TubaOrNotTuba

This evening, while scanning the channels on the ever available TV, I ran across a number of concerts. Must be an off night in the hockey world, because CBC seemed to have a corner on the good CanCon. Much of it talent that spanned the better part of my lifetime; just think of little Miss Murray, fresh out of Summerside on Singalong Jubilee, or the founding duo from the Guess Who, doing their section of Music Hop out of Winterpeg. This evening, we also had a surprise visitor from faraway Las Vegas, in the persona of The Celine.

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It’s not too often that the TV ends up on Canal Savoir, that the whole family stops whatever else they’re doing, and that we listen en groupe. This evening, almost by accident, we happened across a lecture on media and advertising presented by Luc Dupont from the University of Ottawa. The reaction of our group was uniform: we’d all like to go back to school and learn from someone who is as erudite and topical.

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I like history. Not the seventeen kings of a foreign land kind, but the stuff that is based on me, the places I’ve been and the people I’ve met. Goes well with genealogy. Goes well with old maps, and pictures and the other little bits of stuff we accumulate over time. The more time you spend accumulating, the more fun it is. Long life and history! There, if you are in need of a good toast, you can borrow it.

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This morning I awoke to the sound of rolling thunder. Nothing to do with stormy weather, although we didn’t get the sunshine I had hoped for when I decided to turn this into a longer than usual long weekend. No matter. The sound came from a truck and trailer, busily unloading our new recycling bins. Hundreds of them, stacked and nested, with a team of men installing wheels, lids and schedule cards. Noisy. Useful. Timely. I am so pleased!

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We’re too close to the end of the season. People are losing their focus. How else to explain that sixty million votes were cast (that’s about twice the population of Canada, as if we counted) on American Idol this week, and still Melinda Doolittle went home. Not once, but twice, in the same broadcast. As we head into the final week, the program just earned a renaming, to American Idle, because that’s what the braintrust was on this one.

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The importance of any news story depends on your proximity to the situation, either physically or emotionally. That’s what allows us to scan through the alphabet soup of the television at suppertime without too much stress (normally). It also provides us with ample small talk for the water cooler, should you happen to have one in your community. I have a news story from last night. I was not party to the story, but I was in both physical and emotional proximity, I am taking ownership. Consider me as the reporter.

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Part of the founding principle for the real estate industry is that the average homeowner wants to “trade up”. Better location, sure, but more room to stretch out. Bigger digs. I’ve just found a way to destroy any illusion that you need a larger home; try finding something you “put away for the winter”.

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This has been the weekend of the race that wasn’t in Quebec. After a demotion to the far back benches, the PQ ate another leader and started the process of convincing another one to step up to the guillotine. As someone at work put it, there are two jobs in Quebec that no ordinary person ever wants: leader of the PQ and coach of the Habs.

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Today was a dress the family up and head off to a restaurant outing, in keeping with the Mothers’ Day motif. We phoned around for a bit and finally found a place that would be able to seat us before we started robbing the dog’s stash, and so we put her in charge of barking at passersby and loaded up the van. I won’t mention the name of the restaurant, but for those who know the area, all the waitresses wear ridiculous headpieces made from starched lace.

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Recently the chatter at work turned to pets, in particular those we had at earlier points in our lives. The various dogs and cats are mundane, but one person had been fortunate enough to have had a “walk on the wild side”. A skunk, when such things were allowed by the municipality, and a raccoon. One tale involved allowing the masked marauder out after a winter in the house. Gone for an afternoon, and then a scratching at the door. Himself was home, and he’d brought five more friends along to the party.

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