I’m never going to be famous. My name will never be writ large on the roster of Those Who Do Things. I don’t do any thing. Not one single thing. I used to bite my nails, but I don’t even do that any more.

Dorothy Parker

Nobody’s misunderstood. That’s just what people say when they don’t like who they are.

Bobby Funke, Assassination of a High School President

In the early 20th century, Albert Munsell invented a system for naming colours numerically by hue, value and chroma. A hundred years later, the Munsell color system remains internationally accepted, yet the only image that exists of it’s creator is a lousy black and white photo.

I don’t dream often, so last night was a surprise. A ragtag band of heros bring down a corupt corporation. They stack the executives like fire wood in the center of a round room with floor to ceiling windows. A crowd gathers inside and out to witness. The leader stands forward. “Do not work for them. Do not hire them. Take a look at these men. They can not be trusted.” And then we all arranged car pools and went home. 🙂

If at first you don’t succeed, failure may be your style.

Quentin Crisp 

Okay, the story goes like this: it’s the 4th century, there’s a bit of a famine happening, and there’s this psycho butcher who decides to chop up a bunch of kids, salt the meat in barrels, and sell it as cured ham. Along comes Saint Nicholas, the generous Bishop of Myra, to help the needy. He sees through the evil plan, and resurrects the children. Now that’s a Christmas to remember! Merry Christmas to all!

Frigg, the Norse goddess of love and fertility, was banished to a mountaintop and proclaimed a witch once Christianity was embraced by Norse and Germanic tribes. There she lost her shit, and once a week she met with eleven other witches, and the devil to plan out the fateful misfortunes for the coming week. The name Frigg eventually morphed into the English word Friday. You can likely do the math for the rest of it.

A tip of the hat to Alexander Frehse, inventor of the lemon meringue pie, and the subsequent lifetime of desert related over indulgence. 

At 6 am this morning, the view from the platform of the Fallowfield VIA Rail station was pure yesteryear. Track, waist high grass, then corn field stretching for a mile before blending into vague early morning darkness, and finally capped by the burly frame of the distant Gatineau Hills. If not for the staccato of lights on Greenbank Road, I might never have made it back in time for the train.

As it turns out, the Ark of the Covenant wasn’t so much lost as it was misplaced behind my furnace under a pile of vintage Playboy, and Molson stubbies. If you can move it, you can have it.