Rites of Passage

My boy. His band's most recent track - I think.

My boy who lives here - Kev and I have just rescued from a bathroom floor in Point Grey. He'll be a sorry mess tomorrow, hangover and permanent marker. Rites of Passage.

Yesterday, Vancouver was luminous. The sun was shining, the mountains were snow capped, the trees were in bud. Today, rain. The mountains are, of course, still snow-capped, presumably more so since the rain falls as snow up there, and the trees are still in bud. The birds seem a bit hacked off though.

In Britain, as a general rule, it's difficult to find parking, and particularly in cities. There are never enough car parks, side streets either have double yellow lines (no parking) or are full of cars that have found a space and are guarding it for dear life.
Also, as a general rule, you're aware of this and don't drive anywhere you can't be sure of finding a parking space. This works most places, but I remember visiting my sister when she was living outside of Norwich. You had to drive into the main city, but on this occasion, we could not find parking anywhere, we drove around and around and eventually went home.

Now when I moved here, I discovered that people DO drive into cities, that there is parking along side streets, main streets, that there are normally adequate car parks, but people here don't think they should have to pay for parking and so there is generally plenty of space in them.

Until Wednesday.
Wednesday.
Having driven out to visit my friend in hospital, I arrived to find that yet another swathe of the hospital car park was fenced off. I tried every part of the grounds, every hospital parking lot and visited every side street I could get to. This is so not one of the areas where I wish Canada would emulate Britain, so not.

But I have found another thing that could happily go the other way. I love the pot luck. That needs to be happening properly in Britain - where pot luck just means 'you'll get whatever's in the cupboard/fridge'. But now, I want to introduce the 'Toonie Party'.
Gail told me about this today, and it's a real example of joined-up thinking.

So, kids' parties.
And the 'toonie'.
The toonie is our highest denomination coin, being a two-dollar piece.
When kids go to the toonie party, instead of bringing a gift, they bring three coins, any coins, but obviously can't be more than a toonie. One goes into a jar for the birthday girl or boy to use to buy something they actually want. The second goes into a jar that will go into the kid's savings account, and the third goes into a jar for charity.
Impressive.

Outside the Zone

At the weekend, we watched the film, 'Social Network'. I had no expectations of it. None. I put it on, partly expecting to return to reading my book. In fact, I found it very engaging. The story was about the rise and rise of Facebook and its founders and the subsequent law suits brought against the central pillock.
The strength of the film for me was that you could understand every point of view, you could see how they got there, how relationships get shipwrecked. How ideas morph and how people don't see that happening.

I've been mulling over a couple of things. On Monday, one of my friends, and someone whose thoughts I'm normally in line with, said that every woman likes a bad boy. Even leaving aside the sexual aspect of that statement, my first thought was, er...no. And upon deeper reflection, I still feel, er....NO. And not even in a dominatrix way. No, no, no. So why do I not feel even vaguely drawn to the bad boys?

I wondered if it were because I have three sons (the eldest pictured above at the front of 'the classroom of the future'). My friend has daughters. But that explanation didn't ring true to me.
So maybe it's because, as a secondary school teacher, everything I had to do and achieve in my job, was continually being sabotaged by bad boys.
The girls who were bad tended to either blow up quickly and so could be dealt with, or not turn up. The boys who were badly behaved had a much more far-reaching impact. Their destruction was like a constant jackhammer thudding away, and a thudding which was rewarded by the girls and women who 'liked the bad boys'.
I just can't be doing with them, just cannot be arsed. Give me the intelligent, thoughtful ones any day.

The other thing on my mind is the edge between comfort zones and standards. In my department at Mayhem, there were people who could not be moved outside of their comfort zones. Now this was quite a feat, to be honest. The government had an entire department monitoring and disseminating all recent research in every area of education. It was like having a large dog standing behind you the whole time, biting your bum if you even started to get complacent. It was challenging, but edifying. And it was that pushing beyond the comfort zone that allowed standards to rise. Ironically, my comfort-zone clinging colleagues, would always claim that they were just trying to keep up standards.
So now why, when I see examples of the dumbing down of the language, do I think that standards are slipping, rather than that I'm scared of stepping out of my comfort zone and embracing them? Here's an example. At the U.S. border, there is a correct sign for 'oversized vehicles'. When we return to Canada, we see an incorrect one for 'oversize vehicles'.
I have heard people describe something as 'cliché' rather than clichéd, the first is a noun, the second an adjective.

My answer is that keeping up standards is really not very comfortable. I have to personally step outside of my comfort zone every time I challenge the dumbing down.

Another film we watched at the weekend, because recommended by Sleepy, was 'The Last Hangman'. Provocative. A film that takes you well out of your comfort zone not just for the subject matter, but because it is so exceptionally well acted. I swear that Juliet Stevenson can sometimes suggest an entire internal conversation by a slight movement of one eyelid. But as with the book, 'The Hangman's Daughter', the hangman does his job as well as he possibly can, never taking the fact that his job is taking lives for granted, and always, always, Timothy Spall shows us a man so far outside of his comfort zone that he has to mentally and emotionally ringfence it and never visit it until the next time. And the next time, and every time, he strives to be the human face of inhumanity.

One of Those Days

Some days you wake up and have a feeling that it will be 'one of those days', and it is. Today, for example. But I'd like to know whether it's a self-fulfilling prophecy or whether it's a real premonition, because one you can change, the other you just have to weather.

It's blustery. Anyone who has ever worked in a school knows that the wind affects the behaviour of children. Probably animals too, and who knows, maybe everything and everyone.

I went to the hospital to visit my friend. The first thing I was confronted with was the absence of any parking space. Some kind of building work is going on and the car parks were all fenced off.
I'd like to go by public transport, which would in fact be cheaper and more ethical, but it would also take an extra two hours out of my day.

As I arrive, since I know my friend has moved wards since Friday, I have to pick up the telephone on the front desk to ask what ward she's in.
You can't go ten paces in this hospital without hand sanitiser, but here I am confronted by a phone, one of the most unsanitary pieces of equipment in any home, let alone hospital. The man at the desk has some wipes.

'Could I have one of those wet wipes please?'
'No,'
'Why not?'
'You have to use latex gloves with the wipes,'
'Why?'
'I don't know,'
'Could I have a latex glove then?'
'I'm not allowed to give them out,'
'Right,' so I take some hand sanitiser and smear it on the phone with a tissue.

Across a crowded lobby, I am singled out by an elderly Sikh couple who speak only three words of English. I finally ascertain that they are trying to visit a relative who has given birth, and thanks to the colour coded wall charts, I was able to send them in the right direction.

Upstairs, my friend wants me to find a priest for her who visited last week. I know from previous experience that this is like finding the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.

I go to the desk.

'My friend would like a visit from the hospital chaplain please, he visited her last week on the other ward. All I know about him is that he's the hospital chaplain and he's Iraqi,'
'Does he wear glasses?'
'I don't know,'
'Is his name Ian?'
'Sorry, I don't know, all I know is that he's the hospital chaplain and he's Iraqi,'
'Is he Muslim?'
'No, he's a priest,'
'I see, but he's Iranian?'
'No, Iraqi,'
'Right, Iraqi, well, I think you mean Ian. He only comes on certain days,'[answers phone]
'Well, could we get in touch with him?'
'I think he might come on a Monday,'
'Good, good, if he does turn up, could he see my friend?'
'I'm not sure if today is one of his days though,'
'Ok, well, if it is....'

When I get outside again, two women stop me and ask if I know where they might have parked their car. By a process of illuminating elimination, I point out that the hospital is bounded on two sides by major highways, so work out in which direction their car must be. They want to know how they get there. I make some suggestions.

As the day goes, it's only half time.

On 'Harry's Law' this week, her first client brings her a priest who wants to talk to a lawyer.
'I've brought you a priest,' he says, 'in case you need spiritual guidance,'
'That's OK,' says Harriet, 'I self-medicate.'

Ribbet, Rabbit

Ah, Thursday, and not, as my photo would have anyone believe, frosty, but raining again.
Chinese New Year - the Rabbit, not good for us Roosters apparently.
Teenagers were letting off fire-crackers over in the park before sundown yesterday. One of the dogwalkers met me as I was returning, her dog had been seriously terrorised the day before by the dog that looks like a meercat, she didn't like the sound of the firecrackers and scuttled away.
I had left it until the last moment to go to a meeting which was due to start at 17.30, bad move, there had been a big accident on the main road and everything was at a standstill.

A propos of very little, I've been trying to persevere with British Sea Power today - it's not doing it for me, I had to have a blast of Stone Roses as an antidote.

Yesterday, there was a most excellent post on Figleaf's blog, about male rape in prisons.
I had never thought about this as a serious issue, I must admit. The only time it is talked about is as a threat on TV shows, so it's easy to think it's just a fiction.
The U.S. Justice System is now taking it seriously and has produced a draft paper on reform. We wouldn't and don't tolerate other abuses in the corrections system, so why the hell would be tolerate this? It is the absolute anathema to human dignity. Figleaf himself makes some interesting points about this issue. For one, he sometimes sees comments on feminist posts about rape, complaining that men get raped too. He says that if each one of those commentators had at the same time complained to their congressperson, reform might have happened sooner. In fact, it is from a feminist initiative that this has now come to pass.
Even so, one of the commentators on the post itself, spews the usual vitriol. Feminists would not take on this issue if they didn't gain more out of it than men.
Well duh, almost by definition. Since women are the disadvantaged sex, it's virtually impossible to find an area where equality wouldn't improve things more for women than for men.
And this person is also over-looking the fact that, since feminist theory is based quite significantly on the terms 'feminine' and 'masculine' being culturally created and not referring to any natural phenomenon in the way that 'female' and 'male' are, men are benefited in general by feminists challenging these stereotypes. Many men suffer greatly from a culturally imposed ideal of what it means to be masculine.

Kevin sent me an article by a woman who highlights that sometimes, feminists seem to have a very white-middle-class-ableist-cis centred focus. And I have seen this criticism before, clearly if this is the experience of some, then it is going on and needs to be addressed. This particular writer calls us out over the 'forgotten' areas of Inclusive Language. I must admit, I hadn't thought about the expression 'to step up...' It is a very thorough look at the issues and the problems when people are exclusionary in their use of language. She also gives a list of all the nonsense people come out with when challenged.
She's spot on. Heard them all.

Opium

As promised, here is NOT a picture of a returned sock. After five days, the sock was returned not via the pooposphere, but barfed back intact. Thank-you Di for reassuring me with the tale of the Tesco's bag that took a week to pass through a hound. And I've learnt to always put my boots away when I've stuffed my socks in them.

I've been to the hairdresser's and had more than my share of the day-to-day lives of people who exist purely for magazines. In fact there was one that had pictures entitled, 'Celebs do the same things we do!' or some such tosh, and pictures of well-known people actually doing things like shopping, breathing and walking. What is wrong with me that I even opened the stupid thing and thus know that?

I find it utterly bizarre that people have complained to the British Advertising Standards Authority about an ad for Yves Saint Laurent's perfume, 'Belle d'Opium' on the grounds that the advert suggests drug use. YSL has had a perfume called Opium for donkey's years, have none of them ever noticed it had the name of a drug? Or....is it alright to name your perfume after a drug, but not ok to point it out?
Also, showing the model doing something that suggests drug use, does this render the perfume a gateway drug? Like, you've never done any drug taking before, but when you see the TV ad with the model being all languid and druggy, do you think,
'Blimey, I'd never thought of taking drugs before, I'd better get off my backside and go down the chemist's,' ? (This person wouldn't know the diff between Boots the Chemist and a drug dealer, natch).

To some, no doubt, religion is their opium, to others, opium is their religion, to yet more, opium is just a perfume.

Telly-bites

It's difficult to pick out individual lines from the superbly scripted new David E. Kelley series, 'Harry's Law'. The Harry in question is Harriet Korn, played by Kathy Bates. One line I particularly liked this week, was when, after being berated by a woman who seemed particularly obnoxious, she says,
'Do you have a name, or do people just use adjectives?'

We're a few episodes behind with Series 8 of Shameless, but the one we watched on Saturday afternoon was totally up to standard. The opening sequence parodied a stylised TV ad where someone moves in sensual slow motion to Nina Simone's 'Feeling Good'.
Later, classic Mimi Maguire. In response to the husband of a friend, both of the couple black, claiming that no-one understands what it is to be black, she looks him straight in the eye and points to herself,
'Woman,' she says, '-black! Scouser - black! fat - black! working class - black!'
Excellent. And so right.

The second episode of the U.S. Being Human was just as brilliant as the first, only....I'm embarrassed to say that it's not a U.S. series, it's Canadian. Half U.S. actors, half Canadian. Fully brilliant.

Turdicus Sockus

One of the bits of French literature that is almost universally loved by everyone who studies it, is Rabelais. I hesitate to describe him as 'a bit of French literature' rather than a writer, but he is a legend, even to the extent of having lent his name to an English word.
'Rabelaisian' means

"Pronunciation:/ˌrabəˈleɪzɪən/
adjective : displaying earthy humour; bawdy:
the conversation was often highly Rabelaisian " (OED)

Rabelais was a Renaissance French writer who soundly satirised the institutions of the time, ergo comedic. When I studied Rabelais I learnt the adjective 'scatological', which was defined for us in French as comedy of the 'bas-ventre' - the lower belly. Toilet humour.

Basically, I'm trying to make it sound alright to have an obsession with poo, which I have done for the last three days, Whisky's poo.

"Around Wednesday lunchtime, officer, a little after midday, I came upon the small canine with a white, Nike trainer sock in its mouth. I grabbed at the aforementioned article of foot clothing, but the dog backed away, whereupon I approached it with a stern face and making deep, reprimanding noises. The dog started to chew the sock rapidly and the overhanging parts quickly disappeared inside its cakehole. Upon prising it open, I could see no trace of the sock."

Ok, So, unless Whisky has some mouthpart equivalent of a magician's sleight of hand, he ate a trainer sock.
It has not yet re-appeared. I have monitored every poo, all of which have seemed entirely normal, but no trace of the sock. I have ascertained that under normal circumstances, food passes through a dog's system in twelve hours, I must therefore assume that much of what has come out one end, has gone in the other since Wednesday.

I also assume that therefore it's still in there somehow, somewhere, hopefully not tangled up in his intestines, necessitating expensive surgery following extreme doggy discomfort, but like I said, stuff IS passing through.

If the turdicus sockus ever appears, it will be greeted with the same amount of respect and honour as a poo bearing the face of some saint or religious leader, although I promise not to photograph it and post it on the blog. And if it happens whilst we're down here in the States, it'll be going in the fire pit.
Quod erat NON demonstrandum.

And yes, I am blogging for the first time ever from the Static, by virtue of the magical capabilities of my very own electrical engineering wizard. As Catweazle used to say, 'electrickery'.
I'm about as gobsmacked with this as I would be if he'd conjured up a giant bunny using only words and glittery powders. And way more than I was when the sock disappeared into Whisky's gullet, and I was pretty damned gobsmacked then.

Magic.

Vampire, Werewolf, Ghost and Witch

The U.S. version of the British drama 'Being Human' is, in my opinion, better than the original. It takes the ideas behind the series and pushes them further. Now that I've seen the U.S. one, the original seems a bit 'Friendsy'. They haven't stuck to the British scripts nor even the supporting characters, but the main characters seem more tortured, creepier, darker and thus sexier. I know, that last statement could use some exploring, but not right now.

A friend recommended a book to me, 'The Hangman's Daughter' by Oliver Pötzsch. Bizarrely, I was only able to find it at The Book Depository, so having imported it from England, it turns out that it's a U.S. American translation. I mention this merely for the bizarreness of it. No doubt I could have schlepped down the I5 and found it at Borders.
But anyhoo. It is a very engaging and edifying read. It's interesting when modern authors write about subject matter that we would view quite differently today. The Hangman himself is one of the central characters, and he not only dispatches people, but it is his job also to torture them. To some extent he judges too. When he is convinced that the townspeople have condemned someone unjustly, he makes sure they have been sufficiently medicated so that they suffer as little as possible. If he is executing a monster, he can also adjust the suffering upwards.
And the mystery takes place at a time of alleged witchcraft.
It is one of those reads that you want to both devour at one sitting, and yet eke out for as long as possible.

Miracle and Wonder

These are the days of miracle and wonder.
Laurence's dad went out and bought the Paul Simon album 'Graceland' that that track was on, after Laurence's birth. And it must have seemed like that when you've witnessed your first child being born.
But the downside of miracle and wonder is freakish pain and suffering. From my end, of course I was glad it was over and that I had my second child, but labour, in many ways, is misnamed. Not that you don't have to work, but basically, it's about suffering. I suppose that,
'My partner's going into suffering now,' smacks of ordeal and you don't want women to catch on.

On Monday, I went in to visit my friend, whose own suffering had now gone on for over a week, and wasn't going to end in a birth, only to find her eyes open, focussing and completely awake and aware. But for the tube still going into her lungs, she would have been able to talk.
So what's the downside of this miracle? Well, of course, she was still attached to all the machines, and her heart is in worse shape than when she went in, so the downside might be that she's conscious and can go through the whole ordeal all over again.
I came back on Monday afternoon, full of the joys of miracle and wonder, but by Monday evening, I was weepy again, fearful once more of that sense of loss.

Oh the bitter fruit of the tree of cynicism.

Silent in Seattle...or not

Chinese Whispers used to be a game where a message gets whispered down a line until it reaches the end, mangled into something amusing.
I imagine the game still exists, but called something else.

I'm sure it must have been so-named because, for the Chinese, it is rude to whisper, so in order to be polite, you have to shout. Apparently, even if you're standing facing a long line of houses, ranting about how glad you are that you, a Mainland Chinese person, didn't buy one of these houses because they're full of Chinese people, as long as you shout it, it's not rude.
If you stop before another row of houses and bang on about how this is low-income housing, but you saw a Mercedes outside of one the other day, so long as it's at full volume, again - not rude at all.
Thus, since you're not being rude, you might as well share your opinion about the Chinese people who come over, buy two houses, have a million dollars in their bank account and still get money from the government on account of their having no income.

So what could possibly stop this swathe of verbal destruction? Imagine a crescendo of incoherence directed at a government who should both ban smoking, yet stop telling people where they can and can't do it? Who should both legalise and ban pot smoking?

The answer is - another dog-walker, one from Hong Kong. The stand-off, whilst the three dogs sniff around each other, unaware of the political static up above, culminates in a last stab at Chinese mountain people who give their children ridiculous names.
Then exit stage left, leaving me in a loop of misunderstanding.

'Have you been in Seattle?'
'No, we don't go to....n'mind....we only go at the weekend,'
'So, you were in Seattle,'
'No, and....only at the weekend,'
'You long time in Seattle?'
'Er, ok.'
Sigh.

Half an hour ago, before the insults began, there was a shouted phone convo in English. The shouting makes it difficult to keep a polite enough distance not to hear. A bottle of Tequila had been re-gifted, a win-win. The original gift had clearly been one of the high quality, expensive bottles that was well-received by the re-giftee and not understood to be such by the re-gifter.

Life in the loud lane.

Allsorts

Picture courtesy of Di, from way back.

I'm finding it insanely difficult to concentrate or focus. Whisky has the same problem, so we have just returned from a walk. The sky is lighter, later.

Sarah Palin's popularity is waning. I guess that's good.

It's a long time since I watched Coronation Street, but I did like this series of photos, even though I knew very few of the actors. William Roache must have one of those portraits in the attic that age for him though. He has always looked the age he looks now. In real life, he's 78, I have no idea how old Ken Barlow is supposed to be.

This morning, I went to visit my friend in hospital. M (Bozo5) was already there. He said the priest had finally called, we have been trying to get one for ten days now. The priest said he'd received the message on Saturday, but had been busy. Good thing St. Peter's been backlogged on admissions then, eh?
In the middle of giving last rites, he forgot our friend's name. Good thing God knows every sparrow that falls then, eh?

Poet Liz Lochhead has been appointed as chief poet of Scotland, a role that carries the title of 'Makar'. Alright then. I know not of her poetry, but now I will make it my task to do so. She certainly has a Scottish enough name, I would expect that at least in Glasgow, they'd pronounce it 'Loghheed'.

My current reading is 'The Beauty of Humanity Movement' by Camilla Gibb ('Sweetness in the Belly'). I'm enjoying it, although it was a little slow to start, but I like the challenge of reading about a country I hadn't given much thought to. It's set in the Vietnam of today-ish. There is one oddity about the book though. From time to time, she uses the wrong word. For example, she says that some animal was 'beating itself selfless', instead of senseless. There are at least a couple more of these malapropisms, which makes me wonder about the editor as much as the writer. Weird.

The Long, Dark Insomnia of the Soul

I now know some of the hospital smokers by sight. I know how they get there in their wheelchairs.
I have bought food in unfamiliar supermarkets, and found that people still ask me questions.
'Is this French bread?'
The woman behind the bread counter tries to help, but the man only wants my opinion, although part of my opinion he needs translated into Punjabi by his companion. The woman behind the bread counter tries to assist IN Punjabi, but clearly it's just not the same.

At the hospital, we know the nurses by first name, and they change. Over the week and a bit my friend has gone from respiratory care to cardiac, to advanced cardiac to ICU. She has gone from being able to talk to me through intermittent coughing that I thought would end in her choking to death as she turned purple, to asking for death as her lungs filled up with fluid that her heart couldn't deal with, to being kept alive on a respirator, sedated, because whilst conscious, no-one can deal with the horror of the ventilator that both suffocates and keeps you alive.

On Saturday, while she was still in and out of consciousness, the ICU doctor said he would not admit her to ICU because there was nothing that could be done about her heart, therefore there was no recovery possible. He would only do it if her breathing failed before her family arrived from other parts of Canada.
I guess it did.

My own personal journey with her over the past week has been from being distressed at her distress, but assuming she'd be out again, hell, she even said to me, 'I'll be out next week,' to having to imagine her not being there, not on e-mail, not for us to visit, just in our memories.
Yesterday I read to her until I was sick of the sound of my own voice. I watched the ICU nurses care for her so gently and respectfully, allowing her dignity while she hovers on the edge of the eternal sleep.

And as you do, when you've been close to someone, everything makes you think of them. She is 81, and even while she faltered, her body giving up, still full of life. She'd have said coyly of a nurse, 'oh, he's nice,' though I only partly shared her taste in men. She liked Kevin, but then also Bono.
Every Monday evening, we drove together to Writers' Group, and as soon as we were in that car, we gossiped, shared stories, talked about families, books, travel, everything.

Another friend and I both drew the analogy between dying and giving birth, the midwives that bring babies into this world and the midwives who ease us out.
This is turning into a long labour.

Life is hard. So is death. But now we're into the long, dark insomnia of the soul, until someone makes the decision to turn off the machines, or her heart seizes. God has already spoken, but down here, we're not listening.

Smoking

I think you could probably visit Vancouver, go home again and at some point wonder to yourself, 'hang on, is Canada a no-smoking country?' Were it not for the fact that Laurence smokes, I so rarely come across it as to be quite taken aback when I do.

For far longer than I've been here or visiting here, public places and places outside public places, have been smoke free, to the extent that as a non-smoker myself, I don't really think about it.

I have been visiting my friend in hospital this week and here's the irony, THAT'S where you come across it. Huddled outside the entrance to the hospital, in wheelchairs and with their drip bags on portable holders, there they are. And these are not the cool people from the smoking room at school, these are the white-faced addicts with thinning hair who place their chairs in front of the pedestrian walkway. I must assume the hospital allow them to congregate there so as to discourage young people from taking it up, and encourage old lags to kick the habit.

Although Canada got same sex marriage the same month and year they got me, it is ten years since the first legal same sex marriage was performed in this country - in Toronto.

I also loved this post on the same blog, Satan is making people criticise Sarah Palin. Yeah, right, you didn't know they were separate beings did ya?

Charmless

I wish, wish, wish, that U.S. TV would go back to making series that are 'based on' British ones, rather than simply re-making them, which really does not work.

For example, 'All in the Family' worked well, and was based on ''Til Death do us Part', but was not a re-make of it. Likewise 'Three's Company', based on 'Man About the House'. 'Cybill' was apparently based on 'Absolutely Fabulous', both brilliant TV series in their own right.

But hope springs eternal, and the U.S. remake of 'Shameless' - well, I was more than happy to give it a go, especially as it has William H Macy in it, not to mention the superb Joan Cusack.
So why the feck doesn't it work? It has been going round in my head all morning, why doesn't it work?

Well, for one thing, it's set in Detroit, and this is by no means the equivalent of Manchester. Manchester is just the London of the north. Like London, it has run down areas with high unemployment, but it also is a flourishing city and one that has given rise to popular culture that can rival if not beat London hands down. The bands, the dance culture, the TV industry, the footie. The only thing it lacks are the Houses of Parliament.
Detroit strikes me as more akin to Newcastle-upon-Tyne after the shipbuilding industry collapsed.

Then there's the Chatsworth Estate itself. You have to believe in it in the same way you believe in Sleepy Hollow. The people there are the people you know, except pushed beyond the limits of what you can actually believe real people would do. The Chatsworth Estate is larger than life and the Detroit setting of the U.S. version just seems to be rundown life.

The same goes for the characters. Frank Gallagher is falling down drunk or stoned, 24 hours a day, he lurches, he shuffles, but in spite of that, he'll be sitting at the bar in The Jockey and come out with the deepest philosophy or knowledge of literature that you can imagine, just as a casual remark. And women want to have sex with him. He is the most unsexy pile of humanity, and were he real, couldn't possibly ever manage it, but Frank the character just does.
Unfortunately, William H Macy didn't succeed in convincing me he was even drunk enough. He seemed more threatening than Frank. Frank is just a bloody nuisance with criminal tendencies.

Joan Cusack's character was similarly lacking in one of the dimensions of Sheila Jackson. The original Sheila Jackson is a complete headcase, but sensual and sexy. There's the larger than life dimension. You can't believe that someone as technically crazy as Sheila could also be as sexual and as sexy. Cusack gets the craziness alright, but I'm going to have difficulty believing in the sensuality.

Then there's Ian, the Manchester Ian Gallagher challenges the stereotype of the gay man. He is the least pretty looking of the Gallagher lads, but he shags like a bunny. Shags blokes that is, and it all starts for us, the viewers, with him having it off with his Asian boss, Kash. Yet in spite of the difference in their status, Kash the married-to-a-woman boss, Ian the part-time worker, there is an equality between them.
But the re-make Ian is the pretty one, whilst re-make Kash is physically bigger and stronger. It's just wrong somehow.

And let's not even go there with Karen, or Kev or Flip.

I could go on deconstructing forever, but what it boils down to is this.
The people of the Chatsworth estate are like a bag of pistachios. The moment you eat one pistachio, you can't stop until the whole bag is gone. There is no question of not watching them. They have your soul until the end. And it works because it challenges stereotypes by pushing them.
The Detroit Gallaghers need you to be determined to watch them. Maybe you believe in them, maybe you don't, but you have to watch them for something, for Macy, for Cusack, whatever it is.
For me, the characters in 'It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia' are nearer to the true Gallaghers, the larger-than-life, over-the-top madness than those of this charmless version.

Quote, Unquote

"Faced with the choice between changing one's mind and proving that there is no need to do so, almost everyone gets busy on the proof." - John Kenneth Galbraith

So true, JK, so very true. Born and raised in Ontario, he always was my favourite economist, not that the dismal scientists are jostling for first place in my esteem.

So, weather-wise, last night turned quite exciting. Mid-evening, the sky just dumped snow, and kept going. Luckily, unlike flights around it on the schedule, Kevin's was neither delayed nor cancelled.
I opened the front door to peer out at the snow, and Whisky bounded out, leaping through the brilliant white landscape like a hare.
By morning though, the snow had turned to rain, so it was beginning to melt. I cleared the pavement in front of our house, as mandated, a task which was clearly easier than normal, since it moved fairly easily.

In a supreme example of the blind leading the blind, I am teaching Laurence to cook. We have done chopping onions, frying sausages, preparing, cooking and mashing spuds and other such basic stuff. I decided I would buy a basic cookbook to help with this, and research and recommendations pointed to Jamie Oliver's 'Cook with Jamie'. When it arrived, it wasn't what I was expecting, but is certainly a fabulous looking book, a bit like a family Bible really, complete with braided sewn-in bookmark.
What amuses me though, is that it has been half translated for the American market. So we have 'favorite' and 'flavor', and the oven temperatures are in Fahrenheit, rocket is arugula, but chilli is chilli instead of chili, and there is, presumably, no U.S. spelling for 'claggy' or 'proper blokes' sausage fusilli'.

The best quote from last night's 'The Good Wife'.
Alicia's Mother-in-Law to Alicia's brother,
'When did you first know you were gay?'
'Do you mean before or after I first fellated a guy?'
'Ugh, I hate that word,'
'Oh, I'm sorry. Do you mean before or after I first fellated a man?'

Oh yes!

Snow Chasing

Magic. TV has started up again. It has been barren over Christmas.
Except....whilst writing this, I have let the ads run, and there is a trailer for a new TV series on Space - 'Being Human', only...not 'Being Human' as we know it, this seems to have completely different actors in it...American ones.
Sigh.

The weather, not so co-operative. Yesterday, I schlepped over to Surrey to visit my friend in hospital. The sky looked positively pregnant with snow and lo, as I came out, snow flakes were falling. Later in the day I went out in Richmond, and the same thing happened. But did it come to anything? Did it heck as like. Or, in layperson's terms, no.

Kevin is in Texas, which sounds cool and groovy, but in fact he had to leave at 5 yesterday morning and returns at midnight tonight. In between those times, he has had to travel between airport, hotel and vendor, and apart from the airport, none of it seems to be in a major city. Also, the airport is called 'George Bush Intercontinental'. Hmmm. I believe a Texan sized steak dinner was involved somewhere, but I'm not sure that makes it all worthwhile.

I have just finished reading a book called 'The Help' by Kathryn Stockett. Absolutely brilliant. A real page turner and thought provoking too.

Human Trafficking Awareness day. Makes horrifying reading.

Weirdos

The Anglican Journal arrived at the Schloss - somewhat annoyingly since we were supposed to be receiving it by e-mail.
Anyroad. On the front cover is Mr. Tony Blair and some bald bloke....called....U.S. journalist and atheist Christopher Hitchens. Somehow, a debate between the two men in Toronto, has slipped below my radar. They were discussing whether religion is a force for good in the world, and it turns out that over twice as many people think it is bad as think it is good, ergo, Tony lost the debate with 32% of the vote and Mr. Hitchens won with 68%. It's an interesting point. I think overall, it's the evil side of religion that people see more. You don't hear about ordinary Buddhists who just go around respecting the world, likewise Wiccans, Druids, Jedi and probably a large percentage of Hindus, what we hear about in the news all the time are the imbecilic fundies of every faith, the paedophiles who abuse their position, and the out and out weirdos.

Speaking of weirdos, in YVR's winter e-mail, they tell us some of the astonishing things people try to take on a plane in their hand luggage.
Now, Several years in to the era of not taking liquids and gels, and probably ever since air travel began you weren't allowed to take scissors and knives on board, it beats me that people are still holding up the queues whilst those particular items get confiscated, but for the love of Marmite, who, WHO needs a sausage-maker on board an aircraft, and even more bizarre still, the mind boggles as to why anyone would need a cobra pickled in rice wine under ANY circumstances.

Takedown

Part of the whole Christmas ritual is taking down the decs. Every year I tell myself to remember that this went here and that worked there, and this really didn't work and every year I think that I will still remember any of this by December.

Somehow, it seemed easier as kids. Well, of course it was, we just got the excitement and none of the stress. For a kick-off, Christmas decs were largely made out of crêpe paper, fat ribbons of it that encircled the room, bisected and quartered it, attaching at the central fitting. At regular intervals, lametta would be draped where the decoration looped downwards, and over every branch of the tree already heavy with different shades of tinsel.

Every so often, a streamer of coloured paper would detach and hang, awaiting repair, a bit of sellotape here, perhaps a staple there. From time to time, a Chinese lantern would drift free of its sticky tape and fall to the floor. Likewise balloons. They would be rubbed on someone's jumper until they could be stuck by static electricity to the ceiling.
The only thing that had to be plugged in were the Christmas tree lights.

Today I put everything away. One extension cord that had joined three strings of outdoor lights, was covered with a plastic bag to protect it from the rain. But the bag was full of water that had frozen solid, and I had to leave the cable out for the ice to melt.

The place looks bare. Tidy, but bare. The decorations have been stored in their new Ikea boxes, two for $6.49.
A man in Ikea said he thought they were adorable.
Like everything in Ikea really.

Friends and Allies

Frost upon frost the past few days. Tomorrow is supposed to warm up, but not in a good, snowy way.
Outside in the darkness, the pavement sparkles as though sprinkled or sprayed with glitter.

I don't have any particular New Year's Resolutions, just a few hopes. This person, (via The F Word blog) however, does, he has some suggestions for how straight men can make changes that would benefit us all.
Another website whose reason for existing is for men to educate men on gender justice and supporting women, is Men Engage. I've read it, it does what it says on the label. Unfortunately, either the site is not yet complete, or has some broken links.
It's easy for those who don't identify with Feminism to think of it as a purely female ideology. It isn't, and it never has been, but it's why we tend to talk about gender equality and gender justice rather than always saying 'Feminism'.
There is also the White Ribbon campaign, 'men working towards men ending violence against women'.

The Year in Feminist Rage is not a male feminist blog, but is also worth a look - the year in question being last year.
Yesterday, in church, Margaret remembered some graffiti she had seen in Soweto. 'Strike a match to say to the darkness, "I beg to differ".'
Somehow, I lack the energy to rage or beg to differ right now.
I await its return.

Five Visits and a Wedding

We brought the New Year in down in Birch Bay, where it was exceptionally frosty. This didn't deter me from swimming, in fact for the most part it deters everyone else, so, result.

We had a New Year's Eve fire of course, and then I raked out all the ash and so the New Year's Day fire burnt even better.

I have been practising giving the evils.
It had been going quite well, I managed to silence two lads in the cinema with a single look, and make a woman (driving) put down her mobile phone. Sadly, it failed me when I tried to use it to silence a car alarm. Keep practising I suppose.


2010.
The highlights for me.
Alex and Seth arriving.
Olympics (surprising)including Sleepy's first visit and KD Laing (she didn't visit, but was memorable).
Buying the Static.
Dawn's visit, then our trip to Alaska.
Sleepy Mansions' second visit.
Mary's visit.
Margaret and Andrea's wedding.

Dog

Yesterday morning we met up with Kevin's mum and dad, and his brother and partner. Outside the diner, when we came out, was this rather large dog, most likely part wolf, just sitting in the back of a truck, unleashed.

Today, I took Alex to the airport and right now she is on her way back to Blighty. I am bereft.

Comet's Tail

We're in the comet's tail of Christmas. It would be better if Christmas were more like Kwanzaa, which seems to have a focus for every day. Or maybe it does, but the meaning of each day has been lost in the mists of time and alcoholic haze. Today would be 'four calling birds' whereas for followers of Kwanzaa, today is 'collective work and responsibility'. Hmmmm.

Oh well.
The lights on the houses in this largely Chinese part of town are relatively subdued this year. There are a few houses with lights on the outside, but not many. Through the blinds of others, you can see the indoor lights, some, frankly, must be inducing unpleasant brain states through their flashing on and off.

For the past few years, the original white and blue LEDs have given way to more colourful options, and actually, I have to admit, they can look pretty good. If people stuck to one theme, there would be no problem, but there seems to be a tendency to just throw everything in together. At least there are no blow-up atrocities. After dark, the apple green house's lights are the best and most tasteful.
However.....
On Christmas Day, we visited Kev's folks and one of their neighbours had gone rather overboard with the red festive lights. You might think this would render it rather Amsterdam. In fact, if Satan celebrated Christmas, this is what the Satanic Macmansion would look like. We seriously expected trident carrying, satin-wearing devils to pop their horned heads out at any moment.

So, let's talk dates. Thursday, much to my sorrow, Alex returns to England for the foreseeable future. On the 17th February, Kevin and I pop over for a whirlwind tour, this takes in half term over there.
I see this also as the 'Jan the Baptist' tour, preparing the way for the Vicar and her Missus the following month (ish).

Merry Christmas 2010

Booze

''Til Burnham Wood shall come to Dunsinane'. The Bard probably meant the Schloss.

Christmas, as we know, is all about the booze, not the baby Jesus, more the wassailing.
Christmas is also the only time of year when I find it reasonable that we can't buy booze in our supermarkets, because that could significantly increase the mayhem. In Britain of course, you have the choice, you can go to the supermarché or your Threshers or Oddbins or any offie really, and this encourages healthy competition.

Our BC Liquor Stores are quite impressive though.
Yesterday, before going to see Mr. Lube, I went to the Liquor Store and bought more alcohol than I had meant to, mainly just because it was there. I managed NOT to buy a bottle of Absinthe, which I was attracted to because of the mention of the green 'Fée' on the bottle, I moved quickly past it, so I'm unsure whether I was just reading the French side or whether they were playing with words.
One of my favourite current Canadian TV series is 'Lost Girl', in which the Fée, both dark and light apparently, live alongside humans and lead fairly normal lives in a completely abnormal, human eating way.

So, the booze. 'Booz endormi'(Victor Hugo, and not in fact about booze).
I realise I've never really been MUCH of an imbiber. I like a glass, I can look forward to a glass, but in recent years, I haven't been able to knock back much more than a glass, two at the most. I overheat and feel very uncomfortable, so my own boozing is more theoretical than real.
Even when I was younger, at peak time for being drunk, I never got to the hangover stage because at a certain point, I would just throw it all up and that would be that.
But I can imagine what a hangover's like because I have been ill and felt like death warmed up. I am fairly sure I can conjure up the memory of something akin to a hungover state.

I have just finished reading a book about alcoholism and I now see that I had absolutely no idea what alcoholism was. My friend lent me the book, she is a recovering alcoholic and she said,
'This book speaks to me, I have lived through this.'
Oh dear, I thought, a book about alcoholics, and set it aside.

Then I looked at it again and realised it was fiction, it was a story, told in the first person, so I started reading. And it was a good read. Glaswegian writer, so in my head, my mind's ear if you will, I could hear her speaking. This was great fiction, that kept me reading in spite of the state the character was in, being just horrible, and I was in the head of someone describing an experience about which I had no idea.
There are a couple of people within the very wide definition of my family, who are alcoholics, have been treated for it, and I had never really understood the phrase, 'it's a disease,' or, 'it's something they have no control over,' or even, 'they do that because of the disease,' until reading this book.
Now, I think, I'm a step closer.
'Paradise' by A.L.Kennedy.

Lube

Things I have learnt today(-ish).

1. Macdonald's is open on Christmas Day - presumably for all your day after Christmas Eve hangover needs.

2. Apple green houses cannot in any way be made to look acceptable by any available colour of Christmas lights.

3. Marky Mark Wahlberg can really, seriously, act. I went to see 'The Fighter' to spend time with the kids and was utterly transfixed.

4. There is a casting director on this planet who is enough of a genius to cast Melissa Leo in a major role. (See 3 and pic.).

5. If you live somewhere long enough, you can go and visit Mr. Lube without giggling, chortling or in any inappropriate way, snorting.


In fact, the visit to Mr. Lube was the highlight of today. I think I've said it before, but going to car-themed places here is not the nightmare of patronising misogyny it is back home. At Mr. Lube, they treat you as though you understand them, as though the fact that you can drive a car and wish to buy their lube, entitles you to be treated as an intelligent lifeform.
BUT.....I'm still not used to this, so I approach with trepidation. Even though the person is calmly and precisely encouraging me forward to position the car over the pit, I am convinced I will drive into the hole.
They give you a newspaper, explain how long you will have to wait, how long it will take and offer you coffee, which they will bring to your car. They ask you to leave the window open so that they can explain things to you, let you see the cost on their computer.
Mr. Lube is indeed a well-oiled machine.
I realise I've forgotten how to open the bonnet, but I realise in time, before the person asks me to do it, before I have to panic and look like a nit-wit. I find the catch.
Finally, all is finished and paid for, I have my free torch and tyre gauge set. I have my coupons. My windscreen has been washed, my tyres adjusted. And in front of me, the hangar door is opening to let me out, like the space door in a sci-fi movie, the only thing that's missing is Star Wars music.

Eclipse and Solstice

We couldn't see the lunar eclipse last night, because of cloud cover, so I've had to borrow a picture, oh alright, steal, this is from earlier in the year.

I learnt, from watching Merlin, that a dragon's heart is on the right. Now don't you think that would have been a useful thing to learn in the Brownies? I mean, being able to use your Brownie tie to make a sling is not a skill to be sneezed at, but compared with knowledge of dragon physiology, there's simply no contest.

My friend Gail posted a link via someone else she knows on Facebook, to a monologue by Ricky Gervais on why he doesn't believe in God, and it's good Gervais. I liked the stuff about science too, many people don't think about Science philosophically. I taught A-Level Philosophy to adults for twelve years, and so I taught both Philosophy of Science and of God. Thus, I know my theoretical God.

I had recently read elsewhere that we are all atheists, because there are always other gods we don't believe in. I certainly don't believe in the god that Gervais describes, the male god who therefore presumably has either XY chromosomes or the male characteristics generated by that Y chromosome, presumably physical ones, since science, albeit social science, has repeatedly shown us that 'femininity' and 'masculinity' are culturally created phenomena.

Of course, God cannot have physical characteristics, since God is not corporeal substance as we are.
Then there is the peculiar problem of the Y chromosome.
Germaine Greer, in 'The Female Eunuch', shows us that the extra little arm of DNA that is missing from the Y chromosome, is the one that saves us from a whole slew of little problems, it would seem to be an imperfection - God being the sum of all perfections cannot lack one. One of the arguments for God's existence claims that existence itself is a perfection and therefore God must exist. *

But then there is also the oddity that the sex chromosomes have become more dissimilar over time.
From the Gale Genetic Encyclopaedia,

"Present-day sex chromosomes look very different from each other: The X chromosome comprises about 5 percent of the human genome, and contains about 2,000 genes, while the Y chromosome is quite small and contains only about 50 genes (Figure 1). This striking difference in size and gene content between the sex chromosomes makes it hard to believe that they are actually ancient partners in a pair of chromosomes that originally were very similar."

But this, of course, is about humans, not God and my central point is that the theoretical male God is actually theoretically impossible.

Today, however, is the Winter Solstice, the Celtic rebirth not of the son, but of the sun at 23.38 tonight.

And one more Christmassy thought.
My friend sent me an e-card, and in my bungling, trying to send one back, and it remains unclear whether I succeeded or not, I was able to see a list of e-cards that had been created that day, my favourite was,
'I'm sorry my dog fucked your Jesus lawn ornament.'


*There are a number of problems with this argument, one of which is that there is no particular reason why existence should be seen as a perfection, nor what the nature of existence may be.
Another is that if existence is a perfection and God lacks it, then clearly God cannot exist on either a theoretical or an actual level. The attempt here is to make God's existence a Necessary Truth, (something that is true by definition, such as mathematics or a tautology) whereas it seems to be a Contingent Truth (one that requires some information that is not contained in the statement itself).

Joseph and Kant

The Schloss interwebs are not playing nicely today.
The weather got me all hopeful yesterday, the sleet became more snowy, then stopped all together. Now it's delightfully nippy, but the sky is clear.

Welcome to Rosalind, my friend Gail's new daughter. Good timing young lady, letting mum get out of hospital before Christmas. Congratulations to Gail, Ross and big sister Lily.

Ah...Christmas, Jesus, Mary and Joseph. Now firstly, what exactly is it in the Jewish faith that passes through the female line? Just Jewishness I presume, not actual lineage, because otherwise, Mary would have had to have been of the line of David, not Joseph and also....isn't the point of the story that Joseph was NOT the baby daddy? You think it's simple, and then it gets really confusing.

We had the children's Nativity play at church today. It was called, 'Benjamin the little shepherd boy,' Benjamin being the only reliable Jewish boy's name anyone knows. So there was a toddler dressed as a sheep, with a little hat with ears on, cute beyond compare, except the sheep was not happy with his sheeply tabard, nor his sheeply headgear and went somewhat awol. I'm sure there was another story in there somewhere.

Austen told me a story that made me cry with laughter. Recently, there have been a couple of high profile faux pas in the British media, to do with the unfortunate mispronunciation of the name Hunt, Jeremy Hunt, Culture Secretary. Hunt, culture - what could possibly go wrong?

Now Arts presenter Mark Lawson was interviewing Germaine Greer on his late night show. Greer of course, is originally Antipodean, and her accent is slight, but still noticeable sometimes.
So, she says to Lawson that (The C Word) has fallen into disrepute and that we shouldn't ignore (The C Word), in fact we should all be talking much more about (The C Word). Mark Lawson, horrified, stopped her and said that although the programme went out on late night television, they simply couldn't say that on air.
Germaine turned and looked at him, eyes wide, mouth open,
'What?' she said, 'we're not allowed to talk about German philosophers any more?'

Mental Bubbles

I experience mental bubbles. Spheres of memory that rise through the dark liquid of my Psyche. Sometimes they seem to come from nowhere, sometimes I know what prompts them.

In spite of the lights, cards and decorations, I have not been feeling very Christmassy, until today when I smelt the mince pies cooking in the oven. Ahhhhh....Bisto....er, I mean Christmas. Very good they were too. I still haven't found any shop's mincemeat here that involves only ingredients that can be safely taken into the human body, so the filling is home made. I can also never remember from one year to the next, what circular object I use to cut the pastry. The tops are easier.

Today is also my friend Karen's birthday, we must have been wishing each other Happy Birthday for not far off fifty years now. We went to each others' birthday parties as small children, wore paper hats, sparkly frocks and party shoes. Played pass the parcel and danced the twist.
But that's not what has actually caused the memory bubble.
When we were younger, both of us had the experience of dads going to sea, coming back from sea. And for Karen, this featured in her own earlier married life.
Now her husband has returned to the sea, and this past week, returned from it. Thinking of my friend looking forward to her husband's return has made me think of how we looked forward to my dad coming back.

I think my father's absence at sea gave him a sort of theoretical status when my sister and I were very young. We had a dad. We loved him. He sent us postcards from Hong Kong, Singapore, the countries, the ships were names we knew, but not places or vessels that we knew, just names.
He came home from time to time and brought us presents.
But our real lives were run by women. Our mum, our aunt, our nans. They did the day-to-day business of keeping us fed and cleaned and sent to school. My mother managed the money, planned the parties, made our dresses. Hers was the face we saw every day.

And although, like me, she was not adept in the kitchen, for Christmas, she pickled onions and at Christmas, she made the mince pies.

Bubbles of memory.
Happy Birthday Karen. I know you're in London so won't see this for a couple of days, but I hope you had a splendid time.

Desperately Seeking Snow

Catch-up day, and not going altogether to plan, but then, if things went according to plan, one wouldn't need a catch-up day.

Tuesday is Alex's one day off in the week, so yesterday we had mother and daughter time. We had decided to go snow-shoeing, but we had not fully factored in the snow. As we drove to the North Shore, the rain turned to sleet and this continued as we drove up the mountain.
'Are we going to be able to snow-shoe in this rain?' asked Alex as we wound round and round the mountain road,
'Oh yes,' said I, 'by the time we get up there, this rain will be falling as snow, no problem.'
Correct on the snow, incorrect on the no problem. As we got further up the mountain, the snow on the roads made it impossible to drive further and we had to turn back. We found the snow though.
Alex had to take pictures from the car while we were moving, I was in a low gear, but I didn't dare to try and stop.

As a consolation prize, we ate at Havana on the Drive, perused Dix Mille Villages, and drifted around an insanely wonderful Italian food store. It reminded me of the small Italian shops you find back home, only bigger, much, much bigger. Groups of Italian men hung around conversing intensely in Italian.

At the weekend, the rain was so torrential, we had to look out in the morning to check we were still in Birch Bay. Kevin cycled around the State Park and came back and reported that we could have kayaked most of it.

Because of the weather, also the current bizarre lack of TV, we watched two films.
Firstly, the Cate Blanchette Robin Hood movie. Excellent. Russell Crowe was good in it too.
Secondly, the Joan Jett movie, The Runaways, also excellent.
Oh, and I have also read a book by a New Zealander, Laurence Fearnley, "Edwin and Mathilda". A most excellent read, flawless writing.

Today, one of my tasks was to pick up a prescription. I went to the drop-off counter. In front of me an elderly woman, who clearly had no prescription to drop off, was testing the patience of...well me mostly, the long-suffering pharmacist was showing no signs of the frustration he must have been experiencing, since she was expecting him to solve the mystery of what medication she needed from colour description alone. There must be some kind of secret pharmacist's button under the counter, since eventually an assistant came out to help me.

Letting the Side Down

I hate it when someone lets the side down. The cretins who attacked the Prince of Wales and the Duchess of Cornwall's car, just make all the students who are demonstrating for a legitimate reason, look like a bunch of hooligans. Bloody pillocks. In a war, those type of people get their own side killed.

An interesting article by Libby Brooks, on the Graun's website, almost makes me think I'm reading more Stieg. There was a lot in those books about the Swedish legal system.

"In fact what is significant about the Swedish system is not that it employs a broader definition of rape than in other countries – it doesn't – but that prosecutions are based not on consent but whether a complainant's "sexual integrity" has been violated. In addition, alleged victims can instruct their own lawyers, who often seek second opinions after an initial dismissal, which may offer a rather more pedestrian explanation for why the cases have been re-opened now."

Even a Swedish fringe freedom-of-speech organisation, doesn't believe the hype.

"Groups supporting Wikileaks in Stockholm also rejected speculation that the case was politically motivated.

Rick Falkvinge, leader of Sweden's Pirate party, a fringe pro-freedom of speech and anti-copyright party, said: "In theory, if you wanted to strike back at WikiLeaks to discredit the organisation, this would be blueprint 1A, but I have not seen anything to indicate that this was politically motivated." "

So, to counterbalance the misogyny with some woman worship, I give you, once again, Dame Helen. Isn't she just the best?

The Beady Eye of God

And on the subject of privilege, whilst it's frustrating to the point of tears, doing battle with it, if you do happen to be white, male and straight, acknowledging your privilege and then refusing to use it to your advantage makes you a bloody amazing human being. Well, man.

Other people I admire at the moment are my own. The British. I'm about to royally diss the Greek nation, so step aside if you can't stomach it.
The Greek austerity measures had the Greek people rioting in the streets and generally refusing to play nicely. What a bunch of tossers.
The British austerity measures have the Brits doing what they do well. Intellectualising and debating and sorting out who really is getting one up the bum with a big stick, thus the Fawcett Society are challenging certain aspects through the courts and the National Union of Students have their people out in full force doing what all leftie intellectuals are supposed to do, demonstrating outside parliament whilst their own arse stuffing is under debate. Fucking amazing. If there's one thing a Tory government is good for, it's allowing the British people to show their true Brit Grit.
For this I salute you gruesome-twosome Decameron-Clegg.

Filed under the category of 'can walk and talk at the same time', is the recent Julian Assange controversy.
Yes, I get that he has clearly been extradited because of his Wikileaks escapade, but that doesn't mean he isn't guilty of the sexual assault crimes he has been accused of in Sweden.
He was certainly guilty of hiding somewhere in the South of England and not coming out when told to.
Also, I don't like the way he looks, although, since I'm trying to be objective, I won't mention that.
Here's the thing though. Most assuredly, the majority of sexual assaults are treated with contempt by those charged with protecting the public, so isn't it galling when one person gets singled out like this and hauled across the channel?
Well, not really. Yes, ALL complaints should be dealt with sensitively and fairly, but even one being dealt with publicly makes points and raises awareness. Sometimes, doing something not necessarily for the right reason, still has the same outcome as if you had.

Then there is Lollo Rosso. Who doesn't like a nice bit of lollo rosso lettuce? We bought some yesterday from Costco, who made a sterling attempt at the name and managed to come quite close with 'lolla rosa'. Splendid then.

Tradition and Privilege

Tradition and privilege, privilege and tradition. Excuses, excuses, fucking excuses.

The other day, a friend of mine said that he was aware of having been privileged growing up, because he's male. He was aware of it. Presumably until he worked out he was gay, not that the privileges of being male and white stopped then, but the other one must have done.
We're all aware of each others' privilege and each others' lack of it. AT least I think we are, maybe I'm just too naive about that, or too ideological.

Then today, that one lone slap across the face that brings you to your metaphorical knees. That lunge. The card that comes addressed to a non-existent Mrs. His First Name, His Surname. Because God forbid that I should HAVE ANY FUCKING EXISTENCE AS A BEING OUTSIDE OF MY MARRIAGE.
Ask anyone that you know who still does this to women, ask them why they do it and they'll say 'tradition'. Right, tradition. Tradition is having mince pies for Christmas, or standing up for an older person on the bus, or seeing your mate on her birthday. Denying the existence of someone you know well enough to send a card to, isn't tradition it's simply an archaic practice designed to keep women firmly in their place, second-best to a man.

I have a friend, a much younger woman than me, who burns with the humiliation of this, burns. And she won't say anything for fear of offending the person or persons who do it.
When the FUCK did it become more important not to offend the bigots than to champion the rights of those who are actually being treated as though they had lower status? Seriously?

On a different other day, a different friend said to me that remembering to speak respectfully to women was a little bit stressful. I made light of this, since one would assume it would have to be humour in poor taste. But behind that is an attitude that 'yay, equal rights, so long as we don't have to put ourselves out at all, so long as we don't have to make any effort, and so long as even a single atom of our being doesn't leave its comfort zone.'

Well, guess what?
Firstly, I've personally, never asked anyone to do anything difficult, simply speak to me respectfully, without implying that women are of a lower status than men. Not too hard you'd think.
Secondly, if it were hard, well, frankly, it should be, it isn't, but it should be, because equal rights are insanely important, and we should have to think about them every time we do something to promote them.
And thirdly, in the name of tradition, wtf? That woman who denied my existence, couldn't even claim that pathetic excuse, because she's been in a same sex relationship for donkeys' years.
So yes, WTF?????

I am SO pissed off and SO depressed about this.

Poetic Justice

I think this qualifies as poetic justice. I made some Koftas yesterday for Kevin. rest assured, they looked nothing like this. I put in plenty of garlic, coriander and mint, but since I dislike the special sweaty sock spice known as cumin, we had none, so none went in.
Today I felt mildly guilty. Kevin doesn't dislike cumin, so I bought some when I was in Superstore. As I finished scanning it and put it into the bag, I realised, as a cloud of it engulfed me, that there was a split in the packet.
Cheched.

It wasn't even as though the shopping experience itself had been particularly pleasant. In my opinion, 'All I want for Christmas is my two front teeth', should NOT be played where you expect people to spend money.
Vile song.

So, the past few days, there has been an annoying set of roadworks going on at one of the main intersections, slowing things down even more than normal. But there has been entertainment in the form of one of the crew. The person who directs the traffic in these situations, is often a woman, and this case is no exception. This one is a sort of petite Fagash Lil. She must be in the four foot something range and skinny, but she struts out into the road with her stop sign and her seven league boots, fag hanging out of her mouth and fake Viking plaits dangling from the woolly hat under her hard hat. Then she performs. I mean she really works those traffic directing gestures, the whole body is in it. She makes full-on eye contact with motorists who don't instantly obey her, followed by hand signals that leave no doubt. This woman has attitude, and so long as I don't get on the wrong side of her, I'm enjoying that attitude.

I'm being haunted by Dexter. The last episode in the current series is coming up, the ducks all seem to be lined up, it has been an excellent series, but since Sunday, when I wake up in the night with my waking-up-in-the-night heat I have immediately started worrying about what the twist might be.
Darkly Dreaming Dexterity.

Locusts

A picture stolen from Kev's Friday bike ride from Richmond down across the border to Birch Bay, some 60 kilometres in all, much of it uphill, some of it downhill too fast and altogether quite awesome and scary. Finally, when he rode up to the security barrier at the Static Place, the guard rushed out, clearly confused to see a cyclist trying to get in, but even more so when Kev just swiped his keycard, the guard laughed and called out,
'I didn't see that one coming!'
I'll bet he didn't.
I went down Friday evening, when all the monstrously over-decorated houses were all lit up.

Gott sei Dank, Laurence eventually got away late Friday afternoon, after the flight was delayed again. The other end, he made it as far as Chichester by train, before Austen had to go out in the car and rescue him.
There is controversy in the Schloss and across the sea, as to the advisability of sending him with a bag of health food labelled 'Hemp nut fines'. I was convinced by Alex and Ben that it was legal and safe and so I sent it. I was correct about the legal it seems, but whether the sniffer dogs would have alerted the latex glove snappers remains open to question.

Presently, in Advent, John the Baptist is preparing the way. He prepared his own way out in the desert eating locusts and honey. Now I feel this is very much to be encouraged. Locusts are a bloody nuisance and destroy crops, so why not get more people to eat them, it's a win-win. I've even seen Salma Hayak on TV eating fried crickets, so it can't be that unusual.
'Eat locusts,' I say and save the crops.

A great post on the F-Word blog shows how entrepreneurs create a self-fulfilling prophecy. They 'notice' that start-up companies by young, white males are more likely to succeed, so they put their money into them. Of course, if entrepreneurs support companies by young, white males, then they are likely to succeed, whereas companies started by women, non-whites and older people, never receive funding and thus....

The amusing Facebook thing where you change your picture to a cartoon character is quite charming, unless you happen to be in the following hypothetical situation.
You have driven a number of miles up the I5 to send your niece's present from the Post Office in the nearby town. You have left her address at home, but you happen to know it is in your Facebook inbox. Your partner has their computer and you cruise along searching for an open network. Finally, one is found and you try to log on to Facebook using an unfamiliar computer. Facebook notices this and makes you identify a number of your friends from their pictures.....

Hijacking Hanukkah

So, my plan to hijack Hanukkah, what could possibly go wrong?

Well, the first person I wished a Happy Hanukkah to said...

'How did you know I was Jewish?'
'Er...I...didn't...'
'Well I am...we don't celebrate, but I am Jewish,'

Mmmm.

But..on the other hand, I rang England and had a conversation with my granddaughter, she has been learning about Hanukkah at school. Austen thought we were talking about Holly's friend Hannah, there is a slight confusion since Holly does pronounce it 'Hannah Kerr'.

I wouldn't say the wheel has yet fallen off the hijacking wagon, but interesting times.

Interesting times too in the South East of England. Laurence flies in to Gatwick tomorrow, or rather towards Gatwick, since he doesn't actually arrive until Friday, except...well, Gatwick is closed due to snow.

Last time Laurence flew to England, the charter company went bust. When his dad came over, the volcano blew. Every time Ben flies something goes wrong. I'd say they were ill-starred in travel, but the truth is, a hell of a lot stops the smooth running of the travel industry.