tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-68687908351172626442024-03-05T04:59:17.591-05:00Straight from the bowelsA collection of funny short stories about modern life, Canada, relationships, professional life, health, wildlife and whatever topics crossing my fertile imagination. All events and characters are fictional.Geoffroy Hauppierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00969670115579717532noreply@blogger.comBlogger40125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6868790835117262644.post-75756546874593601872014-11-20T21:41:00.000-05:002016-03-08T15:22:52.702-05:00The World of Dentistry<hr /><div align="right"><a href="http://endirectdelintestingrele.blogspot.ca/2011/07/medecine-dentaire-cosmopolite.html">Version française</a></div><div align="left"></div><hr />The Bartlett pear (called Williams pear in England) is one of the tastiest and juiciest fruit in North American supermarkets. It’s hard to believe that by chewing on this soft delicacy, much to my dismay, I managed to break the filling on one of my lower molars.<br />
<br />
Dental problems started to appear about 10,000 years ago, when humans stopped roaming the land to settle in villages and towns. At that time, mankind’s eating habits changed as our ancestors began eating more sugar, a leading cause for cavities.<br />
<br />
Could it be that toothaches are God’s curse on the children of Cain for adopting their father’s sedentary living?<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-8ykYleTPzGUic-Q0YetFUze-NmS3dB-WoH-4dandn2idmzLWT6k3Zr2sW72t4g2JQPR6LhvDizpi-9eyoqlUKQL-MerFmsc7d9MpQpbPYu2UpsySPCSP31cNXiR6qNFBV21h5FIwEsIm/s1600/Ranch+dressing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="salad dressing,condiment. groceries. grocery store" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-8ykYleTPzGUic-Q0YetFUze-NmS3dB-WoH-4dandn2idmzLWT6k3Zr2sW72t4g2JQPR6LhvDizpi-9eyoqlUKQL-MerFmsc7d9MpQpbPYu2UpsySPCSP31cNXiR6qNFBV21h5FIwEsIm/s1600/Ranch+dressing.jpg" height="400" title="Photo of a no name ranch dressing bottle with yellow label" width="237" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Cain was a farmer and his brother <a href="https://www.google.com/url?q=http%3A%2F%2Fstraightfromthebowels.blogspot.ca%2F2011%2F11%2Fhomelessness.html">Abel was a nomad</a>. Abel sacrificed the firstborns of his cattle to God who seemed to enjoy it. However, the zucchini, carrots and celery Cain offered up weren’t to the Almighty’s taste, maybe because Cain neglected to serve them with <a href="https://www.google.com/url?q=http%3A%2F%2Fendirectdelintestingrele.blogspot.ca%2F2011%2F05%2Fmeanwhile-at-ranch.html">ranch dressing</a>.</span></span></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>It took a long time for people to understand tooth decay. In olden times, cavities were thought to be caused by worms. In ancient Egypt, dental malformation in children was treated by feeding skinned and cooked mice to toddlers. In China, cavities were filled with bat dung. In Spain, frequent mouthwash with urine was key to good oral hygiene.<br />
<br />
In the Middle Ages, tooth pullers began exercising their trade in public squares, promising their clients painless relief. Of course they were lying through their teeth but it provided great entertainment for crowds who had neither TV nor Internet to kill time. Tooth pullers also removed calluses.<br />
<br />
In those days, dentistry and pedicure drank at the same well.<br />
<br />
When Renaissance arrived, hairdressers joined the dental trade bandwagon. Noble ladies of Florence could thus have tartar removed from their teeth while getting a perm or having their hair styled.<br />
<br />
In the 18th century, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pierre_Fauchard">Pierre Fauchard</a>, the “father of modern dentistry,” published <i>The Surgeon Dentist </i>in which he recommended the use of heavy metals for tooth fillings. He also endorsed regular mouthwash with urine.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRE3ce5y2UQQ2ZsVOtckOUVXgfO2NRh3x5vFTT5HXET8rQR4Grp6h4aHTFozSC8IJ1_VeomTRF9SFCOQ_4NEA6Hqvesi7tVs_Y5OyhYmz1WoTJOxGR9AREhuPXYJtlM7REuJDkYBy-y49P/s1600/Urine.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="urination, urophagia, urine therapy, personal hygiene, dental care" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRE3ce5y2UQQ2ZsVOtckOUVXgfO2NRh3x5vFTT5HXET8rQR4Grp6h4aHTFozSC8IJ1_VeomTRF9SFCOQ_4NEA6Hqvesi7tVs_Y5OyhYmz1WoTJOxGR9AREhuPXYJtlM7REuJDkYBy-y49P/s1600/Urine.jpg" height="400" title="Drawing of a man looking disgusted and holding a full glass of yellow liquid while a half full bottle of urine is standing by" width="278" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
A man collected his own urine in a bottle to use as mouthwash. Beware of unproven personal hygiene advice: it might just be a fad... especially if it’s gross.</span></span></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>Progress cannot be stopped but it sometimes takes a while to occur.<br />
<br />
You can understand why I have always had mixed impressions about dental medicine. Should it be considered a science? An art? A technical trade?<br />
<br />
With this in mind I began looking for a dentist. I chose a new dental office that had just opened in a strip mall close to where I lived, tucked between a video rental store, a pizza parlor and a realtor’s office.<br />
<br />
Doctor Nguyen’s office was new, tidy, tastefully decorated and equipped with the latest technology. The good doctor was a pretty 30 year-old woman who had recently graduated from a Las Vegas dental school, a city that does not readily come to mind when <a href="https://www.google.com/url?q=http%3A%2F%2Fstraightfromthebowels.blogspot.ca%2F2012%2F04%2Fworking-for-russians.html">you seek higher education</a>.<br />
<br />
I was told however that its dental schools have an excellent reputation.<br />
<br />
After her examination, Doctor Nguyen told me that my decayed molar needed a crown but first I had to see a dental surgeon who would lower my gum, raise my jaw and perform root canal surgery. She would make the necessary arrangements for me.<br />
<br />
Root canal surgery is a procedure in which the pulp of a damaged tooth is removed with files, reamers, drills and other precision instruments. Although this treatment sounds painful, the Polish surgeon I went to see possessed undeniable skills.<br />
<br />
He first gave me a solid local anesthetic and then put on a blaring Johnny Cash CD to distract me from the abominations he was performing in my mouth using sharp objects.<br />
<br />
I did not feel a thing.<br />
<br />
When I saw Doctor Nguyen again, she worked for several minutes on my molar before saying: “This won’t do.”<br />
<br />
She led me to her office. My mouth was numb from the anesthetic and I was still wearing the necessary bib that dentists tie around the neck of their patients while they intervene.<br />
<br />
Doctor Nguyen turned on a giant screen on which I could see the digitized x-ray image of my mouth.<br />
<br />
“You see, I can’t install a crown because your teeth are out of alignment, specifically here, here and here as well as on all this side of your mouth,” she said pointing at teeth with her laser pen.<br />
<br />
“This is what I suggest: I will make a set of braces to adjust your teeth. You will wear it in your mouth for six to twelve months, long enough for your teeth to be redressed. This treatment will cost about $1,800. Your parents would have done well to take you to a dentist when you were a child.”<br />
<br />
I refrained from telling her about my grandfather who lived the last 30 years of his life with only three teeth in his mouth and who saw a blacksmith when he had a toothache.<br />
<br />
“Then I will install crowns on the teeth of your lower jaw which will no longer be aligned with those of the upper jaw. It’s about twelve crowns and it will cost $15,000 to $18,000. We can start the treatment next week.”<br />
<br />
I asked Doctor Nguyen for a few days to think about it.<br />
<br />
“You know, many people would not hesitate one moment to mortgage their house to receive such a treatment,” she said.<br />
<br />
“Oh! I believe you!” I replied. “However, just to satisfy my curiosity, how much would it cost to have all my teeth pulled out to replace them with dentures?”<br />
<br />
“About $10,000 but I wouldn’t recommend it,” she answered.<br />
<br />
I thanked her, paid for the treatment I already had received and left her office, dizzy from novocaine and the astronomical amounts that she had quoted me for fixing my teeth.<br />
<br />
A friend suggested I seek a second opinion and recommended a Swedish dentist for whom her sister worked as a dental assistant.<br />
<br />
So I went to see Doctor Svensson, a middle-aged lady who looked in my mouth mumbling “I see, I see...”<br />
<br />
Then she asked me:<br />
<br />
“Is your dentist young? Her office and equipment, are they all computerized?”<br />
<br />
“Yes! How did you know?”<br />
<br />
“Dear sir, I think I can fit you with a crown. Would you prefer gold or porcelain? I believe a gold crown would look good on you. A gold crown costs $900, a porcelain crown, $1,200.”<br />
<br />
“Gold would be nice,” I replied sheepishly promising myself to light a candle to Saint <a href="http://www.google.com/url?q=http%3A%2F%2Fen.wikipedia.org%2Fwiki%2FJohn_Maynard_Keynes&sa=D&sntz=1&usg=AFQjCNHXrZtVlyMbTPp6uFxechmL71AWTA">John Maynard Keynes</a> who suggested <a href="https://www.google.com/url?q=http%3A%2F%2Fstraightfromthebowels.blogspot.ca%2F2012%2F05%2Fmutt.html">the gold standard be replaced with the porcelain standard</a> at the <a href="http://www.google.com/url?q=http%3A%2F%2Fen.wikipedia.org%2Fwiki%2FBretton_Woods_system&sa=D&sntz=1&usg=AFQjCNGtDiPcCTJvYYi3Nk2rsKmfm3E9dQ">Bretton-Woods Conference</a> in 1944.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2JgQaLbbfngYsful5aB34aNzNEWUOxwKbAPGcQqztLY15UpNfZKW_YIurYtwp5LSXsqgNaSIrkC_Vu6gb683UzcAQgqNN6J_niQ2Ttv3DJRlZHVgUveWekYQNqqxYHaci6kVtn9cTzinL/s1600/Gold+crown.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="teeth, dentures, dentist, crown, orthodontist, filling, gold" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2JgQaLbbfngYsful5aB34aNzNEWUOxwKbAPGcQqztLY15UpNfZKW_YIurYtwp5LSXsqgNaSIrkC_Vu6gb683UzcAQgqNN6J_niQ2Ttv3DJRlZHVgUveWekYQNqqxYHaci6kVtn9cTzinL/s1600/Gold+crown.jpg" height="320" title="Drawing of the upper and lower teeth with an indication of the left and right side of the mouth" width="174" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">John Maynard Keynes was a British economist who played a key role in the signing of the Bretton Woods Agreement in New Hampshire. As a result of this agreement, the gold standard was dropped. The porcelain standard is my invention. If you exchange your money for porcelain, you will be disappointed.</span></span></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>Two weeks later I was proudly wearing my new gold crown. It felt good and I was relieved that I did not have to rinse my mouth with urine.<hr>Geoffroy Hauppierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00969670115579717532noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6868790835117262644.post-58545849271061622812014-10-18T15:10:00.000-04:002014-11-30T07:19:48.243-05:00The Biggest Swimming Pool in the World<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><hr /><div align="right"><a href="http://endirectdelintestingrele.blogspot.ca/2013/09/la-plus-grande-piscine-du-monde.html">Version française</a></div><div align="left"></div><hr />Superlatives are words used to qualify the absolute top or bottom in quality or quantity. How we enjoy talking about the wealthiest man in the world, <a href="http://www.google.com/url?q=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.mobilegeeks.com%2Fapple-ipad-air-2-not-thinnest%2F%3Futm_source%3Ddlvr.it%26utm_medium%3Dtwitter&sa=D&sntz=1&usg=AFQjCNEpDcu4Ect7slUo9Uqjv0m2vEPfVA">the thinnest tablet</a> or the most crooked political leader!<br />
<br />
I guess these words were invented to make us forget how common our ordinary lives can be.<br />
<br />
As I was discussing superlatives with colleagues, it made me think of something that happened while I was still married.<br />
<br />
My wife was born to <a href="https://www.google.com/url?q=http%3A%2F%2Fstraightfromthebowels.blogspot.ca%2F2012%2F07%2Fthe-deer-hunter.html">drive a car</a>. She just loved to take to the road. She used any excuse to jump into the car and travel aimlessly looking for something new to see.<br />
<br />
On a nice sunny Sunday afternoon my wife and I decided to take a ride in the countryside.<br />
<br />
My wife was at the wheel. Fields, groves and <a href="https://www.google.com/url?q=http%3A%2F%2Fstraightfromthebowels.blogspot.ca%2F2011%2F12%2Fmighty-bison.html">cattle were going by</a> the left and right of the car. I was daydreaming, thinking how great life was and how wonderful it was to be alive.<br />
<br />
We came to a village famous for its cheese curds factory and decided to stop and sample the local delicacy.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAaM3WcdiLvTHEaK_KaVvvtMTyfcuVNbdi07YBVL3dZCel0QQjyneL7cjj665UZfV6uLiF3EWZANs96oYYG9tUolwfkieGFHB15VoPBMWL8rarDjoHDZElHCBU6o8m1Sf1znvjT4x605Hr/s1600/2013-10-04+12.20.11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="poutine, cheese, curd, french fries, gravy, thumbs up, soda, pop, plastic fork, Quebec, Canadiana" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAaM3WcdiLvTHEaK_KaVvvtMTyfcuVNbdi07YBVL3dZCel0QQjyneL7cjj665UZfV6uLiF3EWZANs96oYYG9tUolwfkieGFHB15VoPBMWL8rarDjoHDZElHCBU6o8m1Sf1znvjT4x605Hr/s1600/2013-10-04+12.20.11.jpg" height="400" title="Colour photograph of poutine with the man eating it holding his thumb up" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Cheese curds were invented in Canada in the early 1960s by dairy farmers trying to bypass quota regulations. Easy to make, this fat, salty, slightly processed cheddar cheese quickly became popular and gave birth to the infamous “poutine,” a meal made of cheese and french fries topped with hot gravy.</span></span></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>We bought our cheese and as my wife was admiring the quaint shop, I read a story in the local newspaper about one of the area attractions, “the biggest natural swimming pool in the world.”<br />
<br />
As soon as I mentioned it to my wife, she wanted to see it since it was only a few miles away.<br />
<br />
We found the “swimming pool” at the end of an unnamed dirt road. The pool was made of three communicating stone basins at the foot of a large rock where a trickle of cold water was flowing from a spring. The bottom of each basin had been painted aquamarine to give the impression of an artificial swimming pool. All in all, the lagoon was much smaller in size than an olympic swimming pool.<br />
<br />
It had been a hot summer with less than average rainfall. The stream was not a bubbly jet of water, just a slow dribble. The smallest basin was empty and the deepest contained nothing more than three feet of sticky water, green with algae proliferating under the warm sun.<br />
<br />
This did not seem to bother the numerous children who were noisily splashing about in the water while their parents, slumped into lounging chairs around the pool, distractedly kept an eye on their progeny.<br />
<br />
I told my wife this seemed to be the perfect place to catch a dermatosis that would make these poor kids’ skin tougher than the hide of Big Joe, <a href="http://www.google.com/url?q=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.roadsideamerica.com%2Fstory%2F13422&sa=D&sntz=1&usg=AFQjCNHAnmFAReDZAvGoh_PTjzTGJg5Vcw">the largest alligator of Florida</a> that we had seen near Fort Myers.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCuyGMTBtJOUqcslNPbc3KWFm-Go31PI03AdWtjPrGRT6ddpj8soVKzqgsqBqgbr9zTv6Tk4aoc-pesHWU0xiO0Aw1hmzMlr6yOe5nq7lFQhJFBwQxYYqF-pIBSEd1LG1Xc9jZ8TVrqscM/s1600/Alligator+5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="alligator, reptile, lizard, amphibian, crocodilian, crocodile, bayou, Florida" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCuyGMTBtJOUqcslNPbc3KWFm-Go31PI03AdWtjPrGRT6ddpj8soVKzqgsqBqgbr9zTv6Tk4aoc-pesHWU0xiO0Aw1hmzMlr6yOe5nq7lFQhJFBwQxYYqF-pIBSEd1LG1Xc9jZ8TVrqscM/s1600/Alligator+5.jpg" height="208" title="Drawing of an alligator" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">With more than one million American Alligators (</span></span></i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Alligator mississippiensis</span></span><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">) in the world this species is far from being endangered as it haunts the southeastern United States. The word “alligator” is derived from </span></span></i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">el lagarto</span></span><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> (the lizard), the name given to the reptile by the first Spanish explorers.</span></span></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>“You always see the bad side of things! Look at how much fun they’re having!” she said smiling and waving at the children.<br />
<br />
At that moment, a man with a worn-out Elvis Presley T-shirt and sporting a dirty pair of khaki shorts with a dangerously open fly came to meet us.<br />
<br />
— Welcome to our little paradise on Earth! Are you looking for a place to park your camping trailer?<br />
<br />
— Erm... No, we just came to see the biggest swimming pool in the world, I said before being interrupted by my wife.<br />
<br />
— Oh! There’s a campground? Can we see it?<br />
<br />
— Yes, behind those trees, answered the man pointing towards a thinly-wooded area. I can give you a tour if you want.<br />
<br />
— Oh! That would be delightful! Shall we go my darling? said my wife to me as she took the arm of our improvised guide.<br />
<br />
Against my will I followed them through an underbrush planted with birch and aspen trees.<br />
<br />
A lacing road was forming a loop of the campground. Trailers were parked along the road close to each other, most of them permanently. Some seemed to have been there for decades.<br />
<br />
At the centre of the loop, a large porcelain urinal decorated with lights and plastic flowers was acting as a grotto for a statue of the Virgin Mary. The saint was standing in this makeshift shrine with her open arms, looking discouraged as if she declined any responsibility for the compound she found herself in.<br />
<br />
Our guide was explaining the intricacies of camping to my wife as she obediently listened and asked questions from time to time. The man was so happy to have found an audience that he was rocking on his heels, a nervous tick that, to my dismay, was causing the broken fly of his shorts to open even more.<br />
<br />
He then<a href="https://www.google.com/url?q=http%3A%2F%2Fstraightfromthebowels.blogspot.ca%2F2013%2F09%2Fmexican-rabbits.html"> invited us for coffee</a> in his trailer. My wife accepted although I was not keen on the invitation and we walked towards the fellow’s mobile home.<br />
<br />
The trailer looked like our guide: common and unkempt. As the guy started to fight to open the jammed door, the broken fly zipper of his shorts gaped even more and, to my disgust, I saw “Elvis” leaving the building.<br />
<br />
I had had enough. I took my wife by the arm, thanked our host and, pretending we had a long ride home we left this place where I had seen everything I wished I had never seen.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimtQCWzhTd565dcCRD4kMjWHeSJuXwVNuNEIAA2XKNaBtsxhL8TLCRfTZKFBlw17ir_CmciXIXfioqm4zHSh6QC903LwzBmnGSZEMtDXqCnVBE5rYVpEDZz6xV3X_vaULr-n72Tp9j1kkA/s1600/2013-10-02+18.29.12.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="public swimming pool, aquamarine, dead leaves, autumn, fall, 1.4 metre" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimtQCWzhTd565dcCRD4kMjWHeSJuXwVNuNEIAA2XKNaBtsxhL8TLCRfTZKFBlw17ir_CmciXIXfioqm4zHSh6QC903LwzBmnGSZEMtDXqCnVBE5rYVpEDZz6xV3X_vaULr-n72Tp9j1kkA/s1600/2013-10-02+18.29.12.jpg" height="400" title="Colour photograph of an empty swimming pool" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Swimming pools have been popular since antiquity, the oldest one was found in Sindh, Pakistan. In England, public swimming pools appeared in the mid-19th century. However, nobody has ever boasted of having the emptiest swimming pool in the world.</span></span></i></td></tr>
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Geoffroy Hauppierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00969670115579717532noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6868790835117262644.post-11776326297664002722014-07-26T18:27:00.000-04:002014-07-26T18:35:36.374-04:00Hospital Diaries VII: The Sweet-Smelling Ward<hr /><div align="right"><a href="http://endirectdelintestingrele.blogspot.ca/2014/05/chroniques-hospitalieres-vii-le.html">Version française</a></div><div align="left"></div><hr /><b>This is part of a series. You can begin <a href="http://straightfromthebowels.blogspot.ca/2014/03/hospital-diaries-i-gout-ridden-wretch.html">at Part I</a> and follow the link at the end of each installment to read the next. </b><br />
<br />
Paralysis is a terrible impediment to autonomy. Not only are you not able to move but also you cannot get dressed, wash or go to the bathroom by yourself.<br />
<br />
In the <a href="https://www.google.com/url?q=http%3A%2F%2Fstraightfromthebowels.blogspot.ca%2F2014%2F04%2Fhospital-diaries-iv-gurney-hall.html">Gurney Hall</a> I had to let go of my shirt and pants and I felt humiliated wearing nothing but briefs under the ridiculous patient smock with the wide opening in the back.<br />
<br />
You see, clothes not only serve to keep you warm and decent, they also symbolize your social status. In a hospital this hierarchy is quite obvious: doctors wear white smocks and a tie, nurses and orderlies wear pastel-coloured scrubs, and patients lie half-naked at the bottom of the social ladder.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuC42Wr58dagwuNlSzSah-VhHFYt5Vw6H8V-eFZv_ffeqLlTLyVaDtaGu6EMFmGe7aKiNYKaDcJo_BkJ-RtENRKK9WXAB2Lj-sW8KUFSE5aRSa9q3VFQGOEI3sfza_q6o-YAAQ2wflVY3c/s1600/social+ladder3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="firefighter, fireman, oxygen tank, ladder, protective clothing, fire, emergency" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuC42Wr58dagwuNlSzSah-VhHFYt5Vw6H8V-eFZv_ffeqLlTLyVaDtaGu6EMFmGe7aKiNYKaDcJo_BkJ-RtENRKK9WXAB2Lj-sW8KUFSE5aRSa9q3VFQGOEI3sfza_q6o-YAAQ2wflVY3c/s1600/social+ladder3.jpg" height="400" title="Colour photograph of a firefighter in full gear, icluding oxygen tank, climbing a ladder" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">The social ladder is nowhere ever more present than in a fire brigade. Here a firefighter is climbing the social ladder in an attempt to become lead firefighter, a dangerous position with more responsibilities. Exactly why is a mystery to me.</span></span></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>I was sharing my embarrassment with <a href="https://www.google.com/url?q=http%3A%2F%2Fstraightfromthebowels.blogspot.ca%2F2014%2F03%2Fhospital-diaries-ii-firefly.html">my friend Lucide</a> as she was pushing me in my wheelchair back to my room at the <a href="https://www.google.com/url?q=http%3A%2F%2Fstraightfromthebowels.blogspot.ca%2F2014%2F04%2Fhospital-diaries-vi-overflow.html">Emergency Overflow</a>.<br />
<br />
“You know, when you’re in a hospital, you have to give up your pride,” she said.<br />
<br />
Unfortunately, my vanity prevented me from appreciating her wisdom.<br />
<br />
The next day, I squirmed for an hour in my stretcher, finally managing to put on a pair of jeans. I could not button them because of my swollen and numb hands but I did zip them up.<br />
<br />
As I was basking in this accomplishment, I looked up and saw a tall blonde woman who had been observing me for awhile, standing at the foot of my gurney.<br />
<br />
Although she was smartly dressed and not wearing a white smock, I knew she was a doctor simply because she appeared out of nowhere like all the other doctors who came to see me in the hospital.<br />
<br />
“Good morning sir. I am Doctor Sveta Tiplova,” she said with a strong Russian accent. “How are you feeling today?”<br />
<br />
“Quite well thank you. Are you a neurologist?”<br />
<br />
“No, I’m a physiatrist and I’m here to assess your condition.”<br />
<br />
I thought I heard “psychiatrist” and for a moment I had a vision of the <a href="http://www.google.com/url?q=http%3A%2F%2Fen.wikipedia.org%2Fwiki%2FGulag&sa=D&sntz=1&usg=AFQjCNHXM1M5PsyHMdextssKVU2heNN--w">Soviet Gulag</a> and the snowy Siberian steppes. I feared this new doctor was sent by <a href="https://www.google.com/url?q=http%3A%2F%2Fstraightfromthebowels.blogspot.ca%2F2014%2F04%2Fhospital-diaries-v-seagull.html">the “Seagull,”</a> the doctor who thought I was faking my illness, as a first step to having me committed.<br />
<br />
Seeing my distress, Doctor Tiplova explained that she was a specialist of the musculoskeletal system. She then proceeded to thoroughly examine my hands, my arms, my shoulders, my neck and my knees.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJZpqutSVdsPNVvSYXkVsJtiuyRPC7t0aRKmeoWLZgqdIk7wh61xYmWzugVRP2MIeGTV0H1Z_5xiq1Cin6eWwvr2tIhWWV4LPXQeeFlkOddb3pCQZynUSqJLIEOdw31_BtCni89jhhg4wZ/s1600/musculoskeletal1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="anatomy, muscle, tendon, ligament, bone, testicles,drawing" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJZpqutSVdsPNVvSYXkVsJtiuyRPC7t0aRKmeoWLZgqdIk7wh61xYmWzugVRP2MIeGTV0H1Z_5xiq1Cin6eWwvr2tIhWWV4LPXQeeFlkOddb3pCQZynUSqJLIEOdw31_BtCni89jhhg4wZ/s1600/musculoskeletal1.jpg" height="400" title="Etching of a skinned anatomical figure showing the muscles, tendons, ligaments and bones of the human body" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Physiatry, a medical discipline that became popular during WWII, is about restoring the bones and muscles connexion after an injury otherwise than through <a href="https://www.google.com/url?q=http%3A%2F%2Fyoutu.be%2FhYeQUXXYvK0">a silly Bible camp song</a>.</span></span></i> </td></tr>
</tbody></table>She seemed puzzled but I could see that she was carefully considering my ailment. She finally said: <br />
<br />
“Listen, for what it’s worth I am going to submit your case to the Internal Medicine Department. They might be able to recommend some tests to establish a proper diagnosis.”<br />
<br />
After she left I realized that medical science was as much in the dark about the nature of my illness as I was, although it did not have to cope with the pain and paralysis.<br />
<br />
For the time being however, Doctor Tiplova’s visit had an instant benefit for me. For her examination, an orderly had moved me to my wheelchair and I was no longer lying down on my stretcher.<br />
<br />
I had not been to the bathroom since I arrived at the hospital several days before. My friend Lucide had brought me prunes when she came to visit and I was beginning to feel <a href="https://www.google.com/url?q=http%3A%2F%2Fstraightfromthebowels.blogspot.ca%2F2012%2F03%2Fconductor.html">their effect on my bowels</a>.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmZ9ImxBfnDaSwJzDb4wxCLn9lWyzRPY2w4hH9XnHkZ2Lwy78jiLV0ywR5aLj7Ebf1SwW8hNotqnrM2A12wCDEtJwEGdH62XhflUoXnjhUqfuEr13_oG1b_k36vTUtBeqV4fSDWBa1G75G/s1600/prunes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="prunes, plums, dried fruit, pudding, dessert, laxative" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmZ9ImxBfnDaSwJzDb4wxCLn9lWyzRPY2w4hH9XnHkZ2Lwy78jiLV0ywR5aLj7Ebf1SwW8hNotqnrM2A12wCDEtJwEGdH62XhflUoXnjhUqfuEr13_oG1b_k36vTUtBeqV4fSDWBa1G75G/s1600/prunes.jpg" height="400" title="Colour photograph of prunes on a plate" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Plums (</span></span></i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">prunus domestica</span></span><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">) were introduced to the western world during the Crusades and offered as a perk to crusaders (whence the expression “plum reward”) who left their family and possessions behind to massacre Moors in the Holy Land. Once dried, they are called prunes and <a href="https://www.google.com/url?q=http%3A%2F%2Fstraightfromthebowels.blogspot.ca%2F2012%2F11%2Fthe-refrigerator.html">can be preserved</a> for a long time. Their laxative properties are legend.</span></span></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>I rolled my wheelchair to the toilet, put the brakes on and painstakingly lifted myself up by leaning on the chair’s armrests. With great effort I advanced the three steps to the bowl and collapsed on its seat.<br />
<br />
At once my intestines began to void. Oh! The joy I felt when I realized that at least this part of my body was fully functional! My hands, my arms, my legs and my neck may have given up on me but at this time I swear I was in Paradise!<br />
<br />
However, after I was done and had wiped away the traces of my deed I was faced with another challenge. How was I to get up from the toilet? There were holding bars on the wall but my arms did not have the strength to lift me up.<br />
<br />
I realized I would have to ask an orderly to help me get up from this awkward position.<br />
<br />
There was a chain on the wall with a sign that said “EMERGENCY” in red letters. Humbly I pulled on it and after ten minutes an orderly showed up.<br />
<br />
“Oh! Poor sir! You shouldn’t have tried to go to the bathroom by yourself! We could have brought you a commode chair!”<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4wPBvHFj-wZ8JsVm-9T-m0b2YCE1qsALwTluEFw21wkN0S-KLDsfkQlNXrvd-cqg6XTggSQVOlKBDRxYjoihYSSQmlX8ZotZYxNWsqKYf90L5U4Hq8dA2KYi6cU9TafAgdkRufJDU5EDS/s1600/commode+chair2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="chair, commode, restroom, bowel movement, personal hygiene" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4wPBvHFj-wZ8JsVm-9T-m0b2YCE1qsALwTluEFw21wkN0S-KLDsfkQlNXrvd-cqg6XTggSQVOlKBDRxYjoihYSSQmlX8ZotZYxNWsqKYf90L5U4Hq8dA2KYi6cU9TafAgdkRufJDU5EDS/s1600/commode+chair2.jpg" height="400" title="Drawing of an ornamented padded chair with fringes" width="238" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Commode chairs, such as this padded specimen, were popular in the 18 and 19 centuries before the advent of sewers. To each his own, using a commode chair is not a pleasant experience yet it is better than relieving yourself in a diaper.</span></span></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>He tried to pull me up but the bathroom was too narrow. He left to get another orderly and together they managed to make me stand up. The second orderly pulled up my trousers, buttoned them and zipped them up.<br />
<br />
Nothing can wound your pride as much as having several people witnessing the embarrassing situation you are in.<br />
<br />
As a consolation, I thought of Dante’s <a href="http://www.google.com/url?q=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.gutenberg.org%2Febooks%2F1995&sa=D&sntz=1&usg=AFQjCNELStaXRN8pEZ59c0AW7eVtWmdbHg"><i>Divine Comedy</i></a> where the author, while travelling through Hell, met an acquaintance who had been condemned to swim for eternity in a sea of excrements because of his pride.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJGte1v96sKCn4DiU97vjDGuNkTRWXjYH65NFA9qnm8cdaeOdexlG5_rpG4AFB40cJZfelMuZw5VdP5VSZvsNqvW2YiYAXsA4iiy0rBCnnvL6tLQiIDNoo3ltH5NAAiAZ-KkTCvNvCC7Xi/s1600/River+of+shit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Gustave Doré, Hell, Divine Comedy, 19 Century art, Italian literature, masterpiece" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJGte1v96sKCn4DiU97vjDGuNkTRWXjYH65NFA9qnm8cdaeOdexlG5_rpG4AFB40cJZfelMuZw5VdP5VSZvsNqvW2YiYAXsA4iiy0rBCnnvL6tLQiIDNoo3ltH5NAAiAZ-KkTCvNvCC7Xi/s1600/River+of+shit.jpg" height="507" title="Etching by Gustave Doré of the crossing of the Styx river in Hell from the Divine Comedy" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Dante Alighieri is the Italian poet who established the Tuscan dialect as the standard Italian language. The </span></span></i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Divine Comedy</span></span><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> recalls his climbing the social ladder through the nine circles of Hell, the nine rings of Purgatory and the nine celestial bodies of Paradise. The journey is the reward indeed. </span></span></i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Illustration by Gustave Doré, Public Domain</span></span><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</span></span></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>Once I was sitting in my wheelchair, I asked if I could go outside <a href="https://www.google.com/url?q=http%3A%2F%2Fstraightfromthebowels.blogspot.ca%2F2012%2F01%2Felectronic-smoking.html">to have a smoke</a>.<br />
<br />
“That will not be possible sir,” said the orderly. “We have to put you back on your gurney. We found a permanent room for you in another ward and somebody will take you there shortly.”<br />
<br />
As the gurney attendant was rolling my stretcher towards the elevator I was rejoicing because I believed that being transferred to a permanent room meant I was now a legitimate patient. Doctors would soon find the nature of my ailment, prescribe the appropriate treatment and I could go back home.<br />
<br />
Alas! When the attendant pushed open the doors of the general medicine ward where I was to stay for the next several weeks a poignant stench of excrements assailed my nostrils.<br />
<br />
I thought I was being taken to Dante’s first circle of Hell to be punished for my pride.<br />
<hr />To be continued in <b>Hospital Diaries VIII: Lying in the bed I made</b><br />
<hr />Geoffroy Hauppierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00969670115579717532noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6868790835117262644.post-69256219555790060322014-04-28T01:51:00.000-04:002014-07-26T18:37:52.927-04:00Hospital Diaries VI: The Overflow<hr /><div align="right"><a href="http://endirectdelintestingrele.blogspot.ca/2014/04/chroniques-hospitalieres-vi-le.html">Version française</a></div><div align="left"></div><hr /><b>This is part of a series. You can begin <a href="http://straightfromthebowels.blogspot.ca/2014/03/hospital-diaries-i-gout-ridden-wretch.html">at Part I</a> and follow the link at the end of each installment to read the next. </b><br />
<br />
I had been in <a href="https://www.google.com/url?q=http%3A%2F%2Fstraightfromthebowels.blogspot.ca%2F2014%2F04%2Fhospital-diaries-iv-gurney-hall.html">the gurney hall</a> for two days. Every move I made was painful and I still did not know what I was suffering from. It had all started with <a href="https://www.google.com/url?q=http%3A%2F%2Fstraightfromthebowels.blogspot.ca%2F2014%2F03%2Fhospital-diaries-i-gout-ridden-wretch.html">a gout attack</a> but then I was told I had twisted my knee and had torn some ligaments. After being admitted to the hospital, doctors talked about arthrosis, <a href="https://www.google.com/url?q=http%3A%2F%2Fstraightfromthebowels.blogspot.ca%2F2014%2F03%2Fhospital-diaries-iii-incubation.html">spinal stenosis</a> and a neurologist I nicknamed <a href="https://www.google.com/url?q=http%3A%2F%2Fstraightfromthebowels.blogspot.ca%2F2014%2F04%2Fhospital-diaries-v-seagull.html">“the Seagull”</a> insisted I needed back surgery.<br />
<br />
Lying on my gurney I was pondering about how difficult it is to establish an accurate diagnosis. In all fairness I could not blame doctors for failing so far to identify the cause of my handicap. In a way, I felt it was like an evil genius, some kind of <a href="http://www.google.com/url?q=http%3A%2F%2Fen.wikipedia.org%2Fwiki%2FKeyser_S%25C3%25B6ze&sa=D&sntz=1&usg=AFQjCNH2eLAc1o8vQP6svH032HCTC1UWvw">Keyzer Söze</a> from the movie <i>The Usual Suspects</i>, was living inside my body, wreaking havoc at the expense of doctors/detectives who were completely baffled.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div align="center"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/SbGa4RHnI9s" width="420"></iframe><br />
<i>Only in literature and movies the issue is finding the “true” culprits. In real life, detectives and doctors are content to find a convenient suspect – all the best if it’s the real guilty party – to lay charges on, close the case and move on.</i></div><div align="left"><br />
</div><div align="left">Those were my thoughts as I watched the hospital chaplain offer his sympathies to the family of a dying patient to whom he had just administered the last rites in one of the private rooms of the gurney hall.<br />
<br />
At that moment an attendant showed up and began to place my personal belongings under my gurney. I was terrified she was going to take me against my will to the operating room for spinal surgery. I nervously asked her where we were going.<br />
<br />
“I am taking you to your room sir.”<br />
<br />
I could not believe my ears! Finally I was leaving the noisy gurney hall with its blaring bells and alarms! As I was profusely babbling my thanks to the attendant, she curtly said:<br />
<br />
“I’m just doing my job sir.”<br />
<br />
After I was wheeled into my new room, an orderly slid my body to a wider gurney with a thicker mattress. From the conversation the orderly and the gurney attendant were having, I understood that I was now in a place called the Emergency Overflow, a somewhat “underground” department set up for patients who had been residing in the emergency ward for at least 48 hours. This was the way the hospital had found to avoid the heavy fines that were imposed if the ministry of health’s performance goals were not met.<br />
<br />
Mankind is obsessed with order, yet lusts for chaos. Maybe that’s why bureaucracy was invented. Bureaucracy is a form of labour organization purposedly designed to effectively achieve a cost-efficient use of resources in a rational way. However tremendous effort and considerable ingenuity are needed to get around bureaucracy’s cumbersome rules.<br />
<br />
I owed my escape from the gurney hall to this paradox.<br />
<br />
I was now in a no man’s land of a sort, some temporary quarters run by a minimal staff. From time to time a nurse would come by to take my vital signs and ask me to rate my pain on a scale from zero to ten and an orderly brought me my meals.</div><div align="left"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiISx9TwhIbAK3quOuo4Z9KSmTR4PYr7-pT22_k8_SG2mPye_ZmFzdeKzAuL26kFBbCAr1a2Qg3Cthaf9x6AyjNcVfIM_vYaYkcPB59VA5cEOa4bAannRMBx2kjomMBKG0m1ZXpyW4OAfBM/s1600/lunch.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="soup, salad, coffee, hamburger steak, gravy, squash, rice, pudding, health, nutrition, salad dressing" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiISx9TwhIbAK3quOuo4Z9KSmTR4PYr7-pT22_k8_SG2mPye_ZmFzdeKzAuL26kFBbCAr1a2Qg3Cthaf9x6AyjNcVfIM_vYaYkcPB59VA5cEOa4bAannRMBx2kjomMBKG0m1ZXpyW4OAfBM/s1600/lunch.jpg" height="284" title="Colour photograph of a hospital meal on a tray " width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">In Canada, hospital menus are designed by dieticians. Low-salt, low-fat and low-sugar meals usually taste like cardboard. If the food is not particularly tasty, it is however very healthy.</span></span></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div align="left">Everyday I had a visit from “the seagull,” the neurologist who was convinced I was faking my illness since I would not agree to have back surgery.<br />
<br />
“Come on! Show me what you can do! Get up on your feet and walk!” the seagull would mock me.<br />
<br />
I was nearing rock bottom. Having been confined to a stretcher for almost a week, I still did not know what I was sick from, my doctor was treating me as if I was imagining my ailment and I was taking painkillers that had no effect on my pain.<br />
<br />
When <a href="https://www.google.com/url?q=http%3A%2F%2Fstraightfromthebowels.blogspot.ca%2F2014%2F03%2Fhospital-diaries-ii-firefly.html">my friend Lucide</a> came to see me, she brought a bottle of Ibuprofen. I quickly took two tablets and hid the bottle in my bedside table hoping no overly conscious nurse would steal it away from me again.<br />
<br />
While I was waiting for the medication to take effect, I told Lucide about my frustration and despair.<br />
<br />
“Hmm… I saw three empty wheelchairs in the hall as I was coming to your room” said Lucide. “Maybe if we could borrow one and go to the cafeteria it would lift your spirits a bit.”<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqmHtDsXPf37F0JEo38zCaXONDPrFjEEhn2wHKiCuO55WAq4SYrjXl1KMtDbOABJ527PSATohPnnvbtncQ89uMsVERR6SP3zI2Z_MDtBRjaw9V0zJBe9q01c7oGSVE3J2kmWW2SHAeBSpn/s1600/wheelchairs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="wheelchair, handicap, disability, hospital, health care" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqmHtDsXPf37F0JEo38zCaXONDPrFjEEhn2wHKiCuO55WAq4SYrjXl1KMtDbOABJ527PSATohPnnvbtncQ89uMsVERR6SP3zI2Z_MDtBRjaw9V0zJBe9q01c7oGSVE3J2kmWW2SHAeBSpn/s1600/wheelchairs.jpg" height="400" title="Colour photograph of modern wheelchairs disorderly lined up" width="363" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">US president <a href="http://www.google.com/url?q=http%3A%2F%2Fen.wikipedia.org%2Fwiki%2FFranklin_D._Roosevelt&sa=D&sntz=1&usg=AFQjCNEqpHA3HekXOwC9UwQdH-JwVZQ1pg">Franklin Delano Roosevelt (1882-1945)</a> was confined to a wheelchair for the rest of his life after being struck with paralysis during a vacation at <a href="http://www.google.com/url?q=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.visitcampobello.com%2F&sa=D&sntz=1&usg=AFQjCNGOWZaFPcMHvZOPFREF9xoc02dICQ">Campobello Island</a> in New Brunswick. Still today doctors disagree about whether FDR suffered from <a href="http://www.google.com/url?q=http%3A%2F%2Fen.wikipedia.org%2Fwiki%2FFranklin_D._Roosevelt%2527s_paralytic_illness&sa=D&sntz=1&usg=AFQjCNGs4-nXmc9HSqxdY1_buMJdWikovw">poliomyelitis or Guillain–Barré syndrome</a>.</span></span></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>My friend is a genius. I rang the nurse right away. After about 15 minutes of waiting, an orderly arrived and I asked her if I could have a wheelchair to go for a stroll with my friend.<br />
<br />
“I’ll ask your nurse,” she replied.<br />
<br />
Lucide and I continued our conversation for about 20 minutes and having no news from my nurse, I rang again. When the orderly returned, I asked her if the wheelchair I requested was coming.<br />
<br />
“I’m sorry sir, your nurse is taking a break and I haven’t been authorized to give you a wheelchair yet.”<br />
<br />
That was too much. The frustration that had been building up in me for the last week overflowed.<br />
<br />
“Listen miss: are you telling me there is only one person in this ward who can allow me to go down to the cafeteria in a wheelchair to have coffee with my friend? This is a simple request! I’m not asking for a liver transplant! All I want is a wheelchair! This is not the third world, is it?”<br />
<br />
My outburst took the orderly by surprise. She began to cry. Her sobs alerted her supervisor who rushed into my room.<br />
<br />
“What have you done to my employee?” he enquired uneasily.<br />
<br />
Ashamed, I told him what happened while a nurse was taking the orderly to the hallway to comfort her. Five minutes later, the supervisor came back with a wheelchair in which he helped me sit. Lucide wheeled me to the elevator to go to the cafeteria.<br />
<br />
Still astounded by the drama that just happened I was nevertheless ecstatic to be sitting, moving away from the confines of my room.<br />
<br />
Lucide and I got some coffee and I asked her to <a href="https://www.google.com/url?q=http%3A%2F%2Fstraightfromthebowels.blogspot.ca%2F2012%2F01%2Felectronic-smoking.html">take me outside to smoke</a>. It was a cold January night and at minus 20 degrees I was shivering. It was the first cigarette I had had in six days. It felt like I finally had found relief for my pain.<br />
<hr />To be continued in <b><a href="http://straightfromthebowels.blogspot.ca/2014/07/hospital-diaries-vii-sweet-smelling-ward.html">Hospital Diaries VII: The Sweet-Smelling Ward</a></b><br />
<hr /></div><br />
<br />
Geoffroy Hauppierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00969670115579717532noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6868790835117262644.post-31783087551050916012014-04-17T20:41:00.000-04:002014-07-26T18:43:16.142-04:00Hospital Diaries V: The Seagull<hr /><div align="right"><a href="http://endirectdelintestingrele.blogspot.ca/2014/04/chronique-hospitaliere-v-le-goeland.html" target="_blank">Version française</a></div><div align="left"></div><hr /><b>This is part of a series. You can begin <a href="http://straightfromthebowels.blogspot.ca/2014/03/hospital-diaries-i-gout-ridden-wretch.html">at Part I</a> and follow the link at the end of each installment to read the next.</b><br />
<br />
When everybody around you is suffering, your own pain becomes less important. I quickly realized that my complaining and moaning weren’t providing any relief. I was only contributing to <a href="https://www.google.com/url?q=http%3A%2F%2Fstraightfromthebowels.blogspot.ca%2F2014%2F04%2Fhospital-diaries-iv-gurney-hall.html" target="_blank">the overall noise in the gurney hall</a>.<br />
<br />
A nurse had taken away my bottle of ibuprofen and the painkillers that they had given me were totally ineffective. I was too stiff to move and the thin blanket covering me was not keeping me warm. I was in constant pain and felt helpless.<br />
<br />
When another nurse came to <a href="https://www.google.com/url?q=http%3A%2F%2Fstraightfromthebowels.blogspot.ca%2F2014%2F03%2Fhospital-diaries-iii-incubation.html" target="_blank">check my vital signs</a>, he noticed my distress and asked:<br />
<br />
“How are you sir? Are you in pain? Can you rate your pain?”<br />
<br />
I could not understand why nurses insisted on wanting me to rate my pain on a scale from zero to ten. I felt it was impossible to draw meaningful conclusions from such subjective impressions.<br />
<br />
“It hurts a lot,” I answered.<br />
<br />
“You were given a painkiller two hours ago,” said the nurse after looking at my chart. “Maybe it’s not pain you’re feeling but only discomfort.”<br />
<br />
I was not in the mood to discuss semantics and I gave the nurse a spiteful glance.<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrBiRj3exPUuRhMd54Qe8ODYWOdnKpN6uglb-gAsy1XUJCXv3oZGmGqYNVNCmIWaBv_FksEQkzcl9i68EG-Aa2Q1ugHdUsQyNyR80y6lWVvPz0LxQrOvkCt0UHLKmDAY81NHYwFKHByOwh/s1600/Pain.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="pain,health, hospital, massage" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrBiRj3exPUuRhMd54Qe8ODYWOdnKpN6uglb-gAsy1XUJCXv3oZGmGqYNVNCmIWaBv_FksEQkzcl9i68EG-Aa2Q1ugHdUsQyNyR80y6lWVvPz0LxQrOvkCt0UHLKmDAY81NHYwFKHByOwh/s1600/Pain.jpg" height="400" title="Drawing of two women and two main relieving their pain with personal massagers" width="281" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Pain is a reaction to an unpleasant stimulus. Tolerance to pain can vary deeply between individuals. The most common tool used to measure pain is a standard scale graded from zero to ten. The accuracy of this tool is questionable.</span></span></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>“You’re probably right,” I said with sarcasm, “and I’m also very cold.”<br />
<br />
“In that case I can help you.”<br />
<br />
The nurse went away and came back with a warm blanket to wrap me in. I dozed off almost immediately.<br />
<br />
During this first night in the gurney hall, my neighbour who had broken her back was transferred to an actual hospital room and I now had a new roommate who was retching loudly behind the thin curtain separating us.<br />
<br />
When I woke up in the morning a tall slim man in a white smock was standing by my stretcher.<br />
<br />
“I looked at your MRI results and saw that you have light arthrosis on two of your lower back vertebrae. That would explain your spinal stenosis and could be the cause of your paralysis.”<br />
<br />
The hospital staff spoke in a strange language that I could barely understand. They also tended to show up unexpectedly and never introduced themselves. I found this extremely annoying.<br />
<br />
“That’s interesting,” I said snidely. “Who are you sir and what do you do?”<br />
<br />
“My name is Dr. Sharp and I’m a neurosurgeon. I doubt surgery on your spine would be beneficial. You don’t have severe arthrosis and I do not recommend this operation”.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGl2EPnPmFZa062O-kRFA5XeKa4GhLlzvsgKmCX3oO_24slZfybqV0R57Q-lZivyHA1-9GbtTzET1RAY_IC8Oq1JjBjrf6n3r6OpAXAHPbAcRtvBjsHK-dBQ70r078Eiz5ER07oyJSuRY6/s1600/Surgery.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="doctors, surgeons, green grubs, surgery,operation, emergency room, surgical" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGl2EPnPmFZa062O-kRFA5XeKa4GhLlzvsgKmCX3oO_24slZfybqV0R57Q-lZivyHA1-9GbtTzET1RAY_IC8Oq1JjBjrf6n3r6OpAXAHPbAcRtvBjsHK-dBQ70r078Eiz5ER07oyJSuRY6/s1600/Surgery.jpg" height="391" title="Drawing of two surgeons in green garb performing surgery under a bright spotlight" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Surgery is too often viewed casually by patients and doctors alike in the Western world. However there is something creepy in having masked strangers performing mysterious acts with sharp objects on sleeping people, don’t you think?</span></span></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>“Dr. Sharp, are you telling me I have arthritis?” I said confused.<br />
<br />
“No. I said arthrosis. Arthrosis is a degenerative disease of the bone cartilage. Arthritis is a swelling of the joints. Arthrosis is a wearing down of the bone cartilage that often occurs with age.”<br />
<br />
“And what is spinal stenosis?” I asked.<br />
<br />
“Spinal stenosis is a narrowing of the spinal canal where the spinal cord is located. In your case, arthrosis may be the cause of that narrowing but as I just said I don’t think surgery will be helpful.”<br />
<br />
“I’m relieved,” I replied. “Spinal surgery sounds risky.”<br />
<br />
Unimpressed by my comment, the doctor gave me a blank look and added:<br />
<br />
“In any case, I will discuss this with my colleagues and we’ll talk about it later.”<br />
<br />
I was never to see Dr. Sharp again. I often wondered if that hospital didn’t hide some kind of “Bermuda Triangle” that mysteriously swallowed up doctors.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitt4YtsOckE-OzA1ZaAviFZrztmTnQZI2Tk3L48JwbsTtobf2EV0IsSny2wPl71n0cRNPZo2HbYSoSjWs1F8DFTvH5y1j8L46bw_T3gtroyaUvz6lEcEm0T1-_MIu6mLsN-Lsd7AQ99v3O/s1600/Bermuda+Triangle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Earth, planet, world, map, Bermuda Triangle" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitt4YtsOckE-OzA1ZaAviFZrztmTnQZI2Tk3L48JwbsTtobf2EV0IsSny2wPl71n0cRNPZo2HbYSoSjWs1F8DFTvH5y1j8L46bw_T3gtroyaUvz6lEcEm0T1-_MIu6mLsN-Lsd7AQ99v3O/s1600/Bermuda+Triangle.jpg" height="400" title="Old map of the Earth where the location of the Bermuda Triangle is indicated in red" width="397" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">The Bermuda Triangle is an area of the Atlantic Ocean between Florida, Puerto Rico and Bermuda where many ships and aircraft have vanished. Some people believe that the Earth’s magnetic field is to blame for these incidents. This might also explain the shortage of doctors in hospitals.</span></span></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>That morning <a href="https://www.google.com/url?q=http%3A%2F%2Fstraightfromthebowels.blogspot.ca%2F2014%2F03%2Fhospital-diaries-ii-firefly.html" target="_blank">my friend Lucide</a> called me on my cellphone to see how I was and to find out if I had been given a room. I took the opportunity to ask her to bring me some ibuprofen to relieve my aching body.<br />
<br />
While I was on the phone a man with dark hair and bushy eyebrows rushed in.<br />
<br />
“So, are you ready for your surgery?”<br />
<br />
“What surgery?” I said, startled.<br />
<br />
“Well, the operation on your spine to get rid of your nasty arthrosis, of course!”<br />
<br />
“I thought this procedure wouldn’t be necessary! But first of all, who are you sir?”<br />
<br />
“My name is Dr. Backridge and I am a neurologist. Who told you this operation would be unnecessary?”<br />
<br />
“Erm... It was doctor... Huh... I can’t recall his name but he was some kind of brain surgeon who came to visit me this morning,” I said, befuddled. “You’ll probably find his name in my file.”<br />
<br />
“I never read patients’ files, they’re totally unreliable,” the doctor said with a twitch. “So? Do you agree? Can I book the operating room?”<br />
<br />
I felt cornered. I am not impulsive by nature and, right at that moment, I did not have all the information to make such a serious decision and weigh its consequences objectively.<br />
<br />
The doctor was rocking nervously on his heels while tapping with a pen on a clipboard.<br />
<br />
“Dr. Backridge, can you guarantee arthrosis is the cause of my illness?”<br />
<br />
“A 100% guarantee? No, I can’t say that for sure but it’s a possible cause.”<br />
<br />
“Doctor, I hope you can understand how I feel. Right now I can’t walk and I’m afraid that if I get this operation I will never be able to walk again.”<br />
<br />
The doctor gave me a fierce look.<br />
<br />
“Listen sir, don’t waste my time. If you don’t agree to this surgery, I can see only one explanation...”<br />
<br />
“Which is?”<br />
<br />
“You’re putting on an act! You’re faking!” he snapped.<br />
.<br />
He then turned and left abruptly, his white smock flapping behind him like the wings of a giant bird. He made me think of a seagull that comes out of nowhere, making a lot of noise, shits everywhere and leaves as he had come without ever accomplishing anything.<br />
<br />
“I would not mind if this doctor got lost in the Bermuda Triangle,” I thought.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3p4gqjWCu6F9k7GxbaOPWmDXqqp-W-9noOpIP2TzOikDr3aUIM40MY-Pgbe_7GnHLi7QnMkk-R32uCEp2Y8tMozBnVo3G5Td2gskSmh-8G46tWSuz3ry1tHRvgGReLvlURMN622aQGg5w/s1600/Seagull.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="seagull, seabird, Laris, bird, flight" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3p4gqjWCu6F9k7GxbaOPWmDXqqp-W-9noOpIP2TzOikDr3aUIM40MY-Pgbe_7GnHLi7QnMkk-R32uCEp2Y8tMozBnVo3G5Td2gskSmh-8G46tWSuz3ry1tHRvgGReLvlURMN622aQGg5w/s1600/Seagull.jpg" height="182" title="Drawing of a flying seagull " width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Seagulls have existed for at least 30 million years. This bird with the obnoxious squawking can be found anywhere there is a lot of water. It will eat anything but seems <a href="https://www.google.com/url?q=http%3A%2F%2Fstraightfromthebowels.blogspot.ca%2F2012%2F11%2Fthe-refrigerator.html" target="_blank">to enjoy feeding on human garbage</a>.</span></span></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table><hr />To be continued in: <a href="http://straightfromthebowels.blogspot.ca/2014/04/hospital-diaries-vi-overflow.html"><b>Hospital Diaries VI: The Overflow</b></a><br />
<hr />Geoffroy Hauppierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00969670115579717532noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6868790835117262644.post-61245062754218419772014-04-02T13:52:00.000-04:002014-07-26T18:44:28.148-04:00Hospital Diaries IV: The Gurney Hall<hr /><div align="right"><a href="http://endirectdelintestingrele.blogspot.ca/2014/03/chronique-hospitaliere-iv-des-civieres.html">Version française</a></div><div align="left"></div><hr /><b>This is part of a series. You can begin <a href="http://straightfromthebowels.blogspot.ca/2014/03/hospital-diaries-i-gout-ridden-wretch.html">at Part I</a> and follow the link at the end of each installment to read the next.</b><br />
<br />
A hospital is a strange world filled with machines and enigmatic people speaking unintelligible languages. For example, after only a few hours at the hospital, my vital signs had already been checked several times (I guess to make sure I was still alive), <a href="https://www.google.com/url?q=http%3A%2F%2Fstraightfromthebowels.blogspot.ca%2F2014%2F03%2Fhospital-diaries-iii-incubation.html" target="_blank">I had been incubated</a> and rolled away on a stretcher through a maze of hallways to a “gurney hall.”<br />
<br />
The gurney hall was actually a large square room of the emergency ward where patients waited either for a diagnosis or for a bed to become available. Along the outer walls, about 20 cubicles could accommodate two gurneys each, separated by a thin curtain. In addition, five glassed-in rooms were used to isolate contagious patients and the dying.<br />
<br />
My cubicle neighbour was <a href="https://www.google.com/url?q=http%3A%2F%2Fstraightfromthebowels.blogspot.ca%2F2014%2F03%2Fhospital-diaries-ii-firefly.html" target="_blank">an unfortunate victim of a sporting accident</a>, a 42 year-old woman who broke her back hitting a mogul while tobogganing with her children.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUH4pygz2y0YHoYhW17nAC3WY-HhI025xqkSCHso8JOPdHkr2l6coPhy_lVhXIXAu4y4or-YuCVxVQaIYdlHbeFSybVyJbmZpBbiDkpze8JT0k0Dhb8AT2uwVMbY4Y0bpDGu5HpaLbiKNQ/s1600/1005220.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Natives, Indians, toboggan, winter sports, outdoors, transportation" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUH4pygz2y0YHoYhW17nAC3WY-HhI025xqkSCHso8JOPdHkr2l6coPhy_lVhXIXAu4y4or-YuCVxVQaIYdlHbeFSybVyJbmZpBbiDkpze8JT0k0Dhb8AT2uwVMbY4Y0bpDGu5HpaLbiKNQ/s1600/1005220.jpg" height="247" title="Watercolour depicting American Natives with their dogs pulling a toboggan on ice" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">A toboggan is a runnerless sled used to travel over snow in Canada. It was designed by Natives to haul supplies and young children. Nowadays tobogganing is popular among Canadian children and their parents who have forgotten they are not as flexible as in their youth. Illustration:</span></span></i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> Dog-sledges of the Mandans</span></span><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> by Johann Carl Bodmer. Source: Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library, Yale University, public domain</span></span></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>A nurse showed up at my bedside bringing with her the usual equipment for taking blood pressure and temperature as well as a clipboard to scribble notes.<br />
<br />
“Good morning sir, my name is Florence and I will be your nurse today. Are you in pain? Can you give me an estimate of your pain?”<br />
<br />
Maybe I was confused because of my sufferings but I didn’t understand the question: for a moment I thought I was supposed to estimate my pain in Canadian or US dollars.<br />
<br />
“On a scale from 0 to 10 could you rate your pain?” explained the nurse.<br />
<br />
“It hurts a lot,” I muttered.<br />
<br />
“Very well. Let’s describe your pain as an 8 then. I will bring you some painkillers. If you need anything, just ring,” she said showing me an alarm button tied by its wire to my gurney’s railing. She then disappeared with her machines.<br />
<br />
The pain was excruciating. With every move I made I moaned. Soon my cries were joined by my neighbour’s whimpers and the wailings of other patients in the gurney hall, cascading into a tormented concerto accentuated by the bells and alarms of monitoring machines.<br />
<br />
After an hour of waiting for the painkillers that Florence promised me, I remembered I had some ibuprofen in my shoulder bag. I swallowed two capsules and drifted into a restless sleep.<br />
<br />
“Wake up sir! I brought your medicine!”<br />
<br />
It was Florence who was handing me two caplets of acetaminophen and a glass of water.<br />
<br />
As I was about to take the pills from my nurse, she noticed the bottle of ibuprofen on my bed.<br />
<br />
“What’s that? Who gave you this medication?” she enquired as she picked up the muscle relaxant.<br />
<br />
“Nobody, I answered, it’s the medicine I was taking at home to ease the pain and the swelling.”<br />
<br />
“Did your doctor prescribe this?”<br />
<br />
“Not at all, it’s available over the counter in any drugstore and it provides me with some relief,” I replied.<br />
<br />
“Sir, you are not to take medication that is not prescribed by a doctor. I must report this right away.”<br />
<br />
And she left taking with her my valuable remedy and the painkillers she was supposed to give me.<br />
<br />
Stunned to see my medication confiscated, I uneasily managed to doze off.<br />
<br />
When I woke up, a smiling bearded little man who looked like a leprechaun was sitting at the foot of my stretcher, tapping on my leg.<br />
<br />
“Good day, how are you today?” he said.<br />
<br />
Still in a daze, I felt like I had magically awakened in Middle-earth and that anytime Gandalf the Grey and Frodo Baggins would come to take me on some outlandish journey.<br />
<br />
“Not very well, but who are you?” I replied.<br />
<br />
“My name is doctor Ogham and I am a neurologist. Please tell me how you ended up in my hospital.”<br />
<br />
One more time I explained <a href="https://www.google.com/url?q=http%3A%2F%2Fstraightfromthebowels.blogspot.ca%2F2014%2F03%2Fhospital-diaries-i-gout-ridden-wretch.html" target="_blank">the unbelievable story of a gout attack</a> that turned into a sprained knee degenerating into overall paralysis. While I was talking, the practitioner was feeling my knees, my wrists and my hands, taking notes in the process and asking me to flex my limbs.<br />
<br />
“I see, I see,” said the doctor. “But I could see better with a CAT-scan, an MRI, an EMG, some X-Rays... I’ll make the necessary arrangements.”<br />
<br />
He then left as I was struggling to make sense of what he had just said.<br />
<br />
One hour later, an orderly came to wheel my gurney to the nuclear medicine department to be irradiated with a scanner.<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDhuv45o0HNIBQizShCRgalMGIiPRZEvddLMnzh92czP5AEYIxmJuid9KAWkr8CZBIi-r1uG746psmBC516XsL_TM_GwY0kjJk742I-B8Bi6P0XN2xKtFP54l74yJzqokqb2h4Hi76LDmD/s1600/Bagel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="CT-Scan, CAT-Scan, nuclear medicine, bagel, X-rays, hospital, health, diagnosis" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDhuv45o0HNIBQizShCRgalMGIiPRZEvddLMnzh92czP5AEYIxmJuid9KAWkr8CZBIi-r1uG746psmBC516XsL_TM_GwY0kjJk742I-B8Bi6P0XN2xKtFP54l74yJzqokqb2h4Hi76LDmD/s1600/Bagel.jpg" height="281" title="Colour photograph of a Smurf laying on a wooden wheeled cart in front of a bagel" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">CAT-scans are 3-D images of the inside of a human body produced with an X-ray machine that looks like a giant bagel. In the last 25 years, medical imagery has become so common that the number of people exposed to radiation has been on the rise. This could explain the colour of the skin of the patient in the above photograph.</span></span></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>Several times in the next few hours I was to be rolled in and out of the gurney hall for tests.<br />
<br />
Finally, I was taken to a room where Doctor Ogham hooked me up to an electromyograph, or EMG, that sent electric shocks to my nerves to see if my muscles would react.<br />
<br />
Laying down as the neurologist was poking me with needles, I felt like a voodoo doll being subjected to some arcane ritual.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBPKzwnIkxH4u4vmV1YUgrX6ZUeBlgBpC2O3y0RSg43byh-cVsrK1-k5XQLu154GqTpTW2fYysrpBnw1RHtFMSQWZlikWWSKCXMZ_6X2DmjqDj3qP0BMuohNe2pb-DAZMC3DthGE4Cl7_q/s1600/voodoo1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Voodoo, New Orleans, witchcraft, spell, religion, folklore" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBPKzwnIkxH4u4vmV1YUgrX6ZUeBlgBpC2O3y0RSg43byh-cVsrK1-k5XQLu154GqTpTW2fYysrpBnw1RHtFMSQWZlikWWSKCXMZ_6X2DmjqDj3qP0BMuohNe2pb-DAZMC3DthGE4Cl7_q/s1600/voodoo1.jpg" height="400" title="Drawing of a voodoo doll with needles" width="256" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Voodoo is a complex religion which origins can be traced to the African slave trade. The voodoo doll, an amulet used to cast spells, became well known following the release of the 1932 Hollywood movie </span></span></i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">White Zombie</span></span><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">. Fortunately, modern neurologists have little in common with voodoo witch doctors.</span></span></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>“This is strange, very strange,” said the good doctor, “Your muscles are reacting perfectly well. This does not look like a neurological problem, everything is working normally.”<br />
<br />
Back to the gurney hall, I became acquainted with my neighbour who told me she was waiting for a brace to be made in order to stabilize her spine so she could sit up and move without risking any further injuries.<br />
<br />
“Anyway, she said, they can’t keep me more than 48 hours in the emergency ward.”<br />
<br />
“Why is that?” I enquired.<br />
<br />
“That’s the maximum time allowed by the Ministry of Health. The hospital will be heavily fined if it goes over it. They better find me a bed quickly.”<br />
<br />
Night had come. Lying shivering on my stretcher, I could feel the pain creeping back to my joints. How I wished the nurse had not stolen my ibuprofen!<br />
<br />
I achingly reached for the alarm tied to my gurney’s railing. Bells were ringing and patients were crying in the gurney hall. Exhausted, I fell into a restless sleep waiting for a nurse to bring me drugs to ease away my pain.<br />
<hr />To be continued in <a href="http://straightfromthebowels.blogspot.ca/2014/04/hospital-diaries-v-seagull.html" target="_blank"><b>Hospital Diaries V: The Seagull</b></a><br />
<hr />Geoffroy Hauppierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00969670115579717532noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6868790835117262644.post-22678215310524280832014-03-18T19:21:00.002-04:002014-07-26T18:45:18.934-04:00Hospital Diaries III: Incubation<hr /><div align="right"><a href="http://endirectdelintestingrele.blogspot.ca/2014/03/chronique-hospitaliere-iii-lencube.html">Version française</a></div><div align="left"></div><hr /><b>This is part of a series. You can begin <a href="http://straightfromthebowels.blogspot.ca/2014/03/hospital-diaries-i-gout-ridden-wretch.html">at Part I</a> and follow the link at the end of each installment to read the next.</b><br />
<br />
Parked in a wheelchair at the hospital’s emergency ward, I soon understood why sick people are called “patients.” Patience is the ability to wait in silence while surrendering to calamity.<br />
<br />
Unfortunately, the young lady sitting in front of me did not grasp that concept. With her cell phone glued to her ear, she was ranting over the senselessness of the health care system.<br />
<br />
“I’ve been waiting for five hours! I’ve had a splitting headache ever since I got vaccinated last week and I’m leaving for Thailand in two days! Why is nobody taking care of me? Don’t they realize this is an emergency?”<br />
<br />
Many people think that all emergencies require immediate action. This is not so. There are different levels. Some emergencies need to be addressed without delay, others can wait a little while. Few are a priority.<br />
<br />
While <a href="http://straightfromthebowels.blogspot.ca/2014/03/hospital-diaries-ii-firefly.html" target="_blank">driving me to the hospital</a>, my friend Lucide tried to reassure me about my stay at the hospital by telling me the difference between private and public healthcare systems.<br />
<br />
“A private healthcare system sees patients as a source of revenues whereas a public system – such as the one we have in Canada – views them as expenditures. A public system aims at getting you well enough to send you home as quickly as possible in order to minimize costs. You’ll see: in a snap you‘ll be back in your apartment, happily cleaning it up.”<br />
<br />
I was not as optimistic as my friend. I believed that the waiting time at the emergency ward could be long. That’s why I asked Lucide to prepare some supplies for me before leaving my place.<br />
<br />
In a shoulder bag I had a sandwich, some apples, an orange, a few biscuits, a water bottle, <a href="http://straightfromthebowels.blogspot.ca/2012/01/electronic-smoking.html" target="_blank">two packs of cigarettes</a> and a small jar of Ibuprofen, the muscle relaxant I was using as a pain reliever.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWl6ovJdfgE-Z39FeXORDVHYl8QfT-n0aorOaf1xyLl582JiCtW7NpzcFhZyR4kKROWyNAd-FKwpa4qQuXGvqasN5DtmP-ZL_E94brymIVrfydik0FM-n4Gk2OFhh0_OX_hprQGs26-GsH/s1600/Ibuprofen.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="muscle relaxant, Ibuprofen, medication, medicine, caplets, pills, Advil, Motrin, generic drugs" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWl6ovJdfgE-Z39FeXORDVHYl8QfT-n0aorOaf1xyLl582JiCtW7NpzcFhZyR4kKROWyNAd-FKwpa4qQuXGvqasN5DtmP-ZL_E94brymIVrfydik0FM-n4Gk2OFhh0_OX_hprQGs26-GsH/s1600/Ibuprofen.jpg" height="300" title="Colour photograph of a bottle of generic Ibuprofen caplets lying on its side with many caplets spilled over" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Ibuprofen is an anti-inflammatory drug used to alleviate fever, pain and swelling. One can say it is basically a “super Aspirin.” Ibuprofen is included in the core model list of essential medicines published by the World Health Organization and should be part of everyone’s medicine cabinet.</span></span></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>The enraged Thailand traveller was furiously pacing when I was called on the intercom.<br />
<br />
Clumsily I wheeled my chair to an office where a nurse was waiting for me to check my “vital signs.” It took me a minute to understand she wanted to take my blood pressure and my temperature.<br />
<br />
The nurse tightened an armband on my upper arm and stuck a thermometer in my mouth under my tongue.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilKkYx7E_Je6qqL0GrevVtP4DUjykOSiqvnsQ69eZ9l3Z9PHHzJXO6VNFhaWSSYZTW9L_AM6tFR6AlpX3IVrMGB6NQVUPbKpHPQfRdA2gX0ihEZgZL7u8ppGIEYHbuv8Oj47RVtYJ7ERLf/s1600/thermom%C3%A8tre.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Thermometer, fever, vital signs,mercury, alcool, health" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilKkYx7E_Je6qqL0GrevVtP4DUjykOSiqvnsQ69eZ9l3Z9PHHzJXO6VNFhaWSSYZTW9L_AM6tFR6AlpX3IVrMGB6NQVUPbKpHPQfRdA2gX0ihEZgZL7u8ppGIEYHbuv8Oj47RVtYJ7ERLf/s1600/thermom%C3%A8tre.jpg" height="75" title="Drawing of a thermometer" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Fever is measured by inserting a thermometer into the mouth, the rectum, the ear or under the armpit of a patient. It was only in the 19th century that doctors realized that fever was a symptom, not an ailment. Besides their taste, there is no difference between an oral and rectal thermometer.</span></span></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>While she was writing down the results I asked the nurse if she knew how soon I would see a doctor.<br />
<br />
“Not right away. We’re very busy now. We will call you to let you know which cube you should go to.”<br />
<br />
“A cube? What do you mean?” I asked, puzzled.<br />
<br />
“That’s what we call our consultation rooms. Now if you could please return to the waiting room, I have other patients to see.”<br />
<br />
I was not thrilled by the idea of being “incubated” at the hospital. I was also less than elated to wait for ten long hours until I was called to Cube 67. During this waiting time, several patients – including the traveller to Thailand – grew tired of waiting and left the ward without seeing a doctor.<br />
<br />
I had been looking at the walls of Cube 67 for twenty minutes or so when a young doctor showed up. I told her why I had come to the hospital. I explained <a href="http://straightfromthebowels.blogspot.ca/2014/03/hospital-diaries-i-gout-ridden-wretch.html" target="_blank">my gout attack</a>, the torn ligaments in my twisted knee, the weeks spent in bed at home and my paralysis.<br />
<br />
She wanted to examine me. To do so she had to call two orderlies to lift me up from the wheelchair and sit me down on a bed. I painfully took off my jacket and my shirt and put on an open-back smock that one of the orderlies tied at my neck with a lace.<br />
<br />
After the doctor checked my knees, my hands, my wrists and my arms, she left the cube without a word.<br />
<br />
I could hear her talking with a man on the other side of the door:<br />
<br />
— “He’s well over 50, he can’t walk and he has trouble moving. I wonder if...” she said.<br />
<br />
— “He’s got all the symptoms, said the man, it could very well be spinal stenosis.”<br />
<br />
— “That’s exactly what I thought,” she concluded.<br />
<br />
Those were the last word I heard from her and I was never to see her again.<br />
<br />
After 30 minutes, a nurse came into the cube carrying a plastic basket filled with small glass bottles and stickers.<br />
<br />
“I need to take some blood samples, she said. Please roll up your sleeve, sir.”<br />
<br />
I obliged half-heartedly. The nurse filled 31 vials with my blood then left.<br />
<br />
There I was, alone in my cube, sitting on a slippery leatherette and foam mattress. I was cold. My arms, my shoulders and my legs were sore. What would become of me? I did not know what “spinal stenosis” meant and I was afraid.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGYn-2ZLi5iVTP4557Yuh9tage04fUMz1yA6v8F-E-i95d922E95AL8QnJw_xA_vUwVdhc7dL9Q6z_JzIIbioWt31goZ52edKTXWUbBTkKlOsTcvcHn_LIwibdyqvCIzwdPC0P-tHobSTn/s1600/vertebrae.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="backbone, spinal cord, spinal canal, vertebra, vertebrae, spinal tap" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGYn-2ZLi5iVTP4557Yuh9tage04fUMz1yA6v8F-E-i95d922E95AL8QnJw_xA_vUwVdhc7dL9Q6z_JzIIbioWt31goZ52edKTXWUbBTkKlOsTcvcHn_LIwibdyqvCIzwdPC0P-tHobSTn/s1600/vertebrae.jpg" height="290" title="Drawing of a vertebra with its spinal canal indicated in pink" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">One of the most widespread myths of modern times is that medical officers specializing in nerves and the spinal cord are called “spin doctors.” Because of that belief, people think that spinal stenosis means these doctors write down their observations using shorthand. However, spinal stenosis is really about an abnormal narrowing of the spinal canal running through the backbone.</span></span></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>Shivering, I managed to stretch and pick up my jacket that the orderly had left on the wheelchair. Despite the pain, I put my coat on, lay down on the bed and dozed off.<br />
<br />
When I woke up, a man dressed in tan scrubs was putting my clothes, my shoulder bag and my shoes under a gurney. He then proceeded to skillfully slide my body over to the stretcher.<br />
<br />
The attendant opened the cube’s door and wheeled me out to the corridor. I asked him where he was taking me and he replied:<br />
<br />
“Where am I taking you? Why, to the gurney hall, of course!”<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3TcMnADaS2nHN4GijdwZdVteHGbw4rNH5FP19DM_lgrHFIbnvVNzEiWI4GihjI-KCOHDgpHPd37PW3f8IahYjQN47tNMJR1TKicFZ8k_3GaLi-I5mPqMkBS6UG6kMsgTE8I1m-6w9BtCM/s1600/gurneys.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="gurney, stretcher, cot, hospital" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3TcMnADaS2nHN4GijdwZdVteHGbw4rNH5FP19DM_lgrHFIbnvVNzEiWI4GihjI-KCOHDgpHPd37PW3f8IahYjQN47tNMJR1TKicFZ8k_3GaLi-I5mPqMkBS6UG6kMsgTE8I1m-6w9BtCM/s1600/gurneys.jpg" height="283" title="Colour photograph of three modern wheeled gurneys" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">A gurney is a wheeled stretcher used to take patients on a journey. It is often equipped with a hydraulic system for raising and lowering patients so the attendant does not injure his or her back and develop spinal stenosis.</span></span></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table><hr />To be continued in <a href="http://straightfromthebowels.blogspot.ca/2014/04/hospital-diaries-iv-gurney-hall.html" target="_blank"><b>Hospital Diaries IV: The Gurney Hall</b></a><br />
<br />
<br />
Geoffroy Hauppierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00969670115579717532noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6868790835117262644.post-65969017580077491342014-03-13T01:23:00.000-04:002014-07-26T18:46:00.106-04:00Hospital Diaries II: The Firefly<hr /><div align="right"><a href="http://endirectdelintestingrele.blogspot.ca/2014/03/chronique-hospitaliere-ii-la-luciole.html">Version française</a></div><div align="left"></div><hr /><b>This is part of a series. You can begin <a href="http://straightfromthebowels.blogspot.ca/2014/03/hospital-diaries-i-gout-ridden-wretch.html">at Part I</a> and follow the link at the end of each installment to read the next.</b><br />
<br />
Every time I see a doctor, it seems he ends up making recommendations that are totally unrelated to the purpose of my visit.<br />
<br />
I have gotten used to the persistent advice <a href="http://straightfromthebowels.blogspot.ca/2012/01/electronic-smoking.html" target="_blank">to stop smoking</a> but I just can’t stand it when I’m told to lose weight.<br />
<br />
That’s exactly what the good doctor <a href="https://www.google.com/url?q=http%3A%2F%2Fstraightfromthebowels.blogspot.ca%2F2014%2F03%2Fhospital-diaries-i-gout-ridden-wretch.html">who diagnosed a sprain on my knee</a> said to me. I left his office annoyed but resolved to follow his advice if only to stop receiving unwanted suggestions.<br />
<br />
The road to slenderness is simple: follow a balanced diet. Forget about gyms and fitness centres. Sure they will tone your body and build muscles but you will really need to exercise a lot to lose weight. And the more you exercise, the more you risk getting injured.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTptQlqtQgTmaAjqTYGOK93DqwxY4jH0M9akUaNVwz12-Z4DvoxKUV0Mm2FzHep9a72bwsOI22rWvY3mOmTKWUZ-AgTyTFTvj0_2lCHiNqU3iDSzlBY6UnVmIWDR7o-YPCqZXlFOJpp2Mx/s1600/Runners.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="marathon, running, exercise, sport, police officers, fitness,muscles, six-pack" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTptQlqtQgTmaAjqTYGOK93DqwxY4jH0M9akUaNVwz12-Z4DvoxKUV0Mm2FzHep9a72bwsOI22rWvY3mOmTKWUZ-AgTyTFTvj0_2lCHiNqU3iDSzlBY6UnVmIWDR7o-YPCqZXlFOJpp2Mx/s1600/Runners.jpg" height="320" title="Colour photograph of male marathon runners during a race" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">According to a <a href="http://www.google.com/url?q=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.statcan.gc.ca%2Fpub%2F82-624-x%2F2011001%2Farticle%2F11506-eng.htm&sa=D&sntz=1&usg=AFQjCNFmO1W0WS0nb7odvgyaA94fxagDQw" target="_blank">Canadian study</a>, 40.2% of people aged 20 to 64 who were injured in Canada in 2009-2010 did so practising sports, exercising or walking. Only 16.5% suffered from work-related injuries. This may mean that Canadians are either smart workers or simply lazy.</span></span></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>In Canada, the key to balanced eating is found in <a href="http://www.google.com/url?q=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.hc-sc.gc.ca%2Ffn-an%2Ffood-guide-aliment%2Findex-eng.php&sa=D&sntz=1&usg=AFQjCNH0PDD8xHNjtSUdhQc5stUgYwqbSw" target="_blank"><i>Canada’s Food Guide</i></a> published by Health Canada. This system is based on four essential food groups: fruits and vegetables, grain products, dairy products and alternatives, and meat and other sources of proteins.<br />
<br />
The Food Guide explains what constitutes a typical serving for each food group and how many servings males and females need according to their age. If you keep a record of how much you eat, <a href="https://www.google.com/url?q=http%3A%2F%2Fstraightfromthebowels.blogspot.ca%2F2012%2F03%2Fconductor.html" target="_blank">you will lose weight quickly</a> without risking your health.<br />
<br />
That’s what I did as my knee was failing me. I lost 40 pounds in three months. Now I only needed to lose another 15 pounds to reach a healthy weight and turn my doctor speechless.<br />
<br />
However, I was not worrying about dieting the morning I woke up <a href="https://www.google.com/url?q=http%3A%2F%2Fstraightfromthebowels.blogspot.ca%2F2014%2F03%2Fhospital-diaries-i-gout-ridden-wretch.html" target="_blank">paralysed in bed</a>.<br />
<br />
I was in a bad predicament but I found out I had an unexpected advantage: I had a full bladder.<br />
<br />
Despite the pain and because of the urge, after about 30 minutes I managed to move my head, then my fingers, my wrists, my elbows and my legs until I laboriously sat on the edge of the bed.<br />
<br />
I relieved myself in my homemade bedpan and then assessed my situation. My twisted knee was not the issue anymore. I could no longer move easily because I was sore all over. It would take a miracle for me to get out of my apartment by myself. <a href="http://straightfromthebowels.blogspot.ca/2012/11/the-refrigerator.html" target="_blank">My fridge</a> was getting emptier by the day but worse, I was almost out of cigarettes.<br />
<br />
I found myself in the middle of the proverbial tunnel looking for a light.<br />
<br />
As I was moping about my condition, the phone rang. It was my friend Lucide who, worried, was calling to enquire about me.<br />
<br />
I told her about my disablement and that I was running out of supplies. Right away she offered to run some errands for me and said she would stop by that night after work.<br />
<br />
In the darkness, a firefly was shining her light to help me find the way out.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAaqwPBxEPY4Sy5n_slNDdYyTNZSlM0jc9hd0hsD3Tqr5iHKML7ZdTxiVjaWwSkb7Jhx0jg4o3kK5pseCOzypDVmeI_ntBUv8loOZbPEGC0xLI2bAOpl7GBpVl0eeNkCxvivc1kB2nL9rI/s1600/luciole2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="firefly, lightning bug, glow worm, insect, bug, lampyridae" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAaqwPBxEPY4Sy5n_slNDdYyTNZSlM0jc9hd0hsD3Tqr5iHKML7ZdTxiVjaWwSkb7Jhx0jg4o3kK5pseCOzypDVmeI_ntBUv8loOZbPEGC0xLI2bAOpl7GBpVl0eeNkCxvivc1kB2nL9rI/s1600/luciole2.jpg" height="400" title="Drawing of a firefly or lightning bug" width="336" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">The firefly or lightning bug is an insect of the </span></span></i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">lampyridæ </span></span><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">family. There are more than 2,000 species of fireflies. Some females lightning bugs do not fly and look like their larvæ. They are called “glow worms.”</span></span></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>When Lucide arrived at my place carrying several bags of groceries she was struck with consternation, not because she was seeing her friend bedridden and disabled but because of the sorry condition of my apartment.<br />
<br />
I had been confined to my bed for several weeks and household cleaning was no longer a priority. Dirty dishes were piling up on the kitchen counter. The floor was covered with objects that I could not pick up because I was unable to bend over. A heap of dirty laundry gathered in a corner of my bedroom and dust was taking over my lodgings.<br />
<br />
“What a pigsty! exclaimed Lucide while dropping her bags on my bed. How can you live in such a mess?”<br />
<br />
« Erm... Did you bring me cigarettes?”<br />
<br />
“They're in the bag,” she answered distractedly while inspecting the jumble in my apartment. “Do you have any garbage bags?”<br />
<br />
“In the cupboard, underneath the sink,” I answered while looking for cigarettes in one of the grocery bags.<br />
<br />
Lucide disappeared in the kitchen while I tried to unwrap a cigarette pack with my numb fingers. It seemed I had lost all the manual skills I once had.<br />
<br />
Lucide came back to the room with a garbage bag and as she saw my shaky hands fighting with the cigarette pack, she cried out:<br />
<br />
“What’s with your hands? Look at your knuckles! They’re all red and swollen! This is much worse than a twisted knee, you must see a doctor! Come on, I’ll take you to the hospital!”<br />
<br />
With great difficulty I began to dress. I had lost a lot of weight and my clothes did not fit me anymore. I was in a bad shape and I felt weak and distressed.<br />
<br />
It took me almost half an hour to manage to get up with Lucide’s help. When I took a first step leaning on my walking cane, it felt as though I had no kneecaps, like my thigh bones were resting directly on my shin bones. I almost passed out from the excruciating pain.<br />
<br />
I live on the second floor of an apartment building. As I began to climb down the 14-step stairwell, AC/DC’s <a href="https://www.google.com/url?q=http%3A%2F%2Fyoutu.be%2FgEPmA3USJdI" target="_blank"><i>Highway to Hell</i></a> was playing in my head and I had to sit down on the second step to gather my wits.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvEpw3KIpH91H9HKaqFZGh3Pg-KV_2_wu3NqwJE0MZi1GaH78aOzalnp5-fkGcI4aMFcszI8HhXVtZZW_TjF1R6W_dD6kVnu0GKeJvT27VjpTugvjo17w7pFDo6yYtcx4cQVvvYyvApGg5/s1600/Highway+to+Hell.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvEpw3KIpH91H9HKaqFZGh3Pg-KV_2_wu3NqwJE0MZi1GaH78aOzalnp5-fkGcI4aMFcszI8HhXVtZZW_TjF1R6W_dD6kVnu0GKeJvT27VjpTugvjo17w7pFDo6yYtcx4cQVvvYyvApGg5/s1600/Highway+to+Hell.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Highway to Hell</span></span><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> is a song about the gruelling conditions of constant touring. Six months after its release, Bon Scott, who sang on the original recording, was found dead at 33 in the back of a Renault 5 after a night of heavy drinking. <a href="https://www.google.com/url?q=http%3A%2F%2Fendirectdelintestingrele.blogspot.ca%2F2011%2F05%2Fmeanwhile-at-ranch.html" target="_blank">Show business</a> is a mother who enjoys eating its young.</span></span></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>Finally, I was outside. I had been locked in my apartment for a month and winter had settled in. It was cold and the snow was cracking under my steps. In a last effort, I sat down in Lucide’s car as she started the engine.<br />
<br />
I was on my way to the hospital, a harbour for the unfortunates of the world.<br />
<hr />To be continued in <b><a href="http://straightfromthebowels.blogspot.ca/2014/03/hospital-diaries-iii-incubation.html">Hospital Diaries III: Incubation</a></b><br />
<hr />Geoffroy Hauppierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00969670115579717532noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6868790835117262644.post-9349375444389908392014-03-03T10:21:00.000-05:002014-04-29T12:59:24.203-04:00Hospital Diaries I : A Gout-Ridden Wretch<hr /><div align="right"><a href="http://endirectdelintestingrele.blogspot.ca/2014/03/chronique-hospitaliere-i-la-goutte-qui.html">Version française</a></div><hr /><div align="left">Ouch! I was awoken by a shooting pain in the middle of the night.<br />
<br />
For the fourth time in 30 years I was having a gout attack. By now I knew the story: the sharp pain in the joint at the base of my big toe would fade away after I applied ice packs and took muscle relaxants. This meant I would be lounging in bed for a few days while rereading <a href="http://www.online-literature.com/maupassant/">the works of Guy de Maupassant</a>.<br />
<br />
After three days, the swelling had subsided but the pain in my foot remained and I was unable to walk without limping. It was not unbearable so I went back to work where a lengthy report on crystallizing the Canadian public health system through the infusion of additional government funds was waiting to be edited.<br />
<br />
“Gout? What’s this? You think you’re Charles Dickens?” joked my friend Aaron when he saw me at the office.<br />
<br />
I tried to explain that gout was not some outdated distemper and that its occurrence was on the rise in North America but my colleague was no longer listening: instead he was focusing on the coffee machine sputtering a reluctant <i>espresso</i> into his cup.</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQjdCG6uP-N5LJn2GYe65YrYbd8D_Za3jaNYDBgetgDkx04nBhyphenhyphenBhV0t3dlszDzAXEkF5FAGL2baYy41_qNg43Tnut2DkO0AdQR1lf8bI7-wAnrIvye9y49FUVMFwoBjfPdPELwAs47WMp/s1600/Espresso3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="coffee, espresso, latte, vending machine, coffee beans, grinder, paper cup" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQjdCG6uP-N5LJn2GYe65YrYbd8D_Za3jaNYDBgetgDkx04nBhyphenhyphenBhV0t3dlszDzAXEkF5FAGL2baYy41_qNg43Tnut2DkO0AdQR1lf8bI7-wAnrIvye9y49FUVMFwoBjfPdPELwAs47WMp/s1600/Espresso3.jpg" height="400" title="A colour photograph of a black automatic dispensing coffee machine" width="297" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">The </span></span></i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">espresso </span></span><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">machine is believed to have been invented in 1884 by Angelo Moriondo, in Torino, Italy. The drink gained in popularity worldwide in the 1980’s so much that automatic dispensing machines such as this one are now common in North American public institutions.</span></span></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div align="left"><br />
Weeks went by, I was still hobbling and to make matters worse, one of my knees failed. I now had an even clumsier gait. I went to a doctor who told me upon quickly examining my swollen knee that it was sprained. He recommended two weeks of rest and to avoid putting weight on my leg.<br />
<br />
So I took the last two weeks of annual leave I had left and went back to read Guy de Maupassant’s tales.<br />
<br />
As this forced vacation was coming to an end and the time to return to work was approaching, my knee was still hurting. With the help of a walking cane, I went back to the clinic where the doctor summarily felt my puffy knee to immediately declare:<br />
<br />
“This is a splendid case of a sprained knee with torn ligaments! You must get to bed my friend! Didn’t I tell you before to get some rest?”<br />
<br />
“But I’ve been at home for the last two weeks!”<br />
<br />
“In bed? No, no, my friend, stay in bed with your leg raised and apply ice packs four times a day. I am prescribing you some muscle relaxants to ease the pain.”<br />
<br />
With the prescription in my hand, I called a cab to take me to the drugstore while realizing to my displeasure that, having used up all my annual vacations, I had to take unpaid leave to attend to my health.<br />
<br />
The cab driver was talkative and seeing my cane asked me what happened to me.<br />
<br />
“Oh, it’s nothing, I just twisted my knee” I said.<br />
<br />
“You should stop smoking!” he replied.<br />
<br />
Not impressed by the man’s popular wisdom I was stunned by the effectiveness of the advertising campaign put together by the Government, the health system and the pharmaceutical industry <a href="http://straightfromthebowels.blogspot.ca/2012/01/electronic-smoking.html" target="_blank">to blame all worldly problems on smoking</a>.<br />
<br />
So I went back to bed, determined to heal my costly lame knee. I would get up once a day to use the bathroom and prepare some food. My meals were simple: sandwiches, fresh fruits and vegetables, cereal, cheese, social tea biscuits and water. I ate lying down. With a razor blade, I cut up a two-litre soda bottle to use as a bedpan to avoid standing up.</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYTZenHQxK8UWoV8bcKCFavrYd9DDCt_fV-2RCWnG0yNXDtMxvH1kPDtMY6GgoTetikvGdBCmzutG-wgKOHhOF_fkx0S2i7o6FcM0olkqnuoy4-ROQOX0XtsM26yFJnrFM4ZOrLRkLrBX-/s1600/PET.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="polyethylene terephtalate, PET, Dacron, Mylar, soft drink, soda, pop, refundable, recycling, ketchup, mustard" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYTZenHQxK8UWoV8bcKCFavrYd9DDCt_fV-2RCWnG0yNXDtMxvH1kPDtMY6GgoTetikvGdBCmzutG-wgKOHhOF_fkx0S2i7o6FcM0olkqnuoy4-ROQOX0XtsM26yFJnrFM4ZOrLRkLrBX-/s1600/PET.jpg" height="400" title="A colour photograph of a green polyethylene bottle next to a ketchup and mustard bottles" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">The polyethylene terephthalate bottle was invented in 1973 by Nathaniel Wyeth, an American engineer, for pressurized liquids such as soda pop. Carbonation is weak in human urine. However it is surprising how many people use such bottles to relieve themselves when nature calls.</span></span></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div align="left"><br />
After a week this idleness was taking its toll. My back was aching so much that it was becoming a challenge to sit up in bed or to get up.<br />
<br />
I could pull myself out of bed with a strap I tied to my bedroom door while I pushed myself up with my elbow resting on a stool. Every day walking from my bedroom to the bathroom and the kitchen became more difficult.<br />
<br />
One morning I woke up laying on my back with my arms extended, completely paralysed.<br />
<br />
I was sure this was the first time in the history of modern medical science that a gout attack turned into a sprained knee spreading to the upper body and limbs of an individual.<br />
<br />
This is when I realized I needed some serious help.<br />
<br />
To be continued in<b> <a href="http://straightfromthebowels.blogspot.ca/2014/03/hospital-diaries-ii-firefly.html" target="_blank">Hospital Diaries II : The Firefly</a></b>.<br />
<hr /></div>Geoffroy Hauppierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00969670115579717532noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6868790835117262644.post-41880394506150630052013-09-24T04:03:00.000-04:002013-09-24T04:03:53.810-04:00Mexican Rabbits<hr />
<div align="right">
<a href="http://endirectdelintestingrele.blogspot.ca/2011/06/les-lapins-mexicains.html">Version française</a></div>
<div align="left">
</div>
<hr />
My wife and I had been separated for about two months and I was living in an unremarkable and noisy bachelor apartment in a depressing neighbourhood.<br />
<br />
There were about 40 apartments in the building where I was. My neighbours directly above me – a young Mexican couple, the Conejos – were polite and spoke in a nasal Spanish gibberish which I could not understand at all.<br />
<br />
One night around 11:00, I was sleeping on the couch when their relentless lovemaking woke me up.<br />
<br />
“Ain’t love great when it’s well made,” I thought, annoyed by their indecent sighs.<br />
<br />
I tried in vain to get back to sleep. After awhile I decided to go out to read in a café until my neighbours’ Mexican hormones calmed down.<br />
<br />
There was a coffee shop a short 20 minutes walk away. It was one of those franchised chains lit by crude fluorescent lights where young people in ill-fitting uniforms served the dark beverage in paper cups. It was open all night and smokers were relegated to a packed glass-enclosed room while the rest of the restaurant was empty.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC6MA1lyGb5CbABqTVjblH7fdFmzzyvJh8Z-8swo8ZxamXKbMfkU5A3nAoM_LTScOKQ1-20fW3XVp41KuRLq5zlTTWFcFXMksE6yjURmxZWlJPRnOPhhm-kwH-neHYzZdX2WhNJNU7I4dO/s1600/Caf%C3%A9+by+J.+Zebrowski.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="coffee shop, patio furniture, chairs, table, parked cars" border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC6MA1lyGb5CbABqTVjblH7fdFmzzyvJh8Z-8swo8ZxamXKbMfkU5A3nAoM_LTScOKQ1-20fW3XVp41KuRLq5zlTTWFcFXMksE6yjURmxZWlJPRnOPhhm-kwH-neHYzZdX2WhNJNU7I4dO/s640/Caf%C3%A9+by+J.+Zebrowski.jpg" title="Colour photo of two aluminum chairs leaning on a table at an outside café" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">One would think that following the smoking ban in public places coffee shops would have lost all their clientele as <a href="http://straightfromthebowels.blogspot.ca/2012/01/electronic-smoking.html">coffee without cigarettes</a> is just not the same thing. I guess people are quick to give up life’s simple pleasures. Many thanks to Zebra Jay for the photo.</span></span></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I entered the cramped smoking room with a coffee and a copy of Herman Hesse’s <i>Steppenwolf</i>, hoping that the Swiss-German author’s eastern wisdom would help me forget the emptiness I felt.<br />
<br />
Sitting at a table for four, two girls were talking.<br />
<br />
— A funny thing happened to me at work, one of the girls said. After my shift, while I was changing in the backroom, Jason snuck in and took me from behind!<br />
<br />
— Ah! Ah! That’s typical! scoffed the other one, Jason always does that!<br />
<br />
I could not believe my ears. Here I was in a crowded public place and people were actually having this kind of conversation oblivious to their surroundings! I tried to focus on my book, lit another cigarette and took a sip of coffee. I was there to clear my mind after all.<br />
<br />
I managed to follow Harry, <i>Steppenwolf</i>’s main character, as he was caught in his personal ontological maze. I had almost forgotten the girls’ obscene conversation when two guys joined them. I did not pay much attention until the girl who was groped by Jason got up to use the ladies’ room.<br />
<br />
The two young men and the other girl looked lustily at her leaving.<br />
<br />
When she came back, she said:<br />
<br />
— So, what were you talking about?<br />
<br />
— We were saying your ass looks great in those jeans, said one of the guys.<br />
<br />
She immediately responded:<br />
<br />
— You know why? It’s because I’m not wearing panties!<br />
<br />
Flustered, I went back to my book, lit another cigarette, gulped some lukewarm coffee and really tried hard to think about anything else. Oddly, <i>Tales of Ordinary Madness</i>, <a href="http://endirectdelintestingrele.blogspot.ca/2011/05/meanwhile-at-ranch.html">Charles Bukowski</a>’s famous short stories collection, came to my mind.<br />
<br />
Maybe I needed to meet my Hermine, the <i>Steppenwolf</i> character who helped Harry to come to grip with his situation and learn to enjoy life again.<br />
<br />
My predicament was not the same however. I was not depressed nor suicidal, I was only bitterly disappointed that my marriage had failed. And now, because of the Mexican rabbits who lived upstairs and those kids sitting at the coffee shop, I was entertaining lewd thoughts that were rubbing raw my feelings of loneliness.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilGS88gd7BBbSxNyate29-EKlnW5hts1prXGLBsunoQlqogqD9aMWaXHcD5m145SmwD9ihrT12CaIEHP6wuzQKbz-sUCr6s1rRTh-R0XupeyWxnWaJmObLPMjxDBUnPoiz3JpNNZqJ3M7I/s1600/B&W+rabbits.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="bunny, rabbits, vintage, straw, rodent" border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilGS88gd7BBbSxNyate29-EKlnW5hts1prXGLBsunoQlqogqD9aMWaXHcD5m145SmwD9ihrT12CaIEHP6wuzQKbz-sUCr6s1rRTh-R0XupeyWxnWaJmObLPMjxDBUnPoiz3JpNNZqJ3M7I/s640/B&W+rabbits.jpg" title="Old black and white drawing of a standing dark rabbit and a crouching pale rabbit" width="518" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Rabbits (</span></span></i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">conejo</span></span><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> in Spanish) are not rodents. Rodents have incisors that are continually growing and needing to be ceaselessly worn down. Rabbits have two sets of incisors one behind the other. The female rabbit ovulates by reflex and can give birth to up to 12 kits three times a year.</span></span></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I did not feel like myself anymore.<br />
<br />
Finally the youths got up and left. Relieved, I tried to focus on my book again.<br />
<br />
That’s when four ladies in their fifties coming back from bingo sat next to me and passionately discussed the most efficient manner to pleasure themselves with a hand-held shower head.<br />
<br />
That was it, I had had enough. I closed my book, put out my cigarette, finished drinking my coffee and left, glad I had not brought a Henry Miller novel instead of <i>Steppenwolf</i>.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-wHNOLbmAfMw7DWhyWo_3Iw8ZdqCUlFA7-3VVrjkpfYAaqIIPUHY8gyrOe8yPIF2B_6SUzEqsMYZMmkSaKgjyd2q0tq5qiyMQLY72LorC2Mfp8eKjpFxOXX0aN4HVdH6hq7palHAtG-VD/s1600/Henry+Miller.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Henry Miller, American literature, banned books, censorship, obscenity, Tropic of Cancer, Plexus, Nexus, Moloch, A Devil in Paradise" border="0" height="380" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-wHNOLbmAfMw7DWhyWo_3Iw8ZdqCUlFA7-3VVrjkpfYAaqIIPUHY8gyrOe8yPIF2B_6SUzEqsMYZMmkSaKgjyd2q0tq5qiyMQLY72LorC2Mfp8eKjpFxOXX0aN4HVdH6hq7palHAtG-VD/s640/Henry+Miller.jpg" title="Colour photograph of some of Henry Miller's novels standing on a bookshelf" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">:<i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Henry Valentine Miller (1891-1980) was a prolific American author whose books were banned in the United States on the grounds of obscenity until 1961. A couple of years later, western high courts rendered that kind of obscenity obsolete. The times, as the song says, they were a-changing.</span></span></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<hr />
<br />
<br />Geoffroy Hauppierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00969670115579717532noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6868790835117262644.post-31643375557248786022013-08-25T21:39:00.000-04:002013-08-25T21:41:24.932-04:00The Encyclopædia<hr />
I was home one evening in 1986 getting ready for a writing session when the doorbell rang. Suzanne Vega was singing <i><a href="http://youtu.be/tHZV7NOqEY4">Marlene on the Wall</a></i> on the stereo and I turned it down before opening the door to a 50-year old stranger standing awkwardly in front of me in a jacket and a tie.<br />
<br />
He was selling the <i>Encyclopædia Britannica</i>.<br />
<br />
It was not clear to me how he knew that I was a budding editor but he was quick to point out that a young man of my profession needed reliable reference material.<br />
<br />
The 15th edition of <i>Britannica</i> had been published a year earlier and with 33 volumes it boasted that it held “the sum of all human knowledge.”<br />
<br />
Those were the days before the World Wide Web and Google. Searching for information meant spending hours in a library instead of simply firing up a browser.<br />
<br />
I did have a computer back then, an Apple Macintosh Plus, which was sneered at by my colleagues who considered it just a toy. They all used Micom 2000 word processors to write.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUV5NQlXnPTKGtTAaQNEaMP0-wzi51uWIbW1w8KsnzdaB0pgcHHEA09vk0byCdSb2txGtseB1wioxVYghRJDVLd1oYMKU0_mpVNEa58yERjTbcvjXRUTPdi-vUBCuVF4ni-cch8XO6NKAw/s1600/MacintoshPlus.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Apple, Mac Plus, keyboard, mouse, micro-computer" border="0" height="478" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUV5NQlXnPTKGtTAaQNEaMP0-wzi51uWIbW1w8KsnzdaB0pgcHHEA09vk0byCdSb2txGtseB1wioxVYghRJDVLd1oYMKU0_mpVNEa58yERjTbcvjXRUTPdi-vUBCuVF4ni-cch8XO6NKAw/s640/MacintoshPlus.jpg" title="Colour photograph of an Apple Macintosh Plus computer on street pavement" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">The Apple Macintosh Plus micro-computer made a significant contribution to bringing computing to the masses, as long as they could afford the over $2,500 purchase price. Public domain photo provided by <a href="http://apple.wikia.com/wiki/Main_Screen">Apple Wiki</a>. </span></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Listening to the salesman I could not help but be seduced by the opportunity to have a vast amount of general information at my disposal in the comfort of my home. However the steep $1,800 price frightened me. I am not the kind of man to make a major purchase on impulse.<br />
<br />
I told the salesman I would think about it and call him to let him know of my decision. He gave me his card and left disappointed. I then went back to writing my story regarding the structure of the new National Gallery of Canada which was under construction. To me it looked like the skeleton of a dinosaur.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB7AC2pD-UcyfxAZMliM7bHJotqlV61dSklzoRTRQuQ8VA5tPbozd7S79TPO7qp7mdIE0GWLOqRVw9VDSMHbWkgx_QPDGws_0D2agHmNjCjlacb8dcUBOtzpFq18Mmjgd8pwYbZgLegem9/s1600/National+Gallery+4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="National Gallery of Canada, fine arts, columns, pillars, granite glass walls, iceberg, contemporary architecture" border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB7AC2pD-UcyfxAZMliM7bHJotqlV61dSklzoRTRQuQ8VA5tPbozd7S79TPO7qp7mdIE0GWLOqRVw9VDSMHbWkgx_QPDGws_0D2agHmNjCjlacb8dcUBOtzpFq18Mmjgd8pwYbZgLegem9/s640/National+Gallery+4.jpg" title="Colour photograph of the National Gallery of Canada at sunset" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><i>From a distance and with some imagination the granite pillars of the National Gallery of Canada in Ottawa can look like the ribcage of a dinosaur's skeleton. The glass walls demonstrate that it is easier to achieve transparency in architecture than in politics.</i></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The next day at work I told my friend Aaron about the surprise visit from the encyclopædia salesman and that I was hesitant to disburse such a large amount of money.<br />
<br />
“You should buy it,” said Aaron. “Knowledge is priceless. Did you know that if you read the entire <i>Encyclopædia Britannica</i> the University of Oxford will give you a degree?”<br />
<br />
“Is that true?”<br />
<br />
“Of course it is, don’t you know anything? The <i>Encyclopædia Britannica</i> is a British institution! Frankly, I don’t know why I waste my time discussing with a peasant like you who does not understand the value of learning!”<br />
<br />
Aaron’s argument made an impression on me and I decided to invest in perfecting my knowledge.<br />
<br />
Of course, I know now that nobody ever received a free university degree by reading a complete encyclopædia. <br />
<br />
I also learned that <i>Encyclopædia Britannica</i> is actually a Scottish institution (established in Edinburgh in the 18th century) and that by the mid-1980s it had been owned by American interests for over 60 years.<br />
<br />
When I called back, the encyclopædia salesman was shocked that I had kept my word. I told him that, yes, I was ready for enlightenment and that I would buy the leather-bound gilt-edged onionskin edition.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig-aHKuMBqgArAQ3SYVUolU_Cs4T03MSzdl7PCig01rEl0-Qm2vUSqVvQNV05CMImZfwodQjFZnqFk5aqyo5m393mldOKOqvGOkEgrDO2BY1a8YMvrCNg8UaLtwwBHnh4iwb1VkfDa7IsB/s1600/Encyclopaedia.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Encyclopaedia, leather-bound, gilt-edge, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, macropaedia" border="0" height="494" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig-aHKuMBqgArAQ3SYVUolU_Cs4T03MSzdl7PCig01rEl0-Qm2vUSqVvQNV05CMImZfwodQjFZnqFk5aqyo5m393mldOKOqvGOkEgrDO2BY1a8YMvrCNg8UaLtwwBHnh4iwb1VkfDa7IsB/s640/Encyclopaedia.jpg" title="Colour photograph of several volumes of the Encyclopaedia Britannica" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">At its peak, </span></i><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Encylopædia Britannica</span><i><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> employed up to 2,300 door-to-door salesmen among which </span></i><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Empire of the Sun</span><i><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> author J. G. Ballard and actor Woody Harrelson's father</span></i><i><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">.</span></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
For years my encyclopædia sat proudly in one of my bookcases and although I did not read it from beginning to end, it gave me hours of intellectual satisfaction.<br />
<br />
When my wife and I divorced in 2000, we sold the house and I prepared to move to a small apartment. Looking at all my belongings, I knew I needed to get rid of many of the things I had acquired over the years.<br />
<br />
But before I moved, a friend came to visit from out of town and stayed at the house for a few days. To thank me for my hospitality, she gave me the <i>Encyclopædia Britannica</i> on CD-ROM, a $50 value. I thought this electronic version would be adequate for my newly restricted living quarters.<br />
<br />
I packed my leather-bound encyclopædia and took it to a used bookstore where I was offered $25 for the complete set of 33 volumes. I felt insulted by this contempt of knowledge.<br />
<br />
When I calmed down, I decided to entrust my literary treasure to a small library I knew in the countryside, close to the<a href="http://straightfromthebowels.blogspot.ca/2012/03/ghost-story.html"> haunted house</a> I once owned.<br />
<br />
I drove there only to be turned down by the librarian who claimed she did not have the shelf space. I then offered it to a literacy organization which also rejected the donation.<br />
<br />
I regretfully realized that my initial $1,800 investment in knowledge was actually worthless.<br />
<br />
And then it struck me: I had been totally mistaken about this prized possession of mine. An encyclopædia is not knowledge, it’s merely information. Information becomes knowledge only once it’s processed. How many people have owned encyclopædias without ever reading them?<br />
<br />
Now that the Discovery Channel was available for all to watch, my beautifully-bound encyclopaedia, was perceived as not only cumbersome but useless.<br />
<br />
A week later, I was visiting my old friend Asaph Mikhailovich, a well-read man cursed with a crippling affliction. I told him how I had been trying to dispose of my encyclopædia. He quietly looked at me and said:<br />
<br />
– You know, when I want to consult <i>Britannica</i>, I have to ride my wheelchair ten blocks to the public library.<br />
<br />
Not anymore.<br />
<hr />
<br />
<br />Geoffroy Hauppierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00969670115579717532noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6868790835117262644.post-60974719425093282082013-04-21T10:32:00.000-04:002013-10-02T01:41:26.414-04:00The Pressure Cooker<hr><p align="right"><a href="http://endirectdelintestingrele.blogspot.ca/2013/10/lautocuiseur.html">Version française</a><p align="left"><hr>When I was four years old, my father brought home a pressure cooker. It was one of those “modern” devices aimed at taking some pressure off domestic life (excuse the pun or don’t) by<a href="http://www.google.com/url?q=http%3A%2F%2Fpressurecookingwithlornasass.wordpress.com%2F&sa=D&sntz=1&usg=AFQjCNGxKa-sBB3dDqYJ_pXJK73DgbT1KA"> cooking food faster</a>.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeMK8LckVPhusbHcQjqDeGJvfz8kwQ2xcbGcO7FXzjoc4jlUJM_MGo2M8hZ07EDe4TYcVEtvJmqVRksy6RPQZ1pC_9Pf4KM5Zjn2wpnryXaoApjJZFna7Su36sKqUlzRKjUNS7XGYhZzql/s1600/Presto.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="steam digester, steam, pressure cooker, valve, steam regulator, Presto, Eau Claire, Wisconsin" border="0" height="282" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeMK8LckVPhusbHcQjqDeGJvfz8kwQ2xcbGcO7FXzjoc4jlUJM_MGo2M8hZ07EDe4TYcVEtvJmqVRksy6RPQZ1pC_9Pf4KM5Zjn2wpnryXaoApjJZFna7Su36sKqUlzRKjUNS7XGYhZzql/s400/Presto.jpg" title="Colour photograph of a modern pressure cooker" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>This pressure cooker was made from cast aluminum by National Presto Industries, a company that also manufactures adult incontinence products. Notice the steam regulator cap sitting on top of the vent pipe at the centre of the lid. I cooked delicious <a href="http://fastcooking.ca/pressure_cookers/beans_rice_risotto_recipes_pressure_cookers.htm#baked_beans">Boston baked beans</a> in this vessel in 45 minutes.</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeMK8LckVPhusbHcQjqDeGJvfz8kwQ2xcbGcO7FXzjoc4jlUJM_MGo2M8hZ07EDe4TYcVEtvJmqVRksy6RPQZ1pC_9Pf4KM5Zjn2wpnryXaoApjJZFna7Su36sKqUlzRKjUNS7XGYhZzql/s1600/Presto.jpg" imageanchor="1"></a><br />
Cooking with pressure cookers is different from cooking with regular saucepans. A small amount of liquid – water or broth for example – must be heated to a boil in a sealed container. As the pressure builds up inside the vessel, the heat is turned down to let the food simmer while maintaining enough steam.<br />
<br />
When the food is nearly cooked, the heat is turned off and cooking continues as pressure gradually abates. The pressure regulator capping the steam vent should not be removed while the pot is under pressure.<br />
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Also, if the cooker is overfilled, the steam vent over which sits the pressure regulator might become obstructed, causing the pressure to build up inside the cooker and force out the content through the pressure valve.<br />
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That’s what my father learned to his dismay when he first cooked a three-pound ham using too much beer as a cooking liquid. The whole ham escaped through the tiny pressure valve and splattered on the kitchen ceiling, making my mother very angry at the mess he created and fearful of using the apparatus.<br />
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Even though pressure cooking seemed modern in the early 60’s, it certainly was not a recent invention. <a href="http://deadscientistoftheweek.blogspot.ca/2010/08/denis-papin.html">Denis Papin (1647-1712)</a>, a French Huguenot, discovered it.<br />
<br />
Tired of being picked on for his religious beliefs by the powers that be in France, he moved to England in 1675. In London, he met <a href="http://blogs.nature.com/thescepticalchymist/2006/03/whats_in_a_name.html">Robert Boyle (1627-1691)</a>, an Irish-English chemist who was experimenting with air pressure.<br />
<br />
At the time, England was undergoing a tremendous scientific revolution. <a href="http://scienceblogs.com/intersection/2009/02/10/everybody-hates-francis-bacon/">Francis Bacon’s</a> scientific method was the rage amongst “natural philosophers” who were experimenting with practically anything. This led to a radical new way of looking at the causes and effects in the natural world which, people were discovering, was not what they thought it was.<br />
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We are not exactly sure how Denis Papin came to experiment with steam. However, I can certainly imagine him sitting in a pub, drinking cheap Spanish wine and listening to Robert Boyle pompously lecturing about air pressure. While Boyle was going on and on about his views on pneumatics, Papin was probably thinking that it was a bunch of hot air.<br />
<br />
After all, air is immaterial, it cannot be seen or touched. Of course one can feel it as the wind blows but Papin perhaps thought scientists should focus on something more concrete.<br />
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At that moment, the innkeeper might have been <a href="http://www.marshaln.com/marshaln/">preparing tea on the stove</a>, a new beverage that was becoming popular in England. Taking a sip of his wine, looking at the saucepan of water on the stove, Denis Papin maybe thought ahead of <a href="http://benfranklinlive.org/blog/">Benjamin Franklin</a> that “a watched pot never boils.” Boil.<br />
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Boyle was explaining that the volume of a gas is inversely proportional to its pressure. Crazy Boyle. Boyle. Boil. Wait a minute! When water boils it turns to steam. Steam is a gas and unlike air, it can be seen!<br />
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This may not be what really happened but I do know that inspiration sometimes comes in strange ways.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNR97IbCN_PtYW6BsPZ0O3lFrss6AXOuEWkEWh-nuKxr_OeVX6bcFhCK0cjlmUXd853TDbQtf3c5e5SomUgeU2bu-89SZ8O5EP7bYRLAVpy9fWWWF-Gmcc2pvztAf5dxJOxSWQla1jLkbJ/s1600/CTP145B.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Tea pot, China, porcelain, handle, spout, lid" border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNR97IbCN_PtYW6BsPZ0O3lFrss6AXOuEWkEWh-nuKxr_OeVX6bcFhCK0cjlmUXd853TDbQtf3c5e5SomUgeU2bu-89SZ8O5EP7bYRLAVpy9fWWWF-Gmcc2pvztAf5dxJOxSWQla1jLkbJ/s400/CTP145B.jpg" title="Black and white etching of a porcelain tea pot viewed from the side" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Tea (</i>Camellia sinensis<i>) was a luxury item in the 18th century. It was heavily taxed by the British government which led to the famous Boston Tea Party where the gentle people of this New England town unloaded into the harbour three shiploads of this merchandise as a protest.</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>Anyway, in 1679, Denis Papin addressed the <a href="http://royalsociety.org/about-us/history/">Royal Society of London for Improving Natural Knowledge</a> on the subject of a new invention he was creating: the “steam digester” which was the ancestor of the modern pressure cooker. Two years later, according to the legend, when Papin cooked a delicious stew to demonstrate the prototype he was presenting, the Royal Society was so impressed that it invited him to become a member.<br />
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In the 17th century the line between gastronomy and science was very thin.<br />
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After a few years, Papin moved to Germany and invented the piston steam engine. He returned to England many years later and unsuccessfully asked the Royal Society to reinstate him.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsGhUK923G6V9ZDNC-V2LfoGhm1H8AD0jO4eonN0Gkelh-I0qWN14fTl4jnwaTpZ1ehKC8mlUYqNOLZgesV2ez4r6ogzD62pvHcHnkwM_aMUbVB4JSdhaZyTYdBIm8jaOEHRz7egJZsnMb/s1600/Isaac+Newton.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="caricature, Sir Isaac Newton, book, glasses, wig" border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsGhUK923G6V9ZDNC-V2LfoGhm1H8AD0jO4eonN0Gkelh-I0qWN14fTl4jnwaTpZ1ehKC8mlUYqNOLZgesV2ez4r6ogzD62pvHcHnkwM_aMUbVB4JSdhaZyTYdBIm8jaOEHRz7egJZsnMb/s400/Isaac+Newton.jpg" title="Black and white cartoon drawing of Sir Isaac Newton wearing glasses and reading a book" width="392" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Sir Isaac Newton (1642-1727) was the head of the Royal Society of London when Denis Papin tried to be reinstated. Newton probably refused deciding that fine cooking was an art rather than a science.</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>Denis Papin died destitute and relatively unknown, presumably in 1712, and was buried most likely in an unmarked pauper’s grave in London.<br />
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Given that so many inventors suffer the same ungrateful fate, it is surprising that anybody attempts to discover new things.<br />
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My father was not discouraged by his first experiment with a pressure cooker. Actually he cooked with it all his life, as I have. Used properly, a pressure cooker will produce tasty meals quickly, giving you more time to focus on other endeavours, like blogging.Geoffroy Hauppierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00969670115579717532noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6868790835117262644.post-41978877718337210062013-04-11T20:07:00.000-04:002014-04-29T12:59:40.659-04:00Pneumonia<hr />Several years ago, around the time <a href="http://straightfromthebowels.blogspot.ca/2012/01/electronic-smoking.html">smoking in Canadian workplaces</a> was banned, I was working under a contract in a gigantic office complex. Smokers had to go outside under a large, damp, concrete portico with a two story-high roof sarcastically <a href="http://goldenagecomics.org/wordpress/2009/02/08/the-origin-of-the-batcave/">called the “Batcave.”</a> It was there, in the middle of winter, surrounded by the haggard faces of scores of other smokers, that I developed a nasty cough.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxLTTjHfGE8XBTlAE8rwWv-OD5BncEl4irkbYRi7VR24i9d06yIwGeSC51owlkmm6UkXQbp6JhMvV3lOhUWqdKr71F6FdeoyLCM9a3eDblb-8b4w3KwMbeBGzc9DRkifOg-KQnilkogGmH/s1600/batcave.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="portico, columns, pillars, stairs, handrail, modern office building" border="0" height="301" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxLTTjHfGE8XBTlAE8rwWv-OD5BncEl4irkbYRi7VR24i9d06yIwGeSC51owlkmm6UkXQbp6JhMvV3lOhUWqdKr71F6FdeoyLCM9a3eDblb-8b4w3KwMbeBGzc9DRkifOg-KQnilkogGmH/s400/batcave.jpg" title="Photo of a concrete portico with two large round concrete pillars and a wide staircase with stainless steel handrails leading to modern doors." width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://laughingsquid.com/incredible-lego-batcave-built-out-of-over-20000-pieces/">The Batcave</a> is where Batman retires to light up a Batsmoke when he needs a Batfix. The stairs, of course, lead to Wayne Manor.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
After a few days, I started having trouble breathing and my chest hurt. When a fever set in, I knew something was wrong. I took a day off hoping rest would improve my condition. It did not and I became convinced that I had pneumonia.<br />
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I went to a walk-in clinic early the next morning. After about 45 minutes of waiting coughing my lungs out, a young doctor finally saw me in his office. He asked me the reason for my visit while distractedly looking at his computer monitor.<br />
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– Doctor, I have this bad cough and a fever. I think it might be pneumonia.<br />
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– Really? Let me have a look, he said, taking out his stethoscope.<br />
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He auscultated me, looked at my eyes, my tongue, inside my ears, took my temperature, checked my pulse and my blood pressure then said the only way to be sure would be for me to go to the emergency ward at the hospital and have some x-rays taken.<br />
<br />
– But this is a medical clinic, don’t you have an x-ray machine?<br />
<br />
– We would need specially-trained personnel and right now we only have doctors, a nurse and some administrative staff.<br />
<br />
– Well, I have a friend who’s a dental hygienist. She operates the x-ray machine all the time at work. If I may, let me call her and ask her to come and take the picture.<br />
<br />
– Sir, we don’t have an x-ray machine, you have to go to the hospital.<br />
<br />
– You don’t have an x-ray machine? Even the vet where I take my dog has an x-ray machine!<br />
<br />
– I’m sorry sir, go to the emergency ward at the hospital, they will help you there.<br />
<br />
I had the feeling I was annoying him and that he was politely trying to get rid of me.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic5tACYfiXaFQ8NMI0Ac2BG3xH13ZRy_N5FQzXFlzvc5tkdNlCG21N-DXz4abXIScnSF6YpcORiIVRK1ZYNN0c1KurYR7TiXJMr_BYS1GuB5UfpXNJbbnrMbiG09KfiPn8O7BXUwB_2e9y/s1600/lungs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="lungs, heart, windpipe, aorta" border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic5tACYfiXaFQ8NMI0Ac2BG3xH13ZRy_N5FQzXFlzvc5tkdNlCG21N-DXz4abXIScnSF6YpcORiIVRK1ZYNN0c1KurYR7TiXJMr_BYS1GuB5UfpXNJbbnrMbiG09KfiPn8O7BXUwB_2e9y/s400/lungs.jpg" title="Black and white drawing of the lungs, heart and trachea from an old anatomy book." width="347" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pneumonia is an inflammation of the alveoli, where oxygen passes from the lungs into the bloodstream. According to <a href="http://lifeinthefastlane.com/resources/oslerisms/">William Osler (1849-1919)</a>, the Canadian-born physician known as the “Father of modern medicine,” pneumonia will kill you quickly and relatively painlessly. This affliction is celebrated on World Pneumonia Day, November 12 every year.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
So I left for the hospital, knowing that my case was not an emergency yet and that I probably would have to wait hours before seeing a doctor.<br />
<br />
Emergency waiting rooms are grim, sullen places. At this one, the medical staff was limited to a receptionist and a nurse locked up in a glass-enclosed office.<br />
<br />
I pitied this caregiver: outnumbered in a roomful of dangerously sick people, she could provide no relief until the intervention of a medical doctor.<br />
<br />
I arrived around 10:00 AM. There were already 25 people waiting. Some were old and silent, others were restless children accompanied by their parents. The rest, like myself, were in their 40s or 50s and did not look overly sick except for some hacking coughs, ugly skin rashes and obvious lack of energy.<br />
<br />
I gave my requisition to the receptionist and took a seat. I picked up a two year-old issue of <i>People</i> magazine on a nearby table and set myself for a wait that I expected to be long. I hoped I could sleep between coughing fits.<br />
<br />
A young couple entered the room in a frenzy. The man had his hand wrapped in a bloody towel. He had taken off two of his fingers with a circular saw as he was building kitchen cupboards. The nurse put on a temporary dressing on his wound and told him to take a seat. Soon he was being attended to by a physician.<br />
<br />
Sick people came in, others left, tired of waiting. I wished I could smoke a cigarette but I was in no condition to indulge in my favourite pastime. Finally, I dozed off and dreamt of drowning: I woke up painfully choking on my phlegm. I was feeling dizzy from the fever.<br />
<br />
Around 3:00 PM, I was called into an examination room. A nurse gave me a hospital gown to put on and asked me to wait. When the doctor came in 15 minutes later, I explained that I thought I had pneumonia and she proceeded to examine me in the same way the walk-in clinic doctor had several hours before. Then she asked me to lie on my side and left the room.<br />
<br />
As I was facing the wall in a daze, I heard the door of the observation room open and close followed by the characteristic snapping sound of latex gloves being put on. Then I felt somebody trying to pull down my underpants. Startled and confused, I quickly rolled onto my back to find a surprised young nurse dressed in scrubs with her hand caught between my bottom and the gurney I was lying on.<br />
<br />
– Excuse me, but what exactly are you trying to do? I said.<br />
<br />
– I need to take a stool sample, she replied, flustered. Please let go of my arm.<br />
<br />
– I’m afraid you have the wrong room, I said, lifting my behind to free her hand. My bowels are just fine, It’s my lungs that are causing me grief. I will gladly give you a mucus sample instead if you want, I replied snarkily<br />
<br />
– No, I need a stool sample, she said, missing the irony. It’s a standard procedure. We have to take one from all patients to have it checked for harmful bacteria. Now, please, turn on your side and let me do my work.<br />
<br />
I cringed as she uncomfortably probed me with a plastic tool. Having bacteria potentially lodged deep in my rectum threatening the outside world did not make me feel any more dignified.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJfehtgHzlkKGQmFZ0rXHra1IZcH17BuHn4XNTbqHOUqrnB8RR2ATMtnfjRGcInzL0N1IYoauLCKutfO7SsnaWW57X6FSAtkR-lEZdxf6bKOdsfApGhDpp1CXI2MkYoq6ZbVAMsHI0VgiB/s1600/Doctors+getting+ready+to+take+a+stool+sample.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Roman citizens, couch, dog, statue, pedestal, toga, columns" border="0" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJfehtgHzlkKGQmFZ0rXHra1IZcH17BuHn4XNTbqHOUqrnB8RR2ATMtnfjRGcInzL0N1IYoauLCKutfO7SsnaWW57X6FSAtkR-lEZdxf6bKOdsfApGhDpp1CXI2MkYoq6ZbVAMsHI0VgiB/s400/Doctors+getting+ready+to+take+a+stool+sample.jpg" title="Black and white etching of ancient Romans surrounding a lady lying down on a couch. Two of the Romans are holding wind instruments and there is a statue on a pedestal." width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">John G. Bourke (1843-1896) in <i><a href="http://books.google.es/books?id=KXcrwh4gvyYC&printsec=frontcover&hl=es">Scatalogical Rites of All Nations</a></i>, explains that ancient Romans worshipped Cloacina, goddess of the sewers. In the above illustration, Roman priests and their acolytes prepare to take a stool sample from a woman as an offering to their deity.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Finally, the doctor came back and told me x-rays would have to be taken. I was to get dressed and go back to the waiting room.<br />
<br />
Two hours later I was called to the radiology room, three floors up and hidden in a maze of cluttered hallways.<br />
<br />
I put on another hospital gown and a technician asked me to stand still against an upright table. He then rolled the x-ray machine close to my chest. The machine whirred, clanged and banged while it was taking pictures of my innards. After a few minutes of this, one of the attendants said I could get dressed and go back to the emergency ward’s waiting room. Despite feeling disoriented from the fever, I managed to find my way back to the anteroom of the hospital.<br />
<br />
Dozing on and off, I waited for another 90 minutes before I was called back to the observation room. The doctor told me the x-rays were positive: I had pneumonia. She wrote a prescription for antibiotics and sent me away telling me to take a 10-day leave from work.<br />
<br />
After having my prescription filled at the drugstore, I laid in bed at home considering the 12 hours I just spent among the sick, the injured and those commissioned to care for them. It seemed a long time to have somebody qualified telling me what I knew all along.<br />
<br />
Ultimately I fell into a nightmare-filled sleep. I was standing half naked in front of a fingerless man who was holding an insect repellent vaporizer and asking me to spread my buttocks while a group of doctors and nurses observed the procedure smilingly nodding their approval.<br />
<hr />Geoffroy Hauppierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00969670115579717532noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6868790835117262644.post-10868057434414764092013-03-04T23:46:00.002-05:002013-04-21T11:04:21.806-04:00Vision Quest<hr />
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<a href="http://endirectdelintestingrele.blogspot.ca/2012/09/la-vision.html">Version française</a></div>
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In my head there is an English garden in which wander all the people I loved in my past but who are no longer alive.<br />
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You see, I do not believe people ever die and neither will I. I will simply waste time and space in the head of somebody unfortunate enough to have loved me and will probably bring with me all the people who are currently walking around aimlessly in my brain.<br />
<br />
This is how a robust collective unconscious is built.<br />
<br />
I woke up in the middle of the night last Sunday, got up and saw the moon peeking through the window as my maternal grandfather was idly strolling between my brain cells.<br />
<br />
My grandfather did everything according to the moon. By looking at the moon, he knew when it was time to get a haircut, to start haying the fields, to slaughter the pig. The moon also told him when the snow would fall, when the cow would calve, and when the maple tree sap would start to flow in the spring.<br />
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For my part, I notice that a full moon or a new moon bring with them colder or warmer temperatures.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPZozf7Fpl00hwhVILKQ-z4uK7EHHnZMElxTgpjpMQoE8tuzJNyn7qWJeRrvdpZh5I1vUt7Lnt1frS5FNGDoE7UB4AyuiqEY4qdFgxq8xEeRaMYMj1rF7tSpVHPALofXmQsxbAfpBxnz3i/s1600/Moon5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="moon, evergreen, spruce, hill, snow" border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPZozf7Fpl00hwhVILKQ-z4uK7EHHnZMElxTgpjpMQoE8tuzJNyn7qWJeRrvdpZh5I1vUt7Lnt1frS5FNGDoE7UB4AyuiqEY4qdFgxq8xEeRaMYMj1rF7tSpVHPALofXmQsxbAfpBxnz3i/s400/Moon5.jpg" title="A nearly full moon rising over a snowy hill with sparse evergreen trees." width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The Moon is Earth’s only natural satellite. Anaxagoras (c. 500-428
BC) reasoned that the Moon was a gigantic rock that reflected the light
from the sun. All who believed the Moon was made of green cheese were
bitterly disappointed by this discovery.</i><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
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Several years ago, I was attending a rave that the son of a friend organized in a secluded valley in the countryside. Hundreds of people came from all over North America to dance to the grooves of legendary DJs from Europe, Australia, the United States and Japan.<br />
<br />
Sparks from a huge bonfire rose upward into the night sky while people walked around carrying torches. Gregorian chants that the DJ played on a background of “drum and bass” added a mystical feeling.<br />
<br />
I started talking to an old Inuit from Nunavut. I told him that my grandfather lived according to what the Moon was telling him.<br />
<br />
“The Moon has nothing to say,” the old man replied. “The stars hold all wisdom.”<br />
<br />
Then, Natalie, the old man’s granddaughter – 30 years old and sweet as could be – offered me some of those dried mushrooms that take you to another level.<br />
<br />
I do not approach psychedelic drugs casually. As a teenager I viewed drugs, rightly or wrongly, as the key that opened the door to the gods when one needed a special revelation. Since the gods are very powerful and very busy, I always thought they should not be disturbed unnecessarily.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6yO0GdL48oxhaSrQz6BXINfJH_GS7ept2YTTZ10GkmunlLJ1JJ5A2xnns5Hmc3-vnwUte7H5HahmTHdXfPzWfPz-lhH0VeWclFVZ524bV803WVK9DTpWtFPxmmwVl7jfVZvjrWMGeq0HX/s1600/Psilocybe+Azurescens.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="magic mushroom, hallucinogenic, drugs, psilocybin, fungus, hallucination" border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6yO0GdL48oxhaSrQz6BXINfJH_GS7ept2YTTZ10GkmunlLJ1JJ5A2xnns5Hmc3-vnwUte7H5HahmTHdXfPzWfPz-lhH0VeWclFVZ524bV803WVK9DTpWtFPxmmwVl7jfVZvjrWMGeq0HX/s400/Psilocybe+Azurescens.jpg" title="Colour photo of psilocybe azurescens, the most potent of hallucinogenic mushrooms." width="256" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Hallucinogenic mushrooms are found everywhere in the world in more
than 200 species. The psychoactive element of this fungus is called
psilocybin, an alkaloid with pharmacodynamic properties. As you can see
from what I just wrote, to truly understand what they are doing, drug
users should hold a degree in pharmacology or chemistry.</i><span style="color: #660000;"> Many thanks to <a href="http://www.wpclipart.com/index.html">WPClipart</a> for making this public domain image available</span></td></tr>
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That night, I felt the time was right for revelations. I accepted Natalie’s offer and she poured a few grams of dried mushrooms in the palm of my hand. It seemed to me like a lot but Natalie took my arm and said:<br />
<br />
– It’s only residue. Nunavut mushrooms are very mild, don’t worry.<br />
<br />
I chewed conscientiously and then swallowed the mushroom crumbs. Natalie and I sat on a downed tree trunk looking at the bonfire and people dancing, and waited for the mushrooms to work their magic.<br />
<br />
We talked a little and I was feeling good. Natalie’s grandfather was standing nearby. He slowly raised his head and hands to the sky. He was different: he was now dressed in deerskins and was quietly singing in his language, shuffling his feet on the ground.<br />
<br />
He was talking to the stars.<br />
<br />
I watched him intently. I was no longer hearing the DJs’ music: only the soft song of the old Inuit was filling my ears.<br />
<br />
My nose was itchy. Maybe it had been stung by a mosquito and now it was wet, probably because I scratched it until it bled. It was beginning to swell.<br />
<br />
Actually, it was not swelling: it was GROWING.<br />
<br />
I thought this was peculiar but interesting. I did not know where I was anymore. Everything started to waver rapidly and I fell on all fours. My face was turning into a snout and I was shivering as my skin was being covered with some kind of grey fur. I did not feel uncomfortable at all and strangely I was not afraid: this metamorphosis seemed to me absolutely in order. I began to howl gently.<br />
<br />
The old Inuit was chanting and dancing by my side, beating on a drum as an accompaniment. For my part, I had turned completely into a coyote and my howling harmonized with the old man’s chanting.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDz5XX_9GTRoRuHPxZ18W0KC-Z_BrYKiDU1NNctkzsVfZPCjC9sGM-XfTc4rFvjVdlw7E6yoSjl3HeG7fYmaG7tWcvlShjp2vsFnr-VdqTJwH9bf8C9dyqgVu_dMjILtIzc9Jdg5mCErzv/s1600/Coyote_howling.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="coyote, canis latrans, snow, winter" border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDz5XX_9GTRoRuHPxZ18W0KC-Z_BrYKiDU1NNctkzsVfZPCjC9sGM-XfTc4rFvjVdlw7E6yoSjl3HeG7fYmaG7tWcvlShjp2vsFnr-VdqTJwH9bf8C9dyqgVu_dMjILtIzc9Jdg5mCErzv/s400/Coyote_howling.jpg" title="Colour photograph of a coyote sitting in the snow and howling to the sky." width="262" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Coyotes (</i>canis latrans<i>) can be found everywhere in North
America. They are related more to the jackal than to the wolf. Coyotes
are not an endangered species and sometimes mate with housedogs. In
Germany, I’m told, coyotes have been crossbred with poodle dogs,
probably to annoy the French.</i><span style="color: #660000;"> Many thanks to <a href="http://www.wpclipart.com/index.html">WPClipart</a> for making this public domain image available.</span><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
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I don’t know how long our performance lasted. All I know is that everything turned dark and when I gained consciousness, I was lying naked in a haystack in Natalie’s arms, still high from the magic mushrooms from Nunavut.<br />
<br />
A few days later, back in town, I told my story to my friend Aaron who told me:<br />
<br />
– Obviously you saw your totem...<br />
<br />
– My totem? No, no, It was not a carved pole of scowling beasts with protruding eyes. I really turned into a coyote!<br />
<br />
– A totem, you simpleton, is a protective spirit in North American Indian folklore. In your case, it seems your totem is the coyote. Unfortunate. You could have chosen better...<br />
<br />
– I don’t understand...<br />
<br />
– My poor friend, you never learned anything. The coyote is a deceiver, a trickster, a bit like Papa Legba in voodoo. The coyote stole fire from the Gods to give to mankind...<br />
<br />
– Like Prometheus in Greek mythology, I wondered aloud to show that I had some cultural knowledge after all.<br />
<br />
– If you say so, but the coyote keeps breaking rules, playing tricks even if his tricks have sometimes positive effects.<br />
<br />
On my own after Aaron left, I thought about his last words and about the unorthodox path I had followed in life. To free myself from the constraint of rules, I often downgraded them to simple guidelines or mere suggestions, never hesitating to ignore them to achieve a goal I felt was more desirable.<br />
<br />
“A wild dog as a protective spirit: I could have done worse,” I thought.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuFvLYRwZTWzCI8kYRacfXWnlY6jXHxysONLjoPf3TtyzYtO-ln3Yb5SF409OBUtvjVzPFcYKLoQzNoFGsa-UU7Jvp3ml782sSWmbQFNjKfsbK38wKvbNGGuedi7DTBBEJJnoiU5ConMAD/s1600/totem2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="totem pole, Pacific Northwest, carving, cedar, winter, public park, Ottawa" border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuFvLYRwZTWzCI8kYRacfXWnlY6jXHxysONLjoPf3TtyzYtO-ln3Yb5SF409OBUtvjVzPFcYKLoQzNoFGsa-UU7Jvp3ml782sSWmbQFNjKfsbK38wKvbNGGuedi7DTBBEJJnoiU5ConMAD/s400/totem2.jpg" title="A colour photo of a painted totem pole in Confederation park in downtown Ottawa in winter." width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Totem poles carved by Pacific Northwest American Indians are
monuments sculpted from large cedar trees representing the protective
spirit of their tribe but also to serve as witnesses to major historical
events or even as tombs for their ancestors.</i> Totem pole carved by <a href="http://www.thecanadianencyclopedia.com/PrinterFriendly.cfm?Params=A1ARTA0003909">Mr. Henry Hunt</a> (1923-1985) of the Kwawkewith Indian Band, British Columbia, Canada.<span style="font-size: small;"><br />
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<br />Geoffroy Hauppierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00969670115579717532noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6868790835117262644.post-19338987846533899162012-11-02T02:46:00.000-04:002012-12-03T06:45:17.296-05:00The Refrigerator<hr /><div align="right"><a href="http://endirectdelintestingrele.blogspot.ca/2012/08/le-refrigerateur.html">Version française</a></div><hr />Eventually everything goes to rot as long as bacteria is provided with food, moisture, heat and time. For instance, take the delicious <a href="http://www.cooks.com/rec/view/0,1645,157175-243201,00.html">seafood fettucini</a> that you forgot in a plastic container on the kitchen counter before leaving for a 3-week summer vacation.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWy5BzXiPVCBbZAGuNt96DKi3lM-KTpEHG9YajGcttFVtLXXSVGWy8c1DP-u3AmJGh9FgMMgBaiEbubrxfZUwVJb7liz65Xr_E0y4e6oK6Wz_hdFy8hxYP4oAz53sSunDvhT7QGNxA16Gg/s1600/fettucini.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="pasta, fettucini, fettucine, seafood, shrimps, mussels, scallops, white plate, glass of water, white tablecloth" border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWy5BzXiPVCBbZAGuNt96DKi3lM-KTpEHG9YajGcttFVtLXXSVGWy8c1DP-u3AmJGh9FgMMgBaiEbubrxfZUwVJb7liz65Xr_E0y4e6oK6Wz_hdFy8hxYP4oAz53sSunDvhT7QGNxA16Gg/s400/fettucini.jpg" title="A colour photo of a dish of seafood fettucini with shrimps, scallops and mussels in a white plate on a white tablecloth." width="300" /></a></div><div style="font: 12px/1.1em sans-serif; margin: 0px 55px; text-align: center; text-indent: 0pt;"><i>Fettucini (Italian for "little ribbons") is one of the 310 specific forms of Italian pasta. To complicate matters there are 1300 different names to describe these different kinds of unleavened dough. Pasta can be served with a sauce, in soup or baked. Seafood include fish, mollusks and crustaceans. </i><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
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Upon your return, it is most likely that decomposition would be so well underway that the cover of the container would have popped open from the decaying gases and that a foul odour would be pervading your once sweet-smelling apartment.<br />
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From time immemorial, civilization has unsparingly devoted energy and creativity to food preservation. Salting, drying, pickling are all processes developed to keep foodstuffs edible. Comes a time however when you get tired of eating dried meat, pickled herring and catching gout from eating too much cured venison.<br />
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Fortunately someone discovered cooling and freezing.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinyFNiX4AkA3Jp2FGZXgn2Lzu8vT4smdHcyWRl_J012IrwQP47BCUWib5d-iQpYLxViAmbU2IV0teKxwJmjpUNAKx1Rmzsep1tRNLbdwtKnhqWQf8NXyQK2yMZ-tyy0Rpku_ZPC3BmcitO/s1600/ice+box+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="ice box, cold storage, stone building, Middle East, straw bails" border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinyFNiX4AkA3Jp2FGZXgn2Lzu8vT4smdHcyWRl_J012IrwQP47BCUWib5d-iQpYLxViAmbU2IV0teKxwJmjpUNAKx1Rmzsep1tRNLbdwtKnhqWQf8NXyQK2yMZ-tyy0Rpku_ZPC3BmcitO/s400/ice+box+2.jpg" title="Colour photo of a bell-shaped stone and earth building used to store ice throughout spring and summer in the Middle East." width="400" /></a></div><div style="font: 12px/1.1em sans-serif; margin: 0px 55px; text-align: center; text-indent: 0pt;"><i>About 1700 years B.C. in the Middle East, bell-shaped buildings started to appear. With thick walls and insulating materials (such as sawdust or straw) these buildings allowed the preservation of snow and ice throughout spring and summer.</i><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
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In the United States and Canada specially insulated buildings were built, usually near lakes, to store ice as household supplies until the middle of the 20th century. When electricity made its way into houses and refrigerators became common appliances, this industry became obsolete.<br />
<br />
Today refrigerators are taken for granted. I am even told that some ladies will measure the quality of a suitor according to the cleanliness and content of their fridge. Gentlemen, please take heed and do not forget to also clean your bathroom and change the sheets in the bed.<br />
<br />
It only takes a few weeks for rotting food to attempt to emerge from a plastic container forgotten on a kitchen counter. I wonder however how long it would take for provisions to open the door of a refrigerator in which they were left to decay.<br />
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It seems to me this would be the kind of experiment Antoine Lavoisier, the father of modern chemistry, would have enjoyed, he who once said: “In nature nothing is created, nothing is lost, everything changes.”<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg05G1uET33QiZUx959CZVR8auRSb2uooSZubdq7kYKNtnow-ikfuvjkFcln8JZ_kINR7W5eCMo1CCm5559tMdQv_V_piTX4wNYhJY9hDVpNe1iwS7A24eMcYn_s8cl9Ng-aKmwlmZeoSPy/s1600/Antoine+et+Marie-Anne_Lavoisier.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="chemistry, French Revolution, husband and wife. laboratory equipment" border="0" height="348" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg05G1uET33QiZUx959CZVR8auRSb2uooSZubdq7kYKNtnow-ikfuvjkFcln8JZ_kINR7W5eCMo1CCm5559tMdQv_V_piTX4wNYhJY9hDVpNe1iwS7A24eMcYn_s8cl9Ng-aKmwlmZeoSPy/s400/Antoine+et+Marie-Anne_Lavoisier.jpg" title="Painting of Marie-Anne and Antoine Lavoisier. Marie-Anne is standing behind her sitting husband who is holding a writing pen." width="400" /></a></div><div style="font: 12px/1.1em sans-serif; margin: 0px 55px; text-align: center; text-indent: 0pt;"><i>Antoine Lavoisier (1743-1794) with his wife Marie-Anne explaining to him why it is important to keep a refrigerator clean. Mr. Lavoisier, was a chemist but also a <a href="http://straightfromthebowels.blogspot.ca/2011/12/tax-collector.html">tax collector</a>, an unpopular trade that probably caused him to be guillotined during the French Revolution.<br />
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A few weeks ago, I invited a few friends for dinner. I was to serve the seafood fettucini that I referred to earlier. However, because I had to go away for two days before the dinner date, I purchased the scallops, shrimps, crab and other ingredients in advance and placed them in the back of the fridge.<br />
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I came back Friday night, the day before the dinner. There was a strange smell in the apartment but it was late, I was exhausted so I postponed an investigation until the next day.<br />
<br />
Saturday morning, I was awakened by a stench. Feeling sick, I wondered where the foul odour was coming from. While making coffee, I opened the refrigerator door to get milk and I was assaulted by the bacteriological process that had been underway for two days, starting when the appliance’s compressor failed.<br />
<br />
Antoine Lavoisier could probably tell you that a refrigerator transforms heat into cold through a compressor that overheats a cooling liquid, turning it into gas that cools off going through a coil while becoming liquid once again.<br />
<br />
The compressor failure raised the temperature inside the fridge to over 100 degrees Fahrenheit: a perfect environment for bacteria proliferation.<br />
<br />
Refraining from throwing up, I emptied the content of the refrigerator into plastic bags that I carried outside to the shed where I keep my garbage until pick-up day. Then I called my guests to explain what happened and rescheduled the dinner invitation. I spent the rest of the day shopping for a refrigerator.<br />
<br />
During the night, I was suddenly awakened by loud crashing sounds outside. I quickly dressed and went down to see what was happening.<br />
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A black bear, attracted by the smell of spoilage, was having a feast in my garbage. When it saw me, it cocked its head, surprised by the interruption, then went back to its banquet, totally ignoring me.<br />
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I did not know what to do when a bear strays onto one’s property. Should I call the Wildlife Service? At 3:00 a.m. on a Sunday, I doubted anybody would answer. Should I call 9-1-1? In my view, having a bear stealing your garbage is not an emergency and in Canada it is a crime to call 9-1-1 unless there’s an emergency.<br />
<br />
So I decided to let nature be and allowed the beast to finish its meal. The next morning would be soon enough to assess the situation.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq_nsK_X92YVCFgEl3uowChacpdcBha_XbnU16EXk-Y_saszRwZ3BA6XvBv1m_vJ8kxGXzXVsauAOcCfDFGXGqvXxMz7_TCRQV6UCSNRrwJodti1wMGYIOlUBr4sjmAGTXzrV83SHltgUI/s1600/Couch+potato+close+%2528Small%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="black bear, endangered species, couch, garbage, dump" border="0" height="313" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq_nsK_X92YVCFgEl3uowChacpdcBha_XbnU16EXk-Y_saszRwZ3BA6XvBv1m_vJ8kxGXzXVsauAOcCfDFGXGqvXxMz7_TCRQV6UCSNRrwJodti1wMGYIOlUBr4sjmAGTXzrV83SHltgUI/s400/Couch+potato+close+%2528Small%2529.jpg" title="Colour photo of a black bear sitting on a couch in a garbage dump." width="400" /></a></div><div style="font: 12px/1.1em sans-serif; margin: 0px 55px; text-align: center; text-indent: 0pt;"><i>The black bear (</i>ursus americanus<i>) is not an endangered species in North America and unfortunately gets used too easily to human presence. Many thanks to ZebraJay for the photo.<br />
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<div style="text-align: left;"></div></div><hr />Geoffroy Hauppierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00969670115579717532noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6868790835117262644.post-55999726013964073212012-10-21T15:18:00.000-04:002013-04-21T11:00:06.382-04:00Geoff’s Beard<hr />
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<a href="http://endirectdelintestingrele.blogspot.ca/2012/03/la-barbe-de-geoffroy.html">Version française</a></div>
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When people ask why I have a beard, I feel like they are asking why my eyes are brown. So I always give the same answer: I have worn a beard since I was a toddler and I even have a photograph to prove it.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIj-HU21XTJtTYJdlSbH5-tiiimr4-sAaCFlGGzqDCydvoVKlKeD6AspUnEZi5ao_yUZglD4huY3E-RcKcdAcCvvOCNtpwtou7OS1U_2vqPCroamEuGgeCkPf0iqUP5bUfw7nxXKACxqi8/s1600/Geoff+at+the+table-beard.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="children, beard, older ladies, dinner table," border="0" height="306" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIj-HU21XTJtTYJdlSbH5-tiiimr4-sAaCFlGGzqDCydvoVKlKeD6AspUnEZi5ao_yUZglD4huY3E-RcKcdAcCvvOCNtpwtou7OS1U_2vqPCroamEuGgeCkPf0iqUP5bUfw7nxXKACxqi8/s400/Geoff+at+the+table-beard.jpg" title="Black and white photo of two young children and two ladies sitting at a dinner table. One of the children is wearing a bow tie and beard." width="400" /></a></div>
<div style="font: 12px/1.1em sans-serif; margin: 0px 55px; text-align: center; text-indent: 0pt;">
<i>The author at age 6. Despite being obviously talented, I never made it as a Photoshop artist...</i><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
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<br />
Alas! This is far from the truth and <i>Straight from the Bowels</i> is the perfect platform to set the record straight. Let me tell you the story.<br />
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***</div>
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Years ago I lived in a small town in northern Canada; not the Great White North, but the Average Grey North nevertheless.<br />
<br />
It was a miserable autumn night: cold, with relentless rain coming down furiously, trying to decide whether it should turn to snow or not.<br />
<br />
I worked as a caretaker in a youth shelter, helping troubled teenagers cross over to adulthood. You know the story: kids having problems with drugs, alcohol, prostitution, petty crimes, and loneliness. Sometimes teenagers came to us on their own, sometimes it was their parents who would bring them saying: “Please take him/her, I don’t know what to do anymore!”<br />
<br />
Often I felt like we should have been taking care of the parents.<br />
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That night I was alone. The five rooms of the old house were empty. I was reading in the kitchen by the woodstove which I was using before winter to save furnace oil.<br />
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Suddenly there was a knock on the door: it was two policemen with a young man, about thirty, dressed poorly, wet as a rag and holding a backpack in his hands.<br />
<br />
– This “gentleman” came to the police station and asked us to keep him overnight. We’re not a hostel and he has no money. We could have left him in the streets but we would have had to arrest him later in the night for loitering so we brought him here since we know you sometimes accommodate people.<br />
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The logic used in the police force sometimes escapes me and I answered:<br />
<br />
– This is not a hostel either but I will take this man as a guest since it is just wrong to leave anybody outside in such weather.<br />
<br />
The two officers looked at each other, relieved they would not have to make an arrest, write a report and maybe stand as witnesses in front of a judge for an insignificant case.<br />
<br />
When the two cops were gone, the young man humbly thanked me and told me his name was Roland.<br />
<br />
“Welcome Roland. Take off your coat, put your bag in the corner and come and get warm near the stove. Are you hungry? Do you want to eat?” I added while giving him a towel so he could dry off.<br />
<br />
I warmed up a big pot of stew I had on the electric range and served a generous helping to my guest who began wolfing it down as I made some tea.<br />
<br />
While he was eating, Roland told me he had been hitchhiking to a small town 150 miles away to begin a new job that the halfway house had found him. He had just finished serving several years in jail for various offenses and wanted to start a new life, away from the city, hoping people would give him a second chance.<br />
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I have nothing against second chances nor third or fourth if necessary. Actually I would be at loss to know when a person should be considered beyond help.<br />
<br />
Roland and I talked for some time, and then I took him to his room and wished him a good night.<br />
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When I got up in the morning, my guest had already gone, without a word, without a note. I put a log in the woodstove, made coffee and went to freshen up.<br />
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After my shower, I was getting ready to shave when I realized my electric razor was gone. In its place there was a shaving brush, a disposable razor and a can of shaving cream.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXN8S8oWGEIfZNe1du-zinFuNa8ZAIEd4NBu92G-asrajSFD4KL2wIXpIQO-s8GIgjcGdxEFpfHWgL9-_FKvyf1kRFlmHESoYsI5tqr__5NzeoDiT7zpFEioBgARfoc5y_JzxnLF9I5N9s/s1600/Shaving+Brush.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="disposable razor, shaving brush, white mug, shaving cream, shaving kit, bathroom sink" border="0" height="284" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXN8S8oWGEIfZNe1du-zinFuNa8ZAIEd4NBu92G-asrajSFD4KL2wIXpIQO-s8GIgjcGdxEFpfHWgL9-_FKvyf1kRFlmHESoYsI5tqr__5NzeoDiT7zpFEioBgARfoc5y_JzxnLF9I5N9s/s400/Shaving+Brush.jpg" title="Colour photo of a shaving kit on a bathroom sink. There is a disposable razor and a shaving brush in a white mug, a can of shaving cream and a brush." width="400" /></a></div>
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<i>The shaving brush can be traced to 18th century France where it is called a </i>blaireau<i> (badger) since the bristles are often made from the hair of that animal. Although at the time it was considered a status symbol to own such a brush, I find shaving using a straight or disposable razor and a shaving brush a tedious process.</i><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
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<br />
Some people will say that the man I had kindly sheltered and fed ran away discreetly after committing his petty theft.<br />
<br />
I would rather think that it was the Almighty or the Great Goddess who was sending me a sign. Or maybe it was the Great Vishnu himself – or one of his avatars – who came down from Heaven to take away my razor and make me understand it was time for me to rise above the ranks of the beardless.<br />
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That day I started to grow a beard. I have no regrets since wearing a beard is one of the few things I do well.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSDAKPzt31Z7VTQYJzM3gEH76oYcvhuZlWIxexUrBQRAUnCb07Dh8jDwPjXVGWfI21-XhXtDccydvah9S9FMyrV6NhJyqs_goImcEVcIJE-y8UDiNe_GZ4yIlTdUfr3RqB7MgpOHMdxOpV/s1600/Vishnu+Baby.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Vishnu, Indian god, baby, toddler, golden jars, white substance, shaving soap" border="0" height="378" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSDAKPzt31Z7VTQYJzM3gEH76oYcvhuZlWIxexUrBQRAUnCb07Dh8jDwPjXVGWfI21-XhXtDccydvah9S9FMyrV6NhJyqs_goImcEVcIJE-y8UDiNe_GZ4yIlTdUfr3RqB7MgpOHMdxOpV/s400/Vishnu+Baby.jpg" title="Colour photo of a ceramic plate displaying the Indian god Vishnu as a toddler sitting beside two golden jars containing a white substance." width="400" /></a></div>
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<i>The Indian god Vishnu as a child is sitting with two large jars of shaving soap he probably stole from people he wanted to grow a beard.</i><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
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<br />Geoffroy Hauppierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00969670115579717532noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6868790835117262644.post-68191504067246754202012-07-21T22:30:00.000-04:002013-04-21T11:01:07.665-04:00The Deer Hunter<hr />
<i>For Yves. Many thanks to Lucy.</i><br />
<div align="right">
<a href="http://endirectdelintestingrele.blogspot.ca/2012/09/le-cerf-de-virginie.html">Version française</a></div>
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One summer evening as I was on my way to my <a href="http://straightfromthebowels.blogspot.ca/2012/03/ghost-story.html">haunted house</a> in the country. I was negotiating a long curve on the highway around a steep hill in my 1983 Renault Alliance. To my left, the sun was setting. As I was pulling down the sun visor I saw a shadow in the corner of my right eye.<br />
<br />
BANG! I hit the jumping deer at 60 miles per hour. The windshield exploded and instantly the inside of the car was filled with flying hair and the musky smell of the wild animal. I slowed down to a stop on the shoulder of the highway.<br />
<br />
I got out of the car as other motorists whizzed by and the unfortunate doe was quivering on the median strip of the highway, gasping out her last breath. Massaging the back of my neck, I slowly walked around to see the damage.<br />
<br />
The windshield had completely shattered and tufts of hair were caught in the cracks of the glass. The right fender was torn and one of the headlights was dangling. There were deep dents in the hood and on the top of the car as well as nasty scratches on the trunk hatch.<br />
<br />
“This is what happens when Mother Nature takes on <i>Motor Trends’</i> Car of the Year,” I thought.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBYBTN3Ml6IKx24J_X8nBrXQL6EjWUD7Jo9kXHNO3kpiJN6dhAeop8yVW64tcqdwopam2IY0EVNmIsBE_rnvNhD6UDfsZI7unrIu18SamJOnquWKnsvF3909TyT99jdKvlw78vAhShbUgm/s1600/Alliance+ad+3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="1983, Renault Alliance, Renault 9, Car of the year, Motor Trends, fuel consumption" border="0" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBYBTN3Ml6IKx24J_X8nBrXQL6EjWUD7Jo9kXHNO3kpiJN6dhAeop8yVW64tcqdwopam2IY0EVNmIsBE_rnvNhD6UDfsZI7unrIu18SamJOnquWKnsvF3909TyT99jdKvlw78vAhShbUgm/s400/Alliance+ad+3.JPG" title="A printed black and white advertisement for the 1983 Renault Alliance showing a drawing of the car along with its fuel consumption." width="400" /></a></div>
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<i>The Renault Alliance was actually a Renault 9 re-packaged for North American markets following a partnership agreement between Renault and American Motors. Sold from 1983-1987, the hastily-designated "Car of the year" proved to be a nightmare for many owners because of chronic head gasket, clutch, transmission, suspension and exhaust problems. Very few are still on the road nowadays.</i><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
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<br />
One car stopped and the driver asked if I needed assistance. I said I was fine, but I asked him to call the police so I could make a report for the insurance company.<br />
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I waited for over an hour before the police cruiser arrived. The sun had set, the sky was clouding over and it was obvious that it would rain soon. I answered the officer’s questions while he filled in his report. Then we walked to the median to look at the beast that had wrecked my car.<br />
<br />
The white-tailed deer (<i>Odocoileus virginianus</i>) was lying on its side, flies buzzing around its open eyes and foamy mouth. I thought it would be a shame to let 100 lbs. of good venison go to waste so I asked the young police officer to give me a hand carrying the carcass to my car.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIoob99cA8i5Bgru-mg5vCpZ7wtGjDMmcyhpfEgujgQTznavTWXjI6xmsekwkKftbYpns0x2WnHgIKebSmvQNHL2EJGEz7MyxAEVUbhvpqQLVGrM520gWD5QvSbxtwUGiTvbQYnpCXnbF1/s1600/white+tailed+deer+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="white-tailed deer, fawn, Bambi, spots" border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIoob99cA8i5Bgru-mg5vCpZ7wtGjDMmcyhpfEgujgQTznavTWXjI6xmsekwkKftbYpns0x2WnHgIKebSmvQNHL2EJGEz7MyxAEVUbhvpqQLVGrM520gWD5QvSbxtwUGiTvbQYnpCXnbF1/s400/white+tailed+deer+2.jpg" title="A colour photograph of a young white-tailed deer fawn with its spotted coat lying on its side in the woods." width="400" /></a></div>
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<i>The white-tailed deer is found in abundant quantities in America from Canada to Peru. It is a least-concern species in terms of conservation status since its principal predator is probably the automobile.</i><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
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<br />
– Erm, I’m not sure about that sir. Hunting season is not yet open and you should report this killing to the Wildlife Service.<br />
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– But I was not hunting, it was an accident...<br />
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– Yeah, well, in any case, I think the Wildlife Service has to offer roadkill to public institutions first, you know, prisons, hospitals, orphanages...<br />
<br />
Not wanting to be responsible for Oliver Twist starving to death and knowing better than to argue with the Law, I did not insist and asked the officer for a ride to a garage where I could get a tow truck.<br />
<br />
– No need for a tow truck if you can start the engine, he said.<br />
<br />
– But there’s no windshield on the car and only one headlight...<br />
<br />
– You’ll be all right, good evening sir.<br />
<br />
He left me on the side of the road while the rain started falling. I got into the car, turned on the ignition and drove 15 miles under the rain with no windscreen. I smelled like a wet dog when I arrived home.<br />
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The next day, after calling the insurance company to report the accident, I asked a friend to pick me up so I could rent a car to keep me mobile while waiting for the insurers’ damage assessment. My friend was glad I was unharmed and invited me to come for dinner later that night.<br />
<br />
I arrived at his home around 6:00 PM with a bottle of wine but something was not right. His 5 year old daughter Mary-Ann who considered me as her uncle did not greet me as usual; in fact she avoided me, sulking.<br />
<br />
As my friend’s wife was opening the bottle of wine and I was telling her that it might take weeks before I knew exactly what the actual damage to the car was, Mary-Ann came to me in tears, holding her teddy bear and asked:<br />
<br />
– Is it true that you killed Bambi?<br />
<br />
I was shocked as I looked at my friend who was suppressing a laugh. What a terrible thing to say to his own daughter! I then explained to Mary-Ann that it was not actually Bambi I killed but a distant, very old and very sick cousin and that I did not do it on purpose, that it was an accident and that I made sure the deer received a proper and dignified burial. Giving my friend a dirty look I then assured the little girl that I was really, really sorry and that I would have much preferred that the whole thing had not happened and would she please forgive me?<br />
<br />
I guess she sensed my alleged contrition because she gave me a hug and we were able to move on to the dinner table.<br />
<br />
A week later the insurance company informed me the car was a total loss and that they would cover for the rental car until I found a replacement.<br />
<br />
I bought a used 1986 Pontiac Acadian, a sub-compact built like a tank.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirEM6TwwDLk9NhBOAx5UvrK7O9kgSf4LMVnZUIMls_rBvCr5Fo7mOBDCGiCMNPVfau1-y6EZXrCokdlylXX8Qo_r7nFXYyWRiimHRRGtDzTrgChAl2GHS4ne3T6KM4SMs_wlQ7xYVj0YJh/s1600/Pontiac+Acadian.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="1986, Pontiac Acadian, brown, parked car" border="0" height="208" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirEM6TwwDLk9NhBOAx5UvrK7O9kgSf4LMVnZUIMls_rBvCr5Fo7mOBDCGiCMNPVfau1-y6EZXrCokdlylXX8Qo_r7nFXYyWRiimHRRGtDzTrgChAl2GHS4ne3T6KM4SMs_wlQ7xYVj0YJh/s400/Pontiac+Acadian.jpg" title="A colour photograph of a 1986 copper-brown Pontiac Acadian parked beside an apartment building." width="400" /></a></div>
<div style="font: 12px/1.1em sans-serif; margin: 0px 55px; text-align: center; text-indent: 0pt;">
<i>The Pontiac Acadian is the Canadian equivalent of the Chevrolet Chevette. A sturdy car with lots of steel and very little plastic, it was built until 1986. It was characterized by a very roomy engine compartment. In fact the person I sold it to replaced the original 1.6 litre 4-cylinder engine with a more powerful V6 engine without further modifications.</i><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
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A few days after I got that car, I was coming back from driving a friend to the other side of town at around 10:00 PM. There was a group of young people playfully wrestling at a bus stop on my right and a car waiting for me to pass at a cross street ahead.<br />
<br />
BANG! I hit a german shepherd that came running out of a dark alley to my left. I had never had a car accident in my life and now in the space of two weeks I had hit two animals in a row! I parked my car by the curb and went to inspect the damage. The left headlight was broken and that was all. Then I walked over to the dead dog.<br />
<br />
The youths had hopped onto a bus that was now driving by and there was nobody around. No cops, no Wildlife Officers and Oliver Twist was nowhere in sight.<br />
<br />
For a moment I toyed with the idea of taking the carcass home, having it for supper and asking a taxidermist to stuff the head for mounting on the wall.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiihxt2tRBWAyzEVHVljT2bDxXIBEiOP8FXavbKhpIaf4aUYi_adVtAOYraIieoqG32hdRm6bTedNZRHJZVJBlLi9woCNAY9IpNGpl5EPwnYTHdAm1bogEG5YkXxMKtBphqNXH03l4B7g7R/s1600/1386299.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Charles Dickens, The Adventures of Oliver Twist, The Parish Boy's Progress" border="0" height="328" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiihxt2tRBWAyzEVHVljT2bDxXIBEiOP8FXavbKhpIaf4aUYi_adVtAOYraIieoqG32hdRm6bTedNZRHJZVJBlLi9woCNAY9IpNGpl5EPwnYTHdAm1bogEG5YkXxMKtBphqNXH03l4B7g7R/s400/1386299.jpg" title="A photograph of an old print of Charles Dickens' The Adventures of Oliver Twist" width="400" /></a></div>
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The Adventures of Oliver Twist<i>, published in 1838, was Charles Dickens' second novel. It related the story of a young orphan in the shady 19th century London.</i><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
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Geoffroy Hauppierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00969670115579717532noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6868790835117262644.post-16686554767309208522012-05-22T00:02:00.000-04:002014-11-20T21:44:47.060-05:00The mutt<hr /><div align="right"><a href="http://endirectdelintestingrele.blogspot.ca/2012/12/le-cabot.html">Version française</a></div><hr />The Government of Canada had undertaken a major review of its economic policy and was trying to decide whether it should return to the Gold Standard, adopt <a href="http://straightfromthebowels.blogspot.ca/2014/11/the-world-of-dentistry.html">the controversial Porcelain Standard</a> advocated by China and British economists, or endeavour to have the law of diminishing returns repealed.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2PJPOebnEjCIBHkTWcSzELFHpEYJs9yaNHIv8SyDWMCrHQxW9wnTLUHhxXLy1shmrDnAMUfvHoU36J0NRe0Hg6Qq4GJtIM2eK6EmGWKagQyVCOfKAS_gmscyWYoIOU2xAxvvPFJSeyKhn/s1600/Samuelson.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Economics, Paul Samuelson, Maple bonds, reading glasses, newspaper clipping, Nobel prize" border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2PJPOebnEjCIBHkTWcSzELFHpEYJs9yaNHIv8SyDWMCrHQxW9wnTLUHhxXLy1shmrDnAMUfvHoU36J0NRe0Hg6Qq4GJtIM2eK6EmGWKagQyVCOfKAS_gmscyWYoIOU2xAxvvPFJSeyKhn/s400/Samuelson.jpg" title="A colour photograph of Paul Samuelson's Canadian edition of its famous textbook on Economics. On top of it lie a pair of reading glasses and a clipping of a newspaper article about Maple Bonds." width="400" /></a></div><div style="font: 12px/1.1em sans-serif; margin: 0px 55px; text-align: center; text-indent: 0pt;"><i>Economics is a social science and, as such, is sometimes viewed with scorn by partisans of fundamental science (i.e. biology, chemistry, physics, mathematics). While there is a Nobel Prize in Economics, it was not one of the prizes established in the will of Alfred Nobel. Paul Samuelson was the first American to be awarded this prize in 1970.</i><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
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Whenever serious people meet to discuss serious matters over a long period of time, there’s bound to be a serious report to be published that will require serious proofreading.<br />
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I received a call from someone who knew someone I knew. They needed a crack team of proofreaders to work around the clock ensuring that the 21-volume report was ready for publication in only 30 short days.<br />
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That’s when I met Joan.<br />
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Joan had been the chief editor at a major legal publishing house in Toronto and was called in to work on the project because she knew how to make things move. I liked her the moment I saw her.<br />
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She was 29, just like me, and she was smart, thorough, professional and focused. She exuded confidence and had a knack of finding a quick solution to any problem that was presented to her. She dressed with a quintessential elegance and could have given lessons to Dior, Cartier and Chanel. I sincerely believe all women are beautiful but Joan seemed to be the embodiment of this beauty.<br />
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I made an impression on her the first day when I noticed in a sentence that straight quotation marks had been used instead of curved ones. Back then, <a href="http://straightfromthebowels.blogspot.ca/2012/02/eye-exam.html">my eyesight</a> was much keener than it is today.<br />
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We started taking smoke breaks together and became acquainted. With all the class Joan showed, I was surprised that she had a common upbringing. She came from a little town a few hours’ drive away. Her parents were uneducated and, being a good Catholic family, had seven children, five girls and two boys. Her father owned a small cartage company and Joan learned to drive a ten-wheeler truck before she could drive a car. Double-clutching held no secrets for her.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmfe_2O1PLN2qIR2lzt2u9GtES3J2BtZvHnOEsHqsyxwsP0x6Z-vKxvAFoOVJjhIuW4rCQE-X2jcibgVlyL0Krm_15BXuUEYuwr86Ax_yhXODB7u-IZVi-M9bbgfZ07OCAOiydNGMyQ5Jl/s1600/10-wheeler.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="ten-wheeler, tractor, lorry, semi-trailer, white truck" border="0" height="397" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmfe_2O1PLN2qIR2lzt2u9GtES3J2BtZvHnOEsHqsyxwsP0x6Z-vKxvAFoOVJjhIuW4rCQE-X2jcibgVlyL0Krm_15BXuUEYuwr86Ax_yhXODB7u-IZVi-M9bbgfZ07OCAOiydNGMyQ5Jl/s400/10-wheeler.jpg" title="A colour photo of the front of a white ten-wheeler truck." width="400" /></a></div><div style="font: 12px/1.1em sans-serif; margin: 0px 55px; text-align: center; text-indent: 0pt;"><i>Ten-wheeler trucks are often called "tractors" in the United Stated because one of their common use is to pull a trailer, turning it into an eighteen-wheeler. Ten-wheelers can also be equipped with a bin to carry rocks, sand and topsoil. They are more practical than trains because they can deliver their load right at the site where it is needed.</i><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
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We worked long days on this proofreading project, 12 to 16 hours were the norm because we had a firm deadline to meet. One night after work, I walked Joan home since she lived just a few blocks away and, young men and young women being what they are, I ended up staying overnight.<br />
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Despite the hectic pace at which we were working in the office, people noticed that something was going on between Joan and me. Catherine, the general manager of the project, had hired Joan on the recommendation of the chairman of the economic review board but disliked her from the start: she was just too perfect.<br />
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When Catherine realized that Joan, a manager, and I, a staff member, were romantically involved, Joan became in her mind nothing more than the office skank and Catherine started to be overtly contemptuous towards her.<br />
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One weekend, as we were working on a difficult section of the report, we realized that there was a problem. Parts or whole sentences were missing, so much so that it was difficult to make sense of the text. Joan relentlessly searched previous drafts to find the missing content and we ended up spending much more time than planned to proof the section. The general manager was called in, quickly assessed the situation, blamed Joan for the foul-up and fired her.<br />
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When I heard the news, I impulsively resigned. To this day, I am still debating whether it was out of love, lust or loyalty. Maybe it was just that I knew that the proofreading project could not end well without Joan at the helm. I hate to be involved in projects that are doomed to fail.<br />
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That night, Joan called home for some comfort and her mother suggested that Joan come for a visit and spend a few days relaxing and reflecting on her options. Since I was now unemployed, Joan asked me if I would join her and two days later we left for her parents’ place.<br />
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They lived in the country in a large farmhouse on a gigantic lot. There were two hangars surrounded by farm equipment and several enormous trucks.<br />
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After the usual welcoming embraces and introductions, I realized we had arrived in the middle of a commotion.<br />
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Joan’s two younger brothers, Alan, 15, and Gerald, 12, had found and brought home a dog, a scraggly mid-sized mutt about one year old. Their parents had agreed to keep it but now the boys were arguing over who would be the master of the dog, Alan or Gerald?<br />
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Joan’s father intervened, saying:<br />
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– Since I will be paying to feed that mongrel, I should be its rightful owner!<br />
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There was an outcry from the boys who claimed that it would not be fair since they found the dog and brought it home.<br />
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The father then said:<br />
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– All right. Who is going to feed the dog?<br />
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The two boys looked at each other, and then Gerald, the youngest one, said:<br />
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– This is not fair! You know that I find dog food gross and it makes me puke!<br />
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Alan loudly cheered as he considered he had won the competition. But then Gerald added:<br />
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– Wait a minute! Not so fast! What goes in must come out. I will clean up after the dog if he ever has an accident. Cleaning up after a dog is as important as feeding him!<br />
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The father looked at his sons, sat on the porch and called the dog. He then picked up a piece of chalk and traced a line on the dog’s coat, around the waist, dividing it in two parts.<br />
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– All right, that’s how it will be: Alan, you will be the master of the front end and Gerald will be the master of the back end or otherwise the dog goes back to where it came from. Is that a deal?<br />
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The two boys looked at each other again, displeased at the proposal but understanding that this compromise was the only way they could keep the dog. So they agreed.<br />
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I was stunned at the wisdom of Joan’s father, an uneducated man who had managed to solve a jealousy and rivalry issue in such a simple way.<br />
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Maybe a good supply of chalk in offices and boardrooms would help those in power to make better decisions in this world.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXg4yxSXyNwT1Vud-v2okHXtT91uPonWl4GyoUS7VMC3bkeARviPam8sBPrAtSbjKiO3SKPqMSsotObsU08RUr9W4mNo7wOMGaFsvZnxJYK4iPWoG-6_Mqsj2zol2yQCdHJpg6eO0cg4pz/s1600/AMB037A.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="dog, black and white drawing, sitting dog" border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXg4yxSXyNwT1Vud-v2okHXtT91uPonWl4GyoUS7VMC3bkeARviPam8sBPrAtSbjKiO3SKPqMSsotObsU08RUr9W4mNo7wOMGaFsvZnxJYK4iPWoG-6_Mqsj2zol2yQCdHJpg6eO0cg4pz/s400/AMB037A.jpg" title="Ablack and white drawing of a sitting dog with a white line drawn across its waist." width="240" /></a></div><div style="font: 12px/1.1em sans-serif; margin: 0px 55px; text-align: center; text-indent: 0pt;"><i>Dividing a dog in half with a chalk line is not as drastic as King Solomon's method of splitting a newborn in two with a sword, but just as efficient.</i><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
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Joan’s mother took us inside the house and served some food and drinks and I met the rest of the family. While we were sitting at the table talking, we suddenly heard a loud disturbance on the porch followed by the sound of objects crashing and the yelp of the dog.<br />
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The boys ran outside as we followed them to find the dog lying on the ground whimpering and rubbing its front paws against its snout.<br />
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It happened that the mutt had found a can of worms that the boys used for fishing and in which they had left some hooks and lures. They got caught in the dog’s jowls and now the animal was writhing in pain trying to remove them.<br />
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Gerald smartly exclaimed:<br />
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– Alan, it’s your end crying, you deal with it!<br />
<hr />Geoffroy Hauppierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00969670115579717532noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6868790835117262644.post-58382935284870072962012-05-08T22:18:00.000-04:002013-04-21T11:04:06.494-04:00Cannabis in Canada<hr />
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<a href="http://endirectdelintestingrele.blogspot.ca/2012/04/le-cannabis-est-illegal-au-canada.html">Version française</a></div>
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People often come to me and ask me all kinds of questions, assuming I know the answers. I must confess that when I don’t have one (which is often) I make one up, just to please my enquirers.<br />
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Strangely, the question that I’m asked most often is: “Why is cannabis illegal in Canada?” This one is tough, I had to go back 50 years or so in history to come up with an answer.<br />
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In the 60’s, when the United States of America was at war against the ferocious enemy that was Vietnam, many young men dodged the draft because they were not allowed to smoke cannabis while enlisted. Some of these people fled to Canada for protection and to quietly engage in their psychoactive hobby.<br />
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Unfortunately, at that time cannabis was not yet growing in Canada. Its closest cousin was some low-grade hemp, good enough to make ropes to hang people with – pretty useless in a country that had just abolished death penalty. American people are smart and known internationally for their entrepreneurship, so it is not surprising that these young American deserters imported seeds to grow their favourite crop.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaAih8slQikmZ_XCbXj932lmRcdD97YdnAgsVTgX44CR_GHw9iUfuIFVHb8xrywyZU458hX_En5D7q59vyw5F8Cfw1PNwD5s0HXAOZeO16e8G7A-MFFA87HBHuM-pfK1H3Q_oQ2JKM7rgs/s1600/Marijuana+crop.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="cannabis, marijuana, ganja, pot, hemp" border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaAih8slQikmZ_XCbXj932lmRcdD97YdnAgsVTgX44CR_GHw9iUfuIFVHb8xrywyZU458hX_En5D7q59vyw5F8Cfw1PNwD5s0HXAOZeO16e8G7A-MFFA87HBHuM-pfK1H3Q_oQ2JKM7rgs/s400/Marijuana+crop.jpg" title="A colour picture of a cannabis crop outdoors." width="400" /></a></div>
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<i>A healthy cannabis crop in the great Canadian outdoors. The cannabis plant came to America from Eastern and Central Asia. The seeds were probably carried over by sea currents or the wind.</i><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
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The summer of 67 was sunny, warm and humid: ideal conditions for pollination. Cannabis started to spread quickly in the great Canadian outdoors, so much that it became an invasive species.<br />
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Canadians are simple, hard-working people but they are not idiots. They soon realized the benefits of this new plant and began growing and using it.<br />
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Alas! Cannabis was growing so well in the rich and fertile Canadian country soil that it rapidly exceeded the needs of Canadian consumers. Regrettably, cannabis growers – who, like all farmers, hate any form of waste – started looking for external markets to get rid of their surplus.<br />
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This is how cannabis cultivation became what it is today, a flourishing export industry that would significantly contribute to Canada’s gross domestic product (GDP) if only it was not a more or less underground activity.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiietWxVd-Z-FZsD6dHdwp62W3eO-Q2AGs0Pvkck7_yduHiEtno7oR7YMy1HDFmqbGLF3FjLvZZ1W53RMuDSQzbZmhv8dAIYJmd75-3mHl6E9Bl0aTx7bqafSKXNiePwHWphg85SvbW43j3/s1600/Parliament.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Parliament Hill, Ottawa, Canada, marijuana smoke" border="0" height="247" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiietWxVd-Z-FZsD6dHdwp62W3eO-Q2AGs0Pvkck7_yduHiEtno7oR7YMy1HDFmqbGLF3FjLvZZ1W53RMuDSQzbZmhv8dAIYJmd75-3mHl6E9Bl0aTx7bqafSKXNiePwHWphg85SvbW43j3/s400/Parliament.jpg" title="A colour photo of the Parliament building in Ottawa, Canada, shrouded in clouds." width="400" /></a></div>
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<i>Every year on April 20, thousands of demonstrators gather on Parliament Hill in Ottawa to openly indulge in cannabis smoking. The smoke and smell from this activity can linger for days. This in a city where it is illegal to <a href="http://straightfromthebowels.blogspot.ca/2012/01/electronic-smoking.html">smoke cigarettes</a> in a public park. I never thought I would live to see that.</i><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
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Of course, Federal departments dream of legalizing this economic activity to increase tax and royalties revenues. However, few people know that since taxes were introduced in Canada, the Prime Minister goes to bed each night weeping for Canadian taxpayers who work so hard only to remit more than half of their income in municipal, provincial, federal and sales taxes. You understand that Canadian statesmen cringe at the mere idea of collecting or introducing new taxes.<br />
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As well, the machinery of Government is awkward and costly. To regulate cannabis trade, more civil servants would need to be hired to manage the new program, implement complex administrative structures and develop strict monitoring and enforcement. A real nightmare.<br />
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By keeping the status quo, the Canadian Government avoids all kinds of hassle and the income from this product is able to circulate freely within the Canadian economy. Also, all durable and semi-durable commodities and real estate purchased thanks to the gains of this industry are already taxable. Of course this economic activity is impossible to monitor through the System of National Accounts, but maybe it is a lesser evil.<br />
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So this is why even though weed grows like weeds in Canada, it is still illegal to farm and use.<br />
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The true story probably has nothing to do with the one I just told but mine could make sense and it is entertaining, don’t you think?<br />
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Geoffroy Hauppierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00969670115579717532noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6868790835117262644.post-1029849908892255802012-04-20T23:04:00.000-04:002013-04-21T10:39:37.564-04:00Working for the Russians<hr />
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<a href="http://endirectdelintestingrele.blogspot.ca/2013/03/a-la-solde-des-russes.html">Version française</a></div>
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Lately Russian bots have been crawling my blogs. This reminds me of my early days as a professional writer and editor.<br />
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In the early 1980s, while Canada was in the midst of a recession, I reluctantly joined the ranks of the unemployed. With the jobless rate in the double-digits I decided it would be a good time to get an education, hoping that when I graduated there would be more work opportunities.<br />
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University was costly for me. Of course, tuition fees were expensive and the menial labour I had to do to support myself left me living in poor lodgings and eating cheap food. I was broke and indebted.<br />
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After completing my university degree I naively thought the days of despicable jobs were over. I was educated, I had paid my dues, I assumed it was time to reap the benefits.<br />
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I soon realized that employers were not easily impressed with my diploma: they wanted candidates with a degree AND experience.<br />
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With Canada slowly recovering from recession and nobody willing to hire me, I turned to freelance work.<br />
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The first job I found was writing essays for students who lacked the discipline to attend their classes but did not want to break their parents’ heart by flunking their courses.<br />
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With the name of their professor, the subject of the essay, and the bibliography and syllabus of the course, in two days I could whip out a decent 15-page paper for nearly any of the liberal arts.<br />
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First I would go to the university library to dig up the professor’s doctorate thesis to get a feel for his character, beliefs and writing style. All the while noting any of his ideas that I might be able to recycle to flatter his ego.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgguSRu6tERpHKkVGjPoPVqqaj4G6fLxHqEEz-Ug8T3-VOhBT21HZLvCX14-1Ma-p5-K4QawTt296tpwi04JRnQ6nRXG-XBv1y9rickWr7bOLy-cpe0YSAGVYj72LOZYBSp0K3N9VjPKz3O/s1600/Library.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="library, books, university" border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgguSRu6tERpHKkVGjPoPVqqaj4G6fLxHqEEz-Ug8T3-VOhBT21HZLvCX14-1Ma-p5-K4QawTt296tpwi04JRnQ6nRXG-XBv1y9rickWr7bOLy-cpe0YSAGVYj72LOZYBSp0K3N9VjPKz3O/s400/Library.jpg" title="An alley in a library with rows of books from floor to ceiling" width="300" /></a></div>
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<i>University libraries usually carry the doctorate thesis of all their faculty. That's where you will find what your professor sounded like when he or she was sitting on the other side of the lectern.</i><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
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Then, I would read the introduction and conclusion of all the books in the bibliography connected to the subject of the essay I was to write, skimming through the content and taking notes in the process.<br />
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The speed-reading course I had taken one summer became a sound investment.<br />
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Then I would write for fifteen hours straight, peppering the document with any bit of general knowledge I had that seemed appropriate.<br />
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Without having attended any of those classes, I never got less than a “B” grade and my satisfied customers started referring me to their slacker friends.<br />
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Unfortunately, this kind of hack writing is only profitable around mid-term and at the end of a semester.<br />
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One evening as I was waiting for a customer in a university coffee shop, I met an adult student who was taking Russian-language classes and worked as a writer for the Soviet embassy press office. We became friends and after meeting a few times, she asked me if I would be interested in a position with her employer.<br />
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Starting to work in a potential Russian spy nest was somewhat frightening since the Cold War was still raging. However I had a powerful incentive for wanting that job: my landlord came straight out of a Fyodor Dostoyevsky novel and cared about the working class only if they paid their rent on time.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUOiMy64ftwpoup_YoTcRMkY6grxSAuhpgVQcgKhQKHsLa7N_tUoZP-RLQh5lOgKqlP_lRMTmQmbMYDz1PxlmtIlynSHhsFQkfzBrL-1j-Iu_7RH-vrXXmbHhuYqSWLTZW7XhJ1noyaLyU/s1600/Dostoyevsky.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Fyodor Dostoyevsky, public domain" border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUOiMy64ftwpoup_YoTcRMkY6grxSAuhpgVQcgKhQKHsLa7N_tUoZP-RLQh5lOgKqlP_lRMTmQmbMYDz1PxlmtIlynSHhsFQkfzBrL-1j-Iu_7RH-vrXXmbHhuYqSWLTZW7XhJ1noyaLyU/s400/Dostoyevsky.jpg" title="A black and white photograph of Russian writer Fyodor Dostoyevsky." width="301" /></a></div>
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<i>Fyodor Dostoyevsky was a 19th century Russian writer known for his lengthy novels, dependence to alcohol and poor gambling skills. Hate him or love him, he is considered as one of Europe's major writers and certainly his works should be part of anybody's general knowledge.</i><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
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The interview I had with the press secretary went well and he offered me a part-time job as an editor. The Soviet embassy press office was located in two contiguous apartments on the 15th floor of a large residential building. Office furniture consisted mainly of ordinary chairs and tables crumbling under piles of papers and publications. The table that was assigned to me faced a bay window which gave me a splendid view of the city.<br />
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My job was to rework stories originally written in Moscow and render them printable for Canadian publications.<br />
<br />
I do not know if this is still valid, but since time immemorial Russian writers had been paid by the page: the longer the text, the more money they would get.<br />
<br />
Once you know that, <i>War and Peace</i> and <i>The Brothers Karamazov</i> start making sense.<br />
<br />
The stories I was to edit were translated from Russian to either French or English. Regrettably, translators were also paid by the page and already long bland articles were getting stretched further in the process. I quickly became quite adept at turning a 4,000-word piece of logorrhea into a 300-word somewhat adequate news story.<br />
<br />
I say “somewhat adequate” because the subject matter of the texts I received was often a hard sell. Canadian papers did not care much about the Komsomol (Communist Union of Youth) nor about the use of pesticides to boost agricultural reform in Turkmenistan, one of the Soviet republics.<br />
<br />
From time to time however interesting stories would appear. Papers about the Soviet space program, medical research, natural wonders such as Lake Baïkal and so forth could be respun and placed in Canadian media.<br />
<br />
Months passed and one day, looking through my window, I noticed building cranes had appeared in the skyline. Construction was picking up, a sure sign that the economy was getting back on track.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzgdGpVDY_hHrvMDMHr5fBW38vmOGaati8f-ZPqL6MquxZkTdWRaV_Oz_wO4bFTZwc3j4NgLn3wFKHjt_V9PYtGi_30qxIHzCOVoS9lX-EqCDtdrroDDX9lbXA98zpqkRYV3HOzQotkH-R/s1600/crane.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="building crane, dusk, clouds, light standards" border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzgdGpVDY_hHrvMDMHr5fBW38vmOGaati8f-ZPqL6MquxZkTdWRaV_Oz_wO4bFTZwc3j4NgLn3wFKHjt_V9PYtGi_30qxIHzCOVoS9lX-EqCDtdrroDDX9lbXA98zpqkRYV3HOzQotkH-R/s400/crane.jpg" title="Color photograph of a building crane and several light standards on a background of a partly clouded sky at dusk." width="400" /></a></div>
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<i>The construction sector is considered as a barometer of the economy. Commercial and residential building projects create wealth through job creation, accommodation for new or expanding businesses and lodgings for new homeowners.</i><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
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<br />
One morning, 18 months after I began working for the Russians, the press secretary called me for a meeting and told me how satisfied he was with my work. However decisions had been made higher up to modernize. They were going to replace the typewriters everybody was using with computers. This meant efficiencies had to be gained elsewhere. That was the first time I heard that euphemism meaning I was being laid off.<br />
<br />
But in that year and a half, my freelance worker status had improved and I was no longer writing essays for students. The experience I had gained was valuable and some of my clients, learning I was available, started providing me with more work.<br />
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I had gotten myself a career.<br />
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<br />Geoffroy Hauppierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00969670115579717532noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6868790835117262644.post-91674355407747508482012-03-29T20:55:00.000-04:002013-04-21T10:37:49.065-04:00Ghost story<hr />
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<a href="http://endirectdelintestingrele.blogspot.ca/2011/08/un-fantome.html">Version française</a></div>
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I was 32 years old and I was tired of the city. The noise, the smell, the heat and the humidity were getting on my nerves. I could no longer tolerate living amidst the concrete and glass skyscrapers. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx_FINjDeek6TGl0kbTLA8F9Mxx4NOUb2WNu6pHdKTRw2qpHa9oqLPckTu799BfRV33Irq91zdWJveMPl5RAmQHcdgFE5kWQVtdjlI_cfkCIHC-G4Ouq2FgnFyctG2i0gan6tKH3RX9Xhy/s1600/gratte-ciel2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Three grey and brown 20-story condo buildings against an overcast sky. There is a 4-story above-ground parking lot in the front." border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx_FINjDeek6TGl0kbTLA8F9Mxx4NOUb2WNu6pHdKTRw2qpHa9oqLPckTu799BfRV33Irq91zdWJveMPl5RAmQHcdgFE5kWQVtdjlI_cfkCIHC-G4Ouq2FgnFyctG2i0gan6tKH3RX9Xhy/s400/gratte-ciel2.jpg" title="Downtown Ottawa cityscape" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i>Highrise buildings are sometimes the only way to multiply effectively real estate within city limits. Centuries from now, historians might wonder what kind of people lived in those man-made caves built inside artificial mountains.</i><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
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<br />
I went for a ride in the country. I saw an old house for sale, I made an offer and six weeks later I said goodbye to the city. <br />
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It was a large house built in 1925. There was a glassed-in verandah on two sides of the house, the kitchen, dining room, and living room were large, and there were four bedrooms. Furthermore the price was very reasonable. <br />
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It was an estate sale and the notary responsible for liquidating the assets told me that the previous landlord, Alberic McGrath, was too old to properly take care of the property before he passed away. <br />
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The exterior of the house was acceptable but inside it was in bad shape. The varnish on the doors and wood trims was peeling, the bathroom appliances were stained by the well’s hard water and the kitchen had only two cupboards and a tiny counter. Instead of a sink it had a tub like those that are found in coin washes. A few essential things had to be fixed before I moved in. <br />
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There was also a huge pantry with deep shelving on three sides. In the country, people make preserves and they must be stored somewhere. <br />
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In the two weeks before I moved, while I was taking care of repairs and upgrades, I realized my new neighbours thought I was strange. Why would somebody from the city want to live in the country? What a weird idea! <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8Prl728K1yALtuf50867D6ClBYLvkfR6Zjc9s3cAEnR15m0pd-GvMS__7RPbO2YsKBrTOYycoQDg0M7sJ3a4ED-3jghFvfqE0OdIAo4ND5jfBfPF0EZXOUvQ1xFORnHzfbC6OZLU2S3LE/s1600/V%25C3%25A9randa.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="A glassed-in verandah with off-white vynil wall clapboard" border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8Prl728K1yALtuf50867D6ClBYLvkfR6Zjc9s3cAEnR15m0pd-GvMS__7RPbO2YsKBrTOYycoQDg0M7sJ3a4ED-3jghFvfqE0OdIAo4ND5jfBfPF0EZXOUvQ1xFORnHzfbC6OZLU2S3LE/s400/V%25C3%25A9randa.jpg" title="A house built in the 1920s with a renovated vynil-covered glassed-in verandah" width="300" /></a></div>
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<i>In the 1920s in North America people built verandahs around their houses for health reasons. With increased industrialization and urbanization, respiratory illnesses were on the rise. Home owners would move the beds of sick people living in the house on the verandah so they would breathe fresh air. Nowadays, properly upgraded, verandahs make quaint features for older houses.</i><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
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I went to the village to buy some supplies for the repairs I was making. When I told the clerk at the hardware store that I had just bought Alberic McGrath’s house, he gave me a suspicious look and became awkwardly silent. <br />
I felt that I would not win a popularity contest. <br />
<br />
I also had to be very obstinate with the phone company to get them to install a private line instead of a party line. Despite all my efforts however they would not give me a second line for the fax and modem. “Nobody uses a computer in the country, sir,” the lady from the phone company told me curtly. <br />
<br />
Anyway, I had other challenges to tackle because moving in to a new house requires taming a new environment. You need to find a place for everything. Sometimes it is easy: pots and pans in the kitchen, clothes in the closets, beds and dressers in the bedrooms, couch in the living room, most things have a natural place to go... <br />
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But there are all those things that we cannot find a place for. They must remain in boxes until we find the will and time to put them away or discard them. Since I had lots of room, I turned one of the bedrooms into storage for a dozen boxes and other odd objects. <br />
<br />
One night, as I was reading in bed, I heard a faint chime or rather a tinkling, like two glasses coming together. I listened carefully without being able to deduce where that strange noise was coming from. There was just one clinking “ting!” then nothing. <br />
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In the following weeks, I heard the same sound several times. I checked the plumbing and the heating system but found nothing unusual. <br />
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I had started to go to a bar in a neighbouring village called Chick’s Bar Saloon. On Saturday nights there was a country band whose 78 year old guitar player named Harry Jones introduced me to Hank Williams’ music. <br />
One night, Harry and I were talking during his break and I mentioned I had bought Alberic McGrath’s old house. Harry started laughing and said: “You bought the sorcerer’s house!” <br />
<br />
He then told me that Alberic McGrath had a reputation as a warlock and everybody in the area feared him; they said he talked to crows and wild animals and that they would answer him. He apparently could make milk turn bad and crops rot in the fields. He was praying to the moon and stars at night. He gathered herbs and plants to make potions and ointments that he would keep in his large kitchen pantry where his body was found several days after he died. <br />
<br />
“Is that true?” I asked. <br />
<br />
– Who knows? What I do know is that he could hold his drinks! He liked his gin! <br />
<br />
With this, Harry finished his whisky, excused himself and went back on stage. <br />
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On my way back home that night, I thought that this could explain why my neighbours were giving me the cold shoulder. For myself, I am not superstitious and I thought this legend was adding to the charm of my new house. <br />
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A few days later, when I heard the noise again, I said to myself: “There’s the ghost of Alberic McGrath having a drink somewhere in the house!” <br />
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I poured myself a glass of wine and drank to the former owner’s spirit. <br />
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The next time my girlfriend was over to spend the weekend with me, I told her jokingly what I had learned about the house and about the ghost that I heard every night. <br />
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“You shouldn’t joke about that,” she told me gravely. “I always felt strange coming here. Now I know why. Please take me home, I won’t be able to sleep in this house.” <br />
<br />
I was not expecting this reaction from her. I tried to reason with her but she would not listen to me. Against my will, I drove her back to the city. <br />
<br />
On my way back, I was swearing against Alberic McGrath who could make cow’s milk turn bad and sour lovers’ hearts. <br />
The next day, being still upset by what happened the day before with my girlfriend, I decided to empty a few of the boxes stored in the spare bedroom. <br />
<br />
While I was working, I heard the eerie tinkling right behind me. I quickly turned around and saw at the bottom of a box I had just opened a small digital clock programmed to ring once every hour. The sound had been propagating gloomily around the house through a nearby heating vent. <br />
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That was the ghost I had been hearing.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5HUTwitwSTHfikJ_7gadIN6gkjKzk9dEjh-qZErgVFawhZZTGgeqkLpTVqAZG86TlDW_vzJ9OuYXMHnZsPXKYKLoaf_RpqlRB_SsJDp-a8JMBwf0FoSqsVUE-j1DV3LoF4Cfwo5wj5qpF/s1600/montre2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="A silvery well-worned Casio digital watch on the cover of Leslie Berlin's biography of Robert Noyce" border="0" height="340" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5HUTwitwSTHfikJ_7gadIN6gkjKzk9dEjh-qZErgVFawhZZTGgeqkLpTVqAZG86TlDW_vzJ9OuYXMHnZsPXKYKLoaf_RpqlRB_SsJDp-a8JMBwf0FoSqsVUE-j1DV3LoF4Cfwo5wj5qpF/s400/montre2.jpg" title="An old Casio digital watch lies on the cover of Leslie Berlin's book "The Man Behind the Microchip" about Robert Noyce" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i>When Robert Noyce (1927-1990) patented the semiconductor in 1959 he probably did not think that one of the most popular application for his invention would be the manufacturing of digital watches and clocks by Japanese industrialists in the 1970. He most certainly would not have guessed that one of these clocks would one day be mistaken for a ghost.</i><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
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Geoffroy Hauppierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00969670115579717532noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6868790835117262644.post-16869538301180860802012-03-24T18:07:00.001-04:002016-03-08T07:29:32.055-05:00Penelope<hr /><div align="right"><a href="http://endirectdelintestingrele.blogspot.ca/2012/05/une-histoire-de-chat.html">Version française</a></div><hr />It was a quiet Saturday morning and I was reading while having coffee in the kitchen of my <a href="http://straightfromthebowels.blogspot.ca/2012/03/ghost-story.html">haunted house</a> in the country. I heard a car pull in, so I put down Francis Bacon’s <i>Essays</i> and went to the door.<br />
<br />
My friend Monica was outside struggling with a plastic box and two heavy paper grocery bags.<br />
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– Hi! I have a surprise for you!<br />
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I took the bags and the plastic box from her and carried them inside. When I turned around, there was Monica standing and holding an overweight and very frightened tabby cat.<br />
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– This is Penelope. She’s two years old, declawed and housebroken. Isn’t she a sweetheart?<br />
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The cat jumped out of her arms, awkwardly landing on the kitchen floor. She looked around, terrified at the strange unknown surroundings, and then dashed through the hallway and up the stairs.<br />
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– You know my friends Paul and Andrea? Well, they split up. Andrea is staying with a girlfriend who’s allergic to cats and Paul is leaving on a six-month posting with the military in Germany. So I thought: Geoff is living alone in that huge country house, he needs company! Isn’t that a great idea?<br />
<br />
“Uh... Sure, sure,” I said, shocked at the thought of this unexpected and uninvited feline guest.<br />
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– You don’t look happy. Come on! It’s going to be fun and good for you! And anyway, it’s only for a few months until Paul comes back from Europe!<br />
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– Uh... Sure, sure... Uh, you want a cup of coffee?<br />
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– Oh, Geoff, I’d love to but I have to scoot! I’m meeting Jenn, Rosie and Sally who want to show me a cottage we’re supposed to rent for the summer on Lake Patterson! You should come and visit us sometime! We’ll have a barbecue!<br />
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Monica gave me a peck on the cheek and rushed out, leaving me with the litter box, a bag of kibbles and the cat’s dish on the kitchen table.<br />
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I put some cat food in the bowl and set it down on the floor, and then I went upstairs to look for Penelope.<br />
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She was nowhere to be found. I checked everywhere: under the beds, in the closets, in the bathroom. I called her. She had vanished completely.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkUVrzynVR5dfrndKepP8jXX2F6DZarWP_2AU5CUL-5JjpGLT5pXN_Vd4nfTdKghDOkyDii1rDFmGKHsDvckai9ocOLWOaPS3AnO3OHsudIYfu3S4BDGM-qcbE3SllwZDJRpvVYZ1q86nk/s1600/cat+on+back.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="293" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkUVrzynVR5dfrndKepP8jXX2F6DZarWP_2AU5CUL-5JjpGLT5pXN_Vd4nfTdKghDOkyDii1rDFmGKHsDvckai9ocOLWOaPS3AnO3OHsudIYfu3S4BDGM-qcbE3SllwZDJRpvVYZ1q86nk/s400/cat+on+back.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="font: 12px/1.1em sans-serif; margin: 0px 55px; text-align: center; text-indent: 0pt;"><i>Cats have the ability to hide at the most unexpected places where adults cannot find them however hard they try.</i> Photo courtesy of Zebra Jay, many thanks!<span style="font-size: small;"><br />
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OK, I thought, it’s understandable. The animal has had lots of changes to adapt to lately; it’s normal that she is traumatized. I’ll let her be, when she’s ready, she’ll come out of hiding.<br />
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For three days, I did not see the cat. I knew she was there because the food was disappearing from her bowl and I could see that the litter box was being used but it was as if I had an invisible cat.<br />
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Then one night, as I was watching a movie in the living room, I saw Penelope cautiously sneak into the kitchen and go to her bowl. She crouched and started eating. I could hear the crunch of the kibbles under her teeth.<br />
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As I was watching her, a mouse emerged from a crack in the floor and scurried to the cat’s dish. The cat stopped eating, looked puzzled as the mouse took a kibble from the bowl and ran back in the floor with its prize. Nonplussed, Penelope returned to eating.<br />
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I could not believe my eyes. What kind of a cat was that? I was providing food and shelter to that beast, the least she could have done was help me get rid of rodents!<br />
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I was furious. As I got up, the cat saw me and ran back upstairs.<br />
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I went after her, determined to discover the freeloader’s hiding place. Again, I looked everywhere until I found her on the top shelf of a linen closet, lying on a pile of towels.<br />
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The next day, I went to visit my girlfriend and told her about my new guest and the incident I witnessed.<br />
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She laughed and then said:<br />
<br />
– After all that cat has been through, she needs stability; she needs a home. Bring her here for a while, I’ll take care of her and the kids will love her.<br />
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My girlfriend had two children from a previous relationship: a five-year old daughter and a two-year old son.<br />
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For two weeks it went surprisingly well. Penelope quickly ran out of hiding places in my girlfriend’s house because the kids were too good at finding her. Once they found her, they pulled her ears and tail while trying to play with her. Penelope realized quickly though that if she went to my girlfriend, she would protect her from the children. After a few days she even let herself to be petted.<br />
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I figured female kinship had won out.<br />
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Then after two weeks, Mark, a friend of my girlfriend’s needing a place to crash for a while, showed up with Joe, a very old and meek German Shepherd with a bad case of flatulence.<br />
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Penelope did not get along with the new canine visitor and would viciously attack the huge dog when no one was watching. Being declawed, she could not hurt the dog too much but old Joe was so frightened that he regularly lost total control over his bodily functions.<br />
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Finally, my girlfriend called me to say I had to take Penelope back. So much for female kinship.<br />
<br />
So I went to pick up Penelope and recoiled to my country house. <br />
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On our return, I noticed that something had changed. First, she did not run to her linen closet but walked instead. Then that night, as I was lying in bed with the light off, she came into my room, climbed onto the bed and lay down beside me, resting her head on my hand.<br />
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I guess she had realized that the large silent country house and its quiet owner were an improvement over noisy children and stinky old dogs.<br />
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When Paul returned from Germany six months later, he did not want his cat back. I kept Penelope until her death, ten years later, but never managed to make her understand that she was supposed to catch mice.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg2-tumSxbI_Hi9Qpn0X2s84aN_NGoh_Tv9vJhGVpuUNoSPvdG5jMxNXnu_NKeTNXz_EzbeKYg2XYDQ9FkPOSMoaIzOh_nWDjuUYig1LSBQh_r-qhDeZbnzuMKAweEWAyKDfhsjy14Qi3K/s1600/AMB023D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="398" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg2-tumSxbI_Hi9Qpn0X2s84aN_NGoh_Tv9vJhGVpuUNoSPvdG5jMxNXnu_NKeTNXz_EzbeKYg2XYDQ9FkPOSMoaIzOh_nWDjuUYig1LSBQh_r-qhDeZbnzuMKAweEWAyKDfhsjy14Qi3K/s400/AMB023D.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="font: 12px/1.1em sans-serif; margin: 0px 55px; text-align: center; text-indent: 0pt;"><i>Maybe Penelope's problem with mice was ambition: mice were too small. She needed large and dangerous-looking animals as opponents. Who would make a fuss about a mouse anyway?</i><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
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Geoffroy Hauppierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00969670115579717532noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6868790835117262644.post-34080662213704902712012-03-14T22:36:00.001-04:002013-04-21T10:41:19.832-04:00Beware of the dog<hr />
<div align="right">
<a href="http://endirectdelintestingrele.blogspot.com/2011/09/cave-canem-gare-au-chien.html">Version française</a></div>
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“Fiona! Fiona! Vulcan had a nice big poop!”<br />
<br />
Nothing pleased me more than being awakened in the morning by my neighbours, Greg and Fiona, letting the whole neighbourhood know that their dog, Vulcan, a Bernese mountain dog of 100 lbs, could relieve himself.<br />
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Life had been good for Fiona and Greg. Both held good jobs: she was a legal secretary and he taught welding at a trade school.<br />
<br />
The couple owned a quaint little house in the quiet neighbourhood where I lived. To compensate for the small size of the house, Greg, who was a handyman, built in the back a huge wooden deck surrounded by lattice.<br />
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Greg and Fiona were in their forties when their only daughter, Danielle, left to live with her boyfriend.<br />
<br />
After her departure, Fiona and Greg were enjoying a warm Saturday evening on the deck when they realized that their home felt empty without their daughter.<br />
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“We could get a dog,” said Fiona.<br />
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In her mind, she imagined a shih-tzu, a French bulldog or a <i>bichon frisé</i> quietly resting in a wicker basket in the living room or sleeping at the foot of the bed. You can imagine her surprise when, a few days later, Greg showed up after work with a two-month-old <a href="http://straightfromthebowels.blogspot.com/2012/01/heartbreaking-news.html">Bernese mountain dog</a>. The dog was shy, awkward and needed to be house-broken.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVAevq3JUgHKlUAj2l16fbsncLPlHhENUJs7gLesWEr2-Vlx0ZAIDWt6FHP6sASBIsCQTLT4PEg-jdzHETZ81bPL2aUNRimsD0KAOmQzV-xChzRdSzuxtz5wLdPh8IqU8xzcEMrl2UUvH6/s1600/Bouvier+bernois.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVAevq3JUgHKlUAj2l16fbsncLPlHhENUJs7gLesWEr2-Vlx0ZAIDWt6FHP6sASBIsCQTLT4PEg-jdzHETZ81bPL2aUNRimsD0KAOmQzV-xChzRdSzuxtz5wLdPh8IqU8xzcEMrl2UUvH6/s400/Bouvier+bernois.jpg" width="369" /></a></div>
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<i>The Bernese mountain dog is a member of the Swiss mountain dog family. Despite his clumsiness, he is loyal and affectionate. Some say that around the mid 20th century, the Bernese mountain dog was mixed with the Newfoundland terrier to make him friendlier.</i> Many thanks to Zebra Jay for the photo.<span style="font-size: small;"><br />
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<br />
However, she quickly grew fond of the cute black, brown and white puppy with his long curly hair. Greg took it upon himself to train the animal. Every day he would take him for a long walk and after a few weeks he had managed to teach him to relieve himself elsewhere than on the living room carpet.<br />
<br />
They decided to call him Vulcan, the name of the Roman god of fire, volcanoes and metals and patron of blacksmiths, because of his dark black hair. Greg knew firsthand that working with metals will turn you dark as a devil.<br />
<br />
Months passed by and Vulcan was becoming an impressive dog who could bark very convincingly (much to the neighbours dismay). He would bark when cats, raccoons and skunks visited the backyard. He would bark at strangers although fortunately he became friendly once he knew them.<br />
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During summers there were lots of strangers because Fiona and Greg loved to entertain on their large deck and serve large quantities of barbecued beef and pork ribs with lots of wine and beer.<br />
<br />
One weekend in June, Greg invited one of his foreign students and a few other friends for dinner.<br />
<br />
Manuel was from Guatemala and was a mechanical engineer whose degree and experience were not recognized in Canada. Since he did not have the money to go back to university and repeat the courses he had taken in Central America, he registered for Greg’s welding classes.<br />
<br />
Manuel was thin and in his thirties. He had dark, intense eyes and the proud posture of his Catalan ancestors.<br />
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The guests arrived and Vulcan started to bark ferociously only to stop once he realized that neither his territory nor his masters were being threatened.<br />
<br />
Fiona brought out beer while Greg grilled the mouth-watering pieces of meat. When the guests sat down to eat their salad – served with lots of <a href="http://endirectdelintestingrele.blogspot.com/2011/05/meanwhile-at-ranch.html">ranch dressing</a> – a busy, friendly chatter was going on, jokes were flying between hosts and guests. It was turning out to be an enjoyable evening.<br />
<br />
After the meal, Greg picked up his guitar and started to play and sing to liven up the party. Everybody loved his rendering of John Denver’s Leaving on a jet plane. After a few songs, Greg put down his instrument to get another bottle of fine Chilean wine from the cellar.<br />
<br />
When he came back, the mood of the party had completely changed.<br />
<br />
Manuel had picked up the guitar and was playing a Spanish song, compelling and suggestive. The spellbound audience was listening religiously. Greg sat down, stunned by the mastery of his student. Fiona was sitting by his side, mesmerized.<br />
<br />
After Manuel finished playing to loud applause, he excused himself and said he had to go and could not play anymore. He thanked the hosts, said goodbye to the other guests and left, going quietly into the night.<br />
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A few days later, Greg was coming back from a long walk with Vulcan. As soon as they were in the house, Vulcan started barking and bolted, knocking over the little mahogany table where Fiona kept her African violets. He ran upstairs and kept barking ferociously in front of the closed bedroom door.<br />
<br />
Greg swore at the animal as he removed his shoes. The mahogany table laid in pieces on the living room carpet and the flower pots had shattered in the hallway near the stairs. The huge dog would not stop barking even though Fiona was trying to calm him down.<br />
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When Greg arrived at the top of the stairs, he had quite a surprise: in front of the bedroom, he saw Fiona standing helplessly wearing only a camisole, Manuel busy buttoning up his shirt and Vulcan growling menacingly.<br />
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Since then, the house was sold but from time to time I see Greg walking Vulcan, alone in the park.<br />
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<i>In the ruins of the ancient city of Pompei were found mosaics such as this <a href="http://racingthrush.blogspot.ca/2011/10/cave-canem.html">reproduction </a>bearing the inscription </i>Cave canem<i>, meaning “Beware of the dog.” Pompei was buried under ashes and pumice from the Vesuvius, a nearby volcano, in August 79 AD, after 10 days of celebrations honouring Vulcan. According to the legend, Vulcan caught his wife, Venus, cheating on him with Mars. <a href="http://endirectdelintestingrele.blogspot.com/2011/05/hippie-network-administrator-and.html">All the cuckolds</a> of the Roman empire diligently venerated Vulcan whose temples were guarded by dogs.</i> Mosaic and photograph © 2012 Martin Clowes (many thanks!)<span style="font-size: small;"><br />
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Geoffroy Hauppierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00969670115579717532noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6868790835117262644.post-31709813184356089982012-03-10T12:29:00.001-05:002013-05-02T23:02:15.707-04:00The Conductor<hr /><div align="right"><a href="http://endirectdelintestingrele.blogspot.com/2012/03/le-chef-dorchestre.html">Version française</a></div><hr />It was the last concert of the tour. Thirty North American cities in 40 days with a symphony orchestra performing works by Debussy and Satie, and <i>The Rite of Spring</i> by Igor Stravinsky as the <i>pièce de résistance</i>.<br />
<br />
The conductor would have leaned towards works by Berlioz, Boulez, Varèse, Schœnberg, or any of the younger 20th century composers but the public preferred middle-of-the-road music, and the promoters knew that by playing it safe they would sell out all venues, so that was that.<br />
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For all that mattered, the conductor did not mind. At 53 he did not feel like rocking the boat anymore. During his career he had risen to many challenges and he knew he had nothing else to prove.<br />
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The conductor did mind however that, as years went by, his tuxedo was getting harder to fit into. He blamed it on the many receptions his duties called him to attend, too many bottles of fine wine, and soft, fat but tasty cheeses.<br />
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So for this tour he decided to stick to vegetables – carrots, cauliflower, broccoli, zucchini, as well as all leafy vegetables – and to stay away from the <a href="http://endirectdelintestingrele.blogspot.com/2011/05/meanwhile-at-ranch.html">ranch dressing fountain</a>. Instead of wine, he drank carbonated water.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhF_sPrzSaDM_APxClYjWXLYeUBnC7AiqKjKMniXoxj4ObpdKP4tyuYm0rmftxjzuwzB46XIWwAnM_lyP9-1PX8HVlsUkecct_AL24KJrGFJZXUlltyPjS82kiHMSD1tnmoJYLs34phKnG/s1600/veggies.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhF_sPrzSaDM_APxClYjWXLYeUBnC7AiqKjKMniXoxj4ObpdKP4tyuYm0rmftxjzuwzB46XIWwAnM_lyP9-1PX8HVlsUkecct_AL24KJrGFJZXUlltyPjS82kiHMSD1tnmoJYLs34phKnG/s320/veggies.jpg" width="306" /></a></div><div style="font: 12px/1.1em sans-serif; margin: 0px 55px; text-align: center; text-indent: 0pt;"><i>Vegetables are necessary to a healthy diet.</i> The Canadian Food Guide<i> recommends that a 53 year old male eat 6-8 portions of fruit and vegetable per day. However, balance is the key. Too much greens and not enough fiber might open the gates of Hell. </i><a href="http://www.freedigitalphotos.net/images/view_photog.php?photogid=1970">Image: winnond / FreeDigitalPhotos.net</a><span style="font-size: small;"></span><br />
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</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div></div>This change of diet made him lose a couple of inches around the waist and he felt lighter throughout the gruesome travelling schedule.<br />
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However, there were unwelcome side effects.<br />
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As food travels through the eight or so metres of digestive tract, its nutrients are transformed into energy and the rest is turned into waste and gas. To cushion the passage of stool the anal canal is equipped with a network of vascular structures, called hemorrhoids, that facilitates a smooth transition.<br />
<br />
A diet composed mostly of fruit and vegetable – compounded with mineral water – means that the soft excrement produced gets processed quickly yet unpredictably. Such rapid, frequent and brutal excretion of waste and gas imposes a great deal of stress on the hemorrhoids that tend to react by bleeding, hurting and itching.<br />
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For the last ten days, the conductor had been bearing the cross of his attempt at healthy eating.<br />
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There were uncomfortable moments, near-incidents, but overall the conductor managed well the crescendo building in his bowels, keeping everything <i>andante</i> and avoiding going <i>allegro</i>.<br />
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A conductor’s job is to keep a tight leash on the orchestra members, making sure that each musician plays his or her part in time and on tempo with the right amount of energy and emotion.<br />
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<div style="text-align: left;"></div></div>As the conductor walked to his lectern to begin the concert he was unaware that the harshest challenge of his career lay before him.<br />
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The first piece was <i>La mer</i> by Claude Debussy and it went remarkably well. It was followed by <i>Première Gymnopédie</i> and <i>Gnossiennes</i> no. 1, 2 and 3 by Erik Satie – all-time favorites of the public – which were wildly received by the audience.<br />
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At Stravinsky’s <i>Rite of Spring</i> things started to turn sour.<br />
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During the bassoon solo overture of the first part, the conductor violently and uncontrollably broke wind.<br />
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This totally took the conductor by surprise but noticing that the flawless acoustics of the concert hall had fortunately failed to convey the disturbance, he kept directing this difficult composition. The show went on.<br />
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But as the first part progressed he found himself struggling to repress the natural urges of his unruly digestive system.<br />
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The piccolos stirred his intestinal juices while the cellos and double-bass urged him in staccato to seek relief at once.<br />
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However years of classical training helped the conductor maintain the strict discipline necessary to quell the revolution threatening peace in the kingdom of his viscera.<br />
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The end of the first part brought respite and the conductor hoped that the quiet beginning of the second part might give him the strength to retain his composure.<br />
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He was not counting on the timpani joining the insurrection in polyrythmic fashion, vigorously demanding his surrender against the forces of nature.<br />
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With great difficulty he held his ground, mouth gaping, drenched in sweat, tightening his buttocks. To his dismay it felt like the great Nijinsky and the whole <i>Ballets Russes</i> were performing lewd pagan acts inside his large intestine.<br />
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With all the energy of despair, clenching his baton, he bravely fought the irrepressible forces while commanding the orchestra members to stick to tempo even through the brisk finale when the buildup inside called for immediate release.<br />
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Then he turned to face the audience which was already standing up in an uproar of acclamation.<br />
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He was exhausted and refrained from bowing to salute thus avoiding a disgraceful accident – a gesture the press would later interpret as snobbishness.<br />
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But at this point he did not care what the critics thought: he had fought the battle of a lifetime and came out as a conqueror.<br />
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If only he could make it in time to the restroom backstage...<br />
<hr />Geoffroy Hauppierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00969670115579717532noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6868790835117262644.post-87262453878449242612012-02-15T07:03:00.002-05:002013-04-21T10:45:06.822-04:00The Eye Exam<hr />
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<a href="http://endirectdelintestingrele.blogspot.ca/2012/03/lexamen-de-la-vue.html">Version française</a></div>
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It had to happen. In the last few months I noticed it was getting harder for me to focus when I was proofreading or editing a text. Letters were blurred until I squinted and everything was fine as long as I kept squinting.<br />
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One morning my boss called me into her office.<br />
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– You have been paying less attention to your work lately. Look at this: those should be curved quotation marks instead of straight ones, and over there, there are two spaces when there should have been only one. Careless mistakes like these could cause our publications to lose credibility. So please try to be more accurate in your work. I’d hate to let an old collaborator like you go. Now get back to work, chop-chop!<br />
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I hated it when she used that tone of voice.<br />
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Later, I was having lunch with my colleague Aaron and told him about the incident and that my eyesight seemed to be getting worse.<br />
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– Ah, he said, don’t worry about it; everybody knows that she’s a <i>kvetch</i>. However, about your vision, I hate to bring this up, but how long ago did your wife leave you?<br />
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– About 12 years, but I don’t see what...<br />
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– And you’ve been playing solo ever since?<br />
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– Well, you know, from time to time I have girlfriends, but still I don’t see what...<br />
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– I’m concerned about you my friend, that’s all. Maybe you shouldn’t spend so much time alone. You have a fertile imagination and it is not good for a man to take matters in his own hands too much, if you know what I mean...<br />
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<i>In the 19th century, any good drugstore would sell devices like these to protect boys and young men against self-indulgence.</i><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
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I was appalled at what Aaron was suggesting.<br />
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– Listen Aaron, I’m not a teenager anymore, I can control myself...<br />
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– It’s ok, it’s ok, no need to say more. I don’t want to know the details of your private life but listen to my advice: go out and meet people, mingle. That could help you. In the meantime take an appointment with your eye doctor to try to slow down the loss of your sight. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go back to work.<br />
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He got up, I extended my hand to shake his but he ignored it and left.<br />
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Two days later, I was in the optometrist’s office, filling in a questionnaire about my medical history while waiting for my turn to see the doctor. I brought back the form to the cute Lebanese receptionist with a loose top that showed her cleavage and I thanked Saint Maron that my eyes were still good enough to enjoy the beauty of nature.<br />
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She looked at the card I handed her, scribbled a little bit on it and then asked me:<br />
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– Fine, fine, everything looks fine. So what brings you here today?<br />
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– Well, I noticed my eyesight getting poorer lately...<br />
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– I see, I see... Are you married sir?<br />
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– No, not at the moment, but...<br />
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– How long have you been single?<br />
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– Actually, I’m not single, I’m divorced, and...<br />
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She gave me an annoyed look then said:<br />
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– How long have you been divorced?<br />
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– It’s been about 12 years, but...<br />
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– Twelve years? she repeated, and started to scribble briskly. Then she said:<br />
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– The doctor will see you shortly. In the meantime, you can look at the frames we have, but please don’t touch anything.<br />
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What is surprising in an optician’s showroom is that all the frames look alike. It seems everybody wants to wear the same shape of eyeglasses, to feel part of the crowd, I guess. Curiously, they also all want to be different, unique, rich and famous. <br />
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After a few minutes of looking at the frames and feeling the receptionist cautiously watching me, it was my turn to go into the ophthalmologist’s office. <br />
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I sat down in the examination chair while the doctor – who looked like an older version of the receptionist, maybe her mother or her aunt, I thought – adjusted the projector that would display the Snellen chart on the wall facing me. Then she moved in front of me, leaning and flashing a small light at my face, she asked me to look at her eyes.<br />
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<i>In 1862, Hermann Snellen, a Dutch ophtalmologist, introduced his eponymous chart to measure visual acuity. This chart can be found in every eye doctor office and, according to some sources, since it was made available it has been the most sold poster in North America. Admittedly it looks more professional than a psychedelic poster of Jimi Hendrix saying "I Chew Aluminum Foil."</i><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
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<br />
She had beautiful dark brown eyes.<br />
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Then she moved behind me and set the refractor in front of me asking me to place my chin on the chin rest. As she was switching lenses in the apparatus I was now wearing on my face she said:<br />
<br />
– I see you have been single for quite awhile...<br />
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“I’m not single, I’m divorced,” I replied, slightly annoyed that people could not make the distinction between an old bachelor and a man who has had misfortunes in his marriage.<br />
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“Hold still please. Do you see better with this one or that one?” she said, flipping the lenses on the refractor.<br />
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<i>A refractor (also called "Phoropter," which is the trademark the manufacturer uses) is an instrument that measures the refractive error in a patient's eyesight and determines the strength of the eyeglasses to be prescribed. If this photo seems blurry, do not worry: you are not spending too much time by yourself. The lack of focus is only due to the photographer's poor skills.</i><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
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<br />
“That one,” I replied.<br />
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– Do you spend a lot of time by yourself?<br />
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Surprised by the question, I replied:<br />
<br />
– Doctor, are you coming on to me?<br />
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– No, no. Keep your head still. It’s just a standard question to see if anything in your lifestyle could be altering your vision.<br />
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– Well, doctor, I’ve been working as an editor for many years. I spend hours every day in front of a computer monitor or reading printed documents.<br />
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– I see, I see. Well, it seems your visual acuity has gone down a little bit. You will need new eyeglasses. My assistant will help you choose new frames. In the meantime, I suggest you vary your activities, maybe increase your social interactions, spend more time with people, entertain at your house, you know...<br />
<br />
I was starting to get somewhat irritated by the innuendos but I got up from the chair, thanked the good doctor and reached out to shake her hand but she was busy writing on my file and did not notice my gesture.<br />
<br />
Back in the waiting room, the receptionist made me try on several trendy frames but I ended up picking some that were very similar to the style I was already wearing. She said:<br />
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– You’re lucky, those kinds of frames are yellow-tagged so they will be free, you will only have to pay for the lenses.<br />
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I guessed that “yellow-tagged” meant “out-of-fashion.”<br />
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– Your new glasses will be ready in two weeks; will this be cash or charge?<br />
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I paid cash and as I was leaving the room, I saw that the receptionist had taken out a box of anti-bacterial towelettes and was wiping the countertop, the door handle, anything I might have touched...<br />
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Geoffroy Hauppierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00969670115579717532noreply@blogger.com11