Collingwood Kerfuffle

There's an interesting piece in the National Post today about Sun News, which got me thinking about the current upset gripping Collingwood with regard to the recreation facilities and privately owned soccer dome.

You can read it for yourself here

I'm not going to weigh in on whether Sun News belongs on basic cable, but Johnathan Kay sums up what's on the channel pretty well. He's also right when he suggests personal animosity can be a great motivator in a search for 'truth'. Matt Drudge + Bill Clinton = Monica Lewinsky, for example. Which brings me to Collingwood, and the current kerfuffle.

A lot of people I have spoken with firmly believe there is something strange about the way decisions have been made when it comes to the new recreation facilities in town. They don't know what, they don't know why, if anyone benefitted or how, but many of my friends believe something, somehow, is amiss. Many people I've talked to also don't know what to make of the weirdness in the case of Pretty River Academy's soccer dome. You might remember the last mass mailing about a town of Collingwood issue was a strange rant about dealings with the ethanol plant.

Having already been threatened with a lawsuit for a series of stories I wrote a couple of years ago, I am ashamed to say I have not pursued these issues very hard. The suit didn't make it to court, but the legal bill was still large, and I would rather not test my company's patience or pocketbook again. Yes, libel chill is alive and well. Which is why when a local blogger decided to look a little more closely at town hall doings, including an FOI request (not cheap) and publication of excerpts from town hall emails, I watched with interest.

I don't know Steve Berman. I have not met him. But based on the name of his blog, (Enough is Enough) I suspect the motivation for his journalism might have something to do with animosity, and I'm OK with that. As in the Sun's case against David Suzuki, if hostility is what it takes to shine some light on actions that might be inappropriate or inept, bring it on. I'm not saying there is anything wrong going on, only that I'm glad someone is watching.

They say it's tough to watch democracy or sausage being made. I'd add journalism to the list.

One Handed Typist

Because I'm holding tight to the desk with the other one!

A weird thing developed Saturday evening, and it's been plaguing me ever since. If you've had vertigo in any of its incarnations, my condolences; if you haven't, count your blessings.

I will likely have to repaint my walls this spring because they are marked up from my hands holding desperately to them whenever I walk around. I'm dizzy and lightheaded and the world stops spinning only when I sit very, very still. I seriously was holding on to the desk at work yesterday when I wasn't on air.

Sunday morning, the dizzyness made me nauseated and I lost my breakfast. During a church service. One of the congregants asked afterwards if I had some good news to share. I told him there was plenty of "good news" in the gospels, thank you very much. Well, I would have said that if I'd thought of it at the time, but my witty repartee has departed along with my balance.

My GP has given me a diagnosis, but sadly, there's no treatment save for sitting still when possible for the next 7-14 days. I am proud to say I have now caught up on all the TED talks and Mad Men episodes on Netflix.

As for exercise, I shuffle around the house like an old man in a nursing home, so I suspect I will provide plenty of comic relief to my fellow runners in the next while.

Oh, well, if you can't be witty, you might as well be funny!

The Return

A world traveller returns to my life this week, and I have some mixed emotions about it.

My mother has spent the last six weeks out of the country, five of them visiting with my brother and his family in Brisbane, and the last few days in Hawaii, taking tours and having a look around.

When I pick her up, I will give her several hugs, a bottle of Melatonin to combat jet lag and reluctantly, the keys to her vehicle.

She drives a truck, a big one, with snow tires and four wheel drive.

When I dropped her off at the airport for the start of the journey, she told me to use the truck while she was gone. I took her up on the offer, knowing my aging VW Beetle is great on gas, but in the snow, not so much. It hardly snowed over Christmas, so my only 'benefit' from the truck was the enormous bill every time I filled its tank. These last few days, however, my gratitude for those big wheels has grown.

To be fair to Byng the Bug, there has been exactly one time I haven't made it where I was going in the snow these last 13 years. The first weekend I brought Byng to my parents' farm from Weirs, back in the winter of 1999, my dad refused to blow out the driveway to let me get to the Mountain View. I tried and failed to get out after the Leafs game, although I was so angry, I might have melted some of the snow that was up past Byng's doors. Since then, with front wheel drive and no snow tires, there have been a lot of gasps and worries during my wanders. I like to say 'It's not the tires, it's the driver,", but I admit it: I'm simply too cheap to buy snow tires when there are shoes I don't own yet!

Byng is on his last legs; he's 15 years old and I have loved him desperately, but soon, he will have to go. I haven't decided with what to replace him, but I'm thinking it might have to be something with four-by. And maybe something more up to date than a cassette player. Maybe.

Oh, I didn't like paying the bill for the gas on the Ridgeline, but I sure did enjoy never once wondering if I could make a turn or whether I might get into my driveway, piled high by the snow plows.

Hibernation

I will not run in the rain.
I will run in snow, but not in a snowstorm.
I will not run when it's below -10C.
Period.

Yes, I love the results of daily vigorous exercise, but I don't think it's necessary to be a Spartan about it. Oh, you "Spartan Race" people, you go have fun with that.

So, the forecast tells me I will be taking part only in indoor activities for the next few weeks, but I have not yet invested in the rowing machine I have coveted for several years now. What's a girl to do? Well, I sometimes use a yoga DVD that leaves me sweaty and out of breath, even while focusing and centring, and of course, there's the curling.

Before you laugh, I, too don't always consider curling to be the most strenuous of exercises. But yesterday, 15 rocks into my practice, I removed my jacket to find the sweater underneath wet from the exertion. Yes, it's anaerobic, but it still counts. 32 thrown rocks plus skipping a game, and I'm pretty sure I have found a non-rain, non-snowing way to avoid running outdoors in the frigid weather. (my team played very well, me, not so much...)

Now, if only I could find a way to get baking classified as exercise, all would be well.

Cheating on my Inner Bitter Ender

Seriously, it's time to do some reading.

I thought I might have forgotten how, thanks to Hilary Mantel and her massive Henry the VIII tome, Wolf Hall. The first three hundred pages were gripping, but sometime in September around page 410, it started to drag, and I haven't been able to get through it. Because I'm a 'bitter ender', I have not read anything but magazine articles while the tome sits accusingly on my bedside table. I play bejewelled or read Canadian Running, Real Simple or the Walrus, but I just can't pick up another novel. It feels like cheating; I have to finish reading what I'm reading even if it every page is like poison to me (full disclosure: I stole that line from Linda Holmes of Pop Culture Happy Hour).

And then, I found something worse than Wolf Hall and broke the spell. I thought, "I'll find something as different as possible, and I'll be fine not being a bitter ender any more..." Well, what I found for five bucks in the second hand store on Second street couldn't be more different and yet somehow managed to be worse.

How did Carrie Fisher's memoir, Wishful Drinking even get published, I ask you?
The only nice thing I have to say about the poorly written, badly punctuated non-revelatory revelations are they were mostly spelled correctly, and even that leaves a bitter taste. However it did break the Mantel Spell. I'm free, free at last!

Someone, anyone, recommend something, anything!
Please don't let that piece of crap be the last thing I ever read...

Movie Review: Django Unchained

The D is silent.

The movie is not.

Here's how much I liked it, Spike Lee's protests notwithstanding: When my sweetheart and I finally managed to purchase our tickets for Saturday's 7 o'clock show, there were six seats left in the theatre. ("Saturday night when the skiing is crappy in Collingwood - how busy can it be?" We asked ourselves...) None of those seats were together, so I put hubby in the last remaining aisle seat and perched next to him on the stairs. Someone kindly directed me to a seat a few rows back, but I saved a stranger from my obnoxious asides and stayed where I was. (Before you think him unchivalrous, Sweetie offered several times to switch spots with me.) Three hours later, I was still on the edge of the stair, never having noticed I wasn't in a chair. No numb-bum, no sore back, no nothing. I was mesmerised: totally engrossed in the story, the action, the dialogue, all of it superb.

Favourite bits: the sendup of the KKK, the exploding blood and every scene in which Christoph Waltz appears.

Yes it's brutal. Yes, it's funny, yes, it's snappy and witty and everything you would expect from Quentin Tarantino, and yet it's more, too.

At one point, I found myself nearly praying, "Please don't let this be the one where he goes for an unhappy ending - I couldn't stand it!" I was not disappointed. The ending has more than enough revenge to be satisfying, and the whole thing does something Tarantino has not attempted before - he's made us think.

I have no problem at all with the word so many people are upset is whipped out a hundred times. It's the word people used plenty in the antebellum south, and which plenty still use in the privacy of their homes and minds. I actually wish people would use that word a bit more often. Five years worth of ridiculous 'birther' arguments might have been avoided if the racists were just free to say they don't want one in the White House.

Best buck I've ever spent

Well, the two best.

I am now a full-fledged subscriber to what the lovely Sarah Palin used to call the 'lamestream media'.

We need more of the mainstream media, frankly, and I have now scaled the paywalls of both The New York Times and The Globe and Mail. A buck each for the the first month for full digital access, and four and five dollars a month respectively thereafter.

When The National Post goes paywall, I will also subscribe. The Sun? Maybe not, but the local papers, most definitely.

I have done this not only because I respect people who can correctly use the words respectively and thereafter, but because as a person who works in media, I understand very well that the people who work in media like to eat. They also like to pay their mortgages, and even in some cases, have benefits like extended healthcare or perhaps a pension.

The current media model has been broken by the Internet, so a lot of industries have had to change. When was the last time you used a travel agency, for example?

Many people do not understand this piece of truth and are peeved about having to pay for something that has been free for about ten years. I, too love a bargain, but that old adage about getting what you pay for is very often true in the world of media. If you want your breaking news from a twitter feed, by all means, get your information from a kid with a smartphone. I want that information also, but I want my analysis from someone who has no grudge or vested interest, who has put in the time, the hours and the dedication to figure out what's going on, with the experience to see trends and offer genuine, thorough thought to their stories.

Yes, there are lazy professional journalists. There are also lazy cops, judges, personal assistants, dental hygienists, mechanics and electricians; all of us have our days. At the end of the day, do you want your news and information from a professional, or a professional tweeter?

I have voted with my wallet for they type of information I want. The real kind, produced by paid people.

What I learned in 2012

During the first week of this year, after recovering from my annual hangover, I have spent some time thinking about what I managed to extract from the previous year, learning-wise (pardon the pun).

Here's my list so far, in no particular order:

Fair and equal are not the same thing.
My mother tried to instill this one into a much younger me as I divided the 750ml bottle of Coke into three glasses on Saturday night while the Leafs were playing and my brothers and I were home. I don't think it really 'took' until more recently.

I need to read more novels.
Hilary Mantel's Wolf Hall is still on my bedside table, accusing me of being a quitter, and I haven't picked up anything but magazines since I became a quitter of Hilary Mantel novels, back in October.

Friends are not family.
OK, I didn't learn this one, this year, but I want to rant about it a bit. I'm so very tired of people who say things like, 'We're so close, we're like family! She's a sister to me!" I call BS! You can stop being friends with a friend when they disappoint or betray you. You cannot stop being a sibling to your siblings, no matter what they do or how much you would like to. I have plenty of former friends, but no former siblings.

Being thin(ish) takes a lot of effort.
It's worth it.