Canadian Prime Minister Justin Trudeau dropped jaws yesterday. In a display of overt frustration, Trudeau called bat shit on further delays to a vote on bill C-14 – the legalization of physician assisted suicide. Trudeau’s majority Liberal Party halted debate, asking members to vote. The trouble is voting can’t commence until all members are seated. A group of NDP MP’s, including Tom Mulcair surrounded opposition Conservative Party whip Gord Brown. Suddenly Trudeau crosses the floor, assertively taking Brown’s arm to lead him past the cluster of NDP.
Without question, Trudeau’s actions were unexpected. In his determination to eradicate exasperating nonsense, NDP MP Ruth Ellen Brosseau was jostled as Justin turned to exit the throng. Holy crap – polite Canadian politics don’t get better than this! Take a minute to watch the clip –
Trudeau’s behavior might not have been the most appropriate – as realized in his immediate apology and further expression of regret today. But assault, manhandling of MP Brosseau? Come on people – settle down. Suck it up Brosseau, quit whining long enough to realize the genesis of Trudeau’s frustration. Sit down, cast your vote and be done with it.
As far as I’m concerned, it was freaking awesome. Freak points for daring to bend political conformity, awesome status for creating scandal based on honest emotion rather than greed, corruption or blatant lies.
An understanding exists between myself and spiders – polite spiders can stay, uppity wanderers are shown the garden. This spring I said “welcome back” for the third year to a well mannered black widow who fancies a vent in the frame of my bathroom window. Several weeks ago a small widow moved to a quiet plot beneath the bedroom window frame. The epitome of graceful respect, the world would be a better place if all house spiders took a page from the widow book.
Clearly spiders will be spiders, just as some people grind my last nerve, certain spiders are oblivious to matters of decorum. Of course spiders don’t conceptualize cause and effect, driven by instinct they go about their merry way without cumbersome moral restraint.
Household spider sightings elicit urgent requests for immediate dispatch of arachnid horrors. At my discretion they’re shown the door, catch and release is the avenue of choice for cheeky spiders. “Off you go, stay in this lovely garden” usually solves the problem. Calm resolve ends the crisis in all but one situation. No quarrel exists with behemoth basement spiders or errant wolf spiders, the demon pictured bellow is another matter.
The photograph is lousy (taken in haste on my cell phone), I have no idea what kind of spider it is, all I can tell you – I don’t like this spider. It receives no mercy. Night after night it taunts me with unpredictable actions and glassy eyed defiance. Lurking under my pillow, uttering taunts from ceiling, wall and blinds, laughing brazenly when opening a drawer. Much as I want to say “out the door you rascal”, relentless bullying forces “take that you little shit” as I squash it in a tissue. I don’t like this spider.
In all likelihood, over thirty years working in hospitality deems me incapable of objectively pondering “all you can eat” phenomena with anything less than contempt and bias. “All you can eat” is a mindset triggered by the suggestion of unrestricted consumption. From humble beginnings along the Las Vegas strip in the 40’s and 50’s, all you can eat became an integral facet of North American culture. All you can eat condoned gluttony, encouraged excess and banked on popularity. Quality mattered less than quantity, all you can eat fooled patrons by suggesting they controlled the dining out experience.
Fine and dandy, but here’s the problem – all you can eat culture has come to consider every edible display as all you can eat. Regardless of setting or demographic, despite common sense, decency or good manners – the moment an unrestricted table of food is displayed, is the moment “all you can eat” seizes the day.
A few days ago a client booked coffee, desserts and non alcoholic beverages to be served following a public lecture at Science World. No problem, 150 guests, service split between two stations, and if I do say so myself, stunning visual presentation. Who am I kidding? Within moments post lecture, long lines formed at each table. I watched the first thirty or so load plates with perilously high stacks of dessert bars.WTF! Do they think it’s a bottomless pit? Are they aware of how many people are lined up behind them? Did they consider a garbage bin full of “one bite taken” throw aways, while dozens go hungry?
One of my first ponders is titled “Is That A Hot Dog In Your Gucci?” Linked below for consideration –
Last week my husband purchased a new camera. Sony S7 means squat in my point and click Android phone world, but one look at “new camera” images screamed holy crap. New camera creates sublime poetry out of the ordinary. Before new camera his frustration was puzzling – now I’m beginning to see what he’s trying to say.
Friggatriskaidekaphobia – an irrational fear of Friday 13th. Frigga is a Norse goddess of fertility and love for whom Friday was named. In the Middle Ages all Fridays were bad luck, definitely not a day to marry or embark on travels. Christianity feed superstition – 13 seated at the Last Supper, Judas said to be the 13th guest and claims Jesus was crucified on a Friday. As far as Christians were concerned Friday was the “witches’ Sabbath” (clearly Pagan namesake Frigga had to be a witch ).
May 13 is the only Friday 13th of 2016. For phobics of 13 – it falls exactly 26 weeks ( 2 x 13 ) since the last one in November 2015, precisely 65 weeks ( 5 x 13 ) after February 13, 2015, the first of 3 last year. 2017 will have two, January and October, 39 weeks ( 3 x 13 ) apart.
When leap years start on a Friday there’s only one that year, always Friday 13th of May. Dates and days realign every 28 years, therefore leap years 28 years apart start on Friday, making May 1 a Sunday ( months starting on Sunday always have Friday 13th ). The only exception being leap years not divisible by 400 ( next one 2100 ), 2100 begins on a Friday but since Gregorian rules won’t let it leap, the 365 day “common year” hasn’t a month starting on Sunday until August.
Whether Friday 13th is inconsequential, perpetrator of mild superstition or responsible for phobia induced panic attacks, let me point out – there aren’t any witches. Friday 13th is a precise mathematical calculation based on the Gregorian Calendar. Nothing Frigggatriskaidekaphobia to fret about.
There are those who flatly deny man-made climate change, others who prescribe to global warming as a natural earth cycle, and scoffers convinced the whole thing is an elaborate hoax. Presidential wannabe Donald Trump contends climate change a conspiracy perpetrated by China to undermine the U.S. economy. Bastions of tight ass right wing patriotic duplicity, the likes of Heartland Institute, Americans for Prosperity and the Heritage Foundation, use their considerable non-profit resources to cast doubt on climate science – target of choice, the NOAA. Inhabiting the opposite end of the spectrum, a plethora of organizations from the David Suzuki Foundation to Greenpeace champion the result of humanity’s indifference to drastic warning signs of climate calamity.
On Monday UK climate scientist Ed Hawkins of the University of Reading, posted this “infographic” on Twitter. In a Washington Post article, Jason Samenow wrote –
“Over the years, scientists have attempted to visually communicate the Earth’s warming in many ways. They’ve developed an array of maps, charts, and animations that present an unmistakable picture of a warming world.
But I’ve seen no visual as striking and effective as the infographic posted to Twitter Monday by climate scientist Ed Hawkins.”
Regardless of which camp you call home, ponder Hawkin’s graphic. Each ring represents a year from 1850-2016.
I’m a sucker for the Strumbellas, a six member Canadian band formed in 2008. Wikipedia describes them as indie rock, alternative country and folk popgrass. I say chuck the pigeon holes – “folk popgrass”, who comes up with this stuff? Music doesn’t need contrived designations, we like it or we don’t. Me – I can’t stop humming Wild Sun.