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.

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.

The Man Made The Clothes.

Not a day after my post about hunting for Hawaiian shirts in Value Village, I received an e-mail from a friend, informing me that Alfred Shaheen has passed away.

This was a man I never knew by name, but have known for ages in spirit, for he invented the Hawaiian shirt. A bold man of passion, vision, vibrancy, and above all else, excellent fashion sense. In an attempt to learn more about him, I went to www.alfredshaheen.com , where I saw a few pictures, a few models... and a sidebar labelled, "vintage".

Realistically speaking, I shouldn't spend so much in these recessive times. But who could blame me for wanting to give a little something back?



Voila: the Jade Tapa Medley, a Shaheen original, dating from the late 1950s. Made in Honolulu, shipped from Honolulu. I don't know what I'm going to do to keep busy until it arrives in the mail. Besides double-check all the labels in my closet (and the nearby Value Villages), that is.

It looks like Mr. Denton has a brand new hobby. Thanks again, Mr. Shaheen.

The clothes make the man.

I hope you all had a pleasant Christmas/New Year's combo; mine was a fine old time visiting the family, but nonetheless I couldn't wait to get out and do my own meaningless thing. So when I got the chance to make a quick trip to Calgary on Saturday, I jumped.

After fulfilling my social obligations, I hit the bookstores, and found something marvelous: Bat-Manga. Apparently, for a single year in the 60s, DC had licensed a manga magazine in Japan to write their own all-new Batman stories. Here's a collection of Batman, as so many people remember him: facing a Rogue's Gallery of colourful criminals, awash in Bat-Gadgets, youthful ward at his side. Taken simply as straight Batman tales, they're a great read, but viewed through the lens of Japanese culture, they ever so slightly skewed. Perhaps it's just because we're viewing such characters for the first time. I suppose that the Penguin, for instance, looks just as odd as Karmak, a.k.a. Professor Gorilla, but we can no longer marvel at the whimsy and imagination involved in the Penguin's character.

But even better than a hooded, cape-wearing gorilla is another previously forgotten Bat-Villian: this chap was an expert plastic surgeon until a freak accident melted his face. Since then, he's been obsessed with faces -- stealing portraits, smashing clocks, even trying to destroy the Batman bust carved into the side of Mount Gotham. He doesn't have a secret identity, though: he's simply known as... Crazy Dr. Denton.



And he's a snappy dresser, to boot.

Speaking of fashion, my other stop in Calgary was at a Value Village, to look for some shirts that fit my tastes. What sort of tastes? Well, for example, I was wearing my "Hawaiian Stallion" shirt -- my one concession to Calgary culture:



I was looking through the Village for something like this. A pattern, some colour, but with slightly darker tones for contrast. What I found was a pretty good match:



Yep. I found the very shirt that I was currently wearing, on the Value Village rack.

Obviously, I'm starting a trend.

He's got a Ph.D in Horribleness.

Some friends have asked me if I've seen Doctor Horrible's Singalong Blog yet.

A musical about an evil genius trying to impress the cute girl at the laundromat? I was onboard this dinghy even before they started inflating it.

And now, it's time to give something back. At a recent interview, Joss Whedon mulled over the idea of accepting video applications into the Evil League of Evil in the future.

You don't say...

*cough* *coughcough*

Sorry about the cloud -- it happens when you blow the dust off your camcorder for the first time in four years. But it's up and running now, and it's time to make the magic happen.

Now, which villain is going to make his application? Tune in tomorrow, and we'll meet the contestants.

Is Canada your first or your last name?

At Tae Kwon Do today, the instructor pulled me aside while we were warming up. Here it comes, I thought. Punishment for whatever I must have done to embarrass the school.

"Denton?"

"Uh, yes, sir?"

"Your uniform's inside out."

...oops. On the bright side, if he let that slide, I must be in the clear. Rejoice!

And what better way to rejoice than sharing some trivia on Canadian history? Last week, I was discussing the difference between the People's Republic of China and the People's Democratic Republic of China. In turn, that got me curious about the "proper names" of countries. Germany is "The Federal Republic of Germany". Egypt is "The Arab Republic of Egypt". Australia is "The Commonwealth of Australia", and so on.

Mexico, however, is slightly interesting. It's the United States of Mexico. I mentioned that to a co-worker, and he told me that that's why British texts always refer to the "United States of America" in full. They don't want to cause any confusion, you see. For some reason, hearing that almost made my day.

What really did make my day, though, was Canada's official name. Are you ready for this?

"Canada".

That's it. No Commonwealth, Kingdom, Suzerainty, or Disputed Territory. Just "Canada". I love it. It's as if the G8 Summit was a meeting of the eight most powerful people in the country, and you were being introduced to them. "Here we have Sir Richard Rycroft, and Lord Autumnbrook of Chesterfield just walked in. W.E.B. Potemkin the third is at the piano... there's Doug, and behind him is Father Gilles Valdesilet of the..."

"Wait a second. Doug? Who's that?"

"What do you mean, who's that? That's Doug."

"Are you sure he should be here?"

"Pfft. Man, this thing could never happen without Doug, I mean... he's Doug!"

Like Doug, Canada is famous in a very specific way: it's Canada, and everybody knows Canada. (Even if Canada doesn't.) It's not the greatest birthright, but it's one I can live with.

Jabkinder Surprise.

Applying for a passport online is a wee bit onerous, but no more than any other government registration process. It does, however, reward your patience about halfway through with this wonderful non sequitur:



For the record, "Jabkinder" returns no results in a Canada Yellow Pages search. In fact, the only result for a "Jabkinder" Google search returns only the screenshot you see above. None of which makes any sense, considering that Jabkinder is an awesome name. The next novel I write? I guarantee you, there will be someone named Jabkinder in it, and it will be their only name.

In fact... let's take this one step further. I propose that Jabkinder become the term used to describe a one-word name.

"Logan? Is that your first or your last name?"

"It's a jabkinder."

"Ah. Very good, then, sir."

I don't know if anyone else thinks this is necessary... but Mr. Denton has quite a bit invested in this idea.

Madonna, Prince, and me.

Last week at Taekwon-do (you know, I'm still not sure how many words that is), I'd tested for my yellow stripe -- the cutest little belt of them all, the first baby step on the long journey to being a non-beginner. Once you've gotten the instructor's approval to test for it, you essentially have to disgrace the entire school -- and then laugh about it -- in order to fail the test.

So, it wasn't to any great surprise that all three novices who tested that week were awarded their yellow stripes this week.

"Mr. Edwards, please step forward."

There was a bow, a handshake, a certificate, a photograph, some polite applause, and another bow. Voilà -- a yellow stripe.

"Ms. Miller, please step forward."

The same thing again. The instructor still had one more certificate in his hand, but this time, he paused for a second before speaking.

"...Denton, please step forward."

It's an interesting aspect of my last name: It looks simple enough that people don't initially worry about mispronouncing it, but once they take a careful look, they realise they have no idea what that vowel dipthong is supposed to be.

Obviously, I was delighted by that turn of events. I know there are better names in this world (see: Colleen Clinkenbeard), but "Mr. Denton" ranks high enough on that list for me.

I think I'll wear my "Mr. Denton" hat tomorrow, to celebrate.

We don't need to involve your manager.

A girl from the fourth floor popped by my office yesterday and asked, "Do you like wrestling?"

And perhaps I do. Regardless, the last time I admitted that to a female was... 1993, I believe. I saw no reason to break with tradition, so I shook my head sadly. "It's not really my thing, sorry," I replied. "Why did you want to know?"

"Oh, it's just that if you want to go to a new wrestling league that's just moved in from Lethbridge, talk to an electronics associate at Zellers named Devin. He'll hook you up."

"All right, then. Thanks."

"No problem." And she was off.

Now, there are a number of curious things about that sentence, not the least of which being that it was actually spoken. (Once again: I love my job.) Oddly enough, I was actually delighted to hear this. Why? Because it means that there's a place in Medicine Hat where I can go, exchange a casual glance and a knowing nod, and have him arrange for my admission to view a brutal contest of strength between two gladiators, undoubtedly while I sit back in my balcony seat, twirl a snifter of brandy, and make outrageous bets on the outcome with rail tycoons. Then, one of the young turks in the pit below will dare to smile at my mistress... in order to mask my heartache at seeing the smile returned, I'll fly into a rage and demand that he fights three of my henchmen at once. When he bests them handily, I'll offer him a job, figuring to keep a close eye on him, and perhaps arrange his humiliation at a time and place of my choosing. He, on the other hand, will have a different betrayal in mind, as my lady's breathless anxiety makes plain. And so, our little tarantella begins.

At least, that's how it would happen in my mind. In real life, however, I took one look at their website, and decided that there's no way on Earth I'm even going to be in the city at the same time as that show.

EDIT: I almost forgot: Naturally, my fellow patrons and the staff of this combatorium would refer to me as "Mr. Denton". Really, that's one of the most important details.

No, it's not Zubaz.

I received a request to see the shirt I was wearing I was called a "zebra boy", and it got me thinking... but before I start philosophising, here's the shirt.

  No modelling, though; just the pattern. It's not that I'm not vain (I blog, don't I?), but I'm getting ready to drive to Edmonton tomorrow -- and at 1:00 in the morning, I just don't have the inclination to pretty up for the camera.

It's a nice shirt, by the way. Sturdy, dries quickly, irons well... a true winner in the Shirt-of-the-Day roster. I bought it for $15 from a street vendor on Whyte Avenue in Edmonton, and I wore it home. It wasn't until I took it off that evening that I realised it had dragons on it -- always a plus.

But dragons and zebras aren't the same thing. Sure, there are vertical stripes, but aren't zebras supposed to be a little less colourful?

Of course, there's an exception to every rule. Voilà! I never expected our Section Head to have a sweet tooth, but there you have it -- incontrovertible evidence. Oh, and according to the all-knowing Internet, the zebra's name is "Yipes". I'm not sure if that's better or worse than "Zebra Boy."

I find the whole incident fascinating, simply because I've always believed that names have power. True, a rose by any other name would smell as sweet, but the word is what connects our mind to the outside world. Perhaps a rose without a name would never be more than a generic wildflower.

And nowhere is that more felt than in names given to us. In Capoeira, you're given an apellido by your mestre. In Deaf culture, names are special signs only given out by people in the Deaf culture. And even though I've used the handle "Aquadeo" for eight years, it'll always have the caveat of being chosen by me, and that always irks me just a little. It's why I'm content to risk my public identity on the Internet, and sign this blog as "Denton" instead.

Then again, maybe people who were named "Denton" by their parents fixate on these things more than others.

The Bon Mot, The Bad, and The Ugly.

The Good:

During a three-hour power outage yesterday, a group of us decided to pass the time with an impromptu Pictionary tournament. As my boss furiously scribbled away, his partner shouted out, "it's a place on Earth."

At which point, I turn to my teammate and comment, "They say Heaven is a place on Earth." It wasn't quite what Belinda Carlyle sang, but the timing still made it a perfect moment.

The Bad:

When the DRDC's Senior Military Officer sat down at our table at the staff Christmas party, he was affable, good-spirited, and conversational. I didn't have much expertise in the field he was discussing, so I was content to just sit back and listen. However, when the cameras came out, I leaned forward intently, joking that I wanted to look "involved."

At least, I wanted to say involved... but somewhere in my brain, the vocabulary center intercepted the command, and said, "Pfft. Involved? 'Fascinated' has twice as many syllables. Use that instead."

So, here's something they should have taught us at the Ottawa training session: if you want to be a good employee, simply insult someone at the top of the org chart, and you'll be on your best behaviour for the rest of your career (however short that may be).

The Ugly:

There isn't really a dress code at the lab, but I'm the only person who really takes advantage of that fact. Our Acting Section Head doesn't mind, though -- in fact, she seems to get quite a kick out of my Hawaiian apparel. That why she truly and sincerely meant this as a compliment...

"It's just great that someone here is willing to be so silly, like a... a... zebra boy!"

Zebra boy?

There's a lesson here: Don't be too proud of yourself for being able to pointlessly regurgitate pop culture references. It doesn't make up for all the other stupid things you say, and a single original phrase from someone else will outclass you entirely.