Canadians have been largely indifferent to the arrival of the royal couple. But Prime Minister Justin Trudeau’s government has faced repeated questions about who will foot the bill for the family’s security.
Amanda Coletta. Washington Post.
I have spent my life largely indifferent to the shifts and upheavals around me. As a small boy I fell down a badger hole and tumbled in front of a wise man dressed in velveteen fog; he waited for me to stop crying and then said "Nothing is real, except the last potato chip."
Somehow, that comforted me. I managed to claw my way out of the badger hole to begin a life of shabbiness and irrelevance -- but that wise old man's words stuck with me like pills on a sweater.
My first job out of college was in a warehouse, counting off yards of bubble wrap with a gadget that eventually gave me carpal tunnel syndrome. I took Workman's Comp and traveled the country by bus. I wasn't seeking anything in particular, just rambling around to see how other people dealt with the mundane idiocy of everyday life.
I took a job for a while as a dishwasher in a greasy spoon-slash-gas station up in the high Sierras, where Warner Brother logos had proliferated back in the 1940's. The denizens of the cafe were all beat up looking specimens that scratched themselves constantly and spouted weary platitudes while they drank coffee and snacked on fried bandanas. The waitress' name was Trixie. She had a heart of gold, and long loopy earrings to match. She kept bringing me coffee and stale donuts, to 'build you up -- you're so scrawny' -- even though I told her I didn't drink coffee and stale pastry nauseated me. I finally threw her in a cactus patch, and she seemed to finally get the message.
When I'd had my fill of drippings and drips, I got back on the next bus and headed up to Canada.
You have probably noticed by now, from my grammar and syntax, that I am not a native English speaker. I did not come to America until I was fifteen. That explains why I still have three eyebrows.
On the bus to Canada I met a charming couple, the Pawlty-Drawboats. They're related to the Royal Family in Great Britain somehow, but they were completely down-to-earth.
"Have a potato chip, old boy" said Sir Pawlty-Drawboats to me as we sped through the boglands of Saskatchewan.
"Don't mind if I do, old chap" I replied lightly. "What brings you and the Duchess to moose country?"
"Oh, I dunno . . . bit of a tiff back home and all that" he replied, burbling through his mustache. "These provincials treat us like equals, not paper dolls, y'know. We can get away with wearing polyester and eating crisps in public -- potato chips, you bounders call them, what?"
We sat in companionable silence, sharing his bag of crisps, until I took the last one, bowed my head to him in mock deference, and popped it in my mouth.
Then, as the wise old man had predicted so many years before, reality set in.
"You two are pretentious bores" I told him, "and I'm a luftmensch."
I got off the bus in Burnaby and began a new purpose-driven life as an artisan saddle soaper.
I take great pride in my product and have funded a local bowling team. Because thinking small makes me feel large.
Somehow, that comforted me. I managed to claw my way out of the badger hole to begin a life of shabbiness and irrelevance -- but that wise old man's words stuck with me like pills on a sweater.
My first job out of college was in a warehouse, counting off yards of bubble wrap with a gadget that eventually gave me carpal tunnel syndrome. I took Workman's Comp and traveled the country by bus. I wasn't seeking anything in particular, just rambling around to see how other people dealt with the mundane idiocy of everyday life.
I took a job for a while as a dishwasher in a greasy spoon-slash-gas station up in the high Sierras, where Warner Brother logos had proliferated back in the 1940's. The denizens of the cafe were all beat up looking specimens that scratched themselves constantly and spouted weary platitudes while they drank coffee and snacked on fried bandanas. The waitress' name was Trixie. She had a heart of gold, and long loopy earrings to match. She kept bringing me coffee and stale donuts, to 'build you up -- you're so scrawny' -- even though I told her I didn't drink coffee and stale pastry nauseated me. I finally threw her in a cactus patch, and she seemed to finally get the message.
When I'd had my fill of drippings and drips, I got back on the next bus and headed up to Canada.
You have probably noticed by now, from my grammar and syntax, that I am not a native English speaker. I did not come to America until I was fifteen. That explains why I still have three eyebrows.
On the bus to Canada I met a charming couple, the Pawlty-Drawboats. They're related to the Royal Family in Great Britain somehow, but they were completely down-to-earth.
"Have a potato chip, old boy" said Sir Pawlty-Drawboats to me as we sped through the boglands of Saskatchewan.
"Don't mind if I do, old chap" I replied lightly. "What brings you and the Duchess to moose country?"
"Oh, I dunno . . . bit of a tiff back home and all that" he replied, burbling through his mustache. "These provincials treat us like equals, not paper dolls, y'know. We can get away with wearing polyester and eating crisps in public -- potato chips, you bounders call them, what?"
We sat in companionable silence, sharing his bag of crisps, until I took the last one, bowed my head to him in mock deference, and popped it in my mouth.
Then, as the wise old man had predicted so many years before, reality set in.
"You two are pretentious bores" I told him, "and I'm a luftmensch."
I got off the bus in Burnaby and began a new purpose-driven life as an artisan saddle soaper.
I take great pride in my product and have funded a local bowling team. Because thinking small makes me feel large.
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