And to all a good night.

At least 23 cm of snow out there. Line up of cars all the way down the street have the same classic "cock and balls" symbol scratched into the snow that encases them, like perverse snow angels.

It's snowing like a bastard out there. Snow deadens much of the city's natural rythm and noise, but other sounds are oddly highlighted. Buses struggling by outside, their diesel engines emitting a high pitched wail that sounds like strange whale-song. The crunch and tinkle of low speed car collisions.

Charles Brown's "Merry Christmas Baby" is the musical selection of the day.

I Turned My Face Away And Dreamed About You

Kirsty MacColl died eight years ago this week. I keep thinking about Christmas songs that don't make me want to go on a killing spree and I figured if you're going to do something as bloggy as a list of Christmas songs, why not start with the best?

A song concerning booze, hate, loss and love that triumphs and transcends death. Ms. MacColl's voice is the song's beating heart. The greatest Christmas song ever written, The Pogues "A Fairytale of New York".

A little defeated today, a little crushed. Getting by doing even more with drastically less is the forecast for at least the next four months at least. This week’s crowning glory was persons planning a return trip to Canada doomed to inevitable deportation just to try and avoid a cholera outbreak for a month. No way of shining up that turd of a case, but you’ve got to admire their moxie.

I am burned out trying to contribute to hopeless cases this week and I’m back on the imaginary cigarettes while I still have this cough.

There is, however, an odd feeling of togetherness that I’m enjoying with the work folks. Picture angry optimists lying half strangled in a mud puddle shouting at cowardly retreating backs “come back here and say that again, bastard. You just wait until I catch my breath and then we’ll see what’s what. You just wait. I’m just going to lie here a minute.”

Brain Fugue

I have been ill. The fever has receded at last but I have a cough that would make Dashiell Hammett proud. It strikes at the strangest times. I'm cruising along and it even feels like I'm breathing normally and then suddenly I'm in the midst of a coughing fit that actually frightens people on the bus away from me.

Not quite a cough at Dash Hammett's level mind you. TB or no TB he kept smoking 70 packs of cigarettes a day, drinking whiskey by the crate and injecting typewriter ink directly into his veins. Men were made of sterner stuff in those days. Hammett kept a spare Underwood on hand at all times to beat men to death if they tried to take his cigarettes or booze away. I make sad little whimpery noises, drink juice and watch all the little fever hallucinations float by. Bah.