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.

Comments

  1. Staple guns are a little scary. ;)

    ReplyDelete
  2. This comment has been removed by the author.

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

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

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

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

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

some paintings to keep you company

  at the stations of seeing ; mixed media on cradled wood panel, 24 x 30 inches.   $350 local.     At the Stations of Seeing I expected something on the level of poetry moving the machinery within but instead it was wreckage and difficult instructions Recursive Procedures for Life Structures and that sort of thing. IF—THEN—ELSE where the option is optional CASE, which is multi-situational DO—WHILE the function is zero BREAK and LOOP again and again until failure. please CALL, if you can, or while you are still missed. . . . I went away for awhile, for various reasons, and now I am starting to come back. Where I finally end up is anyone's guess, but one of the stations on the path of that return is a willingness to sell my art again; this post is about just one of the larger paintings I currently have for sale for clients and customers in the Kingston area. A good place to start. The prices for these works are lower because the transaction is personal, easier — come by my stud