Back on campus today. Saw another two apartments, both lacking that certain je ne sais quoi.

[Ed's Note: They were crap.]

Had dinner at the ZamPub in the sports complex. A few dozen engineering frosh clad in various brightly-coloured t-shirts were sitting at tables, waiting for something. Eventually a guy in a construction helment with that Roman upside-down-bristle-broom thing on top ordered them out to the Colonel By building to "learn their songs," which they had to sing louder than any other faculty, because they were engineers.

Walking back through campus, I saw a group of them practicing this song, to the tune "Oh My Darling Clementine":

"I'm an asshole,
I'm an asshole,
I'm an aaaaasshole through and through,
but I'd rather be an asshole
than to go to Carleton U."

I wonder if I am the only one who thinks that all of the frosh look like Fraggles.

I would like to start today over. Some best laid plans all gang ague or whatever the hell that saying is.

Started off by cleaning my wallet. Took out the bus tickets I use to get to campus, followed by all the receipts and papers that I keep for reference or the recycler, and got my wallet all nice and thin again. Packed up my book bag and headed to the mall, where the bus station is.

[Ed's Note: Did you see the gang all agueing?]

Ten minutes later I arrived on the platform, and the 95 bus was pulling up. Perfect timing. Opened my wallet... uh, hey, where the hell are my bus tickets?

Ah yes. Forgot to put them back in my wallet after the whole wallet-cleaning episode. Back to the house then. But first, feeling peckish, I decided to grab some food. I'm at the mall, so why not be efficient and eat while I'm stuck here anyway?

Ordered a rice bowl with chicken. Sat down at a table in the food court, put my book bag on the chair across from me

[Ed's Note: I think you see where this is heading.]

and polished off the rice bowl, while pushing to the halfway point in Jeffrey Archer's "As the Crow Flies." Took my tray to the garbage bin, emptied it, then proceeded home, reading my book.

Another ten minutes later I arrived home, and reached in my pocket for my keys. Instead, I found my digital camera. Oh yes, that's right, I keep the camera in my pocket, and put my keys in...

My book bag. Which is still on the seat in the food court. Geez, I better rush back there. Fortunately my car is right here in the driveway. Unfortunately, the key is on my keychain, which is in my book bag. In the food court.

I pretended to be calmly reading my book as I walked back to the mall. In my head, I was inventorying what I had probably lost: miscellaneous papers (none with any info on how to contact me), my Handspring PDA, the Swiss Army tool Jeff gave me, the "Secret Ottawa" book Maggie gave me, listings of all the househunting info I'd accumulated, and the hands-free earpiece for my phone. Not to mention my only housekey, both my car keys, my Vancouver storage key, and the very cool USB hard-drive Ali gave me recently. Not only will I not be able to get into my house or car, I will also have no way to conveniently move critical data files from one computer to another. Damn!

I continued reading the same paragraph over and over again, retaining nothing, until I arrived at the mall. I saw someone sitting at my table and my heart sank. If somebody was sitting there, it probably meant that there was no bag at the table. Who sits at a table with a bag on it when there are a hundred empty tables in the food court. Apparently, this guy. Coming closer, I saw my bag was still there. I walked up, smiled at him, slung it over my shoulder, and got the hell out of there.

I still didn't have my bus tickets, so I headed home, deciding that this experience was a sure indicator that I wasn't meant to go to campus. I will only push my luck so far.

Victor, Sabrina and I went back to Elgin Street to meet some of Victor's old pals for drinks. En route we watched as a stag and stagette, from two different weddings, ran into each other on the street. They were kind enough to allow a photo.

We met up with Mike and Dave and headed to Local Heroes, a bar with the Big Buck Hunter video game. For three dollars each, four of us spent the better part of an hour shooting imaginary bucks while avoiding shooting the does. I came second. And now I want to try hunting for real.

Every highway driver in Manitoba goes 110 km/h. Exactly. You'll come up behind a line of cars in the highway, none attempting to pass the one ahead. Ever. At 110 km/h. Thankfully, this makes them easy to pass.

And if the looks of my grille is any evidence, the bugs on the #1 are made entirely of wings and mustard.

Went downtown tonight to watch Victor's Tool cover band, Stinkfist, play Barrymore's. His mom, a sweet Hungarian lady who prefers classical music, came with us to support her son. It was very cool, and the band was awesome, upstaging the Rush cover band that followed. I walked Victor's mom back to her car before the Rush band started. She enjoyed the show, but commented that she hoped Victor "doesn't give up his profession." I think that's Hungarian for "don't quit your day job."

Felt better on the morning of the 18th. In fact, when darkness fell, I just kept driving. I drove through the night, only stopping in the early morning for a quick nap before arriving in Ottawa.

On my way out of Kenora, I finally got the speeding ticket I'd been expecting the entire way across Canada. Highway #1 passes through lots of little towns, and the speed limit drops quickly from 90 km/h to 60 km/h. I have my cruise control set for 100 km/h, and when I see the "60 km/h ahead" signs, I turn off the cruise and usually I've slowed down to a safe 70 km/h by the time the "60 km/h begins" sign appears. Not this time. I was travelling downhill, around a bend in the road, and hadn't slowed down at all. By the time I thought to apply the brakes, I saw the cop car pull over on the opposite side of the road, and turn around behind me, cherries flashing. Busted. Entirely my fault.

The experience only strengthened my belief that cops are basically good guys. I didn't get upset, just explained about the hill-cruise control thing. He had me at 90 in a 60. Ouch. Asked me where I was going. Told him about Ottawa and teacher's college. He knocked it down to 80 in a 60 ($100 for those interested), and told me to keep my speed down because of the number of moose on the road. You don't see them because they walk down the middle of the road until you get close, then turn broadside and step into your lane, crashing through your windshield and cracking your head open like an egg. Sneaky moose. The officer informed me that he had recently hit a bear as well. I wondered if this officer got a chance to talk to many people during the day. In the end, he apologized for giving me the ticket (literally: "Sorry to have to do that, but it's my job, eh."), and wished me luck in school.

Felt better this morning. This means nothing, of course. Got to Winnipeg and drove back and forth on the main drag, trying to find internet access to check my email for a message for Kathy regarding a possible friend's place where I could crash. No luck. Kathy wasn't home, and her voicemail was full, so I decided to just head out and keep driving, crashing at a Motel when I got tired.

If I've learned anything from this trip, it's to get the first reasonably priced room you can find, which is usually on the outskirts of a large city. The Howard Johnson's outside Winnipeg looked great and had rates "starting at $49.99," but I decided a smaller place further along would be cheaper. This is entirely wrong. In Kenora, a couple hours east, I had no option but to collapse at the Travelodge, the only vacancy in town, for $80. The room was OK, but the air conditioning didn't work at all. I didn't have the strength to call down to the desk and complain, and it also occurred to me that my discomfort could probably be caused by a fever, which would explain why I was lying naked on the bed, without sheets, sweating my nuts off.

I drew a bath of cold water and fell in. That was a bit better. Later I hung my nauseated head over the toilet, hoping for a little sumpin'-sumpin'. No luck. No trots, either. My body is weird.

Felt better this morning. Two Imodium seemed to have solidified the situation.

Stopped at a PetroCanada being run by two teenagers. Full serve, one came out to fill the tank while the other ran the shop. As the first one was cleaning my windshield, he noticed that the pump wasn't working, despite the fact that he'd stuck the nozzle in my tank and set the trigger. "Hey," he barked at the kid behind the counter, "turn on the gas, ya homo."

"Homo" is one of those words that I wish I could use more, like "retard." Unfortunately, I know that these words demean two already vulnerable groups of people, so I feel guilty whenever I use them. I don't mean to demean, I just like the sound of the words. Or maybe I like the memory of using them when I was young, and the way they sounded funny, the comeraderie of teasing friends, before I realized that words could hurt people.

Got into Saskatoon and waited at the university until I got hold of Candace. Relaxed at her place for a bit and then we went for a walk to the grocery store before it closed. We watched a really depressing (and reeeeeeally long) movie, during which I realized that I was still sick. Seems that with one exit being too firm for an exit, the other would have to do. Candace went to bed and I called Ralph on the big white phone.

Am I the only one who feels awesome after a good charf? And funny, just writing about vomit seems to bring the odour to my nose. Ewwww.

Felt better this morning. Once on the road I realized that I wasn't. You know when you go to fart, and then just as the fart is crowning you feel the wet squelch of something that is not a fart getting ready to make a run for it? This was my thankfully-short trip to Calgary.

My ex-roommate Dave came back from Peru, which turns everyone's colon into a waterslide, with a great expression for this phenomenon: "gambling." As in, "You guys walk ahead, I'm gonna hang back and do a bit of gamblin'." 'Cause you never know.

Got to Cori and Phil's in Calgary (they are in the UK), and hung out with Lucy the Dog for the afternoon. The sun was an orange ball through the smoke of the forest fires as early as seven o'clock.

Still felt lousy. Amy and Joe and Amy's parents returned from Banff (I'd met them there earlier in the day before leaving) and we worked out the sleeping arrangements.

I suggested the bean bag chair. Amy suggested Imodium.

Dizzy. Headache. Still got the trots. After a failed attempt to feel better over some breakfast I retreated to bed where I stayed for the entire day, excepting frequent trips to the john for loud, violent bouts of Montezuma's Revenge

Bec was a good sport, but spent most of her day off dealing with a power outage in town that turned her entire staff into nincompoops. But that's another story.

The whole town smells like a campfire. The air is full of smoke.

So much for my aggressive timeline to Ottawa.