Canada lost today. But we also most definitely did not. Yes, the Americans took the Olympic series gold in overtime. But they have to go back to their benighted country, inflicted with madness, run by crooked racist liars and lunatics. Our guys get to come back here to relative sanity. That’s solid gold, in my books.

Another win — on a dreary Friday I went to the Art Gallery of Ontario with Annie, who’s a member. We had a delicious dinner at 20% off – member’s price – and then went up to see the new exhibit, “The Eyes of the Storm: Paul McCartney Photographs 1963-64.” We were expecting some blurry shots taken from cars and trains on their first visit to the States, as the Fabs were hustled from place to place.

But of course, no. This is Macca we’re talking about, a man who seemingly is good at every @#$# thing he decides to do. Apparently all four were given Pentax cameras for the trip, but he was the only one to really use his. The exhibit is extensive, full of terrific professional caliber photographs not only of his bandmates and a few selfies before their time, but shots of American cities, fans, other photographers, and most movingly, workmen and cops he saw along the way, in train stations and on streets. A really good eye and talent. No surprise there.

Fun to chat with other oldies but goodies there, enjoying this trip into youthful memory. I however was the only one wearing a pin with a picture of my Beatle. I also have a big pin someone gave me: “I Love Paul,” but thought that might be a little too on the nose.

It made me sad that although I wrote twice to the AGO man organizing this, with an email address provided by a co-worker who’s a good friend of us both, he did not write back. Several local writers with Beatle books have theirs on display and are speaking; I would have liked to speak or at least to have All My Loving on sale. No. Annie thought the merch was lousy and my book would have been a great addition. I do not know how to hustle. Essential to know how to hustle.

Ah well. At least I have a new great love, Heated Rivalry, which feels like Beatlemania, a bright spot at a dark time with a huge worldwide wave of popularity. The two leads love each other and are funny and charming and self-deprecating, Beatle-style. It fills a hole, I can tell you.

On another happy note, I got a big fat cheque from Public Lending Rights, to compensate me for books taken out from the library. Thank you, Canada Council! Grateful.

Like my bestie Chris, I’m watching The Pitt, about an American hospital’s emergency department, where a character with diabetes is ill because he can’t afford insulin. Too much lurid blood, I have to hide my eyes, but the characters, both patients and staff, are compelling. How they keep that set functional, with ten thousand bandaged extras, is miraculous.

I also still watch Bill Maher, although he usually enrages me and did this last Friday, with as a guest one of the Democrats’ brightest hopes, James Talarico, running in a primary in Texas, beside the Repug Lauren Boebert. LB blabbed on and on, as did Maher, leaving James almost no time to speak at all. But when he did, about what Christianity really means and how far evangelicals are from the mark, he was articulate, humane, extremely bright — also miraculous. May he triumph. Please, keep him safe.

I have a beautiful quote from Salman Rushdie on the wall in front of me. “Never forget that writing is as close as we get to keeping a hold on the thousand and one things — childhood, certainties, cities, doubts, dreams, instants, phrases, parents, loves — that go on slipping, like sand, through our fingers.”

The joy of diaries, and blogs — hanging onto that sand.