Simian Farmer

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gEEK Ranger

Don't live to geek; geek to live.

www.lifehacker.com

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An intellectual snob is someone who can listen to the William Tell Overture and not think of The Lone Ranger.

~Dan Rather

The Tape is strong with this one

So the CBC, many of the employees of which are currently locked out / on strike, has been recycling a LOT of programming the past week or so.  Much easier to put a tape in and press play than pay the unionized workforce.  Or something like that.

This has reaped, for me, the unexpected benefit of having my Sunday evening capped off with a broadcast of Star Wars.

And this, of course, had me immediately thinking of duct tape.

Falling... with style!

There was portent in the air when I left for work early Thursday morning.  I gave an extra sniff, since I initially thought it might have been a malodourous reminder to clean up the back yard.  But no, it was definitely portent; the day, apparently, was going to be rife with it.

(A post in pictures.)

Farmball: a retrospective

I've mentioned on this site a couple of times that in the summer of 2003, I dislocated my kneecap in the midst of a rousing game of Farmball.  (And bloody, f--king hell, it hurt!)

Since that game is only familiar to a few select individuals (known collectively as The Superfriends), I have here likened it in passing to soccer played in a farm yard without any rules.  Which is a bit misleading.  That's like, uh, likening Germany's WWII blitzkrieg invasion of Poland to 'an unexpected offensive'.  Essentially true, but a little euphemistic.

This Saturday, August 20th, is my friend Chris's wedding.  I also got married in August.  It was at Chris's farm that I dislocated my kneecap playing Farmball.  This serendipitous confluence of thought has led me to reminisce on the genesis of the game and to the conclusion that a more detailed explanation is necessary.

Below is the full Email I received from Chris in May of 2002, just days after the creation of the game of Yardball.  Farmball is the bastard love-child of Yardball, played in a farm yard instead of a yard yard.  I hope you can follow the logic there.

A thorough understanding of the details below may lead to some enlightenment as to the root cause of my injury, as well as some consternation surrounding exactly why there aren't more injuries like it.

(This picture is one of many I took while seated court-side with a bag of frozen peas on my elevated knee.  I injured myself early enough in the game for it to continue upon return from the hospital.  Note the Official Pink Farmball in flight.  I was injured centre-frame, right between the horse water trough and the red Chevy pickup: Official Farmball Obstacles.)

(And yes, everyone involved in the creation and propagation of this game is currently in their early 30s.)

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Let it out

Oh, I can’t keep it in!
I can’t keep it in, I’ve gotta let it out.
I’ve got to show the world, world’s got to see,
See all the love, love that’s in me.

~Cat Stevens

Thanks, Jack

I'm thirty years old, happily married, I have a gorgeous young son and have just recently proven myself fit enough to participate in one of the most gruelling races in the country.  The most odious malady I can lay claim to is a bit of asthma.  Both of my folks could probably circumnavigate the globe with the amount of air miles they've accumulated from the varied guilt trips I've sent them on for smoking through my youth.

All told, I'm a very fortunate man.

Which is why I cringe a little bit thinking about Jack.

Jack was a coworker of mine.  We spent almost two years on the same construction site up north: he a foreman and me an office monkey.  We saw very little of each other but he was easily the most pleasant and personable of the field workers with whom I associated on an infrequent basis.  A construction site in the hinterlands of northern Alberta is not prone to attract those of a more genteel nature, so Jack's persona was a welcome one.

Just shortly before the project started to wind down, we threw him a retirement party on site.  He had just turned 65 and the end of the project was also going to mark the beginning of his retirement.  The lunch trailers were packed with our entire complement of staff that day and we all partook of the cake that was brought in.  An apron was foisted upon him to wear, broadcasting his age and his retirement.  When he flipped up the front of the apron, it revealed a dangling cock and set of balls affixed underneath.  Something about his imminent emasculation now that he was going home to cook for his wife.  His laughter was the loudest.

After coming back to Edmonton, he agreed to lend a hand with a small job we had on the west end.  It was close to home for him and, given its relatively short duration, would help to wean him off work instead of literally quitting cold turkey.

This scenario reminds me of that really bad cops and robbers story line where the senior detective, just days/weeks/hours before his retirement, is paired up with the hot-blooded recruit for 'one last case'.

Unfortunately, Jack's one last case resulted in him having his arms ripped off last summer.  Just over a year ago now.

He was trying to untangle some wire rope that had gone slack from a piece of equipment and then, when the slack was taken up rather unexpectedly, he was caught under the arms by the rope, which served the dual purpose of catapulting him bodily over the equipment and tearing both arms off; one at the elbow and one at the shoulder.  His quick-thinking co-workers and the response time of the air ambulance were the only things that saved his life.

His recuperation was remarkable.  A chance to reattach one arm was abandoned after determining that there was too much tissue damage caused by the tearing action.  But a couple months later he was almost ready to go home.

Jack's stoic demeanour and optimistic attitude played no small part in his convalescence.  And his time in the hospital allowed for his home to be retrofitted to accommodate some of his new needs.  With Jack's input and some admonishment.  It was proposed to include an air-drying chamber in the main bath for his use after a shower.  Somewhat incredulous, Jack countered with a hook.  He'd ask his wife to hang a big towel on it and he'd rub himself dry.

Jack came back into the office a couple of times and bragged about having lost weight (other than the arms, he'd grin), and never feeling better.  I gave him a big hug and he in turn body-checked me.  I saw him again across the room at this past December's Christmas party.  That was the last time I saw him and probably the last time I will.

I spoke with his daughter last week, who also works for The Company.  I inquired congenially after Jack, not having heard of nor seen him in quite some time.

"You haven't heard?"

"Uh, no..."

"He's got cancer."

Shit.  A very brief discussion, which his daughter was reciting by rote at this point, revealed an incredibly rapid onset of stomach cancer which spread throughout his internal organs and now has him in chronic pain.  His family is with him and he's waiting now, over the next couple of weeks, to die.

A part of me cries out at the horrible unfairness of it all.  A man's life irrevocably changed by an incident that should never have happened and then beset by a terminal disease at the dawning of his twilight years.  But life isn't fair, is it?  Shit happens.  And as bad as it makes me feel, I can only imagine what must be happening for his wife and children. 

Not to have him suddenly snatched from them, but to be dangling from a cliff, looking up into their faces, and all of them full of the knowledge that soon his grip must slip.  His hands will grow weary and the inexorable pull will finally take him. 

I don't know which I'd prefer, the sharp jagged tearing of an unexpected loss, or the slow extrusion of a terminal disease.  Each day spent with your loved one tainted by the knowledge of the impending end.  Or would that also then amplify the love and gratitude for each moment spent together?  Again: I don't know.

I do know that my wife and son are going to be appreciated just that much more now.  And I have Jack to thank for that.

The Mountain Dew table

I wish I had something more poignant to share today, but perhaps there's something to be extracted from a simple nostalgiac reminiscence that isn't quite as trivial as it may seem.  Add to this the fact that sometimes, upon reflection, I'm very glad that my wife elected to marry me in spite of me.

I loved getting together with some of the good friends drawn together through university and playing a Spellfire tournament for an evening.  Next to a weekend of Dungeons & Dragons, this was my favourite escape into the hallowed halls of geekery, into which my wife will still only peer timorously from the doorway.  A lifeline of sorts, I suppose.

Invitations were always made up and there was much anticipation as the date drew nigh.

We would always have to have two tables set up, segregation of winners and losers is important, you see.  A randomized mix to start off, to be sure, but the winning players of the loser table and the losing players of the winner table would change positions at the end of each game with much brouhaha and blustering. 

"I woulda won if Jeff didn't throw that Cataclyst on my front Realm!"  Good times.

A symbol of the elite versus the bourgeois players, necessary given our propinquity in a single room, was the permissible beverage at a given table.  We all had red plastic cups with our names (or suitably geeky monikers) writ large with black magic marker.  And the contents defined our status.  The Doritos, the seven layer dip, the chocolate almonds, the ubiquitous potato chips; they were free for all to partake.  But the winners got Dr. Pepper to drink, and the losers were permitted only Mountain Dew.  Or rather, for them the Dr. Pepper was strictly verboten.  An icon, The Grail to which they must aspire.

I don't know how exactly the tradition started, but the lot of us still have all of our Spellfire cards stored lovingly in Velveeta cheese boxes.  It makes sense though.  They're perfectly shaped and can store about 500 cards.  One friend of mine has four boxes FULL.  Geek to the extreme!

It's been a whole year now since I've played and my Velveeta box lies unopened in my garage with my D&D books and 20-sided dice.

Counting down to baby

It may sort of seem like a long time, but today's reading of the Simian Farmer Baby 2.0 Countdown shows 200 days remaining.

That's not even a full school year.

That's how long I would love to have TRIED for this baby.  (What's that sweetie?  The strip still negative?  That's OK, c'mere and let me take your mind off that silly test.)

That's how long it would take a man to run around the Earth's equator at 8.3 km/hr.

Better get hoofin' it.

Jivin' with Jehovah

Simon: Hey God?  You there?

God: Always.  And all ways.

Simon: Hey I like that!

God: I figure it's best to start off with a little esoterica right away just to establish the proper stream of consciousness for conversations like this.  'sup?