Doorbell cam captures emotional moment

This made me cry!

The Glass Palace Revisited: did this book change, or did I?

THE GLASS PALACE by Amitav Ghosh      Random House      470 pages   ISBN:  0-375-50148-7

The Globe and Mail books section    January 16, 2001

Review by Margaret Gunning

      THE GLASS PALACE is a vibrant blockbuster of a novel, described by a London critic as “a Doctor Zhivago for the Far East”.  It’s historical drama on a grand scale, swift-moving yet packed with detail, as naturally cinematic (and romantic) as GONE WITH THE WIND.  But beneath this colorful exterior run deep currents of conscience, lending the novel extra dimensions.  Two lovers are the glue binding together a massive century-long sweep of story, from the British invasion of Burma (now Myanmar) in the late 1800s through the chaos of two World Wars to the age of e-mail and the Internet.

     The novel opens in 1885 with an ominous rumbling sound, “unfamiliar and unsettling, a distant booming followed by low, stuttering growls.”  Only one person in the marketplace of Mandalay knows what the sound is – an eleven-year-old Indian-born orphan boy named Rajkumar:  “ ‘English cannon,’ he said in his fluent but heavily accented Burmese.  ‘They’re shooting somewhere up the river.  Heading in this direction.’”

     As usual, the canny young survivor’s instincts are correct.  British soldiers have invaded the royal city of Mandalay, and are about to send the King and Queen into bitter exile.  Burma is rich in teak forests, and though the people are incredulous (“A war over wood?  Who’s ever heard of such a thing?”), they soon must join neighboring India in submitting to British rule.

     As King Thebaw and the haughty Queen Supayalat are forced to leave the glittering Glass Palace, looters quickly move in to scavenge what they can find.  Young Rajkumar watches in shock as the unguarded palace is stripped of its treasures:  “Armed with a rock, a girl was knocking the ornamental frets out of a crocodile-shaped zither; a man was using a meat cleaver to scrape the gilt from the neck of a saung-gak harp; and a woman was chiseling furiously at the ruby eyes of a bronze chinthe lion.”

     The irony here is that the King and Queen are respected and even beloved figures in Burma.  But Ghosh is adept at stripping the veils off human nature, to reveal the crude drive for survival that lives even in seemingly innocent hearts.

     Before the royal couple are sent away to India, Rajkumar has an extraordinary encounter with a young girl, one of Queen Supayalat’s attendants:  “She was slender and long-limbed, of a complexion that was exactly the tint of the fine thanaka powder she was wearing on her face.  She had huge dark eyes and her face was long and perfect in its symmetry.  She was by far the most beautiful creature he had ever beheld, of a loveliness beyond imagining.”  The young girl shyly tells Rajkumar her name:  “Dolly.”  It is as if the name is branded into his heart, for even after years of separation he continues to believe that this still, mysterious creature is his destiny.

     Rajkumar seems to represent the human will to survive – and even thrive – even under the most adverse conditions.  Destined for success, he goes to work for his friend and mentor Saya John in the teak industry, eventually creating a kind of empire of his own.

     Meanwhile, in Ratnagiri, India, Dolly continues to care for the daughters of the exiled royal family.  District Collector Dey , a sort of combination jailer and protector-figure, keeps close watch over the family; like so many of the oppressors in the British regime, he is Indian.  His wife Uma, restless and intelligent, strikes up a close, unlikely friendship with Dolly which neither of them realizes will last a lifetime.

     Ghosh deeply explores the complex nature of oppression as his huge story unfolds.  Of the British, one of his characters comments, “They don’t wish to be cruel; they don’t want any martyrs; all they want is that the King should be lost to memory – like an old umbrella in a dusty cupboard.”  The Collector cynically observes about Rajkumar, now a well-known figure, “Do you think this man Raha would have been able to get rich if Thebaw were still ruling?  Why, if it were not for the British, the Burmese would probably have risen up against these Indian businessmen and driven them out like sheep.”

     When Rajkumar meets Dolly again in Ratnagiri years later, she is little changed, “a prisoner who knew the exact dimensions of her cage and could look for contentment within those confines.”  This odd stillness gives her a rare sort of power, as for the rest of the story she will become the eye of a hurricane of world events.  When Rajkumar and Dolly finally marry, there is a satisfying sense of resolution.  But where a lesser novel might have ended, this one is just getting started.

     There are several strands of story that radiate outwards from the golden couple.  When Uma’s husband the Collector dies, she reinvents herself dramatically as a world traveler and, later, a political radical for the cause of Indian self-rule.  Her nephew Arjun, first an eager young recruit in the British Indian army, undergoes a huge upheaval in conscience when he realizes that serving the oppressor (and thereby gaining some personal status) is morally indefensible.

     The bond between Uma and Dolly is further cemented when Uma’s niece Manju marries Neel, one of Dolly’s sons.  The other son, Dinu, falls in love with Alison, the granddaughter of Rajkumar’s old mentor Saya John.  (At the end, Ghosh takes us nicely up to the present day when Dolly’s granddaughter Jaya embarks on an internet search to find her uncle Dinu, now a very old man.)  Though all these interconnections are complex, the skeins of story never become tangled due to Ghosh’s awesome gift for storytelling, which includes an ability to cover tremendous ground without shirking on intimate details.

     This is a novel brimming over with ideas, exploring the ways we cooperate with our own oppression, the nature of exploitation, the dehumanizing effects of racism and dispossession, and the miraculous way in which a change of consciousness (as with Uma and Arjun) can eventually alter the course of history.

     Ghosh is so adept at entertaining us with his big, rip-roaring story that we barely realize we are being enlightened.  Through his characters he delivers some powerful punches, as in this exchange between Arjun and his friend during World War II: 

     “ ‘As colonial masters go the British aren’t that bad – better than most.  Certainly a lot better than the Japanese would be.’

     ‘In a way the better the master is, the worse the condition of the slave, because it makes him forget what he is.’ “

     The way Ghosh drops in jarring little references to British culture is masterful.  At one social event on a rubber plantation in Malaya, peanut crumpets are served.  Manju goes to fetch “the Huntley and Palmer’s biscuit tin in which she kept Arjun’s letters”.  And Arjun remarks to his friend (whose name has been Anglicized from Hardip), “Just look at us, Hardy – just look at us.  What are we?  We’ve learned to dance the tango and we know how to eat roast beef with a knife and fork.  The truth is that except for the color of our skin, most people in India wouldn’t even recognize us as Indians.”

     The highest calling of a writer is to serve as the conscience of humanity.  Ghosh’s writing is so saturated with conscience that it transcends all but the best historical works.  (The author lives up to his convictions.  He recently turned down a shot at the prestigious Commonwealth Literary Prize on the grounds that the very existence of a “Commonwealth” smacks of the old imperialism.)  In THE GLASS PALACE Ghosh has created a work of literature that deserves to become as permanent as all the maddening, beautiful paradoxes of human nature.

BLOGGER'S UPDATE. So did this book change, or did I? Re-reading it in 2024, it hardly seems like the same scintillating epic I rhapsodized about in this review. I wrote it for the Globe and Mail in 2001, and naturally, the passage of more than 20 years has changed my perspective on practically everything. Though I was kind of pleasantly surprised at the review itself and thought it was well-written, not to mention a fair summation of this ponderous doorstop of a book, it nevertheless just lands completely differently with me now.

I’m making my way through it as my bedtime reading,  which is in part designed to bring on a peaceful slumber. Thick books are appreciated, mostly novels and biographies. My husband jokes that I buy my books by the pound. But these days, finding anything truly well-written sends me back to the stacks and things I've read before, at least once.  The Glass Palace isn’t exactly making me sleepy, but I’m finding it much harder to get through. In fact, it's a bit of a trudge. 

For one thing, every page seems to have at least three unidentified words in foreign languages – with very little context to give the reader any idea what these words mean. This violates one of the cardinal rules of good writing: Never talk down to your readers – or right past them, for that matter! Keeping us in the dark as to what you actually mean is - what? Irresponsible? But it has the effect of watching two people talk to each other in a private code while you struggle to understand what they are saying. It's insular. And it's exclusive. It pushes us away from this richly exotic culture rather than welcoming us in. This means Ghosh just lost a major point with me. Had I compiled a glossary when I started re-reading it, the list would likely be in the hundreds by now (and I’m not even finished reading yet!).

This means that my poor cat Bentley has to listen to me fist-pound and curse and yell, "NOT ANOTHER ONE!" every couple of pages. What does the man mean, and why won't he tell us? The only reason I don't throw the book across the room is that it's just too heavy to lift.

The multitude of characters are on the whole well-drawn, but it’s hard to keep track of the players, as the book covers something like a hundred years and three generations. But the younger generation in this book just don’t come across as young. They seem like throwbacks to the 1920s or 30s in their idiom and attitudes. Are they stereotypes? Not quite, but I’m struggling to get a picture of some of them, of how they come up against each other, how they succeed and fail and grapple with each other in their march through history. (And that's another issue: every single thing these people do seems to be drenched in historical significance, which I can't get into here or I'd have to write another 1200 words.)

 I’ve noticed this “damn, the book changed” phenomenon, of course. We all do. I’ve watched movies from the 1990s that I absolutely loved, and have been borderline-appalled at the poor quality of them. My Best Friend’s Wedding fell apart completely, with its sophomoric and even puerile sexual crudeness and its utter lack of chemistry between Hugh Grant and Andie McDowall. Only the poem recited over the gay partner’s grave is any good, and it’s by W. H. Auden.

So is The Glass Palace a period piece, and if so, from what period? Hard to say. Sweeping sagas are harder to sell nowadays. All I know is that I'm glad I don’t have to go through the laborious process of reading and then reviewing it again. I only had two weeks, no matter how long the book, one week to read and one week to write, making copious notes all the while. Then I had to get it in on the dot, then wait three or four weeks for it to actually run so I’d be paid my $250.00. (Not to mention the $50.00 "kill fee", which was all I'd get if they decided not to publish it.)

 And yes, folks, as amazing and astounding as this is to most people, I DID get paid. It was, and is, work. Writers have needs, breathe, need to eat and take shelter. People were always astonished that  I would actually be PAID to trudge through a thousand-page book and earn the incredible sum of $250.00. Most of the many newspapers and magazines  I worked for all across Canada paid considerably less. But the fact this had anything at all to do with money (shouldn't I just be starving in a garret somewhere?) astounded most people.

"Do they PAY you for that?" would be the incredulous query. When I said yes, then I'd get, "How much?" If I made the mistake of telling them, there were two possible responses:

"THAT much?" (with a doubtful expression), or 

"Oh. (Long pause) Is that all?" 

The whole idea of making money for something as rarefied and esoteric as WRITING is still pretty foreign to most people. I feel liberated now in that I do not need to answer to ANYONE, I can just launch it out there whenever I feel like it, and though I’m not exactly paid for the work I do on my blog, it’s still pleasant and gratifying for me to keep working on it. In fact, if it isn't pleasant and gratifying, I won't do it. Every week, I get several comments from readers all over the world (I got one from New Zealand before breakfast!) on blog posts I wrote in 2012 or even earlier, which makes me realize my stuff is “out there” – very much out there, if I google my name and location or one of my book titles.

Well, this thing is getting almost as long as my Globe review, but at least I don’t have to go back and fine-tooth-comb it for errors and length. Nobody has to approve it. I think the upshot of it all is, I’m a lot less inclined to want to plough through a book that is basically pretty heavy going, with characters that don’t exactly jump off the page, a dated viewpoint, and dozens and dozens of unfamiliar words that are never defined.

Hell, I ain’t got time any more! I’m almost seventy, and back when I was in my youthful forties I felt I had all the time in the world. I didn’t, of course, but making my way through this museum-case of a novel is bringing it home to me that I have absolutely NO time to waste. On anything. Not even on a book as large and impressive as this one. Dr. Zhivago for the Far East it might be, but that's without Julie Christie and Omar Sharif and that magnificent musical score.

And I'm not going to be reading Zhivago any time soon. I've heard it's an awful bore.

💗TIGHTLACED BEAUTY: Victorian Corset Queens in Advertising and Art💗

I love Victoriana, and in particular the gorgeous gowns women wore. Due to their sheer weight and volume, I doubt if these sumptuous creations would work WITHOUT a tightlaced corset to anchor them. And if this was the result, it must have been worth the discomfort! These are some of my favorite images collected over the years, including the glorious ads depicting women in "health" corsets (and even an "electric" corset - can you imagine?)

BTW - today my YouTube subscribers topped 18,000, a feat I never thought I would attain back in 2008 when I started it as a baking/crafts channel with Caitlin. 

Nanny's Stats for January 12/24:
Subscribers 18,007
Videos 2,857
Views (total) 14,510,015
Views (highest) 12,238,700
Joined July 20/2008

CELEBRATE!!!

Captain Multi-Paw and the long, long stretch!

Bentley is my favorite subject, and he really does seem to enjoy being the centre of attention. In this one he stretches out SOOOOOOO long that his back feet are suspended in mid-air. We also get a great view of his multicoloured paws and fuzzy pants.

A Festival of Cormorants on Como Lake

A glorious day on Como Lake. We're always astounded to see ONE cormorant there, as lakesides are not this species' preferred location. They're shore birds whose massive wingspan you can see from a mile away. The lake is stocked, so I think this small flock came for an easy meal. They like to hold their wings up, either to sun them, dry them or just give them a stretch.

This day there were FIVE of them roosting on a single log. One seemed to have a bit of fishing line on it, but I hoped it wasn't doing any damage. Birds are such mysterious creatures! Every time we go anywhere to birdwatch, it's a different experience.

I saw a large brown duck with NINE ducklings at the end of the summer - the wrong time to hatch out your young, but there they were. This duck was, I believe, a khaki Cam pbell, a large domestic bird raised for meat. It must have escaped the barnyard and mated with a wild mallard, as the babies were an interesting hybrid of fluffy yellow and mallard-ish mottled brown. Then, all at once, they disappeared, and I have never seen them again.

But who knows. . . one day, months from now, we may see half-grown, multicolored ducklings in the lake. Or not. Were they some wild predator's easy meal? Even crows have been known to swoop down on ducklings and carry them off. But we've seen domestic birds - many times - in semi-wild settings like this.

We saw five white domestic ducks at Burnaby Lake, along with several gorgeous doves, but like the others, the numbers dwindled and they eventually disappeared. We also followed two large domestic ducks, likely a mated pair, for several years, before they also vanished, likely eaten by predators. All part of nature, where bird eats bird, but hair-raising nonetheless.

HAPPY 2024 from FEROCIOUSGUMBY!

HAPPY NEW YEAR from ferociousgumby! I thank all my 17,800+ subscribers for making my life a little more fun, a little less humdrum, and a lot more incomprehensible – just like this channel! What started off as a teensy-weensy baking and crafts channel in 2011 has so far received more than 14 million views. All the best of 2024 to EVERYONE who watched, and especially to EVERYONE who didn’t!

Homecoming (hello and goodbye)

Take us home, Delius!

Kitten almost eaten by hawk

Just one of those amazing little videos to wind up the year.

The rabbit hole of memory (bitter and sweet)

 

Going down the rabbit hole of vintage photos, I found this one, and it has a story behind it. Not long ago I had a friend request, and was amazed to see it was from Derek Pritchard, who dated my sister Pat in the late 1960s. It was nice to see photos of him again, as he looked hale and hearty – but yesterday I read the sad news that he had passed at the age of 86. While I tried to absorb this shock, I found this Christmas photo again – one of those crazy Burton things we did when we were all (unfortunately) very drunk, including 15-year-old me. Left to right, we see my sister Pat, Derek in the white shirt, me crouched on the back of the sofa, and my brother Arthur (who passed in 1980) posing as The Thinker. Walt is face-down on the floor. My fondest feelings are for Derek, who did not last long in my sister’s life. And yet, more than 50 years later, I have such good memories of him and of how kind and gentle he was with me at a time when I badly needed it. Never underestimate your influence on a young person’s life, especially in an environment like this one. The family I have now is an incredible blessing, and there’s no booze at family gatherings because no one is interested. We just don’t need it to have a good time. 

I am sometimes asked, “Where were your parents in all this?” My Dad is the one who took the photo, and my brother Walt (lying on the floor) filled and refilled my glass, usually with stiff gin and tonics. I still remember that Rose's Lime syrup and how I'd taste it the next day when I threw up. The feeling was that it was something of an honor for me (10 or 15 years younger than everyone else) to be able to participate with the grownups like this. Derek was just about the only one of my sister's many boy friends who did NOT hit on me. One of them, 36 years old and married, actually dated me several times in full knowledge of Pat, who blew off my fears of  pregnancy with, "Oh, it doesn't hurt to have a little smooch and a snuggle after a date." He sent me two dozen roses once, and my parents wordlessly set them down on the dining room table. Quite a bit of this was worked into my second novel, Mallory, though I had to tone it down quite a bit to make it believable.

COPY THE PENGUIN!

This is my very first YouTube video, taken in 2011! Ryan and Lauren have a hilarious time playing Copy the Penguin  while the grownups have a lively discussion about the tribulations of parenthood. I still have that obnoxious penguin!

Christmas Candids 2023

 

THE GANG'S ALL HERE! For once, all the grandkids (Ryan, Caitlin, Lauren and Erica) are in one place, and prove the point that you're never too old for Christmas stockings from "Santa" (alias Grandma).

They don't know how beautiful they are. Those smiles.

Gigglefest on the sofa! Erica and Lauren are thick as thieves.

Teen angst. In an unguarded moment, Ryan and Caitlin reveal their total lack of interest in the Christmas video we're watching. 

Pensive moment (Erica). Her shirt and pants so nicely co-ordinate with the little tree.

Lovely Caitlin.

Ethically-culled chicken and other Yuletide delights

Ethically culled chicken from the family coop with extra helpings of re-heated misery - and a blood diamond bracelet wrapped under the tree: It's Christmas at the Sussexes' (at least, according to KENNEDY!

By Kennedy For Dailymail.Com

Published: 12:32 EST, 25 December 2023 | Updated: 02:18 EST, 26 December 2023

It's Christmas at the Sussexes'!

As North Polian gusts slip and sigh their way to Montecito, little Archie and Lilibet's sustainable stockings are bursting at their hempen seams.

The Duchess wakes later than usual - no early morning emails to staff today (it's their holiday too, she says empathetically).

A quick final check of the mailbox confirms a festive sadness: cards from Jay Z, Bey, the Beckhams and miscellaneous family members have indeed been lost in transit.

The table is laid by Harry - weary from the hard past year he's had, notably publishing his ghost-written memoir in January.

Turkey's out - instead it's ethically culled chicken from the couple's garden coop.

Place mats are replaced with excess copies of Meghan's best-selling picture book The Bench. (#Recycling hack!!)

While side dishes of betrayal and woe are re-blended, reheated and served with extra helpings. (Bought from Palestinian-owned stores only).

House rules: Don't mention Spotify, Coronation or car chases.

Auntie Oprah slides into the mix and - despite recent rumors of a cooling in relations - I'm happy to report she isn't seated out in the cold.

Here's Doria and Tyler Perry, too - rocking up in a Hertz electric-car rental.

And what Royal Californian Christmas would be complete without raucous parlor games?

Enter Omid Scobie, Target's answer to a court jester.

Charades is so stuffy Sandringham, he says. Fantastical fire-side storytelling is much more modern. The more stupendously make-believe the better.

And so Omid knits a yarn so hysterically phoney and bold, the Sussex family clan fashion matching cardigans and beanies.

These prove perfect for a post-lunch walk on the beach, where they launch ships in bottles to those less fortunate across the globe who aren't lucky enough to have Netflix, newspapers, access to the internet or really any way of hearing H&M's grumbles of grievance.

Back home it's time for gifts under the family spruce - felled from a private jet-offsetting forest.

For Harry from Meghan, a tube of Dr Freud's favorite todger tincture and a new necklace (his last one broke - don't ask how!).

For Meghan from Harry, a stunning tennis bracelet of shimmering blood diamonds.

For the children, a tough lesson that good things come to those who wait, marry rich, or star briefly on Deal Or No Deal. (That's something Meghan learnt from Mandela.)

Beware: a grinch! Samantha Markle pulls up in an Uber armed with gift-wrapped court papers addressed to her sister. How cruel to treat a sibling that way, Harry says.

Now it's time for the King's speech.

But just then, gathered round the 100' flatscreen, Harry reclining in his hand-carved reclaimed-mahogany throne with vegan pudding in hand, the cable goes out. The TV plunges into darkness.

Asked why she was seen with wire cutters by the fuse box, Meghan says recollections may vary.

And so, in lieu of Charles's festive message, they turn to draw up this year's naughty list of people who have wronged the Duke and Duchess of righteous indignation.

Enemy No.1: The Evil Media. (WAAAGH!)

Enemy No.2: The entire British public. (Colonizers!)

In lieu of Charles's festive message, they turn to draw up this year's naughty list of people who have wronged the Duke and Duchess of righteous indignation

Also included: Bill 'f***ing grifters' Simmons and Disney, who continue to refuse to offer Meghan a well-earned lead role.

Looking ahead to the new year, H&M mentally prepare for another twelve months of being begged for content, lifestyle guidance, therapy advice, and thoughts on how to live in truth.

A 2024 relaunch of the The Tig/Instagram/Suits spinoff/general good works? Just you wait - and wait!

All that's then left is a toast to success, wealth, celebrity friends, humility and freedom.

Sometimes you're just so happy that it hurts.

Bittersweet: jingle bells and broken hearts

Why is everything so bittersweet this time of year? This Glade commercial from 2010 caused great hilarity in its day, when my grandkids Caitlin and Ryan "acted out" the cookies coming to life and Santa flying through the air. 

I was, to be honest, enchanted with this ad, and was delighted to find it again on (of course) YouTube. But THEN, also of course, me being me, I had to try to find the lovely Christmas music in the background, which is really what made it magical. 

I remember I looked it up in 2010, but didn't save it, so it was back to the YouTube archives again to try to figure out what it's called. And here it is: Sleigh Ride (also known as Winter Night) by Frederick Delius. Just a lovely little slice of mid-winter spice.

It's bittersweet because everything changed after that, as everything does. Caitlin is now 20 years old, and Ryan is 17 - young adults with career aspirations, relationships, lives. Hey, it was bad enough when the kids grew up and there were no more hilarious times rolling around on the floor at Christmas. Now there's the echo of that mournful sense of loss - while at the same time, immense pride and joy in all that they have become. 

Do jingle bells ring in a minor key?

Battle of the Christmas Beatles!

Well, of course I've heard these songs before - many, many times - and I knew that Lennon, with his plaintive voice and aching idealism that was somehow never fulfilled, had written and recorded the classic War is Over. But I never put  Paul together with the Wonderful Christmas Time song, which I've always liked - it's innocent and happy and family-oriented, like Paul himself. 

So who wins? Depends on what you're listening for. And it brings home once again how each songwriter was infinitely better when they were together. They wrote songs "at" each other, ran them by the other, then defended criticisms and added suggestions, so that there was a true amalgam of genius. 

Separately, not so much: Paul kind of devolved into sweetness and easy domesticity, and John just got more and more weird under the influence of Yoko, who could be heard screaming and caterwauling in the background of his later songs. And freed from the stabilizing influence of Paul, his mother issues really sent him into a funk. 

But the songs they wrote together, or "at" each other, were beyond good. As Leonard Bernstein pointed out, they were pocket symphonies, miniature operas, the likes of which we'll never see in pop music again.

I'll listen to both of these this year, of course, but though Paul still walks among us, I will always miss John and be marked by how he died only three months after my brother Arthur, whom I still can't write about forty years later.

. . . And that's called. . . sad.

 

I'm gonna hide if she don't leave me alone
I'm gonna run away

Don't!

'Cause you can never go home anymore

Listen, does this sound familiar?
You wake up every morning, go to school every day
Spend your nights on the corner just passing the time away
Your life is so lonely like a child without a toy
Then a miracle-a boy

and that's called "glad"

Now my mom is a good mom and she loves me with all her heart
But she said, I was too young to be in love
And the boy and I would have to part
And no matter how I ranted and raved, I screamed, I pleaded, I cried
She told me it was not really love but only my girlish pride
And that's called "bad"

Never go home anymore

Now if that's happened to you, don't let this
I packed my clothes and left home that night
Though she begged me to stay, I was sure I was right
And you know something funny?
I forgot that boy right away, instead I remember
Being tucked in bed and hearing my mama say

(Hush, little baby, don't you cry
Mama won't go away)
Mama!

(You can never go home anymore)
Mama!

I can never go home anymore

Listen, I'm not finished
Do you ever get that feeling and wanna kiss and hug her?
Do it now
Tell her you love her
Don't do to your mom what I did to mine
She grew so lonely in the end
Angels picked her for a friend

(Never)

And I can never go home anymore
(Never)

And that's called

"sad"

Blogger's comments. As is so often the case, this started off as something, then turned into something else. I got listening to pop songs of the early '60s - that awful sobby one about I Wish That We Could Be Married (which was just as bad as I remembered), among others, but then this one came up and hit me right between the eyebrows.

This isn't a song so much as a narration, a soliloquy, and one wonders if it actually stopped any young girls from bolting. It has the power. The Shangri-Las weren't known for their emotional depth, mostly for high hair and go-go boots and gigs on American Bandstand. But then this song came along, and whoever narrates it is compelling.

I thought originally of comparing and contrasting this one with other songs about leaving/running away from home. The only song remotely close to this one in intensity is Tar and Cement, which I've never much cared for. Then there is Del Shannon's Runaway, and Leaving on a Jet Plane, and the Beatles' She's Leaving Home, and blah blah blah.

None of them touch this one.

I guess I must have been about in Grade 9, awkward, baffled at my changing body, fascinated and terrified by boys. Running away was never an option. But I do remember listening to this song a lot (it came on CKLW Radio every 5 minutes, it seemed). Changing out of their godawful gym bloomers, the girls talked about it in hushed tones. "Didja hear that one about. . . " "Yeah. The girl that runs away."

It was a different sort of song, the kind where you stop what you're doing and really listen, because there's a story here, a riveting one. The girl who narrates - and it really is a girl, not a woman - has a slightly nasal Bronx accent that is somehow endearing, in that it makes her more real. It could be anyone, really. It could be us.

I was not a runaway. I survived Kelly green gym bloomers, penny loafers, unrequited crushes, bullying, being heckled at school dances, having a tampon fall out of my purse in front of my friends, being groped by drunken married men at "family parties" that were a million laughs for me, and got the hell away from it all as soon as I could. This was partly on the advice of a psychiatrist, whom I remember now saying, incredibly, "You must get away from your father".

So I didn't bolt, I didn't run away, I walked. With measured pace. But I was eighteen, and I never really did return. A year later, I was married (not pregnant, by the way, in spite of people's snide remarks). I'm still married, to the same person, with no regrets. A miracle? Miracles are acts of God. WE made this happen, with effort and love.

And I never had those feelings about my mother because my mother was like a missing puzzle piece, a non-presence, at least towards me (though my eldest brother was highly favored: she always cooked his favorite dishes when he came home from university).

So you can never go home any more. Especially if you've never really had one.

Sad.

The two talking cats

One of those old, old YouTube videos that got milllions of views. How I wish we could bring those times back! This is what I try to recreate on MY channel, but the views right now are abysmal. I  refuse to be slick and computerized and boring. My posts all have my fingerprints all over them, but that makes it extra hard when views go from thousands to less than 30. 

But anyway, we still have these cats! 

Note to King Charles: DITCH THE COAT!

 

King Charles' Anderson and Sheppard tweed coat, bought 35 years ago, is still going strong in Monarch's winter wardrobe - and would cost nearly £7,000 if he wanted to replace it

King Charles has been wearing his cherished tweed coat for over 35 years

By Monique Rubins For Mailonline

When it comes to his outerwear attire, King Charles has long channelled two of the titles he has earned during almost 60 years of public service: best-dressed man and climate campaigner. 

While the King, who topped men's magazine Esquire's best-dressed list in 2009 -  beating the likes of Roger Federer and Barack Obama  to the number one spot - cuts a dashing figure in his bespoke tweed overcoat, its longevity points to something more profound than Charles's style credentials.

For the King has owned the coat in question -  a tweed, double-breasted number with deep pockets and a turn-back cuff - not for a few years but for a few decades, betraying a rejection of fast fashion and its negative impact on the planet. 

Charles has long been a keen advocate of make do and mend, although that's perhaps a little easier to do if your clothes are made on Savile Row.   

One of the first times the then-Prince of Wales wore his tweed coat was for a photocall at Sandringham on 3 January 1988 with Princess Diana and a three-year-old Prince Harry. Harry and Diana are also dressed for the winter weather with the young prince wearing a powder blue peacoat by Catherine Walker and his mother dressed in a cashmere and wool coat with synthetic beaver fur by Arabella Pollen

Cut by the Mayfair-based tailor Anderson & Sheppard and clearly made to last, Charles's coat was a mainstay of his wardrobe when he was married to Princess Diana. 

And, photographed in it on 26 November of this year while attending the Sunday service at St. Mary Magdalene church in Sandringham, the King has been wearing his tweed coat on a regular basis for over 35 years. 

While it's unclear what the then Prince Charles would have paid for the coat originally, if the King wanted to replace it now, a spokesperson told MailOnline a similar coat would cost £6,894. 

On 20 March 1988, Charles arrived at Zurich airport looking dapper in the Anderson & Sheppard number paired with polished brogues 

One of the first times Charles was seen in the tweed coat was on 3 January 1988 at a photocall at Sandringham with Princess Diana and a three-year-old Prince Harry.

The young Prince Harry is dressed in a powder blue peacoat by Catherine Walker while his mother is wearing a cashmere and wool coat with synthetic beaver fur by designer Arabella Pollen. 

Charles was again seen in his tweed coat on Christmas Day in 1998 when he was accompanied by both Prince William and Prince Harry at the annual service at Sandringham Church. 

Charles continued to wear the coat to public engagements throughout the 2000s and beyond, once pairing it with a hi-vis vest while viewing renovation work at Llwynywormwood in Wales, a property bought by the Duchy of Cornwall for Charles and Camilla, in February 2008.

Later, in 2015, Charles was pictured in it again, while visiting the victims of flooding caused by Storm Desmond in Carlisle.

But, while it's undoubtedly one of the King's most distinctive items of clothing, the tweed coat isn't the only item that Charles has managed to keep hold of for decades. 

In 2018, Charles revealed that he was still walking around in a pair of shoes that he bought 47 years previously in 1971. 

Although it is unclear which pair of shoes had stood the test of time, Charles has worn a pair of mahogany brogues consistently from 1971. 

He made the admission in a rare question and answer session with the Australian Financial Review Magazine, which was published online.  

Charles said: 'I have always believed in trying to keep as many of my clothes and shoes going for as long as possible (some go back to 1971 and one jacket to 1969!) - through patches and repairs - and in this way I tend to be in fashion once every 25 years.

'It is extraordinary how fashions change and, speaking as someone who, on the whole, hates throwing away things without finding another use for them or mending them, I couldn't be more delighted if, at last, there is a growing awareness of the urgent need to get away from the 'throwaway society' and to move towards a more 'circular economy'.'

And, true to form, in May 2021 Charles appeared on the cover of Country Life magazine wearing a jacket that was not only faded but had undergone a number of repairs. 

Writing for FEMAIL, Liz Jones noted: 'The collar, originally dark brown velvet or cord, is now fawn. And while the pockets still have their stud fastenings, they have clearly been patched up (and even the patches now have holes).'

Indeed, if  most people who profess to be climate-conscious manage to recycle an item of clothing for a few years, Charles has shown himself to be much more committed to the cause.  

Bentley's Christmas!

I made this collection of Christmas gifs back when Bentley was "new"! It took a lot of giffing and PicMixing, but here it is. 

Guess who's coming to town?

I just found this in the archives from 2017! Back when things were jollier, CTV News used to perform Santa Claus is Coming to Town every year, featuring the full staff. My illustrious reporter/daughter Shannon is the cute blonde girl (on the right) with the green garland across her shoulders (blink and you'll miss it!) Only a couple of these people are left in the studio now, and I'm afraid news broadcasts have become too serious and the budgets too Scrooge-like to indulge in such foolishness.

Sleepy Boi: Sweet Bentley lolls n' sprawls!

This is a bit of a palate cleanser. This time of year can be rough. I'm so glad I have my sleepy boi!

How NOT to have a manic episode

(The following are some Facebook posts from a friend - though not a face-to-face one - who had a very public mental health crisis a few years ago.)

Friends: I am so sorry to leave you wondering. Today is the first day I’ve felt normal and rested. I had a six day long manic episode just like the one that got me thrown out of rehab two months ago. Sober both times. This whole episode was frankly terrifying, and I’m trying to do what I can to monitor it until I can get people diagnosed and medicated. It’s good to know I’m capable of going off the reserve when perfectly sober. Soon as I feel fully settled I’ll be in touch. Love, G.

To all I may have disturbed over the weekend, my sincere apologies. I experienced a full blown manic episode, three to five days of unfettered weirdness — and I need to go to Joe Brant hospital to apologize to all female psychiatric staff, whom I flirted with like a dirty old wanker — my second in two months. I can now add bipolar disorder to to my mental illness repertoire. Seeking treatment, needless to say.

But I am otherwise good, and love you all for your kind and understandably perplexed responses. As you all well know I NEVER flirt.

Crazy about y’all, 

If anyone knows anybody in the Burlington police or psychiatric biz, please share.

The care and patience I received during my long night of gonzo batshit free fall was AMAZING. I regaled the cops who delivered me to psychiatric emergency — named, God love them, Scott and Geoff — with the dirtiest movie true life trivia I could — and boy did I. I was like the Groucho Marx of psychiatric emerg.

As I was escorting them out — until the psychiatric staff pulled me back inside — I tried to hug them, which they warmly refused. I offered a handshake, and Scott said “How about a fist bump, Geoff?”

And as for Jenn, the gorgeous and deeply empathetic psych muse, whom I fell deeply and obviously in love with inside of three seconds: thanks for the only memory of this whole shitshow that I cherish. That and Scott and Geoff’s fistbump.

Love y’all

Friends:

On the eve of my 62nd birthday, something of a re-birth announcement...

The mania I've been experiencing for the past few weeks continues. I am making every effort to recognize and do what I can to manage it, and with some success provided I stick to certain things. Among these: my online presence. It's become baldly obvious to me that I must reduce my internet activity considerably, and that's why I write to you all: if you're wondering how I'm doing, where I am, if I am, etc., it may take a day or two before you hear from me.

I'll spare you the thinking behind this -- god only knows, but makes sense to me -- but I also wanted to let everyone know that this is a struggle that I absolutely refuse to go through alone. And by that I mean going public. Once I am finally able to trust my thoughts again -- or even to corral them better -- I've got a plan.

I want to put this before everything. I want to re-emerge from this as a public activist. I've already got a semi-public profile, and it seems obvious and necessary that I try to harness this to my own recovery and public function. I know there's a book in this, but also a specialized website (under construction already), but possibly a documentary, podcast and as many public speaking opportunities as I can book.

I mean, who wouldn't want this: the world's first Bipolar standup addict terminally unfiltered movie critic?

See? This mania is K-razee.

Much love to y'all and more to come.

These Facebook posts are in the public domain, so I can repeat them here without the person's name attached, but MANY more posts were later deleted. These are some of the more settled comments.

Really, the only thing I object to is going so wildly public that no one knows how to react. This is a man who for years was a respected film critic in Toronto, with a rather ironic specialty: interpreting the subject of mental illness as it appears in popular culture, especially movies.

I have nothing whatsoever against going public, advocating, speaking publicly, etc. but as someone who has had multiple manic episodes myself, I can say for sure that your judgement is just a TEENSY bit off in the middle of this kind of mental hurricane. Huge upgusts of energy, talking a mile a minute (and constantly interrupting), being unable to eat or sleep, grandiosity, incredibly expensive shopping sprees, sexual acting-out which can later be quite embarrassing. . . it's pretty wild, folks, and to see it play out in public like this is kind of painful.

Since these posts back in 2019, I've seen very little from him except stills that appear to be screenshots of movies, most of them prior to 1970. Googling didn't turn up much except some articles written ten years ago. The thing about all this is, if you wanted to raise awareness about - say - heart disease, you wouldn't  try to do it in the midst of a heart attack. This is no less dangerous. But no one told him to just sit down for a bit until things had stabilized.

What shocked me the most is that, after being kept overnight in the hospital, he was discharged the next day without referrals to a doctor or psychiatrist, and apparently just one bottle of medication. When he got to the last pill, he took it with a flourish and a grand announcement, to much applause from his followers. Yes, this WAS a performance of sorts, and he seemed giddy in the middle of it. But I also know from bitter experience that the very worst thing someone with bipolar mania can do is to suddenly go off their meds. 

Why wasn't anyone there to help him - I mean, really HELP him, instead of doing what his Facebook "friends" did: cheer his mania on, tell him "you've got this" (he didn't), give him  bizarre advice on what meds or (worse) quackish herbal remedies he should be taking? The man was desperately ill, and the only followup I could find was a Twitter post about an event he was going to speak at called "But That's Another Story". The title of his talk was How I Became a Sex Addict. 

Hey, people can share all they like, but sooner or later the dust will settle and the sufferer will want to put together some semblance of normalcy. I hope he's OK, but the fact I don't see anything from  him on Facebook now except the odd photo (and even these stopped in October) does make me wonder.

Going public is fine, but you  can't take it back. This is especially true in the age of the internet, in which there is no such thing as "delete". You risk becoming a poster child, and the illness can become your entire identity and subsume whatever dreams you ever had for yourself. And I really think you have to do your advocacy from the perspective of real mental health and recovery. You can't stand up to give a speech if you don't have both feet on the ground.