Beth Kaplan's Blog, page 152
February 22, 2017
women's English conversation circle
I spent my morning talking to Nurun, Foyzun, Yung, Fahmidi, Seema, Touria and others, at the first Regent Park English Conversation Group - nine women, six from Bangladesh, one each from Casablanca, Eritrea and Hong Kong. One brought two small children and her mother with her, her mum who speaks no English at all. The point of the group is to give immigrant women a chance to chat in English with native English speakers, that's all, and every so often, to give them a gentle grammar correction and/or to try to help with things they might need to know. Margot, who came to help me, suggested to them that they watch children's television shows with described audio, which I think is a great idea.
We were getting to know each other not just through language but as women - talking about our children and grandchildren, our work, our lives. We laughed about winter, how desolate they find it, and they talked about how hard it was to leave family behind, though many of them, it seems, now have most family here with them. They were almost all in hijab, two in full niqab face veils which they removed in the room because we are women only, and have immense dignity and humour. One said she has already started digging her garden and will soon plant coriander and mustard seeds. I am going to learn a lot. They asked where I lived and were interested in how much my house is now worth. Very savvy.
If this works, I hope to create a template we can send across the city and the country, so that other English speakers can link with community centres and do the same thing. All it takes is a few of us who speak slowly and clearly and want to make a difference. I'm proud this idea of mine is taking shape! It's a good to feel that one's creative efforts might provide a pinprick of light during these dark days of our planet.
Believe it or not, my lungs still hurt and my energy is still low. Hard to comprehend. I went to the Y and could do very little. It makes me realize how much energy it takes to live life - I've let things go around here, have barely kept up with watering the plants, just don't have the energy. But I'm still alive, the house is running, the lungs are improving slowly. Several people at the Y told me the only cure for the winter sicknesses - Jamaica, Barbados, Cuba. Get into the hot sun. If only.
One interesting thing for me is - wine. I've hardly had a drink for more than two weeks - wine just tastes terrible and that's all I drink. I thought maybe that's because I drink such cheap wine, and yesterday I opened a good bottle. Better, definitely, but still, only one glass when I usually drink 2 or 3. I'm not complaining. It does amaze me, though, that a habit I've had for decades can be broken in two weeks. Mind you, when my lungs and tastebuds return, I'm pretty sure my wine habit will too. Maybe not quite as much, though, which would be good.
Drinking a little glass right now. Another mild lovely day, though misty. The weather is a gift. Making new friends from far far away is too.
We were getting to know each other not just through language but as women - talking about our children and grandchildren, our work, our lives. We laughed about winter, how desolate they find it, and they talked about how hard it was to leave family behind, though many of them, it seems, now have most family here with them. They were almost all in hijab, two in full niqab face veils which they removed in the room because we are women only, and have immense dignity and humour. One said she has already started digging her garden and will soon plant coriander and mustard seeds. I am going to learn a lot. They asked where I lived and were interested in how much my house is now worth. Very savvy.
If this works, I hope to create a template we can send across the city and the country, so that other English speakers can link with community centres and do the same thing. All it takes is a few of us who speak slowly and clearly and want to make a difference. I'm proud this idea of mine is taking shape! It's a good to feel that one's creative efforts might provide a pinprick of light during these dark days of our planet.
Believe it or not, my lungs still hurt and my energy is still low. Hard to comprehend. I went to the Y and could do very little. It makes me realize how much energy it takes to live life - I've let things go around here, have barely kept up with watering the plants, just don't have the energy. But I'm still alive, the house is running, the lungs are improving slowly. Several people at the Y told me the only cure for the winter sicknesses - Jamaica, Barbados, Cuba. Get into the hot sun. If only.
One interesting thing for me is - wine. I've hardly had a drink for more than two weeks - wine just tastes terrible and that's all I drink. I thought maybe that's because I drink such cheap wine, and yesterday I opened a good bottle. Better, definitely, but still, only one glass when I usually drink 2 or 3. I'm not complaining. It does amaze me, though, that a habit I've had for decades can be broken in two weeks. Mind you, when my lungs and tastebuds return, I'm pretty sure my wine habit will too. Maybe not quite as much, though, which would be good.
Drinking a little glass right now. Another mild lovely day, though misty. The weather is a gift. Making new friends from far far away is too.
February 20, 2017
So True: Sunday Feb. 26
It's our tenth, so a "Special Hits" show, with our favourite regulars returning with their best stories, reworked and re-rehearsed. Hope to see you there.
Seinfeld and my two Beatles
Gorgeous record-breaking weather, heaven - sun, mild winds, snow almost gone - it's beautiful out there, not like Toronto in February at all. This may be - undoubtedly is - global warming, but it's hard to complain. We needed this. Especially my dear daughter needed this on a long weekend with her two boys - she can just push them outside, without a giant bundle of clothing. They were over yesterday for a visit, and I was reminded, again, how much energy they take. I'm recovering still, quite feeble with sore lungs, and wasn't my perky Glamma self. But it was joy to see them, even as they destroyed my house. We went to the nearby playground and sat in the sun for an hour while they bounced.
The night before, Seinfeld with my tall son. Many laughs - the man is very skilled at his job. A bit of it was fairly ordinary comic riffing - on doughnut holes, for example - but some was genuinely brilliant existential stuff - one long bit about how human beings are never satisfied, always wanting to be somewhere else, how we'd all ended up in the audience and how quickly we'd want to leave. He was funny and dark about his 17-year marriage, but, as Sam said, "He's a New Yorker, Jewish and a comedian, of course he's dark about marriage." "I married at 45, married late. I had issues. They were great issues. I enjoyed my issues."
"You unmarried guys are just playing Whiffleball," he said. "I'm in Afghanistan with serious weapons."
Afterward I quickly took a cab home, just as Seinfeld had predicted, but my son met all the friends he'd connected with on his phone who were there too, and they went to C'est What and had a grand night of it, playing Whiffleball. As they so often do.
This week the English conversation group I'm hoping to get going at the CRC in Regent Park starts, and on Sunday, it's our tenth So True. On Thursday, a Beatles event at the Arts and Letters Club, and on Saturday morning, I'm seeing Paw Patrol Live with Eli. Paw Patrol Live! My thrilling life resumes. In the meantime, my friend Stella, who is my writer's group, came over last night, and we read each other pages of work. I was nearly ready to give up - MY BEGINNING IS STILL NOT WORKING. But it will. But it will. But it will. Sigh.
Sheer joy: apparently yesterday, Ringo was recording and asked Paul to come play drums on one track, and then Paul offered to sing harmony on another. Oh my beloved boys.
The night before, Seinfeld with my tall son. Many laughs - the man is very skilled at his job. A bit of it was fairly ordinary comic riffing - on doughnut holes, for example - but some was genuinely brilliant existential stuff - one long bit about how human beings are never satisfied, always wanting to be somewhere else, how we'd all ended up in the audience and how quickly we'd want to leave. He was funny and dark about his 17-year marriage, but, as Sam said, "He's a New Yorker, Jewish and a comedian, of course he's dark about marriage." "I married at 45, married late. I had issues. They were great issues. I enjoyed my issues."
"You unmarried guys are just playing Whiffleball," he said. "I'm in Afghanistan with serious weapons."
Afterward I quickly took a cab home, just as Seinfeld had predicted, but my son met all the friends he'd connected with on his phone who were there too, and they went to C'est What and had a grand night of it, playing Whiffleball. As they so often do.
This week the English conversation group I'm hoping to get going at the CRC in Regent Park starts, and on Sunday, it's our tenth So True. On Thursday, a Beatles event at the Arts and Letters Club, and on Saturday morning, I'm seeing Paw Patrol Live with Eli. Paw Patrol Live! My thrilling life resumes. In the meantime, my friend Stella, who is my writer's group, came over last night, and we read each other pages of work. I was nearly ready to give up - MY BEGINNING IS STILL NOT WORKING. But it will. But it will. But it will. Sigh.
Sheer joy: apparently yesterday, Ringo was recording and asked Paul to come play drums on one track, and then Paul offered to sing harmony on another. Oh my beloved boys.
February 17, 2017
Stuart McLean, a minority view
Stuart McLean. A born storyteller, a man who loved and did honour to his country and its people. About ten years ago, I was in Florida visiting my snowbird mother and aunt. So dull, nothing to do in the evenings, when I saw an ad in the local paper - Stuart McLean and his show would be performing nearby a few days hence. Off we went to a huge auditorium in Bradenton packed with pale-faced elderly Canadians, overjoyed to be assembled in all their Canadian-ness on a mild January night. It was a lovely show, warm, hilarious, with music by Dan Hill. Mum and Auntie Do were thrilled. It could not have been a better event for them.
I loved that Stuart McLean was doing what he was doing with stories. But though I respected him hugely, I have to say that I did not, could not listen to his show the Vinyl Café. In fact, I leapt for the radio to turn it off when it started. It was the voice - that singsong delivery, the almost preachery cadence, what felt to me like a forced folksiness - I couldn't take it. I've listened with the greatest admiration to the outpouring of love and grief, as everyone in the country, it seems, remembers him fondly. He meant a great deal to a great many people. So it pains me to say that though there's no question he was a lovely man and a great, great asset to this country, I could not listen to his show on the radio. In person, as I found out in Florida, no problem at all, and of course his work with Peter Gzowski was fabulous. The cricket - the best radio ever.
I was at a writers' party once, lots of artsy folks, wonderful music, lots going on including dancing. Stuart was there alone, his lanky body folded into a chair. At one point he was watching the dancing and so was I, and the music was so fabulous, I threw caution to the winds and went over to him. "Do you want to dance?" I asked. He looked at me with absolute horror. "Oh my God no!" he said.
I guess he was a man who did his dancing with words. Millions will miss you, Stuart. Thank you for keeping storytelling front and centre on the radio and on stage in this country, and that one too. Bravo.
May all storytellers be so lauded by their listeners.
I loved that Stuart McLean was doing what he was doing with stories. But though I respected him hugely, I have to say that I did not, could not listen to his show the Vinyl Café. In fact, I leapt for the radio to turn it off when it started. It was the voice - that singsong delivery, the almost preachery cadence, what felt to me like a forced folksiness - I couldn't take it. I've listened with the greatest admiration to the outpouring of love and grief, as everyone in the country, it seems, remembers him fondly. He meant a great deal to a great many people. So it pains me to say that though there's no question he was a lovely man and a great, great asset to this country, I could not listen to his show on the radio. In person, as I found out in Florida, no problem at all, and of course his work with Peter Gzowski was fabulous. The cricket - the best radio ever.
I was at a writers' party once, lots of artsy folks, wonderful music, lots going on including dancing. Stuart was there alone, his lanky body folded into a chair. At one point he was watching the dancing and so was I, and the music was so fabulous, I threw caution to the winds and went over to him. "Do you want to dance?" I asked. He looked at me with absolute horror. "Oh my God no!" he said.
I guess he was a man who did his dancing with words. Millions will miss you, Stuart. Thank you for keeping storytelling front and centre on the radio and on stage in this country, and that one too. Bravo.
May all storytellers be so lauded by their listeners.
the miraculous pneumonia diet
Today the sun is shining, and tomorrow will be a balmy 11 degrees. Life returns. I went to a class at the Y! Just a bit of one, mostly to see my friends and thank them for the Get Well card they sent, signed, with personal get well messages, by a whole bunch of people including some I don't even know. How sweet is that? They're the nicest people in the world. It was very good to be back. When did I, who hated gym class at school and didn't do a single sport, turn into a gym rat? When I started making friends there. The only reason.
But I knew if I actually exerted myself I'd get sick again; my lungs still hurt. So I just dabbled and went home. Am now not in bed but in my office, swaddled in blankets but upright. How did this happen? My friend Terry wrote to ask. I'm older than you are, she said, I'm sure I don't eat as well and am not as fit, yet I don't get sick nearly as often. Why is that? Very, very good question, Terry, I'd like to know the answer too. I will ask my doctor next time I see her. Right now, I'm grateful just to be sitting in a chair. Thank you, lord.
Incidentally, I found out on the scales at the Y that over the past week and a bit, I lost about four pounds. Try the amazing pneumonia diet! It removes your appetite and stops you drinking wine, hence miraculous weight loss. I tried a wee glass of merlot last night, but it still tastes terrible. Hope I get over that soon. Enough with the detox.
Last weekend, I missed a play I'd bought a ticket for at Canadian Stage - no one wanted my seat and I couldn't go. But I can't miss tomorrow night's event. I gave my son two tickets to Seinfeld for Christmas - and he's taking me!
No mention, notice, of the giant orange blowhole or his press conference yesterday, terrifying in its insanity. No, I will not bring it up.
But I knew if I actually exerted myself I'd get sick again; my lungs still hurt. So I just dabbled and went home. Am now not in bed but in my office, swaddled in blankets but upright. How did this happen? My friend Terry wrote to ask. I'm older than you are, she said, I'm sure I don't eat as well and am not as fit, yet I don't get sick nearly as often. Why is that? Very, very good question, Terry, I'd like to know the answer too. I will ask my doctor next time I see her. Right now, I'm grateful just to be sitting in a chair. Thank you, lord.
Incidentally, I found out on the scales at the Y that over the past week and a bit, I lost about four pounds. Try the amazing pneumonia diet! It removes your appetite and stops you drinking wine, hence miraculous weight loss. I tried a wee glass of merlot last night, but it still tastes terrible. Hope I get over that soon. Enough with the detox.
Last weekend, I missed a play I'd bought a ticket for at Canadian Stage - no one wanted my seat and I couldn't go. But I can't miss tomorrow night's event. I gave my son two tickets to Seinfeld for Christmas - and he's taking me!
No mention, notice, of the giant orange blowhole or his press conference yesterday, terrifying in its insanity. No, I will not bring it up.
February 15, 2017
the best analysis of El Trumpo yet
The Opinion Pages | LETTER An Eminent Psychiatrist Demurs on Trump’s Mental StateFEB. 14, 2017Continue reading the main storyShare This PageTo the Editor:Fevered media speculation about Donald Trump’s psychological motivations and psychiatric diagnosis has recently encouraged mental health professionals to disregard the usual ethical constraints against diagnosing public figures at a distance. They have sponsored several petitions and a Feb. 14 letter to The New York Times suggesting that Mr. Trump is incapable, on psychiatric grounds, of serving as president.Most amateur diagnosticians have mislabeled President Trump with the diagnosis of narcissistic personality disorder. I wrote the criteria that define this disorder, and Mr. Trump doesn’t meet them. He may be a world-class narcissist, but this doesn’t make him mentally ill, because he does not suffer from the distress and impairment required to diagnose mental disorder.Mr. Trump causes severe distress rather than experiencing it and has been richly rewarded, rather than punished, for his grandiosity, self-absorption and lack of empathy. It is a stigmatizing insult to the mentally ill (who are mostly well behaved and well meaning) to be lumped with Mr. Trump (who is neither).Bad behavior is rarely a sign of mental illness, and the mentally ill behave badly only rarely. Psychiatric name-calling is a misguided way of countering Mr. Trump’s attack on democracy. He can, and should, be appropriately denounced for his ignorance, incompetence, impulsivity and pursuit of dictatorial powers.His psychological motivations are too obvious to be interesting, and analyzing them will not halt his headlong power grab. The antidote to a dystopic Trumpean dark age is political, not psychological.ALLEN FRANCESCoronado, Calif.The writer, professor emeritus of psychiatry and behavioral sciences at Duke University Medical College, was chairman of the task force that wrote the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders IV (D.S.M.-IV).
absorbing Yuval Harari and Dani Shapiro
Normally I'd be heading to the Y for my usual Wednesday class. Today, however, not so much. Still in bed, though better. Just checked "pneumonia timeline" with Dr. Google - I've been sick for 11 days, for God's sake! But I'm getting there, that's the best I can do.
So I get to lie here and read about the scandals, the latest unbelievable, mind-blowing excesses by El T. and his team of scamsters, liars and crooks. Apparently the right-wing press are spinning the Flynn debacle by saying the problem is leaks coming from the White House. Yes, that's the problem, leaks targeting those innocents. I watched a replay of John Oliver's Sunday show last night. Beyond brilliant. Watching comedians these days is like watching hungry lions feasting on a fat gazelle. Meat, red meat keeps presenting itself, and they are taking full advantage.
I finished a beautiful book yesterday - "Still Writing: the perils and pleasures of a writing life," by Dani Shapiro, which I got out of the library just before I got sick, along with her memoir "Devotion." I didn't know her work at all but had read somewhere she was worth checking out. Wow! She's wonderful. Her book about writing is inspirational, vivid, funny and extremely moving. Then I started the memoir and saw there's a photograph of her at the back. For a moment, I hated her - how could she be a great writer, apparently happily married with a child, and also very pretty? Is that fair?!
"To write is to have an on-going dialogue with your own pain," she writes. "The mess is holy. What we inherit – and how we come to understand what we inherit – is all we have to work with. There is beauty in what is. Every day, when I sit down to work, I travel to that place. Not because I’m a masochist. Not because I live in the past. But because my words are my pickaxe, and with them I chip away at the rough surface of whatever it is I still need to know."
Been there. Done that.
Monday night, when I got in from Ryerson, I wanted to go straight to bed but CBC's "Ideas" was on the radio in the kitchen, and I got so hooked, I had to sit down and listen till the end. Israeli historian and author Yuval Harari was being interviewed about his new book "Homo Deus." I urge you to listen to this brilliant man and his theses, which made me look up "algorithms," a word I'd often heard but never really bothered to understand. There's nothing better than radio like that - like Eleanor Wachtel's "Writers and Company" too, where you sit in your kitchen and meet the most brilliant minds in the world.
Especially needed for those of us who aren't going anywhere, just yet.
So I get to lie here and read about the scandals, the latest unbelievable, mind-blowing excesses by El T. and his team of scamsters, liars and crooks. Apparently the right-wing press are spinning the Flynn debacle by saying the problem is leaks coming from the White House. Yes, that's the problem, leaks targeting those innocents. I watched a replay of John Oliver's Sunday show last night. Beyond brilliant. Watching comedians these days is like watching hungry lions feasting on a fat gazelle. Meat, red meat keeps presenting itself, and they are taking full advantage.
I finished a beautiful book yesterday - "Still Writing: the perils and pleasures of a writing life," by Dani Shapiro, which I got out of the library just before I got sick, along with her memoir "Devotion." I didn't know her work at all but had read somewhere she was worth checking out. Wow! She's wonderful. Her book about writing is inspirational, vivid, funny and extremely moving. Then I started the memoir and saw there's a photograph of her at the back. For a moment, I hated her - how could she be a great writer, apparently happily married with a child, and also very pretty? Is that fair?!
"To write is to have an on-going dialogue with your own pain," she writes. "The mess is holy. What we inherit – and how we come to understand what we inherit – is all we have to work with. There is beauty in what is. Every day, when I sit down to work, I travel to that place. Not because I’m a masochist. Not because I live in the past. But because my words are my pickaxe, and with them I chip away at the rough surface of whatever it is I still need to know."
Been there. Done that.
Monday night, when I got in from Ryerson, I wanted to go straight to bed but CBC's "Ideas" was on the radio in the kitchen, and I got so hooked, I had to sit down and listen till the end. Israeli historian and author Yuval Harari was being interviewed about his new book "Homo Deus." I urge you to listen to this brilliant man and his theses, which made me look up "algorithms," a word I'd often heard but never really bothered to understand. There's nothing better than radio like that - like Eleanor Wachtel's "Writers and Company" too, where you sit in your kitchen and meet the most brilliant minds in the world.
Especially needed for those of us who aren't going anywhere, just yet.
February 13, 2017
Sam's soup
Still in bed, but tonight I will get up and dressed and go to teach my class - because the show must go on. It'll be fine - I know as soon as I'm there, all my instincts will kick in. I look forward to rejoining the human race. And then I'll go immediately back to bed for another day or two.
This is a long slow nasty bug, mon dieu, the worst I've had in years. Nothing to do but get through it.
Silver lining department: my son. He came over to take care of me - also, yes, to watch my large flat-screen cable TV, he loves that, but he also loves his mama. He shopped, brought me tea, helped me change my sheets - and most of all, yesterday, he made French onion soup. It required a huge number of onions slowly, very slowly sautéing in my biggest pan while garlic roasted in the toaster oven - the house smelled like a French restaurant. And then - how does he do it? It took a long time and involved some Port I had in my liquor cabinet, probably from my uncle who died in 1997. Finally, hours later, he brought me a steaming bowl with Swiss cheese melted on top.
One of the best things I've ever tasted. Sublime - layers of rich flavour and soft, sweet onions, sheer love in a bowl. He also made enough to share with Carol my tenant, with John our handyman, two jars for his sister across town, and some for him too. And still, a few more bowls for me in the fridge. I just had some. Strength flows in my veins.
He told me about a time awhile ago when he went to the House on Parliament, a restaurant a block from here where he knows the manager, and had such a great time that after his meal, he went straight to a local place known for its wood oven pizza, ordered two large pizzas, and brought them back to the HOP as a treat for the staff. My son makes very, very good soup and is a kind man. He makes me proud. Not to mention that he's responsible for my 15 seconds of fame: 140 of his friends and mine have now liked his video on FB of me dancing in the kitchen, and apparently there are the same number on Instagram. Not bad for an old bird whose lungs are also like Swiss cheese.
Unfortunately, I awoke thinking not about soup but about Trump. And what I thought was, Meryl had it right. All the articles, the analyses, the frantic exposés on TV and FB - not needed. All we need to know is that he's a man who makes fun of the handicapped. He made fun of John McCain for being a POW. He is a cruel, heedless man without a single redeeming characteristic, and he has hired men just like him to run the most powerful country on earth.
Terror flows in my veins. Time for a nap.
This is a long slow nasty bug, mon dieu, the worst I've had in years. Nothing to do but get through it.
Silver lining department: my son. He came over to take care of me - also, yes, to watch my large flat-screen cable TV, he loves that, but he also loves his mama. He shopped, brought me tea, helped me change my sheets - and most of all, yesterday, he made French onion soup. It required a huge number of onions slowly, very slowly sautéing in my biggest pan while garlic roasted in the toaster oven - the house smelled like a French restaurant. And then - how does he do it? It took a long time and involved some Port I had in my liquor cabinet, probably from my uncle who died in 1997. Finally, hours later, he brought me a steaming bowl with Swiss cheese melted on top.
One of the best things I've ever tasted. Sublime - layers of rich flavour and soft, sweet onions, sheer love in a bowl. He also made enough to share with Carol my tenant, with John our handyman, two jars for his sister across town, and some for him too. And still, a few more bowls for me in the fridge. I just had some. Strength flows in my veins.
He told me about a time awhile ago when he went to the House on Parliament, a restaurant a block from here where he knows the manager, and had such a great time that after his meal, he went straight to a local place known for its wood oven pizza, ordered two large pizzas, and brought them back to the HOP as a treat for the staff. My son makes very, very good soup and is a kind man. He makes me proud. Not to mention that he's responsible for my 15 seconds of fame: 140 of his friends and mine have now liked his video on FB of me dancing in the kitchen, and apparently there are the same number on Instagram. Not bad for an old bird whose lungs are also like Swiss cheese.
Unfortunately, I awoke thinking not about soup but about Trump. And what I thought was, Meryl had it right. All the articles, the analyses, the frantic exposés on TV and FB - not needed. All we need to know is that he's a man who makes fun of the handicapped. He made fun of John McCain for being a POW. He is a cruel, heedless man without a single redeeming characteristic, and he has hired men just like him to run the most powerful country on earth.
Terror flows in my veins. Time for a nap.
February 12, 2017
relapse and fame
Because I am a stupid person, yesterday I did exactly what everyone who knows me told me not to do: I pushed myself way too hard on my first day of feeling better, and today I feel much worse. So. Lesson learned. Don't say you can't teach an old dog etc. This old dog is mighty sorry and back in bed. Which because there's a snowstorm today is a very good place to be.
Should not have stayed up to watch SNL, but it's so much fun with Sam. But in any case, only lasted half an hour. Finally, it's not funny any more. The whole thing - we are laughing because we have to laugh and because brilliant comics are on the job, but these horrible people and situations they're satirizing are so not funny that it hurts.
I had a brief moment of sheer joy yesterday evening - Randy Bachman's Vinyl Tap on CBC radio was about, be still my beating heart, the Two Pauls: McCartney and Simon. Does it get better than that? He played greatest hits from them both - yes, more from Simon, and incomprehensibly he ended with the dirge-like Mull of Kintyre, but before that, I had a great time, could not stop dancing with headphones on. Which is what my son saw when he walked into the house - his mother dancing, in silence, with headphones, in the kitchen. So he filmed it and my reaction when I realized he was there filming - yes, there was an expletive - and posted it (with my permission) on FB.
So far, 100 people have liked it. I am in my schlubbiest old clothes and slippers, with pneumonia, for my great moment of internet fame.
Oh, and congratulations to my colleague, writer Glenn Dixon, one of the head honchos of the Creative Non-fiction Collective of which I'm a member. His new memoir "Juliet's Answer," besides getting great reviews, was featured on the FRONT PAGE of the Star today as a tie-in to Valentine's Day. Most writers can only dream of such attention. Way to go, Glenn! See you at this year's conference in Vancouver at the beginning of May.
May. What means this word? She said, looking out the window at the falling snow.
Should not have stayed up to watch SNL, but it's so much fun with Sam. But in any case, only lasted half an hour. Finally, it's not funny any more. The whole thing - we are laughing because we have to laugh and because brilliant comics are on the job, but these horrible people and situations they're satirizing are so not funny that it hurts.
I had a brief moment of sheer joy yesterday evening - Randy Bachman's Vinyl Tap on CBC radio was about, be still my beating heart, the Two Pauls: McCartney and Simon. Does it get better than that? He played greatest hits from them both - yes, more from Simon, and incomprehensibly he ended with the dirge-like Mull of Kintyre, but before that, I had a great time, could not stop dancing with headphones on. Which is what my son saw when he walked into the house - his mother dancing, in silence, with headphones, in the kitchen. So he filmed it and my reaction when I realized he was there filming - yes, there was an expletive - and posted it (with my permission) on FB.
So far, 100 people have liked it. I am in my schlubbiest old clothes and slippers, with pneumonia, for my great moment of internet fame.
Oh, and congratulations to my colleague, writer Glenn Dixon, one of the head honchos of the Creative Non-fiction Collective of which I'm a member. His new memoir "Juliet's Answer," besides getting great reviews, was featured on the FRONT PAGE of the Star today as a tie-in to Valentine's Day. Most writers can only dream of such attention. Way to go, Glenn! See you at this year's conference in Vancouver at the beginning of May.
May. What means this word? She said, looking out the window at the falling snow.
