He's not a man, he's a reading machine...

In an era when books are routinely used to train artificial intelligence, usually without the author's permission,  it was a little unsettling to see this sign outside of my local bookshop this morning.

 

Girls will be boys

I was something like thirteen, when I first heard "Lola" by the Kinks.  The lyrics and content flew over my barely adolescent head.  

Well, that was a long time ago.  A lot has happened since then, including the coming-out of one of my relatives.

When Iphis announced he was a trans man about five years ago, our family circle adjusted accordingly.  Elder daughter, who switched Iphis' pronouns seamlessly, worried about younger daughter's reaction.

"She's so binary," she told me.

She needn't have worried.  One of younger daughter's music coaches switched from "Mr Lucas" to "Lola" years ago.  As long as younger daughter is acknowledged as a woman, her life on the spectrum, both neurological and and sexual, seems relatively in balance.

Having a relative in the rainbow has made me somewhat more aware of gender differences, and last week, I stumbled across a video labelled "I'm a Boy - 1966":

And yes, this song by the Who did first appear in 1966:

One girl was called Jean Marie

Another little girl was called Felicity

Another little girl was Sally Joy

The other was me, and I'm a boy.

My name is Bill, and I'm a head-case

They practise making up on my face

Yeah, I feel lucky if I get trousers to wear

Spend evenings taking hairpins from my hair

I'm a boy, I'm a boy

But my mother won't admit it.

I'm a boy, I'm a boy, 

But if I say I am, I get it.

Put your frock on, Jean Marie

Plait your hair, Felicity

Paint your nails, little Sally Joy

Put this wig on, little boy

I want to play cricket on the green

Ride my bike across the street

Cut myself and see my blood

I wanna come home all covered in mud

However, the clothes in this video are from two decades later, and, furthermore, closer viewing revealed that "Bill" is a biological girl.  In those far-off times, Bill would be called a "tom-boy", but now, this video seems way ahead of its time; Bill would definitely be considered a nascent trans man in 2025.

But what the heck is this?  It turns out to be a BBC programme from the mid-to-late 80s called The Golden Oldies Picture Show, the mission of which was to provide 80's-style music videos for songs predating the same.

Don't think I'll be forwarding this video to Iphis, though.

Braced

 These Sundays, I'm almost too scared to watch John Oliver...

(Warsan Shire was born in Nairobi in 1988 to Somali parents, grew up in London, and now, I think, lives in Los Angeles, so she must be having quite a nightmarish year.  I believe she wrote the full poem "What They Did Yesterday Afternoon" in 2015.)

Zoned out

In a timely follow-up to my post about AI, this showed up, courtesy of Janel Comeau, who is based in Halifax, and writes for satirical news site The Beaverton, among other things.

Google and Meta search both report that Cape Breton Island has its own time zone 12 minutes ahead of mainland Nova Scotia time because they are both drawing that information from a Beaverton article I wrote in 2024

[image or embed]

— Janel Comeau 🍁 (@verybadllama.bsky.social) 9 June 2025 at 17:50

A more detailed article about what happened, the fall-out, and some good advice on dealing with AI-generated answers - I think ignoring them would be a good start, but what would I know? -  from As It Happens on the CBC Radio web site is pretty good. 

I quit Twitter in favour of BlueSky several weeks ago, but seldom check in. It doesn't seem to have quite a big enough following - at least not yet - to not be a bit of an echo chamber. (But, I repeat, what would I know?)

As long as there are stars above you

Ah. 

This week. 

So, on top of plane crashes, bombings and missiles, starvation, the latest spate of nonsense from south of the border, there have been the deaths of Sly Stone (Sly and the Family Stone) and Brian Wilson (The Beach Boys).

We've been hearing a lot of "Everyday People", which is no hardship; I've always loved the song. It seems even more pertinent now than in the late sixties.

"Ooh-sha-sha, we gotta live together!" exhorted Sly, something the Creature in the White House doesn't get, and wouldn't believe, if he did.

Here's a splendid cover from Playing for Change, from about nine years ago, filmed just before the Creature got in the first time, judging from a couple of key Washington, DC locations.  And with the death of Wilson, there are hundreds of covers of "God Only Knows" flooding on to social media in tribute. 

My favourite Beach Boy song happens to be "Wouldn't It Be Nice?", but I fully understand. 

"God Only Knows" is the song Paul McCartney says he wishes he had written, and then there's its eternal niche at the closing of Love, Actually, and in the soundtrack of countless weddings.  That's a sort of double paradox:  Love, Actually isn't actually about love, and the lyrics of "God Only Knows" contain strangely unmatrimonial sentiments:  "I may not always love you . . . . If you should ever leave me . . . ."  

It is a helluva song, though, and currently, this is my favourite non-Beach-Boys version, recorded ten years ago in Toronto by Choir! Choir! Choir! (with a nice focus for the altos, for a change!).

Hooked on a feeling

I'm returning to my building on a lovely sunny morning.

There's a police car parked outside - always unnerving.  For the past while, it's been a sadly common occurrence. We've had a "battling Bickersons" couple on the fourth floor - we can't hear them, but their immediate neighbours can, and sometimes get alarmed enough (and ticked off enough) to call the police.  The lady of the couple has actually addressed Strata Council meetings to apologise.

To my surprise and consternation, the front door of our building is off the latch, and refuses to snap shut.  I check the mat and the hinge - nothing.

I report this to the Resident Fan Boy, a current Strata Council member.  He's watching television, and merely shrugs.  I head out again for another look, and this time, I notice a brown hook of some kind, place over the very top of the door, with an "unlocked" icon imprinted on it.  It's way out of my reach, but not that of the Resident Fan Boy.

Checking back with the RFB, I learn he's emailed other council members.  The husband (?) of the warring couple has been asked to leave, and had come back to collect his stuff, before being escorted off the premises.  Not sure at which point the police got involved, nor whose door-jam hook this is.  As you can see, it's readily available online.

I find it bloody creepy, and I see no reason for the hook to remain, so prevail upon the RFB to fetch it down.  He places it on the shelf in front of the mailboxes.  When I ask why, he says he doesn't want anyone knocking at our door.

"Who would know it was you?" I reply, in some exasperation.  "Besides, you could hand it in to the council president."

It's gone when I leave for Demeter's breakfast call shortly afterwards.  So is the police car.

Good night, Grace

I've known for some time that there is next to no documented evidence that the comedian Gracie Allen ever responded to her husband George Burns' instruction "Say good night, Gracie" with "Good night, Gracie."

It's one of those things that everyone thinks is a quote, but isn't -- like "Play it again, Sam" in Casablanca. 

Look it up. 

The person who put together the following video has pieced together about six instances of Gracie Allen simply responding "Good night".  Predictably, people are arguing in the comments. 

I probably looked up "Good night, Grac(i)e" back in the decade before Spotify became available in Canada, when I fell in love with a song by the Weepies, which makes me not care whether Grace Allen said, "Good night, Gracie" or not.   

Citywide rodeo, you set on the stage

Where all the clowns will go when they feel their age 

I know that you think you’re not good for anything 

The world makes you feel so small 

Get on your wooden horse 

This is a ride, not a fight 

No need to save face, say goodnight, Grace 

“Good night, Grace.” 

There’s dust on the stadium seats, there’s dust in your hair 

You wonder how fast you’ll go when you hit the air 

And oh, isn’t it strange how things can change you? 

Isn’t it plain that some things unname you 

So don’t ask anybody else. 

 

Citywide rodeo, step into your car 

Look up at the indigo and pick out your star.

The road to hell

New Yorker cartoon by Robert Leighton

For years, I've followed the writings of journalist Ian Brown. It's getting a little tougher now, since I deleted my Twitter account a few months ago, but Brown is worth searching out, for his deep-dive articles that take ages to read.

Last summer, he interviewed Geoffrey Hinton for the Globe and Mail, and I carried the article around in a cloth bag, intending to re-read it.

And being too scared to re-read it.

I suspect that, unless you have a G&M subscription, the above link to the article will lead to a paywall.  Here are some "highlights", in no particular order - you can click on the parts with smaller print to make it more legible: 

In the ensuing months, I've watched uneasily as aspects of AI encroach upon my daily life.  A small irritation is the rather useless summary that now appears at the top of my Google search results.  QI, the British panel show, tells me that if you add f***ing into your query - as in "f***ing Tony Award winners" - the AI summary will not appear.  I haven't quite had the nerve to try that yet. I can swear like a sailor, but I don't like writing it down as evidence against me.

Then there was the weekend before last, which involved a series of slip-ups and poor decisions, leaving me in a cold sweat, and all arising from my attempt to do the prudent thing.  The road to hell is paved with good intentions, y'understand.

This is a cautionary tale.  I'm reasonably bright; this could happen to you.

It all started with my checking Demeter's email.  Demeter has given up on devices in general, but I go into the Shaw Communications web site regularly to check on her church updates, and to retrieve messages from people who know her, but not me.

I hadn't checked for a few days, and there were two emails, duplicates, saying something about having to update the Shaw Web mailbox, because the current version was being shut down -  2 days ago.

Blue button saying "Update".  I pressed it, and then thought:  Wait a damn minute.  Check at the website first.

Couldn't find anything about this at the Shaw web site, so decided to "Google" it, to see if there were any news about a scam.  There was a query about the matter, which seemed to be in some sort of forum, which seemed to be connected to Shaw.

All of a sudden, a conversation form popped up, asking what my problem was.  It appeared to be from a male with a little blurb under his name stating how well he was rated for answering questions.  I laid out my problem, i.e. determining if the emails my mother received were genuine, even copying-and-pasting the text of the messages.  I noticed that a female picture had supplanted the photo of the guy I thought I was asking.

Then I noticed that she was restating everything I said.  When I was preparing to be a hospice volunteer years ago, they trained us in a technique called "active listening".  The idea was divorce yourself from responding to people in distress with your own experiences, and to check if you understood by restating what you thought you had heard.  We were cautioned to rephrase carefully, to avoid sounding like a parrot.

No such caution was being applied here.  She texted pretty much like a parrot - if parrots could text. I looked below the photo icon of the smiling lady, and saw:  "ChatBot".  Apparently, my query was being prepared for the male champion question-fielder, and he would respond, after I registered, for a refundable fee of $2.

I was getting impatient, but two dollars seemed a pittance, and I registered.

Then my phone harped a text notification.  It was Bank of Montreal:  BMO Security Alert: (name of the "answer supplying company") $66.00 (date) (last four digits of my card) Was this yours? Please reply Y or N.

Sixty-six dollars? They said two dollars, I thought to myself.  

I broke into a cold sweat.  

I'd given them my information.  

I called the number on the back of my card, in order to jump the hoops of yet more automation, so the artificial female BMO voice could give me my balance, and the dates and amounts of my previous few purchases.

Nothing unrecognisable.  No $66 deduction.

In agony, I pondered whether to stop my card, or report it lost, or something.

I decided to wait.  

During the next few days, my newsfeeds seemed to feature stories of other Canadians bilked of thousands of dollars, and their banks refusing to help, saying they'd voluntarily done business with the scammers.

It's been ten days.  Still recognising my purchases, and not seeing a terrifying leap in what I owe.

It's a Sword of Damocles, but I guess it's a learning experience.  But no more lessons from chatbots, please. Back in your cage.

Bed-making music

I was changing Demeter's bed linens the other day, and taking off the edge of the task by playing my "Liked Songs" from Spotify on "shuffle". I have over 2000 "liked" songs now, which means I don't always recognise the tunes that turn up.

So this one came on, and when I looked it up, I discovered it's a Bob Dylan composition that's almost 30 years old.  This cover is about eight years old.  I never was much for being on top of things.

 

Shadows are falling, and I've been here all day.  It's too hot to sleep; time is running away.

Feel like my soul has turned into steel; I've still got the scars that the sun didn't heal.

There's not even room enough to be anywhere.  It's not dark yet, but it's getting there.

Well, my sense of humanity has gone down the drain. Behind every beautiful thing, there's been some kind of pain.

She wrote me a letter, and she wrote it so kind. She put down in writing what was in her mind.

I just don't see why I should even care.  It's not dark yet, but it's getting there.

Well, I've been to London, and I've been to gay Paree.

I've followed the river, and I got to the sea.

I've been down on the bottom of a world full of lies.

I ain't looking for nothing in anyone's eyes.

Sometimes, my burden seems more than I can bear.

It's not dark yet, but it's getting there. 

I was born here, and I'll die here, against my will.

I know it looks like I'm moving, but I'm standing still.

Every nerve in my body is so vacant and numb,

I can't even remember what it was I came here to get away from.

Don't even hear a murmur of a prayer.

It's not dark yet, but it's getting there.

- Bob Dylan - 1997

Waiting in the wings

 While "dead-heading" the plants on Demeter's balcony yesterday morning, I couldn't bear to clip this blossom quite yet.  It looked for all the world like a falling angel, supported, however briefly, by four cherubs.

(Yes, there are four.)

If I take the wings of morning

Someone is catching up behind me; I can see his long early-morning shadow overtaking mine.

He's waving his arms above his head, presumably to catch the attention of a friend not quite within hailing distance.  He's done this before, always in this section of the block, and I've never caught sight of whomever he's greeting.

He makes my shadow look as if it has sprouted grey ghostly wings.

Corvid and COVID

This is not the crow.

I've just crossed the quiet street in the early morning, on my usual way to the coffee shop, when I feel a light tap to the back of my head, on the right side. Looking around in bewilderment, I spot a crow on my left, standing quietly on the sidewalk, beady eyes fixed on me.

Oh dear.

The last spring this kind of thing happened, two or three years ago, the crows were aggressive for a chunk of the summer.

Two or three years ago - it was three, actually - the Resident Fan Boy caught COVID.

From the Resident Fan Boy, Friday morning

I guess these things go in cycles.

Perhaps it is time to look

A couple of years ago, Spotify sent me a song that seemed to emanate the best things about a summer evening.  Spotify sends me rather more Scandinavian music than I really asked for, so I assumed this song was Swedish.  

About a year later, I noticed it wasn't Swedish.  (I'm so observant.) It's Estonian, and performed by a folksy band called Rüüt. 

It's fair to say that what I know about Estonia could probably be scribbled in the palm of my tiny hand.  It's south of Finland and north of -- Latvia? However, a couple of King Singers' concerts alerted me to the fact that Estonia is known for song.  They have a major Song and Dance Festival in the capital city of Talinn every five summers - this year, for example - and in the intervening years, they hold Youth Song and Dance Festivals, also huge.  

So here's the song, "Mina Ja Meri", sung by a lot of very young, very blond people in 2023.  I'm following it with a translation of one of the verses; the other verses are in much the same vein.  

Perhaps it is time to look at one another

Me and the sea, the sky and the earth

Tired from storms, but warmer than warm,

Me and the sea, the sky and the earth

Like flowers, we turn towards the light

Me and the sea, the sky and the earth

I give my heart's song into your care....

So, not so much about summer.  But it feels like summer.

Flushed with triumph

 

This amused me.

Camera-shy

 

Yesterday's urban wildlife encounter reminds me of an incident last fall, when I was on my way to set up breakfast for Demeter.

It's a short walk, and I caught the eye of a very young buck deer having a nosh in the plantations of a neighbouring apartment building.

"Don't worry," I told him.  "I'm not coming anywhere near you."

I'm pretty sure he didn't understand me, but he didn't challenge me, so I continued to the corner where I usually cross.  I got held up by what I call "funeral corteges", long lines of cars heading down Fairfield Road after being held up themselves by traffic signals further east.

While I waited, a young woman in grey sweats barrelled across the road from the other side, seemingly undeterred by the cars bearing down on her.  She was clutching her phone, and evidently intent on filming four or five deer that had now joined the buck, including a couple of young fawns.

I called to her, from where I stood:  "They have young with them; they might charge you!"  There have been reports of people being hurt by frightened urban deer over the years since they started appearing in Victoria, about twenty years ago; some dogs have had to be euthanised.

The woman, predictably, ignored me, gesturing uselessly as one deer came alarmingly close to her, although I don't think she understood the danger, then stretching out her arms to the sides, and pleading with them not to bolt -- as they were doing.

Did she really think they understood her words and gestures?  Did she believe she was in a Disney film?

A doe fled across the busy street, leaving her fawn behind, which eventually ventured after her.

None of them were run down -- including the clueless woman, still brandishing her phone, still calling after them to stay, to come back.

Breaking breakfast

In the midst of a stressful time, I skipped my usual route to the coffee shop, which takes me down a two-block arch of plane trees, and instead, took the narrow stairs to the basement level of our building, which, via a grim hall, takes me to the lower parking lot, where I strode into the full morning sunshine, crossed the street -- and stopped in my tracks.

Ahead of me (much farther ahead than it appears in this image), stood a young doe with the tiniest fawn I've ever seen.

I know enough about urban wildlife to never approach an animal with young, especially deer, which have been known to charge.  She may look like Faline, but those hoofs are sharp.

After taking my snaps, I took a generous half-circle path around the pair, keeping my distance and walking at a moderate pace.  The little fellow bolted into the bushes anyway, and Mum, after a lengthy wary stare, turned and followed her offspring.

It was only when I examined my shots on the phone while sipping my mocha that I realised I'd interrupted breakfast.

It's never what you think it's for

Not the most auspicious beginning of the month for me, I'm afraid.  I'll spare you the sordid details.

Life is.

It's never what you think it's for, and I can't seem to set it off,

And lately I've been insecure.

The chances of a lifetime might be hiding their tricks up my sleeve.

Used to be the greatest,

Now I see

Time is time, and time and time again

(And what would you say if you can't get out of here?)

Time is time, and time and time again,

To make your escape, you've captured the captor's fear.

'Cause I can feel my luck has turned it all around, 

And when you've fallen out, get both feet on the ground.

The curses you keep won't follow you now.

And so I try to be myself.

It's the same as always, I get tripped up.

And each and every time, it takes me away.

I'm often living on, just to be outside these walls again.

It's the age of what's to come, and, baby, you're on.

-Jessica Pratt