On the trail of the mystery of Mystery Lake

Clear Lake

The afternoon started like any other. A drive in the countryside in search of nice sandy beach where we could soak up some rays. First stop Clear Lake. Promising. Wide beach, nice pier, sunshine. But it was windy, too windy.

So we turned around and headed back to town, plans coalescing around a few likely spots, Thunder Lake maybe? Maybe down by the Paddle River? Then we saw it, the sign: Mystery Lake. Later we’d swear it wasn’t there the first time.

So we turned off and drove to the end of the asphalt. Who could resist the mystery of Mystery Lake?

Mystery Lake Community Hall

A lone community hall in the middle of rolling farmland? Where’s the lake? My mind reeled at the impossibility of it all. K. found a signal and did a quick search, scouring the internet for clues.

Her searches pinpointed Mystery Lake a few miles away, and so we took off down a dirt road watching the blue circle on the GPS advance towards the pinpoint… and pass it. We circled back.

There is no lake. It’s just a field. The Mystery deepened.

Google maps suggested a Mystery Lake Nature area. Perhaps we were just mistaken. Maybe our GPS got turned around. The wind howled and I could not shake the feeling that we were being watched. Two llamas eyed us suspiciously from the middle of a field of stubble.

Who lived here?

The road was empty. Suspiciously empty. We passed an old house, seemingly abandoned but in perfect repair, like it had become unmoored from linear time. What happened to the people who lived there? How did this tie into the mystery of Mystery Lake? A sense of unease settled over the car.

The GPS lied to us again. It’s the only explanation that makes any sense. We were driving down the right range road, we double checked. But instead of the lake we found an abandoned stable. The wind moaned.

We retreated to Mayerthorpe, stopping at a diner for coffee and to regroup. We downed coffee, distracted by how vacant the town was, trying to connect all that we had seen with the known laws of space and time. Suddenly the diner started to fill up with old timers, clustering at their tables, eyeing us and whispering amongst themselves. What did they know? We ate our grilled cheese sandwiches warily.

What was the waitress trying to tell me?

The waitress brought us the bill and two cryptic fortune cookies. In a diner. We left in a hurry, trying to put Mystery Lake behind us.

K. wheeled out of the parking, pointed the car west and just drove. Over highway 43 and out of town. Once we had calmed down we realized we were by the Paddle River dam. We should turn in, salvage the afternoon, we were just working ourselves up over nothing right?

The Paddle River dam. What was it built to contain?

We settled in down by the reservoir, out of the wind. Enjoying the sunshine.

As we sat, tossing stones, trying to shake the feeling of dread that had been building all afternoon, I heard a roar. Low at first, like perhaps just the wind moving through the distant trees, but it grew louder. And louder. And LOUDER. The sky grew dark and we knew. We had seen the signs and discounted them, not seeing the prophecy of the fortune cookie laid before us.

A danger greater than we could fathom.

The temperature dropped precipitously as we scrambled back to the car. In a panic K. realized she misplaced the keys, dread rolling across her face as she tore apart her belongings, madness creeping into her eyes. Thank god she found them, we peeled out, rocketing down the road as a wall of darkness descended on the reservoir.

The tank was on empty. The emergency light was on. Impossible. We had plenty of gas. We had only been driving for an hour! Something didn’t want us to leave. That was clear.

We roared off the road at Segundo, skidding to a stop at the gas station. K. leapt from the car, frantically scrambling with the pump. We could do this. We could stay ahead of it. We were back on the highway, on our way home, taking the long route back but we would be fine…

How did we end up on the Cherhill road? I don’t remember us turning. That bridge… I’ve seen that bridge before…Oh god…

Wandering in the woods with friends

Hi Em,

So you may know that over the labour day long weekend Andrew, Aaron, and I went camping at Rock Lake Prov. Park.  It was a good time of just hanging out with old friends, and Andrew’s dog who hates me, Aaron, and possible everyone who isn’t Andrew.

We did some hiking, and tried to canoe but it was way too windy for much more than letting the waves carry us to the other side of the lake.

In a move that is characteristically me, the worst injury of the trip could possibly be when I burned myself really badly with the espresso maker.  Yes, you read that right, and in my defence the espresso was magical and totally worth a first degree burn.

T’would be an honour.

I just got yet another invitation to join a prestigious honour society (same one, 3rd year in a row).  I know it is prestigious because it comes on UofA stationary and requires me to fork over money to bask in the… honour?

Back when I was making a go of trying to be a professional at something I used to get invitations to join assorted professional organizations — usually they were alerted to my existence by me being forced to buy something from them, like a standard reference or whatever, which I foolishly did using my real name.  Of course they really just invited me to partake in the honour of paying them a yearly fee to bask in the honour that having some additional acronyms in my email signature brings.

I would also like to swerve suddenly to the honours we actually earn, in the sense that we both have to pay money and do stuff, the obvious one being our respective degrees.  At work, periodically, I get needled to include my degree in my email sig, which I object to because I think it is insanely pretentious.  This probably ties in to why I think honours societies are worthy of scorn and ridicule.

People who, I would think, would be otherwise sympathetic to my anti-honours crusade will fall back on the justification that while they don’t really do the whole honours things, well you have to put that on your CV, because you know.  But since these various societies and organizations are really just acronyms and fancy certificates (the fanciness of certificates being inversely proportional to the actual importance of the thing: my certificate that I passed a fire extinguisher course is by far nicer looking than my degree, which is quite plain).  There is really no reason why someone couldn’t just create an honours society, you know, for some friends, and issue certificates and awards.

Say the Alberta Society for Social Excellence and Service (ASSES)

What’s that em?  You didn’t hear?  You just won the annual award for exemplary performance in the field of excellence.  Very prestigious, an imponderably impressive honour.  You should put that on your CV.

Also:  I am taking suggestions for better names and acronyms.

My descent into madness is complete

So, recently, I’ve been watching way too many British comedy panel shows, you know just to kill the time, and I had a crazy vivid dream the other day that was sort of disconcerting:

Basically, in the dream, I decided to make myself a japanese boyfriend pillow — because I am lonely, single, etc.  Once I got started, though, I just couldn’t stop obsessively constructing it to anatomical precision, as in I didn’t want to stop at an arm, I added a head, legs, so forth.  But then a formless white shape seemed creepy to me, so naturally I searched for a muse, some model of a man to be my japanese boyfriend pillow and I settled on Jon Richardson.

Because I am who I am, I blogged about said japaense boyfriend pillow that was basically a real doll of Jon Richardson but rendered in egyptian cotton instead of some sort of silicone (I assume).  I should back up and say that at some interval this pillow acquired all the relevant accoutrement to demonstrate that it was indeed male, and could perform all the usual roles of a boyfriend, albiet with the cognitive limitations of a pillow.

Returning to my blogging: this, naturally, ended with a stampede of people who also wanted Jon Richardson inspired japanese boyfriend pillows, and so I opened a store on Etsy.  I did a booming business in these pillows that Jon Richardson himself did not approve of, leading to him sending me disturbingly specific, threatening, emails which I tried to ignore.  This culminated in him flying out from wherever in the UK he lives to stand at the door of my apartment screaming.  Not screaming any particular words, just screaming a high pitched, irritating, tone.  A tone that is all too familiar, but I can’t quite place it… Oh right my alarm, and that’s when I woke up.

Adventures in Growing Up

Hi Em;

So, as you may know, a mutual friend of ours is getting married and I am supposed to be part of this whole shebang.  As I tag along on his grand adventure I feel like I am the simple kid that he is just letting hang out with him, out of pity.

Somehow I have lived my life so far with no real grasp of what it is, exactly, I am supposed to be doing as a best man.  Also I am hopelessly naïve about how active people’s lives actually are.

This started at the bachelor party, wherein it didn’t occur to me that people would have a problem committing the day to paint-balling.  Suddenly, I discovered that most people aren’t desperate recluses like I am, and that they actually have plans most days.  Which lead to something of a panic trying to find an activity that most people could come to.  Also finding a day that most people could attend turned out to be something of a challenge.  So the bachelor party was sparsely attended, and I don’t think it was entirely fun for the groom.  I got to drive around for eleven hours, and had fun trying not to fall asleep at the wheel when I was finally careening homeward at 4:30am.

Next up, I should come up with a toast and speech of some kind.  Apparently (according to my mother) I am supposed to be the master of ceremonies.  Which is news to me, since as I have said I am something of a man-child.  I have been looking online but I don’t really want to say that much, because I get social anxiety when I have to speak in front of crowds and I suck at public speaking, and I don’t want to be all melodramatic.

I was thinking something like “I would like to make a toast to the happy couple.  Congratulations on your wedding and may you have many happy years ahead of you.” at which point I drop the microphone and flee in terror.

I also need to get a suit in order and buy a present.  The presents are all crazy expensive, in my mind, but apparently they are totally normal prices for wedding presents.  I am just cheap.  Since I don’t want to give them a single paring knife, which would be within my normal budget, I guess I will have to shape up and shell out for something.

If I am bewildered by all this, at this stage, I do not envy the people who are actually doing the ceremony, getting married and all that.

And, oh man, I have to do this all again in less than a month, but in a brides maid’s dress.

Ulcer averted

Hello Em,

As you no doubt recall I have been driving myself nuts for the past couple of months fussing over a group project.

Well I finally got my mark back.  I got a B+ for the project itself and an A for the course overall.  That makes me feel better.

The main criticisms of the report are exactly what I thought they would be: the sections that the two members of my group that really failed to perform were in charge of.

I would like to point out that the prof had lots of praise for the organization and writing style, even going so far as to say reading the conclusion was interesting and enjoyable (!).  As the author of those sections I feel my heart fill with pride.

Anyway, I felt like bragging.

I do feel somewhat conflicted because, looking at the mark breakdown, it becomes apparent that some members of the group enhanced the overall mark and others actively detracted from it, but we all get the same grade.  I guess such is life eh?

Let us take a moment and look at france

Yo Em;

It seems like only yesterday we were in the midst of the Alberta election.  Well France just held their presidential election and I would like to highlight something: Le taux de participation devait atteindre les 82 % à 20 heures, selon les premières estimations. 

Wow, 82% voter turnout.  Not only that, but high voter turnout like that is pretty normal.  Compare to say our <50% norm for voter turnout and it makes you wonder what France is doing right and what Canada is doing wrong.

the election

me

22:05

are you watching the election results come in, or have you seen enough and called it a night?

---

Adam Snider

22:05

I’m still watching, although less intently at this point.

put on the dashboard confessional, shit’s about to get emo

Hello em,

As you know, I am one of those accursed souls who never gets anything done unless there is something that needs doing.  So while I avoid studying for exams I spent time reorganizing my bookshelf and sorting through old notebooks and things.

Unprepared

Hello Em,

It is Tuesday night and I’m packing my bag for tomorrow, the day of my first final exam of the season.

I feel like I am a little kid packing his bag for adventure time in the woods.

I loved packing my backpack for adventuring and I would invariably pack it with more aspirational than practical things. This lead to lots of non-adventures in which I would trek into the woods with bags laden with every possible tool and contrivance one could need for a post-apocalyptic outcome (replete with literature! SAS survival guide, etc.). Then later I would just trek back having never used any of it (since the apocalypse and the post apocalypse failed to materialise).

This time I am probably being more pragmatic than aspirational, exams aren’t adventures after all, but when I pack an extra pencil or ruler I can’t help but think about much younger me packing test-tubes and soil testing kits next to a whole pile of knives and parachute cord.

This feeling is probably amplified because my bag does in fact contain a knife (multi-tool) and parachute cord, and a head lamp.

A dude’s gotta be prepared.