Coming over the hill is almost always worth the terrible struggle it takes to get back here. I love this town.
We took the Crown Mountain trail.
I love that Los Angeles Times story comment a couple of days ago about, “fascist scum in the White House”. My immediate thought? Wrong network. That show’s on NBC. It’s kind of copy-catting the big hit of the new year. Looking forward to another episode of “Alien Zombies In The White House” on ABC tonight at 10. Starring, you better believe it, the gorgeous Chris Hemsworth.
I was surprised, and I’m serious about this, that Mattel is in negotiations to bring out a talking Kellyanne Conway doll. Everything she says, including “and” and “the” is a lie.
You can’t make this stuff up.
That was a tough January and I’m glad I wasn’t around to experience it because I’m marshmallow soft. I’m white and just a little ole piece of pudginess. It’s too bad. I mean good. And I can’t make out why no one has mentioned “The Peter Principle”. I guess no one remembers the 1970s. I certainly don’t. The lost decade.
Actually, on further review, “The Peter Principle” was published in 1968. The author was Laurence J. Peter and the central argument of his book, which is still valid today, because that’s what principles do, is that people rise to their level of incompetence. They go along, they rise based on what they’ve done, or said they’ve done, and then they get up to a place where they really have no idea what they’re doing. Sad. Big bad disaster. A killer.
Laurence J. Peter was born in no place else but Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada. He made his name though, like so many of us beaver people, in the United States of America.
Some smart person or publisher should get that book out again. These days have done wonders for George Orwell’s career and Aldous Huxley’s career so how about the career of Laurence J. Peter? It doesn’t matter if you’re dead.
Looking forward to February. February’s got one thing going for it that January doesn’t have. It isn’t January. It’s also got that silent “r” in there and no other month’s got that either. Cool. Feb-u-ary.
We’ll be right back after these important messages
Charles Baudelaire was born in Paris, France in 1821. Except for one brief period he lived in Paris his entire life.
Charles Baudelaire’s father was 63 when Charles was born, and his mother just 29. Charles Baudelaire’s father died when Charles was 6. A year later his mother married a general in the French Army. Charles Baudelaire, for the most part, was on good terms with General Aupick.
In 1841, at the age of twenty, Charles Baudelaire, at the urging of his parents, who had the money, and were disturbed by his propensities to what was known at the time as “dandyism”, embarked on a voyage bound for Calcutta. The hope was that the experience might straighten him out.
He got as far as Réunion Island, a French protectorate east of Madagascar, where he decided to give up on the voyage and return to Paris. In later life he regretted not completing the voyage. He died in Paris in 1867.
The thing that struck me early is the emotion in Charles Baudelaire. The conviction. And what appeared to me as his disdain for just about everything. He’s not actually disdainful of everything. He despised convention, and mediocrity. He managed to get himself very heavily into debt.
Charles Baudelaire lived to be 46. For the last 20 years of his life the poet, translator and critic suffered from the varying effects of syphilis.
Charles Baudelaire is what one writer has called the greatest French poet of the nineteenth century. He’s simply a great poet. He’s the most modern of nineteenth century poets.
Representative of his cool critical eye, Charles Baudelaire knew of and translated the works of Edgar Allen Poe. Poe died in 1849 at the age of 40.
Charles Baudelaire wrote about a land of grace and measure. He also wrote about angst and personal suffering and the chasm separating disillusion and the ideal.
Charles Baudelaire wrote about a wild ride. His poems are a mix of the morbid and the ecstatic ground up in a terrible wit.
On Sunday January 8, 2017 at 3pm I’ll be reading from the works of Charles Baudelaire for the Dead Poet’s Reading SeriesReading Series at the Vancouver Public Library Main Branch, 350 West Georgia Street, Vancouver.
As the usual venue, the Alice MacKay Room, is unavailable due to flooding the reading will take place on the library’s 3rd floor in the “L3 Program Area” just to the left of the escalators.
I’m privileged to be reading with some fine writers January 8.
That’s about the size of it. Bravery is a necessary component of life. Without bravery there is no life. That is the most harebrained idea I have driving east down 9th Avenue this afternoon. What happens when you just don’t know? You’re looking for one final gift and you act on instinct. Just deleting your account won’t help. Not after this. And there needs to be push-back.
Couldn’t agree more. Undermines their tangled web. Just put on the headset and we bring it to you. That’s gift giving.
Did you say “Crinklies”? That’s what disconnected thoughts sound like. They do that. “Crink”. They come in packages 40 to a box. Superstore carries the 400 family size. Crinklies are round and about the size of a Ritz cracker except they’ve been around a lot longer than Ritz crackers. They’ve outlasted them, like they said they would. The stale taste is part of it.
Christmas crinklies and time. There’s no difference. It’s like “Fiddle Faddle”. A memory you can’t get rid of. And why would anyone try? Crinklies are good. Mocha, ginger, a flash of arborite and and a long sausage finish. Grease is good for you. It’s too stupid but they’re under every tree every year. It’s like Steve Allen only better.
December 19, 2016. States brought the potted olive bush in because she thought it might die in the cold. It sat on the step-up to the upper deck just inside the sliding glass door. The temperature’s warmed up a bit and there’s quite a layer of sloppy wet snow on deck and the plant is back out there. It gives us a warm sloppy feeling.
Later. Our inveterate happy partyer millionaire neighbour is out there on his deck even now at 5 pm in the cool blackness. He’s with a couple of friends. I can hear their raucous, manly laughter. It sounds pretty raucous. They’re raucous-ing it up over there. They just went inside. That wonderful time of year is back.
Sverdlovsk Dusk With Putin Banners
I couldn’t really see them because he has a large rooftop deck and they were at the north-end or downtown view side. He’s paying for it. He’s a generous person. He loves to share and have people over. That’s my thought. That’s what I’ve heard about him.
We did a lot of work around the place in anticipation of all the hard partying we’ll be doing here Christmas Eve. It’s thoroughly modern, keeping up with the dust. Battling the clutter is an exquisite feeling, difficult to describe. So hard to get motivated. So good.
We do everything for you. And for all of you who have to do everything, and do it, and do it well, that’s all I’m gonna say. Thanks very much. Is greatly appreciated by all mother Russiya’s children.
There’s no other way to characterize it. It’s a big tree for big people doing big things. And really, it doesn’t matter what time of year it is. It’s a nice little town and I hope I never go back there. You try to dis-imagine that you’re stuck in Sverdlovsk. It’s all you’ve got until you finally get out of here. Later there’s nostalgia. And it’s hard. You miss Sverdlovsk like cancer. That Russian tour was a beast. Why do we do it to ourselves? We do it for the love.
December 20. No. It’s better than that. You scrape the tin-foil off the truffle and down she goes. That’s when you know you’re in time again to the music. Death by Christmas music. One more Feliz outta you and this Navidad is over. Holly jolly my stained neck muffler.
I’m in line behind this guy at “Customer Service” at the “Liquor Depot” who’s complaining bitterly there’s no Fireball on the shelves. How can you be out of Fireball especially at this time of year? Catastrophe. All I’m after is the key to the washroom, but it’s okay. This time of year you need patience.
December 21. So that’s it. I’ve always liked December 21. It means you’re getting close. Close to the end and you can wrap a bow on it. You don’t have to think. Around here you can relax. We’ll talk about it at the break. The idea completely resonated with me when I first heard it. Content-free content. As chanteuse Dua Lipa so eloquently puts it,”I ask myself what am I doin here?”
I love the expression “Happy Holidays”. And I doubt there was ever any irony intended. I’m in good shape now. I have time to do those final little things that are still out there and need to be gathered in as gifts. I don’t need the car anymore. I can walk out in the early morning and take care of it before traffic gets too bad.
Next on samoyeddogs Monsieur Charles Baudelaire in connection with an upcoming poetry reading. Happy holidays….
samoyeddogs 