Jersey Girl's blogpost on Christmas in New Jersey was hilariously accurate, so Queenie thought she'd cross-post some of it.
On having guests for Christmas
With Irish people in your house your Christmas holiday goes as follows: meet, talk, eat, talk, drink, talk, presents, drink, talk, talk, sleep, breakfast, less talk, walk, Washington crosses the Delaware, talk, limoncello cosmopolitans, talk, chop, cook, nut roast (5,000 calories a slice), talk, drink, prosecco, pino grigio, bordeaux, bailey’s irish cream, play complicated board game, win complicated board game (we-hey), talk, breakfast, hike, talk, eat, new york city, shopping, anthropologie, shopping, amazing pair of boots, shopping, talk, talk, eat at cool French bistro, talk, eat, drink, guest #1 departs, talk, pizza, wine, talk, Philadelphia, South street, Italian market, philly cheese steaks, walk, anthropologie, talk, Chinese take-out, more limoncello cosmopolitans, wine, talk, breakfast, pancakes, walk, Princeton, talk, lunch, home, airport for remaining two guests, home, collapse.
Tuesday, January 03, 2006
Monday, January 02, 2006
Queenies Big Chill II
Fungus on tree in New Jersey
More photos under the title as usual
(yes I know some of the photos I've entitled lichen are fungi. I just got lazy)
Ohforchrissakes.
Queenie was left to her own devices for the first time since Christmas Eve ten days ago and she was supposed to spend the day writing and blogging and catching up and she did everything but. As per usual, she found the following activities far more interesting.
Queenie used her last day of freedom from the shackles of employment to:
More photos under the title as usual
(yes I know some of the photos I've entitled lichen are fungi. I just got lazy)
Ohforchrissakes.
Queenie was left to her own devices for the first time since Christmas Eve ten days ago and she was supposed to spend the day writing and blogging and catching up and she did everything but. As per usual, she found the following activities far more interesting.
Queenie used her last day of freedom from the shackles of employment to:
- Fiddle with photos from New Jersey and New York and loaded them onto Shutterfly
- Clean the bathroom (properly this time)
- Bitch to Jason about the power going out. Again.
- Ring the landlady about the power going out again. And got the best news ever, which is that psychoB is being evicted. Wahey!!
- Celebrate the news with Missy
- MSN with Polly and SovietPoP for a while
- Go to the shop to buy non-cookable food seeing as the power is out. Again.
- Eat most of a big box of peanut caramel chocolatey things Tina gave her which are exceedingly yummy
- Realise it was Myles’ birthday – shit shit shit – Queenie always bloody forgets everyone’s birthday, but his is the worst because a) he never forgets hers, and b) it’s the day after new year’s - how difficult is that to remember
Happy Birthday Myles!!!!!!
I’m sorry I’m such a shit friend!
So here she is again. Eight fifteen on the clock; back to work in twelve hours, and not a thing written.
Typical.
Everyone seemed to have had a nice Christmas, according to their blogs though.
To continue with mine, the day after Christmas, which doesn’t seem to have a day in America, and which is called Boxing Day in Canada, which is weird for a girl who calls it Stephen’s Day, we all got up pretty early because we had had a reasonably abstemious Christmas (well, until we sat down to eat anyway) Day. Jersey Girl cooked everyone eggs and then we all donned boots and jackets and hats and went walking in the woods.
It was very nice. Reminded me of Nova Scotia, with all the poplars. They were interspersed with trees of really really dark wood, which provided a nice contrast with the silver barks of the poplars. Very Blair Witch Project. And because there was no snow, there were lots and lots of dead leaves to crunch through.
The colours in the wood are orange and black, which are the Princeton colours - Queenie wondered if that is where they got them from. She took a lot of photos of fungi and lichen, which she plans to use in her new little business venture of ‘quirky cards’ which she hopes to design using some of her photos – e.g. fungi, street lights, beach pebbles, stuff like that.
For sale in the Farmers’ Market of a Saturday.
If she ever gets a day off again to go to the printer and get them made.
We spent a bit of time on the walk making up the quotations for inside the cards, all of which Queenie forgets of course, being consumed with taking photos of orange fungus, so maybe you can remind her guys if you get a chance.
Anyway, basic fitness level activity achieved, we got back in the car and hit an outlet shopping mall. It’s what you do in New Jersey. The value is unbelievably good. I went to Nike and got enough leezurkloze to see me through the next five years, i.e. one pair of sweat pants and four tops. And I got a sensible work jacket in J Crew for sixty bucks.
I am turning into such a Nova Scotian. If it’s full price I am not effing interested.
Then we went to Jesters, Bordentown’s premier beer and accompanying food joint (as opposed to Farnsworth House, which is the premier food and accompanying wine joint) for dinner and pitchers. And then home for a nightcap and bed. Next day was New York City, doncha know.
Noam's coming to town
Queenie noticed there's no mention of the current row Professor Chomsky is embroiled in - was it because he wasn't asked or he wouldn't answer, I wonder.
US intellectual set to stir up debate over use of Shannon
By Deaglán de Bréadún
www.ireland.com
Rendition is a crime, pure and simple, argues Noam Chomsky, who explained some of his views to Deaglán de Bréadún before his visit to Ireland
Noam Chomsky is a figure who has inspired both adulation and annoyance for many years.
He was recently voted the world's leading public intellectual in a poll conducted jointly by two weighty journals, British-based publication Prospect and the US magazine Foreign Policy. He is one of the most outspoken critics of the Bush administration, particularly the war in Iraq.
He is coming to Dublin to give a series of talks on January 17th to 19th.
His profile is high and his fame widespread, so when the linguistics professor from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology comes to town, he gets a hearing. It's a sensitive time in the Irish debate about Iraq. The use of Shannon Airport as a transit-point by US forces has been the subject of controversy since the war began three years ago.
But more recent suggestions that the Central Intelligence Agency may be transporting prisoners via Shannon, in a process known as "extraordinary rendition", and that these detainees are headed for Guantanamo Bay or some secret location in eastern Europe where they might be subject to torture or inhuman treatment, has brought still sharper criticism on the Government.
The US embassy has denied that any prisoners are being taken through Shannon but the recent call from the Human Rights Commission for these planes to be inspected has made this the most controversial foreign policy issue in a long time.
Minister for Agriculture Mary Coughlan said in a TV discussion there would be "huge consequences" if it turned out that prisoners were, in fact, on those planes.
During his visit Chomsky will doubtless repeat his forthright views on this issue. Responding by e-mail to a question from The Irish Times last week, he wrote: "Rendition is a shameful and cowardly crime. Any association with it is deplorable."
He declined to comment at this stage on the military use of Shannon because he "didn't have time for an essay, and that's a complex matter, unlike rendition, which is simply a scandal".
Defenders of the Government's policy on Shannon say it is vital not to offend the US which has directed so much investment towards this country.
Even in advance of his visit, Chomsky has been taken to task in the Irish media for something that, as he points out, he never actually said.
Reported as calling Bertie Ahern a "shoeshine boy" for President Bush, he was condemned for using "typical Chomsky insulting language towards the Taoiseach". This arose out of a report by the Press Association, a leading news agency, which he also disputes, where the actual quote attributed to him is as follows: "Western politicians despise democracy and prefer to shine the shoes of the power(i.e. the US)".
Chomsky's reputation has acquired a new lease of life among the young protesters against globalisation and its excesses who have taken his critique of the multinationals on board and adopted him as their icon and sage.
Avram Noam Chomsky was born in Philadelphia in 1928 and has been teaching at MIT since 1955. He has achieved a position of eminence in the academic world and his theory of transformational grammar is credited with revolutionising the study of language and communication. His fundamental thesis is that children are born with an innate knowledge of the basic universal grammar underlying all languages and his theories have been adapted to the study of computer science, mathematics and evolutionary psychology.
Chomsky's first major intervention in the political arena was in 1967 when his essay, "The Responsibility of Intellectuals" in the New York Review of Books, condemned the failure of liberal academics and writers to oppose the development of US war policies. He gave a reluctant endorsement to Senator John Kerry in the last US presidential election, although he described the Democratic candidate as Bush-lite.
A critic of totalitarianism, whether generated by the right or the left, Chomsky has aligned himself with the anarchist tradition of workers' control and opposition to hierarchy, as practised in Barcelona during the early days of the Spanish Civil War.
His Jewish background has not prevented him from making sharp criticisms of Israeli policy in the Palestinian territories. Although he condemned the 9/11 attacks outright, his insistence on pinning the ultimate blame on US foreign policy aroused considerable controversy.
Chomsky has strong views on the role of multinationals in today's world. He is opposed to what he sees as the efforts of global corporations to dominate world institutions and governments.
Chomsky is also a sharp critic of the role of the mass media, which he regards as systematically biased towards big business and government interests and has claimed that "propaganda is to a democracy what the bludgeon is to a totalitarian state". He has argued that news coverage is distorted by "five filters" - ownership, advertising and the profit motive, dependence on establishment sources for information, "flak" from pressure groups and the conservative bent of many journalists themselves.
Tickets for the various Chomsky events, taking place under the auspices of Amnesty International or UCD, are already becoming as scarce as gold dust.
Agree with him or not, his visit is unlikely to be dull.
US intellectual set to stir up debate over use of Shannon
By Deaglán de Bréadún
www.ireland.com
Rendition is a crime, pure and simple, argues Noam Chomsky, who explained some of his views to Deaglán de Bréadún before his visit to Ireland
Noam Chomsky is a figure who has inspired both adulation and annoyance for many years.
He was recently voted the world's leading public intellectual in a poll conducted jointly by two weighty journals, British-based publication Prospect and the US magazine Foreign Policy. He is one of the most outspoken critics of the Bush administration, particularly the war in Iraq.
He is coming to Dublin to give a series of talks on January 17th to 19th.
His profile is high and his fame widespread, so when the linguistics professor from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology comes to town, he gets a hearing. It's a sensitive time in the Irish debate about Iraq. The use of Shannon Airport as a transit-point by US forces has been the subject of controversy since the war began three years ago.
But more recent suggestions that the Central Intelligence Agency may be transporting prisoners via Shannon, in a process known as "extraordinary rendition", and that these detainees are headed for Guantanamo Bay or some secret location in eastern Europe where they might be subject to torture or inhuman treatment, has brought still sharper criticism on the Government.
The US embassy has denied that any prisoners are being taken through Shannon but the recent call from the Human Rights Commission for these planes to be inspected has made this the most controversial foreign policy issue in a long time.
Minister for Agriculture Mary Coughlan said in a TV discussion there would be "huge consequences" if it turned out that prisoners were, in fact, on those planes.
During his visit Chomsky will doubtless repeat his forthright views on this issue. Responding by e-mail to a question from The Irish Times last week, he wrote: "Rendition is a shameful and cowardly crime. Any association with it is deplorable."
He declined to comment at this stage on the military use of Shannon because he "didn't have time for an essay, and that's a complex matter, unlike rendition, which is simply a scandal".
Defenders of the Government's policy on Shannon say it is vital not to offend the US which has directed so much investment towards this country.
Even in advance of his visit, Chomsky has been taken to task in the Irish media for something that, as he points out, he never actually said.
Reported as calling Bertie Ahern a "shoeshine boy" for President Bush, he was condemned for using "typical Chomsky insulting language towards the Taoiseach". This arose out of a report by the Press Association, a leading news agency, which he also disputes, where the actual quote attributed to him is as follows: "Western politicians despise democracy and prefer to shine the shoes of the power(i.e. the US)".
Chomsky's reputation has acquired a new lease of life among the young protesters against globalisation and its excesses who have taken his critique of the multinationals on board and adopted him as their icon and sage.
Avram Noam Chomsky was born in Philadelphia in 1928 and has been teaching at MIT since 1955. He has achieved a position of eminence in the academic world and his theory of transformational grammar is credited with revolutionising the study of language and communication. His fundamental thesis is that children are born with an innate knowledge of the basic universal grammar underlying all languages and his theories have been adapted to the study of computer science, mathematics and evolutionary psychology.
Chomsky's first major intervention in the political arena was in 1967 when his essay, "The Responsibility of Intellectuals" in the New York Review of Books, condemned the failure of liberal academics and writers to oppose the development of US war policies. He gave a reluctant endorsement to Senator John Kerry in the last US presidential election, although he described the Democratic candidate as Bush-lite.
A critic of totalitarianism, whether generated by the right or the left, Chomsky has aligned himself with the anarchist tradition of workers' control and opposition to hierarchy, as practised in Barcelona during the early days of the Spanish Civil War.
His Jewish background has not prevented him from making sharp criticisms of Israeli policy in the Palestinian territories. Although he condemned the 9/11 attacks outright, his insistence on pinning the ultimate blame on US foreign policy aroused considerable controversy.
Chomsky has strong views on the role of multinationals in today's world. He is opposed to what he sees as the efforts of global corporations to dominate world institutions and governments.
Chomsky is also a sharp critic of the role of the mass media, which he regards as systematically biased towards big business and government interests and has claimed that "propaganda is to a democracy what the bludgeon is to a totalitarian state". He has argued that news coverage is distorted by "five filters" - ownership, advertising and the profit motive, dependence on establishment sources for information, "flak" from pressure groups and the conservative bent of many journalists themselves.
Tickets for the various Chomsky events, taking place under the auspices of Amnesty International or UCD, are already becoming as scarce as gold dust.
Agree with him or not, his visit is unlikely to be dull.
Sunday, January 01, 2006
New Year's Resolution: want less, need more
Happy New Year everyone, and here's hoping you get everything you need this year.
Queenie xx
On the money
Americans and Britons have the highest rates of mental illness. But why? An obsession with wealth has led to an 'Affluenza' epidemic, says Oliver James
Sunday January 1, 2006
The Observer
New Year's Day and my last On the Couch column - the new improved magazine will take a different form from next week and with some sadness, I bid you adieu.
During two of the three years in which I have been doing this column, I have been writing a book about global Affluenza and the social vaccines that can prevent it, to be published in September.
The Affluenza virus is a set of values which increase our vulnerability to psychological distress: placing a high value on acquiring money and possessions, looking good in the eyes of others and wanting to be famous. Many studies have shown that infection with the virus increases your susceptibility to the commonest mental illnesses: depression, anxiety, substance abuse and personality disorder.
The virus values prevent you from fulfilling fundamental human needs which seem to exist in every society. Whereas you want a better car or greater intelligence or bigger house, you can survive without them; the same is not true of Needs.
The precise content and labelling of such needs is debatable, but four are very commonly identified: security (emotional and material), connectedness to others, authenticity and autonomy, and feeling competent.
Travelling to seven countries around the globe, my main conclusion was that the Americanised, Anglo-Saxon model is peculiarly ill-suited to meeting these needs, because it promotes the virus. Rates of mental illness among Americans are the highest (over one quarter have been ill in the past 12 months, half will do so in their lifetime) but only just higher than in Britain, Australia and Canada.
By contrast, on average, mainland European countries have three times less illness. Within developed nations, there is a clear correlation between high mental-illness rates and high disparities in income distribution - characteristic of Americanised societies. Younger generations are more afflicted than older ones, the young being especially influenced by America's, Affluenza-promoting cultural imperialism.
Around the world, rural communities are less prone to illness than urban ones, nonindustrialised communities less so than industrialised ones.
My explanation (pace Erich Fromm) is that the virus promotes Having over Being and the confusion (through advertising) of wants with needs. Only through getting us to want more and to be someone else can economic growth and the profits of a tiny elite be continuous.
The ecological case against this status quo is well known. My main goal here has been to make the psychological one against it. From the hundreds of emails you sent me, I am glad to know that I am not alone in my views and that, despite living in a crazy society, so many of you are still managing to get on with seeking out what really matters: playful, not partly, living; and being the organ grinder rather than the monkey of your experience.
Queenie xx
On the money
Americans and Britons have the highest rates of mental illness. But why? An obsession with wealth has led to an 'Affluenza' epidemic, says Oliver James
Sunday January 1, 2006
The Observer
New Year's Day and my last On the Couch column - the new improved magazine will take a different form from next week and with some sadness, I bid you adieu.
During two of the three years in which I have been doing this column, I have been writing a book about global Affluenza and the social vaccines that can prevent it, to be published in September.
The Affluenza virus is a set of values which increase our vulnerability to psychological distress: placing a high value on acquiring money and possessions, looking good in the eyes of others and wanting to be famous. Many studies have shown that infection with the virus increases your susceptibility to the commonest mental illnesses: depression, anxiety, substance abuse and personality disorder.
The virus values prevent you from fulfilling fundamental human needs which seem to exist in every society. Whereas you want a better car or greater intelligence or bigger house, you can survive without them; the same is not true of Needs.
The precise content and labelling of such needs is debatable, but four are very commonly identified: security (emotional and material), connectedness to others, authenticity and autonomy, and feeling competent.
Travelling to seven countries around the globe, my main conclusion was that the Americanised, Anglo-Saxon model is peculiarly ill-suited to meeting these needs, because it promotes the virus. Rates of mental illness among Americans are the highest (over one quarter have been ill in the past 12 months, half will do so in their lifetime) but only just higher than in Britain, Australia and Canada.
By contrast, on average, mainland European countries have three times less illness. Within developed nations, there is a clear correlation between high mental-illness rates and high disparities in income distribution - characteristic of Americanised societies. Younger generations are more afflicted than older ones, the young being especially influenced by America's, Affluenza-promoting cultural imperialism.
Around the world, rural communities are less prone to illness than urban ones, nonindustrialised communities less so than industrialised ones.
My explanation (pace Erich Fromm) is that the virus promotes Having over Being and the confusion (through advertising) of wants with needs. Only through getting us to want more and to be someone else can economic growth and the profits of a tiny elite be continuous.
The ecological case against this status quo is well known. My main goal here has been to make the psychological one against it. From the hundreds of emails you sent me, I am glad to know that I am not alone in my views and that, despite living in a crazy society, so many of you are still managing to get on with seeking out what really matters: playful, not partly, living; and being the organ grinder rather than the monkey of your experience.
Saturday, December 31, 2005
Queenie's Big Chill I
New Year’s Eve; time for reflection and resolutions. Or drinking, if the other two don’t catch your fancy. Probably best not to mix the three. Reflective drinking or resolute drinking maybe. Queenie just got a text from Nadia, who is her normal NYE buddy. Strange to be away and not seeing her. Strange but not unprecedented.
Queenie just got back from NYC. Via New Jersey. A very enjoyable few days, which she will blog in bits and pieces, what with having a lot to do at the moment.
I left Halifax on Christmas Eve very early. The city was hushed under a soft layer of snow when the taxi came, and we took it slow to the airport – there were a couple of ditched cars on the way – then I wandered around the deserted airport for an hour until my flight was called. We had to sit on the plane for an hour until the de-icer got to us. Then up, up, up we went into a world of white and through to a bright blue sky and the sun beating in the window of the plane.
My two tall, highly intelligent, well-educated, liberal, environmentalist, politically active adult friends were waiting for me at the gate in Newark wearing candy cane striped reindeer antlers, as promised. Mike’s left antler was drooping slightly forward, giving him a slightly poignant air, which was at odds with the giddiness of the moment. Then we hung around waiting for the Dublin contingent while I drank a Starbucks and talked at a hundred miles an hour.
About forty minutes later, my presents, I mean my friends (who were carrying my presents but that’s not why I was so happy to see them) walked through the same gate as I had and Christmas was underway.
I am always amazed at how much good friends have to say to each other and how five days and nights with a close group can pass in a blur of chatter about everything under the sun.
We had a lovely dinner party at Jersey Girl’s big dining table and talked nineteen to the dozen while opening our Christmas presents. Ireland did Queenie proud this year. I am coming down with tomato cup a soup and Barry’s teabags. As well as my annual stache of books – Jane Smiley’s book on writing, Abdulrazak Gurnah’s Desertion; a book of Nick Laird’s poetry and two books which I would file under Offalyiana if I ever filed my book collection on that website that enables you to – God and the Referee, a very funny compilation of GAA quotes, and from Crinkill to Kathmandu, a book of poetry and writing by some friends from home.
The Queen Mother had also included some photos of herself and her consort and my brother. Which was very thoughtful, as I didn’t have any.
And I got a pretty evening bag and some beautiful jewellery. And then when I got up in the morning, there was a big red stocking with my name on it, with loads of goodies in it from Santa, including a very useful bear whistle (see earlier entries).
We got muffled up for the wind and rain, and went to watch George Washington cross the Delaware. As Jersey Girl says, re-enactment enthusiasts are truly mad. It was interesting, but very wet. The river was very wide, and we were on the receiving side, so there was a lot of standing around waiting for the re-enacters to arrive. There was plenty of spectator action going on on our side though. I sneaked around taking photos of the more ridiculous looking ones and began a week-long obsession with photographing the ubiquitous Stars and Stripes.
Finally, a cannon boomed and the re-enacters pottered across the Delaware in the rain and everyone cheered when they arrived and went home to dry off and eat their dinner.
We had a vegetarian Christmas dinner, my first ever, which was yummy and certainly beat last year’s Venezuelan Christmas dinner by a country mile. Then we played a board game that involved being a dealer in the high stakes world of the international art market. Jersey Girl won. Queenie spent too much time trying to figure out how to win the game and not enough time actually paying attention to what the other players were doing.
Friday, December 23, 2005
I'm living in a White Christmas
I’ve just realised I’m going to America tomorrow.
Wahoo!!
I have a great life, I really do.
I’ve been getting lots of Christmas cards, which is great. I started feeling guilty about not sending any, but then I thought there’s no point, because I had decided not to, so I don’t deserve the luxury of a guilt trip.
But that doesn’t mean I don’t love you all!!
Particularly the lovely hand-made one I got. That was great.
By the way Ivan and Susanna, your lovely note came today, so you did get it in the post in time.
The twins are nearly here, eh!!!!
I haven’t quite got my head around that yet. The next time I see you, you will each be holding a baby and a nappy bag. A designer nappy bag of course, what with Bertie’s fecundity grants kicking in around the same time!!
I can see it, but I can’t. If you know what I mean.
I will definitely be home next year to meet them. I can’t wait.
And I got some presents too. Which was fantastic, because I wasn’t expecting any. One of my friends always buys me the perfect present, so I was wondering what I would get if anything. And she sent me a pair of mitten warmers.
Spot on, as usual, Nadia.
And I got some mosquito nets for a family in Angola. Which was interestingly the first time I got one of those gifts. And it was nice to be able to think about that family. I wonder do they actually buy mosquito nets with the money, or is it just a symbol? Hopefully it’s just a symbol, otherwise most of the money would go on administering the transfer, wouldn’t it.
And I got a yoga dvd. It is a pretty good one, to answer your question, but not as good as a class. But then it could never be, but it’s got a great 35 minute morning routine that I do most days now. It’s weird though, she does all the warrior positions from a kneeling position up, whereas I was taught to do them from a standing position down, if you know what I mean, so I nearly turned myself inside out the first time trying to figure out how she did it.
I just do them my own way now.
But I’m DOING SOME YOGA, which was the point of the present I think.
And of course, I don’t need to tell anyone who sent it!!
And now I must really go and pack. And wrap presents. And eat. And shower. And find an alarm clock. And book a taxi. Etc.
Happy Christmas everyone.
Wahoo!!
I have a great life, I really do.
I’ve been getting lots of Christmas cards, which is great. I started feeling guilty about not sending any, but then I thought there’s no point, because I had decided not to, so I don’t deserve the luxury of a guilt trip.
But that doesn’t mean I don’t love you all!!
Particularly the lovely hand-made one I got. That was great.
By the way Ivan and Susanna, your lovely note came today, so you did get it in the post in time.
The twins are nearly here, eh!!!!
I haven’t quite got my head around that yet. The next time I see you, you will each be holding a baby and a nappy bag. A designer nappy bag of course, what with Bertie’s fecundity grants kicking in around the same time!!
I can see it, but I can’t. If you know what I mean.
I will definitely be home next year to meet them. I can’t wait.
And I got some presents too. Which was fantastic, because I wasn’t expecting any. One of my friends always buys me the perfect present, so I was wondering what I would get if anything. And she sent me a pair of mitten warmers.
Spot on, as usual, Nadia.
And I got some mosquito nets for a family in Angola. Which was interestingly the first time I got one of those gifts. And it was nice to be able to think about that family. I wonder do they actually buy mosquito nets with the money, or is it just a symbol? Hopefully it’s just a symbol, otherwise most of the money would go on administering the transfer, wouldn’t it.
And I got a yoga dvd. It is a pretty good one, to answer your question, but not as good as a class. But then it could never be, but it’s got a great 35 minute morning routine that I do most days now. It’s weird though, she does all the warrior positions from a kneeling position up, whereas I was taught to do them from a standing position down, if you know what I mean, so I nearly turned myself inside out the first time trying to figure out how she did it.
I just do them my own way now.
But I’m DOING SOME YOGA, which was the point of the present I think.
And of course, I don’t need to tell anyone who sent it!!
And now I must really go and pack. And wrap presents. And eat. And shower. And find an alarm clock. And book a taxi. Etc.
Happy Christmas everyone.
Online Banking
Queenie's been doing her online banking from the comfort of her bed as it is cold and she was out late last night. Plus there's no work till January 3rd... hooray...
Queenie can sort out all her Canadian and Irish finances online just by pressing a few buttons, which is great. She was paying her Irish credit card bill, the paper version of which goes home to her mother. Usually she doesn't use this card, only for emergencies or in places where they don't take debit and she has no cash, so she checked to see what charges were on it, and there were four:
SEXY GIRL ADULT GIFTS HALIFAX NS
MICHELLE YORKE JEWELLE DARTMOUTH NS
CANADA POST HALIFAX NS
THE OLD TRIANGLE ALEHOUSE HALIFAX NS
The Queen Mum did remind me to pay the bill, but she never even mentioned the fact that I used a credit card in a pub, bless her.
Queenie can sort out all her Canadian and Irish finances online just by pressing a few buttons, which is great. She was paying her Irish credit card bill, the paper version of which goes home to her mother. Usually she doesn't use this card, only for emergencies or in places where they don't take debit and she has no cash, so she checked to see what charges were on it, and there were four:
SEXY GIRL ADULT GIFTS HALIFAX NS
MICHELLE YORKE JEWELLE DARTMOUTH NS
CANADA POST HALIFAX NS
THE OLD TRIANGLE ALEHOUSE HALIFAX NS
The Queen Mum did remind me to pay the bill, but she never even mentioned the fact that I used a credit card in a pub, bless her.
Thursday, December 22, 2005
Everybody! This is my mate Terry
... who's on the front cover of Halifax weekly, The Coast this week. Terry is the face of Christmas in Nova Scotia. We were standing outside the shop, waiting for my bus and someone came up and asked for his autograph.
Terry works in Sam's Records. He would like to point out that he's not a down and out, as could be construed in the article, he's a model.
With thanks to The Coast.
What kind of Post-Modernist are you?
I stole this from Myles' blog.
I'm a Gender Nazi, but we already knew that didn't we, boys and girls.
I accused some poor bloke of promoting a patriarchal psycho-sexual construct when he mentioned santa claus the other day, (you know, man coming down chimney with gifts for you if you're nice, kinda thing)and quoted Andrea Dworkin at him.
I was joking, pet.
I don't think he thought it was as hilarious as I did.
Never mind....
I hate this photo. Myles' was much nicer.
You are a Gender Nazi. Your boundary-crossing
lifestyle inspires awe in your friends and
colleagues. Or maybe they're just scared you
will kick their asses for using gender-specific
language. Either way, the wife-beater helps.
What kind of postmodernist are you!?
brought to you by Quizilla
I'm a Gender Nazi, but we already knew that didn't we, boys and girls.
I accused some poor bloke of promoting a patriarchal psycho-sexual construct when he mentioned santa claus the other day, (you know, man coming down chimney with gifts for you if you're nice, kinda thing)and quoted Andrea Dworkin at him.
I was joking, pet.
I don't think he thought it was as hilarious as I did.
Never mind....
I hate this photo. Myles' was much nicer.
You are a Gender Nazi. Your boundary-crossing
lifestyle inspires awe in your friends and
colleagues. Or maybe they're just scared you
will kick their asses for using gender-specific
language. Either way, the wife-beater helps.
What kind of postmodernist are you!?
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Clearing the desks
Queenie is still in work, today she was clearing her desk. This involved moving a vast pile of paper, some of which she has read some of which she will eventually read and some of which is only worth wiping her ass with, from her desk to her 'to be put in the filing cabinet if and when any room opens up in it eventually' pile, which is teetering dangerously to the left (of course) on the shelf beside her door.
That took about thirty seconds.
So now she's sitting here wondering if it would be okay to go home. It's not like there's anyone in. Or anything to do. Nasty knife in the back politics are not good in the week of peace and love and tinsel. That's all for the first week of January.
So Queenie is taking a breath.
As she said to one of her co-workers this morning, she's just had the craziest six months of her life. New country, new job, new home, new friends, new weather, new everything. Some days she ached for something familiar soooo much. Some days she never wanted to see the emerald isle again. Some days both thoughts took turns attacking her sanity in what seemed almost hourly shifts.
Mostly it was unforgettably great.
So thanks to all my co-workers in here for making me appreciate the fun of politics again.
I'm not leaving till you're running the place. That's a promise.
That took about thirty seconds.
So now she's sitting here wondering if it would be okay to go home. It's not like there's anyone in. Or anything to do. Nasty knife in the back politics are not good in the week of peace and love and tinsel. That's all for the first week of January.
So Queenie is taking a breath.
As she said to one of her co-workers this morning, she's just had the craziest six months of her life. New country, new job, new home, new friends, new weather, new everything. Some days she ached for something familiar soooo much. Some days she never wanted to see the emerald isle again. Some days both thoughts took turns attacking her sanity in what seemed almost hourly shifts.
Mostly it was unforgettably great.
So thanks to all my co-workers in here for making me appreciate the fun of politics again.
I'm not leaving till you're running the place. That's a promise.
Wednesday, December 21, 2005
Happy Yule
Plagiarised from wicca.net somewhat.
Yule is when the dark half of the year relinquishes to the light half. Starting the next morning at sunrise, the sun climbs just a little higher and stays a little longer in the sky each day. Known as Solstice Night, or the longest night of the year, much celebration was to be had as the ancestors awaited the rebirth of the Oak King, the Sun King, the Giver of Life that warmed the frozen Earth and made her to bear forth from seeds protected through the fall and winter in her womb.
Bonfires were lit in the fields, and crops and trees were "wassailed" with toasts of spiced cider. Children were escorted from house to house with gifts of clove spiked apples and oranges which were laid in baskets of evergreen boughs and wheat stalks dusted with flour. The apples and oranges represented the sun, the boughs were symbolic of immortality, the wheat stalks portrayed the harvest, and the flour was accomplishment of triumph, light, and life.
Holly, mistletoe, and ivy not only decorated the outside, but also the inside of homes. It was to extend invitation to Nature Sprites to come and join the celebration. A sprig of Holly was kept near the door all year long as a constant invitation for good fortune to pay visit to the residents.
The ceremonial Yule log was the highlight of the festival. In accordance to tradition, the log must either have been harvested from the householder's land, or given as a gift... it must never have been bought. Once dragged into the house and placed in the fireplace it was decorated in seasonal greenery, doused with cider or ale, and dusted with flour before set ablaze be a piece of last years log, (held onto for just this purpose). The log would burn throughout the night, then smolder for 12 days after before being ceremonially put out. Ash is the traditional wood of the Yule log. It is the sacred world tree of the Teutons, known as Yggdrasil. An herb of the Sun, Ash brings light into the hearth at the Solstice.
Monday, December 19, 2005
TOMATO CUP-A-SOUP... HERE....
Arrived by post today.
OOoooooh joy.
And more on the way......
Happy sigh...
OOoooooh joy.
And more on the way......
Happy sigh...
Sunday, December 18, 2005
Why a great writer's trial affects us all
Denis MacShane (UK Labour MP) says Turkey must not be allowed to airbrush its past
Sunday December 18, 2005
The Observer
Across the world, a popular present for the reading classes this Christmas will be a novel by Turkish writer Orhan Pamuk. He has the politics of moneyed liberal-leftism, but all that matters to Pamuk is writing novels.
Earlier this year, he said Turkey should examine what happened to the one million Armenians and 30,000 Kurds killed in Turkey in the 20th century. No nation easily examines its past. Serbs and Croatians remain in denial about the evil of the Balkan wars a decade ago. Japan cannot handle what it did in China seven decades ago; China cannot admit Mao's murder of millions.
For Pamuk to go into taboo areas of Turkish history was therefore a risk. But writers are there to take on the creeping tide of censorship that has been fuelled by religious fundamentalists and ultra-nationalists.
Turkey's new ayatollahs claim they are protecting the secular nationalist state, yet they ape the religious censors of Iran. The Armenian massacres happened in the decade before Ataturk launched his bid to modernise Turkey, and Ataturk remains historical enemy No 1 for Muslim fundamentalists, because he secularised Turkey, allowed Muslim Turks to drink in bars and encouraged dancing with women.
Turkey's modernisation now means the EU. Ultra-nationalists in Turkey, like Notting Hill Tories, dislike the EU because it involves sharing sovereignty. In the court room where Pamuk's case was heard, the hate word was 'European'. Nationalists screamed abuse at MEPs and I was punched in the face by a nationalist lawyer.
The judge buried his head in his papers and never looked Pamuk in the face. He allowed a mob of nationalist lawyers to intimidate the court and refused to stop the prosecution there and then. Instead, he passed the case up to the Minister of Justice. Many right-wing Europeans are opposed to Turkey joining the EU. They have new friends in the nationalists, who also wish to keep Turkey free of European contamination. Ankara wishes the issue would go away.
It won't. As in past centuries, state authorities or religious fundamentalists have put a writer on trial to stop him or her asking awkward questions, but end up in the dock themselves. After the hearing, a frightened Pamuk asked me if he should go into exile. I hope not. Turkey will not join Europe unless Voltaire wins, and the ayatollahs - secular and religious - lose.
Queenie says:- I hear Pamuk's new novel Snow is very good. What a surprise, all his books are great. They did a piece on him on CBC the morning of his trial and the journalist said it was thought he would get the Nobel Prize in the next year or two.
I got out Atom Egoyam's movie Ararat last Sunday, which is about the Armenian massacres. Strange movie, I really enjoyed it, but it hung together too loosely for many people I'd imagine.
Sunday December 18, 2005
The Observer
Across the world, a popular present for the reading classes this Christmas will be a novel by Turkish writer Orhan Pamuk. He has the politics of moneyed liberal-leftism, but all that matters to Pamuk is writing novels.
Earlier this year, he said Turkey should examine what happened to the one million Armenians and 30,000 Kurds killed in Turkey in the 20th century. No nation easily examines its past. Serbs and Croatians remain in denial about the evil of the Balkan wars a decade ago. Japan cannot handle what it did in China seven decades ago; China cannot admit Mao's murder of millions.
For Pamuk to go into taboo areas of Turkish history was therefore a risk. But writers are there to take on the creeping tide of censorship that has been fuelled by religious fundamentalists and ultra-nationalists.
Turkey's new ayatollahs claim they are protecting the secular nationalist state, yet they ape the religious censors of Iran. The Armenian massacres happened in the decade before Ataturk launched his bid to modernise Turkey, and Ataturk remains historical enemy No 1 for Muslim fundamentalists, because he secularised Turkey, allowed Muslim Turks to drink in bars and encouraged dancing with women.
Turkey's modernisation now means the EU. Ultra-nationalists in Turkey, like Notting Hill Tories, dislike the EU because it involves sharing sovereignty. In the court room where Pamuk's case was heard, the hate word was 'European'. Nationalists screamed abuse at MEPs and I was punched in the face by a nationalist lawyer.
The judge buried his head in his papers and never looked Pamuk in the face. He allowed a mob of nationalist lawyers to intimidate the court and refused to stop the prosecution there and then. Instead, he passed the case up to the Minister of Justice. Many right-wing Europeans are opposed to Turkey joining the EU. They have new friends in the nationalists, who also wish to keep Turkey free of European contamination. Ankara wishes the issue would go away.
It won't. As in past centuries, state authorities or religious fundamentalists have put a writer on trial to stop him or her asking awkward questions, but end up in the dock themselves. After the hearing, a frightened Pamuk asked me if he should go into exile. I hope not. Turkey will not join Europe unless Voltaire wins, and the ayatollahs - secular and religious - lose.
Queenie says:- I hear Pamuk's new novel Snow is very good. What a surprise, all his books are great. They did a piece on him on CBC the morning of his trial and the journalist said it was thought he would get the Nobel Prize in the next year or two.
I got out Atom Egoyam's movie Ararat last Sunday, which is about the Armenian massacres. Strange movie, I really enjoyed it, but it hung together too loosely for many people I'd imagine.
Saturday, December 17, 2005
Only connect!
That’s the key sentence in Howard’s End of course, whatsisname’s great book on class in England. Normally, I would look up the internet and find out what whatsisname’s name is but tonight I can’t be bothered. I’ll think of it in a minute anyway.
I wonder what he’d have made of the internet. And telephones. And cell phones. And Skype.
E.M. Forster.
Queenie can’t do without them of course, because she likes to be connected. Spin that great cancerian web of ‘do I know you? Yes I do therefore we are connected forever. In my head anyways. Despite your best attempts to get away from me.’
I found out tonight that one of my distant past exes thought I had gone to Halifax to get married. Not connected enough there obviously.
Although I know there has been virtual mountains of garbage written and rivers of bull, as Chief Flowing Bull would say, spewed about how all of this cyberspace data packaging, and telephone lines, and wireless doo-dahs is really changing the way we live and connect with each other and totally reinventing our landscape and whatever village it is we call home, I still get stop and pinch myself moments about it.
For example, today, I talked to an Irish woman who lives in the States; an American woman who lives in Ireland, and some people from ‘down the valley’, which is a place that bears no resemblance to what The Boss was singing about in his song The River.
The last few people who read my blog were from California, Alberta, Texas, Pennsylvania, Thailand, Belgium and Ireland.
And somebody from Mali, who lives in Dublin now, got on the phone and asked me when I was coming home.
I felt like giving that old response I used to give when I was being stroppy with my mother when she asked me that.
I am home.
Meaning I was in whatever flat I was renting in Dublin. Knowing it would irritate her, because of course, home was where the family was. Is. Will be.
But is it anymore?
When I bought a place that became home. Although I remember the mother of a friend of mine telling me at the time that despite living in Springtown for thirty years, she still felt Donegal was home. And I understood what she meant.
Springtown is home. Except I haven’t been there for six months. My apartment in Dublin is home. Except I don’t live there now of course, someone else does. Halifax is home. Except it’s not of course, because I’m renting again, and I’m on a temporary visa and my job is not forever.
So where is home?
Home is a telephone number; an email address; somewhere I can be reached. It is wherever I am at a particular point. And because I’m a crab, home is my rucksack and my clothes and my wash bag and whatever book I am reading and whatever pair of shoes I am obsessing about at the time, and the nice pair of angora wool knee socks I bought today for wearing with my winter boots and my iPod and my laptop, and the people I talk to by voice or type.
Home is wanting to have a conversation with my mother on a Saturday morning because it is a Saturday morning.
Home is talking to Colombo after a party at one am in the morning. Because it is one am in the morning and that’s when we talk.
Home, more and more, is talking to people in three or four different time zones in the space of one day, which I will do tomorrow. Because Sunday is catching up day.
Do we have to be in the same room? Sometimes, yes. Does it always have to be the same room though? No. A room is a room is a room.
So, to answer your question, Abdoul, when am I coming home?
I am home. I’m always home.
I wonder what he’d have made of the internet. And telephones. And cell phones. And Skype.
E.M. Forster.
Queenie can’t do without them of course, because she likes to be connected. Spin that great cancerian web of ‘do I know you? Yes I do therefore we are connected forever. In my head anyways. Despite your best attempts to get away from me.’
I found out tonight that one of my distant past exes thought I had gone to Halifax to get married. Not connected enough there obviously.
Although I know there has been virtual mountains of garbage written and rivers of bull, as Chief Flowing Bull would say, spewed about how all of this cyberspace data packaging, and telephone lines, and wireless doo-dahs is really changing the way we live and connect with each other and totally reinventing our landscape and whatever village it is we call home, I still get stop and pinch myself moments about it.
For example, today, I talked to an Irish woman who lives in the States; an American woman who lives in Ireland, and some people from ‘down the valley’, which is a place that bears no resemblance to what The Boss was singing about in his song The River.
The last few people who read my blog were from California, Alberta, Texas, Pennsylvania, Thailand, Belgium and Ireland.
And somebody from Mali, who lives in Dublin now, got on the phone and asked me when I was coming home.
I felt like giving that old response I used to give when I was being stroppy with my mother when she asked me that.
I am home.
Meaning I was in whatever flat I was renting in Dublin. Knowing it would irritate her, because of course, home was where the family was. Is. Will be.
But is it anymore?
When I bought a place that became home. Although I remember the mother of a friend of mine telling me at the time that despite living in Springtown for thirty years, she still felt Donegal was home. And I understood what she meant.
Springtown is home. Except I haven’t been there for six months. My apartment in Dublin is home. Except I don’t live there now of course, someone else does. Halifax is home. Except it’s not of course, because I’m renting again, and I’m on a temporary visa and my job is not forever.
So where is home?
Home is a telephone number; an email address; somewhere I can be reached. It is wherever I am at a particular point. And because I’m a crab, home is my rucksack and my clothes and my wash bag and whatever book I am reading and whatever pair of shoes I am obsessing about at the time, and the nice pair of angora wool knee socks I bought today for wearing with my winter boots and my iPod and my laptop, and the people I talk to by voice or type.
Home is wanting to have a conversation with my mother on a Saturday morning because it is a Saturday morning.
Home is talking to Colombo after a party at one am in the morning. Because it is one am in the morning and that’s when we talk.
Home, more and more, is talking to people in three or four different time zones in the space of one day, which I will do tomorrow. Because Sunday is catching up day.
Do we have to be in the same room? Sometimes, yes. Does it always have to be the same room though? No. A room is a room is a room.
So, to answer your question, Abdoul, when am I coming home?
I am home. I’m always home.
Friday, December 16, 2005
The Land of the Donkey Raffle
A young man named Paul bought a donkey from an old farmer for $100.00. The farmer agreed to deliver the donkey the next day. When the farmer drove up the next day, he said, "Sorry son, but I have some bad news...the donkey is on my truck, but he's dead."
Paul replied, "Well then, just give me my money back."
The farmer said, "I can't do that. I went and spent it already."
Paul said, "OK then, just unload the donkey anyway".
The farmer asked, "What are ya gonna do with him?"
Paul said, "I'm going to raffle him off."
To which the farmer exclaimed, "You can't raffle off a dead donkey!"
But Paul, with a big smile on his face, said, "Sure I can. Watch me. I just won't tell anybody that he's dead."
A month later the farmer met up with Paul and asked, "What happened with that dead donkey?"
Paul said, "I raffled him off. I sold 500 tickets at two dollars a piece and made a profit of $798.00."
Totally amazed, the farmer asked, "Didn't anyone complain that you had stolen their money because you lied about the donkey being dead?"
And Paul replied, "The only guy who found out about the donkey being dead was the raffle winner, when he came to claim his prize. So I gave him his $2 back plus $200 extra, which is double the going value of a donkey, so he thought I was a great guy."
Paul grew up and became a very wealthy businessman and eventually became the Prime Minister of Canada, and no matter how many times he lied or how much money he finangled from Canadian voters, as long as he gave them back some of the ill-gotten money, most of them thought he was a great guy.
Or you can replace Paul with Bertie, if you feel like it.
Thursday, December 15, 2005
Missy's all growed up! Queenie's not far behind!
Missy finished her finals today!! Hooray!! I celebrated by sending her down to the liquor store to buy me a bottle of Casillero del Diablo with the last of her pocket-money.
Well, the children's allowance will be in tomorrow.
I am joking. Missy's not my child, she's my roomie. But she may as well be my child tonight, because I'm that made up for her. And she has a good job all lined up in a public sector organisation. I tried to talk her out of that, I think she should go to Yerp and live in a bus shelter for the summer, but she wouldn't listen to me.
But no, it's all good. She's about to have those great few years when you've got some money and no sense yet. And you can always do a postgrad if it all gets too scary.
I remember the day I finished my finals. Oooooh, yes, I remember that day well.
I sat in the Exam Hall in Trinity College Dublin (immortalised in the film Educating Rita of course) for three hours writing the English Literature General Paper.
The General Paper.
You could be asked about anything that was on any of the courses that were taught while you were in university. I shit you not, boys and girls. Back in my day you had to know stuff to get the omnusdomnus day out in the black gown and the morter board. None of this 'I'll put the questions up on the intranet for you and it's your own fault if you don't remember to look them up' shite they have going on now, even though you'll probably sue me over it if you do forget, you litigious little creeps.
I remember there was a question on the use of weather as a metaphor in the works of William Shakespeare. And I was about two thirds of the way through the essay when I remembered The Tempest.
Tempest is a two syllable synonym for storm, by the way, Business Studies boys and girls.
A synonym is like a competitor, only less aggressive.
Anyway, back to that moment. It was a classic FUCK IT FUCK IT FUCK IT moment. Except I was having it in a seventeenth century Classical style hallowed hall of learning that North Americans have to wait two hundred more years to have a fuck it moment in, so who cared what mark I got.
But still. I had made a complete mess of Modernist Poetry, having lost all my notes to a randy he-goat in a Norman castle in the west of Ireland the previous summer. So I had reckoned on doing well in General Paper. Why I don't know, because I couldn't perform brilliantly on the spot if you glued me to it with ultragleam toothpaste.
I was young back then.
After I started breathing again, I realised I hadn't read the play for three years. I mean, how many times in your life are you going to read The Tempest? Once. That time in Madrid when I flew over to teach those rich kids and the senor took one look at me and locked me into the apartment for the summer until I escaped when they brought me to their house in the Pyrenees. It was a long humid July. I read The Complete Works of Mr. Wm Shakespeare. In chronological order.
But I remembered enough. Thank God for the Senor. I knew he'd come in handy some day.
Anyways, we finished eventually, and Trish and I walked out into the heady air of adulthood. And Myles Corcoran was standing there with a big bottle of Smirnoff Blue Label Vodka, care of one William Whyte, who was in Oxford. And something else, I can't remember, was it chocolates, or flowers or something. I remember it was wonderful anyway.
And Trish and I went round to the flat on Westland Row and sat there, just the two of us, and drank the vodka. And watched the sun set all red and orange and pink, through that great big window we had in the living room.
And then everyone we knew on the planet turned up around seven pm. So I rang my mother and asked her if it was okay if I used some of the rent money to buy some drinks. And she said 'oh yes of course', because she was so relieved I'd actually done it. And proud too. And Luke and someone else went down to Quinnsworth on Baggot St. and came back with enough. And they had got a bottle of tequila, and I have a vague recollection (it was thirteen years ago) of not allowing anyone into the flat unless they had a slammer.
But then I had to stop, because someone threw up in the hall.
And then that guy arrived, that used to wear a dickie bow to college. No, not Tony Wall, he was already there. The other guy, that was on the CSC with him. And we made him play strip poker.
And he wouldn't even take the dickie bow off, because he knew we were stacking the cards against him.
That was a great summer... the summer of 1992.
Missy and her friend had a bottle of Bacardi Breezer each and went off to see The Lion, etc.
To each their own.
I should have organised a party for her, shouldn't I!
She's not doing anything till she gets her marks. But well done girl. It's all ahead of you now.
Well, the children's allowance will be in tomorrow.
I am joking. Missy's not my child, she's my roomie. But she may as well be my child tonight, because I'm that made up for her. And she has a good job all lined up in a public sector organisation. I tried to talk her out of that, I think she should go to Yerp and live in a bus shelter for the summer, but she wouldn't listen to me.
But no, it's all good. She's about to have those great few years when you've got some money and no sense yet. And you can always do a postgrad if it all gets too scary.
I remember the day I finished my finals. Oooooh, yes, I remember that day well.
I sat in the Exam Hall in Trinity College Dublin (immortalised in the film Educating Rita of course) for three hours writing the English Literature General Paper.
The General Paper.
You could be asked about anything that was on any of the courses that were taught while you were in university. I shit you not, boys and girls. Back in my day you had to know stuff to get the omnusdomnus day out in the black gown and the morter board. None of this 'I'll put the questions up on the intranet for you and it's your own fault if you don't remember to look them up' shite they have going on now, even though you'll probably sue me over it if you do forget, you litigious little creeps.
I remember there was a question on the use of weather as a metaphor in the works of William Shakespeare. And I was about two thirds of the way through the essay when I remembered The Tempest.
Tempest is a two syllable synonym for storm, by the way, Business Studies boys and girls.
A synonym is like a competitor, only less aggressive.
Anyway, back to that moment. It was a classic FUCK IT FUCK IT FUCK IT moment. Except I was having it in a seventeenth century Classical style hallowed hall of learning that North Americans have to wait two hundred more years to have a fuck it moment in, so who cared what mark I got.
But still. I had made a complete mess of Modernist Poetry, having lost all my notes to a randy he-goat in a Norman castle in the west of Ireland the previous summer. So I had reckoned on doing well in General Paper. Why I don't know, because I couldn't perform brilliantly on the spot if you glued me to it with ultragleam toothpaste.
I was young back then.
After I started breathing again, I realised I hadn't read the play for three years. I mean, how many times in your life are you going to read The Tempest? Once. That time in Madrid when I flew over to teach those rich kids and the senor took one look at me and locked me into the apartment for the summer until I escaped when they brought me to their house in the Pyrenees. It was a long humid July. I read The Complete Works of Mr. Wm Shakespeare. In chronological order.
But I remembered enough. Thank God for the Senor. I knew he'd come in handy some day.
Anyways, we finished eventually, and Trish and I walked out into the heady air of adulthood. And Myles Corcoran was standing there with a big bottle of Smirnoff Blue Label Vodka, care of one William Whyte, who was in Oxford. And something else, I can't remember, was it chocolates, or flowers or something. I remember it was wonderful anyway.
And Trish and I went round to the flat on Westland Row and sat there, just the two of us, and drank the vodka. And watched the sun set all red and orange and pink, through that great big window we had in the living room.
And then everyone we knew on the planet turned up around seven pm. So I rang my mother and asked her if it was okay if I used some of the rent money to buy some drinks. And she said 'oh yes of course', because she was so relieved I'd actually done it. And proud too. And Luke and someone else went down to Quinnsworth on Baggot St. and came back with enough. And they had got a bottle of tequila, and I have a vague recollection (it was thirteen years ago) of not allowing anyone into the flat unless they had a slammer.
But then I had to stop, because someone threw up in the hall.
And then that guy arrived, that used to wear a dickie bow to college. No, not Tony Wall, he was already there. The other guy, that was on the CSC with him. And we made him play strip poker.
And he wouldn't even take the dickie bow off, because he knew we were stacking the cards against him.
That was a great summer... the summer of 1992.
Missy and her friend had a bottle of Bacardi Breezer each and went off to see The Lion, etc.
To each their own.
I should have organised a party for her, shouldn't I!
She's not doing anything till she gets her marks. But well done girl. It's all ahead of you now.
Tuesday, December 13, 2005
Male Encounters of the Weird Kind
Oh my God I had so many of these today I don't even know where to start.
The campaign manager called. I asked him why I was being asked to go out in the snow for three weeks with the candidate. He had no answer. I asked him whether it was because I was an unknown. He had no answer. I asked him whether it was because I was a woman. He had no answer. I pointed out that I had volunteered to learn, and wondered what I would learn on the stump.
He asked me what I usually did on a campaign at home.
I said, 'managed it'.
He said 'oh'.
So much for my reputation preceding me.
I met an Irish guy who told me all about his dreams for the future in Nova Scotia, and then asked me was I here because I was engaged. I said no. He didn't miss a beat, told me the rest of his dreams and told me not to worry about things.
I wasn't, thanks very much for caring, though.
I met two blokes in the pub, who asked me why I was here, and then told me the reason was because Europe was finished because of France and Germany. I tried to explain the beauty of the EU but they had to leave. And drive home drunk. They asked me if I wanted a lift. I got the bus. I don't want drink drivers on my conscience. They had lectured me about Canadian blood spilt to save Europe twice.
Yeah, whatever.
But before all of that, I met a guy I had spent some time with last week. He had asked me about my life and I had told him a brief synopsis from 1995 to now.
He said "I hope you weren't too emotionally drained by telling me all that."
I didn't understand for a while. Emotionally drained by telling him my back story? Why would I be?
And then I understood. He would have put all of that in a little canister and marked it ''open only when really pissed'' and not looked at it after that. Unless really pissed.
I, being female, think about it every day. Not in a 'ohmygod this is what happened to me' kind of way, but in a 'oh look it's snowing, the bus is late, I should have exfoliated. My look at how late I'm going to be for opening my email. Remember the time I was late because I had that row with XXX about the snow. And then Pauline called. That reminds me, I must ring Pauline this week, shit, have I got my passport - I have to get that form signed for my teaching class? "
"I like my teaching class - I wonder if I'd like to be a teacher. I should check the St. Pat's website and see how difficult it would be to apply. Which reminds me, I need to email inmyday and ask about the Macra PhD. ohmygod, remember the time we went to the Macra dinner and XXX didn't know what to say to anyone. A bit like the time I went to the Legion with YYY. And he flipped. I hate when that happens. Never mind, nice female Christmas this year. Ooh, no pressies wrapped, speaking of Christmas. Must go to the drug store at lunchtime and get wrapping paper. Do I have enough cash? No. Go to the machine. Remember the way there was an armed guard outside the ATMs in India. That driver was nice - I wonder where he is now. I heard he's a paramedic now. I wish they had ATMs on the street in Canada. Must check out why not. Maybe worth a press release. Where is the bus? Going to be late, going to be ate. Must talk to the press officer first thing, feel like I'm not doing enough pr for my politicians at the moment."
Emotionally drained? Where the hell would I find the brain space to be emotionally drained? It's just a running sewer of banality in Queenie's head all day every day.
They have no idea, do they!
The campaign manager called. I asked him why I was being asked to go out in the snow for three weeks with the candidate. He had no answer. I asked him whether it was because I was an unknown. He had no answer. I asked him whether it was because I was a woman. He had no answer. I pointed out that I had volunteered to learn, and wondered what I would learn on the stump.
He asked me what I usually did on a campaign at home.
I said, 'managed it'.
He said 'oh'.
So much for my reputation preceding me.
I met an Irish guy who told me all about his dreams for the future in Nova Scotia, and then asked me was I here because I was engaged. I said no. He didn't miss a beat, told me the rest of his dreams and told me not to worry about things.
I wasn't, thanks very much for caring, though.
I met two blokes in the pub, who asked me why I was here, and then told me the reason was because Europe was finished because of France and Germany. I tried to explain the beauty of the EU but they had to leave. And drive home drunk. They asked me if I wanted a lift. I got the bus. I don't want drink drivers on my conscience. They had lectured me about Canadian blood spilt to save Europe twice.
Yeah, whatever.
But before all of that, I met a guy I had spent some time with last week. He had asked me about my life and I had told him a brief synopsis from 1995 to now.
He said "I hope you weren't too emotionally drained by telling me all that."
I didn't understand for a while. Emotionally drained by telling him my back story? Why would I be?
And then I understood. He would have put all of that in a little canister and marked it ''open only when really pissed'' and not looked at it after that. Unless really pissed.
I, being female, think about it every day. Not in a 'ohmygod this is what happened to me' kind of way, but in a 'oh look it's snowing, the bus is late, I should have exfoliated. My look at how late I'm going to be for opening my email. Remember the time I was late because I had that row with XXX about the snow. And then Pauline called. That reminds me, I must ring Pauline this week, shit, have I got my passport - I have to get that form signed for my teaching class? "
"I like my teaching class - I wonder if I'd like to be a teacher. I should check the St. Pat's website and see how difficult it would be to apply. Which reminds me, I need to email inmyday and ask about the Macra PhD. ohmygod, remember the time we went to the Macra dinner and XXX didn't know what to say to anyone. A bit like the time I went to the Legion with YYY. And he flipped. I hate when that happens. Never mind, nice female Christmas this year. Ooh, no pressies wrapped, speaking of Christmas. Must go to the drug store at lunchtime and get wrapping paper. Do I have enough cash? No. Go to the machine. Remember the way there was an armed guard outside the ATMs in India. That driver was nice - I wonder where he is now. I heard he's a paramedic now. I wish they had ATMs on the street in Canada. Must check out why not. Maybe worth a press release. Where is the bus? Going to be late, going to be ate. Must talk to the press officer first thing, feel like I'm not doing enough pr for my politicians at the moment."
Emotionally drained? Where the hell would I find the brain space to be emotionally drained? It's just a running sewer of banality in Queenie's head all day every day.
They have no idea, do they!
Monday, December 12, 2005
Happy Holidays Big Boy
I’m burning Christmas present cds or Holiday present cds, as we say here in mostly Baptist or Catholic yet proactively Diverse Nova Scotia. As Ian has warned me, the whole escapade is fraught with danger. But hey, I like living on the edge.
What’s the worst they can do?
Sharpen the edge of the cd on their snow shovels and use it to decapitate me as punishment for my excruciating taste in music?
That’s not terribly likely.
Apparently there’s a return culture here for unwanted Christmas presents. Everyone goes to Walmart or Sears or The Bay (depending on the class of present you get I suppose) and queues to get their money back or to exchange. The Liberals are making jokes about it being the best place to canvass on Stephen’s Day.
So I’ll probably arrive back from my holidays in New Jersey to find ten cds sitting on my desk.
Speaking of holidays, we’re getting phone calls in from people who are pissed off with the whole Happy Holidays syndrome. If I have to answer one of them, I tell them I agree with them totally. I mean, it’s terrible; us Christians have had our most important religious festival destroyed by consumerist capitalist culture. And now in the name of diversity, they want to do the same to Hannekah, Ramadan and Diwali. In order to sell even more former lofty maple or spruce trees, chopped up, painted and masquerading as tawdry decorations and gee gaws, some evil advertising guru has invented Happy Holidays. It’d make you weep, wouldn’t it?
They usually hang up in complete bewilderment after a couple of minutes of that.
It’s amazing what you get away with when you have a lilting Irish accent.
Some nutter rang me the other day to give out about the price of petrol. I asked him what he drove. Of course it was some gas-guzzlin’ crock of American patriotic shit, so I gave out to him at length for wasting my time and the planet’s resources. Then I stopped, because I’d gone too far really. And he might vote for us one of the days.
And he said “I love it when Irish women yell at me. Do it to me again.”
I was speechless.
Then I got to thinking; I could set up one of those 1800-lines. I could get an IDA grant and open a call centre up in Malin Head or in West Mayo. I bet I could get ACOA to give me a grant too. I could site the back-end operations in Cape Breton or something.
I’d make a fortune and I’d bring valuable 'new economy' jobs to a deprived area in the west of Ireland, so I’d be a saint as well and they’d probably name an airport after me.
And then I could go lie on a beach in Mexico and write the scripts:
“Ooh, you naughty naughty Moosehead; have you been out driving through the wetlands on your ENORMOUS THROBBING ATV again? Put that can of Keiths down RIGHT NOW and come over here, you excuse for a man you! Where’s your hockey stick? What do you mean, the other guys broke it over your head during a game? You know all that rough play is just your homoerotic fantasies playing themselves out in an acceptable setting, don't you, you unreconstructed good ole boy! No, begorrah, it's not a new shopping channel I'm talking about! Bring both pieces to me NOW, sharp ends up! I’m going to have to punish you severely with them, aren’t I?”
Jaysus, I should stop this before I get too enthusiastic.
Speaking of pervy goings on on the Interweb, I was looking at my site meter the other day, and I got a hit from someone who had done a Google search for ‘really big breasts’.
Those of you who know me know how hilarious that is.
I wonder what he made of Queenie + Percy?
What’s the worst they can do?
Sharpen the edge of the cd on their snow shovels and use it to decapitate me as punishment for my excruciating taste in music?
That’s not terribly likely.
Apparently there’s a return culture here for unwanted Christmas presents. Everyone goes to Walmart or Sears or The Bay (depending on the class of present you get I suppose) and queues to get their money back or to exchange. The Liberals are making jokes about it being the best place to canvass on Stephen’s Day.
So I’ll probably arrive back from my holidays in New Jersey to find ten cds sitting on my desk.
Speaking of holidays, we’re getting phone calls in from people who are pissed off with the whole Happy Holidays syndrome. If I have to answer one of them, I tell them I agree with them totally. I mean, it’s terrible; us Christians have had our most important religious festival destroyed by consumerist capitalist culture. And now in the name of diversity, they want to do the same to Hannekah, Ramadan and Diwali. In order to sell even more former lofty maple or spruce trees, chopped up, painted and masquerading as tawdry decorations and gee gaws, some evil advertising guru has invented Happy Holidays. It’d make you weep, wouldn’t it?
They usually hang up in complete bewilderment after a couple of minutes of that.
It’s amazing what you get away with when you have a lilting Irish accent.
Some nutter rang me the other day to give out about the price of petrol. I asked him what he drove. Of course it was some gas-guzzlin’ crock of American patriotic shit, so I gave out to him at length for wasting my time and the planet’s resources. Then I stopped, because I’d gone too far really. And he might vote for us one of the days.
And he said “I love it when Irish women yell at me. Do it to me again.”
I was speechless.
Then I got to thinking; I could set up one of those 1800-lines. I could get an IDA grant and open a call centre up in Malin Head or in West Mayo. I bet I could get ACOA to give me a grant too. I could site the back-end operations in Cape Breton or something.
I’d make a fortune and I’d bring valuable 'new economy' jobs to a deprived area in the west of Ireland, so I’d be a saint as well and they’d probably name an airport after me.
And then I could go lie on a beach in Mexico and write the scripts:
“Ooh, you naughty naughty Moosehead; have you been out driving through the wetlands on your ENORMOUS THROBBING ATV again? Put that can of Keiths down RIGHT NOW and come over here, you excuse for a man you! Where’s your hockey stick? What do you mean, the other guys broke it over your head during a game? You know all that rough play is just your homoerotic fantasies playing themselves out in an acceptable setting, don't you, you unreconstructed good ole boy! No, begorrah, it's not a new shopping channel I'm talking about! Bring both pieces to me NOW, sharp ends up! I’m going to have to punish you severely with them, aren’t I?”
Jaysus, I should stop this before I get too enthusiastic.
Speaking of pervy goings on on the Interweb, I was looking at my site meter the other day, and I got a hit from someone who had done a Google search for ‘really big breasts’.
Those of you who know me know how hilarious that is.
I wonder what he made of Queenie + Percy?
A voyager, no Penelope!
I just needed to write that down. It's been buzzing in my head all morning since Jena told me about her new niece Penelope.
I think it's Sylvia Plath, but I'm not sure.
It's great whoever said it!
It could have been worse - it could have been the Penelope Pitstop 'heyalp, heyalp' from that cartoon I used to watch when I was young.
I think it's Sylvia Plath, but I'm not sure.
It's great whoever said it!
It could have been worse - it could have been the Penelope Pitstop 'heyalp, heyalp' from that cartoon I used to watch when I was young.
Sunday, December 11, 2005
A coupla hours later
I'm playing my Christmas mix. Well, one of them. I made two. I'm going to give them to the PFW(c) for a present. One is electronica and the other is more acoustic, with the emphasis on the words rather than the bass line. They're from all the albums I acquired during 2005. I spent all day yesterday making it.
I'm really hungry, but psychoB has taken over the kitchen to make the most disgusting fried sandwich in the world. It appears to made up of a layer of bread, upon which are layered tinned tomatoes, fried mushrooms, onions, cheese, which he then microwaved twice and a fried egg on top of that.
The house stinks.
He's nearly finished. He's trying to put pepper on it at the moment, but there's no pepper in the pepper mill, because I hid my stache. I dreamt last night that he found my blog and has started a revenge blog against me because I bitch about him so much. Stranger things have happened in this little corner of heaven on earth.
I found a new way to torment him last night. He places his empty beer cans in a row on the kitchen windowsill when he's drinking every night. And then puts them in the recycle bin in the morning. Last night when I got in from the pub at 1.30am, he only had one or two up, so I put them in the recycle bin for him and went to bed. Then a few minutes later, he went into the kitchen and started ranting at himself and I think he took them back out and replaced them.
So of course I couldn't resist the temptation to get a glass of water.
I've been on the phone for the last while. Very interesting. The epicaricacy has been replaced by compassion and understanding. Well, some of it anyways.
The rest of it is bopping frenziedly around my bedroom to Madge's excellent disco beats at the moment.
I'm not a bad person. Really.
Gotta go eat now. And then I'm going to watch The Big Chill.
(c) PFW is a TLS devised, owned and patented by Ian Moore. It means People From Work.
I'm really hungry, but psychoB has taken over the kitchen to make the most disgusting fried sandwich in the world. It appears to made up of a layer of bread, upon which are layered tinned tomatoes, fried mushrooms, onions, cheese, which he then microwaved twice and a fried egg on top of that.
The house stinks.
He's nearly finished. He's trying to put pepper on it at the moment, but there's no pepper in the pepper mill, because I hid my stache. I dreamt last night that he found my blog and has started a revenge blog against me because I bitch about him so much. Stranger things have happened in this little corner of heaven on earth.
I found a new way to torment him last night. He places his empty beer cans in a row on the kitchen windowsill when he's drinking every night. And then puts them in the recycle bin in the morning. Last night when I got in from the pub at 1.30am, he only had one or two up, so I put them in the recycle bin for him and went to bed. Then a few minutes later, he went into the kitchen and started ranting at himself and I think he took them back out and replaced them.
So of course I couldn't resist the temptation to get a glass of water.
I've been on the phone for the last while. Very interesting. The epicaricacy has been replaced by compassion and understanding. Well, some of it anyways.
The rest of it is bopping frenziedly around my bedroom to Madge's excellent disco beats at the moment.
I'm not a bad person. Really.
Gotta go eat now. And then I'm going to watch The Big Chill.
(c) PFW is a TLS devised, owned and patented by Ian Moore. It means People From Work.
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