Now hiring.

Thursday was a day like any other at the greenhouse, except for one thing: a refrigerator-size safe sitting on a pallet outside my office. That morning, someone from stores came by to size it up.

"Do you need any help?", I asked.

"No, I have to come back with a pallet jack, anyway," he replied

And indeed, a few hours later he returned with a pallet jack -- and his help. Specifically one of our higher-up Assistant Directing Head of Directors or some such thing. I can't even decipher some titles on our org chart, but the important thing is: his name is several pages above mine. The two of them fuss and budge around the safe for a few minutes, while a few ladies gather around the perimeter to watch the scene. MJ and I are watching, too, since it's right outside our office door, but we don't offer to help, since there's already a bit of an argument on "the best way to do this". From what I've learned moving heavy objects, most ways can be a good way, just as long as everyone's in agreement. So, I let them work things out.

Until, that is, when I notice that their strategy is going to pull the safe's edge right over a gap in the pallet. Just as I think, "Gee, that could be dangerous," the whole thing slips and lurches straight towards the ADHD, whose back is against the concrete wall. MJ and I both leap forward, and we actually help him catch the safe as it presses into his chest, and all the ladies gasp in concern. We get it righted, and then the four of us escort the safe to its new destination.

Later that afternoon, one of those ladies invites MJ and me into their office. Apparently, they brought in a cake to celebrate the new safe, and figured that we were entitled to a slice.

So, in summary: I saved someone in upper management from getting crushed by a safe, and was rewarded for it with a safecake party.

I love my job.

I wonder what security thinks of those tapes.

Thursday morning. I'm in BWI (Baltimore-Washington International Airport) at 4AM to make the first of many connecting flights that day. Having just drove there from the hotel, our team is breakfastless, and will remain so until we reach Toronto. I've grown accustomed to constant snacking during the trip (ugh), so I stray from the gate to find an bottled coffee.

(Speaking of which: I now know that I drink too much coffee? Why? Because I can tell what bad coffee tastes like. Blast.)

I go to dispose of the glass bottle in the garbage bin (ah, Maryland, state without recycling programs), and it lands right next to a paperback book (ah, Maryland, state without recycling programs). Throwing away a book? That's bad form, even if it is one of those airline novels of dubious permanence... but wait! What is that title, anyway?

Tales of Ten Worlds, by Arthur C. Clarke.

Okay, I'm not normally the type of guy that raids trash cans. But throwing out one of Clarke's books the day after he dies? As my tribute to the man, I can not let that stand.

And so, I get to add one more thing to the list of "things I never thought I'd do": Stealing something from an American airport.

I'm still unpacking, so the other tales of my Baltimore trip will be coming later. But that one's still fresh in my sleep-addled mind.

Can't keep a good blog down.

I'm typing this in over a public wireless connection in Baltimore. Nice city; for some reason, it looks exactly like I expected Baltimore to look, even though I came here with no expectations.

It's funny, though. The difference between Canada and the U.S. has always been one of small distinctions made large. Maybe it's the hot dog vending machines, or the orange terror alerts over the airport PA systems, or the Spanish subtitles everywhere, or the cops riding Segways (or perhaps most important of all, the fact that I've never been further east in the States than Minnesota), but it feels more like a different country nowadays than it ever did before.

That's not a bad thing, and it's certainly making the trip more entertaining.

I scribbled a whole bunch of poetic-sounding things on my boarding passes while I was on the airplane... as soon as I clean all the fast food receipts and related traveling debris out of my pockets, I'll put some of it up here.

Until the next time, then!

Resolution on the mount.

I don't usually talk about my dreams on this blog, but you'll have to forgive my indulgence this time. Last night I dreamt that I was on a field, and I walked down into some tunnels. They were dimly lit and the floors were covered in old bathroom tiles. There were several plaques on the walls, displaying a series of glyphs in raised ceramic. I couldn't read it, but I knew that they were some sort of military code. Not an Enigma-type code, but more of an informal slang.

Then, I emerged from the tunnel (gee, nothing symbolic there), and I was on an island. Just a few meters away, the soft grassy bank dipped down into the cool blue ocean, and across the narrow channel, I could see all of my co-workers on the opposite bank, where they were having a pleasant conversation. I turned back to look at the island I was on, and saw that it was an enormous hill -- almost a mountain. Not needing any further prompting, I scrambled up the hill to see the view from the top.

The view was indeed impressive: The world stretched out before me, vast beyond comprehension. And there, on the summit, was tuft of earth and grass jutting out of the ground in the exact shape of a podium. I then said to myself, "Well, I suppose I ought to say something..."

And then, at 9h30 on the first of January, I woke up.

Like I said, I don't discuss dreams often. Nonetheless, I've got a feeling that 2008 is going to be a very good year.

Call it a hunch.

Bon appetit.

I can't believe I haven't mentioned the cafeteria yet. All my stories about not working for the military, and I forget to mention the food? Incroyable.

Actually, that's because it was pretty good for the first few months. Perhaps it was the sign up front that did the trick -- one can't help but have their expectations appropriately lowered when they walk into a cafeteria/greasy spoon that's been subcontracted to Pizza Hut. It wasn't what you'd expect, though -- the salads were fresh, the most popular breakfast was a plate of toast and eggs, and the poutine was top quality (if a mite salty). Even the pizza was pretty good (compared to other Pizza Huts, anyway). Add a suitable selection of coffee, and you've got a pretty good place for a coffee break. Sure, everyone called it the "Gag-n-Puke", but it was always hard to find a seat.

And then, one spring day, the sky darkened, and when we opened our eyes, all pizzas were half-price. The cafeteria rights had been sold to another food services contractor. No one was too concerned, though -- none of the staff would be fired, it would be something new, and if Pizza Hut couldn't screw it up, it would be hard for the newcomers to do worse.

Hard -- but not impossible.

The first day the doors opened under new management, I took my coffee break a few minutes early to explore the place before the rush. Have you ever seen the movie "True Grit"? Okay, now imagine if it starred a leathery, one-eyed Willy Wonka. You've just met the new subcontractor.

Aisle upon aisle of bubble gum, candy, and potato chips. An extra refrigerator full of bottled soft drinks. And no less than seven beef jerky displays. And I don't mean "seven shelf locations", I mean seven full carousels between the door and the cash register. And that's not even including the pepperoni sticks in the cooler where the salads used to be. The kitchen was still operating, but at least half the menu had disappeared. I don't claim to be a healthy eater, but even I could tell this was a poor substitute for an actual dinner.

But this wasn't dinner; this was a coffee break. You can't ruin coffee, right? No -- but you can keep it exactly the same, and raise its price by a dollar. I have a feeling that this was the final straw for most people. If they'd just put a little foam and a cinnamon sprinkle on each one, they might have gotten away with it, but they'd already missed their chance to be clever. It wasn't really a boycott... it was more like an awakening, as every last person at work suddenly realised that they had an old coffee maker at home that they could bring to the office. The cafeteria is still there, but it's considerably quieter. Also, in honour of its newfound love for preserved meats, we renamed the "Gag-n-Puke" to the "Puke-n-Jerk". Or "Jerk-n-Puke"; we're still not sure which one is more appropriate.

This sad story brings us to yesterday's events. MJ and I were getting ready to go for our coffee break.

"Denton -- Are you having hot chocolate today?"

"I don't know. I was thinking of just filling my bottle at the water fountain, actually."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"What? Why?"

MJ smiled, and held up a marshmallow.

There was a long and winding path leading up to that moment. It was worth it.

From the country that gave you Spotted Dick.

At the greenhouse cafeteria last week, the British officer in front of me politely asked the lady at the sandwich bar for a special request - something to remind him back home. Her heart thus swayed, she unwisely agreed to fulfill his twisted desires... and then he asked for a bacon, mayonnaise, and ketchup sandwich.

You know, just because something's edible doesn't actually mean it's good. Fortunately, there's a way to make this world a more tasteful place, and you can even salve your own crushed soul in the process: Ratatouille. The Pixar magic is still there, people. Highly recommended for parents, children, chefs, gourmets, and/or anybody who's ever enjoyed a movie.

One of the interesting things about the movie is how it's influenced by Jim Henson, of all people. I couldn't put my finger on it, but the movie was rich with that warm, good-natured, half-experimental fuzziness that pervaded the Muppet Show. There was that similar feeling that the creators didn't really know if they should be doing this, but since they wouldn't be happy doing it any other way, that they might as well have some fun with it. If only other movies would show the same heart...

The movie doesn't have a message, but like all good stories, it has an underlying theme. And from that theme, not only do I understand and forgive that wretched British soul for his BMK sandwich, but I'm inspired to do better. I've sufficed with bachelor cuisine for far too long. My Iron Chef talents have gone to fallow -- but no more! Tonight, my kitchen is reborn in a phoenix's flames.

But not literally, I hope.

Barista for a week.

Earlier this week, I was helping out with accomodating some visiting VIPs (i.e. getting coffee), and during one of their meetings, one of my co-workers noticed a safety officer poking around with the control panel. Out of curiosity, we approached.

"Excuse me... is there a problem here?"

"Oh, no, no," he replied. "We're just getting ready for the fire alarm test."

Glances were exchanged. "Fire alarm? Today?"

"Yep, it's already been scheduled."

"I...see. Have you mentioned this to the three dozen international delegates in the room across the hall?"

"Well, I didn't want to interrupt."

Wasn't that considerate? He didn't want to interrupt (so he let us interrupt the meeting instead). I don't know about you, but I'm willing to file that under "Irony".

After the conference had ended, all that was left was the clean-up and the tear-down. While packing up the percolator and silverware for the cafeteria, we realised there was still a bag of sugar left over. Not the original bag, though. This was an ordinary paper bag, filled with half a kilo of sugar. It wouldn't be sanitary to pour it back, but that was an awful lot of sugar to simply discard. Finally, I hit upon a solution:

"Why don't we pour it all down a gopher hole and see what happens?"

The concept was very well-received, but sadly, we never acted upon it. Not because we had any particular sympathy for the gophers... rather, piles of unidentified white powder tend to create a lot of concern in this industry.

Ah, well. It was an excellent week, regardless.

Necessary Illusions.

It's a commonly accepted fact that government agencies of all types will protect their funding with more tenacity than a TV executive will protect her ratings. That's no different at the greenhouse, where each breath we take has to convince everyone in earshot that our project, ours, no one else's, is the greatest thing in the world. Thus, when a financial director from Ottawa came to visit today, we started cleaning up the lab like Mary Poppins herself was cheering us along.

More importantly, we did our best to make sure that the trailer which housed our prototype last year looked as operational as possible. Monitors of all shapes were carted in and set up, their video cables hanging limply behind countertops. Equipment which hadn't been used in three years was dusted off and displayed proudly. Binders of all sorts were stacked up in the office space, creating the illusion of paperwork. By the time we were done, we had created the sort of cardboard laboratory one might see in an IKEA showroom, and we were pretty proud of ourselves. While we waited for the Man From Ottawa to come in for his scheduled tour, the senior staff explained us what we should say, i.e. as little as possible.

But first, lunch break. I went down to the cafeteria, and as I was waiting in line, the people in the top two boxes of every org chart on the base stepped up behind me, along with the Man From Ottawa. I smiled politely. A few minutes later, our base's Financial Director looked right at me. "I saw you cleaning out that trailer today, didn't I?"

This is probably the second time he's ever talked to me. I smile nervously. "That's right."

"So tell me, what sort of instruments are in there?"

I fancy myself as a top-rate liar, and the trailer was essentially constructed for the sole purpose of impressing these people. I didn't hesitate for a second. "Oh, we just took some junk that was cluttering up our lab and prettied it up a bit."

Hm. That didn't come out quite like I planned it, but he seemed happy with the answer. "So it's basically ready for show-and-tell, then?"

I smiled back, relieved that he understood. "Exactly."

There's an incredible number of inane policies, requirements, and redundancies in the government, and sometimes the most exasperating thing is that everybody knows it, but everybody plays along.

On a day like today, however, the fact that everybody plays along is precisely what lets me sleep at night.

It could have been worse.

In my defense, I asked if he wanted to perform his experiment first, before I grabbed a bit of his specially requested chemical.

In my defense, I only needed five milligrams.

In my defense, none of the other twenty grams I spilled made it outside the fume hood.

In my defense, I cleaned it up using all the proper safety procedures, took full responsibility, and filed a full report.

In my defense, no harm was done.

And yet... I'm really glad this week is over.

Never explain a joke.

For some bizarre reason, a conversation at work today about the city's upcoming non-smoking bylaw turned into someone proposing a bylaw that nobody would be allowed to beat up on Denton.

"A charming sentiment," I agreed, "but ultimately meaningless. After all, you just know there's going to be a sprig of mistletoe out there that won't listen."

Dead silence and puzzled looks. Apparently, my esteemed co-workers don't speak hypertext.

"It's a myth," I explained. "The death of Balder? Balder The Beautiful?"

"Who?"

Oddly enough, it wasn't a rhetorical question, and I was obliged to answer. It's a very odd situation to teach your direct supervisor about Norse Mythology. Better still is when you intend it as self-effacing humour, but you're forced to explain that you were comparing yourself to the Norse God of Beauty. That's awkward.

And when I say "awkward", I mean "the-only-person-applauding-is-your-mother" awkward.

The day improved, though. My co-worker (Mike) and I helped the new grad student (Armando) design a gas chamber for his experiment. (Nitrogen gas. Stop worrying.) After sketching out some ideas, Armando put it together, and he decided to name it using all three of our initials:

The M.A.D. Chamber.

Roughly speaking, that's the most awesome thing of 2007 so far.

DSS: Original Gardeners.

It's odd enough just working on a military base, even if I'm still a civilian, employed by the federal government (which has an oddness all its own, of course). Today, though, I found out that my department was once called the DSS - Defense Scientific Service - and that it actually was a branch of the military. Land, Sea, Air, and Science. Neat idea, isn't it?

Of course, those days are long gone, but there's still one little holdover. You see, the military has always loved org charts, and the idea of having an entire branch that couldn't be lined up in order of importance was anathema to them. So, they created a list of "equivalent ranks", which essentially told the soldiers which civilians they had to grudgingly respect and which they could happily ignore.

Nowadays, the list isn't used for a single thing, but it's still there, and to my incalculable amusement, I discovered that my position has the equivalent rank of "Captain".

I shall repeat this for the sake of my own ego: The list isn't used for a single thing. It is obsolete. I am not a Captain.

But that still doesn't change the fact that I couldn't stop grinning all day.

Overheard.

The catch to this story is that this is what the archives clerk* overheard me say:

Me: "I'll be back in a second; I just have to go to the men's room to clean out this bowl of bruschetta."

(a slight pause)

Officemate: "What's the problem?"

Me: "Oh, I'm just wondering if it'll clog the toilet -- but then again, I've puked way worse than this."

They tell me I'm developing a reputation in these parts.



*No, of course she's not an archives clerk. She's a government employee with the mil gardening industry, so I'm sure she has a very specific title five words long that can be compressed into a two-letter initialisation. Just because I have no idea what her title is doesn't mean I don't respect her. By that logic, I'm not sure I'd even respect myself.