Nominations closed today.
Apparently that's a big day here.
I can't remember if it's the same at home.
Anyways, a number of things happened today.
The men were being extra-special-nice.
Queenie's wrath is obviously more impressive than she thought.
She only had a quiet word with one of them.
But the word is out.
The ladeez were coming down with compliments about their shoes and work and commitment to the cause etc.
To the extent that we almost ran out of salt.
And Queenie is the first to be moved out to a campaign.
She is assured the two issues are not connected.
She doesn't care.
She's off to the action.
In Cape Breton apparently.
That should be fun.
I was saving Cape Breton for when Polly comes over. But I'll avoid the nice bits.
Shouldn't be too hard where I'm going.
We don't win too many seats in the mountains.
So Queenie is doing a mix to celebrate.
She's going to hand it out at work tomorrow, to thank all the incredibly cool people she has met in the last few weeks.
We are going to make history boys and girls, so we need a soundtrack.
First up, Maggie May.
I know, I know...
He can't be perfect. Our Great Leader.
1973, he could have picked Led, he could have picked Springsteen, he could have picked
Alice Cooper for chrissakes.
That's what he really wanted.
So we'll put on No More Mr Nice Guy next.
And now I'm going to put on Thin Lizzy, The Boys are back in town.
For the boys.
For being so nice today.
It was appreciated.
Then, I can't get next to you, by The Temptations, which is the song Queenie chose for the campaign, but which didn't get picked, because it was too cool.
That's Nova Scotia for ya.
Moby, Lift me up. Ya gotta have a bit of Moby. Anthemic, boppy, happy clappy music with soul-destroying lyrics.
Speaking of, Barbara told me Glastonbury is not on this year and so tickets to Electric Picnic are already sold out. So much for that plan.
Never mind.
Miracles, by Firstborn, because you always need one of them.
And then a bit of AfroCelt SoundSystem. Saor/ Free/ News from Nowhere. For Angel and her man. Take the sunglasses off girl, you're at home now!
Next, Boredoms, Two Circles, because everyone at home in Ireland in the other one was off watching them while I was home having a nervous breakdown. Or in work having one. Can't remember which.
Because I was missing the gig, of course.
Not because I was letting the election stress get to me.
The Doves' Firesuite, because Hotspurr the Goddess of Spin likes her Doves.
Then speed it up again with Firestarter, by The Prodigy.
For our own Special Agent Felicity Shagwell. For her battle against Dr. Evil and mini-me.
Took a while for them to notice the flames, but they did eventually.
Mofo, from U2's Pop, because that's what I feel like most days. But some days you gotta stand your ground.
Then a bit of Linkin' Park.
For a nice long stretch of highway up towards Canso.
I can't wait to do that drive.
Better hurry up - I am actually feeling sleepy for the first time in about a month, as opposed to just exhausted and wired, so I should take advantage of it and go to bed.
The Who. Of Course.
Bloc Party. Of Course.
The Wailin' Jennies, Beautiful Dawn. In case we have one.
And finally, The Waterboys, When ye go away.
For when they all do.
Campaigns.
Stress. Heartache. Conflict. Herculean effort. Boredom.
One of the days I'll know why I do this.
Old friendships. New friendships. The first coffee of the day. The chase. The release. The coverage. The mop up. The endless trips to Wendy's. Sitting in the sun talking about old campaigns. The total inter-connectedness of everything everyone does for a finite period of time. The sore feet. The back aches. The shared bottle of Tylenol.
The store of memories growing.
Maybe it's all I know how to do?
Tuesday, May 30, 2006
Monday, May 29, 2006
E-15 Skippy's trampling on our hearts
This is the face of evil.
I shit you not.
It's a work thing. I'm not at liberty to explain it here.
You guys have gotta trust me on this one.
Besides, there are those who read this who will understand. And they need a laugh.
So, why do we do this?
We were asking ourselves today.
Not for the glory. Oh no. That's for the men.
Not for the glamour. Although my sparkly sandals added a bit today. The only bit of me that sparkled today.
But there's nothing glamorous about the work I did today.
Dear X, it would be great if you would vote for us, because then we would invest in education and you would learn how to use punctuation properly.
Dear Y, it would be great if you would vote for us, because then we would ensure you got the tax break as well as those goddamn single mothers you were ranting about in your long capitalised email.
Dear Z, it would be great if you would vote for us, because ....
Why because?
If we all have the same platform and we all have the same vision, what's the difference?
The application.
We stand for dignity, for caring, for inclusion, for equality, for freedom of expression.
That's what we stand for.
It's all in the application, boys and girls.
No, there's absolutely no irony in what I am saying.
None.
You must be mistaking me for someone who was reduced to tears today by the blatant sexism wrapped up as 'the way we do things here' that's appeared in my workplace.
Tomorrow:
I am going to sing slowly to myself all day, quite possibly to the tune of Skippy the Bush Kangaroo:
I am the epitome of what I believe in and work for. I am a caring, inclusive, committed, experienced, talented, unique, bright, sparkling example of what the alternative could be for us all. I represent both the vision and the application of what we stand for. The how of things is as important to me as the what or the why.
I am surrounded by people like me. They cloak me in a forcefield of wit and humour and love that protects me from any permanent scarring. I cloak them in return and protect them.
What's going on doesn't matter, because it's people like us who will win in the end. We have to because the how of now is destroying everything.
The desire to control, to divide, and to manipulate always stems from a deep insecurity. So deep that it is often unrealised. That insecurity disappears when the desire to care becomes stronger.
It takes a long time for some people to get to that place.
The reason I know we will win in the end is because Mama Gaia's need to be cared for ain't gonna wait that long more...
It was 25 degrees today. In Halifax. In the Northern Atlantic.
Sunday, May 28, 2006
E-16 Bears in the Alps!
If you go down to the Alpine woods you're in for a big surprise: a 100kg wild brown bear who goes by the name of Bruno, writes Derek Scally in the Irish Times.
He has had the starring role in a three-week bear scare after leaving his home in the Italian Alps for Tirol in western Austria. He crossed the border into Bavaria last weekend, making him the first bear sighted in the region since 1842.
Italian nature groups say Bruno is likely to be one of 20 cubs born in the mountains since a group of Slovenian bears were let into the wild there a decade ago.
But, on his travels, Bruno is suspected of slaughtering dozens of sheep, chickens and racing pigeons, as well as breaking and entering several bee hives.
Bavarian police circulated blurry mugshots of Bruno, warning local people to keep clear of the violent animal. Bavarian environment minister Werner Schnapauff branded Bruno a problembär because he seemed fearless of approaching humans. Last Monday, the minister bowed to demands to allow farmers and hunters to shoot the bear on sight "in cases of physical or mortal danger".
Animal rights activists, angry at the decision of the Bavarians, were infuriated when, on Tuesday, Austrian authorities decided to follow suit.
Germany's Bild newspaper put an image of Bruno in a gun's crosshairs on its front page under the headline: "Death Sentence for Bear". But since the sentence was pronounced, Bruno has gone on the lam.
Hunters have tried without success to lure him into a 2m-wide aluminium tube trap. Another suggestion to set up snares was rejected by the director of Munich Zoo, Henning Wiesner. He told a Bavarian newspaper that a bear such as Bruno would rather gnaw off his own leg while dangling from a tree than get caught by hunters.
Mr Wiesner suggested using darts to knock Bruno out after locating him with a pack of hunting dogs. "The only problem is that no hunting dogs in Germany have ever smelled a bear," he said.
Yesterday it emerged that he has probably escaped Germany and is now in Tirol. But Austrian authorities say Bruno is an unbearable threat and will be killed when caught after they conduct a DNA test to make sure they have their bear.
Hoteliers in the Bavarian village of Garmisch-Partenkirchen on the Austrian border have jumped on the bandwagon. They're offering Bruno-spotting packages starting at €169 a night.
He has had the starring role in a three-week bear scare after leaving his home in the Italian Alps for Tirol in western Austria. He crossed the border into Bavaria last weekend, making him the first bear sighted in the region since 1842.
Italian nature groups say Bruno is likely to be one of 20 cubs born in the mountains since a group of Slovenian bears were let into the wild there a decade ago.
But, on his travels, Bruno is suspected of slaughtering dozens of sheep, chickens and racing pigeons, as well as breaking and entering several bee hives.
Bavarian police circulated blurry mugshots of Bruno, warning local people to keep clear of the violent animal. Bavarian environment minister Werner Schnapauff branded Bruno a problembär because he seemed fearless of approaching humans. Last Monday, the minister bowed to demands to allow farmers and hunters to shoot the bear on sight "in cases of physical or mortal danger".
Animal rights activists, angry at the decision of the Bavarians, were infuriated when, on Tuesday, Austrian authorities decided to follow suit.
Germany's Bild newspaper put an image of Bruno in a gun's crosshairs on its front page under the headline: "Death Sentence for Bear". But since the sentence was pronounced, Bruno has gone on the lam.
Hunters have tried without success to lure him into a 2m-wide aluminium tube trap. Another suggestion to set up snares was rejected by the director of Munich Zoo, Henning Wiesner. He told a Bavarian newspaper that a bear such as Bruno would rather gnaw off his own leg while dangling from a tree than get caught by hunters.
Mr Wiesner suggested using darts to knock Bruno out after locating him with a pack of hunting dogs. "The only problem is that no hunting dogs in Germany have ever smelled a bear," he said.
Yesterday it emerged that he has probably escaped Germany and is now in Tirol. But Austrian authorities say Bruno is an unbearable threat and will be killed when caught after they conduct a DNA test to make sure they have their bear.
Hoteliers in the Bavarian village of Garmisch-Partenkirchen on the Austrian border have jumped on the bandwagon. They're offering Bruno-spotting packages starting at €169 a night.
Tuesday, May 23, 2006
E-21 The Age War has begun
Ben should be using his vote because he can be bloody sure that Brian will.
The Age War has begun
This was the last two lines of a great article by Andrew Rawnesley in last Sunday’s Observer, which I am only reading tonight because I am always in work.
The article was very close to my heart.
It was all about how the baby boomers are going to bankrupt us lot. And all we have to look forward to at the end of it is no pension and no kids to worry about when we get old. Which boils down to no kids to look after us when we grow old, of course.
I am being extreme. And I don’t really mind because I happen to think seniors are worth looking after. But nowhere is the building problem more evident than in Nova Scotia.
There are currently 95,000 seniors (that’s what we call them in polite Canada, you know them as old people, or aul’ wans, in Ireland) living in Nova Scotia. That’s about 10% of the population. By 2030(?) that will have gone up to about 150,000. And the population of Nova Scotia isn’t going to expand dramatically anytime soon, far from it. The population of under-fives, the people who will be in their mid-thirties in 2030, dropped by one fifth in the last ten years, to just 47,000-ish.
You do the math.
Seniors are expensive.
They need healthcare, long term care, nursing home care, drugs, palliative care, etc.
They get pensions.
They don’t pay much tax.
Young people on the other hand, are cheap. If they don’t contribute you can just ship them off to the Oil Sands of Northern Alberta.
Of course, you don’t get their tax payments then.
You do the math.
So what do we do?
The article in the Observer said that politicians would find it difficult to balance this war of the generations.
Bloody right, they will.
The first thing that needs to be done is for someone, somewhere, to tackle the ridiculous price of drugs.
There is no reason why they should be so expensive. Other than the stock market.
No, there isn’t.
India has a remarkable generic drugs industry that should be examined for ways in which to apply it to other jurisdictions.
The second thing that needs to be done is for a model of community care to be worked out, so that elderly people don’t need as much hospital care as they do now.
That means rethinking workplace models so that 9 – 5 m/f patterns are finally abolished and giving communities some money and time to develop ways in which to care for older and younger members on a more flexible basis so that working age people can work.
Work however it suits the community. Part-time, or for a couple of months a year, or whatever. But the days of one young, fit, educated, experienced person staying at home full-time for years to look after one other person (or maybe two, if there’s enough money), while another person works ridiculous hours in order to deliver a necessary health or educational or other product or service to society MUST end.
I’m going to get it in the neck for that.
I don't care.
The nuclear family is not working. It takes a village to raise a child and a community to care for an elderly person and the reason why we have juvenile crime and scared old people is because we leave it up to hassled stressed parents who aren’t even sure they want to be together anymore to raise their children by themselves.
We should bring in ASBOs that involve sitting talking to old people for six hours a day. That would sort out juvenile crime in ten seconds.
They'd either refuse to reoffend out of boredom, or they'd refuse to leave the stories of the war and the old days because they're so interesting.
The third thing that must happen is that immigration must become more fluid. For chrissakes, I’m a productive member of Canadian society and I can’t even get a credit card. It took three months to get a work permit sorted out. It will take me months more to get a driver’s licence, years to get a mortgage or a health card if I want one.
And I’m one of the lucky ones. I’m not a neurologist driving a cab because the Medical Association ‘doesn’t trust my experience and qualifications’.
Yeah. I believe you. I've been to the conferences.
If this part of the world has skills shortages and a need for people to come and work in the caring professions, then people who live in parts of the world and who want to come here to live and work should be able to without having to become full-time forever residents. They should have portable residencies. Like we do in the European Union.
Think globally, act locally is great for recycling your egg cartons, but sometimes you need to think locally and act globally.
I’m going to bed now – I’m very tired.
The Age War has begun
This was the last two lines of a great article by Andrew Rawnesley in last Sunday’s Observer, which I am only reading tonight because I am always in work.
The article was very close to my heart.
It was all about how the baby boomers are going to bankrupt us lot. And all we have to look forward to at the end of it is no pension and no kids to worry about when we get old. Which boils down to no kids to look after us when we grow old, of course.
I am being extreme. And I don’t really mind because I happen to think seniors are worth looking after. But nowhere is the building problem more evident than in Nova Scotia.
There are currently 95,000 seniors (that’s what we call them in polite Canada, you know them as old people, or aul’ wans, in Ireland) living in Nova Scotia. That’s about 10% of the population. By 2030(?) that will have gone up to about 150,000. And the population of Nova Scotia isn’t going to expand dramatically anytime soon, far from it. The population of under-fives, the people who will be in their mid-thirties in 2030, dropped by one fifth in the last ten years, to just 47,000-ish.
You do the math.
Seniors are expensive.
They need healthcare, long term care, nursing home care, drugs, palliative care, etc.
They get pensions.
They don’t pay much tax.
Young people on the other hand, are cheap. If they don’t contribute you can just ship them off to the Oil Sands of Northern Alberta.
Of course, you don’t get their tax payments then.
You do the math.
So what do we do?
The article in the Observer said that politicians would find it difficult to balance this war of the generations.
Bloody right, they will.
The first thing that needs to be done is for someone, somewhere, to tackle the ridiculous price of drugs.
There is no reason why they should be so expensive. Other than the stock market.
No, there isn’t.
India has a remarkable generic drugs industry that should be examined for ways in which to apply it to other jurisdictions.
The second thing that needs to be done is for a model of community care to be worked out, so that elderly people don’t need as much hospital care as they do now.
That means rethinking workplace models so that 9 – 5 m/f patterns are finally abolished and giving communities some money and time to develop ways in which to care for older and younger members on a more flexible basis so that working age people can work.
Work however it suits the community. Part-time, or for a couple of months a year, or whatever. But the days of one young, fit, educated, experienced person staying at home full-time for years to look after one other person (or maybe two, if there’s enough money), while another person works ridiculous hours in order to deliver a necessary health or educational or other product or service to society MUST end.
I’m going to get it in the neck for that.
I don't care.
The nuclear family is not working. It takes a village to raise a child and a community to care for an elderly person and the reason why we have juvenile crime and scared old people is because we leave it up to hassled stressed parents who aren’t even sure they want to be together anymore to raise their children by themselves.
We should bring in ASBOs that involve sitting talking to old people for six hours a day. That would sort out juvenile crime in ten seconds.
They'd either refuse to reoffend out of boredom, or they'd refuse to leave the stories of the war and the old days because they're so interesting.
The third thing that must happen is that immigration must become more fluid. For chrissakes, I’m a productive member of Canadian society and I can’t even get a credit card. It took three months to get a work permit sorted out. It will take me months more to get a driver’s licence, years to get a mortgage or a health card if I want one.
And I’m one of the lucky ones. I’m not a neurologist driving a cab because the Medical Association ‘doesn’t trust my experience and qualifications’.
Yeah. I believe you. I've been to the conferences.
If this part of the world has skills shortages and a need for people to come and work in the caring professions, then people who live in parts of the world and who want to come here to live and work should be able to without having to become full-time forever residents. They should have portable residencies. Like we do in the European Union.
Think globally, act locally is great for recycling your egg cartons, but sometimes you need to think locally and act globally.
I’m going to bed now – I’m very tired.
Friday, May 19, 2006
E-26. I think. Nope. It's E-25
Energy is the new politics.
It’s very cold here in Canada. And we’re running out of oil. And we’re cutting down all the trees. So we need more energy.
But it’s okay, because we’re the people who carved a country out of this land.
So we’ll figure it out. Eventually. Or the Americans will pay us to do it.
I’m watching Kojak. The new series. It’s class.
The women in it all are a bit stupid.
All the ads here are about cars. Or losing weight. Or getting your teeth whitened. Or buying furniture on credit.
Or signing up for charity events.
What amazes me is there are a whole lot of people here who are on television here all the time, and I have no idea where they drink.
But they must drink somewhere.
Everybody does.
Anyway, Kojak hates white men. But he always falls for their helpless wives.
Just a little.
And he wears a hat.
I bet half the province is watching this muck.
Somebody said to me today, why is it that all these people bust a gut to get something out, and then it’s not on?
And I said excuse me?
Because I was really shocked. That she could think that. That politics was on anyone’s agenda on the Friday evening of the May Bank Holiday.
Why do I always have to work bank holidays?
We’re dealing with a big murder tonight on Kojak.
Ten thousand dollars.
You could get two people shot with that on the streets of Dublin.
Now they’re advertising going to the optician regularly.
I cannot figure out the advertising demographic of this province.
Gardening store.
Tuesday on Breakfast television. This one is on a lot.
Now there’s some tv movie about a mother’s fear.
I think I’m on the wrong channel.
The Japanese have it I think.
It’s just all a big wrestling match.
But they made an art of it.
Kojak’s telling the crazy woman that if she believes in God it’ll be alright. So she puts her weapon down. And then she gets shot.
Oops.
There are so many wrongs.
But Kojak has the answer.
The two top stories on the news tonight are about school bullying. The police are arresting loads of kids.
I hope it’s picked up.
It’s very cold here in Canada. And we’re running out of oil. And we’re cutting down all the trees. So we need more energy.
But it’s okay, because we’re the people who carved a country out of this land.
So we’ll figure it out. Eventually. Or the Americans will pay us to do it.
I’m watching Kojak. The new series. It’s class.
The women in it all are a bit stupid.
All the ads here are about cars. Or losing weight. Or getting your teeth whitened. Or buying furniture on credit.
Or signing up for charity events.
What amazes me is there are a whole lot of people here who are on television here all the time, and I have no idea where they drink.
But they must drink somewhere.
Everybody does.
Anyway, Kojak hates white men. But he always falls for their helpless wives.
Just a little.
And he wears a hat.
I bet half the province is watching this muck.
Somebody said to me today, why is it that all these people bust a gut to get something out, and then it’s not on?
And I said excuse me?
Because I was really shocked. That she could think that. That politics was on anyone’s agenda on the Friday evening of the May Bank Holiday.
Why do I always have to work bank holidays?
We’re dealing with a big murder tonight on Kojak.
Ten thousand dollars.
You could get two people shot with that on the streets of Dublin.
Now they’re advertising going to the optician regularly.
I cannot figure out the advertising demographic of this province.
Gardening store.
Tuesday on Breakfast television. This one is on a lot.
Now there’s some tv movie about a mother’s fear.
I think I’m on the wrong channel.
The Japanese have it I think.
It’s just all a big wrestling match.
But they made an art of it.
Kojak’s telling the crazy woman that if she believes in God it’ll be alright. So she puts her weapon down. And then she gets shot.
Oops.
There are so many wrongs.
But Kojak has the answer.
The two top stories on the news tonight are about school bullying. The police are arresting loads of kids.
I hope it’s picked up.
Thursday, May 18, 2006
E-26. Amazing what a little shouting can do. Or not.
I have learned that sometimes, if you shout at the universe, it gives a little.
Sometimes it just craps on you some more of course, but this time, the universe heard my shout of anguish and responded.
I got my work permit today.
Himself got a little give from the universe too. Due to my shouting last night of course.
So that's two things that gave a little today.
If only the same approach worked with campaign managers.
Sometimes it just craps on you some more of course, but this time, the universe heard my shout of anguish and responded.
I got my work permit today.
Himself got a little give from the universe too. Due to my shouting last night of course.
So that's two things that gave a little today.
If only the same approach worked with campaign managers.
E-27
If something in my life doesn’t give soon, I am going to be stretched apart.
Nova Scotia, Ireland, Alberta, family, partner, partner’s divorce, partner’s job, my job, my visa, house, apartment, election, visits, car, bills, mortgage, rent, the ability to have enough time off to cook a meal without having to deal with phone calls, texts, messages, neighbours, room mates, people wanting to pick up signs, people wanting to drop off signs, people wanting to go out, people wanting to stay in. The ability to sleep one night straight through.
Being expected to drive around this city using Map Quest. And catch the Rod in his Winnebago.
And instead of a cherry on top they gave me a Blackberry today.
There is a circle of hell, no a RIM of a circle of hell, set aside for the makers of and the addicts to, the Crackberry.
Mine’s going in the harbour on June 14th. I don’t care how much it costs to do it.
Himself is bearing the brunt of it of course.
Why do we do that?
I went to the bank today to wire money home and they asked me whether I knew how to do it.
No, dear, that’s YOUR job.
We found the manual eventually.
And I read the small print out to her.
And we did the wire transfer. I can’t wait to see where the money ends up.
Nova Scotia, Ireland, Alberta, family, partner, partner’s divorce, partner’s job, my job, my visa, house, apartment, election, visits, car, bills, mortgage, rent, the ability to have enough time off to cook a meal without having to deal with phone calls, texts, messages, neighbours, room mates, people wanting to pick up signs, people wanting to drop off signs, people wanting to go out, people wanting to stay in. The ability to sleep one night straight through.
Being expected to drive around this city using Map Quest. And catch the Rod in his Winnebago.
And instead of a cherry on top they gave me a Blackberry today.
There is a circle of hell, no a RIM of a circle of hell, set aside for the makers of and the addicts to, the Crackberry.
Mine’s going in the harbour on June 14th. I don’t care how much it costs to do it.
Himself is bearing the brunt of it of course.
Why do we do that?
I went to the bank today to wire money home and they asked me whether I knew how to do it.
No, dear, that’s YOUR job.
We found the manual eventually.
And I read the small print out to her.
And we did the wire transfer. I can’t wait to see where the money ends up.
Sunday, May 14, 2006
E-31
So why am I doing this?
I'm not sure. I'm very busy.
Maybe I'm just keeping busy.
I don't know.
I'm too busy to think about it.
Which is good.
If a little stressfull.
Story of my. Fucking. Life.
I'm actually getting used to it at this stage.
You rage against it in your twenties, don't you.
Your being.
I wonder why we do that?
Then once you get busy, you start to see it in perspective.
That it's innate. And not necessarily bad.
You just have to learn to manage it.
And then you get really busy and stop caring.
Whether it's kids, or work, or someone else, or maybe just yourself (and some people do make a lot of money just thinking about themselves all day).
You just start trying to get some downtime.
I could go on. But I hope you get my drift.
Anyway, I met Aaron at the convention. He was upset because nobody wanted to vote for his motion to nationalise the power grid. Which is full of expensive belching smoke stacks. And crappy supply. That charges aul' ones through the nose. But he was also pissed off because he had to go and sell his labour in Banff for the summer.
I thought he was joking when he said that. I'd love to sell my labour in Banff for the summer. But then I thought about it. He'll be in some hotel, with some crappy Albertan manager shouting at him. For minimum wage. For six months.
I was so close to voting for his motion I had to remove myself from the convention and go home to bed.
It had been a rough night anyway the night before.
The magii had had a party. Filled the back of William's pick up with beer. For the troops. And held a frat party in the university residence.
It was great fun.
I think that's why I'm doing it. They're such lovely people.
And they are really smart.
But they know how to enjoy themselves. They know how to get on with each other.
I am learning a lot.
I'm not sure. I'm very busy.
Maybe I'm just keeping busy.
I don't know.
I'm too busy to think about it.
Which is good.
If a little stressfull.
Story of my. Fucking. Life.
I'm actually getting used to it at this stage.
You rage against it in your twenties, don't you.
Your being.
I wonder why we do that?
Then once you get busy, you start to see it in perspective.
That it's innate. And not necessarily bad.
You just have to learn to manage it.
And then you get really busy and stop caring.
Whether it's kids, or work, or someone else, or maybe just yourself (and some people do make a lot of money just thinking about themselves all day).
You just start trying to get some downtime.
I could go on. But I hope you get my drift.
Anyway, I met Aaron at the convention. He was upset because nobody wanted to vote for his motion to nationalise the power grid. Which is full of expensive belching smoke stacks. And crappy supply. That charges aul' ones through the nose. But he was also pissed off because he had to go and sell his labour in Banff for the summer.
I thought he was joking when he said that. I'd love to sell my labour in Banff for the summer. But then I thought about it. He'll be in some hotel, with some crappy Albertan manager shouting at him. For minimum wage. For six months.
I was so close to voting for his motion I had to remove myself from the convention and go home to bed.
It had been a rough night anyway the night before.
The magii had had a party. Filled the back of William's pick up with beer. For the troops. And held a frat party in the university residence.
It was great fun.
I think that's why I'm doing it. They're such lovely people.
And they are really smart.
But they know how to enjoy themselves. They know how to get on with each other.
I am learning a lot.
Monday, May 08, 2006
A complete failure to zine works out as an opportunity to blog
I hadn’t planned on doing a zine this time. Too much work, not enough music. None in fact. I didn’t even make the Junos. Just watched a bit of the awards ceremony on tv. Had the weekend of personal life hell instead, while the two wristbands sat in an envelope calling to me.
No, I was just going to pay the Crumpster the money I owe him through my shiny new ‘just put some money in from your Canadian chequing account’ Paypal account, sit back and wait for the envelope, and read someone else’s article first for a change (am I the only self-obsessed Franker’s who does that? Or even the only Franker’s).
But there was a strong sense of ‘the zine must go on’, so I thought I should contribute.
Frank’s guilt. As if I don’t have enough guilt in my life.
Then I thought about all the Mailcomms that would get lost in time forever if I missed a beat, so I hauled myself out of my pre-election lethargy and went to a gig the other night. To have something to write about. D’ysee?
And it wasna’ bad either, cap’n.
But of course work got in the way and I never finished it, so now it can double as the blog post I don’t have time to write.
Also, I finally figured Nova Scotia out that night. As I was sitting watching the band thinking about them all. The Nova Scotians I know I mean.
I know lots of them. I just don't blog about them much.
It’s tribal here. Everyone’s in bands. Of about a hundred.
And there are shifting alliances, but they’re all built on sand. Or rock. Wet, slippery, sharp rock.
And you have to find one. And force it to let you in. Undergo some strange rite of initiation that they don’t explain to you.
It’s extremely irritating most of the time, because I want to join all the tribes. But they keep trying to get me to pick one.
I do hate making decisions.
I have learned that about myself this year.
Anyway, the music I was going to tell you about.
The Windom Earle All-Stars Volume One: A Series of Minor Tragedies. Featuring the Jeff Coll Five, Operation Impact and Windom Earle.
They’re from PEI. That’s Prince Edward Island. Home of Anne of Green Gables. Potato capital of Canada. Great beaches. It’s like being in Brittas Bay in 1952 going on holidays in PEI.
Six of them are in the Jeff Coll Five. Seven of them are in Operation Impact. And three of them are in Windom Earle. Altogether there are twelve of them. It appeared to me that they all spent most of their time on stage during the gig.
They all look about nineteen, but that’s probably just my oldarse inability to age people younger than me kicking in. The lead singer is a wriggly mental stage spider. He has a male co-singer who dances behind him laughing. It’s like watching angry Paul Watts sharing the lead vocals with Dermot and a punked up nineteen year old Jimmy Cake reunion, complete with Lisa in a pink dress, playing drums at the front of the stage.
They’re class.
I bought the album. This album, and The Woods are the only albums I bought since the last Franks. Anyways, A Serious of Minor Personal Tragedies has thirteen tracks, recorded in random bedrooms, cabins, attics and living rooms by Stephen McLeod between 2003 and 2005. As far as I can make out, Stephen is the co-singer. They have a website of course, with most of the tracks on it. www.windomearle.com/music.html. That will save me burning it for anyone.
Touched by a Transvestite is good. Boppy. And Emily’s Song.
According to a zine interview on the site, Beck is their main influence. I couldn’t hear it particularly. I heard a lot of the early Depeche Mode sound; and Daftpunk of course. It’s all about Daftpunk these days, isn’t it?
Back to me
I love writing my Franks. I always make an event of it. Just have a beer. Or tea. Or Tropicana Jungle Mix. Whatever I feel like on the night. Or day. Sometimes I wrote it on a Sunday. When it’s quiet. When the only sound in the house was Bruce going about his gut-bursting with pent up fury laden Sunday afternoon routine.
It was very complex. And completely irrelevant. Even he knew it. That’s why he was so angry, but he didn’t feel any responsibility to change it.
But he’s gone now, so the Sundays are lovely and quiet. Lovely. Particularly for zine writing. Except now I have to go canvassing every Sunday.
Election guilt. As if I don’t have enough guilt in my life.
No, I was just going to pay the Crumpster the money I owe him through my shiny new ‘just put some money in from your Canadian chequing account’ Paypal account, sit back and wait for the envelope, and read someone else’s article first for a change (am I the only self-obsessed Franker’s who does that? Or even the only Franker’s).
But there was a strong sense of ‘the zine must go on’, so I thought I should contribute.
Frank’s guilt. As if I don’t have enough guilt in my life.
Then I thought about all the Mailcomms that would get lost in time forever if I missed a beat, so I hauled myself out of my pre-election lethargy and went to a gig the other night. To have something to write about. D’ysee?
And it wasna’ bad either, cap’n.
But of course work got in the way and I never finished it, so now it can double as the blog post I don’t have time to write.
Also, I finally figured Nova Scotia out that night. As I was sitting watching the band thinking about them all. The Nova Scotians I know I mean.
I know lots of them. I just don't blog about them much.
It’s tribal here. Everyone’s in bands. Of about a hundred.
And there are shifting alliances, but they’re all built on sand. Or rock. Wet, slippery, sharp rock.
And you have to find one. And force it to let you in. Undergo some strange rite of initiation that they don’t explain to you.
It’s extremely irritating most of the time, because I want to join all the tribes. But they keep trying to get me to pick one.
I do hate making decisions.
I have learned that about myself this year.
Anyway, the music I was going to tell you about.
The Windom Earle All-Stars Volume One: A Series of Minor Tragedies. Featuring the Jeff Coll Five, Operation Impact and Windom Earle.
They’re from PEI. That’s Prince Edward Island. Home of Anne of Green Gables. Potato capital of Canada. Great beaches. It’s like being in Brittas Bay in 1952 going on holidays in PEI.
Six of them are in the Jeff Coll Five. Seven of them are in Operation Impact. And three of them are in Windom Earle. Altogether there are twelve of them. It appeared to me that they all spent most of their time on stage during the gig.
They all look about nineteen, but that’s probably just my oldarse inability to age people younger than me kicking in. The lead singer is a wriggly mental stage spider. He has a male co-singer who dances behind him laughing. It’s like watching angry Paul Watts sharing the lead vocals with Dermot and a punked up nineteen year old Jimmy Cake reunion, complete with Lisa in a pink dress, playing drums at the front of the stage.
They’re class.
I bought the album. This album, and The Woods are the only albums I bought since the last Franks. Anyways, A Serious of Minor Personal Tragedies has thirteen tracks, recorded in random bedrooms, cabins, attics and living rooms by Stephen McLeod between 2003 and 2005. As far as I can make out, Stephen is the co-singer. They have a website of course, with most of the tracks on it. www.windomearle.com/music.html. That will save me burning it for anyone.
Touched by a Transvestite is good. Boppy. And Emily’s Song.
According to a zine interview on the site, Beck is their main influence. I couldn’t hear it particularly. I heard a lot of the early Depeche Mode sound; and Daftpunk of course. It’s all about Daftpunk these days, isn’t it?
Back to me
I love writing my Franks. I always make an event of it. Just have a beer. Or tea. Or Tropicana Jungle Mix. Whatever I feel like on the night. Or day. Sometimes I wrote it on a Sunday. When it’s quiet. When the only sound in the house was Bruce going about his gut-bursting with pent up fury laden Sunday afternoon routine.
It was very complex. And completely irrelevant. Even he knew it. That’s why he was so angry, but he didn’t feel any responsibility to change it.
But he’s gone now, so the Sundays are lovely and quiet. Lovely. Particularly for zine writing. Except now I have to go canvassing every Sunday.
Election guilt. As if I don’t have enough guilt in my life.
Monday, May 01, 2006
Lou Dobbs' bull and a baby cow
Monday evening. May Day. Commie-day, according to Lou Dobbs on CNN tonight. I tuned in for a minute to see how big the immigrant marches were in the States, as I had missed Balanced News on CBC and Reasonably Balanced News on Global Maritime.
Boy, is Lou pissed. All the other networks are referring to these people as immigrants.
THEY ARE ILLEGAL ALIENS, Lou informed me.
He had a couple of Democrat Congressmen on who had sponsored a resolution that would give these people an opportunity to be recognised by the country they are holding together with their labour.
Taking jobs away from American workers, grumbled Lou.
Remind you of anywhere?
They probably all get free washing machines from the welfare officer too.
Or maybe not. Maybe they’ll all be over to Ireland when they hear about the free washing machines.
The Congressmen were playing it pretty cleverly. For Democrats. Let’s lock the gates now, because the Republicans forgot to do it after 9/11. But when we do that, we’d better keep these people in. Because the Republicans couldn't evacuate New Orleans so we can't trust them to deport 12 million people.
Pretty good I thought. Balanced argument. Building a coalition of the needy and the virtuous and the scratch their arse and belch into their beer can brigade.
Then he had some neo-Con Hispanic woman on who was only delighted to be captured pissing on her own people by the meejia.
Then he had some footage of the Minute Men building a fence in South California somewhere.
Hundreds of them!
Give Lou his due, even he recognises the folly of that particular stunt.
Only 1,599 miles to go, he said wryly. Well, as wryly as you can do when you're botoxed to the hairline.
Which is probably wrong. What's the length of the southern border of the USA?
Up here in nice reasonable Canada you have nice reasonable CBC and slightly less reasonable Global, but at least Global still understands the concept of balanced news coverage. So you are lulled into a false sense of security. ‘Just because you celebrate May Day doesn’t mean you’re a Trot’ kind of security.
And then you switch on CNN for a minute.
And remember that you're a commie. In Lou's eyes anyways.
I had an argument with Himself about CNN once. I came home from work and caught him watching it.
“You’re not to watch that shite if you’re going to be with me!” Grabbed remote, switched tv off, and sat on remote to drive home the point.
“I just want to see the news, for chrissakes.” Of course he’s far too polite to push my ass off the remote, so he sat there waiting to be educated. Like the immaculate boyfriend he is.
“That’s not news. That’s right wing rhetoric dressed up as news.”
He knows enough now to know that when I say right wing, I really mean special ops battalion of the devil.
And that’s bad in anyone’s books.
We’re having an argument by text at the moment. Although Himself is backing off a bit now, because he has to go to sleep. It’s half past midnight in Ireland, eight thirty pm in Halifax and five thirty in Grassland, and he has to go to sleep for a bit because he’s on nights this week and has to go driving in the dark.
Which I don’t like of course. Because I will worry until he texts me that he’s home. Which won’t be until four pm Halifax time tomorrow. Or eight pm in Ireland. So he’ll be back when Eastenders finishes.
We don’t communicate when he’s in the truck. It nearly broke us the last time. Signal in, signal out, kshsasfasdhfaldf…, cut off.
It all started when I called him as I was starting dinner. To tell him what I was going to eat and to make sure he had bought vegetables this week. And to remind him he has to give up smoking because I am not going through all of this crap now just to have him die on me in a couple of years.
I was in Pete’s Fruitique yesterday, which is the best food store in the world, and they had veal escallopes so of course I couldn’t resist.
“Veal? What’s that?”
Not many people eat veal here. Nova Scotia is not noted for its production. Or for lamb for that matter.
“Baby cow.”
“WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAT?”
I moved the conversation on swiftly, sensing a weak spot in my case as role model for all right-on, leftie things in life.
But he was not to be turned. Himself is a hunter of course, so he just picked a good spot and waited. Silently, patiently, in the long grass of Grassland until I was perched in front of tv with yummy veal escallopes, tortilla patata and fresh tomato salad watching CNN – it’s okay if you shout at Lou – with Melanie, who was hiding her eyes behind her hands in horror at the nasty Amerkaans. She’s very French, is Melanie. And she's not well at the moment. Had to go to the emergency room last night.
Then he struck.
“Shame on you for eating that baby cow. My heart is broken.”
I am not for turning either, of course.
“Belch. Slurp.”
“STOP THAT! Oh, that poor baby.”
“At least I didn’t boil it alive in a pot after capturing it in a watery trap.”
I didn’t even mention the countless baby ground fish he probably murdered over the years. Or the defenceless deer he stalked and shot.
Texting is quite limiting when you're a pedant.
“Lobsters don’t have brains.”
“Yes they do.”
“Well, just little ones.”
And so on and so on.
And so life goes on. As it always does.
Eventually, I capitulated. Agreed I wouldn't eat them anymore.
The thing I love about Himself is that when, on the rare occasion that I allow him to win an argument (and he should win this one as he is right about the baby cows, although they are VERY tasty), he doesn't rub my nose in it.
He gives it a little rub instead.
"It's up to you. I don't think it's right tho'. But I still love you."
Phew! :-)
"Go to sleep."
"What are you doing?"
"Blogging."
"What about?"
"Baby cows, you and CNN."
"Oh no..."
"It'll be grand. Go to sleep."
"Don't be too hard on me, baby."
"Sweet dreams."
Boy, is Lou pissed. All the other networks are referring to these people as immigrants.
THEY ARE ILLEGAL ALIENS, Lou informed me.
He had a couple of Democrat Congressmen on who had sponsored a resolution that would give these people an opportunity to be recognised by the country they are holding together with their labour.
Taking jobs away from American workers, grumbled Lou.
Remind you of anywhere?
They probably all get free washing machines from the welfare officer too.
Or maybe not. Maybe they’ll all be over to Ireland when they hear about the free washing machines.
The Congressmen were playing it pretty cleverly. For Democrats. Let’s lock the gates now, because the Republicans forgot to do it after 9/11. But when we do that, we’d better keep these people in. Because the Republicans couldn't evacuate New Orleans so we can't trust them to deport 12 million people.
Pretty good I thought. Balanced argument. Building a coalition of the needy and the virtuous and the scratch their arse and belch into their beer can brigade.
Then he had some neo-Con Hispanic woman on who was only delighted to be captured pissing on her own people by the meejia.
Then he had some footage of the Minute Men building a fence in South California somewhere.
Hundreds of them!
Give Lou his due, even he recognises the folly of that particular stunt.
Only 1,599 miles to go, he said wryly. Well, as wryly as you can do when you're botoxed to the hairline.
Which is probably wrong. What's the length of the southern border of the USA?
Up here in nice reasonable Canada you have nice reasonable CBC and slightly less reasonable Global, but at least Global still understands the concept of balanced news coverage. So you are lulled into a false sense of security. ‘Just because you celebrate May Day doesn’t mean you’re a Trot’ kind of security.
And then you switch on CNN for a minute.
And remember that you're a commie. In Lou's eyes anyways.
I had an argument with Himself about CNN once. I came home from work and caught him watching it.
“You’re not to watch that shite if you’re going to be with me!” Grabbed remote, switched tv off, and sat on remote to drive home the point.
“I just want to see the news, for chrissakes.” Of course he’s far too polite to push my ass off the remote, so he sat there waiting to be educated. Like the immaculate boyfriend he is.
“That’s not news. That’s right wing rhetoric dressed up as news.”
He knows enough now to know that when I say right wing, I really mean special ops battalion of the devil.
And that’s bad in anyone’s books.
We’re having an argument by text at the moment. Although Himself is backing off a bit now, because he has to go to sleep. It’s half past midnight in Ireland, eight thirty pm in Halifax and five thirty in Grassland, and he has to go to sleep for a bit because he’s on nights this week and has to go driving in the dark.
Which I don’t like of course. Because I will worry until he texts me that he’s home. Which won’t be until four pm Halifax time tomorrow. Or eight pm in Ireland. So he’ll be back when Eastenders finishes.
We don’t communicate when he’s in the truck. It nearly broke us the last time. Signal in, signal out, kshsasfasdhfaldf…, cut off.
It all started when I called him as I was starting dinner. To tell him what I was going to eat and to make sure he had bought vegetables this week. And to remind him he has to give up smoking because I am not going through all of this crap now just to have him die on me in a couple of years.
I was in Pete’s Fruitique yesterday, which is the best food store in the world, and they had veal escallopes so of course I couldn’t resist.
“Veal? What’s that?”
Not many people eat veal here. Nova Scotia is not noted for its production. Or for lamb for that matter.
“Baby cow.”
“WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAT?”
I moved the conversation on swiftly, sensing a weak spot in my case as role model for all right-on, leftie things in life.
But he was not to be turned. Himself is a hunter of course, so he just picked a good spot and waited. Silently, patiently, in the long grass of Grassland until I was perched in front of tv with yummy veal escallopes, tortilla patata and fresh tomato salad watching CNN – it’s okay if you shout at Lou – with Melanie, who was hiding her eyes behind her hands in horror at the nasty Amerkaans. She’s very French, is Melanie. And she's not well at the moment. Had to go to the emergency room last night.
Then he struck.
“Shame on you for eating that baby cow. My heart is broken.”
I am not for turning either, of course.
“Belch. Slurp.”
“STOP THAT! Oh, that poor baby.”
“At least I didn’t boil it alive in a pot after capturing it in a watery trap.”
I didn’t even mention the countless baby ground fish he probably murdered over the years. Or the defenceless deer he stalked and shot.
Texting is quite limiting when you're a pedant.
“Lobsters don’t have brains.”
“Yes they do.”
“Well, just little ones.”
And so on and so on.
And so life goes on. As it always does.
Eventually, I capitulated. Agreed I wouldn't eat them anymore.
The thing I love about Himself is that when, on the rare occasion that I allow him to win an argument (and he should win this one as he is right about the baby cows, although they are VERY tasty), he doesn't rub my nose in it.
He gives it a little rub instead.
"It's up to you. I don't think it's right tho'. But I still love you."
Phew! :-)
"Go to sleep."
"What are you doing?"
"Blogging."
"What about?"
"Baby cows, you and CNN."
"Oh no..."
"It'll be grand. Go to sleep."
"Don't be too hard on me, baby."
"Sweet dreams."
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