Monday, March 14, 2016


Baller, this was us yesterday. Our French friend Pierre, an award winning photojournalist ("The awards are on their way," he says) took it with his fancy-pants camera.

We had a pretty lovely weekend out here in the woods. A cabin-warming party was thrown, and a fire was lit under the gigantic tripod built next to the house. Everyone contributed something sweet, and we all peered intently at the sky and tried to figure out if we could see faint northern lights or just moonlight (it was the moon). Small puppies were brought over and passed around until they fell asleep. Several people stayed the night, including a soft-voiced man from Hungary who would only remain in the cabin if we could assure him that we wouldn't steal his kidneys for resale ("Or any organs, really.") In the morning Kory, two journalists, myself and C-Dawg all trotted up the hill to visit a canyon where, I kid you not, we suddenly heard a chorus of yowling and yipping from the next valley over. I might have thought we had imagined it, but it was picked up by the sled dogs in the valley, who began to sing back. Creepy creepy. Things basically ended with bacon and eggs and a discussion about how the journalists, both being from 'established' (ie. rich) families in Montreal, were the black sheep due to their terrible life choices of not becoming lawyers, doctors etc. It feels as if middle-class North American  kids who grow up wealthy are so traumatized by the lack of happiness in their parent's lives that they strike out to do something that leaves them poor but content, and their kids are seized by a burning desire to be successful and attain all of the wealth that their parents never had. And so the cycle continues.

In other news, if that smug blond poster child wins the Iditarod again this year, I will scream and rip out my hair.


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