Ko-ack-ack-ack

I know darn well that doom-scrolling at bedtime is a foolish thing.

However, last night, I encountered a little Tik/Tok-like thingie of a cheerful Swedish lady chattering animatedly about Midsommar traditions, including a weird song-and-dance about frogs. To my astonishment, I found myself singing along! In Swedish!

This isn't the Swedish lady in question; it's some sort of international school in Sweden, I think:

Små grodorna, små grodorna är lustiga att se.

Små grodorna, små grodorna är lustiga att se.

Ej öron, ej öron, ej svansar hava de.

Ej öron, ej öron, ej svansar hava de.

Kou ack ack ack, kou ack ack ack,

kou ack ack ack ack kaa.

Little frogs are funny to observe/ They don't have ears or tails/ Kou-ack-ack-ack 

(Apparently Swedish frogs sound like that.)

When I was eleven, I used to attend a sort of international friendship group, consisting entirely of white Canadians, because it was Victoria, after all.  This was one of several songs we learned.  I don't ever recall being told it was about frogs; I thought it was about ducks, of course.  I'm certain that I didn't know the song's association with Midsommar.  I suppose we must have done the dance; this was so long ago, yet I remembered the words perfectly -- albeit in fractured Swedish.

There are worse ways to fall asleep, on a wave of forgotten memories.  While looking up this song, I encountered another song of a distant time, and got inundated by another wave of memories.  I may talk about it tomorrow, on the longest day of the year.

How the cat shrunk

Art by Marlene Llanes, a surrealist artist based in Austin, Texas

Our cat is large.

His weight hovers around fourteen and fifteen pounds, and if a vet is meeting him for the first time at the local animal clinic, s/he will note the weight on his record, and expect to see a roly-poly feline, only to be confronted with a long and lithe leonine tabby, capable of knocking things from the counter with his hind paws on the floor.

We have always fed him carefully, but changes in routine over the past couple of years mean that the Resident Fan Boy has taken over the feeding regimen.  I had the dry food food bag set up nicely in a cupboard beyond the cat's long reach with an ancient metal measuring cup as a scoop - used because it is a) old, battered, but clean, and b) it fits into the bag. 

After a few months of feline-feeding, the RFB took the cat into the clinic for a routine pedicure.

The vet informed the RFB that the cat now weighed twelve pounds, not a bad weight for your average tabby, but rather too svelte for our puny puma.  The vet recommended, the RFB told me that afternoon, upping the dry food serving to a cup and a half from one third of a cup.

I gazed at him for a few incredulous seconds.

"Uh, one third of a cup?  The bag says "1 1/4 cups" for a cat of his size.  You've been feeding him one third of a cup per day?" 

The RFB shrugged sheepishly. "That's the measure that was there, and you said to cover the bottom of the bowl...."

"That was for kitty litter!!!!"

No wonder the cat has been eating the toilet roll.

(He's back to his normal weight now.)

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 "Lucy" 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, placed 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.