tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-53122720584374864412024-02-08T01:28:51.615-05:00One Hundred Million Tiny Explosions in the SkyAll the people look like ants from up here.PMcEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09368838445790310108noreply@blogger.comBlogger52125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312272058437486441.post-9562258019010763592010-09-17T19:36:00.000-04:002010-09-17T19:36:35.514-04:00Travelogue: The Suburbs<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWgTVTSLSZY0uZHF7nCHNyX2uZBki8s98RxvrdAVmZjekQSScz8_HXhblCoRhcPzHpZx3iVr-wMpp_YKdp69RWlHUpCwtHVwAMyGgr74ihaDPCU4yKnDIs5c9ZM0ayqwG9JJ2uqJC6zMY/s1600/Suburbs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWgTVTSLSZY0uZHF7nCHNyX2uZBki8s98RxvrdAVmZjekQSScz8_HXhblCoRhcPzHpZx3iVr-wMpp_YKdp69RWlHUpCwtHVwAMyGgr74ihaDPCU4yKnDIs5c9ZM0ayqwG9JJ2uqJC6zMY/s640/Suburbs.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
<br />
Hi All! Welcome to our travel-weblog!<br />
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It took us a little while to get this started because WiFi is really tricky to find out here - it's almost always password protected and there are very few Starbucks. We finally found a "library" though which has all kinds of computers you can borrow and WiFi available and these really cool "reading" rooms.<br />
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But so anyways we arrived here on the weekend and it's been a whirlwind so far! I don't even know where to begin...<br />
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Originally we were supposed to go with a bunch of friends to Italy for the summer but then Daddy said something about the trip not being appropriate because of the "Bear Market". Which is weird because I thought they had those in Russia, not Italy. And either way I'd kind of love to see one. I love bears! Especially baby ones.<br />
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At first we were really bummed, but then he said that he'd made arrangements for us to go to The Suburbs to stay with his cousin and "<i>au pair</i>" for their two kids. I know: I didn't know what an <i>au pair</i> was either. But he told me it's like being a camp counselor except instead of being stuck in the wilderness you get to experience a completely different culture! The pay isn't great (zero), but they have cable and we mostly have our nights to ourselves.<br />
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PLUS: there is so much to see and do out here! Soccer fields are everywhere (chew on <i>that</i> Italy!), there are loads of swimming pools, and you can see any movie anytime you like. I saw some kids listening to hip hop in the park yesterday too. They might have had a few <i>pops</i> too (wink, wink). <br />
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This is going to be the best summer ever. <br />
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We promise to keep the updates coming, tomorrow we're supposed to go to "Super Market" which I'm sure will be, well super! Maybe we'll even do one post in the local language (Urdu) once we get the hang of it!<br />
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Kisses!<br />
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Oh! I almost forgot. They've totally solved poverty here. There are absolutely NO homeless people! It's amazing!PMcEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09368838445790310108noreply@blogger.com62tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312272058437486441.post-25715992011868453782010-09-16T22:42:00.000-04:002010-09-16T22:42:04.398-04:00Book Review: Diary of a Very Bad Year<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Diary-Very-Bad-Year-Confessions/dp/0061965308?ie=UTF8&tag=onehun-20&link_code=bil&camp=213689&creative=392969" imageanchor="1" target="_blank"><img alt="Diary of a Very Bad Year: Confessions of an Anonymous Hedge Fund Manager" height="400" src="http://ws.amazon.com/widgets/q?MarketPlace=US&ServiceVersion=20070822&ID=AsinImage&WS=1&Format=_SL160_&ASIN=0061965308&tag=onehun-20" width="265" /></a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=onehun-20&l=bil&camp=213689&creative=392969&o=1&a=0061965308" style="border: none !important; margin: 0px !important; padding: 0px !important;" width="1" /><br />
<br />
Confession of a semi-anonymous stock trader: I don't read much in the way of non-fiction and especially not finance non-fiction.<br />
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But this <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Diary-Very-Bad-Year-Confessions/dp/0061965308?ie=UTF8&tag=onehun-20&link_code=btl&camp=213689&creative=392969" target="_blank">small book</a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=onehun-20&l=btl&camp=213689&creative=392969&o=1&a=0061965308" style="border: none !important; margin: 0px !important; padding: 0px !important;" width="1" /> came to my attention from the good, smart people at <a href="http://nplusonemag.com/">n+1</a>, a literary magazine that I've been subscribing to for some years (and sometimes even reading!). <br />
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They published a few interviews with an anonymous hedge fund manager (HFM) in the magazine and on their website as the financial crisis was <a href="http://pmce.blogspot.com/search/label/David%20Foster%20Wallace">just unfolding</a> and it was pretty interesting, if as much for the context as the content. The HFM was charming, accessible, and really quite inciteful. Also, it was kind of fun to watch Keith Gessen try and figure out what HFM was talking about.<br />
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Well I guess the response must have been good because Gessen kept going back and eventually gather enough interview content to compile them into a fairly sturdy book.<br />
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It was fun to read partly because, on purpose, I haven't read much about the crisis, and it turns out I'd forgotten a lot of the more ridiculous things that happened. More importantly, I'd forgotten how scared we all were.<br />
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But beyond the actual story, which is familiar enough to anyone who reads the papers over the last 3 years, what was interesting about the book was just how articulate, and how clear-thinking HFM was in spoken-word interviews. His ability to explain reasonably complex issues in really simple, interesting terms was amazing. <br />
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I can't quite recommend the book to <i>everyone</i> because ultimately it's still pretty esoteric in topic - a bond manager talking about the bond & private loan market during the most dangerous time to be a bond manager in the last century. But to anyone who has an interest in the mind of a man who is extremely well paid to think faster and further than his competitors, this is probably a good way to spend 10 subway rides.PMcEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09368838445790310108noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312272058437486441.post-75956464283748966172010-09-16T22:21:00.003-04:002010-09-16T22:34:51.306-04:00Book Review: Chronic City - Jonathan Lethem<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Chronic-Vintage-Contemporaries-Jonathan-Lethem/dp/0307277526?ie=UTF8&tag=onehun-20&link_code=bil&camp=213689&creative=392969" imageanchor="1" target="_blank"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><img alt="Chronic City (Vintage Contemporaries)" height="400" src="http://ws.amazon.com/widgets/q?MarketPlace=US&ServiceVersion=20070822&ID=AsinImage&WS=1&Format=_SL160_&ASIN=0307277526&tag=onehun-20" width="260" /></span></a><br />
<div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Chronic-Vintage-Contemporaries-Jonathan-Lethem/dp/0307277526?ie=UTF8&tag=onehun-20&link_code=bil&camp=213689&creative=392969" imageanchor="1" target="_blank"></a></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I've been a pretty big fan of Lethem's since </span></span><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Fortress-Solitude-Jonathan-Lethem/dp/0375724885?ie=UTF8&tag=onehun-20&link_code=btl&camp=213689&creative=392969" target="_blank"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Fortress of Solitude</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=onehun-20&l=btl&camp=213689&creative=392969&o=1&a=0375724885" style="border: none !important; margin: 0px !important; padding: 0px !important;" width="1" />, which is still considered his best if not his </span></span><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Motherless-Brooklyn-Jonathan-Lethem/dp/0375724834?ie=UTF8&tag=onehun-20&link_code=btl&camp=213689&creative=392969" target="_blank"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">most popular</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=onehun-20&l=btl&camp=213689&creative=392969&o=1&a=0375724834" style="border: none !important; margin: 0px !important; padding: 0px !important;" width="1" />. He is able to balance the smirky ironic cynicism of this age's writing with a much finer, old-world emotional gravity that makes his current, topical story feel much more timeless.</span></span><br />
<div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Essentially buddy story, </span></span><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0307277526?ie=UTF8&tag=onehun-20&linkCode=as2&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=0307277526"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Chronic City</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> is at it's core about hipsters. What do the arbiters of culture and taste, both low and high, do in their downtime? It tells the story of a willfully bland ex-child actor and general layabout (the amazingly named Chase Insteadman) and how he falls in-friend with a hermetic, pot-smoking, burger chomping suit wearing counter-cultural journalist named Perkus Tooth. They spend many pages wiling away time in Perkus's cramped apartment cooking up paranoid theories over percolated coffee and brand-named joints.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Which, somewhat plot-less as a pot-book might be, and believe me there are </span></span><a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2009/10/13/books/13kakutani.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">some people who really didn't care for the aimless drug-talk</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">, it's a great ride if you're willing to take it with them.</span></span><br />
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</span> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I was. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">But beyond the upper-east-side hijinks, the</span></span><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/jhc-2008/4140138367/in/photostream/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span></a><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/jhc-2008/4140138367/in/photostream/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">fantastic details</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">, and some </span></span><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/jhc-2008/4140945786/in/photostream/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">seriously great set-pieces</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">, it's Lethem's writing that got me excited.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">His ability to glide so smoothly from the realistic to the fantastic, from the trite to the emotionally charged is just amazing - all the more so because it seems so effortless. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">In one particular scene near the end of the novel, Chase is concerned with mounting an intervention for Perkus and it occurs to him that he needs to enlist the help of one character sooner rather than later since the character is "about to descend into the joyful solipsism of young parenthood", which, as those who know me can imagine, rang so true to me I had to put my glass down. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Indeed, I'm the </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">last</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> person most of my friends would call to help them stage an intervention. But then, maybe I always was.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
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</div></div></div></div></div>PMcEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09368838445790310108noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312272058437486441.post-617528690862625242010-07-19T23:16:00.002-04:002010-07-19T23:24:21.995-04:00Are You Up For A While?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2ja1ddcooO2g81yflWCwpeAYi46LNiGtp3kDPHZ60epCxgLGwN3cJ2j1aDxWxLwagOOJZRIn5j8UIKaLQZjGvo6gLHVHmL_5otXRuY9zYVVipe9ugUaDRZ1iylBseAs9pM8EMAab7Rj4/s1600/club.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2ja1ddcooO2g81yflWCwpeAYi46LNiGtp3kDPHZ60epCxgLGwN3cJ2j1aDxWxLwagOOJZRIn5j8UIKaLQZjGvo6gLHVHmL_5otXRuY9zYVVipe9ugUaDRZ1iylBseAs9pM8EMAab7Rj4/s400/club.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5495824074036347010" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuA3fARcsCQaGKD-r4OB7YaFQ8_1gQXYLBUTZD2mNnHhYNW_O_vuK0r575POTXVGc-3fviGjyZQRSwU65GoipzsbZ6_nWCoeU_9DT3VF2pYhWaZcRzQDxu8T-jV0J0Zs-5ZbA6dN_W_94/s1600/club.jpg"><br /></a> <!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal">“Hi there Mr. Cyril, it’s Reza Dibadj, nice to see you again!”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Reza had learned some years ago that these people appreciated a quick little reminder when saying hello for the first time in a while.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It was, after all, a cottage community so there was often a long time between seeings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Also, everyone seemed to be pretty old.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>And drunk.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Of course, Raisin!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Nice to see you too!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>And how is Francis?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Francis is doing great, still attending classes overseas of course.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I’m married to Isabel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>We’re expecting.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Yes! Good!”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Cyril had whacked his shin against the side of his boat while disembarking that morning, and though blood still seeped from the cut the sappy trickle had not yet reached his sock. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Up for a little while?” he asked hopefully, his smile stretching around some odd coloured dental work.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“No,” Reza sighed, “just the weekend.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Cyril’s shook his head and tapped his tongue against the roof of his mouth, “Teh, teh”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“We’ll be up for a little stretch at the end of the month though,” Reza added hopefully.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Ah.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Good!”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Everything was, of course, always good there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It really was.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Days were a steady succession of discussions about just how good it was, the only exception being that it was not as good when you had to leave.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Reza had learned that despite the community’s reputation for being inaccessible, it was actually fairly easy to make friends if you simply heeded this simple protocol —</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Affirmation: This is just such a special and wonderful place.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Confirmation: Yes, it’s totally unique and amazing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>We are very fortunate.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The bit about being fortunate was a little flourish he had added.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>He was humble by nature, but also, even notwithstanding his name, the absurdly hairy legs he had stuffed into tennis shorts made it clear that he had married into the community.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Yes, we’re really looking forward to it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Two weeks!<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It’s just so much better when you can really settle in for a while here.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>More relaxing!”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Yes, yes it is.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Wonderful!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Cyril had started shuffling off toward the iced tea-stand, which also sold homemade brownies that Reza frequently sought out. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Watching the young girl get up from her chair to greet her teetering customer, he wondered if his child would one day work at that stand for a summer job.</p> <!--EndFragment-->PMcEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09368838445790310108noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312272058437486441.post-86865525999409544182010-07-13T22:53:00.007-04:002010-08-26T08:46:46.106-04:00Centered<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqTH6elNVswsfgLv43kj-pK10ogOufTMc5rACrqnnG1u1EsWihXrRS7q1BziHIhgAqLzZ0B7E02Fm716Sj2c75umOMTP2Lvo6qpYKlPZVFOG2kCh6XVsz3NgPpwtMqJz_XwcqI4KZl1s4/s1600/solipsism+sunset.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5493590366391131858" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqTH6elNVswsfgLv43kj-pK10ogOufTMc5rACrqnnG1u1EsWihXrRS7q1BziHIhgAqLzZ0B7E02Fm716Sj2c75umOMTP2Lvo6qpYKlPZVFOG2kCh6XVsz3NgPpwtMqJz_XwcqI4KZl1s4/s400/solipsism+sunset.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 237px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #0000ee;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="text-decoration: underline;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal">A few tables away the flash of a camera caught his eye.<br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">I wonder if they were taking my picture, he thought with the slightest raising of an eyebrow. Probably. I bet they think I’m some movie star. <br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">It would be really embarrassing if they come over to ask me to pose or sign an autograph. I’ll do it, though. <br />
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They deserve it, a brush with fame. That’s the kind of thing that makes someone’s night. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
Probably they think I’m Ashton Kutcher, except my arms are bigger than his. Which, let’s be fair, you couldn't know that he has skinny arms from his films, but I have it on pretty good authority that mine are bigger and possibly better defined.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
The girl in the gym seemed to really know her stuff, when it came to celebrities. But she said I look more like Jason Bateman. Which is weird because I totally don’t. Though I think we probably have the same speech cadence. It makes people laugh almost no matter what we say. Just the way I say it.<br />
<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">When I listen to myself on tape, like on voicemail and such, I’m always surprised at how little it sounds like me; because I actually have a much deeper voice than it picks up.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
Maybe I should send some drinks over to the picture-snapping table. That would be sporting of me. <i>Then</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> they’d have a story to tell their friends! “Bradley Cooper bought us a round of drinks!” I bet they would be talking about it for weeks. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
Imagine I’d worn my glasses? That would have really freaked them out. I wonder who they’d think I was then. Some kind of bookish celebrity, that’s what. The Harry Potter guy or something. Except taller in person. <br />
<br />
And not gay.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
Though sometimes when people aren’t sure they think it’s a bit hot too. Is he or isn’t he? They don’t know! Mystery booksmart. I can see when people are puzzled by it, when they can’t quite figure out if my jeans are tight because I bought them that way or if it’s because my legs are totally ripped. Puzzling enigma.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
“Hold on Ray, are you even listening?” she asked.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
“What? Sure I am.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
“Well what did I just say?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
He glanced over to the table where the camera had been but he couldn’t see them anymore. Probably they’ve gone back to the nowhere from which they came, he thought. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
He looked at her vaguely, sniffed, and said, “You don’t understand me at all.”<o:p></o:p></div>PMcEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09368838445790310108noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312272058437486441.post-87950983779530416452010-07-04T22:00:00.008-04:002010-07-05T23:03:46.057-04:00Tombée<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikIMlISoBxxk4gdhS5GuVs3UQzvXYw5eqLpQc8xsa3oQ2C-WRaVTGJaZ5T6e4gCEtoRrVAoLok03PchhTeIoEfkd9xMShfnwclA7YouTdCkLkGyPIPQXT_vZkLfzI9Ge7wUD3jnH1dmno/s1600/soldier.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikIMlISoBxxk4gdhS5GuVs3UQzvXYw5eqLpQc8xsa3oQ2C-WRaVTGJaZ5T6e4gCEtoRrVAoLok03PchhTeIoEfkd9xMShfnwclA7YouTdCkLkGyPIPQXT_vZkLfzI9Ge7wUD3jnH1dmno/s320/soldier.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5490244379948281442" /></a><br />Wrangling a bear cub can't be easy, but it must be easier than this. <div><br /></div><div>It has never been lost on me that my daughter's name is a near-homonym of violence; Violet commits violence to the air-sickness bag that was tucked (probably for years) in the seat-back pouch in front of us.<div><br /></div><div>After the routine rundown of safety procedures, the lead steward also informs us that our plane, and its carrier, are saddened but proud to have one of our fallen soldiers on board. He explains, in our two official languages, that the Colonel aboard had "given her life<i>" </i>for our Country and, presumably, the principals she seeks to uphold in Afghanistan.</div><div><br /></div><div>Violet eats a bruised banana and I remember my grandfather. "Soldiers don't <i>give </i>their lives, they have them <i>taken </i>from them," he told me many times.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Elle est tombée en service," is what the steward says during the French half of the address. That's it, I think, <i>a tomber</i>: you know that you <i>might</i> fall, but you sure don't want to.</div><div><br /></div><div>As the plane taxis away from the gate, I have to press the baby to my chest in preparation for take-off, essentially assuming our crash position, just in case. </div><div><br /></div><div>Out the window I see that the grounds crews have halted their peculiar vehicles, standing at attention beside them as the plane passes them. A baggage-lift driver is holding a flag over his head, snapping stupidly in the jet wash and barely visible.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Agua," says Violet, looking at the lake as we ascend. In the hour-long flight, she doesn't lose any fingers and I sweat through my shirt. </div><div><br /></div><div>When we land, the sober steward announces that in honour of our fallen soldier, it is requested that we passengers remain seated until the coffin is unloaded. Though he doesn't specifically mention that we should be silent, we do. Even Violet. </div><div><br /></div><div>We all hear the hydraulics of the cargo bay and a great deal of clunking that probably isn't the coffin but sure makes us think about it. What it must be like, a military coffin? Hard and likely aluminium. Probably sturdy. Surely not actually draped in a flag in transit? I wonder if her parents are at the airport.</div><div><br /></div><div>Strangely, I hope that she's OK down there. Which, how could she be.</div><div><br /></div><div>Violet has cheese in her hair and I kiss her between her eyes. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div>PMcEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09368838445790310108noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312272058437486441.post-67623184819041596862010-06-21T11:53:00.006-04:002010-07-05T22:54:10.198-04:00Dead On Arrival<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCQ0OzrMS9akArv1YXiCG4oc43c0chjZB9NzYeEiYYWUCUMya7x1HQHDKFyEixeoIIyiKZrsO5OgQynXWeS_9BAQ0imGdYyvSU6gvbR_4Qmqq-IIhayhp0s7VAQtdoXeY67DEP9ZSdwn0/s1600/doa.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 250px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCQ0OzrMS9akArv1YXiCG4oc43c0chjZB9NzYeEiYYWUCUMya7x1HQHDKFyEixeoIIyiKZrsO5OgQynXWeS_9BAQ0imGdYyvSU6gvbR_4Qmqq-IIhayhp0s7VAQtdoXeY67DEP9ZSdwn0/s400/doa.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5485255982593397458" /></a><br /><p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <ol style="margin-top:0in" start="1" type="1"> <li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list:l0 level1 lfo1;tab-stops:list .5in"><span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language:EN-CA">Nothing good.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Again. There hadn’t been anything good posted on Mike’s wall in some considerable time.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>No one had even tagged or commented on his photos.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He didn’t even bother checking his email.<o:p></o:p></span></li> </ol> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:.25in"><span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <ol style="margin-top:0in" start="2" type="1"> <li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list:l0 level1 lfo1;tab-stops:list .5in"><span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language:EN-CA">So this is what the bottom of a tequila bottle looks like in the daylight, thought Rex.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It was gluey and smelled of confusion.<o:p></o:p></span></li> </ol> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language:EN-CA"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <ol style="margin-top:0in" start="3" type="1"> <li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list:l0 level1 lfo1;tab-stops:list .5in"><span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language:EN-CA">Unlike other ocean creatures, Winston had strong feelings when it comes to matters of the heart, especially when family is concerned.<o:p></o:p></span></li> </ol> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language:EN-CA"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <ol style="margin-top:0in" start="4" type="1"> <li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list:l0 level1 lfo1;tab-stops:list .5in"><span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language:EN-CA">Ryan’s beard was poorly groomed because it turned out that even though it would seem at the outset to be easier, taking care of it was more work than he had anticipated and more complicated, involving equipment that he didn’t even own.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>But even so, he tried his best.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>In any event, as soon as the phone rang, he knew he had been wrong, a wrong he felt right to the very roots of that unkempt beard.<o:p></o:p></span></li> </ol> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language:EN-CA"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <ol style="margin-top:0in" start="5" type="1"> <li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list:l0 level1 lfo1;tab-stops:list .5in"><span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language:EN-CA">It would be foolhardy to mistake Janet’s encyclopaedic knowledge of vegetable gardening with any kind competence or otherwise common sense.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>She knew three different organic and safe ways to ward off garden slugs (crushed eggshells, for one) but for the life of her couldn’t figure out how to get gasoline into her station wagon.<o:p></o:p></span></li> </ol> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language:EN-CA"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <ol style="margin-top:0in" start="6" type="1"> <li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list:l0 level1 lfo1;tab-stops:list .5in"><span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language:EN-CA">Raymond wandered about his ballroom in faintly choreographed steps, as if his socks knew how to dance but his shoes wouldn’t let them.<o:p></o:p></span></li> </ol> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language:EN-CA"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <ol style="margin-top:0in" start="7" type="1"> <li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list:l0 level1 lfo1;tab-stops:list .5in"><span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language:EN-CA">There was no good way to tell Our Glorious Leader about the cheese situation.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He was going to be furious and everyone knew it. <o:p></o:p></span></li> </ol> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language:EN-CA"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <ol style="margin-top:0in" start="8" type="1"> <li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list:l0 level1 lfo1;tab-stops:list .5in"><span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language:EN-CA">For the one, striking moment Ray felt alive.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>But after he had driven the nail through his hand, he was immediately overtaken with the deflating realization that he would have to deal with the messy consequences of his existential experiment. <o:p></o:p></span></li></ol>PMcEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09368838445790310108noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312272058437486441.post-14369332101314787002010-06-09T22:25:00.004-04:002010-06-09T22:32:18.779-04:00Soft Water<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzd90UChVo2VCmSf4ENVVAq_cBaH36oNY6eYkUQlXyTY0ZdAn2DyplnUJ7tfNczvOYJrLrKhc1XnrS_eK4BCrqgTn_tCyh7yctt-UZW6FHnaVBdfrJParePBh1GD86mIFxv34VN-lsaiM/s1600/mermaid-pyle-L.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 223px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzd90UChVo2VCmSf4ENVVAq_cBaH36oNY6eYkUQlXyTY0ZdAn2DyplnUJ7tfNczvOYJrLrKhc1XnrS_eK4BCrqgTn_tCyh7yctt-UZW6FHnaVBdfrJParePBh1GD86mIFxv34VN-lsaiM/s320/mermaid-pyle-L.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5480966340569157442" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAKeJdfkSnvSja-tliKtBNglaHcE3OyZCn-AP8KcRHAYNNwjGaMQYWrpBfwKj-zphdxwsnX0d3XPEt9TI7V6Y6gxsbqUQap9KF5tgIXMG2oWPm-ISUi35g7X7j3l4Cr4jLkzOvY7EHeL8/s1600/mermaid-pyle-L.jpg"><br /></a><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language:EN-CA">I hold my breath and the world turns silent.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Most people shut their eyes when they dive but I like to see the water accelerate toward me.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>A body breaking lake water sounds shrill with treble readers on the dock, but it is deep gurgling bass for the ears of the diver.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language:EN-CA"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language:EN-CA">My scalp contracts instantly as the water envelops me and I feel more alone than I have all winter.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Phosphorescence burst into tiny blue-white stars.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language:EN-CA"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language:EN-CA">“Where have you been?” ask the mermaids, their voices a lolling chorus.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Except the youngest one, she mostly just giggles.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language:EN-CA"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language:EN-CA">“I’ve been busy.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I had a baby.”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language:EN-CA"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language:EN-CA">“You already had babies.”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language:EN-CA"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language:EN-CA">“I know.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>But it’s been… busier this time.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I love them so much.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I barely even read anymore.”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language:EN-CA"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language:EN-CA">“You have to make time.”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language:EN-CA"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language:EN-CA">“You’re right,” my lungs burning at the edges, wondering how far I am from the surface, from the light.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I’ve never been great at holding my breath for long.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language:EN-CA"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language:EN-CA">“You’re right,” I repeat, “I will.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>PMcEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09368838445790310108noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312272058437486441.post-61288868560766515282009-04-30T22:08:00.009-04:002009-05-01T14:40:41.692-04:00Bells Unrung, Cherries Un-Picked.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPqJbr4QcEWUdafucqxehiUxfi-QVZh26ucc0Ab46EDNMZg7E7hKlXr0Pc23DKLb4Km1mImv9Hblc1ShsacJ599G1ubfkTIaLhzVtoAiza_lpAGqZ5McfWtCYV3EAaNeuOilUIAy5lDQA/s1600-h/Cherries.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5330671691981009474" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPqJbr4QcEWUdafucqxehiUxfi-QVZh26ucc0Ab46EDNMZg7E7hKlXr0Pc23DKLb4Km1mImv9Hblc1ShsacJ599G1ubfkTIaLhzVtoAiza_lpAGqZ5McfWtCYV3EAaNeuOilUIAy5lDQA/s320/Cherries.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>There are some moments in life when you stop and think to yourself, "well, after this there's no turning back." </div><div>.</div><div></div><div>These are the moments just before you gain motion on a path upon which taking the first step implies wholesale commitment to its destination.</div><div>.</div><div></div><div>Some words cannot be unsaid; most pain cannot <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">be uninflicted</span>; no potatoes can be <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">unmashed</span>.</div><div></div><div><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">.</span></div><div><span class="blsp-spelling-error">Everyone's</span> had them, these moments.</div><div></div><div>From minor adventure: the second that you are in the air between dock and lake, wondering to yourself, "Shit. It's gonna be cold. And are those rocks?"</div><div></div><div>.</div><div>And major adventure: wondering, "No one is <em>forcing </em>me to jump out of this plane."</div><div></div><div>.</div><div>To the romantic: the brief breath you take before walking into your girlfriends apartment and admitting, "I slept with your sister"</div><div></div><div>.</div><div>To the perverse: that same breath before admitting, "I slept with my sister"</div><div>.</div><div></div><div>Many of these are in business: putting on your jacket before stepping into your bosses office to say "I quit."</div><div></div><div>.</div><div>Well, I've sat for surgery twice in the last 6 months, and I discovered that these moments live in the operating theater as well. Twice now I've laid back, lucidly on an operating table folks in scrubs bustled around the room and thought to myself, "I don't have to be here. I chose to come and I can choose to leave."</div><div></div><div>.</div><div>It is the flight-impulse that rises up in your bile, I think. Your mind knows that you are there for your own good, but your animal being also knows that these people are going to knock you out and cut you. Badly.</div><div></div><div>.</div><div>Mastering the animal, you think to yourself what a good idea this is. The <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">run through</span> of the logical train is quick and easy, because frankly no one in Canada fights their way through the system without good reason. </div><div></div><div>.</div><div>But the moment is still very much there. "I can get up and walk out of here now; in a minute, I won't"</div><div></div><div>.</div><div>And after that minute, and the minutes or hours that follow in a darkened heartbeat, it's true: you can't go back.</div>PMcEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09368838445790310108noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312272058437486441.post-13270230494688076222009-04-23T22:12:00.006-04:002009-04-24T10:35:07.665-04:00Brewsters Billions<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmdyX6zp6eCkRi3200w_Cy9TGytCSLSZ4uyigPF77A257QyNFmk1niXSJkVj0CQwG_CgivZ70B04VIlqnk-SC8leqdV9aeSdb62mEfP0cdd4G8OdQ4i1Frn63yYbM32NfSAdQSNO_Yb8Q/s1600-h/brewster.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5328076370527589154" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 264px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmdyX6zp6eCkRi3200w_Cy9TGytCSLSZ4uyigPF77A257QyNFmk1niXSJkVj0CQwG_CgivZ70B04VIlqnk-SC8leqdV9aeSdb62mEfP0cdd4G8OdQ4i1Frn63yYbM32NfSAdQSNO_Yb8Q/s400/brewster.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdvxZYgkuK0b0rSISbdfhwEXY-PcxdUeYzUsDxzGiRntinj-J2qPo0zwnCWQwTuldOcI27sOWHlllBAt6JcpMPkvoylr4Z6JTR3k-LSqOcCq6SBwa9FJAwn2051yEGmUp-qmOAzNlmOxE/s1600-h/brewster.jpg"></a><br /><br /><div>"I've been dealing with <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">skeevy</span> lawyers since the Eighties," he thought to himself, "What are congressmen really other than a bunch of lawyers made out really good?"</div><div></div>.<br /><div>Brewster looked up at the suits fidgeting behind their nameplates, and noted that most of them had worked up a good sweat under the lights of the camera coverage. He waited patiently until the old guy with two first names called the inquiry to order. </div><div>.</div><div></div><div></div><div>There was a good deal of "State your name" stuff which he handled without problem. So far, this seemed like it was going to be pretty easy. Brewster figured he might be on the street with his money in hand in plenty of time to catch the second half of he Yankees game.</div><div></div><div></div><div>.</div><div>"How did you get into the insurance business, Mr. Brewster?" </div><div></div><div></div><div>.</div><div>"Well, sir, I came into a good deal of money after my uncle passed and using what could only be described as very, um, <em>unique </em>strategies, I parlayed that into an even bigger stack."</div><div></div><div></div><div>.</div><div>"Could you be more specific?"</div><div></div><div></div><div>.</div><div>"I was told that if I could <em>lose</em> $30 million in a month, I would <em>win </em>$300 million. Which I did. And also I won the heart of an attractive accountant."</div><div></div><div></div><div>.</div><div>"This doesn't sound very <em>American."</em></div><div><em></em></div><div></div><div>.</div><div>"On the contrary, Mr. Congressman, it's the <em>most </em>American story there is. It even includes baseball, the stock market, and an election!"</div><div></div><div></div><div>.</div><div>"<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Hmm</span>. So this was in 1987?"</div><div></div><div></div><div>.</div><div>"Yes. So after I took down the 300 large and fought off a few minor law suits, I said to myself, 'Monty? You know what's better than $300 million? $300 <em>Billion!</em>"</div><div></div><div></div><div>.</div><div>"Indeed. "</div><div></div><div></div><div>.</div><div>"So I figured if i applied the lessons I learned from my Uncle's experiment, I would be a billionaire in no time."</div><div></div><div></div><div>.</div><div>"Well that does sound pretty American"</div><div></div><div></div><div>.</div><div>"Sure it is! I bought a little insurance company called <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">AIG</span> and we started writing some really funky policies. We invented a whole new language even."</div><div></div><div></div><div>.</div><div>"So far so good, Mr. Brewster."</div><div></div><div></div><div>.</div><div>"Not really, Congressman. At first the money was rolling in. People couldn't buy enough of these policies even though nothing ever went wrong. It was a total disaster! There were some nights when I thought to myself, 'I'm <em>never</em> going to get rid of all this cake!' "</div><div></div><div></div><div>.</div><div>"But you took it too far, Mr. Brewster, didn't you!"</div><div></div><div></div><div>.</div><div>"On the contrary, Congressman! It just took a little longer than I expected, but finally I guess we'd written enough policies such that I became much bigger than the market. Then Bear collapsed and shortly after the other investment banks I was geared to followed right down. It was really just a matter of days and we ran dry. "</div><div></div><div></div><div>.</div><div>"You are a charlatan."</div><div></div><div></div><div>.</div><div>"It kind of takes your breath away, doesn't it?"</div><div></div><div></div><div>.</div><div>"And now what, Mr. Brewster?"</div><div></div><div></div><div>.</div><div>"Well, the money's gone, every cent, and I have nothing to show for it but the Manchester United shirt on my back."</div><div></div><div></div><div>.</div><div>"And?"</div><div></div><div></div><div>.</div><div>"And I'd like my $300 billion now."</div><div></div><div></div></div>PMcEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09368838445790310108noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312272058437486441.post-48744141942354733202009-03-30T21:29:00.005-04:002009-03-30T22:06:22.723-04:00Fashion File: A Guide To The Semiotics of Power Ties<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizRHFqryH89Bg4vNStnMu4x8Mms30TnzAf-h9vLB6xDYE9aFIhSSm6SbQfeO_n286dgPKwzxTNQ5gXr0IXjg_BcdEmGYXaXEsskqw8A0S2oaEuXPX0CLG04_lYbcKHVqsvcywgcMi6dJc/s1600-h/bateman.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5319158248141478066" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 264px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizRHFqryH89Bg4vNStnMu4x8Mms30TnzAf-h9vLB6xDYE9aFIhSSm6SbQfeO_n286dgPKwzxTNQ5gXr0IXjg_BcdEmGYXaXEsskqw8A0S2oaEuXPX0CLG04_lYbcKHVqsvcywgcMi6dJc/s320/bateman.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Growing up in the 1980's, watching <a href="http://www.cnn.com/2006/POLITICS/11/01/alexpkeaton/">Alex Keaton</a> bring a briefcase to work on television, and <a href="http://www.wikio.com/video/766593">Bud Fox </a>learn to play squash on the fly, a young man grew to aspire to wearing a "power tie". Perhaps he would wear it to a "power breakfast", he might think to himself. What goes into such a meal, he had no idea, but certainly even this 10 year old knew that a power tie meant a bold coloured, solid or print tie; a tie that made sure everyone in the room knew he meant business.<br /><br />According to a one of the surprisingly many fashion sites devoted to men's apparel, <em>"In the 1980s, US President Ronald Reagan was known for his red power tie, as much a virility symbol in American corporate culture as a red convertible has been in the culture at large."</em><br /><br />If you dig a little deeper, you'll find that though opinions vary about which ties contain the most power, there is very little disagreement that people will do as you say if you wear one.<br /><br />So with that, it seems important that we clear up just which power the various styles convey.<br /><br /><strong>1. Red, solid:</strong> I'm the president, or I've met him. I just finished breakfast with some powerful people. I am just stopping in here to let you all know that I have somewhere very important to be, but have taken a few minutes to speak with you so you'd better listen and listen good.<br /><br /><strong>2. Yellow, solid</strong>: I'm incredibly important, but not the kind of jerk who would wear a bright red tie to meet with you. You should trust me. I'm a powerful man who is hungry for a power meal of some kind but I like you enough to stop in here and have a quick word. I don't eat spaghetti because stains show really easily on my tie.<br /><br /><strong>3. Azure blue, with navy flecks:</strong> I'm incredibly powerful but speak softly. Listen closely so you can hear all the details because I certainly don't have time to repeat myself. I lost my drivers licence some time ago, but it's <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">ok</span> because I have a driver. Also, I like pasta. Some of these flecks are sauce.<br /><br /><strong>4. Lime Green, solid:</strong> I got dressed in the dark. But it's because I live on West Coast time and as powerful as I am, I haven't convinced the sun to rise earlier to meet my needs. You should listen to what I say and comply with great speed because God knows when I do finally foreclose on the Sun, those who opposed me will be burned. But for real.<br /><br /><strong>5. Blue and Red, stripes:</strong> I am a Republican. I do everything except hunt in this tie. I find it goes great with khakis and a blue blazer. It makes me feel powerful, but less so, say at a convention or something where everyone else is wearing the same tie. That and boarding schools.<br /><br /><strong>6. Lavender, with light thorn pattern:</strong> I just a guy who likes spring.<br /><br /><strong>7. Polka Dots of Any Kind: </strong>I am powerful but insouciant. I collect art but would rather not speak of it as it's a personal passion. I can tell a good joke but <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">damnit</span> you had better laugh like you mean it or there is going to be real trouble. I'm approachable, but please be sure to offer to pay for drinks before I tell you that I would never permit such a thing.<br /><br /><strong>8. Bright Orange:</strong> I had better be the leader of the Ukraine or coach of the Dutch national soccer team. Possible I'm just a heavy hitter shopping for helicopters in the Caymans. I wear shaded glasses even indoors.<br /><br /><strong>9. Salmon pink, Solid:</strong> I am Donald Trump.PMcEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09368838445790310108noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312272058437486441.post-90977242433753889342009-03-09T22:23:00.012-04:002009-03-12T15:04:39.848-04:00The Second Season<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3vePL02XBDXu7vWEY-0oIRiilDjJ0Httvr9ulCOfyinynD6hxrCIJ-D73LMjfw5X5CKa4fJSkhjMZlC9x2plSG_X6yfVsybSdxriXsc_tlCSOsunZN5LCyIllbFvy0y5gvrbHjuXrPyA/s1600-h/six-hollywood-fashion-models-fr-dorothy-preble-model-agency-sweating-it-out-in-steam-cave-at-arrowhead-hot-springs-hotel-los-angeles-1948.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5311380718473161506" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 247px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3vePL02XBDXu7vWEY-0oIRiilDjJ0Httvr9ulCOfyinynD6hxrCIJ-D73LMjfw5X5CKa4fJSkhjMZlC9x2plSG_X6yfVsybSdxriXsc_tlCSOsunZN5LCyIllbFvy0y5gvrbHjuXrPyA/s320/six-hollywood-fashion-models-fr-dorothy-preble-model-agency-sweating-it-out-in-steam-cave-at-arrowhead-hot-springs-hotel-los-angeles-1948.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div></div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyx1OGXe2fBgf4AtHt3g6vyGRKdAWfrSY2RdgeK3rG6J4CWtV3PWCmAex2t4VV8ana4cGo2dcF8BHAVscZBUWrdSeHAhudTfM26RBfCw7Gl_DCTyf1QfYh_QRPDn5fkMYLdQBiPiVnMwA/s1600-h/models.jpg"></a><br /><br /><br /><div>When I was in college and trying to find my worldview, I spent a good deal of time thinking about beauty. Between half-baked study of Plato & <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Nicomachean</span> ethics, I began to form a sense that Beauty was akin to godliness. </div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><div>I posted photos of perfect women neatly cut from pricey fashion magazines on my wall. Careful to note, of course, that despite what one of my friend's girlfriends described as a "a lot of nipples" this was no pin-up wall. These were <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">pre</span>-lad-magazine days so the line between wank-magazine and otherwise was still broad and easy to draw.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>The smoky logic that followed from my enjoying these women who checkered my wall was that the closer I could be to their beauty, if only via observation, contemplation, and eventual familiarity, the closer I would be to God. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>God made things beautiful because he could. And his most perfect work were angels; these angels were paid thousands of dollars an hour to be photographed in New York and elsewhere in order that they might look down on me and I might know them.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>It follows then, that if you could find your real person in the company of models, via legitimate invitation or not, then you had in fact negotiated your way to heaven <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">pre</span>-maturely.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>A quick ten years later and miles from the studios of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Tribeca</span>, I found myself at the Toronto Four Seasons for brunch with my wife in very advanced stages of her third pregnancy. Her parents were in town and insisted on our enjoying a "date" prior to the arrival of the deciding vote. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>She couldn't muster the energy for a <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">nighttime</span> date so we took advantage of the offer and packed her appetite into the car for what is seriously the best brunch in the city.</div><div></div><div>It is usually quite a relaxing scene there - <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">European</span> couples gearing up for some <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Yorkville</span> shopping, families walked over from nearby <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Rosedale</span>, pods of New York types recovering from a big night, the occasional grey-haired wallet with his mistress enjoying some post-tryst sustenance; it makes for compelling people watching and the coffee is great.</div><div></div><div>.<br /><br /></div><div></div><div>After our first pass at the shellfish tower, we returned to the pancake station and we found ourselves surrounded in Models. They were everywhere. Tall, shockingly well-groomed (probably best saved for another post, but I have always found something deeply <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">disingenuous</span> about overly-groomed people, especially men; what are they hiding?).</div><div></div><div></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgugX4TKscOFqmWOySyrCZ1dDFwTPpxtK7MREShLrD0_65O0iwyk2d1MxMU5R9frOesON9GuZiDCcJfF-K4Z2HcMEgQzRqn9X6sVC6rQN3GpwrHGXnE0CUq6MRIvFg6iCiECab5c67R8PY/s1600-h/models.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5311382826824213186" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgugX4TKscOFqmWOySyrCZ1dDFwTPpxtK7MREShLrD0_65O0iwyk2d1MxMU5R9frOesON9GuZiDCcJfF-K4Z2HcMEgQzRqn9X6sVC6rQN3GpwrHGXnE0CUq6MRIvFg6iCiECab5c67R8PY/s320/models.jpg" border="0" /></a></div><div></div><div>You could smell the fashion.</div><div></div><div></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgugX4TKscOFqmWOySyrCZ1dDFwTPpxtK7MREShLrD0_65O0iwyk2d1MxMU5R9frOesON9GuZiDCcJfF-K4Z2HcMEgQzRqn9X6sVC6rQN3GpwrHGXnE0CUq6MRIvFg6iCiECab5c67R8PY/s1600-h/models.jpg"></a></div><br /><div></div><br /><div>The women were beautiful. And young. The men wore large watches and expensive boots and sported complicated facial hair. Truthfully, our conversation fell off. Their <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">blow dried</span> hair fell into perfect curves. They looked like money had made them.</div><div></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>We returned to our table with plates stacked high with breakfast items we had not intended to take.</div><div><br /></div><div>"What was that all about?" she asked.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div></div><div>I had no idea.</div><div><br /></div><div></div><div></div><div>But here's the thing. We broke into laughter. We couldn't stop. Instead of being impressed with this spread of beauty, we were appalled. I won't go into why, it would seem bitter or petty. </div><div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><div>The point is one of perspective. Contrary to its nature, my Platonic form of beauty has shifted. </div><div></div><div>The sexpots at the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">omelet</span> bar held no appeal for us relative to the cheerful little specimens waiting for us back home. Someone at brunch had missed the point of life and it wasn't us, we felt.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div></div><div>I had long since let the girls of my dorm wall go, my worldview having found new moorings many times over. But this was the first time these photos had <em>found me</em> again, and I was most surprised by how little they meant - how <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">unbeautiful</span>.</div></div>PMcEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09368838445790310108noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312272058437486441.post-51887921980343279812009-03-04T12:37:00.004-05:002009-03-05T10:49:10.807-05:00Violet May<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqMbjGWmV-RMHwEw4Tp4hatKeOXEk9pqxyHIG32Miqb__faepXkVXrG_5epTziLd_pAVd0PPsrWujvThm-O7VGzhf_rai81Y1ocuSvoqMhsYaS8pBvLWSZSxRajRftYjZJGIQgton6lvo/s1600-h/AdrianKissesViolet.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5309388263909323410" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 268px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqMbjGWmV-RMHwEw4Tp4hatKeOXEk9pqxyHIG32Miqb__faepXkVXrG_5epTziLd_pAVd0PPsrWujvThm-O7VGzhf_rai81Y1ocuSvoqMhsYaS8pBvLWSZSxRajRftYjZJGIQgton6lvo/s400/AdrianKissesViolet.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><em><blockquote><p><em>We will buy very pretty things<br />A-walking through the faubourgs.<br />Violets are blue, roses are red,<br />Violets are blue, I love my loves</em></p></blockquote><p></em>Violet May, born at 8:42pm on Friday, February 27th, weighing in at a fighting 7lbs.<br /><em></em></p><blockquote><p></p></blockquote><blockquote></blockquote>Hard to believe it's only been <a href="http://pmce.blogspot.com/2008/01/o-she-doth-teach-torches-to-burn-bright.html">13½ months.</a></div>PMcEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09368838445790310108noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312272058437486441.post-67645938553716507972009-02-25T10:11:00.000-05:002009-03-04T12:54:06.103-05:00Slumming It<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkNP5kZYuZt1hF07HzdkUOGcQRWixpjJABp08JdtcAnogtG-OHymKHoK5owaGs6bQNvcfTFC8YLNli1ygew9uewT_s_OnCCCq_Y-deIR-t0enTNscRTtREOTiR2-9vbc_W8yU6DaAtn5c/s1600-h/slumdog-millionaire-12s800-442622.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5309387628909071202" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkNP5kZYuZt1hF07HzdkUOGcQRWixpjJABp08JdtcAnogtG-OHymKHoK5owaGs6bQNvcfTFC8YLNli1ygew9uewT_s_OnCCCq_Y-deIR-t0enTNscRTtREOTiR2-9vbc_W8yU6DaAtn5c/s400/slumdog-millionaire-12s800-442622.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCeBrZDDNAvsuK8ukMKQHBLWnx6AmUtD4irzGH0bhspK_gziIaYM0F3nGc-UZNDZlBnbgzqXYNmLLU5qegfsobY1kzg1x0pX3FAbr1NKiiT75ovP7YkZslCR60D1TL5RsAimhqMGYuro0/s1600-h/slumdog-millionaire-12s800-442622.jpg"></a><br /><br /><br />I love movies. I love India. Frieda Pinto is a knockout. Danny Boyle is a wicked stylish director who knows how to put great tunes and great colours together on screen.<br /><br /><br /><br />I loved <em><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Slumdog</span> Millionaire</em>. I really did. It was the quintessence of "a good time at the movies".<br /><br /><br />And having not seen any other movies nominated for Best Picture this year I am probably under-qualified to vote. But it made me very sad to think that as good as this <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Mumbai</span> slum film was that it was the best the world had to offer this year. Is it too much to ask that <em>all </em>movies be entertaining and touching and pretty to look at with good music and be pulled together with snappy editing? This is what now qualifies for special mention? This dominates the awards scene?<br /><br /><br /><br />Now of course I understand the awards are a result of savvy campaigning and the general whimsy of an academy of artists. But still.<br /><br />Nothing of particularly innovative or novel nature happened this year? Really? If not, then boo movies; if yes, then boo academy.<br /><br />Maybe this weekend I'll rent <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shakespeare_in_Love#Awards">Shakespeare in Love</a> and see how <em>that's</em> aging.<br /><br /><br /><br />It is just another step down in the process of my decreasing interest in films and those who produce them; there is a reason that television serials have essentially replaced movies in my house. And that's all I have to say about that.<br /><br /><p></p></div>PMcEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09368838445790310108noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312272058437486441.post-80857817191206802982009-02-17T21:30:00.006-05:002009-02-17T21:57:55.529-05:00Book Review - Bel Canto, Ann Patchett<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiFp5M-YYj13ET_qBZPaw8fh7Qov39vnFalgLneI_xoxcHtFOF90pu2xmbRXXzSdzgFBkO6CwB-dFWymsCtPN051v28thr05lrL-_h-xE8KZRXyugp1GTYEx4eA4Orz9-8qXhDkSwz2VA/s1600-h/Bel-Canto-Ann-Patchett.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5303959338507387346" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 291px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiFp5M-YYj13ET_qBZPaw8fh7Qov39vnFalgLneI_xoxcHtFOF90pu2xmbRXXzSdzgFBkO6CwB-dFWymsCtPN051v28thr05lrL-_h-xE8KZRXyugp1GTYEx4eA4Orz9-8qXhDkSwz2VA/s320/Bel-Canto-Ann-Patchett.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />You know that you are reading a Book Club book when there is an appendix of special features including, "How to Fall In Love With Opera" and a series of suggested topics for further discussion. <br /><br />Middlebrow is the word that kept springing to mind as I read it. It's certainly not "chick-lit" (there are zero shopping sprees and very little in the way of heaving chests) but with writing like this, it is not really deserving of serious consideration either. <br /><br />While certainly lyrical enough (believe me the musical allusions are not tough to find), it is rife with purple passages that include the "drinking in" of various peoples souls and so on. <em>"Gen's head was filled with Carmen" </em>is the kind of stuff that makes my teeth ache. <br /><br />The passages about music are worse. Which, to be fair, writing about music is really difficult - witness how even the most <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">knowledgeable</span> reviewers are <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">prone</span> to near meaningless cliches in their critique. The media simply don't lend well to <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">each other</span> and Ms. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Patchett</span> at least infuses Opera with a romantic enthusiasm. It's just that it's all, well, over-zealous.<br /><br />Like here where a young boy sings in public for the first time after listening raptly (with bursting pants, no less) to the soprano in captivity:<br /><blockquote></blockquote><blockquote>He didn't seem to hear them laughing. His gaze was unfocused. <br />He was singing to no one in particular. It wasn't that he was mocking her<br />so much as he was just trying to fill up the space where she should have<br />been. It would have been mocking if it had only been her gestures he<br />was repeating, but it wasn't. It was her voice. The legendary<br />voice of Roxane <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Coss</span>. He held his notes long and clear. He<br />reached down into the depths of his lungs for power, the volume he had not<br />allowed himself when singing alone under his breath. He was singing<br />now, a par that was too high for him and yet he jumped up and grabbed<br />onto the edge of the note. He pulled himself up and held it.</blockquote><p>Is it a good story? Sure. Is it romantic? Absolutely. But as much as she is a good story teller and holds readers' attention with passable, even cinematic character development, there is a sneaking suspicion one gains early on that the power of music is going to save the day. </p><p>Does it? Not really. The ending is, in fact both well-earned and surprising. Which is cool, especially since I only had to groan through 315 pages to get there.</p>PMcEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09368838445790310108noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312272058437486441.post-7321778687452189722009-02-10T22:13:00.007-05:002009-02-10T22:41:34.767-05:00What is a Mustache?<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBpD9BR5_Ty0DBykYvCrKW_HWgMiEL0vvDnTpGR6I5D7wE1StnjOo3-thaYBQodx52jhjaLzEGkpVb7WAoQq4G6IOgGgAVUEcp4UShzwBFVFgeQVMxL5cus_-n7zEsJ80DlRZUqFMdy2E/s1600-h/alex-trebek_l.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5301373504170666530" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBpD9BR5_Ty0DBykYvCrKW_HWgMiEL0vvDnTpGR6I5D7wE1StnjOo3-thaYBQodx52jhjaLzEGkpVb7WAoQq4G6IOgGgAVUEcp4UShzwBFVFgeQVMxL5cus_-n7zEsJ80DlRZUqFMdy2E/s320/alex-trebek_l.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>Alex peered at his face in the mirror and considered his mustache. There seemed to be a little gray creeping into the bristle. Maybe it was time to lose it.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Maybe that's why Saturday Night Live hadn't called. At heart, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">SNL</span> is a young people's show and if there is anything young people <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">don't</span> like, it's probably old guys with mustaches.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Certainly he was funny enough. And it's common knowledge that every episode of Jeopardy! features a free form questioning period of the contestants where his dry wit was often on display. No doubt about his ability to improvise in front of a live audience.</div><div></div><div></div><div> </div><div> </div><div>It must be the mustache, he thought to himself.</div><div></div><div></div><div>Bob Barker had been asked, though apparently declined. Something about being uncomfortable maintaining his tan to specification outside of California. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Regis</span> practically lives at Rockefeller Center. Shit even <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PaRlOG7twnc&NR=1">Richard Dawson</a> had even made an appearance on the show once, though it was Alex's understanding that he had been too drunk to remember any of his lines.</div><div></div><div> </div><div> </div><div>They have had loads of Canadians on the show, so that couldn't be it. Come to think of it, American sketch comedy is literally teeming with Canadians. His flat accent and love of the absurd should be an asset more than anything else.</div><div></div><div></div><div> </div><div> </div><div>Shoot, there was even a recurring Jeopardy! skit on the show! How ironic would it be if he played, say superstar comedian Will Farrell as a celebrity contestant. Man, he would turn the tables right on that big oaf! Would that be just too insouciant? Probably less so without the mustache.</div><div></div><div></div><div> </div><div> </div><div>As far as technique goes, it was going to take some planning to get it off. When you're in television and traffic in your image (plus: your wit! don't forget that you're clever!) it's important to make these drastic changes with considerable forethought. But as soon as he got dressed and finished his hot yoga, he would call his agent directly.</div><div></div><div></div><div> </div><div> </div><div>A smooth lipped man, popular with the ladies, admired by men of all sizes, and able to deliver a chalky smooth punchline. Who is the next host of Saturday Night Live? Who is Alex <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Trebek</span>?</div><div></div>PMcEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09368838445790310108noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312272058437486441.post-65350130295616681602009-02-02T21:42:00.007-05:002009-02-02T21:54:52.520-05:00Items of Which The First Is Incredibly Good And The Second Not Nearly So And In Fact A Bit Of A Letdown On The Whole<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibIy6dDuLLbnN2vDjvYeDQiegsU7MkcdJCDrv_AcUwManKu_yiEcU8ogRb_w4QJuj7Wm5Dj9PJTYlhflwtdq2uPutM6YkqRYUAx7pyz31Zs_VZfHNlooScDl34g22DXRARQ44-nCxFzbM/s1600-h/egg_mcmuffin.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5298397361838809330" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 192px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibIy6dDuLLbnN2vDjvYeDQiegsU7MkcdJCDrv_AcUwManKu_yiEcU8ogRb_w4QJuj7Wm5Dj9PJTYlhflwtdq2uPutM6YkqRYUAx7pyz31Zs_VZfHNlooScDl34g22DXRARQ44-nCxFzbM/s320/egg_mcmuffin.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Pizza, Slice of<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Egg McMuffin, with Sausage<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />The Matrix, film<br /><br /><br />Waterski, session of<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Pint of brown ale, Smithicks comes to mind<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Service, in tennis<br /><br /><br />Shampoo, Rinse and...<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Coffee, cup of<br /><br /><br />Underpants, pair of<br /><br /><br />Shave, session of<br /><br /><br />WifePMcEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09368838445790310108noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312272058437486441.post-23575874425545323332009-01-27T20:42:00.005-05:002009-01-27T20:54:51.951-05:00Food & WIne<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5296154086222870322" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUJouycCViOLROZADf-D_l36Gh4YsPJMYFw5JdlB623QZ_nyTUkmsHjgEgI03qOrnhWzp1pY_f3DT6pscYaZWvHat5dInaj_KLhmnHwyTm-UWsS7hOpozGLNS3EU5J-ZIujZy2ZfeWTz0/s320/wine-tasting-gallery-l.jpg" border="0" /><br /><p>"Oh, this is delicious."<br /></p><p>"Right. And?"<br /></p><br />"Well it's got to be at least $25"<br /><br />"That's what I thought too! But in fact it's way better. $38!"<br /><br />"Wow, I had no idea. I mean, when I first smelled it, I thought, 'north of $40 for sure' but then after I tasted it, it just didn't seem like a $38 at all."<br /><br />"No, it totally is. I served it with <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">ribeyes</span> the other day and everyone was like, 'What's this wine, $55?'! It really depends on how the palette is formed."<br /><br />"I guess you're right. Were the glasses expensive?"<br /><br />"<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Yah</span>. $25 per."<br /><br />"That explains a lot. A good glass can add $5-$10 to any wine."<br /><br />"Delicious."<br /><br />"What was that, Italian?"<br /><br />"Something like that. $38! Delicious. I'm going to remember this one."PMcEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09368838445790310108noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312272058437486441.post-28340406547806646312009-01-19T19:41:00.007-05:002009-01-19T20:33:57.964-05:00When a Tree Cries in the Forest<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvkUqbRN6t2bot_GcrogjBv0lZVYI7wQhEp7An1ue0i8KB9XCNx_Q0YHg9aXop3jpuxmOTXJsc6dIGqjx4khLWHYKfb0JescJlqJiF0575fwJNBKbXY5UBWEYrrGp6UzWF_8y9dIfJqOk/s1600-h/maple19_504.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5293171848558594658" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 208px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvkUqbRN6t2bot_GcrogjBv0lZVYI7wQhEp7An1ue0i8KB9XCNx_Q0YHg9aXop3jpuxmOTXJsc6dIGqjx4khLWHYKfb0JescJlqJiF0575fwJNBKbXY5UBWEYrrGp6UzWF_8y9dIfJqOk/s320/maple19_504.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />The woods were soft beneath his boots. The frost had given way to muck and there wasn't much left for the season. All was quiet except for the subterranean trickle of snow runoff somewhere somehow seeking lower ground.<br /><p>Breathing deeply, he thought to himself how strange it is that Springtime represents rebirth and life, but smells more like rot.</p><p>Peering under the hood, he looked into the bucket: not much sap left. He pulled the spigot and a few drops dripped onto his fingers. Sweet but thin and watery. It was over.</p><p>He cleaned the spigot and emptied the bucket into the drum which he would wheel back to the shack for boiling. He looked back at the tree and noticed that a few tears of sap had squeezed from the hole drilled just a few weeks ago. In the sunlight, he could see a glistening trail was left behind as they trickled down the trunk.</p><p>"I'll be back next Spring," he said quietly.</p><p>"I know," she replied, "it's just that,"</p><p>"It's just that what?"</p><p>"I love you."</p><p>He didn't know what to say. </p><p>"Why?" he asked, meaning it.</p><p>But there was no answer. Trees, he thought, who could understand them?</p>PMcEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09368838445790310108noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312272058437486441.post-55815804050911395342009-01-13T19:29:00.007-05:002009-01-13T23:16:51.578-05:00Sepember 12th, 2008: LEH, MER, DFW - RIP<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtTRaCHMs7sN1RUDopDsqJVJZYVmMC1eOfmL0OtG34P8AcEE92YnZkd61ft_52H9PImoDbK2AdNIxPx_t2rlP5r29tinbUAbQbrWGp9FY9_lXa3g1Ve_uwAb3UnwOHc6shb8zib-qvx9w/s1600-h/dfw+string.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5290996365236929442" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 258px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtTRaCHMs7sN1RUDopDsqJVJZYVmMC1eOfmL0OtG34P8AcEE92YnZkd61ft_52H9PImoDbK2AdNIxPx_t2rlP5r29tinbUAbQbrWGp9FY9_lXa3g1Ve_uwAb3UnwOHc6shb8zib-qvx9w/s320/dfw+string.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>On one weekend this past September, between the 12<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">th</span> and the 15<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">th</span>, Lehman Brothers went bankrupt, <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Merrill</span> Lynch suffered near insolvency and was folded into Bank of America, and David Foster Wallace died.<br /><br />A good deal was written about these three deaths and I read most of it. Like many who sit in seats like mine, the disappearance of the major financial institutions that we dealt with, competed with, or simply looked to for leadership (Bear <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Stearns</span> had already been dispatched to Davy Jones locker in the spring) lead to my spending much of that week staring in rapt horror at my <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Bloomberg</span> screen and reading about the tectonic shift in my industry.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Despite the hysteria found in most of the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">newspapers</span>, the disappearance of some of our continents oldest and most venerable financial institutions was met with surprising ennui among those I know who don't work in the industry. And though the breadth of the repercussions of these failings have become more obvious in the following months of economic recession, at the time a sense of <em><span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">schadenfreude</span></em> was palpable.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Imagine living in a small town, I said to my friends who felt it was time for finance-types take a fall. Imagine that there were five or six grocery stores in that town from which you could choose to shop, though you probably had your favorite one or two. One of those shops suffered from some kind of contamination (<span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">listeria</span>?) in its deli department and a number of customers got sick. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>You decide that maybe you'll shop at the other store this week until the local paper gives the all clear. But it turns out they have tainted meat too, since they use the same supplier. The first store goes out of business and you are feeling a little iffy about your other store so you start to cross town for your deli slices when you can. Then, without any further warning, two more stores go out of business. Worse still, the two that still have the doors open refuse to sell to most customers. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>In a matter of days, your small town has gone from being careful where it shops to simply not being able to buy food at all. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>How long do you think this town lasts?</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>What would you do if you were in the food supply business locally?</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>These are life-changing developments for consumers and suppliers alike and require a major rethink of past choices and future plans. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>And yet, even while these very personally affecting dramas were playing out in the pink pages of the Financial Times, while friends were losing their jobs, the tragedy of David Foster Wallace's suicide transfixed me. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>More learned readers and better writers all weighed in on his accomplishments and what his sudden absence meant for letters, but all I can say is I felt a very distinct <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">downtick</span> in the intelligence of the universe. The strange thing about authors (and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">DFW</span> had actually written about this) is that the nature of their medium gives the impression of a serious intimacy to the reader; the author, or his characters at least, are literally inside the readers mind. To this effect, I really felt closer to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">DFW</span> than to many people that I know in real life. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>And as often happens when you lose something you really don't know how important it is to you until it's gone. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">DFW</span> was supposed to have been turning out essays and vaguely promising to follow up his masterpiece novel for years to come. I was willing to be patient. And then, all of a sudden, I found myself scouring <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">YouTube</span> for interviews with him so that I might know him better, and quickly.</div><br /><div></div>To get back to thinking about me: even in a week as surprising as that one, I was most surprised that the death of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">DFW</span> affected me so much more deeply than those of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">LEH</span> and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">MER</span>. Sure, one was a person and the other two simply entities, but frankly none of them had been to my house for dinner and two of them represented (indirectly) my <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">livelihood</span>. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">DFW</span> never once held out any promise that he would help keep my children in jeans. But he did tell me things that I had never known: things about the tennis, things about philosophy, things about addiction, things about grammar, things about obsession, things about myself.<br /><br />It has taken me longer to post about it than I had meant, but nonetheless I miss him.PMcEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09368838445790310108noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312272058437486441.post-82216293584334475582009-01-06T20:06:00.007-05:002009-01-06T21:46:28.718-05:002008 - The Fed Bailout<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhme6ZH9gsaAGlXpyvPbDjAb3g0HASSrvZvDImHcairpikInbc8x7sTKZb3Qyf4PtNBNm85ukeUh1FusRtvDi8Zod6WsebUIt_epymNaSMLkf_2UvptLylR3vfNaxzME1-6HnMPA2MlB3g/s1600-h/Roger_Federer_39_US_Open_08-08.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5288355090476012562" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 236px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhme6ZH9gsaAGlXpyvPbDjAb3g0HASSrvZvDImHcairpikInbc8x7sTKZb3Qyf4PtNBNm85ukeUh1FusRtvDi8Zod6WsebUIt_epymNaSMLkf_2UvptLylR3vfNaxzME1-6HnMPA2MlB3g/s320/Roger_Federer_39_US_Open_08-08.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>I know, at first it seems like Roger Federer and I have a good deal in common. But if you look past the the grace under pressure, the similar hair-do, and the fact that we both apparently think its appropriate to date a girl for a decade before considering marriage, I think you'll find we're actually quite different. </div><div><br />And its more than just his Dubai address. <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2006/08/20/sports/playmagazine/20federer.html?pagewanted=all">He's clearly peaking earlier than me.<br /></a><br />But this past year was a tough one for both of us. As a longtime fan, it was tough to watch him. It seemed like he wasn't enjoying himself as he used to. Lost that extra gear or something. He was *sweating* for God's sake.<br /></div><div>And though he still had a pretty successful clay & grass season by most standards, something had changed; his sheen of invincibility was lost. Plus: Nadal really had his number. That cranky Murray was in his kitchen too. Shoot, my brother and I watched him lose to some teenaged French phenom in the 1st round here in Toronto! </div><br /><div></div><div>But I think I understood him in a way that most couldn't. I too felt the crush of injury take the snap out of my serve. I wondered as I'm sure he did if it was the end of my tennis career, if age had finally caught me too. He would be relegated to a tumbling world ranking while trolling for a good draw at the Grand Slams while I would have to introduce a good deal of slicing and other trickery into my game. It was looking grim for us indeed.</div><div> </div><div>Then came September. Roger quieted everyone with his US Open victory and I thought to myself, "I will not go quietly into the clubhouse." I booked my surgery and now as Roger no doubt runs his drills in the shadows of the <a href="http://www.burj-al-arab.com/">Burj-Al-Arab</a>, I will diligently work on my bizarre physio exercises (I've gotten to know our broomsticks well). We are both coming back.</div><div> </div><div>Yes indeed. Together, Roger and I are taking 2009 by storm - look for us on the hardcourts this June.</div>PMcEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09368838445790310108noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312272058437486441.post-14586361721969050962008-07-13T13:32:00.006-04:002008-12-08T21:39:13.955-05:00Items to be featured of the movie that I will never get around to writing, producing, directing, or starring in<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy32Zw9nq3hLmf3e0lFD3uAEEFOu6qrz7TX1M8Bxl9ap7pznSfr3W8kG1FbGvYcqayrz-O0IQWtlKa-oJwBZWST4p2H1EEpZrGWe2sAjytJHJCRjU3VfQTc5hMUsOTUf8gt-UI7e1rMoI/s1600-h/whit3.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5222559729840352786" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy32Zw9nq3hLmf3e0lFD3uAEEFOu6qrz7TX1M8Bxl9ap7pznSfr3W8kG1FbGvYcqayrz-O0IQWtlKa-oJwBZWST4p2H1EEpZrGWe2sAjytJHJCRjU3VfQTc5hMUsOTUf8gt-UI7e1rMoI/s320/whit3.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><ol><br /><li>Rich People</li><br /><br /><br /><li>Sigur Ros</li><br /><br /><br /><li>Arcane literary references</li><br /><br /><br /><li>iPhones</li><br /><br /><br /><li>Multiple endings depending on what theater you are in and how I've profiled its demographic. Lookout if you're watching the one in which Ice-Cube figures.</li><br /><br /><br /><li>Cinque-Terre</li><br /><br /><br /><li>Langoustines</li><br /><br /><br /><li>Moping</li><br /><br /><br /><li>Jokes about Matthew McConnaughy's ubiqitous pectorals</li><br /><br /><br /><li>A Whit Stilman cameo appearance</li><br /><br /><br /><li>Product placement on a scale as yet unseen.</li><br /><br /><br /><li>An awkward briss</li><br /><br /><br /><li>A woman mispronouncing "Hypocrite" as "Hippopotamus"</li><br /><br /><br /><li>A room with a poster of Alex Kovalev</li><br /><br /><br /><li>A direct-to-camera soliliquy on the unsung value of the side-part by the lead who, incidentally, has a side-part.</li><br /><br /><br /><li>Chattering. Lots and lots of chatter.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZg0Ifyx_30vSdF3XffQSBqEEWQ64Km1jdZs3pLPYAnEmPeUwgh4wI_hC3GmPr5ZohSvRXosEzDlCI5JXk2pW_qY47NLSH_Ksj2mFHmFgEDv40SAKiNvCMtc4pAPGtasbocw3ZDUfumzQ/s1600-h/chatter.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5222559857631113762" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" height="218" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZg0Ifyx_30vSdF3XffQSBqEEWQ64Km1jdZs3pLPYAnEmPeUwgh4wI_hC3GmPr5ZohSvRXosEzDlCI5JXk2pW_qY47NLSH_Ksj2mFHmFgEDv40SAKiNvCMtc4pAPGtasbocw3ZDUfumzQ/s200/chatter.jpg" width="263" border="0" /></a></li></ol></div>PMcEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09368838445790310108noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312272058437486441.post-63612884415412629822008-07-10T19:07:00.009-04:002008-12-08T21:39:14.116-05:00Dear PMcE: Dating Etiquette<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfKa6s7YhZ2PJxywYLfJXYSJpftJnzerAq44nf_E8bfNbo4R2rKYWrbKc2deRAt1ZbF0Rv5li3Wx5fFxv8d-b4Uuj0956DzstQqErSdoq9xOw2GKdQl8n7jBPbIQgRMNI_UY-UO99EjXc/s1600-h/advice.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5221570884490192114" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfKa6s7YhZ2PJxywYLfJXYSJpftJnzerAq44nf_E8bfNbo4R2rKYWrbKc2deRAt1ZbF0Rv5li3Wx5fFxv8d-b4Uuj0956DzstQqErSdoq9xOw2GKdQl8n7jBPbIQgRMNI_UY-UO99EjXc/s320/advice.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>Dear <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">PMcE</span>,</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>As a single woman newly entering the dating scene, I find a lot has changed since I was vamping around in college. Adult dating apparently requires more than simply jumping around to House of Pain. For instance, finances are more complicated now. As a high-earning professional, I need to know where do you stand on the paying for dinner question. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Do you think a woman should absolutely offer to pay, even if she has no intention of doing so? Do you think not offering is rude, even though if he accepts she will never date him again? Do you think it is not equally appropriate to reciprocate in other ways, like paying for other non-dinner activities or hosting a follow-up dinner in her own home? </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Sorry for the rapid-fire multiple questions, but I rarely let anyone get a word in edge-wise. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div align="right">Confused in the Queen's Quay</div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Dear Confused, </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>I think that unless you are dating a younger man who you intend to ravish and never call again, perhaps also stealing one of his sweatshirts, you should NOT offer to pay. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Now, there are certainly exceptions, but most of them obvious - i.e. an extraordinarily expensive guest-chef-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">prix</span>-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">fixe</span> dinner that was your idea or something like that (ballet would fit here but that's kind of its own Dating Advice topic). But on the whole, I do not think that you should feel obligated to make the fake offer either, especially considering the consequences of his accepting are so dire. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>I have always been a big fan of the reciprocity. In fact, I used to consider it the hallmark of a good date. Frequently I would suggest it myself while refusing a ham-handed attempt toward the purse (all my dates had hands made of ham, it's why I married a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Latina</span> woman instead: hands of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">cornsilk</span>.) </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>The reciprocity game is socially graceful in so many ways: </div><br /><ol><br /><li>It can bridge pay inequity, so the weaker earning partner can "reciprocate" with an appropriately priced event. </li><br /><li>One can preserve the old-time chivalry of the gentlemen paying for dates </li><br /><li>It means that the next date is assured, and, by corollary, </li><br /><li>The sense of obligation can be quickly quashed in the time it takes to drink an apple martini at "this great spot I know" that also happens to be really close to your house. </li></ol><br /><p>As for the rapid-fire questions and general run-on sentences, don't let a little thing like the other person's thoughts get in the way of a good date. What if they turn out to be boring? Go with what you <em>know</em> is good, and that's <em>you.</em></p><br /><p><em></em></p><br /><p></p><br /><p></p>PMcEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09368838445790310108noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312272058437486441.post-50459466831081267202008-05-01T08:55:00.003-04:002008-12-08T21:39:14.221-05:001000 hits!<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGsVkBNS-PqAvh_tViJRJOR9NJAMNcBg-sc_VNwecr0atfHPWWXvAlquOwALjVSQ4tCERQ5RHQnVxctl-ox_G50sXQjobsN1jKYx365RwQ8zhdVU-A7OOGfmryFEMUQvR7OTwQ9aQZoSw/s1600-h/explosions.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5195393194874278706" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGsVkBNS-PqAvh_tViJRJOR9NJAMNcBg-sc_VNwecr0atfHPWWXvAlquOwALjVSQ4tCERQ5RHQnVxctl-ox_G50sXQjobsN1jKYx365RwQ8zhdVU-A7OOGfmryFEMUQvR7OTwQ9aQZoSw/s320/explosions.jpg" border="0" /></a> What with the new baby, spring, countless hours reviewing Habs moments on my PVR, and studying for yet more regulatory exams (I had seriously thought I wrote my last one in 1999, and have been wrong about that just about every year), I haven't had much time. So content has been slim here.<br /><br />Even my <a href="http://pmcereads.blogspot.com/">new site</a>, which I thought would be easier to keep more regular since it doesn't actually require me to provide any original content (or, for that matter, even to think very hard) has been skinny. <br /><br />But that hasn't stopped my hardy dozen or so fans from checking this here site on a regular and propelling my hit count over 1000! So thanks. It took about a year, but it was worth it.<br /><br />Now: some sites are <a href="http://www.stuffwhitepeoplelike.wordpress.com/">instant phenomena</a>. And tough it was always my intention that this here site be more of a slow build, cultivating a dedicated and highly sophisticated readership, it's time to step up and get some freakin' hits. One Hundred Million Tiny Explosions in the Sky deserves One Hundred Million Tiny hits. <br /><br />So forward the link to your friends. Make it your homepage. Add it as an <a href="http://pmce.blogspot.com/feeds/posts/default">RSS feed</a>. Put it on your business card for crying out loud. I must be heard.PMcEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09368838445790310108noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312272058437486441.post-62284315909429921972008-03-31T21:23:00.002-04:002008-03-31T21:27:28.673-04:00New Blog - PMcE suggested reading: Is That Something That Might Interest You?Those who know me know that not only do I read a great deal, some of it is even interesting. If I was an older man, I’d be the type who mailed you articles that I’d neatly clipped from the newspaper with a little note written in the margin. “Thought you would find this interesting, especially given what you and the girls just went through!”<br /><br />But I’m not that old. Instead, I tend to email articles to people that I think would be interested. Typically I choose recipients with care - targeted mail gets read, blast mail not so. <br /><br />It recently occurred to me that maybe my hand-cut, ad-hoc distribution lists might be missing people who I knew but maybe wasn't as aware of their interests. More so, what if there were people I didn't know who would be interested? What if they could set up an automatic feed that would pipe all this goodness direct to their PC in an anonymous fashion? <br /><br />“Brilliant,” I thought to myself. <br /><br />So go check my new sister site: <a href="http://">www.pmceReads.blogspot.com</a>. And register for the Atom Feed at the bottom. This will feed it directly into the “feeds” window in your internet explorer. (Don’t forget to Feed this site too!)<br /><br />I would think that it will tend to have much more frequent updates than this site as posting links/articles is significantly easier than generating original content.<br /><br />Enjoy, and read up.PMcEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09368838445790310108noreply@blogger.com10