Yet another extended family member has complained to B about one of my posts and I have been forced to delete it for the sake of marital harmony. Seriously, people, get over yourselves!
A few years ago it was my cousin's wife petulantly whining to her husband about something I wrote which made her look a tad silly (which she was at the time). Then it was a dyed-blonde family member who took a generalized anti-dyed-blonde blog personally, again complaining to B. Recently it was a relative who took exception to something I wrote about Christmas in Ottawa.
Poor B. "I don't read Nancy's blog," he tells people, "so I don't know what you're talking about." But anyone who knows me as intimately as do these people should never be surprised about anything I write. As long as it's not slander or libel, I'll put it out there. And the person I take the mickey out of most? Me. These are the "for fun" blogs, but when I write about something serious -- such as the state of native affairs in Canada -- I research all the facts and numbers available. I don't just make sh-t up.
I recently did a blog about what I thought of those ridiculous global women's marches and asked B for permission to post it on his facebook site. He read it and agreed. I was surprised because if you check his site and see his female "friends", you will see how feministic and liberated they claim to be. Frankly, my interpretation of what they post amounts to an "I'm all right, Jill" view of the world.
I wondered how many of them would react to the post? You guessed it, none. I know they think B is as charming and liberated as the next white, middle-class fella, but he isn't. And if they gave it a second thought, they'd know that married to me, his brain meshes with mine. By the way, I was also surprised none of my female "friends" reacted either.
Tells me all I need to know.
Sunday, January 29, 2017
Saturday, January 28, 2017
A test
When I meet a woman, I often ask if she reads Margaret Wente, columnist in The Globe and Mail. Some say, "Yes and I don't agree with anything she says." Those women I write off. Those who say they love her point of view, however, are few and far between and usually of a "certain age", i.e., sixty-plus.
I sometimes think we share the same brain because Wente and I agree 100 percent. Like today, for example, when she writes about how privileged women are in the civilized first world we inhabit.
"In a world where men still call (most of) the shots, make most of the money and still dominate the corridors of power, it might seem perverse to suggest that women need to check their privilege too. But oh, we do," she writes. As I said two blogs ago, "...last time I checked, I can do or be anything I want." Thanks to the tailwind provided women by reverse discrimination, we can pretty much thumb our noses to anyone anywhere and don't need to participate in life-threatening career choices if we don't want to. And if we don't want to work at all and rely on a man to support us, no one will bat an eye -- except I, of course...(or is it "me"? Bob Nesbitt?)
"For all the barriers that (sic) women face, we have abundant freedoms and privileges that are (sic) not available to men. For example, if we choose not to spend our entire lives scrambling up the ladder of career success, nobody will care.," she adds. Interestingly, when it comes to violence, men are the chief victims. "Men make up three-quarters of all murder victims and are far more likely to be the targets of more serious forms of assault." Men are also 2.5 times more likely to be sexually assaulted in institutional settings, such as schools, and of course women live longer, she also notes.
Apparently, any man who points any of this out gets oceans of hate mail from, I assume, privileged women with cleaning ladies who have time to write in. It's cake-and-eat-it all the way. Wente quotes one of my favourite unorthodox feminists, Camille Paglia:
"It is men who heft and weld the giant steel beams that frame our office buildings and it is (sic) men who do the hair-raising work of insetting and sealing the finely-tempered plate-glass windows of skyscrapers 50 stories tall."
Does any educated, privileged woman in a Western society want to be a man? Me neither.
I sometimes think we share the same brain because Wente and I agree 100 percent. Like today, for example, when she writes about how privileged women are in the civilized first world we inhabit.
"In a world where men still call (most of) the shots, make most of the money and still dominate the corridors of power, it might seem perverse to suggest that women need to check their privilege too. But oh, we do," she writes. As I said two blogs ago, "...last time I checked, I can do or be anything I want." Thanks to the tailwind provided women by reverse discrimination, we can pretty much thumb our noses to anyone anywhere and don't need to participate in life-threatening career choices if we don't want to. And if we don't want to work at all and rely on a man to support us, no one will bat an eye -- except I, of course...(or is it "me"? Bob Nesbitt?)
"For all the barriers that (sic) women face, we have abundant freedoms and privileges that are (sic) not available to men. For example, if we choose not to spend our entire lives scrambling up the ladder of career success, nobody will care.," she adds. Interestingly, when it comes to violence, men are the chief victims. "Men make up three-quarters of all murder victims and are far more likely to be the targets of more serious forms of assault." Men are also 2.5 times more likely to be sexually assaulted in institutional settings, such as schools, and of course women live longer, she also notes.
Apparently, any man who points any of this out gets oceans of hate mail from, I assume, privileged women with cleaning ladies who have time to write in. It's cake-and-eat-it all the way. Wente quotes one of my favourite unorthodox feminists, Camille Paglia:
"It is men who heft and weld the giant steel beams that frame our office buildings and it is (sic) men who do the hair-raising work of insetting and sealing the finely-tempered plate-glass windows of skyscrapers 50 stories tall."
Does any educated, privileged woman in a Western society want to be a man? Me neither.
Wednesday, January 25, 2017
Swimming to Vancouver
That's what I signed up for the other day at our local pool. A bunch of us are swimming (collectively) to Vancouver, a distance of 973 kilometres. Yep, we are! Every day we report our laps to one of the lifeguards, who records it. So far we are almost to Canmore, only 850 or so to go! It will be fun to see how long it takes. (Alma, have you signed up yet?)
Speaking of the pool, never have I encountered such wimps (I was going to say "pussies") for lifeguards. I mean, you can't utter one off-colour word they don't run and report to the director. It's simply ridiculous how little fun young people are having these days. Now, don't get me wrong. I don't swear like a stevedore or a trucker. No. I swear in a more literary manner, or as one elderly friend said a while back, "Nancy, how come when you use the "F" word it never sounds like swearing?" Because I don't throw it around all the time and because I never drop my "g"s when using it as an adjective.
I have now vowed to discontinue speaking to any lifeguard again. The herd thins, their loss.
Speaking of dropping one's "g"s, it's everywhere in Alberta and drives me crazy! People are "talkin' and walkin' and comin' and goin' and puttin' and thinkin' and runnin' and callin'" all over the place. Unless you want to be a trucker or a stevedore or a gas station attendant or a cashier or a construction worker or......whatever, don't drop your "g"s. Not that there's anything wrong with these trades, but you won't secure a professional job if you fail to complete words ending in "ing".
I remember many years ago calling in a young woman who worked for me for an off-the-record chat. "Marilyn, you are one of the smartest people I know, but your speech is going to de-rail you," I said to a somewhat shocked colleague. "What do you mean?" she asked. "You drop your "g"s all the time and you substitute "goes" for "said", among other off-putting, ear-grating turns of phrase," I explained. Here would be a typical comment from Marilyn:
"So, I was talkin' to Gary the other night and he goes, he goes, 'Geez Marilyn, whaddya mean?"
Sorry, that won't do in the boardroom. You might as well have grade eight because you'll never rise in any organization.
A couple of years later I saw in the business section of the local paper an announcement of Marilyn's appointment to a senior position in an accounting firm. Complete with a professional picture, she looked as great as she always did, but must have started adding her "g"s, otherwise she would not have made it up the ladder in that firm. I was very proud of her.
It may be a little thing, but it's huge.
Speaking of the pool, never have I encountered such wimps (I was going to say "pussies") for lifeguards. I mean, you can't utter one off-colour word they don't run and report to the director. It's simply ridiculous how little fun young people are having these days. Now, don't get me wrong. I don't swear like a stevedore or a trucker. No. I swear in a more literary manner, or as one elderly friend said a while back, "Nancy, how come when you use the "F" word it never sounds like swearing?" Because I don't throw it around all the time and because I never drop my "g"s when using it as an adjective.
I have now vowed to discontinue speaking to any lifeguard again. The herd thins, their loss.
Speaking of dropping one's "g"s, it's everywhere in Alberta and drives me crazy! People are "talkin' and walkin' and comin' and goin' and puttin' and thinkin' and runnin' and callin'" all over the place. Unless you want to be a trucker or a stevedore or a gas station attendant or a cashier or a construction worker or......whatever, don't drop your "g"s. Not that there's anything wrong with these trades, but you won't secure a professional job if you fail to complete words ending in "ing".
I remember many years ago calling in a young woman who worked for me for an off-the-record chat. "Marilyn, you are one of the smartest people I know, but your speech is going to de-rail you," I said to a somewhat shocked colleague. "What do you mean?" she asked. "You drop your "g"s all the time and you substitute "goes" for "said", among other off-putting, ear-grating turns of phrase," I explained. Here would be a typical comment from Marilyn:
"So, I was talkin' to Gary the other night and he goes, he goes, 'Geez Marilyn, whaddya mean?"
Sorry, that won't do in the boardroom. You might as well have grade eight because you'll never rise in any organization.
A couple of years later I saw in the business section of the local paper an announcement of Marilyn's appointment to a senior position in an accounting firm. Complete with a professional picture, she looked as great as she always did, but must have started adding her "g"s, otherwise she would not have made it up the ladder in that firm. I was very proud of her.
It may be a little thing, but it's huge.
Saturday, January 21, 2017
It's not all about you
The imported violence was bad enough during the inauguration ceremony yesterday, but today's Women's Marches take the cake. Ladies, the world is not all about you and your being "offended" all-the-time-about-everything-and-anything-everywhere. Trump's election was about the millions of disenfranchised Americans in all their misery: inner-city blacks, the unemployed, the displaced, the poor, the downtrodden and a host of other non-feminists who don't have time to man the barricades, so to speak. These kinds of things take place when a society has secured a food source; I guess larders are full.
The American people have spoken and Trump is your president. By the way, did you all not vote for Hilary because.....because.....oh, I don't know, because she's not the kind of woman of whom you approve? And by the way, of whom do you approve? I still haven't figured that one out? Were you all Sanders' supporters and refused to vote for Hilary on principle and are now left with the booby prize? Look in the mirror, ladies. As a Canadian governed by a Parliamentary democracy, I cannot imagine that kind of disrespectful, and basically ineffectual, spectacle taking place here.
The best thing someone said about the march was that at least no one was shot and killed. "They only do that during non-election events, when they kill school children," I noted. I know, I know, not kind.
Before I continue, let me qualify. I was in the original vanguard of the women's movement in the late sixties and early seventies. Come to think of it, Gloria was right there raising the roof alongside us, until we all had to get on with earning a living and raising kids, while Ms. S morphed into a privileged harridan (I'll get to her later). I have supported myself and worked all my life, raising two children and two step-children, while forking out considerable sums to the latter's "liberated" mother, without child support myself. Notwithstanding, I have never identified as a "feminist" because I am much more than that.
Watching coverage of the various indignant marches today, I didn't see too many glaringly-poor women, but I did see a whole bunch of rich celebrities who could afford to take time off. Gloria was raving on about how she celebrated pro-choice, being a woman and women's rights. Gloria, we've been on about that for almost 50 years and last time I checked, I can do or be anything I want. I wondered what she was doing sporting that limp, dyed blonde sixties hairdo and not the natural grey that lurks beneath the L'Oreal? Talk about not aging gracefully, I mean, the woman's 82! And as to "pro choice"? I'd bet there's a chance she might have been aborted had her own mentally-ill, incapacitated and abandoned mother had the opportunity. As the child of an unwed teen mother myself, I am sure I would have been. (But that's a story for another blog on existentialism.....someday.)
As predicted, all the young, privileged, liberated women at the pool this morning were decrying "that evil pig" Trump's victory. Women such as I paved the way for women such as they and yet they have no clue the choices they have were forged by our resisting a very strong male establishment backlash.
So ladies, buck up, get back to work and accept the president you either deliberately, or by default, elected.
The American people have spoken and Trump is your president. By the way, did you all not vote for Hilary because.....because.....oh, I don't know, because she's not the kind of woman of whom you approve? And by the way, of whom do you approve? I still haven't figured that one out? Were you all Sanders' supporters and refused to vote for Hilary on principle and are now left with the booby prize? Look in the mirror, ladies. As a Canadian governed by a Parliamentary democracy, I cannot imagine that kind of disrespectful, and basically ineffectual, spectacle taking place here.
The best thing someone said about the march was that at least no one was shot and killed. "They only do that during non-election events, when they kill school children," I noted. I know, I know, not kind.
Before I continue, let me qualify. I was in the original vanguard of the women's movement in the late sixties and early seventies. Come to think of it, Gloria was right there raising the roof alongside us, until we all had to get on with earning a living and raising kids, while Ms. S morphed into a privileged harridan (I'll get to her later). I have supported myself and worked all my life, raising two children and two step-children, while forking out considerable sums to the latter's "liberated" mother, without child support myself. Notwithstanding, I have never identified as a "feminist" because I am much more than that.
Watching coverage of the various indignant marches today, I didn't see too many glaringly-poor women, but I did see a whole bunch of rich celebrities who could afford to take time off. Gloria was raving on about how she celebrated pro-choice, being a woman and women's rights. Gloria, we've been on about that for almost 50 years and last time I checked, I can do or be anything I want. I wondered what she was doing sporting that limp, dyed blonde sixties hairdo and not the natural grey that lurks beneath the L'Oreal? Talk about not aging gracefully, I mean, the woman's 82! And as to "pro choice"? I'd bet there's a chance she might have been aborted had her own mentally-ill, incapacitated and abandoned mother had the opportunity. As the child of an unwed teen mother myself, I am sure I would have been. (But that's a story for another blog on existentialism.....someday.)
As predicted, all the young, privileged, liberated women at the pool this morning were decrying "that evil pig" Trump's victory. Women such as I paved the way for women such as they and yet they have no clue the choices they have were forged by our resisting a very strong male establishment backlash.
So ladies, buck up, get back to work and accept the president you either deliberately, or by default, elected.
Friday, January 13, 2017
This is the question
In good faith, thought I'd watch a CNN feature about the legacy of Michelle Obama. A fan of neither Obama nor his wife, I nonetheless gave her the benefit of the doubt and tuned in. Sadly, with all her talk about being an authentic black woman, she obviously spends countless hours and lots of money wrestling her hair into white-woman straight?
Why?
It's definitely not authentic. I came to the conclusion when I was 45 that it was ridiculous of me to keep dying my greying hair brown. So I stopped. I think Angela Davis and her afro were more "real" than Michelle Obama's Caucasian hairdo. In my world, hair tells me immediately everything I need to know about anyone I meet. A comb-over? Insecure. Dyed blonde? Dyed blonde. Anything dyed after a certain age? Fear of growing gracefully old into oneself. Long hair after 35? A ridiculous obsession with trying to look younger.
Our hair is our outward projection to the world. We need to be mindful about what it reveals.
Why?
It's definitely not authentic. I came to the conclusion when I was 45 that it was ridiculous of me to keep dying my greying hair brown. So I stopped. I think Angela Davis and her afro were more "real" than Michelle Obama's Caucasian hairdo. In my world, hair tells me immediately everything I need to know about anyone I meet. A comb-over? Insecure. Dyed blonde? Dyed blonde. Anything dyed after a certain age? Fear of growing gracefully old into oneself. Long hair after 35? A ridiculous obsession with trying to look younger.
Our hair is our outward projection to the world. We need to be mindful about what it reveals.
Thursday, January 12, 2017
All yap, no facts
Watching the spectacle of Jane Fonda denouncing the oil sands was sickening. With neither facts nor figures, this rich Hollywood nobody had the unmitigated gall to hold a press conference to blather on about.....whatever.
And who was sitting beside her? Allan Adam, chief of the Athabaska Chipewyan band -- a band that rakes in $250 million a year working with Suncor, Syncrude, Husky, Esso and Cenovus -- to name but a few. All you have to do is google this band and the facts pop right up in seconds. Does Fonda not have internet? She looks ill-informed and stupid, while Mr. Adam makes a patsy of her. The real question is how this band can rationalize its vocal and aggressive opposition to the oil sands, while in bed with them??
Seriously.
And while they are one of a handful of bands not taking money directly from the federal government because they're getting it from oil companies, they nonetheless receive millions from the feds for education and health care. So much for being an "independent nation", as they erroneously claim.
Please.
In 2014, the federal court ruled against the Athabaska Chipewyan's motion to stop the Jackpine Mine Expansion project in Alberta, stating the Chipewyan had been thoroughly and duly consulted and that the band in fact did not have jurisdiction. Further, the court ruled that the band's long list of conditions for expansion had been extensively met. But as I have said for years, nothing will stop natives and their getting-richer lawyers from opposing everything and anything.
So, before Greenpeace or another native group invites a dullard friend of Neil Young to tour the oil sands and yap, I suggest he/she hit the internet and then stay home.
And who was sitting beside her? Allan Adam, chief of the Athabaska Chipewyan band -- a band that rakes in $250 million a year working with Suncor, Syncrude, Husky, Esso and Cenovus -- to name but a few. All you have to do is google this band and the facts pop right up in seconds. Does Fonda not have internet? She looks ill-informed and stupid, while Mr. Adam makes a patsy of her. The real question is how this band can rationalize its vocal and aggressive opposition to the oil sands, while in bed with them??
Seriously.
And while they are one of a handful of bands not taking money directly from the federal government because they're getting it from oil companies, they nonetheless receive millions from the feds for education and health care. So much for being an "independent nation", as they erroneously claim.
Please.
In 2014, the federal court ruled against the Athabaska Chipewyan's motion to stop the Jackpine Mine Expansion project in Alberta, stating the Chipewyan had been thoroughly and duly consulted and that the band in fact did not have jurisdiction. Further, the court ruled that the band's long list of conditions for expansion had been extensively met. But as I have said for years, nothing will stop natives and their getting-richer lawyers from opposing everything and anything.
So, before Greenpeace or another native group invites a dullard friend of Neil Young to tour the oil sands and yap, I suggest he/she hit the internet and then stay home.
Tuesday, January 10, 2017
A true press suffragette
She was one of the first women to achieve membership in the Toronto Press Club in the fifties. She was a pioneer as a female war correspondent. At The Peterborough Examiner her mentor was Robertson Davies. She wrote 'We Were There', a seven-volume chronicle of the second world war. She was also quite simply the best editor ever to take a red pencil to my sometimes turgid work.
I didn't know anything of her background when I was hired by Maclean Hunter Publishing in 1969 as an aspiring, but green, 22-year-old, but I learned to greatly respect Jean Portugal. So I was amazed when I picked up the obituary feature in The Globe and Mail a couple of weeks ago to see that she had only recently died at 95. I assumed she had died years ago, because when I worked for her she looked about 95. "Mrs. Portugal" to her juniors in the editorial room, she was a brilliant editor and taught me everything I know about economic writing. Words I thought necessary were stricken without changing the meaning. In fact, her tight editing raised our work to the sophisticated level. To this day, every piece of writing I read anywhere in anything clearly could benefit from a ruthless battering by Mrs. Portugal's red pen.
Back then, we worked in hot type which meant we had to know how to cut if something didn't fit. Thus, we were instructed to get the message out up front because cutting on the plant floor had to be done from the bottom up. You literally stood beside the linotype operator (with official permission from the union, of course) on the plant floor and threw out lead type to make the article fit. Today, I read the last paragraph to get the writer's point; back then you had to make it straight away.
We were part of the editorial services department in the business publications division. No one progressed to a "real" publication until Mrs. Portugal deemed them ready. (The last three words are a perfect example of her work. I probably would have written, "....until Mrs. Portugal deemed that they were ready." See how she tightened it up perfectly by eliminating "that" and "were"?)
I toiled under the tyranny of her red pencil for about a year before being promoted to 'Home Goods Retailing' and then 'Office Equipment and Methods'. While under Mrs. Portugal, I wrote book reviews for 'The Financial Post' and made up horoscopes for 'Miss Chatelaine'. I say "made up" because while researching the booklet, I noticed everything seemed the same and could apply to any zodiac sign. So with my busy social life taking precedence, I just made it up and handed it in. It sold like hot cakes.
My life at M-H was basically 'Madmen'. Everyone drank all the time, everyone smoked constantly and everyone had multiple affairs. I worked alongside the likes of Roy MacGregor, but let me hasten to add Roy didn't join in any of our shenanigans and remains happily married to his high-school sweetheart; the rest of us, however, were wild. Needless to say, Mrs. Portugal turned a blind eye and never let up on us -- thank G-d.
While a war correspondent in Cambodia and Vietnam (again, no "she was a"...), she met and married her interpreter, Felix Portugal. With her oriental background thanks to Felix, she occasionally took us to a restaurant in Toronto's Chinatown, where she instructed us on the delicacies she ordered and the health benefits of Chinese tea. I still think of her when I drink it.
After Mrs. Portugal's tutoring, every job I landed was a direct result of my ability to write. I went on to work for DuPont of Canada, because I could write, then became a speechwriter for a few of Trudeau senior's ministers, because I could write, and then got into a number of federal departments because I could write. No matter where you work, if you can write you're valuable. I ended up writing cabinet documents and policy papers and anything else that required a deft, subtle and accurate touch. Letters for the minister were always given me (see, no "to" required) because they never needed a re-write. Speech writing for ministers meant I travelled with them on luxurious government jets, in case tinkering were needed at the last minute.
It was all so much fun and I owe it all to Mrs. Portugal. Rest in Peace, dear lady.
I didn't know anything of her background when I was hired by Maclean Hunter Publishing in 1969 as an aspiring, but green, 22-year-old, but I learned to greatly respect Jean Portugal. So I was amazed when I picked up the obituary feature in The Globe and Mail a couple of weeks ago to see that she had only recently died at 95. I assumed she had died years ago, because when I worked for her she looked about 95. "Mrs. Portugal" to her juniors in the editorial room, she was a brilliant editor and taught me everything I know about economic writing. Words I thought necessary were stricken without changing the meaning. In fact, her tight editing raised our work to the sophisticated level. To this day, every piece of writing I read anywhere in anything clearly could benefit from a ruthless battering by Mrs. Portugal's red pen.
Back then, we worked in hot type which meant we had to know how to cut if something didn't fit. Thus, we were instructed to get the message out up front because cutting on the plant floor had to be done from the bottom up. You literally stood beside the linotype operator (with official permission from the union, of course) on the plant floor and threw out lead type to make the article fit. Today, I read the last paragraph to get the writer's point; back then you had to make it straight away.
We were part of the editorial services department in the business publications division. No one progressed to a "real" publication until Mrs. Portugal deemed them ready. (The last three words are a perfect example of her work. I probably would have written, "....until Mrs. Portugal deemed that they were ready." See how she tightened it up perfectly by eliminating "that" and "were"?)
I toiled under the tyranny of her red pencil for about a year before being promoted to 'Home Goods Retailing' and then 'Office Equipment and Methods'. While under Mrs. Portugal, I wrote book reviews for 'The Financial Post' and made up horoscopes for 'Miss Chatelaine'. I say "made up" because while researching the booklet, I noticed everything seemed the same and could apply to any zodiac sign. So with my busy social life taking precedence, I just made it up and handed it in. It sold like hot cakes.
My life at M-H was basically 'Madmen'. Everyone drank all the time, everyone smoked constantly and everyone had multiple affairs. I worked alongside the likes of Roy MacGregor, but let me hasten to add Roy didn't join in any of our shenanigans and remains happily married to his high-school sweetheart; the rest of us, however, were wild. Needless to say, Mrs. Portugal turned a blind eye and never let up on us -- thank G-d.
While a war correspondent in Cambodia and Vietnam (again, no "she was a"...), she met and married her interpreter, Felix Portugal. With her oriental background thanks to Felix, she occasionally took us to a restaurant in Toronto's Chinatown, where she instructed us on the delicacies she ordered and the health benefits of Chinese tea. I still think of her when I drink it.
After Mrs. Portugal's tutoring, every job I landed was a direct result of my ability to write. I went on to work for DuPont of Canada, because I could write, then became a speechwriter for a few of Trudeau senior's ministers, because I could write, and then got into a number of federal departments because I could write. No matter where you work, if you can write you're valuable. I ended up writing cabinet documents and policy papers and anything else that required a deft, subtle and accurate touch. Letters for the minister were always given me (see, no "to" required) because they never needed a re-write. Speech writing for ministers meant I travelled with them on luxurious government jets, in case tinkering were needed at the last minute.
It was all so much fun and I owe it all to Mrs. Portugal. Rest in Peace, dear lady.
 |
| Here she in in the fifties with husband Felix in Vietnam. She never changed that iconic forties hairstyle. Amazingly, he survives her. |
Monday, January 9, 2017
Now I get it
I now fully understand why Britain voted "yes" for Brexit. Hitherto, I thought it was crazy for them to leave the European Union (previously called 'The Common Market*), but having just watched a BBC documentary about the New Scotland Yard and the huge job it has tracking down, arresting and deporting thousands and thousands of criminals from Eastern Europe, I totally get it.
G-d help the UK. Poles, Albanians, Ukrainians, Bulgarians, French Africans and others of their ilk need only flash an ID card to get into Britain, whereupon they promptly assume a number of aliases and go on their merry ways. And I am talking here about murderers, rapists and armed robbers -- not your petty shoplifter here and there. These brazen criminals then apply for housing and benefits and get them! An entirely new Scotland Yard division has been formed to serve foreign warrants for these bums and deport them -- at great expense to Her Majesty, I might add.
So, I apologize to my Leister relatives. I would have done exactly the same thing.
To really depress yourself, watch "Jihadis Next Door" on Netflix. It's all about radical Muslim men who spend all day -- on the dole, I might add -- screaming and yelling throughout British cities trying to convince others to join the fight against the "infidels". What the eff are they doing in Britain in the first place if they think all western democracies are evil?! Fellas, Magna Carta happened in 1215 at Runnymede -- 802 years ago. That was when King John signed a charter conferring his authority to the people and democracy was born. You're not going to throw it over for Sharia law in a year or two. Or ever. The ridiculous thing is that Magna Carta, along with the separation of church and state, are precisely the mechanisms which allow these radicals to freely hold their demonstrations.
Insane.
*See "Personal and terminology", June 26, 2016
G-d help the UK. Poles, Albanians, Ukrainians, Bulgarians, French Africans and others of their ilk need only flash an ID card to get into Britain, whereupon they promptly assume a number of aliases and go on their merry ways. And I am talking here about murderers, rapists and armed robbers -- not your petty shoplifter here and there. These brazen criminals then apply for housing and benefits and get them! An entirely new Scotland Yard division has been formed to serve foreign warrants for these bums and deport them -- at great expense to Her Majesty, I might add.
So, I apologize to my Leister relatives. I would have done exactly the same thing.
To really depress yourself, watch "Jihadis Next Door" on Netflix. It's all about radical Muslim men who spend all day -- on the dole, I might add -- screaming and yelling throughout British cities trying to convince others to join the fight against the "infidels". What the eff are they doing in Britain in the first place if they think all western democracies are evil?! Fellas, Magna Carta happened in 1215 at Runnymede -- 802 years ago. That was when King John signed a charter conferring his authority to the people and democracy was born. You're not going to throw it over for Sharia law in a year or two. Or ever. The ridiculous thing is that Magna Carta, along with the separation of church and state, are precisely the mechanisms which allow these radicals to freely hold their demonstrations.
Insane.
*See "Personal and terminology", June 26, 2016
Monday, January 2, 2017
Gee, they're all older
That's what hit me when I watched Ottawa television last week. Ian Black, the weather man (not a hippy-dippy one, I must add) was a kid when we moved to Calgary. Now he has white hair and looks about 45?! So were a bunch of other local TV announcers. Gee, they had all aged, but I had not expected it.
We were in my home town to celebrate Christmas with my son and stepson -- the former having driven from Toronto in a bare-knuckle white-out to be with us for B's 75th. The other thing that stood out was hearing French for the first time in almost six years; no one speaks it in public in Calgary. My ear was still tuned and I spoke it frequently.
We elected to stay in a bit of a dump -- the Hampton Inn -- because we were there for seven days and were more out than in. What I mean by a "dump" is that there were only paper cups, no glasses, so a scotch didn't have quite the same taste. The supposedly "Continental" breakfast consisted of wet eggs one had to consume alongside fellow ill-behaved guests, the great "un-washed", as I sometimes call them. I tried it once and fled after a fat kid threw up in front of me. Thanks.
Entering the elevator one afternoon, I encountered two HUGE teenagers. "Are you basketball players?" I asked. "No hockey," they replied. "They don't make 'em like they used to," one added. No they certainly don't!
Watching TV, I learned that search-and-rescue teams in BC had been trying to locate two lost hikers. Sadly, my built-in assumptions kicked in when I learned they were Chinese. The Chinese have no idea how to hike Cypress Mountain in Vancouver -- or any other place -- in an effing snow storm. But by the time they called off the hopeless search, I can tell you many thousands of your hard-earned $$$$ had been spent. Hey fellas, post a route so someone can find you!
For the trip home, we decided to upgrade to first class because the plane only had two washrooms. If you're like me, you don't like standing and waiting because it must upset those seated in that area -- not to mention the fact that you don't like standing and waiting. "I'm sorry, but you can't use that washroom," said the flight attendant on our flight to Ottawa. We had paid for bulkhead seats, which are very close to the front toilet, but she was doing her job by telling us we had to go to the back of the bus.
My assumption that only first-class passengers would be permitted to use the front washroom was false on the flight home. My G-d! Everyone and their brother was swooping in and out of first class with gay abandon! "Excuse me," I said to the stewardess, "we were not permitted to use the first-class toilet on the flight out, but I see you're letting everyone use it." "Oh, that's because there's a cart in the aisle and people can't get through." Bullshit to that. Here we are paying an extra $650 to have a little exclusivity and people are tramping through, changing babies and slamming doors willy-nilly! To top it off, the stewardess in charge of first class couldn't wait to throw our meals at us and high-tail it to the back of the plane to gossip with her pals and check her phone. In fact, every time I wanted a wine re-fill, I had to hammer on the call button. Made me feel like a bloody alki!
Guess who'll be getting a letter of complaint from this broad! Calin Rovenescu, that's who.
Before I sign off, I have to say a word about French Canadian women -- or at least Eastern Ontario French Canadian women. The middle-aged variety remain very classy and I enjoyed watching them at the famous 'Perkin's Family Restaurant' as we enjoyed a few meals there. But I have to add that today's young-ish women are WAY TOO FAT!!!! What the eff are they thinking??!!#%#%$^!! If you are that fat in your twenties and thirties, what will you look like when you are my age!!??!!??
Sad.
We were in my home town to celebrate Christmas with my son and stepson -- the former having driven from Toronto in a bare-knuckle white-out to be with us for B's 75th. The other thing that stood out was hearing French for the first time in almost six years; no one speaks it in public in Calgary. My ear was still tuned and I spoke it frequently.
We elected to stay in a bit of a dump -- the Hampton Inn -- because we were there for seven days and were more out than in. What I mean by a "dump" is that there were only paper cups, no glasses, so a scotch didn't have quite the same taste. The supposedly "Continental" breakfast consisted of wet eggs one had to consume alongside fellow ill-behaved guests, the great "un-washed", as I sometimes call them. I tried it once and fled after a fat kid threw up in front of me. Thanks.
Entering the elevator one afternoon, I encountered two HUGE teenagers. "Are you basketball players?" I asked. "No hockey," they replied. "They don't make 'em like they used to," one added. No they certainly don't!
Watching TV, I learned that search-and-rescue teams in BC had been trying to locate two lost hikers. Sadly, my built-in assumptions kicked in when I learned they were Chinese. The Chinese have no idea how to hike Cypress Mountain in Vancouver -- or any other place -- in an effing snow storm. But by the time they called off the hopeless search, I can tell you many thousands of your hard-earned $$$$ had been spent. Hey fellas, post a route so someone can find you!
For the trip home, we decided to upgrade to first class because the plane only had two washrooms. If you're like me, you don't like standing and waiting because it must upset those seated in that area -- not to mention the fact that you don't like standing and waiting. "I'm sorry, but you can't use that washroom," said the flight attendant on our flight to Ottawa. We had paid for bulkhead seats, which are very close to the front toilet, but she was doing her job by telling us we had to go to the back of the bus.
My assumption that only first-class passengers would be permitted to use the front washroom was false on the flight home. My G-d! Everyone and their brother was swooping in and out of first class with gay abandon! "Excuse me," I said to the stewardess, "we were not permitted to use the first-class toilet on the flight out, but I see you're letting everyone use it." "Oh, that's because there's a cart in the aisle and people can't get through." Bullshit to that. Here we are paying an extra $650 to have a little exclusivity and people are tramping through, changing babies and slamming doors willy-nilly! To top it off, the stewardess in charge of first class couldn't wait to throw our meals at us and high-tail it to the back of the plane to gossip with her pals and check her phone. In fact, every time I wanted a wine re-fill, I had to hammer on the call button. Made me feel like a bloody alki!
Guess who'll be getting a letter of complaint from this broad! Calin Rovenescu, that's who.
Before I sign off, I have to say a word about French Canadian women -- or at least Eastern Ontario French Canadian women. The middle-aged variety remain very classy and I enjoyed watching them at the famous 'Perkin's Family Restaurant' as we enjoyed a few meals there. But I have to add that today's young-ish women are WAY TOO FAT!!!! What the eff are they thinking??!!#%#%$^!! If you are that fat in your twenties and thirties, what will you look like when you are my age!!??!!??
Sad.
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