Apologies to Jarvis et al, and thanks for the life lesson

The mythical Jarvis, along with his putative confederates, has earned my apology. Further impugning his reputation was wrong.

Turned into a life lesson. With our long history of jigsaw anomalies, I expected something odd to happen again. Thus, I unconsciously created it, by accidentally misplacing one piece and failing to notice the empty slot for another.

This came to light when my husband insisted the missing piece had to be somewhere. With his encouragement, I found it under the table, and then discovered the gap where the other fit. Anway, putting together the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel was a big challenge and provided an interesting lesson in art history, not to mention a close look at a place I'll probably never see.

Dear Corporate-style Charity

I am writing about the enormous calculator and tri-color pen you sent me in the mail. If you are relying on such a device, I suggest you re-check its functioning. Your calculations are clearly incorrect. You say my donation is worth triple the dollar amount I send, yet offer absolutely no evidence for this mathematically nonsensical claim.

A more realistic estimate is that perhaps half my donation will be used to support your good works. The rest will have to be spent on sending the next round of cheap bribes. I understand that giant corporate charities have to solicit funds in a dog-eat-dog world, and compete for diminishing dollars. But may I suggest that the race to flood potential donors with ever fancier plastic goods is far from an ideal solution? I for one resent your transparent attempts at manipulation, not to mention the waste of resources.

Still, since my mother taught me to be polite, courtesy is an ingrained habit, so I must thank you for the calculator and pen. But in these days when every phone and computer has a calculator function, just how many calculators does one household need? Also, has it not crossed your minds that people might donate freely instead of in exchange for "prizes"?

If you really must send "gifts," please refrain from sending more unwanted plastic clutter. Fresh flowers would be a lovely choice, or possibly chocolates. Even better, I'd love a small pet - perhaps a goldfish. But no, those ideas are all too impractical.

I have it! How about a rebate cheque for the money you refrained from spending on bits of plastic? Then you wouldn't be seen to be contributing to the garbage problem and wasting non-renewable energy. I doubt that I'm alone in my frustration at witnessing how as charities like yours work for their various causes, they contribute ever more irresponsibly to the tsunami of junk mail.

On receiving the calculator, I sent you a donation -- in spite of and not because of the bribes. Lest you think this letter is not serious, let me assure you that next time I receive a large package like the one that came yesterday, I will return it to you by the next post, sans donation.

Sending my best regards, and thanking you for your good work, I remain

a sadly misunderstood potential donor (but only if you quit with the bribes)

PS Today in the post, I received a nickel from a rival charity. They've promised to make my donation worth five times as much, because for every dollar I donate, a large life insurance company will donate enough to quadruple it.

Where will this end?

The horoscope lady struggles on, along with the rest of us

Zodiac image from NewsNow

It's been awhile since my last update on the horoscope lady. Disclaimer: I'm not revealing her identity. Though her challenges may be very public, she'll retain her privacy.

This character assessment is based on the psychological principle called projection. These days, some call it mirror work: the flaws that annoy you in others are those you share. Fortunately, that goes for good points too.

Telltale words and phrases suggests the writer of our daily horoscope has yet to overcome her tendency to be disorganized. Her advice to readers reveals that she herself needs a whole year to devote to planning, putting things where she can find them, and developing a more structured routine. In this vein, she recommends taking on new responsibilities to "improve your life."

Her use of language points to the fact that she's still too easily led. An example of self-talk is "Stick to your boundaries," as is the warning not to settle for something that "doesn't sit right with you." She advises readers to stay in control, avoid the temptation to be a follower, and stop letting others confuse you or make you feel insecure. She warns too of the risk entailed by trying to fit in; acting out of obligation allows others to impose. This theme returns in the explicit warning against "letting others get involved in your business." Clearly the voice of experience.

Sadly, she's still a bit of a spendthrift, as revealed by her dire warnings against making "a financial mistake." This theme is repeated in the advice to save money rather than "buying something you don't need." A related flaw is attention-seeking behaviour, an unfortunate tendency to exaggerate in order to grab the spotlight. She castigates herself and her readers with the caution to "stick to the rules," and promises that patience and persistence will eventually result in "getting ahead."

Fortunately, her health is improving. While we see many exhortations to develop good long-term habits and avoid grabbing for immediate results, the old addictions seem to have abated. In her current phase, she's prepared to "embark on a new and healthier routine." Indeed, she states outright: "Take care of your health." To achieve improvement on the mental and emotional front, she also advises the reader to broaden awareness, gain perspective, and seek peace of mind.

It's heartwarming to see her taking her courage in both hands, inviting readers to embark on personal growth by trying "something new," and "exploring unfamiliar territory." It's also good to see her making relationships a priority, as evidenced by her willingness to help those who need her "without complaining." Touting the benefits of considering "what you can do for others," she also promotes the value of "living up to your promises," and hopes helping others will "bring good fortune."

On the whole, there's nothing wrong with the horoscope lady that the rest of us don't share. It's called the human condition. But it's nice to see her moving into more positive territory as she focuses on taking responsibility, building self-confidence and showing "strength and courage."

On the principle that what you see in others is what you are, I hold great hope that after years of struggling with self-control, money and relationship issues, this mysterious yet very public figure is moving into a more mature and satisfying phase of her life.

Just seen: the living ghost of Herb Woodley

Dagwood's neighbour Herb Woodley is on a mission to give his friend a gift when he meets his ghost self in mirror image. Or, for those who prefer a less esoteric explanation, folding the paper before the ink was dry reprinted Herb's image cartoon on the opposite page.

Merry Christmas to Blondie, Dagwood, and family, as well as to the neighbours. They've evolved with the times, making us laugh since 1930. Original cartoonist Chic Young's son took over the drawing from his dad.

The inimitable voice of Bill Richardson makes me smile

Published 1995, Douglas and MacIntyre in Vancouver.

Twenty-two years ago was a different era. I suspect that in today's dog-eat-dog publishing world, the discursive style and lush prose of Bill Richardson would get short shrift.

This is not a book to be read for the plot, even though a lot happens to twins Vergil and Hector, their friends and pets, in the course of life running the Bed and Breakfast.

Those of us who remember Bill Richardson on CBC read to hear his voice in our heads. Zany asides, excursions into philosophy and a vast array of vocabulary. Who uses words like lofty, charitable, tawdry, mote and monstrance? Vergil keeps a journal, dreams in puns and admits to penning lines "to release some pent-up punning energy."

In describing a contest for "improving verse" (read bad doggerel), the author's poetic flights soar through alliterations: "simpering sestinas," "vilifying villanelles" and "scolding sonnets adjuring dog owners to pick up after their pets." (Adjuring: a delectable word). Speaking of dogs, brother Hector has resigned himself "to being an old dog, hopelessly estranged from new tricks."

As well as dogs, there are ghosts: On a visit home to his parents, Vergil sees "protoplasmic shreds of who and what went before." These include his dead brother, his grandmother's face rising out of the kettle steam, and his younger selves, now "wrestling with the angel of French irregular verbs," and  again standing at the fridge munching on his mother's home made bread and butter pickles (which she makes no longer, as "life is too short and the supermarket too close to bother.")

The ghost of young Vergil also paces along Portage Avenue past the former location of the Mardi Gras. Both attractive and repellent, this was "where the fruits used to go." The gay bar he never dared to enter puts Vergil in mind of how he girded his loins for years to break the news of his homosexuality to his parents, then found their easy acceptance strangely "unsettling." Now far in the past, these memories also recall how his mother wants to leave him a family heirloom. That selfsame Blue Mikado china reminds him of mortality, generating further flights of poetry.

Caedmon, the man of all work at the bed and breakfast, makes his own forays into poesy, opening his paean to dust with this evocation: "Chaff, born on the wind from Samarkand." The very pregnant June is inspired to metaphor by the state of her body as childbirth looms: she feels she "couldn't get through a revolving door with a crowbar." Even Hector's girl friend, the cosmetically expert Altona, gives a mean description of what Hector looks like when he's asleep.

Vergil is fond of kids and likes baby books. In his free time, he does a bit of babysitting, reading to the children of exhausted guests. His annotated booklist for the wee ones contains several of my own favourites. A.A. Milne, of course, Where the Wild Things Are, and Goodnight Moon, but also the more arcane The Elephant and the Bad [and manipulative!] Baby.

This is a book revealing daily moments, from sublimely transcendent to sad and ridiculous. Virgil is surprised by joy as the sun "sheds its golden fleece." Hector finally masters the hula hoop, only to watch in horror as it is accidentally chewed up by the lawnmower. Caedmon's youthful "Blakean vision" teaches him that "Mistakes are just not possible, for every seeming blunder is just another step along the scenic and circuitous path...to wherever it is you're going."

There's zany fun aplenty. Magazines are called Pry, The Rumour and Interference, and characters have names like Abel Wackaugh. Poetic couplets include this: "Burping is a way to drain, Evil humours from the brain." In counterpoint, the parrot Mrs. Rochester accentuates or criticizes the prevailing mood by quoting a suitable verse from the King James Bible. Mr. Bellwether's church of "God the Technician and Marketer" speaks for itself.

Caedmon finds a dishwasher on the side of the road, brings it home on a red wagon, then restores and installs it. Running, it sings as the mood strikes it, "No more, no more, be still, restore" or "Har-de har, from afar." This reminded me of my mother's old wringer washer, which used to repeat hypnotically, "Colin Roy, Colin Roy." [We were reading Kidnapped at the time.]

On the spying front, as the writer of messages in invisible ink says, "There's nothing like the bald truth to dispel suspicion. No one ever believes it."

In closing, let me quote Professor Bardal: "When the hubris of the powerful and living meets the malice of the cunning and dead, what chance to the rest of us have?" What chance indeed?

Yes, there are plenty of good reasons why this book won the Stephen Leacock Medal for Humour.

Footnote: From this book, I learned a notable fact: Evian spelled backwards spells naive.

Stephen Leacock Re-Tour -- coming here Sunday November 19

"Writing is no trouble; you just jot down ideas as they occur to you. The jotting is simplicity itself--it is the occurring which is difficult," said Stephen Leacock. Canada's first and greatest humourist died in 1944, but his work is still read and the Leacock Medal for Humour is awarded annually in his honour.

In 1937, he undertook a lecture tour across Canada. Eighty years later, Voyageur Storytellers Paul and Leslie Conway are crossing the country in his footsteps, giving a variety of Leacock-related presentations. On Sunday November 19, from 2 to 4 pm in the Labatt Hall at SFU Harbour Centre, the Voyageur Storytellers will present Stirring the Occurring, an event inspired by Leacock's views on the writing life.

Their performance will be followed by refreshments and casual conversation with the Conways. This unique presentation by Canadian Authors - Metro Vancouver is supported by SFU Continuing Education: The Writer's Studio and Liberal Arts 55+. Tickets are available here.

Jax the wrinkle dog awaits his shampoo at the salon

Sue, Jax's human, has a home salon. Every day, he watches her doing people's hair.

He knows that the first part of the ritual is to sit in the special chair by the sink and get a nice shampoo.

All the ladies get it, so why not him too? The way to make it happen, he figures, is to get up in the chair.

"Okay Mum. Ready when you are. Just glancing out the window here, and keeping an eye on the cat."

But Sue just shakes her head, remarking to a client, "He thinks he's human too."

Just so you know, Jax. It could be a long wait.

Born a Crime by Trevor Noah

Image from amazon

The subtitle is Stories from a South African Childhood. Good thing they're true: you couldn't make this stuff up. This audio memoir lands the listener in the midst of the bizarrely illogical world of Apartheid.

The best thing about these astonishing, terrifying and sometimes hilarious stories is the narrative voice of Trevor Noah. The second best is his portrayal of his mother. A big fan of Jesus and a regular at Black Church, White Church and Coloured Church, she knows right from wrong. The machinations of the regime are clearly wrong, so she doesn't feel obliged to follow its rules. More importantly, she understands how it operates.

Against staggering odds, Trevor's mom did more than survive. She consciously educated her son to break the historic cycle of repression and violence he was born into. And that's just one of the miracles in this inspiring book.

Trevor Noah is an internationally celebrated comedian. Last month, he featured in Vancouver at the Just For Laughs Festival. For those who can't get to see him on one of his live tours, his memoir is widely available and his shows can now be seen on Netflix.

I feel sure he's the only performer who has had an angry policeman shoot his monitor to death in a Soweto street, killing the attached computer in the process. Just one of the many weird turning points in Trevor Noah's amazing life.

A humourous take on the welcome mat

This new take on the welcome mat classic was seen in downtown Nanaimo.

Reporters take their lumps in the basement of the BC Legislature

In the Legislative Press Gallery in Victoria, journalists and politicians have to take their lumps. Cartoon detail on bottom photo. Well, you know what I mean.

Whyte hair is trendy

In Edmonton's hip neighbourhood of Old Strathcona, many business signs reveal a jaunty sense of humour. Last week these were on display in front of Whyte Avenue Hair Co.

Roadside weigh-in for travelling pets?

South of Astoria, near the Mount St. Helen's turnoff, Gee Cee's is a good truck stop cafe. They serve home made baking powder biscuits there.

In Canada, you'd definitely need to be at someone's house to have a chance to eat those. And that person needs to be at least fifty years old.

Cultural differences. Okay, I get that gas prices are south of the border are in US gallons and not litres.

But what the heck is a cat scale? Time to weigh Kitty, who travels with you in the car, eating too many tea biscuits with gravy?

Yup, south of 49, they serve them with gravy. Weird.

Severe pant droop

Image from The Boston Globe

A recent article in the Boston Globe reports a TV ad campaign against falling-down pants.

Fashion trends can be hard to understand, and this one certainly is. I've often wondered how wearers ensure their pants won't fall down entirely. I've never seen any of these slaves of fashion hitch up his pants. Unless they do it surreptitiously.

On an escalator the other day, when I found myself behind a man with extreme trouser droop, I passed him on the left and moved on up. I didn't want to be there when his pants fell down. I had fears about watching him trip over them. In my nightmare vision, the man fell senseless on the deck and his fallen pants were then ingested by the escalator, bringing it to a grinding halt and causing more people to fall on top of the original victim.

Think it couldn't happen? According to the New York Times, there's already been a case of death by dropping pants. A gunman fleeing a murder scene tripped over his fallen pants and fell down a fire escape to his death.

Then again, maybe the more devious fashion slaves have a secret system to secure the pants in place. Believe it or not, a guy in Harlem developed a contraption like a garter belt that holds the pants up while making them look like they're about to fall. Amazing, isn't it?

In June, Wildwood, New Jersey banned saggy pants. In other jurisdictions, such laws have been struck down as unconstitutional. In Suite 101, Jeff Stanglin speaks against such laws in strong terms, terming them "fascistic."

Meanwhile, Justin Bieber follows the leaders and the followers blindly follow him.

If fans keep following him long enough, they might be rewarded with a pair of his pants -- to sell for a bundle or keep as a souvenir. That's because Justin looks to be in grave danger of walking right out of those pants.

Unless, of course, he's wearing a garter belt.

Which the simian posture suggests he's not.

Nouns verbing

GPS image from amazon.com

In contemporary English, nouns often become verbs.

Is GPS a verb yet?

If it is, here's the opening scene to my spy novel:

George GPSed his way slowly and deliberately toward the shabby apartment where he knew his opposite number, Oliver, had gone to ground.

To avoid being seen, he kept well back and used a zigzag route that would be hard to follow.

Then a sobering thought hit him. What if he was caught? The GPS itself would reveal the secret route by which he had caught up to Evil Ollie, as Oliver had been dubbed by George's boss, Q. 

The moment he collared Ollie, he'd get rid of it. Not that he would be caught, but in case he himself had been followed -- was he being followed even now?

Anyway, if push came to shove, the GPS would have to find its way down the nearest storm drain. George gave a silent and mirthless laugh and pulled his overcoat closer around his ears.

An ambiguous warning from the horoscope lady

Eugenia Last banner -- a helpful word of warning

Even though the warnings are often ambiguous, I have a habit of reading this horoscope column. I'm not alone; according to the website, it's syndicated in 300 newspapers worldwide.

One column warned that I might find myself "in an uncompromising position." This would happen if I let my emotions lead me into conversations that would "cost..a friendship or advancement," or "lead to a family feud."

It does seem odd. Wouldn't the hard line, the uncompromising position, be more likely to cause the loss of a friendship or a family feud, rather being a consequence of it?

I know that sometimes a person can be caught in a compromising position -- think Premier Christy Clark and the infamous memo -- but I truly believed that to adopt an uncompromising position involved an element of personal choice.

Yup, the horoscope lady tells it like it is. Problem is, as a reader, I'm often left scratching my head.

It's Valentines -- be happy

Photo: clasped hands 123RF

Anyone feeling left out on Valentine's Day?Hoped for chocolates or roses and didn't get them?

Why not lighten up, smile and think of this quote by Fred Allen:

"The last time I saw him, he was walking down Lover's Lane holding his own hand."

Oh dear, the spelling is a bit off

Oh dear indeed. The person who took some letters off this John Deere cat had a sense of humour, but wasn't good at spelling.

Perhaps as the clown was about to remove the last 'e' from Deere, he was caught and had to scram.

And yes, I'm certain it was a he. What woman would stand on those big metal tractor treads to play around with the letters of the brand name?

All in fun, I'm sure. Plenty of farmers and other workmen would take off their hats (or their John Deere baseball caps) to the man who invented the steel plow, and the 175-year-old company that developed so much other heavy equipment.

Drive-by dogs

In this photo, a wrinkle dog looks out the window of a pickup truck with sincere doggy curiosity and wonder.




I took this picture with my cell phone at a stop light on 88th Avenue in Surrey.

In this position, the dog looks for all the world like a human. Maybe even a human driving. If so, the truck must be right hand drive.

The rough charm of the oil change man

I roll the old Miata into the lube shop. It seems I'm the first customer this morning. The young man brings me The Province, and offers me a cup of coffee. This paper has a good crossword, and the coffee is unexpectedly delicious.

He thinks he has me where he wants me. "Would you like..." But I've already worked out my strategy. I'm one step ahead of him.

"No," I answer firmly. "This is my daughter's car, and she instructed me. Only change the oil."

I dig out a pen, settle my newspaper on the steering wheel and have a sip of coffee. I'm filling in the first clue when he pipes up again.

"Ma'am, would you like..." He doesn't give up easily.

"Does it cost extra?" He admits it does, and I firmly tell him, "In that case, no, thanks," and turn back to my paper. I sip my coffee, then a violent sneeze erupts. Lucky I set the cup down in time.

"Bless you!" says the young man, and I thank him.

"Thanks. I can always use a blessing." I sip the coffee again, fill in another clue or two.

"Excuse me..." I look up to see him smiling at me, all charm. "Sorry, but we're required to ask..." I shake my head no and turn back to my coffee and puzzle, only to hear him address me again.

"Your brake light is burned out. Would you like us to change that?"

I agree to this and he tells me the price. Then I turn the tables on him. "Can you give me a coupon?" I ask him. "My daughter brings the car here all the time."

He will indulge me. "I can give you a five-dollar coupon from the book," he says, "if you're on our email list." I thank him. That will reduce the cost of having the light bulb replaced to a mere nine dollars. Can't drive around with a burnt-out brake light.

He opens the trunk and I feel the little car shake. Then he comes round with a can of lubricant and greases both door hinges. "Do you like driving this car?" I tell him I do.

His smile is fetching. "I bet your car is bigger than this." I admit this, but tell him how I love driving this car, especially with the top down.

"You're a good mother," he says. "Changing your daughter's oil. Tell her to come in if she wants the washer fluid topped up. It's free."

He brings the bill and we go over it. "I didn't wash the windows," he admits. "It's raining."

"No problem," I say and we exchange goodbyes. These guys are programmed to sell, but they love cars. This fellow's rough charm is unique, and I smile and wave as I drive away.

How introverts and extroverts ride on transit

Photo: Getty [Commuter reads a book from the Choose What You Read scheme. See "The Telegraph" story here.]

The introvert stands at the end of the platform, right where he knows the train doors will open. He doesn't push past other commuters, but moves with decision. This last car is less busy than the others.

Aha, a single seat that backs on a bulkhead. Great. He tucks his briefcase in beside his feet, pulls out his book and begins to read.

For a moment of blissful silence, our solitary commuter is absorbed in the drama of his novel, oblivious as more riders flow onto the train. Someone takes the single ahead of him.

Then across the aisle all hell breaks loose. Extroverts. They slap each other's backs and raise their voices in snatches of song. The car fills with a chorus of loud laughter.

Should he move? Surreptitiously, the introvert looks around. Nowhere to go. He glances at his watch. How can people be so noisy this early in the morning? Incredible.

More people are piling in. Crammed together, they sway as the train rocks into motion. They brace themselves, cling to the straps, buffering the noise across the way. Saved, thinks the introvert. Hey, this book is really quite interesting.

In the single seat ahead of him, a cell phone rings. A teenage girl with a high voice speaks into it, giggles loudly. He sighs. Closes his eyes briefly, then opens them, stares out the window. Breathes deeply, returns to his book.