Just to let you know, I haven’t forgotten about the contest - I just haven’t had time to figure out the voting mechanism, nor have I had time to draw the hamster picture. I have been shopping around to buy a better prize, but nothing has really spoken to me yet. I figure that I will be busy until the second week of July.

My apologies.

Love,

FG Maktaaq

Embalming began to seem suspect to me when, as a 19-year-old, a young family friend who had died was displayed in a rather unnatural way. His moustache was trimmed to ruler-straight precision; he smelled sweet and full of chemicals. It made me all the sadder because, instead of seeing my friend one last time, the funeral home presented us with a creepy mannequin.

My feelings were reinforced when I witnessed the opposite a few years ago. My maternal grandmother had had a bath right before passing away. We merely changed her into her funeral wear. She was still herself and, though sad, I was happy at least to say goodbye to the person I knew in life.

In preparation for another upcoming funeral, I am reading the Funeral Service Association of BC’s booklet Helpful Information about Funerals. Here’s the justification for embalming put forth by our province’s funeral directors:

The foremost reason for embalming is the protection of public health….Untreated remains can pose serious health public health concerns. Additionally, embalming restores the body to an acceptable physical appearance. Restoration is not intended to make the deceased look like the person did during life but rather to enhance the appearance of the deceased and allow for viewing. Many experts on bereavement agree that viewing the deceased confirms the reality of death and helps survivors take an important step toward recovering from their loss…..Please note that embalming may be required if the deceased is being transported or viewing is to take place after 72 hours from death.

There’s a family I met recently that rather intrigued me. Let’s call the matriarch Fanny Falcon, the husband will be Frederick Falcon and, though she doesn’t have much to do with this story, the daughter is Fiona Falcon.

When I first met the Falcons, I sat back to listen to the conversation. I kept to myself as I usually do when I first meet people. I was glad I did. Fanny Falcon turned out to be one of those shrill shrewish types, with an icy prettiness and a very sharp tongue. It didn’t take long for her to argue her point and bash down any dissent.

Frederick Falcon, on the other hand, stood by with a sheepish grin as he watched his wife tear down her opponents. Ah, I thought, he is the calm one to balance his wife’s fire. This is why little Fiona Falcon was sweet and shy. I also wondered if Frederick Falcon was not simply laid back but also a henpecked weakling, and if Fanny Falcon ruled the household with an iron fist. I wondered if Frederick Falcon ever got annoyed with his wife.

Perhaps I made too many judgments from this one meeting. People may have off-days, where they play their one-time asshole card to the maximum. Perhaps Fanny Falcon calmed down the next day and became her true self again. (I did ask around - the intrigue thing made me do it - and Fanny Falcon has flared her temper on other occasions.)

Recently the person who introduced me to the Falcons - let’s call him Oswald Octopus - got a text message from Frederick Falcon. “Tell my wife to send money if she wants her car shipped from the Faroe Islands,” the message read. Oswald Octopus duly relayed this message to Fanny Falcon. Fanny Falcon wondered what had happened to her car in the distant Faroe Islands, but went to wire off some money.

Soon after Oswald Octopus got another text message. “By the way, can you also tell my wife that I am never coming back?” said this second message.

Poor Fanny Falcon. Despite her fire, who can’t feel even a little sorry for her? “Plus,” added Octavia Octopus (Oswald’s wife), “Fanny Falcon is now four months pregnant.” Apparently too late along for an abortion. Fanny Falcon has to now raise two children (Fiona, we so far know, is a very lovely child). She has to finish off the house they started building in the middle of nowhere. And her car is on the Faroe Islands.

Now, here’s where I am further intrigued. Was Frederick Falcon’s sheepish grin during that argument on his face because he was the calm one or because he already knew he was leaving and was biding his time? Had he tried arguing with Fanny Falcon earlier in his marriage, then gave up as he hatched a plot to rid himself of her company? Is this indicative of the future of all shrew + mouse marriages? Can these tough women maintain their no-nonsense demeanour and still stay married?

When I was growing up, I thought being old meant skin getting wrinkles, hair turning white, requiring a cane to walk, and imparting wisdom. I thought that it wasn’t so very bad, which is why everyone wanted to live to a hundred and thought cancer or heart attacks would get in the way of this happy old age.

As of March of this year, I grew up. Old age turns out to be about going plum fucking crazy, hallucinating about awful deaths in meat grinders, becoming incontinent, losing patience with one’s toenails, and losing everything you ever had so that you are only left with the clothes you’re wearing. You’d have to be nuts already to want to live to a ripe old age.

My coworker swears by the Netherlands: “You can get euthanized there, you know.” This coworker swears that, if she starts muttering funny stuff, she’ll ship herself off to Amsterdam.

My nurse friend B. told me how her coworker delved into the world of adult diapers as he prepared a care facility’s budget. He began eating all the French fries he could.

“Why?” I asked.

“He didn’t want to be around for old age now that he knows what it’s all about.”

On tonight’s BBC:

Ah, more on the great tit:

From the original article:

Although Vane Farm has several CCTV cameras on nests around the site beaming images straight into the coffee shop, staff are unable to view the “Butt Bin” family as the box is sealed up and made of metal.

The Butt Bin is home to four baby great tits.

Can you come up with a better caption? Add yours to the comments. (We’ll vote on them later.) As for a prize, first place gets a hamster postcard drawn by yours truly sent directly to you (update: or another TBD prize, your choice).

Photographer Steve Jurvetson, whose photo you see above (minus the word balloon), got an email from a biologist explaining that the bird in question is juvenile red-tailed hawk while hapless rodent is the California meadow vole (Microtis californicus).

Sheikh Abdulaziz al-Brahim, who owns Cairo’s Grand Hyatt Hotel, has decided to ban alcoholic drinks at his hotel. The hotel’s staff spent an entire day pouring millions of dollars down the drain. This stricter brand of Saudi Islam has stirred up all sorts of debate, according to this BBC article:

• The parent company warned that this may drive away foreign tourists visiting Egypt.
• They also warn that the hotel could lose its five-star rating.
• Egyptian columnist Suleiman Gouda (no relation to the cheese) suggested that the Sheikh play by the rules of international business or sell his hotel to someone who will.
• Others say that when in Rome do as the Romans, so foreigners should just not imbibe when in Cairo.
• Which, on the flipside, still others say that if a Muslim can get Halal meals on flights, then a foreigner should be able to practice their own culture while in Egypt.
• There are also the people who are annoyed that the Saudis keep making up rules for Egypt.

Writer Ezzat Al Qamhawy deserves the last word. The novelist is also editor of the weekly cultural magazine Akhbar Al Adab (read it here if you know Arabic). Here’s his take on the whole deal:

[It imposes] Islam on tourists who are not Muslims, and compulsory drunkenness on the Muslim fish of the River Nile.

I always thought rats were smart and wary. They might be but their peripheral vision sure sucks.

During tonight’s walk, a rat saw me coming, ran away down the sidewalk, and was shocked to find out I was still trailing it. It veered off into the bushes at the side of the road. Of course, I stopped, trying to let my eyes adjust to the dark so I could get a better look at this urban wildlife specimen.

Then the rat, mistakenly thinking I had dispersed, comes out of the bushes, looks up at me, gasps and runs back into the bushes in a panic.

Dear Mr. Rat, I am sorry that you couldn’t spot the big hulk of a human sneaking up on you. I wasn’t even trying. That’s the sad part. Let me give you some advice. A few weeks ago, I saw one of your fellow rats. This is what it looked like:

Its poor dessicated remains were not far from where we met tonight. Please be careful, Mr. Rat. There are owls, raccoons and coyotes around there. This could happen to you. I’m giving you this advice, Mr. Rat, because I believe that, deep down, you are some whizkid chef. And you deserve a chance.

Romania has made it on the English news, in Reuters’ Oddly Enough section, making even the front page of our white trash suburb Surrey’s daily throwaway paper. Apparently municipal elections are coming up on June 1 and anything goes in Romania’s crazy political scene:

• Parading an elephant on the street - Constanța candidate Victor Manea’s nickname is “The Elephant” - and claiming the animal only eats peas (or mazăre, Romanian for peas and the incumbent mayor’s last name).
• An Arad candidate has adorned the city with banners of himself at the centre of his “disciples” at the Last Supper.
• The Bistrița candidate, Gelu Dragan, instead has images of a finger wrapped in a condom to illustrate that he will protect against corruption.
• In Navodari, the candidate had his name stamped to supermarket eggs.

I asked my dad what other craziness is happening that the English media may not have yet stumbled upon:

• Candidates are plastering poster upon poster, each trying to obliterate their opponents’ posters.
• In Comuna Batrina, a locality composed of four villages in Hunedoara county, out of its population of 160, half are mayoral candidates.
• Also in Constanța, a candidate rented twenty buses to take voters on a vacation to Bulgaria. The potential voters had no idea who paid or for whom to vote but were thrilled to have the free trip.

My dad promised to look up more election craziness for me. May as well add to the Romania’s reputation for the quirky.

A couple days ago, I had a dream. Lucian, my handsome little hamster, was still alive, yet I realized I hadn’t been feeding him for the months I thought he was dead. I ran through the house frantically, trying to find him. Then, because I lived in a mansion in my dream, he was in the very room I never enter.

There he was. Among all the old bric-a-brac, the obsolote computers and an inordinate amount of sewing machines, was his cage. Lucian was inside. His hamster chest rose and fell. He was breathing weakly but he was alive. I promised him I would get him food and put him back on his feet. Then, in the sort of despair that comes from dreams, I could not move fast enough nor did I know my palatial house enough to find food and water to nourish this dying tiny life.

When I am awake, my responsibility is to my guinea pigs now. I must forget hamsters and concentrate on the cuteness of guinea pigs. YouTube, that internet thing I hate so much, provided me with cute guinea pigs, neatly packaged with Moldovan music: