Welcome to 10:22 Saturday evening.
Do you listen to podcasts? Because of my part time job at Frank writing about unsolved murders and missing persons cases, plus the podcasts I record from time to time with Jordan Bonaparte, I thought I would take some time and listen to some true crime podcasts.
Most of them are a snore. Many of them just prattle on the case they are discussing, and engage in near-dangerous levels of speculation about what might have happened and who the murderer was. It is the very kind of irresponsible discussion that I avoid in my articles and which I do not want to discuss in the podcasts I record with Jordan.
I have found a few that I like. As I listen more I will produce a blog post and tell you more about them.
Patricia bought some shoes today. Not to be outdone, so did I. The shoes I have been wearing are wearing out, so I decided to invest in some new footwear.
We had an early dinner this afternoon at the sushi place in Clayton Park. It is a side street just off Farnham Gate Road. It has become our go-to place for sushi. It is called Tako Sushi and Ramen, and it is at 480 Parkland Drive. Here is the website.
The portions are huge. A dinner for two would easily feed three. The food is crisp and fresh. The menu is so extensive that it would take us years to try everything on it. The service is very good. And I cannot complain about the prices. If you live in the HRM and like sushi, then get your rear end over there.
Tomorrow is more of the same as today. Aren't you excited to hang out with me?
See you tomorrow.
Bevboy
Saturday, September 28, 2019
Friday, September 27, 2019
Post 3906 - Welcome to the Weekend.
Sorry I haven't written in the last few days.
Tuesday night, I pretty much slept the night away.
Wednesday night I was working on my latest Frank article. It appears in the issue of Frank that hits stores this coming Wednesday.
Last night, I was in bed early, too.
And now we are mostly caught up.
After work this evening we drove over to Dartmouth. Second time this week. The first time was for the farewell lunch for a colleague who's moving over to a new job on Monday. Tonight we went to Gateway Meat Market. They had a sale on cheese and steak and chicken. Mainstays in Casa Bevboy.
The weekend beckons. Patricia has several plans for me to do stuff around the house. There has been work we have both been neglecting. I have done little in the recroom in the last few weeks, for example, and I have had a few "subtle" hints from Patricia to resume this task.
The problem is that when the packers were here, packing away, they made some mistakes. The most egregious was how they separated the power cords for items, from the items. I have a perfectly-good working sound bar that I got for $100 a few years ago. When I got all my stuff back in early July, and I commenced the thankless job of unpacking everything, one of the earliest boxes was the one containing the power bar. But much to my surprise, and dismay, the power cord was missing.
In all the time since I have not found the cord. Not just any power cord will do. I have opened five or six boxes which contain cables and wires and so on. I have to go through every piece of everything in all those boxes, potentially, to find the appropriate power cord for that sound bar.
There were other issues. I have already told you about the couch that used to be in one piece, then two, and now three. No effort has been made to reimburse us for this. Just lowball offers that we have rejected.
I could go on, but I do not want to ruin my weekend.
I am going to turn in. I have a lot going on tomorrow. I will tell you about it then.
Bevboy
Tuesday night, I pretty much slept the night away.
Wednesday night I was working on my latest Frank article. It appears in the issue of Frank that hits stores this coming Wednesday.
Last night, I was in bed early, too.
And now we are mostly caught up.
After work this evening we drove over to Dartmouth. Second time this week. The first time was for the farewell lunch for a colleague who's moving over to a new job on Monday. Tonight we went to Gateway Meat Market. They had a sale on cheese and steak and chicken. Mainstays in Casa Bevboy.
The weekend beckons. Patricia has several plans for me to do stuff around the house. There has been work we have both been neglecting. I have done little in the recroom in the last few weeks, for example, and I have had a few "subtle" hints from Patricia to resume this task.
The problem is that when the packers were here, packing away, they made some mistakes. The most egregious was how they separated the power cords for items, from the items. I have a perfectly-good working sound bar that I got for $100 a few years ago. When I got all my stuff back in early July, and I commenced the thankless job of unpacking everything, one of the earliest boxes was the one containing the power bar. But much to my surprise, and dismay, the power cord was missing.
In all the time since I have not found the cord. Not just any power cord will do. I have opened five or six boxes which contain cables and wires and so on. I have to go through every piece of everything in all those boxes, potentially, to find the appropriate power cord for that sound bar.
There were other issues. I have already told you about the couch that used to be in one piece, then two, and now three. No effort has been made to reimburse us for this. Just lowball offers that we have rejected.
I could go on, but I do not want to ruin my weekend.
I am going to turn in. I have a lot going on tomorrow. I will tell you about it then.
Bevboy
Monday, September 23, 2019
Post 3905 - Hoboes. Who are they? Do you know any? Bevboy wants to know!
Yeah. Let's write about them. Again.
I mentioned here, years ago, and in my old Frank Magazine so-called "entertainment" column, about how some mighty unusual people showed up at my uncle's place over the years. They told us about the time a man showed up late at night and asked to stay the night. They took him in for some reason. They left money out thinking he might steal it, but he didn't. As I recall (this was more than 40 years ago), he left the next morning and never returned.
That led to additional visits from other strangers over the years. I'd go visit and a "friend" of my cousin's would be there, to visit. I am sure there were other folks who dropped by, too.
I am pretty sure these folks were hoboes. The kind of folks who ride the rails and meander from town to town in search of temporary work and shelter to sustain their meager lifestyle.
There is a hobo code. There are hobo signs warning fellow travelers to beware of this, or that there is a kindly woman living here who will feed you. Here: Read about it.
You have to realize that Bob and Helen, both long dead, lived in rural Nova Scotia. They lived in a big old farm house in Billtown, outside of Kentville, in the middle of farm country. How in the name of Sam Hill some hobo dude even thought to walk down their road late at night let alone knock on their door and have the temerity to ask for a place to crash for the evening is beyond me. Perhaps there were some hobo signs somewhere that the average person would never notice. I don't know.
I also don't know why this story fascinates me so much. I have written about it at least twice. I left a message on the CBC Weekend Mornings call-in, and people dutifully called in with their own hobo stories.
I suppose if you pinned me down, I could tell you that maybe I'm just fascinated by sub cultures. The kind of people that you don't notice, but they're there all the time if you take a moment and look. The kind of people who are in the corner of your eye, just out of your field of vision, doing what they want, when they want, how they want. I have to respect that on some level. I have to acknowledge, even admire, their ability to get by on almost nothing, as if faith and a positive attitude were enough to get you through life, when I my experience has always been the exact opposite.
So, my lovely readers: Do you have any hobo stories to tell? People who just showed up somewhere mysteriously, did their thing, and left?
Either reply to this post. Message me privately. Leave a message by my Facebook that points to this blog post. Email me right here. Or leave a hobo sign that I will likely not notice.
Start writing. I look forward to hearing from you.
See you tomorrow.
Bevboy
I mentioned here, years ago, and in my old Frank Magazine so-called "entertainment" column, about how some mighty unusual people showed up at my uncle's place over the years. They told us about the time a man showed up late at night and asked to stay the night. They took him in for some reason. They left money out thinking he might steal it, but he didn't. As I recall (this was more than 40 years ago), he left the next morning and never returned.
That led to additional visits from other strangers over the years. I'd go visit and a "friend" of my cousin's would be there, to visit. I am sure there were other folks who dropped by, too.
I am pretty sure these folks were hoboes. The kind of folks who ride the rails and meander from town to town in search of temporary work and shelter to sustain their meager lifestyle.
There is a hobo code. There are hobo signs warning fellow travelers to beware of this, or that there is a kindly woman living here who will feed you. Here: Read about it.
You have to realize that Bob and Helen, both long dead, lived in rural Nova Scotia. They lived in a big old farm house in Billtown, outside of Kentville, in the middle of farm country. How in the name of Sam Hill some hobo dude even thought to walk down their road late at night let alone knock on their door and have the temerity to ask for a place to crash for the evening is beyond me. Perhaps there were some hobo signs somewhere that the average person would never notice. I don't know.
I also don't know why this story fascinates me so much. I have written about it at least twice. I left a message on the CBC Weekend Mornings call-in, and people dutifully called in with their own hobo stories.
I suppose if you pinned me down, I could tell you that maybe I'm just fascinated by sub cultures. The kind of people that you don't notice, but they're there all the time if you take a moment and look. The kind of people who are in the corner of your eye, just out of your field of vision, doing what they want, when they want, how they want. I have to respect that on some level. I have to acknowledge, even admire, their ability to get by on almost nothing, as if faith and a positive attitude were enough to get you through life, when I my experience has always been the exact opposite.
So, my lovely readers: Do you have any hobo stories to tell? People who just showed up somewhere mysteriously, did their thing, and left?
Either reply to this post. Message me privately. Leave a message by my Facebook that points to this blog post. Email me right here. Or leave a hobo sign that I will likely not notice.
Start writing. I look forward to hearing from you.
See you tomorrow.
Bevboy
Sunday, September 22, 2019
Post 3904 - I'm Back! (I Hope!)
Hello again.
My name is Bevboy. In 2007, I decided to start this here little old blog. For better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, I have been here, year in and year out, trying to produce a blog post, or more, every single day.
Why haven't I been more prolific lately?
It is hard to say. I have been in a little funk lately. I get up. Go to work. Be at work. Drive home. Vege in front of the tv. Research and write my articles for Frank. Wash. Rinse. Repeat. After all that, there was little time left to stretch my muscles and produce a blog post for y'all.
And, yet, other years I would persevere and write something anyway. So, what gives?
See two paragraphs above. The funk thing.
Things which didn't get to me before, are starting to do so. It is perhaps the idea that I am getting older and what do I want to do with the rest of my life, and what have I accomplished so far, if anything at all? These are all excellent questions, and my pursuit of answers has resulted in the funk I have now mentioned three times.
I am also quite sure that you are getting tired of me telling you what I did recently. A summary of my recent comings and goings is probably tiresome for you to read, although I can type it pretty quickly on my 30 year old Model M keyboard.
Perhaps if I picked and chose the things that I find most interesting? Let's try that.
A week ago, Patricia and I went to the Valley for the day. We learned that the Box of Delights Bookstore, a mainstay of downtown Wolfville for since 1972 or so, is closing up. The owner is retiring, and it does not appear as if anyone wants to take on the business. What this means for the Deep Roots Festival, which rents space downstairs from that store, is anybody's guess.
We went there one last time a week ago. I bought one last book there, a walking tour of the town of Wolfville, a slender tome priced at $15. Patricia got a few more things there. As we were about to leave, she pointed out the keyboard that the owner was using to run the point of sale computer. It was wooden! I had heard of wooden keyboards before, but had never seen one in real life. Since the store was closing, and I figured what the hey, I offered to purchase the keyboard from her, if she wanted to part with it after the store closed. She took my business card and wrote my phone # on it along with a note regarding my interest in the keyboard.
I did a bit more research. You can get bamboo keyboards for goodness' sake, but I do not understand what the typing experience is like on such things. I can enthusiastically report that the typing experience is sublime on this keyboard, which I got a couple of years ago at a thrift store for 50 cents. I wish I had several of them. Maybe this wooden keyboard, if I can get it cheap enough, will be a nice typing experience. Maybe it won't. Time will only tell. I promise to tell you how this plays out, because I know that all of your care so very deeply about such things.
Patricia is just back from another edition of BOW, Becoming an Outdoor Woman. She was too tired to tell me much about it this evening. She has already gone to bed. But she did come home with a pretty nifty knapsack, one nearly as big as a teenager, and which could likely fit a teenager.
I told you several months ago that I joined the CWC, the Crime Writers of Canada. They have the Arthur Ellis Awards every year, which award excellence in various types of crime writing. There was a call for judges. I wrote back seeking more information, which I am awaiting. There is a chance that I will be a judge, one of many, for the next Arthur Ellis Awards. That sounds pretty interesting. But, once again, I do not know how this will pan out. I will tell you how it does, because, once again, I know you hang on my every word.
Oh, for those who don't know: Arthur Ellis was the official hangman of Canada between 1912 and 1935. His actual name was Arthur English, but he adopted that pseudonym. That is why the logo of the CWC looks like someone being hanged. The actual awards are constructed in such a way that if you pull the string on it, the legs and arms move. I hope to see one in person some day.
I think I will call it a night. It's a night. That joke never gets old.
Tonight felt good. It felt good to get back in the saddle again. I want to try this, again. Soon.
How about, Monday night?
See you then!
Bevboy
My name is Bevboy. In 2007, I decided to start this here little old blog. For better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, I have been here, year in and year out, trying to produce a blog post, or more, every single day.
Why haven't I been more prolific lately?
It is hard to say. I have been in a little funk lately. I get up. Go to work. Be at work. Drive home. Vege in front of the tv. Research and write my articles for Frank. Wash. Rinse. Repeat. After all that, there was little time left to stretch my muscles and produce a blog post for y'all.
And, yet, other years I would persevere and write something anyway. So, what gives?
See two paragraphs above. The funk thing.
Things which didn't get to me before, are starting to do so. It is perhaps the idea that I am getting older and what do I want to do with the rest of my life, and what have I accomplished so far, if anything at all? These are all excellent questions, and my pursuit of answers has resulted in the funk I have now mentioned three times.
I am also quite sure that you are getting tired of me telling you what I did recently. A summary of my recent comings and goings is probably tiresome for you to read, although I can type it pretty quickly on my 30 year old Model M keyboard.
Perhaps if I picked and chose the things that I find most interesting? Let's try that.
A week ago, Patricia and I went to the Valley for the day. We learned that the Box of Delights Bookstore, a mainstay of downtown Wolfville for since 1972 or so, is closing up. The owner is retiring, and it does not appear as if anyone wants to take on the business. What this means for the Deep Roots Festival, which rents space downstairs from that store, is anybody's guess.
We went there one last time a week ago. I bought one last book there, a walking tour of the town of Wolfville, a slender tome priced at $15. Patricia got a few more things there. As we were about to leave, she pointed out the keyboard that the owner was using to run the point of sale computer. It was wooden! I had heard of wooden keyboards before, but had never seen one in real life. Since the store was closing, and I figured what the hey, I offered to purchase the keyboard from her, if she wanted to part with it after the store closed. She took my business card and wrote my phone # on it along with a note regarding my interest in the keyboard.
I did a bit more research. You can get bamboo keyboards for goodness' sake, but I do not understand what the typing experience is like on such things. I can enthusiastically report that the typing experience is sublime on this keyboard, which I got a couple of years ago at a thrift store for 50 cents. I wish I had several of them. Maybe this wooden keyboard, if I can get it cheap enough, will be a nice typing experience. Maybe it won't. Time will only tell. I promise to tell you how this plays out, because I know that all of your care so very deeply about such things.
Patricia is just back from another edition of BOW, Becoming an Outdoor Woman. She was too tired to tell me much about it this evening. She has already gone to bed. But she did come home with a pretty nifty knapsack, one nearly as big as a teenager, and which could likely fit a teenager.
I told you several months ago that I joined the CWC, the Crime Writers of Canada. They have the Arthur Ellis Awards every year, which award excellence in various types of crime writing. There was a call for judges. I wrote back seeking more information, which I am awaiting. There is a chance that I will be a judge, one of many, for the next Arthur Ellis Awards. That sounds pretty interesting. But, once again, I do not know how this will pan out. I will tell you how it does, because, once again, I know you hang on my every word.
Oh, for those who don't know: Arthur Ellis was the official hangman of Canada between 1912 and 1935. His actual name was Arthur English, but he adopted that pseudonym. That is why the logo of the CWC looks like someone being hanged. The actual awards are constructed in such a way that if you pull the string on it, the legs and arms move. I hope to see one in person some day.
I think I will call it a night. It's a night. That joke never gets old.
Tonight felt good. It felt good to get back in the saddle again. I want to try this, again. Soon.
How about, Monday night?
See you then!
Bevboy
Tuesday, September 10, 2019
Post 3903 - Soon
I miss you all. I will be back at this soon. I promise. Dealing with a lot of stuff. Getting to me. But I will persevere because that is what Bevboy's do.
I really should figure out what the plural of "Bevboy" is, and how it should be spelled....
Bevboy
I really should figure out what the plural of "Bevboy" is, and how it should be spelled....
Bevboy
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