Thursday, February 17, 2005

Well, I'm giving up Radio Userland after trying it out for a year.  Henceforth, my blog (such as it is) will be located at the Rumor Mill.  Hope to see you there! 8:45:59 PM    comment []

Friday, January 14, 2005

Posted this on the Rumor Mill, figured I'd post it here as well: Well, a bit of bad news. My baby Faster Than Light is no more. This is a rather astounding development considering that I began this week finalizing a new script with Rob Sawyer and we were all set to go into the studio today with it. It all happened swiftly and has left me stunned and disappointed, considering that I've spent the last two years of my life thinking about it constantly, nurturing it, developing it. But it's not all bad news. It happens that Rob and I have been working simultaneously on another science fiction radio show called Emanations which is more of a straight up dramatic science fiction show, written by Rob and Michael Lennick. It is every bit as good as Faster Than Light, albeit a different sort of beast. So the decision was made to concentrate on one or the other. Emanations got the green light and FTL did not. Rob and Michael are currently working on a second draft and we are going into production with it in March. Also mitigating the loss of Faster Than Light is another drama I'm producing called Worms For Sale, written by Stacy Gardner. It's not SF... today we started calling it a "warmedy." 'Cause it's warm and fuzzy and funny, and set in Newfoundland, and it's really charming, Stacy has such an excellent ear for the dialect. The upshot is last summer I would have been devasted by the loss of Faster Than Light. But now I have other projects to look forward to. I'm about to turn forty and I feel like there's a division happening... before forty and after forty. Maybe some things need to be left behind, while I start afresh with others. 10:31:01 PM    comment []

Wednesday, January 05, 2005

I carry a change purse.  Yes, that's right, I actually carry a change purse.  Got tired of change falling out of my pockets, especially in the summer when the pockets of my shorts are about as deep as my thoughts at the end of a long day.  My wife gave me the change purse and said use it.  Who am I to argue with my wife, who is infinitely more sensible than either you or I? (Believe me -- I know.) So today I'm at Ooh La La's for lunch in the atrium of the Broadcast Centre and one of the staff sees the change purse.  He says, "You use that thing?"  I said, "Yes."  He repeated, "You USE that thing?"  I said, "Yes.  Yes, I do."  He said, "You look like a WOMAN, using that thing."  I was only a little bit flustered.  I was kind of psychologically prepared for this kind of reaction.  In fact, I'm surprised more people haven't bugged me about it.  I said, "I'm secure in my masculinity.  Um, I think."  He said, "But you actually use that thing?" as if the empirical evidence before him wasn't enough.    I shrugged and left.  Secure in the knowledge that, in this age of loonies and twoonies, I lose one heckuva lot less change than that guy, and probably plenty of others.  Even if I do look like a woman.  9:33:29 PM    comment []

Sunday, December 19, 2004

Started my Christmas vacation yesterday (off until January 3rd) and promptly came down with a cold, or the flu, not sure which yet.  Feeling kind of flu-ish, but I did have a flu shot this year, so hopefully it won't get too bad. Yesterday I received the following missive from a United States based Joe Mahoney, who's graciously allowing me to post a portion of his e-mail here: "Joe, I actually ran across your page using the beta of Google Suggests <http://www.google.com/webhp?hl=en&;complete=1> which is pretty cool adaptation of Google. Anyway, you are the No. 1 hit, as you know. My presence on Google is No. 11 or so. What's your secret!?! (I've not seen the guitar player, but I'm not looking too hard, either.)  I'm a Joseph Patrick and just saw a Sean Patrick Mahoney on that big Firefox ad in the New York Times. My little boy is Jonathan Patrick. Fascinating stuff, this name comparison. I could go on all day... <<You know, one thing I don't actually know is whether these other Joe Mahoney's actually pronounce their name the same as me.  I pronounce the Mahoney with three syllables; they could well pronounce it with two....>> How would two syllables sound? Moh -nee? Sort of a slurred sounding "Money?" I have a, can't call him friend, more of a business associate I see on the road every now and then, who pronounces is that way. Mohnee or so. But, I find that three syllables are enough. <<I'd also be curious as to where these other Joe Mahoney's came from.  We hail from County Kerry Ireland, or at least my great-great grandfather did...>>  The Mahoney side of the family is from Cork or there about. They wound up in northeastern Wyoming as ranchers and then owners of a sawmill, but were wiped out in the Depression. My mother's family is Kelly and I'm not quite sure where they came from. (I guess I really should.) They wound up sprinkled along the Hudson River in New York City and West New York on the New Jersey side. Factory workers. My grandmother Mahoney is quite a genealogist and likely knows much more. I should ask. <<I'd wrap all this up with some pithy conclusion if only I knew how, but I don't, so... later.>> Ah, this must be genetic or something as I have nothing pithy to end with either. If your curious about how another Joe Mahoney is going about life, here's a few links." http://www.sportsshooter.com/joemahoney/ http://fotozilla.blogspot.com http://www.flickr.com/photos/49503104262@N01/2272936/ 5:58:09 PM    comment []

Sunday, December 12, 2004

One day my wife Lynda says to me, you must be hungry, you haven't had any supper.  No no, I'm fine, thanks, I tell her.  I'll have a little something later. You really should eat something now, shouldn't you? she says.  I'm fine, I insist.  It's good to fast once in awhile, gotta keep that girlish figure. I'll tell you what, she says.  If I make you a sandwich, will you eat it? You don't have to make me sandwich, I tell her.  I want to make you a sandwich, she says.  What kind of sandwich do you want?  I don't really want any kind of sandwich, I tell her. Okay but if you did want a sandwich, what kind of sandwich would you want? I tell her that if I did want a sandwich, which I don't, but if I did, I would want a peanut butter and jam and banana sandwich.  My favourite. I'm going to make you a peanut butter and jam and banana sandwich, she says.  I'm going to make it right now. That's very kind, I tell her.  Thank you. I go walk the dog. I'm not really very hungry, I think, walking the dog.  The last thing I want is a sandwich.  But if she makes it I'll eat it.  She's just looking out for me, I know. I get back and towel the dog off (it was a cold, wet night).  I let him off his leash, take my boots off, enter the kitchen.  Lynda's on the phone.  I can tell it's going to be a long call.  The peanut butter jar sits on the counter, alongside the jam, a couple of slices of bread and a banana.  Lynda's making apologetic motions to me.  Motions that say, there's all the stuff, all you have to do now is make the sandwich. I don't want to make the sandwich.  I don't want the sandwich.  All I want to do is sit down and watch tv.  I make the sandwich anyway.  I eat it.  It's very good.  It is, after all, my favourite sandwich in the world. Lynda gets off the phone.  Sorry about that, she says.  I really was going to make you the sandwich, and then my sister called. I know, I tell her.  I appreciate that. And I do.                     10:58:40 PM    comment []

Wednesday, December 01, 2004

People keep finding my page by doing searches for "Joe Mahoney."  I have no illusions that they're actually looking for me.  It's kind of astonishing just how many other Joe Mahoneys there are out there.  I just finished reading a bit of one other Joe Mahoney's page.  A very poetic fellow, a guitar player, I gather.  His blog puts mine to shame; thoughtful, erudite... mine is rather literal.  I guess I save my poetic side (such as it is) for my fiction (such as it is).  Anyway it's kind of odd to think that there are several other guys out there living with the same name as me.  Although I believe I'm the only Joseph Thomas Mahoney.  I like the name Joe Mahoney, but you know, the one thing that's always kind of annoyed me about it is that it's actually a little difficult to say.  People always think I'm saying "Jim" or "John."  You have to really ennunciate the "Joe" and then the "Mahoney."  I used to be a disc jockey and the management wanted me to change my name.  I thought about it for awhile... but in the end my ego decided things for me.  I wanted people to know it was me on the air, Joe Mahoney.  But I had to be careful with the enunciation, lest they thing it was Jim or John Mahoney on the air.  You know, one thing I don't actually know is whether these other Joe Mahoney's actually pronounce their name the same as me.  I pronounce the Mahoney with three syllables; they could well pronounce it with two.  The original pronunciation of my name in my family was with two syllables, but my father is an easy going fellow; when he moved to Prince Edward Island from New Brunswick everybody pronounced Mahoney as "Mah-Hone-ee" and he just let them.  So we became "Ma-hone-ees."  I'd also be curious as to where these other Joe Mahoney's came from.  We hail from County Kerry Ireland, or at least my great-great grandfather did.  He emigrated to Northern New Brunswick, where the family resided until my father moved to PEI.  Apparently one of my great great grandfather's sons moved to California and started a dynasty there, of which Suzanne Somers is apparently descended, or so (recent) family legend has it.  The actor John Mahoney of Fraser fame looks one hell of a lot like my father and his brothers; there's got to be a connection there.  I'd wrap all this up with some pithy conclusion if only I knew how, but I don't, so... later.   8:42:32 PM    comment []

Tuesday, November 30, 2004

You know, I think of myself as a fairly grown up guy, reasonably mature, self sufficient, yadda yadda yadda.  And maybe I am all these things in several respects of my life.  Okay...  two or three respects.  All right, I can dress myself, that much at least I can do.  But recently I realized that I'm not at all mature or reasonable when it comes to chocolate.  I have a secret addiction, a secret shame.  When nobody's looking, and I'm all alone... I dip into the chocolate chip cupboard.  The cupboard with all the baking supplies.  There's a little cup with a cover on it in which we keep chocolate chips, the semi-sweet kind for baking.  And it's important to keep these chocolate chips, or there would be no baking, at least no baking with chocolate chips in it.  Which is why it's such a bad thing when I dip into these chocolate chips.  Which I don't do very often, understand, certainly no more than eight, nine times an hour.  Did I say hour?  I meant day... yeah, that's it.  Okay, maybe I'm not quite that bad.  But who am I kidding, it is bad.  A sweet tooth that may well lead to NO teeth some day.  But tasty, darned tasty, and better than smoking or alcoholism I would think.  Except for the trans fats they're probably loaded with... you know what, I don't even want to look at the ingredients.  As long as the chocolate chips have chocolate in them, that's all I need to know. So the other day I dip into them when Lynda's downstairs.  Suddenly, uh oh, she's coming up stairs and I'VE STILL GOT THE CHOCOLATE CHIP CUP IN MY HANDS!  There's no time to put it back.  I clutch it to myself, turn my back to Lynda, and kind of huddle in the corner of the kitchen.  Lynda says, "So Joe, I was wondering... hey, whattaya doing, what've you got there?"  And she comes over and I sheepishly show her the chocolate chip cup.  And of course I'm still kinda chewin' on a few chips.  It was like I was a little kid again, caught red-handed.  But she's a good wife, a good friend.  "Don't eat them all," she said.  "I don't want to be all out when it's time to make chocolate chip cookies." And if that isn't reason enough to restrain myself at least a tiny little bit, I don't know what is.   10:40:42 PM    comment []