It’s the strangest thing.
I left for work today thinking to myself that I really needed to actually do something about the fruit-fly situation in our kitchen. That given my otherwise laissez-faire attitude regarding fruit-flies – the “fruit-fly situation” was on the verge of getting out-of-control.
But I come home tonight – eight hours later – and there’s nary a fruit fly in our kitchen. I can’t find a one.
Where did they go? (There are never less fruit flies, there are always more.)
My bananas and tomatoes and limes are still sitting on the kitchen table. There’s nothing sniffing around the outside of the compost pail. Very odd.
To live in Halifax in the summer is to live with fruitflies.
Living in Toronto I had thought myself well versed in the ways of the fruit fly. I thought I knew a thing-or-two about them. Ha! I had no…
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It was on a silent car ride to a hike up the Boulder with my mother when I first questioned the definition of the word née. I had just woken up from a rather disturbing nap in the front seat—mouth hanging open, neck painfully craned, perspiring bum glued to the leather seat—when the word popped in my head. I couldn’t remember where I had first seen it, only that I didn’t know what it meant. I yawned, peeled myself off of the seat and asked Mom.
She didn’t know. She’d never heard it before.
So I did what any other resourceful teenager would: I asked Siri.
born (placed after the name of a married woman to introduce her maiden name): Madame de Staël, nee Necker.
Oh. I wonder where that came from.
I sat in silence, watching the golden landscape roll by, wondering if I would…
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Joe Davola ran into Larry David and his manager/girlfriend, Laurie Lennard, at a Robin Hood Foundation fundraising party in Los Angeles, round about 1992. The TV executive, now at Fox, had known Lennard since his days at MTV in the ‘80s and had courted David’s comedy writing talents at various times since then.
David greeted him thusly: “Joe Davola, Joe Davola, Joe Davola, Joe Davola.”
Davola, just as true to his own personality replied in his deep Brooklyn accent: “What the fuck are you doing, Larry?”
“I like your name. Can I use it?”
Davola shrugged. Sure, why the fuck not?
Six months later, Davola got a visit at his office from Castle Rock executive Glenn Padnick. Padnick had two scripts in his hands, one with a blue cover, one with a yellow cover. Padnick…
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the other day
a guy came to the door
and rang the bell
and our dogs barked
so I answered the door
he was a young guy
with a tee shirt
and a clipboard
and the cold air
in my house
tried to escape
but the hot air
in the world
while the young guy
with a name tag
on his tee shirt
like we’re in the area
and special offer
and help keep teens off drugs
then he licked
his own eye
with a flick
of his tongue
and . . . .wait
it was a dream
yeah, I can tell
it was a dream
Vici the robot
from Small Wonder
only it wasn’t her
and you glazed over
when I said
it wasn’t her
because there’s nothing
more boring than
with all the things
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After the state of Arizona injected 55-year old convicted murderer Joseph R. Wood III with an untested 2-drug execution cocktail (hydromorphone, an opioid painkiller that suppresses respiration, and a sedative called midazolam), it took him nearly two hours to die. He also “gasped and snorted” over 600 times before expiring. These things should not have happened.
Wood was convicted in 1989 of murdering an estranged girlfriend and her father. Wood, Dennis McGuire of Ohio, and Clayton Lockett of Oklahoma men whose executions were also disturbingly and recently botched, were the sort of criminals that a reliable, reasonable, sometimes-exacting, but theoretically humane justice system are intended to process and punish. All three executions used a sedative called midazolam, a sedative that doctors know little about when applied in large doses.
President Obama has said he will review how states use the death penalty. But he is likely to run into stiff opposition from departments of…
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On 2nd July 2014 my world changed forever when my husband, Matt Richell, was killed in a surfing accident at Bronte beach.
Matt was a brilliant light in our lives – a wonderful father, a son, a brother and my best friend and husband. The days following his death have been dark and difficult. The children and I are navigating a whole new terrain of grief and sadness. We miss him desperately.
The support and love that has been shown to us by family, friends, colleagues and strangers has been astonishing. It is comforting to know how many lives my husband touched, and what an impact he had in his lifetime. Thank you to those who have reached out to us at this terrible time.
I also want to express my gratitude to those who were with Matt on the day he died and who tried to assist him. Many people went to heroic lengths to help him –…
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As a child of the ’70s, I considered Han Solo the epitome of manhood.
Fiercely independent, yet secretly sentimental. Skeptical, but willing to believe in magic if he sees it with his own eyes.
Secure enough in his own skin to pursue a princess, but not above taking a wide-eyed farm boy under his wing. Best friends with a Wookiee.
A lovable scoundrel who poses as a mercenary, but who deep down recognizes the best things in life are free.
In short — the ideal dad.
I readily acknowledge that my exposure to Star Wars at a young age shaped the adult I have become. And while Obi Wan was a superb mentor and Vader achieved redemption in the end, it was Han Solo who taught me the most about how to be a good dad.
Here are just a few examples of why I believe General Solo, who had not fathered children…
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