I love Jimbo best

I can’t write about Beirut or Paris because I’m sick of crying so instead I’ll write about this:
This is Jimbo, Roz’s cat. I love Jimbo best because Roz loves Bob best and I know what it’s like to feel like the shunned child. It is raw; it is harsh; it is mean. See Roz?

When I sleep at Roz’s, I let Jimbo sleep with me. Which he happily does. Roz and her husband do not let Jimbo sleep with them. They are mean. When Roz needs to get Jimbo to go downstairs and he won’t come, she yells, “your Rainey is here!” and he runs down the stairs, all excited. That is how darling Jimbo is; that is how mean Roz is.

They had dinner guests last night, and one of those guests is a wee baby. Wee babies come with their own traveling beds and Jimbo took a liking to it. I think he just liked being the special one.

For a change.

No word on where Bob was all this time. Probably in Roz’s lap.

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Gumball Tally

This is gross. A wall in Seattle where people have chewed and stuck 2200 pounds of gum. They have to take it down because it’s wrecking the wall. People are flocking to this art installation for one last chew and goo because, I guess, this is a cool thing? I didn’t understand idiots lying in the middle of a road on top of a X where JFK was shot. It’s gonna take me far longer to get a gum wall. I have a friend who won’t touch door handles; this place would make her faint.

I actually don’t mind the idea of some touristy things; it’s just the gross ones that leave me scratching my head. The Dawson City sourtoe cocktail, ferinstance. Actually, don’t click on that link if you have a weak stomach, and most certainly don’t click on ‘images’. I’ve watched people do this thing; I don’t have a particularly weak stomach, but this is barf-o-rama.

Locks on fences (now removed, Paris), kissing stones in Ireland, throwing unders at Tom Jones…I guess it’s all just bits of I Was Here, but some are creepier than others.

I do pity whomever has to clean that wall, though.

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I was here

Just had a blast in New Orleans. And Dallas. And a bunch of places in between. Got in late last night crabby and a teensie bit drunk from airplane Caesars. Booze on airplanes works double duty, doncha know.

Got to spend the weekend with my friend Emily and we did Dallas tourist things, like to go the JFK assassination site which I know isn’t festive but it sure is fascinating. I have a picture of the grassy knoll, and my insistence on getting it meant Emily had to go the wrong way and what should have been a ten minute ride home turned into a bunch of Dallas expressway things and did I mention she is a good friend?

People mark an “X” on the road where the death car was the moment he died*. It’s creepy as shit. Apparently, the city removes the painted X all the time and it reappears overnight, constantly. It’s a major thoroughfare; idiots were not just running out to stand on it, they were lying down on it. I will continue to mull over all the things I saw and learned at that exhibit.

I also went to where Bonnie and Clyde were shot down in Gibsland, Louisiana. It was very dark and raining and creepy as shit. We couldn’t find the actual spot but I got a shuddery feeling while we were there which is all the proof I need.

Taking a break from death, I also went here:
That’s right: I got my Britney on. Kentwood, LA is a pokey little town with lovely people, a Sonic Burger and a Popeye’s. I don’t recommend the restaurants. As we were getting the taping done at the sign, several cars (okay, pickups) went by and some stopped, and I got to meet THE MAN WHO WAS THE BEST FRIEND OF BRITNEY’S FATHER AND HE HELPED BUILD HER DANCE STUDIO AND HE’S KNOWN HER SINCE SHE WAS LITTLE AND HE’D BE HAPPY TO TAKE ME DOWN THE ROAD TO HER ACTUAL HOUSE JUST FOLLOW HIM and thank you no.

*I have been corrected by Emily. Of course. He didn’t *die* on that X, that is where the death bullet happened. He died at the hospital a little ways away. Details.

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Poor Bob

I’m trying to do a thousand things before I get on the road this week, but I had to drop everything to worry about Bob. Apparently, Roz’s cats have ramped up their soap opera and things have taken a dark turn.

Jimbo, reports Roz, is trying to play prison sleepover with Bob. Bob is not happy with this and cries. Roz races to rescue her favourite cat (only I’m nice to Jimbo; I’m sure that explains his behaviour) and puts Jimbo in solitary confinement. My cats do a version of this, though when Marco gets close enough to start messing with Cairo, she gets that “I’ll cut a bitch” look in her eye and he backs off. Nobody would try to mess with JoJo. JoJo would slice out your heart. And then eat it. Sweet Pea is just too darling and all the others leave her alone. Poor Bob being tormented by Jimbo’s attempted conjugal visits; too bad Cairo or JoJo can’t teach him a few self defence tricks.

I was supposed to have a direct flight to New Orleans, which was great because for once, I was going to check a bag. I never check bags, but I’m spending a few extra days in Texas after a gig involving driving a ’16 Camaro from NOLA to Dallas, meandering backroads all the way. I can’t wait. But I’m hauling my poor videographer along with me for the first two days and I need my cowboy hat because you never know when you’ll need one. I was going to pack it to hide it in a checked bag, but now I’ll have to carry it and look like an idiot because I have a layover and can’t risk a checked bag. The only thing that screams ‘tourist’ louder than a cowboy hat is cornrows.

Somehow I actually believe that wearing ridiculous boots everywhere I go is somehow less crazy than a cowboy hat. Come to think of it, it’s probably safer that I won’t have room to bring home any new boots. Maybe I should get Bob a pair of wee steel toe boots.

Poor Bob.

Oh, I got a new computer because someone poured molasses in my old one. Ari got it all set up which is awesome. But today, I actually took control and figured out a part because he was at school and I got stuck and was worried I wouldn’t be able to work. But not to worry. Between me and the Googler, I figured out how to install the program I needed.



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Winnie the Pooh and red suede shoes

ari poohThis is a three-year-old Ari. That makes me…well, that makes this 18 years ago. I was Duty Mommy at his preschool. My colleagues on FB are posting their kids’ Halloween costumes and they are adorable, but come on, look at that little pudgy Pooh face. It needed to be shown. Ari may or may not be agreeing with me right now…

Automotive Journalists Association of Canada banquet was last night. I won the CAA Safety Journalism Award (remember the girl who had her feet up on the dash when she crashed? That one) which was very cool. WebGod will have to cram another one on my homepage, something that doesn’t make me feel even a little bit bad.

I wore a dress to prove I could. Roz took one look at this pic and called me. “It looks like they gave you one of the big belt things they give the boxers when they win.” Thanks, Roz.

caa 2015

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The Donald

I know I should look away, but I just can’t. The longest running performance art show in history (Andy Kaufman died at 35, after all) continues with The Trumpster bashing his way through the GOP primaries and delivering the most embarrassing soundbites, ever, from the heartland. This review of his “book” from Deborah Friedell in the London Book Review is awesome; skip the book, just read this.

On his net worth: “Bloomberg puts Trump’s current net worth at $2.9 billion, Forbes at $4.1 billion. The National Journal has worked out that if Trump had just put his father’s money in a mutual fund that tracked the S&P 500 and spent his career finger-painting, he’d have $8 billion.” Oh, how I wish he’d stuck to finger-painting.

On the justice system: ” In 1989, when five black and Latino teenagers were arrested for raping a white woman in Central Park, Donald paid for full-page advertisements in New York newspapers, demanding the boys’ execution. When they were exonerated, he wouldn’t apologise: ‘Tell me, what were they doing in the park, playing checkers?’” Because that’s the guy you want in the White House.

On women: ” ‘I only have one regret in the women department,’ Trump boasts, ‘that I never had the opportunity to court Lady Diana Spencer.’ According to Selina Scott, Diana said that the huge bouquets Trump sent to Kensington Palace gave her the creeps, but Trump says that if she hadn’t been killed he’d have ‘had a shot’”. Doncha hate it when women will do anything to get away from you?


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Miss you, Pop

1926 – 1996

dad gilly meGilly, Dad, me

dad fishThe famous three dollar purple Levis

dad noolyHis favourite kid – Nooly

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Finally doing my spring cleaning

I know, I know…but there is a spare room to dump stuff in! Started trying to sort out photos, which is a colossal mess because my children are the most photographed brats in history, I swear. This was before digital, so there are scads of prints and I hesitate and think, oh wait, don’t throw that because you never know if you’ll need another photo of Maggie as a kitten because you only have 3,000.

Came across these, which cracked me up. For the ladies who read here, you will recognize that age-old question starts early: bangs, or no bangs?

threefacesI was 10, 11 and 12 here. Grades 7, 8, 9. And you wonder why high school was hell…

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So about the other night…

I’ll admit it. I loved loved loved watching Harper get his ass kicked. I did. I know I should be careful what I wish for blah blah blah, but ya know, the bastard deserved it. Never has a politician been fool enough to let his public know of his visceral hatred and contempt for them. I felt like my country was just a runaway stage coach, horses long gone.

This morning’s paper brought fresh fun, however. You have no idea how much I want this to be true. Doug Ford for Conservative leader. Now, the article does note that it is an ‘unofficial group’ yapping about it, which means it’s Rob. But I would like to take a moment here to go back in time with you to last weekend. A beleaguered Stephen Harper, who looked like those people in the Titanic movie who jumped and are last seen clinging to a lawn chair right before they drown,  decided that posing with Humpty and Dumpty and the women they coerced into marrying them was a wise move. Yes, one of the architects of the most tightly run, covert ships (I have a theme here) in political history chose this as his important message to send to his country.

And on the morning after the night before, the world rolled over slightly in its sleep, opened one eyelid and said, Canada who? And someone – a woman someone, no doubt – thrust a pic out and said, “this is who Canada elected as its Prime Minister OMG he’s actually hot, and not that hot where you line up all the politicians and decide the scale of 1 to 10 has to be within that lineup because its not fair to use Brad Pitt as your 10. Go ahead; use Brad, he’s still OMG.” And then there is the picture of Harper, with his helmet of hair and looking like he sleeps in a tie standing with his arm around a giant crackhead (sorry, former crackhead) in a polyester sweatsuit. I’m sure Adidas is dying to rip their logo from that garment.

Yes, Doug Ford, who could give Harper a lesson in talking down to people. Who could teach Harper how to be out of touch, how to lie without blinking. Another article in there says (the insiders are all calling in with their off-the-records because even rats have waterproof cell phones, it seems) Harper considered stepping down before the election. I wondered when the Globe & Mail endorsed the party but not the man if they had some inside line – and I’m sure they did, but it didn’t make them look  any less stupid. I made a Twitter joke about electing A Player to be Named at a Later Date, but it seems that was an option, after all. But come on; who the hell would have voted for Jason Kenney? Harper’s hand is so firmly up his ass he hasn’t sat comfortably for two election cycles.

I knew Trudeau would do well, but like most people, I wasn’t aware how well. I swear we all just collectively got sick of the horrific attacks both here and in the U.S. and got all, well, Canadian, and said enough. Someone had to be in the right place at the right time, and I knew I couldn’t vote NDP because Mulcair is too much of a journeyman; they call it experience, but you can’t build a team around a journeyman.

I am wondering if the comment about the Cons telling each other if Trudeau made it to the debate with his pants on, they’d be surprised. Somebody leaked that, knowing it would backfire. It sounded catty as hell. And as I noted on Twitter this morning, would it really have been so bad if he’d forgotten his pants?

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You know who’s not worried about a little snow?

alfie parkaAlfie, that’s who.

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