A few weeks ago Redzilla wrote a post with a really creepy picture of Pope Benedict II looking like a kind of perverted Santa:
One of the comments referred pointedly to Benny's "dead, sharky eyes". The other day I came across an even scarier illustration of this:
I picked up AmyH's wonderful gift today. The label on the package whispered promises of the whimsical and comfy contents therein.
When i got it home, I opened the box, my hands practically trembling from the anticipation...
Behold, wrapped lovingly in matching pink tissue paper: Sock. Monkey. Pajamas.
I proceeded to try on the jammies, which are indeed cozy and a perfect fit. My black cat, Shanti, immediately wanted to inspect them, to see if they met with her stringent feline code of comfort and suitability.
I have to say, my favourite thing about these jammies, apart from their intrinsic awesomeness, is the fact that instead of merely having a simple, repeating pattern, the sock monkeys are featured doing all kinds of fun, sock monkey activities. One is shown baking a coconut cream pie, while another is lounging in his easy chair, watching a TV show about sock monkeys (very po-mo, these jammies.)
Three cheers/moos for AmyH!
When we arrived home today from our visit with my in-laws, there was a package delivery notice waiting for me. I will be picking up the long-awaited, elusive sock monkey pajamas, hunted by many, bagged and shipped by AmyH, tomorrow. Huzzah!
The article marks violinist Jeanne Lamon's 25th anniversary as music director of Tafelmusik, a internationally-acclaimed Toronto-based early music ensemble.
An explanation: One Tuesday night in December, I got a frantic phone call from the editor. The writer who was supposed to do the cover story for them bailed. They were going to press Friday morning. Would I be able to help them out? Of course I said yes--I can't resist a challenge. Now remember that I already have a full-time job, on top of all my other journalism and critic gigs here in town. So I basically hustled, managed to do all the interviews Wednesday on my lunch break and after work, then wrote an 1,800-word article--with sidebars-- between 9 and 11 p.m. Wednesday night, for a Thursday morning deadline. Yeah, baby, I'm good. That's why they pay me the big bucks (I wish.).
But does being able to pull of this kind of party trick make me a writer? I often ask myself that question. I don't write fiction--maybe someday, but not yet. For now, I prefer telling other people's stories. Journalism and arts criticism are crafts as much as they are professions, and I've been making a good living from my writing since I was 21. I don't think I'm the most brilliant or effortless stylist in the literary sense, nor do I try to be. I can be witty, and as a reviewer I have acquired a reputation for being "the ruthless, arch one". I'm also fast, reliable, accurate and a pretty fearless interviewer, so my editors love me.
I am an incorrigeable eavesdropper, and I often find myself committing to memory the conversation of strangers. But I fear my imagination finds more delight in the anecdotal than in the sustained narrative.
Today, in the car, after we'd been driving around in silence for some minutes, Husband randomly says, a propos of nothing:
"Whatever happened to Arsenio Hall? Did he get teeth implants so he could blend into the general population? Or is he just holed up somewhere, waiting for the fade to come back because that's how his hair grows naturally?"
I got this off Fredzilla's blog. I'm vaguely skeeved out that he and I got the exact same answer...
Show us something from the 80's.
Two of Canada's most famous exports in the 80s:
Edit: I had forgotten about this other Canadian 80s classic:
For crankypants: a hilarious ad for the Ontario dairy farmers. Gotta love the dairy ho's and the lowrider tractor action.
Merry Christmas everybody! It's lovley reading how all the peeps have been spending the day.
We've just rolled back from the big annual family feast. My bro and his wife usually host--it's semi potluck, with everybody bringing delicacies. There is always a ridiculous amount of food, and everyone takes containers full of leftovers home.
I love how the Quebecois, Anglo, Portuguese and Goan traditions are all reflected at the table. This year there was roast turket, roast lamb, roast veal with a lovely apricot and pine-nut stuffing (yum) and, for the die-hard Indian-food lovers, shrimp curry. My sister in law also made a tourtiere, a traditional Quebecois meat pie usually served on Christmas Eve. I made my cranberry sauce with figs and port. Both of my older brothers are oenophiles, so the wine is always excellent. Then there were homemade Christmas cookies and cheeses with port for dessert (but no puddin').
After, as we were all digesting boozily, we opened presents. Husband and I got a nice bottle of wine, a really cool set of espresso cups, some sushi plates, and wineglasses. And some money from my parents, which we either spend on something mutual or divvy up evenly. Our gifts were a big hit: husband made prints of some of his photographs, and we matted and framed them ourselves.
My prezzie from Husband is lovely: a long strand of pastel-coloured freshwater pearls. Not the necklace I had posted--he picked it up in DC when he was there a couple of weeks ago for work. I already have a similar, short strand that I bought for myself for my birthday last year, but the pearls are larger on this necklace. I've actually been wearing it doubled, since I'm petite and don't fancy long necklaces. But it doesn't have a clasp, so it's awkward to get on and off (good thing I have a really small head!). I'm going to send it to a jeweler to have a nice clasp made for it.
For his present, I'm getting him a pair of custom leather half chaps to wear for riding. Not the Village People kind-- the ones that just come up to your knee. His old ones are falling apart, after a lot of abuse and multiple repairs. Anybody who rides knows that most horse gear is made for women; since hubby is tall, long-legged and athletic, it's super hard for him to find anything in his size. I'm not sure why, but even men's riding clothes seem to be cut for little scrawny guys; he has to buy his breeches 2 sizes up to fit his thighs, then takes the waist in. His riding jacket is also much bigger than is normal size--he'd rip the shoulder seams out otherwise. So anyway, we're going to a bootmaker who makes half-chaps to measure.
Tomorrow we drive to Toronto to see the Husband's family. It's about a 5 or 6-hour drive from here--with the greyhounds in the back of the Snaab, mind--and they're calling for a snowstorm, so it will probably be even longer. Yuck. We usually share the driving, but in bad weather he's by far the more experienced and skillful driver (I think I mentioned I've only had my licence for about 2 years), so we'll see. I feel super bad leaving him with all the driving, but it's probably safer.
Call me wimpy, but I find driving strange cars in strange cities stressful. Especially with nobody to serve as navigator. I was assured that the Miami city bus "goes everywhere." What they should have said is that the bus goes nowhere fast.
On Monday, I decided I was going to see some of the "real city" and walk around. I figured a good place to start was an area known as Coral Gables, which my book described as being very attractive, with nice cafes and boutiques. I got on a bus to downtown near my hotel, expecting it would be a fairly simple excursion. I did not count on an epic, 2-hour trip, compounded by an Extremely Unhelpful Driver who refused to provide any useful information (Me: "what bus will take me to x?" Him: "shrug". I found it telling that when I described this to people afterward, their first question was "did he speak English?" Sadly, the guy was plain ol' vanilla American; he didn't even have the no hablo excuse--and anyway, I speak enough Spanish to get by). He wouldn't even tell me when my stop was, even though I asked specifically for directions.
When I finally got there, Coral Gables was in fact pleasant, with elegant, older, tropical-style homes and lush gardens. I recovered my chill-out mode with an excellent crabcake sandwich, frites with a glass of sauvignon blanc at Tarpon Bend , followed by some retail therapy (Nordstroms, which we don't have in Canada, was having an amazing sample sale on designer shoes--all size 6. Since that's my exact size, I decided it was fate and bought two pairs).
On the return trip to SoBe, I said "screw public transit", and spent $35 on a cab. Yvette was picking me up at 7:30. She is even lovelier in person than in her photos. Her first words to me were, "I though you'd be taller"--I guess it wasn't clear that the Amazon part of my name is strictly ironic. She took me to the ultra-hip Nobu at the Shore Club for dinner, where we dined on the most divine fish and sushi, drank sake, and soaked in the "scene". One of those aforementioned Weird Hos sitting at the next table started babbling to us about how she got arrested last week, while her, um, "date" looked acutely uncomfortable. We had a good laugh about it after, strolling the boardwalk.I had a lovely evening thanks to my gracious and charming hostess, with the earlier aggravations of the day long forgotten.
The rest of the day dripped away with more long walks and longer drinks. Wednesday morning, I packed, checked out, then had just enough time to slip away for a quick visit to the Bass Museum of Art, where I finally found Husband's present: a book of b&w architectural photographs taken around SoBe. Then it was time to wave goodbye to the blue Miami sky, the palm trees, the Weird Hos, the jellyfish, the little dogs, the surly bus drivers, the flirtatious Cubano cabbies, the fake boobs and all that.
