Absent Friends

...

Don't be shy
Don't be shy
For if you are shy for tomorrow
You'll be shy for one thousand days
Hey
Don't be shy
Don't be shy
Don't let the tide of your soul
Drown your nights and flood your days

But still it's better to be shy than a screaming drunken old queen
who's always got to have his way

But don't be coy with me
I am too clever to follow you down
To the dark and stormy weather, babe
The bracket's wider now
So what's your pleasure?
Swallow your pride
But please...

Don't be shy
Don't be shy
For if you are shy for tomorrow
You'll be shy for one thousand days
Now is your time to shine
Dance and hear your song
or you may wake up one day in the last chance saloon
to find your last chance has been and gone

...

Female Chauvinist Pigs

Wow. I've got to get this book:


This is the first extended analysis I've seen which tries to make sense of what in the hell has been going on with the pornification of our culture over the last decade. It's something that has disturbed me for quite some time now, but it's difficult to raise the issue, even with other women. The winds of the zeitgeist have been blowing the doors of this particular line of enquiry firmly shut. As Ariel Levy herself has noted, "...nobody wants to be the frump at the back of the room anymore, the ghost of women past -- it's just not cool."

So why are so many young women now complicit in their own objectification? The answers suggested by Levy, in the excerpts from her book (available over at Amazon), are tantalizing. As is the writeup from Sunday's NYT Book Review:

Reading "Female Chauvinist Pigs," Ariel Levy's lively polemic, gave me an epiphany of sorts. Finally, a coherent interpretation of an array of phenomena I'd puzzled over in recent years: the way Paris Hilton's leaked sex tapes seemed only to enhance her career; the horrifying popularity of vaginoplasty, a surgical procedure designed to make female genitalia more sightly; and a spate of mainstream books about stripping and other sex work, some reviewed in these pages. Levy has a theory that makes sense of all this. Our popular culture, she argues, has embraced a model of female sexuality that comes straight from pornography and strip clubs, in which the woman's job is to excite and titillate - to perform for men. According to Levy, women have bought into this by altering their bodies surgically and cosmetically, and - more insidiously - by confusing sexual power with power, so that embracing this caricaturish form of sexuality becomes, in their minds, a perverse kind of feminism.

I'm really looking forward to reading this book. But then again, I am a psycho feminazi from hell, so this is hardly surprising. Heh!

The Guns Fall Silent

Well. Rather fittingly, I was listening to Irish radio over the internet at work today when the news came through that the IRA has at last decommissioned its weapons. It was verified by John de Chastelain, the retired Canadian general who heads the independent commission appointed to oversee the decommissioning process. The official IRA statement, signed (as all IRA statements have ever been) by 'P. O'Neill', ran:

The leadership of Oglaigh na hEireann (IRA) announced on 28 July that we had authorised our representative to engage with the IICD to complete the process of verifiably putting arms beyond use. The IRA leadership can now confirm that the process of putting arms beyond use has been completed.

And now, let the death throes of Unionism and Loyalism commence. For without an active IRA to rail against, what is the point of the likes of Rev. Ian Paisley continuing to spew his hateful invective? Unsurprisingly, he grumbled to the press today that the confirmation of IRA decommissioning was meaningless, in the absence of photographic or other 'hard evidence' - which is an insult to de Chastelain and all those who have worked so tirelessly for years to make this day happen.

But a leopard will never change its spots, so it's to be expected. I have always said that even if Gerry Adams were to crawl on hands and knees to the feet of Ian Paisley, with the entire IRA arsenal clenched between his teeth, Paisley would still dismiss it as some sort of Republican trick.

How To Be A Domestic Goddess*

(*with apologies to Nigella Lawson)

I've come over all Martha Stewart this weekend. Weird.

Yesterday morning, I dragged my carcass out of bed at quarter to seven, and hitched a ride down to the Farmers' Market. I keep meaning to go more often, but never seem to get around to it - the early hours always put me off. The hardcore marketgoers are often there from half-six, queuing for the stalls to open at seven, and anything good or special is generally sold out by eight.

Anyway, this being harvest time, I wanted to get some local fruit and veg. It really annoys me that we live not two hours from the Annapolis Valley - a major agricultural area - and yet when you go into the grocery store, all the produce is from Ontario and California. There must be at least a dozen Valley farm stands at the market. While some are organic (which I don't usually bother with - am faintly suspicious of the claims of the organic food movement), all of the stuff for sale is pesticide-free, so that's good. I got myself some salad greens, Clapp pears and Victoria plums, and resolved to start going at least once a month during the growing season. Though I may go back next weekend to order a turkey for Thanksgiving.

I was home again by half-nine, and spent the rest of the morning doing housework. In the afternoon I blanched and skinned all the tomatoes that have ripened in the past week, then packed them in mason jars and put them in the deep freeze. Then I went outside to cut some flowers. There were beautiful bouquets of dahlias for sale at the market stalls that morning, which I nearly bought before remembering that I had a garden full of dahlias back home. So I cut some of them, along with some pansies:



And on the agenda for today? Well, we took delivery of a bunch of stuff from Ikea last weekend - end tables, bedside tables, chests of drawers, etc. And in typical Ikea fashion, almost all of it is untreated pine. So I'm going to do a little sanding and varnishing this afternoon. A. has borrowed an electric sander from his dad, which I'm going to have a go with. Hoping I don't injure myself.

Oh, and I just took this homely, but delicious little beaut out of the oven. Strawberry-rhubarb, in case you're wondering:


See? I told you I'm having a total Martha weekend.

It's Friday Night...

...and what am I doing? Playing with LibraryThing, of course. I know this makes me an irredeemable geek, but I refuse to be ashamed, damn it.

So. Thus far, I've catalogued the contents of my 'to read' shelf. Apparently, there's some sort of widget you can add to your blog, showing what you've added most recently, what you're currently reading, etc., etc. Must investigate that. In the meantime, here's a link to my catalogue as it currently stands. I do not post this information lightly. I have always considered the composition of people's personal libraries (or worse - lack thereof) to be highly revealing indicators of character and personality. So, Dear Reader, consider yourself privileged for this glimpse into my literary psyche. ;-)

*EDIT* 26 September - HTML manipulated; widget now up and running in my sidebar - whoohoo!

LibraryThing...Where Have You Been All My Life?

Holy hell...lookit what I just found. It's a site called LibraryThing, where one can catalogue one's books online! Imagine! I'm going to have a go RIGHT NOW and test the site with a sample from my collection.

The mere prospect of such a thing has me all aflutter. I think I know what I'll be doing this weekend - intensively channelling my inner nerd. YAY!!!

WTF?!? Part the First

Sometimes I read stuff in the papers and on the internet that just completely does my head in. Makes me wonder what kind of world we live in. Today, therefore, I have decided to commence an occasional series of posts, (not very) cleverly titled 'WTF?!?', which will be devoted to selected stories I consider worthy of scorn and ridicule.

For this, my first installment, consider the emerging social phenomenon of Childbirth as Spectator Sport. Yes, that's right. Last Sunday's NYT featured a story on the plight of a certain class of expectant mother. It seems it's no longer enough to stress about who to invite (or not invite) to your wedding and baby shower. Now, Yummy Mummies everywhere are fraught with angst over whom to favour with an invitation to view the actual birth of their babies. Forget about your husband and maybe your mother. Apparently, childbirth invitations are becoming sought after by in-laws, siblings, and even office co-workers:

Just a generation after fathers had to beg or even sue for the right to be present, the door to the delivery room has swung wide open. Even the most traditional hospitals now allow multiple guests during labor, transforming birth from a private affair into one that requires a guest list. Like bridesmaids and pallbearers, the invitees are marked as an honored group of intimates. But few weddings or funerals involve nudity, blood or heavy anesthetics.

Needless to say, I find the thought of such a public spectacle to be grotesque. Is nothing sacred?

Recent Reading

I have not, in fact, read the last few books I've finished. I listened to them. Getting rather tired of my iPod musical options lately (guess I need some new CDs), so I've plugged into some audiobooks this summer, during my commutes to work.

1. I bought Anil's Ghost by Michael Ondaatje last year at Eason's in Dublin, cos it was in the bargain bin and only cost three euro or summat like that. As is the case with all of Ondaatje's work (hello, The English Patient), it's certainly a very worthy book. But it left me cold; reminded me why I don't really read much contemporary fiction. It was kind of the mental equivalent of eating your vegetables - ultimately good for you, but a bit dull.
   
2. I actually have the paperback of The Lady and the Unicorn by Tracy Chevalier, bought some time ago at Hodges Figgis in Dublin. It has sat for absolute yonks in my 'to read' pile, though, so when I saw it a few weeks ago at the Public Library in audiobook format, I grabbed it. Given that it's historical fiction, I expected to really enjoy it - but I actually found the story a little thin. The tone of the book also struck me as kind of coarse (and not in a good way, sadly). All in all, I didn't really feel inspired to go read any of her other stuff - Girl With a Pearl Earring or no - but this week I ended up borrowing the audiobook of her first novel, The Virgin Blue, from the library anyway (probably because our library's audiobook selection is pretty poor, and there wasn't much else to tempt me).
   
3. And on my bedside table at the moment? Why, Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, of course. Jana loaned it to me when she was here visiting, and I've just dug into it in the past week. Unsurprisingly, it's utterly gripping so far. I expect to make short work of it.
   

You Mean...Strangers Read This?!?

Although I know it happens, I'm always completely gobsmacked when I find out that people with whom I have no connection occasionally read what I post online. Usually, I find out via comments and emails from said readers. But last evening I came across Feedster, a search engine for blogs (which is likely to be eclipsed now that Google has launched their own blog search function). And I discovered (yeah yeah...I'm sure this is nothing new) this neat little thing called a link search. Basically, you enter in the address of your blog, personal website, online photo album, or whatever - and you get back a list of who is linking to you.

So in a fit of intellectual vanity, I typed in the address of this blog, expecting to see just the usual suspects (I'm talking to you, McWetboy). But lo and behold, this person here linked to a post I made a few months ago, about a PBS documentary on higher education.

Weird! Kinda cool though.

To the Hydrostone

Distinct whiffs of autumn today. It's been lovely and sunny, but it was a mere 12 degrees outside when I woke up this morning. One of the trees has already begun to shed its leaves across our front deck.

But it warmed up in the afternoon, so we drove over to the Hydrostone Market. The Hydrostone neighbourhood is one of the historic and architectural gems of Halifax, and was built after the explosion in 1917 which levelled most of the city. It was planned in the style of the English 'garden suburbs' (like those at Hampstead, Letchworth and Welwyn in the UK), but on a vastly smaller scale - Halifax's Hydrostone is only about six blocks long, and one wide.

Astonishingly, I'd never actually walked around the area until today - mainly because it's in the North End, which is a fairly dodgy part of town, and it can be hard to get to if you don't have a car. So we went, had coffee and sweeties at Julien's - arguably the best artisanal bakery in the city - and pootled round the various little shops. And very nice they were, too. I shall doubtless return.

A Race Deferred

This excellent article in last Sunday's New York Times neatly encapsulates everything I've been thinking since last week about Hurricane Katrina's aftermath in New Orleans. The shock has dissipated, but the cold fury remains. I wish I could say I was surprised that such things could happen in the wealthiest and best-resourced country on the planet. But to have had it so brutally exposed by the media, every day last week, was almost unbearable.

I want to hope that the events of last week might shake some people out of their social complacency, but I fear that as time passes, people who should have learned lessons from what happened in New Orleans will once again slip into comfortable amnesia. Depressing stuff.

It's Frosh Week, Kids!

Even in my little enclave at the top of the adminstration building, the sound of overeager teenagers reached my ears today at work. It's Frosh Week at universities all across the land. I smiled benificently at all the kidlets across campus yesterday, out collecting money for charity, all the while discussing their strategies for getting to the liquor store later with a 19-year-old friend in tow to make the requisite illicit purchases. Ah...has it really been fifteen Septembers since I left my parents' home for my own Frosh Week festivities? Yeerks.

Got my new office space reasonably sorted out today, all to the strains of a soundcheck out on the lawn in front of my building (some sort of open-air gig there tonight). I've just moved down the hall, away (happily) from the eagle eye of the Big Boss. It's quite a nice space, with a big sunny window. Now all I need is a plant or two and something to hang on the walls, to replace the earnest photographs of people in developing nations (!) which are hanging there now....

In My Garden - August/September

*sigh* Growing season is winding down - not so many attractive subjects for photography this month. But the tomatoes are ripening at last!! Yum, scrum, etc.

Few piccies here.

Extreme Bunny Bonding

What relief! This weekend, we seem finally to have bonded our two rabbits, Fawn and Timmy. Herewith some photographic evidence of their now-peaceful coexistence in the same cage:


How did we do it? Well, we had to resort to some guerilla bonding tactics. After much consultation of the relevant literature, we decided on Thursday night to try wedging both of them into the same small pet carrier, and then taking them for a drive in the car - the idea being that (rabbits being terminally nervous creatures) they will be so freaked about the weirdness of the car situation, that they'll forget to fight. To our surprise and delight, it worked a treat.

So on Friday, we decided to take them to Cape Breton with us for the weekend. Four and a half hours in the back of the car together, and not a peep out of either of them. We decided to risk putting them in the same cage together once at my parents' place (we nicked the dog's sleeping crate; she was none too impressed), and this too worked amazingly well. There were a few scuffles (nipping, circling, mounting) but nothing like the usual fur-flying, bloodletting scraps we've come to expect from these two. Putting them in neutral territory together seems to have finally broken down the hostility between them. When we got home tonight, we put them together in their cage, removed the barrier which has been between them for the last two months, et voila. Peace reigns.

It's amazing. We have never had so much difficulty bonding rabbits before, and I was really worried we wouldn't be able to keep Timmy if we couldn't get Fawn to accept him. So I'm delighted.

Keep the Red Flag Flying...

...erm...or something. Happy Labour Day Weekend, and all that.

Am blogging from Big Bras d'Or at the moment. Came up Friday night for weekend visit with the parentals. It's been another wonderful, sunny, warm long weekend - clearly repaying the karmic debt of our lousy spring this year.

Not much to do but relax, eat, read the papers. A. has been working (at long last) on his Masters. Earlier, I went down the shore with my parents and the dog, had a stroll, and picked some mussels and oysters, which I shall go and enjoy shortly. Well, the mussels, anyway - I'm still not a big oyster fan. Ho hum...life is rough, I tell you....