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It was sometime early June 2009, after a winter of being housebound watching too many episodes of Survivor Man that I became enamored with the idealistic thought of a wilderness survival trip of my own. I decided that a one nighter in the Canadian Rockies with no preparations or supplies might be fun. It would be a 24 hour outing in the height of summer, what could possibly go wrong? I managed to coerce my brother and two friends into making the excursion with me on August the 22 of 2009.

The trip roster included: Brent, an avid camper with a respectable wilderness skill set who would be completely in his element. James, who quite possibly misunderstood the type of survival trip, intended and who, instead of battling the elements, was battling his internal organs by consuming heroic proportions of fast food, marijuana, nicotine and unmixed hard alcohol. He was at least good enough to go along with the theme of forgoing the usual logical camping preparations but needless to say he entered a coma-like state early in the evening.  And then there was my brother David, a fashionable hygiene freak by nature who reluctantly left the comforts of his trendy inner city dwelling after much cajoling by me. It would be a decision he would come to regret dearly in the early morning hours. And finally there was myself, totally out to lunch, deciding to make a survival trip into the Rockies having not even camped at a regular site for almost a decade. At this point foreshadowing the events to follow would be completely unnecessary.

Our preparations consisted only of a purchase of a fancy hand operated portable water filter the night before and a stop at Wal-Mart so David could pick up a sleeping bag that he wouldn’t end up using. The exact location of our foray into the wild was a last minute decision made in a truck turnout on the side of the TransCanada as we entered the Rockies. After consulting a hiking book we settled on the location of Paradise Valley/Lake Annette, one valley over from Lake Louise which, according to the book promised ridiculous scenery and minimal human traffic. We left our vehicle at the trailhead about 3pm with everything on our backs which basically boiled down to 2 knives (I considered this a bonus as I didn’t think to bring one), 2 cans of bear spray (thankfully brought by James and Brent previously unbeknownst to me), 3 sleeping bags, 1 portable water filtration device, 2 packs of cigarettes, 60oz of dark rum in plastic water bottles, a bit of food (most notably a can of beans) and a firework with no wick.

At the trail head, immediately after embarking on our hike which in hind sight could be aptly dubbed a death march we encountered a sign posted by the park rangers warning of grizzly bears in the area.  Concerned only with my goal of wilderness camping I did not even give pause as I marched past. The only concern in my mind was that perhaps we would encounter some figure of authority on the trail that would make us turn around and all of our “preparations” would have been in vain. The other three, while unnerved by the sign (I would find out around dusk), were inclined to just walk on also, mistaking my flippancy for bravado. About 900 meters up the trail we came to a fork and this time there was an ominous folding placard placed directly in the path of the trail we needed to follow. Its purposeful location and large bold letters mostly in the color red left no room for misinterpretation. I hastily scanned it for consequences of our actions should we be caught breaking the law. The parts that caught my attention were: 1. No camping or fires anywhere in the valley, 2. A $5,000 fine and a court appearance for anyone caught disobeying any of the rules 3.That there were most likely Grizzly bears somewhere in the valley and 4.That hiking in groups of less than 4 was strictly prohibited. Fine I thought, as long as we aren’t caught camping we should be able to at least argue our case in front of a judge since technically we would not be in violation of the terms dictated. My plan if we were caught was to say that we had become lost late in the day and I was hoping that they would buy it since we did not have any camping gear other than a couple of light sleeping bags. For some reason even at this point the Grizzly bear threat was still not a significant factor for me.

In the next 90 minutes we gained several hundred feet in elevation and managed to quickly place about 6kms between ourselves and the vehicle that had ferried us to location. It was, for 3 of us, a generally enjoyable experience full of the loquacious conversation that young men free from their usual irksome obligations are prone to.  James, however, having consumed at least 6oz of hard alcohol prior to the parking lot departure and his 24 hour food ration of 4 assorted McDonald’s burgers some hours earlier was understandably fatigued and frequently vocalized his disenchantment. On the brief respites that we allowed him we encountered a seemingly endless stream of the usual lollygagging types who infest our national parks, a typical cross section of bodies that would look more in place somewhere like a crowded Walmart or Tim Horton’s drive thru. They offered us one irritating line after another like “you boys left a little late huh?” In retrospect I probably should have felt comforted to see that we were not the only party unperturbed by the signs and breaking the law. I was, however, extremely paranoid and suspicious of everyone that passed us, worried that someone would report the 4 peculiar characters hiking up the trail at the late hour with no more gear then them when they were all walking down. It also did not help matters that we were not in possession of the required back country camping passes. (We had attempted to purchase the passes earlier at the park gate when instead we were informed rudely that the season park pass I had been sold months earlier was for a single person only and we were now forced to buy a park pass for my 1 visible occupant. We were then told that we would have to seek out the information center at Lake Louise to buy the camping passes.) Shying away from the prospect of encountering another cagey national park employee we elected to forgo the tedious proposition of procuring the required passes.

As promised during the hike we were treated to some of the most awe inspiring sights, sounds and smells to be found in Banff National Park. In the absolutely perfect weather we all eagerly devoured the buffet of color, sunlight and fresh air that was a welcome and needed reprieve from our 21^st century domestic city lives. The beginning of the hike paralleled the unswerving Paradise Creek to an intersecting bridge that crossed to the east after which the trail gently ascended to the shore of the small but exotic Lake Annette, Shakira of the Canadian Rockies. Standing on the western shore staring out across the petite body of pearlescent blue waters, almost underneath the Mount Temple glacier/snowpack all my problems, worries and everything that was wrong in my life (namely the using of tools, the smells of sawdust and musty basements and laboring in strangers sewage) that had been nagging at my mind just blissfully melted away. After enjoying a cigarette and the siren song of Annette we continued on a little further, crossing a rockslide after which point we glimpsed down into Paradise Valley. Right before the trail descended into the valley we opted to turn around as camping in the valley was strictly verboten anyhow. We made it back to Lake Annette by about 6pm and tracked the north shore towards a clearing we could see from the trailhead and to our surprise stumbled upon a makeshift rock fire pit. After surveying the area and concluding that the spot was perfect in every way we hastily made our camp preparations as the sun was already dangerously close to being eclipsed by the mighty peaks that buttress the valley below. We were enjoying our own secluded company when, as if on cue, a couple who looked like they were armed with generous portions of granola, colorful new gortex clothing and trekking poles suddenly appeared atop a rocky outcropping on the opposite side of the lake. If they had any clue as to of the hell that would break loose later that evening I am sure they would have quickly moved on. As we foraged for dead wood to stoke the fire for the evening the suspected telemarking enthusiasts were disturbingly unconcerned by the crashing of dead trees and creative profanities that echoed loudly in the quiet valley. The evening was otherwise uneventful; we all enjoyed trading stories and strong drink. The days parting gift was a twilight avalanche spectacle as night finally licked the glacier above us,  suddenly freezing the day’s melted snow; banishing a huge white chunk the size of a trailer home that exploded as it cascaded down the mountainside dusting the boulders below coating them like icing sugar on French toast.

It was around midnight, as I was drifting off into a pleasant lucid sleep in my clothes on the ground beside the fire that David blindsided me with the revelation that he was hearing things in the woods. At first I only shrugged the alleged noises off but about 15 minutes later I too was hearing the peculiar sounds. Initially we concluded that it was just more rocks and ice making their noisy journey earthward, but the concussive thuds and cracks they caused were unnerving as the geography of the valley caused the sounds to come from the woods directly behind us. Suddenly our occupation of the wilds felt very inappropriate, like a XXX wedding gift, before hand it had seemed like a fun idea but at the opening it was an altogether different experience.  Heightening bear paranoia, conspicuous crunching in the woods and the late hour would prove to be the easy recipe for our ruin.

At about 3am the rug of reason was pulled violently from under us by a clearly audible snapping and cracking that only wood underfoot can produce. This was followed by faint approaching rustling in the bushes near the lakeshore immediately in front of us. To this day I maintain it was definitely not my imagination. I looked at my brother Dave and to say that his face was filled with terror would be like saying Hitler raised his voice during his pep rallies. Had David actually seen a bear approaching I doubt the muscles in face would have been capable of expressing any more fear. I am positive that I looked the same or worse. My ability to maintain a calm façade completely evaporated, replaced instantly by a primal fear that burned in the bottom of my abdomen. I was lying there by the fire and could only see about 10ft in any direction because of the intense light. Instinctively I found myself milliseconds later in a crouch about 10 feet behind the fire near the lean to that Brent had installed earlier in the evening, scanning the surroundings with a impotent combination of fire blind eyes and city deafened ears with my brother somehow beside me. My recollection is a little hazy but we either left the mace or the knife by the fire, maybe both. We tried feverishly to rouse Brent from his hovel to no good end. Frustrated we tip toed back to the fire only to find a completely inert James and after shaking him frantically we came to the grim realization that he had entered a deep stage of substance induced coma and was utterly useless.  We did, however manage to recover the bear spray and small knife. Motivated by the continued bush rustling in approximately the same location as before and by the prospect of potentially defending our camp with only two against a wild animal that might outweigh us by as much as 500lbs we went back to the lean to and tried once more. When nothing seemed to work David groped blindly for any human limb available and, finally finding Brent’s exposed feet and ankles, began to manually extract him from his refuge. Initially a little groggy and confused he said nothing but as he came to his feet he could tell by our combat ready posture and abnormal voice tones that there was trouble afoot. After explaining to him what was going on with a combination of whispering and commando style hand gestures he went immediately into survival mode and, without saying a word, sprung into action traipsing straight off in the direction of the bush rustling. If there was ever a time in my life I felt less manly or totally dumbfounded I can’t recollect it. Bolstered by Brent’s bewildering tactical maneuver, and, not wanting to send our friend into what we were certain were the jaws of snarling death we followed in hot pursuit this time knife and bear spray in hand. We neither saw nor heard anything by the time we arrived at the lakeshore. Not sure of the appropriate procedure when confronting a bear in the wild we instinctively split up and commenced an independent survey of the surrounding woods. Remembering advice from the late Timothy Treadwell, one of the craziest people to ever grace our planet, I began making loud guttural noises and when Brent and David followed suit our newfangled din served as the queerest anti-bear chant ever conceived. When I would pause intermittently to gain orientation I had to chuckle as it seemed we were all deeply embroiled in some kind of fantastic semi-religious ritual. It was a strange scene. I’m sure that if the couple across the lake witnessed the debacle taking place it has gone down as one weirdest nights of their lives. If we had encountered a grizzly bear and been mauled or worse at this point I am sure that they, or anyone for that matter, would have said we got what we deserved and rightfully so.

After a fruitless search we regrouped by the fire which was by then petering out to coals. We began to discuss our options. Regrettably I purposed an impromptu evacuation of our camp to the steel box of a cargo van we had some 6kms+ down trail that in my mind would serve as perfect lodgings in bear country. The other two intelligently quashed my plan as a long walk in a dark valley seemed far more risky than just staying put. Brent, inwardly deciding that fire light would rectify the situation piled a few hours’ worth of wood on the pit as Dave and I debated the perils of a night expedition. Within minutes, and much to my dismay, he produced a 6ft blaze which generated light that was so intense that even casting a glance in its general direction was like staring directly into the sun after coming out of a pitch black room.  At this point I was begging to get really pissed off. I couldn’t see a bloody thing and on top of that I was cold, tired and still had a disproportionate amount of adrenaline surging through my veins with no outlet at which to direct it. It was at this moment, having lost all ability to properly articulate my emotions that I snapped and yelled as loud as humanly possible: “stand up and fight like a man”. A bit of stray voltage perhaps. Had it not been for the “seriousness” of the circumstances I think we all would have had a good laugh at my strange choice of words. Feeling a little better after expelling my curious battle cry I did a few more solo laps in the surrounding darkness for good measure and then set down once more by the fire.

By the time I got back Brent had already retired to his shelter and Dave and I once more found ourselves by the fire with the inanimate James. We established an anti-bear fire corral that was basically two or three big logs stacked to our backs and sides.  As we sat against them peering into the foreboding gloom two little headlamps suddenly clicked on in unison. Having been woken in the dead of night, nerves completely shattered no doubt by my triple decibel outcry our hardy couple had finally had enough. We sat, morbidly entertained as one little headlamp stood perched on the rubble knoll as the other environed at a distance of perhaps 20-30 meters for a short while. Finally after about 20 minutes of this the two lights converged once more, and then turned into a strobe as they quickly packed to break camp. To our astonishment, apparently unsatisfied with the level of security that their wide open acclivity afforded them, they began to head due east which forced the scaling of a very steep and loose slope which would have been a challenge in the light of day. The realization that they would rather take their chances with a perilous middle of the night ascent rather than stay within our close proximity made me feel a little rejected and even more alone. I wish I could know if they chose such an extreme course of action because of us or because of the bear threat. The thought to call out and ask crossed my mind but the prospect of being showered with verbal abuse lest I be the reason be me kept me quiet.

The next few hours were an insomnious blur of scary noises and late night perimeter checks. The two of us consumed what would normally be a 3-4 day supply of cigarettes. The night was turning into a tortuous event that reminded me of a Meat Loaf song….. it just would not fucking end. In the segments of silence that our surroundings mercifully afforded us we did; however, manage to steal a glance skyward noticing the wild assortment of tiny twinkling dots in the sky, a striking juxtaposition to the oppressive darkness that had enveloped us so completely. As I sat by the fire that night, shivering and unable to sleep, part reflecting and part stewing on the events that had unfolded in the past 10-12 hours, I began to fully appreciate my predicament and had a few revelations. The first was that earlier in the night I was more concerned with encountering a man in a goofy costume complete with hat and badge than 800-1000lb’s of wild, snarling, hairy brown fury.  How ridiculous. The second was I had been so focused on being able to camp and “have a good time” that I had not even factored in that the whole experience could easily turn into a steaming pile of shit should some unforeseen event we had completely neglected to prepare for materialize such as a hungry wild bear or even a little bit of rain.

Mercifully, around 5am, suffering from anxiety overload I finally entered the 7^th stage in the Kübler-Ross Grief Cycle and fell into a dreamless sleep. I am told when David tried repeatedly to rouse me after more bush rustling all I could offer was semi-conscious gibberish.

The minute the sun finally douched the valley of disgusting darkness David stood up and dusted his hands on his pants. This woke me and I stood crookedly, stiff from dozing atop the dirt and not my usual chiropractor endorsed pillow top marvel of sleep science technology. I donned my pack that I had readied earlier in the sleepless portion of the night, collected our garbage and generously doused the fire with lake water. We finally succeeded in rousing James who couldn’t understand why we were up so damned early or why we felt the need to hike back to the van in the suns virgin rays. When we explained what had transpired the night before he was a little surprised to learn he had slept through the calamity and unenthusiastically joined us for the hike down. It took us only 40 minutes, less than half the time the trek up, to retrace our steps and make our way out of the god forsaken valley. We were probably in far more bear danger as we trudged out of there in complete silence spaced roughly 15 feet apart with the exception of James who was at least a few hundred in tow. Arriving at the folding placard I patiently waited for Dave and Brent who were less than a minute behind and after about 4 to 5 minutes James finally materialized and in a violent display of displeasure at our haste soccer kicked the public notice and calmly continued on down the trail. When we reached the parking lot shortly after we encountered a large group of French speaking tourists about to embark who fell silent as we sorry group of filthy refugees hobbled to our van. I fumbled with my key fob for a while with frozen fingers and when I finally managed to get the door open, the dramatic rescue scene from CNN flashed in my head of 40 Cuban’s being plucked off their capsized vessel off the coast of Florida by the coastguard and I finally had a chance to truly appreciate how they must have felt as I climbed into the sanctuary of the vehicle.

Naturally, and much to the dismay of my wife, the lasting impression that the trip has left on me is not the one you might expect. Now sitting comfortably at my computer protected by walls and doors, no longer vulnerable to potential wild animal attacks I wonder if I had it right the whole time? After all, we walked away no worse for wear except maybe a little sleepy. Had we heeded those signs and turned around we might have ended up in a campground having a fire in a metal pit surrounded by hot dog eating slack jawed yokels with RV’s, or worse yet back in the city. Instead we were treated to refreshing raw spectacles of nature and something that as humans these days rarely have chances to fully experience or appreciate: the primal fear of a wild animal attacking you while you are in a semi-defenseless state. Looking back and taking certain things into account like my not even considering bringing a knife or bearing spray into the wild I know that I got exactly what I was after: a non-vaginal camping trip where I could shut the material tower building part of my brain off and turn on just living and being. It was riveting. Admittedly next time I would do things a little different. I will definitely bring a knife, some sort of large animal deterrent and a God damned flash light.

In the aftermath, strangely enough I have been left craving more. To borrow a loose translation of a lyric from an obscure punk song; when were old and useless and our lives have become scrap books of old friends and faded memories at least a few will stand out and this one, for me, surely will. It won’t be long until I will once more be racing sunsets, stealing warmth and retiring illegally atop the earth…….

It’s a misty moonless mountain night, chilly and darker than a black bears tookus. My wife and I now stand atop a snowy precipice high above the south bank of the Fraser River, literally waiting for our ship to come in to complete this second last leg in our journey. The time is 1:15am and we are weary from a 650km nocturnal pilgrimage through hairy mountain passes and vicious winter whiteouts. Having witnessed the arrival of our headlights a flashlight clicks on atop the water across the drink and bobs rhythmically up and down like Bambi Woods head in the oral scene from Debbi Does Dallas. As the bouncing beacon nears, accompanied by the clatter of an outboard 4 stroke a frigid wind whips up from the west and slaps us with sharp sheets of sleet. The silver john boat finally slips atop the mucky riverbank below and then, in a reverse Normandy we step off the snowy ledge and rush down a slick mucky slope towards the chrome craft laden with suitcases, desperate for footing. Sheltering our faces we heave our shit aboard then scramble in offering a hasty “how you doin” to Matt, my best childhood friend whom I have not seen in years. Beer in hand he attempts to navigate the strong current and with my help manages to crash the expensive vessel he has commandeered from an elderly neighbour without permission jarringly into an old wood piling, cursing me under his breath. By the time we are across the river and absconding to Matt’s waiting truck we are thoroughly drenched, freezing cold and filthy with mud. There is an uncomfortable silence as we bounce up the “road” which is really two dirt trails in the grass cut through thick wood that leads to his homestead. “Welcome to Penny” Matt chuckles, cutting the quiet, seeming to read our “what the hell have we gotten ourselves into” thoughts. Just getting to this place has been a resolve testing ordeal, rivalled only by Frodo`s march into Mordor. Privately I hope that our stay is much less eventful.

We have endeavoured to visit our friends Matt and Jenna in early November at their remote residence in central British Columbia. They bought the land and the century old heritage house occupying it about three years ago. Here there are no utilities, paved roads or stores. There are two options to get to their property, you can take a 1.5 hour 120km detour via the nearest bridge and pull up in your vehicle or you can park on the highway side of the river and take a boat across as we have. The closest neighbours are an off-road truck ride away and tucked neatly into the bush, far enough that you don’t know they are there but close enough to lend a hand pounding fence posts or to donate that missing ingredient for the muffins you are making. Despite its age, and having been relocated on a flatbed trailer at some point in its life, the house is remarkably sound and comfortable boasting a labyrinth of rooms and constructed of building materials with more character in the fasteners than in entire modern city homes. As I carry my suitcase up the steep hardwood stairs that squeal in protest to the ascent Jenna casually informs me that the previous owner’s husband expired in the very room they have prepared for me. How thoughtful of her. Despite this disquieting information, and dogs barking to ward off wildlife at 3am (probably black bears) I have the 3 best sleeps of my life here.  Amenities out here are scarce, everything we take for granted in 21^st century living is considered a luxury. For example Matt has recently installed a diesel powered generator and a bank of batteries to provide uninterrupted electricity for the absolute necessities such as a fridge and lights, although the breaker is switched off for the night to conserve precious power so you need a flashlight if you want your middle of the night piss to end up in the toilet. Heat is provided solely by the wood burning stove in the kitchen. There is running water, a new addition Matt plumbed in a year or so after moving in but it’s not suitable for human consumption unless boiled. For drinking water you must take a plastic jug and fetch some from “the creek” a few kilometres down the road that originates in the mountains that skirt the Fraser river valley from the north.

Chores and work occupy the bulk of our friend’s lives in this undomesticated landscape. We are told that the house and yard would be unrecognisable to the former owners should they decide to visit, a claim that is backed up by before and after photographic evidence. A few years of “blood, sweat and beers” as Matt puts it have transformed the place from post apocalyptic warzone to quaint mountain farmstead. In the yard a mesh buffalo fence has been erected to keep out marauding black bears, of which at least half a dozen have visited in the last year alone. While fishing from the argil banks of the Fraser that elbows a stone’s throw from the edge of their property Matt told me how one night he arrived here late from work and left his truck at the top of the road to continue on foot in order to avoid making ruts in the trail to his home that had turned to muck after many days of rain. At the start of his 1.5km walk along the path he heard howling wolves, which got progressively nearer until he made to the porch at which point they ceased. Here one only needs to step outside to get a true sense of the word “wild”.

Entertainment in this neck of the woods is focused much more on conversation than we are used to and the days seem much fuller and longer, in a satisfying way. In the failing light on our final night of the stay I found myself burning a heap of old cedar shingles that Matt ripped off the house himself. As we aroused the dying flames with garden rakes a blinding flash in the south west sky interrupted our idle chatter. Witness to what looked to be a large fragment of the sun streaking through the black atmosphere on a collision course with earth one wonders how many feral cosmic spectacles the city lights buffer us from; out here Matt just shrugs his shoulders, things that are extreme to me seem to be a regular occurrence to him.

Until this visit I considered living off the grid to be an existence that only extremist hippies or bomb building anitsocials would pursue. After spending 3 days without the mind numbing distractions of modern day life I have to admit that I see the virtue of this means, independent of infrastructure, self reliant and much less frightening. Autonomous of any city council rules and far removed from the clutter, chaos and disorganization of the urban environment that governs the lives of the average Albertan, being here seems more natural and fulfilling. I am proud of my friends for doing what most would consider unthinkable; slapping modern day convinces in the face by moving to a remote location to subsist with nature instead of institution.

In my early twenties I did time at the Red Deer Costco where I made the acquaintance of Wayne, a lanky loud mouthed 45 year old caucasian with unusually dark brown skin and the gnarliest case of gingivitis I have ever seen. Despite his grotesque appearance and irritating demeanor Wayne had character, and if you could appreciate this ripened rebel for what he was I guess you could say he was an alright guy. He didn’t have much money on account of his alcoholism, multi-pack a day smoking habit and vlt poker addiction. Due in no small part to these indiscretions his daily driver was a 1989 Nissan Micra.

Lady luck had finally shone on Wayne though, he had come into some money from a dead relative or something and I can’t recall the details. I do remember that he was squandering a good chunk of his inheritance on a new vehicle and was therefore unloading the Micra for the even-handed price of $200. I told my brother David that this was the opportunity of a lifetime and based on my advice he decided to buy Wayne’s car from him sight unseen. My mother drove David to the parking lot of MGM Ford to meet Wayne and the car on a Wednesday around 2pm, where they found him sitting curbside in the parking lot drinking a beer. Upon seeing my mother Wayne threw his half drunk beer into the open window of the Micra and into the backseat, a move that did not go unnoticed. After looking into the car and seeing that the floor was littered with a couple flats worth of empty beer cans and peppered with cigarette butts, and also noticing that the upholstery was filthier than a Thai brothel he told Wayne that he didn’t have the money because he wanted no part of the car. Not wanting to have the deal queered, Wayne told David that he trusted him and so he should just take the car now and pay him later. David, not wanting to offend Wayne, obliged and drove the little shit box home.

At the time I was 22 years of age and, like most unambitious youngsters was still leaching off my parents by squatting in their basement. I was relaxing in the living room sans pants when David pulled up to the house. I was ecstatic for him; nothing is more liberating than owning your first car. I bounded outside in my skivvies to congratulate him but as I neared I could tell he was morose about the whole transaction. He started explaining how gross the car was but before he finished his sentence I hopped in the driver’s seat and told him to get in because we had to bust the cherry on this bitch. As we drove out to the main drag (30^th ave in Red Deer) David was bringing me down, explaining all the reasons why he didn’t want the car. I knew from experience that reasoning and explaining things to David was like buying drinks for a lesbian. Luckily it was election time in Red Deer; I could show David why this car was cool instead of fumbling for words in an attempt to elucidate. As we turned onto the 4 lane street and began to accelerate, I could see that the side of the road ahead was beleaguered with campaign signs for the upcoming election, promoting withered faces and empty promises. Without hesitation I reefed the steering wheel, bouncing the car up and over the curb and onto the grass. The first few signs we struck were nothing to write home about, they folded easily under the front bumper. The last sign however was a very large one placed by the Alberta Alliance Party, erected with 2×4’s and was at least 6 feet high and wide. As the Micra punched through its supporting wooden legs in the center it slammed down onto the windshield but slid harmlessly up and over the roof and onto the ground behind us, thus casting my vote of non-confidence on the grassy ballot. Point proven I gently eased us back onto the road way, attempting to blend into traffic amongst stupefied motorists (thank god Wayne had neglected unregister the car or even remove his license plate. I took a few alleys to shake any tail I might have acquired due my electoral signage gaucherie then parked in front of my parent’s house. David, while enthusiastic about the potential fun he could have with the car was still unconvinced. He made it very clear he wanted no part of the car, being very young $200 was still $200.

The next day I solemnly took the car to work to return it, but as fate would have it Wayne had called in sick. While boxing thousands of groceries for thankless customer’s an idea came to me. I could smash the monotony of this day by forgoing food and instead using my lunch break to do a couple laps on a nearby dirt-bike track. I reasoned to myself that Wayne was the kind of guy who really wouldn’t care; he told me if my brother didn’t buy his car that it was probably going to the crusher anyways. At noon I clocked out and headed to retrieve the keys from my locker with a skip in my step as temptation had gotten the better of me. There I bumped into a cashier named Megan and asked her if she wanted to come long for a ride, I said nothing of our destination I only promised it would be memorable. As we headed for the warm glow of natural light filtering in through the front doors we encountered Windsley, a 50 Cent look alike new hire from Toronto who also readily accepted my mysterious invitation.

We piled into the little beater and steamed off towards the dirt bike jumps. As we transitioned from pavement onto the dirt path towards the track I could see my two fellow occupants grinning from ear to ear. For 10-15 mins we rounded steeply banked corners and floated over 5-6 foot high rollers as fast as the little old car could go, on the razors edge of control the whole time. There were a few people smoking in front of Westridge Cabinets which was right across the road, mouths agape as they watched the little Micra circuiting the track, kicking up brown clouds of dust in the heat waves of the afternoon. At approximately 12:25 Megan informed me that we should probably head back in order to be on time. Being an insatiable adrenaline junkie, never able to call it quits until I get that last big thrill I rounded the final corner in the circuit and brought the car to a stop. There was one great mound which we had not driven over and it lay about 400m ahead, between us and the road that lead back to Costco. I said “hold on, she has one more left in her” and gunned it towards the hill. We had only flat ground to cover which allowed me to build quite a lot of speed, on final approach we reached about 75kph as we neared the knoll, faster than I had been able to get going on any other part of the track. As usual I ignored the impulse to speed check and just went for it. The transition from level ground to jump looked gentle, but it was crafted for dirt bikes and not a car so at the rate we were traveling it caused the front suspension to compress harshly, slamming the front bumper into the compacted soil. That’s when I first sensed danger. Momentum then caused us to spurt up the jump like lotion being squeezed out of a tube with a plugged end. As we crested the rise it became apparent that this was no gentle roller like the rest at the track; this was a table top jump with a steep 10 ft drop on the backside, which I realized only as the engine began to over rev and I felt the car go weightless. Airborne, our trajectory just felt wrong, and it’s safe to day that we all experienced gravity like never before. The front of the car sank like a rock, changing the scene in the front window from sky to horizon to black soil at an alarming rate. The ride came to an abrupt halt as the front end of the car punched the earth at slightly better than 45 degrees digging in deeply. The impact was so hard I could taste it on the back of my tongue. Thank Christ I had my seatbelt on. We came to a dead stop, my head slamming into the steering wheel and ricocheting off into the roof. Megan, unbuckled, became intimate with the dash and then the windshield. Her glasses came to rest in my lap. Windsley, who was in the back seat unbelted as well got acquainted with the gear shift and then the center console finally coming to rest between the two of us in the front. In a thick haze of brown grit I asked if they were ok. They both moaned a “yeah, kind of” type answer. We were all covered in the garbage that had been strewn about the car and a fine coating of dirt. I had to climb out of the car through the window because the impact had permanently seized the door shut. As we brokenly made it out and milled around the crash site looking at the Micra in a daze we realized how lucky we were to be able to walk away. The font suspension had been totally crushed, the force of the crash shoving the front tires into the partially vacant engine compartment from the bottom. This renovation was only made possible because the engine had broken off its mounts and now protruded slightly from a dislodged hood. After a short time of reflection we three began the long limp back to the warehouse. Upon entering I went straight to the ATM by the door and withdrew $200 to put in Wayne’s locker, which I left with a note “here’s for the car, piece of shit already died on me”. We were all late and as I was scanning in a manger inquired as to the blood that was soaking the hair at the top of my head and dripping down the back of my neck.  I just shrugged and said I was in a car accident and was not questioned further. Neither of the other two had any cuts, just very sore necks and limbs and most likely bruises, I’m not sure because neither of them really spoke to me again that day, or for the remainder of my employment for that matter. It got weird.

I finished the final 4 hours of my shift in discomfort, the fog from the blunt force head trauma never fully clearing that day. I had to call my brother David to come pick me up from work as I had incapacitated my ride home. On the way I got him to stop by the moto-track and removed the license plate and VIN marker off the dash in hopes that this would be the last I heard of the Micra. The next day however I got a call at home from Wayne, apparently the police had found the car, checked the VIN on the engine block (that I didn’t know about) and assumed it was stolen. I’m not sure what Wayne told them because I never did hear anything from the fuzz, but he did tell me that he was being held responsible for a $200 towing bill and that the car was now in the scrap yard. He thought the situation was mildly humorous but was not happy about me brining police heat on him. The next time I saw him at work I offered to pay the tow bill but he refused once he got the whole story.

Authors Note: On July 22, 2010 while I was working downtown Calgary an event took place that affected me deeply. In the aftermath I felt like something needed to be said to the powers that be and so I sat down to write one of my typically righteous letters to Calgary Transit. Below is what came out instead.

Downtown Calgary July 22, 2010

Imagine you are five years old. It’s a dazzling sunny summer’s day. Through the shiny giant rectangles that stab incomprehensibly upwards you notice the sky is perfectly blue with gentle whisps of white cloud streaking eastward, to where you used to call home. You are excited and rambunctious; your grandparents have taken you and your sister downtown for the morning so your mother can attend a doctor’s appointment. The streets are noisy and busy; so many people and cars everywhere! You can feel the energy of the place and it electrifies you. All these new experiences titillate your sharp young senses. Suddenly you feel hungry; you know it must be lunch time. Sure enough Grandpa tells you its time to go home to eat and your heart skips a beat! You get to ride the C-train back home!

Grandpa is holding your hand as you walk up the platform ramp outside the mall but you see the train approaching and in a rush of sheer joy you wrench it free and sprint towards the first car to witness its arrival up close. As you near the fantastic white cube on shiny metal wheels you feel things go terribly wrong. Your balance is lost because the young limbs that carry you are lengthening everyday. Suddenly that familiar feeling of gravity calling you downwards registers in your little brain. You thrust your arms out in front to brace yourself, try to twist away from the metal in motion but it’s of no use. Your little body collides with the moving car and manages to slip in-between the sliver of space that people step over every day without a second thought. Everything in your vision tumbles impossibly as you are pushed and pulled by horrible forces like nothing you’ve experienced before. Abruptly everything is still and your mouth tastes very strange.

You feel no pain. The last thing you hear as your little world goes black is a horrible cacophony of women wailing and men shouting in a language you don’t even understand. The confusion of the awful scene scares you. Your last thought is that of yearning for your mother to pick you up in her arms and hold you tightly, like she did when you fell off your bike in the driveway.

Strangers leap from the platform and pull free the lifeless little rag doll from the cold metal undercarriage of the train and grope for the unmoving face. They feverishly perform CPR trying to rekindle the spark of life that has been lost but it’s of no use. Nothing could survive the kind of trauma that “42 tons of fast moving steel” can do to a human body, never mind one that is so young and fragile.

A man named Brian Whitelaw is going to tell reporters that unfortunately there aren’t any measures that could prevent such tragedies, but he is lying. Those words haunt him the next day as he sits at his cluttered desk filling out paperwork on this “unfortunate mishap”. He pauses mid pen stroke, glances out the window and mentally ponders exactly how much money it would cost to erect platform barriers like the ones they have in Beijing, Torino, Hong Kong, Las Vegas, London, Paris and Singapore. “Tens of millions” he mutters into his coffee mug and dismisses the thought with a gentle shake of his head, putting pen back to paper, resuming his work. Back to work, this is what everyone in Calgary did the next day, almost everyone.

If he could have been there with your mother that afternoon as she watched the unmarked navy blue Crown Victoria pull slowly up to the curb outside your home and come to a gentle stop. If he saw the two uniformed officer’s exit slowly and then gradually approach the house, one male with shoulders back, head up with a face of stone practicing his command presence training to keep the emotion at bay, the other female with a white face and clenched teeth unable to detach from the horrible burden of the news she is responsible to deliver. Your mother answers the door a little confused. If he could have seen her in the grip of complete paralysis as her brain tried in vain to comprehend the shock. It’s a thing from which she’ll never fully recover. Her baby, the baby she grew inside her body, fed, dressed, loved and taught for the last five years is gone forever. No goodbye, no last embrace, no closure. That smiling little face that she’ll never see again, the clothes no longer needed for the little boy who will never come home to wear them. The empty bed and room, the toys, it’s too much for her to bear.

If he could be in those dim rooms, on leather couches listening to councilors speaking gently to the passengers who were on that train. If he could be here with me now months later as I light a king-size cigarette, only to look down what feels like seconds later to see I’ve smoked it to the filter with no recollection of the rapture I was supposed to be feeling. I was thinking about you. If he was in these places maybe he would have given a little more thought to those measures, the ones that unfortunately “couldn’t” prevent such tragedies.

**Footnote: I posted this a year after I wrote it because the C-train continues to mangle human bodies while Calgary Transit refuses to do anything to improve safety. It’s straight up shameful.

I mean absolutely no disrespect to the family of that little boy in the writing and posting of this, quite the opposite. This kind of shit must not be swept under the rug and forgotten lest it happen to another.

Sources:

(Calgary Transit safety coordinator Brian Whitelaw said there is closed circuit footage of the incident that is being reviewed. He said the train appeared to be functioning properly, and added that, unfortunately, there aren’t any measures that could prevent such tragedies.)

http://www.metronews.ca/calgary/canada/article/560152–boy-killed-by-c-train-as-horrified-witnesses-look-on

(………to erect platform barriers like the ones they have in Beijing, Torino, Hong Kong, Las Vegas, London, Paris and Singapore.)

http://thetyee.ca/News/2008/11/18/SkyTrain/

(tens of millions)

http://thetyee.ca/News/2008/11/18/SkyTrain/

“42 tons of fast moving steel”

http://www.calgarytransit.com/html/safety_programs.html

from: XXXXXXXXX
to: jamiekulcsar@gmail.com
cc: XXXXXX.XXXXXX@rcmp-grc.gc.ca
date: Thu, Nov 11, 2010 at 11:43 PM
subject: File # XXXXXXX-XXXX-XX (Hwy 2 – Nov 11, 2010)
mailed-by gov.ab.ca

Hello Folks

So, if you could please write out a statement for me in the next couple of days and email it back (just replying to this email is fine) that would be great.

If you can provide any of the following details, please include them:

1. Location, date and time
2. Describe what happened in your own words. Please be as descriptive as possible.
3. Describe the driving pattern as best you can.
4. Describe the vehicle and driver as best you can, if you were able to see the license plate, please include it.
5. Can you confirm whether or not the vehicle that was stopped was the correct one?

If you have any further questions, please contact me by email, or at the phone number below.

XXXXX

***************************************************************

from: Jamie Kulcsar
to: XXXXX XXXX
cc: XXXXXX.XXXXXX@rcmp-grc.gc.ca
date: Tue, Nov 16, 2010 at 1:16 AM
subject: Re: File # XXXX-XXXXXXX (Hwy 2 – Nov 11, 2010)
mailed-by gmail.com hide details Nov 16

Hello Xxxxx,

Here is an account of what I witnessed:

Location, date and time

1. Southbound QE2 between the Carstairs overpass and the Esso service station by Crossfield, November 11, 2010 at approximately 8:40pm.

Describe what happened in your own words. Please be as descriptive as possible.

2. I was behind a white GMC Yukon (newest model) in the right hand lane of the QE2. Just before the overpass near the graveyard (I believe it is township road 285) the SUV abruptly slowed to 100kph. This annoyed me so I entered the fast lane. This is when I first noticed the (I think it was light blue) newer model GMC pickup truck ricocheting from shoulder to shoulder like stray bullets fired wildly from an AK-47 in an underground concrete parkade. My first thoughts were it was probably just some soccer mom texting so I proceeded to pass. As my car became parallel with the truck we entered the corner where the QE2 crosses under twp 285 and this is where the driver began to completely loose composure. I felt like Richard Petty passing Bobby Allison in the final lap of the Winston Cup Series as I was forced to take the shoulder to avoid trading paint or worse yet a potentially serious collision. At this point the truck was careening about the highway like a giant four wheeled ping pong ball of death.

Describe the driving pattern as best you can.

3. Haywire. Completely erratic and totally out of control. I was not surprised to learn the driver was highly intoxicated. The only other possible explanation could have been that the occupants of that vehicle were conducting an uncontrolled scientific auto-pilot steering system experiment for GM that involved the driver fending off a troop of knife wielding rhesus macaques that had been fed a combination of speed and LSD.

Describe the vehicle and driver as best you can, if you were able to see the license plate, please include it.

4. Newer model GMC pickup truck. I believe it was a crew cab short box and light blue in color. Unfortunately I did not see the license plate or driver as I was too busy narrowly escaping. It was a very tense moment. “Angel of Death” by Slayer was playing at maximum volume and I wanted to get home swiftly in order to play Mortal Kombat with a friend from Vietnam, having to stop and exchange insurance info would have been very inconvenient.

Can you confirm whether or not the vehicle that was stopped was the correct one?

5. I was directly in front of the truck when the unmarked white police cruiser pulled it over. The police absolutely 100% pulled over the correct vehicle. I kept a close watch in my rear view mirror, half expecting to see the truck perform a last minute inebriated evasive maneuver and go sailing off into a farmer’s field. I was astonished at the speed and efficiency with which the officers pulled that truck over…..in less than a few minutes from the time I phoned the incident in. The system works. I tip my hat to that officer, he or she handled that take down with such precision it almost seemed choreographed. It was incredible to witness.

If I can be of any other service I would be happy to help.

Jamie

******************************

from: Xxxxx Xxxx
to: Jamie Kulcsar
date: Wed, Nov 24, 2010 at 2:56 PM
subject: RE: File # XXXX-XXXXXX (Hwy 2 – Nov 11, 2010)
mailed-by gov.ab.ca hide details Nov 24 (12 days ago)

Jaime,

Is there any way that you could rework your statement so that it contains factual observations only?

Statements are not intended to be an exercise in creative writing; if you are called to give evidence in court the hyperbole and literary license you have taken in providing the details is going to be detrimental to securing a conviction against the accused.

Xxxxx

**********************

from: Jamie Kulcsar
to: Xxxxx Xxxx
date: Thu, Nov 25, 2010 at 9:40 AM
subject: Re: File # XXX-XXXXXX (Hwy 2 – Nov 11, 2010)
mailed-by gmail.com hide details Nov 25 (12 days ago)

Xxxxx,

Certainly. I have attached the wre-written statement.I apologize, I had a few the night I wrote that. Don’t worry I didnt drive anywhere

If there is anything else I can do please let me know,

Jamie

*********************

In 2010 I had an interview with the mighty oil company Shell for a position at their Scotford Upgrader north of Fort Saskatchewan.

I heard nothing from them in the way of a reply until two days ago when I received this email:

******

Dear Jamie,

Thank you for taking the time to attend your recent Shell interview. We hope you found the experience to be informative and rewarding.

Your qualifications and interests were carefully reviewed after the interview in relation to our current needs. We regret that at this time we are unable to offer you a suitable position.

We sincerely appreciate your interest in Shell and wish you the best of luck in the future.

Kind regards,

Shell Recruitment

******

This letter was from a representative I had not dealt with previously. Upon reading this wretched clap trap I deigned to shed some light on matters I would have otherwise let slide. I have omitted the names of certain HR personnel for obvious reasons. Here was my reply:

******

Dear Danielle,

Thank you for taking the time to copy and paste some prefabricated reprobate response into an email for me. Truthfully, as it is almost a month after the interview took place, I am surprised to receive any rejoinder from Shell at this point. As for the interview “experience”, it certainly was educational, although it was anything but rewarding.

So what did I learn? Big companies don’t always live up to their intricately crafted ultra-expensive polished corporate images. Here is why:

My interview was scheduled to begin at 12:00pm. I drove all the way from Red Deer and somehow managed to be on time, however, I cannot say the same for the four interviewers I was told would be there to greet me. I sat in that fire hall lobby for almost an hour wondering if I was the butt of some cruel practical joke.

Luckily the time passed relatively quickly as I was engrossed, eavesdropping on a very loud and impossible to ignore conversation taking place between two firemen and one police officer. I checked my watch often and shifted uncomfortably in an awful plastic chair as the trio regaled each other with tales of post-coital glory. One even went so far as to describe what it was like to perform cunnilingus on a menstruating woman, painting a horribly obscene mental picture upon the canvas of my mind, just the sort of thing I needed facing an impending interrogation.

When the young woman finally came out to accept me into conference my watch indicted 12:45pm. Thinking perhaps this was some sort of newfangled HR stratagem to test my commitment and resolve I played along. We commenced at 12:55pm after much stalling small talk, but to my surprise and her apologies she explained she was to be the only HR representative present. If this wasn’t strange enough about 20 minutes into the meeting a dressed down gentlemen interrupted the questioning by barging in unannounced and iced the crap cake. He was generally disorganized and unprofessional, at one point he even made a strange joke to which I was not privy and he and the young woman shared a hearty gauche chuckle. This mystery man was unshaven and exuded the unmistakable odor of stale whisky, if he was indeed a Shell employee I weep for the future of heavy oil production in the Fort Saskatchewan area.

I expected more in dealing with Shell. As a prospective employee I expected the echelon of professionalism. The way I was treated was more like an applicant for the position of concession worker at Riki Bobs Go-Kart Raceway & Mini Golf, not as a fully qualified and experienced Power Engineer being interviewed by the multi-national oil heavyweight Shell.

I was not given a fair shake in that interview, although I would not want to work for a mismanaged disjointed team of bezonian misfits such as yourselves anyways. I have lost any respect I had for Shell. I will never again purchase fuel from your company’s retail outlets nor will I any longer cheer for the Ferrari formula 1 team.

Please do not take this letter as some backwards attempt to garner further attention from your lackluster human resources department, I have secured employ with another large firm and look forward to sharing my sordid Shell experience with all of my co-workers, family and friends.

Yours truly,

Jamie Kulcsar

CC: Ferrari public relations

********

Tuesday May 11, 2010

I received a phone call today from a very apologetic and concerned Shell HR manager. In a great show of class they offered not only a formal apology and inquiry but also to pay for my expenses to Fort Saskatchewan including fuel and the Subway combo meal I consumed that afternoon. That’s more like it although I would have settled for nothing at all.

Getting deep with a Jackass: Steve-O comes to town

It’s hard to know what to expect from a man who routinely staples his scrotum to his leg as a stage gag. But Stephen Glover (or Steve-O as he’s more widely known) is not the jackass you’d expect. He’s surprisingly articulate and sharp-witted.

Jamie: Stand up is quite a leap from your usual antics, what inspired the cross over?
Steve-O: Last year I met Dane Cook. I told him I really wanted to get into it (stand up)…and he arranged for me to get onstage at the LA improv. After the show Dane and I sat down and he gave me notes and we did that again and again…it was crazy, Dane Cook really took me under his wing…which I’m really grateful for.

Jamie: What do you think you would have done with your life had it not been graced with fame?
Steve-O: When I dropped out of college it was because I couldn’t bring myself to go to class…so getting passing grades and holding down a job were two things I was just utterly incapable of. I channelled all my energy and effort into learning all kinds of stunts and tricks…Had nothing panned out for me, I would have turned into a top notch street bum. I would have been a street performer or busker, and I would have been all right with that.

Jamie: What’s the coolest place you’ve ever been?
Steve-O: Everywhere is different, but the place I would want to wind up is Canada. My mom was born in Canada, my dad was born in the States and I was born in England. So I have valid passports from all three countries. I can honestly say there is no possession I have that I cherish more than my Canadian passport. Americans are going to be begging to be allowed into Canada. America is going down the tubes in such a bad way … it’s important to me that I end up living in Canada.

Jamie: What can we expect from you in the future?
Steve-O: If I had to identify one goal for my future it would have to be being comfortable without having a career in show business. There will be a point where there won’t be any more movies or shows, and there is nothing left for me to do in show business. I have to be OK with that. In the past I never really contemplated life after my career. At the premiere for the second Jackass movie I felt like we would never be able to outdo what we had done in that movie, and there wouldn’t be any more movies, and I was peaking out. I thought after that the rest of my life was going to go on a downhill slide, just a depressing slide, and at that point I came unglued…I was not OK with existing separately from the Steve-O character. Over the last three years in my sobriety, I focused myself on establishing an identity aside from Steve-O. To sum things up, I would want to be OK with all this entertainment bullshit being over. I’ll continue to make a living at being silly for as long as I can get away with it, but only as long as I can be comfortable with life once all this is over.

No-one wants to publish this bad boy so I’ll do it myself:

Drinking with the Devil

From retail to restaurants, in this beleaguered economic climate it’s part of post secondary student life to step straight out of class and up to a punch clock.

Armed with this knowledge, a cunning and determined predator has been stalking our school grounds and targeting students.

The pitch is that over night they can turn you into some kind of campus juice king and all your money problems will be over. All you have to do is guzzle this fancy miracle drink made from Chinese Berries and “share” it with everyone you come into contact with.

Maybe you’ve heard the spiel, maybe you haven’t, but before you make a deal with these Rumpelstiltskins you should think long and hard about what you’re getting yourself into: the dark world of MLM.

Multi Level Marketing has destroyed more friendships and families than child pornography and unplanned pregnancy combined. The objective of every MLM executive is to engender dreams of easy money, turning your average student into a remorseless selling machine.

Let’s be honest here, we all hate salespeople. Granted, there are varying degrees of shittiness when speaking of the common salesperson, and it is admitable that some deserve to be eaten alive by lions slightly less than others. Not the MLM’er. The MLM’er is to business and sales as aid’s is to prostitution: the scourge of an otherwise gentle and decent industry.

The very tenet of the MLM “business” is to target and sell (they call it presenting the opportunity) everyone by any means necessary. Nothing is below them. When preying on your financial hopes and dreams doesn’t work they quickly shift gears to other emotions such as fear or even guilt to get you to “sign up” or buy whatever shoddy overpriced “specialty” juice/products they happen to be hawking. Here’s the kicker though: they say there is no sales involved. Instead they tell you that you are just presenting an “opportunity”. They are presenting an opportunity all right, the opportunity to alienate everyone who trusted and respected you or otherwise. The opportunity to become the lowest common financial denominator. The opportunity to piss away your hard earned dollars quicker than a recently widowed senior with a fat retirement fund at the Stoney Nakoda Casino.

My authority on this subject is unquestionable. I know first hand the scourge of MLM’ers in the family. Since about my 10^th birthday I have witnessed my parents “business meetings” in the living room of our family home and have heard the carefully crafted “presentations” from the likes of Amway, Melaleuca, Monavie, Glentel, Young Living, BiM, Vemma and a dozen other less memorable flash in the pan names. The paltry products change but the spiel is always the same. I have observed my parents pouring their hard earned dollars into these businesses with the hopes of striking it rich only to line the pockets of the master manipulators in her “upline”. There is a special spot in hell reserved for these people and its in-between Michael Jackson and Rodney Dangerfield. Clothing and consensual anal sex are not optional. At least the punishment fits the crime.

The hardest pill for the reasonably intelligent public to swallow is the whole “this is a new business concept” of MLM. Whether he realizes it or not, Paul Zane Pilzer lost all credibility as an economist when he deep throated the cock of MLM by publicly endorsing it as “the business of the future”. Before you buy into the bullshit hype, and without getting too technical ask yourself this: when the people in the “downline” make the people in the “upline” rich does that sound like a groundbreaking new business model? Of course not, that’s called division of labor in a capitalist economy. There is nothing different or new about the MLM concept. The few get rich from the efforts of many. Network marketing is just a fancy way of repackaging a job and selling it in a manner that makes you think it’s something else. That’s called deception, something jargon spewing network marketing executives like Kevin Trudeau (convicted of multiple MLM related felonies) are masters of. Why do the unfortunate souls that join fail to see this? Because they are the victims of master manipulators and con artists. If you want to find the best con men and women in this world, look no further than your nearest MLM organization. At least in a real business you know you are only there for a paycheck you don’t have this false hope that you’re going to score big.

Do yourself a favor. If you are on campus minding your own business and suddenly find yourself presented with a “business opportunity” that you can work from the comfort of your own home tell the scum merchant peddling it that you would rather spend life in a Turkish prison for crime you didn’t commit. When they ask why tell them at least you will die with your dignity intact.