Skip to main content

everybody talks about the weather but nobody does anything about it

This weekend felt, finally, like the first days of winter: a good foot of snow and that stinging crispness on your face. Saturday morning Oona and C helped me shovel the yard (not really). Later, I had a hot bath and a nap, and pretended to be a Finnish millionaire. Walking to the studio early Sunday and it was cold enough, despite longjohns and heavy pants, to make my legs stiff.

* * * * *

Will someone pleasepleaseplease phone the head honcho at CBC radio and let him know that jazz is dead. I mean, maybe he honestly doesn't know. Maybe nobody told him. Maybe he thinks that jazz is being played all over the country, right now, and people are calling into radio stations and requesting their favourite jazz songs, and that many of these radio stations are entirely dedicated to the jazz format, and that people are lining up outside jazz clubs, and buying jazz albums, and reading jazz magazines, and thinking serious thoughts about the nature and future of jazz. Jazz! Maybe he thinks that all the kids these days have posters of Miles Davis on their walls. Or maybe its worse than that. Maybe the head of the CBC is a jazz terrorist? Or maybe he's being victimized by jazz terrorists! Maybe his psyche has been telepathically kidnapped and is currently trapped in a sort of cerebral time machine set at 1958. Jazz!

Anyway, somebody should call him. Seriously.

* * * * *

Had to go to the Metro late Saturday afternoon (complicated story: because she was so late getting home from her Monday-night manicure -- too late for me to get groceries -- C had to get the groceries on Tuesday (her day off) but neglected to notice that I had specified *two* cans of cream of celery soup on the grocery list, and now, on Saturday, I needed the second can for my salmon-pasta 'catch of the day' casserole, yum!) and the place was mental. I mean, seriously mental, like lined up ten-deep. I know I always say "worse than the track" but I have no memory of said track (read: the horse races) ever being *that* bad, even on Chinese Lucky Dollar Day.

* * * * *

And now today it's mild again. Hovering around zero. The sidewalks like moats.

* * * * *

Also this morning they were talking more shit on the radio: people suddenly afraid/anxious about going on a cruise (because of this). How many people die on cruises every year? I bet more people die ballooning. What's next on the things-we're-afraid-of list? Toxic oil paintings? Fresh water crocodiles? Staple guns?

* * * * *

The quotation in the title is from a fellow named Charles Dudley Warner, apparently.
Labels:

Comments

  1. Susan Schwake10:07 am

    Staple guns are a little scary. ;)

    ReplyDelete
  2. Susan Schwake10:07 am

    This comment has been removed by the author.

    ReplyDelete
  3. Carole Reid12:46 pm

    I agree, it's time to kill it (CBC jazz) and move on.

    ReplyDelete
  4. Kay11:18 pm

    took a jazz appreciation class once ..learned how to hate jazz

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

glamour, by extension

C is friends with the fashion stylist Rebekah Roy (left in both pics above) ... one of those people who personify calm and smiling success. On her blog she presents glamour in this very sincere, straightforward way ... whether she's taking pictures of people on the street , talking about stain removers , her favourite videos , or attending some glittering party . One minute she's ruminating on hair extensions, and in the next she reveals how she's been featured on the Vogue UK site. A real disarmer and charmer (and this without meeting her yet, although I feel like I know her because we both did our time in Winnipeg). * * * * * Coming home from Russia, we did many bad things. ; mixed media on canvas, 10 x 10 inches. In my own life, the glamour is wholly imagined. * * * * * witches, smoke ; mixed media on canvas, 10 x 10 inches. My second go at this one, and for some reason I'm painting a lot of smoke lately (note to self: tell C that I want to be cremated). *
7 comments
Read more

the indisputable weight of the ocean

People are always telling me that my work is too dark. So I've put up this sunnier story, but even it has a shadow, as its original publisher – a fine Atlantic Canadian literary magazine called the Gaspereau Review – is no longer in business. ---------------- It was a simple enough thing and that thing was simply this: Edmund Kelley was a gentleman. Of course his mom called him her 'little gentleman', as in 'Oh Edmund, you are my perfect little gentleman,' which did seem to hold to a certain logic that these type of things often follow, considering her affection for him and the fact that he was, after all, only ten years old. Still, Edmund himself was not particularly fond of the diminutive aspect of that title. Gentleman was enough; gentleman summed up the whole thing rather nicely, thank you. He was definitely a more refined version of your average child. He lived in a state of perpetual Sunday m
2 comments
Read more

Oona Balloona (doesn't care about new tables)

Well, it's Friday, and since I'm pretty depleted in the chit-chat department, I might as well put up some pictures of Ol' Giggles At Ghosts before Grandma starts sending me hate mail. Man, what a goofball. At this rate it's going to be, like, eighteen years before she has gainful employment and moves out of the house. I mean, come on . * * * * * C is especially crazy and frantic today. About two months ago she decided that she no longer liked our dining room table (take that, dining room table! no more BFF for you!). Since then she's switched the dining room and kitchen table (and all the rest of the furniture in the house -- about thirty times, but that's another story) as a provisional solution while she scoured area stores for an upgrade. And she thought she had found one, on Wednesday, at JYSK ( Whatever , I said). But when she ordered it, JYSK called back to say that they were really low on stock, and that the stock they did have was damaged, and
44 comments
Read more