THOUGHT FOR THE DAY
The moral effect of the
thundering of one's own artillery is most extraordinary.
-- Fritz
Kreisler
Kevin
Michael Grace, 2.28 am, 14 July 2006►
OY GEVALT!
Take a look at this picture. See anything Jewish about
it? Course not. But then you're not Wonkitties AKA
Rondi
Adamson, are you? If RightGirl is the
Force Beyond
Hyperbole of the Western Standard's
Shotgun
blog, then Adamson
is its Force Beyond Belief. Here's what
she posted 10 July:
Since the famous head-butt
yesterday, I've been thinking that certain elements in the
Muslim Arab world would find a way to turn it into a case
of, "the rest of the world picking on us."
Indeed -- within a couple of hours, accusations
were flying. What took them so long?
Now, to be clear, Zizou has
said nothing along these lines, as far as I know. And of
course, he is French, born and bred. But by way of his
origins, some parties will turn him into a symbol of the
big, bad, everyone else being mean to Muslims.
(Interesting, because, as I recall, Zizou was thrown out
of a match a couple of years ago for stamping on a Saudi
player. So much for Pan-Arabism.)
While I am happy to report that
-- so far -- no Jews have been blamed for the red card,
one wonders: How long till the rumours that Marco
Materazzi is Jewish begin a' whirlin'?
"One wonders"?! No, you're the only one. But
wait, it gets better. Adamson is not
Jewish.
Remember when Bobby Hill asked his grandmother's
Jewish
boyfriend, "Can I get a bar-mitzvah? I'm
willing to celebrate Hanukkah," and he responded
sagely, "Trust me, it's more work than you're gonna
want to put in"? But not more work than Rondi Adamson
is willing to put in. Gives whole new meaning to the word Schadenfreude,
doesn't it?
What sort of person carries on like this? Oh, I could
mention that La Adamson is a vegetarian and an
animal-rescue zealot but also an incessant
warmonger, that she
thinks the Muslim invasion of France is
A-OK because it makes shopping easier, that she
thinks Fox News "is [not] that
pro-Bush," that she
believes, "Once [a] crime has been
committed, the fact that the perpetrator may come from a
bad neighbourhood or have been the victim of racism ... no
longer matters" but also
believes Roman Polanski should get away
with drugging
and buggering a 13-year-old girl because
he's had a hard life and made a Holocaust film, that she's
still shilling
for the Niger-Saddam hoax ... But why waste
a thousand words in execration, when I can direct readers
to
take a look at this picture. I bet lots of people tell
Adamson she looks like Bette Davis. But do they tell her
it's the Bette Davis of What
Ever Happened To Baby Jane? Those mad,
staring eyes! Yes, at 50, everyone has the
face he deserves; even more pathetic,
perhaps, is that every country gets the pundits it
deserves.
Kevin
Michael Grace, 2.19 am, 14 July 2006►
SADDEST
POST-SECONDARY CREDENTIAL EVER
"Has
a degree in sociolinguistics from Evergreen State
College."
Kevin
Michael Grace, 7.38 pm, 13 July 2006►
THOUGHT FOR THE DAY
One reason writers write is out
of revenge. Life hurts; certain ideas and experiences
hurt; one wants to clarify, to set out illuminations, to
replay the old bad scenes and get the Treppenworte
said -- the words one didn’t have the strength or
ripeness to say when those words were necessary for
one’s dignity or survival.
-- Cynthia Ozick, Writers
at Work: The Paris Review Interviews, Eighth Series
Kevin
Michael Grace, 1.51 pm, 13 July 2006►
THOUGHT FOR THE DAY
Ah, my dear, he thought sadly
-- what do you want a serious man for? A serious man will
do you serious harm. Better your pretty, smiling butterfly
-- here one day, gone the next. Although Jean-Pierre was
not smiling now -- he was pouting, beautifully pouting.
"Too beautiful to live," as Mme Bouquin so
eloquently put it. Plagiarist, thief, impostor, take him
as he is my dear -- you have only a few minutes of him
anyway. She was flushed. If it was a serious man she
wanted, perhaps he should invite her over -- "I am,
by an odd coincidence, Madame, a writer too." And I
know better now, you see. I would take you dancing in
paradise with me, and in the morning say adieu.
-- Julian Gloag, Lost
And Found
Kevin
Michael Grace, 11.21 pm, 12 July 2006►
THOUGHT FOR THE DAY
Q: What is your
definition of art?
A: Never having to say you're sorry.
-- Russell
Mael
Kevin
Michael Grace, 1.43 am, 11 July 2006►
ULTIMA THULE
The Ambler has an admirer in Sweden. His name is
Michael Ståhlberg; he lives in Tyresö;
and he has a website called Political
Junkie. It seems just the job, but I
can't say any more, as I don't read Swedish. Shamefully, I
know little about Sweden, except what I read in The
New Totalitarians, a closely reasoned
1975 anathema by the great Roland
Huntford. (Peter
Brimelow has long claimed that Sweden was
the model for the deconstruction of Canada, just as I have
long claimed that Canada is the model for the
deconstruction of Britain.) I love Abba, like all
good people, and my hero Jean
Sibelius was kind of Swedish -- but beyond
that, nothing.
There is one misstatement in Mr Ståhlberg's panegyric;
I don't have a cat. Not permitted in the Princess
Pembroke, you see. (Yes, Sean,
I'm "catblogging" again.) Last time I had a cat
of my own was in Edmonton. She was called Stripey; at
least that's what I renamed her. Her previous owner, a
recently disinherited university student, had burdened the
poor beast with the moniker Anthem, after an obscure
science fiction novel. Or something like that.
Stripey, née Anthem
"Anthem" was unbearably precious, so I
determined upon the first, most obvious substitute for a
tabby. I was well pleased with my choice. And with Stripey,
who I taught to play pingpong, following Muriel Spark's
instructions in Robinson.
After I left Edmonton, she was inherited by Colby Cosh and
later disappeared in mysterious circumstances.
I can credit Stripey with the biggest laugh I ever got
in the Alberta
Report newsroom. Readers who don't
believe that Kevin Michael Grace exists -- and there are
many -- will want to pay special attention to the
following. My name was the subject of considerable
controversy at the magazine. One day while I was absent,
there was a heated debate on the issue -- about half the
editorial staff argued it was just and meet; the other
half found it unbearably precious.
Proof of ownership: So there
How I came to be "Kevin Michael Grace": Circa
1975, I was a trade
union executive and found myself signing
many official letters. Seemed to me that "Kevin
Grace" was inofficious and weak. (Many years later,
York University Professor of Linguistics Sheila Embleton
confirmed that my hunch was right, at least phonetically.)
I had always liked the name (though not the politics) of
the Irish gadfly Conor
Cruise O'Brien and so had myself triple-barrelled
in imitation.
Flash forward to 1997 and back to the AR
newsroom: I had just related the story of Stripey's
renaming to much delight and some disgust. The disgust
came from my successor as the magazine's production
manager, a Maritimer who hated me with a deep and
inexplicable fervour. (Something about a woman, I expect.)
At the end of my account, I added, "Of course Stripey
isn't her full name." To which he replied, sullenly,
"Oh yeah, what's that?" Quick as a flash, I
declared, "Why, Stripey Michael Grace, of
course." The newsroom positively exploded, while the
Maritimer returned a sickly smile. He later had his
revenge, but who's laughing now, eh Scottie?
Further photographic evidence of my existence is
provided at Jeremy Lott's new website, here
and here
(where I out myself as a born-again Green). I've been on
vacation, you see. Nothing glamorous -- not
"hanging" with America's jeunesse dorée,
your Katherine Mangu-Wards, your Joanne McNeils, your Eve
Tushnets [sic], your Rachel DiCarlos, your Michael
Brendan Doughertys, et al., nor globetrotting with
that bright spark, the lovely and
not-at-all-Esther-Blodgett-like Katie Hawthorne, communing
with the likes of Iain Pears, Iain Banks, Iain Crichton
Smith, Ian Rankin, Ian Carmichael, Sir Ian McKellen, the
late Ian Bannen and Dirk McQuickly -- I travelled to the
westernmost part of Beautiful Supernatural British
Columbia™. Of which more later.
On the stereo, Sneaker Pimps, Becoming
X, "Low
Place Like Home":
Read
your future in the magazine
Search your stars for clues
Read your future in the magazine
Tells you what to lose
Kevin
Michael Grace, 12.50 am, 11 July 2006►
WE
SHALL FIGHT HIM IN THE BEACHES, ETC, ETC
Exciting news from the essential new website www.kinsellasux.blogspot.com.
But are there T-shirts? Cause I want one. Now.
Kevin
Michael Grace, 4.38 pm, 2 July 2006►
SHURELY SHOME
MISHTAKE?!
I've only just come back up for air after several
days spent researching the Waugh family, their religious
beliefs in particular. In the course of my labours, I
searched for stories about the
Tablet's list of Britain's top 100 lay Catholics
and discovered a Toronto Star piece that suggested
Canada's top lay Catholic would be Rick
Mercer, the simpering Newfie
"satirist." I thought I'd have fun with this
absurd notion later, but I didn't save the link, and now I
can't find it. Perhaps I imagined the whole thing.
In the event, I started thinking about my own choice
for this signal honour. The best I could come up with was
Conrad Black. How sad, how sad. I'd best not say any more,
lest he sue.
Kevin
Michael Grace, 4.27 pm, 2 July 2006►
THOUGHT FOR THE DAY
If I am right, and the
crucifixion should be seen as an early victory for the
principle of direct democracy, then it must follow that
one of the messages of Easter, when Christ rose from the
dead, is that good men should struggle to confound the
multitude whenever possible.
-- Auberon Waugh, Country
Topics
Kevin
Michael Grace, 3.55 pm, 2 July 2006►
