Paul Newman.

A few months back, in October 2009, I went to Boston. Boston is my favourite American city, by far, and not just because my amazing friend Rachel and her super-awesome husband Mike live there. I mean, Rachel and Mike are a big part of my love for Boston, don’t get me wrong. But seriously, Boston is a hyper-fantastic city. There is so much to see and do and the T System is the best public transit I’ve ever experienced (Paris is a close second, let’s be honest). Personally, I like the Green Line the best because not only does it take me to Rachel and Mike’s gorgeous abode, but it also takes me to the Museum of Fine Arts and the Freedom Trail and other sweet-ass places. The other lines are nice too, but the Green Line is rock n’ roll.

Um, Right.

Rachel and Mike took me to their family beach house in Connecticut (gorgeous and stunning) where, courtesy of Rachel’s dad, a dinner out and a promised bottle of Ontario Ice Wine (I’ll get that to you someday, Bruce!), I became the proud owner of a 17″ MacBook Pro (upon which I write this! very! post!), and where Rachel took me to a bookstore. I love bookstores. Everyone who knows me, and specifically Rachel and my boyfriend, knows this and accepts me in spite of my frequent bookstore detours. This bookstore wasn’t your average Indigo or Chapters or Barnes & Noble. It was a second-hand joint with books in tool sheds and wagons and outhouses and there was also a cat. I bought about 239087 books for like, $10. That might be an exaggeration, but you get the picture. Rachel decided I needed to read Exodus by Leon Uris. First, it’s a literary classic, and I could get on board based on Rachel’s recommendation. Second, it taught me a lot about the establishment of Israel, which was interesting and useful knowledge for me. So I dove into it, and didn’t put the book down from start to finish. Excellent recommendation, Rachel!

Then, a miracle happened. I discovered that Exodus the book was made into Exodus the movie! Excitement! And guess who was the star! No, go on, guess!

If you guessed Paul Newman, you would be correct. Obviously, this necessitated investigation, as all stuff that just occurs to a person does. Paul Newman in 1960 was HOT. And by “hot”, I mean HAWT. I had only ever seen Paul Newman in silver screen classics like “Message in a Bottle”, which is not really a silver screen classic, but, Paul Newman. My mother loves Paul Newman. Stupidly, I’ve never seen “Butch Cassidy & the Sundance Kid”. I’ve also never seen, inexplicably, “Rachel, Rachel” (considering my love for a) Rachel and b) Margaret Laurence, I can’t explain this omission).

Paul Newman oozed the HAWTNESS right up til the day His-Holy-God-Given-Hawtness died. I mean, if he was hawt in his 80s, he had to be positively SMOKING in his 30s and 40s. Herewith, 1960’s Paul Newman:Hello, Paul Newman!

Yeah, that’s what I’m talking about. Now, to be honest, the movie “Exodus” was a little too different from the book for my taste, but that’s the way the cookie crumbles. It was still awesome. If you have 3 hours and want to watch not only an interesting flick, but also oogle (fun word!) Paul Newman in all his beautiful, prime hotness, I say make for your favourite streaming site (this one is excellent for this movie) and have a ball.

Paul Newman did lots of stuff other than movies. Wikipedia tells me he also made some good salad dressing and bar-be-que sauces, all for an excellent cause, as well as racing cars pretty well. I think that racing cars might’ve been a bit of a dangerous sport for a guy as hawt as the Newman, but whatever, I’m not the Newman police. Also, he was married to the same woman for 50 years, and that’s awesome. He coined the phrase “why go out for hamburger when you’ve got steak at home”. THAT I can get behind.
Oh, and he got more foxy as he went silver:
Silver Fox!

❤ you, Paul Newman!



First post. Hope you enjoy this project that is intended to remove from my head the sometimes wacky, sometimes scary, sometimes funny, sometimes ironic, sometimes naughty, sometimes just plain weird stuff that occurs to me over the course of the day. Jump in with me, add your similarly wacky, scary, funny, ironic, naughty, weird, etc. stuff that comes to your mind. Really, I need to know I’m not alone. Heh.

So my mother is in Italy on a much-deserved vacation. She and her husband are touring Rome and Siena and Florence. They have a wine tap in the place they are staying. By “wine tap”, I mean a tap in the hallway from which flows red chianti as opposed to, say, agua. That in itself is pretty nifty, as Madre can take her in-room carafe and fill it with the juice of the gods any time she damn well pleases. Anyway, they were meant to be joined by another couple before they left Rome for a couple of weeks Under the Tuscan Sun. The thing is, the other couple, traveling from Ottawa, Canada, were waylaid by a VOLCANO.

I got to thinking, seriously? A volcano??? What. The Hell. Is Going. On. I’ve been following the drama of the volcano in Iceland (named Eyjafjallajokill, which is totally unpronounceable to anyone whose mother tongue is a Romance language) covering a good portion of the Old World with the contents of its spittoon, and preventing people from my mum’s friends to the President of the United States from traveling eastward. Apparently, this is the biggest air traffic disruption in Europe since World War II. This is really something.

Now, I love a good disaster. Especially a good disaster movie. You know, where things like this aren’t REAL. Naturally, this required some investigation, like, for example, how often does stuff like this happen? What I discovered was UN. SETTLING. We all know about the Richter scale, a ranking system from 0-10 for earthquakes that determines if the shake of the very planet we in habit (scary!) is minor – “Hm. I just felt unbalanced. Was that my general feeling that broke through my sub-conscious or was that an earthquake”/runs to check the news, or major, e.g. California fell in to the ocean.

People, they have a Richter-like scale for Volcanic Activity. It is called the Volcanic Explosivity Index, or VEI for short. I’ve worked in government and as such, you know something is scary when it a) has an acronym and b) a science-y sounding name with an “Index”. The VEI is a scale from 0-8 (I wonder why not 10?) and “provides a relative measure of the explosiveness of volcanic eruptions” (thanks, Wikipedia!) This isn’t your grade 7 science project.





There haven’t been too many huge eruptions recently, but seriously – do we live in the Paleozoic Era or something?!! This is just. not. supposed. to happen. If a relatively minor eruption like the one in Iceland can mess with modern society like this, what happens if the BIG ONE comes? I’m just saying that they should make a disaster movie about it so we can let it seep into our consciousness while embraced by the warm glow of Hollywood and a bankable action star like, oh, say, Bruce Willis.

Anyway, my mother’s friends went to Jamaica instead. I wonder if they have volcanoes there.

Check it out:

This is what is screwing things up