I am running a little behind (pun intended) today, and came upon this song adaptation I wrote (a friend of mine in Ottawa was curious) a few years back (explanation below), and, in keeping with Jeff’s new position (pun intended) on As It Happens, I couldn’t resist a reprint. Not that I’d want to give you a bum steer or anything, which reminds me of the constipated accountant who couldn’t budget so he worked it out with a pencil. (So shoot me!)
~
I tuned in to the Discovery Channel yesterday as I sometimes do to watch Jeff Douglas on Things That Move. As interesting as I find the program, I generally pop by to see how Jeff is holding up these days. I haven't seen him in a while, but when we were neighbours, we (he and his wife and Mary and I) developed a sweet sort of friendship made up of visits and outings and parties and Christmas and dinners that occasionally included my children and some of his family as well. Typically I would be a little hesitant to bring up anything as personal as a man's parasites but, alas, I noted that Jeff mentioned this very thing on his show this week. Therefore, as a tribute to an old friend (why, he's practically my age -- lucky thirty-seven!), I offer up the following adaptation that I wrote for him at that time. It is based on the song I Am The Very Model of A Modern Major General from The Pirates of Penzance. Warning: this is not for the squeamish.
GENERAL:
I am the very model of a modern parasitical,
I've wormy things in swimming holes colonic and rectitical,
I hold my knees together to avoid squirtations vertical
Projectiles known to menace and at times to even hurt a girl.
I'm very well acquainted, too, with matters indigestible,
I understand emetics, both the languid and detestable,
Soft powders, tonics, liquid gels, and scopes that offer several views,
Pink purgatives a feature of the Annual Anal Fissure News.
ALL:
Pink purgatives a feature of the Annual Anal Fissure News.
Pink purgatives a feature of the Annual Anal Fissure News.
Pink purgatives a feature of the Annual Anal Fissure News.
GENERAL:
I'm very good at picking up varieties hermetical,
(A tapeworm from Columbia is more than just political)
In short, in matters vegetable, and animal, and mineral,
I am the very model of a modern parasitical.
ALL:
In short, in matters vegetable, and animal, and mineral,
He is the very model of a modern parasitical.
GENERAL:
I know the rationale behind the gourmand Puritanical;
Those bugless leaves of lettuce and clear water sanitanical,
I speak to crowds of thousands where I lecture on hygienia,
And grace the throngs with countless tales of Diet Schizophrenia,
I can tell undoubted Atkins from the Hellmanns and the Spiegelites,
I know the whole darn menu from the Cordon Bleu in Brooklyn Heights!
I dine in Buddhist restaurants divest of chemicals impure,
And never munch on anything the Pope himself would not insure.
ALL:
And never munch on anything the Pope himself would not insure.
And never munch on anything the Pope himself would not insure.
And never munch on anything the Pope himself would not insure.
GENERAL:
And I can say with guiltless ease I am a proud evacuant,
And tell you there is nothing here I want or need or should recant:
In short, in matters vegetable, and animal, and mineral,
I am the very model of a modern parasitical.
ALL:
In short, in matters vegetable, and animal, and mineral,
He is the very model of a modern parasitical.
GENERAL:
In fact, when I know what is meant by kaolin and im-pact-shun,
When I can tell at sight a specimenical infract-shee-un,
When I’m no longer sore surprised by angry diarrhea,
And when I know precisely what is meant by steatorrhea,
When I have learned what progress has been made in modern bowelry,
When I know more of bum bugs than grammarian of vowelry --
In short, when I've a smattering of colonary strategy,
You'll say a better parasite has never sat inside of me.
ALL:
You'll say a better parasite has never sat inside of me.
You'll say a better parasite has never sat inside of me.
You'll say a better parasite has never sat inside of me
GENERAL:
For my parasitic knowledge, though I'm learned and a devotee,
My sphincter scores being higher than the targeted trajectory;
But still, in matters vegetable, and animal, and mineral,
I am the very model of a modern parasitical.
ALL:
But still, in matters vegetable, and animal, and mineral,
He is the very model of a modern parasitical.
Adopted by Jennifer Coffey
Eliminated by Jeff Douglas
<:^)
Wednesday, June 29
Tuesday, June 28
Rob Ford Sticks It To The LGBTQ Community
Toronto mayor too busy meeting with Leafs GM to attend Pride event
PATRICK WHITE
From Tuesday's Globe and Mail
Published Monday, Jun. 27, 2011 1:25PM EDT
Last updated Monday, Jun. 27, 2011 10:05PM EDT
It seemed a political gimme: Walk a few short steps from his city hall office, say a few kind words about the country’s biggest gay pride festival and swiftly neutralize growing resentment over his seeming disregard for Toronto’s gay community.
Instead, Mayor Rob Ford further goaded critics who have labelled him a homophobe, snubbing a Pride Toronto flag-raising at Nathan Philips Square that turned unruly in his absence.
But anger over his non-attendance soon turned to bewilderment, as Mr. Ford revealed that he’d been too busy meeting with Toronto Maple Leafs general manager Brian Burke, one of Canada’s most prominent gay-rights supporters, to attend the event.
The no-show followed an admission last week that he would skip marching in the Pride parade – a mayoral custom for so long it’s considered part of the job description – to spend time at the Ford family cottage.
His absence was all the more notable for the presence of several rank-and-file conservatives, including former mayoral candidates John Tory and Rocco Rossi, along with councillors Karen Stintz, Michael Thompson and Cesar Palacio, proof that Pride has become neutral territory for politicians of all stripes.
“When you’re the mayor, you should attend,” said Mr. Tory, who expressed hope that Mr. Ford make up for his no-show by attending another Pride function over the coming week.
Wearing a Leafs jersey bearing his last name, the mayor appeared briefly outside his office to account for his absence, explaining that he’d been too busy meeting Mr. Burke, who marched in the Pride parade last year mere months after his openly gay son died in a car crash.
“I had prior commitments this morning,” Mr. Ford said. “I had a meeting, a very important meeting, as you know, with Mr. Burke and that’s pretty well it.”
Neither man would say if the pride flap came up during their meeting.
“I believe I am entitled to meet with the mayor of this city without divulging what we discussed,” Mr. Burke said. “I’m not an elected official.”
While Pride may not have been Mr. Ford’s priority on Monday, his absence soon took precedence for the 200 or so people in attendance at the ceremonial raising of the rainbow flag over city hall. The mayor’s stand-in, city council speaker Frances Nunziata, faced a chorus of jeers as she took the stage to read aloud a mayoral proclamation.
“Where’s the mayor, where’s the mayor?” some yelled. “Sit down, Frances, you’re an embarrassment. … We want the mayor … Where’s the mayor that was elected to represent the whole city, not just Etobicoke? … The mayor’s a homophobe.”
The crowd settled down only after Toronto’s only openly gay councillor, Kristyn Wong-Tam, asked for calm, a request that met with cheers loud enough to drown out the hecklers.
But the catcalls only amplified when Ms. Nunziata, sounding as if she were experiencing an existential crisis, began reading the proclamation: “… be it resolved I, Mayor Rob Ford … ”
The protesters eventually quieted their voices but not their sentiments.
“He doesn’t have the political savvy to know that a gesture like this would really ameliorate the problem he has caused by refusing to be part of the Pride parade,” one of the hecklers, Richard Warner, said. “If he had just come here today, it would have calmed things down and put out the fire a bit.”
His fellow protesters waved signs bearing such slogans as ‘You Can’t Hide From Us 4Eva, Respect LGBTQ Taxpayers.’ Another woman brandished a sign that read “I’m Not Here” and strutted about wearing a paper mask in Mr. Ford’s likeness and a large fake gut.
Following the ceremony, Ms. Nunziata said the catcalling didn’t faze her. “I accept bullying, I get that all the time as speaker of council,” she said. “I’m here, I’m representing the mayor, I’m representing the city of Toronto and that’s what matters.”
Ms. Wong-Tam doubted the mayor’s absence would overshadow the rest of the event while politely urging him to attend any other Pride festivities, which carry on until July 3.
“He’s got seven days to go,” she said. “Unless every minute of every hour is filled, I think the mayor can come in … even 10 minutes to drop in and say ‘greetings’ would be fine.”
For his part, the mayor didn’t rule out his attendance at a future Pride event, but didn’t exactly sound thrilled at the prospect.
“We’ll take it one day at a time,” he said. “I’m very busy.”
PATRICK WHITE
From Tuesday's Globe and Mail
Published Monday, Jun. 27, 2011 1:25PM EDT
Last updated Monday, Jun. 27, 2011 10:05PM EDT
It seemed a political gimme: Walk a few short steps from his city hall office, say a few kind words about the country’s biggest gay pride festival and swiftly neutralize growing resentment over his seeming disregard for Toronto’s gay community.
Instead, Mayor Rob Ford further goaded critics who have labelled him a homophobe, snubbing a Pride Toronto flag-raising at Nathan Philips Square that turned unruly in his absence.
But anger over his non-attendance soon turned to bewilderment, as Mr. Ford revealed that he’d been too busy meeting with Toronto Maple Leafs general manager Brian Burke, one of Canada’s most prominent gay-rights supporters, to attend the event.
The no-show followed an admission last week that he would skip marching in the Pride parade – a mayoral custom for so long it’s considered part of the job description – to spend time at the Ford family cottage.
His absence was all the more notable for the presence of several rank-and-file conservatives, including former mayoral candidates John Tory and Rocco Rossi, along with councillors Karen Stintz, Michael Thompson and Cesar Palacio, proof that Pride has become neutral territory for politicians of all stripes.
“When you’re the mayor, you should attend,” said Mr. Tory, who expressed hope that Mr. Ford make up for his no-show by attending another Pride function over the coming week.
Wearing a Leafs jersey bearing his last name, the mayor appeared briefly outside his office to account for his absence, explaining that he’d been too busy meeting Mr. Burke, who marched in the Pride parade last year mere months after his openly gay son died in a car crash.
“I had prior commitments this morning,” Mr. Ford said. “I had a meeting, a very important meeting, as you know, with Mr. Burke and that’s pretty well it.”
Neither man would say if the pride flap came up during their meeting.
“I believe I am entitled to meet with the mayor of this city without divulging what we discussed,” Mr. Burke said. “I’m not an elected official.”
While Pride may not have been Mr. Ford’s priority on Monday, his absence soon took precedence for the 200 or so people in attendance at the ceremonial raising of the rainbow flag over city hall. The mayor’s stand-in, city council speaker Frances Nunziata, faced a chorus of jeers as she took the stage to read aloud a mayoral proclamation.
“Where’s the mayor, where’s the mayor?” some yelled. “Sit down, Frances, you’re an embarrassment. … We want the mayor … Where’s the mayor that was elected to represent the whole city, not just Etobicoke? … The mayor’s a homophobe.”
The crowd settled down only after Toronto’s only openly gay councillor, Kristyn Wong-Tam, asked for calm, a request that met with cheers loud enough to drown out the hecklers.
But the catcalls only amplified when Ms. Nunziata, sounding as if she were experiencing an existential crisis, began reading the proclamation: “… be it resolved I, Mayor Rob Ford … ”
The protesters eventually quieted their voices but not their sentiments.
“He doesn’t have the political savvy to know that a gesture like this would really ameliorate the problem he has caused by refusing to be part of the Pride parade,” one of the hecklers, Richard Warner, said. “If he had just come here today, it would have calmed things down and put out the fire a bit.”
His fellow protesters waved signs bearing such slogans as ‘You Can’t Hide From Us 4Eva, Respect LGBTQ Taxpayers.’ Another woman brandished a sign that read “I’m Not Here” and strutted about wearing a paper mask in Mr. Ford’s likeness and a large fake gut.
Following the ceremony, Ms. Nunziata said the catcalling didn’t faze her. “I accept bullying, I get that all the time as speaker of council,” she said. “I’m here, I’m representing the mayor, I’m representing the city of Toronto and that’s what matters.”
Ms. Wong-Tam doubted the mayor’s absence would overshadow the rest of the event while politely urging him to attend any other Pride festivities, which carry on until July 3.
“He’s got seven days to go,” she said. “Unless every minute of every hour is filled, I think the mayor can come in … even 10 minutes to drop in and say ‘greetings’ would be fine.”
For his part, the mayor didn’t rule out his attendance at a future Pride event, but didn’t exactly sound thrilled at the prospect.
“We’ll take it one day at a time,” he said. “I’m very busy.”
 |
| Proudly photographed by Jennifer Coffey Toronto Pride Parade 2007 |
Sunday, June 26
Sink or Swim?
Well, it’s that time of the year again when even fat ladies need to buy their swimsuits. I remember the sainted words of an old friend, who told me four years ago when I bought my last one – “That thing’s gonna get eaten up by chorine in about nine weeks.” Well, she was right (give or take three years).
So it was with a sad face that I stared at the worn patches in my zebra suit, which was designed for chubby girls, the stripes effectively slanted in keeping with the two-toned effect of this sweet black-and-white bathing number.
I had no option but to resign myself to another search, an inevitable half-day spent in that bamboo change room staring in the mirror at my thick, wattle-like thighs, my cellulite smiling back, the svelte sales girl chirping on the other side of the door, “Do you need a larger size?”
While we were walking toward the swimsuit store – aptly named Seychelles Swimwear – I glanced across the street and stared at three people who were on their way into Corpus Christi Catholic Church, an architectural stunner.
Half a glimpse was all I needed to determine that I was looking at the mother and father of the bride + guest. The parents, as I would expect in this case, seemed nervous...he moving a few paces ahead of his wife, tugging on his coat sleeves like an anxious boy, as they neared the open church doors.
I am not sure how to describe the surge of emotion I felt – panic, envy, worry, anxiousness, cynicism, and delight melding into an outburst of, “She must be the mother, because otherwise she shouldn’t be wearing white, although she’s in great shape for her age, and look how much more nervous they seem than that woman lingering behind them – oh, I love her dress...that orange is such a pretty colour – and oh my God, a Catholic wedding, don’t they go on forever? Good thing it isn’t a hot day.”
So in they went and on we walked up and into the swimsuit store where, in no more than a miraculous forty-five minutes, I stood there wrestling with a final double winning choice: another zebra-style black-and-white and a lovely suit patterned with black and purple-blue swirls. “Sarah would like this one better,” I said, purple having been her favourite colour, “although she would like the other one, too.”
Let’s face it. At my age and girth, what constitutes a perfect bathing outfit is one that doesn’t elicit finger pointing and jeers as I stroll along the pool’s edge. I was never a rollicking beauty to begin with and, mostly, all I want to do now is not scare (and perhaps inadvertently drown) innocent children. Anyway, I’ll leave it to your colourful imagination to decide which bathing suit I chose, but I will tell you this:
As we emerged from the store, I looked across the street and, this time, I noticed people coming out of the church. I could tell by the absent suit jackets and the lively bounce in their steps that the service was already over. An elegant white car waited out front for the happy couple, who must have been lingering inside thanking their guests, and a small part of me wondered, “How long will this last?”
Just as soon as I had this thought, a memory leapt into my head: grade seven at Riverside Public School, Mr. Carey’s class rapt in Frank Stockton’s short story, “The Lady, or the Tiger?”
I stood still, momentarily puzzled, my purchase clutched in my hand, staring over at the churchyard. Fifty/fifty odds, I said to myself. Hit or miss. Hit or Miss. Lady – or the tiger.
And then, looking back at my purchase and Iaughing out loud, “Oh,” I said. “It’s really all the same thing.” And back toward the open doors, still no couple emerging. “Sink or swim?” I said. “Sink or swim.”
She sells Seychelles down by the seashore...
So it was with a sad face that I stared at the worn patches in my zebra suit, which was designed for chubby girls, the stripes effectively slanted in keeping with the two-toned effect of this sweet black-and-white bathing number.
I had no option but to resign myself to another search, an inevitable half-day spent in that bamboo change room staring in the mirror at my thick, wattle-like thighs, my cellulite smiling back, the svelte sales girl chirping on the other side of the door, “Do you need a larger size?”
While we were walking toward the swimsuit store – aptly named Seychelles Swimwear – I glanced across the street and stared at three people who were on their way into Corpus Christi Catholic Church, an architectural stunner.
Half a glimpse was all I needed to determine that I was looking at the mother and father of the bride + guest. The parents, as I would expect in this case, seemed nervous...he moving a few paces ahead of his wife, tugging on his coat sleeves like an anxious boy, as they neared the open church doors.
I am not sure how to describe the surge of emotion I felt – panic, envy, worry, anxiousness, cynicism, and delight melding into an outburst of, “She must be the mother, because otherwise she shouldn’t be wearing white, although she’s in great shape for her age, and look how much more nervous they seem than that woman lingering behind them – oh, I love her dress...that orange is such a pretty colour – and oh my God, a Catholic wedding, don’t they go on forever? Good thing it isn’t a hot day.”
So in they went and on we walked up and into the swimsuit store where, in no more than a miraculous forty-five minutes, I stood there wrestling with a final double winning choice: another zebra-style black-and-white and a lovely suit patterned with black and purple-blue swirls. “Sarah would like this one better,” I said, purple having been her favourite colour, “although she would like the other one, too.”
Let’s face it. At my age and girth, what constitutes a perfect bathing outfit is one that doesn’t elicit finger pointing and jeers as I stroll along the pool’s edge. I was never a rollicking beauty to begin with and, mostly, all I want to do now is not scare (and perhaps inadvertently drown) innocent children. Anyway, I’ll leave it to your colourful imagination to decide which bathing suit I chose, but I will tell you this:
As we emerged from the store, I looked across the street and, this time, I noticed people coming out of the church. I could tell by the absent suit jackets and the lively bounce in their steps that the service was already over. An elegant white car waited out front for the happy couple, who must have been lingering inside thanking their guests, and a small part of me wondered, “How long will this last?”
Just as soon as I had this thought, a memory leapt into my head: grade seven at Riverside Public School, Mr. Carey’s class rapt in Frank Stockton’s short story, “The Lady, or the Tiger?”
I stood still, momentarily puzzled, my purchase clutched in my hand, staring over at the churchyard. Fifty/fifty odds, I said to myself. Hit or miss. Hit or Miss. Lady – or the tiger.
And then, looking back at my purchase and Iaughing out loud, “Oh,” I said. “It’s really all the same thing.” And back toward the open doors, still no couple emerging. “Sink or swim?” I said. “Sink or swim.”
She sells Seychelles down by the seashore...
Friday, June 24
House Hunters
Where’s that gun – the one I need to shoot myself with?
Trying to get away from the give-away shows (Ellen and Oprah for example, who seem to find unlimited donors of houses, cars, trips, televisions, baby furniture – it’s too much, especially when I consider that ordinary game show prizes and prize winners make me cry), I landed on House Hunters. At least here people are paying for their fantasies and, while I am happy for them, I am not left sobbing into my t-shirt over their great fortune as if it were my own.
Where to begin?
First off, the arguing couples were enough to make a person (me) scream at the television.
“I want.”
“I don’t want.”
“Why do your parents need a room? They don’t live here.”
“There is only one bathroom sink. I wanted Jack and Jills.”
“The closets might fit all your clothes, but what about mine?”
“But you said we could have granite countertops.”
Worse than the bickering are the newlyweds, clinging onto one another like fresh leeches on succulent skin, oohing and cooing in nauseating rapture, light teasing and subtle sarcasm aiming toward inevitable torturous futures.
More distressing are the expectant parents, who keep describing themselves as “we” who are pregnant. Since when could men get pregnant? Since when did they walk around swollen to the size of a zeppelin, stretch marks wrapped around their bodies like an overworked game of snakes and ladders; feet no longer visible from a standing position; nights spent scurrying to the bathroom to empty their overfull bladders in time?
As if this isn’t all bad enough, I kept hearing more cute couple language that must have crept into our language when I wasn’t looking.
For example, I listened to a man today use the phrase “man cave” (and his desire to have one) so many times I wanted to find a shovel and dig him one. Sadly, I am afraid our society is over-run by men and women who have read Men Are From Mars... and have fallen for the ridiculously simplistic presumption that this sexist theory is one that all couples subscribe to. As the show went on, I kept imagining a philosophizing Plato, aged hands pressed over large ears, a tiny droplet of blood trickling from his nose.
Ultimately, I decided to wait for the next program, hoping this would be better. I had just spent an hour hearing about pregnant men, cavemen, and, I almost forgot, a woman who said “bad chi” so many times I began throwing salt over my shoulder. How could it be worse than this?
Well, let me tell you how.
Four times within the first fifteen minutes I heard this: “Grow our family.” GROW OUR FAMILY. They wanted to grow their family. With what, I asked myself? Water and plant fertilizer? In a test tube? With magic beans? What in the world does that mean? How far will people go to find cute and coy; to remove themselves, in fact, from the real responsibility of birthing and raising a family – because this is what this co-opted language means/demeans.
Oh my God. Bad chi? I’ll show you bad chi!
And house hunters? More like cave dwellers – where it seems to me these Neanderthals belong.
I shook my head and I reached for the channel changer. Anything would have to be better that this – even an episode of the Secret Millionaire.
Jack and Jill went up the hill to fetch a pail of water/Jack fell down and broke his crown/And Jill came tumbling after.
Trying to get away from the give-away shows (Ellen and Oprah for example, who seem to find unlimited donors of houses, cars, trips, televisions, baby furniture – it’s too much, especially when I consider that ordinary game show prizes and prize winners make me cry), I landed on House Hunters. At least here people are paying for their fantasies and, while I am happy for them, I am not left sobbing into my t-shirt over their great fortune as if it were my own.
Where to begin?
First off, the arguing couples were enough to make a person (me) scream at the television.
“I want.”
“I don’t want.”
“Why do your parents need a room? They don’t live here.”
“There is only one bathroom sink. I wanted Jack and Jills.”
“The closets might fit all your clothes, but what about mine?”
“But you said we could have granite countertops.”
Worse than the bickering are the newlyweds, clinging onto one another like fresh leeches on succulent skin, oohing and cooing in nauseating rapture, light teasing and subtle sarcasm aiming toward inevitable torturous futures.
More distressing are the expectant parents, who keep describing themselves as “we” who are pregnant. Since when could men get pregnant? Since when did they walk around swollen to the size of a zeppelin, stretch marks wrapped around their bodies like an overworked game of snakes and ladders; feet no longer visible from a standing position; nights spent scurrying to the bathroom to empty their overfull bladders in time?
As if this isn’t all bad enough, I kept hearing more cute couple language that must have crept into our language when I wasn’t looking.
For example, I listened to a man today use the phrase “man cave” (and his desire to have one) so many times I wanted to find a shovel and dig him one. Sadly, I am afraid our society is over-run by men and women who have read Men Are From Mars... and have fallen for the ridiculously simplistic presumption that this sexist theory is one that all couples subscribe to. As the show went on, I kept imagining a philosophizing Plato, aged hands pressed over large ears, a tiny droplet of blood trickling from his nose.
Ultimately, I decided to wait for the next program, hoping this would be better. I had just spent an hour hearing about pregnant men, cavemen, and, I almost forgot, a woman who said “bad chi” so many times I began throwing salt over my shoulder. How could it be worse than this?
Well, let me tell you how.
Four times within the first fifteen minutes I heard this: “Grow our family.” GROW OUR FAMILY. They wanted to grow their family. With what, I asked myself? Water and plant fertilizer? In a test tube? With magic beans? What in the world does that mean? How far will people go to find cute and coy; to remove themselves, in fact, from the real responsibility of birthing and raising a family – because this is what this co-opted language means/demeans.
Oh my God. Bad chi? I’ll show you bad chi!
And house hunters? More like cave dwellers – where it seems to me these Neanderthals belong.
I shook my head and I reached for the channel changer. Anything would have to be better that this – even an episode of the Secret Millionaire.
Jack and Jill went up the hill to fetch a pail of water/Jack fell down and broke his crown/And Jill came tumbling after.
Thursday, June 23
Letting Go
When a person is immersed in grief, it is impossible to ignore what used to seem minor. Little things become big things, big things become bigger.
Sometimes you have to let go of people you once cared for – still care for in some ways, perhaps – except that you have come to understand that they, without malice, are simply not up to the task of remembering, let alone caring in deep-rooted ways. (Do I have that the wrong way around? I always have trouble with this, the same way I wrestled for most of my life with syllogisms.)
It is difficult not to feel the magnification of this new casualty, falling as it does so quickly on the heels of a primary loss. More, I suppose, who are any of us to decide who should care in the ways that we care when people we know have lost loved ones?
To be sure, I am not alone in these feelings. I talked with hundreds of Ottawa patients who, in that small confessional, revealed so much of their lives and what had been painful. I already knew, too – because of my big-hearted mother and my incapable father – where people’s capacities lay.
But just as little things become big things and big things become bigger, what once might have felt everyday-small now feels enormous.
Two days ago I was sitting on the front porch cutting flowers when our neighbour, Rich, came up the walkway. He asked me how I was, and I told him “not so great.” Without a second’s hesitation he hopped the railing and leapt up onto the porch, where he then sat down and had a chat with me. We talked a bit about Sarah and Lainey, shared excitement about his upcoming wedding, and aired grievances about household repairs. He rescued the remainder of my day.
Yesterday, when I opened my email box, I found a giant-sized colourful “HUGS” from Lesley, one of Sarah’s best friends, a young woman who has been relentless, sending thoughtful and funny email, making my days and nights seem almost bearable. She reminds me over and over again – because of who she is, and because she relays stories – of Sarah, which feels like something of a miracle.
Last weekend, Crystal and Sean came from Ottawa and stayed overnight, Crystal and I sitting on that same porch, talking until almost dawn. Their company, kindnesses and conversation were uplifting, and I knew that while a young daughter was gone others lived on in her memory.
After dinner last night, I received a message from one of the book club ladies – a busy woman who has made efforts that have stretched far beyond the meaning of ordinary giving; someone who so clearly understands what it means, how life feels, to be here among the walking dead.
And this morning, my constant friend Sheila made me laugh so hard I almost wet my pants.
So for any of you who are reading this because you are sad and learning to live with grief, I hope it might be helpful, as it has been for me, to remember that letting go is a many-sided concept.
While on the one hand it might be more prudent to let some people slip away (mourning leaves no room for reminders) there is also wisdom in keeping all of those other people safe in your heart – the ones who leap fences, send you hugs, let you know that they understand; the ones who will not leave you alone in your grief; the friends who make you laugh.
Through them, the dead live on and breathe. With them, you, and life, go on.
Sometimes you have to let go of people you once cared for – still care for in some ways, perhaps – except that you have come to understand that they, without malice, are simply not up to the task of remembering, let alone caring in deep-rooted ways. (Do I have that the wrong way around? I always have trouble with this, the same way I wrestled for most of my life with syllogisms.)
It is difficult not to feel the magnification of this new casualty, falling as it does so quickly on the heels of a primary loss. More, I suppose, who are any of us to decide who should care in the ways that we care when people we know have lost loved ones?
To be sure, I am not alone in these feelings. I talked with hundreds of Ottawa patients who, in that small confessional, revealed so much of their lives and what had been painful. I already knew, too – because of my big-hearted mother and my incapable father – where people’s capacities lay.
But just as little things become big things and big things become bigger, what once might have felt everyday-small now feels enormous.
Two days ago I was sitting on the front porch cutting flowers when our neighbour, Rich, came up the walkway. He asked me how I was, and I told him “not so great.” Without a second’s hesitation he hopped the railing and leapt up onto the porch, where he then sat down and had a chat with me. We talked a bit about Sarah and Lainey, shared excitement about his upcoming wedding, and aired grievances about household repairs. He rescued the remainder of my day.
Yesterday, when I opened my email box, I found a giant-sized colourful “HUGS” from Lesley, one of Sarah’s best friends, a young woman who has been relentless, sending thoughtful and funny email, making my days and nights seem almost bearable. She reminds me over and over again – because of who she is, and because she relays stories – of Sarah, which feels like something of a miracle.
Last weekend, Crystal and Sean came from Ottawa and stayed overnight, Crystal and I sitting on that same porch, talking until almost dawn. Their company, kindnesses and conversation were uplifting, and I knew that while a young daughter was gone others lived on in her memory.
After dinner last night, I received a message from one of the book club ladies – a busy woman who has made efforts that have stretched far beyond the meaning of ordinary giving; someone who so clearly understands what it means, how life feels, to be here among the walking dead.
And this morning, my constant friend Sheila made me laugh so hard I almost wet my pants.
So for any of you who are reading this because you are sad and learning to live with grief, I hope it might be helpful, as it has been for me, to remember that letting go is a many-sided concept.
While on the one hand it might be more prudent to let some people slip away (mourning leaves no room for reminders) there is also wisdom in keeping all of those other people safe in your heart – the ones who leap fences, send you hugs, let you know that they understand; the ones who will not leave you alone in your grief; the friends who make you laugh.
Through them, the dead live on and breathe. With them, you, and life, go on.
Wednesday, June 22
Here Without Sarah
Here without Sarah, some days are so bad that it is all I can do to wake up, get up, and, if I have to, speak.
So going to do groceries was extremely challenging because I wanted to get through the store without coming into contact with a single human being, which is, of course, impossible.
On my way to the store, the speeding cars made me want to pull my hair out. Oom zoom zoom they roared, careening through school zones, past crowded streetcars and on through amber-red stoplights, oblivious of children, slow-moving pets and all other vehicles. The engine noises rattled my brain. By the time I pulled into the parking lot I had a headache.
In the store, I found myself glaring back (yes, I checked, and she really was glaring at other people) at a sample giver (what is their official title? I don’t know); frustrated with the interfering man in the coffee aisle whose bean grinding took longer than Steve Martin’s in Dead Men Don’t Wear Plaid; annoyed with the woman standing behind me at the check-out counter who was, in my head, rushing to put her things onto the belt; irritated with the man ahead of me for looking so carefree, and absolutely grrrrrrry with the young check-out woman because she was not paying any attention to what she was supposed to be doing.
So ticked with her was I that I intended to ask her whether she really disliked her job or was she merely having a bad day.
But then something happened.
She picked up my first items – three bundles of flowers I had bought for the book club dinner, holding each of them to her nose, closing her eyes and smiling rapturously. When she opened her eyes, she looked at me and beamed. “I love flowers,” she said.
I smiled back at her. “I can tell. Perhaps you would enjoy being a florist.”
She told me how she wished the store manager would transfer her to the flower section, and then she explained that she had grown up in Turkey, and described her grandmother’s garden there. “It was filled with the same kinds of flowers you chose,” she said. “It was so beautiful.”
I asked her if she missed Turkey, and she said that yes, she did. And then I asked her if she liked living in Toronto. She said that her parents love living here and that she does, too, but maybe someday she would go back.
“Maybe you’ll meet a man who will take you back,” I said, and she could tell I was half-teasing.
I then talked about the students I have taught who are from Turkey. I laughed and said that the women were lovely – exceptionally warm and hard-working – but oh, the men – they had trouble adjusting to a woman telling them how to do anything.
The check-out girl laughed out loud.
“They all come around,” I said. “You know, I think they are secretly looking for a mother.”
She laughed louder. “I think you’re right,” she said.
On my way home, I was annoyed all over again with the occupants of two cars who seemed to be having a drag race down Gerrard. But when I pulled up behind them and saw them chattering and laughing, my anger evaporated.
Losing Sarah is the hardest thing I have ever done. Many people in my life have died or disappeared (which is essentially the same thing), but nothing, except Don’s death and the loss of my mum, comes even minutely close to this, and Sarah’s death looms largest of all – not only because she died so recently and so young, but because the brightest light in my life has gone, and will forever stay, out. There will be no more phone calls, bingo games, cottage trips, or swims in the pond; no more sitting on the front porch making fun of people (gotcha!) and no more plans.
So when I see a sweet young woman with painted fingernails and a great hair style close her eyes and smell the little daisies, I remember my young daughter who is gone and, as unsparingly sad as this is, I also remember that somewhere this check-out girl has a mother who loves her, and a little part of me feels grateful and strangely relieved.
So going to do groceries was extremely challenging because I wanted to get through the store without coming into contact with a single human being, which is, of course, impossible.
On my way to the store, the speeding cars made me want to pull my hair out. Oom zoom zoom they roared, careening through school zones, past crowded streetcars and on through amber-red stoplights, oblivious of children, slow-moving pets and all other vehicles. The engine noises rattled my brain. By the time I pulled into the parking lot I had a headache.
In the store, I found myself glaring back (yes, I checked, and she really was glaring at other people) at a sample giver (what is their official title? I don’t know); frustrated with the interfering man in the coffee aisle whose bean grinding took longer than Steve Martin’s in Dead Men Don’t Wear Plaid; annoyed with the woman standing behind me at the check-out counter who was, in my head, rushing to put her things onto the belt; irritated with the man ahead of me for looking so carefree, and absolutely grrrrrrry with the young check-out woman because she was not paying any attention to what she was supposed to be doing.
So ticked with her was I that I intended to ask her whether she really disliked her job or was she merely having a bad day.
But then something happened.
She picked up my first items – three bundles of flowers I had bought for the book club dinner, holding each of them to her nose, closing her eyes and smiling rapturously. When she opened her eyes, she looked at me and beamed. “I love flowers,” she said.
I smiled back at her. “I can tell. Perhaps you would enjoy being a florist.”
She told me how she wished the store manager would transfer her to the flower section, and then she explained that she had grown up in Turkey, and described her grandmother’s garden there. “It was filled with the same kinds of flowers you chose,” she said. “It was so beautiful.”
I asked her if she missed Turkey, and she said that yes, she did. And then I asked her if she liked living in Toronto. She said that her parents love living here and that she does, too, but maybe someday she would go back.
“Maybe you’ll meet a man who will take you back,” I said, and she could tell I was half-teasing.
I then talked about the students I have taught who are from Turkey. I laughed and said that the women were lovely – exceptionally warm and hard-working – but oh, the men – they had trouble adjusting to a woman telling them how to do anything.
The check-out girl laughed out loud.
“They all come around,” I said. “You know, I think they are secretly looking for a mother.”
She laughed louder. “I think you’re right,” she said.
On my way home, I was annoyed all over again with the occupants of two cars who seemed to be having a drag race down Gerrard. But when I pulled up behind them and saw them chattering and laughing, my anger evaporated.
Losing Sarah is the hardest thing I have ever done. Many people in my life have died or disappeared (which is essentially the same thing), but nothing, except Don’s death and the loss of my mum, comes even minutely close to this, and Sarah’s death looms largest of all – not only because she died so recently and so young, but because the brightest light in my life has gone, and will forever stay, out. There will be no more phone calls, bingo games, cottage trips, or swims in the pond; no more sitting on the front porch making fun of people (gotcha!) and no more plans.
So when I see a sweet young woman with painted fingernails and a great hair style close her eyes and smell the little daisies, I remember my young daughter who is gone and, as unsparingly sad as this is, I also remember that somewhere this check-out girl has a mother who loves her, and a little part of me feels grateful and strangely relieved.
Tuesday, June 21
And The Beat Goes On
Oh my God, the grannies are back, the two most artificial young women on television, which is going some when you consider what’s on TV nowadays.
Plastic surgery mama and her lofty cohort – their combined age is barely sixty – and not ten minutes into the show and there she is, Tracey Tre, mimicking the #1 Ladies’ Detective Agency with her ridiculous, condescending “Mma” and the “love you baby girl” and the “mad flavour” and the “sick” and on and on and on. Somebody bring me a gun so I can shoot myself. Tonight she actually pronounced, “I may be queen of urban dance here...” and no one batted an eye. Self-congratulations seem to go a long way in modern dance.
It also seems that as soon as a wide-screen (even my narrow screen feels too wide tonight) personality realizes she is under scrutiny all she has to do is fund a charity (big or small) and clasp her hands in a wisely, ministerial manner and all is dandy on the dance floor.
And I say this knowing how patently pretentious much of the on- and off-camera dance world seems to be.
Cheese.
Only in Canada.
*
In other news, Roger Ebert continues to attract attention because of his comment about Ryan Dunn. Although it feels too soon to so many, I wonder if I might have stopped hopping into Danny Bernard’s car sooner if someone like Ebert had called me up short.
If I could even count as high as the number of PEI graduates who lost their lives in late May...
*
Kirstie Alley was on The View this morning looking fabulous at sixty. SIXTY. All on her own. While not even once throughout her stint on DWTS did she utter Mma or mad flavour, she did give/return a steamy Max kiss, which seemed to make her blush in hindsight today. [Awkward phrasing, but you know what I mean...I think.]
*
Also on The View this morning, a soft-spoken, leggy Liv Tyler waxed sweetly on her father, Steven Tyler, who seems to have won the hearts of millions of American Idol viewers with his humour, quietly direct commentary and sex appeal. Count me among his fans.
*
Finally in today’s [albeit brief] news, I am making headlines because I have actual plans to haul myself up and DO something. I am headed out to the grocery store after I shower – they were so nice last week at the Gerrard/Victoria Park Loblaws, and they have everything (the Leslieville Loblaws is deplorable, no fewer than a dozen staff members whispering the same thing to me in past months) – and then I am going to clean (at least part of) this house in preparation for dinner with the book club women tomorrow evening, most of whom – maybe all of whom – couldn’t give a rat’s bum about the state of this house or really anyone’s house, or so it seems to me.
No matter, my mother would be spinning around in voodoo circles if she knew I had not prepared properly. Maybe I’ll throw on a few dance tunes while I’m at it and imagine my mum calling out to me in approval – “I love you baby girl!”
“Run, run, run as fast as you can – you can’t catch me, I’m the stinky cheese man!” Jon Scieszka
Plastic surgery mama and her lofty cohort – their combined age is barely sixty – and not ten minutes into the show and there she is, Tracey Tre, mimicking the #1 Ladies’ Detective Agency with her ridiculous, condescending “Mma” and the “love you baby girl” and the “mad flavour” and the “sick” and on and on and on. Somebody bring me a gun so I can shoot myself. Tonight she actually pronounced, “I may be queen of urban dance here...” and no one batted an eye. Self-congratulations seem to go a long way in modern dance.
It also seems that as soon as a wide-screen (even my narrow screen feels too wide tonight) personality realizes she is under scrutiny all she has to do is fund a charity (big or small) and clasp her hands in a wisely, ministerial manner and all is dandy on the dance floor.
And I say this knowing how patently pretentious much of the on- and off-camera dance world seems to be.
Cheese.
Only in Canada.
*
In other news, Roger Ebert continues to attract attention because of his comment about Ryan Dunn. Although it feels too soon to so many, I wonder if I might have stopped hopping into Danny Bernard’s car sooner if someone like Ebert had called me up short.
If I could even count as high as the number of PEI graduates who lost their lives in late May...
*
Kirstie Alley was on The View this morning looking fabulous at sixty. SIXTY. All on her own. While not even once throughout her stint on DWTS did she utter Mma or mad flavour, she did give/return a steamy Max kiss, which seemed to make her blush in hindsight today. [Awkward phrasing, but you know what I mean...I think.]
*
Also on The View this morning, a soft-spoken, leggy Liv Tyler waxed sweetly on her father, Steven Tyler, who seems to have won the hearts of millions of American Idol viewers with his humour, quietly direct commentary and sex appeal. Count me among his fans.
*
Finally in today’s [albeit brief] news, I am making headlines because I have actual plans to haul myself up and DO something. I am headed out to the grocery store after I shower – they were so nice last week at the Gerrard/Victoria Park Loblaws, and they have everything (the Leslieville Loblaws is deplorable, no fewer than a dozen staff members whispering the same thing to me in past months) – and then I am going to clean (at least part of) this house in preparation for dinner with the book club women tomorrow evening, most of whom – maybe all of whom – couldn’t give a rat’s bum about the state of this house or really anyone’s house, or so it seems to me.
No matter, my mother would be spinning around in voodoo circles if she knew I had not prepared properly. Maybe I’ll throw on a few dance tunes while I’m at it and imagine my mum calling out to me in approval – “I love you baby girl!”
“Run, run, run as fast as you can – you can’t catch me, I’m the stinky cheese man!” Jon Scieszka
Monday, June 20
In the News
There are so many things I want to write about today.
• Jeanette Winterson, who we saw at the Toronto Reference and Research Library on Friday, and who was so utterly engaging, not only because she quotes from among my favourite poets but also because she wears black jeans and looks and seems so much like my friend Sheila and is smart in a way that is attractive and because her mother was a little shall we say off and oh my God – she (Jeanette, not her mum) is too funny (although her mum might have been funny, too, but that wasn’t my take on things) – and largely because she redeemed herself after running away from Mary twenty-five years ago (or so) at Harbourfront.
• That silly woman who got caught while riding New York City transit mouthing off about being educated and who was later posted all over the Internet and has since been vilified in a way that makes her detractors seem like monsters – oh the name calling...about her, about her sex life, about her character and her lack of character, about her father and his lack of character; the explicit details of her identity and her current-as-of-last-week-but-apparently-no-longer place of employment, along with all of her past jobs, and how she is no longer working, no longer on Facebook, no longer on Twitter, no longer on MySpace, no longer anywhere except maybe in hiding. And I thought – how hideous. It is one thing to be reactionary, as she clearly was, but it is another entirely to be vindictive. I am shocked by the Big Brother is Watching You aspect of this story; horrified by the vitriol that people were not only spewing about this woman they do not know but also about their comments regarding, for one example, the “fat black bitch” (the transit employee) who told her off.
• Ryan Dunn, of Jackass fame, who died tragically, and, reportedly, drunk, behind the wheel of his Porsche. There but for the grace... I don’t know how many times I got into Danny Bernard’s car on a Saturday night following an evening of heavy drinking and on our way to Burger King, the two of us so plastered that neither of us remembered what we ate, let alone going there. (Or do I mean that the other way around?) Anyway, Dunn’s death is a sorry shame. What I also find shameful are the journalists who have been reporting the accident this way: “Both Ryan and another person were killed.” Does the other person have a name?
• Midnight in Paris, which is crying for another review (ha!) and what I loved about it – I cannot believe I am saying this about that alleged pedophile’s movie...that I went at all – and what I did not love about it, including a dreadfully awkward performance by Rachel McAdams and a slightly better but not best performance by Kathy Bates, against the stellar Owen Wilson, who seemed to evoke both a young Charles Grodin and Jimmy Stewart (only twice losing me to that annoyingly derivative Allen echoing) and the lovely Marion Cotillard...the two of them waltzing through the magic of another era (to say more would be wrongfully revealing). The intention of the plot was, nevertheless, exclusive – I knew this right off by the movie audience, who seemed more Cumberland-driven than Varsity, except for that sweet couple who sat in front of us...he had the most beatific smile, and her dress was adorable (yes, how shallow am I? which might account for my being there in the first place) – and I am guessing that many of the film’s characters would not be known by most people under the age of forty. The biggest thrill for prurient me was the actress who looked uncannily like Mia Farrow looked thirty-five or so years ago, but I’ll say no more on that.
Anyway, there were so many things I wanted to write about today but couldn’t because last night on the porch one glass of wine turned into I don’t know how many and I haven’t the head for any of this today. Mostly all I can do is try to remain relatively still, although every now and then I feel compelled to yell out “Iceberg ahead!” and “Man overboard!” When I stop tilting, I must try and figure out what that all means.
• Jeanette Winterson, who we saw at the Toronto Reference and Research Library on Friday, and who was so utterly engaging, not only because she quotes from among my favourite poets but also because she wears black jeans and looks and seems so much like my friend Sheila and is smart in a way that is attractive and because her mother was a little shall we say off and oh my God – she (Jeanette, not her mum) is too funny (although her mum might have been funny, too, but that wasn’t my take on things) – and largely because she redeemed herself after running away from Mary twenty-five years ago (or so) at Harbourfront.
• That silly woman who got caught while riding New York City transit mouthing off about being educated and who was later posted all over the Internet and has since been vilified in a way that makes her detractors seem like monsters – oh the name calling...about her, about her sex life, about her character and her lack of character, about her father and his lack of character; the explicit details of her identity and her current-as-of-last-week-but-apparently-no-longer place of employment, along with all of her past jobs, and how she is no longer working, no longer on Facebook, no longer on Twitter, no longer on MySpace, no longer anywhere except maybe in hiding. And I thought – how hideous. It is one thing to be reactionary, as she clearly was, but it is another entirely to be vindictive. I am shocked by the Big Brother is Watching You aspect of this story; horrified by the vitriol that people were not only spewing about this woman they do not know but also about their comments regarding, for one example, the “fat black bitch” (the transit employee) who told her off.
• Ryan Dunn, of Jackass fame, who died tragically, and, reportedly, drunk, behind the wheel of his Porsche. There but for the grace... I don’t know how many times I got into Danny Bernard’s car on a Saturday night following an evening of heavy drinking and on our way to Burger King, the two of us so plastered that neither of us remembered what we ate, let alone going there. (Or do I mean that the other way around?) Anyway, Dunn’s death is a sorry shame. What I also find shameful are the journalists who have been reporting the accident this way: “Both Ryan and another person were killed.” Does the other person have a name?
• Midnight in Paris, which is crying for another review (ha!) and what I loved about it – I cannot believe I am saying this about that alleged pedophile’s movie...that I went at all – and what I did not love about it, including a dreadfully awkward performance by Rachel McAdams and a slightly better but not best performance by Kathy Bates, against the stellar Owen Wilson, who seemed to evoke both a young Charles Grodin and Jimmy Stewart (only twice losing me to that annoyingly derivative Allen echoing) and the lovely Marion Cotillard...the two of them waltzing through the magic of another era (to say more would be wrongfully revealing). The intention of the plot was, nevertheless, exclusive – I knew this right off by the movie audience, who seemed more Cumberland-driven than Varsity, except for that sweet couple who sat in front of us...he had the most beatific smile, and her dress was adorable (yes, how shallow am I? which might account for my being there in the first place) – and I am guessing that many of the film’s characters would not be known by most people under the age of forty. The biggest thrill for prurient me was the actress who looked uncannily like Mia Farrow looked thirty-five or so years ago, but I’ll say no more on that.
Anyway, there were so many things I wanted to write about today but couldn’t because last night on the porch one glass of wine turned into I don’t know how many and I haven’t the head for any of this today. Mostly all I can do is try to remain relatively still, although every now and then I feel compelled to yell out “Iceberg ahead!” and “Man overboard!” When I stop tilting, I must try and figure out what that all means.
Friday, June 17
The Thief of Time
Deferral, deflection, depression, diversion, distraction – let’s face it: they all add up to the same thing: procrastination, that thief who comes regardless of big and little clock hand positions; seasons; age; race; political proclivities; holidays; skin colour; talent; desire or capability.
And I am its sufferer, its longstanding servant, its obedient slave: a sitter, a lingerer, a lie-er and liar; a false promiser of things yet to come.
I didn’t intend for it to be so. I had no idea that once the work-a-day whip was laid down, I would never get back up again. (Well, that’s an exaggeration, but closer to the truth than I care to examine.) I wasn’t meaning to put an imprint so large into this bed that I too often need a crane to hoist me forward in the morning.
I imagined – mistakenly – that if I put things off, if I didn’t leap into action 18 hours a day, then the world would slow down; that not only would there be time to smell the roses, but that I would actually bend over and sniff (forgive the unsavoury image); that bad things couldn’t happen, or at least not happen as radically as they did in childhood.
There are worse ways to spend a life, of course.
For example, I might never leave my post except to eat. I might opt out of bathing, laundry, bed-making; cat petting; dish washing; occasional dusting, and flossing – occupations that were still intact as of Wednesday afternoon.
Furthermore, while I sit here, putting off time, I pick up useful bits of information I would have surely otherwise missed:
Urban Decay eyebrow pencils, with their array of vibrant colours, dry in 30 seconds, and are smudge- and tear-proof.
Cromwell was cruel (miserly, mostly) when it came to Christmas celebrations. Who knew?
Fabulous videos are hidden within terrific websites sent to me by friends: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FcUi6UEQh00
Carson Kressley’s flight was rerouted yesterday through Peoria.
Tatum and Ryan O’Neal have a reality show. Oh boy, which I say despite and because I feel for her especially, poor baby girl.
You see what I mean.
So while the rest of you are out there discovering cures for pestilence; hammering away at car engines; sweeping the busy streets; analyzing the political economy; fashioning veneers; tending to the psychologically ill (oh wait...); directing films; teaching samba lessons...I will be here absorbing, ruminating, smiling at cats, buffing my nails and coming to indispensable conclusions, such as,
This room could use a ceiling fan.
I’d rather be a sparrow than a snail, yes I would, if I could, I surely would/ I’d rather be a hammer than a nail, yes I would, if I could, I surely would/ Away, I’d rather sail away like a swan that’s here and gone/A man grows older every day/It gives the world its saddest sound, its saddest sound.
Yes I would, if I could...I really would.
Simon & Garfunkel
And I am its sufferer, its longstanding servant, its obedient slave: a sitter, a lingerer, a lie-er and liar; a false promiser of things yet to come.
I didn’t intend for it to be so. I had no idea that once the work-a-day whip was laid down, I would never get back up again. (Well, that’s an exaggeration, but closer to the truth than I care to examine.) I wasn’t meaning to put an imprint so large into this bed that I too often need a crane to hoist me forward in the morning.
I imagined – mistakenly – that if I put things off, if I didn’t leap into action 18 hours a day, then the world would slow down; that not only would there be time to smell the roses, but that I would actually bend over and sniff (forgive the unsavoury image); that bad things couldn’t happen, or at least not happen as radically as they did in childhood.
There are worse ways to spend a life, of course.
For example, I might never leave my post except to eat. I might opt out of bathing, laundry, bed-making; cat petting; dish washing; occasional dusting, and flossing – occupations that were still intact as of Wednesday afternoon.
Furthermore, while I sit here, putting off time, I pick up useful bits of information I would have surely otherwise missed:
Urban Decay eyebrow pencils, with their array of vibrant colours, dry in 30 seconds, and are smudge- and tear-proof.
Cromwell was cruel (miserly, mostly) when it came to Christmas celebrations. Who knew?
Fabulous videos are hidden within terrific websites sent to me by friends: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FcUi6UEQh00
Carson Kressley’s flight was rerouted yesterday through Peoria.
Tatum and Ryan O’Neal have a reality show. Oh boy, which I say despite and because I feel for her especially, poor baby girl.
You see what I mean.
So while the rest of you are out there discovering cures for pestilence; hammering away at car engines; sweeping the busy streets; analyzing the political economy; fashioning veneers; tending to the psychologically ill (oh wait...); directing films; teaching samba lessons...I will be here absorbing, ruminating, smiling at cats, buffing my nails and coming to indispensable conclusions, such as,
This room could use a ceiling fan.
I’d rather be a sparrow than a snail, yes I would, if I could, I surely would/ I’d rather be a hammer than a nail, yes I would, if I could, I surely would/ Away, I’d rather sail away like a swan that’s here and gone/A man grows older every day/It gives the world its saddest sound, its saddest sound.
Yes I would, if I could...I really would.
Simon & Garfunkel
Thursday, June 16
Burlesque: Review by Robert Levin
I am propped here on the bed OD’ing on Pepsi, KitKat chocolate and Digestive cookies, committed to a blog entry written only by me. I thought that this time, as I sit here half-watching Burlesque (2010), I would surely find something rollicking to say, given that there is simply too much to laugh at in this movie. (Imagine if I were fully engaged. Alas, Mahjong Tiles is proving increasingly more intriguing.)
In fact, when the film’s opening chords began rumbling into my consciousness, I actually had to stop playing the game for ten seconds to stare hard at the television, Cher’s voice coming as it was from some several hundred miles beneath her layers and layers of plastic surgery (this alone makes the movie a must-see), mesmerizing even the cats. I have never seen anything like it. I mean, at least Joan Rivers can still smile. Sort of.
Anyway, as I perused the Internet scanning for reviews (Rotten Tomatoes and Roger Ebert, which is less perusing than double clicking, I suppose), a link to Robert Levin caught my eye. [I have to stop here for twelve seconds and credit Dominic Corry for this brilliant bit of commentary: “The alarmingly plastic surgery-ified Cher, with her face looking like a condom stretched over a beach umbrella, gives a performance here as the club owner that's not so much 'still' as 'immobile'.”]
Unkind as this/I might seem to be, I find all of the Botoxing, peeling, and facial cutting and pasting beyond deplorable – the worst sort of message for young boys/men and girls/women who are wondering why growing old gracefully is no longer on the American agenda.
So here is to Robert Levin’s review, which saves me the task of finding new ways to critique a film that, while undoubtedly horrible, is nevertheless cartoonishly captivating and yet not worth the half-hour or so it would have taken me to say so.
~
Burlesque tells the unique, riveting tale of a small-town girl with big dreams, who hops off a bus in Hollywood and ascends to stardom. Centered on a burlesque themed nightclub, in which our protagonist finds a mentor and faces off with a rival as she claws her way to the top, the movie breaks bold new cinematic ground and will surely live on in the hearts and minds of all those who see it.
Oh, who am I kidding? In fact, this dreary compilation of abysmal dialogue, stodgy directing and lots of plastic (Christina Aguilera’s acting, Cher’s face) is a tough sit, a brain dead construct that trades in absurd clichés and obvious stereotypes. Showgirls comes to mind, though at least that infamous flop prominently featured Joe Ezterhas’ sleazy nuttiness.
Burlesque is Showgirls without the show, a restrained, sanitized piece that functions as nothing more than a vehicle for what a character played by Kristen Bell calls Aguilera’s “mutant lungs.” An extended montage centered on performances of such standards as “Diamonds are a Girl’s Best Friend” and bland “making it in Hollywood” snippets, the movie’s sole entertainment value lies in its explosions of bad dialogue and broadly telegraphed “drama.”
This is the kind of movie in which characters actually say things like, “Remember all those times I held your hair back as you vomited everything but your memories.” It’s the kind of movie in which the protagonist arrives at a fancy Hollywood Hills mansion, looks out at a view of the city below and says “That’s the most beautiful view of L.A. I’ve ever seen.” Or, one character applies makeup to another, the latter turns, looks at her reflection and exclaims, “Wow.” No line is too sloppy and no dramatic conceit too overwrought for writer-director Steve Antin.
Aguilera’s Ali tramples over everyone she meets on her brazen quest to the top of the club’s food chain. Remarkably, dominating a seedy, financially insolvent nightclub appears to have been her goal in making the trek out west, as she never expresses the slightest interest in advancing her career past that point. Earnest to the point of supreme irritation, filled with repellent moxie, she grows more and more unlikable as the picture rolls on, before reaching the apex of her detestability: receiving fancy, gold encrusted shoes as a gift and responding with grotesque, unrestrained glee.
The movie works best during the few minutes Aguilera is not onscreen, though the primary source of intrigue is the fact that Cher’s face doesn’t really move when she talks. The Oscar winner is 64 and doesn’t look a day over 30, but she speaks as if her mouth were crammed with marbles and her visage frozen shut. Stanley Tucci does the gay assistant thing as best he can, though he’s fallen a long way from the last time he practiced his shtick — in the offices of Miranda Priestly, for the infinitely better ladder-climber story The Devil Wears Prada.
Burlesque is the clunker of the holiday season, an egocentric demo reel of halfhearted faux-old-fashioned images of Aguilera crooning those mutant lungs out in various states of undress. There’s no discernible atmosphere, no broader sense of the rhythms of life outside the club and no subtlety applied to the backstage conflicts. The characters are largely despicable, the production design grim and cluttered, the cinematography overly flashy, applying the much-chagrined MTV aesthetic to the oldest, most tired tale in the book.
Other than that, it’s a winner!
The Upside: You’ll definitely laugh at Burlesque. You might even laugh at it enough that you have a grand time watching it.
Downside: It’s torturous nonsense, in most every way.
On the Side: The movie is Christina Aguilera’s first starring role, and probably her last.
GRADE: D+
Robert Levin
In fact, when the film’s opening chords began rumbling into my consciousness, I actually had to stop playing the game for ten seconds to stare hard at the television, Cher’s voice coming as it was from some several hundred miles beneath her layers and layers of plastic surgery (this alone makes the movie a must-see), mesmerizing even the cats. I have never seen anything like it. I mean, at least Joan Rivers can still smile. Sort of.
Anyway, as I perused the Internet scanning for reviews (Rotten Tomatoes and Roger Ebert, which is less perusing than double clicking, I suppose), a link to Robert Levin caught my eye. [I have to stop here for twelve seconds and credit Dominic Corry for this brilliant bit of commentary: “The alarmingly plastic surgery-ified Cher, with her face looking like a condom stretched over a beach umbrella, gives a performance here as the club owner that's not so much 'still' as 'immobile'.”]
Unkind as this/I might seem to be, I find all of the Botoxing, peeling, and facial cutting and pasting beyond deplorable – the worst sort of message for young boys/men and girls/women who are wondering why growing old gracefully is no longer on the American agenda.
So here is to Robert Levin’s review, which saves me the task of finding new ways to critique a film that, while undoubtedly horrible, is nevertheless cartoonishly captivating and yet not worth the half-hour or so it would have taken me to say so.
~
Burlesque tells the unique, riveting tale of a small-town girl with big dreams, who hops off a bus in Hollywood and ascends to stardom. Centered on a burlesque themed nightclub, in which our protagonist finds a mentor and faces off with a rival as she claws her way to the top, the movie breaks bold new cinematic ground and will surely live on in the hearts and minds of all those who see it.
Oh, who am I kidding? In fact, this dreary compilation of abysmal dialogue, stodgy directing and lots of plastic (Christina Aguilera’s acting, Cher’s face) is a tough sit, a brain dead construct that trades in absurd clichés and obvious stereotypes. Showgirls comes to mind, though at least that infamous flop prominently featured Joe Ezterhas’ sleazy nuttiness.
Burlesque is Showgirls without the show, a restrained, sanitized piece that functions as nothing more than a vehicle for what a character played by Kristen Bell calls Aguilera’s “mutant lungs.” An extended montage centered on performances of such standards as “Diamonds are a Girl’s Best Friend” and bland “making it in Hollywood” snippets, the movie’s sole entertainment value lies in its explosions of bad dialogue and broadly telegraphed “drama.”
This is the kind of movie in which characters actually say things like, “Remember all those times I held your hair back as you vomited everything but your memories.” It’s the kind of movie in which the protagonist arrives at a fancy Hollywood Hills mansion, looks out at a view of the city below and says “That’s the most beautiful view of L.A. I’ve ever seen.” Or, one character applies makeup to another, the latter turns, looks at her reflection and exclaims, “Wow.” No line is too sloppy and no dramatic conceit too overwrought for writer-director Steve Antin.
Aguilera’s Ali tramples over everyone she meets on her brazen quest to the top of the club’s food chain. Remarkably, dominating a seedy, financially insolvent nightclub appears to have been her goal in making the trek out west, as she never expresses the slightest interest in advancing her career past that point. Earnest to the point of supreme irritation, filled with repellent moxie, she grows more and more unlikable as the picture rolls on, before reaching the apex of her detestability: receiving fancy, gold encrusted shoes as a gift and responding with grotesque, unrestrained glee.
The movie works best during the few minutes Aguilera is not onscreen, though the primary source of intrigue is the fact that Cher’s face doesn’t really move when she talks. The Oscar winner is 64 and doesn’t look a day over 30, but she speaks as if her mouth were crammed with marbles and her visage frozen shut. Stanley Tucci does the gay assistant thing as best he can, though he’s fallen a long way from the last time he practiced his shtick — in the offices of Miranda Priestly, for the infinitely better ladder-climber story The Devil Wears Prada.
Burlesque is the clunker of the holiday season, an egocentric demo reel of halfhearted faux-old-fashioned images of Aguilera crooning those mutant lungs out in various states of undress. There’s no discernible atmosphere, no broader sense of the rhythms of life outside the club and no subtlety applied to the backstage conflicts. The characters are largely despicable, the production design grim and cluttered, the cinematography overly flashy, applying the much-chagrined MTV aesthetic to the oldest, most tired tale in the book.
Other than that, it’s a winner!
The Upside: You’ll definitely laugh at Burlesque. You might even laugh at it enough that you have a grand time watching it.
Downside: It’s torturous nonsense, in most every way.
On the Side: The movie is Christina Aguilera’s first starring role, and probably her last.
GRADE: D+
Robert Levin
Wednesday, June 15
Rob Ford: Man of Integrity
Rob Ford's missing expenses raise questions about day-to-day spending
JOHN LORINC
From Wednesday's Globe and Mail
Published Tuesday, Jun. 14, 2011 9:33PM EDT
Last updated Wednesday, Jun. 15, 2011 9:32AM EDT
As a conspicuously frugal Etobicoke councillor, Rob Ford made a very public point about spending almost none of his office budget and paying some of his office expenses using his own personal funds. A staunch critic of councillors’ spending habits, Mr. Ford used his own website to publicize embarrassing invoices submitted by other politicians, obtained through access to information requests.
More related to this story
• Ford's election van at heart of audit discussion http://www.theglobeandmail.com/news/national/toronto/forensic-review-of-fords-election-expenses-urged/article2049095/
• Ford wants court to delay review of his campaign expenses http://www.theglobeandmail.com/news/national/toronto/ford-wants-court-to-delay-review-of-his-campaign-expenses/article2040612/
In his current position, Mr. Ford has continued his crusade to slash discretionary spending by municipal politicians, and he claims to have spent just $1,718.46 for mayor’s office expenses for the first quarter of 2011.
But a Globe and Mail investigation of the mayor’s office budget indicates clear gaps in official expense disclosure documents that raise questions about how Mr. Ford pays for routine expenditures associated with a busy 17-person operation.
Notably absent is any evidence of how – and how much – Mr. Ford pays for mayor’s office supplies, such as letterhead, and his mobile phone, which he uses frequently to communicate with Toronto residents. Even the most frugal councillors routinely expense service packages for smartphones, which are obligatory equipment for busy politicians. Such subscriptions can run to thousands of dollars a year.
In an e-mail, the city’s integrity commissioner Janet Leiper pointed to Section 4.6 of council’s expense policy, which requires councillors to publicly disclose such expenses, even if they are paid for with private funds. The document, last updated in January, appears to make no distinction between councillor and mayor.
That particular policy, as it happens, traces back to a November, 2007, report by auditor-general Jeff Griffiths, who concluded that Mr. Ford had violated council’s expense policy by failing to declare “the extent of the personal funds expended in relation to the operation of his Council office.” Mr. Griffiths couldn’t determine how much Mr. Ford had spent personally on outlays such as postage, mileage, cellphone bills and stationery due to a lack of records. The seven-page report also states that Mr. Ford advised the auditor-general that no third-party funds had been used.
Mr. Ford’s officials responded to repeated questions about his current expenses by saying they were “unable to fulfill” the request for information.
The mayor slashed $700,000 from his office’s operating budget – a reduction achieved largely by eliminating six positions. (The approved outlay is $2-million, with 17 paid staff.) He also pledged that councillors’ office budgets should be dialled down to $30,000, from over $53,000, to symbolize the new frugality at city hall. Indeed, deputy mayor Doug Holyday, who expenses his cellphone bills, is currently trying to negotiate a compromise deal with councillors who are unhappy about the cuts.
During the first three months of 2011, Mr. Ford’s office posted just over $1,700 in expenses (not including salaries and other corporate costs), putting it well behind the office spending of lieutenants like Giorgio Mammoliti ($7,056.97) and budget chair Mike Del Grande ($3,046.85).
Mr. Ford has reported that he has used no personal funds to cover expenses, according to the city’s disclosure documents. As a councillor, he reported expenses of about $600 to $800 a year, which he paid himself.
Given the size of the operation and its responsibilities, are the reported expenses for the mayor’s office realistic?
The $1,718.46 includes $722.57 for printer toner; $106.26 for postage and courier costs; and $624.81 in smartphone service package subscriptions for some, but not all, of his office staff. The balance is a $264.82 remittance to Mr. Ford directly for vehicle, maintenance and fuel.
Unlike his predecessor David Miller, Mr. Ford appears to have spent nothing to date on travel, consulting services or even business cards for his staff.
Mr. Ford’s cellphone costs appear nowhere on the disclosure documents, as was the case in his past three years as an Etobicoke councillor. There’s no doubt the mayor has a mobile phone and uses it frequently. His number is in wide circulation on the Internet and he routinely returns calls to city residents.
In a May 26, 2011, response to a Globe and Mail access to information request, the city clerk said the mayor’s office “advised that there are no cellphone records for Mayor Ford.” The letter states “the Mayor has not requested the City to supply him with a cellphone.”
Another category of routine expenditure missing from the mayor’s office expenses involves basic supplies like business cards and other stationery bearing his letterhead.
The mayor’s family-owned business, Deco Labels and Tags, supplied over $150,000 in printed campaign materials for his election team.
All other rookie office holders, such as Don Valley West councillor Jaye Robinson, have included in their early expense disclosure reports modest invoices for letterhead, stationery and business cards, the bulk of which are processed through the city’s own printing services operation. While the mayor’s office has obtained such materials, there’s no indication in the publicly available expense reports how Mr. Ford’s staff procured such items, what they cost, and which supplier provided the service.
Among political leaders, Mr. Ford is unusual in his approach to expenses. A spokesperson for Calgary Mayor Naheed Nenshi said he pays for car washes and dry cleaning, but not outlays related to official duties, including cellphones.
Andrew MacDougall, a spokesman for Stephen Harper, says the RCMP drives the Prime Minister to events while office supplies are paid for by the government of Canada. “As for the cellphone,” adds Mr. MacDougall, “he doesn’t have one.”
Special to the Globe and Mail
JOHN LORINC
From Wednesday's Globe and Mail
Published Tuesday, Jun. 14, 2011 9:33PM EDT
Last updated Wednesday, Jun. 15, 2011 9:32AM EDT
As a conspicuously frugal Etobicoke councillor, Rob Ford made a very public point about spending almost none of his office budget and paying some of his office expenses using his own personal funds. A staunch critic of councillors’ spending habits, Mr. Ford used his own website to publicize embarrassing invoices submitted by other politicians, obtained through access to information requests.
More related to this story
• Ford's election van at heart of audit discussion http://www.theglobeandmail.com/news/national/toronto/forensic-review-of-fords-election-expenses-urged/article2049095/
• Ford wants court to delay review of his campaign expenses http://www.theglobeandmail.com/news/national/toronto/ford-wants-court-to-delay-review-of-his-campaign-expenses/article2040612/
In his current position, Mr. Ford has continued his crusade to slash discretionary spending by municipal politicians, and he claims to have spent just $1,718.46 for mayor’s office expenses for the first quarter of 2011.
But a Globe and Mail investigation of the mayor’s office budget indicates clear gaps in official expense disclosure documents that raise questions about how Mr. Ford pays for routine expenditures associated with a busy 17-person operation.
Notably absent is any evidence of how – and how much – Mr. Ford pays for mayor’s office supplies, such as letterhead, and his mobile phone, which he uses frequently to communicate with Toronto residents. Even the most frugal councillors routinely expense service packages for smartphones, which are obligatory equipment for busy politicians. Such subscriptions can run to thousands of dollars a year.
In an e-mail, the city’s integrity commissioner Janet Leiper pointed to Section 4.6 of council’s expense policy, which requires councillors to publicly disclose such expenses, even if they are paid for with private funds. The document, last updated in January, appears to make no distinction between councillor and mayor.
That particular policy, as it happens, traces back to a November, 2007, report by auditor-general Jeff Griffiths, who concluded that Mr. Ford had violated council’s expense policy by failing to declare “the extent of the personal funds expended in relation to the operation of his Council office.” Mr. Griffiths couldn’t determine how much Mr. Ford had spent personally on outlays such as postage, mileage, cellphone bills and stationery due to a lack of records. The seven-page report also states that Mr. Ford advised the auditor-general that no third-party funds had been used.
Mr. Ford’s officials responded to repeated questions about his current expenses by saying they were “unable to fulfill” the request for information.
The mayor slashed $700,000 from his office’s operating budget – a reduction achieved largely by eliminating six positions. (The approved outlay is $2-million, with 17 paid staff.) He also pledged that councillors’ office budgets should be dialled down to $30,000, from over $53,000, to symbolize the new frugality at city hall. Indeed, deputy mayor Doug Holyday, who expenses his cellphone bills, is currently trying to negotiate a compromise deal with councillors who are unhappy about the cuts.
During the first three months of 2011, Mr. Ford’s office posted just over $1,700 in expenses (not including salaries and other corporate costs), putting it well behind the office spending of lieutenants like Giorgio Mammoliti ($7,056.97) and budget chair Mike Del Grande ($3,046.85).
Mr. Ford has reported that he has used no personal funds to cover expenses, according to the city’s disclosure documents. As a councillor, he reported expenses of about $600 to $800 a year, which he paid himself.
Given the size of the operation and its responsibilities, are the reported expenses for the mayor’s office realistic?
The $1,718.46 includes $722.57 for printer toner; $106.26 for postage and courier costs; and $624.81 in smartphone service package subscriptions for some, but not all, of his office staff. The balance is a $264.82 remittance to Mr. Ford directly for vehicle, maintenance and fuel.
Unlike his predecessor David Miller, Mr. Ford appears to have spent nothing to date on travel, consulting services or even business cards for his staff.
Mr. Ford’s cellphone costs appear nowhere on the disclosure documents, as was the case in his past three years as an Etobicoke councillor. There’s no doubt the mayor has a mobile phone and uses it frequently. His number is in wide circulation on the Internet and he routinely returns calls to city residents.
In a May 26, 2011, response to a Globe and Mail access to information request, the city clerk said the mayor’s office “advised that there are no cellphone records for Mayor Ford.” The letter states “the Mayor has not requested the City to supply him with a cellphone.”
Another category of routine expenditure missing from the mayor’s office expenses involves basic supplies like business cards and other stationery bearing his letterhead.
The mayor’s family-owned business, Deco Labels and Tags, supplied over $150,000 in printed campaign materials for his election team.
All other rookie office holders, such as Don Valley West councillor Jaye Robinson, have included in their early expense disclosure reports modest invoices for letterhead, stationery and business cards, the bulk of which are processed through the city’s own printing services operation. While the mayor’s office has obtained such materials, there’s no indication in the publicly available expense reports how Mr. Ford’s staff procured such items, what they cost, and which supplier provided the service.
Among political leaders, Mr. Ford is unusual in his approach to expenses. A spokesperson for Calgary Mayor Naheed Nenshi said he pays for car washes and dry cleaning, but not outlays related to official duties, including cellphones.
Andrew MacDougall, a spokesman for Stephen Harper, says the RCMP drives the Prime Minister to events while office supplies are paid for by the government of Canada. “As for the cellphone,” adds Mr. MacDougall, “he doesn’t have one.”
Special to the Globe and Mail
Tuesday, June 14
Un/namely Speaking
Over the years, I have known, heard and been the victim of oddly placed names. Let’s face it, Askew-Coffey is not the kindest moniker a person could have. And I can hardly believe that I once pondered naming my in utero daughter Irish and, later, our first son, Moses. (Think of it – “Mo’ Coffey, please.”)
Throughout high school I had to endure the expected, “Ask you? Ask who? Ask me? Ask you?” and the unexpected “Ass screw” (ouch) (double ouch, really), and when I married a Coffey all bets were off.
Anyway, over these same years, some of the names that have crossed my path, among them a handful of well-knowns, are Sandy Peacock, Barry Cation, Gay Hung Low, Minnie Lott (Don’s grandmother), Merry Christmas, Les Cockburn and her husband Adam [A/dam] Cockburn (sorry, dear Lesley...I couldn’t help myself, and only you and your sweet husband would forgive me); Ping Pong, Harry Carey Jr.; Ham/ilton Burger; Muddy Waters; Ima Hogg...and so on.
For whatever impulsive reason that I now forget, I went online today and searched “unfortunately named people.”
The lists of strange names seem endless, scattered among some of the following websites:
http://www.bored-to-death.com/31401/12-People-With-Unfortunate-
http://www.yuppiepunk.org/2007/07/the-10-most-unfortunately-named-people-on-the-internets.html
http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/uk_news/7909561.stm
http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/newstopics/howaboutthat/7324379/Barb-Dwyer-Britains-most-unfortunate-names-disclosed-in-new-survey.html
http://www.oddee.com/item_96755.aspx
http://www.ethanwiner.com/funnames.html from which I have culled...
Anita Hanke
April May
April Schauer (allegedly)
Bonnie Beaver (ob/gyn)
Bud Wieser (college math teacher)
C. Good (allegedly, eye doctor)
C. Write (allegedly, another optician)
Cara Sterio (allegedly)
Dick Bender (sports person)
Dick Bush
Dick Face
Dick Finder (urologist)
Dick Hyman (jazz musician)
Dick Hunter
Dick Pole (major league baseball player)
Dick Rasch
Dick Swett
Dick Trickle (NASCAR driver)
Dick Wood
Dr. Baldock (urologist)
Dr. Croak
Dr. Harry C. Beaver (retired ob/gyn)
Dr. Bender (chiropractor)
Dr. & Dr. Doctor (married doctors from Norwalk, CT)
Dr. Shelly Fingerhood (ob/gyn)
Dr. Gass (allegedly, an anaesthesiologist)
Dr. Hurt (paediatrician in Saginaw, MI)
Dr. Look (ophthalmologist in Hawaii)
Dr. Payne (plastic surgeon in Sandusky, OH)
Dr. Robert Fallis (performs vasectomies)
Dr. Slaughter
Dr. Surgeon (doctor from Stamford, CT)
Drew Peacock
Duane Pipe
Dusty Rhodes
Dusty Sandmann (submitted by his dad, Roger Sandmann)
Edward Z. Filler, DDS
Ernie Coli (E. Coli) owns a Mexican restaurant
Dr. Frank Bonebreak
Gae Hooker (allegedly a surgical prep nurse)
H. Wayne Carver, MD (Connecticut medical examiner)
Harry Baals
Harry Caray (famous sports announcer)
Harry Rump (plumber from Freemont, Maine)
Iona Frisbee (allegedly)
Iona Stonehouse (allegedly)
Ivana Mandic (basketball player)
Jack Goff
Lake Speed (NASCAR race car driver)
Les Plack (dentist)
Lewis N. Clark (apparently he drives an Explorer)
Lina Ginster (allegedly)
Macon Paine
Melba Crisp
Mia Hamm
Mike Stand
Misty Waters
Misty C. Shore
Sandy C. Shore
Monica Monica
Otto Graf
Pat Downe
Penny Dollar, Bill Dollar
Peter Johnson (public radio announcer)
Peter Wacko, DDS
Phil Wright, DDS
Price Wright
Raney Schauer
Rex Easley (reportedly, a traffic safety teacher at Kamiakin High, Kennewick, WA)
Richard Chop (urologist who performs vasectomies)
Robert and Reginald Soles (allegedly, real brothers: R. Soles)
Shanda Lear (daughter of Bill Lear, inventor of the Lear jet)
Sharon Fillerup
Sno White
Dr. Steven Sumey
Summer Camp (allegedly)
Tara Cherry, gynaecologist
Terry Achey
Will Race [and apparently he does]
Will Wynn (Mayor of Austin, Texas)
The longer I look through these lists, the more I realize that an ordinary name might not be the norm. When you add to this all the wacky names that Hollywood megastars are attributing to their newborns (forget what I said about Irish and Moses) and a person’s hair starts feeling itchy at the roots.
Anyway, this might not be much of a blog entry – culled lists seldom are – but I thought the subject matter was fun and funny, and might be a nice lift from the more difficult sides of a day...taking me back to a sunny childhood afternoon of Spot on the Wall by Who Flung Dung and Rusty Bedsprings by I.P. Knightly.
Sign me
Jennifer Louise (aka Jenny Lou) Askew-Coffey
Throughout high school I had to endure the expected, “Ask you? Ask who? Ask me? Ask you?” and the unexpected “Ass screw” (ouch) (double ouch, really), and when I married a Coffey all bets were off.
Anyway, over these same years, some of the names that have crossed my path, among them a handful of well-knowns, are Sandy Peacock, Barry Cation, Gay Hung Low, Minnie Lott (Don’s grandmother), Merry Christmas, Les Cockburn and her husband Adam [A/dam] Cockburn (sorry, dear Lesley...I couldn’t help myself, and only you and your sweet husband would forgive me); Ping Pong, Harry Carey Jr.; Ham/ilton Burger; Muddy Waters; Ima Hogg...and so on.
For whatever impulsive reason that I now forget, I went online today and searched “unfortunately named people.”
The lists of strange names seem endless, scattered among some of the following websites:
http://www.bored-to-death.com/31401/12-People-With-Unfortunate-
http://www.yuppiepunk.org/2007/07/the-10-most-unfortunately-named-people-on-the-internets.html
http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/uk_news/7909561.stm
http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/newstopics/howaboutthat/7324379/Barb-Dwyer-Britains-most-unfortunate-names-disclosed-in-new-survey.html
http://www.oddee.com/item_96755.aspx
http://www.ethanwiner.com/funnames.html from which I have culled...
Anita Hanke
April May
April Schauer (allegedly)
Bonnie Beaver (ob/gyn)
Bud Wieser (college math teacher)
C. Good (allegedly, eye doctor)
C. Write (allegedly, another optician)
Cara Sterio (allegedly)
Dick Bender (sports person)
Dick Bush
Dick Face
Dick Finder (urologist)
Dick Hyman (jazz musician)
Dick Hunter
Dick Pole (major league baseball player)
Dick Rasch
Dick Swett
Dick Trickle (NASCAR driver)
Dick Wood
Dr. Baldock (urologist)
Dr. Croak
Dr. Harry C. Beaver (retired ob/gyn)
Dr. Bender (chiropractor)
Dr. & Dr. Doctor (married doctors from Norwalk, CT)
Dr. Shelly Fingerhood (ob/gyn)
Dr. Gass (allegedly, an anaesthesiologist)
Dr. Hurt (paediatrician in Saginaw, MI)
Dr. Look (ophthalmologist in Hawaii)
Dr. Payne (plastic surgeon in Sandusky, OH)
Dr. Robert Fallis (performs vasectomies)
Dr. Slaughter
Dr. Surgeon (doctor from Stamford, CT)
Drew Peacock
Duane Pipe
Dusty Rhodes
Dusty Sandmann (submitted by his dad, Roger Sandmann)
Edward Z. Filler, DDS
Ernie Coli (E. Coli) owns a Mexican restaurant
Dr. Frank Bonebreak
Gae Hooker (allegedly a surgical prep nurse)
H. Wayne Carver, MD (Connecticut medical examiner)
Harry Baals
Harry Caray (famous sports announcer)
Harry Rump (plumber from Freemont, Maine)
Iona Frisbee (allegedly)
Iona Stonehouse (allegedly)
Ivana Mandic (basketball player)
Jack Goff
Lake Speed (NASCAR race car driver)
Les Plack (dentist)
Lewis N. Clark (apparently he drives an Explorer)
Lina Ginster (allegedly)
Macon Paine
Melba Crisp
Mia Hamm
Mike Stand
Misty Waters
Misty C. Shore
Sandy C. Shore
Monica Monica
Otto Graf
Pat Downe
Penny Dollar, Bill Dollar
Peter Johnson (public radio announcer)
Peter Wacko, DDS
Phil Wright, DDS
Price Wright
Raney Schauer
Rex Easley (reportedly, a traffic safety teacher at Kamiakin High, Kennewick, WA)
Richard Chop (urologist who performs vasectomies)
Robert and Reginald Soles (allegedly, real brothers: R. Soles)
Shanda Lear (daughter of Bill Lear, inventor of the Lear jet)
Sharon Fillerup
Sno White
Dr. Steven Sumey
Summer Camp (allegedly)
Tara Cherry, gynaecologist
Terry Achey
Will Race [and apparently he does]
Will Wynn (Mayor of Austin, Texas)
The longer I look through these lists, the more I realize that an ordinary name might not be the norm. When you add to this all the wacky names that Hollywood megastars are attributing to their newborns (forget what I said about Irish and Moses) and a person’s hair starts feeling itchy at the roots.
Anyway, this might not be much of a blog entry – culled lists seldom are – but I thought the subject matter was fun and funny, and might be a nice lift from the more difficult sides of a day...taking me back to a sunny childhood afternoon of Spot on the Wall by Who Flung Dung and Rusty Bedsprings by I.P. Knightly.
Sign me
Jennifer Louise (aka Jenny Lou) Askew-Coffey
Sunday, June 12
Post Mortem
Mary and I were talking yesterday about what happens to the people around you when someone you love dies.
Here is what I have learned, and the same held true following the death of my mum, my husband and my daughter:
People you thought, or hoped, were your really good friends disappear. They behave as if death this close to their psyches will contaminate them; kill them off – the way divorce seems to have a ripple effect among friends. They were never your good friends anyway and you are always better off knowing this, even if it hurts you for a while.
People you are not especially close to – some of whom you never knew before at all – call, email, post letters, and send humorous anecdotes and invitations. You feel surprise and often delight, and you find the time to respond. You are relieved that there are kind people in the world.
People you used to be close to come back into your life, if only temporarily. They feel bad, and they remember what life was like when they knew you as a family. You think you will always know them, and then you remember that life almost always goes back to the way it was before death, and perhaps that is as it should be.
People you can’t stand pretend to like you; pretend they care; make gestures and offers of time, food and friendship. But these people are few and far between, thank God, and once the ceremonies end, so do they.
Some people feel superior to you, as if you are weakened by death and as if death is never going to touch their lives. (These are the really stupid people.)
Worse, some people use the opportunity of death to ask favours of you, make demands on you, think that now you are freed up to help them with whatever. When you say you are not interested, they use your bereavement as their excuse for your ‘reactionary’ behaviour.
Other people think you have been jinxed, in a kind of religious or black magic way, and they avoid you. You should be grateful they are gone. Losing someone you love is impossibly hard, and you don’t need assholes crowding your day.
Still other people think that all they have to do is show up for the key events, wear nice clothing, bring flowers and smile, and that your gratitude for their conventional goodness will, forgive a pun, be undying.
Certain people wait a while, thinking you want to be alone, planning to catch up with you later. Some of them will – these people are your friends – and some of them won’t. Some people, of course, never called or asked in the first place, and these are the individuals you cannot believe you ever thought of as friend.
Other people – most people – you thought, or hoped, were your really good friends, really are. They visit, make plans with you, invite you over, stop by, send email and cards, telephone, include you in long-range holidays, ask, tell, cry, laugh, commiserate, rage and remember.
To put it in a nutshell (which is where many of us belong) – you lose bad friends you never should have had in the first place, and you keep, and make, good ones.
And in the end, it is always better to know.
28 And the waters returned, and covered the chariots, and the horsemen, and all the host of Pharaoh that came into the sea after them; there remained not so much as one of them. Exodus 14
Here is what I have learned, and the same held true following the death of my mum, my husband and my daughter:
People you thought, or hoped, were your really good friends disappear. They behave as if death this close to their psyches will contaminate them; kill them off – the way divorce seems to have a ripple effect among friends. They were never your good friends anyway and you are always better off knowing this, even if it hurts you for a while.
People you are not especially close to – some of whom you never knew before at all – call, email, post letters, and send humorous anecdotes and invitations. You feel surprise and often delight, and you find the time to respond. You are relieved that there are kind people in the world.
People you used to be close to come back into your life, if only temporarily. They feel bad, and they remember what life was like when they knew you as a family. You think you will always know them, and then you remember that life almost always goes back to the way it was before death, and perhaps that is as it should be.
People you can’t stand pretend to like you; pretend they care; make gestures and offers of time, food and friendship. But these people are few and far between, thank God, and once the ceremonies end, so do they.
Some people feel superior to you, as if you are weakened by death and as if death is never going to touch their lives. (These are the really stupid people.)
Worse, some people use the opportunity of death to ask favours of you, make demands on you, think that now you are freed up to help them with whatever. When you say you are not interested, they use your bereavement as their excuse for your ‘reactionary’ behaviour.
Other people think you have been jinxed, in a kind of religious or black magic way, and they avoid you. You should be grateful they are gone. Losing someone you love is impossibly hard, and you don’t need assholes crowding your day.
Still other people think that all they have to do is show up for the key events, wear nice clothing, bring flowers and smile, and that your gratitude for their conventional goodness will, forgive a pun, be undying.
Certain people wait a while, thinking you want to be alone, planning to catch up with you later. Some of them will – these people are your friends – and some of them won’t. Some people, of course, never called or asked in the first place, and these are the individuals you cannot believe you ever thought of as friend.
Other people – most people – you thought, or hoped, were your really good friends, really are. They visit, make plans with you, invite you over, stop by, send email and cards, telephone, include you in long-range holidays, ask, tell, cry, laugh, commiserate, rage and remember.
To put it in a nutshell (which is where many of us belong) – you lose bad friends you never should have had in the first place, and you keep, and make, good ones.
And in the end, it is always better to know.
28 And the waters returned, and covered the chariots, and the horsemen, and all the host of Pharaoh that came into the sea after them; there remained not so much as one of them. Exodus 14
Friday, June 10
Stocks and Bonds
Daughters are like sunshine. They radiate light and sprinkle hope. They dazzle you with new ideas and bright promises of future flourishing, illuminating everyone and everything they come across. Under a daughter's glowing warmth, small flowers can take up hope and microscopic mollusks slough off their shells, encouraged by such vivid luminosity.
Daughters are like moonshine. They tenderly urge you from your slumbering state and poke you gently in the ribs. "Time to get up, time to get up!" they whisper in your ear, and you reply, "But it is midnight, and I am tired." And still their reflected light shimmers softly against your wrinkling cheek, and up you get to share the night with them.
Daughters are like starshine, effortlessly carrying you off into unknown galaxies, each of you alone but unafraid, together and apart forever, here and ever after, giving light, giving love, sharing hope, nurturing, guiding, fostering, quietly beaming down upon you from their place up in the sky.
~Reprinted from Monday, July 21, 2008, leaving me to wonder...what is it that we know?
Daughters are like moonshine. They tenderly urge you from your slumbering state and poke you gently in the ribs. "Time to get up, time to get up!" they whisper in your ear, and you reply, "But it is midnight, and I am tired." And still their reflected light shimmers softly against your wrinkling cheek, and up you get to share the night with them.
Daughters are like starshine, effortlessly carrying you off into unknown galaxies, each of you alone but unafraid, together and apart forever, here and ever after, giving light, giving love, sharing hope, nurturing, guiding, fostering, quietly beaming down upon you from their place up in the sky.
~Reprinted from Monday, July 21, 2008, leaving me to wonder...what is it that we know?
Thursday, June 9
Scratch and Win
Two of Sarah’s friends are staying overnight on Friday, and I am so happy that they are coming. But – and there is always a but – I look around this house and disparage. Apart from all the natural disasters that come with second-hand furniture is the damage wrought by – let me name them again – Boots, Galoshes, Ralph, Sneakers, Slippers, and our newest arrival – Jeeves.
What haven’t they done in their role of derby demolitionists?
The cedar trunk I so highly prized, purchased several years ago at a consignment store in Ottawa, has been clawed close-to-white on two sides. The yellow-striped chair bought for $40.00 at a street sale in High Park six years ago is little more than a series of chewed-up threads. The costly mattress on which I sleep has been steam-cleaned I don’t know how many times thanks to an incontinent Ralph (who, sadly for him, is no longer permitted on these sheets).
The high-gloss upstairs hallway, once chalk white, is spewed with remnants of Sneakers’ chronic sinus infections, wrought by the darning needle lodged in his head. Oh yes, we do scrub down, but it seems there is no catching up. And yes, Sneakers has a routine set of antibiotic shots, but there is only so much a vet can do. (So stop your ewwwwwwing.)
The gorgeous chairs we bought from Crate & Barrel have been picked at, as has the downstairs anaglyptic wallpaper, newly applied. The couch, also newly purchased this past year, has been sneezed on, drooled over, and clawed, and despite the fake fingernails (Soft Paws) on Sneakers and Slippers, the armchair has been so overworked that the yellow foam is showing through at the shoulders.
Everything in this house, in fact, has been damaged either by age or by cats, and, if I had to declare a winner, the felines have it paws down.
I ask myself, as I drag vacuum cleaner and dust mop through the house – what to do, what to do? No amount of duct tape, crazy glue, sewing paraphernalia or mending could fix the disaster that the cats have wreaked on this house.
Still (and there is always a still) (especially if you live in PEI) (a little island humour there), I look at them here all around me and wonder what I would do without them.
Jeeves has already made himself a permanent bedtime fixture, which is especially wonderful because he is one of those cats that coils himself into the back of your curled-up legs, pressing his neck into your bare flesh.
Slippers sleeps on the pillow, stretching her paws across my chest and softly onto my face. She purrs like a tea kettle and looks at me as if she truly loves me.
Ralph loves potato chips, and comes running whenever he hears a bag rustling. He is also the sort of creature who never hisses, swipes, bites or scratches, which makes him a king among cats.
Sneakers catnaps in the sunlight with his arm around Slippers, and hefts his 31 pounds up onto the bed by way of a side chair. He’s really something to see, his round emerald eyes staring out from his majestic face, his widely set stripes marking him for royalty.
As for Galoshes, I have never known an animal like him. He corrals the other cats at treat time, running through the house to make sure they are all present before he has his goodies – and no one loves a treat more than Galoshes. And the other day, when I heard howling downstairs, I found him standing on his hind legs at the kitchen window signalling to me to let the backyard orange cat into the house – a cat he obviously mistook for our much beloved and bereaved Boots. He broke my heart.
Frankly, I don’t know what I would do without any one of them. Even when I heave another sigh over a fresh pick, an additional scratch, a hole, a snag, a broken nail lying on the floor, a sneezy mess, a fur ball, an accident, a littered tray, a broken dish, a frayed chair, a chewed up toy, and hair EVERYWHERE, I wouldn’t trade any of it for any one of them.
Still and but, I hope our Friday company doesn’t mind; that when they lie in bed at night coughing, sneezing, scratching and gasping for clean air, they will forgive this fabulous feline five, without whom life would feel, and be, unspeakably unfortunate.
What haven’t they done in their role of derby demolitionists?
The cedar trunk I so highly prized, purchased several years ago at a consignment store in Ottawa, has been clawed close-to-white on two sides. The yellow-striped chair bought for $40.00 at a street sale in High Park six years ago is little more than a series of chewed-up threads. The costly mattress on which I sleep has been steam-cleaned I don’t know how many times thanks to an incontinent Ralph (who, sadly for him, is no longer permitted on these sheets).
The high-gloss upstairs hallway, once chalk white, is spewed with remnants of Sneakers’ chronic sinus infections, wrought by the darning needle lodged in his head. Oh yes, we do scrub down, but it seems there is no catching up. And yes, Sneakers has a routine set of antibiotic shots, but there is only so much a vet can do. (So stop your ewwwwwwing.)
The gorgeous chairs we bought from Crate & Barrel have been picked at, as has the downstairs anaglyptic wallpaper, newly applied. The couch, also newly purchased this past year, has been sneezed on, drooled over, and clawed, and despite the fake fingernails (Soft Paws) on Sneakers and Slippers, the armchair has been so overworked that the yellow foam is showing through at the shoulders.
Everything in this house, in fact, has been damaged either by age or by cats, and, if I had to declare a winner, the felines have it paws down.
I ask myself, as I drag vacuum cleaner and dust mop through the house – what to do, what to do? No amount of duct tape, crazy glue, sewing paraphernalia or mending could fix the disaster that the cats have wreaked on this house.
Still (and there is always a still) (especially if you live in PEI) (a little island humour there), I look at them here all around me and wonder what I would do without them.
Jeeves has already made himself a permanent bedtime fixture, which is especially wonderful because he is one of those cats that coils himself into the back of your curled-up legs, pressing his neck into your bare flesh.
Slippers sleeps on the pillow, stretching her paws across my chest and softly onto my face. She purrs like a tea kettle and looks at me as if she truly loves me.
Ralph loves potato chips, and comes running whenever he hears a bag rustling. He is also the sort of creature who never hisses, swipes, bites or scratches, which makes him a king among cats.
Sneakers catnaps in the sunlight with his arm around Slippers, and hefts his 31 pounds up onto the bed by way of a side chair. He’s really something to see, his round emerald eyes staring out from his majestic face, his widely set stripes marking him for royalty.
As for Galoshes, I have never known an animal like him. He corrals the other cats at treat time, running through the house to make sure they are all present before he has his goodies – and no one loves a treat more than Galoshes. And the other day, when I heard howling downstairs, I found him standing on his hind legs at the kitchen window signalling to me to let the backyard orange cat into the house – a cat he obviously mistook for our much beloved and bereaved Boots. He broke my heart.
Frankly, I don’t know what I would do without any one of them. Even when I heave another sigh over a fresh pick, an additional scratch, a hole, a snag, a broken nail lying on the floor, a sneezy mess, a fur ball, an accident, a littered tray, a broken dish, a frayed chair, a chewed up toy, and hair EVERYWHERE, I wouldn’t trade any of it for any one of them.
Still and but, I hope our Friday company doesn’t mind; that when they lie in bed at night coughing, sneezing, scratching and gasping for clean air, they will forgive this fabulous feline five, without whom life would feel, and be, unspeakably unfortunate.
Tuesday, June 7
Landmarks
I love my bedroom. I can lie on this bed and look out through the opened second-floor door onto the balcony and beyond, imagining the lake just past the trees and the smokestack (which is lit up at night). The trinkets and treasures that surround me remind me of the people I love; within a few feet evidence of Don, my mother, Lainey, Sarah, Noam and so many of the wonderful days that we have shared.
If I step out onto the balcony and strain to the right, I can see the top half of the CN Tower. I remember when the tower was going up (in fact, I once had lunch there with a woman – Jane – whose father was one of its chief architects).
Anyway, I had just moved back to Toronto and had gone to visit my stepfather, a man I have seen maybe three times since I was thirteen. He lived on Broadview – he was the superintendent of an apartment building – and in his spare time he sat at a little table in his living room holding a set of binoculars, peering at the goings-on of the rising edifice.
Frankly, I hated the thing. I thought it was a monstrosity. I couldn’t have cared less about its uniqueness or the fact that concrete had been poured for months and months without cease or that the building plunged 11 stories beneath the earth’s surface. It reminded me instead of the Biblical Tower of Babel, another monument erected to the glory and the power of man. (I can be simplistic that way.)
It’s almost comical, then, to see me now, gasping and exclaiming at it every time I am driving or walking around the city’s core. The thing is, you see, you never know where or when it is going to appear. Like a diligent father, there it is when you least expect it, gaping over your shoulder or standing right above your head, never changing at its surface, but always angled differently from the last time you saw it, sometimes intimidating, other times terribly exciting.
I love the surprise of it; the elegance of it; the incongruity. I love knowing that it is always in the same place and that it is me who changes – and yet the whole thing feels exactly the other way around. Indeed, for me at least, life and its architecture are a continual mystery.
No matter, it is time for me to get up from my vantage point on this bed and get on with my day...to let go of my musings and enter the world of the present.
But there is so much here to remember.
I look up now to my right and there on the sunset-coloured wall is that photo of Don, his eyeglasses perched on the top of the frame. Next to his glasses are Sarah’s – both of them myopic – and Lainey’s (giggling) picture off to the right of this, and slightly further the wooden elephants that Noam gave me.
You see how it goes.
The world is full of landmarks (hallmarks, benchmarks...), around and around and around, and I, for one, can easily bathe in the luxury of memory, the world around me more static than I realize, but life ever-changing. Before I go off to my day, I will peek out from the balcony and see what the CN Tower is doing, its permanence a constant surprise.
If I step out onto the balcony and strain to the right, I can see the top half of the CN Tower. I remember when the tower was going up (in fact, I once had lunch there with a woman – Jane – whose father was one of its chief architects).
Anyway, I had just moved back to Toronto and had gone to visit my stepfather, a man I have seen maybe three times since I was thirteen. He lived on Broadview – he was the superintendent of an apartment building – and in his spare time he sat at a little table in his living room holding a set of binoculars, peering at the goings-on of the rising edifice.
Frankly, I hated the thing. I thought it was a monstrosity. I couldn’t have cared less about its uniqueness or the fact that concrete had been poured for months and months without cease or that the building plunged 11 stories beneath the earth’s surface. It reminded me instead of the Biblical Tower of Babel, another monument erected to the glory and the power of man. (I can be simplistic that way.)
It’s almost comical, then, to see me now, gasping and exclaiming at it every time I am driving or walking around the city’s core. The thing is, you see, you never know where or when it is going to appear. Like a diligent father, there it is when you least expect it, gaping over your shoulder or standing right above your head, never changing at its surface, but always angled differently from the last time you saw it, sometimes intimidating, other times terribly exciting.
I love the surprise of it; the elegance of it; the incongruity. I love knowing that it is always in the same place and that it is me who changes – and yet the whole thing feels exactly the other way around. Indeed, for me at least, life and its architecture are a continual mystery.
No matter, it is time for me to get up from my vantage point on this bed and get on with my day...to let go of my musings and enter the world of the present.
But there is so much here to remember.
I look up now to my right and there on the sunset-coloured wall is that photo of Don, his eyeglasses perched on the top of the frame. Next to his glasses are Sarah’s – both of them myopic – and Lainey’s (giggling) picture off to the right of this, and slightly further the wooden elephants that Noam gave me.
You see how it goes.
The world is full of landmarks (hallmarks, benchmarks...), around and around and around, and I, for one, can easily bathe in the luxury of memory, the world around me more static than I realize, but life ever-changing. Before I go off to my day, I will peek out from the balcony and see what the CN Tower is doing, its permanence a constant surprise.
Monday, June 6
Fish Tales
A reprint for Mary, who is having an especially challenging day. Remember what Sarah -- and who loved, or made, a better pun better than Sarah? -- said: "Just ginore them -- right, Daddy?"
Pollock
Hamlet
Jane Herring
As You Pike It
Kingfish Lear
Bettantil Dark
Harlequin Bass
Tom and Geryi
Charlotte GRAY
The ChangeLING
A Starfish Is Born
Grimm Fairy Scales
Tail of Two Cities
Green Salmon Eggs
A Shot in the Shark
Eel Take You There
Crawdaddy Daycare
Sailfin in the Sunset
The Grapes of Wrasse
To Keel a Mockingbird
The Moray the Merrier
The Day of the Mackerel
For Whom the Shell Tolls
The Picture of Dorian Cray
Sardine Grows in Brooklyn
Rohu Rohu Rohu Your Boat
James and the Giant Perch
Anchovy Grows in Brooklyn?
Little Red Sea Mimic Blenny
The Hake-ing of Ned Devine
The Shoal Man and the Sea
In the GARden of Good and Evil
The Poetry of Plankton Hughes
The Old Man and the Sea Horse
When Pandra Cory Came to Town
Aladdin and the Enchanted Lamprey
How Green Was My Half-Gallon Tank
Oh Cod, You Devil! (sequel to Oh Cod, You Devilfish)
Cat on a Hot Tuna Roof (sequel to Catfish on...)
Five Little Pepper Tetras and How They Grew
Gone With the Twin Spot Flag Cichlid
The Old Man and the Sebae Clownfish
CHARlie and the Chocolate Factory
Wahoo Has Seen the Wind?
Figure Eight Puffer Cousins
Under the Tuscan Sunfish
Troilius and Crustacean
Snapper, Crackle, Pop!
Flowers for Algaenon
The Stone Angel Fish
Loki and the Bandit
Never Cry Wolf Eel
A Plaice in the Sun
The Rudd Balloon
Sandusky Piranha
A Christmas Dory
Gilliver's Travels
Mrs. Minnowver
Gill on the Floss
Porgy and Bass
Huckleberry Fin
The Grass Carp
Trout of Africa
Cape Codfish
Chard Times
Macbetheral
Goby Dick
Flounder
Pollock
Hamlet
Jane Herring
As You Pike It
Kingfish Lear
Bettantil Dark
Harlequin Bass
Tom and Geryi
Charlotte GRAY
The ChangeLING
A Starfish Is Born
Grimm Fairy Scales
Tail of Two Cities
Green Salmon Eggs
A Shot in the Shark
Eel Take You There
Crawdaddy Daycare
Sailfin in the Sunset
The Grapes of Wrasse
To Keel a Mockingbird
The Moray the Merrier
The Day of the Mackerel
For Whom the Shell Tolls
The Picture of Dorian Cray
Sardine Grows in Brooklyn
Rohu Rohu Rohu Your Boat
James and the Giant Perch
Anchovy Grows in Brooklyn?
Little Red Sea Mimic Blenny
The Hake-ing of Ned Devine
The Shoal Man and the Sea
In the GARden of Good and Evil
The Poetry of Plankton Hughes
The Old Man and the Sea Horse
When Pandra Cory Came to Town
Aladdin and the Enchanted Lamprey
How Green Was My Half-Gallon Tank
Oh Cod, You Devil! (sequel to Oh Cod, You Devilfish)
Cat on a Hot Tuna Roof (sequel to Catfish on...)
Five Little Pepper Tetras and How They Grew
Gone With the Twin Spot Flag Cichlid
The Old Man and the Sebae Clownfish
CHARlie and the Chocolate Factory
Wahoo Has Seen the Wind?
Figure Eight Puffer Cousins
Under the Tuscan Sunfish
Troilius and Crustacean
Snapper, Crackle, Pop!
Flowers for Algaenon
The Stone Angel Fish
Loki and the Bandit
Never Cry Wolf Eel
A Plaice in the Sun
The Rudd Balloon
Sandusky Piranha
A Christmas Dory
Gilliver's Travels
Mrs. Minnowver
Gill on the Floss
Porgy and Bass
Huckleberry Fin
The Grass Carp
Trout of Africa
Cape Codfish
Chard Times
Macbetheral
Goby Dick
Flounder
Friday, June 3
Volunteering at CNIB
I have been a volunteer for several years at CNIB. One of the first things I did after I moved to Toronto was contact the institute about becoming an audio/recording technician – a position not as easily accessed as it might seem. Potential volunteers have to pass strict vocabulary and reading tests in order to qualify, which can be nerve-wracking even for those who are used to reading aloud.
Over the years, and because I so enjoy this particular (and in ways, wonderfully peculiar) collective, I wondered how I might help formulate something outside of our weekly shift. Ultimately, I landed on the idea of a book club, which shouldn’t come as a surprise to anyone who considers that what we do at CNIB is read.
Every month or so, several women gather in various homes and restaurants to consider a monthly book selection, although the discussions generally end up centering more on everything but the book at hand – travel, movies, philosophy, fashion, relationships – and so on. We share recipes, drink a little wine, exclaim over desserts, and always have a great time.
Apart from these meetings, in summertime when the weather holds, some of the volunteers trot off post-shift to one of the many neighbourhood gelato spots where we indulge in bowlfuls and cones of Italian ice cream and non-dairy (for me) sorbet.
Because I have been away from my chair for the better part of ten months, this week I sent an email to a handful of volunteers to say that if anyone was going to be free, I thought I might take Lainey on a late-evening gelato outing. I knew right away that Juanita was not free, Diana was on holidays and Mary T had pressing obligations. So at best, I thought there would be five of us in total, which is certainly a healthy enough number for eating ice cream.
How shocked was I, then, to sit out under the awning with Lainey, and watch them walk up the street toward us: Marg; Mary T; Sarah; Jennifer A; Jennifer B; Mark; Dimitra; Ed, who brought his wife Wendy; Abeed; Paul, who is new; Henry, who works the earlier shift – I was stunned. Not only had they, as a group, generously donated to the Bruyere Foundation on behalf of Sarah, but here they were trooping up the street to come meet this dear little girl and see her Grammie.
We sat out under the stars – Lainey chose a strawberry chocolate waffle cone, while I indulged in a lemon chocolate sorbet – and laughed and chatted in the cool night air. I have never, in fact, seen Lainey less shy with people she did not know, offering goodnight waves and hugs after all of the treats had been eaten and the talk began drifting off toward thoughts of bedtime.
We arrived home close to 11, and curled up in Grammie’s bed next to Jeeves, just in time for So You Think You Can Dance. Shortly after midnight, Lainey, still giggling, said, “Grammie, I’m not even tired.” I asked her if she had had a good day, and she said, “Grammie, it was really great.”
I have no idea if these kind people – this generous collective – have any idea what they did for a little girl and her grandmother, but I know that in years to come, as Lainey tries to adjust to a life without her mother, she is going to remember her ice cream under the stars and the many warm and friendly faces circling her in the dark.
Over the years, and because I so enjoy this particular (and in ways, wonderfully peculiar) collective, I wondered how I might help formulate something outside of our weekly shift. Ultimately, I landed on the idea of a book club, which shouldn’t come as a surprise to anyone who considers that what we do at CNIB is read.
Every month or so, several women gather in various homes and restaurants to consider a monthly book selection, although the discussions generally end up centering more on everything but the book at hand – travel, movies, philosophy, fashion, relationships – and so on. We share recipes, drink a little wine, exclaim over desserts, and always have a great time.
Apart from these meetings, in summertime when the weather holds, some of the volunteers trot off post-shift to one of the many neighbourhood gelato spots where we indulge in bowlfuls and cones of Italian ice cream and non-dairy (for me) sorbet.
Because I have been away from my chair for the better part of ten months, this week I sent an email to a handful of volunteers to say that if anyone was going to be free, I thought I might take Lainey on a late-evening gelato outing. I knew right away that Juanita was not free, Diana was on holidays and Mary T had pressing obligations. So at best, I thought there would be five of us in total, which is certainly a healthy enough number for eating ice cream.
How shocked was I, then, to sit out under the awning with Lainey, and watch them walk up the street toward us: Marg; Mary T; Sarah; Jennifer A; Jennifer B; Mark; Dimitra; Ed, who brought his wife Wendy; Abeed; Paul, who is new; Henry, who works the earlier shift – I was stunned. Not only had they, as a group, generously donated to the Bruyere Foundation on behalf of Sarah, but here they were trooping up the street to come meet this dear little girl and see her Grammie.
We sat out under the stars – Lainey chose a strawberry chocolate waffle cone, while I indulged in a lemon chocolate sorbet – and laughed and chatted in the cool night air. I have never, in fact, seen Lainey less shy with people she did not know, offering goodnight waves and hugs after all of the treats had been eaten and the talk began drifting off toward thoughts of bedtime.
We arrived home close to 11, and curled up in Grammie’s bed next to Jeeves, just in time for So You Think You Can Dance. Shortly after midnight, Lainey, still giggling, said, “Grammie, I’m not even tired.” I asked her if she had had a good day, and she said, “Grammie, it was really great.”
I have no idea if these kind people – this generous collective – have any idea what they did for a little girl and her grandmother, but I know that in years to come, as Lainey tries to adjust to a life without her mother, she is going to remember her ice cream under the stars and the many warm and friendly faces circling her in the dark.
Wednesday, June 1
Metro Toronto Zoo
Jim
~
There was a Boy whose name was Jim;
His Friends were very good to him.
They gave him Tea, and Cakes, and Jam,
And slices of delicious Ham,
And Chocolate with pink inside
And little Tricycles to ride,
And read him Stories through and through,
And even took him to the Zoo—
But there it was the dreadful Fate
Befell him, which I now relate.
~
You know—or at least you ought to know,
For I have often told you so—
That Children never are allowed
To leave their Nurses in a Crowd;
Now this was Jim's especial Foible,
He ran away when he was able,
And on this inauspicious day
He slipped his hand and ran away!
~
He hadn't gone a yard when—Bang!
With open Jaws, a lion sprang,
And hungrily began to eat
The Boy: beginning at his feet.
Now, just imagine how it feels
When first your toes and then your heels,
And then by gradual degrees,
Your shins and ankles, calves and knees,
Are slowly eaten, bit by bit.
No wonder Jim detested it!
No wonder that he shouted ``Hi!''
~
The Honest Keeper heard his cry,
Though very fat he almost ran
To help the little gentleman.
``Ponto!'' he ordered as he came
(For Ponto was the Lion's name),
``Ponto!'' he cried, with angry Frown,
``Let go, Sir! Down, Sir! Put it down!''
The Lion made a sudden stop,
He let the Dainty Morsel drop,
And slunk reluctant to his Cage,
Snarling with Disappointed Rage.
But when he bent him over Jim,
The Honest Keeper's Eyes were dim.
The Lion having reached his Head,
The Miserable Boy was dead!
~
When Nurse informed his Parents, they
Were more Concerned than I can say:—
His Mother, as She dried her eyes,
Said, ``Well—it gives me no surprise,
He would not do as he was told!''
His Father, who was self-controlled,
Bade all the children round attend
To James's miserable end,
And always keep a-hold of Nurse
For fear of finding something worse.
Hilaire Belloc
[No boys were harmed in the making of this poem]
~
There was a Boy whose name was Jim;
His Friends were very good to him.
They gave him Tea, and Cakes, and Jam,
And slices of delicious Ham,
And Chocolate with pink inside
And little Tricycles to ride,
And read him Stories through and through,
And even took him to the Zoo—
But there it was the dreadful Fate
Befell him, which I now relate.
~
You know—or at least you ought to know,
For I have often told you so—
That Children never are allowed
To leave their Nurses in a Crowd;
Now this was Jim's especial Foible,
He ran away when he was able,
And on this inauspicious day
He slipped his hand and ran away!
~
He hadn't gone a yard when—Bang!
With open Jaws, a lion sprang,
And hungrily began to eat
The Boy: beginning at his feet.
Now, just imagine how it feels
When first your toes and then your heels,
And then by gradual degrees,
Your shins and ankles, calves and knees,
Are slowly eaten, bit by bit.
No wonder Jim detested it!
No wonder that he shouted ``Hi!''
~
The Honest Keeper heard his cry,
Though very fat he almost ran
To help the little gentleman.
``Ponto!'' he ordered as he came
(For Ponto was the Lion's name),
``Ponto!'' he cried, with angry Frown,
``Let go, Sir! Down, Sir! Put it down!''
The Lion made a sudden stop,
He let the Dainty Morsel drop,
And slunk reluctant to his Cage,
Snarling with Disappointed Rage.
But when he bent him over Jim,
The Honest Keeper's Eyes were dim.
The Lion having reached his Head,
The Miserable Boy was dead!
~
When Nurse informed his Parents, they
Were more Concerned than I can say:—
His Mother, as She dried her eyes,
Said, ``Well—it gives me no surprise,
He would not do as he was told!''
His Father, who was self-controlled,
Bade all the children round attend
To James's miserable end,
And always keep a-hold of Nurse
For fear of finding something worse.
Hilaire Belloc
[No boys were harmed in the making of this poem]
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