Wednesday, December 31, 2008

other voices, other rooms


I'm really liking my new apartment, even as its less attractive aspects become apparent - the neighbors across the hall, for example, whose stereo sounds like it's in my bedroom and whose musical taste runs, sadly, to Ricky Martin and Christina Aguilera.

And the neighbors upstairs who, as far as I can tell, play recorders and clog - slowly. I don't even know if slow clogging exists, but it's the only activity I can conceive of that would correspond to the sounds I'm hearing from upstairs. Perhaps they're just learning to clog. Or perhaps you have to clog slowly if you're trying to play the recorder at the same time. Both seem plausible explanations to me.

I'm not worried about it - for one thing, it may be seasonal, something they indulge in only once a year (which would explain the lack of expertise). For another, it's only happened after 11 in the morning, and most days at this time, I will be at work, leaving them free to slow-clog their brains out.

Mostly, though, I find I like the mental image of them - I've decided they're some sort of recorder-based, slow-clogging, Czech version of the von Trapp family, and that, somehow, makes it all okay.


[Pictured, above right: My upstairs neighbors.]

Monday, December 29, 2008

the corkscrew chronicles


My recent adventures in corkscrews reminded me this is not the first time they've caused me grief.

Some years ago (it's not for me to say how many), I was studying French in a town I'll call Pate a Papier (Pulp and Paper), Quebec. My roommate was a schoolteacher from Newfoundland, and through her I met another Newfoundlander - a very tall, very brash, very blond girl who called me "Brainchild" because, having absolutely nothing else to do in Pate a Papier, I did my homework. Through her, I met the Quebecois guy with whom she did a weekly language exchange. He was about a foot shorter than she was and as dark as she was blond, and I came to think of them as Hall and Oates.

When my roommate returned to Newfoundland at Christmas, she advised me to "be very cold" to Hall. She didn't elaborate, but the unspoken message was, "or pay the price." Moments after she'd left (or so it seems, in retrospect), Hall called to invite me to attend the school Christmas party with her and Oates. Throwing my ex-roommate's warnings to the four winds, I agreed.

The night of the party, they arrived to pick me up in Oates' car. Hall announced she had a bottle of wine to drink at the party but no corkscrew. I realized I had none either. Oates, however, announced that he had one, and that we'd simply have to return to his house and get it.

What he meant, I realized 15 minutes later, was that his MOTHER had one and we could return to the house he shared with her (and his father) and borrow it - but only after I'd been introduced to his parents and looked at photos of their cat swimming in the toilet.

Wait, it gets worse.

We arrived at the party, opened the wine, I poured a glass and detached myself from Hall and Oates as quickly as possible. Until, that is, Oates approached me in a panic, asking if I'd seen his mother's corkscrew. I told him I hadn't, and he looked like he was about to burst into tears. If he didn't find it, he said, his mother would kill him. Or maybe make him swim in the toilet. I can't remember, but whatever the threat, it scared him. He told me I had to help him search, and I, being a nicer person in those days, did - wandering around the hall, peering surreptitiously over people's shoulders, trying to find the corkscrew.

I had no luck, and told Oates as much, but he had a new plan: he'd talked to the DJ, who had agreed to give me the microphone after the next song so that I could announce, in English, that we were missing a corkscrew and could we please have it back.

Now, to this point, I'd kept a very low profile in our program, and the idea of being known as the girl who lost her corkscrew at the Christmas party did not appeal to me at all, but I couldn't see anyway out -- Oates was so upset (and Hall was SO gone). Oates was by now standing next to the DJ, holding out a microphone toward me, and so I began the long, horrible walk to the DJ booth, thinking that I could always transfer to another university after Christmas. Just as I was reaching for the microphone, a guy ran up and handed Oates his corkscrew.

An 11th hour reprieve.

Joyfully, I returned to the party, and after Christmas I returned to the university. But I never again returned a call from Hall or Oates. I was very cold. I'd learned.

[Pictured above right: A girl from Newfoundland and her Quebecois language exchange partner, or Hall and Oates. Your call. And while we're on the subject, if you haven't watched Yacht Rock, you should.]

Sunday, December 28, 2008

seasons' greetings

Recent accusations of racism (see previous post) have left me bloodied but unbowed. I've been accused of worse, you'll remember - of homophobia, of clubbing seals (for fun, not fur), of stealing the movie Wimbledon from the Planet DVD on Spalena.

Perhaps I will become more culturally sensitive as a result. Perhaps not. It's a crap shoot, really.

I've been enjoying a very relaxing holiday season during which I've mixed long stretches of reading with short bouts of energetic unpacking and picture hanging. My apartment now has a decidedly split personality - the living room is settled, the bedroom looks like a squat. It's the sort of contrast that occurs frequently along the Czech/German border.

Relaxing as the holidays have been, they haven't been the source of great posting inspiration, so rather than treating you to a condensed version of the plot of The Constant Gardener, I think I'll just wish you all happy holidays!

Friday, December 19, 2008

moving target


I've been moving since the beginning of the month. The idea of having an entire month in which to complete the process sounded great at the outset, but has actually just prolonged the agony. Like watching all of "Runaway Bride" instead of just puking during the trailer ("In a world where brides run away...").

I've been living in the old apartment while I "clean" it - i.e. lie on the couch and watch "Friends" and wish cats could vacuum - but I actually moved most of my worldly possessions to the new apartment on December 2.

That night, having once again had to do a ridiculous amount of the lifting and carrying although I'd hired two movers this time (side note: you know you've been rattling around a town too long when your Albanian mover takes a good look at you and says, "I'm sure we've met somewhere before.") I bought a bottle of wine to have a glass and relax at the old place, forgetting I'd moved all my corkscrews to the new place.

Exhaustion battled desire for drink and desire for drink won, so I went in search of a corkscrew. I returned to the store where I'd bought the wine, realizing as I approached the clerk that I did not know the Czech word for corkscrew (I chalk this up to being a beer drinker rather than stinking at Czech, although I also stink at Czech). I successfully mimed opening a bottle, however, and the clerk got it but told me she couldn't help me. She suggested I try the Chinese store up the street. "They have," she said, then paused, as though mentally cataloging all the things they had, "Everything?" I suggested. "Everything," she agreed. And that's true, because I'd hit the them up up earlier in the day for packing tape, and they'd had that.

So I returned to the Chinese everything store and used my miming abilities to ask the extremely uninterested girl behind the counter for a corkscrew. Rather than answering me, she yelled to a guy in the back room in Chinese, and judging but what followed, I'm guessing what she said was:

"Hey, Hung Li, whitey here want to drink wine out of ice cream scoop, you got one?"

To which Hung Li apparently replied, "Now I hear all! Send her back I fix her up."

So, nodding and smiling the way I do when I'm not sure what Chinese people are saying but I want them to realize I respect them and their ancient culture, I went into the back room where Hung Li handed me an ice cream scoop.

"No," I said, in my halting Czech, "Have wine. In bottle. Need to open. Need..." (and here I did my bottle-opening mime, being careful to avoid any hint of a scooping motion).

"HA!" said Hung Li, then rooted around through a shelf containing every kitchen implement known to man and produced a corkscrew. I thanked him, and, trying desperately to ingratiate myself, asked him the word for corkscrew in Czech. He immediately yelled to the girl at the cash desk:

"Now she want CZECH LESSON! Stupid melon! Don't she know two day ago I in Shanghai stick KNIFE in white people???"

Girl at the cash desk (to guy in back) "HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!! Corkscrew! Corkscrew!" (then to me) "29 crown" (then to guy in back) "Corkscrew! HAHAHAHAHAHA!"

"Thank you, goodbye," I said, still gamely smiling and nodding.

"Goodbye! Goodbye!"

[Pictured above right: Something I probably could drink wine out of, if I had to.]

Friday, December 5, 2008

putting the 'rogue' in 'prorogue'


I have been remiss and I apologize. I have left you wandering unattended in the thickets of Canadian politics while I watched "You Are What You Eat" and redecorated my blog.

To address the most pressing issues:

  1. Yes, everyone in Ottawa gets a "snow day" as a result of parliament being prorogued. In fact, they get a snow month and a half (or more). It will be nothing but snow angels and snowball fights on Parliament Hill until January 29th.
  2. To "prorogue" is not a euphemism for something nastier. Although, in this case, it could be.
  3. The governor general of Canada is the head of state and the representative of our actual head of state - the Queen of England.
  4. Yes, that is sad.
  5. The role of the governor general is largely ceremonial, except for those rare occasions, like this one, when the fate of the government rests in her (or his) hands. It's like, at the bottom of the ninth with the bases loaded, sending the mascot up to bat.
  6. In recent years, it has become fashionable to appoint minorities and women (or minority women) to the post of governor general - so we've had Ukrainian, French Canadian, Chinese, and Haitian governors general. It's a way of appearing open and tolerant as a society without giving these people any actual power (well, it usually is). It also draws attention away from the reality which is that, with the exception of the 10 minutes during the early '90s in which Kim Campbell was prime minister, Canada has always been ruled by white men.
  7. I, personally, am torn between my hatred of Harper (and my desire to see my erstwhile debating club buddy turfed from office without time for rebuttal) and my fear that a coalition supported by the separatists/sovereigntists would be doomed to perdition from the outset.
  8. I believe it's time to ask ourselves, "What would Sir Guy Carleton do?" (WWSGCD). Sir Guy (pictured above, right) was governor general not once but THREE times between 1768 and 1796. Surely during his long tenure he did or said something that could be applied to today's situation. I really hope somebody has the time to do a little research and find out what that something was.

Thursday, December 4, 2008

extreme makeover

It seemed like a change was in order, so we're shaking things up here on the Imbecile Sidewalk - a nip here, a tuck there, a slash of lipstick, a more liberal use of the first person plural and voila! a whole new blog. (This is a work in progress, by the way, we realize that you can't actually read the title of the blog as it now stands, and we understand that can severely limited your traffic.)

The inspiration? A Czech TV show called "You Are What You Eat." I watch it regularly with horrified fascination. The premise is simple: each week, an overweight or underweight person is watched as he or she attempts not just to lose or gain weight, but to adopt a more healthy lifestyle.

I've only ever seen the overweight people, so I'm not sure what is done for the skinny ones but I'll happily speculate for you - I sometimes feel that's my purpose here on earth.

With the overweight people, at some point early on, they are blindfolded and led to a table that holds everything they ate the week before - for one guy, this included 15 non-alcoholic beers and 12 liters of normal beer (presented, appetizingly, in those big white industrial-size buckets restaurants buy mayonnaise in, although I don't believe he actually drank it out of these).

They are then shown a table filled with all the healthy things they will now be allowed to eat in a given week.

Speculation alert: I assume for the skinny people they first show them an empty table, then show them the 'before' table of a fat person and invite them to dig in.

There follows (in no particular order) a trip to the doctor; a trip to the grocery store (to buy healthy ingredients for a healthy meal the healthy-meal specialist shows them how to cook); a meeting with a personal trainer; and a trip to the beauty salon where (if you're a woman) your hair is cut, then dyed some unnatural color that doesn't necessarily become you but would certainly draw attention away from the rest of you.

My favorite part of every show is when the host - an actual doctor (pictured below, right, with a featured dieter and one of those tables full of food I was talking about) - sneaks up on the person to find out if he/she is breaking his/her diet. This always takes place when the person is at a party with his/her friends, presumably to up the potential humiliation quotient.

At the end, the weight losing/gaining person is presented with a special oven (I think it works like a normal oven and a convection oven, but remember, I'm watching this in Czech - it may actually be a TV set) and sometimes a more elaborate reward for his/her weight loss (one contestant received the wedding of her dreams - assuming she always dreamed of being married on television after appearing in her underwear in front of the entire nation).

If you're interested, it's on TV Prima every Thursday at 21:10. And if any of you watch it and realize that I have it all wrong, please, keep it to yourselves.

Saturday, November 15, 2008

something fishy...


Guess who got a digital camera with a fisheye lens? This is just a hint of the fun that's in store for all of us!

Friday, November 14, 2008

what wine goes best with crow?


For the eight years of the Bush presidency (those dark days before Obama won the election and appointed a unicorn secretary of state and a leprechaun secretary of defense and everyone in Washington started pooping rainbows) I've wondered HOW people could believe the lies spread by the right-wing media.

Today, I have my answer:

Because they wanted to.

And do you know how I know this? Because, faithful readers, I have been HAD, but I was complicit in my own...hadding (remember I said that, it's going to seem really funny about five paragraphs from now).

I believed the Fox news report that Sarah Palin did not know Africa was a continent. I read it on the Huffpo, was intrigued enough to watch a related clip on YouTube, then happily referenced this "fact" several hundred times during the next week.

Until a friend pointed out to me that a) it was really unlikely Palin thought Africa was a country (my argument had been it made sense, because what she can't see from her front porch, she can't know) and b) it was odd that I was believing Fox News now, after eight years of dismissing the entire network as an affirmative action program for congenital liars.

And the answer, of course, is that I believed it BECAUSE I WANTED TO. And I still want to. Oh how I want to. But I do not think, in all honesty, that I can.

It turns out it was an elaborate hoax

Now, on a seemingly unrelated note, I, for reasons I actually cannot explain, I also recently watched a clip from an Oprah interview with Jennifer Aniston (so much for that little dinner party trick where I pretend I've never heard of either of them and ask people to 'hum the theme to Friends to see if it jogs my memory,' or explain why anyone would want to announce the results of a paternity test on national television).

Having laughed and laughed and laughed at Sarah Palin for her inability to complete a coherent sentence, I watched these two high-profile Obama supporters with some embarassment. This (my god, what won't I do for you people?) is a (reasonably) accurate transcript of about 2 minutes of the Oprah (O)/Aniston (A) interview:

O.…that I thought, this time last week everyone was talking about the election, now it’s WHAT JENNIFER SAID

A. Yeah

O.…on the on the cover of Vogue.

A. Well…

O. And what you said was what Angelina did was very uncool

A. I didn’t say that exactly…But you know what? That was, unfortunately, so not en vogue in my opinion, but…you know, the the the cover line does not even come i…the contents does not reflect the cover.

O. It’s really a wonderful story. Okay, well I will say, Jonathan Van Meter …ah…he…he’s

A. He's great.

O. He’s a great interviewer…I love the story… but you…is this out of context? You did say what Angelina did was very uncool? You did say that, you just didn’t expect it to be on the cover.

A. Well, no …ah…you don’t expect…He asked me a question and I basically just answered it as honestly as I could. You know I don’t … I don’t go there. You know what I mean?

O. Yeah, yeah.

A. Cause it’s a hundred years old, for chrissake.

(Audience hoots, cheers, claps)

A. It’s true.

O. But okay, since it’s…you know…

A. And a hundred, to be exact.

O. And a hundred an’…but since it’s what all the pundints (sic) or newspeople were talking about this morning

A. Yeah

O. What you’re saying was uncool was a statement that Angelina had made earlier, saying that ..uhhhh… it would be nice, later on, to have their children look at the film of them falling in love. That’s what you were referring to, right?

A. Su…Somethin’ like that.

O. Yeah, the that…that it was very uncool.

A. You know…d’I don’t know…by it’s that’s just me

O. Okay, so…ahhh…

A. What else did they say? What else they talkin’ about?

O. They actually didn’t go into cause you know, what you go into in this article with Jonathan Van Meter in Vogue I thought it’s so good

A. Yeah

O. This whole oh oh poor Jen

A. Yeah

O. Sh-she’s dating. Is she dating? Is she not?

A. Yeah

O. How’s she doing?

A. Yeah

O. You seem to be doing pretty good, to me. Pretty well.

A. I know, but you know what? I got (hoots, cheers, applause)

O. And even

A. I think that that

O. Okay

A. The the you know the the the unfortunate reality is that good news just isn’t as interesting and I think that, you know, especially at a time when there’s such positivity in in the collective of what’s going on, negativity is still what sells.

Okay, I'll make it stop. (The real interview went on considerably longer and they may both have become more eloquent... but I doubt it.)

Now, Aniston is an actress, so can be forgiven if, when without a script, she wanders away from the rules of standard English like a steer that's just found a hole in the fence. But Oprah runs a MEDIA EMPIRE. She talks for a living. AND she prefaced this interview by saying it was going to be about what Jennifer SAID, implying that the things Jennifer says are of some import. Yet, if you boil down what Jennifer says in this interview, it basically amounts to, "Yeah."

And suddenly, I have to at least give Palin credit for trying to talk about serious issues even though the results were very, very sad.

Then again, had Katie Couric used her time with Palin to discuss the Aniston/Pitt breakup, I'd probably still be laughing.

Instead of doing what I'm doing now.

Pass the crow, please...

[Pictured, above left: Jonathan Van Meter. You didn't really think I'd post a picture of Oprah or Jennifer Aniston, did you?]

Monday, November 10, 2008

i have seen the future baby, and it's murder

Man sits down in front of a computer and types a question: "When will you be able to do everything I can do?"

Computer whirrs and clicks (it's MY computer) and types: "That reminds me of a story..."

All by way of introducing my musings on artificial intelligence. When computers can do everything humans can, it's going to be a nightmare. Mark my words.

Say you get a parking ticket (I don't have a car, so the chances of my getting a parking ticket are slim; in fact, my getting a parking ticket would probably be the start of a low-rent, modern-day version of 'The Trial,' but that's why I said "YOU" get a parking ticket, to keep this in the realm of the possible).

Anyway, you get a parking ticket, and when you go to pay it, the clerk at the DMV (you were doing your funky freestyle parking in Canada, did I mention that?) calls up your file, which the computer obligingly presents but, because it now thinks like a human, it realizes it has access to all kinds of other information about you and it can't resist taking a peek, and having peeked, it can't resist the urge to share, so it adds an aside about the state of your liver or your credit rating or the Ann Rice boxed set you bought from Amazon last month. All prefaced, of course, with "I hate to say it, but..." or "I'm not judging, but...," or "You know what they say - today parking tickets, tomorrow unpremeditated homicide..."

And that's assuming computers are sharing the FACTS about you. A computer that truly thought like a human being would eventually get too lazy to bother checking its actual files, and just take a stab at it - or better still, MAKE SOMETHING UP. (I will admit right now, I am imagining a computer that thinks like ME, and I just went to the optician for new glasses and took a stab at my dioptics, got them wrong, and must now choose between calling the store and confessing my stupidity or getting a pair of glasses that would have given my 13-year-old self the gift of 20/20 vision).

WHY would I want my computer to think like ME? Instead of being arranged alphabetically in neat folders and subfolders on my hard drive, my files would suddenly be strewn willy-nilly all over my desktop, where there would (somehow) also be dirty coffee cups and remotes for DVD players that no longer function.

No, I like my computers the way I like my presidents - black.

And smarter than me.

Thursday, October 30, 2008

my right honourable former schoolmate

I went to high school with Canada's new Minister of Natural Resources!

Can you believe it?

We were in the debating club together! We honed the same rhetorical and oratorical skills. She used hers to get elected to parliament and appointed to Cabinet. I use mine to try and convince Americans that Thomas Jefferson was born in New Brunswick. She left her job as CEO of the Toronto Port Authority to run for office. I recently discovered I actually like port. The similarities are almost eerie. I could have been the new Minister of Natural Resources -- EXCEPT THAT I'M NOT A BATSHIT, RIGHT-WING, FEAR-MONGERING HATER OF DEMOCRACY!

Gentle readers, she ran for the CONSERVATIVES. She's part of STEPHEN "I think there are probably some gains to be made in the stock market" HARPER'S government. He HAND-PICKED her to run in her Ontario riding because he didn't trust the riding association to come up with someone who basically owes him her first-born child (or perhaps her second, she has two -- another similarity, I have two cats) and will have to support him in all he does.

Well, I just want you to know, I had nothing to do with this. As president of the debating club (did I mention, I was PRESIDENT of the debating club? I'm not entirely a stranger to high office myself) I always tried to set a good example by NOT being a PROGRESSIVE CONSERVATIVE.

Sadly, my efforts seem to have been in vain. Although actually, it would be worse to have her cite you as an "inspiration," as she did poor Alexa McDonough, one of the highest profile women in Canadian politics (stop yawning!) and the former leader of the New Democrats (those are our "socialists," the zanies who want to "spread the wealth").

I heard the now Minister of Natural Resources interviewed about the dearth of women running in the last Canadian elections (11% of the PC candidates, 19% of the Liberals) and she pointed out that she was from Nova Scotia and had been inspired by Alexa McDonough -- so inspired, she accepted a Cabinet nomination from a man of whom McDonough once said:

"We have a Prime Minister who alone in the world still considers George Bush his political hero."

Ladies and gentlemen, I rest my case...

Sunday, October 12, 2008

i can't believe i haven't posted this before


This is a "friend's" interpretation of my home life. In case you can't read the dialog, my cat Seamus and I (that's me with the Canadian flag where my head should be) are having the following discussion:

Flaghead: What would you like for dinner, Seamus?
Seamus: Scotch!
Flaghead: But that's my scotch, you little devil, and I don't think that's very healthy for cats.
Seamus: Scotch!
Flaghead: (thinking) I wonder if Seamus has a drinking problem?
Seamus: (thinking) When did Mary become such a moralizing bitch?

he is charlotte simmons


I've spent by far the greater part of my adult life with "my nose in a book," as my father once put it (probably while trying to get my nose out of the book and into one of his duct tape-based home renovation projects) , so it occurs to me that the occasional entry reviewing something I've just read could be a valid form of blogging, provided it doesn't become a habit, and I don't turn into some low-rent - albeit kinder - Michiko Kakutani.*

The book I just read is I am Charlotte Simmons, by Tom (Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test) Wolfe. I've avoided reading it until now (it was published in 2004) because I read a bunch of bad reviews when it came out including, if I remember correctly, one by Kakutani.

Mostly, though, I avoided it because I couldn't bear the mental picture of Tom Wolfe, in all his peculiar, personal, sartorial glory (i.e., wearing a blindingly white three-piece suit, with a pastel-colored, high-colored shirt and SPATS) hanging out on North American university campuses taking the pulse of modern collegiate life.

I decided to give it a chance, however, when it was recommended to me by my cousin, whose taste in books has always been excellent (read: very similar to my own).

It's 672-pages long and I read it in three days. I don't know if he truly captured the feel of a modern American university campus, but he captured a few feelings I remember from my first year at university, although my university was to the "Dupont" university of this novel as Pee Wee Herman's Playhouse is to Versailles.

I really can't be bothered to summarize the plot and I'm not going to recommend you read it because the LAST thing I want is somebody saying, "You said that book was good and it SUCKED and I want my money back." (Which, in passing, is probably one of the reasons Michiko Kakutani is so negative - she doesn't want to deal with that nonsense either).

So, I am Charlotte Simmons by Tom Wolfe - read or don't, I really don't care.

Man, this book reviewing gig is a breeze.

[Pictured above: Tom Wolfe on his way to a pre-game tailgate party.]


*The New York Times' cranky book reviewer - I'm tossing in a mention to establish myself as sufficiently literary to review books, and yes, I had to look up the spelling.

Wednesday, September 10, 2008

you've come a long way, baby...

...in which, your intrepid, if Canadian, political analyst, compares and contrasts the bios of the only two female vice-presidential candidates to represent major political parties in the United States.

Geraldine Ferraro (GF):

Born in 1935, attended Marymount Academy on full scholarship and graduated at 16, having skipped two grades. Honor society member, active in clubs and sports, voted most likely to succeed.

Sarah Palin (SP):

Born in 1964, attended Wasilla High School in Wasilla, Alaska. Headed Fellowship of Christian Athletes, was point guard and captain of basketball team, helped team win Alaska small-school basketball championship in 1982, hitting critical free throw despite ankle stress fracture. Would sometimes go moose-hunting with father before school.

GF:

Attended Marymount Manhattan College with scholarship, sometimes holding down two or three jobs. Served as editor of school newspaper. Also attended education classes at Hunter College. Received BA in 1956.

SP:

Attended Hawaii Pacific College, North Idaho College, University of Idaho, and Matanuska-Susitna College, before returning to University of Idaho where she received BSC in communications-journalism in 1987.

GF:

Taught English in New York City public school system while attending Fordham University Law School at night. Received law degree in 1960.

SP:

Worked as a sports reporter for KTUU-TV in Anchorage Alaska while helping in husband's commercial fishing business.

GF:

Practiced law and worked in husband's real estate office from 1961 to 1974. Appointed Assistant District Attorney for Queen's County in 1974. Created Special Victims Bureau and Confidential Unit while in this post. As chief of these units, specialized in cases involving sex crimes, crimes against elderly, family violence, and child abuse.

SP:

Biography does not actually say what she did between 1988 and 1995.

GF:

Elected to Congress in 1978, representing New York's 9th Congressional District. Re-elected in 1980 and 1982. Focused much of her efforts on equal wages, pensions, and pension plans for women.

SP:

Elected Mayor of Wasilla Alaska in 1996 and served two terms. Tried to fire town librarian. Built multifunctional arena. Appointed to Alaska Oil and Gas Commission in 2003. Resigned in 2004. From 2003 to June 2005, served as one of three directors of Ted Stevens Excellence in Public Service, Inc. In 2006, elected first female governor of Alaska.

GF:

In 1984, was chosen by Democratic presidential nominee Walter F. Mondale as his running mate.


SP:

In 2008, was chosen by Republican presidential nominee John McCain as his running mate.

GF:

Quote: "... no matter how concerned I am about spending, I have seen first hand what poverty can do to people's lives and I just can't, in good conscience, not do something about it."

SP:

Quote: "I am pro-life and I believe that marriage should only be between a man and a woman."

Shall I say it again?

We sure have come a long way, baby.






(Above: The Virginia Slims lady - not only has she come a long way, she did it in that skirt.)

Thursday, August 28, 2008

feed a fever?


I just read about a movie called "House Bunny." It's about a Playboy Bunny who runs away from Hef's mansion and takes shelter in a ... sorority.

It started me thinking up ideas for surefire Hollywood Blockbusters. (You will note it did NOT start me thinking I could get into Hef's mansion OR join a sorority. It's true, I'm suffering from a mild case of cat scratch fever - thanks to a house cat who shall remain nameless except that his name SOUNDS like "nameless" and it wasn't Francois - but it hasn't made me completely batshit.)

So, how about a movie about...a sorority sister who runs away from her sorority (Phi Kappa Boob) and takes shelter in a...BROTHEL? We could call it...BROTHEL SISTER!

Or no, wait, I've got it. How about a HOOKER who runs away from a brothel and takes shelter in the PLAYBOY MANSION? We could call it...MANSION HOOKER.

Or how about a movie about PLAYBOY BUNNY who runs away from the brothel where she took shelter in Part I, and takes shelter in a HOT TUB?! TUB BUNNY.

Wait, maybe I AM batshit...

And another thing: can you really use the same word - "movie" - to describe "The Sorrow and the Pity," "Citizen Kane," "Anything with Meryl Streep in it Except 'Mamma Mia''" and "House Bunny?" Should people (and by people, I mean other people) be required to make a distinction between "movies" and "films?" It seems that perhaps they should be, just out of respect for real cinema, but how can I MAKE them?

How about a movie where a CAT scratches a PLAYBOY BUNNY and gives her cat scratch fever so bad that when she runs away to look for shelter she ends up with the AMISH and she LIKES IT? We could call it "AMISH BUNNY," or "WITNESS."

Are the Amish even allowed to watch movies? I mean, regularly, not during their "batshit year" where they can do anything and probably wouldn't waste it just watching a movie unless they were mainlining heroin and sporting a coat with 18 zippers at the same time. (Somehow, I've always been fascinated with the idea that they're not allowed to use zippers - it's all toggle, all the time with those people. Imagine.)

I think it's time to reapply my topical antibiotic cream.

It's been nice talking to you all.

[Pictured Above: A scene from the Hollywood Blockbuster "AMISH BUNNY," coming soon to a theater near you, unless you actually are Amish.]


Tuesday, August 12, 2008

go canada


Sometimes it's not easy being Canadian.

It's not easy being Canadian when you hear Terry Jacks singing, "Seasons in the Sun," for example.

I know it couldn't have been easy being Canadian when beaver hats fell out of fashion and our only national industry died.

And it sure must have been hard to be Canadian before there actually was a Canada, and the best you could be was "British North American" which must have sounded gay even then.

But the hardest time to be Canadian has got to be during the Summer Olympics.

I went to the paper today, hoping SOMEONE had won a medal of SOME color (yes, I know, "colour" in Canadian, but WIN A FRICKIN' MEDAL CANADA, AND THEN WE'LL TALK). What I discovered, under the headline, "What Canada did Tuesday," was that Christine Girard who finished "four kgs out of the bronze medal" in the Women's 63 kg was a STAR.

She'll be able to go back to the village and lord it all over the FIFTH-place men's slalom kayak dude, the SEVENTH-placed synchronized diving duo from Montreal, and the NINTH-placed 'eventing' team. I don't even know what 'eventing' is and I'm pissed.

But even these guys can feel superior to the one-person dinghy man, who is currently sitting pretty at 16th overall after the second of 10 races; the one-person dinghy woman, who is currently 24th, and the two-person dinghy team who have had four races and are now - be still my proud Canadian heart - TWENTY-EIGHTH.

I would like to go and give the whole team a pep talk. "DUDES!" I'd begin, "The ITALIANS have NINE MEDALS."

And that's where I'd end.

I did a little research (I googled "Canada Olympics Suck") and it seems Canada has a Summer Olympics STRATEGY. It's called the "Road to Excellence" campaign and it's the summer equivalent of the winter "Own the Podium" program (my prediction? the only way Canada is going to OWN a podium is if it buys one at IKEA).

The catch, however, is that the "Road to Excellence" heads directly to London, 2012, bypassing Beijing 2008 completely.

Friday, August 1, 2008

gay paree

I read articles about home renovations. They've sort of replaced the "Vows" section of the New York Times as my guilty pleasure. I sit in all my renter's glory and read about people who think nothing of buying two Manhattan apartments and converting them into one (the NYT doesn't tend to profile the people who buy one Manhattan apartment and convert it into two then rent one out to a Korean family looking to open a sawmill but I'd read that article if it existed - I'm no snob).

Anyway, yesterday, having been directed to the Toronto Globe and Mail by at least FOUR people who were kind enough to send me links to the story of the Greyhound bus beheading, I got to scanning the rest of the front page and found a home renovation story. This is the home:


It was built in 1842 for Charles Whitelaw, the first mayor of Paris, Ontario (just like the original Paris, except that it's totally not). Alexander Graham Bell used to visit. I like to imagine his reaction, were he to return to visit his dear friend Charles today, and get a gander at the front hallway:


I mean, it's possible that IS Alexander Graham Bell in the ladder painting although I seem to recall him having a beard, and I doubt the man with him his Paris' first mayor, but I can't swear to that either.

It turns out the present owner of the house is a gay icon in Toronto. Perhaps had there been some mention of this SOMEWHERE in the accompanying article, the photos would have been less jarring. But even knowing this, as I now do, the decor still gets me:



I mean, does he have to remind himself he's gay? I picture him wandering into the "lounge" thinking, "Man, I got me a six-pack of Molson and the game's on tonight and... DAMN! That's right! I'm GAY."


The same might happen at dinner (that's the dining room above). Maybe he gets a little too wrapped up in talk of small engine repair or boobs (or whatever straight guys talk about at dinner), then he looks to his left and sees the white guy getting it on with the purple guy while the weird, bearded man-monkey holds an umbrella over them and he thinks, "RIGHT! I'm GAY! Gay gay gay gay gay. God. You'd think I'd know that by now." Then he chuckles self-deprecatingly and changes the subject to waxing or Mamma Mia! or whatever gay people talk about at dinner.

I can only tell you for certain what I'll be talking about at dinner for the next few weeks - the Greyhound bus beheading. Be warned.

Wednesday, July 23, 2008

movin' on up

If you haven't seen me around much lately, it's because I've been moving in different circles. Rather swell circles, if you must know - filled with people for whom single malt whiskies, original art, and indoor plumbing are not luxuries, they're givens.

I think, when you do see me next, you'll notice a distinct improvement. I've acquired a bit of polish. I no longer wipe my nose on my sleeve - better still, I no longer wipe my nose on anybody else's sleeve, a trick that may have seemed oh so amusant during all those dear nights on the docks, but which I've been brought to see is perhaps not quite the thing.

When I do have to wipe my nose, I've learned (assuming there's no 2,000kc note handy), to ask myself, "What would Brooke Astor do?" and then wipe it discretely - in the drapes.

My conversation is much better too. I'd always heard that great minds talked about people and small minds talked about ideas, but it turns out I'd heard that from a moron and it's TOTALLY the other way around. So I've dropped all references to the Menendez Brothers and the Fatty Arbuckle scandal from my repertoire, and instead I talk about life after death, and are movies art? and what is the capital of Sweden? Ideas.

I've also learned to take more care about my dress. Where once I would have dashed off for an evening's entertainment without so much as running a fork through my hair, I now take a moment to straighten my hat, button my gloves, and remove the cat hair from my jodhpurs. And it pays let me tell you. People really seem to notice when you make that extra effort, "Nice jodhpurs," they'll say, or "I didn't even know you HAD a horse." It's enough to turn a girl's head.

So, I can't promise I'll be seeing much of you in future, because me and my new high society friends (pictured below) will probably be spending a lot of time discussing ideas, and wearing jodhpurs,and avoiding the docks, and bedazzling our matching gowns, but I promise to keep you posted. Consider this blog a window on my new life and feel free to press your dirty little noses against it!


[Note: all the pictures in this post turned up in a google image search for "high society."]

Monday, July 21, 2008

twas brillig...

If you know how crazy I am about celebrities - the older and deader the better - then you can imagine my joy at discovering LEWIS CARROLL lives in my hood!

Yes, THE Lewis Carroll. Anglican non-minister. Mathematician. Author of Alice in Wonderland. Possible pedophile. And the only way I discovered it is that he found someone's missing cat (SO like him) and put up a poster on the gate to Havlickovy Sady.

The cat, it said, "Was brindl, with white on its wether and neb."

I'm sure it was found gyring and gimbling in the wabe, but there was no room to include it on the poster. Lewis had to nip his poetic tendencies in the bud and give a phone number and address at which the kitty could be collected. And what a frabjous day that will be for its owner!

In celebrity-sighting terms, this is right up there with the time I met the prime minister of Canada and the morning I had brunch at a table near Selma Blair (who shares a last name with the former prime minister of Britain, which used to be the boss of Canada - eerie!)

Watch this space for more dead celebrity sightings!

Monday, June 30, 2008

REALLY easy rider

I recently (read: five minutes ago) ran across this reference to the movie Easy Rider (which, I feel compelled to add, I've seen twice and still don't get, except for the scene where Jack Nicholson is perched on the back of one of the bikes in a suit, wearing his old football helmet, which I not only get, I love). It was in an article about the new Mercedes GLK-Class, and why I was reading it is neither here nor there. The point is, well, I'll tell you the point in a minute, first, read this:

"In the 40 or so years since Wyatt and Billy’s great escape, first impressions suggest little has changed in this no-man’s land between L. A. and Las Vegas. With the Steppenwolf classic “Born to be Wild” pumping from the stereo, we gun the engine and set off in the tracks of our road movie heroes. “Get your motor running/looking for adventure...” Although the scenery may not have changed much, it takes only a matter of seconds at the wheel of the new GLK to realize that 2008-style independence comes with much greater comfort than that enjoyed by Hopper and Fonda, and that Mercedes-style freedom comes with leather upholstery, air conditioning, at least seven airbags, Brake Assist (BAS) and power steering as standard. Yet despite such modern creature comforts, it is impossible to lose that “easy-rider” feeling."


Do I even have to tell you the point? Oh, what the hell, I will.

Would Easy Rider have become the cult classic we know today had our heroes escaped in an air-conditioned, luxury automobile with SEVEN airbags?

Would the sight of their Mercedes pulling up to the gas pumps have raised the hackles of the yokel behind the counter? Even if the GLK is "15 feet of antiestablishment attitude?"

An antiestablishment Mercedes?

I now declare the counterculture dream of the '60s officially DEAD.

Wednesday, June 18, 2008

adult education


I've been thinking about going back to school.

It all started last week when my boss, out of the blue, and "just out of curiosity," asked me if I could tell him how a laser printer worked. (For those who are wondering, I do not work for Dell or HP or even a local Central European firm assembling printers under the "Iffy" or "Ersatz" brand.)

I thought about it and realized that I could not -- I could not tell him how a laser printer worked! And oh, how this has haunted me. It's why I'm thinking of going back to school -- vocational school.

It's not the first time I've considered a change of career, or pondered the acquisition of some portable skills -- small-engine repair once called my name, but that was back in Canada where EVERYONE has a lawn mower or a chainsaw or a snowmobile and many have all three and use them interchangeably.

I once did a report on the workings of a two-stroke carbureted engine and I remember it in detail. I asked my cousin, who was studying mechanical engineering, to explain it to me, telling him I would be expected to incorporate "colorful and apt similes and analogies" into my account -- my cousin did one better and incorporated them into his own account -- "The piston moves up and down in the cylinder like dog food in a can" -- being the one that leaps immediately to mind.

In fact, I remember the workings of the two-stroke engine so clearly, I may just describe them to my boss, substituting "laser printer" for "engine."

"And then the letters appear on the paper like dried dog food pellets on a plate."

Needs work, I think I'll call my cousin...

[Pictured above: a laser printer at work!]

Monday, June 16, 2008

what's happening in canada

Sometimes one writes out of inspiration, sometimes as a matter of discipline, and sometimes as a way of avoiding cleaning the cat litter box (apparently this last was behind much of both "A Farewell to Arms" and "The Great Gatsby").

I'm not saying what is behind today's post, but my cats are holding their noses as I write, and it's not a reaction to my prose.

I realize I've fallen down on the job of keeping you all informed about what's happening in Canada. The main obstacle is that I don't actually know what's happening in Canada. This morning, though, in my never-ending efforts to serve my public (both of you) I've skimmed the Globe and Mail (Toronto's NATIONAL newspaper) and and here's what I found:

"Within spitting distance of the Calgary International Airport, at an anonymous conference hall, Oscar-winner Ben Affleck moved listeners to tears as he talked about his experiences in Africa."

Raises more questions than it answers, doesn't it? Who's spitting at the Calgary airport? And who gave Ben Affleck an Oscar?

"He held back no painful detail about the people he encountered, juxtaposing their stories with what he called 'vain consumption' in the West, in a room oozing with oil money, where 325 guests paid $25,000 per table of 10. The tables alone raised $800,000."

More questions: can you think of a better example of 'vain consumption' than spending $25,000 to have dinner with Ben Affleck?

Oh wait, maybe this:

"Affleck's celebrity status helped raise more than a quarter of a million dollars during the live auction on Saturday night, including $150,000 donated by five couples...to take in two upcoming movie premieres, Affleck's comedy He's Just Not That Into You and Damon's war drama Green Zone."

(He's Just Not That Into You is apparently the story of a Calgary oil man's relationship to the African continent.)

And that's what's happening in Canada!

Monday, June 9, 2008

Sex ve městě

I went to the Czech premiere of Sex and the City last week and let me tell you, it was FABULOUS. The good people at Palace Cinemas pulled out all the stops to ensure the evening was every bit as glam as the film.

Before entering the theater, we were offered a "welcome" shot of "vodka." Half the glasses contained a brown liquid and half contained a cloudy white liquid and both tasted like air freshener mixed with club soda, but maybe that's what passes for vodka in New York these days, what do I know?

So many buckets of ink have been spilled discussing the film I feel no need to say anything about it other than that it was like watching five episodes of the show one after the other, which I may actually have done on occasion, although never flying high on "vodka."

Some women dressed for the premiere, but it was wall-to-wall Charlottes -- tasteful summer dresses -- no floppy, flower lapel pins or over-sized tam o'shanters or tutus (for those, apparently, I should have hit the Indiana Jones premiere).

After the film, there were subway sandwiches and beer. And then I asked myself, "Are 'Subway' and 'Pilsner Urquell' the labels everyone kept going on about in the movie?" But before I could answer myself, they ran out of beer and it was time to throw away the plastic glass, dust the bread crumbs off my shirt, and return to the workaday world.

Sunday, June 8, 2008

...and we're back

Many years ago, in journalism school, my sister's class was asked to come up with a name for the weekly radio show they'd be broadcasting on the campus station. She suggested "Le Trottoir Imbecile" -- "The Imbecile Sidewalk" -- based on the title of an Edward Gorey story about a writer who finds himself at a very boring dinner at a restaurant by that name.

Her radio professor was much taken with it, but cooler heads prevailed, and the show was eventually called, "Newshour," or "Current Events," or "Stuff We Have to Do to Graduate."

But I always felt "Le Trottoir Imbecile" was a title worthy of use, and now that my old blog name is no longer appropriate (because I no longer live at Rasinovo Nabrezi 76, and the Czech pensioners who do would probably would not appreciate my musings on the perfidy of the Adidas corporation or the wisdom of dating a war criminal going out attached to their address) I've decided to use it.

I'm excited about the blog relaunch and I hope you are too, and if not, that you have the grace to fake it because I promise, I'll buy it.

More to follow...