Bag of Bones

'Grampa, get outta my bed, you old perv!"

Meh. That's pretty much how I feel about the A&E mini-series Bag of Bones. It was OK but nothing compared to Stephen King's novel, which I consider to be far and away the best thing he ever wrote.

Maybe if I hadn't read the book, didn't have such high expectations, I might have enjoyed it more. It was like The Shipping News by Annie Proulx. The book was fabulous, one of my all-time favourites. The movie? Less than meh. (Kevin Spacey as Quoyle? Pffffft.) I guess when books are so over-the-top great, the movies simply can't compete.

I'm a fan of Pierce Brosnan but honestly, he was too old to play Mike Noonan. All I could think of was, how can Jo, his good looking wife, and that tart Matty Devore both be attracted to that old guy? I sure as heck wouldn't kick Brosnan out of bed for eating crackers but I'm an old fart myself and can be forgiven for being attracted to other old farts.

I always imagined Stephen King as Mike Noonan and Brosnan did have a Stephenish-Kingish quality in the mini-series. Still, there are plenty of 30 to 40-something actors who could have filled the bill far more nicely than the hunky but aging ex-Bond.

The other thing is, the film just skirted the dark corners of the novel, the very corners that made Bag of Bones one of King's most critically acclaimed works. To me it was brilliance from start to finish with dark literary nuances.

By the way, forgive the typos in this post. I went to see an opthamologist this afternoon – I'm going to be having cataract surgery in the new year. He dilated my eyeballs to the size of dinner plates and I can't see a goldurned thing. Perhaps I might have enjoyed Bag of Bones more had I been able to see. Then again, I'm sure the rather elderly Mike Noonan only benefited from my soft-focus eyeballs.

Oh gawd, Pierce, if you happen to read this, forgive my ageist comments. And if you want to pop by with a box of crackers, I'd be more than happy to spend some alone time with ya. I'm sure Dave wouldn't mind. All you have to do is point me in the direction of the bedroom. The things we can do with my white cane and a box of crackers ....

Hot Mama #2

OK, dress #2. Low-cut ruffled neckline, flattering swish at the hips, as opposed to strapless and sequinned. Dave likes this one better because, as he says, "it really shows off the girls."

It's all about the girls, for Dave.

Which one do you like better? Gawd knows, I want to hear. Yesterday's comments blew me away. YOU GUYS ARE SO FUNNY. I was laughing out loud all day long, you know, when I wasn't dancing around to Nancy Sinatra's These Boots are Made for Walking.

Speaking of boots, I DID IT! I hugged the Boss! My sassy friend and colleague Sarah had promised me $5 in raffle tickets if I hugged the boss, something that just isn't regularly done at my office. I was kinda hoping she would have forgotten about the bet but even before dinner was served she was swaggling over saying, in her clever sing-song way, "I've got three raffle tickets with your name on them ..." So I had to, right then and there, go hug the boss. Even though I'd only had half a glass of wine and technically it wasn't nearly enough.

"OK," I said, getting up from my chair. "Let's do it." Sarah grabbed her camera and I marched over to the head table where the boss was talking to an even bigger boss (so many bosses, so little time ...). I waited until the bigger boss finished talking and then excused myself. "I made a bet with Ryeland over there, that I would hug you." I gestured to the giggling Sarah with her camera. "Three raffle tickets are on the line."

He smiled. "In that case," he said, "we'd better do it!" He stood up and gave me a sound and wonderful hug. I thanked him profusely and got carried away and planted a kiss on his cheek. He blushed and I blushed and the bigger boss laughed and Sarah took our photo. She handed over the tickets and, by rights, I should have won one of the big prizes. C'est la vie, however. I still won the bet and I had a nice hug and the boss smelled really lovely. So there!

In other party news, I had been asked by super-party-organizer Laura to rewrite Twas the Night Before Christmas and read it to the party-goers. She printed out the poem in a book form (my first published work!) and dragged out a comfy chair for me to sit on. Her cohort Stephanie held the microphone and I told the story. Way too much fun! I think everyone enjoyed it as much as me. Here's the photo Dave took. Funny thing is, even 50 pounds lighter, this photo shows me I still have many pounds to lose. So what. I knew this weight loss thing was going to take at least a year and while I still have many miles to go, I am proud of how far I have come.

Here's the poem:

‘Twas the Night before Deadline

‘Twas the night before deadline, when all through the office

Not an ad rep was stirring, except for the bosses.

The ad copy was e-mailed to production with care,

In hopes that a gosh-darned Photoshop miracle soon would be there.

Production, as usual, was strung out and weepy,

Due to copy that was misspelled, messy and creepy.

Everything said in I-Chat came out in all-caps,

As they whined and they yawned and dreamt of some naps.

When out in the parking lot there arose such loud chatter,

Bill scrambled from his desk to see what on earth was the matter.

Away to the back door he strode in a hurry,

Sending inserts and flyers to the air in a flurry.

The moon on the crest of the snow-covered asphalt

Showed gum wrappers, coffee cups and an unopened bank vault.

When, what to Bill's wondering eyes should appear,

But a safecracking dude, and eight tiny masked reindeer.

With a balaclava, some dynamite and a flickable Bic, 

Bill thought it highly unlikely that this guy was St Nick.

Slower than snapping turtles his coursers they came,

And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name!

"Now, Andrew!  Now, Dougie! Now, Jackie and Tony!

On, Davey! On, Jenny! Stop eating baloney!

To the top of the safe! Try not to fall!

Now blow it up! Get 'er done! Let's see it all!"

As dynamite was lit and the Bic was let fly,

The door of the safe blew up into the sky.

Into the vault the masked bandits they flew,

With a sack full of ads and a story or two.

And then, in a twinkling, Bill heard on the roof

The stomping and pounding of each rubber boot.

He went back to his office and was turning around,

When down the back stairs St. Joe came with a bound.

He was dressed in Armani, from his head to his shoe,

And his suit was all tarnished with ink shaded blue.

A bundle of newspapers he had flung on his back,

And he looked like a reporter, a full-blooded hack.

His eyes - they were bloodshot! His fingers how weary!

His cheeks were all puffy, his nose kind of beery!

His sly little mouth was drawn up in a smile,

And his Movember moustache was as long as a mile.

He was in shape and buff, a right jolly young elf,

And Bill grinned when he saw him, in spite of himself!

A peek at the quarterly report and a nod of his head,

Soon gave Bill to know he had nothing to dread.

He spoke a few words to his faithful young lads

And they began filling the papers with bazillions of ads.

And laying his orders on the desktop for Bill,

He climbed out of the office and ran up the hill.

Bill danced back to his desk, on his lips was a whistle,

There were so many ads, like the seeds in a thistle.

He flung open his window and yelled with all his might,

"Happy Newspapering to All, and to All a Good-Night!"

Hot Mama #1

I know, I said there weren't any photos of me from Dave's Christmas party last Friday but, I mean look at these, they're blurry and they're unfocussed and my eyes are shut so really, I don't.

Check out those feather earrings. Yes, they're earrings. In the bottom photo they kinda look like a Playboy bow tie. Uh, no. They're dangly black feather earrings I bought when I went shopping and forgot my brain in the parking lot. I wore them for a while but I noticed people were looking at me funny. I figured it was either telltale cheesecake crumbs stuck in my teeth, boogers hanging off my nose, my gargantuan arms or those damned feathers.

See? I told you. I've been eating so much chicken lately that I've been sprouting feathers. You should see the ones growing out of my ass.

Tonight is my office Christmas party. AND I HAVE ANOTHER DRESS. I know, there are starving children around the world and I have two party dresses. But it was on sale! 50% off! I had to do it!

I promise. More photos tomorrow. I'm going to take photos of all my workmates and post them, too. And I will make fun of them, profusely, because that is how I roll. You can tell me what dress you like better, OK?

Also? My colleague Sarah has promised to buy me a $5 raffle ticket for the bigscreen TV up for grabs at the par-tay if I hug the Big Boss. Well Sarah, these gargantuan arms are made for hugging, baby, and that's just what they'll do. One of these days these arms are gonna hug all over you... badda boom, badda boom, badda boom....

Are you ready, arms?

Start hugging...

Bettman is Wrong

I'm not a big hockey fan, not by any means, but something I heard on the news this morning pissed me off.

Just eight games into his return to the game following a severe concussion last January, Pittsburgh Penguins' star Sidney Crosby took a hit Monday night and has decided to sit out the next two games. It was an accidental hit, at the hands of his own team mate, but that's not what matters.

What matters is that one of the game's biggest talents might never get a chance to pursue his career because the "physicality" of hockey will threaten Crosby with brain injury at every turn.

Physicality is NHL Commissioner Gary Bettman's word.

"Our fans tell us that they like the level of physicality in our game, and for some people it's an issue but it's not as big an issue in terms of fans and people in the game to the extent that other people suggest it is," Bettman said, discussing fighting. "Maybe it is [dangerous] and maybe it's not. You don't know that for a fact and it's something we continue to monitor. The level of concussions from fighting is not rising, it's constant, so it's not an increasing problem. But, it is something we'll continue to monitor."

I don't agree. When I do watch hockey, I want to see goal scoring. I want to see the world's best talents dazzling us with their puck handling and their skating. I don't want to watch fighting or hitting. Especially when it means players will be severely hurt and put out of the game.

Bettman was talking to the New York Times about a recent analysis of the brain of NHL player Derek Boogaard that showed a link between head injuries and chronic traumatic encephalopathy (CTE). Bettman said drawing a connection between fighting in hockey and CTE is "premature." Boogaard's brain was analyzed after his May 13 death, and the results showed Boogaard had CTE. It was the fourth brain of a former NHL player to be analyzed by researchers and confirmed to show signs of CTE.

"I think in this whole area there is probably entirely too much speculation and rumors and the like on something that is simply a tragedy," Bettman said, speaking at the conclusion of the NHL Board of Governors meeting. "With respect to what Boston University might find on CTE, they're still looking at a very limited database and in those particular cases there is no control element because you have to look at everything that went on in the person's life before you make a judgment on what a brain may show when you open it up.

"So, I think when you look at the fact that the medical community has only been dealing with the issue of concussions in the way that they have for probably the last few decades, and if you look at our history starting in 1997 and we've been across all fronts -- whether it's the study, the working groups, baseline testing, diagnosis and return-to-play protocols, rule changes, the creation of the Department of Player Safety -- we've been doing lots and lots and we'll continue to do lots and lots. But, there are no easy answers yet. And, I think it's unfortunate if people use tragedies to jump to conclusions that probably at this stage aren't supported."

How much study do you need to know that a conk on the head hurts the brain? Come on, it doesn't take a brain surgeon to know that! Read between the lines and you'll see all Bettman really cares about is money. He's afraid that ending fighting in hockey will mean the end of the money train. I think he's wrong. I think people would enjoy hockey more if there was no fighting. I love watching kids play, because they're playing – not fighting.

Boogaard's autopsy, Crosby's injury – these should be red letter flashing wake-up signs to Bettman and the NHL that it's time hockey violence came to an end. Now. Before players like Crosby wind up retired or dead.

Lollipop train derailment

Where did my mojo go?

Have you seen it?

I'm half-afraid I ate the fecking thing. I've been eating everything else in sight these days, why not the lollipop train that's been chugging stupidly along the losing-weight-writing-a-novel happy track?

Picture a zombie. Mindlessly trudging along, a song in its putrefecating pustule that once was a heart, locomoting one asphalt-sucking galosh at a time until it finds some cardio-challenged fattie it can chow down on. Right? Get it? That was me, the zombie. Finishing NaNo was finding the fattie. I chowed down and now I'm at a total fecking loss at what to do next. I feel like I'm adrift in a sea of goal-lessness.

Yesterday was bad. I woke up feeling like a bear with a sore ass and I went to bed feeling like an ass with a sore bear. I had no reason for it, but there it was.

Losing 50 pounds was also like finding the fattie. Tonight I went to Weight Watchers and I am not proud to announce I gained four pounds. In one week! Feck! I came home and bawled.

Oh, I KNEW I was going to gain weight this week. I'm not making up stupid excuses – I just ate too fecking much. I ate out four times (once at the dreaded all-you-can-eat Mandarin buffet, henceforth to be known as the Mandarin Factor); I ate a wedge of chocolate birthday cake, not a piece, a wedge – it was so big you could jack up your house with it. Worse, I suddenly remembered why I was going to Weight Watchers in the first place: I LOVE TO EAT. Even now, right now, I am craving something sweet. Like Mr. Christie's Fudgeo cookies, the ones with Double Stuf (wishing there was Triple Stuf), or homemade oatmeal candy. Or my mom's shortbread cookies, the ones with the sprinkles on top. I have a Santa bowl on my kitchen table and all I can think about is how good it would look with ju-jubes in it. The really fresh kind. The ones coated in sugar. I saw someone eat a bran muffin today and I wanted to take it from him, forcefully, and stuff it into my own great gaping maw.

I'm on dangerous ground here. I know, I've been here before. I am at a crossroads of getting back on the zombie track or jumping the rails and saying "feck it" and gaining every single pound I lost and then some. You skinnies are going, "why in hell would she gain 50 pounds back?" But you fatties and former fatties, you know what I'm saying – it's a mad desperation that can grab us by the balls and send us howling back to the great buffet of life as easy and as fast as a wink of the puffy eye.

I need to find my way again. I need to find that light switch in my head that's currently switched to OFF and turn it ON again.

If I don't, there are bad times ahead and Christmastime is no time for bad times.