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Showing posts from June, 2013

Come Back to the Five and Dime, Paula Deen

The word is nigger.
Let's not call it "the N-word" or "a racial slur". We're adults here. Words have power, yes, but circumlocutions like "the N-word" give them more power than they deserve.  And so the word Paul Deen admits she has uttered on numerous occasions is nigger.

It's odd what an extra g does. It turns the Latin word niger, "black", into a word so toxic it can kill careers and irrevocably tarnish reputations...if a white person says it, that is. If a black person says it, of course, it means nothing. I find that very strange, don't you? Occasionally gay people will call each other fag, almost always as a way to reclaim the hurtful word. But other than that, I can't think of a single minority that freely throws around the pejoratives other people use for it. You don't hear Jews calling each other kike or Germans calling each other Kraut. 
An American academic named Cornel West said,

"There's a certain rh…

For Sale: Baby Shoes, Never Worn

The title of this blog post is the entirety of a 'six word novel' usually attributed, and almost certainly misattributed, to Ernest Hemingway. It's a masterpiece of flash fiction. There are many other attempts at the form, some successful, others less so. I find such exercises interesting as a creative challenge, but even the best of them is nowhere near as fulfilling to me as an actual novel or even a short story.

My desire for explanation, for substance, is a real and pressing handicap, it seems.

It started with Twitter. I will never understand Twitter. I have a Twitter account that I almost never use. I check in on the feed every now and again, mostly to keep track of an e-friend who has largely abandoned his blog for the Twitterverse. The 140 character hard limit on tweets means that his more complicated thoughts take four or five tweets to get out, and my Twitter client posts in chronological order forcing me to read "up" the screen, something I find much mo…

"I've Got Nothing To Hide"

Glad to hear it. Neither do I.
I mean, really. If the government wants to know what my Internet is for, so what?

I'll tell you so what.

I used to think just like you, you know. That "privacy" was overrated, that since I'm not a criminal, I'd have no problem if some nameless faceless entity started scrutinizing my online output. Oh, dig deep enough and they'll find some pretty embarrassing stuff--there are posts on Usenet that I'm not proud of--but there's nothing there that could land me in jail, or anything. Ditto my telephone calls. I don't associate with terrorists, after all.

Nah. I, like you, don't care about privacy. I don't have curtains on my windows. I gotta tell ya, all my neighbours do, and they keep 'em closed. I'm quite sure all those bastards are hiding something. Not me. I've got nothing to hide. That's why I post my pay stubs on Facebook and upload the whole of my sex life to YouTube. You do that too, right?…


Two weeks gone by in a blur. Lots of life packed into those two weeks, little of which I'm at liberty to write about, meaning a Breadbin gone cold once again. I feel like I owe my readers an apology...then I look around my little blogosphere. One friend, who used to post considerably more often than I ever did, confines most of his output to Twitter now, posting once a month to his blog, if that; another hasn't written a blog post in over a year and a half. I'm coming up on thirteen hundred posts in this here Breadbin and I'd very much like to keep it going...but it often feels these days as if there's little to write that hasn't been written already. Several times, even.


My French course proceeds apace. I got 96% on my midterm and 98% on the little 75-word essay. I'm not bragging: nearly all of this material I learned by grade eleven, and so marks like this are to be expected. Actually, the near-perfect marks bother me inordinately for not b…

Going Moldy....

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