Rainy Days and Mondays...

      Well, it's Monday, and I have to head up to the University (or, as a friend calls it, Pork Spew) ce soir for-- ta da!!-- my last class of the year tomorrow. How does one control one's glee? (Answer: With stirrups and bindings made of genuine Saskatchewan seal-skin.) So, this blog will be out of commission for a bit, especially as I deal with the quails of students pleading, with their best Michael-Bolton-like intensity, for more time on the essays they've neglected for so long. Me, cynical? No, but a cursory glimpse of my email already has me rolling my eyes. Four words: uggidy ugh ugh ugh. There are, however, a few things to note here:

Sadly, it seems Peter Ustinov, actor, writer and raconteur has passed away at age 82. Sir Peter was one of a breed of gentlemen now unfortunately more common in the imagination than in the reality, a man of wit and cleverness, to say nothing of his very significant personal presence particularly in the movies. Funny, so many people thought he was French ("Belgian, madame!") because of his performances as Hercule Poirot in the late 70s and 80s (Death On The Nile, Evil Under The Sun). Strange; I was thinking about Death on the Nile not too long ago, and recalling when last I saw it, about two years ago. Seems also that not too long ago I was reflecting on him here with the passing of Jack Paar. RIP, Sir Peter.



• ~~Oh Condoleezza, huh-huh, un-hun-huh-huh...~~ (Anyone remember Shaggy? Probully not.) This blog would probably be a bit remiss if it didn't say something about the Richard Clarke scandal in the Youknighted Stasis. I had started to write something about it yesterday when my machine crashed on me, and I didn't bother to rewrite it. This blog's general antipathy towards Dubya's administration is well-documented, but I think the past week has demonstrated all too well the absolutely vicious yet stubbornly incoherent nature of the Bushies, and I'm genuinely hoping most Americans come to recognize the foaming rabidity of Dubya and his cronies. Someone has described them as "Mayberry Machiavels," and I think the term fits. Leave it to Dick "Needy Chick" Cheney to criticize, with more than a whiff of rhetorical and ethical desperation, Clarke for apologizing to the families of 9/11 victims. Deplorable. (Oh, and Bushie rhetoric on "Spanish capitulation to terrorists" may have problems making political hay, given Spain's addition of soldiers to Afghanistan.)
  
• And speaking of deplorable....
  
• Also deplorable, but much mure truly deserving of a special canto in Dante's Inferno, there's the tragedy of Cecilia Zhang. There's nothing one can say to this that is not condolence or outrage.
  
• Hugh Winsor's column in today's Globe and Mail is about the late Mitchell Sharp and his funeral on the weekend. Shameful, it truly is, to watch Canadian Prime Ministers behaving worse than caffeinated-children. Especially shameful is Martin's behaviour: not even expressing one's condolences to Chretien on the loss of one of his oldest friends? P'shaw. Is it treason if I call the Right Dishonourable Paul Martin a moral fucknut? Gee, I hope not. Fucknut. Perhaps aliens will be able to find something appropriately lacerating with which to probe him. Edit: I originally typed "coldolences" instead of condolences, but on second thought, perhaps the error was more appropriate.
  
• Also from The Globe: a surprisingly funny bit by John Ibbitson. Who knew he had it in him? Not this blog, certainly.
  
• Reason #436,789 not to go to McDonald's. Clarification: customer wanted it *on* the run.
  
• The Coen brothers' remake of the Alec Guinness Ealing comedy The Ladykillers is getting middling reviews which is a bit disappointing. Watched Intolerable Cruelty on Friday and found myself agog at its generic confusion: the film had no idea what it wanted to be, and so we're treated to some of the most head-scratchingly bizarre "comedy" I've seen in some time. Sure, "Wheezy Joe" is funny, and Catherine Zeta-Jones looks hot throughout, but those redeeming factors just weren't enough. I miss the Coen Brothers of Blood Simple.

Anyway, that's the bits and pieces for now. Anyone who's dropped me an email in the past day or two, I'll answer when I get back from my oh-so-wonderful place of employment. It's just a job, you know, / and it's not sweet lorraine / Tell me why, why, must I always explain...

      (What, me, cranky? Nehhhhhhh-verrrrrrrr....)

      Now, off to more pressing matters, though now I think I'm going to have in my mind for the rest of the day the image of M. Emmet Walsh's leathery visage being drip-drip-dripped on. Sugar-pie, honey-bunch...