Libations and Limitations

I have an alarming number of friends who don’t drink any alcohol. Not that there’s anything wrong with not drinking alcohol; it’s just odd how many people I know all of a sudden who don’t.

From about the age of 15 to 30 all my friends and acquaintances did nothing but drink their faces off at every opportunity. After 30, my social circle wised up and started drinking more moderately. Now some of them don’t drink at all.

Some are alcoholics so they had to stop. Some just don’t like it anymore. One friend says she won’t drink because she becomes belligerent and scrappy when she drinks. I find this hard to believe because she’s normally sweet as pie, but I’ll take her word for it.

I do know people who become really belligerent and scrappy when they drink. They’re very tiresome at parties because they’ll start arguing about the bean dip and punch the first guy who presents a likely target. But then these people are usually pretty belligerent and scrappy to begin with.

Most people seem to just become exaggerated versions of themselves when they drink, I think. I don’t think I’ve ever known anyone who has a complete personality change when they drink, have you?

One guy I knew in university – blond, surfer type…madly in love with himself – he used get naked at every single party he was ever at. Two or three drinks and off came the togs. Actually, I suspect after a while he just didn’t even bother with the drinking part and just whipped it all out as soon as he got to the party.

And we all know women who get extremely ..um…er…frisky after a couple of drinks and everyone in trousers better put out or get out. They’re the ones who get themselves in trouble at the office Christmas party. It’s a cliché, but I was at a work Christmas party once where a normally under-the-radar type woman literally threw herself at our director. There he was enjoying an after dinner drink, chatting with some management types and she comes along and plops herself on his lap and winds her arms around his neck. That was some night.

And, I think we’ve all been at parties where there’s one miserable sod who has a couple of drinks and ends up in a corner weeping —  telling you you’re a beautiful, beautiful person and that you’re the only real person they’ve ever known – even if you’ve just met. I don’t know why, but I usually end up getting cornered by this person at parties.

I try to stay well away from them and from the pathetic saddo who drinks weird stuff like Southern Comfort and coke finishes off the night by lolling on a sofa peeing himself and playing air guitar long after the music has stopped.

And, of course, every party has at least one assholes who will expand in assholishness as the night goes on. And he or she will start losing control of his or her voice and limbs and get really loud and will start breaking stuff and spilling stuff.

And then there are those who have no understanding of their own bodies and/or the effects of alcohol on them and so will be barfing – hopefully in or around a toilet. You’d think they’d have clued in by the time they’re 40, but amazingly, quite a few haven’t.

And almost everyone ends up saying the most astonishing things while under the influence. Some people tell you things they’ve bottled up for years. Things that should never be aired. Things they would kill to take back the next morning. It’s best to leave town if someone who’s a little high on Crown Royal has told you where he’s hidden the skeletons.

I think perhaps many of us have been in one or more of these positions over the years and maybe that’s why so many of us have quit drinking altogether. I will confess to having been in at least three of these positions myself at some point waaaaaaaay back in my much, much younger and more foolish days. And I one or two things I’m not particularly proud of.

But I learned. Water under the bridge.

These days, a little wine or a little beer — preferably with food — is my limit. Make no mistake, I really, really enjoy a nice glass of wine with a meal or a beer on a warm day, but a couple is usually enough. I have no desire or need to get anywhere close to drunk anymore. I don’t even know why I ever did.

Was it ever actually fun? Do any of you still enjoy getting good and drunk every so often?

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ATTENTION!!! ATTENTION!!!  The indominable Lynn has announced the details of this year’s Blog Out Loud Ottawa (BOLO). It will be held on Wednesday, July 7 at Irene’s Pub on Bank Street from 7:00 – 10:00 pm. Anyone who wants to read should register soon; but you don’t have to read to come out and enjoy an evening of food, drink and blogging hilarity. Check the BOLO website frequently for updates and details. Yay Lynn!!

Pride & Presumptuousness

A few years ago there was an interesting story out of Kenya. Millions of people in that country were starving due to a recent drought. Seeing so many hungry children was something that deeply affected a young lady visiting there from New Zealand. She went back home and tried to figure out a way to get some food to those children in the fastest possible way. One of her friends worked for the Mighty Mix dog food company and offered to immediately send 6,000 packs of dog food mixture to Kenya to help out.

Before you all think “ewww” it should be noted that this was human standard dog food which would provide nutritional, sustainable meals for the children made out of ingredients that the children were used to eating. Of course, sending dog food to starving children still sounds kind of nasty. But I guess it was the most immediate solution to a problem that required an immediate solution.

Anyway, the government of Kenya was very insulted by this offer saying it was culturally unacceptable. Calling someone a dog in Kenya is the worst thing you could do – they don’t even keep dogs as pets there apparantly.

So they refused the food and the drought continued and people and children and livestock died.

I was reminded of this the other night when I ran into my neighbour, who, as I may have mentioned before is having issues with her disability pension because she had the audacity to take on a little part-time work (the income from which she faithfully reported) in order to try and dig herself out of the abject poverty the disability pension has been keeping her for years. So, anyway they cut her off completely because they figured if she could earn some money she didn’t need disability anymore. She’s been fighting it for a couple of months now.

So, as I said, I ran into her the other day and I asked how the battle was going and she said, “Slowly, I’ve been living on nothing but toast for the last couple of weeks. I hope it gets resolved soon.”

Horrified, I asked her why her kids weren’t helping her out – she has four grown kids who all live nearby and are all working. She staunchly declared that she would never, ever, ever  ask her kids for help. She did not want to burden them with her problems.

I gave her hell for being so foolish. I told her how very angry I would be with my mother if for some reason she was having a hard time and didn’t ask me for help. “What if you get sick?” I said. “Then you’ll be even more of a burden.”

Then I went home and collected a couple of bags of groceries, which I pretty much had to force her to accept. “I’m not one of those people who is looking for handouts!” she wailed.” Then I reminded her that she helps me all the time by looking after Bazel when we’re away, which shut her up long enough for me to foist the groceries on her and make my escape.

Pride can be a good and positive thing. If you take pride in things like your work or your appearance or your home, you put effort in making sure it’s the best it can be. It makes you feel good to have accomplished something that’s respected or admired by others.

On the other side of the coin there is pride that does not serve you well. Pride that is too often confused with self-respect.  Of course most people don’t want to have to depend on others for help. Most people want to be able to make their own way in the world; support themselves; look after themselves. And when you’re already in a position of being dependant on a social system, whether it’s because you’re on welfare or disability or if you’re elderly and can’t do without homecare or regular nursing care – you are going to hang on to as much independence as you possibly can, even if it’s to your detriment.

Why do we do this?

I’m pretty self-sufficient — except when it comes to transportation.  I get around pretty well with public transit or walking or sometimes taxis, but there are times when none of those are very feasible or are extremely inconvenient or expensive. People with cars often offer me rides and if it seems to me to not be too much of an inconvenience for them, I will accept the ride – but it makes me feel….what? Humbled? Beholden?

Because during and after the ride I’m always try to think of some way of re-paying that favour. And I won’t feel right about it until I feel I’ve somehow balanced the scales.

The absolute worst case of this was during the transit strike a couple of winters ago when I was completely dependant on other people to get me to and from work. By about the second week of this I was actually physically ill from constantly having to rely on others.

And then there’s that whole feeling of presumptuousness that you want to avoid — I hope they don’t think I take it for granted that they’re driving me around. And you never know if they’re offering the help because they feel they have to or feel sorry for you and are hoping you’ll turn them down.

Ya, it gets to be a crazy head mess.

Especially because if I do a favour for someone, it’s because I want to help.  I certainly don’t expect that to be repaid. Why can’t I just assume that other people think and feel the same way? If someone in need asks me for a favour I consider that a compliment and am honoured to provide whatever help I can.

Okay, I’m not talking about a person who is forever asking for stuff or has no interest in being independent and is happy to let everyone else take care of them. And there are plenty of people who just presume that if you’re in any way better off than them that you owe them something. But that’s a whole other ball of wax.

Anyway, people do a lot of crazy, harmful things in the name of pride – in their relationships,  for instance. They refuse to be the first to apologize because they don’t want the other person to have the “upper hand”. They won’t forgive because forgiveness is equated with loss of pride or self-respect.  They won’t ask for support because “if their partner really loved them they would know what they needed.”

At work we often put up with not being treated well or being passed over for promotion because we’re too proud to ask for what we want – what we feel we deserve. We figure if management is too blind to our excellent qualities and doesn’t value us, then we’re not going to humiliate ourselves by trying to set them straight

But pride is not the same thing as self-respect, I think. When you’re doing something because it’s good for you and serves you well – that’s self-respect. If you’re doing something just to save face or because you “won’t give in” or because “you don’t want them to win” and this attitude/behaviour is harming you in some way – that’s misplaced pride. There’s no self-respect in that. It’s one of those cutting-off-your-nose-to-spite-your-face type of things.

There are all sorts of ways we let this pride become an obstacle in our lives, isn’t there?  Is there an obstacle in your life that you can’t get by because your “pride” won’t let you? How do we overcome something like that? How do we find a balance between maintaining true self-respect and still being able to ask for or accept assistance when we need it? Have you mastered it?

Junk Fuel

So with all the oil crisis stuff, they’re coming out with a new automobile fuel that’s both cheap and convenient. It comes in pellets the size of hockey pucks that you can buy anywhere – corner shops, grocery stores, etc… in cases of 24. The case will sell for around $50 and each pellet is the equivalent of a full tank of gas for the average SUV.

You just drop the pellet into the gas tank, fill up the tank with tap water and off you go.

There are a few drawbacks however: 

• First, your car won’t go any faster than 30 mph/50kph.
• Second, after about a year your gas tank will corrode and start leaking fuel.
• Third, the stuff emits exhaust that eats away at your car’s paint and the paint of other cars on the road.
• Finally, there is a good likelihood that your engine will seize anywhere between two months to two years of using this fuel.

Alternating these new fuel pellets with regular gasoline will decrease the chances of any of these problems somewhat.

So, would you purchase these new fuel pellets for your car? Would you perhaps consider getting them for occasional use? They are so much more convenient than having to go to a gas station all the time. And they’re incredibly cheap.

I’m thinking most of you are saying no way you’d get this stuff for your car. No matter how convenient or cheap, right? What a crazy idea, right?

You’re right, it is a crazy idea. And none of the above is true. I made it up to illustrate how careful we are about fuelling our automobiles to keep them in good condition and to keep them performing at their optimum.

So, how crazy it is that we aren’t nearly as careful about how we fuel our bodies?

March was National Nutritional Awareness Month, but I totally missed it, so I’m making up for it now.  Food has become a pretty touchy subject. Eating local, eating mindfully, eating healthy, eating vegetarian, eating raw, eating too much, not eating enough….Food has almost become one of those topics like religion and politics that you don’t discuss in public because people can get pretty heated up about it. But we’re among friends here, so what the hell. Right?

I read the other day, for instance,  that this whole 100-mile diet thing might be a crock. They said that a whole bunch of food shipped from South America or somewhere in a big boat or on a train or something uses up far less carbon fuel pound for pound than a whole bunch of farmers in pick-up trucks dragging a few crates of stuff from their farms to the market.  And that the freshness factor is pretty much equal. So the only real benefit is that you’re supporting small local farmers instead of corporate agriculture.

See that’s the problem with all this food wisdom — you never know who’s right or what the latest research is going to spring on you. My general rule of thumb is to try and eat stuff in its most natural possible form. So that the less processing food undergoes and the fewer ingredients (additives/preservatives/etc.)  it has, the better. 

I also think anything too drastic diet-wise can’t be good — like eating only raw foods or eating only protein or only lettuce or something. Or never eating a meal you cooked at home with real food.

That seems simple and sensible, and yet statistics say that the average American (and also, I assume, Canadian) consumes 159 fast food meals every year.  And of the “meals” consumed at home, a good percentage of them are of the ready-to-eat, packaged, frozen or microwavable variety.

You wouldn’t treat your car like that.

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On a completely unrelated note I just wanted to brag a little that the other day I finally cracked the 1,000 barrier in the hits-per-day on this blog. They’ve been creeping up slowly and have been hovering in the 900s for quite a while. The other day: 1005. Who are all you people? Do you come here by accident? Do you actually read anything while you’re here? Why don’t so many of you ever comment?

Thanks for visiting anyway.

Let’s Talk Law

There’s an interesting legal precedent case upcoming in Minnesota that I’ve been pondering.

For several years, a 47-year-old Minnesota man (a nurse, married with 2 kids) spent a lot of his time on the Internet in suicide chat rooms. Not because he was contemplating suicide, but because he liked to talk to women who were contemplating suicide.

He’d pose as a woman himself and advise and encourage the women to go ahead and kill themselves. He’d enter into a fake suicide pact with them, pretending that they were going to go through this momentous event together. He claims to have encouraged at least a dozen women through their suicides.

Why?

For the “thrill of the chase”. He says his “interest in death and suicide could be considered an obsession”

This guy came to the attention of authorities  in 2008 when he made a suicide pact with a University of Ottawa student and encouraged her to kill herself by jumping into the Ottawa River. Which she did.

The problem, as I understand it, is that this guy has not clearly broken any laws. They’ve charged him under some assisted suicide law which applies to “anyone who advises, encourages or assists another in taking the other’s own life.”

He’s not under arrest, however, and the odds of him being convicted or penalized for what he did are slim.

The problems involve the fact that his relationships with the people he encouraged were conducted entirely online and, in the case of the Ottawa student, there are also jurisdictional issues. George Washington University law professor, Jonathan Turley, says what the man did was basically just “screaming to people on a balcony to jump”.

It’s morally reprehensible, but should it be illegal? Apparently the whole case is also vulnerable to challenge under the US First Amendment free-speech laws. Telling people to go kill themselves makes you a jerk, but not really a criminal.

At the same time, many people have been advocating for years to decriminalize assisted suicide. Much as we would not like to be in Jack Kevorkian’s  shoes, I think most of us would agree that his cause and is work is noble.

So, if we convict this crazy-assed freak from Minnesota, how will that impact the progress made by the right-to-die people?

Of course if I were a friend or family member of the people that were encouraged into suicide by Minnesota guy, I would want him punished, too.

However, the people in question were clearly troubled and seriously contemplating suicide or they wouldn’t have been in the suicide chat room to begin with. There were obviously a lot of other issues at play here – issues that were brewing for a long time before they ever encountered Minnesota guy.

He didn’t hold them captive or force them into anything. At any time they could have shut down their computers and walked away.

On the other hand, these were extremely vulnerable people reaching out to anyone who had some understanding of the dark, dark place in which they found themselves. And they thought they’d found some kinship – someone who knew; someone they could really talk to.

And Minnesota guy took advantage of that. Instead of helping them to find their way into a less dark place, like most other people would do, he advocated for hurling themselves over the edge.

Morally wrong? Absolutely.

Ethically wrong? Absolutely.

Legally wrong? Probably not.

The internet is presenting us with a whole bunch of interesting new problems we have no idea how to address. What should or can we do about people like Minnesota guy?

What’s New in Vulvaland?

I still can barely wrap my head around the idea that females spend a lot of time, money and effort (and pain) to wax, shave or otherwise keep their cootchie hair-free.  Or to stencil designs into their love-hedges.

Then I read on someone’s blog a while back about  vajazzling – popularized by Jennifer Love Ghost Whisperer Hewitt in her biography and by Kathy Griffin in her on-air Poolside Pap Test. If it was going to be televised, she said, she wanted it to be (quote) as va-beautiful as it va-can.

If you’re squeamish about clicking the links, (and who could blame you)vajazzling is gluing shiny crystals in pretty designs on your shaven hoo-ha. Why people do this is beyond the scope of this blogpost, but Jennifer Love Ghost Whisperer Hewitt had hers done after she broke up with her husband or had her dog down or some such trauma…I can’t remember..  But the message is clear — nothing neutralizes human emotions better than a sparkly cootchie.

Okay, so we’ve established that some people are a little crazy. But now I read (in a reputable newspaper) that there is a whole line of ladybits-related products on the market.

For instance, there’s Linger – which is (are you ready?) “vaginal breath mints”.

Huh?

That’s right.  Apparently 72% of women are self-conscious about the scent or flavour of their dark, moist place. So now they can smell and taste like a candy cane. The mint, which you do NOT eat,  takes 45 minutes to fully dissolve. The theory being that this will encourage partners to “linger” a full 45 minutes instead of the desultory, token 30 seconds just to say they’ve done “the foreplay bit” (Of course a partner like that you might need something more than a vag mint, but that again, is beyond the scope of this particular blogpost.)

On the flip side of this coin, the Germans have come up with a “cologne” called Vulva Original  that smells like an authentic vulva is supposed to. (PS: Save watching the ad on that link until you’re in a private place. But don’t forget come back and watch it. It’s bizzaro!) The CEO of Vivaeros, the company that produces Vulva, says:

It is for your own smelling pleasure. You just put it on the back of our hand, smell it and the film starts rolling in your head.

Then once you’re hairless, be-jewelled, minty-fresh and have sent your partner off with some real Vulva to smell, you can go for some labia dye – My New Pink Button. It comes it four lovely hues of pink – Marilyn, Bettie, Ginger and Audry. I guess it’s a similar concept to vaginal or anal  bleaching . Because who doesn’t wants their nether regions to be fresh and pink, right? Because you can’t get or keep a man if your orifices aren’t fresh and pink and youthful looking. And also you’ll hate yourself even more with non-pink orifices and you’ll feel totally nonsexy. Oh, and old and used up. And way too…you know…human. Ewwww.

So anyway, to celebrate all this fun attention the punani is getting, Etsy, everyone’s favourite online handmade stuff shop,  is selling a bunch of Vagina Appreciation merchandise to (quote) foster understanding and appreciation of Vagina.

See? It’s working already because I, for one, did not even realize that vaginas were misunderstood or underappreciated.

So, what does Etsy offer to help everyone love the vayjay?

Well, I know you’ll all want to rush out and get a VulvaLoveLovely Portrait Pendant  for instance. (Again, don’t click on this at work) You just email them a few close up photos of your yoni and they make a pendant for you that looks exactly like your very own special area.

Etsy is also selling Vegan Vulva Lip Balm (sweet cherry flavour only),  Frida Kahlo Uterus Pillows, (Don’t worry the pillows don’t look like Frida Kahlo’s uterus. They are just pillows shaped like a uterus and fallopian tubes that look like Frida Kahlo. I know eh? Phew!)

 There are also Ovulating Fertile Uterus Pillows .

And then there’s this charming clutch purse that (quote) rocks a Vulva and her heart-shaped pubic hair with a fuchsia pearl clitoris on a pink zebra-striped base. (Click to embiggen if you must)

So versatile and roomy and yet so attractive! You can wear it with anything and take it everywhere. What’s not to love, right?

Ye gods and little fishes!

Etsy is all horrified by the vajazzling and vag mint stuff and thinks it’s doing something good for feminism with their particular products. And, I’m all for people loving, enjoying and celebrating their bodies and other people’s bodies, but I think it’s just weird and de-humanizing to do it one body part at a time like this. Sorry.

Am I the only one who thinks this is all incredibly bizzare? Except for that German ad, of course. That’s beyond bizzare.

Boob Tubing

Back in the 1950s, you were ultra cool if you owned a television set. Family, friends and neighbours would gather at your house, bring hot cheese puffs, tuna-potato chip casseroles and jello salads made with fruit and Kraft miniature marshmallows, and then you’d all sit around and watch Texaco Star Theatre.

Then in the 1960s, you were ultra cool if you owned a colour television set[1]. Family, friends and neighbours would gather at your house, bring Waldorf salad, Chicken a la King casserole and Tang, and then you’d all sit around and watch The Red Skelton Show  in “living colour.”

By the end of the 1970s, everyone had a colour television set (or two) and the whole TV thing was old hat and so it became cool not to own a TV, or to claim never to watch it if you did own one.

If you want to appear deep and intellectual these days you feign ignorance of everything related to TV. You toss around things like, “Oh! I haven’t watched television in yonks! I’m not even sure if I own one anymore, AK-chew-al-lee…” Then you give a dismissive little condescending laugh.

Now, call me an ignorant hillbilly, but I’m pretty sure everyone watches TV – even people who don’t own a TV. In fact, the people I know who are so proud of not owning a TV sit glued to my TV when they come to visit. They shush you when you try to talk to them during the commercials even.

I’m not saying that we all actually like watching TV, but we do it because it’s the easiest thing there is to do in our homes or even in our entire lives. Absolutely nothing is required of us except to sit and stare and maybe utter the odd disparaging remark about what’s being beamed into our eyes.

How could a person not take advantage of that every once in a while?

I don’t like much that’s on TV. I posted a status thingy on Facebook last week about Glee.   XUP Jr. made me watch the season opener because she promised it was the greatest thing ever to descend upon mankind since Jesus. (Those may not have been her exact words, but the meaning was clear). Later that day, my Facebook status thingy declared that I didn’t “get” the entire Glee thing. I thought everything about it, aside from maybe one or two songs, was terrible.

I also don’t get Lost. I watched the first two or three episodes and was too bored to ever tune in again. In general, I don’t like shows that force me to watch every week or I won’t understand anything anymore. The exception to that was Coronation Street,  which I watched/taped faithfully since I was a teenager, but which has gotten so ridiculous that I stopped watching it over the last year.

 I still like Law and Order  – the original and Criminal Intent – SVU not so much. I understand there’s a Los Angeles version coming out soon. Oy!

I like Criminal Minds, too. They have some interesting characters and story lines on that show.

In the less criminal area, I like Big Bang Theory, Family Guy, The Office, Old Christine and most British comedies or dramas when I can get them on my non-cable TV.

I also watch American Idol because the child has it on and I’m pretty much committed to sitting in my TV chair from 8:00 to 9:00 pm Monday to Thursday. American Idol is on every one of those days I think. Or maybe it just seems like it.

I think House has been on once in a while, during that tinme slot, too.  Maybe you have to watch House all the time to appreciate it,  because I don’t really understand what’s going on there. He’s a doctor who’s not actually allowed to treat patients but orders a bunch of other doctors around who spend all their time trying to figure out what really bizarre disease one patient has. Is that it? How does this hospital have the resources to dedicate half a dozen doctors to one patient or to keep  doctor on staff who doesn’t actually do anything? And why do they come up with about 10 diagnoses for the patient and treat him for whatever insane new diagnosis they come up with so that by the end he’s had 20 radically different treatments, has been brought to the very brink of death (or even beyond the brink) and then, when they finally get it right, he’s just fine and dandy and everyone has a good laugh?

Anyway, when American Idol/House season is over, other reality and or medical shows slide into that time slot. So You Think You Can Dance, I don’t mind so much. They’re at least very talented people. I could do without all the crazy side-drama, though. And I won’t watch other medical shows because I end up believing I have all the illnesses I see. At least House is completely unbelievable to begin with.

There are a few shows I’ve heard about that sound good though I’ve never seen them since I don’t have cable. The Wire is one that springs to mind.

Then there are a few shows I really miss. Like Twin Peaks. Damn, I loved that show. I think that was the single best thing ever to hit television, in my opinion.

I miss Seinfeld too, though it’s so dated now that it’s lost a lot of its original hilarity. And there are a bunch of comedies from way long ago that I still think are funny in a surreal, creepy kind of way: Green Acres, Beverly Hillbillies, Bewitched (with either Darren) …

What do you watch regularly and/or what show(s) do you miss enough to wish they’d come back on the air?

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[1] The first commercial colour TV was manufactured in 1954 and sold for $1,295 USD – the equivalent of $10,500 in today’s money

Read All About It

I know it’s old school, but man, I love newspapers – the actual kind made of paper. To me there are few things better than a rainy day when you have nothing to do, sitting around in your pajamas having a long, long breakfast and reading through a big, fat newspaper.

If the paper is fat enough and you’re in the mood to really examine all the features and articles and filler bits, a newspaper can keep you entertained for a couple of hours or more.  And I use the word, “entertained” deliberately because I don’t rely on newspapers to tell me what’s really going on in the world.

They are certainly one source of information, but if I read something particularly intriquing, I’ll always do some follow-up research. Because, I don’t know about you, but I find newspapers (and the media in general) kind of manipulative.

They pick and choose the news they’re going to report and how they’re going to report it. For instance, with this whole volcano thing, I’m  hearing a lot of people saying stuff like “there have been so many natural disasters in the world lately!”

Well, that’s not necessarily true. There have always been volcanos and earthquakes and hurricanes and tsunamis and all that other stuff and in pretty much the same numbers there are now – we just didn’t hear about them. There are a whole bunch of reasons why, but the point is that somehow the media has led us to believe that the world is practically coming to an end with one disaster after another.

And speaking of this volcano; why is it that the major news we’re hearing about this is all about the size of the ash cloud and whether or not airplanes can fly yet? What about all the people in Iceland living right there with this thing?

Another interesting example came up the other day when I was reading a story in the paper about a home invasion. The story said a bunch of men with baseball bats pushed their way into a house. It went on to say that there were 4 people in the house, one of the men suffered serious head injuries, two people were taken out of the house on stretchers, there was blood, etc., etc.

As I read, I thought to myself, “How awful! Who are these crazy people beating up folk in their homes? Is anyone safe anywhere anymore?”  It’s scary to read about stuff like that going on in your own city. Then near the end of the story the paper quotes one of the neighbours saying:

 People were constantly coming in and out of that house.

And right away I think,”Ah! Drug dealers!” And I feel better and safer because I’m not a drug dealer so now I don’t have to worry anymore about guys with baseball bats coming to beat me up in my home.

And then I think, “Hmmm, in every article I read about home invasions and other violence like this they always quote a neighbour saying exactly the same thing, and I always right away assume that means they were drug dealers. What if they were just really sociable people?”

 But that’s crazy. Of course they’re probably drug dealers and the police and the community and the journalist all know it. And probably that’s exactly what the neighbour said to the reporter, but the reporter can’t put that in the paper, so he cleverly gets the neighbour to tell him how he knows they’re drug dealers and then, of course the neighbour will go on to describe how people were coming and going all the time and – bingo – we have a very evocative code phrase that every reader will understand.

But this isn’t going to be a rant about the big, bad media. Because I reckon we need to take news with the same “buyer beware” attitude that we take with every other product we use or consume.

And really, newspapers have come a hell of a long way since their infancy back in the early 17^th century. The first English language newspaper was actually printed in Amsterdam around 1620 because of bizarre printing laws in England forbidding stuff like this.

Newspapers back then and for a long, long time after that were filled with gossip, inuendo, sensational stories, advertisement and fiction – but you had no way of knowing really which was which.

Here’s an excerpt from The Athenian Mercury of Tuesday, February 28, 1693. See if you can spot anything particularly surprising regarding the language in this clipping. (It embiggens if you click on it)

Canada didn’t have a newspaper until 1752 – The Halifax Gazette. The two-page tabloid featured news copied from British, European, New England papers along with some local political and business information. Halifax had only been settled 3 years before that and had a population of only 4000, so it didn’t need much of a paper.

The most interesting thing about The Halifax Gazette is that it is probably North America’s longest running newspaper as it’s still being published in Nova Scotia under the name, The Royal Gazette. Quebec would dispute this claim however since their Chronicle Telegraph calls itself the oldest newspaper in North America.             

In the US, the first newspaper was published by Ben Franklin’s older brother, James – The New England Courant in 1721.

This is a clipping from that paper which appears to be a letter to the editor, but which is really a satircal essay written for the paper by a 15-year-old Benajamin Franklin.

Anyway, I seem to have veered way off track from my original thought (which I think about the nature of newspaper reportage in case you’ve lost track, too). So, in closing I just want to remind you that if you see your name in the newspaper and you’re described as “a person of interest” that does not mean you’re the Dos Equis guy or that some copper has the hots for you.

Authorities diverted a Bogota, Colombia-bound Continental Airlines flight to Florida on Friday because of a “potential person of interest” … CNN

A Conversation

Daughter: If I ask you a question will you promise to answer it without asking any follow-up questions?

Mother: No, because the question needs follow-up questions in order for me to answer it or you wouldn’t have asked me that.

Daughter: Fine! Nevermind!

Mother: No, go ahead ask the question.

Daughter: I don’t want to.

Mother: Yes, you do. You’re dying to ask me and it’s obviously about some boy you want to go out with that you think I won’t approve of.

Daughter: OH MY GOD! How do you know that? You’re soooooo weird.

Mother: Please. I know you better than you know yourself. It’s my motherly job. Ask the question.

Daughter: No!

Mother: Ask it.

 Daughter: Okay. Here’s the question. What’s the maximum age for someone you’ll let me go out with? And just answer it without asking me a bunch of stuff, pleeeease.

 Mother: 40.

 Daughter: What? Ewwwww! You’d let me go out with a 40-year-old man?

 Mother: See? You’re asking follow-up questions. Sometimes they’re important.

 Daughter: Very funny. How old, really?

 Mother: I don’t know – maybe 19. Depends on the guy and the circumstances. How old is this guy?

 Daughter: 19

 Mother: Where do you know a 19-year-old guy from?

 Daughter: Through my friend Shelley that I work with.

 Mother: When did you meet this guy?

 Daughter: I don’t know. I’ve talked to him lots of times.

 Mother: In real life or on chat?

 Daughter: In real life, too.

 Mother: And he’s not in high school anymore, right?

Daughter: No, he’s in university. Didn’t you ever go out with university guys when you were in high school?

 Mother: Yes, and I thought it was really cool at the time, but when I was in university I thought it was really creepy when a university guy went out with a high school girl.

 Daughter: Oh so I suppose it would be better if he’d flunked out a lot and was still in high school at 19?

 Mother: No, of course not.

 Daughter: Well, you said I could go out with a 19-year-old. What did you think he’d be doing?

Mother: Touché. I’ll change my answer to 18.

 Daughter: NOoooOOOooooo! You can’t do that!!

Mother: You should be sticking to guys your own age anyway.

 Daughter: I’ll be 18 in a couple of months

 Mother: You’ll be 18 in 8 months. You just turned 17.

Daughter: Whatever. It’s your own fault for sending me to an arts school where there are hardly any boys and the ones that are there are all gay.

Mother: You wanted to go there. I did warn you.

Daughter: How was I supposed to know they were going to be that gay? Anyway, can I go out with this guy or not?

 Mother: Where are you planning to go with this boy?

Daughter: I don’t know. For coffee, he said.

Mother: Oh, so just around the corner at Starbucks? And you’ll meet him there one afternoon like?

Daughter: I don’t know. We might go somewhere else. He has a car.

Mother: Ha ha ha ha ha HA! And you think I’m going to let you drive off in a car with some 19-year-old university guy I’ve never met?

Daughter: He can come in first so you can meet him.

Mother: No. I suggest you just meet him over at Starbucks the first time and see how it goes or go with Shelley and him and some other people. It’s never a good idea, no matter how old you are to drive off on a first date with someone you barely know.

Daughter: Fiiiiiiiiiiine!!!!!

So You Wanna Be a Hobo…

I’ve always been a bit restless when it comes to putting down roots. A lot of people happily live out their whole lives in the same town in which they were born. My grandfather (my mother’s father) died in the same house in which he was born. I probably get my vagabond leanings from the other side of the family.

As I’ve mentioned a few times before, I’m not much of a nester. I move some place, unpack my stuff, put it away and that’s about the extent of my nesting. I like to move. I like to find my way around new neighbourhoods and meet new people.

For a long time, as a teenager and young adult, I considered becoming a hobo.

We should probably define hobo. A hobo is different from a street person or homeless person — usually because a hobo chooses his or migratory lifestyle. Traditional, Depression-era hobos travelled around working at various farms and picking up odd jobs wherever they could. This was quite different from a tramp, who only worked when he was forced to or a bum, who never worked at all.

Hobos, then and now, normally stay away from cities and try to find work on farms where passersby are more liable to be hired.

Back on our farm we would have people stopping by once in a while looking for work. We had a one-room cottage on the farm with a bed and a stove and fridge where these migratory workers would stay. There was a pump for water and an outhouse that served as the rest of the bathroom. They’d get paid at the end of every day in cash and they came and went as they pleased. Most of them were single guys, young or old. There were a few couples. And then there were some more memorable hobos.

We had one young fella – who was a dashing combination of  James Dean and Elvis —  show up one day with two young ladies. He said one of them was his sister and the other his girlfriend – not that anybody asked. The three of them lived in that cottage for a whole summer one year. It was incredibly scandalous. We’d have all sorts of fun over supper every night swapping stories about what we’d seen them doing or what we’d overheard them saying that day and/or speculating on what strange kind of relationship they must have to be all sleeping together in one double bed.

They worked hard though and did a good job picking fruit, so we let them get on with it.

One summer when I was about 14 or 15, I remember a young girl arrived who couldn’t have been more than 2 or 3 years older than I was. I thought she was the coolest thing ever, wandering around all on her own like that. She looked like the quintessential hippy and was travelling with a mangy dog named Boo – after the Lobo song.  

She stayed for almost a week and I’d sit outside with her every night while she told me about all the stuff she’d seen and done. One morning she wasn’t there anymore. I was heartbroken. She didn’t even say good-bye. I kept expecting her to come back, but she never did.

But she’d given me a lot of good tips and advice on how to become a hobo. After that, I put extra effort into my research. I had a list of WWOOFs (World Wide Opportunities on Organic Farms)  from all over where I could have gone to work and where I could have stayed.

I also had some ideas on how I could get around. Once upon a time it was easier to travel for cheap or even for free than it is now. A girl I knew used to go to the local airport and hitch rides with private airplanes. Probably, you can’t do that any more. Also, she was very well-developed and “easy going”, so getting a ride was a snap for her.

I don’t know if companies are still allowed to hire freelancers to carry packages to other countries/states/provinces. You could sign up with some courier database and a company would pay your one-way airfare if you took along whatever it was they needed to have sent to some other place.

There were also once opportunities for almost free last-minute trips by plane, train or bus. I never really considered hopping freight trains. I couldn’t figure out how hobos did that. I’m guessing trains were slower in the hobo heyday.

I’d also applied to crew on various cruise ships and freight ships as a means of getting around.

I was systematically paring down my possessions so I would only have a backpack of stuff to carry around.  I opted for a backpack because the stick and kerchief thing seemed pretty cumbersome and not very efficient. How much stuff could you really carry in a kerchief anyway? And how does it help you to tie it to a stick? It’s awkward to walk around with a stick slung over your shoulder all the time. I suppose the stick makes a good weapon, but by the time you detach your bundle of smelly socks from the stick, whoever you’re in danger from would have killed you.

Anyway, along with the WWOOFs I also had a list of “intentional communities” that welcomed travelers and a list of hostels where a young person could sleep and shower and maybe work for a while for his or her keep.

I’m not much fond of sleeping outdoors or living in the same underwear for more than a day at a time, so I could definitely see some drawbacks to the nomadic life. But I figured I could find a way to stay clean and not have to sleep on the ground with the bugs if I really, really put my mind to it.

In 1937, Esquire Magazine published an article called “The Bum Handbook.” One of the tips outlined there was to always be clean so that you’d have a better chance of getting work. I, too see no reason why you have to be crusty and stinky just because you’re a hobo. There’s a lot of free soap and water around.

I also always had big plans to make it to Britt, Iowa by the second weekend of every August  to attend the National Hobo Convention. It’s been held there since 1900 and is the largest regular gathering of hobos in the country – probably even the world.

There’s a hobo jungle (camp) set up for sleeping and fat-chewing, a parade, a hobo museum, hobo auction, hobo memorial service, a flea market (probably with actual fleas), hobo gift shop (I have no idea what they’d sell), and lots of music, food and the all the other stuff that usually attaches itself to a festival.

I never entirely gave up this notion of becoming a hobo. However, as per yesterday’s post, these days I’m a little too attached to travelling first class, or at least with a pre-booked ticket, to seriously consider hitting the road. But I really think if XUP Jr. hadn’t come along and tethered me, I would have been some form of hobo. Fortunately, XUP Jr.  likes to keep moving, too, so we’ve managed to get around somewhat, while still adhering to that stable home-life thing.

I once even made a point of memorizing all that hobo symbol stuff, though I don’t know why. It’s not like anyone uses them anymore.

Hobos also have (had) their own hobo lingo. I tried to learn some of it so I wouldn’t look so much like an angellina (a newbie hobo). Here are some other cute hobo sayings to keep in mind in case you ever decide to become a hobo:

• Bindle stick – yes, there’s a name for that kerchief tied around a stick thing! Not to be confused with a bindlestiff – which is a nasty hobo who steals from other hobos
• Banjo – That small frying pan you need to cook your bullets (beans)
• Snipes – Cigarette butts. I don’t know where this word comes from All I know for sure is that it has nothing to do with Wesley Snipes
• California Blankets- Newspapers that you use for blankets
• Jungle – A hobo camp
• Jungle Buzzard- A hobo or other evil person who preys on hobos.
• Barnacle – A hobo or any other person who stays in the same job for a long time
• Blowed-in-the-glass – If a hobo calls you that, it means you’re trustworthy. I can’t for the life of me figure where that means
• Catch the Westbound – If you’ve caught the westbound it means you’re dead
• Chuck a dummy – Pretending to faint, which is a good way to get people to feed you
• Doggin’ it- Traveling by bus, as in Greyhound. Aren’t hobos clever?
• Mulligan Stew- The hobo version of “stone soup”. All the hobos in the jungle toss whatever they have into the pot and everyone enjoys a delightful meal. One of the primary hobo credos always was “what goes around, comes around” – so sharing whatever little you had with fellow hobos guaranteed that when you were down on your luck, someone would share with you.

A Little Luxury

I spent the weekend and most of last week in Toronto on a course for work. It was a tough course and I still have the exam to write, but it was nice to be in the big city again.

One of the nicest parts of the trip though was VIA1.

If we’re going somewhere close and we choose to take the train instead of flying, the rules of government travel allow us to take the train – business class. I like the train anyway. It takes a little longer to get where you’re going but it’s so much more comfortable than a plane and you don’t have to show up hours ahead of time.

In fact, about 3 or 4 years ago I did a post about rail travel in general, pointing out how train travel was a much more human way to travel. I got a lot of interesting comments about why people do or do not travel by train, so I forwarded the link for the post to VIA rail. I never got a response, but about 6 months or so later VIA rail came out with their fabulous new slogan: A More Human Way to Travel. Coincidence? Maaaaaaybeeeeee.

I’ve never traveled VIA business class though. I always thought, “Meh, so I get a little more leg room….is it worth the extra money?”

Well, let me tell you, it’s totally worth the extra money. First of all, instead of lining up while you wait for your train to arrive, business class passengers get to hang out in the Panorama Lounge! A totally separate room, with comfy leather sofas, subdued lighting, soft music. There’s a fridge full of complimentary cold drinks and a hot drink machine, a handsome variety of newspapers and a selection of magazines.

You get to board ahead of everyone else and they actually heave your bags up the steps for you. Before the train has even taken off, one of the two staff dedicated to the VIA1 car comes around offering you a little snack from the snack basket. Once the train is underway, they come around offering drinks – booze even – for free!!

And then they give you a hot towel to wash up with before lunch is served.

There’s a hot meal included in the fare. They bring around a menu so you can choose from 3 options. A whole variety of special request meals are also available. And the food is served on real, ceramic dishes with little stainless steel flatware. And it comes with wine – all the wine you want. It’s still travel food, and I wouldn’t rush back to eat it if it was in a restaurant, but it beats airplane cuisine all to heck.

And when it’s time for coffee and tea, it comes with a little chocolate.

But aside from all the food and drinks, it’s also very quiet and empty in business class. No kids kicking the back of your seat. No babies wailing for the entire 5-hour trip. No sweaty person with a loud iPod squeezed in next to you taking over your armrest.

Nope, I had 2 seats all to myself. Luxury. I can’t think of a better way to travel –  unless it’s one of those rock-star buses where you can stretch out and sleep in your very own leopard-print water bed in the back. while groupies feed you peeled grapes.

But VIA 1 is good.

Too bad the government won’t spring for anything above a standard hotel room. Once I did a course where the hotel room was included – a first class suite at a Hilton. The room was amazing, but I’d still rather stay at a Fairmont.

Fairmonts are usually older, elegant properties and the staff is trained for optimum client service. They make you feel like royalty.

Ah…it’s been a nice week.

What’s the most luxury you’ve ever experienced while traveling or otherwise?