The best of Canadian and contemporary photography.
Apparently.
I do love the winner's work.
http://www.thegrangeprize.com/index.html
Monday, April 28, 2008
Sunday, April 27, 2008
The Adventures of Lobster Gump
Once upon a time, there was a little boy. Name of Lobster Gump. He lived on a little island far far away. And he drove a little red fire truck. Every time his pappy said he could.
He loved to ring the bell.
Brrrrring, brrrring!! Outa my way, everyone, I'm a headin' her for the fire!
When he was nearly growed up, his pappy let him turn on the big red light on the big red fire truck.
He loved to watch it spin round and round.
One day, when there was a real fire, Lobster Gump watched the real fire dept go by in the big red truck and he jumped up and down so hard in his anger that he stomped on his own little red fire truck.
He was sad after that.
He didn't mean to do that.
He just loved the big red fire truck so much.
And so his pappy let him join the Fire Dept.
And he became a man.
He got himself a girl.
She's right eager for him.
And he got himself a truck.
And pappy done gave him a licence plate for the truck.
That says Deppity Fire Chief.
He shines it every day.
When he can get off the cot.
Pappy says when he's all growed up next year and married, he can drive the big red fire truck.
Lobster can't wait for that day.
He's a gonna drive that truck all the way to the liquor store.
Get himself a two four.
And drink it all in one go.
In the meantime, he's a just sitting on the cot, waiting to get married.
It'll happen one of these days.
And when it does, him and Mrs. Gump'll take off forever.
All the way up north.
In the big red fire truck.
That's almost two hundred miles.
Lobster hopes the price of gas don't go up too much while he's waitin' to git married.
Else he'll never get away.
Before they go, they'll stop to Beautiful Cove for an hour or two.
He'll ring Mrs. Gump's bell a coupla times.
Brrrng, brrring.
He loves to watch her spin round and round.
Under the big red light.
Won't that be a fine day.
When's Lobster gettin' married?
He don't know.
His girl tells him it's the government stopping them.
Nasty mean stoopid people. Always looking in your business.
All lawyered up, yakkin' their mouths off.
Lobster reckons she's probly right.
Least she tells him she is.
Anyhow, enough said for now.
Lobster's gotta go down the Legion tonight for the Sunday bowlin.
He loves to go down there and have a beer and watch the bowlin on the tv.
Did you know, when Lobster became a man, as well as getting him a spot on the big red fire truck, pappy got him a spot as the deppity president of the Legion?
Ain't no finer institution.
He's a good pappy.
Pappy and mumma sure wish Lobster would get married soon.
They're lookin' forward to havin' little tinkers running around the yard.
'Specially since the fishery's gone to hell this year.
We need all the tinkers we can get, pappy says.
Pappy's funny...
Lobster's gotta go watch the bowlin' now. Can't miss it.
But he'll be back to talk to y'all real soon.
Be sure to let us know if you want to hear more about the adventures of Lobster Gump.
He sure loves to talk.
But he's kinda shy in company.
He loved to ring the bell.
Brrrrring, brrrring!! Outa my way, everyone, I'm a headin' her for the fire!
When he was nearly growed up, his pappy let him turn on the big red light on the big red fire truck.
He loved to watch it spin round and round.
One day, when there was a real fire, Lobster Gump watched the real fire dept go by in the big red truck and he jumped up and down so hard in his anger that he stomped on his own little red fire truck.
He was sad after that.
He didn't mean to do that.
He just loved the big red fire truck so much.
And so his pappy let him join the Fire Dept.
And he became a man.
He got himself a girl.
She's right eager for him.
And he got himself a truck.
And pappy done gave him a licence plate for the truck.
That says Deppity Fire Chief.
He shines it every day.
When he can get off the cot.
Pappy says when he's all growed up next year and married, he can drive the big red fire truck.
Lobster can't wait for that day.
He's a gonna drive that truck all the way to the liquor store.
Get himself a two four.
And drink it all in one go.
In the meantime, he's a just sitting on the cot, waiting to get married.
It'll happen one of these days.
And when it does, him and Mrs. Gump'll take off forever.
All the way up north.
In the big red fire truck.
That's almost two hundred miles.
Lobster hopes the price of gas don't go up too much while he's waitin' to git married.
Else he'll never get away.
Before they go, they'll stop to Beautiful Cove for an hour or two.
He'll ring Mrs. Gump's bell a coupla times.
Brrrng, brrring.
He loves to watch her spin round and round.
Under the big red light.
Won't that be a fine day.
When's Lobster gettin' married?
He don't know.
His girl tells him it's the government stopping them.
Nasty mean stoopid people. Always looking in your business.
All lawyered up, yakkin' their mouths off.
Lobster reckons she's probly right.
Least she tells him she is.
Anyhow, enough said for now.
Lobster's gotta go down the Legion tonight for the Sunday bowlin.
He loves to go down there and have a beer and watch the bowlin on the tv.
Did you know, when Lobster became a man, as well as getting him a spot on the big red fire truck, pappy got him a spot as the deppity president of the Legion?
Ain't no finer institution.
He's a good pappy.
Pappy and mumma sure wish Lobster would get married soon.
They're lookin' forward to havin' little tinkers running around the yard.
'Specially since the fishery's gone to hell this year.
We need all the tinkers we can get, pappy says.
Pappy's funny...
Lobster's gotta go watch the bowlin' now. Can't miss it.
But he'll be back to talk to y'all real soon.
Be sure to let us know if you want to hear more about the adventures of Lobster Gump.
He sure loves to talk.
But he's kinda shy in company.
The Greatest Band on Earth. More Bands
Inuit Panda etc. forgot to mention Sonic Youth.
My but we are being stoopid, as Queenie forgot about them too.
Accent Monkey said Prince then, Prince. Because nobody else has voted for him yet, and because I love him.
Polly said The Kings of Leon are the most interesting and entertaining thing to come along in quite a while... I know they only have three albums, but they are very good albums and they are a seriously excellent live act. There, taste defended. exhale. :-)
You're allowed have an opinion on this blog, Polly. Freedom of speech still reigned in Canada last time I checked. Even though the woman who threatened to punch me in the face today (for the sixth time, I really should go talk to a police officer about this and give him my notes, times, dates, locations, etc) told me that I was FUCKED.
That's right FUCKED, because of my blog.
I wonder if people with a criminal record can become RCMP officers?
Worth checking into.
Oh that's right, I already have.
I'm just too nice to do stuff like that.
But nice doesn't really seem to be working seeing as I'm going to be FUCKED anyway.
Well, when I say FUCKED, it may not have been that loud but her face was about two inches from mine while she was saying it (I was sitting down at the time) so it felt kinda loud.
I better not say who the woman is, in case I would be FUCKED as a result. But let's just say, she would be married forever.
I wonder what her favourite band is?
Oh hang on, I'll ask her long suffering husband! Who is in the kitchen making my lobster dinner right now.
Himself says it would have to one of them old Legion bands there, uhm, can't think of any of them now, let's see, oh what's his name.... I don't know, Queenie, I always called them old Legion bands.
Now he's singing 'I seen her over in the corner with another man, but she'll come home with me I'm sure' in a country twang.
So we'll go with Garth Brooks.
My but we are being stoopid, as Queenie forgot about them too.
Accent Monkey said Prince then, Prince. Because nobody else has voted for him yet, and because I love him.
Polly said The Kings of Leon are the most interesting and entertaining thing to come along in quite a while... I know they only have three albums, but they are very good albums and they are a seriously excellent live act. There, taste defended. exhale. :-)
You're allowed have an opinion on this blog, Polly. Freedom of speech still reigned in Canada last time I checked. Even though the woman who threatened to punch me in the face today (for the sixth time, I really should go talk to a police officer about this and give him my notes, times, dates, locations, etc) told me that I was FUCKED.
That's right FUCKED, because of my blog.
I wonder if people with a criminal record can become RCMP officers?
Worth checking into.
Oh that's right, I already have.
I'm just too nice to do stuff like that.
But nice doesn't really seem to be working seeing as I'm going to be FUCKED anyway.
Well, when I say FUCKED, it may not have been that loud but her face was about two inches from mine while she was saying it (I was sitting down at the time) so it felt kinda loud.
I better not say who the woman is, in case I would be FUCKED as a result. But let's just say, she would be married forever.
I wonder what her favourite band is?
Oh hang on, I'll ask her long suffering husband! Who is in the kitchen making my lobster dinner right now.
Himself says it would have to one of them old Legion bands there, uhm, can't think of any of them now, let's see, oh what's his name.... I don't know, Queenie, I always called them old Legion bands.
Now he's singing 'I seen her over in the corner with another man, but she'll come home with me I'm sure' in a country twang.
So we'll go with Garth Brooks.
A true animal lover
is someone who's not afraid to save Rusty!!
Posting from the twin cities....
We have a neighbor two blocks away that has a cat. Now, first off, I like cats. We don't have a pet right now because we have three kids and the last thing I need is another thing to watch. The previous owner of the house we live in had about five cats and they used a lot of potpourri to hide the smell when we looked at the house. The smell was really bad the first year we were here and even today, seven years later, you can still smell them at times. Also when we first moved in, our neighbors had a cat that, due to the smell of the cats that were here, crapped in our garden all the time. That kitty met his demise at the hands of a raccoon in 2002
We started noticing Rusty coming into our yard early last summer. We found he had a tag on his neck and called the owner. The owner is one creepy dude. He came, took his cat and left. A week later, Rusty was back. Some times I would call the owner, other times he would leave on his own. We started finding cat crap in the yard and in the gardens and our neighbors actually had to take their sandbox out because Rusty thought it was his. I started to ask my other neighbors how many times they had called to get Rusty picked up and it was at least ten times combined. One neighbor's dog was bitten by Rusty and another neighbor had Rusty destroy half of her plants. I really started to dislike Rusty's owner when in September, I called him one day, told him I didn't appreciate the unwillingness to control Rusty and the very next day, at Evelyn's birthday party, here comes Rusty again, jumping on our outdoor table and nearly eating Evelyn's cake.
We have definitely seen a decrease in the amount of birds in the area, but my concern is really for the cat. The raccoons still live in the area and so do fox. We have a lot of street traffic and 169 is five blocks away. And I have heard enough neighbors say that if they corner the cat, and no one is watching, they will take care of Rusty the old fashion way. I started to research the laws of Hopkins to see where I stood as a property owner. It said if you have a nuisance dog that you can turn them into a local vet who acts as a pet impound. The next time Rusty came over, I put him into a cage and took him the the vet. He said we don't take cats, you need to go to the police. When I brought him there, the police told me there are no ordinances in regards to cats in the city of Hopkins, just dogs, and that the owner could technically charge me with theft. I asked him if I was in my yard, and Rusty was scratching my kids and I picked him up to help the kids, the minute I held the cat, could I be charged with theft? He said yes. The police went to the owner and said to keep control of the cat and that's the last we saw of the cat until this spring.
The minute it warmed up, I was outside and here comes Rusty. I called the owner for the tenth time and said I've had it. I said I'd called him enough and he just didn't seem to care about the welfare of the cat. The next time Rusty is in my yard, I will take him to the Humane Society .
The creepy owner then tells me, "well he likes to be outside on a leash." I ask then why is the cat running free at all. He shrugged. I told him again that the cat would go to the Humane Society and he said alright. I then went to the Hopkins City Council and pleaded with them to amend the city laws to account for cats the same way they account for dogs. Many of the city council agreed that the property owner does deserve some protection or recourse in a case like this.
Over the next week, I found the cat in my yard three more times. I really was having a lot of mixed feelings about this. On Wednesday night, I came home from a getogether with former co-workers to find the cat in the yard again. I said, this guy seems to be daring me to do this. We got, what we thought, was a sturdy box and placed Rusty in it. Taped it shut (he had breathing holes) and put him in the car. I had to drive about ten miles to the Humane Society and headed out with Rusty riding shotgun. I am guessing that Rusty must have had a hulk like reaction to Gamma radiation in his past because about three miles down the road, Rusty decided he wanted out of the box. He shredded the side of the box facing me and looked at me. It was go time. So here I am wrestling with this cat as I'm driving 65 MPH down the highway in a car with manual transmission. I managed to get off the road and get Rusty back in the box while receiving only one really bad scratch on my arm. Rusty realized his fate was sealed and just "meow-howled" the rest of the way there. I dropped him off and walked away.
The next day, I got a call from the Hopkins City Manager saying that they felt that the nuisance laws currently on the books would be applicable to the cat and vowed to send a cease notice to the owner. Also, I called the Humane Society to explain why a tagged cat was dropped off and they seemed to agree with me, especially when it comes to the safety of the cat. They never reveal how an animal gets to their facility and it costs him $25 bucks to get the cat out. So far, I have not heard anything from either Rusty or the creepy owner. This is what keeps me amused in my life.
Matthew, animal lover.
Hey Matthew, maybe Rusty is your karma? Ever thought of that?
- Queenie
Also, Himself having read this blog entry, says buy a super soaker water pistol and use it on every cat that gets into your yard and within a month you will have a cat-free zone.
Himself is usually right about these things.
- Queenie again
Great story but. We laughed our asses off.
- Queenie yet again.
Posting from the twin cities....
We have a neighbor two blocks away that has a cat. Now, first off, I like cats. We don't have a pet right now because we have three kids and the last thing I need is another thing to watch. The previous owner of the house we live in had about five cats and they used a lot of potpourri to hide the smell when we looked at the house. The smell was really bad the first year we were here and even today, seven years later, you can still smell them at times. Also when we first moved in, our neighbors had a cat that, due to the smell of the cats that were here, crapped in our garden all the time. That kitty met his demise at the hands of a raccoon in 2002
We started noticing Rusty coming into our yard early last summer. We found he had a tag on his neck and called the owner. The owner is one creepy dude. He came, took his cat and left. A week later, Rusty was back. Some times I would call the owner, other times he would leave on his own. We started finding cat crap in the yard and in the gardens and our neighbors actually had to take their sandbox out because Rusty thought it was his. I started to ask my other neighbors how many times they had called to get Rusty picked up and it was at least ten times combined. One neighbor's dog was bitten by Rusty and another neighbor had Rusty destroy half of her plants. I really started to dislike Rusty's owner when in September, I called him one day, told him I didn't appreciate the unwillingness to control Rusty and the very next day, at Evelyn's birthday party, here comes Rusty again, jumping on our outdoor table and nearly eating Evelyn's cake.
We have definitely seen a decrease in the amount of birds in the area, but my concern is really for the cat. The raccoons still live in the area and so do fox. We have a lot of street traffic and 169 is five blocks away. And I have heard enough neighbors say that if they corner the cat, and no one is watching, they will take care of Rusty the old fashion way. I started to research the laws of Hopkins to see where I stood as a property owner. It said if you have a nuisance dog that you can turn them into a local vet who acts as a pet impound. The next time Rusty came over, I put him into a cage and took him the the vet. He said we don't take cats, you need to go to the police. When I brought him there, the police told me there are no ordinances in regards to cats in the city of Hopkins, just dogs, and that the owner could technically charge me with theft. I asked him if I was in my yard, and Rusty was scratching my kids and I picked him up to help the kids, the minute I held the cat, could I be charged with theft? He said yes. The police went to the owner and said to keep control of the cat and that's the last we saw of the cat until this spring.
The minute it warmed up, I was outside and here comes Rusty. I called the owner for the tenth time and said I've had it. I said I'd called him enough and he just didn't seem to care about the welfare of the cat. The next time Rusty is in my yard, I will take him to the Humane Society .
The creepy owner then tells me, "well he likes to be outside on a leash." I ask then why is the cat running free at all. He shrugged. I told him again that the cat would go to the Humane Society and he said alright. I then went to the Hopkins City Council and pleaded with them to amend the city laws to account for cats the same way they account for dogs. Many of the city council agreed that the property owner does deserve some protection or recourse in a case like this.
Over the next week, I found the cat in my yard three more times. I really was having a lot of mixed feelings about this. On Wednesday night, I came home from a getogether with former co-workers to find the cat in the yard again. I said, this guy seems to be daring me to do this. We got, what we thought, was a sturdy box and placed Rusty in it. Taped it shut (he had breathing holes) and put him in the car. I had to drive about ten miles to the Humane Society and headed out with Rusty riding shotgun. I am guessing that Rusty must have had a hulk like reaction to Gamma radiation in his past because about three miles down the road, Rusty decided he wanted out of the box. He shredded the side of the box facing me and looked at me. It was go time. So here I am wrestling with this cat as I'm driving 65 MPH down the highway in a car with manual transmission. I managed to get off the road and get Rusty back in the box while receiving only one really bad scratch on my arm. Rusty realized his fate was sealed and just "meow-howled" the rest of the way there. I dropped him off and walked away.
The next day, I got a call from the Hopkins City Manager saying that they felt that the nuisance laws currently on the books would be applicable to the cat and vowed to send a cease notice to the owner. Also, I called the Humane Society to explain why a tagged cat was dropped off and they seemed to agree with me, especially when it comes to the safety of the cat. They never reveal how an animal gets to their facility and it costs him $25 bucks to get the cat out. So far, I have not heard anything from either Rusty or the creepy owner. This is what keeps me amused in my life.
Matthew, animal lover.
Hey Matthew, maybe Rusty is your karma? Ever thought of that?
- Queenie
Also, Himself having read this blog entry, says buy a super soaker water pistol and use it on every cat that gets into your yard and within a month you will have a cat-free zone.
Himself is usually right about these things.
- Queenie again
Great story but. We laughed our asses off.
- Queenie yet again.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
A true Canadian
... is someone who can make love in a canoe.
I was told that once by a Cowboy Junkie.
Goddamn huge, wide, heavy things.
Any normal person could do it, I'm sure.
Anyways, after weeks of Kijiji-stalking, we found an old sixteen footer, with lovely wooden trim and the original seats still intact.
Not so sure we'll be portaging it through the wilderness anytime soon.
But it'll be great for fishing and camping. And pottering round Chocolate Lake spying on the neighbours.
So, yard cleaned up .... check.
Washer toss game unearthed from under the doorstep ... check.
New garden chairs .... check.
Lake canoe ... check.
Let the summer commence.
I was told that once by a Cowboy Junkie.
Goddamn huge, wide, heavy things.
Any normal person could do it, I'm sure.
Anyways, after weeks of Kijiji-stalking, we found an old sixteen footer, with lovely wooden trim and the original seats still intact.
Not so sure we'll be portaging it through the wilderness anytime soon.
But it'll be great for fishing and camping. And pottering round Chocolate Lake spying on the neighbours.
So, yard cleaned up .... check.
Washer toss game unearthed from under the doorstep ... check.
New garden chairs .... check.
Lake canoe ... check.
Let the summer commence.
Sunday, April 20, 2008
This greatest thing is going to be tough
Some more picks from people.
The Clash
The Who
Tom Waits
Bob Dylan
and, I dunno, Ella Fitzgerald era Duke Ellington band just to make sure that everyone thinks I'm a music snob.
Then again Led Zed is pretty good too.
Yes, Mike, us music snobs have got to stick together in this crazy world of cock rockk.
Polly is taking your "bands" thing literally and thus leaving out
Stevie Wonder (and the reason you would put him in is????? Sorry, hate SW)
Elvis Presley
Van (the man I assume)
David Bowie
so...
Led Zeppelin
The Kings of Leon
The Beatles
Fleetwood Mac
The Rolling Stones (which Luke has also voted for)
I have a feeling the kings of cock are going to run away with this one.
The Clash
The Who
Tom Waits
Bob Dylan
and, I dunno, Ella Fitzgerald era Duke Ellington band just to make sure that everyone thinks I'm a music snob.
Then again Led Zed is pretty good too.
Yes, Mike, us music snobs have got to stick together in this crazy world of cock rockk.
Polly is taking your "bands" thing literally and thus leaving out
Stevie Wonder (and the reason you would put him in is????? Sorry, hate SW)
Elvis Presley
Van (the man I assume)
David Bowie
so...
Led Zeppelin
The Kings of Leon
The Beatles
Fleetwood Mac
The Rolling Stones (which Luke has also voted for)
I have a feeling the kings of cock are going to run away with this one.
Born to Run in the USA
'I think that your entire life is a process of sorting out some of those early messages that you got.' - Bruce Springsteen.
I love The Boss.
He should be on the list for Greatest Band in the World ever.
And on the list of Greatest Dudes in the World ever too.
His music got me through the eighties and the nineties.
And I love his take on life.
Usually.
But he and I have diverged on the issue of the best Democratic Candidate in the World Right Now.
I suppose I shall have to give in finally.
Admit defeat.
But I am sad.
There was a great sketch on SNL last night (although I think it was a repeat). Obama calls Hilary at 3am and cries down the phone at her about his problems.
Which she sorts out.
And then she explains how to get the circuit breaker working again.
So I suppose I am not sad in a way, because she will still be around.
Politics is a dirty business.
I love The Boss.
He should be on the list for Greatest Band in the World ever.
And on the list of Greatest Dudes in the World ever too.
His music got me through the eighties and the nineties.
And I love his take on life.
Usually.
But he and I have diverged on the issue of the best Democratic Candidate in the World Right Now.
I suppose I shall have to give in finally.
Admit defeat.
But I am sad.
There was a great sketch on SNL last night (although I think it was a repeat). Obama calls Hilary at 3am and cries down the phone at her about his problems.
Which she sorts out.
And then she explains how to get the circuit breaker working again.
So I suppose I am not sad in a way, because she will still be around.
Politics is a dirty business.
Saturday, April 19, 2008
The greatest band on earth
And so it begins...
Chocolate Socialist quite rightly pointed out that I got the lyrics to The Smiths entry assways.
Apologies for that.
I had most of a bottle of wine in me.
Rottenhat contributed in a positive way.
The Fall
Roxy Music
And a vote for The Smiths from his wife.
So the voting list is as follows right now:
Himself's Picks
Led Zeppelin
Nirvana
BB King
Neil Young - based on Harvest
Jimi Hendrix
Theory of a Deadman
Kris' Picks
U2
The Doors
Coldplay
Stone Temple Pilots
The Smiths
Agreed Picks
The Cult
The Cure
The Who
Queenie's Picks
Radiohead
Low
My Bloody Valentine
Chocolate Socialist quite rightly pointed out that I got the lyrics to The Smiths entry assways.
Apologies for that.
I had most of a bottle of wine in me.
Rottenhat contributed in a positive way.
The Fall
Roxy Music
And a vote for The Smiths from his wife.
So the voting list is as follows right now:
Himself's Picks
Led Zeppelin
Nirvana
BB King
Neil Young - based on Harvest
Jimi Hendrix
Theory of a Deadman
Kris' Picks
U2
The Doors
Coldplay
Stone Temple Pilots
The Smiths
Agreed Picks
The Cult
The Cure
The Who
Queenie's Picks
Radiohead
Low
My Bloody Valentine
Friday, April 18, 2008
I am the sun and the earth
Kris is listening to 'How soon is now?' by The Smiths.
Where would you put this song?
In the 'Greatest Band in the World' canon.
It is just a song.
But still.
It is at the point in the evening when Kris wants me to type the words of the song out while it's playing.
Why do I always have to do the typing?
Himself is asleep with his head on the table.
He talked the whole way through Radiohead.... then fell asleep.
I am the song. I am the earth
Of a shyness that is criminally broken
Tum ti tum ti tum
You shut your mouth. How can you say
That I go about things the wrong way
I am human and I want to be loved
Just like everybody else does.
I am the sun. I am the earth
Of a shyness that is criminally broken
At this point, Himself woke up to say that that is it really for him with that song.
I thought it was pretty good...
What would you pick?
Where would you put this song?
In the 'Greatest Band in the World' canon.
It is just a song.
But still.
It is at the point in the evening when Kris wants me to type the words of the song out while it's playing.
Why do I always have to do the typing?
Himself is asleep with his head on the table.
He talked the whole way through Radiohead.... then fell asleep.
I am the song. I am the earth
Of a shyness that is criminally broken
Tum ti tum ti tum
You shut your mouth. How can you say
That I go about things the wrong way
I am human and I want to be loved
Just like everybody else does.
I am the sun. I am the earth
Of a shyness that is criminally broken
At this point, Himself woke up to say that that is it really for him with that song.
I thought it was pretty good...
What would you pick?
The Last Snowflake
Kris, Himself and I are starting the summer debate.
This year's debate is: 'Who is the greatest band ever?'
'Besides Led Zeppelin', says Himself.
This is a simple ploy on Himself's part to try to make sure he picks the winning band.
In case Nirvana doesn't win.
Kris is hedging her bets.
She's changed her mind twice, but I love all her choices so far.
U2
The Doors
Coldplay
Stone Temple Pilots
And one more, she can't remember.
You can pick four bands.
You can change them as many times as you like.
At the end of the summer we will agree on the best band in the world.
We are listening to Nirvana, right now, we started with Santana and Coldplay.
And we don't have a gun.
Says Himself.
And later, I'll get Radiohead on.
Because I'm doing the typing, that's why!
We cannot wait to hear what you think.
Ta ta , says Himself, broadcasting from a free Melwood.
This year's debate is: 'Who is the greatest band ever?'
'Besides Led Zeppelin', says Himself.
This is a simple ploy on Himself's part to try to make sure he picks the winning band.
In case Nirvana doesn't win.
Kris is hedging her bets.
She's changed her mind twice, but I love all her choices so far.
U2
The Doors
Coldplay
Stone Temple Pilots
And one more, she can't remember.
You can pick four bands.
You can change them as many times as you like.
At the end of the summer we will agree on the best band in the world.
We are listening to Nirvana, right now, we started with Santana and Coldplay.
And we don't have a gun.
Says Himself.
And later, I'll get Radiohead on.
Because I'm doing the typing, that's why!
We cannot wait to hear what you think.
Ta ta , says Himself, broadcasting from a free Melwood.
Monday, April 14, 2008
Have I given people too much despair?
I don't know what to make of Nuala O Faoilean's interview about her terminal illness, which took place on Marian Finucane's show last week. (go to 6 mins 50 seconds to start it).
It ends with Nuala's whispered question, 'have I given people too much despair?'
I suppose it depends on the person, Nuala.
I found it deeply comforting and positive to be able to listen to two of the most influential Irish women of my lifetime discussing how it feels for one of them to face her own death. This pair have been a major part of the running commentary that takes place in Ireland, and have expressed views on pretty much everything that I have thought about in the last thirty five years or so. Death is one such topic, one that I seem to bump into a lot more these days, as you do when you age, so it is fitting that they tackled it.
There was beauty (which is the antidote to despair) in it as Nuala, despite her insecurities about it, is a deep thinker and she delivers her thoughts in a knitted wooly hat type of intellectual way that has always resonated with me as a similar kind of citified agnostic country catholic.
And there were flashes of the old Nuala, the Nuala that wrote for the Irish Times when I was a teenager and took no prisoners and taught me how to do it: the wry acceptance of how unimportant a mere woman at the edge of a small country on a small planet in a vast universe really is, followed up with a 'to hell with it, I'm going to voice my opinion anyway' speech.
Being faced with Nuala's desperate longing for a reprieve, her desolation at knowing life is finite, and her decision to share her despair with us was difficult. Why? To make it easier? To record it as a journalist? To get sympathy and attention?
It was hard to know what she wanted from us as listener.
Marian didn't wobble once which is probably testament to her work with the hospice movement, but she ended the interview very abruptly, I thought. Maybe she was going to cry.
She was very concerned about people with cancer and their families getting upset by conversations about death from cancer when there's great hope around nowadays.
Which I thought was a bit of a red herring. After all, she was interviewing a woman who was pulling back the veil of silence across the issue of death by cancer while dying of cancer.
Dying.
Not praying for some of the great hope there is nowadays.
But Marian is nothing if not reflective of the Irish love of a good red herring. That's why she's so successful. And why we don't talk about death by cancer generally.
Other people I know who listened to it have talked about the part of the interview that was most poignant for them. It's interesting. Some people were upset about Nuala leaving her room behind. Others were upset because she said she was glad she didn't have children. Another was upset by the way she didn't want to rear the fourteen year old girl she mentioned at the beginning of the interview. And everyone noticed the smoking thing of course.
There's a reason why we hear certain things of course.
I was interested in her current attitude to her earlier, oft-proclaimed view that passion was what counted.
Passion can go take a running jump at itself right now, apparently.
Marian asked her about love.
Well I always used to get love and passion mixed up, Nuala said, with one of her little laughs.
I always suspected that was the case. I never agreed with you about passion, Nuala. But I could never prove you wrong in my head, because I couldn't figure out what passion really was.
I think passion is an emotion you can feel about anything or anyone and yeah, it's great, but nowadays its meaning has been corrupted so much that we mistake it for other things.
I am passionate about photography.
They have a passionate relationship.
He is passionate about football.
etc.
I'm just noticing how stupid the word passionate looks by the way.
The above are all examples of what most people would consider the various forms of passion that exist.
And of course, when you grow up an Irish Catholic, the first encounter you have with the word is The Passion of Christ.
Here passion is a condition rather than an emotion, full of pain, suffering, misery, desolation, with the promise of elation at the end of it. Or elevation.
A heady mix.
And then you grow up and cast off the shackles of Catholicism and say thank Christ that's over, now I can have some fun and go out into the world.
And the world tells you that passion is actually, really about those things, just not necessarily on behalf of mankind, or indeed anyone else. Passion should be focused on the self: it can involve sacrifice (for yourself and your loved ones) to achieve greatness in your field, or a heady mixture of suffering and elation in a difficult (but emotionally and of course physically satisfying relationship), or even the loneliness (and moral sanctimoniousness) of a crusade.
To my mind, the world is difficult enough without having to try to have an obsessive, sacrificial relationship with it.
I told passion to go take a running jump at itself years ago.
Wry objectivity is a much easier approach. Or even self-piteous subjectivity, when it's that time of the month.
However, I've since found that passion sneaks back in. And when you let passion sneak into your soul, rather than grabbing at what you think it might be, it unveils itself.
A glance at the profile of the person you love makes you catch your breath yet again.
Why?
What makes that face do that to you?
Memorising all the lines radiating from their eyes, and wondering what caused them; the tinge of stubble on their jaw, the shine in their hair, and the swerve of their nose. The way the hairs lie across the shadow of the muscles of their arm.
Because you'd forgotten for a second how beloved their face is.
In case some day they don't come home.
To see how long you can do it before they sense that you are.
And then they catch your look. And it makes them feel great.
Why?
What makes that look do that to them?
That's passion. Right there.
The rest of it, all the moaning and groaning (as the Queen Mother would say) and focus and sacrifice and elation/ despair polarities is just obsession which is so prized in this world that is being run into the ground by obsessive people, it has been rebranded as passion.
I am wondering if Nuala did not mix up passion and obsession.
The way most of us catholic country girls have done at one time or another.
We are who we are.
Desolation doesn't change us.
It just makes us truer to our unique selves.
As Nuala would say.
When she wondered aloud how it was possible that she would be gone and all she knows gone with her I wanted to shake her, tumours and all.
You are a woman who taught two generations of Irish women how to think in their own way.
Thank you, Nuala.
It ends with Nuala's whispered question, 'have I given people too much despair?'
I suppose it depends on the person, Nuala.
I found it deeply comforting and positive to be able to listen to two of the most influential Irish women of my lifetime discussing how it feels for one of them to face her own death. This pair have been a major part of the running commentary that takes place in Ireland, and have expressed views on pretty much everything that I have thought about in the last thirty five years or so. Death is one such topic, one that I seem to bump into a lot more these days, as you do when you age, so it is fitting that they tackled it.
There was beauty (which is the antidote to despair) in it as Nuala, despite her insecurities about it, is a deep thinker and she delivers her thoughts in a knitted wooly hat type of intellectual way that has always resonated with me as a similar kind of citified agnostic country catholic.
And there were flashes of the old Nuala, the Nuala that wrote for the Irish Times when I was a teenager and took no prisoners and taught me how to do it: the wry acceptance of how unimportant a mere woman at the edge of a small country on a small planet in a vast universe really is, followed up with a 'to hell with it, I'm going to voice my opinion anyway' speech.
Being faced with Nuala's desperate longing for a reprieve, her desolation at knowing life is finite, and her decision to share her despair with us was difficult. Why? To make it easier? To record it as a journalist? To get sympathy and attention?
It was hard to know what she wanted from us as listener.
Marian didn't wobble once which is probably testament to her work with the hospice movement, but she ended the interview very abruptly, I thought. Maybe she was going to cry.
She was very concerned about people with cancer and their families getting upset by conversations about death from cancer when there's great hope around nowadays.
Which I thought was a bit of a red herring. After all, she was interviewing a woman who was pulling back the veil of silence across the issue of death by cancer while dying of cancer.
Dying.
Not praying for some of the great hope there is nowadays.
But Marian is nothing if not reflective of the Irish love of a good red herring. That's why she's so successful. And why we don't talk about death by cancer generally.
Other people I know who listened to it have talked about the part of the interview that was most poignant for them. It's interesting. Some people were upset about Nuala leaving her room behind. Others were upset because she said she was glad she didn't have children. Another was upset by the way she didn't want to rear the fourteen year old girl she mentioned at the beginning of the interview. And everyone noticed the smoking thing of course.
There's a reason why we hear certain things of course.
I was interested in her current attitude to her earlier, oft-proclaimed view that passion was what counted.
Passion can go take a running jump at itself right now, apparently.
Marian asked her about love.
Well I always used to get love and passion mixed up, Nuala said, with one of her little laughs.
I always suspected that was the case. I never agreed with you about passion, Nuala. But I could never prove you wrong in my head, because I couldn't figure out what passion really was.
I think passion is an emotion you can feel about anything or anyone and yeah, it's great, but nowadays its meaning has been corrupted so much that we mistake it for other things.
I am passionate about photography.
They have a passionate relationship.
He is passionate about football.
etc.
I'm just noticing how stupid the word passionate looks by the way.
The above are all examples of what most people would consider the various forms of passion that exist.
And of course, when you grow up an Irish Catholic, the first encounter you have with the word is The Passion of Christ.
Here passion is a condition rather than an emotion, full of pain, suffering, misery, desolation, with the promise of elation at the end of it. Or elevation.
A heady mix.
And then you grow up and cast off the shackles of Catholicism and say thank Christ that's over, now I can have some fun and go out into the world.
And the world tells you that passion is actually, really about those things, just not necessarily on behalf of mankind, or indeed anyone else. Passion should be focused on the self: it can involve sacrifice (for yourself and your loved ones) to achieve greatness in your field, or a heady mixture of suffering and elation in a difficult (but emotionally and of course physically satisfying relationship), or even the loneliness (and moral sanctimoniousness) of a crusade.
To my mind, the world is difficult enough without having to try to have an obsessive, sacrificial relationship with it.
I told passion to go take a running jump at itself years ago.
Wry objectivity is a much easier approach. Or even self-piteous subjectivity, when it's that time of the month.
However, I've since found that passion sneaks back in. And when you let passion sneak into your soul, rather than grabbing at what you think it might be, it unveils itself.
A glance at the profile of the person you love makes you catch your breath yet again.
Why?
What makes that face do that to you?
Memorising all the lines radiating from their eyes, and wondering what caused them; the tinge of stubble on their jaw, the shine in their hair, and the swerve of their nose. The way the hairs lie across the shadow of the muscles of their arm.
Because you'd forgotten for a second how beloved their face is.
In case some day they don't come home.
To see how long you can do it before they sense that you are.
And then they catch your look. And it makes them feel great.
Why?
What makes that look do that to them?
That's passion. Right there.
The rest of it, all the moaning and groaning (as the Queen Mother would say) and focus and sacrifice and elation/ despair polarities is just obsession which is so prized in this world that is being run into the ground by obsessive people, it has been rebranded as passion.
I am wondering if Nuala did not mix up passion and obsession.
The way most of us catholic country girls have done at one time or another.
We are who we are.
Desolation doesn't change us.
It just makes us truer to our unique selves.
As Nuala would say.
When she wondered aloud how it was possible that she would be gone and all she knows gone with her I wanted to shake her, tumours and all.
You are a woman who taught two generations of Irish women how to think in their own way.
Thank you, Nuala.
Monday morning, grey again
The thing about the Canadian winter is that it usually ends.
Unlike the Irish winter.
One day you're up to your oxters in snow and wind and freezing rain and the next you're not.
The animals and birds get up and stretch and go about the business of procreation in the loudest possible manner and us humans smile at the sound of it.
Then we all sit around and wait for the leaves to appear.
Nothing yet.
tum ti tum ti tum.
No. Nothing.
One day in May, I will wake up and they will be here.
The leaves.
They do it every time.
A burst of energy.
Now though, we have a period of sun followed by rain followed by sun followed by etc.
It's called Spring.
It's nice.
But I would like for the sun to be out when I'm off work.
Not when I'm in work.
But I've never managed to find a country to live in that does that.
My Irish friends are discussing the camping arrangements for Electric Picnic.
This type of stuff makes me sad.
Nova Scotia is not noted for its live music scene. Which is a pity, because the chances of it raining in Nova Scotia the weekend of Electric Picnic are slim. Whereas in Ireland they are wider than slim.
Oh, I wish I could rearrange the world to suit myself.
Doesn't everyone...
Now I have to shower and dress because the woman I am waiting to call me is obviously not going to do that until I get in the shower. And then I shall go do my errands.
How grown up of me.
Unlike the Irish winter.
One day you're up to your oxters in snow and wind and freezing rain and the next you're not.
The animals and birds get up and stretch and go about the business of procreation in the loudest possible manner and us humans smile at the sound of it.
Then we all sit around and wait for the leaves to appear.
Nothing yet.
tum ti tum ti tum.
No. Nothing.
One day in May, I will wake up and they will be here.
The leaves.
They do it every time.
A burst of energy.
Now though, we have a period of sun followed by rain followed by sun followed by etc.
It's called Spring.
It's nice.
But I would like for the sun to be out when I'm off work.
Not when I'm in work.
But I've never managed to find a country to live in that does that.
My Irish friends are discussing the camping arrangements for Electric Picnic.
This type of stuff makes me sad.
Nova Scotia is not noted for its live music scene. Which is a pity, because the chances of it raining in Nova Scotia the weekend of Electric Picnic are slim. Whereas in Ireland they are wider than slim.
Oh, I wish I could rearrange the world to suit myself.
Doesn't everyone...
Now I have to shower and dress because the woman I am waiting to call me is obviously not going to do that until I get in the shower. And then I shall go do my errands.
How grown up of me.
Sunday, April 13, 2008
Grey day
boring sunday morning.
Our landlord stopped by yesterday with a notice that he is increasing the rent.
So I wouldn't sign off on it until he agreed to fix the stairs and change the carpet and fix the enormous hole in the yard.
But he still managed to leave without promising to do anything about it.
He's a slippery individual our landlord.
I'm standing there looking at him not meeting my eyes, in his playboy yachtie clothes and his expensive moccasins, thinking 'why the hell am I paying for his nice wardrobe?'
Time for a new strategy, I think.
In other domestic news, our grandchild cried all weekend apparently.
he he he he he he he....
Our landlord stopped by yesterday with a notice that he is increasing the rent.
So I wouldn't sign off on it until he agreed to fix the stairs and change the carpet and fix the enormous hole in the yard.
But he still managed to leave without promising to do anything about it.
He's a slippery individual our landlord.
I'm standing there looking at him not meeting my eyes, in his playboy yachtie clothes and his expensive moccasins, thinking 'why the hell am I paying for his nice wardrobe?'
Time for a new strategy, I think.
In other domestic news, our grandchild cried all weekend apparently.
he he he he he he he....
Saturday, April 12, 2008
Summer in Dublin
This summer, from July 4th-20th, George's Dock in the Dublin Docklands will be transformed into a "tropical seaside oasis", dotted with palm trees and beach cabanas, and will play host to activities such as yoga, tai chi, chess, volley ball and sandcastle building.
Bring your own beach towel, or relax on a sun-lounger and watch the world go by. Just hope that the weather plays ball or "tropical seaside oasis" could be words the organisers may regret using. - Irish Times
WTF? Are we thinking we're Paris now?
Bring your own beach towel, or relax on a sun-lounger and watch the world go by. Just hope that the weather plays ball or "tropical seaside oasis" could be words the organisers may regret using. - Irish Times
WTF? Are we thinking we're Paris now?
Friday, April 11, 2008
So I popped by Blogger today...
... on my way into my blog.
If this is just not like the beginning of a turf war with the neighbour then I don't know what it is.
But anyway.
I am the type of consumer that if, I am accosted by a service provider. And forced to make a choice between a relationship and money.
I will always choose the most cost-effective solution.
Because I am not well off to do otherwise.
But I expect options.
For my freedom.
Dare I ask what is the price of freedom nowadays?
If this is just not like the beginning of a turf war with the neighbour then I don't know what it is.
But anyway.
I am the type of consumer that if, I am accosted by a service provider. And forced to make a choice between a relationship and money.
I will always choose the most cost-effective solution.
Because I am not well off to do otherwise.
But I expect options.
For my freedom.
Dare I ask what is the price of freedom nowadays?
Nova Scotia
is the beginning of the rest of the world.
It could be an Arcadia.
It was once.
It was Acadie.
I met a woman tonight.
Who is a Valley Baptist.
And she and I sat in a bar.
Uncomfortably.
That I, of course, had picked.
But we had a good chat.
We are all the same, us women in the office.
That's what I love about this job.
It's just a pile of women on a big floor of an office building.
And if I am anything.
Which I have never yet even believed that i could be.
But if i were
despite myself
i would be a leader of women
because that is the hardest job in the world.
and anyone who can do it
whether they are female or male or not sure
has my total respect.
It could be an Arcadia.
It was once.
It was Acadie.
I met a woman tonight.
Who is a Valley Baptist.
And she and I sat in a bar.
Uncomfortably.
That I, of course, had picked.
But we had a good chat.
We are all the same, us women in the office.
That's what I love about this job.
It's just a pile of women on a big floor of an office building.
And if I am anything.
Which I have never yet even believed that i could be.
But if i were
despite myself
i would be a leader of women
because that is the hardest job in the world.
and anyone who can do it
whether they are female or male or not sure
has my total respect.
Fuck the timelords...
... the librarians are going to win.
I don't follow technology, because they immigrate numbers into the language and that is foreign to me and I am rule-bound (which may or may not be my fault)
but it's all a spectrum.
So you talk to the people next to you.
Like in a cinema queue.
But hopefully a Leonard Cohen gig.
Paul Watts in Ireland,
has a ticket to Leonard Cohen,
who is canadian,
and is playing in halifax,
where queenie lives,
and she can't get a ticket,
episode 28,
in queenie's,
... lives her life again...
... in (the usually),
ever decreasing circles,
etc.
I don't follow technology, because they immigrate numbers into the language and that is foreign to me and I am rule-bound (which may or may not be my fault)
but it's all a spectrum.
So you talk to the people next to you.
Like in a cinema queue.
But hopefully a Leonard Cohen gig.
Paul Watts in Ireland,
has a ticket to Leonard Cohen,
who is canadian,
and is playing in halifax,
where queenie lives,
and she can't get a ticket,
episode 28,
in queenie's,
... lives her life again...
... in (the usually),
ever decreasing circles,
etc.
Himself is a Grampy at forty four
So Himself has become a Grampy.
At forty four.
Which makes me a step-grandma.
At thirty seven.
Which is a bit young.
But it's just for the weekend.
Phew!
Kitty has one of those rubber babies home for the weekend. It cries and does all the baby stuff and is supposed to teach her responsible behaviour (which includes not producing a real one I assume) and the stress of parenthood etc.
I'm a mom for the weekend! She announced on the phone.
Granny decided not to travel this weekend and by a serendipitous stroke, is missing the baby.
Hurrah!
Kitty was not appreciative of my glee at missing the baby.
I explained it would be shit if I were there.
Why?
Well, I would just stand looking over your shoulder all weekend telling you that you were doing it wrong.
True, she said.
She wasn't meant to say that out loud of course, but it's true what I said was true, so I shall just have to deal with it I suppose.
I am in two minds about a plastic baby being a contraceptive device, if that is what it is.
Maybe they work.
I think a distinct lack of suitable boys is a far better one myself.
Worked for me when I was young.
Plus the terror.
Of knowing.
That I would have to tell the Queen Parents.
That was the main barrier method in my life.
All the experts tell me that terror is a bad way to rear children.
And it is, absolutely.
But there is nothing wrong with sharing your dreams with your children.
It is the way that you articulate them that is fraught with danger.
That's why it takes a village to rear a child.
My grandchild will be fine tonight so.
Down on the island, with her great grandparents and her uncle and her grandfather.
Who assured me that if it cried during the night that it would get thrown out the window.
I asked him whether he had thought of a name yet.
So he changed the subject.
And told me another story of someone leaving the island.
I wonder why we all move around so much.
We get bored of each other I suppose.
It is the way we live now.
But it is very hard to say goodbye.
And as you get older, it gets harder to say hello as well.
And then Facebook starts making you do it.
Bah.
At forty four.
Which makes me a step-grandma.
At thirty seven.
Which is a bit young.
But it's just for the weekend.
Phew!
Kitty has one of those rubber babies home for the weekend. It cries and does all the baby stuff and is supposed to teach her responsible behaviour (which includes not producing a real one I assume) and the stress of parenthood etc.
I'm a mom for the weekend! She announced on the phone.
Granny decided not to travel this weekend and by a serendipitous stroke, is missing the baby.
Hurrah!
Kitty was not appreciative of my glee at missing the baby.
I explained it would be shit if I were there.
Why?
Well, I would just stand looking over your shoulder all weekend telling you that you were doing it wrong.
True, she said.
She wasn't meant to say that out loud of course, but it's true what I said was true, so I shall just have to deal with it I suppose.
I am in two minds about a plastic baby being a contraceptive device, if that is what it is.
Maybe they work.
I think a distinct lack of suitable boys is a far better one myself.
Worked for me when I was young.
Plus the terror.
Of knowing.
That I would have to tell the Queen Parents.
That was the main barrier method in my life.
All the experts tell me that terror is a bad way to rear children.
And it is, absolutely.
But there is nothing wrong with sharing your dreams with your children.
It is the way that you articulate them that is fraught with danger.
That's why it takes a village to rear a child.
My grandchild will be fine tonight so.
Down on the island, with her great grandparents and her uncle and her grandfather.
Who assured me that if it cried during the night that it would get thrown out the window.
I asked him whether he had thought of a name yet.
So he changed the subject.
And told me another story of someone leaving the island.
I wonder why we all move around so much.
We get bored of each other I suppose.
It is the way we live now.
But it is very hard to say goodbye.
And as you get older, it gets harder to say hello as well.
And then Facebook starts making you do it.
Bah.
Facebook takes a new and scary turn
When I logged onto Facebook this evening, it gave me a list of people I may know. Mostly it was people who had four friends in common with me.
It gave me quite a jolt.
There were people on the list that I have been avoiding on Facebook for ages. So I'm wondering, are they getting the same message? And if so, are they avoiding me? Or are they just busy? Or have they not noticed the thread yet?
Interesting times ahead.
There was also someone I thought was a friend. So I must have been blocked.
Oops.
Mental note not to do that again.
There were people on the list that I'm pretty sure are avoiding me.
That's the beauty of Facebook.
Or it was.
You could avoid people without seeming to.
AND NOW YOU CAN'T.
So it's The Buttery in 1989 all over again.
Episode 27 of Queenie lives her life over and over again in ever decreasing circles.
Never mind.
It gave me quite a jolt.
There were people on the list that I have been avoiding on Facebook for ages. So I'm wondering, are they getting the same message? And if so, are they avoiding me? Or are they just busy? Or have they not noticed the thread yet?
Interesting times ahead.
There was also someone I thought was a friend. So I must have been blocked.
Oops.
Mental note not to do that again.
There were people on the list that I'm pretty sure are avoiding me.
That's the beauty of Facebook.
Or it was.
You could avoid people without seeming to.
AND NOW YOU CAN'T.
So it's The Buttery in 1989 all over again.
Episode 27 of Queenie lives her life over and over again in ever decreasing circles.
Never mind.
Monday, April 07, 2008
Queenie is definitely middle-aged
Queenie always felt that a sign of youth was shouting at the evil nincompoops on the radio that constitute the news broadcasts. Moaning Ireland particularly irked her, for two reasons. Firstly that you had to listen to it to know what was going on for work (boring), and secondly because it was the same players spouting the same lines day in day out. Plus the tearing into them style of interviewing (which was apparently invented by her ex, but she only had his word for it, but he was usually right about stuff like that).
Leaving Ireland was a relief in a way. No more IBEC. No more Vintners Association. No more Tom Parlon. No more Willie O'Dea. No more Michael Ring (I'm hearing a lack of women here, I'm sure there were annoying women too).
Here in Canada, the CBC current affairs stuff is pretty good. Particularly around teatime. And during the day they have great arts programming. And a great Internet-related show. And a show called Dark Arts, which is about healthcare, which is fantastic, hosted by a doctor who gives House a run for his money.
But in the morning.....
In the morning it is local. Lots of weird people from Musquodobit talking about pig roasts and the occasional 'news' item about a wind turbine that's going to spoil the view from Anne Murray's summer cottage.
There's a boy interviewer (who thinks he's Irish) and a girl host, who introduces the items but NEVER does an interview. I think she butters the toast while they're going on.
I often wonder how Aine Lawlor would cope if she'd washed up here.
Anyways, this morning, I hit the wrong button when the alarm went off and got onto the Dalhousie SU radio by mistake.
Flashpoints was on. Flashpoints is their current affairs program.
It focuses almost exclusively on the war in Iraq (and global warming). It talks about framing a lot. It explains the different sects in Iraq which is good because it means I don't have to plough through the actual newspaper articles in order to keep up with who is on the side of the workers and who is not.
This morning they were talking about the credit crunch and the continued bail out of the investment industry.
Socialism for the rich apparently (?!)
The guy with the beard (don't ask me how I know, I just did) kept repeating that phrase randomly in a triumphant tone.
This was while the woman was explaining that most of the investors were mom and pop pension funds (?!)
Then they urged everyone not to drink Starbucks coffee anymore because they don't pay their managers overtime.
And they do something weird with their tips that I was too sleepy to follow.
Time passed, spent talking about al-Sadr, that renowned hero of the Iraqi working class, when the host crowed that there were calls coming in about the Starbucks item.
Great, said mom and pop investment funds girl.
Two of the calls were pointing out that Starbucks was the only coffee chain in Canada to give part-time workers their health benefits and the third said that the tips were fine. Thank you very much.
Mom and pop investment fund girl (who may or may not be mom and pop funding her to go to Dal girl too) said that really the point was that everyone should get free health care.
Ehm, we do, don't we?
You are middle-aged when you find yourself shouting at the anarchists on the radio.
Also, when it is the day after you went to Rona and bought a toilet and a hand basin and considered that fun, it must be true.
Ah well, it was a good long run....
Leaving Ireland was a relief in a way. No more IBEC. No more Vintners Association. No more Tom Parlon. No more Willie O'Dea. No more Michael Ring (I'm hearing a lack of women here, I'm sure there were annoying women too).
Here in Canada, the CBC current affairs stuff is pretty good. Particularly around teatime. And during the day they have great arts programming. And a great Internet-related show. And a show called Dark Arts, which is about healthcare, which is fantastic, hosted by a doctor who gives House a run for his money.
But in the morning.....
In the morning it is local. Lots of weird people from Musquodobit talking about pig roasts and the occasional 'news' item about a wind turbine that's going to spoil the view from Anne Murray's summer cottage.
There's a boy interviewer (who thinks he's Irish) and a girl host, who introduces the items but NEVER does an interview. I think she butters the toast while they're going on.
I often wonder how Aine Lawlor would cope if she'd washed up here.
Anyways, this morning, I hit the wrong button when the alarm went off and got onto the Dalhousie SU radio by mistake.
Flashpoints was on. Flashpoints is their current affairs program.
It focuses almost exclusively on the war in Iraq (and global warming). It talks about framing a lot. It explains the different sects in Iraq which is good because it means I don't have to plough through the actual newspaper articles in order to keep up with who is on the side of the workers and who is not.
This morning they were talking about the credit crunch and the continued bail out of the investment industry.
Socialism for the rich apparently (?!)
The guy with the beard (don't ask me how I know, I just did) kept repeating that phrase randomly in a triumphant tone.
This was while the woman was explaining that most of the investors were mom and pop pension funds (?!)
Then they urged everyone not to drink Starbucks coffee anymore because they don't pay their managers overtime.
And they do something weird with their tips that I was too sleepy to follow.
Time passed, spent talking about al-Sadr, that renowned hero of the Iraqi working class, when the host crowed that there were calls coming in about the Starbucks item.
Great, said mom and pop investment funds girl.
Two of the calls were pointing out that Starbucks was the only coffee chain in Canada to give part-time workers their health benefits and the third said that the tips were fine. Thank you very much.
Mom and pop investment fund girl (who may or may not be mom and pop funding her to go to Dal girl too) said that really the point was that everyone should get free health care.
Ehm, we do, don't we?
You are middle-aged when you find yourself shouting at the anarchists on the radio.
Also, when it is the day after you went to Rona and bought a toilet and a hand basin and considered that fun, it must be true.
Ah well, it was a good long run....
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