I know this is because one of our curlers decided to start throwing stones at random while I was still deciding what shot to call, and that didn't work, either. However, no one fell down, and everyone had a great time. A moral victory for the scorecard, if nothing else.

Our second game of the season was this morning, and I was ready for it: I'd checked three curling books out of the library, and although two of them really didn't offer much besides an examination of 18th century Scottish poems about curling, it was still more research than I'd done last week.

We played a jolly group of seniors, they weren't quite as lenient as last week's opponent. To say they blew us out of the water in the last two ends wouldn't be quite right: Far more accurately, they blew us out of the water, and then hit us again before we landed, and again, and again, resulting in a mid-air combo KO. It's not often that curling reminds me of Street Fighter II, but when it does -- it hurts.

But that was just the last two ends. Maybe it was because they were still warming up, but for most of the game, we actually held our own. Guards were placed where necessary. Draw shots cozied up right into the house. Takeouts were landed with a satisfying crack. Not always, but often enough that we began to dream of better games after this one.

And once, just once, your humble skip had the hammer, and managed to curl it right around the guards. That beautiful stone gently bumped out the opponent's rock and came to rest snugly on the button, turning a 3-point loss into a 1-point gain. Not only did the other team offer a polite round of applause, so did the neighbouring rink.

It was truly... blogalicious.

All I need now is that kilt.

"You know," I said offhandedly, "it would be really neat if we put together a curling team this winter."

"Well, why don't we?", replied MJ.

...

I didn't really expect him to show interest. I thought that it was just another of my "foolish notions", like learning Hindi so that I could get a job as a stereotypical white thug in Bollywood. Or, at best, that it would be one of those "good idea, but don't expect me to help you" sort of deals, like driving a disco bus across Canada, with scheduled stops at every city for people to come and cover it with graffiti.

Buoyed by positive reinforcement, I sent out a few invitations at work. The response was not just positive, but strong: People wanted in! I had my four-person team in a few days, and those who couldn't make it still wanted to come to our practice sessions. Even if they had no interest whatsoever, they were almost always glad to see someone else doing it.

Perhaps I'm jaded, but I thought curling was an easy sport to dismiss nowadays -- people will often snort and deride it as being "bowling on ice" (never seeming to acknowledge that bowling is fun, too). Last year, the greenhouse's annual funspiel was cancelled due to lack of interest. And yet, I had no trouble finding a foursome, ready to commit their Saturday mornings for the next five months. What happened?

I think the main reason is that I'm advertising this as "a team that will lose every single game they play." We'll have to leave our pride in the boot rack for this one, because there's a total of seven months curling experience between all four of us. If that's the case, it makes for an odd inversion: curling's getting more exposure as a serious pasttime, but it only gains acceptance as a frivolous one. Hey, whatever works.

The scary thing, though, is that six of those seven months are mine. That's right, ladies and gentlemen: I'm the skip. My high school coach is breaking out in a cold sweat, even as I type this. This doesn't bode well, but on the bright side, that means I get to pick the name. Here are my options so far:

House of Ill Fame
School of Rock
Space Curlers
Rock It With a Hurry Game
The Flaming Disasters
(or, Denton's Disasters)
Zergling Rush
The Brothers Gibb
All We Throw Are Take-Outs

I'm partial to that last one, myself, but I'd love to hear any other suggestions.

And trust me... you haven't heard the end of this story yet.

The Regina Monologues.

It was a quiet Friday afternoon, and as I strolled around downtown, I discovered that the local art theatre/gallery/museum, the Esplanade, was having an open house. Now, a vocal contigent of the Medicine Hat population will gladly tell you how the Esplanade is a waste of taxpayer dollars that should've been spent on a hockey rink, and they'll then point out with pride that they've never set foot inside it.

Maybe it's just me, but I stop listening to people when they start talking about how proud they are that they don't visit museums. So, I went in to see their latest exhibit: "The Unmentionable History Of The West".

Essentially, it's a history of women's issues and how they were addressed in the early part of the last century. The standard paean to voting rights, of course, but the focus was on personal life. There were reconstructions of boxspring mattresses that hid menstrual rags. There were early birth control devices, such as a sponge soaked in vinegar, and lots and lots of prayer. The "sex education" of the day was frightening -- many girls were just expected to figure things out on their own as they went through puberty, because their parents wouldn't dignify their questions with a response.

All in all, it was truly enlightening and thought-provoking. Well done, Esplanade.

However.

Walking back to my apartment, I passed a billboard advertising the exhibit. It had the museum's name, the dates, the title... and a mannequin wearing a red tassled corset.

True, there was a section that contained a display of Eaton's mail-order underwear. But the implication of the billboard is obvious. "Witness the exploits and exploitations of Diamond Lil and Golden Gertie, can-can dancers of the Klondike! You won't believe what these girls did for gold!"

It's certainly misleading, but I actually like the billboard, just because of the dark irony. Apparently, menstruation and birth control are still unmentionable in the west.

Maybe he's visiting from Brooks.

Driving through the city today, I espied a beat-up red truck in a parallel lane. It bore the standard proclamations of low intellect on its rear window, but there was something different about this one. I moved in, trying to take a closer look...

Remember what I said yesterday about Medicine Hat being a city with taste?

After seeing a bootleg Calvin peeing on a John Deere logo, I may have to take that back.

Urban Taxonomy.

I received a "Guide to Downtown" in the mail yesterday from the City Center Development Agency. It makes sense -- publish an indexed listing of all your businesses, to show people just how many goods and services are available. Include a map, a dining guide, some coupons, and you've got something a customer might keep next to their phone book. It's a good idea.

However, there's one thing about it that just describes this city's problems perfectly. The businesses are all listed by category. There's one business under "Furniture", three under "Music", thirteen under "Clothing", and so on. There's also one category labelled "Miscellaneous".

Now, I can't recall the last time I looked up "Miscellaneous" in the yellow pages. Basically, I interpret that as "businesses we can't fit into any existing categories." It might mean second-hand shop, but there are four of them in their own category. So, let's take a look:

Miscellaneous

A Perfect Playmate

B.O.B. Headquarters (drug paraphernalia)

Foxy Ladies Escorts

Jeanie's Eye Candy

His and Hers Escort Agency

Mystic Encounters

Southern Alberta Escorts

Hm. Yes, that certainly is a miscellaneous list. No possible connecting thread whatsoever.

Now let's look at some of the businesses which are the only ones in their category:

Royal Hotel Beer Vendor: "Liquor/Wine"

Stream Media Inc.: "Video/Entertainment"

Tile Outlet 2005: "Hobby/Craft"

Audio Excellence: "Electronics/Computers"

Sahuri Hutchinson Architects Inc.: "Architects"

You know, just like all those times you go to the mall to find an architect. Now, you might call me a skeptic, but I don't think someone seeking either hobbies or crafts are going to find them at Tile Outlet 2005.

Oh, and here's my personal favourite:

Mac's Cigar Store: "Convenience Store"

Never mind the fact that a) 70% of its floorspace is magazines, b) it's not affiliated with the "Mac's Convenience Store" franchise, c) a convenience store is, almost by definition, miscellaneous, and d) they call themselves a cigar store.

Anyway, my point is that if they really wanted a "Miscellaneous" category, they had no shortage of options. Instead, they used the category to round up all the undesirables, and sweep them under the rug. You know, the ones that interfere with our "family values" image. The ones that are a direct result of our "gas and oil boomtown" image.

Now, there's nothing wrong with directing an economy -- but "directing" isn't the same as "really, really hoping that ignoring that industry will make it go away."

Power politics.

Well, maybe this city is only 44% crazy. City Hall finally voted on the adult materials bylaw, and it was defeated 5 to 4. Does that mean my comic store can breathe easier?

Not really. One of those four was our mayor, and another one on that list proceeded to go on local radio the next day, bemoaning "the corruption of the democratic process" and that she will not "wash her hands like Pontius Pilate and forget this matter". Yeah, that's an actual quote. She's got self-confidence and conviction, that's for sure. Too bad she didn't have a sense of irony, too: otherwise, as she was speaking about democracy, she'd remember that just 4,657 of Medicine Hat's 62,000 citizens voted her in.

She went on to confirm that six years of discussion hasn't been enough; this will again become an election issue. That's this October, by my calendar. I had originally planned to sit this one out, and study things carefully before throwing my hat in for the 2010 election. However, a friend suggested that perhaps I just simply put my name in -- observe the political games from a front-row seat, and gain a little recognition in the process. It's a scary thought, but it makes sense.

Besides, it's gotten me thinking about my campaign. I've been learning from the competition: I'd need a central message with self-confidence and conviction. If I added a little irony, I'd be everything the people want, and more. And so:



What do you think? (In case you weren't living in Saskatchewan in 1996, here's the original.)

Of course, I'd have to re-stage the photo shoot, and find a barbecue. Still, I think it would find strong approval from a (very) particular demographic. You know, I could have some fun with this... and that's probably my first clue that I shouldn't run.

Cultural development.

I felt a little bit guilty after writing that last post, so I went out to see if there were any cultural deposits* the initial survey team missed...

I found a clay museum.

Huh.

Well, you have to do the best you can with what you've got, I suppose. After all, there were plenty of towns out there that had plenty of mud, and didn't do anything with it at all. And besides, if you trade all that extra mud for wood, you can easily get the two point bonus for longest road... oh, sorry. My mind, it wanders.

But, let's accentuate the positive. New Indian restaurant, dim sum and tailoring available simultaneously... oh, and last week, I found a café with a three-story waterfall inside it.

Three stories?

Sigh...sometimes it's a matter of skill, finding the hidden out-of-the-way spots. Other times, it's a matter of being blindingly obtuse, not to have noticed them earlier.


*(Technical note: I'm talking about negative-space culture here: the small percentage of our lives that isn't identical to the rest of North America. Otherwise, not only is the exercise pointless... it's kind of depressing.)

I rewrote this blog for three days until I had stopped ranting about Hollywood economics. You're welcome.

Two weeks ago, I wisely refrained from publicly weeping over the closure of the city's only arthouse theatre, The Monarch. Even though it was a poor excuse for a theatre, its loss was felt in the city.

However, I was walking through downtown last night, and I noticed a sign in the window of the boarded-up-and-abandoned Sweetheart Café (a cynical metaphor for life if ever there was one). "Opening soon," it proclaimed in hand-drawn crayon, "The Punjab Palace!" Granted, they also boast of "Indian and Paistan [sic] food", but in an odd way, that's somehow encouraging.

Actually, it's very, very good news. If there's one thing I've missed from my Edmonton days, it's East Indian cuisine. Granted, there already is such a restaurant tucked inside one of the smaller hotels, but when I went to check it out... well, let's just say that if 90% of your menu involves curry, and I still can't smell anything besides cigarette smoke, there's a problem somewhere.

But just when I thought that Medicine Hat cuisine had reached a new height... it got better. At work, I was informed of Chang Hing Foods, a combination Chinese grocery wholesaler/tailor shop. Yes, really. I took in some pants to get adjusted, and picked up some frozen pre-cooked sticky rice and dumplings on my way out. For a guy who misses dim sum and can't sew, they hit that niche with a sniper rifle. Bravo!

After these two startling discoveries, I'm now happy to say Medicine Hat has almost a third the cultural depth of Moose Jaw. Things are looking up!