Just smashing

I spent about 15 minutes yesterday morning chatting with a Newfoundland reporter. He was working on a story and wondered if I could help out. Turns out I couldn’t, not really. He didn’t need to interview me, just wondering if I had spotted someone in town, which I hadn’t. It's harder than you might think. I estimate there could be anywhere from 1,000 to 1,500 Newfoundlanders living in Iqaluit. Also, hearing the accent when I’m around town is not a shock.

However, it was good to chat with a local reporter. I probably talk his ear off when he was just looking for some information. Apparently, while I’m not longer a journalist, I miss the journalist circle and like getting dirt. Hopefully I’ll find the time to get together with a few of them over Christmas. There were plans for some ex-Express folk to get together and commiserate over our beloved paper. I’ll have to see if that’s still happening.

Then again, there was also talk of a bunch of Newfoundland bloggers getting together between Christmas and New Year's. I hope that still happens, although my life is starting to get crazy over the holidays. I have a meeting with a financial advisor, a dentist appointment, Christmas shopping, trying to see a few friends, plus go around the bay and see some of my family...

I might need a few days off after New Year's to recover from all of this. Oh yeah, and I don’t know what we’re doing for that evening. In previous years, we’ve gone to Anne’s for her Big Scottish New Year's, which is a hell of a lot of fun. But I don’t know if that’s going on again this year. We might actually have to go downtown. Or, God help us, spend the evening with Dups and whatever madness he gets himself involved in.

One other thing...I knew that people in Transcontinental were reading my blog...I can tell where the traffic is coming form, sort of. So I knew it was Transcon, but it could have been The Telegram, Express, Beacon or a dozen other Newfoundland papers. And hey, it’s nice to be read.

But I’m learning, after speaking to the reporter yesterday, that my little dude to the right also has his fans. There is something about his head smashing glory that appeals to writers, and especially journalists. Find me a journalist who hasn’t wanted to do that at some point, especially at deadline, and I’ll show you a lying son of a bitch.

I wish I knew who created him so I could give the proper credit. I spotted him on a couple of sites and fell deeply in love with his bloody antics. I actually thought about pulling him from the site at one point, figuring that people might be tired of seeing him or that it might slow down the speed at which the blog loads.

But no, he has his fans. Devoted fans. I suspect some people might come here first thing in the morning just so they can see him beating himself to a pulp. Just to get the day going. He is loved by men and women, young and old. So I’ll keep him up, smashing away. The poor bastard, mascot for the Townie Bastard.


Curling update (feel free to skip if you’re bored of me talking about it)

Apparently I’ve remembered how to curl, which is reassuring. We won 12-5 Wednesday night, although Cathy couldn’t play the game because she hurt her leg last weekend (slipped on some ice while walking Boo). It was actually a pretty tight game, 4-4 going into the fifth end, but I got a lucky break. We were lying five, but the opposing skip had a pretty open draw to take one.

It was coming in perfect, when it picked on some debris and slid into a guard. So I ended up stealing five. Fluky. After that, there was little chance she was going to recover. We played a couple of more ends, but when I had an open draw for four in the seventh with last rock, she conceded.

I’m just happy I played well. I missed a few shots, including letting them steal two in the first end when a take-out went wide. But I made most of them. And the ice is apparently getting straightened out, which also helps. We’re 2-1 now, which isn’t bad. At least I'm not longer going around the apartment muttering "Fuck, I suck." I think Cathy was getting a touch tired of it.