tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-59300796529689734272024-03-17T23:04:28.649-04:00Exquisite CorpseA sometimes surreal exercise in cooperative writing to be performed by a rotating cast of Torontonians, one hundred words at a time.Roy Schulzehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03574135323022831091noreply@blogger.comBlogger1506125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5930079652968973427.post-63538963970480453302024-03-15T10:49:00.005-04:002024-03-17T14:32:22.191-04:00Spring Rituals<div class="separator"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi-ivqchXWBcD0GS63Fv-bUWdQF2AQvSqn0zEtu1f6u-seRwRWuPlYPbi8ocIa25jZlOf0G48RxxXIYE9PB4cCNWdIm9aJ7h0uUnPtNiyI8ok5VKIFfhm4J8mWcqGjIjjiCJVIhvs9h8oOqjZenvQjIZo-KWbifoUEDQxgepIeNE5rHlew7hfO9avVCZlQ" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-botton: 0; margin-left: 1em; margin-top: 0.5em; text-align: center;"><img alt="" data-original-height="4608" data-original-width="3456" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi-ivqchXWBcD0GS63Fv-bUWdQF2AQvSqn0zEtu1f6u-seRwRWuPlYPbi8ocIa25jZlOf0G48RxxXIYE9PB4cCNWdIm9aJ7h0uUnPtNiyI8ok5VKIFfhm4J8mWcqGjIjjiCJVIhvs9h8oOqjZenvQjIZo-KWbifoUEDQxgepIeNE5rHlew7hfO9avVCZlQ" /></a></div>
I knew I was in the wrong job when a month into my (very short) stint as an editor with <i>Chatelaine, </i>I heard a colleague talk about Spring rituals. Her mind went to pedicures. Mine went to birdwatching. In fact, soon, we’ll drive two hours to Long Point, on Lake Erie. And we’ll park at the edge of a farmer’s field, stand out in the wind, and watch at a very long distance through binoculars a white blur of tundra swans, pit-stopping their way north for the summer. They look majestic. They honk majestically. It wouldn’t be Spring without them.
<p>Inspired by Spring. Photo by Nancy Kay Clark.</p>Nancy Kay Clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09546376814203019097noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5930079652968973427.post-29363335391985217872024-03-12T17:00:00.003-04:002024-03-15T13:47:44.224-04:00A Bright and Future Home<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center; margin-bottom: 0.5em;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit2o3Msp3fZClwy3BsRClWoH9-YrVfuKzXmjEflWHX0v0huurLGr3ijn-wZAKN8n8LKkHFuS-HCGMiMczuuwtD_utFKazTiGlYDDt51mZB3Bvo2l8zROvB0J4wf2K38yrs4Fu5IIMjdjA03vJx5odxUKSVj9AMUVEchv8voQnep8X27OlZwVmN474dwHEw/s3024/SongsOfABrightAndFutureHome.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit2o3Msp3fZClwy3BsRClWoH9-YrVfuKzXmjEflWHX0v0huurLGr3ijn-wZAKN8n8LKkHFuS-HCGMiMczuuwtD_utFKazTiGlYDDt51mZB3Bvo2l8zROvB0J4wf2K38yrs4Fu5IIMjdjA03vJx5odxUKSVj9AMUVEchv8voQnep8X27OlZwVmN474dwHEw/w400-h400/SongsOfABrightAndFutureHome.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
Songs of a bright and future home settle in<br />
Are these shores reachable beyond the beckoning of war drums and convulsions of paroxysmal gods? <br />
May we not be sullied by malignant stains nor reach for transient temptations<br />
This time may we accept grace<br />
May we anchor in safe harbour<br />
Here, pain is tempered; we are healed<br />
Here, we lay our foundations down<br />
Here, here and here are where we grow, let our roots entangle, branches entwine<br />
Every spring is a spring to relearn the lesson<br />
Hate buries the hater<br />
We only rise through love<br />
And everything that rises will converge<br /><br />
<p>Inspired by <a href="https://drinkthenewwine.blogspot.com/2024/03/be-still.html">Be Still</a>. Photograph by Fred Ni.</p>Fredhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08110791007086816956noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5930079652968973427.post-85902572333332609232024-03-09T18:42:00.001-05:002024-03-09T18:50:51.132-05:00Be StillIn her four walls, mortality whispers in her ear. Moments are ever fleeting. The child she was is gone. The young woman from oh so long ago, she still wants to be. The regrets swirl. It is her own private torture chamber. But then, she steps outside into the early March morning. Frosty white roof tops steaming, robins whistling. Air cool and fresh.
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpNq2PpuqlQ99qTxBoDN7MIZH7TiIGxfvsQzmfG9PwPEJzOGzta6re6RVEOfIbd7zPuOqWEXknbk-mBIYn5vaaetUvbDRZf8ShP1gh0f_-PP34fSFpg433Icwd55Bu610YT2PSWVN5-jZqNLeIZyOU6Jf3BLH1FL2R_1eRnqYffZp4W9L6yjr8ma-e61Zs/s612/istockphoto-1299454789-612x612.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 0.5em 0 0 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" width="400" data-original-height="408" data-original-width="612" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpNq2PpuqlQ99qTxBoDN7MIZH7TiIGxfvsQzmfG9PwPEJzOGzta6re6RVEOfIbd7zPuOqWEXknbk-mBIYn5vaaetUvbDRZf8ShP1gh0f_-PP34fSFpg433Icwd55Bu610YT2PSWVN5-jZqNLeIZyOU6Jf3BLH1FL2R_1eRnqYffZp4W9L6yjr8ma-e61Zs/s400/istockphoto-1299454789-612x612.jpg"/></a></div>
The sun is peeking through the semi-barren trees, warming her eyes. She walks, into the woods, and inhales the intoxicating smell of new muddy earth. The four walls of her mind collapse around her. Presence is everything. <div><br /></div><div>Inspired by <a href="https://drinkthenewwine.blogspot.com/2024/02/march-approaches.html">March Approaches</a>. Photo by <a href="https://www.istockphoto.com/photo/black-and-white-image-of-a-robin-gm1299454789-392070301" target="_blank">Andi Edwards</a>.</div>Wendy Whelanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13362012482674511026noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5930079652968973427.post-5650923928049681302024-03-06T21:06:00.007-05:002024-03-09T18:50:17.688-05:00Mrs. Eva Doughty<img alt="" border="0" style="display: none;"
src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIDGN9PpXrnDFOxXBegB4qErsjqIT8IjQjfu2YQJPHOW_-2aNe_AzoIGARU-m5oDSSONpc8J3sDG6JKssInGPxfe7c81QQWyjrn4rir_aHVRT-K1z3L718v7lDUHw2IhlQ_hL2OTEVKkjPqqqnqA2Z4WtL8QLekzann2pijHGb4zJHe0PZxqp5z3nPRJGJ/s1600/eva.png"/>
In 1908, Eva and James Doughty, purchased a brand-new house in Parkdale, just off Roncesvalles Avenue—$2850, $800 down. They moved in with James’s son, Howard (from James’s first marriage) and their two-year-old daughter, Melba.<br />
Although the family followed James south in 1915, to a new job in Cleveland, it seems Eva never really gave up on Toronto, because, by 1939, after renting it out to a string of year-by-year tenants, she was back in the house, her house now, listed in the City Directory as the <i>widow </i>of James, even though he was very much alive and living downtown.
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUDEBkCMnDcH_wFx4fpDPIXpghqC6URlS-oL9fOZyDkNv3yBpvjIrayfJKN_kVmtc_i8G1L3Z6W5HVIs9PkGHKoJ3i5QRT9UNPdxba1vIi87vw4i8KidLEBJDGG2fSdKsAtOK9vXRQh1ZmSKgJtfrlS7nZRGRGV5L5Tt9GPqeUYw2cGXv2elZMJdaxMEkY/s1509/eva%20and%20nellie.png" style="display: block; padding: 0.5em 0 0 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" width="400" data-original-height="788" data-original-width="1509" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUDEBkCMnDcH_wFx4fpDPIXpghqC6URlS-oL9fOZyDkNv3yBpvjIrayfJKN_kVmtc_i8G1L3Z6W5HVIs9PkGHKoJ3i5QRT9UNPdxba1vIi87vw4i8KidLEBJDGG2fSdKsAtOK9vXRQh1ZmSKgJtfrlS7nZRGRGV5L5Tt9GPqeUYw2cGXv2elZMJdaxMEkY/s400/eva%20and%20nellie.png"/></a></div>
In the years that followed, she would open that house to her far-flung family and uncountable lodgers—her only child, her dear darling Melba, after the second divorce—her elderly mother, Emma, when running her own household became just too much—her granddaughter, Barbara, when she was busy getting her own family started.<br />
Mrs. Eva Doughty lived to 101. There’s a picture of her in the <i>Toronto Star, </i>celebrating her 100th birthday. She lived in that house 50 years.<br />
Eva and I aren’t related, but I wish we were. Our only connection is that I now live in her house.
<p><br />Inspired by <a href="https://drinkthenewwine.blogspot.com/2024/03/les-18-1898-2024.html">Les 18 (1898-2024)</a>. Photo of Eva (left) with her 100-year-old friend, Nellie Sims by <a href="https://www.gettyimages.co.nz/detail/news-photo/century-celebration-eva-doughty-left-and-nelli-sims-news-photo/502261337" target="_blank">Mike Slaughter</a>.</p>
Roy Schulzehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03574135323022831091noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5930079652968973427.post-80645271194131659172024-03-03T10:28:00.002-05:002024-03-03T21:39:05.339-05:00Les 18 (1898-2024)Les deux Marguerites, vieilles belles sœurs <div>Les deux Thérèses, plein de bonheurs </div><div>Léocadie sauvegarde à nos racines </div><div>Suzanne prend bien soins à sa poitrine </div><div>Ma Tante Alice, en plein aire </div><div>Était devenu la bonne chasseuse </div><div>Ma Tante Eileen, méchante si vers </div><div>Vécu en vie de grandes douceurs </div><div>Ma Tante Marie, Mère secondaire </div><div>Ma Tante Simone, tenait ma Cœur </div><div>Rolande, Fernande qui prient toujours </div><div>Envoient le Seigneur ses laine nounours </div><div>Gentille Madeleine, la femme qui rompe </div><div>Bluffant Lillian, la femme de trompe </div><div>Jeanne, Yvonne, les peu connues </div><div>Yvette, si jeune pour sa perdue
<div style="padding-top: 0.75em;">Finalement Anne-Marie, rossignole-ardu </div><div style="padding-top: 0.75em;">Toutes Mes Tantes ont disparu</div><div style="padding-top: 0.75em;"><div>
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Inspired by Anne Marie Leclair Armstrong, 1935-2024.<br />
Photo: Mes deux grand-mères, 1954.</div></div></div>Laurie Leclairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04190403569858898495noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5930079652968973427.post-73607576496070281462024-02-28T16:27:00.005-05:002024-03-01T21:49:57.846-05:00March Approaches<img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="364" data-original-width="700" style="display: none;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWq_O-AZ9ySGOGYYf2vKcn3x8tRhyphenhyphenifRrjWefgV_HX-4PTC3RegY7mPQUvPy_d2Y_CDb83EeWJavdimL49hCoKlTIr-x-yY6MiPvOJKAWr5QKVtJuYO53q5P1UTwCcI9_yZ4PH3xSkc0TiZUnH7XpqesbP2BbMDrba1mx-sTfGa4xaSE2eMOJ6tkc_qJ7O/s1600/MarchBoyBanner.png"/>
The month of March makes its entrance like a thirteen-year-old who doesn’t know how to brush or (dare I say) wash his hair or even how to move. Messy, dishevelled, awkward, unpredictable. Cool one day. Too hot the next. Full of bravado. Always uncertain. He’s easily hurt and quick to lash out, but also equally quick to forgive and melt your heart.
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He sheds his skin overnight and grows it anew in the morning. He is alive with possibilities and hope and energy. I breath more deeply in the early Spring and feel more keenly the change all around us.
<p><br />
Inspired by flipping over the page on my wall calendar. Image by <a href="https://www.bing.com/images/create">Copilot Designer</a>, prompted and edited by Roy Schulze.
</p>Nancy Kay Clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09546376814203019097noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5930079652968973427.post-10261323463107916782024-02-25T11:53:00.004-05:002024-02-25T14:35:49.305-05:00Promised Land<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center; margin-bottom:0.5em;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdrJxEjuOsRpUFLZT3PXA5WePfka7ugEalN5b0n6yENWsRwyiUiy1v7TSpX1gXjuC03Vv0qkyeZZvdyNxkGVZEKMj1yBW_kxO4nqAztZxCCOQWEO8GzEDY7Fdo9Rb2TMjDbvILvsKaQAxbwBgFP5hy-1aN2UQeeXbbAE46r8mHaSVK9wuuwZB2VGASSiKY/s496/PromisedLand.jpg">
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Ricky’s twenty one and Jackie’s nineteen<br />
but she’s done things he’s never dreamed<br />
She’s got a devil’s smile, angel’s lips, <br />
she’s drawing blood just swinging her hips<br />
She says, “Boy, why don’t you tell me what you’re needing.”<br />
He laughs but his heart is already bleeding.<br />
She says, “I’ll show you something you don’t want to miss.”<br />
He says, “You can have my soul for just one kiss.”<br />
So she pushes her mouth to his<br />
And she takes him by the hand,<br />
takes him by the hand.<br />
She takes him in her hands <br />
And brings him to the promised land.<br />
<br />
<p>Recycled, and upcycled/inspired by <a href="https://drinkthenewwine.blogspot.com/2024/02/deep-thoughts.html">Deep Thoughts</a>. Photograph by Fred Ni.</p>Fredhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08110791007086816956noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5930079652968973427.post-4318557024815743452024-02-22T21:48:00.001-05:002024-02-22T21:48:46.816-05:00Deep ThoughtsDear Bra,<div> I remember when we first met. You were thrust upon me in shame. Society could not bear the nipples of a pre-teen. But our relationship blossomed, and we became inseparable, wire tight.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnBGlcZ0j85MPCPcHpSnSsX6o-ca07dbZq-DnZK_0_85F1Ih4IxQgaaY6h1KG0LtLPQQBHHmkLff99TJ2SYuR2nXeI55ODBNA-wYUMr5N5b9A5g8gt9wRiiBeemDQ4PDD7tZZVYKJWQrLS1eD-EIPWMClEv_wjhQInuxGUDzQVQTCmKlnV7JxMVLUHzyn0/s1024/breasts-main-1529618171.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 0.5em 0 0 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" width="400" data-original-height="682" data-original-width="1024" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnBGlcZ0j85MPCPcHpSnSsX6o-ca07dbZq-DnZK_0_85F1Ih4IxQgaaY6h1KG0LtLPQQBHHmkLff99TJ2SYuR2nXeI55ODBNA-wYUMr5N5b9A5g8gt9wRiiBeemDQ4PDD7tZZVYKJWQrLS1eD-EIPWMClEv_wjhQInuxGUDzQVQTCmKlnV7JxMVLUHzyn0/s400/breasts-main-1529618171.jpg"/></a></div>
<div>You introduced me to Victoria’s Secret and encouraged me to be the biggest version of myself. I introduced you to hordes of fumbling man-hands. We went on to have countless escapades together.</div><div> We snapped ties over the pandemic, and I let you go. Bouncing from place to place and brazen at the office. Soon to realize society could neither bear the nipples of a mid-life woman.<div><br /></div><div>Inspired by <a href="https://drinkthenewwine.blogspot.com/2024/02/dear-diary.html">Dear Diary</a>, <a href="https://drinkthenewwine.blogspot.com/2024/02/well-spent.html">Well Spent</a>, <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aQNkeugaAMc" target="_blank">Seinfeld</a>, and <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MNuc6SB8YfI" target="_blank">Jack Handey</a>. Photo by <a href="https://www.shutterstock.com/image-photo/two-sexy-red-scoops-ice-cream-199520954?irclickid=y1PTgQVyYxyPU30SyPQ2KU6fUkH18hVBW05WRM0&irgwc=1&pl=77643-108110&utm_campaign=TinEye&utm_content=108110&utm_medium=Affiliate&utm_source=77643&utm_term=" target="_blank">unpict</a>.</div></div>Wendy Whelanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13362012482674511026noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5930079652968973427.post-34714449152132661402024-02-19T21:13:00.016-05:002024-03-02T15:58:29.003-05:00Well Spent<div>Remember that part in <i><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2u8cHrJvlHQ" target="_blank">Flashdance</a> </i>where the blow-torch lady is talking to the guy she likes, and while she’s talking, she’s taking off her bra without removing her sweatshirt?<br /> Of course you do.<br /> But was that in the trailer? Or maybe in one the clips they took to the talk shows? Because I don’t have any memory at all of actually seeing the movie, but I sure do remember telling my brand-new girlfriend that I didn’t think she could do it, and she bet me a dollar she could, and then she did it, and I had to pay up.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPJxJhyg7PjGRbAh1h4KC4-bpBOVrrmgvh_RSgTgzu7NJk2KOD7Ga2Q5-Yk0_uB5Wh-fuSa9gt21pUBBxhxMJZDdRDL39hDlBoNuKXCmyXRUY91x8kNSdIXIgLheWGyX4tGQfew5E5u5u4qmdWtWpSdA-iBEei2ypj5qhPBqELAkRvUxXRw_i_a589h9Bi/s800/wikiHow-bra.png" style="display: block; padding: 0.5em 0px 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="800" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPJxJhyg7PjGRbAh1h4KC4-bpBOVrrmgvh_RSgTgzu7NJk2KOD7Ga2Q5-Yk0_uB5Wh-fuSa9gt21pUBBxhxMJZDdRDL39hDlBoNuKXCmyXRUY91x8kNSdIXIgLheWGyX4tGQfew5E5u5u4qmdWtWpSdA-iBEei2ypj5qhPBqELAkRvUxXRw_i_a589h9Bi/s400/wikiHow-bra.png" width="400" /></a></div>
<div>Inspired by <a href="https://drinkthenewwine.blogspot.com/2024/02/hes-maniac.html">He’s a Maniac</a>. Image from <a href="https://www.wikihow.com/Video/Take-off-Your-Bra-Without-Taking-off-Your-Shirt" target="_blank">wikiHow</a>.</div>Roy Schulzehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03574135323022831091noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5930079652968973427.post-66858684136739137952024-02-17T00:21:00.002-05:002024-02-17T00:36:47.439-05:00Dear DiaryChris and I sit in an Ottawa bar and read her old diary from 1976. At first with theatrical angst, but then more thoughtfully. Here we are nearly fifty years later, older but immutable pals. I love that we’re here together, and that she had the foresight to bring a pen so that we could add a postscript to the story. I scratch out a paragraph alongside that girlie writing of hers. For a laugh, we write like we’re thirteen, leaning heavily into our words so that they press through the page, ghost writing our message onto the next day.
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitEQGkH9Pp6PTKFm-eYjSQCxGG-uOz3T6H-FvOSuXQtGV8Sxi7ETE_QJ2ObbnEyNL16_G-bBANRiUdJpUWtMgU5XZmWLOIJYbxCCm5IY3PMPe9pZR6R2HSD7KtrcRM1BbOz1WBIX99GjdkugkGWXnZZacLMLAuiQrwzNBrw_xc01TpSM2ddKLtOBpSPigN/s4032/IMG_1344.jpeg" style="display: block; padding-top: 0.5em; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" width="400" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitEQGkH9Pp6PTKFm-eYjSQCxGG-uOz3T6H-FvOSuXQtGV8Sxi7ETE_QJ2ObbnEyNL16_G-bBANRiUdJpUWtMgU5XZmWLOIJYbxCCm5IY3PMPe9pZR6R2HSD7KtrcRM1BbOz1WBIX99GjdkugkGWXnZZacLMLAuiQrwzNBrw_xc01TpSM2ddKLtOBpSPigN/s320/IMG_1344.jpeg"/></a></div>
Inspired by <a href="https://drinkthenewwine.blogspot.com/2024/02/hes-maniac.html">He’s A Maniac</a>. Photo of Christine’s Diary by Laurie. Laurie Leclairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04190403569858898495noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5930079652968973427.post-52569430230793969262024-02-13T08:30:00.004-05:002024-02-13T15:19:52.921-05:00Travel Hygiene<div class="separator"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg78cvGZqj2Y_8IzJau5av6CsYmjvyvVcNkA_NxXI273g1lJbrR-IFHNjJ88x5N2S-4T3vYQLUc_2ollzBapEUXMFPqnzh8ODcUg3D2QVdVPbjvWN1LHLmcf0mO1yCcckgN5bjZcjZ_0eJbOAwr442kLZDy-lhyphenhyphenhtG2G3fj7hAoA6fV-CMkFznf6I40REc/s4000/Vacation%20laundry.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 0em; margin-left: 1em; margin-top: 0.5em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg78cvGZqj2Y_8IzJau5av6CsYmjvyvVcNkA_NxXI273g1lJbrR-IFHNjJ88x5N2S-4T3vYQLUc_2ollzBapEUXMFPqnzh8ODcUg3D2QVdVPbjvWN1LHLmcf0mO1yCcckgN5bjZcjZ_0eJbOAwr442kLZDy-lhyphenhyphenhtG2G3fj7hAoA6fV-CMkFznf6I40REc/s320/Vacation%20laundry.jpg" /></a></div>Things are different when you travel. Firm standards become fluid. Take laundry. A seasoned traveller avoids it entirely. A shirt you’d never wear two days in a row at home can easily last a week on the road. Change your socks, certainly: on Day 2, wear the left one on your right foot, and the right one on your left. A third day is not advisable — just stop wearing socks. Or underwear. If you <i>must</i> wash clothes, a cursory rub with hotel soap will suffice; use shampoo for stubborn stains. Then hang it all to dry without blocking the view.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>Inspired by Travel. Photo by the author.Ron Thompsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17554672678044986786noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5930079652968973427.post-83572001025984219982024-02-10T17:09:00.006-05:002024-02-10T17:43:04.463-05:00Picture ThisWe drive along Lakeshore, passing by the garbage-strewn encampments and cracked pillars under the Gardiner. We turn down the New Cherry St. and over its just-opened bridge. He points to where the experts are carving out a new mouth of the Don to protect us from floods, and where, next year, the parks will be, and the new marsh (for the overspill just in case). They’re building in fish habitat and chimney swift nesting logs. They’ve got native plants going in — manufacturing a wetland to replace the larger one our city founders destroyed in their wisdom and drive for modernity.
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center; margin-top: 0.5em;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUGrkMRfqRAdjmHJOvzmc-jOsoJKWE2ET7DRNIivhCtc0uwxJgVg4GspouWl1BbW9pxUOO_rMdX3sN7XH0F5c4SxWtoqcCPoFL2hn15cbJBypkStx5bhVFtD7AkIpnbbPkiOPRyRzub6-FAk3rGKkVxUsHmswhtP3SVQVtLQYK9Yw0duAQWiD_N3gkEV4/s528/New%20Toronto%20Portlands%20Wetlands.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="298" data-original-width="528" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUGrkMRfqRAdjmHJOvzmc-jOsoJKWE2ET7DRNIivhCtc0uwxJgVg4GspouWl1BbW9pxUOO_rMdX3sN7XH0F5c4SxWtoqcCPoFL2hn15cbJBypkStx5bhVFtD7AkIpnbbPkiOPRyRzub6-FAk3rGKkVxUsHmswhtP3SVQVtLQYK9Yw0duAQWiD_N3gkEV4/s320/New%20Toronto%20Portlands%20Wetlands.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div>Inspired by <a href="https://drinkthenewwine.blogspot.com/2024/02/grasslands.html" >Grasslands</a>. Inspirational illustration by <a href="https://portlandsto.ca/why-this-matters/natural-habitats-port-lands/" target="_blank">Waterfront Toronto</a>.</div>Nancy Kay Clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09546376814203019097noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5930079652968973427.post-6242115079805660382024-02-06T12:33:00.003-05:002024-02-10T12:20:19.492-05:00Grasslands<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center; margin-bottom: 0.5em"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicX7iTbm4DdqqcS2-i_83_rLVy15k9b_2iob-_OBc3rQO9l6yqXA4wstaWqPWvSBssWieU8hgLafxOCJEhJTfG_s-U8gU8ICsCDxZkSH0Q7e2WQMQJNKKntkADftK3SxHwrExpVWDYVZYJTQ_Gt31ccDyarfEZVG1sBc0o4SN-Fu_BqK_Hzf17J6V1Wml-/s864/Grasslands.jpg" style=""><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="864" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicX7iTbm4DdqqcS2-i_83_rLVy15k9b_2iob-_OBc3rQO9l6yqXA4wstaWqPWvSBssWieU8hgLafxOCJEhJTfG_s-U8gU8ICsCDxZkSH0Q7e2WQMQJNKKntkADftK3SxHwrExpVWDYVZYJTQ_Gt31ccDyarfEZVG1sBc0o4SN-Fu_BqK_Hzf17J6V1Wml-/w400-h266/Grasslands.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
Paint a picture of the grasslands<br />
Take a photo of the soul<br />
Over ritual plains and rivers<br />
Heavy winds are this way blowing<br />
<br />
Running with the storm<br />
Climb quickly to the highlands<br />
Because the sea, she will come<br />
At the end of this long day<br />
<br />
Send home your sighs and wishes<br />
Send home your fruits and sun<br />
Remember all your days here<br />
Remember every last one<br />
<br />
You surrender nightly<br />
On a road not taken lightly<br />
You will travel with Her<br />
To the end of this long life<br />
<br />
Into the fold of Her embrace<br />
With thine own body<br />
Come find grace<br />
<br />
<br />
Inspired by Travel. Photograph by Fred Ni.Fredhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08110791007086816956noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5930079652968973427.post-62492862662113696232024-02-03T19:41:00.003-05:002024-02-03T19:41:54.925-05:00He’s A ManiacIt was a still and grey afternoon. Perfect weather mood for a Saturday matinee. We left the theatre jacked to put our moves into place. That’s what <i>Flashdance </i>does to you. It started to sleet as we crossed the parking lot of Fairview Mall.
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRrVPP79trJt7rIlDidN-wyHnhKTBqITA0XhbI4IhWzNIcbAvlOEsQ6o4q4nA7FvRUrm0GzoCI0mDMHHG8ZMmSPLbhnx1o1PHl-EpHcyFpp-aZKlRQN0ySDuUlYUVK8v95yYvfg23iipfFSp7IIvWCz5dN8pf3y34XmrTLHoWHNURjXEF3HYFGhG4AqiYQ/s1200/flasher.png" style="display: block; padding-top: 0.5em; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" width="400" data-original-height="670" data-original-width="1200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRrVPP79trJt7rIlDidN-wyHnhKTBqITA0XhbI4IhWzNIcbAvlOEsQ6o4q4nA7FvRUrm0GzoCI0mDMHHG8ZMmSPLbhnx1o1PHl-EpHcyFpp-aZKlRQN0ySDuUlYUVK8v95yYvfg23iipfFSp7IIvWCz5dN8pf3y34XmrTLHoWHNURjXEF3HYFGhG4AqiYQ/s400/flasher.png"/></a></div>
A man was approaching us in a trench coat. We noticed him but didn’t “see” him as we tried to croon the lyrics to <i>Gloria. </i>He trotted by our diagonal, halted, opened himself up and exposed his hairy bits. A flasher. Perhaps he saw the movie too and came out with a different kind of feeling. </p><p>Inspired by <a href="https://drinkthenewwine.blogspot.com/2024/01/st-clair-west.html">St. Clair West</a>. Image from <a href="https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0085549/" target="_blank"><i>Flashdance</i></a>.Wendy Whelanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13362012482674511026noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5930079652968973427.post-88207031806807210262024-01-31T22:50:00.003-05:002024-02-02T19:31:27.293-05:00St. Clair WestWe seemed to be hitting it off, so I offered to get her home. All I really wanted was to extend the evening a little, a walk through the snow, and maybe enough time to screw up the courage to kiss her goodnight. <div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeT87NTkj0N4wpbIpnXzJez-HUbGYl8plH5jvl8_87J-FyB-RXSjlRxWz1D2Zcip06yczV224KWTVO6JjEnHnElak_QK4LCKYKP1a5REzY_M5RNrXRvqUZxqHk7VYVRyKShUp4xMPjfa69mLIp-_Jsi0nZ30qogpg0PtJOVM0rqRgv_pnXXgwIsagiGx1k/s2000/snow-walk.png" style="display: block; padding: 0.5em 0px 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="1205" data-original-width="2000" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeT87NTkj0N4wpbIpnXzJez-HUbGYl8plH5jvl8_87J-FyB-RXSjlRxWz1D2Zcip06yczV224KWTVO6JjEnHnElak_QK4LCKYKP1a5REzY_M5RNrXRvqUZxqHk7VYVRyKShUp4xMPjfa69mLIp-_Jsi0nZ30qogpg0PtJOVM0rqRgv_pnXXgwIsagiGx1k/s400/snow-walk.png" width="400" /></a></div>
She lived past that middle-of-nowhere entrance to the St. Clair West station—a long way from Yonge, but then she had said she liked walking. And I don’t know why, at the door, I declined her invitation; nor, given she’d just asked me in, why she turned away as I kissed her.
<div> I took the streetcar home.</div>
<p>Inspired by <a href="https://drinkthenewwine.blogspot.com/2024/01/la-vache-qui-rit.html">La Vache Qui Rit</a>. Photo by <a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/e_schaaf/8649613715/" target="_blank">Evan Schaaf</a>.</p>Roy Schulzehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03574135323022831091noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5930079652968973427.post-64607579887289527782024-01-28T13:26:00.002-05:002024-01-28T13:50:42.448-05:00La Vache Qui RitBack in my card-carrying PETA undergrad, I played a rainy-day game called “Splash the Bunny”. I’d drive my Dodge Dart dangerously close to someone wearing a fur coat and tsunami the hell out of them.
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMONPTeDRYtSKUE_Gh-VA2jJY0GcRPDdJEEwj2CKtVtRDjuymBzwwrbI0pgxVbHZ7VVFl8sIykNHPp0WeivIRq70RfXrI8waePsD7codTS3n-FvYkDGfw7Mgbje71w6IvsODdV221JxYqzEYP553Kcgf4qlJ_LkeYj2Fb6cLdCDWvGCBkybZeRITSYm6z3/s2935/IMG_1041.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 0.5em 0 0 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" width="400" data-original-height="2935" data-original-width="2860" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMONPTeDRYtSKUE_Gh-VA2jJY0GcRPDdJEEwj2CKtVtRDjuymBzwwrbI0pgxVbHZ7VVFl8sIykNHPp0WeivIRq70RfXrI8waePsD7codTS3n-FvYkDGfw7Mgbje71w6IvsODdV221JxYqzEYP553Kcgf4qlJ_LkeYj2Fb6cLdCDWvGCBkybZeRITSYm6z3/s320/IMG_1041.jpg"/></a></div>
But why? Was it rebellion against my French-Canadian roots? Or because my dad trapped muskrat and raised greyhounds for the Florida circuit? Residual guilt over that kippered bathmat that was once a Reitman’s fox jacket? I don’t know why I did these things, but I did, and afterwards I’d sink my sophomoric arse into our leather chair and chew a cheese sandwich with quiet complacency.
<p>Inspired by <a href="https://drinkthenewwine.blogspot.com/2024/01/snow-slush-and-honour.html">Snow, Slush, and Honour</a>. Photo by Laurie Leclair.</p>Laurie Leclairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04190403569858898495noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5930079652968973427.post-61964362751365651052024-01-24T08:30:00.037-05:002024-01-24T08:30:00.132-05:00Snow, Slush, and Honour<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNKijlJbNEa-SiKsu7nfseCXhho9gRoPkTVoaHAbU7-YUs_mxLWcfbjSeB-y68Al03KPNHIazHCEoMFOj5mQ-lMcAHv0EtY_0vfR-Bxk733St27fATOuNTAIx13bKVPgxzCOHp0b9MsjtLPbLco9GPVENrBQpb2_jtTYjG4mMlSfr2colSGjCE9j8i-Hk/s639/Pedestrian%20getting%20sprayed.jpg" style="margin: 0px;"><img border="0" data-original-height="536" data-original-width="639" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNKijlJbNEa-SiKsu7nfseCXhho9gRoPkTVoaHAbU7-YUs_mxLWcfbjSeB-y68Al03KPNHIazHCEoMFOj5mQ-lMcAHv0EtY_0vfR-Bxk733St27fATOuNTAIx13bKVPgxzCOHp0b9MsjtLPbLco9GPVENrBQpb2_jtTYjG4mMlSfr2colSGjCE9j8i-Hk/s320/Pedestrian%20getting%20sprayed.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div>Sully was running late for an 8 A.M. That was the thing about beer league, you took ice time when you could get it, even 10 P.M. He was still annoyed about the game. A guy had snowed his goalie. Sully’d levelled him for it. You <i>never</i> snow a goalie. It’s against the hockey code of honour. </div><div> Sully was late. He sped up. The road was messy. Slush had pooled everywhere overnight. He whizzed past something colourful and glanced back in his mirror. It was some doofus with a rainbow umbrella, shaking his fist at him. Sully burst out laughing.
</div><div><br /></div><div>Inspired by <a href="https://drinkthenewwine.blogspot.com/2024/01/beneath-snow.html">Beneath the Snow</a>. Image by <a href="https://www.streetoncriminallawyers.com.au/less-commonly-known-road-rules/" target="_blank">Bristolpost.co.uk</a>. “Snowing a goalie” is <a href="https://www.gettyimages.ca/detail/news-photo/new-york-islanders-center-jordan-eberle-sprays-snow-in-the-news-photo/940408694?et=4NpFRI76RDtnLF0LZmkGsA&referrer=https%3A%2F%2Fhockeyanswered.com%2F" target="_blank">this</a>.</div>Ron Thompsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17554672678044986786noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5930079652968973427.post-3796747777821579702024-01-21T15:22:00.008-05:002024-01-23T16:17:12.768-05:00Beneath the snowNew snow covers all sorts of eyesores—garbage, dog poo, the debris of life littering my yard, general dilapidation. A wonderful façade until the inevitable southern Ontario thaw and freeze, thaw and freeze. By early March, the old snow has solidified into chunks of black guck at every street corner. Then, forced to see this mess and ugliness, I feel the necessity to clean house. I can’t ignore anymore what isn’t working. It has to go. I seldom make resolutions, but when I do, I don’t make them in the New Year. I wait for the clear light of Spring.
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigY5Ih8MkBh-Jj0tGmIKiyqqLEyQ9hXbdVUp_Jz60SiYlOndwLz4YVpkBx7if99AjoYtwQZEyhnn4Br5i_0SFNZDBSrTiuU-iqOGHUcaNGPy2rk1xViSMqJZxQ50wfjHb6To4FHIP28tyVDCTCDOZJ1TlChE4tYS7wZoWsG1nt5KllDf5U8tWtYPkH7e2-/s2468/snowgarden.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 0.5em 0px 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="2012" data-original-width="2468" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigY5Ih8MkBh-Jj0tGmIKiyqqLEyQ9hXbdVUp_Jz60SiYlOndwLz4YVpkBx7if99AjoYtwQZEyhnn4Br5i_0SFNZDBSrTiuU-iqOGHUcaNGPy2rk1xViSMqJZxQ50wfjHb6To4FHIP28tyVDCTCDOZJ1TlChE4tYS7wZoWsG1nt5KllDf5U8tWtYPkH7e2-/s400/snowgarden.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>Inspired by <a href="https://drinkthenewwine.blogspot.com/2024/01/fifty-words-for-snow.html" target="_blank">Fifty Words for Snow</a>. Photo by <a href="https://www.eyeem.com/p/116069413" target="_blank">Cristian Bortes</a>.Nancy Kay Clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09546376814203019097noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5930079652968973427.post-31077926862251251142024-01-18T16:00:00.003-05:002024-01-23T22:34:41.189-05:00Fifty Words for Snow<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9O6S33EftkgZkf-mMsrV6vRa9Na0Pqjvy3A__ekCwG2NuqJ9tKaWRTkwgJF04m9ttZdaQ1Ia3fSGHzCWZkqBuUE8IHZkP3mSwshLqSZ-Rnl1XuTP3_ecZY2MMP40NkToca1s4m6buFN_iWcgZrFxh_NWN92o1vVi8y3lKSkPmIz1t0YL_GQzIY1PQlJFw/s1080/IMG_6178.jpg" style="display: block; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9O6S33EftkgZkf-mMsrV6vRa9Na0Pqjvy3A__ekCwG2NuqJ9tKaWRTkwgJF04m9ttZdaQ1Ia3fSGHzCWZkqBuUE8IHZkP3mSwshLqSZ-Rnl1XuTP3_ecZY2MMP40NkToca1s4m6buFN_iWcgZrFxh_NWN92o1vVi8y3lKSkPmIz1t0YL_GQzIY1PQlJFw/w320-h320/IMG_6178.jpg" width="400" /></a>
It had been snowing again when I fell asleep, then some hours before dawn I was awoken by a bright light. Maybe a car had pulled into the driveway and one of its headlights was shining in through a window. I opened my eyes and saw, instead, the swollen moon casting its light over a field of snow-silvered grass.<br />
<br />
I got up, slid open the patio door an inch. Cold air. Months later, life would again push out from the earth and unleash its cacophony, but at that moment, I listened to the night’s frigid silence and counted to fifty.
<p>Inspired by <a href="https://drinkthenewwine.blogspot.com/2024/01/if-only.html">If Only</a>. Photograph by Fred Ni.</p>Fredhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08110791007086816956noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5930079652968973427.post-58072182473194091872024-01-15T20:10:00.000-05:002024-01-15T20:10:30.485-05:00If OnlyIf only we paused Netflix and took ten minutes to clear that measly strip of snow, so our elderly could walk.
<br /><br />If only we didn’t treat our streets and parks as giant ashtrays, so our children and pets could scamper and play.
<br /><br />If only we picked up our dogs’ excrement instead of pretending we didn’t see it, so our new neighbour to Canada didn’t ruin a pair of winter boots.
<br /><br />If only we ceased judging each other from our front windows and addressed our own hypocrisies.
<br /><br />If only we could all be nice. That would be different. Let’s be different.<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhygGXTmlp0grQI7NTbLXvHd1-jS_5KdDIuRJYOxgUizcISoYxEChrxYuPO0TCZ1Sv64yfXO4Fr0aMQIHU6FYcdzq6DE4Old0wqNydGKp0s2KUPgdEFKLCd6_G_nmmAEpyJrl8LB2PgE4fI1eYCyaJq8QpMJQ3OPSfWmbtws94DXqLQooyYI-vke1lnogp-/s2400/nick-fewings-7cLIUI6rVDc-unsplash.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1.0em 0 0.5em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" width="400" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="2400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhygGXTmlp0grQI7NTbLXvHd1-jS_5KdDIuRJYOxgUizcISoYxEChrxYuPO0TCZ1Sv64yfXO4Fr0aMQIHU6FYcdzq6DE4Old0wqNydGKp0s2KUPgdEFKLCd6_G_nmmAEpyJrl8LB2PgE4fI1eYCyaJq8QpMJQ3OPSfWmbtws94DXqLQooyYI-vke1lnogp-/s400/nick-fewings-7cLIUI6rVDc-unsplash.jpg"/></a></div>
Inspired by <a href="https://drinkthenewwine.blogspot.com/2024/01/be-nice.html">Be Nice</a>. Image by <a href="https://unsplash.com/photos/grayscale-of-sheep-on-green-lawn-7cLIUI6rVDc" target="_blank">Nick Fewings</a>.Wendy Whelanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13362012482674511026noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5930079652968973427.post-69267829114486376942024-01-12T18:17:00.002-05:002024-01-13T17:18:41.693-05:00Be Nice . . .<img alt="" border="0" style="display: none;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlkANViN0W4o_16efdJF9rZNE3jyY1K0w8MrThWNVxrCEH0qkY6AvsbWmfcxvbqhcxjzvkNEf0e1bF0XtUj1rhxmfaNG22TCfyhrr0cdSihFk449N2MyY_SkvTHMcDtwbtEby04_9aSzzYBP_mg9X2Uov4CUQqJV4mb1GuIX6hOy1yOxNxFJnZUb2lwKJJ/s1600/beniceFB.png"/>
With the house came an extra sixteen feet of responsibility I hadn’t anticipated—not after years of soft apartment living, insulated from the rigours of the Toronto by-law that compels landowners to clear snow from the sidewalks in front of their property.<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://www.dailymotion.com/video/xw966y" style="display: block; padding: 0px; text-align: center;" target="_blank"><img alt="" border="0" style="padding: 0.5em 0 0 0; border: none;" data-original-height="323" data-original-width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirBnvytkVr7mgmre96vM-hJ1ZT6dLYgYWy-_d0QAQSRCcs7WptvRaKfUYRt0c7BytLJDCi7MXWhxU6bSAwnNoHLam315vdL0D4NxEAJUV-bBoqdYJCfPMcPpTrDSX5IkPGn54_zPDRI9kIJl8uglwbC2jxRSzE9KPSrvuyAhvSSy7kKpOPEFmL0UhS2yPm/s1600/benice.png" /></a></div>The city plows the streets, sure—often pushing snow back over the curb—still we must guarantee a safe passage for our fellow citizens no later than twelve hours after the stuff stops falling . . . or do as I do and follow the forecasts in the hope, that if no one disturbs it, it will melt on its own.
<p>Inspired by tonight's oncoming storm, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ben_Wicks" target="_blank">Ben Wicks</a>, and <a href="https://www.dailymotion.com/video/xw966y" target="_blank">this commercial</a> from 1985.</p>Roy Schulzehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03574135323022831091noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5930079652968973427.post-64547804781889230872024-01-09T00:22:00.002-05:002024-01-09T11:53:13.984-05:00You’re Not Funny . . . You’re just a Nudnik“Horseshit” was dad’s word. Mom, with her <i>Enfant-chien-de-merde </i>preferred her own strangely compounded French. My Detroit cousins cursed in Yiddish, and although I didn’t understand a word, it was funny and I wanted in. So, I tuned into The Tonight Show and boned up on Shecky Green and Don Rickles. Finally, over a holiday dinner, I tried my routine on the Goldsteins. Raising my milk while hoisting my own polyglottal pétard, I shouted “Uncle Al, you’re the biggest <i>schmuck</i> around!!!” <i>Schtum</i>. So much <i>schtum</i>. And that’s when I learned that Context and Timing were the two pillars of comedic vulgarity.
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0Stxy4BIg2pLxb44Gpf3HbYQ-pHd7GZ0o2UkGadlSaf7t6fumhOEIUhPx8Dq1a-TjjNfJG-ESl9eyDw8PH6gEv6YEXK3pWGd7DjqVTc9H6LA0wk5mR_xQiXYk31jsalL5zJZumwNw-OF2zpraUR8hmEZmnbS-Le08Orhk4-gz5DFEWue5CbHEP0M59cAb/s1335/punchbowl-turd.png" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" style="padding: 0; border: none;" width="400" data-original-height="281" data-original-width="1335" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0Stxy4BIg2pLxb44Gpf3HbYQ-pHd7GZ0o2UkGadlSaf7t6fumhOEIUhPx8Dq1a-TjjNfJG-ESl9eyDw8PH6gEv6YEXK3pWGd7DjqVTc9H6LA0wk5mR_xQiXYk31jsalL5zJZumwNw-OF2zpraUR8hmEZmnbS-Le08Orhk4-gz5DFEWue5CbHEP0M59cAb/s400/punchbowl-turd.png"/></a></div>
Inspired by <a href="https://drinkthenewwine.blogspot.com/2024/01/salty-in-certain-circumstances.html">Salty in Certain Circumstances</a>. Image by <a href="https://makerworld.com/en/models/90973#profileId-97709" target="_blank">Chris W. Bissell</a>.Laurie Leclairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04190403569858898495noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5930079652968973427.post-50126971554407457882024-01-06T08:00:00.027-05:002024-01-06T08:00:00.140-05:00Salty in Certain Circumstances<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTyzzgu3bApVvZoupT2RYb75GvqZIjwPa9zFyoJpQveZ5ybImfpSxaCIaoF-NFFfO0tbERYpYZkll_ImyC-EOfDDBYXBvDKaPzXWKC9j34I3B9L-vNM5ox19KfbGkszrxhRjNFAPWeDtkBzeL9cVLjrUerEdiBk3cnuV_IyAS1hNzHnuev1MBMsaxnYfQ/s711/Soldiers%20cursing,%20Chloe%20Cushman,%20National%20Post.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 0em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="711" data-original-width="656" height="262" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTyzzgu3bApVvZoupT2RYb75GvqZIjwPa9zFyoJpQveZ5ybImfpSxaCIaoF-NFFfO0tbERYpYZkll_ImyC-EOfDDBYXBvDKaPzXWKC9j34I3B9L-vNM5ox19KfbGkszrxhRjNFAPWeDtkBzeL9cVLjrUerEdiBk3cnuV_IyAS1hNzHnuev1MBMsaxnYfQ/w254-h275/Soldiers%20cursing,%20Chloe%20Cushman,%20National%20Post.jpeg" style="border: none; padding: 0px;" /></a></div>Dad was not one for salty language. He dropped occasional mild blasphemies and a scatological term of German origin in moments of crisis, like when he did carpentry. Otherwise “Aw, hell,” was as coarse as he got, “hell” being acceptable, him not being a churchgoer. When <i>Platoon</i> premiered, he claimed to be appalled. “Soldiers don’t talk like that,” he assured Mom, which was striking, because I’d served in the reserves and knew how soldiers talked; and he’d been in the army all through the war. He definitely knew the richest, most expressive Anglo-Saxonisms. He just chose not to use them.
<p>Inspired by <a href="https://drinkthenewwine.blogspot.com/2024/01/get-out-of-bed.html">Get Out of Bed</a>. Image by <a href="https://torontosun.com/opinion/melissa-mohr-bringing-trench-talk-home" target="_blank">Chloe Cushman</a>, National Post.</p>Ron Thompsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17554672678044986786noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5930079652968973427.post-51748417037089535032024-01-03T09:48:00.001-05:002024-01-04T12:56:59.394-05:00Get Out of Bed<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4Z2R8nV9xqUfu7gmVwEr9vYd9fkymNSBFU8hby7rBj0paMbyaOiO0Hhoym9PzGA3Qmbh3OalOMFjUF8XjiisCusiufKdXgOaVnyVqx28dGu3o3jUWKnBRBDUO7lwukbD75iJAE5MUSFuPRwjOl6aq1RmiLTwexk9S7AFvVKs3HJfJBWaEFhcjt0RTGPFx/s1024/staring-at-a-match.png" style="display: block; padding: 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" width="400" data-original-height="793" data-original-width="1024" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4Z2R8nV9xqUfu7gmVwEr9vYd9fkymNSBFU8hby7rBj0paMbyaOiO0Hhoym9PzGA3Qmbh3OalOMFjUF8XjiisCusiufKdXgOaVnyVqx28dGu3o3jUWKnBRBDUO7lwukbD75iJAE5MUSFuPRwjOl6aq1RmiLTwexk9S7AFvVKs3HJfJBWaEFhcjt0RTGPFx/s400/staring-at-a-match.png"/></a></div>Hearing is muffled after a blast. Saturated by bright flames, your eyes hurt and you shut them tight. You swallow smoke. Taste it on your tongue. Your body is covered with sweat and ash. You lie amongst the debris wondering if you should just give up—knowing there are more conflagrations in the future. We are the ones who stoke this hot bed of hate and indifference, so perhaps we should lie in it. Perhaps we deserve annihilation. You think there is nothing good left. But then someone’s hands help you up and you begin to cough out the poison.
<p><br />Inspired by <a href="https://drinkthenewwine.blogspot.com/2023/12/happy-motherfing-new-year.html">Happy MotherF’ng New Year</a>. Image by Roy Schulze, with lots of help from <a href="https://www.bing.com/images/create" target="_blank">Image Creator</a>.</p>Nancy Kay Clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09546376814203019097noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5930079652968973427.post-3750097280248933242023-12-31T10:00:00.011-05:002024-01-01T11:06:37.526-05:00Happy MotherF’ing New Year 😊😊😊<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center; padding: 0.5em 0 0.5em 0"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhugvKV5Tb1wErrHzES_ShmjvUcamZI_j9JaA2GFuwQMa9scSZsG4l2HcVSkCbNNmNZUZylYxYbbfRmQmGWVa2sFoFX-pWoPpD6lR_c2luxumMQAJ4mCRd4ovmy10TIHxjgM3Yf4ibBrsizHKOdsXXYiUHPliRPeSk_Z7GcpC5v4rZX0X08bki7y44wOkMx/s896/burningHouse.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 0em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="896" data-original-width="896" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhugvKV5Tb1wErrHzES_ShmjvUcamZI_j9JaA2GFuwQMa9scSZsG4l2HcVSkCbNNmNZUZylYxYbbfRmQmGWVa2sFoFX-pWoPpD6lR_c2luxumMQAJ4mCRd4ovmy10TIHxjgM3Yf4ibBrsizHKOdsXXYiUHPliRPeSk_Z7GcpC5v4rZX0X08bki7y44wOkMx/w400-h400/burningHouse.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
The fuel burning furnace shot out a spark. I see it land on a newspaper pile and catch.<br />
I tell my housemate this.<br />
They say, “You’re an extemist.”<br />
I say, “You’re anti-science.”<br />
We smell the smoke now.<br />
But the fridge door still leans against the wall.<br />
I’d wanted it mounted left.<br />
They’d wanted it mounted right.<br />
Fire alarms go off now.<br />
I take one down, remove the battery.<br />
They grab a broom, smash the other.<br />
I hold a knife to their throat. “You’re a fascist fuck.”<br />
They hold a pot of boiling oil over my head. “You’re a commie cuck.”<br />
<br />
Inspired by <a href="https://drinkthenewwine.blogspot.com/2023/12/bravo-f.html">Bravo, F!</a> Illustration by Fred Ni.Fredhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08110791007086816956noreply@blogger.com0