Turducken At Large

See also:
December 4 - In Pursuit of Turducken
December 22 - Pride of Turducken
December 24 - Adventure with Turducken
December 25 - Fun with Turducken
December 26 - Christmas Eve with Turkducken
December 27 - Boxing Day with Turkducken
January 31 - Turducken at Large


The National Geographic (!) has a clip on their web site on making a turducken. See Turducken Anyone?

But if that's too cumbersome, you can always try your local supermarket. Ours still carries them.


Inside the box, you get this.


Now, it could be me, but I don't think their turducken stock moved since I was there last.

Or you could talk to me and get yourself invited to my house for dinner when I next make turducken with organic birds.

Hail k.d.

I've never thought much of Leonard Cohen as a singer. He's of the Neil Young ilk. Great writer, but bad singer, really.

In high school, a friend and I did an English assignment on his poetry and we played some of his songs on the record player at her house. My friend's father came charging into the living room from the kitchen and said, "Who is that? How did he get in?"

We looked up at him from the floor, puzzled. We turned the record player off. He said, "That came out of a record? I thought some drunk got into the house and was crying in my living room."

As he started to go back into the kitchen, he turned to us, pointing at the album cover and said, "Did you really pay money for that?"

Despite that, Leonard Cohen wrote some of the most romantic, soul-searing poetry for the vagabond lover. In France one year, when I told people where I was from, the response was almost always, "Oh, Leonard Cohen?"

Except for the singing thing, which still makes me cringe, Leonard Cohen is still up there in my book.

But now that I've heard k.d. lang sing his songs, I get it more. I don't know how it works, but because I've hear k.d.'s strong, clear voice singing Leonard's songs, I can tolerate Leonard's singing more.

Listen to these:

Leonard Cohen - Bird On The Wire
k.d. lang - Bird On A Wire

Leonard Cohen - Hallelujah
k.d. lang - Hallelujah

See what I mean? It's like k.d. redeemed him.

In fact, k.d. sings Neil Young's songs better than Neil. It's like Leonard and Neil wrote their songs with k.d. in mind. I even like k.d.'s rendition of Jane Sieberry and Joni Mitchells' songs more.

I've been listening to k.d.'s Hymns Of The 49th Parallel. I nominate this the quintessential Canadian CD.

Day for Dogs

There have been Christmases when I woke up feeling the world was all right. Everything and everyone in place. Those were Christmas mornings where The Boy and I would sit back after opening our presents and read the books we received while The Man made us breakfast.

We'd stay in our pj's reading, until the afternoon, when we got ready for dinner. Most years, we'd head to someone else's for dinner. One year, we even had dinner at home, just the three of us. I made everything the day before. On Christmas afternoon, I just put the turkey in the oven. And you know how once the turkey goes in the oven, there is not much else to do for the next six hours except baste. And the mad dash the hour before dinner to heat everything up and prepare the table. But the oohing and aahing from the three of us when the turkey landed on the table! That was as idyllic a day as I can remember.

I have not had a relaxing day of festivities like that for a long time. Today came close.

For Chinese new year. We had dinner plans in place with my family. So I woke up and lazed about, reading and sipping my new brew, a Japanese green tea with brown rice.

At 9:30 a.m., my mother phoned to invite us for dim sum at 11:00. It was a last minute gathering so we could include Bro Bro's family in sharing the first meal of the new year together as he already had other plans for dinner.

When I checked the weather before bed last night, I don't remember rain in the forecast. This morning, it rained dogs and cats. Maybe just dogs, since this is the first day of the year of the dog.

But we drove on with the dogs yapping at our tires and made it to the restaurant. The food was good, the kids delightful. I bought my mother and siblings Chinese lucky decorations. I handed out lai see and received lai see.

In the afternoon, The Boy had Warhammer plans with his friends. I puttered about at home. I talked to The Man. I read and drank some more tea.

I didn't know I had over eaten at lunch until dinner time, when I wasn't hungry at all. But that didn't stop me from driving through the rain again to dinner and eating my full share. And going to the ice cream parlour after.

The Boy summed up the day well: All I did today was eat, play, and eat. It's a day for dogs.

Pampered and well-fed dogs. Happy new year.

Happy Chinese New Year!

Artic Artlessness

See what I mean Stephen Harper is no statesmen?

David Wilkins, the U.S. ambassador to Canada said that the U.S. does not recognize Canada's claim to Arctic waters. This comment was made in response to "Harper's proposed plan to deploy military icebreakers in the Arctic to detect interlopers and assert Canadian sovereignty over those waters".

Reports today said that's not news, that it's well-known the U.S. and other countries don't recognize Canada's claim on Arctic waters, and that an international agreement is still pending. Now, I didn't know this. But Harper should have. He's prime minister designate now.

True, Wilkins, in his diplomatic capacity should not have gone shooting off his mouth. But instead of responding with diplomacy, Harper retorted with defensive immaturity and blurted, "It is the Canadian people we get our mandate from, not the ambassador of the United States". Thems are fightin' words. Trying too hard to establish his authority and prove he's no American pansy I say.

Harper also said, "Sovereignty is something, you use it or you lose it." Well pretty boy, can you just see the glass half full instead of half empty? How about getting out of that protectionist punitive either-or mindset and into more abundant thinking?

Martin would have said something like, "We have yet to obtain agreement from the international community over rights to the Arctic waters. Mr. Wilkins has a responsibility to voice what he believes is right for his country, just as Ottawa has a responsibility to do do what's right for Canada and the protection of those waters. We'll continue to work together to come to an agreement on this issue."

See. Live and let live. Not it's them or us.

On The Street Where I Live - 8

The Swat Team

There have been two Swat teams on my street. The first time it came, I was walking to the library. Suddenly, the street filled with police cars and men in helmets. Uniformed men with guns ushered me off the street.

"What's going on?" I asked. No one would answer me. A police officer just told me to stay away because they were sealing off the street. I walked around the block and came to the top of the street where all the action seemed to be. There were helmetted officers brandishing guns behind trees, standing in between houses, kneeling beside cars. The target of their overt attention was a tenanted house.

I knew this because as I was watching the activities, a TV cameraman told me so. Then he asked me if I wanted to be on TV and make a comment about what I know of that house. I said, "Hell no. I don't want one of those."

A few minute later, they brought out a fat woman, slovenly in a hot pink furry housecoat and long platinum blond hair, and a fat, belly exposed, scruffy, snarly man with a mullet and a cigarette dangling from his mouth. God, do they have to look so stereotypical? These two sat and talked with two cops in the police cruiser. The swat team was still staked out at their posts. Maybe from inside the cruiser, these two couldn't see the cops with the guns and helmets. After a while, the woman came out of the car and went back inside. The crusier drove off with the fat man. After that, the whole swat team came out of hiding, got into their unmarked cars and drove away.

I Did It!

I wouldn't say I am technologically savvy at all. I mean, I rely on The Boy to make most of my hardware and software fixes. But when you are desperate, you do it yourself. And I did it. I just attached a new flat screen monitor to our computer!

Front View


Side View


It's easy you say? Stick one end of the cable to the monitor, the other end to the computer. Not so. You have to fiddle with the jumble of wires in the back of the computer and not yank out any of them while you move your computer out from its dark spot under the desk.

And what about the internet modem and router? And the phone line. You gotta keep all those things in place despite the cross tangling and the farm of dust bunnies and their friends barring your way.

Once you connect the cable to the right outlets, you have to test it all before you put the computer back in its nest of mysterious wiring. Everything still works.

I think this qualifies me for nerdom. What's the first rank? Paige or something. Maybe I'll just go straight to knight since I don't have a master to mentor me.

A Boy and His Suit

My nerves are rattled.

The Boy makes me crazy when he doesn't organize his things, then last minute asks me to help him find what he needs for school. This morning for example, as he's leaving the house, he said, "Oh I almost forgot, I have to wear dress clothes for a band photo today." So we scramble about the house getting his jacket, shirt, tie, pants and shoes together. We couldn't find his things anywhere. I get bitchier during these times.

"After your last concert, when I asked you to put your things away, what did you do with them?"

"I don't know."

We root through all the closets and drawers. He found his white shirt in his drawer and complained, "Why is it in my drawer?" Which makes me mad. Because I had ironed his shirt before giving it back to him and I see it's all crumpled up now. But no time to re-iron. He's already late for school.

He went through the closet and couldn't find his jacket. I went through the same closet and pulled out his jacket. I am furious now. "Oh, is that my jacket?" is all he said.

But his pants were no where to be found. Already, these are women's pants that don't match his jacket because last year, for one of his evening concerts, he took his white shirt and suit pants to school and lost them on the subway on the way to school. He told me this when I arrived at the school to watch the performance. As an emergency measure, I bought a pair of black pants from a women's used clothing store near his school. It was the only shop that had black pants that fit him, more or less.

He has said to me after the last two concerts, "I need a new suit. My friends are making fun of me." But he has never made time to go shopping with me for one. My offer is firm: You want a new suit? You put aside four hours and go shopping with me. Over the Christmas holidays, I badgered him a couple of times about it, but no, he would rather... watch TV, hang out with his friends, do nothing.

And now, he can't find his things. I am totally unsympathetic.

In the end, I gave him a pair of my black pants and wished him luck, trying not to tear into him. I do remember him mentioning to me last night when we were out that he needed his suit. But when we got home, we both forgot about it. Even as I am seething at him, I do feel some guilt and anger at myself for having forgotten.

He's late for school and my nerves are all shot. Just one more thing that makes me feel I am not in control of my life.

Tacky Thingies

I was in a shop in Chinatown a couple of weeks ago. The shop sells Chinese trinkets and souvenirs. This time of year, the shop also sells decorations for Chinese New Year, coming up January 29. It's the year of the dog.

The woman in the shop said,

"You are Chinese, you must hang these decorations in your house to bring good luck. You want bad luck or something?"

Of course not. So just like that she sold me a new year mobile thingy.



It is a tacky foam thing with pictures sticking all over it. When The Boy and a Friend saw it, they both pressed down on some of the raised pictures, thinking that would make the mobile respond and do something. But no, it's just a mobile thingy with raised pictures.

I went into another Chinese shop today. As I walked in, a young woman in the shop said,

"What decoration are you going to buy for Chinese New Year?"

"I already have one."

"One? You have only one? You are Chinese and you only have one?"

"Errr... yeh. One is enough."

"No. You choose one more."

The shop was red all over with decorations I have never seen before, including a small cluster of red apples that were kind of cute and could pass for a Christmas decoration. So I selected that one.

"No, not that one," said the young woman, "The apples only bring you safety. You need red peppers. They bring you safety, good health, happiness, great wealth and luck. You must have this one." She handed me several clusters of red pepper thingies to choose from.

Maybe it was the urgency of how she said, You must have this one. Subtext: Before it's too late. So I bought a round cluster of red pepper thingy too.



I wonder if that's the new sales pitch in Chinatown these days, telling Chinese patrons they must have something. Or is my hunch right - that the shopkeepers look at me and say, There's a sorry looking bugger who could use some luck. Whatever. I'll take as much good luck as I can get.

Why Do I Forget?

Uugh! I don't know why I panicked and fretted our riding would lose its Liberal seat. It's because I read the paper and the NDP guys keep phoning to tell me how close the race is. I keep forgetting ours is a Liberal stronghold. Despite the media forecasting a possible NDP topple each time, the Liberal candidate always wins. This time by almost 8,000 votes. Why do I forget that?

I guess it's because I've never voted Liberal. Because I've never been so opposed to a political party that actually had a chance to win that it compelled me to vote strategically. Now that I've written this here, I will remember next time that our riding is always Liberal. And I will cast a Green vote. Or I will pledge now to always vote with my heart.

Harper's win is problematic for those of us who live in Canada's major cities. In Montreal, Toronto and Vancouver, no Conservatives won, which means these major cities won't have representation in the new government. I will be watching our weasle of a Liberal candidate very carefully to see how well he represents us in opposition. I won't fret. We will brave the next few years. I will get physically stronger and I will organize protests if Harper tries to curb our rights and freedom.

How We Vote

Funny how the decency and magnanimous nature of a political leader can exonerate the snivelling, weasly, worm-in-a-rat that is the Liberal candidate in our riding. I voted Liberal. I voted that way because I don't want Harper to form the government, and despite his dithering ways, I like Paul Martin the man. Yes, the fact that he helped a woman get home years ago helped.

I know that my father used to vote Liberal. My mother, when she bothered to vote, voted NDP. I heard them argue once about which party to support. Dad said Liberal because he's loyal to Lester Pearson, who supposedly helped him immigrate to Canada. Mom said NDP because she likes the egalitarian nature of the party. After my dad badgered her, mom'd agree to vote Liberal. But I don't know which box she actually marked on the ballot.

In later years, when I told dad I voted Green, he said, "Each to his own. Your mother votes NDP. I vote Liberal."

For this election, mom said to me the other day, "Are you voting? You must vote you know. You must vote NDP." Who got to her?

I asked her why she was voting NDP. She pointed to her NDP candidate's sign and said, "She's Chinese and will help us."

"What if they put in a Chinese Liberal candidate?"

"Her still, because she's a woman."

"What if they put in a Chinese Liberal woman candidate?"

"You can't work with so many what ifs. You just deal with what is at the time."

My neighbour the plumber came over the other day to fix our kitchen sink. He said, "I'm voting Liberal because when the Conservatives were in, things were tough, man. There was high unemployment, interest rates were high, everything was expensive. The Liberals have made life better."

"But the NDP also wants to make life easier for Canadians."

"No, no, they make things too easy. You gotta work for a living. The NDP just wants to give everyone free money for doing nothing. You can't work 'cause you got a headache? Here, have some money and be sick. That's what they do."

Many of my friends in the arts community keep sending me e-mails about supporting the NDP. Many of the party candidates are known supporters of the arts.

A feminist friend sends out e-mails to not vote Conservative.

At the beginning of the election campaign, The Boy had said, "If I could vote, I would vote for Stephen Harper because he wants to cut taxes. That means I get to keep more of my money." Straight from a campaign ad.

We talked about how taxes fund essential services and what would happen if certain services were cut. A few weeks later, he came home and said, "I would vote Green."

"Why?"

"All my friends are saying how awful Stephen Harper is and they all like NDP or Green. So I choose Green."

"Do you want to find out why they like NDP or Green?"

"Nope."

He's stuck to Green ever since. Last night, I said to him, "If you were to vote Green or which ever party you vote for, you should know what your party stands for and how your vote will affect your country. You should know why you are voting for that party."

He said, "The truth is, I would choose Green because my parents vote Green. Even though you may not vote Green this time, I know you are Green at heart."

Every once in a while, he reminds me how my behaviour and political outlook really do influence him.

The Weighing

I was talking with a family friend today. She's retired, fairly affluent, and just got back from a three-week holiday in Europe. At the end of our conversation, she said,

"Make sure you vote and vote Green."

"Green?" I said, surprised. I wouldn't have thought this woman is a Green supporter.

"Oh yes," she said, "I've been voting Green for years. I'm an environmentalist. We need a better alternative in Ottawa, a stronger voice to fight for the environment. Now, if it ever became likely that the Green Party would form the government, then I would have to review my options again, because aside from their environmental stance, there are other things about the Green Party that may concern me. But for now, they need to be built bigger."

I marvel at her logic, because those too are my thoughts.

The Green Party is generally my party of choice, at least for now. I want to see us build a green economy. There are environmentally sustainable options to running industries and business than plundering the earth and excessively using up natural resources for the sake of convenience and lifestyle flash. The Green Party supports these.

But I don't know how yet. The party needs to be bigger and have representatives in the House before it can come up with viable plans. Once it becomes stronger, I will want to assess how the party plans to bring about its promises, and whether the party will resort to crass posturing, as Jack Layton did recently, which brought the current election forward by three months. C'mon, Martin had already called the election for April.

Experience also tells me that when a party gets stronger, it resorts to pleasing the voters to stay in power. Until Stephen Harper, you could not tell the Liberals and Conservatives apart. I wonder further down the road, whether the Green and NDP will look alike, as they share a common concern for environmental protection. Or will the Green look more like the Conservatives, because they share a goal for business development. But for now, Green is the underdog.

In this election however, I just may give the Liberals my vote. There are several Liberal ridings in the city that have strong NDP support. Ours is one of them. In fact, media speculation is that our riding may well be one that will be unseated by the NDP. If this happens, the Liberals will have lost a seat and Stephen Harper may actually form the government.

Did you know Harper and his running mates are members of the Promise Keepers, a group of Christian fundamentalists that accepts the literal word of the bible. That, and the fact he wants to turn Canada into a society of fear and punishment, make abortion illegal, stop same sex marriage, join the American administration in declaring war in oil-rich countries, and opt out of Kyoto. That is not the Canada I want.

And the fact that Harper has not shown himself to be a good statesman when he attacked Martin in France at the 60th D-Day commemoration. Martin was delayed in Canada because he was cleaning up a mess that Harper made when he tried to bring down the government. Keep your quibbling at home, man, and stop acting like a spoiled brat in public. You are there for D-Day. No grace whatsoever, that Harper. Even Joe Clark, the former Conservative leader, voted Liberal, when Harper became leader of the Conservatives.

And not for a minute do I think that if the Conservatives had been in power, the sponsorship scandal wouldn't have happened.

So for me, never the Conservatives.

I like Green because of their promise of a sustainable green economy.

I like the NDP because intellectually, I am often more aligned with their social and environmental policies, but I am mad at Jack for posturing (I'm petty that way), which makes me think that when a party gets a little power, they abuse it, misspend our tax dollar and wreck havoc on voters. Oh, that's what everyone accuses the Liberals of doing? Well, I'll be.

Martin has impressed me though. Throughout the attacks on him, he has stood his ground and comes across a classy statesman. Except I dislike our Liberal candidate. But if Martin loses too many seats, the Conservatives may win.

So it's between Green and Liberal. How to vote, how to vote...

Michael Moore on Canadian Election

In case you haven't seen this...

Friday, January 20th, 2006
Michael Moore Statement on Canadian Election

Michael Moore is currently in production on his next movie. As an avid lover of all things Canadian, he has issued the following statement regarding Canada's upcoming election on Monday:

Oh, Canada -- you're not really going to elect a Conservative majority on Monday, are you? That's a joke, right? I know you have a great sense of humor, and certainly a well-developed sense of irony, but this is no longer funny. Maybe it's a new form of Canadian irony -- reverse irony!

OK, now I get it. First, you have the courage to stand against the war in Iraq -- and then you elect a prime minister who's for it. You declare gay people have equal rights -- and then you elect a man who says they don't. You give your native peoples their own autonomy and their own territory -- and then you vote for a man who wants to cut aid to these poorest of your citizens. Wow, that is intense! Only Canadians could pull off a hat trick of humor like that. My hat's off to you.

Far be it from me, as an American, to suggest what you should do. You already have too many Americans telling you what to do. Well, actually, you've got just one American who keeps telling you to roll over and fetch and sit. I hope you don't feel this appeal of mine is too intrusive but I just couldn't sit by, as your friend, and say nothing. Yes, I agree, the Liberals have some 'splainin' to do. And yes, one party in power for more than a decade gets a little... long. But you have a parliamentary system (I'll bet you didn't know that -- see, that's why you need Americans telling you things!). There are ways at the polls to have your voices heard other than throwing the baby out with the bath water.

These are no ordinary times, and as you go to the polls on Monday, you do so while a man running the nation to the south of you is hoping you can lend him a hand by picking Stephen Harper because he's a man who shares his world view. Do you want to help George Bush by turning Canada into his latest conquest? Is that how you want millions of us down here to see you from now on? The next notch in the cowboy belt? C'mon, where's your Canadian pride? I mean, if you're going to reduce Canada to a cheap download of Bush & Co., then at least don't surrender so easily. Can't you wait until he threatens to bomb Regina? Make him work for it, for Pete's sake.

But seriously, I know you're not going to elect a guy who should really be running for governor of Utah. Whew! I knew it! You almost had me there. Very funny. Don't do that again. God, I love you, you crazy cold wonderful neighbors to my north. Don't ever change.

Michael Moore

(Mr. Moore is not available for interviews because he now needs to address the situation in Azerbaijan. But he could be talked into it for a couple of tickets to a Leaf's game.)

Canada on the Eve of Election

The election for Canada's next prime minister is two days away. If the Conservatives win, Canada will be transformed and unrecognizable. In a few years, everything we know and love about Canada will be invalid. We'll likely be...more American.

Which makes me think about discussions I had this week with some American associates. How is Canadia different from the U.S.?

At first glance, there doesn't seem much difference in how Americans and Canadians act. We speak the same language and original settlements came from Europe. But on deeper reflection and cultural studies suggest there are in fact great differences. Which makes me ask again, What does it mean to be a Canadian?

For one thing, Americans don't keep asking themselves what it means to be themselves. Not many cultures do. The fact that we keep asking tells us we are Canadians. Some say that's because we are insecure as a people. I think it's more because we are a reflective and globally aware bunch. We are aware of our place in the world. We keep tabs on how that changes as we change internally, which we do. We know we are a young nation, constantly being redefined by new comers who weave into our economic, social, religious and recreational fabrics. We accord everyone equal rights, visibility and voice, even those who aren't Canadians.

The French have their own province. Catholics have their own school system. The RCMP wears turbans. Gay marriages are legal. Hell's Angels live large. Hanukah, Christmas, Chinese New year and Ramadan are celebrated in schools, though only Christmas gets treated as a holiday with time off. For now. And we have illegal immigrants, sometimes dangerous ones with guns, living amongst us because we want to ensure they are treated justly. We are a truer mosaic now than John Murray Gibbon could have imagined in 1938, when he published the Canadian Mosiac.

We also define ourselves by our not-American-ness.

For example, the weather remains an endless topic of fascination for Canadians. It is unpredictable and ever-changing, a poor area to boost a new meteorologist's confidence. Take today for example. When I left the house in the morning, it was snowing, heavily. I had to drive more carefully than usual lest I skid into the car in front of me. When I got back on the road three hours later, the snow was all gone. My neighbour said, Hey, it's spring today. The Boy went outside without a jacket. Tonight, the wind picked up and the run-off has frozen again. I couldn't go out without a hat. I didn't leave the city today, yet I lived through three climate zones. The weather, especially in winter, rules us.

Americans can count on their weather and take it granted.

With the election two days away, we still don't talk about politics with people we don't know well. Nor do we talk about religion and sex. My American associates said, We don't talk about politics and religion either, but you don't talk about sex, not even good gossip? Not in polite society. Is it because Canadians are more reserved? Possibly, because our social model is still very much British based. But more than that, I think Canadians are just respectful, optimistic people who want to preserve dignity - ours and our neighbours'. We don't want to know sordid details of private goings on that may embarrass our friends or let us think poorly of our neighbours. We always prefer to get along. Community and individuality are equally important.

My American associates thought hockey was Canada's only national sport. Many Canadians also think that. But in fact, it's was only lacrosse until 1994, when hockey was added. But you'd have to have paid attention in history class in grade school to know that. Or have done quizzes published in newspapers near Canada Day. But what makes a sport an official national sport? Why, the Department of Canadian Heritage has a National Sports of Canada Act. In 1994, the Act declared hockey the winter national sport and lacrosse the summer national sport. So they are official.

And if you live in Ontario, you better be cheering for the Leafs, unless you live near Ottawa, then you may stray.

Americans expect yes or no answers. If an American asked you to do something and you say, "I'll try", the American hears a "yes". Canadians hear good intention or a polite way of saying no. The actual delivery is still negotiable. Canadians, like the British, think it's rude to decline a request or invitation.

So I'll try to write more later. Go Leafs Go.

The Ridiculous

See these? Can you even tell what it is? They're taking up space in my drawer.



I bought some underpants this week. You know the bloomers Renee Zellweger threw on Hugh Grant's head in Bridget Jones? Those are the kind I buy. They cover.

So I bought a package of three of those in white. Then I saw a second package that looked just like the package I bought, but with colour. Thinking they are the same type, I bought them.

To my surprise, I came home to open the package and pulled out the above type of underpants. See the thin strip in the middle that is supposed to line the crotch? Why is it so thin? It doesn't cover. Tufts of hair would fan out around the little strip. And it cuts into you if you wear them. You can't walk around with something cutting into you there. Why were these underpants made? What's with that?

I have three pairs of them. Maybe I can use them as a sling for dogs with a broken hip. Think the vet's office would take them?

Memories of My Melancholy Whores

That's the title of a recent novella by Gabriel Garcia Marquez. It is the story of a 90-year-old man who, on his birthday, decided to have a night of wild sex with a young virgin. He phoned his local brothel and requested one. So it goes on from there.

Marquez won the Nobel Prize for literature in 1982, probably the year I picked up One Hundred Years of Solitude. One Hundred Years had so transported me that for the next ten years, I sought out and read everything that Marquez wrote. It's now been at least 15 years since I read him.

To date, if you asked me who my favourite author is, I would say Marquez. Not only because he tells great stories, but because in my twenties when I was lost, his stories illustrated for me lives of possibility and passion. The possibility was magical, the passion real. Magical realism was concrete for me even as the literary genre was quite abstract. His world flicked on bright, intelligent and passionate, magically imbuing mine with the same as I was trying to create it.

Oprah put One Hundred Years on her book list a couple of years ago. But I have been afraid to re-read Marquez. I fear a second read would take away from the life-changing impact of the first. And then I saw Memories of My Melancholy Whores this week. Published in 2004, it's Marquez's first work of fiction in ten years.

I have changed much in the last 15 years. Has Marquez the writer changed? In some ways, I feel Marquez mentored me. How have I conducted my life with the transformative power he gave me through his books? How would I now respond to his stories as an adult, a woman, wife, mother, daughter, sister, friend, neighbour?

I shall find out.

Losing My Religion

Since the Christmas break, my daily routine has been getting looser and looser. Not that I had such a structured routine in the first place. But I always aim to get a few things done a day, no matter how small. That's what I live by - a few things done a day.

The Boy and his friends had a sleepover on Saturday at the house. They stayed up late, which meant I stayed up late too. I know I heard them still at 3:30 am. Then I was up at 6:00 Sunday morning. I don't remember if I slept at all, but I must have, because I woke up from snoring a few times in the dark.

I know I was still recovering from it Monday. I was tired, sleepy and aching all over, like my body was rebelling against the lack of sleep and the walking and exercise I force it to do. Despite that, I hauled it off to the gym and did a no sweat workout.

When I got home, I wondered what was the point of that? Did I really exercise if I didn't sweat? Wouldn't it be okay to just sit at home and stay in bed for a day or ten. I guess that's the fear, that if I actually spent the day in bed, I'd never want to get up again. Then I'd never get anything done. Because whether I like it or not, I subscribe to the religion that requires me to be productive with my time, to account for my time, such as looking for a job. But because I am home full time, I feel I must pack as much into my day as possible to justify my being home, to prove I am not slovenly of mind and body. The guilt, the guilt, when I fail.

How did we adopt this worker ant mentality, that we have to plan and store up for the winter? And winter is always just ahead. I know, it's partly the Protestant ethic. We must atone for original sin through labour. We must be industrious to acquire wealth - a sign that we have been elected to be saved. Max Weber believes it's this Protestant ethic that gave rise to capitalism.

Capitalism came out of asceticism because Puritans wanted to "turn work into a spiritual vocation". Imagine that.

How I want to lose this religion.

We go to work when we are sick then wonder why there is so much illness in the workplace. We schedule our kids' every activity then wonder why they aren't able to occupy themselves when they have free time. We expect business as usual after a giant snow storm. We spend all our time on work and the acquisiton of money then wonder why there are so many lonely people around and why our kids don't have a moral compass. We overstretch our time and ourselves and wonder why we are so stressed out. Exhausted from work, we spend our earnings on a vacation to recover from work, so we can get back to work and do it again.

I can't be a part of this any more.

I think it's my disillusionment with how and why we work that has me immobolized. The issue for me is, how to get out of this inertia and find new meaning in what I do and how I earn a living.

Surfing the web yesterday, I came across these books:

- How to Be Idle by Tom Hodgkinson
- The Play Ethic by Pat Kane
- Soft Power by Joseph Nye
- Status Syndrome by Michael Marmot
- In Praise of Slow by Carl Honore

I think these books question why we want to rush around the way we do and suggest alternatives to the rush. I wonder if they address the guilt. I bought In Praise of Slow. I hope it leads to other readings of enlightenment.

Sounds

A couple of months ago, I moved my laptop up to the computer room on the second floor. Now when I look up from my screen, I see the wall, and the messy pile of papers and electronic paraphernalia stacked askew against it. It's not a pretty sight so I tune it out. But my hearing has sharpened. I hear every little sound in the house, out in the street, and up in the sky.

Right now for example, the garbage truck just came rumbling and tumbling down the street. I try to figure what kind of garbage the truck is picking up by the noises it makes. Ah, but it's not picking up any garbage because I don't hear the stop and go banging and crashing of garbage bins being emptied or the grunting and grinding of the truck as it lurches forward house by house. It just drove on through to another street.

The furnace and my laptop enclose me in white noise, punctuated by occasional voices from outside. I wonder if those passersby know they are talking so loudly that I can hear them from the second floor at the back of the house.

A few weeks ago, when I stayed with my mother-in-law, I laid in bed listening for Port Hope sounds. The furnace whooshed on now and then, she had the TV on loud, and occasionally, a car passed by outside. But those became background noises to the distinct Port Hope sounds at night.

Far off, a train rumbled by once in a while and cried that forlorn wail of the train whistle. But the wind coaxed the stillness to return by whispering sh...sh...sh... and you were lulled into sleepiness, adrift in a quiet state of neither nor. Until a constant buzzing nudged and nudged you. In semi-awakeness, you heard someone snoring. You came to, the snoring stopped. And in sheepish discomfort, you realized that was you snoring. I mean, that was me snoring.

In December, Lake Ontario had not frozen over yet. When I walked along the water front trail, I could still hear the soft, clear trickle of lapping water. I walked further along was surprised to see the lake at my feet. The sound of the lapping water calmed and refreshed me. I drank the sound in; I hadn't realized my soul was parched.

Now the phone rings downstairs, interrupting my meandering thoughts. I must silence that twittering, the ring tone on my phone, then tend to my day. The Boy will come home soon with his friends.

Pedometered

I've been wearing a pedometer for a week now. A pedometer is a gadget you wear at waist level, clipped onto your pants or belt to count the number of steps you take. A step counter. Weight management experts say most Americans manage about 4,000 steps a day. But to maintain your weight, you should be stepping at 6,000. To lose weight, you need to do over 10,000 steps a day.

In the last week, there have been two days where I've stayed in and not done much more than putter around the house. On those days, I've come in around 3,000 steps. But on days that I go to the gym or go for a long walk, I do over 10,000.

I've gone for a walk twice to St. Clair and Bathurst and back. That little walk gets me over 7,000 steps. One day, I went to the gym and did various errands around the city. I hit over 17,000 steps. But was I sore the next day.

The thing I like about the pedometer is, I am motivated to move around more because I am challenged to get the number up. It gives my weight management efforts a concrete goal that is attainable daily, with a concrete indicator whether I've been successful or not. I had chosen to walk instead of drive to several destinations in the last week because I was wearing the pedometer. A part of me says, I don't want to be beaten by this little gadget.

I asked The Boy to wear it one day. He doesn't even take gym. But going to school, changing between classes, who knows what he does at lunch, and coming home, he racked up over 13,000 steps.

Bro Bro also bought a pedometer. His 9-year-old daughter wore it for a day and racked up 12,000 steps. He himself however, has trouble making 5,000.

I guess it's true that kids just naturally move around more than adults, even in the same spot.



As a kid, I had trouble staying still. Teachers often said of me, She'll settle down when she matures. I wonder if they meant that kids get more physically stationary as they get older. That must be true. Now, if you see an adult moving all about all the time, you think something is wrong with him.



So what is maturity then? It's the art of focused movement in body, mind and life direction. Yes? Yes.

Taste From Childhood

I have been on a quest to recapture a taste from childhood. I must've been five or six. Growing up in Hong Kong at the time, one of my favourite treats was mango ice cream. On hot nights, when I went out with my mother or grandmother, we often stopped at an ice cream shop at the bottom of a hill to get mango ice cream on a cone on the way home. With the ice cream in hand, we would climb the hill to our tenement building.

The mango ice cream was cold, smooth and delicious. It sent a fruity, creamy tingle up my nostrils. You know how Edmund in Narnia traded his siblings in for Turkish Delight (nasty stuff, btw). As a youngster, I probably would have traded my siblings in for mango ice cream.

Since The Boy was born, every time I see mango flavour offered at an ice cream parlour, I choose it. But it's been disappointing. The iced granules taste like they're been flavoured with unripe mango peel, not incorporated with the sun ripened flesh of the tropical fruit. I don't get a creamy treat. I get soft flavoured plastic that leaves a bad after taste.

Surprisingly this week, Bro tells me he's been enjoying mango ice cream, bought at the supermarket! I run to our local Loblaws and I see a PC mango sherbet. I buy it. It doesn't taste good. Bro tells me it's the one made by Tropical Treets. After dinner last night, I go in search of it, by foot, just to make my pursuit more dramatic.

In the ice cream section, I see Tropical Treets mango ice cream. I see that Hagen Daaz also makes a mango sherbet. Another company (I forget which now) makes a mango yogurt. Did mango flavour come into vogue when I wasn't looking?

I chose the Tropical Treets, this time. It is much better than the PC sherbet, but still not the ice cream of my childhood. I will have to try that Hagen Daaz sherbet next.

What to do with all the mango ice cream stacking up in the freezer? Mango smoothies for breakfast. I think The Boy will go for that.

My Chic Ghetto

Despite the decrepitude of my industrial, high tech gym, these are the things I love about it:

It's spacious and has a sexy design.
Here're the sinks for example. It's a round room. The counter top is chipped here and there and the taps don't always work, but it's sleek looking.


Here're some lockers. Full-size lockers with benches! Not like those little square cubby lockers stacked on top of one another so you have to figure out how to shrinkwrap your boots, coat, gym bag, and clothes into a compact bundle in order to fit everything in. Plenty of room to change so you don't have to stake your territory or elbow someone in the face.


The gym is large and has high ceilings.
There is room to breath even if many people are pumping iron at the same time. The equipment are closely stacked together but because of the high ceilings, you don't feel cramped.

Weight machines. They look like torture machines. They are!


Treadmills and ski machines


The floors are solid.
I once went to a gym that had their equipment on carpet with plants everywhere to create that luxury feel. I hated it.

Lots of equipment.
There are lots of cardio machines and different weight equipment that work the same muscles so there are rarely line ups.

More treadmills. Notice some of them have TVs attached.


The free-weight area


People mind their own business.
I can't say that I am a social kind of workout gal. When I am in sweats, I am there to work out. Don't fucking talk to me unless you are dying and in need of an ambulance.

Good lookers sometimes come through.
My most memorable day in the gym was just before Pride Day one year, when a group of pretty blond boys paraded through. They stood by the machines and tried to tone up before they displayed themselves on the big day. And in another corner, there was a group of beautifully sculpted black men flexing their muscles, putting the final touches to their gleam. Sometimes individuals look familiar to me. My trainer pointed out a few times who's who in what TV commercial or show.

It's downtown.
That means I get errands and shopping done when I go to the gym.

The gym runs 24/7.
Not that I have ever gone to the gym after midnight, but I like the idea that I can.

I pay a great rate.
After my first two years at the regular membership price plus personal trainer costs, I debated whether to continue my membership. I opted to do so and filled out a form to make monthly payments (so I can cancel anytime) instead of paying the annual fee upfront. But due to an administrative error, they cancelled my membership. Head office phoned to offer me a special deal to come back. Who was I to say no to $15 a month when I thought I was paying $40 a month?

It's the little things.
This is most important to me. Like when I took my new digital camera in to take these photos of the place this week. After taking the photos, I got on a treadmill. When I finished, I walked away, leaving my camera in the cupholder of the treadmill. On my way out, a group of staff stopped me at the front desk. One of the staff had seen me take pictures and noticed which treadmill I was on, so he returned the camera to me, no questions asked. I appreciate that while I tune everyone else out, they hadn't tuned me out.

I have been with this gym for five years now. During this time, I have belonged to other gyms at the same time (yeah, double membership, but it didn't mean I worked out twice as much). I've felt inspired to use all the gyms I've belonged to at the beginning, but when the novelty wore off, I just pay the membership and stop going, until I get mad at myself for paying for a service I don't use.

I've now cancelled all memberships but this one. I stay with this gym because it meets my needs. The gym's been good to me, it's cheap, and it's chic, in a broken ghetto sort of way.

My Dump Of A Gym

But first, today's tidbit:

At Loblaws today, I saw in the frozen poultry section...yup, frozen turduckens. They were pressed flat to fit in square boxes. Each is about 15 lbs and costs $99.99. Once thawed, you still have to put in your own stuffing. The thing just can't compare to mine. I feel so avant garde in my culinary art!

And now, my gym:

When a company tells me they are continuously improving their services, I get suspicious. Are they trying so hard because they are on the cutting edge, leading their industry into new business and true ways of meeting customers' evolving needs, or is it because they never got it right and still can't get it right, so they keep trying?

I'm continuously trying to get fit, since university days in fact. I never got it right. I went from too skinny to too fat. After all these years of experience, I can't say that I am into the gym life. Working out is an evil necessity. I do it to stop the fat from getting fatter.

But I do know what kind of gym is most conducive to me working out more, as much as I hate having to do it at all. I go to an industrial gym. This is a serious gym with high tech design. Its message is clear: You come here to sweat out your fat and build up your muscles. If you want comfort and toilets that work, go somewhere else.

I both love and hate this gym. Here's my gym, sitting at the corner of Bay and Davenport. The premises used to be a car dealership. Still looks like it should be selling cars.



First, what I hate about my gym:

- The toilets are always leaking or out of order. They put towels on the floor around the toilet base to keep something from running all over the floor.

Notice also the towels on the floor wrapped between the stalls.


- The hot tub is sometimes condemned. The City shuts it down with a notice about bacteria level being too high.

I wasn't able to take a photo of the hot tub and shower area because there were women using those amenities and I didn't want to turn this into a porno post.

- They don't always have towels when you go in. They are being laundered. The towels are scratchy and ragged when you do get one. No doubt, these are the same towels they use to put around the toilets on the floor. Now I bring my own.

- Repair men sometimes come through the women's change room. I no longer change, shower or use their facilities. I just work out and go home.

Tomorrow, what I love about my gym.

Memories Of Childhood

Yesterday, my mother, brother and aunt came for a day of mah jongg, the noisy, sometimes savage tile game played on a card table. My sister and her children came in the afternoon. But she had a presentation to prepare for the next day. So the activities in our house were:

Basement - The Boy occupied his young cousins with movies, music and silliness
First floor - Noisy and verbally aggressive mah jongg game
Second floor - intellectual PowerPoint preparation in the works in the computer room

It was cold out, with a fresh dust of snow on the ground. But inside our house, it was warm, with food aplenty, and the hopping bustle of happy communal living resounded throughout.

I loved having my house occupied so, everyone being together and still engaged in our own pursuits.

It recalls memories of childhood when family and friends were busy in different parts of the house and I was lulled to sleep by the sounds of life carrying on around me. I knew I was part of a wide network of comfort and security even as I met the sandman head on.

That's one of the reasons I like hosting parties at the house, and why I like being friends with parents of The Boys' friends and cousins (but I have to also like the parents too!). I want the kids to feel the comfort and security of their support, know that they are part of the network and trust that it exists even when they are not paying attention.

As an adult now, being part of this environment is a life affirming experience. I end the day thankful that we can come together at least for a day, work towards the common goal of having fun and getting some work done, and leave fortified with the knowledge our support is still good.

How Superheroes Are Born

Someone said recently that too much time spent alone, her thoughts turn negatively inward. I know that problem. I need a lot of alone time, but I don't like being alone too much. During long periods of aloneness, my self-doubt rises, self-esteem plummets, all is more not well with the world.

Maybe that's why I blog. It is a form of human connectedness, even though the company are virtual friends. C'mon, they're not imaginary friends. It's not like I'm sitting down to tea with them.

But it's just as possible that when one is alone, one comes out with an inflated feeling of self-importance, a smugness requiring no validation, an escalated, delusional even, sense of grandeur and significance in the big scheme of things. Or am I wrong? You don't know anyone who spends a lot of time alone then walks around thinking he's a superhero, do you?

Or is that how superheroes are born? They come from people who spend time alone and not get depressed. These people take flights of fancy in their aloneness, not fits of fatality, and they do think they are more special and grand than others. Only, they are also grounded in reality so they don't walk around acting important, they create characters who do that. They are probably quietly optimistic, happy people.

I wonder if I can create the character first, and become quiet and optimistic later. I'm onto something here. Mindy, my trailer park friend, my exorcism exercise, has to go. She has to turn into a superhero.

Voice From Down Under

This year, I received a Christmas card from a cousin in Australia. I don't know who this cousin is, but the card was address to me at my home.

We have two cousins in Australia. My mother had asked me to write to them at the end of last year to let them know my grandmother and father had both passed away. But after the mourning period in December, we were immediately into Christmas, New Year and Chinese New Year. Mom wanted me to write to the cousins only after the Chinese new year so they would not start the new year with bad news. It sets a bad luck tone for the rest of the year.

So at the end of last February, I wrote to them. I did not expect to hear back from them.

When I received the Christmas card this year, the cousin tells me that he was diagnosed with Hepatitas B last March. He is better now and has moved to Melbourne to be closer to his sister and her family.

These are older cousins, in their 70's and 80's. A part of me really wants to meet them and get to know them better, meet their adult children, preserve our connection. Ours are family ties that will be forever severed and lost if I don't pursue to tighten them. We don't have a lot of time left.

The Man also has cousins in Australia.

Australia is beckoning.

Lies and Their Liars

I hope The Boy never becomes a telemarketer. It just seems such dishonest work. I am shocked that a company like Bell Canada would provide their telemarketers with the vocabulary and circumstances to harass and mislead customers.

I received a phone call last night. The woman at the other end said, "Are you the person in charge of internet services in your house?"

"Yes, I am."

"You've been selected to receive Bell's ultra internet service. It's an upgrade to your existing high speed internet. This upgrade includes a free...and a free...and your access speed will be..."

"How did I get selected?"

"Right now, you are a high speed internet customer, so you have been selected to receive the upgrade."

"Who selected me?"

"Well, if you were a basic service customer, you wouldn't be selected. Only high speed customers are selected."

"But don't customers just pay for the service they want?"

"Yes, but with your upgrade, you will get a free...and a free...and your internet speed will be..."

"How much would the upgrade cost me?"

"$5 more a month. This is not a promotional offer. You will have this rate as long as you accept our offer."

"So this free upgrade will cost me $5 more a month? What am I paying now?"

"You are paying $44.95 a month now. With the upgrade, it will be $50 a month."

"No thanks."

I immediately went to the bell.ca site to see what their regular rate for high speed ultra service is. It's $50 a month. I feel so targetted.

Why You Should Always Be Well-Groomed

School is still out for The Boy. That means we laze about in the mornings. At noon today, I was still unwashed and in my sleep duds. A knock came on the door.

It was the FedEx man, to pick up a parcel that was delivered to us by mistake. He was a handsome and safe-looking FedEx man. The kind I like to flirt with knowing he'd be professional and never go too far. But there I was all unwashed and frumpy, hair standing up, maybe smelling bad.

He asked me to fill out a form, which I had trouble doing because I couldn't read the small font without my glasses, which were nowhere to be found. Seeing my difficulty, he offered to fill out the form for me. So I let him. He was well-mannered and thanked me when he left, as any young buck would thank an old lady out of politeness.

Later, I e-mailed my friend to let her know her parcel had been picked up. She asked if the FedEx guy wore shorts. Apparently, they compete to see who could stay in shorts the longest before switching to pants when the winter hits. But why did I already have knowledge of FedEx guys in shorts? Because oh my god, when I answered the door and saw the FedEx truck outside, I glanced down quickly to see if he was wearing shorts. He wasn't. It happened quickly, in a split second. I would not even have remembered doing this if my friend hadn't asked the question! Where did this brand of FedEx boys in shorts come from?

So. I missed an opportunity to be flirtatously charming because I wasn't ready. Need to keep in practice for The Man, you know.

Bittersweet

I was quite choked up when I lost Legolas, my pet betta, on Christmas night.

But here's my friend's story to put life in perspective. On Christmas morning, Friend came downstairs at 6:30 a.m. to find her beloved dog of 13 years dead on the kitchen floor. Bella hadn't been well for the past few weeks. On Christmas Eve, Bella crawled under the porch and Friend had a hard time coaxing her out. Now it dawns on Friend that Bella was looking for a place to die. The Emergency Animal Hospital said Bella died of old age.

Two days later, on December 27, Friend's school principal (Friend is a teacher) phoned to tell her a former student of hers had been shot and killed. That student was Jane Creba, the girl who was shot on Boxing Day in downtown Toronto. Friend was devastated. She said the death of her dog suddenly paled by comparison.

I too am reeling from Jane Creba's death. The Boy had wanted to go downtown on Boxing Day to shop at HMV and Future Shop. That would have put him in the same viccinity as the shooting, possibly around the same time. I had said no because we were expecting dinner guests.

I know every parent in Toronto, especially parents of 15-year-olds, must be saddened and hurt by Jane's death, and enraged by how she was taken. I can't imagine what could make up for her family's loss.

Most cultures have rituals that help buffer the bitter. The Chinese, for example, give each guest at a funeral a lucky pouch containing a coin and a piece of candy. They are symbolic items - the money to compensate guests for taking time out to attend the funeral, the sweetness of the candy to offset the bitterness of the occasion. Myrrh is a sweet smelling incense. It was given to Jesus at birth to offset the bitter life he was to have. I wonder what customs exist in Canada and in the Creba family that will buffer the bitterness of Jane's death for them.

The Creba family wants to have a private interment, and later, a public memorial. I am glad they will allow the city to mourn with them at a memorial. Perhaps the desire of the city's parents and Jane's peers to share their grief is a sweet thing.

Relevance

Someone lamented recently how tragic it was that youth today don't have penpals, that this lack of interest in peers from other cultures was typical of smug city youths.

I thought about these comments. Is it true that kids in general, and The Boy in particular, have no interest in the lives of peers in other countries? Have I, as a parent, not fostered cross-cultural interest in The Boy? Now that I have thought about it, of course it's not true.

We live in the heart of one of the largest multi-cultural cities in the world. Our local newspaper boasts that ours is the most culturally diverse neighbourhood in Canada. The Boy is half Chinese, he has an aunt who is Portuguese, despite his poor grades in French, this holiday season, he has uttered several expressions in French that impressed me. He has good friends who are Jewish, Japanese, black, and white. And these are only friends I know of. He has classmates who are gay, he is friends with kids from different socio-economic backgrounds. Many of our neighbours are Italian. Many of the shops we frequent are run by Jamaicans. Many of his teachers and camp counsellors have come from all corners of the globe. Every school he's been to has hosted annual multi-cultural events.

When he is on MSN Messenger, he talks to kids from different countries. He often looks up information on different subjects, including cultures, on the internet. Lately, his favourite site is Wikipedia.

Tonight, he was a volunteer at a Hannukah lighting of the candles. His friend's mother recruited him to help wheel seniors from their rooms in a nursing home to the common room so they can sing, say prayers and light the candles. After, they played a few games of draydle.

I have invited his friends and their families home for dinner, out for meals in Chinatown, I have given them lucky money pouches at Chinese New Year. So I am thinking, writing is not a favourite activity for The Boy. He and his friends are actively engaged in each other's lives leisurely, academically and culturally. When The Boy has direct access to people, experiences, and information, where does a penpal fit in? Is a penpal even relevant for youth who are computer savvy?

Has globalization not evened out our lives and brought us closer to one another across cultural and distance barriers? In what other country and city do we have direct access to so much, and have we not taught our children well when we see them living in harmony and engaged in constructive activities, despite the gang bullying and gun violence around them.

I will deal with the issue of penpals next time it is raised. But all the same, I will arm him with the vocabulary to defend himself should the subject come up again.

How Was Your New Year's Eve?

I had a different kind of Eve this year.

In the past, our options were:

1) Have we been invited to anyone's? No? Do we want to invite anyone in? No?
2) Should we take in First Night activities? No?
3) How about staying home to watch movies and eat pizza? How's that different from what you do most weekends, dear?

But this year, The Boy was invited to his friend's house for the evening and a sleepover and The Man is far away. That left me at Roseneath to close 2005 and bring in 2006. It was a very good Eve.

A friend and I decided we would bring in the new year together. She wanted to sit and be entertained. I wanted to be with a few people, not a large crowd. And I didn't want to stay in or stay out all night. That meant staying in for part of the night and being out for part of the night. I was thinking we'd meet late in the evening for a toast and go watch fireworks. But my friend had a much better idea.

We took in a Second City show! Five of us set out at 7:00 pm to our evening of entertainment and good cheer. The Second City has a new home on Mercer Street. The show, The Second City Reloaded, is the company's first show at the new theatre with a band of very fine comics.

We were seated just as the show was about to start. As the lights went out, our server crouched low to take our drink orders so she could shine her flashlight on her pad without distracting other customers. As she stood up, another server walked by with a full tray of drinks. Head meets tray and the drinks came tumbling down around us. A bottle of beer teetered a bit, then went plonk on its side, going glug-glug-glug down the whole left side of my body. Another friend at the table got his arm coated with strawberry dacquari. But we're a cool bunch in good humour. Friend and I stood up and quietly went to clean up in the washroom.

When I got back to the table, the servers were busy cleaning up our area. One man at a table in front of us did not get soaked, but his coat did. Did he make a fuss! He got a voucher for dry cleaning.

The main show on stage was still fantastic though. I guess good comics thrive on being irreverent - how far can they go without crossing the line into poor taste. I thought they hadn't crossed the line. One friend thought they had, several times. As a parting gift, each guest received a hardcover book called The Second City - Backstage at the World's Greatest Comedy Theatre and a voucher for a return visit to the show in January. What a deal!

After the show, we went back to Friend's house to toast in the new year. Three others joined us around 11:00. At midnight, the eight of us toasted each other and Friend opened the front door to welcome in the new year. A Scottish tradition, apparently.

I came home to find a message from The Man, who had phoned earlier at 4:30 when new year arrived in Yemen. He was thoughtful enough to call again when new year arrived for us. There was also a message from our cousin in Australia, wishing us happy new year. It was a good start to a hopeful year.

Happy New Year!