I've never been to Telluride.

So I'm going.

I'll be off this week roaming the outback of Colorado in Land Rovers and Range Rovers. Don't say it. I know. And Webgod? Shut up. I can hear you from here.

You guys know the drill. Fight amongst yourselves. Anything Roz says is crap. If the other sister (Gilly) weighs in, you have a better chance of getting at the truth.

Slightly.

Be nice to each other. I'll miss you.

Hahahahaaaa.

In a weak moment, I suggested Ari have a party for his 16th. It coincides with the end of summer, the beginning of school, the advent of his driving years...and so much more.

Christer's girlfriend will head off to Ottawa for school shortly, and all around me these kids are growing up. I'm sure my sepia-toned image of one last hurrah is not quite what they had in mind, but regardless, a party will commence this evening.

Apparently right around the time I usually go to bed, they will descend. The upside? Ari has to work in the morning. Haaaaaaaaaaaaaa!

I am staying home, hoping to rope a friend into coming over. Considering two of her kids will be here, I think the least she can do is join me for a glass of wine and a cup of sanity.

If I've learned one thing writing about these kids over the years, it's that you never have to make anything up. All you have to do is write it down. With that in mind, I am going to live blog the parts that are safe for human consumption, here from my computer in the middle of the kitchen. Don't worry; I'm not wrecking their fun - most of these kids have been up north over the years and consider me a minor speed bump in their celebrations.

And when I've had enough, I'll head up, after tossing all the sleeping bags and pillows we own into the rec room. There is a merriment in the air presently; we'll see how things look in the morning.

See you later...

I like Daniel Engber, and read pretty much anything he writes. So I clicked. And then I held my breath, because I haven't thought about quicksand in years and years. But whenever I do contemplate it, I hold my breath because just the thought of it makes me not be able to breathe. At all.

I saw my first quicksand movie when I was probably 6 or so. It must have been Tarzan, because whoever was in the quicksand was a) being filmed in black and white and b) was rescued by a vine from a tree. That's a pretty safe bet it was Tarzan, though I don't recall having any pronounced affection for Tarzan movies. Probably my sister Roz made me watch it.

All I remember is sharing the pressing, suffocating feeling of whoever was waiting for Tarzan to rescue them. As the movie quicksand (no doubt oatmeal or grits or something) closed in, and the camera did those cheesy 1960s closeups of a silent scream, or just a hand reaching, reaching....well, I waited desperately right along with the victim.

As Engber's article on Slate debates the demise of quicksand as a horror movie staple, I am reminded that we've been quick to write off the effectiveness of such a creepy concept. Forget serial killers, this generation's lazy go-to fearmeister; quicksand was bloody awesome. And it could happen anywhere, unlike serial killers who only happen to women home alone who leave the back door unlatched, and who all come conveniently middle named 'Wayne'. No, quicksand is a far better all around tool.

I'd forgotten it myself until about 5 years ago. I went to a spa-type place, which is always a nice way to burn through a scad of money while wearing a bathrobe. For some reason, I found myself signed up for a mud bath. I'm sure it had some fancyass name to justify the ridiculous cost, and I'm sure my gentle, distant mood had much to do with wine and said bathrobe. Anyway. I walked into a weird marble room that resembled nothing so much as a Roman bathhouse (sans naked Romans), and beheld a large cutout in the floor filled with chocolate pudding.

I glanced at it, one eyebrow raised. The attendant, standing patiently with an arm extended to receive that bathrobe, told me step down into the mud. I considered I could probably get two facials and a massage for what this was about to cost, but sold on the health benefits of immersing myself in mud they'd imported from between the toes of small amphibians in a remote jungle, I did as I was told.

It was hot. It was pudding- like, if pudding had a low grade grit in it. But worst of all, it sucked me down like a living pudding vacuum cleaner, and I instantly couldn't breathe. "Make sure you drink lots of water," said the cheery attendant. I had no idea why I needed to be hydrated to be dead, and a silent scream filled my throat as she left me to my doom. No doubt to go sit with the other attendants outside, all laughing that stupid women from the suburbs paid for this hell.

I pictured the brochure, which promised me rosy skin free from years of accumulated abuse; I closed my eyes and tried to feel cleansed and at one with nature. I lasted five minutes before I started hollering.

Two attendants burst into the room and pulled me free from my muddy grave. I looked like a Swamp Thing as I gasped for breath. Standing under a shower, I considered my close call with death, and thanked my lucky stars there had been two vines close at hand to pull me from certain death.

Turns out I was not the only person to have this experience. They gave me a freebie facial, and I deleted the experience from my brain. Until I read Engber's article, and wondered why, indeed, quicksand isn't used as a terror device anymore.

Labels: daniel engber, quicksand

Let's revisit the Rob Ford thing from a purely hypothetical standpoint. Let's not fuss over whether or not he's the guy you want to sit next to a banquet, or have show up in your driveway to drive your kid to soccer. Forget all that.

Because none of that matters. What matters is that Toronto City Council is made up of 44 councilors, and a mayor. And that mayor vote is worth exactly *one* vote. Same as the other 44.

So. Let's pretend Toronto has to handle some big problems. What has to happen is that most of the people in that chambers have to get along, agree, understand, learn, debate and come to the best possible consensus. On every nitpicking little thing. Consensus.

Love him or hate him, Rob Ford is not a consensus builder. And no matter how popular the rhetoric is that flows out of him (sound bites that can be turned into chants rarely make for good political policy), if he can't provide sound, researched decision making, nobody is going to waste an iota of political capital supporting him.

Getting elected as mayor is one thing; developing a rapport with a council, who likewise have managed to get elected, is something else. It's not like in school when the teacher made you captain and you got to pick your team.

Ford, to my best reading on him the past few years, has spent all of his time shooting the people around him. Some of them deserve to be shot, politically speaking. No doubt about it. The public does dumb things inside that voting booth. But as a strategist? He's a dummy. Things that are taking place in municipalities right now were decided 10, 20 years ago. Zoning and building, infrastructure, budgeting - all that unsexy stuff that actually impacts you - has to be decided by who is sitting in that room full of cushy chairs. If you put people in those chairs who are battling each other - and embattled on every other front - you jeopardize where you live, and your children's future.

I'm on the record as having little regard for most politicians. I'm old enough to have seen the warp take place in too many, and I'm too tired to try to understand why good people vote for poor representation. I'm not cognizant of all that is going on in Toronto's 44 wards, but I do know that a good mayoral candidate will spark people to run who believe in his or her message, and want to be at that table to be part of those decisions. I don't see see that with Ford. I see a lone wolf reveling in his lone-ness. You can't run a city that way. Hell, you can't run a household that way.

A mayor is pretty much a figurehead. But a good mayor will not do his most prolific work cutting ribbons, he or she will do it behind the scenes, building consensus and being a leader. Winning the crown is nothing if all you can do is sit there wearing it, finally realizing that the crown alone bestows nothing. Nothing at all.

I live in Burlington. I've sat here watching this nonsense play out here, with a council capsizing under the weight of its own infighting and hatred. And I've watched a mayor who managed to win still manage to lose.

Ford might be better off as a voice on counsel. Things he is saying are obviously hitting a sore spot and voters are responding. But before this campaign is remarkable only for the hatred and division he can provide, maybe it's time to look for a candidate who gets the importance - the necessity - of building rather than tearing apart.

Labels: rob ford, toronto election

Nah, not those kind of Fords. I love Ford trucks, and lots of old Fords still turn my crank.

No, I'm talking politician extraordinaire, and mayor wannabe, Rob Ford. I'm sorry, people. It's just too easy. And not because the Star hates him. The man is a veritable career-wrecking crew all by his lonesome. He doesn't need any help.

I do love this quote, however. Found to have been soliciting funds for his football activities using City of Toronto letterhead and resources (yeah, the guy who says he uses a buck fifty a year in office costs), say this: “I do not understand why it would be inappropriate to solicit funds for an arm’s-length charitable cause using my regular employment letterhead.”

Really? You don't understand? Vote this man for mayor, and cry later. It's not the fact he gets busted for drunk driving. It's not the fact that he bleats like a drunken blowhard at a Maple Leaf game, denies it, admits it, and carries on.

IT'S THAT HE DOESN'T UNDERSTAND WHY THERE IS A PROBLEM WITH ALL OF THE ABOVE.

That is the problem. Right there. You're not a renegade, a rebel, a (dare I say it) rogue, it's that you're so blissfully unaware that you have landed on that spot because you're an idiot, not because you're a calculating, devastatingly good chess player.

It's like Sarah Palin got ugly and gained a hundred pounds or so. And it's like Toronto voters got all stupid and quit demanding they be represented by something better than this.

This is not a game. And I don't care how peeved you were by previous representation (make fun of Miller all you like; Lastman is still a drunk-uncle-at-Christmas kinda memory), Toronto is a huge city with a huge reputation. Knee jerk reactions tend to always end up being less about knees, and far more about jerks.

Labels: rob ford, rogue, sarah palin

Ah. Back to school. Commence the happy dance.

But if your kids are making you crazy with gotta have its, tune in.

CHCH Channel 11, 5:30, repeat at 11:30.

...but I'm going to.

I hate all the photoshopping and retouching that goes on. It's gross.

When I had to have pictures taken for my own site, the photographer asked me if I wanted them 'shopped' before he sent them to me. I was horrified. And not because I think I'm so fab, but because I constantly tell women to love who they are and live with it. You wanna fix something, go for it. But it's easier and cheaper to love who you are, warts and all. Or sunspots. Or wrinkles. Or deep trowly wrinkles between your eyes. Yeah, that'd be me. The kids call me ferret face. Oh well.

Anyhoo. Whatever.

But here is a shot of Jennifer Aniston, who pretty much never looks bad. But this is an unretouched photo, and am I nuts, or does she look totally great? (Oh, and you fix this Webgod? I messed it up again....)

Oh, Kurt Browning. I'm not gonna pile on, in spite of what you might think. I actually believe you are a pretty nice guy, and I've always rooted for you. You've withstood the flack of being a figure skater in a country where skates=sticks & missing teeth more than triple hexibobbles and dramatic arm things. I've always loved you for that. I even cringed right along with you when Toller Cranston announced that your ass should be bronzed. (I can't find a link. But he said it. I saw him. Am I crazy?)

You and your pretty wife seem so nice, so real, so happy, so Canadian. And we know she won't steal you away and go play, I mean dance, for the L.A. Ballet Company.

But today we have a problem. You left your Porsche convertible outside in the rain. And because it seemed to make sense, you apparently tried to dry out the seats with a leafblower. Gaaaaaaaaah. Leafblowers. Hell's own tools of destruction against civilized society. And Hell apparently decided to flex a little, and that leafblower has destroyed your beautiful home. Burned. This is terrifying, actually, and I'm sure you will never do it again. I'm sure nobody who reads your story will. I wish we could also get them to view their existing leafblowers not just as a bad substitution for a turbo hair dryer, but also as a bad idea, period. Maybe you could lead a leafblower amnesty program, and people could turn them in - anonymously if necessary - and we could run them over with a garbage truck.

But of course all of this begs an even bigger question: you left your Porsche out in the rain with the top down?

We've all been revering how the Japanese treat their elders forever. How with that awesomely healthy diet and love of family, they just never die, right? And the stats have proven it - the oldest people in the world, apart from the ones who are slurping yogurt and herding sheep on hillsides in Mediterranean climes are always from Japan.

Turns out not so much. Trying to prove a longevity record, officials went looking for a 135-year-old woman. Couldn't find her. Seems she wandered off. Or died. Or something. So they started investigating, and apparently, they have a whole bunch of unaccounted for old folks. So much for reverence. Seems some family members 'forget' to report a death so they can keep collecting pensions. One woman kept her mummified father for 30 years - years - to keep the dough rolling in. I already question where that weird smell is coming from just from teenage boys. I don't want to think about running a mausoleum from the spare room.

Because Canadians are such an honest bunch, it stands to reason that our oldsters only make it to Hazel-time. We dutifully report the deceased. But what if, in the wake of this economic downturn, we got all Japanese?

Depends on who was in power, of course. In Quebec, they would keep issuing cheques. They might even issue more cheques if someone claimed the 103-year-old in question had had another baby. After they paid for her in-vitro.

The Liberals would raise the alarm bell if a neighbour or three squealed on said dead person. But they would secure the families votes in the next election by sending out cheques to each surviving family member.

And our ruling Conservative government? How do you ensure nobody is ripping off the system, especially by pretending to set world records by claiming ultimate health while concealing dead bodies in the den? Why, you just cancel everyone's old age pension.

That'll learn 'em.

Okay, I only put the 'Little Britain' part in there to lure in the handful of fans of that awesome show. Frank wrote a letter to the ed in today's Star that cracked me up, and I wanted to share it. Here.

'If we were all cows, there would be nothing to war about'.

Thank you, Frank.

Labels: all war is based on religion, ergo all war is stupid, frank docherty, little britian, why war based on religion is stupid

...in an Audi TT.

He had a blast a few weeks back at the Audi Uptown track day. Instead of me doing it, I asked if he could.

It's not always a drag when Mom takes you to work.

Labels: audi tt, audi uptown, mosport

....but I sure wouldn't want to get sick there.

Read this from today's NYT. Wow. Another look at healthcare in one of the world's predominant economies.

"Still, across much of China, the quality of care remains low. Almost half the nation’s doctors have no better than a high school degree, according to the Organization for Economic Cooperation and Development. Many village doctors did not make it past junior high school."

Man, I know a couple of armchair medical specialists who could be stars in China. And with the legal knowledge they also think they possess, they could be lawyers, too, no doubt!

Labels: china's healthcare crisis

It's easy: because decent people would never, ever want to be politicians.

Politics at every level is a soul-sucking compromise. And because you must be all things to all people at all times, it is fundamentally impossible, like sneezing with your eyes open.

Gail Collins is awesome today in the NYT. She delves a little into how stupid things keep good people from becoming elected, while the electorate blithely looks away at some true travesties. She's funny, too. Go read.

The press is stupidly not helpful, of course. I really would love to find out who the hell cares, in this day and age, if someone smoked pot in college. We punish people for being too smart, but never for being too stupid. We allow soundbites to become platforms, and freight throwaway lines with import. All those people in Toronto cheering for that imbecile Rob Ford, who just says 'I won't waste your money', but has yet to figure exactly how he's gonna do that? Here's how: he would have constituents all living like Lord of the Flies. Yes. You can be Piggy.

Voters believe what they want to believe. They believe that who a politician sleeps with is more important than his ability to negotiate, research, know her history, know the constituents, be aware of coming demographic trends, and truly strive to represent all voters, not just the ones who voted for him or her. No, we want to know what time their kids go to bed.

My favourite barometer was the one with former U.S. president George Dubya. People voted for him because they'd most 'like to have a beer with him'. ARRRRGHGHGHGGH.
If I let the people I most like to drink beer with run a country, a province or even some little redneck town with one blinking stoplight, everything would explode in a ball of bad. These people are fun and entertaining for a reason! They do not have their fingers poised over any important switches! If you ask them for a decision about something, they're likely to ask if you're gonna blindfold them and spin them around three times first. I mean, it's a game, right?

If a politician tells the truth, he will not be elected. When he lies, he must do it artfully, so he can undo it later. It must be like one of those boat knots I can't figure out how to tie, that look like a series of loops and secure knots, but you just gently pull on edge and the whole thing unstrings. That is a politican's statement.

Let's talk local politics for a second. I got up close and personal with some examples of that earlier this year. Quite frankly, never again. But as times change rapidly and we're mired in archaic structures that serve no one, leaders are truly only cover-your-ass-ers. Take a boo at Mississauga. Yeah, tough crowd out there who blindly voted repeatedly, no questions asked. Where's that blindfold?

Municipal politics is gross. It's the stuff that matters most in people's direct lives: building codes, dog poop, garbage collection and noise. Yet who is happy? I'm not. Truly decent people venture out onto the stage, and risk being bashed away by preening narcissistic entitled trough hogs who have learned to speak in the soundbites we crave. We get what we deserve. And the problem I have now? I don't believe anyone in their right mind would willingly put themselves forward for such punishment.

Which means we are voting amongst the addled.

If you are a woman, this will make your day.

If you're a man, I'm sure you're not like him. I'm sure of it.

Oh, and bookmark Squeakymarker while you're there. She's comes up with the best.stuff.evah.

Labels: squeakmarker, tonia cowan

I'm due for a rant. Why doesn't matter.

With the boys home all day, I'm not writing as much as I should be. I have carved the start date for two new projects into my calender. It is always 'tomorrow'. It is never 'today'. So, the TV is on more than it should be. I snap it off in frustration (my little TV doesn't get high channels, so I can't find anything down low. If you have any ideas, let me know). It's the ads, mostly.

There's an American channel that runs commercials out of the Buffalo area. Are people from Buffalo stupid? Cuz if the ads are any indication, they're all brain dead morons. Insurance companies promising you the bare minimum coverage. Do you people get how insurance works? It's like a big pool. Smart companies try to hedge their bets - literally - in charging premiums. They're 'betting' that most people won't have claims, and charge the idiots who are likely to have claims, more. Now. These companies advertising that they will take you no matter how stupid you are? THAT MEANS ALL THEIR CUSTOMERS ARE STUPID. JUST LIKE YOU. THAT MEANS YOUR RATES ARE GOING TO BE STUPID-HIGH. Get it?

But, if you have a car, apparently, and you live in this part of New York state (it might be Georgia - I don't really listen), you're in extra super duper luck. If you need money, this other company will meet you in a dark alley and loan you money as long as you hold the pink slip to your car. Wow. That's just awesome! Instant money! Let's go get pizza and drugs! In our car that now HAS A LIEN AGAINST IT.

There's some new show on. It has Betty White in it, so I watched it. It has Valerie Bertinelli in it, who mercifully went away after that dumb show with the janitor and and her crackhead sister and her whining mother in the 80s. Anyway. After a bunch of weight loss commercials made her famous again, she got this show. She's still annoying. Sorry Betty.

I made a roast yesterday. That went well, actually. So, that little tidbit doesn't belong in this rant.

Because hydro rates have gone sky high, I'm trying desperately to clamp down on the household hydro consumption. That's kinda hard: I'm already Al Sommerfeld's daughter, which means I'm cheap as hell when it comes to this stuff. I've tried to shift doing laundry to the off hours they suggest. They think that's weekends. Bull. My off hours are during the day, so I don't have to burn my weekends doing laundry. And, I can't wait a week to do laundry, or our basement will look like an episode of Hoarders. Well, more like one.

Oh, and hydro? Bite me. Seriously. I bought the fancy front loaders. I bought the twisty bulbs. I have ceiling fans all over. I have an awning. Stone floor. We wear slippers. I replaced the freezer. And the fridge. I try to never use the oven. We turn off monitors, I unplug things, I hum to myself instead of playing music, I replaced the garage door with an insulated one and I never water the grass. And what do I get? A bill that hurtles skyward, no matter what. I hate you.

Cell phone companies? Get in line behind hydro.
Cable and internet? Yup. You too.

I need a new tub and surround. We have one bathroom. I need it done in one day. And do not suggest that stupid ripoff crap where they put a big acrylic liner over your old tub and say 'ta da!'. I got quoted 3,000 bucks for that nonsense. I may be angry; I'm not stupid.

My late, lovely mother had this carpeting glued to top of my front porch. It is terribly ugly. It is also, apparently, permanent. We've tried scraping, solvents and every other recommended procedure. Do you think I'd get in trouble for soaking it in lighter fluid and just lighting it on fire?

Oh, and even though it's common to bitch about customer service, the past few days we've had fabulous help in all kinds of places. The health card office, the Shoe Factory on Fairview Street, and my blue box/garbage guys who don't fling the containers all over. Thank you. It would be wonderful to have a federal government who was as courteous in delivering what I wanted, as opposed to cramming their agenda down my throat when they think I'm not looking, while whistling "When We Get Behind Closed Doors".

Don't clean your bathroom with a bleach spray cleaner while you're wearing your good jeans, the new cute ones from American Eagle.

Now. Someone come and make dinner for my kids. Christer has just polished off the last of that 6 pound roast. But he'll be hungry again soon.










I need my kitchen cabinets painted.

Did you read like I did the other day that the Gulf oil spill is 'over'? That everything is fine, and the damage is far less then originally thought?

Sure you did. We were supposed to read that.

What you weren't supposed to read was this.

Yes, it's long. But here's the journalism and reporting everyone says is missing these days. Excellent piece.

Labels: bp, cover up, gulf oil spill, julia whitty, mother jones