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Wilson Edwards
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- Written by: Rod Boyle
- Category: Ideas & Questions
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Now - I mean, there are still a staggering number of people that buy the "Wet Market" hypothesis, which while not exonerating China is a little more acceptable than the "Lab Leak" hypothesis.
But then there's this, Wilson Edwards, a "Swiss Biologist" invented by Chinese Social Media to disseminate lies and doubt about the politicization of Covid.
Links: BBC, NBC, The Guardian
Now how on earth can anyone trust anything China says about ANYTHING AT ALL? I MEAN - REALLY - if EVERYTHING you say is a LIE - then it follows if your LIPS ARE MOVING CHANCES ARE GOOD YOUR LYING!
This is not even the first or second time that China's tried this - there was previously the MAINE LOBSTER HYPOTHESIS (link) - in which China tried to pin the origins of Covid on Maine Lobsters. Or that it came out of Fort Detrick (link).
It is appalling that we - or any other first world nation - continue to have any traffic or commerce with them. It is overdue that we start choosing our friends based upon their good characters and reputations within the international community. And - some countries should have NO ACCESS TO THE INTERNET at all. We can't stop them from lying to their own people - but we can stop them lying to the world at large.
Much like a lot of our friends and relatives, some people don't have the requisite brains or education to be allowed to hold opinions, or trusted to vet every bit of disinformation they read. And I'm increasingly of a mind to think that Opinions are a Privilege that reasonably require you having done some hard research before entertaining.
Paid
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- Written by: Rod Boyle
- Category: Blog
- Hits: 738
Saturday night, paid, Cash tips for the previous 5 days work, 2 days off now and what to do?
Pay some - not all, of the bills. Make provisions for the week ahead. See the daughter for brunch, but - given that I was up at 7:00 AM drinking coffee in the pissing rain and trying to roam further into West Van - towards Stanley Park, past Granville, I'm soaked and not so much in the mood by 12:00. And - the brunch menu, fine, but I was hoping for the more inspired dinner menu items, which weren't on offer at this time. Damn. So, uncomfortable, wet, disheveled, and paying for a meal that I really should have waited for to get - what I wanted - the Michelin-Starred food.
Brunch was fine. But for me, too early, too wet. And my shoes, they're wet, all the time, wafting up odors that I'd so heartily condemn from others, now myself, and I need to find me some galoshes or hip waders, there's an awful lot of winter - here - "the damp season" - left.
I discover - happily - that 2 of my bunkmates have left (Phew) and the one remaining is a Cellist from Azerbaijan *(Yeah, I had to look this up as well). he left Azerbaijan to further his studies, there being no competent or informed instructors there.
He has a concert today - North Van, and indicates his Cello in a fiberglass case.
I make him promise to play for me upon his return.
And he does. He's been playing 16 years, largely self taught, on a $3, 000 Cello that he would describe as garbage, he wants a proper Cello, $300, 000, $400, 000 dollars, cheap, but - God Willing - and his playing - for me - uneducated rube - is fine, splendid, Bach's "Ava Maria", begins quiet, then louder and I listen, appreciate, in front of the mirror in a tiny room, query him about Pablo Casals, Yo-Yo Mah?
I am enthusiastic. He is great? No?
I mean, so often, from me, it's faint praise from the damned. I know nothing of this, only that I like it and he did well. He, on the other hand, is not so kind, damning, he counted "23" errors - I'm not making this up - and, yes, I noted some missteps but - WTF - I'm not the expert and given a half hour's play you'd be hard pressed to come up with 2 or 3 things I did right...
There would be no things that I did right, and his errors could easily be assigned to playing before (what he imagines as a critical) audience of One.
This inspired me only in the fact that we are so often we are our own worst critics, no one else notices the same failings that we feel damns us...
And that, the Cello, played properly, can move anyone. Any instrument, for that matter, but the Cello is getting the press at the moment...
So, Sunday night, eat like a pig, quite possibly my last chance this week, double down on the donairs across the street, disgusting but I'm famished, catch up with my Father, Son, news of Steve from the Hostel, talk to Chris, the chef from Balfour - and he's telling me about the great liquor shortage in Nelson - supply chain issues - I'd better stock up while I still can - shelves there are bare - panic buying - Christmas is around the corner...
I fall for it. I mean, it's true - out there - but I've seen no sign of any sort of supply chain disruptions here. All the liquor stores are admirably stocked. And - given the job - finishing late every night - I've been drinking substantially less. No need, have to be in tip-top form to enjoy the full ration of anxiety that every day and evening brings afresh...
Download "The Green Knight" - which looks good - but - given how quick I've polished off the Vodka it doesn't stand a chance
***
Today, thrifting, find a couple of ties, nothing else, really - although - I have to say - whenever - whatever squalor I subsequently find myself in - is substantially going to be remedied by the richness of the thrift stores here. I mean - I'm not in buying mode, not at the moment -but - there are treasures here for sure.
Dollarama - I'm out of a certain sort of disposable pen I'm fond of, perfect for line drawing - but I can't seem to find it here. This is the real problem with the supply chain. Not liquor, still lots, too much of that, but cheap, good quality fucking pens. Nonetheless I take a chance on a four cartridge plastic fountain pen, disposable, at "Dollar General" - and - surprisingly - it works quite well. The line is a bit thicker than I'd like - for illustrating - but it's got a consistent flow - and could somebody please explain to me why a "Dollar General" fountain pen works better than a Mont Blanc, or any of a dozen other higher end fountain pens I own? Please?
***
Lunch, Chinatown, I find a perfect little restaurant. Brightly lit inside - it should be painted, made into a painting, the tablecloths, lighting, decor - all perfect, all evoking the richness of a displaced culture, evoking - it's hard to say - I have a feeling that I've been here before, although I never have - not in this lifetime, but it is somehow all very familiar, and I'm a little haunted by it. The food, well - that will probably haunt me as well, largely inedible, somehow I made all the wrong choices on the menu, nothing was what it seemed it should be, disgusting...
***
A short nap back at the hostel, and now to the fifth floor of the library, drinking a coffee, where I'm writing you now...
Stale Shirts & Moist Shoes
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- Written by: Rod Boyle
- Category: Blog
- Hits: 661
Thursday, shirts into dry-cleaners, maitre-d approaches and advises I need to use more deodorant.
It's not the deodorant, my shirts are a bit stale, I've no way of pressing them, never-mind, I buy a new shirt between shifts, double up on the deodorant, Necessary expenses if you want to make money and keep your job.
Evening, Chef pulls me aside, gives a couple of his shirts, new, still in the bag, a neutral IT blue, it's a kind gesture. Somehow I have the feeling that they're all seeing through me...
Now, Friday, another split/double shift, and I need shoes. These shoes I've been wearing, Jon Fluevogs', they've been damp/wet ever since leaving the Kootenays, wandering Hope, now downtown Vancouver, always wet, damp, never dry, and I fancy I can smell them, even a full six feet above them, have taken to filling them with kitty-litter in an attempt to dry them out, remove the smell, to no avail. So - before work, off to find another pair of shoes. My budget can't afford this, but I'll have no budget if I'm unemployed...
I sniff them. I can't smell them, not up close, but hold them a bit from my nose and it's there...
I find a pair, they fit perfectly, they'll do.
And - like any shoe that fits me perfectly within four hours into this 12 hour shift my feet are screaming. Not smelling - not anymore, but if they could talk you'd hear them.
I shut my mind up. Stand like a stork - one foot up, then the other.
FUCK FUCK FUCK
The shoes, I should note, they do fit perfectly, only I've never bought a pair of shoes that didn't require some breaking in. Some take longer than others.
The shift - Friday, lunch, work a small party of 20 people with another waitress. They spend $8000 - $9400 service in.
And a short break for an hour before back for dinner - another party, this my own, 9 people, they spend $6000, $2000 food, $3100 Wine & Cocktails, $920 Service.
This is insane. This is - note - not mine, not even a portion - there's expeditors, hostess, bartenders, sommeliers, a myriad of people with their fingers in this pie - but - there's no faulting the system, everyone is doing their job, better than me by a long shot, but as a waiter used only to tipping out a kitchen that kvetched about every order, where ringing out even $5000 in a day was a once-in-a-summer occurrence where I had quite literally to run 20 or 25 KM at marathon speeds without time to catch your breath, to doubling your ringout and doing nothing, merely topping up wine ...
It's crazy, and contributes a lot towards the surreal air that fills my days.
Tonight, the hostel has once again filled with tourists, largely Mexicans, it seems, returning at 1:00 AM to discover every bunk full, people rolling over while I discreetly change, charge my phone, have a drink before crashing...apparently - fingers crossed - they'll all be gone by Monday, we'll see. It's no great pleasure, this hostel, when it's empty, when full it's positively unlivable, what makes it bearable at the moment is that I'm so seldom here. This week, time to start looking for a place to live, permanent like...
And I can't shake the feeling that I'm living through a bad dream...
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- Written by: Rod Boyle
- Category: Blog
- Hits: 936
This is it. The days, cool, rainy, the streets perpetually wet, the junkies, addicts, homeless, the rats, the hostel, a 5 day run of sobriety - and 8, 9 hour shifts with no cigarettes (and I've adapted to this surprisingly well, which goes to show how much of it is in your head).
Last night, sitting at the fountains in front of the CBC, a quartet of burly raccoons pass me by, wading through the water, nonplussed at my presence, so many of the people here are out of it, shooting up, preoccupied, they have no fear of people.
But - there is that feeling that this is all a bad dream. I'm unsettled - how can it be otherwise? The Hostel, itself temporary, the job - a great job that somehow I'm just not fitting in to, finances, as precarious as any junkie on the teetering brink before his big fall, EI - overdue and under review, books, reading - not enough, studying menu, wines, practicing writing out dockets, ...
I'm in a different world, completely, this city - I remember it from my childhood, pass places that cue dim childhood memories, Deja-Vu, but the wet and the rain and ...
Peculiar. I'm in a form of purgatory, a suspension between two worlds, and - this waiting that it might pass, that I might settle in and find time to evolve, it's breaking me.
Days off - explore, thrifting, every thrift shop here filled with abundant treasures that I can't afford to carry with me at the moment, can't afford period, merely upgrading my wardrobe, train to New Westminster, Seabus to North Vancouver, Bus to Kitsilano, I'm logging my steps, passing time, exploring places I've been once before a long, long time ago...
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