Explanations, wanted and not

My sweetheart and I are in the process of making our Christmas lists.

Each year, we make a list of things we might like to have, and post it to a word document on the desktop of the computer. More recently we talk about what we'd like, and put notes in our 'phones.

Sweetie and I have been watching Bones on Netflix and he now wants crazy socks like Booth wears, so those are on his list. Yesterday, I mentioned I might like Rebecca Solnit's new book.

Had I made a less awesome choice of sweetheart, I might not be in a position to ask for such a present under my tree, but I was very smart in the long-ago, and so I will likely find the badly wrapped book among my collection of presents this year.

Solnit's book is titled, "Men Explain Things to Me." She's a print journalist, the long-form kind, who usually writes books rather than magazine or newspaper stuff. Solnit delves deep into her topics, and her interests vary widely. The idea for this book arrived when she was at a party with a girlfriend and they ended up in a conversation with a fellow guest on a topic about which Solnit had just published a book. The topic is esoteric and foreign and escapes me now, but the conversation between the author and the random guy at the party features him explaining to her the thesis of this book that's just been written on this esoteric and foreign topic. He doesn't stop explaining even after being told at least three times that he's addressing the author of the very work he's citing. Even once he realises, he continues with his explanations for a while.

You probably know where I'm going with this, but just in case you don't, here's my gist: the explaining thing by men to women is not rare. It's very, very common. Men talk about 'hen parties' and chattering women, but you put a man in a room with a woman and it won't be long before it's the man doing all the talking and more often than not, they're opining or explaining. At my curling club, I once got a long explanation about the radio news business, in which I've worked for 20 years. The man who told me all about it was in no way connected to broadcasting or journalism and I don't think had ever even called in to a phone-in radio show, but he sure wasn't shy explaining to me how radio journalism works.

Here's the rest of my gist: The explaining thing is part of a continuum of behaviour, waaaaaay at the far end of the continuum, but nonetheless on the continuum that starts with explaining and ends with women being knocked unconscious in elevators or worse. It's about entitlement.

The Jian Ghomeshi story, as shocking as it is, (and it is...) was more shocking to some men than it is to many women, because it shone a light on the fact that even the toughest woman lives in a very different world than even the nicest man. Women are explained to, interrupted, marginalised, and we know from a young age that we are not safe on our own streets and in our own homes, because some men feel they are entitled to whatever they want, even if what they want is to shout that they'd like to have sex or punch someone when they get excited.

Maybe a man could explain to me what that's like.

Soldiers in the Street

This image that made me cry at work this morning is from the Halifax Chronicle Herald's brilliant Bruce MacKinnon. What an moving piece of imagination.

I had been pretty much numb from the moment I saw the first bit of news about what was going on in Ottawa yesterday. I had wondered in passing why I wasn't more upset. What I inured to this stuff, becoming cynical? At about half-past seven I saw that cartoon and basically turned into a blubbering mess at my desk in the newsroom.

That picture says more than a thousand words about the waste of a life, about how soldiers think of each other and their duties, reminding me how strangers rushed to the aid of the mortally wounded man even though there was no guarantee the shooting was over. The image says something about how solders in the past and present are linked by service and sacrifice and a sense of duty, reminding me there were 60-thousand or so other Canadian volunteers who gave their lives in the Great War that started a century ago as of this year. It also makes me aware that we are still in a war; a long and protracted battle we don't understand the half of.

On a side note,
In my own reporting, I try to emulate the amazing Peter Mansbridge who, it seems, didn't take even one breath during six solid hours of commercial-free on-air reportage yesterday. He and his wonderful team treated the unfolding story with the seriousness it deserved, but reported only what was known for sure, constantly referring back to how we know what we know, refraining from comment on anything but the facts at hand.

Did you notice there were no 'experts' brought in for 'analysis' of the events before the events were complete? Did you notice there was little 'naming' of the coverage? Few computer-generated sweeps of the shiny words, "Breaking news"? Did you notice Mansbridge himself was rarely seen in the coverage, nor were many of the reporters? It was radio coverage with pictures and video and reporters on the 'phone. At CTV, they, too, stuck to the story, not needing to reach conclusions about motive, not asking for speculation. Actually, both major Canadian networks eschewed speculation, which for anyone who has watched these things unfold so often in the US, was nearly as stunning as the events themselves. Some have called the coverage yesterday, "a masterclass" put on by our national public broadcaster, and they're right.

Pant, Pant, Pants.

Well, let's hear it for goals achieved.
Hopefully.

I have spent the last six weeks preparing for the hot and sweaty hour I'm going to spend running tomorrow morning. I set a goal earlier this year of running a 10k race in under an hour, and I've spent most of the summer on long and short runs, learning the difference between a stride and an interval, figuring out tempo pace versus easy versus race pace.

Tomorrow's the day. I'm lacing up at Run Collingwood. It's a new race, only two years old, basically in my backyard, and some of the money raised from the race goes to the local hospital, so it's all good. If I don't hit my goal, I'm OK with that, too, because I've hit so many other goals along the way.,

I took up running three summers ago, as a way of slimming down and making memories with my family.

I had a number in mind on the scale, and I hit it in the first several months by eating less and moving more. The 'all about the bass' crowd doesn't want to hear this, but it's a pretty simple formula.

There are other benefits to running besides smaller pants. Research out this week shows exercise is one of the most potent methods to fight depression.

Imagine that- a way to fight two of the big troubles facing our entire society, obesity and depression, locked right there into two shoes, one foot in front of the other, for an hour and sometimes more.

No Respect? Pity.

I didn't say anything about Rob Ford on my radio show today. I have nothing nice to say, so I completely refrained.

I am not proud of feeling this way, but I can't bring myself to adopt the hushed tones of respect that have taken over Twitter and facebook and the TV news, with people saying things that invariably begin with, 'I don't agree with his politics but...' and then express hope for a speedy recovery, continue with an expression of how cancer sucks and then wind up with a bunch of other high-minded stuff that is really only about the fact that the writer or speaker wants you to think well of them for having a big heart.

I don't know what I do wish, but right now, today, I can't summon good wishes for a person who has been such a complete and utter jerk for so very long.

Here are some examples of how Rob Ford himself shows respect, in his own words:

“If you are not doing needles and you are not gay, you wouldn’t get AIDS probably, that’s the bottom line.”

“My heart bleeds for them (cyclists) when someone gets killed. But it’s their own fault at the end of the day.”

“This is an insult to my constituents to even think about having a (homeless) shelter in my ward!”

and let's not forget, "I have plenty to eat at home."

Rob Ford is an ass, and now he has a tumour in his ass. Like so much in the Ford saga, you just can't make this stuff up. Although Rob Ford has made up plenty, like telling a reporter just this week that he had a lung biopsy, which he did not. He told the same reporter this week, from his hospital bed, that he had a tumour removed from his appendix a few years ago, which he did not.

Just because someone is sick, they're not suddenly a saint. Please, let's stop the solemn tones of respect for someone who has squandered any right he has to it.

Pity, yes, for the cancer, for the neediness, for the addiction, for the drugs and the booze and the lying and the bullying and the shame he has brought to a great city. But not respect. No bloody way.

About those Celebrity Pics

I'm so glad I grew up in the age before the Internet. I can only imagine how much trouble I would have gotten my impulsive self into if I'd had a cellphone camera in my teens.

No doubt you've heard how Jennifer Lawrence and other celebrities had their private stashes of intimate self-portraits stolen and posted online by creepy hackers in a corner of the Internet many of us would rather not visit.

Those pictures could easily be of your daughter or granddaughter. Or maybe your son. Many, many people take nude selfies these days, especially those of us who work hard on and are proud of our bodies.

Some people say the celebrities shouldn't have racy pictures of themselves, but that is totally blaming the victim.

What if, instead of pictures that were stolen by the hackers, they were love letters or bank account access? What if the pictures were hard copies and in a safety deposit box? Still the celebrities' fault?

It's exactly the same thing. Private property. Stolen.

And, while I hate to say this, Playboy had it right, asking readers not to look at the purloined pics in an article saying that consent is the sexiest thing they can think of. Although, Playboy may have a conflict of interest.

I also have noticed a different set of beliefs for men and women: I'm a huge, huge fan of Hugh Jackman, but even if he sent it directly to me himself, I never, ever want to see a picture of his junk.

Offhand

If you spend any time with me at all, you'll know I'm a talker.
I even talk in my sleep, although I have only my Sweetie's word on that.
I speak for a living, working at various radio stations over the past 20+ years since I graduated journalism school.

In the seven years since I started hosting the morning show and the morning news at our little station in Wasaga Beach, I have done thousands of breaks, thousands of newscasts and done thousands of interviews.

Even though my job is to inform and entertain out loud, and we literally bank on the fact that people are listening in, I sometimes wonder. Is there anyone out there? Are they paying attention, and if they're paying attention, am I informing or entertaining them? Even 20 years later, I remain surprised when someone says they've heard something I've told them, or tells me that I made them laugh.

Several years ago, I was flabbergasted when a woman I know from childhood told me I had saved her life one snowy night as she crept her way down Airport Road in a terrible snowstorm. I was working the night shift at a station in Toronto at the time, and she says she was calmed by hearing the voice of someone she knew personally, coming out of her car radio.

There have been times when what I've said has gotten me in trouble, too. I find most people who are upset calm down a lot when they get the chance to explain why they're angry. That said, I have never and will never apologize to anyone who calls me names or otherwise abuses me or anyone I work with.

Today, I was the beneficiary of simply being out there, on the air.

Last week, I made mention of a networking meeting in Wasaga Beach that was being held at the candy store at the main end. Offhandedly, I said, "Hey, if anyone is going, could you pick me up some Thrills?" You remember Thrills, don't you? It's chewing gum, purple and the worst tasting stuff you can imagine. It's lavender flavoured. Yup, it tastes like soap.

Sure enough, this morning, Trudie from the Wasaga Beach Chamber of Commerce dropped by the station, carrying two packs of the horrible gum. I love it, and I love the reminder that usually, somewhere, someone really is listening.

RIP Williams

For anyone who has sat on their bed on a sunny Tuesday and cried their eyes out for no good reason and felt like a loser and then felt nothing at all:

You don't have to tough it out.

You don't have to be strong or noble or right or anything else.

But you matter.

Just because you do.

You do!

and if you're thinking that maybe the world would be better off without you, it wouldn't
and if you're thinking that maybe you'd be happier if you weren't here, you wouldn't
and if you're thinking that you want to do something, something big, to make the pain go away, don't

Tell someone.
Call me!

It may be overwhelming but wait a little while, just please hang on.