the pool

Finally, at last, it's happened . . .

the offer of paying work.

My two months of interning at a national newspaper, my two years of journalism school, my twenty-something years of prepress production -- and now I can say I'm a copy editor.

Finally. And at the same national newspaper I've been interning at. They hire their copy editors by the day, and pay by the day (which is -- perhaps? -- another reason why newspapers say they always need copy editors). And I'm at the bottom of a pool of 20, but god, it feels good.

Finally, to be doing what I've wanted to do for years -- and what I could have done years ago, without the benefit of j-school. J-school has been a plus, and I wouldn't have been in the internship except for j-school, but all the skills I've used for this job I had beforehand. Sorry to say, but true. If I was reporting, I would give j-school credit, and if I was writing freelance, I would give j-school credit, but for the copy editing and pagination, I had 99% of that going in.

Finally, even if it's only one day a week, I'll have some money coming in, instead of going out. That has been a situation, since January (actually since school began three years ago), that was getting very tired (not to mention worrisome). Finally, finally.

Allelujah!

Diving in on August 3rd.

p-k days

It's July and it's hot, and I'm in downtown Toronto. Yesterday I began thinking of Patterson-Kaye Lodge. Such a beautiful place and such wonderful memories.

Everyone should have a summer tradition. Whether it's a cottage, or a resort, or the nearest beach -- it becomes weightier and mightier and richer when it becomes ritualized. My mom and I made our own summer ritual with P-K, a resort in Bracebridge, in the Muskokas, run by the Miller family.

One week every summer, for six years, until I returned to school, and she died from cancer. I haven't been there in three years now. Yesterday I was missing it -- and her -- badly.

Every year the weeks were the same, from Sunday to Sunday. Shuffleboard on Monday, baseball on Tuesday, talent night in the Lodge Tuesday night (with the most hilarious homegrown skits put on by the Miller kids and staff -- and any guests brave enough), euchre night, bocce ball, tennis, Santa's Village for the young ones, the Saturday night corn roast. It never rained on Saturday night and the stars, which one never sees in the city, multiplied upon themselves in the black sky.

Water sports and fine, fine meals were included. I kayaked and tried to learn to sail, and swam, yet still seemed to put on five pounds every year. My mom had limited mobility as the result of a stroke in her late 40's, but she was able to paddleboat. Every day we went out in one of the three paddle boats and we would be gone for at least an hour. The P-K paddle boats were surprisingly sea(or lake)worthy and we were able to travel good distances in them. We went around the large island in front of the resort, or we'd head into the Muskoka River and look at the cottages.

I was thinking of P-K meals in the diningroom sunroom, looking out at the lake, still and misty in the morning. So, today I decided to enjoy the summer a little more and went down to the Sunnyside Cafe on the lakefront, and ate alfresco by Lake Ontario. I may make this my summer city ritual.

When I came home, I thought of contacting the Millers via e-mail to have them put me back on their mailing list. It was a shock to see the resort has been sold and is under new management. It had always been expected that it would be passed on to the four Miller children, now in high school and university. I tried unsuccessfully online to find out what had happened. You want the story to have a happy ending.

At least it looks like a private sale (recent), rather than to a giant foreign hotel chain.

Hopefully, things stay as they always have been. I want to go back, and I want it to be the same. Or as close to the same as possible. Rituals and traditions can stabilize us in an unstable world.

'the other final'

follow the bouncing ball . . .

Four years ago, during the last World Cup, a Dutch advertising executive, with his home team out of the running, ruminated on the 'other' reality of being on the losing side. Johan Kramer looked around and realized most of the 203 teams in FIFA never stood a chance of making it to the World Cup qualifying rounds. Inspired, with FIFA's blessing, he decided to organize and film a 'final' game between the two teams at the bottom of the FIFA list -- Montserrat and Bhutan.

His resulting documentary is humourous and wise and full of delight. Both of these countries, ranked 202 and 203, are poor by western standards and literally, on opposite ends of the earth. The Montserrat team's stadium lies buried in volcanic ash, as does much of their tropical island homeland. The Bhutanese, living in the high Himalayas, have their soccer pitch on a lush mountaintop.

The Montserrat team, with their island anthem "HOT, HOT, HOT!" travelling with them, play airline hopskotch across continents on a journey that takes days and brings them to another world. The Bhutanese monks pray and chant, a white soccer ball at the centre of their temple.

This film will make you smile, and want to become friends with a white ball, and then share that friendship with friends you haven't met yet.

house of lords -- part 2

I was lying back in the chair, waiting while the conditioner set in my tangled locks.

Next to me, a hairdresser washed a patron's hair. As she did so a man came over, handed her a business card, and then walked away.

"Oh, god," she said to her customer. "That guy, I was cutting his hair, and he says he's a photographer -- from New York. And he wants me to come to New York so he can take photos of me. 'Just like you are', he says, 'chewing the gum -- and more gum, and more gum.'"

Her voice lowered.

"Like that's going to happen."

the world cup

Aaaaah, it's over. All these weeks of televisions -- in open-air cafes, hardware stores, at work -- showing blissful hours of handsome men sweating, crying, running and running, performing spectacular head shots and brilliant footwork: it's over, for another four years.

It is sad. I miss it already.

Can someone though, explain to me why the Italian team wears blue? Rather ugly, blue uniforms with black markings that look like dirt, when there is no blue in their national flag?

I wasn't particularly partison about the final result, but France's Zidane should be ashamed about his head-butting and consequently letting his team down.

However, a worthy final game.