Stephen Weir articles, editorials and popular social media weir postings

  What came first, the Chicken or the Dog? In the case of Canadian art expert Chris Finn and myself, it was the pigeon. It was 1970—way back in my second year at the University of Windsor. I picked up a gig to pose for a sculpture class for a whole semester. I needed the money. The class of about 12 undergraduate Fine Arts students had a choice: sculpt me or a live pigeon (I lied about the chicken). Everyone picked me. Only Chris Finn picked the bird. Probably a wise choice. The next year, my wife and I moved to Toronto. I got my degree in Journalism and didn’t see Chris again until I got some part-time work at the McMichael Canadian Art Collection. It was 1999, and I kept the gig for 16 years. Small world—Chris was the resident expert there on Canadian Art. I promoted a number of shows he was involved in. No end of fun, no end of pigeon jokes. I moved on and took on some work with the Brampton Art Gallery after that. Chris eventually retired from the McMichael and moved back to his ho

  The last  Basilian   Father This Paragraph a False Assumption?   An ancient priest in an over-starched cassock makes a special noise when he shuffles across Assumption Hall’s wooden floors.  I listen while I pick the basement door’s antique lock. Click. I am in.  Rotting hand-made wooden steps against the massive fieldstone wall.  Shaky. I make it safely onto the heavily pock-marked basement floor.  A string of Edison era light bulbs hangs above. Clothesline style. I am facing a moss-lined tunnel that slopes toward the Detroit River. An iron bar gate blocks the way. Sigh. Another lock to pick. I hear the priest. He is at the top of the stairs. Cough. Door slams. Lights off. First Version (too long) Stephen Weir  Weir031, 4 th  year Creative Writing An ancient priest in an over starched white cassock makes a special noise when he shuffles across the wooden floors of Assumption Hall. “Poke me hard if you hear him comin’,” I whispered to my look-out. “You are out-of-date my friend. Ther

The last  Basilian   Father This Paragraph a False Assumption?   Stephen Weir  Weir031, 4 th  year Creative Writing Assignment Assignment - write a paragraph based on my take on a Windsor University scene Submitted version The last  Basilian   Father This Paragraph A False Assumption?   An ancient priest in an over-starched cassock makes a special noise when he shuffles across Assumption Hall’s wooden floors.  I listen while I pick the basement door’s antique lock. Click. I am in.  Rotting hand-made wooden steps against the massive fieldstone wall.  Shaky. I make it safely onto the heavily pock-marked basement floor.  A string of Edison era light bulbs hangs above. Clothesline style. I am facing a moss-lined tunnel that slopes toward the Detroit River. An iron bar gate blocks the way. Sigh. Another lock to pick. I hear the priest. He is at the top of the stairs. Cough. Door slams. Lights off.   “I am so hungry,” he rasps. Draft version The last  Basilian   Father This Paragraph A False

  Justin and Me And Trump Make Three (or is it 11?) - THE REDUX By Stephen Weir The gentle tap tap quickly birthed a knock knock followed by a kick kick at the base of my front door. Someone wanted me wide awake, like yesterday. “Hey Dream Boy, rise and shine,” barked a loud voice from the other side of my solid oak front door. Was that a faint Quebecois accent lurking in that military staccato? “ Mange la merde”, I screamed back. I wasn’t going to give up on my disturbing dream without a fight. I know this voice; this man was going to make my morning its own waking nightmare. “ It is Justin, he knows.” My unrequested wake-up service shrieked right back at me. Yes, I was correct, this wasn’t going to end well. “What does His majesty know? And why does he suddenly want to speak to me after the last time?” I turned the volume down a notch, best to find out what the hell I had done before I ended up having to buy a new door. I am a Toronto based news hound who will do anything to get a F

  Doing a Number One on Mister Two and his Three Wishes ⓒ Stephen WEIR, weir31@ September 19,2022. Toronto/Windsor, Canada Dear Paul: My news is devastatingly bad, but I do get to gloat.  I know that I can’t out wish Lucifer, that Old-Scratch. It is a well-known fact that when one gets three wishes and  Wish Number One  is to demand three more, punishment comes at you Big Time. A Satan Slap Down. He is bound by God to make people like you and me pay for our avarice and sins.  Kidnapped. Beaten. Raped. Theft. God knows we have tortured more than a few angels in our time. Or maybe he will get all humourous and transfer me into the body of Helen Henny the chicken singer with  the Chuck E. Cheese Band. In between playing that maddening Happy Birthday ditty He will force-feed me day old pineapple pizza until I break down and wish back those extra wishes. It could take decades, but Mephistopheles doesn’t care, he revels in timeless torture. Wonder what he will do to you? You know I have alwa

. Handcuffs led to marriage and a strange encounter with Canada's grand master of photography: Thaddeus Holownia. Why it is worth checking out the Jane Corkin Gallery's launch of a new Thaddeus show this  Saturday in Toronto.  . Huffington Post Blog  by Stephen Weir  Hollownia Flickr photo by Christopher Mackay Back story: It was the fall of 1969. Somehow at the age of 16 I got accepted at the new Windsor University and I left my Renfrew home, pretty well for good.  It was me and a huge number of Americans  avoiding the draft and Vietnam who enrolled in an advanced style of Grade 13 - Windsor's Q-Year. IT was mandatory to live in residence if you made it into Q-year.  Most days were spent in the residence lounge since it was the one room on campus with a working stereo record player. I was listening to Jimi Hendrix for the very first time when a beautiful girl I'd never seen  on campus sat next to me waiting her turn to put on an LP. Before she could play