Calling Mythbusters!

From a Discover interview, From Haitian Zombie Poison to Inuit Knives Made of Feces:

During the 1950s the Canadian government forced the Inuit into settlements. A family from Arctic Bay told me this fantastic story of their grandfather who refused to go. The family, fearful for his life, took away all of his tools and all of his implements, thinking that would force him into the settlement. But instead, he just slipped out of an igloo on a cold Arctic night, pulled down his caribou and sealskin trousers, and defecated into his hand. As the feces began to freeze, he shaped it into the form of an implement. And when the blade started to take shape, he put a spray of saliva along the leading edge to sharpen it.

The subject of the interview, Wade Davis - described as a "real-life Indiana Jones" - went on to say that the old man used the knife to butcher a dog, skin it, improvise a sled with the dog's rib cage, and harness another dog to the sled with the hide of the butchered dog, all for the purpose of disappearing into the night.

Upon reflection, it occurs to me that if the old man did indeed accomplish all this in an effort to skedaddle into the great white, how do his kinfolk know he did this?

I'm thinking this would make a... keen tale for Adam and Jamie to prove or disprove!

Cheers...

Falling behind, but not minding so much...

I've got some reworks that I wanted to split between today and tomorrow, but it's hard to work when your heart is not really in it and particularly so when interruptions come hot and heavy. I managed to get about half of what I had wanted to get done today, but had a fine time otherwise.

Galina and I went downtown to something described as a "Chili Cha Cha," but when we got there, quite literally the only thing there was to do was to get into one of about five long lines of people queuing up to pay money for food.

We left, but not before spying a dog that was every inch our old Max, except for the coat, which was very much like Shiloh's, which would make the animal we say a greyhound/Catahoula mix, or something along those lines. The dog's owner told us his pet was 12 years old and not as fast as it once was; how, back in the day, he would give mule deer a head start before letting the dog give chase.

Anyway, Galina and I ended up at a place called Tequila's, where the waiters call you amigo (which, for some reason, irritates me). The quesadillas, when they came, were huge and justified the rather grandiose price quoted for them in the menu.

On the way home, we picked up some groceries, and upon returning home, I decided to pressure can some of the Hatch chili peppers so that I could take some with me to New York (and - who knows? - perhaps on my next Kazakhstan campaign, about which rumors have started to circulate). The good news is that I managed to can about 8 pints; the bad news is that I'm not 100% sure I did the job right, which means the pints will stay in the fridge until they're ready to be used.

We went over to the kids' place for dinner, bringing along the steak, potatoes, and veggies (and a growler of Poor Richard's Ale), and a good time was had by all. Upon returning home, I decided I'd get a good night's sleep and then hit the reworks tomorrow morning with a double helping of that ol' grim determination.

Cheers...