Disgraced - A Comedy - An Operatic Tragedy About Racism
Sunday, October 04, 2015
|Juan de Pareja, Diego Velázquez, 1650, oil on canvas, Metropolitan Museum of Art|
On Wednesday, September 23d, my Rosemary and I attended the
opening of the Arts Club Theatre production of Ayad Akhtar’s Pulitzer Prize winning (2013) Disgraced
. Disgraced was directed by Janet Wright.
I could write on how we enjoyed it or that the directing was
able and tight. I could use that staple expression of theatre critics (I am not
one of them, I am an amateur blogger) that Disgraced was “thought provoking.”
But I am not.
To anybody who has gotten this far I will forewarn them that
this will be long-winded and opinionated. The play is central to two facts and
one painting. Of the former it is about India before partition in 1947 and
about racism. The latter about Diego Velázquez de Cuéllar’s magnificent
portrait of his assistant/slave Juan de Pareja.
But let me digress first.
Since I was a little boy in Buenos Aires I was surrounded by
an awareness of social classes, religious intolerance and out and out racism.
Very much like in the United States and even Canada, Spanish
colonizers of Argentina and then the leaders of the young nation in the 19th
century pushed the native “indios” West and South with armies. The few that
remained became in the 20th century “cabecitas negras” or little
black heads. The upper social classes, traditionally the Catholic Church, the
armed forces and the wealthy landowners looked down on the working class.
My Spanish-born grandmother told me that the Jews had killed
Christ. I had a terrible time reconciling that with the fact that my best
friend, Mario Hertzberg, who lived across the street, was Jewish.
In one of my trips to Buenos Aires in the late 80s, one of
my nephews asked me if blacks (negros in Argentine Spanish) smelled differently. Much later he asked
me how I could tell the difference between the Chinese and the Japanese. I told
him (perhaps in jest, perhaps in my own confusion) that it was very easy and
you knew right away. When there was doubt the person was Korean. And since my
mother was from the Philippines I added that Filipinos and Malaysians were
Malays and not Chinese at all.
In my years in Texas in the mid to late 50s Latinos were not
yet Latinos. Texans who were not of that extraction simply called them spicks
or Mexcans (without that i). So people of that extraction would anglicize the
pronunciation of their names (much as they still do today with Latino baseball
players). Reyes was Reys. And none of the people of this extraction (particularly
my fellow students in my boarding school in Austin) would have ever been caught
talking Spanish or admitting they could speak it.
In Mexico, where I lived for many years we often read that
the biggest difference between pure blooded Native Mexicans and Spaniards was
the abundance of facial hair in the latter. Thus until most recently
dark-skinned Mexican policemen wore large moustaches and women sported unshaved legs
beneath very nice sheer stockings.
When my Canadian wife and two Mexican born daughters arrived
in Vancouver in 1975 I was astounded to notice that Native Canadians did not
have red skin and that they looked very much like the Native Mexicans but could
not speak Spanish.
It was later in the 70s when going to Saturday evening
parties seemed to be in vogue that my Rosemary and I would get into our Rabbit
and I would turn on the radio to a CBC Radio program that fascinated me. It was
called Our Native Land. The music was splendid country and western but when
that music “devolved” to chanting my wife seemed uncomfortable. Being a rude
Latin American (not yet a Canadian) I would tell her, “This is the music of the
people of your country. What is your problem? " This invariably made her angry
and she would turn off the radio. To the detriment of the CBC I have always
wondered why they canned this informative and entertaining program.
Also in the late 70s while printing in my Burnaby darkroom,
one of my fave radio programs was the CBC’s Doctor Bundolo’s Pandemonium
which starred two of the funniest men on earth, Bill Reiter
and Norm Grohmann. One routine that was outrageously funny (it could not
possibly run in 2015) was that of the Lone Deranger
and his Faithful Friend
. Toronto was played to perfection by Norn Grohmann with an extreme
Punjabi accent. At the time there was a large influx of immigrants from what we
used to call the Indian Subcontinent.
Stand-up comedians and jokes on the street made fun of the “Pakis.”
The jokes were no different and no less cruel that the Jew jokes of the past
centering on a perceived Jewish penchant for frugality. These immigrants became Canadians and one of them almost
became Prime Minister but did manage to be a Premier of BC and a Minister of
In the late 70s and 80s I took photographs for CBC
Television and Radio. I noted that the only Native Canadian within the
corporation was an actor in The Beachcombers. I never saw any as stagehands,
cameramen or anywhere else.
An early job renting cars for Tilden Rent-A-Car came with
instructions not to rent to anybody with the surname of George or John. When I
asked I was answered, “Don’t rent to Indians.”
By now you must be getting my drift about my exposure to racism
and my possible difficulty to be free of sin or able to cast that first stone.
When the folks from Hong-Kong started arriving in the 80’s
the East Indians were forgotten. This influx was different from others. In San
Francisco they called them Yacht people. That first wave was practical. They purchased
Volvos. Don Docksteader made a mint.
In the 90s and in the beginning of the 21st
century I noticed that the Hong Kong Chinese did not talk to the Taiwan Chinese
and that the Mainland Chinese avoided the Hong Kong Chinese and the Taiwanese.
I was clued in by an older Taiwanese neighbour that the Mainland Chinese
considered them unclean in that they had learned Japanese during the WWII occupation
This much newer batch of wealthy immigrants, simply because
they come to a new world where they can begin anew, puts them in a situation
where they are unlikely to want to communicate with their neighbours to which
they refer as Caucasians. To me that use is almost no different from that unsavoury
“Paki.” In my neighbourhood that is mostly populated by these immigrants I feel alienated. If it has taken me all these years to finally feel part of this city and this country I now have doubts about fitting in. As a joke (a terrible and perhaps even in bad taste) I tell my Argentine relatives that I want to go for an extended visit to Patagonia so that I will again feel at home, a home free of BMWs and Mercedez Benzes.
But there is hope. Hope must be assimilation. We all know that sooner or later a second generation will adopt some of the ways of the locals like Tim Horton’s
doughnuts and the clothing at Mark's Work Wearhouse. But until that happens I
believe that we in Vancouver are sitting on a smoldering and festering dose of
out an out racism that goes (is this a new feature?) both ways.
I remember taking photographs, many times of Lieutenant
Governor David Lam (1988-1995). We became friends. To me he did a splendid job
of doing everything possible to bring the Caucasians and the Chinese together.
I have not seen much of an attempt to keep working at that since. Articles on
the expensive real estate in Vancouver in our daily newspapers seem to fan
these flames which I believe will finally erupt.
All the above came to my head as I watched Disgraced. To
those who are under 30 they might not understand the protagonist’s problem. His
parents had been born in the Indian Subcontinent before 1947. They were Indian.
After partition (and many have forgotten) there was India which was separated
from the more Muslim population of West and East Pakistan. Can you imagine
creating a country that is divided by another? Have we forgotten that East
Pakistan became a hapless Bangladesh that seems to be at the mercy of monsoons,
storms, flooding and famine?
So our protagonist, who wants to be upwardly mobile and
mostly succeeds at it by calling himself an Indian even though he was born in a
contemporary Pakistan. India, East Indian, even Hindu (or that Kipling Hindoo)
has a better ring than Paki. And so Amir, played to perfection by Patrick
Sabongui, like a red-egged Humpty Dumpty has a great fall.
A similar watering down of one's perceived heritage, used to avoid typecasting, is the Iranian immigrants in our city who call themselves Persians. To my knowledge there is no such country as Persia.
The rest of the cast, Amir’s blonde wife, Emily (Kyra
Zagorsky dressed to perfection by Costume Designer Barbara Clayden), the
idealistic nephew Abe (Conor Wylie), Amir’s acquaintance but Emily’s artistic
consultant and art show organizer Isaac (Robert Maloney) and his really
upwardly mobile and black wife Jory (Marci T. House) is excellent.
I would like to congratulate Mr. Millerd, who is ahead of
the pack in choosing Disgraced. My NY Times has informed
me that his play will
be the most produced play in the US this year.
Disgraced is a comedy that ends in tragedy like a good opera.
But this is an opera with a biting reality that we who live in Vancouver should
take heed of and try and work at it so that we, too, might not, be disgraced.
Velásquez’s painting of his household slave, and helper Juan
de Pareja whom he freed is the inspiration for Emily who paints her Amir as
such a man. It is perhaps appropriate that while Juan de Pareja’s features are
negroid it is not known in fact if he was that or if he was a Muslim (was he a
mulatto or a morisco?) Why appropriate? Some in the audience might have opined
that Patrick Sabongui’s features weren’t …..enough. I am pleased his skin was
Doctor Bundolo was funny? Were many people offended? Is there an equivalent TV or radio show lampooning (Oh so gently! Please!) what is happening in Vancouver now? Would it make the situation worse?
I believe that we must learn to laugh together. I believe we must persuade Bill Reiter and Norm Grohman to unretire. I believe that Disgraced is a warning.
The New VAG - Stacked Hat Boxes In A World Of Square Heads
Tuesday, September 29, 2015
Today, like many other Vancouverites, I got a preview of
what may someday be our new Vancouver Art Gallery.
As a friend of a most pragmatic and knowledgeable architect,
Abraham Rogatnick, who died six years ago I would still agree with his
that the VAG should stay put.
What has changed since his death is a city that is full of
more money that I do not see going into places that need it. We get more bike
lanes while improvements in our transit system are still in some far off
future. The tracks on the Arbutus Corridor, in spite of Canadian Pacific’s
cleanup are still rusting.
I see that nothing seems to have changed since my friend
architect Ned Pratt
while watching the demolitions on my Athlone Street
neighbourhood told me, “I am convinced that the developers and City Hall are in
Nobody seems to have taken our former Premier, Mike Harcourt
seriously when he memorably said a few years ago at a downtown Simon Fraser University
lecture, “Homelessness can be solved if we build more houses.”
I despair that Arthur Erickson is not around to lecture us
on this ongoing folly.
But I must confess that there are two men I have second
thoughts about. These men are realtor Bob Rennie and the other is our Prime
Minister Mr. Harper. The latter I do not like nor do I agree with his policies.
The former I see as a tainted developer (with no personal information to back
that up). I do not know enough to like or dislike him.
But when today he went on the record in saying that before
this project moves forward (how I hate that expression so frequently used by
our politicians) he wants to know how the great cost will affect the purchase
of art, the promotion of art, the nurturing of our artists. He is bang on!
|Bob Rennie & his children|
Furthermore if Vancouver gets its “World Class Art Gallery”
will Regina, Winnipeg and other cities in
Canada also merit such a folly?
In Abraham Rogatnick’s Manifesto
central to it is the idea
that the present Vancouver Art Gallery is the very centre (bellybutton?) of our
city. Before this gallery moves what plans are being made to keep that centre
where it is?
|Arthur Erickson at the UBC Library|
One of the possible solutions would be to make the folks of
our University of British Columbia who find it convenient to be outside of
Vancouver in an area of lovely forests that now boasts a Save-On and
cookie-cutter truncated condo towers move out of Robson Square. UBC in one
has killed Robson
Square. Perhaps Simon Fraser with its vibrant downtown campus could make better
use of it. And they might even find a solution to keeping our city’s centre
where it is.
¡Messi! ¡Messi! - ¡Francisco! ¡Francisco!
Sunday, September 27, 2015
|Father Jorge Mario Bergoglio - Pablo Leguizamón, AP Images|
From Tuesday September 22 to today Sunday September 27 I
have been glued, when possible to my Sony Trinitron. It is strange that amongst the turmoils of
having bought a house and finally sold the one we have lived in for almost 30
years, my Rosemary, with a smile on her face has been my constant companion on the sofa in our den. She is not a
Roman Catholic nor is she an Argentine. But there she was protesting how loud
the simultaneous translators were and how we could not listen in all clarity to
what the pope was saying in his Argentine Spanish.
Perhaps to inject some humour I told her that we had made a
mistake in not having added either Telemundo or Univisión on our Telus package. But Rosemary took it
seriously and perhaps even felt guilty about her lapse.
In my case my guilt was much more palpable even if I had to
mostly keep it to myself.
I believe that if there is something that must be kept
private in this confess-all age of social media it has to be what I do in bed
our out of bed with my wife that has nothing to do with an act solely for the
purpose of procreation. At my wife’s age of 70 and mine at 73 with my faulty
plumbing there is no question of that ever being a reality. But there is
another aspect of my life that I have always left in shadow to any that might
ask. This is my personal view on religious belief.
I was baptized, confirmed and took part in the Roman
Catholic sacraments of the Eucharist and Confession. I was born Roman Catholic
because my mother was Roman Catholic. My father may have been a lapsed Anglican
who waved his right to insist I be raised under the Church of England. A few things happened during my growing up that made me
question what had been drilled to me in Sunday School.
While my softly (if that can be said just like that)
religiously racist Spanish Grandmother who often told me that the Jews had
killed Jesus Christ seemed to be a “fact” there was the nagging suspicion that
my best friend Mario Hertzberg who lived across the street from me could not be
a murderer. That Mario showed me a picture of young man, that looked just like
him, and explained that he had been killed by Germans during the war made it
all more confusing in my mind. When Mario and I were stopped on the street by a
Capuchin monk who asked us of our faith and when Mario explained that he was
Jewish, the monk with a smile on his face said, “We all believe in the same
By the time I was 10 my mother and grandmother would offer
money to the patron saint of lost things St. Anthony of Padua. Their offerings
were conditional – no found earing – no money. I thought this odd but strangely
By that age of 10 I had inquired and found out that the
minimum requirements for attending Holy Mass was to show up at the Offertory.
As soon as the priest uttered “Ite missa est,” I would bolt out of church.
My so-so beliefs became challenged when my mother sent me to
a Catholic boarding school, St. Edward’s High School in Austin, Texas in the mid-50s.
there I experienced almost daily Masses, frequent confessions, plus being
surrounded by men dressed in black who were Brothers of Holy Cross.
But here I had to question my faith, whatever it had been. It
had been, at the very least a religion I had learned by rote. Suddenly not only
did I find myself under the influence of great teachers (all but one or two,
Brothers of Holy Cross) but I was hit hard intellectually by that five foot
strong-man Brother Edwin Reggio, CSC. He taught me religion. He taught me
religion that was laced with the philosophy of Aristotle, St. Augustine and St.
He allowed himself to be baited in our waste-time procedures
of asking him at what point, in dollars and cents, a sin of theft went from being
venial to a mortal sin. From Brother Edwin I learned logic and dialogue all
with a big dollop of kindness.
Brother Hubert Koeppen, Brother Francis Barrett, who taught
me world history and American history gave me facts and liberal opinions on a
way that I could judge history in a non-absolute way.When my buddy John Straney (in the 11th and 12th
grade) loudly proclaimed his atheism, the brothers played it cool and ignored him. He graduated
with no ancillary problems.
Best of all Brother Edwin insisted that perhaps the most
important Sacrament was the Sacrament of Confirmation. He told me that once
confirmed I was a soldier of Christ. He was careful to explain that this was
not a soldier who wielded a sword but one who defended the faith in being able
to explain one’s beliefs in detail and to divulge to anybody who might ask what
Transubstantiation , Ex Cathedra and the concept of the Trinity of three
persons who were all individually God.
Shortly after moving back to Mexico City after Austin I had
the luck to be exposed to the philosophy classes of Ramón Xirau at Mexico City
College. From him I found out about the pre-Socratics, the Socratics and all
the rest that followed up (with a longish explanation on Baruch Spinoza) to an including Sartre and Camus. But it was Epicurus’s belief
that we should not fear death as death was oblivion without pain that set me up
for doubt. It was and has been a doubt that would never include Pascal’s
(chickenshit, oh my!) Wager.
My doubt was not toned down when my very Catholic mother, at
age 50, suffering the terrible Meniere’s Disease, experiencing an almost
constant vertigo and a loud ringing in her ears, confessed to me one day, “I am 50 and I am
alone. I have not been with a man for years. I am still young. I do not believe
in a God who cares for the affairs of men. I have lost my faith in prayer.”
There was nothing that I could have possibly told her that would have
ameliorated her grief. It wasn’t the existence of God that she doubted, after
And that is where my beliefs have been all these years.
Rosemary and I both regret that while our oldest daughter
Ale had her First Communion, her younger sister Hilary did not. Hilary’s two daughters’
idea of spirituality is all Tolkien, special effects and Star Wars.
My Brother Edwin died a couple of years ago so I feel lost
in not having his practical mind explain to me if watching the pope saying Holy
Mass in Washington DC, New York City and in Philadelphia is in effect going to
Mass. When the pope blesses the populace, am I included?
I may be proud of being an Argentine these days in spite of
Cristina. I like to shout or write, “¡Messi! ¡Messi! ¡Francisco! ¡Francisco!”
But I am really more that proud in feeling a kinship with Jorge Bergoglio.
After all since I am Jorge Alejandro he is my tocayo. I have photographed enough people (including dubious
politicians, hoods and crooks) to know what a genuine smile is.
Best of all in spite of the idiot simultaneous translators,
to listen to someone speak Argentine Spanish with verve in that quiet way of
Pope Francis’s I cannot but think that while I am not about to take up Pascal’s
Wager I just might contemplate an enhanced oblivion.
The Black Pope & that Bergoglio Imbroglio
Pulling All Stops With Christina Hutten @ St. Andrew's Wesley
Monday, September 21, 2015
Christina Hutten is working on obtaining a complicated doctorate in music at UBC. She is a master of keyboard instruments. In her role as Our Woman Friday
at Early Music Vancouver
and Pacific Baroque Orchestra
concerts she is usually seen tuning the harpsichords. In several conversations with Hutten I have come to the conclusion that she is a perfectionist and does not abide with people who do not get their facts accurately. My advice to anybody who might want to play poker with her is, "Don't," you would lose your shirt. I have heard her play the organ and can assure you that you are in for a treat this coming Saturday, September 26 at Wesley United Church on Burrard and Nelson.
Next Saturday, September 26, you are invited to celebrate
Culture Days with me at St. Andrew's Wesley United Church, where I will be
giving afternoon organ demonstrations and an evening organ recital.
The organ demonstrations will begin at 4:15 and 5:00 PM. I plan to begin with some music, and then
invite you to join me in exploring the workings of the mechanical-action organ
in the side chapel at St. Andrew's Wesley. The church's music director, Darryl
Nixon, will demonstrate the large organ in the church sanctuary. You can find more information about the event
My recital will begin at 7:00 PM. Since St. Andrew's Wesley
is such a large, beautiful space, I invite you to come to listen and to explore
the church, rather than sitting solemnly in a pew for the duration of the
concert. I will have to do some walking
myself, since I intend to perform on both the main organ and the chapel
organ. The programme will include music
by Bach, Mendelssohn, Froberger, and Bruhns.
Find more information including a map of the church's location here.
Both events are free, though donations are welcome. Please do not hesitate to invite friends and
bring the children in your lives.
I look forward to seeing you there!
Jim Carroll - Les Wiseman Remembers - Patti Smith Weighs In
Saturday, September 19, 2015
|Jim Carroll - Photograph Alex Waterhouse-Hayward|
was a day of melancholy, anger and depression. I left home and walked to the
nearest refuge. The refuge was the Oakridge Branch of the Vancouver Public
Library. I brought my umbrella. The persistent rain added to my melancholy. It
takes just a few days of a Vancouver rain in the fall to make one forget all
those days of sunny heat. At my age I am already turning on the heat at home.
stop at the library is always their reject book bin. It was fairly empty except
for one book that stared at me. It was Jim Carroll’s posthumously published novel
The Petting Zoo. When it came out in 2010 after his death on September 11, 2009
it was panned by most critics.
I plan to
read it. If you consider that I was charged $0.50 for it and after you
read Patti Smith’s Introduction (A Note to the Reader) you will understand that
my purchase was a steal.
library I went to Oakridge Mall and sat in one of their comfortable red single
chairs and watched people go by. My melancholy became one of alienation as I
found myself feeling I was living in a foreign country. One of my plans in a
near future is to stay a few weeks in Patagonia to perhaps relieve this
home protected by my dark blue Vancouver Umbrella Shop umbrella wondering what
kind of omen (if any) was finding such an odd book in what really is a
mainstream public library going through a demographic change which might
explain the massive unloading of such good books. Below is Patti Smith's intro to Carroll's novel.
|Jacket illustration - Raymond Pettibon|
monastic seclusion of his room, Jim Carroll, with a prescience of his own
mortality, reached out and drew this novel – his last work – from the nucleus
of his mysticism and remembered experience.
The Petting Zoo unfolds with a series of fated events. The
artist Billy Wofram is so profoundly moved by the paintings of Velázquez that
he finds himself irrevocably altered. Stumbling from the Metropolitan Museum of
Art into an eddy of avalanching absurdity – a defunct Children’s Zoo, the Aztec
façade of the Helmsley Building, the bowels of a dysfunctional mental ward – he
diagnoses that he is no longer in sync with his former self. His descent and ascent, so candidly observed,
are reminiscent of René Daumal’s A Night
of Serious Drinking, as our narrator reels from numbing cocktails to the
nakedness of his mischievous soul.
The poet is
the aural lamplighter. He projects himself within the labyrinth of Billy’s
burgeoning consciousness as he seemingly adjusts to the most outrageous turns
of fortune. Jim’s mythic energy is at once laconic and vibrating; his bouts of
meandering humor are punctuated by undeniable common wisdom. Whether the
discourse is with a Chinese psychologist, a Hindu driver, or an extremely
loquacious raven, these Socratic dialogues slide pole to pole, from uncanny
clarity or a realm where digression is an art of the first order, the
multifarious zone of the nod.
died at his desk on September 11, 2009, in the Inwood neighborhood of
Manhattan, where he was born and raised. His diamond mind never ceased writing,
even as he read, scribbling copious notes in the margins of his books, the
references of his life, Frank O’Hara, Saint Francis, Bruno Schulz. He was
without guile, disdainful of his beauty, red-gold hair, lanky body, abstract,
bareheaded, empty headed. Yet he was athletic with singular focus, netting his
prey, able to pluck from the air with exquisite dexterity a rainbow-winged
insect that quivered in his freckled hand, begetting memory.
catastrophe of loss, the loss of a true poet, is so pure that it might for many
pass unnoticed. But the universe knows, and no doubt Jim Carroll was drawn from
his labors and the prison of his own infirmities to the distances of the
Smith, May, 2010
JimCarroll Les Wiseman
I remember lying in bed listening to some evening CFOX radio
show. It was keyed to new music and was cohosted by Jerry Barad who, I believe,
worked at Quintessence Records and maybe had some financial interest in it, as
well. Barad went on to become COO of LiveNation. His role in 1980, was hepping
listeners to new product at the record shop.
He led into a cut by The Jim Carroll Band off its debut
album, Catholic Boy. He told about how Carroll was a New York underground
writer and poet. Then he played People Who Died.
It was terrifying. It was the bleakest, darkest most macabre
song I’d ever heard. It was a litany of people who had died and the various
ways they shuffled off this mortal coil.
Teddy sniffing glue,
he was 12 years old
Fell from the roof on
Cathy was 11 when she
pulled the plug
On 26 reds and a
bottle of wine
Bobby got leukemia, 14
He looked like 65 when
He was a friend of
I mean, Holy hell, what the heck was this?
G-berg and Georgie let
their gimmicks go rotten
So they died of
hepatitis in upper Manhattan
Sly in Vietnam took a
bullet in the head
Bobby OD'd on Drano on
the night that he was wed
They were two more
friends of mine
Two more friends that
I was no wilting lily of the valley; Lou Reed’s depression
fest, Berlin, was my favorite album, but this Jim Carroll guy was beyond the
pale. He wasn’t just down, he was the voice of total devastation and evil. He
was celebrating these deaths.
Those are people who
They were all my
friends, and they died
I lay in bed, terrified. I don’t think I slept a wink that
night. But, next morning, I know I was at the door of the record store the
minute it opened to get my hands on a copy of that dark moist thing.
Postscript 1983: AW-H and I were in Manhattan and Lenny Kaye
asked us if we wanted to go the Danceteria and see Jim Carroll read his poetry.
Spectral Jim came over and joined our conversation that night. He was pale and
as cold as the grave. I bet the guy pissed ice cubes.
If like me you are wondering what Wiseman's above 30 means here is his answer:
TheVenerable 30 Les Wiseman
- 30 –
The 30 means your
story is done. It was particularly important when sending material by telegraph
and modem. It is still important today and you will lose marks on job tests if
you do not use it. It also lets the editor know that the writer intends the
story to end there. Many times I’ve had a story that just ends with no rhyme or
reason and I’ve had to call the writer and say, “Hey, I don’t think I’ve got
the ending to your story. I don’t have the 30 page. What was the last sentence
of your story?” They tell me; I see it and then I have to launch into an
explanation that their story doesn’t have a kicker. It just ends. Using a 30
shows your editor that they are dealing with a pro. Plus, in the modem days, I
dealt with a number of editors who didn’t receive my entire story, yet printed
it anyhow, with no discernible kicker. (Yes, Times-Colonist weekend editors I’m talking about you, you frickin’
morons.) I’d say, “Did you see the 30 at the end?” They’d say, “No.” And I
would shriek, “Then you should have known you didn’t get all of the story,
shouldn’t you, you amateur low-rent subliterate pudknocker!!!”
These days, email
is fraught with dangers, though mostly human error and many a document can get greeked
or corrupted and editors need to see what they can make of it. In order to do
that, they need to know where it ends. Plus, I like the sound of tapping out -- 30---. It sounds a bit like the opening of Louie Louie. It also means another damned piece is finished. A sweet sound for sure.
People who died
Patti Smith talks after this and a known stellar groups sing People who died