It annoys me when people say, of someone who is doing really stupid/hurtful/cruel/(self-)destructive things, “So-and-so is doing the best that they can.”

Look, this might be true. Sometimes it is true. You do what you can, and sometimes just not being more stupid or hurtful or cruel or destructive than you are being is all you can do. I know that. But sometimes, you aren’t doing the best you can. I know when I am doing stupid shit and it’s because it’s the most I can possibly do, and when I’m doing it because it’s easy and I’m lazy and I don’t give a shit about the long-term consequences. Sometimes the line is blurry. But there’s still a line.

I’ll concede that we don’t, generally, know which is which for other people. I’ll even concede that it’s probably better to err on the side of kindness, and assume people are doing as best they can, with some massive exceptions. But it’s not *true* that people are always doing the best they can. And this is leaving out crimes, many of which (barring stuff like drug possession) are clearly not “doing the best you can”.

I do not even begin to believe anyone who claims to at all times be doing the best they can. They’re lying to me, or to themselves, but they’re missing something really basic about people, and they think they’re fooling everyone. They’re not. But now you can’t blame people for the crappy stuff they pull, because they’re doing the best they can. How can you ever expect more from someone than what they’re doing? That’s so unfair.

We’re humans. And what we, as humans, do best, is rationalisation, and justification, and making up explanations for stuff. It sucks to know you’re not doing the best you can, but if you imagine that you are — alas! I could not be doing a thing more! — then there’s nowhere to change. You’re as close to perfect as you ever can be, you wonderful person you.

Yesterday was a beach day (today wasn’t, luckily; I’m getting a horrible heat rash and would have had to take today off anyhow). My grandparents also came down the day before, so were on the beach yesterday. (Going to Boston seems unlikely at best. I will probably head to NH again, that’s it.)

As 85 year olds go, my grandfather is in great shape. Last summer we had a waterfight in the pool, including tipping each other off floats. This summer, after falling back into the water (on purpose — it was somewhere a bit deeper than knee-deep) he absolutely could not get up by himself (though in fairness, he never tried to go deeper or roll over onto his front and get up), and I had to pull him back standing. Probably he should not go in the water himself (though since it’s warm and balmy, there are loads of people there, and I figure tomorrow we will try again and if he goes deeper I think he’ll find it easier). This makes me sad. When I was little, he’d carry me on his shoulders and wade out to shoulder deep. (My other grandfather is in hospital, with a heart attack, and now some sort of blood infection; this makes me less sad, except the worry that we’ll have to cut the vacation short. Yes, I do rather prefer one side of my family.)

Of course, once we got out of the water he insisted on slandering me. “[Wolfa] kept refusing to help me up, and said to go deeper instead.” Then, later, he accused me of breaking, or spraining, or something his shoulder. In front of company! I told him this is why my grandmother is number 1, and he’s only number 2.

What with the strong Canadian dollar, I hear more French here than English, by a long shot. It’s just like being home, only on the ocean and with crappy stolen wireless.

The water today was 66. If only the waves hadn’t been atrocious. I’m hoping for at least that warm (balmy! unbelievable!) tomorrow. Veer west, gulf stream, veer west. Or just stay where you are — 66 means the water is perfect.

I am reading a lot, too, though nothing I have been particularly enamoured of.

Though I think lolcats are absurd:

Your Score: Sad Cookie Cat

55% Affectionate, 48% Excitable, 66% Hungry

You are the classic Shakespearian tragedy of the lolcat universe. The sad story of a baking a cookie, succumbing to gluttony, and in turn consuming the very cookie that was to be offered. Bad grammar ensues.

To see all possible results, checka dis.

So, I had plans to go to the Harry Potter party. And then I read, the store manager is dressing up as Voldemort, and they will be doing reenactments of battle scenes (no idea which ones), and I admit, I’m a little scared. Even more so when they say the party will start at 8, and they expect line-ups as early as 6. Look, I want to see it, but not 6 hours of it. And I don’t want to wait in line 7 hours, either. I’m debating what time I’d like to show up there at, though this depends in no small part on who will come with me — I am not interested in spending all that much time on my own there. My aunt seems less and less interested, so now I need to lean on my grandmother to come with me, to aim to get there a bit before 11. (Yes! I am going out late Friday night with my 85 year old grandmother to the sale of a children’s book! My life is so many levels of exciting.)

Like every Canadian, I gloated a bit when Conrad Black was found guilty, even not all on the charges. (I’m also amused that they’re considering revoking the Order of Canada. And that he actually is probably not allowed into Canada at all anymore, what with being a convicted felon.) This rather ruins his social superiority schtick, I should think.

Now, I’m not a fan of his wife, Barbara Amiel — I quite clearly remember the last editorial she had in our paper, where she explained that women rather liked being hit, so why all the fuss about spousal abuse? But still, I don’t think she coerced some poor, innocent, foolish man into using company funds for personal expenses, unlike Christopher Hitchens.

By all accounts, the great real-life tycoon was the merest putty in this dragon lady’s hands; a factor that—for me, at any rate—paradoxically weighs in his favor. He would have been happy enough writing his history books (the one on FDR is by all reports pretty good) and convincing himself that he was advising and influencing those in power. But always the incessant demands, always the cry for newer and better baubles. Who cares about the shareholders when there is a lovely woman’s whim to be gratified? Bourgeois values be damned!

Uh huh. Sure. He ran scads of newspapers with an iron fist, owned large companies, but just couldn’t resist his wife. Poor him! How terrible, to have been forced to break the law! What a horrible woman she is, to an innocent husband like him.

In just a few days I am leaving for Maine. I have been thinking that I ought to start packing. Or maybe just make a list of what I need to pack. Or something. I mean, I can’t pack at the last minute this time, I’ll be *reading*. But I had PMS and bad mood and sloth, lots of sloth. By had, of course, I mean still have. It’s not desperate yet, no need to pack for a while longer, right?

I am indeed that lazy. It takes less than an hour to pack. Then again, why rush it? I keep thinking, look, just start packing the *books*, you have other books you’re not planning on bringing.

Anyways, New Englandy people, I will be in Southern Maine from the 21st to the 4th. Anyone around? I will be mobile, and might even get down to Boston.

My mother does not read the Harry Potter books. She does watch the movies, so she’s now up to Order of the Phoenix (Imelda Staunton as Dolores Umbridge was phenomenal, incidentally, and entirely worth the movie, though other than the ending — from the time Harry et al get to the Ministry — I thought it was rather well-done). She did not know the ending of Half-Blood Prince, though I’d've thought she guessed who died, but not who killed him. Did not, because on the front page of today’s newspaper there was a huge article asking if Dumbledore is really dead, and if Snape is really bad, and if Harry is actually a Horcrux. Then there was another enormous article on the front page of the opinion section, asking a bunch of people what they thought would happen, which recapped in greater detail the story of HBP, and now she is irritated. You cannot forget these things.

This explains why I will go offline at midnight London time until such time as I have finished the book, just in case. Well, this and the “I am leaving at 5 am Saturday, and need to read the book from midnight to 5, so I will need to be packing Friday night anyhow” issue. But mostly it’s the fear off assholes who intend to spoil the book for everyone else.

How fun, I thought, when I picked up the book, and first started reading it. A “what would happen if we decided to have our own, Canadian monarch?” story, set not too long from now. (Either the dates were made unclear or I didn’t notice them.) And the first part of the book is very funny, though probably only if you’re Canadian. Some guy is chosen to be the new king (by winning a lottery). But oh no! He is from Toronto! Everyone hates Toronto, and poor Toronto doesn’t know how wonderful it is.

This turns into the entire rest of the book. Canada becomes three places: Toronto, Alberta, Quebec (which separates, and then magically all the Canadian citizens living there lose their Canadian citizenship). Toronto is good and wonderful and so sadly, sadly taken advantage of by the rest of Canada. Alberta is full of right-wingers and/or rednecks. Quebec is full of jerks. King John is so wonderful and clever and he loves Canada and Toronto! Toronto Toronto Toronto! Did I mention it’s the only important place in all of Canada? Sorry, BC, Atlantic provinces, maybe another book.

Nothing is subtle here. We know John is loved because we’re told how much he is loved. He makes the CFL popular! I mean, it already is, but he makes it popular in *Toronto*. And he shows those silly Aboriginals how silly their complaints are, and the silly feminists how silly their women’s awards are, and so on.

The book is supposedly written by John’s adviser, Blue, in John’s old cabin in Northern Ontario in the winter as he is about to freeze or starve to death, whichever. So chapters about the monarchy are alternated with chapters about freezing to death while writing a book, and the book ends with John and Blue both dying, in a weird, petered out ending, as if the author can’t think of more political pet peeves that John can miraculously fix so he kills everyone off. Sadly, it wasn’t done just a few hundred pages earlier.

I watched Ratatouille the other night and I just don’t get the universal acclaim being heaped on it. I mean, it’s not a bad movie. It’s a cute, fun movie. It has incredible, incredible animation — seriously beautiful from beginning to end. But that’s it. The story is meh, the accents made me want to tear my ears out, and it’s ultimately forgettable, nothing like their much better movies (Toy Story, Finding Nemo). Their next movie is again about a boy (robot, this time), and this marks the end of my giving them money for their movies.

The short at the beginning of the movie is great, though. (Looking it up, they’ve apparently decided that the entirely sexless aliens are both male. Sigh.)