Of Quaaluds and cocaine.

Wow. Felt that going all the way down. Just cracked a beer, a Kokanee, actually, a rarity for me to drink at all these days, and even more rare, to choose a beer. Rather partial to single malt scotch, Oban if it is around, which it rarely seems to be these days…
Might have to imbibe in a few more than usual at Passionista next week, as it is my getaway from my life in general... perhaps I will see Brian Ferry…
And by the by, have a glorious partner to accompany me… one of my darling teacup girls, who has decided she and I will hang on each other’s arms and break the hearts off all the obscenely rich men that will be there… we will be each other’s arm candy, I believe is the term she used.
Sitting and contemplating what to write. Inspiration has been short of supply of late, another rarity. As Dale can likely attest, I tend to be rather free with my words in columns in the newspaper, and I am often surprised at how very harsh I get without public outcry about it. Hmm. Or perhaps I just don’t hear the reactions. Journalism is in my blood, and has been since I was very young. Just can’t keep my opinion to myself, you know… and have no plans to change that!
But my soul is weary just now, hence the escape to Calgary next week.
Sitting at my downstairs computer, I look at the rain sticks I bought my boys one year while on the coast for a symposium. The more I think of it, the more I realize how truly blessed I am to have my sons in my life. They are good lads, despite the head butting now and then with my eldest. The child has rather a lot of his mother in him… mores the pity. He has decided he wants to be a chef. For years he has thoughts of being an engineer, but this past year in school he has been taking chef training, and his teacher emailed me and said I should encourage him to take this further. I had never thought of him going that direction, and I have yet to see the fruits of his labours at home… but I am glad he has found his passion.
Ian just wandered in. Home from work.
I told him I was drinking one of his beers as I ran out of Red Bull.
“Hmmm,” he responds. “That's like saying I am taking one of your Quaaludes because I ran out of cocaine,” he quips.
Lippy beggar, sez me.
Fucking journalists, he replies.