It's time to take control of our lives. It's time to rise up against the student loan oppressors!
Who's with me?
Monday, June 27, 2005
Friday, June 24, 2005
The Highs and the Lows
I am happy today, I think. Or at least I was. The thing is I got another four hours of work, netting a nice chunk of change. However, I also found out that a valued friend and colleague is in the hospital, and no one knows what is wrong with him, and how serious it may be.
I hope everyone has a good weekend, and everyone stays safe and content- or at least on top of everything.
I hope everyone has a good weekend, and everyone stays safe and content- or at least on top of everything.
Wednesday, June 22, 2005
Damn.
Well, folks, at least I HAD an interview.
However, in Hamilton, even things that seem like an opportunity turn out to be a kick in the head. What was I thinking? Didn’t I know this city wanted (nay, needed) me to fail?
This morning I was again awaken (awoken?) by a phone call. This morning it was not a good thing. I was hitting the snooze button for once too often, at 8.30am (my interview was scheduled for 11am downtown, but I had thought to treat myself to cab instead of the bus, so I was fine). Then the phone.
(Ominous Music.)
It was the secretary at the office of the lady I was to meet that morning.
Secretary: “Ms. P-?”
Me: “Yes.”
Secretary: “I’m sorry, but Ms. S- has to cancel your interview this morning.”
Me: “Oh. OK.” (Grabbing a pen to take down the new time/date).
Secretary: “Yes, she has already hired someone she interviewed on Monday.”
Me: Silence. (Shake of head.) “Oh. Well. OK.”
Secretary: “Yes. Ms. S- wishes you all the best with your continued job search.”
Me: “Uh, thanks?”
Secretary: “Goodbye.”
Me: “Yeah.” (Faint.)
Me: Puts down phone, and laughs a little in wild confusion. (I sat wondering if that was the person hired on Monday. Maybe Ms. S- is so twisted that the first duty of a new employee is to call all the jerks who didn’t get the job.)
So, in what world do you not even pay lip service to the other applicants you have scheduled, and at least try them out, before you just hire the first bozo you meet and cancel the rest? I guess she needed to be at the links today, and I was in her way…
So. There you have it. I am still unemployed. Rats.
Now I find myself in a strange predicament: I’m not sure I want to keep looking. Maybe I should concede defeat and just hide until I move. Last night I did another job hunt and all I could find is a bunch of student jobs for which you must be under 24 to apply, and quite a few jobs I couldn’t even try to do (licensed sand blaster, crane operator, level 4 technical supervisor, etc.) No go there. In addition, delightfully, we have now reached that place in the summer when EVERY ONE in the world already has their job, so the listings get fewer and fewer. By next week, there should be nothing left but a Stage 9 Primate Kidney Stone Remover with a PhD and experience in IT. Yay.
The thing is, we aren’t doing too bad. The fact that I no longer have a paycheck has sent us spiraling into emergency poverty measures: No smokes, limited food, no long distance (whatsoever), no electricity used that is unessential, no bus rides to places within an hour’s walking distance, no major spending (my book an exception), and no purchases without consulting the budget. (It’s like Wartime Britain around here.) Further, we cleared our credit in anticipation of this situation, and got a loan from family until September. As it is, I am doing better then when I had a job, as when I have a paycheck I feel more secure and go wild with the money (i.e. I buy sandwiches freely when I’m on campus).
Therefore, I am considering just giving up and no longer subjecting myself to the humiliation of the Hamilton jerked-meat market. I have a ton of preparation to do for my classes in the fall, and then there’s packing and apartment red tape. I have shit to do. It doesn’t pay, but maybe I no longer care. Screw you Hamilton- I may have given up, but I refuse to curl up and die. I will get out of this town even if I can’t afford a mover and have to carry my crap on my back out of this place. What do you think of that? Huh? Well?
So I give myself three more weeks, making applications every 48 hours when the job site is updated, and then I’m not going to waste one more thought.
That’s what I get for being so happy the last week. Rats.
However, in Hamilton, even things that seem like an opportunity turn out to be a kick in the head. What was I thinking? Didn’t I know this city wanted (nay, needed) me to fail?
This morning I was again awaken (awoken?) by a phone call. This morning it was not a good thing. I was hitting the snooze button for once too often, at 8.30am (my interview was scheduled for 11am downtown, but I had thought to treat myself to cab instead of the bus, so I was fine). Then the phone.
(Ominous Music.)
It was the secretary at the office of the lady I was to meet that morning.
Secretary: “Ms. P-?”
Me: “Yes.”
Secretary: “I’m sorry, but Ms. S- has to cancel your interview this morning.”
Me: “Oh. OK.” (Grabbing a pen to take down the new time/date).
Secretary: “Yes, she has already hired someone she interviewed on Monday.”
Me: Silence. (Shake of head.) “Oh. Well. OK.”
Secretary: “Yes. Ms. S- wishes you all the best with your continued job search.”
Me: “Uh, thanks?”
Secretary: “Goodbye.”
Me: “Yeah.” (Faint.)
Me: Puts down phone, and laughs a little in wild confusion. (I sat wondering if that was the person hired on Monday. Maybe Ms. S- is so twisted that the first duty of a new employee is to call all the jerks who didn’t get the job.)
So, in what world do you not even pay lip service to the other applicants you have scheduled, and at least try them out, before you just hire the first bozo you meet and cancel the rest? I guess she needed to be at the links today, and I was in her way…
So. There you have it. I am still unemployed. Rats.
Now I find myself in a strange predicament: I’m not sure I want to keep looking. Maybe I should concede defeat and just hide until I move. Last night I did another job hunt and all I could find is a bunch of student jobs for which you must be under 24 to apply, and quite a few jobs I couldn’t even try to do (licensed sand blaster, crane operator, level 4 technical supervisor, etc.) No go there. In addition, delightfully, we have now reached that place in the summer when EVERY ONE in the world already has their job, so the listings get fewer and fewer. By next week, there should be nothing left but a Stage 9 Primate Kidney Stone Remover with a PhD and experience in IT. Yay.
The thing is, we aren’t doing too bad. The fact that I no longer have a paycheck has sent us spiraling into emergency poverty measures: No smokes, limited food, no long distance (whatsoever), no electricity used that is unessential, no bus rides to places within an hour’s walking distance, no major spending (my book an exception), and no purchases without consulting the budget. (It’s like Wartime Britain around here.) Further, we cleared our credit in anticipation of this situation, and got a loan from family until September. As it is, I am doing better then when I had a job, as when I have a paycheck I feel more secure and go wild with the money (i.e. I buy sandwiches freely when I’m on campus).
Therefore, I am considering just giving up and no longer subjecting myself to the humiliation of the Hamilton jerked-meat market. I have a ton of preparation to do for my classes in the fall, and then there’s packing and apartment red tape. I have shit to do. It doesn’t pay, but maybe I no longer care. Screw you Hamilton- I may have given up, but I refuse to curl up and die. I will get out of this town even if I can’t afford a mover and have to carry my crap on my back out of this place. What do you think of that? Huh? Well?
So I give myself three more weeks, making applications every 48 hours when the job site is updated, and then I’m not going to waste one more thought.
That’s what I get for being so happy the last week. Rats.
Oozy Rat in a Sanitary Zoo.
Cool word play. Beautiful imagery. What more could you want?
(Right now I feel like a sanitary rat in an oozy zoo, but the other way works better as a palindrome.)
Last night John and I walked home from campus at 2.30am. It takes about an hour to walk home from McMaster, and we were carrying a bunch of stuff, so it was a little tiring. However, that moon was certainly worth it. Gosh, what a sight. The sky was bright with it, even if it was that strange greenish-blue colour the sky gets here, and the moon led us all the way home. In places the warm air had heated the lilacs up to a wonderful perfume, replacing the slight rotting stink that generally hangs in the Hamilton air. I’m glad we walked home.
Gosh, what a night.
(Right now I feel like a sanitary rat in an oozy zoo, but the other way works better as a palindrome.)
Last night John and I walked home from campus at 2.30am. It takes about an hour to walk home from McMaster, and we were carrying a bunch of stuff, so it was a little tiring. However, that moon was certainly worth it. Gosh, what a sight. The sky was bright with it, even if it was that strange greenish-blue colour the sky gets here, and the moon led us all the way home. In places the warm air had heated the lilacs up to a wonderful perfume, replacing the slight rotting stink that generally hangs in the Hamilton air. I’m glad we walked home.
Gosh, what a night.
Tuesday, June 21, 2005
What Does it Mean if Your Kidneys Have Moved to Detroit??
ARRRRRRRGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!
OK. You know how when you're a kid and you keep pissing at your folks to give you more responsibility? Do you also know how, when you grow up, you want as little responsibility as possible?
Yeah. That's the stage I'm at.
The head of my new department, thinking I am the film expert that I have some how conned them into thinking I am, sent me a draft of the new article he is working on. So I can GIVE HIM SOME POINTERS!!!!!!! Yup. Next week the jig will be up- I'll be denounced as a fraud and thrown, crying, into the streets as a no-talent.
I'm so screwed.
OK. You know how when you're a kid and you keep pissing at your folks to give you more responsibility? Do you also know how, when you grow up, you want as little responsibility as possible?
Yeah. That's the stage I'm at.
The head of my new department, thinking I am the film expert that I have some how conned them into thinking I am, sent me a draft of the new article he is working on. So I can GIVE HIM SOME POINTERS!!!!!!! Yup. Next week the jig will be up- I'll be denounced as a fraud and thrown, crying, into the streets as a no-talent.
I'm so screwed.
Absolutely Nothing to Say.
Yes, folks. I am blocked. Blog Blocked. I have nothing of interest for you, even if my past rants and rambles were ever interesting.
Thus, I will let you all into my sordid little life.
Some good things happened this week: Some family members have promised to donate to my unemployed fund. I got an hour’s worth of work (for $100, no less) for Wednesday night, so decided to treat myself to a new book. I have a job interview tomorrow (!!!!). I did all of the dishes today (as opposed to just doing the flat ones, getting tired and leaving the others to rot for a few more days). I have sorted out my registration crud. An ass-load of movies came in at the public library for me, so I can do some research and not get kicked out of PhD in the first week. John has heard back from student loan, and WILL be able to go to school in the fall. John’s dad WILL be helping us move.
Some ambiguous things: Our Local may be steaming towards a strike for the part-time teaching unit. The apartment deal hasn’t been scuttled- yet.
Some bad things: Still no job.
One unusual thing: A cat is being delivered to us on Thursday- we are cat sitting for about four days (a gigantic orange beast that is as timid and lovely as any you have ever seen).
Thus, nothing too bad (and the good out-weighs the rest), and we are still afloat.
Crap. I hate writer’s block. I’ll be better later, I promise.
Uh. Me. Write. Write? What?
Thus, I will let you all into my sordid little life.
Some good things happened this week: Some family members have promised to donate to my unemployed fund. I got an hour’s worth of work (for $100, no less) for Wednesday night, so decided to treat myself to a new book. I have a job interview tomorrow (!!!!). I did all of the dishes today (as opposed to just doing the flat ones, getting tired and leaving the others to rot for a few more days). I have sorted out my registration crud. An ass-load of movies came in at the public library for me, so I can do some research and not get kicked out of PhD in the first week. John has heard back from student loan, and WILL be able to go to school in the fall. John’s dad WILL be helping us move.
Some ambiguous things: Our Local may be steaming towards a strike for the part-time teaching unit. The apartment deal hasn’t been scuttled- yet.
Some bad things: Still no job.
One unusual thing: A cat is being delivered to us on Thursday- we are cat sitting for about four days (a gigantic orange beast that is as timid and lovely as any you have ever seen).
Thus, nothing too bad (and the good out-weighs the rest), and we are still afloat.
Crap. I hate writer’s block. I’ll be better later, I promise.
Uh. Me. Write. Write? What?
Hmmmmm. Why didn’t they mention that?
A couple things I wonder about after seeing Cinderella Man again yesterday.
Why do I still know nothing about Braddock’s early life? If he were used to poverty, then maybe his struggle wasn’t so heroic.
Also, why absolutely no mention that Max Baer was Jewish? I mean, we have a whole Irish Catholic congregation praying for Braddock, and not one of them says anything impolite? My Irish Catholic side still punches my Jewish half, and they belong to the same body. Does the scenerio on film seem likely?
Just wondering.
Why do I still know nothing about Braddock’s early life? If he were used to poverty, then maybe his struggle wasn’t so heroic.
Also, why absolutely no mention that Max Baer was Jewish? I mean, we have a whole Irish Catholic congregation praying for Braddock, and not one of them says anything impolite? My Irish Catholic side still punches my Jewish half, and they belong to the same body. Does the scenerio on film seem likely?
Just wondering.
Friday, June 17, 2005
Look on the Sunny Side…
It has been a great day. Put away blue blanky- HOLLY IS BACK IN BUSINESS!!
No, I still don’t have a job, but today I’m not worried about that. The weather here in Hamilton is brilliant- sunny but not smoggy, and with legitimate Southern Canada temperatures. It’s down to about 14 degrees at night, so we can ACTUALLY SLEEP! YAY!
The first half of this week has kind of stunk up the joint (though mostly by my own hand, I admit, through amateur dramatics that even my high school theatre couch would have cut).
First, I started getting freaked out by giving in my notice on my apartment. Our landlady is a great lady- she’s courteous, friendly and respectful. However, due to some bad experiences with past landladies, I still expect her capable of eating my skin (AKA ruining my life) on a whim. My basic prejudice against landlords is that they are parasites- they live off of the needs of others and depend on residential speculation for their gambling money. This is unfair, but what can you do? I have no logical reason to be frightened of my current landlady, but there it is. We’ve already established that everything I know is wrong.
Further, I was worried that the dream apartment that has sort of fallen into my lap would fall through. Then I started worrying about registration not going ahead. Also that our student loan applications would fail (due in part to an unfortunate encounter with a pop-up blocker that ate a form I needed to mail in to the Nova Scotia Education commission- sigh). I started worrying about money next year, and that I don’t have a job (and will therefore starve). In short, I was a mess. To make things worse, I was juggling emails with several different corners who all needed answers to questions that almost-literally gave me hemorrhoids (who the hell knows what the cubic dimensions of my bookshelves are???). Then, last night, I broke. You thought my earlier posting was dark? Last night I almost went out and found a tower and a rifle.
Wednesday morning as I was leaving for campus I had grabbed the registration package from Laurier that had just landed in my mail box- I thought to read it on the bus. Last night I looked around for it (as I noticed on John’s registration package that if I don’t send back the paper work contained within by the 15th of July I GET CHUCKED FROM THE PROGRAM). First, it was not in my book bag, nor in my stack of files, nor anywhere.
It seems that the disaster struck on Wednesday afternoon. After an unexpected (and particularly obnoxious) Union meeting, I went out for a coffee with the former president, whom I love and had not seen in a while, to catch up and discuss a pressing matter. While at the Phoenix (the grad pub at McMaster) I LOST the envelope!! Of course, I didn’t know it was lost there. It could have been there, or at the grocery store, or maybe it got put in with my friend’s papers. Or, horror of horrors- it may have been left on the bus.
I lost the envelope, and then I lost my mind.
Whew.
Today, however, the clouds have parted and the way is clear. I’m on the road to Damascus and I have touched the hem of good fortune again. Gosh, it’s been a long time since I had a good tryst with old Lady Luck, but today the old girl really showed some ankle for me.
First, I was woken up by a phone call at 9am. This may not sound like luck, but I like getting woken up by phone calls, as this doesn’t give me enough time to remember how much my life sucks. That is my usual way of waking up- gradually- as I listen to the plague-ish sounds of my Hamiltonian neighbours hacking up their last lung in the morning smog. However, this morning I didn’t have time for that. This morning my landlady called me in response to my “we’re leaving- call me” message. She was great- as usual- and didn’t eat my skin. There are no problems with a reference, meaning I am likely to get the new apartment, and she didn’t suddenly freak out and decide to try to gouge us for an extra month or something.
Second, I called the Phoenix in a last ditch effort to find my envelope before I called Laurier to beg another copy and a stay of execution. IT WAS THERE!!! I went out in the lovely weather, ran to campus, retrieved the Holy Grail (AKA the registration package) and got home. ALL ON ONE BUS FARE- the transfer was good for the whole trip. Saving my life only cost me $2.10. Take that, HSR!
Third, a good friend took time off from thesis writing to call and say hello. It’s always nice to be remembered.
So now I am sitting here with a stack of CDs, listening to Otis Redding (could “Love Man” be the coolest, and “These Arms of Mine” be the sexiest, song ever written? Possibly). Solomon Burke. Mandy Patinkin (Oscar & Steve). Tom Waits. Beloved Leonard Cohen (my first and most enduring love affair). Petula Clark. The Klezmatics (Rhythm and Jews). Sammy Davis, Jr. (the man by who, as a child, I desperately wanted to be adopted. If you haven’t heard his impression of Humphrey Bogart singing “Rockabye Your Baby”, you haven’t lived). Al Jolson. Ozzy Ozbourne. Glenn Gould. The Mills Brothers. The Shirelles. Bobby Darin. Piggy. The Drifters. Bill Monroe. Rudy Vallee. They line up on my desk like some sort of weird chorus line for my pleasure. Time to spend some time with some old friends. I (almost) don’t even want a smoke.
Gosh. What a great day.
No, I still don’t have a job, but today I’m not worried about that. The weather here in Hamilton is brilliant- sunny but not smoggy, and with legitimate Southern Canada temperatures. It’s down to about 14 degrees at night, so we can ACTUALLY SLEEP! YAY!
The first half of this week has kind of stunk up the joint (though mostly by my own hand, I admit, through amateur dramatics that even my high school theatre couch would have cut).
First, I started getting freaked out by giving in my notice on my apartment. Our landlady is a great lady- she’s courteous, friendly and respectful. However, due to some bad experiences with past landladies, I still expect her capable of eating my skin (AKA ruining my life) on a whim. My basic prejudice against landlords is that they are parasites- they live off of the needs of others and depend on residential speculation for their gambling money. This is unfair, but what can you do? I have no logical reason to be frightened of my current landlady, but there it is. We’ve already established that everything I know is wrong.
Further, I was worried that the dream apartment that has sort of fallen into my lap would fall through. Then I started worrying about registration not going ahead. Also that our student loan applications would fail (due in part to an unfortunate encounter with a pop-up blocker that ate a form I needed to mail in to the Nova Scotia Education commission- sigh). I started worrying about money next year, and that I don’t have a job (and will therefore starve). In short, I was a mess. To make things worse, I was juggling emails with several different corners who all needed answers to questions that almost-literally gave me hemorrhoids (who the hell knows what the cubic dimensions of my bookshelves are???). Then, last night, I broke. You thought my earlier posting was dark? Last night I almost went out and found a tower and a rifle.
Wednesday morning as I was leaving for campus I had grabbed the registration package from Laurier that had just landed in my mail box- I thought to read it on the bus. Last night I looked around for it (as I noticed on John’s registration package that if I don’t send back the paper work contained within by the 15th of July I GET CHUCKED FROM THE PROGRAM). First, it was not in my book bag, nor in my stack of files, nor anywhere.
It seems that the disaster struck on Wednesday afternoon. After an unexpected (and particularly obnoxious) Union meeting, I went out for a coffee with the former president, whom I love and had not seen in a while, to catch up and discuss a pressing matter. While at the Phoenix (the grad pub at McMaster) I LOST the envelope!! Of course, I didn’t know it was lost there. It could have been there, or at the grocery store, or maybe it got put in with my friend’s papers. Or, horror of horrors- it may have been left on the bus.
I lost the envelope, and then I lost my mind.
Whew.
Today, however, the clouds have parted and the way is clear. I’m on the road to Damascus and I have touched the hem of good fortune again. Gosh, it’s been a long time since I had a good tryst with old Lady Luck, but today the old girl really showed some ankle for me.
First, I was woken up by a phone call at 9am. This may not sound like luck, but I like getting woken up by phone calls, as this doesn’t give me enough time to remember how much my life sucks. That is my usual way of waking up- gradually- as I listen to the plague-ish sounds of my Hamiltonian neighbours hacking up their last lung in the morning smog. However, this morning I didn’t have time for that. This morning my landlady called me in response to my “we’re leaving- call me” message. She was great- as usual- and didn’t eat my skin. There are no problems with a reference, meaning I am likely to get the new apartment, and she didn’t suddenly freak out and decide to try to gouge us for an extra month or something.
Second, I called the Phoenix in a last ditch effort to find my envelope before I called Laurier to beg another copy and a stay of execution. IT WAS THERE!!! I went out in the lovely weather, ran to campus, retrieved the Holy Grail (AKA the registration package) and got home. ALL ON ONE BUS FARE- the transfer was good for the whole trip. Saving my life only cost me $2.10. Take that, HSR!
Third, a good friend took time off from thesis writing to call and say hello. It’s always nice to be remembered.
So now I am sitting here with a stack of CDs, listening to Otis Redding (could “Love Man” be the coolest, and “These Arms of Mine” be the sexiest, song ever written? Possibly). Solomon Burke. Mandy Patinkin (Oscar & Steve). Tom Waits. Beloved Leonard Cohen (my first and most enduring love affair). Petula Clark. The Klezmatics (Rhythm and Jews). Sammy Davis, Jr. (the man by who, as a child, I desperately wanted to be adopted. If you haven’t heard his impression of Humphrey Bogart singing “Rockabye Your Baby”, you haven’t lived). Al Jolson. Ozzy Ozbourne. Glenn Gould. The Mills Brothers. The Shirelles. Bobby Darin. Piggy. The Drifters. Bill Monroe. Rudy Vallee. They line up on my desk like some sort of weird chorus line for my pleasure. Time to spend some time with some old friends. I (almost) don’t even want a smoke.
Gosh. What a great day.
I love my landlady.
She could take and salt the earth.
Yet, she does not.
She could make our lives harder.
Yet, she does not.
She could give only mistrust and harshness.
Yet, she does not.
This is just a short ode to the woman who could destroy without repercussion.
Yet, she does not.
This is my pretentious and weird monument to those landlords and landladies who have power over us all,
but who do not abuse it.
Bless them all.
Yet, she does not.
She could make our lives harder.
Yet, she does not.
She could give only mistrust and harshness.
Yet, she does not.
This is just a short ode to the woman who could destroy without repercussion.
Yet, she does not.
This is my pretentious and weird monument to those landlords and landladies who have power over us all,
but who do not abuse it.
Bless them all.
COMING ATTRACTIONS!
Holly’s Double Feature is about ready to go.
Sometime in the next couple of days, I will be proud to announce the birth of an additional, non-private, blog filled only with film reviews. I hope to cover not just new movies, but a large numbers of films available in the “oldies” section at your local video store, and will give brief reviews of some forgotten lore of film. Many of them will be films I use for research, so that my profs can keep an eye on me- so keep the comments clean!
It will appear on my link list as soon as it’s ready to come screaming into being. I hope that, in lieu of a launch party, I can get a few visits from all of you whom I have regularly bugged to give this blog a few hits. (You know who you are).
Happy viewing!
Sometime in the next couple of days, I will be proud to announce the birth of an additional, non-private, blog filled only with film reviews. I hope to cover not just new movies, but a large numbers of films available in the “oldies” section at your local video store, and will give brief reviews of some forgotten lore of film. Many of them will be films I use for research, so that my profs can keep an eye on me- so keep the comments clean!
It will appear on my link list as soon as it’s ready to come screaming into being. I hope that, in lieu of a launch party, I can get a few visits from all of you whom I have regularly bugged to give this blog a few hits. (You know who you are).
Happy viewing!
Welcome all yee who dare...
Just a short note to say howdy-yah-do to a good friend who has just started her own baby blog!
Why to go Christine!
Why to go Christine!
Tuesday, June 14, 2005
Some Words of Solace
In times of upset like this, I often turn to the book of Weird Al.
These words, they do comfort me:
EVERYTHING YOU KNOW IS WRONG
Black is white, up is down and short is long
And everything you thought was just so important doesn't matter
EVERYTHING YOU KNOW IS WRONG
Just forget the words and sing along
All you need to understand is
EVERYTHING YOU KNOW IS WRONG
Ah. Music soothes the pain.
These words, they do comfort me:
EVERYTHING YOU KNOW IS WRONG
Black is white, up is down and short is long
And everything you thought was just so important doesn't matter
EVERYTHING YOU KNOW IS WRONG
Just forget the words and sing along
All you need to understand is
EVERYTHING YOU KNOW IS WRONG
Ah. Music soothes the pain.
BLUE BLANKY WHERE ARE YOU???
I am feeling better- mild panic attack. I am not sure what it means if you immediately update your blog when you have an anxiety attack, but I think it may be a form of mental illness- some sort of desire to flaunt your idiocy, perhaps?
In any case, John and I are OK, the apartment in our new city is coming along fine, and I am applying for a really kick ass job (planning recreation for the elderly- YAY elderly!). I am also thinking of starting a new blog, one just for reviews to use as a portfolio should I ever attempt to make money on reviews- right now I am strictly amateur, as that last one was my first, ever. However, in four years I should be in good shape. Any one have any boffo suggestions for the title of such a blog? (Catherine, I’m looking in your direction).
In the near future for this blog, look for my review of the trailer for the new Pride and Prejudice film due out soon.
The weather in Hamilton IS much better, with the heat actually heat, as opposed to some sort of disgusting swamp rot rising from the smog-soaked urban jungle that is the Hammer.
So, yes, we are fine. And certainly not up to anything illegal.
(By the way, the title of this entry does allude to The Producers, all those keen eyes out there that spotted it!)
In any case, John and I are OK, the apartment in our new city is coming along fine, and I am applying for a really kick ass job (planning recreation for the elderly- YAY elderly!). I am also thinking of starting a new blog, one just for reviews to use as a portfolio should I ever attempt to make money on reviews- right now I am strictly amateur, as that last one was my first, ever. However, in four years I should be in good shape. Any one have any boffo suggestions for the title of such a blog? (Catherine, I’m looking in your direction).
In the near future for this blog, look for my review of the trailer for the new Pride and Prejudice film due out soon.
The weather in Hamilton IS much better, with the heat actually heat, as opposed to some sort of disgusting swamp rot rising from the smog-soaked urban jungle that is the Hammer.
So, yes, we are fine. And certainly not up to anything illegal.
(By the way, the title of this entry does allude to The Producers, all those keen eyes out there that spotted it!)
Hell is Your Own Damn Self
Sartre was wrong. Hell is not others. Hell is what you make it.
Take for instance, my situation right now. I’m starting a program I’m excited about in just over two months. I’m leaving a town I LOATHE. The weather is vastly improving. John and I may have a great apartment lined up in our new town. I’m healthy, and not too bad off.
So why am I crippled with anxiety?
Take for instance, my situation right now. I’m starting a program I’m excited about in just over two months. I’m leaving a town I LOATHE. The weather is vastly improving. John and I may have a great apartment lined up in our new town. I’m healthy, and not too bad off.
So why am I crippled with anxiety?
Sunday, June 12, 2005
Follow up to Climate Change Rant
Hi there, out there. I have to bow to better credentials. Take a look at the link left for me by a visitor:
http://latinamarie.blogspot.com/2005/05/state-of-fear.html
Some good food for thought.
Also, while I am at (and being all self-refexive), I noticed that I had Russell Crowe's last name spelled wrong in my last review. That has been corrected. You know, you get used to spelling the bird's name...
Mea Culpa.
http://latinamarie.blogspot.com/2005/05/state-of-fear.html
Some good food for thought.
Also, while I am at (and being all self-refexive), I noticed that I had Russell Crowe's last name spelled wrong in my last review. That has been corrected. You know, you get used to spelling the bird's name...
Mea Culpa.
Saturday, June 11, 2005
Cinderella Man: I fell for it.
I was looking forward to seeing Cinderella Man. When I saw Russell Crowe and Paul Giamatti, two of my personal favourites, in the trailer (at Star Wars, no less), I was practically in the ticket line last month. With that type of enthusiasm, I always kind of expect disappointment. This movie did not follow through with that. I left the theatre chanting "BRADDOCK! BRADDOCK! BRADDOCK!" And you know what? I wasn't the only one.
The movie, directed by Ron Howard, unfolds the story of James J. Braddock (Crowe), the "Cinderella Man" of the Great Depression. Runyon so named him that because, after he had already been deemed washed up, Gentleman Jim struck back, and all of America rose to its feet. It was as if all of the desperate hopes of a depressed and sagging nation were poured on to this one man. However, though based in fact, Cinderella Man is not just grave robbing. It uses the magic of movies, a Capra-esque tool one might have thought lost in Hollywood, to create a myth.
I don't use the term myth as a derogatory word, meaning lie. Rather, in Joseph Campbell fashion, I use it to refer to those stories that create heroes and bring the listener, or viewer, into the narrative through a ritualistic act of communal understanding. THAT is what this film did.
On the surface, this film had its strengths and its weaknesses. The Everlast product placements were a little annoying, and Crowe's new widow's peak was odd. The misplaced and under-developed preoccupation with the quiet suffering of the “women behind the men” bordered on offensively ridiculous in places. The score is largely forgettable, and, especially in the first scenes, the actors appear uncomfortable with their accents. Paul Giamatti, a man I would love to fold up and carry around in my pocket, sounded like he was doing his worst Groucho Marx impersonation for his first dialogue. However, after the opening sequence, which shows Jim before the Depression, the movie opens up and becomes credible and absolutely absorbing. About a half hour in I forgot to take notes and just watched, only occasionally surfacing to do my duty.
First, the cinematography was, in most cases, really very serviceable and unobtrusive (with the exceptions being during the fight scenes, but we'll discuss those later). There were at least two times when Howard visually referenced De Sica's 1948 masterpiece about Italy's post-war depression, The Bicycle Thief. The first reference was to emphasize the hero relationship between a boy and his father, a running theme in both films. The other was when Howard had the camera linger just a moment after our hero leaves the welfare office window, just long enough to focus on the next man in line. These films lingered, on a welfare desk in one and a pawnshop wicket in the other, to remind us that the families followed in the respective films are not the only ones suffering. The references do not distract. The scenes alone communicate the required meaning to those who have not seen The Bicycle Thief (or The Bicycle Thieves, depending on your translation). But for those of us who loved De Sica's film, it communicated a wealth of hurt by using a pre-existing cultural metaphor. In those moments, Cinderella Man was placed into a long history of misery. This was a beautiful idea.
Second, the performances, from my amateur perspective, made the writing sing. I mean, sure, "You're the champion of my heart" IS a horrible line. Perhaps Renee Zellweger (whose face was puckered up enough in some sort of surprised/baffled look to make me wonder exactly WHO had been beaten up by Max Baer- Jimmy or her) was not up to the task of making that particular line work. Nevertheless, I was floored by the acting of Crowe and Giamatti. These two men may not naturally come to mind as a dynamic duo, but they riffed off each other like a dream team.
I used to rave about the million words spoken by Crowe's eyebrow, but Giamatti's upper lip has taken the crown. Surely that lip is a thing of wondrous beauty and should be bronzed. Anyone who has seen Giamatti's smash performance in American Splendor (2003), which rose him form the ranks of Woody Allen's regular bit players, knows of what lip thing I mean. It's that cross between a witch's hiss and a camel-spit move with his lip that manages to suggest both massive, frustrated rage as well as a controlled and submissive pain as experienced by a man who is too used to being beat down. It looks just like his character would like to tell them all to go to hell, but stops and thinks again. This lip may be one of the greatest acting talents to hit Hollywood since Cary Grant's neck muscles, and it is worth holding on to!
Finally, we come to what many might think is the main point of the movie: The fighting. The fight scenes were good, but not that much better than what we would expect. The mobile camera, visceral close ups and over cranking (i.e. slow motion) is pretty standard in a post-Raging Bull world. However, unlike Raging Bull (1980), Cinderella Man is in colour, and the scenes were rendered a little sickening because of this. Whirling colour, combined with violence, can be a bit much. The slow-motion flying mouthpiece, an over-done bit of tripe, was WAY too much. Further, there was a moment there when I thought I might be watching a Gatorade commercial, there were so many close-ups of sweaty brows! However, the fights were fairly well done, if a little over directed (and a bit samey by the Lewis/Lansky bouts), and they were by no means a major debit. In the end, this movie was not about fights. It was about heart, as trite as that may sound. The picture tells us that sometimes you don't need a KO to win. Sometimes weathering a storm and waiting for the cards is enough. That is a powerful message, and one needed now as much as it was needed when Braddock was made the champion of the under dogs.
While the Toronto Sun recently accused the film of "sanitizing" the Depression, I see no real evidence to support this claim. True enough, this film does not rival The Grapes of Wrath (1940) for sheer oppressive sorrow. What it did do was show a fully contained world with a good level of detail in props and costuming, and portray the Depression for what it was- a time in which individual families had to make some very tough decisions about their day to day survival. The reality of unemployment hit harder here, perhaps even more so then in Grapes of Wrath, because here it was a small under-current played throughout the whole life of the family. When a man blows up in frustration because he has to take his kid to a Church charity birthday party, and when a woman has to send her kids away because their electricity has been cut off, that has effect. I don’t cry in films, as a rule, but in two scenes I was surprised to feel a tear or two.
Further, aside from some sly hints that the upper class were living off misery, there are no real bad guys upon which to pin this sorrow and dim its effect. When the power man cuts off a starving family's electricity, we might think he's a bad man. However, when that same power man says that he has to do his job, because he has kids of his own, we understand. Poverty creates poor-on-poor violence and offence, and that is the true horror of economic depression.
We see some standard, yet effective, old techniques to evoke the Depression in this film. For example, we see the stark contrast between the depression of the time and the jazzy, cheerful, optimistic music of the era. Americans (and Canadians, too, I should add) lived in hell, but the radio showed them “America” as they wished it were: lively and hopeful. This movie is not about boxing. Its underpinning is one of America and its relationship with entertainment. As we learned from Gladiator (2000), bread and circuses are needed to keep down the lower classes. However, sometimes it is also needed to keep them up.
The movie, directed by Ron Howard, unfolds the story of James J. Braddock (Crowe), the "Cinderella Man" of the Great Depression. Runyon so named him that because, after he had already been deemed washed up, Gentleman Jim struck back, and all of America rose to its feet. It was as if all of the desperate hopes of a depressed and sagging nation were poured on to this one man. However, though based in fact, Cinderella Man is not just grave robbing. It uses the magic of movies, a Capra-esque tool one might have thought lost in Hollywood, to create a myth.
I don't use the term myth as a derogatory word, meaning lie. Rather, in Joseph Campbell fashion, I use it to refer to those stories that create heroes and bring the listener, or viewer, into the narrative through a ritualistic act of communal understanding. THAT is what this film did.
On the surface, this film had its strengths and its weaknesses. The Everlast product placements were a little annoying, and Crowe's new widow's peak was odd. The misplaced and under-developed preoccupation with the quiet suffering of the “women behind the men” bordered on offensively ridiculous in places. The score is largely forgettable, and, especially in the first scenes, the actors appear uncomfortable with their accents. Paul Giamatti, a man I would love to fold up and carry around in my pocket, sounded like he was doing his worst Groucho Marx impersonation for his first dialogue. However, after the opening sequence, which shows Jim before the Depression, the movie opens up and becomes credible and absolutely absorbing. About a half hour in I forgot to take notes and just watched, only occasionally surfacing to do my duty.
First, the cinematography was, in most cases, really very serviceable and unobtrusive (with the exceptions being during the fight scenes, but we'll discuss those later). There were at least two times when Howard visually referenced De Sica's 1948 masterpiece about Italy's post-war depression, The Bicycle Thief. The first reference was to emphasize the hero relationship between a boy and his father, a running theme in both films. The other was when Howard had the camera linger just a moment after our hero leaves the welfare office window, just long enough to focus on the next man in line. These films lingered, on a welfare desk in one and a pawnshop wicket in the other, to remind us that the families followed in the respective films are not the only ones suffering. The references do not distract. The scenes alone communicate the required meaning to those who have not seen The Bicycle Thief (or The Bicycle Thieves, depending on your translation). But for those of us who loved De Sica's film, it communicated a wealth of hurt by using a pre-existing cultural metaphor. In those moments, Cinderella Man was placed into a long history of misery. This was a beautiful idea.
Second, the performances, from my amateur perspective, made the writing sing. I mean, sure, "You're the champion of my heart" IS a horrible line. Perhaps Renee Zellweger (whose face was puckered up enough in some sort of surprised/baffled look to make me wonder exactly WHO had been beaten up by Max Baer- Jimmy or her) was not up to the task of making that particular line work. Nevertheless, I was floored by the acting of Crowe and Giamatti. These two men may not naturally come to mind as a dynamic duo, but they riffed off each other like a dream team.
I used to rave about the million words spoken by Crowe's eyebrow, but Giamatti's upper lip has taken the crown. Surely that lip is a thing of wondrous beauty and should be bronzed. Anyone who has seen Giamatti's smash performance in American Splendor (2003), which rose him form the ranks of Woody Allen's regular bit players, knows of what lip thing I mean. It's that cross between a witch's hiss and a camel-spit move with his lip that manages to suggest both massive, frustrated rage as well as a controlled and submissive pain as experienced by a man who is too used to being beat down. It looks just like his character would like to tell them all to go to hell, but stops and thinks again. This lip may be one of the greatest acting talents to hit Hollywood since Cary Grant's neck muscles, and it is worth holding on to!
Finally, we come to what many might think is the main point of the movie: The fighting. The fight scenes were good, but not that much better than what we would expect. The mobile camera, visceral close ups and over cranking (i.e. slow motion) is pretty standard in a post-Raging Bull world. However, unlike Raging Bull (1980), Cinderella Man is in colour, and the scenes were rendered a little sickening because of this. Whirling colour, combined with violence, can be a bit much. The slow-motion flying mouthpiece, an over-done bit of tripe, was WAY too much. Further, there was a moment there when I thought I might be watching a Gatorade commercial, there were so many close-ups of sweaty brows! However, the fights were fairly well done, if a little over directed (and a bit samey by the Lewis/Lansky bouts), and they were by no means a major debit. In the end, this movie was not about fights. It was about heart, as trite as that may sound. The picture tells us that sometimes you don't need a KO to win. Sometimes weathering a storm and waiting for the cards is enough. That is a powerful message, and one needed now as much as it was needed when Braddock was made the champion of the under dogs.
While the Toronto Sun recently accused the film of "sanitizing" the Depression, I see no real evidence to support this claim. True enough, this film does not rival The Grapes of Wrath (1940) for sheer oppressive sorrow. What it did do was show a fully contained world with a good level of detail in props and costuming, and portray the Depression for what it was- a time in which individual families had to make some very tough decisions about their day to day survival. The reality of unemployment hit harder here, perhaps even more so then in Grapes of Wrath, because here it was a small under-current played throughout the whole life of the family. When a man blows up in frustration because he has to take his kid to a Church charity birthday party, and when a woman has to send her kids away because their electricity has been cut off, that has effect. I don’t cry in films, as a rule, but in two scenes I was surprised to feel a tear or two.
Further, aside from some sly hints that the upper class were living off misery, there are no real bad guys upon which to pin this sorrow and dim its effect. When the power man cuts off a starving family's electricity, we might think he's a bad man. However, when that same power man says that he has to do his job, because he has kids of his own, we understand. Poverty creates poor-on-poor violence and offence, and that is the true horror of economic depression.
We see some standard, yet effective, old techniques to evoke the Depression in this film. For example, we see the stark contrast between the depression of the time and the jazzy, cheerful, optimistic music of the era. Americans (and Canadians, too, I should add) lived in hell, but the radio showed them “America” as they wished it were: lively and hopeful. This movie is not about boxing. Its underpinning is one of America and its relationship with entertainment. As we learned from Gladiator (2000), bread and circuses are needed to keep down the lower classes. However, sometimes it is also needed to keep them up.
Cinderella Man Double or Triple Feature
I am trying a new gimmick with my reviews- a recommendation for companion works with whatever picture I am reviewing. Let me know if you like it, and it can become a regular feature.
For Cinderella Man, I have several recommendations (for when it comes out on DVD). If your theme is family depression, try this picture with De Sica's The Bicycle Thief (1948), an excellent Italian classic about a man trying to hold life and limb together. If your theme is the Great Depression, Ford's The Grapes of Wrath (1940) would be the obvious choice, but also try Chaplin's Modern Times (1935). If your theme is boxing, you could go for Raging Bull (1980), but may I suggest Chaplin's City Lights (1931, you'll see what I mean). Further, if your theme is the fall of a titan's career, then you can't go wrong with Chaplin's Limelight (1952). For a good sports movie combo, try Pride of the Yankees (1942), Slap Shot (1977) or Rudy (1993). For a companion Crowe film, try The Insider (1999), or his other sports movies- Gladiator (2000), or Mystery, Alaska (1999- a not outstanding, but serviceable picture exploring many of the same issues). Of course, a side order of Jimmy Stewart/ Frank Capra would be great- try Mr. Smith Goes to Washington (1939). For a documentary chaser, try Pare Lorentz’s pro-FDR The River (1938). I WOULD NOT, in good conscience, recommend the Rocky pictures, for any reason.
For an oddball pairing, for some reason The Cooler (2003) strikes me as working well.
Happy viewing (and let me know how it turns out)!
For Cinderella Man, I have several recommendations (for when it comes out on DVD). If your theme is family depression, try this picture with De Sica's The Bicycle Thief (1948), an excellent Italian classic about a man trying to hold life and limb together. If your theme is the Great Depression, Ford's The Grapes of Wrath (1940) would be the obvious choice, but also try Chaplin's Modern Times (1935). If your theme is boxing, you could go for Raging Bull (1980), but may I suggest Chaplin's City Lights (1931, you'll see what I mean). Further, if your theme is the fall of a titan's career, then you can't go wrong with Chaplin's Limelight (1952). For a good sports movie combo, try Pride of the Yankees (1942), Slap Shot (1977) or Rudy (1993). For a companion Crowe film, try The Insider (1999), or his other sports movies- Gladiator (2000), or Mystery, Alaska (1999- a not outstanding, but serviceable picture exploring many of the same issues). Of course, a side order of Jimmy Stewart/ Frank Capra would be great- try Mr. Smith Goes to Washington (1939). For a documentary chaser, try Pare Lorentz’s pro-FDR The River (1938). I WOULD NOT, in good conscience, recommend the Rocky pictures, for any reason.
For an oddball pairing, for some reason The Cooler (2003) strikes me as working well.
Happy viewing (and let me know how it turns out)!
Seventh Layer of Hell on the Golf Links? I think so.
June 10, 2005
Did you ever see that episode of Simpsons where Homer joins the StoneCutters, and he parks so far from his office that, after a long commute, he is parked right beside his house? Well, this is no exaggeration, as I found out today.
I went today to apply to a job cleaning the locker rooms, etc, at the local golf course down the street from us. I knew that the golf course wraps around us, but I thought it would be more professional to take the address given on the wanted ad, and go all the way up the long drive to the clubhouse. As this drive is hidden from view from the street by trees and a bend, I had no idea how long it was. However, despite some issues with a sun allergy that I’ve had since childhood, I was game. For 9 bucks an hour, I’d swim to Liverpool. So, CV in hand, off I went up the long drive.
And up the long drive. And up the long drive.
Finally, images and theme music from Lawrence of Arabia flooding through my head, the 37-degree-plus weather and humidex started to play on my brain. The soupy Hamilton smog made me feel like a succubus had started feeding on my mouth and lungs, and I started to falter. I came into a large expanse of row houses- those chocolate box monstrosities favoured by the deadly dull in Ontario. Had I missed the pro shop? Was I really supposed to cut across the green? Was that really my hand, or had a bloated flounder attached itself to my wrist?
My mouth was dry and sticky, and my cheeks were hot and red. (Remember that scene in which Leia strangles Jabba? Not VG). Sweat, a thing that I have spent my life trying to avoid, ran down me like pan drippings. This was no longer a quest for a job, but for life itself.
Finally, I spotted some tacky golf-inspired signs and buildings rise out of the horizon. Suddenly the road was covered in import sedans filled with silly young men in polo shirts (why don’t YOU have jobs? I thought snidely). I began to realize that I had found the place I was seeking. That ugly thing, which looked for all the world like a converted trailer (but actually was probably quite expensive by Hamilton standards), was, at that moment, the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. I pressed on, realizing that I probably looked like shit, and certainly looked exactly like what I was- a sarcastic literati who spends 8 months of the year making fun of golfers, but who now is coming to beg a job. With my all-black attire and pitch-black hair, I did not really fit in with the Colgate smiles and pastel summer wear from Moore’s, but I was still spurred by that $9. I had never been readier to step over my own mother’s corpse to get a job. And that wide lawn looked an awful lot like my dead mum. Bravely, I continued.
Long story short, I entered the pro shop, with the A/C (which is a subject you don’t want to get me on, but ask me later) smacking me in the face. It would have been welcome in most circumstances like this, as my head appeared to be on fire, but I literally felt a faint come on. I collected myself, and, feeling gawky and grungy- sort of like if Pip stepped out of Great Expectations and entered a Yuppie paradise- I cooled myself off and pretended interest in the shoes for a moment. Eventually, a very friendly salesman asked if he could direct me anywhere (perhaps a soup kitchen? she added spitefully). I was politely directed to the director’s office when I managed to unglue my heat-swollen tongue and mumbled something about “job”. In the end, the job had been given to the first person who applied in person, the day before.
SHIT!!! (You should never say anything you wouldn’t hold in your hand or put in your mouth, but typing it is OK).
I tried wowing the guy with my decade of experience and my ability to play “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” on a violin, but he still refused to fire the man he’d hired the day before. Bastard! So, tail between my legs, I left. Deciding that home is the best place to have a break down, I attempted to seek out a more direct route to my little attic apartment. Dodging golf balls, I found a little sign: “This Way to D—Street.” Low and behold, in two minutes, cutting across the trail behind the clubhouse, I was home. Oh well, live and learn.
So, still unemployed, I stand before you.
And I am not leaving the house for the rest of the day. The sun is going down, so Sabbath is arriving, and, right now, I can’t afford to piss anyone off who has influence. I’ll post when I can, but it looks as if I have plenty of time in the future, as I WILL NEVER GET A SUMMER JOB!!!!!!
Rats. (Yet another thing that I wouldn’t hold in my hand or put in my mouth, I guess).
Did you ever see that episode of Simpsons where Homer joins the StoneCutters, and he parks so far from his office that, after a long commute, he is parked right beside his house? Well, this is no exaggeration, as I found out today.
I went today to apply to a job cleaning the locker rooms, etc, at the local golf course down the street from us. I knew that the golf course wraps around us, but I thought it would be more professional to take the address given on the wanted ad, and go all the way up the long drive to the clubhouse. As this drive is hidden from view from the street by trees and a bend, I had no idea how long it was. However, despite some issues with a sun allergy that I’ve had since childhood, I was game. For 9 bucks an hour, I’d swim to Liverpool. So, CV in hand, off I went up the long drive.
And up the long drive. And up the long drive.
Finally, images and theme music from Lawrence of Arabia flooding through my head, the 37-degree-plus weather and humidex started to play on my brain. The soupy Hamilton smog made me feel like a succubus had started feeding on my mouth and lungs, and I started to falter. I came into a large expanse of row houses- those chocolate box monstrosities favoured by the deadly dull in Ontario. Had I missed the pro shop? Was I really supposed to cut across the green? Was that really my hand, or had a bloated flounder attached itself to my wrist?
My mouth was dry and sticky, and my cheeks were hot and red. (Remember that scene in which Leia strangles Jabba? Not VG). Sweat, a thing that I have spent my life trying to avoid, ran down me like pan drippings. This was no longer a quest for a job, but for life itself.
Finally, I spotted some tacky golf-inspired signs and buildings rise out of the horizon. Suddenly the road was covered in import sedans filled with silly young men in polo shirts (why don’t YOU have jobs? I thought snidely). I began to realize that I had found the place I was seeking. That ugly thing, which looked for all the world like a converted trailer (but actually was probably quite expensive by Hamilton standards), was, at that moment, the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. I pressed on, realizing that I probably looked like shit, and certainly looked exactly like what I was- a sarcastic literati who spends 8 months of the year making fun of golfers, but who now is coming to beg a job. With my all-black attire and pitch-black hair, I did not really fit in with the Colgate smiles and pastel summer wear from Moore’s, but I was still spurred by that $9. I had never been readier to step over my own mother’s corpse to get a job. And that wide lawn looked an awful lot like my dead mum. Bravely, I continued.
Long story short, I entered the pro shop, with the A/C (which is a subject you don’t want to get me on, but ask me later) smacking me in the face. It would have been welcome in most circumstances like this, as my head appeared to be on fire, but I literally felt a faint come on. I collected myself, and, feeling gawky and grungy- sort of like if Pip stepped out of Great Expectations and entered a Yuppie paradise- I cooled myself off and pretended interest in the shoes for a moment. Eventually, a very friendly salesman asked if he could direct me anywhere (perhaps a soup kitchen? she added spitefully). I was politely directed to the director’s office when I managed to unglue my heat-swollen tongue and mumbled something about “job”. In the end, the job had been given to the first person who applied in person, the day before.
SHIT!!! (You should never say anything you wouldn’t hold in your hand or put in your mouth, but typing it is OK).
I tried wowing the guy with my decade of experience and my ability to play “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” on a violin, but he still refused to fire the man he’d hired the day before. Bastard! So, tail between my legs, I left. Deciding that home is the best place to have a break down, I attempted to seek out a more direct route to my little attic apartment. Dodging golf balls, I found a little sign: “This Way to D—Street.” Low and behold, in two minutes, cutting across the trail behind the clubhouse, I was home. Oh well, live and learn.
So, still unemployed, I stand before you.
And I am not leaving the house for the rest of the day. The sun is going down, so Sabbath is arriving, and, right now, I can’t afford to piss anyone off who has influence. I’ll post when I can, but it looks as if I have plenty of time in the future, as I WILL NEVER GET A SUMMER JOB!!!!!!
Rats. (Yet another thing that I wouldn’t hold in my hand or put in my mouth, I guess).
Misanthropy, Medicare and Other Struggles of a News Junky
A new mission- a true final frontier. I have to either think better thoughts, or stop listening to the news.
OK, I admit it. I am not the world’s kindest or most sympathetic person. I chuckle when I hear about MPs taking stress leave, and I break out in full-blown guffaws when I hear of powerful execs going down for insider crap. I enjoy the misery of others. That’s wrong and I apologize. This came into sharp relief for me when, upon hearing of a party-craft full of drunken jerks going down in a harbour, I actually smiled. When did I become this bitter? I don’t know, but I think it occurred sometime during my misguided stint in university-prep calculus.
This has led to identity confusion over where I stand in politics and society: commie or Bush?
Take, for instance, the renewed debate over public health care in this country. The Supreme Court of Canada has ruled that it goes against the Quebec Charter’s guarantee of life and liberty to make people wait for tests when they could skip the line by paying for the things themselves. This is an extraordinarily important ruling. Wait times are a major issue for Canadians. However, private care is a hotly contested issue, as the concern that such a ruling may lead to a two-tier, or even fully privatized, medical system down the line strikes fear into most Canucks.
Now, I try to be a good socially responsible person. I don’t have air conditioning or a car to avoid pollution, and I take voting VERY seriously. I’m a vegetarian and I support gay rights and social equality of the sexes and ethnic groups. I speak both French and English, and I think this is my duty as a Canadian. I also support subsidized secondary education, taxes for the rich to help the poor, and HEALTH CARE. I am absolutely amazed, still, that, in Canada, I never have to starve because I broke my leg and have to shell out for that.
However, if I am such a pinko that I embrace everyone’s rights (even for old Karla-you-know-who), why can’t I come to an opinion on this new health care issue? Why can’t I rid myself of this nagging thought that wait times DO infringe on our rights, and allowing reasonable commercial insurance to cover even the little guys might make even some middle class and lower folks happy, at least for a while? Why would I fight for the idea that same sex marriage is covered in the Canadian charter, but be able to ignore the fact that the right to health is being kicked around all the time?
Wow. I’m confused.
Now, if someone like me is this upset over this, try putting yourself in the shoes of our Fearless Leader, Mr. Paul Martin. (And yes, I WOULD like to change the title Prime Minister to Fearless Leader) This guy, richer than Croesus, and whiter than Carrot Top, has to make some serious stands on these types of issues. What does he care? He could write a check and have the Mayo brothers resurrected to check his prostate if he so desired. However, his dad, Paul Martin, Sr., was an instrumental part of getting Medicare set up in this country. Further, he has the Conservatives ready to kick him if he shirks (even though they would probably dismantle the system themselves if they could). Then there’s the NDP, ready to scoop up any scared red-liberals if the Liberal party is seen shifting too far right. He also has the taxpayers’ association to deal with if he floats too far left. Further, if he chooses to do nothing, the first ministers will all run in a dozen different directions, while Ralph Klein sells his soul to AFLAC for less than a duck. This is seriously a bad situation. If it’s bad for me, I can’t even imagine what Paul’s weekend looks like.
It makes me almost pity the poor guy. Then again, he wanted the job. I’d be satisfied with serving coffee somewhere for $7.50 an hour.
OK, I admit it. I am not the world’s kindest or most sympathetic person. I chuckle when I hear about MPs taking stress leave, and I break out in full-blown guffaws when I hear of powerful execs going down for insider crap. I enjoy the misery of others. That’s wrong and I apologize. This came into sharp relief for me when, upon hearing of a party-craft full of drunken jerks going down in a harbour, I actually smiled. When did I become this bitter? I don’t know, but I think it occurred sometime during my misguided stint in university-prep calculus.
This has led to identity confusion over where I stand in politics and society: commie or Bush?
Take, for instance, the renewed debate over public health care in this country. The Supreme Court of Canada has ruled that it goes against the Quebec Charter’s guarantee of life and liberty to make people wait for tests when they could skip the line by paying for the things themselves. This is an extraordinarily important ruling. Wait times are a major issue for Canadians. However, private care is a hotly contested issue, as the concern that such a ruling may lead to a two-tier, or even fully privatized, medical system down the line strikes fear into most Canucks.
Now, I try to be a good socially responsible person. I don’t have air conditioning or a car to avoid pollution, and I take voting VERY seriously. I’m a vegetarian and I support gay rights and social equality of the sexes and ethnic groups. I speak both French and English, and I think this is my duty as a Canadian. I also support subsidized secondary education, taxes for the rich to help the poor, and HEALTH CARE. I am absolutely amazed, still, that, in Canada, I never have to starve because I broke my leg and have to shell out for that.
However, if I am such a pinko that I embrace everyone’s rights (even for old Karla-you-know-who), why can’t I come to an opinion on this new health care issue? Why can’t I rid myself of this nagging thought that wait times DO infringe on our rights, and allowing reasonable commercial insurance to cover even the little guys might make even some middle class and lower folks happy, at least for a while? Why would I fight for the idea that same sex marriage is covered in the Canadian charter, but be able to ignore the fact that the right to health is being kicked around all the time?
Wow. I’m confused.
Now, if someone like me is this upset over this, try putting yourself in the shoes of our Fearless Leader, Mr. Paul Martin. (And yes, I WOULD like to change the title Prime Minister to Fearless Leader) This guy, richer than Croesus, and whiter than Carrot Top, has to make some serious stands on these types of issues. What does he care? He could write a check and have the Mayo brothers resurrected to check his prostate if he so desired. However, his dad, Paul Martin, Sr., was an instrumental part of getting Medicare set up in this country. Further, he has the Conservatives ready to kick him if he shirks (even though they would probably dismantle the system themselves if they could). Then there’s the NDP, ready to scoop up any scared red-liberals if the Liberal party is seen shifting too far right. He also has the taxpayers’ association to deal with if he floats too far left. Further, if he chooses to do nothing, the first ministers will all run in a dozen different directions, while Ralph Klein sells his soul to AFLAC for less than a duck. This is seriously a bad situation. If it’s bad for me, I can’t even imagine what Paul’s weekend looks like.
It makes me almost pity the poor guy. Then again, he wanted the job. I’d be satisfied with serving coffee somewhere for $7.50 an hour.
Feel the Wrath of Holly!
My I unload a rant on you all? (No? Too bad. It’s MY blog.)
Why is it that on-air personalities at CBC, a radio station that should be promoting good social ideals (and does most of the time) continually CROW over the (quote-unquote) “GREAT WEATHER”!?!?
“Oh, summer is really here… It’s so invigorating…” Yadda. Yadda. Yadda. Well, CBC, kiss my … Blue box.
Yes, it is hot. Yes, some people like that. OK, if I weren’t over-weight and from the east coast, and if I weren’t allergic to that hideous ball of fire in the sky that is slowly killing us all, I might like it too. However, the point is that people DIE in Toronto every month of summer due to heat and smog. This is not to be celebrated.
The big point is: IT IS NOT SUMMER YET! It is spring. Spring, People! Spring, NOT SUMMER. Get it? That means that a temperature of nearly 40 is NOT normal for Canada in the spring. We have ruined this area of earth so completely that is trying to claw us one last time as it slips into its smog-enshrouded tomb!
Every time the heat climbs (an event so beloved by Ontaronians, it seems, that they can’t stand it) it sends them scurrying back indoors to crank up their A/C, and prevents them from even thinking of walking anywhere. Thus it is from the frigid house to the frigid car, all the way to their frigid office, and back again. The cycle of pollution rolls on. Turn, turn, turn. Yes, a season they seem to love dearly, eh? All this love is killing us.
So, CBC, I love you, but our relationship is on the rocks. Climate change is not something to cheer about.
Just tell me the damn news and stay on your side of the bed until winter.
Why is it that on-air personalities at CBC, a radio station that should be promoting good social ideals (and does most of the time) continually CROW over the (quote-unquote) “GREAT WEATHER”!?!?
“Oh, summer is really here… It’s so invigorating…” Yadda. Yadda. Yadda. Well, CBC, kiss my … Blue box.
Yes, it is hot. Yes, some people like that. OK, if I weren’t over-weight and from the east coast, and if I weren’t allergic to that hideous ball of fire in the sky that is slowly killing us all, I might like it too. However, the point is that people DIE in Toronto every month of summer due to heat and smog. This is not to be celebrated.
The big point is: IT IS NOT SUMMER YET! It is spring. Spring, People! Spring, NOT SUMMER. Get it? That means that a temperature of nearly 40 is NOT normal for Canada in the spring. We have ruined this area of earth so completely that is trying to claw us one last time as it slips into its smog-enshrouded tomb!
Every time the heat climbs (an event so beloved by Ontaronians, it seems, that they can’t stand it) it sends them scurrying back indoors to crank up their A/C, and prevents them from even thinking of walking anywhere. Thus it is from the frigid house to the frigid car, all the way to their frigid office, and back again. The cycle of pollution rolls on. Turn, turn, turn. Yes, a season they seem to love dearly, eh? All this love is killing us.
So, CBC, I love you, but our relationship is on the rocks. Climate change is not something to cheer about.
Just tell me the damn news and stay on your side of the bed until winter.
Something Might Be Happening…
June 9, 2005
In the next week or so, I may have some good news. Don’t want to jinx it, but I’ll keep you posted. It’s a bit hot, and I’ve begun packing, so I may not be posting as regular as I’d like, but I’ll be sure to fill you in on the important stuff.
In the next week or so, I may have some good news. Don’t want to jinx it, but I’ll keep you posted. It’s a bit hot, and I’ve begun packing, so I may not be posting as regular as I’d like, but I’ll be sure to fill you in on the important stuff.
Wednesday, June 08, 2005
Lemony Snickets: Pretty Sour
Well, I can't say that Lemony Snickets didn't live up to my expectations: the visuals were wonderful, but Jim Carrey remains one of Canada's most obnoxious exports since Lover Boy. The editing, however, surpassed my expectations delightfully.
In a movie that was wonderfully exciting in its darkness, which is surprising in today's kids' movies (and it's very welcome), that ending is a massive cop-out, and we deserved better. The lack of a secure cohesiveness is nothing compared to that all-too-quick and silly wrap-up. And that, in turn, is nothing when compared with the cameo by the AFFLAC duck!!! Oh- What Tim Burton could have done with this...
Seriously, by the end of the film, I REALLY wanted the toddler to be fed to the leeches!! I mean, toddlers who speak like insult comics ("Mayor of Crazy Town"?!? "What a schmuck"???!!!!!) Jeesh, did the child channel Rodney Dangerfield, or was she left over from Baby Geniuses?
If you want to see a classic film about the sorrow and danger of being an orphan, but with the magic and timeless wonder of a TRUE work of art (one that is untouched by MTV), please- go and rent Chaplin's The Kid (1920). GO NOW! I'm going home to see it now. It will help me cleanse my pallet from what I just saw.
But it probably won't help me forget what exactly "schmuck" means in Yiddish, and forget that I just saw it coming from a baby's mouth.(Look it up!)
In a movie that was wonderfully exciting in its darkness, which is surprising in today's kids' movies (and it's very welcome), that ending is a massive cop-out, and we deserved better. The lack of a secure cohesiveness is nothing compared to that all-too-quick and silly wrap-up. And that, in turn, is nothing when compared with the cameo by the AFFLAC duck!!! Oh- What Tim Burton could have done with this...
Seriously, by the end of the film, I REALLY wanted the toddler to be fed to the leeches!! I mean, toddlers who speak like insult comics ("Mayor of Crazy Town"?!? "What a schmuck"???!!!!!) Jeesh, did the child channel Rodney Dangerfield, or was she left over from Baby Geniuses?
If you want to see a classic film about the sorrow and danger of being an orphan, but with the magic and timeless wonder of a TRUE work of art (one that is untouched by MTV), please- go and rent Chaplin's The Kid (1920). GO NOW! I'm going home to see it now. It will help me cleanse my pallet from what I just saw.
But it probably won't help me forget what exactly "schmuck" means in Yiddish, and forget that I just saw it coming from a baby's mouth.(Look it up!)
Tuesday, June 07, 2005
It's HOT HOT HOT
Yes, the Toronto area's first heat advisory has been posted- old people, dogs and children pass out to the left and the right. UGGGGGGGHHHHH! I'm too chubby to deal with this weather!
I got my first comment from someone other than the two friends I FORCE to look at this thing- YAY! Finally, I am a true blogger.(Hello to all the folks in Alabama!)
Well, too hot to type. Plus, I scalded two fingers with boiling water today, so I'm kinda handicapped... Plus, we rented Lemony Snicket's, so I'm going to pretend that it's December and watch (while hugging a fan).
By the way, I added a ton of new links. Please, have a browze. I am in search of movies about or featuring Jews made in Canada, so if you have any ideas, please let me know.
Take care, and stay cool!
I got my first comment from someone other than the two friends I FORCE to look at this thing- YAY! Finally, I am a true blogger.(Hello to all the folks in Alabama!)
Well, too hot to type. Plus, I scalded two fingers with boiling water today, so I'm kinda handicapped... Plus, we rented Lemony Snicket's, so I'm going to pretend that it's December and watch (while hugging a fan).
By the way, I added a ton of new links. Please, have a browze. I am in search of movies about or featuring Jews made in Canada, so if you have any ideas, please let me know.
Take care, and stay cool!
Saturday, June 04, 2005
Encounters with Can Man
A little shaken up right now, dear readers. I was just in Tim Horton's, on my way here, when I noticed who was standing right beside me: Can Man!
Those of you who know this story probably know immediately of whom I am speaking, but I'll fill you in. Last March John and I were walking home from Christine's when a man came up behind us in the dark and said, of all things, "Don't be afraid." OK, so it was four in the morning, in the dark, and the guy was a bald white guy with a blond goatee. As a normal citizen, and a Jew, I am PROGRAMMED to be afraid of this situation- and it never helps when they say, "Don't be afraid." I've not been around a great deal in my 27 years, but I do know that law abiders do not feel the need to say such things to other law abiders. We just quietly go about our business, abiding the law.
So, anyway, John and I slowed down to let him pass (it's always better to be in the behind position in these circumstances, I figure), but he took this as a sign of rudeness, I guess. He was absolutely offended that we didn't trust his creepy assurances for our safety- AND he was incredibly stoned and/or drunk. Bad combination! He followed us into the Kwicky-Mart, challenging John to a fight. John took this well, I guess, but he did call the man a "Stupid Hammy"- this just served to confuse, and therefore frustrate and upset, the already very friendly fellow. I asked him to leave us alone, and he apologized but told me that he had to beat the crap out of John because we had insulted him.
Inside the store, he came up to John and continued to urge him to fight. John, as the rest of us, knows that throwing the first punch is NOT a wise legal move, so he tried ignoring the man, who, by this point had escalated to questioning John's sexual preference and powers. However, John was being very good, right up until the guy jumped him- right there between the chip racks and the egg fridge! John clearly was stunned, and looked like "Did you just HIT me?" As soon as John caught on (law abiders also are slow to realize that not everyone is law abiding), he punched the guy, solid. The guy went down, hard.
Thinking this was it, John told the guy to go home, but, lying on the floor, the guy mumbled something about "No fag is going get away with that" and came back. John asked the counter guy, Squidward (long story), to call the cops, while fending the guy off with a can of peas that he was planning to purchase. TWELVE hits later on that naked skull, and the guy was still trying to punch John! Superhuman, or what? Maybe coke and speed really does build up endurance.
JOHN DIDN'T EVEN DROP THE EGGS HE WAS HOLDING!!! Jedi reflexes, or what?
Well, suffice it to say that the fight did end, the cops came and we all went home. John paid for the wrecked can of peas, by the way. In the end, John declined to press charges, but he did, after going to the hospital with a sore hand a month later, find out he had a fractured knuckle. That was that.
However, today I ran into Can Man. I got a little flustered, and forgot to order my macaroon and beat a hasty retreat. I don't know if he recognized us, but he did an odd double take, as he was pulling out of the lot in his white truck. He lives in the area, after all, I guess. So, I am writing this down so, if anything happens to John and I in the next while, at least something is written down. I'm not afraid, exactly, but caution never hurt anyone in these circumstances. Law abiders also have the habit of thinking anything is possible from non-law abiders (I know, only the Sith think in absolutes, but there it is). At least I can have a great James Bond (or Battlefield Earth) moment if he tries anything and say: "If anything happens to me, my Blog is public record."
How cool would that be?
Probably would be cooler if we never saw him again, though.
Those of you who know this story probably know immediately of whom I am speaking, but I'll fill you in. Last March John and I were walking home from Christine's when a man came up behind us in the dark and said, of all things, "Don't be afraid." OK, so it was four in the morning, in the dark, and the guy was a bald white guy with a blond goatee. As a normal citizen, and a Jew, I am PROGRAMMED to be afraid of this situation- and it never helps when they say, "Don't be afraid." I've not been around a great deal in my 27 years, but I do know that law abiders do not feel the need to say such things to other law abiders. We just quietly go about our business, abiding the law.
So, anyway, John and I slowed down to let him pass (it's always better to be in the behind position in these circumstances, I figure), but he took this as a sign of rudeness, I guess. He was absolutely offended that we didn't trust his creepy assurances for our safety- AND he was incredibly stoned and/or drunk. Bad combination! He followed us into the Kwicky-Mart, challenging John to a fight. John took this well, I guess, but he did call the man a "Stupid Hammy"- this just served to confuse, and therefore frustrate and upset, the already very friendly fellow. I asked him to leave us alone, and he apologized but told me that he had to beat the crap out of John because we had insulted him.
Inside the store, he came up to John and continued to urge him to fight. John, as the rest of us, knows that throwing the first punch is NOT a wise legal move, so he tried ignoring the man, who, by this point had escalated to questioning John's sexual preference and powers. However, John was being very good, right up until the guy jumped him- right there between the chip racks and the egg fridge! John clearly was stunned, and looked like "Did you just HIT me?" As soon as John caught on (law abiders also are slow to realize that not everyone is law abiding), he punched the guy, solid. The guy went down, hard.
Thinking this was it, John told the guy to go home, but, lying on the floor, the guy mumbled something about "No fag is going get away with that" and came back. John asked the counter guy, Squidward (long story), to call the cops, while fending the guy off with a can of peas that he was planning to purchase. TWELVE hits later on that naked skull, and the guy was still trying to punch John! Superhuman, or what? Maybe coke and speed really does build up endurance.
JOHN DIDN'T EVEN DROP THE EGGS HE WAS HOLDING!!! Jedi reflexes, or what?
Well, suffice it to say that the fight did end, the cops came and we all went home. John paid for the wrecked can of peas, by the way. In the end, John declined to press charges, but he did, after going to the hospital with a sore hand a month later, find out he had a fractured knuckle. That was that.
However, today I ran into Can Man. I got a little flustered, and forgot to order my macaroon and beat a hasty retreat. I don't know if he recognized us, but he did an odd double take, as he was pulling out of the lot in his white truck. He lives in the area, after all, I guess. So, I am writing this down so, if anything happens to John and I in the next while, at least something is written down. I'm not afraid, exactly, but caution never hurt anyone in these circumstances. Law abiders also have the habit of thinking anything is possible from non-law abiders (I know, only the Sith think in absolutes, but there it is). At least I can have a great James Bond (or Battlefield Earth) moment if he tries anything and say: "If anything happens to me, my Blog is public record."
How cool would that be?
Probably would be cooler if we never saw him again, though.
My Life as a Movie
Tonight I saw Life as a House. Now, I have checked on Rotten Tomatoes (see side bar), and I realize that this was branded a rotten tomato. The critics deemed it a schmaltzy soap opera. I recognize the fact that it was schmaltzy- George's abusive father was a "perfect" Hollywood touch out of a boardroom. Further, the cinematography was fairly bad, and the humour doesn't always work easily with the pathos, and things shouldn't have been as good in the end as it was for Sam and his suburban-zombie family. Sure, life doesn't get fixed as easily as a house. However, it does my heart good to see the rehearsal of happiness. You see, if we rehearse identities and try on different realities through film, then why not try on something like happiness? What a concept!
Maybe on another day I wouldn't have been touched, but tonight I was- and that meant something to me. For that I protest the rotten status. Schmaltz was good enough for Jimmy Stewart, so it's good enough for me.
Nevertheless, there is something I AM worried about. Christine's computer has an eerie power. We first recognized this power when we watched Bubba Ho-Tep on her comp, and Ozzy Davis (a crush from my childhood, I admit) was dead that weekend. This event was a strange coincidence, and we shrugged it off. However, when a few weeks later it killed Hunter S. Thompson when Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas was played. Then, after a while, Joaquin Phoenix was injured while we were watching Clay Pigeons (if it had been for Ladder 49 I would have been grateful- THAT was true schmaltz!). Thus, we have to now admit that Christine's computer is trying to kill off all of my flavours of the month! Now, with Shattered Glass and Life as a House, Hayden Christensen must be warned.
For the love of Mary, Hayden, please go somewhere and hide in a room filled with cotton. Please, do it for me- don't let it kill again!
If a man at that age is done in next, I give up. I will then go out and get 20 hours each of Tom Hanks and Leo DiCaprio (press play and leave, as when you fumigate the house), and then the computer may work for good for a change!
Maybe on another day I wouldn't have been touched, but tonight I was- and that meant something to me. For that I protest the rotten status. Schmaltz was good enough for Jimmy Stewart, so it's good enough for me.
Nevertheless, there is something I AM worried about. Christine's computer has an eerie power. We first recognized this power when we watched Bubba Ho-Tep on her comp, and Ozzy Davis (a crush from my childhood, I admit) was dead that weekend. This event was a strange coincidence, and we shrugged it off. However, when a few weeks later it killed Hunter S. Thompson when Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas was played. Then, after a while, Joaquin Phoenix was injured while we were watching Clay Pigeons (if it had been for Ladder 49 I would have been grateful- THAT was true schmaltz!). Thus, we have to now admit that Christine's computer is trying to kill off all of my flavours of the month! Now, with Shattered Glass and Life as a House, Hayden Christensen must be warned.
For the love of Mary, Hayden, please go somewhere and hide in a room filled with cotton. Please, do it for me- don't let it kill again!
If a man at that age is done in next, I give up. I will then go out and get 20 hours each of Tom Hanks and Leo DiCaprio (press play and leave, as when you fumigate the house), and then the computer may work for good for a change!
Friday, June 03, 2005
My Dinner with Andre... Um, Eileen
If any of you ever have a chance to have a lunch with one of those old teachers who used to make your eye balls sweat, now that you are away and free- DO IT!
Dr. S, my old thesis advisor, took me to lunch today to catch up on old times. And to catch up on new times, I figure. We talked for more than an hour, and I found, to my ultimate surprise, that I no longer felt like vomiting with anxiety merely by sitting in front of her. It used to be that whenever I was called upon to explain myself to her, in any way (even what I had for lunch), I would freeze and stammer. Today we talked as old acquaintances- friends, even.
It was really wonderful- I think there's more than one demon put to rest today.
Dr. S, my old thesis advisor, took me to lunch today to catch up on old times. And to catch up on new times, I figure. We talked for more than an hour, and I found, to my ultimate surprise, that I no longer felt like vomiting with anxiety merely by sitting in front of her. It used to be that whenever I was called upon to explain myself to her, in any way (even what I had for lunch), I would freeze and stammer. Today we talked as old acquaintances- friends, even.
It was really wonderful- I think there's more than one demon put to rest today.
Tales from a Dark Sidewalk.
It is Thursday night. The city is quiet, except for the omnipresent roar of the hover cars (that's what I call those weird-assed cars with the lights underneath them; the souped-up Hondas that look like the owners have neither a light sabre nor a penis and always wanted both). I am in a curiously sedate and contemplative mood. My friend Catherine (whose blog I now proudly list to the side, as I notice that she has been kind enough to list mine) leaves tomorrow morning for the coast (I say THE coast, as there really is no other for those of us lucky enough to have been born there). I am green with envy, I suppose, but it is a kind of renewal for all those from the east to know that someone we know has gone back, and I'll take a minute or two over the next week and think: "I Bet She Sees the Ocean, Right Now." I'll sigh- happy that someone knows that it still exists.
Sorry- I'm getting a bit mystical. But those of us who love the craggy beauty of the East knows the quiet mysticism hiding deep within us when we think of that ancient and battered shore.
Well, I promised a few lighter moments, so maybe I should get off my arse and put the boots to 'er. I've got a long one for youse, so "Brace Yerself, Effie!"
First, we all know that spring has sprung and gone here in our fair city. Actually, we were lucky in that we actually had TWO MONTHS of that most comfortable of seasons! Nice, temperate weather and beautiful gardens laid out by some of the people in Hamilton who refuse to believe there is no life inside. (I believe putting out gardens is one of the greatest civil acts of love and kindness we in urban, modern society can do, as it is selflessly gives to others without thought of reward, but that's another story). Well, as the heat is on, to coin a phrase, my absolutely-so-adorable-you-could-hurl cat, Fritz, was starting to loose half his weight in dead fur an hour, and starting to do that horrible panting thing, where he lies on the floor flat-out and puts his tongue out. I hate this as he is ten years old, and it makes me have flash-forwards about his mortality (I know, I am a brutally negative person, but I'm trying to be freaking picturesque, OK?). Anyway, we made a decision on one of those 24-degree-plus days that, in a few weeks, we will actually be stupid enough to think is mild. For now they just give us dry heaves in anticipation of the 35-40 degree days yet to come (I hate living so far south!)
John and I decided it was time to put our cat in, dread of all dreads, a warm bath! Fritz is a shorthaired, black and white cat, with one missing fang (he was an alley cat we picked up near Fenwick Street in Halifax about five years ago). He really is a sweet natured and docile cat, and he only shows major signs of life at about 11pm each night as he speeds around the place announcing to the world that he needs some exercise because he is alive and loving it (OR that he has just taken a dump, I'm not sure which). In any event, we had a grand time in the tub. Picture this: I get in first (fully clothed, you'll be happy to note), and then lower him in. He doesn't bite or kick or scratch, he just howls. Actually, to say Fritz howls is an understatement, as he is one of those long, draggy vowel-makers who emits this "ROWLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL" sound, which, in an echo-y bathroom is rather alarming. (I would say it is close to R2- Artoo, for the real nerds- when he gets blasted somewhere, but that is too on the nose, and I am in re-hab for my Star Wars addiction). Fritz sits there in the water, looking plaintive and betrayed, for about ten minutes before he decides enough is enough. He then proceeds to climb UP my t-shirt. I'm there, holding ten pounds of vibrating feline fury, trying not to laugh, as tiny, slicked down cat arms lock themselves around my neck. I can't fault him. I suppose that I too would seek the high ground in that situation. He was like a rat- bony arms and a slim little rodent tail- and our enjoyment was not making his situation any better! However, we were holding our guffaws in until we realized that his belly-flaps (you know, those gravity-induced wings that cats get on their stomachs in middle age) had now spread to his underarms as well, and that he now looked like the love child of a stingray and a flying squirrel. We busted, and he officially went on strike.
OK, maybe you guys don't find this amusing. Maybe this is akin to all those "My son went potty" stories that have me gagging from idiotic yuppie-breeders. OK, I get it. I'm trying, at least. Get off my back!
My second story is guaranteed not to amuse, I'm sure, as we are all too mature for its content. However, I am a full disclosure type of blogger, so here it is.
John and I were walking home late-ish from Christine's, when we noticed a middle aged man walking towards us. Now, we have not always had the best of luck with this type of thing, but we weren't panicked. However, the guy was looking a little unnatural, so we paused our conversation until he could pass. Walking absolutely stock straight, and not making eye contact, he walked passed me (I was in front), but stumbled on the edge of the sidewalk. Just then, having been jiggled, he called forth all the demons of his gut and produced the most prodigious beer-belch I have ever been privy too (and I was a res assistant!). We all passed on, in silence, until he was gone, and John almost went rigid with laughter. I was shocked, having an Emily Post moment (What DO you say in this situation: "Gazuntheit"?). In the end, John found it so funny, and that we had done it all so matter-a-factly, and that the guy had actually burped in my face (plus it's always funny when drunk people try to act not-drunk, and he actually did a little dance when he fell off the side walk), that I threatened to make him walk the rest of the way alone, lest the people around think WE were drunk! Yes, John still chuckles about it when he thinks I'm not listening! He thinks of it as an out-burst of the guy's Hamiltonian nature- as if he just couldn't hold it in. He describes it as the fellow just walked up to us, said "Hi! I'm from Hamilton!", and walked off. Oh, the fun of it all!
That is my lighter side of Hamilton. Like it? Oh well I'm not a comedy writer. In any case, I meet with my old thesis advisor tomorrow AM for coffee, as old friends (though she still makes me nervous enough to die), so I should sign off. It was probably good to get this off my chest, just in case I get tempted during a silent moment to start telling her about the burping hobo- not a VG idea!
I watched Shattered Glass tonight for the first time- and, wonders of wonders, I think I can use it for my research. I love happy coincidences!
Good night everybody, and- Catherine- sleep easy and well on those dark shores.
Sorry- I'm getting a bit mystical. But those of us who love the craggy beauty of the East knows the quiet mysticism hiding deep within us when we think of that ancient and battered shore.
Well, I promised a few lighter moments, so maybe I should get off my arse and put the boots to 'er. I've got a long one for youse, so "Brace Yerself, Effie!"
First, we all know that spring has sprung and gone here in our fair city. Actually, we were lucky in that we actually had TWO MONTHS of that most comfortable of seasons! Nice, temperate weather and beautiful gardens laid out by some of the people in Hamilton who refuse to believe there is no life inside. (I believe putting out gardens is one of the greatest civil acts of love and kindness we in urban, modern society can do, as it is selflessly gives to others without thought of reward, but that's another story). Well, as the heat is on, to coin a phrase, my absolutely-so-adorable-you-could-hurl cat, Fritz, was starting to loose half his weight in dead fur an hour, and starting to do that horrible panting thing, where he lies on the floor flat-out and puts his tongue out. I hate this as he is ten years old, and it makes me have flash-forwards about his mortality (I know, I am a brutally negative person, but I'm trying to be freaking picturesque, OK?). Anyway, we made a decision on one of those 24-degree-plus days that, in a few weeks, we will actually be stupid enough to think is mild. For now they just give us dry heaves in anticipation of the 35-40 degree days yet to come (I hate living so far south!)
John and I decided it was time to put our cat in, dread of all dreads, a warm bath! Fritz is a shorthaired, black and white cat, with one missing fang (he was an alley cat we picked up near Fenwick Street in Halifax about five years ago). He really is a sweet natured and docile cat, and he only shows major signs of life at about 11pm each night as he speeds around the place announcing to the world that he needs some exercise because he is alive and loving it (OR that he has just taken a dump, I'm not sure which). In any event, we had a grand time in the tub. Picture this: I get in first (fully clothed, you'll be happy to note), and then lower him in. He doesn't bite or kick or scratch, he just howls. Actually, to say Fritz howls is an understatement, as he is one of those long, draggy vowel-makers who emits this "ROWLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL" sound, which, in an echo-y bathroom is rather alarming. (I would say it is close to R2- Artoo, for the real nerds- when he gets blasted somewhere, but that is too on the nose, and I am in re-hab for my Star Wars addiction). Fritz sits there in the water, looking plaintive and betrayed, for about ten minutes before he decides enough is enough. He then proceeds to climb UP my t-shirt. I'm there, holding ten pounds of vibrating feline fury, trying not to laugh, as tiny, slicked down cat arms lock themselves around my neck. I can't fault him. I suppose that I too would seek the high ground in that situation. He was like a rat- bony arms and a slim little rodent tail- and our enjoyment was not making his situation any better! However, we were holding our guffaws in until we realized that his belly-flaps (you know, those gravity-induced wings that cats get on their stomachs in middle age) had now spread to his underarms as well, and that he now looked like the love child of a stingray and a flying squirrel. We busted, and he officially went on strike.
OK, maybe you guys don't find this amusing. Maybe this is akin to all those "My son went potty" stories that have me gagging from idiotic yuppie-breeders. OK, I get it. I'm trying, at least. Get off my back!
My second story is guaranteed not to amuse, I'm sure, as we are all too mature for its content. However, I am a full disclosure type of blogger, so here it is.
John and I were walking home late-ish from Christine's, when we noticed a middle aged man walking towards us. Now, we have not always had the best of luck with this type of thing, but we weren't panicked. However, the guy was looking a little unnatural, so we paused our conversation until he could pass. Walking absolutely stock straight, and not making eye contact, he walked passed me (I was in front), but stumbled on the edge of the sidewalk. Just then, having been jiggled, he called forth all the demons of his gut and produced the most prodigious beer-belch I have ever been privy too (and I was a res assistant!). We all passed on, in silence, until he was gone, and John almost went rigid with laughter. I was shocked, having an Emily Post moment (What DO you say in this situation: "Gazuntheit"?). In the end, John found it so funny, and that we had done it all so matter-a-factly, and that the guy had actually burped in my face (plus it's always funny when drunk people try to act not-drunk, and he actually did a little dance when he fell off the side walk), that I threatened to make him walk the rest of the way alone, lest the people around think WE were drunk! Yes, John still chuckles about it when he thinks I'm not listening! He thinks of it as an out-burst of the guy's Hamiltonian nature- as if he just couldn't hold it in. He describes it as the fellow just walked up to us, said "Hi! I'm from Hamilton!", and walked off. Oh, the fun of it all!
That is my lighter side of Hamilton. Like it? Oh well I'm not a comedy writer. In any case, I meet with my old thesis advisor tomorrow AM for coffee, as old friends (though she still makes me nervous enough to die), so I should sign off. It was probably good to get this off my chest, just in case I get tempted during a silent moment to start telling her about the burping hobo- not a VG idea!
I watched Shattered Glass tonight for the first time- and, wonders of wonders, I think I can use it for my research. I love happy coincidences!
Good night everybody, and- Catherine- sleep easy and well on those dark shores.
Thursday, June 02, 2005
Accentuate The Positive
Coming soon, I promise, a few light sides of my life. I haven't totally gone to the dark side (or grumpy side).
Saw Episode III AGAIN! Zoicks- I think I've lost it!
Saw Episode III AGAIN! Zoicks- I think I've lost it!
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