While you're busy using your annual haul of Girl Guide cookies to raise your blood sugar, the Girl Guides use the coin you tossed their way to ensure that kids, who might not have the opportunity to do so otherwise, can do cool things like go to summer camp, hang out in a safe place with other their own age and, pick up some sweet life skills along the way.
Pretty solid, if you ask me.
This, however is even more solid: according to Canadian news network CTV, an anonymous donor from Vancouver Island, has purchased over $17,000 worth of Girl Guide Cookies over the past two years and then, instead of dying in a biscuit-fuelled sugar orgy, asked that the cookies be donated to local charities.
Cassandra Jack, deputy district commissioner for the Nanaimo/Arbutus District says monies raised from the sales will go a long way to helping the guiding movement in the area.
"The money goes towards any of the activities that we do and we do everything from the outdoor camps, we have science programs come in and teach the girls different activities, all kinds of arts and crafts," Jack says.
From what CTV has to say, the girl guides who sold the cookies are the ones who get to decide which charities will wind up with the cookies.
The Man Who Would Be King. Dirty Rotten Scoundrels. The Muppets Christmas Carol. Zulu, Christopher Nolan's Batman Trilogy and The Cider House Rules. Not one of these films would be what they were without the calm panache that Michael Caine drags in front of the camera with him. Now, after decades of being one of Hollywood's most reliable casting bets, he's calling it quits.
The 88-year old, who's been pretending to be someone else for money for more than five decades, told the BBC in an podcast interview last week that his latest film could well be his last. Hearing this, some news outlets declared that Caine was retiring. However, according to Deadline, it's not so much that he's sick of acting. Rather, he's excited by the notion of writing.
Speaking of Best Sellers [his latest movie], Caine said, "Funnily enough, it has turned out to be what is my last part really. Because I haven't worked for two years, and I have a spine problem which affects my legs so I can't walk very well.
"And I also wrote a book, a couple of books, which were published and were successful," Caine continued, "so I'm now not an actor, I'm a writer. Which is lovely, because as an actor you have to get up at half past six in the morning and go to the studio. As a writer, you start writing without leaving the bed!"
Man, I wish that not leaving bed thing was true.
To reenforce the fact that he had no intention of retiring, Caine took to Twitter to say that "I haven't retired and not a lot of people know that." Welp, now we do.
The last couple of years have been hard on Canadian Snowbirds. Many of us, myself included, are used to heading south in the fall, to escape the icy bullshit of a Canadian winter. Unfortunately, thanks to COVID-19, a lot of us have been trapped, north of the wall, since March 2020.
I've been fine with this.
When the land border was closed down to everyone but essential travellers, my mindset was that if I was going to get sick, I'd just as soon do it in my own nation where healthcare is free (yeah, we pay our taxes, but still.) Then, last winter, the vaccines started to roll out. By early spring, both my wife and I had been injected with two doses of Pfizer's version of the brew. We breathed a sigh of relief and began to hope that we might, one day soon, be able to start our travels again. I'm sure that lots of other folks did too. Unfortunately, depending on where in Canada they live, it wasn't a sure bet that they'd wind up with two doses of the same vaccine. In the rush to get as many Canadians vaccinated against the plague as possible, many provinces started mixing and matching whichever vaccines that they had on hand.
So, you could wind up with Pfizer for your first jab and Moderna for your second. It's cool, they told us. Mixing vaccines affords tons of protection, we were assured. Why, we'd all be able to get back to our lives in no time… provided said life doesn't include travelling to one of many countries where vaccine mixing is considered to be a dangerous load of bullshit. You may have guessed by now, that America is one of those countries.
…at the same time the U.S. reopens the land border, it will start requiring that foreign land and air travellers entering the country be fully vaccinated.
The U.S. Centers for Disease Control (CDC) currently doesn't recognize mixed COVID-19 vaccines — such as one dose of AstraZeneca, and one dose of Pfizer or Moderna — and hasn't yet said if travellers with two different doses will be blocked from entry when the vaccine requirement kicks in.
So that sucks.
According to the CBC, the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention might soon consider changing their stance on mixed vaccines. I'd like to think that a crap load of data on the effectiveness of mixed vaccine dosing will play into such a decision. No matter how badly folks might want to head south for the winter, Americans deserve to be as safe as they can be.
In the meantime, I suspect that, just like last fall, many snowbirds will wind up on Vancouver Island, where I hang my hat, these days. It's warm enough here that living in an RV is both possible and comfortable.
But I'll tell ya, it's a far cry from kicking back in the trade winds on the cusp of Texas' southern border.
Between my work/writing schedule and my partner's returning to school, cooking dinner is no longer a daily occurrence. We're all about pan meals, roasts, Instant Pot oatmeal and sandwiches. As we haven't been able to drop down to Texas for the past two winters—nor will we now, as the culture has become, at least for us, untenable—I've been missing out on a lot of the foods that I love.
The foods I love from down south are, typically, can be cooked in large quantities and noshed on for days.
Take this recipe for pinto beans that the good folks at Texas Monthly whipped up. It's hearty enough to eat as a meal and tasty enough that it does well as a side to compliment other meals.
Memphis, Kansas City, and Boston have their sweet baked beans, but in Texas, we prefer pintos, and we prefer them savory and a little spicy. Pinto beans have become a pretty typical mainstay on barbecue joint menus, likely because the canned kind is cheap and easy to buy. And, even out of the can, they're pretty good, but it's hard to compare with a batch cooked from dry beans… These are barbecue beans, meaning they're made with barbecue (leftovers), barbecue sauce, and barbecue rub.
I mean, vegetarians aside (and I'm sure the recipe can be tweaked to accomodate them as well,) who could resist that?
I was once told by an English teacher that long books are strong books. It kind of smacked of bullshit, It tastes like a mouthful of it now.
Don't get me wrong: there's nothing wrong with a good, long read. I needed to pack a month's worth of provisions to climb to the top of Alan Moore's Jerusalem or just about any book written by James Ellroy. The payoff, for me, is almost always worth the amount of time I've sunk into a book. That said, when something I'm reading doesn't quite scratch the itch in my brain that I'm looking for, I tend to know it, early on. There's no shame in putting down a thick book that isn't doing it for you.
Much of what I enjoy reading is short and sweet: typically under 400 pages. Pulp crime novels, chief among them. So, when I saw that Crime Reads had put together a list of 25 classic crime novels that most folks can devour in an afternoon, I couldn't click the link to find out what they were recommending fast enough.
I already owned a number of the books on the list. The Postman Always Rings Twice, Playback, The Getaway and The Friends of Eddie Coyle have all been in my collection, for years. But man, there's a ton of great reads in here that I've either never heard of before or had completely forgotten about. I just finished Fuminori Nakamura's The Thief and will be moving on to Cotton Comes to Harlem, just as soon as I finish reading a couple of books for work.
Check it out: Maybe there's something on Crime Read's list that you'll enjoy as well.
Apparently, between my day job and writing a novel, I have managed to live in a cave, far from the realm of fandom and the geeky stuff that I love. Netflix is set to drop the second season of The Witcher on December 17th. As I generally steer clear of YouTube unless I'm looking for fun/interesting/terrifying stuff to post here, this trailer was news to me… so far as I can remember. I've been hit in the head a lot, over the years.
Hopefully, this time around, the storytelling will lean towards the linear. If I hadn't read the books before watching season one, I think I might have had a bit of trouble keeping track of what the hell was going on.
I've been using a reMarkable Tablet, for years now. It's great for taking notes at my day job. I waste no paper when I jot down meeting minutes, annotate stories and starting off new pieces of writing in long hand. I dig how easy it is to organize my notes on the tablet and that I can back them up to the cloud—including, recently, to Dropbox and Google Drive. The reMarkable's small development team has been making money, exclusively off of hardware sales. While I appreciate the frequency of their software updates and the functionalty of their E-Ink slab, it's always been in the back of my head that sooner or later, they might go bankrupt, taking their servers, along with my cloud data, with them.
So, today when I heard that the company was going to begin offering a tiered subscription system, I was kind of relieved. If enough folks are willing to pay for the extras that come with their subscriptions, reMarkable will finally have a steady revenue stream.
According to the reMarkable Website, here's the pricing we'll have to deal with:
If you already own a reMarkable tablet, you won't have to pay a damn thing: you'll be able to enjoy their top-tier Connect subscription, for free. Anyone that purchases a reMarkable tablet, from today forward, will have to sort out what level of service they want from the company.
I can say that, most of the time, I tend to use my reMarkable with no access to the Internet, and therefore, no access to most of the perks that come with their $7.99 subscription. Given the steep price of ownership for a reMarkable tablet, I can imagine that many people will be happy giving their free tier of service a go.
Paddy Maloney, who over a span of decades has entertained hundreds of thousands with his wit, warmth and talent, has passed away at 83 years of age. One of the founding members of The Chieftains, Paddy, along with his band mates not only returned traditional Irish music to popularity in the Republic of Ireland, he championed it, internationally, for decades, bringing tunes once played around kitchen tables, in county halls and at sessions to the world stage.
I first met Paddy in the fall of 1997.
I'd fallen in with Martin Fay, The Chieftains' second fiddle at the time, after meeting him at a bar in Halifax Nova Scotia. The band was in town recording a few bits and pieces for Fire in the Kitchen. Every evening that week, I'd finish off playing at a bar down in the Historic Properties. He'd wander out to Maxwell's Plumb for a bit of dinner. We'd polish off the rest of the pub's open hours.
Wash, rinse, repeat.
On the last day of their time in town, Martin, along with the rest of the band at the time, came in to the pub. Unrecognized, they stood around, chatting and nursing pints. I was quietly introduced to each member, in turn. They were to be taking off to a new music festival—Celtic Colours—on Cape Breton Island, the next day. Martin asked if I wanted to tag along to keep him company. I didn't have any gigs for the next five days. I most certainly didn't have the money. I said yes, nonetheless.
There were to be a number of sessions at the festival. Even if nothing was planned, trad players usually find a way to sit, drink and enjoy tunes together. So, I brought my bodhrán and bouzouki with me. I'd been in a bad head space and was on the cusp of making some life-altering decisions. I thought some time playing would do me well.
The Chieftains were opening the festival with a concert at the largest venue in Sydney, Nova Scotia. I met up for Martin for a bit of a pre-show nosh. We walked to the venue together. He had me added to their list as one of the musicians on their roster. I assumed it was to get me back stage for some free pints and company. Just before the band went on, Paddy walked into the green room and welcomed me, by name. He told me that Martin said I'd be joining them on stage, that evening. I wanted to say, the hell that I was. All I could manage was a nod and a pressed-lipped smile. 20 minutes later, a stressed-looking talent wrangler came looking for me, told me to grab my shit and follow her.
There'd been no soundcheck for me. No warning that this was happening. Mary Jane Lamond smiled recognition at me. Ashley MacIssac, who I'd played with in town a couple of times in Halifax, asked me if I knew Cotton Eyed Joe (no, not that one. This one.)
Two tunes later, I was a nobody local musician being welcomed on stage with two of the biggest names in Cape Breton music at the time, by the biggest name in Celtic music. It was absolutely fucking terrifying.
And over in under 20 minutes.
After the show, the band returned to the greenroom to jaw wag and have a few social beverages. Paddy came up to me and apologized for the trouble I was having with my microphone. We talked about our families and the band's plans for the next few months. We shook hands and said our goodbyes. I joined Martin outside for a smoke. We exchanged home addresses and phone numbers to stay in touch. Over the years, I drove or flew out to see Martin, when time allowed, when the band was playing in North America. Each time I wandered back stage for a drink with him, Paddy remembered me by name. I was invited to play. Sometimes I took him up on the offer. More often, I did not.
Martin died in 2012, leaving me absolutely gutted. He was a dear friend and father figure to me for over a decade. My association with Paddy should have ended there. It didn't.
Over the next decade, I interviewed him for a number of publications I was freelancing for. On the event of our first phone call, he said he was glad to hear my voice and that I was doing well. We talked about 'poor dear Martin'. And how he'd tried to have him return to the band for one last recording, just before he passed. He was still proud of his children, one of which was working for NASA at the time (perhaps he still is.)
For all of Paddy's fame and despite the hundreds of thousands of fans, acquaintances and reporters he must have interacted with throughout his career, it amazed me that he never forgot my name, or how dear Martin was to me.
The campground we wintered at here on Vancouver Island was flat. You want that, when you're dealing with larger RVs and fifth wheel trailers. What might seem a gentle grade to someone in a car or a 20-foot long motor home can tear the front or ass end right out of a larger rig, like ours. It's very easy to bottom out. We've lost a tailpipe to it, once already. I'm not keen on losing another, anytime soon.
However, flat sucks, at least for me, for exercising.
In my misspent youth, I was dragged, by my ankle, for close to a city block. No, I am not going to tell you why—honestly, it's not a great story. What you need to know here is that the ligaments in my right foot are now largely composed of scar tissue. Running and jogging, are not in the cards. I can't wear shoes anymore. Meandering, for me, has been a boot-only affair, for years. It's not so bad. It gives me an excuse to invest in a sturdy pair of kicks like the Red Wing Iron Rangers I wear as my daily drivers.
Anyway, flat is bad. One of the first things I was told after having a stent jammed into my heart in 2019 was that I need to exercise, daily. At the time, flat was fine. For the first few months that I was out of the hospital, it was all I could do to shuffle a few blocks before feeling the need to turn around. Much of this had to do with the fact that my brain is something of an asshole. Despite the fact that having an 80% blockage removed from my ticker had left me in better shape than I had been during my previous decade of self-destructive behavior, any exertion that left me winded or sweating and I'd spiral into a panic attack. My brain was insistent that I was dying; that my heart was giving out. I learned to live with this problem, in a couple of ways. With the help of my therapist, I trained myself to become more mindful of my body.
"Jesus fuck, am I having a heart attack? No. Feel your body. You're safe. That pain is coming from a pinched nerve in your shoulder. It's radiating to your chest. Your body is safe. You are fine."
On with the walk.
The other part of how I talk myself down, is by paying attention to the heart rate tracking on my smart watch. As my body goes through imaginary death throes, I get all up in my mindfulness and, to reinforce what I'm explaining to myself, I check on the metrics the wee computer on my wrist spits out. If my heart rate gets too high, according to my watch. I stop and allow my ticker to slow before pushing my chubby ass forward again.
Over time, I built up the mental and physical resilience to be able to walk for hours.
On the flats of the RV park we stayed at this past winter and, while tromping through the wooded paths that surround it, I would walk for around two hours a day, as fast as I could, in an effort to increase my cardiovascular health. Some days I came home sweating with kilometers under my belt. On others my brain would throw frequent fits, insisting that the end was near. In such instances, I'd return home, pop a Lorazepam to get my body back in line and promise myself that I'd try again tomorrow.
The location where we're currently parked is half way up a cliff, overlooking the water on Vancouver Island. The road to get to our site? Not flat. Since we moved here at the start of April, I've walked the equivalent of 24 floors up and 24 floors down to the country lane at the bottom of the hill. After a winter of flat, it's been kicking the shit out of me. I love it. I do not, however, love how often walking the hill has my brain telling me that there's a grave for me and its time to fill it. At least once each ascent, I do the work to calm myself out of a potential panic attack. I talk myself down and reinforce it with metrics from my watch.
On my first trip hoofing it up the hill, I used my tools and took the time to ensure that I was all right. I had to stop, twice. Each time, I gasped for air. on my second run up the hill, I turned my watch off. Instead of looking to it for reassurance, I gave all of my attention to my body, mindful of my physical pain and my breathing. I found that I could feel more and, more importantly, was better able to regulate myself in my uninterrupted mindfulness. Getting to the top of the hill, on my second go-around, I was less exhausted than I had been on my first ascent.
While I'm wary of confirmation bias, I think I may be on to something. For close to two years, I've relied on my smart watch as a crutch, to such an extent that it has kept me hobbled. In turning it off, I was able to pay more heed to what my body had going on.
Meeting a step count feels great. Being awarded a new badge for your fitness accomplishments? Great bit of dopamine, that. But neither match the wonder and frustration I felt today when I discovered that switching a supposedly helpful device off may well be healthier than leaving it on.
I've worked from where ever I've called home, for the past eleven years.
In my old career, I worked in close contact with the public during Ontario's SARS outbreak in the early 2000s. Later that same decade, I was charged with creating a business continuity plan for a large private security company as the threat of Swine Flu loomed large. When I first read about the viral outbreak in China in late 2019, dancing with paranoia and anxiety as I do, I calmly headed to Home Depot in search of N95 masks and a number of pharmacies, to buy up the supplies I'd need to keep myself an my extended family well-stocked with homemade hand sanitizer and cleansing wipes, for months to come. On the way home I thought to myself that, without knowing it, I'd been preparing for a long time to deal what might be to come. My wife and I then fucked off to Africa on a working vacation, for a month. As we backpacked across Morocco, I kept up on the case count in Asia.
We left Morocco a day before the kingdom closed its doors to air travel.
We were only home for a few days when Calgary, where we staying with family at the time, was ordered into lock down. I made hand sanitizer and wipes. We'd just done a Costco run. We were worried, but calm.
Most days, I spent time talking my sister-in-law down, after she watched our Prime Minister's daily COVID-19 briefing. I did my job. I prepared an isolation room for my wife when, while on her way home from a week's rotation at her job, she called to tell me that she had a number of symptoms that suggested that she might have contracted the virus. I brought food to her and monitored her condition over the next week. I prayed to Santa Muerte (we'll talk about that some other time) and brought my wife food and cold medication. She was tested. She was fine.
We lasted until the fall in Alberta before making for Vancouver Island to winter in the RV.
Setting up camp in relative isolation helped with the stress of living in a time of plague. We were fortunate enough to be surrounded by wooded walking trails. The ocean was a few minutes of driving away. We could do nothing, in so many beautiful places. We're still doing well, as the number of third-wave cases and an inept vaccine rollout fills hospitals and soon, morgues, across my county. We've laid in supplies again, hoping for the best, expecting the worse.
At any time during any of this, I could have fallen into a deep depression. The isolation or the fear of simply breathing the air could have paralyzed me, despite the drugs I take daily to help me hold my shit together. It didn't happen.
And then it did.
Two weeks ago, all of the shit I had managed to hold on to, for over a year, got lost.
I was surprised to find that it had nothing to do with sickness, worry over my family and few friends or how unbalanced I feel staying in the same places, for so long. I realized that I was fed the fuck up with technology. It's digging a hole and asking me to lay down and fill it.
My days are spent in front of laptop, desktop and tablet displays. On the evenings that I write for this site, my screen time runs hours longer. I left Facebook and Instagram in a white hot rage. My interactions on Twitter with friends I have not seen for years feel hollow. Cruising CounterSocial for content reminds me of what Twitter used to be, but I'm not able to engage and know no one on the network. The news angers and numbs me, in turns. I have a smartwatch that tracks the meaningless moments of my life and a smartphone which, of late, only tells me things I do not want to know. It's all I can do to sit down and write. I started this post and deleted it five times, before surrendering. My first successful draft was crafted in longhand.
I hope to find a way out of my digital despair. But, working in online service journalism for a living and currently having no other window on the world—due to the state of the world—I have no idea, yet, of what changes I can practically make.
I'm looking at it as an experiment in mental health. I'll let you know how its going as things proceed.
My hands-down, favorite drink of all time is a zombie. Unfortunately, precious few bars that I've run across in my travels stock all of the hooch required to make one. Fewer still are the bartenders who can recall how to make one—it's an old alcoholic's drink from a bygone era that, given the amount of alcohol it takes to make one, is most likely better left in my past. I think about them, often. Sadly, that's usually as far as it goes. I was told, a couple of years back that, with the number of heart medications that I take daily, I shouldn't be drinking. Most of the time, I accept my fate. But, very occasionally, when the weather's fit to scorch a hole in ass of my pants while I sit and write, I cheat on my cardiologist's orders with a single frozen margarita. Today, I ran a damn fine account of the origins the beverage, written by Texas Monthly's Patrcia Sharpe.
On May 7th, 2021, the Frozen Margarita will celebrate its 50th birthday, brought into the world by restaurateur and liquor savant, Mariano Martinez.
Martinez, now 76, takes up the story he has recounted with gusto for five decades. "I tossed and turned all that night," he says. "The next morning I went to 7-Eleven for coffee and a pack of gum." While there, he glanced at the store's Slurpee machine, and "it came to me in a flash, like a gift from God." If that thing could make a slushy soft drink, surely it could make a frozen margarita. When the Southland Corporation, the parent company of 7-Eleven at the time, declined to sell him one, he and a mechanically minded friend named Frank Adams bought a used SaniServ soft-serve ice cream machine and lugged it to the restaurant.
"We tinkered around with it," he remembers; they installed a stronger motor and compressor to swirl and chill the ingredients, and then Martinez experimented with different amounts of tequila, orange liqueur, and fresh lime juice. A few days later, on May 11, as they were setting the industrial-looking apparatus on the bar, he recalled a bit of advice from his friend Norman Brinker, the brains behind Chili's. The restaurant guru had cautioned that people wouldn't pay much for a drink made by a machine. He'd also warned him not to destroy the mood. So Martinez covered the shiny stainless-steel box with wood-grain contact paper. The icy green slush that would soon emerge from it was about to make cocktail history.
If you have the time, kick back with a frosty glass, mind the brain freeze and read the rest of Sharpe's story. It's fabulous.
In some areas of Mexico, drug violence is so intense and so frequent that small communities are forced to arm themselves lest they get caught up in a cartel's crossfire or directly targeted for getting in the way of business.
I hate that folks just trying to live their damn lives are forced to protect what's dear to them, with force. I'm saddened that these same people feel the need to train their children, albeit with fake wooden firearms and sticks, to be a defensive force—ready to watch over their loved ones at the cost of their innocence.
This is in Mexico. You'll find it in far too many other places, as well.
I never got around to watching the latest iteration of MST3K on Netflix, but I have fond memories of the original, insanely low-budget series and subsequent film.
In 2019, Netflix, as Netflix does to so many of the projects they air, kicked MST3k to the curb. Now, series creator Joel Hodgson is back with a new Kickstarter to kickstart another season of the cult classic.
If you're interested in helping to make it happen, you can check out the project, here.
This is the trailer for an upcoming horror movie called The Djinn.
Watching it reminded me of a story.
Just before COVID-19 really came into its own in the winter of 2020, I spent a month on a working vacation. It was the last bit of traveling my wife and I were able to manage before the lock downs began. We flew out of Merrakech Menara Airport, one day before flights in and out of the kingdom were suspended.
As part of our time there, we spent a week and a half living inside of the walled section, Fez Medina. Also known as Fes el Bali (old Fez), it was built somewhere between 789 and 808 AD. It was lived in and served as a market place and a refuge in times of war. The winding cobble and dirt pathways of the Medina wrap around one another like a Gordian knot, leaving newcomers hopelessly loss without the aid of a guide. These paths narrow, in many places, to an extent that it is impossible to tell whether or not the sun has set or risen, other than by the sound of the calls to prayer. It smells of smoke, urine, exceptional street food and should you venture near the tanneries, pigeon shit.
I adore it.
It did not take long for the missus and I to find our bearings in the city, thanks mostly to our Riad caretaker's insistence on escorting us around for the first few days of our stay. People were friendly, even in the areas where tourists seldom care to tread. Only once, late at night, were we threatened. A group of young men had blocked our path home and demanded money. An intense conversation had us back in the Riad in time for for a spot of mint tea before our host turned in for the night.
As we wandered the Medina and beyond, I noted that many of the manhole covers and other portals into Fez's underground had been weighted down by large rocks, bricks or other heavy materials. The first few times that I saw it, I assumed it was a measure to keep children from gaining access. As the number of blocked portals grew, I began to feel it might be for some other purpose. Returning to our Riad, shortly before the end of our time in the city, I asked our host why so many of the manhole covers and grates in the roads had been weighted down by rocks.
"Some people," he explained, "they are superstitious." The Jinn, they live below ground. The weights keep them from coming to the surface."
According to India Today, cyber security researcher Dave Walker managed to sort out that Mark Zuckerberg uses Signal—the encrypted messaging service you should likely be using, too—to yap online with whoever it is that uncanny valley-looking androids enjoy conversing with.
"In another turn of events, Mark Zuckerberg also respects his own privacy, by using a chat app that has end-to-end encryption and isn't owned by @facebook.
Walker goes on to post the phone number (albeit partially blanked out) associated with the Facebook CEO's Signal account. So awkward.
That the CEO of the largest social media platform in the world—a company that owns two supposedly secure private chat apps—turns to an encrypted messaging service created by developers from outside of his own company speaks volumes about whether or not any of us should trust Facebook with our private conversations.
If you listen closely, you can hear the whine of a misogynist complaining about the imaginary incompetence of credibly competent women. It takes a spectacular stool sample of a chauvinist, however, to blame a woman for being the cause of a workplace incident that occurred while she far from the scene.
According to Jalopnik, many such men have been doing just that. They've taken to social media to falsely accuse Egypt's first female ship captain for getting the cargo vessel Ever Given jammed up in the Suez Canal, late last month.
Elselehdar, 29, is Egypt's first-ever female ship captain, and when the Ever Given blocked the Suez Canal, she realized that people were placing her at the center of the fiasco. People were using social media to share a doctored screenshot of an Arab Times headline that claimed she was at the helm of the ship at the time it was stuck. It appeared that the headline had been altered from a March 22 profile of Elselehdar praising her successes.
There was just one problem with the He-Man Woman Haters Club's diabolical plan: at the time that the Ever Given was lodged in the canal, Elselehdar was employed as the First Mate on a different ship, hundreds of miles away.