This is not supposed to be a book I care about, as it's been so very, very long since I was a teen or a tween or whatever we called those people, waaay back in the 80s and 90s.
But I devoured The Hunger Games a year ago when a girlfriend loaned me the three books in the futuristic dystopian series, and I bought my own copies not long afterwards.
I re-read the first one yesterday, in anticipation of today's big movie release, and it's just as good as it was the first time I read it.
What's not to like about a powerful teenage girl who feeds her family, gets angry fights like a tiger and is ambivalent about love? I don't see myself in Katniss Everdeen, but I'd like to, and the story, while gory, seems plausible, especially in our 1 percent world.
As for the movie? Who cares? I'm not there to see a masterpiece, I'm there to see the book I really enjoyed, acted out. My only question is whether I go on my own, drag my sweetie to see it or wrangle a group of buddies who've read it. Perhaps it will be all of the above.
Friday, March 23, 2012
Monday, March 19, 2012
The Mother of Invention
I spent part of my Friday night on the lookout for horses.
Specifically, the four horsemen of the apocalypse.
As my sweetheart and I returned home from our regular Friday night curling match, we spotted my mother in the porch of our house. She was using her new laptop to check her email, using my wifi.
My mother. Checking email. Surely the second coming is at hand for my computer-averse, nearly 70 year old mommy to a) own a laptop computer b)fire it up by herself c) check her email at my house without supervision.
But ten minutes later, we were practising our videochatting in advance of our first 'computer date' with my brother, sister in law, nieces and nephew as they continue their adventure in Australia.
There were a few glitches, (apparently wifi at McDonalds in Brisbane does not support videochat) but we did manage a conversation.
While Internet video is nowhere near as smooth as the commercials might lead you to believe, it's vastly superior to, say, letter writing.
I've ever seen anything in this world like the light in my mom's eyes when my five year old's shining, dimpled morning face and messy hair showed up on screen with a, "Hi, Gramma!" It was worth every penny of the extra broadband charges I'm likely facing.
Specifically, the four horsemen of the apocalypse.
As my sweetheart and I returned home from our regular Friday night curling match, we spotted my mother in the porch of our house. She was using her new laptop to check her email, using my wifi.
My mother. Checking email. Surely the second coming is at hand for my computer-averse, nearly 70 year old mommy to a) own a laptop computer b)fire it up by herself c) check her email at my house without supervision.
But ten minutes later, we were practising our videochatting in advance of our first 'computer date' with my brother, sister in law, nieces and nephew as they continue their adventure in Australia.
There were a few glitches, (apparently wifi at McDonalds in Brisbane does not support videochat) but we did manage a conversation.
While Internet video is nowhere near as smooth as the commercials might lead you to believe, it's vastly superior to, say, letter writing.
I've ever seen anything in this world like the light in my mom's eyes when my five year old's shining, dimpled morning face and messy hair showed up on screen with a, "Hi, Gramma!" It was worth every penny of the extra broadband charges I'm likely facing.
Friday, March 16, 2012
Whither Al Gore?
Has anyone seen or heard from Al Gore lately? I'm thinking he must be having quite a laugh. He and those UN scientists.
Don't get me wrong, if this amazing spring weather is a sign of global climate change, sign me up, and keep digging those tar sands, boys; dig, baby dig!
Gore of course, won an Oscar for his movie about his speaking tour about the perils of too much carbon in our atmosphere and the dire consequences thereof. He said we were already in uncharted territory. Those climate change scientists won the Nobel prize for their work figuring out that big changes are on the way for us, climate wise. And here we are, heading into week two of basking in record temperatures.
Now, across much of eastern Europe, it's been the snowiest winter in a century or two, but that's what Gore was saying, too. Any ice up there in the north pole? No? Cool.
You know, if I knew climate change was going to be this awesome, I'd have bought an SUV. To keep it going, I've decided to do my laundry and run the dishwasher any old time I like. I'm not worried about flooding, not with no snow, and the mudslide that's affecting me is the one in my glass, on the back deck, in March, in flipflops.
Don't get me wrong, if this amazing spring weather is a sign of global climate change, sign me up, and keep digging those tar sands, boys; dig, baby dig!
Gore of course, won an Oscar for his movie about his speaking tour about the perils of too much carbon in our atmosphere and the dire consequences thereof. He said we were already in uncharted territory. Those climate change scientists won the Nobel prize for their work figuring out that big changes are on the way for us, climate wise. And here we are, heading into week two of basking in record temperatures.
Now, across much of eastern Europe, it's been the snowiest winter in a century or two, but that's what Gore was saying, too. Any ice up there in the north pole? No? Cool.
You know, if I knew climate change was going to be this awesome, I'd have bought an SUV. To keep it going, I've decided to do my laundry and run the dishwasher any old time I like. I'm not worried about flooding, not with no snow, and the mudslide that's affecting me is the one in my glass, on the back deck, in March, in flipflops.
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
Surrounded by Tragedy
In one of the newsrooms where I used to work, I remember clearly one of my fellow anchors dismissing a story from the lineup, saying, 'It's only lowlife scum killing lowlife scum, and no one really cares!" I don't remember the actual story, but I do remember it was a shooting, thought to be gang-related and what he was saying was that it involved a portion of society with which our listeners might not come into regular contact. By 'no one', he meant, 'no one like us'.
Those harsh comments came back to me this week as details continue to emerge about the short life and horrific death of Victoria Stafford of Woodstock.
Last week, we heard she was being raised by a single mother, a drug addict who gave birth at 17, and who apparently didn't have a job.
The woman who admits killing Tori was also a drug addict, a dropout on welfare, daughter of a stripper who, as an infant, had been 'given' to another stripper only to be raised in a succession of violent, drug-addled households.
We don't yet know the circumstances of the man who's accused of rape and murder, but I'm going to bet his 'backstory' will be similar to the mother and his co-accused.
How far back in these people's lives would we have to look to find someone holding down a job, meeting their responsibilities, unaddicted, with an education and self-respect and a life's goal other than escaping the pain inflicted by their circumstances?
Victoria's murder is a tragedy and a hideous crime. But there were a lot of lost lives in the universe that child inhabited, and those lives were lost long before Victoria's life was taken.
Those harsh comments came back to me this week as details continue to emerge about the short life and horrific death of Victoria Stafford of Woodstock.
Last week, we heard she was being raised by a single mother, a drug addict who gave birth at 17, and who apparently didn't have a job.
The woman who admits killing Tori was also a drug addict, a dropout on welfare, daughter of a stripper who, as an infant, had been 'given' to another stripper only to be raised in a succession of violent, drug-addled households.
We don't yet know the circumstances of the man who's accused of rape and murder, but I'm going to bet his 'backstory' will be similar to the mother and his co-accused.
How far back in these people's lives would we have to look to find someone holding down a job, meeting their responsibilities, unaddicted, with an education and self-respect and a life's goal other than escaping the pain inflicted by their circumstances?
Victoria's murder is a tragedy and a hideous crime. But there were a lot of lost lives in the universe that child inhabited, and those lives were lost long before Victoria's life was taken.
Monday, March 12, 2012
Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes
Well, they do say the only constant in life is change, and I'm discovering just how true that is.
This weekend was one of massive change for me. Friday, we held a farewell party for my morning show co-host at 97.7 FM The Beach. Kevin and his wife are now on their way to Yellowknife, where they will start a northern adventure and the next phase of their lives. They're young and clearly adventuresome, and I wish them the best.
I'm waiting while we decide who will replace Kevin. Whoever it is, I'm excited to get to know them and introduce them area.
While I'm told you shouldn't wish your life away, I'm really hoping this summer goes by quickly, as I suffer through the other big change in my life. Yesterday, my family went en masse to the airport in Toronto to see off my brother and his family and an enormous amount of baggage, as they departed for Australia. They're moving down under for at least two years as part of a big promotion for my sister in law. They're still mid-flight and we're already missing them pretty badly.
They'll be back for a visit over Christmas and my mom, husband and I are planning a trip to see them this time next year. But, wow, a year is a long time and Christmas is pretty far off. Those three kids are the only grandkids my mother is going to get, so it's especially tough on her.
Email and other technology are going to be helpful, but you can't brush the tangles out of a five year old's blonde locks on Skype, no matter how hard you try.
So, bring on the new guy, I need a distraction. and for the first time since I was a little kid, I'm paying attention to those calendars that say how many days until Christmas: 287.
This weekend was one of massive change for me. Friday, we held a farewell party for my morning show co-host at 97.7 FM The Beach. Kevin and his wife are now on their way to Yellowknife, where they will start a northern adventure and the next phase of their lives. They're young and clearly adventuresome, and I wish them the best.
I'm waiting while we decide who will replace Kevin. Whoever it is, I'm excited to get to know them and introduce them area.
While I'm told you shouldn't wish your life away, I'm really hoping this summer goes by quickly, as I suffer through the other big change in my life. Yesterday, my family went en masse to the airport in Toronto to see off my brother and his family and an enormous amount of baggage, as they departed for Australia. They're moving down under for at least two years as part of a big promotion for my sister in law. They're still mid-flight and we're already missing them pretty badly.
They'll be back for a visit over Christmas and my mom, husband and I are planning a trip to see them this time next year. But, wow, a year is a long time and Christmas is pretty far off. Those three kids are the only grandkids my mother is going to get, so it's especially tough on her.
Email and other technology are going to be helpful, but you can't brush the tangles out of a five year old's blonde locks on Skype, no matter how hard you try.
So, bring on the new guy, I need a distraction. and for the first time since I was a little kid, I'm paying attention to those calendars that say how many days until Christmas: 287.
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
Women of Words
Heather, Margaret, Christie and Maureen. These are the writers I seek out every day when I make the rounds of the online newspapers. Heather Mallick in the Star, Margaret Wente of the Globe, Christie Blatchford in the Post and Maureen Dowd of the Times. They and Sue Ann Levy of the Sun and Rosie Dimanno of the Star, oh, what I would give to have them all at a dinner party!
In her column today, Mallick laments what she sees as a battle over women's reproductive rights that's being fought AGAIN or perhaps STILL in the US. Her upset comes from a confluence of events including comments from a Toronto police officer, rhetoric from the Republican race for presidential nominees and Rush Limbaugh's radio show wherein the corpulent drug addict loudly and repeatedly called a female university student a 'slut'. The reason Limbaugh used that word and also called the student a prostitute dozens of times over the last few days before he finally apologised? The student testified at the US congress, advocating for birth control to be included in her student health insurance.
It is always amusingly ironic when people like Limbaugh, married four times, have disparaging opinions on the sexual habits of other people. Is there no mirror in his house? I also find it strange when people like him, so in favour of going after the Taliban and other Muslim extremists, adopt some of the attitudes held by their enemies.
But I also find it ironic that Mallick worries so publicly about women being under siege. Surely if things are as bad as she's making out, I wouldn't have access to her opinions, published in a national newspaper along with those of her well-paid colleagues.
In her column today, Mallick laments what she sees as a battle over women's reproductive rights that's being fought AGAIN or perhaps STILL in the US. Her upset comes from a confluence of events including comments from a Toronto police officer, rhetoric from the Republican race for presidential nominees and Rush Limbaugh's radio show wherein the corpulent drug addict loudly and repeatedly called a female university student a 'slut'. The reason Limbaugh used that word and also called the student a prostitute dozens of times over the last few days before he finally apologised? The student testified at the US congress, advocating for birth control to be included in her student health insurance.
It is always amusingly ironic when people like Limbaugh, married four times, have disparaging opinions on the sexual habits of other people. Is there no mirror in his house? I also find it strange when people like him, so in favour of going after the Taliban and other Muslim extremists, adopt some of the attitudes held by their enemies.
But I also find it ironic that Mallick worries so publicly about women being under siege. Surely if things are as bad as she's making out, I wouldn't have access to her opinions, published in a national newspaper along with those of her well-paid colleagues.
A deal with myself
Who can I complain to if I don't live up to a deal I made with myself?
Ten degrees is the line for me. The line between running and not running, and I want to break my deal.
When winter started to (sort of) arrive this year, a lot of people asked me whether I would continue my running even with snow in the air and on the ground. After a summer of fitness and fun, and a few lung-chilling attempts on the trails, I hemmed and hawwwed. Eventually, I made a deal with myself: I would not run in the snow, but would pick my shoes back up when the temperature hit plus ten.
Even though my inspiration for running is leaving the country this weekend, I'm determined to continue training. Just not when the weather is crummy, mildly crummy, or might be crummy.
I have legions of reasons (excuses) for this: 1) I run with my dog leashed to my waist, so if it's icy, I can't really control where we'll go should she suddenly see something very interesting 2) I hate being cold. (yes, I skip a curling team, and it doesn't get a whole lot colder than standing on ice for two hours, but I digress...) 3) I hate being cold 4) I hate being cold.
But today, it's not cold. It's going to be sunny and plus 12.
Rats.
Where did I store my shoes?
Ten degrees is the line for me. The line between running and not running, and I want to break my deal.
When winter started to (sort of) arrive this year, a lot of people asked me whether I would continue my running even with snow in the air and on the ground. After a summer of fitness and fun, and a few lung-chilling attempts on the trails, I hemmed and hawwwed. Eventually, I made a deal with myself: I would not run in the snow, but would pick my shoes back up when the temperature hit plus ten.
Even though my inspiration for running is leaving the country this weekend, I'm determined to continue training. Just not when the weather is crummy, mildly crummy, or might be crummy.
I have legions of reasons (excuses) for this: 1) I run with my dog leashed to my waist, so if it's icy, I can't really control where we'll go should she suddenly see something very interesting 2) I hate being cold. (yes, I skip a curling team, and it doesn't get a whole lot colder than standing on ice for two hours, but I digress...) 3) I hate being cold 4) I hate being cold.
But today, it's not cold. It's going to be sunny and plus 12.
Rats.
Where did I store my shoes?
Friday, March 2, 2012
Introducing
It was quite a thrill when I got to meet and introduce Stephen Lewis at an event at Blue Mountain a few years ago, and my sweetheart assures me I gushed just enough, but not too much as I brought the loquacious humanitarian to the stage.
Introducing other people has turned into a bit of a sideline for me, as I get frequent requests to host events and be Master of Ceremonies.
Tomorrow night, at a fundraiser for My Friends House, I get to introduce Dan Needles, the playwright whose work seems to be woven through my life.
I had my heart very badly bruised by a philandering redhead after a family outing to a Needles show at the Hummingbird centre quite some time ago. (So long ago, it was still called the Hummingbird Centre....) I knew something was up when the rotter wouldn't hold my hand during the performance. Sure enough, after he took me home to my tiny hovel in Cabbagetown, he told me he needed a break from our relationship, which had become too intense for him. It was several months later and in rather dramatic fashion that I found out he needed a break from me because he had already moved in with another girl. They're married with two kids now (thanks facebook!), so I guess she really was the one for him. I just wish he'd had the strength of character to tell me the truth, instead of spinning his long, long list of lies and leaving me wondering for months what I had done to drive him away. Turns out, it wasn't me at all, he was just a lying cheater.
On a happier Needles note, one weekend when I was in college in London, I was so poor (OK, I had spent all my OSAP at the bar), I couldn't pay for the gas to drive three hours home. But I was dreadfully homesick and there was a 'pay what you can' matinee performance of the latest 'Letter from Wingfield Farm' at the theatre in the city's downtown. So, for two bucks, I spent the afternoon with the the people I know who lived in his play. I swear one guy was directly drawn from my Uncle Don, although Dan would never tell.
I expect I'll use those stories when I introduce Dan on Saturday night. The fundraiser is sold out, so I hear, just like many of Dan's performances.
Introducing other people has turned into a bit of a sideline for me, as I get frequent requests to host events and be Master of Ceremonies.
Tomorrow night, at a fundraiser for My Friends House, I get to introduce Dan Needles, the playwright whose work seems to be woven through my life.
I had my heart very badly bruised by a philandering redhead after a family outing to a Needles show at the Hummingbird centre quite some time ago. (So long ago, it was still called the Hummingbird Centre....) I knew something was up when the rotter wouldn't hold my hand during the performance. Sure enough, after he took me home to my tiny hovel in Cabbagetown, he told me he needed a break from our relationship, which had become too intense for him. It was several months later and in rather dramatic fashion that I found out he needed a break from me because he had already moved in with another girl. They're married with two kids now (thanks facebook!), so I guess she really was the one for him. I just wish he'd had the strength of character to tell me the truth, instead of spinning his long, long list of lies and leaving me wondering for months what I had done to drive him away. Turns out, it wasn't me at all, he was just a lying cheater.
On a happier Needles note, one weekend when I was in college in London, I was so poor (OK, I had spent all my OSAP at the bar), I couldn't pay for the gas to drive three hours home. But I was dreadfully homesick and there was a 'pay what you can' matinee performance of the latest 'Letter from Wingfield Farm' at the theatre in the city's downtown. So, for two bucks, I spent the afternoon with the the people I know who lived in his play. I swear one guy was directly drawn from my Uncle Don, although Dan would never tell.
I expect I'll use those stories when I introduce Dan on Saturday night. The fundraiser is sold out, so I hear, just like many of Dan's performances.
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