There are a few people down here who also keep blogs about their happenings around Antarctica. This last week I have been going back and forth between their updates and see they have about as much to say as I do. I suppose it's kind of a post-Midwinter in the doldrums kind of mood.
The interesting thing about living here is that nothing really interesting or new is going to pop out of the Auroras. Therefore, if our brains are a muscle, they are a muscle with limited stimuli, ergo even the grey matter is beginning to look a little off color.
I tried to explain this in an email to a friend by saying, "The station seems to have been hit by a bomb that has rendered us all retarted and unfortunately I feel like I was sitting at ground zero." Luckily before the message was sent through my Outlook Express, the spell check picked up the retarded spelling of "retarted."
So, the highlight of my week this week didn't happen in Antarctica, it was when my best friend Mary sent me the photo of her tattoo and with Lucifer (her dog) in the background. This photo, by Erika Schultz, was in the Seattle Times because Mary was walking her dog in an area that will hopefully one day be an off-leash area.
This photo has a lot more going on than the photographer or Mary or even Lucifer himself could have seen when the camera went {click}. First off there is the bare arm of Mary. I can remember seeing this tattoo for the first time and this was the last time that I saw Mary before coming to Antarctica.
What I don't remember is the last time I saw a bare arm outside.
Then there's Lucifer. I know he's a good dog, but how did he know when to smile for this photo. I can only imagine the scene with Mary and Erika trying to line up Mary's arm with Lucifer's nose.
This means I get to imagine a small window of time that someone spent with Mary. It's kind of weird to think that Mary didn't even know the photographer and yet this stranger got to talk to and see my friend. I don't get to see Mary and I haven't seen a dog in six months. I'm jealous of Erika, a person I don't even know. And, plus, why was Mary talking to a stranger--shouldn't she know better?
Finally, the back drop is green. Green grass or green trees or green shrubs or green leaves or the kind of green I haven't seen in a photo from home. Through the bits and bytes and the pixels on my screen I swear I can smell the park where the photo was snapped.
There is only one place on station I can think of with this type of green and that's the felt of the pool and poker table, and somehow, that color of green just doesn't do natural green a bit of justice.
If I wasn't so retarted, I'd probably know which color I was colored over with in Envy.
Ben Bonnet is a friend of mine. I have written about working with Ben Bonnet in the freezer.
Ben Bonnet also contributed to the newspaper I put together this Midwinter. The photo above is kind of what Ben Bonnet's article (I couldn't and didn't spend anytime to try and get the fonts to appear correctly as PDFs) looked like in The Shadow.
The way that Ben Bonnet describes how our brains are working down here is absolutely correct (story follows). Asking Winterovers to put together a Midwinter newspaper is kind of like asking a fox to guard the Green House--it just doesn't make sense.
What I said when the writers for the newspaper turned in their stories was that each one was worthy of winning the Pul-Ice-Er Prize is certainly true with Ben Bonnet.
I know the "Pul-Ice-Er Prize" joke is kind of lame, but let's see you live without sunshine for a few months.
In the Winter, we also laugh at fart jokes.
Recently my friend Mary said it would be interesting to see how people view me, Phil, in the McMurdo Community. Mary suggested that I should get someone to write a little op-ed on "Phil."
Ben Bonnet and I play cards together every Friday night, we work together on occasion and compete in most games like darts, shuffle board and pool. Ben Bonnet and his teammate Eric Brown recently won what was call "The Bar Triathlon." Fourteen teams played pool, shuffleboard and darts. Ben Bonnet and Eric Brown are #1 in McMurdo.
A couple of weeks ago Ben Bonnet said he'd like to write about one of the characters in town, but Ben Bonnet said he thinks he will only see the "negative" not the "positive" side of the person. Perfect, I said to Ben Bonnet, then write about me.
I've often said that if I was a cat, I would leave the "ow" out of my vocabulary and only say, "Me."
Plus, I would want my friends to call me, "Whiskers."
Ben Bonnet doesn't exactly have a deadline when it comes to writing this story about me. It will eventually appear. In the mean time, I've included the story Ben Bonnet wrote for The Shadow.
As you may see, Ben Bonnet may not have been the best guy for this project about me.
An Article Written by a Winter-over in June
By Ben Bonnet
When I first faced the task of writing an article for a mid-winter newspaper, I must admit that I was a bit nervous. After all, my vocabulary is weaker now than it was mere months ago and even if I were to come up with an interesting story, how would I be able to find the words to really give it that Bonnet-flair that people that regularly read my "stuff" have come to appreciate. My stories have gone from epic sagas that would entertain any and all that read them, to boring, mundane words that drives people to cheesy romance novels in order to elevate their literary intake. It's sad really.
The Mets are losing right now. Pedro Martinez can not get a victory to save his life. I'm a really big Mets fan, have been ever since 1986 and the thing that I love the most about them is...a telephone is ringing. Why is it ringing? Where is it ringing? Who is it? Why did it stop ringing? Now, back to my story. I was talking about...ah, hang on...
So, I think that our bowling team has a good shot at winning it all in the playoffs. Old man Teuscher is really starting to bowl and everyone on the team is picking up their games at the right time of season. Miller hasn't bowled well all season so I think that we can take him and.....I have email. Who is from? What do they want? How did they find me? What's a TCN?
Writing has always come pretty easily for me I suppose. I remember when I was a kid we had this writing assignment where we had to tell what would happen if strings came down from the sky. I wrote this story about how the strings would come down and take all of the women's purses. Well, I have always been pretty practical and fiscally responsible. So I got an A on the story and I went up to Melissa Briscoe and showed her my A and she hit me in the chest. I think she liked me, but I was never really into her that much. I thought she was mean. My first crush was on this girl with crimped hair and for a long time I thought that I would never marry a girl that didn't have crimped hair. I'm tired now. I think I might lay down for just a bit. Nothing like being dog-tired, lying in your bed wide awake, not able to sleep.
Well today I wanted to talk about the mental block that develops for the writer in the winter. You want to tall a story and you lack all the tools you need to craft it. Phone ringing...Do I answer it?...Where do I work again?
(Phil Here: When Ben Bonnet wrote this story the sentence, "You want to tall a story and you lack all the tools," was written as is. I thought Ben Bonnet was comically correct when he interchanged the word "tell" with "tall." As it turns out, that was just a fine example of our brains and how they interchange words during the Winter.
Another thing about Ben Bonnet is he is a "virtual nobody." When you type "Ben Bonnet" into Google you get pictures of kittens and misspellers who have "ben in Bonnets." Now that may have changed.)
At first I only wanted the newspaper I created to exist for Antarcticans--only.
Not because we have a secret life down here, I think most people are aware we are currently disecting aliens, this is nothing new. I just wanted the newspaper to remain on paper.
Trying to explain why would be like explaining why I need water. I just felt that's what it needed.
Then I was convinced I didn't need to drink water as long as I drank the water in my own way.
So, here is what the paper kind of looked like. The file was too large to put the whole thing online. Therefore, here are the pages I wrote or had a lot to do with (if you think you're sneaky and can do what you don't think I know you can do, well, I know you can do it. If you don't know, then you don't know, and I know that some will and some won't. If you know, then this makes sense. If you don't know, then just enjoy the paper as I meant for you to do so--in its edited form.)
To download click here: The Shadow
For Midwinter's Day we had the opportunity to have a teleconference with the new boss of Raytheon Polar Services, Sam Feola. Mr. Feola was in Denver and the entire community of McMurdo was sitting in Antarctica. We listened to our boss up on a big screen in the Galley.
In a way this was a very futuristic setting. In another way, I felt like it was 1984.
To understand why the teleconference ended when I stepped up to the camera and, more importantly in front of my community, and said, "Shame on you Mr. Feola." You first have to understand what I was thinking.
Coming to Antarctica has been the most exciting, awe inspiring, life changing event, of well, my life.
And I owe it all to dishwashing.
I have seen a corner of the globe very few people will ever have a chance to experience. I have stood on the South Pole and cried icicle tears knowing I was THE person standing farther South than any other person in the world. Later that same week, I nearly died at the South Pole because of pulmonary edema. Thank you dirty dishes.
I have sailed on the Coast Guard ice breaker, the Polar Sea, as it broke through 14 feet of ice trying to clear a channel so the supply ship, the American Tern, could restock McMurdo. I have seen a pod of killer whales in their natural environment (not Sea World), emperor penguins (possibly the same ones who starred in the movie March of the Penguins), Adelie penguins and odd creatures living in the icy depths of the Ross Sea.
The craziest thing I have ever seen was a fish caught from 900 meters below the ice and when this fish was brought to the surface it flopped and flipped off of our plastic tarp and in mid flip, because of science, this fish turned into a block of ice.
I have seen the sun at three in the morning and the full moon at noon.
These things I have experienced, because scientists need to eat and dishes need to be washed.
Growing up I went to schools in Virginia, Texas and New Hampshire. In each of these states there always seemed to be the required "State History" class. Living in Antarctica there is not the prerequisite or required history lesson about Shackleton, Scott or even the earlier explorers of Antarctic History.
In high school the closest I ever came to learning about Antarctica was in my French class. My teacher, Madame DuBois, often said (excuse my French), "Phillipe, tu es dans la lune." She said this to mean "your mind is in the moon." Madame didn't like me very much, she said this meant "it is like you are a lunatic."
In a way, though, she was right. My mind was and is on the moon. I am old enough to remember a time when my father pointed to the moon and said, "Right now there are Americans walking on the moon." Growing up, of course I wanted to work for NASA and be an astronaut. I wanted to go to the moon and stick the American Flag where the sun doesn't shine. Now, I work for the United States Antarctic Program (USAP), I live in Antarctica and Je suis sur la lune. I am on the moon.
I am on the moon, because of dishwashing.
In 2002 when I tried to come to Antarctica, I worked as a graphic designer and freelance writer. In other words, I didn't have any skills necessary to work in Antarctica. I am not a plumber, electrician, butcher, baker or science maker.
Most of the jobs in Antarctica are hired through Raytheon, a military defense contractor, which also has a long business arm into the world of logistics. Logistics like finding ways to logistically staff USAP research stations at the bottom of the world.
After attending Raytheon's Job Fair in Denver, my resume floated to the top of over 500 applications. I quit writing and designing and I came to Antarctica to wash dishes. I was probably the least skilled employee in the kitchen. I washed dishes next to a lawyer, a nurse and a group of the most highly educated pot scrubbers this side of a Chinese prison.
The first dishwasher, Charles Brett, who lived in McMurdo came here aboard the Discovery with Robert Scott and Ernest Shackleton in1902. Brett may have signed a contract with Robert Scott, but when they arrived in McMurdo, this galley hand had to be "handcuffed and lashed to the windlass...until he agreed to resume duty." He escaped, he had nowhere to go, so he was captured again, chained up again and after he promised again to return to the dishes, he was set free and slaved away in the Galley. Certainly, there have been problems with the kitchen staff ever since.
There were days, if given the option, during my 14 months washing dishes at McMurdo, I would have considered being chained up outside as the better of the two options.
Now that my 14 months is history and I have moved on to a much better job, I wear my dishwashing career like a badge of honor. It gave me the moon and in return I gave everything to it.
Midwinter's Day in Antarctica is the biggest celebration this continent knows. All of the countries who have research stations down here cook their best meals (we had beef Wellington and lobster tails) and send out invitations inviting the other residents of Antarctica over for a drink.
Logistically it's impossible (even for Raytheon) to organize a trip over to the government of the Republic of Vesleskarvet-just the same though-it is nice to be invited.
Even President Bush sent an email saying, "I send greetings to those celebrating Midwinter's Day in Antarctica on June 21, 2006." There are probably less than 500 Americans on the continent right now. I am one of the people fortunate enough to be here during the Winter to receive a message from our President. He may even be my least favorite president, but this was a message that wasn't delivered as a press conference or a speech, but one delivered to the small group of Americans manning the USAP bases around Antarctica. This message was for me.
Another greeting we received was the teleconference from the new boss of Raytheon Polar Services, Sam Feola.
When it comes to learning more about the company I work for or more about Antarctica, I'm kind of a dork. I was looking forward to this teleconference, and not just because we were going to get out of work for an hour or two, but because I was looking forward to seeing what my company had in store for me and even the upcoming International Polar Year (IPY).
Over the past 125 years, there have only been three times in history designated as an IPY. The last one was from 1957-1958 and the next IPY is 2007-2008. During this time there will be a push to really highlight to the world what goes on in the Arctic and Antarctic scientific community. Especially in educating kindergarten through12th grade teachers.
From the amount of time I've spent in the kitchen in this community, I call this place home. It's a great feeling to think next year it will be like my home is on display.
Mostly the teleconference was uneventful. Mr. Feola said one thing or another about IPY, and I only know this because someone I was sitting next to said, "What's that 'IPY'?"
Like a geek in the front row of a science class, I said, "It's the upcoming International Polar Year, shhhh."
After Mr. Feola's prepared remarks, we then got to ask him questions. At first nobody dared to step up to the mike, then, once the ICE (ba dump bump) was broken, the conversation between the big man and ourselves lasted up until the question about outsourcing.
Mr. Feola said that Raytheon was considering outsourcing jobs to Canada or New Zealand only for jobs where there were not enough skilled Americans available to take them. For instance, he said they had found a company in New Zealand they were considering using to outsource for McMurdo's dishwashers.
I couldn't believe my ears, I leaned over to the girl who didn't know zip about IPY and said, "Did he say, 'Outsource dishwashers to New Zealand.'"
IPY said, "Yup."
I couldn't believe my blood. It began to boil. I thought of everything and more than I have written. I thought about other Americans who would not be able to experience what I have. The reason, Mr. Feola explained, was simple, because there aren't competent dishwashers in America.
I wondered what would have happened if in 1969 Raytheon was in charge of the logistics for sending the first man to the moon.
Walter Cronkite would have been sitting at his new's desk saying, "The Eagle has landed, I can see the astronaut, Neil Monbrasesfort, stepping out of the lunar lander, he is saying, just a minute, I'm waiting for a translation of, 'Une petite etape pour l'homme. Un saut geant pour externaliser.' I believe this means, 'One small step for man. One giant leap for outsourcing.' As you know, Neil Armstrong's government contractor didn't think Neil was competent to travel to the moon, so NASA replaced him with Neil Monbrasesfort (my arm is strong)."
Without thinking I approached the camera and had a question for our teleported, teleconferenced president. At this point I'd like to say I stood up on a table and gave my best Norma Rae speech about justice and loyalty to your country. Instead, my voice cracked as I addressed Mr. Feola.
I asked for a show of hands of the people in McMurdo who first came down here because they were a dishwasher. There were about 20 people who got their foot into this frozen door, by sticking their hands in warm dirty dishwater. About 10% of McMurdo.
There are times when you can plan to make your points clearly and then there are times when you are summonsed from your chair and you're addressing a crowd of people trying to make sense out of what you see as senseless, therefore possibly making little sense at all.
What I do know about Antarctica history is there was a time, less than 100 years ago, when Shackleton, Scott, Mawson, Amundsen and all others of what was once called the Heroic Age of Antarctica set up their camps, raced to the South Pole or studied science for the sake of gaining knowledge and they did so for the glory and the flag of their country.
On the American base we are kind of doing it in support of our Presidents too, unfortunately the decisions are really being based by supporting Washington, Lincoln, Hamilton, Jackson and that other guy on the 50$ bill whose name I never remember.
There are so many more people in America who would do anything to come to Antarctica. They'll leave their jobs as lawyers, nurses and graphic designers to make less than $6 an hour. They come to Antarctica as dishwashers, but they leave Antarctica as Antarcticans.
If Mr. Feola says he can't find competent dishwashers in America, then I say "Mr. Feola and Raytheon Tu es dans la lune."
Like myself these dishwashers are then going back to their home states, speaking to kindergarten through 12th graders at their schools and all of this off the radar of the IPY, getting more and more people excited about science and Antarctica.
These are the people who our new Polar President is considering to outsource, and that's why after I spoke my peace for the dishwashers of the future, I said, "Mr. Feola. Shame on you."
Midwinter in Antarctica is as big as Christmas (please don't burn your Beatles Albums over this statement--I just mean we really celebrate the Winter's Solstice with an extra day off, a big dinner and formal attire).
For this Midwinter I am putting together a newspaper for our community. What originally was planned to be a two page newsletter for McMurdo, has turned into a 26 page Newspaper called The Shadow
It has taken up a lot of my time with little available to update my blog. That being the case, here is a blast from the past, a story written the last occasion I was down here over the Winter.
noone knows what its like to be the misspeller behind blew eyes
There is a name for people who stay the winter in Antarctica, we call ourselves "Winter Overs." I don't know if "winter overs" is supposed to be one word or two. Maybe it's spelled "winterovers." Come to think of it, maybe we're just called "Winter Over." As in, "The reason my skin is whiter than snow and you're able to see my blue blood veins running through my body is because I'm over winter." In other words, I suppose, Winter Over is preferable to "Freak Show."
As for the moniker "Winter Over" being capitalized or in all lowercase, this is anybody's Guess.
Many, several or quite some years ago a group of smart people studied the effects of wintering over in Antarctica. They found conclusive, undeniable proof that after staying six to nine months in the cold and dark and isolation of Antarctica, the average person will lose 12-18% percent of their short-term memory.
Or, maybe, it was only 9% of the short-term memory and they gained 12-18 pounds, for some reason I don't remember. But, what I do know with 82-88% accuracy is Antarctica is inhabited by a bunch of people who don't remember how to spell. I wanted to call these people "Misspellers," but MS Word said, "Misspellers" isn't a word.
Word to Bill Gates.
Words that use to come easily, words that used to roll off the tongue, now get stuck, jumbled and connected on my computer keyboard. With spell check most of the problems are quickly taken care of, but it's frustrating to type and to have common words get the dreaded red underline of MS Word.
"What do you mean?" I look on in disbelief at my computer screen, "Since when did "truckdriver" become two words? Why isn't "misspeller" a word? And when did it become improper to use two negatives in one sentence? This is not something I'll never be happy with.
The other night I was hanging out with my social group and conversation turned to spelling, lack of spelling and words we no longer know how to spell. It was a relief to hear other people were having the same issues. We all admitted to using a dictionary for words like, "onomatopoeia," "paleontology," or "blue," but the common words that we should know these were the ones that drove us the battiest.
"For instance," I said, "No one knows how much wine I've had to drink tonight, how do you spell 'no one?' Is 'noone' one word like 'anyone,' 'someone' or 'anybody' or is 'no one' two words, like 'truck driver,' 'spell check' or 'Inter Net'?"
The first person who took a crack at trying to spell no one, suffice it to say was wrong, because there is no silent "K" in Know One. Joe was certain that "no one" was two words, but someone else was adamant it was one. Neither one of them ranked their surety at over 75%.
One of my friends recently had a letter printed in his hometown "letters to the editor" column, so I figured this published author would certainly know how to spell such a simple word, "No one," he said, "Is two words."
"Are you certain," I asked.
"No," he said. "But, I'm at least 80% sure."
I canvassed the Coffee House, interrupting conversations and imposing this line of questioning on other people's conversations.
"No one," I'd say, "Is it one word or two."
Get this, everyone had an opinion, but no one was able to commit 100% to the spelling of such a simple word.
Finally I found a Scrabble player and she stood by her answer one hundred percent, "No one is two words," she said. "Otherwise it would be pronounced 'nooney' or 'none.' That's why I'm a hundred percent certain. However, since this is my second winter in Antarctica, I know there are a lot of times when I'm 100% certain and it turns out I'm 100% wrong. The wires get crossed here. I've seen it happen, maybe it's happening now. But, I am 100% certain 'no one' is two words."
By this time a dictionary was found on the shelf next to the least played game in Antarctica, Boggle, and we, a group of people who are well read, educated and in the dark, looked up the word 'no one' in the dictionary.
"It's two words," the person who we most trusted most with knowing how to work the intricacies of a dictionary, said.
"Okay," then I asked "'A lot,' one word or two."
"I'm 100% certain," this same dictionary holder said, "alot is one word."
I don't remember where this one begins. Like in all communities some people stand out because they're a clown or because in the fight against pain, they stand on the other side of the tracks rallying for the cause to be pro pain.
Then there are the few who you don't remember meeting at all. Jay is one of those people. He's not one of the guys who blends into the crowd and is forgettable. Jay is quite the opposite. I don't remember meeting Jay because it seems like I've known him before I even arrived in Antarctica.
Somehow I met Jay and it was probably through music. In 2002 I came to Antarctica with this futuristic device called an "Ipod." Now these little MP3s come in Cheerios and Wheaties as prizes for kids, but in 2002 I was one of the first pings in the Ipod bell curve. And then in order to move the story along, because I'm even getting complaints from people who are involved in this story saying the story I'm writing is lasting longer than the actual event, I'll create a quick segue.
It's hard to tell a story when the story doesn't have a beginning, so, even from whenever the beginning began, I've never seen Jay complain.
What's to complain about? In the summertime Jay is called "a rigger." As a rigger you climb high antennas and rig shit up on top of tall towers in the middle of Nowheresville, Antarctica. And, in case you're wondering, Nowheresville, Antarctica is located 27 miles and even more kilometers past BFE.
After rigging you come back into town driving your vehicle, Rigor Mortis, that breathes fires, melts polar ice caps and pisses off little girls named "Butterfly" who climb trees.
After debriefing and de-gearing in your Rigging Cave-possibly also called Rigor Mortis-you head back to your dorm room. A room you share with a beautiful girl, because the Riggers have the best looking women on station.
The Rigging Life.
Is not for me.
Once when Jay was working at the South Pole, he was perched high on top of a tower. The temperature was nearing the point where liquid nitrogen looks warm, and the screws he had to use were too small to install while wearing thick gloves. In this kind of weather my nose snapped like a broken ice cube and I would still be crying about my cartilage if I could have hacked the altitude of the South Pole.
Instead, I was medivaced out with a frostbit nose.
Jay on the other hand, stands on top of a tower at the bottom of the world and he's higher than the South Pole at the South Pole. This is like being higher than sea level while swimming in the Pacific Ocean. With his bare hand holding even barer steel he says, "I have the best job in Antarctica."
That's quite possibly a story I heard or one I made up. But the one I saw with my own eyes, I'll remember like a car crash. This Winter Jay works in Telco (more prestige, more beautiful woman-generally more of all things great) and I was walking by a worksite where Jay was trying to reattach a phone cable that had blown down during the night.
It was the first thing in the morning and this day with the wind blowing and the temperature lowering would make that day at the South Pole look like any day in the South Pacific. Jay had been raised in the air, exposed standing inside the "Man Basket" of our electrician's truck.
In the basket, without a neck gator, the blood left Jay's face. It was like watching Raiders of the Lost Arc for the first time and seeing the man's face melt into his black suit.
In streaks of red and white and strains of lifting this cable back into place, Jay looked like the kid whose mothers said, "if you keep making such an ugly face, then your face will freeze like that."
Coming down, with both feet on the ground, Jay asked if I'd heard the new Jenny Lewis and the Watson's Twin album." No complaints.
Don't really need to give you too much info here, in this segue keep in mind when I took the pain test at the University of Utah I was the only person to score 100% while being administered lots of shocks.
Mistake #1: Revealing how I dealt with pain.
A few or two or four or more Wednesday nights ago, the activity was "Bondage Bingo." All this really meant was that the people who called Bingo at Camp Summer Berg were dressed up in leather garb and bondage gear and whips and riding crops.
After hearing a cigarette smoking clown can call Bingo, wouldn't it only seem like the natural progression for Bingo to go Bondage.
The final prize was a hooded sweatshirt and at the start of this game I yelled out (since Bingo is my forte), "I should just say 'Bingo' now and save you all the time."
This worked so well the previous week we played Bingo when I won a water bottle (honk honk). Clowns, I thought I'd be a shoe-in this week for certain.
Mistake #2: The guys doing the hitting had heard I dealt well with pain.
Well, the Big Master T (Tony) took offense to me yelling out during his Bingo calling so he handcuffed me to one of his minions (Jay) and had me get on my hands and knees to play Bingo. For every number that was called out, by Chris, I was swatted by Craig with a riding crop and Tony with the Cat-O-Nine-tails.
Keep in mind-all the while playing Bingo.
Mistake #3: After they hit me once, I said "my sister hits harder than that."
Kneeling down next to me, with a riding bit in his mouth, was Jay. He was getting hit just as often as I was, but he had been a whooping boy all night long. Dressed up like a stand-in for Pulp Fiction, Jay couldn't say anything with his gagged mouth, buy his eyes said, "Pain. You shouldn't have said that."
After getting hit once.
Mistake #4: I said, "Mom? Is that you?" A single tear fell on my Bingo card witht he next hit.
This is when the real ass whooping began, and with each number called the only "Safe Word" I had was when someone else would yell, "Bingo." It wasn't me.
"Al thel News That's Fit to Print," is not what I had in common with the New York Times the next morning. I woke up black and blue and read all over.
The day after Jay was kidnapped for his birthday, he sent out a thank you email to his friends and said, "a few years ago, my mother told me: 'You still need to figure out how to comb your hair, you dress like a refugee, and you seem to conveniently forget about things like table manners whenever it suits you -- but you somehow manage to surround yourself with such good people that I figure you must be doing something right.'"
These are my friends, and I feel like I must be doing something right. Even if a story rambles on for a week. Even if a story lacks a beginning and a middle. It reminds me of the time when I was very young and my dad was giving a spoof slideshow about his job. The final frame was a picture of the backside of a mannequin's ass and it said, "The End."
I don't know what his friends thought of that image, but, with an age in the single digits, I thought this was true slapstick. I thought, that's the perfect way for a story to say,
Central Supply, my department, was tasked with filling these tanks. But it was Tony who knew about propane. Tony knows more about propane than Hank Hill. Tony knows enough about propane that it made me think, "For this guy-Pain is a gas."
I don't recall when I started on a downward path of mistakes that would give me the ass whooping of my lifetime. The slippery slope may have started last month, yesterday, last week or when I was in the seventh grade.
Last month I was sitting around drinking with some friends and the subject of pain came up. We started talking about how much pain was too much pain. Good Pain versus Bad Pain and how much pain in given situations we thought we could take.
I told them about Renee, a friend of mine from Utah, who works at the University of Utah Pain Research Center. Curious to know how I much pain I could handle (or because I was in-between jobs and needed $75) I signed up with Renee to be a part of the University sanctioned pain research study.
Over 100 people had taken the test before me and the participants would be given a similar test twice. First you would simply take "The Test" and the next time you took "The Test" with electrodes implanted beneath the fingertips administering varying degrees of shocks.
As a rule people scored less when the pain voltage was coursing through the veins. Without the shocks I scored the test with a 77%. As the shocks made my eyes dilate, my heart palpate and my hair stand on end, I aced the test scoring 100%.
Let the researchers try and figure out what that meant, when I told the story last month, Craig said, "Does this mean you enjoy pain?"
Craig.
Craig and I know we both met when I came first came down here in 2002, because the next time we met, we knew each other, but didn't know why. In 2006 right after Craig landed in McMurdo, I heard he needed a roommate, so I introduced him to the Physician's Assistant, Joe-the guy who fixed my tooth.
Joe is tranquil water, a cool breeze. He's a physician's assistant who puts the "HIP" in HIPAA, especially when he plays the harmonica. Without knowing why I knew Craig, just knowing that I knew him, I knew that he and Joe would make good roommates. I was right about them being good roommates, but I was wrong to think Craig was a slow blowing, cool breeze.
Hanging out with Craig is like thinking the weather is calm, only to find out you've been living in the eye of the hurricane. It's rare, but when it happens, batten down the hatches because you've just lassoed a tornado.
For instance, Craig works in a department of two. His coworker Jay just had a birthday and Jay's girlfriend, Susan, wanted to throw a surprise party. The idea was to kidnap Jay, rough him up a bit, and then take him blindfolded and beat up to the party. Sound like fun?
The only request I remember hearing from Susan was to keep an eye on Craig. In all stories, even this one, there is truth and fiction, and around Craig swirls a story about an abduction similar to what happened to Jay that ended up with a couple of cracked ribs. In this story the ribs cracked were Craig's. And in my story, I always felt like those cracked ribs were a rite of passage, like Craig's friends cracked ribs because they knew Craig needed or deserved or wanted his ribs cracked. Not because a large drunk man happened to fall down and the ribs got in the way.
It would seem nearly insane in my story for Susan to say, "keep an eye on Craig." When it came time to kidnap Jay, Craig was the smallest guy on the abduction team.
And Jay was the biggest.
(Sorry-
To be continued. This story was not supposed to take this long. Also, on Wednesday night a shuffleboard tournament started in McMurdo. It was supposed to be a one night event. However, the "Shuffleboard Crowd" is a bit older than the average age down here. And to be fair to their melatonin and sleep cycle, we have ended the competition at 10 o'clock each night. The other reason I have spent three nights in the bar playing Shuffle Board is because I am currently in the lead. This has been a very action packed sports week. On Saturday I came in 4th in horshoes, I currently have the high game in Bowling this week (180), and tonight I find out if I can add "Continental Shuffle Board Champion" to my belt of accomplishments.)
Who was this clown? This was the night my childhood nightmares became real. This was the night I met Chris Wilt.
Four years later, I'm asleep in my bed and Chris Wilt the cigarette smoking clown dressed up like a native of Planet Blue breaks into my room and wakes me up by covering me in gobs of wet toilet paper and confetti. One week ago at four in the morning, Chris and his girlfriend try to sneak into my room. Now I use the deadbolts. Like a vampire uninivited, they can't come in.
Last Saturday, last month or in March of 1970, I started on a downward path of mistakes.
It was last month and I was sitting around drinking with some buddies. The subject, idea and concept of pain came up. We all started talking about how much pain was too much pain or how we dealt with pain or the fact we had one thing in common: the thing being pain.
The first time I met Tony, he was very supportive of pain. He advocated pain. He knew the tare weight of pain. Tony was so familiar with the concept you might even say, he was pro-pain.
Last year my department, Central Supply, had the opportunity to save the Antarctic program thousands upon thousands of dollars. The scientists studying fishes in the sea, stars in the sky, the molten flow of lava at Mt. Erebus and other science equations found in elementary biology books which these guys and gals most likely have written or have been written about all have one thing in common: Propane.
Each year hundreds of tanks of propane are used to heat and cook huts and hamburgers in Antarctica. Before 2004, these empty tanks of propane were then sent back to the local Citgo Station outside of the National Science Foundation offices and a guy named "Vern (the person we named our spider after)" would fill the tanks and then put them on a tanker and send them back to Antarctica.
Once again, the best part about writing a story is the facts don't have to be true. In my mind this is how it happened, let actuality be damned.
The facts are empty tanks of propane leave Antarctica weighing about 30lbs and are then returned to Antarctica weighing well over 100 lbs.
When you figure it takes a couple to a few to tens of dollars to send stuff to the bottom of the world per pound, and then calculate sending those empty 30lbs of tanks out of McMurdo and add in the cost of 100lb tanks returning to Antarctica multiplied by the hundreds of tanks needing refilling each year you can see how lucky we were to learn how to fill propane tanks in Antarctica, versus sending them to Vern at the gas station.
Central Supply, my department, was tasked with filling these tanks. But it was Tony who knew about propane. Tony knows more about propane than Hank Hill. Tony knows enough about propane that it made me think, "For this guy-Pain is a gas."
(to be continued)
I suppose the best part about writing a story is that it doesn't have to take place in "real time." Because this is my story about an evening that happened down here, it could have been told when it happened or it could have been told not at all.
For a day, some months or weeks I have considered keeping this story "On Ice." Then my friend Molly fell into a well. She was stuck for 40 hours, surrounded by nearly as many cats and, eventually, her pants became soaked in her own piss.
She said some people asked her if she prayed to God and others asked what she thought about stuck in the well. I kept meaning to ask her "At what hour did you decide, 'Yup, I'm stuck, I guess I gotta pee my pants.'" Because this would be the moment when you've really resigned that your situation has just gone from bad to worse.
It also made me think, "And I thought I had an embarrassing story to tell?"
This story didn't even start this season, the true beginning of the story was in September of 2002 or maybe it was in March of 1972-you be the judge.
In March of 1972 my parents took me to the Fur Rendezvous festival when we were living in Anchorage, Alaska. I was almost five. I don't recall how it happened, but I remember there was a clown sitting backstage or outside a circus tent, getting ready to be funny-getting ready to go and entertain somebody like myself-a kid.
Naturally, beneath all of the makeup, there was a man. This man was nervous. He had clown anxiety. Maybe he thought he wouldn't be funny or would fail to clown around on stage or maybe in his nervousness the sweat from his brow would make his red makeup'd nose turn pink. Nobody likes a pink nosed clown.
Turning the corner and seeing a clown smoking a cigarette was kind of like watching a porn movie staring Big Bird, Kermit and Ms. Piggy, maybe some people would dig it, but not me. Not a five year old.
Every other Wednesday night in McMurdo is Bingo night. Not to brag, but Bingo is one of my specialties. There are some people who think Bingo is "The luck of the draw" or "All in the way the ball bounces." There's a word for people like that: Losers.
Bingo is about Timing. It's about that moment you get in line to buy your card. Then as the numbers are being called you think about the weight of a tiny ping pong ball getting blown around with 74 other balls and finally, when the timing is right you compare the weight of that ball with the power of your mind-and that's how you win at Bingo.
September 3, 2002 was the first Bingo night I got to participate in when I first arrived in Antarctica. I may know Bingo, but I was unaware of "McMurdo Bingo." Each night of the first and third Wednesday the Bingo Callers dress in odd outfits or create an entertaining shtick and then pick the balls for the Bingo night's activities.
It should come as no surprise that the night of my first Bingo game, I won the $200 jackpot. What did come as a surprise was that night, the guy who was picking the balls and calling B13, O67 and B7 was a clown.
Naturally, beneath all of the makeup, there was a man. This man was nervous. He had clown anxiety. Maybe he thought he wouldn't be funny or would fail to clown around on stage or maybe in his nervousness the sweat from his brow would drip on the Bingo Balls, and nobody likes sweaty balls. Possibly, his large shoes were too small, but whatever the cause, this clown was smoking a cigarette.
Who was this clown? This was the night my childhood nightmares became real. This was the night I met Chris Wilt.
Four years later, I'm asleep in my bed and the cigarette smoking clown dressed up like a native of Planet Red breaks into my room and wakes me up by covering me in gobs of wet toilet paper and confetti. One week ago at four in the morning, Chris and his girlfriend try to sneak into my room. This time they are stuck outside of my room. Now I use the deadbolt.
(to be continued)
Some people on their day off will cook dinner for a select group in the community. Others spend their free time taking care of an off the grid Hot Tub where lovers get naked and soak in 102 degrees of Fahrenheit heat. They give what little free time they have available so the mood of an Antarctican is not as dark as High Noon on a moonless night.
Then there's me.
Finally, the weather cooperated and the vehicle was ready, I left my laundry in a heap in the middle of my room and on my day off I said, "There are no friends on a powder day," then I hit the slopes, strapping a snowboard to my feet and carved the ever loving shit out of the mountains of Antarctica.
Soon you will read about a giant iceberg that has calved off of the coast of Antarctica. Al Gore will blame it on global warming, but really, this was just my snowboard edge cutting a bit too deep as I flipped McTwisty's and Hookey Bobs down the corny cuspicies of the granular ice sheet called Antarctica.
The Eskimos have over six hundred thousand, four hundred and thirty three million hundred words for "snow." I find this very odd, because when I'm snowboarding, I only need one word to describe what they need a Thesauras to figure out.
That word is "Bitchin'."