Gratitude

So when we moved, I transferred. Managed to keep with the same company. But sadly, I'm pretty much the most junior guy in a shop where instead of four guys, there are thirty.

So I'm on the spare board. This means I take the shifts no-one at all wants.

So last week I was slated to work the lowest-paying job in the shop on Monday and Friday, and that was it. Then they called me in on Wednesday and Thursday.

Thursday arvo I come in and notice my name's off the board for Friday.

Oh well, I oh-welled, No worries. I don't need the hours and I don't exactly love that job anyway.



At six-something-ty this morning, the boss phoned. They want me to come in. To do exactly the job they pulled me off of yesterday.

I am not thrilled. My back hurts a bit, I had bad sleep and wound up being awake three hours last night ... Wah, wah, wah.

Somewhere out there, a person possibly named Miguel, or Rosa, or Frank, is dragging himself (or herself) off of his bed (or her bed) and putting his feet (her f-- ... You know, I'm gonna stop this now) on the floor.

Miguel is undocumented, and so makes less than minimum wage. The work is physically brutal, the shifts, while officially ten hours long, run twelve to fourteen, but nobody complains. There are no health benefits. The workers have a joke about "work 'till your break or work 'til you break." There are no benefits, and no breaks. Frank blew out his back last week--He's worried one of his discs may be ruptured.

Last year, a guy named Fidel started a drive to unionize. He and six other workers got a sign-up sheet going. Fidel got picked up by Immigration last month. And five of the other six haven't shown up to work since. The sixth guy just got promoted to shift supervisor, night shift--A position understood to mean "Company Stool Pigeon, Third Class."

Miguel can barely make rent, and can't afford to go to a doctor to get his back fixed. Besides, under new Immigration laws he thinks the doctor might have to report him as undocumented.

So he rises, grimacing, and slouches down to the bus stop with a cup of coffee in hand, trying to shift as he walks to ease the pain.

As he waits for his bus, he takes out the letter in his back pocket:
"Dear Husband:

The baby is better, but we miss you so much. Thank you so much for the money you send ..."

The bus hisses and chuffs to a stop, and Miguel grimaces, rises, and goes to work.

My job is unionized, with benefits, and I make a good bit more than the minimum here in Canada, and a $#!7load more than the minimum in the US.

Gratitude. I haz it.

O Avid Fan, You Are Not Forgotten!

That goes for both of you.

I promised Sr. Strutts that I would revisit the comment he left me on my post about the all-too-predictable failure of the Copenhagen Conference, and that's part of what I'm doing today.

But I just cleared a major project and have some other stuff to do. So I'll content myself with posting this:



This seems to be a pirate video, so I'll refer you to the site where the original may be found: Weebls Stuff.

Out of the Memory Hole

I just reread The Jungle Book. It's one of my favourites from Kipling, who is indisputably one of the finest tubercular authors to dribble ink on the page.

And I was wondering, particulary what became of the video I once saw in about 1978 of the story of Kotik the White Seal.

When out of the blue I hit YouTube looking for a video of the Beatles' Rocky Raccoon for reasons that would take too long to explain, and discovered the video below. I also discovered that it was by Chuck Jones, one of Mme's indubitable favourites. And so how could I not present it here?



You'll find the rest at YouTube, natch.

It has been my observation that people of my advanced years simply don't think in terms of YouTube. We say "I once saw ..." something. Whereas a younger person of my acquiantance often says "Hey, I saw this great thing last night ... Hang on while I look it up!"

Nonetheless, here's the Chuch Jones version of Kotick, the White Seal:



Other bits also on YT.
The narrations are awesome: Orson Welles for the former and Roddy McDowell for the latter.

Now THAT'S In-flight Service!

A baby born on an airliner will receive free flights for life, along with his mother.

That's amazingly cool.

Date: Future
Metro and heavily-pregnant Mme Metro arrive at the flight counter.

Attendant: May I help you?
Metro: Yeah ... Which of these flights to Australia is the most turbulent?

LOL of th' Day

xkcd is teh ossum.

Another Threat to Marriage

Doubtless the right wingers will want to campaign against this one as well.

Pathetic.

Obesity Epidemic Hitting Close to Home (Renos)

From my Canadian Tire flier, which arrived as usual with the Friday paper:

Toilet seats 20% off: Wide selection.

Have a good weekend.

Oh, the Wildlife-ity!

Raincoaster has been following the threads of the Great Meerkat Conspiracy, which has explained so much in terms of the rarity of fairies, the reduction of fish stocks, and the shortage of four-leafed clovers (they got the leprechauns first, don'cha know).

However, now ominous news reaches our peepers of the newest soldiers in the Meerkat War With Fish and People.

It is truly the saddest of news, for once-respectable raptors have now been recruited into the ravaging ranks of the Meerkat Army.

Read it and weep:

Eagle smashes car windshield with fish

Two targets with one bird, eh?

This, as Rick Mercer used to say on "Made In Canada", is not good.

We urgently await a statement from G Eagle on whether this indicates a change of eagle allegiance in the Total War Against Terror, Intrigue, And Meerkats (TWATIAM).

Stay calm, be brave, watch for the signs.

A Thought Occurs

A friend posted a link wishing that "track pants were sexy, Mondays were fun, and guys were simple."

And I thought "Pardon?"

How many guys do you know who'll spend an hour getting ready for a night out, then collapse in tears because "I'm a mess!"?

How many guys do you know who own twelve pairs of shoes, and not one "walking" pair?

How many guys ever looked into the eyes of a woman they're in bed with and said "Honey--Are you sure this is a good idea?"

As a metaphor for trying to understand the nature of women, one should first acquire five jigsaw puzzles. Now remove ten percent of the pieces from each and throw the remainder through the laundry. Place all pices in a basket with large holes, shake it up. Now put on a blindfold and oven mitts and try to assemble a picture.

Guys are simple. It's dealing with the other half of humanity that makes us prime candidates for therapy.

It's Been Quiet

Parliament's out of session so there's not much to rant and rave about, really. Bad copyright legislation coming down the pipe, perhaps a fall election (that'd be nice, although a July election would be nicer).

So I've been working on a few things around the house, trying to make a mint at poker, and playing Desktop Tower Defence excessively. I finally broke 9,000 points today. I did it once some months ago, and have been trying to repeat the acheivement.

So I feel good. Hope you do too.

Life Update: The Office

No, I haven't found work yet. Not entirely for lack of trying, although perhaps for lackadaisical trying. I am definitely busy though: Thus far this summer I'm:

Working on a piece for a local magazine
It pays, quite frankly, crap. But the important word in that sentence is the second one.

Hosting, Hosting, Hosting
Last night, a party complete with steel drums. Prior to that, four teen/pre-teen girls and their den mother. Prior to that, unfortunately, Raincoaster.

Trying to Plan a Summer Holiday of Some Description
Last year, due to piss-poor communications, Mme and I failed to do any camping. This year, my time comittments are all over the map. Thus far it appears that the second week in August is the soonest we'll manage it.

Building Mme Metro's Office
Mme and I have been sharing an office. Unfortunately we're both pack rats in a small space. The result is that we're getting in each others' way, and on each others' nerves, not to mention paying huge interest on bills we lose in the piles of paper which are slowly turning into peat. So I'm converting one room of the house into her office. This has led to some short, hard lessons in:
1) Plumbing
2) Electrical wiring
2a) Electrical workplace safety
3) Drywall hanging
4) Insulation
5) Furnace ducting

Hopefully nothing I've done thus far will require fixing anytime soon, because this time next month it'll all be behind walls.

Unfortunately, fixing one room in a house is like polishing one spot on a car--it tends to highlight how dingy the rest of it is. In a way, it's a blessing. The required recarpeting and painting once we've packed Raincoaster home again (Isn't it nice that Air Canada is allowing pets in the cabin nowadays?) won't seem as arduous.

On top of this, at least two appliances have decided to have little hissy fits--Water all over the floor from the washer, once, may be a blip. Water all over the floor from the washer, several times, accompanied by enough lint to choke a yak, is probably more significant. And water from under the fridge is just plain bad and wrong.

In the meantime I'm trying to put out a couple of what I think will be pretty hot fiction stories, fix one of my Three-Day Novel contest works up, and try to hit the beach at least once!

So as you can see, it's an eventful summer chez Metro. But as I've said elsewhere on this blog, I'd generally rather be busy than bored.

Walk, Man, Walk On

Thirty years ago next Christmas or so, my sister managed to get her grasping hooks on a Sony Walkman, courtesy of Father Christmas (known in these modern times as Non-Specified, Irreligious, Entirely Commercial Holiday Figure). NSIECHF had received word that the immature zygote considered it the ultimate in desiderata.

It was the hottest thing since Betamax (O Avid Fan children, ask your Avid Fan parents what Betamax was). It was going to be bigger than the laser disc player (O Avid Fan children, ask your Avid Fan parents what a laser disc player was), while being smaller than a boombox (O Avid Fan children, ask your Avid Fan parents what a boombox was).

To celebrate the thirtieth anniversary of the Walkman, the BBC convinced a thirteen-year-old to use one for a week. His perceptions are astoundingly deep and sagacious, for such a young man, sprinkled with amusing generational misunderstandings:

From a practical point of view, the Walkman is rather cumbersome, and it is certainly not pocket-sized, unless you have large pockets. It comes with a handy belt clip screwed on to the back, yet the weight of the unit is enough to haul down a low-slung pair of combats.

What the young man fails to understand, of course, is that pockets in trousers of the day were nonfunctional, as the pants they were sewn to were so tight as to prohibit the insertion of anything thicker than a quarter for bus fare (O Avid Fan children, ask your Avid Fan parents what a quarter was, and when it could have last been used for bus fare). That same tightness guaranteed that they could not be pulled down by a three-pound Walkman, or in many cases by a 230-pound centre-forward (That, O Avid Fans young and old, is the real reason for the rise in teen pregnancies--Pants you can remove in a Volkswagen).

However, the BBC seems to have locked on to one of the few thirteen-year-olds who can't cope with technology:

It took me three days to figure out that there was another side to the tape. That was not the only naive mistake that I made.

Read about the rest of them here.

Michael Jackson Eases on Down the Road

It's a surprise ending to a brief, sad life dogged by controversy. Assuming it's not a publicity stunt (update: it looks as though it isn't).

I liked Jackson's earlier work--up until Thriller. My sister went a long way towards killing any affection I might have had for him by overplaying the album (just as she did with any music she enjoyed. My loathing of Abba remains unabated).

Mr Jackson did the rest. With his increasingly bizarre behaviour, unfortunate inability to form normal human relationships, and continued devotion to plastic surgery that would make a hard-core body-mod nut wince.

But I always did feel sorry for him. So many people with talent seemed doomed for greatness and madness. And he was both personified. Above all, I'm not sure he ever realized that he was transient.

So long Michael. Peace at last, perhaps (As long as no-one tries to buy his skeleton).

Farrah Fawcett has also died today. I don't have much to say about her. Unlike many modern stars, she seems to have managed to live a largely blameless life without attracting undue attention (the Majors divorce aside), for a TV star.

But a small piece of my childhood goes with her. I watched "Charlie's Angels" before I even understood why I liked girls--Possibly before I was even ready to admit that I liked them.

My thanks, Farrah.

Will Somebody Please Put a Fork in Cheney and Let Him Know He's Overdone?

Unable to lie quiet, Cheney seems to have found a second wind, with which to try and explain away the grotesque, capering, misdeeds of the Bush calamity of an administration. From today's "Say What" sampler over at Doonesbury we have this justification for Bush's inaction on "terroristic" threats prior to Semptember 11th, 2001:

"You know, Dick Clarke. Dick Clarke, who was the head of the counterterrorism program in the run-up to 9/11. He obviously missed it."
-- Dick Cheney, on Richard Clarke

"Bin Ladin Public Profile May Presage Attack" (5/3/01)

"Bin Ladin's Networks' Plans Advancing" (5/26/01)

"Bin Ladin Attacks May Be Imminent" (6/23/01)

"Bin Ladin and Associates Making Near-Term Threats" (6/25/01)

"Bin Ladin Planning High-Profile Attacks" (6/30/01)

"Planning for Bin Ladin Attacks Continues, Despite Delays" (7/02/01)

-- subject lines of Richard Clarke emails to Bush Administration prior to 9/11/01

Unfortunately, I think we're due for rather a lot of this crap until either someone buries his head across running water from his body, or until someone shuts off the liquid helium pump that powers his circulatory system.

It's over, Dick. The bad guys have been consigned to the rubbish bin of history and a lucrative career on the rubber-chicken circuit (instead of Gitmo, alas, where they properly should be held until a fair trial can be arranged) and the good guys have to try and pick up the pieces. All you're doing is offering lame-ass excuses for failing to close the barn door before the horse bolted, and trying to justify your horrifying criminal actions afterward.

Shut up and lie the hell down.

Or, if I may quote someone whose name escapes me:

"Go fuck yourself."

Is That Last One a Little Intense?

Probably. My excuse is that I'm avoiding having to think about the GM Venture van sitting in my driveway awaiting a compression test.

If anyone asks why GM is going the-₤µ©λ broke, you can describe the procedures for removing the alternator:

Disconnect battery cables.
Disconnect front engine mounts and rotate engine forward as far as possible.
Undo alternator bolts.
Raise vehicle on ramps, hoist or stands.
Disconnect the g'damn subframe and drop three inches.

To remove a ₤µ©λing alternator? Seriously?

Oh, and why, asketh the Avid Fans (all five of them) dost thou pullest out ye olde alternator when lo, ye wishest to test the compression?

Because it's in the way of the spark plugs. For which the procedure is also supposed to include rotating the engine forward on its mounts.

If GM survives the next couple of months, I want their engineers sent to friggin' Siberia, given a '98 Venture, and told they can return when and if they can disassemble the vehicle into major components using nothing more than a metric socket set, hydraulic jack, and a pair of axle stands.

(Don't even get me started on why the hell a vehicle built, probably in Canada, in 1997 has non-metric bolts holding the stupid alternator on).

From netjeff.com: a meme

Go to your favourite search engine and enter , in quotes, your name and the word "needs". So I enter "Metro needs" and here's what Google thinks I need:

1) Reform
2) $11 Billion
3) To go
4) 234 new (rail) cars
5) Lessons on pronounciation
6) Assistance
7) Assistance with trail counting
8) To know results of card giveaway
9) Millions in repairs
10) More taxis
11) To learn from Teen Challenge
12) To pay nonprofit
13) A president committed to transit
14) to have theatrical sound and lighting
15) More time to fix escalators
16) Bangalore, Karnatka, India
17) Toilets
18) Bridges
19) To continue Great Society
20) Ob/GYN


I'd probably agree with most of those. However in the case of 20 I'd prefer said OB/GYN to have dark wavy hair and an impressive bustline. And at a stretch I could combine 6 with 7, and 17 with 18.

With Apologies

Sometime in the way-back-whenago my longtime friend Hobbes stopped in for a visit. We haven't seen each other for about many-many years, and we've clearly wandered a long way from our Catholic school days in La Belle Province.

Hobbes most recently wrote me to say that he'd written a story with me in mind. I found it fascinating, and said I'd post a link to it. Here, after rather too long a delay, is that link.

But don't confine yourself to that single story. Hobbes has mad story skillz and is a delight to listen to. Check out his blog and listen to a few for yourself.

The fascinating thing about the story, for me, is the marvelous mix of fact, fiction, and perspective I find in it. The tale is so compelling that I could think it was true, or that my actual memories of that time in my life were somehow wrong, FSM knows they're foggy enough. I might even believe that "Ted" was the name I was Christened with--and it isn't, lest the Avid Fans (all five of them) wonder.

I've put a couple of new links in the sidebar. It's all I've got time for at the moment. I can't believe I ever got anything done when I was employed.

A Passing Thought

Mme and I were having a discussion as we walked to work (her work. I'm as yet underemployed) about the things that sometimes happen to couples.

"I think," quoth she "that we're good enough friends that even if things didn't work out we'd still live together."

She thinks.

Naturally my first thought was to wonder why the hell that thought had ever crossed her mind.

However, on second thought we've both heard of couples separated by time, distance, and circumstance, so it's fairly natural to consider a future under which we might find ourselves one of those couples.

"Well," I returned "We haven't seen Mum and Dad's house since the remodelling. It wouldn't surprise me to discover that they'd moved into twin beds or even separate rooms. I mean, Mum snores something historic!"

"Wait" I second-thoughted, "Why would Dad care? He's deaf nowadays."

Mother Nature is a true romantic sometimes.

@Google News: I Have Just One Question

--Who the flaming, frying, flying, fiddle-eye ₤µ©λ is Natasha Richardson?

Okay, she falled down go boom, bumped her head. I sympathize. But she seems to have taken over Google news, and I'm sorry, no actress deserves the attention she's getting. I mean, she fell on the friggin' bunny hill. Me, I'd be plurry embarrassed about that.

It looks as though she has a concussion. Big whoop--we're wetting our collective pants about this why?

Yesterday I saw a story entitled "Head injuries can turn deadly" or some such godawful drivel. Naturally the first ten words contained the name "Richardson" twice.

Forgive me if I think there's more important $#17 going on. As far as I know, there were at least three possible concussions in the NHL last night, and none of them are even in hospital.

And look at the stuff that gets shoved down the page because of it:

As cuts to our science programs and the marginalization of science continue under the Conservative "Feel-better-through-ignorance" program, Canada's science minister gives a firm, clear, answer to the question "Do you believe in evolution?"

That firm clear answer, however, is "I refuse to answer questions about my religion."

The problem isn't Goodyear's religion. The problem is that the Conservative Party of Canada neither likes nor understands science or scientists. And that's why, in the digital age, Canadians are cutting down trees and digging big ₤µ©λing holes in order to sell their country by the ounce, barrel, and board-foot to nations that'll sell it back to them as plastic, integrated circuits, and futons.

Evolution only has to do with religion if you're one of a particularly blockheaded and narrow-minded selection of Christian sects. I mean, even the Pope believes that evolution is the working meachanism by which his hairy thunderer keeps the biological world on its toes.

A science minister should have a stock pat answer for that question and be able to give it on cue as easily as Pavlov's dogs answered their bell. To fail to do so suggests either cluelessness unbecoming a government hack--I mean minister--or religious rigidity unbecoming anyone in charge of science.

Speaking of the Pope: He just gets better and better. He's defended the excommunication of people who helped secure a d&c for a nine-year old rape victim. He has allowed people who to this day believe the Holocaust is a hoax to wrap themselves in the authority of the Catholic Church--to speak with spiritual authority on major issues.

And this week, pushed to the mid-page by Natasha whosit's boo-boo, the Pope said that condoms aren't the solution to AIDS in Africa (a reasonable sentiment, and one I agree with [the two are not always the same]).

However, the Pope added the secret ingredient "radioactive stupid" to his stance when he said condoms may make the AIDS epidemic in Africa worse.

And it's amazing, with a few well-chosen words the Pope manages to go from a straightforward, well-understood, meaningful position, to a bucketload of stupidinium.

I mean, does he really believe that the few miserable and precious inches of ground we have gained in the struggle to keep this disease from killing half a continent are all due to husbands keeping their peckers in their pants, wives keeping their skirts down, and prayer? Honestly?

Meanwhile, Washington DC struggles with its own AIDS epidemic. Newsworthy, were it not for the eagerness with which we're apparently pursuing Mme Richardson. And I'll lay a pint to a prawn that she'll be "looking pale and tired, but happy" as she thanks "all her supporters and well-wishers" as she leaves the hospital. Unlike, say, any number of Washington AIDS patients.

Meanwhile:

Up to 1,000 Gambian villagers have been abducted by "witch doctors" to secret detention centres and forced to drink potions, a human rights group says. [...] The London-based rights group said the witch hunters, said to be from neighbouring Guinea, were invited into Gambia after the death of the president's aunt earlier this year was blamed on witchcraft.

Kate Allen, Amnesty's UK director, said hundreds of Gambians have fled to neighbouring Senegal for safety after seeing their villages attacked.

Somewhere out there, the African Union is presumably warming up the Pope-signal.

But hey, husband Liam Neeson has apparently flown to Natasha's side, so as day three of the Natasha Richardson Concussion Watch draws to a lunchtime, stand by for more agonizing detail.

But first a word from our sponsor!

*Sober second thought (AKA ass-covering). Perhaps I've misread this and Miss Richardson's injury is more than a common or garden-variety concussion. I still don't feel that the story deserves more column inches than real, important $#17 that's going down, right now, in the world.

Just When You Thought it Was Safe to Go Back Into the Inbox

I went back to the inbox yesterday. Thought it would all be over, that things might have settled down.

Not quite.

I have previously received mail for other variations of "Metro" such as "M. Etro," "Me_Tro," etc. from such diverse groups as a veterinarian (the type of animal involved is as yet unknown, but goes by the name of "Blinky"), a school board, and the Boy Scouts of America. Who would definitely not approve of my latest inbox find.

The first was innocuous enough: An art gallery invite consisting of a postcard-sized scan of a drawing that might have been done in tenth grade art class. Even down to the two nude ladies holding hands.

I don't know much about art, but I like looking at nude ladies, so I was going to RSVP when I noticed that the invite was for a) a Friday night some long time gone and b) a gallery in New York City. Lacking a TARDIS, I was forced to decline.

The next item was *sound the trumpets* a job offer. As I am unemployed, I paged through the mental file labelled "Jobs I Have Applied For". It's a thinnish file--professional writing work doesn't lend itself to the descriptor "job" too often, really--And contains nowhere the nomenclature "project co-ordinator." That's Mme's line of country.

However, Missoula, MT isn't impossibly far away, and for a while I considered following up and attempting the interview. But they wouldn't actually have hired me, and if they had it's doubtless that M Etro might have been peeved. So I returned it with a polite note hoping they could find the actual candidate, but if they needed some communications work done that my word processor is at their disposal.

The third item of mail, also intended for someone else, was an invitation to "Dance Bitch." It was from a person who is apparently an actor, with at least one production film to his credit, said movie being called Swishbucklers, set for release this year. While the IMDB page gives no useful information, the list of "If you enjoyed this title, our database also recommends" movies includes "Clones Gone Wild" and "Johnny, Are You Queer?" This actor is named Billy Francesca.

Enclosed was this picture. I believe Mmlle Francesca is the person in the middle.



I considered attending, but it appears to be in San Francisco, and while I could arrive there fashionably late in the Lear, my sequined thong won't be back from the cleaners.

Quel dommage, darlings ...

What? Are you kidding? I'm an actor, dammit! It is my bounden duty to attend functions at which I might attract the attention of Hollywood producers. Which, admittedly seems unlikely given the picture.

Unless Hollywood producers are into bears.