Life happens; and then it doesn’t

I’m at the cottage.

WEather’s great - hot and sunny.

The kids are having fun, swimming, tubing, hanging out.

The beach is stunning this year, but the ocean’s still a little nippy.

The jelly fish have arrived. And the mosquitoes! They love me.

We’re getting the blinds up on the windows and getting TV set up for the Olympics this summer.

I’m enjoying sh*t out of this moment because tomorrow I’m going to the funeral of someone who would dearly love to be at the cottage on the beach with her kids right now.

She was 44, smart, dynamic, and always the life of the par-tay. She leaves twin girls aged 14 and their brother, 15. And a big family of brothers, sisters, parents and friends.

I’m so lucky to be here right now. My kids are lucky to be here.

And you are lucky to be there too.

Happy Canada Day, eh

There’s nothing like a holiday to kick off the summer.

There’s beer, barbeques and fireworks, if the weather permits. People know how to do Canada Day when they’re in their own backyard, but when it comes to public celebrations, Canada Day always seems a little awkward to me.*

The trouble is that Canadians aren’t flag-wavers by nature. Our patriotism is more understated than that of our neighbours to the south. Americans celebrate July 4th with gusto, stars and stripes. Canadians tend to be a little embarrassed by the fanfare.

But come Canada Day, they drag out the Maple Leaf flag and try to do the flag-waving patriotism because, well, what else are you supposed to do?

It’s always struck me as a paradox: On one hand, here is a country that is desperate to distinguish itself from its neighbour. But when it celebrates itself, it adopts the very same public shows of celebration as the neighbour it wants to distinguish itself from.

At least at an official level.

You see this with backpackers as well. Canadians will wear a Canadian flag to say they are not American. Yet what is more American than wearing your flag?

Put a Canadian in a hockey rink and that Canadian will know how to be Canadian. But give that Canadian a flag on Canada Day and tell them to wave it, and they will. But it won’t come naturally.

But in our own backyards today, we will know what to do: eat, drink and be merry.

* I observed this Canada Day phenomenon working as an events organizer. You’d give them the government-issue free flags and they’d wave them because that’s what you’re supposed to do, but there was never a lot of conviction. It’s not because Canadians aren’t proud; it’s just that flag-waving isn’t their way of showing it.

I’m at the cottage …

… for the whole damned summaaaaaa!

Yeeeehhaaaaw!

This circumstance is the result of a lining-up of the planets that has been approx. 20 years in the making.

Without getting into the details (no, I haven’t won the lottery), the feeling is akin to that of a mountaineer who has just summited Everest after a 20-year climb.

No kidding.

More details will follow at some point, just wanted to say that I’m here at last.

I’m tired, but it’s all good.

Really good.

When sunglasses make you look like an insect

See my Herald column here.

It’s true. Those big supersized sunglasses are not your friend when you have a smallish head.

Just look a Posh Spice when she wears them.

Poor Posh. Here she is thinking she looks so stylish when really, they make her look like a house fly. I’m sure she never meant to project the “House fly chic” look. But alas, there she is in her big glasses looking like a fly with compound eyes and 180-degree peripheral vision.

Jackie O could wear them because she had a big head and, well, a certain class and style.

But Posh? Not so much.

But then, fashion is funny. It convinces us to wear things like bubble shirts and then ten years later we look back and shake our heads.

Remember the Olivia Newton John headband- and-legging look from the 80s? Or the poofy prom-girl dress of the 90s?

Trust me, the supersized sunglasses are the poofy prom girl dress and the eighties headband and leggings of tomorrow.

Imglish lessons - if you’re happy and you know it

Back by popular demand: the GT Imglish series.

Instant message + english = IMglish.

As the world gets faster and comms devices get smaller, IMglish helps us navigate the language and the world. It also helps us to spy on our children.

If a typist wishes to remain relevant and gifted, it is important for her to know these IMglishisms and spread the wrd.

So here goes.

Sometimes you have have to tell your txt partner how you’re feeling about things. These Imglishisms might help to convey happiness or something even better.

VBG very big grin

VEG very evil grin

WEG wicked evil grin

SFETE smiling from ear to ear

SETE smiling ear to ear

HHO1/2K ha ha only half kidding

HHOK ha ha only joking

HHOS ha ha only being serious

RIP George Carlin

There is a big smoking hole left in the world of comedy with the departure of Mr. Seven-words-you-can-never-say-on-TV. And just looking at some of George Carlin’s zingers makes you realize that it’ll be a long time before that hole is filled.

He was one sharp observer and bad-ass comedian.

Here are 50 classics from the man. I hope you split a side, as I did.

My epitaph should say: “He was here a minute ago. Where did he go to? He
was just here.”

Always do whatever’s next.

At a formal dinner party, the person nearest death should always be
seated closest to the bathroom.

Atheism is a non-prophet organization.

By and large, language is a tool for concealing the truth.

Death is caused by swallowing small amounts of saliva over a long period
of time.

Don’t sweat the petty things and don’t pet the sweaty things.

Dusting is a good example of the futility of trying to put things right.
As soon as you dust, the fact of your next dusting has already been
established.

Electricity is really just organized lightning.

Fighting for peace is like screwing for virginity.

Frisbeetarianism is the belief that when you die, your soul goes up on
the roof and gets stuck.

Have you ever noticed that anybody driving slower than you is an idiot,
and anyone going faster than you is a maniac?

“I am” is reportedly the shortest sentence in the English language.
Could it be that “I do” is the longest sentence?

I have as much authority as the Pope, I just don’t have as many people
who believe it.

I recently went to a new doctor and noticed he was located in something
called the Professional Building. I felt better right away.

I think it would be interesting if old people got anti-Alzheimer’s
disease where they slowly began to recover other people’s lost memories.

I think people should be allowed to do anything they want. We haven’t
tried that for a while. Maybe this time it’ll work.

I was thinking about how people seem to read the Bible a whole lot more
as they get older; then it dawned on me - they’re cramming for their
final exam.

I went to a bookstore and asked the saleswoman, “Where’s the self-help
section?” She said if she told me, it would defeat the purpose.

I would never want to be a member of a group whose symbol was a guy
nailed to two pieces of wood.

I’m always relieved when someone is delivering a eulogy and I realize
I’m listening to it.

I’m completely in favor of the separation of Church and State. My idea
is that these two institutions screw us up enough on their own, so both
of them together is certain death.

I’m not concerned about all hell breaking loose, but that a PART of hell
will break loose… it’ll be much harder to detect.

If God had intended us not to masturbate he would’ve made our arms
shorter.

If it’s true that our species is alone in the universe, then I’d have to
say the universe aimed rather low and settled for very little.

If we could just find out who’s in charge, we could kill him.

If you can’t beat them, arrange to have them beaten.

In comic strips, the person on the right always speaks first.

Inside every cynical person, there is a disappointed idealist.

Just cause you got the monkey off your back doesn’t mean the circus has
left town.

May the forces of evil become confused on the way to your house.

Most people work just hard enough not to get fired and get paid just
enough money not to quit.

Not only do I not know what’s going on, I wouldn’t know what to do about
it if I did.

One can never know for sure what a deserted area looks like.

One tequila, two tequila, three tequila, floor.

People who say they don’t care what people think are usually desperate
to have people think they don’t care what people think.

Religion is just mind control.

Some people see things that are and ask, Why? Some people dream of
things that never were and ask, Why not? Some people have to go to work
and don’t have time for all that.

Standing ovations have become far too commonplace. What we need are
ovations where the audience members all punch and kick one another.

The main reason Santa is so jolly is because he knows where all the bad
girls live.

The other night I ate at a real nice family restaurant. Every table had
an argument going.

The reason I talk to myself is that I’m the only one whose answers I
accept.

The status quo sucks.

The very existence of flame-throwers proves that some time, somewhere,
someone said to themselves, You know, I want to set those people over
there on fire, but I’m just not close enough to get the job done.

There are nights when the wolves are silent and only the moon howls.

There’s no present. There’s only the immediate future and the recent
past.

Think off-center.

Weather forecast for tonight: dark.

Well, if crime fighters fight crime and fire fighters fight fire, what
do freedom fighters fight? They never mention that part to us, do they?

What does it mean to pre-board? Do you get on before you get on?

When someone is impatient and says, “I haven’t got all day,” I always
wonder, How can that be? How can you not have all day?

When Thomas Edison worked late into the night on the electric light, he
had to do it by gas lamp or candle. I’m sure it made the work seem that
much more urgent.

When you step on the brakes your life is in your foot’s hands.

When you’re born you get a ticket to the freak show. When you’re born in
America, you get a front row seat.

You know an odd feeling? Sitting on the toilet eating a chocolate candy
bar.

You know the good part about all those executions in Texas? Fewer
Texans.

Be afraid cyclist; be very afraid.

In my ambulance-chasing days as a cub reporter and photographer, I used to rush to many accident scenes, some involving cyclists who were crushed and/or killed by motor vehicles. These memories have stimulated a fear that I would call evidence-based. Others have called it irrational.

Which ever side of that coin you may fall, you will have to agree that taking my brand new bike for a spin in traffic would be a test of nerves.

I scheduled my first urban outing for Sunday morning, a time when traffic would be light. I rode into town with my friend who also has a new bike and fear of traffic. We followed the rules, took our time and made it back in one piece. It was a challenge, but it was fun.

But the exercise has not conquered my fear. If anything, it has reinforced it.

That’s because the city - or a least my city - is is not a cyclist’s friend. Drivers here seem to be under the impression that the road belongs to them. You feel their disdain and impatience, especially if you have the temerity to do something like make a left turn.

At one point today, we were at a stop sign waiting for a gap in traffic before making a left. The mini van behind us didn’t like the idea of waiting for two bicycles and kept edging closer and closer, as if to nudge us into traffic.

This was unnerving for the two Nervous Nellies on the bicycles.

When it was safe to make our left, we pulled out.  Mini-van Maven zoomed out with us, passing us on the inside of our left turn, glancing over to give us a dirty look. She said something. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t kind.

So, lesson learned. She was the mini van. We were the bikes. We made her wait. The natural order had been violated.

I will continue to drive my bike but I’ll stick to low-volume times and back roads until there is a change of culture. I have cycled in places where drivers don’t feel this entitlement to the whole road and respect the cyclist as they would any other vehicle on the road.

But change comes slow in this neck of the woods and until such a time when the natural order of the road includes cyclists, I can only say this to cyclists: Be afraid; be very afraid.

Pigeon Sex And the City

See my Herald column here.

Step aside Sex and The City. Those girls have nothing on the pigeons.

Walk though a park these days and behold the public displays of  pigeon sex.

They just do it right in front of you, with no respect or regard for their privacy or your right to a peaceful sex-free walk in the park.

And I daresay that sex pigeon-style is neither quiet nor, um, romantic. It’s all wings flapping, feathers flying, and funny little squeaky noises.

There are no morals anymore. There is no decency.

What has this world come to?

RIP Humphrey Lyttelton

I’m not normally one to make a hero out of someone, but if I ever had a hero, this guy would be it.

He died 25 April at 86. And somehow I missed his passing. I must have been busy that week and didn’t tune into BBC Radio 4 as I normally do. But when I clicked on this morning and noticed the tribute to Humphrey Lyttelton, my heart sank. A tribute to a man of his age could only me one thing.

Here is his obit.

Simply put, “The Humph” was a modern-day Renaissance Man. He was a jazz trumpeter, a broadcaster, journalist, Radiohead collaborator, a ranconteur, ornithologist, cartoonist, calligrapher, a wit and a very charming English gentleman. And he was an exceptional talent in each of these realms, although music was his first love.

Here is the link to the BBC tribute. (It’s hosted by Stephen Fry and well worth a listen if you have the time.)

I first became acquainted with him when I moved to Britain in 1996. He was the host of a very funny “antidote to panel games” I’m Sorry I Haven’t a Clue on BBC Radio 4.

Over on BBC Radio 2, he was the host of Best of Jazz where I learned just about everything I know about jazz, and was introduced to another “hero” of mine, Billie Holiday. His commentary was erudite, witty, eccentric and wide-ranging, and that show was my Monday night treat.

When I moved back to Canada in 2002, I was desperately homesick for Britain. One of the first things I did was set up my Internet streaming so that I could hear him each week. Sometimes, when listening to his jazz show and typing late into the night, I actually forgot I was in Canada. He managed to soothe my homesickness and make it worse at the same time.

He was a brilliant jazz musician in the British New Orleans tradition, and his friend Louis Armstrong described him as “that cat in England who swings his ass off.” True words, Louis. Humph could swing.

My good bloggie friend the Bad Tempered Zombie may know that in 2001 Humphrey Lyttleton recorded a session with Indie rockers Radiohead after guitarist Jonny Greenwood wrote to him saying:

It’s probably an awful cheek and we’re sure you’re very busy, but we’re a bit stuck.

Radiohead. Stuck. Imagine. The piece is called Living in a Glass House on the Amnesiac album.

His humour on the panel show was legendary for its wit and supposed unintended innuendo which was of course intended, but The Humph managed to set it up so that you, the audience, picked up on his raunchy double entendre. He was rude in the most charming and gentlemanly of ways.

Interestingly he was born into an aristocratic bloodline. He was brought up and educated as a member of the upper middle class, but early on in his life he rejected that lifestyle and became a socialist and jazz musician. He turned down an offer of a knighthood from the Queen.

The Humph was still playing, broadcasting and hosting his panel show at age 86. Earlier this year he did a round-the-country tour with his band. At the end of his show he played a stirring version of “We’ll Meet Again” - you know, Vera Lynn and all that - on his trumpet. This brought an audience of 3500 to their feet where they remained for ten minutes.

A few days after that concert, he went in for surgery to repair an aortic aneurysm in his heart. He died from complications.

Many of my bloggie friends wax rhapsodically over their fave music and musicians.

Barbara the Bad Tempered Zombie has her Radiohead

Beth has her REM.

BeckEye has Eddie Vedder.

Well, I guess GT has her Humphrey Lyttelton. And if any one of you gals lost Eddie Vedder, Michael Stipe or Thom York, you’d know how I feel right now.

RIP Humph.

OK, enough with my sister’s near-tragedy…

… now let’s talk about my paper cut.

Friday the 13th was not just bad luck for my sister and the 5000 others who were evacuated from their houses to escape a raging wildfire. It was also a day of calamity for me. I got a paper cut under the fingernail on my left index finger.

I don’t know how it happened but I realized I had a paper cut while cutting up citrus fruit to make a salade de fruits.

A short lesson in chemistry: Citrus acid + paper cut = foul-mouthed typist.

I believe I’ve done the right thing by remaining stoic and silent throughout the fire crisis. It just wouldn’t have been right to complain about a paper cut while devastation stalked those close to me.

But the fire is out now, and my sister and family are back home and getting on with their lives. And we are happy about that.

Meanwhile, my paper cut rages on. Without sympathy.

I think I’ve earned the right to some complaining and sympathy. So with no further adieu.

Typing has been a trial. It has been an exercise in selfless determination to get these words out to you on this blog. But I’ve done this for you, my friends. Through the pain of the paper cut.

My sense of duty knows no bounds. Yes, acid rushes into my paper cut when I cut up fruit for smoothies each morning, but I soldier on for the sake of the children. I put their health above my paper cut. And at night, I grimace again as I cut up fruit for their bedtime fruit-plates. Such is my devotion.

So please everyone, spare a thought for a stricken typist. Send a message of best wishes as you did for my poor dear sister ( who BTW is safe and fine now so you can stop sending messages wishing her well!)

My papercut and I will be eternally grateful for just a small pebble of your attention and/or sympathy.

Thank you in advance.

Tongues of flame licked her neighbourhood

My sister is safe.

Her house is safe.

Two houses across the street burned to the ground and the entire neighbourhood is in shock and smelling like smoke.

But everyone is back home again.

They were saved by dissipating winds and by Herculean efforts of fire fighters who protected the houses from a two-day wild-fire that licked at the edge of my sister’s street.

This fire started on Friday the 13th.

My sister returned to her house on Sunday, June 15. That day was her birthday.

Talk about poetic justice.

Thank you for the messages.

Up in flames

Just outside my city, four thousand people have been evacuted due to fires that are burning out of control.

And four of those four thousand include this typist’s sister and her family.

The RCMP ordered them out of their house on Friday afternoon. With five minutes notice.

Two houses have been destroyed across the street from their house, and fire fighters are now hosing her house down in the hope that sparks will not ignite. There are many trees around and the wind has been a real devil.

Fixed-wing water bombers are in from surrounding provinces trying to help out but things are still out of control.

My sister is safe with both feet firmly on the ground, but she is worried sick.

So they sit and they wait and hope that their house will be spared.

At this point, it all depends on the direction the wind will blow.

 

My feline is signed up to Cat Watchers

See this week’s Herald column here.

Trust me, cat obesity is no laughing matter.

When our little darling was declared obese a few months back, we decided that our cat Cheddar needed to make a few lifestyle changes. It was time for Cat Watchers.

But making lifestyle changes and convincing your cat that this is a good idea are two different things.

It turns out that our Cheddar didn’t fancy the low-fat dry-pellet cat food. She wanted the burgers-and-fries equivalent dry-pellet cat food.

So, I suffered filthy looks, sit-down protests and whining in the middle of the night. At one point I thought she might run away. Pity she didn’t.

After a couple of hard months and two weigh-ins at Cat Watchers, she is half way to her target.

And this typist is half-way to cat-induced insanity.

Big hair: it’s back

Put away your flattening irons, people.

Say bye bye to shining, shimmering, sleek.

Think big, back combing and bee hive.

Think 80s hair bands, mousse, and heavy-hold spray.

Think Dolly Parton.

Think whatever you want. Big hair is back.

Angelina Jolie, Liz Hurley, Amy Winehouse. They’re all wearing it.

Even the hairdresser of this typist tells me that big hair is beginning to make a comeback in these parts. And that’s saying something in a town where 90s prom-girl up-do’s still rule the wedding circuit - fifteen years after the fact (according to my hair dresser.)

I don’t know. I think I might be ready for big hair again.

Are you?

RIP Hockey Night in Canada

CBC TV have let the iconic Hockey Night in Canada theme go. To their competitor CTV.

If ever there was an institution that united this big country, it was the Hockey Night in Canada theme. For the past 40 years, it opened and closed CBC hockey games. Many of us grew up with it on Saturday nights.

To give my American friends an idea of the seriousness, this would be like losing “God Bless America” to, say, Guatemala.

God Bless Guatemala. No.

The catchy Hockey Night in Canada tune stirs the heart and soul of many a Canadian in a way that this country’s boring staid national anthem could never do.

If I were a CBC negotiator I would have moved heaven and earth to protect their rights to the theme because it’s more than just a hockey song; it’s an anthem of national identity.

People will still tune into CBC TV’s Hockey Night in Canada, but they will always remember how CBC lost the theme and it will be very difficult for the public broadcaster to earn their forgiveness.

And at a time when many long knifes are out for CBC TV, this wound could be fatal.

Let’s hope not.