Irving's shipyard has moved to Nova Scotia

Pretty sure it was in New Brunswick when I worked there.

If the folks who make these decisions ever make the decision to push the throttles on the last twenty years of shipbuilding announcements, that Irving yard in Halifax is gonna be a jumpin' place.

And I think things may be stirring.

Been hearing through the grapevine that they're hiring on at the Halifax yard. Irving doesn't even think about hiring unless all the eye's are crossed and all the tees are dotted in the latest cost-plus taxpayer-funded bonanza for Irving and a couple thousand of his shipyard workers.

You'll probably read something about it in your Globe and Mail in a month or two.


In the meanwhile, I think I'll send JD my resume. Ya, I haven't actually done much of anything since the Saint John gig, and I'm half blind and way too shaky to hold a welding whip, but they've made some great medical advances in the last twenty years, and I know for a fact they've got serious health care benefits at Irving Shipyards.

Count me in, byes!

Change

I've always been a reader.

Got my start reading the funnies in the Guelph Daily Mercury in the late fifties.

Eventually got to the two Pauls, de Man and Feyerabend. I especially liked Feyerabend.

In the popular rendering of working class folks, we're a bunch of semi-literate yobs. There's an element of truth to that.

But there's always been a strong community of readers among us.

Like Johnny, who managed to get through most of the Globe and Mail crossword puzzle every day for thirty years. At work.

Or Andy, the pipefitter at Irving's shipyard in Saint John who happened to hold a degree in German Literature.

Or Dudley, who worked the pipe-bender at Kearney National during the week and partied with Johnny Wayne and Frank Shuster on the weekend.

I'm still reading. Mostly I read stuff on my laptop these days, but I still indulge the luxury of the printed page from time to time. Like when the internet goes down.

Which is why I happened to pick up a copy of The New Yorker this evening and read about the legacy of the Sackler family. That legacy includes hundreds of thousands of opiod OD deaths and hundreds of millions in philanthropic gifts.

The two are intimately related.

That's the second time in a month I've read a mainstream take-down of the Sacklers.

And the mainstream has been busier than I could ever have imagined dismantling the legacy of Weinstein and his myriad fellow travellers.

Who ever imagined such a thing?

What's next?

A New Yorker critique of US foreign policy?

A NYT disavowal of capitalism?

A WaPo editorial slamming the occupation of the West Bank?


We are on the cusp of great changes.

Hold on to your hat... and keep reading.

Shit happens

After a hearty feed of cabbage rolls and bean salad, I'm sitting on the front stoop here at Falling Downs, conversing with the Farm Manager, when I rip forth a fart that is remarkable both for its pungency and its decibel level.

The Farm Manager immediately segues into a monologue that is an epic rant about what a vulgar asshole I am. She even mentioned Mr. Trump in her rant, and while I understand that he has upped the ante in many avenues of vulgarity, I have yet to read any anti-Trump missives that mention Trumpian farts.

I am obviously alone on the beachhead of anti-establishment farts.

Does she not realise that I was once the victim of a rogue lower bowel? That during my stay at a fine waterfront hotel I mistook the signs of an impending bowel movement for a mere fart?

Please, have some consideration! Even some mercy, maybe!

Yes, I can fairly be accused of being a "vulgar asshole," although in my heart of hearts I remain convinced that I'm not really that bad...

So here's what really happened.

The Irving shipyard hired me at an interview here in Ontario. They flew me out to NB for a look-see. I must have missed the part about which hotel to stay in. I was apparently supposed to stay in one of the hotels that the Irvings owned, and they own more than they don't own out there.

So I end up at the waterfront Saint John Hilton. Months later I had a bit of a thing getting compensated for staying at the wrong hotel, but it all worked out in the end. Like I've said before, the Irvings were always more than fair with this working class schmuck.

But let's get back to the shitty nitty gritty...

Ya, I'm in the shower in my very smooth room at the waterfront Hilton in Saint John... I feel a major fart coming on...

You know how that ends.

But then the Farm Manager floors me with the rejoinder that every girl in the world has a worse story than that about their first period.

Have to admit taking an accidental shit in the shower has nothing on bleeding through your pants in your grade nine math class.