Summer Thoughts 2022

We’re not even halfway through summer yet.  OMG!  It’s hot.  I’m grouchy.  There are motorcycles.  The guy down the street still believes everyone in the neighbourhood loves classic hip-hop.  And I wish there was an Advent Calendar for the Autumn Equinox – but there isn’t.  Anyway, here are some random thoughts to occupy your mind while Mother Nature tries to broil us in our own oil — again this year.

Life is not a bowl of cherries, a river, a journey or a process – life is a ski jump.  You start off slowly, gather momentum and just when you reach maximum velocity and think you’ve got it all going on – oops! – you’re sailing fifty metres in the air, and there’s nothing underneath you.

Isn’t it totally convenient that most of the people you know — from the woman you see on the bus every morning to that best, best friend you’ve known since university — go into suspended animation when you’re not there?

That great subversive Winnie the Pooh is still banned in China.  Which proves that if you want to upset a dictator (I’m lookin’ at you Putin) laugh at him.

One of the coolest things about getting older is that, when people talk about you behind your back, you can’t hear them.  And this works on so many levels.

In fashion, sometimes the only difference between faux pas and faux posh is about $500.00.

This is the best way to explain the difference between movie audiences in Europe and North America.  In North America, people want to see Gary Oldman play Macbeth.  In Europe, people want to see Macbeth played by Gary Oldman.

In the small town of Union Bay, Canada, a 95-year-old woman, Anna Stady, chased a bear out of her kitchen.  This says a few things about wildlife in Canada and a whole bunch about Canadian women.

And speaking of …  They’ve reintroduced European Bison to Britain.  Someplace in Kent has a whole pile (herd?) of them.  They haven’t been around in the wild since the Middle Ages.  Good on ya, Brits!  Is this the short road to Jurassic Park?

And finally:

Young people spend so much time using their phones to “interact” with their friends on Social Media, one would think that teenage pregnancies would be somewhere around zero.

Firenze — Away From The Villa

The air was sweet and the high, afternoon sun was warm.  To Emily, walking down the tiny hill, away from the villa, it was as if she’d been ill and this was the first day nanny had let her go out and play.  Dreyfus walked behind her with a good view of the iron gate just in case the two men who’d ran earlier decided to retest their courage.  They hadn’t.  And the gate was open and the car had been turned around on the narrow gravel road and, even though it wasn’t over, it felt like it.  At least the light at the end of the tunnel wasn’t going to be the paramedics, anymore.  Through the gate and Dreyfus opened the passenger door.  Emily got in, half sat down, leaned and reached behind her.  She brought up a bundle of detonators (although she didn’t actually know what they were) and handed them to Dreyfus.  He just as casually took them and put them in his jacket pocket as he got in the backseat beside her.

“This is …” Dreyfus realized he didn’t know the driver’s name.

“I’m the driver, Signora.” He said looking at them through the rear-view.

“Of course you are.”  Emily replied, as he started the car.

Emily curled her arm around Dreyfus’ elbow.  “Did you miss me?”

Dreyfus laughed, “Well, I did have the indestructible Ms. Miller to keep me company.”  He stopped and turned his head to Emily, “The woman has skills.”  He turned his head back and faced forward.  “She does a thing with honey that would make your eyes water,” he said and shook his head slowly.  But before Emily could say anything Dreyfus reached his hand forward and shook the back of the driver’s seat. “Stop.  Stop, here.”

The men at the gate had left their car.  Or there was a car, or … it didn’t matter … the car was there and it was an unexpected opportunity.

“Pass me the Dolce bag.” Dreyfus pointed.  Emily handed it across without a word.  Dreyfus reached in and came out with what looked like a large cake of tofu. 

“I’ll be right back,” he said, got out of the car and matter-of-factly walked over to the black four-door whatever-it-was.  The door was unlocked.  Dreyfus opened it, stopped, took a detonator out of his pocket and stuck it halfway into the cake.  Then he broke the cap at the blue mark, put it under the driver’s seat and closed the door.  A half kilo of high explosive in a confined space would rip the pleasant out of this pleasant little valley and, more importantly — bring the carabinieri.  And they’d be very interested in this turn of events, especially after they discovered three dead Albanians up at the villa.

Dreyfus got back in the car.  “Alright, five minutes.”

The car pulled away, quickly but not with any suspicious speed and less than a minute later, at the village by the river, turned into the traffic on the main highway.  Maybe someone would remember the car, but even if they did …

The road was smooth and Emily, leaning into Dreyfus’ shoulder, let her eyes close and half-close and close again.  And the car motor was steady, soft noise.  And she could feel Dreyfus breathing and he was warm and three days of wary and careful and watching slowly dissolved away and Emily’s eyes were too heavy to … closed again … and maybe … and then she was asleep.  And a few minutes later when the air opened up behind them in a long angry rumble of faraway thunder, she didn’t even move.  And that’s the way they drove back to Florence.  Emily sleeping – deep and dreamless.  Dreyfus motionless watching the Tuscan countryside and ignoring the pins and needles tingling in his shoulder and arm.  And the nameless driver, driving carefully with the traffic and seriously wondering — what kind of a woman would a man kill that many people for.    

The Real Conspiracy

Hang on to your bonnet, baby, because I’ve uncovered a massive international conspiracy.  Unfortunately, I’m such a total coward I’m too scared to name names, but I have evidence that powerful covert forces are at work — even as we speak.  These shadowy figures are grimly determined to totally suck the joy out of every aspect of human life!  Their nefarious goal is to turn every one of us into miserable Neo-Puritans, just as riddled with guilt and apprehension as they are.  And the problem is it looks as if they’re succeeding.  Check it out:

Remember when holidays were a time to take a moment, have some fun, relax and recharge the batteries?  Buckle up ’cause those days are over.  These days, holidays are a battleground.  Look at Hallowe’en!  Every costume comes with a ferocious debate.  Columbus Day?  Chris would have been better off sailing the other way.  Valentine’s Day is a minefield of who got missed in the sexual orientation parade, and Christmas?  Just forget it — between the Christmas-is-too-commercial crew and the anti-Christian lobby, even Santa Claus has tossed in the towel.  No, special occasions are a good time to keep your head down, and, just to be on the safe side, lie about your birthday on Facebook.
Celebrations?  Gone!

Have you ever wondered what happened to junk food?  Think about it!  One minute we’re chowin’ down on cheeseburgers, fries and a Coke, happy as clams. The next thing we know, it’s all 90 calorie, gluten-free, low sodium, Tai Chi chicken and kale salad.  Whoa!  The point of junk food is … it’s junk!  It’s supposed to be bad for you!  Going to McDonald’s for a salad is like going to a hooker (Oops! sex-worker) for a hug — why bother?
Junk Food?  Not gone — but smothered in guilt.

Did you know there are historical records which categorically prove that sex is supposed to be messy?  That’s right!  It involves all manner of mouth-breathing, involuntary twitches and tensions, grinding, groaning, gripping and sticky stuff.  Orgasm, for most of human existence, was a noun not a verb (the verb was a lot more folksy) and for thousands of millennia, humans had body hair — and it wasn’t icky.   The antiseptic procedures most people practice these days are designed to tear the soul out of sex and make it just one more hyper-allergenic reward challenge of “the relationship.”
The Joy of Sex?  Replaced by I’m not sure what. . . .

And we all know what “relationships” are — they’re the long-winded workaholics idea of love slowly drowning in an ocean of issues and dialogue — until finally, totally fed up, even the dog runs away from home.
Love?  Dissolved away like sugar in the rain.

It was the original Puritans who banned Christmas, discouraged poetry, art and music.  They also got rid of theatre, dance and comedy.  They believed that life was a grim business and that they knew what was best for everybody.  Our contemporary puritans are a lot sneakier but just as grim — and just as certain of their own infallibility.  They’re definitely dedicated to stomping out fun, excitement and humour.  They scare the hell out of me and I tend to keep a low profile whenever they’re around.

However, on a totally unrelated matter (nudge/nudge – wink/wink) have you ever noticed that the people on BOTH ends of the Woke/Unwoke spectrum look remarkably the same and never smile?