Category: Sooey Says
I read stuff linked to on my Facebook page by people I know or don’t but I haven’t read anything yet that makes the point I want to about Sun Media and its suck-it-up-second-sex brand of muckmaking, vis a vis Ezra Levant’s recent verbal assault on Canadian girls and women.
I get it, you know, I do, how the purse-lipped gender equality minders can grate on our one remaining frayed nerve at times, disallowing humour for the sake of real feelings not even in the room.
I worked at the NDP during the 80s. Believe me. I get it.
When I first saw a Toronto Sun, though, I kind of couldn’t believe how deliberately in-my-face sexist it was. It was a visual and verbal assault against girls and women, as far as I was concerned. Again, it was the 80s, and I was working at the NDP, but the Sault Star used to be a fairly decent paper, and although inside editorial opinion was mostly sexist drivel, the front page didn’t always read like a Progressive Conservative Party pamphlet advising women to stay indoors and out of the paid workforce.
Everybody at the NDP read the Globe and the Star but one old battle-axe I hung out with on occasion always read the Sun.
“How can you stand it?”
“It’s not a question of standing it. I want to know what voters are reading.”
I knew a Sunshine Girl. She worked with my ex at a drugstore on Yonge Street and went by the name of Vera Skye. That may in fact have been her actual name, I don’t know. I do know that she partied with Ackroyd and Belushi one New Years and did an audition at Second City. She lived at the YMCA and sang on its roof.
She was a very talented singer.
She was also completely humiliated by the shoot, although in an easy going spirit, the photographer was a pig, the pay peanuts, but it was publicity and her outfit was cool. She went with the Gwen Verdon look from “All That Jazz” (danskin and legwarmers, but short spiky hair) and claimed to be a ridiculously young age when she was actually inspiringly old to be passing herself off as even an atypical Sunshine Girl.
I have always lacked an appreciation for the rules of show business.
I couldn’t read the Sun, though, because it was so anti-me. I was just made upset by it, discouraged by old man Conservativism, the knowledge that the men of the Sun would happily lock up someone like me and throw away the key, a phrase it so often employed.
It was the enemy, really, this populist rag, an enemy nothing could be done about because it was also the way it was. I knew from a lifetime already of arguing about politics that there’s a deliberateness to the stupid that becomes insistence if challenged.
Meanwhile, I’d been called a slut by a pharmacist for getting my pill subscription renewed (we were all on OrthoNovum 1/50, taking an insanely high and unnecessary level of birth control, even in the 80s) and I’d been called a slut, even asked for a list of my clients, by a doctor for wanting to be checked for venereal disease during a gonorrhea epidemic at university.
I tested positive, by the way, but I plan to save that story for my book of anecdotes, mine and others. Young women today need to know how sexist it really was for their mothers, that even in the 80s you’d be castigated for being proactive about your and your partners’ sexual health and well-being.
Of the three men I told so that they could be tested, too, not a one seemed surprised. One of them went on to become a doctor, he was an intern at the time, so good luck with all that, ladies.
Sadly, we don’t tell our daughters the truth directly. You’d think what with teenaged girls drinking bleach and hanging themselves, distraught over the propagation of “she’s a slut” accusations, we’d get over ourselves and fess up to the drunken one night stands that were for many of us, more often than not, the path of least resistance, the means to an end, a way out of a tricky situation.
It wasn’t a consideration of being sexually assaulted so much as it was a concern of being a cock tease. But I forget lots and remember falsely and there were lots and lots and lots of good guys and good times rolling in the hay.
And I do know for a fact that the man I’m with now, born in the 70s, is at least one Enlightenment away from the men I knew then, so it’s all good and getting better, isn’t it.
Still, it’s Canada in 2014 and teenaged girls are killing themselves because they would rather be dead than alive and living down the slut label. And yet, we are having to put up with adult men propagating it, for some reason not at all clear to me.
Sure, Ezra Levant called PET a slut, too. Of course he did. It’s not sexism, then, see? He’s an equal opportunity offender, not a male chauvinist pig.
Two words: divorced, deadbeat.
And, but, oh dear, it was wrong to call Maggie T a slut because she’s bi-polar, isn’t she, an elderly widow, as Jonathan Kay put it, and not because it’s wrong to air outrageously sexist opinions on television, because balance, and enough affirmative action because girls are now outdoing boys academically (as if we didn’t always until we were barred from entry) and if we’re not careful will soon be forgoing motherhood and then the Muslims will have won.
But where is Stephen Harper, our Prime Minister, who claims to care so much about victims of crime, the teenaged girls driven to suicide by the slut label, where is he to call out his Conservative Party’s blatantly sexist media mouthpiece for fueling their drive?
Oh, there he is, on the international stage, calling out the swarthy men of other countries for being so sexist that he and his have to step in to look after their mothers and their babies, so concerned with the lives of girls and women is he.
Oops, no, he’s home again. Lecturing us all about the moral imperative of sending planes overseas to drop bombs on the Muslims again as opposed to standing with the cowards who dare question the Conservative way.
But I suppose if soldiers shooting themselves well after the fighting is over isn’t enough to convince Conservatives that they’re wrong, teenaged girls drinking bleach sure as hell isn’t going to do it.
Indeed. We’re all asking for it, aren’t we.
Offerings of Pie
I’ve been baking apple pies lately and I’m telling the truth when I say that it gives me a sense of accomplishment I don’t get from any other endeavour when the crust is flaky and the filling just sweet enough to not be too tart.
I’ll add two spoonfuls of sugar to the next heap of chopped apples. One isn’t quite enough sweetness with these fresh tart macs currently being sold at the grocery store.
They’re apparently from a local orchard, too, which is an interesting departure from the usual. I remember, still, the wonder expressed by my mother the day she came home from Safeway (in the Sault, back in the day) to announce that apples and oranges were more or less the same price.
She could recall getting an orange in her stocking at Christmas, an incredible treat for a relatively poor family living in the Peterborough area of the 1920s, so it was a big deal that apples would be equivalent in price.
I’ve always had an appreciation for homemade pastry, I grew up with both, the appreciation and the homemade pastry.
My Gram, who was always in the kitchen (she liked to pretend she wasn’t allowed in other parts of the house) produced a new dessert probably every other day. Pies, cakes, cookies. But my mother also bought desserts on occasion, including delights from Paul’s Bakery, and although I ate them, too, it was with no particular pleasure.
I was the same snob then that I am now, you’ll be delighted to hear. When I took Home Ec in grade nine I was pretty much at my peak of obnoxiousness, though. My ratatouille was to die for, my brownies divine.
Honestly? Even I can’t make brownies now that are as delicious as those I used to make.
This morning, I had pie for breakfast. It’s my day off (working for money) or I’d have had eggs and the pie was still sitting there on the kitchen counter, my son having left just enough for me and my Beau to each have a piece with our morning coffee.
I don’t know if he was being considerate (my son) or if he was just too full from the two giant pieces he must have had after we went to bed, having enjoyed a modest piece each – fresh out of the oven – while The National was on.
My pie baking happens whenever, usually later on in the evening.
It’s one of the many joys of adulthood minus having young children about the house, that I can enjoy a leisurely piece of pie for breakfast, and so I do. It struck me later on the dog walk with my Beau how it no longer even feels rebellious, it just feels adult.
But that’s not what this entry is about because this entry is about seeing plates of delicious looking desserts being passed around at one or another of the receptions our Prime Minister, Stephen Harper, was gracing with his exalted presence recently.
I saw the plates of delicious looking desserts and thought about how much I would have loved to take just one bite of the various offerings, no doubt concocted by the best pastry chefs in town, wherever town happened to be.
I don’t know if it was in New York for the UN conference on whatever it was on (ebola? Ukraine? climate change? ISIL?) or in Ottawa for the hosting of European men in suits signing corporate trade deals that will surely leave some of us better off than ever while the rest of us scramble around looking for pick up work in the malls of the nation.
Any more free trade and maybe I’ll just give up on selling ladieswear for minimum wage and wait out the dozen or so years (two more than necessary, too, thanks to our man, Stephen) until Old Age Security kicks in.
Just say no to working for money!
Interesting times we live in that the olden days victims of communism get a memorial while modern day victims of it in Hong Kong can re-stage Tiananmen Square and still be ignored in favour of our men in suits staying on good terms with the men in suits who run China.
What is it with our men and their suits? In Japan, during the summer, anyway, suits are considered politically incorrect garments to wear to work because they cause air conditioning needs to rise.
Climate change? What climate change. Our men won’t even forgo their suits, so powerful they apparently feel in them, next generations be damned.
Hey, our men in suits should switch to black robes and wave black flags back at ISIL, preaching the death and destruction that capitalism will wreak upon their earth should they not give up their infidel ways and start following our Great God of Money.
There’s always a subtext now when the men in suits send their – our? – men in uniform to war, too, isn’t there, that they’re doing it for us, women, and now, of course, journalists.
Those are some brave souls, eh? Journalists who go over to parts of the world that are either police states or lawless to get the straight skinny on what sort of fresh hell is being visited upon the ordinary men, women and children of the world un-freed by our Great God of Money.
And yet, if you watch very closely you’ll notice that they’re not portrayed so much as brave souls, the beheaded ones, as poor souls, victims of the wrong sorts of men, while the right sorts of men will exact vengeance on their behalf.
It’s outrageous, really, if you stop and think about it, which clearly no one ever does.
Remember when George W. Bush was the punchline of every late night talk show and then 9/11 and war and the Vanity Fair photo shoot of the War Team in the Oval Office? He sure showed the world who was a punchline, eh?
What does Stephen Harper really want? Does he eat the desserts being passed around at the receptions he holds for visiting men in suits? He famously doesn’t drink, although we have seen pictures of him drinking, but I guess he means he doesn’t drink drink, or want to drink, or enjoy drinking. Does he appreciate a glass of water when thirsty, I wonder? Sometimes I wait until I’m really thirsty and then I frantically rush into the kitchen and run the tap like we’re supposed to, although not for as long as we’re supposed to, fill a glass, and chug it down.
On occasion, I’ve left thirst quenching too late and I’ll be somewhere, desperate for water, and so I’ll ask “Can I have a glass of water?!” And whoever I’m asking will hop to it “Of course!” and produce a tall glass of water, usually with ice in it, too.
I’ve even had people add a slice of lemon, such consummate impromptu hosts be they.
I suspect the really terrible truth is that Stephen Harper believes he’ll ultimately be proven right, that appeasing the Great God of Money kept us free.
But I guess this entry is about the importance of pie after all because now I want to post about the mothers of a couple of boyfriends I had, one of whom is now my ex (in the husband sense) and how much I loved visiting them because whenever I did there’d be pie, homemade, fresh-baked. With my husband’s mother I even took to letting her know ahead of time that we’d be coming for a visit. She was a teacher and they kept horses and she had a much younger daughter she was still raising. My previous boyfriend’s mother worked, too, as a courtroom stenographer, but it was only part-time.
She not only made pie, she made donuts! Fresh daily donuts! She made them for my boyfriend’s dad, who was very old and cranky and whose twenty year rift with his two brothers, S. and M., over a brisket from Honest Ed’s, only ended when my relationship with his son did.
It’s their mothers I missed most, to be honest, and that missing has to do with their generosity with baked goods. Because it’s not easy work, making pie.
This morning I really had to think about why I shouldn’t eat that second and last piece of pie before my Beau had his fair share. In the end I reasoned that a second piece would be too much, that I’d enjoyed the first sufficiently, but there was also the feeling that I’d be better loved for leaving it, that the long term risk wasn’t worth the short term reward.
Still, I’m not so martyred that I didn’t tell him about it, that there but for the grace of I did he have pie.
Pantiless Women and Pantless Men
Hard to believe we’re in 2014 and men in the corporate media are still peddling the virginal bride vs whoring divorcee tripe trope of yesteryear, and getting away with it, as though any kind of challenge to it is an attack on freedom of the press, if not democracy.
Although I guess they’re one in the same, aren’t they, freedom of the press and democracy. Well, at least when one arm of the privately owned media calls a wannabe prime minister’s parents a couple of sluts, and the wannabe prime minister demands an apology before he’ll resume play (whatever difference that will make), the rest of the privately owned media and the publicly owned one, too, can debate its impact on democracy openly and without fear of reprisal from a government that hasn’t been playing for years.
Personally, I think it would be worth democracy’s while if the entire media (minus SNN, which is really just a privately-owned extension of the PMO) shunned Stephen Harper and his Conservative hangers on altogether for showing contempt for it, Parliament and the citizens of Canada who pay their salaries.
Although judging from the lobbying effort Stephen Harper put into involving Canada in America’s latest quagmire of death and destruction (climate change? what climate change…) it wouldn’t be surprising to learn that Dick Cheney is paying him more.
But it’s pretty pathetic that instead of being shunned for his sexist slander of pantiless women, as if not wanting VPLs (visible panty lines) or enjoying that easy breezy commando feeling is a social crime, Ezra Levant is being called out for attacking the mentally ill, as if that’s all Maggie T was when she rebelled against being married to a closet jesuit thirty years her senior and ran off to Studio 54 to be with her people.
And really, it was surprisingly reassuring for this young Canadian the night Papa Pierre lost to Joe Clark, and Maggie T was contacted at Studio 54 for comment and she more or less said, “That’s a drag.”
Something like that, anyway. Whatever. It wasn’t the end of her world, that’s for sure, so I figured it shouldn’t be the end of mine, either. And it wasn’t. It was fun, especially when Maureen McTeer proved to be worse than Maggie T for being a women’s libber who kept her father’s name instead of taking her husband’s.
But even before all that, back before it was Maggie and Pierre and she was still the princess bride, I remember her snapping back at a reporter badgering her about what life was like with Pierre, “We both like to fuck a lot”.
There were always rumours their marriage wasn’t like other marriages.
By the way, it’s always struck me as interesting that Margot Kidder, whom Pierre also had sex with, suffers from mental illness in the form of bi-polar disease.
Maybe it was him. Maybe he made women go crazy. Literally, like.
I also remember something about Maggie getting on a plane for a tete a tete with the old ball & chain and getting off the same plane with a black eye.
Did I imagine that? Perhaps she already had the black eye?
I still say Joe Clark looks too much like Dief to not be his son by secretary Mary, Joe’s mother. And if Laureen Harper didn’t have an affair with a lady mountie then that’s one pervasive rumour that still has her having it and living at the Chateau Laurier while carrying out her first lady role with Stephen Harper as if he isn’t mad for Ray Novak, his chief of staff.
But whatever. Who cares. At least Stephen Harper just referred to women as a fringe group and not either madonnas or whores, which is essentially what Ezra Levant did in his latest stand-up routine for Sun News Network.
So I like that JT is shunning SNN, but I don’t like that when Thomas Mulcair stood up for Parliament and democracy and the citizens who pay MP and PM salaries, he turned into a prissy pants on behalf of his party (and nobody still likes you, Liberals!) and pretended the Speaker of the House isn’t guilty of being a Wanker in the First Degree.
“Oh you piece of shit”, I thought to myself as I vowed to actually do something this go ’round to defeat the Liberal shoo-in for MP and elect a New Democrat in his useless stead.
I live in one of those Franco-Ontarian ridings where the Liberal candidate would have to run naked through a sick kids’ hospital to have anyone questioning his right to represent us in public office.
It’s as if the political media is in a bit of a 50s time warp when it comes to women, though, isn’t it. Linda Griffiths, who did a play called “Maggie and Pierre” recently passed away of breast cancer, and although I didn’t see the play I do hope it was filmed because I want to see it now. I remember my older sister being somewhat of a devotee of Maggie T back in the day, and she’s aged similarly, too.
It annoys me that the good Maggie T did, which was plenty if you were d’une certaine age, is being excused instead of celebrated.
“Don’t you know that Margaret Trudeau suffers from mental illness, Ezra Levant?!”
Meanwhile, my theory is that JT, like a lot of men his age, is more respectful of women because he had a mother who left an unhappy marriage to do her own thing, as Diana Windsor did some two decades later.
William Windsor seems well adjusted, too, doesn’t he.
It’s been, what, four decades since Maggie T was signing pantiless autographs outside Studio 54 and we’ve had nude photos and sex tapes galore on the internet, including the worst most humiliating tex tape ever (thank you, Gene Simmons, for de-glamourizing the rock star life for air guitarists everywhere).
And still it goes on, eh? As if women come from Adam’s rib.
Back in the day, Frank magazine called out Brian and Mila Mulroney, who had been shamelessly – shamelessly – pimping their seventeen-year-old daughter, Caroline, in the international press, by pretending to have a “Deflower Caroline Mulroney Contest” – on the cover.
Yeah, as jokes go, it could have been funnier.
Meanwhile, Mulroney, a prime minister most famous for singing on stage with Ronald Reagan and showing up in Montreal hotel rooms to accept envelopes full of cash from a German lobbyist, threatened to, “Get a gun and go down there!”
Aline Chretien, the good wife who seems to have spent her years while The Old Monster took us further down our benign dictatorship route having face lifts and playing piano, famously fended off an intruder with an Inuit carving.
Haha, finally an Inuit carving comes in handy.
But when The Old Monster wraps his gnarly old street fighter hands around the throat of a much smaller man, supposedly a post traumatic reaction to the intruder he doubted the good wife about (he refused to get out of bed and deal with it, so she had to, the mounties being A.W.O.L. for reasons never clearly explained) and not a display of manly man manliness designed to discourage protest against his government.
Meanwhile, one of the best public belly laughs I’ve had, and several other people had, too, when I pointed to it in line at a Canadian Tire store in Ottawa, the same one that sold ammo to the street kid from Brazil who would use it to shoot dead Nicholas Battersby whom he joyrode by as he walked along an Ottawa street, was a Frank magazine cover of The Old Monster in a strait jacket, face mashed in a photo op of some face mashing kind, looking crazier’n a bag of hammers.
I guess I’m just old and I’ve had enough because even the bridal party irked me, the bride in her de riguer virginal whites, the bridesmaids in their crap crepes, the groom who, let’s face it, is no Clark Gable, as my mother wrote to my Gram of my father.
Ezra Levant didn’t catch it but I did, that look of, “Shit, what am I doing?!” on the bride’s face as she played along with dad’s set up and received a peck on the cheek from her good looking equal.
I know, I know, could you be more mean, Sooey? Well, probably. But now that we have the study that proves women tire of men sexually very quickly and save for patriarchal culture would toss boring old mister aside to boff brand spanking new hubba hubba – shortly after submitting to the bonds of holy matrimony (and we’re usually driving THAT bus, but whatever) – why are we the people still playing house when they the lawmakers aren’t even in it?
Brakes, What Are They Good For Anyway
I’m currently being spammed by a bot and just deleting my spam folder wholesale so if you’re a newcomer wanting to comment hold off for a day or two until it moves on please.
These bots are a curious thing. There’s no point to them, as far as I can tell, and yet, there go they, pretending to offer deals on this and that, praising my web blog for its timely information on this important topic, providing links guaranteed based on bot testimonials to increase traffic to my site.
My Conservative friend, who set up this website, is having serious car woes and is also preoccupied with his American ladyfriend and not much use to me anymore save for a rare drive to Costco and/or Canadian Tire for a few items. It’s all good, though, because by the time we actually get to Costco or Canadian Tire, I’ve forgotten all about whatever it is I thought I needed or improvised with stuff I already have or decided it’s not worth the time, effort and cost of making or installing whatever it is I thought would do the trick.
I have issues with money and can always justify not using it to calm my issues with everything else in life.
I’ll be very relieved when it’s all over, so remember that when you’re sobbing big globby tears all over your keyboard at the news of my passing, if such a day should ever come.
I’m agnostic on death.
I’m not agnostic on Richard Dawkins, though, so don’t tell him I said that, please. He’s had quite enough with people like me. But really, I think he should go to Russia and manage Pussy Riot, where challenging the notion that an all powerful being communicates through men in elaborate costumes can land a girl band in prison.
Pussy Riot needs you, Richard Dawkins!
You’ll be relieved to know that at Costco I picked up a big bag of frozen fruit for my osteoporosis prevention smoothies – Smmmosteos – which I make with filtered 3% milk.
I have no idea what it means to filter milk, but I’m a sucker sometimes for certain words used in association with other certain words.
Also, a big box of chicken nuggets made with white meat (because chicken nuggets made with dark meat didn’t fly with the consuming public, I guess) that I’ll eat between two slices of white bread with lots of mayonnaise. I may invest in some lettuce to go with my chicken nugget sandwiches, lettuce that I’ll wash in a bowl with some cold tap water and a bit of vinegar.
One of the women on those camping with lesbians trips I can’t afford to do right now was in the army and she shared the vinegar tip with me.
No, it’s not that I can’t afford it, I just don’t like camping and no longer wish to pay for the privilege of doing it with lesbians, no matter how skilled they are at wilderness cooking.
That’s me being bad and breaking all my random foodie rules (eating chicken nugget standwiches), which are based partly on my favourite political quote, Anna Lappe’s “every time you spend money, you’re casting a vote for what kind of world you want” and partly on Scottish Presbyterianism Gone Wild. And I’ve never tried it, but I will one day, a friend from the old days at the caucus, an Irish lass who was a dead ringer for Marianne Faithful, who, in my opinion, ranks as one of the most beautiful women in the world, used to put potato chips between two slices of white bread with lots of mayonnaise after a night out at the pub.
It would have to be Miss Vicky’s for me to enjoy it, though. Lays in a pinch.
We had a lot of fun together, my Irish friend and I, although never over “chip sandwiches”. She was always careful to keep me separate from whoever her boyfriend was at the time, after one of her ex-husbands called her up to ask after my health.
She told him I had just recently acquired herpes (not true – I have a horseshoe up my ass!) and to steer clear.
It wasn’t even that she was a jealous type (although she was) she just didn’t want to be bothered. She was an incredible slattern, as I recall, and terrible with money. She also walked away from a fortune inherited by her ne’erdowell ex that would eventually go to her daughter, an only grandchild. I guess she’d be in her late 30s now.
Crap, too old for my son, who could use a fortune to marry.
My son? Hell, too old for Peter MacKay!
Also, she was a vegetarian, which in the 80s didn’t include fish and/or eggs, or she’d have died of malnutrition.
Here’s a funny story about her. She managed to find herself, after a couple of unsatisfactory digs (and being related to the Queen, as all assorted British immigrants to Canada inevitably are) an apartment in a house in one of those perpetually up-and-coming black holes of downtown Toronto that for some inexplicable reason met with her standards of what’s what. Except that the carpet, she decided, need redoing and so it was that she called in a consultant from Sears to have a look.
It was the only time I was ever in a residence of hers, such was her determination to keep me well away from her boyfriends, who weren’t my type anyway, since I had my now ex the entire time I knew her, and I wish I’d had a video camera to record the reaction of the consultant from Sears as she surveyed the dingy abode the anemic looking renter in thrift shop raggery was planning to have re-carpeted.
Finally, after about half an hour of swatches and gibby gabbing about light through greasy front north facing windows and no light at all from east or west, I suggested we get down to the nitty gritty of quotes.
And so the consultant from Sears quoted the price for the lovely dune shade of sisal, assuming living-room and stairs only, and my friend looked at me, and then back at the consultant from Sears, and so I added, “She means per square foot, P.”
Because, of course, she had no idea, did she. And so the maniacal laughter and even the consultant from Sears joined in after a while and P. swore her to secrecy, and me, too, although I told everybody as soon as we got back to the office because it was just so funny and so P. that she thought she could afford wall-to-wall carpeting from Sears when she couldn’t even afford its footwear.
But that reminds me, too, of another Irish friend from the old days at the caucus. She’s now a spokesperson for gay and lesbian rights and whatnot and she and P. and I were talking one day, or rather, they were talking about Dublin, and I asked, “What was it like, though, growing up with all that violence?”
“Well, you know, the IRA, Northern Ireland right next door. All that violence.”
“Oh well, that’s Belfast. We lived in Dublin. The troubles in Belfast are as far away from Dublin as they are from Toronto.”
And, you know, P. might think that of anything anywhere but H. was/is very well-informed politically and so that always stuck with me because she was being very honest about how unaffected she was by the violence in Belfast growing up in Dublin.
But apparently, after the Berlin Wall came down, it was a difficult adjustment for West Germans because East Germans, their kin, were as politically different from them as, apparently, half the Scots of Scotland are from the Scots of Great Britain, and so on and so forth and more of the same etc etc.
There isn’t strength in numbers, though, is there, or 1% of the people of the world wouldn’t essentially own it, would they.
But be cheered, my Conservative friend let it slip that he is now one of them, or, at least, his company is, the 1%, and he’s no closer to having his serious car woes solved than I would be if I owned a car with faulty brakes because, you know, life in Canada reached its peak in the 70s (under PET, but that’s me interjecting) when we had all that we needed, which is sex, drugs, and rock & roll (that’s him, so I interjected again with how much I like having a house, but he interjected back that you could have a house in the 70s, too, or, at least, your parents could) and that nothing that has happened since, particularly to do with technology, has improved our lives in the slightest.
That’s the field that got him to the 1%, by the way, technology, although to be fair, his father was probably pretty close to the 1% back in the 70s, if we’d thought to have such a thing in the good old days instead of just a spreading middle-class country of immigrants voting for peace, order and good government.
Hey, Let’s Bomb Cancer!
Oh wait, we are, ISIL is cancer, isn’t it.
That’s what Obama calls ISIL, anyway. Cancer. And he’s going to perform bombing surgery on it.
I lurve “Boring Obama” below. Every time I look at it I laugh. Whoever took the photo should get the Nobel Peace Prize.
I know what you’re thinking, rightwing lunatics, “Yabbut, you’d say anybody but Stephen Harper should get the Nobel Peace Prize, Sooey”.
It’s true. Tabatha Southey, who I’ll read later today, after the man of the house buys the Saturday Globe (funny, isn’t it, what gender decides), apparently has a piece in today lamenting that Stephen Harper gets to be the Prime Minister at the same time when a ship from that damned Franklin expedition is discovered.
I can’t be happy about anything that might give credit to Stephen Harper. He could solve climate change and I’d be shaking my head that he only did it for himself.
Ooh. Could somebody convince Stephen Harper that if he solved climate change he’d only be doing it for himself, please?!
Omigawd, way to solve climate change much, Sooey?
By the way, it took me several looks before I even noticed the woman in the photo, who is camouflaged as the flag. My sister-in-law, after I emailed “Boring Obama” to her and my brother (and my kids, my mom, my ex, etc) suggested, “Maybe it’s the artwork”.
Check out the artwork. So boring. I didn’t notice it, either. Heck it took me a few seconds to notice the kid trying to smother himself in the couch, Obama is so boring.
I may commission my daughter, who’s a fabulously talented artist, to copy the artwork for me to put above the couch. Or maybe I’ll blow up “Boring Obama” and put it above the couch and the copied artwork on the wall opposite.
I actually tweeted about blowing up “Boring Obama” on 9/11, if you can believe it. I know, eh? Lucky to be here on 9/13, that’s for sure.
Okay, it was accidental on purpose.
When the kids were little I bought high-quality postcards for them to do artwork on and send to their grandmother, who also paints. Anyway, I just tossed it off to them as a little make work project to keep them busy, something I had to be careful about in future because, o.mi.god. My oldest, having been given an assignment, perused her library reference book about birds, and painstakingly reproduced a photograph of an eagle.
Using Crayola water paint pencils.
It looks like a Bateman.
I kept it as a reminder that children aren’t ours, they’re other people, more like children everywhere than adults anywhere, and they have a different appreciation of time, space, energy, and so on and so forth and more of the same etc etc.
It’s important to pay attention sometimes.
I experience that in my retail job, too, working with the university girls. It’s a privilege, really, to revisit vicariously that time in my own life. We do grow old, though, even in this sibling society of ours that Conservatives so much want to deny, and while it may not always be mental/emotional, it sure as hell is physical.
I have to limber up in the mornings now or I creak.
Speaking of “Boring Obama”, some smart-alec (aleck?) put together a slide show, currently making the rounds of Facebook, of the past four presidents all announcing to Americans that it was time to bomb Iraq.
George Bush Sr, Clinton, George Bush Jr, and Obama.
Isn’t it weird that that nattering nabob of negativity, Dick Cheney, won’t shut up and go away but George Bush Jr. has gracefully retired to paint portraits of men in suits?
It would be nice if young men (and women, although I’m with Gloria Steinem, not just on the misanthropy of war, but on the misogyny female soldiers are expected to ignore from men here while they wage war on men there) just stopped signing up and politicians had to run for re-election on re-instating the draft.
Or didn’t, and just re-instated it, because we’ve become that powerless in our own democracies, and everybody was forced to wake up and smell the coffee.
I’m feeling bullied by men on the internet into pretending to care that Rob Ford may or may not have a life threatening illness that has caused him to drop out of the race for mayor and down into a race for councilor, while his other brother, Doug, scrambles to file registration papers on time so he can take his place in the mayor’s chair.
Eff off, eh? (I’m trying to cut down on swearing.) No, I don’t give a rat’s ass about Rob Ford. He’s just another dangerous man in a world run by dangerous men.
Head’s up, by the way, when the rumour was that he had a blockage in his colon, lots of possibilities came to mind as to who it might be.
Yup. Joe Warmington, come on down, you win!
(I have no idea who Joe Warmington is, so don’t shoot me, I’m just the messenger.)
I figure if the men of power and politics really cared about Rob Ford themselves, who was acting an awful lot like Lady MacBeth, if you ask me, which no one ever does, they’d ask him if he knows what happened to Jaclyn Dawe, missing since February 9, 2013 (when rumours of the crack smoking video first surfaced), her car abandoned outside 51 Benway (where the crack smoking took place).
I can’t be the only woman who wonders if Rob Ford knows anything about what happened to Jaclyn Dawe. Or maybe Stephen Harper knows. He seems to know a lot about missing Aboriginal girls and women, enough not to feel the need for a national inquiry into their whereabouts, anyway.
Oh what I’d give to be a fly on the rod of one of their fishing trips together, although I suspect it’s just another fabricated relationship.
“Owen doesn’t have any friends!”
For sure we won’t find ourselves basking beside the men of power and politics in the reflected glory of another politician’s passing. Or not. Whatever. Even Jesus didn’t care about EVERYBODY. Remember the vendors in the temple?
Grr. I hate it when politicos pretend they’re better than Jesus.
Anyway, go look at “Boring Obama”. It’s funny. Even ISIL thinks so.
And ISIL doesn’t have cancer, it is cancer.