Wednesday, April 30, 2008

*Putt* *putt* *putt*

Life it putt-ing along. Not much new to share ... and doubts anyone is here to see what I do share so no hurry to update.

I got my taxes off 18 hours early. Go me. That just does not happen often. And I get a small amount back. Always pleasant.

Now to put the finishing touches on my film school application. Harder than it looks. Have I mentioned I have to provide a C.V., 2 letters of reference, an original feature script, a written script for a television series currently on the air (luckily Corner Gas is on for one more season or I'd be hooped!), a script idea for a series currently on the air, two ideas for new series I want to put on the air, a list of my all-time 10 favourite television series, and a letter explaining why I want to attend this school and what I plan to do with the knowledge if I get in. In triplicate.

Then I wake up this morning to discover that Syncrude is adding to their bulk collection of oiled waterfowl carcasses thanks to their lax prevention techniques. "Bad weather" kept them from deploying their noise-makers to deter birds from landing in their tailings pond, so now hundreds are feared dead or dying from the icy toxic oil ponds. I hope the men and women who didn't want to put on their winter woolies to set up life-saving deterents were able to keep warm and cozy throughout all this. We should probably create some kind of foundation to provide them with hot chocolate and wool socks so they don't get the sniffles while doing their job.

Or we could just fire up a few oil-soaked ducks now. I'm sure those'll burn for hours to help keep those poor oilsands workers warm.

Wednesday, April 23, 2008

Hockey Time (like "Hammer Time", you know?)

At this time, I wish to share with you my favourite joke:

Did you hear about the fire they had at the Calgary Golf and Country Club? Yeah, there were Flames all over the course!

Now I find that funny. I do. Just as funny as I find this:

I love my Flames. I do. I have been an avid supporter from a tender age. Much of it has to do with the fact that my Dad is a Flames fan. If you wanted to spend time with my daddy on a Saturday night, and I did, you did it in front of a hockey game. And if you wanted to talk, you did it during commercial breaks. Scratch that. If you wanted a chance of Dad hearing what you said, you did it during commercial breaks (or before he picked up his book during the intermissions). The way I remember it, Saturday evenings when I was – as Dad would put it – knee-high to a grasshopper represented that solid, predictable routine and structure the child-rearing books say kids want. Watch a little Bugs Bunny and Roadrunner Hour before the game came on. Then it was spaghetti and meat sauce in front of the television while we watched the first period of the game with Dad. (I know now that Mom found this meal to be horribly dull in light of her experienced culinary skills … but she shouldn’t. It was damn fine spaghetti and meat sauce! And come on – what more could a kid ask for, other than maybe a hot dog? … which I know, doesn’t challenge my mom’s talents either, but I think what a kid remember is if the food was good, not if it was complicated.) First intermission meant this guy:

Peter Puck, who I believe preceded Schoolhouse Rock as an entertaining but informational animation. Did I notice at the time that he was trying to teach me to play hockey? No. No I did not. But there I was, silent and watching, and Dad had to wait for a commercial if he wanted a chance at me hearing what he was saying.

The second period left my father in quiet as Mom bathed us kids. By time the second intermission came, my brother, sister and I were running around naked and dripping on the floors while Dad caught us in towels to dry us off. That is the way I remember it and if it is a false memory I do not wish to be advised.

This is where my memory falters. Did we watch the third period with Dad? Probably not. It was probably bed-time for us, or we would be at risk of dirtying the squeaky-clean bodies Mom put her elbow grease into. But to me, that was Saturday night. At least during hockey season. (I don’t think Saturday nights occurred outside hockey season when I was a child, did they?)

While most of my family were Flames fans, my sister went another way. The Oilers! Now, we’re not talking Oilers of today ladies and gentlemen. We are talking the Oilers of the 80’s. Messier, Kurri, Coffey … Grrrretzky! I will admit at this juncture that I now support the Oilers – if they are not playing the Flames – out of a sense of civic pride cultivated from the fact I’ve now lived in Edmonton longer than any other location in my life. But a fan of the Oilers does not make one an “Oilers fan”. A fan of a team will cheer if she happens to catch the game. A team’s fan will seek out the game and fly the team’s flag on her balcony. I think my balcony speaks for itself.

In the 80s, no such waffling would be tolerated. My high school would always have a “Battle of Alberta” day, which occurred during the Cup playoffs if the Oilers (often number one) met the Flames (often number four) in the first round. You came to school in Flames’ colours (a lovely yellow and red) or Oilers’ colours (hideous orange and blue). If you wished to get beat up, you came in the colours of a different team. One year we had an exchange student from Australia, who was bombarded with direction on what colours she must wear on Battle of Alberta day. Not wanting to alienate any of her friends, she showed up in a black and white striped shirt – as a Ref! (Both camps found that acceptable.)

My first year of University, I was attacked in university residence where I lived when the Oilers swept the Flames in the first round. It was every Flames fan for him/herself when the Oilers fans produced brooms at the buzzer – we Flames fans scattered from the television room like cockroaches with the lights switched on! I managed to make it to my residence room and lock the door behind me before I suffered more than a few scrapes and bruises. Other Flames fans didn’t make it to their rooms. Ah, the 80’s, when the Battle of Alberta meant battles! I did so love it!

So one weekend, when I was a teen and my sister was home from U of A, my sister invited a couple of University friends over. They showed up while a Flames-Oilers game was on. I still remember these two guys, Oilers fans, standing in the doorway to our front room, taunting Dad as he sat in his La-Z-Boy recliner. My father said “Oh, yes that’s right. My daughter told me you’re Oilers fans. We have a section ready for you.” Then he stood up, opened the drapes, and revealed two lawn chairs set into the snow looking in through our patio doors. “Take your seats, boys.” Dad said matter-of-factly as he settled back into his cozy recliner and returned his attention to the television. Those two guys stood shell-shocked in the doorway, and looked to me for advice. I told him Dad was just kidding, sit on the couch. My father looked at me sternly and said “Debra Lynn! They’ve been told where they can sit.” And back to the tv went he (with just the tiniest of smiles -- in his eyes -- that perhaps only I could see). I thought my sister’s friends were going to wet themselves! Ha! (sorry sis, but those guys turned out to be jerks anyway!)

So, when I kid, it’s because I love. I am an ardent Flames fan. I am. Taught how to be one by another one. Dad was onto something when he wanted Mom to make her spaghetti and meat sauce on game nights. It made the games easier to watch.

So, until next year, ladies and gentlemen. Always until next year.

Saturday, April 19, 2008

Another Squirrel Perspective:

Son of freakin' nut supply! Is that...


Tuesday, April 15, 2008

Good times

Once upon a time, a young lawyer made a mistake. A costly mistake. She went on vacation ... and left her stuffed moose alone.

First, came the fighter jets...

that took out the moose's bodyguards on its first pass ...

then swung around to take out the moose himself ...

A hard day's work for the fighter pilot done, it was marshmallow-roasting-over-a-flaming-moose time!

The place was truly a site of carnage. Some people said somebody must have had too much time on her hands at work.

As is so often the case in bystander commentaries on the nature and genesis of war, this explanation was an oversimplification of the issues at play.

Oh, for the carefree days of working someplace where my evil genius can be explored and appreciated.

Monday, April 14, 2008

Nuthin' but E

You know how runners get a second wind after hitting the wall? A place where you just couldn’t possible go on – but then you do, and it’s all kind of ethereal and out-of-body and life is bunnies and kittens and Breyer’s M&M Ice Cream from then on? I don’t. I’m not a runner. But I’ve heard tales told, and suspect this is what’s happening to me at work. The troubles have become parodies of themselves, and I am left with laughter as my sole recourse.

I can look colleagues in the eye, explain that no, I couldn’t get to project E, because I can’t stress enough how time consuming projects A, B, C and D were – and they’ll just briefly eyeball the projects that are sitting there completed, and say “So… you didn’t do project E?”

So this month it’s all about project E. Nothing but E in April. And when they ask me why I didn’t get to A, B, C or D, I’ll look them straight in the eye and say “What do you mean? I thought we were in agreement that nothing counts but E. Curses!” Then they'll back away from me slowly, because everyone knows that when people start channelling moustache-twirling villains, it's time to back away from them slowly.

As reward for listening to me, I offer to you Dilbert (please don't sue me Scott Adams) and a blessing: May you never understand Dilbert the way a civil servant can understand Dilbert.

Wednesday, April 9, 2008

"I used to think maybe you love me, now baby I'm sure"

I just got my first reference letter to submit with my admission package to film school this fall.

And I quote: "I found her grasp of the craft of writing to be first-rate and she has an original voice, a rarity among writers."

I'm a rarity. Which is similar, perhaps, to being "special" -- which, yes, people say of me only in association with making quotation marks with their fingers. We all gotta be something.

I got balls, apparently

Now, I could be speaking of my collection of spheres in my bedroom...

Or how about the collection of spheres in my front room bookcase?...

(man, I think I also have a thing for Threes)

I know! I'll bet you I mean the spheres I have near my front window that I adore because they sit by my plants and look like large drops of dew!


I apparently have balls because I live in Edmonton, and just this evening put this:

in my apartment window and this:

on my balcony. Yes, it is a car flag. (I may have balls, but I still have my brains. Put this on my car and I can probably kiss my windshield goodbye.)

Go Flames Go!

Saturday, April 5, 2008

Would that I had the stones to speak as they do.

I would not wish death by drowning on anyone, any more than I would wish them death by bludgeoning about the head and neck while still a youth.

I have never heard of the Sea Shepherd before, and I may think the crew's words are overly harsh and insensitive at this time ... and yet, I must admit that I feel glee to hear that someone is giving voice to the opinions that social propriety would prevent me from verbalizing.

(I'm most fond of the phrase "cigarette-smoking ape with a club")

Seems that karma can be a bitch to people who make their living literally going out of their way to crack open other creatures' skulls. May the victims of the sunken boat and their victims rest in peace.

Tuesday, April 1, 2008

I've been tagged, apparently.

Have you seen the Robot Chicken episode where the psycho girl comes across Pegasus, and cuts off his wings with hedge clippers, then drugs him and drags him to a barn where she whips him until he will answer to the name Sunny Muffins? Then "Sunny Muffins" looks over to a gryphon in the corner who has been similarly mistreated - he asks the gryphon "Who are you?" and the gryphon drily answers "Honeyflake, apparently." I love that gryphon. And now throw in "apparently" where-ever it will fit.

On a second note while I am tangential: did you watch the Flames v. Oilers pregame talk on Rogers Sportsnet tonight? The production crew told the host (Gene Principe?) that Iginla was injured, and that although he skated in the pregame he was a late scratch on the game. So Principe intros the game with that information, saying that although today is April 1, it's no April Fools joke that Iginla isn't in the line up. Then the colour commentators start laughing and say "Well, Gene, you're almost right. It is a joke." Gene kept saying "No? Really? I quit. Really? No!" I was greatly amused.

And now the purpose of this post: It would appear having a blog opens one to being tagged. But I don't understand how and why, I was just told to post my 6 Word Philosophy and "tag" 6 other people. But the only person I know with a blog is the person who tagged me -- except for Kat the Blues Chick as I am fond of calling her, but her blog appears to be more for work than play so I am hesitant to tag her -- so I'll conform as I can. So, my 6 Word Philosopy:

" Karma wins, so live life accordingly."

And I tag OliverRain. Apparently.