“The point about smoking is, that if is is not a sin, it can certainly be shared with God, and if so, there is no reason why we should not talk to Him while enjoying one of the creatures He has made for our recreation and refreshment.”
Eugene Boylan, This Tremendous Lover
Serenity…
Plus Rapacity…
Equals Hilarity
Cody, though an ostensible hunting dog, isn’t great in the water. Here, he’s half wading, half swimming, whining like the damned, afraid to chase the swans beyond where his paws just reach the bottom. The swans are gliding leisurely back and forth just out of reach, glaring and hissing, too proud to retreat any further than necessary. This continued for a good five minutes, and I was almost on the point of wading out to talk some sense into the dog when a big St. Bernard charged the beach. Cody decided that while he couldn’t eat it, at least it would probably play with him, and reluctantly came back to shore, where he was promptly clapped in irons and dragged down the path. From the next bend in the dike, we looked back to see the St. Bernard tearing up the water in pursuit of a stick, apparently oblivious to the prize just off shore. I wonder: were the swans disappointed?
In case anyone asks how much it REALLY snowed in the legendary dump of 2010…
Ontario hasn’t recovered from SARS. Witness the girl who rubbed with alcohol and put on gloves before weighing me a kilo of fusilli. I should have asked: “If I promise to sterilize the pasta in boiling water before eating it, will you still have to do that?”
If you can get your hands on it, you have to try this white Port, which is named after tears. Imagine drinking sunshine, butterscotch and Christmas. All at once. Where the weeping comes in, I will never know.
Why is it that when the cashier asks: “Would you like a receipt?”, it means the receipt isn’t printed yet, but could be, but when she asks: “Would you like your receipt?”, it means it’s been printed, and could be either kept or thrown out?
My hope for man is always renewed when I see real farmers in real Western hats. And then they leave them on indoors, and that hope is dashed.
On Thursday, I dropped my Mom at work, got a haircut, picked up some wine and pastries, visited two friends, and covered well over a hundred miles in the process.
Moral discourse would go much more smoothly if there were public floggings for those attempting to use the principle ‘virtue lies in the mean’ in the consideration not of virtue, but of truth. Some think life starts in infancy, some at conception, and some, hearing both extremes and having read a line or two of Aristotle, assume the truth must be somewhere in the middle of gestation. When they meet someone who thinks personhood begins at seventy, they’ll have to conclude it’s really thirty-five. This is tool selection equivalent to peeling an orange with a hammer, and should be punished accordingly.
After a long day in the organic chemistry lab, I hopped off the Edmonton city bus and began the walk back to the hostel with only one thing on my mind: food. I’d barely eaten since breakfast, I was slated to head back to the old culinary desert of Fort Nelson in about 30 hours, and I was going to enjoy a big city cultural treat, dammit. Out of the darkness loomed the K_____ tandoori joint, and my decision was made. I shuffled in, met the host’s inquisitive glance, and guiltily mumbled “Just for one, please.” I was seated at a table elaborately set for two, uncomfortably close to a cheerful double date of middle-managers, there to contemplate the sitar player across from the enormous decorative tandoor in the middle of the floor. Some time had passed when a plate of roti with two sauces appeared, and both water glasses were filled. I leafed through the menu several times over the next half hour, reluctantly assembling a meal woth more than I’d ever spent on myself in one sitting, but none of the waiters hurrying past betrayed any interest in my order. Feeling more and more annoyed and out of place, I shifted awkwardly in my seat, knocking my full water glass straight into my lap. This was the last straw: my hunger had been overcome by the desire to escape. But how? Suddenly it hit me: they were all waiting for my date to show up so we could order together! I began casting worried glances at my watch, then the door. Finally resigning myself to having been stood up, I heaved a sigh, frowned, put on my coat and hoisted my backpack. I munched one more roti, thanked the girl at the door as I sprinted past, and was suddenly back out in the clean cold darkness.
