Unsolved Mysteries

Yesterday we threw a retirement party/going away party for Tigger/Tenderfoot. Here’s a picture of some of the festivities:

It turns out that the celebrations may have been a bit premature, as Tiggs has decided to stick around a little bit longer. That’s okay, it just means we get to throw another party. It’s also good because I still haven’t found an official sidekick to replace him. And dang it, I’m going to need a sidekick soon, because mystery solving is hard! The cases are building up all around me. I still haven’t been able to crack the “Cat Crap Caper”, although I’ve narrowed it down to two suspects: Jazz, and my soon to be erstwhile sidekick. (Brief synopsis: cat crap keeps reappearing on the basement floor in the laundry room. Where’s it coming from?) And then there’s the “Secret of the Stinky Fridge”. I’m pretty close to getting to the bottom of this one, thanks to some heavy duty investigating yesterday afternoon. But I’m getting nowhere at all on “The Mystery of Eastlink’s Incompetence” and I’m starting to suspect that it will remain unsolved forever.

Candy Criminal

My trip to DC could have been worse. I could have been questioned by the FBI, and then been arrested for eating candy in a subway station.

That cinches it. Next time I'm in Washington, to hell with their tourist attractions, mass transit systems, and Hoover buildings. I'm just going to see if I can find Dischord records, make friends with Ian MacKaye, and hang out with some of the city's more respectable citizens.

Mysteries are Fun!

So far Tenderfoot and I have solved one case, “The Mystery of the Disappearing Lawnmower.” Late yesterday evening, Ms. Henderson discovered her lawnmower was missing from her back yard. After a thorough investigation, I discovered that her neighbor, Mr. Manley, had borrowed it to trim the patch of grass around his hydrangea a few days ago, and had forgotten to return it. Mr. Manley regretted the incident, and the lawnmower was returned to its proper place. Case closed.

And already we have a new mystery on our hands. It seems that Ms. Henderson’s parakeet Skip has gone missing. The most headscratchingest part of all is that it happened right when Tenderfoot was interviewing Skip this afternoon about the lawnmower. I can tell Tenderfoot feels really bad about the abduction occurring right under his nose, as he had absolutely no appetite for supper tonight. He just lay motionless on the couch all evening, a heavy feeling in his heart and/or stomach.

Move Over, Encyclopedia Brown

I've decided to devote my life to solving mysteries. Not necessarily crimes per se, but mysteries. Like, investigating haunted houses, finding out where the hidden pirates gold is. Of course inevitably there will be crimes to solve, and jewel thieves and pirates to bring to justice, but that won't be the main goal behind my investigatorial services. Nope. The main reason is that I really want to start smoking a pipe. That, and I figure it's as good a use as any for my exceptional nightshade nightvision.

I’ll need a sidekick. For the time being, my sidekick is going to be Tigger, or as his mystery solving name will be, “Tenderfoot”. He brings to the organization the ability to power a small city with his whining. I’m a little bit worried about the fact that Tigger is only one week away from retirement though. It means that I have to start accepting applications for a new sidekick immediately.

Requirements for the job are as follows: you must be smart, but not as smart as me. Good looking with a degree of sex appeal, but not as good looking or sexy as me (unless you’re a woman, in which case there is no restriction on sexiness). The ratio of times where I save your ass to times where you save my ass must be at least two to one. Must own a trenchcoat, because I don’t own one and I’ll need to borrow yours. Must be able to provide me with steady supply of pipe tobacco. Must be willing to do all the dirty unglamourous grunt work while I get all the glory. Must worship the ground I walk on. Must provide own transportation, as well as transportation for me. Preferably in some hot and insanely impractical British roadster. Please submit résumés in comments box below.

Come and Knock On My Door

This past week a friend of mine asked if she could move in to my place. I already have one roommate, and I wasn't really looking for a second, but I'm starting to think this could work out. But, we'd have to lay some ground rules.

For starters, I'd have to start making horny remarks around my roommates, and chase them around the living room in a playful manner. But in reality, I would never get anywhere with either roommate, and we'd all just be really good friends. I'd also get to date really hot women who I assume are attracted to me because I leave the top two or three buttons on my shirt undone. Oh, and I'd have to convince my landlord that I'm gay, because that's the only way he'd let me live with two women. That one's going to be tricky, since I'm the landlord and I already know I'm not gay. And pretty much every week, there would have to be some kind of misunderstanding caused by a partially overheard conversation that would generally resolve itself within half an hour.

On second thought, that sounds a bit too rediculous to work out. Anyway, I'm off to the neighborhood bar with my horny but oh-so-unlucky-in-love best friend. Hopefully I won't run into that woman who can never get enough sex while I'm there.

America's Most Wanted

Hearing that Yusuf Islam (aka Cat Stevens) was denied entry into the United States because of—uh, why was that again?—anyway, it got me thinking again about my recent run-in with the FBI and the possible ramifications if I ever try to cross the border again. I figure it’s a good idea to document it anyway, because it makes for a somewhat amusing story, and now if people ask, I can just say “read the blog” and not bore those who have already heard me recount it umpteen times. So here goes.

It was the August long weekend, and I was in DC visiting my friend Graham. It was the first (and now possibly only) time in Washington, and I felt like a kid in a candy store. Or more accurately, a really nerdy brainy kid in a museum gift shop. So many things to see and do! So much history! Politics! Corrupt rich bastards!

On Monday I had the day to myself as Graham had to work; apparently August civic holidays are a Canadian thing. We rock. I already made up my mind to see the much-recommended Holocaust Museum, but what to do in the afternoon? I checked Graham’s DC guide for some ideas. And that’s where I learned that the FBI Headquarters building offered one-hour tours to the public. See the FBI crime lab in action! And it concludes with a live firearms demonstration! What could possibly provide a better slice of American life and culture than seeing the inner workings of their federal police force and firing some guns off? Nothing! So off I went.

If you’ve watched your share of X-Files episodes, you know what the FBI J. Edgar Hoover building looks like. It’s a butt-ugly product of 60’s architectural design with a lot of different American flags hanging in front of it. And early Monday afternoon I was standing in front of it.

Standing and feeling completely disappointed. When I got to the entrance, I read the little sign announcing that the building was closed to the public until 2006. Aw crap.

Well, I should at least take a picture of it, I thought to myself. That way the walk up from the Holocaust museum about a mile away would not have been a complete bust. I pulled out my digital camera, took a quick snapshot, and started walking.

I started walking around to the side of the building and it occurred to me that I didn’t really know what to do, and I was starting to feel hungry. I sat down at the bottom of the steps leading up to a side entrance to the building, pulled out the DC guide and started looking for places to eat in the area. I settled on a promising Burmese restaurant, got up and continued walking.

I got to the corner of the building. Pay attention, because this is where things started to get silly. The parking attendant called to me. “Sir, you have a phone call.” Huh? “No really, someone wants to talk to you.”

I walk over and he hands me the phone. “Hello?” “Yes, please stay there, there’s an officer coming by to meet you.” This wasn’t sounding good. Yet for some reason I was trying to stifle a laugh. Because as ominous as it sounded, it also had a clear air of the ridiculous to it. “Does this have anything to do with me taking pictures of the building?” I ask the parking attendant. “What were you taking pictures of?” “Just the front of the building, the flags.” That was fine, he assured me. Besides, I thought to myself, there were other people taking snapshots as well.

Within a few minutes Officer Serious showed up. He didn’t look impressed. “Let’s see some ID.” I pulled out my passport and gave it to him. Will I ever get that back, I wondered to myself…

“When did you arrive in Washington?” Officer Stern asked. “How long are you here?” “What are you here for?” “Where are you headed now?” I answered all of Officer Nosy’s questions calmly and politely. But then came the curveball, when Office Suspicious asked, “What’s your address and phone number?” Did he want my home address and number, or my local contact information? “Both.”

I could remember Graham’s address, but I couldn’t recall his phone number. Fortunately Graham had written it down on a piece of paper along with some instructions on how to get to get around the Washington Mall area. I pulled out the paper.

“IS THAT A MAP?” Officer Alarmed asked me with a raised voice. “Yeah,” I tried to explain, “My friend drew it for me to help me find my way around. I also have one to get to the subway stop by his house,” I offered. Okay, this wasn’t looking good. I was being questioned by the FBI for reasons that I was as yet unaware, I’m a foreigner, and I was in possession of a hand-drawn map that highlights such things as the White House, the Capital Building, the Washington Monument…nope. Not good at all.

Officer Satisfied finally gave me back my maps and passport, and then asked “Do you know why I was questioning you?” Well frankly, no. “You were spotted acting suspiciously.” Huh? “I wanted to go on a tour of the FBI building but it’s closed to the public and so I took a picture and then I had to sit down to find someplace to eat” I blubbered. At this point Officer Unimpressed either didn’t by my story, or didn’t care. “It won’t happen again,” I promised. And I continued on my way to Washington’s teeny Chinatown to find that Burmese restaurant.

Of course, now I did start to act suspiciously. Not intentionally, it just kind of happened. For starters, I became convinced that the FBI put a tail on me. So at every intersection, I would turn around to see if I could spot anyone following me. I couldn’t. And then, the restaurant that I wanted to go to was closed until 4:30, meaning that I had to find somewhere else to eat. This made things kind of tricky, because I didn’t know which places were any good, and which places would give me food poisoning. I did much circling and doubling back before finally opting for this one place that had an advertisement assuring me that it was selected in some guide as being a place to eat food. I’m sure that if anyone was actually following me at that point, they were convinced that I was trying to lose them. Better call in reinforcements. I wonder how many satellite pictures they have of me on file from that day.

Then it dawned on me…what if they had been tracking me all weekend? I mean, I did make a brief stop at the Pentagon on the way down town a couple of days before (I figured, what the hell; it’s on the way, it’s a pretty well known landmark, why not see it up close and take a picture?), and then there’s that picture that I took of myself giving the finger to the White House. Thank God Officer Grumpypants didn’t confiscate my camera. There would have been some legitimately incriminating evidence on there. I could also be charged with taking pictures inside the Library of Congress in places where photography was forbidden.

So this brings me back to my original point. If Cat Stevens can be denied entry into the states for something as minor as his religion and the fact that he is outspoken against terrorism, I don’t stand a chance of ever being allowed back into the country. I am positive that my name is now in some massive FBI database (and if it’s true that the FBI and CIA now cooperate with each other, I’m in some massive CIA database as well) and if I ever try to cross the border, I’m sure I’ll be singled out, questioned, and be subjected to a body cavity search. And then I’ll be sent home with no chance of getting a refund on my airline ticket. Hopefully they don’t share their list of suspicious people with Canada. I’d have a lot of explaining to do to my boss.